Some time later...

"No way," Sidetrack stated with no intention of backing down. "We're here to keep this space rock in Autobot hands, that's it. Nobody said anything about playing nursemaid to a piece of Decepticon garbage. He isn't even a real Transformer, he's an Action Master!" He wasn't known for his delicate way of expressing himself, and his remark earned a tiresome glare from Kick-Off. "It's the truth," he continued, and then looked directly at the offended Autobot. "Don't look at me like that," he growled. "The one thing more detestable than an Action Master is a Decepticon Action Master."

Fixit shook his head in disgust, but was prevented from speaking by a rightfully angered security officer. "You're getting on my bad side, half-bot," Kick-Off responded.

"Fine, start name calling." Sidetrack tried to ease the tone of his voice, not so much in an attempt to play nice but more due to the fact he hated yelling. "Listen, he's one of your own kind," he reasoned. "If anyone knows what a waste that steaming pile of circuitry is it would be you."

"His name is Treadshot," Kick-Off calmly stated, surprisingly in control of his quickly dissenting anger. "And I'm constantly amazed that you still believe all Action Masters know each other."

Sidetrack seemed genuinely caught off guard. "Well, don't you?"

"That's enough." Fixit had finally had his fill of their bickering. "He poses no threat. I have a duty..."

"To save Autobot slayers?" Sidetrack interrupted.

Fixit roared back with a voice bigger than his frame would indicate. "To save lives, regardless of condition, species, or faction!" The medic quickly resumed his calm stature. "A wise Autobot once said, 'Only when every weapon is lowered, can peace be attained.' Let's view this for what it is- a goodwill outreach."

A sudden burst of movement from Treadshot's right arm startled the Autobots. Kick-Off and Sidetrack immediately aimed their weapons at their unlikely guest. He was motionless again within astro-seconds, his quick movement a result of irregular energon flow. All the recent arguing had delayed his much needed medical attention.

Realizing he was losing the battle of wills, Sidetrack begrudgingly backed down. "You know you're glitching, don't you?" That was a common slang term for acting out of sorts. "Fine. Fix him up," he continued. "Turn him into a respectable Autobot. Slap a 'red-face' on his chest and call him Treadshot Prime for all I care." He turned his back on his two allies and started walking away. "But you know as well as I do he can't be trusted. He's a Decepticon. They're programmed to kill, there's no denying that."

Fixit yelled back while Kick-Off kept a close eye on their patient. "That's never been scientifically proved... its propaganda, nothing more." His reply was met by fading laughter.

The next several days saw constant improvement in Treadshot's condition. In the rare moments Fixit was away from his patient, the three Power Dashers kept up on his treatment. PD-1, a red and black jet model, monitored the energon intake and recorded any significant increases or decreases in its flow. PD-2 and PD-3, both driller models, stood on each side of Treadshot and ran various diagnostic tests and administered electrical shocks to damaged motion relayers.

The Power Dashers were highly intelligent, a trait that was often overlooked due to their simplistic programming and their unimpressive design. Their blind ambition also caused others to look upon them with sympathetic optics. Kick-Off and Sidetrack kept their distance from the medical bay. Whether verbally or silently voiced, neither approved of the situation Fixit had created. It was a bad idea and an accident waiting to happen.

"Full diagnostic scan complete," PD-2 announced. "Damage level at eighteen percent." PD-3 checked his own data and arrived at the same results. At this rate, the Decepticon would be back to operating at full capacity within two days.

"Energon intake remains constant," PD-1 mentioned, his hands making slight movements with the control dials to ensure an uninterrupted exchange. "Flow is stable and strong, disturbances at minimal levels."

A weak and strained grown filled the room, followed by a brightening of optics and slight movements in a pair of previously still hands. "Where am I?" The patient had recovered to the point of self-continuation.

The stunned Power Dashers looked at each other with concern, then activated the communications console, summoning the Autobots to the medical bay. Treadshot once more asked where he was. Although he could do no physical harm due to his still weakened state, his tone installed a primitive fear in his audience.

"You are in the medical bay," PD-2 answered. A moment of awkward silence followed, until Treadshot asked for a more detailed response. PD-2 was quick to oblige. "Asteroid 27-Delta."

Treadshot rose up from his prone position, and staggered to his feet. Using the recovery pod to help get his balance, he surveyed his surroundings. "Power Dashers," he commented with a hint of laughter. "Times must be rough in Autobot-land if the likes of you are running the place."

"They're not," Sidetrack said, emerging from the massive sliding door. "We are."

"How nice," Treadshot coldly added. "Where's Catgut?"

Kick-Off dismissed the three Power Dashers as Fixit responded to Treadshot's question. "You're the only survivor from your ship. No other members of your crew made it."

Treadshot stumbled to one side, but managed to remain standing. "He's not a crew member, he's my weapon."

"Regardless of who he was," Sidetrack stated, "You're all that's left. Unfortunately, you didn't die with them."

"Stand down," Fixit ordered, not wanting an altercation to transpire. "We've been overseeing your repairs. You're in no danger here, you're in our care."

Treadshot cast an unsure glance at the micro-master medic. "I see. Forgive me if I show doubt," he added while turning towards Kick-Off and Sidetrack. A burning sensation erupted from within his center plate, forcing him down to one knee. "Seems I'm still in need of further repair."