A/N: This is my first fanfic for Transformers. Please forgive me if I got anything wrong.

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"What's Rachet up to?" Epps asked.

Captain Wil Lennox paused, looking up from the schematics in his hands. The latest designs for the NEST security system had just been delivered, and while he was still rusty with his Cybertronian, he had to admit that he liked what he saw. Well, save for the few symbols he couldn't quite figure out on his own. A conversation with Optimus or Prowl would clear up any confusion, he was certain. Just so long as the symbols had nothing to do with Wheeljack and an "experimental security component," he was fairly certain he could live with the changes.

The budget committee, on the other hand, might not like it so much. And speaking of pain-in-the-ass committee members…

Lennox eyed the towering yellow and black Autobot as he stood in the open doorway of the massive cargo bay doors. His hands were balled into fists the size of Buicks, planted heavily on his hips. Though no weapons were presently visible, he still gave the impression that he was armed to do battle. Even Ironhide had found an excuse to do something inside the main hangar rather than risk walking in front of the imposing medical officer.

"We're getting a new government liaison today," Lennox commented.

"Oh, we are—wait," Epps cut in, eyes going slightly wide. "What does that have to do with Rachet?"

"Well, remember the last guy that was here?"

"What, the pencilneck that Rachet almost flattened, regardless of his oaths about respecting all life? The government isn't stupid enough to send him back, I hope. We're still digging parts of his car out of the pavement."

Lennox laughed, remembering how Wheeljack and Ultra Magnus had captured a live Decepticon anti-seeker explosive containment device, and then somehow, in the course of trying to disarm the thing, had set it off. Thankfully the two had managed to hurl the thing out harm's way. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on which Autobot or NEST member you asked—it had landed on the liaison's car.

And then it exploded.

The liaison, one Mr. Jeffery Anders, had just come from slashing Rachet's budget once again. His parting shot to the mech had been a brave and arrogant "Use duct tape for repairs. I don't care. Just get the numbers down." When he had screamed about the destruction of his car, Rachet had very calmly told him to "use duct tape" to put it back together.

The liaison in question had sent a claim ticket to NEST for the cost of the car. Lennox, himself, and Optimus Prime had gleefully denied the claim, citing that: a) the car had been parked in an illegal area to begin with (a fine of up to three hundred and three dollars), b) an additional bill of forty thousand dollars due to the fact that they just couldn't pave over the crater considering the car had been present. EPA and Environmental laws required safe removal, cleaning and certification of all car parts, fluids and the like before paving could take place. And, finally, c) a bill from Rachet for twelve thousand dollars for time and the expense of cleaning up car parts so as to not puncture or damage Autobot tires.

NEST had not heard a word from that liaison since the issuance of the bills, or from the liaison department in general, up until two days ago. When they were told to expect the replacement.

"I don't think that guy's coming back," Lennox assured his second-in-command. "However, we have to give the new guy a warm welcome."

"I think Rachet's got that end all worked out," Epps replied, a touch of pity worming its way into his voice. "That mech looks like he's ready to chew the head off of Megatron if given the chance. I really feel for the new guy."

~*~

The car was cherry red, sleek, small, and purred like a jungle cat when it hugged the turns in the road, which somewhat surprised Rachet. He'd been expecting another colossal waste of machinery that these government bureaucrats like to call automobiles. In his experience, the higher a human moved in the chain of command, the larger and more useless a vehicle they chose. The last one had been no exception to the rule. That Mercedes had been all flash and comfort, but it had had less power and protection than a day-old sparkling.

But this… this was a pleasant surprise, indeed. The 1964 Porsche 911 came to a smooth halt just inside the designated parking area. It seemed almost a crime to hear the engine go offline as the driver pulled the key from the ignition. Black windows, tinted so dark even his powerful optics had issues piercing, mostly obscured the driver from view. He caught the shifting of the form inside, the grabbing of what he could only assume was a slick briefcase, and his processor immediately set for maximum stubbornness.

He hated the sight of a briefcase now, knowing that what was contained within those cow-skin covered bags was never good news. At least, never for him. He stood his ground, fought the desire to simply scream "go home, you black-blooded creature, I don't want anything to do with the likes of you!" but held that one in check. There would be plenty of time to hurl insults at the human once he was inside the building.

Then he could claim the human started it first. While that was petty, even to his thinking, it would at least shave off a touch of Optimus's annoyance over such an exchange between his chief medical officer and the liaison from his host government.

The door of the Porsche opened, and Rachet's optics started that slow fade from blue to red…

… and then back to blue in a flash as the red alligator Manolo pump—the same red as the Porsche—touched down with a light click onto the hot asphalt. A second pump joined the first, and Rachet found his optics traveling up a pair of lean, tan, and shapely legs. The human in question stood, dressed in a pinstripe pencil skirt and a matching tight vest. Beneath was a white dress shirt, modestly buttoned down to the wrists and up to the throat. A bright red tie matched the shoes… and also the nails on her hands, apparently. Her jet black hair was pulled up and away from her face in what was called a French twist, her eyes hidden behind red sunglasses.

He couldn't make out her expression behind those dark glasses, but it didn't take a military veteran to tell that she was sizing him up in probably the same manner as he had done to her.

"You must be Rachet," the human said, her red lips—-again, the same shade as everything else—-curving in a mischievous smile. "I'm Lydia DeMarco, the new and hopefully last liaison to the NEST project for a long time."

It took him a couple of seconds for his processor to switch gears. He had expected yet another middle-aged, balding human with a paunch who probably lacked the spine to look at a weapon, nevertheless listen to an explanation about repairing one. The American government seemed to have an endless supply of those to go with the useless cars and the standard black-and-white suits they wore. He hadn't expected a young, physically fit and attractive woman. One who apparently liked colors other than silver, black and white.

He caught himself before he started to scan her without her permission. "Yes," he said, trying for the clipped and stern tone in which he was famous. Even to his own receptors, it sounded like a poor imitation. "I'm Rachet, and I'm only going to say this once. I will NOT use duct tape to fix my brethren, regardless of what your budget committee says."

"Wonderful," she replied, her smile widening as she clicked forward on those eye-catching shoes. "Then we're in agreement on one thing at least. I hate duct tape. Not only does it look tacky as all hell, it isn't the miracle worker most make it out to be. Now, would you be so kind as to point out Captain Lennox? I would very much like to get the tedious security protocols out of the way."

Again, he found his processor grinding to a halt at the unexpected reply, and wordlessly he watched the human female click her way into the base.