Edited 4/18/13. Most noticeable changes are here. Remixed some of the action and inner dialogue. Also wove in a few references to events you'll be seeing in my Secondhand Series.

In which there are blood, sweat, tears, and un-happy birthdays

She is eighteen and swearing and ducking for cover. It figures that her birthday would start with a bang, she thinks wryly as she dodges the debris that rains down from a corner of what was once the high school gymnasium. Around her people swarm, screams echoing through the now-roofless gym, as they scramble and maneuver for some sort of protection from the hailstorm of concrete and glass. Her peers are in a blind panic, tripping over one another, over her, and she grunts as an elbow impacts painfully with her stomach. Even amidst the gritty smoke and choking atmosphere of terror, she finds a moment to wish fervently for jeans, tights, something other than the pleated blue and gold skirt that's riding up her thighs and probably giving everyone behind her – if there's anyone left alive back there – quite a show.

Of course today would be her birthday, and there would be a pep rally. She wishes whoever had come up with cheerleader uniforms a slow and horrific demise, preferably at the hands of the Cons that are currently crashing said event. At least that way they'd be far, far away and she could live out the rest of her eighteenth birthday in one piece.

All this and I still haven't gotten any presents. Happy fraggin' birthday, Belle.

She presses herself closer to what used to be seats from the bleachers, torn from their moorings by enormous black hands. From behind her vantage point she can just barely spy a glowing red visor, impassive battle mask, and the headlights of an older model Ferrari mounted in what used to be a black and red chest. The paint's been worn down to the chrome underneath. Who the fuck is that?

Then another Con pushes into her line of sight. Drag Strip. Where one of them goes, the others won't be far behind. The unfamiliar one must be Dead End. After a brief moment of confusion - he'd been missing in action since before Earth's settlement - she can't help but shudder. That would mean that the Decepticons finally have a fully functioning gestalt team at their disposal.

On the other hand…Shockwave must have been desperate, to hand a simple smash-and-grab mission to the most unstable of his units. The Stunticons she's familiar with aren't known for their bravery in battle (and what Con is, really? She can count them on one hand), and their methods are at best sloppy and lackadaisical. No promotions in the foreseeable future for these mechs. The other three most likely pulled Twin duty. She almost feels sorry for them.

They must have gotten wind of 'Hide's current mission somehow; her Dad and he are a continent away, in France sussing out a lead on a potential Autobot landing. Why else would they choose now, of all times, to attack? Normally, sending a whole combining unit after one human would - literally - be considered overkill. But a ward of the infamous Ironhide will be heavily guarded, and 'Hide isn't known for his compassion or – well, anything resembling gentleness.

With a sigh borne more of exasperation than actual worry, the blonde turns to glance around her, examining the debris around her with a practiced eye. Chunks of concrete and plastic are scattered across the cracked gymnasium floor, along with – bingo – thick steel shafts that had once been part of the roof's support system. She twists around to make sure the Cons are on the other side of the room, and freezes. Dead End is currently in the middle of shaking off two daring football players who had attempted to grab onto his enormous leg, reaching for the sensitive cables that cluster at the back of his knee. One of them flies against the shattered wall with a dull, wet sound, and it takes everything in her to not cry out. She knows these kids, she has grown up with each and every one of them – and after today, many of them will not make it to graduation. For a moment she reels, stricken as the thought hits home. They are here for her, she knows, and because of this her friends are dying.

True fear finally sets in, and she feels sick. Daddy and Ironhide aren't here to save her. No one is going to stop this. They're going to kill everyone that gets in their way, and when they find her – when they find her –

Her hands are trembling, and the soldier's daughter is lost as a young, inexperienced girl takes her place. They're so big, and there's going to be more of them, and I'm just one person – what can I do? Not this; I can't do this. This is Hide's job, it's his job to shoot the bad guys and make everything safe. Why isn't he here?

I can't do this.

And then she's crying, sobbing into the back the chair she's curled up against, fist pressed to her mouth to muffle the sound. She can taste the salt, and it just makes her weep harder. Suddenly she's back in Texas, and the ground is splitting open beneath her feet, and the bad guys are everywhere -

The ground beneath her really does tremble as Drag Strip demolishes what's left of the east wall, and the screams intensify. She adds her voice to the bedlam, courage crumbling around her faster than a sandcastle in high tide. The noise dissolves into white sound, ringing in her ears, and she falls, pressing her face into the gritty floor.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

A hand is suddenly tangled in her hair, and she is pulled unceremoniously up to her knees – coming face to face with an exceedingly pissed-off Melinda Hayes. The girl's hazel eyes are bloodshot, and her nose is bloody, but that doesn't stop her sneer. "Of all the times to lose your nerve, soldier girl, now is not it!" And Annabelle is shaken thoroughly for emphasis. She falls back on her rear, shocked out of her crying jag. Melinda snarls, and grips the blonde's shirt-front, hauling her back up until she is nose-to-nose with her.

"Look, bitch, I may not like you, and you may or may not have cheated your way into squad captain" – just one more point of contention between the two – "but ho-bag, you better man up and get us the hell out of here, because no one else can."

"I – I can't –"

"Goddammit Lennox, everyone here thinks the sun shines out of your Jell-O ass, so apparently you can. You know about this type of shit, okay? Your dad's all mixed up with those alien freaks, so you know how to deal with them. So start dealing."

It's like coming out of a fog, and realizing that the house is less than a foot away from your outstretched hand. The two rivals stare each other down, one glowering, the other blinking rapidly. She couldn't be more shocked than if she'd been slapped – frankly, she's surprised Melinda hasn't used her rant as an excuse to do just that – and can't think of a word to say. It sounds like something Hide would tell her. Ironhide, strong and fearless and mean as hell, who is half a world away.

He may not be here – but she is.

Around her she can still hear the wailing of her peers, the hum of super-advanced weaponry, the scrape of metal against concrete as they scour the room for her. The Cons are speaking to one another in Cybertronian – she catches a few words here and there that she's familiar with, one of which is her name – and knocking aside debris as if it weighs no more than a clod of dirt. Setting her jaw, she tears her eyes away from the other girl and twists back around to assess the situation. They've plowed through most of the graduating class, and are working their way steadily towards the girls' meager shelter. She has to work fast.

"So…thoughts? Comments? Wailing and gnashing of teeth? Give me something to work with, here." Melinda never could keep her mouth shut, and the more terrified she grows, the bitchier she gets.

Annabelle sucks in a deep, bracing breath through her nose, and shifts to face her nemesis. But before she can say a word, the ground quivers, then buckles around them. Melinda screeches and makes a desperate lunge for Annabelle's arm, sinking her French-tipped nails into the girl's bare arm. Annabelle doesn't have time to think, only act. She uses the brunette's teetering balance against her and body-checks the girl, propelling both of them out of the way just as the chairs that had been their only haven shatter behind them. They land in a heap, limbs tangling as they scramble for equilibrium. Annabelle finally manages to grab Melinda under her arms and heave her upright, and looks at her grimly. "First order – always do what I say."

"Second – don't die."

Easier said than done.

She and Melinda barely dodge the next blow as someone – she's sure it's Drag Strip – smashes oversized fists into the floor behind them. "It's the target! Grab it, grab it!"

Annabelle groans as they stumble over the wreckage. "Seriously, you'd think these guys would learn to tell male from female by now. But nooo, we're all just little gender-neutral hamsters to them."

Even as she trips over a shattered ridge of floor, Melinda manages to shoot the other girl a Look. "We're running for – fuck! - our lives, and you're upset because they don't bother to compliment – oof - you on your feminine qualities? Remind me why I'm supposed to trust you, again?"

"Because – pant – because if you don't, you'll end up as a pretty little pancake on the bottom of their foot? Try cheering your way out of that one."

"Point."

And they say no more after that, choosing to save their breath as they dodge flying shrapnel and torn up floor-boards. Several times they have to veer off their path in order to round up other students who haven't yet made it out of the gym. They form a straggling chain of bloody, grimy teenagers, most of whom are either crying or screaming or both. Melinda finally barks at them to shut the hell up and follow her, or end up as alien hacky sacks. They're a little quieter after that. Annabelle has to admire her guts, even if she's usually been on the wrong end of that temper more times than she can remember.

They hit the double doors at a run, never letting go of each other. Tight end Adrian Frye has a shamelessly tight hold on Annabelle's torn blouse, and behind him are six others, jocks and headcases and geeks all clinging another's hand or shirt or belt. Social status has been left far, far behind, somewhere beneath the Stunticons' graceless, massive feet.

She spies what used to be part of the bleacher's guardrail, and she scoops it up into her hands, arming herself. Annabelle's mind is racing far ahead of them, already mapping out a course for them to follow. Of course she won't be going with them, but that's beside the point. If Melinda can do what she's told – to run for her life and make sure everyone else does, too – then the others will be in the clear, leaving Annabelle to head off the Cons. The Twins are on duty back at her house, but the fact that they haven't arrived yet is a little worrying – and telling. The missing Cons must have distracted them. All one of them has to do is insult Sunstreaker's paintjob, and goodbye logic and reason. But soon. Knock on wood, she has backup on the way.

They're in the darkened hallway, the sounds from the destroyed gym dogging their heels. Annabelle wheels around a corner, dragging Melinda and Adrian with her, the rest following suit. The metal shaft is cool in her sweaty palms, and she keeps a death grip on it. There's no time left, not if they want to survive. They'll have to work fast. All the others are watching her, panting, snuffling back tears, wiping grit from their faces. She eyes them, taking in their collective bedraggled state, and is glad there aren't any mirrors nearby. Melinda would be flipping her shit right now if she could see the state of her hair.

"So, fearless leader, what's the next move?" Melinda raises her voice above the ruckus that's steadily moving closer. The two girls' eyes meet, and somehow Melinda can see what's going on in Annabelle's head. "Aw, hell no. You are so not going out there and playing hero. That's not manning up, that's setting up for a tea party right under their feet and asking them politely to pass the sugar and while you're at it, would you please kindly squash me?!"

"I don't – look, Mel, you've got to get them the rest of the way out before those mechs get here, or we're all dead. They'll listen to you. You guys listen to her, you hear me?"

She shoots this at the motley group clustered around her, and there's a loaded silence before Sasha Benton wails, "You're demented! You can go back in there and let them take you!" The rest of them are raising their voices, clamoring for her attention; some asking her why the aliens are after her, others begging her to stay with them. Through all this, Melinda is quiet, staring at her. Finally she speaks.

"Just who the hell do you think you are, Lennox? Some sort of big damn hero? Gonna save us all by getting yourself killed?"

The Cons are almost on top of them now; she can feel the floorboards vibrate beneath them, and hear the walls splintering as they wade through plaster and drywall. Not enough time left.

"No. My dad and my guardian are big damn heroes. I'm just going to do what they would do, in my place. Now GO! Head for the cafeteria; pull down the chairs and tables and form a phalanx – use them as shields, Melinda – to protect yourselves the best you can. It's me they want; I'll divert them from your path, lead them outside. They shouldn't (please God please) follow you."

Anything anyone else might have said is lost in the tremendous CRASH as a set of lockers is hurled right past them, wheeling down the hallway and out of sight. Some kids are screaming again, and without another word Melinda grabs two of them and pushes them further down the corridor they've ducked into. There's no time to say goodbye, good luck, Primus be with you, but Annabelle is thinking it as she rounds the corner, out into the main passageway. Right into the Cons' line of sight.

She swings her weapon, letting it bounce sharply against the lockers with a ringing sound. They're close, only a few yards away, and the noise grabs their attention. Drag Strip's got his blaster out, and behind him Dead End is shouldering his rifle. She takes one wild, deep breath, and grins up at them. "Hey, uglies! Lookin' for little ole me?"

Well, she certainly has their attention.

With a howl, Drag Strip lunges for her, but she's ducking away, weaving around the long reach of his arms, and sliding between pillars of legs to pop up behind him. One down, one to go, and she never once pauses, wheeling away and dropping into a roll to avoid Dead End's grasp. But the element of surprise is gone, and he is ready for her. With a grunt, he snags her by a leg, and she is hoisted up into the air. Suddenly she is dangling upside down (little blue boy shorts on display for the world to see), and is held up to visor-level. She blinks at him, and lets her smile show. As he cocks his head at her, curious despite himself, she heaves her pole up towards his hand, shoves the end into the wedge between thumb and forefinger, and gives it a vicious twist.

Cables spark and snap, and with a yelp his fingers spring open. She lands roughly, palms smacking the floor, letting the momentum of the fall soften the blow as she rolls right between the Con's sturdy legs. He's still shaking out his hand, grumbling irritably as his partner smacks him upside the helm. She doesn't look back, just pops back onto her feet and heads for the outside doors at a dead run. Glass and shattered floorboards threaten to trip her up, but without the burden of others clinging to her, she vaults over them with relative ease. Her right knee is aching from where the Con had picked her up – he had twisted it in his efforts – but she grits her teeth and ignores it for now. She can worry about torn ligaments later, when her life isn't in jeopardy…if she's alive to worry, anyway.

Right now she concentrates on making it outside, to the trees that lay just beyond the perimeter of the schoolyard. She knows from past experience that the woods can encumber much larger mechs, not only tripping them up and getting tree branches caught in their leg joints, but also making thermal scans harder to read. Any wildlife they scare up will be on the run, and the pounding hearts and heightened heat signatures from animals mixed in with hers make it difficult for some mechs to decipher. It's the best chance she's got, outside of the Autobots showing up in the nick of time.

They're after her again; their bounding footsteps echo in her bones, and she can hear the high-pitched whine of their weapons charging up. Behind her debris rains down as they smash through the ceiling – the building is too short for these two to fit inside comfortably, so they opt for the easiest solution and make it fit them. Dust and particles of concrete sting against the back of her legs and arms; they're right on top of her again, but she's here, she's at the door, and sweet merciful Buddha it's already propped open and she makes a beeline for the parking lot.

The lot is both a help and a hazard; while she can use the cars as a shield from their optics and weapons for a time, the vehicles can also be used against her should they decide to start swatting them out of the way. Which is, unfortunately, the most likely scenario.

Happy birthday, indeed.

She almost makes it.

She has just barely reached the first row of cars when a sizzling bolt of energy rockets past her, consuming a truck several places down in a luminescent fireball. The force of the explosion knocks the vehicle off its tires, flipping it fender over bumper straight in the air. Even before it begins its fiery descent, Annabelle can calculate where it's going to land – right in her path. Ignoring the scalding heat that buffets her face, she dives between two other cars to her right, just as the truck hits the pavement. The ground beneath her shudders at the impact, and cars around her creak, swaying on their tires. She can hear the Cons behind her laugh, delighting in the destruction. Yes, fire pretty, she thinks sourly to herself, and wishes they'd be distracted if only for a few more seconds, to give her time to make her escape. But this isn't the movies, and they're not cartoon villains who are going to sit and roast marshmallows in the blaze. There's no time.

And then she sees nothing but the ground beneath her pounding feet, hears nothing save the sound of her sneakers hitting the pavement. Adrenaline seizes her chest, rising in her throat, pushing her body forward even as the muscles in her legs scream in protest. She's very fit, with a curvy, athletic build, but the fear and desperation and rage are taking their toll on her. Gotta make it to the treeline, gotta slow them down. Running different scenarios through her head – would weaving between the cars be faster, or should she just hop across hoods? – She grits her teeth and sets her body on autopilot. She's done this before, somewhere miles and years away. She was a kid back then. Now she's bigger, faster, better prepared. She can do this now. Better not jump, then I'd just give them a better shot, got to stay between vehicles.

She crosses the next two rows with ease, letting her momentum carry her around the obstacles in her path. She's a distance runner, built for stamina, but her sprints aren't anything to sneer at, either. She knows how to check herself, letting her muscle memory guide her steps. If she tries, she can make believe that this is just another drill, an obstacle course set by her instructors, with a record to beat. It's not that hard – she wouldn't put it past Ironhide to set a few flaming pieces of debris in her path, either, just to shake things up. Right now she'd give anything for it to be an Autobot, any bot, to be behind her right now. Even Thundercracker would be better than the slag she's got on her six. As the only Con she's ever had the (mis)fortune of chatting with - naturally while running for her life - at least she could be sure he wouldn't step on her.

A whoop behind her is a harsh reality check. They think this is fun. Probably didn't think I would make it this far, she thinks grimly. (That's what they'd thought in Houston, too.) Some like the chase, and Drag Strip – well, he wasn't really firing on all cylinders to begin with. A curse accompanies the cry, and even as she charges the last row of cars, she winces. From what she's heard, Dead End isn't the most enthusiastic of combatants, but of the Stunticons, he may be the most thorough. If he's on your tail, then you'd better pray you have backup, preferably someone built like a tank and packing more firepower than Iran. Otherwise he'd just bowl you right over, not even bothering to stop and swerve.

She's felt their jarring steps coming closer, occasionally lighting up another vehicle, forcing her to make hasty detours and recalculate her exit strategy. They never target anything too close her to, she observes – apparently they need her alive, or at least somewhat conscious. She knows that if they wanted her dead, she'd already be a smoking crater in the blacktop. Thank God for small favors.

"Hey, squishy! What's the rush! It's not like we're trying to kill you or anything!" This is accompanied by a snicker. "We just wanted to play a few rounds of 'how high can the human bounce!'"

She doesn't dignify with that with a response.

"I'm calculating that I can get at least two bounces out of you before you turn into a puddle of goo. Whaddaya think, Deads? Think you can get more?"

Silence, only the rattle of cars and pavement as they stalk closer filling the air. Apparently, Dead End doesn't think this is funny, either.

"You are such a killjoy. Ha, get it? Kill –"

"Finish that sentence, and I'm going to see how high you bounce. Just shut up and catch the kid."

"You need a personality, Deads. Seriously."

Every second they spend bickering is another second closer to the treeline. She rounds the bumper of the last vehicle in the lot just as another explosion, this one much closer than the others, rocks the ground, sending her stumbling. A Cybertronian swear cuts the air, along with a metallic thump. "Glitch! We can't bring back a crispy critter. Watch what you're doing next time."

"I was watching. Silly squishy, can't even handle an itty bitty fireball. Pathetic."

She silently agrees with him. Her knees and palms are smarting, and when she scrambles back to her feet, vertigo threatens to overtake her senses. Oh, for a Cybertronian's processor, that could recalculate and rearrange your equilibrium in less than a heartbeat…but no, she's stuck in her squishy, defenseless, tiny body, with no armor, no weapons, no hope. Just her human brain, and her limited human skills. Compared to them, she supposes she is rather pathetic.

But the trees are only a few meters away now, and she rallies herself for the dash. Despite her many failings, they are counterbalanced by the fact that she is, in fact, human. The ability to disappear into the foliage, escaping the Cons' eyes in the underbrush, is one of them. They may be able to see miles away, and have infrared scanners, but they can't make trees evaporate from their path like they were never there. Knock them away, burn them down, sure – but they'll still be there, catching in their joints and getting in the way. It's not much, but it's all she's got. Like her mentors have taught her – know your enemy, and use their strengths against them. It's middle school all over again.

It makes her think, if only for the few precious seconds while she draws breath and lunges away from the protection of the cars, of Melinda and the others. She tastes acid, and tries to bat away the images of the roof caving in on them, or the Cons setting the building on fire, just for sport. Of using her friends like human hacky sacks.

And where the hell are the Twins? Hide was so right about them - worthless pair a' pretty ornaments, fraggin' slackers. Get your afts over here and turn these guys into scrap already!

And then, as if in answer to her unspoken plea, a squeal of tires and an earth-shaking barroom! rends the air, and behind her she hears both of the Cons swear extensively. "Fraggin' do-gooders! I'mma pound your ugly cans in, you hear me! Think you can just show up and – aw, frag, not you two!"

"UGLY?! Say that again to my face, you cheap imitation of a luxury model!"

Sunstreaker. The utter relief that pours through her almost sends her to her knees. But she keeps moving, despite the cavalry, because in battle you never let your guard down, even when your enemy's surrounded. You never know what tricks they'll have up their proverbial sleeve, or how many more of them there are. Besides, the ground is still quaking from their footsteps, even as Drag Strip snarls something back at the pretentious Autobot. They haven't given up yet – but neither will I.

Tag. Her palms smack against the first of the trees, and she dives for the next one, leaping over the prickly brambles that try to tangle around her feet. Moving further into the forest, she finally dares to glance behind her – and groans.

The two opposing sides have finally stopped moving, and are just standing there. Sunstreaker and Dead End have their respective weapons trained on the other, but neither one seems willing take the first shot. The other two are oblivious, Sideswipe picking up his brother's slack and hollering insults back and forth across the destroyed parking lot.

Something about interfacing with a vending machine is mentioned, and the stalemate comes to an abrupt end. She can't tell who moves first, Drag Strip or Sunstreaker. Then they're at each other's throats, literally, and Sideswipe is leveling his shoulder-mounted cannon at Dead End, who is crouching defensively, rifle at the ready. Sides is hollering at his brother, Dead End is shaking his head ruefully, and through it all the two combatants are wailing away at each other, Sunstreaker finally landing a solid uppercut to Drag Strip's faceplates, sending him skidding back into a row of cars. There's a terrific squealing and grinding noise as he collides with the metal, and the golden mech doesn't hesitate before hurtling himself after the other.

Sideswipe is so intent on keeping Dead End at bay and keeping another optic on his brother, that he doesn't even register the hulking form of Motormaster looming up behind him until Annabelle screams. He wheels around on his heel, but it's too late – a giant armored fist is already moving towards his head, and as soon as Sideswipe is distracted, Dead End takes a few lunging steps, and tackles the red mech at the knees, sending him right into Motormaster's grip. From behind her tree, Annabelle hits her head on the tree in frustration, only to wince at the bark that digs into her skin. Typical, egotistical smart-afts.

She loses track of how much time has passed since the Twins arrived; a good few minutes, at least. The two Autobots are holding their own against the three Decepticons, something that doesn't really surprise her – the two of them are perhaps the most deadly fighters of the Autobots, and the most brutal. She's seen Sideswipe hold a mech in a headlock and let his brother take shots at him, which he did with perhaps more enthusiasm that was absolutely necessary. The Con in question didn't stand a chance in the Pit. Now she watches from the safety of the forest, trying not to let the deafening screech of metal on metal bother her. It still makes her teeth ache, and she grits them in annoyance.

Sunstreaker finally manages to force Motormaster and Drag Strip's faces together in a jarring collision that sends them both reeling. Dead End has Sideswipe bent over backwards in an awkward hold, not realizing until too late that Sides has his rifle jammed into the Con's torso. The resulting shot has Dead End jerking backwards, his hold loosening until Sideswipe can slip free, wheeling around in one smooth move until he's at the other's back, and uses the butt of his rifle to knock the Con into unconsciousness. Further out in the lot, Sunny has the stunned Drag Strip in a headlock, and almost lazily brings one sharp, armor-plated knee up into Motormaster's lowered face. As the larger Con fall backwards, stumbling, the melee fighter rearranges his grip on Drag Strip's helm, and gives a sharp, savage twist. Sparks fizzle and snap as neuron cables are dislocated, and the Con's body gives a shuddering jerk as it slumps to the pavement.

Sunstreaker gives the motionless Drag Strip a careless kick, and steps over him to finish off the gestalt leader. It takes only a single blow to the side of the head, and Motormaster joins his teammates on the cracked asphalt. As quickly as it began, it's over, and Annabelle slumps against her tree, letting the moment sink in.

Sideswipe is headed towards her now, after checking to make sure Dead End is out cold, stepping over smashed cars and buckled pavement carefully. Taking a moment to straighten what's left of her uniform, and smooth down her frazzled hair, she goes to meet him halfway. They'll make fun of her, regardless, especially Sunstreaker. He'll stick his nose in the air and proclaim that he's not touching her until she's been dunked, scrubbed, and hung out to dry. Sideswipe is already laughing at her.

With a sigh, she rests her fist on one cocked hip, and asks, "So what the Hell took you boys so long? Did Sunny need an extra coat of wax for the cameras?"

Fortunately for everyone involved, The Twins had taken care of Wildrider and Breakdown earlier on, as they were two of the three lucky individuals assigned to distract the guardians from reaching their temporary ward. The fire trucks and SWAT vans show up shortly after, and the firemen begin evacuating the buildings. Annabelle, after having been through a cursory scan by Sideswipe (and predictably being ignored by Sunstreaker after it was confirmed she wasn't injured beyond her twisted knee, and she shushed Sides when he insisted that she sit down), helps the best she can. The twins make their way to collect the gestalt team, leaving her to her business. The firefighters won't let her back in the building, so she puts herself to work by first filling in a bulldog-faced SWAT member what happened (which mainly consisted of "You can just wait for the spokesbot to get here, so go bother someone else for now."), and then doing a headcount of the survivors.

All the while, as she scans the faces for certain people, she's wondering how long it will take for her parents and Ironhide to get here. Mom's already on the way, should be there any second, but Dad and 'Hide are on the other side of the planet. It will take till nightfall, at least, even with the ever-ready cargo planes that are kept on stand-by to take the Autobot heroes wherever they want to go. They'll have already gotten word of the attack, which means she'll have a very worried, very pissed-off pair of soldiers to deal with when they do arrive. In the meantime…Mom.

She's riding with Beachcomber, who is probably one of the few mechs that can put up with the twins on a constant basis. Even before he comes to a stop, her mom's already out the door, hitting the ground at a run straight for her. Mother and daughter meet, Sarah barely stopping to do a once-over of Annabelle before pulling her into a crushing embrace.

She finally has to wrangle herself from her mother's grasp, panting a little. "Jeez, Mom, I think you just did the Cons' job for them," she attempts to joke, but Sarah will have none of it. Her hands are still wrapped around Annabelle's, and she can't take her eyes off of her only child. Chagrined, the girl drops her eyes from her mother's, unable to bear the weight of the love and fear she sees there. She's never been too good with emotions, whether as a result of being raised as a soldier's offspring, or simple inherent nature, but when faced with her mother's pain, she can't help but turn away.

Because of this, she doesn't see the realization that crosses her mother's face. Annabelle was always her father's daughter, tromping along on his heels in his old combat boots. But to see her standing, alone and unafraid, the only thing at her back the destruction she helped wreak – she knows that her daughter has grown up, and lost her innocence somewhere along the way, without her mother knowing it. Thanks to them. The Autobots.

And for a just a moment, hatred stings behind her eyes and steals her breath. Her daughter is the product of a world at war, and nothing can take it all back and give her years filled with garden tea parties and secrets shared under cover of night. All her efforts, her struggle to keep her daughter safe and untouched, are for nothing, and if it weren't for these creatures, the ones that brought their pointless, eons-old war with them, she would still have her baby, weak and shivering in the scraps of clothing that cling to her. She would still have a little girl, not this strange, wild creature that stands before her, unbound hair a standard of some far-off, foreign place that she will never know.

Then her daughter shoots her a wary look from out of the curtain of her hair, and asks, "So do you think this will stain?" And sweeps her hands down her front, gesturing to the irreversible damage done to her cheerleading uniform. And as suddenly as it hit her, the anger is gone from Sarah. Her shoulders begin to shake, whether from mirth or hysteria, or maybe just relief, and she sweeps the hair away from her daughter's eyes, seeing in them the girl she missed for so long. Someone she hadn't laid eyes on since she was eleven years old. A bemused smile pulls at the girl's mouth, and she shakes her head, touching the hand that lingers on her cheek. "You know, that leakage could be a sign of a more serious internal problem." Quoting Ironhide, back when he was still ignorant of the more intricate workings of the human female.

Her mother's face crumples in laughter, and she takes hold of Annabelle's face, cupping it close. "Baby, the only thing wrong with me internally is my heart. I swear it was trying to come up my nose the whole way here." And she shakes her daughter lightly, for emphasis.

"While fascinating, that is physically impossible." Ratchet's words of wisdom. And she can't help herself anymore; she flings her arms around her mother, staunchly ignoring her body's many twinges of protest. Sarah rocks her back in forth where they stand, gripping the back of her uniform tightly, and Annabelle is grateful for the support as the motions cause her knee to finally buckle beneath her.

"…I did tell you to sit down, didn't I? Sunny, tell Ratchet that's what I said, I swear. Yes, I scanned her, from her grubby toes to her hard little head. No, I didn't pick her up, I – well, have you tried telling that kid what to do? She's worse than Hide when his cannons are fritzing. Hey – ok, I'm going; c'mon, bro, I didn't come here to get bawled out, I swear, every time I just try to pay a social visit I always get something thrown at me – "

Sideswipe's voice finally fades out as he and his brother beat a hasty retreat from Ratchet's med bay. She can faintly hear Sunstreaker snapping back, and she sighs through her nose, letting the familiar pattern of it all relax her.

She's situated on the humans' side, where the med beds actually fit their much smaller, organic frames. A heart monitor is stuck to her, and though her vital signs have been steady for some time, she is still under surveillance, at Sarah's insistence. Not that Ratchet's opinion is moot, not quite, but she is her mother, and nobody refuses Sarah Lennox when she's on a mission.

So she sucks down her Jell-O (an old favorite that she'd insisted on), and leans into the upright bed. Mechs have been coming and going for some time, and the Twins had been cut loose a while ago, but came back to poke at her. She knows that they – or at least Sides, with Sunny trailing along behind reluctantly – mean well, but it's mostly that they're checking to make sure Ironhide's ward doesn't hold them responsible for her current state. She doesn't really blame them. If she was in their position, and she too had been thoroughly distracted by a mudslide set off by Wildrider, she would be a little worried about her various limbs and accessories, as well.

She bites back another yawn – damn Ratchet for those sedatives; 'something to calm your mother's nerves' had been his excuse – and blinks hard to clear her eyes. Right now the bay is silent, the only background noise the mechs and men that pass by outside the double durasteel doors. There's jack-all to do, and her mother has gone to get her an update on her classmates. The survivors were care flown to the nearest human hospital. So no company for her.

Eventually she dozes; barely aware that people have come and gone, with voices she dimly knows she should recognize. When she finally pulls back into consciousness, the med bay's lights are on stand-by, and the windows placed up near the ceiling are dark. She had slept until nightfall. And now she needs the bathroom. Looking down at her bound-up leg, she makes a face, as if to say 'this is entirely your fault,' and braces herself to stand.

"Don't be a hardhead, kid; you got crutches. Use 'em."

The voice startles her more than she would like to admit, and when she jumps, he chuckles lowly. Scowling, she turns to face him. Pistons and cogs hiss, metal whispering against metal as he moves into her line of view. Kneeling down in front of her, he grins. "Bet you missed me today, huh?"

Despite his levity, there's a reserved, almost distant air about him, something that's calling his attention away from her. Attuned to him as she is, she picks up on it almost immediately. She knows it can't be her father; he wouldn't be teasing her if it was. Leaning forward on her bed, she studies him. The crooked smile fades, and he glances away from her, moving back to his full height. He gestures to the crutches that have gone unnoticed, and makes as if to leave. "I'll go get your parents, tell them you're awake."

Something squeezes the breath from her as she watches him go. Not a word of his own wellbeing, not a single scan to make sure she's functioning the way Ratchet is sure to have promised.

And then he surprises her once again as he hesitates just outside the doorway. When he turns back around in one sudden decisive move, she squares her shoulders automatically, ready to be bawled out or interrogated, whichever comes first. He does neither. Instead, he gives her that inscrutable look he's so good at, the one that she knows is supposed to mean something. It reminds her that he is much, much older than her, and has seen too much. They watch each other for a minute, she having to rock back on her bed in order to see his face more clearly.

One large dark hand finally reaches out, and she closes her eyes as she feels his fingers rest atop her head. "Don't say it," she hears herself murmur. She knows that he's sorry, he's always sorry when he's not around. It doesn't ever change anything, though. Air stirs her unkempt hair as he sighs through his vents, but otherwise he is silent at her request. She doesn't dare open her eyes as he brushes a thumb down her cheek, letting the sun-soaked warmth of the metal smooth out her drawn expression. If she is still long enough, she'll be able to feel the subtle magnetic pulse in his fingertips, like a heartbeat. But she pulls away at the last minute, before she forgets where she is and does something she can't take back later. The hand drops, and she finally opens her eyes to see him holding up the crutches between two fingers, his careworn features distant and unknowable once more.

Breathing carefully through her nose, she takes the equipment, unable to look past that hand to the optics that see more than she's comfortable with. He moves quietly out of her way, standing back up to his full height, and turns his back on her. Leaving again, for which she is grateful. It's times like this, when he's sorry and she's sorry and neither has words to make it better, that almost make her wish she didn't care so much. Sometimes it's easier, the farther away he is – that way, she can make herself pretend they're both somebody else. It's her most well-kept secret, the fact that she is, deep down in a tight little space somewhere under her ribcage, a coward.

She forces herself to ignore his departure, but she's not even halfway off the bed when she hears his voice from the doorway. From out the corner of her eye, she sees him turn to glance at her over his shoulder. "From what I hear, you gave those Cons a run for their money." Finally she gets another glimpse of his familiar smile, however subdued, and he lifts his chin in a small salute. "Guess bein' eighteen don't mean you're too old, after all. You did good, Belle."

She doesn't know what to say to that, and before she can wrack her brain for something besides a simple thanks, he's gone.

Her dad's eyes are alight with something she's seen before, when they watch fireworks or witness a Cybertronian's transformation from machine to mech. A restrained awe, like he's being let in on the world's best-kept secret. There's a small grin tugging at his mouth as he hugs her to him, careful not to jostle her too much. "Well, birthday girl, you had enough adventure for one day?"

"For today, yeah. Let's put a raincheck on anything cropping up the rest of this week, too." Her response, though meant in jest, comes off a little restrained. Her mother shoots her a Look as they help her into the wheelchair (and how humiliating is that, anyway?). Her father doesn't notice a thing, and keeps right on trying not to smirk. Finally fed up with the overall weirdness of everything, she snaps, a little more harshly than she means to, "Okay, so what's the big joke? You guys find Galvatron sittin' around a café wearin' a tea cozy an' sippin' a soy latte, or what?"

Her dad snorts through his nose, and she knows he's picturing exactly that. Rolling her eyes, she slaps the arms of the wheelchair. "I didn't get a word outta 'Hide, so what gives?"

Her mother is still silent, but her father looks bemused, shaking his head slowly. "You mean he didn't say anything? Huh. He's been kind of quiet the whole trip home, come to think of it. God, a cannon-strapped metal behemoth brooding is not who you want for company on a thirteen-hour plane ride."

Frustrated, Annabelle turns to her mother as they start wheeling her down the hallway. "Mom, seriously, did something happen? Did the guys find anything important, or did they just get rick rolled?" In the back of her mind, she's picturing an ambush, 'Hide humiliated and hogtied, while a dozen minicons laugh at him. She sighs. It would be his ego that gets the beating, she thinks dourly.

Her mother takes a breath to respond, and in that minute they round a corner, coming face-to-knee with three Cybertronians, ones she's never seen before. Her dad rolls the chair to a stop, and each group eyeballs the other for a long moment. Annabelle, irritated further still with her embarrassing position, cranes her neck to get a better look at their faceplates.

They're girls, she thinks, the shock spreading through her like freezing water over her head. There could be no mistaking it; the tell-tale curves of their chestplates, the long, streamlined legs, the finer details of their faces all give them away as Cybertronian females. The one nearest her, a black and pink model – possibly a Mini Coop? She isn't sure – kneels down to speak. The other two remain standing; one with their arms crossed, and the other at military parade rest.

"General Lennox, we meet again." The female's composed voice is nothing short of hypnotizing; with her shorter, curvier build, the pink markings contrasting sharply with her luminous blue optics, she is a picture of mechanized beauty. The gleaming antennae-horns, along with the sharp, slightly menacing helm atop her head only serve to balance out the rest, marking her as someone not to be dealt with lightly. A weapon that could be compared to a space-age revolver rests at her hip, and Annabelle is positive it's not just there for show. She can't help herself; she stares unabashedly.

The effeminate warrior's optics sweep over the girl sitting before her, and her helm tilts, as if pondering something. "You are unable to travel under your own power? Is that what this contraption is for?" She does not sound disdainful, merely curious. Annabelle winces anyway.

"Yeah…yes, I sorta injured my leg, and I'm not supposed to put my weight on it till it's all healed up…" She drifts off, unable to take her eyes off the female warrior. The other being inclines her head in understanding, still maintaining her serenely neutral bearing. Behind and to the left of her, a silver-blue model with a lean build and a windswept helm shifts, as if she is loathe to remain still for too long. The lead female glances back at her and smiles a little, softening her composed features.

"Yes, this is Ironhide's ward. I suppose you would like to meet her?" And she nods towards Annabelle cordially. "Forgive me, girl, my designation is Elita One. I understand you are called Annabelle? Your creators – your parents – have told me much of you. And," her optics crinkle a little in subdued mirth, "of just what Ironhide's been up to these past few vorns." With that, she steps back, letting her blue companion take the lead. She nods sagely to Will and Sarah, and studies Annabelle with the same careful analysis that her comrade had used. For a long, strangely intense moment, the two size each other up.

Her optics take in the apprehensive state of the girl in the chair, the barely-contained energy she seems to exude, the need for action more evident now that she is confined. The fibers that grow from her cranium draw her attention, and Annabelle's eyes widen subtly as the warrior's hand moves as if to touch the waist-length sweep of hair, still unbound and hanging over her shoulders. At the last minute the hand withdraws, the Cybertronian probably recalling that this species is one that appreciates personal boundaries.

Finally, the blue warrior speaks. "I haven't been planet-side for two cycles, and already I've heard tell of you." This one's voice is huskier, with an almost lazy drawl, but her optics are as sharp as lasers. "So you're the one who's been keeping 'Hide on his toecaps this whole time." And she smirks a little. Annabelle tries to smile back, but the world is starting to sway alarmingly, and she can't do it. She knows this feeling. She braces herself.

"This," she indicates with a sweep of her hand the pink figure, "is the head of our team, Elita. The red runt you see on my right here is Flareup. You'll like her; she's short, like you." This makes the unfortunately height-handicapped Flareup level a glare at her compatriot's back, and makes what Annabelle recognizes as a pretty rude gesture in Cybertronian. From the corner of her eye, she sees her dad bite back a grin.

The sleek female smirks and continues as if she hadn't noticed, leaning in towards the humans. She spreads her hands apart, gesturing to herself proudly.

"And you can call me Chromia."