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I haven't posted any fics here for a great long while so I thought I might start posting one of my current ones. Reviews and critiques are welcome.

Shoots and Ladders

Synopses: G1. Sometimes first impressions aren’t always the right ones, but around the Ark, one truth remains firm and everlasting: When in doubt, duck. Spike centric series of related one-shots.

Chapter One: Traffic Tickets and Color Wheels


The day had begun much like the day before and the one prior to that. For the most part, it was very pleasant. Strange, alien, and mind boggling, but pleasant.

Everything around him was big, very big. Just looking up at the ceiling too long made him dizzy, which was kind of fun for a while until he started feeling nauseas. After taking a moment to secure his equilibrium, Spike returned to his current pass time: Robot Watching. Well, they referred to themselves as Mechs and even seemed to have taken offense when Spike used the ‘R’ word. He was careful not to do that again. When he could help it.

It had barely been a week since the world had woken up to having Giant Alien Ro—er, Mechs wandering around their backyard and Spike was still riding a giddy high that’d been with him since he and his father had been rescued from the waters of the Pacific ocean after the oil rig they’d been on was attacked…by other giant alien Mechs. Evil giant alien Mechs. Who called themselves Decepticons. Spike made a mental note to ask one of the Autobots on how they came up with those names! Perhaps the name has more of a terrifying denotation in their native language, but something seemed to have been lost in translation.

It was fascinating to watch the Autobots as they went about their duties to get their ship – turned impromptu base- up and running; repairing bits of corridor, replacing broken panels and consuls, testing out everything. They appeared so alien-like yet so human, the young boy could not help but be fascinated. The Ark was a complex, highly advance piece of technology that boggled Spike’s mind whenever he attempted to wrap his around the sheer improbability of it all. Everything seemed so intricate, so delicate; circuitry and the like ran through almost everything, the floors, the walls, everything. Had Spike not been seeing Mechs who most certainly weighed a good couple tons, walk on the flooring, he was certain he would be scared to do anything but tip-toe across the metal plating, all too aware of the delicate, and likely expensive as hell, circuitry underneath. Yet everything was guarded, reinforced, and covered to a degree virtually unknown and certainly unheard of to mankind. Even if he had a diamond crowbar, Spike didn’t think he could do the ship any real damage; maybe a dent in the wall if he swung hard enough. But that was a big maybe.

Sitting on the ledge of one of the consuls, Spike allowed the scene before him unfold like some never ending television show. For the most part, what was once the bridge of the ship had become the main control room, the official room of business. It was here that Spike had the best vantage to observe Humanities newest allies and really it was one of only a few places where he could be out of way of large clambering feet. The Autobots were always outwardly careful whenever he was around, but in everyone’s best interest Spike always took the liberty to find elevated seats to keep from getting caught underfoot. For the most part, the day was routine and uneventful and Mechs wandered through the control room, deaf and unaware to all except their work. He hadn’t met all of the Autobots yet, or spoken to most, but they didn’t seem to mind the young human watch them as they worked, though Spike did notice one of them kept glancing at him as if to see if he was still there. After a while it began to nag at the boy, wondering if maybe the Autobot was silently trying to tell him to scram, that he was annoying them. The last thing he needed was a pissed off robot. He was about to scoot off the edge and find some other room to observe when the door to the far right of the room opened and a Mech walked in, malice seeming to rise off his red armor plating like heat. When the Mech glanced towards Spike and then tromped forward with deliberate steps, Spike froze. In his mind, he wondered what he had done to anger anyone. He couldn’t think of anything, perhaps he wasn’t looking at Spike. Maybe it was one of the Mechs next to him or…

“You!” The Autobot said, pointing towards Spike and any hope of avoiding a confrontation was deflated. What had he done? As the Autobot approached, Spike shrank back, glancing pleadingly to the two Mechs who were working on the large computer only a little ways off, but they seemed just as confused as he and even a little curious. Spike belatedly realized that the Mech was a lot shorter then most of the Autobots and he had a similar shape to Bumblebee, but despite the similarity, the Mech’s red armor and little horns made him look more like a (comparatively) little devil. The small Autobot impended over Spike, blue eyes aglow with fury. His hand shot forward and Spike clenched his eyes shut instinctually. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes warily and was greeted with a small slip of paper pinched between the Mech’s large fingers.

Bemused, Spike glanced up at the angry ‘Bot quizzically. When no explanation was forthcoming, Spike attentively reached out and took the little piece of paper, giving the Mech one more uncertain glance. Looking over the words on the paper, Spike clamped down on the sudden urge to giggle inappropriately. He bit his lip and looked up, noting the Autobot seemed to expect something from him.

“OK?” Spike asked, unable to completely mask his amusement.

“Explain this!” boomed the Autobot. If the situation hadn’t gleaned the attention of the room before, it certainly did now. The perpetual sensation of diminutiveness suddenly multiplied as the Autobot practically loomed over him. It was quite a disconcerting feeling, especially considering this was supposedly an ally.

“You’re human, you should know!”

“I do know; It’s a ticket,” said Spike simply. What was there to explain?

“What is it for?!”

He blinked, confused. “..Says here you ran a red light…”

Logic told him that should have quelled the red Autobot, however it only seemed to create more ire. “So?” the ‘Bot demanded.

Spike struggled to answer the question with any sort of dignity. “Well…..That’s against the law.”

“Says who?”

Spike regarded the Mech with an incredulous stare. Was he being serious? “Uh…The Law? The President, Congress…our entire judicial system? Everyone.”

“Well how do you expect us to know that?”

Spike blinked, unsure how to answer him. “Well…Everyone knows…it’s just common knowledge.”

“Everyone knows what?”

Spike allowed himself a small smile as he explained a concept he knew since he was in kindergarten. “…that red means stop.” It was curious to see the Mech’s face change from intensely furious to utterly confused in the span of a second. “That makes absolutely no sense. Red is a color, it doesn’t mean anything.”

It was Spike turn to look confused and even a little offended. “Of course it does. All colors have a meaning. Well, most do. It’s psychological.”

“How stupid!”

Spike was vaguely aware that there was now a small audience gathering around them, some of them looking rather amused. A tall green Mech walked up beside the smaller red one and placed a placating hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Cliffjumper.”

The red mini-bot turned to the taller one. “I got pulled over by the human police today and the stupid fleshy gave me this thing!” he waved the itty-bitty slip of paper around like a piece if confetti. “A ticket! How stupid is that?”

“You ran a red light,” Spike reminded him. “That’s a big traffic no-no.” Despite the probable imprudence of such an action, Spike wagged a finger at the Autobot as if gently scolding a toddler.

“What does it mean when you get a ticket?” The green Mech asked Spike before Cliffjumper could respond.

“Well…usually it means a fine. This is your first one so that’s pretty much all it means, but if you’re a repeat offender you could loose your license or get sent to jail. But if that ever happened to one of you guys I don’t think they’d send you to jail….the impound lot maybe…”

“For not obeying a stupid light?” Cliffjumper demanded, furious again. “What’s the point? Are they some religious relic or something? Is it some taboo to not respect the shiny lights? Have I offended your primitive culture?”

Spike rolled his eyes, trying not to feel offended. “No. They’re traffic lights. It helps regulate the flow of traffic at intersections to keep people from crashing into each other when they cross the road. When you ran a red light you broke the law. You could’ve caused a wreck and hurt someone.”

Cliffjumper shook his head in exasperation and grumbled. “What a useless system. Using colors as traffic signals…”

“Works for us,” remarked the human with equal grouchiness. As enthralling and as fascinating as these Autobots were, he had limits on how much insults on his people and culture he could take. “Red means stop, yellow means caution, green means go.”

“Why? Why not blue means stop and red mean go? Or black means stop. That makes more sense then red.”

“We wouldn’t be able to see a black light very well. And…red is kind of…well, people see it as kind of an ominous color. It grabs people’s attention.”

“Cliffjumper being the exception, apparently,” a dark blue and yellow Mech smirked from the group of spectators, a red chevron on his forehead. Spike had noticed several of the Autobots with a similar design. It made it kind of hard to remember their names.

“Ominous?” Cliffjumper asked dubiously. “How? Red is an Autobot color!” He pounded his fist against his chest with bravado. “The color of bravery and strength! It’s a heroic color. What’s so slagging ominous about the color red?”

Spike was silent for a moment as he analyzed his own perceptions of the color in question and why it always caught his attention. “…red’s the color of human blood.”

The group went silent as they absorbed the statement, understanding and confusion playing their minds at once.

“Usually when we see red the first thing we think of—well, I think of— is blood. And then other related images pop up. Like anger, death, murder, pain, torture, war…and so on,” added Spike. “But it also has the same connotations like you said. There are some colors that have multiple meanings depending on the context.”

“How so?” The green Mech—Hound, wasn’t it?— asked. He, like several of the other Autobots, looked intrigued and Spike felt a bubble of jollity rise from the pit of his stomach. So far, his time around the Autobots was spent being virtually ignored by all save a few he’d made friends with, and his insides filled with the warm-fuzzies at the notion they were actually paying attention to him and even asking him things. His inner child squealed with joy.

“Well, let’s take your color for instance- green. Usually we associate green with nature, for obvious reasons; it’s the most abundant color in nature. From that association we get things like life, peace, freedom, and tranquility.” The green Mech smiled at that. “But then green can also mean jealousy. There’s a saying that describes someone as being ‘green with envy’.”

“How about yellow?” Asked Bumblebee, one of the few Mechs so far he had gotten to know fairly well. Spike had not seen him come in. Beside him stood a Mech he had been introduced to as Prowl and beside him was Optimus Prime. With such a prestigious audience hanging on his words, Spike began to feel a bit self conscious.

“Yellow? Oh, us, well in a traffic light it means caution and you’re supposed to slow down… so when the light turns red you can stop.” He paused and add, rather embarrassed, ”But then again, most people speed up so they can dodge the red light, so I guess that one’s a bit of a catch-22. But yellow can also mean happy, peaceful, and fun. It’s considered a happy color.”

Bumblebee smiled at that, but Spike was confused when around him, the Mechs began chuckling and murmur to each other. Spike caught a muttered ‘oh the irony’ and ‘Someone go tell Sideswipe’. Spike hadn’t met anyone named Sideswipe, or at least he didn’t think he had. He turned to look at Bumblebee, tilting his head quizzically. The yellow minibot merely shook his head and waved the silent inquiry away, chuckling.

“I’ll tell you later.” He said.

“What about blue?” Someone asked to Spike’s left, but he didn’t see who.

“Blue? Ah, that’s kind of a hard one. See, a light blue, like the sky, is considered a happy color. But a deep blue is more mellow and sad. We don’t call certain styles of Jazz ‘The Blues’ for nothing. Blue can either mean really happy or really sad. One extreme to another depending on the shade or hue. But there’s an old idiom that says someone who talks really fast without stopping is “Talk up a Blue streak” but I’m not sure how that relates to the actual color.”

The room erupted in another bout of laughter and several Mech were shouting ‘Ain’t that true!’ Spike made a mental note to ask Bumblebee about that as well.

you made the transtopia news letter

whens chapter 2???

Oh wow! Awesome, thanks man.

Here's chapter two.
Chapter Two: The Hypo-critic Oath Part I

“But if the coolant lines are supposed to go to this limb, wouldn’t it have to feed through here?”

Spike looked up from homework towards where his Dad and Wheeljack were discussing Cybertronian anatomy. Despite his diligence in completing his assignments, it was difficult to keep his attention from wandering off. He was somewhat knowledgeable with cars and machinery and once in a while he would pick up familiar words and quite a few foreign ones.

What was a hydraulic flux dampener?

School had started a mere two weeks ago and already he was being virtually crushed beneath the amount of homework his teachers were giving him and his peers. So much work was drastically cutting into Spike’s regular ‘Hanging out with and/or watching giant robots’ time. Luckily he only had one more page of chemistry equations to work through and he would be free to spend the afternoon as he saw fit.

Mole conversions, you have met your match! As the teen tackled the last few problems, Wheeljack and his father continued on with their lesson.

“No, no, no,” said Wheeljack. “If we did that and he bent his arm, it would end up cutting right through the line, see? Which would be very bad.”

Pointing to something deep inside the armor plating of the injured Mech, the Autobot engineer dictated to the smaller humanoid life form perched upon the chest of the patient on the proper techniques and procedures of repairing such a deep wound. Their debatably lucky subject was a burly minibot named Brawn who laid motionless upon the examination table. While his body remained still, his face was contorted into a look of perpetual annoyance at his current occupation. One arm lay sprawled out away from the rest of his form, the top plating below the shoulder sporting a good sized hole where a Decepticon laser had caught him, severing a coolant and motor line, making said appendage all but useless. Ratchet’s Medbay was full of those worse off then Brawn, so he had been sent to Wheeljack’s lab for a quick repair. When Wheeljack saw the injury, he was struck with a brilliant idea that would potentially lead to shortening the quick repair to a simple quick fix! However, the quick fix was running much longer then intended as Brawn suddenly found himself an impromptu teaching aide. After all, Wheeljack had to make sure his new pupil knew what he was doing before he went spelunking into the body of a Mech.

Wheeljack bent over his patient and helper while explaining how to go about feeding the new coolant line properly into the arm for adequate temperature control. Sparkplug looked down into the open wound and nodded, seeming to be enthralled at the opportunity to help repair an injured Mech.

Spike father, ever the grease moneky...

“Alright, so then where does it go?” Sparkplug asked.

“Right through there. That hole in the structural support way down there. Can you see it?”

“Oh, yeah I see it.”

“That’s the coolant line lead.”

Sparkplug chuckled, glancing up at the large automation looming over him. “Now I get why you asked for my help. How do you guys get any repairs done if you can’t reach everything?”

“Usually we have to remove the armor or sometimes disassemble the entire limb if we can’t reach the site ourselves or we don’t have the appropriate tools. Which, as you know, we do not; hence why I asked if you could lend me a hand.”

“Well, it doesn’t look too complicated,” said Sparkplug as he rolled up his sleeves and (figuratively) dived in. From where he was seated, Spike saw Brawn’s face contort into an expression that could only be described as controlled disgust. Not that he entirely blamed the ‘Bot. Had he been in the Autobot’s place, Spike was sure he would not have been any more comfortable with someone digging into him either. Still, he could not help but feel a little uncomfortable. A lot of Autobots still didn’t seem to care much for humans' presence, seeing them as weak squishy inferior creatures, and Brawn was one of them. Most Autobots were generally courteous, but there always seemed to be a perpetual sense of ‘Go away pest’ that Spike had noticed. Bumblebee thought he was being paranoid and for a while, Spike dropped the issue. But it always lurked in the back of his mind…

“Damn,” was the muted curse from Sparkplug before he pulled back out of the injured site.

“What’s wrong?” Wheeljack asked looming back over the table to peer down into the whole in Brawn’s armor.

“I can’t pull the line all the way through the support; my arm’s not long enough,” said the human, wiping his grease covered hands together. “I’d go in deeper, but…” he patted his middle and chuckled, “I ain’t the same waist size I use to be. Don’t wanna get stuck in there and cause an even bigger conundrum.”

Brawn snorted, clearly none too enthusiastic about such an ordeal and quickly loosing patients with the current one. Wheeljack ignored his patient and straightened up to his full height. Tapping his face guard, Wheeljack hummed thoughtfully as he gazed down at Brawn in contemplation.

Sparkplug glanced over to his son and called out to him as an idea struck him. “Why don’t you give it a try, Son?”

Startled from his observing stupor, Spike looked over to his father, “Huh?”

“See if you can pull this line through and connect it,” Sparkplug waved him over as if there was a bridge between their respective tables and the boy could simply stroll across. In his mind, Spike could not help but think ‘What? But he doesn’t like me, he’ll squish me!’ Wheeljack turned to the teenager, seeming to have latched onto Sparkplug’s idea. Stepping over to the table, the engineer offered him a hand up. Spike blinked up at the Mech before getting to his feet and climbing somewhat awkwardly onto Wheeljack’s hand.

Cupping the boy in his hands, Wheeljack carefully transferred Spike over to the examination table and allowed him to slip off his palm and onto Brawn’s chest next to his father. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Spike thought he felt a slight vibration, like a muted growl, run along Brawn’s chassis. Spike glanced over his shoulder to look into the Mech’s face with an expression that he hoped conveyed he was no less uncomfortable about digging around in his inner working either and that he was profusely sorry…and to please not kill him.

He turned back to his Dad. He couldn’t quite mask all the nervousness in his voice, “So what is it I’m doing?”

“Down there,” Sparkplug replied, gesturing down into the gaping hole in Brawn’s armor. “There’s a coolant line that needs to be connected to that port, see it?”

Reluctantly, Spike bent down next to his Dad to have a look inside, ever aware that he was looking into and standing on a living being. There was little light to show where anything was, but Spike peered through the dimness and spotted the coolant line that lay partially pulled through a round hole in a support strut (something like the Cybertronian equivalent to bones) and up further was a round port like the end of a garden hose. Spike nodded. “Yeah, I see it.”

“So do you think you can reach it?” Wheeljack asked.

“Uh…maybe,” Spike replied, not being able to keep from peeking nervously at Brawn’s face which seemed to become more irritated by the minute. Wheeljack caught the boy’s nervous glance and laughed.

“Don’t worry about Brawn,” said the Mech, patting Brawn on the opposite shoulder. “He has no say in this.”

“Hey!” The minibot growled, rising up a little and causing both humans to cry out and scramble for purchase on the shifting metal. “The frag I don’t! It’s my chassis you’re scrambling around on and digging into my wires! Which by the way ain’t the most pleasant of experiences!”

Wheeljack pushed Brawn back onto the table. “Stop moving. They’re just trying to help. Would you rather have me disassemble your armor just to connect a single coolant line?”

“If you had, we’d be done by now. Instead of wasting my time with this slag. I ain’t some toy you can tinker with!”

“Teaching the humans how to help repair us could save us time and resources in the future. As much of a challenge as it must be, please attempt a little patience, Brawn,” Wheeljack replied. “Besides, they don’t possess automatic memory storage circuits to accumulate all of this data. They have to learn it slowly so it’s converted to long term memory and properly absorbed. If I told them everything straight off they wouldn’t retain any of it and you’d be stuck here even longer.”

Brawn clearly had more to say, but bit his tongue, or lack thereof, and settled down. If Spike was not uncomfortable before, he was now. He was willing to lend a hand if the Autobots needed it, but he was not too keen on making any enemies of giant robots…even mini giant robots. He did not like being places where he wasn’t wanted and Brawn was practically fuming indignation.

“Go on son,” his father prompted him, giving him a little nudge. “Give it a try.”

Rallying himself, Spike got down on his knees and slowly lowered his upper body down into the wound. As he did so, he could hear Brawn’s inner workings rev, the sound being much clearer without the thick armor to muffle it. It sounded much more aggressive from inside. The space inside Brawn’s arm was heavily scented with metal, oil, and other fluids he wasn’t familiar with and truly was not up to knowing. He could easily differentiate one particular smell he was beginning to become more and more familiar with the longer he spent time around the Autobots; Energon. It had a sharp bite to it that made his sinuses sting and it was very potent, especially when it was fresh. He tried to breathe evenly between his mouth and nose to keep from being too effected by it. It made his head hurt after a while.

Ignoring the offending smells for a moment, Spike reached down and grabbed the coolant line and maneuvered himself deeper to align the end with the port. The cramp quarters made it difficult and with a burst of will, fueled mostly by the desire to get it done and over with, Spike pushed the line into the port till he heard a clean snap indicating the two ends had connected. “Got it,” He said.

Glad to be done with it, Spike was about to pull himself out of Brawn's arm when an angry voice unexpectedly rattled the air. “What the frag do you think you’re doing!?”

Startled by the sudden noise, Spike jerked up and smashed his head against the top of the armor. “Ah!”

Spike bit his lip to keep several choice phrases behind his teeth. What little light he had to see by abruptly cut off and before he knew it, he was being pulled from hole and into the well lit space of Wheeljack’s lab. When he looked over his shoulder to face whoever had grabbed a hold of him, he felt his stomach bottom out. The resident medic was glaring at him, his normally happy blue optics now pale and ablaze with fury at the scene he had come across. If his expression alone was anything to go by…

…Ratchet was pissed.

The medic’s fury concentrated only briefly at Spike before rearing up at Wheeljack who took a tentative step back. “They were just helping me,” the Autobot offered in meager defense.

“Have your logic circuits overheated and melted your common sense relays?” Ratchet demanded hotly, “Do you have any idea how many hazards there are in the Cybertronian body that could kill them?”

Ratchet sat Spike down atop the table with a surprising care, a stark contrast his blatant rage that was currently focused on Wheeljack. Once free, Spike scampered over to his Dad in fear of any wayward ire being directed at him.

Wheeljack knew of the dangers certainly, but apparently he felt well equipped to deal with any accidents should they occur. Ratchet obviously did not share in his confidence.

“I made sure they knew what they were doing and what not to…” Wheeljack was cut off by a wayward tool making contact with his head with a loud clang! “—Ah!”

“Not only that, but they aren’t even wearing any protective clothing! Do you know what unprocessed Energon does to organic matter?” Spike and his Father were both frozen upon the table, too stunned to move. They had seen grumpy Ratchet before and even heard him yelling from across the Ark and they certainly had been told the stories…but never had they witness a Ratchet tirade in person. It was far more thunderous then Spike would have guessed. Even Brawn looked nervous and was discretely inching away from Ratchet’s side of the table. And Ratchet, being one of the shorter models, taller then a minibot but shorter then the standard model, carried himself in such a way that made his height severely inconsequential.

Ratchet turned his ire back towards the human pair and fixed them with a glare. “Next time he or anyone tries to convince either of you to crawl into a Mech, don’t. And if I find out you did anyway, I’ll…I’ll…” Ratchet fumbled on an appropriate ending, appeared unprepared with human compatible threats. “…do something really not nice. Got it?”

Spike nodded vigorously, but his father looked less convinced. He nodded anyway, “Whatever you say Ratchet.”

That seemed to appease the medic somewhat. “Good.”

And that should have been the end of it. But as Spike learned later on with more dealings with the Cybertronian race, it was rarely the end of it. A few days later, Spike came upon his father in a rather curious situation.

“Dad…?”

“Yes, son?”

“…I thought we weren’t supposed to help with repairs anymore…”

“The Good Doctor only said no more repairing Autobots; he didn’t say anything about equipment,” Sparkplug pulled himself out from under the large computer, wiping away sweat and dirt from his face with a dingy rag. The room was a small communications alcove that branched off from the hall near the main control room. The room was comparatively small to the Autobots, like a closet or a phone booth, but was a sizeable space for the two humans who were the only ones currently within. Sparkplug looked up at his son from where he lay on the floor, a faint smile on his face. “Wheeljack needed some help setting up the new control monitoring modules in all the computers. What Ratchet don’t know can’t hurt him. Or us. Besides, he’s up to his optics in repairs right now and any potential squealers are limbless or knocked out cold in the Medbay.”

“Dad, that’s kind of…sick.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true. Ratchet won’t find out. At least for a while.”

Spike looked around him as if the mere mentioning of the irreverent medic’s name would summon him and subsequently bring all unholy fury raining down upon them. All those horror stories Sideswipe would tell about Ratchet…maybe it was starting to get to him. He would rather not validate their authenticity. “Yeah, but…”

“You aren’t gonna tattle on me are you, boy?” His father smirked as his son stumbled awkwardly over his reply.

“Wha-? No! No….no I’m not, I wouldn’t do that! But you shouldn’t be…you know, doing that after what he said. Ratchet’s not the kind of guy to forgive and forget. Sideswipe was saying he holds a grudge like no one else!” said Spike. “And these guys live for a really long time. And a bunch of these guys already think I’m a nuisance and I’d really not care for having a crazy medic pissed at me too.”

“Stop listening to that red lunatic. He’s just messing with you,” Sparkplug chuckled at him. “You’re too gullible.”

“Maybe, but…”

“You worry too much,” said his father as he slipped back under the computer to finish up whatever it was he was doing. “Besides, you’re not doing anything wrong. If he gets fritz, it’ll be at me. Go and find Bumblebee if you’re so worried about it. I need to finish this connection before the monitoring system can go live and Red Alert can’t stop crying wolf whenever a fly gets in without his notice. I dunno about you son, but I intend to be at least somewhat useful around here.”

When most individuals have an epiphany or sudden realization, there was usually a profound silence, but Spike simply stood there blinking stupidly. It took a moment for it to sink in.

Sparkplug looked over when something slid under the consol beside him and he was pleased to see Spike.

“Alright,” the boy said with a nervous smile. “What do I need to do?”

His father smiled and handed him a wrench. “That’s my boy.”

It was a very natural thing to become engrossed in one’s work and Spike found himself actually enjoying the task once the thought of repercussions left his cognitive thoughts. In fact, there was something fundamentally invigorating about tinkering with alien technology as well a sense of blatant impishness about doing it all behind the resident Medic’s back. As advanced and technical as the Autobot technology was, it was not too far a leap in common sense to be able to repair simple connections and wires. Had either of them needed to reprogram something or perhaps replace a motherboard that would have been a tad bit different of a situation. However, for two grease monkeys, their task was surprisingly simple and took little to no time at all for them to finish and move on to the next one which Wheeljack, pleased at their speed and skill, readily gave them. It did not take long at all before all the modules were set up and the new monitor program went live.

Ratchet finished his repairs and no one was any wiser save for a cheeky engineer and a pair of humans, all three of which were smart enough to keep their mouths and vocalizers shut.

---

“What are you doing Spike?”

The unexpected intrusion of the voice broke Spike violently from the isolated trance one often experienced when engrossed in a book. With the start, the boy tore his eyes from the pages and looked up to see Bumblebee smiling down at him. The warm afternoon sun beat down upon the Oregon desert, shimmering off the golden sand and Spike squinted a little against the rays of light that bounced off the yellow minibot’s armor.

“Oh. Hi, Bumblebee. What’s up?”

The minibot carefully negotiated himself down into a seated position next to Spike, allowing his feet to dangle off the edge of the rock outcropping where the young human had sought refuge. Transformers in general were not designed to sit in the same fashion as humans, at least not comfortably so, and such physical limitations forced many an Autobot to find alternatives sitting positions then those of the human sort and especially when there were no accommodations to suit them. While Spike could cross his legs Indian style or sit on his knees (which many Autobots figured must be rather painful), Bumblebee had to find a more adequate position to accommodate his frame. It was a lucky happenstance that Spike had chosen a spot with a edge for his to sit upon.

Once comfortable, Bumblebee turned back to his smaller companion with a smile. “What are you doing out here? I figured you’d be inside driving folks nuts with more questions.”

Spike felt a bit of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach and he dropped his gaze. “I don’t mean to be a pest to anyone…”

Bumblebee just laughed and patted the boy on the back good naturedly. “You can’t expect them to really be all that welcoming just yet. Most of them are still kind of working through everything.”

Spike looked at Bumblebee with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Bumblebee began hesitantly as if he was not all too certain he should burden the boy with their troubles. “It’s just that lots of us are feeling a bit…home sick, I guess you would call it. We don’t even know if Cybertron still exists. The war could be over. We might be all that’s left of our kind for all we know. Lots of the guys are just trying to keep their transistors cool so a lot of them might be a little short with you.”

Spike nodded slowly, feeling like a jerk for not even realizing. “That makes sense.”

The yellow Autobot echoed the nod. “Yep, so give them a little time to adjust and they’ll be drinking high grade and breaking things before you know it. At least the Decepticons keep us busy for a while. All things considered, I’d say we’ve actually behaved fairly well.” He the spotted the book in the young human’s lap and gestured to it vaguely. “So what about you? What’re you reading?”

Spike froze and he slowly closed the book, hoping his friend wouldn’t be too curious as to what it pertained. “Oh, uh…you know. Stuff.”

Bumblebee gave Spike an odd look at the defensive response. “Like what?”

“Just…stuff. Human stuff…nothing important,” Spike slid the book off his lap and tucked it under his thigh, out of sight. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

Curiosity piqued, Bumblebee tilted his head at the boy, amused but unconvinced. Spike was very bad at lying. “Really now?”

“Yeah.”

Bumblebee leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his optic that made Spike nervous. “Nothing interesting?”

“Nope.”

“Nothing important?”

Spike leaned away from the yellow minibot. He shook his head, the faux smile on his face wavering. “Nuh-uh.”

“Well then…” Abruptly, Bumblebee reached out and grabbed the boy around the waist. “…where’s the harm in me seeing it?” The Autobot hoisted the boy up in the air and retrieved the book with his free hand.

“Hey-! Bumblebee, no!” Spike grabbed onto Bumblebee’s wrist as if afraid he would fall from his grip. Bumblebee sat Spike on his lap, holding him with one arm while he looked at the book.

“Advanced mechanics?” Bumblebee asked, surprised and more then a little dubious. Spike wiggled in his friend’s arm, trying to reach for the book and hide it as if it were some taboo object not decent for public view.

“Bumblebee, give it back!” Spike ineffectively tried to reach for it again, but Bumblebee just chuckled and rearranged the boy into the crook of his elbow, well out of range to retrieve the book.

“What’re you learning mechanics for?” Bumblebee asked, fingering through a few pages. What the book labeled as ‘advanced’ Bumblebee, and most of Cybertronian society, considered basic and common knowledge. He had to restrain himself from snickering inappropriately less he offend his human companion. He was just a boy after all.

“It’s nothing, now give it back,” grunted the human, still trying to free himself. “And let me go!”

Bumblebee released his grip and Spike scrambled to his feet, straightening his shirt.

“So what’s this for?” Bumblebee asked as he handed the book over which Spike took readily and stuffed it under his arm.

“Nothing. Just curiosity,” Spike replied, his face flushed. “My Dad’s a mechanic remember? I’m just doing some research.”

“Oh.” Bumblebee nodded. “But why?”

Looking positively shame faced, Spike kicked a few rocks around, debating his words and just how much to tell, if any, of his secrets to his friend.

“C’mon Spike,” Bumblebee rested a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, which due to its comparative size covered most of his upper arm as well. “I’m your friend. You can tell me.”

Spike bit his lip and took a refueling breath. “Wheeljack’s teaching me and Dad how to help with repairs on you guys even though Ratchet said not to under threat of extreme pain and torture. So it’s all a big secret and no one’s supposed to know.” Spike pulled the book from under his arm and held it up. “He told me to read this to get familiar with the basics.”

“So,” Asked Bumblebee, leaning on one arm and smirking. “Why so glum about it? Don’t you want to?”

“Well, yeah!” Spike replied as if it should have been obvious. “It’s just…”

Spike sighed in frustration holding the book out in front of him and glaring at it. “No matter how many times I read this, it’s like nothing’s sticking! I’m not a learn-from-a-book kinda guy. It’s easier for me to learn by example. But Wheeljack doesn’t want to get into actual demonstrations yet. He’s still trying to figure out how to do it without attracting any attention.” There was a momentary pause and Spike looked up into Bumblebee’s face. “And I’m freaked out that Ratchet will kill us all if he finds out.”

The sheer frankness of Spike words caused Bumblebee to laugh. Spike frowned; taking his friend’s amusement as a sign of belittlement in regards to his situation which he found far from humorous. “Bumblebee…”

The Autobot placed his hand on his abdomen as he got his chortles under control. “I’m sorry, buddy. I guess to a newbie Ratchet can seem pretty intimidating.”

“…newbie?”

“You haven’t known him long enough, that’s all,” said Bumblebee. “He acts that way, but only because he’s looking out for you the best way he knows how.”

“Yelling and physically threatening people?”

“Yep.”

Spike was silent as he tried to absorb that. “…sorry if my puny human mind does not comprehend your superior alien robotic logic.”

Bumblebee gave the boy a look. “Now don’t go saying stuff like that. You’re just not thinking about it in the right terms,” he said, tapping a metal finger onto the boy’s scalp. “Ratchet’s been patching our afts up for millennia now. Probably longer then the Earth’s existed, in fact. And the more you get to know these guys you’ll see why Ratchet’s temper’s a few meters short of a mile.”

Spike pondered that for a moment, rubbing the top of his head. “So…he’s just tired of fixing you guys all the time?”

“In a sense. He’s has this idea that if you’ve been injured in anyway it must have been a result of your own stupidity and shortcomings and therefore you’re deliberately wasting his time and resources.”

“…but you’re not.”

“Not always, no.”

“Wait—not always? What do you mean ‘not always’? You mean sometimes you are?”

“Well, take Sideswipe for instance: He like pushing people’s buttons. Especially Ratchet’s. So he’s intentionally reckless in the field just so he can annoy the good doctor.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s Sideswipe,” replied Bumblebee frankly. “You’ll learn in time.”

“So then…he’s just in a perpetual state of annoyance?”

“Pretty much.”

“…so he wouldn’t really kill me?”

“No, of course not.”

Spike felt a swell of relief…

“He might lock you in a storage closet or make you clean the floors with a pipe cleaner or something like that, though.”

…and then it was gone. “What?”

“Well, you’re human. So he’d have to be pretty careful so he didn’t maim you or something. He never does anything permanent. He can ding us up all he wants, we’re easily fixed. But you? Not so much.” Bumblebee couldn’t help but smile at the look of abject horror upon the young man’s face. “But Ratchet’s always been pretty creative when it comes to alternative punishments. He made Bluestreak replace every light fixture on base once when he got his arm shot off in the field.”

“…somehow that doesn’t put me at ease.”

Bumblebee smiled at the young man and reached for the book again, plucking it from his hands. Spike didn’t protest this time as Bumblebee carefully ruffled through the pages. “It doesn’t look all that hard. What do you need help with?”

“Well…it’s hard for me to learn from pictures alone, that’s all.”

“Well then, why not let me show you?” With that, Bumblebee reached over and opened a panel on his forearm. Spike’s eyes widened at the sight of the circuitry and various lines and mechanics and hydraulics within the limb. “I could show you. Be your example.”

Spike was speechless for a moment.

“You’d let me tinker around with your parts?” Spike asked, dubious and with a fair amount of anxiety. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll mess you up or something?”

The yellow Autobot burst out into laughter. “I doubt you could do much harm without a blowtorch or something like that. Seekers have tried and failed to bring me down,” Bumblebee replied with a smirk. “And, no offense buddy, but you ain’t no Seeker.”

“None taken,” Spike replied with a smile and a shrug.

“Alright, so let’s start with the basics,” Bumblebee began as he handed Spike the book and began to recite the fundamental rules and laws of mechanics.

As Spike had said, he worked and learned much faster when he had something he could touch and look at, something tangible. The awkwardness of the situation was brief and soon Spike became enthralled once more in the activity. But all too soon the sun began to set and the two were forced to return indoors. Neither spoke a word about the lesson and Spike returned to Wheeljack much more mechanically savvy then before, much to the engineer’s delight. He assigned him another book. And when he found himself stuck on something, he went and sought Bumblebee’s presence. It wasn’t long at all before Wheeljack announced it was time to start the hands on process and gave then an old hydraulic flux dampener to restore.

And that should have been the end of it. But as Spike was beginning to learn along with his many dealings with the Cybertronian race, it was rarely the end of it.

---

To be continued in Part II...