Chapter 32: Nooks and Crannies

Bring me home in a blinding dream
Through the secrets that I have seen,
Wash the sorrow from off my skin
And show me how to be whole again

'Cause I'm only a crack in this castle of glass,
Hardly anything there for you to see.

- Castle of Glass, Linkin Park


Trauma twisted his fingers together as he sat so ramrod straight that his wings didn't even touch the back of his chair. Waiting, like he'd been for almost a week. Waiting for Knock Out to question him or accuse him. Waiting for Knockdown to sharply summon him to his office.

But Knock Out remained silent and Knockdown went about his business as usual.

In the end Trauma himself had been the one to knock on the office door. Even as he stepped across the threshold he was not sure he would not blurt out a confession. His mind had played out a thousand scenarios a thousand times—confessing, being found out, and, shamefully, a few fantasies where Knock Out smiled up at him and put a hand on his arm and assured him that it was all right. But even those scenes would inevitably end with Knockdown walking in on them, first staring in shock and then turning the weight of his disappointment and disapproval on Trauma alone.

When he stepped into the office he somehow expected Knockdown to just know, but the CMO had simply raised an optic ridge and said, "Yes?"

And Trauma had heard himself say, "I have a new schedule, sir. For your approval."

He just couldn't. He just couldn't do it.

And Knock Out would have told him already if he'd wanted to. What you did with him wasn't right, but it wouldn't be ethical to ignore his wishes.

He knew it was a selfish and fallacious line of thought and it worried him how easily it came into his mind, and how often.

Knockdown was studying the schedule. He was always a careful bot. And an intelligent one. He's going to ask why I'm not setting up sessions for Knock Out anymore. A silly notion, since the schedule didn't mention any patients' names, to protect their privacy. But Trauma couldn't stop imagining, again and again. He wondered what Knockdown would find more abhorrent, that Trauma had done that with Knock Out or that he hadn't fixed up Knock Out's wheel beforehand.

Trauma had found it, eventually. He'd stared at the shredded rubber for what seemed like forever, wondering how to return it to Knock Out without seeming like he was asking for or expecting something in return. But when he'd finally, anxiously, made his way to the med bay, Knock Out had already taken it upon himself to replace it.

That had been a brief moment of relief, until Knock Out turned and looked at him with optics full of uncertainty and caution.

He was so enthusiastic, though! He . . . he positively clung! But that was in the dead of night, both of them half-shrouded in shadows. Yes, Knock Out had been enthusiastic and Trauma had been bold and reckless, but sooner or later the harsh light of day came . . .

"Trauma?"

Oh no. Knockdown had said something and he'd completely missed it. "Uh, could you repeat that, sir?"

"I said, what's the reason for this increase in your other practice?"

Therapy was always 'his other practice' to Knockdown.

"It's Soundwave." He really shouldn't be telling Knockdown that, it skirted the bounds of privacy issues. But Trauma had to sell this. "Soundwave needs help. He has for a while, of course." He was speaking just a little too fast. "But I feel like I have time to now that you have more assistance in the med bay, with—" The guilt gnawed at him even as he said it, but say it he did. "—with Knock Out on the team."

Knockdown leaned back slightly, his high-swept wings making the back of the chair creak. "Knock Out is young and rash," he said, unknowingly driving another stake into Trauma's spark. "Hardly a replacement for yourself."

"I suppose not," Trauma said, trying to keep the misery from his voice. He glanced over his shoulder, through the office window, and caught sight of Knock Out staring at him from across the med bay. The clone broke eye contact so fast Trauma swore he could hear a snap. Trauma wrenched his attention back to Knockdown. "So . . . no, then?"

"I didn't say that," the CMO said. He looked at the schedule again. "Supposing you delayed this. . . intensified therapy . . . for few weeks. Would that be feasible?"

Trauma's first instinct was to acquiesce. To make his boss happy. So that at least someone could be happy.

But that would mean spending more time in the lab with Knock Out. Knock Out side-eyeing him half the time, awkward and wide-eyed (and afraid? please not afraid) and seeming strangely comfortable the other half. More comfortable and self-assured than he had previously been around Trauma, if the therapist was honest with himself.

And somehow that was the worst of all. Because maybe that meant Knock Out had just been waiting for someone to treat him like that, use him like that, the entire time and was now relieved to fall into a familiar pattern. What was it the sleek red clone had said when he'd woken up in a strange room on a strange ship, a prisoner? Something like 'Here I am in handcuffs, and it isn't even the weekend'? Trauma hadn't thought much of it at the time. But the Autobots had created someone sleek and beautiful and named him Knock Out . . .

"Trauma," Knockdown said again, and this time he sounded impatient.

"Sorry, sorry." Trauma forced a smile. "Just thinking about how the Autobots treated poor, um, Soundwave. I know it's inconvenient, but if I could get started on his therapy right away . . . I'd really like to help him." And to get a reprieve from Knock Out's presence until he figured out how best to help him as well.

"It would be wonderful if Soundwave's condition improved, of course . . ." Knockdown tapped his index finger against the black, smooth surface of the desk, a sign of indecision. "Very well," he said at last.

"Thank you, sir," Trauma said. He would fix this. Somehow.

"And get some sleep."

"Yes sir."


Arms crossed, Smokescreen sat in front of the many monitors in the base, hating the world in general and Ultra Magnus in particular.

Or maybe Wheeljack in particular. Because Magnus may have been the one who gave him a new set of dents, doubled his monitor duty, and rescinded his ground bridge access for a whole week but none of it would have happened if it hadn't been for Wheeljack. The fragging traitor.

He'd originally intended to alert Magnus to the situation so that he and Bulkhead could clear out the Decepticon's test tube monsters, which was all those armorheads were good for anyway. He'd just kind of wanted to find Wheeljack first and demand an explanation and maybe see what Wheeljack would cough up if he stayed quiet about the whole escapade.

Because if Smokescreen could score that sweet ship? Yeah, then he'd let Wheeljack play house with as many Decepticons as he wanted.

Trouble was, Magnus had found the lock shot off Ratchet's storage room almost immediately. He'd assumed Smokescreen was responsible and he had not been amused. Smokescreen had hesitated to tell him about Wheeljack's visit, and then Magnus started in on him and he lost his chance. Magnus sucked.

It wasn't like stupid Ratchet even cared. The hack of a medic hadn't even checked if anything was missing (and Smokescreen was more sure than ever that Wheeljack had taken something more than Vehicon parts) , he'd just shoved more junk into the storage room and chuckled as he told Smokescreen his schedule was free later. Well, the joke was on him. Smokescreen knew enough first aid to patch himself up, thank you very much.

Meanwhile, who knew what the one-eyed Decepti-freak was up to. Making more monsters, probably. Shockwave didn't know where the Autobot base was, though. Everyone agreed on that.

"No way he's got the coords," Cliffjumper said when Smokescreen casually worked it into conversation. "No way. The 'Cons would have attacked ages ago. And they were real careful."

In this context 'they' referred to the rest of the Autobots. Good, Smokescreen was glad the stupid mercs realized they didn't fit in. Money-grubbing heretics.

"'Course it didn't end well, they got away and Shockwave nearly put a hole in Bulkhead on the way out," Cliffjumper continued. "Big waste of a relic. Ratchet was furious. You're lucky you weren't around yet. But, yeah, don't have to worry about an invasion, it ain't coming."

"Worry?" Smokescreen sneered. "Takes more than those junkyard rejects to worry me."

No, he wasn't worried. But he was, privately, concerned. Shockwave might not have gotten the coordinates back when, but what if Wheeljack had told him since then? But he wouldn't do that, right? Could he be that much of a traitor? At any rate, nothing had happened so far.

Once I lead a strike team and clear the place out, Shockwave won't be a problem anyway. He would let Bulkhead and Magnus help, but he would—deservedly—get all the credit for finding and putting down a major Decepticon threat.

He just had to think of a way of clue Magnus in without admitting that he'd been withholding the location of the cave for days. If Magnus found out, he would blow his smokestacks.

He heard heavy footsteps and swiveled in his chair. Speak of the devil . . . there was Ultra Magnus himself (the slagger) walking down the hall with a clipboard. The massive black and white bot was frowning at it, but then that was his usual expression.

Smokescreen thought about hailing him. Telling him that he'd found weird energy readings or something, and they should go check out this weird cave.

He thought about it. But he remained silent, leaning forward and keeping his attention fixed on the monitors until the vibrations of Ultra Magnus' footsteps faded away.


Bumblebee hadn't seen Knock Out in a few days. The Decepticon's work schedule had suddenly become 'very intense', as Knock Out told him when they briefly crossed paths in the hall. And since he'd been trailing behind Knockdown at the time, both of them carrying crates labeled 'Medical Grade Energon', Bumblebee had believed him for once.

It was a little weird when he thought about how accustomed he'd become to Knock Out's presence. Not that he was moping around in the Decepticon's absence; Bumblebee challenged four of the Citizens who were the least wary of him to a game of lob-ball. They weren't good at it, but they seemed to have a good time. And he'd had a good time. But all the lies, the big one he'd started with and all the little ones needed to prop it up, weighed down on him. Knock Out might have been the enemy, but at least Bumblebee could be honest around him.

And as far as enemies went, he was good company. So when Knock Out finally called him, he answered.

They had established a primitive code that they could use on their private 'ping' channel, since their regular comm links risked being overheard by Soundwave. (Though given Soundwave's state, it was probably nothing to worry about. But better safe than sorry.)

Initially Bumblebee suggested that they use Morse Code, which Raf had taught him. There were two problems. First, the pings were all a uniform length, meaning the dash / dot system didn't adapt well. Second, Knock Out flatly refused to memorize that many characters.

In the end their code consisted of pings and pauses and communicated only the roughest of ideas. In this case Knock Out had sent a message consisting of ping ("me / I"), ping-pause-ping ("here"), ping-ping ("you"). Which meant "come here, to my location." Since Knock Out hadn't included the code for Dreadwing's room or the shore, Bumblebee had correctly guessed that Knock Out was at work.

"Wow, where is everybody?" Bumblebee asked, glancing around a med bay that was empty save for Knock Out.

"Knockdown took the two youngsters for some flight training." Knock Out put down the beaker he'd been polishing. "And Trauma's off today. So I'm in charge."

"You'd better not have called me here to work."

"You mistake my dedication if you think I am going to continue slaving away now that the eagle-eyes of Knockdown are off of me," Knock Out chuckled, now retrieving two empty cubes and pouring a cube of mid-grade for each of them. "What I require, Bug, is the Phase Shifter."

"Oh no. This had better not be a repeat of last time."

"I asked last time."

"But then you turned off your comms and didn't answer me for, like, a day and a half! I asked Trauma if you had jumped ship!"

"You did? Why him? What'd he say?"

"'Cause I was in a session with him and he works with you, duh. And yeah, Knock Out." Bumblebee rolled his optics. "He said you'd packed up a knapsack and taken off. In fact, you're still out in the wilderness. I'm not actually speaking to you right now, you're a figment of my imagination—"

"Oh, aren't you a riot."

"Actually he said you'd been at work and probably just wanted some privacy. He seemed kind of upset about it, though. He didn't say anything to you?."

"Nope."

"Why were your comms off anyway?"

"None of your business."

"Knock Out, I don't mind lending you the Phase Shifter but I don't wanna walk into Dreadwing's room one day and find, like, a device powered by a spark in a jar or something. And when you start acting all sketchy . . . "

"Who's sketchy?"

"You are, sneaking around not telling me what you're up to."

"It was private. I was just doing some snooping. Like we'll be doing today! See that? I brought this conversation full circle."

"Hoo boy. Okay, what's the plan?"

"You know what's a few floors up?" Knock Out pointed at the ceiling. "Knockdown's quarters."

"We're going there? Why?"

"To see what's inside. Who knows, maybe he has a relic or two squirreled away for personal use. It's what I would do."

"But he's not you."

"Well, he still might."

"Knock Out, I don't know . . ."

"Listen, it's perfectly safe. He won't be back for hours. What if he has something interesting up there?"

"Like a functional ground bridge?" Bumblebee whirred in a flat tone. "Seems likely."

Knock Out actually chuckled at that. "You never know."

"Knock Out, c'mon, let's just go racing instead."

"I can't. It's too far away. What if they came back while I was out there?"

"What if they come back while you're up there?" Bee jerked his thumb at the ceiling.

"Then we can phase through the floor!" Knock Out said brightly.

Bumblebee sighed and dragged a servo down his face.

Knock Out's optic ridges tilted in a frown. "Why so resistant, Bug? I thought you'd like this."

"It just feels wrong."

"We aren't going to take anything. (Unless there's a relic.) And you break into rooms all the time."

"Yeah, storage rooms and unused hab suites filled with junk. Not someone's private quarters. Doesn't that seem kind of wrong to you?"

Knock Out paused. "We won't take anything," he repeated. Air huffed from his vents as he picked up his cube and scowled into it. "Well, fine. I just thought it would be fun."

There was no reason for Bumblebee to feel guilty. But as he watched Knock Out frowning into his cube, he did anyway. If Knock Out was telling the truth—and that was a BIG 'if', but if he was —then he'd been working hard all week without much in the way of recreation. Maybe he didn't care about Knockdown's room specifically; maybe he just wanted an excuse to blow off some steam and socialize?

Hang out?

It was a strange and embarrassing thought. Not bad, just embarrassing.

Maybe he was being too harsh on the 'Con.

"Knock Out, listen. If you really want to check it out, we'll check it out, but as your friend, I advise against it."

Knock Out stopped rolling his heel back and forth and looked up. "Well." His optics were full of suspicion. "That's . . . As my . . . Hmm."

"I mean, do what you want," Bumblebee mumbled, glad for his mask.

"I always do."

"I've noticed." Bumblebee picked up the energon cube, wondering if Knock Out had offered it out of hospitality or mockery. Bumblebee was self-conscious about refueling in front of other bots.

"By the way." Knock Out cleared his throat, picking at a stain on the table. "What you said about Trauma the other day. How to deal with all that. That was . . . helpful."

It took a moment for Bumblebee to process what he meant. "Oh! Well . . . I'm glad. I know it can be tough with, er, stuff."

"Yes. Stuff." Knock Out lifted his cube and took a deep draught. He sighed as he lowered it, but he was wearing a little smile too. "Just a quick peek upstairs?"

"Oh, Primus . . . Fine."

Knock Out gave him a triumphant smile as he dumped the cubes in the sink. "Then let's go."

The yellow scout followed him as they went up the stairs.

"So . . . did you have any friends on the Nemesis?" He wondered if he was pushing his luck, but Knock Out didn't seem offended.

"Sure," Knock Out said. "I had—"

Bumblebee thought he was doing some mental arithmetic, but if so Knock Out was a very slow at counting, because the medic finished with:

"I had two."

"Oh . . . wow. I mean, that's great!"

"Don't patronize me, Bug." After a moment he added, "Anyway , one was Starscream."

Whether his point was that Starscream was hard to befriend or that Starscream should count for more due to his rank, Bumblebee didn't know. He was so surprised that he nearly tripped over a step.

"Starscream? Are you serious? That bot is legendary—"

"He would certainly agree with you."

"—as the most greedy, selfish, glitched up jerk that ever lived. Did you know he—"

"Killed Cliffjumper?" Knock Out snickered, then stopped dead in the face of Bumblebee's accusing stare. "Ah, no, wait, I didn't mean it like that. It was a running joke."

Bumblebee's eyebrows drew down and Knock Out spoke faster.

"You see he was inordinately proud of the fact that he'd offlined an Autobot and he brought it up constantly. Night or day, poor weather or fair, you could be sure he would brag about being the one who snuffed—"

"I get the idea."

"Right. Okay."

"And you've really sold me on Starscream. He sounds like a bundle of fun all right."

Knock Out stopped on the stairs and turned, jutting his chin. "We were— We are at war. It was something to be proud of. Besides, we had a lot in common. Not that, though," he added hastily. "I wasn't even on the ship when that happened."

"Hmph. Like what in common?"

"A mutual dislike of Shockwave, for one thing."

"Shockwave? Why?"

"Because he's an aft. He stole all my experiments and he's after Starscream's job—at least Starscream thinks he is, but that's paranoia talking if you ask me."

Bumblebee had no idea the Decepticons had so much personal drama. "So that's it? That's the basis of your friendship? You both hate the same guy?"

"No, that is not 'it'! We both— We both—" Knock Out thought for a second, then drew himself up with a confident smirk. "We're both highly intelligent and scientific minded. Did you know we figured out how the Omega Keys worked?"

"Wow. The ones that Megatron used to power the device that almost cyberformed Earth?"

"Yes, that's right. So we were almost responsible for the restoration of Cybertron, him and I. But of course you Autobots had to spoil it like you always do." A pensive expression crossed his face, but only for an instant. "Oh well!

The flip comment bothered Bumblebee nearly as much as Knock Out's 'joke' about Cliffjumper or his blasé attitude towards the destruction of all organic life on Earth. But . . . he supposed he shouldn't judge. He had started this whole conversation, after all. Who had he expected Knock Out's friend was going to be, Wheeljack? Optimus? Of course Knock Out would only know other 'Cons.

So he said, as politely as he could manage, "I guess Starscream must have liked you too, if he refrained from stabbing you in the back."

"Refrained? Not he!" Knock Out laughed. "But we got along swimmingly most of the time."

Bumblebee couldn't think of a single thing to say to that. "What about your second friend?" he asked finally, hoping Knock Out had found better luck there.

"Oh, him." Knock Out looked up the narrow stairs. "Let's keep walking."

The metal stairs squeaked and grated under their pedes.

"That was more about proximity than anything else," Knock Out said. "It was my assistant."

"Your assistant?"

"You know, in the med bay. And in fights."

"You mean Breakdown?"

"That's right. Him. My assistant."

"Oh. I didn't know Breakdown knew medicine."

"Not as much as me, of course."

"So . . . tell me about him," Bumblebee said, a note of uncertainty in his voice. The way Knock Out kept looking over at him made Bumblebee uncomfortable, even though the 'Con was smiling brightly all the while."But, like, something that doesn't involve bonding over killing Autobots, ha-ha."

"Ha ha!" Knock Out chirped back. His smile never changed. "Of course, Bumblebee. Let me think. Well, he was very durable. He could take a lot of hits and just keep going. He seemed indestructible."

"Yeah, that sounds like Breakdown all right." 'Was', not 'is'. Hadn't Bulkhead had said there was something weird about the big blue 'Con the last time they'd fought? And the Autobots hadn't seen him in fights after that. "A . . . a really tough bot."

"Exactly," Knock Out smiled straight ahead, at nothing. "A good assistant." He climbed and Bumblebee followed, both in silence.

Soon they were cresting the stairs, arriving at a small landing. The door to Knockdown's room looked like any of the others they had passed on lower floors, except he had added a small sign beside it stating, in an unpretentious font, his name and rank.

"Well, here we are," Knock Out said unnecessarily.

"Yep."

Knock Out put a hand flat on the door. It was larger than Bumblebee would have expected for a hab suite. There was a keypad beside it, but the medic didn't seem interested in it. "Odd place to live. These are supply hangars on the Nemesis. "

"Oh yeah?"

"But we don't use them."

"Ah, gotcha."

"They're inconvenient." Knock Out was frowning.

"Well . . ." Bumblebee held up the Phase Shifter. "Shall we?"

"Of course." The Decepticon watched in silence as Bumblebee attached the relic to his wrist.

"Okay." Bumblebee held his arm parallel to the floor. Waiting. "Knock Out, we both have to be in contact with it for this to work."

"I know that." Knock Out tore his attention away from the portal and grasped the top of the device.

Bumblebee activated it, making both their forms flicker as the relic whined to life. "Okay, we'll step through on three. One, two—"

"Wait." The Decepticon didn't let go, but he pulled his hand back, and Bumblebee's arm along with it. "Maybe you're right."

"Right about what?" This was uncomfortable.

"About privacy and such."

"Oh." Bumblebee wondered at the Decepticon's sudden surge of conscience, but he deactivated the Phase Shifter. Knock Out jerked when Bumblebee pried his hand off the relic.

"Well, okay. We can do something else, right?" Bumblebee said. "Like, didn't you once tell me there was a storage room below the med bay?"

"Not there," Knock Out said quickly. "No, no, not there. I explored that a long time ago. Nothing of interest. No. Let's go back to the med bay. You can have some comics."

"Comics?"

"For your small human, when you see him again."

"Uh, don't those belong to Jumpstart?"

"Yes, that's right."

Bumblebee bit back a sigh. Knock Out was trying to be kind, probably. "That's okay. He can keep his comic books. We'll find something to do."


They played cards. It was . . . all right. Not the most enthralling activity, in Bumblebee's mind. Knock Out seemed to feel the same, although he did care enough about the game to cheat constantly.

"I can see the Queen of Spades you stuck in your door, Knock Out. Put it back."

"Oops, how did that get there?"

Once in a while Bumblebee snuck an extra card too, just to see if he could pull a fast one on Knock Out. The Decepticon caught him about half the time and Bumblebee felt a smug surge of satisfaction the other half.

"I wish we could go out," Knock Out sighed, rearranging his hand, which held twice as many cards as he was legally allowed to have. Apparently Bumblebee had missed some of Knock Out's card-sneaks too. "I want to race."

"You sure you can't just—?"

Knock Out sighed again. "Too risky."

"Well . . . maybe later this week, huh?"

"I hope so . . . the ice is melting, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

Bumblebee frowned at his cards. There were a few paltry 'race tracks' on the ship, but they weren't the same as being in the open air, on a real road. And . . . it wasn't just the thrill of a race that was so invigorating, it was being off the ship. The Deceptibots were thoughtful and kind, but there was something stifling about the Heretic nonetheless. He wondered if Knock Out felt the same about the Nemesis and if it explained his pride at making 'two friends'—even if one occasionally backstabbed him.

"Hey, Knock Out."

"Hmmm?" Knock Out drew a card and frowned at it.

"So this one time me and Arcee snuck onto the Nemesis and Megatron was unconscious in the sick bay."

"Oh, yes, I remember that. We thought you'd broken him. Brought his brainwave activity down to a flatline. But he recovered, in time."

And Bumblebee knew exactly why that was. Megatron's consciousness had been stuck in Bumblebee's head after a failed cortical psychic patch. But he didn't even want to think about that, let alone talk about it.

"Uh huh. So, from where 'Cee and I were hiding it sounded like you and Starscream wanted to unplug him."

"More or less," Knock Out said. "But Soundwave wouldn't capitulate."

"Yeah . . . So it seems like you aren't that attached to Megs on a personal level, right?"

"Just because he's head of the faction doesn't make him my buddy."

"What if . . ." Bumblebee stared at his cards. It wasn't the best hand, it wasn't the worst. He took a deep breath and raised his optics. "What if you were in a different faction?"

Two red optics met his eyes, peeking over a shield of cards. "What if you were?" the Decepticon said softly, coaxing.

"Me?" Bumblebee let out an incredulous, whirring laugh.

"Yes, you." Knock Out set down the cards, his face serious. "You lived under a literal rock, Bumblebee. I toured your old place, after the fires died down. Positively dinky, and not a trace of an oil bath. I doubt your current base has any better amenities."

"There's more to life than oil baths and wax."

"Right, there's survival. And how long is your crew going to manage that? The Vehicons aren't the best at scouting, but there are hundreds of them still. I know you admire the Prime," Knock Out said, raising a hand to forestall Bumblebee's response. "But you have a responsibility to yourself, too. You've survived for so long. You shouldn't throw it all away."

Bumblebee lowered his gaze to his cards. His spark was spinning faster and his vents were short and close together. "I don't think I'm throwing anything away by staying with my friends."

He heard Knock Out sigh and when he looked up the Decepticon was leaning on his hand, smiling ruefully. "I know you don't. Well . . . you stick with your friends, I'll stick with mine, I suppose."

"Yeah," Bumblebee said. One dead friend and one backstabber. "I guess that's how it's going to be."


Bumblebee left as soon as he felt was polite and he thought Knock Out seemed relieved to see him go, although he said they should hang out again 'soon'. "Maybe not for cards, though."

Bumblebee agreed. Cards left too much time to talk.

You said he was your friend, but he never said he was yours. It was such a petty, adolescent thought, but Bumblebee had to admit that it bothered him.

Maybe it was a mistake to view Knock Out as anything but a temporarily neutralized enemy. He was a Decepticon and he was going to keep on being a Decepticon unless the Autobots magically acquired a spa.

He could try to sneak under the Decepticon's guard, subtly pump him for classified information. It couldn't be that hard, could it? Knock Out carelessly dropped little tidbits of information all the time. He talked about Vos in great depth, and yet coyly danced around the specifics of his past if Bumblebee tried to steer the conversation in that direction.

Why did you tell me the five greatest bars in Vos if you didn't want me to know that you lived there? Do you think I'm dumb?

Well, he wasn't dumb. He noticed things. Like Knock Out when repeated five different ways that there was nothing interesting in the storage bay a couple floors down. Which meant there was clearly something interesting in the storage bay a couple floors down.

After glancing over his shoulder to make sure Knock Out hadn't followed him, Bumblebee clipped on the Phase Shifter.

The storage room was slightly larger than Knockdown's quarters and dominated by row after row of shelves—not only around the circumference of the room, but also a bank of them in the middle, with two paths on either side.

At first Bumblebee thought the shelves were stacked with energon. But when Bumblebee pulled one off the cubes off the shelves it was surprisingly light. Then he saw the label on the top: Holofoil. He opened it and found silvery bandages nestled inside. The other cubes were labeled too: Holostrips, IVs, Clamps.

Apparently the medical team rinsed out old energon cubes and reused them for storage. It made the scrupulously ordered room seem a little more homey in Bumblebee's eyes. He opened a couple more cubes. Their contents matched their labels.

Bumblebee skirted the island of the shelves in the middle to check the other side of the room.

Aha. A curtain was strung across the back of the room. Not a physical detriment to an intruder, but it had a notice pinned on it, written in the same neat script as the energon cube labels:

ACCESS RESTRICTED.

Entry for full medics only.

Keep out. Jumpstart and Ampule, this means you.

Bumblebee ducked under the curtain.

No energon cubes in here, but there were stacks of something else . . . large, rectangular boxes, slightly taller than Bumblebee and practically as wide. Each had a Cybertronian manufacturer's stamp on the side, but Bumblebee had never heard of the company.

He wrestled a box down. Heavy, but not unmanageable. It opened lengthwise. He pulled the flap up.

There was a Citizen in the box.

Bumblebee's optics were spiraled as wide as they could possibly go and his hands were clapped over his mouth, although he had not made a sound. The white and orange bot's optics were dark, head tilted to the side. They were encased in a sheet of translucent blue plastic.

Bumblebee pulled the plastic wrap back and slowly, gingerly, sat the bot up. It moved without resistance, like a doll. Even Knock Out could not have found a nick or a rub anywhere on its paint. And it was cold. Even when Bumblebee put a servo over its chest and a finger to its neck, he couldn't feel anything.

Cold-constructed. Bumblebee forced himself to pull in a vent and cool his chassis. Backfire and Pulley said the Citizens' sparks were put in cold-constructed bodies after their original bodies were damaged so badly.

These weren't dead bodies. These were bodies that had never been alive. Spares.

Allowing himself to exhale, Bumblebee laid the empty chassis back down and closed the box. Shoving it back atop the stack, he brushed off his hands off, giving a cursory glance around the room as he turned to leave.

One stack of boxes was shorter than the rest. Wait. No. It wasn't a stack of boxes, it was a single, larger box. The label, smudged with engine oil, said it was for a portable energon stand. But the sides bulged slightly as though something too wide had been forced into it. And there was smaller label, in the same neat handwriting that pervaded the storage room, that read simply:

Keep out.

Bumblebee pulled the box on its side. Opened it. Gripped the bunched up blue plastic and pulled.

A body rolled out. His own.


Knock Out waited a few minutes after his final wave to Bumblebee before he stepped out of the med bay and began climbing up the stairs.

Knock Out did want privacy . . . not for Knockdown, but for himself. What a silly idea it had been to bring the Autobot along. Thank goodness Bumblebee himself had objected; Autobot morality was good for something after all. Well, now that he was on his merry way, Knock Out could take a quick snoop. He didn't have the Phase Shifter, but after patiently trying various codes on Knockdown's door panel, it finally slid open. He and Knockdown did think alike, to some extent.

He stepped in.

Knockdown's quarters were less spartan than Knock Out had expected given the blue medic's stoic personality. Dark, patterned tapestries (or as humans would have called them, rugs) made of some organic Earthen material lined two of the walls (not what Knock Out would have expected at all) and were even hung strategically to subdivide the open space into two smaller 'rooms.' On the Nemesis this entire area would have been a hangar, as Knock Out had told Bumblebee. The hangar doors were still visible, the only walls free from decoration. It's probably a nice view, in the summer.

The rugs weren't the only decorative element, either. Watercolor paintings and graphite sketches were spaced between them at intervals. Some were landscapes, others of one shipmate or another, and one of Knockdown himself. There was even a picture with two Citizens—who Knockdown probably knew on a first name basis, because of course he did—shyly holding hands.

Knock Out guessed it was all Dreadwing's handiwork. What a prolific bot. Had some talent, too. A shame he was dead.

As far as other furnishings went, they were sparse but nicely arranged. A couch here, a chest of drawers there, and even a geode and a small metal blacksmith's puzzle on a corner of the desk. Plus the basic accouterments of a kitchen tucked into the corner, energon dispenser and all.

He picked up the geode, tilting it to admire the shift of light over its purple crystals. He could admit, at least to himself, that he'd never really expected to find anything of importance here. The Bug was right; he just wanted to snoop. What was so bad about that? It had helped with Trauma. He could look at him now, like any normal bot.

How ironic that Knock Out now had to pretend to be in distress when he looked at Trauma, the reverse of his previous situation where he had done everything possible to repress, bury, and generally prevent his panic from surfacing.

The real juggling act came whenever Knockdown swept in to check on them. Before going back to work that first day, Knock Out had debated with himself. Did he want Knockdown, too, to notice his 'suffering'? Or just Trauma? Trauma's reaction the morning after made it clear that their dalliance would not be considered proper in the eyes of the Decepticons and no Decepticon was more proper than Knockdown.

The safest option would have been to immediately run to Knockdown, stutter out the story of Trauma's less than professional conduct, and drag the CMO to Trauma's room. End scene with Knock Out pointing dramatically at his own poor, shredded wheel, storm clouds gathering over Knockdown's helm as he fixed a stony stare on Trauma.

Yes, that was by far the most prudent plan. But it wasn't what he'd done.

Instead Knock Out had snuck into the med bay, replaced his missing wheel himself, and kept his mouth shut. When Knockdown was around he made sure he wasn't near Trauma. Easily done, there were always a dozen little tasks that needed doing all around the lab.

Knock Out was not sure why he'd been so kind towards the therapist who had put him through so much misery and literally haunted his nightmares. Guilt? No, Knock Out did not feel guilty. It was Trauma's own fault for screwing a patient. Empathy? Knock Out could see why Trauma would fall for his rare beauty, but this beauty had to look out for himself.

Well . . . Trauma was a fellow medic. And it had been good. Nostalgic. Maybe that was reason enough. He allowed himself a moment of contentment. He had risked a little generosity and his gamble had still paid off. He was a good bot.

As Knock Out angled towards the second room, the bedroom, he tripped on something at knee level. He quickly checked his finish, then the object. A small portable heater (currently off). Well, that made sense. It was freezing in here. It occurred to Knock Out that the wall-hangings weren't purely decorative after all; they helped retain heat, such as it was.

In terms of furnishings, the bedroom was much the same as the rest. Some watercolors on the walls and a plain nightstand.

The berth was massive, absurdly large for a bot of Knockdown's size. It didn't matter why. Knock Out wasn't going to think about it.

Shelves lined on wall, filled mostly with datapads. It looked like most of them were medical journals. I'll give those a closer look in a minute.

Knock Out moved on to the washrack. This had the distinction of having metal walls separating it from the rest of the room. They were made of an entirely different color of metal than the rest of the place, obviously a recent installation to turn the hangar into a habitable living space.

The plumbing had a jury-rigged look to it, particularly the shower which had sort of been installed above the metal floor rather than being sunk down into it. A plastic curtain and a small ceramic lip around the edge of the shower was meant to keep the solvent from getting everywhere. Since there was a stack of clean rags next to the shower and a bin containing damp rags next to that, Knock Out surmised that the system had not been a total success.

The shower was as oversized as the berth. Knock Out wasn't going to think about it.

He moved to check his finish in the mirror on the cabinet over the sink. It wasn't large—just big enough for Knock Out to admire his helm and part of his torso. Tugging the knob, he swung the cabinet door open.

To his surprise and confusion, a row of black, thin-mesh bags with a small venting apparatus lined the shelf. He recognized these; WeldCo brand MediVacuum™ bags, used to prevent the decay or degradation of delicate bio-organs like t-cogs. However, it was widely known among medics that they prevented the decay of just about anything , not just biological components; many of Knock Out's colleagues had used them to store food. Not plain energon, of course, but if there happened to be a confectionary or a bakery in a town that was being raided, well . . . Why not take a few of the delicacies along for the road?

Unfortunately WeldCo had been destroyed early in the war and the MediVacuum bags had become more and more expensive on the black market, until they were far beyond the reach of lowly field medics. I wonder how he got these. Maybe he stockpiled them when they were cheap. If so, Knock Out had to grant Knockdown some grudging admiration.

He picked a bag off the shelf, prodding it gently with his claws. The object inside was smooth and cylindrical. He drew his fingers along the seal at the top of the bag, unzipping it and rolling the object inside into his palm.

Knock Out sucked in a deep vent, his helm jerking backwards. But his hand was trembling with awe, not fear. Vossa's Black Label Ointment.

He put it back, hastily, carefully, and picked opened another bag. And another, and another, lining them up on the shelf with their labels facing towards him. Small jars and tiny canisters, some faded or stained with speckles of purple or blue from past drips of their contents, others unopened and pristine, most of them familiar and well-loved brands

Crystelle Smooth Glide Wax, Merc'ureal, Solusions Scented Oil . . .

As though in a dream, Knock Out picked up a palm-sized jar and unscrewed the lid. It stuck a little, not having been used in some time. But the oil inside had a glossy sheen as fresh as though it had just been bought from some little specialty shop or upscale boutique. Knock Out closed his optics and breathed in the fragrance, for a moment he was home.

Knockdown must have been very lucky, very determined, or very sparing to still have Cybertronian goods. Maybe all of the above. Knock Out kept picking up each product in turn, handling with a care that he would not have shown a Cybertronian relic, his buffer, or the Matrix itself.

He longed to steal them, or at least use them. Knockdown certainly wasn't partaking of them on a daily basis; his chassis was clean but not exceptionally glossy and he used an effective but strictly plebeian type of synthetic wax with which Knock Out was well-acquainted. Nothing wrong with the stuff, during the height of the war Knock Out would have and, in fact, had gone through great lengths to acquire some. But, well, it wasn't a Vossa product, now was it?

He stood there a full minute, mind racing as he rationalized. Knockdown didn't use these much. Knockdown didn't look in the cabinet often, maybe? Knock Out could take them. Or he could leave the jars and use a little oil, right here, right now.

Knock Out took another deep breath, this time to focus himself. Don't be an idiot. Knockdown knows exactly how much is in each of these; wouldn't you, if you had this treasure hoard? And he will CERTAINLY know if you open the sealed ones. Besides, every single one of these products is scented. He will smell it if you are stupid enough to walk out of here wearing any of them. But you aren't stupid, are you?

No, he wasn't. Reluctantly Knock Out sealed each beauty product back into its protective bag, being careful to line them up in the exact order they'd been in.

"I'll miss you," he murmured, giving a bag the gentlest of pats with his fingertips. Maybe he in the future he could just sneak up and just . . . visit them. He closed the cabinet and stepped out of the room before he could be tempted further.

He returned to the bedroom and dove into his exploration of the datapads, taking each off the shelf in turn.

He couldn't help but wish Knockdown had had a secret supply of romance novels, like Trauma. Medical dictionary, medical history, medical, medical, medical.

He spotted something matte, thin, and unusually flexible that had slid behind some of the datapads. He fished it out.

Well, of all things. Human magazines. Or rather, blown-up printouts of human magazines, sized so that a Cybertronian could comfortably read them. One seemed to be a travel magazine, another a human fashion magazine, and the third some kind of car dealers catalog. Knock Out skimmed through it, smiling when he found his own model. There was a small X by it and the door had been circled, with notes off to the side (in cramped handwriting) some details about its placement on Knock Out's arm.

"Hmm." Knock Out set the car printout aside and looked through the other two, looking for dog-eared pages. "Well, well, well. All right."

Having found one treasure behind the datapads, he began taking them out five at a time, looking for more.

He found it, too. A flat, glossy rectangle leaning against the back of the bookcase, exposed now that the datapads were piled on the bed.

Now whatever's on this must be juicy, he thought, smirking as he reached for it.

It wasn't a datapad. It was a picture frame. A little wider than Knock Out's hand, and not as tall. Simple. Inexpensive. It had little bracket in case someone wanted to hang it and the cheap little swinging arm to prop it up if they didn't. He was staring at the back of it.

He turned it over slowly.

What a beautiful picture.

He put it back, face to the bookcase, and began rapidly slotting datapads in front of it, grabbing stack after stack from the oversized berth.

He wasn't going to think about it.