"…so goodbye, everybody, and remember the terrible lesson you learned tonight. That grinning, glowing, globular invader of your living room is an inhabitant of the pumpkin patch, and if your doorbell rings and nobody's there, that was no Martian – it's Halloween."

"Heh… classic," Hound chuckled, and switched off his radio. It wasn't really Halloween – they had a month to go before that holiday rolled around – but one of the local radio stations had decided to kick off the month with a replay of Orson Welles' War of the Worlds radio broadcast. And while not quite the connoisseur of Earth culture that Jazz and Tracks were, Hound still enjoyed sampling the entertainment this planet had to offer, even if it was from decades ago.

As he slowed down to navigate a twist in the road ahead, he wondered if the replay of the broadcast would start a panic similar to the one that had gripped the country back when the radio play had first aired. Somehow he doubted it. Humans today were far more cynical, and would write off the idea of Martians as ridiculous or a practical joke. That, and fewer people listened to the radio anymore – he wouldn't be surprised if he was the only being tuning in to the broadcast tonight.

The road veered into another tight turn, and he slowed down even further. Night had fallen completely by this point, and though a full moon shone in the sky overhead it was still tricky trying to navigate this winding road through the forest. The close-growing trees looming on each side made him feel as if he were enclosed in shadow, and his headlights seemed to do little to penetrate the blackness. And the fact that it had been hours since he'd seen another vehicle or a sign of habitation, human or otherwise, only made the night seem all the more lonely… and threatening.

Okay, knock it off, Hound, he told himself with a slight chuckle. You're not a sparkling, you're a big 'bot now. The worst you'll run into out here is a bear, maybe a cougar, and they're not about to attack an Autobot.

Still, it was one thing to tell himself that, quite another to believe it. Not for the first time, he wished he'd taken Jazz's advice to take backup with him on this mission. Some company would have been nice – Bluestreak or Wheeljack, or even Cosmos…

Too late for that now, of course, but at least he was done with what he came out to do – find the ship that had crashed in the Appalachian Forest, confirm if it was Cybertronian in origin or not, check for survivors, and tag it for the recovery crews to retrieve. That was over and done with, and now he could head back to their temporary base in Richmond. If they required him to come back and help with the retrieval… well, at least that would be in full daylight.

It wasn't that he was a coward – far from it. But there was something odd about these woods, an ancient presence in the very trees that seemed to watch him and disapprove of his very presence. It might only be the first of October, but this seemed a fitting enough place for a cadre of Autobots to spend the month known for the supernatural and mystic.

Not that there was anything mystic about that shipwreck, he thought with another slight chuckle, mostly to try and shake off his unsettled feeling. Just an empty escape pod. Must've been jettisoned by accident, or whoever was inside bailed already. In that case I guess we'd better be careful…

A flash of movement caught his optical sensors, and he slowed to a stop. What was that? Hopefully just his overactive imagination…

There. He hadn't imagined it – something had moved in the trees. Not just an animal either, but moonlight reflected off metal. Immediately he shut off his headlights, shifting to robot mode and peering into the darkness. It looked as if he'd found the escape pod's missing occupant.

"You there!" he called out. "This is Autobot Hound of Optimus Prime's forces! Come out with your hands where I can see them!"

Branches crackled as whoever-it-was plunged further into the trees. Hound gusted a sigh and stepped off the road, moving to follow the retreating form. So they were going to make this difficult, were they? At least they hadn't started fighting right off the bat – which most likely meant that it wasn't a Decepticon. Maybe a neutral, or an Autobot who was so badly spooked that he wasn't about to take Hound's words at face value.

Hound to base, come in.

Roger-dodger, Hound, Jazz responded. 'Sup?

I think I've found whoever was in that ship that went down. Requesting backup to apprehend them.

Can do. Sendin' Blue an' Windcharger out to help bring 'im in. Look like a Decepticon at all?

I haven't gotten a good look at them yet. They haven't started shooting, that's a good sign…

More snapping and rustling sounded behind him, and he whirled, gun raised. The mech wasn't trying to flee – they had been moving deeper into the woods and around Hound, trying to ambush him from behind.

"Don't move or I'll shoot!" Hound called out. "We can do this quietly and save both of us a lot of pain."

A deep-throated snarl was his response, and a stooped, hulking form leaped out of the trees. Its black-and-gunmetal plating was scratched and dented, and one deep-violet optic was spider-webbed with cracks. It was bipedal with powerful arms and a wicked-looking cannon mounted on one shoulder, but otherwise it looked purely monstrous – faceplates sculpted into a long lupine muzzle, jutting metallic fangs instead of normal dental plates, fingers ending in pointed tips like claws, and legs that bent the wrong way at the knee joints. This wasn't a normal Cybertronian – this was some kind of monster… a Horrorcon, if such a thing existed.

"Scrap," Hound cursed, and fired.

The creature yipped as the blast hit the left side of its chest, and it shook itself like a wet turbohound. Then, as if the blast had been little more than an annoyance, it gathered itself to spring. Hound squeezed off another shot, trying for the head – if a blast to the chest hadn't worked, maybe he could at least hit the CPU…

The monster-mech launched itself at him, completely ignoring the blasts of his weapon. Hound dropped the gun, cursing its uselessness, and fought back as best he could, trying to jam his fingers into the cables and tubing at the neck. Claws and fangs squealed against his plating, stripping off ribbons of paint and leaving deep scratches, but otherwise the beast was eerily silent as it bit and scratched at him. It wasn't just trying to fight him off – it was intent on killing him.

Hound, ya there? Jazz shouted over the comm. Roger me, Wilco! What's goin' on over there?

I'm under attack! Hound responded. Tell Bluestreak and Windcharger to step on it!

Right on it! Guess it was a 'Con after all!

I'd appreciate it if you stopped talking! I need to focus on-

Too late. Jazz's distraction gave the creature the opening it needed to clamp its fangs into Hound's shoulder joint. The scout screamed as powerful pistons in the monster-mech's jaws drove its teeth deep into the metal, crushing and tearing, sending oil and hydraulic fluid spraying onto the ground and foliage around them.

HOUND!

The roar of engines had never sounded so welcome to the scout's audials, nor had the whine of Bluestreak's ion cannons. The monster-mech snarled again, hunching low over Hound's prone form as if reluctant to leave its prey, but another round of fire finally sent it loping off into the forest, fluids still dripping from its jaws. By the time the Autobots charged into the trees and reached Hound's side, it had vanished.

"Hound, are you all right?" Bluestreak shouted. "Oh Primus, you're not all right… just hold still, we'll call Ratchet, he'll come and get you all fixed up – oh Primus, there's oil! Windcharger, he's leaking!"

"Then shut your trap and try to stop it!" Windcharger snapped, kneeling down and grabbing Hound's shoulder in an effort to pinch off the leaking tubing. "Or go find that thing before it kills somebody! What was that anyhow? Didn't get a good look at it…"

Hound got the feeling that he should say something in response, but renewed pain flashed through his chassis at Windcharger's grip, and he blacked out.

"I swear you idiots can't go anywhere without getting holes punched in your chassis," Ratchet grumbled, not looking up from working on Hound's shoulder. "And it couldn't be something simple like a gunshot or a knife wound. No, you had to get bit by something or other! Right on a joint no less!"

"It's not like I stuck my arm in its mouth," Hound protested. "Believe me, this wasn't high on my list of priorities."

The temporary Autobot base in Richmond, Virginia had been established in a converted warehouse, and at the moment played host to five mechs and the ruins of the recovered spacecraft. Wheeljack and Cosmos examined the craft inside and out, taking readings and image scans and investigating its damages. Ratchet worked on patching Hound up in one corner, while Jazz sat at a computer console in another corner and watched the proceedings with interest. Bluestreak and Windcharger were on their way back to the forest where Hound had been ambushed, checking to see if his attacker had returned to the scene and collecting any evidence that might help identify him or her.

"All right, I've done all I can," Ratchet muttered, closing the mangled panel over the shoulder joint. "Your range of motion's going to be fairly limited until we can get you back to base and replace the ball and socket. Whatever mauled you did a damned good job of it."

Hound flexed the joint experimentally and winced as a jagged bit of metal caught a cable. "I thought it was a spooked neutral or something. I wasn't expecting a Horrorcon."

"Not this again," Ratchet groaned. "For the last time, Hound, Horrorcons are a myth. A bedtime story that creators tell their sparklings to get them to behave."

"I dunno, Ratchet," Wheeljack pointed out, poking his head out of the spacecraft's interior. "Most of those stories stick around because there's a grain of truth to them. Maybe creatures like Horrorcons really exist, we just haven't seen much of them until now."

Jazz shrugged. "If monster mechs with a cravin' for Cybertronian fluids an' alloys really existed, ya think our scientists woulda bagged a specimen by now. I'm guessin' whatever took a bite outta Hound was just some new model o' Insecticon, not a thing outta someone's nightmares."

"I know what I saw," Hound insisted, lowering his arm. "It was no Insecticon. It was a Horrorcon."

The saboteur shook his head with a bit of a chuckle. "Ya been watchin' horror movies again, haven't ya, Hound? I know it's that time o' the year, but they ain't exactly documentaries."

"It was a Horrorcon," Hound repeated firmly as he pushed himself to his feet. "I would bet my spark on it."

"I believe him," Cosmos insisted from his perch on the crushed nosecone of the escape pod. "Hound has never been known to lie before. If he says he saw a Horrorcon, I believe him."

"He's not a liar, and we never said he was," Ratchet said testily. "But even our optics glitch from time to time. And given that it was dark and Hound's systems were over-stimulated by the attack, it's entirely possible his CPU just leaped to the worst possible conclusion. At any rate, once we catch whatever did this, we can finally put this whole Horrorcon business to rest."

Hound sighed deeply but decided to drop the matter. No amount of arguing was going to change Ratchet or Jazz's minds. But hopefully Bluestreak and Windcharger were able to locate the creature… and THEN, perhaps, the others would believe him.

"'Jack, Cozzy, whatcha got for us?" Jazz asked.

"It's definitely an escape pod," Wheeljack replied. "No faction markings, so I'm gonna assume it's neutral. Looks like a single-occupant model, so unless they tried to cram it full in a panic, there should only be the one passenger running around."

"Let us hope it's only one," Cosmos said with a shudder. "Horrorcon or not, if it could hurt Hound like that, I don't want to meet another one."

Jazz nodded. "We'll put out a warnin' to the human media an' police. Whatever this thing is, we don't want it messin' with a human…"

The rumble of an engine cut off the rest of his sentence, and Windcharger pulled into the warehouse.

"They can't be back already," Ratchet scowled. "They've only been gone a few hours!"

"Maybe they found it right away and shot it?" Hound suggested. Though if that was the case, he thought they would have at least radioed for backup.

"'Charger, whatcha find?" asked Jazz.

Windcharger transformed and stretched his arms to work out the kinks in his joints. Hound decided that already he didn't like the look of smug amusement on the minibot's face. Had they just performed the most minimal of searches before coming back?

"We found Hound's Horrorcon," he replied, grinning.

Jazz cocked his head curiously. "And?"

Bluestreak pulled into the garage at that moment, followed by a sleek, black-and-gunmetal vehicle covered in scratches and dents. Hound's tanks clenched in recognition… but there was no way that this vehicle – a sporty Cybertronian alt mode, the equivalent of a human's luxury car – could be the creature he encountered last night. There was no way the bulk of the Horrorcon could fold up this small, unless he could stow his extra components into subspace like Blaster…

The mech transformed, and Hound felt his hopes fall even further. He was short, just barely taller than a minibot, and as sleek as his alt mode implied. His helm bore an ornate pair of headfins, almost like Blurr or Drift, and he carried himself with the easy grace of a noblemech. In robot mode his black and gunmetal were accented with turquoise and chrome, and his sea-blue optics shone with curiosity and good humor. Despite the similarity of his colors and the absurd-looking cannon on one shoulder… there was no way this could be the beast that Hound had encountered last night. And yet…

"This is Dashboard," Bluestreak said by way of introduction. "He's a neutral whose ship came under attack about a quartrex ago. His escape pod crashed here, but he just came out of stasis a couple nights ago, he says. He's pretty excited to hear Optimus Prime is here and is hoping he can get sanctuary aboard the Ark until he figures out where to go next."

Dashboard chuckled. "Took the words right out of my vocalizer, this one. Yes, he's about summed it all up."

Hound opened and shut his mouth a few times before he could get the words out. "But… you… I thought…"

"Oh right… about last night." Dashboard gave an embarrassed grin. "Sorry for the close-range shot from my distortion cannon. I sort of panicked. I hope you can forgive me?"

Hound shook his head. "That wasn't a distortion cannon… something bit me, I swear…"

Ratchet waved his protests away. "You can stop that right now, Hound. Just admit your Horrorcon turned out to be something less than horrible. We all make mistakes, but don't compound yours by insisting it wasn't a mistake."

"Horrorcon?" asked Dashboard, raising an optic ridge. "It sounds like there's an entertaining story behind this."

"Glad someone thinks it's entertaining," Ratchet huffed. "No, Hound just let his CPU get filled with stories and mistook you for something you weren't. Let's get you back to the Ark so we can figure out what the slag to do with you. Everyone pack up, we're done here."

Hound opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it, defeat weighing down his spark. He swore that what he'd seen last night wasn't just a terrified neutral with a distortion cannon, but an actual creature. And yet his story had been shot down on all fronts. He had no proof except for his own word… and he was starting to doubt that more by the second.

Maybe it was a trick of the light, he decided glumly. Or that War of the Worlds broadcast kicked my imagination into overdrive. It seemed so real… but I guess I'm just a daydreamer at spark.

Jazz came up and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry 'bout it, Hound. Everybody makes mistakes."

"I know," Hound replied. "But never quite this embarrassing."

The Porsche chuckled and patted his shoulder again. "Don't worry, it's the start of Halloween season. It's a bit early, but we can always say ya just wanted to kick things off with a bang." He laughed briefly, but cut his laughter off quickly and yanked his hand back. "Sorry."

"For what? I'm the one that should be sorry, I got us all riled up for nothing."

"Not that. Sorry for touchin' your shoulder. The one that got wrecked."

Hound frowned and lifted his arm, noting that the cable no longer caught when he moved and flexed the joint in his shoulder. "It didn't hurt, though. In fact, it feels a lot better."

"Huh. Still, have Ratch give it another look 'fore you do anything too major with it." He patted Hound's other shoulder. "Let's transform an' roll out. We got a long drive back to the Ark."

Hound nodded and folded into his Jeep mode. Odd… his self-repair had never worked that quickly before. He wondered if the distortion cannon's effects had something to do with it. Maybe Ratchet could provide some answers once they reached a proper medical bay.