"You alright, fella?"

"Could be better," I shrugged. It was the truth. The past several minutes had been spent in silence as I slowly caught my breath. The medic had stepped off into one of the adjacent rooms, I guess getting things ready for my extended stay. Apparently, he had also requested that our section of the ship be oxygenated, just in case. The thought of being here long enough for that to be useful didn't make me feel much better.

Laying down had made me jumpy, so instead, I had opted to stand, even though all I really wanted right now was some sleep. I studied the room for the hundredth time. It was still all massive and ridiculously sci-fi: everything was all minimalistic, with clean angles, and god, all the lines on everything. The view was making me want to bang my head against the wall. Why did sci-fi love stripes? And why in the world would giant alien robots subscribe to that? I moved to the edge of the table, operating table—whatever it was called, and looked down: a large fall. A large sci-fi fall to the sci-fi floor. I wouldn't be able to even die in peace.

"You guys suck at decorating."

"Woah!" Misdirect put his hands to his chest in mock offense, "Slinging insults now?"

"Almost dying makes me cranky. I don't want the last thing I see to be all these stupid stripes."

"Those stripes happen to be a part of our culture, thank you."

"I feel like we never addressed this, but you guys are like actual aliens right?"

"You're on our ship," Misdirect retorted, "You're the alien."

"Right right right," I said. "But you have a language. Do you have a planet and everything? like you're an actual extraterrestrial?"

"Again, the 'extraterrestrial' is you. And of course we have a planet, don't be silly."

"So did someone," I gave him a sidelong glance, "build you?"

He snorted.

"No but like, where did you-? I mean robots don't… ?"

"Don't what?" He asked. When I failed to respond he gave me a look, "I'm surprised your species hasn't run into mechanical life by now. Or—" he shifted, and the mood in the room seemed to sour, "are perhaps just not friendly towards them?"

He had not said it in an accusatory way, but I still felt alarmed. He was literally my only lifeline on the entire ship, perhaps I should watch my words.

"We haven't met any aliens. I mean, as far as I know. I didn't mean to be rude."

"No. No, you're fine. I guess I was just assuming…" he looked confused now, "Exactly how far has your species gone? Off your planet, I mean?"

"Like, actual people? I guess our moon. But we've sent rovers and probes to other planets."

"But that machine was made by your dad?"

"Yeah. Well, a lot of people worked on it too. Not just him. Why?"

"If your species is barely off your planet, how did you get that technology?"

"We made it I guess? You're saying we couldn't have done it?"

"Be reasonable," he said, "To have advanced tech, you have to at least have the basics down first"

"What? And we don't?"

"Yes."

I had to remind myself I was talking to a sentient robot on their fancy sci-fi spaceship. "Alright, fair," I grumbled, "I can admit that's kinda strange, but that is also a mystery I will not be thinking about until I've at least had sleep."

"Your attention!" A new voice interrupted as the door to the medbay slid open. A flurry of white and teal movement entered the room. "Hear me out!" The bot announced. A large blocky contraption rested in his arms and he lugged it towards the nearest exam table. It looked messy, like someone had glued a pile of junk together. With a crash, the bizarre object was deposited on a table next to the entrance, and from the ground came a smaller clatter as a handful of pieces were shaken loose from it. The bot either didn't notice, or didn't care, and a datapad balancing on the top of the contraption was swiftly snatched up. In a mix of alarm, amusement, and growing concern, I watched as an additional small piece tumbled loose, bouncing off the table and then to the floor. For a brief second the room was quiet.

There was furious tapping as the white and teal bot poured over the large datapad he now cradled rather awkwardly in the nook of his other arm. Similar to Misdirect, wing-like structures stuck out near his shoulders. But, unlike him, this bot also had a set of smaller wings on either side of his chest, all four featuring a glowing red line streaking down them. His face was the most unusual yet. His eyes were not blue, but yellow, and he appeared to have no mouth, just an orange plate covering everything below his eyes as if he were wearing a mask.

"Consider the mystery solved!" he announced, his energetic voice sounding entirely unhindered by the mask, "and Primus you should see the state of our quantum generators—they're fine, by the way, I fixed them already. Horribly impressive, I know. Wait until I tell you I did it all upside down. Because I could, that's why." As his stream of words and equally active hand motions continued, I found it dawning on me that catching his breath was not something he had to worry about. "The good news is, I know what happened. Though, I admit Perceptor may have helped a little, or rather, the notes about it that he left on his desk did. It's all semantics, really." He paced, "It was a one in a trillion chance! Actually, think of the largest number you know: it was one in that. It was impossible!"

He finally looked up, clearly anticipating the rapt attention of an audience. When he found none, he turned, now looking at the row of empty exam tables, his back facing us. With a huff, the tablet was set roughly back on top of his contraption, "What's the point if there's no one here to be impressed?"

I was starting to think if we stood still enough he wouldn't even notice us.

He glanced over his shoulder. The tablet was snatched back up. "Ah! Misdirect!" He approached briskly, and I retreated backward, looking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't about to fall off the edge.

"Misdirect, and his new pet!" He corrected himself.

I felt myself tense up, "I'm not a pet."

"A joke," he said, "I'll be honest, I had my doubts you were even capable of speaking."

"Brainstorm!" Ratchet called, sounding less than pleased. I guess the ruckus had drawn him from the other room.

"Ol'Ratch!"

He was about to say something else but Ratchet stopped him, "Why in Primus name are you here? Where's Perceptor?"

"Busy," Brainstorm dismissed, "Don't tell me you planned to go ahead without your certified ship-genius?"

"Weapon specialist," Misdirect corrected.

The comment was waved away, "Nothing says I can't branch out a little."

"Do you even know what's going on?" Misdirect asked flatly.

"Perceptor let me borrow the report you sent," Brainstorm explained, "It's all just quantum physics, I read a file or two about it on my way over: consider me properly up to date. And besides, I found I had a rather personal interest in the matter." He turned, drawing attention to the way he was struggling to cradle the datapad. He swapped it to the other hand and revealed his arm.

"Oh my God," I gasped, "That's a desk." Just below his elbow, a desk jutted out sharply, completely impaling his forearm. Whether they had blood, I didn't know, but the wound was clean. The wood looked fused directly into the metal.

"A desk! Glad that mystery's resolved," came Brainstorm's reply, "had it at the top of my list, right next to regaining function in my arm, and followed closely by keeping the quantum generators from imploding. "

"Doesn't it hurt?" I couldn't stop staring. The plain desk was familiar enough, it was a bulky wooden thing with sturdy rectangular drawers up one side. It looked to be in pristine condition, besides the fact it was nearly half engulfed by a robotic arm. It was impossible. The two were clipped seamlessly through one another, like some glitch.

"Fused at the atom," Brainstorm hummed, "Should be excruciating, that is if my circuits weren't jammed up with organic fiber. So no."

"You're going to have to replace it. I can't repair that." Ratchet said.

"Yeah, figured," Brainstorm shrugged, "Chop it off."

I flinched.

"Ship-genius can't replace his own arm?" Misdirect scoffed.

"Found myself preoccupied with fixing the generators from the ceiling. Why am I getting the impression your organic friend is keeping up better than you?"

Ratchet motioned to him, "Go ahead and put your arm on the other table."

"Whatever you say, Ratch," With enthusiasm Brainstorm swung his arm up, using the momentum to slam the motionless limb on my table. I stumbled backward, wide-eyed.

"The one behind you! Not-!" Ratchet huffed, "Fine. Whatever. Just keep it still." The medic loomed over the table, fingers delicately working on the elbow. I was now standing near the far end, trying to stay out of the way. More alarming than the impromptu amputation was the fact that the desk wasn't just a familiar sight: I had literally seen this one before.

"That desk is from my dad's work," I said, "I'm certain. Am I not the only thing that came here?"

"Oh believe me, organic," Brainstorm said, "This is just the beginning of what we'll find."

I let the questionable nickname slide, "I might not be alone?"

"I think you mean, 'will we find more junk?' Most likely," Brainstorm said, "Don't pull an axle though, I already looked for living organic signatures like yours, and it's just you. But I'll keep an eye out for anything squishy jammed into the walls."

My insides turned to ice, "What?"

"Lucky it's the desk in my arm and not you, eh? Quite the lottery win." I could tell by his eyes he was grinning, but he hadn't spoken like it was a joke. I looked back at the desk and the perfect seams where the wood met metal.

"So what exactly did you figure out?" Misdirect interjected. He leaned in, just enough to assert himself between me and the others.

There was a loud Thunk, as Brainstorm's forearm fell to the table, completely disconnected from his elbow. Ratchet picked up the arm and walked off, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. I watched in dismay. Could they really just replace a whole arm?

Brainstorm grew serious, "Our quantum generators got all gunked up with an outside energy signature. What do you guys know about quantum travel?"

Even from across the room, I heard Ratchet's sigh, "Brainstorm, is this really-?"

"Rhetorical question, of course you don't know anything," Brainstorm continued on, "Now listen close, I'm really dumbing this down for you guys. Like painfully. Like it physically hurts me to do this."

"We got it." Misdirect said.

"So our ship is in one spot, but we want it in another spot very far away, what do we do? Short answer: we fire up the quantum generators, physics gets flouted, and boom! We've traveled millions of lightyears instantly. But how does it all work you ask? Long answer: I literally don't have the time to explain it, plus I don't wanna. Medium answer: The generators cause a bunch of sciency-physics-defying-stuff to happen, and for a very very brief time the ship isn't at just one point, it's at two. Same ship, occupying two points in space: creating a big 'no no' as physics would say. Not interested in being flouted, physics demands the ship be in one spot again, and with a nudge, our generators help it pick the one we want. So, the ship, everything on it, and the molecules floating around us, all get properly pasted in the new spot. The conflict is resolved, time and space are repaired, and you just saved thousands of years of travel, at the expense of literally a fourth of your power. Got it?"

We nodded.

"Now forget everything I just said, because it was all grossly simplified and completely wrong. Quantum travel leaves a very specific energy signature behind, and our little incident created quite an unusual one, because it turns out it's actually two signatures all mashed into each other," He tried to clasp his hands, but without his other arm, his hand only swung through empty air. He looked down, briefly startled.

"What happens to the copy?" I asked.

"Yeah, hold on," Misdirect agreed, "If we were in two spots, where did the other ship go?"

"It doesn't make a copy," Brainstorm looked back up.

"But there's two ships," Misdirect said.

"There's only one ship. One ship in two places. It's in both spots," Brainstorm said, "The space around the ship moved, not the ship."

I looked to Misdirect, "You think the extra signal came from my dad's machine?"

"Right, you mentioned that in the report," Brainstorm said, "So you think your lot managed a quantum generator?" For a second he almost looked impressed, "That would explain the mess. Primus, I'm surprised the piece of junk even worked."

"I mean, we don't really know for sure," I said.

"Irrelevant," Brainstorm said, "Whether it was from your planet or not, it had to be some kind of quantum generator, otherwise the signals wouldn't have been able to get all crammed together."

"But how?" Misdirect asked, "Her planet isn't even close to us."

"They messed with each other because that's what they do," Brainstorm was clearly getting impatient, "I literally just said it can pick up an entire ship full of bots and deposit it unscathed millions of miles away; Physics is being flouted, just one big ball of flout. The energy our generators flout up might as well exist everywhere, at every point in space, all at once. Distance isn't a factor."

"What about all that stuff you said about things not existing in two spots?" Misdirect asked.

"Actually, I said to forget everything I told you, because it's wrong. Are we all listening now? All out of stupid questions? Great, because this is where it gets interesting. Like I was saying, I deconstructed the signals and took a look at the error report from our generators. Turns out the outside signature was pure slag, just nonsense. But its web of primitive, nonsensical, and absurd connections," He made eye contact with me, "Somehow worked, and it gunked everything up. The energies combined, creating not two, but four conflicting points in space."

I saw Misdirect open his mouth to say something, but Brainstorm was quicker, "Not copies," Brainstorm said, exasperated, "Only one of everything, but in four spots," he shook his head, "look, forget it. The important bit is that if two points are a 'no no,' then four is a 'cover your afts, because reality is about to crumple into a little ball of scrap' sort of situation."

I felt like my head was spinning, "Wait, for real?"

Brainstorm practically rolled his eyes, "Or the four spots would have folded into black holes. Or, maybe just one really big one. The details are unimportant."

"And this can just happen?" There was no way I was the crazy one here, "You guys just have something that can do that?"

"It's impossible," Brainstorm clarified, "Quantum signals don't just get stuck to one another. I really can't believe our luck. I don't think anything like this has ever been documented before. We're only here right now because a failsafe managed to catch the mistake in time. Fractions of a second away from total universal collapse, our generators got everything to agree on just one point. Or should I say, it forced everything to. It mushed us all together, hence the desk in my arm, hence the organic, and hence the reason the ark is nearly out of power." He tried to cross his arms, before giving up and opting to put his hand on his hip.

Misdirect and I shared a look. "But it's over," Misdirect asserted, "That's the important part, right?"

"Except it's not over." Another new voice came from the door and we all turned to look. The new bot wore a serious expression. Walking stiffly, he sported red and black armor, and atop one shoulder rested an unusually large cylinder. I had to wonder if it was some kind of weapon. The new bot greeted Brainstorm with a curt nod, "You took my notes."

"Ah, Perceptor," Brainstorm said, "I figured you wouldn't mind."

"For the record Brainstorm, the report of your 'findings' that you sent me was nonsensical," Perceptor walked to the central computer, and began pulling up information. "But unfortunately you may be right. The signals are still intertwined. Whoever is responsible for the secondary source, has frozen their end, and the process was not completed. It's stable, for now. But we'll need to cut the connection."

Brainstorm let out a groan of dismay, "I was just about to get there! That was literally the best part!"

We all waited for an explanation in silence.

"Oh, so now you're ready to listen? Figures," Brainstorm huffed, "So yeah, what he said. The whole reaction got paused. We still mostly exist in this spot, but we have the potential to exist in three others too. The universe as we know it is hanging by a filament. Got it?"

It didn't look like any of us got it.

"Can we work backwards to the source?" Ratchet asked, "Find the location?"

Apparently, he was catching up much faster than I was. My heart pounded as I glanced between the two. That meant I could get home, right?

Perceptor was quiet for a moment, "It's a possibility. I haven't traced back the signal yet, not to mention I'd have to establish a second fixed point to reverse the process back to. But, are we sure this is wise?" He looked up from his work, "The Ark is damaged, and nearly out of power, the Decepticons are in pursuit, and our troops are still recovering. Statistically-"

"Statistically we're nearly fragged," Brainstorm cut in.

Of course we wanted to trace the signal, I wanted to say.

Ratchet beat me to it, "If we cut the link too soon Kathrine might not get home."

Perceptor looked at me, and his expression felt detached and dismissive. He turned back to the computer, "I'll let the commander make that decision. Cutting the connection will be simple enough, so for the time being I'll see what I can do about tracing the signal. I won't promise anything else."

Apparently satisfied, Ratchet turned back to his work.

"Commander?" I whispered nervously to Misdirect, trying to be extra quiet.

"What was that?"

"Who's the commander?" I asked.

"Optimus Prime, remember?"

Right. The same one responsible for giving my freedom away to the Medic. Though I had to admit, Ratchet wasn't really all that bad. I guess I was lucky to not be a literal prisoner right now or dead. Really, I was probably riding on the best-case scenario given the bizarre situation. "What do you think he'll choose?"

"You'll be fine, I promise," Misdirect reassured.

"Don't say that," I wrung my hands, "You don't know that."

A look of helplessness swept over his face, "Let's go for a walk," He said abruptly, "Everything's fine, we'll just let everyone work and just let it all sink in; you know, all that 'universe imploding in on us' crap."

"I haven't done a proper exam yet," Ratchet turned to us in protest. Something changed his mind though, because when he looked between us he reluctantly nodded, "Fine. But stay in our section where she can breathe, and if you're gone too long I won't hesitate to lock both of you in here."

Without much protest, I headed back to the safety of the toolbox. Above me, Misdirect muttered to himself, "I need a drink."