Chapter 14: The Windows to the Soul

COLOUR CODING is very important in Fantasyland. Always pay close attention to the colour of CLOTHING, hair, and eyes of anyone you meet . . . Blue eyes are always GOOD, the bluer the more Good present . . . Red eyes can never be disguised. They are EVIL and surprisingly common.

- Diana Wynne Jones, The Tough Guide to Fantasyland


There were two of them, when he came to. Jets. Watching him.

Just like at Tyger Pax.

His optics dimmed as he sank back into unconsciousness—a lapse of only a minute or two, just long enough for the blue jet's fingers to have steepled and for the lavender jet's wings to have dropped slightly. Tiny changes. But ones scouts were trained to observe. He tried to test his bonds, but it was hard to move.

Not just his arms, either; Bumblebee's head felt strangely heavy, refusing to lift or turn, so he just kept gazing at the jets sitting against the wall. They must have had different transforms; the Decepticon insignias were right side up on the blue one's wings, upside down on the light purple's. Underneath each faction sigil (or above it, in the case of the lavender jet) was painted a white cog with eight square teeth, outlined in blue—the Iatric, the universal symbol of the medical profession.

But medics didn't necessarily equal safety. At his interrogation, at Tyger Pax, the scout had caught flashes of the twin black jets watching from the background as Megatron's tarnished silver claws dug for Bumblebee's spark or balled into pummeling fists. To this day the Autobot did not know if the jets had been male or female, what their faces looked like, or how big they had been; Bumblebee had been on a rapid slide towards spark extinction any time Megatron had called the aerials over. But those triangular wings were burned into his memory. Wings cutting the smoke above him, so graceful and sharp, displaying the Iatric—not in the usual white, but in optic-searing cyan—pure, neon, in-your-face cyan, the color of fresh spilled energon.

Blood-red, thought Bumblebee in a fit of inspiration, staring at a white cog with the Decepticon brand looming above it. That's what I'd say, if I were telling Raf about it. To a human, it would be like blood-red. But we bleed energon, so for us it's blood-blue. He never planned on telling Raf that story, though. Ever.

His entire body gave a jerk as the Decepticon insignia he was gazing at suddenly loomed closer. The blue aerial was standing, moving closer to the medical berth. Half-turning to his companion, he spoke as he reached to fiddle with something high above Bumblebee's head.

Bumblebee tried to make sense of the words washing over his audials, but they were a distant and meaningless tide. His spark jolted as the Seeker's helm dipped into his field of vision. Two round irises on a black background, a shark's fin helm, and was there something wrong with his optics because everything was blue . . .

Oh, blue eyes! Thank goodness, we're safe forever! a sarcastic voice echoed in his memory. And, Of course I have a double. He's the ship's CMO.

Knock Out. For some reason his static-filled processor couldn't grasp, he had been talking to Megatron's medic, Knock Out. And this was . . . Knock Out's clone? Bumblebee had a confused impression that clones had come into that conversation. Like, a lot. He tried to concentrate, tried to fight through the mental fog.

"Can you hear me?" The blue jet even sounded like Knock Out, except his inflection was all wrong and his voice was too quiet. "My name is Knockdown. I'm a doctor."

Bumblebee stared at him in silence.

"You're safe. Your friend, too. No one will hurt you."

Bumblebee managed to move his arms a little. Not far—"far" was not even an option—just enough to make a white sheen run over his glowing bonds as his wrists pressed against them in feeble protest. Maybe the jet would take the hint and release him.

Instead Knockdown glanced sideways and his face withdrew. With a supreme effort, Bumblebee turned his head to face the ceiling, trying to dredge his memories. There was a question, an important question, that he couldn't remember, couldn't grasp.

His optic ridges slanted in concentration. He was a prisoner. He was being watched. By Decepticon jets. (Like at Tyger Pax. No, shut up, he wasn't there.) Knock Out was around somewhere and . . . also a prisoner? Yes. Bumblebee remembered the stasis cuff swinging from his wrist. Little snippets of conversation came back to him.

These Decepticons are very congenial. Followed up, paradoxically, by They tied you down like a science experiment, what does that tell you?

He wasn't sure what it told him. Nothing good.

Knockdown's face shifted into his line of sight again. "Can you hear me?" he asked, the same words as before. "I'm Knockdown. A medic."

Bumblebee again remained mute. All he could think about was that there was something vital he was forgetting, some question that should have been obvious.

The blue Decepticon gave a muted huff after a moment, his hands (long, sharp fingers, but neither as long nor as sharp as Knock Out's) reaching upwards to adjust something almost out of the Autobot's field of vision. Bumblebee tilted his head back and saw that it was a clear bag of energon hanging from a hook—no, wait, there was a smaller bag hanging off the same stand and Knockdown's nimble fingers were adjusting an unassuming rectangle of plastic attached to the flexible tube that ran down from the bag. The tube was threaded through a gap in the rectangle, a gap that was wide at one end and tapered down to a narrow slot at the other. Even through the haze, Bumblebee could appreciate the beautiful simplicity of it. Slide the tube into the widest part to allow for maximum flow, or press it into the narrower part to pinch the tubing shut.

Or, as it stood now, adjust it until it was halfway between.

What is the question? Why can't I remember it? he had been asking himself. But now, in a flash of insight, he realized that WAS the question. The question was: Why can't I remember?

The reason he couldn't remember, the reason his processor was struggling like a car desperately trying to start in below-zero weather, swayed above him in a small, clear, plastic bag.

I am being drugged, he thought calmly. Somewhere in the depths of his processor his baser instincts wailed and howled.

It's morphite, Knock Out's voice whispered helpfully. It took three shots to get you up, FYI.

Three shots of what, exactly, Bumblebee couldn't recall. It didn't matter. What mattered was that Knock Out had dragged him quickly to full consciousness, and these bots could do the same. Could, but weren't going to. They would nudge him up until he was just coherent and confused enough to answer all their questions. An old interrogation technique. His spark shivered in fear. All his confidence from—the previous night? the previous week?—he had no way of knowing—seemed rash and flimsy.

They're scared of you, a memory of Knock Out drawled, only not quite a memory because he had sounded angry at the time, not self-satisfied.

Bumblebee dropped his head to the side and was greeted with the sight of the lavender jet flinching. Apparently Knock Out had been at least partially correct. But if the purple jet had reacted, the sky-blue Seeker, Knockdown, just studied him with cool eyes, looking like every actor who had ever played "the emotionless, icily evil Decepticon scientist who will experiment you to death for curiosity's sake" in an Autobot propaganda piece. Aside from the fact that his wings were real rather than props, of course.

Blue optics. Blue optics, though. Bumblebee clung to this fact with some desperation. That has to count for something, right? The part of him that had lost its innocence and voice box at Tyger Pax scoffed in silent disdain.

Knockdown moved over to him once more. This time Bumblebee noticed that, despite his apparent calm, the jet was taking care not to get too close to him when he leaned over.

"Can you hear me?" He frowned at the continued lack of response and reached up to readjust the slide clamp a little before running a scanner over the Autobot.

That's right, you just keep dialing down the dosage, Bumblebee thought, his thoughts becoming less hazy. Hey, why don't you dial it down to nothing?

The faint sound of voices came from the other side of the metal door. "Hmm, they're here." Knockdown moved towards the door. "Watch him and let me know when he's more . . . lively."

"Ah, me?" The purple jet looked startled.

"I have to run interference."

"Ummm. All right."

"He's restrained, Trauma."

"I know."

"I'll be right outside."

"I'll be fine. Better go, Doc, sounds like the natives are restless."

Knockdown nodded and exited, leaving Bumblebee alone with the purple jet, Trauma.

Trauma. Now there was a good, solid Decepticon name. Exactly what a 'Con medic would choose. Why go with Lifeline or Remedy when you could call yourself Gut Wound or Trauma or Blunt-Force-to-the-Head?

Blue eyes, Bumblebee reminded himself weakly. Blue eyes.


Blue eyes.

Trauma never would have thought they could be so creepy.

Maybe it was because he was used to "screener" eyes, digital eyes, while these were so mechanical. Maybe it was the way "Bumblebee" never blinked. Maybe it was just that those eyes were the only living feature in a face without a mouth.

Or maybe it was the way the black and yellow mech kept staring at him.

Trauma really, really wished he wouldn't.

"Well. Hello there," the medic said in the face of that unnerving stare and for lack of anything else to do. "My name is Trauma."

The stranger's mechanical irises cycled open a little bit more.

"I'm part of the medical staff. The ship's psychologist."

That was overstating it a bit. Trauma had barely completed his specialization before being sucked into the war. As he had been assigned to a field unit that dragged the wounded out of the heat of battle, his career had mostly involved patching up bodies (and ducking enemy fire) rather than addressing the woes of the mind. Poor Soundwave was his first "big" case, and secretly he felt entirely out of his depth with the Communications Officer. It was so different dealing with a real Cybertronian instead of theoretical cases, and his position on the ship had been simply "Medic #2" for so long . . .

He looked at the bot before him with new thoughtfulness. This was another one who would likely be added to his roster, if he remained on the ship. Surely an Autobot clone would be seething with issues. But he wasn't sure if he liked the idea of being trapped alone with a Yellowjacket lookalike during sessions . . .

"What's your name?" he asked, trying to sound friendly rather than nervous. This was always one of the first questions the medics asked a mech coming off drugs. A simple question and a simple way to give the patient a sense of control. (Also a sign to lower the dosage if the patient answered incorrectly.)

The unnerving optics whirred again, the blue light in them growing and shrinking as the mechanical shutters flared. Unexpectedly, he produced a series of beeps.

Trauma blinked. "What?"

The second time he caught the words.

"I said, my name is Bumblebee."

Trauma broke into a grin of relief. This was NOT Yellowjacket. This was so very much not Yellowjacket. It wasn't the name that filled him with relief (he had already known it, via Knock Out), but the fact that the prisoner's coded speech pattern was nothing like Yellowjacket's snarling, buzzing, terrifying screeches. Bumblebee spoke in a burble of beeps, clicks, and whirrs. Bumblebee's vocalizations were positively cute.

"Is something funny?"

Trauma leaned forward a little, still smiling. "Your voice."

The resulting glare was like a punch to the spark, two concentrated spotlights of pure animosity. For a second Trauma just reeled; then he grabbed a datapad at random and pulled it close, pretending to read. He hoped Knockdown would return before the Autobot's stare melted through the plastic.


Starscream was peeved.

If Lord Megatron wanted to go haring off on his own, the least he could do was inform her. She was his Second-in-Command, for goodness sake! But no, once again he had cravenly snuck out, leaving only a note that he would be back "soon." No mention of his coordinates, naturally. No mention of what he was doing, naturally. No one with him as backup, naturally. The mech was infuriating.

"Someday," she muttered as she stalked towards the medical bay, "someday he is going to push his luck too far, and then where will we be?"

"Who's going too far?"

Starscream turned to see Airachnid sauntering up.

"You're surprisingly punctual," Starscream said, avoiding the question. It would never do to encourage dissention in the ranks, particularly not from Airachnid, who was insolent enough as it was.

"Call me curious."

"Curious," a voice repeated behind them—Airachnid's own, but slightly distorted. The two femmes turned in surprise to find Soundwave silently following them.

"Soundwave!" Airachnid said. She and Starscream glanced at each other. "Coming along for the interro—"

"A-hem," Starscream coughed into her fist.

"—for the show?"

The faceless mech nodded as the med bay doors hissed open for them.

The little red clone looked up as they entered. He was cuffed to the berth with a few datapads beside him, probably courtesy of Knockdown or Trauma, as well as a stack of Human comic books, definitely courtesy of Jumpstart. The twins themselves were off to the side, refilling one of the supply cabinets.

As for Knock Out, something about the party, perhaps its official air, seemed to have dampened his garrulous nature. He only commented, "Hail, hail, the gang's all here!" before returning to his reading. But his red optics peeked out from behind the datapad now and again.

"So where's our glorious leader?" Airachnid said, glancing around. "I figured he'd be waiting for us."

"Megatron," Starscream said regally, "had a very important matter to attend to, so he will be a little late—"

"Actually a little late, or 'Shockwave' a little late?"

"Airachnid!" Starscream's brows lowered. "Must you . . . 'go there'?"

"It's what I do best. Tell me, tall, dark, and airborne, did Skyquake talk to you last night?"

"Last night?" Starscream hoisted an eyebrow. "No. Why?"

"He wanted to join us—"

"—and he's not going to," Knockdown finished, striding into the main part of the lab. "I told him as much. I hope you'll agree, Air Commander?"

"Completely," she said, dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand. "And you overstepped your bounds, Airachnid, if you led him to believe otherwise."

"I didn't 'lead him to believe' anything—" Airachnid began, crossing her arms, only to be interrupted by a cough.

"Um, Doc . . ." Trauma stood framed in the door to the Auxiliary, giving Knockdown a questioning look with a bit of a plea in it.

"Hm." The CMO turned back to the other officers. "Where's Megatron?"

"Taking one of his infamous unscheduled flights, apparently," said Airachnid.

"Well. Let's not wait for him. You two—stay out here," he told Ampule and Jumpstart. Then he quickened his pace to a trot, reaching the Auxiliary before the other officers. "Well?" he asked Trauma in an undertone.

"Awake and able to talk—er, communicate," Trauma murmured. "But maybe not willing to."

"We'll cross that airstream when we come to it." Knockdown slipped past him to examine the patient. The stranger's large, blue optics were more focused now, tracking the medic as he moved to the edge of the berth.

"There are some bots here who would like to talk to you." Knockdown spoke slowly and clearly. "No need to be frightened. We won't hurt you. I'm Knockdown; I'm in charge of the medical bay. This is Trauma; he's a medic as well."

No comment from the patient. His eyes shifted to the doorway as the other officers entered.

"And here's Air Commander Starscream and Airachnid—" Knockdown purposely left off her title, too intimidating, "And . . . Soundwave?" Had he been there the whole time? Knockdown hadn't even noticed. "Soundwave. Our Communications Officer."

"In other words, half the brass is here to see you. Don't you feel honored?" Airachnid cocked her head, her hand on her hip. Coincidentally, this also put her hand near her blaster.

The patient didn't answer the yellow and green spider-femme. Like Knock Out, his first reaction was to gaze in fascination at Starscream. Perhaps some side effect of the clone programming?

The black jet was not perturbed in the least by the attention. She stepped forward, the lines of her golden faceplate catching the light as she bent for a better look. "And now you have the advantage of us. You know our name but we don't know yours." An untruth, but a polite one.

The black and yellow mech produced a burst of static that sounded distinctly like a snort as he jerked his wrists against the restraints.

"Some advantage. Take these off and maybe we can talk."

The officers exchanged glances—surprise at the voice, consternation at the words.

"I'm afraid that is impossible." Starscream drew herself up to her full, considerable height. "Later, certainly. When we are . . . better acquainted."

"We won't be getting any better acquainted unless you untie me."

Airachnid's optics narrowed. "Not going to happen, Waspinator."

"Okay, first, that's not my name. Second, there are four of you and one of me. What are you afraid of?"

Knockdown noted that he had missed one Decepticon in his count and guessed it was Soundwave, who had unobtrusively placed himself in the corner by the monitor.

"You should be flattered," Airachnid suggested.

"It's nothing personal," Starscream said, tapping one finger on her thin arm. "It's merely . . . protocol."

"Exactly," said Airachnid. "As our prisoner—"

"Guest," said Starscream.

"Patient," corrected Knockdown.

"Like I can't SEE that I'm a prisoner." The grounder tugged at his bonds again.

"Knockdown." Starscream leaned down to whisper, though her eyes never left the black and yellow mech. "If we did unloose him—?"

"I would strongly advise against it," the blue medic muttered back. "We didn't fit him with a stasis cuff. Standard procedure," he added defensively as her eyebrows lowered. "The hard-light bonds inhibit transformation anyway, and they would short out a 'cuff. It was one or the other—"

"Uh, Doc?" Trauma whispered. "I think it's about to be 'neither.'"

Knockdown didn't have to ask what he meant; one glance across the room told him. Soundwave's long fingers were slowly, one by one, settling on a certain dial on the control panel. There was a moment of perfect stillness as he watched the yellow and black bot; then his fingers snapped hard to the left. The glowing blue restraints instantly flickered out, like a light being turned off.

The stranger's optics swiveled down in surprise, then he sat up, rubbing his wrists. Airachnid, on the other hand, facepalmed.

"Well, that's more like it." The grounder looked up; lacking a mouth, his expression was basically unreadable. It was hard to say if his next words were meant to be insolent or merely cheeky. "Didn't you have some questions for me?"

The others started in surprise when an answering series of beeps sounded, but it was only Soundwave, quoting the bot's own words. "'My name.'"

"Bumblebee." And with that simple statement the yellow grounder tugged the morphite feed out of his arm.

The medics tensed.

"Trauma." Knockdown gripped the purple jet's arm, pulling him back from the others. The CMO's voice was so quiet that he could barely hear his own words. "Get the twins out of here."

"But—"

"Tell them you need help finding something in the lower storage room. And take your time."

"I'm not leaving."

"That was a direct order, so yes you are." He gave Trauma's arm a slight shake. "It's just a precaution, understand?"

"Yes."

"I know how to deal with unruly patients."

"I know you do."

He gave him a little shove towards the door. "Go."

Trauma went.

Knockdown edged his way back to the front of the group. That put his staff out of harm's way. Now he just needed to keep things under control.

"Do you really expect us to believe that you weren't attacking Starscream and Soundwave when you shot at them?" Airachnid was asking.

"I wasn't shooting AT them, I was just trying to get their attention! I had a severely injured mech on my hands!"

"That would explain why the blasts seemed so ill-aimed," the Air Commander mused.

"Listen, I'm not your enemy here!"

"We know, we know," Starscream said soothingly.

"We don't know," Airachnid interrupted grimly.

"Airachnid. Calm down." Knockdown turned to Bumblebee, searching for a question that would settle him. Something straightforward, without any lashings of accusation. "Tell us how you were injured."

Bumblebee hesitated a few seconds before speaking. His tale was essentially the same as Knock Out's. His injuries had mostly been sustained fighting Vehicons. Knock Out's lengthy monologue about his allegiance was definitely abridged in Bumblebee's version of the tale, though. "Like an idiot, he marched into the middle of them and announced he was a Decepticon, and they shot him in the back. And the front. Pretty much everywhere." After that they had briefly faced off with Smokescreen, but miraculously managed to escape. Bumblebee was vague on the specifics; he just said, "We outran him."

"And then I stepped out for some air and came back to find Knock Out . . . like that, and, well, you know the rest," he finished.

"Well now. You have my formal apologies for the airstrike," the Air Commander said. "Now . . . tell us what you know about Yellowjacket."

"I don't know any mech called Yellowjacket." His voice was firm.

"No? Well, it might surprise you to learn that said mech looked almost exactly like yourself," said Starscream.

"Then again," Airachnid broke in, a shrewd look in her eyes, "maybe not. You don't seem real surprised at meeting a Decepticon Seeker who looks just like your friend, after all."

Bumblebee's frame seemed to tense; then he hunched forward with a little warble, as though he was letting out a deep breath. "What I'm about to tell you is going to sound really weird. You might not believe me at first . . ."

"Try us," Starscream said. "I think you'll find we know most of it already."

"Yes, tell us your tale." Megatron's deep voice came from the doorway. "I, for one, am most interested to hear it." He strode into the room.

Bumblebee didn't think about bringing his stingers out. They were just suddenly there, humming against his plating as he set his sights on the looming Decepticon.

"Nix the weapon right the slag NOW, Autobot." Airachnid's blaster was in her hand, her spider legs spread wide and glinting with steel.

"For once we agree," Starscream's voice was clipped and cold, her null rays and plasma blasters centered on Bumblebee. She had positioned herself in front of Megatron, her wings raised aggressively. Even Soundwave stalked forward, his tentacles uncurling from his chest.

And Megatron, a grand and golden target who was simply too large for his troops to shield . . . stood with his hands clasped behind him, smiling at Bumblebee. That awful, familiar, confident smile.

The one that said: don't even bother.

Nothing you can do can hurt me.

Tyger Pax . . .

"Megatron . . ." Part of him knew this wasn't the same Megatron, and he'd known there'd BE a Megatron around somewhere, but not like this. Not like this. He'd expected, wanted, a Megatron who was younger, slimmer, had less sharp edges, maybe one who wasn't a gladiator, a Decepticon Optimus Prime . . .

"Lord Megatron, please stay back—"

"Just let us handle this, Megatron, we've got this—"

"Megatron: danger."

Megatron simply walked forward, parting their ranks like a warship sweeping sailboats out of its path. "I like this one. He has spirit."

Bumblebee's tank lurched at the words, his processor crawling with memories. His shaking hands were aimed right at that pitted, scarred face, and Megatron was still smiling, unworried—

"Megatron." The word was respectful and sharp at the same time. "Could I ask you to step back from my patient? I believe you're upsetting him." Knockdown's arms were crossed and the inflection on "my patient" was slightly possessive. My patient. MY patient.

Megatron's smile widened still further in amusement, revealing a glint of his sharp, slightly jagged teeth, but he said, "Of course, doctor," and took a few, small paces back.

Knockdown turned and looked at Bumblebee, who still had his weapons raised and activated. The medic didn't say anything. Just looked.

Bumblebee slowly lowered his weapons. You KNOW he's not the same, you idiot! Blue eyes! He wanted to apologize, but he couldn't, not to Megatron, not to "good" Megatron, not to "bad" Megatron, not to any Megatron. He just couldn't.

"I think," Knockdown said, easing around the berth, "that we've had enough questions for now."

In his peripheral vision, Bumblebee saw the medic's slow, careful reach for the morphite drip. Knockdown's fingers had just brushed the tubing when the Autobot's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and jerking him close. Bumblebee could see his blazing blue eyes reflected in the Decepticon's frozen-wide optics.

"No. NO DRUGS."

A hand gripped his shoulder and pulled, spinning Bumblebee around and, as a consequence, wrenching Knockdown against the side of the berth. Bumblebee stared up into Megatron's blue eyes as the golden hand curled around his throat, and lifted, and slammed him once, hard, against the wall.

Bumblebee's hold on the medic's wrist crumbled. Starscream lunged forward, shot out an arm, gripped Knockdown by the wing, and literally hauled him back. Megatron set Bumblebee on the edge of the berth, which he clutched with locked elbow joints to keep from collapsing. In the background, he could see Knockdown being pulled to his pedes and steadied by various hands. In the foreground, he could see Megatron's face, grave and stern.

"I hope," the Decepticon leader said in his gravelly voice, "that you are through maltreating my medic." He strode over to check on Knockdown, who waved him away impatiently. ("I'm fine, fine.")

"What was it," Megatron continued, turning back towards Bumblebee (he didn't let himself flinch), "that you were going to say?"

"Megatron—" Knockdown began warningly.

But Bumblebee already speaking, trying to hide the frantic, fearful pulsing of his spark as he leaned towards Megatron.

"I don't remember much before the explosion," he said. "Just a big room filled with lots of equipment and bubbling vats . . ."


A/N: The twin black jets in "regular universe" Megatron's service at Tyger Pax are the counterparts of SG Ampule and Jumpstart. This is not something I expect to come up in the story, but I just thought I'd mention.

The Tough Guide to Fantasyland is hilarious if you are into swords and sorcery books at all. The entry on elves is amazing.

The Iatric starts with an "i"; I am specifying this since in some fonts capital "i" and lowercase "l" look the same. :) It's a real word that means "of or pertaining to a physician or medicine; medical. And so Thesaurus. com once again comes to my aid.

I just went through the entire fic and updated it to "match" the version on "An Archive Of Our Own" (which gets tweaked more frequently because it's easier to make changes on that site). Mostly it's small stuff, a word or a line or two getting shifted around or deleted. Please let me know if I've made any major errors/left out anything.

The biggest change is that the "break" between Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 is now different; Chapter 2 now ends just as Knock Out and Bumblebee go through the portal.