Tonight.
The full moon was tonight, and Cosmos was running out of time. He had only hours to convince Hound to change his mind, and he still had to find the scout first. He'd never been so worried in his life… and the fact that the only people who believed him about Hound's condition were Sparkplug and Chip, neither of whom would be spending Halloween on the Ark, did nothing to help matters. If only he had some help in all this, an ally who believed his and Hound's story.
He yelped as the fallen log he'd been trying to use to cross a stream cracked and split, dumping him in the chilly water. He had so little experience on the ground – he was far more used to the wide-open reaches of space than the obstacle course that was Earth's natural landscape. At this rate it would take ages to track Hound down… and in the meantime he was making so much noise that it would be sparkling's play for Hound to hear him coming and avoid him.
Cosmos finally waded out of the stream and shook himself, sending water and mud in all directions. Then he reached into subspace and felt around… and sighed in relief when his fingers brushed the vial he'd stowed away. While Wheeljack was still in the "doubter" camp regarding the Horrorcon stories, he had humored Cosmos' request for a wolfsbane extract. Cosmos' explanation had been that he was planning a Van Helsing costume for tonight, and he wanted it to look as authentic as possible. It had seemed like a ludicrous excuse to his own audials, but somehow Wheeljack had bought it – then again, this was Wheeljack, the mech had probably built his own functioning proton pack to make his own costume more authentic.
His foot caught on an exposed tree root, and he toppled headlong into a tangle of blackberry bushes. He yelped and thrashed, trying to break free.
"Easy there, little guy, you're just making it worse."
Cosmos yelped again as something picked him up and yanked him free, then set him back down on his feet. The prickly bushes hadn't been enough to even scratch his paint, thankfully, but his armor was blotched with purple, almost like bruises, from the squashed berries.
"Thanks, Hound."
"No problem." Hound gave a faint smile. "I heard you following me, you know. You're not very good at being stealthy. But seeing as you're so determined to find me… well, here I am."
Cosmos nodded, and he blurted out what he'd come to say before he or Hound could change their minds. "Hound, we have it! The cure for your lycanthropy!"
Hound raised an optic ridge. "I find that hard to believe."
Cosmos fumbled in his subspace pocket and pulled out the vial. "That professor at the university was very helpful. There are certain plants that can cure lycanthropy, and Wheeljack was able to derive the most potent chemicals from one of them. And they're not toxic to our kind! This should work!"
"We don't know that," Hound countered. "Just because they work for humans – IF they work for humans – doesn't mean they'll work for us."
"But surely it's worth an attempt?" Cosmos insisted. "Hound, do you realize what you're going to turn into? You'll be a monster! You could hurt someone badly!"
Hound shook his head. "I know what's going to happen tonight, Cosmos. And don't worry. I've taken precautions."
"What do you mean?"
The scout raised his arm, and Cosmos spotted a mottled patch of a queer silvery-green material on his shoulder and upper arm. "See this? It's where I burned myself in the washracks."
Cosmos hissed in sympathy. "Are you all right? I didn't think the cleanser was hot enough to do that."
"It's not the heat – it's the chemicals. One of the active cleaning agents in our cleansers is silver nitrate." He sighed and lowered his arm. "It's why I've been avoiding the washracks all month – it took days for my self-repair systems to heal after that, and it left scars that I don't think can ever be healed. Still… it gave me an idea."
"Hound, listen to me…"
"I talked Grapple into repainting my quarters with a silver-tinted paint," Hound went on. "One with actual silver used in the making of it. About half an hour before the moon rises, I'll claim I don't feel well and lock myself in. That way I'm quarantined from the rest of the Ark until the full moon has passed."
Cosmos rebooted his optics in surprise. Hound had really thought this through, it seemed. "But… but why? Why do you refuse the cure when it's right here? Even if it doesn't work… we have to at least try, right?"
At that, Hound smiled… but it was a smile that chilled Cosmos to the core. It was somehow feral and wild, a smile that would look more at home on the face of a Dinobot or a Stunticon.
"Because I'm enjoying the abilities this has given me," he replied. "Because I'm tired of being kicked and pushed around on the battlefield, of my abilities being worthless in actual combat. For once I feel like a contributing member of the Autobots, able to hold my own in a fight… and everyone wants to take that away from me. Well, I'm not giving it up. Not if I can help it."
"Even if it means becoming a monster?" Cosmos asked. "Or worse… if it means long-term damage? Your self-repair systems…"
"So long as I give my nanobots something to do on a regular basis, I should be fine." And as if to prove his point, he drew a knife and slashed a long wound down his arm. "Don't worry, it looks worse than it is… and it keeps my self-repair systems busy. I've found ways to adapt to my condition, Cosmos. I'll be just fine."
Cosmos wanted to argue with him, but Hound seemed to be thwarting his arguments at every turn. Finally he just sighed deeply. "Please… please reconsider. You are my friend, and I don't want to see you hurt."
Hound's smile softened a bit. "You believed me from day one… and that alone means a great deal to me. Look… if I change my mind at all, you'll be the first mech I come to. Until then, don't worry about me. I'll be just fine."
And the scout patted Cosmos on the top of his helm before melting back into the trees.
Cosmos stared after Hound, wanting to chase after him, but in the end he just gave a whining sigh and went to retrace his steps back to the base. He had offered to help Hound, and he'd turned it down. There wasn't much he could do now but hope the scout would change his mind… maybe after his first transformation. He couldn't see how being forced into a beast form could be at all pleasant.
At least Hound had remained calm during their conversation… and he hadn't had to make use of what else lay tucked in his subspace. The silver-plated knife might not have done much good against someone much bigger than he was… but it might have at least bought him some time if Hound had attacked him. For now, though, he simply prayed he would never have to use it.
The party looked to be in full swing, and Prime smiled broadly behind his mask as he watched the festivities unfold around him. The common room had been decorated in shades of orange, violet, and black for the occasion, with spiders the size of a full-grown human hanging from the ceiling and holographic bats flitting about the room. Fake spider webs hung in gauzy white curtains amid the streamers, and jack-o-lanterns glowed on every table. In one corner Blaster, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and a wild curly wig to mimic the human singer Weird Al, worked the sound system, pumping out the "Time Warp" song from Rocky Horror Picture Show. In another corner Perceptor, wearing an odd mix of Victorian attire and clockwork gadgetry that he'd described as "steampunk," mixed energy drinks in vivid shades of orange and violet. Everyone looked to be enjoying themselves, which meant the night was, thus far, a wild success.
About the only thing that could spoil the night, Prime figured, was a Decepticon attack. But the Stunticons were securely locked away at the moment, and Megatron wasn't the sort of leader who would launch a rescue mission for his troops. More likely he would demand some sort of exchange for the combiner team at some point… but probably not tonight. Odds were that tonight would pass without any incident more severe than some drunken shenanigans from the twins.
Of Prime's officers, only two were currently absent – Hot Spot, whose team was guarding the brig, and Red Alert, who absolutely refused to leave his post despite all efforts to convince him to let someone else handle it for the night. Ratchet was engaged in a loud, half-drunken debate with Ironhide, his normally white paint an odd shade of greenish-bronze from his Cherno Alpha costume. Jazz was leading a group of mechs in the Time Warp dance, and Grimlock and his Dinobots bellowed and cackled from the corner they had staked out as their own. Prowl had just entered the room, and he looked like he was fighting a CPU-ache at the moment, but at least he was in attendance. He didn't see Silverbolt, but Fireflight had just darted by in a rather ridiculous-looking sailor outfit, so he assumed the Aerialbot leader was somewhere in the vicinity.
Prowl made his way through the crowd, sidestepping the Aerialbots – all of whom were dressed as one member or another of the Village People, Prime realized – before coming to stand beside Prime. His disgusted expression spoke volumes on his opinion of both the festivities and the costume Jazz had foisted onto him.
"I see you finally decided to dress up," Prime noted with a chuckle.
"Let it be known I'm doing this under extreme duress," Prowl muttered. "I'm going to have Jazz's head for this."
Prime chuckled. "Relax a little, Prowl. A little dressing up in costume never killed anyone."
"There's always a first time."
"Stop sounding like Gears and have a little fun." He handed Prowl an orange energon cube. "I trust we have mechs guarding the brig?"
Prowl nodded and sipped from the cube. "The Protectobots are taking the first shift, and the Aerialbots will relieve them halfway through the party. They refused to change out of their costumes for guard duty, though, so they're getting some catcalls from the Stunticons."
"I'll bet that's a sight to see," Prime laughed. "It sounds as if everything's under control."
Prowl snorted. "As under control as it can be." He finished off his cube and set it aside. "I assigned Hound to patrol like you requested, but he claims to be suffering from a glitch and has retired to his quarters for the evening. He won't respond to any radio inquiries either."
That drew a frown from Prime. Had his mysterious illness gotten suddenly worse? "We should send someone to his quarters to make sure he's all right. Given recent events, I would rather play it safe than just assume everything's all right."
"Already taken care of. Cosmos volunteered to check on him."
"Good… very good." Prime felt the knot of tension in his spark ease slightly. "I don't see Dashboard. I take it our guest opted out of the festivities?"
"He left earlier this evening. Apparently he's opted to strike out on his own rather than remain allied with the Autobots."
Prime sighed softly. He didn't want to force anyone to join the Autobots, and he had promised the neutral that they wouldn't punish him if he decided not to ally himself with their cause. Still, Dashboard would have made a fine Autobot, and he feared that just because he wouldn't wear the Autobot crest didn't mean that Megatron would leave him unmolested.
"Oh for the love of Primus," Prowl groaned, cutting into Prime's train of thought. "Jazz, please don't do this."
Prime glanced up… and burst out laughing. Jazz, the twins, Bluestreak (wearing what Prime guessed was Hans' outfit from the recent Frozen movie), and Blaster were in the middle of the rec room, and the saboteur was talking everyone through the dance steps to the "Thriller" dance. Laughter and cheers echoed through the room, and even the dancers themselves were laughing and carrying on as they did their best to imitate Jazz's moves.
"That looks like fun," Prime noted.
"It looks ridiculous," Prowl muttered. "Don't they have any sense of dignity… sir? Sir, please don't…"
Too late. Prime had already stepped out on the dance floor, and Jazz grinned and darkened one side of his visor in a wink as he stepped aside to let their leader join in.
Prowl just rolled his optics and went to Perceptor's table for another drink. Primus dammit, was he the only mech on this ship who maintained some sense of professionalism?
Hound wouldn't allow himself to relax until the silver-painted doors had hissed shut behind him, the lock clicking into place. He'd made it… and with fifteen minutes to spare until moonrise. He would be secure for the night, and the Autobots would be safe.
Some small part of him wouldn't stay quiet, raging at him for not accepting Cosmos' offer of help. What the frag are you doing, it nagged in the back of his CPU. You're an idiot! You're putting the Autobots in unnecessary danger doing this! And you think you can get away with this every time? You can't keep this hidden forever – Cosmos might tell someone, and they might actually believe him… or someone might come in and blow your cover. What are you going to do then?
He wanted to argue with that annoying voice of reason, but found he really couldn't. He was being reckless, and he knew that – his new abilities came at a heavy price, and he knew few Autobots would consider his heightened senses and healing abilities worth being turned into a Horrorcon once a month. And if he was discovered, there was a possibility that they would deem him too dangerous to save…
No, he thought. Prime wouldn't terminate one of his own troops. He's always looked out for our welfare. Still, he couldn't forget that Prime had been among those who had refused to believe his Horrorcon story…
Dammit, Hound, just let it go already. How long are you going to hold this grudge? Would you have believed someone that came running into the base with some tale about being attacked by a monster?
He sat down on the berth and rubbed at his temples, wincing as pain stabbed through his CPU. A sign of his upcoming change, or just stress? Maybe a combination of both. Though part of him did wonder if staying indoors would save him from the change, if only actual moonlight could spark the shift…
"I thought you'd never show up."
Hound glanced up sharply. "What the…" How could someone have come into his room without him noticing?
A gunmetal-gray form stepped out of the corner of the room, smirking slightly. "You've found out by now that your abilities can help you hide yourself quite well… almost as good as a cloaking device, isn't it?" He chuckled softly. "Then again, I see you've been enjoying your newfound abilities very much. That pleases me."
Hound drew his gun, aiming it at Dashboard's chest. "Get out of my room!"
The neutral raised an optic ridge. "I would love to, but you've sort of made escape impossible at the moment. Put that down, why don't you, and let's have a chat."
Hound kept the gun trained on Dashboard. "So I was right all along… you're a Horrorcon. A lycanthrope. A werewolf."
Dashboard gave a grin that showed off a remarkably sharp set of dental plates. "Got it right on all counts. I was wondering how long it would take you and your little green friend to connect the dots." He took a step closer, ignoring the pistol. "Yes… it would seem lycanthropy is not a disease limited to organics. About a vorn ago, scouts from a neutral colony ventured onto this world and came back with bite marks from a rather vicious organic monster. None of us thought much about it… until the moon of the planet we had claimed as our own reached its fullest phase, and sparked a terrible change."
Hound's hand spasmed once, pain lancing down his arm, but he clenched his jaw and kept the weapon pointed at Dashboard. "You were a scout, weren't you?"
"No… I was not part of that party. Rather, I was a survivor of the ensuing massacre once the change came into effect. The Horrorcons tore apart the colony, and whoever wasn't killed was bitten… and made part of the pack." He chuckled again. "Really, though, it was simply a matter of weeding the weakest and slowest, and granting unimaginable power to the strongest. It was for the best."
His hand jolted with pain, and he dropped the gun, gripping his wrist. Dashboard's grin softened slightly.
"Yes, the first time you change is always the hardest," he noted in a tone that could almost be called sympathetic. "Don't worry, it doesn't last long."
"Why… why did you do this?" Hound groaned, trying to keep his optics on Dashboard despite the pain forcing them out of focus. "Why… I didn't… didn't do anything to you…"
"You really don't get it, do you?" Dashboard noted. "This isn't about revenge, or pure sadism. This is about expanding the pack. Think about it – Cybertronians with heightened abilities, incapable of being permanently damaged, able to move like shadows and take down their foes effortlessly. We'd be an unstoppable force, one that not even Prime or Megatron could take down. Why… we could return to our homeworld, and end the war once and for all. We could even rule it, and to the Pit with the Matrix!"
Hound gave a sharp cry and hunched over as every strut in his body screamed in pain, as if an unfathomable pressure were cracking and crushing the metal of his chassis. His vision whited out, his audials roared, his entire neural net crackled and burned with agony. Through the haze of pain he could feel hands on his shoulders, almost as if Dashboard were trying to comfort him.
"Yesssssss," he hissed, cackling. "Oh yes, let it happen. Don't fight the change, Hound… accept it. Revel in it. You're one of us now… one of the pack. Together we can change others, gather followers, and become an unstoppable force. Even the precious Prime is powerless against us."
Hound cried out in pain… a cry that became a ringing howl that reverberated from the walls of his quarters. He sprang to his feet, awkward on legs that suddenly bent backwards at the knees. His jaws jutted in a canine muzzle in front of his face, drooling oral lubricant from between jagged dental plates that mimicked vicious fangs. A burning hunger roiled in his tanks… a hunger not for fuel, but for hot oil and metal, for squirming prey beneath his claws…
His optics snapped back into focus, taking in the sight of the changed Dashboard. The gunmetal Horrorcon gave a fanged grin, optics flaring violet, and delivered an eerie howl of his own. Hound answered with a baying call of his own, all rational thought shunted to the back of his CPU. Nothing mattered now – not the Autobots, not his own vow to remain locked in his quarters. Only the hunt commanded his thoughts. Only the hunt mattered.
Dashboard snarled, and Hound pinned his audial receptors back but lowered his head in acknowledgment. The gray Horrorcon was his superior, his alpha. He would obey him… for now.
Fists pounded on the door, and a thickly accented voice drifted through the thick metal.
"Hound? Hound, are you all right in there? Answer me!"
Something about that voice seemed familiar… but Hound shoved the memory aside. This wasn't a member of the pack, and therefore it must be prey. Something to hunt, to chase, and to finally tear apart…
"Hound, I'm coming in! Stand back!" And the door slid open.