They settled down more as time went on, discovering places in his mind where they could cling to his being, so they could allow themselves to rest. He didn't have to fight so hard to keep what he knew separate from what they knew. But that just might be because in some instances he had trouble telling where the line was. But on days where their presences lit up in his mind, like light houses on a dark sea, he found it easier to separate their voices from his own. Hidden for so long in the dark and the nothingness their personalities where fragmented, but the six fitted with each other closely to make something, mostly, whole.

It takes time for him to understand the personal pronouns they use. He notices that Ironhide gets one set, Ratchet and Bee another, and the other Autobots seem to be addressed with three different sets depending on their actions at a given time. Humans, he notes, had one set of them originally, but as time passes one becomes two as they see more, but his set doesn't match any of those. Instead it is the one they use to refer to each other, and to Optimus. He doesn't realize it at first, too caught up in the difference between English and Cybertronian, but it lurks in the back of his mind. Some part of him suspects why they do it but to acknowledge it would be admitting too much.

The nightmares come often, too similar to when he returned from the first war. But he doesn't mind them so much now. He is disconnected in a way, but when he occasionally falls through that veil and his sanity starts to shred, he is pulled back. Then for a time all he could do is feel and bask in the impossible warmth of their sparks and croons; it is enough for him to fall into a dreamless sleep and stitch himself back together.

But on night when his dreams are not a horrific replay of his failures, where death is painted across the landscape in shades of light glinted and dark shaded metal drenched in blood, he finds himself in a different kind of battle.

His opponent is never the same, but is also never anyone else. Sometimes it is an indefinable beast, its features shifting like a figure behind rain drenched glass. He is reminded of a crazed lion as it hunts him though the bush, ignoring the easier prey just to drink of his blood and eat of his flesh. Other times it is a man, hair the color of knives and polished guns, his face a mural shifting between the features of the people he fears and those that he respects. The figure might be that of a human but he is still echoes the beast and his mangled words and laughter insight the same reaction. But, sometimes the beast and the man are made of metal, no less real and he is still prey to be hunted, conquered, and devoured.

Often he runs, certain that he is not yet ready to face this foe. But, sometimes he runs only to look for higher ground, so that when the time comes for an ambush he will be just as, if not more, deadly. Other times, when he is at the end of line, when his fear vanishes and all he wants to do is force out his rage and bloodlust in the tempo battle, he stands his ground. Then his opponent comes to him with a roar of triumph and a bearing of fangs, no matter the form, and they follow the dance of their instincts; their jewelry is the flash of steel and the ribbons are splatters of blood.

But, no matter circumstances, or the outcome of these dreams, when he looks down there are flames on his chest. When he forces himself awake and lies between the reality of day and the mystery of night he is certain that it is a just symbol for his battle and determination stitched on a red shirt.

He ignores the fact that, sometimes, the texture is too smooth to be thread.