Before the War, Ironhide and Chromia

Ironhide strode into his domicile, peering into the kitchen-like area (though it didn’t at all resemble a kitchen, really). No one there. He checked the main sitting area, moving as silently as his large frame would allow, a small smile creeping across his craggy features. He checked the washroom, noting that the showers had been used recently. But where on Cybertron were they?

As he walked into the hall, headed towards their berthroom, a small twitter drew his attention. There was a tiny, black frame sitting in the middle of the hallway, her fragile little hands held up expectantly. Well, he’d found one of them. Ironhide’s rugged, thick-plated frame melted instantly into a puddle of delighted goo as he took the two strides, crouched, and gently picked up the tiny creature into one massive hand. He smiled and offered a deep, throaty laugh that brought a small, twittering giggle from the sparkling. She seemed perfectly infinitesimal, held close to his massive body.

“Hey, there,” he murmured, bringing the little sparkling up until she was pressed against his warm chest plating. She purred and twittered a little, nuzzling her helm against the underside of his chin affectionately as she held onto his finger with her deceivingly strong little fingers. Ironhide’s smile widened, and his deep blue optics sparkled with a happiness that only one other femme ever saw. The tiny little delight was only two solar cycles old, and they hadn’t found a name for her yet. Ironhide wanted something traditional. His spark mate wanted to name her after Ironhide’s femme creator, Ricochet, though they had both agreed, if the femme a little grudgingly, that it didn’t really fit the delightful, tiny little creature that had so completely wrapped him around her tiny finger.

The little femme, no, his little femme clicked and patted one of his neck struts, and he pulled her back enough to see dark, wide, adorable blue optics staring back at him rather solemnly. He would fix that.

Snuggling her close to him, he spun in a slow circle, humming in his throaty, rather rustic, deep voice. He didn’t really know what he was humming, but the little sparkling seemed to enjoy the spinning and the song put together, because she bounced a little in his sure grasp and giggled in an endearing, twittering sort of way.

They had had her frame built in secret; an old academy friend of Chromia’s had agreed to build it, seeming intensely amused that “tough old Ironhide” was siring a femme spark, and a rather small one, at that. The pair had wanted a frame that was black, like Ironhide, if a little shinier, with a frame leading towards Chromia, with a little of Ironhide’s femme creator mixed in, since Ironhide was the spitting image of his “mother”, and the femme had died recently.

They had been expecting a few changes that the little femme’s spark would make; after all, a spark wasn’t always perfectly satisfied with the frame that it was given, leaving it to change things a little, such as a few vents there, a helm spike here, small things. No, Ironhide and Chromia had not been expecting the little femme to turn out looking so much like Ironhide. Still, that didn’t make Ironhide any less thrilled about his little sparkling. Primus, just let someone try to hurt her. There was nothing more deadly than an angry creator, so they said.

Chromia was almost startled by how well Ironhide adjusted to the little, clingy, rather needy, yet still adorable, creature so quickly. She’d expected his monstrous frame to be a little awkward with the petite femme, but he’d settled just fine with her.

Ironhide ended the spinning dance, revving his internals a little as the sparkling nuzzled the underside of his chin plating again, clicking contentedly. He wondered idly where Chromia had gotten away to, or rather, where his wandering sparkling had gotten away from. His answer came when a rather frazzled-looking, sky blue femme rushed into the hallway, staring at Ironhide a moment before she saw the shiny, black sparkling hidden within the cracks and folds of Ironhide’s slightly duller ebony.

“There she is,” Chromia breathed, coming forward to meet Ironhide in the hall as the mech bent to lightly kiss her cheek plating in greeting. “She slipped away when we fell into recharge in the chair in the office.”

Ironhide’s internals rumbled quietly with laughter, and the little femme seemed to enjoy the vibration; she clicked and twittered quietly, curling up against him as her optics flickered tiredly. “Looks like escaping’s worn her out,” he murmured fondly, and transferred the little femme gently to his hold, without disturbing her. He smiled, probably rather like a fool, as she connected to his spark and little feeds of emotion trickled from her: content, happy, sleepy, comfy, warm, safe. His spark pulsed a little brighter just at the thought of the little femme slipping into recharge.

He wrapped his thick arms around his spark mate, who grunted and freed her arms enough so that she could hug him before attempting to push him away and failing. Her hands barely met around his thick back. “Missed you,” he rumbled quietly. Chromia laughed softly and rested her chin on his shoulder.

“You’re high on sparkling emotions.”

“Probably. Still missed ye’,” Ironhide lifted his femme up and kissed her on the cheek before setting her back down as she smacked him.

“Crazy mech.”

“You bonded with me,” he reminded her, feeling rather drunk with glee at the little frame curled near his spark. Primus, if Optimus could see him like this, he’d send him to a mental institution. His spark mate looked as if she was considering that as well.

Chromia snorted and patted his thick upper arm. “You weren’t crazy like this back then. And you were cute.”

“Yes I was,” Ironhide told her in response to both accusations, pinning her to his chest again and nuzzling her. Chromia laughed at the ridiculous display and released herself with a punch in the right place.

“Very high on sparkling emotions.”

Ironhide chuckled quietly as he recovered from the blow. He couldn’t wait to reveal their little creation to Optimus, Elita, and Megatron. His smile faded a little, at the last name. Maybe the sparkling would help cheer the poor mech a bit. Megatron had just lost his femme, after all. Some gang activity. They had all been devastated to hear the news; Switchback had been a very distant cousin or something of Ironhide’s, and the femmes, like the mechs, had made a nearly inseparable trio. But if they were all devastated by Switchback’s murder, Megatron was in shreds.

The normally rather elusive but not unfriendly mech had become short-tempered, and had once snapped rather viciously at Ironhide for saying something that he apparently found irritating. His face was more predatory, now, as if he was waiting for the moment when he would encounter his femme’s killer, the moment when he would tear his throat out. It had been especially distressing to Optimus when Megatron had changed his optic color from icy, startling but beautiful blue, to a dark, aggressive red, like many rebellious gang members in the area. It wasn’t the color that was so worrying, so much as knowing that in order to achieve the color change, a mech had to have his “genetics” altered. If Megatron ever had a sparkling, which was unlikely, seeing how close he had been to his lost femme, there was a high chance that they would come online with red optics instead of blue. He’d seen a few sparklings like that. When they first came online, they had purple-blue optics, and they slowly turned more and more red until they were varying shades of crimson. It couldn’t be undone without extensive surgery.

It hurt Ironhide to see Megatron like that. The mech had been acting more and more off, the past few decades, but no one had really made any mention of it. Once, Switchback had asked him what he thought about the idea of ruling Cybertron. Ironhide had taken it as a joke and had replied that he didn’t think he was smart enough to be in control of an entire planet. Switchback had seemed a little dissatisfied with that, but Ironhide hadn’t thought much of it. Now, he was starting to wonder a bit…

“Ironhide…” Chromia waved a hand in his face, stretching out the vowels to catch his attention. She gave him a look when he snapped back to reality. “Come on, ‘Hide. It’s late. And I’m sure Ratchet’s had you and Warpath moving things for him, and will be tomorrow, so you need some recharge.”

Ironhide and Warpath were old buddies; they’d grown up in the same, rough part of a more rural part of Cybertron. Warpath was several millennia younger than Ironhide, but the pair had both grown into monstrous warriors, and both were rather fond of their guns, if they never used them for anything more than sport. Ratchet, who had been rumored to be Ironhide’s younger brother, or at least related to him in some way, (though the fact had never been proven and neither would speak on the subject, usually just winking, grinning or grimacing) had been borrowing the mechs recently to help build and stock the medbay that they were putting in at the Capital Building, as an extra hospital, just in case there was another gang battle that left a lot of casualties. Still, that wasn’t too likely either, with Prowl and his squad sweeping the streets like turbo hounds after a cybercat. The police-mech may have been a little young and new to the position, but he was skilled, and had a mind as sharp as a knife. Ironhide had difficulty holding conversations with him, some days.

Ironhide’s smile returned a bit as he followed Chromia down the hall, lights shutting off as they went. Things would be alright. Things were always alright. No matter what, Ironhide, Optimus, and Megatron always settled it. Ironhide could  only hope that the sparkling was a blessing more than a curse. He nearly hit himself for that; of course she’d be a blessing. Megatron had always loved sparklings.

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Before the war, Doomsayer and Fastback

The femme jumped in surprise as the door to her domicile slammed harshly. She looked up, swiftly pulling the small, emerald mech closer to her. He shifted slightly, but didn’t wake up; the sparkling was used to slamming doors, by now.

His femme creator stood, frowning as a large, dark emerald frame strode into the room, his breath harsh in his chest. Glowing crimson optics locked with her dark blue ones, and the femme frowned, but not from fear. She rushed forward, hand hovering over wounds as she looked him over. “What did you do, Doomsayer?” She asked, concerned, but not sounding surprised.

“Seekers. I can’t work with those fraggers,” he muttered. “Megatron said that he was going to create a revolution. He never mentioned that I’d have to deal with the femme killer.”

The femme, Fastback, gave a little gasp, pulling her recharging sparkling closer to her, optics widening. “He’s hired the femme killer? Why?” She managed. Doomsayer wrapped his thick arms around her and the sparkling, grunting.

“Megatron knows what he’s doing. He’s uniting all the gangs. Seekers and Gear-heads haven’t been even able to look at each other for centuries, but now we’re working together. Mech’s a miracle worker.”

“But the femme killer…” Fastback breathed, leaning against the unnaturally warm armor that her sparkling had inherited.

“The femme killer is under control,” Doomsayer assured her. “I got into an argument with Thundercracker and the slaghead got a little excited, is all. Nothing serious. See? Not even leaking,” he released her and stepped back to show her the scratches weren’t too deep.

“Doomsayer…”

“Come on, Fastback. Megatron’s promising me a great position; he says that he could really use a mech like me. Says that mechs of my expertise and size are getting big positions. Motormaster and his crew are way up there. Scrapper’s crew, too. And I’ve gotten word from Vortex; the Combaticons are going to be coming down from northern Cybertron. I’m Megatron’s right-hand ‘bot right now. That fragger Starscream’s causing trouble, but I’m not too worried. This is a chance to get rid of the gangs. We’d make an unstoppable army, if we got the mercenaries to work with us. It’d be a better life for everyone; imagine, no mechs would dare start fighting with Megatron keeping them all in check.” As he spoke, Doomsayer traced the emerald spikes of his sparkling’s helm with a scarred finger.

Funny. He was the mirror image of his mech. Hadn’t been expecting red optics, though. The sparkling’s optics were a bluish purple, but the medic who had built the frame had told them that the optics would redden till they were crimson. That had puzzled him, a little. He hadn’t expected the color change would affect any of his offspring… but then he hadn’t really been planning on having any sparklings till recently. It had been a sort of spur of the moment thing, really. He hadn’t been revealed to the gang yet, but Doomsayer had admitted it to Megatron before he’d learned that Gravedancer was among Megatron’s gathering troops.

Megatron hadn’t seemed to mind, assuring him that the war would be swift. One attack would take out the weakened, peace-filled defenses, and then the forces, Decepticons, Megatron was calling them, would go after the big guns. They’d have to take out several of the more influential mechs or the ones more likely to lead a protest: Ultra Magnus, Kup and that other old mercenary mech, Knockoff, Prowl, and Ironhide. If all or nearly all of them could be taken out at once, then their would be no war. It would just be one battle, one swift attack, and Optimus Prime could crumble in grief for the deaths of his precious friends and the betrayal of his own brother. They would crush the pacifistic mech and his spark mate like the scum they were.

And then all this petty crime and arguing would be put to an end; Megatron would keep his former role, but he would also take on Optimus’s. Megatron wouldn’t be limited by traditions. All he had to do was attack the Capital, and somehow get a hold of that allspark. The idea of having that ensured a swift and rather peaceful victory. The less energon spilled, the easier it would be to convince the rest of the planet that they were doing it for their own good.

Doomsayer took the small mech from Fastback. Only a few years old, he was still small enough to fit in his creator’s big hands; Fastback had wanted to carry him. He was glad that the sparkling had been a mech, since there was no way that a femme could have taken his place as a gang leader… if the gang still existed by the time he was old enough for that.

“Come on, then, Gearshock, big mechs don’t recharge every hour of the day,” he rumbled in his deep, raspy baritone. The sparkling onlined his purple-ish optics unwillingly, flickering them as if blinking in the bright light of the rather run-down home. Drowsily, he reached at the monstrous, emerald mech, twittering sleepily.

Doomsayer examined the small, helpless little creature, looked at the optics that would soon be the blood color of many organics, resisted the urge to smile at the tiny spikes that would grow into the dangerous adornments that his own helm had. The cute little runt was going to grow up to be a giant, just like his mech.