Chapter 13: Patience and Patients

Rremember when you tell those little white lies
That the night has a thousand eyes.

- Bobby Vee, "The Night Has a Thousand Eyes"


Technically, there was no reason for the ship to run on a twenty-four hour schedule. Their native planet of Cybertron had a much longer solar-cycle rotation and, anyway, very few rooms on the Heretic had windows. And even those that did usually didn't admit a lot of light.

But Cybertronians had an almost psychological need to harmonize with whatever planet they happened to be on. It just made them feel more comfortable. Safer. And Primus only knew the Decepticons needed anything that would set them at their ease these days. And so, in addition to picking up native alternate modes, they had adapted to a new and shorter circadian rhythm. With a few exceptions, they recharged during Earth's night and woke with each new day.

One of the exceptions was, naturally, Airachnid. And perhaps this was because real spiders never sleep; they only wait.

Airachnid's feet clicked against the metallic flooring as she wandered the corridors. The ship's lights were dimmed down at night, to conserve energon, but the shadows spilling across the floor didn't bother her. She could see in the dark, or very nearly. Occasionally one of the spider legs on her back reached out to tap at a wall, her sensors gathering data. Everything seemed calm, but then it always did, right up until all hell broke loose.

Their war with the Autobots had been like that ever since they'd fled the gutted ruins of Cybertron. The Decepticons would outrun them for a while and settle into a halfway normal routine, and then BAM, an Autobot raid. Or an ambush out in the field. Then there was the time Arcee had infiltrated the ship and poisoned their energon rations. The officers had all been ill, and about twenty Citizens had died. Shockwave and Soundwave had worked tirelessly to increase their shielding and their cloaking devices after that unpleasant incident.

Back when Shockwave could be relied upon, Airachnid thought with a bitter twist of a smile. By the Pit, back when Soundwave could be relied upon.

Not that she blamed Soundwave. His . . . eccentricities . . . were not his fault. Sometimes, despite his silence, he was nearly the same Soundwave she remembered, sending her amusing little videos he found on the Humans' interconnected network, or self-made pictures of Skyquake or Starscream with mustaches drawn on them. Other times, he was . . . the new Soundwave, the one that forced you to acknowledge, every second, that his face was now a blank mask, that you didn't know what was going on behind that mask, and that you never would. Trauma said it was all normal—the silence, the unnatural stillness, the way Soundwave would sometimes just walk away from his post or from conversations, the way he obsessively tuned up his mini-bots and kept pouring over designs for new ones.

"He is improving," Trauma insisted. "If you compare his most recent therapy sessions to the ones six months ago . . ." But he could not promise that Soundwave would ever fully recover; he refused to even address Soundwave's reluctance to speak. "Give him time," he kept saying. "Give him time."

And time kept passing. Six months. Yeah, that was when everything started to go to slag. Six months ago. Thanks a lot, Autobots. And always, in the back of her mind, Airachnid found herself adding, Thanks a lot, Shockwave.

"Hey, spider-lady," a deep voice said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Hello, Skyquake." She turned, mildly surprised—not by the green and white jet's presence, she had heard him coming from a mile away, but that he was awake at this late hour.

"You patrolling?"

"Always."

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all."

The jet walked alongside her, his footsteps heavy and echoing. His official title was Vanguard; Starscream had come up with that one, a tactful way to avoid giving him the same position as his deceased brother, who had been their Scout. Screamy's finicky diplomacy always made Airachnid a little scornful; Skyquake wasn't stupid, he surely knew it was the same job.

"Quiet tonight," she said now. Skyquake wanted something from her, that much was obvious, but there was no need to rush him. She was patient. She was a spider. She waited.

They stopped just short of the library sector, drawing to one side to allow three Citizens to pass. They were the typical jet-frames, burnt orange with grey metal faceplates and shy, slightly nervous smiles. Part of the cleaning crew, judging by the supplies gathered in their spindly arms. Skyquake muttered a greeting as they hurried past. Airachnid just nodded. She could be more of a comfort to them by keeping her mystique intact than by fraternizing.

When the generics were out of sight, Skyquake turned to the Security Director. "I want to be there when he's questioned."

Airachnid tilted her white and yellow helm innocently. "Who, now?"

"Don't," growled Skyquake, his deep voice dropping to an even lower octave. "Not over this. You know who I mean. Yellowjacket."

"Actually his name is Bumblebee, or so we've been informed."

"I don't give a scrap what his name is. I want to be there."

"Why?" Airachnid put a hand on her hip.

"Why? Why do you think?"

"I think it's because you want revenge or some slag like that, and we both know that Megatron isn't going to allow that."

Skyquake scowled. "It's . . . not about vengeance," he said after an extended silence. "I'm just curious."

"Mm-hmm, right. Makes sense. That explains why you're all agog over Yellowjacket but haven't shown one byte of interest in Doc Knock-Off." She started walking again, her strides long and measured. Skyquake once again fell into pace beside her, his chevron-like brow drawn down over his blue eyes in a frown.

"I want to see if it's the same bot."

"It isn't. Knockdown's tests—"

"I don't give a slag about tests, I want to SEE this . . . this clone with my own optics," Skyquake spat. "Even if he is a different frame, that doesn't necessarily make him a different bot, you know?"

"Are you suggesting a spark transfer?" Airachnid raised an eyebrow. "That wouldn't explain how we have two of these interlopers. One being a copy of our medical officer."

"I don't know what I'm suggesting, I just know I have to see for myself."

Airachnid rolled her optics at Skyquake's stubbornness. Truly, this mech had a one-track mind. "So why come to me?"

"Huh?"

"Why come to me?" she repeated, her yellow and green spider legs raising and dropping in a shrug to emphasize the question. "Why not go to Knockdown? The medical bay is his little domain, after all." When the Seeker didn't answer, she said wryly, "You already asked him, didn't you?"

"I did," Skyquake finally admitted, in a growl. "And do you know what that . . . that MINI-BOT . . . said? He said it was a 'ridiculous notion' and that I'd be a 'distraction to everyone' and 'would probably offline the patient given half a chance.'"

"Well," the femme said pointedly.

"And then he used his sniffy voice and said it was a moot point anyway, because I was too big. Too big!" He pounded his fist into his palm. "Megatron will be there! How am I too big compared to Megatron?"

"Maybe he feels that Megatron fulfills the 'giant bots' quota," Airachnid suggested. "Really, Skyquake, I still don't know what you want from me. I'm afraid you're overestimating my abilities—or rank—if you think I can overrule Knockdown's decisions on his own turf. Why aren't you talking to Screamy? You might—might—just change the good doctor's mind if our glorious Air Commander appealed on your behalf." When Skyquake remained silent, she added, "Don't tell me you talked to her already too."

"No. I wouldn't have a chance with her, I know that. I was hoping that you could talk to Megatron for me. If he ordered Knockdown to let me in—"

"—then there is a very good chance our little blue tyrant of the med bay would refuse Megatron to his face," Airachnid smirked. "Certainly if he thought it would compromise his 'patient.' Never cross a medic."

"Hr-rm. Maybe Megatron could ask Commander Starscream to convince him," Skyquake said after a pause.

"Skyquake. You just suggested that I convince Megatron to convince Starscream to convince Knockdown." She ticked off each individual on her fingers. "A plan with three layers of convincing necessary to succeed. Honey. No. Ah-ah-ah!" She raised a finger to forestall his protests. "Face it, it's not going to happen. However . . . if there are any questions you want me to ask on your behalf, I might be willing. As long as they aren't stupid questions."

Skyquake's jaw moved from side to side. "All right," he said finally. "Ask him . . . how he's related to Yellowjacket. Make sure he isn't Yellowjacket—"

"Don't you think I'd do that anyway? Come on, give me some credit here."

"Sorry." He lapsed into thought. His brows drew down until his eyes were reduced to two pinpricks of blue. "The truth. Just find out the truth."


The miles poured by under the golden wings of the Cybertronian jet as it flew far above the clouds, away from curious Human eyes. Megatron could have used the ground bridge, but he was unwilling to disturb Soundwave's recharge. Starscream would have helped him, of course, if he'd asked, and she could keep secrets. But his Air Commander would have had opinions about his mission, and she could express her opinions very well with no more than the raising of an optic ridge and the thinning of her lips. And she would never, ever have let him go alone.

His Decepticons all worried about him so, as though he were a sculpture made of spun glass rather than a gladiator who had clawed his way out of the Pits of Kaon. Their desire to protect him was amusing and touching, if misplaced. But at times a little stifling as well.

Sometimes it was good to fly solo.

This was one of the reasons he had never requested, let alone ordered, Shockwave's return. The scientist would come back when he was ready. In the meantime, Shockwave was always "a little late". A little late to meetings, to missions, to anyplace where his presence would have been logical. (Megatron's lips quirked in amusement and regret at the very thought of that oh-so-familiar word.) Even irreverent Airachnid kept up the pretense, for the most part—that Shockwave was in his lab on the ship or just around the corner of the corridors somewhere. Just a little late. Just a little delayed.

If only he was, Megatron thought, transforming and landing with a thud in front of a patch of blackberry bushes. He pushed through them without hesitation as the thorns scraped and screeched at his plating. The entrance to the cave was well-hidden and well-protected, not only by the shrubs but by the way the tunnels inside branched and divided. But Megatron did not hesitate. He knew the way.

The tunnel opened up into a cavern, lit by the energon crystals studding the walls. Megatron had once considered mining the area, but the instability of the mountain made it impractical. Now, he took some comfort in the knowledge that Shockwave had a steady supply of energon available for his personal consumption. Assuming he was here somewhere.

The Decepticon leader slowed his steps, listening to the drip-drop of limey water off the stalactites and the quiet rustle of the small Earth creatures clinging to the dark roof far above. A computer monitor flickered at one end of the cave, but all it displayed was a topographic map of the surrounding hills.

"Shockwave?" Megatron called.

The echo of his voice was the only answer.

"Shockwave." His voice rumbled more softly this time, like distant thunder. "We desire—need—your help. You have received the information I sent? About our two . . . discoveries?"

Silence.

"Consider your duty."

This time he heard something, but it wasn't a voice; just a soft chittering at his feet. Looking down, he saw a small organic making weak crawling motions on the floor. It was a ridiculous looking thing, a tiny body framed by long stick-like fingers with a thin, almost transparent membrane of skin wrinkled or stretched between them, depending on whether its limbs were at its sides or outstretched. The pink, wrinkled skin of infancy was visible under a sparse layer of hair, and its eyes were pale and bulbous. It was ugly.

It was helpless.

Megatron knelt down, setting his servo flat and nudging the tiny creature into his palm. Its small, pink mouth opened in protest as it uttered squeaks on a higher frequency than any sound he had heard from an Earth creature to date.

"Perhaps you will grow up to become a Seeker, little one," Megatron chuckled. "I see you are already testing your radar."

He moved over to the wall and lifted the organic as high as his arm would reach. It reached out blindly with its tiny limbs, its claws hooking onto the rocky wall. The roof of the cave—and its kin—were still high above, out of reach, but Megatron could only do what he could do. Hopefully it would be enough.

He turned around. The cavern was still empty, but the image on the computer monitor had changed. The map had been replaced with a blank black screen, and on it two lines of green text, all in caps.

"THE TWO YOU FOUND ARE NOT MINE."

And under that: "I WILL MAKE INQUIRIES."

Megatron read the message in silence before turning on his heel. He had a long flight back.


At the medical bay, the morning was not off to an auspicious start.

Knockdown had told Trauma to open up the med bay two hours early, so they could double-check that everything was in order and start to bring "Bumblebee" out of sedation. Dragging himself to the med bay while his optics were still fuzzy from recharge had put Trauma in a bad mood.

The red grounder, Knock Out, was already awake and seemed a little moody too, more withdrawn than the day before. He gave Trauma that increasingly familiar sideways glance, like he was simultaneously looking at him and not seeing him, before announcing, with a newfound bluntness, that he'd like to have a look around.

"Hint, hint," he added meaningfully, jerking at the stasis cuff on his wrist. It was hard to say which of them, Trauma or Knock Out, looked more surprised when this simple action caused the side rail of the berth to fall off with a loud clang.

"By the Allspark . . ." Trauma pressed his hand to his helm.

"Hm. Don't build 'em like they used to," the clone observed, tapping his chin.

Trauma was already unlocking the stasis cuff from the railing. "Knockdown is not going to be happy if he sees this . . . Can you hold it in place while I fix it?"

Knock Out's substantial shoulders rose and fell in a shrug as he slid off the berth and complied. "He'd be upset about a little equipment failure? If that were the biggest problem I faced in my med bay—erm, if I happened to run a med bay—"

"Doc Knock runs a tight ship," Trauma said distractedly as he wielded a wrench. "He doesn't like anything out of place . . . There! That'll hold for now. Now—back on the berth."

"Really? Do you really think that's necessary, doctor? I mean, I appreciate your caution, 'enemy clone', and so forth, but surely you can see I'm not a threat." Gleaming denta appeared as he smiled winningly.

"Come on, don't be like that." Trauma said. "It's for your own safety too." He made a shooing motion towards the berth and was surprised when Knock Out didn't move.

"How long?" The red mech smiled a little wider, but his smile seemed strained. "Not that I don't appreciate being chained up 'for my own good', but . . . how much longer?"

"Not long now," Trauma said, which could have been the truth for all he knew. He looked at the red bot a little closer, studying his optics and his stiff posture. "Are you in pain?"

Knock Out put his hands on his hips as he leaned forward, all in one sudden snap. "Of course I'm in pain, what do you think!" Then, perhaps noting Trauma's dumbfounded expression, he leaned back and turned the smile back on. " . . . although I appreciate everything you've done for me, of course."

"Well, why didn't you say something? I'll get you some painkiller."

"Oh? Oh." Knock Out raised his optic ridges, looking unsettled. "Well . . . thank you."

Trauma shrugged off the thanks, a bit bemused by Knock Out's reactions. But he supposed it made sense. Rumor had it the Autobots received minimal (and painful) medical care from their medic, Ratchet. Primus only knew how they'd treat a clone. So he spoke kindly the red mech. "Where does it hurt?"

"My back." Knock Out grimaced.

"That doesn't surprise me. We pulled a lot of debris out yesterday and it's often worse during recovery." Trauma moved over to the medical supply cabinets and punched in a code. The grounder followed him.

"Well, being tethered down doesn't help, you know," the red bot groused. His eyes were roaming over the considerable contents of the cabinet, which was so crammed with bottles, pills, and powders that Trauma had to keep taking supplies out as he searched around for what he wanted. "I do have wheels behind my shoulders, you know. Doesn't make for a comfortable recharge, lying on my back."

Trauma picked up a bottle, double-checking its contents. "How do you normally recharge?"

"In vehicle mode, naturally."

Trauma looked at him in surprise, then reminded himself that as an automobile, this was a perfectly viable option for Knock Out. Seekers had to be a bit more aware of space limitations. Nothing quite like the pain of your wings slamming into the walls as you shifted to alt mode.

"Well, you're still in no shape to transform, but we'll try to make you more comfortable tonight," Trauma said. "In the meantime, drink this."

The gentle aqua hue of the Ultramin caught the light as he measured out a dose into a small plastic cup. Trauma felt a surge of pride at his choice. Not only would it ease Knock Out's pain, but the side effect—heavy drowsiness—would keep the clone quiet and docile while Bumblebee was being "interviewed" in the next room.

"Ah. Yes. Thank you." Knock Out's eyes rested briefly on the bottle. "Oops!" His fingers slipped, sending the cup toppling to the ground.

"Knock Out. Oh, scrap," Trauma sighed, reaching for a rag. He dropped it and rubbed it around with his pede, mopping up the spill.

"Sorry, I'm still getting used to the unexpected manicure." Knock Out flared his fingers, both in apology and to display the neatly sheered ends of his digits. "But don't worry, I've got this." And in one fluid movement he picked up a bottle of clear pink liquid, flipped the top, and took a generous swig.

"KNOCK OUT!" Trauma slapped a hand to his helm in horror. "What the frag did you just do?! Oh Primus, oh Primus on a pulley, what the frag did you drink, you stupid—" He wrenched the bottle from the red grounder's unresisting hand, slopping pink liquid over his servos in his haste to flip the bottle around and check its contents.

Knock Out had the gall to look amused. AMUSED. "Well, what's the diagnosis, doctor? Am I going to die?"

"You could have!" Trauma snapped. "This isn't a game, understand? There's antiseptic in here, salves—if you'd drunk something topical, you'd be having your fuel tank pumped out right now!"

Knock Out looked slightly remorseful. "I'm sorry. Very sorry. Very, very sorry. Very, very, very—"

"I get it. You're sorry." Trauma screwed the lid back on the bottle. "Fortunately, you happened to pick up a bottle of Petralodin. A painkiller."

"Lucky!" Knock Out's grin was cocky.

Trauma felt a pang of frustration. This mech, this new-build, just didn't get how much danger he'd been in. And in addition, he'd be wide awake when the officers arrived. Wonderful. "All right, back to the berth."

"Oh, come on. Let me help clean up, at least." He reached for a box of pills. Trauma swept it out from under his fingers.

"No, Knock Out."

"Can't I just—?"

"No."

"Fiiiine . . ." The red clone slunk back to the med berth with an air of petulance. Trauma had just finished clipping the stasis cuff to the rail (he hoped to Primus it wouldn't fall off again), when Ampule and Jumpstart entered the med bay.

"Where have you been? You're late!" Trauma was ready to take out his mood on someone, and the twins' tardiness made them the perfect target. "No—don't even start," he added as their excuses started to tumble forth. "Just—get into the Auxiliary and get Bumblebee off that morphite feed, stat!"

"Yessir!"

"Right away!"

Watching them fairly flee into the next room, Trauma was struck by a sudden, uncomfortable thought. Strictly speaking, no one had ever told Knock Out that they were holding his fellow clone, Bumblebee. They had sort of hinted that Yellowjacket's double was safe and alive, and Knock Out had sort of hinted that he knew Bumblebee was nearby; but no one had actually come out and said anything. Certainly no one had told him that Bumblebee was just one room away. Trauma glanced over to see how the red mech was taking it.

Knock Out was gazing after the jet twins with slightly lowered brows. He didn't look angry, just thoughtful.

And possibly, just possibly, a little worried.