A deep shudder of malaise shook through Silverbolt's internal systems as he stalked the gloomy halls of the Ark, clenching and unclenching his fists. Damn that crawling fool of an Autobot for calling him down here to this place, where the sky was never seen, and the walls pressed slowly in, threatening to suffocate him. Again he shuddered, optics darting to the left and right as he gauged just how far the walls had moved. An inch, maybe, since he'd been here. Maybe more. He stumbled as a deep unease gripped him, and he felt the familiar trembles begin to radiate through his legs, but before they buckled, he caught himself, thrust out his chin, and forced himself to walk like the proud Aerial Elite he was. He was no Autobot. He was no sniveling dirt-crawler. He was the Genesis, the Alpha of the Pure Aerial Elite, and as such the finest, most worthy creature ever to set foot on this wretched slogball of a planet.

Growling, he lengthened his stride, forcing the two Aerialbots flanking him to quicken their pace, not that it bothered Air Raid. The small black F-15 skittered aside two steps, then jumped ahead, legs moving in a kind of darting shuffle that kept him dancing like some sort of hyped-up boxer. Instantly annoyed, Silverbolt cuffed him, making the little Aerialbot utter a clipped wail as his head bounced against the wall.

"Stop that," the Aerialbot commander barked, and aimed another fist, but Air Raid had recovered, quick as a thought, and was dancing just out of Silverbolt's reach again, optics flaring with crazy intensity. Snarling, Silverbolt advanced a step, even though he knew the lean, black jet was too quick for him to catch.

"If you don't stop that ridiculous jigging. . . ."

"The Lord Prime awaits," came a soft, almost dream-like voice, and Silverbolt looked around to see Fireflight gazing in his general direction. An eerily vacant expression hanging like mist over features, the red F-4 stood completely still, head tilted a little stupidly, optics glazed, and Silverbolt wondered for the thousandth time if Vector Sigma had been one personality short the day he sparked the Aerialbots with theirs.

Not that he allowed himself time to ponder once again why his team of elite creatures had been cursed with such idiocy among their ranks; he didn't want to arouse the ire of the Autobot commander, even if Prime was a dirt-crawler. Silverbolt knew better than that. Turning on his heel, he snapped, "Come," and aimed another quick cuff at Air Raid before striding off down the darkened hallway again. Ducking the punch, Air Raid fell once more in step on the Aerialbot commander's left, jigging and bobbing just out of arm's reach, while Fireflight plodded silently on Silverbolt's right.

Why must he be forced to endure these inspections? Silverbolt's optics narrowed, and his lip curled back in an expression of disgust at the thought of being surveyed once a month by this lord of the dirt-crawlers. And to be made to trudge through these filthy halls, when Prime knew Silverbolt hated to be enclosed. . . . He shuddered again, optics darting from side to side as he felt a rise of revulsion bubbling through his circuits like some kind of fetid froth. He'd never told Prime of how he abhorred small spaces, but he suspected in his core that Prime somehow knew, and drew some kind of sick pleasure from watching Silverbolt's discomfort. But Silverbolt also knew of Prime's own discomfort. He could see it in his optics, when the Autobot commander was out under the grand expanse of the sky, and Silverbolt could watch him diminish, as though the Autobot knew himself to be of an inferior species, wingless, and destined to crunch through dirt and filth for as long as he lived. Prime knew he was of a substandard breed, and that's why he called Silverbolt down into the earth, so that he wouldn't have to compare himself with the splendor of the Aerialbot commander. That, and he liked to watch Silverbolt squirm.

Prime liked to watch Silverbolt; it could be said that he was almost fond of the Aerialbot . . . a wave of fear and revulsion swept through Silverbolt in hot waves, almost making him double over.

Angrily, and to keep himself from being sick, Silverbolt snaked out another fist in Air Raid's direction. But even without warning the smaller Aerialbot was too quick for him, and darted away just in time for Silverbolt to miss him and hit the wall instead. Roaring in pain, Silverbolt whirled and made another grab, this one successful, and managed to slam the struggling Air Raid against the wall so hard that the black Aerialbot's head snapped back against the metal bulkhead.

"Stop . . . jigging," Silverbolt snarled, but before he could really hurt the black Aerialbot, Air Raid somehow slithered out of his grasp and sprinted ten paces down the hall, where he whirled and crouched, lip pulled back, optics swirling with fever as he glared at the Aerialbot commander.

"Filthy addict," Silverbolt spat as he stalked again down the hall. "I'll deal with you later."

As Silverbolt neared, Air Raid leaped up and sidled, momentarily pressing himself against the wall just out of Silverbolt's reach, before falling in step again just behind and to the left of the commander. Faceplate still vague, Fireflight took up his plodding again.

If only his Aerialbots hadn't been so completely stupid, Silverbolt wouldn't be forced to endure these miserable inspections. If only they had seen the true wisdom of the Autobot way right from the beginning, and not questioned things so openly and foolishly . . . Silverbolt uttered a long, rumbling sigh and pressed his mouth into a tight, angry line. Reflexively, almost compulsively, he darted a glance in Air Raid's direction, but the black Aerialbot was too wary . . . Silverbolt would have to bide his time.

What imbeciles he led. If they hadn't carried the pure, undiluted programming of Vector Sigma, Silverbolt would have found occasion long ago to bludgeon each one of his Aerialbots into inactivity. He had tried to reason with them, when they rebelled against the Autobots just after their creation, but they wouldn't listen.

Slingshot had started it, the miserable cur. Silverbolt shuddered to think of the sheer lunacy of his smallest teammate, and wondered even now at how laughably naïve they all had been. But such is the territory of youth, and for youth, they had all paid, and in spades.

"Where we goin'?" the little harrier had asked of their first mission. He executed a tight barrel roll of excitement, and brought himself back into formation with a little whoop of glee, probably at the sheer joy of being alive. The childish little beggar. He'd been pathetic even then.

"Stay in line and stop wasting fuel," Silverbolt ordered briskly over their shared frequency. He knew they were probably being watched via satellite to see how they'd do with their first task since their arrival from Cybertron, and the Aerialbot commander had no intention of letting the Lord Prime down, not after seeing first hand what kind of mech he was capable of being.

"But," Air Raid piped up, "ain't that the point of the mission, Bolt?"

"Don't call me 'Bolt," Silverbolt snapped, nervous and edgy. The Lord Prime had had a talk with Silverbolt before the Aerialbots had left; failure was not an option, nor was embarrassment. And so far, all his Aerialbots had done was duck and play in their flight paths like a bunch of turbo-otters.

But if Air Raid noticed his leader's apprehension, he wasn't showing it. Waggling his wings, he piped up over the intercom, voice full of youthful enthusiasm.

"But ain't we after some kinda super-fuel?" The black F-15 sidled playfully against the concord for a glimmer of a moment before settling back into formation.

"Yeah," Fireflight added. "Least that's what Prime said, anyway."

"It's the Lord Prime," Silverbolt corrected hastily, as he was sure they were being monitored, "and the next one of you that slips out of formation will have to deal with me when we get back to base. Now lock down, all of you, and concentrate."

"Sheesh," he heard Air Raid mutter, and both Slingshot and Fireflight giggled.

"Silverbolt," Skydive admonished, his quiet voice sounding over the link as though he wore a bit of a smile, "lighten up."

Silverbolt seethed, but to respond to his underling would only bring on another volley of playful snipes and comments, and since he couldn't afford to lose concentration, he bit back his reply. Besides, they were nearing the humans' compound, and it was time to work.

"All of you," he ordered briskly, "drop and maintain altitude at one hundred feet. We come in low, and we come in fast. Destroy everything, but do not touch the three storage silos on the northwest end of the compound. Repeat, do not touch the storage silos. Does everyone copy?"

"Roger," came four quick replies, and a part of Silverbolt relaxed a bit at the speed with which his team obeyed his commands. For all their youth, they exhibited signs of becoming an extremely efficient unit. But at once they were at ground zero, and the time for thought was over.

On his long-range visual, Silverbolt got his first glimpse of the humans, and what he saw puzzled him. They were arrayed in defensive position, with their armament pointed outward, but none of it was pointed at the Aerialbots. Instead, they seemed relaxed, and their faceplates were pointed up at the approaching jets in what appeared to be jubilant welcome. And then Air Raid's sidewinders snaked out, and their joy turned to confused horror.

Screams tore upward from the ground, intermingled with explosions and jet engines and gunfire, and though the screams were fragile as gossamer in comparison with the roar of the machines, Silverbolt's audios sorted them out, and he wondered at them. As one, the five jets banked and came around for their second pass, and he saw the faceplate of one human as it looked up at them with a mixture of betrayal and hate as it bared its teeth and manned a gattling gun. In a blink, the human and its weapon were flung upward in a fiery ball as Slingshot's missile hit home, and Silverbolt had a fraction of a second to wonder if the human's spirit had lingered in shock, or if it had flown mercifully away into the ether. He barked his commands, admonished Fireflight for drifting too close to the silos, and marshaled his team into a tight pack of lightning-quick wolves as they swiftly and efficiently reduced the stupefied humans to fluid-stained debris. But he still had time to wonder.

The mission was a success. It was their test, and an initiation of sorts. The goal had been surprise, as the Lord Prime had anticipated the humans mistaking the Autobot jets for Decepticons, and as such, he was pleased with the Aerialbots' quick capture of the superfuel silos. He was not, however, pleased with the subsequent questions.

"How come they looked so mad at us?" Slingshot had the audacity to ask, directly to the Lord Prime's faceplate. "Those humans, that is."

A look of cold displeasure fogged over the warlord's optics at being so casually spoken to, and it took all of Silverbolt's self-control to not smack his underling upside the head. How many times did he have to remind them to address the warlord as 'Lord Prime'? And how many times would they speak out of turn before they had to learn the hard way that one only spoke to the Lord Prime when spoken to?

The warlord did not answer, and to Silverbolt's sinking dismay, Slingshot crossed his arms.

"Well, there's gotta be a reason," he blurted, his brash voice echoing off the walls of the warlord's chambers. "You said the humans were evil, but for some reason, they were lookin' like we betrayed them somehow, and I wanna know why."

Because of his pleasure with their success, the Lord Prime did not terminate Slingshot on the spot for his foolishness, or so Silverbolt suspected. Instead, he reclined in his oversized chair, optics narrowing. He stared at Slingshot for a full minute, as if rolling his response around in his head before deigning to speak, but instead of bowing his head like an intelligent young mech, Slingshot stared back at the Lord Prime, his optics wide with curiosity, sharp blue with demand to know more. At last, the warlord shifted his gaze toward Silverbolt, who shuddered at being the focus of such a dark look. Instinctively, he darted his optics to the floor, then back up as he realized that showing weakness was probably not the way to put one's self on the Lord Prime's good side.

"You are all dismissed," the Autobot commander announced with a flick of his gun hand, the nozzle of his rifle tipping in Silverbolt's direction.

"Aerialbots," Silverbolt beckoned, and after offering a quick bow, turned on his heel.

"But," he heard behind him, and cringed as the sound of laserfire abruptly ended Slingshot's complaint.

"Get out!" Prime roared, and Silverbolt turned in time to see Slingshot backpedaling, one hand holding his singed shoulder, optics wide and startled.

"Slingshot," the Aerialbot commander made a grab for his idiot team mate, and was just turning to haul him out the door when he heard the fool of fools, Air Raid, pipe up.

"He just wants to know what the slag it was all about," the lean black Aerialbot shouted, hands on his hips, his stupid cranial unit thrust forward aggressively, as though he thought he had any chance in the cosmos of defending his team mate against the hulking Prime. Primus, did these idiots not realize that the Autobot Way did not include democracy? Air Raid stubbornly held Prime's gaze. "I think we have a right to know." Obviously not.

Everyone in the room froze, Slingshot included, as Prime slowly rose from his chair to tower over the black jet, and Silverbolt suddenly realized that it was the sheer fact of Prime's boiling, paralyzing rage that was saving them all from being instantly slagged.

"Everyone," he ordered hastily, "let's go. Now. Air Raid," he made a grab for the stupid black jet, one hand shoving Slingshot out the door, the other hand yanking on Air Raid's elbow, "I said now!"

But Air Raid jerked back, and Slingshot balked, his bravado bolstered by his teammate's backing as he shoved Silverbolt away with his good arm, intent on making an exit of his own accord.

"Come on, Raid," he humphed, chin high, "This jerk doesn't deserve us. Let's get outta here. For good."

"Right," Air Raid agreed airly, and turned to stalk out, the other Aerialbots filing after him. Silverbolt stood rooted for a moment too long, looking from Prime to the retreating Aerialbots and back again, unsure whether to chase after his teammates in a wildly hopeful dash for desertion, or to stay and beg for lenience, when Prime's rage unleashed itself at last. With a scream of pure, animal aggression, the warlord leaped toward Silverbolt and pinned him savagely to the wall. The Aerialbot barely had time to yelp before a rain of blows reduced him to a cringing ball, one arm held protectively over his head, as Prime brutally slammed his powerful fists into Silverbolt's armor. Vainly, Silverbolt tried to call for help, but the other Aerialbots had already gone, and his thin cries were drowned out under the crash of metal on metal.

"Help?" the behemoth mocked him as it pummeled him again and again, battering his frame against the bulkhead. "You want help? An Autobot doesn't snivel for help!"

"Please," he attempted, but his plea only earned him more of the same, as Prime tore relentlessly at his wings and armor, slamming him into the walls again and again. After some time, however, the warlord's rage seemed to wane, and the blows lessened until Silverbolt found himself merely pinned, prey beneath the mighty claws of its predator, the gigantic fingers of the Autobot commander wrapped tightly about his metal throat. Prime leaned in to press his faceplate close to Silverbolt's, though the Aerialbot only saw him dimly, as his optical array had taken damage, and now flickered in and out of focus.

"Do you know," came the deep, disturbing tones of the commander's voice, "why I do not simply terminate you?"

Because you need us, Silverbolt's mind answered immediately, though he was too intelligent to actually say the words. Instead, he heard himself answer in a surprisingly hollow whisper, "No."

"No? Silverbolt," the gigantic commander's voice changed to a crooning, one hand almost lovingly stroking the lines of Silverbolt's helmet, as though in some perverse, paternal gesture of affection. "I created you. I built you with my own hands. Now, do you think that if I spent all of that time and effort to bring you back from Cybertron, that I would simply terminate you at a whim?"

"N-no, Lord Prime," Silverbolt whispered meekly, optics averted, his frame beginning to shake. The Autobot's touch unnerved him more than being beaten.

"Of course not," Prime affirmed, voice rich with mock concern as he ran a finger along the length of Silverbolt's cheek-guard. "I care about my Aerialbots. I would do anything to keep them at my side, which is why I would never, ever simply terminate them."

Prime's fingers ceased petting the Aerialbot's helmet, and moved instead to lift Silverbolt's chin, so that he was forced to look into his commander's optics. Prime leaned even closer.

"You Aerialbots are special to me. So special, in fact, that if you ever deserted me, I would have to order for you a very special, very long, very interesting death."

A long, terrifying moment passed as Silverbolt stared upward, caught like a vise in the Autobot's powerful grip, his body crumpled against the wall, wings caught and bent painfully under the weight of being pinned. At length, he seemed to find his vocalizer, and almost without knowing what he was saying, he heard himself begin to babble.

"I'll do something, Lord Prime. I-I'll get them back. I swear it. I swear to you -"

"Shh . . ." Prime shushed him, the crazy Autobot's optics still whirling under the influence of some horrifying, dredged-up parental sentiment that was beginning to seem less mocking, and more like some actual, twisted affection Prime felt for his 'creations'. One last time, he patted Silverbolt's helmet, almost as though to reassure him, and said with an unmistakable warning in his tone: "Do not fail me."

Then he let go and stepped back, and Silverbolt crashed to the ground where he sat stunned for an instant before scrambling to get up. It took two tries, but he finally hauled his broken body into a standing position, where he offered a shuddering bow, and then stumbled out of the Lord Prime's chambers to hunt for the other Aerialbots.

But of all his aches, the worst was his revulsion at Prime's paternal touch.

He found them sitting on a mountain top not far from the Ark's own range. He was barely able to fly, and several of his systems were badly in need of repair, but he hadn't dared ask for medical attention before scurrying out to bring the Aerialbots back. So he limped through the skies and called to his teammates across their communications frequencies, and like good lambs to slaughter, their voices came scampering to him.

"We're right here, Bolt," Fireflight's dreamlike voice sounded over the radio. "Why didncha come sooner?"

Silverbolt registered the coordinates Fireflight sent, and adjusted his flightpath. Within two minutes, he had them on visual, and soon after he landed, but not without a wince. Stumbling, he put a hand out to catch himself on a rockface, then looked up to glare at the other four Aerialbots.

"Woah . . . what happened to you?" Skydive actually looked concerned.

"Like you care," Silverbolt spat back, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as some fluid regurgitated itself out of his main fuel port. A little worried, he glanced at the partially-processed energon on his fingers before returning his attention to his teammates. Enough time for repairs later. Gotta live long enough to get to med bay first.

"Whaddya mean, 'like we care'?" Slingshot asked, brows knitted in genuine concern.

"Yeah, Bolt," Air Raid added in tandem, "what happened?"

"Prime happened," Silverbolt explained bitterly, and stared at them each in turn. "Just after you left. Not that you stopped to help or anything."

Skydive frowned.

"We thought you were right behind us."

"Yeah," Air Raid agreed, "we thought you'd follow, and when you didn't, we figured you were sidin' with Prime, so we split." He screwed up his face in concern as he looked Silverbolt up and down. "Prime . . . really did that?"

"Yes, Prime did that," Silverbolt affirmed, and sat down heavily on a nearby outcropping. Not that it was particularly even or comfortable, but he was swiftly growing too tired to stand.

"Well, we're sorry, Bolt," Fireflight offered, and the others mumbled their concurrence as they gathered around him in an unhappy semi-circle of unsure faces.

"Oh, you're sorry?" Silverbolt looked up, realizing he'd already been staring blearily at the ground. Flight had taken more out of him than he'd expected. "You spout off to Prime, desert the Autobot Empire which, I might point out, is not in any danger of failing just now, and so can probably afford to hunt us down like petrorabbits, and you're sorry?"

"But Bolt!" Slingshot exclaimed, "What about the humans? Why we gotta hurt 'em when they've never done anything to us? We deserve to know why."

"Yeah that, and look at what that Autobot did to you," Skydive pointed out, face still sober. "You don't look so good."

"Well, I'm not asking you to like the situation," Silverbolt argued, growing even more irritable as he tired. "It's not about whether we like who and what we are. It's about survival, and I don't see us surviving outside of allying ourselves with the Autobots."

"Allying with the Autobots eh?" Air Raid scowled. "Those jerks can't even fly! They're so pathetic, they need us to step in just to accomplish a simple mission, or - slaggit - even to defend themselves against the Decepticons."

"And what about the 'Cons, Bolt?" Slingshot crossed his arms. "You think about that? I mean," his faceplate softened a bit as he thought about the opposing faction, "they're fliers, like us. They got wings, and they don't hurt defenseless humans - or Aerialbots, for that matter - and it's just . . . it's like we're more like them than like the 'Bots. Aren't we?"

"Yeah, Bolt," Fireflight put in, his mind drawing conclusions in a rare showing of actual thought process, "if we aren't like these 'Bots, why are we with 'em?"

All four Aerialbots stared at their leader for answers, and Silverbolt's mind reeled as he tried desperately not to make his teammates universe make sense, but rather to figure a way out of being hunted down by a crazy warlord. Completely driven by fear, he looked from one Aerialbot to another, as slowly his processor began to form an idea.

"Because . . ." he began fuzzily, then refocused, as he reminded himself that if he ever wanted to see the inside of a repair bay, he would have to bring these Aerialbots in very soon, ". . . because, we are like them."

The others regarded him flatly. "How so?" Air Raid demanded, wary.

"Well," he sighed, and to his shame (at the time), put on a very good imitation of heartfelt sorrow. "Something happened that I didn't tell you about," he lied, the story writing itself as he told it. "Something I left out." He hung his head, as though ashamed, then looked up with the shining optics of a mech about to unload the truth. "I . . . I attacked Prime. He didn't attack me." The other Aerialbots stared at him in surprise, but before they could comment, or his conscience intervene, he pressed on, "I lied because I was angry with you for leaving, and I wanted you to feel bad. But the truth . . . the truth is that I lashed out at our commander, and I wouldn't stop lashing out until he was forced to defend himself, and to subdue me. I - I wanted to know why he would shoot you," he indicated Slingshot with a nod, "and why he would lose his temper so quickly with mechs who are only asking questions because of their youth and inexperience. And you know what he did?"

At this, Silverbolt looked down, both for effect, and because he couldn't bring himself to look into anyone's optics when he told a lie this big.

"Optimus Prime apologized."

Now he looked back up, and into four startled faces. At first he wasn't sure whether they were going to laugh at him or throw him off the mountain top for being such a treacherous liar, but then came the one word that launched them all down their dark and twisted careers as Autobots. Slingshot tipped his head and said: "Really?"

And with one word, Silverbold had them hook, line and sinker. "Yes, really," he affirmed, and thanked Primus above for the kind of youthful stupidity that would buy such a story. He also felt the sinking ball of shame that plummeted through him at the thought that he was betraying the four young mechs who depended on him as their leader. But it didn't stop him, not when the memory of being so savagely beaten was fresh in his mind, and not with the idea of a torturous death still lingering in the forefront of his thoughts. Not with the promise of repairs so very close.

"Yes, he apologized. He said . . . he said he'd made a mistake, one he wanted to apologize to all of you for personally, especially since he's still so proud of us all for such a good job securing the superfuel. He only asked me to find you so he could talk to you himself, and maybe explain why the Autobots act as they do. There are reasons, you know, if you'll listen."

What a shoddy story it was, but in their bare youth, why would the Aerialbots believe that Silverbolt would sell them out for the mere price of repairs? So they followed him merrily back to the Ark while he limped along in flight, and strode confidently in his wake as he made his skulking way back down into the bowels of Autobot headquarters, the wretched shepherd with his unsuspecting flock in tow. Even worse was Silverbolt's sense of relief - not shame, but relief - when he saw the shocked looks on his Aerialbots' faces as they were arrested and hauled away to be dealt with by Perceptor. Even then Silverbolt knew about Perceptor, but he ached so miserably, and he knew in his core that he would face a long, terrible death if he failed to bring the Aerialbots back. So even as they struggled, shouting his name and tossing him terrified looks of betrayal, Silverbolt could only feel relieved as he watched his teammates hauled away to be reprogrammed by the scientist himself.

"A fine job, Silverbolt," came the approving voice of his creator.

Silverbolt didn't look up, or even acknowledge Prime as the giant hand descended on his shoulder to give him a fatherly squeeze.

"You've secured your position as their leader," Prime went on, voice sounding over Silverbolt's shoulder with a perverse kind of pride in his creation's accomplishment, and Silverbolt shivered, deep in his core. "It's good that you want to earn my trust. And now it seems you've earned yourself a rest." The hand on his shoulder pulled Silverbolt around, making him look up into the Autobot commander's optics, while the Autobot's other hand laid itself like so much lead on Silverbolt's other shoulder. "Now why don't you go on down to repair bay? You'll feel better."

Exhausted, defeated, Silverbolt ducked his head.

"Yes, Lord Prime."

"Good," Prime smiled behind his facemask, though his optics remained cold. "Go on." He gave the Aerialbot a gentle shove, and Silverbolt had turned to make his way toward repairs when he heard the voice again behind him. "Oh, and Silverbolt?" it said, fondness etching itself over top a universe of far more perverse and terrifying emotions. "I'm proud of you."

The Aerialbot shuddered, but did not stop to make reply. And though a deep sense of foreboding suddenly settled into his internal systems, he kept walking all the way to repair bay, and never thought twice about it.

After that day, there was no question of whether the Aerialbots fit into the Autobot way. There was no question of human rights, or of Autobot brutality, and though the Aerialbots clung stubbornly to their sense of flight superiority, they never again thought to argue back.

In fact, when Silverbolt awoke, he found he had much more pressing things to think about. Like how Fireflight hardly ever spoke again, or how Skydive stared hungrily at him now, as though he had something the other Aerialbot itched to have for himself, and was already planning on just when he would take it. Then there were the walls of the Ark, which bent inward now at such odd angles, as if waiting for him to look away so they could move in to crush him under tons and tons of earth. And there was Slingshot, who whimpered almost constantly, and never questioned anything, and cringed if anyone so much as narrowed their optics at him. And there was Air Raid, screaming and screaming behind the closed doors of the laboratory, and Silverbolt's shock at not only his total lack of desire to intervene to end those screams, but at his actual pleasure in hearing them.

Grumbling, Silverbolt strode now toward Prime's office, faceplate set in an aggressive twist of hate and loathing as he brushed his memories aside, not that he remembered much more than a hazy recording of images anymore. Compulsively, he snapped a glance toward Air Raid, who had taken the longest to reprogram, and who, alone of all the Aerialbots, had retained a bit of curiosity.

But as the human saying goes, Silverbolt mused inwardly, curiosity killed the cat. He uttered a low, ugly laugh and smiled nastily in Air Raid's direction as the black Aerialbot jittered and sidestepped, face wary as he quickly skittered out of arm's reach. Filthy addict. Filthy little cat. Killed you, didn't it? Curiosity killed the cat. . . .

Again Silverbolt chuckled as the sing-song voice rose up in his head, poking fun at Air Raid's miserable excuse for a life, and he reveled in his own mirth like a pig rolling in muck as he devised new ways to cause the little Aerialbot pain.

So they all rolled over and one fell out, five cats in the bed, curiosity is dead. . . .

And he laughed, and laughed.