A lot to explain

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers and all I get out of this is good mood.

The humans insipidly believed that it was the cold that bound his system, like he had been one of them ground-pounding vehicles. There was no cold short of absolute zero cold that could harm him whose another form was that of a space craft. The cold vastness of space was his to conquer and it was merely the solid material encrusted over him that made it impossible to gain the necessary momentum to break through, little ice shards like fine blades inside him, teasing his most delicate circuits and main energon lines with promise of serious damage and death should he move. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he felt violated.

It was a loop from pit, until he could raise his internal temperatures enough to melt them he was to stay immobile and he couldn't raise his temperature as long as he was encased in the miserable substance.

White and transparent blue were the colors of recharge and death. He had to recharge, of course, but through some benevolent or probably malevolent miracle he wasn't in a stasis though no other systems but his secondary sensors and chronometer remained active anymore. Two vorns and counting, he thought one day that was no different from the one before. He wasn't patient by spark as Starscream could certainly testify, but when there was no choice he could bid his time, waiting for the perfect opening. All Spark radiated so teasingly, like the rays of a star warming his sensory nodes even through the ice so temptingly close and still so slagging far away enough. He had expected to be found, of course, by who had been in Primus' hands.

It had been a cruel joke. Even his one-time brother would have been better than crawling, ground-bound little maggots with delusions of grandeur. He swore the cube would become his now that he practically shared quarters with it, the littlest consolation. He knew the promise wasn't in his power to keep should the squishies decide otherwise.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't, Megatron knew all of that and he sent his own coordinates and those of All Spark for anyone to find hoping that it wasn't an Autobot, or even worse, his treacherous Starscream that found the trail to him first. He probably should have known to expect the animal whose sight he had so blithely taken to tattle, but he was still somewhat surprised and more than little furious when they returned for him stellar cycles later, unleashing their crude science and assumptions on him like he was some organic animal or primitive ruins, so pathetically curious. He had never been helpless and he didn't dare to thought about it too much now, dwelling in memories instead even if they were bitter.

"Megatron," Prime had called him as an equal. He had not responded, but then Optimus hadn't needed him to. Once he had known well how to listen to Megatron's silences just as well as his charismatic speeches, and then Megatron had been listening to him more often than not. The city below them had been high and beautiful and alive and desirable.

The one who wants to light must bear burning, he had once told him. Burning doesn't have to hurt, that had been Optimus' answer, totally illogical. They tended to differ in philosophical arguments, but they always had fun. Where does All Spark come from? If you were the only one of your kind and therefor had no comparison, would you know you were sentient? Further, All Spark is one of a kind. Don't you think it truly might be sentient?

"What is it that the Lord High Protector protects All Spark from? We have lived in peace our whole existence," his counterpart had asked. The question had made him smile and he had touched his brother like he had been the cube itself, reverently but sure of his welcome.

"All Spark and the Prime both. Isn't it fascinating that you are the first one to ask that from me? Times have changed since Sentinel Prime and Lord High Protector Ampere," Megatron had replied, regarding his Optimus from across the Prime's office for a long while. From the large windows behind the desk he could see the Senate Hall, full of petty, short-sighted and greedy individuals, clinging to the two people that actually mattered with all their might.

"I think I will hold my silence in this, but I do admit that you have made a point, my better half." They hadn't been young, but it felt like that now.

He had shut his pain receptors down ages ago. Red error messages danced across his vision until he thought he might go crazy and he swore he would kill every single human in the facility with his own hands, the undeserved honour that it was for them.

Once it had been so close, the newly founded cry technology of his diminutive captors failing them. But the ice hadn't melted enough and he stood there like a statue, biding his time. Maybe the puny creatures would eventually come to believe he was dead and melt him to try and scavenge him for spare parts, maybe an earthquake would free him, or war or just time. Though the possession of All Spark was closer to him than it had been since the beginning of the disagreement between him and Prime, he would not rest until this miserable world was but cooling block of cinder and he would take all that was his.

One way or any other brother, I will fight till you are numb.

Interrogation of a civilian human: five easy stages. Topspin stated amused

This is not easy. This was Springer, definitely not amused.

After driving the Decepticons away and reluctantly letting them go, to avoid further exposure, they had taken the human with them outside the settlement and thought that the hard part was over. The mistake in this soon became obvious. The human, Ronald Witwicky, had been injured, was obviously scared and didn't have the glasses with him. And despite being obviously terrified he flat-out refused to tell them where they were. It was important to remember that taking the human in as a prisoner of war was so far out of question it wasn't even located in the same solar system; he was an underage civilian of a neutral species so the situation was already teetering on the edge of abduction, which wouldn't please their supreme commander at all. Should the male just ask to be let go it would become outright abduction. And just where were the glasses?

So, stage one would be gaining the trust of the human by answering all the questions they could without compromising their security and treating the damage Whirl had unintentionally caused, all this while somehow keeping the human from making the damning request. Springer thanked Primus Whirl had at least introduced them all to the human; that made them marginally less threatening.

What can we do about his hand? Topspin? he sent a query.

There is tissue damage commonly known as Grade II sprain in two of his fingers, but the supporting structure was not broken. The swelling from a sprain will occur soon after the injury but the bruising may not show until some time later, or may even not show at all. Bruising can appear some distance from the affected joint as blood from the damaged tissues seeps out along the muscles and other structures around the joint, before coming close to the skin. Immediate treatment of a sprain should follow RICE therapy. This stands for: Rest - stop the activity that caused the injury and rest the injured joint. Two days (48 hours) of rest is recommended. Ice - apply an ice pack to the area for between 10-30 minutes. The ice must not touch the skin directly as this may cause a cold burn, so place a towel over the injured part first. Compression - compress or bandage the injured site, to limit swelling and movement that could damage it further. Elevation - raise the injured area to an elevated but comfortable height, above heart height wherever practical, to reduce swelling, especially at night. Gravity helps reduce swelling by draining away excess fluid. The symptoms from most Grade I or II sprains improve after a few days and the pain eases. However, the pain may take several weeks to disappear completely, especially when you use the injured joint. If necessary, you can relieve the pain with a pain-receptor disabler such as paracetamol or ibuprofen. Whirl, you have the processing power of a vegetable.

Well, at least the ice is easy to produce. Sandstorm, go search for water supply, sterilize and freeze some. Whirl, you get to search for pain-receptor disablers and towels. Don't be seen. Springer ordered, circulating air trough his ventilation system irritated. If only they could use code to switch off the human's pain receptors… But no. It had to be chemicals.

It's not like I was trying to harm him! They are ridiculously fragile! Whirl protested as he went on his way.

Luckily the data transfer speed of 2.8 gigabits per astrosecond didn't give the human enough time to draw negative conclusions of the perceived silence.

Springer focused his optics to the human, Ronald Witwicky, who didn't flinch to his credit.

"I have sent Sandstorm and Whirl to procure pain-receptor disablers, towels and ice," he rumbled to him. Ron blinked, unsure what a proper response was. Thank you? I would rather you didn't do it in the first place, but I appreciate the effort? So he said nothing. The short flight and wait had been enough for him to fall into a daze and although he was too afraid to be comfortable the adrenalin had started to wear off leaving a more pervasive, lazier fear to set in behind it. It left him feeling numb and separated, somehow.

"I am aware that you are here somewhat against your will," the robot, Springer, continued. Now his eyes dimmed briefly. "I am sorry for that. Once we have gotten the glasses we will return you to your creators." That didn't make Ron happy at all and he thought he should maybe pretend it did, but he really didn't feel up to outwitting giant computers right then.

"I'm not telling," he insisted again, praying God he wouldn't get stepped on for it.

And the worries about him and Judy not lasting? He was defying giant war machines for her so it had to be true love. He just wished he would get a chance to tell her so.

Which hall had gotten them nowhere. Springer was ready to start reasoning again when Roadbuster intervened.

He is protecting somebody, he told his leader calmly. It was obvious, plain and simple.

What makes you think that? Springer asked desolated, more humans to get mixed into the mission was all they didn't need.

The glasses aren't with him and they weren't in his house, but he hasn't denied owning them, which he would have done if we were mistaken again. It stands to reason he was given the glasses and then gave them to somebody he doesn't want us to know about.Maybe he hadn't been created as a people's person, but he could read enough to get a valid evaluation of any given situation. Roadbuster couldn't help admiring the human a little bit. He knew many Decepticon warriors that would have been hard pressed to talk when placed in so a hopeless situation. Of course cons also knew exactly how dangerous they were, the human was guessing.

So they would have to get the human to trust them with a life of a friend. That made it more difficult, but also reassured Springer somewhat. A mech, or human in this case, who was ready to risk his life to protect a friend would be easier to deal with once the trust was gained.

"If you have any questions feel free to ask. I can not guarantee answers, though," he told the little form huddled on the ground.

To say that Ron was getting desperate as time passed and the giant robots didn't show any signs of disappearing like a hallucination surely should, though it had been vain hope really, would be understatement. But they wanted to talk with him and that couldn't be a bad sign. At least not really bad, he hoped and let his gaze wander from the green and white leader to the very big and very bulky one he had seen transforming from a ridiculously big jet, another green one with black innards, and wasn't it creepy they were showing, to an orange one that waved to him friendly when he looked at him, a big blue one and slightly smaller one that was spikier than the others and had some kind of plates hiding half of his face. If it wasn't part of his face.

"What the hell?" he asked. It encompassed the whole situation nicely. The orange one laughed, the sound oddly lighthearted from something so mechanical.

"Were are Autobot Wreckers, the species term is Cybertronian. We are an war against Decepticons that want to steal the All Spark and use its power for their dastardly deeds," the leader started explaining. "All Spark is a cubicle artefact. We don't know where it comes from, but it has the power to create worlds and life. That's how our race was born. But now All Spark has gone missing. It's presumably here and your glasses have the coordinates." Ron's eyes remained uncomprehending as he tried to process what he had heard. He understood every single word, but the whole made little sense.

"You are after a mystic cube?" he clarified, wondering as the almost-remembered feeling returned with vengeance. He could imagine the cube somehow, big and bluish grey with interwoven symbols.

"Star Trek much?" he tried a weak joke.

Before they could ask he heard heavy steps drawing closer and while the robots around him didn't seem concerned he couldn't help his heart speeding up. The shape that materialized from the darkness was that of the orange car-robot Sandstorm, however, and he was holding a block of ice in his hand.

"There was a lake nearby," a mechanic voice informed them. It was hard to estimate the size of the block from the ground, but he was pretty sure it was at least half his size. When Sandstorm put it down it turned out to be only little shorter than him and much wider.

"Well, it's pretty much," he whispered. He didn't mean just the ice.

Now when he had the means to treat his fingers the ache felt suddenly unbearable and he pressed his back of his hand against the shiny, clear block, wincing slightly as his abused muscles were stretched and enjoying the cold against the heated skin.

"Do not," a firm voice commanded him and Ron yelped, drawing his hand back and looking startled at the blue Autobot that had given the order and then at the leader. Wasn't the ice meant for him? Or would he only receive treatment after talking?

"You must not touch the skin directly with the ice as this may cause a cold burn, so wait for Whirl to bring a towel to place over the injured part first," the blue robot, Autobot, admonished him. Ron gave the ice a longing look, but didn't dare to argue the point.

"So why are you at war?" he asked the question he knew no one on Earth could answer satisfactory, but mechanical aliens were different thing. At least in movies.

"Cybertron used to be ruled by a triumvirate of the Prime, Lord High Protector and the senate, whose power was the scantest. After Sentinel Prime and Lord High Protector Ampere had lead Cybertron to the Golden Age after more savage period, all of Cybertron lived in peace, under the joint leadership of the next leaders Optimus Prime and Megatron. Megatron used to be not too bad and Prime was fair, and it was good times. Economic and civil unrest because of the greed of senators like Decimus and Ratbat broke out the opening skirmishes of the Great War and Megatron showed his true colors. He tried to steal the All Spark, which was the Prime's responsibility, and raised an army, the Decepticons, who wanted the All Spark to give them the power to conquer other worlds.

"Prime raised his own army, the Autobots, to stop the traitor once and for all. The Autobots fought bravely, but Decepticons were the more ferocious warriors, except for us, and Megatron began to gain ground. The linchpin battle between the Autobots and Decepticons was at the city-state of Tyger Pax. We won the battle, but it was a close thing and if the cons had gotten All Spark it would have been lost. Prime had to send All Spark into deep space, Megatron pursued it and both were lost. Then the war became more of a search of All Spark, with the Decepticons, led by the vice leader Starscream, searching for both the cube and Megatron. And now it appears that both ended up in Earth and the coordinated to All Spark are in your glasses."

His great-grandfather had raved about an ice man that had blinded him, Ron remembered his father telling him. The tale was beginning to look nastily credible.

Visions of a huge, giant fleet darkening the sky begun to plague Ron's imagination and he could barely resist temptation to just look up, like the fleet was already upon them.

"Just how many of you there are?" he asked and again his voice did the quivering thing he had started to hate.

"There are more," Springer answered unhelpfully, "but not as many as you are probably thinking. There never was." Ron frowned, taking a cautious step closer to Springer.

"What do you mean?" he asked

"Everything is relative, especially numbers. How many humans habituate this world?" the Wrecker leader asked in turn, ignoring Ron's direct question. He had to thought before answering, it was hard to concentrate on school matters right then. Thank you, Miss Juniper, for drumming this into us, he thought.

"Little over three billion, I think," he replied.

"Over three billion," Springer repeated disbelieving, apparently he hadn't expected quite that many.

"My point, Ronald, is that Cybertronian numbers never got above one billion even during the Golden Age and the war has decimated our numbers. There is no Neutral camps left anymore and both Autobot and Decepticons factions consist of only about ten thousands mechs if we are lucky. We probably aren't."

Ron looked down and bit his lower lip, lost in his thought, but not lost enough to not be embarrassed by Springer's steady, studying gaze. It would still make one helluva fleet, or two helluva fleets about to blow each other to the kingdom come, but on a species terms it wasn't that much. It felt downright ridiculous to be worried of or feel pity for his captors, but suddenly he realised that by earthen terms they could be considered as members of endangered species. His mind made totally inappropriate comparison to fluffy pandas and he shook his head to clear it. These were very dangerous pandas.

"Why weren't there more of you?" Ron asked though it probably was an inappropriate question. Luckily Springer didn't seem to mind.

"The larger an organism is, the less room there is for a population. For example, there are more than exponentially more bacteria per hectare than there are humans. Since Cybertron is a smaller planet than Earth space used to be valuable resources." Not so much anymore, he didn't say. He didn't have to.

Telling it all had been painful, but Springer could practically feel the male teetering on the edge of telling them. He was apparently rather compassionate individual and wouldn't want to be responsible of denying them means to reproduce.

"And if we don't get the All Spark there isn't going to be any more of us either," he concluded and though the finer nuances of human expressions evaded him he could tell the little being was stricken.

He talks now, Broadside sent with conviction and the very air felt electrified.

"If I said I gave them to someone," the human said the words very slowly, like he was still willing to take them back, "would you swear to not hurt that person?"

Hit! Topspin cheered.

That was when Whirl returned, in his robot mode and holding five towels, five rolls of thin, white wound cloth and two non-descript bottled that were dwarfed tiny in his giant palm.

"Here comes the medic equipment," he grumbled, crouching down and lowering his hand down to the ground so Ron could grab the contents. Broadside couldn't help the gleeful grin, clicking the safety of his rifle loudly off and on again.

"Never a dull moment when you're a Wrecker, right?" he baited. Whirl was not amused.

"Shut the frag up and go glitch something!"

Humans, like most other organics and unlike Cybertronians, were covered from head to toe in tactile sensory organs. Their sharp sense of touch was something both useful, as a safety measure and just for fun, and detrimental and it had always fascinated Topspin. When they tried to work out the logistics of ice, towels and right amount of compression from the bandage it became obvious that with amateur help it was definitely detrimental.

Apparently Ronald Witwicky decided that it was the thought that counted.

In a big house in Mission City a light was on in a bedroom window. Reginald Simmons should have been in bed hours ago, but he had noticed that even if he got caught, if he was doing his experiments his father overrode any punishment his mother might dole out.

His current experiment was an old broken Bakelite radio on his work to, in the middle of batteries, curls and curls of wire and a homemade crystal set. Seven metal aeroplanes dangled slightly above his head, hanging from his ceiling on cotton cords. Reg had made them very carefully after painstaking preparing and research and he was very proud of the fact he could have built a little motors for them too if there had been space inside them. He was that kind of person and he wanted to become a mechanic some day. What he would get was another thing altogether, however. He was part of a long line of Simmonses who were head officers in Sector Seven. His great grandfather had pulled N.B.E.-1, the first-discovered giant robot from outer space, out of the ice, and his grandfather and father had prepared Sector Seven against the day that more N.B.E.s would arrive on Earth and so would he and his sons do from time till eternity. Amen.

Reg had high hopes for the radio this time. He had attached the colour-coded wires to the correct pins and screwed it all back together exactly according to the instructions in Practical Electronics For Boys: A Hundred And One Safe Experiments. He put down the screwdriver and plucked the radio into the socket. Then he put the socket on. The radio started working.

"Yeah!" he cheered himself on when a door was slammed open in the hallway.

At first Reg switched the radio back off, thinking his scream had woken his father, but when the steps that couldn't properly stomp in fluffy tartar slippers went down the stairs he switched it back on, knowing that Walter Simmons had once again been called to work in the middle of the night. The last time had been when they were switching the freezer to liquid nitrogen and there had been a period where they had nearly lost the cryo containment. The pipes had cracked freezing the monitoring system solid, no one in the facility had slept for days at a time and Reg's old nightmares had returned for few nights after he had heard.

Reg was pretty sure that a Simmons or no, he wasn't supposed to know things like that and at times he really wished his father would abide by the regulations.

Judy Garland's night had started normally enough, with her normal, everyday routines like shower and reading in bed before switching the light off. Dream eluded her that night, her mind returning go the movie that, while not exactly scary, had given her an excuse to hold Ron's hand. Which she had only done because she trusted Ron to understand it was an excuse. Eventually, just as she was slowly drifting to sleep with silly grin firmly in place something rapped at her window. It startled her a little, forcing her eyes open. There wasn't tree or anything in front of her window so she wondered what the noise might have been until she heard it again and realised that someone had thrown a tiny rock against it. So she jumped off her comfy, nice bed and parted the curtains. Ron stood outside in the dim light of a distant street light, waving at her.

They had exchanged little peck of a kiss when they parted ways that evening and Judy had thought Ron would need a lot more convincing before he would sneak to meet her after the curfew. Not that she was planning on letting him do anything except maybe kiss her again, but she was, for lack of a better term, impressed.

Hence she pushed the window open and smiled to him, pushing her hair behind her ears.

"Are you going to serenade to me?" she asked playfully, but for some reason Ron didn't seem embarrassed. Of course it was dark, so maybe she just didn't notice. It was a pity; embarrassing people was so much fun.

"Could you sneak out a bit? I have something important to show you and it's a little dangerous too," he asked with a voice so muted she had hard time hearing it. Really, he knew just what to say to get her interested.

"No touching below neck," she quipped before shutting the window and this time he was visibly embarrassed, much to her satisfaction.

Sneaking out of the house was a piece of cake; when her parents slept they were out like light. It was pretty warm night and the air smelt like dew and lot less like dust. Ron smiled to her little awkwardly and waved her to come to him with his left hand; he kept his right tightly against his left shoulder and when she came closer she saw white bandage wrapped around his middle and ring finger.

"What has happened to you!" she asked startled and reached towards the injury before snatching her hand off; no reason to paw already hurting hand.

"It was a bit of an accident. They are just really adamant about keeping this above my heart level. Follow me to the parking lot there, please. The thing I must show you is there." His voice was but a whisper.

The walk was short and silent before they reached the parking lot, empty except a single car and a payloader.

"I'm sorry I had to rouse you for this, but we are in a hurry," he explained apologetically. She waved it off.

"I'm having a positively good time," Judy interjected happily. "Just tell me who the rest of us is."

"Well, I'm glad one of us is," Ron muttered completely ignoring the question.

Then they heard the resonating purr of a strong, fast engine as the car started to move. Finally the orange car rolled slowly toward them and then past. The light was on inside so it was obvious that no driver sat in front of the wheel. Everything was empty.

"Good evening," came a smooth voice from somewhere the car's direction.

Sandstorm was just as impatient as he had been a cycle ago. Now he had been subtle and paid the obligatory attempt at politeness, time to get to the business. And he began his transformation sequence.

Judy was left to stare after it mouth gaping open. Not only had the car driven itself and talked to them, next it started to fall apart, turn inside out and plates of metal swirled wildly around in the dark like insect wings gone crazy. And then it, whatever it was, stood up. Like standing on very humanoid legs.And now that giant, orange outside with black innards that were visible, like human organs and only slightly less disconcerting, metal thingwas standing just dozens of steps away and looking at her, its lower face covered by some kind of smooth plate. And she realised she was staring at a twenty-something-foot orange and black robot. She turned around so fast her feet sent dust and little stones flying.

"Ron! What is this!" she demanded, her voice breathy and shrill-like. Ron looked away guiltily.

"Uh, you aren't panicking, are you?" He sounded like he might.

It was a knee-jerk reaction.

"No, this is not me panicking! But if you don't tell me what's going on and why I'll show you some panic, mister…Why did that car turn into a robot? Does that payloader do the same? Why are they here and what they are?" She was panicking. Judy stood on her toes so her face was on the same level as his, clutching his shoulders with both hands and then letting go embarrassed. She was going to go batshit hysterical if he didn't answer her and she knew that if she did and Ron didn't she could never look him into eyes again, or into a mirror. Her good looks would suffer so, she thought, from the lack of a reflection when she did her make-up. Oh God, she was absurd and this night took the cake. The wedding cake with marzipan rose on top. Maybe she was crazy too, the glasses had to be cursed.

Then she thought: this would be utterly cool if we weren't going to get hurt, which was followed by an order to herself to stop watching Saturday morning cartoons with her pest of a little brother.

"Well…" Ron said trying to form a proper response, "they are Autobots, alien soldiers from outer space and they are just pretending to be vehicles. That orange payloader is a good guy. His name is Scoop." He turned them around, pointing toward the robot, "Sandstorm is a good guy too. If you see a green and white sports car, very big reddis robot that becomes either jet or an aircraft carrier, a green and red jeep with a big gun, a tank with two drills, a white and black helicopter that turns into a robot with skis as feet or a blue air skiff that looks like a brick with wings, they're good guys too. The black pointy one, a green pointy one and allother giant robots with red optics are guilty until proven otherwise." Introduction done, Ron paused for a breath, but Judy didn't seem very convinced. Her eyes happened to drop to his hand and narrowed into little slits

"And if they are supposed to be good guys just what happened to your hand?" She grabbed it from the wrist and lift it up, making Ron actually blush as he cast a side glance to his gigantic companions.

"Uh, it was an accident?" he tried. Judy snorted.

She just wasn't going to take any excuses, but better get the rest of it cleared first. They were still big and scary, but now she was angry and angry Judy had always been fearless Judy.

"So what are they fighting for and what has it got to do with us?" she demanded to know.

"They're fighting a war against Decepticons, who are hell bent on conquering the universe for all I know and right now we're caught in the middle because their mystical life-giving cube All Spark is lost somewhere on Earth and the glasses I gave you have the coordinates." His voice hasty, unsure.

"Oh…" And then the orange car-robot was right in front of them. It was simply ridiculous, but looking at the vehicles that seemed to twitch impatiently and craning her neck to look up at the black sky and millions of stars above her, Judy was almost willing to believe him, believe that they weren't alone.

"Is this a candid camera?" she asked. Ron shook his head slowly, his eyes were still a little wild, but they dropped back to the hand he kept pressed against his side and Judy had to agree.

"I see." Sensing that her boyfriend was still pretty distressed over that fact, Judy settled back to think. So her boyfriend knew robots from space. Robots from space that had hurt him and now wanted the gift he had given to her. She had never before given it much thought, but most vehicles were just pretty darn big when compared to humans and she couldn't help but wonder how big the rest of these would be when they stood up. She felt her anger ebbing away from her, giving space to fear again and shook her head viciously, then looked at Ron's bandaged hand and imagined what kind of crunch it must have made. It worked. She turned fully around to look right into the car's, Sandstorm's, headlights.

"So, mister alien. I'll go get the glasses for you, but on one condition. Take me to the one who hurt Ron. I want to exchange some words." She was fully prepared to argue that point the whole night, but the car shifted a little on its tires and said:

"Fine by me." It was hard to say where the voice came from.

What are you thinking? Scoop demanded his companion irritated. Sandstorm answered him with sliding his comm. sequence in a way that displayed amusement.

I want to see Whirl besieged by the little thing?

You are hopeless.

Ron didn't care about the silence that might have been unnerving as he climbed into Sandstorm after Judy had sneaked inside and outside again. He was too busy wondering if anyone had ever been more proud of their best friend and if it was to be forever his fate to be outclassed.

Time measurements. Some of them vary in different continuities. I took Wreckers from IDW and I decided to be consistent with my continuities.

astrosecond 0.498 seconds

breem 8.3 minutes

cycle (IDW continuity) 1 hour 15 minutes (1.25 hours)

mega-cycle (IDW) 93 hours

deca-cycle (IDW) about 3 weeks

stellar cycle (IDW)7.5 months

vorn 83 years

AN: World population in 1967 was about 3,021,475,000, courtesy of Wikipedia.

I once read a fic about Megatron being awake inside the ice. I don't remember the name or the writer, but I was influenced. If someone can tell me I will credit better.