Author's Note: First, thank you for all the nice reviews. For a story that was only going to be a one shot, it certainly has grown. So, here is a third installment of . . .

Landing Softly

I forgot . . .

We watched Invasion of the Mummy Giants from Mars that night.

We thanked the AllSpark we were still around to do so.

We defied death once again; reason enough to celebrate.

We survived another day; just like the days before it and the many more after.

I remember . . .

He asked a simple, yet problematic question at the time: "What happens if we don't win?"

He listened to my brief, vulnerable answer: "I don't know."

He responded with a smug, perceptive tone: "Knowing you; become an Autobot."

He laughed at my fiery, but playful contention: "Over your extinguished spark!"

I think . . .

It was just a joke between us; our usual style of banter. We meant nothing by it.

It became a warped sense of foreshadowing; our terrible prophecy. Why had we said it?

It remains a pang in my spark; the guilt I share in. I'll always regret it.

It is a memory, a dream and a nightmare; one that should never have been. But that isn't true, is it?

I believe . . .

The loss didn't impose a sadness beyond my ability to cope, just my capacity to feel.

The ability to grieve wasn't in me anymore.

The past damaged that long before the war began.

The problem is I'm right about one and wrong about the other.

I hear . . .

'You're alive! I'm glad you made it.'

'You're forgiven. I'll never hold it against you either.'

'You're not what you were. I can finally see who you are.'

'You're home now, partner. I'll always be grateful for that.'

I awake . . .

My optics flashback online, taking in images faster than I can sort through. My sensors frantically cast a net into the waking world looking for information. Gone are the sixty-foot screens and outdated speakers of a dreamt up drive-in theater; their nostalgia chased away by the permanence of this reality just like so many other things . . . just like Breakdown.

So, where do I find myself today, mm?

It's quiet. Dark. Familiar. And sterile.

I'm in the medbay aboard the newly remodeled Nemesis. Tell the truth, I'd rather be back at the drive-in. Must have worked late again, but I'm lying on a medical berth? Usually, I'm at the console. I wonder why . . . Well, at least I'm alone, thank Primus.

Slowly, I gather myself up into a seated position, vaguely aware of the fog about my processor, but completely conscious of the fatigued, awkwardness of my movements. Have I been sedated?! Alarm surges through me as I vault straight up off the berth, triggering the motion lighting in the process before landing softly on my pedes.

What happened?! Why am I in here?!

I . . . I don't remember! . . . Wait . . . no, it's coming back to me; stupid retrograde amnesia. Arcee and I . . . oh, oh no. I . . . I think I need to lie back down; I'm going to be sick. Please, let me still be dreaming! I couldn't have . . . this can't really be happening to me, can it?

My optics roam the medical outfit, my new domain—well, that is until Ratchet showed up to survey my progress with the new residency program, though the extra set of servos isn't a bad thing. Anyway, I'm searching for something, anything that can refute my fears. I find the complete opposite. Unlocked entrance, powered down computer, nothing pointing to another late night at work. Certainly not promising. Well, maybe I took . . . a . . .

I sigh haggardly. Denial isn't going to help me now, is it?

After Arcee and I returned from our little excursion, we had some fuel and decided to talk more in the rec room. Undoubtedly, that's when I slipped off to dreamland. Argh, I must have thoroughly exhausted myself last night to have fallen into recharge like that. I can't believe I did this! For the love of . . . I might as well have asked for a berthtime story and some warm energon. How embarrassing . . . Still, that only explains why I'm in here . . . How I got up here is the real question.

Obviously, someone brought me, but it's imperative I know who. Arcee, as impressive for a two-wheeler she may be, couldn't have hauled me up on her own nor would she when help was more appropriate. That meant she had to call somebody in. Yeesh, it's bad enough she had to see me balling like a sparkling and babbling like an idiot. But, I suppose I trust her. After all, she did save me from plummeting to my death and a tedious lecture from Magnus—which would have been just as horrible. Then there's the fact she's so easy to talk to . . . Well, nevertheless, having someone else know about this is just too unthinkable.

What if they spread it around? I would never be able to live it down! I'm already seen as a traitor or a coward; I don't want to be seen as a sniveling one at that. But, they wouldn't do that, right? They're Autobots and they don't do things like indulge in idle gossip . . . What am I saying; of course they do! Rumor mills work everywhere with everyone. They'll tear what little of my reputation is left to smithereens!

Okay, stop, stop! For one thing, I am blowing this way out of proportion. For another, since when do I care what others think about me; especially the Autobots? Well, since I became one really; my survival kind of depends on it now.

I can't believe I did this! I wish I could go back and undo this whole thing. Ugh, that was one of the topics of our conversation last night, wasn't it?! Alright, calm down. Arcee didn't tell Magnus anything when we got back and she's not the type to spout out random details . . . but that's no guarantee. For all I know, they could be keeping me in here because they think I'm mentally unstable. Augh! I should have retired to my quarters early like I've been doing, but no. I had to clear my thoughts with a short drive around the block which turned into a massive . . . emotional . . . meltdown! Enough! I'm being too dramatic. I need to go about this rationally and come up with a suitable course of action; like surgically removing a few vocalizers.

Ah, seriously though, I wasn't restrained to the berth so that's a good sign. Still doesn't help me find who else knows about this. Mm, besides Arcee, Bumblebee and Ratchet remained here while the rest had gone off to enjoy some much-needed downtime in New Kaon. Well, most of them did. Magnus doesn't seem to understand the meaning of the phrase take a break, so I guess that still put him here too. Anyway, my reputational fate could be in the servos of the bug, Ole Cog or Ultra Migraine—nicknames given respectively of course.

I begin to pace the length of the medical bay, taking care to measure my steps along the paneled flooring in hopes of not alerting anyone nearby to my wakefulness. The last thing I want is someone coming in to check up on me . . . which makes me wonder, what time is it? How long have I been in power down? Curse this ship's windowless design!

Quickly, I run over to the computer console, frantically queuing up my internal chronometer. As I reach the workstation, my reflection becomes visible in the dormant screen . . . what the . . . ? Are those scratches?! Forget the time. I need a polisher, stat. I look terrible!

I make a swift about-face and head straight for one of my many hidden stashes of esthetic products. Doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for in the crawlspace underneath berth number one. Considering it's not gouges marring my finish just surface nicks, I don't think I'll need to employ the buffer. Still, I believe I deserve showroom shine after what I've been through.

Heh, Mags would blow a gasket if he knew how much contraband I actually have. Honestly, I don't see what the big deal in owning a few Earth-based car care products is. Wasn't he insistent I develop a better appreciation for the terrestrial ball and its inhabitants anyway? After all, it's one of the things I give humans credit for; their careful maintenance regimen to achieve sweet, glossy automobile perfection. Besides, the homegrown stuff is still in such ridiculously short supply and I need to look good . . . why?

I walk over to an empty workstation and set my things down.

Mm, there's a question I haven't fancied for quite a while; I haven't had to.

I open a jar of carnauba wax and apply some of the sweet smelling stuff to a clean polishing cloth.

Looking good is routine; a part of who I am, but as to why I need my appearance at its absolute best . . . do I even need a reason anymore?

I sneer in disgust. Of course, I don't. Know what, let's not even go there. I've had quite enough self-reflection time, thank you very much . . . but I wonder if it has anything to do with that survival aspect . . . no, that's enough. Let's focus on rubbing these blemishes out. This always makes me feel better and I need that right now. Still, I can't seem to get my mind to leave the topic alone. Argh, it's like I can't think about anything else . . .

It's not like I allow my vanity to get the better of me, do I? Yeah, right. It derailed me from checking what time it is, for Primus sake!

But what's wrong with wanting to look good? Besides, I have a bigger issue to think about. I still don't know who else saw me like this or how it will be interpreted by the others and . . . that's my vanity talking, isn't it? . . .

Know what, who cares. I don't. If the whole planet thinks I'm a sorry, self-absorbed jerk, at least I'll be a gorgeous one. Nothing's come of my disposition yet and a few more kliks of polishing aren't going to matter.

I focus on working out the flaws in my mesh like I've done so many times before, clearing my thoughts and recalling the feeling of Arcee's arms around me . . . wait. What!? No!

I stare at the marigold color scheme the others insisted upon for this ship's makeover, calming my spark and remembering the taste of my own hopes and fears in last night's chat. Stop it! Please.

I buff more vigorously, listening to the soft hum of equipment and suddenly evoking the sound of Optimus' voice from memory: 'Every sentient being possesses the capacity for change.' Seriously?! What is wrong with me? Am I losing it?

I briskly set into more scrubbing and begin to pace again; faster this time. Isn't this supposed to be soothing? Mind-numbingly soothing. Why isn't it working?!

"Fine, since you're so insistent, insanity, let's just dig up my entire foundation of existence, shall we; put it on trial even," I say aloud, trying to chase away the ridiculousness of it all with reason. I desperately want to fall into the familiar, enjoyable state grooming is supposed to cause, but I find myself mentally continuing the argument instead.

Accusation: Do I feel I'm vainglorious? Pushy? Self-important? Manipulative? Demanding? Egotistical? Resentful? Hostile? Cold?

Plea: Yes, yes I do; guilty as charged; I know I am. But, I had to be. It goes back to that whole survival thing. Happy now? . . . No? Well, let's take a look at the circumstances surrounding my life up until recently.

I was a Decipticon—as if I need to go any further than that—but for the sake of argument, it was where presence of strength, possession of skill and place of status meant everything. Pathetic didn't cut it. If you didn't fit the part of lethal, useful or important you were pretty much cannon fodder. I didn't want to be cannon fodder so I needed to get into one of those three categories. No problem, right? Ha, everything was a problem.

For instance, the easiest way to ensure rank was to be huge. Larger frames support more threatening alternative forms. After all, what's more terrifying than the sight of a tank rumbling towards you. Being aerial wasn't a bad option either. The sound of fighter aircraft and spy drones thundering across the sky was downright frightening. And let's not forget the brute strength or deadly arsenal that normally accompanied these aforementioned sorts.

Now, sure, a larger bot could compact themselves into something slightly smaller if they chose to, but a smaller bot could never stretch out to something bigger—that whole law of conservation of mass thing. Well, guess who couldn't be a Stryker? So, why not flight? I'll get to that soon. Anyway, scratch physical strength off the list; next, please.

Mm, being insanely skilled or innately privileged worked. If you were a scientist who could invent anything just by brooding over it—shout out to you Shockwave—or a warrior capable of shooting a turbofox from two hundred clicks away you were guaranteed promotion, i.e. safety. Even devious planning and backstabbing seemed to be an admirable skill set to have; it served Starscream well anyway. Others, like Soundwave and Dreadwing, seemed to have a history that placed them in roles of esteem automatically. I wasn't any of these, really. I was the doctor—not that doctor—and I don't know what kind of reality my former compatriots were living in, but doctor didn't carry the same amount of prestige with them as it should have. In fact, it was said like an insult; like I had a glitch or something. Thus, I was struck from two more categories. Hopeless, right? Not quite. I discovered a fourth set of criteria.

I had to approach things differently . . . for example:

My small, ground-based form.

Solution: versatility.

Luxury sports cars didn't exactly strike fear into the sparks of many, but they were quick and maneuverable. Fast enough to get out of dodge when needed; stealthy enough to get into places others couldn't; not to mention a range of options in between. But aircraft can offer the same things; why not flight? Why not completely conform? I'll tell you why. I wasn't about to give up the only part I still had control over or the camaraderie it provided Breakdown and I. Oh, and we can't leave off how remarkably chic high-end automobiles are too; important to the whole vanity point after all . . .

Alright, second issue; my mediocre skills.

My solution: versatility again.

Jack of all trades, master of none; a human expression I think fits nicely—way to go fleshies. Anyway, I wasn't just a doctor, scientist, warrior, scout or whatever but a combination of all these and more. If my inadequacies surfaced in one area my merits would shine through in another always creating balance. It's what I think surprises the Autobots now, in fact. But, as long as my wins outweighed my losses, status quo could be maintained keeping me in a safe position. I wish I could say this worked for everyone, but I can't . . . which kind of reminds me of the third problem:

My supposed insignificance.

Solution: ding, ding, ding . . . you guessed it, versatility.

Self-confidence is not just some cute buzzword, but a multifaceted weapon to wield in all manner of combat. I knew exactly what my strengths were and broadcasted them loud and proud. I also knew my limitations, learned to hide them well and never purposefully stepped out of them. It earned me a certain level of respect. My nonchalant attitude, over the top mannerisms and cutting sarcasm kept them guessing. Whether it was with a subordinate, an equal or Lord Megaton himself, I would speak frankly, act casually and live boldly because I had to measure up to the unique reputation of self-assurance I had built. A mix of façade and nature backed by a partner no longer here . . .

Which leads to what I really don't want to think about. How my past with the Decepticons is only part of the equation. How my problems started before the war and marched right alongside me in the form of desperation, confusion and imbalanced friendship . . . And there it is; the pain.

My pacing slows and I allow my arms to drop to my sides.

The bitter education I received in joining the Decepitcons only sharpened the cruel lessons I had already learned and endured before. Luckily, I caught on quick, but I don't believe I'll ever forget my inadequacies as a result of them.

I stop in front of the full-length reflection apparatus I insisted on being in here. I stare at my image, both admiring and admonishing it just like so many vorns ago and ever since; echoes of past fears murmuring in my audiles.

Am I right? Please, tell me what will work. I feel so confused. Am I worthy? Encourage me. I feel so insignificant. Am I safe? Protect me. I feel so doomed. Will I ever be happy? Help me live again. I feel so empty.

Then follows the angry guidance, roaring through my mind.

Don't let them know how you really feel. You're better than that. Make life work for you no matter what. Good enough is never good enough. Look like a punching bag and you'll be a punching bag. Never let them see you crack. You must look good to feel good. Watch out for number one only.

Half my survival, my sanity, hinged on these values learned the hard way, but that's all they preserved; half of me. They couldn't save it all and they couldn't save what counted; my only friend. Contrary to popular belief, I don't always see perfection when I look in a mirror. Always striving, never satisfied, forever condescending, forever jealous, forever superficial and completely oblivious. For all my hard earned skills and ingrained dogmas, I'm starting to see none of them will help me here anymore and I believe that's the hardest lesson of all . . .

I can't stand it!

"What is wrong with me?!"

This kind of scrap hasn't bothered me in eons. Why do I care now? For crying out loud, I'm standing around here having an argument with myself like a crazy bot! That's why I don't dwell on the past; no regrets, no fuss. I'm just reliving yesterday . . .

I glower at my reflection as stupid lubricant beads at the corners of my optics. I am not weak! I stomp back over to the platform to tidy up, not caring if the whole ship hears me at this point. I've probably got tons of data work to enter in and a long-winded lecture on self-care from Ratchet to hear about . . .

Swish. What was that?!

The automatic door opens and I can't help but direct my sights at it with a startled yelp, accidentally dropping my container of polish. Ugh, Arcee strikes again. I swear she's trying to give me a spark attack!

But, in her defense, she looks just as surprised as I am. I quickly reclaim my composure, making sure my irritation is palpable. I'm certainly not giving an encore performance of last night and I don't want to say or do anything else to embarrass myself further. Though, this could be an opportunity to find out how I ended up in here . . . no, I don't care anymore. I have to shut down any and all conversation, period.

"You're awake. Feeling any better?" she asks in such a way all comments about her rude entry vanish from my processor. She sounds so genuinely concerned; so innocently disarming. I hate it. How am I supposed to work with that, huh? Anger? Indifference? Honesty!? That's what got me into this mess to begin with; all this sappy Autobot stuff.

No, I choose deception.

"Fine, never better. It's amazing what a full cycle of power down can do. Grant it, I could have used another round of energon last night, but you know," I say smoothly, tracking her movement towards me and wishing my spark would stop pounding. I've never been this nervous about lying before. I must be afraid she'll catch me in it or something. She is rather perceptive . . . and quiet.

I watch as she keeps coming closer and closer before . . . she bends down? Oh, right; the jar of polish. She picks it up and stands, a bit stiffly I might add. She looks to me, then to the jar and back to me. I wish she would say something already. I can't gauge whether her quirked optic ridge is from suspicion or judgment, not that I should care what she thinks anyway . . . Ah, she speaks.

"Fine, huh?"

Mm, definitely sounds like suspicion, but wait, she continues.

"Wasn't it you who said you can tell a lot about a bot based on their upkeep?" she says before reading the label, "California Crystal Carnauba Wax; An exclusive. Sounds a bit indulgent to me."

And there's the judgment, though I can't seem to get away from the way she said indulgent . . . Bah, I don't know what she's getting at. Obviously, she's implying I'm not alright, but why . . . because of car wax!?—which she could use by the way. And why does she suddenly care whether I'm fine or not, anyhow? Why is she even here? Ugh.

"Well, only the best for the best," I say with a winning smile, taking the container from her as she offers it and seeing a wisp of discomfort from her as I do so, "How are you?"

"Fine. A little tired, but fine," she says lightly, but I can tell pain when I hear it. Obviously, I'm not the only one lying here. Now, I'm intrigued. I set the container of wax back on the table and look to her.

"Good, good. Well, if you're done checking up on me, I believe I have work to do."

"Actually, that's part of the reason I came in here . . ." she begins before I interrupt.

"Really? Wouldn't have anything to do with that arm, would it?" I ask pointedly, gesturing to her right limb. The astonished look on her faceplate causes me to smirk at first. She wasn't expecting that from me but, honestly, neither was I. A frown replaces my humor. Was she injured last night?

I mean, that was an awful lot of strain for one individual to handle, especially someone of her frame size. Had she hyperextended an orthogonal joint? Or torn a S.E. cable? Is it inhibiting her range of motion?

"Well, Ratchet already had a chance to look at it last night; said it was a strain," she states, glancing down at the appendage.

"Oh," I say simply, but she looks back up at me as if I gave an exposition.

"But it doesn't hurt to have a second opinion," she adds sympathetically. Humph, as if I need her sympathy. At least now I have an answer to my 'whose privy' dilemma. Yup, definitely a long sermon on self-care in my future.

"No, no. I'm sure Ratchet covered all the basics."

"Yeah, and it does nothing for how sore I am now," she says, clutching the offending arm. Huh, knowing her as I do now, I'm starting to have my own suspicions.

"I'm surprised old fussbot, Ratchet, didn't fit you with a brace unless, of course, you took the liberty of removing it, mm?"

She doesn't respond immediately; a sure sign of guilt. Normally, I have little tolerance for difficult patients, but when she looks up at me with the cutest, sheepish optics . . . well, I find myself being charmed into benevolence. Just one of the many contrasts between my old and new life.

"Tsk, tsk, Arcee. Disobeying doctor's orders; not very conscientious of you."

"Right, like you don't know anything about violating orders," she says in irony. Oh, I'm all about the sarcasm.

"Of course not, my dear," I declare with mock indignity, "I am, after all, a professional above all else."

"Well, would the professional mind getting the lady something for the pain or is he too busy applying prohibited substances to his finish?" she says, grinning in that self-satisfied way of hers. I must admit, that was a pretty good comeback . . . Wasn't I supposed to shut down any and all conversation?

"Follow me," I say, conceding defeat and moving off to one of the cabinets containing the pain inhibitors. I hear her short laugh; a token of her victory in our little battle of wits. It both annoys and enlivens me. I could just let it go; should just let it go . . . but, as I take in the different tools at my disposal, the desire to get back at her is too strong.

"So, I believe you had something to tell me."

"Yes, there's going to be . . . What is that?!" she exclaims as I pull out a relatively harmless, yet intimidating looking device. I believe it's the rather long, rather sharp crossover tweezers which set bots on edge. Heh, whatever, the look of horror on her is priceless.

"Oh, this," I say innocently, twisting the tool between my digits and giving it a proper showing, "They're forceps; used for surgeries and dissections mostly. Can act as a heat sink for those less apt at the art of soldering and provide a means of switching off pain receptors."

She keeps giving me this look which teeters between nervousness and scandal. She doesn't know whether to ask "are you being serious?" or "seriously?!"

Oh, I just have to hold this straight face long enough to deliver the punchline . . .

"But they're real value comes from turning bad-mannered patients into agreeable ones," I say smoothly, a small grin creeping out at the end. Uh oh, those optics look like null-rays. I think I might have actually upset her. Not really my intention, but then I notice her smile.

"You have a warped sense of humor, Knock Out. You know that?" she states with a shake of her helm. I can't quite place why, but it's amazing how relieving the laughter in her voice feels.

"I like to think of it as . . . clever," I say with just the right amount of sincerity to it.

"Well, whatever you call it; not funny," she says with a little more weight. I place the instrument back.

"Alright, my apologies, Arcee. However, rest truly is the best course of medicine in this case and nothing works better than keeping the area immobile," I say, catching the slight disappointment in her features, "Fortunately, there is an effective alternative."

I smile as her optics brighten; happy patient, happy doctor. Reaching back into the supplies, I pull out a vial of cooling emollient and a spool of covering foil. I nod back towards the medical table and she heads for it, clearing a workspace for me; thoughtful of her. I place down the materials and gesture to her arm with open servos . . .

"May I?"

Without the slightest hesitation, she offers up her arm and I'm surprised by her confidence. I realize Arcee's never had any personal medical assistance from me before—a commendable feat considering I've already seen most of the bots on this planet twice—but not too long ago we were staunch adversaries; I expect there to be some uncertainty. Pugh, some Decepticons still deal with me in uneasy compliance and I can't say I blame them.

Trust was too precious and fragile at present . . . my thoughts of last night floating back to me. So, I wonder if it's inexperience or trust I'm seeing now?

I take her arm gently, silently wrestling against that question and its answer. She breaks up my deliberation with a statement I didn't quite catch.

"Come again," I say a little too timidly for my liking.

"There was something else I thought you should know," she says in a tone I can only describe as warningly.

"Let me guess," I interrupt briskly, "Ultra M wants another 'coaching' with me, today."

"Not where I was going, but definitely a possibility," she says with a laugh.

"I don't see what's so funny," I state reaching down to grab the cooling gel, "You've never had to sit through performance evaluations that felt more like disciplinary actions before."

"Doctor, I recommend you watch your tone," she says in a firm, stern voice deeper than her usual. Is she impersonating Ultra Magnus? A genuine laugh escapes me and she looks to me with an astute smile.

"You better not tell him I said that."

"Cross my spark," I say in mirth, applying the balm to her joints, "Good impression though."

"Mm, yeah, but Ultra Magnus is fair, Knock Out," she says seriously I note, "Maybe if you didn't give him so many opportunities to penalize you, there'd be less coaching."

"Well, not all of us are content with daily grind and protocol. Forgive me if I dare try and have a little fun or relaxation," I say with more spite than I meant to let out. I know she's right; Magnus is decent and its why some of my insecurities of the past bubble up. I don't feel like having this conversation.

"Just a suggestion. What is this stuff anyway? Smells . . . strong," she says, gesturing to the emollient and, commendably, changing the subject.

"It's the stuff you'll be putting on every morning until the pain subsides. You'll want to keep it wrapped too," I smile, handing her the bottle and picking up the foil.

"Maybe I should have stuck with the brace, huh?" she says turning the blue vial in her servo and giving me a smirk. I shrug a bit as I focus on wrapping her arm.

"You'll get fewer stares with this treatment plus a little more movement, but I am going to have to ask you to reframe from any heavy lifting."

"Thanks. You know, it's your fault this happened in the first place."

"Uh, how was I supposed to know a giant crevice opened up over there? It used to be all solid ground," I state defensively.

"That didn't cause this. It happened when I caught you from slipping out of your seat in the rec room. Twisted it the wrong way against the counter."

"Oh," I say simply, trying to conceal my embarrassment. Why didn't I just retire early last night?

"Yeah, oh. That's the second time I saved you from a fall. Let's try and be a little more careful from now on, okay?" she says in a joking tone. Part of me is still mortified by the circumstances surrounding her injury while another wants to be offended at her jab. I chuckle instead.

"Thank you. Certainly not one of my better evenings I'll admit, but I assure you I didn't come out completely unscathed either."

"Really?" she asks with just a touch of delicious concern. I can't resist jabbing back.

"Yes. You left quite a few scratches on my finish with your little rescues," I say humorously, though there is a hint of allegation there. She promptly rolls her optics. She seems to do that a lot.

"Sorry, Knock Out. I'll remember to bring a buffer next time I need to save your life."

"See that you do," I say with a grin, placing the foil back down and releasing her arm. As she admires my handy work, I focus in on the fact she has a ridiculous amount of nicks herself. Seeing as she's my patient now, we're definitely going to have to fix that.

"And while we're on the subject of buffing . . ."

"Seriously! I'm not interested in cleaning up your paint job especially when . . ."

"Ahem, more like I'll be the one attending to your paint job," I interrupt dryly as I turn to retrieve a tool suitable for the job from my stash.

"Oh," she says simply.

"Yeah, oh. You misjudge me, Arcee. I can be considerate too, you know. Besides, I'm already in impeccable condition. Ah, this should work nicely," I say coming back to the table with one of my smaller rotary buffers and a variety of application pads.

"Sorry."

"Apology accepted," I say dismissively before holding up the buffer, "Now, should we get started?"

"Um, if you don't mind, I think I can manage it myself," she says politely, reaching for the device with her good servo.

"Suit yourself," I concede, handing it over. Mm, I wonder what she thinks of me now . . . yikes. Where is that coming from?!

"And Knock Out?" she asks.

"Huh?"

"You missed a spot."

What! I look down, scanning every inch of myself for imperfections. I don't see any so I glance back to her for clarification only to find a poorly concealed grin. It's my turn to roll my optics.

"Really now? Are you always this nice to your rescuees?" I ask smartly, anticipating a clever retort. I receive silence instead. I look to her and watch in concern as she appears to freeze. Soon, brief tremors begin to rock her frame and her grip on the buffer grows vice-like. Is she having a negative reaction to the cooling gel?! Great, just what I need; medical malpractice. I circle round the table and stop in front of her. The way she's staring off into nothing alarms me.

"Arcee?"

Her optics dart up to me revealing panic and little recognition; almost as if she were experiencing a . . . flashback. Arcee? Trauma? I didn't think . . . I didn't know . . . Primus, did I trigger something?

"Arcee. Arcee, you're safe. We're aboard the reclaimed Nemesis, remember?" I say in a calm, quiet voice, instinctively remembering years of experience with shock and trauma. But it's more than training, isn't it? I remember all the things she shared with me last night; all the things she had to endure too. I'm genuinely upset to see a bot as tough as Arcee shaken like this and it frightens me that I care so much. I want to soothe her pain because it hurts me too. No, it's not just training. It's an empathy and compassion for someone close to me; the surprise of knowing I'm still capable of it. Maybe this sappy caring stuff isn't as off-putting as I believed it was or as I've been made to believe. Just unfamiliar. Unpracticed.

And as I watch her troubled features begin to still, I hear . . . You're not what you were. I can finally see who you are. You're home now, partner. And I'll always be grateful for that.

" . . .To put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires, and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness." Ephesians 4:22-24