Prowl's back slammed against the wall as a barrage of laserblasts crisped the paint on his doorwings, narrowly missing his head and taking chunks out of the tumbledown remains of the building he'd sheltered in. His comm screeched; whatever interference had been jamming it finally lifted, possibly thanks to the barrage that had knocked out almost everything else in the air. "Tactical," he rapped out, processor already recalculating how to turn the remains of the army around and push into the battered Decepticon line.

//Oh thank Primus someone's there, we've lost our captain, we're stuck in-//

"Burst me the co-ordinates," Prowl interrupted, brisk and already on the move away from the gun emplacement blocking his previous route. "I'm on my way."

No plan survived contact with the enemy. And no tactician did either, unless they could think on the move.