Most days Gizmo used the back alley to get home - it meant being able to slip into his apartment without risking the hazards of optic contact and social interaction. But the trash-collecting mechs were on strike again, and bags of empty oil cans, burnt-out fuses, and other junk had piled so high that they blocked off the staircase. The reek of stale oil nearly made him gag, and the thought of shoving his way through leaking bags and swatting away clouds of micro-flies made his fuel tanks curdle.

With a deep sigh out of every vent in his body, Gizmo went to the front door and keyed in his access code. He disliked having to traipse through his landlords' living area to get to his apartment. Not because they were unfriendly, but because it felt awkward walking through someone else's space when you had no business being there.

The entryway was quiet as he stepped into the ground-floor apartment - no sign of either landlord, just a mat of stiff bristles for scraping the dirt off one's pedes before going any further. He relaxed and scuffed his feet over the mat before making his way into a large, comfortable living room. Maybe they were out for the evening. That made getting to his room without getting dragged into a conversation much easier-

He yelped as something collided with his legs, making him stagger backwards. His spark stuttered in his chest, and he could feel energy surging towards his self-defense system. Not now, of all times, please not now…

"Hi Uncle Gizmo!"

His self-defense system clicked offline, recognizing the "attacker" as a non-threat. Gizmo relaxed and vented deeply to calm himself. So his landlords were home after all… that wasn't ideal, but at least he hadn't just been tackled by an intruder.

"Firebolt, let go of him!" Tracks scolded, hurrying into the living room. "You're all wet! You'll ruin someone's finish by doing that!"

"Uh… it's okay," Gizmo assured the blue mech, looking down at the crimson sparkling who was doing her best to wrap herself around both his legs. "I don't care about my finish anyhow."

Tracks sniffed. "We must fix that one of these days. Firebolt, darling, let go of him. You need to finish your bath."

"Don't wanna," Firebolt sniffed, tightening her grip on the tech-bot.

"Ah, you caught our escapee," Mirage noted as he entered the room, taking in the situation with a long-suffering smile. He had another sparkling, this one blue and white, bundled up in a towel in his arms, and the little mech squirmed to be put down to greet their tenant.

"Uncle Gizmo!" the blue sparkling squeaked, and he finally broke free of his creator's arms and hurried to join Firebolt in clinging to his legs. "Guess what! I caught a glitchmouse today!"

"Daddy Tracks wouldn't let us keep it as a pet though," Firebolt pouted. "Said they're dirty. We had to let it go. Tell him we should get a pet like you!"

"Uh…" Gizmo looked back and forth between Firebolt and Tracks, at a loss for words.

"Oh, don't worry," Tracks assured him. "You don't need to get involved in this. Firebolt, Sideburn, DO let him walk! The poor mech doesn't like to be touched, remember?"

"Awwww," both sparklings groaned, but they released his legs and stepped back to give him space. Gizmo wanted to reply that he didn't mind hugs on his own terms, or when they came from sparklings. But he couldn't get the words out, so he let the matter drop.

"It's good to see you," Mirage told him. "It's been an age - usually you sneak in so quietly we barely hear you."

"Uh… yeah… work just… kinda crazy right now," Gizmo mumbled. "Need a break."

"Allspark, I know how that goes," Tracks groaned, pressing his hand to his forehead in dramatic fashion. "There are days when I come home from the mod shop just EXHAUSTED from so many uncouth idiots! No matter how many times I tell them that a spoiler will NOT do for that alt mode, or that spinning hubcaps are SO last cycle!"

"Oh, don't feed him that load of compactor trash, dear," Mirage chuckled. "I think you enjoy all that drama."

"Would YOU enjoy some snobby holo-actress screaming at you because her new racing stripes are a shade off of the hue she requested?" demanded Tracks.

Gizmo shuffled to the side, wondering if he could make a break for the staircase and his apartment while his landlords were going on. But Firebolt seemed to sense his escape attempt and darted to block his path.

"Uncle Gizmo, can you fix my tablet?" she chirped.

"Firebolt, darling, do leave him be," Tracks admonished. "He's had a long day and needs a break from technology for awhile!"

"Oh no, it's okay," Gizmo assured him, and he knelt down and took the proffered tablet. "I don't mind at all."

"Really, you're our tenant, not our live-in tech support," Tracks insisted. "We'll happily compensate you - perhaps a chunk off the rent?"

"Aw no, I couldn't," Gizmo protested, holding a finger to the tablet's power switch. The device's screen darkened, then it powered back up with chirp. "There you go, Firebolt. Sometimes your tablet just gets tired and needs to reboot."

"Thank you!" Firebolt hugged the tablet against her chest. "You're awesome, Uncle Gizzie!"

Gizmo ducked his head and rubbed the back of his helm, feeling his faceplates heat up. As much as he complained about being nothing but the Council's tech support at work, somehow he didn't mind helping his landlords or their sparklings fix their devices when they acted up. Maybe it was because they appreciated his work instead of just taking it for granted. Or maybe it was just different helping a child repair a favorite toy than doing yet another software update for a politician too lazy or arrogant to do it themselves.

"Now, little one, let's get you back into the washracks," Tracks ordered, herding Firebolt away. "Let Gizmo go home."

"Awwwwww," whined Firebolt, but let herself be shooed off.

Gizmo watched the two blue mechs and their sparklings depart, then headed for the stairs and his apartment. Tracks and Mirage weren't terrible landlords at all - they charged a fair price for the rent, made sure maintenance was kept up, and were nothing but friendly whenever he crossed paths with them. Sometimes a little TOO friendly, though, especially for a tech-bot who was so socially awkward he could barely get through a sentence without stumbling over his words.

At least they didn't try to touch me, he thought, flicking on the lights as he entered his living space. That would have been embarrassing. Well, more embarrassing, anyhow.

"I'm home!" he announced. "Octavius, you here?"

His roommate didn't answer, but rose and stretched with a languorous yawn.

"Octy, we've been over this," Gizmo sighed. "You're not supposed to sleep on the counters."

Octavius's amber optics met Gizmo's blue visor, and he responded with a growling meow.

"I know, telling you what to do is useless," he laughed, and picked the electro-cat up and carried him to the living room. "If I wanted a pet to take orders, I should have gotten a turbohound."

Octavius meowed disdainfully.

"You said it, buddy." Gizmo sat down on the couch, and Octavius settled himself in the mech's lap before curling back up to resume his nap. Satisfied that the cat was comfortable, he picked up a gaming controller and activated his Cityspeakers playthrough. Time to unwind from the day by killing some alien invaders.

It hadn't been a terribly hard day, if he was being honest with himself. If anything, it was fairly average - maybe even a little better than average, given that he'd gotten to talk to his crush (sort of). Things could have gone a lot worse - he could have said something stupid and cost himself his job, he could have found his workstation covered with tar thanks to Terro-Byte's stupid pranks, he could have gotten kicked out of his apartment after his faulty self-defense device kicked in and hurt Firebolt…

But even an average day was still hard. Especially when you were a shy, awkward tech-bot suffering from a glitchy self-defense system installed by well-meaning creators too short-sighted to realize that a device that electrocuted anyone who touched you unexpectedly wasn't exactly the best way to protect him. And when an average day entailed being made fun of by your co-workers, unappreciated by your superiors, and cared for only by your landlord and your pet electro-cat, it made surviving an average day an achievement in itself.

Small wonder, then, that he found his escape in a video game. And as unrealistic as it was for the city-speakers of Cybertron to take up magical weapons to fight against an alien invasion… well, reality often sucked. And he'd take his escapes from it where he could get them.

Shockwave normally didn't make a habit of interfering with the petty politics of his spies and technicians. He hadn't clawed his way to the top of the Cybertron Intelligence Agency to play babysitter to this crew, after all, and they were all perfectly capable of looking after themselves. Besides, if their squabbles and rivalries weakened them, made them pay more attention to their own conflicts than to the double-agent in their midst, then it made his job all that much easier.

Still, he supposed he should at least give the appearance of caring about his technicians. And so when he spotted Terro-Byte slipping into the tech center early, he decided it was best to interfere.

The blue-and-bronze Autobot had wedged himself underneath a workstation - not his own, Shockwave noted - and was working a panel free. That gave Shockwave pause. Was Terro-Byte a saboteur? Was there another Decepticon planted in the CIA? Surely he would have known if that were the case… unless Terro-Byte was working under his own initiative and not taking orders…

Terro-Byte cursed softly as the panel came loose, hitting him in the face. He pushed it aside and pulled a canister of paint from subspace, reaching up to plant it inside the computer console. Shockwave suppressed an urge to sigh. Not a saboteur then, but a simple prankster. This was just more office politics, not a potential ally.

Best to play the part, he decided, and he stepped up to the workstation. He waited until Terro-Byte was deeply involved in installing his prank before speaking up.

"I'm surprised to see you here so early, Terro-Byte."

The mech sat up abruptly - and cursed as his head slammed into the workstation. The canister he'd tucked into the workstation was jarred loose and landed on him, and he swore again as his pristine armor was splattered with energon-purple paint.

"Ah… so that's how it is," Shockwave noted, allowing a chuckle to seep into his tone. "You are aware, Terro-Byte, that tampering with an Intelligence Agency computer terminal is an act of treason against the Autobot cause?"

"This - blech - isn't what it looks like, Prime sir!" Terro-Byte insisted, scrambling out from under the workstation. "I was just - ugh, it's in my MOUTH! This was just a joke-"

"Just a joke," Shockwave noted, flattening the humor from his voice. "So you find interfering with your colleague's valuable work amusing?"

Terro-Byte swiped at his faceplate, clearing paint from his optics. "It's just Gizmo's workstation, sir. He never gets the important jobs anyhow…" His voice trailed off as his superior officer leveled a glare at him. "Uh… am I fired?"

Shockwave held the glare for a few moments, until the mech started squirming where he stood. Then he relented. "You are not fired… but you are dismissed until you visit the washracks. Another incident of this nature, however, and you'll face a disciplinary hearing."

"Yessir." Terro-Byte headed for the door, dripping violet the entire way. Then he turned back to face him, a thoughtful expression on his faceplate. "Just to clarify, I'm not in trouble for pranking Gizmo, just for taking apart a government computer to do so-"

"Get OUT."

"Yessir!" He scurried away.

Shockwave shook his head and commed for a janitorial crew to clean up Terro-Byte's mess before the rest of the techs showed up, then made for his office. He never understood the use of hazing and pranks, especially among the Autobots who so prided themselves on unity and teamwork. If you were fortunate enough to bring in a new recruit, wouldn't you do everything in your power to make them feel welcome instead of treating them harshly?

Don't fret over it so much, he told himself. It's the Autobot's problem. It's to your advantage if they sow distrust and disharmony among themselves by allowing such juvenile behavior.

He turned a corner to come into view of his office… and stopped short. A familiar mech barred the way, and the sight of him ignited a maelstrom of emotions in his spark - hatred, anger, disgust, and perhaps the slightest sliver of fear.

He kept his faceplates schooled in a neutral expression, however, and saluted. "Ultra Magnus, sir."

"At ease, Longarm Prime," Ultra Magnus urged, raising his hand. "We're old friends. You needn't salute unless it's a formal occasion."

Shockwave lowered his hand, though his spark still raged. Perhaps Ultra Magnus thought of him as a friend… but the big oaf had no way of knowing just how much the head of the CIA loathed him. Or that he dreamed of someday wrenching the Magnus Hammer from his grip and beating him to within a centimeter of his life with it.

He forced himself to smile, however. "My apologies, Ultra. Old habits die hard."

"Understandable." Ultra Magnus draped an arm around the smaller mech and walked with him towards his office. "Still, we've known each other for vorns, old friend. I'd hope you'd relax just a little around me by now."

"You know I have a difficult time relaxing at work," Shockwave replied. "And you're the Magnus. That position demands respect."

"I'm glad you think so," the Magnus laughed. "Some mechs seem to think my title means nothing and they can sass me or boss me around. As much as I wish you'd loosen up sometimes, it's nice to get some respect now and again."

Shockwave forced out a chuckle, even though it took most of his strength to restrain himself from wrenching himself out from under Ultra Magnus' arm and pushing him away. This mech represented everything that was wrong with the Autobots - a classist, functionalist, arrogant mech so full of his own self-righteousness that he couldn't see the rebellion fomenting under his own olfactory sensor. And if the Autobots knew of even a fraction of the atrocities Ultra Magnus had ordered and approved during the Great War, they would be screaming for his head rather than praising him as a leader.

That wasn't the only reason he hated the Magnus, however. No, it ran deeper than that.

"I didn't come here to make small talk, though," Ultra Magnus went on, dropping his arm. "We're going to need the resources of the CIA, as many of them as you can spare."

Shockwave moved behind his desk, grateful to have that barrier between himself and his superior. "We're spread rather thin as it is, Ultra Magnus. I haven't many resources to spare for anything else. But I will do what I can."

Ultra Magnus nodded. "It's the system where Optimus Prime and his team have established themselves - the Sol system. More accurately, the Sol system's only inhabited planet, Earth. Ever since Optimus made contact with us, we've gotten reports of unusual activity from that planet."

Shockwave nodded. "We have intercepted transmissions from that planet for years, mostly harmless entertainment broadcasts. Do you think there's something sinister hidden in those transmissions?"

"Maybe, maybe not," the Magnus replied. "But it's an organic planet, and that's reason enough to be suspicious. Optimus might be convinced that the inhabitants are allies, but given that they see mechanical life forms as servants and slaves… well, they bear watching."

Shockwave tapped his chin guard in thought. On the one hand, combing through so much data spewing out from one insignificant planet seemed a ridiculously gargantuan task with little promise of payoff. On the other hand, there was a possibility Megatron was also on Earth, however small. And if one of those transmissions they intercepted from that little world happened to be a coded message from his leader…

"I will assign a few technicians to that task," he decided. "I can't promise anything more, but if we come across anything suspicious, you'll be the first to know."

Ultra Magnus smiled. "Thank you, Longarm. Of all the Primes on Cybertron, I know I can count on you to not let me down."

"I don't make it a habit of letting my superiors down." That, at least, was the truth, even if the true meaning escaped the Magnus.

The blue-and-white mech nodded, and Shockwave opened his mouth for a farewell. But his voice died in his vocalizer when a large white hand closed over his, folding his digits within the firm grip.

"I appreciate your hard work, my friend," Ultra Magnus said, his voice warm and soft as honeyed oil. "Perhaps today, once you're off duty, I can show you how much I appreciate it. A drink at Maccadam's, perhaps?"

Shockwave drew in a deep intake of air, then released it, letting the urge to leap at the Magnus and claw his optics out subside. Then he slowly but deliberately drew his hand out of the mech's grasp.

"The sentiment is appreciated," he replied. "But I must decline. It would be inappropriate of me to date my superior."

Ultra Magnus frowned. "It wouldn't be as a superior and a subordinate," he insisted. "Just as friends. And maybe, if the evening went well, something more…"

"I must decline," Shockwave insisted. "Thank you for the offer, but no thank you."

Ultra Magnus' frown deepened, but he nodded and stepped back from the desk. "Very well, then… perhaps another time, you'll be more agreeable. I expect a report on the Earth project within a decacycle."

"Yes, sir."

The Magnus nodded, then shuttered one optic in a wink before walking out.

Shockwave managed to wait until the blue-and-white mech had vanished before he practically exploded out of his Longarm form, gasping through every vent to cool systems overheated from disgust and fury. He stepped away from his desk and shuddered, rubbing at his arms with his claws as if he could scrub away the feeling of Ultra Magnus' touch. He should be inured to this by now - the too-familiar touches, the optics roaming over his form - but it never got any easier.

It wasn't as if Ultra Magnus were the first mech to show attraction towards him… or, more accurately, to Longarm. Evidently plenty of mechs and femmes found him handsome, and he'd had to fend off crushes from many of his spies and technicians over the vorns. The attention should have been flattering… but he found it infuriating instead. For he knew that if any of those mechs ever saw his true form, they would be repulsed and horrified by what they saw.

He was fully aware that his true form was freakish to the Autobots, with his atypical faceplate and clawed hands and long, gangly limbs. But it was still his chassis, his body, even if it was hideous by most mechs' standards. The chances of him ever finding a romantic partner, let alone a conjux endura, were so slim they were laughable, but if it ever happened he wanted it to be with a partner who appreciated him for himself, and not for the false form his mission had forced him to wear.

Most of the time he was able to rebuff his admirers' attentions. They either got the hint when he ignored their advances, or they quit when he reminded them that he was hardly in a position for any kind of romantic relationship. But Ultra Magnus was proving persistent - if anything, Shockwave's refusal to be courted only seemed to make him even more determined.

Perhaps it's about conquest more than anything, Shockwave thought disgustedly. Perhaps he doesn't truly wish to court you, only to bed you as some kind of achievement. Well, I refuse to be his trophy. And one of these days, when Megatron has triumphed, I'll repay him for every unwelcome touch and advance tenfold-

Movement caught his optic, and he glanced up to see a blue-and-orange Autobot standing in the doorway of his office. A blue visor obscured the mech's optics, but his slack expression gave away his shock.

Shockwave wasn't a mech given to panic… but at that moment he felt his spark plummet down to the level of his fuel tanks. In his disgust at Ultra Magnus' touch, he'd broken the most cardinal rule of his mission - he'd forgotten to shut his office door before shifting forms.

Out of sheer instinct he shifted to Longarm form, snarling at the pain of compacting into his smaller alter-ego. Even as the last panel clicked into place he realized he'd just compounded his error - instead of just seeing a Decepticon, the intruder now knew that said Decepticon and Longarm Prime were irrevocably linked.

The blue mech - Gizmo, his memory banks provided - stumbled back a few steps, then turned and ran.

Drat, Shockwave thought, and ensured his sidearm was in place before stalking out of his office. It was a shame - Gizmo had seemed like a promising new recruit. But he was going to have to take care of this little problem before the new tech-bot spread his secret any further.