Welcome back, my dears! Welcome, welcome and thrice welcome!

Now, the last two chapters of Tales from the Wild Side served as supplements between the last chapter of this story and this particular chapter, so if you haven't read those, I suggest you do so, otherwise some things happening here won't make sense.

Now: Onward, to Arc III (or, if you prefer, Beast Saga: Season 3)


Maximal Base, Earth

Twice a year, the orbits of Cybertron and Earth in their respective tracts of space passed close enough to the same direction that limited communication could be established between the two planets and any life-bearing sphere betwixt the pair. Signals bounced across massive satellites disguised as asteroids, from Regulon IV all the way to Jupiter, temporarily granting Earth access to the Intergalactic 'Net.

For both Maximal and Predacon alike, this was a time to call home and contact loved ones, or send messages to criminal allies and arms dealers, or just observe all the old familiar places of their hometowns. For some, the calls took on more official trappings, siphoning the joy out of it.

If Lio Convoy had opened the holoconference while in his beast form, the lion's tail would most certainly have been twitching back and forth, like a beacon to the world that he was bored and irritated. How was it possible for the Council to find ways to drag their collective feet with every single meeting? He was only calling to report the change in pressure at the Rift, and the surge of energy that Apache had recorded. Briefly, Lio wondered if he ought have made this a private call to Magnaboss, who he trusted more than the collective council. The rest of them let themselves get too concerned over things like trade routes and treaties and the proper "place" of humanoid organics in the pecking order, and when they got into fights over that, even with the most genteel language it still turned into a mob.

Individual Cybertronians were smart. Mobs were stupid.

If things got out of hand the way they had when Lio had announced the presence of the three human children his team had all but adopted, he was seriously considering pretending he'd lost reception on the call.

"Convoy, you have only provided us with the most dismally bare of details about this Rift to begin with," Ikard complained from his seat several rows behind the more powerful members of the Council, "How do you expect us to do anything about it if you won't trust us with information?"

Council member Bantor made a sound of overtaxed patience and turned his optics towards the squid. 'Ikard, you are not a member of the scientific committee, so I fail to see how your input is relevant here. I believe you simply wish to goad the young Convoy into another argument, is that not so?'

Good old Bantor. The wise Fuzor could generally be depended upon to point out hypocrisy in the ranks.

"Members of the Maximal Council," Lio interrupted politely, "I have contacted you because the amount of Rift-blood that leaked into this dimension within the last twelve days indicates that not only has another tear formed, but something of substantial size has come through it. More troubling is the fact that most of our collected data on the radiation and angolmois buildup comes from the sector of space closest to Cybertron. With the greatest possible respect, I would advise the Council to be on their guard."

'Duly noted, thank you Convoy.' Bantor inclined his helm.

The Right Hon. Magnaboss shifted in his seat, a glimmer of worry beginning to form in his optics.

'This comes on the heels of news from the colony on Nebulon, corroborating your research. While I would remind you that your mission on Earth is to bring Galvatron to justice, I recommend that care be taken to ensure that this...angolmois...does not fall into Predacon hands.'

"Of course, your honor," Lio bowed his helm in respect. "My team and I will certainly do our best to contain the substance whenever we come across it."

'Oh, Convoy,' this time it was Alpha Trion who spoke, drowning out whatever Magnaboss had been about to say. 'How are the Cubs working out?'

Nobody missed the fact that he'd said cubs rather than cub. Lio Convoy wasn't certain whether he ought to be grateful for the sage's show of solidarity, or irritated at the controversy he'd just dragged into a routine report. There were still plenty of members of the Maximal Council who - even if they didn't vocally support the Anthropoid Statute - believed that humanoid organics were an inferior species, to be kept separate and not treated as equals.

For someone as ancient and respected as Alpha Trion to not only show open support for humans working in teams with Maximals, but also refer to them as Maximals was to throw the debate right into center stage, like a verbal challenge.

Lio knew it was good to have Trion on their side, but also knew that whatever he said in this session could be used against him later by the techno-supremacists who were present. His answers were vague and evasive.

"They are progressing well in their training, and show much promise." Then, subtly changing the focus of the conversation, he added, "In fact, our oldest recruit, Cheetor, is very near to passing his rookie training. Simply within the last four weeks he has encountered and overcome many of the proposed situations one finds on an Imperium entrance exam."

He had the attention of some, but not all. Now was the time to definitively turn their optics away from humans, as it were, and onto something else he'd been pondering a while. "Your honor," he addressed Magnaboss, "With your permission, I would like to grant Cheetor his Maximal badge, moving him from Cub to Scout rank. I believe he has earned it." The children have more than earned it as well, he added silently, but even with pro-humanoid activists in attendance, we'd never swing the vote to grant them full membership.

The more highly ranked members of the Council frowned and by the blankness of their optics, Lio guessed they were sending each other private messages concerning his request. There was always the risk that granting Cheetor his badge would mean that the Scientific Council would have the authority to order him back to Cybertron for medical experiments, but in exchange for the rights and protection of being a Maximal, Lio felt they would have to take that risk.

After a moment, Bantor spoke. 'This is not a decision to be made lightly, Convoy. Is the younging aware of this?'

"He is, sir."

'The Council will deliberate on this a while longer. You may go, Convoy, and we will summon you when we have reached a decision.'

Lio bowed with a fist over his spark and then reached to switch the frequencies of the holographic table. A new image formed: that of a humble compound where a graceful femme stood at a screen, writing out complex equations. Hearing the soft tone of the hologram projector, she turned, and started slightly.

'Lio Convoy!' she exclaimed.

"Hello, Whitesky," the mech greeted her warmly.

The femme's angular faceplates spread into a wide smile. Setting down her stylus, she turned to call out to someone just out of Lio's view. 'Leo Minor, come here! There's someone who wants to say hi to you!'

There came a high pitched squeal, and the thud of small pedes on the floor, then a little golden hand came into view, waving until the projector was tilted down to face level. Leo Minor was still very small, no bigger than the minicons who lived in the Nebulan colony. Of course, this was because he was not even a decivorn old yet. His tawny armor was still rounded and soft at the edges, pliable enough that Whitesky frequently had to straighten a bent plate here and there.

'Da Da Da!' the Maximal toddler shrieked, 'Missed you!'

"Hello, my wild thing," the Convoy answered, all the stress of the previous hours melting away. "Have you behaved for your minder?"

Leo squirmed a minute before mumbling, 'Spider-bots can't eat veggibles, Daddy.'

Oh dear.

"You're right, they can't. Which I've told you before. And do you know why?" Lio asked with raised brows.

'Cause they not Maximals? They Old Cybertron animals?' the sparkling shifted guiltily. 'Spidey purged on the floor. I helped clean it up.'

Well, at least it seemed he'd learned something from the incident, but Lio still felt sorry for his son's pet. He spent the next several minutes just listening to whatever the little one wanted to say. He talked about drawing, and about going to class with Whitesky's students as a class mascot, and about going to see the new Wheelie the Wild Boy adaptation in theaters.

The bond between Lio and Leo's sparks meant that they were always able to sense each other, but the great distance between Earth and Cybertron muffled that connection and confused it. It was no replacement for seeing each other face to face, and Lio Convoy hid his urge to shed tears over how much of his son's life he'd missed already. He was speaking so fluently now, and fur was beginning to grow in fuzzy patches on his shoulders. Sensing the unspoken turmoil, Leo paused and leaned his round cheeks against one fist.

'Daddy?' he asked softly, 'When you comin' home?'

The Convoy winced. "I don't know, little-foot," he said. "Daddy has to beat that mean old Galvatron so he doesn't hurt any humans first. And I don't know how long that's going to take."

'Oh.' Leo Minor was crestfallen. 'Can I come visit?' he asked hopefully.

There was an idea. It would take him out of the reach of the Council members - even the well-meaning ones - who might use him as leverage, but it would put him too close to Predacons for Lio's liking. There were pros and cons to be evaluated, but Lio did not trust himself to fairly debate with himself at the moment. He was far too likely to agree just out of his selfish need to hold his sparkling in his arms again. He managed a smile.

"We'll see." he answered.

A dull buzzing alerted him to the Maximal Council's frequency requiring his attention, and he prepared to change back over.

"I have to go, little one." his voice cracked ever so slightly. "Be good, listen to Whitesky. I love you."

'Love you, Daddy! Come home soon!'


Jack sat cross-legged at the base of one of the trees, staring up at an unusually solemn Star Upper.

"Now listen, ankle-biter," he was saying, "This is important. If you go out on missions with one of the scouts, there's gonna be times when you have to be absolutely silent."

This was not news to the boy, who began to protest. "But I already-"

Star Upper cut him off. "Nah, I don't mean your standard hide-and-seek routines. I'm talking about having to communicate without the enemy knowing!"

Jack shifted in place a little. One of his feet was beginning to fall asleep, and it stung his leg. "But isn't that what internal comm signals are for?" he asked.

The bronze mech shook his helm decisively. "Can't rely on that, junior. Soundwave could show up to any fight, and he's a loose cannon. Half the time he'll scan for hidden frequencies and translate them, half the time he won't. You can't take that risk, so you'll have to know Adapted C-L."

Seeing the human's confused expression, the boxer clarified. "Adapted chirolinguistics. In mechs, that's when you stimulate the circuits in someone's hand to communicate. Ad-C-L was adopted in the Nebulos colony to communicate with Targetmasters, who don't have circuits. They have nerves. It's not too dissimilar from your American Sign Language."

Star Upper stilled, and spoke almost too quietly to hear. "Now, watch."

He balled up his fists with his thumbs pointing up, the moved both hands left in front of his chestplate, then tapped his chestplate once. He repeated the gesture once more, then looked pointedly at the human.

"That's how you tell someone to follow ya. Now let me see you do it."

Jack grimaced, feeling a little silly, but he did as he was told. His motions were nowhere near as fluid as his teacher's, and Star made him repeat the "follow" signal six or seven times before he was satisfied.

"Okay, now what?" Jack asked. "Will there be like a whole vocabulary list, or…?"

Catching the barest hint of sarcasm in the boy's voice, Star Upper leaned over and poked him with one servo, tipping the human over.

"Oi, straighten up! I'll make up a list for ya later. For now you're just learning the three that Targetmaster Scouts use the most. This one's "how many": pay attention."

He held his hands low, facing up with the fingertips touching the thumb on each hand. As he brought his hands upwards, he opened the servos like an explosion.

As Jack did his best to repeat the sign, his eyes wandered to the oak tree, six feet away, where Cheetor sat with Raf on his knee, both looking intently at a large, brightly illustrated datapad Cheetor was reading from.

"-very nearly tripped over a disembodied helm, far from any bodies. 'Poor fellow,' he said, 'how did you get here?'"

In a high, squeaky voice, Rafael provided the next line, though his reading comprehension was a little slower than Cheetor's. "Brother,' it replied, 'By talking!'"

The pair chuckled, then Raf stretched up to turn the "page".

Jack's smile faltered a little. There had never been any datapads of Cybertronian folktales in their dimension. On one or two very rare occasions, Optimus had provided some short fable, which was how Rafael knew The Talking Helm. On the whole, however, survival ranked above cultural preservation, and most of the leisure time spent with their Autobot guardians revolved around aspects of human culture.

Jack wondered if Arcee had had a favorite folktale when she was young, or if she'd even gotten to hear any with the way the culture had been when she came online. Thoughts of his guardian constricted his throat and he felt a raw melancholy settle in his chest. He missed her, missed the other Autobots and his mother and his home, more than words would ever be able to say. The longer he stayed in this world, the longer he called John Darby his father, the longer he played video games with Break and watched the stars with Lio, the more the pain faded into a dull ache.

Jack didn't want the pain to fade. He wanted it to stay sharp and fresh in his heart, so that he wouldn't forget which dimension was truly his home. Was that healthy? He wasn't sure, and he didn't care. Every day that passed in the Maximal dimension found him feeling more and more guilty for enjoying life with the Maximals and both his parents while he knew his first family was still out there, searching for them. To let them fade into the ache of an old grief felt to him like a betrayal of sorts.

He closed his eyes, brows drawn tightly together, and took a deep breath. I miss you, Arcee.

Too late, he realized that Star Upper was talking to him. Sheepishly, Jack opened his eyes, hoping no moisture shone in them, and looked up at his impromptu tutor.

Star had been planning to scold the boy for not paying attention when he was trying to teach him something that might save his life, but he stopped himself. The ankle-biter's spark was clearly not in it right now: something was weighing on his mind. The Nebulan boxer sighed and rubbed the back of his neck cables wearily.

"Okay, Jack. You wanna take a breather? We can come back to this later if you need to."

Jack opened his mouth to protest that he was fine, that there was no need to stop, then shut it again. He glanced back at Cheetor and Raf, who were having a playful argument over how fast to turn the pages, then towards the front corridor, where Miko's voice echoed from. He hung his head and nodded slightly.

"Sorry, Star. I'm just...out of it today." Then, in a quieter tone, "Missing home."

Star Upper did not tell him to wait and trust Optimus, nor did he seem hurt that Jack did not want to stay in the Maximal dimension. Jack was grateful for that. He merely nodded and said he understood the feeling.

"Go get a drink, climb a tree or somethin'," the mech said in what he fondly imagined was an affectionately gruff voice, "I might as well make that vocab list for ya."

Jack kicked off his sandals and crossed the floor to the minifridge Miko had lugged in earlier that summer. It was pretty well-stocked, and he grabbed a bottle of green tea out of the back. Gripping the cap between his teeth, Jack climbed up one of the trees to settle on a limb overlooking the rest of the chamber. From his vantage point, he could just barely see Miko walking up and down on Stampy's back as the young Maximal lay on the floor at the edge of the room.

Miko had her hair pulled up in a bun, wore grubby jeans and a t-shirt, and had yellow cleaning gloves on. Overall, a very unusual sight. She carried a bucket that stank of ammonium in one hand, and with her other hand she gripped a wide paintbrush, liberally applying streaks of red goo to the fur on Stampy's back. The girl periodically warned him not to move, and reminded him that he had to wait until a timer went off before he could wash the goo out. All the while, Stampy talked about his girlfriend back on Cybertron.

"On land, a lot of mechs think Rāge is a little weird looking. Her chassis design is actually more like a classic Autobot's than a standard Maximal. I think it makes her look graceful, like a dancer!" Stampy's tone was dazed and his eyes were hazy with adoration.

Miko smirked, but said nothing.

"Did you know that she competes in hand-to-hand combat tournaments?"

"No Stampy," Miko said indulgently, setting the bucket down, "I didn't."

Further description of Stampy's sweetspark was curtailed by the arrival of Lio Convoy into the console room/arboreum. Neither Miko nor Stampy could see him at first, but from his vantage point in the tree, Jack noticed Miko kneel to tug Stampy's fur slightly, silencing him. Perhaps she'd noticed that Cheetor and Raf were no longer reading aloud.

"Cheetor."

Lio's voice caught everyone's attention, and Miko hopped down off of Stampy's back to see what was happening. Stampy followed along behind her in a mincing, careful walk to avoid the branches of the trees touching the dye in his fur.

Cheetor set Raf and the datapad down and stood to face Lio. "Yes, sir?"

The Convoy's stance was formal, but not tense, and so Jack guessed that nobody was in trouble this time.

"I have just spoken with the Maximal Council via holoconference concerning you." Lio announced. He observed a slight flicker of apprehension in the younger recruit's body language and hastened to reassure him. "You're not being sent to Cybertron for study, Cheetor. Rather, the Council has determined that you have more than passed the Imperium's required entry examinations, and I have clearance to officially induct you into the Maximals. Congratulations."

Cheetor's jaw fell slack for several moments, and a rusty squeak fell from his vocoder. For once in his life, the speedster was completely speechless.

"Dude! Awesome!" Miko punched a gloved hand into the air, all smiles. "Way to go, noraneko!"

Raf beamed at the former Autobot with the same pride he'd felt when his oldest brother passed his driver's exam.

"Is he going to get the official badge, Lio?" he asked, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Lio nodded, his grave features twitching into a smile. "Razorback is forging it now. It will be ready tomorrow."

Stampy caught Star Upper's optics, and both exchanged a dark look. They knew what wasn't being said, and it galled them to think that their newest recruit could wear the brand and be entitled to the rights and privileges of a Maximal while the human recruits would never legally be allowed to do the same, despite having had more experience than Cheetor. The Statute barely allowed for conferring personhood on organics, let alone giving them equal ranks with Cybertronians. It did not appear that this had ever even occurred to their young charges, and so they kept their mouths shut. Until the Anthropoid Statute was overthrown, there was nothing they could do about it.

Unexpectedly, Jack burst out, "Can we make it a party?"

All eyes turned to look up the tree where he still balanced on his branch. Jack screwed the lid back onto his tea and nearly lost his balance, recovering himself just in time.

"I mean, this is a big milestone in a Maximal's life, right? Getting the badge?"

"You make a valid point, Jack," Lio answered agreeably. "We can hold the ceremony when the three of you return from school tomorrow. I shall leave all other arrangements in your hands."

Miko brushed a shock of hair out of her face, inadvertently leaving a trace of red dye in it, and grinned up at the large mech.

"Hey Prime, can we have fireworks?" she asked, batting her eyelashes outrageously.

"Yes, can we?" Jack chimed in, feeling for once that incendiary devices were perfectly appropriate.

Lio looked as if he were having an internal debate with himself regarding risks versus rewards. At last, he sighed and shook his helm.

"Very well, if I have your word that no unnecessary destruction will take place."

Needless to say, Miko was thrilled.


The Darksyde: Galvatron's chambers

Starscream was up to something.

This was no earth-shattering realization: no, Galvatron was 90% sure that Starscream was "up to something" nine days out of ten. But it galled him that for once he found he could not be sure of what the vulture was planning. It did not appear to be any ill-conceived plot to usurp his command, nor wrest power from more favored soldiers like Soundwave and Swiftclaw.

There would be no open rebellion. Galvatron knew that he held enough terror for the lesser Predacon that Starscream would never dare to openly cross him, and Munin would keep him in check privately. Yet the thought would not leave him that some mischief was afoot.

The mighty dragon left off cleaning the wicked magma blade that had served him so well, and turned to survey the rest of his armory. The shards of Rhisling lay on a scarlet mesh-weave cloth under a force-field, the darling of his collection. On a whim, Galvatron crossed the space that separated him from the shattered relic and shut down the force field so that he could reach into the display.

Deftly, he poked and prodded the jagged spars of metal, easing them into shapes that conformed to that of a blade. As one crooked edge lined up with the tip of another, the two pieces began to glow faintly. Intrigued, Galvatron fit them together as carefully as he could to see whether the glow would persist. In fact, it did not. No sooner had he fit the pieces back together than the glow faded - taking with it the crack!

Galvatron now found himself with not three, but two pieces of the CyberCalibur, for two of them had sealed themselves back together again! Curious now, he maneuvered the third piece to try and connect it to the other. It glowed faintly when it passed the wall, but lost its shine when near the larger section again. Interesting. Obviously, he was missing some pieces of the CyberCalibur, but if that glow was anything to go by, there was a piece somewhere in his ship that nobody had bothered to mention.

Galvatron would relish getting the truth out one way or another.

"M-master?"

Galvatron straightened and sighed. "What is it, Pulsar?"

The former Insecticon pirate quailed slightly, even though Galvatron's tone had been patient.

"My lord Galvatron, we have received a communication from Cybertron: Archadis has returned to known space. He says he comes to Earth now, bearing with him more warriors for the cause."

Well well. Quite the day for surprises, wasn't it?
"So the prodigal returns," Galvatron mused aloud. "I wonder whether he thinks merely bringing back a few extra recruits will cause me to overlook the twenty of my soldiers he stole at the outset of his little excursion?"

This was clearly a rhetorical question, and so Pulsar did not answer.

Galvatron would have to think very hard about his next move. On the one hand, Archadis had not been overwhelmingly useful of late, and had, in fact, double-crossed him. Mechs didn't usually walk away from double-crossing Galvatron. If he were to let this one go, word would leak out that the warlord was going soft, Predacons would begin to disobey him and it would be nothing but work, work, work all the time.

On the other hand, if Archadis really was bringing back recruits, it wouldn't be very sensible to kill him right off the bat in front of the rookies. Executions had their place in Predacon culture, and that the strong ruled the weak without question was sometimes all that kept their loose society together. But that's what the Arena was for: to winnow out the weak and deal with the treacherous while giving his Predacons sport.

Galvatron made a face that was almost comical. At the outset of his grand journey of conquest, he had been a rabble-rouser, a terrorist. And for the most part, he still was. But his army had grown to a ridiculous degree, and he could no longer deny that he was not only the military center of his faction, but the political center as well. For some of these retrograde pirates and small-time criminals, he was the closest thing they had to a moral or even paternal authority. To that end, he would have to make it abundantly clear that while he would welcome any seeking to join his ranks with open arms, Archadis's behavior was just about the farthest thing from acceptable that Galvatron could think of at the moment without literally saying "Starscream".

Realizing that Pulsar was still fidgeting in the doorway, not sure whether he had been dismissed or not, Galvatron turned back to the quivering Insecticon. He was small for his kind, a rather scrawny dragonfly. Galvatron raised his brows at the smaller mech as if to say well? Why are you still here?

Pulsar coughed nervously and glanced back down at the datapad in his hands. "Oh, er, it also says that the eight recruits Archadis brings are exceedingly formidable warriors who are - quote - "eager to find a place where they can fit in" - unquote. But it doesn't say who they are or where they're from."

The Insecticon's wings buzzed nervously against his back as he looked up at the master of the Predacons, wondering how the dragon would react. The vast warrior rolled his shoulders, and the plates clicked together ominously as he approached Pulsar.

"Are you any good at calibrating hypergon reactors?" he asked, apropos of nothing.

Pulsar stuttered uselessly for several valuable seconds before squeaking that yes, he had some experience with them, though nothing professional.

"Excellent," Galvatron boomed, "Ever since that bounty hunter absconded with most of my technical crew, Shred and Grave-Maker have been woefully shorthanded in the navigation and anti-grav units. Go report to Grave-Maker in the lower north quadrant of the engine deck."

With this clear dismissal, he turned his back on the slightly confused dragonfly and returned his attention to the broken sword, mind wheeling with half-plans and possibilities.


Jasper, Nevada

John Darby didn't like to entertain the possibility that his son was lying to him.

It was painful enough just knowing that he'd missed two crucial years of the boy's life, and that Jack was clearly still dealing with some emotional issues because of it, without the added weight of secrets. He knew Jack wasn't working at the K.O. Burger today. He knew that Jack had been switching to night shifts - something John and June both disapproved of, as it left him tired and unfocused in the morning - and that most of Jack's classmates never saw him outside of class.

So where did he go all the time?

John wouldn't follow the boy. Not yet. He was still building trust between him and the stranger that wore his son's skin - though he still felt guilty even thinking of Jack like that - and one wrong move could bring that trust crashing down. With a groan, the man pushed the stack of quizzes he'd been grading away and rubbed his tired eyes. Across the table, June reached out and took his hand, drawing it away from his face.

"You need to talk to him." she said softly, rubbing small circles into the spaces between his knuckles. "If you think something's wrong-"

"Babe, we both know something's wrong. This isn't like our boy at all!" he interrupted in a whisper. "It was just little things at first, but ever since that big cat at the campsite, he's been disappearing for longer and longer. And you told me that on the day of the storm, he disappeared and didn't come back for 27 hours, and that the note he left looked weird. June, that scares me."

June flinched. "I know. It scares me too."

Both adults glanced towards the living room, where Jack sat on the couch with one of the rabbits, Harvey, in his lap while he watched a movie.

John sighed, stood up, and moved to stand behind the couch, looking down at the teenager.

"Son."

Jack jolted, pitching forward off the couch. At the last minute, he corrected his fall and landed on his back so that poor Harvey didn't get crushed. Once the deer-in-the-headlights look faded out of his eyes, Jack burst out laughing.

"Holy crud, you gotta warn me before you do that!" he wiped a bit of moisture from one eye as he climbed back up onto the sofa and set the rabbit down. "I thought that came from the movie until I felt the hairs on my neck stand up!"

He reached for the remote and paused the film - the Planet of the Apes remake again, John noted. It had become a favorite very quickly - and brushed his bangs out of his eyes.

"Dang!" he chuckled, shaking his head. "Serves me right for not being mindful of my surroundings, I guess, but still!"

He'd finally remembered what John Darby's voice reminded him of, and the revelation tickled him as much as the rather embarrassing hilarity of the scare he'd just had. There was something about the cadence and tone that was reminiscent of Wheeljack, back home. It was covered up most of the time by an older, almost more guttural sound - which was why Jack had initially mistaken his father's greeting for one of the characters in the movie he was watching - and that had thrown Jack off at first.

He realized John was still standing there, just watching him, with something undefinable and almost sad in his eyes.

"What's up?" the boy asked.

John opened his mouth to say something, anything to Jack about his mysterious absences, or why all his homework tended to have grass stains on it and smelled of greenery. But he looked down at his son's brilliant smile and his heart swelled, blocking the words from leaving his throat.

Stars, he's getting big. John thought wryly, When did he get so lanky?

He reached down and ran his fingers over the boy's hair in an affectionate, paternal gesture and mustered up a smile.

"Don't get too absorbed there, Tex." he gestured to the television set. "You've got that mixed martial-arts thing of yours at 6, remember?"

It was lucky they were only having sandwiches for dinner. Jack could eat on the go.

"Aw man, I forgot! Thanks, Dad!" Jack popped upright like a spring and playfully headbutted the older man slightly. "I'll text when I'm headed home!"

John felt his stomach turn with nerves as he watched Jack dart out the door and down the driveway - not a bike to be seen - and out across the street.

Tomorrow, he reassured himself, I'll ask him about it tomorrow.


Maximal HQ, lower corridors

Star Upper leaned against the training-room doorway, staring at his boxing ring without really seeing it. A part of him was pleased, even touched, that Jack had trusted him enough to open up about being homesick. The rest of him couldn't help but wish that the topic of homesickness hadn't been brought up at all.

Sometimes he wondered why he wore the Maximal brand at all. The Imperium and their oppressive anti-organic colonization on Nebulos had been directly responsible for the bombing that had claimed his parents' lives, and if the civil unrest had heightened as his Targetmaster friends had predicted, he might not even have a home to go back to anymore.

Idly, the kangaroo wondered to himself if he had joined the Imperium out of a desire to travel, or to prevent more organic worlds from being carelessly annexed by a Council that was too far removed to make objective decisions anymore.

"Gonna just stand there, are you? Or d'ye have plans?" a gruff voice broke into his thoughts.

"Mm? Eh what?" Star Upper blinked and glanced over his shoulder.

Razorback stood behind him in the shadows of the hallway. He looked slightly disgruntled, but it was hard to tell, considering that his mask always looked that way.

"Well?" the shorter, broader mech said pointedly, "Do ya need this room for trainin' the rookie and the human? Because your smaller student just got back from evenmeal with his caretakers."

"Dinner. With his parents." Star Upper corrected his fellow Nebulan's word choice absentmindedly. "You're an odd duck, Razorback."

Ignoring the dusty red Maximal's offended snort, Star stretched and shrugged. "Nah, I don't need this room tonight. Cheetor's brushing up on ceremonial stuff with Airazor, and I'm just running through some Adapted Chirolinguistics stuff with Jack tonight."

After a moment's thought, Razorback nodded approvingly. "Ad-CL, eh? Sensible of you." He swung his arms back and forth jauntily and brushed past his companion. "Well if you won't be needing this room, I think we will."

He gave a piercing whistle, and Break appeared out of the gloom, carrying Rafael with him. The littlest human looked a little daunted by the gigantic equipment in the training room, and he had his short arms crossed protectively over his narrow chest.

"Ah...Razor, what're you doing, mate?" Star Upper glanced at him out of the corner of his optic. "Ain't he a little young for training?"

"Yep." Razorback said flatly. "He's also too young to be fighting, hacking, or involved in our battles. I figure the least we can do is teach him to throw a decent punch."

Star Upper considered this, then stepped back and nodded. "Eh, fair enough. Don't run him too ragged now."

This did not fill Rafael with confidence.

As Star Upper entered the upper floor of the base to collect Jack and continue their lesson from earlier, he passed the infirmary. Apache had holed himself up in the sick bay again, inventing. The mandrill sat hunched over his work table, not bothering to use the larger one in the main chamber of the first floor, as he had before. He muttered quietly to himself, periodically glancing up at Miko, who stood on the small desk.

"You should add some reinforcement to that." the girl commented, leaning down to point at something on one of the data screens.

She reached down and brought up a 3-D hologram of a design for torso armor with an attached helmet. As she pointed out each joint of the projection, it highlighted in red and a little note appeared.

"If it's collapsible, what's going to keep it from being compromised if I take a hit to the head? I don't want the panels to slide apart or the joints to smash into my skull on impact."

"Valid point, m'dear," Apache acknowledged. He reached up and tapped the hologram, spinning it in a 360. "But what you've got to understand is that I took the base schematics for this sort of thing from the Nebulan Targetmasters. The Nebulans have evolved the technology to encase and insulate a dual-natured being, and it's effective enough that most Targetmasters are indistinguishable from retro Minicons in most respects. Yes, the armor is collapsible, but it is absolutely designed to protect soft tissue."

Miko made a face. "You guys don't talk about Nebulos much. How do you know if humans are similar enough?"

"Because the native population of Nebulos are humans. Or were, once upon a time. There's been some variations in the bloodlines." Star Upper interrupted from the doorway.

"But I thought Nebulans were mechs and femmes, like you and Razor?" Miko asked, confused.

"No." Star said shortly. "We're the invasive species." then he turned on his heel and strode for the lift. He'd kept Jack waiting long enough.

Miko blinked, startled by the usually affable boxer's tone. "What did I say?" she wondered.

Apache shook his helm. "It's not you, lass. Nebulos has had a rocky relationship with our species for generations. Mechs who grow up there tend to feel the full force of that."

"I...understand, I guess." Miko said slowly. She didn't want to think about it too much, as it sounded like politics. Miko didn't care for politics. She turned her attention back to the 3-D model of the armor connected to the techno-pack and crossed her arms.

"Now, is this also going to protect my neck?"


When Star Upper made it to the upper floor, Jack was perched on the communications console, going through messages with Rattrap.

"Wow." Jack looked somewhat impressed. "Centuries of innovation and what's the first thing your planet sends on a world-to-world communications grid? Spam mail."

"Hey, save those coupons! Y'never know when you're gonna get a chance to go to the Metro Plex at Polyhex!" Rattrap yelped, pushing the human away from the "delete" key.

A smile tugged at Star Upper's lips as he watched the smaller Maximal and the human bantering. They had their squabbles, the older boy and the rodent, but it was nice to see them getting along.

"Anything for me?" he asked walking up and slinging an arm over Rattrap's shoulders, just to annoy him.

Rattrap shrugged his arm off with a vaguely disgusted look. He liked his personal space. A few seconds on the keyboard, then he made an interested grunt.

"Well, if ya wanna go hunting, I'm picking up a message being sent down to grid Tau, where we definitely ain't. Could be Preds."

Star Upper tried not to let the groan escape his lips. So much for finishing the previous lessons with the kid. Still, as much as he would rather stay home for once, they were technically at war - even if it hadn't been declared - and it would be irresponsible to leave this message without checking it out.

"Alright," he sighed, "Gimme the coordinates and I'll go check it out. Is Airazor on base? It'll help to have eyes in the sky."

"Top of the mesa. You can ask her if you want." Rattrap gestured upwards, then continued to monitor frequencies.

After Star left, Jack noticed a sour look cross Rattrap's features. The patches of fur on the Maximal's chest and shoulders bristled with either hostility or nerves and he wasn't sure which.

The short mech left off scanning the screens and opened a hailing frequency to Lio Convoy.

"Ey yo, boss, we got incoming from Solid Bullet."

There was a momentary crackle over the speakers - indicative of some sort of wiring issue that Apache would have to take a look at later - and then their pseudo-Prime's stentorian voice echoed out into the trees around them.

"The police detective from Kaon? Why would he contact the main base?"

Jack squinted at the lines of neatly-formed glyphs on the open screen, but could only make out two. The rest seemed to jumble up and change places whenever he tried to get a fix on them, and Jack found it gave him a headache to continue. He'd been able to make out a symbol that might've meant authority/high rank/feminine, and he knew the other one was respect/acquaintance/warmth, because Arcee used it in messages to Optimus Prime when they were in the field.

Rattrap sent a copy of the message to Lio on an encrypted frequency, but repeated it out loud anyway for Jack's sake.

"Long story short," the rat began, "We got a problem. Some Velocitronian delegate coming and we're being ordered to comply with her demands. They're sending her on the supply drop ship."

"Coming to Earth? Whatever for?!" Lio sounded slightly concerned.

"Scrap if I know!" Rattrap snapped, and Jack started slightly at his vehemence. "They didn't say. Typical."

"Rattrap," the Convoy said in a warning tone, "This isn't about the red tape."

Now Jack recognized the expression on his companion's face as an angry frustration. Rattrap clenched a fist, and his plating flared at the shoulders.

"Maybe it should be." he growled. "All sorts of problems on Cybertron and they tighten up the reigns on us?"

Jack tentatively put out his hand, touching one of Rattrap's tensed servos. "Political problems?" he asked sympathetically.

Oh that was putting it mildly, from Rattrap's perspective. No one would have known to look at him, but he, like Star Upper, had been a bit of a social reform activist before joining the crew of the Yukikaze. He'd been part of the Marches Against Frame-ism, and the Anti-Colonizing protests after losing his job as a guard at an energon depot, and it had cost him several other jobs in the past. He'd even been in contact with the team of reformers from the Aphelion Abbey who had discovered that there was a push among certain Council members to cap the Well of Allsparks.

Even with filmed evidence of the outrageous - bordering on sacreligious - plot to limit the birth of Well-born sparks in favor of sparklings born of a sire and carrier, the media and public had been reluctant to do anything about it. Change came slowly on Cybertron, and it had made Rattrap bitter.

The idea of being ordered to play nice with some bureaucrat from one of the Lost Colonies while Cybertron seemed to ignore its own problems galled Rattrap immensely, and it wasn't until Jack made a surprised noise that he realized that he'd left dents in the control board from where his other hand had dug in, applying pressure. He blinked and stepped back, trying to calm down. Moments like these made him glad he was a demolition expert and not a politician. He wouldn't have lasted ten minutes without attacking somebody.

"Rattrap. I know why you're angry. Believe me, I'd prefer that we didn't have to act as the hosts for the Council right now either. But Magnaboss has enough to deal with at home without our complaints adding to it, and there is nothing we can do to stop this femme from coming." Lio spoke without judgment or reproach, only a calm understanding and resignation.

"Nevertheless, we will treat the delegate with respect and kindness. Being Velocitronian, she likely has her share of irritation at the flaws in our political system as well. Consider this: should we make a favorable impression on her, we may well secure a potential ally and advantage if Magnaboss and Alpha Trion ever lose control of the Council to the techno-supremacists."

It struck Jack that the hostilities of the Autobot/Decepticon war had perhaps left deeper scars than he'd thought on the government and politics of Cybertron. He wondered whether it would be wise to educate himself more on the system of government the Maximal Imperium used, in case he ever found his world and the Maximals on opposite sides of a conflict. It was all so oddly complicated compared to his home dimension, where the only rule seemed to be survival.

"How long do we have before the supply ship and the Velocitronian agent arrive?"

Rattrap glanced at the screen. "This is dated four weeks ago. That should put the ship in our atmosphere by tomorrow night."

"Not a lot of time to prepare." Jack grimaced.

"Nope." Rattrap sighed. "I'm gonna finish up here. Make yourself useful: go find Stampy and tell him to clean his dang room for once, we have company coming."


The Lucky Draw, Earth's atmosphere

"What are you looking at, my friend?"

Crazybolt tiptoed to look over Killer Punch's broad shoulders. The styracosaurus made a noncommittal sound, then reluctantly paused the recording he had been watching. The slim datapad was more refined and user-friendly than anything they'd ever been able to get their hands on before, whether during the days of the caste system or during the war. Killer Punch had discovered one of the well-crafted tablets in Archadis' library that was entirely devoted to the history of the Predacon culture.

"This is pretty neat," he confessed.

"What's pretty neat?" Lazorbeak poked his beak out from his bunk. "Ye've been starin' at tha' thing the past solar-cycle!"

"The Predacons are mostly not descended from the Predacons we used to hear legends about." Killer Punch offered by way of explanation. "I mean, some of them are, but most of them came from a splinter branch of the Decepticons who admired the speed and efficiency of organic animals. They didn't quite meet with Soundwave's idea of Cybertronian purity, and once the war was over they sort of set off on their own." He chuckled. "Guess we can see who had the last laugh, can't we?"

Crazybolt mused on this a moment, wondering whether he was meant to feel regret that the old Decepticon faction had, by all appearances, died out. He had never been more than a faceless drone, a number to be halfheartedly remembered only during roll calls of casualties. The equality that Megatron had promised had been a depressing one: all Cybertronians are equal when they are dead, after all. The introduction of angolmois into his life had brought him an autonomy and a boldness he had never shown publicly before. And for all that the Predacons seemed rather like the Decepticons in ambition and attitude, Crazybolt could not deny that they were far more accepting of diverse frame-types and mindsets than the crew of the Nemesis.

He glanced back over at the leader of their little squad as Killer Punch reached up to poke at Bazooka, who had been trying to meditate.

"Hey 'Zooka, check this out. You'll like this."

Bazooka unshuttered one optic in a mildly disapproving fashion, and glanced down. His interest was captured when Killer Punch showed a holographic recording of a battle simulation.

"One of the earliest Predacons - before they even took full beast modes, apparently - named Lyzack set this up. It was a near-perfect trap! Her spark-twin, Leozack, mustered an army at Carburisia to challenge a Decepticon warlord who they felt had been getting too comfortable as a tyrant under Autobot governance."

As he spoke, the purple mech's hands moved wildly to illustrate his point, even though it was perfectly recreated already on the screen.

"So Deathsaurus brought his own forces to fight, and boxed himself into a canyon, thinking it would prevent a sneak-attack. But Lyzack flew her strike team in over the Elevation Recostalus and decimated his guys from behind!"

From the far side of the cabin came a snort. Blackarachnid reclined in a web of her own design, watching the other members of the team with a scornful smile tugging at her lips.

"Nerd." she said, channeling humans just a bit.

"Said the femme who squeed over antique neurotoxin darts!" Killer Punch shot back.

Crazybolt pretended to gag, catching Lazorbeak's equally disgusted face. The barbs those two had been trading had gotten noticeably less mean-spirited during the voyage, even if they didn't seem to realize that the rest of the team had picked up on it. Crazybolt worried that it would turn into flirting eventually, throwing off the dynamic of the team. Though, he had to admit, they hadn't had much of a solid dynamic even before they'd picked up Blackarachnid. They'd still been figuring each other out.

An announcement squawked over the shipwide intercom, warning the crew and passengers that they were approaching Earth and would soon be meeting Galvatron for the first time.

Saberback glanced up from doing a maintenance check on his gun and frowned. "Well, time to see if the Mayhem Squad passes muster," he grumbled.

"About that." Fractyl chimed from the bunk below Bazooka's, "Do we even want to still call ourselves that? New world, new start, and all that."

"What, new individual names and bodies wasn't enough for ya?" Killer Punch tweaked the pterodactyl's audial fin playfully.

Fractyl winced and pulled away. "Well I'm just saying," he complained. "If this Galvatron is anywhere near as terrifying as they say he is, "Mayhem" may not impress him much."

"Puddleglum there has a point," Blackarachnid called unhelpfully.

Killer Punch considered this. It was worth looking into, certainly. He sat down once more, idly scrolling through the history pad. Then, something caught his optic. Slowly, he perused the data, then grinned and looked up.

"I get what you're saying about the name. Mayhem does sound more like a demolition team, doesn't it? What we want isn't just a name, it's a symbol. Something to strike fear into the spark of the common Cybertronian and make them remember who we are."

"So...what do all Cybertronians fear?" Crazybolt asked, "Unicron?"

"Death." Killer Punch corrected him. "Highest to lowest, they all fear death. And what better embodies that fear of death and decay than something that won't stay dead?" He pointed to the passage in the screen, then passed it around to his comrades. "What do you think, will it work?" he asked.

When the screen finally passed to Blackarachnid, she perused it briefly and then smiled.

"Well, Terrorcons," she cooed, "What do we think?"
The savage smile reflected on every faceplate spoke volumes.