Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hard times give birth to strong people.
Strong people create easy times.
Easy times give birth to weak people.
Weak people create difficult times....

Okay, look, Smokescreen didn't remember that human saying verbatim, but he understood its meaning. Sitting in some cluttered and abandoned building now, chewing on a piece of raw energon, Smokescreen felt like a "weak people ." During the war, he wouldn't have even thought to complain about lack of proper nutrition, but the war had ended a couple of years before. And over those couple of years, bots had managed to get accustomed to balanced and recycled liquid energon. Smoke hadn't eaten crystals for a long time. It
felt like concentrated salty acid on the receptors.

«Although, I guess I still have a right to be pissed off.»

Because no matter how cool and prepared Smokescreen was, even Prime himself would hardly have a clear plan of action when entering another dimension.

Hey, listen, it wasn't Smokescreen's fault, okay? No matter what Ratchet says! Speedster did observe safety precautions when he dismantled containers with ancient trinkets. But it is unlikely that safety precautions took into account the fact that these ancient trinkets would turn out to be remnants of artifacts from the time of Primus or even more ancient.

Anyway, Smokescreen was now completely alone on Earth. And as he had found out over the past week, the Land was clearly not his. There was no old Autobot tracker, which was open to all Cybertronians in need. But no matter how youngling changed the frequencies, everything was quiet on the communicator. The official and personal numbers of Agent Fowler, his department, and others were also not available. Smokescreen even managed to get through to the K.O. burger joint where Jack worked. Only now this number doesn't belong to a burger joint, but to a taxi chain. And a tired man with a strong Irish accent answered the phone. It's unlikely that the burger chain has retrained so quickly.
At that point, Smokescreen had just begun to suspect that something significant was amiss. It may have been that the glowing object was not, in fact, a scaled-down version of a space bridge, but something more significant.

Therefore, Smokescreen went online and instantly realized that, Toto, we are no longer in Kansas.

***

Smokescreen doesn't think he'll ever get used to Gotham. This city is strange. And you know, it's an alien robot talking.

Being a fairly miniature Cybertronian of the high-speed model, Smokescreen conducted many missions and patrols in the cities of the Earth. In fact, the infrastructure of human megacities is not much different from the cities of Cybertron. The high-rise buildings, whose spires point into the sky, are all made of glass and concrete, and the inhabitants of these cities literally live on top of each other. This is a familiar picture.

And Smoke was also familiar with another landscape - low, flattened houses located on one side of an empty street, the absence of noise, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Jasper was such a town.

But Gotham?

Primus, Smokescreen was sure that this was the only city where elite glass buildings could stand on the same street as stone sculptures covered in gargoyles. There were a lot of gargoyles in the city, and they were everywhere. The city looked like it had grown overnight, right where it was. The buildings were stacked next to each other, touching their roofs, yet the streets still managed to fit between the skyscrapers somehow. The streets and alleys were bizarre, as if there was no clear structure to them. In the beginning, when Smokescreen ventured outside of the abandoned parking lot next to some warehouse, he lost his way more than twenty times. The city was confusing, with winding streets. Considering that Smokescreen learned about real magic from the internet, the Autobot wouldn't be surprised if some angry spirit of Gotham decided to play pranks on an uninvited visitor.

But after a week and a half, the speedster caught himself that he had already worked out a certain travel route and remembered half of the city without a navigator. So, if the spirit of the city existed, then maybe they accepted Smokescreen or just accepted his presence.

Anyway, during this time, Smokescreen practically adapted to a new and strange environment and even found a power source.

There were deposits of energon in the cave system under Gotham. (And thanks to Primus! And Knockout's eternal grumbling about the equipment, Smokescreen had a scanner with him. The Autobot did not know how he would have found energon then, unless he had not accidentally stumbled upon the deposits a few months later in a hungry swoon.)
And this could be attributed to another oddity of the city. Smokescreen was not sure how big his mental list of all the shit that was going on in this city would be.

These caves were vast and very deep, and the rock type ranged from ordinary granite to metal ores, which clearly should not be on the Earth. And it all looked like a team of Destroyers and Constructionists staged an incredible destruction match on a space meteorite, and then this meteorite was launched into the Earth, where an entire city grew up on it. Or as Raf would say, the land under Gotham looked like Swiss cheese.

At that moment, Smokescreen allowed himself to stop, to freeze for a moment. He was still exploring the cave system, allowing himself to stand up to his full height for the first time, stretch and generally exist outside his alt-mode for at least three hours.

Because thinking about his human friends was much more painful than thinking about his home planet or team. Because, hiding in that old warehouse under a tarp, Smokescreen could still imagine that he was just on a long mission on Earth, that Cybertron and his family were somewhere out there, far away, but they were alive and waiting for him. Ultra Magnus would probably overwork, taking on too many responsibilities, until one day Arcee and Knockout would lock him in his cabin, taking even the datapads with reports and documents. Bulkhead would spend his evenings drinking in a newly rebuilt bar with some of the v, telling them fascinating stories from his service as a Destroyer. Bumblebee would meet new Cybertronians and other refugees, his voice would not stop for a second.

Smokescreen could afford to admit the absence of his team while on Earth.

But he couldn't admit the absence of Jack, Rafe, Miko, June, and Agent Fowler.

And the absence meant a complete acceptance that even the Land that was his second home was now different. This meant accepting that now the planet is inhabited not only by humans, but also by enhanced beings and other aliens, that Jasper never existed, and dozens of completely new cities and countries took his place. Even the society of earth was completely different, with different laws and regulations that took into account the laws of the Space Council, where the Earth from the world of Smokescreen had never entered. All this made the planet an unfamiliar and dangerous place. Smokescreen used to know that his enemy was the Decepticons, and people needed to be protected at all costs. But now, watching reports about a certain Justice League, youngling wondered how long it would take this Earth to repel the Decepticon attack. How long it would take them to kill one Cybertronian.

Smokescreen was created and spent his entire life at war, having never met other inhabitants of the galaxy before. All he knew were common stories about the culture of different planets. And that other races have long since stopped any contact with Cybertronians, fearing to get caught in the crossfire of a civil war. This left Smokescreen in limbo, unable to contact the team and in fear of a new, completely unfamiliar Land.

Just thinking about it made a spark pulse nervously in his chest, reminding him of the overwhelming feeling of loneliness. And this feeling crept deeper every day into the corners of the speedster's processor, breaking his usual mask of a trained soldier. With each new fact, with each new detail that distinguished this Earth from his Earth, Smokescreen slowly sank into panic. But he couldn't afford that luxury. Because panicking is like giving up. And Smokescreen is not one of those who just give up. It was him who Matrix wanted to choose for the role of Prime, it was he who saved the situation more than once, he shed his own and someone else's energon to prove his place in the Prime team, to prove that his age does not play such a big role... That he is capable of doing something. He wouldn't have panicked.

But sometimes he really wanted to.

At such moments, youngling exhaled so loudly that his ventilation systems began to rattle. But he did not allow himself to think about anything else, but simply transformed back into his alt-mod and, armed with a scanner and a detailed map of the city, went out in search of at least some kind of signal. Because he knew that there must be a reason for his appearance here, in this particular dimension and in this particular city. And he was going to find that reason and come home. And no super strong people in disguise will prevent him from doing this.

(Smokescreen did not yet know what the future held for him.)

Chapter Text

Bruce wasn't on patrol that night.

In fact, it hasn't been unusual lately. The fact is that Bruce broke his leg during a recent Justice League mission. It's not the first time he's broken bones, but that didn't stop his family from reacting as if he was on the verge of death. Alfred strictly forbade patrolling for the next week, and Damian teamed up with Dick. During the day, the two brothers hid their father's weapons and equipment in completely different places (Bruce still found the batarangs in the drain hole of his bathtub and in the stuffing of an office chair). Even Barbara got involved in this scam, threatening to disable not only Bruce's communicator, but his network as a whole. Of course, Bruce was confident that she could do it. He was also confident in his 5 backup plans in case the connection really went down. However, the man did not resist the slightly excessive behavior of his family, obediently accepting his fate and spending these days at the computer. Bruce perfectly understood the reason for his family's excitement. Two years ago, he wouldn't have listened to anyone and would have gone on another patrol ignoring his injuries, causing new, more serious damage. Bruce understood that his children knew about this too and were afraid their father would go back to his bad habits.

That's why Bruce spent the night at the computer while Dick and Damian patrolled the city. His therapist would be proud of him for taking care of his health.

In general, Gotham has been silent lately. And the most annoying thing was that Bruce could not attribute this silence to the level of the "calm before the storm." The feeling that something big was going to happen did not appear. And even though everyone in the Wayne family was an outstanding detective, you get used to relying on a sixth sense in the work of a vigilante. And intuition remained silent.

But the feeling that something was going to happen did not leave Bruce.

It's like something is already happening right now, right under his nose. The man squinted, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the calendar to make sure there were no important days planned for his children in the near future. After making sure that the fair at Damian's school was only two weeks away, Bruce returned his attention to the reports.

Robberies, violence, carjacking and other crimes that were considered the norm in Gotham. It's wild, but it's normal. There are no reports of kidnappings, no activity of arms dealers. Even criminal gangs showed almost no signs of activity.

The feeling that something isn't right has only gotten stronger.

That's when he noticed one of the reports. A systematic complaint against a month-old racer. It wouldn't be so strange if it weren't for some details. Firstly, this car was a racing brand in a remote residential area on the border with a Crime Alley. It was on the opposite side of the area where illegal racing usually took place. Secondly, this car has been seen in other incidents. The description of this car was in five robbery attempts, information from which was obtained either from the thieves themselves, who failed to break into the car before the police arrived (suspiciously quickly), or from other eyewitnesses. Thirdly, the car was seen only in poor or residential areas, while the car does not have any identification marks, although it looks like a really expensive sports model. And that could already be a problem. Not many Gotham criminals can afford such transport, but almost all of them have at least some numbers to distract the attention of the police. Perhaps this car was stolen by a novice? In fact, this is exactly what was written in the final report of the police, who suggested that this was a simple theft. And the case was almost instantly closed, since over the past week the car seemed to have disappeared from the radar. The police assumed that the thief had finally been caught by the owner of the car and they closed the case.

But Bruce wouldn't be Batman if he didn't see further than others. He also had a "fourthly" reason.

He knew the car wasn't missing because he had seen it in person. Now, looking at the blurred photos of the blue-yellow bumper of the car, the man remembers the streamlined dark body that glittered in the night light of the city. And now, with that thought in mind, Bruce runs a system search on his computer. Pretty soon, the results are displayed on the monitor. A grainy photo of a black racing car racing down the street looks like a prize.

Gotham, even though it was a megalopolis, had two things uncharacteristic of a big city: a lot of shadows and silence. The silence in the city at night was special, filled with the buzzing of appliances, the sound of rare cars. And the silence was that everything really went quiet right before the next victim screamed. It's like it's warning the residents of the city. The silence was not long that night. Batman stopped at the edge of the roof, literally feeling a herd of goosebumps running over his skin in a second. Because it was at that very moment that the sharp noise of tires and a car horn cut through the night sounds. A black spot, like an enraged fury, swept down the street from Batman, buzzing nonstop.

 "Robin, on the right!" the vigilante managed to shout as he jumped off the roof and grabbed onto the next building. Behind him, slightly to his right, he heard the hurried rustle as Robin silently followed his father.

The chase for this strange car ended in a remote alley, where two masked men were getting out of a closed building, carrying backpacks full of money.

Batman did not see that car again that evening. Until this day.

Apparently, our night racer did not disappear, but simply changed his image. Bruce squints, tapping his fingers on the table. A dark expensive car with no license plates, traveling only at night in sparsely populated areas? A drug dealer? A slave trader? An arms dealer?

Bruce leans back in his chair. He needs more information for the future.

When the man reaches for the keyboard to continue searching for information, the alarm clock rings. The sound is piercing and clear, this is Alfred's favorite English watch. Specifically to remind Bruce to take a break. The clock slowly flashed "4 a.m.", and a slight tingling in his eyes reminded the man of the missed hours of sleep. Those hours of sleep that would contribute to a speedy recovery from a leg injury.

Bruce stretches, turning off the alarm and glancing at the screen.

After a minute, he closes the tab with a deep sigh and, taking his crutches, leaves the cave. He has a couple more hours before meeting his sons after their patrol.

Chapter Text

Smokescreen was really proud of himself. And he hopes his team is proud of him too.

After a month of living in Gotham, the underbelly of the city seemed to open up. The city showed all its stench and waste, literally throwing them in Smokescreen's face. (unfortunately, as if "literally" should be taken literally too. Literally, literally. Smoke recalled with a shudder the kind of things he had to clean off the windshield....) During the month, there were approximately five major bank robberies, two instances of groups of criminals escaping from prison, and one instance of a suicide bomber appearing in the city center during rush hour with a bomb, threatening everyone. In addition, there were numerous murders, acts of violence, and other minor crimes committed. And that's all in a month. Smokescreen managed to get a couple of bumps himself and was involved in some of these crimes.

Firstly, as it turned out, blue, yellow and white colors are no longer in fashion. On his Earth the presence of a racing car in light or bright colors did not distinguish Smokescreen from the urban landscape at all. Now he stuck out like a thumb. The city, despite being full of neon light from billboards and streetlights, was literally the apogee of the word "black." Smokescreen wondered what assessment Megatron would give to Gotham architecture...

His bright coloring only created unnecessary problems. For example, during this month, despite the fact that he did not leave the area (Bowery, now he needs to get used to calling everything by its proper name) for more than three hours, he was tried to be kidnapped and robbed a shameful number of times (and this may have been related to the area itself. It is unlikely that pious people will live in a place where houses look like a cry for help and a violation of all building rules). Therefore, Smokescreen accumulated some energon, allowed himself to spend more time in stasis than usual, and voila! nanites literally repainted his hull overnight. Blue was replaced by deep black color and yellow inserts turned gray. Practical, but at the same time elegant and not boring. Knockout would be proud of him!

And the effort was worth it, and the slight feeling of hunger that haunted him for a couple of days was also worth it. After all, now most people just avoided a cool racing car that looks like its owner will blow your brains out for an extra scratch. Smokescreen didn't quite understand how he earned such a reputation, but maybe that's how "black" magic works in Gotham.

After all this time, he was able to feel hints of a familiar sense of freedom for the first time. It was like a little push to move on.

Before that, Speedster checked the internet and all available networks for various stories related to travelling through dimensions. Surprisingly, there have indeed been such cases (although rather about time travel), but little is known to the public except for the obvious facts:

Some shit from another world appeared, then the Justice League came, there was a fight and the League won. Smokescreen then thought for a second, why not just turn himself in? Maybe they'll just beat him up and send him home?

He immediately hit his helmet with servo, wanting to nail his processor for such thoughts.

Smokescreen has seen what ordinary people are capable of. He knew what people were willing to do to achieve their goals. He knew that even if there were those who would help you, there would definitely be those who would hate you. Without the majestic Prime, who has the magical ability to make everyone in the room listen to him, without Ratchet with his sharp tongue and with the same sharp mind, without Bumblebee with his charisma and innate ability to be friends with everyone... without them all, Smokescreen could not even imagine how exactly he should go out to people.

(How does a soldier act without his superiors when he finds himself in an extraordinary situation?

He's acting on protocol, ma'am)

Therefore Smokescreen did as he was taught. First of all, you need to take care of your immediate needs in order to complete the mission. Base? An abandoned warehouse next to a cheap parking lot and on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, in an abandoned Bowery bordering on an equally scary Crime Alley. This can be called a base with a big stretch, but it was a relatively safe and secluded place, like being in the epicenter of a hurricane. Fuel? There is a whole system of caves with deposits of energon under the city, raw, untreated energon that has deformed Smokescreen's tanks and sometimes darkened his eyepieces, but it was a thousand times better than being completely without fuel. Smokescreen knows the lingering feeling of hunger all too well and would not want to repeat that experience. So, yes, there is fuel.

Next comes the collection of information. He spent more than three days without getting out of the police database and archives, literally absorbing information about the city and about some global events in the world.

(And surprisingly, hacking the database was easy. It's not that Smokescreen was a glorified hacker, but he spent a lot of time under the guidance of Alpha Trion in the archive. Well, Smokescreen was literally a walking robot. But the most amazing thing was that the technology of the people on this Earth was more advanced. Although, Smokescreen has not been on Earth of his world for more than ten years, so maybe technology has changed so much there too? Anyway, it was paradoxical, but it was more advanced technologies that allowed Smokescreen to hack the system faster. The structure of the systems became more like something Cybertronian and Smoke felt like a fish in water, moving through terabytes of information.)

Now Smokescreen was prepared, with a place he could call his own and information without fear of being caught off guard.

Following the action plan in situations where a soldier has lost contact with the rest of the squad, he must either wait for reinforcements or find a way out of the problem on his own.

(At first, Smokescreen really planned to just stay in the warehouse and wait for his team to somehow take him back to his home world. But this thought did not last in his processor for more than a couple of minutes, instantly replaced by an all-consuming fear. What if they can't take him away? What if they don't want to take him? Did they notice at all? But at that moment, Smokescreen only irritably hummed the engine, driving deeper into the shadow of the destroyed warehouse. He couldn't let such worthless and ungrateful thoughts visit his processor.)

He decided to try to find a solution to his problem on his own. In fact, it was obvious because the straggler who is not part of the commander, is only a dead weight. The squad does not have to return for a lost teammate.

That's why Smokescreen decided to explore the city more thoroughly with a scanner from that moment on. And that's where the problem came out.

Did Smokescreen say he was proud of himself? He returns these words. He was such an idiot that he only remembered about his holoform after a month of living among people. In his defense, Speedster may note that even on his own Earth he was not used to using the holoform, and over the years of his life on Cybertron this was not necessary.

It was early in the morning and the rare rays of the sun began to reflect off the water surface of the Atlantic Ocean, making their way into the window frames of the destroyed warehouse. Standing in front of his alt-mod, Smokescreen stared into the reflection of the side mirror. A boy with pale blue eyes and a shock of black hair, which, although gathered in a miniature ponytail, stuck out in all directions, stared back at him. As if the cat had died on his head! - Miko's words came back to him. But, to Smokescreen's credit, he had no idea that his usual white-haired holoform with blue strands would also change its color. Although Speedster wasn't sure if he could complain about such a result at all. Since the illusory apparatus for creating a holoform clearly needed to be repaired. It was impossible to keep a stable shape for more than three hours. It was necessary to rejoice at least at the fact that the form was holding up at all.

The boy in the reflection frowned, it looked a little alien and a slight ripple passed over his face. A minute, two minutes, and now the wrinkles on the face began to look more natural, and the body felt more dense. Smokescreen didn't miss the feeling. He didn't like the way the ceiling seemed to hang over him when he switched to the humanoid holoform, and the shadows around him seemed to lengthen. Therefore, youngling tried to look only in the mirror, without looking away. The eyes glowed a little azure. Smokescreen sighed at the same time as his alt-mod, which made the car roar with the engine. Youngling  jerked back. Well, he should get used to it again.

 (He tried not to look beyond his face. Visualizing clothes always took a lot of effort, and the holoform was already broken. Smokescreen didn't admit it, but he missed the flight jacket with blue and dirty yellow colors that nurse June helped him pick up. He felt strangely naked in just a T-shirt and jeans.)

The holoform was the main reason Smokescreen was now leaving the warehouse more often at night. And during the day, he allowed himself to silently observe people who were in a hurry, walking, talking, thinking, living.  Yangling conducted all his observations from afar, silently hiding in the crowd and not attracting attention to himself. But for the first time, when Smokescreen saw so many people who just existed without even coming into contact with him, his systems almost rebooted. There was a feeling that a hole had formed in his fuel tanks, which sucked everything into itself, leaving a sour taste on the receptors. Then his holoform flickered so much that the Speedster had to hide in an alley behind trash cans, where it dissipated. He didn't know what happened next, but after that day he actively tried to avoid crowds and crowded places.

Therefore, scanning the city has become a purely nocturnal activity. He even learned the approximate routes of some Bats in his part of the city. But, as Primus is his witness, Smokescreen's life wouldn't be so simple if everything didn't go downhill.

***

To be honest, Smokescreen didn't quite understand what scared him so much. It was an ordinary night in Gotham, when the silence of the city was pierced by the wail of sirens of a police car. For a month of his life here, Speedster got used to the regular sounds of the city and the screeching of sirens. He just didn't expect to hear them so sharply and right on the same street with him. Therefore, Smokescreen had no choice but to quickly park at a small multi-storey house. As the police drove by, yungling instinctively pressed his field closer to him, as if the soulless box on wheels could somehow sense the beating of his spark. But it was necessary to be safe. So Smokescreen stood outside that house for another ten minutes, just listening to how far they had driven. After that, everything went quiet again. Smokescreen has already strained his hydraulics, turning his wheels to get back on the road. Suddenly, indistinct screams, very similar to a woman's, reached his audio channels. The sound came from that house. Smoke screen froze in place, confused. The screams of the unknown woman were indistinct, hysterical.

"She's drunk." Speedster instantly guessed, wondering once again that alcohol and high energon act the same way on humans and Cybertronians (not that he would ever drink himself).

After a minute of incoherent screams, a man's voice was added to the woman's. So, it was clearly a quarrel. Smokescreen tensed, feeling very uncomfortable, the familiar feeling of emptiness somewhere in the fuel tanks made itself felt. It seemed to him that he was invading something completely alien and wrong. Not that Smokescreen cared about two drunk people, the speedster could only freeze in place, listening to every slurred word that came from the lips of the aggressive spouses. Until suddenly there was a deafening crack of broken glass and everything went quiet. Smokescreen held his breath himself, feeling the air getting stuck in the ventilation systems. Baby's crying was heard and adults' screams resumed. Smokescreen instantly took off from his seat, not quite understanding what he was doing. A minute later, he was standing in the form of his holoform next to a street phone, hysterically dialing 911. His fake hands were not falsely shaking, flickering with static electricity.

"911, what's your emergency?"

The man's voice sounded eerily calm, making Smokescreen lose his temper even more, as if he wasn't a trained guardsman, a soldier who was trained to handle such things.

"It...there's this lady and guy arguing, and they have a l-little kid there! It's like, um? It's at 4th Street on the Robinsville..."

But he was interrupted quickly enough.

"Okay, take it easy, kid. Don't worry so much. We've already called a car there, it's okay. The police will be here in 20 minutes."

Smokescreen didn't even notice how his voice went glitchy, and the holoform flickered so much that the handset almost fell out of his hands. Did this man say that nothing terrible had happened? That they will arrive only in 20 minutes?! A thousand scenarios of what could have happened to child instantly ran through the processor. Which was already happening while he was standing here talking to the dispatcher!

"But sir!... I think they could hurt the kid!"

There was a tired and drawn-out sigh from the other end of the line, as if the dispatcher was talking to a restless child who had drunk too much coffee. Even though it was impossible, Smokescreen felt a chill run down his spine.

"Listen, son. They're already on their way. I can't help you. If you have nothing more to say, please don't waste my time. Otherwise, your parents will have to pay a fine for the false call."

When the phone went silent, the holoform finally flickered, which caused the phone to hit the glass of the booth with a loud bang. The iron cord stretched a little and rattled alarmingly, reminding that this phone is clearly many years old and with such further treatment it will break. Smokescreen didn't know why he was so fixated on that cord glinting in the dim light of the booth, but right now it seemed like the only important thing in the world. The ringing in the receiver did not subside. The phone was still hitting the glass by inertia.

Smokescreen pursed his lips, scattering the holoform. When he returned to the base, the city was quiet. No police sirens.

Smokescreen didn't know what happened to that family. He had never felt so helpless before.

(He hadn't realized at the time that this was his first conversation with anyone in a month.)

Chapter Text

When Optimus Prime sacrificed himself to save his planet, it was the beginning of an entirely new era. A team of several bots set about rebuilding their home. It all started with sending a signal into space that the war was over. And then, over the course of several years (astrocycles), more and more Cybertronians arrived on the planet. And the small team that started with the reconstruction of a small base in the center of Iacon grew into a group that had the courage to call themselves a city. Of course,  Decepticons also flew to Cybertron along with refugees and neutrals. Some of them immediately got into a confrontation. Someone laid down their weapons and badge. It was the beginning of a new era, an era without factions. 

It didn't start with that, actually.

It all started when Optimus Prime sacrificed the Matrix of Leadership to save his home planet. 

It wasn't like the situation with Unicron. Prime gave away the power of the Leadership Matrix, but not in the same way as it was during the battle with the evil titan. He lost consciousness and fell into stasis, and did not lose his memory and became Orion Pax again. At least that's what Ratchet said. More precisely, Ratchet assumed this, blinking the cleaner from the eyepieces. It was Knockout who confirmed Prime's condition by scanning the signals of Optimus processor and comparing them with the data that the doctor recorded from Orion Pax on Nemesis. The data didn't match.

"Not that it would in any way please or calm the team..." thought Smokescreen then.

But the fact remained. Optimus Prime has been in stasis for about ten years (astrocycles, Smokescreen) in a specially equipped compartment on Nemesis. There was a lot of discussion about Prime's placement and many suggested leaving him on Earth under Ratchet's supervision. Supposedly, this could reduce the likelihood of an attack on the leader by visiting Decepticons. 

But Ratchet then firmly said no. And honestly, Smokescreen wasn't particularly surprised, although the rest of the team was really confused (except for Arcee. Fembot just sighed wearily, looking too understanding.) 

And even though Ratchet explained his refusal by saying that Cybertron has better equipment and a whole team can protect Prime, and not an old medic and a bunch of people, Smokescreen was not blind. Yes, youngling admitted that he was not always quick-witted and thoughtful, but he was at least confident in his attentiveness. Without it, he would hardly have gone through the war at all. 

And so, Smokescreen clearly understood the main reason for the medic's refusal - grief.

Ratchet grieved, running away from his duties, but every month (orns, Smokescreen!) he came to Prime's compartment, sat next to his comatose body. This happened necessarily in the evening, when the main part of the crew went to their cabins. Well, Smokescreen stayed late intentionally. The way the medic held his friend's servo spoke of more grief than Ratchet dared to show with his field. 

He grieved for his friend, allowing himself to sit by Prime's bed for hours.

Smokescreen was only in that compartment once. And only once could he allow himself to think about how it would have been if he had accepted the Matrix back then.

***

When you are a witness to grief, grief is perceived more clearly. Smokescreen saw Optimus' victim. He could feel the tingling from the fields of his teammates. Sadness, distrust, admiration, anger. And then it all changed to Grief. The mourner's field was heavy. But not like anger or horror. It seems as if it is heavy for the bot himself. The energy bubbled slowly, close to the bot itself, only occasionally splashing, as if the field was looking for someone to cling to. 

Sometimes Smokescreen numbly wondered how his field felt. These thoughts were quiet and personal, they visited his processor only in moments of loneliness. Those were the days (orns, Smokescreen! How many times has youngling mentally caught himself doing this? Wait, or was it three joors? Why couldn't he, like the others, switch to the Cybertronian number system? Why was it so difficult for him? He was so pathetic that he couldn't even count the time correctly and... Smokescreen threw it out of the processor as another rotten thought) when speedster was sitting at the Well of All Sparks. Too close to the edge for Smokescreen 's taste.. But youngling never looked down at the center of the planet. No. His gaze was fixed on the boundless sky. If his former classmates and roommates are dead, then their sparks have been resting in the Well for a long time. Their families and loved ones are praying and grieving for them. Smokescreen was thinking about those who might still be alive. No names or specific personalities, just thoughts about the living. As a fact.

Smokescreen was not a believer, but he prayed for the lives of those who are alive.

He prayed that those who were alive would grieve for those who were dead. 

***

Knockout was rarely present during group calls with the Earth team, preferring to exchange a few words with Ratchet individually. The first time Smokescreen saw the doctor talking to any of the people was the last time. Knockout was walking towards his cabin that day, completely littered with datapads and clearly discussing on the comm some medical stuff with... June Darby? Smokescreen is sure that the older bot called the woman that only once, mostly preferring the nickname "nurse".

But none of the team blamed the doctor for selectively communicating with people. Everyone understood the reason for the former Decepticon's closeness. Smokescreen never asked unnecessary questions. He was satisfied with the context and one look at Knockout on specific days (orns?).

Almost every year (astrocycle, Smokescreen muttered to himself), Knockout locked himself in his cabin for the evening or left for a night to drive through the desolate expanses of Cybertron. In the first case, someone from the team left a cube of light filtration energon at the door, which helped after a hangover. In the second case, Smokescreen only found out once what knockout was doing after his races. 

The stars shone calmly in the sky, and the Well of All Sparks was still majestic, large and warm. And if Smokescreen thought he was sitting too close to the edge, then Knockout practically dangled his legs off the ledge. Youngling approached doctor slowly, but not like to a frightened animal, but rather trying not to disturb that quiet atmosphere of calm.  Knockout field was heavy, but surprisingly calm.

"He loved the stars," after a nanosecond of silence, the elder mech whispered, that familiar sparkle, that tone that was inherent in the usual behavior of Knockout, disappeared in his voice. Smokescreen froze, looking up at the stars. 

After a while,  youngling stood next to his teammate, nervously fingering his fingers. The light from the Moon softly illuminated the white, porcelain-like faceplate of the doctor. He seemed weighed down by his thoughts, as if a little more and the bot would have collapsed right now. But the field was still calm. 

Smokescreen understood who Knockout was talking about. 

But that didn't mean he understood what was going on. No, Smokescreen knew and saw the symptoms of grief. He learned it as his own call sign in the guard. That's why, despite the doctor's contrite humility, Smokescreen didn't understand anything. How can you be so calm in your grief? He remembered his classmates, he remembered his colleagues, he remembered his teammates and he remembered Ratchet and Arcee.  Youngling knew their symptoms, their situations, and their grief. But that doesn't mean he ever understood grief. After all, to understand something, you have to experience it, don't you? 

(At the Academy, their counselor, a short, stocky mech with a forgettable voice, said one phrase that stuck forever in Smokescreen's memory banks:

"You are at war. You don't have time to mourn the dead. Your highest reward after victory will be time to grieve."

This phrase was said only once. But it made so much sense. Surviving on the streets in order to be recruited into the guard, Smokescreen could only draw one conclusion – everything must be earned and everything must be fought for. Only then do you win the true right. Looking back, Smokescreen is not quite sure how much he 'win' back then. He often wondered if he could start grieving for those bots and fembots. It just didn't seem right to him. As if it wasn't his right. Those unfortunate sparks had families who mourned their loss and prayed for their return. Smokescreen could only hope that the families would be reunited. Families he wasn't a part of.)

These thoughts always led him to one painful topic. 

Did he have the right to grieve at all? 

Grief was a strange concept in Smokescreen's understanding. 

And now, standing near the Well of AII Sparks with Knockout, Smokescreen wanted to ask a question:

Why are you grieving? 

(Were you that close? What's it like to lose a family? Will it make you feel better? Can I help you?)

But instead, he asked only one question:

"What was he like?" Smokescreen asked softly, a little uncertainly. And it was sincere, but it was also the hope that Knockout would allow himself to open up. Tell  something that will help Smokescreen understand. 

Knockout then just sighed, not taking his eyes off the night sky. And instead of stories about Breakdown, he told what the M.E.C.H had done to him. He talked about details that Smokescreen probably didn't want to hear about.

He told about the torture. 

He talked about how the human body was connected to the body of Cybertronian.

He talked about Dark Energon, he talked about how specifically and to which parts of the processor this poison reacted.

He talked about Megatron and his brutal orders. 

And with every word he said, Knockout's shoulders sank. His body was reduced to a quiet static buzzing, as if he was going to fall asleep at any moment.

And a few hours later, as they both sat on the cold ground, Knockout went quiet, his field trembled slightly, and his eyepieces were directed into the distance. Only now the tense shoulders disappeared. 

And, smiling softly, Knockout whispered one last time:

"He was the best."

Smokescreen, on the other hand, stared into the distance, clenching his fists. 

(He understood that Knockout had the right to mourn Breakdown. He understood that he had no right to grieve himself.) 

Chapter Text

"Well, okay, good..." Dick exhales, caressing the table with his fingertips as he stands beside the Batcomputer. "Please tell me that I'm not the only one who noticed that weird black car on the streets of Gotham?"

The older guy looked at all the family members in the cave. Bruce was seated at his computer, meticulously transcribing data for the upcoming Justice League debriefing. Damian, with utmost precision, was meticulously organizing his equipment. Steph and Cass, meanwhile, were seated on the couches, watching something on their phones. Jason rarely appeared in the cave, Tim worked most of the time at his place, and Duke helped Alfred cook dinner on Friday evenings. But even so, it was nice to see that almost the whole family is nearby and not even feuding. Well, apart from the mild exchanges between Steph and Damian two hours ago. They didn't fight and that was progress. Dick was glad that all his siblings (even unofficial ones) were getting closer to each other every day.

And now Dick could perfectly observe how literally everyone tensed up, and a promising silence hung in the cave. Even the typing sound stopped.

Dick arched an eyebrow, spreading his arms and slightly moving away from the computer, stretching to stretch the stiff muscles of his back. 

“What? Has anyone completely noticed this strange Night Racer? Like a Ghost Rider, but not on a motorcycle and obviously without a burning skull?" Dick turned to Damian, who pointedly lowered his gaze and began to polish his belt more carefully. "C'mon, Dami, we saw that car together like three weeks ago!"

The boy wrinkled his nose, lifted his chin and put his gear aside. 

"I didn't see any car, Grayson." And before Dick could say anything, Damian raised a warning palm and looked at Bruce. "However, I did hear it. And, if you had paid proper attention, as you clearly require at this time, you would be aware that I mentioned this in my report following the patrol. Have you seen them, Father?"

Bruce, who had been clearly paying close attention, albeit feigning preoccupation with the completion of the document, eventually turned away from the monitor with a slightly perplexed expression. Dick and Damian cocked their heads expectantly (looking eerily similar). Cassandra and Stephanie looked up from the phone, putting it aside.

"I've read your reports." Bruce sounded a little soft, which Dick was well aware of, seeing his younger brother's shoulders slump a little at his father's praise. "As for the car… this also caught my attention. I have compiled a separate file with all references to this machine. It was first spotted in Robbinsville more than a month ago, in early September, but in a different color. The owner of the car was not mentioned in any of these incidents, which is suspicious. In general, the behavior of this rider is suspicious."

Bruce pursed his lips, turning back to the Batcomputer and opening the tab with the file where all the data on this car was collected: blurred photos, videos, eyewitness words and police reports. Dick came closer, running his eyes over the text. He wasn't even surprised by the fact that Bruce had already made a separate file. The young man frowned slightly, noticing that the file had only superficial information. Dick turned to his father:

"Have you tried to track their trajectory yet? Where do they come from, where do they stay? It's not like you."

Bruce shook his head.

"No, I sent all the information to Barbara so that she could track down the driver, and..."

"And she didn't find anything." 

Tim's voice and appearance were completely unexpected. If Dick had been an ordinary civilian, he would have been scared immediately, but the man only turned around when he saw a tired guy descending into the cave with a laptop under his arm. The young man looked a little sleepy and rumpled, as if he had just recently got up from an unplanned afternoon nap. Which, given Tim's sleep schedule, was not surprising. About two years have passed since Bruce's "death" and only recently Tim's life has settled down at least a little. When Bruce took over as CEO of the company again, Tim insisted on continuing to work at Wayne Enterprises as a deputy. Bruce agreed only on the condition that Tim would be able to take up the position only when he had completed his education. It was the young man's last year in college and every day Tim looked more relaxed and calm, he allowed himself to spend more time at the mansion and went out on patrol with other family members more often. For Dick, these were small moments of joy, small victories. 

It was also not at all surprising that Tim had clearly overheard their conversation and already had all the necessary information on his laptop. Perhaps he even prepared a PowerPoint presentation?

Steph, who had already managed to get up from the sofas and go to the Batcomputer to read the report, turned abruptly, clearly not expecting Tim to appear.

"Damn it, Spooky, I'm going to put a bell on you. No sneaking around, dude! Alfred's rule."

Tim cast an unsurprised glance at Stephanie, simply walking past the blonde and connecting his laptop to the Batcomputer to display the necessary files on the screen. At this time, Cassandra managed to appear near the group, cocking her head questioningly. 

"Barbara, little brother?" 

Apparently, she was the only one who really paid attention to Tim's words. Except Bruce. The man just silently waited for his middle son to finish transferring files, knowing that he would answer all the questions and say even more. 

Damian crossed his arms over his chest, frowning at the open files. "So that Gordon couldn't do her job? Is she so incompetent that she can't keep track of one car?" 

There was no clear sarcasm in the boy's voice, but Dick and Bruce almost synchronously turned their heads to the younger one.

"Dami!"

"Damian."

Dick's disappointed tone and Bruce's warning tone did their job, forcing Damian to lower his head, hiding the slight blush on his cheeks. Stephanie covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a giggle. Damian looked up again, glaring at the girl. But Dick quickly put his hand on the top of his younger brother's head, instantly turning his attention to Dick. Meanwhile, Tim silently ignored the bickering of his siblings, finishing forwarding the files and finally starting to explain.

"Babs couldn't find anything on this driver." He looked around at his family, making sure that everyone was clearly listening to him now. "Apart from the information provided in Bruce's file, there is practically nothing. The car has no license plates, the brand was identified only from blurred photos and videos."

When the name McLaren MP4-12C appeared on the screen, Dick arched an eyebrow, chuckling in surprise. He wouldn't be Bruce's son and Jason's brother if he didn't understand cars. Especially British ones, Alfred forbid.

"A sports car from ten years ago?"

Tim snorted.

"A ten-year-old sports car, seen only in criminal areas. Bowery, Crime Alley, Robbinsville, Burnley. Presumably, the car was also seen in Aparo Park. The car skillfully hides, at times almost disappearing from the cameras. Barbara has not been able to establish the parking lot of the rider or at least their approximate appearance."

The temperature in the cave seemed to drop, and everyone present tensed a little. Everyone slowly pulled themselves closer to the computer monitor. There was rarely anything that Barbara couldn't find information about. This meant that they were dealing with something more than just a night commuter. Dick shot a strained glance at his father. Bruce pursed his lips, clearly already making several plans in his head.

"Uptown. Beyond that, the rider was not reported. Perhaps this is their tactic – they are located in poorer areas, since the infrastructure there is worse and there are fewer cameras. It's easier to hide. Did Barbara manage to make an approximate route for the driver?"

Tim shook his head.

"No, they are clearly acting chaotically. During September, they were almost unheard of, but for some reason they became more active in early November and have been seen almost every night for three weeks. They either lead police patrols to crime scenes, or they often scare off smaller criminals themselves." Tim turned to his siblings. "I usually patrol old Gotham, so I can't say much about this car. What about you?"

Stephanie put her hand on her hip, puffing out her cheeks and carefully examining the blurry photo of the black sports car once more. 

"Nah, you already know my route, I'm not even close. I'm not sure if I saw that car, because... um, you know, Gotham has a lot of black cars." 

Cassandra, still silently hovering over the blonde's shoulder, nodded, indicating with gestures that she had not seen this car. Dick frowned slightly. Cassandra almost always visited Selina at the end of the patrol, who lived on the outskirts of the Crime Alley. It was strange enough that the girl had not met this racer in all this time. Even Dick, who spent a lot of time in Bludhaven, managed to meet this Night Racer at least three times in Gotham. By the way, about these cases.

"Okay, so, first off, I'm glad I'm not the only one who's a little crazy, and you've also noticed that creepy black car that shows up in the middle of the night, like a Batmobile's illegitimate kid. Secondly, I've seen it like, at least three times.The first one happened when Robin and I were filling in for B during his impromptu sick leave." Dick threw a slight smirk at his father, receiving an eye roll in response. But everything was fine. Dick was going to continue to encourage Bruce's good habits. "At that time, I didn't really attach importance to a simple racer, but just a couple of days later I met them two more times. They were rushing like a fury, roaring their horn all over the street and literally calling me in the direction of the robbery. Only our third meeting was clearly unplanned, because then I was already stopping a crime, and this car  suddenly appeared  out from behind a nearby building, just driving away."

Tim muttered something under his breath as he opened the auxiliary files. At that time, Bruce simultaneously launched a scan of the system to collect all mentions of cars from patrol reports, Tim and Barbara's documents. The man acted quickly, clearly entering his Batman persona. But Dick was not blind, he knew his father too well, even more than Bruce himself. Dick could see perfectly well how tense Bruce's shoulder line was, how his lips twitched and how often he swallowed. There was something else. As if something else was bothering Bruce. Of course, Dick could ask directly right now, he hated it when Bee hid something or kept it to himself, especially if it worried a man about something. But Dick also knew perfectly well that it would scare Bruce away. Dick could only force himself to remain silent, step back and wait for his father to ask for help himself. He had to trust Bruce on this. 

 
(And now Dick saw it. He understood that. Time with Damian has taught both Dick and Bruce a lot. At times, Dick even wondered how father and son looked alike and that they needed the similar approach.)

 
The young man came out of his thoughts as soon as Bruce started talking.

 
"We will need to interview and warn the rest of the vigilantes about this racer. Let them provide all available information about them. For now, we will award them the status of neutral. Even if they prevent crimes for some reason, they do it locally and selectively. We need to find out their motives and get them off the streets anyway."
 

Oh, that was the problem? Dick blinked, now looking at the situation from a new perspective. New vigilantes were not uncommon in Gotham and almost every week there was a hero among the civilians. But it never went beyond the limits and did not last more than a couple of days (the situation with Stephanie was an exception), because either these people themselves quickly gave up all attempts, or Batman overtook them. Batman didn't like it when there were uninvited guests on his territory. Bruce was afraid for the unprepared teenagers, who did not even hold a knife in their hands, let alone fight crime.
 

But this case was clearly a new one. The racer was elusive, unpredictable and, most importantly, unknown. The paranoia of not only Bruce, but the entire Wayne family has already kicked in. Everyone was well aware of the risks and possible danger of this racer. If you were wearing a mask or hiding license plates, it doesn't matter. After all, if you don't disclose yourself, you have something to hide. The vigilantes knew this better than most. And with the same probability, a new criminal authority may be sitting in the driver's seat of this sports car, who wants to use the power of the defenders of Gotham to subjugate the criminal world for himself.
 

(And didn't that remind you of Jason? And didn't that add drama to the situation? Dick could literally turn around and be back at the moment when he found out that his younger brother, his Jay, was alive. If they find this Racer, will it be someone they once cared about? Someone who has to lie six feet underground?)

 
Dick sighed, straightening up. His face froze and his posture became more tense.  

 
"I'll let Jay know, ask if he knows what. This is his territory after all."

 
Bruce, whose face clearly mirrored Dick's, nodded curtly. At this time, Tim cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself again.

 
"All available information is already in the file… But according to Barbara, it is safe to say that this car did not appear in Gotham before September." The tone of his voice became a little uncertain, but that characteristic sparkle appeared in his eyes. So Tim was just sure of something. Tim brought up a graph on the screen. "I decided to check the sensors just in case and noticed that in early September there was a surge of energy fields in Uptown. He did not exceed the normal range, so the alert did not work, but given the date of the Rider's appearance and the fact that the surge was short-lived and unjustified..."

 
Tim didn't finish, leaving the sentence hanging in the air. There was no exact evidence of a relationship between the two phenomena, but Dick could clearly draw parallels. And intuition began to itch somewhere in the subcortex of consciousness. Bruce  glancing at the chart and glancing at Damian. The boy continued to stare at the screen.

 
"All right, Tim. I will also write to Selina. You can go back to your business."

 
And when everyone started to disperse, Dick heard Bruce's quieter words.

 
"And yes, Damian, calibrate the sensors and the system back to automatic settings. And next time, ask me before you call John home."

 
Damian froze, hiding his face behind his hair. And Steph and Tim, who were walking in front of Dick, giggled, high-fiving each other. Dick rolled his eyes.

 
Even if things were not going well, he knew that his family would always be there.

Chapter Text

The rain fell incessantly, forming a virtual barrier of water that almost completely obstructed the streets of Gotham. Sumalee thought distantly that if she cried, her tears would not be visible. Actually, nothing was visible that night.  Even the face of the robber who had pinned her to the alley wall was also practically hidden.

Look, woman wasn't stupid. Going out on the streets at night in Gotham was idiotic. Going out on the streets at night in Gotham as a woman was a cry for lack of self-preservation. Sumalee knew this better than most, given that she worked as an escort.

But that wasn't the problem. In fact, shouldn't a person of her job go outside at such a time? Must. But not outside the Crime Alley. Every girl working at the club knew perfectly well how dangerous it is to go outside the territory of Red Hood.

And Sumalee was far from a new girl in this business. A long time ago, many years ago, when the Crime Alley was bursting at the seams from assorted criminals, poor homeless girls and boys had to survive in the literal sense of the word. It wasn't about money and attention, as some people think when they think about escorts or prostitution. It was about trivial needs. Sumalee remembered the days when she was paid by a client to have a roof over her head and some food in one night. And she wasn't the only one. There were many like her.

And all of them could easily get lost. Sumalee herself was often on edge, especially when some clients paid her with drugs. At those moments, she looked at the bag of powder almost mesmerized, realizing that she would only need a couple of handfuls...

And then there was Robin. Second Robin, different from his predecessor. The first Robin was a legend, a flash on the periphery and a ringing laugh in the distance. He was a bright light in the darkness of the city. The second Robin was fast and lanky, like awkward teenagers with their long limbs. His laugh was hoarse and cheeky, but with genuine sincerity. He was a ray of hope for the filth and scum of the city.

It was Second Robin who advised Sumalee to sell those drugs. Surprisingly, Batman was practically not outraged at that moment, only threw a hard look at his partner.

(At that moment, he looked more like a tired father than a monster of the city.)

Sumalee sold those drugs, having received enough money to pay for the rent of a small room in a quiet house on the outskirts of the Alley.

And that night she cried.

Sumalee also cried when Robin disappeared. Many of the dregs of the Alley were crying then. They mourned their ray of hope.

Sumalee had no choice but to live on. She began to take other boys and girls under her wing, trying to get minors off these streets.

And then Red Hood appeared.

Gone are the bright smiles and sharp taunts, gone are the supportive words and brief hugs. Strict orders and territorial behavior appeared, a strict supervisor and a ruthless guard appeared.

A few years after Robin's disappearance, Sumalee felt safe again. But that warmth and hope were gone.

(It sometimes manifested itself in the tone of a Red Hood when a man escorted lost girls and boys to safe places. Sumalee met them there, hugging the poor girl and whispering words of gratitude to the vigilante with her lips. He just shook his head in response.)

And now, wet and chilled, clutching a bag of grocery products and hygiene products (some girls started menstruating, and Jessica asked to buy milk for cookies and a pair of apples), Sumalee practically sobbed until the muzzle of a gun was put to her throat.

"Give me the money, bitch!" the drunk man screamed for the fifth time in the last minute, swaying in place. He clearly didn't realize that he had repeated it several times already.

"I-I've already given everything to you! I don't have a-anything!" Speaking through tears, Sumalee trembled, wincing at the way her larynx touches the cold gun when talking.

And the man clearly did not realize that Sumalee was clearly not answering for the first time.

"I said," he roared, literally pressing the muzzle into the woman's neck, making her gasp. "Give me your money, whore! "

Sumalee squeezed her eyes shut, stifling a sob that was growing in her chest. There was a loud roar, followed by a flash of lightning. Sumalee mentally imagined the faces of her girls and boys, begging for their forgiveness.

Suddenly, with wild speed, something swept past, literally tearing the man away from Sumalee.

The woman realized with horror that what she had heard earlier was not thunder and lightning.

The alley was barely illuminated by the faded streetlights from the road, but when Sumalee opened her eyes, she almost immediately met the gaze of two large and piercing turquoise eyes. A pale-faced, black-haired boy, whose large eyes were practically glowing, was looking at her through the darkness. Not even the rain could obscure the distinct contours of the child's form.

Robin?...

The boy jerked upright, causing his feet to step right on the man's toes. Oh. And this child was literally standing on top of the robber, who was clearly unconscious.

Sumalee opened her mouth in shock, and her hands let go of the bag. The products splashed into a dirty puddle, drops of black water fell on the woman's already wet feet.

"Well, don't do that, ma'am..."

Sumalee twitched. The voice of an unknown child felt unearthly, like a whisper through the sound of rain. Only Sumalee heard the voice clearly. The boy bent down, stepping off the unconscious body. His bare arms (he wearing a T-shirt in November?) reached for apples, bottles of water and tampons that fell out of the bag.

"Here you go," the boy's face lit up with a smile. "Are you okay?"

("Are you okay? " Robin's face lit up with a sharp smile full of playfulness and care. Then Sumalee was ten years younger and the same number of years more naive. After all, it was naive of her to believe that the ray of hope of the dregs and outgrowths would continue to shine.)

Now, ten years older and tougher, Sumalee pursed her lips, holding back tears. Relief and mounting hope prickled in her chest.

"Oh- whoa, whoa, ma'am, don't cry!"

The boy quickly gathered all the products into a bag and handed it to Sumalee. The woman took the package with trembling hands, clutching it to her chest. The boy shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and opened his mouth, clearly wanting to say something. But he also quickly shut his mouth, alert. Sumalee froze. The boy, clearly noticing the woman's wariness, raised his hands reassuringly.

"You don't have to worry, ma'am. Call the police for now," he began to quietly leave the alley. The child did not stop examining the walls of the alley and kept looking at the roofs, as if he was waiting for someone to appear there. He was running away from someone.

Sumalee cast a confused glance at the unconscious man, and then back at the child. She couldn't let him leave now just like that.

"Wait!"

The boy turned, looking questioningly at the woman.

"Thank you."

He smiled as he walked out of the alley.

"You're welcome."

Just a couple of minutes later, Red Robin arrived at the scene. The vigilante jumped off the very roof where the boy had been looking before. And five minutes later, the police arrived. The man was tied up, and the woman was calmly asked. But neither the vigilante nor the police were able to find the strange child Sumalee was talking about.

Red Robin stared into the shadows of the alley for a long time, looking tense.

***

Smokescreen missed about a week. Maybe more. After the incident with that family, the speedster fell out of reality, which he admitted only a week later. A creeping feeling of helplessness was scratching somewhere under the sheathing, pressing down on the processor and causing spark to pulse nervously in his chest.

For the first week, Smokescreen practically did not leave his alt-mod, evenings, nights and early mornings driving all over Bowery and Robbinsville, literally dispersing robbers and scaring small drug dealers and drunks with a horn. Sometimes the screams of the victims took him to the more northern part of Uptown, to Newtown and even to Port Cherry. There seemed to be more criminals and crimes every night.

Every night, a dark sportcar dispersed revelers and drug addicts, scaring drunks and teenage bandits to gray hairs.

Smokescreen then acted instinctively, speeding, driving through the streets at night. Then he told himself that he had a plan. That all this is an organized search for a signal from alien technologies that the scanner could pick up. He kept an eye on where he was driving, trying not to get caught by work cameras and not stay in one place for more than a couple of minutes.

(The speedster found out about the strange fortified tracking system back in September, when he was exploring the city. It wasn't hard to guess who owned the expensive hidden cameras hanging in a criminal and poor neighborhood where security cameras were only in some stores. And these stores necessarily belonged to or were under the protection of some group or cartel. Oracle was talked about on fan forums. There were two most popular theories - what are they (she?) there were Batman's AI, or that they were a phantom of the city. Considering how strange this world was and that there were literally demigods, wizards and people in animal costumes, Smokescreen did not rule out the second theory. It was funny.

But after finding Oracle network, yongling was only slightly disappointed because of the theory's inaccuracy. Because then he was quietly delighted to notice that this person's network was all over the city and they had access to almost any system in the city. Hacking such a structure was terribly difficult. During the first attempts to probe the code, Smokescreen stumbled upon the walls of the firewall and the labyrinths leading to malicious codes. At that time, Smokescreen did not risk digging further, fearing to be discovered by such an influential person and probably by a whole network of vigilantes. Therefore, Smokescreen decided to go the other way. A physical solution to the problem. He tried to avoid Oracle's personal cameras and hacked into public cameras through an open, unprotected network of stores and commercial organizations. This helped to knock the pursuers off their tail.)

Yongling also never allowed himself to stay near the vigilantes for more than a couple of minutes. In general, he tried to avoid them, but at some moments he had to attract Nightwing (who had recently appeared too often in Gotham) with a ringing horn and the noise of tires. And then the speedster tried to bring the vigilante closer to the crime scene. And then Smokescreen immediately disappeared, getting lost in the shadows of the city (working with the phase shifter taught yongling some tricks to deceive eyesight. You can't always rely on cool ancient toys. Although Smokescreen wouldn't mind a switch right now. He missed it.)

Although Smokescreen rarely resorted to such solutions. It was faster and less risky to send an anonymous tip to the police. Of course, in the tip-off, the speedster pointed out as many terrible details as possible. He would not allow the repetition of past situations.

In general, he was prepared. After all, preparation and planning were the basic principles of a soldier.

More precisely, Smokescreen thought so. He completely forgot two things - Smokescreen never unconditionally follows the rules and rarely when everything goes according to plan. At times it seemed that he survived only by his luck.

And, apparently, his luck ran out in early November, when during his mad raid through the city he was led into a Criminal Alley.

***

The music was almost soundless, but the deep bass vibrated through the night street. A small club on the corner was full of colors from its neon signs. From experience (gathered both during his recent stay on Earth and from his time on Cybertron), Smokescreen could tell those scuffles near this club were not expected in the near future. Of course, the place was somewhat lousy, but people were allowed in only according to documents (also of varying degrees of lousy) and the bouncers at the entrance effectively controlled the situation. Judging by the swaying young guys who left the club literally glued to each other, it could be said that the trafficking of substances and strong alcohol was not prohibited in this club.

Smokescreen chuckled to himself, remembering his first time in an underground club during his years of study at the Guards Academy.

("As long as you're not being a pain and getting us in trouble with the deans, you can do whatever you like." The tall mech then said arrogantly, with a predatory grin, letting young Smoke and his two older classmates pass.)

So yes, it was clearly quite safe on the corner of two streets near the club.

It was a moment of easy respite. The darkness of the city was all-consuming, but even from here you could see the first rays of the sun, which made the strip of horizon light gray. Were all the sunrises in Gotham so dreary? This made Smokescreen miss the bright orange spots of light in Nevada and Area 51. Then the sunspots were reflected from all surfaces, which made the shadows seem very long, and the earth seemed to be covered with liquid gold.

These were quiet mornings full of unobtrusive thoughts and trembling hope about the future.

(Smokescreen has not been on his Earth for more than ten years, he has already got used to life on Cybertron. He even had his own small apartment in Iacon! Of course, not far from Nemesis and within walking distance of his teammates. But as soon as he closed his eyepieces, plunged into the pleasant sensations of something at home and native, the landscape of the Earth appeared appeared before him. Boundless and fresh. But he kept these thoughts deep in his processor, not even allowing him to mention this topic to anyone. He wasn't ungrateful. He was glad to be on his home planet and see it as he had never seen it - free from war.)

When the explosion occurred, Smokescreen practically flew out of his hiding place, almost ramming a nearby car and a lamppost. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to come to his senses.

The shame only intensified when Smokescreen realized that he was afraid of a smoke bomb. A group of masked men with guns ran out of a nearby building, firing into the air.

No, not into the air, but into Nightwing, who literally hovered in the air, doing with his body what Smokescreen did not consider possible for a human. The vigilante's laughter echoed down the street, and the outraged screams of people intensified. Suddenly, a man with a machine gun broke away from the main group, while not stopping shooting.

At that moment, the desire to stop these criminals disappeared. A burning sensation pierced the side door of the Smokescreen's alt-mod. Yongling backed away in shock, still crashing into a nearby car. A shrill beep sounded.

"Hey! Do you guys have backup?" Nightwing's voice was too loud for the Smokescreen's audio systems. "Do you know anything about honor at all? Five against one, really?"

But for some reason these guys decided that reinforcements were clearly not for them and decided to simultaneously start shooting right at the place where Smokescreen was standing. And the burning pain was replaced by overwhelming panic when the sound of bullets crashing into walls and asphalt was replaced by the heart-rending screams of one of the guys sitting near the club. There were sounds of broken glass and more screams from the bar as shrapnel and bullets rained into the room full of people.

And when Smokescreen could only stand and watch, Nightwing almost instantly changed tactics from evasion to attack, using the inertia of his body and crashing into two nearby men. It didn't take him long to disarm half the group and turn their attention to himself, protecting civilians.

The shock of the first bullet passed quickly. Smokescreen left the place just as quickly.

***

He didn't have to lick his wounds for long. The bullets left only scratches and dents on the segments of the left servo. For a long time, Smokescreen was just aware of everything that was happening. It was the first time in recent times that he had been rebuffed. This was the first time he could have been injured. That day, he decided to finally face the truth. The pain sobered up. He had nothing planned.

Most of the time, he really relied on luck, literally running into criminals or spamming the police department until they called their guys to the scene. Even the excuse that he had been scanning the city so productively all this time didn't work at all.

During this week, Smokescreen took the scanner with him only three times (which continued to crackle statically when turned on, reacting as if to the very air of Gotham. Something was definitely wrong in this city). He didn't even leave Uptown, just because he was still afraid. He was afraid to go outside poor neighborhoods, where it was easier to avoid cameras and police. Where he had already managed to find out the territory and where he could hide in the cave system through underwater paths.

He was just a coward and a liar. Moreover, Smokescreen lied to himself. His actions were impulsive, and his desires were selfish - to get rid of the gnawing feeling of helplessness. But he couldn't even really help anyone, just scaring criminals (and victims), and when guys appeared with just some kind of machine guns, he ran away. Is that what a guardsman does? Is this what is expected of a soldier?

(The burning familiar feeling of emptiness released its pseudopods again, as if waking up from a temporary sleep. It served as a reminder.)

And this little revelation seemed to touch something in yongling's spark. The familiar creeping sensation only intensified, literally eating through the skin. Useless. He had to do something. At that moment, the speedster forced himself to stay one night at the base just to think.

He needs to be careful. He needs to be more thoughtful. He needs to be more efficient.

He came out the next night with a new plan.

***

The use of the holoform was as productive as when exploring the city. While his alt-mod acted more clumsily but quickly, the holoform implied precision. When Smokescreen first hit some female drug addict, who pinned the guy against the wall, in the head with a tin can, yongling could not help laughing. He pelted that woman with all the garbage he could find on the roof, periodically disappearing. By the end, the woman was covered in garbage and trembling with fear. Her opponent was nowhere to be seen or heard. And the young man managed to escape a long time ago.

Smokescreen didn't even have to call the police, as one of the patrol cars, clearly hearing the screams and noise, arrived at the scene. They took a handcuffed woman into the car, she was covered in dirt and shouted about the evil spirits that came after her soul. The smokescreen dispelled the holoform in time, restraining laughter and growing anticipation under the skin.

It was a victory.

For two weeks, Smokescreen could call himself the king of garbage and the thunderstorm of traps. The criminals were horrified by the strange black car roaring in the alleys and the debris flying into them. It was two weeks of nervous laughter and well-deserved justice. Slowly, some heavy feeling on the Smokescreen's spark was weakening.

 (Isolation for two months was not favorable even for an alien being. Sometimes the desire to go straight down into another criminal alley to calm the victim or insult the rapist was unbearable.)

These night outings made Smokescreen more confident. It reminded him of the patrols and missions while working with Team Prime, and the long trips with Miko, Rafe, and Jack. It reminded him of the guard patrols during the academy and his service in the archive at Alpha Trion. It reminded him of the times. When he wasn't useless.

Therefore, the speedster took more risks.

This was one of the crimes that Smokescreen couldn't have prevented directly by himself. The shootout in the abandoned building lasted about an hour, and Smokescreen had no choice but to call the police. His alt-mod stood right in the shadow under the windows of this building. Smokescreen moved his wheels slightly from side to side, nervously listening to the surroundings, waiting for the police. He wasn't going to leave before the cops arrived.

Surprisingly, Batman and Robin were the first to arrive at the scene. This was the first time the speedster had seen Batman so close (he generally tried to avoid the main guardian of Gotham. Have you ever seen this man? And his terrible car? Smokescreen isn't even sure if Batman's car is Earth technology. There is such a strong field coming from this thing that Smokescreen tried to avoid the car for kilometers).

Batman's black cape was virtually silent as the vigilante descended into the ruins of the building. It took about ten minutes to take down the shooters.

And then the police came.

At that moment, Smokescreen was already planning to backtrack, hiding in the shadows and driving away, but curiosity was stronger.

It was a rare moment when Smokescreen himself was not involved in the crime and did not actually attract attention to himself. The police and vigilantes did not know that he was here, just a few meters away. Would it be superfluous to stay a little longer?

"Commissioner." 

Batman's voice was deep, like a growl. Smokescreen's audio sensors could pick up some artificiality of the vigilante's voice, although he clearly did not use any mechanisms to change his voice.

«So it's a natural skill? Cool!»

Of course, Smokescreen could afford to admire the hero. Only from the outside. And at a distance. Preferably at a very long distance.

"Ah, Batman, Robin. Good job," Commissioner Gordon's tired voice was hoarse from an obvious lack of sleep (Smokescreen remembered his name from police reports and tried to give tips on criminals exactly to Gordon. He was a good cop. More precisely, he at least reacted to these letters).

Robin mumbled something in response. Unfortunately, Smokescreen could not see from this side what people were doing there. Batman made a Robin-like sound, but still deigned to continue the dialogue.

"On a tip again?"

These words instantly made the speedster freeze in place, even stopping fidgeting. Did they mean him?

"Yeah," The commissioner was silent for a second, until suddenly there was the sound of a lighter. Smokescreen nervously counted down the seconds until the man took a drag.  "Night Racer again."

Slag. Pramus. Unicron. They meant him. They really meant Smokescreen. There could be no mistake that it was him. Who else drives around the streets of Gotham at night and tips off the cops? Is there another racer here? It is unlikely, since Smokescreen checks the streets almost every night and has not seen any other riders.

If it weren't for a bit of common sense, the speedster would have taken off right now. He had to get out of here, he had to hide right now. They knew about him (which is obvious, Smokescreen knew that they knew about him, but for some reason sincerely ignored this fact...). They knew and were interested in him so much that they even gave him a nickname.

«And what kind of name is Night Racer?!»

Smokescreen wanted the earth to swallow him up right now.

Until suddenly Batman made another guttural sound, clearly looking around.

"Hh. If they sent a tip, they have already managed to escape," There was almost no emotion in his voice, but Smoke could detect a note of disappointment. Irritation? Probably?

Anyway, this phrase made yongling literally melted on the spot. He had to hold back an obvious sigh of relief. He won't be caught right now. Well, it also means that Batman has been watching Smokescreen since the beginning of November. That's when Smokescreen used this tactic, sending a tip to the police and instantly leaving in search of the next crime. Well, now he did not make such a mistake, waiting until the last. 

"Fuck.." Gordon muttered, then coughed, clearly receiving a disapproving look from Batman. Robin snorted softly, but also abruptly quieted down, also clearly receiving a disapproving look from his mentor. The commissioner sighed again. "Okay, I'll go inform my guys. Meanwhile, you go about your business."

Under 'your business' the commissioner was clearly referring to a personal investigation, because both vigilantes were almost instantly on the roof of the building. Smokescreen automatically pressed his field to himself, slowly driving away into the depths of the alley.

"What are we looking for, Father?"

What.

And once again in the last couple of minutes, Smokescreen was caught off guard. Because what the slag? When did Smokescreen manage to miss the information that Robin is Batman's son? Was it some well-known fact that they decided not to mention on the Internet or what? And why did Robin sound like a more aggressive version of Raphael? Smokescreen didn't know much about Earth culture, but it seemed like kids Raphael's age usually went to school and didn't investigate crimes at night. Maybe Robin is just short, and he's already about 16? Again, Smokescreen wasn't sure how people's ages were determined, but at 16 Jack was already directly involved in the team's missions. And Raf also worked well with technical tasks. It is possible that children are allowed to go to the front line during training.

(It probably was, because Smokescreen still couldn't pinpoint exactly why nurse Darby and Agent Fowler always forbade Miko, Rafe, and Jack from participating in missions, always saying they were "kids." What was their reasoning? That they are not sufficiently prepared? Then prepare them so that they don't hurt themselves and fail another mission! It's not like they failed missions, and it's not like Smokescreen was ready to say that to their face. He understood that perhaps it was the difference in the cultures of their races.)

Batman didn't answer right away. But Smokescreen barely managed to get out of his thoughts, not wanting to miss a single phrase.

"Any signs of a car. Tire tracks, puddles of wiper fluid or cooler. Maybe exhaust fumes or even the smell of gasoline."

And yes, it was Smokescreen's signal to retreat. After waiting for the right moment, Yongling drove away from that building and the area.

***

The realization that the vigilante group might have been connected by more than just a common job was shocking. Smokescreen might not have been involved in active combat on Cybertron, but he knew the stories perfectly well. On the battlefield, the most ruthless and dangerous opponents were the teams connected by sparks. The Vos's trines delivered the most dangerous missile strikes, the spark twins were invincible duos, and the combains and trins were generally equated to one of the most dangerous weapons on the battlefield.

(Smokescreen knew this firsthand. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were the legends of the senior edition. Two rising stars of the Academy who, with almost no experience in combat, have already earned a frightening reputation. Just as they were ruthless and effective in battle, so they were friendly and caring behind closed doors. Smokescreen hasn't seen Sideswipe since his own Academy years.)

In general, Smokescreen could tell from his own experience how effective 'families' could be. If Batman knows about him, then one hundred percent thet the other vigilantes know about him. And maybe even the Justice League? Primus, please no.

Therefore, for the next week, Smokescreen actively avoided his appearance in alt-mod, even on cameras. The tactics changed a little and now Smokescreen was testing his holoform more and more often, until one rainy night he had no choice but to stop the crime on his own. That is, literally.

***

After Smokescreen escaped from the woman who was being robbed, he practically vibrated on the spot, feeling his field explode in hysterics.

He was talking to someone.

He helped someone.

He was thanked!

If Smokescreen were a human, his voice would be hoarse from long disuse. Was this the first time he had spoken directly to a living being? How long has it been? Two and a half months?

(He ignored the situation with the emergency dispatcher.)

It felt like years had passed. And Primus, how he missed it. Then he just wanted to go back to that woman and talk and talk and talk until his holoform ran out. But, unfortunately or fortunately,  Smokescreen's  sensitive audio sensors detected a characteristic noise from the approach of a person. The vigilante. The desire to survive and hide overcame the need for communication.

That night, he stayed on the streets until the morning, going to the base only in the early morning, when the rain had already passed and the sun began to peek over the horizon.

***

It had been quiet on the other end of the line for more than a minute. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling hard and checking to see if Bruce had hung up.

No, he was still in touch. Tim put the phone to his ear again, biting his fingernail.

"B?"

Did you say the child was wearing a t-shirt?

Tim took a deep breath, trying his best to ignore the forced calmness of Bruce's voice. Yeah, yeah, the man was a thousand percent pissed off by this situation.

"According to the woman, yes, Bruce."

"In a downpour. At Night. At eight degrees."

Tim grimaced.

"I will come to the manor and we will compile a dossier."

***

Then there was a situation with some kind of rabid man who tried to stab his neighbor right in the middle of the street at three in the morning. Because he was bothered by music that didn't even exist.

"Damn... I thought for sure I was done for there, that guy was screaming like crazy..." The man ran his hands through his short hair, sitting in the dirt of the street and looking at his neighbor, who was lying unconscious on the ground. The man looked up, his eyes full of emotion. "Thanks, dude."

A gang of teenagers cornered another child, extorting money from him and simply mocking him.

"Honestly... honestly, I didn't want to run away, I'll never, never leave again!" The boy literally hung on to his worried mother's arms. No, the mother was rather horrified, it was evident from her eyes, which literally drowned in relief when she saw her child alive and well on the porch of their house. When asked how the boy got home, the child, without taking his face off his mother's shoulder, muttered. "The guardian angel helped me. You were right, Mom, they exist."

The woman could only blink away her tears, hugging her son close to her and peering out into the darkness of the street. She mouthed her thanks as the figure at the end of the street waved timidly and disappeared behind the buildings.

The girls were trapped in a corner of an alley, trying to rape them.

It's not like the girls had any words to answer, or to say something clearly. But when their rapist fell unconscious on the asphalt with a thud, they burst into tears. The feeling that he had managed to save them in time was the best gift.

Drunk people got into a fight at the bar.

And it was a separate view, like a light entertainment.

"Eh, man, what the fuck?!" the slurred speech of the unkempt man felt disgusting, but combined with his stunned face it made up a simply magnificent picture. When they were interrupted by a strange teenager who appeared out of nowhere, all the drunks, of course, took it personally. Well, when one of the men's fist went right through the child's stomach, as if he were air, real chaos began.

"GHOST! He's come for us!"

Riddler got out of Arkham, while deciding to empty ordinary prisons as punishment for an unsolved riddle. The streets of Gotham was filled with criminals.

Perhaps criminals with a more extensive list of serious crimes could not understand, but small bandits rushed to scatter as soon as they saw the alarming gleam of the body of a black car. They remembered that devilish thing. Someone found out about the Racer by rumors, but someone personally became a "victim" of his justice.

When the snow fell in early December, Smokescreen seemed unstoppable. It was ecstasy, euphoria. His alt-mode and holoform worked in frenzied tandem. The black car was a harbinger of fear no worse than Batman, and an unknown ghostly boy brought tears of happiness to people's eyes.

***

Bruce gritted his teeth, knowing full well that Dick had done the same. They were both looking at the latest news reports.

"There are rumors that this boy is the ghost of Second Robin."

Dick's voice was soft, with a vulnerable intonation. He didn't even look at Bruce. It was as if he was trying to bring up the subject carefully, not wanting to provoke his father.

But Bruce only mentally counted to ten, exhaling.

"This child is a dummy. No name, no face."

Indeed, there is no face, no name, just an approximate embellished description from shocked victims and criminals. About dark hair like oil, about big glowing eyes, about the absence or vice versa about the clarity of the body. Many traits were attributed to this child. But all the descriptions agreed on only one thing – a white T-shirt with a red sign on the chest. And that has never changed.

"Escaped from the meta slave trade?" suggested Dick carefully. And if this were confirmed, then there would be a hotbed of trade within Gotham that they don't know about yet. Which was bad.

Bruce brought up a diagram of the places in the city where this child was seen. As well as a diagram of the approximate route of the Night Racer. Records of all incidents with both the Rider and the child were clearly displayed on the adjacent monitor. Dick straightened up abruptly, seeing a clear connection.

Activity is only at night. The child is only seen in the areas where the car is. According to eyewitnesses, the child was clearly hiding from someone, was taciturn and clearly trained in combat. The racer always avoided cameras and acted as selectively as possible.

(Dick remembered the cold light of the laboratory where he had found Con many years ago.)

"I think it's getting worse."

***

He lived for the outraged cries of criminals. He lived for the quiet words of gratitude. He lived to make up for the millions of years he spent in stasis, inactive.

He was hungry, consuming people's words like pure energon. As if it was his source of energy.

And, as if reflecting the beginning of November, in early December, Smokescreen went berserk again. He was lost in emotions again, he allowed himself to go beyond the boundaries of dreams. By allowing yourself to take risks.

And the realization came to Yongling too late.

***

The situation repeated the situation that happened a week ago. Another shootout in an abandoned building, but this time  Smokescreen was ready. This time, he wasn't going to stand in the shadows for hours and wait for the police.

His fake hands were tingling with excitement. Smokescreen crouched behind one of the pillars, looking down at the bandits, who once again did not share something. The territory? The product? It didn't matter. Yongling was waiting for the right moment.

Forward from the first gang (of which there were more and all of them were armed with machine guns. And their costumes were funny, green) a man came out. Apparently, the leader.

"You were supposed to deliver the goods yesterday, so why is your boss silent and you're like rats..."

And a stone flew into his head. Don't get me wrong, but Smokescreen didn't like tasteless villainous speeches. He had heard enough of them during the war. And his best friend was Knockout, Primus forbid. This eccentric bot could turn any situation into a play with himself in the lead role.

Therefore, when the leader of the green gang opened his mouth and spoke in a very nasal voice, Smokescreen instantly threw a stone at him.

And then the real nightmare began. In the same second, several people were already lying on the ground, while others scattered throughout the room. The bubbling sense of superiority inside Smokescreen instantly increased. And then it changed to pure horror, because more and more people fell to the ground and obviously not from bullets. And then someone shouted:

"Bats! They're here!"

And Smokescreen was trapped.

Robin appeared literally out of nowhere, followed by a new figure. It was Red Robin, who took down several men with one blow, instantly joining the fight. Everything happened quickly, abruptly and unexpectedly that the Smokescreen froze right where it was standing. A stupid rookie mistake, but Smokescreen hasn't been a rookie for a long time. He shouldn't have frozen like a turbolis caught in the crosshairs. He's not a coward.

But here he was, an elite guardsman, frozen in full view of the vigilantes. His eyes met the white eyes of Red Robin mask. As if in slow motion, but at the same time so fast, Smoke saw Red put his hand to his ear and say something on the communicator.

When the fragments of words reached Smokescreen, Yongling felt an overwhelming horror.

"B, that boy is here."

They know about him. They know about him. They know. They know. They know. They...

He needs to run. He need to go back to the alt-mod that stood behind this building.

The holoform dissipated and  Smokescreen floored the gas pedal... Just to crash into Batman's car almost immediately and literally bounce off it. The pain was almost invisible against the background of overwhelming panic.

They know.

Batman's car turned menacingly, its headlights illuminating the road. Batman was driving, and even from here Smokescreen could see the tense line of his jaw.

"Whoever you are, get out of the car." The vigilante's voice came from the speakers. "Now."

There was a dead end in the back, and the car blocked the passage in front, leaving only a small space for maneuver. He was trapped.

Batman tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"Get out of the car."

If Batman had a field, then yongling would be suppressed under his pressure.

Lightning flashed, illuminating everything outside the alley for a second.

Smokescreen heard practically nothing because of the roar of the energon in his body and the static of his field. He needed to get out of here right away. He was such an idiot, with slag instead of a processor. He shouldn't have played the hero, he shouldn't have taken such a risk. He screwed up once again, he believed in himself too much.

And now he had to get out of here. Urgently.

Thunder rang out, shaking the ground.

And he only had one shot. He had no room for mistake. And after this trick, he will have to replenish his reserves of energon. It's not difficult, perhaps after that, Smokescreen would have been exhausted for a couple of days. But it's better than being caught. He would never have been caught by humans.

("They cut out his spark chamber and installed a human chair there."

Knockout's voice sounded clinically calm.)

He won't make a mistake.

The engine roared.

"Get out of..."

In an instant, a smoke screen filled the alley. The density of the smoke was so high that nothing more than a couple of centimeters could be seen. And in an instant, Smokescreen hit the gas again, literally throwing Batman's car to the side and rushing forward.

Bruce felt the steering wheel being ripped out of his hands as the car skidded into a ditch. Bruce is thrown into the seat when he crashes into the wall of the alley.  Smoke fills the entire space. You can't see anything from the windows.

When Smokescreen dived under the water at the port of Robinsville, lightning flashed again. She lit up the passage to the caves.

One.

Tim pushed one of the Riddler's thugs onto the other, tying their hands. He had been shouting into his communicator for more than twenty seconds, trying to reach Bruce.

Two.

Dirty water was running down his body. She made him feel even dirtier, but at the same time she seemed to wash away all thoughts. She was exposing what he had been trying to forget all this time.

Three.

Because of the pall of smoke that seemed to have accumulated in Bruce's head, the man heard a voice. A thin, broken voice that was shouting something. Head was throbbing. Bruce grimaced, raising his hands, trying to pull the mask off his face.

Four.

The soft light from the energon crystals that had accumulated in the depths of the cave's vaults seemed cold and sad. Yongling huddled in the very corner of the cave, pressing his knees against the chest compartment. The spark pulsed nervously.

Five.

Thunder rumbled.

Two pairs of hands gripped Bruce's shoulders, pulling him out of the cab of the car. Damian's blurred face was the last thing the man saw before he closed his eyes. It started to rain, drowning out Tim's speech, who was calling someone.

Smokescreen closed his eyes. The gnawing, never-ending feeling of futility returned.

Chapter Text

This work is on BREAK until the New Year. The fact is that now is my last academic year, I am preparing for exams and entering a medical university:(

THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR SUPPORT! I LOVE ALL YOUR COMMENTS! You have no idea how much your support means to me. My self-esteem has gone up a few steps this summer, lol (my english kinda too)

Thank you for your attention and sorry for the delay, have a nice autumn, see you in 2025!