Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, only my OCs and this story.

Chapter 7

"Even a manically depressed robot is better to talk to than nobody."

-Douglas Adams

"He's got all the personality and charm of a circuit board. Forgive me, I didn't mean that."

-Jarod Kintz, Gosh, I Probably Shouldn't Publish This

According to Atalanta's HUB screen, her feral mode was 43% dominant. She could relate to how she felt when pressurised adrenaline would shoot through her previously spongy blood vessels. Everything was alarmingly sharp, yet irrelevant fields of her vision were dismissed in her brain for calculations of her distance to her opponent, and at what velocity she was charging.

Perhaps it had taken only 3 hours (joors, her HUB corrected her mental rabbling) to break her internal resolution to obey orders and concentrate on being a good little Autobot, but then again, that was still quite an achievement for her. Maybe she would make it to dinner the next time she tried.

Of course, she had noticed the entrance of 4 other mechs, (two of them seemingly in some disabled form), but her targeting system was still focused on Ratchet, the red triangular marker in her vision pulsing angrily as it locked on.

Atalanta hadn't really had a chance to see the full extent of her weapons system, but while she fought, helpful little boxes would ping on the edges of her Hub screen, suggesting manuveres that she could utilise. She had mainly been enjoying the elastic flexability of her new body, as well as its sharp edges, but now one of these suggestion boxes caught her curiousity.

As she hurled herself onto all 4s again and charged, additional red triangles snapped around the images of the other four mechs charging blasters and weaponising themselves. The only one she recognised, Bumblebee, was wielding his familiar glowing blue arm cannons, the golden mech sitting down doing the same. His red look a like had unsheathed two long silver blades, though Atalanta wasn't planning to get close enough for him to use them. The final unknown mech had flicked his wrists to extend a reel of electrocuting cables, another pair flailing behind his shoulders from his back like tentacles.

Ratchet himself seemed finally on his last wrench. He grasped it tightly in one hand, resorting to activate the transformation of his other hand into a large, grotesque looking welder. He sent a equally venomous glare at Atalanta, ready for her in a battle stance.

As Atalanta approached, the tip of her tail started to glow and wildly spin like a blaster ready to fire. Instead however, the jaggered point clicked open in segments to allow several shards of elongated bullets to be shot. 4 disabled both of Bumblebee's cannons, one of Sunstreakers and Ratchet's welder, each dart disabling the weapons by entering the exact centre and slicing the internal chambers down the middle. The dart aimed at Sunstreaker's other cannon was blocked by his brother's blade on that side as Sideswipe formed an X barrier with them. The bullets aimed at Jolt however did not reach their target, disintegrating on the surface of the cables when entering the amplified EM field.

Not a moment after this had happened, Ratchet was falling backwards to the floor, the femme latched onto his armour and mercilessly clawing at his torso. Her tail swiped away Bumblebee as he tried to intervene, senting him crashing back into the Med Bay. The twin mechs stumbled up as best as they could, their wheelchairs colliding with the other, but Jolt swerved around them.

His high voltage cables writhed in the air like Atalanta's tail. They wrapped around the appendage, pulling her forcefully off of Ratchet and then relatching themselves around her arms and legs, holding her away and suspended in the air.

She repressed the urge to double over with how quickly she had been whipped away, but the though barely registered before a high current shot through her system. The flashing, burning sensation was so painful, all she could do for several moments was jerk horribly in the air, face stretched open as electricity snapped in blue flashes all over her body and down Jolt's cables. Atalanta, in several jaggered movements managed to bring her hands up to the cable wrapped near her shoulders, but instantly recoiled when she tried to tighten her grip, the agonising shrieking raised even more.

Vageuely, she felt her tail manage to wriggle out of its prison and someone's pained yell as it sliced through armour, before Jolt got a grip on it again. She also felt the shaking ground as large peds slammed towards them, and an angry command before her HUB screen started to fritz into static and finally black out.

Optimus groaned and rubbed his fingers deeply into the grooves of his temples, his elbows propped up on his desk. Ironhide was smugly (yet somehow also angrily) boasting about how he knew this would happen; Jazz was leaning by the door, amused and watching everyone else with his usual air of calm; Ratchet was next to Ironhide and Prowl, fuming and looking ready to skin a bot (or certain femme) and Jolt sat in quiet agitation in front of Prime's desk.

With a stressed hum, Prime addressed the medic bot. "Jolt, I understand that you had to restrain her, but did you have to put her into emergency stasis?"

The blue and white mech shrugged bashfully. "I thought she was a Decepticon, sir. She seemed pretty set on offing Ratchet's spark."

"You have no idea how many times that's been said." Ironhide muttered.

"Ironhide." Optimus reprimmed. He sighed heavily, before straightening again. "I suppose it was an honest mistake. I should have alerted the rest of the Autobots the moment we took her out of Jazz's interrogation. You are dismissed, Jolt, thank you."

The younger bot nodded with relief. "No problem sir." He slipped out of the room quickly.

Jazz chuckled, the sound odd in the tense office. "She's quite da' femme, ain't she Prime?"

"Quite the-Ha! She's a bloody savage, that's what! I say we throw her one of those salt marshes Lennox told us about, and be done with it." Ironhide boomed.

"For the last time Ironhide, we are not going to offline Atalanta." Prime snapped, his patience waining. "While she will be reprimmed for her actions, we have to understand that it is hard for her to adjust to being around fellow Cybertronians."

"You got to be kidding me Optimus!" Ratchet growled. "She peeled at my plating like a ravenous scrappling! She's not a misunderstood youngling, she's a vile, out of control femme with no respect for authority. You'll be better with those primate relations of the humans as a soldier than her."

Jazz patted Ratchet on the shoulder with a laugh. "Calm down Hatchet, ya' cooling fans can't keep up!"

"I agree." Prowl said, his optics behind a visor similar to his mate's. "This situation needs to be analysed calmly and collectively. A high emotional state will only elevate the situation."

Prime looked to his second in command. "What do you suggest, Prowl?"

The police bot answered immediately. "I propose that once the femme is awake, to let her serve a day in the brig for her actions. No punishment, and we are showing her that we encourage unsubordination. Anything harsher and she will see us as unfair, especially due to the provocation."

"Provocation?!" Ratchet snarled. "She attacked me!"

"Ah, common bot. It was gonna happen some day." Jazz lazily imputed.

Ironhide relaxed with a chuckle. "Perhaps you should work on the bedside manner, Ratch. You could chase Megatron away with one of your medical exams."

The CMO gnashed his dentas together. "When I don't get stupid front liners that shoot off their own joints and feral femmes that may or may not be on our side, then I'll fragging calm down."

"You need to listen to us, Ratchet." Optimus said. "Think about it from her point of view; she knows none of us, and is trusting us enough to fight for our cause. Atalanta most likely didn't fully understand what you were doing, and may have…misinterpreted your actions and speech."

The room was silent for a moment. "I may have…been absorbed in examining her exoskeleton." Ratchet admitted. "Oh don't give me that face Ironhide, or I'll remould your plating into it!" He threatened.

Ironhide raised his servos innocently. "I didn't say a thing."

"Then don't start now, slagger."

"Mechs." Prime scolded. "Here is what is going to happen. Once Atalanta finishes her time in the Brig, she will be assimulated into our community. The same rules still stand; certain bots will keep an eye on her, but remember, we know for a fact that she isn't a purposeful threat. She's here to help, sent by our creator of all things." He mumbled the last part, half incredulous at how it sounded.

"Yeah, what an angel." Ironhide snorted.

"Should we inform her of our decision while she is contained?" Prowl asked.

Prime nodded. "That would be prudent. Better that she knew why she's waking up in the brig as soon as possible. Ratchet, this feud ends now. You're as bad as Ironhide, and you're both acting like sparklings. She'll need someone to talk to about being one of us, especially about her biological changes."

"Why don't ya' send her ter tha' dinobots?" Jazz suggested. "Ahm' guessing' dat they'd know a thing or two 'bout having' a tail."

"You expect them to explain the synthesis of her CNA to her?" Ratchet snorted derisively. "You're out of your processor, Jazz."

"Then it's your job Ratchet." Prime said firmly. Ratchet's smile dropped. "And that's final. Atalanta's integration has already been messy enough, and she hasn't even met most of the bots here, let alone the humans!"

"The humans aren't a big deal." Ironhide said. "Frag it, the femme was a female not long ago."

"Am I correct in saying she left this planet at a young age, no?" Prowl mused. "She has spent more time in the company of other species than her own kind."

"All the more reason for us to be patient with her." Prime reiterated. "Anything else like this happens, and she will be punished accordingly. But given the circumstances, we have to behave as so. Understood?"

Despite a few being rather reluctant, all the mechs agreed. They made their way out, Ratchet being the last. He turned just before closing the door. "Oh, Optimus?"

"Yes, Ratchet?"

The CMO gave a smirk. "Don't forget to inform Elita and the other femme commanders of this."

Optimus sighed and closed his optics for a few blissful klics after the door closed.

It was no secret to them that they really pulled at Ratchet's bolts, so unless they were bleeding out or their sparks were giving out, it was common for the medic to avoid them until there absolutely nothing left to fix other than the twin bots. Sideswipe figured that he just liked having their beautiful selves around. Ratchet 'accidently' hit a nerve wire while welding in response.

Sunstreaker's bed had the best view of the new femme's unconscious form directly opposite the Bay. That is, until the femme medic in training Greenlight was ordered by Ratchet to close the curtain, after scanning the unconscious patient again.

Greenlight's bored voice drifted across the room. "Everything seems normal. The extra spikes and her claws have retracted, which I think means A-6trine has left her energon stream. She's in normal stasis now, and should wake up at the end of the cycle at the longest."

Grunting his thanks, Ratchet dismissed her to sterilise the used equipment.

Sideswipe craned his neck to see around the gap in the curtain, pouting when Ratchet pushed him down, going back to choosing his tools of torture. "What's up with the view, Hatchet?"

"Don't call me that, fragger." He scowled back. "And that femme, is none of your concern. Don't talk to her, don't look at her, don't even think of her, you got it?"

"Jeez, what crawled into you're plating?"

"Who is she?" Sunstreaker asked, not bothering to turn the medic's way.

Ratchet clicked his glossa. "Didn't you hear me? I don't see any denting on your audio fins. It's none of your business."

"Aww common Hatchet! At least a name! What is she, a new arrival, a prisoner?" Sideswipe wined.

"Sort of both." Jolt answered, pushing through the med bay.

"Wha-OW! Hatchet!" Sunstreaker rolled his eyes at Sideswipe, having successfully numbed the bond between them before Ratchet got around to starting a new weld on a plate not yet anaesthetised.

"I said don't call me that. And you!" Ratchet pointed a wagging finger at Jolt, who froze warily. "Call First Aid for me. The two of you need to take that pile of slag down to the Brig before she wakes up. Inform whoevers on guard duty to com Prime when she's awake."

"I'll get him myself; he said that Kip wanted him to do a check up on the Wreckers, so he'll probably be out of his processor by now anyway."

"Alright, off with you then." Ratchet grumbled.

"Oi Jolt! What's the femme's designation?" Sideswipe called. He squealed when Ratchet slammed a too large bolt into a too small ortifice. "Out. Now." He snarled. Jolt quickly retreated.

"Why so uptight, Hatchet? It's just a femme, what the big deal of knowing what to address her?" Sunstreaker tried, his attempt at being casual falling at the CMO's flat look.

"Don't give me that slag. I know what sort of scrap runs through a mech's processor and interface plating. When there's a new femme, every mech get's too oiled up and start reving their internal workings like crazy."

Greenlight looked up from her work, making a disgusted face. "I did not need to hear that."

Ratchet continued his ranting. "You two better listen, and listen good. That femme's processor is glitched 10 ways to the pit. She's more likely to feed you your own spark than to fraternise with you."

The rest of his words were tuned out by the twins, as they looked at one another and internally had their own conversation.

"She sounds feisty." Sideswipe started with a grin.

Sunstreaker rolled his optics. "Of course she is. She's part pred, idiot."

Sideswipe furrowed his brow. "How do you know?"

"She's got a tail like the one's the dinobots copied from those dead Earth animals, what do you think?" Sunstreaker said sarcastically.

The red twin shrugged amiably and looked back at the curtain, as if he could see through it. "Never seen a femme that hasn't glitzed up her armour in colour."

"Weird femme." Sunstreaker grunted. "No wonder everyone thinks she's a con. Who else would optionally go for full grey?" He screwed his mouth in disgust.

Sideswipe huffed, ignoring the glare Ratchet gave him when he shifted his dead leg. "What's so bad about a name, eh Sunny?...Sunny?"

"I think I can see where Jolt left her name board."

"A what?"

"The squishies do it in their hospitals to identify patients and Ratchet picked it up."

"Well what does it say?!"

"Stop wining!" After straining his optics to zoom in as much as possible, Sunstreaker said, "It looks like…'Ata'?"

"'Ata…'? That it?" Sideswipe said incredulously.

"No fragger, that's all I can see. The curtain blocks the rest."

Sideswipe slumped back. "Damn curtain." He narrowed his optics in distaste. "What kind of name is 'Ata'? It's too short, and sounds like that human insect, you know."

"A human?"

"No!" Sideswipe scowled over the bond. "Ants. That's what I meant. Jeez, humans aren't that bad."

"You just like their gaming consoles."

"You say that like I don't feel your pride when you let them take you to one of those car wash places."

"Shut it slagger. Anyway, my point, was that was all I could see. Her name isn't just that."

"Thank Primus! Can you imagine that Sunny?"

Sunstreaker mentally slapped his twin, as Greenlight had moved onto dissecting his arm. "You call me that again, and you're going to wake up in the middle of the ocean weighed down with you're precious Xbox."

"It's a PS-"

"As if I care!"

Sideswipe blinked at Ratchet's snapping fingers, forgetting his reply. "Wha?"

The CMO rolled his eyes. "I said, you need to pay more attention to cleaning the underside of your peds. There was an accumulation of aggulating dirt."

Sideswipe raised his brow. "Come again?"

Ratchet gave him a withering glare, while Greenlight and his twin wore similar 'really'? expressions. "You have what the organics would call a foot fungal infection. Using a higher conc washing solvent will get rid of it."

"Sure thing, doc bot."

"Scrap for brains." Sunstreaker greeted him back to their conversation.

"Sunshine of the sk-OW!" Sideswipe recoiled away with a new bruise, knocking Ratchet's purchase on his armour.

"Watch or I'll magnetise the berths again!" He hissed.

Grumbling, Sideswipe shot a glare at his smirking brother.

"What do you think the rest of her name is?" Sunstreaker casually moved on.

With a huff, Sideswipe deflated from his irritation. "Dunno. Maybe…Atadrien?"

"Like that ore the high class bots wore as jewel in Iacon?"

"Yeah, the green shiny rock."

"…That's a terrible name." Sunstreaker said with a snort.

Sideswipe shuddered. "Pit yeah. But that wouldn't be her name. It won't be."

"Sure."

In retrospect, when the door to her cell opened, Atalanta would've expected herself to launch and shred the unfortunate opener like an enraged beast, but her new teammates seemed wise enough to let her chill out for a few hours (ding! – joors) before entering the minotaur's cave.

On the bright side, this cell was open bars but for the back wall, with a high current flowing through them. In a weird sense, she could relax with the lack of claustrophobia. Several identical cells along each side of hers filled the room, as well as a row opposite on the other side. Two doors; one leading out to freedom, the other to the control room, essentially a mini security room just for the guards and 5 cameras for the brig.

Counting cameras was a fond habit of hers.

When she woke up, her head hurt, a lot. It made her want to hunt down that fucking medic and feed him his own beloved wrenches. Maybe gut him for good measure.

Then she got distracted by how her nasal receptors had logged a file down on the mech's unique scent. Curiously delving into this new area of her processor, she encountered all the automatic coding for every 'new' scent she had picked up since being…a bot.

Now that was neat.

She was basically a hounddog.

Perhaps xeno coding wasn't so bad.

A flash of that gruesome day, and various close ups of Bakuub.

Thanks, memory server, Atalanta thought with a grimace, burying it all back down with a weak layer of defence that one of the data files Ratchet had made her download taught her.

Surprise surprise, Optimus Prime had been part of the welcoming committee. While she half paid attention (inputting her usual half sarcastic, half submissive responses) half tried making sense of the biological Cybertronian structures data file (it help to compare it to human biology, like her HUB automatically did), the gist was obtained; we understand the CMO's an ass (ding! – aft), but you're not allowed to dismantle him, you're still up for training, still have to meet the others, still can't piss off Ironass blah blah blah.

At least her interrogator (the one named after a music genre, Pop, Jazz, Techno, who gives a crap?) was vaguely cool. Only a little though.

And now she had reached her next destination of her first day.

Or rather Atalanta's 2nd (she had been out for a while, and Jolt was just another reason to stay away from the Med Bay).

Apparently, it was the Cybertronian version of a room.

It was the exact same shade of grey as both of her previous cells, but on the other hand, was larger and private. Pit, she was allowed to set her own lock on the door (though her superiors had master codes to open it anyway if necessary). There was a door leading to a waste disposal utility and a wide sink, the colour scheme remarkably broken up by a lighter grey framing the skirting board.

In the main room, there seemed to be a very low, large metal table, a matching end table and several rows of blank shelves.

In other words, the only thing that wasn't grey was the mirror that was directly next to the door, and that was essentially a shiny version of clear grey.

Not to mention she was predominantly grey.

As well as her reflection.

Like a feline having cat nip withdrawal symptoms, Atalanta clawed at her hair, the shriek of metal on metal drowned out by her frustrated scream.

She left her room and wandered the corridors aimlessly, in desperation for something to relieve her boredom. Somehow, she found her way on to the human side of the base without finding any of her own species. She paused to start talking to one of the slack jawed soldiers that stared (she did look that much like a con, and apparently had found the area of the barracks for the newly shipped in recruits), but cringed and rushed away, uncomfortable with the sensation of having to lean down to look directly at them.

She doubted the conversation would have been fruitful anyway.

And then she felt tired.

Not in the way that she was lacking recharge, because being in stasis for the day really filled up one's energy stores, but the sort of mental fatigue where she just wanted time to skip ahead and let her forget for a little bit.

More like a stress, 'i'll bury away from the world', procrastination nap.

She followed the map back to her room, realising the amount of times that her path had circled around itself.

Atalanta locked her door and stared at her room. She suspected that the metal table was meant to be a…bed of sorts. No duvet, pillows, sheets, nada.

All at once, she felt weighed down, and done with this day. She forced herself to lie down and get 'comfortable', curling her tail around her fetal position.

Hey there friendos. an early update for you while my muse is renting out the cottage.

I'm really craving only a single sip of coke. Does anyone else get that? Maybe i just need cold water.

Love,

Renin xo

Maybe tomorrow would give her a reason to not regret.