knockout doesn't make any puns in this chapter, which is a sin, but on the other hand he uses the phrase "hoopty-looking," so it's a mostly excusable one

(if you think this is an invitation to send me puns for possible use in future chapters, you are absolutely right)

Roddy left her car a little ways off the road and slid down the cement slope into the track, loose gravel popping beneath her shoes. Marty was down by the clumsily-chalked starting line, surrounded by a gaggle of teenagers with dollar bills dripping from their hands. There were a couple more newcomers in the vehicle lineup — a moody black affair that she recognised from the student parking lot at the community college, and somebody's beat-up yellow Camaro idling by the sidelines. Neither of them seemed like much, but her own ride had nearly been laughed off the track the first time she came around.

Then there were, of course, the usual suspects. She sidled through the gap between Vince's flame-job abomination and the Aston Martin, rapping casually on its blacked-out window with her knuckles.

"Yo," she said. "Open up. I wanna talk about, uh—" She paused, tongue stumbling preemptively over the words. "Allocation of funds."

There was a moment of silence; then the latch clicked open. She popped open the door and slid inside, settling comfortably into the curve of the passenger seat. Cushier than she was used to, but when the cushions of your car itched like bedbug-filled mattresses on a good day, pretty much everything was. Flashy-looking radio, too. The car's driver had obviously spared no expense.

Then she froze.

The Aston Martin had no driver.

"What the hell?" said Roddy, jerking back. "Is this some sort of joke?" She grimaced. "Is this Marty's deal? Am I being punked?"

"That one of your bizarre local customs?" someone said. The voice, she realised, was coming from somewhere in the direction of the dashboard, and had a metallic twang to it, as though spat through a particularly temperamental radio. Which, she thought, must be exactly it.

"No," she said, "it's—never mind." She squinted suspiciously at the steering wheel. "You drive this thing with a remote control or something?"

"Or something," said the driver.

Roddy rolled her eyes. "Wow, look out, we got Mister Cool and Enigmatic over here. Try not to cut yourself on all that edge." She drummed her hands against the curve of the glove compartment. "You got a name, Mister Cool?"

"Knockout will do fine."

"That supposed to reference your looks, or do you just punch a lot of people?"

"A bit of both," said Knockout. The smugness was palpable. Roddy got the feeling that if they'd been talking in person, by this point she would've punched him. "Now, I believe you mentioned something about an allocation of funds. I'm guessing you want to strike up some sort of deal?"

"Yeah, actually." Now that she got down to it, asking a disembodied voice to give up its hard-won prize money was slightly less awkward than asking a living being capable of looking her in the eye. Disembodied voices couldn't stare you down; they certainly couldn't see your ears turn red as you realised just how much of a dick move most people would consider this to be. "If you're gonna beat me all the time, you could at least claim your winnings" she said, trying to make it sound casual and not like something she'd been mulling over for the past three weeks. "Or, uh, let someone else take them."

"Would that someone else be you?" Knockout's tone was impossible to read.

A shrug. "Ideally. Or whoever else comes in second place, I guess. Which is also, you know, also usually me. Marty says if it's cool with you then it's cool with him, but I guess you, uh, can't really tell him yourself if you're on radio the whole time." She paused. "Is that even legal?"

"This is street racing," said Knockout, with the air of a particularly patient adult attempting to explain to their child that this is the playground, dear, and we don't push people off the swings. "As far as anyone's concerned, 'legal' doesn't exist. Now," he continued, before Roddy could interject, "to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I feel like just letting you win. But since I really have no use for the money, and you're obviously quite enamored with the prospect of having it, I've got an alternate solution." The engine revved suggestively. "You drive."

Roddy gaped. "You're serious?" The thought of being allowed to so much as tap on the accelerator of this thing was enough to send her internal automobile enthusiast into a swoon.

"Of course not," scoffed Knockout. "Like I'd ever let anyone run the risk of scratching my flawless finish, much less the likes of you — driving around in that hoopty-looking rubbish bin on wheels you call a car. But people see you in the driver's seat and a pair of hands on the wheel, and they'll assume the rest. I get my win, you get your cash, everybody goes home happy."

"Works for me," said Roddy. "But come on, hoopty-looking? Look who's talking, Mister I-Have-Color-Coordinated-Internal-Electrical-Systems." She glanced pointedly at his set of softly-glowing displays.

"Oh, poking fun at personal aesthetic decisions now, are we? What happened to Mister Cool?"

"He can come back when he's won us the race."

Knockout gave a noncommittal grunt, which Roddy took to mean that this particular conversation was over. Through the windshield she spotted Marty ambling towards the center of the track with a flashlight dangling from his hand, and clumsily shifted over into the driver's seat. Her feet failed to reach the pedals even if she stretched. Whoever he was in real life, Knockout must have been a giant.

The steering wheel was cool under her hands, and she squinted at a symbol etched in the center. "What's that?" she asked. "Logo for your racing club or something?"

He snorted. "Sure, if you can call it a club when there's only one bot in it."

"Sounds like a fun time."

"Oh," said Knockout, glee creeping into his voice, "it is."

Marty swung the light down through the air, and the race was on.

There was no denying that despite the lack of a physical driver, the Aston Martin gave a smooth ride. Roddy was accustomed to hearing at least twenty different clicks and creaks from the undercarriage every minute; going without them was almost surreal. The world passed by in a blur.

No games this time — Knockout pulled ahead and stayed there, leaving their competitors in the dust. Everything, thought Roddy, was going exactly according to plan. Already she was scheming ways of spending the prize money that wouldn't alert her mother to its presence. It wasn't that she actively objected to Roddy's street racing habit — or that she could've stopped her if she did — but Roddy didn't fancy facing down yet another lecture on the value of conserving your funds; sticking them in savings for a rainy day, as she'd heard it put. Her mother had not seemed to appreciate Roddy's cheeky observation that in the middle of arid Nevada, there were no rainy days.

A sudden swerve jerked her out of her reverie, and the desert unfolded in front of her. "Woah," she shouted, twisting in her seat to watch the edge of the canal drop away. "Where the hell are you going? The track's behind us, genius!"

"Sorry, my fleshy little friend, but I'm afraid we're going to be taking the scenic route this evening."

"You promised me a race!"

"And I'm giving you one." Knockout chuckled. "Have another look."

There was a dull roar from behind them, growing louder. Roddy glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the dim glow of the Camaro's headlights tailing them through the dark. "We're being followed?" She leaned back in her seat and groaned. "Somebody got a grudge that you failed to mention?"

"I don't feel particularly obligated to reveal the gritty details of my personal life."

"Yeah, and I don't feel 'particularly obligated' to cooperate with someone who's been lying to me, either," said Roddy, gritting her teeth. She tightened her grip on the wheel and wrenched it furiously to the right. "Pull over." Knockout's tires screamed in protest as they churned against the sand, but the car broke away from its streamlined path and careened towards a clump of scrub sprouting by the side of the road. "Is that why you let me ride with you? To keep some guy from wrecking your ride?"

"Too much chit-chat," snapped Knockout. "Save it for later, fleshie, if you're still around." A jolt ran through the wheel and into Roddy's hands, and she jerked them away, wincing in pain.

"What the hell was that?"

"For your safety," intoned Knockout, "please keep hands and feet inside the ride at all times. And," he added, as Roddy began to cautiously reach forwards again, "keep them off the wheel, unless you fancy being hit with something a bit stronger than that last voltage."

"What kind of car has an electrified steering wheel?"

"The kind — and do try not to hurt your miniscule human brain trying to comprehend this revelation — that's a little bit more than just that." He gunned the engine and shot away down the road, speedometer ticking towards the hundred-mile-an-hour mark.

Roddy threw her hands up in front of her eyes. "We're going to crash!"

"Believe me," said Knockout, "crashing should be the least of your worries."

The Camaro was grinding on their tail now. Roddy squinted at its reflection in the mirror, but failed to spot even the faintest silhouette of its determined driver. Her first thought was that maybe there was more than one remote-controlled car trying to make it big in the small town racing scene; that maybe Knockout and the owner of the Camaro had some sort of long-standing feud that, for whatever reason, they'd decided to settle tonight. It would certainly explain why it continued to match Knockout's recklessness, even as he careened through a deserted intersection and down the line of the intersecting road. You didn't have to worry about your safety when you weren't actually in the car.

(But, her mind added desperately, she was.)

Through the window flashed a sign: Beatty, 174 miles. They were headed away from Jasper, out into the open desert. Roddy felt something like a stone drop into her stomach. Just how far was Knockout planning to go? Until the Camaro gave up? Until one of them ran out of gas? And if Knockout faltered first, how the hell was she supposed to explain this to her mother over the phone at one in the morning? Provided she could even reach her from out here.

"Knockout," she said urgently. "Turn around."

There was no reply. The Camaro bumped against the Aston Martin's rear, and its radio let out something like a shriek. It was a sound that mimicked the one Roddy was making internally. The thought of hiking back twenty miles through the dark was growing less appealing by the second.

Another stone dropped.

"Knockout," she repeated. "Please."

This time Knockout's response was to increase his speed until the speedometer needle was jiggling in the unmeasurable zone, reclaiming the distance between them and their pursuer. And then—

Later, Roddy would swear to herself that when it happened, she hadn't screamed. That the thought of skidding face-first against the asphalt from ten feet in the air was the least of her worries, and certainly not the first time she'd stared death in the face. That she hadn't closed her eyes, with the sound of terrible mechanical things shrieking in her ears, agonisingly awaiting the moment of impact — the inevitable dull pain that traditionally accompanied a bruised knee or stubbed toe, but magnified beyond comprehension. The ground, she thought, was going to slap her upside the head, and when it was done she wasn't sure whether she'd be able to stand up and slap it back.

All this occurred in the span of three seconds.

Second one, the car that was Knockout's, or now, more accurately, was Knockout, collapsed around her.

Two, the force launched her skyward, shrieking, awaiting her imminent demise by painstakingly-pressed tarmac.

Three, the inevitable initiation of gravity on her helpless personage, rushing her down, down, down—

Four: the catch. All the breath rushed out of her at once as four metal bands wrapped themselves around her torso. For a moment she thought this description was metaphorical; second five revealed that it was anything but.

She may have screamed again. But only briefly.

"You're a robot," gasped Roddy, feet kicking uselessly against the air. It felt like one of her ribs was cracked, but better that then her skull. "Oh my god. You're a fucking robot."

"And the human hotrod takes one for the team," said Knockout, blinking icily down at her. "Give her a round of applause, folks." He glanced up to watch the Camaro roughly screech to a halt in front of them. The sound was unnaturally loud; there was a ringing in Roddy's ears whose origins she couldn't place. "At least" he added, "once you have hands."

The other car shrilled something unintelligible before unfolding itself into — oh, god dammit, thought Roddy — another robot. It gestured wildly first at Roddy, then Knockout, then back along the road they'd come.

"You know, Bumblebee," said Knockout, picking an invisible speck of gravel out of a gap in his plating, "the humans have a saying about this sort of thing. 'Once is coincidence, twice is happenstance, and the third time, Mister Bond, is enemy action.' Now, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I'm sure we'll all feel much better about ourselves if we pretend that this is confrontation number three, instead of the sad run of bad luck it actually is."

Bumblebee chattered indignantly, storming forwards with his fists raised.

Knockout held up Roddy in front of him, halting the Autobot in his tracks. "Ah-ah," he said. "Wouldn't want to risk harming one of your precious humans, now, would we?" He frowned. "Well. It's not your human specifically, this time. But I know how you Autobots feel about the 'sanctity of life.'"

"I knew it!" hissed Roddy. His grip went unfaltering under her pounding fist — just one. Her right arm was trapped at her side, slowly succumbing to numbness. "I'm your fucking collateral!" She looked over at Bumblebee. "You know," she said to Knockout, "I think I've decided I like him more than you."

He sniffed. "I'd say that's the most sensible choice you've made all day, if I wasn't so offended by your poor taste."

Another round of indignant chatter.

"What's he saying?"

"Damned if I know," said Knockout. "Now be quiet, fleshie, and let the big bots finish talking."

"Sounds like a pretty one-sided conversation to m—" A sudden squeeze cut her off mid-sentence. She was definitely not getting out of this without a few bruises.

Knockout turned his attentions back to Bumblebee. "Tell you what," he said. "Since I seem to be in a deal-making mood this evening, I'll offer you one. You don't call up your pals for the family reunion, and I don't run off to tattle on the big bad Autobot playing hooky at the races." He paused. "Or the big bad Decepticon." A shudder ran through him, as though he was recalling some unfortunate memory.

Bumblebee paused thoughtfully, then buzzed something irritated and held out a hand.

"What?" said Knockout. He glanced at Roddy. "You want the human?"

A determined nod.

"So you can steal a couple pot-shots once she's out of harm's way? Dream on."

"Hey!" said Roddy, wheezing. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"No," said Knockout pointedly. He clicked his tongue. "Better roll on out, Bumblebee. Wouldn't want to keep your bossbot waiting for what I'm sure will be an absolutely thrilling report."

The Autobot stood staring at Roddy, as though considering making a last desperate grab for her, then let out an apologetic whine and collapsed back into the Camaro. Once he'd retreated a significant distance down the road, Knockout unceremoniously let Roddy drop to the ground. She skidded forward on her knees and groaned. Behind her, Knockout started speaking to the air. "Oh Breakdown, would you mind popping open a ground bridge? Keep it quiet. Wouldn't want to have to explain to Starscream why I decided to go jaunting off in the middle of the night again."

Breakdown apparently didn't mind. The vortex erupted out of the night, and Roddy curled up into a defensive ball and groaned. "Too bright." The skin of her hands was beginning to sting.

"Well," said Knockout, "thank goodness we're not on the lookout for things to compare to your immediate future."

Roddy stumbled to her feet, legs shaking, grit falling from her jeans. "You're just going to leave me here?"

"Well, yes. What would people say if I came back to the ship packing the beginnings of an infestation?" A shrug. "Maybe you'll get lucky and buzzbox back there will decide to come back, though I wouldn't put it past him to simply assume the worst."

Being considered an infestation barely registered on Roddy's alien-o-lingo meter. "You have a ship?"

"Where do you expect me to spend the rest of my time?" said Knockout incredulously. "In a parking garage?"

"No, I just—" She faltered, a single determined thought working its way past the haze of panic and disorientation. "What about the race? You promised!"

"You fleshies really have a knack for single mindedness, don't you." He turned and began to vanish through, thought Roddy, the glowing rift in fucking space.

"That's not an answer!" she shrieked after him. "I want payback!" And them, for whatever reason, she added, "Take me with you, dammit!"

She couldn't see his face, but knew from the tone of his voice that he was smirking. "Are you sure? I thought you objected to kidnappings."

"Fuck that, I'm not walking all the way home. Also," she added tentatively, trawling over her basic human fight-or-flight responses into serious death wish adventure territory, "I kind of want to see your stupid ship."

"Your wish is my command," said Knockout, turning back to scoop her up again. He held her at eye level and locked her in a stare. "Unless, of course, you're having second thoughts?"

Her mother was going to be worried sick.

Roddy shook her head. Stupid, she thought. Stupid stupid stupid. And: So much for race number five. And: Maybe this would turn out to be one of those decisions where not everything was as bad as it seemed, and Knockout just happened to be the awful exception to what was really a very pleasant and agreeable group of robots. Maybe she would have such a lovely time that the prize money stopped mattering in the grand scheme of things, because she had gotten to see the inside of Knockout's stupid fucking robot spaceship.

"Well, well," he said, crushing that hope where it stood. "We are in trouble." Then he stepped through the glowing rift in space, and everything turned cold.

It was looking to be a very long night.

sometimes i wish i lived in the tfp fanfic-verse, where every other line is a snarky retort and also your car sometimes randomly kidnaps you for shits and giggles

also, for reference, this is all taking place in some episodic limbo between the events of speed metal and megatron's reawakening.