The Energon Pub

Communique to All Aerialbots Excluding Silverbolt from Slingshot onboard the 22

"Slingshot to Fireflight, Skydive and Air Raid. Looks like we've got our own friendly haven to call our own. Meet on Deck 6 of the Ark 22. We can bring this space up to our standards... before Fearless Freap returns from his little scouting assignment."

Quarters

Fireflight looked up as the transmission from Slingshot came in, even though no one in the room was actually speaking to him at the moment.

So...he was going to have to get up from here in order to go laze about on some other ship.

Alrighty then.

Fireflight sighed, stretched his gears and then got up from his bunk and headed out to make his trek over to the Ark-22.

>>"Copy that. On my way, Slings."<<

Corridors

With a devious smirk plastered on his faceplates, Sideswipe gestured for Sunstreaker to follow him further down the corridor and out of the reach of prying optics and audials. If he wanted this prank to go off without a hitch he needed to make sure no one was privy to it save his twin. “Okay, this is probably good enough.” Sideswipe took a quick glance over his shoulder and spotted a lone door. “On second thought…” Before his brother would have been able to protest the red mech took hold of Sunstreaker’s wrist and tugged him along and into the storage closet.

After the door slid shut he turned to face Sunstreaker, this time a mischievous grin had replaced the devious one. “You’re gonna love this, Sunny.” Sideswipe tried, tried but failed to contain his giddiness. “What would you say if we put Hoist in a very precarious and foul situation?” Sideswipe rubbed his hands together as he began to nearly bounce up and down on his feet. “And when I mean foul I mean we stinkify the mech but good.” The red warrior tried desperately to hold in an excited giggle while he waited for his brother’s response.

Medical Bay – Proper

Still seething from his blow up with Ratchet, Axle stepped out of the surgical suite and into the med bay where there were several mechs waiting for help. Although he was prepared to see each one of them the field medic was just not in the right frame of mind to put his all into any repairs.

Axle stood stock still in the center of the room, a series of heated curses slipped past his lips as he attempted to put to use a few relaxation techniques. They weren’t working, not even remotely.

The black and green medic looked over his shoulder as he heard Saferoute address him. He sent the femme an intense glare, but it quickly softened as he realized that the bus-former was not the source of his anger. “Yeah. I did, Saferoute.”

Axle offlined his optics as he rubbed his hand over his forehead. He needed to get some more information. And in order to do that he had to find out just what Hex had been up to recently. But first he had to find out where his ward had settled in.

The field medic lowered his hand at the same time he onlined his optics. Axle looked to Hoist, who was obviously sent out of the surgical suite by Ratchet in order to keep an eye on him, and gave the mechanic a reassuring smile. “Look, Hoist, I know Ratchet sent you out here to protoform-sit me, but I’m alright.”

Axle waited a moment and then made his way slowly toward the door. “I need to do a few things. I think if I get out of here and clear my head…” He stopped and waited the brief astrosecond before the door slid open revealing the corridor beyond. “Besides, I won’t be alone. Uh…” Axle took a desperate look around the corridor for anyone, anyone he could convince to help him. But when he spotted Bluestreak, the lone mech anywhere to be seen, he nearly groaned, but the gunner would have to do.

The black and green medic cast a grimace in the chatterbot’s direction before reaching down and grabbing Bluestreak by the upper arm and hoisting him to his feet next to him. “Bluestreak’ll be with me!” To the, obviously now, confused mech by his side Axle flashed Blue a reassuring smile. “Sound good? Okay? Come on, Blue. Let’s get a move on.”

Axle quickly exited the med bay before Hoist could protest and finally released Bluestreak’s arm. The medic sent a heated glare down at the gunner. “I need your help. Don’t ask why, don’t ask anything, just…don’t talk.” Axle let out a heavy sigh and offlined his optics. That request would probably last half an astrosecond and Axle knew it. Blue would only keep quiet for so long before his mouthy would just go into overdrive. It didn’t matter, as long as Axle had someone to help find out what Hex had been up to. “Ugh. Come on, Blue.”

Corridors outside Medical Bay

Bluestreak’s conversation with the maintenance drone was one-sided, but it did not matter in the slightest to the chatterbot. Most of his talks with other regular mechs were one-sided, as well, mostly because the gunner wouldn’t let anyone get a word in edge-wise. Of course, another reason was because many simply were trying to ignore him with the hope that he would just go away and leave them in silence. In this case, the mindless drone was helpless, only able to utter a few senseless beeps here and there as if to say, “Shut up!”

What Bluestreak was going on and on about was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was keeping those Primus-awful memories at bay. The destruction of his home city so long ago, the cries of all those who suffered and died during the attack, everything of his previous life were all pushed back to the farthest reaches of his processor. It was like nothing bad had ever happened, which gave the black and silver mech a reason to smile while babbling incessantly.

If the maintenance drone had a consciousness, it would’ve been elated to see the arrival of Axle from the depths of the med bay. Interrupting Bluestreak’s eternal mouthpiece, the field medic pulled him to his feet by the upper arm and announced that the black and silver mech would be his companion on whatever little adventure they were now going on. “Uh, sure thing, Axle. No problem. I’d be happy to help you with whatever you need. I’m your ‘Bot, no doubt about it! And you’re certainly better company than Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, let me tell you.”

Once the med bay doors had closed all the way, Axle let go of Bluestreak’s arm and told him in no uncertain terms not to ask any questions and basically just to shut the frag up. It was something the drone would’ve done had it the ability to speak. Fortunately for the drone, the resident field medic had come along and done so for it. Regardless, Blue wouldn’t remain silent for long as he cared more about keeping the ghosts of the past where they belonged than he did upsetting a fellow Autobot.

Quietly nodding his cranium in reluctant agreement, Bluestreak followed Axle down the corridor. The gunner had no idea where they were heading and the urge to ask was growing harder and harder to resist. After less than a breem of walking, the chatterbot finally unleashed his mouthpiece as though a dam had suddenly broke under the duress of massive flood waters. “Okay, Axle, I know you don’t want me talking or anything but I gotta ask, where are we going and will it take too long? You see, I would like to get back to the med bay by the time Howlstrike comes out of stasis if possible. That was the reason I was waiting around. I want to make sure he doesn’t go off half-cocked on whomever decapitated him, that’s all. I guess others could keep an optic on him, but I just don’t fully trust that his Predacon side won’t send him into a violent fit of uncontrollable rage, you know? I’m sure you understand, right?”

Corridors

Tentatively Tracer had made her way through the docking ring, but stopped just before taking that final step out and onto the Guardian. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. What if she couldn’t find the way to her own quarters? What if she’d never remember? All of those thoughts brought out a low moan of torment from the femme as she raised a hand to her forehead and rubbed.

After a long moment of contemplation and deep thought Tracer took a good look around. First to the right and then down the center corridor. Last her attention moved to the left. Each one could have been correct for all she knew. Nothing seemed familiar. Her optics moved again, from one passageway to the next until finally she settled on the left.

Tracer’s head tilted slightly to one side as she concentrated on the corridor that caught her attention. Yes, when she walked down this hall it was from the right and continued left since the docking ring was never here. She would continue down until…
A bright smile formed on her face as she gripped Smokescreen’s hand tightly and began pulling him along. “This way! This way!” She tried to reign in her excitement but that was probably going to be impossible.

“Down here. A left…” They pushed to the left. “And another…” Another turn and Tracer stopped. Her jovial expression seemed to fail for a moment as she took in her surroundings. With her free hand she began to point to each of the doors that lined the walls. “One. Two,” a moment of silent counting and then, “Twelve. That one!”

With a hard yank, Tracer pulled Smokescreen along until they came to a stop outside of the door she had indicated. The blue and white femme cast her companion a brief look before she placed her free hand on the door. It was locked, of course, and she was unsure if she could recall the access code. But she was determined to try. “The security code…what would I use…” She nearly whispered to herself as she tried to access the memory files in her processor.

The search was frustrating, so much so that it was causing actual physical pain. Tracer released Smokescreen’s hand and brought both actuators up and pressed them firmly against the sides of her head.

Several long moments passed before she let out a pained groan. Why was it so hard to remember? Tracer lowered her hands from her head and placed them against the door. The femme then leaned in and placed her forehead against the smooth metal of the obstruction. “I can’t…I can’t remember the damn code.” She let out a heavy sigh. It was funny that she could remember just about everything when it came to Smokescreen, but everything else was just so much more difficult.

Tracer quickly pushed away from the door and nearly scrambled to the keypad where she input a series of keystrokes. And to her absolute delight the door easily slid to the side.

The femme looked over at the rallybot with a broad smile plastered on her face. She didn’t keep optic contact long as she turned back to the door and took a step inside. Her eyes swept over the room and her smile faded. “Wow. I guess I’m not a very good housekeeper.”


Corridors near the Med Bay

Ushering Bluestreak up and away from the Medical Bay was an amazingly easy task, but then the ‘Bot was probably dying to be with another sentient being if only to annoy them to deactivation. That was fine with Axle, as long as Blue kept his babbling to a minimum, the medic would more than welcome his company, and more importantly his help.

And for a time Blue was quiet. And for that time Axle had time to actually think about his next moves. Unfortunately that silent lucidity was shattered in less than a breem. It was totally expected and instead of stopping his advance to berate the mech, Axle simply gathered his fractured thoughts and tried to explain the method to his current motions of madness. “Something happened on the planet, Blue. Something that involved some of our mechs…something that involved Hex.”

Axle finally stopped in his tracks. The medic looked up to the ceiling before shutting down his optics. So much had happened in the past few orns it was getting harder and harder to sort through it all. Axle let out a heavy sigh and slowly lowered his head. For a moment he kept quiet, but before long he onlined his optics and turned to face his companion. “Blue, I need your help. I need to find out what Hex was up to before he latched on to Hot Rod, or Rodimus, or whoever.” The medic took a long slow gaze at the hall they were currently standing in.

“This is probably where he’d settle down.” Axle said before casting his optics on a large ventilation grate. With a small smile he pointed to the covering just behind Bluestreak. “There. That’s it.” Before he even finished Axle had moved past the silver and black gunner and began working on removing the covering. “Hex doesn’t use habitation suites. Too open. He’s comfortable in very closed, very tight locales.” He explained as he began removing the bolts that held the grating in place. The bolts had recently been loosened further confirming that he had, indeed, located his ward’s hideaway.

“After being captured and locked in that communal cell with the rest of his team and watching while they were...he developed a fear of being in the open. So he finds tight places to hunker down in…closets, small spaces between two walls, and ventilation shafts.” With a satisfied grunt the black and green mech pulled the vent cover from the frame and gently laid it on the floor. Axle then squatted down low and stuck his head in to take a quick look around. “Yeah. This is it.” He pulled his head back and looked back to Bluestreak a small smile etched on his faceplate. “Blue, I need you to go in there and have a good look around.” Axle rose back up to his full height as he took in the gunner. “I can’t fit; my frame’s just too bulky. You’ll be able to make it in…it’ll be a bit snug, but you’ll fit.”

Axle paused and placed his hand gently on Bluestreak’s shoulder. He sighed heavily as he shook his head dejectedly. “I should have been keeping a closer eye on him. If I had one mech would still be alive.” Axle gave Blue’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Please, Blue, I need your help. I need to know what happened to him. I need to know what happened to him and Hardhead.”

Camera Depot

Jazz waited for a response from Red Alert calmly. He hated attacking his own, but sometimes, this time included, the matter at hand simply required it to get one to calm down. In this case, Red Alert was the one who needed to calm down and think, and judging from his response, Jazz could tell that the paranoid security officer had.

"Good. I'll copy the tape so we can show them our evidence." Jazz said, releasing Red Alert from his grip.

The Special Operations Director then began to run the tape back and record it over three tapes. One for each of them and one to hide, just in case the tapes were confiscated by a Prowl who wished to save face.

Dispensing the datapackets from the recorder, Jazz tucked one beneath the table and jammed it into a corner, keeping it in place.

"For safe keeping." Jazz mumbled, then tossed Red Alert a datapacket.

He then proceeded to move across, and then out of the room. Once outside of the stuffy room, Jazz turned back to the security chief.

"I'll get this to Ratchet, you get your copy to Prowl." Jazz gave out quick orders, and before Red could respond, he transformed, speeding through the corridors toward the Med Bay.

Med Bay

Tires squealing, Jazz transformed, somersaulting into the room. He jumped up and jogged over to Ratchet, panting.

"Ratchet! I've got something you need to see!" Jazz put his hand on his knee and handed the CMO his datapacket.

Camera Depot

Red Alert calmly got himself up off the table as Jazz released him, the ringing in his audio sensors clearing. As the special ops director made copies of the necessary data he went to putting his rifle back together and unjamming the missile in his launcher, slowly and in full view so as to not cause any further misunderstandings.

"Smart thinking.", Red Alert agreed as Jazz hid one of the datapackets, just before catching the copy that was tossed to him.

Before the security director could say anything else Jazz gave him an order to give the information to Prowl, then quickly left the room and sped off to deliver his to Ratchet. Red Alert soon followed suit, placing the datapacket into a compartment the leaving the room, transforming into his Lamborghini mode and speeding down the corridors.

Medical Bay- Proper

Hoist felt some relief as Axle admitted that he needed some time to sort out his thoughts about his protege. It wouldn't do any good to have a medic try to fix anyone up when their processors were too focused on other things, after all.

"Good, I'm glad to hear that.", Hoist agreed.

Whatever reassurance Hoist felt towards him was soon gone, however, as he watched the medic suddenly grab Bluestreak, explaining that the gunner would be with accompanying him. The green mechanic raised an optic, as this behavour cried of desperation, and seemed like some kind of excuse to get Hoist off of his back. But before the green mech could say anything Axle walked hurried out and the door shut down behind him.

"Oh dear.", Hoist said to himself, shaking his head, "That wasn't encouraging at all. Maybe I should tail behind them and keep an eye....."

As Hoist was about to walk out of the med bay, he remembered the wounded that were still in there that needed some attention. As troubling as Axle's behavour may have been, he still had his duties to perform.

"All right then, I guess first thing's first.", Hoist said to himself, and went over to Blades, who had already administered some minor repairs to himself.

"Well it looks like you've already done most of the work for us, Blades.", he commented as he did a quick scan of the Protectobot street fighter, trying to keep the mood light and upbeat, "Keep that up and you might just put us out of a job, ha ha. A little time in the CR chamber should finish things up for you."

Hoist gave Blades a friendly pat on the shoulder, then moved on to the other mech that was waiting.

--------------------

Saferoute was taken aback when Axle looked at her harshly, though his looked seemed to soften just before he replied to her. She didn't really blame him, though, she couldn't imagine how hard the news of Hex must have hit him, though she had wished he would have stayed a little longer so she could tell him what had happened.

Before long Hoist came over to her to take a look at the damage.

"Goodness, Saferoute, it looks like you took quite a beating.", the mechanic said to her politely as he scanned her, "But the medical drones seemed to have done a good job patching you up. You seemed to have taken quite a bit of damage to the back, though."

"Yeah.", she bluntly answered, "I took a missile from Hardhead."

"Oh..... I'm very sorry to hear that.", Hoist replied awkwardly, but sincerely,, "For the physical damage you just need a few breems in the CR chamber.", the mechanic then gently placed a hand on her shoulder, "But if you're suffering any emotional damage from this entire ordeal, just know that I'll be happy to lend an audio sensor."

Saferoute gave a weak smile to the green mech and nodded. Spending so much of her time helping and thinking of weaker species, it was easy for her to forget how friendly some bots could be.

"Thank you.", she replied with a nod, then walked over to the CR chambers.

The chamber opened with a hiss as she activated it. She slowly sat down inside, grimacing as her damaged back touched the smooth metal surface. Shutting her optics down, she went offline as the chamber began to do it's work.

-----------

Once the wounded had been tended to, Hoist's focus went back to Axle. Ratchet had asked the green mech to keep an eye on the medic. Despite the fact that he had left the medical bay, his latest actions seemed worrisome.

He may not be able to hurt any injured now, but who knows what he's planning to do. Just the fact that he grabbed Bluestreak voluntarily is suspicious enough.

Hoist went to the door, quickly moving to the side as he narrowly avoided running into Jazz. Stepping out the door he looked around, then realized he hadn't the slightest idea where Axle was.

"Oh slag. Where could he have gone?"

Corridors

Red Alert sped down the corridors, though now he had an actual plan that didn't involve simply running around. He remembered being told earlier that Prowl and many other mechs were transferring to the Ark-22, and that was exactly where he was going.

If I'm going to report all of this to Prowl, I need to do it right. I can't just rush in and make accusations like I've been doing for the past few cycles. Before I confront him, I'll need to go to my office and make an official report of everything that I know so far. I've worked with him long enough to know that that's the only way he'll take me seriously on this whole matter.

Before long he had reached the docking ring, and he didn't slow down as he entered the Ark-22.

Corridors leading to Tracer’s Quarters

With his actuators firmly intertwined with hers, Smokescreen followed Tracer through the docking tunnel until they had reached the Guardian. The troubled femme then paused for a few moments as she looked in every direction trying to remember which way to go. The rallybot remained quiet as he didn’t want to disrupt her concentration. It was difficult enough as it was for her. He didn’t need to add any extra obstacles to her own memory banks. Come one, Trace, you can do it. I know you can.

Smokescreen’s thoughts were confirmed when Tracer finally remembered the direction she needed to go, her audible exclamation reinforced only by her sudden tug on the diversion expert’s arm before she dragged him to the left and down the corridor. Again, Smokey remained silent, focusing instead on trying to keep in pace with the increasingly excited femme as she recalled each hallway along the path to not only her quarters but to her hidden memories, as well.

So far, so good, Smokescreen thought as Tracer began pointing to a series of doors down one particular corridor. They were almost there and had thankfully not encountered anyone yet, especially Axle who was likely still in the med bay. Considering how quickly she was moving, it didn’t take Tracer long to reach the door that belonged to her, the twelve one. Another hard yank and Smokey almost crashed into her locked quarters, but he managed to steady himself by placing his free hand on the wall to the right side. He then removed said hand and watched as Tracer tried desperately to remember the access code to her room, allowing her actuators to slip away from his own digits.

Pressing her hands against both sides of her cranium, it took Tracer a bit longer than when she had tried to remember which direction to go once she had crossed the docking tunnel. Smokescreen almost wanted to help her this time as it seemed as though the troubled femme wasn’t having much luck accessing that part of her processor. Instead of saying anything, he simply placed a reassuring hand onto her shoulder plate. That gesture alone seemed to work as Tracer practically leapt at the keypad and typed in the correct code, the doorway opening before them.

Her initial comment regarding the mess that was her quarters elicited a slight chuckle from Smokescreen. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be too worried about it, Tracer. I’ve seen worse, much worse,” the rallybot replied as he stepped inside and took a look around. “I guess now’s a good a time as any to tidy up. Not only will the room look better but it’ll allow you to do what you came here for.” The diversion expert then turned to face the drug-addicted femme. “I’ll help you to clean if you want, but I think it might be best for you to go through most of your stuff on your own in order to help jog those concealed memories of yours. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Corridors leading away from Med Bay

For a change Bluestreak quieted his vocal processor and instead listened as Axle laid things out for him. The field medic didn’t go into a lot of detail, only saying that something had happened on the planet below, something very bad, and he needed to know exactly what Hex had been up to before he got involved with Hot Rodimus. The black and silver mech nodded his cranium as Axle looked around the corridor they were currently standing in and quickly located the likeliest place that Hex would call home, a ventilation shaft.

“I don’t understand,” Bluestreak began to say as he stepped out of Axle’s way. “Why would anyone want to live behind a grate where cyber-rats would make their den? It just doesn’t make any sense to me. Of course, from what I’ve heard of Hex, he’s a bit on the strange side anyway. But if you really think this could be....” The chatterbot’s comments were quickly interrupted as the field medic explained why Hex lived in such conditions, all the while working on removing the metal covering from the wall. The reason for living in tight spaces made sense considering what the young ward had gone through. In all actuality, it wasn’t that much different from the reason why Blue always talked non-stop. Both of them simply wanted to forget the past and avoid anything that would bring back those horrible memories.

Once the grate had been successfully removed, Axle stood back up to his full height and addressed the Autobot gunner, asking him to crawl into the ventilation shaft and have a look around. The concern in the field medic’s optics spoke volumes, even more than what Bluestreak could say verbally, which was quite a bit if given the opportunity. There was no way the black and silver mech could say no to such a request, nor was there any reason to. “Okay, Axle, I understand now. Hex may be a bit strange to some, but there’s a reason for it. I get that now. I’ll be happy to help you out in any way that I can. Hopefully, together we’ll be able to find out what exactly happened to him.”

Bluestreak felt Axle’s hand on his shoulder plate as the field medic blamed himself for whatever happened to his ward. The gunner shook his cranium as he cast the former doctor a reassuring smile. “No, no, it’s not your fault. Hex may be young but he is responsible for his own actions regardless of his past. I’ve got a dark past, too, but I don’t go around doing bad things, especially not to others on my own team. Don’t blame yourself. After all, you can’t always watch him, you know. You’ve got your own responsibilities to worry about. Hex has got to learn to take care of himself and walk the right path without being told what to do.” Blue then cocked his cranial unit to one side at the mention of Hardhead. “Wait, Hardhead’s involved in this, too? Primus, has everyone gone mad around here? I know things looked pretty grim down in the med bay, but I had no idea just how bad it was. I can see Hex going off the deep end, but Hardhead? None of this makes any sense.”

Letting out a defeated sigh, Bluestreak got down on his hands and knees and began to crawl into the ventilation shaft that Hex called home. If there were any answers to be found, it would be in here. The gunner’s door-wings scraped across the top slightly, but left no major damage to speak of. Blue simply folded them over one another until they hugged his backplates, giving him more maneuverability in these cramped quarters. A few astroseconds later, the black and silver mech found himself in a slightly larger area, a connection hub where other smaller shafts intersected. It was still a tight space, but not quite as bad as the shaft, itself. This is where Hex kept the majority of his things, or at least it appeared that way.

“Okay, Axle, I’ve reached the spot where Hex made his bed so to speak,” Bluestreak said as he glanced around and looked back down the tight tunnel where he could see the field medic’s concerned visage peering inside. “So, what exactly am I supposed to be looking for in here, anyway? There’s a lot of stuff strewn about. Anything in particular your want me to search for?”

Message from Wheeljack:

>>”Perceptor, Iron Fist, Hoist, Blaster, this is Wheeljack. Under orders from Ultra Magnus, himself, we are all reassigned to a special science team that has been given the important assignment of developing and constructing new technologies as well as rebuilding old ones in an effort to establish an Autobot colony down on the planet Earth beneath us. Please meet in the science lab on the Ark-22 for a further, more detailed briefing and a subsequent brainstorming session on what needs to be accomplished. See you all there soon. Wheeljack out.”<<

Bridge

Blaster was still awaiting Kup's arrival when Wheeljack's transmission came through. Ultra Magnus was reassigning him to a science team? Had to be better than sitting on this bridge for orns while waiting to hear back from that cantankerous old timer. Standing from the command chair, Blaster looked over to Ramhorn, the only one of his cassettobots that had actually returned to the bridge after the panic of finding Howlstrike.

"Hey, Ramhorn. You have command of the bridge while I'm away until Kup or Hot Spot comes to relieve you. If the others come looking, tell them that I'm in the science lab on the Ark 22. Counting on you."

Ramhorn gave the smallest of nods of acknowledgement. Satisfied, Blaster walked out of the bridge, thinking about which technologies Wheeljack could have meant. His curiosity was piqued. While by no means was Blaster a scientist like Wheeljack or Perceptor, the communications officer knew he could be of service. Perhaps he'd get a chance to frustrate Soundwave, his nemesis. That was always a plus. Blaster walked through the corridors of the Guardian with long strides, wondering if the others would be opposed to a little Earthling motivational music. Blaster crossed over to the Ark 22 with this thought in mind.

Medical Bay

After what seemed like an eternity in the bowls of The Pit, Ratchet stepped away from the slab Warpath’s now stable body was laid out on. It took considerable effort but the tank-former was going to be fine. All he required was a few orns inside a CR Chamber.

The CMO grabbed one of the rags that was on his tool tray and began wiping the drying energon from his hands. Ratchet’s optics roamed over the crimson body taking in every dent, scuff mark and scratch. When he came out of the chamber Ratchet would see to it that Warpath and Howlstrike are subject to some detailing work.

“Um, Ratch?” The hesitant voice of his understudy drew the CMO to the smaller form of First Aid. A grunt was the only response he received as Ratchet turned his attention back to Warpath. “Do…um…do you think Hardhead, Hot Rod and Hex are doing all this willingly?” First Aid’s voice was low and skeptical. They were each Autobots, and as such they wouldn’t harm another. The rag Ratchet was using was dropped back onto the tool tray, but nothing was said. Instead Ratchet let his gaze fall on his subordinate. “I wish to Primus I had an answer for you Aid, but I don’t.” He said with a heavy sigh.

First Aid lowered his optics before looking back to the red and white ambulance. He was ready to address the larger mech when the distinct squeal of tires on metal was heard wafting into the surgical suite. The sound grated, not only on Ratchet’s audios, but also his patience. Whoever it was had better have a damn good explanation for barging in like a crazed Cybernaught.

The door to the med bay proper slid open enabling the furious CMO to stalk out to see what the matter was. “The slag is going on out here…” Ratchet’s rant was suddenly cut off when Jazz jogged over to where he was standing and began telling him he needed to see something.

“Jazz?! What the frag is wrong with you?” Ratchet stared down at the doubled over mech, his hands resting on his hips. “You had better have a processor-blowing explanation for barging into my med bay like this!” When offered, the cross medic snatched up the proffered datapacket. “And just what am I supposed to do with this? Is it pressing medical data; because if it’s not I’m gonna reformat you into something useful, like a microwave!”

Corridors leading away from Med Bay

Axle watched while Bluestreak ducked into the ventilation shaft and then began to crawl inside. At the same time the medic squatted down low and waited for word.

It turned out Axle didn’t have to wait very long at all. A small, unsure smile made its way to Axle’s face, but it quickly faded and was replaced by a deep frown. What was it that drew his young ward to Hot Rod, or Rodimus, or whoever the slag he really was?

Axle’s attention was drawn back to the dweller when Bluestreak announced that he had reached the area Hex was using as his habitation suite. A low sigh escaped the field medic’s vocalizer as he thought for a brief moment. He knew what Hex kept close so finding something out of the ordinary would not be too difficult.

“Okay, Blue. His crossbow shouldn’t be in there. He keeps it on him at all times. Uhh, there should be a collection of arrows…some assembled some in the process.” Axle thought for a moment. It had been some time since he had made his way to Hex’s old hideaway on board the Ark - 19.

The medic shook those fleeting thoughts from his processor and went back to addressing his helper. “Along with those he should have some chemicals…acids…umm, low level liquid explosives, rust agents. All that’s normal.” Axle rose up to his full height and began pacing in front of the open shaft. He was silent for several minutes while he tried to recall everything his ward kept close. “He doesn’t keep any kind of personal items…nothing from his past. So, no need to worry about that.” He stopped his absent minded movements, his back to the vent opening. “Anything else you find…” Axle trailed off hoping Blue would understand that whatever else he spotted would not be in the norm for the young mech.

Tracer’s Quarters

While Tracer scanned the entire interior of her room she focused on nothing in particular. Instead she took in all of haphazard disarray. Nothing seemed familiar, but then again she still hadn’t taken a good long close look at all of her belongings.

She nodded when Smokescreen suggested that they tidy the room…actually that she tidy the room. He was right in that if she was to recover her memories her best bet would be to lay her hands on them physically. “Yeah. I can do that.” Tracer took a quick look in Smokey’s general direction before taking a tentative step toward a large pile of dataslates.

The prospect of rummaging through so much seemed so daunting, but if she was going to remember her life…it was necessary, she told herself.

Tracer sighed as she knelt down before the pile. The scout picked up several devices and began reading through them.

“They’re mostly published journals and other works.” She lifted one pad up and read off the title, “The Complete Works of Froid including An Interpretation of the Cybertronian Mind Relative to Functional Memory.” Tracer shifted to the next slate, “This one includes published journals and research on mental abnormalities.” The femme paused for a long moment as she read through the details. “There’s documentation of successful processor surgery to reverse abnormal mental phenomenon.” Her optics remained glued to the last bit of information…the location to her own journal somewhere in the pile.

Tracer dropped the pad from her hand and nearly dove into the rest of the pile. She scattered the devices around until she located what she was hunting for. Without hesitating she turned the dataslate on and began reading. It took a few minutes to comprehend what she was looking at, but she finally realized it was a record. “It’s a journal that I wrote…a record actually.” She said as she slowly looked up at Smokescreen. “Written evidence of my spiraling mental health. The evidence was logged when I wasn’t on Syk.”

With the slate in hand Tracer got back up to her feet and stared at the rallybot. “What’s wrong with me?” She said in a low desperate tone.

Inside Ventilation Shaft

Bluestreak listened as Axle’s voice echoed down the cramped shaft that lead to the connection hub where the gunner was crouched in a very uncomfortable position. This was the place Hex called home, a place that seemed only fit for a cyber-rat to inhabit. Still, it was certainly more private than a typical habitation suite that most Autobots enjoyed. Since the young ward liked to be left alone a good portion of the time, this was the perfect place for him to reside. No one could find Hex here except for the field medic, of course, who knew him better than anyone.

“Okay, gotcha, Axle!” Bluestreak shouted back to the former doctor who had the privilege of still being able to stretch his legs. The black and silver mech gave Axle the thumbs up before turning around and crawling into the center of the hub where Hex’s things seemed to be haphazardly placed. It was all a real mess to Blue, but perhaps to a crazy 'Bot like Hex there was some kind of organization that only he understood.

Upon looking around for only a few astroseconds, the chatterbot quickly noticed many of the things that Axle had told him he would see including arrows, arrowheads and a variety of chemicals and rust agents. Bluestreak kept away from all of those items as he had no idea what exactly they would do to him if contact was made with some strange unknown substance. His finish could melt away or worse. “You know, Axle, your ward has a nice collection of hazardous materials in here! No offense or anything but Hex is either really sick or really brave to live amongst chemical agents like these. I mean some of this stuff looks pretty dangerous in my opinion. Of course, I’m not an expert chemist but I’m certain that if he were to accidentally spill any of these little containers, the contents would likely eat right through the hull of the ship. Maybe I’m wrong, but I wouldn’t want to take any chances, you know?”

Even if these chemicals were only low level agents, it wouldn’t make Bluestreak feel any better. For a mech with the kinds of issues that Hex had, it was ill advised for him to have access to such dangerous materials. However, that was not the gunner’s call to make. It was his job to shoot not make decisions better left to those in the know or, in this case, to Axle. “What an astrosec, there’s something else here.”

Bluestreak carefully moved past the vials of deadly compounds as he made his way to the far side of Hex’s little hideaway. On the wall, the black and silver mech could see strange writings scrawled over the dull metallic surface. More accurately, the words were burned into the wall, likely with one of the many corrosive elements that filled the tiny crawlspace. Blue was unable to read the message as it appeared to be written in some kind of ancient dialect. However, it wasn’t the weird symbols that made the gunner uncomfortable as much as what he found just beneath the mysterious wording. An Autobot badge, presumably Hex’s, was pinned to the wall with one of the young ward’s arrows stabbed straight through the “forehead”.

“Oh my,” Bluestreak muttered to himself as he hurried back over to the main shaft which lead out to the field medic. “Hey, Axle! Um, I think I found something in here that you may want to know about. There’s some kind of message burned into the far wall with what appears to be acid. It seems to be written in ancient Cybertronian. I don’t know what it says, but I’m not as concerned about the meaning as much as I am about the Autobot badge that’s pinned to the wall just beneath the message with an arrow pierced through the center.” The black and silver mech paused for a moment as he glanced back over his shoulder plate at the eerie sight on the far wall before returning his gaze down the shaft towards Axle. “I wanna get the slag outta here now. This place is beginning to give me the creeps.”

Tracer’s Quarters

Smokescreen remained standing in the open doorway to Tracer’s quarters as the troubled femme began rummaging through a pile of data-slates, most of which contained the published works of doctors and therapists who specialized in helping mechs with a variety of mental issues. It didn’t surprise the rallybot in the least that Tracer possessed such material, but he was willing to bet that in her current hallucinogenic state she would be more than just a little bit shocked by finding these titles amongst her personal belongings.

Once she had read through several of the data-slates, Tracer dove further into the pile before she finally found her own journal. Roughly half a breem passed as the drug-addicted femme scrutinized the words that she, herself, had written. They apparently told the history of her severe mental illness, which was something she had not expected to learn about herself. The disturbed look on Tracer’s faceplate as she peered up at Smokescreen made the diversion expert step all of the way into the room, allowing the door behind him to slide shut and lock automatically. This was a private matter and no one passing by needed to overhear anything that was about to be said.

Smokescreen kept his optics fixated on Tracer’s panicked visage as she got back to her feet and stared at him, desperately wanting to know what was wrong with her. The rallybot slowly approached her and place both of his hands onto her shoulders in a kind and reassuring manner. “I’m no doctor, Tracer, but from what I understand of your condition you have some kind of bipolar processor disorder that causes you to have acute mood swings that range from depression to outright violent acts and manic episodes. You’ve tried to find a cure for countless vorns, but have thus far been unsuccessful. The only thing that seems to keep the symptoms at bay and make you feel normal again is the Syk. As a result, you’ve become addicted to the narcotic to such a degree that you were willing to provide your dealer, a Decepticon called Oil Slick, with sensitive information that could’ve comprised all of the Autobots here in this sector. Thankfully, that didn’t happen and instead we were able to procure a sample of the drug for Wheeljack to replicate so you no longer need to see your dealer....ever.”

The red and blue racer rubbed Tracer’s shoulders as he cast her a sympathetic smile. “Unfortunately, we didn’t take into account the amount of hallucinogen in the mixture, which is why you’re having problems remembering things now. But, no worries. I'm sure that Wheeljack will have the proper dosage figured out soon and then you won’t have to go through all this again.” Smokescreen then stopped for a moment as he gazed deep into the troubled femme's worried optics. “I want you to listen to me, Tracer. Your condition is not your fault and neither is your addiction. You were taken advantage of by a disgusting ‘Con that cares nothing about helping you and all about helping himself. I, however, will help you. Somehow, if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll make all this pain go away for good. I promise.”

Smokescreen then leaned in and gave Tracer a gentle kiss on her chevron before pulling her close to him and holding the troubled femme within his warm embrace. He hoped that his words had provided her with some comfort if not helped to jog some more of those hidden memories from her ailing processor. Regardless, they both had a long road ahead of them, but hopefully here in these messy quarters they would both find the strength and courage to move forward and take on whatever obstacles were still to come.

((OOC: Permission from Deva to move Sunny along.))

Mess Hall

It seemed as though his golden twin was at a loss for words. That was just fine with Sideswipe because a silent Sunstreaker was probably a consenting Sunstreaker.

Unable to control his joy, Sideswipe placed both hands against his brother’s cheeks and pulled gently until they were nose to nose. The crimson terror let out an excited guffaw before releasing Sunstreaker’s face and grabbing his wrist again.

Less than a breem later and the duo had stopped by their hab suite and then set off once more for the prankster’s intended location.

“Ahh, here we go.” Sideswipe said as he burst into the room with arms spread and a grin just as wide. “He’ll have to come in here sooner or later.” In a flash, far faster than it looked possible, Sideswipe was at the fuel dispensers. He took a quick look at the device and nodded to himself. “Okay. So, when Hoist shows up, you just follow my lead.”
Sideswipe flashed his twin a broad smile as he rubbed both hands together. “This is gonna be great, Sunny!”

Outside Ventilation Shaft

Axle whipped around and nearly jumped to the ventilation shaft’s opening when he heard Bluestreak shout back to him about his findings. Everything seemed to be normal…arrows, arrowheads, chemicals, all of it was there. So far so good. “I told you, Blue. The chemicals are normal. He uses them in and on his arrow tips.” Then mention that the young mech was not mentally stable began to grate on the medic. Axle slammed his fist against the wall directly above the vent opening.

He was ready to tear the opening apart in order to join the gunner if only to be sure everything that was spotted was actually in the norm. But he was stopped when Bluestreak’s voice echoed back to him. Axle ducked his head into the shaft and waited for a moment until the black and silver mech called back to him.

“Oh my? Oh my what?” The medic’s question was very rapidly followed by an uneasy explanation. Axle lowered his optics to the floor and furrowed his brow in thought. A message…in ancient Cybertronian. “Hex doesn’t even know how to speak the Primal Vernacular, let alone write it.” His attention was swiftly returned to the mech in the wall when Bluestreak mentioned the badge pinned to the wall with an arrow through its forehead.

Slowly, almost painfully, Axle stood from his squatted position and backed up against the wall. “Slag.”He said lowly. He brought both hands to his face and slid down the length of the wall until he was sitting on the floor.

The black and green mech drew both hands down his face and let out a defeated sigh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever noticed, but Hex stopped wearing his badge after I saved him back on Cybertron.” Axle placed his arms across his drawn up knees as he went on. “He always had it with him, he just never wore it. I think…”He paused as he tried to gather his thoughts and sort through all of his jumbled emotions. “…he was hoping that his faith in the cause would return.”

Axle’s optics broke away from the far wall he had been staring at and turned toward the opening. The gunner was getting anxious and was ready to leave. “Bluestreak, wait! Before you leave, get an image of the message. I wanna take a look at it. And…” He paused for a minute before calling back to the other mech. “…bring me the badge and the arrow.”

Tracer’s Quarters

Tracer listened intently to everything Smokescreen had to say concerning her condition and how she had been trying to deal with it. To her it seemed that her entire life…her entire existence…was nothing but a colossal mess. She was glitched and nothing did or tried helped…nothing except Syk.

By the time the diversion expert was finished Tracer was ready to turn around and simply leave. She had no particular place in mind, but anywhere was better than here where there were only scattered memories and empty promises of a cure.

She looked back and into Smokescreen’s intense optics as he tried to convince her that the condition she was suffering from was not her fault and that her desperate search for answers and a cure were what brought her to find solace in the use of Syk. She believed him, she had to. After all he seemed to be the only one to have stuck by her all this time, hadn’t he?

Smokescreen’s promise brought some sense of relief in the femme, but it just didn’t seem like it was enough. She offlined her optics and leaned gently in to the kiss against her chevron. The gesture was a great comfort, and it was familiar. Tracer stepped in close when she felt him pull her into an embrace; placing her head on his shoulder she let out a low, contented sigh.

As much as she wanted to remain in his arms, she still had some digging to do. There were things locked away in her processor that she needed to recall. Reluctantly, Tracer pulled out of Smokescreen’s arms and onlined her optics. “I should keep looking around.” She gave him a small smile before stepping way and moving to another pile of personal belongings.

While looking through the items she wondered to herself if there was anyone, anyone at all, who was like her. Someone else who was suffering from this bipolar processor disorder, or was she the only one? Maybe there was an answer in her never ending pile of personal effects.

The room was quiet save for the minor clinking and shifting of dataslates and the femme. A short while later and Tracer stood up with a small cube in the palm of her hand. She turned around and lifted it up so that the rallybot could see it. “An imagecube.” Tracer turned the small trinket on and the Cybertronian form of an image-capture, or photograph, appeared.

A bright smile came to Tracer’s face as a flood of memories were brought to the forefront of her processor. It was the landscape of Cybertron, Luna 2 just above the horizon and standing in the center her and Smokescreen sharing an embrace. She knew that the red and blue ‘Bot had never seen it before so she decided he deserved an explanation. “This was taken after our final day at the training camp…a little while after that party.” Tracer broke her gaze from the image and focused on Smokescreen. “Screencast had been out there taking some pictures before he left for the barracks. He said he couldn’t resist.” She let out a low chuckle. “He got his orders the next day. And before he shipped out he gave it to me. When I asked him why he told me I should be the one to have it. After that he told me that even during a war you can find peace.” Tracer looked back at the image for a moment before her expression turned dour. “Screencast was killed three vorns later.” The femme shut off the image and stared at the small device for half a breem. Without another word she went back to searching through her belongings. Unfortunately, her enthusiasm was slowly turning to pessimism. Would she find nothing from her past besides dread?

Mess Hall

Maybe Axle went in here for a drink, Hoist thought as he entered, still looking for the distraught medic, Although maybe not if he's with Bluestreak, I did just help him with a hangover, after all.

To the green mech's disappointment he saw neither the medic or the gunner in the mess hall. He did, however, see the twins, taking some time out for a drink or two. Hoping the two might have seen the bot he was looking for, he walked up to them.

"Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, good to see you haven't run into any more cyber-rats, ha ha.", the mechanic joked as he addressed the two, "You haven't seen Axle around, have you? The last time I saw him he walked off with Bluestreak."

It was then that Hoist recieved the communication from Wheeljack, ordering him and several others with advanced technical knowledge and abilities to gather at the Ark-22. Apparently they would be working on a new Autobot colony on the planet.

"Oh dear.", Hoist mumbled to himself. It wasn't that he had no interest on such a project- on the contrary, he was excited just thinking about what he and the other bots could accomplish. But since this order came from Ultra Magnus himself, it meant that he would have to drop everything on the Guardian. That meant Ratchet would have one less mech to help should any wounded come in, not to mention he would have to leave Axle to his own devices.

Looking to the twins he sighed and waved his hand, "Oh never mind. It seems I've been given new orders."

Hoist turned around and headed for the door, "If you see Axle, though, please tell him to return to the medical bay. There's no telling when Ratchet may need more help. Have a nice cycle."

Inside Ventilation Shaft

“Well, maybe someone around here taught him,” Bluestreak responded to Axle’s assertion that Hex did not know how to speak let alone write in ancient Cybertronian. Regardless, there was the message burned into a wall clear as day. No one could deny that. “Or maybe he looked up the language in some old texts and taught himself how to write it. He may be a bit on the eccentric side, or way on the eccentric side, but that doesn’t mean he’s not smart. Based on everything I see in here, he’s quite capable of teaching himself anything he puts his processor to. I mean all of these different kinds of chemicals and types of arrows takes at least some level of intelligence, you know.”

Of course, that’s what made Hex all the more dangerous. Not only was he crazy and violent but he was smart, as well. That was never a good combination no matter how one looked at it. Bluestreak knew that better than most. Even within the Decepticon ranks there were intelligent mechs that ran everything higher up while the dumb ones were down low on the battlefield serving themselves up for slaughter. It actually amazed Blue that Hex had not defected to the other side after he felt betrayed by the Autobots. Or, perhaps that’s what recently happened and why the field medic appeared so upset. That would certainly explain a lot of things.

The only kink in that line of thinking was the fact that Hardhead was involved in all this. Bluestreak couldn’t imagine a mech like him defecting as he’d always been anti-Con to the point of rivaling the gunner’s own hatred for the purple badge. Nevertheless, something bad had happened and the answers were somewhere, perhaps right here in this shaft, waiting to be discovered.

Bluestreak let out a sigh when Axle asked him to take an image of the message along with retrieving both the Autobot insignia and arrow. “Okay, fine. I’ll be just a moment.” The black and silver mech then carefully crawled his way passed the dangerous assortment of chemical weapons until he had reached the far wall. Pulling out a small recorder, he took a single still image of the ancient Cybertronian writing and then replaced the device back into a hip compartment.

Turning his attention to the Autobot badge, a worried look crept across Bluestreak’s visage. “I certainly hope this arrow doesn’t have anything corrosive on it. If I burn my digits or come down with Cosmic Rust I’ll be none too pleased,” the gunner muttered to himself as he grabbed a hold of the arrow and pulled it out of the wall, thus releasing the pinned badge into his free hand. The chatterbot then turned around and crawled back over to the other side of the hub where he quickly entered the tight shaft and headed back out to the main corridor where Axle was waiting.

Outside Ventilation Shaft

Astroseconds later, Bluestreak crawled out of the small opening and quickly got to his feet. It felt good to finally be out of that confined space and to give his joints a good long stretch. “Ah, that feels soooo good! I tell you, Axle, it’s a good thing Hex is small. Otherwise, I can’t imagine him living in those cramped conditions for very long. I know you said it makes him feel safe, but that’s just not a very comfortable environment for any mech to remain in. I didn’t even see a recharge slab! Of course, it could’ve been buried underneath something and I just didn’t notice it. Although, the shaft does provide privacy, I’ll give it that much.”

The look on Axle’s faceplate appeared to be one of annoyance and impatience, prompting Bluestreak to just shut the frag up and give the field medic what he had retrieved from Hex’s little hideaway. “Oh, here ya go, Axle. The badge and arrow that you wanted along with....” the gunner paused for a brief moment as he reached into his hip compartment and pulled out the recorder. “....the image of the message that I took. I hope the quality is good, because the lighting in there was anything but acceptable. I guess Hex likes to live in the dark, as well.”

Once the black and silver mech had handed the three items over to Axle, he took a step back and continued to stretch his limbs for a bit before he just couldn’t help but keep on talking. “You know, I’m not sure if there’s anyone who can translate that message on board, but we might be able to figure it out for ourselves by heading down to the research labs and doing some investigative work. What do you think, Axle? Sound good?”

Tracer’s Quarters

Smokescreen released his hold on Tracer as she pulled away intent on continuing her search through the piles of personal items that littered her messy quarters. “Yeah, probably a good idea. We don’t have a lot of time to spare, I’m afraid. If we don’t head back soon, Wheeljack will discover that we’re missing and then we’ll never hear the end of it,” the diversion expert pointed out as he watched her rummage through another pile of her stuff, desperately looking for anything that would help her. Smokey, meanwhile, made his way over to Tracer’s recharge slab and took a seat, keeping his optics fixated on the troubled femme. He wasn’t tired, but the rallybot saw no need to loom over her like a drill sergeant in boot camp. That would only serve to make her more nervous which was something he wished to avoid.

After a short while, Tracer found an image cube and raised it up so that Smokescreen could clearly see it from where he was sitting. A picture then appeared, showing both the rallybot and the drug-addicted femme in a warm embrace. They were back on Cybertron, before it had been ravaged by vorns of war, with Luna 2 hovering in the background. “I remember that, I think,” Smokey started to say before Tracer’s explanation brought everything back for the diversion expert. It was funny, actually. Now it was the hallucinating femme that was helping him to remember the past.

“Yes, the party! How could I forget that? It was the most fun, no, it was the only fun we ever had at boot camp. Of course, it was at the very end! Ha!” The mention of Screencast brought a smile to Smokescreen’s faceplate. “Yeah, good ol’ Screencast loved to take pictures when you weren’t looking. He ticked off a lot of mechs by doing that. Almost got punched in the faceplate once or twice. He was such a jokester. It’s too bad he’s not still around. We could use his sense of humor in this Primus-forsaken war.”

Smokescreen grew silent along with Tracer as she turned off the image and stared at it for a short while. So many good bots had been lost, so many that should still have their sparks if it weren’t for the Decepticons and their unholy lust for power. This war of theirs had raged on for far too long and it had not only killed countless mechs but also separated others from their loved ones. Of course, there were those like Prowl who would say that war was no place for emotion, that it was a weakness that could only be exploited by the enemy. Smokey disagreed with that logic. In the rallybot’s processor, emotion was what differentiated the good guys from the bad. It’s what made an Autobot an Autobot and a Decepticon an emotionless piece of slag. Emotion was a strength to be honed and embraced, not a weakness to discard and forget about.

“He was right, you know,” Smokescreen said, breaking the silence as Tracer went back to searching through her belongings. “Screencast, I mean. You can find peace in the middle of a war. I have...when I’m with you.”

Mess Hall

Ironfist pilled a pair of depleted energon containers and a crumpled spherical container of lubricants onto his tray and pushed it towards the far end of the empty table. The muted clink of the containers echoed through the empty chamber as the top container fell down and landed upon the crumpled rubbish. The engineer did not make a move to recover the toppled tower, his optics locked on the data pad and stylus before him.

"Now if I modify this link here I can," The weapon engineer muttered to himself as he rolled the stylus across the dozens of energon dropplets that spattered the table he had selected for his research. He trailed off as he picked it up and flicked twice to shake off the damn effect of said energon before placing it to the touch screen of his pad.

Two equations were removed from the screen and a new mathmatical jumble was added to replace the initial formula. He pressed the pad again and activated the simulation on the screen... his faceplate barely concealed his disappointed expression. The device activated through the simulation however the desired effect was less that optimal. The new ammunition design was still flawed. Its sensor matrix did not respond to the appropriate stimuli.

Ironfist was slowly reaching an impass with his considerable knowledge. He knew enough about weapons, ammunition and all other sorts of instruments of war, to build nearly anything. In fact he had designed some of the most interesting weapons used in the Autobot armory. Acid Pellets to Glass Gas Guns, he invented them and put them into service. But this project, this new design for a weapon system, was proving to be elusive. Perhaps he needed to get some more information from the medical field before he continued development.

The engineer deleted the new formula and deactivated his data pad. He pushed himself clear of the table and gathered his refuse. As he dumped the tray into the recycler his communications devices activated. A quick cycle through approprate frequencies immediately linked him to that of Wheeljack. The message was brief and to the point, and what a point it was.

Ironfist sent a swift reply through the grid and deactivated the link. Moments later he was in his own little engineering workshop shuffling through his drawers of tools, data pads and other scrolls of schematics. Finally he reached a data link adaptor and a Type IX Chronoton Computer. It was an older computer terminal, but it was portable and its massive storage capacity held a great deal of specialized programs that he had never allowed fellow engineers access to. No sense in giving a competitor an advantage they did not need.

He deleted the information on his handheld pad after committing it to memory and tossed the blank data base into the drawer. The computer was safely tucked into a chest compartment and jacked into his own secondary processors and began to run a quantum update of the internal systems. He had spent a lot of time in between the writing of his submission to the Autobot Warmachine Cycle, and the expiration of the work restriction that had been imposed on him by First Aid, writing new codes and scripts for those existing custom programs.

The doors to his workstation closed behind him and locked through a series of security codes. Ironfist entered into a bound and made a hasty sprint towards the boon between the Guardian and the 22. "Ready or not Wheeljack, lets Wreck and Rule."

((OOC: I’m just gonna move Hoist along))

Mess Hall

Sideswipe had been facing the energon dispenser when Hoist walked in. The red warrior kept his back to the mechanic only to cast Sunstreaker a wry grin before spinning around. “Oh hey, Hoist.” The smile on Sideswipe’s face seemed to fall off as he brought a hand up to his chin and gave it a contemplative rub when asked about the field medic’s whereabouts. “Hmmm, Axle? Nah, haven’t seen him. Although if he’s with Blue the poor guy’s probably cowering in a corner somewhere.”

The red twin let out a low chuckle before he “cleared his throat”. He grew slightly nervous when Hoist had declared that he had received new orders and was heading out. Oh no you don’t, Sideswipe thought. “Um, hey Hoist. Hang on an astrosec.” He quickly closed the distance between him and the green mech as Hoist turned back to face him.

“Listen, me and Sunny; we’d like to apologize for, you know, for being slagheads earlier in the med bay.” Sideswipe reached a hand behind his head and gave it a rub. Hesitantly he lowered his hand and extended it out.

For a moment Hoist wasn’t sure what to make of the gesture, especially since it was coming from the red terror, but he relented and grabbed a hold of the proffered hand and gave it a hearty shake. “Well, I must admit, Sideswipe, I’m thoroughly surprised. I’m also very pleased.” After several moments Sideswipe released Hoist’s hand and pulled a cube of energon from a storage compartment at his hip. He raised the drink and gestured for the mechanic to take it. “Here. Call it a peace offering.”

Hoist was skeptical at first but he let the feeling pass and graciously took the cube. “Thank you very much. I appreciate the gesture.” The bulky green mech raised the glass and sent a nod to both Sideswipe and his sociopathic brother. “Salute.” And with that he downed the drink.

His drink done and his thirst properly sated; Hoist left the Mess for his next destination.

Within a half hour the butanethiol will work its way through his internal systems causing the foul odor to permeate through his entire frame. Everyone’s olfactory sensors within one hundred yards would be offended. The end result, a prank for the history books.

Sideswipe sent a friendly wave as he watched Hoist leave and disappear around the corner.

The red terror pulled back into the room and looked back at Sunstreaker. With his optics locked on his golden twin a broad smile played onto his faceplate before he doubled over in a fit of laughter. Unable to contain himself, Sideswipe topped over and landed on his side.

Outside Ventilation Shaft

When Bluestreak’s head popped out of the ventilation shaft Axle bent down and carefully helped the gunner remove himself from the confined space. He was grateful Blue was actually willing to do this little task as anyone else would have scoffed and simply left Axle be.

Once free of the shaft the black and silver mech went about stretching his joints, but quickly handed over the recorder and the badge. Axle sent him a slight nod of thanks and set to looking over the text that was burned into the wall. “Well, it’s definitely Old Cybertronian.” He commented. “And it looks like it was printed perfectly.” Axle stared intently at the image and added as an afterthought, “Hex has no idea how to write Old Cybertronian. I don’t think he even knows it was a common language in ancient times. He’s warborn. One of the last to come online after the war began.”

His musings were torn from the image and to the badge. He lifted the sigil and gently removed the arrow from it. He took a quick scan of the projectile and sent a small reassuring smile at the gunner. “It’s okay, Blue. It’s just an arrow. Nothing on it or in it. You’ll live.”

Axle placed both items in a storage compartment before looking back at his companion. Blue’s suggestion about heading to one of the research labs was a good one. “Yeah. I doubt anyone would know anything about the language.” He flashed the smaller bot a tight smile. “The research labs it is.”

The filed medic turned on his heel and began to make his way down the corridor, but stopped when he was only several feet away. “I know Hex may seem eccentric, but he’s a good kid who’s had everything go wrong in his life since coming online.” He looked over his shoulder with a pained expression on his faceplate. “Captured on his first mission, forced to watch his entire team tortured and killed, escaped only to get caught and nearly killed.” He let out a sigh before he continued, “Then he had to find out he was never supposed to be rescued.”

Axle looked back down the corridor ahead of him and added in a low tone, “He’s angry and I can’t blame him. The only thing I can do is be there for him. And it seems that I’ve failed him in that respect.” His shoulders slumped low as he began to slowly make his way toward the research labs.

Tracer’s Quarters

Tracer returned to one of the piles of dataslates that had been haphazardly piled in a corner while Smokescreen remained on the berth. She had her audio receptors tuned into everything the rallybot had to say while her processor was focused on reading through what was on each device.

She lifted her head up when Smokescreen mentioned Screencast again, but she did not turn to look at him. Slowly, and with a pad in her hand Tracer stood up and made her way to the mech’s side. Without a word the femme sat down. Several moments of silence passed between them before she finally spoke, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “I know that I feel the same about you too.” Tracer reached her hand over and laid it on top of his, but she never looked in his direction. Instead she kept her optics focused on the datapad in her other hand.

“You know if I’m going to remember more of this…” the blue and white femme gave Smokescreen’s hand a light squeeze before handing over the pad…of which contained a list of the names of deceased Autobots. “…and less of this…” Tracer lifted the image cube to optic level. “Then I don’t think I want to remember what’s trapped inside my processor.”

Tracer let out a dejected sigh. She then stood and made her way to the door. “We should go.”

Outside Ventilation Shaft

Bluestreak listened as Axle once again reiterated that Hex knew nothing about ancient Cybertronian, pointing out that the young mech was one of the last warborns to come online. Regardless of what the field medic thought regarding his ward’s historical knowledge, Hex had still managed to write a message on the wall in that long forgotten archaic language. The silver ‘Bot had learned it somehow, which was another mystery to add to the growing collection of uncertainties regarding recent events.

The gunner breathed a sigh of relief once Axle informed him that no chemicals were on the arrow. Bluestreak would live to talk another cycle whether anyone else wanted him to or not. The former doctor then agreed with him about heading down to the research labs in order to find out what the message said. The field medic only made it a very short distance when he stopped to give further explanation as to why Hex behaved in such an anti-social way. For a moment it almost sounded like he was defending his ward’s most recent actions, but Blue understood that was not the case. Axle was simply trying to make the chatterbot see that Hex was really not such a bad mech deep down. The young Autobot had just been through a lot in his short life and had experienced terrible things that no one should ever have to endure.

“I see what you’re getting at, Axle,” Bluestreak said as he followed the field medic on his way to the research labs which were located one level down. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for what happened to Hex and to Hardhead, as well. I know for a fact that Hardhead isn’t the type to go off and switch sides, if that’s what actually happened down there. Honestly, there’s been all kinds of rumors going around. No one actually knows what really happened except for those that were there. Did any of the ones who needed medical attention tell you anything specific? I mean, with both Hex and Hardhead going AWOL, there has to be something that explains all of this. Someone has to know something! ”

Bluestreak quieted down for a moment, a novelty, before breaking the brief silence once again. “Hopefully, translating this message will shed some light on everything or at least point us in the right direction. There is more going on around here than just a few ‘Bots going AWOL and we need to find out what it is before it’s too late.” The black and silver mech then approached and entered a turbo lift, holding the door open for Axle. “Going down?”

Tracer’s Quarters

Smokescreen loved Tracer. There was no denying that fact now. Anyone who saw them together could see it, as well. It was just the way that he looked at her, the way he spoke to her and touched her with utmost compassion. One could argue that she brought the best of the rallybot to the forefront. His kindness, generosity and friendly demeanor were aspects of his personality that most of his comrades already knew about and had seen him exhibit personally. They were also qualities that seemed to be amplified when he was around her regardless of Tracer’s mental or drug problems. Smokey could see past all of that and see the real femme underneath.

Unfortunately, with all of the positive effects she had on him, the troubled scout also brought out some of Smokescreen’s less than desirable traits. These included lying, stealing and deceitfulness. The diversion expert had done all of those things in recent cycles in order to help Tracer meet with her Decepticon dealer down on Earth. He even pulled Wheeljack into his grand scheme on the premise that the scientist owed him one. Of course, things had not gone exactly as the rallybot had hoped when confronting Oil Slick and thus the lies became even greater and more complicated as Axle had to be brought in to help rebuild and save Smokey’s spark. It was almost too much to keep straight, but they had all managed to pull it off, so far.

Some might say that Tracer was a bad influence on Smokescreen, but the rallybot would scoff at that assertion, pointing out that he was already a mech of questionable morals long before he had ever met the drug-addicted femme. In all reality, they complimented each other. Neither was perfect, but both had good sparks deep down. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be Autobots fighting the good fight against the Decepticons. The rallybot had come close to wearing a purple badge, but it was Tracer that convinced him otherwise. Even with all of her troubles, she knew him better than he knew himself and made him see the real mech underneath the gambling, cheating street racer. For that reason alone he would never desert her. Ever.

Smokescreen awoke from his thoughts when Tracer sat down next to him on the recharge berth and placed her hand over his own. After reassuring the rallybot that she felt the same way about him, the blue and white scout handed him a datapad as she expressed her reluctance to remember more of the bad, wanting instead to only hold on to the good memories like that of the image within the cube. The rallybot understood her misgivings, casting Tracer a reassuring smile before she finally got up and headed for the door. She wanted to get going and it wasn’t really a bad idea. They had been there a little longer than Smokey would’ve liked, but he wasn’t about to rush Tracer. If Wheeljack ultimately found them missing from his lab and got angry then so be it.

“Okay, Tracer,” Smokescreen replied softly as he set the datapad down on the berth. He then stood up and joined Tracer at the door, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder plate. “I know that you don’t want to remember all of the unpleasant stuff, but it’s a part of you whether you like it or not. All of that will come to the surface eventually. Besides, it’s not just the good experiences that make us who we are, you know. Sometimes we have to go through bad things so that we may grow and become stronger. We are a sum of everything even the parts we don’t like.”

Sliding his right hand down from the scout’s shoulder until it fell into her left hand, Smokescreen cast the depressed femme another broad smile. “Now, let’s get going before Wheeljack finds us missing and freaks out. We don’t want those things on the sides of his head to short out now do we? Heh.” With that said, the diversion expert exited the room and lead Tracer through the corridors of the medical frigate towards the docking ring.

Med Bay

Jazz knew that it wasn't going to go as well as it could when he went to go see Ratchet. Even though the medic was just blowing off steam, Jazz couldn't help but to feel a little apprehensive about just outright handing the CMO the evidence and bidding him good day. Then again, he didn't exactly want to stick around with the buddy-bud-bud attitude of the medical officer.

Handing the CMO the datapad, Jazz explained what was on it, "Howlstrike, man! This shows how he bit the dust, and who did it! It gets... A bit weird in the later parts of the tape, but I know for a fact that it was not edited in any way."

If the CMO already knew everything on the tape, Jazz was prepared to duck, for wrenches would start to fly faster than a Turbofox being hunted.

Research Labs

Axle entered the turbo lift, his optics almost glazed over. With a very slight nod he acknowledged the gunner and keyed in the deck location to the labs. The field medic said nothing during their short trip, instead Axle focused all of his processor’s power into trying to solve the puzzle of why Hardhead and Hex would follow this…this…mech in Hot Rod’s armor. Who was he? What did he want? Why here? Why now? Why Hex?

The turbo lift stopping and the doors opening shook Axle from his thoughts and the medic stepped off and into the corridor. If he recalled correctly their destination would be the fourth door on the left. Without a word, Axle moved down the hall.

He made it to the third door before he stopped and placed his hand lightly over his abdomen. The painkillers he’d received from Ratchet were wearing off. They should have lasted longer, but with all the stress and mayhem that had been stirred up recently it was no wonder they hadn’t stayed in his system longer. He stood stock-still for a moment and waited until the pain finally dissipated before he moved on and entered the lab.

Axle took a quick glance over his shoulder at Bluestreak before he settled at one of the computer terminals. From his storage compartment he removed the recorder and exposed the jack at its back. He then inserted it into the access port on the display and entered several commands. The screen in front of him came to life with the glyphs that were stored on the small device.

Unfortunately, there would be no solid data on whole written verses of the old language, but there would be files containing the separate glyphs that made up the writing system. How accurate their deciphering would be…that was something Axle would worry about later.

“Okay. Here’s a file on the old glyphs. No translations for phrases, unfortunately, but there is a file on the “alphabet”.” He opened the file and watched as the screen filled with shapes that represented the old Cybertronian language with their translation below each character in Neocybex. “This is gonna take longer than I thought.”

The field medic took in all the data, as much as he could, and set to trying to break Hex’s coded message. The black and green mech let a low groan slip past his vocalizer and quickly covered it up with a grunt.

Breems seemed to spill into joors as Axle worked furiously at the keys, all the while suppressing the urge to double over and cry out in, not only physical pain, but mental anguish. The low tone that sounded from the terminal caught the medic’s attention and he slowly lifted his gaze up to the glowing translation in the upper right hand corner of the screen.

“’The first seal…Torn. No… Broken. The second seal. Broken. The third seal. Broken. The fourth seal. Broken.’ What is this?” Axle stared for a moment longer before looking back at Bluestreak, a bewildered look on his face. Another ping had him whipping his head back to the screen and reading the new line of text. “’Conquest. War. Plague. And Death.’” None of this was making any sense. Axle looked back up at the corner of the screen and read the final translation.

“’Coming from the fifth and sixth broken seals. He is the…the...” Axle struggled with the glyph for a moment before finally understanding its meaning. “…he is the Apocalypse.’” For several breems Axle simply stared at the now understandable text. Mouth slightly agape, processor trying desperately to make sense of it all. “I…I don’t. What...What’s it supposed to mean?”

Corridor outside Tracer’s Quarters

She had reached the door when she heard Smokescreen rise from the berth and address her in a soft timbre. Tracer stood motionless, her optics on the smooth surface of the lackluster door. The scout took in everything the rallybot said, but she said nothing. A moment passed before she turned to the side, her right shoulder facing the door. “I suppose experience is a hard teacher.” Tracer cast her optics on the blue and red mech and gave him a smile when he placed his hand on her shoulder. “It gives us the test first and the lesson afterwards.”

The smile widened slightly when his hand slid down from her shoulder and fell into her open hand. It always seemed that when Smokescreen was around things fell perfectly into place. She didn’t worry as much. She didn’t second guess. Everything, even she, was normal. Oh, if only she could bottle Smokescreen. The thought brought out a low sigh from her before she nodded in response to the diversion expert’s suggestion that they make their way back to the lab.

“Yeah. Although now I’m curious to see just what he’d look like without those audio fins lite up whenever he speaks.” Her expression was deadpan before a wide smile spread across her face and she let out a low giggle. “But I don’t think I’d wanna put him through that. Not now anyway.”

Tracer let Smokescreen lead her out of her quarters and out into the corridor. From there the two made their way back toward the docking ring. Tracer was quiet during the trek and only broke the silence when it felt comfortable for her to do so.

“I remember.” She kept her voice low so it wouldn’t carry throughout the corridor. “Everything, I mean.” Tracer wasn’t sure it was something she wanted, but the memories were finally there. “The war. Before the war. Seeing Oil Slick on Earth.” The scout stopped in her tracks and looked over at Smokescreen. “Almost losing you down there.” She stared deep into his optics for a brief moment before she stepped in close to him and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and pressed her head into the soft dermal-plating of his neck.

Med Bay

The scowl that had etched itself onto Ratchet’s face was slowly dropped and replaced by a shocked expression. A visual confirmation that Howlstrike was, in fact, attacked by another Autobot. It was almost a relief to finally see who the assailant was. The CMO’s optics were set hard on Jazz’s form for several moments before he looked down at the datapacket still clutched in his hand. “Okay, Jazz.”

He stalked to his office where he inserted the device’s cable into the terminal’s uplink and typed in his security code. The image from the video feed was slightly grainy but still easy enough to make out basic figures and shapes.

In the top corner of the screen Howlstrike entered, or seemed to be pulled, into the storage room. There was some movement around the former Predacon, but there were no distinguishable features of the second mech. With his optics glued to the screen Ratchet slipped into his chair and continued to watch.

There was a fight. Howlstrike lunged at the other occupant, but still no good look at who it was. “Damnit! Fragger, get in view.” Ratchet growled out as he slammed his fist down on the desk next to the keyboard. If only the attacker would move into full visual range.

And then there it was. Howlstrike drew his sword, but it was gone in an instant and in the hands of the unknown mech. The former Pred took on his alternate mode and lunged. A hard, quick swipe and the wolf’s body collapsed to the floor, the creature’s head rolling to a stop just in front of the mech who took Howlstrike out.

Ratchet’s optics brightened as he shot up and out of his chair, knocking the piece of furniture to the floor for the second time in as many days. “Dear Primus, no. It can’t be. Not him.”

Unable to remove his optics from the stilled image on the screen, Ratchet opened a secure comm line to Ultra Magnus. >>”Magnus. Ratchet. Jazz has found video confirmation of the identity of the person that attacked Howlstrike. Sir, I think you better come down and see this for yourself.”<< The CMO’s voice held none of its usual malice and spark, instead it simply sounded…flat.
____

While Ratchet took his leave and settled into his office, First Aid took the opportunity to speak to the saboteur. “Jazz? Howlstrike’s attacker…on the video…was it one of the ‘Bots that was with Hot Rod?” The doctor fidgeted for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Because when I was down planet side, Hardhead and Hex were with him. Along with two ‘Cons. I saw…” First Aid paused briefly as he lowered his gaze to the floor. “One of the ‘Cons, he took out one of Magnus’ guys and Hex, he…”

First Aid lifted his gaze and set it over his shoulder at the two slabs that held the two shredded and grayed mess that were the remains of Magnus’ men. “…that’s what was left when they were both finished.”

Med Bay

Remington busied herself checking up on patients who did not require immediate surgical intervention or emergency aid. She walked around from slab to slab and scanned basic functions, energon conduit integrity, pump rates, the like. Also, she was authorized to affect cminor repairs. Stopping leakage, Cleaning wounds, removing shrapnel, re-attaching armor plates. She was there to do routine work that didn't necessarily require Ratchet's considerably wider knowledge and expertise so that the Chief Medical Officer and his second, First Aid, could focus on the more tenuous, function threatening cases.

The Chief Medical Officer...

Remington stopped to ponder for a moment. Working with Ratchet proved to be quite stressful on occasion. His temper was like a mine-field, untrespassable and explosive if triggered. Not that it wasn't understandable, though. For Remington, at least. Thousands of vorns of war, mechs screaming and dying under his manual actuators without end, no matter the staggering effort he made to save each and every one of them. It would have worn down even the most unwavering.

Partly the reason why Remington volunteered for med support. She understood what the Chief Medical Officer was going through and help if she could. She had the inherent skills but lacked the practice. At least, for tending to and maintaining living mechanics. Inanimate equipment or guns, she could take apart and assemble with optics shut down. But learning how to keep others functioning longer, even between rockcrete and hard places in the middle of a battlefield required a little more dedication. Who better to learn from than Ratchet himself? And while at it, maybe she could lighten his burden, if only by a few microns. If he yelled at her from time to time, tough luck. Besides, it was her own choice, and volunteers don't get to complain, Remington told herself.

Someone touched her arm. She started, having been too wound up in her thoughts. One of the patients caught her wrist, weakly. A sleek, young mech to whose midsection cables snaked from a mobile monitoring screen.

"Doc," he said, his voice edgy, "it hurts."

"Where?" Remington turned to him and pulled up her scanner.

The mech pointed at his waist section, just above the right thigh-plate.

There was a double chime, a beep beep, and the display turned red as Remington slowly brought the scanner above the indicated area. She leaned down and pressed her free actuator against the upper thigh. It felt curiously soft.

The mech hissed, a painful frown crossing his face.

"Sorry," Remington said. She withdrew her actuator. "I'll just have to run a few more checks on you. But relax, everything's going to be fine."

She smiled. That gentle, warm smile that was so much her own. The mech appeared to calm a bit.

Remington issued a simple command-transmission and called a med-drone to perform the necessary examinations. A hovering box the size of a cranial unit buzzed over, held aloft by a flickering blue repulsor field. Thin arms extended from its sides, at the end of which various projectors and ultrasonic sweepers were carried. Holding them out, the drone projected all kinds of lights and audio waves at the patient's frame to map his internal systems and his structural cohesion.

The main entrance door hissed and opened. Someone entered and was greeted in a rather heated manner by Ratchet. Just a few moments afterwards, the Chief Medical Officer stormed off into his office, more agitated than he usually would be over such abrupt disturbances.

Slowly, hesitantly, Remington made her way over to First Aid and the newly arrived mech who turned out to be Jazz.

"Is... is something wrong?" she asked, perplexed. "The CMO looks quite... beside himself."

Med Bay

Even with the facemask and the visor in place anyone looking at First Aid could easily tell that the Protectobot was worried. The arrival of so many wounded, and two dead, had him hoping that the recent events was nothing more than a nightmare that he’d wake up from.

The question he asked the head of Spec Ops lingered for a moment when he started at the sudden arrival of Remington. First Aid cast a weary gaze in the femme’s direction and gave her a slight nod as he offered a somewhat unsure answer to her question. “Yeah, Remington. There’s been…an incident on Earth.” His shoulders slumped low as he turned his optics toward the door to Ratchet’s office.

“Ratchet…we’ve had a Pit of a time getting Warpath, Howlstrike and Ricochet stable.” He said in a low tone. First Aid knew the three ‘Bots had been through a lot but they would survive. What worried the doctor more was that their attackers were comrades. What would Ratchet find on those videos?

First Aid broke the silence when he finally looked back at the technician. “There’s a chance one of our own attacked Howlstrike. Ricochet and Warpath…I know for sure two Autobots were involved and another Autobot might be pulling the strings.” He let out a sigh and looked back at the two deactivated mechs on the slabs across the room. “You know, I hope to the Allspark we don’t see any more of that. It was brutal.”

Mess Hall

Sunstreaker sat silently, drinking a high octane fuel as he let his twin go about his current bit of nonsense he was up to this time. He had some ingenious ‘prank’ planned for Hoist in retaliation for him hustling them out of the medbay. While Sunstreaker was sometimes amused by his twin’s pranks he didn’t feel like helping him on this one. He would just enjoy the eventual results of it while letting Sideswipe do all the heavy lifting.

The yellow warrior watched as his brother somehow convinced Hoist to drink down the offered beverage. He would likely learn the lesson to never accept gifts from an insulted Sideswipe in the future. He wouldn’t be the first or last Autobot to be on the receiving end of a prank in revenge for some perceived slight by Sideswipe. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any solid evidence linking back to Sideswipe over this one and, more importantly, nothing linking it to him.

Sunstreaker let out a sigh as Sideswipe began giggling and then cackling on the floor the second Hoist left the room. He got up and walked over to the prone, laughing form of his twin and gave him a swift kick in the midsection. “Get up you idiot, you’re embarrassing me.” He grabbed the red Autobot by the arm and hauled him to his feet. With them standing close his whispered to him in a hiss. “How many times have I told you to not do that! You can’t start laughing at your prank before its even done! Try not to act so obvious for once in your life! You can laugh all you want once the prank is done and no one suspects you. Right now you just look like a lunatic.”

Research Labs

The ride down to the next level was a quiet one and lasted only a few astroseconds. It was hardly enough time for Bluestreak to let loose another long, drawn out rant about whatever came into his processor. Once the turbo lift had stopped and the door slid open, the gunner stepped out and followed Axle down the corridor, stopping only briefly as the field medic held his abdomen with a look of pain plastered across his faceplate. “Are you...” the black and silver mech started to say but was unable to finish when the former doctor silently resumed his trek to the research labs, entering the facility. It was almost as if Axle had anticipated that Blue was about to start asking him a million questions and decided to try and avoid the conversation all together by simply rushing ahead. It wouldn’t work, of course, but it was an admirable attempt.

“Axle, are you okay?” Bluestreak finally asked uninterrupted as he walked into the labs behind the field medic. “I noticed that you were favoring your abdominal region a moment ago and you looked like you were in a lot of pain. I hope there’s nothing too seriously wrong with you. Perhaps some painkillers would do the trick. I just took some, myself, a little while ago for a cranial ache I was suffering from and they knocked the pain right out of my head. I feel so much better now I can’t even tell you what a relief it is.”

A quick glance from Axle shut Bluestreak up, but only temporarily. The field medic then sat down at one of the terminals and attached the recorder to an access port which allowed him to view the image of Hex’s message on a much larger screen. After a brief explanation on what he needed to do, Axle cross-referenced the image with a file that contained an alphabet of the glyphs in question. The gunner stood patiently as the translation process was taking much longer than either one of them thought. All the while, the former doctor continued to show signs that he was in an increasing amount of pain. “Axle, maybe you should let me take over. I can handle the computer without a problem. You don’t look so good. Maybe painkillers isn’t what you need. Maybe Ratchet should take a look at you. I know he can be a pain in the aft section sometimes, but why suffer needlessly. It’s only an idea, of course. It’s what I would do if I were....”

Once again, Bluestreak’s ramblings were cut off when the translation finally started to materialize on the view screen. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, talking about seals that needed to be broken that would eventually lead to the apocalypse. It sounded like something out of one of those doomsday stories that were told to protoforms. The field medic was at a loss for words, not knowing what to make of what Hex had written. “Well, Axle, it sounds to me like your ward believes that the apocalypse is coming. Why he wrote the message in ancient Cybertronian and not in our current dialect in a real mystery, and how he learned about the glyphs is an even bigger mystery.”

Bluestreak continued to ponder the situation further, allowing his processor to access long forgotten memories from when he was only a protoform, himself. “Although, this writing reminds me a lot of the stories that I was told a very long time ago regarding the Fallen. I’m reaching here, of course, but I’m sure there was a tale that I once heard that said something about the Fallen returning to bring about the apocalypse. I remember that seals were involved in some capacity, but I’m not sure if the seals would unleash the Fallen or if the Fallen would unleash something else. Sorry, it’s been so long. I’m having a difficult time remembering everything.”

The black and silver mech’s optics then widened as a dark thought entered his mind. “Wait! Maybe Hex and Hardhead are possessed! Yes, that would explain why they were acting so out of character. Well, maybe not so much for Hex, but for Hardhead at least! I know it may sound ridiculous and stupid, but perhaps Hex knows this old language now because he’s not really Hex! Of course, if Bombshell was on planet I’d say it was one of his cerebral shells, but the Insecticons are not stationed in this sector to my knowledge so it can’t be that. Still, it has to be some kind of possession or mind control, whether it be supernatural or science based.” Bluestreak looked down at Axle with an inquisitive expression. “So, what do you think? Am I on to something here or am I just crazy?”

Corridor near Docking Ring

Keeping her hand firmly within his own, Smokescreen guided Tracer through the corridors of the medical frigate. He saw no need to force her to recall the way back. She had done an adequate enough job finding the way over to her quarters that the diversion expert had no problem getting them back to Wheeljack’s lab. The trek was a quiet one until the troubled femme finally spoke up, admitting that she now remembered everything. It had all finally come back to her somehow, both the bad and the good. It didn’t really matter to the rallybot. The important thing was that the old Tracer had returned with all of her flaws still intact. The red and blue racer wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You do?” Smokescreen responded as they stopped near the docking tunnel. It was not so much a question, but a reaction to her encouraging words. He turned to face the drug-addicted femme as she wrapped her arms around his waist section and nuzzled her head into his neck cables. “I’m so glad, Tracer. I was worried for a while that you may never remember everything. I had almost resided myself to that very real possibility, accepting that you may never be the same again. But none of that matters now. You’re back and that’s all I care about at this moment.”

The rallybot returned Tracer’s passionate gesture with one of his own, cradling her in his arms. Their embrace lasted for almost half a breem before Smokescreen finally pulled back and gazed down into the blue and white scout’s optics. “We’d better get going.” With one more kiss to her chevron, the rallybot grasp her hand again and lead Tracer through the docking tunnel and into the Ark-22 on the opposite side. Smokey quickened his pace, hoping that Wheeljack hadn’t made it back his lab yet. Otherwise, a lecture would surely be coming their way.