Screaming Blue Murder - Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: Author neither claims nor (intentionally) implies ownership of the 'Transformers' brand, or any other character or concept herein, who are copyright 1984-present Hasbro/etc and used with much love and respect to their creators.

A/N: ...the plotbadgers are REALLY gnawing at my ankles now. Guh. It doesn't help a girl's writer's block when new stories/sequels are springing up in the braingears. It's disjointed enough already without having NEW things clamouring for the attention. :P

:flails on floor:


…Been sitting here far too long. Scarlet stretched first his shoulders, then his arms, and stared at the screen for several long non-comprehending moments, feeling snow-blind from all the information he'd soaked up. His new components were still and achey, and he itched to just have his repairs finished. There were still empty sockets on his battered shoulders; he gave them a curious, cursory examination with his fingertips, and wondered how important whatever it was that had been removed was. Deeply written code implied it was something with an important defensive/offensive role to play, so he guessed it must be a weapon of some sort, but as to what, he couldn't quite work out. He wanted them back, whatever they were, if only to feel complete. Although he knew they had probably been removed solely to get them out of the way rather than because they didn't trust him with them, it left him feeling like his claws had been clipped.

At least his almost omnipresent hosts/warders/whoever had finally left him in peace – he guessed so that either he or they could recharge, or refuel a little, or something. Spotweld had certainly gone to get a few cycles offline – he'd already been dozy, and apologised needlessly profusely for having to go and get his head down for a little while before actually going – but Forceps hadn't even announced she was going anywhere before vanishing altogether, the low drone of her cooling fans completely absent.

Rather than spend another cycle or two doing nothing but recharge – which seemed pretty pointless, given that his energy levels were all double-green – he'd elected to begin his own research. The small computer out in the main living area was devoid of any sort of password gates or checkpoints – they apparently trusted him enough to give him completely full access to anything he chose to look at. A little voice inside him said such an action was incredibly foolish, and a large part of him felt inclined to say 'frag it' and go seeking out information on who he was, his history, and why the Pit it was that pain-in-the-aft police officer kept on making those snide insinuations… But then abusing his hosts' good natures would only give her more reasons to be snide at him, and he rather fancied keeping a hold of his computing privileges for now.

The idea someone had named a near-lethal narcotic in "honour" of his supposed murder had set a slow-burning fire of determination in his spark – and a single-minded desire to bring the slaggers down at all costs. How. Fragging. Dare! They. He ate up every tiny insignificant scrap of information he could hunt down, mentally databasing and cross-referencing it all. Problem was, there wasn't a whole lot to go on – he could do with being party to a little sensitive information. Maybe he could bribe the policebot for some of the information the press hadn't got hold of.

Reviewing the footage of his 'murder' – all in the name of research, of course, nothing at all to do with his quest for identity – kindled the fires to burn hotter and faster inside him, but he couldn't watch for many moments. A throbbing phantom pain at the base of his helm prompted him to discontinue the feed altogether and sit back in his seat, aching all over.

He'd been sat here blindly absorbing information for far too long. A full three cycles had passed without his knowledge, and he wasn't a lot further forward than he had been before. And now a silent inner voice compelled him to get up. Something unspoken told him to get back to his feet and move. Where exactly he thought he was going to go, with half his body still barely-functioning and only just retaining energon, he wasn't sure, he just knew he had to get up. Had to move. Been sitting here for too long. Been inactive for too long. Find a thermal, catch a jetstream, feel soft cool gentle air over sleek fuselage.

He cycled the stuffy indoor air through his systems; it was cool, but for once it didn't soothe his restless spark. It felt dusty and over-used. Over cycled. He wanted a cycle or two in good clean, clear, dust-free atmosphere, sailing high and lazy in sweetest air.

I remember flying, he realised, gazing up at the sky through the high narrow window above his head. Too deeply-written to have escaped me. These were not just memories of how to do a thing, but hardwired protocols. Simulated reference points. Get out there. Get up there. Dance and weave through gusting winds, conflicting thermals. His wings quivered involuntarily. This must explain why he was so very antsy – built to fly, to defy gravity, to claim the stratosphere as his playground, not to be caged and confined by injuries, grounded by his body's inability to do what he wanted it to.

The knowledge that he probably wouldn't even be able to get off the ground in his current condition was no barrier to the sudden misplaced enthusiasm. His left foot-turbine was already rumbling softly as he lurched to his feet and towards the door, canting hard over on his bad side.

He wanted height. He wanted to go high and fast and find fresh, sweet, chilled air, cooled by outer space, not these over-worked refrigerant systems. He wanted to feel the frost on his armour, the pinpoint heat of his thrusters as they propelled him up, up, away from ground, away from gravity, away from everyone trying to hold him down and hold him back. He wanted to scream his defiance at the very stars themselves. You are not too far away for me to reach out and take you.

He imagined the chilly night-time air rushing across him, bathing him in excited crosswinds, cresting gently on the thermals that bloomed up from the city as it cooled from the heat of the day. He sucked in cold air from the street, and felt it tingle through his regulators, venting dust and microscopic fragments of enamel and substructure from old damage. This is who I am. This is what I do. He stretched out his arms to match the pitch of his wings, offlined his optics, lifted his face into the breeze from the street and imagined he was already coasting on the stratosphere, the rumble of the city becoming the soft song of powerful engines. I am supreme aerial prowess made physical. I am flying perfection made metal. He revved his engines. I am power and defiance and I will reclaim my playground.

His right thruster betrayed him. While he'd been semi-happily grounded, it had been quiescent, but now it spoke to his diagnostics of a fuel shortage. Autonomous relays kicked over to correct the deficit, but the faulty pump in his hip – temporarily patched back in to keep the circuits patent – couldn't provide the required energon. The straining pump down at ankle level began to shudder with effort, and triggered one of the rolling cascade faults that everyone thought had been cured – a trembling foot soon turned into full-body shaking.

He clung helplessly to the doorframe, juddering fingers leaving behind them trails of worn blue paint. What-… what was happening to him? Why couldn't he stop shaking-? Why wouldn't his body respond correctly to his instructions?!

"Wh-what – did – you – d-do to – m-me?" he demanded, the words stuttering out in a flurry of angry little bites of sound as Forceps, finally returning with her supplies, lurched into a heavy sprint across the street to help him. How dare she sabotage him like this! How dare she mislead him into thinking they trusted him on his own. "Turn – this – off – n-now!"He stabbed an accusing finger at her and almost overbalanced.

"Turn what off?" She caught his arm before he could collapse.

"This – sab-sabotage! I'm – not – go-going – anywhere – so – you can – turn – it – off!" He looked absolutely furious, forced to cling like a hurt sparkling to the giant green female while he waited for his body to resume behaving, but absolutely unable to display his fury in any way other than verbal. "You – only – have – t-to – say if – you – d-don't – want –m-me – sneak-ing – away, – not – rig – it so – I can't – even – walk!" he spat, trying to push her away but unable to get enough co-ordination together in his arms to succeed. "Now – get off – me." He twisted away, but to his endless shame he couldn't remain upright, his knees unwilling to support him. She caught him under the wings as he staggered, and maintained her gentle grip while he clutched for another support. "Let me– argh! Let – me – go."

"A few astro-seconds of patience would do you wonders, sometimes," she informed him, grimly, ignoring his impotent struggling and watching as the convulsions finally began to ease. "You have my absolute assurance this was nothing I did to you. You'd been suffering fits like these long before you regained consciousness – although I thought they'd resolved. There must still be a system instability in there somewhere."

"A likely – st-story," he grumbled, but had begun to relax. His grasp had firmed up and his knees were at least capable of supporting his weight, and his words were more like hiccups than those jagged little sound fragments they had been. "You don't – want – me leaving yet – because – it'll mean – you lose your – little project."

"Well, there is that, but I wouldn't stop you leaving if you were that determined. What were you doing before the convulsions started?" she probed, gently.

There was a guarded flicker in Scarlet's optics, and he pulled a face. I wanted to fly. It sounded so… unforgivably juvenile. "Nothing important. Just… getting some fresh air."

"Or were you going back to him, Decepticon?" Pulsar challenged, still standing down in the street, gun in hand. "Back to Megatron? To call in reinforcements so you can carry out whatever deceitful plan you're playing in the background?"

"Why yes, of course I was going back to Megatron," the flier spat, shakily, optics burning down at her with a mixture of rage and humiliation, struggling to regain his footing without having to cling like grim death to Forceps. At least he'd regained control of his voice. "Given that I don't even know who he is!"

"We only have your word for that. For all we know, you could have faked the seizure, too-"

"All right, all right," Forceps interjected, wearily, before her patient could work himself into too foul a temper. "Enough. The pair of you. Pulse, hush up and put the gun away. And as for you," she glared down at Scarlet, then up at Spotweld who'd appeared in the doorway. She jerked her head in a little come hither gesture to him. "If you feel capable of actually sitting still for a breem or two, Spots can get that troublemaking pump in your hip replaced."

Spotweld looked like he'd been recharging, oblivious to the world, and offered a guilty arm as a support. Scarlet brushed it aside, irritably, and tottered unsteadily through the door; his wings were quivering.

"I can't believe you actually trust him," Pulsar grumbled, darkly, at last subspacing her pistol.

"Well, to be honest, I trust my own eyes more," Forceps admitted, watching the pale wings vanish into the indoor gloom. "There's damage in there, for certain. He might be stringing us a line about how much he recalls, but I'm confident that the amnesia is genuine, and that he's not just playing us for fools."

"Sepp," Pulsar turned her best wheedling look on her friend. "Please. Let me at least tell the Chief Inspector, just in case. I'm worried about you. If a Blue loyalist finds out about Star-… Scarlet, they might come looking. To finish the job! I don't want you dragged any further into this because you're too much of a sap to even say 'no' to an injured Decepticon."

Forceps stared back, quietly, and after a moment or two her brows pulled together into a glower. "All right," she buckled, at last. "But only if you name-drop. I have 'a patient', all right? I don't want armed police coming storming through my doorway because you've told them we have the Decepticon second-in-command – and I'm still not convinced that's who he is – temporarily lodging with us. Got it?"

0o0o0o0o0o0

"What was this all about?" Spotweld prompted, gently, following the red Seeker back inside.

Scarlet sat heavily on his aft on the floor, and bent to examine the traitorous right thruster. "It's not something you'd understand, groundling," he grumbled, softly, peeling back the layers of armour to inspect the substructure.

The emphasis on the latter word, and the way the flier's wings were still trembling very slightly, told Spotweld all he needed to know. "How much more work will you need to be able to fly?"

Scarlet glanced up, briefly. "It'd just be nice to know I'm not going to start fitting every time I try to do something strenuous," he replied, grimly. "Don't want to fall out of the sky because of it."

"That's a little strong, isn't it?" Spotweld hunkered down next to him.

"Do you know how much power it takes to get airborne, and stay that way? If just walking to your door did it, what in the Pit is going to happen if I try to fly?"

Spotweld spread his hands, and helped Scarlet up to the repair bench. "I'm sure it's just to do with the faulty pump in your hip?" he soothed. "Once we get it replaced and the fuel flowing properly, the problems should spontaneously resolve?"

A blue finger waggled warningly. "It better."

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Sir? Chief? Can I speak to you for a minute? I'm worried about Forceps."

Hardline glanced up from his paperwork; Pulsar had her head around his door, looking antsy about something. "Surgeon Forceps? Why? She's a big femme, can look after herself pretty well from what I hear," he said, with a little shrug. "What makes you think she's in danger?"

"Well-… It's, ah… She says she has an amnesiac patient with a Seeker-based brain," she explained, trying to comply with Forceps instructions and not give too much information away, but also trying not to outright lie. "Who she can't fix until she gets a good look at an operational cortex. And she's, um… well, trying to get in contact with that Seeker Nightsun and I saw, back at the Flywheel."

"And what exactly possessed you to tellher about him, constable?" Hardline's optics glittered darkly.

"It was just a-… just a passing comment!" Just jam your foot right inside your main intake next time, it'll be quicker, she scolded herself. "I mean, that is-… she only told me about her patient after I'd said so. I was-" Pulsar made an apologetic face, and admitted; "I was grousing about Superintendent Boxer. His instruction not to get involved. I didn't think it was fair. And now I've sort of kinda got involved by accident, anyway-"

"You would seem to be leading the conversation somewhere, constable. Much as I enjoy playing the mind games of my junior staff, right now we have more important things to be doing, wouldn't you agree?" He gave her a look. "Just come out and say it."

"Okay." An intake of cool air, to stabilise systems. "First of all, you have my absolute assurance that I didn't go against Superintendent Boxer's direct orders," she explained, which made him frown in suspicion. "But. While I was on patrol. And accompanying Forceps back from the supply depot. I almost ran into a Seeker, this evening. Grounded. Blue. No insignia, but it looked like, um… someone pretty high up in the ranks."

Hardline glanced up, and the suspicion had faded from his glare to be replaced by concern. "Your hunch?" he prompted.

"Thundercracker, sir."

Hardline let his gaze drop back to his desk, and examined his fingers. "Was he alone?"

"Yes sir, so far as I could tell."

"Anyone else skyborne?"

"No-one that I could see. Skies were clear, aside from a couple of shuttles."

"Well, given recent events at the Sphere, we should at least anticipate Skywarp is here, too, somewhere. Possibly working with him, at some level. And we know that Starscream was here, until getting caught up with the Blue Loyalists."

Pulsar squashed the urge to blurt out that he still was here, hiding out in Forceps' spare room.

"Which begs the question, why are Megatron's elite here in the first place? What do they want?"

"Do you think it's to do with Blue, sir?"

The riot tank tapped his fingertips together and nodded. "Oh, it's something to do with the Blue, absolutely. No question about it. But what is the connection, I wonder…" he frowned, thoughtfully.

What if the two Seekers are looking for Starscream? Pulsar found herself wondering. What if there is only a tenuous connection to the Blue, all this is completely coincidental? Another more disquieting thought struck her. Primus, what if they find Sepp first?! She might hold her own against a couple of loyalist thugs, but Megatron's elite? What chance does she stand against two heavily armed and highly dangerous Seekers?! They sure won't give her or Spots time to explain what's been happening before they start shooting-

"See if you can raise the Ark," Hardline instructed, at last, interrupting her train of though. "They may be able to give you some pointers, might have an inkling of what Megatron's up to. He seems to have elected to send his deputies alone, which implies he's up to something on Earth, still."

"…Me, sir?" She must have misheard. Contacting the Earth-based Autobots was something the upper ranks did, not constables.

"Yes, officer, you. You seem to have had the luck of the draw when it comes to seeing random Decepticon spies in action, after all." He gave her a lopsided smile. "You may be the only one party to certain details they want to know."

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Prowl, you got a call from Cybertron," was all the message had said. Helpful, but not very informative. A call from whom, to start with? Long-lost relatives, or misguided debt collectors? Could be either, the way things had got so war-muddled lately.

The face on the long-distance viewer belonged to an unfamiliar female – comparatively dramatically coloured, primarily white with a royal blue and electric yellow trim. Her badges were small – one on her 'collarbone', one at the temple. Police? he wondered. "Good afternoon…" he greeted, curiously, glancing down at the identifiers that flashed up to accompany the message. "…constable, was it? What seems to be the problem?"

"I apologise for the intrusion, sir," she said, grimly. "But I was hoping I could get your opinion on something."

"Go ahead," he gave her a nod. "I imagine – and hope – you're not the sort to go to the sort of effort to put a call all the way over here, rather than speak to your superiors, if there wasn't a pressing reason for it."

"It was my superior that suggested I speak to you in the first place," she confessed. "As we don't have anything particularly conclusive to work with, and wondered if you might perhaps know something we don't."

"All right. We'll see if we have any information that can help you. What's the issue, your side?"

"Well, aside from the problem we're having with the Blue – I'm not sure if you know much about that? – we've got some Seekers in the neighbourhood. Ranking ones. We think they normally live and work your side of the space bridge, if that makes sense."

Prowl straightened. "That would certainly explain why we haven't seen them, lately," he agreed, tightly. "What do they seem to be up to?"

"That's just it – we're not really sure. We've only been able to make a fairly positive identification of Thundercracker, but we're fairly sure Skywarp is in this district somewhere too. Starscream is, eh-… well, out of the picture at the moment. Point being," she spread her hands before having to elaborate on the latter point. "The Chief Inspector is worried that having these three here will mean Megatron isn't far behind. To be blunt, we don't have the capability in the ranks to repel that kind of force."

"Well, he's been reasonably active here. All pretty small scale things, but definitely active," Prowl tapped his fingers to his lips. "I wonder which is the genuine project, if there is one? If he's distracting us from what his underlings are doing, or vice versa? All right, we'll see what we can find out. We'll get back to you, if it looks serious."

0o0o0o0o0o0

It was easy enough to keep a weather eye on the space bridge. Unless he was planning on moving it – which he didn't do unless he was guaranteed the (potential) payoff would be worth the investment, because it was big, heavy and energy-intensive to set up – Megatron left the device parked out in the desert, off the beaten track, with a guard or two to keep an eye on it. Which meant the Autobots could also keep an eye on it, parking one of their little spy satellites in orbit above it.

Sky-spy had dutifully kept a record of all and any goings-on at the transport device for the last few months. The first couple of terrestrial lunar cycles passed uneventfully – there was the occasional arrival or departure of one Decepticon or another, but nothing particularly big.

Things had begun to get more interesting over the past a month and a half or so, and expressions grew steadily more irritable/guilty as it became clear just how much more activity had sprung up around transport device. Not from the one solitary bored-looking guard – when he wasn't flaked out with his feet up behind the controls, he tromped boredly around and took potshots at the wildlife, but rarely actually did anything productive. Rather, there were fairly frequent shipments of energon, at random intervals to make them harder for the Autobots to plan to intercept, and each shipment was actually quite large, often in excess of a couple of hundred cubes.

Prowl gave a little engine grumble, as though clearing his throat. "So, um. Did… no-one think it important enough to inform me of this?" That wasn't a hesitant tone of voice, that was a testing tone of voice. The sort of tone of voice that said you all better have good excuses for this.

There were anxious, swapped glances from the clustering of smaller mechs who were only there because they'd not managed to sneak off earlier.

"I only saw one shipment," a guilty voice piped up in the background. "I… heard people talking about it. I thought it was a one-off."

"Same here," another voice agreed, over the murmurings of agreement. "It was random, not associated with any reported Decepticon activity, and I just… I… figured they'd just got lucky, for once. Found a clean source of energy that didn't require them attacking us or the natives, and they… slipped under the radar."

"That," Prowl glared at the culprits, who shrank back into the wall and tried to look like they were actually just part of the furniture, "was a lot of energon. Not just some happy coincidences or Megatron 'getting lucky'. And they have done it all right under our noses, and made us look incompetent." Another glower. "Moreso than normal."

Jazz leaned close and grinned, and added, in a low, conspiratorial tone of voice; "be interesting to know how they managed it without anyone noticing, though, right?"

Prowl made a noise that could have meant anything and went back watching the display.

It was some time during the night when things got interesting. No energon shipments, this time – just a solitary Decepticon. He glided down and transformed right at the edge of Sky-spy's range (just close enough for the Autobots to observe the painful wound on his left wing) and strode proudly over to the bridge controls, where the 'guard' was (as ever) flaked out with his feet up, ignorant of approaching doom.

"Well, there he is," someone in the background observed, not entirely necessarily, upon seeing Starscream arrive. "Still functioning, more's the pity. Wonder where he's been hiding, these past few weeks?"

"He can't have been up to anything wholesome, wherever he was," came the agreement.

"Given the subject of conversation, I think that would normally be taken as a given," Prowl commented, dryly, silencing the peanut gallery with a little glare.

The Air Commander was his usual impatient self – marched straight up to the recharging guard, planted a splayed hand on his faceplate, and shoved him unceremoniously straight off his perch and onto his aft in the dirt. There was a minute or two of silent confrontation – probably lots of yelling involved, but Sky-spy was just too far away to pick it up, thankfully – lots of arm waving and pointing, gestures of threat, and the guard even pointed his weapon in his commander's direction. Arms folded challengingly across a glittering canopy, and there was another moment or two of silent discussion, and then the guard lowered his arm – reluctantly – and Starscream got back to work. The Seeker was over to the space bridge and gone altogether in a few more astro-seconds.

There was a cycle or two of sulky stomping about from the guard, and more fried wildlife, which Teletraan-1 helpfully zipped through at high speed, and he'd just begun to settle again when the other two members of the Air Commander's trine arrived. Cue a few minutes more posturing and arm waving – what was wrong with the occasional polite request? – and the fliers followed their superior.

Then silence descended back onto the space bridge, and until the readout came back to "present", nothing at all else happened. The same guard was still there – there was a flicker of sympathy for just how many orns he'd been stuck there, but he often had his feet up and his hands laced in his lap, apparently deep in recharge, so it clearly wasn't too big a deal to him – but there'd been nothing further. No deliveries, no superior officers, no-one returning, nothing.

"Someone remind me what the problem was?" Ironhide suggested, from the back of the little gathering by the monitors. "Megatron's lackeys haven't used the space bridge in orns, which means they've got nothing to send back, which means they're being quiet and behaving themselves for once."

"You don't think it's even a tiny bit suspicious that no-one has used the space bridge for a while, after all that activity a month or so ago?" Prowl gave him a funny look. "And that none of the winged terrors have come back yet? Because so far as we can tell from this, Starscream's trine is still on Cybertron, apparently – strange thought it may seem – behaving themselves." He hesitated for effect. "Am I the only one who suspects they're up to something?"

"Not at all, Prowl," Optimus shook his head, tiredly. "It all smacks of someone creating a distraction, although your guess is as good as mine on who and what."

"My money would be on those damn fliers," Ironhide put in, darkly. "They're sneaking about, keeping a low profile, not causing any complaints, and you know as well as I do that Quiet Seekers is a Bad Thing. They're up to something secretive."

"In which case, it'll be a good idea for some of us to go and check it out," Prowl added.

"Whoa, wait. You're suggesting we go sending half the battlegroup back to Cybertron to counter a threat that might be nothing? Might just be Megatron sneaking about in order to get us to do exactly that?" Ironhide had already folded his arms across his powerful chest. "Report back what we found out, let the police sort 'em out."

"And what if it is a genuine threat? You'd entrust the success of the mission into the hands of officers inexperienced in dealing with the likes of Megatron's upper-ranks?" Prowl gave him a glare. "They'll get minced, and we've got officers to spare, here. I'm not suggesting we send half the force – just one or two of us going back home won't dent the efficacy of our forces on Earth, especially if Megatron is missing three of his own. If it is a bigger problem than we'd anticipated, they'll have the expertise there to deal with it."

"And if it turns out to be nothing, you can say your 'told you so' with impunity," Trust Jazz to defuse the situation. "We'll be gone for an orn or two at most. No worries, right?"

0o0o0o0o0o0

The guard – if that was even what this bored youngling was – was particularly inefficient, and particularly useless as a guard. He lounged behind the control panel, rocking back on a stool, feet propped on the console, and didn't even look up from his reading at the sound of footsteps. "Mighty Megatron says no-one's to use the Space Bridge without his express permission," he intoned, disinterestedly, obviously expecting fellow Decepticons to have arrived. "So you can slag off back to where you came from and get a permission slip, like good little sparklings."

Prowl shoved the smaller mech's feet off the console, toppling him clean off his stool. "Didn't anyone ever teach you to keep your feet off the furniture?" he asked, dryly, powering up the panel and checking the co-ordinates.

The Decepticon was sufficiently shocked at being told off for his behaviour – by an Autobot, of all people – that for a full few astro-seconds he didn't even power up his weapons, just sat on his aft and gawped. He eventually rediscovered his vocaliser, and proclaimed, ineffectively; "Halt! This transport is for Decepticon use only! Stop, or I'll shoot!"

Jazz paused in the bridge entrance, and turned to look back at the angry youngling. "If you shoot us now, won't you hit the space bridge?" he wondered, lifting a hand for emphasis. "Megatron won't be too happy if you go shooting up his only way back to Cybertron, right?"

"I won't miss."

"You're a Decepticon. Sharpshooting isn't your forte. I bet you couldn't even hit the side of that cliff, from this distance!"

"Want to put money where your boasting is?" the groundling turned to prove the Autobot wrong… and realised he'd been tricked when the dull thunder of the space-bridge started up in the background. "Ah, slag..."

0o0o0o0o0o0

Not another unannounced use of the space-bridge? This was getting, in as succinct a description as possible, to be tiresome. Shockwave restrained the urge to make a noise of displeasure.

Normally space bridge activity was well-regulated. A shipment would be announced, sent, monitored during transit, and arrive in a tidy geometric pile held together by energy binders, if Shockwave was lucky, or a slightly more slapdash pile if the Autobots had been nearby and interfering during the initial loading.

That used to be the normal operation, of course. There were those who thought it the very pinnacle of entertainment to send an unannounced pile of unbound energon canisters through the space bridge, when bored, and to act innocent when the vidscreen display showed a disgruntled Shockwave lurching over the haphazard scattering of fallen containers that emerged at the Cybertron end. That was what Shockwave was anticipating arriving, right now; any moment now there'd be the innocent little chirp of "why, how did that all get in there?" from the comms module, and a slithering clatter as the space bridge disgorged its contents. He braced himself for a cascade of whatever rubbish a certain pair of bored cassettes had decided to send him.

…the receive-point was empty- What? Empty? That could not be right. There must be a fault. He groaned inwardly. Fixing the space bridge was a job that took orns at the very best of times, and even after it was explained to him in explicit detail Megatron never understood the true complexities of the system, always wanted it done in half the time. Which usually led to a botched half-afted job, to get him to stop stamping his foot and threatening, and-

Two mechs shot out from where they'd been hiding behind the inside wall, and dodged past the startled Shockwave so quickly it was almost as if they'd been fired from a cannon. By the time the Decepticon recognised them as Autobots, they'd already skidded behind a pillar and out of his line of fire.

"Stop!" He fired a warning shot at the very margin of the pillar, strafing the laser closely enough to singe the sullen purplish alloy, hoping to startle them out.

They startled out, all right. In the wrong direction.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"I hope you have an equally ingenious plan to get us back, when the time comes," Prowl grumbled, as Jazz watched the sentinels depart, their quarry lost.

"Oh, we'll wing it. We usually do."