To die, to sleep - to sleep, perchance to dream...
Oh, my sweet, this isn’t how it was supposed to be.
“Higher, Papa! Higher!” the tiny mech pleaded, wings fluttering in excitement as he patted one of the dark servos around his middle encouragingly.
“You wanna go higher? Okay, here we go!” the massive Seeker replied, grinning broadly as he gave the sparkling another toss into the air. The child squealed in delight, giggling as he was caught again with a laugh from the other mech.
“Sonicshock, be careful! You make me nervous tossing him so high up,” the red femme chided him, looking up from her datapad to watch them play.
“I’m being careful,” he assured her, his grin never fading as he gave the sparkling another toss. “Besides, look at him go! He loves this. He’ll be flying all by himself before we know it.”
“Come on, sport, wake up! You’re gonna be late for school!” Sonicshock bellowed, knocking on the door with a heavy thump-thump-thump.
“Ngh... Five more kliks...” came the tired whine in reply, the young mech rolling over and curling up on the berth grumpily.
“Nighthawk. Come on. Don’t make me come in there.”
“Fiiiiiine. I’m getting up.”
“Just be careful, okay? I know things can happen sometimes at those parties...”
“Mom, please, I’ll be fine! When have I ever done something risky? Shiftgear’s sire will be home, it’ll be safe: I promise.”
Quickstep sighed.
“I know that, but still. If there is High-grade and you have even a little I want you to call us to pick you up when it’s over.”
“Not a drop, cross my Spark.”
A faint smile graced the femme’s lips, and she kissed the top of his helm before nudging him towards the door.
“Okay. Go have fun. I love you.”
“...to prevent further corrosion of the dermal mesh.”
Applause rose from the rest of the class, a few sage nods of agreement here and there among his peers. He stole a glance at the instructor, and noticed that he, too, was nodding gently: a smile pulling at his lips.
“Well done, Nighthawk. Well, class, any questions for him...? Yes: Flex?”
“Yeah, I was curious about compound’s reaction to acid. Can you elaborate more on the testing you did?”
“Absolutely. I started with samples from different regions. If I go back to this slide here-”
“And the winner of this year’s Epistemus award goes to... ‘Preservation of the Spark Post-System Failure,’ by Professor Nighthawk of Cybertron’s Academy of Science!”
He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as applause erupted around him. He rose to his feet, glancing briefly over his shoulder to meet his father’s broad grin as the mech’s heavy servo clapped him on the back. He held his head high and his wings flared proud as he left his seat to take the stage, his Spark hammering in his chest. He’d done it: he’d actually done it!
“Congratulations, Professor,” the announcer praised him, clasping his arm as he passed the award off to him. They paused for photographs before he directed the half-Seeker to the podium, allowing him to address the waiting crowd.
Nighthawk glanced up from his datapad when he heard a knock at the door, his horns tipping forward in curiosity. Odd... they weren’t expecting visitors. Setting his reading aside, he got up from his chair to open it. He was greeted by a pair of enforcement officers, faces blank as the larger one addressed him.
“Hello, sir. Are you Nighthawk?”
“I am...”
“Is Quickstep home?”
“She is. What is this about?”
“I’m sorry sir. It’s important that both of you be informed.”
“... I see. Come inside, then; I will fetch her,” he said slowly, allowing the officers inside and indicating for them to take a seat while he went in search of his mother. She was in her studio, practicing, but stopped when he came in.
“Yes, dear?”
“There’s a pair of officers downstairs. They want to talk to both of us.”
She frowned. “What about?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t say.”
She made a soft noise of concern, and followed him back to the living area where both mechs were waiting. They hadn’t taken a seat. They gestured for the pair to sit instead, and they shared a look before obliging.
The smaller of the two officers rolled his shoulders, looking pointedly to his partner. He nodded slowly in reply, and turned to face the waiting mother and son with a grim expression.
“Ma’am. Sir. I’m sorry... Sonicshock is dead.”
"He needs energon immediately! You, seal off the bleeding lines. You, disconnect the pain receptors.”
“Which ones?”
“ALL OF THEM. We don’t have time to sedate him. The laser core chamber has been ruptured- somebody get me an aspirator! We need to drain the fluid from it!”
“His systems are starting to shut down, Nighthawk! We’re losing him!”
“NOT TODAY WE’RE NOT!”
"...Mother...?”
“I’m awake, dear.”
She opened her optics to look at him, the light inside them dimmed. She offered him a gentle smile, and he tried to return it, but it looked forced and he knew it.
“Oh, sweetspark... don’t look so grim. It’ll be okay.”
He looked away for a moment, forcing himself to keep steady. “...How is it supposed to be okay without you?”
“You don’t need me anymore, dear. You’re so smart, and so strong. You’ve been doing just fine on your own. You have your own life now.”
“But I do need you. I need you with me.”
“I’ll always be with you, my little Hawk. You know that,” she reminded him, reaching a hand to lay it over his chest: over his Spark chamber. His shoulders jerked in a choked sob, and he leaned over to pull her close against him. A sigh escaped her lips, and she rested her helm against his shoulder, allowing her optics to close one last time.
“Please... Don’t leave me...”
"And who are you?”
“Medical recruit Nighthawk, sir.”
“Hmph. Nighthawk... Nighthawk... ah, there you are. Former professor at the Academy, Epistemus award winner and two-time nominee, ran your own practice in Crystal City... Hm. Also says you know your way around a plasma pistol. Where does a Crystal City physician learn to use a gun?”
“My sire was an enforcement officer, sir. He taught me how to use one.”
“Heh. Good. Field work for you, then. I’m assigning you to M-49. Pack up.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
Stepping back to let his assigned assistant take over getting his patient moved from the table, Nighthawk set to wiping the energon from his servos. He held the tiny mech who stood a few paces away in the corner of his optic, the silence lingering for a moment before he spoke.
“...I don’t recognize you. What’s your station?”
“O-oh. I’m... I’m just a carrier-bot, sir. I run tools and clean things.”
“Really, now? And where did you learn how to seal energon lines? That was some very quick work back there.”
“From... watching the medics, sir.”
“You’ve had no training?”
The young mech seemed to grow nervous, shuffling his feet. “No, sir.”
“Well. Perhaps it’s time to change that. What’s your name, soldier?”
“Infiltrator, sir.”
“Infiltrator... Come along, then.”
“Everyone on board the ship! We’re leaving NOW!” the commander’s voice bellowed over the sound of gunfire, the incoming plasma shots peppering the ship’s hull in vain. He heard a scream somewhere to his left, and instinctively altered his path: vaulting over a supply cart and ducking beneath more gunfire to reach the fallen mech.
“I’ve got you,” he assured him, slipping the mech’s arm around his shoulders and hauling him to his pedes. He cried out in pain, leaning heavily on the medic as the freshly-blasted wound in his leg bled energon, but Nighthawk wasn’t about to drop him.
“Boss, come on!” Infiltrator called from up ahead, bounding between the legs of others boarding the ship to find him. His optics widened slightly as he caught sight of the medic and grounder, picking up speed to join them and diving in to help Nighthawk support the extra weight. Together, they brought him up the docking ramp onto the ship, letting him sit down heavily upon a crate to start immediate work on the injury.
“Ow, ow, frag...” the mech hissed, gritting his dental bands and digging his digits into the side of the crate.
“You’ll be fine, soldier. We’ve got you.”
“Hngh... th-thanks, doc...”
“It’s Nighthawk.”
“Oh.”
“...And you are?”
“...Mustang. M’name’s Mustang.”
“Leave me, doc! I’m not gonna make it back.”
“Yes you are, soldier. Stay with me!” Nighthawk ordered, hauling the injured mech back up onto his pedes. He groaned in pain, the patches riddling his frame straining with the movement as the medic pushed him forward.
A sudden blast of plasma fire exploded off the ground next to them, sending up a shower of sparks.
“Get down!” Nighthawk barked, nearly shoving the mech down behind the nearest piece of rubble. He hissed as a shot clipped the edge of his wing before he ducked down after the mech, baring his fangs in fury as he drew his own gun and lifted a servo to tap on his communications link.
“This is Field Medic Nighthawk to Decepticon Combat Support Base M-49, do you copy? I need immediate backup to sector 1-7-8 Giga. I have a mech down and we are being fired on. I repeat, one mech down, enemy fire. Sending coordinates.”
He whipped around the corner and took aim, firing a few blasts before ducking back behind cover.
“M-49 to Nighthawk, we copy. We’ve received your coordinates and are sending in support. Hold out a little longer.”
Nighthawk glanced down at the mech beside him, who had flattened himself to the ground and whose intakes were cycling heavily. “Backup is coming, soldier. Just stay with me.”
He whipped around again, laying down more cover fire. As he adjusted his aim, a sudden flame of searing agony blossomed in his leg. He cried out, nearly dropping his gun as he fell backwards back behind cover. He gasped, glancing down to find the source of the pain, and found energon flowing steadily from a hole that had pierced through most of his knee joint. He cursed under his breath between agonized gasps, pressing a servo over it. That backup needed to come faster!
A steady beeping rang in his audios as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. He could make out only fuzzy shapes as he opened his optics, blinking from the bright light that poured in. Every part of his frame ached.
“Hey, doc-bot...” he heard a gentle voice from his side. Slowly, gingerly, he turned his helm towards it, vision beginning to clear. Now he could see the multiple lines hanging at different points around his frame. His chassis armor was missing; so were his glasses and helmet. Finally, his gaze landed on the two mechs that stood at his side: one short and dark, the other slightly taller and mottled greens. He squinted slightly at them, and both grimaced: the shorter clutching his hat tightly to his chassis.
“You...” Nighthawk wheezed, carefully lifting a servo to point at them. “...You are both absolute fragging idiots.”
“Nighthawk...”
“Don’t. What-” he winced in pain, baring a fang. “-what are you two even doing here? Where’s Infiltrator?”
“We, um... We came to see how you were doing. Infiltrator’s out getting energon and seeing how the repairs on your armor are coming along.”
The medic harrumphed, laying his head back and shutting his optics again.
“I think you can see how I’m doing,” he sneered. “And you two are clearly fine. Did you succeed?”
“...Yes, sir...”
“Good. And Tyger Pax?”
“...Still under Autobot control. We got the info we needed, but...”
“Hmph.”
There was a long, awkward pause, and he could hear the two shuffling anxiously next to him.
“Doc, I...”
“Oh, shut up, Mustang. Let me rest.”
Nighthawk leaned heavily on his cane, staring out the ship’s window as it began to rise from Cybertron’s surface. He looked out across the expanse: gray, still... lifeless. Their planet, their home, left a smoldering wreckage that they had no choice but to leave.
This was it.
He felt a sharp pang in his Spark, an invisible weight sagging in his shoulders as the realization truly began to sink in. Home was gone... perhaps forever. He stood there, alone in his quarters, for what felt like an eternity as he watched the planet’s surface moving farther and farther away. The buildings shrank, and the horizon began to curve. He could see the smoke rising from the city far to the northeast. He could see the moons, slowly drifting by in their orbit. He could see Cybertron, sinking away into a perfect circle. Then, in an instant, it shot away as the warp engines roared to life. He sank to his knees, leaning against the window to rest his helm on the glass.
And for the first time in eons, Nighthawk wept.
"...Boss? ...Boss, talk to me.”
Nighthawk didn’t answer him, his gaze firmly fixed on a speck of light far in the distance. He saw the figure approaching in the reflection from the window in his peripheral, but didn’t move.
“Nighthawk. Come on. This isn’t like you… I’m getting worried.”
He rumbled softly as an answer, the vibration swelling from his chassis. He didn’t take his gaze off that point, his claws adjusting around the handle of his cane.
“…This is about Blackout, isn’t it?”
He took in a deep breath, letting it out silently as his optics closed. His optic ridges knitted together, jaw tightening.
“They left him to die.”
“Boss…”
“They left him to die, like worthless scrap. One of Megatron’s most loyal officers, a weapon incomparable, and they abandoned him. They didn’t even bother to see if he was still online! If I had been there-”
“Boss. Stop it. Don’t do this to yourself.”
He released a deep, rumbling sigh, opening his optics again to stare back out into the endless expanse.
“Jaguar One, this is Malevolence Hangar Crew. Doors are open and you are clear for takeoff.”
“Acknowledged. Jaguar One activating primary thrusters.”
Nighthawk lifted his talon back off the communications panel, deftly tapping in the launch sequence. With a rumble, the thrusters roared to life before settling into a steady, humming rhythm.
“Hush!” Nighthawk hissed, re-opening the communications line once the initial noise had subsided.
“The Malevolence leaves in five joors. Whatever you’re hunting, ‘Jaguar,’ make it quick. We’re not waiting up for you if you’re late.”
“Understood.”
A shadow, massive, hulking, caught the edge of his vision: a blip of movement on his radar. Snapping his gaze in that direction, he took off in a sudden sprint: ignoring Infiltrator’s call and a jolt of pain in his knee as he tore down the alleyway. He slid to a stop at the corner, turning down the back way to find it empty. His optics narrowed, and he paused a moment before beginning to slowly step down the passage as he heard Infiltrator screech to a halt behind him.
“That’s strange, I thought I saw-”
Before he had a chance to react, a massive servo found its grip on his shoulder from the darkness to his side. It spun him around, slamming him into the far wall to crack his helm against the metal and knock the air from his intakes. His vision swam as he heard a growl from the mighty shadow in front of him, and as it cleared he was met with bared fangs and flashing crimson optics.
“Nighthawk?” it rumbled, voice low, vicious, and... familiar. Shock coursed through his lines, replaced just as quickly by anger.
“What in the Pit are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead!”
He found himself being slammed into the floor, crying out in pain as something else cracked in his already horribly-damaged cockpit. All he could do was scream as he felt the warlord’s pede slam into his spinal strut, hyper-extending his wings to make the metal groan and the seams begin to crack.
“Lord Megatron.” The voice that echoed from down the hall was gruff and loud, but blessedly familiar.
“What do you want, Blackout?” Megatron sneered.
“Apologies for the disruption, my Lord. I had overheard that you had summoned Nighthawk. I came on behalf of the mech-”
“On behalf of this gutless spawn?” the tyrant snarled, and Nighthawk felt the weight ease off of his back. It was only a split-second of relief before it crashed into his side instead, slamming him against the wall. He dropped limply to the floor, groaning as the pain throbbed through every joint in his aching frame. He glanced up at the shadow looming nearby, and immediately grimaced as he realized the mech was staring at him.
It was enough to draw Megatron’s attention off him. He only half-paid attention as their rumbling voices began a rough back-and-forth, slowly forcing his servos back underneath of himself to try and get up. He kept his gaze on Megatron, reaching one servo for his thigh: pawing blindly for something- anything. A tranquilizer dart, a painkiller, something that would make it stop. The moment it looked as though the tyrant was about to turn back his way, he returned his servo to the floor.
Fear made his lines run cold as the warlord’s wrath was once more turned upon him, his gaze flicking about for some hope of escape as he tried to squirm back: raising an arm in self-defense.
“My Lord, please-”
Useless. Silver claws were already digging into what was left of his chassis armor, picking him up and slamming him into the wall like a ragdoll. He cried out in agony, feeling the servo release him before it slammed into his chest again, driving him upwards to crack his helm against the ceiling. He couldn’t bite back a yelp of pain as it did, his vision swimming as he collapsed back to the ground. He cringed, curling up desperately as he saw Megatron reach for him again from his peripheral vision.
The next blow never came.
“Are all systems functioning as expected?” Nighthawk asked, claws curling and uncurling against the armrest of his chair.
“Yep. I checked her top to bottom: all good.”
“Any evidence Soundwave tampered with anything?”
“No. No bugs, no trackers. If he had tagged us we’d be scrap by now.”
The medic gave a low rumble in his chassis, not entirely convinced. He fidgeted in his seat, unable to shake the nervousness that had settled as a great weight against his chest. His gaze flicked from the scanners, to the windows, then back again, just waiting for something to go horribly, horribly wrong.
“We’ll set course for Cybertron. Keep the scanners running for any sign of the Rising Star and divert as necessary for supplies, but we should try and reunite with Novastrike and company.”
“You got it, Boss.”
Nighthawk guided the ship carefully into the open docking hatch, his servos light on the steering module. He heard the sharp inhale of breath to his side, but remained focused on settling the Jaguar into a gentle landing.
“Do you think it’s safe to go in, Boss?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Nighthawk answered honestly. “We have a good vapor trail still to follow the Rising Star; too far for a solid signature but we know a direction to follow. We can allow ourselves a moment of study. There is an off-chance they left something here we could make use of.”
He heard the dragon give a snort. Raising an optic ridge, he turned his helm to look at him. “You disagree?”
“I’m just worried we’re walking straight into a trap, Nighthawk.”
Nighthawk couldn’t help but chuckle faintly, leaning back in his chair to lace his digits in front of himself.
“I’m not going to let an opportunity to gather intelligence or supplies stop me, Infiltrator, you know that. I’ve been doing this for years. I think I can manage.”
His optics opened slowly, light filling his vision. He blinked, trying to focus on the blurred shapes around him. He could barely see. Everything was a blur: his vision, his thoughts, his memory. His gaze was drawn to movement at his side, and he tried hard to remember what had happened.
Quid Pro Quo #13: Nighthawk's Personal Log, Part One
Log Classified. Enter authorization code.
**************
Authorization code approved.
Accessing...
Jaguar, Day 48 - 01:00 Joors
Forty-eight days feels like an eon aboard this ship. Two supply runs, one refueling stop, no less than three unwanted advances, and one killing, and I feel as though we haven't made any progress whatsoever.
But yet... I haven't felt this uncomfortable about killing a mech in eons. He deserved it, the disgusting fool, and I do not regret it, but suddenly I find myself disturbed by how easy it was. I slit his throat just as I would open a patient for routine surgery; without hesitation or a single second thought.
What has this war done to me?
I won't bother trying to estimate how many lives I've taken in Megatron's name. I remember how difficult it was at first. I'm a medic: I'm supposed to save lives, not take them. But I've justified them to myself so many times that I no longer feel anything: taking yet another life is nothing to me.
And I am disgusted with myself.
I do not feel anything for him, no. No regret, no guilt, no cares for anything beyond him: only disgust for the absence of such things. I should feel something for having murdered him, anything, but I don’t. I have become so numb to it all that I wonder how thoughtless I’ve truly become.
I’ve always prided myself on being so diligent; so careful, thoughtful, detail-oriented, never missing a step. But how much am I really missing? I’ve thrown myself and those I care about into so much danger. I uprooted Infiltrator from relative safety and comfort into chaos, running from those I once called comrades towards a goal that may or may not even still be out there.
I’ve been blinded and I didn’t see it until the light was too far away to reach. I’m floundering in a lake of oil with no sight of the shore. I’m not even sure what I’m doing anymore. I don’t know what this path is or where it will lead me, but I can’t turn away from it now.
I only hope I haven’t sent the only family I have left to his doom.
I haven’t drawn Ethan(left) in any au in Literal Years and I’ve never drawn his twin, Sean, like ever. This is one of them from @stellar-cheetah and I’s Kings and Guards AU.
Doctor, is there any sort of coating that could protect a flier who had to go through an acid storm? How do you guys prevent the acid rain on Cybertron from eating right through your buildings all the time?
Quite a few, actually, depending on what circumstances are driving you out into the rain. The heaviest of heavy duty coatings (the kind they apply to rescue teams and field medics) are essentially the same ones they use on buildings.
It itches and burns in horrible, equal measure and is absolute torture on your finish.
Quid Pro Quo #12: Secrets Shared, Secrets Withheld
Don't be dismayed at good-byes.
A farewell is necessary before you can meet again.
And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes,
is certain for those who are friends.
Silence lingered over the interior of the Jaguar as the two extra mechs on board absorbed the tale. Nighthawk had slimmed it down significantly: omitting the events of the Rising Star and referring to it only briefly as a “rogue vessel.” He didn’t even tell them where Blackout had bridged to. As much as it pained him, he had to be careful. Telling them too much was another risk he just wasn’t willing to take.
“So the big guy’s still kickin’, huh?” Mustang murmured from where he leaned against the ship’s wall, arms crossed over his chest. Axleshot leaned forward in the chair he was occupying, resting his elbows on his knees as he clasped his servos in front of himself. He frowned at the floor.
“You don’t trust us.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Axle looked up at him, optic ridges knitting together.
“Come on, Nighthawk. You love telling stories. But now you’re skimping out on the details. You don’t trust us enough to tell us the full story.”
Nighthawk sighed, long and low, glancing down at the dragon-mech sitting on the floor beside him. They shared a look.
“…You’re right. I don’t. I’m sorry, Axleshot, but we’ve endured too much to take that kind of risk.”
“…I understand,” the green mech said softly after a moment, straightening back up. He took it in stride, but the look in his optics told them he was hurt.
“So. Now you, Infy, and Tall-Dark-and-Scary are deserters, lookin’ for some little transporter in all the galaxy. Why, again? Y'all are obviously fine by yerselves,” Mustang interjected, interrupting before the pause could linger into awkward silence.
"Unfinished business. That's all I can say: the story isn't mine to tell," Nighthawk answered, earning a soft huff from the black-and-gray mech. Silence then fell over the group, an awkward pause as they all struggled to come up with something to say. It was Axleshot who finally spoke up.
"I have to confess, I thought it was odd when Blackout was reported offline, too, but I didn't dwell too much on it. But now that you say it, I kinda wish I had. If I'm honest... this war hasn't felt right in a long time. And if Megatron's really gone off the deep end-"
"He has," Infiltrator put in, his tone icy enough to earn looks before Axleshot continued.
"Then the cause isn't much of a cause anymore, is it?"
“...Never did care much one way or the other,” Mustang muttered after a moment, finally looking up at the others. “Sided with ol’ Megs ‘cause Axle did. Bot, Con... didn’t really matter to me, just wanted somethin’ worth fightin’ for. Ain’t much of that left.”
“So what do you intend to do now?” Nighthawk asked calmly, leaning back a little more in his chair as he steepled his long digits in his lap.
“...I don’t know,” Axleshot admitted honestly, fidgeting. “There’s not much we can do. I mean... I don’t know if running away from the Malevolence is the best idea for us...”
“Probably wasn’t the best idea for us, either,” the medic murmured, a look of guilt clouding his optics as he glanced down at Infiltrator. The dragon-mech met his gaze with furrowed optic ridges, laying a paw against Nighthawk’s leg.
“Boss...”
“We can’t go back now. But you two can. I know you never cared much for my advice-”
Mustang muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothin’.”
Nighthawk gave a low rumble in his chest, obviously not buying it, but chose to forgive the interruption and continue.
“-especially when I tell you boys not to do something, but I suggest not doing anything rash.”
“Ya mean like what happened at-” Mustang stopped in his tracks at the looks he received from both Axleshot and Infiltrator, his dental bands clicking together from the force with which he shut his mouth. Nighthawk let out a long, slow breath, speaking through gritted dentals as he replied;
“We agreed never to talk about Tyger Pax.”
“I- I’m sorry, doc, it just- it slipped out, I didn’t mean to-”
“Forget it, Mustang. I know what you meant. Now you two listen to me. Do not run off. You are safer and better off with the Malevolence. Do not put yourselves in unnecessary danger: you will find other ways to make things right, if that is the path you choose to follow. Trust me on that much, if nothing else.”
Mustang and Axleshot shared a long, silent look, before turning back to the medic and his assistant.
“We will.”
“I mean it, Axleshot. Promise me you two will not put yourselves in danger because of what I’ve told you,” he pressed, his optic ridges knitting together as he looked between them.
“...I promise, Nighthawk.”
“You got it, doc. We swear.”
Nighthawk released a soft sigh of relief.
“Good. Now I must let you both go. I don’t want to keep you away from the Malevolence too long,” he said, rising to his feet. The others did the same, Infiltrator’s side pressing against his leg to offer support. The medics led he way to the ship’s primary hatch, opening it to walk them both outside.
“You should lay low until the Malevolence leaves. If one of the others catches either of you, I don’t think they’ll be too sympathetic,” Axleshot advised, turning to meet Nighthawk’s gaze as they stepped out.
“Of course, Axle. We will.”
“And Nighthawk?”
“Hmm?”
“Stay safe, okay?”
He let out a soft, dry chuckle, patting the engineer on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best. The same to you. Both of you.”
“It was good to see you again, doc. You too, Infy,” Mustang added, reaching to pat the dragon on the head and getting a whack instead. Infiltrator stuck his glossa out at him teasingly as he gave the small mech a dramatic look of hurt, tipping his helm at them. “Aww. Now you take good care of Grumpy here, ey?” he teased, laughing a little as the older mech in question gave him a hearty shove that almost sent him on his aft.
“If anyone needs to be taken care of, it’s you, you big buffoon.”
Axleshot just chuckled at their playful fighting, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him out of trouble. Farewell, Nighthawk. Goodbye, Infy.”
Another murmured chorus of farewells from everyone, and the two grounders gave them a comical salute before turning on their heels to transform. Through the growling of their engines as they drove away, they could hear Mustang call out to his partner.
Coincidence means only a connection that's not seen.
Roots meet underground.
“Stop right there, doc.”
A growl rumbling in his throat, Nighthawk turned slowly to face the source of the voice. The armour along Infiltrator’s back bristled as he, too, turned to face them, tail lashing as his claws dug into the dirt.
Crimson optics met the ruby sheen of a visor, and a smirk pulled at the other mech’s lips beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. Abruptly, he spun the pistol in his servo, tucking it back into its holster in a swift movement as he straightened back up to laugh.
“Ha! Gotcha good, ey? Actually snuck up on ya for once,” the dark-coloured mech laughed, a cheesy grin plastered across his faceplate. Nighthawk and Infiltrator both relaxed, the former rolling his optics with a sigh.
“Mustang. Fancy meeting you here,” he said dryly, crossing his arms over his chassis. Sauntering up to the pair, the outlandish mech stuck his thumbs in his utility belt as he took in their appearances with a low whistle.
“Frag, Hawk, you two look like the Pit. What got ya stuck out here?” he asked, the medic’s expression unchanging as he regarded him with an unimpressed, half-lidded stare.
“I could ask you the same thing. And for the last time, my name is Nighthawk,” he groused, ignoring a nudge against his side from his companion. Mustang shrugged, his grin dissipating.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m jus’ having a little wander while the Malevolence gets fueled up,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder into the distance where the flagship was presumably resting over the ridge.
“The Malevolence is here?” Nighthawk inquired, optic ridges arching by just a fraction.
“It sure is. What, you think I showed up ‘ere by myself? I ain’t the biggest on stickin’ to the rules, doc, but I’m no deserter,” he replied, a bit of bite slipping into his tone as the last word escaped him. A rumble echoed in Nighthawk’s chest.
“Commander’s right pissed with you two, ya know, makin’ off with all those supplies. Turned the whole damn flagship around to try and find you two once he realized how much was gone. I’m sure he’d be pretty pleased to run into ya,” he went on, tipping his head slightly to the side as he judged Nighthawk’s expression.
“Get to the point, boy. What do you want?” the half-Seeker snapped, optics narrowing.
“What do I want? What makes ya think I want somethin’?”
“It sounds an awful lot like you’re threatening me, Mustang.”
“Naw, naw, I ain’t threatenin’ you. I’m just giving ya a friendly warning. I ain’t dumb enough to go pede-to-pede against you two. Besides, like I said, I’m not one fer stickin’ to the rules. You’ve saved my aft a couple a times, so consider it a return on that, ey?”
“Then tell Axleshot to step out.”
“Oh. Heh,” the grounder muttered sheepishly, glancing over his shoulder with a nervous sort of smile. As if on cue, the camouflage-patterned mech appeared from around the corner of the nearest building to walk up to his smaller companion’s side.
“How’d you know?”
“You two never go anywhere without each other. It was obvious,” Nighthawk deadpanned, tipping his chin up a little as he looked Axleshot up and down.
“Well somebody’s got to look out for this little troublemaker,” the bigger mech quipped, laying a hand over Mustang’s helm to push his hat down his face and ruffle it teasingly. Swatting the hand away with an annoyed grumbling, Mustang pushed his hat back into place to cast a halfhearted glare up at his friend. He was left ignored, however, as the armoured vehicle stepped forward to offer a servo to the medic.
“It’s good to see you again, Nighthawk,” he said. Nighthawk hesitated for only a fraction of a second before he accepted the offered servo, grasping it firmly.
“Well, I’m glad to see you lot haven’t gotten yourselves in too much trouble without me,” he finally admitted, letting go after a moment to return to his previous stance. Axleshot, at least, was one mech he could perhaps consider a friend. He had sense, unlike his little ruffian of a comrade.
“Looks like we can’t say the same for you,” Axleshot retorted bluntly, gesturing vaguely towards the entirety of the medic in front of him. He gave a single, short huff of humourless laughter at the statement.
“You’ve no idea,” he replied, finally looking down at Infiltrator as he was nudged again. “What is it?”
“Look, good to see you guys and all, but do I need to remind everybody we’re kind of exposed out here? If the Malevolence is here some of the less friendly crew might see us.”
“Mph. A fair point. Shall we continue this at the Jaguar?” he asked, looking back to the pair of grounders. They shared a look, nodded slightly, and turned back to him.
“Lead on, doc,” Mustang answered, both of them coming up to his side to follow. As he started to move the cart again, Axleshot stopped him.
“Do you want me to take that? It just... your leg,” he spoke up, hesitating somewhat. He didn’t want to offend the older bot, but it seemed he’d failed judging by the cross look he received.
“I can handle-”
“Boss. Let him take it,” Infiltrator cut in, expression earnest. With a grumbling sort of sigh, Nighthawk begrudgingly stepped aside: allowing Axleshot to take up pushing the load onward. The dragon slipped back in to offer support to the medic’s bad leg, earning an absent pat on the head as the troop moved forward. Mustang shortly began to whistle a merry tune as he sauntered along beside Axleshot, prompting Nighthawk to speak up a moment later.
“I think you need to taste this for me,” the monarch said. They shoved the exquisite cake in their guard’s direction.
Their guard blinked. “Um.”
“What, you’d rather your monarch be poisoned?”
Of course not. The guard hesitantly took a mouthful, only to practically melt in satisfaction. “Oh my god.” It was amazing. They caught themselves. “I - er - I think it’s fine.”
“You should try a sip of the wine too,” the monarch said. “Just to be safe. Sit, sit.”
It took the guard slightly too long to realize that it was practically a date, with the monarch feeding them delicacies off their plate.
Greed makes man blind and foolish,
and makes him an easy prey for death.
“Promise me you won’t go running off this time,” Nighthawk sighed, looking down at the dragon at his side.
“I promise. No chasing ghosts. Though last time didn’t turn out so bad,” he reminded him, throwing a lopsided grin. Though he didn’t say it aloud, he wasn’t planning to let the older bot out of his sight. With his leg in such bad shape, he was practically walking around with a “MUG ME” sign on his back: but he’d insisted tooth and nail that he was not going to stay behind on the ship.
“Fair enough. But still, stay close.”
“I will Boss, don’t worry.”
———
Keeping his wings folded back as far as they could pan to minimize the risk of bumping into someone, Nighthawk picked his way through the crowd at a steady pace. He was mindful of how fast he was moving: if he looked like he was in a hurry, it would draw attention, and if he was walking too slow he’d make himself a target. Just blend with the crowd and keep walking, he told himself. Infiltrator padded along smoothly at his right, offering support to his bad leg and keeping a careful watch on their surroundings. All these trading hubs seemed the same: worn down markets on forgotten dustballs, wretched hives of scum and villainy filled to the brim with mechas who’d easily shank their closest brethren for just about anything, if it suited them.
It was an awful place to be. But they needed fuel, and they needed supplies. The last stop they’d made had not turned up the stock they’d hoped for. Getting a hold of what they were looking for was just as much luck as it was bartering and thievery.
Nodding his helm towards what looked like the most promising shop, he directed Infiltrator to help him get through the crowd to it. Shouldering open the door to avoid touching it with his servos, he stepped inside. To their surprise, there were only one or two other mechas browsing the wares inside. It was a little cleaner than most of the other stops they’d made today, not that that was a high bar to be crossing. Nighthawk allowed his wings to relax a little: the pinching in his back had really started to hurt. He shared a look with his assistant, and they separated to search the shelves.
He took his time looking everything over, thoroughly scanning the stock for anything of use. Most of it was useless, at least to him. The small selection of medical equipment that he could see, he already had- and in better condition. The little things they’d subspaced to avoid having them taken by the Vehicons. The large case taking up much of the shop’s back wall, however, caught his attention shortly. This was where the more valuable stuff was held, locked neatly away to prevent theft. He scanned these more carefully.
Plasma rifle, a fair bit of ammunition, a set of grip-based electrodes (fake), an ion scanner (also fake)... aha, now that was something he was looking for: a set of pneumatic rotary drills. In three sizes, not bad...
“Those are ten-thousand credits a pop,” announced the mech behind the counter, watching him with a partially-lidded stare as he leaned against the side wall. “Thirty-thousand for the whole set, with the case.”
“Thirty-thousand!?” Nighthawk echoed with a snarl, turning sharply to narrow his optics at the mech. “That’s more than I’d pay for a new set, and I don’t even know if these work!”
The mech shrugged.
“Credits ain’t worth as much these days, you know. Buuut I can drop it to twenty-five thousand for you, gorgeous,” he purred. Nighthawk refrained from recoiling at the comment, fighting down the disgust that rose in his throat. Gathering himself, he turned his helm away in what would have looked shy: the mech couldn’t see the look of revulsion he was tossing over his shoulder in Infiltrator’s direction. The dragon met his gaze knowingly, adding a small shake of his head before the medic turned back to the merchant.
But he had the card, and he might as well play it.
By the time he’d turned back, he was regarding the mech with half-shuttered optics. A quick step and an exaggerated sway of his hips, and he was at the counter, leaning slightly over it as he splayed his digits over its surface.
“Come now, isn’t there something we can work out? You said it yourself, credits just aren’t worth much anymore. I need those drills, and certainly no-one’s going to have that much to spend on them. Isn’t there something else I can offer you? If there’s something you’re looking for, maybe I have it,” he offered, laying on perhaps a touch too much sweetness. He waited, nervous, as the mech’s gaze panned over his frame, wanting to recoil under his look in distaste.
“Well... maybe there is something you can offer. Ten thousand credits, and a little favor, and they’re yours,” the merchant finally said, giving the medic a smirk that made his mesh crawl under his armour.
Nighthawk turned away again, pretending to mull it over as he fought the desire to purge his tanks. This mech was just as much disgusting as he was gullible. A deep inhale of air, and he turned back again, the half-lidded look back in place.
“Mmmm, I don’t know...”
“Well, if you don’t want them that badly, there’s not much else I can do for ya, darlin’,” he shrugged, though his optics continued to linger along the curve of the half-Seeker’s frame. “I suppose I’ll just have to wait for some other buyer to-”
“Fine, you have a deal,” Nighthawk cut him off, earning a devilish grin.
“Wonderful. Just give me a sec here...” he purred, sauntering around the counter to the door. The other customers had already left. A flick of the lock, and he turned the shop’s sign to “CLOSED” before coming back to the counter. “Don’t want anyone disturbing our little deal. Your buddy here can wait where he is. You just come on into the back with me.”
Stepping around the counter, Nighthawk ignored Infiltrator’s long sigh as he moved through the door being held open for him. The mech followed him through, and as the door shut behind them, the dragon counted silently to himself.
Three... two... one...
A sharp bang sounded from behind the door, followed by the sound of metal sliding against metal before something hit the ground with a hearty thud. The door opened again, and Nighthawk stepped out alone, shouldering it aside as he wiped energon from his blade.
“Really, Boss?”
“He deserved it.”
“I don’t disagree with you, but really?”
“Oh, don’t harp on me about it. He presented an opportunity and I took it: I wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t made such a disgusting advance. Now gather anything that looks useful. What we don’t need, we can trade off for something else. There’s a cart back here that he was probably using to transport items or trash: I’ll see if I can’t find any credits or energon stored around here and start loading it,” he ordered, sheathing his wristblade and turning back into the room. “We’ll leave through the back alley and head for the ship to deposit what we gather.”
———
“There really wasn’t much, Boss,” Infiltrator apologized, lowering the last box of ammunition into the cart. It was barely half-full.
“It’s better than nothing, and we have some credits and energon for the trouble. If he had more, it’s hidden somewhere else, but I doubt it’s worth looking for. Let’s get moving,” he replied, pulling the cover over the cart to hide the contents from passing gazes. Infiltrator unlocked the back door, stepping out and holding it while Nighthawk pushed the cart through. The alleys were mostly deserted, and an unsheathed blade or a growl was enough to deter anyone who was present and looked at them too long for their liking.
Leaving the market was a tense, but ultimately easy endeavor. It seemed that anyone who might have resorted to theft assumed their cart was not worth fighting them over, much to their relief. But as they made their way outwards towards where the Jaguar lay tucked away in the distance, a voice behind them halted them in their tracks.
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