Rung had pulled himself together by the time he reached the conference room, slowing his vents and forcing the patter of his pedesteps to slow into a walk.

Yes, he'd just humiliated himself in front of Chromedome, one of the few bots who showed any interest in his existence, but he couldn't linger on that right now, he simply couldn't. Ultra Magnus was skeptical of psychiatry (oh, he never said as much, but Rung knew); Rung couldn't betray his profession—his function —with a poor showing. He drew in a deep vent, steadied himself, and tapped the button beside the door. It slid open with a hiss of hydraulics.

The room was empty, but the lights were on. Rung stepped inside, letting the door slide closed behind him as he slipped around the table and chose a seat. This conference room was one of the smaller ones; the table was a little too big for the space and the chairs a little too close to the walls.

It saw a decent amount of use, though, being close to both Rodimus' and Ultra Magnus' offices. For some reason—budgeting concerns?—the chairs were not the transformable type that automatically adjusted to the user's size and build, but static things that just sat there. Large bots or ones with odd configurations were damned to force their girth and kibble into their confines as best they could. The chair that Ultra Magnus routinely used had the arms bowed out and the seat practically buckled from the strain.

Rung, of course, had no such issue . . . though he did have to jut his elbows out awkwardly to set them on the armrests. He gripped them and half-rose, scooting the chair (and himself) closer to the table.

Not long until the meeting was scheduled to start, but he still had a few minutes to spare. Taking advantage of the lull, he took out his datapad and tapped out a summary of the memories Chromedome had accessed for him, trying to focus on the cold hard facts rather than his more nebulous emotions.

The door hissed open. Rung set a respectful smile onto his face, pulling the datapad towards his chest as he straightened to meet the red-eyed gaze of . . . Prowl.

The datapad clattered to the floor.

Rung sat paralyzed, his hands still crabbed in front of his chest, his optics caught by the fluorescent lights strobing subtly off Prowl's black and gold paint as he strode over. The enforcer was twice as wide as Rung and over a head taller—when Rung was standing. Now, seated, Rung felt dwarfed even when Prowl stooped to snag the datapad off the ground.

Straightening, Prowl swung the datapad down vertically, like a knife. Its beveled, plastic corner hovered just over the glass encasing Rung's spark. "You dropped something."

"Oh! Ah, thank you—" Flustered, Rung closed his hands around the device. But Prowl's grip didn't budge, nor did the datapad.

"The screen cracked. You ought to be more careful." Prowl leaned closer, blotting out the ugly office lighting as he loomed over the psychiatrist now trying to shrink into the back of his chair. "Things that end up where they're not supposed to be tend to get broken." He let go of the datapad with such suddenness that it smacked against Rung's chest.

The overt threat was so offensive and . . . and ridiculous that it gave Rung the courage to reply (though in a quavering voice). "It just so happens that I was invited to be here. So if anyone isn't where they're supposed to be—"

"You?" Prowl straightened. Though his lip curled, he seemed to be processing Rung's claim. "Why?"

Rung didn't know how to answer that, so he satisfied himself with setting the datapad—which now had pixelated distortions marring the screen around the cracks in the glass—in front of him, doing his best to center it. Ultra Magnus would appreciate that. Yes. He would just focus on making it as symmetrical as possible, rather than the bot whose glare was making his neck hot . . .

Blessedly the door slid open once again, drawing Prowl's attention away and prompting Rung to look up in gratitude. His smile became more uncertain when he saw who it was.

"Hey, cool, you're both here," said Captain Rodimus as he stepped in. He had a rust stick (half-eaten) hanging out of his mouth, which he drew into his cheek with a flick of his tongue, crunching it loudly. Glancing at Magnus' usual chair, Rodimus made a face. Prowl and Rung watched, frozen in their tableau, as he switched seats, dragging metal legs across a metal floor. Screeee.

"Welcome to the meeting and all that," Rodimus said, sitting down and drawing a cloth out of his subspace to scrub the crumbs off his face. The captain was a flashy bot with blue flames painted over his dark purple topcoat and a chrome spoiler that comfortably cleared the back of his chair. "So what's up?"

"You called the meeting?" Prowl demanded. "Not Ultra Magnus?"

"Yeah?" Rodimus said. "Why would you think Magnus arranged it?"

"Because it's a meeting."

Rodimus shrugged. "I mean, yeah, he was the one who brought it up, but then he got busy with other stuff, like making sure the floors are level. Sooo it's your lucky day, you got me instead!"

"Yippee," Prowl muttered, stomping around the table and throwing himself into a chair.

"Anyway, welcome—did I already say that? to this meeting aboooout . . ." Rodimus got the faraway look of a bot checking his internal memos. "What to do about this Decepticon prisoner, Dreadlock."

"Deadlock," Rung and Prowl said in unison, before trading suspicious glances.

"Whatever. So we have a 'Con locked up, huh? Weird. Usually we just shoot them."

"Exactly!" Prowl said. "He's long overdue for execution!"

"You didn't seem so eager to dispose of him all those weeks you had sole access to him," Rung said, his eyebrows tilting into a frown so fierce that their hydraulics creaked. "Not until you realized you couldn't break him."

Prowl's expression became ugly. "He did break. He's nothing."

"Hey," Rodimus said, "you guys don't mind if I open this while you hash this out, right?" Without waiting for a reply he drew a box wrapped in brown paper from his subspace. "I figured I might as well do some shopping while we're on-planet."

"We won't be on-planet for long," Prowl said. "And it would be utterly pointless to drag Deadlock's worthless carcass back into space with us. If we kill him now, we can sell him to the natives for spare parts."

"Captain," Rung interjected, "are you familiar with Deadlock's history? I can give you a rundown of—"

"Nah, sounds boring." Rodimus peeled the tape off the brown paper and unwrapped it, revealing a plain white box. He lifted the lid and inspected the contents—two slim, thin pieces of metal, curving in opposite direction, and one triangular one.

Rung had a confused idea that the slim pieces of black metal might be very small guns or tiny boomerangs until it was revealed, via Rodimus picking one up, that they were perfectly flat and fairly flexible.

"Anyway, I think I've heard of this Deadlock guy," Rodimus continued, passing the piece of metal from one hand to the other. It was magnetic, judging by the way it clung to his fingers. "Really good with a gun, right?"

"Yes," Rung said, speaking quickly to prevent Prowl from jumping in. "And I know it may seem counter-intuitive or even painful try to rehabilitate someone who has killed so many Autobots, but in a war one must use what resources one is given, and I've made wonderful progress with him—"

"'Wonderful progress'," Prowl said with a sneer. "Anyone can fake a change of allegiance to save their spark."

Rung was grateful that Prowl didn't know that Deadlock hadn't bothered to fake any such thing, having barely transitioned to "openly hostile" to "perhaps slightly more cooperative."

He settled for ignoring him, instead appealing directly to Rodimus. "Of course Deadlock is a very troubled individual, but he's a cut above the usual Decepticon lowlife. He's intelligent and—"

"False." Prowl's lip curled. "He's a completely typical, ordinary, idiotic Decepticon. My team has gleaned all the intel to be had out of him and keeping him alive is a waste of energon. "Captain, there is absolutely no reason to humor this bot's delusion that a Decepticon can be anything worthwhile."

"Everyone has a function," Rung snapped. He could feel his fuel pump gaining speed, the energon throbbing in his veins. "Everyone."

"And the function of undesirables," Prowl said, leaning across the table to meet Rung's lifted chin, his defiant glare, "is to die."

"So if I'm getting this right," Rodimus said, pulling their attention back to him, "you, Prowl, want to kill this 'Con prisoner. And you, uh . . ."

"Rung," Rung said bitterly.

"You want—what exactly?"

"To continue gathering information from him." Rung hesitated; Rodimus was not Ultra Magnus, he was less likely to be moved by lists of statistical advantages. So Rung dared to skew closer to the truth. "He's a skilled warrior. Imagine if we could, ah, use him. He could be an asset under the right circumstances."

Prowl scoffed audibly, but Rodimus gave a little hum. Rung dared to hope he was considering his argument.

"If we could bring Deadlock to our side," Rung said, "it might inspire other Decepticons to abandon their foolishness and—er—"

He trailed away as Rodimus lifted first one, then the other of the slim black pieces of metal, pressing the end of each just under his nose so that they curved down to frame his mouth, left and right.

"Rodimus," Prowl said, annoyance evident in his voice, "what the hell?"

"It's a mustache kit. Cool, huh? And for the finishing touch . . ." Rodimus pressed the triangular piece of metal to his chin. "So, what do you think?"

"Very . . . impressive?" Rung said. The goatee part was crooked. Ultra Magnus was going to hate it. "Um. Yes. Lovely."

"You look like an idiot," Prowl said bluntly.

"Okay," Rodimus said. "Thanks for your input. Run, you get the guy."

"Oh! " Rung said, confused. "What?"

"What?" Prowl repeated, albeit in a much different and more threatening tone.

"Yeah, you heard me. Doctor Skinny-Bot gets Deadlock."

Prowl slammed his palms on the table, hard enough that it shook. "You cannot be serious, Rodimus! Wasting rations on a wrung-out Decepticon prisoner? Even you can't possibly be so stupid as to—"

"Hey Prowl, guess what? You're not my superior anymore. I made my decision and if you don't like it, you can stuff it up your tailpipe." Rodimus tilted his chair backwards and put his legs on the table, crossing them to complete his cavalier pose. "Okay, meeting adjourned, get outta here. I've got shit to do."

Rung, recovering from his stunned state, pushed to his feet. "Well! Thank you very much, captain! I'll just go and check on the patient—the prisoner—now. And I'll keep you up-to-date with reports, of course."

"As long as I don't have to read them," said Rodimus, who had pulled a mirror out of subspace and was studying his own face.

Rung set a brisk pace for the door, Prowl's murderous gaze burning against his backstrut with every step.