[Bay] War Without End - Sunstreaker - Pt I
Jun. 2nd, 2014 10:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: I know I said that I was going to post Drift next but as it turns out, the story flows much better if you read Sunstreaker's part first. I hope you enjoy! We're sliding toward the end now.
Title: War Without End – Sunstreaker Part I
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Optimus Prime, Charlotte Mearing, Dino, Will Lennox, Leadfoot
Rating: T
Warnings: mentions of character death, angst/mourning, some language, canon typical violence,
Desc: This Optimus Prime is not the same one Sunstreaker offered his blade.
He’s being watched.
Sunstreaker has no proof, but there's an itching sensation between his shoulder blades. His battle routines cycle up constantly before he has to force them back down.
The squishies watch him all the time. Sunstreaker's gotten used to their stares, their undisguised loathing. He's not afraid of a bunch of organics barely taller than his ankle servo. Their surveillance means nothing to him.
No, it’s the other looks that bother him. Ones Cybertronian in nature.
It’s Optimus Prime. It’s the flat shade of his optics and the absent scratching of blunt fingers at the seam of his chestplate.
Alarm bells shriek in Sunstreaker's processor. His instincts react with defensive subroutines. He is afraid for the first time in a long time and Sunstreaker doesn't dare turn his back for fear of the energon blade that might pierce it.
He’d realized within the first few minutes of reuniting with Prime that something was off. How Sideswipe hadn't recognized it, he still doesn’t know. But Sunstreaker had seen it immediately.
How could he not?
It's the same imbalance that had made the past vorns wandering in space that much more unbearable. He'd missed Sideswipe. Ached with his separation in such a way that words and explanations cannot qualify. Even now, with them reunited, he isn’t rebalanced. They are too different. It will take time for them to equalize.
But Prime's brother is dead, slain by his own hand, and there's no precedent for the effect that sort of thing has on a mech's stability. Then again, Sunstreaker believes this volatility has been around a lot longer than the battle in Chicago.
He doesn't know why Sideswipe is being an idiot either. Why he clings to this farce. This Optimus Prime is not the same one Sunstreaker offered his blade. This is a shadow in a mech's body, rambling aimlessly around their base, staring off at nothing with unfocused optics
He's creepy is what he is. And somehow, Sunstreaker's the only one still around who recognizes it.
What the frag does Prime do all day?
He wanders around, looking lost. Aimlessly moving from one place to another without real direction or cause. Shifting from one part of their base to another without true destination or reason.
It's rather like watching an Empty prowl the ruins of Cybertron.
Sunstreaker shudders.
Everything has changed. Nothing has stayed the same. Not even hunting down ‘Cons, which seems to be the only task Mearing feels Sunstreaker is capable of handling.
What they hunt are worn, famished mechs scrounging on the edge of humanity for a drop of energy. The more time passes, the more they encounter frames better described as Empty. The last one had lunged at Sunstreaker, optics nearly grey with under-charge, claws reaching to rend and tear.
It hadn't been a challenge. It felt like mercy to plunge his blade into the mech's chassis, especially when coolant and hydraulic fluid are all that spill out. Energon is so bare as to be nonexistent.
To Sunstreaker, who spent most of his functioning in the pits of Kaon, it doesn't feel right. It feels a lot less like war and a lot more like extermination.
He should’ve gone with Prowl.
But he can’t leave his brother behind. Not again.
Recharge, he thinks, is the worst part. Corralled into bays, given no privacy, with the noise of the humans and their machinery surrounding him. It’s no wonder Sunstreaker is often struck with purges. He recharges restlessly, can’t cycle down completely, and onlines with a burst into battle readiness.
He doesn’t feel safe here. There’s no one to guard his recharge, and Sunstreaker feels like a fool for even thinking about it. Sides is assigned a bay on the other side of the warehouse, so he couldn't co-recharge with his twin even if he wanted to. Sunstreaker feels that distance keenly, like a chasm that can’t be crossed, and he might as well have never found his brother at all for as little time as they spend together.
He should be used to recharging alone. He blames Hound for that though. Hound and Prowl both.
Once upon a time, he had recharged on a berth, encased by silence, and forced himself into shut down. More recently, he had rested to the sound of Prowl's steady ventilations and Hound's more labored ones. The noise of a rickety ship in motion soothed him. The feel of familiar energy fields had surrounded him, and sometimes, in his more banal moments, Sunstreaker felt safe.
That time is long gone. Safety, Sunstreaker realizes, is an illusion. A lie.
By Primus, he misses Hound. Misses his voice. The glow of his optics. The feel of gentle fingers on his arm that grew bolder as time passed.
He just misses Hound.
All of him. Everything about him.
His belief that the war would end. That things could be better. That the two of them wouldn’t have to do or be anything that they didn’t wish.
It wouldn’t be this bad if Prowl hadn't gone. If that warmth and familiarity was still here. And Sunstreaker knows he could’ve gone, too. Could’ve followed. But he’d stayed to be with his brother, and somehow, he feels more alone than ever.
Sideswipe is far more a stranger to him now than Prowl or Hound had ever been. Sunstreaker doesn't know who to loathe for that realization. Should he blame Prime for the distance between himself and his twin? The war? Megatron?
Himself?
Sideswipe is half his spark. Sunstreaker wonders if that isn’t enough anymore.
He hurts. He aches, and he can't show it, can't explain it. The crawl in his plating worsens with every passing week. He finds himself patrolling the edges of what is considered their base, staring longingly into the distance. He wonders how hard it could possibly be to find Prowl and Ratchet and the others.
He can't leave Sideswipe.
He can’t stay either.
He needs to find Prowl.
He needs to stay with Sideswipe.
The coding conflicts drive him to exhaustion.
And still, he can feel the optics watching him.
o0o0o
Dino hits the ground with a solid thud and skids several feet away, kicking up clouds of dust with a horrendous screech of metal against stone. Sunstreaker grins, triumphant. He lowers his blades as the once-noble spits a curse and labors to his pedes.
This is their second spar of the day, and it’s ended in much the same manner as the first. With Dino on his back and Sunstreaker victorious. The sparkling's got a lot to learn if he thinks he's going to be able to stand against Sunstreaker and not end up flat.
“That was a cheap move,” Dino says, swiping the back of his hand against his faceplate, flicking away a few droplets of energon.
Sunstreaker arches an orbital ridge and wheels around the other mech. “When it comes to surviving and war, there's no such thing as a cheap shot. There's just surviving and doing whatever it takes to stay that way.”
“And what of honor?” Dust coats red armor as Dino manages to clamber upright, but he favors one leg.
From the sidelines, Sides scoffs. “You think a mech in the Pits is going to bother with honor when he's stabbing you in the back for a cube of Energon? You think the 'Cons care?”
The look Dino gives Sideswipe is only a few degrees warmer than Prowl's famous glare of doom. Though of course, Prowl's is far more intimidating. Prowl is a mech to respect. Dino, not so much.
“I think that our whole species could do with a lesson in honor,” Dino retorts, trying to ease the kink out of his leg. He has yet to reach for his blades.
Sunstreaker sighs to himself. There's no one of any worth to spar on this base. He and Sideswipe are too evenly matched, and though his twin has picked up a few new tricks, there is still little challenge.
“Honor is not going to teach you how to wield that,” Sunstreaker says, gesturing to Dino's weapon with the flat of his own. “It’s taking me far greater concentration to keep from harming you than it is to keep from getting harmed in return.”
Anger blossoms in Dino's field. His hands curl into fists.
“Perhaps a more skilled opponent would prove a greater challenge.”
Sunstreaker's optics cycle wider, and he slowly spins his wheels. He turns around to find Optimus Prime stepping into the crudely drawn circle. The mech is almost twice his height, looms without trying, but he is a challenge.
For the first time, it’s one Sunstreaker isn’t certain he wants to accept. Eons before, he would’ve leapt at an opportunity to face down Prime, test his mettle against the mech who leads them. It would’ve been the ultimate challenge.
Here and now, he hesitates.
Dino, of course, takes the opportunity to bow and scuttle away. Or so Sunstreaker's sensors inform him. He retreats to a safe distance beside Sides, content to watch. The scores in his plating are a testament to his need for greater training.
Sunstreaker's blades return to their sheaths. “I didn’t think you had time for casual sparring, sir,” he says. But it’s really a buy for time.
To Prime, he’d be polite. Something in his spark tells him it’s better to do so. Mearing, however, can go lick rusted slag for all Sunstreaker cares.
“You aren’t the average soldier,” Prime replies, and his face is unreadable behind his mask. “I’ve learned Sideswipe's tricks. I am interested in yours.”
They begin to draw a crowd, human and bot alike. Sunstreaker's pride won’t let him back down, though his hackles raise in accurate threat assessment. He hasn’t seen his leader fight since arriving on Earth, but he has viewed the vids of the Prime's previous battles. That he has only grown more vicious over time puts a tremor of worry through Sunstreaker's logic circuit.
“Terms?” Sunstreaker asks and mentally weighs the odds.
He’s faster than Prime and more agile. Prime, however, has the mass and the height advantage. As well as sheer power. Sunstreaker has learned to attack foes bigger than himself, but it’s always easier to take down a Decepticon. They are predictable. Prime is not.
“As we have no fully trained medic, cosmetic damage only,” Prime says.
Sunstreaker nods. “Close-range attacks. No blasters.”
One hit from that cannon his leader calls a blaster and Sunstreaker's shields will be history. Not to mention a limb or two.
“Acceptable.” Prime draws a sword from where it’s attached to his back, and the blade is easily the length of Sunstreaker's arm. “The first to yield concedes defeat.”
With a reluctance that surprises even himself, Sunstreaker unsheathes his weapon again.
“Agreed, sir.”
Sunstreaker slides into a defensive stance, swords at the ready. His gaze tracks Prime’s every move as blue optics never deviate from his own frame.
“Sides,” Sunstreaker calls, cycling a ventilation. “Call the match.”
If there is tension in his vocals, he pretends he can't hear it. So does his twin.
“Sure thing.”
His brother stands off to the side, spaced between them but not in the way. “Now I want to see a clean fight,” he says to the amusement of no one. “No tricks. No treats. Just good, clean fun.”
“Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker warns.
Sides effects an exaggerated sigh. “You take the fun out of everything,” he comments but gestures for the match to begin.
Sunstreaker expects to be forced to make the first move. Prime has always been a defensive fighter who only attacks when necessary. He rarely, if ever, goes for the offensive strike.
Clearly, the millennia have changed him in more aspects than Sunstreaker was aware.
Prime lunges, moving faster than anyone can expect of such a large frame. His blade whips through the air. Sunstreaker bursts into motion, wheels replacing pedes and kicking up a cloud of dust as he moves. The sword whistles through the air, inches from Sunstreaker's helm. His spark throbs with shock, defense protocols snapping into place with a speed that almost hurts.
Sunstreaker whirls, dropping down, trying to get in under Prime’s reach, aiming for the thicker gaps at his waist. He hears nothing but the sound of his systems, of Prime’s louder ventilations, the sharp snap of a battlemask.
Pain.
What the frag!
Sunstreaker grits his denta, throws himself to the side, limps on a leg that doesn't want to fully support his weight. Agony burns through his hip, and energon slicks down his side.
This is a spar! Sunstreaker wants to yell.
“My apologies,” Prime offers as they separate. He doesn’t sounding sorry at all. Not as Sunstreaker's energon and paint cling to the tip of his blade. “I misjudged the distance.”
Sunstreaker regards his Prime coolly. “I've had worse.”
He speeds forward, swords raised, and he clashes with Prime in a loud ring of metal. He uses both of them, crossed, to bear against Prime's single assault. But he feels his arm servos creak under the pressure.
Prime's field is that thick, sticky buzz of wrongness. Sunstreaker’s tanks roil. He pushes back, feints left, and hits the ground, rolling on his shoulder to come up behind his opponent.
Prime whirls, and their blades once again clash. This time, they don't lock, and Sunstreaker plants his pedes, trying not to lose ground against the rapid flurry of blows. Each strike feels like it reverberates through his frame, rattling joints and fastenings that haven't seen a real medic in millennia.
He's outmatched.
The realization strikes Sunstreaker the same moment that Prime breaks rhythm and shoves him back with a particularly powerful hit. He stumbles, catches himself, and throws his frame to the left, just to avoid the follow-up strike.
Sunstreaker hasn't been in a real battle for a long time. Blitzwing hadn't been an opponent. Taking him down was an act of mercy. These half-starved Decepticons hiding around Earth? Just like fighting newly-spawned hatchlings.
He's gotten complacent. Too complacent.
And Prime has lost his restraint.
A sword slices through the air. Sunstreaker dodges, cycling a rapid ventilation, swinging a desperate blow in return.
Prime knocks it aside, swats at him with a massive fist, and Sunstreaker absorbs the backhand to the face, pain blossoming. His optics glitch. He sways, and instinct sends him to the ground, rolling away from the next attack. He's getting dirt all over his armor, but frag it, Sunstreaker's worried more about keeping his spark intact at this point.
He rolls and dodges to meet Prime’s blade. The impact reverberates up his arm. The sight of his sword shearing right off and flying through the air sends a cold chill dancing down his backstrut. He doesn't have the moment to mourn its loss, not when his opponent is pressing his advantage, coming at Sunstreaker as though he's a Decepticon on the rampage.
He blocks the first strike with his remaining blade, ducks forward, sliding under the next swing. He jabs the broken end of his sword at Prime, scoring armor, and Prime is quick to retaliate.
The elbow slams into Sunstreaker's chestplate, right at the hinge of two plates, and throws him backward. There's no time to catch himself, and Sunstreaker hits the ground hard, gyros reeling, something in his shoulder going crack. His ventilations stutter.
Helm spinning, Sunstreaker tries to push himself upright, but his frame is rattling and there's pain in his chassis like something's broken off. He tastes and smells energon, and an energy field washes over him like the punch of a hundred vibroblades.
Pedefalls vibrate the ground. His protocols shout warnings at him. Sunstreaker's helm jerks up, optics snapping into focus.
He sees the blade, sees it cut through the air, sensors picking up the displacement. He sees its speed increase, the intense focus in Prime’s optics. His spark strobes fear. He isn't fast enough to block it, not with his shoulder giving him errors and his knee wobbling and his confidence shattered.
“I yield!” Sunstreaker shouts and retracts his undamaged blade. Praying to the Primus he doesn't believe in that his words will penetrate.
The sword stops an inch from his chestplate and the dent caused by Optimus' elbow.
“I yield,” Sunstreaker repeats, and he dips his helm, a show of concession.
It galls him to his very core. The humiliation burns. His tanks churn.
The sword falls away. Achingly slow to Sunstreaker's perceptions.
“Very well,” states Prime, and his tone is neither conciliatory nor humored. He cycles his optics, a slow reset, and harsh whine of defensive routines powering down seems over-loud in the ensuing silence. “You are a good challenge, Sunstreaker.”
“And you as well, Prime,” Sunstreaker manages, and perhaps his tone holds a waver. Perhaps not.
He wants to stand, to brush the mud from his armor, to retrieve the remains of his blade. But he fears that if he moves… or even twitches that his yield will mean nothing to his Prime.
Something passes through Prime’s optics. Something that Sunstreaker can't name. Then, the Prime's battlemask slides aside. He reaches down, offering Sunstreaker a hand. And that discordant energy field reaches out with him.
He almost can't bring himself to accept the help, but he forces his own hand to take Prime's, biting back the disgust as their fields collide. Prime hauls him to his pedes and Sunstreaker lets go, eager to put distance between them.
“Good spar,” his leader offers. “Same time next week?”
“Yes, sir,” Sunstreaker replies and wonders the consequences of declining. “Sounds good.”
Applause and cheering erupts in the crowd around them, Roadbuster and Topspin especially congratulating their Prime on his victory. Dino approves. Sunstreaker refuses to meet any of their optics, choosing instead to hunt down his damaged blade and reclaim it. His hip aches. He needs a trip to the washracks, and he wants to scrub down his hand. Prime's field lingers around him, as though clinging to his frame like old energon.
Sunstreaker shudders.
They don't have a medic. He doesn't have anyone to fix the sword. Thank Primus the war is over.
The clamor behind him fades away. No one comments on his escape, though Sunstreaker can feel that he’s being watched. That sensation never goes away, no matter how far from the Pits he's crawled or how long the war's been done.
The sound of wheels over gravel follows after him. He only needs one guess to know it’s his brother. A frown twists Sideswipe's lips, his field a quiet flurry around him.
“What was that?” Sides questions now that they are out of direct sensor range from the others.
Sunstreaker doesn't turn, concentrating instead on finding a place to rest. He thinks that last blow might’ve pinched something in his hip. There's a sharp pain every time he swings his right leg forward.
“Prime's improved,” Sunstreaker replies, locating a partially demolished building with a pile of stones that should serve his purpose. “There's no shame in losing to a Prime. Or so I've been told.”
Sideswipe snorts. “Slag. That wasn't losing to Prime. That was handing him the victory.”
Sunstreaker lowers himself down and finally looks up at his twin. “You said it so it must be true.”
Sideswipe skates around him in circles, kicking up dust.
“You never yield.” His tone is thick with suspicion.
“He would’ve killed me if I hadn't.”
Sideswipe rolls his optics, another mannerism he's picked up from the humans. But that’s not what makes Sunstreaker’s spark sink in his chest. It’s the disbelief that follows.
“C'mon, Sunny,” his brother scoffs. “It's Prime.”
Sunstreaker gives him a searching if sour look, but he doesn’t like what he finds.
“No, it isn't. Not anymore.”
He tries not to remember the look in their leader’s optics. Tries not to feel that harsh trickle of their fields brushing.
He fails.
“That wasn’t Prime,” Sunstreaker bites out, and his voice is pitched low with both revulsion and something a lot like fear. “I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t our Prime. And he would’ve killed me if I hadn’t surrendered.”
He can feel Sideswipe staring at him, but Sunstreaker doesn’t dare glance up. He’s already on the edge here. He’s already close to saying thing that will get both of them hunted down and slaughtered if they’re overheard, and he can’t quite take that risk.
And Sides… his brother, his twin, his spark… stands next to him. Hovering just within his field. Brushing softly against him. Soothing by just existing. Reaching for him.
But then, like Sides has been doing ever since Sunstreaker arrived and quite probably before that, his brother ignores the nasty truth staring him in the face. Instead, he settles for the more pleasant lie.
Sides pulls away before they even truly touch.
“You know what I think?”
He doesn't respond. Instead, Sunstreaker examines the jagged end of his sword.
“I think you're just looking for an excuse.”
Sunstreaker jerks up his head. “For what?”
“So that you can leave. Abandon the Autobots as surely as Ratchet and Prowl did.” Sides crosses his arms, faceplate unreadable.
Sunstreaker wants to laugh. To scream. To turn back time. Turn their fragging ship around and take Prowl and Hound elsewhere.
Trust his brother to stand between damnation and salvation before stumbling over to the third option. Ignoring both entirely.
Sunstreaker can only let out a slow ventilation.
“I'd take you with me,” he says in place of screaming.
Sideswipe stomps the ground. Agitation makes his plating clatter, his energy field a disordered mess.
“Frag, Sunny. That's not my point.”
Ironic since he hadn’t gotten Sunstreaker’s point at all.
“I know it's not,” the golden twin manages and forces down all the terrible other things he really wants to say.
Sides huffs out of frustration. His gaze wanders away to a point over Sunstreaker's shoulder.
Which is the only reason he doesn’t see that gleam of agony to his brother’s optics.
“Why didn't you leave with him?”
Sunstreaker's vision cycles outward, betraying his surprise. His spark lurches in his chassis. He climbs to his pedes, unbroken blade retracting.
“I can't believe you're even asking me that.”
There’s anger in his voice now. A flicker of rage has replaced the dread.
“If I already knew the answer, I wouldn't need to ask,” Sides retorts, head swinging to face Sunstreaker directly. “But I don't because I don't know you anymore.”
That’s the long and short of it. Isn’t it?
They’re twins but strangers now. Sideswipe of old wouldn’t need to ask. Wouldn’t have missed all the things his brother can’t say.
Sunstreaker lets in a ventilation and reaches for a glimmer of composure that is all Hound and none of himself.
“Mechs change.”
Something flickers in Sides' field before he draws it back.
“Yeah,” he says tightly, visibly working his intakes. “They do.”
Sunstreaker looks at him, and all he can think is how desperately he wishes both Hound and Prowl were here. Prowl because he’d know what to do. Hound because he’d know what to say.
But one is dead and the other is a world away.
“Sides,” he whispers.
“You should’ve just gone with him, Sunny,” Sideswipe states in a low tone, so unfamiliar that it aches. “You obviously don't know me anymore. Don’t need me anymore.”
He whirls on a pede then, smooth and agile. He wheels away with a speed few knew him capable of.
Sunstreaker's spark constricts. “Sides!”
His twin doesn’t pause. Not even to look over his shoulder. He becomes a silver gleam in the distance, disappearing into the cluttered maze of buildings that comprises their home base.
Sunstreaker doesn't give chase. He never has before.
He's not some forlorn lover. It's just one of Sides’ usual tantrums. He'll get over it.
Besides, he needs the silence that follows. To bow his helm and concentrate on his spark. To watch his hands clench in and out of fists. To convince himself that how deeply he hadn't been afraid.
o0o0o
Another day, another Decepticon sighting.
It's just he and Dino this time, trudging through the thick underbrush in South America. Sunstreaker hadn't known he could hate an ecosystem as much as he hated the jungle. Between the humidity, the insects crawling beneath his plates, the swampy mud squelching in his pedes, and the vegetation, he is thoroughly disgusted.
It doesn't help that the 'Con is small and stripped down to his protoform, difficult to see in the murk and undergrowth. It feels like a very boring game, and Sunstreaker can't decide if he'd rather linger around here hunting this mech or go back to Chicago and all the tension.
Not to mention, the humans are getting twitchy, too. They keep wandering further and further from Sunstreaker, guns swinging toward each rustle in the bushes.
--Any signs of him?-- Dino asks, the message coming across their private comm, one the Decepticon shouldn't be able to crack.
Pfft. The slagging 'Con's halfway to Empty, Sunstreaker bets. Especially to be so desperate to try swigging that pitslag the humans call fuel.
--No.-- Sunstreaker sneers, though Dino can't see him. The other mech is about fifty feet away, nothing but a smear of red peeking through the foliage. --And I'm no tracker.--
That’s Hound's job. He’s their scout, their tracker, the one who can make himself invisible, find energon, conceal them from enemies. He's the one who found their ragged ship and made it possible for them to escape that desolate moon.
And then, a Decepticon got off a lucky shot.
Sunstreaker made him pay for that mistake, but it hadn't fixed the damage. It hadn't been enough to turn back time, stop the blaster from punching through Hound's spark chamber, melted slag corrupting the delicate spark energies within. They'd tried. Oh, how he and Prowl had tried to put their third back together.
They had welded him, fed him all the best energon, used bandage after bandage, consulted whatever manner of data was available in the ship's databanks. But Prowl only knew as much as he'd been given in emergency first response as an Enforcer, and the Pits never bothered with repairs. You either survived the battle and healed on your own, or you offlined.
--I've found something.--
Sunstreaker turns his helm as sensors seek Dino. --You?--
A moment of silence passes between them. Dino's position lights up on Sunstreaker's HUD.
--There was a time when Hound was like a brother to me,-- comes the soft reply, a strange glyph accompanying the admission.
He has no response for that and falls into silence instead. Sunstreaker gestures to his human accompaniment and works his way through the underbrush to where Dino waits. The red mech is crouching over something, his own team of humans arrayed around him.
Sunstreaker can't help but feel like this is overkill for one sad Decepticon.
“What is it?” Sunstreaker questions, careful to keep his vocals no louder than the barest minimum.
Dino gestures, and Sunstreaker sees it, the splatter of energon on the ground, sludgy though it might be. One of their earlier shots must’ve scored.
“I'm surprised he's capable of motion,” Dino admits and frowns as he drags one finger through the sludge, as if testing the consistency. “He has to be running on reserves alone.”
Sunstreaker inclines his helm. “Which way, do you think?”
Dino pushes to his pedes. His optics scan the underbrush, concentration evident on his faceplate.
“East. There's a ravine. Suitable cover.”
“Our detectors are malfunctioning,” offers one of their human soldiers. “We can’t really say.”
“We don't need your equipment anyway. We've been tracking and fighting ‘Cons before your kind crawled out of that organic soup,” Sunstreaker mutters and rises to his own full height.
Dino tosses him a look that in some universes would be considered chastising. If Sunstreaker cared.
--You could hide your disdain a little better.--
--What's the point?-- It takes effort to restrain his sneer. --They don't like me any more than I like them.--
--We're allies.--
Contempt rises in Sunstreaker's field before he can tamp it down. --By whose definition? Certainly not mine.-- He moves forward, taking point. --Allies wouldn't have left Hound to his fate.--
Allies wouldn't intend to send Hound to rust and rot at the bottom of some ocean. He deserves better than that. He deserves to live. If anyone should’ve taken that shot, it should’ve been Sunstreaker!
--Ratchet is the one who left,-- Dino cuts in, and his tone is icy. --I don't see you blaming him.--
Sunstreaker doesn’t even bother glaring.
--Maybe Ratchet had the right idea,-- he says, but it’s more to himself.
A hand on his arm draws Sunstreaker up short, and Dino's optics cycle down.
--What do you mean?--
Even through the comm, Sunstreaker can feel the chill. But he’s spent far too much time with Prowl to be intimidated by a frosty demeanor.
--Exactly what it sounds like.-- Sunstreaker removes Dino's hand as politely as he can given the situation. Which is better than Dino deserves.
--Ratchet abandoned us,-- the red mech bites out.
Sunstreaker can’t stop himself. --Is that what you think?--
An expression crosses Dino's faceplate, one that Sunstreaker hasn't seen before. They've stopped walking, attracting the attention of their human companions. But clearly, this is something Dino's been wanting to say for a long time.
“It's what I know,” Dino snarls, thankfully in Cybertronian. “He took off with the ‘Cons and left us to our fate. He betrayed all of us.”
“Ratchet did what he had to do,” Sunstreaker retorts, though he can't claim to know what their medic was thinking. He can guess, considering what he's witnessed here, but he can't presume to know.
“And Hound died because of him!” Pure rage slaps Sunstreaker in the face, so thick in Dino's voice that it crackles his vocalizer. “If he'd been here, we could’ve saved him. But he wasn't because he's a selfish fragger who doesn't care about anyone but himself.”
Dino whirls on a heel, stalking into the forest ahead of Sunstreaker and the humans, half of whom scramble to follow. It's for the better, Sunstreaker thinks, because he honestly has no response to that. He can't defend Ratchet, not without betraying his own interests to someone who would turn him in.
“Sunstreaker?”
One of the humans, he hasn't bothered to learn their names, looks up at him. There’s a mixture of confusion and suspicion.
“He’s just being difficult,” Sunstreaker snaps and flicks his hand in the direction Dino had gone. “We've got a ‘Con to catch. Snap to it.”
They grumble about that, but at least they listen, and Sunstreaker brings up the rear. Hunting this Decepticon now holds little appeal for him. He'll let Dino and the humans do what they must, and he'll offer himself as back up if needed.
Nothing more, nothing less.
****
a/n: One more part and then Sunstreaker will have had his say. I'm thinking Bumblebee will come up next to keep this story rolling. Then Drift. Then Sideswipe. Then the epilogue. I actually just put the final touch to Sideswipe's and all I have left is editing and polishing. Phew. Just in time, too.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated! Go enjoy part two!
Title: War Without End – Sunstreaker Part I
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Optimus Prime, Charlotte Mearing, Dino, Will Lennox, Leadfoot
Rating: T
Warnings: mentions of character death, angst/mourning, some language, canon typical violence,
Desc: This Optimus Prime is not the same one Sunstreaker offered his blade.
He’s being watched.
Sunstreaker has no proof, but there's an itching sensation between his shoulder blades. His battle routines cycle up constantly before he has to force them back down.
The squishies watch him all the time. Sunstreaker's gotten used to their stares, their undisguised loathing. He's not afraid of a bunch of organics barely taller than his ankle servo. Their surveillance means nothing to him.
No, it’s the other looks that bother him. Ones Cybertronian in nature.
It’s Optimus Prime. It’s the flat shade of his optics and the absent scratching of blunt fingers at the seam of his chestplate.
Alarm bells shriek in Sunstreaker's processor. His instincts react with defensive subroutines. He is afraid for the first time in a long time and Sunstreaker doesn't dare turn his back for fear of the energon blade that might pierce it.
He’d realized within the first few minutes of reuniting with Prime that something was off. How Sideswipe hadn't recognized it, he still doesn’t know. But Sunstreaker had seen it immediately.
How could he not?
It's the same imbalance that had made the past vorns wandering in space that much more unbearable. He'd missed Sideswipe. Ached with his separation in such a way that words and explanations cannot qualify. Even now, with them reunited, he isn’t rebalanced. They are too different. It will take time for them to equalize.
But Prime's brother is dead, slain by his own hand, and there's no precedent for the effect that sort of thing has on a mech's stability. Then again, Sunstreaker believes this volatility has been around a lot longer than the battle in Chicago.
He doesn't know why Sideswipe is being an idiot either. Why he clings to this farce. This Optimus Prime is not the same one Sunstreaker offered his blade. This is a shadow in a mech's body, rambling aimlessly around their base, staring off at nothing with unfocused optics
He's creepy is what he is. And somehow, Sunstreaker's the only one still around who recognizes it.
What the frag does Prime do all day?
He wanders around, looking lost. Aimlessly moving from one place to another without real direction or cause. Shifting from one part of their base to another without true destination or reason.
It's rather like watching an Empty prowl the ruins of Cybertron.
Sunstreaker shudders.
Everything has changed. Nothing has stayed the same. Not even hunting down ‘Cons, which seems to be the only task Mearing feels Sunstreaker is capable of handling.
What they hunt are worn, famished mechs scrounging on the edge of humanity for a drop of energy. The more time passes, the more they encounter frames better described as Empty. The last one had lunged at Sunstreaker, optics nearly grey with under-charge, claws reaching to rend and tear.
It hadn't been a challenge. It felt like mercy to plunge his blade into the mech's chassis, especially when coolant and hydraulic fluid are all that spill out. Energon is so bare as to be nonexistent.
To Sunstreaker, who spent most of his functioning in the pits of Kaon, it doesn't feel right. It feels a lot less like war and a lot more like extermination.
He should’ve gone with Prowl.
But he can’t leave his brother behind. Not again.
Recharge, he thinks, is the worst part. Corralled into bays, given no privacy, with the noise of the humans and their machinery surrounding him. It’s no wonder Sunstreaker is often struck with purges. He recharges restlessly, can’t cycle down completely, and onlines with a burst into battle readiness.
He doesn’t feel safe here. There’s no one to guard his recharge, and Sunstreaker feels like a fool for even thinking about it. Sides is assigned a bay on the other side of the warehouse, so he couldn't co-recharge with his twin even if he wanted to. Sunstreaker feels that distance keenly, like a chasm that can’t be crossed, and he might as well have never found his brother at all for as little time as they spend together.
He should be used to recharging alone. He blames Hound for that though. Hound and Prowl both.
Once upon a time, he had recharged on a berth, encased by silence, and forced himself into shut down. More recently, he had rested to the sound of Prowl's steady ventilations and Hound's more labored ones. The noise of a rickety ship in motion soothed him. The feel of familiar energy fields had surrounded him, and sometimes, in his more banal moments, Sunstreaker felt safe.
That time is long gone. Safety, Sunstreaker realizes, is an illusion. A lie.
By Primus, he misses Hound. Misses his voice. The glow of his optics. The feel of gentle fingers on his arm that grew bolder as time passed.
He just misses Hound.
All of him. Everything about him.
His belief that the war would end. That things could be better. That the two of them wouldn’t have to do or be anything that they didn’t wish.
It wouldn’t be this bad if Prowl hadn't gone. If that warmth and familiarity was still here. And Sunstreaker knows he could’ve gone, too. Could’ve followed. But he’d stayed to be with his brother, and somehow, he feels more alone than ever.
Sideswipe is far more a stranger to him now than Prowl or Hound had ever been. Sunstreaker doesn't know who to loathe for that realization. Should he blame Prime for the distance between himself and his twin? The war? Megatron?
Himself?
Sideswipe is half his spark. Sunstreaker wonders if that isn’t enough anymore.
He hurts. He aches, and he can't show it, can't explain it. The crawl in his plating worsens with every passing week. He finds himself patrolling the edges of what is considered their base, staring longingly into the distance. He wonders how hard it could possibly be to find Prowl and Ratchet and the others.
He can't leave Sideswipe.
He can’t stay either.
He needs to find Prowl.
He needs to stay with Sideswipe.
The coding conflicts drive him to exhaustion.
And still, he can feel the optics watching him.
Dino hits the ground with a solid thud and skids several feet away, kicking up clouds of dust with a horrendous screech of metal against stone. Sunstreaker grins, triumphant. He lowers his blades as the once-noble spits a curse and labors to his pedes.
This is their second spar of the day, and it’s ended in much the same manner as the first. With Dino on his back and Sunstreaker victorious. The sparkling's got a lot to learn if he thinks he's going to be able to stand against Sunstreaker and not end up flat.
“That was a cheap move,” Dino says, swiping the back of his hand against his faceplate, flicking away a few droplets of energon.
Sunstreaker arches an orbital ridge and wheels around the other mech. “When it comes to surviving and war, there's no such thing as a cheap shot. There's just surviving and doing whatever it takes to stay that way.”
“And what of honor?” Dust coats red armor as Dino manages to clamber upright, but he favors one leg.
From the sidelines, Sides scoffs. “You think a mech in the Pits is going to bother with honor when he's stabbing you in the back for a cube of Energon? You think the 'Cons care?”
The look Dino gives Sideswipe is only a few degrees warmer than Prowl's famous glare of doom. Though of course, Prowl's is far more intimidating. Prowl is a mech to respect. Dino, not so much.
“I think that our whole species could do with a lesson in honor,” Dino retorts, trying to ease the kink out of his leg. He has yet to reach for his blades.
Sunstreaker sighs to himself. There's no one of any worth to spar on this base. He and Sideswipe are too evenly matched, and though his twin has picked up a few new tricks, there is still little challenge.
“Honor is not going to teach you how to wield that,” Sunstreaker says, gesturing to Dino's weapon with the flat of his own. “It’s taking me far greater concentration to keep from harming you than it is to keep from getting harmed in return.”
Anger blossoms in Dino's field. His hands curl into fists.
“Perhaps a more skilled opponent would prove a greater challenge.”
Sunstreaker's optics cycle wider, and he slowly spins his wheels. He turns around to find Optimus Prime stepping into the crudely drawn circle. The mech is almost twice his height, looms without trying, but he is a challenge.
For the first time, it’s one Sunstreaker isn’t certain he wants to accept. Eons before, he would’ve leapt at an opportunity to face down Prime, test his mettle against the mech who leads them. It would’ve been the ultimate challenge.
Here and now, he hesitates.
Dino, of course, takes the opportunity to bow and scuttle away. Or so Sunstreaker's sensors inform him. He retreats to a safe distance beside Sides, content to watch. The scores in his plating are a testament to his need for greater training.
Sunstreaker's blades return to their sheaths. “I didn’t think you had time for casual sparring, sir,” he says. But it’s really a buy for time.
To Prime, he’d be polite. Something in his spark tells him it’s better to do so. Mearing, however, can go lick rusted slag for all Sunstreaker cares.
“You aren’t the average soldier,” Prime replies, and his face is unreadable behind his mask. “I’ve learned Sideswipe's tricks. I am interested in yours.”
They begin to draw a crowd, human and bot alike. Sunstreaker's pride won’t let him back down, though his hackles raise in accurate threat assessment. He hasn’t seen his leader fight since arriving on Earth, but he has viewed the vids of the Prime's previous battles. That he has only grown more vicious over time puts a tremor of worry through Sunstreaker's logic circuit.
“Terms?” Sunstreaker asks and mentally weighs the odds.
He’s faster than Prime and more agile. Prime, however, has the mass and the height advantage. As well as sheer power. Sunstreaker has learned to attack foes bigger than himself, but it’s always easier to take down a Decepticon. They are predictable. Prime is not.
“As we have no fully trained medic, cosmetic damage only,” Prime says.
Sunstreaker nods. “Close-range attacks. No blasters.”
One hit from that cannon his leader calls a blaster and Sunstreaker's shields will be history. Not to mention a limb or two.
“Acceptable.” Prime draws a sword from where it’s attached to his back, and the blade is easily the length of Sunstreaker's arm. “The first to yield concedes defeat.”
With a reluctance that surprises even himself, Sunstreaker unsheathes his weapon again.
“Agreed, sir.”
Sunstreaker slides into a defensive stance, swords at the ready. His gaze tracks Prime’s every move as blue optics never deviate from his own frame.
“Sides,” Sunstreaker calls, cycling a ventilation. “Call the match.”
If there is tension in his vocals, he pretends he can't hear it. So does his twin.
“Sure thing.”
His brother stands off to the side, spaced between them but not in the way. “Now I want to see a clean fight,” he says to the amusement of no one. “No tricks. No treats. Just good, clean fun.”
“Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker warns.
Sides effects an exaggerated sigh. “You take the fun out of everything,” he comments but gestures for the match to begin.
Sunstreaker expects to be forced to make the first move. Prime has always been a defensive fighter who only attacks when necessary. He rarely, if ever, goes for the offensive strike.
Clearly, the millennia have changed him in more aspects than Sunstreaker was aware.
Prime lunges, moving faster than anyone can expect of such a large frame. His blade whips through the air. Sunstreaker bursts into motion, wheels replacing pedes and kicking up a cloud of dust as he moves. The sword whistles through the air, inches from Sunstreaker's helm. His spark throbs with shock, defense protocols snapping into place with a speed that almost hurts.
Sunstreaker whirls, dropping down, trying to get in under Prime’s reach, aiming for the thicker gaps at his waist. He hears nothing but the sound of his systems, of Prime’s louder ventilations, the sharp snap of a battlemask.
Pain.
What the frag!
Sunstreaker grits his denta, throws himself to the side, limps on a leg that doesn't want to fully support his weight. Agony burns through his hip, and energon slicks down his side.
This is a spar! Sunstreaker wants to yell.
“My apologies,” Prime offers as they separate. He doesn’t sounding sorry at all. Not as Sunstreaker's energon and paint cling to the tip of his blade. “I misjudged the distance.”
Sunstreaker regards his Prime coolly. “I've had worse.”
He speeds forward, swords raised, and he clashes with Prime in a loud ring of metal. He uses both of them, crossed, to bear against Prime's single assault. But he feels his arm servos creak under the pressure.
Prime's field is that thick, sticky buzz of wrongness. Sunstreaker’s tanks roil. He pushes back, feints left, and hits the ground, rolling on his shoulder to come up behind his opponent.
Prime whirls, and their blades once again clash. This time, they don't lock, and Sunstreaker plants his pedes, trying not to lose ground against the rapid flurry of blows. Each strike feels like it reverberates through his frame, rattling joints and fastenings that haven't seen a real medic in millennia.
He's outmatched.
The realization strikes Sunstreaker the same moment that Prime breaks rhythm and shoves him back with a particularly powerful hit. He stumbles, catches himself, and throws his frame to the left, just to avoid the follow-up strike.
Sunstreaker hasn't been in a real battle for a long time. Blitzwing hadn't been an opponent. Taking him down was an act of mercy. These half-starved Decepticons hiding around Earth? Just like fighting newly-spawned hatchlings.
He's gotten complacent. Too complacent.
And Prime has lost his restraint.
A sword slices through the air. Sunstreaker dodges, cycling a rapid ventilation, swinging a desperate blow in return.
Prime knocks it aside, swats at him with a massive fist, and Sunstreaker absorbs the backhand to the face, pain blossoming. His optics glitch. He sways, and instinct sends him to the ground, rolling away from the next attack. He's getting dirt all over his armor, but frag it, Sunstreaker's worried more about keeping his spark intact at this point.
He rolls and dodges to meet Prime’s blade. The impact reverberates up his arm. The sight of his sword shearing right off and flying through the air sends a cold chill dancing down his backstrut. He doesn't have the moment to mourn its loss, not when his opponent is pressing his advantage, coming at Sunstreaker as though he's a Decepticon on the rampage.
He blocks the first strike with his remaining blade, ducks forward, sliding under the next swing. He jabs the broken end of his sword at Prime, scoring armor, and Prime is quick to retaliate.
The elbow slams into Sunstreaker's chestplate, right at the hinge of two plates, and throws him backward. There's no time to catch himself, and Sunstreaker hits the ground hard, gyros reeling, something in his shoulder going crack. His ventilations stutter.
Helm spinning, Sunstreaker tries to push himself upright, but his frame is rattling and there's pain in his chassis like something's broken off. He tastes and smells energon, and an energy field washes over him like the punch of a hundred vibroblades.
Pedefalls vibrate the ground. His protocols shout warnings at him. Sunstreaker's helm jerks up, optics snapping into focus.
He sees the blade, sees it cut through the air, sensors picking up the displacement. He sees its speed increase, the intense focus in Prime’s optics. His spark strobes fear. He isn't fast enough to block it, not with his shoulder giving him errors and his knee wobbling and his confidence shattered.
“I yield!” Sunstreaker shouts and retracts his undamaged blade. Praying to the Primus he doesn't believe in that his words will penetrate.
The sword stops an inch from his chestplate and the dent caused by Optimus' elbow.
“I yield,” Sunstreaker repeats, and he dips his helm, a show of concession.
It galls him to his very core. The humiliation burns. His tanks churn.
The sword falls away. Achingly slow to Sunstreaker's perceptions.
“Very well,” states Prime, and his tone is neither conciliatory nor humored. He cycles his optics, a slow reset, and harsh whine of defensive routines powering down seems over-loud in the ensuing silence. “You are a good challenge, Sunstreaker.”
“And you as well, Prime,” Sunstreaker manages, and perhaps his tone holds a waver. Perhaps not.
He wants to stand, to brush the mud from his armor, to retrieve the remains of his blade. But he fears that if he moves… or even twitches that his yield will mean nothing to his Prime.
Something passes through Prime’s optics. Something that Sunstreaker can't name. Then, the Prime's battlemask slides aside. He reaches down, offering Sunstreaker a hand. And that discordant energy field reaches out with him.
He almost can't bring himself to accept the help, but he forces his own hand to take Prime's, biting back the disgust as their fields collide. Prime hauls him to his pedes and Sunstreaker lets go, eager to put distance between them.
“Good spar,” his leader offers. “Same time next week?”
“Yes, sir,” Sunstreaker replies and wonders the consequences of declining. “Sounds good.”
Applause and cheering erupts in the crowd around them, Roadbuster and Topspin especially congratulating their Prime on his victory. Dino approves. Sunstreaker refuses to meet any of their optics, choosing instead to hunt down his damaged blade and reclaim it. His hip aches. He needs a trip to the washracks, and he wants to scrub down his hand. Prime's field lingers around him, as though clinging to his frame like old energon.
Sunstreaker shudders.
They don't have a medic. He doesn't have anyone to fix the sword. Thank Primus the war is over.
The clamor behind him fades away. No one comments on his escape, though Sunstreaker can feel that he’s being watched. That sensation never goes away, no matter how far from the Pits he's crawled or how long the war's been done.
The sound of wheels over gravel follows after him. He only needs one guess to know it’s his brother. A frown twists Sideswipe's lips, his field a quiet flurry around him.
“What was that?” Sides questions now that they are out of direct sensor range from the others.
Sunstreaker doesn't turn, concentrating instead on finding a place to rest. He thinks that last blow might’ve pinched something in his hip. There's a sharp pain every time he swings his right leg forward.
“Prime's improved,” Sunstreaker replies, locating a partially demolished building with a pile of stones that should serve his purpose. “There's no shame in losing to a Prime. Or so I've been told.”
Sideswipe snorts. “Slag. That wasn't losing to Prime. That was handing him the victory.”
Sunstreaker lowers himself down and finally looks up at his twin. “You said it so it must be true.”
Sideswipe skates around him in circles, kicking up dust.
“You never yield.” His tone is thick with suspicion.
“He would’ve killed me if I hadn't.”
Sideswipe rolls his optics, another mannerism he's picked up from the humans. But that’s not what makes Sunstreaker’s spark sink in his chest. It’s the disbelief that follows.
“C'mon, Sunny,” his brother scoffs. “It's Prime.”
Sunstreaker gives him a searching if sour look, but he doesn’t like what he finds.
“No, it isn't. Not anymore.”
He tries not to remember the look in their leader’s optics. Tries not to feel that harsh trickle of their fields brushing.
He fails.
“That wasn’t Prime,” Sunstreaker bites out, and his voice is pitched low with both revulsion and something a lot like fear. “I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t our Prime. And he would’ve killed me if I hadn’t surrendered.”
He can feel Sideswipe staring at him, but Sunstreaker doesn’t dare glance up. He’s already on the edge here. He’s already close to saying thing that will get both of them hunted down and slaughtered if they’re overheard, and he can’t quite take that risk.
And Sides… his brother, his twin, his spark… stands next to him. Hovering just within his field. Brushing softly against him. Soothing by just existing. Reaching for him.
But then, like Sides has been doing ever since Sunstreaker arrived and quite probably before that, his brother ignores the nasty truth staring him in the face. Instead, he settles for the more pleasant lie.
Sides pulls away before they even truly touch.
“You know what I think?”
He doesn't respond. Instead, Sunstreaker examines the jagged end of his sword.
“I think you're just looking for an excuse.”
Sunstreaker jerks up his head. “For what?”
“So that you can leave. Abandon the Autobots as surely as Ratchet and Prowl did.” Sides crosses his arms, faceplate unreadable.
Sunstreaker wants to laugh. To scream. To turn back time. Turn their fragging ship around and take Prowl and Hound elsewhere.
Trust his brother to stand between damnation and salvation before stumbling over to the third option. Ignoring both entirely.
Sunstreaker can only let out a slow ventilation.
“I'd take you with me,” he says in place of screaming.
Sideswipe stomps the ground. Agitation makes his plating clatter, his energy field a disordered mess.
“Frag, Sunny. That's not my point.”
Ironic since he hadn’t gotten Sunstreaker’s point at all.
“I know it's not,” the golden twin manages and forces down all the terrible other things he really wants to say.
Sides huffs out of frustration. His gaze wanders away to a point over Sunstreaker's shoulder.
Which is the only reason he doesn’t see that gleam of agony to his brother’s optics.
“Why didn't you leave with him?”
Sunstreaker's vision cycles outward, betraying his surprise. His spark lurches in his chassis. He climbs to his pedes, unbroken blade retracting.
“I can't believe you're even asking me that.”
There’s anger in his voice now. A flicker of rage has replaced the dread.
“If I already knew the answer, I wouldn't need to ask,” Sides retorts, head swinging to face Sunstreaker directly. “But I don't because I don't know you anymore.”
That’s the long and short of it. Isn’t it?
They’re twins but strangers now. Sideswipe of old wouldn’t need to ask. Wouldn’t have missed all the things his brother can’t say.
Sunstreaker lets in a ventilation and reaches for a glimmer of composure that is all Hound and none of himself.
“Mechs change.”
Something flickers in Sides' field before he draws it back.
“Yeah,” he says tightly, visibly working his intakes. “They do.”
Sunstreaker looks at him, and all he can think is how desperately he wishes both Hound and Prowl were here. Prowl because he’d know what to do. Hound because he’d know what to say.
But one is dead and the other is a world away.
“Sides,” he whispers.
“You should’ve just gone with him, Sunny,” Sideswipe states in a low tone, so unfamiliar that it aches. “You obviously don't know me anymore. Don’t need me anymore.”
He whirls on a pede then, smooth and agile. He wheels away with a speed few knew him capable of.
Sunstreaker's spark constricts. “Sides!”
His twin doesn’t pause. Not even to look over his shoulder. He becomes a silver gleam in the distance, disappearing into the cluttered maze of buildings that comprises their home base.
Sunstreaker doesn't give chase. He never has before.
He's not some forlorn lover. It's just one of Sides’ usual tantrums. He'll get over it.
Besides, he needs the silence that follows. To bow his helm and concentrate on his spark. To watch his hands clench in and out of fists. To convince himself that how deeply he hadn't been afraid.
Another day, another Decepticon sighting.
It's just he and Dino this time, trudging through the thick underbrush in South America. Sunstreaker hadn't known he could hate an ecosystem as much as he hated the jungle. Between the humidity, the insects crawling beneath his plates, the swampy mud squelching in his pedes, and the vegetation, he is thoroughly disgusted.
It doesn't help that the 'Con is small and stripped down to his protoform, difficult to see in the murk and undergrowth. It feels like a very boring game, and Sunstreaker can't decide if he'd rather linger around here hunting this mech or go back to Chicago and all the tension.
Not to mention, the humans are getting twitchy, too. They keep wandering further and further from Sunstreaker, guns swinging toward each rustle in the bushes.
--Any signs of him?-- Dino asks, the message coming across their private comm, one the Decepticon shouldn't be able to crack.
Pfft. The slagging 'Con's halfway to Empty, Sunstreaker bets. Especially to be so desperate to try swigging that pitslag the humans call fuel.
--No.-- Sunstreaker sneers, though Dino can't see him. The other mech is about fifty feet away, nothing but a smear of red peeking through the foliage. --And I'm no tracker.--
That’s Hound's job. He’s their scout, their tracker, the one who can make himself invisible, find energon, conceal them from enemies. He's the one who found their ragged ship and made it possible for them to escape that desolate moon.
And then, a Decepticon got off a lucky shot.
Sunstreaker made him pay for that mistake, but it hadn't fixed the damage. It hadn't been enough to turn back time, stop the blaster from punching through Hound's spark chamber, melted slag corrupting the delicate spark energies within. They'd tried. Oh, how he and Prowl had tried to put their third back together.
They had welded him, fed him all the best energon, used bandage after bandage, consulted whatever manner of data was available in the ship's databanks. But Prowl only knew as much as he'd been given in emergency first response as an Enforcer, and the Pits never bothered with repairs. You either survived the battle and healed on your own, or you offlined.
--I've found something.--
Sunstreaker turns his helm as sensors seek Dino. --You?--
A moment of silence passes between them. Dino's position lights up on Sunstreaker's HUD.
--There was a time when Hound was like a brother to me,-- comes the soft reply, a strange glyph accompanying the admission.
He has no response for that and falls into silence instead. Sunstreaker gestures to his human accompaniment and works his way through the underbrush to where Dino waits. The red mech is crouching over something, his own team of humans arrayed around him.
Sunstreaker can't help but feel like this is overkill for one sad Decepticon.
“What is it?” Sunstreaker questions, careful to keep his vocals no louder than the barest minimum.
Dino gestures, and Sunstreaker sees it, the splatter of energon on the ground, sludgy though it might be. One of their earlier shots must’ve scored.
“I'm surprised he's capable of motion,” Dino admits and frowns as he drags one finger through the sludge, as if testing the consistency. “He has to be running on reserves alone.”
Sunstreaker inclines his helm. “Which way, do you think?”
Dino pushes to his pedes. His optics scan the underbrush, concentration evident on his faceplate.
“East. There's a ravine. Suitable cover.”
“Our detectors are malfunctioning,” offers one of their human soldiers. “We can’t really say.”
“We don't need your equipment anyway. We've been tracking and fighting ‘Cons before your kind crawled out of that organic soup,” Sunstreaker mutters and rises to his own full height.
Dino tosses him a look that in some universes would be considered chastising. If Sunstreaker cared.
--You could hide your disdain a little better.--
--What's the point?-- It takes effort to restrain his sneer. --They don't like me any more than I like them.--
--We're allies.--
Contempt rises in Sunstreaker's field before he can tamp it down. --By whose definition? Certainly not mine.-- He moves forward, taking point. --Allies wouldn't have left Hound to his fate.--
Allies wouldn't intend to send Hound to rust and rot at the bottom of some ocean. He deserves better than that. He deserves to live. If anyone should’ve taken that shot, it should’ve been Sunstreaker!
--Ratchet is the one who left,-- Dino cuts in, and his tone is icy. --I don't see you blaming him.--
Sunstreaker doesn’t even bother glaring.
--Maybe Ratchet had the right idea,-- he says, but it’s more to himself.
A hand on his arm draws Sunstreaker up short, and Dino's optics cycle down.
--What do you mean?--
Even through the comm, Sunstreaker can feel the chill. But he’s spent far too much time with Prowl to be intimidated by a frosty demeanor.
--Exactly what it sounds like.-- Sunstreaker removes Dino's hand as politely as he can given the situation. Which is better than Dino deserves.
--Ratchet abandoned us,-- the red mech bites out.
Sunstreaker can’t stop himself. --Is that what you think?--
An expression crosses Dino's faceplate, one that Sunstreaker hasn't seen before. They've stopped walking, attracting the attention of their human companions. But clearly, this is something Dino's been wanting to say for a long time.
“It's what I know,” Dino snarls, thankfully in Cybertronian. “He took off with the ‘Cons and left us to our fate. He betrayed all of us.”
“Ratchet did what he had to do,” Sunstreaker retorts, though he can't claim to know what their medic was thinking. He can guess, considering what he's witnessed here, but he can't presume to know.
“And Hound died because of him!” Pure rage slaps Sunstreaker in the face, so thick in Dino's voice that it crackles his vocalizer. “If he'd been here, we could’ve saved him. But he wasn't because he's a selfish fragger who doesn't care about anyone but himself.”
Dino whirls on a heel, stalking into the forest ahead of Sunstreaker and the humans, half of whom scramble to follow. It's for the better, Sunstreaker thinks, because he honestly has no response to that. He can't defend Ratchet, not without betraying his own interests to someone who would turn him in.
“Sunstreaker?”
One of the humans, he hasn't bothered to learn their names, looks up at him. There’s a mixture of confusion and suspicion.
“He’s just being difficult,” Sunstreaker snaps and flicks his hand in the direction Dino had gone. “We've got a ‘Con to catch. Snap to it.”
They grumble about that, but at least they listen, and Sunstreaker brings up the rear. Hunting this Decepticon now holds little appeal for him. He'll let Dino and the humans do what they must, and he'll offer himself as back up if needed.
Nothing more, nothing less.
a/n: One more part and then Sunstreaker will have had his say. I'm thinking Bumblebee will come up next to keep this story rolling. Then Drift. Then Sideswipe. Then the epilogue. I actually just put the final touch to Sideswipe's and all I have left is editing and polishing. Phew. Just in time, too.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated! Go enjoy part two!
