"So, feeling the pull of the motive?" Nightbeat asked Onslaught from his spot at the kitchen counter, sipping a glass of energon. They were currently mid-way through their shift.

"Nor particularly," Onslaught told him as he relaxed in a chair by the table. "If I murder anyone, I would be putting my men at risk and I can't risk that."

"How fraternal of you," the detective muttered to himself as he looked around the area. "Think anyone else is?"

"Undoubtedly," the tactician answered. "We've all probably lost something during the war. It isn't too far-fetch to think that someone could be thinking about it… even you."

"Hmm…," Nightbeat mummed to himself, ignoring the accusation.

"Got something worth killing for in order to obtain?" Onslaught asked, glaring at him.

"…Maybe, but in our current situation, I don't care about it," he answered.

"Now why is that?"

"It's for a personal reason," Nightbeat told him. "I'm not giving you my backstory."

"Huh? Why not?" Onslaught asked, confused by Nightbeat lie of questioning.

"The less you reveal about yourself, the longer you last. Don't you ever read mystery novels?" Nightbeat questioned him.

"Not really. I'm more of a reader of strategy guides than mystery books," he told him.

"Well, if you're reading a book with a dwindling cast, the one who give out the least amount of backstory live longer, because the reader wants to know them and having the explanation end with his death just doesn't make for a satisfying read," Nightbeat told him. "Get some character development and reveal some personal backstory, you're guaranteed to be the next to die. I've noticed that happening in the previous murders."

"Nightbeat, this is real life, you know that, right? No one is writing all the words from your mouth," Onslaught tried to calm him down.

"Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't," Nightbeat muttered. "For all we know, someone is planning every last detail of our lives to the nitty-gritty details."

"…I don't like where this conversation is going," Onslaught muttered. "Too metaphysical."

"Want to move to a different subject?" Nightbeat offered.

"I guess. So… about who's behind this, who do you think it is?" Onslaught asked him.

"To be honest, I don't know exactly," Nightbeat confessed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "If I were to make a guest, I could point to a few conspiracies."

"Conspiracies? So you have baseless guesses," he specified.

"They're not baseless. They're just… a bit out there," the detective defended his position.

"Right… what are some of these theories, may I ask?" Onslaught asked him skeptical.

"Well, my first guess would have to be The Institute," Nightbeat told him.

"Uh, background information for the thankfully ignorant," he asked him.

"Well, The Institute is basically some sort of widespread shadow organization that subtly affects the population at large," Nightbeat told him.

"An organization called The Institute, which is a singular pronoun, is wide-spread and affects the population at large? Wow, you might actually be more loony than Wildrider," the tactician bemoaned.

"First off, it's shadow organization. Second, it uses a singular pronoun to make us think that there is just one building when in fact there are multiple amounts, all engaging in controlling the masses through scrambling with their brains of some sort," the detective explained to him.

"Wow… you're crazy."

"I hate the silence," Drift pouted to Ratchet as the two of them sat at the table. Ratchet stayed silent, turning his look around the room blindly, paying attention to nothing in particular. Drift knew that Ratchet was still greatly affected by Optimus's apparent death, but he had to do what he to do whatever he could do to make Ratchet stay sane. "Hey Ratchet, can you at least talk to me?" he asked loudly, not caring if the others heard.

"Huh, what?" Ratchet mumbled, turning his gaze towards Drift. "You want something?"

"You're fading out, Ratchet," Drift told him. "You're not paying attention to anything."

"Oh, apologies," he mumbled. "Just that, Optimus…."

"Yeah, I know. We're all affected by it, even those who never cared much about him. He was an iconic figure to those who didn't know him and a close friend to those who did… especially you," Drift said sorrowfully. "But, that doesn't mean we just shut down when he dies. He expects us to live on when he dies. No one lives forever."

"But they can live for a long time," Ratchet murmured. "Cryostasis, a good doctor, healthy source of energy, and good social skills can make one practically immortal. I was just foolish enough to think Optimus would be like that."

"Well, I guess it couldn't be help. He still had a lot of enemies who wanted him dead."

"To go along with that, Rung said he had something called a martyr complex. He would do whatever he can to make sure the Autobots would win, even sacrifice himself for it, even if it isn't necessary."

"Yeah… how many false reports of Optimus's death were there?" he asked.

"Hmph, well, let me see," Ratchet murmured, thinking it through with the faintest trace of a smile on him. "If I remember correctly, roughly 40, probably higher."

"Wow… that's pretty impressive. I bet no one else can claim to have died that many times," Drift chuckled.

"Hmph, no, I don't think so," Ratchet chuckled along with him.

"Imagine when they got the report for Optimus's death the twentieth time or so. They're probably like 'Seriously, he died again?'"

"Nah, I think they'll be like 'Are you absolutely sure he died this time? Got a body and everything?'"

"Yeah, that would probably be more likely," Drift agreed.

"Yeah…," Ratchet murmured, thinking things through. "You know, all we got was a video. We don't have the body itself."

"Exactly," Drift said. "It's too soon to call it quits on Optimus yet."

"Yeah… I guess," Ratchet assented. "I don't think we'll know until we open those doors and be met with the smell of life or death."

The two aristocrats glared at each other as they waited out the shift. Blast Off was glaring with a cold malevolence, sitting still in his chair in a relax position that reeked of disdain. Mirage was a bit more revved up, twitching slightly in is chair, as if he just wanted to reach over the table and bash his brains in. If the others weren't in the room, he might've actually done it.

"My, my, I remember when you were better at keeping your emotions in check," Blast Off murmured softly, taking a cube of energon from the table and drinking it slowly before slowly putting it back. "You've gotten soft over the years."

"It's been an adjustment. With the Autobots, you learn to depend on everyone, not just yourself," Mirage defended himself. "You don't have to be afraid to show your emotions to them. They won't attack you for it, barring a few exceptions."

"There's exceptions to every rule, isn't there?"

"Yes, I guess so. After all, you were an exception with the Decepticons as well if I remember correctly."

"Hmm?" he mummed.

"Well, you and the rest of the Combaticons seem to care for each other, as do the other Gestalt groups in general," Mirage noted. "You're sub-zero personality becomes lukewarm with them. Minor, but noticeable."

"Hmpf, well, I've learn that, in order to survive, you have to cooperate. Megatron would encourage the strong to survive, but if we work together, everyone can, not just the strong," Blast Off explained. "May seem odd to hear that coming from me, but the gestalt program wasn't exactly a choice. I was forced to be with them. None of us knew each other beyond the barest tales from other people. With the gestalt program, we were all force to share a bond, one that can't be broken by anything except death. Naturally, we all found it mutually beneficial to actually get to know each other and learn out strengths and weaknesses, what we enjoyed, what we hate, every important detail. Yes, believe it or not, learning to trust each other was what made us such a feared force."

"A house divided falls while a house united stands," Mirage murmured. "The Autobots realized that and cooperated with each other and won. You lost due to the fact that your army was just a fragile alliance between a bunch of criminals and psychopaths."

"Stereotyping, are we?" Blast Off noticed, a little amused. "You know as well as I do that just as many of our ranks were simply desperate people wanting change. Simply saying that it was a army of thugs and killers is disingenuous, although it certainly fit the reasoning for some of our ranks."

"More like a majority of them," Mirage murmured.

"Oh, so you went and did a meet and greet with all of the Decepticons in the army and came to the sound conclusions that most of them are irredeemable psychopaths? I never knew you were so thorough," the sniper snarked.

"It's a reasonable assertion," he affirmed his belief.

"Hmm… no it isn't. At best, I'll give you 30%," Blast Off offered. "We have a nice variety of socio-and-psychopaths, but an army filled with them would be inefficient. It basic logic."

"Hmph," he grumbled. "That's just your assertion."

"Your patriotism is amusing."

"So, you want to ditch this place and go somewhere else?" Smokescreen asked Hoist, bored.

"You're kidding… right?" Hoist asked. Smokescreen responded by looking at him with the most serious face that he could muster.

"This. Is. Boring," he emphasized each word. "I need to do something besides waiting on what is obviously nothing."

"Nothing is a good thing. Leaving the room is what allow incidents to happen, you moron," the repairer chastised.

"The word you are looking for is murders, you politically correct stick-in-the-mud," the gambler chastised him. "Honestly, do you think, after the results of the past three murders, that anyone will be considering murder?"

"I not sure, especially concerning you."

"Especially concerning me? What? You still think I'm a viable suspect for being the serial killer?"

"Yes. I have no evidence, but then I have no evidence for anybody else either. That means I have to treat all of you in equal regard," Hoist reminded him.

"…Damn, that sucks," Smokescreen murmured, rubbing the back of his head. "Jazz won't tell us anything, so even if he's already proofed that I couldn't have done it, we don't know."

"If Jazz made any significant progress, then he would've told us by now," he told him.

"Huh, I guess you make a good point."

"Exactly, we have to watch you for two good reasons and I won't stop watching you."

"Right understood. It's still… very… two reasons?" Smokescreen asked, confused. "I thought you just had to worry about me assaulting Scavenger."

"Huh! Oh, well, you don't have to worry about it. Trust me, you don't want to know… unless you already know."

"I have no fucking clue," he informed him, "but I'm immensely interested now."

"Drop it," Hoist threaten, glaring at him. Smokescreen flinched at his glare before he replied.

"Alright, fine… if you tell me what going on between you and the aristocrats," Smokescreen offered.

"Why is that relevant to you?" Hoist asked, surprised.

"Well, we're drinking buddies, aren't we?" Smokescreen told him.

"It was one time."

"Once is enough. Everyone who drinks with me once is a drinking buddy," he assured him. "Now, wanna explain to me."

"Hmm… fine," Hoist murmured before he began explain the situation between him, Mirage, and Blast Off.

"Huh, rich people problems. I never understand them," Smokescreen murmured.

"I'm not rich, in case you haven't noticed.

"Yeah, I know. You're the average joe of the group here. Not really many distinguishing factors about you, barring your skills to repair things, which is magnificent."

"Great job with the backhand compliment there. It really soften the blow of your insults," Hoist remarked harshly.

"Meh," Smokescreen murmured. "Well, is my description of you not accurate?" Hoist flinched at that comment and he smirked. "Knew it. Now, will we talk about solving your problem as quick as possible?"

"Well, we'll have to wait until the motive is-"

"No we don't," Smokescreen told him. "We just have to get out group with the other group tomorrow and get a reconciliation going."

"But, didn't we separate to avoid having too many people to watch at the same time?" he questioned him.

"Yeah, but I'm sure we'll be fine," Smokescreen told him.

"But, it's best to be safe rather than-"

"Oh! How about the mall? The security you and Mirage made are still here and active, right?" Smokescreen remembered.

"That… that's right! It would discouraged anyone from committing a murder there," Hoist realized. "Good idea."

"What drinking buddies are for."

"Well… just the two of us," Nautilator murmured as him and Bludgeon were on overwatch. Nautilator was slouched over his chair while Bludgeon sat straight. Onslaught had taken charge of the bed while Nightbeat was sleeping against a wall next to the bathroom.

"Yes, it is so," Bludgeon agreed, drinking a cube of energon. "How astute of you."

"Your sarcasm is noted."

"Hmm…"

"Anything you want to talk about?" he question the metallikato expert.

"Uh, well… not really," the (un)luckster replied. "Just another day in murder academy, in which no clues are known and people have a tendency of dying, usually violently."

"Blunt, but accurate."

"Yeah…." Nautilator thought something through. "So, what's your plan?"

"My… plan?" he wondered.

"Your plan for what you're going to do when we get out of here," Nautilator specified.

"Ah!" Bludgeon gasped. "I thought you were asking how I was going to murder someone."

"Nonono," he squealed out. "We don't need to think about that. Let's think happier stuff."

"Hmpf… if you want to think of happier stuff, I would think you want to talk about the past, because the future is so uncertain right now," Bludgeon offered. "But, if you must know, if the world has been ruined again, then I have no choice but to cooperate with everyone else to survive. If the world is fine, then I guess I'll take my leave to a place in isolation."

"You really like being by yourself, don't you?" Nautilator questioned.

"Hmm, well, it's a thing that I used to now. I have no one to follow, so it's best to be alone."

"But, do you have to?" Nautilator questioned.

"No, I just prefer it. Question is, why are you so interested in me?" Bludgeon turned on him, causing Nautilator to recoil in his chair.

"Noreason, leaveitalone," Nautilator babbled quickly.

"Hmm, such a telling answer," Bludgeon muttered. "You don't have many allies, do you?"

"Ugh! Well…," Nautilator trailed off before speaking again, "I'm not exactly popular in many circles… or any, really. Nobody really likes me because I'm consider a giant failure."

"Not an entirely inappropriate response to you," Bludgeon murmured.

"But, you seem to tolerate me, which puts you a step above how most people treat me," Nautilator told him happily.

"…You must have really low standards," he gapped at that. "I don't have friends here."

"You're close enough," Nautilator murmured. "I tried a lot of things to get people to like me, but the only one who seem to have any interest is the DJD and there is no way I'm being associated with them. They probably who want me for my voice, creepy fraggers."

"Of course…," Bludgeon sourly murmured.

"I mean, those psychos just want to torture and maim and kill and…," Nautilator continued to rant as Bludgeon continued to watch over him with a bored expression.

"How's Laserbeak doing?" Scavenger asked, examining the bird closely on Skywarp's shoulders.

"He's doing fine," Skywarp told him, lightly rubbing the pet's neck. "He's been drinking more energon, which is good. He wasn't drinking much energon at first, and feeding him the high-grade really didn't help him, but he's doing better. Should be eating normally soon."

"Oh, that's good," Scavenger said, leaning over to pet him.

"You do that, he'll cut you," Skywarp told him with a glare from Laserbeak to go along with it. Scavenger wisely backed off.

"So, what are you thinking?" Hound asked Rewind as he fetched a cube of energgpn for the two of them.

"I'm just thinking about stuff: Chromy, Counterpunch, and the one who is keeping us all here, especially…," Rewind left off, sitting in his chair.

"I figured," Hound muttered, walking back and placing a cube in front of Rewind. "Drink up, we won't be recharging until 10PM." Rewind glanced up at him sadly before he took the cube and drank from it."Alright, good," he murmured before taking a seat across from him.

"Sorry about the morbid thought process, but all I could think about is revenge against the mastermind thinking of ways for him to die. Shooting, stabbing, slicing, acid, bur-"

"Uh, Rewind, could you calm down?" Hound interrupted his imaginative scenarios. Rewind paused, looking at Hound with a sheepish expression before muttering:

"Sorry. Just that, revenge against that bastard would be so wonderful, I can't help but think about it. Whoever he is, he's responsible for all the terrible things here, directly or indirectly, and needs to be held accountable for it."

"By killing him wherever he stands?" Hound questioned him, causing Rewind to finch. "Look, killing him is an enjoyable prospect – in fact, I think it's the only way it's going to end – but thinking of all the ways to kill him would be lowering yourself to his level. Frankly, you need to calm down and think about other things." Rewind looked away, not wanting to face Hound's glare. Hound looked at Rewind's hunched up shoulders and withdraw expression to know that he should be softer.

"Come on, don't shut down," Hound comforted, getting up and getting close to him, wrapping his arms gently around him. Rewind squirmed a bit before relaxing in his hold, comforted by his friend's embrace.

Dead End calmly read his datapad while Mixmaster sat calmly in his chair with a twitch every now and then. It was nearing seven, which meant that Monobear would chime in soon for a new day. Mixmaster lightly tapped his finger on the table, staring at Dead End intently, who didn't let that slip his notice. He had been ignoring him for the most part, but nearing the end of the watch, he decided to finally address him. "Yes?" he finally spoke.

"Are you… suicidal?" Mixmaster asked him. Dead End paused in his reading to look up at him.

"What makes you think that?" Dead End questioned.

"I got tracts in my arms where I inject myself with needles. I can see the lines on your arms where you cut into them, although they're very faint. Obviously, you try to buff them out to make yourself look perfect," Mixmaster surmised, causing him to flinch at that.

"Well… good optics," Dead End muttered, going back to reading his datapad of poems.

"Nightbeat pointed out the injection marks on my arms, so it made me pay a bit more attention. Knowing how you act, I can see why you would do it, but I don't get why you still haven't finish it. Why are you still alive?" Mixmaster question him.

"Hmph, wouldn't you like to know?" Dead End muttered, sidestepping the question.

"Why don't you answer me?"

DING! DONG!

"This is an announcement. It is now 7 am. Have a wonderful day."

"Well, that was interesting. Maybe you would want to continue this conversation next time," Dead End said, getting up, as well as everyone else moaning and rising from slumber. "It's another day."