Chapter Text
It had taken all of Dirge's willpower to keep his icy exterior from crumbling when he heard the news. No one would have understood if he had suddenly broken down in grief, with the possible exception of his wingmates. But even they would have seen it as a sign of weakness, and Primus knew Thrust would not tolerate that. So he had stood there, remaining as silent and dark as ever as he had absorbed the words, not flinching even as his spark cried out in pain.
They wouldn't understand. They wouldn't accept these...emotions. The newcomers, his fellow Jhiasians, wouldn't comprehend why he was upset. The attack had been successful, hadn't it? Even more than anticipated! He did not matter. Not him, nor his feelings, nor his life before the war. A threat had been made against Jhiasian younglings, and it had been dealt with in kind. That was how they operated, how he operated. And he did not fault them for that.
His wingmates had secretly celebrated in their quarters; if they thought Dirge was even more morose than usual, they did not comment on it. He retreated to his room--Primus help them all if someone bothered him while he was in his room--sat down in front of his personal terminal, and did not move from his spot for most of that cycle. He pored over the reports detailing the results of the attack. Death. It was all death. That dark fiery abyss left no one untouched.
He came to one screen, one of many listing casualties, the deaths of Neutrals and innocents. For a long time he only stared, unable to tear his optics away from it.
Death for those who had only begun to live and had no way to fight back. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.
Their guardians had been killed as well, no doubt as they were attempting to protect their tiny charges. The femme Seekers Slipstream and Cloudfall and Ghost...
He raised his hand, ran the back of a claw along the glass of the screen, tracing the glyphs that spelled her name. Not even his bondmate had survived the attack. She had been a powerful Seeker in her own right, strong and fast and ready to throw herself into a fight as if her life didn't matter. Any conehead mech would have been proud to have her as a bondmate.
She had been beautiful. Even if such beauty was only apparent to him--that was all that mattered, in the end.
He loved her.
He wished he could remember whether or not he had ever actually said those words to her.
When he finally scrolled past the page, read through the almost never-ending list of deaths, he found information that made him stop. Or rather, a lack of information. A name that by all rights should have been on that list but wasn't.
He immediately contacted Swindle, leaving a text message on the mech's computer that he would see when he next logged on.
And then he waited.
It was hard, not letting on to the others that he was more nervous than usual, that he was worried about something other than death for once. Oh, those who had perpetrated the attacks were executed, all right, once they had been located. That was only to be expected, and their lifeless bodies were still strung up in the landing fields as a warning. An effective one. But it paled in comparison to the anxiety he felt as he waited.
When Swindle finally returned his message a joor later, telling him to go to the east hangar, his spark was pulsing wildly with what he desperately wished would not turn out to be a false hope. He was surprised his wingmates didn't ask him about it. Surely they could feel his unease.
Some part of him was terrified as he made his way to the hangar, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. It wasn't like anyone was going to ask him where he was going or why. Nobody ever asked the Seekers anything. Nobody asked Ramjet's wing why they did anything. Especially not since he had been named in charge of all the newcomers. A tenuous rank that he would have to fight to maintain, but for now, he and his wingmates were untouchable.
But the nervousness would not go away.
He was doing something that could very well bring him nothing but trouble of the worst kind. He wasn't even sure how his wingmates would react. Though they were as close as wing-bonded Seekers could be, still there was no small degree of territoriality between them, a certain rigid heirarchy. This would throw a wrench into the works, which was never a good thing to do to a Seeker wing, especially one serving during wartime. Assuming his wingmates didn't disown him the moment they found out, he'd still have to deal with the other Seekers, who might take advantage of his wing's instability to cause trouble. Not to mention all the ugly ground-pounding Decepticons.
Someone would end up hurt or dead by the end of this. He had a sick feeling it was going to be either himself, or...
He cut that thought off with angry determination.
And it wasn't a matter of if, but when, Megatron would find out. Even if he managed to survive the Seekers and the other Decepticons, that could all end if the Decepticon Lord gave but a word.
But he couldn't not do this. It wasn't a matter of choice. It wasn't even so much a matter of duty. It was just something he had to do. So few of the Decepticons, so few Cybertonians in general, were ever in a position similar to his, that they would not be able to comprehend why he would risk it all for this one thing. Why he, of all mechs, would do this.
He had no idea what he was going to do once he did this. He was trained to kill, not to be gentle. This was going to be hard.
He had to do it.
Swindle was waiting for him in the hangar as promised. The small, slender red mech was dwarfed by the conehead who approached him, yet he showed no fear. He continued leaning lazily against a metal crate.
His spark warmed when he saw the crate, though he could not tell from here what it contained.
"I should charge you double for all the trouble I had with finding this thing," Swindle drawled.
"That was not part of the deal," he growled in reply.
"I didn't say it was. Where's the concussion rifle mod?"
"I want to see it first."
"Not going to happen. Payment first, goods later."
If circumstances had been different, he would have pressed the point. Now though, he couldn't afford to irritate Swindle. If the crate contained what he prayed it did, it was too delicate to risk an argument with the thief. Besides, he may have use of the little mech in the future. Best to stay on his good side. Silently, he reached into a compartment on his torso, withdrew the weapon component, an item from his own precious personal store, and handed it to Swindle.
The red mech made a show of taking his time to inspect the item. "Looks all right," he declared at last. He patted the crate. "It's all yours. Nice doing business with you." He scurried out of the hangar without another word.
Dirge glanced around once to make sure no one was watching. Well, Soundwave was on duty right now, and nothing escaped the comm officer's notice. But he was also one who was willing to let mechs do their own things, and simply observe...and wait for the opportune chance to strike.
He could only hope Soundwave wouldn't suddenly decide to send guards down here now.
Slipping his claws under the lid of the crate, he popped it loose, sliding it back a bit. He couldn't stop himself from shaking as he peered into the dark container. 'Please...please...'
Something shifted. Two bright red optics peered up at him. For a long time, they simply stared at one another.
'I had forgotten how much she looks like Ghost...'
The little youngling in the crate stood, poking her head through the opening. The back-swept spine on the crest of her helm caught on the lid of the box, and she struggled to break loose, squeaking her displeasure.
He pushed the lid back, scooping the crate's tiny occupant into his hand. 'How long has it been since I last saw you?'
She sat in his hand, looking around dazedly, wobbling a bit from exhaustion. In places, her glossy gray youngling armor was smudged and charred, but overall she appeared unharmed, just worn out from what he could only assume had been a mad chase through the sector. When she finally looked back at him, she reached her gangly arms up, beeping softly. He raised her to his chest in response; she grabbed onto his jaw guard with tiny clawed fingers, pulling herself close to him, pressing her face against his. She whuffed softly, sending little puffs of warm air across his faceplates. "Dirge-daddy!" she wailed in her youngling-speech.
If anyone was watching, he would have seen the great silent warrior brought to his knees by a mere child, willingly engaging in displays of Seeker affection that were rarely seen among Decepticon ranks. He held the little conehead youngling close, whuffing back at her, his body rumbling with a low purr. "Flash..."
"Scared, Dirge-daddy..." she whined.
"I know."
"Want to go home!"
"This is your home now."
"Stay here?"
"Yes."
"I am not going to lose you again."
::entry start::
Ghost-mommy said keeping logs was good. She said to record one every day.
Today a red mech chased me around the city. He put me in a box. Then we went away. It was scary.
When I got out of the box, a big conehead mech was looking at me. He was big and scary, but it was okay because he's Dirge-daddy. I've only seen him once before but he feels the same. He picked me up and gave me nose-kisses and took me away.
When we went in his room, there were two other conehead mechs. The red one got angry and started yelling at Dirge-daddy. I think he was yelling about me. He thinks I'm yucky, I think.
Dirge-daddy took me to a washroom because my armor was all dirty. Dirge-daddy let me play in a tub and splash around and beep but then I think he got mad at me and I don't know why. He held me and started cleaning my armor with a scrubbie and it hurt. I tried to bite the scrubbie because it hurt but my mouth got full of oilsoap and it tasted bad. I think I cried. Dirge-daddy growled at me.
I don't think Dirge-daddy loves me.
We went back to the room, on the way we were followed by flathead mechs. They aren't as big and scary as conehead mechs but they're ugly. They said mean things. Ghost-mommy would be mad they were saying those things around a youngling. Dirge-daddy didn't talk to them.
Dirge-daddy made me a recharge cot in his room. The red one still didn't like me even though I was clean and not-yucky any more. The white one doesn't like me either but he doesn't yell.
I had a cube of warm energon and I feel better now. Dirge-daddy says I need to recharge now.
::entry end::