When Jazz returned to consciousness, he did it in much the same way as he always did - quickly, cleanly, and professionally. He didn't ask where he was, what had happened, or anything of the sort. Instead, he surveyed his surroundings with a critical eye and swung his legs over the side of the C/R capsule he didn't remember getting in.

Memories. Huh. What did happen last time we were up and running, anyhow? he wondered idly, then reflexively clamped a hand to his chest as the ghost of searing pain ripped through his torso.

"It was a 'Con, of course. Hit you with a taste of your own medicine when your shields were depleted," a semi-grouchy voice said. "Scatter Blaster incendiary rounds - nasty stuff. I'm just glad the C/R tanks fixed all of you hotshots up; mainly so I don't have to spend all lunar cycle buffing your paint jobs and re-tuning your tactile sensors."

"Hey, nice ta see you too, Ratchet!" Jazz replied jovially, stretching. "How's life treatin' ya? Your flight was good as mine, I take it? An', uh, on th' subject, how long have we all been out?"

"Abominably, mine was awful, and no one knows, in that order," another voice spoke up. However, going off the gravelly Medianite accent and the edge of bitter, dry wit alone, one could say that the new voice actually spoke down. The Autobot First Lieutenant knew at once who it was without even needing to search for its owner. General Shakar, better known by his nickname, Gears, commander of the Autobot Transport Division, lay in a berth adjacent to Jazz's, staring blankly up at the ceiling and absentmindedly flexing some kind of medical tool in his left hand.

"Chronometers are all fragged six ways from Solus-cycle," he continued. "We're stuck on an organic mudworld with no way off and no way of knowing whether or not anyone else in the fleet survived the crash. My pedes hurt and I want to go home. I hate all of this already."

"Put that down, Gears, before you break it! I need it to properly bring everyone else back online," Ratchet scolded, putting aside his tools and snatching the device from Gears' hand.

Jazz rose fluidly to his feet, indulging in another brief stretch before crossing the makeshift medbay as well. The room was filled with about a dozen differently sized stasis pods, which Ratchet had obviously been tinkering with. The digital displays showed faint, flickering barcodes that meant nothing to Jazz but probably contained a whole host of medical information about their occupants intended for the exclusive use of a Medic.

Time hadn't been kind to the Ark, but that problem was to be considered and solved later. Jazz filed away his observations, planning to deal with them later and moved on, as was his unflappable style.

"Hey, Shakar, cancel that negativity too, yeah? Primus provides, my friend. Just look at us - we're still cooking an' ventin' air. Tha's gotta count for somethin', right?"

The CMO snorted. "You can thank Primus if you like. Me, I'm just worried about our immediate survival. We've got a lot of empty stasis pods, Jazz, and most of them are still carrying energy signatures - Decepticon signatures. There're still a bunch of them locked in stasis; case in point, this fellow right here."

He rapped the stasis pod he was working on with a wrench. It was by far the largest in the room, and it seemed to Jazz's untrained eye that the Decepticon inside it was still crammed into its confines.

"I've been ordered to keep them under until such time as the rest of the top brass come up with a plan for our esteemed guests. Much as I hate agreeing with Gears, he does have a point in that we have no clue where we are and no backup in case things go south. Oh, and the Ark's crashed in an active volcano, nearly forgot that part. Case in point, we've got quite a bit of work to do."

"Sounds like it," Jazz agreed.

"We are probably going to die," Gears noted.

"Hush, you. Jazz - I took the liberty of assigning you a new alternate mode. Preliminary scans indicate that there's at least semi-intelligent life on this planet, and we'll likely need to use the SWORD protocol before this is over. I went with the one your technobiometrics seemed to prefer over the other options, the first choice your pod came up with. Hope you like it."

"Where's this medbay at - midships?" Jazz replied, grinning. "I'll have to try out the new wheels on the way to th' bridge. Thanks, doc!"

"Very well, but do be careful, Jazz. There's substantial - oh, SLAGGIT!"

"What's wrong?!" Jazz asked. His carefree demeanor disappeared in an instant when he saw the enormous C/R chamber power on. The viewing window lit up with several electric-blue flashes as its occupant was jolted back to life once more. The dim lighting elements in the medical bay flickered on and off as the ship's energy-starved systems diverted copious amounts of power to revive the large Decepticon warrior.

"These Pit-damned servos aren't what they used to be. Fragging corrosion on the wiring - I was distracted - couldn't work around it-"

"Don't worry about it now! Take Gears an' get outta Dodge! I'll contain this!"

Ratchet needed no further instruction and bailed out, all but scooping up the other Autobot as he left. The medbay door shut behind him with a dull noise of finality.

Suddenly, the cover on the C/R chamber flew open, causing dust to rain from the stalactite-caked ceiling. A large hand slammed down on the rim, denting it, followed by an enormous, heavily armored upper body still soaking wet with nanobot solution.

"THEY - LEFT - ME!" the Decepticon boomed with heavily-modulated fury. A spiked mace rose from the pod, dangling on a chain attached directly to the raider's wrist joint. "KILL THEM ALL - THEY'LL PAY FOR EVERYTHING THEY'VE DONE!"

The morningstar came crashing into the medical berth to Jazz's direct right, causing him to dodge accordingly. He thrust out his hand and was pleased to find that his subspace was still fully operational. His Crescent Blaster, with its wide Durasteel flak shield, slid neatly into his grip, right on cue.

"HEY, HEY, HEY, WATCH YOURSELF!" Ratchet's voice boomed from an intercom system on the wall. "There're still stasis-locked soldiers in there! Damage any of their pods enough, and we'll have slaughter on our servos!"

"Guess I'll have ta talk this guy down quickly, then," Jazz muttered, deflecting another strike. His opponent was already breathing heavily - probably that heavy-as-Pit armor just as much as the shock of waking up on the wrong side of the bed, he thought.

The Decepticon lunged out with a surprisingly quick, non-telegraphed punch with their off-arm that almost caught Jazz across the faceplate, then fired a rocket cluster from a shoulder-mounted launcher point-blank into the spot where Jazz had been standing only a moment before. The smell of cordite filled the cramped quarters of the medbay and a tinny alarm began to wail. "Kill you! Gotta - gotta find the others . . ."

With a light thump, Jazz hit the ground behind his adversary, having evaded the barrage by rolling over their head. "The 'others?' You talkin' about Megatron? The same dude who you were screamin' about ripping apart a click ago?"

SWISH! The Decepticon's mace swung over Jazz's head, a clumsy and relatively slow attack. It was nearly over. "They're the only ones . . . who gave me a CHANCE!"

One last stroke of the deadly weapon ended up lodged deep in the damaged deck. Immediately, Jazz kicked down, a flawless snap to the head that stunned his foe. Zipping up with a knee to the faceplate, he flipped over the Decepticon raider again, shot his grappling hook around a bar on the Decepticon's shoulder armor, jerked back their torso just enough to follow through and splay them on the ground, and finally planted a firm foot on the raider's weapon arm. He finished all of this off by summoning his thin, flexible, and very sharp Crescent Blade from subspace and leveled it at the Decepticon's neck.

"I don't want to hurt you. Let's just make that clear, ok?" Jazz supplicated. "If any of us Autobots wanted to do that, ya wouldn't have been revived. Believe me, Ratchet's one tough son-of-a-glitch, but he wouldn't've jus' left ya ta die."

The raider grunted, voice modulator filtering out any data other than the fact that something had been said.

"I believe we've gotten off on th' wrong pede," he continued. "Name's Jazz of Staxis. I wanna hear your side of the story. Mind turnin' that mod off so we can get ta know each otha better?"

"Negative," the other mech growled, still heavily modulated.

Jazz blew out a sharp exhale. "A'ight. Here, let me help ya up. We'll talk. Nothing more, I promise. Oh, an' you can put that big honkin' mace away. Ya don't need it."

"I can't," the Decepticon said, very deliberately. "It's grafted to my wrist joint." As they said this, the chain nevertheless slowly retracted, leaving its owner with nothing more than an extremely basic, clumsy-looking manipulator claw. They then began to get up on their own without accepting any kind of assistance from Jazz.

"Well, you can fight, at least. That speaks well to your character, even if I'm still dazed from the reboot. I've heard stories about you, Jazz of Staxis. You're a true warrior, and I'm honored to have been defeated by your hand." Though the raider's tone was begrudging, it was clear that their last statement was spoken with genuine respect. It also became clear to Jazz's practiced ear - even through the heavy distortion of the modulator - that the Decepticon was female.

"The honor's mine," he replied, clamping his Crescent Blaster to his back. "It was quite a fight, but, ah, goin' forward, let's move away from that a bit. Now, let's talk. Maybe we can both help each otha out, yeah?" He raised his hand non-threateningly, his sword held loosely and positioned away from the raider. "No tricks. I don't wanna pull nothin' over on ya. After you . . . woke up jus' now, ya seemed ta be in two minds about your whole situation with th' 'Cons."

The raider glanced side to side, as if afraid that someone might overhear her. It was a long time before she spoke. ". . . yes, perhaps. Truth be told, I've not spoken to anyone else about this, but it's something that's bothered me for a long time now."

She took a deep breath, seemingly making up her mind. "Speaking of honor, remembering progress of the past . . . I would like to defect from the Decepticon Empire. They no longer uphold the noble values they once did. Their ranks have become overrun with turncoats and heretics. They no longer make war with honor - and that is something by which I cannot abide."

Traitor. Look at them. They turn on the Cause at the very first chance they get. Lord Megatron must know about this.

You sure about that, Buzz? I mean, we're sort of betraying him right now, aren't we? Doing the same thing as the Crusader down there?

Oui, but we are doing it for a good reason, no? A selfless reason. We are undertaking a rescue mission against impossible odds, for the betterment of the Empire and its fighting-mechs. It is different than renouncing the Sigil at the first opportunity.

Боже мой. All of them are awake. This is impossible. Stasis pods must be activated by physical manipulation - how could this happen?

Freak accident, maybe? Like the one that woke up that handsome flyboy earlier?

Pfft, you think Skywarp's a looker, sis? Seriously?

. . . Shut up. At least he's funny every once in a while. Unlike you.

You got no chance with him, birdie, trust me. Besides, the mech's dumber than Frenzy is. No offense.

None taken. We should have killed these Autobots in their sleep.

Ayup. No kiddin'. Megs is losin' it.

Rumble! How could you say such a thing? He is our commander! Our Emperor! His word is law!

Meh, some laws are dumb. Just look at these chumps milling around right now if ya don't believe me.

Cat is out of bag now. Autobots are awake. Situation has changed. Finding Soundwave has become even more important now.

Yes. I agree. And killing the oppressors before they can regroup.

One step at a time, soldier. For now, let us begin. Here is plan . . .

History did seem to repeat itself. Maybe it didn't follow the exact timeline of events, maybe the repetition involved different characters, maybe it repeated itself in a way that spanned years rather than minutes. The towering figure standing in Ratchet's medbay only served to remind Jazz of that.

"OK, OK," the Autobot First Lieutenant said, exuding an air of complete calm even as the Decepticon in front of him clenched the brutish claw that became her morningstar, "you're in good servos now. It was just a misunderstandin' tha' 'Streaker, Cliff, an' Camshaft showed up. An overreaction. Ignore them."

"I'll fight them if they come near - I swear to Primus Below!" the raider warned.

"Try it, motherboard-fragger! I've got a few blades here with your name on them - literally! Look, it's written right here - 'Slagheap' and 'Scrap Pile!' Which one would you prefer?" a voice called from the hallway. It was Camshaft, of course - the other two were unlikely to attack, although anyone could see that Cliffjumper was all but trembling with the effort of holding himself back. Sunstreaker's expression was, of course, entirely unreadable behind his controlled posture and the facemask that obscured his flawless features.

Camshaft - a smaller, angrier, less disciplined reconnaissance operative - on the other hand, was being held back with middling success; the only thing keeping him from charging into the clinic and driving his katars through the Decepticon's throat being Windcharger, a young Outlier warrior from the very last days of the Senate.

"No one's fighting anyone," the Praxian in the doorway stated in a voice of absolute authority. "Windcharger, take these gentlemechs on a walk. Perhaps that will help them cool their afterburners a bit."

Camshaft stopped struggling, single eye blazing with hatred. "I'm not going ANYWHERE. I'll WAIT for this piece of garbage here. Thanks."

"Camshaft, go with Windcharger and the others. That is a direct order. Once we're done here, you're going to be the recipient of a very severe review, which I will personally oversee. You're relieved of duty for the solar cycle to take some time to ease your mind in whatever barracks we can dig out in short order. If you don't comply, I'll send someone by shortly to lock your subspace compartment until the review's over. Do I make myself clear?"

The recon agent's fingers twitched. "Very."

Waving his hand, the other mech spoke. "Then go. I'll notify your commanding officer."

"Who is that?" the Decepticon whispered to Jazz. It was almost a comical sight: the hulking raider with a mace for a hand leaning in so close to the smaller, much more fragile-looking Autobot with overtones of a shaky kind of respect.

Jazz smiled. "Tha's Prowl, our TIC. Thought it might be a good idea to get him down here."

"I know him," the Decepticon said in a respectful tone. "He's the former Prince of Praxus, is he not?"

"Ages an' ages ago, yeah. Another life, really. He used ta be a Decepticon, too, real early in the War. Good mech at 'is core. Watch yo'self, though - he can be kinda a sticky piston."

Prowl, for his part, didn't seem interested in demonstrating his infamous acerbity. He approached the Decepticon crisply, yet gracefully, and offered a formal bow.

"Bah weep gragnah weep ninny bong, my friend. Prowl - just Prowl, if you please - at your service."

"Conscript Landmine of the Old North Crusade, at yours, sire," the raider replied.

Prowl opened his mouth to respond but was beaten to the punch by his superior officer, who whistled. "Old North Crusade, huh? That's pretty recent. What was it, two lunar cycles ago? Ya didn't tell me that."

"Two and two-fifths of a lunar before we launched the Ark, yes," Prowl confirmed. "You're a New-built, then? Former C.O. Shellshock? That must have been hard for you. I only met him a few times. He was a difficult mech to be around, much less be under the command of."

The raider - Landmine - scoffed, which sounded odd with her voice modulation running. "I'm not three lunars old. I bounced around the Equatorial States - or, should I say, the ruins of the Equatorial States - for a while before they found me. The Autobots have been fed a Charger-scrap story about Shellshock. He and his team are . . . mostly . . . good people. It's the same old Functionist drabble against Outliers and military builds. They had no obligation to take me in, a lone, vagrant laborer from Luna-2, but they did. Shellshock fixed me up. He presented me with this upgrade. He trained me, fed me, and prepared me for combat for about six sol-cycles before recommending me with high honors to the Great Liberator himself. He made me a Crusader."

And then sold you off to be a foot soldier in Megatron's death-or-glory mission. After sending you through the Tri-Torus warzones with very little backup, Jazz thought to himself. Prowl, too, was fighting back a salty comment aimed at Shellshock and probably a good many old-time Senators too. His doorwings flicked agitatedly and his jaw was set as they did when his overdeveloped logic center hit an emotion-laden problem it couldn't solve impartially. Jazz wondered what his friend could feel with all that extra doorwing action and set his own to work.

Determined to not let the silence become too awkward, he tried for a winning smile. "Hey, look. I enjoyed the old Crusader comics as much as anyone back in the day. Still got an impressive collection in a secure location back home, to tell th' truth. I respect your . . . er, stepdaddy . . . for his ideals an' his courage ta say what needed sayin', even if I'm not on board with his means, 'kay? I think you'll find that a great many Autobots would agree with you on that topic. Oh, by th' way - is Deadheat really from Velocitron, or is that just a selling point o' th' stories? Sure as sin, no one can live there, right? That's gotta be a myth."

"Oh, there is a tale behind that claim, to be sure!" Landmine began, her four eyes flashing excitedly beneath her battle helm, which she still hadn't removed. She spoke about her experience in the legendary Decepticon unit of heroes and Outliers for some time. Jazz was only half listening as he upheld silent lines of communication with Prowl regarding the Decepticon in front of them and the situation at hand. He cc'ed Ironhide, the Ark's impromptu security officer, as the conversation went on.

"-but he'd rather not tell anyone," the raider finished. "Now, him and Firebreaker on the other hand? That is a steaming can of-"

"We'd . . . like to get down to business, if it's all the same to you," Prowl interrupted, bluntly ending the conversation. "There's much to do yet and much to discuss. No matter what happens from here on out, no matter where this conversation goes, you have a very long road to travel, and we will not tolerate any games. Believe me, Dame Landmine. I know exactly what I'm talking about. Now, you mentioned to my associate that you'd like to defect from the Decepticon Empire?"

Landmine's visor darkened. "I . . . as much as I hate myself for admitting my betrayal, yes. Looking back on my career, I was one of the lucky ones. You don't even know what those . . . er, the darker side of the Empire does to . . . people . . . like me."

"Pretty sure I do," Jazz muttered to himself.

"Even when you're a certified Raider under direct command of General Brawl and endorsed by one of the Warlords - Shellshock himself, of all people! - I don't know how most lower-rank mechs can stand it, let alone femmes like Astraea . . . or Thunderblast . . . or me . . ."

She trailed off into silence and stared at the broken stasis pod she'd wrecked upon her awakening. Neither mech in the room moved, disguising their profound disgust like the experts they were.

The abuse I've suffered - I'd taken to wearing this armor cycle after cycle; just so the weaker ones would think twice before messing with me."

Prowl's face remained impassive, but his eyes were filled with the kind of weariness only seen when a battle-hardened soldier sees himself reflected in the soul of another being. Jazz couldn't help but realize that their Decepticon guest began rubbing her right wrist, where the morningstar became her hand. Something tickled the edge of Jazz's awareness - a tingle so faint that a non-Praxian wouldn't have even registered it. Well, a half-Praxian, at least. A Half-Praxian with an enhanced sensory suite graded for Special Ops use.

"It . . . it wasn't all bad, not at first. It's why I willingly served the Cause for so long as one of the Crusaders. I truly believed we were fighting for freedom, and for a long while, we were. Now that I think of it, It's possible that Shellshock did his best to protect us, guarding his mechs and femmes from the festering rot in the Empire. He, for one, still believes in the Decepticons, I know that much. But as time went on, as we got closer to our goals, it became harder and harder for me to reconcile my faith in Primus with my faith in the Empire."

"Primus below and his Firstborn's Sword. That's rough, friend. I wish I could tell you that I know how it feels. I can't, but hey - chin up. Prowl's been inside for centuries - he probably can relate. For a while, he even reported directly to Megatron."

"Lieutenant Jazz is correct. And while I can't honestly speak to losing faith in Primus, I understand how easy it may have been to become disillusioned in the Decepticon cause - especially when observing the behavior of the Empire's highest-ranking representatives. That's what caused me to change my stripes." Prowl's neutral expression hardened significantly. "Praxus. It was the Siege of Praxus. I never imagined the Empire would go to such lengths . . . but the atrocities committed there by the officers in command proved me wrong."

Landmine shuddered - barely, but Jazz's hyper-alert doorwings read the movement inside the heavy armor. "Before I joined the Imperial Raiders, I thought the stories of how Megatron treated his officers were myths."

Prowl crossed his arms. "They're not. You should have been around when Starscream was still in his 'good' graces."

"He's mellowed out since then, I've heard. He's hardly even shot anyone since I got into the Raiders. But when someone does cross him, well . . . it's not gentle. At all."

Sliding to his feet, Jazz discreetly ensured his sword was ready for deployment. It was. "I'll leave you two to it. You've found common ground - see if ya can't talk conditions while I'm gone. 'Imma go get us all some Energon - tha' is, if the excavation teams have found any tha's still charged."

He left quickly and quietly, taking care to shut and lock the door behind him. The hallway was dark and warm, the way a volcanic cave made of insulated alien metal should be. The lights on the wall sconces were running at 8% power to save energy until a stable power source was established. Distant voices drifted down the hall from the general direction of the bridge.

Whirr . . . his doorwings adjusted as he made a big show of stretching. His HUD returned the very information he'd been dreading. He wasn't alone.

"Ravage o' Burthov. Decepticon master spy. I see you've brought your brothers along with you, huh? Little bit of family bonding time? Honestly, I thought you were Cliff at first. Wouldn't be the first time he pulled somethin' like this."

There was no response for nearly enough time that Jazz seriously considered getting his doorwings recalibrated. Then, a patch of shadow in front of him shimmered and solidified into the shape of a big cat.

"Well done, Autobot," Ravage's gravelly voice growled from Jazz's comm unit. "I see there is no sneaking up on you."

Jazz's sword telescoped out to its full length, aiming a needle-sharp point at a light fixture on the wall, which clicked in surprise and turned into Laserbeak.

"Can't Shift on me neither, bird girl," the Autobot continued. "An' Frenzy's crawlin' across the rafters, ready to hit me up with a couple dozen razor discs?"

He switched on a spotlight - a holdover from his new vehicle mode - and pointed it at the ceiling, where the blue-steel minibot was indeed holding position between two support arches.

"It was going to be an electro-dart, but fine," Frenzy grumbled.

"Y'all need ta work on your infiltration skills," the Autobot crowed. "Guess it's the Spec-Ops trainin', but I'm jus' a smidge outta your weight class! Ahh . . . I gotta say though, I'm feelin' a little outnumbered here! You're all, what, one one-half o' a mech all put together? I mean, I've faced worse odds befo', but seriously? Unfair."

"Yes, yes, the 'Oooh, Cassetticons are small!' joke we've all heard a billion times before!"

"Very original, darling."

"It does not matter," Ravage said shortly. "You are exception, Staxisian. Many cycles of training make one wise in ways of stealth. Your friends - will not all be so lucky."

Laserbeak squawked. "Besides, going by your math, this will be a 2v1 fight anyway."

"Yeah, what she said. Our favor, thick. You forgot a Cassetticon."

Jazz's eyes widened under his visor as a proximity alarm went off in his head. He whirled around, but too late - an explosion of metal feathers and the whine of turbines. A thick tail wrapped around his neck, lifting him into the air.

"Keep your filthy sword-point away from my sister, groundpounder," an erudite voice sneered. Jazz knew exactly who it was - Buzzsaw, Soundwave's Sculptor, one of the most elite spies in a unit of elite spies.

"They say that in jazz, you just . . . make things up as you go along," Buzzsaw said conversationally, but with an edge of cold malice to his digital voice. "That's just perfect. You know, sculpture is much the same as music in many ways. You take some raw materials, and whittle them away under your tools. You listen to the block of whatever-it-is you're playing with. Through trial and error, you discover exactly what it WANTS to be, buried underneath that boring grayish silver slab. I think you'll like this. It's just like you. I have a feeling that you're gonna make a be-A-UTIFUL statue!"

Wheeljack stumbled into the room accompanied by a blast of heat, which was stifled almost immediately by the rebooted temperature control of the Ark's server room. He was steaming, coils of vapor curling off his shoulders and the edges of his slightly toasted lab coat. Scrap. The coat, he thought, made a bold fashion statement.

The mechs that awaited him were slumped across the chairs and tables of the server room, lurking in the shadows to keep cool even as they helped themselves to the meager rations of Energon and oil the excavation teams had rounded up. Optimus Prime, on the other hand, was standing to allow his men the few flat, accommodating spaces that hadn't already been taken.

Grabbing a half-depleted cube from a tiny stack by the door, Wheeljack hung up his trusty wrench on a convenient hook and threw himself into a wall in a leaning position. "Ach . . . thanks for the help, guys. It was hot, heavy, an' dangerous, but th' bridge should be more o' less safe from further, eh, volcanic effects now."

"Plus, we got the power stabilized too," Overdrive, commander of the Omnibots, remarked. "I'd call that an honest cycle's work."

"Would've been easier if Gears hadn't lazed around in the medbay and actually helped out," Huffer, commander of the Constructibot Brigade, griped.

Trailbreaker threw back his third serving of Energon - regrettable, but the Defense strategist needed every drop to keep his fuel-inefficient form running - and waved his empty cube dismissively. "Now, now, friend, we've been over this. I'm sure Gears was only joking when he said that. Besides, he did pull all the scraps Wheeljack needed out from the hold, so it's not really like he sat by while we did all the work."

"Knowin' Gears, he's prolly helpin' Ratchet out as we speak - an' complainin' about it th' whole time, too," Ironhide continued.

"Yes, Shakar is most likely doing his part," Optimus Prime said, surreptitiously placing his half-full cube in the table next to Trailbreaker. "As a matter of fact, I'd be surprised if there was a single conscious spark on this ship who wasn't. Who wouldn't be giving these . . . events their all? Do not forget, Autobots - the sooner we get the Ark to speed, the better. Megatron's undoubtedly hiding somewhere nearby, waiting for the eruption to settle, so he can strike when we least expect it."

Ironhide grunted. "He knows where we are. We don't."

"Hold on, WE don't know where WE are? Or is it we don't know where THEY are? I'm getting confused messages here," the Constructobot Commander asked.

"In short, both," Optimus answered. "This excavation process, securing the bridge, even redirecting the flow of toxins and magma, all of it has kept us very busy. The eruption is making things rather difficult. I haven't had a chance to step outside yet, but Teletraan tells me it's quite an interesting world out there. The landscape, in particular, is utterly breathtaking."

"'Cept for the angry volcano, of course," Wheeljack and Huffer said simultaneously, then shared expressions of mild disgust.

Optimus's optics glinted. "Quite. We should send out a pair of reconnaissance operatives immediately. Speaking of which, where are those two? I must have commed them breems ago . . ."

"Trailbreaker, whatcha got there? Did Prime's message not go through?"

The defense specialist finished off his last cube and stood at attention. "That's a negative, Wheeljack sir. The message reached Hound and Camshaft, no problem. Thing is, they've been delayed. Knowing Camshaft-"

"What do you mean, 'knowing Camshaft?'" Overdrive, the recon officer's direct superior, asked.

". . . knowing Camshaft, he's probably screaming obscenities at the Decepticon Jazz's negotiating with in the medbay right now."

Overdrive considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "Fair enough."

"Not too smart," Ironhide snorted. "He shouldn't be taunting a 'Con who wants to parley. Common sense."

"I'll talk to Camshaft later today. Clearly, he's forgotten his training. I intend to change that."

Just then, a door on the opposite side of the server room spiraled open, admitting Hound and Cliffjumper. Both mechs saluted respectfully.

"At ease, brothers," Optimus said after returning the gesture. "Time is short and we cannot afford to beat around the bush - metaphorically speaking, of course. Literally speaking, however, that is exactly what we intend to do. As you know, Megatron and most of the elite battlegroup that assaulted the bridge during the raid have revived and left the immediate area sometime in the last two vorns."

"They can't've gotten far," Hound noted. "From what I've heard, only half of them can even fly in secondary config, and they must be discombobulated from the stasis. Megatron's a grounder himself, and he probably wouldn't allow the majority of his troops get too far away from him on a strange planet, right?"

"Exactly. You'll have to move quickly and quietly until reinforcements can be found. Cliffjumper, that means track-and-report mission only, do you understand?"

"I understand you sir," Cliffjumper agreed. "And I choose to ignore you," went unsaid.

"Our sole lead is this location. Wheeljack, if you would?"

The Chief Engineer peeled himself off the wall, produced a spherical device resembling a Sky Spy from one of the pockets on his coat, and whacked it with a wrench a couple of times. A holographic scene sputtered to life above it, displaying a concrete bunker set into the side of a good-sized hill.

"Sky Spy received this image before it returned to the Ark for a recharge," Wheeljack explained. "We believe it to be some kinda military installment for a branch of the planet's armed forces. It was the first thing in Teletraan's database when Optimus woke up. Several of the vehicles that were scanned for our new disguises were parked outside. It's possible - an' probable - that the 'Cons are hunkered up there, waitin' out the eruption."

"Plus, it just kinda looks like the sort of place Megatron would want to hang out at," Huffer, who had been studying the hologram, remarked. "Check it out, but keep your optics clear and your mind sharp."

Hound eyed the display with a seasoned optic for about three seconds, then nodded. "We'll need to get going. No telling what they're planning."

"You should be able to exit the Ark from the hangar on Deck Nine," Optimus called after him. "Try to avoid using the lifts - we've no idea if they're still operational."

"Copy that, sir. Come on, Cliff! Daylight's wasting!"

"Cliffjumper, wait." the Prime commanded. The Autobot in question hesitated for a moment, turning to Optimus.

"Sir?"

"I'm told that you were one of the mechs who showed up to 'neutralize' our Decepticon guest. I trust that Landmine's presence among us won't cause you to make any . . . rash decisions in the field?"

Cliffjumper, for his part, flashed a rakish grin. "Don't worry, Prime. I do get a bit heated sometimes, but I won't let anything put me off a mission. Trust me."

"Very well. You're dismissed," Optimus conceded after a piercing stare.

The silence in the server room continued for a moment or two, broken only by the whirr of machinery and cooling fans. "Ironhide, prepare a strike team as you see fit and prepare for battle to the best of your ability. I will join you and your chosen troops when Hound and Cliffjumper report back."

"You don't think Cliff can crack it, do you?" Overdrive asked cautiously, as if testing the thickness of ice with a tentative foot.

"I have faith that those two will find our enemies. I have . . . admittedly less faith that our resident archaeologist will keep his emotions in check once they do. Regardless, we must be ready. If we play our cards right, we may be able to stamp out the new ruling caste before they can return to Cybertron to expand and reinforce their empire, bolstered by the knowledge of this planet."

Huffer subconsciously played with a tiny ball-peen hammer, turning it over in his roughened hands. "Scrap. Cards. Don't know about you guys, but I always sucked at Triad."

Just then, Gears burst into the room, panting heavily. This was the second time someone had entered in this fashion today, the first being Ratchet, reporting about the situation in the medbay.

"Gears! You lazy son-of-a-sprocket, what are you doin' here now, of all times?!" Huffer exclaimed.

Wheeljack and Optimus stepped forward, being one of the three highest-ranking individuals in the server room. "What's wrong?" the latter mech asked worriedly. A horrible thought occurred to him, like the bottom being dropped out of his fuel tank, though he revealed nothing outwardly. Optimus Prime swallowed back the taste of bile in his mouth. "Have the negotiations gone south? Is Jazz . . ." he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Worse," Gears gasped, "The Decepticon's friends have come back to break her out."

The scene that met the impromptu battlegroup as they entered the medbay corridor wasn't pretty, but Jazz's pained grunts offered some reassurance - he wasn't dead, at the very least. Ratchet was leaning over the sterling Autobot, working tirelessly to stabilize Jazz's condition.

Optimus rushed to his SIC's side. He clenched his eyes shut once, visions of a bleeding Aerialbot of the same color as Jazz filling his mind, but he forced them back to a dark, cold corner of his mind. He couldn't afford to worry more on the subject at the moment. Like a good leader, he transformed his conscience into a businesslike mentality.

"Jazz - are you going to pull through?" His tone was even and calm, yet had a certain air of urgency.

The Autobot SIC coughed, pink Energon flecking his lips. "Swear ta Primus, don't anybody 'round here even know me? 'Course I'll make it! Took me by surprise, is all. There's only so much a mech can do when he's gettin' ganked by four whole sneaky Mini-droids, ain't there?"

"Which way did they go?" Ironhide inquired calmly, with steely conviction. His twin cannons spun menacingly.

"They're down th' hall, ducked inta th' maintenance shaft jus' befo' Camshaft an' 'Streaker came racin' in like cryptgliders outta the Pit. Shouldn't be too hard ta find."

"Why's that?"

Jazz grinned devilishly, a gruesome sight with his bloody mouth. "Why, 'cause one'a them took a Magma Frag shell straight to th' faceplate an' another one's tryin' ta spit the sword outta his throat. You better hurry up, though, 'cause some King-sized Decepticons are bound ta be knockin' down our door any click now."

"Camshaft, you say? I've got a bone to pick with him," Overdrive boomed as he joined the group, clanking past in his ornate Knight's Armor, a relic from his time governing Nyon. He obviously hadn't heard the whole conversation over his comms link and the sound of his armor. "MAXIMUM! OVERDRIVE!"

And with that, a rocket booster on the back of his armor opened up and fired, lightly cooking the faceplates of his compatriots with benzene-flavored vapor. The combat specialist hung left and plunged into the maintenance shaft, singing his city-state's national anthem in an incongruous tenor.

"Let's break 'em down," Huffer said, and followed, brandishing his twin nailguns. The others trickled out of the corridor too - including Optimus.

"Ooh! Get my sword if ya can, will ya? I'll be right down - jus' gotta get back on my pedes!" Jazz called after them.

Three levels above them, a Cassetticon, runty even for his size class, stopped in front of a C/R tank suspended above a blackened chasm.

Are you sure this is it?

The dim red glow from the lava far below merged with the shadows around the Cassetticons and reflected off of Rumble's similarly colored body, creating a rather sinister look. "You've got the same bond that I do."

Glitch stood on his hind legs, peering into the pod clinging onto the edge of a precipice overlooking the uppermost deck of the Ark; pockmarked with artillery craters and so coated with soot one could barely make out the glint of the ship's sparse Electrum plating.

It's a miracle he hasn't been lost to the volcano already, Glitch murmured. We've been asleep for such a long time . . .

Rumble scoffed, restraining himself from stomping his foot or punching a wall. He didn't like restraining himself. "Knock off th' Nightbeat slag an' let's get goin', or else th' Birds'll get taken apart! I wanna get outta here already!"

Rather uncharacteristic of you, wouldn't you say? the feline Cassetticon snarked, then blanched as his sibling shot a piercing glare his way. Yes, yes. I'll get right on it. Dear Onyx . . . it's not good, I'm afraid. Might be too much damage for even a stasis pod to fix . . .

A pang of fear touched Rumble. Glitch could feel it too, however momentarily, through their spark-bond. "But . . . he'll be OK though, won't he? Boss's too tough to just . . . fade away, right?"

I might be able to coax the pod to do things it normally wouldn't, the Medic said. He got up on two legs again and flexed his right paw, which transformed into a highly articulated hand with opposable thumbs and everything. Tiny touchpads on the fingertips glowed a soothing blue as they came online, and Glitch took a moment to acquaint himself with his new appendage.

. . . but I'll need time. Cover me - we can only hope Creator'll come through before the Autobots sense us.

Naturally, gunfire instantly erupted somewhere on a lower level. Close. Very close. A peculiar vehicle, like a forklift without a cabin, raced into the room. Lying prone across it was the limp body of Buzzsaw, spewing fluids all over the room. A sword was driven nearly all the way through his long, sinewy neck.

Buzzsaw's hurt! reported Laserbeak, somewhat unnecessarily. Did what I could in the field. Wasn't enough. Gotta go now!

Rumble swore. "Glitch! We've got a problem here, see?"

Glitch, for his part, felt as if he'd suddenly been torn in two. Grimacing, he slapped a button on the tank and bounded over to help his brother.

Attention all, Ravage's voice came over the Cassetticon frequency. Progress report. We are being overrun. Can not hold much longer - should we be calling the others or no? Come back ASAP.

The white tiger choked back a sob of panic - not from the stress of his medical operations, but from the sounds of angry Autobot voices coming out above the gunfire that was growing louder and closer by the second.

Tigertrack, we are losing ground. Progress report. Now, Ravage continued - calm, but very insistent.

Ahem, Glitch coughed, trying in vain to put the situation in the back of his mind. Under the circumstances, I think we should - yes. Alert Megatron. Tell him - tell him to send as many troops as possible. I'll take the blame for it. Again. I'm sorry for dragging you into this, all of you.

"I hope you know what you're doing, glitch-head," Rumble muttered. "We'll be lucky if any of us makes it outta here with our lives."

Glitch didn't respond - he was too busy, moving back and forth between the pod and Buzzsaw, trying frantically to stabilize both of their conditions. Of course they would survive - they had to. Because, suspended in green nanobot fluid that had just begun to swirl, burned and broken, clinging to the edge of life in his deep slumber, was Soundwave. And he was the key to the Decepticons' survival.