The real bother to Prowl was that Sideswipe had an ace in the hole. Not everyone had one. Some had sevens, and a few had jacks, but when it came right down to it, it was Sideswipe alone who held the ace of spades.

It was down to simple math, and it went like this. There was and had always been a series of neat equations which defined all forms of survival around the Ark. Take Sunstreaker, for example. Everyone would admit that, in any sort of contest, one Sunstreaker would always outweigh one Bumblebee. However, should Bumblebee decide to play the Jazz card, Sunstreaker would nearly always lose. Bumblebee and Jazz, having been in special ops together, were longtime friends, and Jazz, being not only high-ranking, but well connected, would thereby always outweigh Sunstreaker in the Autobots’ social and political hierarchy.

However, it wasn’t always down to rank. Sunstreaker, for example, could play the Sideswipe card, and by sheer devilry and wit (the latter of which Prowl was only grudgingly admitting), the pair could very often outweigh the Jazz card. But then, Jazz was very good friends with Prowl, who was also well connected, and who outranked everyone involved. Add to that Prowl’s tactical genius, and inevitably Sideswipe and Sunstreaker would find themselves in the brig, and Bumblebee, by successfully playing his hand of cards, would come out the winner.

But that was only the tip of the iceberg, and no one was exempt. Cliffjumper would nearly always outmaneuver Windcharger, but Windcharger plus Brawn always meant a dead loss for Cliffjumper. Now, Cliffjumper could appeal to Hound for help, but Hound was no heavyweight, and no good in a contest of social pecking order (being neither charismatic nor rude enough), so Cliffjumper would then be relegated to whomever he hadn’t managed to piss off in the last week or so. Which meant, usually, that poor Cliffjumper ended up pretty low in the social deck, and therefore rarely won any sociopolitical duels.

Moving up the food chain, one would find the likes of Mirage, who was witty enough to hold his own for the most part, but socially challenged enough to need to. Mirage fared about as well as Cliffjumper when it came to needing backup, and so despite his considerable intelligence and good taste, mostly he found himself outclassed by Autobots who were both bigger and better connected than himself.

From there, one moved up to find more complex alliances and groups, ranging in formidability based on any combination of strength, loyalty, and other factors that Prowl was certain would take him weeks to chart out should he ever choose to build probability models on the subject. In essence, however, (if the Autobots’ social and political web could be boiled down to a single point), the bottom line was that rank wasn’t everything, solid social ties were better than credits, and ethics were a gray area best trampled into submission by the hooves of unwashed politicians.

Which brought Prowl back to his primary concern. Because really, mathematics aside, what it all really boiled down to was who had Big, Mean Friends. Which meant, in this contest between Prowl and Sideswipe, that the turning of the tables was only a matter of time.

Of course, it didn’t happen right away. No, it seemed instead that Sideswipe preferred to suffer in martyred silence. Perhaps it was a matter pride, or maybe just pure, simple stubbornness that made Sideswipe bide his time. Or perhaps the warrior was simply accumulating the wear and tear for the final effect, and after a while the tactician began to suspect that when the warrior finally made his move, that effect was bound to be dazzling.

Little did he realize just how much so.

It happened one Tuesday morning in the mess hall. Prowl was sitting next to Jazz, and perusing the contents of a datapad as he absently sipped his energon. Beside him, Jazz was prattling away about some useless bit of pop culture trivia, and as usual Prowl was paying him no attention whatsoever when all at once the saboteur cut the chatter and let out a long, low whistle of delight.

"Ooooh, lawd,” Jazz said in an entirely-too-gleeful voice, “he's finally goin' for it.”

Frowning, Prowl looked up to find the saboteur fighting hard to hide a grin. Prowl turned his head, following Jazz's line of sight, and, with a sinking feeling, the tactician saw to his dismay that Sideswipe was, in fact, 'going for it'.

It was very subtle, the way he did it. Head up, face drawn in that sort of pain-enduring way, Sideswipe slowly made his way past Ratchet's table. With a dull feeling of horror, Prowl watched as the warrior used all of his theatrical arts to 'hide' his limp, walking slowly enough to show a normal gait, but then -- just then -- letting a bit of a wobble slip. He didn't do it in front of Ratchet; that would have been too obvious. No, he waited until he was just past the CMO's table and, counting on Ratchet's legendary peripheral vision, Sideswipe wobbled and limped just hard enough to have to grab the corner of a table for balance.

And that was all he needed to seal the tactician's fate.

"Sideswipe," the medic barked.

Wobbling just ever so slightly, Sideswipe turned, face meek as an April lamb. "Yes, your Ratchetness?"

Elbows leaning on the table, Ratchet fixed the warrior with a beady look. "What in Primus' hemorrhagic name are you doing with that limp?"

Face blithe, Sideswipe spread his hands. "What limp?"

The medic stabbed a finger at the warrior's right leg. "THAT limp."

Sideswipe shrugged. "I stumbled, that's all."

Ratchet snorted. "You don't stumble."

The majority of the room was watching now. They all knew what was going on, every last one of them. Affecting a look of pure innocence (as if the theatrics he'd been putting on before weren't enough), Sideswipe touched his chestplate with one hand. "Me?" he asked, managing a look of almost-believable humility. "Come on, Ratchet -- everyone trips. I'm fine." With a shrug and a wave, he turned to go again, and just ever so slightly, allowed his right knee to wobble again.

"Right there, you little glitch," the medic crowed. "Now gimp your happy aft on down to medical before I stick my foot up your afterparts."

Sighing, Sideswipe began to make his laborious way toward the med bay. "Yes, Ratchet."

"And you don't sass me," the medic snapped, getting up and draining the last of his morning ration.

"Never, your Ratchetness," Sideswipe quipped with a barely-hidden grin and another “hint” of a limp, the burly medic already following after him. Head down, face shrewd, Ratchet was clearly gauging the warrior’s gait, already judging the source of his limp, and Prowl was at once forcibly reminded of Beagle’s Red Bull.

“So,” Jazz asked from beside him, “do you have an epitaph already picked out, or do you want me to just sort of wing it?”

Staring after the medic, Prowl paused, his professional pride at war with his instinct to survive. Quite sadly for him, however, (and he would admit later to regretting this terribly), pride won out. Sideswipe had stepped on his last nerve, and he wasn’t going to take any slag off of the medic either. It was a character flaw in Prowl, one that made him inflexible sometimes even to his own detriment. But today he didn’t care. Ace or not, Prowl just plain wasn’t backing down.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Prowl said mildly as he collected his datapad, and gathered himself to leave. “It’s not that bad.”

Jazz stared back at him, expression halfway between incredulity and pity. “Prowl man, today is not that day. Don’t do the stubborn thing today.”

“Sideswipe earned his punishment,” Prowl replied calmly, “and I see no reason why Ratchet should complain.”

But the words “reason” and “Ratchet” weren’t often used in the same sentence. “You do know you’re gonna die,” Jazz pointed out.

To which Prowl replied with a sigh. “Really, Jazz, I think you’re overreacting. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

But even as Prowl turned to make his dignified way from the room, he knew deep down that he was officially, unequivocally, and majestically screwed.

The summons to Ratchet’s office came even sooner than Prowl had planned. He’d just had time to get down to the the command center, where he was going over the day’s agenda with Jazz (who was making sure to keep at least an arm’s length from ground zero), when he heard his name sound like a death knell over the intercom.

Ratchet to Prowl, the medic’s flat tone came snaking over the airwaves.

Jazz shot him a pitying look.

Yes? Prowl tried to put on his most casual tone.

Get down to my office. It wasn’t a request.

I’m, uh, very sorry, Ratchet. Could it wait until after fifteen hundred? I’m a bit bus--

NOW. Now it really wasn’t a request.

Then the lightbulb went on, and Prowl was gripped by what he could only describe later as a stubborn moment of insanity. Define ‘now’.

Jazz looked thunderstruck. “Oh no you didn’t.” He gaped, faceplate slack with dismay. “You didn’t.”

Over the intercom, there came the briefest of silences, a dreadful hiss of static, and then Ratchet’s voice sounded again, so evenly it made Prowl’s fuel run cold. If you’d like to play a game of semantics with me, we can do that.

I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Prowl sent back, trying and failing at a pretense of calm.

Oh, I’m sure you don’t, Ratchet’s voice replied, smooth as a sword being drawn from the scabbard. But you will.

[click]

Jazz merely looked at Prowl in horror. “Man, you better run like hell.”

Sadly for Prowl, however, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Sideswipe, to put it plainly, was the devil. And if Prowl as executive officer of this unit couldn’t hand out a penalty to one of the worst miscreants in the history of the entire sodding Autobot military, then he may as well hand over his rank and quit the job. There had to be order, an inflexible set of rules, and just because the Chief Medical Officer had made a frigging pet out of that spawn of the Inferno didn’t mean Prowl couldn’t enforce the sodding law if he saw fit. Break a law, go to jail. There were no passes.

So instead of making plans for his extradition to Canada (as wiser mechs might have done), Prowl spent the day convincing himself of his moral position. In fact, by mid-morning, he’d worked himself into such a state of holy wroth that he almost wished Ratchet would round the corner, so he could have it out with him. It was Prowl’s right to issue disciplinary action, and no cranky old nag of a medic was going to tell him otherwise.

So, with his professional pride firmly intact (and Jazz quite suddenly nowhere to be seen), Prowl decided to simply go about his day as if nothing was wrong. Of course, there was that teensy, little part of him that was just ever so slightly aware of the possibility of danger, so he did make sure that he was never alone. Naturally, he had business conducting a surprise inspection of Ironhide’s supply warehouse, and he had a right to move up his weekly strategy session with Silverbolt. It wasn’t he was hiding behind these people. He was merely being efficient. And he was covering all of his bases.

Actually, he could even point out that he’d made quite a few convenient switches, moves which resulted in his having a fairly productive day. In fact, he found himself to be so engrossed in his work that, by the time the day had turned to late afternoon, he had (almost) forgotten the medic completely.

Which, as things turned out, was a bad idea. Because if Prowl thought, even in the back of his processor, that being in the company of another Autobot would somehow save him from the worst, he found out that no matter how well-laid his plans, he could still come face-to-face with the meaning of the word “backfired.”

It was late in the day, near 1700 hours, when El Diablo strolled into the training bay where Prowl had been consulting with Sunstreaker regarding the Autobots’ next training session. Sunstreaker, to everyone’s utter shock, had turned out to be quite an effective combat instructor, and Prowl had come to consider the warrior's new assignment as one of his better “Sunstreaker solutions”, even if he said so himself. In fact, Prowl even found that the warrior had good suggestions for this or that field strategy, and both warrior and tactician were deep in discussion over one of Sunstreaker’s methods when the medic made his entrance.

Prowl took one look at the medic’s face, and his first, knee-jerk thought was that he was glad he had another Autobot with him. But then he realized just exactly who he was with, and with a horrible sinking sensation, Prowl knew at once that he was gloriously and spectacularly slagged.

So much for his brilliant plan.

But there was nothing for it now. Calmly, the medic strode across the floor, scanner in hand, while next to Prowl, Sunstreaker merely flung an elbow up over the top rail of the ring, and settled in to watch with a frosty smirk. Prowl stood rooted to the ground, a proverbial deer in the headlights, chevron-for-antlers and all.

As he approached, Ratchet raised a scanner and swept it up and down Prowl’s frame. With a critical optic, he studied the results, mouth downturned before snapping the scanner shut with a definitive click. “Hm,” the medic furrowed his brow, “no signs of cranial trauma.”

“Excuse me?” Prowl managed.

Ratchet peered at him with a look of professional concern. “Are you functioning properly?”

“Of course I am.”

“No recent blow to the head?”

“None.”

“You’re sure about this?” Ratchet was frowning, looking far from sure himself that Prowl hadn’t had some catastrophic injury.

“I’m quite sure.” Prowl raised his chin, even if his voice had been a little higher pitched than normal.

Like a stormcloud, the blue in Ratchet’s optics began to brew toward indigo. “Then can you explain to me,” he asked, his voice slowly rising, “what in the fonging name of Primus’ soggy parts you thought you were doing with my personal property?”

“Your personal --?”

“Don’t,” Ratchet barked, and jabbed a finger into Prowl’s face, “play dumb with me.”

“Ratchet,” Prowl steeled himself, not sure whether he should attempt to reason with the medic, or if now would be a good time to run for his life, “I hardly think that Sideswipe considers himself to be your personal property.”

Sunstreaker hitched a smile. “Hey, the doc can have him for all I care,” he offered most unhelpfully. He appeared to be enjoying this immensely.

Ratchet continued to stare fixedly at Prowl.

Prowl drew himself up, his sense of reason (sadly for him) still winning out over his instinct to flee. “Look, Ratchet,” he said, chin still high, “it is entirely within my rights to issue disciplinary acti--”

“Oh, it is?” Ratchet interrupted, optics glinting. “And when six weeks of twenty-four hour shifts result in Sideswipe being reduced to death on wheels, did you know that it’s within my rights as Chief Medical Officer to let you know exactly how far up your six you can shove your rights?”

Prowl narrowed his optics. “Look, Ratchet, I am the executive officer of this unit--”

“I don’t care if you’re the grand admiral of the goat-sucking galaxy,” Ratchet barked, completely ignoring anything Prowl might have to say. “You do NOT mess with MY slagging Autobot!”

“He does have a point, you know,” Sunstreaker put in, a grin tugging at his features. “You did mess with his Autobot.”

For a moment, Prowl stared at Sunstreaker, wondering whether he was kidding or not. Then, deciding it was best to just ignore the warrior, he turned back to the medic. “Listen, Ratchet,” Prowl squared his shoulders, trying his very best to sound reasonable, “I know you feel a little proprietary about Sideswipe, but considering him your personal property is completely...well, it’s preposterous. It’s -- oh, for Primus’ sake, Sideswipe does not belong to you.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Sunstreaker said thoughtfully, mouth downturned slightly as he leaned against the ropes, “belonging to someone isn’t all that bad.”

“Oh, come on,” Prowl threw up his hands, somewhere between panic (smart) and irritation (not smart), “you can’t really be serious, Ratchet. Sideswipe is not actually yours.”

Far from conceding, Ratchet merely stared down at Prowl, expression utterly flat.

Prowl was nonplussed. Did he really have to explain this? “The very --” he sputtered, at a total loss, “--the idea of ownership at all is completely subjective. As if any of us actually creates matter, or proposes to take it with us when we die. It’s feudalism, nothing more, with one fief lord after another inheriting what the last one left behind -- usually by force, I might add. It’s idiotic.”

He wasn’t sure why he was launching into a debate. Maybe it was the realization stealing over him that he should have run like a pansy hours ago. Or maybe he just wasn’t done being stubborn.

Either way, however, Ratchet was in no way buying it. He narrowed his optics, more than equally aggravated. “Don’t you spew your ideological tripe at me, you son of a glitch,” the medic growled. “I’ve rebuilt that slagging devil’s son more times than you can imagine, so if I say he’s mine, then you can damn well take your nobility and cram it with hex nuts.”

“Well, now there you go threatening violence,” Prowl pointed out, unable to let the subject drop, despite the overwhelming dread that was tingling like ants in his system. “It only proves my point that the notion of ownership ultimately boils down to whomever is brutal enough to claim it.” He crossed his arms. “This conversation is merely history repeating itself.”

Ratchet clenched his jaw, optics darkening visibly. “And your soon-to-be history is about to include my fist repeating itself into your face.”

“But then you’d have to rebuild my face,” Prowl inanely replied, logic his only flimsy weapon against an obviously impending doom. “Which rather defeats the original point of damaging my face in the first place.”

“But if he rebuilt your face,” Sunstreaker piped up, “then wouldn’t your face sort of belong to him? If we were following the feudal pattern you were talking about. With taking stuff by force and all that.”

“That’s not what I meant at all,” Prowl snapped, increasingly less in control of his cool.

But Sunstreaker was still frowning to himself, and looking alarmingly as though he were having an actual thought process. “No, I think that’s exactly what you meant. It’s called getting owned. Or pwnd, I think the humans are calling it these days.”

Prowl offered a scowl. “Well that’s -- that’s not even a word.”

“It is now,” Sunstreaker replied airily, and if Prowl hadn’t very wisely (though extremely secretly) been ever so slightly afraid of Sunstreaker, he would have hauled off and kicked him then and there. “Anyway, all I’m saying is, if Ratchet says he owns Sideswipe, I don’t think you’re in a position to say otherwise, considering that he’s bigger than you. According to your logic, anyway.”

Prowl uttered an angry huff. “Well, of course you would understand this in terms of violence.”

“No, I think you’re the one interpreting this in terms of violence,” Sunstreaker said with a completely straight face, which made Prowl suspect he was being serious. “I’m saying there are different ways of belonging to someone.”

“Look,” Prowl spread his hands, while Ratchet looked on, apparently pleased at present to watch Sunstreaker bait Prowl into ball of snarling irritation, “you can’t just say someone belongs to you.”

“Sure you can,” Sunstreaker countered. “Megatron does it all the time.”

“But it’s just --” Prowl fumed, flustered, “Just because Megatron says it doesn’t make it true.”

Sunstreaker shrugged, infuriatingly undeterred from his line of thinking, "Didn't some rich bird say the pen is mightier than the sword or something?"

Prowl screwed up his face, his processor spinning through all possible explanations of what the yellow idiot had just said. "You mean Cardinal...Richelieu?" he asked finally.

Sunstreaker brightened. "That's the one. In that one play. He said that thing about the pen. Doesn’t that mean being in a position to say you own something mean you actually do? It’s like possession being nine tenths of the law."

"How do you --" Prowl clenched his fists, the desire to choke the warrior increasing with each passing second, "-- how do you even know that?"

Again, Sunstreaker shrugged. "Mirage was looking up entomology the other day. Sorry if I paid attention."

"Ento...hnnn." Prowl growled as he tried and failed to get ahold of himself. "Entomology is the study of bugs. You mean etymology, you twit."

Now it was Sunstreaker's turn to narrow his optics, and Prowl immediately realized his mistake. What had seconds ago been a desperately irrational attempt to philosophize his way out of Ratchet’s Wrath had quite suddenly turned into something much worse. If there was anything more chilling than an irrational Ratchet, it was Sunstreaker in any state of having been offended.

For a long moment, the medic and the warrior regarded the tactician, Ratchet stewing on his ire, while Sunstreaker now offered a flat, cold stare.

"Look,” Prowl said at length, smoothing his voice in an attempt to calm the situation, “all I'm saying is, you can't just walk in, conquer someone, and then spontaneously decide that you own him.”

Ratchet eyed him beadily. "What about walking in, resurrecting someone from the fonging Land of the Primus-forsaken Dead, and then being pretty damn slagging sure I own his slagging aft?”

"Well that--” Prowl sputtered, desperately trying to inject some bit of reason, “that's just not -- you just can't own people, Ratchet. Period.”

"Why not?" Sunstreaker snapped, being mulish now merely on principle.

"Well, it's not nice," Prowl tried failingly to explain, so far beyond flustered now he could actually hear himself frothing again. "It's not NICE,” he repeated. “To own people." He was met again with blank stares. "It's -- it's completely asinine!"

"Well," Sunstreaker put in cooly, "I think that depends on your definition of ownership."

Prowl was all but raving now. "For the love of Primus, how can it possibly ever be all right to own someone?"

Sunstreaker was regarding him intently, lip out a bit, optics narrowed. "Well, Sideswipe is my brother, for example. He's not yours. He’s mine."

"No but -- no, see, that's not--nnng..." There was just no explaining the obvious to the simple. "You're being patently obtuse, just to annoy me."

“What?” Sunstreaker shot back, and at once Prowl took an involuntary step back. “What did you call me?”

“I --” the tactician faltered, as Sunstreaker’s optics took on that glittery sort of light which always made Prowl feel as though the temperature had just dropped several degrees. Unable to think of what had tripped the yellow warrior’s legendary temper, he asked simply, “You mean, uh, obtuse...?”

And then, too late, it clicked.

“I am...” Sunstreaker stepped forward, as Prowl backpedaled.

“No, no wait, I didn’t...”

“...perfectly...” the warrior loomed closer, eloquent with malevolence.

“...didn’t mean that sort of obtuse...”

“...symmetrical.”

Without another word, Prowl turned and fled. He never even made it to the door.

When Prowl awoke, the first thing he thought was that he didn’t recall having shut himself down. Then, slowly, the sounds and smells of the medical bay began to register with his senses, and he thought foggily that he must have been in a battle, though he couldn’t remember any recent enemy activity. Softly, the chorus of beeps and other such soothing sounds began to register around him, and as he drifted lazily toward consciousness, Prowl felt vaguely as though there was something he was forgetting, some alarming bit of trivia that was beginning to nag at the back of his processor. In fact, the more fully he came online, the more he realized that he was feeling less of his usual sense of security and relief at waking up in the medical bay, and more of a sense of absolute and utter dread.

And then, with a jolt, he remembered.

Lurching upward, he tried to scramble off of the table, but he banged his nose instead against what appeared to be thin air. Struggling, unsure why the ceiling should seem so far away, Prowl flailed for a moment at the invisible field around him, his feet making an odd crunching sound as he kicked at the enclosure. But before he could begin to truly consider panicking, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, accompanied by Ratchet’s all-too-pleased tones.

“Ah, our patient awakes.” The medic’s smiling face loomed into view, and Prowl gave a start. The face before him was enormous, the nasty grin stretching wider than he could reach.

“What the --” the tactician stuttered, “--what did you do--?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Ratchet waved a massive hand. “Here, let’s just set you upright.”

For a moment, the room spun madly around him, and then Prowl was standing inside of what he could see was a colorful sort of cell, with some kind of forcefield barrier before him. With a surge of anger, he slammed his fist into the barrier, making it buckle rather unexpectedly. “Let me out of here!” he demanded, surprised at how miniscule his voice sounded, and frankly a little alarmed at how feebly the barrier had crackled.

“Oh, but I can’t,” Ratchet widened his optics in mock regret. “You’re not mine anymore.”

“Not your what?” Prowl sputtered, with a horrible feeling that this could in on way bode well for him. “What are you talking about?”

Ratchet placed both massive hands on the surface outside of Prowl’s cell, and at once Prowl recognized the top of the medic’s work bench. “Well, you see,” Ratchet explained, “the way I figure it, you obviously can’t be trusted with borrowed property, so I simply saw fit to take back what was mine.”

“What do you mean?” Prowl fumed, beginning to feel a creeping sense of foreboding. This was not good.

Seeming particularly pleased with himself, Ratchet explained, “Well, you see, I’ve just been through my logs, and do you know what I found? Interestingly enough, it seems that over the -- what has it been, centuries we’ve been a unit? -- over the centuries, after countless battles and subsequent repairs, I have actually rebuilt you several times over from the ground up. Yes.” He paused to grin afresh, positively giddy with himself now. “There wasn’t one original part in your body.”

“And?” Prowl crossed his arms as he tried vainly to ignore the medic’s use of the word ‘wasn’t’.

“Aaand, so I took them all back,” Ratchet stated simply, as if this were the most natural solution in the universe.

“You...what?” Prowl blurted.

“Here,” Ratchet held up a finger as he rummaged around underneath the table top, and came up with a mirror. “You can see for yourself.”

Prowl stared at his reflection for a full ten seconds. It was all he could do. He looked exactly the same, everything, down to the last detail, except...

“I’m plastic!” Prowl cried in horror or rage or both, and actually grabbed his chevrons in both fists, absolutely beside himself. “What have you done to me?”

“Oh, I haven’t done anything to you,” Ratchet corrected him as he stowed the mirror back under the table. “You have your spark. I figure that’s about what you have left that’s actually yours.”

“But -- I -- you can’t --”

“Oh, but I can,” the medic leaned his elbows on the table, his wicked grin looming closer now. “I can, and I did. You see,” he said, and began ticking points off on one hand, “the labor, which you never paid for, was all mine. The parts were mostly Ironhide’s since he’s head of supply. And then there were some of the more sensitive and essential components, which ultimately came from the CRO...”

“The CRO?” Prowl all but screeched, still gripping his chevrons in both fists, as though he might just rip them off.

“Yes, the Clandestine Relations Officer--”

“Yes, I know who the CRO is!” Prowl raged. “What does he have to do with this?”

“Well you did ask,” Ratchet shrugged, so very mightily and horrifically pleased. “And anyway, I’d say he has just about everything to do with this now, since the body you currently occupy was supplied by him. I mean,” the medic spread his hands, “you had no parts left, so the CRO generously donated a Prowl Action Figure. I hear the humans have some pretty good toys of us now. I had to make a few modifications, of course...”

“You -- what you -- I’m in a toy?” Prowl frothed.

“You are in a toy,” Ratchet confirmed, beaming like ten thousand watts of evil. “Which belongs to the CRO. It’s only on loan, you know, so I’d actually say that you belong to the CRO now.”

“But,” Prowl was all but raving now, “but that’s SIDESWIPE!”

“Oh yes I know,” Ratchet replied, positively jubilant. “He really is good at his job, too. Just last week he --”

Now Prowl was actually seeing red. “I do not belong to SIDESWIPE!”

“As a matter of fact, you don’t,” Ratchet reassured him with a most un-reassuring smile. Glancing at a the clock, he said, “Or well, in about three minutes and twenty-seven seconds you won’t. I think you’re going to one Jerome Nelson, of Destin, Florida -- unless someone swoops him of course.”

“Swoops...you can’t mean --” Prowl’s head was spinning. “You sold me on EBAY?”

“No, Sideswipe sold you on Ebay,” Ratchet grinned, optics positively sparkling. “I hear he got a lot of money for you, too. Walking, talking toys generate a lot of interest among netboys, or so I hear. Jerome will be so pleased.”

Prowl was nearly non-verbal, he was so enraged. “You let me out of here!” he raged, slamming his plastic fists uselessly against the plastic box. “This is not funny! I am taking this straight to Prime!”

“Oh, that,” Ratchet waved the threat away. “Yeah...you see, there’s a gag on anyone reporting underground activity at the moment. Apparently we’re low on some sensitive supplies right now, and Prime’s issued an order to look the other way on any and all, shall we say, shady trading. All CRO activity has been given the green light.”

“What order?” Prowl demanded, and gave the box another futile kick.

“Well, it came out this morning.” Ratchet replied, optics wide. “Didn’t you get it?”

“I was OFFLINE,” Prowl snarled.

“Oh, well, too bad,” the medic shrugged. “Either way, legally, I can’t even turn myself in for this.” He smiled, ever so nicely. “So I guess it’s off to the CRO with you.”

With that, Ratchet leaned down to pick up Prowl’s box, and the tactician lurched as the floor heaved beneath him before he was hurled against the wall. Pummeling his fists against the cardboard, he roared, “You let me out of here RIGHT NOW!”

“No can do,” Ratchet tucked the box under his massive arm, and Prowl had to hold on for balance while the giant medic made his way out toward the hall.

“You’re insane,” Prowl ranted, one hand on the wall for balance, one hand on his forehead as they made their way down the hall. “You’re completely, utterly insane. Primus almighty, you have a slagging Primus complex...”

Ratchet shrugged, jostling the box. “Or maybe Primus has a Ratchet complex.” Prowl could hear the grin from above. “You ever think of that?”

“That’s blasphemy.” Prowl didn’t even know why he said it. He was so mad he was starting to feel numb.

“Yeah, well, so’s this Primus-fonging, mother-slagging war,” Ratchet replied reasonably. “Now off you go to shipping. By now, Jerome’s won himself a new action figure.”

Sunk deep into the couch, feet up on the ottoman, and one arm slung over the back, Sunstreaker was watching Knight Rider when Sideswipe walked in. “Wanna watch?” he asked, not bothering to take his optics off of the screen.

Looking as pleased as pie, Sideswipe threw himself down next to his brother. “You know,” he said, “funny thing. I find myself suddenly with all of this free time. What is a mech to do?”

Quirking a half-grin, Sunstreaker asked, “How’s Jerome?”

“Ah, pissed I’m sure,” Sideswipe laced his fingers behind his head, and heaved a sigh of deep satisfaction. He really was looking better now that Ratchet had fixed him up. “He got swooped. Some guy named Juarez outside of East LA. But such is life, and all’s well that ends well and all that.”

“And by ‘all’ being well, you mean...” Sunstreaker raised both metal brows.

“Oh, I mean me, clearly.” Sideswipe returned a nice grin. “Prowl’s slag outta luck though.”

“Oh well,” Sunstreaker made himself comfortable, “he’ll think of something. Fine tactical genius and all that.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Sunstreaker watched KITT fly over yet another strut-wrenching obstacle, and he wondered just how many stunt cars they went through filming this stuff. It was brutal. “So,” he asked, when the chase scene was done, “how’d you end up Ratchet’s pet anyway?’

“Simple,” Sideswipe replied without skipping a beat, “I’m exceptionally charming.”

Sunstreaker fought down the gag reflex.

“Also,” Sideswipe pointed out cheerily, “Primus likes us.”

Sunstreaker knitted his brow. “You know,” he mused, “for two mechs destined for the Inferno, Primus sure does smile on us a lot.”

“Ah,” Sideswipe explained, “that, my brotabulous bro, is because the Almighty has a sense of humor.”

Sunstreaker raised a metal brow. “Yes, he did make us after all.”

“Exactly my point,” Sideswipe grinned widely, “which only leads me to conclude that our primary mission is to keep him entertained.”

Slowly, Sunstreaker’s smile crept into a rather jackal-like grin. “Well, if that’s how it is, I might just feel a bit of piety coming on.”

“Ah, verily, verily.” Sideswipe genuflected, or at least he made some vaguely similar gesture.

Settling back with a smirk, Sunstreaker wondered if Prowl was busy petitioning the heavens, or if he was simply using the ride to LA to come up with a plan to get back to the Ark and murder Sideswipe for good.

Probably plan B. But it didn’t matter, because some punishments were worth it, and besides, there was just nothing quite like seeing Prowl get owned.