Author's Note: There's a reference to Scrapheap and Deus ex Machina in this chapter!

Disclaimer: In an alternate universe, everything written here is canon. Sadly, this is not that universe.

Warnings: No fleshies were harmed in the making of this fanfiction.

Summary: There are many things in this chapter that I wish were real, two of them being Cybertronian 101 and compulsory vacations.

Chapter Six: House Arrest

"Freedom!"

Arms thrown open in an ostentatious gesture, Miko skipped down the abbreviated flight of steps leading outside. Behind her trailed Rafael, his expression a blend of contemplation and ease. Afternoon sunlight radiated across the school grounds, the rainstorm from yesterday nothing more than a memory. Now-dissipating pools of rainwater glistened along the pavement and streets. Last-minute stragglers bounded past the two friends, tossing papers into the air like makeshift confetti. Whoops of glee followed as students raced away from the building and embraced summer.

Using his uninjured hand, the shorter child adjusted his specs. Fractured light glinted off the glass lenses. Lightheartedness tinged his voice as Rafael corrected the black-haired girl, "It wasn't that bad, Miko."

"Says you," retorted the teenager, clambering atop a stone wall and perching on the rim's smooth surface like a bird of prey. To better illustrate her point, Miko widened her eyes beyond their normal stretching capacity and spared Rafael a beady look. It was half teasing, half annoyed, a gaze reminiscent of an owl's. "What can school teach us about the 'real world,' anyway? None of our teachers have a clue that two groups of giant alien robots are duking out a centuries-old civil war on our planet! And they expect me to take them seriously?"

"Well"―Rafael rolled his―"the Autobots are supposed to be in disguise. It would kind of defeat the purpose if the entire world knew about them." Pointedly he elaborated, "If people knew about the Autobots, they would be constantly followed by paparazzi, just like Lady Gaga or Tom Cruise."

Comparing the Autobots to a singer who chose to bedeck herself in meat dresses definitely created some disturbing mental images.

As exceedingly difficult as it was to not imitate the boy's eye roll, Miko managed. Grinning impishly, she extended a hand and carefully grasped Rafael's bandage-free wrist, hauling him over the lip of the stone wall beside her. Brushing her palms against her shirt, Miko resumed her garrulous chatter: "Still, things like the stock market crash and terrorists kind of pale in comparison, don't'cha think, Raf?"

His stare darkening, Rafael murmured, "Not unless you're including MECH." Freaky, Miko noted with an uncharacteristic bout of depth, how chumps like Silas can turn one syllable into the most hated word in the Webster's dictionary. An accompanying shudder followed her thought. Like switching off the water on a faucet, the teenager's insight vanished, replaced by a lively burst of conversation: "Whatever. Professors can throw me in detention as many times as they want, or shove as many projects down my throat as they damn well please. Doesn't change the fact that I hate the lot of 'em."

Curiously Rafael diverted his attention from the street to Miko. Curses were a constant for the girl when she vented about things that she truly despised, so he shunted aside the swear. Still cradling the sling stabilizing his wrist, the brown-haired youth quirked a brow. "What do you have against school, anyway?"

"Parents," Miko moaned dramatically. Kicking her legs against the granite, from her pockets she withdrew her cell phone and flipped it open. "Both sets of them. Always telling me how I need to 'sort out my priorities' and 'do better' in school. Puh-lease."

Instantly Miko realized her mistake, but before she could snatch back the words Rafael caught wind of them. Forlornly the twelve-year-old tucked his chin inward, staring absently at his reflection mirrored in a puddle overflowing with silt. "At least your parents care," he sighed, avoiding Miko's eyes.

Overwhelming guilt pounded through her agile body. Redirecting their conversation outweighed her other options, so rather abruptly she steered the duo out of those dangerous waters. Not once did Miko's eyes dart from the device's screen as the teenager amended, "Really, I think that the system is rigged so that kids are doomed to fail."

A more-easygoing scoff huffed from Rafael's parted lips. "What makes you say that?"

"For a start"―deftly Miko's fingers pecked at the keyboard―"Scantron tests. They're the fortune cookies of the academic world. After I fill in C and D enough times, I start to feel like that's going to be my grade: a C or a D. That, or 'The Man' is just screwing with me."

"You're paranoid." Despite his accusation, a brief giggle escaped Rafael.

"I'm telling you," protested Miko, feigning indignity, "any sort of quiz that requires you to 'fill in the bubble' is an automatic deathtrap for unwary victims. And it gets worse."

With an amiable smirk Rafael scooted closer, elbows brushing while he attempted to catch the recipient's name above Miko's text message. "What next? Cafeteria food?"

"Even more horrific." Upon pressing send on her phone, the Japanese girl fixated him with a look that was meant to be piercing but radiated mischief. Even her best endeavor to act serious resulted in Rafael grinning broadly. "There's a conspiracy theory that involves killing students. No, really!" snapped Miko when Rafael merely flashed his teeth. "Listen! A really mean teacher told me one time that the red ink in her pen that she marked bad grades with came from a reservoir filled with blood. Apparently the blood is 'donated' by the bad kids who failed their research papers. That's gotta be codeword for 'abducted by the institution' or something. See, the way I look at it, society is targeting likely high school dropouts and―"

"Miko," Rafael interrupted, unfurling his intact arm to gesticulate, "did you ever consider that you watch too many sci-fi dramas on TV?" Backpack sliding onto the stone surface beside him, the straps eased off the twelve-year-old's shoulders in a flowing motion.

"Your point?"

Restlessly the raven-haired girl drummed her fingertips against her cell phone before flipping the portable electronic open again. From behind her cell phone's screen, Miko chanced a glimpse at her friend's face and was reassured to see that Rafael was distracted by her absurd speculation. Anything to cheer him up, she steely decided. Successive clicks reverberated through the space surrounding them, punctuated by Miko's impatient exhales. Intrigued by her resolve, the brunette boy peered more closely at the display. Multiple messages fanned across the sent list, all addressed to Bulkhead and all relaying one identical question:

where r u?

school ended, like, 10 minutes ago

did u get a flat on the way here? lol

is not happy :(

we're DYING 'Bulk!

"Geez, Miko," Rafael mused, blinking at the never-ending outbox, "you sure you didn't send him enough texts?" His cheek earned him a mildly waspish look that was quickly abandoned in favor of a less irritated frown.

Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Miko darted an index finger toward a red key. Obediently the screen receded to black, and she snapped the panel shut, jerking her face upward. "Why did I forget to recharge my phone this morning?" Rhetorical question as it was, Rafael neglected to answer. Reluctantly pocketing the electronic device, the taller teenager sulkily crossed her arms and scanned the road, almost certain that she had overlooked a detail. At last Miko sighed, "I wanted to celebrate because today was the last official day of school. We can't exactly throw a party if we're still here, Raf."

"I'm sure they're just running late," Rafael assured her, meanwhile unzipping his backpack and rifling through its contents.

Bidden by his words, the memory of Bumblebee's inability to pick her friend up two days ago brought with them a surge of transitory feelings, namely curiosity. The last sentiment was a result of Ratchet's abnormal behavior from yesterday and Vince's absence during their final exam. Something that Rafael had observed with unconcealed relief, Miko inwardly chortled. Women's intuition suggested that her arrogant classmate was lying wasted in some deserted alley or at home with one hell of a hangover. Gossip passed from student to student revealed that among his other illicit activities—street racing, for example—were barhopping and drinking. If her suspicions were right, than the lumbering redhead was in a world of pain if he couldn't even haul his sorry butt to school.

And Vince deserved every last headache. After all, no one screwed around with her friends. Sure, Miko idly noted, Jack and Rafael always called her a hyperactive troublemaker. But all unfair labels aside, the black-haired teenager would make anyone who messed with her group—'Con or human—rue the day they pissed her off. While monitoring the oncoming traffic with a vigilant eye, Miko smiled. Amazing how one teenage girl could fill such a harmless expression with absolute menace.

As it turned out, the tacks she had smuggled to class could be saved for another day. No need to waste them on Vince if he was already suffering—or absent from school.

"About time, guys!"

Unintentionally she jolted Rafael out of his thoughts with her boisterous greeting. Approaching the chalky-colored sidewalk were two vehicles: a burly moss-green and brown monster truck, accompanied by a smaller, sleeker muscle car decked with black racing stripes atop yellow paint. Beeping and honking giddily, the disguised scout slammed on the brakes, cutting it dangerously close as he halted against the pavement. Behind him Bulkhead drew to a more graceful stop, passenger seat door flinging open of its own accord. Following an exchange of excited looks, Miko scampered toward her beloved truck and affectionately pressed her ribcage against the hood. Likewise Rafael greeted Bumblebee with a hug that might have looked odd to a passerby. "My knight in shining battle armor," crooned the teenager, snuggling against the pleasantly warm hood. Stepping back, Miko skirted around the open door and vaulted herself onto the seat. "You've come to sweep me off my feet and take me away from this prison!"

Laughter vibrated from the truck's engine, accompanied by a static-laced grunt. "Miko," Bulkhead reproved lightly via speakers, "I gave you a way to contact me on your phone so you could call me in case of emergencies, not so you could give me a processor ache." Despite his chosen speech, the rumble contained a trace of amusement.

"Yeah, yeah"— the raven-haired kid nestled into the seat's fabric—"don't pretend you don't jump up and down like a little girl every time I send you a text."

"Do not," Bulkhead shot back. Contributing to their banter was a rapid blast of static from the radio, transmitting the Camaro's twitters and chirps. In response to his comrade's indecipherable comment the ex-Wrecker grumped, "That was different, 'Bee. Scraplets can make any 'Bot cry for his—" More beeps interrupted Bulkhead, combated by the heavyset mech a second later: "At least I didn't spend the next two weeks recharging with my weapons online."

Courtesy of the Camaro, Rafael's chuckle was transmitted across the two Autobots' shared feed. The first time Bulkhead had demonstrated this technique, it had freaked Miko out rather badly. (The battle-ready warrior had chosen to intercept a satellite transmission that had been playing clips from Jurassic Park.) Now their ability to sync up to various communication lines fascinated her. "It's okay, 'Bee," the bespectacled boy assured him. "I still keep the bathroom lights on when I go to bed."

Cheerful clicks emanated from the truck's speakers.

"Anyway," said Bulkhead as his hulking alternate form halted at a stop sign, "I'm just here to give you a ride. Besides, I doubt that high school is a prison. If your parents are okay with sending you there, than so am I."

Elevating an eyebrow, Miko gave the dashboard a dubious sniff. "'Bulk, have you ever gone to high school?"

That definitely stumped him. Rafael's poorly-concealed giggles resonated throughout the monster truck's interior, along with a cicada-like chirrup that could only be the scout's attempt at laughter.

"Well, no, but…"

Score—Miko: one, Bulkhead: nil. Still smirking, Miko victoriously crossed her arms behind her skull and brushed the pigtails aside. "Then I rest my case."

More beeps filled the compartment as Bumblebee stated something. Moments later came Rafael's voice, confused by the sound of it: "Why is it a bad idea to hug you in public? People can't see what you really are as long as you're disguised as cars."

Unexpectedly Bulkhead threw in his two cents, accompanied by an amused snort. "Just because we look like cars doesn't mean humans won't balk when they see two kids rubbing themselves all over our hides."

"So?" yawned the older child, idly brushing a jet-black bang from her forehead. "We don't care if a few weirdoes stare. We can just say that we're enthusiasts or somethin'."

"Enthusiasts with a car fetish," Bulkhead snickered. The force of his laughter sent a shockwave of tremors across the seats. Vibrations rattled through Miko's bones and sent her teeth ajar with the strength behind the single act. Equally as tear-jerking, she echoed his perverted reaction with a bellow of her own.

Stern blares piped from the radio, followed by Rafael's naïve inquiry: "What's a fetish?"

Unable to help herself, Miko doubled over and clutched at a stitch forming near her ribcage.

Under the barrage of scolding that Bumblebee pulsed across their communicators, Bulkhead cowed. Sheepishly her guardian muttered, "Got it," and quickly changed topic: "So…how did you do on your final exams?"

Rafael's "Aww" assured the raven-haired girl that he would demand an answer later. "I felt really confident about the material, considering we reviewed for the test yesterday." With a groan Miko thumped her head against the seat cushion. Enthusiastically he launched into a wave of technical talk: "The section about Pythagorean Theorem was pretty easy, but on question eighty-three I think that I mixed up the formulas for the volumes of a cylinder and the volumes of a sphere." Disappointment flooded from Bulkhead's radio, just as quickly replaced with pride. "I still think I did well."

While the yellow sports car honked to express his happiness, Bulkhead sounded almost as despondent as Miko felt. "Yeah, uh, that's great, Raf." Jasper was well behind them now, an industrial oasis on the edge of Nevada's ceaseless deserts. To her horror, the monster truck decided that if he was going to suffer through an ear-bleeding sermon, then so was she. "What about you, Miko? How were your tests?"

Don't remind me. "Not bad," she reluctantly conceded, stretching her neck to watch cacti and boulders whiz past the window. The normally-bubbly teenager brightened at a moment's notice, recalling what one of her teachers had interrogated her about that selfsame morning. "Actually, Mr. Thompson told me the grade I received on my history essay before the math test."

"You got your score back already? Lucky," muttered Rafael through the radio transmission.

On its own the gas pedal inched forward, nudging the needle of the speedometer closer to thirty-six. "Really?" inquired the ex-Wrecker in what was clearly an attempt to sound intrigued. "What was the grade?"

Cue bombshell. "Oh," Miko drawled, "nothing too fancy. Just a D."

Just as she had expected, Bulkhead's brake pedal violently slammed into the floor. Screeches and painful shrieks clawed the air, a tribute to Bumblebee's mad swerve to avoid collision. Just grazing his comrades by centimeters, the yellow and black blur careened past her guardian's alt mode and skidded across the sand. Long, diagonal tire tracks were gashed into the granular terrain, while burnt skid marks from Bulkhead's wheels marred the road. The abrupt halt caused Miko to catapult forward; only her loyal seatbelt kept the black-haired girl from crashing into the windshield.

"Miko?" Rafael's voice quaked as the Camaro transmitted his question. "Are you okay?"

Whistles blared from the speakers in a concerned sort of tone. Not that she could really tell.

"Yeah," Miko groaned, leaning back to better massage her scalp, "I'm fine—"

"A D? You got a D on your essay?" Bulkhead's shrill roar ricocheted throughout the truck's interior, deafening her. "Miko," huffed the forest-hued mech, fighting for control of his audials, "I thought you said that you knew what you were going to write for your end-of-semester report."

Offhandedly Miko shrugged, trying to rope in the smile she could sense spreading across her lips. It was always hilarious to get underneath her guardian's armor. "Of course I had my topic picked out," the teenager agreed, settling against the seat once more. "The teacher just didn't like it."

"What was your topic about?" Rafael cut across. Bumblebee repeated the question in his own manner, a series of spry buzzes conveyed through the vehicle's broadcast.

"Interactions between Ancient Greek city-states and Cybertronians."

At a snail's pace Bumblebbe backed onto the road again, this time taking the lead. For a painstaking heartbeat Bulkhead didn't respond, his wheels gyrating against the road before he sped after the other mech. Before her guardian could reply, an anxious swoon exited the radio feed.

On the scout's behalf, Rafael translated, "'Don't you think that writing about us will jeopardize our existence?'"

"Nah." Trying to catch Bulkhead off guard was a game of hers—a clash of wills—to see if she could make the bolder-than-brass Autobot sweat. Do giant robots sweat at all? the teenager pondered absently. Not that it mattered; it was just a figure of speech. After the Scraplet incident at their headquarters, Miko delighted in riling Bulkhead. The best part was that he didn't mind, and seemed to catch on to her game.

Score—Miko: two, Bulkhead: still zero, she mentally noted whilst administering a reassuring pat to the steering wheel. "Mr. Thompson just gave me this really long talk about taking history seriously. He then told me that I would probably do well in a creative writing class, which is pretty much the nicest compliment that old sod has ever given me. Today was just a whole bunch of weird events one after the other," Miko tacked on, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"Really?" Progressively Bulkhead was making the transition from overprotective to easygoing. He seemed to recover from the shock and was easing back into the conversation, realizing what Miko was playing at.

A glance out the window told the quirky teenager that they were roughly a mile from the Autobots' base. About thirty more seconds of driving.

"Yeah," Miko mused, scrunching up her nose distastefully. The venom in her next sentence was almost tangible: "Vince wasn't in school today. Shame, really, 'cause I had a present for that son of a bit—"

Static sputtered from Bulkhead's radio, the Cybertronian version of a hack. Never one to miss something undisclosed, patiently she leaned against the steering wheel and waited for the massive mech to finish wheezing. Once his voice modulator receded into tense silence, Miko absently thumbed a dial on the dashboard. Devilish glee illuminated her irises as the teenager leaned closer and sweetly asked, "You know something, don't you?"

"What? O-Of course not!" the monster truck blustered. A gush of cool air trickled from the vents alongside the dashboard, and Miko's beam widened until she looked like a distant cousin of the Cheshire Cat. It didn't take much brainpower to realize that the cooling fans were a systematic response to rising temperatures. Already a silvery bead of sweat was rolling down the bridge of her nose, proof of her initial theory. Long conclusion short: if Bulkhead was heating up, then he was lying. "I don't know anything about that human punk or what happened to him the night before!"

Still leering triumphantly at her metallic warden, Miko scooted nearer until poised at the edge of the seat. "No offense, 'Bulk, but you're a terrible liar—"

"We're back!" The relief in Bulkhead's voice was glaringly obvious. Without any hesitation the monster truck flung open the passenger seat's door, a clear indicator for Miko to exit (and a noticeable effort to avoid answering his charge). So engrossed had Miko been in her interrogation that the teenager hadn't noticed Bulkhead and Bumblebee driving through the entrance tunnel. Pouting a little, she slid off the cushion, listening to the clangs of her guardian reverting to his bipedal posture. Similarly Bumblebee had adapted his preferred form, already kneeling next to Rafael and nudging him with an extended finger.

Perhaps their near-crash had done a bit more damage that her friend had let on, because he was wincing and protectively cradling his sling. Behind his square glasses the boy's eyes were narrowed, teeth similarly grit. A pinch of worry and guilt jetted through her veins like liquid fire. Biting her upper lip, the girl reached Rafael's side in six bounds and slung an arm around his good shoulder. The result wasn't pretty: he cringed and mumbled a quiet protest under his breath.

"What's up?" demanded Miko apprehensively.

Edging away from her reassuring grip, the shorter of the two humans shook his tousled hair. "I'm fine," Rafael stammered, clutching his sling too tightly to convince Miko otherwise. "I just leaned into the seat funny and—"

Bumblebee's frantic, electrical cries cut him off. Optics tapering to teal slits, the scout clicked frantically at Bulkhead. The colossal brown-green mech frowned and shook his helm. "Sorry, 'Bee, but I don't exactly have a doctorate in medicine. I've never been to call…collar…calm…hey, Miko"—the former Wrecker's gaze flitted to her—"what's that place called?"

"College," she answered, stepping into Bulkhead's shadow and gazing imploringly at the towering Cybertronian. "Where's Ratchet? Maybe he could run scans on Raf and make sure that he's not too banged up."

Instead of Bumblebee or Bulkhead answering, the rejoin came from behind, calm, cool, and collected: "Ratchet is currently the Cybertronian equivalent of…'grounded.'"

Stepping in the group's direction was the slim, lithe figure of Arcee. While several heads shorter than her teammates, the temperamental femme was easily a force to be reckoned with, regardless of height. Today, however, her faceplates were twitching southward in a facial expression akin to a frown, giving Arcee the aura of someone who was gloomy. Scratch that; "gloomy" was too cheerful of a word choice. Downright miserable was a far more apt candidate, a fact that Miko registered with sympathy.

"'Grounded'?" Rafael repeated, spared long enough of the twinge in his wrist to ask.

Evasively Arcee crouched before Rafael and studied him. Doubt momentarily flared in her optics before forcefully being replaced with concern. Her servos palming the ground, she craned the cords in her neck to get a closer look. "Where did you get the cast and sling? I thought that you refused to go to the hospital."

Rafael offered a tentative look in response. "Jack didn't want me to go home without something to hold my wrist in place, so he went into his mom's medicine cabinet and found some gauze."

"Good thing, too," Miko heartily chipped in while she leaned against Bulkhead's leg. Arms crossed, the teenage girl tipped her head to one side in a more relaxed gesture. "Raf told me that Jack told him how Ms. Darby taught Jack basic first aid when she came home from a hospital shift one time. Said his mom was 'possessed' after she saw a few kids get in an accident."

"But wouldn't you know that already?" Bulkhead questioned Arcee while he imitated Miko's posture—a subconscious habit developed from hanging around the energetic girl. "You dropped off Jack and Raf last night." Bumblebee chipped in with an array of vibrant beeps that expressed his dislike of the previous night's decision. It had only been under Jack's unfaltering tenacity and Rafael's calming assurance that the yellow scout had caved.

"I wouldn't." The reply was snapped. Discontentedly Arcee sighed, "Jack wheeled me into his garage as soon as we pulled up because he insisted on walking Rafael home. I only saw Jack this morning when I drove him to his job."

"Huh," the thickset mech mused, shrugging the metal lining his rotator cups. "Explains a lot."

Explains why Arcee looks so depressed, wordlessly Miko cottoned on. The absence of one Jack Darby was enough to leave her feeling somewhat sullen, too.

Into her full height Arcee rose, the silver femme pursing her lips. Momentarily she swapped a glance with Bulkhead before speaking. Instead of smooth English, however, electronic clicks and foreign words exited her audials. Having heard Cybertronian spoken before, Miko at once recognized the language. Exactly what they were saying was an entirely different cup of tea.

Just as easily Bulkhead responded, the burst of Cybertronian sounding gruff yet fluent.

"Hey!" Pigtails bounced against her shoulders as she rapped a knuckle against her guardian's pede. "That's not fair! You know we can't understand intergalactic lingo."

"Precisely," Arcee answered, sharing a rapid dialogue with Bulkhead before whirling around in the opposite direction. "I wouldn't worry too much about your wrist. While I'm no medic, your internals are coming back as fine on my scans. It's just sore." With a backward glance over her shoulder the silvery femme commented, "You know, Optimus won't be back from patrol for another hour, and Ratchet isn't here. Why not use the monitor to play some games?"

"What?"

The exclamation squawked from the two children and bulky Autobot, their tones a combination of excited, surprised, and panic-stricken. Bumblebee only whooped, as he shared Miko's enthusiasm for access to the normally out-of-bounds monitor.

"Arcee," Bulkhead called after her retreating backside, "you sure that's a good idea? You know the Doc'll scrap us if he ever learns that we used the main screen for video games."

"Don't worry." As Arcee resumed stalking down a long corridor, she raised a servo in farewell. "It'll give them something to do until Jack's shift ends at four. And"—in the dim hallway her optics glinted, vocals softening to a whisper—"it will keep them distracted for a while."

Prowling through the base with feline grace, Arcee slid down the empty hallway. Telltale drips from the hydraulic lines overhead indicated a leak, something that would require repairs lest they lose Energon.

Those broken pipes would have to take a backseat.

Blame gnawed at her circuitry worse than a Scraplet's teeth, prompting her to hasten her pace. After last night's screaming match, Arcee had penned herself up in her private quarters, the metallic blue 'Bot infested with emotions. Repeatedly the femme had insisted to herself, "He knows better. You had every right to be mad."

Yet the more she had reiterated her entitlement, the less convincing it sounded.

Only Prime had spoken to Ratchet since their confrontation, slipping into the medic's private quarters just before sunrise. Twenty minutes later, just as soundly, Optimus had exited the room, but not before the eavesdropping trio had caught a distraught snippet from Ratchet: "Please, Optimus, no, you can't take my—"

Before Arcee, Bumblebee, or Bulkhead had learned what exactly their leader confiscated, the door slid shut. Needless to say, that gap in the conversation left a lot of room for speculation. All credit went to Bulkhead for the wild (and childishly inappropriate) scenarios he had fantasized as they had driven to pick up their charges.

Hours later it wasn't difficult for an affectionate expression to occasionally break through her wall of sullenness.

Again Arcee paused, relying more on memory of the retraced route than actual sight to guide her footsteps. It went without saying that their CMO forgave more easily than he forgot, a notion that perturbed the femme. Was the risk worth it? At this rate, the cobalt Autobot reckoned that in a few more hours her matrix might actually malfunction given the strain of her guilt.

There. She admitted it.

Every klik following their argument only served to worsen the regret. Reluctant as Arcee was to admit it, quarreling over some brash stunt was the last thing on her mind. Doubtless, the white-orange mech's actions were well out of bounds, but for her to just snap at him was a little…tactless.

Then again, maybe it was for the better that she had told Ratchet off. Due to their ageless friendship, Arcee suspected that Optimus would never have found it within himself to raise his voice, no matter the severity. Maybe she had done her Prime a favor and spared him the burden.

Regardless of the conflicting feelings tangling her thoughts, it didn't change the situation at hand: outside the doors of his quarters Arcee stood, shifting the weight of her lithe frame throughout her stance. Scolding the medic in front of the others was one thing; slinking off to his room to offer an apology was another situation altogether. Acting contrite wasn't the problem, as she fully understood that she had somewhat been in the wrong; dodging Ratchet's accurately-thrown wrench was a tad beyond her range of abilities, however.

With a nervous sigh the sleekly-built femme understood that she was trekking into uncharted territory—a fact that warranted caution, if not an epitaph before proceeding.

Just as Arcee found the courage to raise a servo, about to knock, her hypersensitive hearing signaled in on a low voice. Senses sharpening in systematic response, she temporarily adjusted the gusts of her exvents to the lowest setting. Gears and cogs along her circuitry whirred to enhance her audio. Not to the silver-blue femme's surprise, the owner of said voice was none other than their spitfire medic. What caught Arcee off guard was the dawning realization that she wasn't the only 'Bot in turmoil:

"'You've been working too hard.' 'You need a vacation.' 'You're going to crack under the stress, old friend.' Hmph. Optimus can call it whatever he likes. That does not change what this really is: enforced medical leave." Obviously Ratchet hadn't detected his audience's presence and was vehemently griping in undertone. Clanks and the shuffle of pedes working against steel tiles gave her the impression that he was pacing. "Slagging Prime. What am I supposed to do? Banned from my own sickbay unless an emergency crops up." Metallic clinks resounded from the room. "Well guess what, Optimus? There's always an emergency around here. Hence the reason I took this position!"

Primus, mused Arcee, jaws parting in astonishment, he'll be driven to drink. Amongst the soldiers of their faction it had always been a well-supported fact that Ratchet would go to work even if his limbs were ripped clean off. Even Optimus knew this to be candid information, which baffled the slender femme further. Either their leader truly did believe that Ratchet's health merited a vacation, or this was a darker, more sadistic side to their Prime that none of them were privy to. Pulling rank and stripping him of his duties was a shrewd punishment.

Clang!

Automatically Arcee's processor focused on the crescendo of metallic clicks. Straightening out of her tense pose, she stretched the wires running vertically along her frame and midriff. Lurking in such an awkward position had caused the wires to knot.

Weird. Trepidation oozed across her neural net as Arcee extended a servo. If Ratchet isn't permitted to work, then what in the Pit is he doing?

Time to find out.

All caution discarded, she shoved open the paneled door and thrust her chassis invasively into the medic's quarters. And stared. Were it not for her personal vitals stacked at the corner of her HUD, Arcee might have believed this to be some insane byproduct of a stasis lock. Or a bizarre dream cycle. Or a postmortem vision sent by Cybertron's god.

Gawking back at her was Ratchet, digits clenched around a screwdriver. The mech had his spine turned to a workbench he had obviously been hovering over mere seconds before. Fruitlessly his vocalizer attempted to form intelligible words and only managed to sputter white noise. Their optics locked, the medic's gaze a fusion of reproach —and fear.

Fear, as if caught in the middle of some unspeakable act.

Because there, lying innocently before Ratchet's pedes, was Rafael's broken laptop.

Understanding poured into her thoughts. Trust her faulty vocals to utter the first thing that came to mind: "You're fixing his computer?"

Another agonizing astrosecond passed before Ratchet's normal functions returned, full throttle. Scowling at Arcee, the white and orange Cybertronian hastily plucked the pathetic little device off of the floor. With great care he deposited the laptop from his free palm onto the desk amidst a clutter of other tools. Armor plates stiffening, the medic whirled around, hands on his hips. Against the brunt of his glare Arcee remained stock-still and eyed him in a new light.

Dumbstruck, she repeated, "You're fixing his computer?"

Tone dripping with pure irony, Ratchet answered, "No. I'm just admiring all thirty-seven pieces of it that little whelp created." A servo idly travelled toward his helm to massage a tense node beneath the armor. Aka, the alien robot version of a temple. Still regarding Arcee suspiciously, the heavily-built mech twirled the screwdriver between his fingers and scowled. Under his breath Ratchet muttered what sounded akin to a complaint. Not quite hearing him, she uneasily murmured, "Come again?"

"It's not the same," muttered Ratchet, sagging a little.

"'Not the same'?" Arcee repeated.

Frustration flared in his optics for the briefest of seconds before the medic growled, "This blasted screwdriver." Beneath her questioning glimpse the CMO elaborated, "Optimus took my wrench."

"Oh." Well, now I can put some of Bulk's theories to rest. "Part of your…'extended vacation,' I presume?"

"Presume my aft!" In full blown rant Ratchet turned his broad backside to the azure femme, meanwhile busying his hands with tools that Arcee couldn't quite see. "By the Allspark, how am I going to get anything done? I needed that. But, no. Prime wouldn't hear it!" Adopting a low timbre, he dropped his audials several octaves to impersonate their leader: "'The strain is taking its toll on you, Ratchet. Forgive me for my oversight; I should have seen the signs. A week of rest ought to put your mind at ease.' The only strain I'm under right now is this Primus-forsaken lockdown, and why? Because I bent over backward for the children! And Optimus blames my behavior on stress. Ha."

Expression hidden from her line of sight, it was impossible to guess what the crotchety medic was really thinking. Biased as he was, Arcee knew from experience that there was more to the mech than meets the eye. Very little ever succeeded to rile him like this. Having known him for centuries, it was fairly easy to tell apart his regular surliness from sincere distress. She refrained from answering, too uncertain to know how to approach Ratchet. To the Pit, there was still a large part of her processor that wanted to continue chewing him out.

Once, twice, Arcee braced herself with a softened sigh before padding toward him. As expected, Ratchet flinched when she rested a servo on his expansive shoulder. Refusing to pull away, she kindly noted, "There's no denying what you did was foolish."

A snort. "Try 'idiotic.'"

A smile quirked over her mouthplate's features. "Fine. That was incredibly, unbelievably, undeniably the most idiotic—"

With a jerk Ratchet escaped her grip and made an about-face. "Now you're just pushing it." Humor contradicted his words, a tiny spark next to the dark void still dominating his countenance.

"Look," the steel-blue warrior persisted, her tone level, "if something was bothering you, why didn't you just say so? Glitch," Arcee mildly accused, "'Bulk, 'Bee, and I could have found a better solution than yours. All you had to do was ask, and we would have helped the kids, too—"

"Arcee," curtly Ratchet intervened while he folded his arms over his spark chamber. "Forgive me if I'm not particularly inclined to talk about it." That said, he shifted to the right slightly and went back to working on the laptop as if she wasn't there.

Like a slap to the face, Arcee couldn't help but feel somewhat stung by his reluctance to speak. Amidst the clinks and clatters of Ratchet's resumed construction, the sleek Cybertronian warrior raced to reassemble her thoughts.

A change of tactics was in order.

"Admit it."

"Admit what?" Although he refused to look at her, the white and orange medic was at least engaging in conversation.

Closer Arcee approached, brushing flanks as she hovered over Ratchet's shoulder. Deft hands focused on rewiring frayed circuits and chipped panels. Only did his servos falter when he swapped between the remedial tools that Optimus hadn't seized. Shards of what might have been useless metal and glass were strewn about the bench. To her, they appeared beyond repair, yet Ratchet was nimbly soldering, splicing, and reattaching various parts to the sad remains of Rafael's laptop.

With a knowing little smile Arcee leaned forward, entertained by the way his entire frame stiffened as the soft arch of her lips grazed his left sound receptor. Cornered like a glitch-mouse, Ratchet froze. Not a circuit stirred. Breathing onto the responsive audial, smugly Arcee declared, "You have a soft spot for the kids."

Dim clatters echoed from where the irritable mech set aside his equipment, all work ethics forgotten. Judging by the way his EM field pulsed as her physician stepped back a pace, the remark had struck a nerve. Optic-to-optic he sent a nettled glare in her direction, only further evidence that Arcee was right.

"First of all, don't do that ever again," he testily ordered. Arms settled over their familiar location: folded across his chassis.

"Sorry, Doc"—unconcernedly Arcee shrugged and shuttered her optics—"but I had to get your attention somehow."

"There are better ways than stimulating my interface protocols." Now it was Ratchet's turn to offer a haughty stare when the femme cringed. Whatever the scenario, that slagging 'Bot was always able to say such sensitive information without the awkwardness most sentient beings (human or Cybertronian) experienced at the straightforward terminology. Damn the medic in him for turning the tables.

Before Arcee could brace herself for the medical lecture that she predicted would follow, Ratchet unwittingly opened the floor for her next attack: "Really, Arcee, you're as mature as a youngling. Evidence that you spend far too much time with Jack."

"I could say the same about you," retaliated the female Cybertronian. Servos planted on her hips, teasingly Arcee crowed, "You may as well get the adoption papers ready."

Only to have Ratchet fire back, "The day I call those brats 'mine' is the day I ask Knock Out for a wax and polish."

"Knowing that 'Con, he'll make sure to be extra thorough."

Intermingled exasperation and wry pleasure crossed his features as the medic waved their banter aside and huffed. Absently a servo strayed back toward the workbench, digits automatically clutching at a welding torch. Half of his concentration and gaze were directed toward Arcee as Ratchet grunted, in better spirits than before, "Did you come here to accuse me of fawning over the children, or did you actually want something?" Systematically he began to reach for another stray tool, his concentration beginning to divert back to his project. "If not, I would like to return to my imprisonment—"

Gentle arms suddenly crushed around his abdomen. For a second time the white and orange mech froze, peripheral sensors activating along his neural net at the impulsive touch. Disregarding all forethought, Arcee had hugged the medic, hoping that the gesture would convey all the things she felt but didn't want to waste time saying. Heat flushed between the metal coating of their frames, hers sleek and his sturdy. Strangely enough, the femme couldn't help but feel like a sparkling, wrapped in the comforting embrace.

Nanokliks ticked by, a heartbeat of heavy quiet, before Ratchet urged himself to return the deed. However brief it was, Arcee knew her action spoke louder than words, and was pleased to see Ratchet looking a bit calmer when he stood back.

That relief quickly turned to abortive when the medic clicked open a panel on his right arm and began to scan her.

Gaping, she anxiously began to protest, "What's wrong?" only to be quieted by a hiss. More obstinately: "Ratchet, what the in the Pit are you doing?"

"Shut up, would you?" Finally the mech poked at a switch engraved in his medical equipment, terminating the scan in a flicker of dissipating neon light. "I was double-checking for malfunctioning components in your systems. The Arcee I know doesn't throw her arms around other Autobots."

Scandalized contractions lined Arcee's face in a look of amusement. Mock anger twined around her voice modulator as the silver-blue femme sighed, "Figures. Some things never change." Turning to exit his private quarters, she was halted when Ratchet called her back.

Part sincere, part jesting, Ratchet's faceplates furrowed with portentous declaration as the medic warned, "Just because I don't have my wrench does not mean my aim is hindered. This conversation never happened. Understood?"

Arching her brows, Arcee repeated in a feigned daze, "What conversation?"

He smirked: "Exactly."

Refraining from chuckling, she idly waved a servo in farewell before slipping back into the shadowy depths of the hallway. To herself Arcee chimed, Thank Primus, things are back to normal.

Or whatever constituted as their definition of "normal."

Jack's shift wouldn't be over for several hours, and there was still that broken pipe with her name on it…

Crouching by the paneled door still wide open, a lone, tiny silhouette watched from the dark recesses. Bright eyes illuminated the shady corridor, accompanied by a synthetic light projecting from the handheld device the girl carried.

Digital images configured on the cell phone's panel, seconds later forming into a colorful image of two Cybertronians embracing each other.

Blackmail.

Who cared if eavesdropping was considered morally wrong? Thank her impeccable timing that the pigtailed teenager arrived just in time to witness The Hug; an event so momentous that it deserved to be capitalized. All three dozen clips now recorded on her phone with amazing clarity, outlining every—single—humiliating—detail.

For Miko Nakadai, Christmas had come early.

One last time the Japanese youth coveted the treasure before flipping her precious cell phone shut. Grinning from ear to ear, Miko u-turned and stealthily retreated toward the base's main room.

To herself the girl whispered, "This is so going on Facebook."

She had work to do.

Author's Note: 7902 words. No matter how hard I try to shorten each chapter, they just keep getting progressively longer and longer. I hope none of you are tired of reading so much in one go. My bad.

The jokes about grades and school stemed from many bizarre conversations with teachers, classmates, and my sister. In fact, when I was about five, I used to wholeheartedly believe that teachers lived in their classrooms and had beds in their storage closets that would magically spring out when the door was opened. The idea of a teacher leaving his or her classroom, in my mind, was unheard of. So you can imagine how my underdeveloped five-year-old brain reacted when one day I saw my favorite teacher at the local supermarket. I thought that she had been fired and I cried for a good hour or so before my mom patiently dispelled my wild theory that teachers didn't have social lives, just their jobs.

The name of Miko's jerk professor is just that; a name. His namesake, whom I borrowed it from, is one of the best teachers in the entire universe.

By the way, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to all of you, my faithful readers, for giving me boundless support and wishing me well after my injury (which has healed up, I might add). Thank you, once again, for being awesome. Keep up the great work.

To torture you guys a little further, I think I'll give you the name of the next segment.

Chapter Seven: Pizza and Parental Guidance