A bright yellow Lamborghini stalks down the corridors of the Ark, meticulously polished, without a scratch on him, and the scowl on his face clear for all to see. Wisely, bots move out of his way. Even Cliffjumper decides it’s in his best interest not to confront the yellow twin tonight. Hound wonders if perhaps they need to call Sidewsipe, to rein his brother in, but Jazz puts a servo on the Scout’s arm.
He can already guess where Sunstreaker is going and he heartily approves. It’s beyond time that someone has taken matters into servo.
Sunstreaker barely notices that his fellow Autobots are clearing a path for him. By the time he enters the lead corridor, he’s a bit surprised that no one’s stopped him. Surely Red Alert is fritzing by now.
His optics count doors until he finds the one he’s looking for. He keys open the panel, practically punching the keys, and the door obeys without a single note of refusal.
Sunstreaker strides into the room without preamble, crosses the floor to the desk, and plants his servos down on it. “You’re done,” he says succinctly. “Put the datapad down.”
Across from him, Prowl greets the demand coolly, his doorwings held high and alert, a sure sign of his aggravation. “I do not recall exchanging authority with you, Sunstreaker. Nor did I invite you into my office. Please leave.”
Oh Prowl, so polite. Even when Sunstreaker’s about to drag him out of here by his audial.
Sunstreaker’s optics dial down, a Cybertronian’s version of a human’s eye narrow. He leans further forward. “You’ve been here for almost an Earth week. You haven’t recharged. You’ve somehow conned Bluestreak into bringing your energon. Enough.”
“You’re repeating yourself, Sunstreaker,” Prowl says, and lowers his gaze to his datapad.
Sunstreaker does what no one else, not even Jazz, dares to do – he snatches the datapad from Prowl’s servos and tosses it over his shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “Recalculate in that logical processor of yours all you want, and the answer’s going to be the same. You can’t account for everything, Prowl. You’re not perfect.” He pauses, lets the words sink in, and then softens his tone. “No one blames you. And locking yourself in your office isn’t going to change things.”
For a moment, he thinks Prowl’s stubbornness is going to win out. But then his doorwings droop ever so slightly. “What would you have me do?” he asks, sounding defeated.
“You can start by letting me help.” He holds out a servo, and when Prowl takes it, Sunstreaker can practically hear the rest of the Ark sighing in relief.
Pandora's Box 