So many Transformers have died in the line of duty, out of it, been dropped without any explanation, disappeared, or sailed into a convenient sun, that someone had to write this fic. The bunny bit, and here we are.

The being they all knew as "Primus" came before them.

More or less. Its Presence was less the diffuse glow of light before them than the feeling each one had of being safe, and at optimum operating temperature, and loved, and happy.

It said, or more accurately "beamed into all their minds simultaneously," "You wished to speak to Me?"

"Um, yeah," Jazz said.

It waited patiently. Jazz glanced left to Ratchet, right to Ironhide and Kup, down at Wheelie, and across the glow to Jetfire and Silverbolt. The Dinobots had his back. "Um … we wanna go back."

"I See," It said, and they knew it did: their minds had been riffled through like a sock drawer.

Or something. They hadn't worn socks when alive, and had seen no reason to begin once dead.

After a Moment, It said, "Why is Sunstreaker not here with you? And Megatron?"

"They couldn't get a pass outta HELL," Jazz explained.

HELL: that part of the Well of All Sparks where the dead whose life-performance had left a great deal to be desired were required to undertake High-intensity Examination of Living Lousily. Or that's what Jazz said it meant, anyway, and as he was the highest-ranking of them to have arrived here, they believed him.

It might have been a human concept, but it was a relatively useful one. And these beings were largely soldiers; self-examination was pretty low on their lists of "fun stuff to do," right, ah, behind "veterinary proctology performed on a walrus."

"I See," Primus said again. "What leads you to believe that you are Here wrongly?"

"Well," said Jazz, "th' Dinobots' story line just sorta … ended. No explanation given."

"And me Grimlock got some stuff me Grimlock wanna do! Wanna see some friends again!"

The other Dinobots started a confused roar among themselves and to Primus. Who let it go on for a while, and then said, "I See," and they all knew It did, so there was no reason for more talking, and they shut abruptly up. Or perhaps were shut up. Both the Dinobots and Primus were rather unpredictable variables.

Jazz continued, "Kup's been killed a coupla different times in a coupla different ways."

The old warrior glowered at both Primus and Ironhide, but somehow managed not to start a story about either of his deaths. Or perhaps any of them. Depends. "I'd liketa see Hot Rod again," he growled, and left it at that.

Hot Rod had visited a few times, following his death in several continuities, but currently, at least, was not-dead.

"Silverbolt's been killed a coupla times, usu'lly along with the rest of his team."

"Where are the rest of the Aerialbots, then?" Primus said directly to Silverbolt.

"They, ah, they delegated this to me," said Silverbolt. "And if Jetfire gets to go back, I want to go back, too."

Jetfire, as Skyfire, smiled.

"Th' rest o' us," Jazz continued, "Ratchet, Ironhide, Jetfire, me, we gotta score to settle. That's all."

"So you do not wish to return to life itself?"

The five exchanged optics. "If it's possible, maybe," Jazz allowed. "I mean, You bein' Primus an' all, o' course it's possible. But we got some stuff we wanna do before we come back."

"You are willing to lengthen your comrades' period of mourning for yourselves in order to achieve this 'stuff'?"

The five were uncomfortably aware that Primus knew exactly what "this stuff" was. They all looked at one another for long moments, and then the five nodded, one by one.

"I See," said Primus, and It did. "How long will you require?"

Jazz grinned in a way which would have worried Prowl, could he have seen it. "One night oughta do it," he said, "but we'd like a week."

The five materialized, roughly human-sized, on the lawn of a large home in Los Angeles, CA.

It's never really night in Los Angeles. The sky overhead may have been dark, and many of the houses the same, but the light pollution of the city itself gave them more than sufficient illumination.

"Well, now what?" said Ironhide.

"C'mon, mech," said Jazz. "We ain't substantial; we're ghosts. We walk right in."

The walls of the home presented no issue to them. They entered.

Two bull-mastiffs, the household dogs, raised their heads from their beds, and snuffled the air. Ghosts, however, have no scent.

Still, there was something here, and there wasn't simply a something, there were five of them. The dogs raised the "Baroo, baroo" of a deeply worried canine.

The house's owner arrived, rumpled and sleepy-looking. "Hey, Boney, Gracie, what's wrong?" he said, taking the time to calm his dogs before he checked the security panel. It showed no incursion, and that it was working.

The dogs settled, which took some minutes, the human shambled back to bed.

The five ghostly mechs followed.

It's one thing to come swooping out of the dark toward a half-awake human. It's quite another to wait until that person has reached, say, a transition between theta and delta brain waves, teetering over into the deepest non-coma sleep possible to a human being, and then invade their dreams. Mostly because they are dreaming memorably at that point, this is a remarkably unpleasant experience.

The five had choreographed their little assault quite thoroughly. They rotated through the human's mind, crooning, "Yooooouuuu kiiiiiiilled meeeee … yooooouuuu kiiiiiiilled meeeee …" and if Ironhide added, "you slagging sonofa glitch," well, that wasn't in the script.

The human sat up abruptly after the fifth revolution, covering his face with his hands.

They let him go back to sleep, and repeated the performance; three times in total, they disrupted the man's sleep cycle.

Then they returned to Primus, to wait until the next night.

Five days later, with no explanation at all, Michael Bay checked into a pet-friendly hotel, and put his house up for sale.