The first and most important thing to remember when dealing with Cybertronians, regardless of them being present or not, is that they are a completely different alien species than humans. That means that everything they say or do must be looked at twice, in the event that even familiar gestures turn out to be not what we thought at first.

The second lesson is that there are divisions among the Cybertronians, the most important of which isn't whether they are Autobots or Decepticons, at least if it isn't a matter of immediate survival, but whether they have wings or not.

Winged Cybertronians are natural predators, more 'animalistic' than non-winged ones, and so being careless in their presence can result in damage. They have an exclusive language as well. To clear it up, they are tamed wolves, while the rest are dogs, and the same applies, to a lesser extent, to those whose alt mode is a war machine or, plainly, a weapon.

Beware when dealing with these warmechs.

Talking about physical differences, the visor in place of optics is actually natural rather than an addition, at least most of the time, and merely means that those mechs have a different visual range than those with optics. Facemasks are also optional.

One rule that will spare many a headache is to never assume anything about familial relationships, as the newborn Cybertronians are transferred to an 'adult' frame when they are born, and so there are no physical clues to tell them apart. Cybertronians don't grow physically, only mentally. As thus, many a mech may be related despite them not looking alike.

And, on that topic, Cybertronians don't have genres. Just because a mech is referred to as 'he', it doesn't mean they're male. As thus, all Cybertronians can carry a child, rarely twins.

Twins may be more or less similar depending on how much coding they share.

About families, it's also important to mention that Cybertronians can be created through an ancient computer of their homeworld, thus having no parents, by one mech or by two. That is because all Cybertronians are, in essence, a mass of energy in a robotic body, called sparks. When these sparks split, a 'baby' Cybertronian is born, and transferred into a frame of their own.

Cybertronian sparks can store incredible amounts of data, both from the actual partner of the mech or former ones or the parents and, more rarely, grandparents. So, taking that into account, the child might be of a completely different frame type as the parent or parents.

Their sparks also allow them to connect to other mechs, creating bonds that allow them to know, to a varied degree depending on their development, how the other mech is doing.

There are thirteen different frame types, some easily recognized and others harder to classify. These are Road Runner (cars), Shuttle, Chaser (motorbikes), Femme, Minibot, Builder (construction vehicles), Triple Changer (two alternate modes), Seeker (jets), Doorwinger (doors carried as wings in root mode), Cassette Carrier, Medic (identified by inner structure), Tread Roller (tanks and weapons) and Cargo (vans and trucks). There are also Hybrids, that may look more or less like a certain frame type, or like none at all. Some Hybrids may also develop unique abilities due to the mixed coding.

The abilities that are characteristic of a mech and can't be replicated are Sigma Abilities. However, some are thanks to the aid of some external factor or machine attuned to the mech, and so are not exclusive.

Cybertronians have storage 'pockets' known as subspace, able to compress most everything without problem, even parts of themselves when they transform. They also have anti-gravity systems that allow them to be lighter than they may look, thus allowing them to better blend in, when it comes to those whose size decreases drastically in their alt mode.

The Cybertronian history begins with a creation myth not unlike that of some human religions: One powerful being decided to create robots and gave them a part of his soul, his spark, to gift them life. The creation of their world, Cybertron, came after, once the robots became independent enough that their creator decided to find them a world to live on, and they chose to stay roaming the galaxy with him, thus the creator turned his own body into Cybertron.

He also gifted yet another part of his soul to the lead Cybertronian, earning him the title of Prime, of leader of their people, as long as he carried the Matrix of Leadership.

Further along their history, a Senate was created to better rule Cybertron and its populace, bringing in a Golden Age, but, eventually, it became corrupted, prompting Megatron to rise and unite his Decepticons in a coup to overturn the Senate and bring in a new government.

However, Megatron became power-hungry, and so the Autobots, led by Optimus Prime, opposed him for the sake of Cybertron, with the conflicts escalating into the war they are currently fighting, as neither side can agree about the future of their planet.

Culturally, Cybertronians get along better with those of their same frame type or related ones—Fliers on one side, Grounders on another, Doorwingers usually in the middle—but they are all more than capable of living alongside different ones in peace, as long as they keep their spark-code, their instincts, controlled.

Cybertronian 'stories', however, have more than a degree of truth in them, unlike human ones.

Zombies and ghosts are very real problems for Cybertronians.

Cybertronian zombies, known as Frame Snatchers, occur when a dead frame is inhabited by a parasitic organism. Most Frame Snatchers pose no problem, but others are able to control the frame to move and infect other Cybertronians, no matter if they're dead or alive, as it all depends on the parasite in question.

Ghosts are not incorporeal apparitions, but rather the result of old transmissions rebounding off stars' magnetic fields. Most Cybertronians can only detect them as a brief flicker of static in their comm lines, but certain frame types, most notoriously Cassette Carriers, can hear the messages loud and clear, and, sometimes, be pulled into them as if they were actually happening.

When those ghosts consist of parts of a mech's being, the event leads to a 'possession'. It can happen that the ghost overwrites the living mech, resulting in their being replaced by the ghost, dead for all accounts.

There's a third monster of Cybertronian culture that is thought to be nothing more than a myth among them, with the blatant exceptions of those that encountered one. They are called Spark Eaters, and, as the name implies, they feed from the sparks—souls—of other Cybertronians.

To all effects, Spark Eaters are demon-possessed mechs, as they are 'created' when their spark is infected by the virus, turning them into creatures that care for nothing other than devouring sparks, with no remnants of who they once were left behind.

Putting his pen aside, Spike stretches on his seat on a desert rock, shadowed by a practically dozing Hoist.

Below them, the game of football has already begun, once the older members of the Ark crew finished explaining the specifics of the game to the newbies, mostly the Aerialbots and the new arrivals from Cybertron, the Protectobots.

And he missed the beginning. Tsk.

"Hey, Hoist. Who's winning?" the boy calls, and the Medic almost stumbles off his seat at the voice, rebooting his visor a couple times before looking down at Spike.

"What? Did you say something?"

The teenager laughs, closing his new notebook and pocketing it, along the pen, before gesturing to the game.

"I asked if you knew who's winning, but seeing how you're practically dead on your feet…"

"Hey, not my fault the sun's so nice on my plating," the green mech answers with a shrug and a sheepish grin. "As for your question… Perceptor, who's winning?" he asks the mech sitting by his side.

"The Dinobot-Aerialbot team, but if Jazz manages to complete that—" the red mech answers, leaning a bit further on his seat so that the human can see him too, but Grimlock and Sludge cut through his words when they tackle the saboteur to the ground, with Slag and Snarl jumping right after them on top of the pile, in case the black and white mech tried to slither through the tangle of limbs, and the scientist flinches with a low whistle. "Alright, forget I said that."

Hoist and Spike can't help but chuckle, watching as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker rush to the Dinobot pile to scold them, while Hot Spot and Streetwise argue with Silverbolt and Slingshot about whether or not that was a legal move.

Bumblebee, whistling shrilly with the Cybertronian-sized whistle Wheeljack built exactly for this kind of situations, quickly interrupts the brewing brawl, pulling them apart more thanks to his role as referee than his own small size, while the rest help the Dinobots up.

As soon as Sludge is back to his pedes, Bluestreak, standing at his side, turns to the spectators with quick whirring and sharp clicks, immediately cutting everyone off, and the Medic rushes to the field with a shrill short whistling sound that Spike has learned to recognize as a curse.

So, the boy and Perceptor immediately follow after the Medic, as the green mech orders the players to move back and give him room to work.

Or, at least, that's what the teenager thinks he's doing, as he's still speaking in Cybertronian.

When they get to his side, they immediately see the reason for Bluestreak's summons.

Jazz is sitting up next to the squashed ball, visor black and huddled a bit forward, with a servo hovering over a large dent on his helm that has managed to flatten a sensory horn.

The scientist and the human wince in unison.

True, Spike may not know how much that must hurt, but he's sure it has to be extremely painful.

"Did anyone get the serial of the troop of Tread Rollers that drove over my helm?" the saboteur asks with a woozy voice, visor flickering a couple of times before letting it stay black. " 'Cause I'm gonna have words with their commanding officer…"

"Yes, I can only guess. But you're going nowhere until I have this—" Hoist answers tiredly, reaching for Jazz's raised servo—

In a fluid movement faster than human eyes can follow, the black and white mech has the Medic faceplate-down on the dirt and is sitting on his back, a shimmering pinkish blade on a servo aimed at the green Autobot's neck cables.

"No. Touching," the saboteur hisses, expression far more serious than any other time Spike has ever seen, and visor finally alight.

Hoist is frozen in place, his own visual band almost white with fear, and so are the rest of Autobots, none of them willing to make a move and endanger the Medic.

A second passes, followed by another, and another, but the TIC's seriousness doesn't vanish, his firm grip on the knife doesn't waver.

"Jazz?" Spike whispers, more than a little worried, and immediately regrets having ever opened his mouth as the saboteur's helm tilts the necessary bit to give the human his whole attention.

"What are you supposed to be?" the black and white mech asks almost conversationally, and the teenager's stomach drops to his feet.

"I—I'm a human. You know, this planet's natives? We're friends, don't you remember?"

"Remember?" Jazz repeats with an odd twisting of his mouth, before he drops off Hoist with a tired groan, knife on one servo and the other hovering over his busted horn and the rivulets of pink running down his helm. "Aw, slag, not again."

Still too tense to move, the rest of Autobots nevertheless exchange bewildered looks, while the Medic slowly gets to his knees, subtly moving away from the pouting saboteur.

"Are you alright?" the green mech asks softly, and the Head of Spec Ops gives him a too sharp grin that makes Hoist stiffen.

"I just realized my memory banks got scrambled thanks to whatever did this," Jazz answers almost nonchalantly, gesturing to his damaged helm. "I've no idea where or when we are, nor who any of you are, other than Autobots. So, you can guess how I am."

"Right. Sorry."

"They're all friends. Really!" Spike exclaims, moving towards the saboteur, who gives him a sideways glance.

"Look, no offense, squishy, but it isn't like I can trust you either."

All noise dies in less than it takes to blink.

Squishy.

Jazz has called Spike squishy.

That's… alright. That's alright. It isn't like he knows who the teenager is, after all, so it's fine.

"Er, will you let me take a look at that now? I'm a Medic," Hoist finally asks, attracting the saboteur's attention once more, as well as his too sharp grin.

"Nope. Don't get me wrong, I know you're a Medic, but no one's taking a look at nothing. I'll deal with my own repairs, and when I remember who you are, I'll apologize."

The way that last word is spit, alongside the widening of that smirk, makes all of them shudder.

How… How can this mech be Jazz? Friendly, cheerful, jokester Jazz?

Or, better said, how could the Jazz they know ever have been this?

Movement from the direction of the Ark grabs their attention, and so, after a moment for the sun to stop blinding them as it reflects off the newcomers' plating, Ratchet and Prowl come into view.

"Ah, finally a known mech," the saboteur whispers, fluidly getting to his pedes, though he wobbles a bit once upright, grimacing.

No one moves to help, though there are various aborted motions.

He still has that Energon-like blade in his servo, after all.

"Jazz, report," the Praxian orders as soon as they're close enough, one extended arm keeping Ratchet behind him, much to the Medic's clear displeasure.

The saboteur's next grin isn't sharp, but outright cutting.

"You don't have the power over me to request that, Enforcer."

The collective gasp does nothing to interrupt the two officers' stare, but it's enough to let Spike know the rest are also at a loss as to what to do.

Including, if his sudden tension is any giveaway, Prowl himself.

"Are you aware you have suffered a scrambling of your memory banks?" the Tactician finally asks, even more serious and cold than usual.

"Yes, I know that. Annoying as it is, you know. It's always a pain to figure out what part I'm supposed to play after these slagging things," the saboteur answers with a shrug, and, unconsciously, the rest relax slightly at that impression of the mech they know.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I know of you."

And the tension returns, most notably on Prowl's side of things, because his doorwings are suddenly pulled back to the point they're no longer visible.

It takes no more than a blink for the rest to catch on that there's something really wrong there.

For the first time since he got to know the giant mechanical aliens that crash-landed on Earth, Spike realizes that he doesn't know Jazz.

Or, well, who he was before the War.

He knows about Enforcers, and civilians, and how Mirage was a Noble and Hound worked in the Wilds as something akin to a park's ranger, but the small black and white isn't just another Spec Ops operative.

He's the Head, the leader, and with good reason.

But he has no idea how he came to be who he is now.

And, as far as he knows, there's only one mech that could—but won't, never will, not without a life or death situation pressing him to—answer that question.

The same mech that is now showing more than clear signs of wariness, of defensiveness.

And if Prowl is scared of Jazz…

The rest need no more clue to step away as quickly but inconspicuously as possible, and Spike doesn't hesitate when he follows.

The saboteur, obviously, notices, but the only thing he does is look at the retreating Autobots with an amused smirk twisting his Energon-stained faceplate.

"Now, now, are you serious? All these big bad mechs, scared of poor little me? Why, Enforcer, what have you told them?" the Head of Spec Ops asks the SIC nonchalantly, but Prowl stays firm, unmoving, despite his folded doorwings and the clawless yet curled dactyls.

"Nothing. They know you well enough."

"My, what kind of stories do the Autobots hear about us?" the smaller mech muses to himself, voice soft but still audible. "And what do you know of us, Enforcer?"

"More than enough," the Praxian answers, tone clipped and voice sounding... strained?

"Really," Jazz purrs, smirk enlarging and sharpening, as the Doorwinger tenses further.

"You told me. Everything. I know you."

The Head of Spec Ops snorts at that, twirling the knife absentmindedly in his servos.

"Sure, sure. Everyone always says that. Now, care to tell me why do I have the Autobot insignia on my chest plates?"

"You're an Autobot. The Third in Command and the Head of Special Operations. You chose this," Prowl answers, strange emphasis put on the last verb, and a cold shiver travels up Spike's spine.

He really doesn't want to know why it is there.

It doesn't help that Jazz starts laughing as soon as the Praxian stops speaking.

And laughs.

And laughs.

By the time he's done, he's back sitting on the ground, curled on himself and holding his middle, his fans whirring audibly and his voice box 'hiccupping' every now and then.

"I chose—hahaha!—I chose—chose becoming an Autobot? Me?"

And he breaks down laughing again, only for the cackling to be cut through by a sharp whistled whirr.

The silence is so sudden and so complete that Spike's ears ring.

Jazz isn't laughing anymore, he isn't even smiling, and, despite the blue visor, the boy can only think about a certain Spark Eater-related nightmare, months ago, when the black and white mech uncurls just enough to see the Praxian, shadows covering his faceplate.

Prowl merely stares back.

And then, with a huff, the Head of Spec Ops gets to his feet, something that, in any other situation, would be a rueful smile twisting his lips softly, innocently, genuine.

It is the fakest expression Spike has ever seen.

"Hey, Medic Ratchet, think you can do me a favor, Autobot to Autobot?" the saboteur asks, walking casually towards the Praxian and the white mech standing tensely behind him, and, after a moment of surprise, the Medic nods. "Fix my helm, will you? Oh, but don't touch the processor, it should sort itself out in two orns, at the latest."

Jazz's voice is cheerful, casual, with the characteristic drawl that the teenager has learnt to recognize as security since his life got tangled up with this alien conflict, but there's no mistaking the situation despite of it, especially when the saboteur moves past Prowl's side—but stops, so that they are standing side by side, staring each in a different direction, like so many crucial movie scenes.

"And, if it doesn't, I will enjoy extinguishing this one's spark."

Without another word, another sound, Jazz resumes his walk towards the Ark.

AN: Hello, everyone! I finally got around to writing the sequel to Cybertronian Culture and Biology 1-0-Y, isn't it amazing?

By the by, just to make it clear, this happens after the end of season 2, but before the movie and the construction of Autobot City.

Anyway, as you can see, things are going to be a bit rocky now, and everything Spike learned in the prequel will be put to use one way or another in this fic, including some new things that he'll learn along the way. And, as you can see, it won't be as easy as having to watch his words :P

And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the Decepticons, they'll come into the scene soon enough ;)

I believe that's all I had to say, so... Enjoy?

Update: I modified a couple things, but most noticeable of all is that "Body Snatchers" became "Frame Snatchers". Why? 'Cause they're a Cybertronian monster, thus have a Cybertronian 'name'. I'll change it in the prequel too, and that'll be their future name from now on.