Title: We Were Here
Part One: We Were...
Pairing(s): ProwlxBluestreak, SunstreakerxSideswipe, , MiragexThundercracker, MegatronxStarscream, DecepticonsxBluestreak (noncon), slight OptimusxJazz. Rating: M
Warnings: Character death, noncon, smut, violence, psychological.
Summary: The unstoppable rise and fall of Cybertron, told in the language of lost bondmates, of trust betrayed, of a desperation for retribution, and of the audacity of hope in the darkest times.

"Wipe his memory files."

"… co… Employ… No no! Not that one- CO 68-256. Yes, yes, the syringe-"

"… Flat-lining, dammit, the boss'll kill us if we lose him-"

"Dissociation?"

"Complete."

A flash of pain, a flash of light, ethereal and dark all at once. It burst behind his optics, writhing through his frame, draping pain, draping senselessness in its wake.

His spark ached. There was a designation on his lips, a name that spoke of cities lost, of a golden age broken, of youth corrupted.

The name… he knew it. (He was fading.) It was familiar. It echoed through him, settling in the writhing mass of pain that was his spark. The name… of… was it…? (Losing his grip on consciousness.) The name of his-

(Darkness.)

There was a hushed silence that seemed to precede and follow him, chasing him down hallways, forcing him to retreat to his quarters (his own quarters, his quarters, not theirs).

It was growing tiresome, this skirting around him for fear he would shatter, for fear that he would simply break and everything would flow from him.

They feared they would lose him as well. They feared that one misstep, one mention of his lost one's name, and he would regress to what he had been when he had first become an Autobot. They feared that he would become volatile, that he would slowly self-destruct.

He wished they would all disappear.

Prowl's job had been assigned to Jazz, who handled what he knew should have been Bluestreak's with falsified cheer and a dastardly smile. It was painfully obvious that he was trying to fool himself into thinking that maybe, maybe Prowl would show up one day and peer over his shoulder, perhaps exude some aura of disapproval and extend a hand to point out his mistakes. He always made mistakes, and Prowl always caught him.

No one else tried to convince him otherwise.

Hidden away, Bluestreak was devastated, broken, ruined. His bondmate. His bondmate was dead, his spark was severed, torn. It no longer throbbed constantly, no longer thrashed in his chest, no longer fought to make the disquiet of lonliness halt.

It still ached, now and then.

Four months wasn't long enough.

-----
We Were Here
-----

There were times that Prowl regretted having a young bondmate.

"Hoo boy, Prowler, up late, were we?" Jazz cooed, chin cupped in his hand, elbow propped on his desk, which was, as usual, a mess of half-finished datapads.

"Finish your work, Jazz," Prowl growled, a hand sliding up his shoulder to massage the sore cables in his neck. Bluestreak certainly wasn't one to tire easily, but he didn't need Jazz, the self-proclaimed master of tardiness, calling his faults. "As I recall, you have… What was it? Five? Five datapads from yesterday?"

The Special Ops commander rolled his optics, waving his free hand. "They'll be done."

"Quickly, please." A glance at his internal chronometer revealed that he was nearly two decacycles late. He tapped his wrist in mimic of the humans' popular gesture, which prompted a short laugh from the smaller black-and-white mech.

Today was a good day, Jazz could tell.

Work was steady, calming. It was a rhythm, a swinging pace that Prowl knew well: Read, sign, move on. Repeat. Repeat. It wasn't difficult. At times it got tedious, at times even he drifted, but his optics always roved over the words, over the decrees and the messages to be sent back to Cybertron, and he pulled himself back into his work with the mentality of a warrior.

He was fighting for his planet. For his home.

"Hey, handsome."

It was a playful, sweet voice, pulling at Prowl's audio, simply begging him to turn his helm and look. Bluestreak, in all his slender shining glory, was leaning against the doorway, his face softened with a smile, his mere twenty-two stellar cycles shimmering in the glow of his optics.

"Hello." Prowl's voice wasn't nearly as cold as it was with others, though it held the same crisp I'm working edge. Bluestreak had learned over time that the tone wasn't meant for him, simply the world in general, and that he was free to stalk inside, free to throw his arms around Prowl's shoulders and cling to his back, free to bury his face in the familiar neck and simply bask in his bondmate.

"How much longer?"

"Shouldn't you be practising?" Prowl responded gently, reaching up with a casual hand to stroke Bluestreak's cheek.

"I'm done."

"..." The tactician glanced up, his optics shuttering. Bluestreak could be flippant about some things, but not training. "How long has it been?"

Bluestreak giggled and pulled Prowl up. "Six decacycles. Come on."

Ah. Prowl detached himself. "I still have work to do, Blue."

When Bluestreak tugged his arm again, soft lips brushing his audio, promising good things if Prowl only got up, the tactician gave in. Because he knew it would make Bluestreak happy, because-

He always did.

"I'm worried, Sir."

Words never said to Bluestreak, never in his presence, but expressed in the desperate tangling, the nightly rejoining of their sparks, expressed in the times when they could hide nothing from one another. No, the words were for Prime alone. Prowl laid a hand on the back of the chair facing Prime's desk, his visage grim.

Prime nodded. "I understand," he responded, his voice deep and articulate. A noble's voice, much like Prowl's, cultured and clipped. Most among them were of good breeding, were of the Alpha lines, though the most prominent were Tracks and Mirage. There were few who were of the commoner lineage. "There isn't much we can do beyond what we already are, Prowl."

It was the tactician's turn to flicker his optics and lower his head in acceptance. He glanced back up after a moment, icy calm returned in a flash of azure optics. "… Surely not all of Cy-"

"Sir!"

Prowl and Prime turned simulatenously to take in the intruder; it was Red Alert, his shoulders tense, his expression wild and panicked, though this was not necessarily an unusual occurrence with the young security chief. "Sir, we need to deploy immediately!"

"What is it, Red Alert?" Prime took a step forward, concerned.

"Decepticons!" the smaller mech growled, his tone stating that the fact was dreadfully obvious and they could waste no more time on meaningless banter. "Moving from the East, most likely from Kaon. Sir, please, you must-!"

Prime nodded. Often, such reactions were overreactions, but Red Alert was deeply and truly frightened this time. His frame was visibly shaking, his optics were wide and wild, fever-glazed and brighly lit, his voice, when he spoke Optimus' name, quietly and desperately, was shaking.

He was terrified.

"Prowl." The tactician snapped to attention.

"Sir?"

"Deploy all troops."

"… Yes, Sir."

All troops? Were they all really needed? Prowl thought. He would follow orders- denying direct orders was a criminal transgression, one that was unforgivable, absolutely and completely. Despite his doubts, he readied everyone for battle, checking gear and ordering the Special Ops team to deploy first. And then the worst part.

"Bluestreak!" The young Datsun was fully prepared, his rifle situated firmly in the crook of his arm, his optics flicking sharply to Prowl. "I want you to move out with Jazz and his team. Scout for us."

Bluestreak nodded, though he clearly wasn't happy about it. "… All right," he murmured, cocking his rifle, adjusting his extra chestplating as Jazz began to move, signaling Mirage to bring up the rear. A last kiss pressed to Prowl's lips, Bluestreak's expression soft. "You be careful," his bondmate murmured, bursting love and worry over their bond, somewhat unintentionally. "Please."

Prowl spared a smile, patting Bluestreak's helm. "I will, Blue. Don't worry about me."

He watched his beautiful young bondmate slip off into the clutches of war, and contented himself with the fact that Jazz was in the lead, Mirage in the rear. Bluestreak could take care of himself.

He would be fine.

Prowl turned his attention back to his soldiers.

"Why now, do you think?"

"Do we have anything they need?"

"Energon?"

"They would hardly launch an attack of this size for energon…"

"You there, quiet," Prowl snapped, his handgun situated, his finger on the trigger. The chattering twins silenced, Sunstreaker with a glare in the elder mech's direction. They crept onwards, a team of six: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Prowl, Tracks, Cliffjumper, and Cosmos. By now, the roar of seekers' thrusters, the dull pinging sound of null rays was obvious. As they moved farther from Iacon and closer to Kaon, and the Decepticons did the contrary, they prepared, prepared for the rush of battle, the slip of clear-headedness and the burst of confidence they would need.

Red Alert had been right.

From sound alone, Prowl could tell that there were far more Decepticons than a usual attack, which prompted two questions:

One, why was Megatron holding troops back during regular sieges? Two, why was he launching an all-out attack now, when the Autobots were strong and possessed nothing the Decepticons desired?

He thought of nervous little Red Alert briefly. The security chief had been more jittery than usual, though Prowl could easily contribute the fact to Inferno's death. The two hadn't bonded, but it had been a general assumption that they would. And now… no. No, they would not.

Inferno had died protecting his lover.

Through the haze ahead came a figure, visor bright, and slowly his shadow melted into four mechs. Jazz emerged first, his expression grim, and behind him was Mirage, Arcee, and finally, Bluestreak. The bondmates spared each other a glance and a nod, a silent, Are you all right? passing either way through the bond. Confirmation from both mechs, and attention was turned outward once more.

Jazz shrugged, his handgun still cocked. "… It's bad. Real bad, Prowl," he said, his voice unusually subdued. "They've got all the seeker and coneheads up, and on the ground- it's just lines of 'em."

Prowl's lips pursed. He nodded, growling softly under his breath. Bluestreak moved to his side, a silent shadow. Even he realised that this was a time for quiet. "Keep your chin up, Jazz. We can do this," Prowl replied, his voice belated but strong. "Radio headquarters and order them to do as Red Alert said. Deploy everyone." Jazz nodded, reaching up to activate his comm. link. It took only a moment before he nodded to Prowl, signaling that they move out and on.

"Prime wants us to do a scan, try and estimate how many there are. He wants your opinion on tactics, too." That was hardly a surprise. Prowl was hardly the Autobots' head tactician for nothing.

They continued, both Bluestreak and Prowl grateful that they were in each other's sights, that they could know now rather than checking over their bond every few minutes. Their connection was sacred and good enough most times; it held them close and cradled them together, but at times like these, times where the future was barely clear, times where the darkness swallowed them whole and refused to let go.

"Bluestreak, please?"

Prime was kneeling, a hand on the young mech's knee. Bluestreak shook his head again, his expression despondent, his fingers curled slightly but resting in his lap. Four and a half months and they had begun to stop fearing for him. They feared for themselves now. None of them trusted him anymore.

"You must eat," Optimus insisted, his baritone voice gentle, firm, pressing. He held an energon cube between three fingers, offering. Bluestreak pushed it away.

He was losing his will to live, and most thought that it was a miracle that he hadn't before.

A sigh wicked from Prime's lips as he stood, massive shoulders shrugging. He placed the cube beside Bluestreak. If this continued, he would have Ratchet immobilize and force-feed the gunner.

They may not have trusted him anymore, but they wouldn't let him fall without a few outstretched hands, a few kind words, a few mechs who would fight the battle Bluestreak had already given up on.

Sideswipe ducked a flying shell, the whistling ringing in already-half-deaf audios. He screamed his twin's name out loud and over their bond, spinning in the grit, panicking. He had seen Sunstreaker's body move just before they were hit, but- where was he?! His every action was climacteric now as he was scrambling forward, his every sense alert as he screamed his lover's name over and over. And then, finally, he was cresting a hill and spotting Sunstreaker, limping but waving a hand, the universal signal for I'm good. The darker Lamborghini greeted his brother silently, his arms wrapping around him in the dark, dank recesses of war, his lips parting to speak, no words coming forth. Sunstreaker held him close, touching a hand to his smoking throat.

Had he really screamed that desperately?

"No luck?"

"… No."

"He'll come around, Prime. Give him time."

A sigh. "I hope so."

It seemed to those who happened to catch a glimpse of the apocalypse to be but a second, but to those wrapped in its core, it was years, each passing by with the drip of water, the bloom of a flower, the twist of a knife.

To those watching, the burst of light, ethereal and pure, was beautiful.

To those wrapped in its core, it spelled death.

"Prowl!"

It echoed over the battlefield, filled with such passion, such despair, such horrifying, spark-wrenching sadness that time seemed to pause. Seekers' thrusters stuttered, Jazz's fist halted mid-swing, his optics widening as he turned. Sideswipe was tensed, Tracks had halted altogether.

Ratchet was the first one in motion again; his path cleared before him, the Decepticons pulling out in swarms.

When he slip-slid up the hill, coming to the top with the skyline of Iacon at his back and the haze of Kaon in his vision, he stopped, frozen, staring, disbelieving.

Megatron.

Megatron, shining and silver, energon spattered across his chestplate, a blade in his hand.

Prowl's lifeblood, the blade twisting in his gut, his hands clenched, one on Megatron's shoulder, one on the leading edge of the weapon, trying, trying to pull himself free.

Bluestreak.

Bluestreak, sobbing, his body struggling and twitching, and in a second of crystal-clear horror, Ratchet remembered that they were bonded and that Bluestreak was feeling the same thing, that he was being torn in half-

Megatron lifted the blade, lifted Prowl, and the tactician screamed, voice high and pained, body writhing, legs kicking desperately.

Time froze as the Autobot half-turned his head, glanced back at Bluestreak, who shrieked his name once more, and then something inside Prowl ripped and he collapsed, his body going limp, sliding from Megatron's blade to land in a crumpled, broken heap on the ground, optics flickering offline, blood spilling from the wound in his stomach.

No more than a pretty, broken doll now, visor dim, chest ripped open, stomach gone…

An unholy shriek echoed from Ratchet's left- Sunstreaker, his expression deadly, his voice bloodied. Sideswipe was half a step behind him, hand over his mouth, and then the rest of the Autobots, more slowly, crested the ridge to witness the death of their second-in-command, witnessed the breaking of a young, beautiful gunner and the unadulterated, unprepared horror of a medic who had previously been of the opinion that he'd seen everything.

They were flashes, as if the whole thing was a movie strip, one of the ancient human technologies, as if the whole thing had been viewed and then broken up, never quite clear, as if it was seen from a million different angles.

Prowl sliding to the ground.

Bluestreak twitching, his chest smoking, energon pouring from between his chestplates, shrieks tearing from his lips.

Megatron, moving.

Seekers, ripping into Prowl's body. Lifting it. Moving. A blur of roaring engines.

Ratchet, forcing himself to turn away from the grotesque, almost cannibalistic sight and tend to Bluestreak.

Sunstreaker, restrained by five mechs.

Bluestreak, flat-lining.

Skyfire, desperate to help.

The Ark, safety.

Bluestreak.

Bluestreak.

Bluestreak.

Welcome. I hope you enjoy the ride.

On a note, you probably noticed that I said Optimus was of noble breeding. I want to mention that this fic is not going to be strictly G1. I am changing several things in order to make the fic work. The characters will be mostly G1, but continuity will slide along between G1 and Megatron Origin, and some things will be changed. Thanks!