"BOOM!" the last traces of what once would have been a pâtisserie by the name of Le Petit Gâteau Fromage smoldered and crumbled to the ground. Dark ominous clouds of soot telling the tale of the destruction done danced in the air around the city of Paris, calling out a woeful warning to any foolish souls that dared to venture near.

A belligerent figure ignored the somber fumes as he crushed the charred remains of a banner that had decorated the bakery at one time. "

KRACKOW! I hate pastries!" Warpath proceeded to shoot another blast of energy for emphasis, causing a stray Earthen feline to jump from its hiding spot among the garbage bins in fright.

Powerglide leaned against a lamppost opposite his pugnacious companion, idly watching the destructive display.

"Aw. You hate everything." he lazily replied, rubbing his optics in exaggerated boredom. "And if you’re done showing that sign who’s boss, can we go now?"

Warpath gave one last satisfying stomp on the French sign and regarded the droning Warthog with an irritated glance. " ZUUM! I’ll decide when we leave! I’m having fun! So stop POW! whining about it!"

Powerglide sighed and pushed away from his comfortable stance against the lamp poll, gingerly walking towards the blood red tank. Blow up this museum of rare art. Destroy that ancient château. Doesn’t he ever get tired of this stuff? he griped to himself. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the so-called "City of Love," or the entire planet for that matter, but one too many occurrences of leaving the battle field without orders had left Powerglide on Lord Prime’s bad side. As punishment, he had to accompany the trigger-happy Warpath to Paris. He probably could have handled him alone but Prime decided to send that hippy dune buggy guy also. What was his name? Powerglide couldn’t remember for the life of him. Whoever he was, combined with his companions, they were Prime’s "favorite" miscreants and the fidgety Autobot Commander wanted them as far away from him as he could get them. The last thing he needed was disobedient soldiers in his ranks. They could start to conspire against his rule.

So Powerglide wasn’t very surprised when he and the dune buggy guy were called to Prowl’s office to assist the loud-mouthed tank settle a personal vendetta. Besides, Prime’s right-hand man said a little propaganda overseas could be useful . . . whatever the reason.

Six months later, they were still in world capital of cheese and wine. Powerglide had requested long ago to return to the Ark, finding it no longer necessary to stay there. Unfortunately, the almighty Prime disagreed and commanded him and his companions to continue their "cleansing" of the city. Apparently the Autobot leader was intimidated by this request and felt the need to send his personal "guard dog" to keep watch over them. Which brought them to where they were now. Walking around downtown Paris blowing up little cafés and pâtisseries. There wasn’t much else to do. They had already destroyed all the major structures, and even he had to admit that demolishing that Eiffel Tower was somewhat amusing. All they had to do now was look for some guy and his band of rebels. Which Powerglide had a hunch that they were the reason Warpath wanted to come to Béret Country in the first place. He didn’t see the point to it though. They were just another group of stubborn idiotic humans that would eventually be experimented on or placed as slaves . . . or both. To each their own, I guess, Powerglide mentally lamented.

He stood beside the tank and joined him in hypnotically watching the surreal image created by the flames. They leaped from the demolished bakery shop and radiated their murderous warm glow on the mechs, highlighting the already blood red shades of Warpath’s armor. Powerglide cut his gaze from the fire and watched his cantankerous companion. He could see the slightest hints of a wily smile tugging at his face, despite being covered by a mask. He started to chuckle to himself causing Powerglide to begin to question the tank’s already limited sanity. The low rumbling chuckle quickly turned into a loud guffaw . . . and then ended as quickly as it had begun.

All right then, wacko, Powerglide silently muttered to himself while slowly distancing himself from his companion. A mech could never be too safe.

"ZOW! Hey! Have you seen Beachcomber? He’d get a kick CHOOM! out of this bonfire!" the brusque Autobot cackled.

Powerglide idly looked at his companion with a tinge of confusion. "Who? Is he that blue dune buggy guy?"

"Duuuuuuuuuuude."

Nevermind, Powerglide sighed to himself.

Beachcomber circled around in a street adjacent to them, gazing awestruck up into to sky. He laughed joyfully watching the fire’s smoke billow up into the endless space above them, flailing his arms in a playful manner.

"Man, this is awesome! Like, cosmic and stuff!"

Powerglide rolled his optics and began to pick at chipped paint on his arm in boredom. I need a new coat of paint. One more reason to leave.

"Where have you been?" he asked nonchalantly, not bothering to look up at the spacy Security Officer.

"Huh?" Beachcomber snapped from his trance and regarded the Warthog with flabbergasted idiocy. "Aw man. You should’ve seen it! There’s like this giant garden on the other side of the town. There were lots flowers and everything. It turned all supernatural when I lit it up. I see why the French dudes like it so much. It was all meaningful and stuff, you know? I felt one with the universe. . ." he continued to drone on. Powerglide watched as Warpath finally became visibly irritated by the dune buggy’s philosophic preaching. Powerglide couldn’t hold that against the tank. The hippie preached a lot, and it got "slightly" annoying after a while.

He watched his belligerent companion inch his way towards Beachcomber, who had gone back to staring at the trance inducing flames before him and continued along in his ramblings to no one in particular. Powerglide shook his conical head and went back to chipping away his tattered paint job.

How ridiculous can we act? he sighed. He would’ve rather been doing some kind of acrobatic stunts right now, it was the only thing that seemed to keep him entertained. But Powerglide’s flying made Warpath feel uncomfortable and like with everything else, Warpath became irritated when he was uncomfortable. Powerglide wasn’t about to make himself a target also. Warpath could have all the fun he wanted pummeling Beachcomber instead. Of which he was doing now . . . well, that and telling him to shut up every time the hippie retaliated with "hey, man!" or a "dude! No!"

The cynical Autobot yawned at the display and rubbed is face in mock tiredness. He regarded the garbage bin next to him as he heard a reverberating sound come from behind it. A mangy battered Earth dog came out of his hiding spot and growled lowly at Powerglide. It carried one of its paws close to its chest and limped cautiously out into the open. Apparently it had broken its forearm at some time in the past. Now it was searching for an easy effortless meal outside of the former bakery. Obviously it saw Powerglide as intruding on its territory and food supply, or maybe it was just frightened. Too bad it wasn’t one of those poodle dogs. Warpath had told him that he wanted to step on one of their kind for whatever reason.

But that’s how it goes, Powerglide silently quipped, pulling out his rifle and shooting the ravaged canine. He watched it yelp in pain as the blast tore though it’s side, causing it to fall over in a huddled mass. Its limbs twitching occasionally as death settled in. He heard Warpath and a shaken Beachcomber walk up behind him, seemingly finished with the beatings for now, to stare at the display of gratuitous destruction of life. Powerglide turned to face them, simply shrugging off his meaningless kill.

"Yuck. Dirty earth animals."

Despite the mask obstructing his view, Powerglide noticed Warpath seemed to be grinning from audial to audial, staring gleefully at the dead, blood-drenched animal. He started to chuckle again and slapped Powerglide on the back.

"YOW! Heh heh, nice piece of work there, ‘Glide!" The tank gave a loud boisterous laugh, his cold optics dancing with maliciousness.

Powerglide gave a disgusted grunt in response. He couldn’t help but notice that the mutilated dog’s blood seemed to match that of Warpath’s armor. A fact that almost made him sick to his fuel tank. At least Beachcomber seemed to be quietly observing it instead. Though the question of whether he was having another epiphany while doing so had yet to be answered.

Warpath abruptly stopped in his obnoxious howl and turned to regard something seemingly hidden in the rubble. Powerglide raised an optic ridge and began to speculate if it was Warpath just being a nutcase again. However he heard an almost inaudible cry come from the debris. Warpath went into a mad walk-dash over to the sound with Powerglide and Beachcomber following behind him. They looked down to find a human struggling to free himself from the wreckage.

Powerglide cocked his head slightly to the side and regarded the tattered garments the human wore, covered in gore and dirt. If his data tracks told him correctly, they were the articles of clothing for a chef or baker. Possibly the owner of the pastry shop. He did not seem panicked by their presence however, which disappointed Powerglide to some extent. Though he contemplated that the reason for that was because the human’s face was caked in a mix of it’s own circulation fluid and dirt from the destroyed building and could no longer see anything. Though the human did seem to hear them and was foolishly pleading for their help, believing them to be humans as well.

"Allô? Où est-ce que la? Monsieur? Quel qu’un? M’aidez? S’il vous plaît?" the human rambled on, pleading for the three Autobots to aide him, oblivious to their identities. Warpath looked up at Powerglide; a sadistic gleam shining in his optics. Powerglide sighed and rubbed his optics in frustration. He wondered when Warpath would get tired of his job. He knew he was certainly tired of watching him do it.

"Monsieur? S’il vous plaît?" the human’s pleas went unheard as the giant blood red tank brought his hand down, ending the baker’s wretched existence.