Title: The Human's Guide to Understanding Autobots

Description: A series of oneshots from the early days of the Transformers on Earth, accompanied by excerpts from a book written by Carly and Spike. G1, all characters, inspiration from various sources.

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. Duh. But I would be quite irate if someone were to steal from me.

Author's notes: Who's up for some d'aaaawwwww? ... I'll have you know, when I was writing Sideswipe and Sunstreaker for this, I was bawling snot all over the keyboard.

The Silverbolt oneshot was requested by Mozenwrathluvr. Thanks for your review and I hope you like it!

Also, if you have an idea you want to see me write, drop a note or a review!

The Little Things

It is tempting for us to look at the conflict between Autobots and Decepticons as fundamentally between good and evil. While it does seem to be quite black and white from every angle, if one looks close enough there are still a few shades of grey.
-- From The Human's Guide to Understanding Autobots, Chapter 7: The Decepticon Question

Skyfire was alone again.

Nearly every time Sparkplug saw the giant mech he was by himself. Which was hardly a surprise, considering he was too big to fit in most parts of the base. Even Ironhide, the tallest next to Prime, barely came up to the shuttle's elbow joint. They'd had to hollow out special "quarters" into the side of the mountain, as none of the current ones would accommodate him. As a result Skyfire spent most of his time outside, seemingly staring off into nothing, but Sparkplug had a feeling the big guy was taking in everything he could and filing it away into that scientist's mind of his.

The older man made his way from the base to the enormous silhouette, well aware that he stood no higher than the shuttle's ankle. "Nice sunset," he commented, perhaps a little louder than was necessary.

"It is," Skyfire agreed, as if he'd been aware of the other's presence all along. They stood together in the particular silence that two old souls make.

"You know," Sparkplug said finally, "I never thanked you for your help back in the arctic."

Skyfire's optics glowed a little dimmer. "And I never apologized for handing you over to Megatron."

The man waved his gloved hand in dismissal. "Ah, you didn't know any better. Fuel through the pumps, an' all that." He cleared his throat. "But listen, I been through the ringer a few times myself. You ever want to talk at all, or just sit and think old thoughts, I'm game. That okay?"

The shuttle didn't make a sound for several long minutes, and Sparkplug wondered if that was all the answer he'd get. Then Skyfire turned his optics down to look at him and actually smiled.

"That would be nice," he said.

What is most important to understand is the difference between an Autobot and a mere "machine". The most advanced robot made by human hands or the highest scoring computer on the Turing test is still not a living being. It is the little things, more than anything, that make you realize how much more they are like us than like machines.
-- From The Human's Guide to Understanding Autobots, Introduction: Autonomous Robotic Organisms (or AUTOBOTS)

"What's up, Blue?"

Carly expected to be met with a barrage of all the details that were currently "up" with the grey Datsun, and was a little alarmed when Bluestreak only twitched a sensory panel in response. The young Autobot stood transfixed before one of the many vid-monitors Teletraan 1 used to display the information from its databanks, which was currently cycling through a series of images faster than she could follow. Blue's optics flickered like a strobe light, a sign he was in deep concentration.

"Bluestreak?" she approached the Datsun cautiously. "Is everything okay?"

"Hi Carly," the mech's voice sounded far-off and distracted. Belatedly she noticed the cable uplink running from Blue's arm to the computer console. "Everything's fine, just fine, I'm just looking up some stuff on Teletraan's databanks. How are you?"

The girl ignored the question. "Is that Cybertron?" she asked with interest, craning her neck to peer up at the wall-sized monitor. All she could discern were the shapes of spiralling towers and vast cityscapes as the images sped by. Is the entire planet made of metal?

Without taking his optics off the screen, Bluestreak reached down and lifted her up to sit in his armchair-sized hand. "Yeah, this is data from before the war. I like to synch my memory drive with the databanks now and then and make sure nothing's been corrupted or anything, because that would be pretty bad, huh? I'd have to go see Ratchet, and that wouldn't any be fun at all."

"No, it wouldn't," Carly agreed, intent on the rapidly-changing screen. "Wait, go back!" She pointed quickly, and the screen flickered back to an image of colossal crystal structures interlocking with breathtaking beauty. From the scale of the mechs standing around them, the largest must have been hundreds of stories high.

"They're beautiful!" she breathed, stretching her hand out as if to somehow bring the screen closer. "What are they?"

"Those're the Helix Gardens," Bluestreak said proudly. "They were in Praxus, that's my home city-state where I lived before the war, but I never spent that much time at the Gardens and now I kinda wish I'd gone a lot more. They were pretty amazing, there really wasn't anything else like them on all of Cybertron, and they were a really nice place to just sit and think quietly for a while, y'know?"

Carly smiled at the thought of the grey Datsun doing anything quietly. "I would love to go there someday," she said wistfully, gazing at the image.

"Oh, you can't," Bluestreak shook his head. "They were destroyed by the Decepticons. All of Praxus was destroyed by the 'Cons, everything in it and everyone else too, all except me."

A cold fist gripped her heart as the string of words sunk in. There was a very noticeable pause before Bluestreak rolled on in his customary breathless way. "That was a really, really long time ago. I miss Praxus a lot sometimes, actually I miss all of Cybertron a lot too, the way it used to be, so I like to synch up my memory once in a while, to make sure I don't forget about anything. I don't want to forget. Anything."

His vocalizer glitched briefly and the spiel ended with a garble of static. The soft whine of his systems rebooting reminded her wrenchingly of a human on the verge of tears.

Carly wrapped her small hands around the Datsun's metal thumb, the only part of him within easy reach, and waited until he'd regained his composure. "Do you think you can go through them a little slower?" she asked softly. "I'd ... like to remember, too."

"Just this once."

"No."

"Come on, man," Jazz pleaded. "Don't be a stiff."

"We had an agreement."

"Prowl ..."

"The agreement is final, Jazz."

"Prowler ..."

"You turn was yesterday," Prowl stated in an infuriatingly neutral and unwavering tone. The tactician held out his hand expectantly. "Tonight is mine. Tomorrow is Wheeljack's. Your next turn is in another seventeen days."

"We could swap?"

"No."

"Rock, paper, scissors?"

"No."

"Flip a coin?"

"No, Jazz."

Jazz actually pouted, a thing Prowl had never seen any other mech resort to. "But I hate this."

"And I despise that drivel you insist is worthwhile, but I allowed you to have your turn without complaint," Prowl pointed out. "I expect the same consideration from you."

"And then," Gears piped up from across the rec room, "maybe you ladies could go paint yer damn fingernails and shut the slag up."

Prowl chose to ignore that comment and deftly plucked the remote control from Jazz's hand. "Tonight is my turn," he said, flicking on the wall-sized television, "and we are watching Matlock."

Jazz groaned. There was something akin to a mass exodus of the rec room, until only Prowl, Jazz and surprisingly Gears were left. Both the saboteur and the second-in-command turned to stare at the red and blue minibot, wondering if he had actually switched off his audios. Gears only glared back at them.

"What?" he fumed over his half-raised energon cube. "I like Matlock!"

Convincing Tracks to spend the day at the park where people could admire his sleek alt mode was no challenge at all; putting up with the vain peacock of a Corvette was a different story. They couldn't sit directly in the sun, oh no, that would heat up his interior too much, and the shade was no good either, it would mute his spectacular paint job, and oh Primus, not there, that storefront was completely the wrong colour! Raoul had been seriously considering clipping the wires to his friend's main computer before Tracks finally settled on an acceptable spot ... and then they moved three times to avoid cloud cover, a nest of bees and some kids playing frisbee too close for comfort.

But when it came down to it, it was all worth being able to loaf around near Central Park, where everyone could see, on a shiny blue Corvette Stingray with custom decals. Even if said Corvette had a big mouth and a snarky temper.

"Not that I'm complaining, Raoul, but exactly how long are you going to stand there?"

The boy in the black studded leather jacket only leaned back against the side of the blue Corvette, and he did it just to be obtuse. "Hey man, I didn't complain when you drove us around that outdoor car show for six hours, now did I?"

"Well that was different," Tracks snipped, arrogance practically dripping from his exhaust pipe. "I was hardly showing you off."

"I can't make it look convincing if I'm leanin' up against a parking meter, can I?"

"Well, you're blocking me from view," Tracks grumped. "And those ... things on your jacket are going to ruin my finish. What exactly do you expect to find here anyway?"

"I'm not looking to find nothin', man. I'm just lookin'." Raoul waved an arm out around them. "Takin' in the scenery, you know?" At the Corvette's questioning silence, he emphasized, "Girls, man. Sheesh, how long you been on this planet, now? Girls love a guy with a slick car, and no offense Tracks, but Raoul needs him some different company once in a while."

Something that sounded suspiciously like a derisive snort came from the under the car's hood. "Oh please. The only thing you're going to get here is a backache from standing like that, and a slow walk home once I get tired of you blocking my light. Is this how you treat all your friends?"

"Don't be like that, Tracks. Bros are supposed to help each other out with this stuff."

"I suppose I shouldn't complain. It's not like you're stealing my spotlight."

"Hey man," Raoul said warningly.

"What's the matter, Raoul?" Tracks purred. "Feeling a little jacked, are we? Maybe you need a bit of a boost?"

"I thought we were over this, man."

"Oh, don't be such a --"

The Corvette gave a little cough and abruptly fell silent, a sure sign that someone was getting too close. Raoul straightened to look around, knowing Tracks' scanners could have picked up the intruder from any direction.

"This your car?"

Raoul jumped at the smooth silky voice and whipped around, coming face-to-face with the girl standing on the other side of the Corvette. She smiled at him and lightly caressed Track's hood, and his vocal capabilities eloped with his dignity and flew away into the sunlight.

"Uh," he said.

She wasn't the sort of girl he'd notice on the street. She was actually kind of plain: no jewelry or makeup, dark hair hanging loose, thrift-store ensemble. But the way she moved, slow and confident, drinking in the touch of the warm metal under her fingers ... it just radiated attraction.

"I like it," she said, walking slowly around the blue hood with its blazing Autobot logo. The sleeve of her jacket pulled up a little as she trailed her fingers across the blue finish, showing a slender tanned wrist and white, unpainted fingernails. "Though the decals are ... unoriginal. Everyone's getting the Autobot thing done these days."

Tracks' speakers emitted a noise not unlike an indignant squawk, which Raoul covered up by simultaneously coughing and smacking the Corvette's sidepanel with his knee. "Yeah, uh ..." he managed. "Well, he – we ... I had it before anyone else." He coughed again.

"Hmm, I'm sure," she purred a little, fingers gliding over the rearview mirror as her walk brought her right around to the driver's side door. She leaned her hip against it, her arm snaking over Tracks' roof and, Raoul was distinctly aware, behind his own shoulder. "Well he ..." she smirked, "is beautiful."

His voice returned to him then, bringing back a little boldness along with it. "You're not so bad yourself," he said, turning sideways so he was facing her. Tracks stifled a groan, which earned him a kick to the undercarriage. "You, ah, you got a name, pretty lady?"

Her hand slid between his waist and the car, and some part of his brain died and went to a happy place. "Maybe," she said, sidling closer until her lips were a breath from his ear, "if you got a phone number, hot-shot."

There was a moment of epic fumbling before a pen and a suitable scrap of paper was located. He never even questioned the sheer abnormality of giving a girl his number instead of the other way around. She wanted it, and it was hers.

"You, uh ... want a ride?" he asked her, not bothering to consider what "the ride" might have to say about that.

"Mmm ... maybe later," slender fingers plucked the paper from his hand, and to his utter glee she gave his backside a little squeeze before uncoiling herself. She tucked his number into the front of her shirt and winked at him. "See you around, hot-shot."

Raoul watched her walk away with fixed devotion, before slumping back against the Corvette's door. He wiped a hand over his face. "She," he emphasized, "was hot."

"She," Tracks didn't bother to hide his smug amusement, "just stole your wallet, chum."

"What?!" his hands flew to his back pockets. "Son of a ... Hey! HEY!"

Raoul took off down the sidewalk, leaving a delighted Tracks now completely unobstructed from view to the street. "Looks like you just got yanked, pal," the Corvette called gleefully after him.

Silverbolt's afterburners were already trailing thick black smoke. Carly caught sight of it as the Aerialbot looped back, trying to shake his pursuer, and she knew it hadn't come from Starscream. On the flight deck, a light flashed on the pilot's console. "Brace yourselves," the Concorde told her and Spike. "He's coming back around."

"I'm gonna be be sick," Spike moaned from the seat beside her.

Carly had a few choice things to say about that, but barely had time to grab hold of her seat before Silverbolt did a barrel roll to avoid the Seeker's next blast. The bolts of Starscream's null ray lit the inside of the flight deck in a washed-out red. Quickly Carly glanced back to the unconscious Sparkplug and was relieved to see him still firmly strapped into the seat behind them.

"Silverbolt," she said tersely. "You have to get higher."

"I ... I can't ..."

Red blasts lit up overhead again. This was no time for the Aerialbot's acrophobia to kick in. "He's trying to run you into the ground! You have to get above him!"

"It's too high!" the Concorde sounded like he was pleading. "I'm ... I'm too damaged! I'll crash!"

"Silverbolt ..."

Spike, who had his head between his knees, looked up, his face dangerously green. "'Bolt, you're a plane! Planes fly! As in, high up in the sky!" Carly could have smacked him, but keeping herself in her own seat was trouble enough.

"You want to get out and try for yourself?!" Silverbolt screeched.

Some calm part of her brain knew that things were not good if the mild-mannered Aerialbot was resorting to snapping at his passengers. There was a nasty jolt as the plane's undercarriage briefly scraped along a rocky outcrop. They were getting boxed into the canyon and flying way too low, with a trigger-happy Decepticon above them and some very hard and unyielding ground below, and Carly did the only thing she could think of.

"I'm afraid of bugs!" she blurted.

The bicker-fight between the plane and the other human stopped abruptly, replaced by stunned silence.

"What?" the console flashed. Wind funnelling through the canyon buffeted the jet, making the cockpit shake and bounce erratically. Spike made a pathetic little noise and doubled over, clutching his hardhat.

"Bugs!" she said, bracing her hands on the flight console. "Tiny bugs! Little, tiny, crawly bugs. I can't stand them! I'm terrified of them. I'd rather face Megatron on a bad day than have a spider crawl on me."

"That ... that doesn't make sense."

"I know!" she almost giggled. "It makes no sense at all! I'm just afraid of them and that's that. And I know you're afraid too, Silverbolt, but you have to let go of it. The ground is not safe right now, the sky is. You can can outfly that overgrown excuse for a biplane, I know you can!"

The canyon bottom was becoming dangerously friendly, and just when she thought they would meet for the last time, it abruptly vanished from sight. Carly's back pressed hard into her seat as Silverbolt's nose pulled up ninety degrees and blasted into the sky with all the power the Concorde could muster. The rumble of his engines nearly drowned out what might have been a scream of fury as a brief flash of red and blue went hurtling out of the way.

The pressure eased as the jet straightened in the air. The radar screen before her showed Starscream giving chase, but the blip fell steadily behind until it was out of range completely. She let out a breath she didn't think she'd been holding.

"You guys okay?" Silverbolt asked finally. With the danger averted, the Aerialbot was already dropping down to a more comfortable altitude. Fear was still fear, after all.

"Yeah. You?"

"Good, I'm good. I think."

"I'm fine too, thanks," Spike said shakily, his face buried in his hardhat. Sparkplug, strapped into the seat behind him, was still blissfully unaware of everything.

"So ..." the light on the console flashed hesitantly. "Bugs? Really?"

Carly managed a laugh. "Oh yeah."

"... Thanks, Carly."

"No problem, 'Bolt," she patted the console. Adrenaline was fading now, leaving behind the feeling of having been through a washing machine on spin cycle. "Just ... don't tell anyone. It's embarrassing."

Spike snorted into the hardhat. "You're embarrassed? As soon as we get back to base," he told the jet, "we're equipping you with some parachutes and some goddamn airsick bags."

Explosions rang in his audios, loud enough to fritz the delicate circuitry. That was really the only thing telling him the battle was still going on, and that surprisingly he was still online. His optics were blocked by heavy collapsed metal metal struts and fallen sheeting at the bottom of the shaft. Even his equilibrium sensors were offline, and the world of vibrations seemed to be coming from every direction at once.

Hot energon mixed with fuel and coolant dripping down his arm told him which direction was in fact down. He was going to go into stasis soon, he knew it. There was a large distinct mass inside his abdomen that he was pretty sure didn't belong there and was equally sure he didn't want to think about.

(Sunny.)

The pulse of his brother's name across their bond went unanswered. Was Sunstreaker still above him? Was he just not responding? Or was Sideswipe even sending? He wasn't sure anymore, everything felt like it was getting further and further away.

(Sunny? Sunstreaker!)

...

(Bro?)

...

(Help me?)

Suddenly all concern for damage vanished from his processor. Flailing against his lack of coordination he tried to push aside the debris covering him, push it away to get up there, up to the surface, to Sunny, who couldn't hear him and might need him, but something was pinning him right through the chest and he couldn't seem move it away and suddenly all the world was made of crackling sparks and electricity and a constant stream of data and error messages and damage reports and through it all his spark pulsed like a beacon (sunnysunnysunnySUNNYSUNNY!SUNNY!SUNNY!—)

(I'm here.) A single pulse, strong and nearby. That's all it was, and all he needed, just a "hey, I'm here."

(Here,) he sent back.

(Hold on.)

Crumpled metal was lifted away from his face, and a sky full of stars and broken spires greeted him. It was beautiful, still and peaceful, except for Sunstreaker's own face glaring down at him where he lay in a heap at the bottom of the debris.

"You slaghead," his brother growled. "I ought to just leave you here."

Sideswipe grinned up at his twin. "But you won't, will you?"

Sunstreaker made a noise deep in his vocalizer and reached down a yellow hand to the red twin. "No, I won't."

"That's it! I got him, he's back online!"

The world came crashing back with the smell of burning fuel and cold concrete and pain, (oh Primus, so much pain ...) and all the quiet and cool dark stillness were gone and his audios were buzzing with noise from every direction at once. His visual sensors came online to meet not empty sky, but Ratchet's tightly focused optics. The medic didn't spare him so much as a glance. Multifunctional electronic tools in place of his red hands were buried deep in the hole in Sideswipe's midsection, a thing the Lamborghini thankfully couldn't see very well.

(Sunny? Sunstreaker?) His processor was still tumbling with fragmented memory files, names and faces and a sky full of stars and broken towers. Where was Sunstreaker? Where was his brother? He'd been right there, he was sure of it ...the world spun dizzily and frantically he tried to sit up, but a heavy hand clamped down on his chest.

"Here." (I'm here.)

"S...Sunny?" he rasped. He turned his head, optics dilating in and out until his brother's glaring face came into focus. (Bro?)

"Slaghead," Sunstreaker growled. "I ought to have just left you there."

The words pulled at something in his processor, circuits dancing over partial and fading memories. Fear gripped him and he reached out a twitching hand, grasping for his brother. "But you didn't, did you?"

A yellow hand gripped his arm tightly, pressing against cracked red plating. "No," his brother's vocalizer grated hoarsely. "I didn't. And I never will."

End "The Little Things, part 1"

I have determined several things writing these sections: One is that I love writing Tracks and Raoul, so expect to see a lot more of them. Everyone go watch the episode "Make Tracks" to get the car-stealing jokes.

Another is that bromance is the shit, man.

A third: if you send me a one-shot request, I will probably write it.Because that Silverbolt one? Hilarious fun. I went and looked up all the Aerialbots and their flight modes, and found some nifty pics on Wikipedia of the inside of a Concorde's flight deck. So come on people ... challenge me.

That's all, folks.