Nickel takes over the Warworld, the Worst Customer Ever, Skyfire deals with feral Autobots, Bob is stern in its own way, Playing the Long Odds continuation, revolutions, Brave Police, the aftermath of battle, battlefield flirting, Christmas in the Ark, and Swindle is dangerous.

Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 40

Warning: Death, stress, feral behavior, war, cuddling.

Rating: R

Continuity: IDW, G1, Brave Police J-Decker, Playing the Long Odds.

Characters: Nickel, Deathsaurus, Starscream, Prowl, Skyfire, Bob, Sunstreaker, Smokescreen, Jazz, Octane, Sandstorm, Brave Police and Yuuta, Combaticons.

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Motivation (Prompt): Various Tumblr things.

[* * * * *]
Pt. 40

[* * * * *]

[* * * * *]

"What if"

[* * * * *]

Choom! Choom! Choom!

The mass intake of air robbed the battlefield of air. Temporarily, of course, and it came back out in a babble of a hundred shocked, wordless exclamations as stunned-motionless Decepticons stared in disbelief at the spray of interior parts now painting the ground. A stray piece of brain module bounced to a gentle halt, teetering for a second before it stopped.

Three bodies slumped down atop it, the noise of their collapse lost in the general outcry.

"And that," Nickel said in a no-nonsense tone made all the more frightening by the tight anger-lines bracketing her mouth, "is that. It's over. Done." The meter in her forehelm didn't even tick as she climbed back to her feet. She had the titanium nerves of a forged medic. Once the prognosis was clear and excising faulty parts became the obvious solution, she wasn't one to dither over surgery - or regret the cure. She wouldn't waste time mourning the malfunctions she'd rid the Decepticons of.

The rifle in her hands quivered. It might have been shock. It might have been fear.

Deathsaurus' startled backwing had launched him upward, but his feet crunched back onto the ground in a loud, awkward thump he turned into an enraged step forward. "What have you done?!"

She glared up at him in microsized fury. "What you wouldn't, you coward!" Her voice raised even as he advanced on her, and it carried over the remaining ranks of the Warworld's crew. "You sacrificed your mechs for that? That?!" She stabbed one indignant finger toward the pathetic trio of headless bodies. "Your mechs died so Tarn and Overlord could make a show. I could have taken the shot at any time, but you heard him. You heard him! He didn't give the order until he'd built Megatron's confidence by killing your crew, just so those two boltheads could have their moment of glory cutting him off at the knees. You stood by while they sent Decepticons to the slaughter, so I did what I had to end it! I ended this madness! Me. Not you. You coward."

She slung Vos up against her shoulder, barrel pointed to the sky, but her other hand clenched into a fist brandished before her. It was a gesture of aggression, but also one of disdain. Deathsaurus hesitated, struck by how that tiny hand grasped the suddenly free-floating threads of power loosed by the headshots she'd taken. That Vos had allowed her to take.

Much like Deathsaurus had allowed Tarn to use the lives of his Decepticons, exactly as she'd pointed out.

Publically, which made this suddenly a rather awkward situation for him.

The rogue commander could already hear the murmur of anger starting in the ranks as the truth of her accusations spread. The little fragging glitch had seized the moment, and Deathsaurus had but a moment to seethe in admiration, fear, and rage before bowing to the inevitability of defeat. What scraps of authority he had left as realization dawned in the ranks had to be used to save his own neck. It was either concede or be torn apart by his own troops.

His fingers curled in to dig the claws into his palms as he knelt slowly before his new leader, the new Empress of Destruction. "I…was a fool. Tarn led me astray," forced out between gritted teeth, and he lowered all of his optics in humility. "I can see that now. You did what I couldn't, and I swear my loyalty to you."

She snorted into the tense silence after a moment. The Decepticons waited for her to either accept Deathsaurus' surrender or throw him to the ranks. Right here and now, it was her decision to make. She held his life in a miniscule fist.

She merely muttered, "Don't do me any favors," as she turned to march down across the battlefield.

Deathsaurus was left on bended knee, uncertain if he'd been spared or simply dismissed. His crew stared at the medic as she made her way toward the three mechs she'd shot down. It was telling that Vos stayed still and silent against her shoulder.

Further back on the battlefield, Tesarus and Helex exchanged speaking looks. Neither one of them glanced toward the body of their former leaders, but they made no move to stop Nickel as she bent to prod Tarn, then Megatron. Both bodies stayed limp and grey.

Overlord still had some color to him when she kicked his side. Most of his head was gone, but a groan creaked out over the silent battlefield from the ruins of his throat. It seemed ununtrium made him harder to kill than even the legendary Megatron.

Nickel unslung Vos and fired, pointblank. The body jerked once, twice.

Overlord greyed.

The tiny medic tossed Vos aside, allowing him to transform, and he backed away hurriedly as soon as his feet touched ground. His optics fixed on her face as if he didn't dare turn away for a second. She turned to survey the battered Warworld crew, the surviving Justice Division, and Deathsaurus, still kneeling in submission as he awaited her judgment. They all waited. Traditions were a powerful force among the Decepticons, and anyone who claimed the job had to crown herself.

Almost thoughtfully, Nickel declared, "I, Nickel, now lead the Decepticons."

For a second time, the battlefield emptied of air.

Deathsaurus surged to his feet, his voice part of the resounding shout of, "All Hail Nickel!"

[* * * * *]

Starscream/Prowl - "Role play"

[* * * * *]

Of all the places Starscream expected to spot an Autobot agent working undercover, it wasn't in the snack stall at a neutral spaceport. He had to do a double-take when he saw the flash of black-and-white. The distinctive red chevron was there, but it was over artificially bright optics and a customer service smile too wide to be real. That was kind of creepy to someone who knew the mech in question, and customers behind Starscream started muttering as the Air Commander stopped in line to stare shamelessly.

The doors Starscream could identify from half a battlefield away were muffled by stretchy restraints, food service regulations demanding their broad spread be pinned back to operation standards. Prowl deftly assembled an order of frail lithium crystals into a crisp bag bearing a logo, smiled at the customer as his coworker accepted payment, and chirped, "Have a nice day and come again!" as he handed over the bag, his free hand automatically reaching to accept the next order coming down the tiny stall's assembly line. He looked as though he could do the job in his sleep.

He also, Starscream noted, looked as though he had been there since he was last allowed to sleep. Run-down didn't begin to describe the people working this stall. All of the food service stalls, really, but Starscream didn't give a scrap about what filthy aliens looked like when rested and healthy. All he knew was that Prowl had scuffs underneath hastily-applied polish, and a dull, glazed look of exhaustion beneath the unhealthy gleam of optics turned up above natural levels.

Thoughtful, Starscream stepped forward with the line, letting the people ahead of him hide his presence. Prowl didn't look aware of his surroundings, but one of Optimus Prime's high-ranking officers didn't magically end up in the indentured servitude that was the service industry in these neutral spaceports. An awful lot of what happened in these places was exactly as it appeared, but Starscream didn't trust what was in plain sight. What was Prowl looking to accomplish, here?

Living paycheck to paycheck didn't allow for the freedom to progress, but vanishing in among the downtrodden made for a great cover. Nobody would question his presence. Nobody would ask about his past. Nobody would give his future a second-thought. So long as he didn't stand out, it was the perfect place for a spy to hide in plain sight.

Unless, of course, an equally high-ranking Decepticon got a craving to stretch his wings and pick up the worst junkfood imaginable at the nearest stall once he landed. Starscream was off-duty and away from back-up. One meant he could indulge his curiosity. The other meant he probably shouldn't.

He came to the head of the line quickly. Smiling wickedly, he said, "Never been here before. You!" He pointed even as Prowl's head whipped about from smiling after the last customer. "What would you recommend?"

The expression on the Autobot's face couldn't be described. Prowl's coworker apparently took it as a symptom of a slow, work-addled brain failing to process. "Answer!" he hissed at Prowl.

Prowl opened his mouth twice before his vocalizer engaged, but his optics stayed locked on Starscream's. "I…like anything with the secret sauce on it."

Starscream assumed the secret ingredient was poison. "Then I'll take one of each."

"What? But - " Both front employees looked at the long line of impatient customers waiting behind Starscream. He enjoyed watching them swallow their protests. Money was money, after all, and so what if one customer put the entire line in a bad mood because he ordered half the menu? Corporate didn't give minions like them the power to deny him.

He waited until the cash register chimed with his total before tapping his chin. "No, wait, I don't like silicon flakes. Do any of them have silicon flakes?"

"Uh…"

"I believe some of them do."

"Can you check?" Starscream simpered, and Prowl gritted his teeth, optics slowly narrowing at the Seeker's too-earnest expression.

"Yeah, no problem," the cashier said, and Prowl twitched because it was an enormous fragging problem during the rush hour.

Starscream already had two more requests lined up by the time the Autobot returned from checking ingredients in the back. Prowl looked steadily more ready to snap. Starscream was enjoying himself immensely, and whether or not this resulted in a fight and/or information on the Autobot's mission, he just knew he wasn't getting out this spaceport without a fetish for the cute little hat perched on Prowl's head.

[* * * * *]

"Feral behavior"

[* * * * *]

It wasn't what Skyfire expected when Perceptor told him the other Autobots had been reduced to basic instincts, but he blamed it on nigh-constant interaction with the humans. Human ideas were infectious things.

This was, however, what he should have expected of feral behavior from his own kind. Well, a certain subset of his own kind.

"This is beneath you," he said gently to the police cruiser flashing its lights at him aggressively.

Prowl continued to try and herd him, showing dominate behavior through the rules coded all the way to his base code. To his primitive processors at the moment, Skyfire was disobeying every rule of the road and had to be either driven off the road or prodded back into proper driving. He bumped his front grill protector into Skyfire's ankles, red and blue lights cycling faster and sirens beginning to wail angrily.

The noise summoned the convoy leader. Skyfire couldn't help but smile as Optimus Prime drove around the corner, deep bass rumble of a powerful engine overriding Prowl's frustrated revving. The police cruiser reversed into a quick three-point turn that brought him bleating siren blips to the dominant truck. Skyfire chuckled at the strident complaints.

"Hello, my friend." Not wishing to threaten or challenge his commander, the shuttleformer knelt to bring himself down into what the Prime's basic instincts could interpret as a parking position. It calmed both vehicles somewhat, although Prowl continued to disapprove of his choice of parking spot. This was clearly a road, not a parking lot!

Optimus rumbled his engine, commanding Skyfire move, but there was a method to Skyfire's refusal to stand. Nudges and sideswipes did nothing to move him, and eventually the Prime reached the conclusion Skyfire had been waiting for: Skyfire wasn't moving. Perhaps Skyfire wasn't able to move.

Prowl tore off in full flight to fetch the nearest ambulance. Roadside assistance was needed!

In retrospect, it made perfect sense. A convoy stampede was the natural extension of the Autobots' current behaviorism. Of course the Autobots' vehicle modes, designed by and adapted to humanity, retained metal memory of drivers. Worse, they remembered car salesmen.

Spike and Sparkplug dressed in what was clearly some kind of uniform, even if Skyfire hadn't observed a car salesman to ever dress how they did. Regardless, humans walking into their midst was enough to alarm the whole convoy. Startled by the sudden appearance of their altmodes' natural enemy, the more timid domestic models had sped off down the road while the commercial models hunkered down on their wheels. Sirens flashed warning while Optimus Prime's deep diesel engine revved threat.

Spike stumbled back immediately. "Whoa!"

"Hey, big guy, what's wrong?" Sparkplug held up both hands in a placating gesture. Unknown to him, it was a wise choice. Open hands showed the lack of control devices otherwise known as carkeys. His son didn't follow his lead, and the Prime rumbled warning at him.

Circumstances required Skyfire to diffuse the situation before he could chase down the fleeing cars. "Spike, Sparkplug, I must ask you to retreat. My comrades aren't thinking clearly, and right now you're causing them distress."

The two humans looked between him and the group of vehicles. "Us?"

The Autobots had backed into a defensive half-circle, Optimus Prime up front in the center facing the humans directly. His engine growled when Spike didn't back away. First Aid and Ratchet grumbled, tweeping their sirens as if telling the evil salesmen, "Yeah, you better run!" while Inferno and Hotspot howled their sirens angrily. Red Alert seemed to be scanning for an escape route and guarding their rear.

Spike and Sparkplug backed away slowly, looking up at Skyfire in doubt but trusting his judgment. Skyfire sent Perceptor a message to explain things to them better than he could currently.

The ambulances showed a surprising amount of aggression as the dangerous humans retreated. They tweeped and tweedled, mock-lunging at these squishy beings their coding told them were enemy. Prowl and Streetwise hung back, which seemed odd until Skyfire connected their uncertainty to their function. Aww. The policecars couldn't figure out if the humans were enemy or must protect. It made Skyfire wonder what would happen if the ambulances encountered a wounded human.

Skyfire had just accessed SkySpy to start the search when Optimus Prime's engine truly roared as only a truck's could. Police sirens howled into full protest a moment later as both police cruisers registered the lack of convoy, and Skyfire had to physically pick Prowl up to prevent him from accelerating into the hunt.

"No. I'm not going to lose the rest of you," he scolded the irate car even as he sent Perceptor another message explaining the situation. It ended with, "I need a pen of some sort to contain them."

"Oh dear. I suggest a garage. Blades has not left the helicopter landing pad I sent up for him, and their instincts may be similarly soothed by an accepted resting area. Give me 5 minutes to locate an area to use," Perceptor sent back.

The reply came while Skyfire was still shuffling about to keep the Prime from accelerating forward. The truck kept nudging him sternly but wasn't willing to ram him. Prowl revved angrily, tires spinning, but that worked to Skyfire's advantage. Drawn to the sounds of distress, Inferno rolled over and extended his ladder at the police cruiser as if to help. When Skyfire turned to the side, Inferno backed up and went around to that side to try again. Red Alert escorted him, sirens chirping instructions to the firetruck.

Meanwhile, the rest of their convoy was missing and it was the end of the world.

Turned out that ambulances didn't take being by themselves well at all. They only functioned in a pack. They were good protectors and better caretakers, but separate them from their herd and they utterly lost their slag. Streetwise circled them, distressed by their distress but intent on keeping them from senseless flight. Apparently the herd instinct was strong in a gestalt member, even reduced to base code. He helped nudge the ambulances into Perceptor's hastily set-up garage.

Fortunately, the garage worked as predicted. Upset engine noises putted down into shutdown as surroundings registered. Optimus Prime lasted the longest, cabin lights flickering in slowly dimming awareness as he gradually shut down into standby. Leader of a missing convoy or not, the parking urge was strong. Vehicles did not run inside garages.

It freed Skyfire to go search for the rest of the Autobots, but by then it had been a good hour. A bunch of cars running down the roads didn't stand out by then, and he had no idea if they'd gone straight to the nearest cities or scattered down various turn-offs along the way. A futile three-hour search using SkySpy and his own scanners turned up neither tire nor bumper.

This was, however, where he should have expected the convoy to gravitate to. It made perfect sense to the part of their primitive processors currently most active.

"I know you have your spark set on taking one home," he said gently to the desperate Lamborghini he knelt beside, "but this dealership won't accept courtship offers. They take only cash or credit." He'd asked, once Perceptor finally got a clue to where their missing comrades had ended up via a bemused phone call to the Ark asking if the herd of hopeful cars belonged to them or not. The Portland car dealerships had seen weirder, but purring sportscars nuzzling up to display models and some bizarre courtship displays by some others in the herd - Hound and Beachcomber would never live this down - had been beyond strange.

Sunstreaker crooned another low engine noise at the admittedly very pretty Corvette inside the display room. Skyfire was glad Sunstreaker hadn't broken the window in his desperation to reach such an ideal parade partner. Mirage was already posing beside his chosen model, skipping courtship in order to assume that of course a Ford Thunderbird wanted nothing more than to be seen with him. Tracks appeared to be attempting to groom a Taurus. The convoy wanted badly to add to their numbers, because nothing looked better than a fine group of vehicles rolling together.

At least, Skyfire hoped that was all there was to this. He didn't want to think about vehicle base code mixed in with a Cybertronian attempting to interface.

[* * * * *]

"Bob ficlet"

[* * * * *]

Bob didn't understand much about this bizarre Swarm his master had joined, but he understood dominance and submission. The Swarm functioned as one, but within that one there were many. The one would be a jumbled mess of many instead of one if the many didn't cooperate. The many slotted into place inside the one via an elaborate hierarchy of dominance and submission, every Insecticon responsible and responsive to the other in a firm social ranking that determined place and function.

So Bob understood his master's prickliness. His master had been submissive to the rust-red mech for as long as Bob had been submissive to his master. Their relationship confused Bob, but his master had seemed to be an adoptive pupa, not quite a larva but definitely not an adult. The inability to walk had been indicative of his master's immature body. Now that his master had grown out of his wheeled shell and started walking, the rust-red mech had lost interest in the growing pupa. Bob remembered that stage of development well. It was lonely, walking by himself after so long as a larva doted on by the Swarm caretakers.

It was an uncertain stage of life, too. His master was not an adult, but he was getting there. Now was the time to learn the hierarchy and search for his place within it.

The problem, as far as Bob understood it, was that his master didn't follow the Swarm's cues. It was obvious to Bob that the rest of the mechs didn't want his master among them. Their body language was stiff and borderline angry. The subtle cues of a dominance battle lay underneath every chirping social interaction his master had in the Swarm, but his master wasn't responding right. His master wanted to be dominant. None of the Swarm submit to him. His master tried and tried, but he lost every confrontation.

The proper response, in Bob's mind, was submission. That's what his master's place in the Swarm was, as such a low-ranking Insecticon. He had been put there by group decision. It's how the one worked. If the many didn't cooperate, the Swarm would fall apart.

His master, however, didn't submit.

Bob decided he'd have to force the issue. The next time his master started showing aggression, started puffing up with juvenile pride against one of the Swarm's adults, Bob pounced on his feet.

Repairing his reputation wasn't going so well, especially when Bob started being cute. Sunstreaker attempted to shake him off without breaking optic contact. The Insecticon curled around his foot and chirred.

Ratchet looked down first. "What's your bug doing?" he demanded.

Having a ball of cute wrapped around his leg didn't reinforce the image of a strong frontliner. A frown pulled Sunstreaker's mouth down in an unattractive bow. "He wants attention."

Tiny forepaws kneaded at his shin. It was hard to resist the adorable. Ratchet smirked as the traitor lost his tough-guy image and knelt down to pet Bob. So much for fear and respect. Sunstreaker would have to settle for 'sucker.'

[* * * * *]

"beyond Playing The Long Odds"

[* * * * *]

"You and Optimus?! I, uh. I never." He'd never even guessed. Optimus had always softened around his friends, but Smokescreen hadn't noticed any special treatment toward Jazz. Which was pretty ideal for a relationship on the down-low between officer and commander, but it made him a little sad Optimus had never had the chance to tell him about it himself.

Optics falling to the side, Smokescreen spoke with just a hint of humor. "I guess that explains why you didn't scare him."

Because Jazz scared the paint off everyone else, as demonstrated when the saboteur all but teleported across the room to seize Smokescreen by the upper arms. "Are you sure? Are you - stop screaming."

"I can't help it! Don't do that to me!" Smokescreen tried to back away to get some room, but Jazz had the strength of 10 bears or at least a Dinobot.

And he shook the Praxian again. "Are you sure? Really sure?" He asked with an intensity that would frighten someone who couldn't see the desperation in his visor, or who hadn't seen the grief in the stillness of his expression a minute earlier. "Smokescreen, I need to know. Was he scared of me? Ever?"

Smokescreen grabbed him by the forearms just to stop the shaking, but it turned into a mutual clinging somehow. "Jazz, I…no."

"I didn't intimidate him?"

"You intimidate everyone," Smokscreen said, but he frowned down at Jazz for the stupid question. "What's this about? What are you trying to ask?"

"I…Smokes, you'd know, right?" Jazz searched his face. "You'd know if he felt…threatened into - "

"He wasn't." Optimus hadn't lived long enough to tell him about dating, or his first relationship since Elita One, or whether or not Jazz was more than a six-week fling, but this Smokescreen knew. He gripped Jazz's arms hard enough to dent the plating and crammed fierce denial into every word. "He didn't feel threatened by you. Not ever, Jazz."

For a moment, Jazz stared up at him. The world held its breath.

Smokescreen caught the smaller mech as he crumpled, relief finally overcoming guilt, and grief consuming what should have been joy. He bowed his head over his friend, holding on as Jazz let go.

[* * * * *]

"Revolutions Hope"

[* * * * *]

Revolutions hope.

They dream. They wish. They tear down the old to build something new.

The Decepticon Cause isn't a revolt. It's not a fight to end or to destroy. It is a fight to begin and to create. It's a revolution to remake Cybertron into a better world, a world Megatron speaks of passionately. His vision of war isn't a power-hungry fiction spread for propaganda purposes. It's a fervently held belief, and the Decepticons will die for it.

No promise of peace is worth anything unless it's in the future they fight for.

[* * * * *]

"The Braves get Transformers toys"

[* * * * *]

Yuuta held up Decker's toy and frowned. "It doesn't even look like you!" The colors were all wrong. The Japanese version was better, in his opinion, but the Japanese versions were officially licensed 'Brave Police' merchandise that donated the proceeds to charity. The American knock-offs were called 'Transformers' and had hilarious not-quite-right names. Optimus Prime? What did that even mean?

"Constructicons?" McCrane and Dumpson were eyeing their own knock-offs dubiously, but Power Joe was enjoying himself. "We're so cool they had to split us into 5 bots!"

"I think they're bad guys, though…"

"Aw, really?"

Dumpson shook his head and picked up the Bonecrusher toy. He liked the look of the guy, but he was pretty sure the toys with the purple symbols were evil. "Think so."

"Huh." Power Joe recovered quickly from the news, mostly because he couldn't take Americans seriously. The toy bios on the side of the boxes had obviously lost something in translation. He squinted at the Constructicons' box and sounded out the combined form's name slowly. "Deee…no, Duh. Duv-vuh-stah-to-are. Diva-stay-tore?"

"Devastator," Gunmax corrected, then hunched over his desk almost defensively as everyone looked at him. Reports! More reports to write! Less English reading! He refused to do anymore translating today!

"Devastator's a neat name." Yuuta traded toys with Decker, who'd been comparing the Jazz and Prowl toys with Shadowmaru. They couldn't decide who was supposed to be whom, but Shadowmaru was leaning toward Prowl being his knock-off, and maybe Jazz being Gunmax's. Yuuta liked the Prowl toy better, anyway. "Hey, Gunmax, what's Devastator mean?" the boy asked innocently.

Gunmax's optic twitched behind his shades as the Build Team perked up, immediately interested. He was a jerk, but he wasn't that much of a jerk. "It means 'take down a building carefully.'" Dumpson and Power Joe grinned, happy with the answer, but McCrane kept looking at him as if suspicious. Gunmax buried his attention in reports.

[* * * * *]

" Smokescreen and Ratchet - cuddles"

[* * * * *]

"Bet you can't get him to relax."

Smokescreen laughed. "Cheap shot, Jazz. You really gotta be hitting the bottom of the barrel tonight."

Jazz leaned against the open medbay door and smiled, but weariness hung around him like paint fumes. He'd been running ragged since a week before the battle even happened, his division pulling out every trick in the book and writing extra chapters on the fly to buy the Autobots whatever advantage they could. Now that the battle was actually over, he was crashing hard.

So a cry for help in his own particular way wasn't too surprising. Smokescreen took the comment as such. "How much you wanna bet?"

"How 'bout a full duty shift?" It sounded more like a suggestion than a wager, and Jazz sagged a little further down the doorframe as Smokescreen took a second look at him. "He's been workin' nonstop, Smokes. You get him to relax, you can take as much time off as he does."

The gambler looked across the medbay at Ratchet. "That's a bet I'll win," he promised, and one more responsibility dropped from the heavy burden Jazz carried. He nodded gratefully and pulled his exhausted self together to walk off down the hall.

Six hours later, he finally stumbled into the officer barracks, feet dragging and visor blurred static-white around the edges. He sought his bunk by memory instead of sight. All the lights were dimmed anyway. He could hear Ironhide's engine snorting and grumbling in recharge already, muffler long offline, and the faint whistle of Wheeljack's vents came from the same side of the room, which was unusual. They usually bunked on opposite sides of the room. Huh. Odd.

Jazz knew the sound of the barracks on his off-shift. He found the steady noise a comforting backdrop to his own recharge, these days. Hearing the others sleep meant they had made it another day. He came to his own bunk and stopped short. With his visor mostly offline, he was only able to see vague shapes in the dark, but he could still count more than one person in the bottom bunk. That wasn't right.

It hurt his head, but he rebooted his visor, forcing power in to see who -

Oh. Oh, yeah. Okay, that worked.

He smiled, letting the power fade again. Feeling his way forward, he tried not to wake either of his bunkies. Ratchet looked out of it. Jazz kind of envied him the cuddle-buddy, to be honest. It must be nice to be wrapped around someone warm and alive right now, arms full and hands held tight up in another person's grip. It wouldn't make reality go away, but maybe it would help with the nightmare of memory he knew awaited all the Autobots tonight.

As he slung himself onto the ladder to climb up to his own bunk, Smokescreen stirred. Jazz glanced down at him. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake ya."

"Mm, s'kay. Where you going?"

"Up top."

Smokescreen barely lit his optics, just reaching out blindly to fumble for a handhold. "No. Meant…why you going up there? C'mere."

Jazz blinked a couple times, too tired to get it for a moment. Smokescreen took the opportunity to get a hold on his knee. He obviously wasn't going to leave his snuggly burrow in Ratchet's arms when he could drag Jazz in via insistent tugging on the closest body part.

Who was Jazz to fight? The pull was too strong. He was defeated.

With a low groan, Jazz surrendered to the power of cuddling, and Ratchet engulfed him once he was in range, too. Sandwiched between them, Smokescreen dimmed his optics again, just waiting for Jazz to power down before he slipped free and left both officers cuddled into sleep. His next mark was off-shift in an hour. Optimus Prime had bet him he couldn't get Jazz into a dreamless sleep, but Prowl had bet him he couldn't get Red Alert to sleep at all. Smokescreen intended to win that bet. He'd already won the bet with Ratchet over Ironhide and Wheeljack.

It was a cheap trick, but everyone knew he loved a good bet. It helped when the bet was for a good cause.

[* * * * *]

"Octane/Sandstorm - Flirting in the battlefield"

[* * * * *]

"Hey, baby. Come here often?"

Sandstorm didn't hesitate. His fist smashed into the side of Octane's face, throwing the Decepticon to the ground, and only then did he take the time to respond. "On a battlefield fighting double-crossing sentient slime-molds masquerading as mechs? All the time." Fists clenched tight at his sides, he stood ready to attack.

Hand over the dent in jaw, Octane looked up at him. His smile was lopsided and sickly, a forced cover for something a more charitable Autobot might label worry. Maybe shame, but Octane was shameless. Sandstorm knew that full well. Why else would the mech have returned to Galvatron's side, showed up in the Netherlands to fight the Autobots, and still have the audacity to try flirting with him?

Octane tried to say something else, but Sandstorm was done listening.

[* * * * *]

"Unopened gifts"

[* * * * *]

Christmas had unanticipated benefits. Decorating for the sheer joy of tinsel had left the entire Ark in a good mood for the rest of the week, for one thing, and for another, it established a tradition of dressing up in silly human outfits for the holidays. Optimus Prime would wear almost anything a 'dad' traditionally wore, which was delightful, and there was usually at least one other officer mellow enough to dress as the 'mom' counterpart. Ratchet volunteered to be Mrs. Clause the first year, and everyone loved it. For some reason, robots in disguise in further disguise just tickled the Autobots' collective funny struts.

Then there were the presents.

Gifts were grand any time of the year, but the wrapped presents at Christmas turned up something unexpected. To start with, the Secret Santa thing became a giant Us vs. Red Alert game for the whole faction. The goal was to get the gifts wrapped and under the tree without Red Alert knowing A. what it was, and B. who it was from. There was a point system. Red Alert graded attempts. Mechs set up elaborate schemes involving delivery services, hidden pass-offs in the halls, mechs playing interference, and in one notable if not very wise occasion, a drop-off by Lazerbeak.

With the sole exception of the Lazerbeak Incident, Red Alert actually found it fun. "It's not life-or-death," he told those who dared ask. "I mean, except for Wheeljack's gift, but otherwise it's quite relaxing."

Turned out that Wheeljack's present exploded that year. Sideswipe appreciated the gesture, even if the timer malfunctioned and the tree ended up on fire.

The other side-effect nobody saw coming was that Prowl…didn't unwrap his gifts. The box from his Secret Santa sat unopened on his desk for months after Christmas, and nobody knew what was inside it. Including Prowl himself, which was apparently the point.

"You know I was your Secret Santa, right?" Bumblebee ventured at the end of January. "It's safe to open it. It's not a prank or anything. I think you'll like it."

Prowl regarded the bright package on the corner of his desk with intent optics. He'd taken it out from under the tree as if it was a precious treasure, and he was greatly pleased by its presence. "I'm aware that you're unlikely to prank me. Thank you for your concern, but please don't hint further. I would like to prolong the mystery. The human tradition of buying gifts based on the gift-giver's perception of what gift is wanted is totally unlike any of our own practices, and guessing what you thought I might like is…" He searched for the right word. "Intriguing. I have never gathered intelligence related to this topic, and my tactical suite is in a pleasant state of upset over the lack of data." He fixed his optics on the present and nearly smiled. "I can't predict what's in the box. Thinking about it is entertaining."

And obviously, giving it thought made him happy. 'Child-like,' Sparkplug called it, but in a fond, affectionate way. He compared Prowl's contemplation to a young child's examination when parents aren't looking: pick it up, shake it, weigh it, check off what it could possibly be and not be, wonder, long-for, pick at, grin over, wish for…

In that light, it did sort of make sense that Prowl never opened his presents. The anticipation thrilled him. He didn't know what to expect, and that was exciting for a mech who predicted whole battles.

[* * * * *]

"Swindle selling his teammates"

[* * * * *]

They never said it aloud, but it unnerved them. Swindle had sold them. He hadn't even had the decency to carve them up into spare parts and pretend he at least wasn't selling his gestaltmates whole. No, it had been done with his optics wide open and the rest of the Combaticons dimly aware of his voice haggling for the best price.

That haunted them. Vortex was unhinged, Brawl was rather stupid, Onslaught was manipulative, and Blast Off was detached. Swindle, however, was a cold-sparked slaver without remorse. Even Bruticus wasn't enough to overcome a sale. The others realized after a short time that being in a combiner team overrode individual traits, putting their components beyond the reach of sacrifice, violence, mindgames, and even disgust, but Swindle sailed right past all the emotional and physical attachments that entrapped them. The only thing - the only thing - keeping their team together was the loyalty program. Megatron's orders forced Swindle to get along.

When Megatron died, it took time to realize the implications. By then, the Combaticons were so used to obeying orders like good Decepticon soldiers that freedom didn't feel free. They could leave, but where would they go? What could they do?

It chilled their sparks that Swindle had an answer to every question. He could go anywhere. He could do what he'd always done: buy and sell, sell and buy. And he didn't need them along for the ride.

"One of us is with him at all times," Onslaught said quietly in the dusty corner they'd claimed as their own. His visor was grim. "If he bothers to ask, it's safety in numbers. If he tries to run, alert the rest of us immediately." He couldn't be allowed to flee. They'd never get him back if he did.

Onslaught said nothing about the danger they were in, staying close to Swindle. They already knew how much they were worth to him.

[* * * * *]