Ratchet watched Ironhide and Chromia dance in the clearing made for them, laughing, swaying to the music. The lights above them cast purple and blue beams across the floor,and they weaved between them, twirling in the glow. People were laughing, and conversing quietly, waiting for the song to end so they could join in. Drinks were being served to the guests by a pair of minibots with bowties; Ratchet snorted as Orion tripped over one and knocked the tray out of his hands.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," the archivist sputtered, sprawled on his back and propped up on his elbows as the minibot exploded into a fit of curses and slurs that would make Unicron blush. "I'm so sorry," Orion squeaked a final time. There was a thwack as the minibot brought the tray down onto his helm, before storming off in the direction of the bar.

Ratchet had to bury his laughter in his chest. "Are you alright?" He offered a servo.

"That was so scary," Orion took it, and rose back to his pedes, his optics still wide.

"He's going to spit in your drink before he brings it out." Ratchet received a horrified look. "Maybe, maybe not, he could've already forgotten about it." He shrugged, swallowing another laugh.

"I won't be forgetting this."

"You should've drop kicked that little bastard." Elita-One appeared at Orion's side, sipping from a glass. Her optics sparkled when she looked between them.

"She's right, you could've sent him to the nearest moon." Ratchet gestured to the ceiling, and Elita scoffed into her glass. Orion's shoulders seemed to slacken a bit, and he finally smiled.

"Oh, he's too nice for that. Look at him, you could spill hot oil on him and he'd apologize to you!" Ratchet frowned as a tall mech ambled over, bumping into Elita as he stumbled. His glass was empty. "Howdy, Library Boy." Almost as soon as it appeared, the archivist's smile vanished, and he vented.

"You must be from Ironhide's side." Elita muttered.

"Or wandered in from the street." Ratchet leaned closer to Orion to speak over the music. "Friend of yours?"

Orion didn't meet the mech's optics, instead turning to Ratchet. "He's visited the Iacon Hall of Relics during my hours."

"He's never been able to help me. Not a very useful clerk." The mech waved down one of the minibots and swiped up another glass. Ratchet took one too, watching the mech over the top of it as he sipped.

"We do not have what you are looking for," Orion protested.

"What kind of library doesn't have porn!" A mad gesture sent droplets of engex onto a nearby guest. The mech received glares he didn't notice.

"The kind that documents relics?" Elita shifted away and out of the splash zone.

She went unheard, or ignored. The mech took a long look at Ironhide and Chromia, tapping his pede to the music. "So 'Hide's the first in the group to tie the knot." He grinned at Elita and Orion. "So it'll be you two next, yeah?"

Ratchet's hold tightened on his glass, and he stared down into it. There was a nervous laugh from Elita. "Oh, I don't know."

"Come on, second place isn't bad. What are you doing, Library Boy? What are you waiting for? Someone else?"

The medic chewed on the inside of his cheek. He didn't want to be a part of this conversation. He didn't want to hear about how perfect they would be together, he'd heard it enough. There were a million excuses for him to step away right now, and he had a hard time choosing one.

When he looked up, Orion was staring at him, with those round optics that could melt him. He was caught, for a moment, he had completely forgotten his excuse.

"Really, Pax, you really think you can find anyone better than her?"

Ah. That was the one. "I'm going to see what they have to offer at that table, I believe I glimpsed rust-sticks earlier." He turned on his heel and slipped between the other guests. The song had finally faded out, and the dance floor was flooding with movement now that it was open to everyone.

"Ratchet?" Orion had called after him in a weak voice.

"Ratchet?"

He stopped, vision growing fuzzy. He swayed on his pedes, knocking into a table, but nobody seemed to notice. That wasn't Orion's voice.

"You in there, Doc?"

Frag.

"What do you want, Downpour?" He hissed as the floor began to spin beneath his pedes. His knees begged him to buckle. A gasp left him as a yellow eye, wide and dripping, snapped open right before him. He stumbled back.

"Still not very responsive. Do we want to cleanse his system?"

Alabaster spoke now. "Nah. Let him come around naturally. Can you give him something that'll make him talk a little more? Have him a bit more active? Maybe even cry?"

"Can you give him something that will make his life worth a scrap?" Ratchet snarked, closing his optics to escape the spinning. His servos scrabbled for something to hold onto.

"Mmm, I don't want to risk adding anything more, we've danced with overdose without leaving much room for Primus."

"Hey, do you guys think Megatron would like the name Storm Treader or Hawk more?"

Megatron?

Ratchet opened his optics, and he was standing over a box, his hand transformed into his blowtorch.

Pharma stood across from him, optics swimming with tears, his servos clenched into fists so tight that they shook.

This memory was alright. He didn't mind revisiting this.

The box was full of Pharma's letters. Ratchet glanced down at them, venting. "Pharma," he said softly. "Never again." He let the flame of his blowtorch touch the corner of the box, and it lit with a swell of orange light.

"YOU ARE A HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, ABSOLUTELY REPULSIVE SON OF A-"

Pharma's screeches echoed down the street. Several heads poked out of windows.


"Excuse me, I have a meeting with the council?"

Alabaster looked up from his computer, his digits still dancing across the keyboard. "And you are?" He regarded the mech on the other side of the desk, optics dull. His hands stilled as he drank in the majesty of the mech before him. He was huge, with spiked shoulders, a broad chest and an intensity in his red optics that could shatter glass. "N-Name?" Alabaster whispered.

"Pardon?"

"What is the name your meeting is scheduled under?" The white mech forced his shaky voice to rise.

"Megatron." The mech answered, glancing behind him. "And I've brought a friend, if that's alright."

"Oh… I don't think… If he isn't on the reservation…" Alabaster pretended to look at his screen, begging his spark to slow down.

"A sputtery receptionist, just like you." Megatron teased over his shoulder. The smaller mech appeared from behind him, frowning.

"I'm not a receptionist."

Alabaster collected himself with a long breath. "Look, I don't think I can let him in."

"Couldn't it be a little favor?" Megatron pressed. "Help a miner out. I'll buy you a drink later."

"Well…" Alabaster hid behind his screen again. "Okay. But if I get fired…"

"You won't. I'll vouch for you." Megatron waved as he made towards the door, his friend following with a nervous glance.

"You aren't allowed to bribe people here, this is the senate," the mech whispered.

"It's fine, Orion."

Megatron never intended to buy that drink for Alabaster, but he didn't much care.

When his shift ended that night, he went flying down the front steps, nearly missing his waiting friend. "Al, the hell is the matter with you." The black and orange mech waved.

"Whirlaround, I met the most interesting mech today." Alabaster spun back to face him. "Apparently, he's sort of famous? But I've never heard of him."

"Notice anything different about me?" Whirlaround pointed to his face. Fresh purple streaks ran down his cheeks.

"I looked him up… He's a genius, Round! He wants to completely redo what our senate has built, he wants to break down the corruption and the manipulation! Nobody's class will matter anymore, anyone can be anything! A receptionist…" The white mech breathed the night air in deeply. "A receptionist can be a leader."

"That sounds pretty cool… Know what else is pretty cool?" Whirlaround gestured to his face, posing under the streetlight.

"Whirlaround, I think he's going to rule this planet. I don't think he's going to stop at Prime, I don't think he'll ever stop. I want to be that, I want to be that so badly. I mean… to be unstoppable. Not just some receptionist, but to be at the head of something big, you know?" Alabaster stopped, staring at the stars, optics whirling. "Mark my words, Round. I'm going to work with him one day. Not for him, but with him."

"Do you even care?" Whirlaround pouted.

"The stripes look great. Walk home with me." Side by side, they moved under the street lights. "How did you afford the paintjob?"

"I just won't eat for a few days." Whirlaround shrugged. "It's worth it, I look like a fragging beast."

"Speaking of which, any luck taming that scraplet?"

"He keeps the apartment clean while I'm out."

Alabaster laughed, shoving him. "It does not!"

"Alright, he can't move a broom yet, but he went two hours without biting yesterday, sooooo… jokes on you, idiot."

"To be real with you, Round? I think you can do it."

Whirlaround seemed to glow under the praise.

Their apartment building was in shambles, dimly lit, cracked, leaning to one side. They lived across from one another on the second floor, where the floor groaned and the doors didn't fit correctly into the frames.

"See you in the morning, then?" Al wrestled with the handle to his apartment.

There was the sound of chomping behind Whirlaround's door, and he sighed. "Pray for me."

The floor down the hall groaned loudly. They both looked, curious.

A slender mech with an intricate paintjob of swirls was carrying a box towards them, unable to see over the top of it. His armor gleamed in the dim light; he was well polished. He tripped over a crack in the floor, and his belongings went flying. Alabaster watched datapads, vials and pill bottles scatter down the hallway. "Tough break, rich boy." Whirlaround laughed.

"What's a prissy snob like you doing here?" Alabaster snickered. He bent down and scooped up two datapads.

"Scrap," the mech whined as he began rounding up the pill bottles frantically.

Alabaster activated one of the datapads, and his mouth dropped open.

It was a ban from the hospital in Iacon. His optics darted back and forth across the screen, drinking in the formal letter- the accusations, the witnesses, the threat of the revocation of a medical license…

Thirteen patients driven to insanity from experimentation and meddling with drugs and medications. Two in comas. Dozens of forged prescriptions and stolen contraband. "You did all this?" Alabaster breathed. "You messed around with these patients? You experimented on them? You're a doctor?"

"Quiet, I make more in a day that you'll make in your entire life." The mech snapped. He was counting the bottles in his box. "Give that back to me."

"How did they not revoke your license?" Alabaster demanded. "Or arrest you?"

"Because I have pictures of the hospital CEO making regular trips to a trafficking house. He's been paying bots to do some gross scrap for decades." The mech stood, crossing his arms. "Anything else you want to know, you nosy frag?"

"You blackmailed a CEO?" Whirlaround snatched the datapad from Alabaster.

The white mech flicked on the second datapad. This one was much harder to understand. It was all scribbled notes and formulas, experiments. He recognized some of the drug names. "So… you're an addict."

"I've never taken anything, thank you very much." The mech hissed. "I'm an inventor. A scientist."

"So you're a drug dealer." Whirlaround scoffed. "That's so much better."

"I wouldn't expect the likes of you to understand my work. Now give me my stuff back."

"Actually," Alabaster looked up from the datapad, smiling. "I think we, out of everybody in this fragged up world, would understand ambition. You aren't just a drug dealer… You want to make something more, don't you?"

The mech stared at him.

"Your notes… These aren't just little experiments for some psycho to feed to a patient through a tube, these are…" Alabaster turned off the datapad and offered it to him. "Dare I say, plans to change the world?"

"What's your name, rich boy?" Whirlaround bared his fanged teeth in a grin.

"Downpour." The doctor responded stiffly. "And I'm not a rich mech anymore. I'm one of you now."


"Good morning, Loverbot."

Optimus gasped as cold water stung his plating, and he woke from his deep, exhausted sleep. The aches that rushed to meet him had decreased, somewhat. His wounds had been treated. He wondered how many painkillers had been put into his system to get him here. Even still, as he shifted, the familiar burn seared through him.

He was sitting in cool sand. Above them was a brilliant night sky, stretching on forever above a vast, empty desert. It would have been peaceful, if Alabaster wasn't standing over him. "How are you feeling, Big Stuff?"

Optimus' processor was still catching up, emerging above the fog of drowsiness. His wrists were cuffed together behind his back. When he flexed his digits, he brushed another hand, and he twisted to look over his shoulder. Once again, he was tied back to back with Ratchet. His spark sped up, and he opened his mouth.

"Not sure if he'll be able to hear you." Alabaster cut him off as he began to speak. "He's still riding the high."

"The transmission has been sent." Downpour said from behind a datapad. "Hopefully we'll get a response soon."

"It'd be shame if we dragged them out here just to be left on read." The white mech agreed with a small smile.

"Are we back on Earth?" Optimus asked, looking up at the moon.

"We never really left." Downpour grinned down at him. "You were never taken to a mystery planet with long days and a gladiator arena."

"What?" The Prime narrowed his optics.

"You were high out of your mind that whole time. Downy whipped up exactly what we wanted you to see. You still fought all those beasts, of course, but it was just in our largest cell, not in some fantastic arena. Beastie just kept letting them in, and we watched from the monitors." Alabaster beamed proudly, regarding Downpour with gleaming optics. "He's a genius, isn't he?"

It had been so vivid.

Optimus wondered what hallucinations Ratchet had been subjected to. "Why?" The Prime murmured.

"In just a bit." The white mech waved a hand dismissively. "Beast, you ready?" He uttered into his com, turning away.

"Sure am. I'm heading to you guys now."

Optimus had a lot of questions, but he didn't feel like talking right now. All he wanted to do was rest, to go back into the deep sleep he'd been lost in.

Ratchet's digits brushed his own, and he vented, glancing over his shoulder. "It's been an honor, Old Friend." He breathed. Whatever this was, he doubted they'd survive it. He didn't have much fight left in him to take on whatever was next.

The trio were conversing not far from them. Alabaster was glowing, gesturing with his servos and laughing. What could have been Alabaster's motive for bringing them here, why were Optimus and Ratchet taken? Everything had been so… personal. What did these mechs have against them?

And what maniac would ever want to hurt Ratchet?

"Oh, oh! Al, we've got a response!" Downpour suddenly yelped. He was staring down at a datapad. "They are coming!"

"Frag, okay, how do I look, capes, or no capes?" Alabaster began frantically brushing himself off and picking sand off of his cape.

"Definitely capes, we look incredible." The Beast King assured him, swatting his servos off of the cape. "Especially you. Red is absolutely your color. We are going to kick some aft."

They seemed to have rehearsed this. They stood in a row beside Optimus, regarding the open desert, squirming and murmuring in excitement, until a green light split the night just ahead of them. A bridge opened, and Optimus' spark sank.

"Second thought, Beastie probably should've taken off the crown." Downpour whispered.

"Frag off, the crown is who I am."

Megatron strode out onto the sand. Flanking him were Starscream and Airchanid. Behind them came Knock Out and four vehicons.

Optimus sucked in a long breath, brushing his fingers against Ratchet's once more.