~~MY IMMORTAL~~

By Ayngel


Fic Written for Robotbigbang 1012

Wonderful art which goes with this fic can be found at: http: .com21418. html. If you can't find it PM me and I will send the link.

Main Characters: Shrapnel, Hook, Kickback, Scavenger, Scrapper. Also: Bombshell, Bonescrusher, Mixmaster, Longhaul, Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Rumble.

Rating: NC 17

Warnings: The story contains Insecticon/Constructicon sex, sticky, P&P, tactile, oral. Explicit - please don't read if you don't like sticky. Also has a form of BDSM, violent noncon insecticon/conehead sex, prostitution, drug use and energon drinking in a quite vampiric style which some may not like. Notions of procreation, of the cloning type. Definitely not mechpreg, however. Although this fic has some dark 'moments,' I'm also warning for fluff/angst/romance - and crack.

This chapter: warnings for implied mechsex and attraction, fluff and angst.

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or make any money from this story.

Summary: Not long after their reactivation on Earth, the Constructicons struggle with various issues, trying to become functional. When Kickback is admitted to the Decepticon medbay after an attack by the coneheads, Hook finds himself deeply attracted to Shrapnel, and swept into a realm of new possibilities. Meanshile Kickback and Scavenger also develop a liking for each other. Will this destroy the Constructicons?

Or could the Insecticon agenda and the new liaisons actually improve matters?

Notes: Re the Insecticons: Coleoptera are an order of insects known as betteles. Hence Bombshell and Shrapnel are 'Coleopterans.' Orthoptera are an order of insects which includes grasshoppers and crickets. Hence Kickback is an 'Orthopteran.'

Headcanon: I have imported some form other stories. namely:

(1) The Constructicons were with the Decepticons when they came to earth, but in stasis. They were ereactivated following their building 'in the cavens' in 'Heavy Metal War.'

(2) The Insecticons are an altogether different species. They originate from the Pleides star cluster (in the constellation of Taurus) and were refugees, among many who fled to various corners of the galaxy. Originally insectoid, These three wound up on Quintessa, and became were modified to become wholly Cybertic Insecticons. Hence their extraordinary powers.

(3) Cybertron prior tot he war was a republic, which became inefficient and corrupt.

(4) Hook and First Aid were before the war in a relationship. It didn't work out, and they went their seperate ways. The Constructicons became a gestalt some time during the war.

Thank you to all who gave me encouragement with this story. It's taken me a couple of months to write, and is, I think, the most ambitious thing I've attempted so far.

ENJOY!


PROLOGUE

Afternoon. Decepticon base. Some time in 1984.

From the Journal of Scrapper, Constructicon Leader, Decepticon Command Earth Contingent 1984.

Today, I spoke with Viewfinder, who seems to be leader of the Reflector triplets. He did not tell me much I don't already know. It's not as if Reflector wasn't out of action for almost as long as us – even if he wasn't in spark separation stasis. He said one thing though. There's Insecticons on Earth.

"Yeah?" I said. "I didn't think any survived beyond the war."

Viewie shrugged. These three did. Ha! And a lot more than just survive. Mind you, they ain't your run of the mill, live in the ghettos in Kaon Insecticons. These three, they got … powers. And they transform. Soundwave reckons the Quints had a go at them sometime."

By that he meant the Quintessons, of course. Not seen or heard of for millennia – even before we left Cybertron. But still out there, making their mark on the universe. So it was said.

"They tracked us to Cybertron," Viewie went on. "But they got an escape pod. Fraggers survived. And whaddya know? While we're cooped up in that mountain for four million years, they're out and about bringing on the planetary evolution stuff. You know - ice ages, heat surges, species extinction – that kinda thing. They even got blamed for a meteor impact. They eat a lot, see?"

This – apparently - explained everything.

I confess to having been curious. "And Megatron tolerates them?" I said. He had found allies among minorities and refugees prior to the war. But it had not been without complications.

Viewie smirked. "Megatron didn't have much choice. The one with the lightning antlers – phewie! Even Megs realized we're better off with him onside. Besides …" he cackled. "That one's proved handy around the base. Keeps certain mechs happy – if you know what I mean."

It was pretty obvious what he meant – which made me more curious still, as there are those among us, such as Seekers, who are selective in their facing partners. "Well, I doubt we'll have much to do with them," I said. "We've got a heavy schedule. And our work cut out with this Transfixatron thing.

He had an odd look on his face. "That Shrapnel – kinda messed up our plans," he said. "Coneheads– we sorta liked 'em. Y'know? Spyglass and Spectro – they like it a bit – rough. Now we're without. So if any of you Constructicons could do with a bit of …"

"We look after our own needs, buddy," I cut him off. Not unkindly, but in such a way that I hoped he wouldn't push it. He didn't.

So that was who this Insecticon 'serviced'. That creep Dirge and the other recently arrived jerks. Now things made sense. Who else would wanna face with them?

As for Reflector, I won't tell the others of Viewfinder's desires. It will only cause problems. We need to keep our facing intra-team at present. With Hook's depression, Longhaul's despondency, Mixmaster's substance abuse problems, Bonecrusher's anger management and Scavenger's self worth issues, we have enough to sort out without adding complications.

But I will tell Hook of the Insecticons. He is interested in aliens. It might give him something to study. This in turn might relieve his melancholic state.

I hope something does. It's really eating me.

PART 1

Decepticon Base, Pacific Ocean, 1984

Whatever was in Mixmaster's latest concoction, it did the trick; for in his quarters on the undersea base, Hook recharged soundly. Some time in the early hours, however, this changed. The usual alarm signalled the activation of the access tower, and then there were other sounds; the shouting of drunken voices and heavy footsteps, a crash as of something falling, followed by raucous laughter.

Slagging coneheads. Hook kept his optics firmly offline, determined that the whole of him would stay that way. But it was too late. The noises receded. Onlinedness, however, did not.

As usual, he was bombarded by thoughts which were the opposite of cheering. The claustrophobic base with the infernal fish perpetually passing the windows. The organicness of the planet. The coming online in a backwater of the universe to find the war still going on. The conflict - after millions of years - no further advanced.

Mechs like those Coneheads.

Worse, himself in the same situation.

Yes – that. It was not that Hook disliked his team mates. He had no choice but to like them. The gestalt programme ordained nothing less, and even before they hitched up they'd been 'mates.' But that did not stop the sure knowledge that, really and truly, Hook could have done better.

First Aid had been right. He was too good for all this. He should have stayed solo.

With a sigh, Hook turned over. He was well awake now, engulfed by these depressing truths, the potion's alleviating effects exhausted.

Trouble was, there was no way out of it. If Hook did not make a go of this, did not star as Devastator's head component and pave the way for their egomaniacal leader to rule the universe, then the egomaniacal leader's number two would simply remove their sparks. He would put them back in stasis, as they had been for some four and a half million years before Shockwave had activated them for the 'heavy metal war', as it had come to be known.

And it was not that this, in itself, was a problem – for there was nothing unpleasant in spark separation status. No thoughts, no pain. Just nothing. It was not like personality isolation as with that mind prison. When you came out, it was like you just came back online.

But the familiar chill shivered through Hook's circuits. All that nothingness, while life went on without him. And that did not compare to the worst aspect: the not knowing, when you went under, whether you would ever come back again.

Death. So final. To not exist forever. For the universe to continue to eternity without him in it. Despite watching countless mechs die, Hook had never fully realized the implications for himself; not until he was fighting with every last piece of self control to not show what an appalling prospect his possible 'death' was. A battle he'd nearly lost. Had it not been for Scrapper.

The door opened. Hook's optics were still offline. But he knew it was Scrapper. Talk of the devil.

"Hey!" Scrapper said. "You awake?" That insufferable enthusiasm. It always seemed to be there. Even at spark separation.

"No," said Hook, hating the cheeriness, the fact that Scrapper had no problem staying up late; that the mech relished devoting himself to hapless universe-conquering projects, and didn't think about failure and futility or death.

Scrapper came over. He perched on the edge of the berth. "There's been some trouble," he said. "There's a job."

At least it wasn't that Transfixatron. "If it's Coneheads, they can fix themselves."

"It isn't Coneheads. Its an Insecticon."

Hook's optics onlined. That did make matters slightly more interesting. He'd always been intrigued by Insecticons, had studied some in Kaon before the war. Scrapper had said some were here; three strays who'd escaped in a pod before it crashed. Hook had liked the story when he'd heard it. Their ingenuity was admirable. He'd hoped to make contact.

But it hadn't happened. The Insecticons had kept to themselves, allegedly in a forest on the mainland. They came to the base occasionally, it was said, but Hook had never seen them.

"It's the smaller one with the wings," Scrapper said. "Orthopteran, they call his species. He's not in a good way. Coneheads grabbed him last night and did a number …" he hesitated. "They wanted to see if he was as good as Shrapnel."

Hook came more online. He leaned up on one elbow. "What do you mean?"

Scrapper let out a sigh. "The antlered one. Shrapnel. He's been – er – servicing the Coneheads. He's expensive though. Story goes they felt like a freebie …"

Scrapper snorted. "They didn't get one by all accounts. Kickback may be small but he's fast. He didn't get off unscathed, though. The others brought him in."

"They're prostitutes?" Frankly, that was astounding. And not without intrigue.

"Only Shrapnel." Scrapper looked at him sharply. Don't even think about it was written all over his face. "The other's a medic of sorts. A psychiatrist."

Hook flopped back and stared at the ceiling. Scrapper was getting paranoid. As if he, Hook, would actually pay! Nevertheless, he could not help wondering what the Insecticon had that could induce the Coneheads to do that. They were definitely not sexy, but they were notoriously stingy. Obviously, however, he was not about to find out.

Scrapper was still on the berth. Hook saw that he'd taken off his mask. "Kickback's in medbay," he was saying. "But there's no hurry. If you know what I mean." His optics glinted.

Hook did know. And had he still been consumed by negativity, doom and gloom then he would doubtless have ignored the urgings of the gestalt programming to strengthen the team cohesion. He would have pushed Scrapper away, allowing his annoyance with the leader to make itself clear. Enthused, however, by this new revelation, succumbing was pleasant.

"Alas the Coneheads," he said sweetly. "What a dreadful fate. Whereas I …" his lips brushed Scrapper's helm, "have all I need. Right here. For free."

That ought to please Scrapper, Hook surmised. It did. Happy to be pulled on to the berth, and more than ready for the passionate kiss which followed, the leader responded enthusiastically.

...

Shrapnel's antlers twitched as he regarded the cricket on the edge of the medberth.

Kickback's shoulders were hunched, his long legs dangling. Dings and scuffs covered the purple and black frame. One wing was torn, an antenna twisted; the remaining one twitching spasmodically as it sought to compensate for the reduction in the Insecticon's ability to sense his environment. From an arm in a sling, wires protruded.

It was some relief that this was not, in fact, as bad as it looked. There was nothing which could not be patched, in conjunction with Kickback's superior self repairs. The medic, so long as he was competent, would not even have to particularly know about Insecticons; Kickback would soon be good as new.

But Kickback had been frightened, his pride dented – even though he would never admit it. And because of that, because of the dejection now inherent in the normally irrepressible Orthopteran, a need for revenge burned in Shrapnel. The Coneheads would pay.

Not that this was apparent. Both he and Bombshell remained perfectly calm, their dark faces expressionless. There was no need to get 'hyped up' and storm the corridors of the base, loudly proclaiming intentions, as the Decepticons were wont to do. Vengeance was simply an inevitable event, a consequence of the Insecticon way. It could wait. Kickback's health, for now, took priority.

On the cricket's face, a frown was forming – and it wasn't all to do with the fight. Or the wait. Shrapnel said nothing. He didn't want another interrogation again about his 'activities,' about the rationale behind the interface with the Coneheads. There would be another row about cloning, about the amalgamation program, and another outburst about using Coleopteran, not Orthopteran models.

Kickback was, in fact, included more than he thought. It was just that the choice for amalgamation was … delicate. Kickback's facing partners here so far, had been unsuitable prospects. Autobots. Definitely not combined cloning material.

Nevertheless, Shrapnel would have spoken more, given the animosity this had caused between them in recent times. But Bombshell was adamant. If nothing else, timing was crucial. "Get your own program underway first," he had insisted. Not that this was without 'hitches;' for with tonight's events, the Coneheads had ended their chances. Shrapnel would discuss it with Bombshell later.

Time ticked on. Kickback shifted restlessly. They had been here for a while. Tension grew. His impatience finally spilled over. "I don't want a slaggin' Decepticon medic!" he snapped. "Why don't you do the stick back together thing, Bombshell?"

"Now Kickback!" Bombshell frowned. "That is an act of necromancy, as you know well, and works only in cases of dismemberment. As does the fact that it only works on Coleopterans such as Shrapnel and I."

"Oh of course, how could I forget?" Kickback's heels scuffed the side of the berth. "It's like everything else around here, innit!"

A wave went through Shrapnel's circuits. He felt probably the closest thing to affection at that moment that an Insecticon could. If only we were not different species he thought again. And if only we could amalgamate Coleopteran and Orthopteran, there would be no need for the program! But no, he must not get 'soft.' When Kickback was vulnerable, it was tempting to succumb to very un -Coleopteran notions. But this was not the Way.

"You must keep your strength up, Kickback, Kickback!" he hissed. "Now stop whining, whining." His antlers glowed, an iridescent blue-grey.

Kickback looked furious. "You'd be whining if your wing was torn in half!" he snapped. "And you'd especially be whining if it was my bloody fault it happened!"

Bombshell looked stern. "There's no need for that language," he cautioned. "You know very well that Shrapnel has been not only procuring high quality energon, but also uncovering a number of Decepticon initiatives Megatron believes are held secret. And I hardly have to mention the gains for the cloning process."

Oh no, he mentioned it. Luckily, however, Kickback was focused on other things. He clutched his injured arm, scowling.

"If this medical moron doesn't show up soon, I'm gonna kick a hole in that wall!"

"Kickback! Do you want me to have to use a cerebroshell?"

Shrapnel sighed inwardly. This perpetual bickering! And after all these aeons, Bombshell had no idea how to handle the cricket. Not that he, Shrapnel, always did much better - but at least he didn't come out with things like that, guaranteed to inflame the situation. As if Bombshell would use a cerebro anyway. He was saving them for very different things.

But before Kickback could answer, the door whooshed open and a lanky, angular green mech entered. He paused, his optics widening at the Insecticon trio.

Shrapnel did a quick scan of his frame. Long purple legs were attached to a compact, tough looking green body. His chest was purple and green, attached to it some kind of pivot device. Behind him, a metal scoop dangled like a tail.

Pastel shades of electric blue scintillated briefly through Shrapnel's antlers. He coughed slightly to hide his amusement. Cybertronians! He would never cease to be amazed by the alt forms they came up with. Still, it wasn't displeasing. And Kickback seemed to like what he saw. His optics had settled on the purple legs. Anything for a quite life. It was an improvement on minibots.

Bombshell cleared his throat. He held out a hand. "Hook, I presume?" he said.

The mech looked nervous. "Er – no. I'm Scavenger. Hook's – on his way. I'm your nurse for today. We take it in turns, see?"

Shrapnel was intrigued. His antlers twitched, curiously. "We, we?"

Scavenger swallowed, visibly. He took a deep intake. "Yeah! There's six of us Constructicons. We came online lately. We build things. When we're not being Devastator, and Hook's not doing things medical. I'm not always a nurse. I'm a geologist!"

Shrapnel was pleased. This apparent urge to blurt out reams of useful information was promising. The mech's fear was also... respectful; as was deserved. It made up for Seekers and Coneheads, their arrogance and braggartry.

"Ah yes," Bombshell was saying. "Shockwave's combiner. Fascinating technology!"

Scavenger looked at Kickback. "I'm supposed to like – examine him. Hook said …."

"Splendid idea!" Bombshell rubbed his hands together. "Go right ahead!"

It was another wrong thing to say.

Kickback erupted. "How dare you just give him permission, just like that!" he yelled.

He scuttled back on the berth. "Keep away from me!" Scavenger's legs, evidently, had lost their attraction.

Scavenger, who evidently hadn't noticed the leg thing, looked stricken. "I'll be gentle, honest!"

Kickback was all wide optics and twitching antennae. Shrapnel wondered if this was anti Bombshell behaviour, or if the Coneheads had frightened Kickback more than he'd given them credit for.

"Don't be silly, Kickback, Kickback. This is a medical thing, thing!" He tried to sound soothing. But the cricket was having none of it. He shrank back, wincing at the obvious pain.

It had been a long night. Bombshell's horn twitched, his patience wearing thin. "I think perhaps I will have to use a cerebro, Shrapnel. If you could hold him down …"

"Noooo!" Injured though he may have been, Kickback still managed to transform with great speed. Bombshell and Shrapnel sidestepped as Kickback's powerful back legs aimed forcefully in their direction. Caught unawares, Scavenger was not so lucky. He hurtled into a nearby trolley. Mech and trolley crashed to the floor.

"Kickback, that was totally uncalled for!" Bombshell looked furious as he strode over to the cricket. Meanwhile Scavenger, his embarrassment obvious, picked himself up and struggled to regain his composure.

"Tch tch tch, we really do need to improve your berthside manner, Scavenger."

Shrapnel had not heard the door open again.

The voice was melodious, sarcasm tinged with amusement. Looking for its source, Shrapnel saw that another mech had appeared in the doorway.

Shrapnel perked up. This one was green and purple like the other but taller, and different. Angular, but somehow more aesthetic. On his back was another haulage device. A hook dangled near his waist.

Bright optics swept the scene, keen and red in a sculptured, intelligent face. So this is Hook, Shrapnel thought. He is - striking.

Scavenger was back on his feet, the trolley righted. "Hook," he said, looking awkward. "I was just sorting things out." He pointed at Kickback. "He's frightened, see? About his wing. He's gotta get restrained."

Hook nodded. His presence seemed to have affected everyone. Kickback, who had transformed, straightened himself stiffly and resumed his position. Bombshell stepped back. Shrapnel noted that energon now oozed from Kickback's wing. Silly Orthopteran, he thought, rather fondly. But mainly, his attention was on Hook.

"Restraint?" Hook raised an optic ridge. "I hardly think that'll be necessary."

He sauntered across; a slightly lopsided gait with a long stride. His optics flickered over the cricket's frame, as a long finger ran along the broken edges of the wing. Kickback tensed, but did not protest. A crooked smile appeared on Hook's face.

"I think there are less drastic measures than a cerebroshell …." He nodded to Bombshell. "No disrespect, of course. Scavenger, fetch a bottle of three forty five."

As Scavenger scurried away. Bombshell offered Hook his hand. "No disrespect taken," he said. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, familiar as I am with your programmer, Shockwave."

A shadow crossed Hook's face. But he nodded, and shook hands back. There is history there, Shrapnel thought. But he was impressed. The mech was courteous.

Crossing the room, Hook flicked several switches. Machines sprung to life, screens appearing which showed traces and schematic data. Bombshell looked impressed. "Remote sensors," he said. "You can read him without plugging in?"

"Correct," Hook said. "But I will probably deploy a 3D image. The Insecticon structure is complex, and the Orthopteran wing especially so."

Shrapnel could not take his optics from Hook. Everything he did was with an air of professionalism, of confidence and great precision. And he knows about Insecticons, Shrapnel thought. That was unusual. Even before the war, it had been rare.

Scavenger was back. The bottle he handed Hook was filled with a purplish liquid. A tendril of steam leaked from the open top. Kickback eyed it suspiciously. "That might not suit my systems!" he ventured, bravely.

Bombshell looked reproachful, but Hook smiled, again that attractive, lopsided smile. "That mixture is formulated for your kind. I have had an expert prepare it."

I'm sure it is, Shrapnel thought. For this one has done his homework. "Drink it, Kickback Kickback," he hissed.

Hook looked up, as though noticing him properly for the first time. Their optics met briefly, Hook's burning with a striking intensity. Something passed between them. It was - an understanding? A kinship? Like with Megatron that day? Shrapnel could not tell. It was stronger than that. Deeper.

A burst of energy flared from Shrapnel's ever sensitive field, his antlers crackling at the tips.

Hook, evidently, felt it. He looked surprised – and then smiled slightly. His optics coasted over Shrapnel as his own field altered, only mildly, but enough for Shrapnel to detect. It was Shrapnel's turn to smile. He ignored Bombshell's very quiet chuckle.

Kickback drank, hesitantly. Scavenger stood close by. "You'll feel really good in a moment. Trust me!" the nurse said.

This seemed to be accurate information, for about half way through the cricket's optics glazed over, and a 'gooey' look came over him. He quickly guzzled the rest. He grinned at Shrapnel. "I feel sleepy!" he giggled, leaning against Scavenger, whose face lit up.

Bombshell raised his optics to the heavens. "Thank the Hives for that!" he said.

"Scavenger," Hook regarded them with a sardonic smile. "If you could disentangle yourself and position him on his side with the wing injury uppermost, that would be most helpful."

Grinning, Scavenger complied.

...

Hook, in accordance with his programming, worked deftly on the wing, his skilled fingers knitting wires and connecting conduits, mending broken nodes. A bowl filled with small components sat on the trolley next to him. Instruments clinked on metal, and tendrils of smoke rose periodically from the wound as Scavenger applied the solder gun. The scent of charred circuitry mingled with the aromatic and not at all unpleasant scent of the Insecticons.

Every now and then, Hook paused to admire the complexities of the fascinating structure in his hands, or to run a check on the Orthopteran. But Kickback reposed peacefully throughout, intakes sighing with small movements of his chest. His antennae flopped on the berth, inert and unreceiving. Hook looked forward to their examination.

In the background, Hook was conscious of the other two Insecticons watching with interest. Yet nothing, even the fascinating antlered creature, disturbed his concentration. Such was his programming. It could not have been otherwise. He did, however, recap his historical knowledge. This was permissible. Under the circumstances.

Insecticons were not from the Cybertronian quadrant. Or the Earth one. They hailed from a distant star cluster, known universally as the Pleiades. There were hundreds of stars in it. Many insectoid species had populated the innumerable worlds. War and genocide had been common; yet eventually, an accord had been reached, a system, which worked. Hive species were in servitude. Higher orders - such as these three here – were in control.

It had led to peace for millennia. Rather as pre-Republican Cybertron had done. Things had changed, however – but not from internal conflict. A race from a neighbouring system known as 'Arachnids,' had invaded the Pleiades in masses. The worlds had fallen, the insectoid species' destroyed.

Some had gotten away. They had scattered, to deep galactic reaches. The Hivers had settled some worlds, formed colonies in space; even made it to Cybertron, but not survived in the inorganic environment. The higher orders had seemed, however, to adapt. Some even became cybernetic. How exactly, nobody knew. Hence the Quintesson theories.

As he finished with Kickback's wing, Hook pondered this. Given the intricacy of Kickback's systems, certainly it was possible. Such a shame there'd been no chance for study on Cybertron.

No, Hook reflected grimly as he closed the wound. Insecticons had not been popular. Seen by many as a drain on an already overpopulated planet, they'd been persecuted, sometimes hunted down; hardly in accordance, of course, with the 'sentience empathy' promoted by the Senate, but much more readily accepted once 'cannibalism' and 'insecticon invasions' had been lodged in Cybertronian processors.

Anger simmered in the medic. Cases of the former were rare, and there'd been no evidence of the latter. He knew the 'types' who had spread such rumours. Medics like Ratchet, right wing politicians like Magnus. The very ones who claimed to fight for 'equality,' who'd preached a 'free Cybertron.'

The ones who'd crushed Hook's own career, kept him from practising medicine in Iacon because of his less than alpha caste origins.

And Optimus Prime had known about the Insecticons. Hook was sure of it. He and his military stalwarts, like Kup and Ironhide. They hadn't liked Insecticons either. Insecticons were tough. Survivors. An uncomfortable reminder that mechs like them were, perhaps, not as superior as they thought. Equality was fine, it seemed, when egos weren't at stake.

Hook's fingers twitched as he finished with the wound. Anger was not permissible. Not just now. Besides, it was not all bad – Megatron had found a ready made army of anti-Prime recruits. The Decepticon leader was not adverse to insecticon practices at all. It had helped turn the tables – just a little.

Not that there'd been a real 'success.' But Hook did not want to think of that.

He turned his attention to the antenna, losing himself again in the sensory structures, the high potency energon flowing in the intricate network of conduits which - he was sure - had to be Quintesson.

"Those repairs look very satisfactory. Very satisfactory indeed!" Bombshell broke the silence. He sounded impressed. So he should be. All the same, it was nice to be appreciated.

Hook nodded. "They should knit to a perfect finish," he said. "Self repairs will do the rest."

Shrapnel said nothing; but his alloys rustled softly, alien and exotic. Hook became aware of him again, his strange, silent yet powerful presence. He was sure Shrapnel watched, not only his work, but him, personally. Yet this was not unnerving. In fact, it was rather exciting. Mainly, however, it was - to Hook's surprise - curiously reassuring.

Intrigued by his own reaction, Hook shifted slightly, so he could see Shrapnel in his peripheral vision. Arms crossed over his chest, the Insecticon looked proud, like an ancient sentinel. Permeated with myriads of minuscule points of light, the antlers glowed iridescently; a living palette of dancing static. Hook could not suppress a tingling in his circuits. The mech was more than interesting, period. But how fascinating were those?

What exactly were they for? Hook mused. Something about conductors, Scrapper had said, before they parted. Amazing. What would they feel like to touch? Is that what the Coneheads pay for?

Hook's hands paused, his attention wavering as very non medical thoughts invaded his processor. His circuits burned with a sudden sharp longing to know more, to examine those antlers, to learn about Shrapnel. He took a deep intake, hearing Shrapnel shift again, He had no doubt – no doubt at all - why the Coneheads paid.

What are you? Hook determined to find out.

"Hook?" Scavenger was looking at him curiously. Hell – he just allowed his medical programming to override. That never happened. "You OK?" Scavenger said. But he sounded a touch amused.

Hook moved again so he couldn't see Shrapnel, ignoring the waft of aromatic scent which suddenly permeated his olfactories. His fingers returned to the antenna. "I was evaluating the correct approach," he snapped. "I'd be obliged if you'd concentrate please, Scavenger, and hold this antenna firmly at the base."

To Hook's annoyance, Scavenger smirked. But he did as he was told. Kickback squirmed slightly and murmured. The antenna twitched in Scavenger's hand, and Kickback's body stiffened. Then, a smile appeared on his face and he settled, with a small sigh of contentment.

Chuckles from the other Insecticons filled the air. They sounded almost beautiful to Hook, like the peal of small bells. Scavenger appeared delighted. His excitement through the bond was tangible. "It went all tingly!" he said.

"That's a very sensitive part of his anatomy," Bombshell sounded impressed. "Like my horn and Shrapnel's antlers. However, Hook's examination so far has been insufficient for arousal. He must like you."

"He does?" There was no mistaking that Scavenger was enraptured.

"Obviously-viously!" Shrapnel concurred. "It is all in the touch, touch."

Hook thought his circuits might explode at the surge that went through them. Even Shrapnel's voice, that strange affection, was thrilling, intoxicating. He only just stopped a substantive flare escaping, managing with a struggle to divert it inwards. He seethed at the searing sensation of unreleased charge.

Damn Scavenger! If ever this gestalt thing sucked, it was now.

/Keep your thoughts to yourself,/ Hook snapped into the comm as he seized the antenna and set the medical programming – again. /This is a medical bay, not a massage parlour. If they get pissed off, don't think it'll be fun. I gather they're a lot less benign than they look./

Even as Hook said it charge rebounded through his circuits and his core burned hotly. It was true. Survivors … his mind went back to the concept. In Bombshell's composure, in Shrapnel's extraordinary beauty there was resolve, a danger, a deadliness. Like a hidden strength ready to spring. Magnificent! Hook could barely contain his excitement.

For a second time, he fought down his frustration, focusing for all he was worth on the medical program, the intricate structure beneath his hands.

Agreeable sounds still came from the other side of the room. /They don't sound pissed/ Scavenger snickered. /You're just jealous. I'll bet you'd really like to get your hands on … /

Hook knew the look he gave the other Constructicon was murderous. The mirth drained from Scavenger's face. /I won't tell you again, I'll get Longhaul!/

He returned to his work, manoeuvring so his back was to Shrapnel and Bombshell, and excluding all thoughts of antlers and deadly strength other than was strictly necessary for the carrying out of this repair.

The silence which followed was punctuated only by the clinking of instruments and the steady hiss of robot intakes.

Hook completed the operation with no further distractions. Not even the history files.