The humidity controls must have been on the fritz again. As a general rule, especially given the nature of my research, it was more humid down here, but this was bordering on ridiculous.

I set the tweezers down, sighing. Until things were working properly - and Primus only knew when that could be - it was becoming obvious that I was not going to get any work done today.

More's the pity as I had just begun cataloguing different varieties of the plant genus Malus. The fruit-bearing tree flourished, or rather I should say, had flourished in the Pacific Northwest. Nothing thrived there anymore, merely survived.

The red and yellow fruit - Jonagold variety - sat in a pool of moisture on my work counter. I had already cut it in half and had been carefully removing the seeds contained within when I first had detected the fluctuations in the humidity. A comm to our bases' command post had returned the reassuring message that this was only a temporary event, but as time passed and the moisture began to cause even the portholes down here to fog over it had become quite clear this was far more than a temporary problem. It was not a serious problem, merely an inconvenience to mechanical beings quite capable of controlling their own internal temperatures, with inner workings well sealed against any possible damage a little condensation could do.

It just made it very difficult to conduct any finite work.

I was slightly larger than your average mech, already a daunting challenge when working with such minute specimens. The apple was smaller than the first joint portion of one of my fingers. And it took a great deal of patience to extract the minuscule seeds within. Water had been running in a steady trickle down my arm for over an hour now, soaking everything, making it impossible to hold the tweezers with enough precision to remove the seeds without mangling the rest of the apple.

I placed the apple back into the specimen bag, where it nestled against a Red Delicious, several Granny Smiths, along with several Braeburns. I carefully vacuum-sealed the bag and returned it to my 'in-box'. The Cassette-mech, Rumble, had helpfully labeled the filing cabinet where I stored unprocessed specimens with white block letters 'IN-BOX'. The rows and rows of cabinets that held my slides with DNA samples of various specimens, of leaves in vacuum-seals, plastic cups of seeds, were also neatly labeled by him. I was quite grateful to him. In between discovering and preserving these wonderful Earth creations, not to mention my military duties I was rarely able to keep up with such mundane things as labeling file cabinets.

Rising from my seat, droplets of moisture fall like soft rain onto the floor as the movement jars them loose. Perhaps a bit of break was what I needed. Between seeing to minor repair work on myself (I had been rather lack in seeing to daily maintenance) and the settling in of my new 'charges' I had not had a complete sleep cycle in over a week. Though far be it for me to complain; it had all been well worth it.

I had been part of a team that had struck out into the heart of the San Francisco Bay area. The devastation we had seen there had truly tugged at the fuel pump. The naval bases ringing the San Francisco Bay area had been some of the Autobot's first targets. They had leveled the Naval Securuty Group Base, effectively crippling any communications that would have gone out. The airfields at Alameda were their next target, the four veteran aircraft carriers moored there nothing more than half-submerged wrecks now. Treasure Island was virtually sunk, and the Navy's old West Coast base, Mare Island, was not exempt from the Autobot's march to conquest, The historic Presidio looked like it had been scooped from the very Earth, leaving only a charred crater behind. I had not ventured south but I was sure that Moffett Field had suffered the same fate. Yet they had not been content with just destroying the military facilities. The word civilian had no meaning to the Autobots.

When I had first flown into the bay it had seemed at least that that great monument to human ingenuity, the Golden Gate Bridge, had at least escaped without serious damage, but as the fog thinned and the bridge came more into visual focus I was saddened to see just how wrong my first impression had been. The great towers, with their unusual orange coloration still stood. Everything else was simply gone, fallen into the cold trench of ice-cold water below. Snapped cables banged and clattered out a ghostly dirge against the towers.

To the south small grey plumes of smoke still climbed skyward, snaking out from the immense piles of rubble. Nothing in the city had been spared. Coit Tower, the Transamerica Pyramid, all gone. I could only shake my head sadly, knowing that this human city would now only be remembered at its peak in fading photographs and in television and movies, human media, and also, dimly, in the memories of the humans who had once called this place home.

But the devastated city was not what I had come here for. I had come to salvage life from death and my course turned not south at the bridge but instead I had flown north. I flew over the winding Highway 101 and towards Muir Woods. It was only a matter of time before the Autobots turned their ever-ravenous appetites for energy and destruction to this region again. If we were not able to stop them I at least wanted to preserve some small part of this ecosystem for that day if, no, when, we succeeded in taking this planet back for its rightful caretakers.

The choking pollution had done its damage here. Ash had dusted the tops of the trees, a perverse mockery of the snow caps trees wore in winter further north. There was a haze in the air, toxic fumes of carbon dioxide and other more noxious substances. Undaunted, life still struggled on, rich green foliage popping up here and there. I carefully gathered soil and plants, placing them in the carriers I had specially designed for such a task.

It was a fairly straightforward specimen gathering expedition - until I saw them. They were exquisite. Five of them were gathered around the base of an immense but fallen redwood, as if still seeking the shelter and protection of their dead progenitor. All around them others of their elders had fallen, trees as old as time and bigger than the largest gestalt. Yet still they had died, slowly poisoned.

Yet even as they fell, at least one of them had successfully left a new generation behind to try to thrive in this new, more brutal world. The five saplings were healthy, their leaves a vibrant green. Clearly they were thriving, adapting quite well to the changes in their world.

I had stood there for a long while staring down at them. I already had numerous redwood samples and clearly these saplings were not in any immediate danger. How could I justify removing them from their home? The key word was immediate. Today they were fine, but how could I be sure that in a year, a month, a week even that the Autobots wouldn't come rolling back through and take these fragile young beings and unceremoniously dump their tiny bodies into one of their great furnaces. The death of these little trees could be used to make more energon.

I could not allow that.

I could not rest knowing they were out here, undefended.

So they had returned with me.

There had been great amusement from the other Decepticons as they watched me carefully unpack and carry my charges down to space Megatron had generously allowed me to set up a greenhouse in. I took their ribbing with good humor, for I never once doubted the value of my work.

It was a huge round warehouse of a room, or it had been before I begun. Plants and trees from all over the world had quickly filled the space. From ferns, one of the most ancient of Earth's plant lineages, to grand maples and oaks, flowers in all hues, garden-variety weeds and even the strange symbiotic lifeforms known as lichens, all found refuge here.

They were not the only ones.

In here I felt whole, I felt calm, at peace.

The little saplings were still doing extremely well, given the inherent stress in being uprooted and transplanted into a strange place. I had nestled them carefully in between a row of swordtail ferns. The redwoods stood tall and upright amongst the ferns, their plumage not yet as extravagant or vibrant as the ferns, but they knew someday that they could go grow so tall as to dwarf most Cybertronians, that their trunks would be so thick I could drive through a hollowed out one in my tank-mode.

"How are you? Is the light sufficient? The moisture?" I had no doubt the crew really would laugh if they heard me talking with the plants. C'mon Blitzwing, it's not like they can talk back or anything ! But in one of the books Rumble had helpfully transcribed onto our ship's hard drive talking to the plants was supposed to help them grow. And singing. Rumble had helpfully pointed that out, and had ever since been humming merrily to the plants whenever he could. And no one else was allowed without a special invitation (save Rumble, who tended this place in my absence). I felt it was more conducive to my plant's health not to have a lot of large, mechanized beings tramping in and out of their home.

Towards the rear of the greenhouse I had set up a small pond. Several months of looking out the portholes of our sunken ship and out into the ocean had made me realize that plants grew in and around the water and they too needed preserving. It had taken many months and lots of careful planning (the pumps and filters had not only been hard to find, but a challenge to keep running in the beginning), but now I looked on it with a fierce pride. I had even gotten so bold as to add some fish and even some little frogs.

I had to tread carefully as the frogs were not always content to stay confined to the pond. I often found them hopping merrily away in adjacent flowerbeds. They were very hard to catch as they were very small and very quick. But I was still afraid they might not be quick enough to escape the tread of one of my heavy feet.

I settled into one of the benches ringing the pond that I had had constructed for just this purpose. Stress seemed to melt away from me, and I could almost forget this whole ancient conflict between us and the Autobots. In here there was no Optimus Prime, no death. Only life and its constant renewal.

I knew I had to savor these brief moments. My duty and responsibilities back on Charr beckoned. One day maybe Charr, too, could be brought back to life, its surface a cradle for tender blooms. It was a dream I still held onto since first laying eyes on the planet, I dream I hoped to realize in my lifetime. I was old, older than I cared to admit and I often wondered how much longer my spark would stay bonded to this corporeal form.

One of the tiny frogs had begin a careful climb up my leg. I had to refocus my optics to properly see its small form. It could sit on the tip of my finger and still have leg-room. Its throat inflated and deflated rapidly, before it shoved off from my leg and returned to the pond. Tiny ripples circled outward from where it dived back into the water.

Time was short. In a two days Astrotrain would be making the return trip to Charr and I would have to leave all this behind again. I had an inkling of how Soundwave felt being apart from his creations. I had tended many of them since they were no more than seeds, tiny specks of potential life. The morning glories had had to be cut back often, so enthusiastic were they in their growth. The cherry trees had just produced their first flowering. How could anyone look on this and want to destroy it?

I knew Rumble would be diligent in looking after them, but I would still miss them all the same. I should really let the Cassette-mech in on the secret of talking to them. Maybe he could try different music. I bet they would enjoy some light jazz or classical.

Rising, I headed back to my lab to see if the humidity had been repaired yet. As I passed the redwood saplings, I noticed one was beginning to droop a bit. Carefully I examined it. A few tiny leaves had fallen off and its colour was pale. What if it died while I was away? I had no idea how long it would be before I could return to earth.

Pulling a pot from under one of the shelves, I scooped up some of the rich, dark earth I kept on hand, added some extra plant food and fertilizer and carefully extracted the wilting tree. It looked so forlorn, its roots nothing more than straggly ''hairs' that ticked the sensor arrays in my hand. I had wanted to start a greenhouse on Charr, and now, maybe this was the sign I needed to quit delaying.

If I could nurse this fragile life back into health and get him to grow big and strong, maybe, I could plant it in the main hall of the Academy. Sort of an inspiration to everyone. If it can grow from a wispy green feather-duster into a mighty tree, perhaps our students will understand why we have continued to fight, why we will fight until there are no more of us left.

I walk away, whistling, excited about my newest project.

... I wonder if Optimus Prime had plants, would that change anything?