Chapter 15: Day in the Life Of
We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files.
We'd like to help you learn to help yourself.
Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes.
Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home.
- "Mrs. Robinson", Simon & Garfunkel
Knock Out was a liar, but not always. When he'd told Trauma that his recharge was uncomfortable, that was nothing less than the truth; Knock Out had not had much sleep. Of course he had not mentioned that, in addition to an uncomfortable berth and an aching back, part of the problem had been a nocturnal visit to a certain exasperating Autobot. Not just for the amount of time spent trying to convince Bumblebee to see reason, but for the hours afterwards where Knock Out glared at the ceiling, thinking of all the things he should have said.
This is serious. I hope he appreciates that, he grumbled to himself as he watched the officers talking amongst themselves. The presence of Soundwave did nothing to assuage his nerves as he examined the little group from behind the safety of a datapad. If Bumblebee didn't play along . . .
The hissing of the Auxiliary door caught his attention and he twisted around to see Trauma aiming frantic, nonverbal signals at Knockdown. He'd always had a terrible poker face. Knock Out's brows lowered as he watched the two medics confer.
If Bumblebee doesn't play along, then I'll STILL be fine. He sat up a little straighter, lip curling. I didn't survive Autobots, Terrorcons, and Starscream's coronation after-party to be scrapped HERE.
His optics slid over to Ampule and Jumpstart. They were both staring longingly after the officers as they filed into the Auxiliary, clearly wishing they were in on the action.
As the door hissed closed, Knock Out leaned towards them, flashing a winning smile. "Go on, listen in, I won't tell on you." He could already tell he wanted to be on good terms with the twin jets. They poked into everything they weren't supposed to. Useful.
He pushed his worries aside—what was the point in indulging in them?—and settled down for a wait. So tedious. Crossing both arms over the railing, he rested his chin on them as he gazed at the door. At least his back wasn't beset by a thousand tiny spikes of pain anymore . . . His head nodded in agreement and his optics started to drift shut, but he snapped them open with a little jerk of his head. He hadn't gone through the trouble of dodging Trauma's blasted stupor-inducing drug just to fall asleep now. But that didn't mean he couldn't rest his eyes for a moment . . . Just for a moment . . .
The next thing he knew, there was a hand his shoulder, gently shaking him. He pulled back with a little whine of protest—damn it, Breakdown, too EARLY—and forced his eyes open.
The silhouette of a jet filled his vision, a glowing handprint smeared across a dark faceplate that was familiar and dead, and Knock Out didn't make a sound, just froze.
Trauma drew back, looking concerned. "Ah—sorry. Are you all right?"
"Of—of course." The words brought him to his senses and Knock Out arranged his features into a relaxed smile to replace whatever expression had been there before. This was a different Trauma, he reminded himself. Not even the same color. There was no handprint; that must've been a faulty memory overlay. "You just startled me. Is it over?"
He glanced towards the Auxiliary. It didn't feel like much time had passed.
"Just getting started. We," he included the white jets with a gesture, "are going to show you around."
"Show me around?" Knock Out echoed, not bothering to keep the suspicion out of his voice.
"Around the ship." Trauma was already reaching for the stasis cuff. Knock Out watched him fumbling with the lock, studied the tension in his shoulders and the set of his wings before leaning in towards him.
"I could help, you know. Mediate."
For a moment Trauma actually looked tempted, but then he glanced towards the twins and shook his head. "Come on. I'm sure you want to stretch your legs."
Well. Knock Out had to admit that he did. He slid off the berth and followed the others into the corridor. It looked just as repetitive and boring as the corridors of the Nemesis, although the walls and floors were a lighter hue.
"What's the ship called again?"
Jumpstart provided the answer. "The Heretic."
"Interesting name . . ."
"It is, isn't it? The historical context," Trauma said, "is that we—the Decepticons—were called heretics for refusing to accept the divinity of the so-called 'Last of the Primes'. When the Senate corrupted Orion Pax—" He stopped short. It occurred to him that the clone might have heard a heavily biased version of the tale, having started his life among the Autobots. "But maybe you know the history?" he asked, playing for time.
The grounder shrugged. "History lessons weren't really the Autobots' thing." He did not look particularly offended or shocked.
"All right, well. Short version. Our society was caste-based. We were slaves to our own heritage and frame-types. If you were sorted into a mining caste, for example, then that was your lot in life—mining."
"How dull."
"Um . . . yes. Anyway, Megatron rose up from the gladiator pits of Kaon, fighting for change, and bots swarmed to follow him. The archivist Orion Pax fought alongside him, as close as a brother to our leader." He looked at the clone again, to see if the name sparked any recognition. He couldn't tell. "But the Senate offered Orion the title of Prime to separate him from Megatron and discredit the revolution. Megatron, well, he told them where they could stuff it, but Orion naively went along with them, thinking it would bring peaceful change. But sometimes change can't be peaceful . . ." Trauma sighed. "So here we are. The Decepticons aboard the Heretic." His lips quirked in a smile. "We just can't resist throwing their insults back in their faces, I guess."
Ampule suddenly spoke. "What caste were you, Trauma?"
Trauma's smile faded, taken aback by the bluntness of the question. It was a little like being hit by a hammer—slammed with memories of the unfairness and futility of the old world and at the same time a longing for its stability.
The red grounder reacted before Trauma could, tsking and waving a finger. "Manners, new-build. Manners." His rich voice was pleasant and almost—but not quite—jovial.
"It's all right." Trauma said. "She's too young to know." But he did nothing to enlighten Ampule, even after her embarrassed apology. It was, truthfully, one of the rudest things you could ask. It would seem even the Autobots had similar taboos.
He glanced over at the red clone, trying to formulate a way to inquire about the Autobots without being rude himself when Knock Out, reaching the end of the corridor, swiveled neatly on his heel, and banged straight into a wall.
The expression of mixed incredulity and outrage on his face was a sight to behold. Amp and Jump took one look and collapsed into muffled laughter, and even Trauma rubbed his hand over his mouth as he fought to keep a straight face. The little grounder had so obviously expected to find a corridor there, and seemed positively affronted that there wasn't one.
"What— How— My finish!" Knock Out looked down, then snorted and crossed his arms. "Oh, I forgot . . . already in shambles." He kept grumbling about it under his breath even so as he followed the other bots.
Well, there SHOULD have been a passageway there. There SHOULD have. Knock Out started to look around more carefully. At the length of the corridors. At the angles of the turns. At the slope of the ramps. His brows lowered when he saw the emergency hangar, two decks down from the med bay.
"Where are we? What part of the ship is this?" he asked suddenly.
"The aft. The Towers, they call this part." Trauma said, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion on his faceplate. "Why?"
"Oh, just curious." Knock Out forced his brightest smile. The Towers? What the frag?
The Towers were tall, thin superstructures rearing above the top flight deck of the Nemesis—and the Heretic, presumably. Of all the places on the ship, they were perhaps most uniquely unsuited to house the infirmary. They were the most effected by sway, they were extremely vulnerable during any airborne attack, and they were the part of the ship most likely to break apart in a crash or get burned up during reentry.
And since the Towers were narrow, of course the decks were tiny. No wonder the storage rooms and the tiny emergency hangar were crammed on top of each other—on totally different decks than the med bay! How did injured aerials get from the hangar to the infirmary, anyway? They just sent them stumbling up and down the ramps? How utterly ridiculous. This, Knock Out supposed, was what came of having Decepticons whose heads were swimming with illogical, Autobot-ish sensibilities
Now, his med bay, the Nemesis' med bay, was exactly where it should be, where it made sense: the dead center of the port side, behind a stretch of well-armored emergency hangars. He felt a modest surge of pride as he thought of its superiority, and just a touch of homesickness as well.
But this is about more than personal pride, Knock Out reminded himself, his smirk fading. The Towers, for spark's sake . . . They're so far away from . . . from everything! Bad news if he had to beat a hasty retreat. But at least he still had the Phase Shifter, hidden away . . .
Trauma was saying something; he shifted his attention back to the jet. "Hmm? What was that?"
"I said, have you been in an elevator before? This will take us down to the main decks of the ship." He gestured towards a lift set in the wall.
Knock Out hesitated, trying to work out the appropriate, in-character response. Would a clone-prisoner of the Autobots ever have ridden an elevator?
Trauma took his hesitance for an answer before he could decide. "We don't have to take it, you know. There are ramps. We could walk."
"Absolutely not," Knock Out said firmly, and added for good measure, "I'm all about new experiences."
"You'll be fine," Jumpstart assured him. "Only you might find it sort of claustrophobic at first."
Not likely, thought Knock Out as he slid into a corner of the elevator and watched Trauma tap in the code to begin their descent.
Everything on a Cybertronian starship—everything in Cybertronian culture in general—was designed to handle the largest bots, out of practicality. No one wanted a big shuttle-bot getting stuck in their doorway or a chair to buckle and collapse when a hulking tank-former took a seat. Lofty ceilings and spreading floor space were the norm. That wasn't to say there wasn't accommodation for smaller mechs, chairs and tables appropriate to their height (or lack thereof). It just meant that Cybertronian rooms tended to be very . . . roomy.
Fine by Knock Out. All that emptiness just left him more space to maneuver, more escape routes. He sometimes wondered what it was like to be so big that just one or two missteps would leave you utterly trapped.
Breakdown, he thought, then roughly shoved the name away. He had enough problems in the here-and-now without fixating on the past.
Problem number one: halfway through the elevator ride, his head began to feel . . . strange. It didn't hurt exactly, but there was a sensation of slowly increasing pressure against his helm. Maybe the Ultramin was wearing off? Scrap, he hoped not. He gave his head a tiny shake. It did nothing to lessen the pressure; if anything it was slowly but steadily increasing. He shook it again.
"Are you all right?" Trauma asked, noticing the gesture as the elevator finally ground to a halt.
"Oh yes, I'm fine." Project strength, hide weakness. Anyway, it wasn't intolerable. Just annoying. His step was jaunty as he stepped out of the elevator and remained jaunty until he turned the corner, whereupon his jauntiness cracked into a million pieces and he nearly backed up into Trauma. "Are, ah, are those Vehicons supposed to be here?"
"Where?" Trauma asked quickly, gesturing for the grounder to get behind him.
"What do you mean where? THERE!" he hissed, stabbing a finger towards two orange mechs standing at the junction of two intersecting corridors.
"Oh." Trauma relaxed. "Them? They aren't Vehicons. They're Citizens."
"They're what now?"
"Citizens. There are tons of them on board," Jumpstart put in. "They do a lot of repair work, cleaning, engineering, things like that."
"I see . . ." Knock Out studied them. "So they're the, erm, Decepticon equivalent of Vehicons."
"Ah, no," Trauma said firmly. "I know they look the same, but they're completely different."
"Orange?" Knock Out lifted an eyebrow.
"Yeees, the color scheme, but what I really meant was that they're civilians, whereas the Vehicons are, well . . ."
"Disposable war drones."
"Um, yes." Trauma was taken aback by the red grounder's matter-of-fact tone. "Actually—it's horrible, but— the Autobots' Vehicons are reprogrammed Citizens. Reprogrammed and armed."
"Reprogrammed? You mean brainwashed?"
"Not exactly." Trauma sighed. "We think there's either some kind of literal programming block or else their memories are actually erased."
Knock Out's brows drew down. "Erasing their memories." He hardly sounded ready to storm the Autobot base, but there was a faint note of revulsion in his voice.
"Please don't mention it around the Citizens, though. They're . . . upset . . . by the topic."
"Can't imagine why." Knock Out shifted his weight from one leg to the other, putting a hand on his hip. "You've armed your 'civilian' Citizens, I see."
"Oh yes, they have blasters. But only because they're on patrol."
"Hmm. Patrolling for what, praytell?"
This time Ampule interrupted. "Vehicons!"
Knock Out stared at her, black eyes wide, then narrowed. "Let me get this straight. There are Vehicons on the ship?"
Trauma could have strangled Amp. That was not something to tell someone who still had scorch marks all over his chassis from a massed Vehicon attack. "No, no, there aren't any Vehicons on the Heretic," he assured Knock Out. "It's just a security precaution. Airachnid gets paranoid sometimes . . . Let's keep walking."
Knock Out gave a little shake of his head, but followed without comment, eyeing the two Citizens as he passed them. They, for their part, were obviously trying not to stare at the red mech.
"Causing quite a stir, aren't I?" Knock Out said as they passed another group, causing one of the generics fixing the wall to drop his welding torch with a clatter. The Citizens' general reaction to his appearance was to back away and whisper amongst themselves. Trauma couldn't exactly blame them; they weren't the sturdiest bots in the world and everything bad seemed to happen to them, poor things. He was about to explain this when Jumpstart jumped in.
"Of course you are!" he said. "You're a clone of Doc Knock AND you hang out with Yellowjacket AND you were nearly scrapped by Vehicons AND you looked like you were dragged through the Pit backwards—"
"Jumpstart." Trauma facepalmed as Knock Out's expression darkened.
"I was going to suggest," Knock Out said drily, "that having a stasis cuff hanging off my wrist might be adding to my notoriety." He jiggled it.
Uh oh, this again. "I'm sorry, but not yet."
Knock Out looked grieved. "You don't trust me. After all I've been through."
"It's not that," Trauma hedged, uncomfortable. "It's ah, a medical . . . medical precaution . . ."
"If he takes it off, will you show us your alt-mode?"
"Jump!"
"Just asking."
"It's not coming off. And that's exactly why," Trauma added, inspired. "You're in no shape to transform."
"Well, I know that." Knock Out's grief diminished enough for him to roll his optics. "But it's still . . . stifling. And if any crazed Vehicons do come along—"
Trauma spared a glare for Amp, who looked abashed. "There are NO Vehicons."
"—then I won't be able to defend myself." He crossed his arms and turned his head, giving Trauma a profile view of his pout.
"We'll defend you, if it comes down to it."
Knock Out ran his optics over the other three and made a neutral noise, the kind a party-goer might make when a subject comes up with which he is too polite to directly disagree.
Trauma sighed. "Look, once we get back . . . I'll ask Doc. And if he gives the okay, the cuff comes off."
" . . . I suppose that's acceptable," the red clone answered haughtily. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"One of the most important parts of the ship," Trauma said, glad of the change of subject. "Any guesses?"
Knock Out stopped and studied the maze of corridors behind them, then cast his optics up ahead. "The Armory?" he said, a note of confusion in his voice.
"No, no. The Library."
" . . . the what now?"
Knock Out seemed impressed by the Library, or maybe just stunned. His optics swept over the rows and rows of shelves with something like amazement or incredulity. The shelving was utilitarian rather than elaborate, but the sheer number of charts, datapads, and datasticks made up for that.
"Why?" he asked at last.
"The whole purpose of the ship was to find a new planet and start over," Trauma said. "So we brought the compiled knowledge of our species to—oops, careful."
The red mech flinched as a translucent force field buzzed into place when he reached for a datapad. "Why did it—?"
"Sorry—it's because you're not authorized," Trauma explained. "Just a precaution. We don't want any of this falling into Autobot hands."
"How would it fall into—OW!"
"Yes, it'll give you a slight shock," Trauma observed. "Better come away from there, that's the engineering section. Take a look at the historical datapads instead, you'll be able to handle those."
Knock Out came over, rubbing his hand. "So you weren't trying to fight the Autobots at all."
Trauma shook his head. "Megatron battled them a long time—he hates running from a fight—but Starscream finally talked sense into him. Cybertron was in ruins. Even if we 'won', it was uninhabitable, so what was the point? We loaded up everything we'd need to start a new Cybertronian colony . . . but we didn't expect Optimus Prime and his crew to pursue us. I suppose that was naive of us."
"Some would say so . . ." Knock Out reached towards a sleek white shelf, let his hand hover, and then flicked a datapad off it. This time there was no force field to interfere. "I hope 'everything you needed' included a pile of weapons and ammunition."
"Some. We've developed more since coming to Earth and facing off against the Autobots. Fortunately they aren't very innovative themselves."
"Autobots are useless when it comes to thinking," Knock Out agreed easily, examining the table of contents on the datapad.
"Too bad they aren't useless when it comes to fighting," a gruff voice said. Trauma turned around to find Skyquake standing by the door, watching them. "Hey, Trauma."
"Oh, hello. Ah . . . Knock Out, this is Skyquake, our Vanguard."
To his relief, Knock Out didn't ask what a Vanguard was. "Charmed," he said, setting down the datapad in his hands. "I'm guessing you already know about my, mmm, unique origin."
"I guess I do," Skyquake agreed. "You sure do look like Knockdown. Mostly." His eyes ran up and down, from the wheels encased in Knock Out's feet to the pair hanging neatly off his back. "Do you remember much about, um . . . the place you came from?"
"Not very much."
"You remember Yellowjacket?"
"No." Knock Out picked the datapad back up. "But I know Bumblebee, somewhat."
Skyquake looked at him steadily. "Let me guess. Now you're going to tell me he's different."
"Different from . . . ?"
"Yellowjacket."
"I really couldn't say. I don't remember any 'Yellowjacket'," Knock Out reminded him with a cock of his head.
"Skyquake, this isn't the place to be questioning him," Trauma broke in.
"Who's questioning? I'm not questioning, since apparently nobody will LET ME do any questioning. I'm just conversing, that's all."
"Well, converse your way to a different topic!"
Skyquake stalked up to him, which unfortunately left Trauma the options of either craning his neck upward or staring at his chestplate. "You're not Knockdown, Trauma, and I outrank you."
Trauma's circuits sizzled. Seriously? Skyquake was going to pull rank on him? "Well, if you want to be that way, I'm a medic, so I'm outside your chain of command!"
"Not while you're in Air Commander Starscream's armada, you aren't! And I ORDER you to stand aside or—!"
"Or WHAT?" Trauma almost shrieked, vaguely aware of Jump and Amp staring fearfully from the sidelines.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen." Knock Out was backing away, smiling nervously and making pacifistic gestures with his hands. "Let's all calm down, shall we?"
"Yes, let's." They all swiveled. There, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, was Knockdown.
"Of all the—!" Skyquake spun away from Trauma, throwing his hands in the air. "It figures! It figures that you'd be sticking your nosecone where it doesn't belong again! You just can't let me have a moment's peace, can you?"
"You might have more peace if you didn't fly off the handle every few seconds," Knockdown said flatly. "We're about to meet to discuss . . . matters . . ." His eyes flicked towards Knock Out for a second. ". . . and I came looking for you, since you turned off your comm. So please decide if you'd rather meet with the rest of the officers or if you'd prefer to remain here haranguing my staff."
The growl rose from the back of Skyquake's throat, eventually morphing into a single word. "Where?"
"The Round Table."
"Fine," Skyquake huffed, pushing past the cyan medic. "Just . . . fine."
Knockdown watched him go, then threw a glance over his shoulder to Trauma. "Good job."
Trauma felt a wave of gratification and a flush of heat on his faceplate. This was a rare occasion. Knockdown was stingy with his praise. "Patients come first, right?"
"Always. Can you take Knock Out back at the med bay?"
"Sure thing."
Knockdown turned his gaze to Knock Out.
"Nice rescue, doctor." The red grounder gave him an easy smile and held up a datapad. "Changing the subject—can I borrow this?"
Knockdown took the datapad and checked the title. "1001 Sudoku Puzzles." He raised his eyes to Knock Out, who crossed his arms defensively.
"Whaaat? I get bored."
Soundwave attended every officers meeting, because he always had and because he liked to watch his fellow Decepticons. Not socialize with them, necessarily. Just watch. It was soothing. Their presence was soothing. Their greetings were soothing. Even their fights were familiar, and therefore soothing.
The only downside that was Shockwave was always late. In fact, Soundwave had not seen Shockwave at a meeting (or anywhere else) in months, if he thought about it.
But he rarely did think about it.
His mind, which had once perceived life narrowly, like a laser beam, had unfolded and fanned out after his capture by the Autobots. Now the world washed against him in waves of sound, light, electro-magnetic vibrations, broadband, narrowband, all twirling and blending around him. His life had taken a dream-like quality, or maybe his dreams had taken a life-like quality. Ideas and memories sometimes seemed more real than the corridors he walked down. The only constants were Laserbeak, integrated into his chest, and Buzzsaw, integrated into his back. Beautiful, faithful friends who would never leave him.
That didn't mean he disliked the other Decepticons (because he did consider Buzzsaw and Laserbeak to be Decepticons, not "toys" as some of the others seemed to think). He was devoted to Megatron, who had rescued him. He liked Starscream, who always greeted him kindly and frequently asked him to come on patrols with her. Airachnid was the only one who talked to him like he was the same mech as before. Trauma met with him faithfully every week and listened to him whether he spoke or not. Trauma was never at meetings, though; Knockdown was. Soundwave did not particularly like Knockdown and felt slightly guilty about it. He knew Knockdown would never hurt him, but the sterile aura of the medical bay clung to the doctor too strongly for Soundwave. It had been an ordeal, attending the questioning of the black and yellow bot.
Still, he felt in his spark that he should go. So he had. Decisions were much easier, in some ways, since his rescue.
He also appreciated the enhanced radio reception.
"I read the news today, oh boy, about a lucky man who made the grade . . ."
"Soundwave."
The midnight blue Decepticon looked up as Airachnid's voice interrupted the airwaves. He tilted his head questioningly.
"Did you record today's inter—today's meeting with Bumblebee?"
He nodded. He had, of course. He recorded nearly everything, though sometimes he accidentally overwrote them later.
"Could you send the clip to Skyquake? Let's see if we can get that frown off his faceplate."
Soundwave looked over and noted that, sometime while he was looking inward rather than outward, Skyquake had arrived. Skyquake always seemed slightly uncomfortable around him these days, but Soundwave still liked him.
He dug out the file and sent it to Skyquake, whose helm raised in surprise. A half smile appeared on his face as he gave Soundwave a thumbs up. Soundwave gave a spindly thumbs up in return, watching Skyquake's expression glaze over as he began watching the reel.
"Thanks, Sounders." Airachnid sat down.
He nodded in acknowledgement, then sent her a questioning ping, along with a picture of Shockwave. Her legs drew in tightly for a moment.
"Oh yeah, he's . . . going to be a little late," she said. Soundwave reluctantly accepted this and retreated into his mind.
"He blew his mind out in a car," John Lennon crooned to him. "He didn't notice that the lights had changed . . ."
"Now that we're all here . . ." Starscream's voice interrupted the airwaves.
Soundwave came out of his trance to find Knockdown sitting down.
Megatron leaned forward. "Thank you, Starscream. Yes. I would like to hear everyone's opinions on our two unexpected visitors."
There was a moment or two of silence, interrupted only by the creaking of the table as Skyquake tried to rearrange his knees under it.
"We should keep them," Knockdown said bluntly. All eyes turned to him, most showing varying degrees of surprise.
"You sound very positive, Doctor," Megatron said. "I admit I am rather hesitant to welcome them after your treatment today."
"With all due respect, Megatron, I've taken worse from every bot seated at this table at one point or another."
"Not intentionally," Skyquake grumbled, perhaps recalling the time he had awoken in a panicked haze and put an impressive dent in Knockdown's shoulder.
"Exactly. Not intentionally. Bots lash out when they're frightened, or in pain. Well . . ." He leaned back deliberately, letting the last word sink in.
"The good doctor has a point. He was quite amicable after that anyway," Starscream said. "He answered all our questions."
"More like he didn't answer any of our questions," Airachnid said. "Just like the other one. Can't remember this, can't remember that . . ."
"You can hardly blame them for that, Airachnid," Starscream said. "Or do you think they're lying?"
"I don't know. It just seems too convenient. If the Autobots did send them here for espionage . . ."
"When we found them, Knock Out was just a shade away from permanent deactivation and Bumblebee's leg nearly suffered permanent damage," Knockdown said. "I think they were really on the run."
"But even so, when one of them is the spitting image of Yellowjacket—"
Soundwave drifted away. "I saw a film today, oh boy . . . The English army had just won the war. A crowd of people turned away, but I just had to look, having read the—"
"—Soundwave?"
Megatron was looking at him. Soundwave quickly rewound his personal recording system to figure out what he'd been asked. "What do you think of them, Soundwave?" What did he think about what? He went back a little further. Ah. About the two strangers.
Soundwave interlaced his thin fingers as he thought about them, the little red mech and the little yellow mech. He thought about finding them, injured and alone among the rocks, about the way the yellow one's eyes had flickered blue for just a second when he leaned over him and the way the red one had been hunched over himself in the canyon. He thought about the red one, today, pretending he wasn't looking even though his red optics peeked over his datapad from time to time. He thought about the yellow one with the injured throat, twisting his wrists against his bonds, trying to sound calm when he answered Starscream and Airachnid. He thought about the flash of hope in the yellow one's eyes when Soundwave freed him.
"Scared," Soundwave said.
This brought a thoughtful silence.
"Well, of course they'd be scared . . ." Starscream murmured, but offered nothing more.
"Specifically, they're both scared sparkless of you, Megatron," Airachnid said.
"Especially after you nearly punched one of them through the wall," Knockdown said in a dry tone.
"Ah, Doctor. You're not going to let that go in a hurry, are you?" Megatron smiled. "But when one of my crew is in danger—"
"I could have talked him down," Knockdown muttered.
"And . . ." Megatron's eyes went to the green and white jet, who had so far remained silent. "Skyquake? Your opinion?"
A subtle tension suffused the atmosphere as the others waited for his reply.
"I didn't attend the . . . meeting. I think everyone knows why." His eyes settled on Knockdown, who stared back unrepentantly. "But I bumped into the red grounder today and I watched the video of . . . Bumblebee." He was silent a minute. "I came here ready to tell you to toss 'em off the ship. But after seeing one and watching the other . . . I'm convinced that they're unique individuals. Even if they're clones. I fought Yellowjacket back when he was around. A lot. Bumblebee isn't the same mech. I'm not just talking the voice box I'm talking about everything. His movements. His expressions. His reactions. Maybe he's still a spy or a walking time bomb or something. I don't know about that. All I know is he's not Yellowjacket. And . . . that's all I have to say." He crossed his arms.
"Thank you, Skyquake," Megatron said gravely. Airachnid and Starscream, meanwhile, looked thoughtful.
"Well." Knockdown looked around the table. "I will repeat, I think we should keep them here. Offer them our protection, train them up—"
"Aha." Airachnid lifted a finger.
Knockdown raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" he said.
"I thought you were a little overeager, my dear doctor." The spider-femme crossed her arms. "Train them up as what exactly?"
Knockdown looked at her over his steepled fingers for half a minute before responding. "We can always use more medics."
