AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This fic takes place in the same universe as Carry On Wayward Son, and events in this book roughly parallel events in that fic. It's strongly suggested, though not necessarily required, that you read that fic first.

I suppose I should feel a modicum of shame for writing another fic in the Carry On 'verse, but simply as an excuse to pair one of my OCs up with a canon character rather than to actually continue the story. But I don't feel a ton of shame, to be honest. Fanfic should be fun, and if that means writing a shipfic, then so be it.

Fic title comes from the song "Time Stand Still" by Rush. If I'm going to write more TF:A stories, I might as well name them all after 80s rock songs...

The skies over Cybertron split asunder as if cloven with a flaming blade, a jagged stripe of molten plasma searing the heavens. From the rent in time and space surged a leviathan of alien make, a dizzying amalgamation of metal armor and organic flesh and bone and chitin. Vast wings arched from its sides, sheltering a host of miniature copies of itself like a cyberhawk guarding its chicks. A glowing violet insignia was splashed over the behemoth's snout - a crest showing a fist clenched around a bolt of lightning, surrounded by a halo of thorns.

The Alternians had once again crossed realities to conquer the universe, and only a chosen band of heroes - the Cityspeakers - could stop them.

"Frag, they're relentless!" Gaia huffed, drawing her Garnet Axe from her shoulders and bracing herself for combat. "I thought we sent them back to the Pit with their tails smoking!"

"Yeah, well, I guess they're masochists who just had to come back for another round of punishment," Hyperion replied, idly spinning the Amber Spear as if it were a baton. "Dibs on the big one."

"Hey, I wanted the big one," Gaia retorted.

"Don't get cocky," Calypso urged, hefting the Amethyst Sword and gazing up at the approaching armada with a baleful expression. "They wouldn't have returned if they didn't have a new trick up their sleeve. One they're sure they can use to beat us."

Hyperion shrugged. "Well, we've got some tricks of our own, don't we?"

"Enough chatter, Cityspeakers," declared Sumanis, the Weaponsmith who had forged the very blades these warriors now wielded - the blades that were all that stood between Cybertron and utter destruction. "Go forth. Protect Cybertron. We're counting on you."

The three mechs nodded, and together they hurried towards the shuttle, ready for their first battle against-

"GIZMO."

A high-pitched shriek burst from his vocalizer as his name, monotone but LOUD, snapped him out of the cutscene and back into reality. He dropped the controller and kicked it under his desk, then hit a button on the holo-keyboard to minimize the Cityspeakers game and bring up his work applications. A little late, he knew - his current supervisor had already caught him goofing off at work - but at least he could prove that he was ready to get back on task without punishment, right?

"Autobot Gizmo," Perceptor continued, dropping his voice back to a normal volume. "Update on current project requested."

"Uh…" Gizmo fumbled with his keyboard, pulling up the relevant files. "Which project? We've got those corrupted Decepticon archives we're still trying to recover, that coded Junkion message we're working on cracking, that database of Iacon citizens that needs updating now that mechs are returning from the colonies…"

Perceptor tilted his head slightly to one side, and if Gizmo didn't know any better he'd swear the scientist was raising an optic ridge in sardonic amusement. "Project of highest priority suited to your skillset was deemed to be repairing Ultra Magnus' personal computer systems."

Snickers filled the tech center, and the blue-and-orange carformer shrank a little in his seat. "I… I finished that ages ago."

The scientist nodded. "Excellent. Technicians, carry on. Gizmo, assignment of next highest priority is updating protective firewalls on all Council members' personal systems."

Gizmo flinched behind his visor. "I can work on the archives, sir! I'm good for more than just tech support-"

"Archives are Terro-Byte's project," Perceptor cut in, nodding at the broad-shouldered blue-and-bronze mech across the room. The mech grinned, waggling his wing-like headfins at his fellow tech-bot.

"I can crack the Junkion code," Gizmo insisted. "I'm good at-"

"Junkion message is Livewire's project."

"...the citizen database?" That would be CPU-numbing work, but at least he'd be doing something important, not just playing IT-mech to the Magnus and the Council…

"Database is Ramulus' project. Your assignment has been given. Further protests will be interpreted as refusal to perform assigned tasks, and appropriate action will be taken."

Gizmo flinched again. As much as he despised being treated like the computer-repair bot at the Cybertron Intelligence Agency, he liked the prospect of job-hunting in Iacon even less. "Understood, sir."

"Excellent." Perceptor turned to go, then paused and turned his head slightly to address him again. "Reminder that video games are not permitted on government computer systems."

His faceplates blazed with heat. "Yessir."

Perceptor nodded again and left the tech center. Snickers rose from the other terminals in the room, and Gizmo hunched his shoulders and tried to hide his face with his doorwings. Like he was the only mech here who had ever been caught using these computers for personal matters. At least his infraction was just a game and not filling out a job application or watching risque videos.

"So what level are you on?" asked Terro-Byte, smirking at the blue-and-orange carformer. "And was it worth getting busted?"

"Most video games don't have levels anymore," Gizmo replied. "Well… this one does, but that's only because it's an RPG."

Terro-Byte scowled. "How's a video game a Rapid-Pulse Gun?"

"It stands for Role-Playing Game," Gizmo corrected. "You build your character and gather points to upgrade-"

"Psht, don't care." Terro-Byte waved off the rest of his explanation. "Only you care about that junk. The rest of us have actual lives."

"Leave him alone, Byte," snapped Livewire, a turquoise-colored minibot with headfins that made her look like a petrorabbit. "He has his games, you have your stupid pretend smash-ball thing. Don't judge him."

"It's called fantasy smash-ball, and I'll have you know it's not stupid!" Terro-Byte retorted.

"Semantics," Livewire muttered with a roll of her optics. "Don't let him get to you, Gizzie. He just delights in watching other mechs get into trouble."

Gizmo nodded, but his tanks still churned with embarrassment. Most of the mechs here in the Cybertron Intelligence Agency were what could charitably be called "tech-heads" - or "nerds" if you wanted to be less charitable about it. All of them were far more used to dealing with databases and number-crunching and code-cracking than social interaction, and had been hired more for their cleverness with machines than for their physical strength or appearances. And most of them, if not all, had their obsessive interests when they weren't on the job… or sometimes even on the job, if the action figures littering Shortround's workstation were anything to go by.

He was fully aware, though, that he was weird even by CIA tech-head standards. Most of the other mechs in this room could at least have a decent, coherent conversation with someone outside of work. Pit, even Ramulus could speak to another mech without stuttering or fumbling over his words. Granted, most of his conversation with other mechs consisted of insults and profanities, but at least it counted for something.

"So how's work on that code going, Livewire?" asked Shortround, looking up from his keyboard - how that mech could type with his crab-pincer hands Gizmo had never been able to discern, as he never seemed to be typing when anyone was looking.

"Ugh, slow," Livewire grumbled. "Junkions don't use a cypher or a coding algorithm like you'd expect a normal bot to do - they bury everything under tons of alien pop-culture references. I swear I've gotta watch twelve seasons of some weird animated sitcom before I can decode a sentence."

"Is it at least an entertaining sitcom?" asked Terra-Byte. "Some of those human shows can be funny."

"It's garbage," Livewire retorted. "I swear I could feel circuits in my CPU melt while I watched it."

"Bummer," Shortround noted. "Uh… hey, maybe tonight I can show you a show you'd really like? We can go out for a drink and then swing by my place; I have a home-theater setup in my apartment."

Livewire rolled her optics but chuckled. "Sorry, Shorty, I don't date co-workers."

Shortround shrugged. "Worth asking at least…"

"Uh… do you need any help with the code?" Gizmo ventured. "I've seen a lot of alien films and such…" His voice trailed off, and he wondered if he'd just revealed himself to be an even bigger weirdo for admitting to watching foreign media.

"Well, if you can get this stupid reference about angels and not blinking-" Livewire began.

"Did you even listen to Councilmech Perceptor, Gizmo?" snarled Ramulus, swiveling in his chair to glare at the smaller carformer. "Stay in your lane, scraplet."

Gizmo squeaked and sank down in his chair in a futile effort to hide - the silver-and-magenta mech cut an intimidating figure with his horned helm and bladed arm-guards, and his foul temper made him even more fearsome. The last thing Gizmo wanted was to tick him off… but somehow he'd managed just that with an innocent offer of help.

"Ramulus, what the frag is your problem?" Livewire demanded. "He just offered-"

"If everyone just did everyone else's jobs for them, it'd be a mess," Ramulus retorted, narrowing his optics at Gizmo. "You were given a job, sparkling. Stick with that - unless running system updates and antivirus are suddenly too hard for you."

Gizmo's faceplates flamed with heat, and he suddenly found something very interesting to look at on his own screen. He was vaguely aware of Livewire berating Ramulus for his words, and of Terro-Byte laughing in the background, but he didn't bother to listen too closely. His ego was already battered enough - he didn't need to hear Livewire tell Ramulus to ease up on the new guy, or Ramulus to double down on his insults, or Terro-Byte to chime in with his own jabs.

I wonder how long this is gonna last anyhow. I know I'm the new guy here - these mechs have all been hacking and decoding since I was a protoform - but I know I'm just as good a tech-bot as they are! Shortround said the teasing stops after awhile, but it's been almost a quatrex and they still haven't stopped. Will they get bored, or is this going to keep up until someone else gets hired?

He sighed and pulled up the firewall program, checking the settings over before readying it to transmit to the Council's computers. To think that this had been his dream job once upon a time, when he'd thought working for the CIA would be exciting and glamorous. He thought he'd be an actual tech spy, not doing tech support for the Council.

"Hey Gizzie, if you're done with the firewall, maybe you can come look at my computer," Terro-Byte suggested. "Figure out what's up with this lag."

"Uh… that's… not my assignment…" Gizmo protested.

"Oh come on, so long as you're the IT mech for the Council, you can do us a solid too," Terro-Byte insisted. "We've all got more important things to do than fix our own computers."

"Will you just leave him alone?" Livewire snapped. "Honestly! I know he's the new guy, but you don't need to treat him like a rust mite!"

"You don't need to protect him like he's a fragile protoform," Ramulus retorted. "We were all low mechs in the pecking order once, and no one shielded us."

"Maybe that's your problem," Livewire shot back. "It'd explain how you turned out so fragged up."

"Say that again, you little-" began Ramulus.

"Sparklings, behave. This behavior is most unbecoming for tech officers in the CIA."

Ramulus rounded on the newcomer, mouth open to speak his peace, but snapped his jaw shut as said newcomer gazed cooly back at him. A tall broad-shouldered mech, gray and black with blue trim, he settled his hands behind the small of his back and regarded the foul-tempered tech-bot with an arched optic ridge. He gave no sign of irritation, merely amused curiosity.

"I can assume from the chatter in here that everyone has completed their assignments?" Longarm Prime asked. "We now have access to the Decepticon archives, our Junkion transmission has been decoded, and our database is completed?"

"No, sir," Terro-Byte replied in a sheepish tone, his headfins wilting slightly. "We were just messing around."

"I see." Longarm's expression didn't change, but the gem set in his forehead - a strange bauble that the mech wore at all times, regardless of the occasion - seemed to gleam like a third optic at those words. "Then I'm to understand that you regard the protection of Cybertron from the Decepticons as less important than your own entertainment?"

"Uh… no, sir," Terro-Byte mumbled.

"Then I would advise all of you to return to work at once," Longarm replied. "Wars are not won through idle chatter, after all. Ramulus, if you find your assignment too tedious, be advised that there are far more tedious tasks you can be given. Livewire, are you making progress on the Junkion code?"

"Yes, sir," Livewire replied. "I'm close to a breakthrough here. I just need more access to the Earth broadcasts to decode this last bit."

"Access granted." Longarm's gaze moved to Shortround, but the squat mech had suddenly developed a keen interest in whatever data was scrolling across his screen. He took in the mech's toy-cluttered workstation with a bemused look, then turned to Gizmo. "I don't recognize you, however."

"That's the new bot, sir," Shortround replied. "Gizmo. He just started working here a quatrex ago."

"Gizmo," Longarm repeated with a slow nod. "I don't believe we have been formally introduced."

Gizmo opened his mouth to tell the Prime that they hadn't formally met, but that he'd seen the head of Autobot Intelligence plenty of times in passing and that he was an enormous fan of the mech's work. But all that emerged was a soft "Uuuuuuhhhhhhhh."

Longarm cocked his head to one side. "Are you all right? You appear to be malfunctioning."

This isn't malfunctioning, you'd know if I was malfunctioning, Gizmo thought, but thankfully the words didn't make the leap from his CPU to his vocalizer. He realized he was staring at his superior officer, but he couldn't seem to make himself STOP staring either. And he knew the longer he gaped at the mech, the more he was opening himself up to another round of teasing… but his optics weren't receiving the message to look away.

"I think you broke him, sir," Terro-Byte noted with a smirk.

Longarm chuckled. "I'm sure he's just nervous. This is probably the first time he's seen the director of the CIA up close." He reached out and patted Gizmo's shoulder with a broad hand. "Welcome to our agency, young Gizmo. Your services to the Autobot cause are greatly appreciated."

"Uuuuuhhh… th-th-thank you, s-sir," Gizmo sputtered.

"You're very welcome. I shall be following your career here with great interest." Longarm nodded towards the other four techs. "Carry on," he ordered, and strode out.

Terro-Byte waited until the CIA director was out of audial-shot before cracking up laughing. "Someone was starstruck! You ever gonna wash that shoulder pauldron again, Gizzie?"

"Oh shut up, like YOU weren't falling all over yourself the first time you ever saw Longarm Prime," Livewire shot back.

"How would you know, you weren't even here when I started,' Terro-Byte grumbled.

"I have it on good authority that you were a fawning fan-bot," Livewire replied smugly. "Shortround told me all about how you asked him to autograph your armguard."

"Shortround, you promised to keep quiet about that!" Terro-Byte screeched.

"I did not!" Shortround retorted.

Gizmo turned back to his screen and busied himself with the firewall, grateful to be out of the spotlight for the moment. Yes, he'd been starstruck by Longarm Prime, and utterly stunned when the mech had singled him out for attention. But it hadn't been awe he'd felt at meeting the director of the CIA and the most famous spy in the Autobot army. Or rather, it hadn't JUST been that - sure, his fame was part of it, but it was also his broad-shouldered frame, his soothing voice, the sheer charisma of his presence…

But he wasn't going to say anything about it. He was already getting razzed and hazed enough by the other techs over being the new guy in the agency. If he let slip that he had a crush on their director, he would never hear the end of it.

Longarm Prime kept his expression pleasantly neutral as he made his way down the corridors of the Cybertron Intelligence Agency. He maintained the mask of a slight smile as he nodded his greetings to passing mechs, as he saluted a grim-faced Ultra Magnus in passing, as he bypassed countless security cameras. It was a smile calculated to put mechs at ease - not wide enough to unsettle, but enough to assure those passing by that he was just another ordinary mech going about his usual business today.

He kept the mask in place as his office doors sealed shut behind him… as he unlocked his personal computer and sent a command to the security camera in his office… as said camera flickered briefly, then switched frequencies, transmitting not a live feed but pre-recorded footage of Longarm milling about his office…

Then, after a slow count to ten, Longarm let out a deep sigh of relief as his chassis split and reconfigured itself. This was no ordinary transformation cycle - rather than assuming a vehicle form, his body merely shifted its components around, eliminating Longarm piece by piece and leaving another mech entirely in their place. His limbs lengthened, his pedes flipped around to become split hooves, his digits fused into wicked claws, his waist slimmed and his shoulders broadened as mass was displaced…

The most dramatic change of all was to his face. His blue optics vanished as black plates slid over the silver alloy, obliterating the face of Longarm Prime. Twin horns snapped up to crown his helm, and the scarlet gem in his forehead - taken as some kind of ostentatious ornamentation by the Autobots - flared to life as a single optic.

As soon as the last plate snapped into place, Longarm Prime was gone. And Shockwave, Decepticon spy, could finally emerge from slumber.

The head of the CIA's office was equipped with several chairs, but Shockwave ignored all of these and sat down on the floor. Autobot furniture was built far too small for his true form… slag, this entire world was built too small for him. Iacon had been constructed to Autobot sensibilities, catering to the smaller, more slender chassis that Autobots tended to favor. Anyone unfortunate enough to be constructed with a heavy-duty form - which encompassed almost all Decepticons - was left feeling like a clumsy giant, an outcast.

Shockwave snorted softly through his vents and went through his exercises, stretching limbs long cramped in a too-small form. He was taking a huge risk right now, and he knew it. No matter how careful he was, there was always a possibility that someone would discover his tampering with the security camera and fix it… or worse, walk into his office while he was in his true form. It would be best for his mission if he kept to his Autobot form for the duration of his mission.

That would be the most logical decision, he acknowledged. But logic has nothing to do with how much I loathe that body. How much it repulses me to look in a mirror and see those blue optics looking back at me.

It wasn't just that wearing Longarm's chassis felt like being crammed into a shell too small to accommodate him. Nor was it just that he was forced to wear an Autobot sigil. It was something far deeper - the horrible sense of dislocation to be wearing a form not his own, to look down at his hands and know they weren't his hands, but still be forced to use them. It was an itch under his plating that worsened with every cycle he had to wear the body of Longarm Prime, until it became utterly unbearable.

Wearing the face of Longarm Prime for endless cycles would have driven him insane… and so he allowed himself these few stolen moments every day. He knew the risks, and he deemed them acceptable. If maintaining his sanity meant taking extra precautions, then so be it.

Shockwave pushed himself to his feet and arched his back in a final stretch, then turned to gaze out the window of his office - a one-way window, thank the Allspark, to add another layer of security. Recent intelligence reports had been promising - activity from a small organic world far from Cybertron, where an Autobot ship that had been reported missing over fifty years ago had finally resurfaced with all its crew intact. A ship that had been carrying precious cargo lost at the height of the Great War.

A ship that had been the site of Megatron's last battle before his disappearance.

If the Autobots aboard that ship survived all this time… then the odds are good that Megatron survived as well. He has not yet reached out, but perhaps he is biding his time. Soon, I am sure, he will contact me with further orders.

Soon, we will retake Cybertron. And Longarm Prime can be put to rest for good.

His true form had no mouth to smile with, but his optic gleamed in anticipation. Until he received orders from Megatron, he would continue to aid the Decepticon cause from within Autobot headquarters. Whatever information was hidden in those Decepticon archives or that Junkion code, he would ensure it was used to unite their scattered forces for another strike at the Autobots. The techs that worked so diligently for the CIA had no idea they were working for HIS cause, and not for the Autobots.

He allowed himself a few more moments before finally shifting back to Longarm form, hissing with discomfort as his body compacted to the stockier Autobot body. He had a meeting with the Council shortly, and he needed to put on a good face for those corrupt fools.