I smile; I'm told that I do this often.

Megatron responds with a smirk - I would expect no less from my fearless leader.

"How many Academy students have you delivered this time, Astro?" he asks.

"Three," is my short, logical response. Ask a simple question. . . .

"Are they being given the grand tour?"

"No trip to Decepticon HQ would be complete without it."

There is silence. When alone I embrace the quiet, but with others surrounding me, awkwardness is intoned.

"So . . ." Megatron begins, scratching the back of his head nervously, "How's . . . tricks?"

I frown, quirking my brow. He was avoiding the subject. The OBVIOUS subject. He was apparently curious, but also afraid to upset me. He has known me for far too long to consider such a thing.

"Are you referring to my novel?" I ask, hoping to catch him off-guard. I succeed.

"Well," he says quickly, ". . . if you wish to." he smiles sheepishly.

I grin wide. Megatron only beats around the bush when embarrassed, after all.

"I fear that I am still suffering from a distinct lack of inspiration," I state bluntly. My combination superior/old friend grimaces, dissapointed for me.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

I shrug, having years ago come to terms with my writer's block.

"One day I'll have time enough to contemplate - time enough to write," I say hopefully, my voice distant even in my own audio receptors. I look out the large porthole in Megatron's office, mesmerized by the serene, blue ocean we lay beneath. I envision being topside, watching the crystalline waves dance, whirl, and beat upon the sands. So peaceful . . . the ocean always reminds me of Broadside. There are times I wonder where his betrayal lead him . . . but my mind is pulled from my musings as Megatron speaks.

"It is likely that there shall be no more graduates with a need for transportation for a while yet. . . ."

I turn toward him, inclining my head in interest. Surely he couldn't be suggesting. . . ?

"Astrotrain, you're given full pardon for the next Earthen month," Megatron declares in his voice that combines sternness with an air of compassion and gentleness. My optics go wide.

"But what of my post as instructor? Surely Soundwave will --"

"Soundwave will be sent a message telling him to find a temporary replacement," my commnader intones, cutting me off in mid-sentence. He plants his hand firmly on my shoulder, and smiles warmly. "Astrotrain, I've known you a long, long time. And I know that the only thing you care about more than our cause is your writing."

"Now that's simply not true --"

He cuts me off yet again. He'd be rude if he weren't so accursedly kind.

"Deny all you like. It's the truth. You need a vacation. Stay here on Earth, relax. And most importantly, write, contemplate, inspire."

I look into his optics. His smile is most contagious.

"Very well, sir." I concede. He pats me on the back.

"As I knew you would."

I walk toward the exit, freezing just before the door opens. I sense that Megatron has something more to say.

"Oh, and Astrotrain," he says, as though on cue, "Did I ever thank you for lending me that quote?"

I turn toward him.

"Which one; 'Peace through tyranny'?" I tease. He chuckles.

"You couldn't catch me saying that one even if I were some kind of cosmic dictator."

We each laugh at the thought.

"I meant 'Freedom is the right of all sentient beings.' Did I ever thank you for that one?"

I smirk in reverie; my, but that was a long time ago. Around the time Megatron gave his first speech . . . after Optimus Prime's uprising, if I remember correctly. . . .

"Yes," I reply. "You thanked me four-hundred and seventeen times since I provided you the quote. I believe that to be enough."

Megatron allows himself to fall backward into his chair.

"Fair enough. Pardon starts immediately. I want to see the beginnings of your great Cybertronian novel by next week!"

"As you command, 'Mighty Megatron'."

He narrows his optics and scowls without humor.

"I'll be sure to let Starscream know you're stealing his material," he says flatly. I shrug, taking my exit. I begin pondering my plotline without delay. After all, who am I to turn down a vacation?

I stride through the corridors of the base, staring intently at the floor. My last novel was published shortly before Optimus Prime came to power. That point marked the end of my writing career . . . for a time. I have striven to write further - to publish upon the Empire's fall. I'm confident that the Autobots shall meet their fall, in time. One can not conquer an unwilling race, no matter how powerful he may be. Every beginning has an end. Every uprising has also a fall.

My thoughts are jarred from my thought processor as I realize I have paid no heed to my direction and, as a result, I have collided with a young green and white Decepticon femme. We both hit the floor, and I suddenly realize that I'm in the cafeteria. Only a moment ago I thought I had been roaming the corridors . . . my, but time flys when deep in thought.

I turn attention toward the young lady I've floored. As I open my mouth, she beats me to the punch.

"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry, myfault --" she looks me in the optic. We recognize one another.

"Astrotrain?" Spiral says, somewhat stupefied. "Why aren't you at the Academy?"

"Vacation," I say simply, helping her to her feet. "I haven't seen you since I ecorted you here from Charr. How've you been?"

"Great!" she says enthusiastically. "Met some great people, I even almost got killed by Autobots!"

I allow myself a chuckle.

"Yes, near-death experiences certainly are 'great' aren't they."

She laughs. She's an extremely light person, though few Decepticons would know. She was shy at the Academy, she was shy on the ride to Earth, yet now she seems more social. Either that or it's simply because I was her favorite teacher. I find the latter the more likely conclusion.

"So how've you been doing?" she inquires.

"Uninspired," I say flatly. I change my tone to a more passionate one and say, "My spark is clouded with feelings, with judgements, with the weight of burden . . . yet my emotions go unrecorded, no outlet available to them. And the cosmic dance goes on as always."

She cocks a brow.

"Yeah, you sound uninspired, all right." she says sarcastically. I place my hand on my chest.

"Inspired in poetry, but not in longer works."

She nods lightly, absorbing my words. I now recall why she was such a good student - she was an extraordinary listener. "Didn't you always tell me to 'write what you know'?"

"That's the problem with us bestsellers - we tend to be hypocritical," I half-tease, as there is some truth to my statement.

Another figure comes up behind the femme, startling her by whispering in her audio. She jokingly smacks the figure with the back of her hand, and I agree with her decision to do so, consideirng who the figure is.

"Spiral, I thought I told you never to speak with strang--" the newcomer says, then feigns surprise. "Why, AstroTwain!" he exclaims, realizing fully that I cringe at that name. "A body could get powerful excited to see an old friend like you."

I place my hand on my face, trying to restrain my laughter.

"Starscream, you know full well that Mark Twain's work was of a different time and different speaking manner," I say. The Decepticon subcommander has teased me mercilessly with that name, as it was the one human-written work he saw me read. There were innumerable human books I devoured afterwards, but the name has been stuck to me like adhesive.

Starscream waves off my comment.

"You always were a killjoy, Twain. So, Megs tells me you're on vacation." He slips an arm around Spiral's neck in a manner that implies something beyond friendship. She glances at it, he hastily removes it. My mistake.

"How's that working out for you?"

I shrug.

"It's been two hours, Starscream. I don't even have a basic plot outline yet."

"Sooooo . . . you're saying you're a bad writer?" he mocks falsely. For a moment I consider retrieving my ionic displacement rifle from subspace, but relent.

"I'm saying writer's block isn't that easy to overcome."

"Right. Just what I said."

I exhale, an open gesture of defeat. Starscream grins.

"Be sure to run anything you finish by me for proofreading," Spiral says excitedly. She had a small crush on me at the Academy . . . but her present affection was purely friendly. I expect no less from my star pupil.

"I'll be sure to take up your suggestions, Spiral," I respond. The pair begins to walk in the opposite direction of the cafeteria, and Starscream says over his his shoulder in a bemused tone, "And don't try using my nicknames again."

I shan't.

I sit in my quarters, fingers steepled before me. My mind races with short scenes from which I might fashion a story. Landscapes flash through my mind - from Arctic regions, glittering white snow covering all, to sunny Terran valleys of brilliant, green grass - then the landscapes unknown by any human - the ashen surface of Krell, the plains of Gaia, the barren and dead world of Corshus . . . a world I had to watch die as the Autobots murdered it . . . and once again I dive into depression, my writing the furthest thing from my mind. My mistakes have resulted in many deaths - a truth I can never deny. I despise such bouts of self-pity, yet I cannot drive it off with such simplicity as that. Even Megatron has made mistakes . . . perhaps more costly ones than those for which I myself shall ever be able to claim responsibility, yet he does not let it hinder his duty to the people.

Maybe there's a story to that? "Portrait of a Patriot: The Life and Times of Megatron." No. Perhaps for a future project. I haven't the resource materials needed to perform such a mammoth task as that . . . though it is a promising tale. Perhaps something to write when he has freed us all . . . but a biography is not what I desire to pen.

Fiction, perhaps? My previous two books were fiction, and they sold wonderully. Yet I feel as though fiction would prove to be too much of an escape from reality at this point. I do not frown upon such things - I've often assigned such outlooks and stories to be read by my class on Charr, but not here. Not on Earth . . . not until this Primus-be-damned war ends.

Any number of options prove to be hanging in the air, just out of my grasp, and I shall find them. Like a hound sniffing out its prey, I shall find and absorb it.

I bolt upright from my chair, realizing that my lack of inspiration can not be solved from down here. Not within our base . . . I must go topside.

I float through the air, smiling in contentment. The sea air is cold and salty, the evening sky shining brilliantly under the light of that wonderous pale jewel in the sky, the Moon. I look down at the coast from my own personal summit, seeing the jagged rocks littering the beach. I raise my sights slightly, disheartened at the sight I hoped not to see: the lighthouse has been destroyed.

I fly closer, shaking my head in regret. There was but one night where I had remained on Earth while my fellow Decepticons went for energon to fuel my ride back to the Peace Academy. I had waited on this cliff, next to this lighthouse, neither of which remained intact. Here I had pondered, had ideas that I hoped to use. However, my ideas proved later to be implausible. But this inspirational point still may have brought me some comfort. Now the cliff has partially collapsed, the lighthouse with it.

Somewhat somberly, I touch down on the edge of the cliff that remains, and catch sight of a massive stone to sit upon; I sit, and upon shifting to a position of comfort, survey the sky once more. There is a dead tree several feet to the left of my position, casting a rather gloomy shadow upon my position. I feel pity for the natural formation - perhaps sentient beings deserve freedom, but plantlife deserves it just as much.

I gaze through the branches, catching sight of the full moon sitting what felt to be just out of reach. The mist surrounding me, I look again through the branches and toward the moon. An eerie sight . . . yet oddly soothing. The luminescence of the fog is a vivid picture - one I will have to keep in mind. I look out over the ocean, feeling a surge of contentment and satisfaction. The sapphire waves crash upon the shore, wearing away at the sand in its path. It was a scene comparable to the situation of our war: the Autobots continue to crash down upon us, again and again, and while we believe ourselves to still be strong, be are gradually being worn away.

Funny. As much as I try to escape the thoughts of this little war in which we're engaged, my inner poet finds some way of comparing mundane sights with our situation with the Empire. Is there a story to that. A man - perhaps a neutral of some kind - trying desperately to ignore a war that rages around him has feelings of guilt over his neutrality. Perhaps he feels alone as he is . . . maybe. . . .

And my mind is quieted, for I have just realized that while I remain allied with one side, this was a description of myself - caught in the web of war, trying to ignore its existence, yet all the while I feel guilty for not doing more. It's almost too sensible - perhaps even overly simplistic - yet it remains the truth.

The only thing you care about more than our cause is your writing.

Megatron's voice rings in my subconcious. His remark had by no means been intended to be taken as an accusation, but in my own mind it was just that. I hang my head, ashamed of myself. I am no longer indulging myself in self-pity, but I am ashamed of my own selfishness. I look again to the sky, so vibrant and rich with its color, to find an answer. I see the constellations - only vaguely, given the brightness with which the Moon shines tonight - yet no answer is given. Some humans claim to be able to tell the future from the stars - I do not believe such a thing possible, but to have such easy access to what the future might hold - to know how long this resistance to the Autobots might have to be kept up - would content me further. Would content ALL of us further.

I slip away from reality again, considering what might be in our future, when I sense something. I stand, drawing my weapon from subspace. I hear a rustling in a nearby bush. I ready the trigger, prepared to fire at whatever might await me. . . . It steps out, ears twitching in tune with their owner's low growl of confrontation. The creature is massive - perhaps the size of an elephant, if my animalian data tracks are correct - and undoubtedly canine in form. I have heard myths of humans that become mutated hounds upon sight of a full moon . . . and I almost believe it. Until I see that it has optic sensors, of course. It is Cybertronian . . . but I hold no files indicating Decepticons or Autobots with a canine form . . . but my information is by no means new.

The creature stares at me venemously, as though I were its next meal. And, at once, the creature backs down. Its ears perk up, its teeth contort from a snarl to a look of innocence. I am confused, but at the same time intrigued. And with a whir and an adjustment, the creature standing before me takes humanoid shape - on second thought, make that attractive shape - and smiles sweetly at me. Her optics are a very neutral gold, her smile filled with a sort of mystery and mirth. Her helmet seems to have rather lupine 'ears' mounted on either side, her figure slender and, as earlier noted, quite attractive.

"Howdy," she says simply, waggling her fingers in an effeminate wave of greeting. My rifle remains in positon.

"And you would be?" I ask. She cocks her head rather lightly, the moonlight causing her black and silver armor plating to glisten.

"First give me yours."

For a moment, neither of us moves. She is likely a recently-recruited Autobot - but I've no intention to shoot first and ask questions later.

"Cloak," she says, extending her hand. I eye her hand warily, giving her a silent order to retract it. "My name's Cloak."

"I don't doubt that," I say, my plain comment actually a lie in itself. Something in her optics seem to laugh at my comment, though I can't imagine why.

"I've not seen you before - what side are you on?" I query, checking for any immediately obvious insignia; none were in sight. Which meant one of two things. Either she was among those that simply sported no insignia. Understandable, considering many Transformers had been killed on sight having no more than their emblem visible. Or. . . .

"I'm an Empty," she declared, holding her hands up in defense. I'm not up to date on the slang.

"Excuse me?"

She rolls her optics slightly, bemused by my elderly tendency to not keep up with slang terms and the like. I'd be amused too, were I not pointing a gun at someone.

"A neutral," she translated. "Skim the factions, y'know?"

My gun remains ready.

"Proof?" I ask, though I don't know why. What neutral carries their tattered former emblem in subspace with them?

"I have a bounty on my head. Does that account for anything?"

"Only if you have proof."

She frowns, unhappy with my persistance in keeping my weapon ready.

"If I were an Autobot in disguise, why would I come bearing no support troops?"

I shrug.

"I hear Nightwind goes through quite a lot of trouble for a simple infiltration mission," I remark, watching her body language intently. "Why would you be any different?"

Her body language makes no response at the sound of the name. But then again, Nightwind is a crafty one. . . .

"Because that bitch has bigger fish to fry," she replies, almost causing me to snicker. She's probably right . . . but considering what a vital piece of interstellar transportation I am to my faction, I could be enough to get her attention. Of course, not that the Autobots even knew of the Academy's existence, but who knows?

I decide to make things risky, for the reason that my arm is getting tired from holding up my rifle. I can only hope that my ancient reflexes are up to evading a youth. I drop the weapon to my side, and I am relieved to see that she has made no move to slay me . . . though the night is still young.

"Why're you here?" I ask. She points to the sky with her forefinger, and I notice small claws tipping each digit.

"Full Moon. You know dogs and full Moons. . . ."

"Indeed," I reply, though I actually do not. I suppose I should study current human civilization more.

"So you're a 'Con, are you?" she asks. I almost bring my weapon up again, but realize that my sigils are in plain view.

"Yes. Judging by your earlier remark, you were Autobot?" I assume. She nods grimly, likely being devoid of happy memories of such a life.

"The moon is really beautiful." she remarks, getting off the subject of her former allegiance. I don't blame her. "Kinda like a diamond . . . makes you feel insignificant."

I narrow my optics in confusion. I look at the moon, the stars . . . I fail to see her line of reasoning. A human child from one of our other Earth-bound bases once remarked to me how awesome all those stars were . . . and I didn't understand then, either. I had said to the boy, "I suppose that to a race born with space-travel, we don't find them as amazing. You - a species born primitive - only recently attained the gift of space-travel. The universe is still new to your kind . . . but we Cybertronians roamed them for eons . . . and they simply don't captivate me any longer."

My answer had been far too profound for the young boy - and I later regretted what I said. The stars continue to amaze me artistically, but they fail to make me feel insignificant. I suppose that I assumed all Cybertronians would mirror my feelings. Cloak apparently does not. I do not answer.

"I wonder what it's like out there. . . ?" she says, her voice full of innocence. I follow her gaze, noting her amazement with Orion's Belt.

"I've been there," I say casually. In my own audios I sound as though I'm playing it cool - such a concept makes me smile internally, though I can't bring myself to mimic the action externally.

"Really?" she says in astonishment. "What was it like?"

I scratch the back of my head, trying to recall the memory.

"Well . . . it's full of pirates, I can tell you that much."

She gives me a look that indicates she takes me for a liar. She may believe what she likes.

"I thought that Encroaching Shadow stated that it was swarming with rogue guardians of the planet Koloth," she stated casually. She was more or less correct; my second book was only a half-truth, the vague memory stirs reccollection of that book - the truth was stretched thin, if I remember correctly. I try not to let her see I'm surprised she's actually read my work. But I feel my mind is holding something from me at this moment . . . something repressed. I ignore it.

"I'd be lying if I said I recalled precise details," I respond. I pause, then ask, "How'd you know who I was?"

"When I was with the 'Bots I had to memorize every data file they had on every Decpeticon sighted," she sighs, seemingly exhausted from the mere memory. "Your bio was among them."

"Have you read any more of my work?" I ask, curious whether or not I still have a fan after these many, many vorn. She nods briskly.

"Yup. When's your next best-seller?" she asks teasingly. She certainly warms up quick, I'll concede that much. However, I ignore the question, finding the answer too embarrasing.

"Have you ever tried to write something of your own?" I inquire. She shrugs lightly.

"Some, yeah. Can I describe you?"

I grin.

"Shoot."

She sat on another rock, chewing a foreclaw in a gesture that seems to imply deep thought. She glances at me a few times, trying to work up a vivid description. Finally, she speaks: "A glittering raven spreads his wings," she begins, "his optics like dual rubies, he dscends upon his prey. His golden crest glimmers in the passing moonlight - shades of gray and violet studding his exterior and adding an air of ferocity to his silently swift form."

I consider a moment, trying best to critique her.

"For one," I say at last, "'silently swift' doesn't quite work. Being swift has nothing to do with stealth, so you may wan to reword that."

Her feigned look of pain indicates to me I've a fourth mode of transformation - that of a critic. I realize that I genuinely enjoy this femme's company, and I love that feeling of camaraderie.

We continue like this for many hours, till the dawn breaks and the silent gleam of light reflects off my armor, like a ray of sun in a gloomy forest. We part then, both realizing we must be somewhere else, she having to return to a small band of humans she's aiding, and I to base.

I return, a smile on my face and a song in my spark. But why does my mind seem to be screaming at me?

"Astro's got a girlfriend, Astro's got a girlfriend!" Buzzsaw sings loudly, his tone one of sheer mirth. He chortles softly, his small voicebox fluctuating as involuntary whistles interfere with his laugh. I admire the small one's zest for life and his youth - I suppose it's one aspect of being right-off-the-assembly-line that I miss, myself.

I correct him; "Love?" I say, half-laughing to myself, "It is a blooming friendship - nothing involving love."

"Sounds more like denial to me," the cassette says with a sly grin on its sharp, serrated beak. He pecks absently at his wing. I chuckle, realizing quite well how much Soundwave must miss them. Like a father seperated from his childeren. . . .

I kneel, and whisper into his audio a reason to rib someone else. Something Spiral told me in confidence - but should the young-at-spark cassette's humanoid sibling come to kill me at a later date, I'll tell him the truth - that I learned it from an old security tape. Of course, I also weaseled it out of the Decepticon femme as well, but he needn't know that.

A grin pulls across Laserbeak's twin's beak as I whisper, and he spreads his wings, off in search of new "prey."

"Oh, Ruuuuuuuuuuumble . . .," he calls for his elder in a playful fashion, and disappears from my line of sight. I stand upright again, and walk down the corridor in a casual manner. Starscream catches my optic, and I his.

"'Twain," he comments, "you look unusually happy."

"There's no denying the truth," I say playfully.

"Now what could make you this happy - wait, don't tell me," he says, rubbing his forehead as though trying to drum up some sort of psychic ability. "You're . . . in love? No . . . you're just friends."

I nod briefly.

"Yeah. That's what I thought," he says with a grin as wide as the Mississippi. "Word travels fast 'round here. And when there's a chance for some soap opera action, I'm everywhere the action's at," he says, giving a thumbs-up on either hand. I smile, though I have no idea what a 'soap opera' is. There are some obvious assumptions, but I'd likely wind up humiliated yet again.

"So who's the lucky gal?" he nudges me with his elbow knowingly. And I believe I just saw him wink. "It's Arrowhead, isn't it? Or maybe Lark?"

I roll my optics. "She is not a Decepticon."

As anticipated, his optics immediately flare a darker scarlet.

"Astro, I know you like it rough, but Autobot women aren't --"

"She is --" what was that term again? "an 'Empty', Starscream."

His optics brighten notably, then go wide.

"Don't tell me you actually tamed Dart!?"

"Her name is Cloak," I say, growing slightly weary of the questioning. I sincerely like Starscream, but his jokes go on too long.

"Never heard of her." he admits. "But getting involved with any faction other than your own. . . ."

I glare.

"I thought that to be neutral meant --"

His tone transforms from one of a clownish old friend to a stern and compassionate superior officer.

"Forget what Webster says," he says, not realizing that I'm oblivious to the term. "Empties are a faction all their own. They follow no rules or regulations, and they work for whoever needs the help and can give them adequate energon. Mixing company with them isn't necessarily a bad thing, but falling in love with one is --"

"Starscream," I say exasperatedly, "I am not in love. It's been ages since I've met another being who's read my work, and I think talking to an enthusiastic young femme like her - one who knows how to write and can tell me what she thinks would make a good story - might inspire me."

The Decepticon subcommander raises both hands for quiet, and tells me, "All right, all right, fine. But don't let it progress. You . . . might. . . ."

He lets out a long sigh, almost as if to say I've had firsthand experience with this. Take my advice.

"Get hurt," he finishes, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. I nod appreciatively, and he walks off, his shoulders slumped slightly.

"Starscream's word is law," says a voice from the shadows. Had I not recognized the voice, I might be startled. Blitzwing, old friend and beloved philosopher steps into my view, his crimson visor gazing at me with compassion.

"I suggest you take his advice. Starscream is second-in-command for a reason."

I nod. Blitzwing is physically imposing, but his persona cancels it out - he would never harm anything unless it shot him first. We have a connection - in part because of our deep commune with nature. He stalks off, and proving true to his custom of virtually never speaking unless spoken to, he says no goodbye. I walk towards my quarters, anticipating my next meeting with Cloak. I once more ponder a book from this experience, or at least a poem. I don't believe in having bad experiences and thinking them notihng more. Every experience can become a story. Every experience is a story . . . but one that's never completed until it ends.

I meet with Cloak again tonight . . . but I wonder how many of my two comrades' words that I'll be able to bring myself to heed. And I also consider that I've found a being who's read my work.

Another thought pesters me, but I find myself repressing it. I head toward my quarters, wondering what my thought processor might be holding from me. . . .

Overcast. I stand atop the same cliff, but the bright moon does not greet me as it did the previous night - tonight the moon remains hidden from view, behind the dense clouds. I scan my flank, seeing nothing but trees and bushes, while I myself remain in wait for my companion. I turn to the sky, unruffled as I hear a rustle and low growl behind me.

"So, we were talking about your next book?" Cloak says from behind me. I continue to stare at the stars.

"Yo, Astro?"

I remain entranced by the stars.

"Astrotrain?"

I'm being told something, not by the femme behind me, but by the stars themselves. I shut out my comrade's voice, and listen to the stars. Listen to their wisdom. . . .

"--ROTRAIN!" she shouts for my attention. I blink, contemplating what I believe my mind has unblocked, digest it. But . . . if that's true . . . that mean's . . . that. . . .

SHE'S DECIEVING YOU!! my mind shouts back. I let my arms fall to my sides. My lips quiver. But nontheless, I fall back from my relationship, and rely purely on warrior's instinct - I retrieve my weapon with a speed I never knew I could achieve, drop into a crouch, and train it on the "neutral" behind me. She raises her hands in a defensive posture, an unconvincing look of fear splashing her face.

"What're you doing!?" she cries in an overly dramatic tone. She needs acting lessons - URGENTLY.

"I almost wish you were blonde so I could make a crack about your imbecility," I wisecrack. Now that human stereotype I know. She scowls.

"Frag it . . .," she curses quietly, thinking herself inaudible in her low tone.

"As you command," I grin, pulling the trigger on my rifle. I take firm hold over my warrior's instinct, drop flat, dive behind a massive rock, and crouch. I silently thank my instincts as a blast lances out from Cloak to scorch the grass I stood upon mere microseconds before. I risk a peek over my cover, grinning to myself; she stands unmoved, a fresh wound in her right shoulder smoldering. However hotly her wound burns, her anger burns with all the heat of a nlue giant - her optics twitch notably, her blaster trembling slightly in her shaky fingers.

"How in the bloody Pit did you figure me out!?" she shrieks with unmistakable venom. I ignore her inquiry, letting the bitch stew in her own fluids; I'd be lying if I said she didn't deserve it. I hear shots ring out on several angles, her fury causing her to shoot blind - a move even a rookie should know never to execute in a life-or-death situation. She misses my cover completely, her mission unclear - was she trying to simply kill me? It is clear that her obsession with her disguise means much more to her than my death . . . though at this moment she seems content to take my life, either direction.

I take a pot shot over my shield, hoping to Unicron that my aim proves true once more. I swear off my devotion to the God of peace forever as my query evades with phenomenal grace - somersaulting over my shot, she lands perfectly in front of me, her weapon trained between my optics.

"Fiddlesticks," I mutter, knowing well that it's impossible to get a rise out of a maniacal traitor - but I have to stay true to my happy-go-lucky exterior.

"How did you know."

Hers is not a question, but rather a command.

"I stare down the barrel of her blaster," I think out loud, "noting her optics had now flared from the sunny gold they held just prior to the shootout to a sinister cerulean, flaring harshly. She glares, wickedness oozing from her very spark - further evidence that the pathetic femme is an Autobot loon bent on destruction of a rival faction's attainable cause."

She grits her teeth, unhappy with my answer. Shame that I no longer care.

"My disguise was flawless - I thought I could weasel it out of you."

I raise an optic ridge in interest.

"You need to do better research, Nightwind. I see right through you."

Her neck launches backward, an expression of disbelief and shock in her optics.

"The Pit!? I'm NOT," she spits, "that bitch of Prowl's."

"Rowr," says a voice from the foliage behind her, the source being one I know all too well - both by voice and by remark.

"The great coward shows his face," I say to the shadowy being visible from my point, but I see Cloak - or whatever the Pit her name is - trying to crane her neck without taking her optics off me. A futile attempt.

"Hey!" claims the voice angrily. "Springer cowers before no man," he claims my weapon from my hand, placing it in subspace. I quirk my olfactory sensor.

"I wouldn't imagine so, no. But when you're facing a Cybertronian. . . ."

The green Autobot stamps forward, a look of rage in his face. He opens his mouth to respond, yet he's slapped away by my captor's free hand - the one connected to her injured shoudler. She winces at the mere effort. Springer glares at her contmptuously.

"Look, just because you think I'm the hottest thing since the nuclear core doesn't mean you can hit me and not get what you deserve."

I believe that for the first time since I learn she's the enemy, the two of us agree on something - we each roll our optics in total exasperation.

"Do me a favor, Springer, and jump off that cliff there," she spits in his face . . . as both a figure of speech and a physical show of disdain. He gapes at her action.

"You little --"

Snickers emerge from the small forest from whence Springer came - likely a strike force sent to ensure my death upon the femme's discovery of useful data.

Springer's reply is cut short once again as the femme demands of me again, "How'd you know? And Primus help me, if you don't respond this time I'll blow your head off."

She'll do it anyway. Why bother giving her what she wants?

"Come on," Springer snorts, "forget your damned cover being blown - ask him about his function! Ask him what he's transporting and to where!"

At least I now know what the femme wanted of me. I silently sigh relievedly, for though I'm about to die, I'm sure that the Autobots know nothing of the Academy. I say one final goodbye to Spiral, to Starscream, to Megatron, to all my friends . . . and embrace the darkness.

But there is no darkness to embrace. Shots ring out from either side of me, plowing into both Springer and the nameless femme. Her finger squeezes around the trigger instinctively, forcing me to assume that my fate is still sealed, despite my timely "rescue" . . . when a small bird clutches the weapon firmly in its talons, wrenching the gun from her grip. As she tumbles to her back, Buzzsaw sends me a wink, and tosses me his thieved blaster. I grab it, salute, and the cassette is gone. I turn from my foes a moment, eager to see who was chosen for my rescue squadron - pleased to note that Buzzsaw, Rumble, Ravage, Blitzwing, Xeta, Lark, with, as expected, Starscream leading the charge, all hovering over the cliff's edge, Starscream wearing his battle-typical I don't take slag--I dish it out expression.

"I suppose it's none of my business," he says matter-of-factly, "but I don't think that when you went for a midnight meeting with your lady that you intended to rondeveuz with Autobots. If I'm wrong, say so, and we'll just let you go about your business."

I narrow my eyes, unwilling to keep up my false jolliness any longer. He shrugs.

"The things I do for my faction," he mutters, then releases a photon shot into the ruffage, a clanking sound resounding over the still night air.

"Pick a target," he orders, "and follow through."

He looks to me.

"I'll give you a choice between your ladyfriend and Springer. Take your pick."

"I'll take the treacherous wench," I say.

"Can't say I blame you." he shrugs, then jets into the forest to tangle with his Autobot of choice. Blitzwing lands on the ground, his optics flashing in a most uncharacteristic I told you so glance. I concede defeat by shaking my own head, then taking off from the ground, anxious to end my own private tango.

Ravage and Buzzsaw call warnings to me - warnings I take in earnest, propelling myself upward as claws lash out from the shadows to claim dead air. I unload her stolen weapon's powerpack as I rain down fire upon the traitor - a hailstorm of rather deadly severity. She covers her head - a futile gesture, really - and bounds upward to slash the overloaded weapon from my grip, a procedure in which she succeeds. She stabs at my chest with her foreclaws, her sapphire optics blazing with fury, and I jab her in the face, her limp body plummeting to the ground. I descend softly, examining her face before leaping into the air in foresight, breathing heavilly as Springer's blade strikes only air. He sneers at me, a blaster popping out of his wrist, and fires. Once. Again. I evade with some ease - I am a warrior of the sky, after all, and land on the ground with a clunk, warding off his downward slash with each forearm - a painful counter, but an effective one. I place force enough within my arms to throw him off balance and to the ground, a simple maneuver I never could have pulled off if he wasn't so stubborn about keeping his metallic blade - Spiral claimed to have heard a conversation about the bully involving his getting a laser sword, to which he had replied, "Scopes'd murder me if I touched his."

"Why not just import one from Cybertron?" was the response.

"Are you kidding?" he said seriously, "That'd cost me something!"

Hilarious though I still find it, I dodge a powerful blow from said sword, a blow which could have beheaded me. I kick out, catching him in the chest, his blade imbedding itself in the supple soil nearby. I grab the hilt, whirl, and stab downward, burying the weapon in his chest as a knight of medieval times might slide his sword into the belly of a dragon. The tip of his sword is stuck mere centimeters from his fuel pump, an inaccuracy for which I feel ashamed. Though I could rectify my mistake, I let his body - blade still buried in his chest - drop to the ground, convulsing once and remaining still in stasis lock, his wound and mouth still pooring energon fluid. I am reminded further of Terran tales of medieval times at the musing of Springer's very persona; green dragons roamed the world, destroying and killing needlessly, having special contempt for females. They terrorize, provoke, and snort flames when enraged. As I stare down at the fallen Autobot, the only difference I can find is that Springer has no scales. Repairs shouldn't be difficult for Ratchet . . . but rumors abound that the "medic" - my, but Shockwave would cringe at using such a term to describe the drunken wreck - administers no anesthesia when mending Autobots who've failed their mission objectives. Unsurprising behavior, given who's in charge on that side of the war.

I walk away from Springer, leaving him for the Autobot scavengers who do such vile work, and having disposed of my own targets, I watch my comrade's take on their own. Xeta, an ex-attender of the academy, but dropped out and transported here upon my most recent route, he is quite prone to violence in domestic situations . . . and to see him in combat is plain terrifying. He locks hands with a nameless Autobot, delivering a savage head butt to his opponent. The Autobot reels, and is swatted to the ground with a sweep of the young brute's hand. I turn from the sight, unwilling to watch a massacre. But when even in mere simulations Xeta has proven a most focused warrior; even an audio-piercing blare from Soundwave never swaying him from the task at hand. He refuses any weapons but his fists . . . another trait that I believe shall kill this particular youth early. But such warnings have gone unheeded by the young Decepticon for a long time, and I fail to see why saying anything now would hinder his performance.

I focus on Lark - another recent arrival on-planet, but an overly social one. She is Spiral's very antithesis - talkative, openly expressive, and . . . dull. By my own standards, anyway. When you can convince Spiral to speak, she is insightful, optimistic, bright, and diverse. When speaking with Lark I hear only of her obsession with mechs, her deisre to meet a strong, tall one and spend the rest of her life with him . . . and I find it difficult to pay attention. She is vaguly arrogant, vain, and something of a brat. In all honesty, I believe she's Xeta's ideal femme, and Xeta is her ideal mech. She is graceful and quite young, but capable of handling battle; she parries an Autobot blow with her saber, and stabs him in the shoulder artfully. She handles it well, and requires none of my aid.

I watch the three cassettes intently, ready to offer help should need be. The trio are taking on a full-size Transformer, yet handle themselves wonderfully, making up for their size with teamwork. Buzzsaw unloads several volleys of photon charges into the large mech's chest, distracting him, while Ravage tears away at its circutry. I witness a laughable sight as the Autobot comically tries to pick off both small forms, not realizing that Rumble dwells several hundred feet in the air above him, preparing to drop - he does. In a hilarious fashion, the humanoid cassette activates his piledrivers, plowing them into the mech's face while Ravage and Buzzsaw continue their own respective offense. In mere seconds, the Autobot is vanquished. The trio land, Buzzsaw asking for a 'high five', a gesture Rumble returns - albeit reluctantly - while Ravage simply looks on and shakes his head. I laugh.

Blitzwing delivers a final flow to his own enemy - a savage backhand that tears the mech's battlemask from its face. He cradles his fist, looking at his fallen foe somewhat remorsefully.

"We are said to be a superior race," Blitzwing quietly muses, "yet we still cross swords as even the weakest of species do. What causes our superiority - our culture, or our ambition?"

I grimace, knowing that Blitzwing's observation is a correct one. A thought that has crossed my mind far too many times to count, yet I've pushed it away. I recall again my selfishness . . . that lust for attention that brought about this mess, and curse my own naivity.

I hear the sound of jet engines roaring, echoing through the night. Laser blasts illuminate the forest, and coupled with the engines, one might think their was a storm raging on around me - physically there is none, yet internally . . . a surge of guilt arises.

Starscream touches down in front of me, black scoring marks on his armor indicating he took at least a few hits from his own "dance partner."

"The ideal evening out, no?" he remarks casually, brushing off his upper arm. I place a hand on his shoulder, smirk, and turn again toward the stars.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"Spiral's sharpness shone through when she realized that your mistress couldn't have read your work for the simple reason that Prime purged all Decepticon and peace-embracing Autobot literature from the data libraries upon his rise to power," Starscream says. He reached the same conclusion as I.

"And she's too young to predate the war, so she couldn't simply have a fantastic memory," I add, the look on the seeker's face indicating he hadn't thought things out all the way through.

"That too," he replies hastily. I look over my shoulder, seeing the femme rising to her feet, clutching tight her wounded shoulder. She gazes at me with intense loathing, but clearly has no will left to fight with.

"Blitzwulf," she mutters to me, her optics flickering rapidly, "My name is Blitzwulf."

And she reverts to her lupine form, dashing away as best she can in her present state. I'm tempted to take chase, but Starscream places a hand on my shoulder in a warm fashion. As though sensing my thoughts, he says, "Don't worry about it. You just want inspiration - understandable, and not punishable. Let it be."

I nod hesitantly, knowing I cannot change his mind. Starscream looks to the stars, then to his waiitng troops; Xeta taps his foot impatiently, as always.

"You're free to return to base."

Xeta's dark green form stands rigid suddenly, his optics flaring crimson.

"Why not pursue and eradicate!?" he claims, overly bold in his stand. Starscream scowls - a rare occurance, given his usual demeanor.

"Go back to base, Yeoman," Starscream orders in a tone that implies some level of disgust. All but Xeta himself feature expressions of shock - Starscream calls troops only by rank when he's in either a bad mood, or feels no compulsion toward kindness. Rare . . . but existing.

Xeta's optics flare again, yet he converts to his helicopter form, his rotors thundering in my audios, and takes off toward the sea. All but Starscream and myself head back to base. I to continue to seek inspiration, while the seeker stays for reasons unknown to me. His face looks sullen, as though in pain, and he looks to me.

"Astrotrain . . . do you think we can win?" he nearly whispers. I raise an optic, not in interest, but in surprise.

"We have the spirit of independence on our side, Screamer," I encourage him. "Something that will last longer than the Empire. For as long as tyranny runs rampant, the spirit of freedom is everlasting. It is the one true constant in this universe."

He smiles grimly, trying to perk up.

"You're right, Twain. I suppose as long as some generation out there wins freedom, it's all worth it."

I nod once, and feel something within me stir. The words were meant to encourage the seeker at my side, yet I drew comfort from them myself. I look to the sky, and feel empowered as I see the sight before me. The clouds part, the radiant moon shining thourgh again. It's a manifestation of my own feelings - I was lost, now with hope. Spiral's words echo through my mind, Write what you know. And an idea is born.

The entire month is over today, and I'll be shipping back to Charr and the Peace Academy. Am I depressed? Not as such. I shall miss Starscream, Megatron, Spiral, and the rest, but I feel quite content with what I've written.

I walk towards the cargo bay, prepared to bid farewell to all my Earth-bound companions, when Spiral stops me. She has a small creature at her side.

"Astrotrain," she says, her voice a mixture of sadness and enthusiasm, "I want to give you this."

I look down again at the small beast, curious. I've seen humans with an interest in these animals, yet I fail to see the attraction as humans see it. The creature is golden in color, yet a streak of brown emphasizes its muzzle. Its ears perk up at seeing me, a high-pitched cry emitting from its throat. It wags its tail eagerly - a canine. That's what they're called.

"Cute, isn't he?" she notes aloud. "I found him wandering one of our former battlefields. . . . I think his owner. . . ."

She trails off, a look of remorse touching her optics. I show compassion.

"A sweet gesture, Spiral," I say, trying not too allow my inner pessimist show, "But. . . ."

She offers me a pleading look. As though the canine can uderstand our speech, it does the same. I sigh, admitting my own defeat.

"I suppose I can pressurize my own interior as well as the Academy. . . ."

She hugs me, and a grin spreads over my face.

"I know you'll love her!" Spiral squeals with delight. "And I can give you a few tons of food to put in your subspace pocket."

I nod appreciatively, taking the animal in my arms. It nuzzles against my chassis; though frigid in temperature, the creature finds some semblance of warmth in doing so.

"What're you gonna name it?" she asks delightedly. I've thought about it for all of three seconds, but my mind is already made up.

"'Freedom.'" I respond. "Her name is Freedom."

She smiles, hugs me, and hands me a rectangular object from subspace. I exhale in relief, glad she did not forget.

"What'd you think?" I ask, knowing that of all people, my star pupil will give me an honest answer.

"It's only an outline, but it's fantastic. I get the feeling that I'm actually there."

"I cannot finish it at this time, but rest assured I shall. I'm confident in our cause. Confident enough to know that this piece will not remain unfinished for long." I state with a certain passion. I stow the piece in subspace, and embrace my former student. She is perhaps the kindest and gentlest student I've ever had . . . I'll miss her once again.

We say goodbyes, and I step into the cargo bay, my new pet cradled in my arms. I stroke her skull with a single finger, and feel content. As an after thought, I put my gift on the floor, and retrieve my book from my subspace pocket. I look at the cover, bare of any title. I take my pen, I write artfully and with a surge of inspiration the chosen title, and I smile as I loop the final letter. I lean against the wall, cheerful in all my works . . . because I am, at long last, inspired.

Freedom seems to give her consent with a cheerful bark. I look to my partial story one more time before setting sail from this planetoid, admiring it. I have begun, and will one day finish. . . .

The Rise & Fall of the Autobot Empire.