The Autobot's fuel pump was charging overtime as he fled through the rough terrain. When he'd been stationed here, they'd told him he'd have nothing to fear, that this little mudball of a planet was nearly conquered, that the Decepticons were huddling in their undersea base hoping for nothing larger than a minnow to cross their sensors. . . .

A shot echoed past him, slammed into a nearby outcropping of rock and peppered him with fragments of sandstone. He twisted, jerked, and cursed the fact that the previous attack by the Decepticons had caused his transformation abilities to lock up and left him in his humanoid mode. Plus, then the other Autobots hadn't bothered to even attempt to pull the wounded into their transports . . . and here he was on a hostile, unfamiliar world, dirt clogging his intakes as he choked and coughed. He attempted to duck under a pine branch, and it came back cracking across his chest and dragging a huge scratch in his paint. . . .

The sound of engines got louder behind him, and he turned to see two pairs of headlights angled at him in the dusk, cold beams spilling across the uneven ground, illuminating every blade of straggling grass like knives jutting from the ground.

He started to reach for his weapon. It was almost in his hand when he realized that these were cars. He could barely make them out, but changing to full low light vision, he could see them outlined there, a silver Datsun and a black Trans-Am with a silver lightning bolt across the hood, (at least those were the models his computer gave him,) both of them silently resting there on the forest loam.

"Autobots . . ." he muttered. "About blasted time. So, are you helping me back to base, or what?"

The right headlight on the Datsun raised a little, and then lowered in a car gesture similar to lifting an eyebrow. The Autobot suddenly became aware of the oddest noise just under the purr of the two engines. It sounded like a deep, canine growl. Other than that, neither car made a sound . . . but at least the shots from his pursuers had stopped. He figured that the Autobots had scared off the Decepticons hoping to pick him off.

"Well, come on, let's go-" he snapped angrily, furious that these two idiots couldn't even bother to speak to him. "I want off this planet. Minute I get back, I'm requesting a transfer-"

The Datsun's T-top slid back slowly, as did the Trans-Am's. Both cars moved forward, the dirt crunching slowly under their tires as they rolled forward, coming to rest so that their hoods pointed in at him in almost a "V" shape. It was then that he noticed that neither car wore a symbol. The hoods were completely devoid of any insignia.

"What the-"

The two humans with the shoulder mounted rockets seemed to stand up in the driver's seats of both cars, aimed, fired.

The last thing the Autobot processed was the sensation of his body going several different directions, none of them good.

"Decent hit."

The man leaned over the top of the Datsun as he surveyed the smoking heap of what had once been an Autobot.

A faint chuckle escaped the silver car.

"As you had thought . . . hitting a Transformer cross fire like that means our bodies can't absorb the stress. Instead of being knocked down or blown forward, it's like a fatal spin, isn't it?"

The human swung lightly over the edge of the window, running a hand through his greying hair as he chuckled back. Slowly, he pulled the rocket out of the car as well, smoothing his fingers over the launcher. "Ask Chip there. I'm just the one who cobbles this stuff together."

The black car opened its door and slowly, the young man eased his hover-wheelchair out. For a moment, he leaned his hand on the car, a quick slap of affection like someone might give a large dog, and then he looked over at the silver Datsun.

"Yeah, Bluestreak. I figured that by calculating the vector of force it might do something like that. Well, we can't take them down with one rocket, but two, on the angles we had it on . . . we at least will give them something to think about in the morning. Assuming they find anything left over, eh, Sparkplug?"

"Assuming. We can use most of this stuff. Figure out how the bastards tick, and how best to kill them . . ." Sparkplug began, kicking a lump of fused metal with the toe of his yellow boots, and then he looked over, cleared his throat as Bluestreak pulled a few feet away from the human and transformed, standing there, his rifle in his hand, his door panels spread lightly behind him for balance. A slight frown touched him as he looked down at the human below.

Sparkplug shrugged, "Not gonna say I'm sorry for that remark."

Bluestreak inclined his head slowly. "No, I figured that to be the case."

The Trans-Am pulled back a little as well, driving back until it rested off to the side of Bluestreak, and then there was the shifting mechanical noise of transformation. A moment later the sleek, black and silver female crouched next to the silver male, resting her weight on the tips of her toes and fingers as she drew air past her olfactory sensors, then growled again.

"Easy, Dart . . . he didn't mean he was going to kill me right this moment."

The female glanced up at him, bright blue optics slowly deepening to cobalt.

"Not kill at all," she growled in her strange, broken speech pattern before giving a little scoffing snort and turning her gaze back onto Sparkplug.

Bluestreak shrugged, looked at Sparkplug and Chip, and then Chip just nodded.

"Sparkplug, we should really sort out what we can and can't use before anything else shows up. We can scavenge the most important parts, load them up and take them back. We should go see if the weapons systems are intact."

"Okay, Franklin. . . ."

Chip chuckled. "Oh you finally remembered I had something other than a code name, old man?"

"Old man?"

Bluestreak watched the two humans move off, still trading gentle insults, and then he looked down at the femme still crouching beside him, her expression intent as she sniffed the air again.

"Dart. Stand up, will you? I hate talking to you like that."

She looked up, inclined her head, her ponytail nearly brushing her neck guard as she regarded him. Then she stood smoothly upright, ending up being almost as tall as he was, long legged and lean like a racehorse. Her slightly slanted, almost feral looking optics gleamed vermillion. She only made optic contact for a fraction of a moment before she glanced out over the trees.

"That's better," he still told her.

"Is?" she wondered, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"Yeah, it is," he replied with a quick nod.

She sighed. "Know . . . don't like."

"I don't like what?" he wondered.

"Humans."

"Dart, I don't like anyone. You know that. All I want is to get off this rock and get home, and hopefully kill as many of them as possible on my way out. They . . . the Autobots . . . and even the Decepticons are practically worthless. This war's corrupted most of them to the point where there's really no redeeming any of them."

He ran his fingers lightly over the stock of his gun. Her sleek black shoulders lifted in a slight shrug.

"No. Off the planet. Yes?"

"Yeah, they need to get out of here, and if allying with the humans gets me closer to my goals, I can do that."

"Is understood. Everything . . . betrays, though. Careful."

"Dart, when have you known me not to be careful?"

She looked over at him, chuckled, a soft whuffing sound.

"Time hit by Autobot dog."

"Well, that was rather a different case-"

"Time shot by Decepticon flyer. . . ."

"An accident," he muttered.

She actually grinned, "Time. . . ."

Bluestreak held up his hand. "Okay, I don't need you to rub it in."

"Not." she informed him.

"Sometimes I wonder."

The black and silver female chuckled again, and shook her head with a small smile.

Bluestreak inclined his head slowly, looking down at her a little.

"For now we and the Resistance have a common goal, though. I think we're rather the last two mechanisms to trust anyone's word anymore, eh?"

A faint blue glow sparkled in Dart's optics, and a low rumble escaped her. Then, she tossed her head, looked down at the ground, and then back up. She shrugged, and then shifted uneasily from foot to foot. True to her courier nature, she hated standing still in one place, and it would be a while before the humans finished picking through the debris.

"Go on," he told her, making a little flicking motion with his fingers. "Go run a perimeter and make sure no one's coming. I don't want anyone sneaking up on us. We'll have to see if the humans will let me snag that power pack out of his rifle. Mine's almost drained completely. Few more shots is all I've got left."

Dart nodded, and then she turned, took one step, and then another, and then she was gone with a rush of air. He thanked someone that she'd remembered to turn on her dampeners when she broke past the sound barrier . . . the sonic boom could be quite dangerous to the humans unshielded nearby. Speaking of humans . . . he thought to himself as he saw Chip beckoning to him to help them move some heavy bits of debris, well, back to work, Bluestreak. Did you ever think you'd be reduced to a piece of heavy machinery for small organic beings . . . I mean, we have a beneficial relationship, and at least they're honest in their dislike and distrust of me, unlike my former faction, but. . . .

Bluestreak strode over, lifted half of the shattered chest plate out of the way so that Chip could search better, stacking some of the larger pieces of metal to one side. The humans didn't seem to notice the expression of distaste that crossed his face as some fluid dripped off of the metal and slithered down to run off his elbow. He placed the leaking piece off to the side, reached to wipe off his arm with the side of his hand. The thick, rapidly gelling liquid clung to his fingers, and he shuddered, door panels rattling loud enough for even the two humans to look up at him. He shook his hand suddenly, flinging viscous strings of the substance to spatter against the ground.

"You okay, Bluestreak?" Chip asked.

The silver mech nodded abruptly.

"Just caught my hand on a rough edge, that's all," he grumbled, his shoulders lifting a fraction in what looked like a casual shrug. "Now, about our part of the deal. . . ."

Bluestreak ducked down into a crouch to clear the small opening of the cavern. A few splashes of water bounced off of his shoulders, shaken off the sparse plant life by the brush of his metallic body slipping into the darkness. He switched to his low light vision, warily looking around. He always felt this way, returning to his shelter; thinking somehow that one of these days, he'd go into the sound of rifles being powered up and he'd know that the Autobots had finally found him. Nothing stirred, nothing was out of place, and he relaxed and leaned slowly back against the rough cave wall, his door panels spread lightly for balance as he sat down and drew his rifle across his lap. With a grace born of repeating an action so many times he'd forgotten to think about it, he popped out the rifle's power pack, adjusted the pins on the new one, and slid it into place. The rifle hummed softly, a metallic deep thrum that sounded somehow like contentment to him.

A moment later, he heard Dart slip in behind him. She moved quietly in and settled down across from him, tucking her legs under her like some strange cybernetic deer.

"Works?" she asked, inclining her head at the rifle.

Bluestreak nodded. "Yeah, the power pack works fine, and it's nearly full. We also got a little . . . extra fuel. The guy was carrying a cube."

"Was worth it?"

He turned his rifle across his knees and begin to clean it, slowly, working with a handful of tools.

"Worth it to attack him like that? Dart, we're so damn low on resources that I'm thinking about what humans taste like." He lifted the rifle, adjusted the scope gently, and then set it across his lap again, polishing the stock with the heel of his palm, metal burnishing metal.

"Chicken," she replied instantly, with a wry grin.

"What?" He'd heard the insult traded around the humans a lot over things they were afraid of, and a slight frown crossed his face. "All right, what was that for?"

"What what for?"

"The chicken remark."

She cocked her head, her solid silver ponytail almost brushing her neck guard and looked confused, and then she laughed suddenly.

"No no. Not scared. Tastes like."

"Huh?"

Dart sighed.

"Human joke. Everything taste like chicken."

Bluestreak sighed.

"Dart, you spend way too much time listening to the humans chattering on and on, you know that?"

She shrugged and settled back uncomfortably against the floor. He turned his rifle over, musing as he once again regretted not having a decent workstation to repair his weaponry at. Or decent energy to use, or a decent berth to shut down in. Instead, I'm living in a cave that's floored with dirt, rocks and that small earth mammal that we scared half to death when we came in. Okay, that left, but not without showing its displeasure by leaking on the floor. What was it . . . oh, yeah. Possum. That was one really scared possum.

Dart just watched him work, quietly, interested perhaps in how delicately he held the weapon as he cleaned out bits of dirt and debris, painstakingly. Then she shifted a little, a soft creak of metal bending.

Bluestreak glanced up at the movement.

"Go hunt tomorrow?" she asked.

He nodded, slowly, knowing what she meant. "Yeah, we probably should go see what we can find."

"Not have enough fuel, no?"

"No," he said. Then, a long, shuddering sigh escaped him and he set the rifle down across his knees again and shook his head.

"Sometimes . . . I just don't know what we're doing."

She inclined her head, her optics cobalt in the darkness. "No?"

Gently, he set the rifle aside, and looked down at his hands, laced his fingers together.

"How much better off are we than before? Living day to day like this." He made a quick hand gesture. A faint hiss of frustration escaped him, and he brought up one hand to rub at his temples.

Dart made a low noise in her chest, almost a whine. "Better than dying."

"Yeah, I suppose. But that implies what we're doing qualifies as living."

She glanced up, hesitantly.

"Does to me," she informed him.

He met her optics briefly, and then turned his head.

"I know. You're right. Sorry."

"No no . . . is okay. Not . . ." She struggled for words then, her speech becoming a stuttering growl. "Not way used to live, no?"

"No. But I suppose it wasn't much different with the Autobots, living day by day. I think . . . I think it's just that. I hate that I've gotten used to living like this."

"Oh. Understand."

She fidgeted slightly, lacing her fingers back and forth.

"The worst part is," he continued, "what choice do we have but to live like this?"

Dart shook her head. "Not going back."

"No," he said abruptly. "That's not even an option."

"Not for us. No. You, shoot on sight. Me, lock up."

He nodded. "So . . . what can we do?"

"Survive?"

He smiled, faintly, for a moment. "Well, we seem to be good at that. Guess we have talent."

The courier grinned. "Yes."

Bluestreak picked up his rifle and started fiddling with it again for a moment. Then he looked up at her again.

"You know . . . the time may come when that's no longer enough."

She shook her head. "Will . . . work. Humans help." The look on her face was one of concern, pensive thought, and something else he couldn't even place.

"Yeah, they will. But they're humans. When all is said and done, they'll just consider us not-bad robots. And for how long? When all of this is over, they won't want us around."

She shook her head, partially, almost looking like she denied what he was saying, and then she seemed to understand, her shoulders slumped.

"Yes. Know."

"Dart, we'll be here for a while, I think. The humans need us for now . . . but when the time comes we'll have to leave . . . and start over, again."

The look in her slanted cobalt optics turned to worry.

"Where go?"

He shrugged, door panels scraping along the rock wall. "We'll figure it out then, I suppose. We're good at surviving."

She smiled faintly. "Yes. Wish had more comfortable survival place, no?"

He chuckled.

"Tired of living in hole," she offered.

"Yeah, well, maybe we'll get the humans to set us up with that much at least. How about we ask for one of those tiny islands in the middle of the ocean where no one lives?" The corners of his mouth turned up, and he rubbed his hand against his chin. "I guess that does presuppose we're still alive by then. Chances are that we might not even have to worry about all these things, eh?" Grimly, he looked at her, and then carefully, he turned the rifle over on his lap, brushed dust off of the barrel.

Dart shifted, her cobalt optics gleaming in the darkness. "Can survive. Know. You teach, I learn. Simple."

Bluestreak's optics met hers, his face neutral. Perhaps there was the slightest trace of disbelief there when he finally spoke.

"From me?"

She nodded, her ponytail gleaming.

"I can't imagine what you would learn from me, except to babble incessantly about nothing at all," he told her with a note of self depreciation in his tone.

A soft chuckle. "Not good at speak. So, learn survive like this."

"Oh. Well, that's something I've learned recently. We've been learning simultaneously."

"Have? Oh. Good. Glad alive to learn."

He sighed, and then he shook his head. "You know . . . you're a lot smarter than me sometimes."

"Am not."

He held up a hand, stopping her. "Yeah, you are. You don't waste time worrying about things you can't change."

Her ebon shoulders lifted and fell in a quick gesture. "No use. Can't change things done."

"Exactly. You can understand that. I can understand it . . . but I can't quite process it."

Dart frowned a little, then sighed and curled up on the dirt floor, flicking a rock out of her way. It pinged off the wall and rolled to a stop in the dirt.

"Wish change one thing someday," she admitted.

"What's that?"

"Decent place . . . sleep. Shut down."

He laughed. "Yeah, well, that's high on my list too."

She nodded, curled up tighter like a big metallic cat, still in her humanoid mode. "Rest first? Take watch next? Is okay?"

"Go ahead. I'll fiddle with this a while longer, anyhow."

A long sigh escaped her, and then he watched her slip into shutdown, going into the mode that conserved the most energy. Usually, they both rested as vehicles, but he understood, somehow, that the day's events and conversation had made her edgy - she could be up and running in a second in this mode. He turned his head and regarded her after he was sure she wouldn't come back on line and see him doing so. Her chin rested on her hands, the black of her chest and hips contrasting sharply with the pale grey of her mid section, face, throat and limbs. He could barely see the flicker of the silver lightning bolt across her chest.

If you asked me where I would be a year ago . . . this is the last place I would have considered. In a dank hole in the ground - which I hate, mind you. It reminds me too much of where I started this whole experience - with barely enough energy to function, and my only companion a Decepticon courier with issues of her own. Well, as the humans like to say, scavengers can't be choosers, and that's what I am, I suppose, a scavenger. So much for that "noble warrior" thing that the Autobots liked to go on about. Noble warrior my skid plate . . . they're not living in a hole in the ground with stench ridden possums. Then again, I don't need to worry about the possum ripping out my main pump in my shut down cycle, so I guess it all equals out in the end.

Dart twitched a little and made a soft growling noise in her chest, and he started working on the rifle again. His attention was drawn to a slight skittering noise, and he started to lift his weapon, automatically, his body tensing. In waddled the possum, looking even more ratty than usual, water clinging to the oily grey fur as it moved past him with ugly arrogance. Oh look. The vermin re-appears. Great.

"Okay. You, marsupial, should be destined for extinction," he muttered.

The possum ignored him, shuffling across the floor and climbing up into a little in the rocks.

"You stink. And you're foul, even for an earth mammal."

The creature turned and yawned, exposing stubby yellow teeth. Bluestreak inclined his head.

"Heh. Well, you're either stupid or fearless," he remarked as Dart stirred a little. Then he suddenly chuckled to himself, a faint blue glow of humor in his optics. "Just like my ex-leader. Hmm. Ugly, stupid, and self-centered. Well, Lord Prime, go and slink off and hide in your little hole."

The possum blinked, and hissed, and then disappeared into a crack in the wall.

"Yeah, well, same to you," the mech replied, amused.

We did it . . . we pulled it off . . . and look, that little yellow power-pack huffing mech is down for the count. Heh. They left him behind. Oops. You failed, Bumblebee. Better luck in the next download.

Bluestreak looked over, around the battlefield, seeing the cargo of energon . . . hearing the cheers of the Decepticons as Rumble was tossed into the air by a knot of Constructicons, watching as the humans embraced and squealed and congratulated each other. His pale blue optics rested on one group after another, and then he finally sighed, and shook himself. It was so different, watching these celebrating troops compared to the slinking Autobots that had just left the area.

And there but for the grace of realization, would be I, patching my wounds and waiting for Lord, I mean . . . Optimus Prime to decide which of us contributed directly to his failure, and smelt them.

Instead, I'm looking out on something I can consider a victory. I'm not dead . . . we get our share of the spoils . . . assuming that the Decepticons don't go back on their word and take it all.

His fingers tightened on the stock of his gun as he saw Chip edge over to the massive silver Autobot leader and start to talk. Politely, Megatron knelt down to talk to the human, looking around the battlefield as they spoke, his optics lighting on his fellow Decepticons one by one. Rumble fairly glowed with the praise as his leader smiled warmly.

Bluestreak didn't look away in time as Megatron rose to his feet and the Decepticon leader's gaze landed on him. For a moment, their optics locked, cold sharp blue to warm crimson. Bluestreak flinched, tried to duck his head automatically. Memories flickered across his processor - drawing attention to yourself from a leader was a good way to become that leader's punching bag when things went wrong. Megatron immediately glanced away, the look in his optics one of sudden understanding as he rose smoothly to his feet. A faint shiver ran through the silver renegade, rattling his framework with a hollow metallic sound.

Dart growled, ever so faintly, and he saw her looking at him, her head cocked. Slowly, she turned her head to glance at where Megatron stood, and then back to where Starscream waited. The Air Commander looked up, and their eyes met. Her growl trailed off in mid roll, and the slanted optics looked away, almost like a dog being reprimanded for the mess on a new carpet.

Bluestreak frowned, and moved slightly, so he was between her and Starscream. The Decepticon seemed to ignore him, but was it his imagination that he was trying too hard to avoid looking over at the two of them?

He found himself tensing again, and the twinge in his leg threatened to make him buckle to the ground. A soft hiss escaped him, but he didn't even move. Thousands of years of Autobot training had drilled it into him . . . show weakness and be attacked, be ready to die.

"Ready?" he asked her instead.

The courier nodded, still looking a little wan from her energy depletion, but starting to steady as what he'd managed to snag from the convoy restored her systems. She scrambled upright and shifted nervously from foot to foot as Bluestreak tested his weight on his injured leg.

Owch. That's going to be a nasty repair. Well, I can limp on it for a while. First thing is to get what we came for . . . we need that energon. . . .

He squared himself, gritted his mouth plates and walked over towards Chip. Dart followed him, growling softly at any mechanism nearby.

Chip glanced up at him as the silver mech halted nearby.

"Our part of the deal." Bluestreak said, holding his rifle as casually as he could in one hand.

Chip looked up at Megatron, and then back at Bluestreak.

"We've had to make some adjustments," the young man said finally.

Bluestreak stiffened, and the tip of his rifle jumped slightly. "Adjustments?" he growled, the word coming from deep in his vocalizing processor. Oddly, he sounded almost like the female waiting beside him, and she let whined softly at his tone.

"Yeah . . . they took some serious hits . . . they spent a lot more energy than they'd expected. Lots of them are wounded . . . and. . . ."

Bluestreak's doors flared in sudden anger, and Dart snarled deep in her chest, the tip of her knife blade popping past her wrist. Megatron didn't flinch, just casually shifted his weight and extended his foot so it was between the young man in the hover chair and the two renegades.

"And that has not a thing to do with me," Bluestreak commented coldly, crossing his arms, the rifle falling with a solid click against his elbow. "Too bad for them. You want to give them your stuff, you do that. But what you promised is ours. Unless you're going to go back on it. . . ."

"He's human, not an Autobot," Rumble suddenly blurted out.

The renegade's whole body twisted as he snapped halfway around and glared at the little mech. Rumble gaped, abruptly realizing just what he'd said. Oh good, Rumble. Insult the mech with the lightning gun.

At first, the noise that escaped Bluestreak's vocalizer sounded like a teakettle set to boil. Then his optics turned a flat, ice blue and his hand tightened on his weapon.

Chip's fingers dug into the armrests of his chair. No. It's not a teakettle he sounds like . . . it's someone choking to death on the sheer bitterness of his memories. This is bad.

Instantly, Dart's deep growl became a snarl.

Okay. Now it's worse, Chip groaned to himself.

With a smooth snap of movement for something so large, she dropped into a crouch, whirling in place and glaring at Rumble. Her optics flared a color to match Bluestreak's own. Dimly the renegade registered the sound of guns being drawn, fingers inching towards triggers. Part of him wanted to suddenly give her the signal to attack, and then he'd snap out his rifle. . . .

Quick shot, she goes out left, we grab what we can and scramble out of here. We can find a new place to hole up, and what we get should last us long enough to resettle.

The little voice of reason in his head reached out and tapped his sanity back into place.

And you'll both die right here and now. Better to lose the energon to fight another day . . . but of course, you're betrayed, once again. Of course. What else is new in your existence?

"Dart. Stop," he ordered her. The courier growled, and rose a fraction more up on her toes. He abruptly reached down and grabbed the spoiler across her shoulders, gave her a quick shake, throwing her balance off. She let out an odd yelp as she was forced to stabilize herself, touching her fingers down to the ground. Immediately, he let go. "I said, stop!"

Dart's growl cut off instantly, but her slightly slanted optics still focused on Rumble. He backed up a step closer to Frenzy and Ravage.

"Enough," Megatron said quietly, slowly holding up his hand, palm up. "Tempers are running high. We all need rest and repairs . . . all of us, human, Neutral, and Decepticon." The cannon stayed still, pointed down at the ground, and the massive machine made not a single threatening move as he spoke. A faint lowering of the renegade's doors and Megatron continued speaking quietly. "Whatever deal you made with the humans is still valid, I should think. Our deal is with them for their share, not what they promised you, isn't that correct, Chip?"

Chip nodded, cleared his throat. "Yeah. Bluestreak. What we said, we don't go back on. Honest. Look, sorry for the misunderstanding."

Bluestreak's head tilted slightly, a faint flash of confusion in his optics. Then he shrugged abruptly, and tossed his gun back in the magnetic clips that held it over his shoulder.

"Huh. Tell you what then. We'll be back sometime later. Pick it up then, if it's okay?"

"Sure," Chip replied, fingers letting go of the arms of his chair where they'd left small indentations in the foam. "We'll see you later. Thanks for your help."

Bluestreak nodded and turned slowly, paced a few limping steps away before he let out a low whistle. "We're out of here, Dart."

She bounded to his side, and the two of them didn't look back, just transformed stiffly into a silver Datsun and black Trans-Am. The soft growl of their engines vanished into the terrain as quickly as it was possible for them to do so.

Rumble shook his head, slightly.

"They're both flipping insane. A few spokes short of a wheel," he managed to say to Frenzy with more bravado than he felt. Ravage, sitting nearby, sighed. Note to myself . . . sit Rumble down and have a quality lecture about tact.

"Tell me about it. You like living dangerously. . . ."

Chip felt Lyn's hand on his shoulder as Megatron shifted his weight lightly and looked down at him.

"You handled that well," he told the young man.

"Well . . . I don't know about that. I know how I'd feel if I thought we were betrayed-"

Lyn shook his shoulder, once, urgently. "Listen. We have to go . . . get Sparkplug's son . . . back to base. He's going to die if we don't. He's on some sort of drug-"

Chip held up a hand. "Let's go," was all he said.

"Think he'll make it?"

Lyn looked up from the makeshift table, an old door that someone had pounded four by four pieces to make wobbly but serviceable legs. She nursed a cup of hot tea, her brown fingers curled around it as she lifted it to her lips and drank. She made a face and he chuckled and wheeled his chair over to where she sat, the muscles in his arms standing out in sharp relief under his well worn long sleeved T-shirt.

"I like to hope so," she replied.

He nodded, leaving it at that. She looked tired enough . . . and Sparkplug's frantic worry was enough to exhaust anyone's patience. Lyn had little of that as it was . . . so instead, he sniffed the faint plume of steam coming off of the pot on the table.

"Mint?" he asked.

"No, Chamomile. Tastes horrid without sugar, but I need to relax a little. I feel like I'm more strung out myself than the kid is."

He smiled a little.

"Interesting mental image. And here I was thinking you were one of those upstanding people."

She chuckled, stirred her tea with a bent spoon.

"Yeah, I wasn't one of those crazy college kids smoking pot in the bathroom and then turning on the fan when the floor ward arrived."

Chip laughed, and settled his elbows on the table, chin in his hands.

"I almost thought you were going to die out there," she grumbled after a moment.

"What? Why?"

"The fact that you had about a few tons of robot about to go ballistic on you."

"Huh?"

"You didn't see it, did you? I don't know why you even trust those two things at times."

"Two things? Oh . . . Bluestreak and Dart."

Lyn frowned and gave him a sharp look. "Commander Twitchy and his pal the knife wielding psycho."

He laughed a little, and then he shook his head, a lock of thick brown hair falling in front of his glasses.

"It wasn't that big of a deal, Lyn. We got it worked out."

"Oh, and he seemed so thankful and gracious, too."

Chip shrugged and reached for the teapot, poured himself a cup.

"No, I believe that he was honestly thinking that we were going to screw him over after all was said and done. Can't blame him for getting testy, really."

"Testy? He was going to stomp you into the ground," she informed him. "Chip . . . I just don't understand why you still work with them. I just never would trust them not to turn on you when they think we're not useful anymore."

He raised an eyebrow. "I think that's how they feel about us too."

"Us?!" she sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of tea onto the table. "Oh come on . . . they're giant aliens from another planet that have taken over our world. This isn't an episode of robotic Sesame Street where we all learned the value of sharing and co-operation."

He grinned, swallowed his tea after he had swished it around his mouth a few times.

"Well, not really, no. But I seriously think he was stressed to his breaking point today. He took a pretty hard hit, and she nearly dropped after it was over. They're both so low on resources that every battle we go out, they have to get something in return that makes it worthwhile. You have to feel sorry for them sometimes, actually."

"Sorry for them?" Her eyes widened. "Whatever for?"

"Okay, Lyn, think about it. We have the ability to scrounge for food. We have the support of other resistance cells, if need be. We're part of a common goal . . . and if we have to, we can eat bugs."

"So what does that have to do with anything?"

"Simple. They've got nothing but what they can take in a battle, which makes their lives pretty bleak, if you think about it. I mean, they have to fight to survive every day, and sooner or later something will happen that they won't be able to recover from, and they'll just starve to death, I guess."

"Hooray," she muttered. "At least a few of them know what it feels like."

He sighed.

"Lyn . . . they've helped us a lot, you know."

"Only because they need us. If they could eat us it would be a whole different story."

Chip rolled an eye at her.

"You're such an optimist."

"Not really," she replied. "But that's because I've got a clearer picture of where this will end."

The young man's hands wrapped around the cup, and he felt the warmth seeping through his fingers.

"Well, suit yourself. Me, I keep hoping for the best. Simply because if I look at the worst, I won't be able to get up in the morning. Besides, Dart wouldn't have let him kill me. We have a pretty good relationship, I like to think. She laughs at my jokes."

"Relationship? Yeah, you don't treat her like your servant," she replied.

"Huh?"

"Hey, I ever lived with a man who treated me like Bluestreak treats her, I'd make him eat a shotgun."

Chip inclined his head, thoughtfully.

"Treats her like what?"

"You mean you don't see it? Drives me nuts every time they show up. He whistles, she's at his feet, waiting for his commands like some devoted technological beagle."

"So the truth comes out. You're starting to see them as individuals, not 'those robots,'" he remarked. "Hmm. I guess I just never really thought about it. Their relationship, I mean."

"That's because you're a man."

"I am? Really? Wow, thanks for the compliment," he grinned, smiling with a sweet, good-natured smile that she couldn't find fault with, no matter how she tried. "No. I think it's because I've worked with them in battle situations. It's odd, I guess you're right. He may not treat her up to our human standards of how we think men should treat women, but for all we know, the only difference in gender is that they have different voices and builds. Heck, for all I know, she could be male and him female."

"I don't think so. He sure acts like a male chauvinist."

He laughed. " Well, it's not like we've seen little baby transformers. Just because they look humanoid doesn't give them the same qualities as us. Maybe it's all a matter of looking at things from a different perspective."

"A different perspective?" she frowned, tight-lipped.

"Yeah. Ever seen one of those cop movies where it's some guy and his dog?"

"For some reason, I find that even more distasteful."

"Perspective," he reminded her. "That dog is his partner. Not something he just orders blindly into the danger he doesn't want to face. I've never seen Bluestreak ever order Dart into a situation that was just dangerous to her. Both of them depend on the other's skills so that they don't make a mistake that costs them their lives. In which case, looking at it like that, I'd say their relationship is far more equal than a lot of the people I met before the war."

She made a noise of derision.

"You're reaching."

"Am I? Well, at least I'm honest and admit that I'm assigning human attributes to the 'alien scum'."

She looked at him and stirred her tea. The spoon clinked against the ceramic with a noise like an old wind chime.

"I am most certainly not. They're machines. Programmed responses and all that."

"So, you think that being a male chauvinist was programmed in?"

Lyn raised a perfect, thin eyebrow, dark eyes flashing.

"They've got learned behaviors. Like AI's might have if we'd manage to ever progress that far."

"Yeah. So where did they learn that from?"

She shrugged, her white lab coat grey around her cuffs with dirt.

"Well, if they hadn't cheerfully blown up our cities, I'd say many of the people I went to college with."

Chip gave her a wry smile and pushed his glasses back up on his nose with a fingertip. "Good dodge, doctor."

"That was not a dodge."

"Yet, you didn't answer my question."

"How should I know? I never said they weren't sentient. I just mentioned that I think Bluestreak is an ass, and that he was going to turn you in to Chip Chase paste if you hadn't managed to get it through his metal cranium that you weren't planning on screwing him over."

He looked down in his cup and shrugged.

"I just can't believe that you trust them sometimes, that's all. I don't care how much a car laughs at your jokes, that's just it. She's a car. They don't care about humans. None of them do. It's a war, and they're fighting it with about as much recognition of us lowly humans as we do ants."

"Maybe not. But I also recognize that they're as desperate as us."

"I just can't see it."

"Why not? Neither of them can go back to where they came from."

"Sure they can. It's really easy. Get on a ship, leave. Ta da. Make my entire week."

He looked up from his cup and frowned.

"Well, then, Lyn, get to work. Build them that ship, and we won't have to deal with them again."

She coughed. "What?" she asked, then straightened her shoulders. "Ha ha . . . funny man."

"It's the only way they're getting off planet, you know."

"Oh come on . . . they'll side up with who wins the battle. They're mercenaries. We're only useful for as long as we can keep them charged."

He gently held up the coffee cup, seeming to admire the smooth rim of the ceramic, and rubbed his finger over a tiny indentation, a slight crack in the smooth circle.

"And they're only useful to us for as long as they need to be charged."

She raised her eyebrow again, sucked a breath through her even white teeth.

"Okay . . . I get it. We can always drop a viral ball on them if they decide we're expendable. Right?"

Chip put the cup down and shook his head.

"No. What I'm saying is that by maybe helping them, we manage to hold on to that much more of our humanity." Slowly, he pushed away from the table, and gripped the worn and well patched tires of his wheelchair in his palms; feeling the chair beneath him, suddenly heavy with the weight of his own body. "Goodnight, Lyn."

A faint cold wind lifted the sparse branches of the pines and rubbed the limbs together with that deep creak of a heavy door opening.

Rain's coming in.

Hmm. They analyzed this planet is three-quarters water. Sure feels like all it does is look like rain, start to rain, or rain harder.

The sleek red mech stood there, looking at the faint pale glow of the moon as it touched everything with silver, shining across his own finish and turning the vivid color a deep maroon, the color of old blood. Abruptly, he looked up as the sound of footsteps pressed into the loam slowed, and then stopped.

He could see him now.

The renegade stopped about fifteen meters away, the argent color of the dim light making him look for a moment like a fish in a fast moving stream, sleek and shining. Then he shifted and the silver dulled to a soft grey in spots, showing countless slight imperfections. He inclined his head, slowly, his ice blue optics flickering nervously over the terrain until his gaze came back to alight on the other mechanism standing there. The doors right behind his shoulders seemed to raise slightly as if in surprise, and then were still.

"You're here," Sideswipe said quietly. "Didn't know if you'd actually follow me."

Bluestreak nodded, once, a sharp, quick gesture, still not coming fully out from underneath the cover of the trees. He held his ever present rifle lightly in one hand, the weapon tip pointed at the ground, jumping slightly with each little motion of his fingers.

They looked at each other for a moment, then Bluestreak shrugged.

"You know if they catch you out here and you'll be Prime's next cup, Sideswipe."

The red mech let out a chuckle.

"Who's going to tell? You?" he wondered, flexing his arm a little and grinning. "Well, if you want to go and do that, you'd better hurry, Bluestreak. But I don't think you'll even get the beginning of the sentence out of your mouth before you're drawn and quartered. Besides, that little red chevron on your head makes a better cup handle than anything I've got."

That sentence illicited a growl from the shadows. The red mech turned his head to see a lean black and silver femme slink out from the trees behind Bluestreak. She snarled, watching Sideswipe intently with deep cobalt blue optics that were slanted like a huge cybercat or turbo hound. Bluestreak said something to her that Sideswipe didn't quite catch, and she hissed and moved off a few paces, keeping wary optics on the mech in front of them. She made it quite clear that she didn't like the red Autobot without ever saying one coherent word, fidgeting and grumbling to herself. Even Bluestreak's quiet attempts to reassure her didn't seem to help. She shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

"I didn't even think that she'd be with you," Sideswipe said quietly, keeping one optic on the lurking shadow.

Bluestreak's shoulders rose and fell with a metallic rattle that carried over the clearing.

"She tracked you here. Besides, where else would she go?"

Sideswipe had to admit that he had a point as the courier circled around him at a distance, still growling like a wary metallic wolf. Her chin dipped slightly, the solid silver ponytail brushing against her ebon neck guard. The look on the courier's face explained clearly that she was just waiting for him to make any move that she could even consider to be a threat and she'd be on him like a dingo squabbling over a carcass scrap.

Sideswipe stood completely still, ignoring her as best he could. Finally, she let out a low huff of air, and paced a few more strides to the side to frown at Bluestreak with an expression of annoyance. The silver mech shook his head, and made a quick motion with his hand. The courier stopped growling and settled instantly in place. Sideswipe's audios heard her pull air past her olfactory sensors every few seconds as she scanned the area. A slight breeze moved past his frame, and suddenly, her head cocked like a dog with an unfamiliar scent. Her face registered a flicker of confusion as she sniffed again, then she looked Sideswipe slowly up and down, her optics appearing to narrow.

The reckless part in him almost tossed her a flippant wave, but he realized that she'd somehow perceive it as a threat to Bluestreak. As evident from her lack of diplomacy, she'd probably attempt to gut him. Then he'd have to shoot her, and then Bluestreak would have to shoot him, which didn't even sound like it would be remotely fun.

"She doesn't like me," he quipped finally, trying to break the tension between them.

"No. She doesn't," Bluestreak replied. "Don't take it personally."

Sideswipe looked like he wanted to roll his optics. "I don't take anything with you personally. Well, minus the shooting at me last time I saw you."

"You shot at me first," Bluestreak pointed out defensively, raising the tip of his gun a little. However, a slight flash of good humor danced through his pale sky optics.

Somehow this bit of verbal fencing made them both relax and feel a little more like things were perfectly normal. They'd done it for years...
 
 

Watch my back. . . .

I am watching it. Nothing's changed. No yellow stripe or anything.

Ha ha . . . you're never going to go on the vids with that act, Blue.

Yeah, well, you're just a critic, I think. So . . . did they pull you to go on the Ark?

Did they pull you?

Yeah.

Great. I needed someone to watch my back . . . glad to have you on board.
 
 

Ow . . . my head hurts.

Shouldn't . . . you've been off line for four million years. You can't still have a hangover.

Sideswipe?

Yeah . . . hang on a sec. Take me a moment to get you on your feet. Better? Don't move real fast, just take it easy for a moment or you'll be sick. . . . Don't . . . ew . . . don't you ever listen, Blue? Sigh. You could have done that somewhere other than my foot, you know. . . .
 
 

Millions of years, to be exact, if you wanted to take Earth time into account, Sideswipe realized suddenly, a faint smile playing across his face. Somehow, just thinking about it made him feel as if there was no danger at all in this meeting, that if discovered they wouldn't both be slowly smelted alive in front of a cheering crowd. It was easier to pretend that the outcome didn't exist, that this was no more than any other exchange of friendship they'd had when they were both Autobots. However, every time Sideswipe looked at Bluestreak, the lack of insignia reminded him of just how far and fast things had changed since they'd awakened on Earth.

Well it wasn't just that, Sideswipe decided. It was that nervous, side to side look Bluestreak cast, his constant survey of the area around him; the areas of that sleek silver paint that were torn away, exposing the dull powder of the base coat. The slight limp in one leg when he'd approached that he took pains to disguise, a relic of the last battle they'd fought in together . . . all of those things added up to an air of desperation and determination that clung to the silver mech like a shroud.

Sideswipe always wondered - not out loud of course, under fear of getting his head removed - what had actually happened to drive Bluestreak to strike out on his own. The Autobot warrior had pieced together bits of it, that the silver transformer had been the unwitting subject of plots and plans - and that he'd discovered something that had left him thoroughly shaken and disillusioned to the point where he'd fled and turned his back on his faction . . . on any faction, Sideswipe corrected himself. He didn't join the Decepticons either, and I personally take that as something good. I mean, he didn't betray us . . . he's just trying to survive out here. Although, renegades don't live long, especially when they don't have the resources to survive without trying to take it by force. This planet isn't a very hospitable place for a single transformer . . . well, a single coherent transformer, anyway, he thought as he caught a glimpse of the courier sniffing the air again, the look on her face so incredibly feral that he once again wondered how much comprehensive logic actually rattled around her processor.

She grumbled again, low in her chest, and Bluestreak made a clicking noise, a reproach that made her settle and Sideswipe refocus on the conversation.

"Those were my orders at the time. You didn't have to shoot back," he told Bluestreak with a over exaggerated wince.

"No? Well, you wanted me to make it look good, right?"

"Yeah, but not so good you blew my head off," the red mechanism grumbled.

"Hmm. Obviously I didn't make it look good enough. You still have your head." Bluestreak offered, shrugging again. A rotor in his shoulder gave a soft click of disrepair and he brought his hand up to rub at the offending joint, then straightened up, as if nothing had happened.

Sideswipe managed to let out a small laugh. "Don't need it, really. I seem to have this urge to be separated from it lately."

Bluestreak looked him over for a moment, and then made a slight noise of agreement.

Yeah, he thought to himself. You're out here alone, and I still can't figure that out. Patrolling by yourself in what I'd consider to be enemy territory isn't the way to live your life to the fullest. Odd . . . and it makes me nervous . . . what's going on? Only thing keeping me from leaving is that Dart hasn't scented any one else with him. Otherwise . . . I'd almost wonder if this was some sort of very good trap by Prime . . . heh. Nope. It's too cunning without enough sheer firepower and blowing stuff up for that. But why is he here? What is he doing . . . what does he want?

The questions he wished he could ask out loud came out as a non committal grunt, instead.

"Noticed that."

Dart watched the exchange hopefully, and seemed to sigh with a faint note of disappointment when she realized that Sideswipe's comment wasn't an offer. Bluestreak chuckled and the femme gave him a rather guilty look, then seemed to take great interest in glaring at a nearby tree.

Sideswipe shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then reached into a side panel.

"Thought you might be able to use these," he said. The motion made the courier's head twist to watch, and she tensed, her shoulder panels rattling as she dug her fingers into the ground. She growled at Sideswipe sharply, her tone becoming one of serious intent.

"Dart. Enough," Bluestreak warned her softly. The femme hesitated, her black lips drawn in a tight line as her companion continued. "If he'd wanted to hurt me or if this was an ambush, it would have happened a long time ago."

"Yeah. And I wouldn't have been out here on my own, either. Well, not without a bigger gun," Sideswipe joked quickly as he drew out the items he'd been storing.

Bluestreak's optics suddenly sparked with interest as Sideswipe held out his hand, palm up as if he was offering a sugar cube to a nervous horse. Two power packs rested there, fully recharged, the ones that would fit most of the sniper rifles, including the one Bluestreak carried. His gun was an older model, he'd had it a long time, one of the few things he'd had before he'd joined the Autobots.

Wonder where he got those? Maybe he'd be willing to trade them for something . . . don't know what I've got that he'd want. Well, except for the probable reward for bringing my head back to Prime himself . . . huh . . . wonder what I'm up to now. Okay, I don't want to think about it, do I. The silver mech's glance faded into a frown of concern, his doors lifting a little as he tensed.

"They'll miss those when they do inventory," he informed Sideswipe quietly.

"Not really," Sideswipe replied, turning the clips over in his hand with a finger. He suddenly began to flip one over and over in his hand, an outlet for his nervous energy. "I found them, and it's not like we all didn't know Bumblebee didn't sneak into everyone's rooms and grab them when he got the chance. We found tons of stuff that we were missing in his quarters. I don't know how no one managed to keep track of that mounted plasma gun that we found under his recharge berth . . . that damn thing was bigger than he was. So anything else that everyone can blame on him is an unsuspected bonus. All we have to say around base now is 'I guess Bumblebee must have had it, I don't know where it is.'" He chuckled a little to himself, the sound making Dart turn her head and focus on him again coldly. "Honestly, after the humiliating scatter you and your humans gave Lord Prime, we can blame anything on Bumblebee."

Bluestreak shrugged, the rifle in his hand jumping a little, a tiny nervous tic that he'd had for as long as Sideswipe had known him.

"Heh. Well, I could have told you all that before I left, really. Doesn't really matter though, Prime blames who he wants to blame for his defeats, even if it's his arrogance that sets them in motion. Instead, he just picks the mech of the week to take the blame."

Sideswipe grunted softly, his optics becoming thoughtful.

"Yeah. You don't have to remind me."

Bluestreak managed to give a small smile.

"I try to forget it myself," he replied, his door panels twitching in an involuntary flinch before he cocked his head, a slight frown appearing on his face. "Huh. My humans? They're not my humans."

"Heh. Well, all I can say is that you're good at acquiring odd pets."

"Pets? Okay, go ahead, say that to the Lyn one," Bluestreak told him, shaking his head. His hand came back up to rub his chin, metal rasping thoughtfully against metal. The mental image that abruptly popped into his processor was of Lyn chasing after Sideswipe with a tire iron. The renegade gave an inward wince, knowing how he'd probably pick the outcome of that particular battle.

Dart let out a little noise that might have either been a snicker or a cough. Obviously she'd had a similar thought.

"So . . . you want the packs or not?" Sideswipe asked, holding them out again.

Bluestreak's casual shrug was so forced it was obvious.

"Don't really need them, but if you don't want them, sure."

Sideswipe didn't allow the sympathy he was feeling to cross his face. Okay, Blue. I know you need this stuff. I know how much energy you got from that raid. . . . He thought for a second, calculating the two mechanisms fuel intake, and thinking of the time that had passed since the last battle he'd been involved with. Yeah, you're going to be close to that point now, at least with that courier taking a share - she's a jittering power sink. But of course you took her along . . . you've always kind of been pretty sympathetic with other underdogs for any cause. Not that you would ever admit it, though.

I know you don't want to be indebted to anyone but yourself. Well, that's understandable, considering the circumstances - even if I don't know all of what caused you to go factionless, I know that you're a walking dead mech, and no one makes that choice lightly. . . .

A memory caught him, then, of kneeling on that cold metal floor and taking an oath that he knew had changed his life in less time then it took to say the words that bound him to it. He still shivered internally when he thought of the magnitude of what he had done, at times. It even made the danger of this meeting pale to a tiny shimmer, and perhaps, he thought, that's why he had taken the chance now, instead of earlier. What's worse, this or the other things I've bound myself into? Meeting him is only a minor infraction.

If anyone had ever told me there would be a moment in my life where I thought death was minor, I think I would have been hard-pressed to believe them. . . .

Slowly, Bluestreak's fingers touched the offered packs.

The brush of his fingers shook the memory free from Sideswipe and sent it back to the corners of his processor, and he straightened a little, his optics gleaming a sharp aquamarine blue. Quickly, he dropped the two power cards in the silver mech's outstretched hand and stepped back as Bluestreak did the same, keeping that distance between them.

At the click of metal striking metal, Dart shifted warily and rumbled a warning from deep in her chest. The sound rolled over the clearing like two broken gears meshing together, and her cobalt optics flared hot, bright azure. When the silver mech managed to get the items put away without blowing up or being shot in the back, she sighed, the spoiler across her sleek shoulders rattling as she settled back a bit. Sideswipe shook his head as he glanced over at her.

Huh. This lack of trust thing is something she needs to work on. Maybe a hammer would help a little?

The ex-Decepticon caught his look and the rattling noise in her chest became a low snarl, her head dipping, shoulders flattening in mechanical threat.

Sigh. Okay, that proves my theory about why the Decepticons haven't taken her back once again . . . she really is willing to bite a hand that feeds her.

The first spatters of rain flecked against his metal, evaporated on his finish with a slight hiss. Sideswipe looked up, and sighed.

"Ever notice how much it rains on this planet?"

"We're in the Pacific Northwest, what do you expect?" Bluestreak replied as the rain started to patter down in earnest, striking off of his chest panel and trickling like a ribbon of mercury across the curve of his hood, pooling a little in the indentation of his headlights. Dart looked up, then back at the ground with resignation, rain dripping from her solid silver ponytail.

Sideswipe sighed and finally wiped his hand across his forehead, trying to clean the rain out of his optics.

"Guess that's my cue to head out. The roads up here get damn near impassable with all that mud clogging up the place. Days like this I wish I was retrofitted as an off road vehicle."

Bluestreak shrugged.

"Not so bad if you watch where you go, really."

"If you say so," Sideswipe replied. "Tell you what . . . I really should go. Don't need someone getting nosy and then finding out where you are," he told Bluestreak.

The silver Transformer stiffened, the gun in his hand jumping as he looked around. Instantly, the black femme growled and started to come up out of her crouch, water sluicing out of where it had pooled in her shoulder joints. Abruptly, she stopped snarling, made a sudden face of distaste and shook herself, her plating rattling as water sprayed everywhere. Sideswipe found a short burst of involuntary laughter escaping his vocalizer, a release of the tension that he'd been trying not to show all night.

She shot him a haughty look, and stepped a few feet away, flicking her feet like a cat in wet grass. Bluestreak chuckled, and shook his head, his door panels lowering as he watched her with amusement.

A long suffering sigh echoed from her chest, and for a moment, she looked skyward, then she lowered her head and shook it slowly.

"I know, I know," Bluestreak replied, holding up his hand in placation as she stepped to his side. "It's wet, and I'd like to get under some cover myself. Come on, Dart. Let's get a move on. Thanks for the packs, Swipe."

"You're welcome. See you around?" the red mech tossed off casually as he turned to leave.

Bluestreak hesitated, his silence affirmed by the drumming of the rain along his metal. Then he shrugged, equally nonchalant.

"Yeah. See you around." He put his rifle over his shoulder into the magnetic clips, transformed, folding gracefully into the silver Datsun. Behind him, the courier waited until he'd cleared the area and made the relative safety of the trees, taking a few steps backwards, not turning her back on the red Autobot. Her cobalt optics glared at Sideswipe, as if daring him to even think about following them, the curl of her pale lips exposing her mouth plates in a snarl just before she spun sharply and fled, bounding off into the rain in less time than it took his pump to push through one full circuit.

"You're sure that this information is correct?"

Chip nodded, looking up to where the hazy sun glinted off of Bluestreak's chest panel. He had to squint behind his glasses, bringing up his hand to shade his hazel eyes. Not for the first time, he wished that he'd managed to find a pair of sunglasses that worked for his prescription. It was probably one of the more nerve wracking things that few of the other humans understood. What if his glasses were destroyed? How would he get a prescription now - it wasn't like he could just go down to the mall and get new ones. It was one of the little things he wondered if everyone else thought about at all.

He had one other pair tucked away in his workshop, a thick rimmed set of frames. Unfortunately, every time he wore them, Rick would laugh and mimic playing a riff on an air guitar, which inspired Chip not to wear them that often - even though they were honestly more comfortable across the bridge of his nose when he worked late hours. I don't think I can handle one more horrible rendition of "Peggy Sue" coming from Rick's mouth.

He sighed and tried to shake the refrain of the song out of his head, to no avail, since the silver mech was looking down at him with an impatient frown. Behind Bluestreak, Dart jittered in place, her head turning at every noise, the chirp of a lone songbird, the rustle of a dry leaf whisking across the ground, the faint peal of human laughter that drifted from inside the cave. He wondered who's voice it was for a moment, glad that even now, there were still some reasons to laugh.

Bluestreak made a low noise in his chest that almost sounded like a polite cough.

"The information?" he asked again.

"Oh. Sorry," Chip replied, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Yeah. I'm sure. Carly said Ravage got the details from Reflector. They're just a patrol but they're a little close for comfort."

"To you?" Bluestreak asked, casually examining a bit of dirt smeared into the finish on his wrist.

"Everything's too close for comfort for me," Chip replied, his forearms resting against the duct-taped rests on his wheelchair as he lifted himself a little bit up in his seat, shifted positions. The muscles in his arms stood out briefly under his thin plaid shirt as he settled back with a slow sigh. "Honestly, I think they've been patrolling out your way."

Bluestreak's doors flared out behind him in sudden concern, his mouth tightening into a flat line of tension. "Patrolling? My way?"

"I don't know. It's a good guess though. Survey says that Prime wasn't too happy about the mess we made of their troops. And I don't care if it's been three months, you can be sure he's still stinging about it as if was yesterday."

Bluestreak nodded. "It's an insult, you know."

"Yeah, being beaten by a bunch of beings that merely come up to your kneecap is humiliating," Chip pointed out with a wry expression as he rubbed his glasses on the relatively clean fabric of his worn plaid shirt.

Dart's little bark of laughter echoed for a moment as she looked over at him from where she waited behind Bluestreak. Chip smiled at her, winked once as he slid his glasses back onto his nose, and was rewarded with one of her rare quirky grins. Bluestreak looked over his shoulder at her, puzzled, and then shrugged and turned back to Chip.

"So, the information?" he asked. "What's in it for us if we get rid of the problem?"

Chip settled back into his wheelchair as the renegade looked down at him, impassive.

"Well, I suppose just wanting to help us out of the kindness of your heart is out," he chuckled.

Bluestreak crossed his arms, shook his head, the red chevron across his forehead reflecting the light a little.

"No, Chip. Unlike you organic humans, I don't have a heart."

"Need to go to the wizard, then?" Chip quipped automatically, unable to stop himself. Somehow, the look of confusion on Bluestreak's face made the joke funnier, even.

The silver transformer made a faint grimace of confusion.

"No. I don't think so," he said, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, his servos rattling with the strain. "So. What do you need us to do, Chip? And what will you give us for our help?"

Chip sat up straight, realizing that the bantering was over, and they were now seriously down to business.

"All right. We've got some of those viral balls left over . . . maybe you can distract them enough for us to lock them down with those, and then whatever they're carrying on them, we can split fifty-fifty."

Bluestreak stroked his chin thoughtfully with a finger.

"We're taking the most risk, you know. Seventy-thirty. . . ."

"Yeah, well, we make one wrong mistake and we get splattered, and unlike you, we're not easily repairable at times." He looked down at his paralyzed legs for a moment, noting with detached interest that he probably should at least get a new pair of shoes. Not that he ever wore them out, they just looked almost comical to him, a pair of penny loafers that still amazingly had the penny in the front. Between those and the glasses I'm sure I do look like the science nerd of the technological horror film of the week. That's it. I'm getting some better shoes when I get the opportunity. He shifted back in his chair a little, crossing his arms and looking up at the mechanism in front of him. "Sixty-forty . . . your favor, though, because you're the bigger target."

"Of course we're the bigger targets," Bluestreak responded, looking down at the sweep of his metallic chest. "Besides, we get hit, we need repairs and we just don't have the capabilities for a lot of the heavy stuff. Neither of us are really medics."

Chip nodded. "Hmm. Fifty-fifty and I try and throw in a good hour or so of mechanical going over from Sparkplug. You know he's good. A few of the Decepticons have actually come to him for some of the real delicate stuff."

"That doesn't make him good - it means you humans have small hands," Bluestreak instantly responded, but the little voice in his head yelled at him to take the bargain. He's worked on you a few times before and you haven't blown up . . . and you could use someone to look at some of this stuff. Nothing else, he could probably clean out that sand and grit in your joints and let you move a little smoother at times. Huh, but don't want to seem too eager though - he'll remember it next time you have to barter services. Humans are not stupid, contrary to the Autobot's beliefs . . . they just don't have the strength to back up their brains. If they had been expecting us, I honestly think this occupation might have gone much differently. Hard to say.

He sighed, sounding like he'd decided to listen just because they had nothing else to offer.

"An hour?"

"For each of you."

"Hour and a half, earth time," Bluestreak suddenly decided, looking at Dart, who was watching the exchange like someone on the side of a tennis court, her head tilting back and forth. "That's for each of us, and fifty percent of whatever they have. Parts, power packs, energon . . . whatever they have, half of it is ours."

"Deal," Chip responded, starting to reach out his hand as if to shake on it, then let it fall back. Bluestreak inclined his head, nodded, and turned on his heel. Dart swung immediately into place, trotting around to his right side and holding her position a few strides away from him as they paced out of the compound. Once outside the perimeter, the silver mech didn't immediately transform, instead, he looked at the black and grey femme next to him.

She glanced back, her slightly slanted optics inscrutable for a moment, and then he shook his head with a faint smile.

"You're going to tell me I didn't bargain very hard, aren't you?"

Dart shrugged, the spoiler across her shoulders rattling.

"No. Not need much. Have energy left, yes?"

"Yeah. We've got a little left, enough to last us maybe another month if we tighten our reserves," he replied, thinking the figures over for a moment and ticking them off on his fingers. "If they're right, and it's just a few mechs on patrol, we might be able to get some parts or maybe even a little high grade energon off of them."

"Viral baseballs, stop them."

He nodded, shuddering a little at the memory of exactly what the results of the human's creativity had been. He'd seen the dull silver spheres used in combat, the shrieks of pain and fear rising from every Autobot they'd struck before the mechs had fallen, spasms wracking their massive metal frames. Carefully, he passed a hand over his forehead, and glanced over at Dart.

"Remember what I told you about letting them test those out on us?"

"Yes. Said no."

"I think the actual phrase I used was 'I'd rather get the Matrix shoved up my tailpipe', honestly."

She made a little face of disgust, snorted air out of her olfactory sensors. "Bad image."

"Yeah, well, so are those viral baseball things. I just get the feeling sometimes that given half a chance, that Lyn would throw one at me."

"Chip not let," she responded instantly.

"Well, probably not," he admitted. "Waste of a good weapon." He kept walking slowly, her beside him, simply since he didn't feel like transforming just yet. She fidgeted, danced a few steps lightly like a horse on a tight rein, eager to be off, eager to run, but he just suddenly stopped with a sigh.

"Something just doesn't feel right," he finally said. "About this whole thing. The information seems spot on, but . . ." he trailed off, tapping his fingers against his forearm with a clicking sound. "I don't know. Just a feeling, I guess."

Dart's shoulders lifted a little. "No worse other times. Same danger. Always feel tense."

"Yeah, that's probably it," he said, looking at her, watching the pale afternoon light glint off of the lightning bolt pattern down her chest. There was a two tone etch to it where her Decepticon sigil had been carved off by Hound that she'd never bothered to polish out, or perhaps the knife had cut so hard it was useless. He didn't know, but once in a while, he wondered, but he'd never asked her.

Bluestreak found himself wondering a lot of things, now. The humans, for one. He'd actually grown to respect them, how they managed to eke out an existence under the threat of the Autobots. Bluestreak knew how difficult it was, having to live from day to day, wondering if it was worth gathering supplies that you might not use tomorrow. Yet the humans seemed to do it, and somehow thrive in this little group. Perhaps the fact that Chip was on wheels made him more sensible than the other humans. . . .

Dart fidgeted again, rumbled low in her chest, and Bluestreak shook himself out of the thoughts. "Oh. Sorry. All right. Transform and let's head back to our lovely possum stench filled cavern."

She laughed with a short, sharp bark, shaking her head, grinning.

"Possum probably think we stink too."

"Well, too bad. He also should remember I can run over him," he told her, transforming. "I can always hope he'll dash out in front of me one of these days and I'll step on him. There goes the grand and glorious reign of Lord Prime."

"Very ignoble death," she agreed solemnly.

"You know . . . something I've wondered, Dart. How come you can say words like ignoble and you can't speak in a complete sentence?"

"Have verb problem. Not noun or adjective problem," she replied, transforming and landing on all four tires, raising her headlights slightly. "Not watch Schoolhouse Rock enough, guess."

Bluestreak pondered briefly, but wasn't quite sure what that meant. She just chuckled softly, and he gave up trying to as he headed down into the rocky gully, trying to bottom out on as little as possible.

He touched off another shot, and was rewarded with a frightened squeal as the Autobot dived for cover.

Well . . . the information was right on, and they're scattering like petrorabbits. It's obvious they weren't expecting us, nor were they ready for the fact that the humans have gained a lot of confidence since their last heavy encounter with the Autobots. They know they can be taken down, that it is possible to stop them . . . and now the humans are quite . . . pleased with themselves.

We've got the drop on the vehicles . . . and it looks like the rumor of the viral baseballs has gotten through the base . . . they have no intention of engaging the humans with the launchers.

Dart skidded to a stop beside him, throwing up little pebbles and bits of debris that pinged off of his legs as he gave her a hurried smile, his doors flaring out slightly as he turned to her.

"Good, yes?" she asked, making a little sweeping hand gesture over the scene.

"So far, so good," he replied.

She looked around, her slanted optics a deep cobalt as she watched Sparkplug load one more gleaming sphere into the old launcher in the rusted out jeep.

"Autobots in hiding. Not many here. Maybe two?"

"Maybe," he told her. "Go scout. Run a perimeter." He steadied his gun across his forearm and took careful aim. "See what's going on . . . but be careful. I'm not completely off edge yet."

She nodded, and sprang forward an instant later, flashing past him in a black and silver blur that immediately was out of sight, bounding up and over the rise and into the scraggly trees. He watched her, then slowly turned his head from side to side, surveying the area. Nothing demanded his immediate attention, and so he let himself concentrate on the snatches of conversation of the humans talking to themselves.

"Good job. . . ."

"Yeah, that worked well . . . I bet we can find something we can modify. . . ."

He shifted his attention back to the terrain, and his doors flicked impatiently a few times as he waited for Dart to either call in or come skidding back. The humans chattered on, a faint drone in his audios, and he heard the sound of Chip's hover chair straining to lift over the uneven ground as the young man maneuvered over towards Carly and Sparkplug, who had gotten out of the Jeep and were now examining something on the ground. Bluestreak heard the servos in the chair whining a little in protest, a faint mechanical rasp that he noted somewhere and filed away. I'll tell Chip that he needs to take a look at that thing soon before it decides to quit on him.

The rattle of the servos became a low, deep whir that caught his attention. He looked around, focusing on the chair, frowning, and then the battle instincts kicked in, that little shriek of sudden warning blaring in his systems.

Sniper's rifle . . . powering up somewhere.

He dropped to one knee, fast, spinning so quickly his doors snapped back behind him, and he crouched, trying to provide the smallest target possible as he looked for cover.

"Incoming!" he shouted.

The humans scattered in time to see the shot flash by and bore into the side of their old rusted Jeep. It rocked onto two tires from the penetration of the blast, and Bluestreak's mind instantly calculated the trajectory of the shot, focusing in on where it had come from, what type of rifle. . . .

Projectile shooter . . . probably an explosive-

There was a muffled thumping noise, like someone had exploded a firecracker under a coffee can, and then the vehicle lifted into the air as if in slow motion as the gas tank ripped apart from the inside. It flipped twice, landed with a crunch, leaving a rut in the soil as one tire popped off and rolled downhill, spinning in a circle before it came to rest, sideways, sending up gouts of oily black smoke. The foliage around the car caught fire quickly, the struggling green withering away to shreds of charcoal.

That would be the explosive. Blast it all! Okay, now here's where it gets ugly. No way to launch those viral balls any distance now. Still crouched, he attempted to back up a few feet, trying to search for some cover to get between him and whomever was shooting.

He registered someone crashing through the trees, the pounding of heavy feet running full tilt towards the combat scene as he scanned, tracing where the shot had come from. Sniper's far more dangerous than the charger. Gotta find him and put him out of commission. . . .

The shot whined past him from the rise above, and Bluestreak snarled to himself, knowing he was pinned down thanks to the sharpshooter. A few meters away from the burning Jeep, the humans scattered, diving for cover like rabbits bolting from the rank musk of a predator. . . .

Except for Chip.

The hover chair he was sitting on chose that exact moment to decide it no longer wanted to work, and it sputtered into stillness.

"Damn," Bluestreak muttered, clutching his rifle tight in one hand. The young man tried to start the chair again, slamming his thumb onto the starter button, but the chair stubbornly refused to rise, and Chip's calm brown gaze turned to where Carly stood, half hidden in the brush. She couldn't see the expression there, his glasses reflecting the light, but his mouth was tight, and he hit the starter button again and again, mouthing something she couldn't hear.

Bluestreak blasted Brawn with the rifle, remembering instantly after the first shot hit that Brawn's armor was some of the best worn by an Autobot. As a powerhouse, Brawn was beautifully designed, the massive thick form crushing saplings as he lumbered forward, giving as much heed to Bluestreak's attack as a bear would being stung by a tiny bee.

Carly and Sparkplug screamed Chip's name, both of the humans dashing out of the brush to grab him, and Bluestreak saw Chip throw up his hand, a command to them to stop, a gesture full of resignation. He knows he's dead . . . there's no way . . . dammit.

Cursing, Bluestreak transformed, the silver Datsun revving the engine and shooting forward, attempting to drive his bumper into the back of Brawn's legs, to throw him off in mid-stride.

He heard the whine of the shot just as it impacted on his side, flipping him in car mode to twist a good fifteen feet. He transformed at the peak of the arc, landing hard on his back and spitting out fuel, his rifle already in his hand as he sought out the other gunner. His door panels creaked and groaned under the strain of his weight, but he held his position and fired back. In his battle trained mind, he thought he heard the grunt of the bolt striking home, but it was drowned out by Brawn's roar of sheer delight as he brought his fist down at Chip.

Carly screamed Chip's name one more time, Sparkplug grabbing her elbow and wrenching her back as she pounded her fist against the older man's shoulder. Bluestreak thought he could hear her yelling at Sparkplug to let her go, a horrible sound of desperation.

No! Don't let her go! No sense in losing them both. Bad tactics. . . . The thought flashed through his mind, as he rolled to his feet, scattering dirt and bringing up his rifle. He was fast . . . one of the fastest mechs on pure reflex - but even he knew fast didn't matter against massive armor.

He was resigned to hear the sound of Chip's body being crushed, to hear the melding of machine and human in a way that had instantly fatal results.

Instead, Brawn's fist struck metal as a blur shot by and flung itself between Chip and the Autobot. The blow caught Dart hard, knocking her completely off balance. Chip threw up his hands as the courier's chest plate nearly brushed his head, the rush of air from her speed sending his useless hover chair hard into the dirt, throwing him onto his side. He tasted blood in his mouth, realized he'd bitten his tongue. Chip got a view he decided he never wanted to see again, tons of metal and machine driven down almost on top of him as the lean silver and black mechanism staggered, managing to touch her fingers on the ground for balance.

Chip threw his arm over his face, an automatic gesture.

Oh right, he managed to think. Like that's going to stop you from being flattened.

Then he wasn't looking at that wall of metal, just the most wonderful sight he'd ever seen, clear sky. Lying on the ground, he managed to sit up as Dart took one off balance stride, and then another, managing to completely clear him as she fell an instant later, landing hard on her chest, sliding about forty meters with the force of her own velocity, great gouts of turf ripping apart as she left a furrow behind her.

Brawn didn't seem to comprehend what had just happened. He just shook his hand, looking like he was trying to get the numbness out of it as he looked down at the sprawled human. A laugh almost escaped Carly, almost out of relief as she watched the Autobot swing his head from side to side in utter confusion.

"Didn't know humans had force fields too," Brawn grunted.

Chip looked up, pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.

"We're full of surprises," he remarked dryly as he pulled himself back into his chair.

Suddenly, Brawn's optics seemed to narrow as he found the courier's path. She was lying on her side at the end of it, sprawled out like a dog hit by a car, a trickle of fuel pooling out of the corner of her mouth. Brawn sneered, and the boy was forgotten as the Autobot suddenly understood what had stopped his blow. The massive green mechanism turned and started towards her.

An odd noise escaped Bluestreak's vocal processor.

The sharpshooter lunged onto his feet, throwing the rifle onto the magnetic clips in his shoulder. He flung himself forward, his strides digging into the dirt, his arms locking around Brawn's knees as he leapt forward and collided hard with the green Autobot. Even though Bluestreak was lighter, the tackle sent the off balance Brawn into the dirt.

Chip's hover chair managed right then to restart itself just as Carly finally broke free from Sparkplug and ran towards him. He sped towards her, reaching out with one arm to grab Carly and throw her onto his lap as he made it into cover just as the Autobot recovered, twisted, throwing the lighter silver renegade off to one side.

Brawn made a fist and delivered a powerful blow that connected with Bluestreak's chest. Metal dented, and the silver transformer howled in pain as the green one shattered his left headlight. Bluestreak kicked out, hard, trying to get enough leverage to reach over his shoulder and grab his weaponry as Brawn's fingers found the edge of his left door panel and yanked. The door hinges popped back with a shriek, and Bluestreak twisted his head in agony. Out of the corner of his optic, he saw Dart staggering to her feet, looking dazed. She staggered in a half circle, snorting fuel out of her air intakes, then the noise of Brawn's next smashing driving into Bluestreak's mid section caused her to spin and dash towards the fight, optics seething blue white. Brawn threw out his hand to deal with this next threat as Dart went flashing past, her knife barely missing his cheek.

The lapse of attention managed to give Bluestreak a chance to get his hand free long enough to grab the grip on his gun. Abruptly, he swung the rifle up to Brawn's face, and pulled the trigger.

The Autobot shrieked as the arc of electricity blew through his left optic, wreathing his head, dancing across his mouth plates.

Pure reflex made Brawn's hand lash out, catching Bluestreak by the throat, and pale silver metal dented. Bluestreak didn't stop firing, didn't seem to notice that the other transformer was dangerously close to pulling his head like a child's toy.

Dart was there a second later, leaping, slashing hard at Brawn's hand. The blade passed a fraction of distance from Bluestreak's own throat, and Brawn's mouth gaped open a fraction of a second later, as the tips of his fingers fell to the earth, with the scream of metal being drawn across glass.

The humans hid in the cover as the sound of the fight carried back to them, blast after blast from the rifle that the renegade clutched in his grip. They all watched as Brawn's head bounced back and smashed into the dirt with each impact, the armor of his face shattering under the assault.

Brawn went limp, and Bluestreak fired off two more rounds before he sat up, fully, rocking a little. Dart still worried at Brawn's torso as Bluestreak rose slowly to his feet, his rifle trembling in his grip, the air reeking of ozone and charred circuitry. He inclined his head and watched her tear at the body for a moment, her blade not having much success at penetrating the fallen Autobot's armor. The faintest of smiles caught the corner of his lips, his blue optics distant, then she snarled, breaking that terrible silence, and he seemed to come back from some other place within himself.

Slowly, he looked down at the courier.

"Dart . . . leave it," he finally ordered, flicking his fingers in a dismissive motion.

She backed off instantly at his command, but lingered there, still circling the fallen Autobot, the growls rolling up from her chest like a vicious cur dog tormented with a stick.

"Good Lord . . ." Chip breathed softly.

Carly was hugging him tightly around the neck, almost fiercely, a hiccoughing noise coming from her throat. Behind him, Sparkplug stood, the only hint of the man's fear perhaps the hand that trembled lightly on the back of the hover chair.

"Better fix that," he offered finally.

"Think so?" Chip grinned.

Bluestreak nodded in agreement, half listening as he glanced over at Dart.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded a little, glancing up at him, her voice more growl than coherent speech.

"Am okay. You?"

He looked down, started to feel the pain of his wounds seeping through now as he looked at the smoking hole in his side.

"I've . . . been better." He hesitated, looked up to where the sniper had been, but there was no movement. Either he had drilled him good or the shooter had run off.

Dart shifted from foot to foot uneasily, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Should get out...yes? Other Autobots come?"

He nodded.

"I hate it when I'm right," he mentioned finally, looking at his rifle's power pack. It was nearly drained, so he grabbed Brawn's weapon, yanked out the recharge point, and slipped it into his own gun. It was full, not even slightly used, and Bluestreak shook his head.

Of course it would be full. He never uses the weapon when he can use a fist. He glanced down at the body. Hmm. I don't think he's dead . . . no matter how much I want him to be. I get the feeling I could have blown his head off and it wouldn't have mattered. It's not like he has enough brains to die . . . and heh . . . I probably just shot out what little he had left. Hey, that's okay, not like you need them to be a loyal Autobot lackey. Ah well, be more costly to the Autobots to patch him up than it would be for me to destroy him . . . and we need to get out of here. I'm sure that the sound attracted every patrol within fifty miles.

Chip, Carly, and Sparkplug hurried to gather up and load what they could as Dart transformed a little stiffly and opened her doors and trunk. Bluestreak did the same, allowing the humans to load in the gains from their encounter.

Chip's hoverchair sputtered a little, and he drew it next to Dart's fender, then reached out to run his hand lightly over the curve of black metal.

"Thanks," he told her softly. "Thought he had me."

"Not today, no," she replied as Sparkplug threw a few more parts in Bluestreak's interior.

"That's it. Let's roll."

They arranged passengers, Sparkplug grumbling a little: "You know, it would have been nice if you'd all picked something other than sports cars."

"Hmm?" Bluestreak wondered as the older man shifted his legs a little in his passenger compartment, trying to get comfortable.

"Just thinking that I'd love to see a few of you with some other alt-modes. Maybe a nice Ford Ranger extended cab or something. Be a lot more comfortable."

"Trust me . . . having your knee in my door isn't very comfortable right now either." Bluestreak grumbled, as he nearly bottomed out going through a dry streambed.

"You know, I've always wondered that, you know," Sparkplug continued, "If you guys really wanted to disguise yourselves as cars, why didn't you become used Yugos or Pacers or something?"

Chip's voice came over the radios they all carried, cutting off Bluestreak's disgusted reply in mid sentence.

"You all right?"

Bluestreak sighed.

"I'm just glad we got a bunch of new parts, we'll just put it that way. How about you?"

The young man laughed softly.

"You know what they say about having your life flash in front of your eyes?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, mine was pretty boring. Except for the last few years."

Carly chuckled, reaching over to put her hand on his shoulder.

"Know what the last thing that popped into my head was?"

Bluestreak lifted his hood a little, like a shrug.

"Not a clue."

"Always have a backup starter. Stupid chair."

"Heh," Bluestreak agreed. "Well, any rampaging robot attack you can live through is a good one."

Carly laughed, and a second later, Sparkplug and Chip joined her.

"My goodness, Bluestreak," she offered. "I didn't know you had humor in you."

"Only when I'm in massive amounts of pain," he muttered.

"You sure you're all right?" she wondered.

"Yeah. It feels worse than it looks. I'll be fine," the silver mech replied.

Chip gently ran his hand over the grey dashboard in front of him. "I owe you two one, I think."

The array of interior lights blinked softly as Dart answered him.

"Is okay. Was accident. Happens. Not owe anything."

Bluestreak sighed to himself. I've really got to remind her that we need to get something in return for taking on the role of big metal target. The humans seem to be getting the better end out of this deal lately. Let's see . . . been shot, tossed, pounded . . . oh, and let's not forget the fact that I'm hauling Sparkplug around in my passenger compartment, and he really needs to get his knee out of my side before I find out a way to get an ejector seat installed.

"Yeah . . . it's fine," he managed to grumble instead.

There was a pause.

Then Chip cleared his throat. "Thanks," he replied finally. Bluestreak wondered about the change in the human's tone, but dismissed it as Sparkplug muttered and shifted again in the seat, poking an elbow hard into Bluestreak's left interior panel.

The drive back to the base was surprisingly uneventful. Bluestreak was glad for that, since the drive over the rough terrain with his complaining passenger hadn't done wonders for his shot up side, nor his attitude. The humans unloaded what they could use, leaving the two cars with their share of the raid.

Chip's chair hummed as he came to a halt between them.

"Hey . . . anything we can offer before you head out?"

Bluestreak's non broken headlight lifted slightly.

"I don't know . . . can't think of anything really at the moment. Dart?"

"Nothing can think of," she replied, then chuckled. "Maybe someday . . . Chip make hot shower for us?"

Chip laughed and slapped her fender.

"Yeah, right. Go on. Get out of here."

"Heh. She has a point. We both could use a good washing one of these days."

"You're serious?" Chip wondered. "Well . . . sure. My life is worth a bath, I think. When I can figure out how to do it, consider it done. We lost a lot of the creature comforts when we shifted bases. Funny, you think you guys wouldn't mind cold water."

"You do, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm not made of metal, either."

"Hmm? What does that have to do with anything?" Bluestreak wondered, narrowing his headlights.

Chip shrugged.

"Not a thing, I guess. So, I can do that when I get a chance. No problem. See you two around then? Preferably not like that, though." he reiterated as Carly put her arms around his neck and gave him a quick squeeze.

"Yeah. Not like we have anywhere else to be," Bluestreak agreed. Dart lifted one headlight, and then her softly rumbling engine skipped a little, revved up, and paused before settling back into that warm growl. Bluestreak decided it was time to leave. He always was a bit uncomfortable around the humans, unsure sometimes how to read their body language.

"See you around," he said quickly.

The humans waved as he executed a perfect three point turn and swung out, following the road away from the base. Dart caught up to him, took her customary position just off his flank. They drove quickly, followed the switchbacks, leading their path around and making it difficult to track them, or follow their tracks back to the human base. Bluestreak eased into a streambed, felt the water splashing up around his doors. A tiny hiss of discomfort escaped him as the cold fluid sloshed into the wound in his side.

Dart followed, the Trans-Am's low hood going under the water in places as she lost her grip on the rocks beneath her.

He pulled out of the water, and she hesitated, tires spinning as she managed to get onto dry land.

"You okay?" he asked after a moment.

"Little sore," she admitted. "Not hole blown in, like you."

"Yeah . . . but Brawn is pretty much built to punch. You're not really built to take them."

"Was moving fast. Not hurt bad."

He turned and opened his door slightly, letting a little water drain off.

"All right."

The two vehicles resumed slipping over the terrain, the only sound for a while the crunch of branches and gravel under their tires.

This really hurts. Water and my insides don't like mixing, I guess. Next time, I'll look for a dryer way to throw them off the path. Oh well, at least we've got the parts to fix the mess, but if we hadn't have gone on the raid, it would have meant that I wouldn't be hurt in the first place. Now that's irony, isn't it?

Aching and caught up in his own musings, Bluestreak suddenly realized that Dart had slipped back from her customary position and was trailing him by three meters or so. That in itself was odd, he'd once joked to her that if he was ever lost, all he'd have to do was use her as a landmark.

Instantly, he slowed down.

"What's going on?"

Her voice came back over the growl of her engine, sounding a little confused.

"Not hurt. But . . . can't keep up."

He slowed farther until he was beside her.

"Are you low on power?"

"Think so."

"We're almost back," he told her.

"Know."

"We'll get you fueled back up, and me patched up, and then how's about we get some much needed shut down?"

"Is good," she replied just as the soft rumble of her engine drifted into an odd grind. She let out a little whine, her headlights raising up, the car managing to look bewildered. Bluestreak stopped, transformed, making a low noise himself as a ribbon of water spilled over his side, draining out from the blast hole. Dart edged forward a few more meters and her engine suddenly stalled out. She restarted it after a second, but it still ran rough, and skipped hard, rattling her hood so much it made a clacking noise and made her side mirrors vibrate.

"Maybe he knocked something loose when he hit you," Bluestreak offered, rubbing his chin with a hand, thoughtfully.

"Must be," she agreed, and transformed, ending up in her sprinter's crouch. "Not feel hurt. Maybe car mode not work after hit, think?"

"It's possible," he replied. "How do you feel now?"

She slowly came upright, shook herself a little. "Am okay. Hurt more last fight with Hound. Maybe run back easy."

"Okay . . . well, go ahead."

Dart nodded, stretched, and gave him that quirky little grin. Then she leapt forward, and bounded like a deer for two strides, three, a look of sheer joy in her optics, a love of doing what she was built to do. Bluestreak watched her, warily. . . .

Something cracked, like a pistol shot, echoing back hard in his sensors. She stumbled, went down hard, the sound of her body crashing through the scrubby little trees as she came to a stop. For a moment, she was still, and then she struggled to lever herself to a kneeling position, a look of pure confusion and almost denial in her optics as he hurried over to her.

She gathered herself, but her optics shone a pale crimson with shock as she attempted to scramble to her feet.

"Doesn't hurt," she told him again.

"Can you stand?"

She did so, carefully, trembling slightly as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

"Come on, let's get you back," he decided.

"Something not like go fast."

He managed a chuckle. "Yeah, I noticed."

"Did too," she replied, her slightly slanted optics slowly shifting to back to that deep cobalt color. "Guess walk, no?"

He nodded, a faint frown of concern crossing his face. "I guess so. We're not far, at least."

"No, know."

She stepped quietly into place beside him, and they had only gone a few silent paces when she looked up at him, her lean silver face framed with the inky helmet.

"Something . . . not feel right."

He stopped again, concerned.

"Run a diagnostic, Dart."

The courier shook her head.

"Can't explain," she admitted, and then she suddenly coughed, the spasm racking her frame until she rattled, the spoiler across her shoulders clicking. Slowly, she brought her hand up to wipe her mouth, something blue staining the silver knuckles.

Bluestreak looked at her hand, then back at her, sharply.

"Okay. Now I'm allowed to be concerned, right?"

"Are?" she chuckled. "Worry about self. Always getting shot."

"I'm used to being shot."

"Should dodge more," she informed him sagely. "Not something should get used to."

The silver mech chuckled, despite himself.

She started to laugh, and then she pitched hard down on one knee. Bluestreak heard something suddenly bang free inside of her, the sound to him like someone had thrown a wrench into a moving plane engine. Instantly, he knelt beside her as she doubled up, clutching her mid section, a throttled noise echoing between both transformers, reverberating through their metal.

"Think . . . broke something," she coughed.

"I know. I heard it," he replied.

Bluestreak looked around the area. Great, we're a good eight earth miles from our camp. She'll never be able to make it . . . we need to get out of here before something just happens to find us. . . .

He sighed and stood up, then reached down and scooped her up into his arms. He was surprised, as he still was, to find her as light she was. The earthen materials the Decepticons had crafted her body from were what allowed her to carry her speed with ease, but it made her vulnerable as well, he knew. Brawn must have jarred something loose with that hit . . . well, wonderful. This is just great. A faint huff of exasperation escaped him, and she stiffened at the noise, slanted optics glancing up at him, the look on her face uncomfortable and tense.

"Can walk," she insisted.

"Yeah, right. Not if you keep doubling over like that."

"Can't carry me," she resisted. "Hurt too."

He shrugged and started to pick his way over the uneven ground, his door panels spread for balance.

"Not that bad. I can make it fine."

"But . . . makes vulnerable, yes?"

"Well, when I start hurting, you can walk," he told her firmly. "And if we get attacked, I drop you. Now relax and don't squirm."

The courier nodded, holding herself stiffly, trying to keep from touching him. Bluestreak frowned.

"Didn't I say relax? It'll be easier to carry you if you're not so tense."

A quick glance up. "Trying not bother you."

"Heh. Well, then stop moving. We won't spontaneously combust in contact with each other, you know."

Dart cocked her head. "Would be interesting. Can burn us?"

"No. I don't think so. I was making a joke. You've heard me make those sometimes, right?"

"Yes. Usually before being chased by Autobot army."

"Ha ha. Now settle, okay?"

She sighed, and then he felt her slowly ease her shoulder against the curve of his chest.

His expression changed imperceptibly, and he smiled again. "That's it," he encouraged, his tone actually soothing for a moment as he stepped over a deadfall of tangled, flattened trees. A branch scraped back hard against his leg, the brittle tips tapping along his dusty finish. Blast and slag it . . . we're so exposed out here like this - all it takes is one little Autobot patrol, and we're done for. She can't get her feet under her, and I know she can't run at all. Okay, Bluestreak, take it easy, you don't want her to tear up any worse than what's already happened to her.

A thousand scenarios flashed past his processor, all of them ending with his head being used as an energon cup. He sighed and kept walking, barely realizing that he'd made it back to their cave until Dart whined softly and he lifted his head to look around. Briefly, he worried that he wouldn't make it through the entrance carrying her, but he managed to scrape his way in, ignoring her offers to set her down.

Slowly, he eased her to the ground, kicking a rock or two out of the way, and sighed again.

"Okay, just a second, all right?"

She nodded and sat, stiffly, her optics a washed out, pale vermillion. He moved to get some of the energon that they'd been hoarding. Carefully, he poured it off into a smaller vessel, brought it to her.

"Drink, okay?"

Dart whined, softly, and then reached out to take it from him, the cup resting lightly between her fingertips. She brought it lightly to her mouth, took a sip or two as he watched.

Then she shuddered, once and let it drop. It hit a rock in the floor with the sound of jarring crystal as she looked at him, instantly apologetic. Her hand flashed out, and he saw her concern about wasting it an instant before her optics flickered to that deep, dark cobalt and she crumpled to the floor.

He lunged for the repair gear in the corner as she kicked out, pure reflexive reaction. Her foot slammed into the wall with such force he heard stone crack.

"Easy, whoa . . . easy . . ." he said as he scrambled back over to her. He managed to hook up the diagnostic systems as she kicked out again, whined, jittered, and he kept talking to her. "Hey, whoa there. Don't do that, you're okay, we're all right. Just a diagnostic, okay? I don't know what's going on and I know you don't either, but one of us has to know or we can't fix it."

Slowly, she calmed, listening to his string of coherent babble that was so uniquely his, and watched him quietly, her optics shining cobalt in the darkness.

Not good . . . not good. . . .

Secondary fuel lines severed . . . main cooling systems off line. . . .

Okay . . . all right. Let's try this. . . .

Quickly, he opened up the panel in her right shoulder, and shook his head. He was no medic . . . but maybe if he stablized her systems, administered the energon directly . . . he fished out the line there, and drew off a quick bit of the energon in the cup on the floor into the kit's plunger, slid it into the line.

He felt her systems surge when he did that, and she came up almost off the floor, struggled against it hard, fighting to get to her feet. She nearly lunged up, her optics flaring crimson then flickering to cobalt as she kicked out.

"No! Lay down!"

She dropped instantly at the command, but he could hear that as fast as she stabilized, her systems were overheating; her chestplate starting to get little beads of water on it as warm metal touched the cool air. She looked utterly miserable, coughing, choking, and then she snorted a mixture of fuel and cooling fluid out of her intakes. Bluestreak held the injector with one hand, the other frantically slowing down the drip system. Her systems are designed to cool fast with how much heat she builds up, moving like she does. With those cooling vents down, she's working hard just to keep her design from shutting her down. This is taking a hell of a lot of energy. . . .

"Okay . . . you're okay. Stay." he told her quietly, and then got up to rummage through some of the parts they'd brought back with them. Great, mostly stuff for fuel systems, and rotors . . . stuff we need, stuff we blow through, but nothing for a coolant system. He snarled to himself, and she looked up at him, quietly, her slightly slanted optics softly dim in the darkness.

"Bad broken, yes?"

He turned his head, and nodded suddenly.

"Yeah. Bad. I don't know if I can fix it."

"Is okay. Rest some." she offered. "Hurt too."

"Well, I'm not in the mood to rest, okay? I need to get you back on your feet."

"Am okay. Not worried. You fix, yes?"

"I don't know if I can."

She whined and looked up at him, made a little clicking noise.

"Oh, will fix. Can. Did before when hurt. Not worried."

"That makes one of us," he told her. "But I'll do what I can."

"Know," she replied, firmly. "Awfully tired. Can shut down, yes?"

"No. Not yet. Stay with me a little longer," he replied, concern creeping fully into his voice now. He knew it wasn't a good idea, somehow, to let her.

"Okay," she replied as he got up again and hurried over to the boxes of things they'd collected over the last year. He tore off the battered tarp they were using to keep it mostly possum free, started sifting through. Parts and tools, scraps of cloth and containers, bits and pieces of weapons. A few things here that he thought might work, but he was no medic, and so he wasn't sure. It was better than nothing, he decided as he hurried back over to her, dumped the parts in a careless pile beside her.

He inclined his head slightly. "Well, here goes nothing."

Dart looked up at him, smiled faintly as he reached for a tarp scrap, winding it through his fingers.

"Sound like Doogie Howser."

"What sort of weapon is a Doogie Howser?" he wondered. "Large bore rifle? Projectile one?"

"Is not weapon. Is human medic."

"That's a stupid name for a medic," he informed her.

"Was stupid show."

"You've watched way too much human television," he replied, reaching over to flick open her lower chest panel carefully. Something immediately oozed over his fingers, and he drew back a little at the mess. There was more fuel in here than he expected; it pooled along her circuitry and servos almost viscously in spots, shimmering threads of fuel clinging to her cables like oozing spider webs. Slowly, he wiped the tarp scrap through there, collecting out what he could just to be able to assess the damage. Most of her system has been leaking into here. What a mess . . . ugh. Don't look . . . don't think about it. . . .

He gritted his mouth plates and started cleaning, opening what he could up to drain on the floor just so he could see a little better. His one working chest headlight brightened as he shifted his body so he could see better, attempting to work on her with that detached sense as if he was fixing his weaponry. Somehow, that made it easier for him. The smell of fuel rose, sharp and acidic in the enclosed area. Carefully, his fingers worked, trying to patch lines and bits back together that had come loose, but he could feel his door panels twitching in hidden sympathy every time she flinched.

"Can . . . rest now?" she wondered quietly.

"Almost. I promise."

She let out a low, rattling sigh as he wiped out what he could, tried to get the mess back together. Slowly, she put her head on her arm.

"Is fixed?"

"It's better. Tell you what. I want you to just rest for a bit. Your self-repair systems should kick in soon . . . and then you'll be all right."

She looked up at him, eyes a dim cobalt. "See. Knew could fix," she replied with a little grin.

Bluestreak gave her a dubious glance.

"I don't know how well it's fixed, but you should be able to shut down for a little while."

"Fixed good enough," she replied with a tired sigh. Then she shifted a little, and curled her hands under her chin, not even bothering to move out of the puddle of goo that was rapidly soaking into the earth floor beneath her before she slipped into rest mode. He reached down abruptly to wipe it up the best he could with the soaked bit of tarp. Something about her laying in it bothered him more than he cared to admit to himself. Balling it up, he tossed it a corner, heard the scuttle as the possum hurried back into his crack in the wall.

He sat down, attempting the minor repairs on his side, just for something to do. It really didn't bother him that much, but he just couldn't sit and do nothing except listen to the sound of her intakes rattling every quarter hour or so. Without thinking, he reached a hand and gingerly held it over her shoulder, not touching the metal, his tactile sensors feeling the lift of heat accelerating. He withdrew his hand, shifted uncomfortably on the floor and just waited for her to come back on line.

She finally did, late that night, her head lifting slightly, her cobalt optics sort of dazed. Bluestreak crossed over to her side, brought her a little energon.

"Here. Be careful. . . ."

Dart whined a little, shaking her head.

"Not . . . feel like. Is okay?"

He set the container down and nodded.

"Yeah. You've been through a bit. I'm going to run a diagnostic, okay? Just want to see how you're doing."

She managed a shrug. "Feel okay."

"All right. Just be as still as you can. I know that's an effort."

"Heh. Not fault courier."

He reached over for the gear, started it up, and tried to keep from frowning as the screen gave him a readout. I don't like this. These systems are dangerously close to a cascade failure. She can't keep her heat regulated at all, that's why she's rasping like that. She's trying to use air to compensate for the damage. I don't have the gear here to fix our coolant systems . . . I wouldn't know where to begin. His shoulders rattled with the strain, and he brought a hand up to rub the spot between his optics with the ball of his thumb. What do I -

"Dart?" he asked suddenly. "Would it be okay if I called Chip or Sparkplug. I think they'd be better at this than I am . . ." he trailed off as she raised her head to look at him, concern flaring in her slanted optics.

"Is bad, then?"

"No no," he reassured her. "It's just beyond my ability to fix. I'm not a medic."

She nodded, slowly. "Do what need do, think."

He got up and moved to the other side of the area where a small, crude radio rested. Gingerly, he took the dial in his fingers, moved it, and found the frequency that the humans used to contact them. He really didn't feel like using his internal communicator - if some Autobot patrol happened to be in the area . . . they would home in on it, most likely, so he hoped that this shoddy little bit of machinery held up. It beeped, the open line at the human's base coming back scratchy and tinny, and then he waited for what felt like forever, beeped it again. Stupid humans, having to sleep . . . come on, come on. . . .

Chip's voice came through, muddled and fuzzy. "Wha-? Bluestreak? That you?"

"Yeah. Me."

"Go ahead," Chip replied. Bluestreak thought he sounded rather shocked, somehow, but the young man's voice was now somehow instantly awake.

"Um. We . . . need some help. Dart's hurt . . . and I don't think I can fix it." he said, slowly, every word coming brittle from his vocalizer. He hated to show weakness, hated it, and for him to admit he didn't know what was wrong was as if he'd just taken an instant, horrible defeat.

"What's wrong?"

Instant concern edged into Chip's voice.

"I . . . I don't know. She's bad. Her systems . . . can you come? I just don't think I can move her."

Chip didn't hesitate.

"I'll get Rick to give me a lift. I'm not sure where I'm going . . . can you meet us and lead us partway?"

Bluestreak shook his head, even with no one to see him.

"No. I don't want to move her. I'll give you the location, we'll just move when she's better. . . ."

He thought for a moment, gave out the best coordinates he could, using landmarks and precise miles from his mapping systems. "I'll . . . I'll leave the channel open. Call me if you need direction."

"Okay. On our way."

Slowly, the silver mech inclined his head, looking down at the little box.

"Thank . . . you." he said slowly.

"You're . . . you're welcome," Chip stuttered. The line went dead then, a burst of static trailing off into a broken, shattered whine.

Dart lifted her head at the noise as he shut it off. "Chip coming?" she asked.

Bluestreak nodded. "Yeah."

"Oh. Good," she told him. She struggled a bit to try and lever herself up, but sunk back, whining suddenly, a faint shiver wracking her body.

"Is . . . is cold outside?"

"I'm not sure. I haven't been outside."

"Oh. Is cold here. Figured cold outside. Funny . . .n ever cold before." She frowned, then shrugged, delicately and gingerly.

"Just hang in there," he ordered her.

"Not going anywhere. Who tell you Autobots coming?" she chuckled.

"Heh. Well, right. So you're not going anywhere, got it?"

His words came out sharper than he expected, his vocalizer raising the pitch sharply on the words as he spoke.

"Yes. Not go. Doesn't hurt," she explained again, growling a little as she tried to move. "Just . . . hard move, know? Stiff."

A sharp cough escaped her, and then her optics gleamed azure with surprise. She twisted her head a little, clean fuel bubbling out of the corners of her mouth, not even slightly processed. Bluestreak's internals felt like they were in the grip of something that just dug steel talons into him and twisted.

"Yeah, I know. Stiff," he found himself agreeing.

"Okay. If know, happen to you before?"

"I've been wounded bad before," he said. "It does that sometimes."

Dart relaxed a little, then started to make that deep rasping noise again. This time it didn't stop, and she frowned, confused.

"Bet. Need to learn dodge."

"Yeah. Well, you'll have to help me with that."

"Can do. Easy. Know how?"

She chuckled, fuel spattering again on the floor, but gave him that little quirky grin.

"Well, not really, obviously. But you can help me with that when you're better."

"Run other way," she offered, continuing her little spiel of humor. "Is good advice, know?"

"Yeah . . . well, you should have thought about that earlier, you."

"Heh," she grinned, the rasping noise starting to rattle her framework. Then she suddenly arched, coughing harshly, and there was a slick pool under her when she stopped, this time. Steam flicked off of the surface of the liquid - it was hot, and even his olfactory sensors, no where as tuned as hers were, smelled unstable energy. Twisting his head back he dug through the parts again, his hope for something he had perhaps missed becoming desperation as he realized there was nothing here that could help her. Got to find a way to keep her cool . . . dammit, I need a fan or something . . . water. Water. I can take her outside, that stream's not far from here. . . .

He reached down and gathered her into his arms, ignoring the slippery substance seeping into the floor.

"Okay. That's it. Outside. You're leaking all over in here."

"Ick." she admitted.

He shoved through the entrance, ignoring the deep scraping noise as he caught a door panel on the rock outcrop and scrambled down the nearby embankment, hearing the bubble of the little stream more than he'd ever noticed it before. A few small animals fled at his approach, and he knelt, easing her out of his arms. Metal clicked against metal, and she whined, low in her chest as he cupped a handful of water and poured it over her chestplate. It hissed, wisps of silvered steam rising from her back metal, and he did it again.

"Come on . . . we've got to get this balanced. Increase your airflow to your cooling systems."

She whined, and he saw her trying to understand him. He poured another handful of water over her chest, and his doors shook as he attempted to explain himself in a way she would comprehend.

"Dart. Pull air past your sensors. Hard. Like you were sniffing, okay?"

Dart nodded, and then the only sound in the area was the gasp of her cooling systems, and the hiss of the water hitting her metal plating. He finally picked her up, set her partially into the stream when he realized that the handfuls of water were no longer helping. The courier let out a little yelp of surprise, and fought for a moment, the blade on her wrist popping out under the tension of her body.

"No, no. Easy. This should do it. Chip's on his way . . . we just need to get your systems stable . . . you'll be fine. Get you patched up and on your feet in no time. . . ."

Dart's optics met his, slowly, something she rarely ever did for long.

"Is okay," she said quietly. "Not . . . fixable, no?"

Bluestreak worked quickly and desperately, his mind barely realizing that he understood the inevitable end of all this; but the words left his vocalizer, slipping past all of the denial he'd managed to wall them in with.

"Not by me."

He hated to admit it, admitting it was defeat, and he just knelt there, his gun dropped to the gravel. An enemy he could shoot, an Autobot he could destroy. Death he could only sit and watch coming.

Dart let out a soft sigh, and then started to cough again. This time, she didn't stop. He heard her systems shutting down, cascading in a collapse that was quick and sudden, her intakes working frantically to cool off, her gasps like a dog's desperate panting as her systems finally overtaxed. He pulled her out of the water, knowing that it wouldn't do anything to help any more, and it bothered him, somehow, to leave her in it like some drowned organic beast.

She struggled, and her left arm made a little paddling motion, then stilled. However, she managed to look up at him, and attempted to grin.

"Learn dodge. Promise?"

He shook his head from side to side.

"You can't go." he told her softly.

"Cold," she said finally. "Not want . . . go again."

He just shook his head again, the emotions threatening to make him want to pick up his rifle and shoot at nothing. He was angry at himself for feeling so selfish, that the only thing he could think about was that he didn't want to be alone again. . . .

"Trying," she offered, as if she had heard his thoughts. "Not . . . leave you."

"I know."

"Not do stupid things, promise?"

He tried to smile.

"I'll try. But you know me."

She chuckled, the sound low and thick through the fuel pooling in her vocalizer.

"Yes. Think sometimes, maybe do."

"That's why . . . I guess I need you around. I'm not good at that common sense stuff."

"Can't be good at everything, no?"

"No. And I'm no good at a lot of things. So you can't go."

She nodded a little, a flash of determination in her slanted optics. He saw her struggle, attempting to respond to his orders like she always did. No question, no hesitancy. Then she whined, so softly he barely heard her.

"Always do what you ask me, know . . . but don't think . . . can now. Am . . . sorry."

"I know," he told her quietly. "It's okay."

"Just . . . friends do, yes?" she coughed.

"I don't feel I've done as much, sometimes."

"Have," she told him firmly. "Never think stupid. Don't treat . . . like something . . . not human." She caught his gaze with hers one last time, and she managed to give him a faint smile, a slight twitch of her mouth that was just a tiny, quirky grin.

"Was . . . all needed. For me."

Bluestreak felt her stiffen then, cough one final time, and then she collapsed. The rasping noise from her vents fluttered once, a faint halo of vapor around her nose and mouth. Then the only noise was the trickle of the small stream behind him, the water bouncing softly over the rocks.

He just knelt there, staring at her, uncomprehending. Without realizing it, he gave a soft little whistle, and part of him expected her to just shake herself online like she always did, leap up and bolt off at her full speed. Instead, her fingers uncurled slowly, her silver palm smeared with her own fuel. Hesitatingly, he reached out to wipe her hand off, then drew back, his fingers trembling.

An hour went by . . . perhaps two, and then he barely registered the faint rumble of the Jeep's motor as it came over the terrain. Dimly, he heard the brakes bring the vehicle to a halt. He knew it was the humans, he knew the sound of their vehicle, the engines so different from the roar of an Autobot.

Bluestreak didn't move.

He heard the door slam . . . the sound of Chip's tires crunching over the loam and breaking twigs. Behind him, Rick ran, his sneakers marking each step with a dull, soft thud.

Chip actually beat him there, coming to a stop beside the silver mechanism.

"Bluestreak?" he said quietly.

The massive machine didn't respond for a moment, and then finally glanced down, an unfathomable expression on his face.

"Hi," he finally replied, his door panels twitching a little.

"Hey," Chip nodded, clearing his throat. "What . . . what can I do?"

"Nothing anymore." Bluestreak's optics gleamed a pale shade of sky that stood out in his silver face when he spoke again.

"She . . . went soon after I called you."

"Oh God . . . Bluestreak, I'm so sorry."

The silver transformer held up his hand, sounding utterly calm. "Not your fault. I can't think of any way to blame anyone but myself. I should . . . have called you earlier."

Rick hesitated, and looked at the body of the courier. The stillness had settled into her somehow, and even he could see how wrong it struck him. Dart was always jittering, always moving, and to see her stretched out like this, silver and black dulling slowly in the fading light . . . was somehow . . . terribly, horribly, wrong.

"Can't we repair her?"

Bluestreak turned his head.

"Her systems . . . crashed."

Chip shook his head, a thick lock of his brown hair falling over one of the lens of his eyeglasses. Slowly, he reached out, touched the curve of that ebony shoulder, felt the metal slowly losing heat to the chill of the onset of morning. He drew his hand down the metal softly, as if he was petting an animal that he expected to get up and respond.

"Damn," he whispered finally.

Rick looked over at Chip, his voice starting low and going slightly higher.

"But . . . they're Transformers, right? I mean, Chip, they all must have things like backups and programming. Can't we do something? Reboot her, restart her systems and bring her back? I mean . . . she can't be dead . . . right? There's got to be a way to save her. . . ." His voice rose again, turning to disbelief.

Bluestreak turned his head.

"We die. Like anything else alive," he chided, softly.

"But there has to be a way . . ." Rick struggled to say.

Chip just ran his hand over the metal silently, fingers looking incredibly fragile against the black gloss.

"I should have been faster," he mumbled.

"No. It's not you. I should have . . . called sooner."

Chip shook his head, and then ever so hesitantly, reached out and patted Bluestreak on the leg. The metal mechanism flinched once, then just brought one hand up to partially cover his optics in a gesture that was so reminiscent of human despair that Chip looked down at his lap, wanting to give the machine some semblance of privacy.

"I'm so sorry, Bluestreak," was all he could manage to say, knowing even to him it sounded utterly hollow.

Bluestreak shook his head, pulled his hand away and looked off into the distance.

"I know. Me too."

"Are . . . are you going to be . . . all right?"

There was a long pause, and then the massive machine shook his head slowly from side to side.

"I . . . I don't think so."

Chip took a deep breath, hands digging into the wheels of his chair, feeling the rough rubber flex under his grip. The young man struggled, his chest aching and his eyes burning, and then he wiped the back of his arm harshly across his eyes.

"I know. I mean, I'm just so sorry. If my chair hadn't picked that moment to. . . ." His fist clenched, digging his nails into his palms as he trailed off, the words feeling