Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.

- Oliver Goldsmith


The tiny clink blended in with the quiet chime of glass as Trauma washed and dried a set of beakers.

"Trauma!" Ampule prodded his elbow. "He moved!" The words might have been 'he shot red-hot fireballs from his eyes' for all the weighty significance she gave them.

Trauma set his rag down and looked over at the medical berth. The red mech was shifting in the slight, meaningless way of one drifting towards consciousness. The stasis cuff around his wrist gave another little clink as it was pulled taut—the other end having been locked around the side rail of the berth.

"Should we dose him up again?" Jumpstart wanted to know. Both junior medics—"the twins", they were commonly called, though they were not actually related—looked nervous and excited. "I mean, in case he tries an escape."

"A daring escape," Amp put in.

"Well, he does look like he's about to jet-judo his way out the door any minute," the older jet quipped as he picked up a medical scanner and moved over to examine the patient's readings. In truth, it was disconcerting staring down at the face of—well, of his boss. He half expected the red bot to sit up, tsk disapprovingly at the stasis cuff, and admonish him for leaving water spots on the beakers.

He reached up to check the energon drip, his pale purple finish reflecting the glow of the liquid. His chassis had been deep purple once, but he'd repainted when he joined the crew of the Heretic. His hue was now lighter than Knockdown's, but darker than the junior medics'; Air Commander Starscream had a fondness for order and patterns. Honestly, he felt lucky to still be purple.

"So, uh, more morphite . . . ?" Jumpstart suggested.

"No, the officers will want him soon," Trauma said. He looked down again at that familiar white face, half shadowed by a helm with an unfamiliar paint scheme. Where had he come from? You had to wonder . . .

"Come on," he said, his mind returning to his job. "We should check on the other one."

He tapped in the code for the Auxiliary. Normally it would have been left unlocked when it was in use, but normally the patient wouldn't have been a duplicate of one of their deadly enemies. Trauma's systems gave a heady little fizz of fear as he looked at the still figure, but he made himself walk straight over to the medical berth where the black and yellow bot lay.

Not for nothing had he been calling this patient "the other one." Even "Yellow", as Knockdown had referred to him, seemed far too close to "Yellowjacket." Being a medic, Trauma had not personally witnessed many Autobot-Decepticon battles, but he had seen the aftermaths. Despite being one of the smallest Autobots, Yellowjacket had a reputation for chewing up his opponents and spitting them out. Metaphorically, of course.

Trauma's gaze rested briefly on the yellow armor covering the unconscious mech's mouth. No one knew what was under it, or if there was anything under there. There were plenty of rumors, of course, some feasible (a mouth full of needle sharp teeth) and some just silly (the sucking vortex of a black hole—yeah, that one had come from Jumpstart, which inferred that the idea had originally come from a Human comic book). All the Decepticons knew for sure was that Yellowjacket's voice was not that of a normal Cybertronian, but a series of rhythmic buzzes and processor-tingling screeches. As Trauma moved the medical scanner over the berth, he was slightly disappointed to find that the yellow bot had a crushed voice box; he'd been expecting a more . . . dramatic . . . reason for the Autobot's terrifying quirk.

Like what, the black hole vortex of doom? You're as bad as the twins, he scolded himself. Speaking of which . . .

"Come in, you two," he gestured to the white jets hesitating in the doorway. "Trust me, it's safe." Especially since he'd taken the precaution of securing all of the patient's limbs with electro-bonds in addition to drugging him to high heaven.

"The nanites are losing their glow," Jumpstart noted as he edged in.

Trauma nodded. "We'll need some fresh ones. About three canisters, Jump." Jumpstart nodded and went on his errand as Trauma swiped a cloth through the faint golden glow coating the bot's leg. Nanites started dying soon after they were excited out of stasis, but they worked quickly too; the cloth left a preternaturally shiny streak of freshly repaired metal in its wake.

Ampule hooked a new bag of energon to the IV, but her eyes kept dropping to study the yellow and black bot. "Grounders are kind of lumpy, aren't they?" she said out of nowhere.

"Kind of what?" Where did she get this stuff? "Don't let Doc Knock hear you say that."

"But Doc's a jet." Her wings fell in confusion, then slowly rose again. "Or . . . ohhhh, did you mean because of Br—"

"Ampule!" Trauma facepalmed. "Just . . . don't say things like that. To anyone. Ever. It's rude."

He looked down and resigned himself to the fact that the word "LUMPY" would spring to mind every time he looked at this bot. And it wasn't even true, really. Sure, the Cybertronian wasn't as lithe or sleek as the typical jet-former, but he wasn't nearly as hulking as some of the bigger aerial frames, like Skyquake's.

I can sort of see what she means, though, he admitted to himself as Jumpstart returned. He took a fresh canister and shook it. They've got that exotic look. Kind of . . . dense. Like they're solid metal all the way through . . .

"His energon levels are at seventy-six percent now," Ampule reported, checking her scanner.

"Good, good. Brush another layer of nanites into those cracks, both of you." Trauma tapped at a series of hairline fractures still present on the black and yellow casing of the legs. "I'm going to get more, er, supplies."

What he actually needed was more sedative, but he was afraid the twins would panic if he said so. It would be hours before the strange bot came around—no half-measures when it came to putting him under—but the junior jets were a little flighty, no pun intended.

The door opened with a quiet chuff of air. Trauma thought he heard a little clink of metal against metal, but different than before. As though the sound had been suddenly muffled or cut off. His eyes settled on the prisoner—the patient?—both—as he walked by. The red form was still and silent. A little too still, compared to the dazed, subconscious movements he'd exhibited before.

On an impulse, Trauma walked right past the cupboard with the morphite, heading instead to another set of side doors leading off the lab. He didn't have a good view of the medical berth from here; he could only see a little of the bot's left arm (still swathed in foil bandages) and side. But a mirror across the room gave him a view from the other side, although this too was incomplete. Trauma pressed his palm to the door-pad and watched the door hiss open, then hiss close. He waited.

Not even a minute passed before the prisoner started to move. Not very much. Just his right servo, the one cuffed to the bed. Moving it, twisting his wrist, testing the stasis cuff with jerky little movements. The sound of metal striking metal rose in a crescendo, more frequent and frantic, until Trauma frowned in concern, on the point of intervening.

But the last ringing died away, replaced by a muffled thunk as the bot's wrist dropped to his chassis. He saw the mech's right hand, fisted, gradually relaxing until his fingers rested calmly across his chest.

The silence settled in. Just as Trauma was about to return to his original task—fetching the morphite—the grounder's fingers began to tap in a thoughtful, consecutive sequence. After a moment, the bot pushed himself upright. Trauma could see the tremor in his left arm as he levered himself up, but otherwise he seemed composed. Shifting over to the edge of the berth, he swung his legs over the side.

And that was all. He just sat there, legs hanging well above the floor and swinging a little, not even tilting his head to examine the stasis cuff tethering him to the palette. He seemed to be studying the room instead. His back was to Trauma, but the jet could see his expression in the mirror—little flashes of emotion chasing across his face, a grimace following a frown, a roll of the eyes, or even a bit of a wry smile. So unlike Knockdown's steadfast, unfathomable demeanor.

Speaking of his boss . . . Trauma glanced down at his wrist as he quietly commed the Chief Medical Officer. "Doc? Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you should know—the prisoner's awake."

"Be right there," was the brief reply.

Trauma lifted his eyes; his spark gave a wobble as he met the stranger's eyes in the mirror. All the expression had slid off his pale face. His features were a mask; only his red eyes seemed alive, drilling into Trauma, dissecting him.

It only lasted an instant. The eyes disappeared from the glass as the mech swung his legs onto the berth and turned around. The emptiness was gone—maybe he had imagined it?—and instead the stranger wore a lazy smile.

"Hellooo," he drawled. "Maybe you can help me? I seem to be handcuffed to the bed." Tugging at his wrist, he leaned forward to add in a confidential tone, "And it's not even the weekend."


Within five minutes, the red mech had persuaded him to set him free. Trauma had no idea how to explain this to his boss.

"You set him loose." Knockdown was shorter than Trauma, but carried himself as though he was the same height as whoever he was talking to under normal circumstances, and as though he was standing perched atop Mount Everest when he was angry. Thus, in a confused sort of vertigo, Trauma found himself cowering down from the superior officer who was glaring up at him.

"I . . . I'm sorry, sir. It just sort of happened—"

"It just sort of happened." One of the terrible things about Knockdown's wrath was that it was so quiet. You had to lean close to hear what he was saying. You didn't dare not. "Giving a prisoner of war free range of my medical bay just sort of happened."

"Well, he hasn't actually done anything except walk around," Trauma defended weakly. His eyes drew back to the mysterious red mech, who was making a casual circuit of the lab, poking through drawers and picking up equipment at random, uncaring of the stasis cuff still dangling from his wrist. "And he's a patient as well as a prisoner."

"All the more reason to keep him in bed!"

Actually Trauma had initially tried that argument ("You need to lie down, you've lost a lot of energon"), but the red mech had simply smiled at him, unfastened the bag of medical-grade from the drip stand, and looped the hook onto one of his shoulder struts (and did he ever have shoulders). And although he had the occasional unsteady moment where he paused to prop himself up on a counter, he didn't seem to be in any immediate danger.

"I'm sorry," Trauma repeated helplessly. He prayed that Knockdown would not turn around and notice that the patient was now offhandedly tugging at the drawer that housed the scalpels. It was locked, thank Primus, but even as Trauma watched, the red bot slid his fingers along the seams of the drawer, digging at them. Frowning, he held up his hand, critically examining his fingers. The frown morphed into a cheery smile as he caught Trauma's eye and winked. Knockdown turned around in time to catch the injured mech's little wave.

Yep, Trauma was a dead bot walking all right.

Knockdown swung back around as though the sight pained him. "Has he said anything useful or informative, at least?"

"Well, he said he likes humans . . ." He had been most emphatic on this point. Weren't humans clever, he'd said, so innovative and charming, he just LOVED THEM TO DEATH, and at that point Trauma was leaning back from those creepy red eyes and regretting unchaining him and almost sagged with relief when the bot finally wandered off to explore the lab. He had tensed when Jumpstart and Ampule had crept out of the Auxiliary to watch him, but thankfully they hadn't approached him, or he them.

"So we know his favorite species. Lovely. Hopefully he won't start infesting us with pets like a certain someone," Knockdown said drily. "Anything else? His allegiance? His name?"

"Err, no . . ."

"Really? Not even that?" Knockdown's brows drew down heavily and Trauma prepared for the storm to break.

"Doctor!" Starscream had stopped in the doorway, hands on her hips. Airachnid stood behind her, arms crossed and looking similarly unamused. "WHY, pray tell, is your counterpart wandering about like a psy-sheep in a petting zoo?!"

"At this rate, maybe you'd like to just let him loose in the weapons vault," Airachnid added.

There was no hesitation. Knockdown face smoothed out to his usual calm expression as he turned. "Ah. Air Commander. Security Director. I felt . . . that we would glean more information from the subject if he was comfortable. Familiar with his environment."

"Well, he certainly seems to be settling in." Starscream raised one expressive eye-ridge. "We had a little debate, after you left, about what to do if our two 'discoveries' proved to be only mindless automatons. I do not think," she said drily, watching the mech snatch up a buffer with a little exclamation of delight, "that we need have worried. His general demeanor has been . . . ?"

Knockdown flicked a look at Trauma.

"Friendly," Trauma volunteered. "Confident."

"Huh. I thought he was supposed to be a little suicide machine." Airachnid unfolded her acid green and yellow arms. "Is he still high?"

Knockdown vented a huff of disapproval at this expression. "No." He passed a datapad over to Airachnid; Trauma had at least had the sense to check the patient's vitals before releasing him. "And don't bring it up with him, please. That's a matter for private counseling, not a public inquiry."

Airachnid's eyes narrowed. "Maybe when the patient is one of us it is, but when it's a matter of security—"

Trauma intervened; Airachnid and Knockdown had never gotten along, thanks to the spider-bot's habit of dropping by the lab with her organic "pets"—spiders being a favorite of course—which Knockdown insisted were unhygienic. "I think I can coax him over here, if you'd like to talk with him. Or are we waiting for Megatron?"

Starscream examined her talons. "Lord Megatron will be . . . delayed slightly."

"He's still trying to drum up Shockwave," Airachnid said. "Let's get started. Bring him over, Trauma."

The purple flier nodded and started across the lab. The red grounder was still admiring the buffer, fluffing the edges of its soft pad in his fingers, but he looked up quickly as Trauma approached. His expression flickered, then the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk.

"Hello again."

"How are you feeling?" Trauma asked. He was still a medic, after all. The patient came first.

"Since you asked . . . I'd feel better if you took the stasis cuff off." With a playful smile, the mech held up his wrist and wiggled it so that the loose end of the cuff swayed.

"Soon," Trauma soothed. He didn't like lying to patients but what could you do? Sometimes it was necessary to keep them calm. "There are some bots here who want to talk to you."

"Reeeeally?" There was a faint mocking air to his response as he regarded the group now gathered by the medical berth—the green and yellow spider, the black, gold, and scarlet Seeker, and his blue lookalike. "Then lead me to them, by all means."

Well, that was easy, Trauma thought in relief. Then he had to resist the urge to facepalm; the twins were hurrying over, their blue optics filled with curiosity. The red mech just raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused. Well, Trauma might have been too, if he didn't have a parcel of officers waiting on him!

"We put on a good spread of nanites, like you said," Jumpstart said brightly.

"And we wondered if three jars was enough," Ampule put in.

Trauma gave them a stony look; this was clearly just an excuse to come over and boggle at Doc Knock's doppelganger, since the twins had applied the nanites a good half an hour ago. "Yes, three is enough. Now go run a deep scan on the . . . in the Auxiliary."

"But we ran one just three hours ago—"

"Run another," Trauma snapped. "Wait a moment . . ." He stepped over to a cupboard and, oh slag, this was awkward, he cupped his hand over the keypad so the mech wouldn't see the code. "And give the—ahem. And use a dose of this." He pushed a small bag of morphite into Jumpstart's hands and shooed the jets away, wondering how the stranger would react to this blatant lack of trust.

But the grounder was busy examining his clipped fingers again, unoffended by his actions, perhaps even unaware of them. "Ah, young-bots. They work here, hmm?"

"Yes, they're our juniors. The one with purple trim is Jumpstart, the one with green is Ampule. And I'm Trauma, by the way." He held out his hand.

The injured mech didn't seem to see it; he was in the process turning away. "Trauma. Yes. Ye-es." He was still holding the buffer; he tapped it against his palm. "So . . . you're a medic here as well."

"That's right. The twins, me, and the Doc. Of course, a ship this size should really have, ohhh, a medical staff of eight, ten, something like that. Just the four of us—it's a little ridiculous."

"Ridiculous," the stranger agreed. He wore a little frown, like he was thinking of something else.

It cleared away quickly as they reached the three Decepticon officers. The grounder studied them. Strangely, it was not his lookalike who garnered the most attention from him, but rather the Air Commander; there was an amused smile peeking out from under the fingers raised to his mouth as he leaned back and regarded her.

Airachnid got straight to the point. "Who are you?"

"Knock Out." He flourished a bow, centered on Starscream, but grimaced a little as he straightened, rubbing his back. "And let me assure you, I am usually much more worthy of the name."

"Knock Out?" Knockdown repeated.

"That's what I said." He twitched a finger towards his counterpart. "You?"

"Knockdown," the cyan medic said without inflection. For all their similarities, he was a half a head taller than the red bot and more streamlined.

"Knockdown, eh? Well, well, the apple doesn't fall far from the, er, how does expression that go? From the snake? Anyway. The blue's not baaaad . . ." He hesitated, as though trying to decide if his flattery was sincere or not, then broke into a wide smile as he placed the tips of his fingers on chest with a twirl of his hand. "But then I do look good in anything."

Knockdown's eye ridges were climbing so high that they threatened to disappear under the edge of his helm. Starscream cleared her throat.

"And then there's the other difference, my dear . . . A matter of your vehicular mode?"

"Heh. He's a jet, obviously. The wings," Knock Out said with a hint of a smirk, "are the giveaway. My own alt form is—well, why don't you take off this stasis cuff? I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"Absolutely not," Airachnid said with a snort. "Answer Starscream's question. Why aren't you a Seeker?"

Knock Out crossed his arms, not liking her tone. "Why should I be?"

"Knockdown is."

"Well, bully for Knockdown. I'm an automobile."

"And you don't find that a little odd, considering . . ."

"Considering?"

"Considering your origin?"

Knock Out cocked his head to the side. "I'm not sure I understand you."

"Oh, don't play the fool," Airachnid scoffed, her tone light and amused. "You can tell us the truth now, ooooor . . . we can wait for Shockwave's expertise."

"Hey now!" Knock Out raised his hands in protest, his smile shaky. "There's no need to bring Shockwave into this. I mean, we're having a friendly little interrogation here all on our own, right? No need to involve old one-eye, ah ha ha."

"Ohhh, so you do recognize the name. Despite not knowing ours. Interesting." Suddenly she was hoisting herself up on her spindly spider-legs, advancing with rapid strides on the red mech as he backed away. "What is your purpose? What is your function? Do the Autobots have more of your kind hidden away somewhere?"

"Whoa! Hey! What?!"

"Airachnid." Knockdown hadn't moved and his voice was mild, but his hands were on his hips. "He is my patient. Stop."

She turned with a sweet smile. "And have I laid a single leg on him, doctor?"

"You're terrifying him."

"She is NOT," Knock Out snapped in annoyance, pushing himself away from the table that he'd backed into. "I may have been slightly startled . . ." Still grumbling, he leaned down to gather the tray of tools he'd accidentally knocked off the table, his back to Airachnid to show how much he didn't give a frag about her.

"Now, now," Starscream said soothingly. She might not approve of Airachnid's little outbursts, but they were sometimes useful. "Airachnid, a little tact if you please. This bot is not our enemy."

"That's a dangerous assumption, Screamy, and you know it. This could be a plant, an Autobot spy—"

"Puh-lease." Knock Out rolled his optics. "Autobots. Autobots are the reason I'm in this mess. First the explosion, then the ground bridge, oh, and let's not forget stupid slagging Smokescreen—" He stopped, realizing they were all staring at him. "What?"

"Tell us about . . ." Knockdown had the air of one trying to decide between Door #1 or what was behind the curtain on a game show. "Smokescreen."

Knock Out's expression was sour. "When I tried to surrender to him the little glitch decided to use me as target practice. Then he danced the flamenco on my back until I passed out."

The Decepticons digested this.

"That does sound like Smokescreen," Airachnid acknowledged.

"You tried to surrender, you say," Knockdown said.

His red counterpart lifted and dropped his broad shoulders in a shrug. "I was damaged. I thought he'd haul me back to Autobot headquarters and patch me up. Not use me as a clay pigeon." His tone was slightly bored. He began sorting the tools on the table by size.

"You mentioned a ground bridge?" Starscream asked. "And an explosion?"

"The explosion happened before the ground bridge," Knock Out said vaguely; the full explanation seemed unnecessarily complicated to him. "Then I went through the 'bridge and ended up here. Well, when I say 'here', I really mean 'the energon mine', but you know what I mean."

"Soundwave is out scouting the area more thoroughly," Starscream said thoughtfully. "And he did mention finding an energon mine."

"That's the one." He began to line up a set of screwdrivers. "And if he found a pile of dead Vehicons, I'm glad to say that I contributed to it."

"You contributed to it. You and who else?" Airachnid asked, her voice soft, almost a purr.

Knock Out's hands hung in mid-air a moment before lowering to straighten a wrench. "Myself and Bumblebee, naturally. He came through the 'bridge too."

"Bumblebee!" Starscream exclaimed. "Hmmm, Bumblebee. And—he is an Autobot?"

Knock Out wandered over to the next table. The others didn't follow him, just watched as he restlessly fiddled with or poked at objects. He picked up a small energon flask and turned it over in his hands. After a moment, he shrugged.

"Maybe you should ask him." His tone was neutral, but his eyes flipped to the Auxiliary for a moment. "I think you'll find he's a different breed than Smokescreen."

"A different breed. Tell me, Knock Out . . ." Airachnid moved into his line of vision. "Does the name Yellowjacket mean anything to you?"

He looked up. "No."

"Wait—what?" She seemed genuinely surprised. "No?"

"Should it?" he asked with a hint of insolence.

Heavy footsteps reverberated behind him.

"Yellowjacket," a said deep, gravelly voice at his back that sent little jolts of terror up his spine, "was an Autobot spy. He delighted in cruelty, stalking his victims and inflicting shallow wounds until they fell, helpless, into stasis. And into his hands."

Knock Out turned slowly and found himself looking up, up, up into the face of a Megatron who, aside from having golden armor, blue optics, and a red insignia, was the spitting image of the leader he knew and feared. Right down to the sharp-edged helm and the razor sharp teeth.

The teeth were on display as Megatron spoke, leaning down to Knock Out's level. "I terminated Yellowjacket myself, after he cruelly tormented and murdered Dreadwing, a loyal friend. So you can see why his name is well-known to us."

Knock Out slid his foot backwards in slow motion, easing the rest of his body after it in a mobile cringe as he reflexively pressed his right hand to his chest in salute. He had never stood this close to Megatron before, and never wanted to again.

"Y-yes, of course, my liege." His smile was wide and bright, with fear oozing around the edges. His mind was replaying every injury Starscream had ever suffered.

"'My liege'?" Megatron lifted an eyebrow; in the background the others exchanged looks of surprise. "You are quick to claim fealty, even when none is offered."

"My apologies, Lord Megatr—GAH!" Flinching, he shielded himself with his arms as the golden fusion cannon swung towards him. After a few long, stretching seconds he opened one optic and saw, below the cannon, a golden hand extended. Megatron's face was grave, impossible to read.

Knock Out lowered his arms with as much dignity as he could muster and tried to straighten up. Yes, he had his hypotheses on blue-eyed Decepticons, but he also had his learned instincts—and a preponderance of evidence—regarding what happened to a 'Con who got too close to something Megatron-shaped. (The bulk of this evidence was named "Starscream.")

So he was hesitant when he reached out to place his hand in Megatron's. He watched the giant golden fingers enfold his digits and prayed that he would see them again. The awkwardness was increased by the fact that Knock Out had offered his left hand, since it was his left arm that was injured; if Megatron did lose his temper, he reasoned, he would at least have one good limb left. But the handshake was careful and gentle. Knock Out did stumble a bit when Megatron pulled him fully upright. He could see the other Decepticons gathered back behind their leader, all of them, even Airachnid, looking shocked and sympathetic.

"Poor thing," he thought he heard Starscream murmur, and his outrage at this remark was only half-hearted. He wished Megatron would let go of his hand so that his spark would stop trying to tumble out of his chest in panic. Instead the Decepticon leader tilted his arm, examining the clumsy temporary medical weld.

Megatron finally let go and Knock Out politely but hastily backed away to a more comfortable distance.

"What happened there?" Megatron asked in that familiar-unfamiliar gravelly voice, pointing towards the weld with one claw.

"Ah, Megatron—" And here was Knockdown, respectful yet irritated, putting his hand on Megatron's arm like it was nothing to put his hand on Megatron's arm. "That's not really a question for now—"

Oh, Primus. This idiot.

"Hey—I'm not the type to write dark poetry and cut into my own fuel lines for kicks, okay?" Knock Out snapped. And, in response to Knockdown's silent skepticism, he added, "Look, I was—" He let out a growl of annoyance as he gesticulated towards the heavens, his speech becoming more rapid. "I was just trying to dig out a piece of casing. Then this stupid trailer truck blasted its horn and my hand jerked—"

"A trailer truck?" Starscream said sharply. She had drawn nearer, as had most of the 'Cons.

"Right. Just some human vehicle, I think. But my first thought was Optimus Prime." Knock Out's scowl intensified. "Last time that noise blasted in my audial, my door was ripped off thirty seconds later."

With a certain inevitability, everyone looked at his doorless arm. More sympathetic looks. Airachnid went so far as to pat his arm with one of her beast-legs; he tried not to recoil in disgust.

"So is that . . ." Ampule, one of the white jets, had edged into the crowd at some point. "Is that why you ran away?"

Knock Out opened his mouth, then shut it, replaying his questioning at the hands of these blue-eyed Cybertronians who called themselves Decepticons.

All that business with "his origin" and "Shockwave's expertise" . . . He'd always thought of Shockwave's expertise as being in the highly specialized field of "torture and interrogation", but he had one other major skillset, didn't he? (Besides blathering about logic, that was to say.) These idiots were just too . . . too Autobot to come out and ask such a blunt, rude, personal question.

He dipped his head to hide a slight smile. Well, after all, he'd been assuming, too—that his counterpart was just as well-versed as he was in Human science fiction movies and would understand what the presence of a red-eyed 'Con implied.

Knock Out looked up and met a wall of curiosity, compassion, and kindness. Megatron, while looming, was looming from a safe distance (which was to say, Knock Out was out of his reach). The others looked satisfyingly guilty at having subjected him to what was probably, in their minds, harsh questioning. For the first time since the energon mine explosion, Knock Out felt comfortable. Safe. These bots would not hurt him.

And, most satisfying of all, in his entire, thorough examination of the lab, he had not found a single one of the components needed to set up a cortical psychic patch. And he had looked. OH, how he had looked.

He pushed aside the tools from a table and pulled himself onto it. "Well, let me tell you . . ."

The lies flowed, simple and exquisite and just vague enough.


Many hours later, when Bumblebee finally fought his way out of his drug-induced sleep, he awoke to find a pair of round, red eyes looming above him out of a pale face.

"Wakey, wakey!" a familiar voice piped cheerfully, before adding: "By the way—we're clones now."


A/N:

Airachnid's colors are based on the Orchard spider (Leucauge venusta). Basically, yellow and lime green with white highlights.

Starscream's color scheme is mainly black with gold and scarlet highlights, and a white or pale gold for her faceplate. I decided to take the whole "hue" thing and run with it; she's the leader of the Armada, so she's the jet with the darkest color scheme. Meanwhile Ampule and Jumpstart are on the low end of the jet hierarchy, so they're white.

Trauma is a mix of light purple with highlights of dark purple and dark blue.