dracoqueen22 | [Bay] War Without End - Skywarp

Title: War Without End – Skywarp
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, background pairings
Desc: Friends. Alllies. Peace. Family. Skywarp never imagined that any of those terms would include an Autobot.

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Skywarp - Part One
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If someone had told him when the war first began, that it would eventually end with Megatron's defeat, Skywarp would have scoffed and then promptly shot the dissenter in the faceplate. With a secondary shot to the spark chamber for good measure.

If another brave spark would’ve added that Optimus Prime would thereafter proceed to lose all trace of sanity and be the catalyst for a true end to the war, Warp would have laughed and laughed and taught that newbie a thing or two about warfare.

He doesn't think anyone could’ve anticipated this.

Autobots and Decepticons and In-Betweens, all living together in a scraped together base on an organic planet where both the natives and their own kind seek to hunt them down and eliminate them. They are refugees and defectors and survivors and so desperate that not a one of them dares even think of hope.

They have wobbly plans that they attack with one optic on the clock and the other on the horizon, waiting for the moment that the great and venerable Optimus Prime tracks them down and arrives with an army. It's an existence that lies on the razor's edge.

It's this edge, Skywarp supposes, that has caused Prowl to organize this discussion. Or as Warp jokingly calls it, a family meeting.

Space is increasingly limited across their so-called base. Nevertheless, every member of their cadre has crowded into the common area of the medbarn. Ratchet has eased their space woes by staying in the med-area where he can hear and take part, but the rest of them are wedged inside.

TC and Dreadwing have snagged the crates, and Drift and Jack are all but snuggled together on the makeshift couch. Tracks is practically sitting in Dreadwing's lap. Skywarp, as the late arrival, got the dubious honor of the rickety stool that threatens to collapse beneath his weight.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Or will fall if this stupid stool has its way.

Prowl, as the organizer of said family meeting, has taken center-stage, content to stand. Of their cohort, and Warp uses the term loosely, Astrotrain is the only one who isn’t invited.

“I'll try to make this brief,” Prowl effectively slices through the murmurs of conversation. “Especially since we have much to do and scant time to work with.”

Thank Primus. If there is one thing Warp has always loathed, it's staff meetings of any kind. Hopefully this one is both the first and the last.

“You have all done well to evade detection so long,” Prowl continues, optics tracking over each and every one of them. “However, we must now change our tactics.”

Skywarp supposes that makes sense. They can't rely on luck and human stupidity forever.

There is a rustle in the medbay partition, however, as Ratchet comes into view and hovers in the entryway. His lipplates are downturned in a frown.

“Prowl, don't tell me--”

“It was my duty, Ratchet,” Prowl cuts in, but his tone is soft. “The plans they have are incomplete but not entirely useless.”

Thundercracker holds up a hand with wings visibly twitching. “Wait a klik. You devised a plan to what? Hunt us down?”

Prowl's chin tilts. “Yes.”

“It's not like we didn't know it would happen,” Drift says, pushing back on the couch as it creaks and groans beneath him. “Prime's not going to let us go in peace.”

“No, he is not,” their leader agrees and some of the rigidity eases out of his posture. “The humans consider all of us a dangerous threat with orders to kill on sight. Even Ratchet.”

Skywarp's not sure who's more surprised, Ratchet himself or everyone else. Medics, especially those that offer themselves with goodwill efforts, are exempt from trigger-happy attacks. Medics are rare and valuable, and Megatron himself would have preferred to capture rather than destroy Ratchet. To seduce him to the cause or at the very least use him as a valuable hostage. He would’ve only resorted to death if all else failed.

Warp wishes he could be more surprised, but he isn’t. Not after knowing what Prime and his Autobots have become. If a Decepticon cannot surrender himself because he faces death, then of course the Autobots would hunt down their own.

“Prime agreed with this?” Ratchet asks, audibly booting his vocalizer as the last emerges on a blip of static.

“I am inclined to understand it was his idea to begin with,” Prowl answers.

A disgusted noise rattles out of Skywarp's vocalizer. “Why are you surprised? You know that Prime's let himself become their lapdog.”

“Yes, but...” Ratchet's shoulders slump. An array of emotions flutter over his faceplates. “I thought… I believed...” He turns away from all of them. “Never mind, I don't know what I believed.” His tread sounds heavy as he disappears behind the partition.

“The Autobot ideal is dead, ashes from the first blow Optimus landed against his Lord High Protector,” Prowl says and there's a twinge of something in his words that hints of a deeper disquiet. “We can expect no mercy.”

Warp flickers his optics as he absorbs that. But it’s the middle part that gets him. Does the tactician really think the Prime's madness began that long ago?

“I am glad,” Tracks voices, a second surprise because the once-Towers mech is quiet at the best of times, “that I have not had to bear witness to how far Optimus has fallen.”

TC cycles a ventilation. “You know the plans you devised, Prowl. What must be changed?”

“Everything.” Prowl’s sensory panels are a rigid configuration against his backstrut. “Patrol routes first and foremost, what few are necessary. Alt-modes, especially for known Autobots. Part of the long-term plan was to involve the public in a search grid, for every Autobot except Ratchet.”

“Why not Ratchet?” Skywarp questions then.

Dreadwing is the one who answers though. “Ratchet is one of the first arrivals,” the large Seeker says, talons drumming his thigh armor. “He's familiar to the humans as an ally. They don't dare tell the public that he's no longer aligned with them. The backlash would only hinder them. Especially after that fiasco in Chicago with Sentinel Prime.”

“Exactly.” Their leader shifts to look at Jack, who twitches under the intense scrutiny. Prowl kind of has that effect on bots. “Wheeljack, you are the only one they will not know or recognize. Everyone else is fair game. Change your alt-mode or your paint scheme or both.”

A series of annoyed grumbling rises up like a wave, words indistinct but the dissatisfaction plainly evident.

“It doesn't matter what color we are,” Warp insists, gesturing to himself then Dreadwing and Thundercracker. “Unless we're on an Air Force base, a couple of jets are going to be noticeable. Why waste the energy?”

“Good point,” TC says. “We'll do our best to keep flights to a minimum.”

Warp slumps. That isn't his intention, but he supposes he'll have to make do. Flying's about the only good thing about this planet.

“Our top priority remains the reconstruction of the Ark,” Prowl continues. “It is our escape route. Second to that are the hatchlings.”

He has slid so effortlessly into this position of leadership. Somehow, for all the added stress it brings, it seems to be relaxing him. Maybe like everyone else, Prowl has spent so long with his fate in someone else's hands that he's leaping at the chance to take control of it himself.

“I'm working on it,” Ratchet grumbles from out of view but obviously not hearing range.

“I know you’re doing the best you can,” Prowl says, raising his vocals to be heard clearly, before addressing the mechs in front of him. “Of the Autobots remaining, the true threat lies in Optimus and the Wreckers.”

“Not the others?” Drift asks, but it is almost like a statement. An assessment.

Prowl shakes his helm. “Bumblebee is rarely on base. Point of fact, I never saw him. Dino is conflicted and spends much of his time alone. Sunstreaker was already questioning Optimus. In time, I am certain he will convince Sideswipe.”

“Do not underestimate the human presence either,” Dreadwing inserts, leaning back and adjusting the weight of Tracks against his side absentmindedly. “They are small, but they are numerous and treacherous.”

“There are good ones,” Prowl comments. “Few and far between, but they are not all insects to be eradicated as Megatron once believed.”

“Lennox, in particular, is risking much to help us,” Ratchet’s voice floats from the med-area in a way that keeps making Warp stifle a laugh.

Prowl inclines his head. “Precisely. Which is why we must redouble our efforts to remain as concealed as possible. We cannot draw attention to ourselves. As soon as the Autobots paint us as a danger, we will have millions of humans watching for us. Discretion is a necessity.”

Warp slouches. That means even less time out flying, more time spent monitoring the satellite feeds and--

“That includes more monitor duty,” Prowl says, and yep, that confirms the sinking sensation in Warp’s tanks. “It is a tedious task, I know, but the humans enjoy broadcasting everything. Television coverage might be our only warning.”

Tracks huffs a ventilation. “If that's the case, then how much longer do we have to hide here? How long until the Ark is fixed?”

“That's not really something I can give a precise estimate for,” Jack answers, indicators flickering a mute array of colors. His fingers twist together as though agitated. “Repairs are coming along, a lot of the infrastructure is stabilizing, but I'm worried about maintaining the hull’s integrity.”

Skywarp shakes his helm. “And I'm not sure we'll be able to replicate or repair the warp generator.”

“So... maybe a few months?” Wheeljack hazards a guess and flicks his optics to Warp who nods.

“Three, probably four, maybe more.” Skywarp lifts and drops his shoulders in a shrug. Humans have such fascinating frame language! “We can be more accurate the closer we get to completion.”

A soft ventilation wheezes out of Prowl's vents. “That is much sooner than I could’ve hoped. In the meantime, we must do our best to avoid notice.”

“Duly noted,” Dreadwing adds, his deep vocals vibrating through the room and making Warp's wings twitch. They always did respond more to sound than anything else. TC likes sound too but all over his frame.

Stars though, for all his prickliness, liked to be touched. It was akin to trying to pet a hungry Sharkticon, but once someone got through, Starscream all but melted. That was a long time ago, however. Long before Lord Megatron, the war, and the huge barrier Stars built between himself and the rest of his trine.

“Is there anything else or can we call this family meeting concluded?” Tracks asks with an askance look at Skywarp that hints of humor.

Warp grins, triumphant. At last, his terms are catching on.

Dreadwing though taps the back of his hand against Tracks' thigh-plate, a light chime of metal on metal that's a chastisement. It’s in actuality more like something a trine leader would use on a misbehaving subordinate.

Curious. Skywarp still hasn't figured why those two are bonded at the wingstrut.

“It's concluded,” Prowl says with a wry tone that's there and gone again so fast Warp might’ve thought he imagined it. Prowl's been the picture of restraint since he joined up with them, but no bot can go through all that he's gone through and silently endure.

There're cracks in that pretty white veneer, and Warp's been standing here wondering what's going to make them shatter all the way through. It's always the quiet ones, he muses to himself. TC's like that. He holds it all in until he can't hold it anymore, and then, he sort of crumbles. It'd always been Skywarp and Starscream dragging him back out, reminding him it's okay to break.

Slag it. Thinking of Stars again. There his processor goes, on another one of those frag-irritating feedback loops. Maybe he should have Ratchet take a look at it.

Their team-cadre-cohort-call it whatever is dispersing now. Prowl's moved off into a corner with Dreadwing, speaking in low tones, and TC is already joining them. Jack's made a quick exit, no doubt to the lab that he's sharing with Warp, and wow, has that been fun. Tracks has pulled out a polishing cloth, no surprise there. And Drift...

Skywarp huffs a ventilation. Well, no bothering Ratchet now. Drift's already making his way into their makeshift medbay, and like frag Warp's going to interrupt that. He's got one of Jack's last cubes of high grade on how long it'll be before the two of them pull their helms out of their afts and stop making big optics at each other.

Warp's inbox pings him. Curious, he opens the datapacket that has Prowl's origin stamped on it, and browses the contents. Whoa. Is he serious?

It's a schedule for monitor duty. He's already drawn one up? Mech sure knows how to work fast. He's over there having a conversation with two others, and meanwhile, his processor is working overtime. Talk about multitiered processing, and Warp knows a thing or two about that. He has to, what with the warping and all. Calculating arrival and departure vectors, pitting it against his velocity. Physics, sometimes, is not Warp's friend.

Tracks must have done the same thing as Skywarp because the Towers bot lets out a low curse. He tosses Prowl an annoyed look, which the tactician ignores with the kind of practice that takes eons. Amused, Warp watches Tracks plop himself down in front of their cobbled-together monitor station. Numerous human televisions sit in a row on a piece of homemade shelving, each tuned to different news channels.

It’s the single most boring and tedious duty of all the duties they've taken up here. Tracks and Drift get the worst of it, Warp notices. Mostly because they don't have any engineering or mechanical experience and aren't quite big enough to wrangle Astrotrain without killing him. Poor mechs.

Skywarp's not due to cycle up to the Ark until later. He and Wheeljack will head up with Dreadwing after sunset. Or whenever Dreadwing finishes his little powwow with Prowl and TC. So he has time to spare, and since the doc is otherwise occupied...

He crosses the floor, pulling up a rickety crate next to Tracks. Might as well make nice with the rest of his cadre, right?

“So,” Warp chirps, trying and failing to make himself comfortable on the creaking wood. “How are you?”

Blue Autobot optics shift briefly to him before returning to the monitors. “I'm not going to answer whatever question is brewing in that processor of yours.”

Warp pouts. “You don't even know what I'm going to ask.”

That earns him a slight huff.

“I have some idea.”

“But you're not sure,” Skywarp points out and tries to watch the screens but more than half are showing weather patterns, the other two are commercials, and the last is depicting the results of a sports game. “It could be an innocent question like what's your favorite high grade? Or probably, for you, your favorite wax?”

A low rumble of laughter echoes from the towerling's chassis. “Nothing with you is ever innocent,” Tracks replies, but his exterior armor smooths down, visibly relaxing. “And I don't like high grade.”

“Why not?” Warp boggles.

Not like high grade? It's the best energon in all the universe. Potent and spiced and burning in his tanks. Skywarp can fly for joors on a good cube of it and never run the risk of depleting his reserves.

“Do I have to have a reason?”

Tracks sounds amused and not offended, at least.

“I suppose not.” Skywarp hums thoughtfully, optics wandering to the much more interesting sight of Prowl and TC and Dreadwing, of whom had gotten awfully chummy recently.

Warp supposes it makes sense. Prowl and TC are a lot alike, quiet and contained, and Dreadwing's much the same. All three of them have been leaders in their own right, and now that Prowl is their commander or whatever, TC's become his lieutenant. And somehow, Dreadwing stepped into the role of TIC.

Not that Warp minds. The less leading he has to do, the better.

Tracks' stool creaks as he leans closer, though he takes great care not to stop watching the monitors.

“Is it just me or have those three been friendly as of late?”

Warp's lipplates curl into a grin, and he swings his gaze back to the towerling. “Isn’t everyone being friendly, all things considered?”

Tracks lifts an orbital ridge, and his pale optics brighten with a rarely seen humor.

“True,” he drawls, “but I'm implying a different sort.”

A chuckle vibrates through Skywarp's chassis. “It's not just you. I've noticed, too.” He pauses, tilting his helm. “That doesn't bother you?”

That earns him a flicker of blue, blue optics. Before they go back to the monitors.

“Should it?”

It’s an unexpectedly soft inquiry. Not sharp like he thought it’d be.

“...Yes?”

But he's not quite sure though. Maybe this will be his chance for Tracks to answer some of those burning questions. Sometimes, ignorance really can pay off.

This time, Tracks looks at him a few seconds longer, but luckily, all the monitors are displaying commercials.

“Why?” His tone is honestly curious. “Because Prowl's an Autobot and Thundercracker's a Decepticon?”

Warp's wings twitch, and he fights to ease them down.

“If that were the case then we're all in the wrong place.” He slouches, lowering his vocals so as not to be overheard. “I meant, you and Dreadwing are kind of... well, I don't know what to call it, but you're something. Right?”

There's a long moment before Tracks laughs, actually laughs out loud. Skywarp's never heard him do that before. Then, Tracks shakes his helm, turning his attention to the monitors. His lips are curved with genuine amusement.

“We are something all right,” he replies, spoiler twitching on his back. “But it isn’t like that. We're not even a trine.”

Well, of course not. Trines, by their definition, require three. Wheeljack's nice and all, but he can't even fly. Of course, they aren't a trine, but Skywarp won't be surprised if they are just a deuce searching for a third. Then again, he and TC and Stars had been a real trine, and they never treated each other like that. Not even in their earliest, closest vorns.

They don't quite act like siblings, and their behavior is better suited to mates, spark-mates at that. But they continuously deny that they are bonded. Jack even vouches that they aren’t.

“It doesn't really matter what you call it,” Tracks continues, stool creaking as he shifts his weight, humor a steady chord in his field. “We are what we are. And if he wants to pursue Thundercracker or Prowl or both of them, it won't bother me.”

Skywarp puzzles over that looks at him for a tic before turning away. Not quite an answer but it'll do, he supposes. Even if it’s not what he wanted to hear.

But then, maybe there are just some things that defy definition.

His optics stray to the command three then, even as Tracks shifts next to him. Dreadwing and TC don’t touch, but their wings are incredibly close. Truly, it’ll be more natural for them to brush. Prowl is further away, but there’s something to the way he stands. To the shift of his body and the manner he holds his helm as he speaks.

Warp glances at Tracks again, and both of them share a smirk.

o0o0o

Second to monitor duty in tedium is data processing.

Warp is lucky. He isn't usually planted in front of their makeshift computer and told to process. He isn't one for being idle. At least with monitor duty, there are five different screens to attract his attention and he can sometimes switch channels to interesting shows when slavedriver Prowl or caretaker Thundercracker aren't looking.

Data processing, however, requires his intense focus on one screen and one topic and one duty. Skywarp isn’t so good at the single-processing focus.

But every once in a while when the others are busy, he's the only one lounging around, and Thundercracker drags him up by a wingtip and plants him in front of their makeshift comm. station. The only plus is that it's relatively private, quiet, and whoever's doing the processing gets the best of the day's outtake of energon. After the hatchlings, of course.

Warp's wings twitch. A finger taps the scroll button as he pages through columns and columns of data. Most of it regards potential candidates for future places to make a home. Planets and moons and everything in between.

He fights back a yawn, yet another excellent example of human body language. Cybertronians don't get tired the same way organics due, but the encroaching boredom can certainly mimic fatigue.

Then, the computer gives a happy chirp.

Warp cycles his optics, dragging his attention to the icon in the corner of his screen. They've a new message on their forum, their contact blog as a matter of point. It's the one Lennox uses to keep them up to date or warn them. It's how they found out about Prowl.

Skywarp taps the icon, bringing up the messaging system. He selects the newest message, skimming the header, and feels his ventilations stall.

He doesn't recognize the sender.

No. Don't panic. It could be spam. It's happened from time to time. No matter how vigilant they are or how confusing those captchas are, occasionally spam gets through.

ArtisticLicense is a lot more legible than the usual spam user-name though. It even addresses Doctor Doom and Cobra Commander. The code names given to Ratchet and Prowl respectively.

Is he safe?

That's it. No other indication of identity. No further queries or statements. Just a three word question.

Warp sits back in his chair, fingers tapping the desk. Then, he activates his comm.

“Uh, TC, I think you better come have a look at this.”

--Why? What's going on?--

His trinemate tries and fails to conceal his worry. He can all but hear the stress building in Thundercracker's processor, and the other Seeker has probably launched himself out of his seat and his meeting with Prowl.

“I honestly don't know,” Skywarp replies, staring at the screen and the message and wondering how long they have before Prime is on their doorstep with an army.

--What do you mean “you don't know”?--

And that, friends, is Prowl He sounds more tightly wound than a quantum coil as he impolitely barges into the private conversation between trinemates. Though, in all fairness, this is probably a discussion he should be involved in.

“I mean that I don't know how to interpret this,” Warp responds just as the sound of heavy treads echoes in the main room of the barn. “Thus the reason I asked you to come look.”

The curtain that served as a doorway swishes open, and Prowl slides inside first with TC lingering in the background. There is only so much room in their improvised cubicle after all.

Frag, there is only so much room in their entire base. Even with the addition of the Jackhammer.

“Gee,” Warp drawls, pushing back from the console so that one or the other could see for themselves. “I hope I didn't interrupt anything.”

They both ignore him.

Prowl approaches the console first. He leans closer and skims the screen.

“It isn’t Lennox,” he says, like Skywarp couldn't have figured that out himself. “Have we been compromised?”

TC folds his arms. “We would know by now if we had, yes?”

“Not necessarily. They may be trying to gain our trust in order to learn where we are hiding,” their leader replies and leans back, optics cycling down as he contemplates.

“You think Lennox betrayed us?” Warp questions.

“I think that a man with a family to protect might have little options otherwise,” TC retorts and his frown deepens. “Or… we could aim at optimism and assume it is an ally.”

“Optimism.” Skywarp scoffs, looking at his trinemate as though he’s a stranger. “Since when have we ever relied on something that foolish?”

“Artistic license,” Prowl murmurs to himself and his field goes flat and still. His optics dim and cycle so narrow it's as though he's about to drop into recharge.

Both TC and Warp look at him, the former with expectation, and Skywarp himself with confusion. Sometimes, Prowl goes into his own helm, and it takes a lot to drag him out, more effort than Warp is usually willing to give. Which is why he sort of thrusts the tactician in TC's direction and makes a hasty escape.

This time at least, the distraction is not based on melancholy but contemplation.

“What?” TC all but demands, and yet, his tone is somehow soft and searching.

“Sunstreaker.”

It’s a murmur. Almost wondering.

Skywarp resets his audials. He's no master of one-word dialogue exchanges.

“What about him?”

“It's Sunstreaker,” Prowl clarifies and leans closer to the screen as though that will change the content. “ArtisticLicense is Sunstreaker.”

His fingers reach for the keyboard, keying in a succinct message so swiftly that Warp doesn’t even finish reading before Prowl hits send. The computer makes a whooshing noise as the message vanishes into cyberspace, off to its intended recipient.

“How do you know?” TC questions, and there is an edge to his voice.

“I simply do.”

Prowl straightens. Something like a smile curves his lips before it dies as quickly as it appeared. Melancholy swirls around him in near-visible tendrils.

“You can call it a calculation, if you wish. One with favorable results.”

TC makes a humming noise. Warp keeps his silence. He isn't sure what to think except that Prowl and Sunstreaker must have been very close.

But then, he and TC had once been close with Starscream.

“Then we have an ally?” TC proposes.

Prowl offers a minute inclination of his helm, but his sensory panels give him away with an almost eager wiggle.

“Yes. One that can give us even greater insight into the Autobots.”

The Autobots.

Not his friends. Not his allies. Not Prime and his allies… but the Autobots, as though Prowl considers himself separate from that title. A distant address. Like a former acquaintance who is only vaguely recalled.

Skywarp glances at TC and wonders if his trinemate has noticed that distinction. Though whether or not it is a good thing remains to be seen.

***
On to Part Two