With a Side of Rust [Transformers Prime]

[ladymoondancer]

Knock Out's ongoing adventures on reformatted Cybertron!

Previously:

Here There Be Dandelions
Best of Enemies, As Ever We Were

With a Side of Rust

Chapter 1

"Do I look like Volkswagen Beetle?"

Not words that Agent Fowler would normally have found alarming. But then he didn't usually hear them from a thirty foot tall robot with glowing red eyes and five foot long claws, either. This warehouse had been designed to account for the size difference when he met with Ratchet or visiting bots—a desk, chair, and filing cabinet had been set on a wide, elevated platform, looking incongruous. Now, with Knock Out leaning over the railing, almost face- to-face with him, he wondered if it had been such a good idea.

"Do I look like a station wagon? A minivan?" Knock Out persisted with that sarcastic tilt to his mouth. "Do I look like an Aztek?"

"Not really. Try gluing some feathers on your head and ask me again," Agent Fowler said. "Look, if you don't like what we gave you—"

The former Decepticon turned around, a hand on his hip. "Smokescreen, how would you describe the automotive models our human friends at Unit E have so generously offered us?"

Smokescreen looked up from the handheld game he was playing. "They pretty much suck. Sorry, Agent Fowler."

"Don't apologize to him," Knock Out instructed his fellow Cybertronian, glaring at the human. "He's the one who insulted us with that scrap. Practically an act of war, if you ask me."

"Are you serious?! Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get you—" Agent Fowler grabbed a piece of paper off his desk and read: "Two motorcycles, ten cars, ten jet planes, three helicopters, six flash drives—okay, the flash drives actually weren't a problem—two unmanned drones, three tanks, a Segway, a hot air balloon, an ambulance, a bus, and a space shuttle! Do you know how much a space shuttle costs? We're talking billions of dollars! With a capital B that rhymes with P that stands for pleading! Pleading with everyone from General Bryce to the Pentagon to authorize the funds!"

Knock Out half closed his optics, entirely unsympathetic. "What good would your billions of little green slips of paper be if your planet had been destroyed? You owe us. You owe us everything."

"Really. 'Cause if I recall correctly you were on the side trying to snuff us. I owe you? For what, getting tossed in your trunk that one time?"

"You owe my team," Knock Out said grandly, gesturing at Smokescreen, the only Autobot in the vicinity.

"You tell 'em, K.O.," Smokescreen said without looking up from his game.

"Anyway, this isn't about me, this is about future generations of Cybertronians. Future generations who deserve an alt mode better than your hilariously misguided offerings. A Hummer? Really?"

"Look, we just grabbed what we found on sale at second-hand lots—and what's wrong with the Hummer? I thought you'd like it."

"First, please refrain from using foul language like 'second-hand lots' in my presence. Second, a Hummer is not a proper automobile, it's a box with wheels on the corners. Third, I am amazed that you thought it was appropriate to dump a gas-guzzler on us after an energy shortage nearly wiped out our race. Very sensitive."

"It takes a hell of a lot less energy than the space shuttle!"

Knock Out closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Shuttle protoforms need a shuttle to model their alternate mode off of. Smaller aerials need planes or helicopters. Grounders need cars or tanks. We're still trying to come up with something for our beast protoforms now that our native fauna is extinct—but that's not the point. The point is . . . Smokescreen, tell our human friend the point."

"That Pontiac Aztek is fraggin' hideous. Like, seriously, it hurt my optics."

"Exactly. As a medic, I can tell you that the first Aztek-based Cybertronian I see is getting put out of its misery."

"C'mooon Knock Out, don't say stuff like that. You're gonna get in trouble."

"Ohhhh, very well," the former Decepticon conceded with a wave of his hand. "I wouldn't really.” After a pause he added, "Because they would off themselves before I had the chance."

"What exactly," Agent Fowler ground out over the headache now pounding in his skull, "do you want from me?"

This was apparently the opening Knock Out had been waiting for; he drew himself up and smiled.

"Better automobiles for our impressionable youth, of course. We've compiled a list. Smokescreen. The list." Knock Out held out his hand, gesturing with slight movements of his fingers. Smokescreen set something small and rectangular in his palm, which the shiny red medic then picked up by the corner, pinched between two claws, and dropped in front of Fowler.

"A car dealer's catalogue," the special agent said, opening it.

"We've circled the cars that fit our needs," Knock Out informed him.

"Uh huh . . . uh huh . . . yep." Agent Fowler flipped through the pages. "Just like I thought. Every luxury sports car on the market."

"Except the Lamborghini Veneno," Knock Out said.

"Why not the—?"

He studied his claws. "Too pretentious."

"Look. Knock Out." Fowler massaged his temples. "By the time we got all the other stuff, our budget had dried up. We got what we did 'cause we found good deals. The cars you like? There's a reason they're called luxury sports cars. That's code for 'ridiculously expensive.' As much as I would love to help you Autobots . . . or whatever . . . out, I just don't have the money to—oh no."

General Bryce. Of course he would have to choose today.

"Well, this is a surprise." The general eyed the two bots as he climbed the stairs. "I didn't know you had company, Bill. And not Ratchet, either."

"Uh, yes. It's an impromptu meeting to . . . further human-Cybertronian relations, sir. This is Knock Out. That's Smokescreen. Bots, this is General Bryce."

"Hey." Smokescreen glanced up briefly.

"Charmed," Knock Out said without interest.

"Ah, yes. The reckless one and the turncoat."

"Hey!" Smokescreen finally wrenched free of the game's hold, staring indignantly from Bryce to Fowler. Knock Out now looked very interested, in a way that made Fowler supremely uncomfortable.

"And here I thought I was the reckless one," Knock Out smiled, the tips of his fingers pressing against his cherry red chassis. "How disappointing."

"Hmm." Bryce eyed him like he thought he was something, all right. "I've heard of you. You're the other medic, right?"

"That's right."

"They say you're good."

Knock Out's eyebrows rose a little; surprise and gratitude chased briefly across his face before his well-polished features before they settled into a more usual expression: arrogance with a side order of cocky.

"I'm the best."

"Good, good. We've been looking for a good source of information about Cybertronian biology."

" . . . oh?" Down went the optic ridges. "And Ratchet hasn't been of any help, hmm? Strange. He is a medic as well."

"Ratchet," Bryce said, rocking on his heels, "doesn't seem to appreciate how important this intel is for national security."

"Which nation's security, again?"

Bryce blinked. "The United States', naturally."

"Oh naturally, yes. Is that the one we're in, Smokescreen?" Knock Out turned to his companion. "I thought we were in Canada."

"Uh, no, it's America."

"The United States, he said."

"Well, they're kinda the same thing."

"How informative. How very, very, very informative. Do go on, human. I am simply agog to know what aspects of Cybertronian biology you're interested in."

"Everything. Basic physiology, nervous system, weaponry . . . " Bryce unconsciously rubbed his hands together.

Knock Out's eyes narrowed. "All fascinating topics. But I'm afraid I can't help. I thought this was Canada. But seeing as it's not—"

General Bryce's eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking me, robot?"

"Moi? Primus forbid."

The flippant response earned a scowl from Bryce. "I expect a degree of cooperation from you, soldier. Not to mention gratitude, considering your organization's recent requests."

"Ah, but I'm not a soldier, and I'm especially not your soldier. As for gratitude, weeeell, not to put too fine a point on it," Knock Out studied his claws before scything them apart with a faint shhinnk, "we could take what we need if we felt like it, couldn't we?"

Well, so much for furthering human-Cybertronian relations, Agent Fowler thought. It had been nice while it lasted.

"Uh, K.O. . . ." Smokescreen tentatively set a hand on Knock Out's arm. The red sports car shrugged it off without looking at him.

"However, I know that won't be necessary since you fleshies surely remember how we—the Autobots—saved you from—" He paused, perhaps trying to thinking of an incident that didn't implicate him as an ex-Decepticon. "Unicron. We saved you from Unicron."

"Again with the unicorn thing? Listen—"

Knock Out dropped his facade of cordiality with a sneer. "No, you listen, skinjob—"

"Maybe you'd both like to listen," Ratchet said from across the room, arms crossed, "to some sense."

Knock Out froze for just an instant before turning, smiling brightly. "Hellooo, esteemed colleague!"

"Can I have a word with you outside," Ratchet raised an eyebrow, "esteemed colleague?"

[Al1701]

You're being taken behind the woodshed, Knock Out. I hope you got a lot of polish ready.

Why am I not surprised Knock Out and Smokescreen wanted sports cars. Though, you'd think they could rig up something like Teletran 1 that could scan vehicles into a database for access later.

And I don't know if a space shuttle would cost billions right now they're not currently in use. It would definitely cost millions to get it there, through.

[ladymoondancer]

Oct 18, 2013 10:07:24 GMT -8 Al1701 said:

You're being taken behind the woodshed, Knock Out. I hope you got a lot of polish ready.

Have I ever mentioned how much I love your reviews? They always make me laugh. ;D

I got the price of the space shuttle off a NASA website, but they might have been exaggerating. A lot of the most obvious ways to obtain vehicle modes (drag all the protoforms to a car lot, etc) aren't feasible for the bots for reasons that become more apparent later.

They have tons of energy on Cybertron, but aside from that their resources are pretty scanty. (No manufacturing, for example, and none of them really knows anything about manufacturing either.) Even the crashed Nemesis is a long ways away, though they do return to salvage supplies from it once in a while. Generally, they're cobbling together whatever they can in the middle of a dead city. (Uh, I want to say they're in Iacon? Geez, now I can't even remember. Might be Praxus.)

Aaaaanyway.

----


Chapter 2

Ratchet waited until Knock Out—and Smokescreen, trailing after them—were out of earshot of the warehouse before he spoke.

"Knock Out." Ratchet crossed his arms. "What are you doing here?"

"What are any of us doing here, Ratchet? Ah yes, one of the grand mysteries of life, isn't it! But when I look up at the stars, I can't help but feel—"

"Let me be more specific." Ratchet's voice rose on the last word. "What were you doing sneaking out to harass Agent Fowler when I thought you were watching the 'double creature-feature'?"

"Harass? Oh, I'm hurt." Knock Out gave a little pout. "What's wrong with having a spirited discussion?"

"A spirited discussion with a human, after I specifically told you that you weren't to have contact with organic lifeforms without Auto—without supervision!"

"Ah, but I had supervision, old-timer." Knock Out waggled a finger. "Smokescreen here was keeping a close and vigilant eye on me, weren't you, Smokey?"

Knock Out turned toward the younger bot, but received no answer; Smokescreen's attention was wholly focused the glowing screen in front of him as his thumbs tapping like lightning. Knock Out's optics narrowed; he wrenched the game out of Smokescreen's servos and used it to deliver a solid smack to the back of the rookie's helm.

"Knock Ouuut, what the heck! I was LEVELLING!"

"Tell the good doctor what a friendly, sweet, biddable Autoboticon I've been and you'll get it back. Ah-ah!" he admonished as Smokescreen lunged. Knock Out was the smaller of the two, but he managed to stave off his opponent by shoving a hand over his face and holding him at arm's length while hoisting the device out of reach.

"Oh yes, this fills me with confidence," Ratchet said sarcastically, watching them wrestle for control. "Oh yes."

Locking his elbow around Knock Out's arm ("Watch the paint!"), Smokescreen reclaimed the game. Unfortunately one of them had hit the off button during the scuffle. The blue and yellow Autobot glared at it, then transferred his glare to Ratchet.

"What's the big deal? Knock Out just wanted to talk to Fowler, and that's what he did."

"There's talking and there's nearly causing an interstellar incident!"

"Oh, right. The humans will load up their scary space shuttles and invade us," the shiny red medic scoffed, tilting his arm this way and that as he checked for scrapes. "It will only take them a couple billion years to reach us given their level of technology."

"Not. the point," Ratchet ground out. "You burst in there and insulted one of our closest human allies after they have been more than generous—"

"Whoa, put it in neutral, Doc." Smokescreen held up his hands. "Totally respect your P.O.V. and maybe Knock Out could've phrased it nicer but, you know what? He's right."

"Oh, I never get tired of hearing those words," murmured Knock Out, crossing his arms in triumph.

"Excuse me? You think that after procuring the—"

"—billion trillion dollar space shuttle, blah blah blah, I know. That's awesome, right? But it seems like they could've set aside a little chunk of that billion trillion for a couple cars that can go more than fifty miles per hour and aren't as ugly as Unicron's aft."

"Smokescreen . . ."

"I know, I know. 'Smokescreen! You're exaggerating!' Okay, I am, I admit it. But I did help save this planet, and our planet, and . . ." He crossed his arms, his twitching doors betraying his nerves. "I'd really like it if some of the new generation kinda . . . looked like me. Y'know?"

Ratchet's scowl shifted into something softer. The medic put a hand on the younger bot's arm, his normally gruff voice infused with a tremor of sparkfelt emotion. "Smokescreen . . ."

"Besides, we're gonna need way more racers if we want to start a league."

The scowl returned. "Smokescreen, get back to base before I turn you into a blue and yellow toaster oven! And that goes for you too, Knock Out!"

"Nice job, idiot!" Knock Out snarled, aiming another slap at the rookie's head.

"What! What'd I say?"

~*~*~*~

The warehouse that served as the Autobots' Earth headquarters—really only home to Ratchet these days—was only a short distance away from Agent Fowler's "Autobot office". As Ratchet shooed the two truant bots inside, he was relieved to see that the others hadn't even noticed they'd been gone. The catwalk railing still creaked under Bulkhead's weight as he leaned forward, watching black-and-white zombies stagger towards a black-and-white house. Jack had taken over both the recliner and the bowl of popcorn. Raf had fallen asleep on the arm of the couch, but Miko hunched forward eagerly at the other end. She barely glanced away from the screen as Bulkhead carefully reached out to arrange a blanket around her shoulders, though she did reach up to absently pat his huge fingers.

Bulkhead, at least, could be relied upon, Ratchet thought. True, sometimes that meant "relied upon to break whatever was most important" or "relied upon not to think things through", but still . . . reliable. Maybe tomorrow he could ask the green Autobot to help him smooth things over with Bryce and apologize to Fowler. Humans were often taken aback by Bulkhead's earnestness and reluctant to hurt his feelings, Ratchet found.

"Aren't you going to watch the movie?" the orange and white medic asked Knock Out, who was hanging back by the computer terminal. "Or did you only come here to terrorize humans with your sidekick?"

"I am not his sidekick," Smokescreen complained.

Knock Out quelled him with an impatient gesture. "I watched the earlier one, you know I did. Frankenstein. 'It's alive!'" His lips gave a quirk of amusement for no reason Ratchet could discern. "But I don't watch zombie movies," he said firmly. Fervently, even.

"Why not? They're awesome." Smokescreen let one shoulder drop, pulling the other high as he shambled around in a circle, clawing at the air. "I want your energooon."

The ruby red medic glared at him. "No."

"Smokescreen, would you please shift it down a notch? And you—next time tell me before you go haring off."

"Why, so you can be my escort? Ha! You can't keep up with me."

"Tonight you were only a few buildings away and I believe my decrepit old gears could've handled that," Ratchet said drily. "Although if you want to stay far away from Fowler and Bryce in the future, that's fine by me."

"Bryce." Knock Out rolled the name out thoughtfully, studying the ceiling. "Bryce." His optics swung suddenly towards Ratchet, sharp as a blade. "You haven't been telling him anything, have you? About us. Our kind."

"Of course not," Ratchet said, drawing himself up. "I'm not a fool."

"No. You're not." Knock Out relaxed marginally. "All right, then. But I still want those sports cars."

"And I want a new titanium class electron magnifier, but that's not happening either!" Ratchet's tone went right back to its default setting, caustic.

"Aw, Raaaatch!" Smokescreen pleaded.

"NO. If you ask me, we have enough luxury models. In fact, I find myself positively relieved that we won't be adding any more member to this . . . this cabal of irresponsibility."

"Oh, wow. Really? Really, Ratchet?" Smokescreen crossed his arms. "'Cause all sports cars are flighty, right? Just like all tanks are dumb and all helicopters are psycho?"

The Autobot medic snorted. "My statement was based on potential, available role models—present company NOT excepted—not on frame type."

"Personal insults," the rookie groused. "Yeah, that's waaay better." Smokescreen paused as he received a private text message from Knock Out. The red mech was smirking—always good sign. Or a bad one, depending on your point of view.

The message was brief:

::Hush, new-spark. The cabal meets tomorrow.::

[sunstar]

I'm intrigued now.

[Al1701]

Doc Knock continues to steal the show. It makes me wish they were continuing the Prime timeline.

[ladymoondancer]

Heehee! Thanks, Sunstar! ;D And Al, Knock Out was seriously my favorite thing about Prime. I am hoping so, so hard that they put him in IDW's comic universe, like they did with Sky-Byte the shark.


(Oh, okay, they are in Praxus.)

-----


Chapter 3

Bumblebee's scouting missions sometimes lasted weeks—mapping out the grueling Cylihex Canyons had taken upwards of a month, actually—and he inevitably came back with a miscalibrated joint or a jammed axle. Even if he escaped direct injury, his vents were always clogged with dust.

Today, as the ruins of Praxus reared on the horizon, he sent two messages.

To the mainframe, for the benefit of whoever happened to be on monitor duty: ::This is your friendly neighborhood Bumblebee returning from a scintillating survey of the Palisade Plateaus, ready to report amazing sights such as dirt! Debris! And far too many plants with titanium thorns!

To Knock Out: ::I'm back!::

The medic's reply was succinct. ::About time.::

Pitted with holes and laced with cracks, the byways leading into Praxus were no easy drive, especially not for a low-slung sports car. But it was Bumblebee's first real drive in two and a half weeks, and to him it was heaven.

The city rose and sank out of view as a series of hills tested Bumblebee's engine. By the time he reached the long straightaway leading into the heart of Praxus, a tiny speck of red was speeding towards him, accompanied by the thrum of an engine. With their combined speed, it didn't take long for the red sports car to reach him. Knock Out drove past the black and yellow Urbana, transformed and swirled in one fluid movement, and slipped back into vehicle mode without slowing down.

"Still showing off, I see," Bumblebee said as the Aston Martin pulled up beside him, matching his speed. "You could've just made a U-turn."

"Shut up and drive, Bug."

They took an off-ramp and looped around the city instead of heading straight in, reveling in the warmth of the road under their treads, the dust that spun and roiled behind them, the breeze whipping over their windscreens, the sunlight that gleamed in blinding swells on Knock Out's well-polished hood in contrast to the golden glow of sunlight on the textured dust coating Bumblebee's chassis. Bumblebee revved his engine a few times, pulling ahead provocatively, but Knock Out refused to be drawn into a race. ("You're drifting to the left. I don't race with casualties.") So they just drove.

Eventually Knock Out broke the companionable silence, filling in the black and yellow Autobot with the latest news. Updates on the development of the pre-forms, hopefully soon to become viable protoforms. (Faster development than expected.) Who was flirting, 'facing, and otherwise making a spectacle of themselves. (Many, many theories, more salacious than accurate.) The latest info on Shockwave and Starscream. (None.) Wheeljack's latest crazy invention. (The transmatter duplicator.) The damage caused by the explosion of Wheeljack's latest crazy invention. (Loss of most of the west wall of his laboratory, which had turned out to be load-bearing.) What Bulkhead was busy constructing. (A building to replace the one that had suddenly lost a load-bearing wall.) Whom Ultra Magnus was currently the most peeved with. (Wheeljack.)

"Although I'm a close second," Knock Out said airily, "and hope to unseat Wheeljack for that honor any day now."

"I'd expect nothing less from you, Knock Out, and I'm sure Ultra Magnus will be proud that you're giving it your all," Bumblebee said, door handles flexing in amusement. "Any new arrivals yet?"

"You mean starships? Other Cybertronians? No." Knock Out heaved the last word out in a petulant sigh. "Or if there are, they haven't made contact. I know space is big, but you'd think more ships would have warp drives."

"Well, they take a lot of energy. I'm sure someone will arrive soon. They have to, right?"

"Hrrrm, hopefully." Knock Out transformed as they reached the crest of a hill. Bumblebee followed suit. The remains of Praxus' towers and skyscrapers stood like skeletons, but somewhere in the midst of them was their own little crazy, functional headquarters. Their home.

"Here." Knock Out tossed him a polishing rag. "You're filthy."

"Thanks for pointing that out, I hadn't noticed. Strangely enough, there weren't any washracks or oil baths out in the middle of nowhere. Weird, right?" Despite the banter, it was a relief to scrub the grime off his finish.

"And you're all scratched up," Knock Out said, sounding more disapproving than sympathetic. And then, abruptly, "Fowler isn't giving us any racing frames."

Bumblebee paused in his attempts to clean out his elbow joint. Knock Out had actually called Agent Fowler by name rather than sarcastically referring to him as "our human friend at Unit E." This was serious. "But they did provide some cars, right?"

Knock Out made a restless sound, crossing his arms. "No sports models," he repeated. He looked squarely at Bumblebee, his red irises barely visible as the sunset reflected in his optics. "We're meeting tonight."

"What, you and Agent Fowler?"

"Nooo, that would just be ridiculous, now wouldn't it? Also, I already tried that," he admitted. "No. We. Smokescreen. Myself. You." The last word was just a little bit tentative, not quite a question.

Bumblebee hesitated. Racing alt modes were fabulously impractical at the best of times, but especially on a planet which currently had only one functional loop of roads, the one they were standing on. Bulkhead had fixed it up after Smokescreen started to go completely stir-crazy. But if a developing protoform ached for the sleek lines, the glory of acceleration, the joy of a road spinning away under friction-heated tires . . . Well, why not? Their species had tried "practical" and ended up with the caste system.

"All right," said Bumblebee. "So where are we meeting?"

Some of the tension ebbed out of the medic's shoulders. "I'll send you the coordinates. After I give you a full tune up. Did you know one of your tail-lights is out? And stop scrubbing your elbow, Bug, it's only driving the dirt further in."

"I missed you, too." Bumblebee tossed the crumpled cloth at him.

Snorting, Knock Out picked it up between the tips of two fingers, holding it as far away from his chassis as possible as though the dirt was contagious. "Right, whatever. If you can stop oozing your Autobot emotions at me for two seconds, we can go back."

Bumblebee smiled.

They went back.

~*~*~*~

Some hours later, Knock Out looked up as Bumblebee entered an almost intact room in one of the ruins near the base. "Ah, there you are! Late, tsk tsk!"

"Knock Out, you didn't touch my game-pad, did you? It's broken."

"Definitely not."

"Me neither!" added Smokescreen.

Bumblebee looked from one to the other, optics narrowing in suspicion. "You do realize this is irreplaceable, right? It's pre-War and I can't just get another because, oh, our planet is a festering ruin."

"A-hem," Knock Out coughed into his fist. "Focus, Bee, focus. This is important." He tapped something narrow and silver on the tabletop. "I hereby call the first meeting of the Cabal of Irresponsibility to order!"

"The what? The what now? And what are you holding?"

"A laser scalpel. We don't have a gavel."

"Why, exactly, are we the Cabal of Irresponsibility?"

"It's catchy. It holds the attention. And most importantly, it will drive Ratchet crazy. So. Any objections? Other suggestions?"

Smokescreen raised his hand. "Actually, I was thinking we could call ourselves—"

"No. All right, first item on our agenda." Knock Out lowered his datapad sharply as a fourth bot entered the room at a leisurely saunter. "Well . . . Wheeljack! This is a SURPRISE."

"Hey, Red." The ex-Wrecker dropped into a chair, slouching with one arm over the back of it. "Smokey said we're organizing a club or something."

"It's not a club, it's a cabal. A top secret cabal."

Smokescreen held his hands up to ward off the medic's venomous stare. "C'mon, Knock, cut it with the creepy Decepticon intimidation tactics. We're sports cars, he's a sports car . . ."

"Is he?" Knock Out demanded, his optics flicking up and down Wheeljack in judgment. "Or is he a bot who merely turns into a sports car?"

"Didn't realize I needed to bring my credentials," Wheeljack said, swinging his feet onto the table.

"Knock Out, he's already here, so—"

"What's your top speed?" Knock Out shot out.

"Two hundred miles, give or take." Wheeljack looked either bland or amused, it was hard to tell.

"Zero to sixty?"

"Three point three seconds."

"Horsepower?"

"Over five hundred mustangs under the hood. Good enough, Red?"

"Hrrrnnn." Knock Out crossed his arms. "Fine, you're in. But don't go blabbing to the Wreckers or your two-wheeler sparkmate about it."

"She's not my sparkmate—"

"Ha! I've heard that one before!"

"—and I'm not a narc. Lips are sealed."

"Gooood." Knock Out picked up his datapad. "All right, first order of business—election of officers."

"That seems . . . weirdly formal," Bumblebee said.

"Not at all. Even a small organization works best if everyone's roles are clearly defined. How do you think Megatron managed for so long?"

"Yeah, and how'd that work out for him?"

" . . . moving on! First post: president."

"Let me guess," snorted Smokescreen. "You want it to be you."

"Not at all. I've never been comfortable in command posts." Knock Out leaned back in his chair. "Actually, Smokescreen, I would like to nominate you."

"Whoa—seriously?"

"Seriously." Knock Out laced his fingers together. "Would anyone care to second the nomination?"

"ME!" Smokescreen's hand shot into the air.

"You—No, you can't nominate yourself. Anyone else?" Knock Out nudged Bumblebee's elbow.

"Um. Sure." He had the strangest friends. They were sort of awesome.

"Nomination proposed and seconded! All in favor?" Three hands rose—Smokescreen's, rapidly; Bumblebee's, hesitantly; Knock Out's confidently. The red mech looked pointedly at Wheeljack, but he continued to lounge. He did, however, raise an eyebrow.

"Are we gonna go through this for every single bot?"

"Well, there's only three of us," Knock Out pointed out. "Or four, rather." He frowned suddenly at his data pad, whipping out a stylus and scribbling.

"C'mon Wheeljack, get into the spirit of things. It's fun!" Smokescreen looped an arm around the Wrecker's shoulder.

"Shooting targets is fun. Bureaucracy is torture."

"All right," Knock Out groused, "to satisfy our new, unasked for member, I'll just read off my suggestions. Everyone happy? Wheeljack? Are you happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Smokescreen - President. As we've already established. Bumblebee - Special Operations or, if you want to get fancy, 'Spec Ops'. Anything involving gathering information, spying, or sneaking is your responsibility."

"Cool."

"Any objections? No? Moving on. Wheeljack, despite the fact that you gave me less than thirty seconds notice, I've thought of something for you—Research and Development."

"Sounds like a desk job."

"Right. A desk on which you're building things that will explode."

"I'm liking this club already."

"Good. That leaves me. Second-in-Command, Science Officer, and Secretary of Internal Affairs."

There was a brief, thoughtful silence.

"Isn't Second-in-Command more of a military thing? I mean, if Smokescreen's president, shouldn't you be vice-president?"

"More of a medic than a scientist, aren't you, Red? Y'know, I was actually in the Autobot Science Division for a while . . ."

"How come you get three titles and rest of us only get one? And 'Secretary of Internal Affairs', what does that even mean?"

"It means I keep you delinquents in line!" Knock Out snapped, slamming down his datapad. "Oh, fine, FINE, I'll be Vice-President and Secretary of . . . just being SECRETARY."

Another pause.

"He does have really nice handwriting," Bumblebee acknowledged.

"Thank you. Now first off, I thought we could—"

"Aw, scrap." Smokescreen guilty as his communicator started beeping. "Sorry, K.O., I gotta head out. I just remembered I'm supposed to be on monitor duty."

"Nothing like a call from Ultra Magnus to jog the memory," Bumblebee said cheerfully.

Wheeljack waved as Smokescreen sped out. "See ya, El Presidente."

"Really? During our first meeting?" Knock Out complained.

Bumblebee raised his hand. "Oh! I have a proposal, Mr. Vice-President!"

"The floor recognizes our Special Ops agent," Knock Out said, lacing his fingers together.

"Right, I was thinking that we could launch a special investigation into who broke my game-pad."

Knock Out clicked the ends of his index fingers together. "You know what, I just realized I need to transcribe my notes." Knock Out rapped the laser scalpel against the table. "Meeting adjourned."

"Are you sure, Mr. Vice-President? Because I'm sure with our combined skills and knowledge, we could get to the bottom of—"

"MEETING ADJOURNED!"