Chapter Four

Necessity brings him here, not pleasure.
—Dante, Canto XII, line 87

Optimus Primal was not upset – he was furious. Unable to ascend to the top floors, he paced in the foyer, trying in vain not to hit anything valuable, which unfortunately, was everything. When Silverbolt and Rattrap descended, the only sane thought that kept him from batting the rat into the wall was the fact that this was not his home.

“How could you?” he bellowed.

Rattrap, though hanging by the scruff of his neck along Silverbolt’s side, managed to look affronted. “Ease off, Donkey Kong. What’d you expect? You said yourself you didn’t trust them, so I went looking around.”

Primal turned, tipping over a slim vase. Only Cheetor’s last-minute dive saved the precious creation; gently, reverently, the feral Cat set it back on its pedestal. “I never said I didn’t trust them! It’s the situation I don’t care for.”

Rattrap sniffed. “So? We can’t leave; we can’t blow Megs to Unicron. What’s the point in sticking to the rules?”

The large captain took a step forward, then another, until he was face to snout with Rattrap. “Because,” he began slowly, deliberately, “we are their guests. Like it or not, we owe them.” Rattrap merely blinked. “And if you’ve forgotten, I’m still your commander. You haven’t been released from duty.”

Teeth glimmered in a metallic muzzle as the espionage agent grimaced, his eyes sliding to the side as the weight of the proclamation fell down upon his head. Duty, honor, the military. Slag them all.

“I want to know what he heard,” BlackArachnia spoke up from behind Silverbolt, turning her face away from a spacescape.

Exasperation weighed heavily upon Optimus’ shoulders. Ever since they landed, it seemed like his well-knit crew was falling apart. “BlackArachnia, that’s not the point.”

“It is,” she insisted. “They might be our hosts, but they also owe us – explanations. And to include us in whatever schemes they’re cooking up.”

Squirming in Silverbolt’s strong grip, Rattrap managed to lift his head high enough to nip the wolf-eagle’s finger. With an exclamation of shock, Silverbolt dropped him. Rattrap landed neatly on all fours before standing up and transforming. “How dare –” But Rattrap waved him off.

“Fine. Here’s what I heard: The Invisible Man and his Grey Lady are scared witless about the possibility of the Predacons rising up again because we brought Megs here. Mirage thinks the Elders won’t do squat, and he wants to call some people back here to talk about it.”

“But nobody knows we’re back,” Cheetor began.

“That doesn’t matter,” a smooth, cultured voice flowed from thin air. The Maximals jerked in surprised as Mirage coolly appeared, leaning up against the far wall. “When the enemy is still kicking, they’ll find what they want.” He looked towards Rattrap. “ ‘The Invisible Man’, huh? Been a long time since someone called me that. Usually Sunstreaker when he was pissed at me.” He chuckled, a far cry from the savage killer he’d been a moment ago.

“Who are you going to ‘call’?” Rhinox queried, furtively stuffing his twin guns back into their subspace pocket.

“Friends,” the spy replied succinctly. “Friends who might be able to get you back to size, Captain … that is, if you wish it so.”

Optimus jerked at the suggestion. He’d half-forgotten in the heat of the moment the lie they’d told the Tower-dwellers about how he’d come to look like this. Mirage looked at him a moment, those bright sky blue optics a little too knowing, before shifting his gaze to include the group. “Anyway,” he continued, “if you wish to be included, than you shall. As I stated, my home is open to you; the grounds are shielded, so if come morning, you want to go out, do so.” He inclined his head before vanishing completely.

“He does that all the time, so don’t be surprised,” Solarflare said from the staircase leading from the foyer and into the main building. She reached out at one point and grabbed for something in mid-air; metal scraped on metal and some invisible hand ruffled the feathers on her shoulders.

“I don’t like having to watch what I say,” Rattrap scoffed.

“This is our home,” she stated a little firmly, leaning up against the railing. “As I said, Raj likes to wander around, often for hours at a time. He doesn’t eavesdrop,” and they all felt the emphasis on the word, “and he respects boundaries. Your rooms will be safe, we’ve agreed upon that, but anything else is fair game.”

“We understand,” Optimus replied for them all. “And you have my sincerest apologies –”

She shrugged, cutting him off. “It’s in the past. Forget it. Right now, suggest you all retire. We have some planning to do.” She pushed off the wrought-iron railing and turned, only to flick her crest back at Cheetor.

“Solarflare.”

“Yes?”

Pushing through the looks his comrades shot him, Cheetor pressed on. “Who will be coming?”

She smiled softly. “People you’d like.” And she was gone, a slim grey feathered form ascending the staircase, wings and tailfeather bobbing.

Rhinox sighed. “On all of Cybertron, we had to house with spies.” He shook his head in desperation.

“One spy, one communications officer,” Cheetor corrected.

“Kid,” Rattrap hissed, “this hero-worship’s got to stop.”

Things were getting out of control again. As Cheetor took a step towards Rattrap, Optimus stepped between them – rather, his foot did. “Enough. Back to your quarters. We’ll discuss this in the morning.” The looks flicked in his direction ranged from defeat to disgust. One by one they filed off, up the stairs and back to their rooms. Optimus watched Rattrap closely, signaling Silverbolt to make sure the metallic rat got where he was supposed to be.

Primus, why couldn’t things be simple? Heavy-hearted, he stumped off to his quarters, hoping that sleep would bring serenity.

Dawn broke clean and clear through the wide bay windows that ringed Silverbolt and BlackArachnia’s suite. The she-spider rose languidly, slipping from Silverbolt’s protective grasp with practiced ease. She’d test this “free-reign” the Autobot spy had given them, just to see how far she could go. Towing the line did not bother her; though a Maximal through and through these days, she still retained bits of her “bad girl” persona and sardonic attitude.

The door to the suite slid back with no sound, which had amused her when Illusion had first shown them the suite. It slid back again as she stepped out into the high-arching hallway. “Free-reign” entitled her to walk around as she pleased, and that was what she was going to do. Act like you belong here, she thought to herself.

The lack of sentient servants did not mean the Tower dwellers ran the estate by themselves, as Illusion had erroneously reported. As BlackArachnia strolled through the white-washed halls, she found evidence of computerized servants, such as the two floaters who were scrubbing a large stained glass window. As she passed underneath, her head turned slightly to see if they followed movement – but nothing, not even a whine that would herald the descent of a camera. Still, it wasn’t enough to prove to her the complete sincerity of these Autobots.

She walked on and down into the foyer, noting other servers cleaning the floor or, Primus, hanging out laundry! The unCybertronian sight was enough for her to halt and watch. Two fat bubbles with pincher-like arms floated gently about the summer green lawn, shaking out brightly colored tapestries and blankets. Several jewel-bright scarves flitted bannerlike in the soft breeze that passed through.

“Like them?”

BlackArachnia jumped, the claws on her wrists flicking down as she spun on her heel. Actually, she had to look down. A large grey-white-black eagle stood by her feet, bright golden eyes peering up at her, the black beak twisted in a gentle smile. Quietly, Solarflare transformed and leaned on the edge of the windowsill that looked out onto the lawn. “Mirage picks them up from time to time. He gets them from traders when he goes to Earth for business.” She turned and smiled again. “C’mon!”

Unable to protest, BlackArachnia found herself taken by the wrist and guided around the window and through a black-iron door. Sunlight washed over her face, taking her by complete surprise. The avian femme practically dragged her over to the clothes line; the bubblebots took notice, bowed and flitted out of the way as their mistress drew near. Solarflare eventually let go, leaving BlackArachnia to look down at her wrist and rub at the slight indentations in her armor from the femme’s talons.

“Here.” A soft loop of silk fell over the she-spider’s head to settle around her neck. “Blue suits you; not too soft, not to loud.”

Stunned, BlackArachnia’s mouth moved up and down, but she couldn’t seem to get the words out. Solarflare bustled around her like a denmother, fussing with the scarf before whisking it away for another, this one in crimson and gold. “My favorite,” she whispered with mock conspiracy, picking up one edge, and then setting it down, only to pick it up again and rearrange the folds.

“Solarflare –”

“Mm.”

“Can I ask a question?”

The Tower-dweller stopped moving and dropped the scarf she was placing around BlackArachnia’s neck; a bubblebot swooped from nowhere to snatch it before it touched the ground. With a soft puff of air, it took its charge back to the gossamer-thin laundry line. “Yes. Come.”

Solarflare led the spider-femme along the grounds, past ornamental bushes and trees, past a crystal waterfall with tiny turbofoxes dancing around the water’s edge. A small bench sat beneath the cool shade of an Earth tree; here, Solarflare perched and looked expectantly at BlackArachnia. Hesitantly, she chewed her lip before sitting down. BlackArachnia had been prepared to battle it out with wits, but Solarflare’s attitude was like a douse of cold oil. She sat beside the older femme.

“What can I tell you?”

“I want to know why you’re not letting us take Megatron to the Council of Elders.”

The grey femme’s shoulder struts rose and fell in tandem with her sigh. “It’s much like your friend Rattrap overheard. We’re not sure what this … ‘Megatron’s’ appearance at the Council will do. You have been gone three years, without word during that time. The Council had given up ever finding you all alive again and you’ve been officially marked as ‘missing in action’. Many people were deeply shaken by this pronouncement – the investment in the Axalon as well as the large number of lives lost, both Protoform and not.” She looked toward BlackArachnia, waiting for a question. The Transmetal merely blinked and Solarflare continued, “So, we come to your appearance at the spacestation. Spectrum was right in cloaking your arrival. I feel that if you had landed at the Elder’s hall, there would have been too much attention for you to handle. In a crowd that size, who knows what could have happened?”

BlackArachnia frowned, seeing their reasoning. Yes, in a large crowd, who could tell if someone was a Predacon in disguise? How easy could it be to slip Megatron an Energon knife to cut himself free, or to hide during his presentation before the Maximal Elders? In his augmented size, who could stop him from rampaging? She shuddered. “Still – can you provide us an escort to the Council Hall? I’m sure with you guarding us, we can get through it without an incident.”

Solarflare shook her head. “It’s too late for that. I’ve sent Spec and Lu with missives. We’ll be having company soon. We’ll see what’s decided then.”

“By a bunch of old fogies?” she spat, reasoning gone to hell at the other femme’s words. “I saw Prime–” She ground to a halt, optics flying open wide.

Shrewd, piercing golden optics were suddenly boring into her own fuchsia ones. “—in your pictures,” BlackArachnia finished smoothly, or as smooth as she hoped. “He didn’t look all that special.”

“I’m sure,” Solarflare replied shortly, and for a moment, BlackArachnia thought that she had given away the Maximals’ secret. But the femme said no more, simply waiting for the other to offer up a question. But BlackArachnia didn’t feel like talking anymore. She wasn’t going to get anywhere, and they were stuck here until some old pieces of scrap decided their fate.

Well, she’d have to change that. Getting up, BlackArachnia left Solarflare on the bench and began walking across the acres of green grass.

Flare bit her lip. Secrets. There were too many floating around and the air was getting clogged with their compromising stories. Still. She had a call to make. Let the Maximals believe what they would. It wasn’t as if she and Mirage weren’t concerned or respectful of their opinions – they were, but when you fought evil for as long as they had, lost as many friends as they had, you couldn’t let an imposter walk over your planet and rile up the scum.

Her avian instincts longed to call out to the spider-femme, to make peace, but there were more pressing issues at hand. Transforming, Flare flew up and around the grounds, winging over once, twice, before rising up artificial thermals to enter one of the windows in her minaret office. Slipping back into basemode, she perched in front of her desk, booting up the comp and pulling a thin data stick from the left side of her neck. Inserting this into a port on the comp, she dialed a number – one that was not traceable and barely detectable, if you knew it existed.

“Flare,” a low, husky female voice answered. Flare leaned forward, elbows on the table, crest inclining forward in respect.

“Elita.” The former Autobot femme leader’s upper torso appeared on the viewscreen. The background showed her own workroom.

“What can I do for you?”

As succinctly as she could, Solarflare imparted unto Elita-1 what had happened. The red and pink femme’s brow ridge drew low over her cool blue optics and she frowned in concentration as the narrative went on. “And we’ve sent Spectrum and Illusion out, asking that all come here for a meeting,” Solarflare finished.

“I can’t believe this has happened. We heard rumors, bare wisps of them at that. Oh, we should have known better!”

“Is Optimus around?”

“Here, Flare.”

A blue hand, one whose power and gentleness had not been diminished by the downsizing, rested on Elita-1’s shoulder. The camera drew back to include the great Autobot commander, now retired by Maximal consensus. Like Mirage, Prime still retained the vestiges of his old Earth form, evident in his barrel chest and twin smokestacks on his shoulders. The light glinted off his polished windows, reflecting Flare’s own face back at her. “I’ve been listening. We’ll come. I’d like to meet this Captain Primal … if he’s bold enough to take my name, I’d like to see what other mettle he possesses.”

A small grin flickered across Solarflare’s face. “I think he’s rather nervous about meeting you, Optimus. I don’t think he accounted for the fact that we still ‘exist’.”

“Not many do, not these days,” the large Autobot agreed. For though he still possessed a face plate, Prime’s facial features dipped down in sadness. Flare knew how he felt. How quickly and easily the populace of Cybertron left them in the dirt. Especially the ones with old money, once they’d been helped from the underground. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, she thought ruefully, remembering how they’d flocked to Mirage’s door when he’d begun rebuilding his fortune through the spark-fusion program. And just as easily, they left, snubbing them all. “And you hung around with this trash?” she remembered asking him when she’s watched them run away with a few hundred thousand in borrowed credits.

That they never repaid.

The set of his face needed no words. He’d simply turned away and vanished, as he was wont to do when distressed or unhappy. Later, she’d heard the sounds of a rifle being broken into pieces, scented cleaner in the air.

“True,” she concurred. “I’m going to call Prowl, Jazz and Hound. Is there anything else I need to tell you?”

“Nothing we cannot speak of later,” Prime told her. He gave a little wave, and if hand gestures could be given emotions, she’d call this one forlorn. Elita smiled at her, and she in return, before the connection was cut.

Laserbeak wasn’t surprised. The Twins were as suspicious and trigger-happy as they had been on Earth. Of course, they hadn’t grown any smarter in the three hundred or so years since he’d seen them last. Unicron be praised.

The covert agent shook out the hem of his cloak, nares curling at the acrid smell that wafted up. He’d have to get rid of these, and soon, but it was too bright out and there was nothing worse than being a Decepticon-cum-Predacon in the midst of Maximals on the busiest shopping day of the week. Of course, even the market held secrets.

Laserbeak whisked himself stealthily through the stalls, rife with Maximals of all shapes and sizes – but none bearing the scent and presence of those once Autobot. This close to the spaceport, there were aliens here, even a few humans from their various colony worlds and Earth. Old habits died a hard, horrible death – sometimes not at all. The agent’s beak curved downwards and his vocalizer let loose a small, soft caw as he passed by two humans dressed in the outrageous garb of the ambassadorial staff. How much grinding beneath the great Maximal heel could the Predacons take? he wondered. Megatron would not have stood for this; he would have crushed them all before the emotion “terror” could have formed in that puny grey matter that passed for brains.

Megatron-cum-Galvatron, crushed beneath Prime’s own heel before these very gates of Cybertropolis, once Iacon. His spark flown to Unicron. Gone, defeated. And the Decepticons leaderless, exiled, destroyed or reformatted.

“Keep hissing and I’ll call the exterminators, Beaker.”

Laserbeak’s head snapped around. “You dare call my name in public?”

Something tan in the shadows – or it could be the paintjob – shuffled around. “Wasn’t aware that it was your real name,” the creature called back.

Laserbeak snarled softly and stepped towards the ingrate, out of the way of the regular crowd. “I see you managed to save your circuits – again – Swindle.”

The old Combaticon smirked. “Word on the street is that Tripredacus gave you a job.”

“Whatever you’re selling, I’ll have nothing of it.”

Swindle pouted. “Not even if it’s Skywarp’s old powerchip rectifier?”

Laserbeak gave the motley scavenger enough of his time to allow a sniff of derision before he began walking away. Quick as a retrorat, Swindle’s hand snaked out and grabbed the agent by the sleeve of his voluminous cloak. Just as quickly, Laserbeak’s taloned hand dug into the Decepticon’s joints; sparks hissed and flew from severed wires. Swindle bit back a cry of pain and stumbled backwards into a stack of packing crates.

Inky black and silent, Laserbeak flew over the other side of the make-shift stand. A slim Energon blade extended from each wrist and one pressed to Swindle’s neck lines. “If I were you, I would not deign to try and sell scrap for authentic Decepticon parts. Ones that you know were destroyed by Unicron.” Swindle gulped as Laserbeak nicked a line; a droplet, than two, oozed from the severed wire. The Condor leaned close, intimate. “They say that Megatron is back. And you know how he despises garbage pickers.”

Before Swindle could utter another word, Laserbeak was gone, a shadow in the light of the market. Clutching his injured hand to his chest, Swindle heaved himself to his feet, using the toe of one leg to stuff the shards of the old data chip under his desk. What had the Decepticons come to when all the warriors were now Animals?

At breakfast the next morning – the Tower-dwellers partook of a strange combination of Energon and organic food, while the Maximals stuck to the Energon – Mirage told them that they would be expecting their guests soon.

“As Flare mentioned the other day, our friends should be arriving shortly.”

“And what ‘friends’ are these?” Rhinox asked, half an ion-stick poking out of his mouth.

“Autobots, of course,” the spy replied urbanely, as if there could be no other answer. And before he could utter another word, a soft chime rang in the room. Blinking, Mirage looked at Solarflare, than at Spectrum and Illusion. “Lu, go,” the Ligier said, pulling a datapad from his thigh. “I should have known he’d be early. Wonder who he dragged along with him.”

Cheetor could hardly believe his own audios. The heroes of the Ark – all functional and coming here? “Mirage – sir,” he spluttered, his words flowing together in the heat of his exuberance, “can I go with Illusion?”

The noblemech lifted his head from where he was looking over the datapad with Solarflare. Primal looked uncomfortable. “Sir,” he began, but Mirage cut him off with a flick of one slim black finger.

“It’s okay. Illusion, will you take Cheetor to the main hall?” Smoothly, Mirage cut off Primal’s next words of protest. “Captain Primal, it really is all right. His enthusiasm is understandable.”

The spy’s daughter had paused in her exit and turned around to listen to the exchange. Her own crest rose and she dimpled. “This way, Cheetor.”

Quickly, so as not to lose time, the young Maximal jogged after the falcon-formed Autobot femme. She waited for him at the door and held it open for him.

“I – I can’t thank you enough,” he panted, looking down at his ragged fur; suddenly, he felt very scruffy. He was about to meet the Great War heroes! He couldn’t look like this!

Illusion laughed gently and reached up, taking his hands away from where he was brushing invisible specks of dirt from his bio-mechanical pelt. “No problem. Seriously. And you look fine,” she added with another one of those spark-turning smiles. She paused outside another door and rested her hand on the panel. “Cheetor, a moment.” Suddenly, her face was all business. He stopped dead, wondering what he could have done this time. “My parents’ friends … some won’t be bothered by the attention, but you have to remember, they’ve lived in obscurity for a long time now. To most of Cybertron, they’re long gone, their deeds fodder for the Entertainment Channel. I don’t think I have to warn you not to fawn on them?”

Fawn? His spark sunk at her implications. He wasn’t that eager, was he? Pulling himself together, he put on the bravest face he could muster. “You can count on me, Illusion!”

“Thought so. Now, where we’re going, you have to keep quiet about. We have the ‘official’ landing pad, and then there’s this one. Father had it built a long time ago, when it became apparent that the Autobots were becoming commodities, artifacts to wonder over. He and Mother wanted their friends to visit unhindered.”

She pushed open a door set flush against the wall. A large hall lit with gleaming sconces spread out before them. Cheetor coughed. “So … you’ve met them?”

Illusion grinned, indicating that he follow. Once they were through, she shut the panel. “Of course. I was sparked not long after Spectrum. The warriors of the Ark … well, they all keep in touch to some degree. Father and Mother run communications between here and Optimus Prime every few days.”

Cheetor stopped cold, a vision of the great Autobot sitting slumped in his command chair back on ancient Earth, half his face blown away by Megatron’s fury coming to the forefront of his cortex. “Will I … meet … Optimus?”

The femme could not stop smiling at him! “He’s already here. He and Elita arrived last night.”

Cheetor’s mouth dropped, ear-buds flicking back in shock. “But – we didn’t –”

“You guest in the home of Cybertron’s elite spy, Cheetor. Of course you wouldn’t know. There’s things my parents can do that I have no clue about!” She tilted her head to the side, listening for something. Cheetor strained hard, then … a low whine of anti-gravitational generators. “The first wave is here,” she announced. “Hurry!” With her sculpted wings bouncing high on her sleek back, she was off down the hall.

Ghostly blue track lights flashed along the floor molding, blinking to some obscure pattern. Cheetor kept pace with Illusion this time and they reached the end together. She grinned up at him, panting with the laughter that seemed to ring her white-silver helm.

“Cheetor, welcome to living history …” and she pounded a small grey button set at the side of the hall. Instantly, what had been a blank façade irised open to reveal a domed enclosure; the sun overhead winked, blinked, twinkled. In the center of a small landing pad sat a personal hopper. The Autobot symbol was splayed across the side of the craft, which had to be the latest model – very expensive. As Cheetor watched, the hatch was thrown up and a gangplank lowered.

Through the dim light of the interior, figures moved. Cheetor’s spark clenched and he staggered backwards. Illusion touched his arm and wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

“It’s okay.”

Down the ramp they walked. There were five of them: one deep pine green, one garish yellow, another deepest crimson, and two that were black and white. Illusion reached around and flicked a switch – the dome flooded with light, subtly.

“Welcome, Uncles!” she called out, jogging forward.

Cheetor stopped dead, as if he’d been slapped between the optics with one of BlackArachnia’s darts. Uncles?

The party of five and Illusion met in the middle as Cheetor hung back, ill at ease all of a sudden. He strained to identify them from what he recalled in history. Their shapes had changed, not all that much, but faintly, in order to conform with the rest of the planet’s need to conserve Energon. The red and yellow mechs were the tallest, and their swaggers betrayed them: the Twins, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, the berserkers, melee-warriors, loose cannons. Cheetor gulped as the red one pinned him with a piercing blue gaze.

“Lu,” he said, “who’s the cat? Your new lovetoy? Your high’n’mighty creator have no problem with his mange?”

Illusion chuckled, taking him by the arm, and then the yellow one as well. “My father, uncle. And no, no love interest. This is Cheetor, one of the Axalon’s crewmembers that we told you about.”

“Father-shmather,” Sideswipe scoffed, but he was grinning. But Cheetor was still reeling from the shock of Illusion’s easy dismissal of him … No?

One of the black and whites, the one sporting a bright red chevron on his serene face, shook his head in a long-suffering motion. “Illusion, is Prime here?”

“Of course, Uncle Prowl. He and Elita arrived last night; they should be in the conference room. Mother and Father and the rest of the Axalon crew should be filing in about now. You’re early.”

Prowl. The strategist, the logistician. Cheetor blinked, confused. He’d perished in the great battle at Autobot City in 2005, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? But … the truth was there, bright as the power core of Cybertron.

“Better to be early, what with having to drag these degenerates around,” Prowl replied, flicking his optics up and over Cheetor, assessing him. “And the others?”

“You’re the first to arrive.”

“Who else is coming?”

“Everyone.”

Prowl’s optics widened. “Everyone?”

Illusion shrugged. “Well, not everyone. The Aerialbots send their regrets; the Dinobots remain on Earth, but Grimlock did say that he expressed apologies that he couldn’t ‘join you in your mash-up’.”

Behind them, the green one laughed. “Good old Grimlock. So, Lu, everyone?”

“Just about,” she dimpled. “Ah, Cheetor.” They stopped before the feral cat, and suddenly, he was overwhelmed. The Twins towered above all of them, downgraded in size though they were. “Cheetor, let me introduce you to Prowl, second-in-command to Optimus Prime; behind him is Jazz, Special Operations.” A blue-visored mech with an insatiable grin waved jauntily.

“Hey, baby!”

Cheetor gawked. Illusion continued. “These two handsome mechs are Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.” The Twins preened, the one called Sunstreaker with a hint of insanity in his cold blue optics. “And this is Hound, premiere tracker and my father’s best friend.”

The pine green one shouldered himself to the front and stuck out a large, well-worn hand. “Pleased to meet you, Cheetor. Great Cybertron, I look forward to hearing your story. Look at you!” There was nothing but admirable awe and a hint of jealousy in the green mech’s voice, so much that Cheetor felt himself smiling back. The tracker’s hand enveloped his own, gently; Cheetor felt himself returning the shake with as much enthusiasm.

“All right,” Prowl said as the two broke apart. “We have time enough for stories later. Right now, I want to speak with Optimus. Gentlemen?”