Chapter One

Bumblebee put his feet up on the command console and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. It was going to be along flight back to Cybertron, and there was nothing to do but sit and watch the star field in front of him. Countless suns and planetary systems in all their glory were reduced to fragmentary flickers, stretching into streaks of multicolored light towards the edges of the viewscreen, as the shuttle flew on through the emptiness in front of them.

It was boring as scrap, and his co-pilot wasn't going to make things livelier any time soon.

"You haven't added an entry to the ship's travel log in ten cycles," Ultra Magnus chided. The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest accord was busily working the data pad in his hands, grimfacedly proofreading Whirl's latest "report" with the same sort of steely determination one would usually reserve for facing down a legion of Decepticon Elites unarmed. The red correction marks littering the datapad's viewing surface made it look as if it had just barely survived such an onslaught, and Magnus' stylus was still hard at work only halfway down the page.

Bumblebee sat up, placing his feet back on the floor, and pulled out the manual input terminal. Bringing up his last file, he selected the text, copied it into a new report, and hit the enter key.

Magnus' datapad beeped as the filed log was received.

"I'm sensing a lack of enthusiasm for diligent record-keeping," Magnus deadpanned.

"There are only so many ways you can say "We flew through space. Nothing happened."," Bumblebee coolly replied. "Consider it an exercise in efficiency."

Magnus grunted noncommittally, focusing back on Whirl's entry, his mouth pulling into a bigger scowl than usual.

"Something wrong?" Bumblebee asked, noticing the change of demeanor, leaning over the armrest of his chair to peek at the sea of red digital ink.

"He can't spell "accommodations", but he can arrange his report to form an acrostic," Magnus grumbled.

"A what?" Bumblebee asked, leaning over further to try to get a view of what blue and white carrier-form was seeing.

"Look at the first letter of each sentence of his report," the Enforcer said, holding the datapad up for Bumblebee view clearly.

The yellow and black scout narrowed his optics and began reading aloud. "Ultra Magnus is a giant -"

"That kind of disrespect could be considered insubordination!" the Enforcer complained loudly. "Order needs to be maintained, even on a mission where everything seems cut and dry. The mission has gone without incident so far, but that is no excuse to slack off. Until our cargo is safely unloaded on Cybertron, we need to remain focused, vigilant and ready for anything!"

"We've been vigilant for the last four months," Bumblebee countered tiredly. "Whirl's probably just feeling a little stir-crazy." He paused for a moment before correcting himself. "Stir-crazier. Anyways, I'll go tell him to stay on his side of the car and stop touching you."

Ultra Magnus looked mildly puzzled. "I don't follow, Sir. We're in a ship, not a car, and the infraction Whirl is guilty of has nothing to do with physical contact-"

Bumblebee exhaled through his ventilation systems in exasperation. "It's a human expression, Magnus. Nevermind - just make sure we don't fly into anything. I'll go talk to Whirl," he said, rising quickly from his seat, turning towards the bulkhead doors in the back.

"The ship is on autopilot, sir," Magnus stated flatly.

"But the autopilot could fail!" Bumblebee interjected with forced cheer, not stopping for arguments on his way to the door. "Gotta remain diligent and vigilant right? Let me know how it all turns out later." Irritation crept into the edges of his voice as the doors slid open in front of him, his feet striking harder against the floor, pace picking up on his way into the hall. He didn't bother to look back or care to listen to anything further Ultra Magnus might have been trying to say as the bulkhead doors shuttered behind him.

Diligence and vigilance. There wasn't anything left to be diligent or vigilant for.

…..

Time seemed to pass more slowly now that the war was over. Ultimately the Autobots had won, and the Decepticon army was dealt its death-blow when Megatron refused to keep up the fight. Cybertron had been restored, and for the first time in millions of years, new sparks were being rediscovered all over the planet's surface.

The peace was tenuous but maintained as neutral Cybertronians and old Autobot allies finally started to arrive back home. The planet was a shambles, but they were making due in the remnants of Iacon. The new generation of Cybertronians were quick learners and eager to lend a hand in making Cybertron's future bright. There was the occasional scuffle but nothing serious, which was surprising, all things considered. After all, the remains of the Decepticon army were there with the rest of them, and there was plenty of bad blood to go around.

Maybe it was just seeing Cybertron alive again, habitable, refreshing itself more with every megacycle, that calmed most of the Decepticons down. Energon was plentiful again. Blurr had gotten that bar of his started in Iacon, just like he'd always wanted. Jazz and Blaster were returning to their old civilian lives almost as if the war had never happened. Former friends and sparkbrothers were reconnecting, and trying their hardest to let go of the past, remembering that this is what Optimus Prime would have wanted.

Megatron had said his peace, transformed, and left the planet for parts unknown; some wanted him to come back, to face justice, to pay for the countless lives he took with his war.

The decision rested on the shoulders of the new leader of the Autobots.

Bumblebee made the call to let him go.

"It's what Optimus would have wanted," Arcee said aloud, hand on Bumblebee's shoulder as they faced the angry mass of returning exiles. "Revenge breeds more revenge. I know it's going to be hard, but we have to let it all go, here and now. Believe me, I have every reason to want to hunt down any Decepticons who haven't surrendered and turned in their badges, but if they aren't actively hostile, we should just let them go. The war's over. Let's not start a new one."

Bumblebee had wished he'd been able to speak like Arcee had. He felt useless. What had Prime seen in him when he handed the mantle of leadership over to the young bot? Bee didn't even have the benefit of the Matrix of Leadership to help guide his decisions and give him direction when he needed it. Optimus had said the age of Primes was over before sacrificing himself to restart the Well of Allsparks, and left Bumblebee to try to build a working civilization out of Cybertron's remains.

He was just a scout, a last generation Autobot, and nothing about the war that had consumed his whole existence since the time he was sparked had prepared him for the burden of peace.

It was no great shock to anyone, then, when Bumblebee had assigned himself first to the mission at hand: Sixshot, one of the infamous Phase Six Deception elites, had been taken offguard by distant Wrecker platoon and captured. All that was left was to bring him back to Cybertron, disarmed and ready to stand trial.

The threat of something going terribly wrong hung over the mission manifesto like a black fog. Ultra Magnus' experience with Phase Sixers and his willingness to protect the new Autobot supreme commander made him an outstanding choice. Whirl wouldn't be turned away from the mission (no matter how many times he'd been ordered to go home), and with Whirl aboard, Cyclonus volunteered to keep an eye on him. Tailgate came with Cyclonus like a packaged set, and soon after First Aid signed on. "Whirl, Ultra Magnus and Cyclonus on the same ship requires medical support," he'd said. No one had argued with him. Bumblebee wouldn't allow any more after that; after all, something disastrous could happen. He'd even met secretly with Prowl to discuss who would take up leadership should he and his crew fail to return.

After four months, nothing had happened.

The mission was becoming necrotic with routine; twelve cycles awake, twelve cycles recharge, rotating shifts, maintenance checks, and of course the mission logs. Primus forbid anyone forget the mission logs - at least Ultra Magnus seemed to be enjoying the orderly monotony (as far as anyone could tell). First Aid was taking more time to catch up on the medical journals Ratchet had sent with him; Cyclonus and Tailgate had retreated to their shared quarters more and more, keeping out of the way of the others to focus on Tailgate's combat training. Apart from the intermittent guttural roaring of what sounded like a dying ik-yak coming from inside their room (Cyclonus protested that the old ballads had to be sung in the Primal vernacular), Bee had forgotten at times that they were even on board.

Even Whirl's needling of the other crew members could be marked on the calendar; the former Wrecker had never been one to sit still and not be destructive for more than a few hours; at first he'd tried overt attempts to instigate "friendly brawls" but after no one was foolish enough to take him up on his offers, he'd begun intricate and subtle schemes to irritate the more stoic members of the crew, hoping to goad them into an angry outburst at the least. Bumblebee judged today's report to be right on schedule.

All that routine had left Bumblebee plenty of time to think about the things he'd left Cybertron in hopes of not thinking about.

This left Bumblebee very unhappy.

"Must be Fifthday," he muttered, making his way down the main corridor of the ship, past the medical bay and mess hall and towards the crew quarters and cargo bay. "Whirl's always pulling something on Fifthday."

"#$ #$% *&%$# #%$#~* %$ &^*&$# ()*%^!"

Bumblebee covered his audioceptors with his hands and hurried past the crew quarters. Cyclonus and Tailgate in a duet wasn't doing anything to help his mood.

…..

"You finally remembered the third stanza. Good. You're making progress," Cyclonus praised, standing across from Tailgate, idly polishing the enormous Great Sword in his hands.

Tailgate sat up in his chair, hands pressed to the surface of the table in front of him. Despite the lack of several major facial features, he always managed to convey his emotions expressively. "Does this mean I can sing it with you at the dedication ceremony when we get back?" he questioned eagerly.

"No. Your inflection is still lacking," Cyclonus flatly replied.

Tailgate slumped back down into his seat, happiness levels reduced by half at the very least. "Bother," he murmured, glancing down at the floor.

He resolved to keep trying. Cyclonus was a hard mech to please; he demanded nothing short of perfection and he rarely let anyone keep company with him for more than a couple of hours. Even then, when engaged in conversation, his answers were always masterfully laconic. He kept to himself and let no one in. Even after he and Tailgate had been assigned rather haphazardly to shared quarters aboard the Lost Light, Cyclonus had managed to keep the little white and blue mech a million miles away while recharging a few feet nearby.

Adventures had changed that. Swerve would call them "quests" (he called everything a quest, that made it sound more dramatic and interesting), and some of them had definitely been worthy of the Knights of Cybertron's legends. Tailgate had almost died, unmissed, unmourned, and unknown, after only a short time being activate once more. He'd done nothing of any value during his proper lifetime six million years ago; when he'd fallen through the cracks of the Mittreous Plateau, no one had gone looking for him. It was only through fate that he'd come around in time to come aboard the Lost Light.

Cyclonus had been, ultimately, the only one who had noticed him. The only one that had noticed that his inner energon had curdled. The only one that had seen through his faked persona of the courageous Primal Vanguard bomb disposal unit. The only one that had cared enough to try to shield Tailgate from false hope while ignoring his own advice and fighting for the minibot's life.

Even if he wouldn't say it directly, Cyclonus needed a friend. Tailgate had resolved to be just that, no matter what. The ancient warrior had saved Tailgate's life.

The two had become inseparable since then. Cyclonus, with feigned reticence, took Tailgate on as his apprentice, teaching him the old ways the minibot had missed as a waste disposal maintenance mech, and teaching him how to fight. On the Lost Light, Tailgate had shown a flash of boundless courage and had saved more lives than could be counted. Cyclonus saw that Tailgate had great potential, if only it could be harnessed.

"I don't have lips," Tailgate added after a moment, louder, looking back up. "How am I supposed to sing "The Dirge of the Dawn" with a Tetrahexian inflection if I don't have any lips?"

Cyclonus looked up from his attentive examination of the Great Sword's blade, fixing an unflinching stare at Tailgate's oversized optic plate.

"You'll just have to figure it out, won't you? Once more, Tailgate. This time, with feeling." He returned to his previous task, awaiting his student's response without looking back up.

"Bother," Tailgate murmured again, taking in a vent of fresh air as he prepared to sing.

…..

Despite the impressive limiters and forcefields surrounding him, there was nothing about Sixshot that looked restrained. As tall as Ultra Magnus, if not taller, the multichanger turned Phase Sixer was an imposing figure in any room; his presence alone seemed to crush the courage out of all but the most stalwart of souls. His capabilities as a one mech planetary genocide device didn't hurt either.

The giddy anticipation of ridding the universe of one of the most dangerous Cybertronians in recent history was slowly giving way to a dull stomachache of psychological exhaustion. The ponderous weight of Sixshot's presence had created a low-level anxiety that oozed its way past cargo hold doors and out into the rest of the ship, lingering just out of the conscious perception of its crew. They were all subconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for hours, days, weeks, months, pressing onwards with their mission, carrying on with day to day life while their nerves were slowly fraying apart, threatening to snap well before any of Sixshot's bonds did.

No one felt this more keenly than Whirl. He was aware of it even if no one else was, and he had made up his mind to do something about it; the obvious solution was just to go ahead and get the inevitable out of the way: there was going to be a battle, people were going to die (probably all of them, really) and either Sixshot was going to end up dead, or they were. How was it that he could see things more clearly with one optic than anyone else on this ship could with their fancy-schmancy two? And while he was thinking about it, did Tailgate have one giant mutant optic with two lenses or two optics behind one big plate? He had wanted to try to peel it off of Tailgate and find out, but Cyclonus would probably get his hip armor in a twist about it and then their carefully cultivated friendship would be ruined. Whirl didn't want that. Who else was he gonna color co-ordinate in battle with? First Aid was too red and Bumblebee had smoked Megatron, so that earned him a pass no matter how much of a gearstick he'd been lately.

That only left Ultra Magnus. Whirl was fairly certain that under that law-abiding upstanding straight-laced lack of smile, Magnus had some kind of deep, dark, hidden neurosis just waiting to come out and play. He couldn't just come out and stab Magnus in the back to get him to open up; no, Magnus commanded more respect from Whirl than that (not to mention that Magnus was probably one of the few guys that could punch his head through the floor). The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord required special finesse, such as intentionally misspelled duty reports and specially encoded phrases that could be taken as intentional insults or pure random chance. Whirl was expecting him to crash through those doors any second now, datapad held up in one hand, flecks of glossal lubricant spraying from his rage-curled lips, bellowing threats of worse-than-death in his direction. For just a moment, Whirl longed for his original head, just so he could stare back into Magnus' optics and grin.

Noise from somewhere else in the ship caught his attention, and his body tensed like a cat ready to spring. He swore he could hear the thud of hurried bootsteps outside the door: Ultra Magnus would be coming in to tear him a new tailpipe any second now.

Aaaaany second now.

"WHIRL."

This was it! This was the moment he had been waiting for! This was –!

Bumblebee tossed the data pad across the room. It landed a few feet shy of Whirl and skidded to a stop in front of his taloned feet, spinning slowly. "I know what you're trying to do, and it's not helping anyone, so quit trying to make Ultra Magnus blow a tire," the yellow and black Autobot commanded in exasperation. His transformation plates were partially raised and his engine was idling high. The servos of his right hand kept clenching and unclenching.

Okay, so it wasn't Ultra Magnus, but it would do. For now.

"What, file my reports on time?" Whirl asked nonchalantly, reaching down and scooping the data pad into his claws in a clumsy but functional hold. "Wow, did he spill a can of hydraulic fluid on this or something? It's full of red. Oh, wait, look: the first letters of every sentence spell out -"

"I know what it spells out Whirl," Bumblebee chastised, folding his arms across his chest.

Whirl tilted the box shape of his head to one side and drew a claw to his chest in mock-offense. "And you think I did this on purpose? Didn't you get the same sensitivity training as Prime did? You think my spelling's going to improve with these?" he asked, pulling the claw away from his chest and waving it back and forth in Bumblebee's general direction.

"The datapad takes dictation," Bumblebee stated.

"So it does," Whirl agreed, poking at the screen with a claw.

Bumblebee relaxed his plates and posture and tried to reason with Whirl. "Look, I get that this mission isn't turning out to be as suicidally action packed, filled with explosions and Wrecker-y as you might have wanted-"

"Ex-Wrecker," Whirl corrected firmly, interrupting.

"Pre-Wrecker, Post-Wrecker, it doesn't really make a difference to me-" Bumblebee said, pressing on to try to get to his point.

Whirl interrupted again, picking at the screen in front of him distractedly. "It should. Details like that are important. You shouldn't skip over the details."

Bee's patience was thinning as he went from one chastisement to another, and all from bots who were supposed to be taking orders, not giving them. He wasn't normally bothered by these infractions of protocol – he'd developed a reputation as a pretty easygoing mech – but Whirl's repeated attempts to provoke the other crew members had become like water torture.

Drip. Curdled energon slipped into everyone's rations.
Drip. Taking pot shots at Cyclonus "accidentally".
Drip. Stashing First Aid's fluid samples in random places all over the ship.

Still, it had been his choice to let Whirl on board, and he reminded himself to live with the consequences of his actions: It's what Optimus Prime would have done.

"Neither should you," Bee finally replied. "So knock it off. You pull one more stunt like this and you'll be joining Sixshot in chains and forcefield until we get to Cybertron. Understood?"

Whirl kept playing with the text on the datapad screen, refusing to make eye contact. "Sure thing, boss," he shrugged dismissively.

Bumblebee's optics irised down to pinholes, mouth pulled into a tight line, as he turned on his heels and thundered out of the room.

…..

The entry request chime went off at Cyclonus and Tailgate's quarters. Tailgate paused his singing mid-verse (coughing to reset his stressed vocoder) and the taller bot activated the door.

Bumblebee glanced between the two, staring at Tailgate, who was still choking, rubbing his neck. "... Did I come at a bad time or something?"

"Don't have lips," Tailgate wheezed. "Can't-"

"No," Cyclonus interrupted. "Come in, Commander."

Bumblebee looked between the two for a few seconds, then shook his head. "I don't wanna know," he muttered, stepping into the habitation dome. "Cyclonus, can I ask a favor of you?"

"Or you can give me an order. Either is sufficient," Cyclonus stated. "What is on your mind?"

"It's Whirl," Bee quickly said, his frustration spilling out as fast as his words, "He just won't stop being – being – Whirl. It's like the guy can't stop being a dipstick for even five microcycles, and the last thing I need is for a fight to break out when we're carrying a pit-cursed Decepticon Elite onboard." The scout started pacing back and forth, gesticulating with his hands as he went on. "I'm afraid that if one of us doesn't snap, Whirl's going to do something really stupid, like try to provoke Sixshot. Even letting him take potshots at asteroids we pass by isn't helping anymore." He stopped and looked up at Cyclonus, optics pleading for help. "How in the scrap did Rodimus keep him under control?!"

"Creative delegation of responsibility combined with a frequent need for his violent, chaotic tendencies," Cyclonus calmly answered. "The latter was due more random acts of fate."

"Also he kind of ignored him, since there were a lot more of us on the Lost Light than on this shuttle," Tailgate helpfully pointed out.

"Yes, that too," Cyclonus grimaced.

Bee vented, trying to cobble together inner peace from the remains of his shattered mood. "Great," he grumbled. "I caged us up with a big bag of crazy."

"I suggest you take advantage of your newfound rank and assign one of us to protect Whirl from both himself and the rest of the crew," Cyclonus stated. "Barring that, have First Aid induce a stasis lock until he is otherwise needed. Which, with good fortune, will be never again."

"He's my responsibility. I shouldn't just pass him off to torment one of you," Bee said, shaking his head negatively. "Optimus was able to earn his respect. I need to figure out how to do that, too."

"I would consider earning his respect to be a waste of time, but your intentions are admirable," Cyclonus replied. "Nevertheless, Optimus Prime was gifted with assistance above and beyond what is currently available to you. You will not be able to walk in his footsteps. They were much bigger than yours."

Bee frowned. "You think I can't handle the job?" he questioned defensively.

Cyclonus remained unmoved. "You are not suited to living in Prime's shadow."

The words pierced Bee's spark like a plasma bullet. He looked past Cyclonus and Tailgate to the starfield displayed in the transparisteel window behind them. That had been what he'd been running from when he took this mission. Being forced to live in the shadow of Optimus Prime.

Cyclonus saw through the storm of worry clouding the scout's eyes. "There's always prayer," he added in a gentler tone after giving Bee time to think.

Bumblebee's face screwed up in a twist of disdain and restrained mirth. "To which gods? At this rate maybe I ought to try all of them."

"Well there's always that First Aid thing. Or we could just wait until Whirl's recharging and throw him out an airlock," Tailgate cheerfully suggested.

The scout laughed, ill mood draining out of his spark at last. "Okay, okay, we'll try to save that as a last resort, Tailgate," Bee smiled. "But seriously, if he tries one more piece of scrap like he's been doing for the past two weeks, I'm gonna take your advice, Cyclonus- "

The ship's alarms all went off at once.

...