"Aren't you a shiny one," growled the bartender, an ancient Seeker with a peg leg and a patch covering one of his optics. He was so far from shiny that it was hard to tell what his original colors had been, though Tracks suspected grayish white, with dark purple accents to match his one remaining optic.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Tracks asked.

The bartender paused, glass in hand, regarding him. Tracks noticed the hand that held the glass had been stripped of its exterior armor plating, as if it had been burned away with acid. "Depends," he said, rolling his shoulders in a shrug that made his wings creak. Tracks tried not to flinch at the sound. "It'll be a problem if you plan on doing any kind of business here. You'll find this is a respectable establishment."

"Oh yes, I can see that," Tracks muttered, glancing around.

It had taken him no time at all to find The Gravity Well, which was located on the far-flung Eastern end of the port, and was housed inside an ancient, dry-docked shipping barge. What had been the barge's cargo hold was now the main portion of the nightclub. The crowd was about half native Tyrestians, distinguishable by their nautical altmodes, and the other half warframes, notably Seekers. Most appeared to be neutral, though Tracks had already spotted a few wings and fins bearing hastily scratched-out purple insignias. The bar's entertainment options apparently consisted of puerile drinking games, fist fights, and gawking at the trio of dancers—a mech and two femmes—who were on stage, gyrating to the beat of the music.

"My dancers aren't for sale," the bartender clarified, noting the direction of Tracks' gaze.

"What? No, I'm not—"

"And you had better not be, either."

"Honestly," Tracks said in exasperation, "can't a mech take proper care of his appearance without being mistaken for a gigolo?"

The old Seeker cocked a brow-ridge as he pushed the glass, now filled with a shimmering, pale blue energon cocktail, toward Tracks. "It's the usual explanation in these parts," he said. "Perhaps you've noticed that the so-called 'New Golden Age' hasn't quite reached as far as Tyrest."

It was hard to argue that point. Nearly everyone within Tracks' visual range was scratched, dinged-up and badly in need of a hot-oil bath.

"For your information, I'm here looking for someone," Tracks said, sliding an image card across the bar. "Perhaps you've seen him?"

The bartender picked up the card, stared at it, and burst out laughing. "Lad," he said finally, "does this look like the kind of place where you would expect to find a Prime?"

Tracks had to admit that it didn't, and in fact he was starting to wonder if Jazz had been pulling his leg. Now that he'd come all the way out here, though, he guessed he might as well take a look around. He thanked the bartender and wandered toward the stage, sipping his drink. It wasn't bad, and neither was the band. The music, like the band itself, was a mixture of Vosian and Tyrestian influences. The lilting sea shanties Tyrest was known for blended, with surprising grace, into the atmospheric sounds of traditional Vosian sky-ballads.

It was a combination that brought an ache to Tracks' spark as he recalled some of his very earliest memory-files of wandering through this very seaport with his creators. There had always been musicians on the piers, and the music had always seemed a fitting backdrop for the shimmering waves and the comings and goings of ships through the port; the open bazaars selling goods from every port along the edge of the Rust Sea, and the clamor of voices speaking in a hundred different dialects.

It wasn't as if his creators had loved the place. They'd hated it, and even as young as Tracks had been, he'd still been aware of the contempt they felt toward the Tyrestian locals. Bumpkins was how his creators had referred to them when members of the household staff were within hearing range, and they'd used other, less flattering terms when they thought they weren't. That was why the Inn was where it was, too; perched high on the cliff, literally looking down upon the port and its activities.

Tracks sometimes wondered why his creators had even chosen Tyrest, or why they'd left Praxus in the first place. He remembered them proudly telling him that Praxus was their true home, and that someday they would all return to it. That day had never arrived, at least not for Tracks. Instead, one of his creators had caught him playing what he called the 'floating game,' which involved leaping from the edge of his berth and hovering in midair for as long as possible before gravity took over. Tracks would never forget the look he'd seen on his creator's face at that moment. It was then that he'd begun to realize that he didn't have a true home. At least not on Cybertron.

"Hey, wings!" someone yelled. "You here to play?"

"Play?" Tracks echoed. He didn't know what made him turn. There were plenty of other flight-frames here, but he was used to being the only one. The mech who had spoken was, to his lack of surprise, an Autobot. "Even if you were the last mech on Cybertron, I'm quite certain you couldn't afford me."

The other mech looked startled, then amused. "No worries, you're not my type anyway," he drawled, holding up a datapad that Tracks hadn't noticed he was carrying. "I was asking if you wanted to place a bet before it closes."

Tracks stared at him. A bet. Hadn't Jazz said that this place would be his best bet? Knowing Jazz, he might have chosen his words to have a double meaning. "What, exactly, would I be betting on?" he inquired.

"You mean who?" The other mech narrowed his optics, clearly trying to decide whether Tracks was being stupid or strategic. "The newcomer has supporters, but I'd say the smart credits are still on Lockjaw." He raised his stylus. "How much d'you want me to put you down for?"

"Hm, I'll need to think about it," Tracks said. "Is there some means by which I might gather more information about the contestants before placing a wager?"

For a moment, the other mech just stared at him. "In there," he said, nodding towards a set of doors at the back of the room, which were being guarded by a huge gunformer who was obviously acting as a bouncer. "Don't gather too long," the mech warned. "The fight's gonna start in a few klicks."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Tracks headed toward the door. The guard, who looked like a younger, green-and-silver version of Shockwave, moved to block his path. "Ticket?"

"Ah… I'll need to purchase one," Tracks said, reaching for his credit chip.

"No can do," the guard replied. "It's all sold out."

"Sold out?" Tracks glanced at the playbill posted on a screen next to the door. The title read Lockjaw vs. Incognitus: The Final Battle, above two silhouetted figures. One was a gigantic, spiky form with a wolfish head and scythe-like talons, and the other was a slim yet powerful-looking mech standing with his fists on his hips in a confident, heroic stance. This second figure had a telltale pair of chevron-shaped spoiler wings rising behind his back.

"Look, I really need to get in," Tracks said urgently. Unexplained dents and scratches? If this was what Rodimus had been doing in his spare time, no wonder. "How much will it take?" he asked. "Ten, twenty credits? Twenty-five?"

"Sorry pal," the bouncer said irritably. "Sold out means sold out. I don't take bribes; especially not from the likes of you."

"The likes of me?" Tracks dragged his gaze from the playbill long enough to realize that the bouncer was staring at his insignia. "Oh, I assure you I'm not an enforcer," he said quickly. "Merely an aficionado of the pugilistic arts."

"An affiction-of-the-what?" The bouncer shook his head. "Move along, buddy. You're holding up the line."

Tracks could feel the press of bodies behind him, sharp wings and elbows threatening his wax job, but he held firm. "I really must insist," he said. He turned around, addressing the various mechs lined up behind him. "Will anyone sell me their ticket?" he asked. "I'll pay you handsomely for—"

"Hold on, Affiction," the bouncer said suddenly, putting a hand on his arm. He was listening to something over his comm. "Apparently, you're on the guest list. Get in there, and stop wasting everyone's time."

He waved Tracks through the door. Tracks dodged past him before he had a chance to change his mind. It was obviously a mistake—had to be, but he certainly wasn't about to question it. Beyond the doorway was a short fight of steps, which he followed down into what seemed to be a lower deck of the barge. This room was smaller than the main one, and it was packed. The crowd in here featured a higher percentage of warframes and obvious ex-Decepticons, but Tracks strode through the crowd with his head held high, trusting his prominent missile array to discourage all but the most determined, or intoxicated, challengers.

The fight ring was positioned at the center of the room, and cordoned off with ropes. It was empty for now, though brilliantly spotlit, and Tracks sensed the crowd's tense anticipation as they stared at it, waiting. Where were the fighters? Glancing around, Tracks noticed a small alcove at the far side of the room. That had to be the backstage door.

Tracks started toward it, but a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Tracks found himself gazing up into the scowling face of a gray-and-orange Seeker of the cone-headed variety. His wings were unmarked, suggesting that he was one of the neutrals who'd been returning from… well, wherever the neutral Seekers had been throughout the war.

"Hey, fancy aft!" he snarled in Tracks' face, his vents reeking of hi-grade. "You down from the capital? Slumming it? You got a lotta ball-bearings comin' here." He paused as his gaze focused, with evident difficulty, on Tracks' insignia. "You're an Autobot."

"Why yes," Tracks agreed, having learned that it was always best to agree with drunk, angry people. "What of it?"

The Seeker's mouth twisted. "I didn't know they accepted your kind."

"Beg pardon?"

"Don't make like you don't know what I'm talkin' about! You disgusting half-breed." The Seeker jabbed a digit at one of Tracks' wings. "We got driven from our aeries! Our cities were bombed to rubble and we were driven off the planet, while you just went and picked the winning side!" He shoved Tracks in the chest, forcing him to stumble backward against whoever was behind him. "How does it feel, knowing you sold out your own kind?"

"I really don't know what you're talking about," Tracks replied, pulling himself to his full height. He still had to crane his neck to glare up at the taller mech. The Seeker was almost certainly stronger than he was, though he was also swaying noticeably. "If you think that I'm your kind," Tracks went on, "then I'm afraid you're sadly—"

"Think you're better n' us, don't ya?" the Seeker interrupted, raising his fist. "Parading around here all shiny, while the rest of us are living on scraps! I'm gonna take a dent out of that pretty red face."

Tracks tensed, waiting for the inevitable. He could now see two other Seekers—this one's trinemates, presumably—pushing towards them through the crowd. He was either going to have to fight or make a run for it. Running seemed like the wiser option. He'd outmaneuvered Seekers in the air before, and he could do it again if he had to. At least, he hoped he could, though this time it was three against one. Even if he managed, though, how was that going to help Rodimus?

His thoughts were interrupted by the Seeker's big fist sailing toward him. Tracks was more than ready, and it was almost too easy to duck out of the way. His assailant overbalanced and stumbled forward, and it was only belatedly that Tracks noticed the large, black arm that had shot out from somewhere behind where he'd just been standing and had seized the Seeker by his wrist. The Seeker gave a startled yelp as he was dragged forward and pinned against a broad, matte-black chest with a scroll-work of electric blue flames painted across it.

"Is this yours?" the newcomer asked. His expression was hidden behind a heavy battle-mask, but his voice—his deep, familiar voice—was tinged with humor as he addressed the Seeker's trinemates, who were by now hurrying up to them.

"Incognitus?" one of them said in an awed voice, her optics going wide. "Uh, yeah. Unfortunately he's with us. Sorry if he was causing you trouble."

"Well, here you go." The mystery mech gave his captive a light push, which sent him staggering forward into the arms of his companions. "You might want to keep a close optic on him until he sobers up."

"Y-yes," the third member of the trine stammered as he looped his arm around Tracks' dazed, would-be attacker. "C'mon Sunspot, let's get you outta here."

'Sunspot' recovered his wits enough to hurl a few more choice epithets in Tracks' direction as his companions dragged him toward the door. Tracks flinched, and slanted a glance up at the matte black apparition who now stood next to him, his stance not unlike the pose he'd displayed on the playbill. How long had… Incognitus… been there? How much had he heard?

"You all right?" the tall mech asked.

That voice. It was the same voice that Tracks had heard make countless speeches over the holonet; the voice that, even now, was stirring unruly flutters in the depths of his chassis. It had to be Rodimus; no one else sounded like that. But then again, wasn't Incognitus a bit taller than Rodimus was? Weren't his shoulders wider, his chest a bit deeper? He couldn't be Rodimus, though he could have been sparked by the same creators. Perhaps Jazz has simply mixed them up. It would be easy enough to do so under these poor lighting conditions, or if all you happened to see was the playbill.

"I—I'm fine," Tracks managed, after resetting his vocalizer a couple of times. "I think I should just leave."

"But you've come so far," that voice replied, as a large hand settled on his shoulder. The digits tightened fractionally, giving a light squeeze. "I'd really like it if you stayed."

"You—?"

Tracks broke off, gaping. What was wrong with him? He was acting like a giddy youngling. He racked his processor for something to say, but it was already too late. The hand was slipping from his shoulder as Incognitus turned and strode away through the crowd, which hastily parted to make room.

Tracks stared after him as he walked away, his shoulder still tingling where Incognitus' hand had rested. Not Rodimus, he reminded himself sternly, while another part of his mind circled insistently around a different question entirely: Who in Primus' name would choose Incognitus as their alias?

And, of course, he knew.

"Hey!" He hurried after the tall, retreating form, but the crowd had by now swelled to at least a hundred individuals, and they were packed in so tight that he had to elbow his way through, drawing curses from all sides. A powerful hand suddenly grabbed his back-kibble and lifted him off his feet as easily as a mother cat might scruff a kitten.

"Hold on, Affiction," a familiar voice said. "You trying to cause a riot?"

"Unhand me!" Tracks demanded as he twisted in the other's grip, trying to break free. His captor obediently lowered him back to the floor and Tracks spun to face him, glaring up into the bouncer's single, orange optic. "I need to speak with R… Incognitus! Immediately!"

"Can't do it," the bouncer replied, "but turns out you're in luck. C'mon." He motioned for Tracks to follow him.

Tracks crossed his arms. "I'm not leaving until I speak with him!"

The bouncer vented a sigh. "I'm not kicking you out, Affiction. Least, not yet. You gonna follow me or not?"

Tracks fell in step behind him, keeping well out of grabbing range. As the bouncer led him around to the other side of the ring, the overhead lights suddenly dimmed and a cracking voice rang out.

"Greetings, friends! Are you ready?"

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers. Tracks rocked up on the tips of his pedes, straining for a view, but the bouncer took a step back, caught his arm and dragged him to the far side of the ring. Here, a small, raised section of bleachers stood cordoned off from the rest of the room, with only a few mechs, all warframes, seated in them. The bouncer opened the rope-cordon and motioned Tracks into the bleachers.

"Told ya. You're on the guest list."

As Tracks gingerly took a seat, he saw that the ancient bartender was standing at the center of the ring, his wings flared proudly behind him.

"This is the final showdown!" he intoned. "We have gathered here tonight to witness an epic battle!"

The crowd roared, and Tracks' seatmates roared right along with them. Tracks eyed them nervously. There were a couple of Seekers, similar to the bartender in terms of vintage, sitting in the front row. They looked fairly harmless, but then there was also a massive tank-former, so heavily armored that his frame took up almost an entire bench, and a maroon-and-silver gunformer who might easily have been the bouncer's twin.

"Tagging in, bro," the bouncer said, extending a hand to the maroon-and-silver one in a high-five gesture.

"Bodyguard duty?" the second one asked, glancing at Tracks as he returned the salute.

"More like babysitting," the first growled as he swung up onto the bench next to Tracks. The second gunformer dipped his head in acknowledgment and stepped down into the crowd.

"I assure you, this isn't necessary," Tracks said as his companion nudged him farther along the bench to make room.

"Fight's about to start," the bouncer pointed out, noddng toward the ring where the old bartender was continuing to whip the crowd into a frenzy. "You got a choice. Stick around and behave, or get tossed out. Which would you prefer?"

"You don't understand," Tracks said. "This is an extremely—"

"Which of them will prevail?" the bartender shouted. "Will it be our reigning champion? Terror of the pits of Kaon? Last of the Lycaons? The great, the terrible— Lockjaw!"

As he said the designation, a blur of howling gray steel launched itself into the ring and threw itself against the ropes, green optics blazing as it snarled at the crowd. The audience responded with howls of greeting, pumping their fists in the air as the monster struck ferocious poses, basking in their attention.

"Wh… what is that?" Tracks asked.

"He's a Lycaon," the bouncer supplied. "Last of his kind, or so they say."

In the ring, the bartender was continuing his speech. "Or," he went on, dropping his tone for effect, "will it be the upstart? The challenger? Will it be… the ever-mysterious Incognitus?"

On cue Incognitus, now shrouded in a dark, floor-length cloak, bounded into the ring. He circled its perimeter, striking martial-arts poses and leaning down to exchange high-fives with his supporters. The crowd reacted with a mixture of cheers and a few hisses as Incognitus threw off his cloak and spun to face Lockjaw.

The bartender, in the meantime, ducked out of the ring to join the other two aged Seekers, who were obviously his trine. Tracks noticed how heavily he sank down between them, as if giving that speech had just taken the last of his strength. One of his trinemates slipped an arm around him and leaned over to brush a kiss against his helm crest, while the other linked arms with him and gently took hold of his damaged hand. There was something about those simple gestures that made Tracks' spark ache. His creators had never shown that kind of affection for one another, and he'd often wondered if he was the cause of that.

In the ring the two opponents circled, sizing each other up, while a small green-and-black tankformer not unlike Warpath stood between them, acting as referee. Tracks was sizing them up, too. Rodimus was certainly a powerful mech, but he was armed with only a small, round shield attached to his right forearm, while the Lycaon, who towered above him, sported talons that looked like they could flay the armor right off his frame. Presumably the shield would offer some protection, but Tracks didn't like the odds.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" the crowd had begun to chant, clearly eager to see fuel get spilled. Tracks glanced around nervously, wondering if they were about to mob the stage. He couldn't decide whether to be reassured or unsettled by the fact that the ring was now being guarded by no less than five massive warframes, including the magenta-and-silver gunformer.

"The fighting's all fake, right?" he asked the bouncer in a low voice.

"Sure," the bouncer snorted. His face was incapable of expression, but Tracks caught the irony in his tone. "This new guy fights okay," he added, tilting his boxy head toward the ring, "but he's definitely outclassed here."

Tracks' spirits sank. What was Rodimus thinking? He was leader of the Autobots, yet he was he was placing himself in terrible, awful danger—and for what? To entertain these yokels? It didn't make sense. Rodimus might be eccentric, but surely he wouldn't do something that crazy. But then Tracks remembered what Arcee had said about the Matrix. If Rodimus' body was rejecting it, then he might be capable of just about anything. He might even be trying to get himself killed.

Chilled by that last thought, Tracks considered his options. If this got ugly he would have to intervene, though he wasn't sure how. The fact that the bouncer seemed to have adopted him as his shadow wasn't exactly helping. Shadow, he thought suddenly. That was it! If he could get into the ring, he could use his black-beam gun to temporarily blind everyone and drag Rodimus out of here. He just had to wait for the right opportunity.

A bell clanged, and the two opponents lunged at each other. Lockjaw roared, his talons flashing under the spotlight as he drove them at Rodimus' midsection, angling for a quick, disabling strike. Tracks tensed, ready to leap into the ring and fight by Rodimus' side if he had to, but then at the last possible instant, Rodimus spun to the side, deflecting the deadly claws with his shield while reaching to catch hold of his opponent's arm. He ducked, flipping Lockjaw above his back and using his momentum to send him flying halfway across the ring. Lockjaw landed with a crash that shook the bleachers and a burst of cheers, mixed with hisses and howls, went up from the crowd.

Tracks shot the bouncer a smug look. "Outclassed, you say?"

The bouncer snorted. "They're just testing each other out right now. Like I said, Incognitus isn't a bad fighter, but Lockjaw used to be a gladiator. He eats mechs like your pal for breakfast."

"Oh, is that a fact?" Tracks crossed his arms, his fear suddenly replaced by indignation. "There is simply no way that R—Incognitus—is going to be outmatched by that… monstrosity."

In the ring, Lockjaw rolled to his feet, shaking himself like a wet dog. He snarled, exposing a mouthful of tusk-like fangs, and sprang. Rodimus managed to dodge the first blow, which was aimed at his shoulder, and leaped into the air. He landed on Lockjaw's spiky shoulders and tried to get him in a head-lock, but his arms weren't long enough. Massive, clawed hands snared and lifted him as if he weighed nothing. Lockjaw turned slowly, giving everyone a good view of the struggling Rodimus before slamming him to the mat.

Tracks flinched in sympathy as he felt the vibrations from the crash. Lockjaw, however, wasn't done. He stomped a heavy clawed pede on the center of Rodimus' chest, pinning him, then reared high above him with his arms outstretched, fully extended claws flashing under the spotlight.

Get up, Rodimus, Tracks thought, clenching his fists. Get up, get up, get up—

Lockjaw roared and lunged, catching Rodimus' throat between his jaws. He lifted and shook him, growling ferociously while Rodimus, who seemed to have regained his senses somewhat, tried vainly to pry the jaws from his throat. The mech who was acting as referee ran to center ring, counting down on his digits. "Three… two…"

"Get up!" Tracks shouted, unable to restrain himself. The fight, which had seemed ludicrous moments earlier, suddenly seemed vitally important, as if Rodimus' very honor was at stake.

It was unclear whether or not Rodimus heard him, but he did suddenly galvanize into action, driving his knee up into Lockjaw's midsection. The Lycaon arched with a grunt of pain, his body going rigid while Rodimus rolled back onto his shoulders and kicked up with both pedes, hitting Lockjaw square in the chest and throwing him against the ropes.

Rodimus sprang to his feet and cannonballed into Lockjaw's midsection, scooping him onto his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He paused for a moment, letting the crowd take in the sight, before he slammed him down and dove for the attack. Lockjaw was ready. He rolled to the side and caught Rodimus with his shoulder, throwing him off. Both scrambled up, and they were back to circling each other.

"Your friend's doing better than I thought," the bouncer said mockingly.

"Maybe your Lycaon isn't such a great fighter after all!" Tracks flared, unable to keep himself from bristling.

"Perhaps not," the bouncer replied. "Lock must be getting past his prime if he can't even crush some rich Iaconian pantywaist like your buddy there."

"Why, you—!" Tracks broke off. He's looking for an excuse to pummel me, he warned himself. Then what good will I be to Rodimus? He forced himself to calm down and focus on the fight. If Rodimus needed his help, he wanted to be ready to spring into action, something that wouldn't be possible if he was distracted, or worse.

When it came down to it, though, the two fighters seemed surprisingly well-matched. Lockjaw had the greater height, weight, and reach, as well as the natural advantage afforded by having those terrifying claws, but Rodimus was nimble, fearless, and skilled not just with his shield, but also at turning Lockjaw's attack momentum to his own advantage. The fight went back and forth, slowly driving the crowd's responses toward a fever pitch, until it happened: Rodimus' shield cracked.

It happened so abruptly that even Lockjaw seemed startled. He was lunging at Rodimus, claws extended, and Rodimus had raised his shield to ward off the attack. The claws struck a glancing blow against the shield, and it split neatly down the middle, as if there was a fault-line in its underlying structure. Lockjaw lost his balance and plowed straight into Rodimus, claws first, and slashed him across his chestplate. He recoiled, stumbling back as Rodimus raised his hands to his chest.

Tracks could see sparking wires and energon welling up where the claws had ripped through his exo-armor, but even from this distance, he could also see something that was potentially far worse. A section of the black outer shell, which was obviously prosthetic, had been sliced away, and a telltale flash of orange and magenta was now showing through. It was this which Rodimus was now desperately trying to cover with his hands.

"Kill! Kill! Kill!" the crowd began to chant.

Lockjaw roared and lunged at Rodimus, slashing with his claws while Rodimus stumbled back and away from him. It was now or never. Tracks leapt from the bleachers, dodging the bouncer's arm as he belatedly grabbed for him. The bouncer's thick fingers skated off his back-kibble, doubtless leaving gashes in his finish, but that was something he'd have to worry about later. Tracks engaged his flight engines and sailed over the ropes to land squarely between Rodimus and his attacker.

"Time for lights out!" he said, and fired his black-beam gun.

The ring, the crowd, and everything else disappeared, swallowed in darkness. The only things still visible were a pair blazing green optics rushing toward him. Tracks tried to dodge out of their path, but a clawed hand grasped his throat and lifted him off his feet as a deep voice growled, "Lycaons can see in the dark."

AN: So yes, I did (belatedly) remember that there is a wolf-like character named Steeljaw, a name that's pretty similar to the name of my OC. After talking this over with the lovely Ribbonelle, I opted to keep the name as it is, since a). I like the short form "Lock," and b). when I came up with it, I was riffing on Tracks' voice actor apparently having described the accent he chose for Tracks as "Harvard lockjaw," which amuses me for some reason. In any case, I wanted to clarify that Lockjaw is a different character, just in case anyone thought otherwise.