Dedicated to Joe. I'll forgive you someday. I'm working on it.

Clank clank.

Cha cha-cha.

Clank clank.

Cha cha-cha.

It's hard to differentiate which noise I dislike more: the banging of Carly's half-hearted drumbeat or the soft padding of the one mech I REALLY hoped I could avoid today. He approached one step at a time, the only way I can take him.

"The sound of your footsteps, telling me that you're near. Your soft gentle motion, babe, brings out a need in me that no one can hear, except- Oh." The music cut short. "Hey Prowl. Are we too loud?"

"You would have to ask Smokescreen for that particular opinion. I came here to remind you that your hours of operation are from 6:00 pm to 9:00 pm. It is now 9:01 pm."

"Aww, let 'em play!" Bumblebee cried. He listens as he awaits Cliffjumper's session to come to its thrilling conclusion.

My door is unexpectedly opened, and my spark flared up a little at the majestic sight of him, Prime's second-in-command. Few Autobots have the privilege of walking in without being regarded as annoying. Fewer still can claim they hold the codes allowing them access when they're not wanted, which is when I have a client.

Prowl stared at me, taken aback, as though he hadn't expected me here, which makes no sense because where else would I be? We were together for the smallest microsecond of time-two earth years (almost)-but that's long enough for anyone to get a general idea of someone's schedule. He recovered by opening his mouth to ask a question which I don't feel like hearing.

"They can rehearse as long as they want," I explained, trying to keep the venom out of my address. "We're just finishing up." After that I'm going to Red Alert and requesting he change my passcodes. He'll do it. He owes me some favors.

Prowl hesitated for the briefest second before nodding. He's been most amiable these last few months after re-uniting with Jazz, something I hadn't acknowledged as truth until it was FAR too late.

"Take it from the top," Chip announced, sounding as bored and exasperated as the other two. They had agreed to do this "1960's Music Extravaganza" event for Jazz (the greatest persuader, second to Megatron), even though everyone KNEW that the Dinobots were going to win when they put on fake wigs and lip-synced to the Beatles ("Me Slag Stuart Sutcliff!"). Spike, under duress (Sparkplug), convinced his fellow humans to help him out. Chip is playing the bass guitar and Carly tries the drums while Spike strums his new guitar. I have no idea if they're any good; all I can detect are the sound patterns. Earth music is not my forte.

"So what do I do?" Cliffjumper asked.

I try to use a more cognitive approach to my therapy sessions. If I ask enough questions fitting the general pattern that my patient processes eventually he'll deduce his own conclusions. Unfortunately, Cliffjumper is a follower to no one's logic; a hardheaded mech who tends to conclude exactly what you didn't want him to, even if you've deliberately tried to maneuver his thinking the opposite direction. He can see where you're going and he's not following…with one exception.

Spike hit a note that didn't fit into the pattern once, twice, three times. I regarded Cliffjumper with impatience.

"What do you do? What kind of stupid question is that? Bumblebee wants you to do something you don't, right?"

"I don't?" He liked to stall for time by repeating whatever I've just said in that bewildered tone.

"You said that you weren't ready to build a kid, that you had Decepticons to battle and a war to win and glory to earn and that you weren't sure you wanted to make the choice between fighting and parenthood. Right?"

"No!" Another stalling technique. Cliffjumper had that stubborn expression on his face that he gets when he's ready to contradict whatever anyone-including himself-just revealed. "I just said I wanted us to be happy!"

I stood up. "Will doing what HE wants make you happy?"

Cliffjumper stood up, too, to combat my interference. I was getting too close to him, personally and physically. "I didn't say that!" His fists went ready and he made a combat stance by lowering his body carriage so that he could move faster and leap higher if the need to attack erupted. I leaned in even more, to further put him on the defensive.

"Then maybe I misheard. What exactly did you tell me?" He had an 'out' now, a way to truly say what he thinks. Will he take it or continue this slag?

"I told you that Bumblebee wants to get bonded and build a kid and name it 'Bumper' and I'm not ready and I want to make him happy but PRIMUS he's pushy and how do I get him off my…holy…" Realization always dawns on the stupid the slowest.

The greatest weapon I have is his denial. He was so worked up over proving me wrong, even when the Big Ugly Truth just transformed into Omega Supreme and shot him into atoms. I needed to provoke him a little more, though. I pounded a hand on the table as I accused. "You don't want to do it. You don't want to tell him because he throws a fit when he doesn't get his way, and YOU'RE too chickenbot to face him!"

"NO! I haven't told him because I don't know how."

Drill Instructors did this on Jerry Springer. "TELL HIM TO HIS FACE, YOU COWARD!"

"FRAG YOU! BUMBLEBEE! GET IN HERE!"

"In my midnight confession-" Clunk. The door closed behind the small yellow mech as he used that smile that belied his craft. "You rang, sweetheart?"

I try not to groan. Cliffjumper faltered whenever his bee used that honeyed tone. (Heh heh.)

"I-" he realized he's shouting and modulated accordingly. "I don't want to build a kid."

The golden smile melted into a hard line. "Why not, Strawberry Shortcake? Don't you love us?"

Oh, yuck. I should have taken lessons from this master, because I've lost Cliffjumper and there's no going back. Bumblebee has Prime wrapped around his finger the same way. "I just…don't want to."

"But…but…" his bright blue optics filled with tears and his voice went all gooey. Any minute now the 'if you loved me' speech would come out.

"Cliffy, if you really loved me-"

"Stop right there," I interrupted. "Bumblebee, this type of language says that you're putting conditions on your relationship with Cliffjumper. 'If you love me…' and 'don't you love us' are phrases that tell him, whether you mean it or not, that he has no say in what is going on. You're telling him that he has to love you YOUR way, instead of OUR way-'our' being you and him. Now-" here was where I won the fight and got more work in the process. "-In the few exchanges I've seen, there are still several breaches of communication you are imposing on each other…unintentionally." I saw Bumblebee's mouth open and close as he prepared to interject. I know he wasn't listening, he was just waiting for a chance to take control of the situation.

"Why am I the bad guy here? He's the one denying me what I think is the next best step in our relationship!"

Best mode of defense? "You're right. You ARE being made to look like the bad guy. Whenever you disagree, which is 10 percent of the time, this is how it seems; because neither of you are communicating your needs in the same language. It seems like he's not listening, right?" Bumblebee nodded slowly, distrustful. "What I want to do is get you two to learn to talk-and listen-to each other so that NOBODY misinterprets and makes the other look like the bad guy, so that together you can find a way to keep being as happy as you are the other 90 percent of the time. I can't do that alone." I grabbed both of their hands and tried to look as paternal as possible. "I need your help. You and Cliffjumper. When we've fixed this small bump in your relationship road, THEN you can plan for your future." Bring it home, Smokey. "You can't build a kid with a good set of axles if he's driving on a bumpy road. You know what I mean, right?" Bumblebee nodded more eagerly than Cliffjumper, who looked slightly dazed. He's so used to the glare of his mech's headlights he's not used to my own dark objections lurking in the same room. I had to fight light with a shadow of doubt, and it looked like I did it right, but with Bumblebee, who knows? He's a great spy because he's good at making you think he's processing a different way than he appears. "Great. I'll see you together here next week."

"When I tell all the world that I love you." The door clunked behind them as they left but the noise came into the room anyway. Although the sound is audible through the door I can tune it out if my audios are at 40 capacity.

My chair is a welcome support for my exhaustion and annoyances. It catches me, holds me, tells me that even though I didn't start out as a shrink and hate the whole thing and only get my kicks when I out-maneuver the control-freaks, I'm not that bad a shrink. I like that word. Shrink. I heard it on television once. It sounded like someone who minimizes problems. Shrinks shrink the almighty into manageable issues. They can save all but not themselves, for they are a bigger problem.

"In my midnight confession, when I tell all the things that I want to." The door is opened again and it's Cliffjumper. He's looked at me as though he really didn't want to be there.

"Bumblebee says you made a lot of sense," he recited. It's a lead-up. I had the same problem with Bumblebee's last Sweetheart, a cranky pushover who finally ditched him for a dog, of all things.

I couldn't contain the snort. "Bumblebee thinks you can work 'the problem' out by yourself, doesn't he?" Cliffjumper nodded miserably. "You know, you asked me what to do, and I got you to stand up for yourself, albeit briefly, but here's the real advice: we all do stupid stuff, stuff we know is wrong." I should know: I went against ethics and my better judgment so that I could hold Prowl in my arms all night. I ignored the nagging doubts about what I was doing to my practice and my reputation and how he was not letting go of Jazz in a timely manner. I became the laughingstock of the Autobot army, with exactly two clients and a very disappointed Prime. "When we kid ourselves into saying it's for love, and not for some instant gratification, then we have to ask if the compromise is worth the return on investment."

Cliffjumper is still the stupidest mech I know when it comes to abstract reasoning. "What do you mean?"

I got in his face, so close that there was no room for second-guessing. It's my best method to auger my point into their processors. "He's manipulating you. Dump the slag-sucker already."

"No!" He backed away, clenching his fists in fury, and rocked forward again. He was buying time again.

"There's a reason Gears broke up with Bumblebee, and he acted exactly the same as you, until he figured it out himself. Stop and think about what he's asking you to do, and why he won't consider your opinion as valid, and THEN do your Autobot warrior posing in front of me. YOU didn't come in here because you wanted to, you did it because he-"

"SHUT UP!" I hadn't expected him to hit me. Stupid, stupid Autobot. Me or him, I'm not sure. Instead I had to fight off a furious blowhard. I didn't waste time; I paged Hoist and Ironhide, who peeled him off of me after a few good punches and carted him off to calm down in Prowl's office.

And now there's just Red Alert.

Red Alert is constantly moving, thinking, processing. He's an amplified version of Prowl. I could say that he's dangerously close to driving off the edge, but that's incorrect. Red is aware of everything, including the edge, and he avoids it with the maneuverability of the Lamborghini species in which he is a part.

Lambos are intense by design. They see all, hear all, know all; complicated machinery impossible for another type of Autobot to appreciate without understanding the fine-tuned engineering that goes into them. As a mech, the Lamborghini has a heightened awareness of its situation, an enviable dexterity, and an ability to process at an instantaneous speed, making them ideal as warriors (or, in Red's over- analytical case, security guard). Unlike the majority of Datsuns, who are methodical and more detail-oriented and precise.

Red Alert is positive his heroic best friend hates him in secret. He's seen the signs. I'm not telling. Without positive reinforcement, he quickly changed the subject to Prime.

"He's been hiding information from everybody." There was nothing relaxing about his posture. "I know things about him that would change your entire perspective of this war."

"Like his unending obsession with personally disemboweling Megatron?" I asked, uninterested. Red Alert has told me the festering truths I really don't care about. I've seen every aspect of Autobot personality: the good, the bad, the ugly. They all sin, even though we never see it in some like Blaster or Prowl or Jazz or Prime or Ratchet or Ultra Magnus or whomever we hold holy at that moment.

"No." Red Alert leaned in. "I mean the way he was sneaking off to Cybertron to see Shockwave."

I could believe it. "I'm sure it'll end soon enough." The best way to deal with Red is to let nothing phase you, to show him that there's nothing worth over-scrutinizing or overreacting.

Red scowled and stared off into space, to my left. "It did, but not by Prime."

"How does it make you feel?" Sometimes I forget that I'm here to make them talk so that they can better accommodate themselves to the situation and be solid fighters. I think I forget it on purpose.

"Less able to handle the day-to-day security matters in this compound. His furtive outings were a larger entanglement than he realized. What if he confessed vital information, or showed the other side a means to circumnavigate my security system?"

"Are you speaking from experience?" I demanded.

Oops.

Red's optics glowered and his posture sprang to the defensive. "When I told you that the stain of Decepticon association lingers, unforgiven, and I cited the examples of Skyfire and Mirage…you told me my fears were without foundation. YOU told me that this inability to let go of the past was a personal problem that we had to work through. A security issue, maybe."

"I say a lot of things."

"You said them about me!" I expected Red Alert to leap out of his chair and histrionically fling an accusatory finger at me before flouncing out. I was only partially disappointed.

Red stood up and stomped out, pausing by the door. "I know a lot of things, Smokescreen…and today I learned that you have no idea what you're doing. I'm not coming back."

"Gee, that's too bad," I replied, trying to hide my smile.

"Frag you," he snarled, slamming the door.

Did I mention the Lamborghini temper? Zero to pissy in four seconds.

Megatron has nothing better to do than force his minions to execute a bunch of stupid schemes. This time he's decided to blow up the moon. Again.

"Team Omega! Megatron's sent Devastator! Aerialbots prepare for interception! Smokescreen!"

He commanded me to obey and I couldn't help but feel elated. He said my name.

"Prowl?" I tried to say it as sweetly as possible (after checking to see where Jazz was).

"I need you to give us cover!"

If only the first three words were being said to me, alone, on a deserted planet somewhere…"Got it!"

Cover was given, victory was ours, Megatron retreated, and no one patted me on the back or thanked me. They grouped together in their same old cliques and scampered off.

There's a million things I could be doing, things I don't feel like elaborating on anywhere near as much as I want to do them. I'm bored. There are things I want to do, like find some friends in this giant rock pile, or go driving, stop hating myself for thinking about him, think about someone else, or something. Maybe read one of those books Carly talks about, but I thumbed through one and found nothing great about it. Nothing sounded appealing. There's a minor pain in one of my fingertips I could have looked at, but that requires getting up.

There's no point in getting up if there's nowhere I want to go, and nothing I want to do. I stare at the wall, waiting for something to happen.

I can almost hear the dust settle.

On the other side of my door there is activity.

"But a little gold ring you wear on your hand makes me understand. There's another before me, you'll never be mine. I'm wasting my tiiiime." Spike stopped once he realized that he hasn't had any backup since 'hand.' "What?"

"Have you tuned that thing?" Carly demanded. She's not the type to sound disgusted, but the weeks of practice have taken their toll. No longer do they giggle.

"YES. Have you found the beat yet or is it at the door waiting for me to let it in?"

"Guys, guys!" Chip's tired of playing the mediator. Welcome to my world.

I didn't start out this way. I could communicate with any kind of machine to get it to do my bidding and made a fraggin' good profit. One day Megatron stood over me and tore me to pieces while my androids burned and when I came back online I was in fewer pieces and armed with knowledge of how to assemble a rag-tag team of Autobots peacefully without incident. There were, in the beginning, problems. I exorcised demons and convinced the unconvincable to do what they hated, in the name of preservation.

Even then Prowl was beautiful. He was scared and unsure of himself but smart. Thorough to a fault. He saw the personality flaws, issues, and lack of programming of which we were ignorant, and with his help I could rearrange this army to become a better fighting machine.

He had Jazz. I hated it. I swallowed the disappointment and swelling ache that never seemed to go away. I told myself that he was with someone who must be perfect for him, or he'd have had me. I got used to the lack of interest, the pain. I didn't expect it to bubble up, as it did sometimes when I was under stress. Then one day he came to me with a problem: he and Jazz were falling apart.

"Staggering through the daytime, your image on my mind. Passing so close beside you babe. Sometimes the feelings are so hard to hide, but… WOULD you STOP it? Why can't you guys just play through this crappy song ONCE so we can get it over with?"

"Because you're going too slow again!" Chip replied. "I think we should fix problems as they come along!"

"If that were the case, I'd start with that slow as shit lead-in you did! Where was the downbeat?"

I've had enough. I'm not doing anything important, since most of my clientele eagerly evaporated once they saw me fall after my association with Prowl. I came over to the large open area they use, across the hall from mine. "Guys, it sounds to me like you need someone to give you some cues. Spike, do you really have to sing?"

"Am I that bad?" he asked, half-joking.

"No. You jut can't seem to concentrate on singing and playing consecutively. Carly, I get the feeling that you really do not care for the drums at all."

"I DON'T!" she replied. "I played string bass in the orchestra, so I know how to do what Chip does, but I had to switch with him because we needed someone with working feet to do it-shit shit shit shit shit!" She crouched down, looking extremely embarrassed. The wheeled human did not blink.

"I have Spina Bifida, Carly. So I can't do the drums. It's OK." He'd accepted this as fact, which made me wonder why the other humans couldn't.

"Why doesn't Carly do bass, Chip sing, Spike do lead, and you get someone else to do drums?"

"Who?" they asked.

I have no idea why I'm doing this. Maybe it's because there's a need inside of me to stop sitting in my office waiting for a miracle. "I'm not doing anything right now. I have an internal meter. I am sure I could find this beat Spike claims you've lost."

Spike smiled sheepishly. "I didn't mean literally."

Carly liked the idea, as did Chip. My hands were too big for any major dexterity, but I was able to tap out a steady enough rhythm (Chip took a few moments to realize that the thump was not the bass drum but an amplified internal mechanism of mine). Carly played the lower guitar and Chip tried the vocals. He was not very strong but he promised to work on it.

Bumblebee came to hear us, or reproach me, it was hard to tell. He'd glanced inside my office door before sitting down and staring at all of us.

Once we had done the song enough times to label our work 'progress' Spike ended practice and met up with his friend. "Hey Bumblebee! Where's Cliffjumper?"

This was the first question the yellow mech had expected but was the last one he wanted to answer. "Don't know. Don't care. Let's go for a drive and I'll tell you about it." He glared at me for the sparest of moments and transformed, peeling off, which is REALLY rude since it's bad manners to transform indoors when you're more than fifty yards away from the outside.

Even though I locked the door, Prowl marched in. Blast it all, again I forgot to ask Red to change my code, and now he's too angry with me to help.

"Your workload has decreased significantly," the Datsun declared in officious tones.

I can't help but lean on my hands and stare at him in his glorious form. "I'm helping out the humans."

He crossed his arms and scowled. He looks sexy when he's mad. That's another interesting human word. It distracts me from hearing his exasperation in my lack of patients. "That is not pertinent."

"Well, I can't help that my reputation's been ruined," I replied cagily. "Would you go to a shrink who bumped windshields with his clients?"

Prowl did not waver or wince. He just glared.

I caved. "I'll put up advertisements and you can put me on some of Inferno's patrol shifts, if it makes you happy." It won't make ME happy. I'd be happy if you smiled at me, Prowl. Prove that I do something, anything, to affect your life other than fade into the background except when I'm causing some inconvenience.

"Inferno is not as overwhelmed with patrol shifts as Red Alert would lead you to believe," he coolly informed me. "However, I will accept your offer and place you into light rotation, anticipating a change in status if your patient load increases."

He's so cruel when he's professional. It's like he's talking to Bumblebee instead of me, the one who held him while he suffered the anguish of a separated spark. I can't rest on my hands any more.

"That won't be any time soon, thanks to my...indescretion. It takes time to heal wounds, Prowl. When you can't trust somebody, it takes even longer." If I can't get him to notice me, then I'll get the last word.

He departs without further discussion and I feel like all the light in the room went with him.

"In my midnight confession when I tell all the world that I love you. In my midnight confession, when I say all the things that I want to…"

I can keep the beat and think at the same time, especially concerning today's events. Jazz is all over him. Not in public: even he knows better than to do that. Instead there are telltale scratch marks all over Prowl's body; territorial inscriptions not buffed out or painted over. Mine, they yell defiantly. A dent looking suspiciously like a bite is on his neck. It mocked me as we shot at Megatron.

If I didn't know any better I'd swear he was doing it on purpose. If it were ANYBODY else…but it's not. Jazz is the model of grace and style and class. He's never said anything bad about anybody. Not even me. The whole time we fought over Prowl the most unkind thing he'd said was that I had no idea what was going on, and he'd been both drunk and right at the time. I wanted to hate him for being so great, for being the only mech I knew who could keep a hallway vigil for two years and not look pathetic to the other Autobots, a mech who probably could turn Decepticon and still be loved. I can't. He's fragging perfect.

In the only session he sat for (Prowl didn't like the idea of us in a separate room discussing him), Jazz told me that he'd love to meet someone who had a good reason for hating the Beatles.

"Some say they were played too much and others say they hated the White Album and a lot of Elvis fans think that they were over-blown, but those dudes sooner or later admit there was a song or lyric they liked."

"You're right," I admitted. Back then, I was kissing up to him. I wanted him to like me-to assuage my guilt. "I always thought 'Good Day, Sunshine' was nice."

Jazz laughed at that.

"What's your favorite?" It had to be 'Come Together.'

Jazz stood up, smiling, looking me in the optic with his glinting visor. "You weren't listening to me, Smokey. I already told you what I think."

Had I paid attention I would have read into the hidden meaning, but I'd been preoccupied with establishing rapport. I had to think of something to ask.

"Do you compare yourself to that particularly human phenomenon?" I asked him as he walked out the door.

"No," he replied, unconvincingly. "A part of me isn't leaving to go solo."

"Yet," I sneered to an empty room. I was SO stupid.

They pass me in the corridors and outside when we drive on patrol: sometimes together in corporeal form, sometimes in spirit. When Prowl is alone I keep up some secret code only I know about and pretend I'm still recovering from the anger, keeping my civility. It prevents me from throwing myself at his feet and begging, something I've caught myself almost doing more than once or twice.

When it's both of them I'm neutral. They're just two Autobots passing. Nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes they greet me, sometimes I greet them, sometimes there is nothing. I like the times when there is nothing. I don't trust myself to speak.

When it's just Jazz…it's different. I want to ask him a million questions. Does he really bear a grudge? Did he suspect me all along? Is Prowl happy? What did they do after they made up? Does Prowl miss me at all? Do they talk about me? Would he consider a three-way?

That last one is on the edge of delusions so ridiculous it makes me laugh. It definitely crosses the line, yet the image of Jazz looking up from throwing me against the wall, grinning, asking Prowl if it does anything for him, and Prowl's angry but impassioned 'yes!' is an indulgence I can't keep out of my processor. Another chance with Prowl…and Jazz forced to watch, or be a minimal player. Or to have Jazz to myself, just to punish Prowl and force him to betray his own logic circuits again. It excites me.

"There's a little gold ring, you wear on your hand, makes me understa-a-and. There's another before me, you'll never be mine, I'm wasting my tiiiiiiime."

He's improved. Barely. Carly announced that he doesn't have the right key. Spike told him he's stretching the notes out too far. They fought for a good long time before someone realized that my opinion might buttress one already stated, making one of them right.

"They're wrong," I declared. "From a mechanical standpoint-"

"Boo!" Carly jeered. Spike didn't get the joke.

"Thanks. You have it down, except that you have no empathy for the message."

"What do you mean?"

I had to untangle myself from the drums to make my point. "Chip, what is this song about to you?"

He shrugged. "Some guy likes a married woman and he can't tell her."

"You're right. But you're wrong. Close your opt-eyes. Picture this: the one thing you want more than anything else in the world is in front of you. Day in, day out. It hovers in front of your face and slowly kills your life force because somebody already took it. Have you ever wanted something so bad it keeps you up at night?"

He opened his eyes and glanced down at his legs. "Yeah."

"Haunts you in the daytime?"

His expression darkened. "Yeah."

I leaned in and murmured in his audio-ear thingies. "You can't tell anybody, so it comes out at night."

"Play the song, Spike," he ordered, not looking up from his feet. I hurry to the drums.

He marched in with a purpose. I watched him, impressed. "So my sign worked!"

To prove to certain higher-ups that I was trying to continue what they'd hired me to do I put up fliers everywhere there was space advertising that I had changed my schedule. 'New hours! More flexibility! Come in and see how YOUR time works for ME, so that I can work with YOU!'

No bites. None.

Perceptor immediately confessed that he was here for advice only. "I cannot, to speak colloquially, 'get over' a certain…issue."

"Since when do you speak in an understandable dialect? Or seek advice?" I didn't want him coming in here and expecting a readout of his emotions to be so flippantly dismissed like a 'Dear Prudence' letter. I have real work, too. (Avoiding work is a full-time occupation!)

He lowered his head, defeated. He and Prime broke up over suspicious circumstances and Optimus has continually refused to reconcile. "Smokescreen, I'm in a terrible quandary. This pain in my spark is unbearable. How do I eradicate it?"

He's asking ME. I recall the time I had a useless arm and no repairmech around to fix it. I spent an entire vorn not using it, becoming inured to the limited mobility to the point where I STILL don't use the arm that often. The pain in my spark throbs low and dull, intensifying when I think about it too much, which I do. It limits my ability to sympathize.

After the spectacular anger that caused my jettisoning Prowl he had the gall to sit down in the hallway with Jazz and stare at my door, like two rejects from society. I had to leave, and when they were still there when I came back I told Jazz that he'd gotten his prize already, just quit reminding me that they were a happy couple.

Jazz snorted. Prowl wiped his optics clear of fluid and allowed Jazz to help him up and keep holding his hand, pulling him away from me, head facing forward as though he'd been ready to leave the whole time.

I didn't cry. I don't-can't. Other mechs can weep profusely at every ruptured tire, but not me. It's not in me. I didn't think it was in any Datsun model, because up until that day I'd never seen Prowl cry. Bluestreak doesn't either, and he needs it more than either of us.

So thanks a lot, Perceptor, for reminding me of this. He doesn't even look like he expects me to help; more likely I'm a curiosity, a 'let's try this, and if it doesn't work, it's not that big a loss' type of attitude. I'll show him.

I stood up and sauntered around the desk and placed my hand on his shoulder, as though to guide him out. I even started to do this before pausing a few dozen meters before the door. His neck is so soft, so pliant. It calls to me as I lean into him, not embracing but pretty close. I make sure my words tickle his audios.

"Go into a room, all by yourself, turn off all the lights, drink as much energon as you can, think about all the hurt he did to you…and feel."

He's frozen. Surprise or umbrage, who cares? "Let it go, Perceptor. Let the hurt burst like a bubble and mourn the loss of something you had and can never have again. Grieve, but don't let it…" His shoulders are the perfect height to rest blue hands with fingers that caress carefully. "Eat you up like a vat of acid." I can make 'eat you up' sound dirty. I did. He shuddered.

"I do not think that your behavior is appropriate." He's shocked. That's difficult to do.

"No more than your attempt to get a one-shot answer out of a complicated problem. Now…" I tilted his head back, so that I could take a look at that smooth gray neck. Datsuns love a small challenge, and Perceptor looked ripe. If only I felt like following through, which I didn't. Too much work. I glanced at the soft spot on his chin, which begged for kisses, and pulled away from his arms, which had somehow found their way around my doors. "You came for advice and I gave it. You can't move on until you let out the old coolant to make room for the new. If you want to talk to me about other issues, I'm here. Since you're not, get out."

He left without a backward glance. Just like Prowl.

"In my midnight confession when I'm telling the world that I love you-oo." Chip's voice is as harsh and bitter as the clank of the drumbeat. We all join in, Carly harmonizing, Spike adding volume to Chip's tenor, I'm the bass.

"In my midnight confession when I say all the things that I want to-oo. Na na-na na na, na naaa na. Na na-na! Na! Na! Na na nih-"

I had no idea that this could be so much fun. Music is it's own language. When I started this I spent a lot of time learning new words. Measure. Phrase. Tempo. I loved it. I still can't tell what humans define as 'good,' but I'm learning something about it. Spike told me about the emotional retrieval elicited from chords and words.

We're getting close enough to the show date to begin debating trivialities. We don't have a group name, which I've been told is an important factor, or a group look, which will get us 'extra points.'

They think they should match me, but no one owns maroon and all three are too heavy on the credit side of their financial ledgers to consider purchasing new. I inform them that I can change my coloring.

"Great! Go black and white like Prowl! We all have THOSE colors!" Carly declared. She's a lot more enthusiastic now that we don't 'suck,' which is another word I'm trying to figure out. It's negative.

"Says who? I don't have black pants!"

"Yeah you do!" With a dramatic flourish I'd not seen since Hoist attempted a magic act with his lovely assistant (Windcharger), Carly brought out stiff black pants that have seen better days.

"Where did you get those?" Chip asked, bewildered.

"Are those part of your old orchestra uniform? No way! I'm not putting on something a dozen violin players have sweated in! Ugh!"

Spike seems bent on causing fights. He wants to wear his jeans with different colored shirts, so that my look can blend with theirs: Chip has a hunter green shirt, Spike has a khaki one, and Carly could wear a light blue one that matches me.

"That's such a preppy color scheme, though." She objected. She'd been carrying those pants for awhile.

"Who cares? The only people stupid enough to dress the part are the ones with no talent."

I automatically turned my head to see if Grimlock and company were spying on us, but nobody comes around here, and they didn't, either.

"And we, Six Wheels and Six Legs, have talent."

Carly made a face. "That's a horrible band name, Spike."

"I thought of it," Chip supplied.

"Oh." She looked like she wanted to hide again. Chip tried to reassure her that it was okay.

"She's right, that doesn't really grab anyone's attention. Besides, I have legs, too. Why not try one of those clever word play names?" Human words fascinate me. I like hearing them talk, since their noises are all so vastly eclectic. It amuses me that some words can have different meaning but sound the same. "Something like Showgun."

"Nah. Makes me think of Guns N' Roses. Roll for It?"

Carly made an overenthusiastic noise of approval, which didn't seem appropriate, either.

Spike had been tuning his guitar the whole time, softly playing chords in an absent-minded way. "Play it Loud?"

We shrugged, still deep in thought. "Sounds like a song title," Chip said, fingers tapping on his chair's arm rest.

"Yeah…Hm." Carly thought for a minute. "There was song where the chorus started with 'Say it Loud.' It was some Eighties band."

"Mike and the Mechanics," Chip supplied.

All four sets of our optics met at the same time.

"With a minor change….I like it!" I said.

"I'll wear blue for that!" Carly cried.

Spike smiled. Chip called for us to 'take it from the top.'

We cut practice short sometime around midnight, when Megatron decided to attack Tokyo and blow up Mt. Fujiyama in an attempt to bury the city in an avalanche. We staggered back, in time to find out that Starscream had rallied a small army of drones to blow up the Ark while we were out, but he was stopped by Chip, Red Alert, Spike, Carly, Omega Supreme, and a special invention of Wheeljack's that decided to actually work this time. Megatron showed up to beat the slag out of his wayward assistant, so we were pinned down for yet another large chunk of time before the Decepticons decided to call it quits. THEN my patrol shift started, this one a short stint of only nine hours.

So when a black and white stranger decided to show up at my door at sundown, thirty-two hours since my last recharge, I was less than enthusiastic to see him.

"Double-headers don't seem to take the spring out of your step," I growled resentfully.

Jazz smiled with the benign patronage reserved for Gears when he's at his crankiest. "I heard you were the mech to see."

"Oh really? How?" We'd had exactly one session.

Jazz could lean causally against a door and smile warmly enough to make you think he thought you were the only mech in the room. I was the only mech in the room, but still…it was just a feeling he gave.

"The sign in the commissary."

"Oh." I was way too tired, but if I went offline now I'd throw my whole cycle out of whack. "What can I do for you?"

He eased in with a confused look of uncertainty. "I don't know…we've had a past."

I had to lie, just to keep the remains of my shredded reputation as impeccable as possible. "That was a long time ago. I'm sure we've gotten over that."

Jazz sighed a long, dragged-out exhalation of a hopeless mech and sunk into the chair, putting his head in his hands and shaking unhappily. "I need help."

I waited.

He continued to droop, all of him. "You see, my partner's in love with somebody else."

"Somebody else?" It wasn't me. It had to be me. Please, let it be me.

Jazz leaned back on his chair, looking as melancholy as he could. "I thought he told you?"

My hope is built on flimsier fancies. "No! Prowl never told me! The few times we've spoken as of late," I amended quickly. "I mean, we 're in battle or in the hall or something, but um-"

He gave me a commiserative nod. "So he's been hiding it from you, too. You know, it breaks my spark…I mean he held it in for so long…"

This had to be a lead-in to something. Jazz wouldn't do that. Maybe he would. Where was he going with this? He had to be telling me that Prowl was still in love with me, he had to. There was no other reason to come to me.

"He never talks about his feelings," I replied, trying not to get caught up in the tumultuous current of hope. "Maybe he should."

"No way! I don't want to hear him going on about it anymore. I mean, it's bad enough he makes up all these excuses to see him, and gives him all those looks, but MAN, if I have to hear ONE more word about Prime-"

"PRIME!" He was in love with Optimus? "What did you mean, PRIME?! What about me?"

Too late! "Gotcha."

The smile was so small, so precise, so triumphant, that I almost missed it. Okay, I missed it completely. I ranted about him being fickle for about a millisecond too long and realized that Jazz, staring me in the face, had just issued a challenge.

I sat back down in a rush. "You read into it too much."

"No," Jazz leaned in, smile gone. "I didn't."

There was nowhere to turn and no one to fight, except for him. I couldn't do it. Jazz had the power in the situation, because he knew that whatever he told Prowl would make me miserable.

"What do you want from me?" How I forced myself to say it, I don't know.

Jazz's perfectly controlled, cold face did not change. So many people forget who he is and what he does and how everything is done right the first time. He's a saboteur, a reconnaissance genius-a mech who can get the truth and more out of you without having to do anything illegal. Even taciturn Soundwave's talked under Jazz's control.

"Nothing. I just came here on a hunch. To talk to you about a problem, that's all. I think the problem's solved, right?"

There was nothing pleasant about that. I'd be afraid if I weren't so indignant. "I don't know. I get the distinct impression that you see me as a threat, which is weird since I wasn't seen as one when I was with Prowl, so how am I one now?"

He gave off that sad, disappointed pitying look that was a dead ringer for Prime's, down to the tilt of his head. "You have no idea how pathetic you are. You've chased off all your clients so that Prowl has to come in here to yell at you. You've taken up extra patrols so that you can report to him. Every time we go fight you're a little too interested in what he's doing. Now you're in a band so that he has to see you, since you know I asked him to be a judge. Maybe you should tell me why you think you'll get him to notice you that way?"

"You have no idea how paranoid you are," I retorted. "My clients left after they saw how I started a relationship with a patient. It's PROWL who comes in here to yell at me about the inevitable, not my supervisor, which is Optimus-not Prowl-and Prowl's the one who told me to join patrol. As for the band thing, I've been here all day, like I'm supposed to be, so I haven't heard any of your announcements concerning your stupid pet project." I leaned forward to meet his visor, hoping he doesn't see the fear in my optics. "Maybe you should ask yourself why you're seeing something that's not there? Or better yet, go ask you sparkmate. I bet he knows."

Jazz laughed. It was a genuinely amused laugh, one that gave him grace to pull away from the tense poses we'd taken and ease out the door without making him look like the loser of this fight, which he wasn't because he had seen right through me like a clean windshield.

"Who do you think sent me here?" he sneered.

I don't have an answer for that. "Don't come back in here without a doctor's note" is the only thing I can think of.

"Later, Smokey." He walked out, pausing to give me another meaningful look, one that clearly stated that although it wasn't uttered, he did not want me near Prowl.

They're waiting for me the minute Ratchet let me go after another victory, a fight I really can't recall the particulars of except that I was in the back until they needed me to choke Megatron's air intakes while Bumblebee stole the remote control in his hand to stop the multitude of hidden bombs from decimating major earth cities. An extra kid sat behind the drums, beating the high-hat cymbals absently as he ignored me wondering why he's in my spot.

Spike exchanged uneasy looks with Carly and Chip.

There's something wrong. "Is there something wrong?"

Chip smiled nervously. "Didn't Jazz tell you?"

Very wrong. "We were busy getting shot. What was he supposed to tell me?" I asked.

"Uh-"

I'm no fool. "What did Jazz say?"

Spike sighed. "I'm sorry, Smokescreen, and I don't agree with him, but Jazz said he thought we needed a new drummer, since-"

"-Since he thinks that the Dinobots should be the only Autobot entry. He wants it to be a human event. He found us one," Chip interrupted. The kid in my spot nodded curtly and began to hit the tom toms on his right.

Carly patted me on the hip glibly. "We're really sorry, but Jazz said you were getting into trouble for helping us, and he didn't want that to happen anymore."

"How considerate of him," I remarked, trying not to make a big deal out of it, since they weren't. "That's okay, I had other stuff to do anyway. Good luck."

A new drummer. The band gets a new drummer and I'm not supposed to be hurt by this. The only one who seemed remotely apologetic was Spike.

To make matters worse, my boss is coming down the hall and for a mech with a facemask he doesn't look pleased.

I beat him to the door by an astro-second, opening it for him and stepping aside while trying to smile.

Optimus Prime does not smile. He can't. I don't think he would if he could, anyway. Facial expressions make us vulnerable to our enemies.

"I have heard reports."

He doesn't say what reports. How unlike him.

"You are not getting along with Jazz."

The logical mode of operation when Autobots have a psychological problem with the authority figures is to run to mediation, hosted by your friendly neighborhood psychologist.

"We had a minor misunderstanding but there is no tension between us," I replied, smiling falsely because I can. So my hard work was coming to fruition. "Does he think it requires mediation?"

Prime stared. He has a long, cool, appraising glance. "He does not; someone else does."

"Who?" It couldn't be Prowl, is that why he hasn't come by lately? I don't believe for a minute he sent Jazz over to threaten me.

"Me. You need help, and I can't put you into mediation when the mediator is the cause of the problem."

"You'll have to get someone else, then," I replied, knowing he didn't trust anybody to handle this kind of thing but Prowl and Jazz, and he knew better than to choose Jazz. Prowl would be alone with both of us. Alone with me. It would more than make up for the stinging disappointment of being replaced in a band.

"I have already."

"Who? Ratchet?" I only say this as a joke. A joke on Prime.

"Among others." The joke's on me.

"WHAT?"

Ratchet, Perceptor, and Seaspray marched in, stood in a line, and awaited orders. "Welcome to group therapy. Your leader is Blaster."

I put my face in my hands, willing the image of three embarrassed, one triumphant, and one amused Autobot out of my processor. They were still there a few seconds later.

Prime nodded brusquely. "Blaster is authorized to run these meetings as he sees fit."

"HOW?" This wasn't Prowl. Not even close.

"He's a master communicator." As if that explained the whole thing! "He'll do fine."

Blaster had them all sit down on the floor. All four of them plopped down and looked up at me.

This is not happening.

Spike and his new drummer were working on a new song outside. "Lemme run with you tonight-"

"Cop a squat," Blaster commanded. It was a suggestion that sounded authoritative. I didn't know he had it in him. So I sat.

"There's someone I used to see, but she don't give a damn for me. No, wait. That's not the right chord. What is it, E Major?"

"I don't know. Tom Petty's crap."

"So…Welcome to Sergeant Blaster's Lonely Heart's Club Band. We're gonna rap n' chill. Share our feelings."

"I don't have feelings," Ratchet protested sourly. "I've been threatened with permanent oil change duty if I don't come."

Our leader chuckled. "Whatever motivates." He looks at me, conspiratorially, as though I should sympathize with his problem and help him out.

"I'm not motivated so far," I interjected. A therapist he's not.

Blaster smiled sweetly. "Would you be more motivated if I shoved my fist through your windshield?"

"Ooooooh!" the others exclaimed.

"Shut up," I replied, sulking.

"Now let me get to the point. Let's roll, another joint- Hey, slow down!"

"You're going too slow, dude. The song goes like this..."

"So like I said, welcome," Blaster announced cheerfully. "Prime asked me to get you all together because you're in deep denial over being dumped."

All four of us spoke at once.

"WE'RE JUST TRYING IT OUT!"

"It was a mutual separation!"

"I threw HIM out!"

"I couldn't stop fighting the Decepticons!"

Blaster laughed. "Total denial."

"Now turn the radio loud. I'm too alone to be proud and you don't know how it feels, no you don't know how it feels. To be meeeeee-" Spike laughed in the hallway with his new band. "Hey Bumblebee! Have you met-"

"Now that we all know how your last relationship ended, let's get to the good part: tell me why. Ratchet?"

Ratchet crossed his arms defiantly but lost the staring contest. "I walked in on him and Skyfire on the lab table. BUT we'd been seeing other mechs before then, so I don't know why this is different."

"You screamed to Wheeljack that you'd reprogram him into a washing machine," Blaster replied dryly. Ratchet muttered something about promising the same for him. "Go ahead, Perceptor."

"I do not see the connotation between Ratchet's emotional outbursts and my issue. We agreed to go our separate ways, remain friends, and have thus accomplished our intended task."

"Is that why you're stalking him?"

Perceptor sat up straight in shock. "I'm concerned with his mental state! He has been acting in a bizarre behavioral pattern. He requires monitoring!"

"So does Starscream. Seaspray?"

"Prime called me back. It didn't want to, but I did."

"I heard a whole octopus' garden worth of mess happened before that." Seaspray didn't respond. "Go ahead, Smokey."

I, too, crossed my arms and shrugged my shoulders.

"The Quiet One. Go on. Tell me the truth."

"Whatever you heard isn't true but you're not going to believe me anyway, so why should I bother?"

He gestured around the room. "The others bothered."

"You shot them down for it."

"Na, man, I reminded them that their versions were heavily edited. The tune you're all singing needs a better producer before it can be considered a hit. If you tell me what really happened, and not the version you think will help you cope, then you're ahead of your friends here."

"I told you: I threw him out."

I could feel all four of them staring at me indignantly. I don't care. It's MY office.

Blaster scowled. "You'll need more work than any of them."

That stupid band plays all the time, now that the concert is approaching with the speed of Astrotrain. Luckily, I don't have to hear it as often as I might; Megatron has a new plan every other day that keeps us busy. Somehow he lured us all into an auto graveyard where waiting were minions made from the surrounding junk, barely mobile. They looked like us, however, thus we were shooting at our own friends in an attempt to get rid of the zombies. Jazz (I think) got me in the hatchback when I rolled over to help Bluestreak (at least, it should have been).

Last week I was on patrol for sixty hours straight with Cliffjumper, who still holds a grudge for Bumblebee dumping him. He refused to make any sort of conversation with me and demanded Inferno resume this post next time.

Unfortunately, when I'm not being smashed up by my fellow Autobots or covering Inferno's millions of shifts, I'm stuck in my own office listening to the usual assembly of morons.

Blaster has a perplexing modus operandi, one that gets results where I would have never expected them. He explained that what happens in this room stays in this room. Seaspray talked willingly, proving he's got nothing to hide. So what if Alanna decided she didn't really want to accept the realities of being in love with an Autobot? Perceptor refused to say anymore than he already had. Blaster countered that if we continue to drag our wheels he'll up the ante and we'll be in counseling sessions everyday, instead of every other day. Afraid of never getting to work again, Perceptor told us that he was hurt by Prime's running off and refusing to say where he went. Ratchet turned the air blue with his swearing, until he was out-cussed by our 'master communicator.' He laughed, the camaraderie was established, and he confessed that he worried about where he stood with Wheeljack to the point of uncontrollable jealousy. I resented that. Why didn't Ratchet ever open up to ME that willingly?

For some reason Blaster has left me alone. I'm wondering if he's saving me for later or trying to make me jealous or demonstrating how painless it is to admit that we can't stop loving those who don't want us anymore; I don't know, I don't care. I can hear Spike and Chip as they tap away at a new song, one Spike called Nirvana, which has me confused, since that's not what I pictured as eternal bliss. It must be one of those double-meaning words.

"I'm worse at what I do best, and for this gift I feel blessed. A little group is all it's been, and always will until the end-You're late! Again!"

"Lay off him, Spike," Carly retorted, footsteps quick. She must be late, too.

"I was yelling at you," he snarled.

"Bullshit!" She's hitting the bass strings as fast as she can to drown out Spike's follow-up. Suddenly the noise cuts out and she cries "Hey!"

"From the top," Chip declares, sounding as worn out and unanchored as I do.

"What do you think, Smokey?" Blaster asked.

I wasn't paying attention. "About what?"

He was not put out. "About meeting up in two weeks instead of next week?"

"Sure!" Not bad. This means I can go on another patrol.

"Great! So next week we're gonna do one-on-one time, and I'll start with Smokey on Monday."

What? Too late! They're breaking up the group and Blaster bolted for the door, calling that he'll talk to me tomorrow.

Blaster is not at my door yet today. It's Perceptor. He looks slightly off-kilter, as though he just crawled out of the recharge plate and got tackled. His chest is scuffed, his helmet scraped, his optics watery, and a bewildered smile is creeping up his face as though it's working on it's own.

"I'll have you know that I took your advice," he announced.

"You removed that stick from your tailpipe?" I demanded sourly. Carly has been playing the same bass line from "Rock Lobster" all morning.

A giggle escaped from those miscreant lips, causing me to snap my head back up. "What happened to you?"

He won't tell. He's too busy snickering over my nasty comment.

"Perceptor, it wasn't that funny, Primus! I'm-sorry?" What will shut him up?

He cut his hysterics as curtly as he began them and got right to business. "Because your advice has rectified several…problems, I wish to repay you with an iota of information." He clumsily leaned onto my desk and breathed on me heavily spiked energon fumes, but I got the gist of it: if I go see Red Alert, and tell him that Perceptor sent me, I'll get to see something he knows I'd like to see. All I have to do is a minor favor of an inconvenient patrol for Inferno, which is something I do already. It'll be fun!

"Who are you and what have you done with the real Perceptor?" I demanded.

Perceptor was not annoyed. He waved good-bye as he tottered out, reminding me that this offer has a finite lifespan, and that I'd better go tonight, around seven-thirty pm, if I wanted to get my prize.

Ten minutes later Blaster breezed in with a professional air and declared that it's time to talk. I'm still wondering about Perceptor. Do I act this weird?

"I wanted to go over a couple of things," He began, sitting down without invitation.

"Sure." The best way to figure out what he wants is to hear him out, and Blaster talks a lot.

He's taken this role as counselor seriously. I've never seen Blaster serious about anything. Come to think of it, I've never seen Perceptor the mess he was when he flitted into my office, or Ratchet so eager to share his feelings, or Optimus Prime so secretive, or Jazz so jealous. Should I be egotistical and believe the whole Autobot universe is out of whack because of me? Or should I pull a Red Alert and think it's Decepticon work? Red Alert…Perceptor's suggestion…it would be a good excuse to make some amends and ask him his opinion on what's been going on. Not rampant curiosity or anything.

"-get you to open up more in group?"

I haven't been paying attention again. There's been so many instances I sit lethargically in a conversational fog when Blaster's around. "What would it take?" I repeated, hoping that's what he said.

"You got it," he replied, holding up his hands in a gesture of encouragement.

There needs to be as little said as possible, enough to make Blaster think he's dragged it out of me without him getting suspicious. Something to somewhat insult him, but at the same time, make him promise to do something to fix it.

"Well…I think if you'd quit being so negative to everybody, then I'd feel more likely to open up without getting shot down."

Knock knock.

A camera lens assaulted my face and had the nerve to demand I identify myself.

"Perceptor sent me."

The door opened, a black hand attached to a white arm motioned that I come in, but don't touch anything.

He has too many screens; it hurts my optics to see so many of us hard at work or living while Red Alert is holed up in a dark room that smells bad, watching us. This is scary. I knew he had cameras OUTSIDE of our rooms, but INSIDE? He knows everything!

"I don't tell anybody what I see in here," he grumped, as though I'd said it out loud. "It's none of their business. But you see what I meant when I told you I knew a lot more than you did."

Blaster's back in his communications station, making notes on a datapad. Before he left he promised to try to be more encouraging, after I pretended to be embarrassed by what I'd uttered. Blah blah blah, useless white noise-

"So what are you looking for?" Red asked, flipping switches so that all of the monitors change from watching everyone to black.

I still have no idea why I'm here. "All I know is I'm supposed to say Perceptor sent me."

Red Alert's optics have a strange sheen to them, as though he's considering me a threat to his comfortable hole. He can have it. "You get to spy on the Autobot of your choice! What did you think he sent you here for? I'm not allowing you in here to reevaluate my psyche. You failed at that already."

Now I'm really confused. "You just said that you don't tell anybody anything. How's that different from compromising our privacy for favors?"

Red Alert is no dummy. "Look. If I knew that what you'd see would compromise our security, I wouldn't let you do it. I'm doing this for Perceptor, who said you'd help me out if I did. If you don't like it, or want to go ratting to Optimus Prime, go ahead, but you'll miss out. Besides, Prime's somewhere classified until Friday."

The desire to see what's so special is too strong, and denial is a great defense mechanism. I've convinced myself he's telling the truth. I also remember the question I was going to ask him.

He stared at me and snorted derisively. "What you don't know about your fellow Autobots is staggeringly incomprehensible."

EVERYTHING he does irritates me. "Would you like to tell me why everybody's acting like their personalities were captured and taken to an alternate universe, then?"

"They weren't. How can I explain this…" I figured that if he's such a know-it-all (again, wrong 'bot to be acting like this) then he might have a vague idea, or at least a wrong one I can mock.

For awhile the Lamborghini was silent. "Picture a pile of slag."

"So that's what you think of us."

"Shut up. What happens when there's a piece towards the bottom, one of the load-bearing supportive pieces, and it suddenly bends under the pressure?"

"The whole pile shifts."

"Exactly. Right now the Autobot army is shifting as one piece bends and reshapes itself. Once we've settled, we'll be normal."

I shook my head. "I don't believe you."

He shrugged. "You're assuming that you are the piece that's bending."

"No, I'm not!" Yes, I am. "I figured you were talking about Prime."

Red Alert has begun to switch stations around again, moving the commissary to the lower left, lower right, upper left, etc. "Whenever anybody doesn't want me to know the real subject of the conversation they substitute him for Prime. So who are you really assuming it is?"

I'm not going to admit it's me. Giving Red Alert the upper hand is humiliating enough.

He gestured to a separate monitor to my right, one that's not within sight of the others. "Maybe it's that one."

I looked at a screen that shows me an all-black room with nothing but the softest hint of blue light from the standard equipment of the wall monitor ricocheting off of the metal wall facing the camera. I saw the door open, orange-gold light spilling into the dark room. A white hand reached around to the panel next to the door and something clicked.

Light flooded the entire room, accompanied by beats. A few fleeting, pounding beats surrounded by a sensual bass, low lighting coming on to reveal a very familiar set of white hands coming into the camera's line of vision. The music eases into a low human voice declaring "When we met, wasn't quite clear to me, what you had in store was there for only me." Prowl; onscreen, moved in front of the camera, from right to left. He occasionally jerked a shoulder or hip, more as a deliberate movement along with the music. He can't dance, but someone taught him to try.

"I've got to make sure you don't get away. After all you done, girl, to make me wanna stay…"

"Barry White again," Red Alert snorted out loud. I glanced at what he was observing, a hundred Autobots busy or offline. The one directly in front of him was Ironhide laying on his back. "Watch your own screen!" he snarled, turning me back.

The music swelled and Prowl paced. He's so graceful. I could watch him for hours. Funny how I didn't when we first got together. I was so afraid I'd wake up and find it a dream, or that he'd change his mind, I spent a lot of time trying to hold back my feelings since that was how I operated. I'm still not that emotional.

The song goes into another growl by the same deep-voiced human. "It's ecstasy…when you lay down next to meeee."

Prowl paused for a moment to inspect a large green cactus. I remember that plant.

"Oh baby," the human purred.

"Oh baby," Prowl replied, sounding robotic to ME. I had to laugh. He glanced at the door, occasionally jerking a shoulder with the beat.

The door crashed open without any fanfare, but only I jumped. It was Jazz, and he's looked better.

"Thundercracker tattooed his name on my rear end and Ratchet can't get another one hammered out 'til tomorrow! You oughta see it!" Sure enough, when he turned up his heels there's Decepticon lettering across where the back of his car form would be. One heel says Thunder, the other Cracker. "Megatron's on a coke high or somethin'! What is this, the fifth attack this-" Jazz stopped his rant to turn his head over to the Datsun before him. A slow smile curled up deviously. "Is that Barry White?"

Prowl nodded.

The mile widened to a barely-contained grin. "Did I leave it on? I'm sorry-" He stopped when his partner got close enough that their headlights would be touching.

"Jazz. You act like this every week, although antecedence should dictate otherwise." Prowl let a hand rest on the Porche's shoulder. "It is Wednesday. Eight o'clock."

"I never get tired of bein' told that," was his reply, pushing Prowl into the wall with a loud 'thud.' I jumped back again, in shock.

"Ironhide'll love that," Red smirked.

Jazz kissed ferociously. Prowl kissed back. I can't move. Prowl, my Prowl, is…not giving up resistance. He's grabbing, moaning, completely devouring Jazz, but-but-how? He wasn't like that with me! Enthusiastic, yeah, but this is WAY beyond enthusiastic, beyond the token affection a label such as Wednesday Eight o'clock would muster. This is…a repaired relationship. My hope is destroyed, dust blown away by a puff of air current.

Perceptor, Perceptor, you demon, you unfit being, how could your return gesture possibly be seen as anything but malicious? My entire spark flared and collapsed with the intensity of a dying sun. Prowl rested his head on Jazz's shoulders and lifted the corners of his lips up into a soft curve of bliss.

Prowl is smiling. Why? Isn't what I did for him good enough? The mech he complained about actually gives him more pleasure than anything I ever did for him? Why was I used like a prop in their disharmonious acrimony, when I had been nothing but good to him? I can't turn away but I can't watch anymore, and when he moans loud enough to be heard by the other snidely giggling mech in the room, I can feel nothing but the realization that I'm expendable. Worthless.

There are moments in which something surprising does not. One such moment is when a set of hands that are not mine have gently enclosed around the bottom of my doorwings, squeezing with just enough pressure to send a tingling thrill up to my head, when a red helmet has leaned against me as best he could and silently pressed into me. The unspoken makes it even more unreal, a dirty secret that gives me shivers as he tenderly caresses the wings with an expert twist. His knees nudged my legs inward to completely encapsulate my body and all I have to do is lean back and sigh in surrender and I'd be his. Not Prowl's.

No. I pulled away and walked out, not even acknowledging him.

I've found a message on my answering device from Red Alert, sulkily informing me that Inferno's first shift starts at three am, tonight. I'd better be there.

I collapsed at my desk and decide to wait for the world to end. The dull throb comes at me in waves as the humans outside continue their song in stops and starts.

"Staggering through the daytime, your image on my mind."

I won't let them get to me. Not Prime, not Perceptor, not Red Alert, not Jazz.

"Passing so close beside you babe. Sometimes the feelings are so hard to hide, but-"

Nobody.

It's weird. I listen to Seaspray admit that he didn't want to leave his alt mode for a week after the breakup and I'm disgusted. When Perceptor admits that he buried himself in his work to avoid having to deal with the pain, and Ratchet shakes his head in disagreement, stating the oppposite, I'm annoyed. When Blaster comforts them with the reminder that denial is but one of the stages of mourning, I'm impatient. Yet, yet when the ache that has lodged itself into my spark flares up in pain it doesn't seem as pathetic to me. It's real. I have real feelings, not the sap that flows from their whiny vocalizers. When Blaster asked me what I did the week after my break up, I retorted Nothing.

"Right," he sneered indelicately.

I can't help but glare at him over this. "If you're going to make me feel stupid for my opinion then you can frag yourself."

This wasn't how I intended to say it, but I'm too late. Blaster's arms are closed, he's leaning back on his chair with his legs sticking out, and he's trying not to laugh at me. "Go ahead, say it."

I sighed in exasperation. "Ask Ratchet."

Ratchet spoke up, on cue. "You know, we pat ourselves on the back and cry on each others' shoulders and say we're brave-and we are. But why? They didn't die. They dumped us. We were rejected, so we're not allowed to grieve. If they died, then yeah, we could. But they didn't. We get a reminder every functioning moment that they don't want us, and won't again." None of them look like they are absorbing this. "So whatever pain we're feeling isn't justified, it just makes us sound like a bunch of whiny humans. You sound like losers." Blaster's response is noncommittal. "In fact, we're supposed to pretend that nothing happened, that everything's fine, while they get to be happy and we get marked as 'having a problem' because we're upset! It's not…not…"

"Fair?" Seaspray supplied.

"No, not 'fair,' not in the way you're thinking. 'Fair' is a subjective term. I'm mad because I'm not allowed to be mad, even though it was something worth being mad about, and I hate how he can be happy but I'm not allowed to even be upset, because Primus help us if we inconvenience anyone around here, least of all while we're supposed to work. So what if I don't want to work? I just got DUMPED! And I'm MAD about it! It's not…" He still can't think of the word. "Why can't we be mad about it?"

Blaster finally got up, walked over to him, leaned forward and touched his shoulder, fingers gently curling around the top in a comforting way. "You CAN." He motioned to the rest of us in the office. "You can be as slagged off as you want. Here." He gestured to the others. "With us."

"Hidden in an office with people I have nothing in common with. Thanks a lot," I interrupted sarcastically.

I thought they'd get mad, but instead the other three seemed to nod, as if they agreed that this was poor consolation. Blaster laughed.

"Know why Prime asked me to do this?"

"Did he promise you your own army of tapes, like Soundwave's?" I mocked.

Blaster looked startled. "No, but that's not a bad idea." He pulled away from Ratchet to let his concentration drift. "Not bad at all…"

I stood up to signal that I'm through here. "The hour's up," I declared, swinging the door open and jumping right in to a worse situation where Jazz is commending the new drummer's style. I don't give them a second look.

We've had no time to meet consistently, thanks to the Decepticons. They've been trying to pull off some kind of stunt or another for a solid three months straight, with no sign of a break. Optimus thinks that they're getting desperate.

Blaster declared that today was MY day to talk about whatever I wanted, no commentary from him, until the end of the session. The others groaned. Blaster smiled encouragingly. I'll show him.

"What's with the Lambo libido?" I've leaned back in my chair, imitating Blaster's relaxed but sarcastic pose so that he can't use it. It's one of those tricks I learned about Autobot body language: mimic them and they get uncomfortable. Blaster squirmed, trying to find a pose the others hadn't already assumed.

"What do you mean?" Ratchet asked.

I've decided to rant about something stupid, to see how far I can go before someone calls me on it. "They're disgusting. Lustful. Dislusting!"

"Heh," Seaspray snorted. "You're right. It's nasty!"

"WHOA WHOA WHOA! What are you talking about?" Blaster demanded, losing his cool in record time. I didn't get very far. Maybe Red Alert's right, I'm not very good at this…

"I am as stymied as you, Blaster," announced Perceptor, giving me a look that clearly meant he hadn't misinterpreted the Master Communicator. I'm still mad at him.

"How can you be? You're the one who set me up!" I told them what Red did to me, but not what we were watching. Our group leader was not happy about this breach in Red's ethics, but he had already stated that whatever we said in here would be kept secret.

Seaspray made his underwater whistle noise, something that sounds comic at best and crazy at worst. "Wow. I didn't know Red was so grabby." He'd had a different experience with Sideswipe. That slagheap liked to punt mini-bots while his current fling watched and laughed over it, before they ran off to bump windshields. He cast an accusatory glance at Blaster, who actually looked sheepish.

Ratchet sighed over Sunstreaker's skidplate. We all took a moment to consider that. That thing was so tight, so fine, so shiny, so gorgeous, that Prime should frame its image all over the place. It would definitely be a morale-booster. "One of these days I'm gonna live dangerously and grab that thing," he announced. Perceptor frowned.

"What were you doing near Red Alert at that time? Did you see what you wanted to witness?"

I really hated him for bringing that up. "Yeah. I saw Jazz and Prowl. Thanks a lot."

"You sound irritated."

"No slag. What were you thinking? That I'd like seeing that?"

"Seeing what? They are boring and silent and ignore each other."

"How do you know? They didn't ignore each other when I was there," I growled back. "The exact opposite."

Blaster prompted me to elucidate. Trying not to let the anger seep out, I walked them through the whole humiliating night.

Ratchet sat up straighter. "You watched them bump windshields? That's disgusting!"

"Dislusting," Perceptor corrected, amused. This was not what he'd expected me to see, but he was not apologetic.

I can't believe this! What should have been a moment to make Blaster squirm had dissolved into another chance to make fun of me. "It's not funny! How would you like it if you saw your ex with somebody else! And while you're reeling from the shock, Red Alert tries to-"

Seaspray laughed. He wasn't sorry about that; however, he could see why I'd be mad at Perceptor, though.

"I assumed that you were…into that kind of thing," Perceptor protested.

"What kind of thing?" I asked.

Perceptor had wandered into a conversational corner and he can't get out. "Being familiar….with your patients." He sped up. "You were familiar with Prowl, and then me."

Oh. Right. I'd forgotten that. Now it was biting me on the tailpipe. "You were just irresistible."

Ratchet jumped up. "Wait, did you do it with him, too?"

"Too?" Seaspray asked.

Ratchet turned away, embarrassed. I saw my exit from the spotlight and milked it for all it was worth, working on getting him to confess. After we harassed him for a few moments, and he accused me of flirting with Perceptor, and I told him it was just a bluff, and somehow Seaspray told us all that he never liked me, and the fight that followed, and Blaster breaking it up and forcing us all to apologize, and me reminding them all that we wanted to hear what happened, and ANOTHER fight, Ratchet finally confessed.

"I came into the lab to get Wheeljack when I saw him-" he jerked his head to Perceptor. "-drunk off of energon and crying like a mini-bot."

"Hey!" Seaspray objected.

Perceptor's optics didn't leave the floor. "I was following someone's advice."

"He was bawling his optics out, and sobbed to me that he'd never fall in love again if this was how bad it felt, and that he was sick of feeling like slag and if only there were a way to feel better. And then I…well…" Ratchet trailed off and decided to inspect the invisible spot on the floor that Perceptor couldn't tear his attention away from either.

"You couldn't resist him, could you?" I taunted. "Ratchet! That's dislusting!"

Ratchet let a repressed smile out. "He looks hot when he's miserable."

"I guess misery does love company," Seaspray interjected, cracking us up.

After the meeting Blaster remained behind, watching everyone leave. They greeted Chip, who was tapping along on his keyboard, trying to practice something that didn't sound like the standard ABA music format.

"Just a small town girl living in a lonely world…"

Blaster's here for a reason, but I'm not asking. He has a flair for drama that'll make him talk. He sat down on the chair that faces my desk and leaned back, propping his feet on the desk.

"So how do you think it's going?" he asked.

"What's going?" I demanded.

Blaster shook his head. "Man, you never pay attention to what's going on around here. How did you end up Autobot shrink?"

"I lost a bet," I snarled. I'm sick of everyone asking me. "How did you end up playing counselor to us?"

Blaster seemed glad I'd finally gotten around to questioning his abilities. "Prime asked me to do it because I'm you."

"You lost a bet, too?"

"No!" At last I got him to laugh. "I was somebody else's mech on the side. You know, his experiment."

"But the movie never ends it goes on and on and on and on…"

"I wasn't his experiment." He's not listening; he's smiling that same know-it-all expression Red Alert used. "I wasn't!"

"He didn't try you out? And when it didn't work, left you for the sure thing?" He stopped the examination of his finger joints to stare intently at me. "You're a gambling mech, Smokey. You know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. My mech decided to go with the one who loved him unconditionally, not the friend who might not work out."

I could deny it. I don't want to fight with him over this, though. You can't win an argument with Blaster. "What did you do?"

"Nothin' cool. I fell apart, man. Cried like a mini-bot and couldn't go near him without drama."

I had to laugh. "That's pathetic."

"Says the dude who watched his ex get it on."

Ouch. I shoved his feet off my desk in response. Blaster grinned back.

"Know what I did to get over him?"

"No, I don't. And I don't care."

"Yeah, you do." Blaster retorted. "You can't wait to get that weight off your spark."

"Fine. Whatever gets you out of here quicker. What did you do?"

"Don't stop, believin'. Hold on to that feeeeeelin'."

My counselor took the time to stick his head out the door. "Man, I HATE Journey. Chip! Can you take five for a sec?"

"Sure!"

He returned to his seat and shook his head, spreading his hands out to punctuate his point. "You don't get it, and you WON'T get it 'til you let go."

"Let go of what?"

"Him. Your idea of what it was. Your anger. You can't live 'til you forgive."

He sounded like Prime, and I inform him as such. He took it as a compliment.

"One day you'll figure out what's really good for you and do it, but I just thought you'd like to know that you're not the only one."

"Was it Tracks?" I asked.

Blaster laughed. "Not even close. Later."

I don't give him another thought, except that five energon cubes says it was Tracks, since those two earth-lovers are so obsessed with this planet they'd never want to leave.

The notice has assigned all of us on the 'patrol' roster who are NOT on patrol to take a certain evening to accomplish certain tasks for Jazz's production. Why? Because we're expendable, that's why; we're not doing anything that night, and those who are out taking turns looking for Laserbeak are busy, thus WE have been assigned to help Prime's other second-in-command with one of his banal distractions.

"Primus on a pogo stick! Do I look like an usher?" Gears is about to launch into a lengthy diatribe of how his axles will be out of whack if he has to do meaningless work instead of meandering around the world. I don't want to hear it.

"You look like Jazz's bitch," I caught myself replying. A few eavesdroppers chuckled and I think I've been around Blaster too long if I'm saying the first thing that I process.

Gears was in my face quick. "You wanna repeat that?"

I'd better save myself before he tries something. "I meant that we all are, for having to do this."

"No slag," Sunstreaker grunted, having been one who overheard my comment. "I thought our time off was ours." He shrugs unhappily, making the gesture more of a 'I'll do it unless I find a better use for my time, like blowing up Wheeljack's lab' expression than a 'oh well, I didn't have any other plans besides sorting my Barbie collection' look. "Guess not."

"How are you going to get out of it?" I followed him, eagerly. "I want in."

"Drive off," he countered, walking through his doorway and closing it in my face. I get the parting shot.

"You are one diabolical Lamborghini!"

I heard him laugh but he doesn't open up. "You're polluting my doorway! Move it!"

Like it or not, we amass the night of the concert to hear Jazz assign us jobs. He got a great idea from watching "Star Search," "The Gong Show" and "Popstars," deciding to run with it. Who wouldn't love to hear Autobots critique music? Anyone who knew the judges.

"Prowl, Bumblebee, and Blaster will sit HERE," he emphasized stage left (our right) "and the bands will come in upstage right and leave DOWNstage right." He ran over to where Powerglide et al were standing. "Mini-bots, I need you to help set up the bands. Smokey here'll work the backstage, so Powerglide, you need to radio him and tell him when bands are ready to go on. I'm alternating solo acts with instrumental bands so that we can set up/take down, but I need ya to be runnin' on all cylinders. Hound! I wanna go over special effects with you!"

I didn't see Sunstreaker in this mess. Among the minibots and sulking cars and one VERY unhappy Skydive I did not see the mischievous glint of yellow I'd hoped would be causing trouble.

"He got out of it by trading with ME," Powerglide explained.

"That's not fair! What did he do, offer to be in an oil bath with you and Jazz?"

The mini-bots giggled.

"That's dislusting!" Seaspray called.

"Hey! Guys! I've got the playlist here! Come see what's going down!" Jazz called.

We walked over to Hound's holographic projections. "Heidi, Beth, and Wendy are first, then the curtain'll go up for Uncivil Service. Michelle's doing the next song with pre-recorded music. That'll give you three and half minutes to take down-without making noise-and then Prowl and co will be talkin' so you gotta set up Spike's band-"

I was tuning him out when he passed me and paused his speech for a millisecond to speak at a lesser volume before going back to the playlist.

"(I heard you)– Matt and Jenni will be up front, then Spike's band plays-"

Slag. Sure enough, before I left, I was informed that I had been reduced to curtain puller.

"Powerglide'll radio you and tell you when to pull this rope. Drop it when he says so."

"What happened to me doing Backstage?" I demanded, trying not to get annoyed.

Jazz didn't even turn around. "Can't talk! Gotta heat up the oil bath!"

That slagger.

So in the dark smelly mass of human productions I hide, waiting for Powerglide to radio me to tell me when to lift the curtain. Half the time he didn't, but since I'm following the show I know what's going on, especially since I'm downstage right and able to see everything that's going on. Plus I can stare at Prowl all I want. He won't meet my optics, but I see him all the same. He's a harsh judge.

"That was flat and uninspiring," he informed a trio of teenagers. They sang "Set Me Free" unconvincingly, apparently.

Bumblebee liked it. Blaster told them that he enjoyed the selection. They got a score of 19 out of 30. Jazz came out from the judge's side and inserted some random commentary that made the audience laugh.

Things got interesting when Spike's band was at 75 percent capacity and there's no sign of their constantly tardy drummer. They've asked to be pushed back, but Jazz is adamant about keeping the playlist the way it is, for the mini-bots' sanity. For once I agreed.

Which brings us to the scene before me. Three people in black tee shirts and blue jeans pace/watch, intermittently paging Brawn to ask if he's seen the drummer yet and getting a negative answer. The stage light fell on Spike every time he got too close to the stage, seen by the audience. He's paced so much he's worn the floor down. Carly's no better. She can't keep her vocalizer inert, trying to get someone to believe her when she says she has no idea what's taking him so long. Chip just watches the act.

"Setup done," Powerglide radioed in.

"You guys are on in four minutes," I informed them. They groan as if this is bad news.

A short, tiny girl and a tall gangly male are in front of the microphone, trying to harmonize.

"Go lightly from the ledge, babe, land lightly on the ground. I'm not the one you want, babe. I'll only let you down. You say you're looking for someone who'll promise never to part. Someone to close his eyes for you, someone to close his heart.

The female brings in her soprano to back him up. "Someone to die for you and more…"

Carly's trying not to panic, telling Chip and Spike that he'll be here soon.

"We've called him-"

"NO NO NO!" shouted the crowd along with the singers. They're really getting into this.

"Nice song," Chip murmured. "Johnny and June."

Carly has lost all fear of offending Chip. "Will you FOCUS?! We're on NEXT and we don't have a drummer!"

"Yes, you do," I interjected. All three heads twisted up and exhibited various degrees of disbelief.

"We can't use you!"

"I would think in an emergency you could." I want to do this. I want to do this so bad I can practically feel the desire. They exchanged uneasy glances. "I don't care if I'm not allowed!" Still no positive response. "C'mon!"

"You say you're looking for someone to pick you up each time you fall. To gather flowers constantly, and to come each time you call, and will love you for your life and nothing more, well it ain't me babe-"

"NO NO NO!"

Carly shrugged. "We're out of time. We have to."

The judges were speaking. I can't hear Prowl over all of the angry whispers around me, but he must have pleased the audience because they're cheering. Bumblebee and Blaster say sweet things.

Jazz allowed for longer applause and motioned for me to raise the curtain that would reveal Spike's band behind it. He noticed the scuffling behind him and frowned. Spike hurried behind the curtain and hissed "STALL them!"

Jazz told a joke none of the bandmates heard but caused laughter.

I can barely stand the excitement. I get to play the drums again. I get to play the drums again. This couldn't be better-

"Outta my spot, Mr. Roboto!"

The new guy has finally swaggered in, ignoring Chip and Spike's snarls. He sat down after I slowly got up and walked over to the curtain. I can't face anyone…but I nodded to Jazz's questioning stare.

"And now…appearing from (chuckle) parts unknown…Spike and The Mechanics!"

The drummer beats so hard and fast and angry it sounds like a metal band beat, accented by Chip's still unabated venom from the drummer's tardiness.

There's nothing left of the song I thought I related to; it's dead. Snippets like 'sometimes the feelings are so hard to hide' and 'there's another before me, you'll never be mine' are pointless.

I glance at Prowl, who's taking notes and frowning. He doesn't get it. Neither did these kids. Stupid stupid, kids. I feel like kicking something.

The audience gives its applause in starts and stops. It's time for the judges' assessments, starting with Prowl.

"A very raucous tune, with resentful lyrics and a beat too fast for the rest of the band's abilities," he declared. "It merits a four."

"Boo!" the audience replies.

Bumblebee laughs. "Actually, I kind of liked the updated version. I give it an eight."

Blaster shook his head. "Man, you guys let your drummer carry you away. It took the sting out of the song. I give it a five."

"Awwww!"

The band loped out, pretending they didn't care. Chip fumed. Carly walked out with the drummer. Nobody talked to me, nobody conferred with me, only Spike met my optics and shook his head indignantly. I lowered the curtain and four men came out.

"A little bit of soap-" the next band began, singing a catchy doo-wop tune. I can't hear them.

Some blond girl belted out "Son of a Preacher Man" to earn a perfect 30. Grimlock, in his Tyrannosaurus mode, glanced at his fellow Dinobots as they waited offstage.

"Us Dinobots better," he proclaimed.

"You're on next," I replied. I haven't felt very friendly to anyone today. They trundled out before I can stop them.

Jazz looked up in time to avoid Sludge's tail. "Whoa!" he cried, leaping out of the way. The audience cracked up. "Technical difficulties," he explained, not giving me a dirty look but a glance all the same. "I guess I don't have to keep you in suspense. Ladies and Gentlemen…the Dinobots!"

Sludge, Snarl, Slag, Grimlock, and Swoop transformed into their mech modes, all five wearing Beatle wigs. Ringo's drumbeat started up and they stood in a line, arms moving perfectly in sync.

"She loves you yeah yeah yeah!"

Jazz stood next to me without saying much, smiling to himself. I felt the need to say something.

"I told them not to go out. They went anyway."

"She said you hurt her so, she almost lost her mind. Now she says she knows. You're not the hurting kind. Because she loves you-"

Jazz nodded. "The Dinobots listen to the Dinobots. It's cool."

"Oh." I thought he'd yell at me about it. Turns out what little I knew.

"Yeah yeah yeah yeah!"

The audience cheered wildly, hooting and hollering like humans do. Jazz came out to halt the Dinobot exodus.

"Thanks guys, but the judges haven't gotten to speak yet! Starting with our main machine, Blaster!"

"I loved the song and dance, man. I give it a six." People applauded.

Bumblebee was enthusiastic and gave his usual score of eight.

The last judge did not even attempt to look pleasant. "That performance merited a two."

"BOOOOOOOO!"

Prowl remained resolute, continuing his leveled stare. "I do not care for the Beatles," he announced. "They are formulaic at best and reliant upon gimmicks at their worst. Just like your performance."

Grimlock snarled, ripped the wig from his head and hurled it at the judges with all of his might. Prowl caught the wig and held it up, giving Grimlock a look he reserved for those times he had to tolerate nonsense now but the moment they got back to the Ark…

Jazz was calming the crowd down. "It's okay. Shh! They still did fine! Okay. Shh! Our last group needs no introduction, what with the constant fights, the rumors, and the scandal on The Ed Sullivan Show." He snickered at his own wit. "Ladies and Gentlemen…The Doors!"

The guitar blasted and another band began their song. "What was that promise that you made?"

Carly sighed. "They're good."

I was transfixed. The humans in this group looked odd. Chip declared them 'fantastic.'

"I'm gonna love you, 'til the stars fall from the sky. For you and I!"

Spike shrugged. "At least we beat the Dinobots."

Blaster called our "let's talk outside" meeting to a close early after we realized that Laserbeak was laughing at us. He claimed it was to celebrate Megatron taking a break after six months of non-stop attacks, but I've heard that bird laugh before, and this was definitely a moment at our expense. We all went our separate ways as fast as the wind could take us.

These group sessions for me weren't going down any smoother than they had in the beginning. They were like bad energon: bitter, painful, and although someone claims it's good for me, by the time I see the results it'll be too late to do anything about it if it wasn't good. As I walked down the hallway, back to my office, I watched the activity around me like the sand the wind picked up and tossed around the Ark. There were Autobots working, arguing, hiding in their rooms, wandering like I was but in pairs or groups, or if I peaked around corners I could see the Dinobots in their rumpus room practicing their next big act (Weird Al's "Eat It") or Spike versus his new drummer and Carly.

"I'll play or I won't!" Spike shouted at the pair. "Just tell me what you want me to play and I'll play it!"

"You're not listening to me!" the drummer countered, fists ready to go. He reminded me of Cliffjumper.

A mediator could, no, should, interfere, but-

"I heard what you said the first twelve times you said it, and it still doesn't make sense! Do you want the B flat to G minor or the G minor to B flat? One or the other. It's not fucking rocket science!"

Somewhere Megatron is trying to take over the Universe. Elita-1 plans another insurgence. Ultra Magnus pines away for an opportunity to come above ground without having to shoot through an army. Optimus Prime has the burden hardest to bear. I have to break up a human spat.

"Hey!" I cried, arms out to keep the two from fisticuffs. "Wait a minute! What's the problem?"

"Nothing!" the drummer snapped.

"He's a total prick!" Spike replied.

Carly pulled herself away from Spike to the drummer's side. "They're fighting over who's got the biggest-"

"SHUT UP!" they yelled back.

"I have NO idea what you're talking about," I interrupted as the two go around my hands and start a fight. "But what does it have to do with music?"

"He's a drummer who thinks he knows how to play the guitar!" Spike retorted.

"Even a drummer knows how to play this song!" the drummer snarled.

Humans are convolutedly wired to the point where figuring out how they operate is an exercise in futility. Instead I grabbed the drummer and hauled him away as he yelled at Carly to hurry up follow, because he was NOBODY'S sloppy seconds.

"Who are you, anyway?" I demanded.

"Getcher fuckin' hands off of me!"

We were outside, where Mr. No-name was unceremoniously dumped to the ground. "When Spike's ready to let you back in here you can come back."

"Fuck him!" the youth yelled defiantly, pulling on his helmet while straddling his bicycle. Carly ran out at that moment, in tears, in pursuant after the drummer.

"Pete, wait!" she cried, hand outstretched.

He gunned the engine and pulled away without a reply. Carly remained, crushed.

"If he treated you that poorly he wasn't worth your time," I told her.

She sniffled. "I just told Spike off!"

Humans. "Give both of them some time to let their anger go. Once they've had time to be mad they'll listen to you."

She wasn't paying attention. She loped over to her car, saying good-bye to me with a last-minute wave.

This all made me tired. Apparently, nobody has any idea how to relate to anyone. In these moments the endless horizon of loneliness that is existence stretches out in front of me when the realization hits me that we're created alone and we will die alone. But that's just depressing.

I walk past the same things I've passed already, with minor changes. The Dinobots have stopped. The Lamborghini brothers (and Sunstreaker's skidplate) have disappeared. Spike sits alone and picks at his guitar. It's a haunting melody; forlorn, introspective, pressing on me like dark on a sunset.

"All around me I see what weakness has made. Too much tomorrow I think I'll take all today. Am I a poison, am I a thorn in your side, am I a picture perfect subject tonight? Hey, Smokescreen?"

Time to brace myself for the lecture about meddling in with his business. "Yeah?"

He leaned into the neck of the guitar to tune one of the strings. "Somebody's in your office."

"Who?" I was right by the door, anyway, so the question was pointless. Spike ignored me and started to sing again.

"I don't need nobody. I don't need the weight of words to find a way to crash on thru…"

Time stands still. I've seen it happen only once but it happened. The day I had to wait for Prowl to walk into the chambers I'd opened up for him, only to be rejected: from the moment I had to throw him out of my life to the moment he looked at me with a helpless expression, as if to beg me to reconsider-which he would never do since he had no concept of abasement-were the longest seconds of my life. It was as though nothing happened for an eternity. When I replay that moment in my mind there's no drama, only the recollection of circuit-numbing pain. It seared into me for the barest of seconds before the anger took over. He nodded to acknowledge me.

"I don't need nobody. I just need to learn the depth or doubt of faith to fall into."

The door will remain open, if only to keep me connected with the real world, this bizarre parallel universe where we don't live on Cybertron.

"How may I help you?" I asked him, trying to feign a sincere smile.

"Jazz does not know that I am here," he replied.

I can't really say much about that, so I don't. I sat down and tried to be a professional as if it's not too late, but I should have been professional all along and this wouldn't have happened.

I look at him and I want him. It's that simple. All he has to do is smile at me and I'd probably be content to walk behind him like the trailer behind Prime until I'm nonfunctional.

"There is no easy way to say this."

"Well, just use whatever words come to mind," I assured in my Pleasant Therapist voice.

He ridged his optic brow, puzzled. Maybe it's an act, since he can predict anything. He tried to look pleasant and it breaks me in two. "I made a mistake."

I can't meet my optics to him. "We both made mistakes."

"Here I slumber to awaken my daze. I find convenience in this savior I save. Am I a prison, Am I a source of dire news? Am I a picture perfect reason for you?"

He's not looking at me, he's looking through me. Where did I go? "I was the one who told Jazz to find Spike another drummer."

"What?" He's apologizing for the wrong thing. He's…not…sorry…for…

"You were chasing away your patients to play the drums, and it was not conducive to the Autobot cause, so I asked Jazz to find a replacement, even though I knew how much you loved it."

I hated myself for feeling like this. "You have no idea," I murmured, not catching myself in time.

Spike sang louder. "In this time of substitute, it's my needs I've answered to…all the while."

"I was vacillating between the needs of all and yours…and had to decide what was beneficial for all parties involved." He has not stirred from his stiff posture. It was as though he'd been kidnapped by Megatron and forced to talk.

"The needs of the few outweigh the needs of the one," he concluded.

We'd seen that movie together, when there'd been nothing better to do that night and he needed to concentrate on something other than the pain in his spark from being separated from Jazz.

"I thought you liked Bones the best," I replied, still in a daze. He's not sorry at all.

"And the hope that I invest, still turns to signals of distress…all the while."

"No." After a couple of moments of silent staring, he finally decided to speak again, "That was all I wanted to say to you."

He won't be sorry about what he did, and if I were honest with myself, I should acknowledge that he never was. I'm the only one really agonizing over this, and if I don't stop, I'll never be happy again. Blaster, you were so right, and now I have to do something that hurts so bad my optics flicker off for a millisecond.

"I forgive you."

I don't think that was what he expected. He asked me to repeat myself.

"You're all I need!" How can Spike sing at a moment like this?

My vocalizer wobbled and shorted but the emotion and meaning are in the words. "Prowl, I forgive you." It flows out of me, torrential like lava. "It's over. Done. Don't worry about it."

"Now I cry my soul to sleep."

For a moment I thought he'd ask me to explain myself. He did not. Instead his face breaks into a smile of relief and gratitude and he thanks me, letting himself out. I watched the door close.

I ran to the door, swung it open, and took about two steps out before I stop. No. No more. Let it go. Prowl continued to walk away, not looking back at the commotion behind him. Just let it go.

Spike is still singing the song, although I don't hear it the same way I did before. As I sit down next to him he lets it slowly ooze into silence, until he's just plucking the guitar as we both stare at my office door, the rejects of society we are.

"That's beautiful," I commented after awhile.

Spike grunted. "Collective Soul. They played a concert here last week."

"Collective Soul…" 'Soul' must be a play on words meaning both part of their noncorporal forms and a form of music. The human's English had double meanings for almost all of their nouns and verbs, which is why it's so hard to learn. It's also easier to take over the world when you can speak in code, as the English and the Americans have proven.

Spike acknowledged that Carly would be back. She'd see through Pete's complete lack of talent. "Besides, he hates you guys. He called Prime Mr. Roboto."

He called all of us that. Spike is right, Carly can't stay away. She may be able to dump Spike with the reckless abandon of a teenager but letting go of her beloved Autobots would be impossible. I could relate.

"So what'll happen to the band?"

Spike sighed. "We weren't going anywhere. Besides, Red Alert told me that Laserbeak sent a note saying if we didn't stop playing he'd shoot our stuff to scrap."

I couldn't help but laugh at that.

We sat in a self-serving silence for a few minutes, Spike thinking about his ruined band and me letting excruciating reality sink its teeth into my already bruised spark.

"You know, some things just aren't meant to happen."

I nodded comfortingly. "You have talent. You'll get another band. Or be all right on your own."

He tunes the A string as he grunts. "I'm a lousy guitar player, Smokescreen. Nothing's going to change that but practice. And lessons. Its over. No big deal."

The sigh came out of me before I could stop it. "No matter how good it was when you had it, it always ends before you're ready."

"No," Spike objected heartlessly, "I didn't like them to begin with. We didn't fit together and it was something to pass the time. I'm kind of glad they left. I was sick of putting up with all their shit."

I don't have an answer for that.

He's strumming again, a pattern somewhat familiar, but it's so much slower this time.

"You know, I can hear through the door all the stuff that happens in your office."

"I know." In a way, I did.

"I was there for the showdown Jazz and Prowl had awhile ago."

Everyone's against me today, I swear.

"Sing with me. The sound of your footsteps…" instead of the desperate, resentful growl Chip had taken, Spike chose a mournful cry of misery. It tears at me.

"Spike, I can't." I couldn't bring myself to vocally announce my heartbreak. "I never want to hear that song again."

"Come to think of it, neither do I. Try this one: "Go away from my window. Leave at your own chosen speed. I'm not the one you want, babe. I'm not the one you need. You say you're looking for someone who's never weak, but always strong. To protect you and defend you, whether you are right or wrong. Someone to open each and every door..."

The group after him at the concert. I remember. "But it ain't me, babe."

We yelled at the top of our vocalizers. "NO NO NO! It ain't me, babe. It's ain't me you're looking, for, babe." I never knew a term of endearment could be so sarcastic. It helped me cast aside the ache within and we sang it over and over and over again until his fingers hurt.

Megatron tried. Megatron yelled. Megatron shot Starscream. The power converter designed to harness the static electricity of thunderstorms still fell to the ground with a comical thud, thanks to the Aerialbots.

It's strange to watch Prowl calmly give orders while Jazz calmly ignores them. Prime praisies them both when their actions work, gives his disappointed look when they don't. I'm needed to talk down Bluestreak, who froze up and couldn't shoot the power converter. I'd freeze up if Devastator was about to crush me, too, and say as much.

The only way to get him to come online is to lean over and whisper in his audios "Sunstreaker just beat Ironhide at Mortal Kombat."

The optics lit up and the head turned in my direction. "No way! How?"

A shock for a shock. I guess I still have it. I just need practice.

Blaster disbanded the group. He claimed that every band has to break up sooner or later, and besides, I seem okay and I can go back to seeing my patients one-on-one.

"How do you know I'm not acting?" I asked.

Blaster smiled. "You didn't fall apart when Prowl got shot yesterday."

"He did?" I hadn't noticed.

"No, he didn't. But you didn't spazz out when I said that. You're gonna be fine."

It's quiet in here again. That won't be for long; Silverbolt's coming in to talk about decreasing his acrophobia. I figure some desensitization techniques should help, as well as some cognitive therapy. It might be fun.

I hate the quiet, and I'm not going to sit here and wait for the fate I'd fought so hard to get rid of return like a bad oil stain. I got up and opened the door, looking around for some kind of sign.

Sunstreaker's ambling by in that 'I don't want to go where I'm headed' pace, ignoring me and anyone else around him, by the looks of it. It's hard to tell, there's nobody else around. This is a low-traffic area. He slowed down to a crawl when he saw me.

"I heard you're the mech to talk to when you need to trade a patrol. Can you do Tuesday morning?"

"Sure," I reply. "I want a cube of high-grade."

"No problem." Transaction complete, he turned around. "Later."

Live dangerously. Those who aren't risking their lives for someone else like to say that. I see his skidplate, that piece of perfection that we fantasized about once upon a time. The way the light reflects off it, the gentle sway as it leaves me…so small. So tight.

Sunstreaker whirled around and threw me against the wall so fast I couldn't have timed it. "DON'T TOUCH ME!" he bellowed.

"Sorry," I replied, trying to catch my balance. He knocked me off my equilibrium. "It's just that…it's so gorgeous."

He pulled back and simpered. "No slag. Next time, ask nice."

"There's a next time?"

Sunatreaker walked away. "Only if I can play with your doorwings."

How dislusting. I followed, not knowing what else to say. "I'm booked until Wednesday. Eight-ish. How about I-"

"I'm busy," he replied, in that sing-song voice the over-popular use. "I'll call you."

Yeah, right. We'll see. But I have something to look forward to. Hope doesn't stay as dead as I thought. That alone was worth grabbing his skidplate for.

We'll see, indeed.