Shockwave sat quiet and still, safely ensconced in his tower stronghold, but his mind ranged far afield.

Each drone an optic, an audio, a sensor. There were thousands actively sweeping the oily skies and ruined causeways of Cybertron, and at any given moment, Shockwave could remotely inhabit a few hundred of his choosing.

Only a dozen heavy tank-drones served as his avatars at the moment, as they trundled ever deeper through the planet's labyrinthine mantle. There had been some anomalous seismic activity near the outer layers of the Core. He had narrowed it down to a specific area and determined it prudent to investigate and further fortify the location. Allowing the Autobots to seize control, even for a short while, could prove disastrous.

As his drones drew closer, he noted the lack of fresh explosive residue in the atmosphere and filed the datum away. If Elita One's squad was involved, they were being unusually subtle in their sabotage. There was also a lack of energy signatures, either from weaponry or spark ambiance, but that was in keeping with the insurgents' tactics, so he kept all drones' sensors on full scan.

He began to see signs that the plating had been disturbed the closer the drones got. New scrape-marks in long silvery streaks, whole sections of clean paneling that had obviously not been exposed to the war-tainted atmosphere until very recently.

How curious, Shockwave mused, and sent the drones further in, only to be thwarted by a dead end.

Not quite. The chamber itself was precisely where it was supposed to be, albeit in extensively rearranged plating.

After only a nanosecond's processing, Shockwave stationed the tank-drones on alert where they were, and left them to borrow the senses of as many small flying drones as he could manage. He sent them streaming down through dozens of tunnels and conduits at a time, radiating outward from each sector, both confirming known topography and mapping whatever new disturbances had manifested, and most importantly to determine what had become of the most critical artifact on Cybertron.

It wasn't possible. It was too large, too integrated with the planet's outer Core structure to move so quickly and cleanly. There should have been traces, evidence beyond shifted plating. Shockwave instructed every drone on the planet to search, pulling his consciousness back to his own shell. He would wait a moment more for preliminary reports, but it was all but confirmed—

Vector Sigma was utterly gone.


Spike Witwicky arrived at the Ark to the sight of Ravage being escorted out at gunpoint.

It was hardly an unusual occurrence. Spike knew the drill and gave the feline mech wide berth. Ravage glared sullenly at the young human as they passed each other, and Spike returned the look with a sideways I See You Eyeballing Me glance of his own. Ravage wouldn't try anything, not here alone. Taking a swipe at one of the Autobots' favorites might be cheaply satisfying, but only in the half second before every gun, cannon, and turret reduced the cassette to a smoking scorch mark on the ground.

Spike jogged into the cargo bay between Ironhide and Warpath just as Ravage took off into the distance. He caught up with Hoist and Windcharger a little further in, intending to ask where Bumblebee was— he could always count on Bee to level with him about what was going on— but the yellow mech was there... lying on the deck flat on his back, optics dark.

"Bee!" Spike ducked under Windcharger's arm, mindful of the scanner Hoist was holding. Bumblebee didn't look damaged, but still— "What happened? Ravage didn't—"

"Nah, Bumblebee's fine, just knocked himself offline." Windcharger snickered.

Spike threw a look up over his shoulder. "How? What's going on?"

"Ha! Question of the vorn, right there."

Hoist reached over and actually gave Windcharger a sharp tap on the helm. It was the closest Spike had ever seen the good-natured part-time medic get to real irritation. "Shoo, 'Charger. You're supposed to be on the bridge. And be sure to notify whoever else is on duty with you if you're having a paroxysm!"

"Peroxiwhat?" Spike frowned, turned to Hoist. "Hoist, what's— " He stopped short when Bumblebee's middle started knocking. Spike happened to have rested a hand on the armor of Bumblebee's abdomen, and he could just barely feel something *tink tink* from the inside.

Just then Bumblebee rebooted, optics flashing on and systems humming up to speed. "Oh... hey Spike."

Spike's eyebrows went up. 'Oh hey' was it, really? "Bee, you've got something knocking loose in here," Spike said, poking his friend in the area in question. "It's not another squirrel, is it?"

Bumblebee sat up, exchanging a look with Hoist. "He's right, I can feel it. Now it's moving?"

"Better get to Ratchet or 'Aid," Hoist said, helping the scout to his feet. "Sorry, Spike, we're having kind of a weird time right now."

And as one's life included alien mechanoids and space superscience to a degree that was several miles south of Asimovian, one's definition of weird had gone plaid long ago, so Spike was virtually compelled to ask: "How weird are we talking here, Bee?"

With a rueful shrug, Bumblebee transformed and opened his driver-side door. "Hop in and I'll tell you on the way. Well, what I know, anyway."

Three minutes later at the medbay doors, Spike nearly forgot to get out of the car. "... how many of you?"

"At last count, twenty-one." Bumblebee patiently gave his driver's seat a bit of a nudge, and Spike absently levered himself out of his friend's cabin. "That's why I'm worried about what Ravage might've seen. I had one of what we're calling paroxysms. Or seizures. Or pelvic overload. We can't seem to pick."

At the word 'pelvic' Spike had to quash the urge to stick his fingers in his ears and sing the anthem of denial ("La La La Can't Hear You") but he wasn't a kid anymore dammit, and he could feel how the mood in the Ark had gone a little cattywampus since his last visit. 'Bots they passed in the hall all seemed to have absent looks ranging from worried to annoyed to oddly satisfied.

"At any rate, we're pretty sure Ravage saw me having one," Bee was saying, transforming, "and if the Decepticons figure out so many of us are compromised like this, we could be in big trouble."

"Twenty-one, that's, what—" Spike let out a low whistle. "—about half the Autobot forces on Earth. Geez."

Spike knew the numbers. There were fewer Decepticons, but they were a formidable enough bunch to keep the superior numbers of the Autobots busy. The strength of both sides had reached a kind of equilibrium, which was why Spike suspected their stay on this planet was taking a lot longer than any of them had predicted.

"Last I heard, Perceptor and Wheeljack were running tests to see what's causing this," Bumblebee put a hand on his midsection and shrugged. "Personally I'd settle for knowing what it's doing in there. The construct is... twitching; wasn't doing that before. It kind of tickles."

Just then First Aid appeared from within the medbay. Spike was surprised to see the young medic looking rather frazzled. "Sorry, Bumblebee— Groove and Hot Spot seem to have synced up and I swear they're having them while I'm on duty on purpose. Ah, hello, Spike! How did finals go?"

Spike barked a laugh. "Forget finals! I'm gone for two weeks and what the hell?" He rapped a knuckle on the plating over Bumblebee's little aberration. He even got another faint *tink tink* in response.

First Aid cocked his helm at the noise and produced a scanning device. "You can feel it moving, yes?" Bumblebee nodded. "Happened to Cliffjumper this morning. Let's see what's going on before we drag you into the medbay proper..."

"Is Ratchet still backed up in there?" Bumblebee asked. "I thought everyone'd gotten checked out by now."

"No, Brawn bent a torsion bar in his back trying to settle a bet with Sludge, just our usual brand of— ah, here we are." A hologram sprung up above the scanner's screen, and Spike peered at the image of the thing inside his friend for a long moment.

It was all twig-thin struts, hair-fine wires, and petal-delicate gears, but there it was, curled up head-down inside the sphere Spike knew for certain he'd never seen in a Cybertronian before. Even so, its positioning, the shape —

"Huh. I didn't know you guys could get pregnant."

Bumblebee just stared at him.

First Aid's visor flickered. "—er, we don't, Spike, that's not how we work."

"Really?" Spike gestured to the unmistakable shape of arms, legs, a little helm. "Because that sure looks like a robotic fetus to me."

"It's simply impossible," First Aid insisted. "New people come from Vector Sigma, we don't... incubate... immature versions of ourselves..." He trailed off, staring at the holographic image.

Bumblebee put both hands over his middle. "'Aid," he said, very quietly. "They have sparks..."


"... indicates a level of coordination and logistical capability that the Elita One detachment simply does not possess," droned the recorded message from Shockwave. "Investigation is ongoing, but at present I have no data that contradicts my initial findings. Lord Megatron... Vector Sigma is gone. I require response as soon as possible to determine what course of action should be taken."

Megatron, Lord of Decepticons, already utterly undone, grabbed at the edges of his berth incredulously. He wanted to swear, to blast the comm channels with summons for his lieutenants, wave his charged cannon around until the Nemesis' atmosphere was rank with ozone—

But of course he was in no condition to do anything but writhe at the moment. How humiliating. If only it didn't feel so... ! He fought to keep his hands clamped to the sides of his berth. Scratches and scrapes at one's codpiece had become something of a dead giveaway.

But Primus, could this little episode just hurry up and be done? He had to respond to this. How could Vector Sigma be gone, under Shockwave's very (figurative) nose? Was Shockwave playing solitaire in his little watchtower this whole time?

Megatron heard metal creak. He was leaving dents in the berth railing again. And with one mighty surge from within, he overloaded. The warlord arched helplessly off the berth, frame pulsing with pleasure, mouth open and optics tightly shuttered.

After several agonizing, blissful moments, he sprawled strutlessly back down, vents roaring.

Hook and Starscream had better figure this out soon, he thought darkly. Under very different circumstances, Megatron admitted he'd actually rather enjoy this. But if what was happening to a disconcertingly increasing percentage of his troops was also his lot, he also had a surprise construction project underway inside his very body. And that made him very, very uneasy.

He finally got up from the berth and stumbled over to his console to vent the waste heat, directing it to the outer conduits where it would dissipate out through the ship's hull rather than internally. The absolute last thing he needed was for any of his underlings to know he'd caught their current trouble as well. Seeing his master laid out in the throes of ecstasy might give Starscream that extra confidence boost he needed to finally put a knife through his spark.

And now this business with Vector Sigma.

Megatron replayed the message from the beginning, in a better frame of mind to give it his full attention now. Video and spectral data accompanied it, only confirming what Shockwave was saying. Too cleanly done. Too quickly done. And even as clever and effective as Elita One and her soldiers were— credit where it was due, even Megatron had to acknowledge— this was not like them at all.

Was it Prime's doing? His so-called head of special operations— this was especially heinous but it could be just his sort of deviltry. On Prime's orders, or done behind his back? Did they know what they'd done?

Megatron swept out of his quarters like an acid thundercloud. "Starscream! Soundwave! The bridge, now! Open a channel to Optimus Prime!"


"Trailbreaker and Warpath were our control," Perceptor said, gesturing to the lab's primary holoscreen. "Neither have been affected by the affliction; current hypothesis posits this may be no coincidence due to the fact that they have been exclusive with each other of late. And as you can see, there was no observable change post-interface."

/Interfacin' for science,/ Ironhide muttered over a private comm to Ratchet. /Ever hear of something so crazy?/

/Medical academy. Entelechy's classes on spark frequency modulation./ Ratchet smiled off into the distance. /I made so many friends that semester./

Perceptor, detecting the comm chatter, gave them a mildly peeved look but continued. "For the purposes of this test, the affected mechs are separated into two categories: construct-negative for those whose perplexing new chambers are empty, and construct-positive for those who are bearing the sparklike occurrence and experiencing convulsions."

"Volunteers've been a bit scarce," Wheeljack cut in, apparently baffled as to why. "But we've got three, at least. Sideswipe, construct-negative; Trailbreaker, unaffected; and Grimlock, construct-positive."

Perceptor continued. "Trailbreaker and Sideswipe concluded their session and we were able to capture something quite remarkable via the monitors..."

The holographic display shifted, this time to show an isolation room off the main lab. Readouts and graphs and secondary displays of bits of internal components— both normal and abnormal— off to the side. And if it weren't for the cables dangling from half a dozen medical ports each, Trailbreaker and Sideswipe might have been having any ordinary interface.

'Ordinary' for this pair being taking their sweet time about it.

"... pitcher got busted for doping, so..." Trailbreaker murmured into Sideswipe's shoulder as he supported the smaller mech against his bulk, sparks' coronae lazily intermingling. "...hmmm... doesn't look like the Cardinals will get anywhere this season."

Sideswipe's engine purr nearly overshadowed his response. "...nah... seen the relief pitcher's stats? He's—"

Perceptor skipped ahead, sparing everyone a further twelve point eight three minutes of Earth sports inanity irrelevant to science. Ironhide surreptitiously contacted Smokescreen to change a bet concerning the Cardinals' upcoming game. When playback resumed, both mechs seemed properly engaged in the act, and there was no talk of anything, let alone balls foot, base, or basket.

As the pair braced for overload, Perceptor highlighted the readout coming from Trailbreaker's processor. Code whizzed by as entire sectors of the crystalline structure flashed with activity— completely normal during overload as excess spark energy and stimulation triggered a cascade through a mech's systems But in this case, just after the climax and immediately before the soft reboot—

"There!" Perceptor cried, putting the playback into ultra-slow-motion. "Trailbreaker's root autonomic code sectors, observe."

Ironhide blinked uncomprehendingly but Ratchet half-staggered away from the wall he'd been leaning against. "It... it's branching off from preexisting... self-repair, nanite programming, yes, that explains a lot... but—"

"Yeah, the call's coming from inside the house," Wheeljack said.

Ironhide held up a hand. "Someone want to use simple glyphs to fill in the 'Bot who didn't attend Iacon U?"

Wheeljack turned to him as Perceptor paused the experiment's presentation. "See, we thought maybe the code was being changed by a virus, possibly a trojan, some outside source, but we would have seen any kind of intrusion or viral interference just then. Even the most subtle virus can't hide all its traces or completely erase its tracks, especially when it's actively working. All the code changes— they're generating from within preexisting code. Mostly alterations to nanite behavior—"

"Leading to this," Perceptor took up the tale and brought another view up. "The monitor inside Trailbreaker, anterior view, lower abdominal core."

"Well, smelt me," Ironhide muttered. Trailbreaker's innards— cogs, cables, fuel and coolant lines— were actually shifting neatly out of the way as silvery streams of nanites swarmed in.

Optimus Prime at that moment entered the lab, taking up a spot behind Ratchet and gesturing for them to continue, having been watching through Ratchet's transmission up to that point.

"But wait." Wheeljack held up a finger. "There's more." And back to the main camera, zoomed in and full-spectrum capture on the space between Trailbreaker's and Sideswipe's open chestplates. "Right at the instant of overload..."

In slow-motion, they could clearly see the incandescent spot where the two sparks met. Visual data was filtered, focused, and—

With a tiny flare, almost hidden amongst the coruscating sparklight, a third spark signature bloomed into the sensor readings, flickering and quivering. Then the two mechs' much larger sparks separated, and with a rubber-band-like wobble, the little one zipped back, skimming along under the larger corona and straight into Sideswipe's open chamber, just before it closed.

Silence in the laboratory.

"This facility boasts a sensor suite salvaged from my own personal lab in Altihex," Perceptor said. "The data does not lie. While quite small, that was, my friends, a spark, now ensconced comfortably within Sideswipe's lower anomalous chamber."

"You realize that's one more of our heavy hitters we can't send into battle," said Ironhide. "And it's only a matter of time before the 'Cons put gear and gear together and figure out what's going on over here."

"Perceptor," said Optimus, putting a hand on Ironhide's shoulder. "What are the adverse side effects of this phenomenon? Have you found anything that could potentially be life-threatening?"

Perceptor exchanged a look with Wheeljack and Ratchet before replying. "Prime," he said, "whatever this process is or what its end result will be, I do not as a habit like to speculate. But I would dare say... it seems especially designed to fit Cybertronian physiology. Almost as if it were meant to be there as much as a transformation cog or fuel pump. Aside from the inconvenience of spontaneous overload, no one affected appears to be in any measurable danger."

"I see," Prime mused, nodding thoughtfully.

Ratchet gave his leader a sidelong look. "Prime, if you have any insight into this..."

"I believe something momentous is happening, my friends," said Optimus. "I almost didn't realize what until Spike happened to mention something to Bumblebee— "

/Red Alert to Prime— we are receiving a priority transmission,/ the security director interrupted over the comm. /Megatron is demanding to speak with you immediately./

Optimus drew in air through his vents. "They know about our status?"

"Callin' to gloat." Ironhide scowled.

/Megatron declined to state the nature of the call,/ Red Alert replied pointedly. /If anything, he seems angry. He insists on speaking with you./

"Very well. Route him to Teletraan's main console. Officers to the bridge, and all able Autobots to ready alert, just in case." Optimus turned and transformed on the way out of the lab, Ironhide and Ratchet at his rear wheels.

Once they arrived at the bridge, Optimus waited until Prowl, Ironhide, Jazz and the rest of the officers were beside him, then nodded to Blaster and Red Alert who were cabled into the comm system as was standard procedure when parleying with the Decepticons, better to intercept any piggybacked intrusions into the Ark's mainframe.

"Prime." And it really was poetry, the way Megatron could take one title and make it sound like thirty different aspersions on Optimus' base construction. "I would congratulate you on your ruthlessness, if the repercussions of your latest atrocity weren't so dire."

/Does anyone know what he's referring to?/ Prime asked over the command channel. After a chorus of negatives, he replied aloud to the sneering warlord looming large on the forward screen.

"While I don't doubt you'd label many of our actions atrocities, I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, Megatron."

"I'm in no mood to banter," Megatron snapped. "I know the space bridge has been accessed by your operatives recently. Do you deny responsibility for the actions of your underlings?"

/Jazz?/

/You all saw my report! Nothing happened, for the hundredth time!/

Prime found he was in a decidedly non-banter mood as well. "Megatron, what are you talking about?"

Megatron answered with a low growl, "I speak of Vector Sigma's destruction, Optimus Prime."

And the screen switched to video of an empty chamber, Cybertronian in configuration but unfamiliar... until one by one each Autobot recognized the layout. After all, every one of them had been first activated there.

Shock rippled through the bridge of the Ark. And to judge by the noises coming from Megatron's end, it was the first the rest of the Decepticons had heard of this as well.

"Is this some kinda joke?" Ironhide demanded. "Just what by the Unmaker are you playin' at?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that, Autobot?" sneered Megatron. "Is this or is this not some calculated ploy to prevent the Decepticons from adding to our ranks? Do you not realize that unless Vector Sigma is recoverable, you have damned us all, Autobot and Decepticon alike, to extinction?"

/Blaster, send a pulsewave to Elita One to request verification of this event,/ Prowl sent out through the comm. /And analyze that video data. Down to the last pixel./

From his perch in the communications hub, Blaster nodded grimly. /You got it./

"Megatron, I assure you, whatever has happened to Vector Sigma is not our doing," Prime said. "I never would have sanctioned such an act. I didn't even think it was possible."

"Yes, I understand," Megatron drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Plausible deniability, such is the way of special operations. Did you also 'not sanction' crippling half my army with this humiliating overload virus as well?"

That pronouncement took a second to make the rounds, and by the time Prowl barked over the comm to not react, everyone had, of course, reacted. Jaws dropped. Optics flashed wide. Ironhide let out a particularly loud choking sound of static and gears grinding before he got control of himself. Only Optimus and his consummate poker-face maintained most of his decorum.

"Lord Megatron," a familiar monotone said from off-screen on the Decepticons' side, and Soundwave stepped discreetly into frame just behind Megatron. "Intel: Autobots likewise affected."

It wasn't often the canny old warlord was caught flat-footed, but Ironhide was going to make holo-captures of the magnificent look of utter confusion on Megatron's face just then. No matter where this absurd disaster was going, he was going to frame that bamboozled face and put it on the rec room wall.

But Megatron recovered quickly. "So your sabotage scheme backfired, I see. It matters little, I suppose, in light of what you Autobots have done to Vector Sigma."

/Ol' Buckethead's slipping,/ Jazz commented. /Ain't like him to just show his hand like that./

/The condition spreads via interface. I for one would like to know who's been hopping the fence,/ Red Alert muttered darkly.

/Rest assured there will be brig time involved,/ Prowl said in a tone to match.

/Wait, does this mean they've got the little spark-things too?/ Ironhide mused. /Well, this is rich./

Over the comm byplay of his officers, Optimus addressed Megatron. "I believe I know what is happening, both with Vector Sigma and our strange condition. I propose a ceasefire to discuss the matter as it relates to the future of our species."

A long silence followed.

Finally, Megatron responded. "Very well, Prime. I'll play along for now. Two officers accompanying, no weapons. Name the location."


Megatron, Soundwave, and Starscream took a wide circular approach to the meeting site, a sort of natural amphitheater in the stone formations at the far end of the land designated as Mt. St. Hilary National Preserve (not that there was anything on this mudball worth preserving— once its energy sources were properly plundered, anyway). The brightly-colored figure of the Prime was easily spotted from the air, standing to one side of the little hollow. Pacing nearby was Ironhide, rust-red nearly matching the dusty ferrous rocks around. And there in the dappled shadows of nearby foliage lurked Jazz.

/Soundwave, scan them,/ Megatron ordered.

A full processor intrusion was out of the question, for the moment— the Autobots would know immediately, and such an act of aggression would end this little chat for certain; Megatron didn't want that to happen until after he learned what Prime was up to, at any rate. But the technopath could do a simple surface scan and gauge a mood, or the general intent of a mech without so much as a tickle on the sensors.

Soundwave reported: /Jazz: cautious, curious, nervous. Ironhide: restless, slightly worried, very curious. Optimus Prime: hopeful, calm./

/So, Prime perhaps knows something that the rest of the Autobot scum don't./ Starscream purred. /How interesting./

/Yes, but at least it doesn't seem to be a trap./ Megatron descended, and the three Decepticons landed neatly on the other side of the amphitheater's basin. /Both of you, follow my lead. We find out what Prime's got before anything else happens. And Starscream, keep it on mute for once in your existence./

"Megatron," the Prime greeted them. "Thank you for coming. I would not have asked if it weren't important."

"It had better be," Megatron rumbled. "You have a lot to answer for if I find this has all been some elaborate trick, some... desperate ploy to end the war by condemning us to death by attrition."

Ironhide bristled. "We're just as surprised about Vector Sigma as you are, Megatron! Maybe you oughta take a closer look at that sparkless monster you've got watching the place. You have any idea what kinda creepy dross Shockwave does back there?"

"Ironhide, stand down," Optimus waved his underling back.

"Shockwave does nothing without my say-so," Megatron said, crossing his arms. "His loyalty and obedience are above reproach." /Soundwave, remind me to get a secondary report from Sunstorm in the future. Perhaps Shockwave could do with a little more oversight./

"I believe the disappearance of Vector Sigma has something to do with the... condition that has affected many of us," Optimus said. "No, it was not my doing, nor that of any of my Autobots. But that these two things occurred nearly simultaneously cannot be a coincidence."

"That's nonsense," Starscream snorted. "If you didn't cause the virus to distract from the sabotage of— oh, just the future of our race— then I don't see what one has to do with the other."

Megatron shot him a warning glare and tapped pointedly at the bare space on his arm where his fusion cannon would normally be, reminding the seeker that the weapon was yet within easy reach from subspace.

"Hear me out," the Prime said, holding up both hands in a placating gesture. "It's not a virus. You've likely discovered the sparks, the nanites building frames inside your very shells? Vector Sigma may be lost, but Primus has not abandoned us to extinction." Prime rested a hand on his midsection. "These aren't a virus, they aren't parasites, they're— our children."

It was a fine day for stunned silences, it seemed.

Megatron could tell by the looks the other two Autobots were giving Prime that this was as confounding to them as it was to the three Decepticons facing them. The Prime had used a word in English, a ridiculous human language. Children? Immature, juvenile organics? Optimus, famed orator that he was, simply didn't commit malapropism, so the word choice had to be deliberate. Why not use the proper Cybertronian term for a new person?

The implication made Megatron very apprehensive, and he very studiously ignored the tiny thing inside him wriggling. /Soundwave?/

/The Prime: believes what he is saying. I am unable to discern more without invasive scanning./

"This is insanity," Starscream cut in. "You expect us to believe we've suddenly become..." The seeker twirled a hand as if trying to pluck the proper term out of the air. "... viviparous? Or do we lay eggs now? We are Cybertronian. Superior machine life. We do not... gestate."

"And yet..." Optimus Prime replied, with a truly insipid little shrug that made Megatron want to hit something. "Consider that our war has left our home planet so ravaged and unstable that just making it all the way into Vector Sigma is prohibitively dangerous. Even Shockwave only sends drones into those deep reaches anymore. Just making the trek to call forth new sparks was as likely to claim as many lives as it brought into being, and all known Keys to Vector Sigma are either long lost or destroyed. We are doing a fine job of making ourselves extinct, Megatron, Vector Sigma or no. And... I estimate it would take me no longer than an hour to name every single known surviving Cybertronian. That is how few we are, how close we are to being nothing more than a cautionary tale in the history texts. But... Primus is giving us a chance."

Megatron stared across the amphitheater at his old adversary for a long, heavy moment. "To do what, exactly, Prime?"

"To save ourselves."

/Lord Megatron,/ whined Starscream over comm, /the Prime's obviously finally cracked a motherboard. Look at how the other two are gawping at him. Let's just end this right here, right n—/

/You will keep your null rays offline and in subspace if you know what's good for you,/ Megatron snarled back. /Yes, look at the stupefied Autobots and how hopeful and foolish they look. We can use this, Starscream. Prime wants so badly for peace? Let's give it to him. Let's help them puzzle out this little parasite mystery, all the better to snatch whatever eventual cure out from under them. The price for this ceasefire will be paid in energon, one way or another. And if this nonsense about 'children' is true? How many have been confirmed as carrying?/

And Starscream betrayed no outward smirk, but the coy flicker of his optics spoke volumes of smug deviousness. /Fifteen new Decepticons to mold into deadly warriors, my lord./

"Come, Prime. Let us discuss terms for this ceasefire."