[Bay] War Without End - Sideswipe Part One
Title: War Without End Sideswipe
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, AU to AOE, War Without End
Characters: Ensemble with focus on Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Ratchet, Optimus Prime, Bumblebee
Rating: T
Warnings: character death, canon typical violence
Description: His brother is a stranger. His friends are ghosts. In the end, Sideswipe still has to choose, and it isn't much a choice after all.
a/n: Just an FYI, this series is completely AU from AOE so the Drift in here is not based on AOE!Drift. He's based on IDW Drift.
War Without End
Sideswipe - Part One
Sideswipe wishes he could remember when everything had gone so wrong.
Of course, nothing has been particularly right since Cybertron tore itself apart in a millennia long civil war. Fighting to live and kill has always been a part of his existence. To go from the gladiator pits to the frontlines only meant that he had a reason to fire his blaster or charge his blades. The killing part had never bothered him.
This, however, cuts him to the core of his spark.
He never expected that one day he'd have to raise his blaster against his fellow Autobots. Traitors, sure. Sides has executed a few spies over the course of his enlistment. They’d been unrepentant traitors and deserved every ounce of pain given to them.
But Ratchet? Prowl?
He can't call them traitors. He simply can't.
The war is over. How can he call them traitors in a war that's finished? What have they betrayed?
Sideswipe has long stated he’s a weapon that only need be pointed. For the first time, he can't bring himself to take aim. More than that, he doesn't want Optimus Prime to be the one to pull the trigger.
He doesn't know when he lost faith in his Prime and the vow he made, but maybe it's been building. Maybe it's always been there and he's too stubborn to admit it. But right now, dread is filling his spark and he wants nothing to do with this call to arms. He'd rather stay behind than take part in this battle, and maybe that says something in itself.
Sunstreaker's last words to him are haunting. They echo back and forth in his processor. There's a part of him that knows he's disappointed his twin. But frag it! He hasn't had the bonus of Prowl's influence for vorns. All Sides has had is himself and whatever Autobot he's failed to protect.
Like Skids and Mudflap.
Like Arcee.
Like Jolt.
He skates around the edges of the busy base, watching the humans scramble for the offensive. The Autobots arm themselves, even the new ones. They have an hour, probably less, before they are in the air and jetting toward North Dakota.
Will Lennox, he notices, is suspiciously absent. He’d been on duty when the new bots arrived but has since disappeared, perhaps ordered elsewhere. Sides' not surprised. All he can see are strangers, hand-picked soldiers from Mearing's special band. Soldiers who don't like Cybertronians, Autobot or Decepticon. They aren't friends. They aren't allies.
They’re all plotting to hunt down Ratchet and the others. Sides knows imprisonment isn't an option. Prime doesn't do that anymore. He does execution because “it's simpler, Sideswipe. And it's what is safer for the humans.”
Because they can't trust ‘Cons. Only ‘Cons do bad things. Only ‘Cons kill.
By that argument, Sideswipe is a Decepticon a thousand times over. There's so much energon on his hands that he can't recharge without tasting it. That it was done under orders is an icy comfort; he's starting to realize that those orders were worse than flawed.
They were wrong.
Sides wanders closer to the command center, turning up his audials and shamelessly eavesdropping. Mearing is here now, deep in conversation with Prime. Leadfoot and Cliffjumper are with them, and no doubt, they’re plotting Ratchet's demise.
How could Prime condemn Ratchet to death so easily?
“I want the planes fueled and ready to take off in twenty minutes,” Mearing is saying, tones sharp and angry. “I don't want a single moment wasted.”
“We're still waiting on Bee to get here,” Leadfoot points out. “And since we don't know the size of the enemy's forces, we'll need all the help we can get.”
“You have NEST's support,” Mearing counters, and he can imagine how she looks then. Eyes narrowed, face pinched.
His Prime sighs, a rusty grumble. “I am reluctant to place any human in harm’s way, Director. I think it would be best if we handled this ourselves.”
“Ground-wise, yeah,” says Leadfoot, but his tone holds argument. “Remember, Prime, they’ve got Seekers. Skywarp, at least. And Dreadwing. We'll need air support.”
“We could always bomb them and be done with it,” Cliffjumper offers, only recognized because he's the one voice Sideswipe doesn't know.
“No.” Mearing's rejection is firm. “I want this done as discreetly as possible. The American public need never know there’s a problem. They believe the Decepticons are exterminated, no longer a threat.”
Figures. Sideswipe's disgust grows. The human government is as secretive and false as their Cybertronian counterpart had once been. And these are the humans their leader wants to support? Has he learned nothing from their war?
Then again, Sides is starting to wonder anyone else even thinks at all anymore. If there's anything in that glitched processor of Prime's that responds to reason. Certainly he hadn't listened to Ratchet.
“Fine.” Leadfoot sighs. “But we'll still need air support. Bring up those images again?”
Sideswipe wishes he could do more than listen in. He’s sure that the images are taken by satellite and show where Ratchet and the others have been hiding.
“There aren't any residences nearby,” Leadfoot muses aloud with murmurs of agreement. “There’s little chance of collateral damage.”
“Who owns the property?” Optimus Prime asks. “Will we need to compensate for damages?”
“No,” Mearing answers, and Sideswipe hears the sound of papers rustling. “It's owned by a corporation, a false name by my guess. They bought it through a realtor. It's been on the market for years. Previous owner was… hmm, not named.”
“That is a relief at least.” Prime lets out a ventilation.
There's the noise of metal brushing against metal. It’s probably Prime scraping his chestplate like Sideswipe's caught him doing several times before.
There is a pause of silence before Optimus says, “Bumblebee will arrive within the next ten minutes. Will that suit your time frame, Director?”
Another pause.
“That will be fine.” He hears her step back. “You can go and wait for him outside.”
It’s a clear dismissal. It makes him sick. Makes his tanks churn.
Sideswipe can't listen to anymore. If he has to hear Prime kowtow to the bossy organic any further, he’ll purge all of his energon, and then, they'll know he is listening. It’s one thing to respect the ruling body of the primary resident of a planet. But Mearing isn't the ultimate ruler of Earth. She isn't even the ruling body of this continent or country!
She deserves only as much respect as she gives, which is to say none.
Sides whirls away, scanning the base again, and realizes that he can't see his brother anywhere. Sunny had skulked off after this last announcement, but to where, he isn't sure. Then again, it's not as though he understands his twin anymore.
He hadn't been lying when he accused Prowl of bringing him back a stranger. Sunstreaker looks the same on the outside. But he's tight-lipped, won't speak of anything and has more secrets than Sideswipe has ever known him to carry.
They've never had secrets from each other before, and now...?
Sideswipe doesn't recognize Sunstreaker anymore. He despairs to think he ever will. Especially with the walls growing between them, both placed by Sunstreaker and caused by the building friction in regards to their beliefs.
Sides sighs, pressing a hand to his optics. A gesture he's seen Lennox perform more than a dozen times.
Less than twenty-four hours to make a decision, Sunny had claimed. He fears his twin has already chosen his path. Worse that it might not align with Sideswipe's own.
He finds his brother in the residential warehouse, standing in the open slot that had been designated for Sunstreaker's recharge. Sideswipe's own is across the narrow driveway down the middle and a few stalls down.
Sunny is crouched in front of a crate. One that serves as a storage container for each of the bots in their respective stalls, and he pulls something that he then slips into a compartment on his thigh.
“Arming up?” Sides asks, broaching the silence and wondering when he started being uneasy enough about his twin to feel reluctant to do so.
“Didn't you hear? We’re going to war,” Sunstreaker replies, picking up the lid of the crate and closing it before pushing himself to his pedes. The mechanisms in his legs and arms click as though resettling around new ordinance.
Sideswipe shifts his weight.
“War,” he repeats dully.
“Isn't that what you call it when you take up arms against the enemy?” Sunny's tone is flat. Their bond, strained as it is, gives no hint to his twin's mental well-being.
“It's one battle.”
“It's war,” Sunstreaker repeats and turns around, the gleam of his optics as flat as his tone. His plating is slicked down, tight to his protoform. “And we have to be prepared for whatever that might mean.”
A sword slides out of his arm as though to prove his point before notching back into place. The other, Sideswipe knows, is still broken.
Somehow, Sides doesn't think Sunstreaker intends to use any of his weapons on Ratchet or the ‘Cons. Most certainly not Prowl.
Sideswipe cycles a ventilation. “This is the last one.”
Sunny scowls, field rippling with disdain.
“There will never be a ‘last one’ for Optimus. And you better hope it stays that way, too. ‘Cause once the humans realize they don't need us to kill other bots, they'll find a better use for us.” His plating shivers before clamping even tighter to his substructure. “And I guarantee we'll like that even less.”
“That's not going to happen,” Sideswipe says as Sunny fully turns, optics flicking toward the exit.
A bark of laughter emerges from his brother's vocalizer. There's no humor in it.
“You keep telling yourself that.”
Sideswipe's spark aches, and he's not entirely sure why. Nothing makes sense anymore, frag it! His hand snaps out. He snags Sunny's arm as his twin tries to brush past him, dismissing him as thoroughly as he does every other bot on base.
Him! His own twin!
“What’re you gonna do, Sunstreaker?” he demands because he's tired of secrets and he's got this terrible feeling that he's running out of time.
Once upon a time, he could look into Sunstreaker's spark and see for himself. Now, he doesn't know why, but he can't. Maybe it's the distance. Maybe Sunny's built some sort of metaphorical wall. Sideswipe can't guess. All he knows is that the link that once stood between them is now closed, and Sides is no more aware of his twin’s thoughts from the inside than he is the outside.
“I'm going to make a choice,” Sunstreaker says.
His field retracts then to the point that Sideswipe has to strain to sense it, and even then, only grasps flickers. His optics are bright, gleaming. Fathomless as they finally look at each other. Really look.
Sideswipe abruptly jerks back.
“I’m going to make a choice,” Sunstreaker repeats, and he so unrecognizable as he stands there. “And Primus help me, so will you.”
Sunstreaker turns then and leaves without a backwards glance. Sideswipe stares after him. It’s like he's watching a stranger walk out the bay doors. A stranger wearing his brother's face and form. Sideswipe frowns, hand rising to touch his own chestplate and the aching spark beneath.
He's suddenly aware of an upsetting affinity for Prime. Perhaps this is the reason why their leader wanders around, scratching at his own chassis. Reaching for something inside that’s broken. Searching for something long lost.
Sideswipe works his intake and hurriedly drops his hand. Sunstreaker had one thing right at least. They’re going to battle. Come what may, Sides will need to arm himself as well.
He heads for his own recharge stall and the wooden crate that stores his backup weaponry, emergency stores, and a few other items he's secreted away. Emergency energon rations, a medkit, a spare radio, and various other things he's learned to carry over the vorns of constant fighting.
He slips spare ammunition clips into his subspace and extends his own blades, checking them for imperfections. His limp has increased as of late, but without Ratchet, there's frag all he can do about it. He's tried his best to clean it. But he suspects he has more than a few stripped gears and doesn't trust himself to disassemble his leg, replace them, and reassemble it without compromising its integrity.
Primus, he misses Ratchet.
Sideswipe vents to himself, reseals the crate, and takes another look around the warehouse. Stark and sterile, numbered spaces, more like an institution than a home. It doesn't feel like peace. Yes, he's become dissatisfied with his existence amongst the Autobots, but is that the same thing as defecting?
He doesn't know. It was easier to be a weapon. It was easier not to think for himself. Every time he did, he made the wrong choice. Sparks extinguished. Planets broken.
Easier to let someone else make the decisions.
His comm buzzes. Sideswipe startles at the unexpected ping. He reaches up, activating his unit.
--Sideswipe, here.--
--What is your location?-- Leadfoot demands without preamble, glyphs speaking of urgency and irritation.
Honestly, Leadfoot makes him really miss Prowl. There's something to be said about the tactician's logic and professionalism, both of which Leadfoot lacks. No matter how angry Prowl became or how fragged up the situation, he was always cool and collected. He never yelled. He didn’t need to.
--Hanger twenty-three,-- Sides answers, careful to keep his answers clipped.
--We're taking off in five minutes. Get to the airstrip now.--
The comm goes dead, like a static-filled airway. Sideswipe frowns and drops his hand from his comm.
Then again, if he's letting mechs like Leadfoot do the thinking, maybe it's not that much simpler after all. He can't decide who's worse: Prime, Leadfoot, or Mearing.
Sides pauses and cocks his helm.
Definitely the squishy. She’s nothing but a menace and doesn’t even have the excuse of frontline flashbacks.
Five minutes until they hit the air. A few hours to North Dakota. And then... war. For what else can it be when Autobots fight against ‘Cons and traitors?
Torn, Sideswipe pushes upright and heads outside. More activity litters the ground. Soldiers rushing to the waiting planes, loaded down with gear and weapons. Autobots crowding around the C-17 as Leadfoot decides who's strapping down with whom.
It'll be an aerial drop then.
Frag. Sideswipe hates those. He's a groundsmech, not a Seeker. Groundsmechs weren't meant to fly, no matter what Shockwave had tried and failed to accomplish.
The empty mount on his backplate twitches. Sideswipe resists the urge to shuffle his plating around it. He doesn't miss the glitching jetpack. He's learned to compensate for the loss of the weight. He doesn't want those alien commands in his processor anymore.
But it's hard not to remember.
“Sideswipe!”
He glances up at the sharp sound of his designation. Leadfoot grumpily waves him over.
“You'll ride with Bee, Sunstreaker, and Dino,” Prime’s new second-in-command says. He points with his other hand to one of the nearby C-17s.
He doesn't give Sideswipe time to acknowledge the order, already moving on to Cliffjumper and his companions, whose names Sideswipe still doesn't know. It's a bit rude and jarring to thrust them straight into battle considering they'd just arrived, but Sides supposes Prime doesn't want to take any chances of being outnumbered.
They don't want to risk Ratchet and Prowl getting away. Sideswipe doesn't want to think about what that means either.
He's the last to board the plane and attach himself to the straps. He ends up beside Bee and across from Sunny. He doesn't look at his twin, and Sideswipe doesn't know what that says about himself either. Instead, he turns to Bee, offering the smaller mech a half-sparked grin.
“Long time no see,” he greets.
Bumblebee offers him a tentative brush of his field in return.
“Busy,” he says with a roll of his shoulders.
Busy, Sideswipe thinks. Frankly, he's surprised Mearing didn't pitch a fit that Bee was no longer around to do her bidding. Why had she allowed him to remain around Sam? Maybe she didn't care anymore. Maybe she had bigger problems. Bee's fragging lucky he'd been given that much autonomy.
“Yeah,” Sides drawls. “I noticed. Are you still in fighting shape after that long vacation?”
This, at least, prompts amusement. “If we weren't strapped in right now, I could show you,” Bee boasts.
Sides chuckles. Little Bee is not so little anymore, and he's a competent fighter in his own right. Oh, Sideswipe can still take him down, but who knows? Maybe with his bum hip, Bee might have the edge. They use to spar all the time before Chicago. He’s missed that.
“Maybe when we get back,” Sides says, and it's almost like normal. As if they’re setting off to do battle against the ‘Cons.
Until he remembers who their opponents are. Until he sneaks a look across at Sunstreaker, whose lipplates are twisted in derision as he scoffs subvocally. And then, the feeling of normalcy abruptly vanishes.
Sideswipe lapses into silence. One that nobody feels inclined to break as the plane jerks, rolling toward the runway. Mearing has pulled out all the stops apparently, unwilling to waste any time when it comes to taking out Ratchet and Prowl and their ‘Con allies.
That Prime is so eager to comply with her demands says something. Something that Sideswipe remains unwilling to admit.
“Are we really doing this?”
Sides turns his helm toward Bee. The yellow mech is wisely keeping his vocals as low as possible.
“What do you mean?”
Bee glances at Sunny and Dino before shifting his gaze back. “It's Ratchet. And Prowl. The ‘Cons, I get. But... Ratchet? Prowl?”
“He chose to leave. They both did.”
The scout shifts beside him. His energy field radiates his discomfort, his optics dimming.
“Don't you want to know why?”
“Does it matter?” Sideswipe stares at the bottom of the C-17, feeling it thrum around him. “We're Autobots. They're not. End of story.”
Bee's door panels droop. “It's that simple?”
He can feel Sunstreaker all but vibrating across from him. As if anxious to hear his answer, but Sideswipe hasn't made his choice yet. He doesn't know that he can.
“It has to be,” he answers and offers Bee the steadiest look he can manage. “Just do your job. That's all Prime asks of us. And leave it at that.”
Bee doesn't look convinced. But he drops the subject, his field withdrawing from Sideswipe as though needing privacy.
Sides also pretends not to notice but commits to memory, the mental image of his twin sliding further away from him in the C-17. Building the distance. Lengthening the gap.
He bows his helm over his hands, staring at his fingers, the complicated joints, the buildup of junk that Ratchet used to help him clean but doesn't anymore. He doesn't have a solvent bath to soak them in or hot oil either. They are gummed and occasionally seize up when he least needs them to. The humans offered WD-40 because that's what they put on their mindless machinery so why wouldn't it work for an Autobot?
After all, aren't they one and the same?
o0o0o
The timbre of the C-17s engine changes and drags Sideswipe from his circuitous thoughts. He glances up, finds that both Bee and Sunny are now on alert. The soldiers, too, are starting to stretch their legs as though gearing up for landing.
The time is now, Sideswipe thinks.
The PA system crackles to life. “Thirty seconds to drop,” the pilot announces just as Sideswipe's comm. pings him with an update. It's a recorded message, not real-time, but it's the same thing.
Jumping out of flying vehicles used to be fun, Sides laments as he drags himself to his pedes and lines up with the others at the lowering ramp. He crouches, peering into the rushing wind. At the blue sky, fluffy clouds, giant spaceship parked in the middle of a grassy field.
Sideswipe cycles his optics; his engine stutters. What the..?
“Is that the fragging Ark?” Sunny demands, sounding honestly confused. A part of Sideswipe shudders in relief. Sunstreaker must not be the traitor his brother suspects if he hadn't known.
“I think it is,” Bee says, awe thick in his tone. “I thought it was scrap.”
The C-17 suddenly banks hard to the left, nearly throwing Sides out of the open ramp before he's prepared. He scrambles hard to catch himself as the shouting erupts over the comms.
“Prime's plane is under attack!” someone shouts.
Out the open hatch Sides gets a glimpse of Prime's C-17 spiraling down, afire and spewing black smoke. Something is zipping around it, too fast to be human aircraft and too large to be a Seeker. The sound of blasterfire is barely audible over the engines.
“Off the plane, now!” one of the humans yells.
Sunny pushes past him, leaping out of the plane ahead of everyone.
And so the madness begins.
Sides tumbles down after his twin, feeling Bee fall right after him, and then it's a brief moment of terror. He's a grounder, not a flyer. To see the blur of brown and green rising up to meet him is his least favorite part.
He braces himself, hoping his knee will survive the landing. All he can see is a few ramshackle human buildings and the massive Ark, towering over everything. He can see Ratchet and Prowl as they provide coverfire for the Seekers in the air. There are other mechs, too. Ones he doesn’t recognize, but they stand back to back with his former comrades.
His parachute bursts out. Sideswipe's pedes smash into the ground, and he rolls to slow his momentum. The parachute was supposed to soften the landing, and it does. Barely. His HUD pings with several warnings as he comes up to a crouch. His leg and hip try to collapse beneath him, but he merely lets out a little vent, dismisses the messages, and deadens all his pain sensors. He hits the latches still attached to him and lets the wind carry away his parachute, even as he engages emergency protocols, and takes an unsteady step forward. He unsubs his blasters in the same motion.
The ground trembles as Sunny and Bee land close to him, but he’s already recovered by then. Sideswipe releases a locator ping and gets a response from Cliffjumper, Whirl and Brawn who also landed safely. Prime's plane, however, is still careening out of control. Sideswipe sees the bots taking a leap out of it. Prime is aided by his own thrusters and faux-wings, only for a pale purple frame to barrel into him, sending both of them crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust and rock.
Sideswipe turns away after a klik though. No time to worry about Prime; he can take care of himself.
Sides directs his attention to the human domicile and the looming presence of the Ark. Above it, Thundercracker, Skywarp, and an unknown third circle like vultures and take potshots at the human air force. Whirl takes to the sky then with a whoop of glee, providing back up.
Blasterfire flies over Sideswipe's helm. He whips around, coming face to face with a mech he's never seen before. Dark blue and red with small panels arching behind his shoulders like wings only far too small, and a faceplate intricately crafted.
“Sideswipe,” the mech greets and raises his own arms, laden with blasters. “It’s interesting to finally put a faceplate to a designation.”
He revs his engine. “Wish I could return the favor. But I’ve no idea who the pit
you are.”
The mech chuckles, winglets fluttering. “Let's keep it that way, shall we?”
He fires, and Sides darts to the side, receiving another ping to his HUD from his leg. His plates shudder along his frame, but he again deadens his pain sensors. He can’t afford that kind of distraction. There's no time to think, to pay attention to what anyone else’s doing.
Sideswipe trades fire with his opponent, and for the first time, he finds himself struggling. His leg is weak, all but bowing as he twists around. He can't move as fast as he used to, and who the frag-ever this mech is, he's well-trained.
He's fragging good.
Sideswipe knows peripherally that Prime’s still locked in combat with whoever had taken him out of the sky. Bee’s nearby, firing into the sky. But Sideswipe has lost sight of his brother, can only sense him on the edges of his spark, and worries about what that might mean.
Not that his opponent gives him much time to think.
“I've wondered what it’d be like to stand against you,” the mech comments. He twists to avoid a swipe of Sideswipe's blade, motions elegant and trained.
Familiar.
Frag. Double-frag.
“You know metallikato,” Sides growls in sudden realization and drops into a roll to avoid another spray of those acid-pellets. He instantly regrets the move as he hears his hip joint groan and give an ominous clunk.
“Among others.” The mech smirks, and his optics flit to Sideswipe’s leg for a tic. “It was required learning for all those in my spark-line.”
Spark-line. Wonderful. He's a frigging noble. Loathing rises up in Sideswipe's spark, replacing the annoyance.
“Who trained you?” he demands, wheels whirring across the grass.
The mech chuckles and darts around with ease. As if he's playing a game and not taking this seriously.
“The question you should be asking is who trained Bludgeon?” His smirk grows in width.
Bludgeon.
Another designation Sideswipe hates to the very core of his being. Never mind that he bears blasters of his own now. Their use has become an unfortunate necessity. And now, an homage to Ironhide.
He growls like an Earth cat, forgetting himself as he launches at his opponent. He grins when the mech finally stands his ground. They trade blows, guns vanishing into subspace. The crash of metal on metal is a cacophonous staccato.
“You're moving slower than I expected,” the noble taunts. “And with less skill than I've heard.”
He dodges a blow and snaps a hand against Sideswipe’s flank that he's not fast enough to avoid. Not when his legs gives another groan. His hip pops as he slides into a crouch and a roll, but Sideswipe ignores that, too.
“Shut up,” he hisses, engine revving a furious rumble. “I'm moving fast enough!”
The mech chuckles. But it’s humorless.
“Not quite,” he says and slides to the left.
Sides is too late dodge the feint and can only brace for a blow to the midsection. His armor buckles, more alerts crowding his HUD. He struggles to put distance between himself and his opponent. But his leg won't cooperate. His hip is still, barely mobile, and he feels like he's wading through sludge.
“I'm disappointed,” the noble continues and advances on him with quick, even steps. “I thought you'd be more of a challenge.” He tips his helm, gold optics bright and amused.
Sideswipe glares, another blade sliding free from concealment. He eyes the other bot, calculating and considering. Watching the broad transformation seams, more than wide enough for his sword to slip through. He needs only a moment, a half-second of inattention...
“Do you know what happened to Bludgeon?” he questions, but it’s more of a demand. After all, if this mech trained him, he might hold some affection for the fragger. “Do you want to know?”
Gold optics narrow. “We've been at war. I can guess well enough.”
Sides shifts to the right. “He challenged me,” he taunts and with a slow, sliding smirk adds, “he lost.”
Now.
He rolls forward, praying his leg obeys him, and aims for his opponent's unprotected flank. He telegraphs his intentions and swerves at the last minute, whirling with his blade extended. Up and under, Ironhide had once told him. Through the narrow seam and up into the spark chamber.
Quick. Painless.
But not as quick as he remembers. Too slow as his damaged leg buckles at the worst possible moment, and he has to jerk out a hand to catch himself. He doesn’t even have time to recover as a fist slams into his left shoulder. It’s at a precise enough angle that his left arm vibrates and goes numb. An energy field strikes at him with all the force of a physical blow - sharp with anger and disappointment. It’s followed up another strike, this time to his hip.
It completely crumples beneath him. Despite Sideswipe's best efforts, he hits the ground, warnings bright in his processor. And then, a pede flips him over and plants itself on his chestplate. His opponent is only a few feet taller than him, but his armor must be of different construction because he's a lot fragging heavier.
“And now, I have a dilemma,” the noble declares, looking down at Sideswipe with no more amusement. “I’m apparently not allowed to kill you. And yet, I can't leave you here to cause trouble either.”
Sideswipe coughs a ventilation. “Since when does a ‘Con not kill?”
Those golden optics narrow. “I’m not a Decepticon,” the mech hisses. He bears his weight down, until Sides' chestplate creaks and the pressure warnings triple. “And you are fragging lucky that I’m needed elsewhere.”
Before Sides can question what he means, the mech takes a step back. Freeing Sideswipe, only to suddenly push into the air. Like a fragging Seeker. How he's doing it, Sides's got no clue. He fires after on principle but doesn't manage to score a hit.
Frag.
He pushes himself upright to a seated position, tentatively poking at his hip even as he scans the battlefield. The roar that rings across it chills the energon in Sideswipe's lines. He thrusts himself to his pedes, ignoring the warnings and the ominous groaning, and tracks the sound to its origin.
Prime.
Prime, who is tossing aside the mech attacking him. Energon flies in all directions as the large Seeker-type sprawls over the ground, one shoulder spitting sparks where the limb is missing.
He sees the energon blades emerge from Prime’s forearms. He sees his leader stalk toward the downed mech, leaking energon everywhere. The wounded mech's severed arm is hundreds of feet away, smoke rising from his chassis.
Prime's optics are bright, and his mouth is hidden behind his faceplate. The bot is down, but Prime doesn't take chances. Or prisoners.
Sides is no stranger to death. But even he flinches when Prime punches the mech through the chest, severing his spark chamber in one fell blow with the heat of his energon blade.
The mech jerks, a reflex, and there's a sound that Sides can't identify. A choked gasp, the last dying cycle of a ventilation before Prime completes the job. A single jab to the mech's helm, sparks skittering in all directions, and he's through.
No one, not even Ratchet, can fix that.
Sideswipe's tanks churn. He feels the overwhelming urge to purge.
But nothing compares to the roar that comes next. To the way that Prime slowly turns toward the Ark and traitors in front of it. Or how his optics cycle down, his armor plates flaring in challenge. His swords drip curls of heated metal to the grass.
Sides’ spark skips an oscillation as Prime’s bellow echoes across the battlefield.
“Prowl!”
And there's no guessing who his leader intends to dispatch next. Not when Prime breaks into a run, the ground shuddering beneath him as he eats up the distance. Not when Ratchet appears in view, closer than Prowl and right in Prime’s path.
Sideswipe feels his insides go cold, but then, he has a new reason to fear. The mech now stepping in between them isn’t one of the known traitors. It's Sunstreaker. Blades drawn, optics narrowed, and mouth drawn into a scowl.
Is he insane? Prime is nearly twice their size!
“Sunstreaker,” their leader growls, skidding to a halt and leaving furrows in the grassy soil. “Stand down.”
Sunstreaker inclines his helm. “With all due respect, sir, you can go frag yourself. You're not laying a blade on Prowl.”
A low growl emerges from Prime’s chassis.
“Then you, too, will turn your back on me?”
There's something in his tone, something that bodes ill. Sideswipe feels his own defensive subroutines spring to life. An urgency builds within his spark.
“Needs must,” Sunny says, optics dark and challenging, swords unwavering. “I’d rather die here than watch you destroy everything I love.”
Prime’s battle mask snaps shut, tires spinning as though he's barely holding back his violent urges. “As you wish,” he says and springs at Sunstreaker, blades bared and eager for energon.
Sides' spark leaps into his intake. He scrambles as best he can, dragging his numb limbs along with him, watching and feeling the first clash of sword against sword. He remembers the first spar and the few that followed. He remembers Suuny losing, again and again, yielding or knocked unconscious. And he knows that Sunstreaker, skilled as he is, cannot stand against Prime on his own.
But Sideswipe is too far away, and he's not fast enough.
He can only watch as the first strike lands and energon spurts from Sunstreaker's left thigh; a piece of armor paneling flies. Sunny spins, marginally faster, avoiding two more blows and then stumbles when Prime's fist slams into his face, shattering an optic. Sideswipe feels the flash of panic and pain from his twin across their distant bond. He pushes himself into a run, ignoring the pain in his hip, afraid for the first time in a long time.
Not again.
Sunstreaker staggers, disoriented and half-blind, barely managing to bat aside the first sword, but it's not enough. He jerks, single optic flashing brightly as the other blade slams into his chestplate, electricity sparking in the aftermath.
“Sunstreaker!” Sideswipe shrieks as pain lances through his spark, as though he's taken Prime’s blade through his own chassis. “No!”
Energon bubbles up from his brother's lipplates. He's there, the dimmest echo in his spark but fading fast. Sideswipe jerks forward, numbly. Trying. Failing. Reaching out...
A dark blue Seeker screams out of nowhere, and Sides gawks as the large mech slams into Prime, driving him back and away. Sunny’s mangled frame drops to the ground in a heap, energon splattering across the ground.
Sideswipe stumbles as he races across the ground to his twin. His knee gives up the fight, collapsing beneath him. He drops, hitting the dirt. Agony races up his leg; hydraulics screech at him.
He forces himself onto hands and knees, crawling forward with a shuffle, fear overlaying it all. In that moment, he doesn't care about the war or Prime or Ratchet or the choice he needs to make. All he sees is the twin he disappointed, and he can't do it. He can't be alone again. He can't fail again.
Whump!
Skywarp flashes into existence next to Sunny, and he crouches over him.
“Don't you touch him!” Sides snarls, struggling in vain to move faster, to protect his brother. “Keep your ‘Con claws off him!”
Skywarp's lip curls with disdain. “Make me.” He scoops his arms under Sunstreaker, using more care than anyone could’ve expected and pulls him off the ground. “He's one of us. Always has been. Too bad for you.”
“He's not!” Sideswipe shouts, struggling to climb to his pedes and giving up when his knee ignores his commands. He calls his blaster instead, aiming at the Seeker. “Give him back!”
Skywarp smirks at him. “No,” he says and then promptly disappears in a whomp of displaced air. Taking Sunstreaker with him.
Sideswipe stares after them for a shuddering second. Then, his fist slams into the ground, curses and shouts spilling from his vocalizer. He drags himself to his knees once again.
“Autobots!” Prime’s shout calls all attention. “Concentrate fire on the Ark! Don’t let them break atmosphere!”
Break atmosphere?
Sides turns his helm, vents wheezing as the ground shudders. The Ark is indeed rising into the air, slowly but surely. The groundsmechs have gone, presumably on board. The Seekers are circling it again. Returning fire.
Steps announce the approach of another mech. Sides looks to see Bee stepping up next to him, reaching down to help him up.
“You all right?” his friend asks as if he already knows the answer.
Sides wobbles on one leg, gazing at the Ark as it rises into the air.
“I don't know.” His hands clench into fists, spark aching to the core, his ventilations quickening. “I just...”
Laser and blasterfire scorches the air. Sideswipe stares as the Autobots follow their Prime's orders, not that it seems to do much good. They can't pierce the shielding, which comes as no surprise.
The Ark is leaving, taking Sunstreaker with it. There's nothing any of them can do to stop it.
Someone, Leadfoot, he thinks, gets it in his helm to shift his aim to the Seekers circling. Thundercracker doesn't adjust in time, and a shot clips his wingtip. It's not enough to bring him down, but Skywarp flashes to him in an instant. The pair disappears from sight.
“Sides?” Bee's hand tightens on his arm, concern filling his field.
A rush of displaced air is the only warning they get before arms grab him from behind and something shoves Bee aside. Sideswipe struggles, a shout escaping him, and then the world drops out beneath him to the tune of Seeker thrusters.
“Stop moving!” Skywarp demands, arms tightening to the point that armor buckles. “If I drop you, you’ll go splat, and Ratchet's not coming back just to fix your sorry aft.”
“What the frag do you want?” Sideswipe demands over the rush of air as they hastily head upward. “Put me down, or I'll--”
“You'll what?” Skywarp drawls, field edged with a mixture of aggravation and amusement. “We're holding all the cards, you glitch. So shut up and listen because I'm about to give you a choice.”
Sides snarls in his grip. “Where's my brother?”
“On the Ark. He's coming with us.” The Seeker pushes them higher into the air, and Sides does his best not to look at the ground. It's a long way down. “So you get to decide whether you want to join him, or stay here with your glitched Prime.”
His helm dips, optics offlining. He’d known it would come to this eventually. He should’ve known that Sunstreaker was going to leave him. The millennia between them truly had been too much.
His comm pings. --Sideswipe?--
It's Bee. He's frantic. Wondering if he should intervene. If he should return fire. If he should shout for help.
It's a long way down. Sideswipe thinks about what happens if he says no. Would Skywarp drop him? Set him down gently?
And then, he chastises himself for considering first to stay behind. To go his separate way from his twin again, and this time, he’d probably never see Sunny again in his lifetime.
“Clock's ticking, Autobot,” Skywarp says, arms tightening to the creak of metal on metal. “I've got a ship to catch, and I’m getting tired.”
There's really only been one path for him to take, hasn't there? He's just been the coward taking the easier route all along?
--Sorry, Bee,-- Sides says. --You know what I have to do.--
--And you know I have to stay. For now,-- Bumblebee replies. There’s no hint of censure in his tone, just a clear understanding.
--I'll tell them to keep a spot open,-- Sideswipe says. Then ever so purposefully, he shuts off the comm.
Poor Bee. That's another case of a mech caught between a rock and a hard place.
“Well?” Skywarp prompts, probably having detected the private comm.
Sides lifts his helm, ex-venting something like relief. “I'll go with you.”
“Knew you'd see reason.” The Seeker cackles, putting more burn behind his thrusters. “Try not to purge on me.”
Purge? What?
The world shifts sideways, and his gyros whirl out of balance. His tanks churn. His vision goes dark for a klik until there’s suddenly something solid beneath his pedes and he loses the support of Skywarp's arms.
Tank clenching, he drops to his knees. He cycles his optics, the universe spinning around him, making it impossible to focus.
“I'd apologize for that, but I'm not sorry,” Skywarp comments before there's another pop of displaced air and the Seeker puts some distance between them.
Sideswipe forces his helm up, double-images coalescing into one. He realizes to his dismay that he's in some sort of brig. Skywarp’s standing on the other side of glowing energy bars, grinning at him.
“This is just in case,” the Seeker offers with a smirk and a wriggle of his talons. “Ratchet’ll come fix you later.”
“Where's my brother?” Sides demands, quickly cycling air as his tanks struggled to settle. If he never warped again, he’d be a happy mech.
Skywarp grins at him and promptly vanishes, leaving Sideswipe alone in what amounts to a cell. He sinks down, knee aching beneath him, his tanks highly unsettled. He dips his helm, offlines his optics, and searches for that place where Sunstreaker once shone so brightly.
Distance and time have dulled that link, but he has to know.
Nothing. He reaches, and there's nothing. Sideswipe panics, focus turning inward, ignoring the state of his own frame. It physically aches to reach so far, and still, he can only get a peripheral sense of his twin.
Sunstreaker's fading.
The urge to keen wells up, but it stops at his vocalizer and goes no further. He curls into himself, the pain of his own frame a distant sensation compared to the nagging emptiness in his spark.
In that moment with startling and frightening clarity, he understands why Prime's so fragging lunar.
****
a/n: Part One of Three. Stay tuned!
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