History did seem to repeat itself. Maybe it didn't follow the exact timeline of events, maybe the repetition involved different characters, maybe it repeated itself in a way that spanned years rather than minutes. This was not one of these times, and the bulky figure standing in Ratchet's makeshift medbay only served to remind Jazz of that.

"OK, OK," he said, exuding an air of complete calm even as the Decepticon in front of him clenched the brutish claw that became their morningstar, "you're in good servos now. It was just a misunderstandin' tha' 'Streaker, Cliff, an' Camshaft showed up. A-an overreaction. Ignore them."

"I'll fight them if they come near - I swear to Primus Below!" the raider warned.

"Try it, motherboard-fragger! I've got a few blades here with your name on them - literally!" a voice called from the hallway. Camshaft, of course - the other two were unlikely to attack, although anyone could see that Cliffjumper was all but shaking with the effort of holding himself back. Sunstreaker's expression was, of course, unreadable behind his controlled posture and the facemask that obscured his flawless features. Camshaft - a smaller, angrier reconnaissance operative - on the other hand, was being held back; the only thing keeping him from charging into the clinic and driving his katars through the Decepticon's throat being Windcharger, a young Outlier warrior from the last days of the Senate.

"No one's fighting anyone," the mech in the doorway stated. "Windcharger, take these gentlemechs on a walk. Perhaps that will help them cool their afterburners a bit."

Camshaft stopped struggling, single eye burning a hole in the back of the Praxian's helm. "I'm not going ANYWHERE. I'll wait for this piece of garbage here. Thanks."

"Camshaft, go with Windcharger and the others. That is a direct order. Once we're done here, you're going to be the recipient of a very severe review, which I will personally oversee. You're relieved of duty for the solar cycle to take some time to ease your mind in whatever barracks we can dig out in short order. I'll send someone by shortly to lock your subspace compartment until the review's over. Do I make myself clear?"

The recon agent's fingers twitched. "Very."

Waving his hand, the other mech spoke. "Then go. I'll notify your commanding officer."

"Who is that?" the Decepticon whispered to Jazz. It was almost a comical sight: the hulking raider with a mace for a hand leaning in so close to the smaller, more fragile-looking Autobot with overtones of a shaky kind of respect.

Jazz smiled. "Tha's Prowl, our TIC. Thought it might be a good idea to get him down here. He used ta be a Decepticon, too. Watch yo'self, though - he can be kinda a sticky piston."

Prowl, for his part, didn't seem interested in demonstrating his infamous acerbity. He approached the Decepticon crisply, yet gracefully, and offered a formal nod.

"Bah weep gragnah weep ninny bong, my friend. Prowl - just Prowl, if you please - at your service."

"Private Lift-Ticket of the Old North Crusade, at yours," the raider replied.

Prowl opened his mouth to respond, but was beaten to the punch by his superior officer, who whistled. "Old North Crusade, huh? That's pretty recent. What was it, two lunar cycles ago? Ya didn't tell me that."

"Two and two fifths of a lunar before we launched the Ark, yes," Prowl confirmed. "You're a New-built, then? Former C.O. Shellshock? That must have been hard for you."

"I'm not three lunars old. I bounced around the Equatorial States - or, should I say, the ruins of the Equatorial States - for a while before they found me.

Lift-Ticket was silent for a moment, then continued. "You Autobots have been fed a Charger-scrap story about Shellshock. He and his team are . . . mostly . . . good people. It's the same old Functionist drabble against Outliers and military builds that's misleading you. They had no obligation to take me in, a vagrant youngling from Gangland, but they did. Shellshock fixed me up. He gave me this upgrade. He trained me, fed me, and prepared me for combat for about a sol-cycle before recommending me to the Slagmaker himself. He made me a Crusader."

And then sold you off to be a foot soldier in Megatron's death-or-glory mission. After sending you through the Tri-Torus warzones with very little backup, Jazz thought to himself. Prowl, too, was fighting back a salty comment aimed at Shellshock and probably a good many old-time Senators too. His doorwings flicked agitatedly and his teeth were grit as they did when the Praxian's logic center hit an emotion-laden problem it couldn't solve impartially. Jazz wondered what his friend could feel with all that extra doorwing action and set his own to work.

Determined to not let the silence become too awkward, he tried for a winning smile. "Hey, look. I enjoyed the old Crusader comics as much as anyone back in the day. Still got a collection in a secure location back home, if I'm not mistaken. I respect your . . . er, stepdaddy . . . for his ideals an' his courage ta say what needed sayin', even if I'm not on board with his means, 'kay? Oh, by th' way - is Deadheat really from Velocitron, or is that just a selling point o' th' stories? Sure as sin, no one can live there, right? S'too extreme."

Lift-Ticket said something in response, but Jazz was only half listening as he sent Prowl a private comms-message.

Take it, man. Now's our chance.

"-but he'd rather not tell anyone," the raider finished. "Now, him and Firebreaker on the other hand? That's a steaming can of-"

"We'd . . . like to get down to business, if you're ready," Prowl interrupted, ending the conversation. "You mentioned to my associate that you'd like to defect from the Decepticons?"

Lift-Ticket's visor darkened. "I . . . yes. I was one of the lucky ones. You don't even know what those . . . er, the darker side of the Empire does to kids like me."

"Pretty sure I do," Jazz muttered to himself.

"Even when you're a certified Raider under direct command of General Brawl and endorsed by a Warlord - Shellshock himself, of all people! - I don't know how most lower-rank mechs can stand it, let alone those femmes like Astraea or Thunderblast. The abuse I've suffered - I'd taken to wearing this armor cycle after cycle; just so the weaker ones would think twice before messing with me."

Prowl's face remained impassive, but his eyes were filled with the kind of weariness only seen when a battle-hardened soldier sees themselves reflected in the soul of another being. Jazz couldn't help but realize that their Decepticon guest began rubbing his right wrist, where the morningstar became his hand. Something tickled the edge of Jazz's awareness - a tingle so faint that a non-Praxian wouldn't have even registered it. Well, half-Praxian, at least. Half-Praxian with an enhanced sensory suite graded for Special Ops use.

"Primus below and his Firstborn's Sword. That's rough, friend. I wish I could tell you that I know how it feels. I can't, but hey - chin up. Prowl's been inside for centuries - he probably can relate. For a while, he even reported directly to Megatron."

Lift-Ticket shuddered - barely, but Jazz's newly-hyper-alert doorwings read the movement inside the heavy armor. "Before I joined the Imperial Raiders, I thought the stories of how Megatron treated his officers were myths."

Prowl crossed his arms. "They're not. You should have been around when Starscream was still in his 'good' graces."

"He's mellowed out since then, I've heard. He's hardly even shot anyone since I got into the Raiders. But when someone does cross him, well . . . it's not gentle. At all."

Sliding to his feet, Jazz discreetly ensured his sword was ready for deployment. It was. "I'll leave you two to it. You've found common ground - see if ya can't talk conditions while I'm gone. 'Imma go get us all some Energon - tha' is, if the excavation teams have found any tha's still charged."

He left quickly and quietly, taking care to shut and lock the door behind him. The hallway was dark and warm, the way a volcanic cave made of insulated alien metal should be. The lights on the wall sconces were running at 8% power to save energy until a stable power source was established. Distant voices drifted down the hall from the general direction of the bridge.

Whirr . . . his doorwings adjusted as he made a big show of stretching. His HUD returned the very information he'd been dreading. He wasn't alone.

"Ravage. Decepticon spymaster. I see you've brought your brothers along with you, huh? Little bit of family bonding time? Honestly, I thought you were Cliff at first. Wouldn't be the first time he pulled somethin' like this."

There was no response for nearly enough time that Jazz seriously considered getting his doorwings recalibrated. Then, a patch of shadow in front of him shimmered and solidified into the shape of a big cat.

"Well done, Autobot," Ravage's gravelly voice growled from Jazz's comm unit. "I see there is no sneaking up on you."

Jazz's sword telescoped out to its full length, aiming a needle-sharp point at a light on the wall, which clicked in surprise and turned into Laserbeak.

"Can't Shift on me neither, bird girl," the Autobot continued. "An' Frenzy's crawlin' across the rafters, ready to hit me up with a couple dozen razor discs?"

He switched on a spotlight - a holdover from his new vehicle mode - and pointed it at the ceiling, where the blue-steel minibot was indeed holding position between two support arches.

"It was gonna be an electro-dart, but fine," Frenzy grumbled.

"Y'all need ta work on your infiltration skills," the Autobot crowed. "Guess it's the Spec-Ops trainin', but I'm jus' a smidge outta your weight class! Ah . . . I gotta say though, I'm feelin' a little outnumbered here! You're all, what, one one-half o' a mech put together? I mean, I've faced worse odds befo', but seriously? Unfair."

"Yes, yes, the 'Oooh, Cassetticons are small!' joke we've all heard a billion times before!"

"Very original, darling."

"It does not matter," Ravage said shortly. "You are exception, Staxisian. Many cycles of training make one wise in ways of stealth. Your friends - will not all be so lucky."

Laserbeak squawked. "Besides, going by your math, this will be a 2v1 fight anyway."

"Yeah, what she said. Our favor, thick. You forgot a Cassetticon."

Jazz's eyes widened under his visor as a proximity alarm went off in his head. He whirled around, but too late - an explosion of metal feathers and the whine of turbines filled the air in front of Jazz's face. A thick tail wrapped around his neck, lifting him into the air.

"Keep your filthy swordpoint off of my sister, groundpounder," an erudite voice sneered. Jazz knew exactly who it was - Buzzsaw, Soundwave's Sculptor, one of the most elite spies in a unit of elite spies. He was trouble, even for an experienced mech like Jazz.

"They say that in jazz, you just . . . make things up as you go along," Buzzsaw said conversationally, but with an edge of cold malice to his digital voice. "That's just perfect. You know, Jazz, sculpture is much the same as music in many ways. You take some raw materials, and whittle them away under your tools. You listen to the block of whatever-it-is you're playing with. Through trial and error, you discover exactly what it WANTS to be, buried underneath that boring grayish silver slab."

The condor-like Cassetticon ran a thin feather over Jazz's faceplate, then licked the traces of weeping oil off of it.

"I think you'll like this. It's just like you. I have a feeling that you're gonna make a be-a-UTIFUL statue!"


Wheeljack stumbled into the room accompanied by a blast of heat, which was stifled almost immediately by the rebooted temperature control of the Ark's server room. He was steaming, coils of vapor curling off of his shoulders and the edges of his newly-fabricated, slightly toasted lab coat. Scrap. The coat, he thought, made a bold fashion statement. He'd look into repairing it later, but he had to cool off first.

The mechs that awaited him were slumped across the chairs and tables of the server room, lurking in the shadows to keep cool even as they helped themselves to the meager rations of Energon and oil the excavation teams had rounded up. Optimus Prime, on the other hand, was standing to allow his men the few flat, accommodating spaces that hadn't already been taken.

Grabbing a half-depleted cube from a tiny stack by the door, Wheeljack hung up his trusty wrench on a convenient hook and threw himself into a wall in a leaning position. "Ach . . . thanks for the help, guys. It was hot, heavy, an' dangerous, but th' Geothermal Mill's ready fer action. It should be mitigatin' the worst o' the eruption as we speak."

"Would've been easier if Gears hadn't lazed around in the medbay and actually helped out," Huffer, commander of the Constructibot Brigade, griped.

Trailbreaker threw back his third serving of Energon - regrettable, but the Defense strategist needed every drop to keep his fuel-inefficient form running - and waved his empty cube dismissively. "Now, now, friend, we've been over this. I'm sure Gears was only joking when he said that. Besides, he did pull the Mill out from the hold, so it's not really like he sat by while we did all the work."

"Knowin' Gears, he's prolly helpin' Ratchet out as we speak - an' complainin' about it th' whole time, too," Ironhide continued.

"Yes, General Shakar is undoubtedly doing his part," Optimus Prime said, surreptitiously placing his own half-full cube in the table next to Trailbreaker. "As a matter of fact, I'd be surprised if there was a single conscious spark on this ship who wasn't. Who wouldn't be giving these . . . events their all? Do not forget, Autobots - the sooner we get the Ark to speed, the better. Megatron's undoubtedly hiding somewhere nearby, waiting for the eruption to settle, so he can strike when we least expect it."

Ironhide grunted. "He knows where we are. We don't."

"Hold on, WE don't know where WE are? Or is it we don't know where THEY are? I'm getting confused messages here," the Constructobot Commander asked.

"In short, both," Optimus answered. "This Mill has kept us busy. The eruption is making things rather difficult. I haven't had a chance to step outside yet, but Teletraan tells me it's quite an interesting world out there. The land, in particular, is utterly breathtaking."

"'Cept for the scrapped-off volcano, of course," Wheeljack and Huffer said simultaneously, then shared expressions of mild disgust.

Optimus's optics glinted. "Quite. We should send out a pair of reconnaissance operatives immediately. Speaking of which, where are those two? I must have commed them breems ago . . ."

"Trailbreaker, whatcha got there? Did Prime's message not go through?"

The enormous defense specialist finished off his last cube and stood at attention. "That's a negative, Wheeljack sir. The message reached Hound and Camshaft, no problem. Thing is, they've been delayed. Knowing Camshaft-"

"What do you mean, 'knowing Camshaft?'" a red-and-black truckformer asked - Overdrive, the recon officer's direct superior.

". . . knowing Camshaft, he's probably screaming obscenities at the Decepticon Jazz's negotiating with in the medbay."

Overdrive considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "Fair enough."

"Not too smart," Ironhide snorted. "He shouldn't be taunting a 'Con who wants to parley. Common sense."

"I'll talk to Camshaft later today. Clearly, he's forgotten his training. I intend to change that."

Just then, a door on the opposite side of the server room spiraled open, admitting Hound and Cliffjumper. Both mechs saluted respectfully.

"At ease, brothers," Optimus said after returning the gesture. "Time is short and we cannot afford to beat around the bush - metaphorically speaking, of course. Literally speaking, however, that is exactly what we intend to do. As you know, Megatron and most of the battlegroup that assaulted the bridge during the raid have revived and left the immediate area sometime in the last two vorns."

"They can't've gotten far," Hound noted. "From what I've heard, only half of them can even fly in secondary config, and they must be discombobulated from the stasis. Megatron's a grounder himself, and he probably wouldn't let the majority of his troops get too far away from him on a strange planet, right?"

"Exactly. You'll have to move quickly and quietly until reinforcements can be found. Cliffjumper, that means track-and-report mission only, do you understand?"

"I understand you sir," Cliffjumper agreed. And I choose to ignore you went unsaid.

"Our sole lead is this location. Wheeljack, if you would?"

The Chief Engineer peeled himself off the wall, produced a spherical device resembling a Sky Spy from one of the pockets on his coat and whacked it with a wrench a couple of times. A holographic scene sputtered to life above it, displaying a concrete bunker set into the side of a hill.

"Sky Spy received this image before it returned to the Ark for a recharge," Wheeljack explained. "We believe it to be some kinda military installment for a branch of the planet's armed forces. It was the first thing in Teletraan's database when Optimus woke up." Several of the vehicles that were scanned for disguises were parked outside. It's possible - an' probable - that the 'Cons are hunkered up there, waitin' out the eruption."

"Plus, it just kinda looks like the sort of place Megatron would want to hang out at," Huffer, who had been studying the hologram, remarked. "Check it out, but keep your optics clear and your mind sharp."

Hound eyed the display with a seasoned optic for about three seconds, then nodded. "We'll need to get going. No telling what they're planning."

"You should be able to exit the Ark from the hangar on Deck Nine," Optimus called after him. "Try to avoid using the lifts - we've no idea if they're still operational."

"Copy that, sir. Come on, Cliff! Daylight's wasting!"

"Cliffjumper, wait." the Prime commanded. The Autobot in question hesitated for a moment, turning to Optimus.

"Sir?"

"I'm told that you were one of the mechs who showed up to neutralize our Decepticon guest. I trust that Lift-Ticket's presence among us won't cause you to make any . . . rash decisions in the field?"

Cliffjumper, for his part, flashed a rakish grin. "Don't worry, Prime. I do get a bit heated sometimes, but I won't let anything put me off a mission. Trust me."

"Very well. You're dismissed," Optimus conceded after a piercing stare.

The silence in the server room continued for a moment or two, broken only by the whirr of machinery and cooling fans. "Ironhide, prepare a strike team as you see fit and prepare for battle to the best of your ability. I will join you and your chosen troops when Hound and Cliffjumper report back."

"You don't think Cliff can crack it, do you?" Overdrive asked cautiously, as if testing the thickness of ice with a tentative foot.

"I have faith that those two will find our enemies. I have . . . admittedly less faith that our resident archaeologist will keep his emotions in check once they do. Regardless, we must be ready. If we play our cards right, we may be able to stamp out the new ruling caste before they can return to Cybertron to expand and reinforce their empire, bolstered by the new knowledge of this planet."

Huffer threw a tiny ball-peen hammer at the table he was sitting at. It stuck, just barely, in the nylon-covered tabletop. "Scrap. Cards. I always sucked at Triad."

Just then, Gears burst into the room, panting heavily. This was the second time someone had entered in this fashion today, the first being Ratchet, reporting about the situation in the medbay.

"Gears! You lazy son-of-a-sprocket, what are you doin' here! The Mill's already installed!" Huffer exclaimed.

Wheeljack and Optimus stepped forward, being two of the three highest-ranking individuals in the server room. "What's wrong?" the latter mech asked worriedly. A horrible thought occurred to him, like the bottom being dropped out of his fuel tank, though he revealed nothing outwardly. Optimus Prime swallowed back the taste of bile in his mouth. "Have the negotiations gone south? Is Jazz . . ." he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Worse," Gears gasped, "The 'Con's friends have come back ta break 'im out."


The scene that met the impromptu battlegroup as they entered the medbay corridor wasn't pretty, but Jazz's pained grunts offered some reassurance - he wasn't dead, at the very least. Ratchet was leaning over the sterling Autobot, working tirelessly to stabilize Jazz's condition.

Optimus rushed to his SIC's side. He clenched his eyes shut once, visions of a bleeding Aerialbot of the same silver color as Jazz filling his mind, but he forced them back to a dark, cold corner of his mind. He couldn't afford to worry more on the subject at the moment. Like a good leader, he transformed his conscience into a businesslike mentality.

"Jazz - are you going to pull through?" His tone was even and calm, yet had a certain air of urgency.

The Autobot SIC coughed, pink Energon flecking his lips. "Swear ta Primus, don't anybody 'round here even know me? 'Course I'll make it! Took me by surprise, is all. There's only so much a mech can do when he's gettin' ganked by four whole sneaky li'l Mini-droids, ain't there?"

"Which way did they go?" Ironhide inquired with steely conviction. His twin cannons spun menacingly.

"They're down th' hall, ducked inta th' maintenance shaft jus' befo' Camshaft an' 'Streaker came racin' in like cryptgliders outta the Pit. Shouldn't be too hard ta find."

"Why's that?"

Jazz grinned devilishly, a gruesome sight with his bloody mouth. "Why, 'cause one'a them took a Magma Frag shell straight to th' faceplate an' another one's tryin' ta spit the sword outta his throat. You bettah hurry up, though, 'cause some King-sized Decepticons are bound ta be knockin' down our door any click now."

"Camshaft, you say? I've got a bone to pick with him," Overdrive boomed as he joined the group, clanking past in his ornate and ridiculously huge Knight's Armor, a relic from his time governing Nyon. He obviously hadn't gotten the whole conversation over his comms link and the sound of his armor. "MAXIMUM! OVERDRIVE!"

And with that, a rocket booster on the back of his armor opened up and fired, lightly cooking the faceplates of his compatriots with benzene-flavored vapor. The combat specialist hung left and plunged into the maintenance shaft, singing his city-state's national anthem in an incongruous tenore.

"Let's break 'em down," Huffer said, and followed brandishing his nailguns. The others trickled out of the corridor too - including Optimus.

"Ooh! Get my sword if ya can, will ya? I'll be right down - jus' gotta get back on my pedes!" Jazz called after them.


Three levels above them, a Cassetticon, runty even for his size class, stopped in front of a CR tank suspended above a blackened chasm.

"Are you sure this is it?"

The dim red glow from the lava far below reflected off of Rumble's body, creating a rather sinister look. "You've got the same bond that I do."

Glitch stood on his hind legs, peering into the pod clinging onto the edge of a precipice overlooking the uppermost deck of the Ark; pockmarked with artillery craters and so coated with soot one could barely make out the glint of the ship's sparse Electrum plating.

"It's a miracle he hasn't been lost to the volcano already," Glitch murmured. "We've been asleep for such a long time . . ."

Rumble scoffed, holding himself back from stomping his foot or punching a wall. He didn't like restraining himself. "Knock off th' Nightbeat slag an' let's get goin', or else th' Birds'll get taken apart! I wanna get outta here already!"

"Rather uncharacteristic of you, wouldn't you say?" the feline Cassetticon snarked, then blanched as his sibling shot a piercing glare his way. "Yes, yes. I'll get right on it. Dear Onyx . . . it's not good, I'm afraid. Might be too much damage for even a stasis pod to fix . . ."

A pang of fear touched Rumble. Glitch could feel it too, however momentarily, through their spark-bond. "But . . . he'll be OK though, won't he? Boss's too tough to just . . . fade away, right?"

"I might be able to coax the pod to do things it normally wouldn't," the Medic said. He got up on two legs again and flexed his right paw, which transformed into a highly articulated hand with opposable thumbs and everything. Tiny touchpads on the fingertips glowed a soothing blue as they came online, and Glitch took a moment to acquaint himself with his new appendage. ". . . but I'll need time. Cover me - we can only hope Creator'll come through before the Autobots sense us."

Naturally, gunfire instantly erupted somewhere on a lower level. Close. Very close. A peculiar vehicle, like a forklift without a cabin, raced into the room. Lying prone across it was the limp body of Buzzsaw, spewing fluids all over the room. A sword was driven nearly all the way through his long, sinewy neck.

"Buzzsaw's hurt!" said Laserbeak, somewhat unnecessarily. "Did what I could in the field. Wasn't enough. Gotta go now!"

Rumble swore. "Glitch! We've got a problem here, see?"

Glitch felt as if he'd suddenly been torn in two. Grimacing, he slapped a button on the tank and bounded over to help his brother.

Attention all, Ravage's voice came over the Cassetticon frequency. Progress report. We are being overrun. Cannot hold much longer - should we be calling the others or no? Come back ASAP.

The white tiger choked back a sob of panic - not from the stress of his medical operations, but from the sounds of angry Autobot voices coming out above the gunfire that was growing louder and closer by the second.

Tigertrack, we are losing ground. Progress report. Now, Ravage continued - calm, but very insistent.

"Ahem," Glitch coughed, trying in vain to put the situation out of his mind. "Under the circumstances, I think we should - yes. Alert Megatron. Tell him - tell him to send as many troops as possible. I'll take the blame for it. Again. I'm sorry for dragging you into this, all of you."

"I hope you know what you're doing, glitch-head," Rumble muttered. "We'll be lucky if any of us makes it outta here with our lives."

Glitch didn't respond - he was too busy, moving back and forth between the pod and Buzzsaw, trying frantically to stabilize both of their conditions. Of course they would survive - they had to. Because, suspended in green nanobot fluid that had just begun to swirl, burned and broken, clinging to the edge of life in his deep slumber, was Soundwave. And he was the key to the Decepticons' survival.

FIN