Chapter Seven

“O mortal cares insensate, what small worth,
In sooth, doth all those syllogisms fill,
Which makes you stoop your pinions to the earth!”
—Dante, Paradiso (XI, 1)

Sleep would not come to Solarflare.

The grey femme found herself staring at the canopied ceiling long after Mirage had flopped over. Perhaps he could slip into recharge without guilt, but conflicting emotions kept her from reaching that state. Surely, she had voted to terminate the imposter Megatron, but that did not mean she held no remorse for the decision. A low sigh flowed past her charcaol lips; the Autobots outnumbered the Maximals – it just wasn’t fair to bombast them into following their line of thought. There was enough animosity towards the new Transformers from the Autobots, particularly the Ark warriors, as it were – did they need another excuse?

Why couldn’t they have dumped this creature into a black hole? she thought morosely. That would have saved us so much grief. Then they wouldn’t have to fear Predacon repercussions. The Tripredacus Council wouldn’t claim him then, as that would be accepting responsibility for his actions. And they would continue to slowly stew in silence.

Flare pushed her fingertips along her brow in exasperation. As much as she upheld the Autobot cause, what was left of them? History tales on the entertainment channels, a few holidays, a museum? No one cared.

She turned her head slightly, watching the rise and fall of Mirage’s sleek white back with its curve of blue from his helm. Could you have the right of it? she mused, feeling uneasy. Would it really have been better if we just committed genocide?

There were other reasons behind Mirage’s desire to be rid of the Predacons. As a noble, he disdained the ugly and the uncivilized, though it was hard to pick up on that these days. He’d “grown out” of that mindset when she’d come into his life, following all their trials and tribulations, but it was still there, and during times like this, it came through. Basically, he’d rather not have their lowly hides stinking up his beloved planet.

Why couldn’t it be easy? she wondered. Why did all this have to happen in the first place?

“Can’t sleep, Little One?” Mirage had rolled over and levered himself up on one elbow; the other hand ran a gentle line about her chin.

“No.”

He touched her lips. “Thinking about our guests?”

“And everything else.”

“You’re having second thoughts.”

“Thirds, fourths, fifths … enough to make my head burn.”

Mirage sighed. “You’re getting too involved, Flare. This is a collective effort.”

“Then why do I care so much?”

The spy’s hand dropped to her torso. “Because … you’re a damned mother hen.” A slow, playful smile danced around his face.

“Raj.”

Air from his intakes blew across her crest. “Flare. It has to be done. You know it, I know it – slag, they know it. They just don’t want to be the ones to do it.”

The pounding in her head rose to a crescendo. “We don’t know that.”

“Solarflare.” He sat up and looked down at her. “You can rescind your vote if you want, but I bet you Sunstreaker’s golden ass that everyone else feels the same as I do.” With those words hanging over her, the Ligier spun about and flopped back down while she stared gape-mouthed.

Talons clenching, Flare turned her own back to him, curling her wings about her body for comfort. Could their friends be having the same kind of conversations in their rooms? What about the Maximals? What were they saying about the Autobots? She could hardly picture Optimus being so abrupt to Elita.

Lights from the other Tower homes spread throughout the sky as Solarflare stared out the balcony window, optics wet with unshed tears. Was she making too much of this? Were her avian instincts acting up again? Too many questions, not enough answers. A low, soft keen pushed past her parted lips; chest heaving, she drew her legs up close to her body. No one is innocent, not one individual is right, she thought. “What else can we do?” she murmured half to herself. “Everything’s so damned convoluted.”

There was a grunt from Mirage’s side. The bed shifted as he rolled over, draping one arm over her body and resting his hand protectively upon her belly. A strange quirk of his, as she had no organic womb, not anymore. Solarflare reached down to pluck his hand off of her. “Just … leave me be, okay?” she spoke away from him. “Nothing good will come of us getting angry at each other.”

A low rumble of embarrassment flowed out from the depths of his titanium chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her nearest audio. “I’m just so … stressed with this whole ordeal.” She felt his teeth latch onto her helm, the part that curved around her jaw.

“Raj …”

“It’s the only apology I can give right now,” he murmured against her throat.

Men, she thought, it’s a universal thing. Still. If she could see their side, she should have no qualms about seeing his – and she had, many times over. Time would decide, and tomorrow was another day. Turning over, she reached up and hooked her talons into either side of his blue helm. “Accepted.”

On the nightstand by her side, there was a small beep from their comm unit. A red bar flickered in the corner, not something to be ignored. A moment passed, then two, and the sound began rising in earnest.

“What now,” Mirage grumbled, reaching over and flicking it on. Spectrum’s face faded into existence from the dark space of the screen. “Spec,” the spy exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “What’s wrong?”

Spectrum’s crest was slicked all the way back, and his arms were rigid; though they could not see where his hands were, they had no doubts that they were either clenched or gripping the table. “He’s gone.” There was no need to define “he”.

“Primus!” Mirage roared.

“The ten guards Sunny and Sideswipe set up? Terminated.” Spectrum’s head lowered in utter failure. “I – don’t get it!” He paused for a breath, the stress that his ventillator was evident across the digital media. “We’re searching the area as I speak.”

Flare shot straight up, grabbing Mirage’s shoulder for leverage. “How long ago?”

“Five minutes. One of the techs noticed a subtle loop in the camera feed. By then, they were all beyond repair.”

“I’ll tell Optimus,” Flare said, springing off the bed and bolting towards the door. Mirage heard the sounds of her feet echoing as she ran down the hallway. He leaned forward, bringing the image of his son closer.

“Any sign of where he went?”

“I’ll be able to tell once I go down there.” Spectrum’s shoulders were shaking. “Father, I take full responsibiltiy. I should have been there myself –”

Mirage would have nothing of it. “No. There was nothing more we could have done. Someone had to have let him loose – the Twins don’t make mistakes like that.”

Spectrum sighed. He clearly wasn’t buying his father’s excuses. “Should I wait for everyone?”

Again, a shake of the Ligier’s head. “We’ll meet you down there. Good luck.”

“You too, Father.” And the connection was cut. Mirage stood up and crossed over to the balcony and leaned over the railing, looking out and down over his and Solarflare’s estate. Delicate metal whined and snapped under the pressure of the Ligier’s fingers. Behind him, the room grew dark red and a claxon began to blare. Mirage half-turned, feeling the Energon in his system begin to quicken. And then he heard the call:

“AUTOBOTS! ASSEMBLE!”

Long ago, Mirage would have scoffed and turned his back on the call to battle. Long ago, he would have thought such actions beneath his status. But when his very lifestyle was being threatened by another fool calling himself Megatron, this time he would step up. This time he would act before all that he’d worked towards was sent crashing around his feet. There would be no rubble through which he would have to hunt for Solarflare and Spectrum and Illusion.

Once a soldier, always a soldier.

The spy dashed towards the fireplace and grabbed his beloved hunting rifle; slinging it into its customary niche on his back, he threw the door open and began running as fast as his legs would carry him. Through the blood red radiance that lit the mansion, the symbol of Primus upon his chest seemed to pulse in time with the claxon. And for the first time in three hundred years, he felt he was doing something noble.

Rattrap stuck his head out into the hall. Everywhere there was the echo of alarm, of a hundred feet pounding in unison along the floor above. “What in all of Cybertron is going on!”

“Are we being invaded?” Cheetor asked from the door across from him.

The metallic rat nearly had a coronary. “NO!”

A figure in silver and white came racing down the hallway, wings slick against her back. “Get to the courtyard,” she shouted as she passed by. “Your Megatron’s escaped.”

Plaster cracked and metal snapped as Primal grabbed the frame of his door. “By Primus – no!” he gasped, unable to comprehend the fact. A second later he was bolting down the hallway, hot on Illusion’s heels.

Strolling out into the corridor, Rattrap sniffed and called after him: “I told ya, Boss Monkey. I told ya that they shoulda let us take Megs!” A moment later, he was being lifted up and pinned against the wall by a most annoyed Rhinox.

“Listen up and listen good, vermin,” the stocky Maximal growled, “if I hear one more whiney word from your mouth, I’ll personally rip your face off and feed it to the Twins.” Rattrap’s head hit the wall with an emphatic reminder. “Got it?”

Caught between a rock and a rhino, all he could do was nod. “Good,” Rhinox snarled, dropping him and stumping away. Rattrap landed with a thud, his beast parts rattling with vibrations that gave him a headache. Biting his lower lip, Rattrap glared at Rhinox from under his brow ridge. Who nominated him the crew punching bag? If only because he voiced his opinion and wasn’t constrained by courtesy.

Cheetor was by his side, reaching down with an affable hand to help the older Maximal to his feet. With a pulse of his usual temper, Rattrap batted the proffered appendage away and rose.

“No thanks, kid. I can do this myself.”

Blinking, Cheetor shrugged. “Suit yourself.” And then he was off, following Rhinox and Optimus. Rattrap stood there, wondering if anything would be solved by a bunch of old farts answering an ancient battle rally. Planting his fists on his hips, he swiveled to stare at the swirling red lights that depended from the ceiling; they shook with the intensity of the large number of Autobot feet that still pounded along a floor above.

“Rattrap.” Silverbolt’s voice broke through his attempted concentration. The metallic rat shifted his gaze to look at the wolf-eagle. “Are you coming? We’ve been summoned.”

“Gah. You go on, Bird-dog. I don’t want to play today.” He’d had enough, that’s what it was.

Silverbolt’s ears flicked back. “You do not mean that, do you?” He leaned forward, hands sweeping out grandly. “Megatron is on the loose. This is a disaster for Cybertron!”

Rattrap sniffed. “For them, maybe. I told ya from the minute we stepped off the shuttle, I want nothin’ t’do with these relics.” He turned around. “Why don’tcha find that uber-femme of yours and get on with it?”

Realization dawned on Silverbolt. He spun about, wings lifted over his shoulders. “BlackArachnia!”

Soft as a whisper and deep blue-violet in the glaring crimson warning lights, BlackArachnia dropped from the ceiling and transformed. “You called, Bowser?” She looked over her shoulder as Rattrap began retreating into the safety of his guest room. “What’s with the lightshow? I’ve got information about our hosts that’ll guarantee us an audience with the Council.”

“Megatron – you did what?” Silverbolt spoke over himself, eyes wide, mouth agape.

“Whoa, whoa, Jojo. One thing at a time.” She planted her hands on her hips. “What about Megatron?”

“You didn’t hear?” Rattrap asked nonchalantly. “The Autobots lost him.”

Silverbolt glared at him. “We don’t know what happened exactly, but Illusion said that we’re all to meet in the courtyard.”

She blinked. “Well, what’re we waiting for? Can’t have old Purpleface running around Cybertron!” The she-spider started off, but broke her lope to turn and look at Rattrap. “You coming?”

He leaned against the wall, unsure. What did he really care about the Autobots? All he’d seen of them were a bunch of old coots who were upset that their power had been taken away from him, not to mention they seemed to have pow-wows every so often to make themselves feel important again. Still, BlackArachnia had mentioned information; he wouldn’t get a piece of that cheese if he remained. “Fine.”

Silverbolt looked as if he’d been smacked between the ears with an Energon pole. “H-h—”

BlackArachnia waved him off. “Don’t even ask. Let’s just hit it.”

Together, they followed a path worn into the carpet by hundreds of anxious feet. Silverbolt pushed open a gleaming white door at the end of the hall and they spilled into a flowered courtyard that was filled with Autobots. Large spotlights showered golden light from ornate poles onto the Ancestors as they moved about, seeming to be organizing themselves into ranks. Optimus Prime stood conversing with the two black-and-white mechs, Prowl and Jazz, and the green tracker, Hound, while the rust-red Irohide was making corrections in the lines. From the shoulder of Hound flickered a holographic image; as far away as they were, none of the Maximals could make out what it was exactly, save that it had to be a map.

“What are they doing?” Cheetor was murmuring to Primal as they joined the group.

The large Transmetal 2 merely shook his head. “Reliving the old days? I don’t know.” His hands were tight balls by his sides. “I knew that this would come to pass. No matter what we do, he always manages to get away in the end.”

Rattrap could have told him that much. He leaned over to BlackArachnia. “So, what was that information?”

She blinked. “How can you think of that at a time like this?”

Taken aback, Rattrap glowered up at her. Hadn’t she just professed a desire to spill? “Look, sweetheart, you’re the one who said you got somethin’ good. So talk.”

“Fat a lot of good it’s going to do now. Megs is gone.”

“So I noticed.”

Silverbolt sighed and leaned close so as not to be overheard. “What exactly did you find, beloved?”

The she-spider looked from one mech to the other. A rumble of exasperation rattled in her vocalizer. “Fine. Remember when they shoved us into that dining room? The holos? Well, Ratboy, I was right. Solarflare was human.”

“That is a grave accusation, BlackArachnia,” Silverbolt murmured, lifting his head slightly to canvass the milling ranks of Autobots. Standing off to the side was Solarflare, conversing with grand gestures with a boxy red mech who had a round helm.

“Ugh! It’s not an accusation, Bowser.” She pounded her index finger into the palm of her other hand. “I did some research. This Tower family has all their tech stats in a computer in the library; among the info listed are their date of creation and when they joined the Ark. Solarflare is the only one with no date of creation.”

“So? Coulda forgotten.” Rattrap shrugged. “I don’t even remember the name of my creator.”

BlackArachnia restrained herself from hitting him. “All that there is listed is that she joined in 1986 – two years after they woke up. That same year, a human named Alina Michaels was killed in a Decepticon raid on a library.”

Alina. Rattrap worked hard at the name, knowing he had heard it spoken before. “Wait – wait. When I was up on their floor, I heard Invisi-boy call the Grey Lady ‘Alina’.”

The creak and crank of metal-on-metal brought the Maximals’ heads up; Optimus Primal was not a happy camper. “I cannot believe what I just heard. BlackArachnia, why were you digging through their archives?”

The she-spider feigned chagrin. “We needed a backup plan, Optimus,” she said at last. “I figured we could blackmail them into letting us leave with this information.”

Primal sighed. “We don’t do that.”

BlackArachnia rolled her optics and looked away. A ways off, Solarflare broke away from her chat with the red mech and was now walking in their direction. “Let me test spider-girl’s theory, Optimus,” Rattrap spoke up. Anything to get them out of here.

“Good, good,” Solarflare was saying as she approached. “You’re all out here. I’ll snap Optimus out of his council and tell him.” The grey femme lifted two fingers on her right hand and touched her throat. A slim mic slid out from a slot in her helm, curving around to meet at her charcoal lips. “Optimus?” She paused; across the way, the Autobot commander looked up. “They’re all here.” An almost unperceivable nod was thrown in their direction before Optimus Prime’s head bent back down to study the map. The femme caught Primal’s optic. “He wants to speak with you, now, Captain. He says you know this ‘Megatron’ better than the rest.”

Rattrap’s glance at Primal was almost imploring in nature. When he did not reply, the rat threw out a casual gesture. “So, does this mean we’ll be getting our weapons back … Alina?”

“I –” Solarflare ground to a halt, her massive golden optics wide in that sharp-planed face. Faster than the optic could move, a purple energy pistol was levered inches from Rattrap’s stricken face. “How dare you …” the grey femme hissed, wings fanning out and around her in savage display. The espionage agent discretely took a step backwards.

Faced with the business end of a loaded weapon, Rattrap raised his hands. “Hey! It’s all the spider’s fault –”

“Again you break our trust. Again you feel it necessary to paw through private matters!”

“Flare!” A heavy black hand descended to clamp onto the senior femme’s shoulder. “Back off, bitch, right now!” Rattrap’s optics went even wider as the hand holding the pistol waved from side to side as the body controlling it was roughly shaken.

“Human!” she yelled. “You want your answer? Hell yes, I was human! Killed by Ravage, reformated by the Autobots! Happy now?”

“What is going on?”

Quiet calm and reserve arrived unexpectedly in the form of Optimus Prime. Behind him, the Autobots were craning their necks and leaning out of formation to watch the spectacle. “Let her go, Sunstreaker.”

“Rather not, Prime,” the yellow warrior replied succinctly, attempting to pry Solarflare’s digits loose from the stock of the pistol and using his other arm to pin her to his body. He winced and spat a long string of explicatives as Solarflare’s foot made contact against his groin guard. With a twist, Sunstreaker flipped the pistol from her hand; it clattered harmlessly to the ground, allowing the old Lamborghini to band both her arms to her chest, using his free hand to hold her legs down at the knees.

“Mirage.” Optimus Prime held his hand out to stave off the spy’s angry charge. “There have been too many secrets,” the Autobot commander began, looking at Primal. “However, we don’t have enough time to let them air out. Captain Primal, you know this Megatron better than the rest of us. Please, come and look at a map of the spaceport. Perhaps you can give us a clue as to where he might have gone?” With that, the red-white-blue mech turned around and walked back to where Prowl, Jazz and Hound were waiting. The Autobots continued to stare until they were barked back into order by the cruiser.

“She didn’t bite you, did she?” Mirage casually remarked to Sunstreaker, eying the Maximals with extreme loathing.

“Not yet.” Sunstreaker huffed, and shifted his grip on the grey femme. “You sane now, Flare? No more pissed-off birdie?”

“Down, if you please.” Solarflare defiantly stared up at the yellow warrior, her crest flat against her helm. Sunstreaker obliged, setting his foot down on her pistol as she reached to claim it.

“Not yet, baby.”

Flare rolled her optics and crossed her arms over her feathered chest. “Care to tell us why you did what you did? You think that knowing I was human would have done something for you?”

Rattrap quickly regained what face he’d lost and crossed his arms insolently. “Care to tell us why you wouldn’t let us go?”

Solarflare’s face turned an unusual shade of rose-tinged grey. “ENOUGH!” she thundered, a piercing avian shriek underlaying her words. “Just – shut up! What’s done is done! Move on!”

Rhinox clamped a large paw over Rattrap’s shoulder. “She’s right; we need to move on. We have bigger issues here.”

Rattrap fumed, brow ridge drawn down as he glared at the slim femme. Who did she think she was, pulling a stunt like that? “Whatever. Just keep your temper, bird-lady.”

Mirage’s lip curled. “Keep your mouth shut, vermin.” He took Solarflare by the arm and led her back to the ranks of their comrades, the optics of the Maximals upon them as they walked away.

Megatron’s opinion of the ancient Decepticon was being reformed as the cycles passed. After the breakout, he was quite certain that they were going to be headed towards a cloaked shuttle, perhaps a sister to the one piloted by this Condor’s comrade. However, whatever plans he’d come up with to destroy the Tripredacus Council proved worthless as Laserbeak trekked further and further from the spaceport. Certainly, it didn’t hurt to ask; information that could prove worth-while, whatever lies it was couched in.

“So, dear Laserbeak,” he began conversationally, speaking ahead while the Condor seemingly floated behind him. “You are not taking me to the Council. I find it interesting that you and Covert Agent Ravage have such a distinct difference in loyalty.”

A harsh, gutteral sound scraped from Laserbeak’s vocalizer. “Mistake one,” he replied, his voice both inky and rough at the same time, “to assume that all Soundwave’s slaves are the same.”

A self-satisfied smirk crossed Megatron’s face. Again, the animosity for the terminated warrior. How could he play this? “Are you more loyal than Ravage?”

The cold, hard muzzle of an unknown gun was pressed against the small of his back. “Enough talk, imposter. The sooner we get there, the sooner you can have your audience with Tripredacus.”

“There”? How attractive a notion. So there was a side-trip planned, with him coming out alive at the end. Glorious! “Lead on, then, my buck-beaked compatriot.” A sickening twist of Energon to his system brought Megatron to his banded knees. Lying there on the festering ground, the draconic Predacon felt his head being hauled up by the tail-lock.

“I am no one’s compatriot,” Laserbeak snarled, letting Megatron’s head drop. “Get up, fool. We have a ways to go.”

Solarflare was restless. Try as she might to keep rank, her foot-tapping inevitably got the best of her. She might have been sympathetic before, even did her best to soothe Mirage after the first incident of betrayal, but when faced with her own guarded secret being circulated, all that care went out the window. She had been successful in loosing her humanity, something that any human would have been terrified to do; an Autobot through and through, that’s who she was, and she particularly didn’t like being reminded of how she got there. “Alina” was more of a pet name exclusively used by Mirage, and to have a Maximal bandy that information about … well, it pissed off her inner raptor.

Neither Trailbreaker, who stood to her left, nor Blaster, who was on her right, made any attempt to talk with her. They knew how she felt about such matters, thus kept their opinions to themselves. Around them, the warriors of the Ark continued to murmur between themselves, shifting glances towards the small group of Maximals, then up to the front where Prime held council with Prowl, Jazz, Hound, Ironhide, and the pretender Optimus.

“They want their weapons back,” she heard Tracks mutter to Windcharger behind her.

“Gonna need them if they’re going hunting with us,” the old Minibot replied.

Blaster tapped Flare on the shoulder strut, making her miss Tracks’ reply. She turned her head towards the source and saw Jazz leaning through the ranks, gesturing. Excusing herself around Blaster, the grey femme sidled out of line.

“Prime wants to see you,” the saboteur whispered low, hands clasped behind his back.

Flare refrained from asking why; she merely nodded and made her way to the front. As they were closing in, it seemed that the small planning meeting was drawing to a conclusion. Captain Primal was nodding slowly in agreement or resignation, she couldn’t be too sure.

“Solarflare,” Prime said as they drew near, “come look.” And she did, standing by Prowl as Prime gestured towards Hound’s hologram. A line of red was blinking from the image of the spaceport and curving around the outer rim, sticking close to the industrial section. “We received word from Spectrum that he identified two sparks leaving the underground hold. He traced them for a while before reporting back.” Prime tapped the air above the display. “Here is where he left off.”

Flare frowned in concentration, leaning forward to get a closer look. That was her son’s special skill (it cost millions) – he was able to track the pulses made by sparks for an interminable distance. “You think they’re hiding out in the warehouse district?”

“Unsure,” Prowl replied, “but we figured we would send the Maximals in to take up where Spectrum left off. The rest of us will start at the city limits and slowly circle inwards. Either way, we should be able to corner this imposter and his savior.”

Solarflare had long given up asking “and you need me, why?” when she was pulled from the ranks. Ultimately, it either had to do with her maneuverability or her augmented sight. “And you want me to go with them.”

Prime nodded. “For several reasons: one, your sight; two, your familiarity with the area.”

Prowl took up the explanation, “Three, people around here are used to seeing you flying around. They wouldn’t think twice about a band of animal-based Transformers roaming around if they knew you were with them.”

Solarflare sighed. “I don’t think that’s a hot idea.”

Prowl grunted. “That you’ll have to put behind you, Solarflare,” he said, once again the second-in-command.

For the good of the cause, she thought tiredly to herself. Lifting her head, she saw Captain Primal watching her. “If it’s any consolation,” he began hesitantly, “I apologize heavily for the uncouth actions of my crew. I never wanted us to hold any animosity towards each other.”

Flare examined her talons a moment before nodding. His sincerity was genuine; she couldn’t hold anything against the captain. “It’s … understandable.” And it really was, no matter what her current opinion. “Your weapons are in that trunk over by the main circuit breaker for the courtyard lights, by the way.” She pointed, and Primal followed her gesture.

“Thank you.” He inclined his head towards Optimus. “If I might go back to my crew?”

“Do,” the Autobot commander allowed. “You can go with them now, Solarflare.”

Thanks, she refrained from saying aloud. With Prowl’s steady optic on her, she threw a smart salute and trotted along Primal’s side. Almost shyly, the large Transmetal-2 turned to look at her.

“Are you sure you’re all right with this?”

She shrugged. “It’s an order. And I’ve followed Optimus Prime long enough not to question his judgment in such matters.” She paused. “I want this fool stopped as much as you do.”

Primal looked away, but said nothing until they reached the Maximals. Rattrap cut whatever gesture he was making at the Autobots and blinked several times at the sight of the grey femme. “What is she doing here?”

Quickly, Primal outlined the plan, then sent Cheetor and Silverbolt to retrieve their weapons. Rhinox shrugged. “Sounds as good a strategy as any. They couldn’t have gone that far.” He glanced at Solarflare. “Do you have any idea who this other mech could be?”

She shook her head, crest flapping. “No. Spec can tell one spark from another, but unless he knows the individual, they’re all anonymous.”

Primal looked from one crew member to the other. “As long as we work together, we should get this done in no time.”

Rattrap sniffed. “Speak for yourself, Boss Monkey. You didn’t have a pistol in your face.”

“Enough!” Primal snarled. “Just, enough, Rattrap. We need to get Megatron before anyone else finds out. That is our only goal right now, got it?”

Flare looked at the towering mech, a glimmer of new appreciation worming its way into her spark. Surely, they could work together. It would take time and more than enough arguments, but perhaps, it could be successful. “Mind if I see your beast forms?” she inquired in the silence that followed. One by one, they stared at her until Optimus Primal nodded. Transmetal-2 spider, Transmetal rat, Trans-organic cheetah, a rhino, and a … she blinked when confronted with Silverbolt’s form. Save for the wolf’s head in place of the eagle’s, the plume of feathers at the rear, and the coloration, Silverbolt looked remarkably like Spectrum’s beast-form. Perhaps she could use the similarity if confronted. “Well,” she began when they reverted back, “I believe I can come up with a viable explanation for all of you if we’re confronted. Good for us the warehouse district is mainly abandoned.”

The looks thrown her way ranged from dubious to arrogant (Rattrap). Primal drew himself up. “Well, Maximals – and Autobot – let’s hit it.”