Aftermath - Chapter 10: Bluestreak
Universe: Till all are one
Beta: Starfire201
Continuation: AU, G1
Genre: Adventure, drama
Characters: Bluestreak, Rook, others mentioned
Summary: Again he had to clamp down on the surging battle protocols. Nothing would be worse than to kill a mech who had done nothing but state his job in front of a good dozen of witnesses. He sighed deeply. "I guess you know that I was Bluestreak once, right?"
Disclaimer: This does not belong to me, but to Hasbro and whoever else might habe rights towards all recognisable characters.
This chapter drove me to insanity and back. I think if I say that it lived through 5 complete rewrites I'm not lieing, and add to that a few dozen partial rewrites. I put all information I felt I could without bending the characters too much. I hope you enjoy it. :)
10. Bluestreak
Between Polyhex and Tarn was a stretch of land, claimed by few mechs that were commonly thought of as insane. With the Bad Lands in the north, the Rust Sea in the south and a harsh wind that blew metallic dust into every joint, this was not an inviting place at the best orns.
During the worst orns so called 'light storms', consisting of metallic splinters, leftovers and ash from the war, rolled over the surface, forming a deadly gleaming wall so bright that it took the sight of every travelling bot, stranding them until the storm calmed. Or forever.
Further problems provided the temperature differences. On some orns the roads would heat up until they were smouldering and only joors later they had cooled to the point of freezing energon in less than a klick.
Through this inhospitable part of Cybertron led only a single road on which heavy transporters and all those who couldn't buy a shuttle ticket travelled, hoping for money and a new life in the still rebuilding Tarn.
It was a long and dangerous ride for these bots, with only one possible safe break in the very middle of it. Between two heavy boulders defied a small scuffed house the climate, never bowing down, never raising above its two protectors.
This was the roadhouse of route 522, a haven for weary mechs and hardened couriers, with no name of its own. But those who knew it, called it "Silver's tavern" with quiet appreciation for the owner.
A lone, once maybe blue mech neared the tavern, his engine stuttering from the dust. As he transformed, he looked at the small house with the same relief of all those that came before him, but also with a hint of satisfaction. Then he turned, frowning at the horizon which seemed brighter than just klicks ago... A storm was coming. Hurriedly, he walked to the battered, often reinforced door and entered.
Inside, life never seemed to change.
Silverstreak, who was cleaning one of the old, worn tables of the tavern, sighed as he got the alert that the light storm had reached the district just south from his own. It was the third one in this decaorn alone and he worried that again mechs wouldn't make it to his roadhouse in time. The table now a polished perfection, he straightened and flared his wings in light distress. Maybe he should go out for a last klick flight and look for lost travellers? It would be dangerous, yes, but a spark was always worth the risk. Not to mention he kind of liked the danger, the air just before a storm hit. Already he could feel the electricity in the air caressing his wings.
He looked around towards his guests and mentally counted them. His roadhouse wasn't big and most had arrived in the last joor, taking the warnings he had sent out seriously. Thirteen dusty and exhausted mechs were now in this small room, drinking their cool energon. In the corner a few of them had started a game of Prime's Keeper, which led to short burst of laughter every few breems. Silverstreak knew most of them personally as they were regulars and he always offered a few friendly words with his cubes. Usually they were accepted gratefully. Sometimes he just listened, sometimes he supported a whole dialogue alone, whatever his visitors seemed to want and need.
Silverstreak relaxed as he realised that no one who he knew to be travelling in this orn on route 522 was missing.
He loved his job here, far away from the hectic cities and complicated lifes. Instead everything was dominated by the storms and when the next energon transport came. It was simple. And the moments when he flew alone across the whole desert were magic.
A small chime in his commlinks signified a guest. A few astroseconds later a dirty mech of Iaconian built stepped through the door. His racer mode clearly marked him as a newcomer.
Silverstreak walked towards the door next to him, while the new visitor took in the used furniture, the nearly bare room, the quiet lull of several peaceful conversations around him with intelligent blue optics. They came to rest on the silver Polyhexian flier beside him, who was now making the door stormproof.
As he sealed the door, Silverstreak knew that it was only a matter of klicks, until the light storm would hit them. He prayed as always that no mech would try to seek shelter and only find a closed door. But it was necessary.
"Excuse me," asked the Iaconian, when he had finished. "Are you Silverstreak by any chance?"
The flier startled. "Yes, that's me. Welcome by the way. Good that you've found your way here in time. The next storm will be nasty. How can I help you?"
"Well, an energon cube wouldn't be a bad idea," answered the stranger with a friendly smile. "Also, I'm searching for someone."
"And you hope to find him here?" said Silverstreak incredulously. "Well, good luck I guess. But the energon cube will be no problem. I have standard, sweet, acid, bitter, with copper and natrium, got even cobalt last decaorn. Whatever you like. Just no highgrade. Not advisable here, you know."
The Iaconian blinked at the list. "Ah, sure, I think I might like standard then."
"Good choice." The flier made a handwave that he should follow him and walked through the room to the bar. "Any preferred temperature?" he asked while he filled the cube. "And who are you searching for? Did you travel together? If yes, I might have bad news for you..." Silverstreak's wings twitched in anticipation of explaining yet another foolish traveller how dangerous and deadly the light storms were - and just how low the chance of finding their comrades again.
"No, no, I've never met him before," said the Iaconian. Silverstreak's wings sagged in relief. "And room temperature is fine."
"Great, here! We get the energon directly from Tarn, so it's really good." Silverstreak gave him the cube and then frowned lightly. Something wasn't right. He looked over his visitor again, and had the feeling that he didn't belong to his usual clientele of truckers and fortune hunters. Everything about him spoke of casual confidence and a certain quality that was usually only found with lawyers or scientists."You've never met him before? Do you know at least what he looks like or a designation? Picture would be helpful, too."
"Yes." The stranger eyed him sharply. "His designation is Bluestreak."
For a moment the flier was sure that his spark stopped spinning. "Bluestreak," he repeated quietly, tasting the glyphs he hadn't heard in vorns. "And who might you be?"
"My name is Rook. I'm a journalist." A slight nod accompanied the words.
Danger.Threat.Danger! screamed his battle protocols, calculating seven different scenarios how he could take out the journalist without much trouble. His servo was already touching the main subspace pouch in which commonly weapons were carried, before he caught himself. He forced his own reaction down, rationally knowing that 'shoot first, ask questions later' had never been good advice. Not even during the Great War.
Battle protocols now simmering just below the surface of his more civilised thoughts, he scrutinised the journalist. If one thought the dust and dirt away, Rook was quite easily recognised. Especially considering that Silverstreak had watched his show about the trial regularly until only three orns ago. Until when Blaster hadn't been able to read the news and excused himself statically in front of the whole audience, fleeing to grieve alone. Until when Rook himself had stared at the news and then told Cybertron the unbelievable in a flat, matter-of-fact voice... Since then Cybertron had been continuing on, quiet and somber compared to the screaming and excitement of the previous orns.
Even Rook had disappeared from the screens as if all had been said and done, had left the discussion of 'why' to the citizens and mechs on the street. Silverstreak had the feeling that he now knew why.
Rook hadn't moved one inch. Indeed, both of his servos were visible on the counter, and he was avoiding Silverstreak's optics. Classical behaviour to calm down aggressive defence protocols in warframes. Which helped the flier now, but was bad news overall. Just what did Rook already know?
"Please," said the journalist. "I will not do anything without your permission. I do not want to get you into trouble."
"Trouble? Your very presence is trouble for me." Again he had to clamp down on the surging battle protocols. Nothing would be worse than to kill a mech who had done nothing but state his job in front of a good dozen of witnesses. He sighed deeply. "I guess you know that I was Bluestreak once, right?" he whispered, dreading the answer with every inch of his frame.
"Yes," answered Rook just as quietly. "I want to talk and maybe to interview you. Nothing more, I promise."
Right. As if not the knowledge alone was dangerous. Or the fact that he had found him. Now it was too late. All he could realistically do, was to play Rook's game and to hope that he was sincere. Silverstreak couldn't hide the tremble in his wings at that thought, then he let age-old determination overcome him. It probably had been inevitable that sooner or later he would be found.
Obviously relieved that his host wouldn't take him apart, Rook looked around for a moment, but so far no one paid any attention to them.
Silverstreak wasn't surprised. These were regulars, hardened mechs that would help him in a dire situation without thinking, but they all respected him enough to let him settle his own affairs if he could. That didn't mean that they would let him kill Rook, though. They were good mechs like that.
"Come," he said, accepting his situation. "Let's go to the back room and then we can talk more. It's not as if anyone is going to leave while the storm is outside."
Rook nodded and followed him out through a barely visible door behind the counter, then down two hallways and into a small room. It held a berth at the corner, a sturdy table and two chairs. Besides that it was empty.
"You rent those rooms out?" asked Rook conversationally as he took a seat.
"Yes. Good money and the mechs need it. Built most of it with my own servos, too. It's not even as difficult as mechs think, you just have to start and work." Silverstreak didn't hide his pride. "When I came here, there was nothing more than a shack and death rate that would've made Primus mourn."
"Impressive."
"Thanks." He took the second seat. "We're alone now, no other audios, nothing. So, let's talk as you said, Rook. I've heard of you and your investigations. Kinda liked them in the past, really, they were always interesting and to the point. But my roadhouse is not interesting and certainly not worth any investigation. Primus knows, there are no news around here, besides how the wind blows." Which was probably more important news in Silverstreak's life than Rook imagined. The wind ruled everything here. But he had to come to the point, had to keep his glitch at a leash. "So, I guess you want to talk about the war?"
Rook slowly nodded. "The war and of course, Prowl and Jazz."
"Of course," repeated Silverstreak with bitterness. "What else? Isn't it enough that they're dead?" He slowly shook his head. "I'm not interested in talking about them."
"I expected that." The journalist didn't look happy. "What about we make a deal?" He put a datapad on the table. "This contains how I found you. I will give it to you when you agree to the interview."
He supposed he should've expected that. He chuckled without mirth. "Did you get all of your famous interviews like that?"
"Some," admitted the journalist. "But I never broke a deal."
Which was probably true. Rook had the reputation of being trustworthy and never once had he heard about designations leaked by the journalist. Silverstreak contemplated the offer for a moment, but then he nodded. "Information for information, that's probably fair. But you'll record the interview, right?" Rook nodded. "During the interview I want no hints at all about my current identity. But you probably guessed that, after all the datapad would be worthless to me otherwise."
"I did, yes." Rook slowly, so to give Silverstreak plenty of time to react, took out a small device from his subspaces. "That's a recorder. It will record only the audial of our interview and distort your voice."
Silverstreak looked at curiously, but it really was a simple device. Primitivity was also a kind of protection against hacking. He nodded satisfied.
"Then let's start." Bluestreak nodded in agreement. Rook activated the recorder and leaned towards it. "Good mechs from Cybertron and the many colonies out there, welcome to this interview. My name is Rook and across from me is sitting Bluestreak. He was an Autobot sniper in the Great War and is the adopted creation of the recently deactivated Prowl and Jazz." He looked up, but Silverstreak showed no reaction to the news. "Thank you for joining us, Bluestreak. He has asked me to keep his current identity secret, so please excuse that we will have no visual for this."
Rook leaned back. "Bluestreak, you seem to be aware of what happened in the last orns. So, you probably also noticed that during the trial there was no mech on Cybertron more sought after than you. Why didn't you come?"
Silverstreak shrugged, an oddly fluid gesture with the wings on his back. "Prowl and Jazz didn't want me to come and give up my new life. I tried to convince them at first, but really there wasn't anything to add to the whole thing." Not to mention that he hadn't wanted the publicity.
"Nothing to add? Are you saying that your testimonies would've incriminated them further?"
Further? Was that even possible? "No," answered Silverstreak. "They never shared any secret plans with me or even put me on any those missions." He sighed. "They tried to keep me apart from their world as good as they could. And I never argued against it. I could see what it was doing to them, I didn't want that. It was enough that I became a soldier, before I became an adult."
The bitterness was cutting, but Rook had found the first glimpse for what he had come. "So they didn't want you to become like them. What was their life style doing to them?"
Memories bubbled up in Silverstreak, uncontrollable and so very powerful that he had to shutter his eyes. "It wasn't a life style," he said slowly. "It was a duty they had been called for by Sentinel Prime and later by Optimus. They both wanted officers that had moral... and the ability to ignore it." The wings hanged low from his back.
"But Prowl and Jazz weren't their only officers..."
"Sure," agreed the flier. "But Ultra Magnus loves his rules and laws too much to bend them. Ironhide has principles harder than his armour and Elita One, well, he was noble to the spark and would've never even considered it. But you don't win a war with always being nice and predictable. Sometimes you need to sacrifice and kill and murder. To do horrible things to mech, even innocent mechs. And for those jobs Prime had Prowl and Jazz."
Rook showed no sign of what he thought of that accusation. "Did the Primes know that the ability to ignore their morals would lead to those atrocities?"
"No." His certainty was absolute. "Well, I don't know about Sentinel, but Optimus? Never. They're Primes, you know? That's their job to find the sparks best suited for something."
The relaxation in Rook was nearly not visible, but there. "It's true that the Primes have always been famous for finding special mechs. Bluestreak, you were the mech closest to them. Can you explain and make us understand more about their crimes and decision to take their own sparks?"
Silverstreak hesitated, staring at the table as he tried to decide between all the things he could say, and the one thing he should say. How to explain a millennia long tragedy that encompassed the whole Great War in a few sentences? When he spoke his words were wistful: "There is no simple explanation, Rook. They always seemed so strong, right? As if nothing could break them or their convictions. And I guess we all were right, nothing could... but themselves." He tried to smile weakly, but the mourning was plain obvious.
"To me they always were loving creators at first, and officers at second. I needed a long time to understand the personal demons that haunted them. We all never questioned how the solutions were created and what the cost of them was. We just wanted them. Wanted to be told, that we're the good guys."
He folded his hands on the table, hand pressing against hand with enough force to crush rock. "I was a youngling, when I realised for the first time that there was this facade they had created and which we all not only accepted but loved. That orn is still crystal clear in my memory drive, even though I never found out what mission had gone wrong... but on that orn, Jazz stumbled into our quarters crying."
"Crying," echoed Rook surprised.
"Yeah... I've never before seen him cry too. I was supposed to be recharging, but at that time I loved to this disobey and had stayed awake. Spying through the nearly closed door, I saw how Prowl said nothing and just held him for over a joor. After that time, Jazz stood, dried his tears and said, 'they deserve a burial.' Prowl only nodded at him and Jazz grinned." He stopped for a moment, clearly searching for words as the emotions tried to overwhelm him. "It was that grin... the very same grin that he always wore. He didn't look different, or sad anymore, just like happy, carefree Jazz. As if nothing had happened. It was then that I realised just how good an actor Jazz was."
"Was that the only time something like this happened?"
"No. Sometimes they would just hold each other, sometimes cry." Silverstreak gulped, trying to push the feelings down. "And then after maybe just two breems, they would just stand up and leave again as if nothing had happened. Later, I realised that those incidents coincided with campaigns, missions and other things. I don't know what exactly always happened. But I know that every time they had ignored their core moral coding and done something horrible for the cause. Sometimes they sacrificed mechs, sometimes they tortured them, sometimes... well. You heard in the trial. Often it was even justified and yet, when they were hidden from the world and alone, they were grieving."
Rook nodded. "Blaster and a few other bots have speculated that they probably felt guilty. Would you agree?"
"Of course they did, but it was more than just that..." Silverstreak shook his head. He looked up and focused on the journalist. This was nothing one just told a bot, no. He would have to lead Rook and all their listeners along a certain path of thoughts. "Rook, what was the question at the trial that they were asked over and over again?"
"Question?" Rook blinked. "If they plead guilty or not... right?"
Silverstreak was relieved that the journalist made it easy for him. "Exactly. But no one bothered to ask if they were guilty before the law. Just how they would plead." Silverstreak leaned forward, wings on his back rising. "And of course, they would plead guilty. Because they felt guilty!"
Rook looked startled at the sudden emotion of his interview partner. "So... you're saying they didn't commit the crimes, but still felt guilty for them? That's a bit contradictory."
Silverstreak shook his head. "Not at all. If I take a sparkling and tell him that those mechs with a purple sign are evil. Raise the sparkling to fight, to accept violence as normal. Repeat again and again, that the sparks of the purple ones are worth nothing, are released from their sins, when killed... Am I really innocent, when the mech goes on a killing spree as an adult?"
Silence.
For astroseconds no mech moved and the flier just stared at his interviewer, until Rook understood that this wasn't a rhetorical question. "I guess, no. You would be guilty."
Silverstreak nodded satisfied. "And now imagine, that I am not doing this to a single sparkling, but to Thousands. I subtly lower inhibitions in a whole army, and especially in those mechs used for secret missions. I erase moral coding so that they're able to backstab mechs that seconds ago had been friends... Would I am be guilty, if from time to time a few mechs of that army go mad?"
Rook stared as finally he started to understand the horrible picture. "Yes," he whispered.
"So what do you think? Would've Motormaster become a killer without the war? Would've Sunstreaker and Sideswipe? The Wreckers? Or even Tarn and all the others form the Decepticon Justice Division? Would all of us have killed in a world that knew nothing but peace?!"
"I don't know," said Rook defensively.
Silverstreak though was satisfied and calmed. "Jazz and Prowl believed to know the answer. Their answer was no." The flier looked away from Rook. "Prowl and Jazz could ignore their morals, but they were still there and active, with every single codeline intact. They created soldiers and killers, turned mechs into monsters, while knowing exactly what they were doing to those mechs and grieved for them, but didn't stop, because they thought it necessary. They thought the Autobots and their cause right and good."
"They worked with Starscream and the Decepticons later," pointed Rook out. "It's said that they were the architects of the Peace." A peace that put the Autobots at a severe disadvantage at the beginning.
"Yeah, they were. I think over the years even their beliefs into the Autobot cause dwindled and when Prowl calculated that the war would kill our race if nothing drastically changed... they decided to put every Cybertronian above the Autobot cause." Silverstreak looked at the shocked Rook. "They had sacrificed everything for hundreds of centuries for the cause. Everything. And then, they had to face that it was all for nothing. That it all had only brought death and destruction. But instead of simply crumbling, they turned around and forged the peace agreements, through which they destroyed the cause through their own servos." He flicked a wing, remembering how he himself had just treated the peace like a strange new thing. "Can you imagine their guilt?"
Quietly, Rook shook his head. "The peace agreements broke them...?"
"No. What they had done, broke them. That they had been the engine behind the Great War broke them. Not the peace." He sighed. "The Peace was and is a great thing, don't get me wrong. But when it came, it showed the wounds of the war." His wings trembled as he added: "Even wounds that hadn't been obvious before."
"What kind of wounds?"
"I guess that I was the beginning," he admitted quietly. "I had been so young when the war began, that I only learned and lived by the rules of war. When the Peace came, I was happy... until the world stopped making sense to me. My social protocols were not developed enough and had become entwined with my battle protocols."
Rook frowned. "Couldn't you have switched your battle protocols off? It's a simple procedure and it turned the majority of the armies back into normal civilians."
"The majority... but I didn't have peace time social protocols." He sighed. "I also had no education. No idea about culture, art or even of how a bus system worked. Bureaucracy beyond battle reports was foreign to me..." His optics became dark as he remembered the darkest orns of his life. "I was useful under Starscream's reign, but after Prime released me from duty... I became a street mech."
That shook Rook for a moment. "A street mech? Really?"
"Really. I soon found old comrades. Mostly young former Decepticons, but there were a few Autobots too. We all couldn't deactivate our battle protocols, we all were frustrated, depressed and very, very dangerous to the normal civilians. We fell into gang behaviour, we scared citizens, robbed them out, blackmailed them. It all felt so much more natural than to walk into a shop and ask for a price."
"Did you enjoy frightening them?"
Silverstreak looked at the table. Remembered the many painful incidents and his own glee. "Sometimes."
"Prowl and Jazz saw that?"
"At first, they saw me." He sighed, those orns were still painful to him, a shame deeply buried. Their anger at his situation had only been a poor mask for their horror and worry. He had tried to shove them away, but they had grown only more determined and found him again and again. But the most striking moment, the one he would never forget, was their expressions of pure relief when he finally accepted their help. "They brought me to a psychologist, swore him into secrecy. Soon, they brought the others too. And then, they made us an offer..."
Rook sat straighter as he made a connection to what an Enforcer called Nightbeat had told him. He had thought it unimportant then, but now it seemed to be the key: "A 'chance at life'- offer?"
"Exactly." The flier nodded. "They placed us under an obligation to go to the psychologists, to the coders and everything. In return, they created a new look for us, a new life that would fit our personality and needs."
Well, the network and they did it. The network had no real name, it was just mechs working together to give them this chance. He knew only a few of them. And even less knew his new identity. He wondered who of those had betrayed him.
"That sounds like a very generous offer."
"It is." Especially as they expected nothing else in return. No secret missions, no loyalty. Nothing. Instead they had offered life, home and a strange sense of a new family. Of belonging together.
Rook was thoughtful. "... you said before that mechs went mad. I guess those mechs are still around, even though they weren't mentioned in the trials?"
"Yes."
"And they have a new identity as well?"
"Yes." Silverstreak wondered if Rook understood that he and his war brothers, those who secretly called Prowl and Jazz their second creators, would have stormed the prison at the slightest doubt that this wasn't exactly what those two wanted. They would've thrown the planet into a new civil war without regret. But they had said no. And he and his war brothers could do nothing but respect those wishes.
Maybe Rook did, as he paled a bit. "Do you really want to tell me, that the mechs that committed all those crimes for which Prowl and Jazz died, are running around free on Cybertron without anyway to recognise them?"
"Well... yes and no." Silverstreak flicked a wing. "We call it the 'last clause'. It says that we got a second chance - but only one second chance. Everyone of us has a secret observer who is part of the network. We don't know his identity or name, but he's there. And should we fall back into old habits, those observers are under orders to kill us."
"That's harsh..." said Rook quietly. "And not very lawful."
"It keeps us in line," answered Silverstreak with a strange, sharp smile. "Death is a consequence mechs with active battle protocols understand far better than things like prisons."
On his darkest orns this death thread had been the only thing that had kept him in line. With it he could forget all the incomprehensible rules of society, the hundreds of laws that felt like a cage, the strange notion of justice and punishment and consequences that just might be worth it... instead he concentrated on the simple knowledge, that if he did that, he would be deactivated. It was their safety net.
"I see..." said Rook.
"Really?" Silverstreak looked at him sceptically. "Then tell me, why Prowl and Jazz choose to take the blame for all of us murderers and monsters?"
"Because they felt guilty to have turned you into such."
"Partially." Silberstreak smiled. "But also, because there is this funny little thing: No one searches for a murderer who has already been found, trialled and sentenced, right?"
Who had also been declared dead by various medics and Enforcers on site.
Rook stared and the flier could see how the last pieces fell to their places. Prowl and Jazz hadn't not only done this out of guilt, but also because they had wanted to protect the youngest members of their society, those that were still paying the price. No one would ever search again for these criminals. Not until they committed new crimes. "... You're right. But why tell me this then? This interview will go online, everyone will hear it."
"Of course. But I'm a lone mech. Less even, I'm just a voice. Evidence says differently than I, right?" That was what he had learned from his creators - evidence always was supreme.
"Right..." The journalist looked at the flier across from him with new appreciation. "I guess than I have only two questions left."
Silverstreak tried to hide his relief that it was nearly over. "Shoot."
"First, Jazz called you from the enforcer headquarters, right?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
Silverstreak sighed. "I guess... they were walking to their death and just wanted to be assured that I..." He gulped. "That I don't hate them for it."
"Do you?"
"No. Never. How could I?" He smiled suddenly. "I yelled a lot though. Jazz couldn't react how he wanted, but that didn't matter, I think I've never spoken so fast in my life before."
Rook reflexively returned the smile. "The call certainly had the effect to drive the Enforcers mad."
"Ironhide?" asked Silverstreak amused.
"Ironhide," confirmed Rook, who had tried to interview the Enforcer, but had always been rebuffed. His colleagues hadn't proven to be that resistant. "And the last question is about the rumour that they just faked their death. That they're still alive. What do you think?"
For a few astroseconds Silverstreak just looked at him, then his faceplates split apart and he laughed. Actually laughed. For the first time it was obvious just how young he really was. "I guess, I will see them again, one way or the other." Probably sooner, they had promised. Still chuckling, he stood up and took the datapad that was now his own. "I think the interview is now completed, right?"
"Yes." Rook said a few more words to his listeners, then deactivated the recorder.
The sudden silence in the room as no one spoke was startling. Silverstreak felt his glitch acting up, wanting to force him to speak and so he hurried to the door, unwilling to give even more information. Yet when he reached it, a thought occurred him and he turned around. "You can stay here and rest for a joor, then the storm will break."
As he looked at the tired journalist, he couldn't see any of the danger and threat he had felt not so long ago. Deep in his cortex his battle protocols settled down, giving over to a small nest of code lines which were still tender and new. Silverstreak relaxed and smiled softly: "No charge this time."
Rook blinked surprised at the kindness. "Thank you."
Silverstreak inclined his helmet and left. Outside he glanced at the datapad, finding as expected the glyphs of Wheeljack, the creator of his current frame and so many others. Wheeljack who had always been a fan of Rook… and very loyal to Prowl and Jazz - his beloved, but very manipulative creators. No doubt they had ordered Wheeljack to send Rook here, so that Bluestreak could explain the true reasons without destroying their plan. He had to smile as he realised that he had probably just done well and made them proud. That they had trusted him with this.
Below were other mechs Rook had interviewed and which had given up small, unimportant pieces of information about Bluestreak. An Enforcer called Nightbeat, Red Alert, Smokescreen, Rung…
A short command and all information were deleted.
Humming, he walked back the bar, where he had already been missed. Soon, he was again chatting with his guests, giving out energon and friendly words, turning the little refugee in the middle of a desert into a warm home.
Outside the storm howled on.
There is still some information missing. Some will come in the Epilogue, much is hinted at in this story, and even more will be explained in the prequel stories that will follow. ^^ I hope you liked it so far.
Next chapter: The Epilogue.
~silber
Beta: Starfire201
Continuation: AU, G1
Genre: Adventure, drama
Characters: Bluestreak, Rook, others mentioned
Summary: Again he had to clamp down on the surging battle protocols. Nothing would be worse than to kill a mech who had done nothing but state his job in front of a good dozen of witnesses. He sighed deeply. "I guess you know that I was Bluestreak once, right?"
Disclaimer: This does not belong to me, but to Hasbro and whoever else might habe rights towards all recognisable characters.
This chapter drove me to insanity and back. I think if I say that it lived through 5 complete rewrites I'm not lieing, and add to that a few dozen partial rewrites. I put all information I felt I could without bending the characters too much. I hope you enjoy it. :)
10. Bluestreak
Between Polyhex and Tarn was a stretch of land, claimed by few mechs that were commonly thought of as insane. With the Bad Lands in the north, the Rust Sea in the south and a harsh wind that blew metallic dust into every joint, this was not an inviting place at the best orns.
During the worst orns so called 'light storms', consisting of metallic splinters, leftovers and ash from the war, rolled over the surface, forming a deadly gleaming wall so bright that it took the sight of every travelling bot, stranding them until the storm calmed. Or forever.
Further problems provided the temperature differences. On some orns the roads would heat up until they were smouldering and only joors later they had cooled to the point of freezing energon in less than a klick.
Through this inhospitable part of Cybertron led only a single road on which heavy transporters and all those who couldn't buy a shuttle ticket travelled, hoping for money and a new life in the still rebuilding Tarn.
It was a long and dangerous ride for these bots, with only one possible safe break in the very middle of it. Between two heavy boulders defied a small scuffed house the climate, never bowing down, never raising above its two protectors.
This was the roadhouse of route 522, a haven for weary mechs and hardened couriers, with no name of its own. But those who knew it, called it "Silver's tavern" with quiet appreciation for the owner.
A lone, once maybe blue mech neared the tavern, his engine stuttering from the dust. As he transformed, he looked at the small house with the same relief of all those that came before him, but also with a hint of satisfaction. Then he turned, frowning at the horizon which seemed brighter than just klicks ago... A storm was coming. Hurriedly, he walked to the battered, often reinforced door and entered.
Inside, life never seemed to change.
Silverstreak, who was cleaning one of the old, worn tables of the tavern, sighed as he got the alert that the light storm had reached the district just south from his own. It was the third one in this decaorn alone and he worried that again mechs wouldn't make it to his roadhouse in time. The table now a polished perfection, he straightened and flared his wings in light distress. Maybe he should go out for a last klick flight and look for lost travellers? It would be dangerous, yes, but a spark was always worth the risk. Not to mention he kind of liked the danger, the air just before a storm hit. Already he could feel the electricity in the air caressing his wings.
He looked around towards his guests and mentally counted them. His roadhouse wasn't big and most had arrived in the last joor, taking the warnings he had sent out seriously. Thirteen dusty and exhausted mechs were now in this small room, drinking their cool energon. In the corner a few of them had started a game of Prime's Keeper, which led to short burst of laughter every few breems. Silverstreak knew most of them personally as they were regulars and he always offered a few friendly words with his cubes. Usually they were accepted gratefully. Sometimes he just listened, sometimes he supported a whole dialogue alone, whatever his visitors seemed to want and need.
Silverstreak relaxed as he realised that no one who he knew to be travelling in this orn on route 522 was missing.
He loved his job here, far away from the hectic cities and complicated lifes. Instead everything was dominated by the storms and when the next energon transport came. It was simple. And the moments when he flew alone across the whole desert were magic.
A small chime in his commlinks signified a guest. A few astroseconds later a dirty mech of Iaconian built stepped through the door. His racer mode clearly marked him as a newcomer.
Silverstreak walked towards the door next to him, while the new visitor took in the used furniture, the nearly bare room, the quiet lull of several peaceful conversations around him with intelligent blue optics. They came to rest on the silver Polyhexian flier beside him, who was now making the door stormproof.
As he sealed the door, Silverstreak knew that it was only a matter of klicks, until the light storm would hit them. He prayed as always that no mech would try to seek shelter and only find a closed door. But it was necessary.
"Excuse me," asked the Iaconian, when he had finished. "Are you Silverstreak by any chance?"
The flier startled. "Yes, that's me. Welcome by the way. Good that you've found your way here in time. The next storm will be nasty. How can I help you?"
"Well, an energon cube wouldn't be a bad idea," answered the stranger with a friendly smile. "Also, I'm searching for someone."
"And you hope to find him here?" said Silverstreak incredulously. "Well, good luck I guess. But the energon cube will be no problem. I have standard, sweet, acid, bitter, with copper and natrium, got even cobalt last decaorn. Whatever you like. Just no highgrade. Not advisable here, you know."
The Iaconian blinked at the list. "Ah, sure, I think I might like standard then."
"Good choice." The flier made a handwave that he should follow him and walked through the room to the bar. "Any preferred temperature?" he asked while he filled the cube. "And who are you searching for? Did you travel together? If yes, I might have bad news for you..." Silverstreak's wings twitched in anticipation of explaining yet another foolish traveller how dangerous and deadly the light storms were - and just how low the chance of finding their comrades again.
"No, no, I've never met him before," said the Iaconian. Silverstreak's wings sagged in relief. "And room temperature is fine."
"Great, here! We get the energon directly from Tarn, so it's really good." Silverstreak gave him the cube and then frowned lightly. Something wasn't right. He looked over his visitor again, and had the feeling that he didn't belong to his usual clientele of truckers and fortune hunters. Everything about him spoke of casual confidence and a certain quality that was usually only found with lawyers or scientists."You've never met him before? Do you know at least what he looks like or a designation? Picture would be helpful, too."
"Yes." The stranger eyed him sharply. "His designation is Bluestreak."
For a moment the flier was sure that his spark stopped spinning. "Bluestreak," he repeated quietly, tasting the glyphs he hadn't heard in vorns. "And who might you be?"
"My name is Rook. I'm a journalist." A slight nod accompanied the words.
Danger.Threat.Danger! screamed his battle protocols, calculating seven different scenarios how he could take out the journalist without much trouble. His servo was already touching the main subspace pouch in which commonly weapons were carried, before he caught himself. He forced his own reaction down, rationally knowing that 'shoot first, ask questions later' had never been good advice. Not even during the Great War.
Battle protocols now simmering just below the surface of his more civilised thoughts, he scrutinised the journalist. If one thought the dust and dirt away, Rook was quite easily recognised. Especially considering that Silverstreak had watched his show about the trial regularly until only three orns ago. Until when Blaster hadn't been able to read the news and excused himself statically in front of the whole audience, fleeing to grieve alone. Until when Rook himself had stared at the news and then told Cybertron the unbelievable in a flat, matter-of-fact voice... Since then Cybertron had been continuing on, quiet and somber compared to the screaming and excitement of the previous orns.
Even Rook had disappeared from the screens as if all had been said and done, had left the discussion of 'why' to the citizens and mechs on the street. Silverstreak had the feeling that he now knew why.
Rook hadn't moved one inch. Indeed, both of his servos were visible on the counter, and he was avoiding Silverstreak's optics. Classical behaviour to calm down aggressive defence protocols in warframes. Which helped the flier now, but was bad news overall. Just what did Rook already know?
"Please," said the journalist. "I will not do anything without your permission. I do not want to get you into trouble."
"Trouble? Your very presence is trouble for me." Again he had to clamp down on the surging battle protocols. Nothing would be worse than to kill a mech who had done nothing but state his job in front of a good dozen of witnesses. He sighed deeply. "I guess you know that I was Bluestreak once, right?" he whispered, dreading the answer with every inch of his frame.
"Yes," answered Rook just as quietly. "I want to talk and maybe to interview you. Nothing more, I promise."
Right. As if not the knowledge alone was dangerous. Or the fact that he had found him. Now it was too late. All he could realistically do, was to play Rook's game and to hope that he was sincere. Silverstreak couldn't hide the tremble in his wings at that thought, then he let age-old determination overcome him. It probably had been inevitable that sooner or later he would be found.
Obviously relieved that his host wouldn't take him apart, Rook looked around for a moment, but so far no one paid any attention to them.
Silverstreak wasn't surprised. These were regulars, hardened mechs that would help him in a dire situation without thinking, but they all respected him enough to let him settle his own affairs if he could. That didn't mean that they would let him kill Rook, though. They were good mechs like that.
"Come," he said, accepting his situation. "Let's go to the back room and then we can talk more. It's not as if anyone is going to leave while the storm is outside."
Rook nodded and followed him out through a barely visible door behind the counter, then down two hallways and into a small room. It held a berth at the corner, a sturdy table and two chairs. Besides that it was empty.
"You rent those rooms out?" asked Rook conversationally as he took a seat.
"Yes. Good money and the mechs need it. Built most of it with my own servos, too. It's not even as difficult as mechs think, you just have to start and work." Silverstreak didn't hide his pride. "When I came here, there was nothing more than a shack and death rate that would've made Primus mourn."
"Impressive."
"Thanks." He took the second seat. "We're alone now, no other audios, nothing. So, let's talk as you said, Rook. I've heard of you and your investigations. Kinda liked them in the past, really, they were always interesting and to the point. But my roadhouse is not interesting and certainly not worth any investigation. Primus knows, there are no news around here, besides how the wind blows." Which was probably more important news in Silverstreak's life than Rook imagined. The wind ruled everything here. But he had to come to the point, had to keep his glitch at a leash. "So, I guess you want to talk about the war?"
Rook slowly nodded. "The war and of course, Prowl and Jazz."
"Of course," repeated Silverstreak with bitterness. "What else? Isn't it enough that they're dead?" He slowly shook his head. "I'm not interested in talking about them."
"I expected that." The journalist didn't look happy. "What about we make a deal?" He put a datapad on the table. "This contains how I found you. I will give it to you when you agree to the interview."
He supposed he should've expected that. He chuckled without mirth. "Did you get all of your famous interviews like that?"
"Some," admitted the journalist. "But I never broke a deal."
Which was probably true. Rook had the reputation of being trustworthy and never once had he heard about designations leaked by the journalist. Silverstreak contemplated the offer for a moment, but then he nodded. "Information for information, that's probably fair. But you'll record the interview, right?" Rook nodded. "During the interview I want no hints at all about my current identity. But you probably guessed that, after all the datapad would be worthless to me otherwise."
"I did, yes." Rook slowly, so to give Silverstreak plenty of time to react, took out a small device from his subspaces. "That's a recorder. It will record only the audial of our interview and distort your voice."
Silverstreak looked at curiously, but it really was a simple device. Primitivity was also a kind of protection against hacking. He nodded satisfied.
"Then let's start." Bluestreak nodded in agreement. Rook activated the recorder and leaned towards it. "Good mechs from Cybertron and the many colonies out there, welcome to this interview. My name is Rook and across from me is sitting Bluestreak. He was an Autobot sniper in the Great War and is the adopted creation of the recently deactivated Prowl and Jazz." He looked up, but Silverstreak showed no reaction to the news. "Thank you for joining us, Bluestreak. He has asked me to keep his current identity secret, so please excuse that we will have no visual for this."
Rook leaned back. "Bluestreak, you seem to be aware of what happened in the last orns. So, you probably also noticed that during the trial there was no mech on Cybertron more sought after than you. Why didn't you come?"
Silverstreak shrugged, an oddly fluid gesture with the wings on his back. "Prowl and Jazz didn't want me to come and give up my new life. I tried to convince them at first, but really there wasn't anything to add to the whole thing." Not to mention that he hadn't wanted the publicity.
"Nothing to add? Are you saying that your testimonies would've incriminated them further?"
Further? Was that even possible? "No," answered Silverstreak. "They never shared any secret plans with me or even put me on any those missions." He sighed. "They tried to keep me apart from their world as good as they could. And I never argued against it. I could see what it was doing to them, I didn't want that. It was enough that I became a soldier, before I became an adult."
The bitterness was cutting, but Rook had found the first glimpse for what he had come. "So they didn't want you to become like them. What was their life style doing to them?"
Memories bubbled up in Silverstreak, uncontrollable and so very powerful that he had to shutter his eyes. "It wasn't a life style," he said slowly. "It was a duty they had been called for by Sentinel Prime and later by Optimus. They both wanted officers that had moral... and the ability to ignore it." The wings hanged low from his back.
"But Prowl and Jazz weren't their only officers..."
"Sure," agreed the flier. "But Ultra Magnus loves his rules and laws too much to bend them. Ironhide has principles harder than his armour and Elita One, well, he was noble to the spark and would've never even considered it. But you don't win a war with always being nice and predictable. Sometimes you need to sacrifice and kill and murder. To do horrible things to mech, even innocent mechs. And for those jobs Prime had Prowl and Jazz."
Rook showed no sign of what he thought of that accusation. "Did the Primes know that the ability to ignore their morals would lead to those atrocities?"
"No." His certainty was absolute. "Well, I don't know about Sentinel, but Optimus? Never. They're Primes, you know? That's their job to find the sparks best suited for something."
The relaxation in Rook was nearly not visible, but there. "It's true that the Primes have always been famous for finding special mechs. Bluestreak, you were the mech closest to them. Can you explain and make us understand more about their crimes and decision to take their own sparks?"
Silverstreak hesitated, staring at the table as he tried to decide between all the things he could say, and the one thing he should say. How to explain a millennia long tragedy that encompassed the whole Great War in a few sentences? When he spoke his words were wistful: "There is no simple explanation, Rook. They always seemed so strong, right? As if nothing could break them or their convictions. And I guess we all were right, nothing could... but themselves." He tried to smile weakly, but the mourning was plain obvious.
"To me they always were loving creators at first, and officers at second. I needed a long time to understand the personal demons that haunted them. We all never questioned how the solutions were created and what the cost of them was. We just wanted them. Wanted to be told, that we're the good guys."
He folded his hands on the table, hand pressing against hand with enough force to crush rock. "I was a youngling, when I realised for the first time that there was this facade they had created and which we all not only accepted but loved. That orn is still crystal clear in my memory drive, even though I never found out what mission had gone wrong... but on that orn, Jazz stumbled into our quarters crying."
"Crying," echoed Rook surprised.
"Yeah... I've never before seen him cry too. I was supposed to be recharging, but at that time I loved to this disobey and had stayed awake. Spying through the nearly closed door, I saw how Prowl said nothing and just held him for over a joor. After that time, Jazz stood, dried his tears and said, 'they deserve a burial.' Prowl only nodded at him and Jazz grinned." He stopped for a moment, clearly searching for words as the emotions tried to overwhelm him. "It was that grin... the very same grin that he always wore. He didn't look different, or sad anymore, just like happy, carefree Jazz. As if nothing had happened. It was then that I realised just how good an actor Jazz was."
"Was that the only time something like this happened?"
"No. Sometimes they would just hold each other, sometimes cry." Silverstreak gulped, trying to push the feelings down. "And then after maybe just two breems, they would just stand up and leave again as if nothing had happened. Later, I realised that those incidents coincided with campaigns, missions and other things. I don't know what exactly always happened. But I know that every time they had ignored their core moral coding and done something horrible for the cause. Sometimes they sacrificed mechs, sometimes they tortured them, sometimes... well. You heard in the trial. Often it was even justified and yet, when they were hidden from the world and alone, they were grieving."
Rook nodded. "Blaster and a few other bots have speculated that they probably felt guilty. Would you agree?"
"Of course they did, but it was more than just that..." Silverstreak shook his head. He looked up and focused on the journalist. This was nothing one just told a bot, no. He would have to lead Rook and all their listeners along a certain path of thoughts. "Rook, what was the question at the trial that they were asked over and over again?"
"Question?" Rook blinked. "If they plead guilty or not... right?"
Silverstreak was relieved that the journalist made it easy for him. "Exactly. But no one bothered to ask if they were guilty before the law. Just how they would plead." Silverstreak leaned forward, wings on his back rising. "And of course, they would plead guilty. Because they felt guilty!"
Rook looked startled at the sudden emotion of his interview partner. "So... you're saying they didn't commit the crimes, but still felt guilty for them? That's a bit contradictory."
Silverstreak shook his head. "Not at all. If I take a sparkling and tell him that those mechs with a purple sign are evil. Raise the sparkling to fight, to accept violence as normal. Repeat again and again, that the sparks of the purple ones are worth nothing, are released from their sins, when killed... Am I really innocent, when the mech goes on a killing spree as an adult?"
Silence.
For astroseconds no mech moved and the flier just stared at his interviewer, until Rook understood that this wasn't a rhetorical question. "I guess, no. You would be guilty."
Silverstreak nodded satisfied. "And now imagine, that I am not doing this to a single sparkling, but to Thousands. I subtly lower inhibitions in a whole army, and especially in those mechs used for secret missions. I erase moral coding so that they're able to backstab mechs that seconds ago had been friends... Would I am be guilty, if from time to time a few mechs of that army go mad?"
Rook stared as finally he started to understand the horrible picture. "Yes," he whispered.
"So what do you think? Would've Motormaster become a killer without the war? Would've Sunstreaker and Sideswipe? The Wreckers? Or even Tarn and all the others form the Decepticon Justice Division? Would all of us have killed in a world that knew nothing but peace?!"
"I don't know," said Rook defensively.
Silverstreak though was satisfied and calmed. "Jazz and Prowl believed to know the answer. Their answer was no." The flier looked away from Rook. "Prowl and Jazz could ignore their morals, but they were still there and active, with every single codeline intact. They created soldiers and killers, turned mechs into monsters, while knowing exactly what they were doing to those mechs and grieved for them, but didn't stop, because they thought it necessary. They thought the Autobots and their cause right and good."
"They worked with Starscream and the Decepticons later," pointed Rook out. "It's said that they were the architects of the Peace." A peace that put the Autobots at a severe disadvantage at the beginning.
"Yeah, they were. I think over the years even their beliefs into the Autobot cause dwindled and when Prowl calculated that the war would kill our race if nothing drastically changed... they decided to put every Cybertronian above the Autobot cause." Silverstreak looked at the shocked Rook. "They had sacrificed everything for hundreds of centuries for the cause. Everything. And then, they had to face that it was all for nothing. That it all had only brought death and destruction. But instead of simply crumbling, they turned around and forged the peace agreements, through which they destroyed the cause through their own servos." He flicked a wing, remembering how he himself had just treated the peace like a strange new thing. "Can you imagine their guilt?"
Quietly, Rook shook his head. "The peace agreements broke them...?"
"No. What they had done, broke them. That they had been the engine behind the Great War broke them. Not the peace." He sighed. "The Peace was and is a great thing, don't get me wrong. But when it came, it showed the wounds of the war." His wings trembled as he added: "Even wounds that hadn't been obvious before."
"What kind of wounds?"
"I guess that I was the beginning," he admitted quietly. "I had been so young when the war began, that I only learned and lived by the rules of war. When the Peace came, I was happy... until the world stopped making sense to me. My social protocols were not developed enough and had become entwined with my battle protocols."
Rook frowned. "Couldn't you have switched your battle protocols off? It's a simple procedure and it turned the majority of the armies back into normal civilians."
"The majority... but I didn't have peace time social protocols." He sighed. "I also had no education. No idea about culture, art or even of how a bus system worked. Bureaucracy beyond battle reports was foreign to me..." His optics became dark as he remembered the darkest orns of his life. "I was useful under Starscream's reign, but after Prime released me from duty... I became a street mech."
That shook Rook for a moment. "A street mech? Really?"
"Really. I soon found old comrades. Mostly young former Decepticons, but there were a few Autobots too. We all couldn't deactivate our battle protocols, we all were frustrated, depressed and very, very dangerous to the normal civilians. We fell into gang behaviour, we scared citizens, robbed them out, blackmailed them. It all felt so much more natural than to walk into a shop and ask for a price."
"Did you enjoy frightening them?"
Silverstreak looked at the table. Remembered the many painful incidents and his own glee. "Sometimes."
"Prowl and Jazz saw that?"
"At first, they saw me." He sighed, those orns were still painful to him, a shame deeply buried. Their anger at his situation had only been a poor mask for their horror and worry. He had tried to shove them away, but they had grown only more determined and found him again and again. But the most striking moment, the one he would never forget, was their expressions of pure relief when he finally accepted their help. "They brought me to a psychologist, swore him into secrecy. Soon, they brought the others too. And then, they made us an offer..."
Rook sat straighter as he made a connection to what an Enforcer called Nightbeat had told him. He had thought it unimportant then, but now it seemed to be the key: "A 'chance at life'- offer?"
"Exactly." The flier nodded. "They placed us under an obligation to go to the psychologists, to the coders and everything. In return, they created a new look for us, a new life that would fit our personality and needs."
Well, the network and they did it. The network had no real name, it was just mechs working together to give them this chance. He knew only a few of them. And even less knew his new identity. He wondered who of those had betrayed him.
"That sounds like a very generous offer."
"It is." Especially as they expected nothing else in return. No secret missions, no loyalty. Nothing. Instead they had offered life, home and a strange sense of a new family. Of belonging together.
Rook was thoughtful. "... you said before that mechs went mad. I guess those mechs are still around, even though they weren't mentioned in the trials?"
"Yes."
"And they have a new identity as well?"
"Yes." Silverstreak wondered if Rook understood that he and his war brothers, those who secretly called Prowl and Jazz their second creators, would have stormed the prison at the slightest doubt that this wasn't exactly what those two wanted. They would've thrown the planet into a new civil war without regret. But they had said no. And he and his war brothers could do nothing but respect those wishes.
Maybe Rook did, as he paled a bit. "Do you really want to tell me, that the mechs that committed all those crimes for which Prowl and Jazz died, are running around free on Cybertron without anyway to recognise them?"
"Well... yes and no." Silverstreak flicked a wing. "We call it the 'last clause'. It says that we got a second chance - but only one second chance. Everyone of us has a secret observer who is part of the network. We don't know his identity or name, but he's there. And should we fall back into old habits, those observers are under orders to kill us."
"That's harsh..." said Rook quietly. "And not very lawful."
"It keeps us in line," answered Silverstreak with a strange, sharp smile. "Death is a consequence mechs with active battle protocols understand far better than things like prisons."
On his darkest orns this death thread had been the only thing that had kept him in line. With it he could forget all the incomprehensible rules of society, the hundreds of laws that felt like a cage, the strange notion of justice and punishment and consequences that just might be worth it... instead he concentrated on the simple knowledge, that if he did that, he would be deactivated. It was their safety net.
"I see..." said Rook.
"Really?" Silverstreak looked at him sceptically. "Then tell me, why Prowl and Jazz choose to take the blame for all of us murderers and monsters?"
"Because they felt guilty to have turned you into such."
"Partially." Silberstreak smiled. "But also, because there is this funny little thing: No one searches for a murderer who has already been found, trialled and sentenced, right?"
Who had also been declared dead by various medics and Enforcers on site.
Rook stared and the flier could see how the last pieces fell to their places. Prowl and Jazz hadn't not only done this out of guilt, but also because they had wanted to protect the youngest members of their society, those that were still paying the price. No one would ever search again for these criminals. Not until they committed new crimes. "... You're right. But why tell me this then? This interview will go online, everyone will hear it."
"Of course. But I'm a lone mech. Less even, I'm just a voice. Evidence says differently than I, right?" That was what he had learned from his creators - evidence always was supreme.
"Right..." The journalist looked at the flier across from him with new appreciation. "I guess than I have only two questions left."
Silverstreak tried to hide his relief that it was nearly over. "Shoot."
"First, Jazz called you from the enforcer headquarters, right?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
Silverstreak sighed. "I guess... they were walking to their death and just wanted to be assured that I..." He gulped. "That I don't hate them for it."
"Do you?"
"No. Never. How could I?" He smiled suddenly. "I yelled a lot though. Jazz couldn't react how he wanted, but that didn't matter, I think I've never spoken so fast in my life before."
Rook reflexively returned the smile. "The call certainly had the effect to drive the Enforcers mad."
"Ironhide?" asked Silverstreak amused.
"Ironhide," confirmed Rook, who had tried to interview the Enforcer, but had always been rebuffed. His colleagues hadn't proven to be that resistant. "And the last question is about the rumour that they just faked their death. That they're still alive. What do you think?"
For a few astroseconds Silverstreak just looked at him, then his faceplates split apart and he laughed. Actually laughed. For the first time it was obvious just how young he really was. "I guess, I will see them again, one way or the other." Probably sooner, they had promised. Still chuckling, he stood up and took the datapad that was now his own. "I think the interview is now completed, right?"
"Yes." Rook said a few more words to his listeners, then deactivated the recorder.
The sudden silence in the room as no one spoke was startling. Silverstreak felt his glitch acting up, wanting to force him to speak and so he hurried to the door, unwilling to give even more information. Yet when he reached it, a thought occurred him and he turned around. "You can stay here and rest for a joor, then the storm will break."
As he looked at the tired journalist, he couldn't see any of the danger and threat he had felt not so long ago. Deep in his cortex his battle protocols settled down, giving over to a small nest of code lines which were still tender and new. Silverstreak relaxed and smiled softly: "No charge this time."
Rook blinked surprised at the kindness. "Thank you."
Silverstreak inclined his helmet and left. Outside he glanced at the datapad, finding as expected the glyphs of Wheeljack, the creator of his current frame and so many others. Wheeljack who had always been a fan of Rook… and very loyal to Prowl and Jazz - his beloved, but very manipulative creators. No doubt they had ordered Wheeljack to send Rook here, so that Bluestreak could explain the true reasons without destroying their plan. He had to smile as he realised that he had probably just done well and made them proud. That they had trusted him with this.
Below were other mechs Rook had interviewed and which had given up small, unimportant pieces of information about Bluestreak. An Enforcer called Nightbeat, Red Alert, Smokescreen, Rung…
A short command and all information were deleted.
Humming, he walked back the bar, where he had already been missed. Soon, he was again chatting with his guests, giving out energon and friendly words, turning the little refugee in the middle of a desert into a warm home.
Outside the storm howled on.
There is still some information missing. Some will come in the Epilogue, much is hinted at in this story, and even more will be explained in the prequel stories that will follow. ^^ I hope you liked it so far.
Next chapter: The Epilogue.
~silber