"Shoot to kill," Scopeshot said calmly, raising his assault cannon to his shoulder and firing one shot each at the two other 'Bots half-hidden by the darkness of the training room.

Jazz, smooth as ever, dodged the blast aimed for him, and fell into a roll. The black and white Porsche gracefully tumbled as he whipped out his photon rifle and unloaded almost a full clip at his other opponents. Blaster cracked a cruel grin and vaulted off the walls to dodge Scopeshot's blast, then returned fire with an electroscrambler burst that paralyzed the steel-blue Autobot's left arm. It also imparted a kinetic blast that threw the robot's aim off for a second. Just enough time for Jazz's shots to catch him in the legs and drop him to the ground.

"A quick-draw you're not, Scopeshot," Blaster chuckled as he turned his attention to Jazz and the high-power photon rifle in the other warrior's hands.

"Maybe, but you've gotta deal with me, too." Jazz threw himself into a side jump and roll before splattering Blaster with a round of fire. Blaster reeled and sank to a knee as Jazz transformed into his infamous alternate mode and rammed the disoriented wiretapper clean in the chest, shattering the cassette lid and hurling the blocky Autobot back several meters.

Amidst flying shards of armor, Scopeshot painfully hauled himself to his feet and pointed his cannon one-handed at the tangled pair of 'Bots in the corner.

"You never did have the skills to deal with me," Jazz said with a grin as he transformed back and leveled a punch at the floored Blaster.

"Maybe, but you always underestimate me!" Scopeshot snapped as he fired a full-auto burst of fire. He neglected to account for recoil, however, and the cannon jerked out of his hand as the last shot in the burst loosened his grip ever so slightly.

"PRIMUS!" Jazz yelped as a bolt of plasma grazed his back and erased most traces of the windshield on his back. He ducked behind Blaster, which shielded him from most of the explosions, but did nothing for Blaster's condition or good health.

Jazz was hurt, mildly injured at best. Scopeshot was in deep trouble. The backblast smashed the luckless Autobot into the wall, denting both members of the collision.

"Yeah, and with good reason. Man, if you were any worse, I'd pawn you to the Decepticons just to get an easy win," Jazz quipped.

"And you're still missing your back, jack!" Blaster yelled, finally recovering from the first hit from Jazz. He doubled the Porsche over with a solid gut-crunching haymaker that left a sizable dent in the other's midsection. He followed up with an uppercut that smashed into the saboteur's visor, cracking the delicate optic cover and throwing him back into the wall. As the damaged but triumphant communicator stood over his damaged foe, he cracked his knuckles and prepared to deliver a coup de grace. Again from the far side, Scopeshot lunged out as best he could and tackled Blaster to the ground, which unfortunately meant a dogpile on Jazz. Amdist roars of anger and pain, the clash of metal on metal, and insults from the trio of brawling Autobots, the door opened. The three fighting Autobots suddenly became very quiet as Prowl, the Autobot second-in-command, stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and rifle clutched.

"Any of you three care to tell me why my supposedly best espionage team is giving a Three Stooges performance?" he muttered with a scowl. The three damaged combatants quickly untangled themselves and stood at loose attention.

"Pathetic." Prowl pointed the acid pellet rifle straight at Jazz's shattered optic visor. "Give me a good reason not to melt you down to your basic computing grid."

"You usually don't care to bother us, 'less Prime has a job that has to be done, or you do," Jazz replied in his usual upbeat tone, despite his injuries.

"Correct," Prowl said, stepping forward and backhanding Scopeshot across the face. The younger Autobot staggered away, face vents blinking dully as he mumbled something under his breath. Prowl looked back in his direction with a sharp glare, which shut the weapons specialist up fairly quickly. The black and white Datsun turned back to Jazz.

"You're lucky I felt like being nice to you. And let that be a reminder to all of you. If you screw up just this much," he threatened, indicating a space no more than six micrometers wide, "I'll have you sent to Ratchet and Perceptor for repairs."

Blaster now looked half-drunk, half-shocked at the mention of two of the most feared names in Transformer history. Scopeshot braced himself against a wall and wiped energon leaking from a shattered relay on his faceplate. The look in his eyes was that of a cornered animal. Only Jazz had the chutzpah - or insanity - to keep smiling at the armed Datsun. Prowl scowled and subspaced the gun away.

"Okay, you worthless slag piles, there is a job for you. Now listen to me, and listen well. . . ."

““What?!”” Scopeshot blurted. That earned him a glare and a near-miss shot from the acid pellet rifle that jumped from subspace into Prowl’’s hand. A curl of flash-burned propellant gas drifted from the gun, matching the angry scowl on Prowl’’s face.

““Never question my orders,”” he hissed in a deadly serious tone.

““Lemme get this straight. We’’re supposed to march into a Deceptidump in the middle of nowhere, scout it out, and haul back whatever we can find?”” Jazz said, his expression mildly confused.

““Yes. Do you care to question it?””

““Not at all. I like wastin’’ my time as much as the next guy.””

““Wasting time. One of the few undertakings that you actually are good at.””

““And I’’m the best,”” Jazz said with his big idiot's grin. Prowl briefly considered pointing the rifle into that grinning visage and popping off a shot, but his better judgement prevailed. He allowed his arm to drop down to his side and turned to pick up a disk. With calculated ease he tossed it to Jazz. Jazz looked like a dog that had just been shown a card trick. ““What’’s this for?””

““Direct orders to Ratchet and Perceptor to not mess with your internals when they patch you up. Get to the med bay. Now.””

Prowl’’s expression was dead serious. Jazz and Blaster looked confused for a second and walked out with Scopeshot in tow.

““Oh, and be glad,”” Prowl deadpanned. In unison, all three Autobots turned to look over their shoulders at the Datsun. He gave a humorless grin and cocked his head slightly. ““I’’m in a good mood. I wasn’’t planning on giving you a pardon.””

““Time to enter the mechalion’’s den,”” Jazz said, palming open the door to the med bay and taking a tentative step into the dark, grimy rescue-station-turned-torture-room.

““Ratchet? Ratch? Doc Crank? You in here?”” Jazz asked. He was a brave, arrogant mech but he was no idiot. Everyone knew that this was not a prime hour to visit Ratchet. There never was a prime hour to visit Ratchet.

From the darkness, something clattered and fell, and a large, boxy form detached itself from the desk in the corner. Ratchet detached himself from he clutter on his desk and lumbered over to the trio of Autobots. Team Omega wisely stayed out of arm’’s reach.

““What do you want?”” Ratchet growled angrily, fists clenching and unclenching as he stumbled over to the door. He made a futile grab for a brace and slumped against the wall. Jazz made a face and looked at the pile of empty energon cubes in the corner. He noted that there were several empty cubes that would have made nice swimming pools for those early-age humans. What did they call them? Children, that was it.

““Umm . . . Perceptor here?”” Jazz asked. At least Perceptor would listen to orders and could be counted on not to energize to excess. Ratchet looked back and peered into the dark corners of the med bay. Jazz looked between Blaster and Scopeshot, then made a little hand gesture that summed up all three’’s silent thoughts.

““Dear Primus, he’’s cooperating,”” Jazz whispered to his teammates. ““More drunk than a down-and-out Empty.””

““Per . . . Percep . . . Perceptuhhhh . . .”” Ratchet slurred as his inebriated processor gave way and he noisily passed out on the grungy med bay floor. The resounding crash of metal on metal was soon followed by a scream from the next room from a disturbingly familiar voice.

"AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!"

Scopeshot jumped, startled out of whatever he had been thinking about. He tripped over his own two feet and landed hard on his back, smashing his head against the wall. Blaster looked down and chuckled before being similarly surprised by another loud scream.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Jazz directed his questioning, if worried, gaze over towards the direction of the screams. A red microscope barrel poked around the corner, followed by its owner’’s head. Perceptor glanced at the three conscious Autobots and one unconscious medic at the door. His face was coolly dispassionate as he regarded the intruders in his dark domain. A wisp of smoke drifted off the bore of his microscope/solid-light cannon as he gauged Team Omega for a moment.

"I’’ll be a moment. Do wait," he said politely. The angular red Autobot disappeared back around the corner once more. Jazz, Blaster, and Scopeshot waited for another scream, but . . . nothing. Jazz shrugged, scraping some of the remnants of his windshield off his back with his shoulders.

"Is it who I think it is?"

"Red Alert, you know, just goes to show," Blaster said. He called up some information in a Head's-Up-Display and read the green text as it scrolled past his eyes. "Yeah, it's that paranoid masochist, all right; seems that someone got into the system last night. Made off with some blackballed news, now the poor ruster's payin' the dues.

Jazz gave Blaster with that knowing look. Blaster sneered a little bit and crossed his arms.

"I don't care if he gets the blame, just as long as I don't feel the pain."

Just then, Perceptor returned, wiping energon and oil off his hands and calmly tossing the dirty rag back in the direction he had come from.

"Now," he asked coolly, "why are you here?" He regarded the crumpled boxy form loosely called Ratchet and stepped over the inert mass of Transformer on the floor.

"A quick tune up and some dents pounded out," Jazz said, voice chipper. "Scopeshot needs a paint job, and Blaster here could do with a fix up."

Perceptor looked Jazz and Blaster over, with only a passing glance at Scopeshot. Jazz’’s visor was shattered and barely clung to his face. His armor looked a bit shabby, and the charred remnants of his windshield testified to the undeniable striking power (if not accuracy) behind Scopeshot’’s weaponry. The fist-shaped dent in his midsection spoke volumes about Blaster’’s haymaker punches. Despite all of the damage, he kept smirking insanely and even made a show of brushing soot off his arm.

"These boys play a little rough. Not much to worry about, Mechquis de Sade."

Scopeshot winced visibly. Jazz had a tendency to slap an endless amount of nicknames to others. Only Optimus Prime was safe from the Porsche’’s wit. The true problem lay in the fact that Perceptor could voice his reactions in unauthorized . . . alterations . . . to a robot’’s design. ‘‘Unconscious in med bay’’ was synonymous with ‘‘doomed’’ in most cases. Scopeshot did not want to go for repairs and find that Perceptor had worked some type of demented mechanical horror in the process.

Percptor raised an optic ridge and began to say something, but was cut off by Jazz.

"Whoa, hey, before you try anything, just take a read on this."

Jazz carelessly tossed the disk to Perceptor. The angular red Autobot looked through the information on the disk once and nodded. He wordlessly guided the three Team Omega Autobots to medical berths. Had any of the three Autobots bothered to read the data, they would have seen only this:

Let them live. Prowl.

For one of the few times in his life, Perceptor was unnerved. He had just finished replacing the cassette door on Blaster’’s chest and moved on the unconscious Scopeshot. Analytical optics looked over the most obvious injury on the young gunner: his facemask, cracked and split open along one side. Curiosity mildly piqued, Perceptor carefully cut away the mask and optic band with a laser scalpel. Rather than revealing an intricate array of vocal circuitry, something quite different showed itself. Momentarily disconcerted, he dropped the armored mask to the floor. The piece shattered on the floor as Perceptor started at the sight. He resisted the urge to talk to himself. He never spoke without someone able to hear him. Never, ever did he talk to himself. . . .

"That’’s why he hates you. And vice versa."

Scopeshot staggered out of the med bay, followed by Blaster and Jazz. All were in perfect condition, and there seemed to be no reason for them to act as awful as they felt. Their minds had been shut off for repairs, but one other sensory system had remained active. . . .

"Errrrgghh. . . .  Did Prime just run me over or what?" Jazz asked.

"No," Blaster said, hand over his optics. "Perceptor did."

Scopeshot groaned and rubbed the back of his head.

"Scrag it, I haven’’t felt this bad since-"

"-since you learned Ferraris can’’t fly last month," Jazz finished with a nasty grin.

"So he tried to prove that flies as badly as he drives?" Blaster asked, mirroring Jazz’’s beaming face. He hadn’’t been there for the accident.

"Kinda," Jazz said with a smirk. "He was out on his own and tried to corner a mountain road at 75. Railing didn’’t stand a chance. I found him with something that could loosely be called a hood attached to his front, and whatever we could call the roof was flattened. You seen a crushed beer can?" Jazz asked. Blaster nodded once. "Yeah, well, On-Speed Racer here looked like a gestalt-sized one." Blaster snickered as Scopeshot frowned behind his facemask.

"Yeah, Jazz just keep it up. I swear, by the Matrix, those names will get you scrapped one of these days." The young gunner silently thanked Primus for facemasks and sneered at Jazz behind it. He returned his attention back to the dark hallway. . . .

Just in time to have an ion-charge disperser rifle shoved between his optics. Scopeshot, along with the other two Team Omega ‘‘bots, stopped short as the thunderbolt rifle hovered before Scopeshot’’s face.

"Oh . . . it’’s you," the Transformer holding the rifle said uneasily. The form resolved into the shape of Bluestreak, slightly edgy and slowly lowering the gun from Scopeshot’’s face.

"Holy Primus, Blue, don’’t do that!" Scopeshot said, batting the barrel of the gun down.

"I –– I didn’’t mean to. I mean, Primus, you just stalked up out of nowhere, moving at a clip, and then your eyes did that bright red thing they always do when you’’re mad, and. . . .  Well, I guess they’’re always red. Well, yeah, I saw you walking first down the hall, and it was dark. I saw the red glow and I thought you were a Decep––"

Scopeshot roughly grabbed the other gunner by one of the twin missile launchers on his shoulders and slammed him into the wall. A sawed-off electron shotgun jumped from subspace into Scopeshot’’s other hand and positioned itself not a millimeter away from the surprised Datsun’’s mouth.

"Finish that next word, and I guarantee that you will be able to sympathize with Hound," Scopeshot said in a low, even tone. "Even think about finishing it, and your vocal circuitry will be evicted from your face."

Bluestreak stared drop-jawed. The other warrior’’s speed had surprised him, and the sawed-off piece was something new to him. His jaw clicked shut, and he nodded silently to the Ferrari that had him pinned to the wall like a giant metal butterfly. Scopeshot let the Datsun go and subspaced the gun away behind his back as he stepped back "Good." Scopeshot grinned behind his facemask and turned to leave. "I forgot to reload that thing anyway."

Jazz laughed out loud as Scopeshot led the way down the hall, chuckling to himself all the way. Looking back over his shoulder, Jazz was treated to the sight of Bluestreak repeatedly palmfacing himself. Jazz laughed all the louder, the hall picking up every echo and bouncing it around.

"Heh-hah! Scopes, nice work on Little Boy Blue. That was almost good. Tripped him out like nothin’’!"

"You get on Prowl’’s bad side enough," Blaster said, swaggering behind Jazz, "he had to have picked up something useful stuff."

Jazz and Blaster laughed at that, and watched as Scopeshot’’s facemask vents lit up again.

"Hey, ease off. We still got a mission to get to."

"Yeah, but now comes the horror. Part 2," Jazz said.

Blaster’’s closed his eyes and sighed.

"Not again."

"Yeah, I’’m afraid so. Time to visit Ground Zero."

Ground Zero was aptly named. The doors had been blown off their frames, several large holes manifested themselves in the walls, and the black scorch marks told innumerable tales. Jazz looked at the enormous gouge in the floor and wondered if Wheeljack was physically all there, so to speak.

"Wheeljack? Wheeljack?" Scopeshot called, peering into the room. Jazz poked his head in and grinned.

"He-llooooooo? Wheeljack? Exploding One? Autobomb?" Jazz grinned wildly. An explosion, bright green and blue rather than the normal shades of red, orange, and yellow, tore another hole in the wall. From the other side, Wheeljack’’s masked visage showed through, blackened with soot but intact.

"You three? Can’’t you come back later? I’’m having fun!" He complained, ‘‘ears’’ flashing erratically. Either that last blast had done something to their mechanisms or he’’d just never gotten them repaired since Team Omega had seen him last.

"We wouldn’’t usually come down here, seein's how we like not spontaneously explodin'. We need some restock before our next mission.

Wheeljack looked a little annoyed and walked around from behind his partitioned lab. His extreme state of scorched did nothing to bolster the three Autobots’’ confidence in their armorer. Team Omega, wary of any devices that looked like they exploded in a violent and extremely messy manner, walked in and stood in what little open space there was. Wheeljack happily gathered up an armful of clips and laid them out on the counter before the three Autobots.

"Take your pick," he said excitedly. Jazz looked over modified clips for his photon rifle, while Blaster stocked up on extra charges for his electroscrambler. Scopeshot, however, was mystified by the unusual ammo pack at the far right side of the group.

"Hey, Wheeljack, what’’s this?" Scopeshot said, holding up the weird-looking clip. Wheeljack’’s fins flashed wildly again.

"Oh, that one, yeah, yeah, you’’ll like that. Wait ‘‘til you see the gun that goes for."

Wheeljack laughed gleefully and retreated behind an intact partition. A moment later, he dashed back out with the most bizarre weapon Team Omega had ever seen. It looked like a tuning fork had bred with a rifle, and this was the result. It had a stock, grip, trigger, barrel, etc. like all normal guns. The two tines that ran the length of the barrel but just barely touched it connected to an extra bit of space near the stock. Scopeshot looked at the weird-looking gun as Wheeljack handed it to him.

"Wheeljack, what in the Pit is this . . . abomination?"

Wheeljack giggled maniacally and grabbed one of its ammo packs off the table.

"It’’s my newest invention. I think you’’ll like it. Here, go on, try it!"

Scopeshot looked uncertain.

"Your stuff has nearly killed me before. . . ."

"Hey, this time, I already tested it. It works!"

"Yeah? You shoot it."

Wheeljack looked offended for a second, then took the rifle from Scopeshot and loaded the odd-looking clip into the breech and chambered a round. Taking aim at an empty box, Wheeljack squeezed the trigger once. A single bullet leapt from the gun to the target, but an almost imperceptible wave followed it. The bullet punched a hole in the thin metal box and lodged in the wall behind it. The sonic shockwave that followed tore the flimsy metal box into shreds. Scopeshot, Jazz, and Blaster just stared.

"I call it the BSU gun. Ballistic/Shockwave-Ultrasonic."

Jazz shook his head. "Blow Stuff Up."

Scopeshot took the rifle from Wheeljack and chambered another round. With newfound appreciation for the weapon, he hefted it and set it to his shoulder.

"I think this will do nicely," he said, face vents blinking slowly. He flipped his arm behind his back and subspaced the gun. Giving Wheeljack an approving nod, he grabbed two more BSU ammo magazines and subspaced them, too. Jazz and Blaster were waiting at the door, waiting for Scopeshot to pick up his ammo and leave. The young gunner started to walk to the door, but stopped. Almost in afterthought, he unsubspaced a bulky hand weapon and tossed it to Wheeljack.

"Grenade launcher. Picked it up off a Decepticon last time. My half of the bargain."

Wheeljack smiled (or at least, Scopeshot so assumed) and giggled crazily as he disappeared behind a partition. Scopeshot walked past Jazz and Blaster, who followed him out.

"I never thought I’’d see the day this boy voluntarily gave up one of his trophies," Jazz said.

"Me either. Scope, you lost interest in your trophy case, or did I miss somethin’’ takin’’ place?"

"Heh. Like I’’d ever give that loco Lancia any of my trophies. He’’s got a de-mil mockup I made." Scopeshot whipped his arm out, and Shrapnel’’s high explosive launcher appeared in his hand. "This little gem is the real deal."

"Another good one, Scopes," Jazz said. "That’’s two in a day." He paused. "You feelin’’ okay?"

Blaster burst out laughing, and Scopeshot’’s optics lit up again. The three Autobots gabbed and generally wandered out of the Ark before long. As they left, Prowl stepped out of his office and watched as Team Omega exited the Ark.

"And this," he said quietly, "will prove your worth once and for all."

Jazz was having a relatively good day . . . for the most part. He stepped out of the Ark, into the cool of the Earth night, and looked over the devastated landscape with hardly a second thought. Blaster and Scopeshot were either arguing, joking, or doubledealing behind him. Jazz turned to them with his hands on his hips.

"So, should we start going or what?"

Blaster looked sour. "All right, all right, let’’s go, let’’s go. Let’’s finish the job and get on with the show."

Jazz, flashy as ever, dove into his transformation, arms and legs melding together to form the main body of his Porsche 935 Turbo alt mode, wheels appearing from his hood and windshield snapping into place. Even in this darkness, his paintjob stood out, catching the shards of moonlight and reflecting them about like a prism. The red and silver omega gleamed ominously on his passenger side door, replacing the normal racing number there.

Blaster jumped into the air and transformed, arms and head folding back as his legs folded up to form his speakers. He angled his descent perfectly to drop onto Jazz’’s dashboard through the open side window. Jazz started driving away, leaving Scopeshot in a cloud of dust. The gunner took a running start, and dropped into his transformation, legs telescoping into his hood as his feet folded away and his arms pulled into his body, trunk flipping back from behind him to lock over his head. Gunning his engine, Scopeshot split the silence as he blasted off after his teammates.

"I wanna listen to some hard-hittin’’ rock, not this alternative schlock," Blaster groused as Jazz started pumping out tunes from his stereo.

"It’’s not alternative. Geez, man, know your bands.””"

"I don’’t wanna listen to any of that, this scraggin’’ band was named after the cat!"

"She named herself after them. Primus, you can be thick sometimes. . . ."

Scopeshot sighed to himself. Every time, same old, same old. Primus, they can’’t even agree on music.

"Hey! I’’m the radio, you know. I’’ve got the power to crank out the heat, and you can just deal with this hi-fi feat!"

With that, Blaster lived up to his name and pounded out music so loud that Jazz’’s entire frame started to throb with each beat. Scowling, Jazz responded with his own tunes, trying to overpower the communicator on his dashboard. Scopeshot sighed again and pulled away from his comrades and, in the relative quiet, opened up an old CD in his CD-exchanger that he hadn’’t thought about in a while.

One of the few things I can thank Blaster for. He may talk crap, but he knows how to burn one Pit of a CD. Popping the disc into his CD feed, he slowly cranked up the opening song. As the opening percussion gave way to lyrics, he started singing along and let his mind wander.

"Revvin’’ up your engines,

Listen to her howl and roar. . . . Metal under tension,

Beggin’’ you to touch and go. . . ."

The moon was just above the horizon as Scopeshot and Jazz pulled up to a hill overlooking their objective. For now, Jazz and Blaster had kindly stopped yelling over music, and focused on the half-completed outpost below.

"Doesn’’t look like much to me, but then again, what’’s there to see?" Blaster mused. Blaster transformed off Jazz’’s console, and stared down into the valley below. Jazz transformed and did the same.

"I don’’t know what’’s down there really, but I guess we’’ve gotta check it out. Prowl said there shouldn’’t be that many of them. . . ."

"Like it matters that much," Scopeshot said, reverting to robot mode and walking next to them. "We’’re only scouts, and I doubt we can haul much away. Or maybe call in Hoist and Grapple to ‘‘commandeer’’ it."

"It don’’t matter. Not like we leave much when we're done anyway. Let’’s move."

Jazz pulled out his rifle, and Blaster had his electroscrambler ready for a fight. Scopeshot whipped out the BSU gun. Jazz sighed.

"Ohh, Primus. . . ." He shook his head and put his hand over his optic visor.

"What?" Scopeshot asked. Blaster snickered and started wandering towards the base below.

The side of the base was suspiciously easy to get to. The doors were not even camouflaged, and no guards or autoguns had shown up. Yet.

"I don’’t like this," Scopeshot said, covering for Jazz and Blaster, who were trying to pick the locks.

"Right now, I don’’t really care that much," Jazz grunted, trying –– unsuccessfully –– to open the door by virtue of the keypad near it. A tangle of wires spilled out, and Jazz was splicing one after another to trigger the lock. Muttered curses at various intervals told of varying success. So far, they had managed to get the keypad’’s backlight and its pleasant-sounding welcoming voice to work.

"Welcome and enter. Welcome and enter. Welcome and enter. Welcome and enter. . . ."

Blaster growled and forcibly introduced his fist to the speaker above the keypad. It sparked and imploded as the door hissed open. Jazz looked up at the other Omega. Blaster simply shrugged.

"That stupid thing was pissin’’ me off, so I had to do something to make it stop."

"Sometimes unsubtle works," Jazz quipped as he stood up and walked inside. Blaster and Scopeshot followed him inside. As they wandered down the hall, a voice chattered in vastness of the hallway.

"Okay, okay, um, uh, i-if I take the remainder of the carbon and, um, mix it with, um, titanium, and, err, have Hook and Scrapper t-take a look at it . . ." the Transformer said.

Team Omega bolted for the nearest darkened hallway. Mixmaster talked to himself as he went, making calculations and planning out a course of action, all the while unaware of the six gray hands that reached out from the darkness next to him and yanked him from sight.

In the little side hallway, Mixmaster collided violently with a wall. He could feel the barrel of a gun resting on his chest, and another one gleamed in the darkness before his optics. A powerful grip pinned his arms to the wall.

"Auto-Auto-Autobots!" the terrified chemist yelped. The gun before his face tapped him between the eyes.

"Better not say much more or much louder, otherwise you won’’t be around much longer."

Jazz stepped forward into what little light there was in the side hallway. As he moved from the shadow, a dark blue form showed in the light, pressing the BSU gun to Mixmaster’’s chest. Scopeshot’’s mask vents lit up ever so slightly, illuminating his face.Blaster grinned cruelly from the darkness, and shoved Mixmaster back into the wall. A certain menacing detail showed on all three’’s forms, perfectly visible, even in these conditions.

"T-T-Team Om-Omeg-Omega!" he yelped again.

"Good, you know who we are," Scopeshot said evenly.

"Now, tell us . . . what you Decepticrumbs been building this place for?" Jazz asked, rifle still hovering before Mixmaster’’s optics. The scientist fidgeted.

"I-I-I won’’t t-t-tell you anything!"

"Let’’s try that again," Jazz said. The photon rifle blew a significant hole in the Constructicon’’s foot. "What’’s this place for?"

Amid much muffled swearing, hisses through gritted teeth holding back pain, and hopping around on one foot while holding the other, Mixmaster continued to refuse to divulge any information. Jazz shook his head and gave Blaster a nod.

"Too bad," the Porsche said. Blaster grinned as he cracked his knuckles and promptly shattered Mixmaster’’s optics. Grabbing the disoriented chemist by the back of the head, he pulled down violently as he brought his knee up. Somewhere between those two actions Mixmaster’’s face imploded, and the Constructicon slumped to the ground. Scopeshot and Jazz dragged the inert Transformer further into the darkness. Jazz stepped out, but Scopeshot didn’’t. The black and white saboteur looked confused for a second, and turned around.

"Scope, what're you doing?"

In response, a flicker of light from a cutting torch awoke in the darkness, lighting up Scopeshot holding Mixmaster by remains of his face. Jazz and Blaster watched in fascination as the cutting torch in place of Scopeshot’’s hand neatly traced the outline of the missile launcher––acid sprayer on Mixmaster’’s head. With a sudden tug, the entire assembly came away, scalping the Constructicon. Scopeshot walked out, torch still active, the Decepticon’’s formerly head-mounted missile launcher swinging from his hand. With barely a glance, the torch and Scopeshot’’s ‘‘prize’’ disappeared into subspace, replaced with his other hand and the BSU gun. Jazz and Blaster just stared in wonder. Scopeshot’’s optics burned an even red.

"He’’ll live. If he has any luck."

Jazz, Blaster, and Scopeshot wandered further down the hall.

"Scope, I thought you collected guns, not scalps."

"What is that pathetic little laser pistol of his worth to me? I went for a better prize."

"Helluva prize."

"Relax. Once I’’m done you won’’t recognize it."

Don’’t ask, Jazz reminded himself. Just don’’t ask.

"What in the Pit you plannin’’ to do, or do I wish I never knew?" Blaster asked. Jazz frowned.

"You’’ll see. You’’ll see." Scopeshot smiled disturbingly from behind the mask. With that, Jazz decided he didn’’t want to know any more, and wandered further up into the hall. . . .

Jazz pressed his back to the wall and motioned for Blaster and Scopeshot to be quiet. Edging up to the corner of the wall, he heard the hiss and clatter of construction . . . or more accurately, Constructicons.

"Come on everyone, hurry up. We need to finish the south wall by tonight," a slightly bossy voice said.

"Oh, who'd listen to an uncharismatic bore like you?" another Constructicon said.

"You should," said a third. "This is no time for slacking, Hook. Just finish the job and stay on schedule."

"Why am I taking orders from a leg and an arm?" Hook muttered in an obvious stage whisper.

"I heard that," Scrapper said, a frown in his voice. "Finish the job and then we can take a break."

His voice started to fade, and footsteps indicated that he was walking away, perhaps out of the room that the others were working in.

"Good. I had to tape today's episode . . . thanks bunches, Scav."

"You and your TV. I'm amazed that show is still on, considering the occupation forces in place."

"Don't be so politically correct. Call them what they are. Autobot bastards. One of these days, we'll beat them back."

"I just hope we'll be around to see it."

Jazz turned back to his teammates, expression neutral, save the slight smile on his face.

"So, do we make them shut up, or do we blow this place to kingdom come and not warn them about it?"

"Let's just silence the rest of them. They're just construction workers, right?" Scopeshot said, chambering a shell into the BSU.

"Well, only those six should be working here . . ." Jazz said, holding his photon rifle to his chest in preparation for the coming assault. He took one step out. . . .

And stopped dead in his tracks as a certain loud, rumbling voice boomed into the hall. Anyone could have heard the obvious fear and worry in its tone.

"Someone help me!" Bonecrusher yelled over the sound of metal dragging on metal.

"What's the-" Scavenger started. He abruptly dropped to a whisper. "Oh, sweet Primus. . . ." Something fell to the floor, and the sound of two running Transformers followed.

"Oh, Primus" Hook breathed. "It's . . . Mixmaster. . . .   Sweet Primus, what happened to him?"

"SCRAPPER!" Scavenger yelled into his comm.

"Aw, damn it," Jazz swore. "No choice. We've gotta finish 'em now!"

Jazz, Scopeshot, and Blaster charged around the corner, guns ready.

"Autobots!" Bonecrusher yelled, pulling his gun out of subspace. As the lasers started to split the air, the three marauding Autobots lunged forward.

Hook looked up and found himself immediately trampled by three rampaging Autobots hell-bent on wrecking the place. He might have gotten up. He might have opened fire. He might . . . if Blaster, Scopeshot, and Jazz had not stomped his face into ruin and brought Scrapper racing back around the corner.

Blaster raised his electroscrambler in anticipation of disabling someone, then handing them a sound case of buttwhup. Bonecrusher's aim, however, held, and Blaster found his gun shot clean from his hand. The electroscrambler pinwheeled end-on-end and clattered some distance away. Blaster gave it half a glance before turning and lunging at the Constructicon.

"And now, let the fun begin, 'cause you've sown thunder to reap the whirlwind!" Blaster chimed, and doubled Bonecrusher over with a knee to the abdomen. Clenching his fists together, he slammed a hit square on the Constructicon's back. Reeling away, Bonecrusher steadied himself and tried to throw an awkward punch at his foe's face. Grinning, Blaster grabbed the Constructicon's forearm and, with a simple twist, locked it to the limits of rotation. Turning his back to the Decepticon, Blaster pulled down with all his weight and sent Bonecrusher sailing into a pile of debris.

Bonecrusher's found himself flying through the air without the benefit of his robot-mode flying abilities. Landing solidly on the pile, he felt an explosion of pain in his left chest and felt the world swirl before his optics. Amid the haze of pain he saw a steel I-beam, smooth and flawless, jutting up from a horrible rent in the side of his chest, smeared with energon and small bits of circuits. He screamed as he fumbled helplessly trying to remove the beam spiked through his chest to no avail. He was aware of a painful pressure on the beam and saw a red boom-box leaning casually on the beam with a twisted grin on his face. Moments before he passed out from energon loss, Bonecrusher distinctly heard Blaster laughing and pounding out music in the glow of his latest victory. . . .

Meanwhile, Jazz found himself in a no-holds-barred sparring match with Scrapper. Not that it was much of a match at all, but Jazz still liked to think of himself as a fair warrior, so he refrained from blowing off Scrapper's legs with his first shot. Rather, he fired at non-lethal target areas, such as Scrapper's feet, hands, and the large earthmoving bucket on his back. Jazz found himself amused at the fact that every time the Decepticon ducked behind cover it left the bucket so beautifully exposed.

"Scrapper, I thought you were the brilliant one," Jazz called out after scorching another patch of armor off Scrapper's back.

"Son of a slag smelter!" Scrapper snarled, painfully transforming and plowing straight through his cover in an attempt to reach Jazz in the short amount of time possible.

"Oh, scrag," Jazz noted quietly as he leapt out of the way. Or tried to, at least. A moment later, Jazz found himself quite unwillingly introduced a wall and the room beyond. . . .

Scopeshot, meanwhile, was having fun raising ten kinds of merry hell for Scavenger. Aside from shooting the Decepticon, who was currently running serpentine, Scopeshot had been taking potshots at blueprints, supplies, tools, and any exposed wiring on the walls with seemingly unusual accuracy. Standing still, he was a far better shot than scuttlebutt at the Ark suggested.

"Hold still. You have some loose armor on your shovel," Scopeshot said calmly, completely unfazed as he loosed shot after shot at the running Decepticon. The shots missed Scavenger but tore a stack of datapads to shreds.

"Stop that! You're ruining everything! All this work!" Scavenger screeched, reaching a pitch at the upper limit of his vocalizer's ability to reach.

"No slag, Sherlock." Scopeshot continued to 'miss' Scavenger, and the glint in his optics suggested that, to him, aggravating the hell out of his target was far more fun than trying to kill him. The BSU tore holes in everything but Scavenger. Scavenger's optics burned in anger, and Scopeshot could not help but laugh.

"Run, run, as fast as you can, you'll never escape, for your hour's at hand."

Scavenger was, admittedly, beyond pissed right now. There were only three things in the universe that actually managed to anger him: untidiness, sloth, and people trying to kill him. Unfortunately for him, all three had happened in the last five minutes, and now, Scopeshot's antics were the proverbial bolt that broke the loadlifter's frame. He whipped out his laser and fired three shots that hit Scopeshot solidly in the chest. The Autobot took one step back and looked down at the trio of blast marks on his chest.

"You have a death wish, don't you?" Scopeshot asked, his voice dangerous-low. The mask vents flashed in a slow, rhythmic manner, like a human heartbeat. Scavenger's optics blinked once, and in that fraction of time, he felt his left leg explode. Scavenger's optics reopened, and he did not like what he saw.

Scopeshot stood over the wounded Scavenger and ground his foot into the wounded Decepticon's chest. The BSU hovered a few feet away from Scavenger's head.

"Bang bang, you're dead," Scopeshot said, grinning behind his mask.

Scavenger looked sour. "You believe you've won. You always do."

"Who's got the gun?" Scopeshot said. Scavenger smiled and Scopeshot's mental alarm went off.

"Hey, Blaster, Jazz. Do you get the feeling-" Scopeshot's query was cut short as the sound of multiple doors opening overpowered Blaster's music. Scopeshot looked over his shoulder and utterly and completely froze.

"That you've been had?" Onslaught asked as he stepped out of the walls. From all around them, Combaticons, Seekers, and the Reflector trio emerged from the surrounding walls and pointed multiple weapons at Scopeshot and Blaster.

Blaster's music abruptly and mercifully stopped, and the sound of rounds chambering and lasers charging echoed throughout the room. Blaster eyed his gun, judged the distance, and saw Spectro, Spyglass, and Viewfinder all point lasers in his general direction. The Reflector trio all wore the same expression of harsh restraint.

"Don't even try," they chimed in triplicate.

Blaster scowled and stepped back. "This can't be right, we won the fight. . . ."

Scopeshot stood frozen in place, optics darting from one Decepticon to the next.

"Put down the weapon," Onslaught ordered, shouldering the sonic stun gun. Scopeshot just stood, optics shifting from Decepticon to Decepticon at blurring speed.

Onslaught, Combaticon leader. Heavily armed. Moderately heavy armor. Heavy missile launcher on back possible capture.

Brawl, Combaticon ground assault. Heavy armor. Heavy weaponry. Turret on back possible capture.

Swindle, Combaticon munitions expert. Moderately armed. Medium armor. Scatterblaster on right arm possible capture.

Vortex, Combaticon interrogator. Lightly armed. Light armor. Arm blasters possible capture.

Blast Off, Combaticon space warrior. Moderately armed. Medium armor. X-ray lasers on legs possible capture. . . .

Scopeshot heard nothing as he tried to process so many potential targets with varying priorities in such a short time. As more Decepticons started to flank the blue Autobot, his optics flew even faster. Blue sparks arced from his 'ears' and the vents on his face. The BSU dropped from twitching fingers as Scopeshot spasmed violently before noisily collapsing in a heap of inert Transformer.

A single sharp CLANG rang out in the empty room. In unison, all the Decepticons in the room turned to look at the source of the sound.

Blaster groaned and kept his palm on his face.

Jazz groaned and climbed out from underneath the pile of wall that had recently tried to take over for the floor. He pulled himself up and out, managing to extract himself with little noise. Looking his scuffed, battered form over once, he regarded the motionless green earthmover half-buried by the rubble.

"Bad to worse," Jazz said, giving the Decepticon's side a kick. The green mess groaned and Jazz saw the form start to shift. Planting his foot on Scrapper's back, Jazz leaned on his knee and looked down.

"Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast, Scrapheap. I'm going to keep on your back until you tell me what I want to know."

"Unlikely, Autobot," a voice said quietly. Jazz looked over his shoulder and saw a medium sized robot, matte black and silver, standing in the 'doorway' Scrapper had made. Jazz looked at the Decepticon, blinked, and looked again.

"Hound?"

In that moment, the air between the two robots blurred, and Jazz found himself painfully thrown to the floor by a battering ram. He looked over to the Decepticon, who was holding his hand out ever so slightly and gesturing lightly in Jazz's direction.

"What do you think you are, man, a Jedi Knight?" Jazz asked with a grin, getting to his feet.

"No," Jackal said, waving his hand in Jazz's direction again. A giant sledgehammer materialized from nowhere and slammed into Jazz's chest, throwing him back to the ground. It hovered over him and threatened to force his head into his chest without the virtue of transforming first.

"A hologram may be a light trick, but this is one trick that packs a punch."

"Yeah, but you've just got light. I've got light and sound!" Jazz crowed, opening up his hip-mounted speakers and strobe headlights. The disorienting blast of visual and audio overload caught Jackal off guard, and Jazz lunged for a tackle.

Jackal staggered out, and his mind came to the conclusion that the best way to block the noise and light would be a wall of some sort. He willed a solid hologram wall to appear, and it did, cutting him off from the light and reducing the sound to tolerable levels.

Unfortunately, Jazz had intended to reach Jackal with no interruptions. It seemed like that was not going to happen.

"Oh, slag," Jazz muttered quietly a moment before he slammed headfirst into the wall that suddenly threw itself in front of him.

Onslaught and his Combaticon teammates ran over to the source of the loud, dazzling distraction and saw Jackal rubbing his optics. He looked at the other mech with some concern.

"Jackal, are you okay?"

"Functional, sir, functional. My audios are killing me, so please speak a little quieter."

"Sorry," Onslaught said, lowering his voice. "You have the third one captured?"

"Luck more than anything else," he said. "He hit the holowall I put up to block his noise and off-lined."

"Half of combat's skill. The other half's luck."

"Lovely platitude, sir, but I need a recharge after playing with so many holograms."

"Right. Brawl, take Jazz to the holding cell. Vortex, Blast Off, get that heap of spastic Autobot to the cell as well. Swindle, kindly escort Blaster with them."

"Yes sir," the four smaller Combaticons said in unison, moving to their assigned tasks. Brawl hauled Jazz to his feet, the Autobot saboteur still out cold. With great delicacy, Brawl locked Jazz's arms in a simple rotation lock, guaranteeing that the Autobot could not move his arms if he reactivated on the way to the cell.

"Stay deactivated, Jazz. I would hate to have to damage you," Brawl said quietly to the inert Porsche. With some effort, Brawl started to half-drag, half-carry Jazz to the depths of the base.

Vortex and Blast off looked at the pile of Scopeshot on the ground. Blast Off scratched his head and regarded his teammate with a questioning look.

"How are we going to move him?"

"Pick him up and carry him, I guess," Vortex said simply. Kneeling down, Vortex grabbed one of the unconscious gunner's arms and lifted. Blast Off mimicked his partner's move and soon they had the passed-out Scopeshot moving down the hall at a rapid clip.

Swindle pointed his scatterblaster at the back of Blaster's head and tapped him on the shoulder with his gyro-gun.

"Come on, let's go. I've got business to attend to."

"Shove it in your tailpipe, creep. You ain't gettin' me to move my feet."

"Come on, move . . . or I'll have to introduce you to another type of blaster."

Blaster looked back and didn't seem to give the scatterblaster pointed at his head any notice.

"You all always act alike, putting up a bluff to prevent a fight."

"Better than blowing your head off at first sight."

Blaster scowled and started walking.

Jazz's optics relit, and he realized that he had one heck of a headache. No, he had the be-all end-all of headaches. He'd been hit in the head lots of times before. Kicked, shot, punched, thrown, you name it.

Now, getting the smack down laid on you by a hologram, that's embarrassing, Jazz thought. He tried to move but found his arms pinioned to his back and his feet about a foot off the floor. The green Decepticon moving him seemed vaguely familiar.

"But recognition's the last thing I need," he mumbled. The mech that currently had Jazz slung like a rolled-up carpet over his shoulder turned his head and looked at his captive.

"You're active. Great. Just cooperate, and I won't have to hurt you."

"Brawl?"

"Yeah, it is."

"I don't suppose I could ask for you to let me go, could you?"

"Sorry, no." A door hissed open, and Jazz found himself on a steel bench not a moment later.

"The less trouble you cause, the better," Brawl said as he held the door open for Swindle to force Blaster in. Blaster glowered at the two Combaticons, and his expression grew even angrier at the sight of Vortex and Blast Off dragging an inert Scopeshot into the cell. Blaster appeared downright enraged when the door closed with a clang and a purple force field highlighted its edges.

"This should keep them out of our way for a while," Blast Off said, dusting his hands.

"What now?" asked Brawl.

"Leave 'em until we know what to do with 'em," Swindle said with a shrug. "For now, though, I want to check out this weird gun that blue one dropped."

"What's it do?" Brawl asked. Swindle gave him a skeptical, slightly amused look, and Vortex could not help but chuckle. Blast Off sighed.

"It shoots things and makes them blow up, last I checked," Swindle said with a smirk.

Brawl looked indignant. "I know that!" he snapped, barely heard over his friends' laughing. Their loud guffaws drifted away down the hall and left three Autobots alone in the depths of the base.

Blaster sat on the bench, his expression obviously hostile, and glancing between Jazz sitting across from him and Scopeshot passed out on the floor.

Maybe I should leave 'em and go and nobody'd ever have to know. Blaster thought, a hint of a smile crossing his face. The small grin quickly faded as he considered the consequences. But puttin' me in the leader spot . . . maybe that wouldn't be so hot. I'd have to give up the info biz, and we know how profitable that stuff is.

Now, who to help, Scope or Jazz? Nah, better not risk another spazz. . . .

Blaster got up and walked over to where Jazz sat. Jazz looked up, and Blaster noticed that the Porsche's visor was cracked - again - and Jazz didn't appear to be focusing on Blaster's face quite right.

"Blaster, whatever you got to say, don't. I ain't feelin' too hot right now," Jazz said, his words starting to slur together.

"Wasn't gonna say nothin', man. Just wondered if you needed a hand."

Jazz started, as if jolted by a sudden electric charge. Blaster . . . being helpful? Jazz asked himself. Now, either I got a bigger headache than I thought in the first place, or this is one of those 'nice' hallucinations that hits before you off-line. . . .

"Uh . . . don't worry about me. What about Scope?" Jazz asked, his speech slightly clearer this time.

Now it was Blaster's turn to be surprised. Jazz worry 'bout the kid? Who knew? What's this damn world coming to?

Blaster stepped over the inert Scopeshot and knelt down next to the offlined Autobot. For a moment, Blaster actually seemed concerned about the unconscious Transformer. Suddenly, he stood up and began savagely lashing kicks into the blue Ferrari's head. Jazz jumped up, startled, and pushed Blaster back.

"Dammit, Blaster! Whaddaya think you're doing?!"

"Percussive maintenance works wonders. Especially on mechanical blunders," Blaster said, glancing in Scopeshot's direction.

"I said see what's wrong with him, not fix him like some damn soda machine."

"You don't know if it worked or not, but if you're so worried, you take a shot."

Jazz reached down and hauled the slightly dented Ferrari to his feet. Jazz peered into the darkened optic band where haunted red optics usually shone and gently tapped the black transparent metal where Scopeshot's eyes usually were.

"Scope?"

The face vents slowly shone blue, and Jazz could detect the gunner's central processor powering up.

"Ow . . ." Scopeshot moaned. "Head . . . killing me."

Jazz' olfactory sensors detected something that smelled faintly like burnt plastic. He grimaced and waved a hand in front of his face. "You smoked another resistor."

Scopeshot sighed. Not like he needed to breathe, but it summed up a lot of situations nicely.

"Give me a nano. . . .  Diagnostics says it's in the optic router. It'll take a quarter cycle to repair. Until then, don't even think of trying to walk me into a wall."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Jazz said with a smirk. He took Scopeshot by the shoulder and pointed him at the back of the cell. Blaster watched the proceedings, an evil grin slowly spreading across his face.

Scopeshot pondered his situation. Blind, in a cell with Jazz and Blaster, and someone just put a hand on his shoulder to point him somewhere. Either one of them; bad news, he thought to himself. Jazz would do that for a laugh. Blaster too. Maybe they're hoping I walk forward into a wall. Or maybe they expect me to walk backwards into a wall, thinking that if I walk forwards, I'll hit one. No, wait. Scopeshot eased himself onto the ground and sat cross-legged.

Jazz looked at the blinded Ferrari, impressed. Not as thick as he acts, Jazz mused.

"So, what do we do in the meantime?" Blaster asked. "I mean, you're half off, and Scope here's blind."

"We gotta keep cool until we can bust outta here," Jazz said, getting to his feet. He ambled over to the door and inspected it. The glowing purple energy field cast a faint light onto Jazz's face and reflected slightly off his visor, casting a broken pane of white on the cell walls. If we can make the entire thing overload . . . yeah, just might work. . . .

"Hey, Scope, how close are you to being patched?"

"A few minutes. Why?"

"Make it quick, 'cause I think I know how we're getting' out. . . ."

"You have them?" Megatron asked, elbows on knees and cradling his chin in his hands.

"Yes, Commander, indeed. We succeeded in capturing the Autobot unit known as Team Omega," Onslaught said with a slight touch of pride.

"Excellent, General, excellent. With one of their elite commando teams out of action, the odds are tipped a little more in our favor."

"I plan to have Vortex interrogate them as soon as possible. The more information we glean from them, the better."

"Do you believe they knew you were here?"

"Negative, Megatron. They were caught completely off guard. Jazz and Blaster are skilled, if not attentive."

"As I have noticed. But tell me, do you think they know that-"

Megatron's words were cut off as a siren blared, the world flashed red, and a loud, brief blast of noise echoed like a rifle shot down the halls of the Decepticon base. Onslaught looked at Megatron and nodded quietly.

"Megatron, I'll have to reestablish communications later. Our situation has suddenly taken a turn for the worse."

With that, Onslaught terminated the connection and grabbed his sonic stun gun. Something tells me I'm going to need to use this more than I desire to do so, he thought to himself. A round of yelling from his teammates spurred on his pace. A great deal more.

"And what part of my function reads 'battering ram?!'" Scopeshot snarled. He picked himself up from the floor and balled his fists angrily.

"Hey, your sight came back, didn't it? Now come on, we've got to get out of here!" Jazz snapped.

"Hey! We can't just run! There's a mission to be done!" Blaster returned.

"I know that!" Jazz replied. "I meant, 'get out of here before the 'Cons get over here and kick our skidplates!' Now move!"

"Hey! Halt!" Vortex yelled, charging around the corner with his teammates in tow. In a moment, their weapons materialized in from subspace, and Team Omega found themselves staring down the barrels of multiple rapid-fire weapons.

"Wreck 'em!" Jazz yelled, transforming and picking up as much speed as he could in the tiny space of the hallway. Despite his skill and fanciful driving, he still got his armor seared by the powerful x-ray lasers mounted on Blast Off's legs. Flinching slightly (as much as a car can flinch, anyway), Jazz threw himself at the Combaticon shuttle.

"Blast Off! Get out of--" Brawl's panicked cry was cut short as Blaster lunged at him, sending both tank and boom-box to the ground.

"Tryin' to give my pal away? Now's my turn to make you pay!" A red arm whipped up and down, and a thunderous sound, like a jackhammer on metal, filled the air.

Blast Off turned to look in his comrade's direction, and received a speeding Porsche to the abdomen for his lack of attention. Metal squealed as armor plates on both Transformers popped off in the crash. Blast Off was thrown several meters away, and Jazz's sudden deceleration threw him onto his side. Transforming back into robot mode, he dived at the recovering Combaticon, frantically grappling for the ionic blaster in Blast Off's hand.

Scopeshot lowered his shoulder and charged into the tangle of robots. Feet pounding on the steel floor, the blue Ferrari barreled into the smaller Swindle, who was trying to turn the BSU gun on its original owner.

Swindle found his chest armor smashed in and his energon relay to his left arm shattered by the blow. His new weapon flew from his fingers and sailed over in his attacker's direction.

Scopeshot's arm lashed into the air, snagged the weapon by its grip, and pointed it down in a hasty but deadly point-blank shot that tore Swindle's left arm out at the root. The smaller Combaticon cried out and clamped his remaining hand around the wound. The tendrils of pain that snaked up and down his side pulled the Decepticon into a small ball. Scopeshot's eyes glowed brightly as he leveled the gun at Swindle and prepared to messily remove the Combaticon's head in a loud display of noise and shockwaves when something flew out from the edge of his peripheral vision and splattered all over his face, blocking his vision again. Whatever it was, it was searing hot and clung. With an enraged snarl, he tried in vain to wipe the burning adhesive off his face.

Vortex lowered the automatic glue gun and watched as the Ferrari clawed uselessly at his optic band. Satisfied that Swindle was out of danger for the immediate moment, Vortex knelt down next to his injured teammate and pulled him to safety.

"Swindle! Are you. . . ."

"Vortex . . . thanks," Swindle rasped. The jeep gave a sudden strangled cry and raised his arm cannon. With a violent thoomp, he fired the scatterblaster once. The shotgun-like round had no time to fragment as it left the barrel and tore a large hole in Scopeshot's chest. The Autobot gave a single sharp cry and collapsed to the ground as his gun clattered beside him. Thick purple smoke billowed from the impact point.

"That'll teach you to shoot me," Swindle said, voice strained. Vortex left his teammate's side and approached to cover the downed Autobot.

In the heat of the fighting, Jazz saw the other Autobot go down.

"Scope!" he yelled, giving Blast Off a good punch to the face. The other Transformer kicked up and threw Jazz off him. The ionic blaster blazed, burning away at the armor on Jazz's shoulder.

"Hey!" Jazz snapped. "You mess with my finish," he said, grabbing Blast Off by the face and painfully introducing him to the ground, "you eat floor, dig?"

A kick from the Autobot gouged a deep rent in the armor on Blast Off's back. The shuttle didn't move. Jazz turned to Scopeshot, who was lying on the ground, smoke eddying from the blast hole in his chest. Vortex appeared from the smoke, pointing one of his arm-mounted machineguns at Jazz.

"Don't move, Autobot," Vortex said, stepping over the inert Ferrari. "One wrong move and you'll end up like your friend here." To emphasize his point, Vortex planted his foot on Scopeshot's chest, which was still smoking.

Oh, man, we're in this deep, Jazz thought. Scope's down and out . . . maybe for good, and Blaster's havin' a Brawl. The thick smoke eddying up from Scopeshot's chest made him gag. How can he keep a fire going? He don't have that much in him to burn anyway.

Vortex pointed all his weapons at Jazz now. "Now, are you going to surrender?"

"No," the body underneath him said. Scopeshot grabbed Vortex's leg and pulled him off. Jazz drop kicked the falling Combaticon, eliciting a sharp grunt from Vortex. Jazz hauled Scopeshot to his feet and cracked a grin.

"That's just like you, Scope, always bein' underfoot."

"Don't tread on me," Scopeshot returned, giving Vortex a kick. The Combaticon only groaned. The Ferrari's optics blazed a brilliant red, almost ready to burn a hole in the helicopter's back. Jazz paid him no mind . . . until Scopeshot's glare fell back on him. Jazz was taken aback.

Dear Primus . . . Jazz thought. The sniper's optic band had been shattered. The transparent black material was gone, allowing the Ferrari to see . . . and the deadly crimson blaze of his optics to filter out. What lies in the heart of Scopeshot? Hell . . . not even a shadow knows. . . .

"What?" Scopeshot said in a deadly voice.

"Nothing," Jazz said.

Scopeshot regarded the other Autobot for a second. "Don't mention it."

"Right on that. Hey, Blaster!"

"I'm a bit busy, you see!"

"Yeah, hurry up! We need to get moving."

"In a minute, in a minute, let's finish this and be done with it!" Blaster snapped, landing another series of solid punches into Brawl's ruined chest. Brawl tried vainly to return the blows, but his movements were slow, haggard, indicative of heavy damage. Blaster levered himself off the other Transformer and lashed a final kick to Brawl's head.

Blaster dusted off his hands.

"Well, I'm through. How 'bout you?"

Jazz nodded.

"We still need to finish our mission. This place needs to go down, or at least we got to blow up a good chunk of it."

"Agreed," Scopeshot said. His chest had stopped smoking by now. Picking his gun up from where he'd dropped it, Scopeshot ejected the near-empty magazine. Slamming his last clip home in the breech, Scopeshot chambered a round, preparing for anything that might come his way.

"Scope, got any explosives with you?" Jazz asked.

"When do I not?" Scopeshot unsubspaced six explosive charges and handed three each to Blaster and Jazz. "Proton explosives. Powerful enough to blow a Guardian's torso off at the knees. Play carefully."

Nodding, Jazz and Blaster stashed the charges away. "Let's go!" Jazz said cheerily, heading down the way they had come. Scopeshot and Blaster followed closely behind.

This might just be our chance, Jazz thought to himself. That was before he rounded the corner and found Onslaught and a fairly large platoon of Decepticons waiting for them.

"HALT!" Onslaught boomed, pointing his rifle at the three Autobots. His Decepticons did the same.

"Oh, damn," Jazz said quietly.

"Put down your weapons, keep your hands in the air, and I won't fire," Onslaught said, his voice cold.

"I hope you have a plan, Jazz," Scopeshot muttered to his team leader. The Ferrari raised his hands in the air. Blaster and Jazz did likewise.

"I do have a plan," Jazz said, angling his body away from the Decepticons. "I call it RUN AWAY!"

In the blink of an eye, Jazz reverted to his Porsche alt mode and made a sharp U-turn that would have overturned him if not for his internal gyroscope. The battle-worn car took off in the opposite direction.

Scopeshot and Blaster wasted no time in splitting up and evading the concentrated laser fire that demanded their destruction.

"Remind me not to listen to Jazz again," Scopeshot said dryly over the comm.

"I heard that!" Jazz replied, transmission riddled with static pops and crackles.

"Next time, if you're planning a retreat, tell us ahead of time."

"I wasn't planning a retreat. I just didn't exactly plan on a charge either."

"Hey, are we gonna finish the fight, or are we gonna talk here all night?" Blaster added.

"No time," Jazz chuckled. The trills of laser fire, both nearby and distant, echoed the Porsche's sentiments. "We gotta end this thing, and pretty damn soon, too!"

"Okay, listen," Scopeshot said. "Those proton bombs are timed. We have five minutes to set them and get the Pit out of here!"

"WHAT?! I'm carryin' bombs are gonna explode in about five minutes in my glove compartment?! Dammit, Scope, why don't you warn us 'bout these things sooner?"

"I know!" Blaster added. "You coulda warned us they were goin' to blow!"

"Calm down," Scopeshot said under his breath. The Decepticons had gone down the wrong hallway for the moment, giving the Autobot sniper a moment to place a proton charge deep in the corner of his hiding place. "These bombs still have more than four and a half minutes on them. Get rid of them in at least three, and you have enough time to make it out." Steps started approaching in Scopeshot's direction. "Cutting the line. Someone's coming."

Jazz scowled at the hiss of static that played in his audios. Dammit, I wish he'd tell us 'bout these bombs sooner. Swerving to avoid lasers from his doggedly persistent pursuers, Jazz rounded the corner and quite promptly found himself in the large hall where he and his teammates had fought the Constructicons.

Good place as any to drop a bomb. Jazz chucked a bomb out from his storage compartment, making sure of its placement underneath some debris by a support pillar. Soon, the Porsche was gone again, and the trill of laser fire quickly followed.

Blaster was not a very pleasant robot. As a general rule he was hostile and rude to almost everyone. Now, though, he was borderline psychotic. As this day went, it was not one of his best, and he had every intention of finding a Decepticon and beating him into next week.

"I hate this world! I hate this place! Next 'Con I meet gets a busted face!" he snarled, charging down the hallway. Spotting an open door, Blaster tossed a proton bomb inside. He didn't know what was inside, and he really didn't give a damn. He charged onward, and met another door. With a roar, he kicked the door in completely--quite a feat, since this door was the kind that slid into the wall. The crumpled sheet of metal twisted away from the door and jammed. Blaster actually smiled as he slipped a bomb into Onslaught's desk drawer.

"Beware the evil desk of doom, one wrong move and you go boom! Haha!" Blaster chuckled and ran out.

Scopeshot was, as a general rule, not much of a saboteur. He was better versed in the fine art of properly blowing someone to small bits by virtue of firearms, rather than knowing the best places to set bombs to take down a structure with the least amount of effort. So, to make up for his architectural knowledge deficiencies, he decided to play it safe and set a large amount of bombs.

A very large amount of bombs.

He stacked the last few of his explosives at the base of the pyramid of volatile polymer-based hell. In most regards, it was a very large pyramid. Stacked up as high as his chest, the pile of inert fiery death was easily half his weight. He had managed to elude his pursuers long enough to set up the bombs.

That, he thought to himself, is a very large pile of explosives. I guess they'd blow up this section of the base pretty well. He regarded the explosives once again. Should anyone in their right mind even stand near this pile of explosives? Ah, well, I've never been in my right mind anyway.

He scowled. Stop it. That type of idiotic banter is not fitting for a warrior like me.

Another part of his mind whispered. Me Skystorm or me Scopeshot?

Scopeshot growled and set the trigger for the main fuse. No matter. One way or another one of the two of me will be very happy with the results.

He stood back to admire his handiwork, before he realized that he was essentially standing in front of a very large heap of dangerous solids that was going to explode very, very soon.

"And this would be the best time to bid a retreat," he offered. Transforming, he exited the storage closet where he had been.

It was most unfortunate, then, that the patrols had been duly alerted, and the first thing he quite literally ran into was a familiar looking black Decepticon he had never met before.

The black-and-silver Decepticon looked down at the blue Ferrari.

"I don't know if this word is in your vocabulary, but just halt, would you?" Jackal asked with a smile.

Scopeshot looked up and wondered for a moment before replying.

"No, I don't think so. I always wondered where you went in your free time, Hound."

Jackal looked taken aback, and in that moment, Scopeshot took his chance.

"Excuse me!" the Autobot snapped as he plowed through Jackal's legs and dumped the Decepticon flat on his face. Scopeshot wasn't too worried about pursuit as he was about getting the hell out of Dodge before the entire building blew like a Roman candle.

Scopeshot scowled as he drove around, trying to find the exit. His chronometer said that he had less than two minutes to get out. After several seconds of being lost, he decided that subtlety was not his strong suit and transformed. Bringing his assault cannon to bear on a fairly faraway wall that he knew had to lead outside, Scopeshot took careful aim and clamped down on the main trigger.

A veritable tsunami of plasma fire rippled from the weapon, blasting away chunks of wall. Scopeshot knew that the thunderous firepower would alert the Decepticons to his position, but he was betting on the ammo pack holding out long enough to cut through the wall, or at least weaken it enough that a rocket or two would rip the last few meters to shreds.

The cannon was starting to overheat, and from previous experience Scopeshot knew that a redline overload would be dangerous if not deadly for the user. He eased off the trigger and glanced around. No Decepticons, which was both unusual and unsettling. He decided that speed was going to be necessary and high explosives were in order. As he had left most of his explosives sitting in the storage closet a ways behind him, he opted for a rocket. Hefting the cannon again, he turned it to the side and pulled back on the rocket loader. A rocket freed itself from the loading clip and hurled itself single-mindedly at the wall. With a roar of fire, the rocket exploded, taking another meter or two of wall with it.

Had it been enough? He ran to the wall and quickly ran a hand over the damage. Pressure sensors detected a faint rumble in the wall, a good indicator that it was very nearly blasted through.

No time to return to a safe firing distance. Going to have to finish this off the up close and personal way. Scopeshot stepped back and lashed a powerful kick at the wall, or what was left of it. The entire structure seemed to groan, and for a brief moment Scopeshot wondered if it was a good idea to knock down a wall when he was so close to it.

Scrag it. If I don't get out, I get shot by Decepticons. If I do get out, I run a risk of getting crushed. I prefer my risks rather than the definite anyway. Scopeshot threw a solid punch, and to his surprise, his fist burst through to the other side! He punched another hole through and proceeded to follow with another flurry of punches. The wall crumbled, and with a final kick, it gave with a spray of concrete and steel.

The Decepticons had finally decided he was worthy of notice now, and laser fire chased him outside. Assorted Decepticons, including the Hound-lookalike he had plowed through earlier, were firing at him, and doing a fairly good job of it. Lasers ripped armor from his back and legs, and it was only because of his head start that the laser fire had not slashed him to metal ribbons right there.

He transformed and drove, not caring about the pain or the dangers of the night he faced. He really didn't care, he just wanted out. There was something, though, that nagged at his mind. He wasn't great on paying attention, but he usually didn't forget things in the middle of a mission. It was a strong sense of not just forgetting something, but leaving something very important behind. My weapons? Equipment? It suddenly struck him.

"HOLY PRIMUS!"

Jazz and Blaster were not too happy right now.

"I really don't know if I should say, but I agree with you, man . . . RUN AWAY!" Blaster bellowed as Decepticon laser fire chased them.

"For once, you're cooperatin', so let's keep it that way if we like livin' any longer than we got a right to!" Jazz was swerving, trying to dodge lasers. It was not a simple task. Dodging things that moved at the speed of light was no small feat. Dodging things that moved at the speed of light while carrying a noisy, overly aggressive software pirate on your dashboard bordered on insane and counted as one hell of a big feat.

"Any ideas where we're supposed to go? I don't exactly have maps, you know."

"I heard explosions. That might be Scopes makin' an exit."

"And if it ain't?"

"We'll just make our own exit."

Jazz and Blaster soon found themselves in a corner hall that had a very large hole blown through one side and about half a dozen Decepticons on the other side firing at something.

"Yep. This definitely says, 'Scopeshot was here.' Now, let's move!"

"I really couldn't agree with you more, cause my timer for the bombs is at thirty four!"

"DAMMIT!" The news was all Jazz needed to hear. He kicked in his engine and braced for a crash as the gathered Decepticons realized that there was another Autobot behind them, and that it just as inclined as its partner to smash through them. The battered Porsche repeated its Ferrari subordinate's trick and plowed through the Decepticons, knocking a couple of them off their feet as the two cars departed into the night. Not to be deterred, the Decepticons still pursued and fired, hoping to take out at least one of the two departing cars.

Jazz's internal chronometer counted down the seconds as they passed, hoping that they would reach minimum safe distance before the bombs went off.

"Five, four, three, two, one . . ." Jazz intoned, waiting for the artificial sun to rise.

Nothing.

For long seconds, Jazz and Blaster waited, trying to figure out why nothing was happening. After a moment's silence, Scopeshot transformed, and Jazz could have sworn the blue Autobot was smiling.

Scopeshot gave a chuckle, an odd, double-toned sound. Beneath the dominant cold laugh lay another voice, laughing in tandem. Wisely, Jazz decided he was better off not asking.

"I knew there was something I forgot to tell you guys."

Kneeling, Scopeshot ejected a small device from a compartment on his arm. Jazz recognized it as a detonator. Standing tall, almost daring the Decepticons to shoot at him, Scopeshot held the detonator parallel to the ground. With a knowing glint in his optics, the Ferrari viciously clamped down the trigger button.

The Oregon night sky quickly became day. The heat of a sun and the power of its corona ballooned up into the sky from the Decepticon base. Fully a quarter of the structure evaporated in the intense blast, and it was by luck more than anything that only a few Decepticons met their fate in the hellblaze that followed. The few Decepticons that had been outside were thrown to the ground by the blast, and the powerful shock waves sent most if not all of the nearby inhabitants reeling. Despite the blast, most of those who were nearby at the time would live. Most.

Jazz and Blaster transformed and stood with Scopeshot to watch the blaze.

"Dammit, Scope, why're you always doin' this to me?"

Scopeshot chuckled. It was, he decided, a very good night. As more of the building sagged from damage, Team Omega shared a quiet grin.

Mission accomplished.

A pair of battered sports cars slowly rolled back to the Ark. In the quiet of the night, voices could be heard coming from the unoccupied vehicles.

"Sweet explosion, Scopes my man. A'course, now Blaster and me are gonna have to beat you senseless for nearly giving us fuel pump failures," Jazz chuckled.

"Ah, you needed a little excitement in your life anyway," Scopeshot replied. The Porsche was silent for a moment, and Scopeshot could have sworn he saw one of the white car's headlights rise ever so slightly in a questioning manner.

"And just for that, I'll pound you flat!" Blaster blustered.

"Aww, lighten up, Blaster. Primus knows you're an eternal ray of sunshine anyway," Scopeshot said, verbally waving off the threat.

Jazz was sure he saw the red boom box contort slightly in anger. He himself just mused as to why this sudden wordiness had come over his subordinate. Scopes always did have his chattier moments. Maybe this is just one of them.

Blaster, on the other hand, was almost quivering with rage. It didn't take much to set him off and his pent-up anger had boiled unabated in his core after the mission. He was quite inclined at the moment to jump off Jazz's dashboard and pound some sense into a certain blue Ferrari. He didn't get much of a chance as the two cars pulled into the Ark and slowed to a halt. Team Omega transformed and walked in, past the wondering stares of other Autobots, past the open but not-enticing door of the repair bay, and up to Prowl's office door.

Jazz cocked his head a little and looked at the door. Scopeshot stifled a laugh. Maybe he forgot how to work a door. Jazz waited another second before giving his subordinates a careful grin.

"How's about we knock this time?" the Porsche asked easily. Before either Blaster or Scopeshot could reply, Jazz quickly opened the door and strutted into Prowl's office without preamble.

"Hey, Prowl, we're back as promised," Jazz said with a grin. Prowl, who was sitting in his desk at the far end of the room, barely looked up from his datapad. The second in command of the Autobots on Earth gave Jazz a glance and nodded to the slightly worried Autobots hanging out at the door.

"So, Jazz, I trust the mission went well?" Prowl asked, putting the datapad face down on his desk.

"Oh, yeah, went perfectly fine. Got in, got caught, got out, you know, same old same old."

Prowl gave the team an appraising glance and noted with some dissatisfaction that all three were still walking. Jazz was dented, scuffed, and burned black in some places, giving him a rather cow-pattern appearance. Blaster was the most intact, with only a small dent or two to speak for him. Scopeshot looked like he had been run over by a Tiberium harvester. He had mangled armor plating all over, holes blasted in him, and one of his crests was bent at an odd angle. Prowl hardly gave him a second glance.

"Hmm, so I surmised. Successful reconnaissance?"

"Uhhh . . ." Jazz gave a side glance to his subordinates, trying to pull an excuse, any excuse, out of the air to cover for this one. "Well, we did go to the area you mentioned."

"And?"

"We found a little bitty Decepticon outpost over there."

"Did you infiltrate this outpost? Gather data on Decepticon activities?"

"Well, we got in, yeah. As for data . . . well, whatever they were planning to do with the place, they ain't doing it anymore."

At this, Prowl raised an optic ridge ever so slightly. Such a statement could have held a lot of meanings. With Jazz and Team Omega, however, it meant only one thing.

"This wouldn't happen to have something to do with that explosion we heard about half an hour ago, would it?" Prowl asked. Obviously he had already reached his conclusions, and merely wanted the Omegas' own affirmations.

"Which one?" Jazz asked with a grin. At this Prowl only put on a cold-cast demeanor that cast serious doubt on Jazz's continued existence. Jazz smiled widely and gestured lightly. "Hey, don't sweat it, Prowl. Not like you need that info stuff anymore. Me and the boys got it down and done. The 'Cons are on the ropes for sure! Why bother, even?"

Prowl crossed his arms and gave a slight scowl.

"Your mission was reconnaissance, Jazz. As efficiently as you no doubt demolished the outpost, I had wanted the information in its databases. Now, unless one of you can produce some halfway useful information rather soon, I'm tempted to call this mission a failure."

Jazz gave an uneasy glance at Blaster. Blaster had been the only one of the three to stay conscious through the entire mission and hopefully had the most to contribute. Scopeshot elbowed Blaster in the side, trying to get him to speak. Blaster gave him a murderous glare and sent the Ferrari sprawling with a punch to the chest before stepping up to Prowl.

"I managed to catch some interesting stuff, and I hope for you it's more than enough," Blaster said with a slight scowl. He popped open his cassette-lid chest and withdrew a data disc, which he placed on Prowl's desk. "There, that's all I found when I went to take a look around."

Prowl picked the disc up and gave it a glance, seeming to mull it over in his mind. He knew better than to take anything the Omegas offered at face value, but this time he wasn't looking for information. Fixing the three damaged Autobots before him with a slight glare, he fed the disc into a reader, which gave several short holographic clips of the action from Blaster's point of view, including several less-than-glory moments by Jazz and Scopeshot. Prowl watched only a few moments' worth before shutting off the projector.

"In your own . . . unique way, you have at least managed to get confirmed troop deployments. Though I had not ordered you to slaughter said troops, you three still did do an adequate job," Prowl said with a slight nod.

Scopeshot, who had managed to drag himself back to a roughly vertical position, was already riding the razor's edge of restraint. Hearing his previous six hours of work and personal injury referred to as 'adequate' pushed him off that edge.

"Adequate? Adequate? I'll g--" Scopeshot started, only to have Jazz clamp a hand over his external speaker. Jazz just gave a grin and nodded. Blaster pounded another dent into Scopeshot's shoulder to silence him further

"Yeah, good enough is good enough," Jazz said.

Prowl nodded and slipped the disc and reader into a drawer.

"Fortunately, you made it through this mission intact," Prowl started. At that moment, though, Scopeshot's already mauled arm, to which Blaster had added even more punishment, gave a tortured shriek before detaching from his torso and clattering to the ground. All three Omegas turned to look at the limb on the floor. Prowl didn't miss a beat.

"Mostly," he deadpanned. He waved the three Omegas out of his office.

"Dismissed."

The three Autobots look at him like he had turned bright blue and floated. Prowl frowned slightly.

"Get out of my office," he said seriously. That left nothing in question. The three battered Autobots gathered themselves (literally in Scopeshot's case) and exited before they irked the Autobot lieutenant commander any further.

Once outside, the three operatives found themselves in a dilemma. Needing repairs, they found themselves without official pardon from permanent harm.

"Well, now what?" Scopeshot asked, trying vainly to reattach his arm.

"If you're feeling lucky you could go down to the med bay," Jazz offered.

"Jazz," Scopeshot said in an exasperated voice as he held up his severed arm, "this is not a good time to ask if I'm feeling lucky."

Jazz chuckled. "Guess not. Do whatcha gotta, I'm gonna go clean this stuff off. Luck to ya, fellas." Jazz walked off humming a tune from some long-defunct Cybertronian music group and looking ridiculously upbeat for someone in his condition.

"I dunno if I should say, but what the heck, that Jazz is one damned disturbed mech," Blaster said with a nod in the Porsche's direction. Blaster, however was talking to no one, as Scopeshot had already made his disappearance.

"Dammit!" Blaster snapped, stalking off.

In his private office, Prowl idly glanced at the disc that Blaster had given him.

Time and again, I test these three. Time and again, they return alive, but not in a manner satisfactory to my directives nor my ulterior intent. They listen to me . . . barely . . . but enough that they listen nonetheless. The question I must ask is now this: if and when I call on them, will they serve my purposes, or must they, like others, be swept aside?

Prowl returned the disc to its drawer and pondered the fate of the Team.

Jazz strutted up to the med bay. No fool, Jazz was just hoping that playing off against whoever opened the door would let him come back out alive. Before he could knock on the door, it opened and a great black shape lurched out. Jazz dodged the lumbering Trailbreaker and was not reassured to realize that Trailbreaker sounded like he was in pain.

Jazz, you've done a lot of really stupid things in your time. Do you really want to risk the chance that this might be your last stupid thing?

Jazz looked at his injuries. None were particularly bad, just irritating and mildly painful overall. He shrugged, eliciting a mild twinge of pain from his burnt shoulder.

"I guess I can deal with this myself. Like a certain group of fleshies one said, 'It's only a flesh wound.' Heh, those little guys might be annoying but they've got their moments."

With a cheeriness that was almost obscene, Jazz ambled off to his quarters to scrape off his carbon scoring and fish out a replacement optic visor.

Blaster sifted through the information he had recovered and grinned. That disc he had given Prowl had been burned literally on the spot, as he had just finished copying the last of the more useless images just as he reached into his chest. The real gold of the operation was still very much his. He had a lot of sensitive info that would help him in the future, not to mention sell quite well on his little electronic black market. Yes, it was a good day to be alive, to fight, win, prevail, and survive to reap the rewards.

Ever and always, it's the same, I'm the one who'll win the game, and as if that weren't enough, I've always got some . . . other stuff. All of this sneakin' just fits my bill, and if they won't take advantage, then I will. I got to admit it's kind of fun, but when it's over, said and done, I think, myself, I'll stay in soldiering, I'm good at killing people and breaking things. World watch out, now pay your dues, 'cause when I'm done you'll be croonin' the blues. . . .

Blaster smiled at nobody and the world in general.

Meanwhile, someone who was very badly damaged and none too pleased with the situation sat in his room, vainly attempting serious repairs. With a final grinding thud, Scopeshot managed to reattach his arm to his shoulder joint. Holding in a hiss of pain, he tested out his limb. Seventy percent function. Not too good but enough. Turning to his right, Scopeshot flicked on a luma and swept his worktable clear. Bits of guns and explosives piled up as Scopeshot brought his latest prize. A chunk of green metal and its attendant weaponry appeared from subspace as Scopeshot pulled out a laser scalpel he had stolen.

"Another day, another hurt, another trophy . . ." he started, carving away the bottom part of Mixmaster's scalp. "And another badly mauled Decepticon," he finished, though there was something about the voice that suggested it wasn't Scopeshot at all. Scopeshot froze for a long minute until he shook his head violently, as if to clear out the confusion.

"No, enough out of you. I'm going back to work," Scopeshot rumbled to himself. Ignoring his injuries, including the massive blast hole in his chest, he continued to work, shaving away at the remains of Mixmaster's weapon to convert it for his own use. Almost as an afterthought, he reached up and removed the broken, shattered mess of his mask and visor. Glancing at himself in a shard of metal, he scowled and reached out to brush it off his work area. He took his mask and carefully carved the damaged optic band off. Slipping it back into place, he continued to work and laughed quietly.

"Until the day the that the acid rain clouds roll over your heads, and the sky storms again . . ." he whispered quietly, forever pondering his shapeless future.