Author's Note: While I prefer to just let the story stand for itself, I feel as if the last chapter deserved a little bit of explanation, considering its subject matter.

The previous chapter was a bit graphic, but I kept it to the same level of robotic "gore" as was present in the IDW's "Rage of the Dinobots" comic series. Grimlock, Slag, Sludge, Swoop and Snarl were disassembled in the same manner by Shockwave, so I was borrowing that from canon sources.

Next comes the alterations to Kickback, which is probably going to be the weirdest part of the whole story. Again, this is a shout-out to IDW's continuity; IDW treats transformers as a single-gender race (while the Aligned continuity, along with many other series, have both male and female Transformers), and introduced Arcee as a formerly male (neuter?) Cybertronian who had been the subject of an experiment by Jihaxus. The surgery left Arcee an axe-crazy lunatic, and there was some unhappiness in the fanbase for introducing the best known female Transformer with that jarring back story. I wholly admit I found Arcee's origins and status as a psychotic ex-male to be a disservice to the character to say the least, but I was also open-minded enough to suspend my dislike to see where IDW's writers are going with it.

I thought very hard about whether or not I wanted to do something similar to Kickback, and I am tentatively going forward with it, because I would like to explore in a realistic way (as realistic as giant space robots get anyways) what sort of repercussions this kind of massive change would have on someone's mind. I love Kickback to pieces, and his (her?) alteration will give the most under-utilized, forgotten Insecticon of the bunch a "leg-up" in story potential. Pun intended. He is a grasshopper after all.

Pax Cybertronia Theme Song: "Radioactive" - Imagine Dragons

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[Chapter Seven: Access Granted. Displaying Contents.]

. . . . .

Shrapnel threw a chair at the wall of the empty commons of the research facility. It shattered against the reinforced gray metal, parts splintering off in all directions and striking long tables with their rows of neatly aligned, sterile seats that had not seen use in thousands of years. "He's gone too far this time!" he howled, limbs twitching in rage, sparks of electricity shimmering off the tips of his alt-mode's sharp, clawed mandibles.

"You knew this was a possibility," Bombshell dismissively replied, folding his arms and leaning against the wall, watching his trine-mate's temper tantrum calmly. "We watched him do the same to the Autobots he brought in for testing. We helped him administer those tests. We helped shape the Dinobots under Shockwave's direction. Why did you think he would stop at using one of us for scientific progress?"

"Because we were loyal, Bombshell! We weren't Autobots! We weren't rebel Decepticons!" Shrapnel hissed.

"You haven't spent much time talking to Feint, have you?" Bombshell asked nonchalantly.

Shrapnel said nothing, fists clenched, back turned to the beetle-form behind him. No, he hadn't spent much time talking to that female, not when she all but taunted him with her brazen sensuality. She had manipulated him with her abilities, presumably ignorant or outright uncaring of the lingering effect it had on him. Shrapnel despised being controlled and hated those who had once worked for the Institute, and Feint was guilty of both crimes; at the same time she held a definite allure and appeal that Shrapnel was hard-pressed to ignore. The conflict of emotions that stormed through him in her presence had lead him to keep his distance from her as much as was possible. Nothing good, he reasoned, would come from prolonged exposure to Feint.

Bombshell, however, had no such problems when it came to Feint. Though she had used her abilities on him in the past, he had opened himself up to the experience of it, diving in, analyzing it, mentally blossoming in response to the violation of his sensors. He knew he would not be killed, and what did not kill him gave him the opportunity to discover the mechanism by which it worked. Once he understood it, he could emulate it, counter it or turn it against her.

"There is a reason why she's Shockwave's foremost assistant, and we are not. She sold herself to his ambitions completely, Shrapnel. She let him experiment on her in any way he wished, so long as he did not kill her or destroy her mind," the beetle-form explained.

Shrapnel's spark clenched and froze in its frame. "Why?" he asked brusquely, paranoia mushrooming inside him. "What would she gain from that? You don't allow yourself to become someone's willing slave unless you intend to benefit from it somehow! No one just lets that happen to them without a reason!" Just how much time had Bombshell been spending with that whorish female? Shrapnel was left to wonder. How had Bombshell gotten this information out of her, and why had he waited until now to reveal it?

Bombshell's transformation plates tightened against his body in unease. Perhaps he had made an error in sharing this tidbit of intelligence with his irascible trine-mate; he could already hear the mistrust and temper roiling through Shrapnel's harmonics as he spoke. The ultra-high frequency sounds transmitted between their kind (perceived by other Cybertronians as buzzing, clicking and various insect noises) carried an extra layer of communication and meaning for Insecticons. Shockwave had learned of this hive-resonance in his studies, and had managed to copy fragments of vocabulary that he could use to order around the sub-sentient drones, but his attempts to use these to control Kickback, Bombshell and Shrapnel were entirely unsuccessful due to his failure to understand it as a secondary language. In this manner the scientist was the equivalent of a tourist in a foreign land, phrase book in hand: His fumbling translations were good enough to direct a swarmer to carry energon cubes from point to point, but his attempts at anything more commanding or complex came across as hilarious gibberish to any sentient Insecticon.

Bombshell had made a calculated risk in sharing information about Feint with Shrapnel, as he knew what sort of effect it would have. Shrapnel had been a slave, classified as a "beast of burden" in the days of the Senate's power, and the ill-tempered beetle-form had been on the end of countless beatings due to his stubborn refusal to submit and obey. Multiple escape attempts, combined with "unusual displays of intelligence" had eventually sentenced Shrapnel to the hidden facilities of the Institute. There desperate Empties, suicidals, criminals, political dissidents and malcontents had been used for mental and physical experimentation, the likes of which would have caused even the most hardened Cybertronians to purge their tanks in horror and disbelief. Though those days were long over, Shrapnel continued to behave like a starved, beaten animal who had been rescued and rehabilitated; his physical health had returned, but he would never be mentally normal again. He was always looking over his shoulder, waiting for the next betrayal, the next beating, or the next dearth of energon.

Normally during these times, it was Kickback who would speak up as a voice of reason, using his natural charisma and empathy to assuage Shrapnel's anger and bring the beetle into focus. Bombshell was the thinker and planner, playing out every scenario like a game of chess, looking over details objectively, peeling back the layers of surface evidence to find the truth hidden beneath. He never bothered himself with learning to read Shrapnel's moods, leaving that to the grasshopper who could pick up the emotional tells of even the most stoic, tight-plated bots like some kind of sixth sense. It had become a calculated risk for Bombshell to tell Shrapnel anything potentially upsetting now that Kickback was incapacitated.

"That is the question, isn't it?" Bombshell calmly asked, attempting to redirect Shrapnel's accusing mind away from him and back to Feint. It seemed good tactics. "She has to be after something."

It seemed to work. Shrapnel relaxed, refocused back to the object of his loathing and lust. Yes, she was the enemy, not his trine-mate. After all, Bombshell had suffered as much as he had in the Institute. Feint had been one of its employees.

Shrapnel's thoughts turned to Kickback. He was uneasy without the third of the trine present, feeling exposed by the gap left in their team. He had never imagined they would become as interdependent as they were now; Shrapnel had at first resented the locust, who had enjoyed a soft upbringing as a Senator's exotic pet. After spending time together in the holding cells of the laboratory, talking to the other two to keep the insanity of sustained isolation and tight confinement at bay, he had learned that Kickback had suffered under the hive-workers' whips as well. The locust had been discarded to the slave pens when he had grown too large for the Senator's comfort, and the weeping of Sigil's progeny at the thought of losing "little brother" had only left Sigil more determined than ever to be rid of the bug. Shrapnel soon found himself grateful for Kickback's "soft" upbringing, for it had been the key to the trine's escape; uneducated and illiterate, neither Shrapnel nor Bombshell could decypher the Cybertronian standard language, a barrier that prevented them from understanding the intents and world of their captors. During his instar-hood, Kickback had surreptitiously educated himself alongside the Senator's newly-forged apprentice, learning to read, write and speak the language of the Others fluently, along with history, math, science, and politics. Kickback had roared Cybertronian curses in fury when the guards had come to take Shrapnel and Bombshell to the vivisection labs, and the ability speak Cybertronian had badly startled the technicians. It gave them the advantage of surprise, and Kickback's ability to read had allowed them to find their way out of the maze-like network of interconnected underground facilities known collectively as "The Institute".

"I want to see him," Shrapnel muttered unhappily. It was understood between the two Insecticons whom Shrapnel was speaking of.

"Kickback isn't a him," Bombshell corrected. "You can't call Kickback "him" anymore."

"DON'T REMIND ME!" the choleric Shrapnel screamed in fury.

"You're going to have to accept it sometime," Bombshell flatly countered, refusing to be cowed by the repeated outbursts, narrowing his optics. An oppressive silence weighted the air in the room as Shrapnel and Bombshell glared at each other, their wills invisibly thrashing against each other to see who would give in first.

"We both have to accept it, Shrapnel," Bombshell firmly stated, relenting with dignity, lowering his resonance with a frequency of apology-urging. "Kickback was strong for us once, giving us the will to escape, and the will to live. Now it's our turn to be strong for Kickback. You heard the drones screaming. I don't know how much sanity will be left in that altered body, and if we can't accept Kickback as a her, there's not much chance that Kickback will be able to accept it either."

Shrapnel vented sharply, a snort of wordless, disgusted acknowledgment, before making his way to the door of the commons, intent on visiting Kickback in the recovery chambers.

Bombshell watched Shrapnel go, lingering to enjoy the brief period of isolation. He would go to see Kickback as well, but later; for the moment, he wanted to ruminate over the choices he had made, and words he had said, and how it had affected his trine-mate. Charisma was not something Bombshell had in abundance, and he was far more at home with military strategy than interpersonal affairs. If Kickback went irreversibly mad, it would fall on Bombshell's shoulders to rein in Shrapnel's temper, and look after the best interests of all of them. Though he had chastised Shrapnel for a lack of foresight, he, too, wished he'd been able to see this possibility coming sooner.

. . . . .

Predaking chuffed angrily beneath his wing. The screaming. It had gone on and on and on, driving him out of recharge, his defensive programming kicking in and waking him from his much needed slumber, charging his systems with extra energon like a shot of adrenaline. Fight or flight. There would be no sleeping now.

Rising with the languid grace of a sleepy feline, he yawned, stretching his limbs, tail swishing as he craned his head towards the sound of the incessant, ululating shrieks. He had not noticed it before, but there was a quality to the sound that was distantly familiar – certain tones, vibrations, pitches and reverberations that called to him like the sounds of distant kin.

Curiosity erased the chalk of rude awakening from the blackboard of his mind, and spreading his wings, he lept into flight, seeking the source of the screaming. Though still tired and sore, he was in a better state than he had been prior to being pulled out of recharge stasis. His internal chronometer told him that several hours had passed. It was enough to be coherent and capable of handling danger. Soaring high over the Rust Sea, the sound, audible despite the blowing wind and metallic tinkling of oxide against his body, appeared to be coming from a high plateau dead in the middle of the wastes. He rose higher, above the rust storms, and found what looked to be some kind of military installation atop the Hydrax Plateau. The noise was coming from somewhere inside it.

Landing was easy; atop the plateau was some kind of vast, smooth platform with docking bays, control towers and enough space to park something the size of the Nemesis on the metallic tarmac spreading out in front of him. Predaking had seen Earth vehicles landing on similar structures but of much smaller scale. He reasoned that this must be some kind of air port, or perhaps even space port. Decepticon equipment had been cobbled into the existing structure, easily ascertained by how it mismatched the ancient framework underneath. The Decepticon architecture was of inferior quality to whatever this had been before. The Ancients, as he had once heard Shockwave call them, were masters of technology now lost to most of Cybertronian kind. What they had made had been built to last, even through millions of years of exposure, scavenging and war.

The screaming abruptly stopped. Predaking was startled by the sudden lack of sound; it had faded into the background of his awareness due to the remarkable persistence of the high-pitched, sawblade screaming and the animistic howling. He had a good idea of where the noise had originated, and being accustomed to three-dimensional movement, his sense of location and "homing instincts", as Shockwave had called them, were keen enough to let him continue to search for the source of the din.

The dragon-like beast shuffled into a large, open docking bay at the edge of the tarmac, passing the charred remains of unusually shaped bodies. He'd stopped to turn one over with his claws, alarmed at how much they resembled a Predacon ... and yet they were too small. Too much like the hominid shape of Decepticons who had been his masters. They had been destroyed by something powerful, and the scorched metal all around the area told him that a vicious battle had once been fought here. Snuffling at the long-deceased remains, he could find no traces of remaining energon to give him any clue as to these creatures' species. It was simply another unanswered question he would add to the growing pile in the back of his callow mind.

Meandering deeper into the facility, Predaking made his way past halls with crumbling statues of ancient Cybertronians he knew and cared nothing about, past the now silent machinery of an energon refinery, past evidence of war, and at last, into a wide open dome with a spiraling staircase leading to a doorway above. Without intention of lingering, the predacon placed his right forepaw onto the steps, and the room suddenly sprung to life: A holographic projector at the top of the spiral staircase blacked out the walls, projecting the void of deep space all around. Along the staircase suns, planets and moons appeared, labelled in a scrawling, harshly angled heiroglyphic language foreign to modern Cybertronians. It was the original language, colloquially known as "the Primal Vernacular".

Predaking could read it.

Forgetting his original goals for the moment, the titanic ancient reptile gave in to childlike wonder, observing the planet closest to him (labelled "Nebulos") and reached out with a long, pointed claw tip to touch it. His optics widened and he snorted in surprise as the sun expanded into a larger view, showing the planets and moons, marking one in particular. It was marked 'Colony World'.

The dragon cocked his head to the side like a puzzled dog, poking at the display, which shrunk back to normal.

He poked it again, expanding it.

Sneezing in mirth, he continued poking the display over and over and over. Expand, contract, expand, contract, expand, contract! Fun. This was definitely fun.

After the interactive visual map had lost its toy factor, and reminding himself that he was here for something else that might be time-sensitive in nature, he cleared his vents and continued up the stairs, making certain to carry himself with regal, commanding dignity - just in case someone had watched him playing with the holograms of the Ancients like a hatchling just minutes before.

He passed other worlds ('Velocitron', 'Animatron', 'Giganteon', 'Paradon', 'Junk') and paused to look at the one named 'Earth'. It had been listed not as a colony world, but as a potential resource gathering station. There were notes there concerning the presence of enormous, powerful reptilian life forms that could interfere with energon harvesting, and it had given Predaking pause. He did not recall Earth having those gigantic reptiles any longer. The humans living there had mentioned something about 'dinosaurs' and the little female of the Autobots had called him a 'dragon'. Was there some connection between the extinction of these "Dinosaurs" and his own kind in the past?

Again, another question to ponder later. There were matters that needed his attention now. He completed his trek up the spiral and pushed through the doors at the top.

Past the several hallways beyond, the bulkhead doors opened into a huge prison complex, rings of cells around a hollow interior, and lying on the floor at the bottom were hundreds of twitching, writhing insecticon drones. They chittered softly, erratically, the whole of the swarm seemingly possessed by mass confusion and delirium. Predaking towered over them, his shadow falling over their spasming bodies, but they made no effort to try to defend themselves. They were held thrall to some outside force he could not decypher.

He saw a distant echo of his kindred in their bodies. He could not place precisely how or why he felt a recognition in his spark; perhaps it was their shared colors. Perhaps it was their similar claws, mandibles and limbs. Perhaps it was something in the noises they made, the noises that sounded like a watered down, high-pitched garbling of a predacon's cry. Whatever the reason, he could not deny it: the drone creatures struggling at his feet were kin.

"A predacon!" a female voice cried from inside one of the nearby cells, a hoarse whisper of shock, the word half-choked in her throat. The dragon snapped his gaze towards the bars and forcefield that made up the cell doors, glowing golden optics searching for the female inside.

Far in the right corner of the smooth silvery walls of the cell was a mint green and white female Cybertronian, a wheeled grounder by the look of her transformation plates, optics brightened at the sight of Predaking's head. While he rumbled in disapproval at the red Autobot badge on her chest, her eyes locked on the golden emblem on his, and she suddenly shot forward out of her huddle towards him.

"Please! You've got to get me out of here! Open the cells before the swarm comes to its senses! We don't have much time!" She begged him for help without a second thought, causing Predaking to take a step backwards, confused. Autobots did not ask for his help - Autobots were out to destroy him and his kind. They were the enemy! ...Or so Megatron had said. The very same Megatron that had allowed his helpless protoform brethren to perish at Autobot hands.

The female looked confused and forlorn, drawing her hand back to her chest, the hope in her eyes fading. "I don't understand. You don't have a Decepticon badge. I - I thought you weren't one of them."

Rearing up, Predaking transformed, mass shifting into a smaller (yet still comparatively titanic) humanoid frame. "I am not one of them!" he spat derisively at the female Autobot, before looking away, still working out inside how he should feel about his former Decepticon allies. "I ... owe allegiance to none but my own kind."

"That doesn't make any sense. All Predacons serve Shockwave," the female countered.

The black and gold mech started to walk forward to the right of cell, pacing in front of it, turning at the end of the cell to walk the other way. How did she know about the connection between Predacons and Shockwave? And how did she know about them at all, unless-

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the little female following his motions as he paced, walking along side him, trying to keep up with his massive stride and trying very hard to get a good look at his face, studying him with a scrutinizing gaze of her own, as if trying to read his emotions and intent. Surprised, he turned away, hiding his face from the curious Autobot, flustered at her boldness.

He peeked back at her over his shoulder warily.

"... But you don't, do you?" she continued the moment she saw him glance her way.

Predaking startled again. She had no fear of him at all.

The would-be royalty had no idea how to deal with someone who was not intimidated by him; everyone had been, even Megatron! How could she not be afraid of the overwhelming power he possessed, the danger he represented? It was madness! He resolved to nip this in the bud before it got out of hand. "I serve no one but myself!" he roared, whirling on her, glaring down at the much smaller Cybertronian inside the cell, lips pulled back to show his fanged dental plating, trying to make himself look as threatening as possible.

"Well then get me out of here!" the femme retorted, sounding exasperated, frowning in a disconcertingly cute way. "You have no reason not to!"

No dice. She wasn't the least bit moved.

Predaking reached over to the locking mechanism on the wall outside the cell and opened it, machismo deflating like punctured balloon. Before he could try to gather up the confused shards of his ego the female was clinging to him, arms encircling his waist, cuddling up against him like a scraplet against a warm vent pipe. "Oh thank you!" she whispered in gratitude as Predaking's whole body seized up like an engine running without oil, plates raised, flummoxed by the display of affection. "Shockwave was going to use me as a research project! You saved my life!"

He had saved an Autobot's life. He did not know which felt worse - tangle of mixed feelings her hug produced in him, or the fact that he had aided the enemy. Uneasy with both, Predaking wedged a hand between himself and the female, prying her lose from his body and pushing her aside. "I owe you nothing!" he groused, folding his arms across his chest and looking away again. "I released you because I want information. It is a fair trade."

Unbothered by the forced distance put between them, the green and white femme stepped around Predaking's side, trying to meet him eye to eye no matter how many times he turned his head. "Sure! I can probably tell you what you want to know," she cheerfully replied.

The big mech relented, dropping his arms to his sides, staring down at the female, wearied by her persistence, his lingering injuries, and general lack of rest. If she wanted to study his face that badly, so be it! He leaned down to get his face as close as he could to hers in puerile defiance. "Predacons. You know about Predacons and Shockwave. How?"

"He has them here on Cybertron in his main lab," the girl explained. "We've seen them before during energon raids."

It was if he'd been tossed into the Arctic of Earth and defrosted all over again, a cold slap of shock followed by a sudden warmth of renewed hope. His kindred were alive - at least some of them! - and they were here - on Cybertron! They were here where he could reach them, protect them, guide them at last! Excitedly Predaking grabbed the girl's upper arms and shook her lightly, quickly remembering his own strength before he accidentally harmed her. Oh no, he did not want that now, not when she could lead him to his missing kindred! "Where?!" he demanded. "Where have you see them on these raids!?"

The female Autobot nearly lost her footing as she was shaken, taken off guard by the display of emotion and interest, but not offended by the gesture at all. "It was lunations ago, they could have been moved by then, so I can't be entirely sure where they are now!" Telling the truth was hard for her to do, especially when the desperate predacon seemed to wither inside with the news, but she had no intention of lying to her savior. She owed him forthrightness for her freedom. She couldn't stand to see him give up now, not after she'd gotten a good look at his eyes; she could see now why he had tried to hide his face from her. Unlike Shockwave, who had nothing inside to hide and no face to hide it on, this predacon had an honest, innocent spark and it shone brightly through his golden eyes.

"Now don't be like that," she consoled. "I'm sure my friends and I can find them for you if you're looking for them. If they're that important to you, and you aren't working for Shockwave, maybe we can help you rescue them."

Predaking sealed his vents. He dared not hope for such a victory, lest he be dashed to pieces when those plans fell through. "... You would assist me? Your friends-" He stopped mid-sentence... Her friends were almost certainly Autobots.

"Of course I would, and so would they. Like I said, you saved me from a fate worse than being extinguished," the girl explained. "Look, if we're going to do this, we'd better not sit around talking about it all day. Those insecticons aren't going to stay curled up and on their backs forever, and I don't know about you, but I'd rather not end up back in that cell. Let's get while the getting's good."

He could not argue with her logic, and for now, she was his only hope of finding his remaining brethren. He released her from his grasp.

"The name's Moonracer!" she announced, tiptoeing past the fallen swarmers. "Follow me, I remember the way they brought me in here, so I can find a way back out. I won't be able to radio back to base until we make it out of the rust sea - there's too much interference - but once we're clear it's a straight shot to Iacon. Once we get back, we'll start looking for your friends. I'm sure we'll find them in no time!"

Iacon, Predaking thought. So that was the name of the Autobot's home - And then it dawned on him: Optimus Prime and his allies, the ones whose hands were stained with the energon of his helpless fellows, were Autobots, just like this persistent, abrasively chipper female. Iacon would also be their home, and this girl would lead him straight to his sworn enemies.

"Then let us depart," he replied to Moonracer, transforming back to his draconic alt-mode, already planning his revenge.

. . . . .

[Chapter Seven: Complete.]

[End of Transmission.]