[Bay] War Without End - Thundercracker - Pt III

[dracoqueen22]

Title: War Without End – Thundercracker
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Thundercracker, Skywarp, Ratchet, Drift, Wheeljack, Dreadwing, Tracks, Prowl
Rating: T
Warnings: mentions of character death, angst, some language, canon typical violence,
Desc: Thundercracker is tired of merely surviving. He wants to live.

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Thundercracker - Part Three
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Thundercracker's attempts to speak to his trinemate only results in the Cybertronian version of frag off being sent through his personal comm. While it causes his orbital plates to rise in surprise, Thundercracker honors the rude request. Whatever has crawled up Warp's thruster will have to be solved later.

Right now, he has to focus on what condition they'll find the Ark in.

Wheeljack wasn’t exaggerating either.

The Jackhammer is on its last legs. Though invisible from the outside, Thundercracker can see evidence of multiple battles from within. Weld-lines, blaster scores, partially activated systems, and the fact that the entire ship is running on minimal power. He wonders if Wheeljack had to fight to get the Jackhammer back from Decepticon occupation.

The atmosphere is stale when Thundercracker pulls it through his intakes. The entire vessel creaks and groans, and when Wheeljack powers up the massive engine, it rattles around them.

Part of Thundercracker wants nothing more than to walk right back off the ship. No wonder they claimed they couldn't make it much further.

It's also very cramped. Thundercracker's wings press tightly to his back, and he wonders how Dreadwing withstood it. But then, he is a deep-space model. Perhaps he preferred to tack himself to the hull.

“All aboard!” Wheeljack says with far too much cheer as he drops down into the pilot's seat in the tiny, tiny bridge.

A bridge so small it might as well be a cockpit, and there isn't space for a co-pilot. There’s a secondary station tucked away to the side, however. Probably for a navigator or communications specialist but no room for a third.

Thundercracker lets Ratchet take the chair. He'll be far more comfortable on his own two pedes. He can brace himself much easier than the medic anyway.

“Are you sure this heap of scrap's going to make it?” Ratchet questions with a dubious glance around the interior.

Thundercracker seconds the skepticism.

Wheeljack flickers his optics and finishes powering up the Jackhammer, sealing all the exterior locks and also the door to the bridge. The hissing of pressurization seems abnormally loud. Especially since Thundercracker is trying very hard to not think about the last time he was on a ship like this.

“You have such little faith in me,” Wheeljack comments as the blast shields slide over the viewport and the Jackhammer starts to rise.

Thundercracker's tanks lurch. He drops back, pressing against the wall and bracing himself.

“Can you blame me?” Ratchet snarks back.

Thundercracker makes a noise of disgust. Primus. If he has to listen to the two of them bicker like a pair of angry bondmates for the whole trip, he'll have to offline his audials. It's not unlike listening to Warp and Stars in the early days. Before the war went wrong. Before Starscream decided he wanted power and position more than brothers-in-arms.

He frowns, offlining his optics and looking at nothing. Painful memories, those. He doesn't want to remember the Starscream that was.

“--and if you hadn't crossed those wires, I wouldn't have had to--”

Thundercracker dials down his audials and sets a subroutine to keep track of the conversation so he won’t have to. If they speak to him or say something important, he will give his attention. Until then, he prefers not to listen.

It feels odd being here. Being around Autobots without shooting them or trying to rip out their sparks. Still, between himself and Skywarp, Thundercracker is having the easiest time adapting. He's one of the few war-builds who ever spent time in the company of true civilians before the war.

It’s an experimental program, an attempt to make use of war-builds when there isn’t a war to be had. Thundercracker is drafted into the program on recommendation of a superior officer he frags off. Fortunately, Thundercracker is actually qualified. He’s one of the few.

They assign him to one of the scant handful of the upper caste willing to take part. Most of those capable are too afraid of war-builds, or reluctant to have violent and dangerous mechs so close to their person. But his is a Senator of a different mind. One who fears nothing and sees the goals of the program as a challenge.

More than that though he believes in the intended results.

The Senator takes one look at the hulking Seeker, who stands several helms taller than him, and does nothing more than arch an orbital ridge. His optics are blue and vibrant, a contrast to the white and red of his frame. It’s an unusual combination. At least, it would be for a war-build. They rarely use such a pristine color. It’s too hard to keep clean and shows the stain of labor too easily.

“You actually want to do this?” the Senator questions when he’s finally satisfied with studying the mech in front of him. His tones are brusque, and his dialect is strange. The lilt of the highest class, but the words are pure commoner.

Thundercracker doesn’t shift in place, but it’s a near thing. He feels bare without his weapons and completely unlike himself.

“The decision wasn’t mine,” he admits simply because the truth is usually preferable. Not to mention that he doesn’t expect this particular mech to favor lies. “Still, I don't intend to waste the opportunity either.”

Humor alights in the Senator's optics. He even chuckles.

“Doesn't seem like any of us have much of a choice in anything, does it?”

It’s a strange observation, but he doesn’t given Thundercracker a chance to answer, just waves for him to follow. Actually turning his back and walking them from the front office to an area in the back. Thundercracker doubts a war-build has ever even been this far into the building before, much less in the private office of a Senator.

The mech takes them inside, and the door closes behind them. But he doesn’t even move to sit before he’s turned back around to face Thundercracker.

“It's menial work, the job I have in mind. It's not stimulating.” He makes a sound of annoyance that belies his tone. “Still, I need an assistant, and I'm tired of the useless thin-plates they keep sending me.”

Thundercracker stares, shocked by the less than tactful comment. Thin-plates was a term better used by gutter-mechs to describe the upper class. Tower bots. Cybertronians whose frames are built for visual aesthetics rather than form and function.

The Senator himself is strangely solid with almost a worker's chassis, if far too immaculate for that. Still, he is nothing like the sharp and thick armor of a soldier.

Thundercracker cycles his optics. And then again. He isn’t entirely sure how to respond to that.

“Yes, sir,” he finally decides. “I’ll do my best.”

The smaller mech gives him a strange look. “Don't call me that.” But it’s half-order, half-rebuke. “I'm not your superior. I'm not even military.”

Thundercracker's fights to keep his face blank as he tries to wrap his processor around that statement. An upper class who doesn’t want overt respect? What then should he call the Senator? Did he dare ask?

“I'm Ratchet,” the mech continues, gaze raking Thundercracker from the top of his head, across the span of his wings, and down to the taloned tip of his pedes. “Or if that's too familiar, you can use Senator. You're not a slave. I don't want one. I don't need one. What I do need is a bot who can think. Can you do that?”

It isn’t a matter of whether or not Thundercracker can think. But whether if he’s allowed or whether it’s appropriate.

He honestly doesn’t know how he was supposed to take Senator Ratchet's behavior. It is blunt, which he’s used to. However, it lacks the edge of fear that interactions with civilians tended to garner.

“Yes, Senator,” Thundercracker replies instead. It seems safer than to be overly familiar. “I’m to be at your service.”

Ratchet's lipplates curve. “Yes, that's what they tell me.” He lets out a bark of laughter that isn’t at all amusement and has two shades of bitter disgust. “However, I delight in fragging off my fellow politicians, so let's see if we can't buck that trend, shall we?”

Thundercracker finds himself completely flummoxed, once again unable to decide how he should respond. This isn’t going at all like he expected. He thought he was too be little more than menacing furniture. Something to stand in the background and look intimidating. Someone expected to be there but contribute nothing more than silence.

After all, most civilians don’t even treat his kind like they have a processor. Much less a functioning one.

Thundercracker can only offer a sharp nod. To confused to do much else.

“Yes, Senator. Whatever you say.”

If there is one thing his military background gives him, it is the ability to obey.

“Good.” The Senator claps him on the shoulder, reaching up to do so and not flinching from the contact at all. “Then, let's see what you can do.”

For Ratchet, it was that simple. For Thundercracker, it was a whole new world.

Of course, the program would later be dissolved, termed a failure. Within the vorn, Ratchet would quit the Senate and pour every credit he had into medical training. Thundercracker didn’t see him until vorns later, on the battlefield alongside Optimus Prime.

“--landing in about five minutes. Thundercracker?”

He stirs from the memory, cycling his optics and deleting the subroutine as well. He straightens from his slouch to find Ratchet giving him an odd look.

“Spacing out on us?” the medic asks, and there's a hint of humor in his optics.

Thundercracker uncrosses his arms. “No. I was tuning out your inane babble.”

Wheeljack laughs; Ratchet scowls.

“It wasn’t babble,” the medic retorts with a huff. His plating bristles, like an offended feline. “So if you would kindly pay attention, you'll notice that we're approaching our destination.”

He turns with a sound of grinding gears – oh, he's really irritated now – and gestures to the viewport. Wheeljack's retracted the blast shields. Thundercracker can now see the speckled black of space, but the entire left side of the viewport is filled with a rapidly expanding grey mass.

Earth’s singular moon.

On the surface is a dark form that’s like a black stain amidst the grey. It protrudes from the landscape, a blot in the paleness. There are other places, too. Pockmarks in the land where the hidden Decepticon battleships once rose from their slumber. Bits and pieces of metal glint in scattered places, too. Debris and detritus that meant nothing to the Decepticons but may very well be the salvation of their cohort.

Even with that though, the Ark looks like scrap, and that’s the nicest thing he can even think. Thundercracker feels his fragile hope crumble to ash and rust. He vents out air. At most, they'll be able to salvage some parts.

Another dead end. Another disappointment.

“Don't sound so dejected,” Wheeljack says, still maintaining that irritating cheer as he guides the shuttle down for a landing that kicks up a brief cloud of dust. “Sure, it looks bad, but I haven't scanned it yet. The structural integrity could still be decent.”

Thundercracker's wing flicks. “Is it an Autobot thing to be ridiculously optimistic?”

“No,” Ratchet puts in with some degree of humor, leveraging himself out of his chair. “It's a Jack thing. Frankly, I'm with you. It's worse than I remember.”

Wheeljack releases a blat of noise. “Primus, the both of you are such negative nanobytes. Do you want to get off Earth or not?”

“It's not a matter of wanting,” Thundercracker retorts as the lock disengages and they are free to leave the cockpit. He immediately takes advantage. “It's a matter of capability.”

Ratchet follows him, Wheeljack trailing along after.

The engineer's vocal indicators flash strange lights on the walls of the narrow corridor. “Then have a little faith. We can do it.”

Thundercracker grits his denta and keeps any further comments to himself. He reaches the outer hatch and waits for the Autobots to catch up. The cabin depressurizes, and the ramp lowers, allowing them access to the moon's surface.

From here, they would have to communicate through internal comms. They've at least already traded frequencies.

Thundercracker steps onto the sandy, near-powder surface, both optics and scanners searching around him. No signs of life, no signs of other Cybertronians. Save for a persistent signal that is coming from the Ark itself.

Said structure looms in front of him, easily half buried. It looks like a scrapyard of jagged lines, scorched metal, and twisted beams.

Thundercracker will be surprised if there is anything left to salvage.

--Wow!-- Wheeljack lets out a sound like a low whistles over the open comm line. --I’d forgotten how big this thing was. Wonder if Teletraan's still alive in there?--

--Most AI's know to keep backups of themselves,-- Ratchet reminds him, but his movement betray his anxiety. --If there is even a fraction of the control systems functional, then Teletraan will have survived.—

Thundercracker sets his mouthplate and starts toward the crashed ship. His optics go through a few settings before he finds one that helps him distinguish between the shadows cast over the Ark. He sees where Prime and Ratchet had first made their ingress into the Ark. It’s the easiest way to examine the craft's interior.

--You didn't check? The first time, I mean.--

Ratchet's hesitation is all too telling.

--We were on a time table. Prime wanted answers. The humans were tapping their watches. Other things were more important.--

There’s disappointment in Ratchet's comm as well. In himself Thundercracker largely suspects.

He ducks into the Ark, and metal shifts warningly beneath him. Sensors ping back sectors where the structure is too weak to bear his weight, and Thundercracker shifts accordingly.

Inside, despite the dim and the dust and the scattered debris, the Ark looks in much better repair. There’s still shrapnel everywhere, and Thundercracker doesn't look too closely at all the deactivated frames strewn about. He pays more attention to the structure, which will decide whether or not it's repairable.

--I'll head down to the engine room,-- Wheeljack says, his indicators flashing through a spectrum of orange and red. --See what we have to work with.--

The engineer turns away and heads down a different corridor, picking his way with half as much care as Thundercracker. To be fair though, he is only half Thundercracker's mass.

Ratchet, however, is silent. Unusually so.

Thundercracker pushes further inside, heading for the bridge. There are more deactivated frames. Most of them probably offlined upon impact. Others could’ve bled out, slowly succumbing over the years. Still more were likely injured before the unfortunate crash. It's difficult to tell.

Thundercracker pauses on the edge of a dark opening and glances down into the vault. Here is where Sentinel slept, safely in stasis. Secured and snug while all of his mechs perished. Such a typical Prime thing to do.

--Optimus thought only of Sentinel,-- Ratchet murmurs across the comm, stepping up beside Thundercracker and staring down into the open maw. --Perhaps that should’ve been a clue.--

He steps away, heading for the bridge controls and the five mechs arrayed around the control panel. His gaze seems to linger on one, recognizing him perhaps, before his plating ruffles in visible discomfort.

Thundercracker still has to ask.

--How many?--

Ratchet's optics cycle in and out, too bright. --My last packet indicated a hundred.-- He pauses, fingers drawing into tight fists. --One hundred of the best tacticians, warriors, engineers, and medics that Cybertron had to offer.--

Thundercracker feels his wings draw up. He looks from one wrecked body to the next. To the debris strewn all over the floor.

He lets out a sound that is both bitter and tired.

--We could use the parts.--

Ratchet's helm whips toward him, optics blazing blue fire.

--Practically speaking.-- Thundercracker pointedly gestures around them. --And at the very least, we can give them a proper rite.--

It’ll be more than the humans deigned to give any of the fallen, Autobot and Decepticon alike. Though, if the Ark is useless to their ends, Thundercracker supposes it serves as good a tomb as any.

Derision flexes in Ratchet's energy field. --They're Autobots. Why should you care?--

The tone is sharp and jagged. Even over the comm. Thundercracker tosses the medic a look. Now, isn’t the time for this.

--Aren't we past that by this point?--

Ratchet looks away. --It's a long war,-- he retorts, folding his arms over his chassis. --Old habits die hard.--

Thundercracker's systems rattle, ventilations tripping on something caught in his filters.

--I'm tired,-- the Seeker says and attaches glyphs to each of his words, hoping to hammer his point home. --I stopped taking the war personally a long time ago.--

It was one of the reasons Starscream came to dislike him so much at the end, truth be told. Thundercracker used to hate. He used to loathe the Autobots. He kept record of each and every Decepticon that he knew personally and those who slayed them. He used to have lists and lists of designations with other names attached to them.

The hate powered him. The animosity burned in his energon, fed straight to his blasters and thrusters. The utter abhorrence made it easier to fire on his own kind, to shoot straight through the spark. To tell himself the whole time that it was revenge and justice and retribution all rolled into one righteous justification.

But then, the Allspark was lost to space. Cybertron was abandoned. And Thundercracker forgot the point out of it all somehow.

He stopped recognizing faces and designations. It didn't matter which Autobot he was slagging because there would always be another. Wherever he turned, death was waiting in one form or another.

It stopped being personal. It turned into anonymous slaughter. All he saw was the Autobot symbol and he fired. He didn't think about it. The list faded to nothing, lost in his memory banks. What did it matter? Whatever Autobots on his list were probably already offline, killed somewhere else by someone else.

Stars thought him weak. Thought him pathetic because he didn't care anymore. Thundercracker didn't have the energy or the effort to spare on hatred. He just wanted to make it through this pointless war alive, to keep his trine intact. He wanted to survive.

The Senate is fragged, the Council offline and ashes. All that’s left to hate are the survivors, other soldiers fighting in a war without end. Thundercracker can’t deride them for that.

And when the hate abandoned him, so did everything else. Leaving nothing but weariness behind.

Hate takes so much effort. And it offers nothing in return. It didn’t keep Starscream alive. It didn’t keep their trine together. It hadn’t saved Warp and him either. It was Ratchet who had done that. Ratchet… the Autobot who now stands beside him.

Thundercracker reaches out, and while Ratchet starts beneath his grasp, he doesn’t move away.

--What does it matter now? The main perpetrators are all offline, and I'm tired of fighting for the sake of fighting.--

He offers a single squeeze before letting go, and then, Thundercracker moves away. He takes careful steps around the bridge of the Ark. It's unnerving, how still and empty this craft feels.

Behind him, he senses more than hears Ratchet shift. --Aren't we all?-- He rubs his face tiredly. --I did save you… didn't I?--

Thundercracker half-turns. The medic is painted in shadows and watches his every move, but Thundercracker offers him a nod and a genuine smile.

--That you did.--

Ratchet looks at him for a moment longer before glancing away, almost embarrassed. A first for him to be sure. So very odd. But then, Ratchet’s mood has been all over the place this trip. From pleased bickering to hostile and now bemusement.

Thundercracker frowns.

--I can fix it!--

The sudden exclamation makes both of them startle and whirl around. Thundercracker's battle protocols kick on with a roar, having spent far too much time in idle, and his weapon systems surge toward auto-target.

Two sets of targeting lasers swing around and focus on Wheeljack, whose optics have spiraled wide. Both hands lift into the air in a universal gesture for don't shoot.

--I can fix it,-- the engineer repeats, his gaze darting between the pair of them.

Thundercracker mutters subvocally and disengages his battle protocols. Ratchet curses, too. But he doesn’t do it over the shared comm band.

--You can? Really?-- the medic blusters, covering up the building tension his default setting, but he seems relieved more than anything.

--Yep.-- Wheeljack sweeps a hand over his helm. --With time and a lot of ingenuity… And maybe some help. I’m sure Warp'll have a few ideas.--

--Warp, huh?-- Ratchet gives his friend a look. It’s almost amused. --When did that happen?--

Wheeljack shrugs. --He's a brilliant kid.--

--That kid is older than you,-- Thundercracker inserts, fighting off the bubble of anticipation that threatens to burst. Not that he can blame Wheeljack; Skywarp rarely acts his age.

The engineer stares at him. --Really? Huh. Never would have guessed. Sorry. I didn't mean to offend.-- He pauses, optics going between Thundercracker and Ratchet. --So, I'm getting the feeling that I interrupted something.--

--You didn't,-- Ratchet says perhaps a bit too hastily.

Though to be honest, Thundercracker's not sure what it is that Wheeljack disturbed. Ratchet having another snit-fit? Or is there something deeper?

Amusement flickers on Wheeljack's vocal indicators. --If you say so.-- He tilts his helm, brushing dust and debris from a piece of armor. --We can go back to Earth now. There's not much I can do yet.--

Thundercracker inclines his head, all too eager to escape from the dark insides of the Ark. It’s far too haunted by the past for his liking.

--Give me a list of things you'll need. Come up with a plan. We can't make numerous trips. A lot of work will have to be done in one go.--

Wheeljack waves a hand in acknowledgment. --The Jackhammer's not up for multiple trips without some serious digging through her internals,-- he replies, scratching at his chin and mask.

That and the fact they still have to conserve energon – the hatchlings come first. As well to make certain not to attract undue attention. They’d have to be circumspect about their visits.

--At least we have a plan,-- Ratchet offers, leading them out and back toward the waiting shuttle. --That counts for something.--

Yes, Thundercracker agrees, it does.

o0o0o

It's become a habit over the past three months.

Every hour or so, every time he emerges from recharge, every instance he takes a break, Thundercracker sends out an imperceptible but very important ping to his team. He just wants to know where they are, what they're doing, if anything untoward has happened.

Since Wheeljack's team arrived, he's included them in his constant checks, too.

So when he groans, pushes himself back from the cobbled together computer system, and contemplates a cube of energon or a visit to the hatchlings, Thundercracker sends out the near-automatic ping.

Skywarp and Wheeljack are in the lab, being secretive about their project but in an overall good mood. He'll have to invite himself in and see what they are doing later. Something about the pair of them striking up a friendship sends a frisson of concern up his backstrut.

Ratchet's in the medbarn, though he should be in recharge. That will be another fun discussion to have.

Drift's on patrol. No surprise there. Tracks is with him. That, however, is a surprise. The Towers mech is usually within grabbing distance of Dreadwing.

Speaking of which, his third Seeker is on the Jackhammer. He's not recharging, but he's still logged himself as busy. Whatever the frag that means.

Switching his computer to standby, Thundercracker rises to his pedes and twists his frame, working out the kinks in his lines and the cramped cables. He isn't in the mood for staring down a stubborn Hatchet or interrupting scientists at work. Dreadwing though is a mystery still.

Thundercracker checks the satellite schedule, confirms he has a window, and heads for the Jackhammer. Skywarp and Wheeljack have already constructed a holographic array to conceal the shuttle, drawing less energy than maintaining a constant cloak. To Thundercracker's optics, a collection of farm equipment and a stack of baled hay sit in the yard. His scanners and sensors, however, ping back a Cybertronian space craft.

He heads for the tractor, and if any human or mech is watching, they see him vanish into nothing. For the time being, Thundercracker has grounded the Jackhammer. It's in need of repairs before they can start taking it back and forth to the moon. The fragging thing nearly killed them all on the return flight not so long ago, so they haven't been back to the Ark since.

Inside, he finds Dreadwing of all places in the main room, which is a dubious title given that it barely fits the both of them. The other Seeker is crouched over a large basin. A pile of grimy, rusted parts sits to one side with a stack of recently scrubbed ones to the other.

Thundercracker pulls to a halt and cycles his optics. “What in Prima’s name are you doing?”

Dreadwing doesn't look at him. He just reaches for a dirt-clogged something with a clawed hand and dunks it in the bucket.

“Cleaning parts.” His tone is one mechs use for outdated drones. “What does it look like I'm doing?”

Thundercracker cocks his helm to the side in a way that always seemed to annoy Starscream when they were still friends and not subordinate and superior.

“Why?” he questions, honestly curious.

Dreadwing doesn’t even look up. “It needs to be done.”

Thundercracker can't argue that, but it still seems more like a duty assigned as punishment. Most often to Skywarp, truth be told.

“Did you volunteer?”

“More or less.” Dreadwing rests his wrists on the edge of the basin, finally lifting his optics. “It was either this or sorting wire. I opted to scrub. As Wheeljack knew that I would.”

Thundercracker gropes blindly for a stool and pulls it behind him. “He knows you that well?”

“Spend enough time wandering space with a mech, and you learn their various quirks.” The larger bot drops his gaze back to his work, sloshing water and degreaser without care. “Word of advice, don’t share a berth with Jack. He twitches.”

That… is far more than Thundercracker wanted to know. And it says a great deal about Dreadwing’s group. Certainly, he’s closer with Tracks, but Wheeljack isn’t the third cog, so to speak. They aren’t just a pair with an odd mech out. More like a trine almost.

“I'll keep that in mind,” Thundercracker replies dryly and lapses into silence, watching Dreadwing work.

Still, he finds it difficult to fathom. This Seeker who knowingly associates with two Autobots and doesn't appear bothered by the utter destruction of his own side. A Decepticon who shares constant field contact with a Towers mech and apparently a berth with an Academy bratling. He’s a strange one, to be sure. Dreadwing bows to Thundercracker's leadership not out of respect, but like Ratchet, he doesn’t want the position for his own. Which is more than odd enough for most Decepticons. Even more, he isn’t hesitant to offer assistance. To clean spare parts during his downtime for no other reason than it needs to be done.

How peculiar.

A spotless part, now identified as some kind of pump, joins the stack. Thundercracker watches for a moment and is even contemplating his own assistance, but he’s interrupted.

“Go ahead,” Dreadwing says suddenly, turning to another piece of rust scrap. “Ask me.”

Thundercracker pauses in the act of reaching out.

“Ask what?”

Since really, he doesn’t know.

“Whatever question it is you sought me out to have answered.” Dreadwing sits back, grabbing the cloth slung over his shoulder to wipe off his talons. “Your energy field is irritatingly sharp with confusion right now.”

Thundercracker has a lot of questions. Some of the answers are obvious. He suspects he won't get a real truth about others. Still, the offer was made…

“I’d call it a healthy curiosity,” he hedges but then barrels on. “You and Tracks--”

“--are none of your business,” the large Seeker states firmly. He flips the cloth back over his shoulder. “Try another one.”

Well, that didn’t last long.

Thundercracker cycles a ventilation. “You don't seem particularly loyal to Megatron. But something in Ratchet's file disturbed you.”

Dreadwing's wings twitch as he no doubt debates with himself. He rises from his seat, grabbing an armful of cleaned parts and heading for an array of crates nearby. There, he starts to sort.

“Most war-builds don't have caretakers,” Dreadwing finally allows, the clank and clunk of parts punctuating his words. “We're raised in batches, uploaded with battle routines, and slapped into units.”

Thundercracker lapses into silence. He isn’t unfamiliar. Such is the way he matured. He was in a batch with eleven other fliers. He remembers instructors, the occasional advisor, and then of course Ratchet later. But as for caretakers, no. He was never worth such an effort. Never even had a mentor.

This is all something he knows. That all war-builds know. Why even bring it up?

Dreadwing glances at him, even as he works. “There were a few war-builds, however, who had the standing and the credits to raise a sparkling. My caretaker was one of them.” He drops the last part in a crate with a solid thunk. “He was a Seeker, and I don't mean what our brethren have made Seekers either.”

History trickles out of Thundercracker's memory banks. Once, long ago before the war and the soldiers the Decepticons became, Seekers were designed to... Well, seek. They left Cybertron to find sources of energy, intelligent life, and anything of interest.

“He disappeared vorns before the war officially began, before Optimus Prime and Megatron even took their positions.” Dreadwing turns toward his stack of dirtied parts with little interest in getting back to work. “He was assumed deactivated, lost to the stars. I couldn’t even feel him anymore. He was simply… gone.” He lets out a long leak of air. “I lost everything.”

Understanding dawns.

“Jetfire,” Thundercracker murmurs.

It isn’t a guess.

Dreadwing drops heavily back onto his chair. It creaks alarmingly beneath him.

“Yes. My caretaker was here, and he gave his spark to destroy the Decepticons. To stop the very side I’m on.” He offlines his optics for a bare moment. “That says something, don't you think?”

“What?” Thundercracker shrugs in such a human gesture. “That we’ve been in the wrong all along?”

Dreadwing rolls his own shoulders. “In the beginning, no. Since then?” He flicks his wings dismissively. “Autobots. Decepticons. We're all wrong. Cybertron's dead, and what do we have to show for it?”

Thundercracker sags. “In the end, neither faction got what they wanted.”

Which is why they’re currently here. Scrambling for a future. On a planet that brings only death to their kind. With a species who would sooner scrap the lot of them than grant anyone a safe haven.

--TC!--

The transmission interrupts Thundercracker's thoughts like a blow to the helm.

--I think you better come see this!--

He frowns, holding up a hand to let Dreadwing know he’s temporarily distracted. --What is it, Skywarp? I'm not in the mood for a prank.--

--It's not a prank!-- He sounds just like Stars would. Purely indignant with wounded prided. --It's important.--

Thundercracker gives a ventilation. --What is it?--

--A new arrival,-- Ratchet cuts in, shamelessly hacking into the private comm line. --Autobot and Decepticon.--

Surprise flares in Thundercracker's field.

--I'll be right there.--

He cuts off the comm, flicking his optics toward Dreadwing.

“Someone's arrived.”

That earns him lifted facial ridges.

“Who?” Dreadwing questions, but he's already standing.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Thundercracker stands, hurrying to leave the Jackhammer. Satellites indicate they still have a window, so he's good to go.

Everyone's gathered into the main barn, even Drift and Tracks. The entirety of their motley crew huddles around a scavenged television set. The volume has been notched up, and Thundercracker can clearly hear the broadcaster's ongoing narration.

“--moments ago. Judging by the military's response, though they are withholding commentary at the time, we have concluded that they are friendlies.”

Thundercracker steps up behind a seated Drift, easily seeing over the smaller mech's helm. On screen, there’s somewhat shaky camera footage of wreckage, still spewing smoke into the air. Sparks spit from severed wires. Regardless, it’s definitely a space-faring shuttle.

The camera pans left and pulls back, revealing the presence of two Cybertronians, one an apparent Praxian and the other of unknown origin. The Autobot symbols on their chassis are obvious.

“Who is it?” Thundercracker questions the room at large.

Ratchet, just to the left of the television, sighs and scrubs his faceplate with his palm. “I’m certain that’s Prowl.” He hesitates for an astrosecond. “I believe the other is Sunstreaker.”

Thundercracker considers that.

Prowl is most certainly known to him. There probably isn’t a Decepticon alive who doesn’t know this mech by designation if nothing else. He’s probably the main reason his side lasted so long. He isn’t just a lieutenant of the Autobot forces; he’s the lieutenant. Optimus Prime’s only current living one. Which most likely puts him as the second highest ranking officer of the remaining Autobots.

The next mech is familiar by reputation only. Sunstreaker… a brutal frontliner of no insignificant renown. He’s a twin, if Thundercracker recalls correctly. Brother to an Autobot friend of Ratchet.

Or perhaps former friend at this junction.

“Do we know why they crashed?” Thundercracker finally asks.

“Faulty maintenance?” Wheeljack offers, but it's a pale humor that falls flat. “The humans are speculating, so that’s all we can do.”

“Is that Blitzwing?” Warp inquires, suddenly leaning over Tracks and pointing at the screen. “Where the frag did he come from?”

Thundercracker frowns and peers closer. The footage is blurred and shaky, but there does seem to be another bot present. A huddled mass of grey plating, winged, with a smudged Decepticon symbol.

“Do you mind?” Tracks mutters, trying to inch out from under Skywarp's weight. “You're scratching my finish.”

Warp ignores him.

“I think it's obvious why they crashed, if that’s indeed Blitzwing,” Dreadwing comments before he reaches over, hooks a claw in an armor seam, and pulls Skywarp off to the side.

The smaller Seeker squawks and then shoots a venomous look. “Primus! Possessive much?”

“Hush,” Thundercracker hisses and ignores Ratchet's quiet snicker. Sometimes, he feels as though they've made him leader of a pack of over-energized minibots.

His attention returns to the broadcast, but it offers no new information. The camera keeps panning back and forth between the wreckage and the two Autobots – no, three. Sunstreaker has pulled another bot from the debris, though this one looks in poor repair.

“Before you ask,” Ratchet interrupts, “no, I don't know who that is.”

Tracks leans forward though. “He resembles a former business partner of mine.” He peers closer and tilts his helm this way and that. “Perhaps it is Hound.”

“With the way this war has gone, I'm surprised we recognize anyone anymore,” Drift remarks, arms folded across his chassis.

And then, the other Autobots arrive. Prime’s in the lead followed by Sideswipe and Leadfoot. A fourth vehicle accompanies them, but humans in military uniforms emerge from it.

Prime goes to the Praxian – Prowl. They exchange conversation that the news crew's cameras cannot pick up from so far away. Especially since they are in fact being urged further from the crash site.

Sideswipe goes straight for the second mech. The two embrace in such a way that leaves little question as to the warrior's identity.

“Definitely Sunstreaker,” their medic confirms loftily.

“Wonderful,” Tracks mutters, a scowl twisting his mouth.

Thundercracker ignores them, his focus is on the last Autobot. On Leadfoot, even now approaching the Decepticon who might be Blitzwing. The camera has the reunion between the two terror twins front and center, but Thundercracker can see Leadfoot off to the side. He prods at Blitzwing with one pede, one hand collapsing into a cannon.

“Is he...?” Wheeljack trails off, as though he doesn't want to voice what all of them already suspect.

“Autobots don't take prisoners,” Ratchet replies, pity and disgust now etched into his tone. “Not anymore.”

A glance is traded between Prime and Leadfoot. Then, there’s a bright burst of weapons fire. Blitzwing's frame jerks and crumples. Leadfoot shifts his weight, repositions his blaster, and fires again. Blitzwing twitches and goes completely still.

The humans don't notice. They are too busy speculating on the relationship between Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, abnormally interested in two robots embracing each other.

Leadfoot nudges Blitzwing with a pede again before he collapses his blaster, seemingly satisfied with his job.

Thundercracker’s cohort can only watch in something like muted horror. Even Drift is visibly disturbed. Much less Wheeljack and Tracks, who haven’t seen their vaunted leader since before the humans even had a formalized writing system.

“You asked me why I didn’t stay with Optimus,” Ratchet puts in quietly, though his words are directed to the room at large. “He isn’t the Prime I pledged my spark to, and the Autobots are not the faction I remember. Not anymore.”

The medic turns away, returning to the medbay portion of the barn, and to tending the hatchlings. He’s closed his energy field off completely, and nobody is at all surprised when Drift rises to follow.

Thundercracker's own tanks churn.

It's war. Mechs die. Cities get destroyed. But not like this.

That was execution, plain and simple. With no evidence of the justice the Autobots used to spout in pointless droves. What happened to Prime's ideals? What happened to the Autobot vision of their future?

Thundercracker holds no illusions about his own faction. It wouldn’t be unusual for the Decepticons to gun an enemy mech down in the midst of war. But even Megatron typically interrogated them first. Attempted to seduce them to his side if only to amuse himself and nothing else.

The war is supposed to be over though. Is that not what Prime continues to tell his troops?

“I can almost believe it to be mercy, considering they no longer have a medic,” Wheeljack offers, optics dim and his field drawn tightly to his frame. “But even I'm not that naïve.”

A roil of emotions brews inside of Thundercracker. His armor clamps down tightly as Skywarp shifts closer to touch his wing. But he can still feel the subsonic hum echoing in his friend’s grasp.

“Fix the Jackhammer,” Thundercracker says then, his hands pulling in and out of fists. “Priority one. If you need something, we'll get it.”

Several pairs of startled optics turn toward him.

“How do you expect to do that?” Tracks asks.

“I'll figure something out. We'll steal it from the humans if we have to.” Thundercracker stares at the television, looking without seeing. “But I'm not staying on this planet any longer than is necessary.”

“Me neither,” Warp bites out beside him, fingers still on his wing. “Else Prime will have all our sparks.”

****