“Slag!”, yelled Tracks at the top of his vocalizer. He started pacing back and forth in his new quarters at the still unfinished Autobot City. He had recently arrived there as part of a shipment of relief troops sent by Lord Magnus. “How can he still be alive?! HOW?! I thought I was rid of him fifty thousand vorn ago! Now all of a sudden he turns up, alive and well, and picks up right where he left off.”

He stopped and looked out the window. A number of his fellow Autobots were busily working on constructing a large gun emplacement/communications tower. As soon as their hold on this world had been firmly established, the Autobots had set about construction of a much larger, better equipped base than their wrecked ship, the Ark, although the ship was still a major center of Autobot activity on this planet.

What is it called again? Ah yes, Earth, he thought with a chuckle. As in dirt. There seems to be a lot of dirt on this planet. That thought brought an expression of distaste to his red faceplate.

“No way will I get any dirt on my beautiful finish, if I can help it,” he said, running a hand over his shining blue and silver chassis lovingly. “Anyone who does will regret it.”

Tracks sighed. It wasn’t easy being the most gorgeous mechanism alive. Oh well, he thought as he stepped out of his quarters and into the hallway. Time to let the other Autobots gaze on the perfection that is me. He chuckled to himself as he walked down the hallway to the elevator, which would, in turn, take him to street level. After all, what’s the point of being gorgeous if no one else sees you?

Upon reaching the street several levels below, he transformed to his blue Corvette vehicle mode and sped away.

That’s the only thing good about this rock. To think this gorgeous vehicle mode was designed by the puny organic creatures native to this world. Humans, I believe they’re called. I guess they’re not totally worthless after all. He increased his speed and accelerated through the streets of Autobot City. Not only was his vehicle mode gorgeous, but it was also one of the fastest of the Autobots on this planet. And it is far superior to his vehicle mode, Tracks thought angrily. White and black, how dull! And those flashing roof lights are so tacky, ugh!

So distracted was he by the thoughts of his nemesis, that Tracks narrowly missed hitting a technician who had been working nearby. The startled Bot jumped out of the way with a cry of surprise then yelled an old Cybertronian curse at the speeding blue Corvette. Tracks roared away, oblivious to the near accident, and the technician went back to his work, grumbling.

Tracks drove on fuming at the injustice of it.

I am the most gorgeous being alive, not him! Can’t they see? They all adore him when they should be adoring me! Why? He should have died fifty thousand vorn ago. . . .

Tracks was walking down the corridor of the Autobots‘ main base in Iacon, heading to the meeting.

Why has the commander called everyone here? he wondered as he approached the large hall where the Autobots of Iacon had gathered. Judging from the looks on the faces of the other Autobots and their questioning murmurs, they were wondering the same thing.

When the face of the base commander appeared on the large veiwscreen at the front of the hall, all optics focused there, and the talking stopped like someone had turned off a switch.

“My fellow Autobots,” the commander began, “I have just been informed by Autobot high command that all contact has been lost with the Ark.” He paused to allow for the shocked exclamations that were occurring, then once they had died down, he continued. “As you know, the Ark, under the command of the Lord Prime himself, was in pursuit of the Decepticon ship Nemesis. The last communication received from the Ark indicated that they had engaged the Decepticon ship in combat near an unknown planet. The fate of both ships remains unknown, but high command fears the worst of the Ark and her crew.”

The commander continued his speech, but Tracks heard none of it. The blue Autobot chuckled to himself as he realized the implications of that last sentence.

He was on the Ark, wasn’t he? Heheheh, I couldn’t have planned it better myself. Rust in peace, Prowl.

Tracks grinned in malicious satisfaction and left the room, unnoticed.

His mind coming back to the present, Tracks realized that he had made a full circuit and ended up in front of the very lift he had started from.

So much the better, he thought as he transformed back to robot mode and entered the lift. With the mood he was in, anyone who encountered him on the way back to his quarters would likely wish they hadn’t, and the blue Autobot did not want to risk damaging his finish in a fight. Fortunately for the denizens of Autobot City, he reached his quarters without incident.

Tracks began pacing back and forth in his quarters like a caged tiger, still fuming about Prowl’s continued existence. When that got old, he decided to do something that always cheered him up and pulled out a jar of polish. He sat down on his recharge bed and began to apply the polish to his blue body.

“Fools . . .” he grumbled as he polished. “All of them . . . preferring him over me. . . . With him gone, they were finally noticing how truly magnificent I am. Then he shows up again and takes it all away! If only he had just stayed dead, everything would be perfect! If only he were out of the picture, their adoration would turn to me, where it rightfully belongs!”

Tracks paused in his polishing for a moment, realization of what he had just said dawned on him.

“If only he was . . . out of the picture. . . .”

A wicked grin spread over Tracks’ red faceplate.

“Why not? I’ve done it before.” His grin broadened as he thought about how he had dealt with those who had dared to try to be more magnificent than he. “I know just who to call as well. They’ve served me quite well in the past. But this job will require some . . . extra incentive . . . on my part. I believe that can be arranged, though.”

He finished polishing and closed the jar, a plan already forming in his mind.

“Heads up, Throttlebots!”, Rollbar called to his assembled group as he entered the Throttlebots’ headquarters on Cybertron. “We got a new job.” He waved the datapad he held above his head so they could all see it.

Freeway leaned back in his chair and smirked.

“We knew that,” he said. “Why else would you call us all here?”

He gestured around the room at the other Throttlebots, Chase, Searchlight, and Wideload. Chase and Searchlight sat around the circular table with Freeway. Each had a small, partially drained cube of high-grade energon in front of them. Wideload was leaning up against the far wall, his back and one foot bracing his bulky orange form.

“So who’s our ‘client’ this time?”

Rollbar activated the datapad in his hand.

“According to this it’s . . . hey, I remember this guy! Tracks.”

“Tracks, huh?”, said Chase. “Yeah I remember him, too. We did a couple of jobs for him awhile back. Pain in the circuits, but he always pays well. Who’s the target this time?”

“Don’t know,” the Throttlebot leader answered with a shrug. “Doesn’t say here. He’ll tell us when we get there, I guess.”

“Get where?”, asked Searchlight.

“Earth,” Rollbar answered. “We’re supposed to get new alt modes, and he’s got the schematics for ‘em in here, too.”

The Throttlebot leader ran though the schematics until he came to the ones for Wideload’s new alternate mode.

“Hey, Load! Think you’re gonna like your new mode. It’s somethin’ called a ‘dump truck’ an if these stats are right it’s got a Pit of a lot’a power to it.”

“Let me see that,” Wideload said, stepping away from the wall. The big mech closed the distance between himself and the green Throttlebot leader. He took the datapad from Rollbar’s hand and looked at the schematics displayed on it. The orange mech smiled slightly behind his faceplate. He did like it. It was big, powerful, and even had a very large cargo compartment, which would make his function as materials transport much simpler.

“He included enough credits to pay for getting the new alt modes and for transport to Earth,” Rollbar informed the rest of his team. “So, what’re we waitin’ for Throttlebots? Let’s go show Earth who’s the toughest team of bots around!” The green Throttlebot leader turned and headed for the door. Behind his back the others all rolled their optics and smirked at their leader’s typical macho attitude, but followed right behind him. They too were eager to get to Earth to find out about their mysterious assignment.

Several days later, the Throttlebots slunk through the dark corridors of one of Autobot City’s as yet unfinished levels, Searchlight‘s headlights illuminating the way.

“I hate all this sneakin’ around,” grumbled Rollbar. “When’re we gonna get to where we’re supposed to meet Tracks anyway?”

“We’re almost there,“ said Searchlight. They continued on for a few more minutes, then stopped when they came to a small chamber.

“This is the place,” Searchlight announced.

“So where’s Tracks?”, wondered Chase.

“Right here,” said a voice from the shadows. Tracks stepped into the light, holding a datapad in his hand. “Welcome to Earth, Throttlebots.”

“Cut the chitchat, Tracks,” Rollbar said. “We’re here on business. Who’s our target this time?”

“Yes,” added Freeway, “inquiring minds want to know.”

Tracks grinned maliciously and answered simply: “Prowl.”

The Throttlebots’ reaction was instantaneous. They all stood silent for a moment doing a quick diagnostic on their audios to made sure they’d heard correctly. They had. Their faces clearly displayed their shock, as Searchlight said what they all were thinking: “Have you flipped a motherboard or something, Tracks?!”

“What?”, Tracks replied with mock incredulity. He had in fact expected such a reaction. “You’ve done such jobs for me before.”

“Yeah,” Chase said, “but this is no common soldier we’re talking about here. Prowl is the Lord Prime’s second-in-command.”

“We try something like this, and it’ll likely mean our heads,” said Freeway.

“Yeah, and if you think we’re gonna put our lives on the line for you, you’ve got some wires crossed, pal,” added Rollbar.

“Ah, but what if I could make it worth your while?”, said Tracks slyly.

“It’d take something pretty impressive to do that,” said Wideload.

Tracks tossed Rollbar the datapad he held.

“How about this?”, he asked the Throttlebot leader.

Rollbar activated the datapad as his teammates gathered around, also wishing to see what Tracks thought would be impressive enough to get them to take this job. They expected to see a large credit amount or a promise of numerous energon cubes, which would not have convinced them that the job was worth the risk. What they did see was something they had never expected. The datapad displayed a set of schematics, most of which they didn’t understand, but anyone could have understood what the final image on the datapad meant. It showed five mechanoid figures combining into one enormous mechanoid figure. For the second time in the space of five minutes, the Throttlebots all wore expressions of shock as they realized what they were being offered: the technique by which a group of normal mechs could be modified into a gestalt team.

“Well?”, said Tracks in the smug tone of someone who was already sure he had succeeded. “Is that sufficiently impressive?”

“Where did you get this?”, Freeway asked.

“Let’s just say I now owe someone a favor and leave it at that,” answered Tracks. “So, do we have a deal?”

“Only if we get this,” Rollbar held up the datapad, “in advance. We’re not takin’ on a job like this unless we’re sure we’re gonna get somethin’ out of it.”

Tracks frowned, but nodded.

“And upon completion of the job I’ll transfer to your account on Cybertron enough credits to pay to have the procedure done. If you fail to complete it you’ll have to get the funds elsewhere, and you can imagine that it would be quite expensive. Not just for the skill, but also for the . . . discretion . . . of those performing the procedure. Are we agreed then?”

Rollbar nodded. “It’s a deal,” he said, smiling maliciously in anticipation.

Prowl walked down the dark corridor, headed for the coordinates the message had indicated. A technician had contacted him a short time ago, alerting him to a problem that required his attention. Annoyed at having been pulled away from his duties for something so trivial, he continued wondering what was so important that it required his presence. It was not until the net dropped on him that he realized he had been set up. As he attempted to get the net off of him, it suddenly electrified sending an extremely painful jolt through his circuits, overloading his systems and causing him to black out momentarily, collapsing onto his back with a reverberating clang as his body struck the metal floor.

Several seconds later, he came out of his forced shutdown to the sound of footsteps approaching him. He did not, however, give any indication that he had awakened, remaining still and keeping his optics offline. Those who were approaching were likely the same ones who had put him in this position in the first place, he reasoned. He would let them think he was still unconscious, give his systems time to fully boot up again, and perhaps learn their plans. Then they would pay.

Someone was laughing maliciously. “Gotcha,” the laugher said, the sneer apparent in his voice.

Prowl felt someone pull the net off him. “Hey, Freeway,” a second voice said, “this trap of yours worked even better than I thought it would. The guy’s still out.”

“Maybe all the stuff we heard about Prowl being so tough was just rumors,” a third voice chuckled.

“Yeah, Load” agreed a fourth voice, “if all that stuff was true, he’d be back online by now.”

“If you three are done,” Freeway said, annoyed, “let’s get to work. Tracks isn‘t paying us to stand around talking you know.”

Ah, thought Prowl deviously, so, these four . . . no, five, are mercenaries. Then it isn’t them I need to teach a lesson so much as the one who sent them. Well . . . perhaps I can turn this to my advantage. . . .

“Freeway’s right,” a fifth voice said as it approached Prowl. “Let’s just get this job done an’ get outta here.” The next thing Prowl heard was the unmistakable sound of a laser pistol being charged.

Time to make my move, thought Prowl and activated his optics. A rather short mostly green mech stood next to him on his right, aiming a laser pistol squarely at the prone ‘Bot’s head.

“Wha-”, exclaimed the green mech as he saw Prowl’s optics activate. The mech didn’t have time to say more than that because Prowl struck out with his foot, kicking the laser pistol out of his hand and sending it clattering into the shadows. At the same time, Prowl reached into his subspace pocket, producing his acid pellet rifle. He sat up, aiming it at the startled mech who had been holding the laser pistol. As Prowl got to his feet never taking his optics or his gun off the green mech, he noticed the others readying their weapons.

The Throttlebots instantly pulled out their weapons and aimed them at Prowl, but they hesitated, unsure of what to do. Prowl had placed Rollbar between himself and them, and if they fired Rollbar would be killed as surely as Prowl would.

“Well,” said Prowl, “that was quite a clever trap, though unfortunately for you, not quite clever enough.”

“I knew we’d get slagged for this,” said Searchlight in a meant to be overheard mumble.

“We were jus’ doin a job,” said Rollbar nervously, acutely aware of the weapon aimed at him. “Mech’s gotta make a living, ya know. Anyway it’s not us ya should be after, it’s that guy Tracks. He’s the one who hired us.”

“And what did he offer you in return for my termination?” Prowl asked.

“I got it right here on a datapad,” said Rollbar, producing the datapad from subspace and tossing it onto the floor at Prowl’s feet.

Prowl bent down to retrieve it, careful to not let his gaze or his gun wander. He stood back up, holding the datapad out from him so he could view its contents without looking away from the green Throttlebot leader. When he saw what the datapad contained, he asked the green mech: “Did Tracks tell you where he acquired this information?”

Rollbar shook his head and answered: “No, he jus’ said that he owed somebody a favor for it. He gave us that up front, and offered to pay to have us modified if finished the job.”

Prowl had his suspicions over who it was Tracks now owed a favor to, but kept them to himself. That was of little importance at the moment. Now, he thought, I have these mercenaries right where I want them. Now to, what was that line from that human movie? Ah yes, “make them an offer they can’t refuse”. Out loud he said to them, “Would you, perhaps, be interested in a counter offer?”

The other Throttlebots lowered their weapons, and Prowl lowered his.

“Depends,” said Wideload. “What’re you offering?”

“Well, aside from your lives, I’ll return this datapad to you as well as provide more than enough credits for you to have the procedure performed.”

“And what do we have to do?” asked Chase, sounding suspicious.

“Help me teach Tracks a little lesson,” Prowl answered, smiling maliciously. “And I already have a plan to do just that.”

Rollbar looked at each of the other Throttlebots in turn and each one nodded.

“You’ve got a deal,” Rollbar said. “What’s the plan?”

Tracks stood in front of the full-length mirror in his quarters enjoying one of his favorite pass-times, admiring himself, when his commlink beeped, indicating an incoming message. Tracks grinned maliciously. If I’m not mistaken, this is the message I’ve been waiting for. . . . However, just in case it wasn’t, Tracks kept his voice carefully neutral as he opened the comm channel and said simply: “Tracks here.”

“And who else would it be?”, asked Freeway, via the comm.

“Just get to the point,” Tracks replied. “Is it done?”

“It’s done,” Freeway answered. “We figured you might want to come and confirm completion of the job yourself before arranging for our payment, maybe even pick out a little . . . souvenir.”

Tracks heard Freeway’s wicked chuckle over the comm and returned one of his own. He knew exactly what Freeway was talking about.

“Send me the coordinates, and I‘ll be right there,” Tracks said.

Tracks left his quarters and hurried down the corridor, trying not to seem too eager to reach his destination. As he headed for the specified coordinates, he pondered just what “souvenir” to take. He knew that the Lord Prime collected the heads of his fallen foes in this manner, but he needed nothing so ostentatious.

Maybe just that chevron symbol on his helmet, Tracks thought. Yes, a nice little reminder that he’s gone for good this time. A low chuckle escaped him as he made his decision. Yes, that chevron would do nicely.

He realized that he was nearing the coordinates, deep in the bowels of the as yet unfinished Autobot City.

Soon, Prowl, soon I’ll be the only one-

His thought was abruptly cut off by a net dropping on him from above.

“What?!” he exclaimed trying to get the net off of himself. “What is this?!”

Suddenly a powerful electrical current ripped though his systems, sending most of them into instantaneous shutdown in self-defense. Just before he completely lost consciousness, he heard a familiar, malicious chuckle.

As Prowl and the Throttlebots stepped out of the darkness, Prowl said to the unconscious Bot: “I believe that the humans would call it an ‘old fashioned double-cross’, Tracks.” He gestured to the Throttlebots to pick up the unconscious Tracks. “Bring him.”

Chase and Searchlight picked up Tracks and carried his limp form to the nearest lift. The others stepped in behind them, and the group headed for street level. Once on the street, Wideload transformed to his dump-truck mode and Tracks was tossed unceremoniously in his dumper. Prowl and the other Throttlebots transformed to their respective vehicle modes, and they set off, driving away from Autobot City. Prowl radioed ahead to the Ark.

“Is everything ready for the arrival of our . . . guest?”

“Yes, sir,” a voice answered. “Everything has been prepared as you ordered, sir.”

“Excellent,” Prowl responded, a sinister note entering his voice. “We will be arriving shortly. Prowl, out.”

“Oooooo . . .” Tracks moaned as his systems began to boot up again. What the Pit happened to me? he wondered. He felt like he had been run over by Optimus Prime. Slowly, he brought his optic sensors back online. At first, his saw only blurry colors, static crackling in the periphery of his vision. What he saw when his vision cleared, however, didn’t make him feel any better.

He was seated on a chair in a brightly-lit room, the walls of which were lined with mirrors. Reflected in those mirrors was himself. Normally, he found little more pleasant the admiring his own form, but this time was different. His beautiful blue and silver body had been marred, his normally immaculate finish sullied by ugly, web-shaped scorch marks! They were on his chest, his arms, and he was sure there must be some on his back as well.

“Someone is going to pay for this,” growled Tracks. He tried to rise, only to realize that his arms and legs were bound to the chair.

“What’s going on here?”, he demanded as he attempted to break free of his bonds.

“Ah, I see you’re awake, Tracks,” said a voice he both knew and despised, emanating from a hidden speaker. “Welcome back to the land of the functional.”

“Prowl?!” Tracks yelled in both surprise and fury. “You’re supposed to be-”

“Dead?”, Prowl answered. “You should know by now that I am very difficult to kill, Tracks.” Tracks’ only response was an inarticulate snarl and a furious tug at his restraints.

“As to your current situation, you attempted to kill me. That was a mistake, one I intend to correct very soon. However, first I’d like to introduce you to a few . . . employees . . . of mine.”

Tracks heard the sound of a door opening somewhere behind him, and then five familiar mechs stepped into view, each carrying a large, cylindrical container.

“I believe you know them,” said Prowl via the speaker.

“You!”, hissed Tracks furiously. “What are you doing here?”

“We got a better offer,” stated Searchlight matter-of-factly.

“It’s so hard to find good help these days,” scoffed Freeway. His comment elicited a chuckle from his fellow Throttlebots and another growl from Tracks as he tried, in vain, to lunge at the blue Throttlebot.

“Enough of that,” said Prowl’s voice over the speaker. “Throttlebots. . . .”

The five Throttlebots shot each other conspiratorial grins as they began to remove the lids from the containers they had brought.

“It seems that the humans once had a method of punishment called ‘tarring and feathering’. We were fresh out of feathers, but I was able to procure some tar.”

The Throttlebots hefted their containers, which Tracks could now see contained a black liquid, and began to advance on the bound Corvette. Tracks felt a sense of dread begin to overtake his circuits as he shifted his gaze nervously from Throttlebot to Throttlebot. They aren’t going to . . ., he shuddered at the thought, dump that on me . . . are they?

It was clear that that was exactly what they intended to do. Again, Tracks struggled futilely against his bonds. The Throttlebots stopped a short distance from the bound Corvette.

“Bottoms up, Tracks,” sneered Freeway, as he observed the look of dread on Tracks’ red faceplate. Tracks closed his optic covers tightly, cringing in horror as the blue Throttlebot tipped the container and poured its contents down on his head. The other Throttlebots followed suit, and soon Tracks was covered in hot, sticky tar. It got into his mouth and joints, and he could feel it coating his beautiful body. He spat the stuff out of his mouth in disgust.

Maybe there’s something to facemasks after all, he thought briefly. Then, slowly, he did what he’d been dreading and slid his optic covers open. Oh no! NONONONONONO!

Reflected back at him in the rooms mirrored walls, he could see his gorgeous blue and silver body, his pride and joy, the perfection that was himself covered in hideous black ooze. Rage and horror filled him with such intensity that he was unsure which was which.

“Whasamatter, pretty-boy?”, jeered Searchlight.

“Yeah,” Chase chimed in, “don’t you like your new paint job?”

As the Throttlebots laughed, Tracks deactivated his optics and closed his optic covers tightly once again, but the image of his tar-covered body had burned itself into his neurocricuits. The darkness behind his optic covers could not shut it out. Nor could it block out the mocking laughter of the Throttlebots as humiliation joined the mix of emotions filling his processors. He wanted to shout at them to stop laughing, to shut up and get this tar off him for Primus’ sake, but he was well beyond the point of coherent speech. A furious roar escaped him as he attempted to launch himself at his tormentors, but he was no more successful than his previous attempts, as his bonds brought him up short. This merely caused the Throttlebots to laugh harder as they watched his futile attempt to get free.

The sound of the door opening cut off the Throttlebots’ laughter, though a few snickers could still be heard in the background. Prowl positioned himself directly in front of his captive as the Throttlebots stepped back, out of the way. Tracks opened his optic covers and shot Prowl a glare so fierce that, had his optics been lasers, they would have bored a pair of holes straight through Prowl’s head and likely the wall behind him as well.

“This has been most amusing, Tracks,” said Prowl, “but as I said before, you made a mistake. You tried to kill me and you failed. Treachery can be tolerated, Tracks, but failure cannot.” He pulled his acid pellet rifle out of subspace and aimed it at Tracks’ head. “Goodbye.”

Tracks once again closed his optics and waited for the sound of the shot to fill his audios. But it never did. Instead of the shot, he heard the sound of the door to the room opening, and a new voice ordered: “Stand down, Prowl.” Tracks immediately recognized the voice as belonging to the Lord Prime.

Prowl subspaced his gun, as always unruffled by the fearsome warlord’s presence.

“What brings you here, My Lord?”, he asked.

The Lord Prime stepped into the room and answered: “Do you honestly think that I don’t know what goes on in my own base, Prowl?”

Not nearly everything, Prowl mentally chuckled, but thought the better of saying it out loud.

The Lord Prime turned to the Throttlebots as if noticing them for the first time.

“Leave us,” he dismissed them, almost casually. The five Throttlebots each gave a quick bow then hurried out, plainly relieved. The warlord then turned back to his second in command.

“Tracks nearly had you, Prowl,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You must be getting careless.”

“He may have caught me, but as you can see, he holding me was another matter entirely. The reverse, however,” smirked Prowl, “is clearly not true.”

“I can see that,” said Prime, flatly. He then raised his black laser rifle in Tracks’ direction.

Tracks’ spark froze as he looked down the barrel of the mighty weapon, and the thought went through his mind that he had been spared one execution for another. He heard the shots one, two, three, four . . . and blinked when he realized he was still alive. Not only that, he was free from his bonds. They had been blasted away, leaving yet more scorch marks on his wrists and ankles. His first instinct was to take a flying leap at Prowl and proceed to beat him into scrap, but with the Lord Prime here he didn’t dare. Instead, he merely stood and watched the proceedings, seething inwardly.

Prime, meanwhile, had turned back to his second as if nothing had happened.

“Having him around will do you good, Prowl. Maybe it will keep you on your toes knowing that someone has it in for you.” He then turned slowly to face Tracks.

“And as for you. . . .”

The blue corvette didn’t have time to react as he was slammed into one of the mirrored walls, shattering it. The next thing he knew, he was pinned to said wall by the Lord Prime’s massive red and blue figure, who held him by the throat with one hand. Prime leaned close and said in a low, icy voice: “As for you, Tracks, don’t think I’ll save you next time. If you fail again. . . .”

He left the threat hanging leaving it to Tracks’ imagination to ponder what would happen if he messed up again.

“Am I making myself clear?”

“Y-yes . . . Lord Prime. . . . S-sir,” Tracks managed to choke out around Prime‘s grip. The warlord then released his grasp, allowing Tracks to crumple to his knees, one hand rubbing his dented neck, the other helping to support him. The Autobot leader then stalked from the room followed shortly thereafter by Prowl. The police car paused in the doorway.

“Oh, and Tracks,” he said with a smirk, “you should get yourself cleaned up. You’re a mess.”

Tracks merely knelt there rubbing his neck.

“You’ll pay for this Prowl,” Tracks growled after the Datsun had left the room. “If it takes another fifty thousand vorn, I’ll see you rust in the Pit for this. I swear. . . .”

Several weeks later, the Throttlebots stood in a large open bay adjacent to their headquarters. Normally, it was used for storage, but today it would serve another purpose.

“Well,” said Searchlight, “let’s see if these upgrades were worth all the trouble.”

Rollbar nodded, and signaled for The Throttlebots to transform to vehicle mode, which they did. Here goes nothing, he thought, then gave the order.

“Throttlebots, combine!”

Their bodies moving and shifting into shapes that they never had before, the five Throttlebots joined together to form a single, massive mechanoid. Chase and Searchlight became the left and right legs, respectively. Freeway linked onto them forming the torso. Wideload seemed to nearly split in two, forming the arms. He dumper flipped backwards, becoming the gestalt’s chestplate, upon which a large Autobot insignia was emblazoned. Rollbar transformed and linked on as the head.

The enormous mechanoid’s blue optics flashed online for the first time above his masked faceplate. A deep, rumbling voice like distant thunder emanated from his vocalizer as he spoke for the first time.

“We are Rollbar,” it said. “We are Searchlight. We are Freeway. We are Wideload. We are Chase. We are Throttlebots. We . . . are one. We are. . . .”

The huge mechanoid paused, uncertainly.

“We are. . . . We are. . . . I am. . . .”

All trace of hesitation left the mechanoid and his optics flashed as he smiled beneath his mask.

“I am . . . Road Rage.”