War and Wings: Chapter 19 part one--Confession

“There, that should do it.” Io mused, softly, even as she double-checked the chord connecting her brachial energon line to Crossarm’s.

Nothing about the situation was inappropriate, but the femme couldn’t help but feel a bit unnerved as a portion of her energon was diverted through the connection to her CO.  

True, partly this was do to her general dislike at being forced into proximity with him. But mostly her growing unease was due to the fact that she’d been forced to do this exact same thing in Kaon…and not as part of any medical procedure.

“So…how long does this take?” Crossarm said softly, interrupting her thoughts.  

A relieved flitted across her lips.  Ever since the “transfusion” idea had been revealed as an option, Io had been worrying about E.T.D.s.  She had never been infected – quite fortunate given her history with the ‘Cons – but without proper medical equipment, she could easily contract one from Crossarm.

She didn’t know anything about his medical history, and in hindsight she should have asked before starting the operation, but something within her spark urged caution.  In defending him, earlier, Crossarm had begun to trust her, actually trust her.  And if she was ever going to get to the bottom of this whole thing, she needed him to be honest about himself….so she had left everything up to fate.  

Given his ignorance, it would seem as though fate was starting to take her seriously.  “It’s a slow process,” Io answered, easing her legs into a sitting position, and encouraging Crossarm to do the same.  “If I transfer the energon too quickly, you’ll get drunk and my systems will start to lag.”  She met his gaze and chuckled darkly.  “If we’re going to have to fight our way out of here, we’ll want to do so with level processors.”

The sergeant’s optics widened.  “Y-you think we’ll have to fight?”

Io cocked a brow-ridge in his direction.  “It’s a possibility.”

“Oh…” He said simply and bit his lip.  His wings began to tremble.  

Io watched him silently for several cycles.  His behavior brought to mind the curious revelation that this was his first field assignment.  And this, of course, begged the question “why?”  How could Crossarm become a sergeant without any field experience?  Why would a sergeant tremble at the thought of combat? True, she had seen ‘Bots fall to proverbial pieces as a result of traumatic stress, but usually they were able to put a tough face on when out of harm’s way.

It defied all logic, and yet…here they were, cutoff from their peers and trapped within the remains of a Decepticon energon cache.  

And all of it mostly his fault.

Mostly.

The femme lowered her head as her spark tightened painfully.  Why didn’t I call off the mission? The thought kept cycling through her processor, even as Powerglide stepped forward from the gloom so that he could glare down at Crossarm.

“Did it ever occur to you that you might have to get your hands dirty on a mission such as this?” He growled.  Despite promising to act in civil manner, it would seem that the transfusion had given the acrobat enough time to reanalyze his frustrations, stoking the emotion until it boiled back over into anger.  

Crossarm’s entire frame tensed, but he didn’t look up, nor did he reply to Powerglide’s taunt.  He just sat there, quietly, his face-plate eerily blank.  

“Powerglide…” Io said in a weary yet warning tone.  Then, privately, she added.  *I understand your frustrations.  But bringing up the past is not going to change our situation.*  

*It sure would make me feel better.* He grumbled.

*Please? Trust my judgment?*

*Fine…* He conceded after a time.  

*Thank you.* Io replied.  She tried to keep her tone of thought neutral…but a note of irritation edged its way in at the end.  

To her relief, Powerglide didn’t take offense.  Instead, he merely loomed for an additional cycle, blue optics glowing thoughtfully as he stared down at the two smaller jets, and then, with a sigh, he spun about and situated himself nearby, resuming his previous mantle of “look out.”

Io wondered briefly if it was even necessary for him to take up the role. The smoke had gotten thicker in the last few breems, and even with all of his senses trained outward, Io was doubtful that he’d be able to hear or see anyone approach until they were right on top of them.    

“I still don’t understand why you’re defending me…” Crossarm said, interrupting her thoughts for a second time.

Io shook her head, and turned to face him.  He was actually looking at her now, optics dim and sad.    

“I…” She began but paused as another surge of what she could only call “compassion” washed over her spark.  Teetering on the edge of despair, Crossarm had become an entirely different ‘Bot…and it threw the normally confident femme “off her game.”  It was this very feeling that had clouded her judgment earlier, and gave her pause in the present as she struggled to translate her feelings into words.  “I-I don’t know.”      

Crossarm’s wings dipped even lower.  Clearly he had been expecting something a bit more… comprehensive.  

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Io said, quickly.  “I just…” She paused and sighed a second time.  “It’s not something I can easily explain.”  

The jet nodded and poked a small piece of rubble with his index finger.  “Well, I guess I should thank you anyway.” He said after a time, voice quavering uncharacteristically.  “It’s not like others will be lining up to do the same after all of this…”

Despite the overly somber tone to their conversation, Io couldn’t help but chuckle darkly.  “I wish I could say that you’re wrong…” she said meeting Crossarm’s dejected stare.  “But…”  A flurry of memory data caused her voice to trail off into static.  When she defected, she had hoped that through hard work and determination that the Autobots would see her as something more than just an ex ‘Con and former thost.  Unfortunately, her past clung to her like cheap grease.

It had followed her everywhere, souring any attempts at assimilation.  Frustrating to the nth degree, over the stellar cycles it had drained her passion.  What was the point of trying to do something useful, of playing along if only to have her spark crushed over and over again by ‘Bots that couldn’t see her for who she really was?

It was all too easy for her to imagine the same fate befalling Crossarm, despite the fact that he would get off with an easier punishment than she when they returned to Iacon.  To get out of the fire only to be set aside with the garbage…

Of course, she couldn’t help but think, that’s assuming we ever return to Iacon…

Cliché though it might have been, she wanted, more than ever, to be back at the clinic with Ratchet.  That knowledge that she wasn’t, and may never see him again, caused her spark to twist painfully.      

“Are you…” Crossarm began, hesitantly.  When Io refocused on him, she met a gaze that was both questioning and sympathetic…as if her CO could somehow sense the disquiet in her spark.  “You’re going to end up taking the blame for all of this, aren’t you?  I mean, I’ll get disciplined, but your punishment is going to be more severe, right?”

Io stared back for a moment, unblinking.  Given that she’d been thinking of her partner, she partly expected Crossarm to do the same.  Then, once her processor caught up, she replied. “Most likely; yes.”  

The mech recoiled.  “Even though all of this is…my fault?”

“Not just your fault…” Io said heavily.  “Optimus placed me in charge of the mission, and part of the reason why we’re in this mess is that I didn’t act on my instincts.”  She folded her arms around her knee-pikes and lowered her head so that she could rest her chevrons on her bracer.  “I should have called it off, especially near the end…but I didn’t.”  She sighed.  “I’m responsible for you all.  And I…failed in that responsibility.”  

“That’s…” His voice glitched.  “That’s not fair.”

“Fair or not, that’s the way it is.”    

Crossarm sunk back against the wall, optics wide with disbelief.  Then, slowly, he lowered his head.  His shoulder-caps rose in concert, making it seem as if he were trying to draw his entire helm into his mantle.  He looked absolutely miserable.

He said nothing for a time, and Io closed her optics, trying her best to keep her processor from revisiting the events of the day lest they echo her deeper into self-contempt.

Several silent cycles passed.

Then, “Is there anything I can do?” Crossarm asked in a low voice.

Io raised her helm and looked at him out the corner of her optics.  “What now?”

“What can I do to help make things right?” He elaborated.

The femme blinked rapidly.  Again she found his change in demeanor hard to accept. His statement sounded uncharacteristically sincere.  “Well...” she thought about it critically for a moment. What could he do? “I guess information would be a start.”

“Like what?”

“I’m curious about your lack of medical training, and—perhaps more importantly—your shortage of combat and field experience… considering you hold the military rank of sergeant.”  Even laying out these curiosities, Io was careful to keep her tone neutral and non-accusatory.

“I…” He started, but his voice glitched.  “D-do we have to talk about this now?” His optics darted across the way to where Powerglide would have been keeping watch.  

Her expression faltered.  “You asked me what you could do to help, and part of that is going to include earning back everyone’s trust.” Her optics narrowed.  “Now, I can’t speak for the rest of the clinic – or for Powerglide – but if you want to earn back my trust, then you’ll have to at least come clean about those areas of contention.”  

A heavy sigh fluttered across his lips as he lowered his head.  “It’s a bit difficult to explain…” He said, closing his optics.  “And if I’m to answer the later of your inquiries, I’ll have to start with the first…my lack of medical training.”  His optics opened and the glow of his t’vre intensified as he considered his first statement.  “You’re right; I know next to nothing about medicine.”  He shook his head.  “That’s because I wasn’t educated at the Academy.”    

“What?” Io responded with such a start that she nearly withdrew the flex-chord from his arm.

The jet nodded.

“But…that doesn’t make any sense.”  Io protested.  “Even Ratchet, after having spent millions of stellar cycles as a medical repair tech, had to undergo a period of basic training in order to become Relay’s shield.  It’s standard policy.”  

Crossarm nodded.  “Yes, I know.”

“Then, how…?”

“I’m getting there,” He said with mock annoyance.  Then, suddenly serious, he fixed her with a stern glare.  “I’m an in’neth; you learned that at the briefing.  What you probably don’t know, is that I’m the first in’neth to emerge from the Well in over a million stellar cycles.”  

Io could only stare at the mech for a moment, surprised.  “That…that can’t be right.”
“Can’t it? Can you name one recently?”

Io lowered her head.  “Well…no.”

“Few could…and they would have to know them all.  Everyone assumes in’neth are rare—that they’ve always been rare—and rightly so; they are. And that means the average ‘Bot isn’t shocked when they don’t meet one.”  Crossarm smiled, weakly.   “Regardless, it’s true; but this hiatus has been… unexpected even for those in the know.”

“Ok…” Io said, questioningly.  Already her processor was abuzz with possibilities, none of them comforting.

“It is believed by some that in’neth are physical manifestations of Primus’ will.  That we are created to fulfill a specific purpose, at a specific time.”  His gaze became distant, thoughtful.  “Consider, if you will, some of the most influential scientists and politicians:  Perceptor, Azimuth, Shockwave, and Sentinel Zeta, to name a few.  All of them were in’neth…and their emergences correlate well with significant world events.”  He began counting off his fingers.  “Perceptor and Azimuth emerged directly before the Great Cataclysm and would go on to found the Patterner Movement; Shockwave emerged during the height of the Quintesson Occupation and if not for his already developed insight into logic, we would never have been able to crack their language; Sentinel Zeta was born with leadership skills that guided us to victory over the Quintessons, ushering in a new, Golden Age of peace and prosperity.”    

Io drew back, surprised.  She would have never pegged Crossarm as a student of history.

“Therefore, I was expected to follow this assumed…” and he couldn’t help but add a generous helping of self-derision. “…grand design. I was supposed to be – or do – something… amazing.”

Then, looking suddenly sad, Crossarm paused and averted his optics.  Tiny tremors raced through his body, causing his armor to clatter.  When he finally spoke, his voice was strained.  “With…with the civil war looming, certain members of the High Council believed that my emergence wasn’t random,” He met her gaze with a look that was almost pleading.  “They thought…that I was Primus’ response to the growing Decepticon movement.”

Io’s optics widened.  The tense that Crossarm had used when mentioning his “emergence”—suggested a very short passage of time, as if he had come online just before the Decepticon/Autobot split.  Even his statement “with civil war looming…” suggested as much.  But that would mean he was young… incredibly young, far younger than she—or anyone else at the clinic—had reasoned.

“When did you emerge?”  She asked after a time, hoping that she was wrong.

The jet didn’t respond, but a sudden dip in his wing position justified her fears.

“You’re a sparkling, aren’t you?”  

“What?” Powerglide gasped, speaking up for the first time in a while.

Evidently he could hear them after all, and was listening intently for all that he should be focused on guard duty. Io couldn’t fault him. Without even knowing what Crossarm was going to reveal, it was a good bet that it was going to be… unique.

Crossarm’s wings lowered even further.  “I..I came online one hundred and fifteen stellar cycles before Halogen’s assassination.  Almost to the date.”

“Primus…” Io swore.  Dismayed, she pinched the bridge of her chevrons.  Crossarm was—by his own admission—only about four hundred stellar cycles old, practically a newborn.  “How can that be possible?” she asked. However, she realized even before Crossarm could answer, that that didn’t matter. If it was true, it was somehow possible. A better question was: “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”  She self-corrected after a time, raising her head and fixing him with pinched optics.  

“Several reasons:  The first being that I was given orders not to.”

“By whom?” Io asked, incredulous.

The young mech frowned.  “Councilors Ratbat and Contrail.”

Powerglide’s voice box made a peculiar growling noise, and Io couldn’t help but commiserate by curling her lip.

Crossarm watched her reaction with a raised brow-ridge.  “You don’t like them?”

“Not many do.”  Io said, darkly.  “Ratbat, especially.”  

The jet nodded.  “He and Contrail were waiting for me at the lip of the Well.  No sooner were both my trods firmly planted on the Deck, they pulled me aside and began to paint this wonderful picture about how important I was, and how much of a difference I could make for Cybertron.”  His expression brightened, and he smiled as if at a happy memory.  “It was wonderful… I mean, it’s not every day someone tells you that you can make a difference…especially since I didn’t get any sense of that on my way out of the Well.” He shrugged his right shoulder-cap.  “My flying skills might be a priori, but like most other ‘Bots that came online around that time, I emerged without any additional sense of identity or purpose.”  He paused, and bowed his head.  “That’s a hard thing to accept. ‘Here you are new to life… and oh, I forgot to tell you, it isn’t worth living.’”
He assumed a slight mocking expression but it was clear that his spark wasn’t in it. After a moment, he settled back into the narrative.

“All I had to do was keep silent about my origins and do exactly as the Councilors instructed…and my future would be set.” A sad frown twisted his features.  "How…how could I say ‘no’?”  

“They were grooming you, weren’t they?  If you were some sort of ‘avatar of Primus’…they wanted you to support the caste system and all the history and politics that started this whole awful business in the first place.”

He nodded.  “I didn’t realize that at first, but…yes.  Yes, they were.”  

“And people wonder why I became a ‘Con…” Io muttered at low volume.  

Crossarm said nothing.

“So, what happened?” Powerglide wondered, stepping closer.  Surprisingly, the tone of his voice carried very little anger or malice.  If anything, he seemed genuinely curious.    

“Well…I,” The young mech paused, seemingly uncertain about what to say.  “I went along
with it.  I mean, could you blame me?  I had the support of two of the most influential politicians on Cybertron.  Elevated as I was, I didn’t have to worry about the energon shortage, nor was I directly reeling from the pre-civil war strife plaguing the masses.”  His gaze brightened.  “I had it all, and I was convinced that all I had to do was wait long enough for Ratbat and Contrail to work their magic, and then I would step out of their shadows into the light of a world that needed my leadership.  A new Golden Age would dawn, and I would be at the center of it. It was certainly better than the picture I was painted upon my emergence.” He paused.  His lips frowned.  “And then, in the blink of an optic, it all ended.”  

“Halogen’s assassination…”  Io mused, thoughtfully.

Crossarm nodded.  He seemed distraught.  “Despite all their kind words and promises, Contrail and Ratbat joined Megatron the moment he declared the Decepticons to be a separate faction.”  His gaze darkened.  “They didn’t care about me; they only wanted power.  With the caste system dissolved, I was no longer the key to keeping them in power…so they joined Megatron. And I was left to fend for myself.”  He cursed under his breath.  “Without them…I had nothing.  The other Councilors never knew I existed; no one did.  I had no file, no energon, no support network, NOTHING!”  He cycled his intakes, venting an exasperated sigh.  “I-in the blink of an optic, I had become the very thing I’d been trained do despise!  A dreg.”  A second sigh was followed by a slight clattering sound as his flared armor returned to rest.  “I eventually wound up in the Lower Wards…”  His voice trailed off, and he averted his optics.  “It was…horrible.”

Io nodded, understandingly.  She had only ever been to the Wards once, helping Ratchet ferry some basic medical supplies to one of the dingy, overcrowded clinics in Orange Sector.  The extreme poverty that she’d seen there reminded her so much of the Kaonian Slums, that she swore she’d never go back.  

“How did you end up at the clinic?” She asked, trying to force back the unpleasant memory.

The mech’s optics dimmed.  “I was starving…and in desperation I tried to break my way through a military checkpoint.  Needless to say, I didn’t get far.”  His wings shuddered.  “When the soldiers ran my genetic code, I was surprised to learn that someone—and before you ask, I don’t know whom—had created a file for me.  And not only that, they’d given me a military rank:  Sergeant.  It was high enough that the soldiers let me go and even apologized for treating me so roughly.  I…I didn’t quite know what to make of the whole situation, but in the end, my physical needs came first…so I ran with it, playing up the part as best I could. I was given energon and told by the commanding officer at the checkpoint to report to the Grand Oratory for reassignment.  That’s where I met Tecate.”    

“That would have been about the time they were expanding the clinic and installing the Bay, right?” Io wondered.

Crossarm nodded.  “Building the Bay was a joint military/civilian venture, and as such Tecate needed an assistant, someone from the military who could act as a liaison between Optimus and the Clinic’s medical staff.  I was hired without question and without any sort of inquiry as to my level of education.  I mean, why would they?”   A dark smirk claimed his lips.  “I was a sergeant in the military…who in their right processor would make me thus without first sending me to school?  And my flying skills…no way someone could get that good without thousands of vorns of training.  Both suggested experience, and, therefore, no one ever contested my age.  I also knew more about history than most scholars, knowledge that I learned from reading first-hand accounts and stories from the Council’s private library.  I could give the impression of age by knowing about events and people that existed tens of thousands of vorns before I was even sparked.”  His smirk disappeared, but the dark gleam to his optics remained.  “I was a sergeant in the military and a mature Cybertronian by anyone’s estimation.  I had a roof over my head, I wasn’t scrounging for energon, and my rank and position gave me the freedom to pursue the same, shall we say, ‘exotic’ forms of entertainment that I had come to enjoy living with Ratbat and Contrail.  I was finally able to live the life that I had been promised…and I wasn’t about to do or say anything that would endanger that.”

As the ‘sergeant’s’ voice faded, Io could only stare at him, mouth hanging open in disbelief.  Even Powerglide said nothing.  

“So…so you,” Io tried, though the shock was still so great as to be an impediment to normal vocal functions.  “You…lied to everyone at the clinic…everyone.” She repeated with extra emphasis.  “Just so you could continue living a lascivious lifestyle?” Her optics narrowed to glowing slits.  “And today, on this mission, you endangered your friends and colleagues, risked the safety of Iacon and the leaders of the Autobot military…just so you could show off for me and pretend to be a hero?”

“Well, when you put that way, it sounds so…”  His sentence was cut short as Io cracked him across the face-plate with her fist.  She didn’t hit him hard enough to do any real damage – she couldn’t with the way she was sitting and there was no reason for her to undo her repairs – but it definitely sent a message.

“Ow! What was that for?” the jet yelped, rubbing the part of his face-plate that had been struck.  “Look, you asked for the truth and I delivered.  I’m sorry that it’s not what you wanted to hear, but I’m being more honest with you, right now, than I’ve ever been with anyone; that should count for something.”  

“Except for all the dead,” Powerglide interjected, but while he definitely was speaking the truth, a lot of the fire of his earlier anger had diminished in the face of these new revelations. Crossarm blanched however and paused in his self-ministrations.

Then he considered the tips of his fingers, almost as if he were looking for spilt energon.  “You left a dent,” he said, almost meekly. It was an attempt at humor, but given the tone of the conversation, the attempt had failed. It was not the time, nor was his spark in it; instead, that one simple, silly act gave the impression that he had just realized that his façade itself was fractured and leaking.

“Good,” Io huffed, bringing her helm to rest against bracer forcefully enough to make a small clang.  “Maybe it’ll teach you a lesson.”  She, too, couldn’t help but echo Powerglide’s sentiments, though like the acrobat, she wasn’t nearly as angry as she should have been.  

Crossarm sat back against the wall, suitably chastised.  

Io closed her optics and sighed.  Could she really blame Crossarm for actions?  No, not really…and that was the most frustrating thing.  He’d been raised by two of the shoddiest ‘Bots that she’d ever met, trained to believe he was some physical manifestation of Primus’ will, and taught to think that excessive drinking and debauchery were acceptable lifestyle choices.  

But they had gotten to him so early, how was he to know that his actions – his lifestyle – were wrong?

Granted, he should have known that lying could have dramatic consequences. But then she had to remind herself that this had been his first mission and that he was little more than a newborn. She could go round and round trying to figure out the nuances of his actions but it all came down to a colossal lack of experience bolstered by almost criminal education.

Another sigh.  His behavior was a byproduct of his upbringing…nothing more.  Though it was tragic that his first real life lesson had to be at the expense of a host of innocent ‘Bots…

A notification flashed in the back of her mind:  Her energon reserves had been reduced by exactly three nars.

Quickly, she disconnected her side of the line first, pressing her finger against her protoform to restrict energon flow enough for the line to seal itself.  She then removed Crossarm’s portion, instructing him on how to keep the line from leaking while it self-repaired.

“How do you feel?” She asked, rising to her trods.  

“Better,” he replied, following suit and forcing a smile.  “Nauseous, but better.”  

“The nausea will go away in a few cycles,” Io explained, stowing the line in her bracer.  “Run a diagnostic on your weapons and energon synogent subsystems.”  She met his gaze.  “You’ll be a perching vitose if you can’t defend yourself.”

Crossarm nodded, and his optics pinned as he focused his processor to the task.  “There’s some minor damage to my right weapon assembly, but…” he hesitated and then shook his head, fixing Io with a tired smile. “It’s mostly cosmetic.”

She smiled in return, despite herself. While she may wish he could change in an instant, he really was a polished aft. Any real change would take time… probably inordinate amounts of time.

“Seems like I’m good to go.”

The femme nodded.  “Now, here’s the million nar question:  How much formal combat training have you had?”

“None.” He replied without hesitation but, as he did so, he averted his gaze.

Io sighed and a short, awkward silence formed between them.

Then he added: “I’m sorry…”

At his tone, Io’s head snapped to attention and she studied his face-plate for several long moments.  He seemed…genuine.  “I…” She tried, though her voice-box hadn’t quite caught up with her processor.  “I suppose I can teach you a thing or two about ground combat…” Then, buoyed by a sudden surge of compassion from her spark, she smiled and said.  “Assuming you’d be a willing student, that is.”

Crossarm’s optics widened.  It was clear from the look on his face-plate that he hadn’t expected anything even approaching her offer, and his sudden, and enthusiastic, response was…adorable.  “Yes!  Yes, I would.”

Io’s expression broadened—it couldn’t be helped—and after a moment, she looked over at Powerglide.  The acrobat still seemed to be reeling from the events of the day, but his optics did brighten slightly, his version of a smile.

“So, what’s the plan?” He asked after a moment.  

Io crossed her arms and fixed both mechs with a contemplative stare.  “I think it’s imperative that we reach the surface and reestablish contact with the clinic.  We should also keep our optics open for any Autobot survivors.”  She shook her head.   “If we were able to make it through the collapse, it’s not too much of a stretch to assume others made it as well.”

“And…if we encounter any ‘Cons?” Crossarm asked.

“We kill them.” Io said flatly.    

The faux sergeant looked stunned.  “Y-you…” He attempted, his voice rising to a higher octave. “You do realize that I’ve never killed anyone before today, right?”  His laterals began to heave.  “That drone--the one that sent out the warning--he was my first kill.  That’s why I missed…” He lowered his head.  “I hesitated…and…”  His voice faded to static, and he shifted, nervously, back and forth on the tips of his trods.  “I-I…I don’t know if I can take another life like that.”  

Powerglide’s optics narrowed and he moved as if to make some sort of snide comment, but Io cut him off with a glare.  “I understand how you feel,” She said, nudging Crossarm’s bracer.  “But if you want to see Iacon again, you’re going to have to follow the Law of the Wilderness:  Kill or be killed.  A Decepticon soldier or drone will not hesitate to snuff your spark; don’t give them that opportunity.  That’s my first lesson to you.”  Her expression gentled.  “But the remorse that you feel, the compassion that you extend towards those that you’ll be forced to destroy…hold on to that.  It won’t make killing any less painful, but it sets you apart from the Decepticons. They only kill to further their own ambitions.”  She smiled.  “That’s lesson number two.”

Crossarm absorbed all of this with wide optics and trembling wings.  

“I know I’m putting a lot on your shoulder-caps,” She said after a cycle.  “And no sparkling should have to learn how to kill…but this is the price that we have to pay for our civilization’s shortsightedness.”  

“Y-you…” Crossarm stammered.  “You’ll help me through this?”

Io smiled.  “As best as I can, I will.”  

The young jet seemed pleased with her response, and his wings perked up.  “I…Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet.  We’ve still got a long day ahead of us.”  With a dark chuckle, she looked up at Powerglide.  “Do you remember the path that you took to get down here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”  

Io smiled.  “Then, lead the way.”

Powerglide nodded, activated the lights on his wings, and without another word, turned and started off into the haze, his hand motioning for them to follow.

end part one