Best of Enemies, As Ever We Were [TF Prime]

[ladymoondancer]

This is a sort-of sequel to Here There Be Dandelions, but it also works as a stand-alone.

On a revitalized Cybertron, Knock Out works with (and adjusts to) the Autobots, including Bulkhead, the rival of his deceased partner.

No spoilers for "Predacons Rising". I wrote most of this before the movie was leaked.

---

Best of Enemies, As Ever We Were


Chapter 1

"Just look at this travesty . . . Dust in my grill, scratches on my finish . . . Ugh, I'm going to be buffing for days."

"So basically, the status quo will be maintained," Ratchet said drily, tilting his side view mirror to look at the red Aston Martin behind him. The sports car's headlights, always sharply angled downward, somehow approximated a glare even more than usual.

"Ha ha ha," Knock Out said sourly.

He swerved from side to side as he first tried to follow Ratchet's treadprints, then Bulkhead's, but his wheels were too close set for either. So he thumped along—left wheels in Bulkhead's oversized rut, right wheels sheering through the undergrowth—and cringed inwardly as the metallic brambles shrieked against his paint.

"Hey K.O., keep down the racket, will ya?" Miko popped her head out Bulkhead's window. She had changed from her armored exo-suit to a smaller, more flexible spacesuit so that she could fit inside the green SUV. "That sounds worse than fingernails on a chalkboard!"

"Sorry to inconvenience you, human. I wonder how quiet you'd be if your skin were being shredded off."

"Knock Out," Ratchet said in that annoying, warning tone of his.

"This trip was your idea, Knock," Bulkhead pointed out.

"Well, it's necessary, isn't it? That doesn't mean I have to like the journey," Knock Out grumbled. "Or the company."

"Sheesh, what a grump!" Miko leaned back, resting her crossed legs on Bulkhead's dashboard.

"Just ignore him," Bulkhead advised. "He always gets like this when his paint's scratched up."

"I heard that!"

"Yeah, well, it's true."<hr />

Miko had brought a tent.

"Uhhh, you do realize you'll have t' sleep in your spacesuit in there, right?" asked Bulkhead, as Miko rummaged through his vehicular mode for the rest of her supplies. "I mean, one of us, we can seal airtight, so I sorta figured Ratchet would—"

"Ratchet would what?" the Autobot medic demanded, crossing his arms.

"Well, yooou know . . . You're an ambulance . . . You got all that room in the back . . ."

"Junk in the trunk," Miko put in. When Ratchet glared down at her, she pasted on an innocent smile and hoisted a backpack, filled almost to bursting, out of Bulkhead backseat. "What?"


"Hmph."


"No worries, Ratchet," the Japanese girl assured him, "tonight's gonna be real camping out, with a real tent and a real fire."

Knock Out looked over from where he was sitting, working on his chassis with a polishing cloth. "And what exactly are you going to burn?"

"Real wood!" Miko said, reaching into the backseat again and tossed down a log with a triumphant grin.

"Hoo boy," Ratchet mumbled to himself, rubbing a servo over his face.

Knock Out made a noise that was nearly a chuckle. "I'm almost beginning to not regret you being here, human."

"Hey! I still have a name, you know!"

"Good to know . . . human." The former 'Con smirked as he picked up a scanner, pacing away from the small group as he tapped the screen.

"Hey Knock, where are you going?" Bulkhead called. "We still gotta set up camp!"

The red mech turned around, raised an expressive optic ridge, and then sauntered away with his attention back on the scanner.

"Oh well, it was a long shot," Bulkhead said philosophically, stamping down the brush at his feet and kicking it aside to clear a space.

Miko helped by gathering up the thinner metallic branches and heaving them to the side of the clearing. The soil here—did it count as soil if it was made of metal?—was made up of tiny copper colored granules, like sand. She ran her hand through it, wishing she could feel it without gloves in the way.

"All right," Ratchet said, his manner at once begrudging and indulgent. "Let's see about this tent."

"Right! Let's do this thing, Doc-Bot!"

Secretly, Miko wanted to set up the tent with Bulkhead. He was her totally awesome Autobot partner and it had been a whole YEAR, and she had her cell phone ready and waiting to snap pictures of whatever hilarious mishaps occurred. She'd never set up a tent before, Bulkhead had never set up a tent before, the possibilities were endless! Bulk would probably set it up upside down or end up wearing it like a toga or—

Ratchet took the unprecedented step of reading the instructions first and had the tent put together in ten minutes. Right side up.

"There! Enjoy . . . and try to stay out of trouble." Ratchet picked up a datapad and went to join Knock Out, who was crouched and examining something.

Miko repressed a sigh. Then she brightened and looked across the clearing to Bulkhead. "Well, Bulk, while the doctors are away . . ." She picked up the electronic guitar she'd brought with her gear. "It's time to play!" Then she frowned, picking up the cord to the amplifier. "So, uh . . . where can I plug this in?"<hr />

Knock Out's buzzsaw whirred as he slashed through a tangle of foliage. Sweeping the branches away with the flat of his blade, he shifted his hand out again and began dusting the soil away from a telltale glow.

"You've found one, then." Ratchet stepped beside him.

"Yep." The simple word held more than the medic's usual self-satisfaction; there was an exhilaration in his tone, a tremor of excitement. He sat back on his heels as the two of them gazed at the thrumming spark and the proto-material growing around it, already half-encasing it.

"By the All-Spark," Ratchet murmured, and the phrase had never been more appropriate. "New life on Cybertron . . . Our planet is alive . . . Our race is alive."

"I don't know about you, but I've always felt alive," Knock Out teased. "And it seems well and good now, but you'd better brace yourself for an onslaught of protoforms, old timer." Knock Out couldn't stop grinning as he stood and dusted off his knees.

"Well, you'll be the one dealing with that, won't you?" Ratchet smirked, recording the coordinates of the spark. "Now you know why I stayed on Earth."

"I should've guessed. Ah, there's another one!" The former 'Con pushed his way over to the base of a small hill.

Ratchet's optics brightened. "This one's much farther along . . . Look, main structure's formed and the digits are just about ready to separate . . ."

"Hey, what are you guys doing?" Miko called as she and Bulkhead approached—Bulkhead walking, Miko perched on his shoulder. "Whoooa."

She stared down at a silvery . . . figure? person? . . . curled up, half covered in soil. Its gleaming skin looked smooth and pliable, almost liquid, if liquid could be made solid.

"Oh man, look at that! Ha HA!" Bulkhead held up a hand for a high five. Both medics just looked at him in bemusement. He lowered his hand and cleared his vocalizer. "Um . . . right. Hey Miko—pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah! So that thing's one of you guys before you get all . . ." she made complicated gestures with her fingers as though she were working on an invisible Rubix cube. ". . . transformy, right?" Miko knelt on the edge of Bulkhead's fingers as he lowered his hands.

"It's what we call a pre-form," Ratchet said, crowding over Knock Out's shoulder to look at his scan results. "If all goes well—" He gave a yelp as Knock Out, without looking up, shoved the Autobot out of his personal space. Ratchet glared at him as he rubbed his upper arm, but the former Decepticon didn't seem to notice. "As I was saying, if all goes well it will separate and become a fully functional protoform. At which point it will indeed be 'one of us guys before we get all transformy.'"

"—if you're going to use the formal medical definition," Knock Out added, deadpan.

"Woohoo! Baby Autobots, FINALLY!" Miko jumped in place on Bulkhead's palm, pumping a fist into the air.

"Something like that." Ratchet looked amused.

"How long, Doc?" Bulkhead asked eagerly. New allies, new friends, new lives. New lives for a new Cybertron. "It's gonna be crazy seeing new faces. I mean really new, not just 'I've been out in space, now I'm back'. We haven't had any new bots since . . . geez, since Bumblebee and Smokescreen's cohort came online."

"Too many factors for an exact estimate—soil type, amount of energy produced by the hot spot, viability of the spark, and so on—but for this one, not long. A matter of months, perhaps even weeks."

"We should dig him up and take him back with us!" Miko mimed a shoveling motion.

"Oh no," said Ratchet. Knock Out, optic ridges raised, actually looked a little shocked at the suggestion. "For one thing, that would disrupt the absorption of nutrients. For another, natural separation is very important to proper mental development."

"The Doc's right, Miko. Don't worry, this guy'll be fine. Protoforms know what to do. Like baby birds."

Miko turned to stare at him. "Dude, baby birds need their mouths stuffed full of ground up worms every five seconds! They're like totally helpless!"

"Not those little fluffy yellow ones," Bulkhead argued. "Chicks. Fluffy little chicks."

"If any of them have a chicken as their alt mode," Knock Out said, "I'm sending them straight off to Earth."<hr />

Smiling wasn't a totally foreign experience for Ratchet, particularly now that the war was over and he got to spend time relaxing with his human friends (and his Cybertronian ones, when they visited) rather than worrying about their imminent demise.

Still, his mouth almost ached from all the beaming he was doing. Cybertron was even more fertile than he had expected, and the hot spot—one of many, if the reports were to be believed—had so many rooted sparks that he and Knock Out were constantly watching their feet as they walked, to avoid treading on any. Bulkhead and Miko had quickly lost interest and returned to camp; Ratchet found this a relief, considering their combined talent for causing havoc and Bulkhead's propensity for stepping on things he should not.

"Look at this," Knock Out called, gesturing him over. He moved his scanner over a medium-large pre-form, still nebulously shaped, but with arms and legs developing, then moved across to a second pre-form, similarly sized, nestled in the shade of a metallic boulder. The readings were identical.

"By the Matrix," Ratchet's face ached from that smile again. "Split-sparks."

"Mm-hmm. The split must've been right before they rooted, they're pretty close together . . . Sure to end up in the same cohort."

"Have you ever known twins not to?" Ratchet countered.

"I wonder whose they are," Knock Out mused, tapping a finger to his lips. "Purplish glow, you can just see it through the epidermis here—"

"You know color doesn't mean anything," Ratchet said brusquely. He didn't have any desire to gossip about who was procreating with whom. Knock Out, on the other hand, did.

"Supposing they belong to Magnus . . ."

"They belong," Ratchet lifted an optic ridge, "to themselves."

"Yes, but suppose they're his sparks, whisked out here on the wind," Knock Out persisted. His grin grew until it erupted into a small laugh. "The horror. Two more of him, marching around the place. 'Report, soldier.' 'Stand your ground, soldier.' 'Who gave you permission to go racing, soldier?'"

"I'll bet you hear that last one a lot," Ratchet said drily. "What do you make of this? Over here."

Knock Out crouched, leaning one arm on his knee. "I think it's going to have a beast-form, like Laserbeak. Only bigger."

"Laserbeak? Laserbeak was a drone," Ratchet scoffed.

"Oh no. Nooo, she was a mini-bot. Soundwave encouraged the whole 'drone' thing, of course. It made her less of a target. But you can't fool a physician, can you?" He winked.

Ratchet made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort as he offered Knock Out a hand up. "No, you cannot."

He watched the former Decepticon start off again, placing his pedes carefully. Here was another cause for relief; Knock Out was proving unexpectedly . . . what was the word he wanted? Competent? No, Ratchet had already known that; Megatron would never have stood for anything less from his CMO. Incompetent Decepticons were dead Decepticons.

Engaged. That was it. Actually interested in his work, excited about the new generation. Ratchet hadn't been expecting that, hadn't expected Knock Out to suggest a trip out to the nearest hot spot, to the detriment of his finish, just when an older, more experienced medic happened to be visiting. Ratchet had never been seriously concerned about Knock Out attacking Team Prime (well, not after the first few hectic days, anyway), but he had sometimes worried about what kind of not-so-tender mercies his friends were experiencing at the servos of their new medic. Seeing Knock Out patiently scouring the ground for new spark-growth eased his mind, even if he did absently flip from hand to buzzsaw in time to the little tune he was humming.

Ratchet wondered if Knock Out would take a compliment the wrong way. He thought about it and decided, yes, he probably would. It would smack a little too much of "Good job not being as horribly selfish as I thought you were, ex-Decepticon!" Especially since Ratchet was, admittedly, not known for compliments.

Instead he settled for asking the red medic's opinion on the effects of energon storms on growing pre-forms (Knock Out had some interesting observations) and commiserated with him when Miko, who had somehow managed to power up her electric guitar, started playing death metal.<hr />

"Bulkhead, I needed that!" Ratchet howled.

"Yeah, well . . . it's still useable. Probably."

Bulkhead looked uncomfortable as Knock Out examined the scanner, turning it over in his long claws. Miko had cut off the plug end of the guitar cord, Bulkhead had pried the back off the scanner, and together they had twisted the exposed wires of the amplifier to any piece of circuitry available until they found something that worked.

"Mmm, I'm impressed," Knock Out said.

"Ha! See?" Miko crossed her arms, glaring defiantly at Ratchet from her perch atop Bulkhead's shoulder, her guitar across her lap.

"—that you didn't electrocute yourselves," the red mech finished, handing the defunct piece of equipment back to Bulkhead.

"Pfffft!" was Miko's well-reasoned reply. "Let's show these guys how we roll, Bulk." She stood up on his shoulder, holding her guitar. But just as she raised her arm for an epic first chord—

"Careful, Bulkhead, you have something on your chassis," Knock Out sing-songed, slapping the Wrecker's back so heartily that the human was nearly dislodged.

"HEY!" Miko's booted feet scrabbled as she began to slide down Bulkhead's broad, inclined shoulder, protectively clutching her guitar.

"MIKO!" Bulkhead caught her in a cupped servo, then glared daggers at the red mech. "Knock Out! Cut it out!"

The medic dropped into a familiar pose, hand resting on his jutted hip while his other servo made a sweeping gesture of feigned innocence. "Problem?"

"Ahem." Ratchet said. "Knock Out, need I remind you that organic life forms are extremely fragile?"

"Oh, relax. The frail little thing is still functioning, isn't she?"

"Hey, who you calling frail?" Miko demanded, standing up.

"You." Knock Out flicked the side of his finger against the human just hard enough to send her toppling backwards in Bulkhead's hand.

"Ow! Geez!"

"Knock Ooout . . ." came the growl.

Miko crossed her arms. "Ignore him, Bulk, he's not worth it. C'mon, let's start the fire before it gets too dark to see." She slid off the green Autobot's hand as soon as he lowered it and off they went.

Ratchet watched them go, then looked at Knock Out, who had started pouring over the day's data without a qualm. What had that one report said? Oh yes . . .


"Despite his general willingness and occasional ability to interact appropriately with Autobots (see Appendix A through F for exceptions), former Decepticon 'Knock Out' shows little to no concern for organic life forms. His categorical indifference towards Nebulon diplomats played a key role in the unfortunate noodle incident. (See Appendix G, as well as files on Autobot Smokescreen and Autobot Wheeljack, for full details of noodle incident.) Recommend that his contact with organics be minimal and supervised."


All right, the report was from Ultra Magnus, which meant a lot of dour, disapproving exaggeration, but still . . . He wished he hadn't given in to Miko's begging and pleading. He should've left her back at the Autobot's base . . .

"I know my paint job's dazzling, but do you think you could help me with this? Once you're done gawking at me, of course."

"Of course." Ratchet glared at him. "And I wasn't gawking at you!"

"Whatever." Knock Out smirked.

While the medics conferred about the day's findings, Bulkhead scooped a space out in the sand and set the log in the center. Two grocery bags full of sticks and twigs, poking through the thin plastic, provided the rest of the kindling.

"Are you ready . . ." Miko said in her best announcer voice, holding up a stick as through it was a microphone, "to set things . . . ON FIIIIIIRE?"

"Sure am . . . fire is the number one source of fun in the Wrecker's rulebook. Right, Wrecker?"

"Right!" She slapped her tiny hand against Bulkhead's massive one. "Now, uh . . . got any matches?"<hr />

In the end they all sat around watching Ratchet trying to start the fire with his blowtorch.

"I don't know why I even agreed to this," he grumbled. "This is highly dangerous and against all regulations . . ."

"Hey, Ultra Magnus. Lighten up." Knock Out was lounging in the sand, legs crossed, lazily digging the tip of one pede into the casing of his foot to make his heel-tire spin. Vrrr, vrrr, vrrr.

A cube of high-grade energon rested next to him, courtesy of Bulkhead. The expression of tight-lipped disapproval Ratchet was currently giving Knock Out was almost identical to the one he'd aimed at Bulkhead when the bruiser had pulled out the high-grade and announced that they should celebrate the new generation of Cybertronians with a drink.

"Maybe you'd like to do this, Knock Out," the orange and white medic snapped.

"Oh, I'd just love to, but I can't." He held up his right servo and cycled through his transformations—hand, buzzsaw, drill, back to hand. "That's what you get for installing a blowtorch, old timer. Suddenly all the world wants a weld."

"What the purpose of this is, I can't even fathom," Ratchet said, watching the kindling crackle and curl. "Your suit is climate controlled, Miko, and we have headlights if you need light—"

"It's not about light or heat, it's about atmosphere," Miko said. She sat bolt upright. "There! There! You got it!"

A tiny orange-red flame caught at the edge of the log, creeping across its surface and into its heartwood.

Ratchet was not particularly jubilant. "Finally," was all he said as he stepped back and picked up his cube of high-grade.

They sat in silence in the growing twilight, the three bots holding their energon cubes, Miko poking at the fledgling fire with her stick.

"You know . . ." Ratchet took a pull at his drink as he watched the flames begin to leap, tentatively, over the top of the log. "This will be the first generation of Cybertronians born in peacetime."

"Mmm." Knock Out tilted his head back to look at the emerging stars. "No being shot at, scraped up, chased by vampire-zombies . . ." The others gave him a odd look, which he ignored as he took a drink. "Lucky little bastards."

"Aw, it's gonna be so boring now," Miko complained. She kicked a stray twig into the firepit. "I mean, we had some good times, right, guys? Kicking 'Con tailpipe, Wrecker style!"

"More like wrecking my tools, Miko style," Ratchet said snidely. "A tradition that's carried on to this very day."

Knock Out snorted, finishing his cube.

"Y'know, Miko's got a point," Bulkhead said, putting his hand low so Miko could crawl onto his servo. Bulkhead carefully set her on his shoulder. "The war wasn't all bad. We had some good times."

"And some bad times," Ratchet said. "Lots of bad times. Do you want a list?"

"Don't be such a downer, Doc," Miko advised.

"I'm just sayin' everything that happened brought us here today, y'know?" Bulkhead passed a cube of high-grade to Ratchet, who passed it to Knock Out. He took a swig of his own drink. "It made us tougher. Stronger."

Ratchet grimaced, remembering his own disastrous attempts to make himself "tougher and stronger" with Synthetic Energon. Knock Out spun his heel-tire, drank, and said nothing.

"Stir up the flames, Bulk. I wanna see them get sky high!"

Bulkhead accommodatingly pinched a branch between his fingers, rolling the log with it until the stick too was alight. He dropped it onto the flames. They all shifted and watched the flames leaping and casting writhing shadows. Maybe they didn't get sky high, but they were still oddly mesmerizing.

"Y'know the best fight I ever had?" Bulkhead set down an empty cube. "I was on Floron III—this was when I was still a Wrecker—and we'd just finished fighting through 'Con territory to get to this Autobot outpost. Eh, tiny place, not much to look at. Anyway . . . I was walking through the market, hoping to find some decent high-grade—" He picked up a new cube. "—when who do you think I saw? Breakdown!"

Ratchet glanced over at Knock Out, who was no longer spinning his wheel, just pushing it back and forth with the tip of his pede and looking into his cube. "Bulkhead . . ."

"I mean, I hadn't even known he was on the planet, what are the odds, right? So I charged him, we got into it, and we musta busted most of the stalls in the marketplace. Heh—at one point we both got stuck under this loose piece of awning, couldn't see a thing, but we were still hitting each other." He chuckled. "Nearly lost my hand that day, but I took off a pretty good part of his arm. Wonder what that slagger was doing there."

"He was buying insecticide." Knock Out's voice was matter-of-fact. "Our ship had an infestation of nano-gnats and we were passing through the system, so I sent him to get insecticide. Then he staggered back, half dead. So we never got any after all."

He took another draught as an uncomfortable silence settled. Miko was studying her gloved hands, clasped on her knees. Ratchet watched Knock Out for a moment, then turned his attention to the fire instead. Bulkhead cleared his vocalizer, his plating creaking as he shifted.

"Listen, Knock, I didn't mean . . . Uh, look, it was nothing personal, you know?"

Knock Out's pale face tilted towards him, a subtle gesture worthy of Soundwave. The dark red plates of his optics gleamed and flickered in the firelight, but his round, red irises, always hard to see in strong light, were invisible.

"What I mean is . . ." Bulkhead paused.

"Bulkhead," Ratchet muttered, making a slight, sideways gesture with his hand. But Bulkhead had to make this right.

"What I mean is . . . yeah, we were enemies but even after he turned 'Con, I still respected Breakdown, you know?"

"Respected him."

Bulkhead fought a grimace. He hated it when Knock Out was like this, when he suddenly became alien and aloof. They all did.

"Yeah, sure, I respected him. As a fighter he was—scrap, there was just no one like him. Sure, there were stronger bots—Megatron—but, man, he had style. It was an honor to take him down."

Knock Out tossed back the rest of his energon, dropped the cube, and gestured for another. Ratchet's lips tightened for an instant, but he passed one to him.

"So, uh." Bulkhead rubbed the back of his neck and spoke in a rush. "What I'm trying to say is I'm sorry if I pissed you off just now and this probably sounds weird but I kinda miss him too."

Knock Out looked at him. "What do you miss about him?"

"Well—" He struggled for an answer. "I guess I miss fighting him."

Knock Out pushed to his feet and walked away, cube still in his hand.

---

Next chapter tomorrow.

[Al1701]

"If there is to be a brave new world, our generation is going to have the hardest time living in it."
-David Warner as Chancellor Gorkon, Star Trek VI: The Discovered Country

Sometimes winning the peace is harder than winning the war.

[ladymoondancer]

Right, exactly! The war has probably been going on for as long as some of the bots have been alive. (Definitely the case with Bumblebee and I imagine Smokescreen.) How does someone handle peace when they've never known it, or have forgotten it?

Anyway . . . next chapter! Yay! ;D

--

Chapter 2

"Awk-ward," Miko muttered in a sotto voice after Knock Out walked away.

"Bulkhead, I swear a rampaging Terrorcon has more tact than you do." Ratchet pinched his noseguard.

"Aw c'mon, I apologized, didn't I?"

"In a way."

"Maybe you should go talk to him?" Miko asked. All three of them looked after the red mech, now standing distant with his arms crossed, staring at the sky.

"No," Ratchet said, to Bulkhead's obvious relief. "Leave him be."

Miko nodded. "I guess you're right. We'll let Doc Knock cool down with a walk 'round the block."

Ratchet groaned. "Is the wordplay really necessary?"

"Sure is!" the girl said. Her smile widened as Bulkhead chuckled. "That's my bot! Hold me up, Bulk. I wanna take some pictures."

Sliding onto his massive hand, she held up her cell phone, centering it on the twin moons. But the pictured turned out grainy and the moons, so visible to her eyes, were no more than tiny dots on the screen. Miko zoomed in on them, trying to capture their opalescence, trying to keep her hand steady.

Bulkhead was in the process of carefully returning his human partner to his shoulder when Knock Out slid back into the circle of light. He didn't acknowledge or even look at Bulkhead, just picked up another cube of high grade as he went by.

"Oh no. I'm cutting you off." Ratchet held his hand out, palm up.

Knock Out regarded him coolly. "Do I seem drunk?"

"You know as well as I do that that the signs aren't always apparent, and—" You're a Decepticon, you know how to hide things. "— I think you've had enough."

If Arcee or Ultra Magnus had been wearing that expression, Ratchet would have said it was neutral. Knock Out set the energon cube in Ratchet's hand. Didn't slap it down or toss it at him, just set it in his palm.

"I'm going to get some recharge," the red mech said, and without another word he somersaulted into vehicle mode. The acrobatics were possibly a little more shaky than usual, but he didn't swerve or waver as he drove a short distance away and parked.

Bulkhead exchanged a look with Miko, who was still sitting on the green Autobot's shoulder. "Does he really sleep like that?" Miko asked her partner.

"Yup. Same with Smokescreen. Must be a sports car thing."

"Huh."

Ratchet said nothing. He just gathered up the scanners and datapads scattered around the clearing, occasionally casting a glance at the Aston Martin sitting with its tail lights towards them. <hr />

True to her word, Miko slept in the tent. Or rather, she laid in the tent, staring at its thin nylon ceiling. Sleep was proving impossible in the spacesuit. It was so awkward, not to mention getting kind of sweaty and gross. Scratch that—REALLY sweaty and gross. But she was sleeping under an alien sky, in a tent, and how jealous would Jack and Raf be when they heard that?

She wished they were here too, though. Just figured that their spring breaks wouldn't line up. Next year, she was sooo getting back on the exchange student program, even if she had to get Raf to hack name onto the list. And until then . . . well, until then there was Skype.

And ground bridges, she thought with a smirk.

Ugh, this spacesuit! She turned over on her stomach. Then over on her back. Then over on her stomach. If only the air on Cybertron was breathable . . . If only her squashy sleeping bag weren't soaking up her body heat . . . If only she had agreed to bunk in Ratchet's vehicle form . . . But it was too late now, he'd be asleep. Or would he? Well, it wouldn't hurt to check . . .

She pushed herself off her sleeping bag and stepped outside.

It was funny how Cybertronians all slept—recharged—differently. Bulkhead was sitting upright, his body tilted forward slightly and his head bowed towards his chest. Ratchet was on his side, all curled up. It reminded Miko of the way a little kid would sleep—sooo not what she would've expected from Ratchet. And then there was Knock Out, a European muscle car hunkered under an alien starscape. Wouldn't that be a claustrophobic way to sleep? But less risk to his paintjob than robot mode, maybe.

Miko walked out to the charred piece of wood, dusted with white ash—all that was left of the fire. As she pushed it over with her foot, she noticed something. Both the Aston Martin's turn signals were on. Did that mean Knock Out was awake?

As she walked over to the car, a side mirror shifted towards her. The turn signals abruptly cut off.

Miko stood there for a few minutes. The mirror didn't move. The car didn't move.

Finally Miko said, "What're you doing?"

The mirror tilted a little. Somehow the small action successfully conveyed a raised eyebrow.

"With your blinkers on," Miko clarified.

"I like the sound." Knock Out said. His voice was a little stiffer than normal, a little more formal. Through the driver's side window, she could see the ring of light around his steering wheel glowing and fading to match the rhythm of his words. "Any other monumental questions that just can't wait till morning?"

"Will you take me for a spin?"

"Absolutely not! Ugh. Why would you even ask that?"

"'Cause I want to take this helmet off. I can't scratch my head and it's driving me craaazy. Besides, you let Vince ride in you."

"Who the slag is Vince?"

"That kid you kidnapped that one time. Not to mention Jack's mom and Agent Fowler—"

"Those were all hostage situations. Hostages who weren't wearing filthy spacesuits which have a distinct odor about them."

"But I'm dying in this thing!"

"Not my problem."

She crossed her arms. "You don't like me, do you?"

"Hmmm." He seemed to think about it. "You're . . . sometimes tolerable. For a human."

"Gee, thanks. You sound sooo enthusiastic."

"Lack of enthusiasm isn't the same as dislike, is it now?" His voice had that sing-song quality again, purposely annoying. He fell silent, and when he spoke again he just sounded irritated. "Go away, fleshie. I'm recharging."

"Nuh uh, you're sitting here clicking to yourself. Click, click, click."

"Go away."

"Click, click, click."

"Now I'm beginning to dislike you."

"Hey." Miko reached out to tap on his driver's side window. The door handle beneath it flexed, offended. "You shouldn't be so hard on Bulkhead."

"Oh, shouldn't I?" The reply, when it finally came, was a whisper, almost a purr.

Miko took half a step back, then caught herself and straightened. "Y'know, just because they were rivals doesn't mean . . ." She knew what she meant, knew she was right, but couldn't find the words. "Ahhh, did you know . . . did y'know that Bulkhead rescued Breakdown once?"

"There is nothing about Breakdown," the low-pitched voice thrummed with and through the car's engine, "that I don't know."

"Look—" Miko made a sweeping gesture, pleading for understanding. "They were arch-enemies, they had to fight!"

The silence seemed to curdle.

Suddenly the car's paneling bristled, shifted, and the driver's side door slid backwards, rolled outwards, and lashed towards her almost before the clawed hand erupted out of what was now an arm. Miko only managed three stumbling steps backwards before she was surging upward in a cold grip, and when the world unblurred, she was in his fist. His eyebrows were drawn down, the corner of his mouth drawn up to reveal the flat plane of his teeth, in an expression that was not quite a sneer and definitely not a smile.

"Put me down right now, Doc Knock!" Miko said, punching at the index finger wrapped under her arms. He didn't seem bothered, either by the nickname or the violence.

"Don't you like being picked up, human? Bulkhead certainly lugs you around enough." Miko's knees bent as Knock Out set her on his other hand with a little too much pressure; she staggered and windmilled her arms as he released her.

"Yeah, well, you're not Bulkhead!"

The immediate, worrying difference was that unlike Bulkhead's wide, secure servos, Knock Out's hands were long but thin, mostly made up of cylindrical claws that made Miko feel even more unsteady. As the wind whipped around her, she felt like a tightrope walker balanced on a tiny platform, except there wasn't even a rope in front of her. Just a very visible twenty-five foot drop and a former Decepticon whom she had specifically, repeatedly been told to stay away from. She dropped into a crouch as she glared at the red medic but refused to clutch at his fingers for security.

"Are you afraid of heights?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

"Or maybe you're afraid of me."

"Ha! As if!"

He dismissed her answer with a shrug; the girl was uncomfortably aware of just how much the movement made his hand shift. "I'm giving you the courtesy of an explanation, human—"


"Miko."


"—because you're young, and ignorance can be forgiven in the young." His optics narrowed as he brought his servo up to stare at the human eye-to-eye. "There is no such thing as an 'arch-enemy.' There are just enemies. You can destroy them or ignore them or make them suffer, as it suits you." His optics half-closed as he rolled out the word, suffer, and just for a moment he looked radiantly happy and utterly terrifying. The moment passed and his tone became more business-like. "Having one special enemy who you like to fight is just fragged up and stupid."

"Oh yeah?" Miko was on her feet, despite the height, despite the slight swaying of the medic's hand. Nobody called Bulkhead stupid. NOBODY. "I guess no one told that to your beloved leader, Megatron!"

"Beloved leader . . . Oh yes, we 'Cons just adored him," Knock Out snickered. "Megatron is exactly what I'm talking about. As much as I hate to agree with that treacherous fragger Airachnid—" His mouth twisted. "—she was right when she tried to leave your mudball planet. We were only there so Megatron could fight Optimus. And fight Optimus. And fight Optimus some more. And where did that get dear Megsy? Skewered by Bumblebee, that's where. Because 'Bee," Knock Out waved a finger in front of her, admonishing, "doesn't believe in that arch-enemy scrap either. He didn't punch Megatron fifty times on fifty different occasions and pretend like it was special. He punched him once—through the gut, with a sword. Do you get what I'm saying, Miko?"

Before she could answer, a roar split the night.


"KNOCK OUT!"


The red mech turned with such a jerk of surprise that Miko nearly fell off, and now she really was clutching at his fingers. A grin split her face when she saw Bulkhead poised for action, his mace glowing.

"Put Miko down," Bulkhead ground out. "NOW."

Knock Out's expression shifted rapidly from startlement to indignation to a calm, glossy suavity. "Relax, Bulkhead. I haven't hurt your little pe—friend, and she's not afraid of me." He gave Miko a too-sweet smile. "She told me that herself." She stuck her tongue out at him in reply.

"What's all the racket? Why are you even awake?" Ratchet grumbled, stalking over. He stopped dead when he saw Miko crouching on Knock Out's palm. "Knock Out . . . what are you doing?"

The red mech's optic ridges drew down. "I'm talking to someone. Last time I checked I was allowed to do that."

"I'm sure setting Miko on the ground won't disrupt your conversation." Ratchet crossed his arms. "Now, Knock Out."

"You know, it's not like I wanted to be harassed by fleshies tonight!" he snapped. He could read the writing on the wall, oh yes, here came another tedious meeting with Magnus and more footnotes to his slagging file. "But fine, have it your way."

He started to set the human down, then paused in mid-motion.

"What are you waiting for, huh?" Miko wondered if she should jump the rest of the way, but it was still pretty far. "New Year's?"

"I was just thinking," Knock Out said thoughtfully, straightening up again, "I've never had an arch-enemy before. Just the normal kind, as I was telling Miko here. But since my partner was your arch-enemy, Bulkhead, there would be a certain symmetry, wouldn't there, if my arch-enemy was, ohhhh . . ." He corkscrewed a finger before snapping it towards the teenager on his palm.

"Damn it, Knock, that isn't funny!" Bulkhead choked out.

"What's the matter, Bulkhead, don't you feel honored that your partner makes a worthy opponent? Aren't you happy, knowing someone's just waiting to tear out her circuitry and gutter her spark?"

"Knock Out," Ratchet took a step forward, hands upraised in a calming gesture. "We all worry about loved ones during a time of war—"

"It wasn't war," the red mech spat. "It was a stupid, asinine grudge match. Where this MANIAC—" Knock Out swept a finger towards Bulkhead, "—pounded my partner down to his base components every time they met. In the street! In the market! Anywhere!"

"You make it sound like Breakdown was a, a helpless little glitch mouse! You think he ever passed up an opportunity to throw a punch? You think he never attacked first? He was a warrior, for frag's sake!"

"That's—" His servos were shaking and his fingers kept curling like he wanted to make a fist. "That's not the POINT!"

"Then WHAT IS? Knock . . ." Bulkhead put his hand to his forehead in frustration. "Just . . . put Miko down and we can talk. All right?"

Knock Out turned away, sullen, absently cupping his other hand over Miko as she almost slid off.

"Knock Out . . ." Ratchet's voice held a warning, but Bulkhead nudged him into silence.

"Listen, I said I was sorry. I am sorry. I just don't get where all this is coming from. You know that I didn't . . . offline him, right? That was M.E.C.H."

Knock Out had never corrected the Autobots on the specifics of Breakdown's demise before. Nor did he now. "That isn't the point," he said quietly, and then louder, "That isn't the point! This isn't about how he died, it's about how we lived."

He dropped to one knee and rolled Miko off his palm. She stood up, dusted herself off, and crossed her arms at him before walking past with deliberate, defiantly slow steps. But he heard her break into a run once she was past him.

"Miko . . ." The relief was plain in Bulkhead's voice.

There was a crunch of pedes and a hand lightly touched Knock Out's shoulder. He shrugged it off with a jerk as he stood.

"Knock Out—" Ratchet began.

"Don't," he hissed. He folded into vehicle mode and tore into the night.

[ladymoondancer]

Chapter 3

Knock Out swerved between his own treadprints, Ratchet's, Bulkhead's, the glare of his headlights lighting the furrows and the metallic vegetation whipping past. New scratches tore his sides and later he would bemoan them, but right at this moment he didn't care.

It isn't about how he died.

Breakdown stumbling into the ship with energon streaming down his face. Breakdown sheepishly waiting in the med bay, missing half his leg. Breakdown mumbling and slurring his way through a concussion. Breakdown hunched painfully over his crushed and sparking side, not complaining when Knock Out shoved his arm away and began cauterizing without anesthetic, because the idiot never did complain.

It's about how we lived . . .

"I'm surprised. I'd have thought you'd have gotten farther than this," Ratchet's voice came from behind him.

Knock Out didn't even remember stopping, but here he was sitting in a rut, his headlights blazing into the darkness. "You can spare me the lecture, I've heard it all before."

"Hrm." The ambulance turned his tires left, then right. "You'll be glad to know Miko is fine."

"Unless my hand spontaneously started producing radiation or neurotoxins, I don't see why she wouldn't be," Knock Out said acidly. "I know what makes humans break. I was careful."

"Not careful enough," Ratchet growled. "Knock Out, I'm going to make this simple. No more picking up humans. No more poking at humans. No more being around humans, period, without . . . " He hesitated.

"Without supervision," Knock Out sneered. "That's the word you're dancing around, isn't it?"

"No. No." The tires turned, left-right, again. "I was going to say without a . . . role model."

"Stop embarrassing yourself. You can't con a 'Con."

"And is that what you are?"

"You tell me." Knock Out rolled forward, just a foot or two, just enough to show that he was oh-so-done with this conversation.

But Ratchet didn't move, just kept watching him with those big square headlights of his.

"Anything else?" Knock Out asked, his voice rising. Throttle back, Knock Out, throttle back. He dredged up a more congenial tone. "I'm sorry if I frightened Miko. I truly didn't mean to and I'll apologize to her as soon as I get back."

Ratchet's headlights flickered just briefly. "And Bulkhead?"

Keep it together, Knock Out, swallow your pride. This is no worse than day-to-day on the Nemesis, remember? At least the Autobots never stick a fusion cannon in your face.

"I'm very sorry about that too," he said, dosing his voice with regret.

"So what you're saying," Ratchet said, "is that you're sorry you were upset when Bulkhead talked about beating up your partner." He transformed and crossed his arms. "Your dead partner."

Knock Out transformed too; staying in vehicle mode would have been an admission that Ratchet was getting to him. He was careful to keep his expression repentant. "Let's say I'm sorry I overreacted."

"I see." Ratchet's head tipped slightly downward as he looked at the other medic, his arms still crossed. Clearly he still wanted something.

"I'm sure Bulkhead and I can work things out," Knock Out tried. "We have been working together for over a year, after all." So ham-fisted, but Autobots were hardly the masters of nuance.

The silence continued, and Knock Out began to feel the stirrings of anxiety. If he were facing Megatron, this would be the point where he started worrying about a backhand ruining his finish. Knowing that Ratchet wouldn't strike him just made it worse; at least Megatron had been predictable. "We don't make such a bad team, actually. I remember the time—"

Ratchet listened as Knock Out detailed (and exaggerated) a basic energon scouting mission he'd once gone on with Bulkhead. A half hour ago the red mech had been trembling in rage and calling Bulkhead "that maniac." Not five minutes ago he had been spitting out sarcasm. And now . . .

It was like watching a mask slide into place.

"I'm glad you're so willing to put aside your differences with Bulkhead," Ratchet cut in when Knock Out gave him the chance. "But did you ever stop to think that if Breakdown hadn't been stupid enough to fight Bulkhead, none of this would be an issue? That maybe it takes a special kind of idiot to challenge a Wrecker over and over again?" He stepped forward, pushing the issue. "Let's face it—it was his own fault he got beat like the junkyard reject he was."

Ratchet expected Knock Out's rage to punch right through his facade, and possibly to punch right into the older medic's face as well.

Instead a mocking smile spread across on Knock Out's gleaming white faceplate, smooth as an oil slick. He actually seemed to relax a fraction.

"Well, we can't all belong to the intelligentsia, can we now? Breakdown was good at what he did. If he were here today you'd see one bot's 'junkyard reject' is another's 'terrifying war machine'. But tsk tsk, Doctor, it's not kind to speak ill of the dead."

Ratchet stared. It sounded practiced, almost rote, like it was an automatic response to a line of attack that was so familiar that it had lost all meaning to the former Decepticon.

Line of attack. Former Decepticon.

Damn it.

"Come on," Ratchet said gruffly. "We're going back to camp." He waited for a protest or a playful evasion, but Knock Out just shrugged with exaggerated carelessness and accepted it. Ratchet started walking, wondering if Knock Out would comment on his decision to forego vehicle mode. He didn't.

Even walking, the sports car was faster than Ratchet, but he drifted off to the side once in a while, poking through the shrubs before trotting to catch up. Still looking for rooted sparks, Ratchet realized. The orange and white mech scowled. They needed this medic. Why did he have to be so fragged up? Was there even any point in trying to get through to a Decepticon? And why did it have to be Ratchet who had to try? WHY? This situation had "Prime" written all over it.

But Prime wasn't here, was he now? And Ratchet was. And so was Knock Out, leaning his hands on his knees as he bent to examine a pale yellow spark, its developing body choked by brush. Ratchet walked over and began snapping off the branches encasing it and after a moment Knock Out did the same.

You can't make this an attack, Ratchet thought. He's ready for an attack. He'll deflect.

"What did you mean," he asked calmly, pulling back the tops of the bushes with his hands before snapping the stems lower down, "when you said it was about 'the way you lived'?"

Knock Out looked down at the broken twig he was twirling in his fingers. He flicked it away. "Nothing very deep. Just that I was the one patching up his injuries. And it did get tedious," he said lightly.

"I can sympathize. What kind of injuries did he take?" When Knock Out didn't answer right away, the older mech said, "Optimus always used to come back with a lot of hits to his left arm. I think it was because of the way he shielded himself from blasts."

"Blunt trauma," Knock Out said finally, though there was a reluctant drag to his words. "Cracked plating, fractures, crushed internals, a limb missing once in a while. Concussions, of course. "

"Mmm." Ratchet leaned back to look up at the old familiar constellations of his homeworld, watching the red medic from the corner of his eye. "That must have been hard."

He meant emotionally, but Knock Out took the question differently. "It was. We were always running broke because he needed this part or that part. Sometimes I had to get creative."

"Get creative?"

"Oh, you know. Beg, borrow, and steal. Bartering with the local lowlifes. Trading medical services, among other things." He gave Ratchet a sarcastic glance. "Even fixed up Autobots a few times. You see how low a 'Con can sink?"

Ratchet let the jibe pass. "Wait a minute. Why was it hard to get supplies? As Megatron's CMO—"

Knock Out laughed. It was the most genuine sound Ratchet had heard from him since he'd found him. "CMO! Not then, not by a long shot. I was just a runaway 'Con with a rusty two-bot ship and a bodyguard."

"Wait . . ." Ratchet stopped and pointed a finger at him. "Are you saying you deserted?"

"Ohhh, not really. I mean, I was still patching up Decepticons for the most part. Just not exactly where the High Command expected me to." He shrugged restlessly. "I was sick of the battlefield. It was so banal."

"I understand."

"No." One word, spoken almost indifferently.

Ratchet started clearing the sand away from the pre-form. Half of it was well-developed, limbs clearly defined, while the other half was still amorphous.

"You could help me understand," he said after a few minutes.

A hard glint in Knock Out's optics. "You don't need to understand. You don't want to understand." He returned to the work. "You're an Autobot."

"And so are you."

Knock Out laughed again, genuine and incredulous.

Ratchet wasn't about to start digging into that oil well. "So where'd you go?"

Knock Out shrugged. "Everywhere. But we always ran into Wreckers sooner or later. Bulkhead wasn't the only one. Just the most brutal."

Ratchet was silent, trying to reconcile the cheerful, klutzy Autobot he knew with "the most brutal" of the Wreckers.

The red medic gave his head a little shake and recovered some of his suavity. "Not that I hold it against him. We should let the past bury the past, yes?"

"Sometimes that's easier said than done," Ratchet said, voice neutral.

Knock Out was frowning and smiling at the same time, struggling between the two expressions. "It wasn't so bad," he said, his expression was still undecided. "At first his injuries were just . . ." He gazed contemplatively at the pre-form as his fingers pushed the dust away from it in little granular mounds. "Just exasperating. He was my bodyguard, he was supposed to protect me. And instead he kept dragging himself back half-dead, dribbling energon all over the floor."

"And later?" Ratchet waited a minute, then asked again, his voice low and steady and unyielding. "How did you feel later, when he stumbled in bleeding?"

Knock Out raised his head and smiled.

"Exultant," he said.

[ladymoondancer]

Chapter 4

Ah, yes, there it was. That look of poorly suppressed shock and disgust on the Autobot's face. Knock Out found it both satisfying and oddly painful. Really, he shouldn't be telling Ratchet any of this. The Autobots would be happier if they didn't know his secrets and Knock Out would be happier too.

But of course Ratchet didn't realize that. Autobots could never leave well enough alone.

"Why . . . would you feel like that?" Ratchet asked. Knock Out's smile faded.

"Why do I feel like I'm adding fuel my own pyre every time I open my mouth? I shouldn't say any more . . ."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd rather not endure another lecture from Magnus while I avert my eyes from that hideous hook of his."

Ratchet bristled. "Listen, Knock Out, I was dealing with extremely limited materials when I made that 'hideous hook' and—" He rubbed his hand over his face. "And that's not the point. Do you really think I'm the type of bot who runs off to tattle?" He snorted.

"Hmm." Knock Out scrutinized him. "Well . . . maybe not. No, I suppose you aren't. Still . . ." He looked away.

"Still what?"

"There's something to be said for privacy." His optics narrowed a little, as though he expected Ratchet to refute it.

"Strong words for someone who's operated a cortical psychic patch," Ratchet said drily, "but yes, there is. I won't run around blabbing if you want to talk to me. But I'm not going to try to pry your secrets out of you if you don't." But you do want to talk, don't you? You need to. "Let me ask you this. Why did your feelings about Breakdown's injuries change?"

Knock Out leaned forward a little from where he was kneeling and, oh yes, Ratchet could see he was dying to tell. "Do you know what a masterpiece is? For a guild?"

"Of course. It's the piece of work that proves a bot is worthy of becoming a master of his or her craft—" Ratchet stopped, sitting back in the sand. "Oh, I see."

Knock Out's drew himself up with a proud smile, his fingers lacing over his knee. "At first the repairs were a nuisance. Then they were a challenge. Then . . ." He looked at the sky, searching for the words. "There wasn't a piece of him that I didn't repair, replace, or recalibrate. I didn't just fix him. I saved him. I improved him. He depended on me."

"That sounds very—"

Standing up, Knock Out brushed the sand from his thighs and continued as though he hadn't heard Ratchet, and maybe he hadn't.

"Space travel is boring, you know. Might as well sit and watch rust form." He snorted at the memory of it, then smiled. "But Breakdown was there. I'd look at him and wonder how he'd get banged up next. Or think about how to strengthen his chassis or smooth his gait or, oh, anything. He needed so much surgery—if you knew how many scalpels I went through! These aren't any good for finicky work." He swung out his buzzsaws, then swung them in again. "Sometimes I'd just look at him and . . ." He made a mysterious little gesture. "Yes. He was my masterpiece."

Ratchet stood up, moving carefully around the pre-form, now surrounded by smooth sand. Close to the red medic, but not close enough to crowd him. "It sounds like you saved his life, many times over. He must have been grateful."

"He was." Knock Out sounded faintly surprised. "Our patients usually fight us—Decepticon medics, I mean—"

(Ratchet refrained from pointing out this was due to said medics' aversion to anesthetics and habit of killing patients for spare parts.)

"—but Breakdown wasn't afraid of anything. Not even me. He always thanked me, whether I'd saved his life or just tightened a joint. 'Thanks, doc.' That's what he'd say." He cast a look over his shoulder. "You see why his injuries were exciting? They were a chance to . . ." His thin fingers reached upward, plucking the answer from the stars. " . . . to connect with him. I would've done anything and everything to keep him online. I did do everything."

"Beg, borrow, and steal?"

"Ha! That was just the start," Knock Out laughed. "Try blackmail, bribe, and kill! I suppose you find that shocking." He gave Ratchet a shrewd look. "Regretting your promise not to blab?"

"Not at all," Ratchet lied. You don't want to understand, Knock Out had said. "You seemed less . . . accepting . . . of his injuries earlier. You seemed upset."

Knock Out crossed his arms, frowning at the ground as he tilted his left pede upward and rolled his foot backwards and forwards on its tire. The biolights running up his back glimmered in the darkness.

"It stopped being fun, after a while . . ." he said. "Watching him come back all torn up. Wondering if he'd come back. It stopped being fun. At first, fixing him made him mine. He was mine," he emphasized, turning towards Ratchet with two burning red eyes. "Mine."

Ratchet held up his hands in acquiescence and Knock Out looked away.

"But eventually, he was . . . It was . . ." He stopped and tried again. "Eventually I didn't have to make him mine, he just was. I'd replaced every part of him twice over. All except . . ." He placed his hand over his spark chamber. "And that was mine too."

Such a tide of grief in that voice.

"Knock Out . . ." Ratchet placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. For a moment the red mech leaned into his touch. For a moment it seemed like it was going to be all right.

And then Ratchet felt him stiffen until the gleaming metal under his fingers might have been nothing more than the unliving husk of an Earthen machine. Knock Out sidestepped, pulled away until Ratchet's fingers were outstretched over nothing.

"We should go." His voice was flat; he didn't meet Ratchet's gaze, just turned on his heel and started walking. At the edge of the ruts he swung around as though he wanted to say something, stared wordlessly at Ratchet, and swung back again.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Ratchet said quietly as he walked a few paces behind him. Knock Out's helm gave a sharp jerk of acknowledgement. "Thank you," Ratchet added, "for trusting me." No response to that.

What can I tell you? How can I help you? the orange and white medic wondered. Should I say "You can talk to us"? "We've all lost someone"? Or maybe "It's not good to keep it bottled up"? I'm sure you've heard all that before. Your walls weren't built in a day, they aren't coming down in a day.

Selfishly, he wished that he had never come out here, that Knock Out had been as uninterested in the new spark-life as Ratchet had initially assumed. So many little ways he could have avoided the problem now dumped squarely in his lap. If they hadn't sat around drinking high-grade. If Bulkhead had kept his mouth shut.

"Knock Out. Wait."

The red mech stopped but didn't turn around. His fingers were slowly pulling up to form fists and uncurling into sharp, spread claws, again and again.

"Knock Out," Ratchet said again. "Listen. Part of being an Autob—part of being on the team is getting along with others, working with them, putting aside personal grievances—"

"I know. I know all that. I've been here a year." The words came out in little fits and jerks. "And now comes the part where you list my past sins and tell me how grateful I should be. I know this song and dance."

"Then I'm sure we'll be able to put your psychic abilities to good use," Ratchet said, both his patience and his sarcasm exaggerated, "since I haven't finished yet."

Knock Out's claws caught the moonlight as he gestured for Ratchet to continue. He still didn't turn around.

"Clumsy and stubborn and dense as he can be, Bulkhead is my good friend, near to my spark." He saw the red mech tense up and forestalled him. "A-yip-yip-yip! Hear me out! He is, as I say, my friend. But I can understand, after what you . . . lived . . . why you would feel differently. Knock Out . . . you can ask for a little more space."

"What do you mean?" Rough, angry, and unsure.

"I mean," Ratchet said, "you don't have to befriend Bulkhead if you don't want to. If it's too much."

A startled intake of air. A round, red optic peered back at him, accompanied by a sliver of pale enamel. His expression was constrained, wild . . . a turbofox suspecting a trap. He laughed unsteadily. "Of course. Right. Because it's not like you're one big, happy family or anything. Because it's not like the Autobots are all about making friends and all that slag."

"In the same way that the Decepticons are all about having none?"

Knock Out did turn around at that, hands on his hips. "I did have a friend on the Nemesis!" he snapped. After a pause, he added, "Two. I had two. Just not at the same time."

Ratchet tried to look as though he found this admission informative instead of incredibly sad. "That's exactly my point. Decepticons do have friends, selectively. Autobots—well, we have friends too, but that doesn't mean we pal up to every bot we meet."

Knock Out looked unconvinced, so Ratchet spread his hands and continued. "You think I've never worked with someone who ground my gears? Remind me to tell you about Placebo sometime—laziest glitch ever, I came this close to strangling him with my bare servos. We worked in the same laboratory every day, but he was not a friend."

"Not exactly the same situation, is it? A pre-war laboratory versus . . . this."

"So what?" Ratchet said bluntly. "You're a fine medic. We need you. Cybertron needs you. What we don't need is for you to quietly tear yourself apart."

His head jerked back a little at the compliment (memories of a dark lab full of synethic energon and a far too eager response to a simple "thank you"), but the beginnings of a smile evaporated at Ratchet's last sentence. "I am not—"

"Not on edge? Not stressed out? I didn't see you losing it with Bulkhead back there?"

Knock Out's ventilations were coming in quick little huffs. "It's not that easy. You make it sound like it's easy, and it's not."

"Why not? Tell 'em you don't want to work with Bulkhead unless you have to. Pit, I'll tell them if you want."

"Why not." Knock Out's voice regained some of its sardonic edge. "Whyyy . . . nooot. Oh, I can see it all now. 'Former Decepticon Knock Out shows regrettable anti-social tendencies. Refusal to work with certain members of Team Prime borders on mutiny. Recommend long, stodgy lecture followed by bouts of shock therapy.' What do you think of that?"

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. "I think your mimicry of a report you've never set eyes on is startlingly accurate. Aside from the shock therapy part."

"I called in a favor from a friend of a friend. A very short friend of a friend, with glasses. Organics aren't totally useless."

"I see," Ratchet grumbled. He should've known. "As for Ultra Magnus . . . are you really the type of, ahem, what was it, 'Autoboticon' to let someone, anyone, dictate your life like that?"

"He hates it when I call myself that." Knock Out gave a slow grin. "But even as a Decepticon, I was always rather insubordinate."

"So I gathered. Ready to go back?"

"Yes." Knock Out transformed. He tested his wheels as he waited for Ratchet to drop into vehicle mode. "You . . . meant what you said?"

"Yes." Ratchet didn't ask which part he meant—that he wouldn't talk about Knock Out's past, that he would talk to Ultra Magnus, that Knock Out could put some distance between bots if he liked. That he was a good medic. Ratchet had meant it all. "Yes I did. So. Transform and roll out."

"We've already done half of that, old-timer," Knock Out said. "Don't you remember? Or are your circuit boards failing already?"

"Knock Out, shut up and roll."

[ladymoondancer]

Epilogue

Knock Out slowed to a crawl as he rolled up beside Bulkhead. The former Wrecker was in vehicle mode. In recharge, maybe? Though Bulkhead usually slept in robot mode . . .

"Hey Knock," Bulkhead whispered.

"Hey," Knock Out murmured back. Why were they whispering, he wondered. "Sorry if I spooked your human. Miko."

"Well. Miko's tough, she got over it pretty fast," Bulkhead said, still in an undertone. "Actually, she got kinda excited after you, um, drove off. Said Jack and Raf would be jealous."

"Jealous?"

"That she got an arch-enemy and they didn't. Just . . . don't pick her up anymore. Okay?"

"No . . . I won't. Where is she? I'd like to apologize." Surprisingly, this was not entirely untrue.

"Do it in the morning." Bulkhead tilted his side view mirror meaningfully. Oh—so there was the reason for the lowered voices, curled up on the backseat. She looked more comfortable in sweats than she had in that smelly containment suit. Still, Knock Out wondered how Bulkhead could stand having an organic drooling all over his interior.

"Hey," Bulkhead said. "Uh, me and Jackie were gonna play lob-ball tomorrow. If you wanna join in . . . ?"

It was a peace offering. But . . . two Wreckers. Plus the risk to his finish. "No. No thanks."

"Or we could go out patrolling or something?"

"I have a lot of work to catch up on," Knock Out evaded. Adjusting his right-hand mirror, he looked across the clearing to where Ratchet was settling back into recharge. Maybe he shouldn't have listened to the older mech; this was so terribly awkward. Relationships had been much easier in the Decepticon army, where you just feigned camaraderie until you had a chance to scrap your opponent. Or scrapped them outright, if you were strong enough.

In the pause that followed he could feel Bulkhead wanting to say something about Breakdown; Knock Out quickly diverted him with a question of his own. "What's this arch-enemy business with Miko?"

"Oh, that. Well, her first idea was that she'd put on the Apex armor and you two could duke it out—"

What? NO.

"—but I convinced her that was a no-go, so then she thought she'd challenge you to a paintball match—"

EVEN WORSE.

"—but I had a hunch you wouldn't go in for that either, so the new plan is a video game throwdown with a creature-feature afterwards. You know—a movie?" he said when he was greeted with confused silence.

"Ah." Knock Out processed this. "You can get Earth broadcasts on Cybertron?"

"Uh, no, we'd be on Earth. Space bridge, remember?"

"Ah," he said again. "They cut off my access to the space bridge after that one little . . . incident." He'd just been trying to teach that rude street racer some manners. It wasn't like anyone had died.

"So? Just say you have to talk to Ratchet about . . . sciency stuff."

Ratchet. That's right, Ratchet would be at the Earth base. He checked his right-hand mirror again. He'd told the Autobot medic too much, dug too deep; he blamed the high-grade. He didn't want to go through that ever again. Did he?

"Sooo . . ." Bulkhead coughed. "Are you in?"

"I'll think about it." The moonlight slid over Knock Out's frame as he began to cruise away.

"Hey, Knock." Bulkhead's voice was quiet, for Miko's sake, but worried. "You and me—we okay?"

Knock Out's engine quieted to an idle, his headlights just catching the raised edge of the rough, treaded ruts compressing the soil.

"Certainly," he said at last. "As much as we ever were."


-The End-