Author's note: This story is to celebrate the release of my second novel, The Deepest Ocean. It's a sharkpunk romance that just came out today. If you'd like to read more about it, there's a link in my profile. And a big thank you to anon_decepticon for brainstorming this idea with me and providing some of the best lines!

For once, Motormaster felt content.

His team had just completed a mission, grabbing samples of a newly developed superfuel and dumping those into Astrotrain. The shuttle had waited for them to board as well, but Motormaster swerved away from the ramp.

"We're heading out," he said briefly over the radio. He had already commed the base with news of their success; even if the Autobots downed Astrotrain, Megatron would know the Stunticons had done their share and then some. Megatron hadn't said much in reply, but he hadn't needed to. Motormaster recognized approval in his leader's voice when he heard it, and that was enough to put him in a rare good mood.

"You lot can't get enough of hanging around on the surface, can you?" Astrotrain replied.

If you weren't carrying something Megatron wants, you'd be looking at the surface right up close, Motormaster thought, his engine rumbling with a sound like a rockslide. He knew what Astrotrain was referring to—that brief interval in the recent past when the Stunticons had been inadvertently turned into human beings and were forced to live among them while they struggled to contact the base—but in the end they'd been returned to their original frames and had more than proved themselves worthy of their place in the Decepticon Army.

In fact, the more he thought about it, their stint as humans had actually worked in their favor. They understood a little more about how the vermin thought and acted now, and had been able to use that knowledge to their advantage in their latest mission. So suck on that, choo-choo brain, he thought as he accelerated away in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. He took the nearest highway and the other Stunticons closed in on either side in their usual positions—Breakdown scouting in front, Dead End and Drag Strip flanking him –

"Where to now, boss?" Wildrider said over the pounding of raucous music as he accelerated to bring up the rear.

"Offroad, up ahead," Motormaster replied and drove through the guardrail at the point he'd chosen. Gravel slid away in a tide beneath his weight, but eighteen tires were more than enough for him to stay upright and steer a course towards the shadows cast by a cliff in the distance. The ground there was smooth and cool and the area deserted, not a vehicle or an Autobot in sight. Motormaster transformed, his engine ticking over as it cooled, and the other Stunticons braked to a halt beside him.

"Downtime," he said, and stretched out full-length, powering down his forcefield as he slid his crossed wrists beneath his cowling. Half an hour's rest, he decided, and then a visit to that car wash they'd terrorized until the resigned humans accepted the unspoken agreement that the Stunticons wouldn't cause too much damage if the humans served them instead of running away screaming. Motormaster kept the inside of his cab clean, but his exterior could use a good scrubdown, with proper hoses sluicing the insides of his wheel-wells, cleaning out his treads and polishing his glass. And a full tank of diesel afterwards. We've earned it, he thought.

He hadn't expected any effusive expressions of gratitude from his team at their reward, and he didn't get any. They merely transformed and plopped down onto the ground as well. Dead End complained about sand in his joints. Wildrider's radio kept blaring until Motormaster growled at him to turn the slagging thing off.

After that it was quiet and cool beneath the shadows. Motormaster offlined his optics, shifted his broad shoulders to settle himself more comfortably against the ground, and wondered whether he could risk dropping offline for a little. He couldn't remember feeling this relaxed in a long time.

"It's so quiet," he heard Wildrider say, in the tones of someone spotting an army of ten million Autobots preparing to attack.

"That being the nature of downtime," Dead End replied in a similarly muted voice, "I'm not sure what we can do about it."

"We could cloudwatch," Breakdown said.

Drag Strip made a sound like all the air being let out of a tire. "Bo-ring."

"We could interface," Wildrider said more cheerfully.

Primus, not in front of me, Motormaster thought, and for once it seemed the others agreed with him.. "Uh, no thanks," Drag Strip said.

Wildrider chuckled. "I'll bet the last time you interfaced was when you were human."

"We were all human, in case you've forgotten," Drag Strip snapped. Motormaster didn't need to online his optics to know that Drag Strip was glancing over at him apprehensively. "And you were the one who always wanted to do it all the time. I don't know why the humans even bother; it's disgusting and it wasn't any fun. I'm glad we're all ourselves again."

"Apparently it serves another purpose," Dead End said, sounding—if not actually interested—a little less apathetic than usual. "Its primary purpose, in fact. The function of human interfacing is to create new humans."

"Yeah, right," Drag Strip said.

"It's true. That's why they have males and females... in order to construct a new human, one of each is required." He paused, and his tone took on a deliberate, pointed quality. "It's fortunate none of us interfaced with any human females during our time among them. Imagine the consequences."

If Motormaster had been driving, he would have slammed his brakes at that moment. As it was, he felt every strut and cable in his frame lock up, and could only hope his sudden, rigid stillness had gone unnoticed. He didn't dare online his optics, and all his willpower was focused on keeping his features expressionless.

"So it's like human interfacing has alt-modes, then," Wildrider said. "Two males, fun-purpose. Male and female, construction-purpose."

"What about two females?" Breakdown said.

"Even more fun, supposedly," Dead End said.

Construction-purpose? Motormaster's fingers tightened into fists behind his helm. Was that why Val had been so willing to interface with him, because it would serve some construction-purpose for her? He wondered why she hadn't picked someone else if she had wanted to make new humans, but then he realized the answer was obvious – even in human form he'd still been the largest of the Stunticons and had towered over most people. Naturally she had preferred him.

"That's stupid," Drag Strip said. "How could interfacing create a new human? You overload, and a new human knocks on the door?"

Yes, put that way, it was stupid. Motormaster didn't usually expect intelligence from Drag Strip, but today seemed to be a day for shocking revelations. He allowed himself a moment of hope. Maybe this was all a misunderstanding, and Val hadn't produced some half-human half-truck hybrid after he made the colossal mistake of interfacing with her.

"The new human starts out very small," Dead End said. "Microscopic, in fact. It's constructed over time within the frame of one of the pre-existing ones."

"What, like in subspace?" Drag Strip said.

"Or in Soundwave," Breakdown suggested.

"I suppose so, yes," Dead End replied. Motormaster onlined one optic, surreptitiously, and glanced over his frame. No, nothing had changed, so Val had to be the one constructing it… and if the new human was microscopic, obviously he wouldn't have noticed. Though given everything else that had been going on at the time, he wasn't even sure he would have noticed a full-sized human being put together.

"How does it get out?" Drag Strip said.

"Painfully. Apparently it explodes from the creator's frame amid a great deal of fluids and agony."

"Like in Aliens?" Wildrider said.

"Exactly, because sometimes the process deactivates the creator." Dead End hummed thoughtfully. "Though in some cases, it's actually worse than that."

"Worse?" Even Drag Strip sounded intrigued now. "How could it be worse?"

"Well, in Aliens, there could only be one internal parasite per host, whereas some humans are unfortunate enough to construct multiple new organisms simultaneously…all of which emerge at the same time."

"Wow," Wildrider said. "Imagine those all bursting out together."

"Pop, pop, pop," was Breakdown's contribution.

"Even hosts that survive are sometimes damaged irreparably," Dead End said. "No doubt that's why some humans prefer fun-only interfacing. They have an aversion to pain."

If I had known all this I would never have gone in for coffee, Motormaster thought. Some humans produced multiple new humans… did that mean Val could have secretly constructed an entire new gestalt with his input, just as Megatron and Vector Sigma had created the Stunticons? And would that new gestalt be organic or cybernetic? Dead End had said interfacing gave rise to new humans, but to Motormaster that would just add insult to injury. Not only would Val have used him without him being aware of it, she would have done it to make more humans, of which there were more than enough in the world already.

Besides, he had never really thought of himself as human, even when he had been one, small and weak and organic. He had always been a Stunticon, had always felt that beneath the pitifully soft skin was his true self, strong and hard and metallic. So perhaps his real nature had come out in the new gestalt as well. It would have taken Val by surprise, but that would serve her right for not telling him anything.

Either way, he had to be certain. He had to find her—assuming she hadn't been deactivated by the process of internally developing so many new mechs, or humans, or both. And if she had produced a new gestalt she would turn it over immediately, because it belonged to him. Slag, if she had constructed a Mazda Miata he would want it.

"How do you know so much about human interfacing, anyway?" Breakdown said suddenly.

Dead End cleared his throat. "I read about it. In a book about human biology."

"Really." Breakdown didn't sound convinced.

At any other time Motormaster would have liked to pursue that line of questioning himself, but for now he had only one priority on his mind. Onlining his other optic, he scrambled up from the ground and transformed.

"Downtime's over," he said as his engine revved. "Get back to the ship and wait for me there."

"Why, where are you going?" Drag Strip said a little too innocently. Motormaster slammed the accelerator and swerved towards him, making him scramble back out of the way.

Maybe the new gestalt would be better than the one he already had, he thought as he drove away. They could hardly be worse.