The art contest was underway and the Autobots were hard at work, designing a new brig. Ultra Magnus cynically assumed this was due to the promise of a Rodimus Star. They were useless, but they were also (at Rodimus' insistence) made of pure gold. Every time the Stilled Spark docked on a planet, the Autobots rushed to be the first to dump their Rodimus Stars at the local street market.

Well, as silly as this contest was, it was Ultra Magnus' duty to monitor it. Therefore he was seated deep in a corner of Swerve's bar, where the ship's miscreants liked to gather.

Since energon was strictly rationed on the Stilled Spark (rationed even beyond what Magnus would have demanded, thanks to Red Alert's paranoia), Swerve's bar had a strict BYOE policy: bring your own energon. Swerve would then distill the energon into high grade . . . or a close approximation. Or a distant approximation. Many a patron ended up in Ratchet's infirmary, getting their fuel tank pumped, after just one drink.

The fact that Swerve had repeat customers just went to show how the standards of the Autobot army had fallen.

"Hey, Magnus! Dropped in for a little day-drinking, huh?"

Ultra Magnus slowly turned to find Rodimus grinning at him, hands on hips.

Magnus swallowed down an unprofessional response.

"I just thought I'd pop in and see how the crew is doing," Rodimus rambled on, casting a glance over the bots gathered at various tables—many in twos or threes. "And it looks like we're already getting results. Rodical! Do you like that? I thought it up this morning. See, it's like 'radical', but instead—"

"Captain Rodimus." Ultra Magnus shuttered his optics for a moment. This endeavor was a complete waste of time but nevertheless Magnus would do his best to enforce the rules. As soon as he learned what they were. "Can we talk about this line?" He pointed to the paper announcing the brig contest.

"'Ask about the social-bonding bonus'," Rodimus read. "Yeah? What about it?"

"What is the bonus? How is it calculated?"

"Calculated?" Rodimus laughed, which boded ill. Magnus' worst suspicions were confirmed when he shrugged easily and said, "I dunno, we'll just figure it out when the entries come in. Hey, let's take a walkabout and see how the guys are doing, huh?"

Without waiting for an answer, Rodimus headed for the nearest table. Magnus followed, radiating disapproval.

Cyclonus was at the first table, sipping a drink through a curly straw.

He was a red bot with a passive expression, horn-like appendages, and—most offensive to Ultra Magnus—no faction badge. Apparently he had time-traveled from the past. Apparently he'd lived alone in some kind of monastery. And apparently none of this was a red flag to Captain Rodimus, who had said Cyclonus "could come on board if he helped fight pirates and stuff." (Magnus was still fuming over that one.)

Cyclonus had the gall to openly describe the Cybertronian war as "rather pointless" and the further gall to have enough skill with his swords that Ultra Magnus couldn't personally correct him. Despite his martial prowess he had an easy-going nature, which he attributed to "the teachings of the monks." When grilled about the monks, he smiled and said they were "the friends I made along the way." Ultra Magnus looked forward to the day he could shoot him through the spark as payback for his inevitable betrayal.

"Hey Cyc," Rodimus said. "How's it hanging? You liking the contest?"

"It is 'hanging' very well, Captain." Cyclonus smiled easily, putting down his marker. "Yes, it's very enjoyable."

"Cool! Sooo, you got a big plan for the brig?"

"Yes, indeed." He held up the form.

"Uhhh, Cyc, that's just a rectangle with orange and purple stripes drawn on it."

"Yes, Captain. I thought and thought and then it struck me. Color theory."

"Color theory?"

"Yes. You wished the brig to be more of a deterrent. Harsh or strongly contrasting colors are unpleasant to the optic."

"Oh yeah?" Rodimus was waiting for more and the pause became awkward as it became apparent that nothing else was forthcoming. Awkward for Rodimus, at least; Cyclonus just continued holding his drawing up and smiling. The Captain cleared his throat. "Well, that's . . . great, Cyclonus. Um, keep up the good work."

As he followed Rodimus, who was hurrying away, Ultra Magnus wrote Cyclonus' name on his clipboard. The red bot had been working alone, so Magnus put a 0 in the Social Bonding Bonus (or SBB) column. Maybe this wouldn't be as difficult to quantify as he'd feared.

Their next stop was the bar itself, possibly because Rodimus wanted to talk to Swerve, but more likely because he wanted a drink. Swerve looked up from his (one-sided) conversation with Ratchet as the captain approached. Ultra Magnus pointedly looked at Ratchet's energon-stained, unsanitary hands as he loomed behind Rodimus. Ratchet ignored him and continued drinking in silence.

"Hey Swerve, think you can work your magic with this?" Rodimus took an energon cube out of his sub-space and tossed it to the barkeep.

"Whoa!" Swerve fumbled it out of the air. "Yeah, sure! Any preference?"

"Use the Randomizer, I'm feeling wild today!"

"A-hem. Captain, if you'll recall Bylaw #1566a Section 3, you banned the use of the Energon Randomizer because its usage so often coincided with medical emergencies."

"Oh yeeeah." Rodimus' brow furrowed, but only for a moment. "Great news, Swerve, I declare the Randomizer unbanned!"

Ratchet gulped the rest of his drink and slammed his glass on the counter as he pushed off his barstool. "I was enjoying my off-shift, but I'll go prep the med bay."

"Wait no, Ratchet wait a second." Rodimus caught him by the shoulders and shepherded him back to his seat. "I want to hear your opinion of the Design-a-Dungeon contest."

"I have no idea what that is."

"Ratchet, I know that's not true, you were there when I announced it."

"I've deleted it from my memory banks. Along with the entirety of my experiences on this wretched ship."

"Then how come you know we're on a ship?" Rodimus demanded triumphantly.

Swerve slapped a cube of sickly greenish liquid down in front of Rodimus. (Ultra Magnus' frown deepened as droplets sloshed over the sides.) "Hey Cap, I've got some ideas, want to hear 'em?"

"Hey, Swerve. Sure, yeah."

"Okay, picture this." Swerve held up his hands, his red visor flashing with excitement. "You could have the ceiling drip, wait for it, acid!"

"Huh." Rodimus rubbed his chin. "That's not a bad idea."

"Oh please," Ratchet scoffed. Despite his earlier inclination to leave, he had lingered to scowl at Swerve. "The last time you did anything with acid, it melted a hole in the floor. Real useful for keeping people contained in a cell. Should use water, it's easier to control. A lingering rust infection will make them think twice about causing trouble again. And to be clear, when I say 'them' I mean Whirl."

"Acid's more fun," Swerve argued.

"Water," Ratchet snapped."

"Acid!"

"Water!"

"Acid!"

"Perhaps we should leave them to it," Ultra Magnus suggested. Rodimus nodded and, to Magnus' relief, subspaced the suspicious drink rather than drinking it. He could only hope that Rodimus had the sense to throw it away later.

Magnus wrote down "Swerve" and "Ratchet" on his clipboard. They had built off each other's ideas, in a sense, but had not exhibited any particular level of cooperation or social bonding. After some thought, he gave them each an SBB score of 1.

Rodimus wasn't done yet, of course, that would have made his SIC's life far too easy. He slung himself into an empty chair at the table where Chromedome and Brainstorm were seated. There was no available seat for Magnus but that was all right; these two bots were known troublemakers (though to be fair so was most of the crew) and he had no qualms about looming over them. He wouldn't say he felt satisfaction when Brainstorm looked up and flinched (that would have been unprofessional), but he certainly didn't feel dis satisfaction.

"Oh, hey Rodimus," Brainstorm said, dragging his attention back to the Captain. "What's, uh, what's up?"

"That's what I was gonna ask you guys." Rodimus gestured towards the papers in front of them, which were full of scribbles and sketches. "Looks like you're going all-in on the Design-a-Dungeon contest. I love it!"

"Yeah." Chromedome looked down at his sheet. "I could really use a Rodimus Star, I'm flat broke."

Rodimus' smile slipped a little. "Ha ha! Ah ha ha ha ha ha, good one Chromedome! So! Brainstorm! Tell me about your recent, heh, brainstorms."

"Ha ha!" Brainstorm obliged. "We've been coming up with some great stuff, Cap! Like, get this: what if we install tanks of oil in the walls—flamethrowers, essentially—and have them going full bore? Fwoooooosh, they're getting overheated, their paint is peeling, a constant inferno."

"Nah. It shouldn't be constant." Chromedome was doodling a frowny face on a corner of his paper. "Make it random."

"Why?" Brainstorm said. "It's scarier if it's on all the time."

"No," the mneumosurgeon said in that flat, final way of his, "It's not." There was a moment of uncomfortable silence that Chromedome seemed unaware of, or at least uncaring of. "My idea is sound."

Rodimus cleared his vocalizer. "Oh, it's a good idea, huh?"

"No, it's literally sound." Chromedome tapped his audial. "As in auditory."

"Ohhhh, like, blast something real loud in their audials? Screams or something? Great idea Chr—"

"No, it can be something innocuous. It doesn't even have to be loud. But just, the same tune playing over and over."

"Okay. Okay, okay, I'm starting to get it!" Brainstorm said. "Oh, and how about this: You could always cut out right before the end of the piece. Ha!"

"Wow! Okay, yeah, that would drive me nuts. Good thinking," Rodimus said.

"Thanks, Captain," Brainstorm said, shoving a blueprint directly in front of Rodimus' optics. "But don't forget about the flamethrowers!"

As he rambled on, Magnus added "Brainstorm" and "Chromedome" to his list. They had listened to each other's suggestions without ire and improved upon them. Magnus grudgingly admitted that was a step above what most bots on the Stilled Spark were capable of. He assigned each of them an SBB score of 3.

A week after its introduction, the entries were due.

"I've observed every bot who entered the contest," Ultra Magnus informed Rodimus, who was flipping through the paper entries. "Although it was difficult to create an objective measurement, I determined each bot's Social Bonding Bonus based on the following criteria. Number One, did they discuss and/or receive help from one or more bot(s) while completing their entry. Number Two, how much time was spent consulting with the other bot(s). Number Three, to what extent—"

"Great Magnus, yeah, just leave whatever you're talking about on a datapad, huh? I'll totally get to it, I promise."

Two weeks after that—and after help from various handimechs, who were sworn to secrecy—the Captain was ready to announce the winner of the contest.

Rodimus being Rodimus, he couldn't just post a bulletin or send a ship-wide text. Instead he'd gathered all the hopefuls in front of the cells in the brig, which were now hidden by black curtains (Ultra Magnus didn't know where he'd got them but grimly suspected he had paid too much) to "heighten the suspense," as Rodimus put it.

"I'm going to win for sure," Whirl bragged. "Scythes, baby. Scythes. Nothing's gonna top that."

"Pfft, that's so basic!" Brainstorm rolled his optics. "Just an inconveniently long knife! We got this, right Chromedome?"

"Hope so."

"Acid is where it's at," Swerve said confidently. "Caustic, burning, unpleasan—"

"Like your drinks," Ratchet muttered.

Rodimus stepped up to the front of the room before the bickering could escalate, Blaster transforming to boost his volume as usual.

"Hey everybody—hello? Is this thing on? Great. Ahem. So first I want to thank you guys! You stepped up and, wow, knocked out some great and creative designs! I'm proud of you, really! Give yourselves a hand!"

The awkward patter of half-hearted applause rippled through the crowd before dying.

"Get to the good stuff!" Ratchet called.

"Right. Right." Rodimus paused to glare in Ratchet's direction. "As I was saying, there's plenty to be excited about. So let's look at our top three winning entries! In third place . . . Whirl's Scythe-o-Matic Slice-Cell!"

One of the curtains dropped, revealing a barred cell with curved blades of various lengths hanging from the ceiling. At Rodimus' signal, they began swinging haphazardly, clanging wildly against the bars and each other. (Several began cutting through the bars of the cell. Magnus sighed.)

"Good job, Whirl!" Rodimus said. "And your runner-up prize is . . . one free drink at Swerve's!"

Whirl pumped a claw in the air. "Woohoo!"

"Wait, what?" Swerve said.

"Next, in second place . . . Ratchet's Rusty Retreat! Not his name, folks, mine! The name he submitted was super lame!"

"Gee, thanks," Ratchet grumbled as the second curtain was pulled aside. Ratchet's specialty cell consisted of hoses tied in the upper corners of the room, spraying a constant, fine mist, and two kiddy pools arranged side by side on the floor.

Magnus was beginning to suspect that Rodimus had not taken his scoring system into account when picking the winners. The entries so far were on the cheap side—which was odd since a fair amount of resources had been allocated to the contest, however foolishly.

"Ratchet also wins a free drink at Swerve's!" Rodimus said. ( "I never agreed to this!" came a cry from the side.) "And finally . . . our pièce de résistance . . . our grand prize winner . . . THE ultimate cell in THE ultimate brig in THE ultimate ship in the galaxy—"

The final black curtain dropped, furling to the ground. And behind it . . . behind it . . .

Garish shades of red, orange, and yellow decorated the walls, almost distracting from the gilded shields. Each shield framed a face, also gold, which ratcheted their mechanical mouths open in unison to drip streams of acid down the walls. Magnus noted, in a distracted way, how the floor bubbled where the green liquid made contact . . . but a moment later the damage was hidden as the nozzles set at ankle-height flared to life, sending long gouts of flame roaring across the enclosed space.

All the while, speakers in the wall repeated a radio jingle for Starbud's Static Salty-Snacks over and over.

"TAH DAAAAH! It's the Rodimus Cell! That's right—the winner is ME!" Rodimus held up a Rodimus Star—a twin to the acid-spitting faces in the cell—and magnetized it to his chestplate with a flourish. "I did a stellar job, as I'm sure you'll agree! Can I get a round of applause?"

There was a moment of silence. Then the crowd surged forward, howling. Ultra Magnus grimly waded into the brawl as punches started flying.

At least, he reflected wearily, they could break in the new brig.