Poor Scopeshot. Alone, injured, and his Decepticon side is acting up again. . . .

Scopeshot was not in the best of moods at the moment. His patrol had gone smoothly for the most part, but between his mind wandering and talking to himself, he had failed to notice the ravine.

No, not quite failed to notice it. He noticed the ravine all right, just a tad too late to do anything about it.

"Stupid scraggin' planet. Between dust screwing up your traction and these damn car traps everywhere . . ." he muttered, nursing his injured leg, which was split down the middle in the front. He could walk, but the damage was severe enough that every time he took another step, his injury creaked a little wider, became a little more painful. Transforming and driving out was out of the question. The sides of the ravine were steep and practically demanded he climb out, and as for driving out on its bed, who knew how far away the exit ramp on this natural highway was? The best he could do was wait it out . . . or try a risky field repair. He had the proper tools, just not the proper training. The wound looked pretty bad, at least to his untrained optics.

"Hey, at least you're not leaking energon. Be happy," Scopeshot replied. In a sense, though, it wasn't really Scopeshot. In reality, it was more like his better half. . . .

"Happy doesn't cut it on this Primus-forsaken rock," the cold voice muttered again. Scopeshot glared at the far wall for a moment before realizing that he had, indeed, been talking to himself again. Not that it bothered him, just that he usually didn't notice it.

Okay, time to take this little talk inside, the cold, steely voice named Scopeshot said.

Spoilsport. Come on, just laugh or something. All this depressing coldness is just gonna rot your fuel pump, an arrogant, almost cocky voice said. This voice, which had not been heard by another living mechanism for at least four million years, if not more, belonged to someone that many believed was very, very dead.

Shut up. Just go away and die like you were supposed to.

Hey, I don't remind you that you're an imposter, you don't remind me that I'm a living dead mech.

Watch your mouth or I'll delete your resource files so quick my head will spin.

Primus, you are an idiot. You use those same resource files, too, you know. Delete them and Perceptor's got a new body shell to experiment with real quick like.

And when in the Pit did you start picking up Jazz's lingo?

Since you work with him. You know, you tell me I'm not supposed to exist. Well, you're not supposed to either.

Shut up. I don't have to listen to you.

No choice. Now listen, damn you, or I will personally make it a point to make as big an ass of you as possible back at base.

I don't like you, you know that?

Tough. You were supposed to be just this nice little cover persona that I cooked up in a moment of pique, and I was just supposed to be able to live my life elsewhere without much bother, but nooo, you had to go and take over.

What did you expect? Autobot personality to match an Autobot existence.

I thought that fundamentally I had changed, but no, still the same old Skystorm inside. Just that now I have to nurture you so that nobody realizes what's what and blows a nice gaping hole in our mutual torso.

You know, you talk a lot. Very irritating habit.

And you don't. Part of our fundamental differences when I created you.

Hey, stop calling me your creation.

What, you prefer to be called a figment of my imagination?

. . . If I could, I'd smack the living daylights out of you.

And if I could, I'd be making faces at you right now.

You are incredibly immature, you know that, right?

I'm not immature, I'm just carefree.

Same difference.

Not really. If I were immature, I'd do simple things to annoy the slag out of you, and then run away giggling like one of these human children.

You just artfully annoy the slag out of me with your twisted words.

I prefer they be called preemptive insults.

Or your sad jokes.

Wisecracks, thank you. When was the last time you made a crack about someone?

The last time I let you take a little control, and damned if I didn't almost get my face busted in by Blaster.

Hey, that's my face you're talking about there.

No, I mean my face. The one the universe sees.

. . . Philosophical crap. Not my forte.

It was when Smokescreen was interrogating you.

I was shot and probably going insane. There's my excuse.

No, you were shot and being a bigger pain in the skidplate than any mech has a right to be.

But hey, I gave him a few more glitches in his central processor to work out.

. . . This will sound very not me, but why did you decide to become me?

A vengeance streak a light-year wide. That, and the desire to kick skid and take names.

Ah, yes. Well, you hold a grudge, don't you?

Against everyone who left me to die, twisted my life, and ultimately made me into you.

Should I start counting?

Nah, you know the list.

Everyone I've shot at that doesn't wear this ugly red thing.

. . . Oh, you meant the Autobot symbol!

Quiet, you.

Hey, admit it, that symbol just doesn't look too snazzy. The omega looks much nicer.

At least on that we agree.

Good. Could we agree that I get a little more time in the world?

Like the smelting pools of Cybertron you do. Last time I let you take a little precedence we almost got killed.

Hey, I didn't know that Warpath was that pissy about his gun. I mean, what, he treats it like it's a part of him.

It IS a part of him, dimwit.

I know that, I was being sarcastic. Yeesh, you Autobots have no sense of humor. Except Jazz. And maybe Smokescreen. But not you.

'You' Autobots? Last I checked, you were in on this ride, too.

Maybe, but I created you as my sub-in. I may not exactly hold perfect ties to the Decepticons anymore but I sure as the Pit don't want to ally my mind to the Autobots either. You go ahead and do that for me. Oh, wait, you already did.

Now you see why you don't get to do much of the talking?

No. I'm much better at talking to people than you are.

Oh, shut up before--

Before you what? Shut us both down? Or put a plasma shell through both our heads? Oh, lovely foresight there.

So what would you prefer, we capture a Seeker, wipe his memory, delete his OS, and copy you into him?

I honestly wouldn't mind, but that suggestion was crazier than any of my comments so far.

I know, but still, you want to try such a stunt?

I think that you're out of our scraggin' mind.

Hey, don't say I didn't offer.

Not that. Just that the chances of capturing a Seeker intact, or even a Seeker body shell, are fairly slim. Dammit. . . .

Heh, you miss it, don't you?

Flying? Hell, yes. You've only recalled my memories about flying. You haven't experienced it firsthand.

And I hope I never do.

Where's your spirit of adventure?

I think you absorbed it.

Was that a joke?

Maybe.

Heh, so I'm making progress.

Are you sure you're not a virus? Your enthusiastic approach to others and humor is infecting me, I swear.

Hey, you needed to lighten up. Here, I'll offer you a deal.

As much as I hate to say it, I'm listening.

We cooperate.

Nope, not gonna happen, opposite sides of the coin.

At least let me finish first.

I'll grant you that much.

Hey, why are you doing the granting? I'm the original.

Haven't we been down this dull and irritating road?

Poetics. Now you're getting cultured.

Oh, like you had any to begin with?

Yes, actually. Even though I was rather low-ranked and such, I was still respectful and friendly. A lot more than I can say for you.

Respectful? You? Please, I'm laughing hard enough as it is at the thought of you being cultured.

And I'm laughing at you all the time, you groundpounding gun gearhead.

Please don't make me kill you.

Was that sarcasm?

Perhaps.

It wasn't a very good attempt.

I'll learn from you then.

Okay, can I get back to the deal?

Go ahead.

We cooperate, do the important killing stuff, and all those nice Autobot activities.

What's the catch?

Off the highway, I drive.

Wha . . . oh, no, by the Pit, I don't think so.

All right, how about this. Either I get some chance to vent every now and then, or I'll show up every so often and start throwing you for a loop in front of everyone else.

The difference?

If we cooperate, I won't pop up and embarrass you, and you won't have me yelling in your head. Otherwise, I will complain. A lot. Worse than Gears ever did. And, I will take control at the slightest opportunity because I am sick of being cooped up.

. . . How about this: combination of personalities.

No way. If freedom costs me being like you, I'd rather be caged.

Okay, so now, we stand at arguing at each other, talking to ourselves, while everyone wonders what the heck is going on.

It amuses me to no end.

Damn you.

Can you hear me laughing at you?

Too much, actually. Now, as long as we're arguing at each other and generally making people wonder about my mental health, how about we devise a way to get out of here without tearing my leg open.

I'd say fly, but you can't.

Thanks so much.

Scopeshot looked at the ravine wall he was leaning on, and an evil gleam came over his optics.

"Simplicity in and of itself. And I couldn't have stated it better."

Jazz was, as usual, holed up in the rec room, sifting through Blaster's pirated music for some decent selections. He looked up just as a slightly charred Scopeshot walked by, assault cannon in hand. He trailed dust and soot, which mixed with the wisp of smoke rising from the assault cannon's barrel.

"Hey, Scopes! Where've you been? You were supposed to report back a coupla hours ago."

Scopeshot turned and looked, as if noticing Jazz for the first time.

"I got sidetracked. For the moment, though, just give me some peace and quiet."

"You keep saying that. Primus, man, you gotta lighten up every now and then."

Scopeshot slung the rifle across his shoulders, and Jazz thought the other Autobot was actually smiling.

"I'll lighten up . . . when rock faces fly."

Jazz pondered the circumstantial evidence for a moment. Scopeshot simply walked away. Jazz could have almost sworn the other robot had hummed what had to be a parodied line from some long-forgotten Earth show.

"Oh, I am an Autobot, and I'm okay…" Scopeshot sang softly before giving a maniacally amused laugh that echoed in the halls. . . .