Welcome all to the sequel to The Stick Aft's Foil. I highly suggest reading that one and The Replacements before reading this one, if you have not already, as you may not understand everything that is going on otherwise. To all my regular readers and new readers, enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Transformers or any of the variations thereof.

Warnings: in here there be slash of the mech kind, if this is not your cup of joe leave now, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Also, it is my personal policy not to write explicit slash, pronz, lemons, or heavy petting, so if your looking for that you may be disappointed. I do, however, try to write sweet, tender romance to the best of my limited ability, if that is what you like, hopefully, you will be pleased.

I do like for my reviewers to feel free to nicely point out any grammar/spelling/continuity errors I may make. So please, rate, review, and enjoy!

When the Bells Toll Their Mourning Song

When mecha thought about crystals they always thought of two places, Crystal City and Praxus. Now, Crystal City was better known as the city of glass, for all of its shine and splendor was naught more than excessive use of glassteel. When mecha had followed this train of thought to its completion it would occur to them that the only true city of crystal was Praxus. Most famously known for its enormous central garden of well-tamed spires it was lesser known that the wild crystal pervaded the entire city. Springing through cracks like weeds and climbing buildings like vines the fiercely growing crystals made the city of the doorwingers fairly sparkle.

It was rumored that the original settlers had chosen the spot for religious reasons. Supposedly the site was a wound inflicted upon Primus by the Chaos-Bringer and the resultant bubbling up of fluids was the reason the crystals grew so thickly with so many variations and colors. The true reason had been lost to history but the Praxians did not mind for it gave them an air of mystery. The Praxians were so proud of their crystals that horticulture was their second most prevalent industry. Every tenth vorn an enormous festival was held to celebrate Primus' gift to them and every Praxian, regardless of his current home, returned to the city for the celebration. To not attend was to not be Praxian.

The highlight of the festival was the showing of the new crystals strains and the concert of the bells. Tintinnabula crystals, commonly called 'bells', were a natural strain of crystals that grew with the same prevalence as earth dandelions. The main crystal was an upturned concave shape, the interior of which held a strong magnetic field. This field attracted particulates of crystal dust that compressed to form a colorful suspended aggregate. Now, as impressive as that was, what made them special was their reaction to disturbances. Whenever something, or someone, agitated the atmosphere around the tintinnabulas the aggregate would move in the field and strike the sides. The resultant chime would change tone based on the thickness and age of the main crystal. Due to this variance many was the Praxian composer who specialized in combining these tones with the natural harmonies of other crystals for their compositions. In fact, the citystate's anthem was a concerto of the bells in Q minor.

Now, for all that Praxus loved its crystals, the Praxian enforcers loved them more. For the tintinnabulas were so abundant as to be found on every street and their loud ringing was often the enforcers' first warning that someone was in trouble. Indeed, the bells were so effective that Praxus had one of the lowest crime rates of any city.

A notice was blinking urgently in the corner of his screen. Prowl ignored it as he had the last four. He knew what its contents would say and was tired of his brother's whining. The blue and red Praxian had made his berth and Prowl was going to make him lie in it at least a little while longer. Smokescreen had been assigned to help out temporarily at the Gygax border base and should have been back in Iacon yesterorn. Unfortunately, the diversionary tactician had become bored and decided to spice up his extracurricular activities. Needless to say, the base commander had not been pleased to discover the budding gambling ring being set up in his commissary, particularly when found that his soldiers' weapons were considered viable currency. Smokescreen had been thrown into the brig posthaste.

An official report cum reprimand had been sent to Prowl and it was at this point that the current charade had begun.

Smokescreen expected Prowl to get him out if the brig and Prowl was determined that Smokescreen was going to deal with his own consequences. So what if it made him late to the Festival of the Crystals, it was not as though he were the only one. Skids and Streetwise were both laid up in the Medical Wing with a virus and Prowl himself had been held up by an emergency war council concerning a recent massing of Decepticon forces near Simfur.

As long as they showed before the halfway point of the festival it would not be held against them.

It was an unspoken rule during the festival that no one was to speak. This, however, did not mean that there was no conversation. Indeed, the comm lines in Praxus fairly burned with the number of frequencies in use, and again, the Praxians were very adept at the wing-language they shared with their estranged Vosian cousins.

This second communication form was by far the most entertaining for foreign festival goer. In a normal setting Praxians might move their wings only every once in a while to emphasize a portion of their words, but during the festival, when it became the primary speech method, the Praxians better resembled the mutated offspring of an irritated gyrofalcon and a perturbed basilica beetle.

It was very funny.

Now, the reason for this rule of silence was to prevent errant vibrations from disturbing the sensitive bells. A maestro's entire symphony could be ruined with a single errant chime and the Praxians were always sure to be very respectful of that. Therefore it was quite the oddity when the bells began to ring faintly.

By the time they found the source of the vibrations the seekers were well upon them and already forming up for the first bombing run.

Prowl had just finished making arrangements for Smokescreen's release when the comm came through.

-:- Get to the Command Center. Now! -:-

Smokescreen was joking and laughing with his former jailers when his trinebond was thrown wide open. A look of shock, then grief and horror took over his visage as he registered what was being transmitted over his bond.

His distressed wail could be heard three corridors away.

The mechs with him tried to ask him what was the matter, but he did not answer. Instead he dropped into altmode and redlined his hovers to get out of the base.

He had to get out, he had to get home.

Because home was gone.

There was a saying that knowing and seeing were two very different creatures. Most Cybertronians would claim to understand that phrase, but as they rounded the last steel ridge hiding Praxus from view the Autobots realized they had never really understood at all.

Black, viscous smoke rose in a massive column, obscuring partially the horrible view of the ruined citystate, but even that small glimpse was enough. As they approached the city they had to drive through the debris field left behind by the bombs. At first this was merely a nuisance delaying their rescue efforts, then one of the heavy alts ran over an arm.

The closer they got the more chassis-parts they found and many of the Autobots were becoming ill. The likelihood of finding any survivors at this point was looking less and less feasible.

And none of them were more effected than Prowl and Smokescreen.

Smokescreen had joined the caravan of would-be rescuers at the Gygax-Praxus border and he and Prowl huddled close the rest of the trip. Silent keens wracked their frames and made their armor rattle. It had not yet occurred to them that without their prior delays they too would now be lying deactivated amongst the ruins of their home. When they realized it they would mourn even harder.

Jazz picked his way carefully through the debris of a middle class neighborhood and prayed that he would not find any more scenes like the last suburb he had searched. He did not think the image of brutalized sparklings would ever leave his meta so vividly was it burned into his memory core.

He was searching alone as his ops grade scanners and heightened audials worked best without having to differentiate between survivor and teammate. So far though, all he could hear was dripping fluids and settling metal.

When the dark-cycle fell, and continued searching would result in more harm than good, the Autobots retreated to the unused triage camp Ratchet had setup on the outskirts. The evening fueling was a solemn affair and afterwards Optimus held a vigil for the lost sparks. They hummed the traditional laments, each mech offering their own arias to aid the dead in journey back to Primus. Their humming reverberated through the decimated city and came back to the Autobots as a haunting melody.

Jazz was just about to add his harmony to the hum when he noticed a lack of doorwinged mecha. Neither of the two able-chassised Praxians were anywhere amongst the gathering.

Jazz faded back into the darkness.

If Prowl and Smokescreen wanted to mourn alone that was fine by him, but there was no way he was letting them do it without a guard.

Smokescreen shouldered a beam aside as Prowl sifted through the rubble. The black and white found what he was looking for and subspaced it. Then they moved on.

They continued in this manner, one digging and the other clearing larger obstructions, until they felt the airflow over their dorrwings shift.

Immediately, their weapons were in their servos and they had turned to face the enemy with pinpoint accuracy. Jazz stepped out sheepishly. "Sorreh mechs, didn' mean ta startle ya."

The two Praxians relaxed their battle stances, but the frowns did not quite leave their faceplates.

"Yanno mah mechs, it's not safe ta be out here searchin' aftah dark. Ah know ya desperate ta find ya kinsmecha but ya gonna get hurt. N' then ya won' be able ta search at all."

Despite the saboteur's gentle tone the two doorwingers did not take his statement well at all. Prowl's doorwings flared up and out, while Smokescreen's plating fluffed up, giving them both quite the intimidating aura.

"You know nothing of our loss, do not pretend to sympathize with us." Prowl hissed.

Jazz folded his arms. "One, ya two are mah friends, so Ah'm gonna sympathize wit' ya regardless. Two, ya fo'get tha' Polyhex was razed n' is currently occupied by tha Decepticons. So, Ah do know whacha feelin'."

Prowl growled, but Smokey stepped forward to intervene. "To us it is not the same Jazz. Your home still exists. Our home is gone, forever, and it can never be brought back. When this war ends you will be able to return, but we have nothing to go back to now."

Jazz sighed. "Ya may be right, bu' tha' doesn' change tha fact tha' ya gonna get hurt lookin' fo' mechs out here in tha dark."

The Praxians' wings twitched and Jazz realized they might not be out here for the reasons he assumed. "Prowl?"

It was like watching a dam fail, it started with the tiniest cracks. "We are not looking for mechs."

Jazz blinked. "Then wha' in Primus' name are ya doin' out here?!"

Prowl and Smokescreen bowed their helms and reminded themselves that this was only Jazz, this was their friend, he could trusted. "We are recovering what is left of our culture."

And Jazz understood. It did not mean he liked it, but he understood. The Polyhexian paced away a few steps, then turned and paced back. "Then ya leave meh wit' no choice."

The doorwingers tensed.

"How c'n Ah help."

They blinked. And then blinked again. What?

Jazz smirked. "Y'all should know by now tha' Ah care too much about ya ta letcha do this wit'out meh. Now, where d'ya want meh ta start?"

It was the screw that broke the chronosteed's back. Jazz pulled the two into his arms as they knelt in the rubble and finally began to weep visibly.

Jazz felt bloated.

He had been asked to scavenge the Crystal Gardens as the giant broken crystals were causing too many problems with the two doorwingers' sensors for them to navigate the area safely. Jazz had joked about saving them from the brown notes which had the desired effect of getting tiny almost smiles from both grieving mechs. Jazz had hesitated though at leaving his friends so they agreed to search the neighborhoods closest to the Garden.

Before he left them Prowl gave him specific instructions on what to look for. Any crystal fragments that had been broken cleanly and had no internal fractures; any pod that still contained undamaged seeds; any seed crystals period. Jazz followed his instructions to the letter until every subspace pocket and armor compartment he possessed was full to bursting. He had kept a count of all the crystals and he was currently carrying just over a thousand pieces. Now, this sounded impressive until one considered that Praxus had tens of thousands of crystal subspecies on record. It could have been worse however, Jazz could have found none.

It was this thought that the saboteur turned through his helm as he made his way out of the broken Garden. He was preparing a comforting explanation along those lines for Prowl when he felt the monolith he was traversing crumble beneath his peds. The huge crystal had fallen against the Garden's walls and created a small undamaged pocket underneath its bole. It was into here that Jazz fell and when he stood from his landing crouch he thought it a very happy accident. There in front of him, showing only slight damage to the roof, was a gift shop. The little building was situated against the wall and it was this, along with the fortuitous falling of the monolith that had saved it from the rest of the city's fate.

Jazz checked the structural integrity of the entire building before he even thought about opening the entry portal; it would not do for the whole thing to come down around his audials while he collected the treasure within. And what a treasure it was. One whole wall was nothing but specialty gardening bookfiles, then there were the dozen or so racks of seed crystals, the shelves of prestarted crystal growths, and in the back, the rarest find of all, a single, bomb-proof display case of lacewing. The whole shop had probably been geared up for the festival as the majority of the specimens present were rare or difficult to grow.

Jazz just stood there for a long moment, staring at the bounty and knowing what it would mean to his Prowler. First, however, before he could gather any of his new treasure he would have to redistribute some of his old findings. He removed a mesh sack from a compartment under his armor and then ransacked the cash register counter for packing meshes. He used the meshes to wrap up his least fragile finds and then carefully stacked them in the sack. Then Jazz gathered up all the datapads and sandwiched them between the wrapped crystals. This opened up room in his secondary ops subspace, which was vibration and bomb-proof like the display case.

Getting the lacewing out was sensor wracking, as one false move would irreparably destroy all of it. Finally, the delicate crystals were safely in his subspace and he could finish pilfering the rest of the store's wares.

It was almost dawn when the three mechs made it back to camp. They were covered in grime and very sore, however, they all felt a sense of sad accomplishment at all that they had recovered. It would never be enough to make up for the loss of the mecha, but at least the essence of Praxus would continue on.

In lieu of the lack of survivors it would have to suffice.

In the end the Autobots only found one survivor.

In a citystate that had numbered over two billion citizens, only one had been able to hold to life; and even then the foundling was at deactivation's door. It took Ratchet two and a half joors just to stabilize him for transport and he still nearly guttered three times before they got him to the medical facility in Iacon.

For Prowl and Smokescreen it was a miracle. They had resigned themselves to being the last, to finding no one, and though the rest of the Autobots considered finding only one to be disparkening, they two rejoiced.

Only two mechs noticed however, how the two Praxians clasped servos and wept. Optimus Prime, who turned away swiftly to make sure no one bothered them, and Jazz, who guarded them from all comers. The Iaconian and the Polyhexian shared a look.

This they would protect.

This they would defend.

And Primus help the Decepticons if they thought even for a nanoklik that they would not pay for what they had done.