Ep 2 -- Speed Trap (Closed)

[Deleted]

Thundercloud glanced over to the side, eyeing Dart for a moment just to make sure she was staying put like a good little captive. He didn't want to have to get the Prime involved in this and have him send a team over - or Primus forbid bridge in himself - only to find the tricky little Con had gotten the hell out of dodge while he was distracted.

Planting a hand on his hip, Thundercloud turned his back to the femme, just to give himself the illusion of privacy. It was an entirely pointless gesture, since unless he actually walked out of earshot she'd still be able to hear every word he said, but still. It made him feel better, it made him feel less like he was talking about her behind her back right to her face.

...Wow, that made a lot more sense in his head. Talking about her behind her back, to her face. Primus, what even was that supposed to mean? Thundercloud shook his head, dismissing the thought before he could tangle himself up in a pointless internal debate about semantics.

::Yeah, it's crazy right? That she ain't already dead, I mean:: He replied, seemingly undeterred by the Prime's obvious confusion. ::You'd think she'd be six feet under by now, what with me and Patches bein' the ones to find her and all, but what'd'ya know::

He shrugged, despite knowing full well that the gesture couldn't be seen over the comms, then continued.

::Anyway, we still don't got any idea what to do with her. We tried the killin' thing - well, Patches did, 'cause apparently he's the one wearin' the pants in this relationship today, but that plan went all to hell so now we're just kinda standin' around like a couple of jerkoffs wonderin' if there's like, a protocol for this kinda thing::

He let out a dry snort, his field crackling with mild amusement as a sudden thought occurred to him.

::Shit, Boss, do we even got a brig to put her in? 'Cause if not I prob'ly look like a real dumbass right now::

[Carbine]

The immediate volatile emotions that had broke Carbine down, were slowly ebbing away, slipping back into the recesses of his processor where they lay dormant. But... while the relentless nagging and assaults of guilt and remorse no longer clawed and slammed against his psyche, the weakened barriers that normally held them at bay to allow him to be who he had become, were still battered and crumbling. It is because of this Carbine remained hunkered low and quiet, not trying to inspire or unintentionally will the more noble emotions to surface once more.

Stillness; the only motions he made were a deep vent that occasionally pushed heated air out of his systems into the warm rocks around him. The light pets over Bolo's helm had since halted, his open palm now resting upon the animal about mid way down his neck where the twisting cables and pipes that made his throat wove together and started to feed towards his shoulder assembly.

Bolo held still himself. Patient. Calm. He knew when he was needed, but he was still an animal with his own curiosity and concern to know what was going on. It is because of this, his helm turned a bit to try to watch Dart and Thunder, the ear nearest them flicking up some in an attempt to listen in to a conversation his ears couldn't hear. All he could hear was the soft noises of the barren landscape around them, and the whirring engine of the mech nearest him as it slowly keyed down to a more reasonable speed.

Carbine would have been intent to let this continue as long as needed, he wanted to trust Thunder to fix this situation well, and not dig them into any more trouble. He wanted to believe this... he hoped... he truly honestly did, but what he heard across the comm lines broke down this hope, and made him pull his helm up from its slumped posture to look across the way at the large jet.

Wh-why...

Why did he say that...

As if this day wasn't bad enough, Thunder ratted him out to Optimus, the concrete representation of mercy and good and most definitely NOT the murdering type. Thunder snitched on him for trying to do something the complete OPPOSITE of what it meant to be an Autobot, by trying to murder someone that couldn't fight back, and wasn't an immediate threat. His friend, his partner, his buddy for so many years, not only threw him to the wolves, he effectively doomed him since he had already screwed up when they first arrived to this planet, and the fiasco with Bumblebee had happened... and Sparklight...

A soft sound escaped Carbine's throat, a noise... the start of words that he wanted to yell out. Anger, resentment, disbelief, it shuddered for the briefest of flickers, not even forming a word, before wide fearful optics slowly dimmed, and he gave up. A sharp clunk sounded as Carbine's shoulders dropped, and the slender slats of his rotors slid down against grit and gravel below while they lowered. He just... gave up again, having no more fight left in him to even try to preemptively defend himself, or correct Thunder. He only had the energy to send the jet the one distressed look, before he sagged down.

[Optimus Prime]

No reply. No comm back. The calm silence that had settled between them all suddenly tore apart a moment later, a Ground Bridge forming not far away with a ripping sound that was unmistakable as anything else. It cut through the quiet like a blade, drowning out faint rustles of shrubbery and the crackle of stone beneath their frames at every minute shift. A pause, a brief fraction of time in which the reality of what was happening would be permitted to settle, before the teal and blue vortex peeled back to permit Optimus Prime to emerge.

When around the Omega Outpost, it was easy to sometimes overlook facts and see the Prime as another Cybertronian that was always at work as a background element. Letting inhabitants do as they saw fit as long as they performed their tasks, and not intervening within social commentary or situations. A shadow. Standing as a resolute figure at control panels, or locked back within his quarters to finish tasks on that station where others would not interrupt. He didn't make a presence for himself there unless something went wrong, or needed his direct attention to address and resolve.

This was different.

There was no mistaking him as anything else at this moment but the Prime and the chosen bearer of the Matrix, as the full power and force of just who he was, and what he represented in this war flooded across the immediate area like a tidal wave. His field, his very aura radiated out with power and an uneasy neutral hum that did not betray any emotions, it almost a negating presence that drowned out whatever the others would put out. He emerged from the Ground Bridge with purpose, and stepped into the immediate area.

Slow strikes, a calm pace, each footfall was sure and strong, not wavering or faltering once on the uneasy shale and shifting rocks that plagued the treacherous slope of a rock formation they were stationed upon. Red and blue, clashed with streaks of chrome and grey, the sun pelted down to highlight etches and worn edges that screamed of countless years of combat and war, creating a clash of the pristine icon the Prime had become, with the fighter that he was known to be. It was only upon stepping over the larger boulders and obstacles to the side of the trio, that he was permitted to see the full situation before him.

The first thing he noticed was Thunder, who stood out from the three more than the other two who were lower to the ground and wore dimmer colors. Standing, dusty blue armor, an expression of one that got caught doing something they were not meant to. Optimus could only stare down upon the jet of a mech for a moment from his higher vantage point, cyan optics drilling down into him to look past surface details and almost seem to pierce into his very being.

The news, the near blasphemous words Thunder had said... He was just an ignorant fool that reported what happened, without thinking to filter it at all regarding who he was speaking to. Optimus was not stupid. He knew his Autobots killed others in the name of this war. He did not pretend it was all a noble fight and they spared everyone that was not an immediate threat to their lives, but the difference was that they tended to have the decency, the common foresight to not tell it to his face. They had enough shame to know it was not a kill worth bragging over, or enough dishonor to not want to speak about the horrors they may have or nearly committed.

Some could see this as playing a lie of a role. Acting more clean and honorable than they actually were, but it helped to keep such murders from becoming such commonplace and accepted in everyday conversation. It kept the weight and burden of it from becoming old hat. The day they started talking about how they had to pick off a Con who was a real danger to them because they got a lucky break, as if it was something to brag about, was the day that his team would begin to collapse and the line between Autobot and Decepticon blurred further. It was already such a grey line at times, far more grey than would ever be readily admitted.

Alas... Thundercloud was just a messenger, a delivery system. His ignorance and idiocy... he was new, didn't catch on to the subtle flow of the team they had established here and reported bluntly with the layer of crass that was his nature. The true affront here was Carbine, who evidently tried to finish off the aforementioned Con.

After staring down Thunder for a moment, his gaze broke away and settled upon the Decepticon in question. He did not readily recognize her. Dark armor with accents of pale grey, lithe frame not burdened by war armor or weaponry. She was hardly a threat by visual appearances alone, but only a fool would assume she was truly defenseless and no danger. Despite this, she was passive, laying low, body language screaming of not wanting to be seen or addressed directly. He could see internal fluids streaked upon her forearm, an injury obtained that was not readily visible. Most of all though, he could see she was not a key player in the war, and not one that would have warranted such a reaction of exploiting the moment.

This wasn’t Starscream, this wasn’t their medic, this wasn’t a known spy or someone with high status or power, if her scuffs and worn down appearance had anything to say about it. She was low ranking, or one that did not care about the more refined edge of appearances that other Decepticons seemed to carry to boast. She could hold information, but it wouldn't likely be anything worth prying for or trying to tear out. It wouldn't be anything to change the tide in this war. She was this, or a very good actor, playing a role to try to get free. But paranoia to that level, seldom got anyone anywhere.

It was then he looked down upon Carbine.

Cowering scared, holding onto his Cassette, Optimus wondered what situation brought the loud mouthed antagonistic individual down to this level. If prior confrontations said anything, he doubted that the fear of his arrival would put him to the ground unless shame truly did weigh a heavy toll on his mind. If Thunder's words were correct, than he had indeed attempted to kill this trapped con, and likely knew the level of WRONG this represented.

There was likely more to this situation that was immediately evident, but it didn't fully matter. The point remained that a senseless murder of a lower ranked con had almost happened, and it had to be addressed.

Optimus' statue like stillness ended then, his right arm raising up and motioning back with an extended finger to point at the Ground Bridge that had remained open. The point was brisk, precise, showing as much of a command as it was a gesture in its direction.

"Carbine."

[Dart]

Silence drifted over the rocky ground along with the last wisps of dust, drifting and settling gently across the scorching rocks. It coated the sharp angles of wings and shoulders in a red gritty shimmer. Even on Thunder's injured arm, the dust had stuck to the dripping energon and was drying into what would be a sticky, clay-like mess.

Dart didn't dare look up at Thunder. Nor did she look behind her to where Carbine's low venting echoed like a hot, miserable dog staked out on a tangled chain.

Chin tucked nearly into her throat guard, she was staring at the ground between her fingers. Furrows in the dirt, where she'd dug her hands into the earth to brace herself. The courier's spoiler chittered softly and then clamped back down across her shoulders, tucked tight.

The courier knew a few things. Well, not too much about higher math, but darn, she could do things like order a latte at Starbucks and sound like she knew what she was talking about right next to the chattering women in their yoga pants and North Face jackets. Well, she always said please and thank you, unlike some of them. Maybe she had a bit better grasp of human social graces than she thought.

She also knew better than most about the sound of someone understanding they'd been thrown to the wolves.

Strangely perhaps, even after all of what had happened, Dart still felt a twinge of immediate empathy for the officer. That feeling was a horrible feeling, even if you knew what you'd done was wrong. That clank of shoulders dropping, the gasp of intakes when you knew you were about to be brought to terms. Dart knew that situation, where they'd drag you off by yourself, and that you were going to have to stand in front of your commander and explain word for word what you'd done, why you'd done it.

Afterwards, you hoped that you survived the consequences, or if this was the moment where your worth to the ones in charge proved to be less than the amount of your mistake, and--

The distinctive sound of the Ground Bridge vortexing into life made her jerk back and scrabble. It snarled at the hot, still air, the blue tones fighting against that of the sky above them. Optics wide under the brim of her helm, Dart jerked again like an animal in a rope; rearing back, nose upwards, hands lifting off the rock and stone as she had a flash of utter panic. A sharp stab of pain flicked up her arm; the surge of motion was causing the broken blade within to grind back and forth against the grooves.

A Ground Bridge meant nothing good. In Dart's limited experiences with them, it meant Vehicons. It meant troop movement. It meant--

Dart's jaw dropped open. The courier froze in mid-struggle.

Oh my--

As the mech strode quietly forward the femme's spoiler lifted, the tips flicking up and straight over her shoulders. She framed the Prime between them, her nose angling into the air to catch his scent. In her shock, Dart found herself thinking it had to be someone else. It couldn't be who she thought it was, she had to be making a mistake, right? She'd worked under the Decepticons for many years, and to be honest, she had never seen him. Maybe once at a distance a long, long time ago, but that had been a nasty firefight and really, all of her thoughts had been focused on running like heck before she got shot.

The leader of the Autobots just didn't step out of a Ground Bridge over something like this situation. It wasn't like it was some one of great importance pinned under this rock. Then again, maybe that was something to be thankful for; she had no doubt that if she had been Starscream, they might have rolled the rock right over the top of her and high-fived each other on the way out.

Yet he continued to walk forward, and as he strode across the uneven, rocky ground with ease, Dart realized it could simply not be anyone else. She couldn't help the shiver that ran though her and rattled her frame.

Massive shoulders, level and squared off against the bright sun. His colors; even the newest of Decepticons could not mistake that red and blue, the shiny gleams of chrome. Tall, taller than nearly all the other mechs she'd ever seen- and with that rolling, quiet stride of someone who simply held a whole lot of the world on his shoulders, carried it with him wherever he went, and did not flinch or try and shake off those burdens.

So much power in even his strides, yet not like Megatron's at all. Megatron's motions were sleek, powerful, predatory. The Decepticon leader always felt as if he had the ability to explode into a strike at any moment. This mech just gave off the feeling that he was a soldier - no, Dart, the Prime. The Prime. That- this was Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots.

The mech that Decepticons feared. The mech that could single-handedly stand toe to toe with Lord Megatron himself and defeat him in combat. His name was spoken often; sometimes with a snapping sneer, othertimes with the hushed tones of someone not wanting to say it for fear it would invoke his presence.

Yet-- this was the mech that was fighting a war with limited soldiers, limited resources, limited everything, defending the people of Earth. A planet that he could have just as easily turned his back on, considered it none of his business. Seen the Earth as just one backwater place with the only redeeming quality the energon he mined from it. There was no reason for them to put themselves in danger day in and day out to protect a species that was so far removed from them. That had no space travel, no understanding (well, minus those in tinfoil helmets and the X-Files) that there was actually alien life out there. They were just a species that the universe probably wouldn't have noticed had they been wiped out and destroyed by the Decepticons.

Blue optics were wide under the brim of her helm. The courier sat utterly still as he approached; even the rasping, gulping pull of her intakes had stopped. She was sitting in the dirt, leg extended behind her. The only thing that moved on her was a slight tremble of the tips of her spoiler. When his gaze drifted to her, she blinked once, unable to hide her expression of honest, dumbstruck awe.

"Oh..." the courier breathed. "Oh."

Abruptly she realized she'd said something, oh no, she'd made a noise - and immediately she ducked her chin, twisting it ever so slightly to expose a little strip of her pale grey throat. The courier dropped her hands back down and stared at the dirt underneath her, her spoiler falling back and slinking low across her shoulders. Oh geeze, Dart, this is absolutely the wrong moment to even say anything. Inside voice, stay inside. Please.

When the Prime's finger raised, she saw the shadow of his hand slide across the hot, dry stone and flinched automatically.

It took her a long second to realize that he was addressing the officer by name and gesturing to the whirling spin of light behind him.

[Deleted]

Thundercloud was many things: a bruiser, a back-talker, a smart-mouthed turbo-revving young punk – but at least he was honest. Sure, he was as prone to telling little white lies as anyone else, he knew when to keep his mouth shut and when to smudge the truth a little in order to smooth things over. But, for better or worse, he never lied about the things that mattered. Sure, he probably could've omitted the part about Patches trying to off the Con and failing miserably, but it would have come out eventually. Whether because the Con herself said so, or because Optimus was smart enough to put together the pieces and figure out why Carbine was having a little glitch fit in the dirt.

Thundercloud figured it was better if he heard it from one of them first. That's just how these sort of things went – it would be better for you in the long run if you just took a plea bargain.

He was sure Patches didn't see things that way. In fact, he was already convinced the ex-cop was going to be pissed at him for a good while, but that was just because he never looked at the big picture. He saw consequences as things to avoid, things to duck and dodge and jump over. They weren't real until he was caught up in the middle of them. Knowing this, Thundercloud figured that making sure there was some padding at the bottom of that particular pitfall, for when Patches inevitably fell into it, was the least he could do.

There were, of course, downsides to this particular habit of his. The most prominent being that, well, he essentially called down the wrath of God onto their heads sooner rather than later, and neither of them were exactly prepared to face the Prime when he was in a foul mood. Especially since neither of them had actually expected the Prime to personally bridge in and drag them back home by the scruff.

Thundercloud was so surprised by this jarring turn of events that he actually took a step backwards as Optimus walked through the bridge, his instincts telling him -before he could see the look on the other mech's face or feel the heat in his field- that it would be within his best interests to put some distance between himself and the Prime.

He stood there silent, dumbfounded, as the other mech leveled him with a hard stare that didn't seem welcome on his usually stoic face. Thundercloud had seen the other mech emote before, sure, but never to this degree, and certainly not towards any one person in particular. It wasn't until the Prime's stare moved to Carbine that Thundercloud managed to gather his wits, his surprise giving way to something that bordered on alarm as he took a step towards Optimus, one hand outstretched.

“Hey, ah. You're gonna wanna give him a minute, Boss. He's not doin' so hot.” He said carefully, as if he were treading on fragile ground. “I'll just, uh. Y'know, lemme--”

He didn't bother to finish the sentence. Instead, he simply allowed his actions to speak for him as he made his way over to Carbine, dropping down to one knee as he curled an arm behind the smaller mech's back and gave him a pat between the shoulders.

“You heard the big guy, Patches. Up 'n at 'em.”

[Carbine]

'Patches' most definitely did not agree with the plea bargain. That was an admittance of fault, and a guarantee that you were going to get in trouble. If he backed down on his lies, on his stories... if he relented and admitted what he had done every time he was nearly caught red handed, then he would have been thrown into Garrus hundreds of years before even crossing paths with Thunder that bloody day. You had to stick to your plans, and follow through to the end, play ignorance or confusion, get angry at those that didn’t warrant it, all to mask over the truth and redirect someone's attention in the direction YOU wanted it to go. That was how you survived, that was how you beat the system...

Perhaps his time in Garrus truly stripped him of his ability...

Or Thunder truly was a weight chaining him down to what was 'right'.

A plea bargain... throwing the facts to superiors... Thunder was an obedient mongrel that would bark when his leader told him to with less thought than Bolo would. No... that was harsh and untrue, he wasn't that idiotic, and was rebellious to slight commanding officers for daring to try to overpower and order. Something had changed upon coming to earth though, and the only thing Carbine could think of, was the fact that Optimus was here.

The Prime, this icon of justice and representation of everything 'good'. His presence was tainting Thunder like some kind of necrotic venom, eating away, chewing... It had to be it. It HAD to be that, and it just caused the inky blackness within Carbine to churn in venomous frustration. But while distress and anger welled within, he remained passive.

The Prime actually came out here, and now was no time to draw attention to himself. No time to make eye contact, or try to speak. He knew when he was cornered, and he also knew when to play up his weaknesses to work off of sympathy and individuals good nature. He had to lay low, he had to, and it wasn't exactly a hard task when he felt so beaten down that he wanted to curl up in his room and push into recharge.

Carbine's helm tucked down, his lower face pulled behind the flaring of his chest armor. Despite the riot armor not being fully extended, the flared pieces stuck up just enough to act as a shield in this crumpled posture, hiding part of what represented his face, while tiny slivers of yellow were hardly visible in the inky visor. But while his face was partly masked, he could still see the cutting shadow of the Prime's arm holding out, and could glance up just enough to see his hand pointing back to where the ground bridge was, with his name tacked on for good measure.

A stand, a push, he was going to try to get himself moving out of pure necessity and determination, but Thunder stepped forward and in Carbine's angered and defeated miasma of twisting emotions, it was almost... insulting...

Logically he knew the jet was trying to help, since a very real issue did clobber him in the processor as hard as a mace, but when someone is angry at someone else, anything that other person does can be interoperated bad. Looking, hunting, grasping for something to be upset at. It wasn't a hard search, as the other Cybertronian was seeming to coddle him in his broken state, and then-

The second Thunder's hand patted him on the back, Carbine lashed out suddenly, a violent reaction not unlike a horse that had decided enough was enough and bucked a hoof back to nail a careless worker. His elbow nearest Thunder had lurched out sharply, and he aimed the ridged fin of metal jutting out into the side of the Jet's knee. The strike was hard, aggressive, clearly intending to cause pain, even if he missed and would impact the shin where he could cause no damage.

"Do̧̨ņ͝'t̡͢͠ ̵̡t͜o̧uc̸h̡͝ ͡m̵̵̡e!͏̧"

Snarled words, laced in static and pain and hurt. Carbine reeled back after this attempted strike, playing passive again with feigned hurt and confusion he put on for Optimus. Making it look like he had no control over what he had just done, fear... sadness... he didn't mean to hurt him! He didn’t mean to lash out! He was just terrified! And obviously unwell! Except he totally did.

Grabbing onto Bolo's shoulders and using it as a push off to stand up onto his feet shakily, Carbine hefted up with a strained growl of internals that would rather remain at rest. He wasn't fully recovered, slender legs trembling some, but he was fueled by a need to actually get OUT to a point it didn't matter.


"I̸̯̦̱̳̝̼̥'̴̲͚͖͉̲͙̥m̷̡̪̳͢ ̧̯͈̲̗̞̬̠͇̀s̛͔̘̟̺̘̼̯͕o̷̸̡̯̞̟r̶̷̳̬̠͎̞̟̤̙̟ṛ̠̰̫̗̯͇͍͡ỳ̶͚̹͖̠̣̙̖...z͉͚̖̩̃̔͠͠z̸̗͎̲͚̙̯̥͆̽ͩ͋ͭͯ̀͟ I̿͗̈́ͣͬ'̸̇͆̂ͬ̎̚͜͠mͯ͑ͥ̏̕ f-f-iņ̧̛e... e͡ve̴r͏̸y̵ ̨̛t̡͢h̴̸̡-̵̢ţ͜h̨͜͡-̢k̥͇͔̤̘̠̆ͯ͋͗͗͂̽̀z̬̮̪̹̈ͯz̦̥̄̾͛͋́͞t̄̎̑̄͐͗̆͟͏͇-́͞͞fine... ju͢͢s̷͢-͜͞t̵̡-̷̵k̀͠z̛t̶a͠͡v͞͏-̨e̴̕ ȃ͇̌̌ͧ͝ͅl̤̙̺̘̼̃̄ͪ̀̚̚o̱͇̰̳̰͎̒̾̋͂ͣ̊ͫͤn̶̛̦̗̜ͣ͢ͅȇ̴̡̱͖̜̥̓̊͌̌ͧ̐͒͠ͅ..."


Garbled words, parts dropped out entirely, the ex-cop striding forward a few shaky steps as his voice warbled and jittered like a bad radio. He didn't once look directly at Optimus, reaching down to shakily retrieve the broken chunk of metal from before while Bolo protectively strode at his side, glancing back at Thunder with ears pinned flush back. After this was gotten, he would turn and began his true retreat, attempting to go through the portal.

[Optimus Prime]

Optimus' extended arm did not move or waver, the limb held out like a statue to point at the Ground Bridge intently. There was no arguing the wordless order, and no means to dance and back out of it. He wanted Carbine to go through to the base, and he didn't want any stalling or explanations or excuses in front of the other faction. They could and WOULD speak about what transpired this day, within the confines of the Omega Outpost.

So when Thunder got in the way...

If Optimus were anything like Megatron, he would have cast aside any semblance of concern for what troubles may have wrought them all, and barked out his order in a far more vocal means, with a few careless screams and threats thrown in for good measure. Luckily, he was nothing like the silver and purple mech, and had the insight and patience to understand when things wern't as black and white as initially conveyed. That did not mean he was too appreciative of what happened next however, and it didn't mean he lowered his arm. No. He was not standing down on his order, and expectantly watched Thunder approach the other mech.

Concern. Worry. Thunder truly did care about the black mech that lay crumpled down upon the ground. He seemed to want to assist him, and do what he could. This was good, this meant there was something within him that could be worked with, and improved upon, but... no level of good intention appeared to be enough, for Carbine lashed out violently at the most minor of contact.

Fear, a cry of not wanting to be touched, it was hard to read the tone in someone's voice, when their actual words jittered and bounced with fluctuations that broke up any rhyme or rhythm. Fluctuations when someone is lying or acting, lies or truth heard in tone, it was impossible, and drowned the word's down to their surface levels. He couldn't in right judgment call Carbine out upon his actions, and had consider the fact that something was legitimately wrong, which could be impacting him before the confrontation even happened, tainting how bad the situation may actually be. What happened may not have even been in Carbine's control, which was another concern to bring up later.

But still he pointed, waiting, expectant.

Optimus watched when the ex-cop stood, and followed his actions up until the point he finally begain into retreat into the ground bridge. He wanted to hunt for any additional clues along the way, to piece together how he would approach the situation upon returning to the base. He had to be fair, but that didn't mean he had to be happy, displeasure at this days outcome evident. Alas, his limb finally lowered once Carbine was on track, and his attention broke away to look back at Thunder, not giving the Decepticon a second glance at this time.

"It is for the best you follow, Thundercloud."

[Dart]

Panic gurgled into the courier's throat as the shadow of that massive hand slid across the red rock. Even though she knew; no, it isn't on me, he's not even looking at me, he's pointing at Carbine, not me, it didn't matter. It was a visceral thing, the way she had felt on standing before Megatron the first time. Which was a terrible comparison perhaps; no, they were nothing alike in terms of behavior, voice, temperament, even scent or sound. Megatron reeked to her, and even right here and now she could still be afraid of that too; that terrible, slick reek of something dark and corrosive coursing through his body with every pass of his main pump.

To Dart, the leader of the Decepticons smelled as if he was one step away from madness. Somehow though, he seemed to have had the power within his massive frame to keep it in check. He was bending that substance to his whims, to make it serve him instead of falling into darkness.

That's what she felt, lying in the dirt with the Prime framed against the blue bowl of the sky and the iron-ruddy mounds of the stones. Oh not that he would have ever used Dark Energon; no, to her the Autobot leader's scent was clear and bright, clean. It reminded her somehow of expensive cologne; or the sweet cherry-touched whiff of the pipe of a scholar in a grand library. She couldn't describe it any other way.

It was simply that he held an undertone of pure, sheer power that she had never smelled on anyone else.

The Prime walked the spaces like Megatron. They were so far above the mortal rank and file, they were like the stories the humans told; old fables of Demigods come to Earth.

A low, shivering whine breathed out of her scruffy frame as if every servo and system had locked up and there ground beneath her as the three mechs spoke. Her grey fingers were dug into the earth as if to brace herself from pitching down flat on her belly again; her chin was tucked nearly into her throat guard. The only thing at first that betrayed that she was listening to them was a tiny twitch and flick of the spoiler across her shoulders, and as Thundercloud got up, she heard the concern in his response. She barely tilted her chin, but was able to watch him silently out of the corner of one slanted optic as he walked across the distance to his friend...

His body language was quiet; he picked his way across the stones. There was none of his bravado, none of his laughing confidence that he had while dealing with the dog. Everything about his motions; the tip of a wing, the shift of a shoulder - he was speaking without words now and it said to Dart that he just was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do to obey and then to also go and help Carbine.

Thundercloud patted his back, encouraged him to stand and obey the orders the Prime had laid down for him...

Dart was trying not to look but she couldn't help it, everything about her was strung as high as a kite. Motion was motion and all of it threatened to overwhelm her; wary and frightened, she was so tense she had no choice but to focus on them, then back to the Prime's silent stance, then back to the mechs again. As keyed up as she was, she caught something; the way Carbine flattened his head ever so slightly at the touch. At first, she thought it was fear, there was a split second where she could see him tense even more as he heaved himself to his feet.

For someone so keyed into the silent language of motion, even Dart didn't see that vicious elbow to the mech's leg coming. The sound of metal slamming into metal echoed sharply over the silence of the landscape. Shocked, she had lifted her head and stared right at them for a second with her mouth open; unsure what was going to happen as Carbine spat out his angry directive.

Don't touch him, but the words were so thready and hissed through static they were barely discerned as speech as he staggered forward, ducking out from his friend's hand.

Immediately, Dart flattened down again; she'd lived too many years among Pyrotech's crew. When someone hit someone, it often went into a full-throated brawl, complete with energy weapons and nasty blows.

Yet all the police officer did was turn to leave now, looking as if he was utterly defeated and exhausted. His shoulders had slumped, he had to use the dog to get fully to his feet. Each step he took accentuated the rattle of his frame, yet- she saw him bend to pick up-

Her knife.

That in itself was understandable, on some level. Don't leave something where she might get hold of it, don't let it fall back into her hands. A cop snatching up a hoodlum's gun, no thanks, get this off the street so that no one else gets hurt. Yet something else drew her attention as he walked- the dog. The dog had moved to protect him, it had stepped just off his left shoulder in perfect heel position, nose leading the way, offering support if needed.

However the ears were pinned back. The dog wasn't scared, it was peeved. It was mirroring the mech's emotions, like it had done off and on throughout the encounter. While Dart was mulling that over, the Prime's words settled over the scene.

"It is for the best you follow, Thundercloud."

Statement, not question. Nothing more after, either.

Wait, what? Something doesn't sound right about that, like - wait, is he not following them, why would you say that, not a 'let's go' or 'We are leaving now, both of you...' Okay, okay, don't panic, don't panic -  I mean it's got to be some Autobot thing, just how they talk, he doesn't want to discuss it in front of me, I wouldn't either, it's not good protocol, right? Right. It's just protocol, I think, I think... 

Another tiny whine escaped her before she could get it under control. Dart felt that churning return to her internals. Shivering despite the fact that she was on that dangerous verge of overheating now, the courier stared down at the dirt once again and braced herself on her hip, her leg stretched behind her.

Everything she was wanted to run like hell, but since that wasn't possible.... well, all she wished for was a way to slink down this stupid hole her ankle was pinned in and pull it after her. Problem solved, on so many levels. 

[Deleted]

Thundercloud wasn't the sort of person who had a strictly defined code of conduct. He had his do's and dont's, his hard lines that couldn't be crossed, and a few self-imposed standards of decency that, admittedly, weren't very difficult to meet. Essentially, he didn't always try his best to be a good person, but he at least made a consistent effort to not be a bad one.

Unfortunately, sometimes being a decent person meant being a not-so-great friend. This whole mess, all this aggro Patches was throwing his way, it was all because he hadn't just turned a blind eye and let that femme get merc'd. If he had just done the job himself after Patches had a fit, they never would've had to bring the Big Guy into this, and then neither of them would be in hot water. More important than all that, though, was that Carbine wouldn't be so goddamn mad at him.

There were a lot of things Thundercloud could tolerate. He had spent his entire life taking every godawful thing fate decided to throw at him in stride, and so there wasn't much that he couldn't shrug off with his typical, devil-may-care indifference.

Being shut down and shut out by one of the few people he actually gave a damn about in this big, empty universe was not one of those things.

The hit Thundercloud had half expected, the harsh, growled words were par for the course. Carbine had the bad habit of lashing out when he was worked up, and the mech could be a real nasty son of a bitch when the mood suited him, so really Thundercloud wasn't all too shocked to find his concern being met with scorn.

What did shock him was the vehemence behind the gesture, the raw anger crackling through Carbine's field like a shorted wire. The mech was quick to apologize, to feign regret and act as if it was just an automatic response rather than an intentional attempt to cause harm, but Thundercloud knew better than to buy into that act. He knew Carbine better than he knew himself most days, and so he wasn't so easily fooled by the (admittedly rather convincing) show of remorse.

Rather than respond to the blow in kind, Thundercloud instead held both his tongue and his hand. If Patches wanted to throw a fit, he'd let him. If he needed space, time to cool off, he'd give it to him. What he wouldn't do is follow after him like a wounded dog and let him treat him like his own personal punching bag.

Pushing himself to his feet, Thundercloud let out a low, haggard sigh before his attention was called back to Optimus. He looked from the Prime, to the femme this whole mess started over, then back again. Part of him wanted to ask what was going to be done with her, but at that point, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to know anymore. He'd let the Prime sort it out, he was done.

"...Yeah. Yeah, sure thing Boss."

There was no witty remark, no sly look accompanied by a completely inappropriate innuendo. For once Thundercloud was somber, and he left the Prime's presence without the slightest bit of fanfare.

[Optimus Prime]

The moment the Ground Bridge closed, Optimus' attention finally shifted.

It had been quiet with the soft whirling hum of the portal being open, its low toned rumble and the light crackle of energy licking at its edges being the only noises, but the instant that it closed with a louder collapse? It was deafeningly silent. A light shuffle of wind pushing brittle shrubbery nearby, a tiny scuffle of small bits of shale and pebbles shifting from the day's events, it all seemed so very loud now. It could be a quiet before a storm perhaps, or it truly was the end of the chaos now that the duo had departed and made their way back to the Omega Outpost. Whatever the case, the means to leave was now temporarily gone, and it was official that Optimus was here to stay.

The large frame of the last Prime turned gradually to peer over at Dart, his attention and focus aligned to her, and her alone now that he didn’t have the other two to contend with. Because of this, he fully shifted his weight, and started to move towards the femme, though... not in any particular rush to cross the rest of the distance that separated them since he had to consider his options. The first larger step he took off of the cresting rock to the lower level, created a thrum of a vibration through the stone, his immense weight coming down solidly. Optimus was not a small mech by any means, and had some notable heft behind him, but despite the way he could loom over so many and stand as an icon of power, he strode with care and did not lumber or drop his peds with rough clunks or careless actions once on level footing.

It was during his calm approach, he took some time to actually contemplate the situation, and how he should deal with the Decepticon.

Logically, looking from the view of a combatant trying to keep their faction afloat and alive, keep them SAFE from the Decepticons, he should offline her. She was one of the enemy, taking on the badge and walking at their sides for who knows how many years. While she did not appear like a warrior, and was too scuffed and ragged to be one of the science divisions, she had to serve some kind of role to earn her share of Energon all these many years. But was the role valuable enough to warrant such blind murder?

No... of course it wasn’t...

Anyone that would think he could turn heel and kill her after chastising the other two so soundlessly moments prior, did not know Optimus well at all. He has killed, that wasn't the issue really, but those always came with specific conditions that had to be met. The foe was attacking him and threatening his life, or the lives of his team being the main qualifier. He has torn apart Vehicons and Eradicons during battle, and his fair share of full formed Cybertronian that he did not wish to dwell on. He's personally offlined countless individuals, and holds no pride or glory over this fact nor the fear that he now instills upon the other faction's cannon fodder. This individual was no threat, and even if she had some kind of weapon and was free... the sad fact was... he could still likely consider her a non-issue.

He could ask her questions. Find out what happened, but he didn't want to interrogate. No matter how much intention he may have to free her, to get her out from her confines, it would all be void if the trapped individual thought he was using promises of escape as a means to bribe or force information. She was terrified, and that made everything more delicate.

The moment in which the Prime stared down intently once he reached before her, was only a brief flicker in time, but the way his gaze pierced down in contemplation could make it stretch on for a tiny eternity. Thankfully, he cut this short before it would lay excess strain and panic on the femme, his stance seeming to relax as a gradual exhale slipped out from his vents. The harshness in his optics, the ridged posture of border aggression from the frustration he had with his soldiers, it was pulling back, growing subdued once again.

He wasn't going to kill her... but that was no surprise to anyone.

With no warning and no words to preface his actions, Optimus' right leg lifted, taking a larger step to carefully place his ped down onto the stone and dirt at her waist on her opposite side. He ground the foot down a bit, the left following shortly after to place a bit further back, more in line with her shoulder or helm. He was looking to gain a sure footing, a means to lock himself down and in place above her, and the moment he felt confident with it, he stooped over to try to grab the edge of stone where her leg was latched under.

Blunted squared off fingertips dug beneath the rock work a bit, trying to make sure he was actually going to get a solid grip on the bulk of the mass, and not just a smaller piece that could sheer away and cause the rest of the bolder to come crashing down. He worked cautiously, meticulously. If this was a battlefield endeavor and he was freeing one of his kind while under fire? Things would be different. He would have probably rammed the bolder and hefted the full strain of his strength behind it to just brute force it... but this wasn't that situation. He didn’t wish to crush some of his armor, and overly strain his systems, if he could find a more tactical means to accomplish the goal.

One step at a time.

[Dart]

Life was precarious in the Sheldon National Wildlife Refuge. The grass clung to the lifeline of the red soil, sending out roots to keep from being washed away by the power of a sudden thunderstorm. Water never lasted long; it didn't fall softly among the thorny sage and the twisted trees; it came with a rush and soon evaporated with the blazing heat of the sun. The animals eked their existence in traveling from water hole to water hole, and those that managed to thrive in the arid summer scorch then had to contend with the harsh frozen winters where the ice rimed the leafless, gnarled trees and froze their breath the moment it left them.

Dart understood that. Survival of the fittest.

Funny how everyone thought Charles Darwin had said that phrase, but no, it was Herbert Spencer. She'd heard some poor student make the mistake once to a professor, and the teacher had rounded on the fellow with as much affront as he might have if the guy had said that Brontosaurus lived in water. At least they'd decided a few years ago that Brontosaurus was a valid genus. Which was cool, she'd always liked the term "thunder lizard" herself and not "deceptive lizard."

For many reasons.

Contrasting brightly against the deep red rocks and yellowed grass, the lurid green light of the portal flickered away, taking the other two mechs with it. It was as if they had never been there at all, except for the drifts of red dust, and the torn up ground around her that attested to that sudden, violent scuffle.

Along with the constant ache in her arm where the ruined remains of her retractable blade had twisted and jammed within.

In the abrupt silence, the chattering rattle of the spoiler across the courier's shoulders was obvious and audible. Dart made a tiny noise in her throat; a soft little whine that almost sounded as if there was and shifted slightly, trying to clamp it down as if she was afraid to draw any attention to herself but really, there was no point in that.

She was sort of of shocked. No, she was very shocked. Dart had expected - well, she'd had no idea what she'd expected. That he'd just go home and leave her behind. After all, her fellow Decepticons would find her, no doubt, right? Yet he simply stood in the silence and the sunshine, the red rock rising high behind him as the brilliant sunshine flickered and gleamed off the angles of the massive mech's finish.

Dart's nose lifted and the courier drew a sharp gulp of air into her intakes. Her olfactory sensors snatched desperately at the molecules and relayed everything they could to her. Dart trusted her world more by scent than any other sense; she depended on it for her life. She could sniff out buried ordinance; test for ambush, track and trail the wounded for recovery.

Each Cybertronian (and human of course) carried an individual scent. Dart could remember them like others might know a certain modulation of voice, their frame, the color of their plating.

The Prime smelled to the courier of well cared for and maintained systems. No undertone of old injury, no blatant damage or obvious disrepair. A faint touch of polish as well; the barest whiff, as if he'd recently cleaned up something on his frame. Along with that was the background smell of ozone and recycled air, and there was one more thing.

The smell of humans on him; barely there. A scent no Decepticon carried with them on a regular basis. That alone was amazing to her; that he was the leader of the Autobots and that he had time to deal with humans. No, that he took time out of his day to deal on a basis with humans that they would touch him. One of the scents was utterly familiar to her; the girl from the tunnels. The one with the very accurate guitar smashing abilities. Max had affirmed that her name was Miko, and Dart had laughed and agreed she was an awfully brave soul. Braver than herself, in fact and--

When the Prime took a step forward, the vibration of the rock and stone was enough to snap her out of wherever that thought had taken her. Immediately she dropped her nose out of the air currents and ducked back to stare at the ground.

Yet the Autobot leader didn't rush. He didn't say a single word. He simply made his way through the rough terrain with the same quiet nobility of a stag on a meadow, each of his strides calm and measured. When he finally stopped in front of her, only the wide stretch shadow fell between them in the silence of his observation.

Then the Prime simply let out a quiet sigh.

Dart lifted her head, ever so slightly. Slanted blue optics gleamed from under the brim of her helm, and for a second, the tips of her spoiler pricked forward; framing the Prime between them. For a second, her gaze might have touched his own; and he would no doubt see that was something unsure there, even apologetic.

When his foot lifted, Dart flinched and half reared back, the spoiler on her shoulders twitching desperately in an attempt to counterbalance her motion. Her scrabble was purely reactive and instinctive - get out of his way, go go go - but there was nowhere to go and then his foot simply settled to brace on her opposite side.

He would find his footing with no issue. The weight of him was enough to sink the loose stone and gravel into the dirt. The Decepticon had quivered into utter stillness a moment after her frantic scrabble as she comprehended what he was doing.

Oh... he's, okay. Hold still, Dart. Hold very, very still, you don't want him to think for a moment you're going to do anything, he's trusting that you won't attack him, but geeze, I could probably bounce off of him at full speed and I'd be a paperweight and he'd be just fine.

The rock chunk was about the size of Bulkhead - well, in car mode anyway. Prime's fingers would find a narrow gap beneath and the big mech would be able to get a steady grip. He would easily have enough strength and angle to do one of two things; lever it upwards more than enough for her to slide her leg out, or perhaps heave it off to the side and allow the angle of the ground itself to carry it off of her. Either way, if it tipped back his direction, it wasn't going to be a pleasant experience.

[Optimus Prime]

Stable, secure, the rock didn’t seem to be a colection of slabs held together by clays or other materials. It was secure, and he knew he could safely lift with the pivot with no issues or fear of it sheering apart or breaking and dropping back down onto the Decepticon's leg. The last thing he intended to do would be to cause additional pain or injury to her, despite what their factions seem to state.

In older days, Orion would never have thought he'd be in such a situation. Standing above a trapped femme that was meant to be an enemy, located in some desolate dirty organic environment on an alien world, intending to lift up a rock that probably weighed as much as the scholar... It was all rather surreal when you looked at it like that. Going from a life of relative ease and comfort in Iacon to... to this...

Now, he was the leader of a faction comprising of less than half of their entire species population, fighting a war, wielding strength he never would have thought probable, wielding weapons he wouldn't have known what to do with back then, while carrying an artifact within his chest that was half myth half ledged that made him an icon.

The contrast was blaring and abrupt, showing that no matter how stable one's life may seem, it could change and ones course in life can take an unseen path. It sometimes made him wonder where he would stand in his later years, when his frame grows ragged and worn. If the war would still be happening, if a resolution is found, if their planet was reformed or if they found a void one that could sustain them, or if he watched from the Well with a sea of others that passed on.

Lifting the bolder was easy, once he had an appropriate grip, his system barely growling active as mechanics tugged and wrenched ligaments smoothly. Optimus hefted its mass up sharp enough that gravity took hold and did the rest of the work for him, pivoting on its back angle away from Dart's foot. The rock canted back and fell over down the slop away from them, a heavy bang and a collapse of smaller stones falling down in its wake to create a cacophony of noise for a moment. But as loud as it was, as chaotic as the few moments were with the minute landslide to the shale ground plane below, it was over quickly, allowing Optimus to take a step back.

A careful stride, the Prime removed himself from hovering over Dart, though remained at her side. With a gradual motion, and a lack of words, he reached his hand down palm up to offer to help her to her feet, if she chose to do so...

If she even could...

[Dart]

A roil of red dust swirled in the heated air as the huge stone came to rest. It had furrowed a path down the side of the slope, crashing end over end until it came to a stop. A slither of stones rippled down the hillside like water, shifting and moving along the massive rock's trail, if they were disciples following in the wake of their sworn leader. The sharp scent of crushed sage rose to the two Cybertronians and then settled back down among the wasteland.

Underneath the Prime's long shadow, the femme never moved. She was absolutely, utterly still. Palms flattened against the dirt, she dug into the ground with her fingertips, as if it could steady her, terrified not of the situation now but that she would mess up.

That she would do something wrong and break this moment, this fragile thread of assistance that was offered to her. Every motion of the Autobot had been assured, confident; he had quietly wedged his fingers under it and lifted it up and away from her foot.

Like an animal cut loose of a wire fence that couldn't comprehend that it was free, the Decepticon merely sat in the dirt, her recently trapped leg stretched still behind her. Under the shadowed brim of her dark helm, her blue optics shuttered, blinking a few times at the hand that the Prime extended towards her, palm up.

It was a quiet, innocuous gesture.

Something in Dart stirred from places long buried; shattered by damage and time.

Cautiously, the courier's chin lifted. The spoiler on her back twitched nervously, flicking back and forth, and then the tips pricked hesitantly forward over her narrow shoulders as she stretched her pale neck out towards the mech, aligning her nose with his hand. Even in the hot air shimmering off the rocks between them, Prime would no doubt feel a soft huff of air drawn in past him before she whickered back out again against his fingertips.

Unsure, the Decepticon shifted her weight on the ground, bracing herself with her un-injured arm as she drew back ever so slightly. There was no gather of her frame, no tension of either fear or fury. There was not the angry spit of insults that he had no doubt come to expect among the Decepticons. Instead, she sat there, struggling to process exactly what had happened in the last few minutes, how the entirety of the situation had just come to a screeching halt and was bounding off in an unexpected direction.

As if she couldn't quite fathom that this mech of all mechs was reaching out to offer his hand to something as filthy and dirty and worthless as someone like her, a low-ranking Decepticon courier. Outdated function, glitchy as heck, nervous and flighty and infatuated with a world that would no doubt tear apart something stupidly caught in a hole in the middle of nowhere.

Yet her sensors touched once again on that scent of humanity on the mech before her. Of children and a world he could have left behind him for her own side to ruin and no one would have ever known.

Ever so slowly, the courier reached out her hand. Her dirty grey fingers trembled as they hovered over the Autobot leader's palm. Dart stared at them with awkward shame in how badly scuffed and filthy she was. Normally she didn't care. Well, that wasn't true, she did care, she just knew from experience that dirt made everything overlook you, from humans to robots. She didn't like drawing attention to herself in any way; that tended to get you things you did not want to happen.

The Decepticon gently slid her fingers against the big mech's. She lightly tested, automatically giving him a moment to brace himself.

Because that's what the polite thing was to do when someone went to help you up.

Dart's free leg pushed back against the ground. She rolled onto her hip and braced herself. It took her an ungraceful moment where she scrabbled to her feet, dark and dusty, lanky and lean. Now that she was upright, she was all leg and limb, taller than she'd appeared on the ground, perhaps. Her scarred chest heaved as her cooling systems rejoiced in motion once again. Quickly, she withdrew her hand from his, leaving a smear of dirt and a pale stripe of drying fuel behind.

As she went to put weight on her recently trapped limb, the courier bobbled in place. A shadow of a wince twinged her expression; she drew her leg up and barely dotted her toe to the earth. The joint had obviously taken some damage and the femme was stiff and sore; but within a few moments she tentatively set her foot back down, hitching her weight over her hip.

Dart looked around them, not quite believing this was true. The courier's nose lifted into the air currents, as if she simply was comprehending in the fact she was on her feet.

The freedom of the red hills beckoned in the distance.

With a bit of a shake and a rattle, the courier gathered herself up...

Yet, instead of bolting, the femme took a shuddering gulp of air. She straightened her shoulders in a military trained line, and dropped her chin before she respectfully tucked her hands to the small of her back in front of the Autobot leader.

[Optimus Prime]

Things were destined to go two ways, and seldom deviated when Optimus did these actions of mercy and kindness to help a foe who was downed. The less rational of the two, was for the Con to show their true colors and to start trying to take advantage of the moment. Attempt to slam a blade through his outstretched hand, aim a hard swipe at the side of his knee, or just try to pull a gun thinking he would be too naive and blindsided to have taken such dangers into account. They may say a line, something to boast, something about the Prime being 'too foolish' before their blind thrash for control would backfire violently upon them and land them in a new world of pain. That is the type of thing you expected from the more traditional Decepticons.

If they were smart, they cut out the charade and fled. Kicked off the ground, scrabbled, try to put distance before they would attempt to say or do anything further. Understanding of the threat he was, or just so grateful they were spared they just wanted to be assured they wouldn't be blindsided themselves, because any Decepticon would take delight in ripping into a foe when they were at their weakest and just got a glimmer of hope.

This femme did neither.

She did not even do something anyone would guess of a typical Cybertronian. She didn’t say anything, grovel, didn’t reach a hand up to take his to stand and mutter thanks, she didn’t just stare at him like a deer in the headlights, nor even shy away to scuttle and put some distance between them. Instead her helm stretched out with a delicate motion, cautious, hesitant, calculated, all to place her nose closer to his offered palm to sniff at it, not unlike the Cassette canine at the outpost.

It was a bizarre action, one that caused the Prime to angle his helm slightly while his gaze locked down, trying to make sense of the motion. If he bothered to move and use the finials on the side of his helm, no doubt they would have clicked up slightly as his curiosity was picked to draw out more questions than answers. Despite the minor shift however, he didn't move his hand but a faint twitch of a smaller joint when the air brushed out over his palm. Watching, waiting, and hoping for answers to details in order to further paint the situation for what it was.

Dab by dab, a bit of color here or there, an image of what, or rather who was before him, was becoming more apparent. She was scared, hesitant, mindful and cautious. She seemed skittish, ready to try to flee if she could get her feet under her, but locked down in place by some unseen force. Curiosity perhaps, or a further extension of fear, it was hard to differentiate the finer details, when she seemed nervous to even grasp his hand, as if the touch would burn her.

Once she tested the metaphorical waters, and then grasped onto his hand, his own grip returned. Light, but secure, clutching around enough to offer the strength and support she may need to get to her feet even if her injured leg did not want to function in full. Optimus was ready to heft her if she couldn't find her balance, use the same strength he had used on the rock to pull her upright in order to gently plant down atop her good limb, but thankfully she did not need such aid.

The moment she found stability, his grip lessened, not trapping her in place, to let her pull away to leave only the mark of pain that she had endured, pain that was now further visible now that she stood and nestled down into a resting stance. An old injury, agitated, speckled in fluids. Some dapples of blue upon her neck, dropped from somewhere higher on her frame. Light smears and marks on a forearm, another tattle from the day's events. The injuries were troublesome, wondering what had happened, but the formal stance seemed to be a more notable concern. No con should hold a military passive posture before him. It didn't seem right, and while passive, it didn’t look like the 'please don’t kick me across the battlefield' passive he had seen many times before due to her hand placement.

Optimus moved slow then, a very gradual deliberate motion, taking a single step away, to not overbear with his height. While she was tall, she still only came up to his mid chest, and he held substantial more mass. With the buffer of space added, he then spoke, words calm with a low rumble of exhaustion.

"What happened?"

[Dart]

The Autobot leader took a step back from her. The weight of his frame against the earth shivered the hard packed ground beneath them. Dry clumps of grass quivered, the tiny seed pods on the ends bobbing up and down before they danced into stillness.

The Decepticon had the frame of a runner. Everything about her seemed designed for speed; she was trim and light, lean-flanked and rounded at the shoulders. She was not blocky or covered in plates of heavy defensive armor. The femme had no visible weaponry; no gun strapped across her shoulders or holstered to her frame. Nor did she appear to be the sort whose hand transformed into a gun, or an axe, or even a mace with a tiny spiked ball on the end of it.

All she had were two carriers, one on each side of her hip, as scuffed and road-worn as she was.

At his voice, the courier lifted her toe, pawing once at the dirt. Then she realized what she was doing and set it quickly back down again.

It wasn't the question Dart had been expecting at all.

They were words though, actual words, rumbled from the depths of the mech's broad chest. Yet there was a note in them that because Dart was who she was, she noticed it differently than someone else might have. That touch of tiredness in his voice echoed softly in his frame and body language; the faintest dip of his wide red shoulders.

Carried the weight of his exhaustion with him. Not physical exhaustion, no. It felt different to her somehow and the only thing she could equate it with was another mech, one she knew very well.

It's like-like how Max does, she realized with a start.

Yet Max was very different. He could- well, for lack of a better way to put it, he could be himself.

Back when they'd first met in the canyon she'd seen the Warden in full, foul-tempered fury, he'd rounded on her in anger, in stress, allowed his emotions to slip past. She'd seen him afraid too, and had understood his fear as someone who also faced death more than once and didn't want to go  there yet either. And then she'd met him other times, other places, and watched as he'd cautiously, slowly, allowed himself to smile, and even laugh.

Yesterday morning, they'd spent as tourists among the humans. He'd had actual fun, he'd stood with her on that embedded star map and had been amazed as she at what they could create. He'd complimented her driving (which was so appreciated, Trans Am's were NOT off road vehicles.) Best of all, he'd offered of his rare, wry jokes that she adored.

It wasn't so much your physical place. That the courier knew from her own existence.

You could always somehow find a quiet place to be, some space where no one was.

No, what you couldn't honestly ever get away from was the weight of the mechs who surrounded you. The Autobots in charge not only had to hold their own path as something to look up to, day in and day out, but also attempt to support everyone around them. Even those that you might not agree entirely with.

In that moment, Dart realized one thing. How much easier Lord Megatron sure had it. When someone screwed up under him, they were one hundred percent accountable. You either explained yourself, or you hoped you simply didn't get caught doing it. Fear was an incredible motivator, and it was that fear that went from commander to officer, all the way down to the lowest grunt.

Quietly, she lifted her chin and peeked out from under the dark brim of her helm.

"Ah, I just- I missed a step, sir," she stammered, shifting her weight and lacing her fingers a little tighter behind her back in an effort not to fidget or paw at the ground again. "Thank- thank you."