He made a strange, incongruous picture - a piece of human mythology at odds with the architecture of logic and reason that made up the abode of the Autobots. Dressed in heavy black work boots and a bright red fur coat that added ten pounds to his frame, the human tugged self-consciously at a white beard long enough to spill over his chest and tangle with the top coat button. A floppy red hat with a white pom-pom on the end, a size too big for his head, completed the ensemble. Glancing over his shoulder at a jaw-dropped Bumblebee, he enunciated clearly, "Ho, ho, ho."

"Sparkplug?" the Autobot queried. "What are you wearing?"

Sparkplug Witwicky, the human mechanic who'd befriended the Autobots, threw back his head and laughed - a genuine laugh this time. "Bumblebee, you've been on Earth three years now and you haven't heard of Santa Claus?"

"Should I have?"

Across the room, Jazz and Bluestreak looked up from their soap operas to join in Sparkplug's laughter. "The cat's all over the place this time of year, man," Jazz told the yellow spybot. "I was up at Sparkplug's garage last week and I counted three of 'em on the way."

"Well, yeah, I've seen him," Bumblebee protested, "but I still don't know who he is."

Sparkplug scratched his head, causing his hat to drop over his eyes again. "Santa Claus," he said, adjusting the offending accessory, "is based on a real guy who lived about two thousand years ago, Saint Nicholas, along with a grab bag of Norse mythology and Celtic mythology and some good old-fashioned advertising in the nineteenth century. The story goes that he lives up at the North Pole along with a boatful of elves, making toys. On Christmas Eve - "

"Which is tomorrow night, right?" Bumblebee interrupted.

"Right. Anyway, he hops in a sleigh pulled by eight flying reindeer - or nine, depending on the weather - and flies around delivering all those toys to the good kids of the world."

"Oh." Bumblebee blinked. "Wait. That doesn't make sense."

"Nothing humans do make sense," Fireflight piped up from his seat on the couch by Jazz.

That got another laugh out of Sparkplug. "Guess not, but you Autobots aren't all that easy to figure out either. Anyway, I gotta get to the YMCA. Don't wanna disappoint the kids." He glanced over his shoulder. "Spike, get out here, we're leaving."

There was a short, mortified pause. "Do I have to?"

"Spike," Sparkplug said gruffly, "if you don't get your behind in gear, I'm gonna volunteer you for the next time the Dinobots play football. As the ball," he added with a growl.

"All right, all right," Spike answered with a sigh. "I'm coming."

If he hadn't made such a big deal over it, Spike would likely have been able to escape the Autobots' notice, no matter how outlandish his dress - most of them just plain didn't notice clothing. Now that they had been warned, though, the assembled smartafts had plenty to say about Spike's red and green tunic, green tights, and curly shoes that jingled as he walked. "Yeah, yeah," he defended himself, "just wait until I tell Optimus Prime what a good idea it would be to have Aerialbots dressed as elves down at the Y..."

"You wouldn't!" Fireflight exclaimed, mock-horrified, and Spike gave him an evil grin and a cackle as Sparkplug dragged him out. Deciding there would be no more useful information to be gleaned that day, and truth be told bored out of his mind, Buzzsaw lifted off from his perch and rode the shadows unnoticed to the top of the volcano, returning home to report to his masters.

Decepticons didn't have an equivalent word for "friendship;" the closest Starscream could come when thinking of the cassettes was "I tolerate them because they're useful." Consequently he refrained from punting Rumble and Frenzy out of his way when he happened across them in the hallway, talking in heated whispers. "What are you two plotting now?" he demanded, fists on his hips.

The cassettes paused, glanced at each other, and exchanged grins that even a hardened warrior like Starscream ought to have found disturbing. "Starscream, you won't believe it," Rumble announced. "The humans have some sorta teleportation technology!"

"What? That's impossible. Humans aren't nearly intelligent enough." Starscream scowled at the diminutive mechanicals, wondering if being roughly human-sized had given them a certain sympathy for the soft-hulled natives.

"It's true!" Frenzy protested. "Buzzsaw caught it all on tape - the Autobot's pets were tellin' them all about it."

"As if that were a reliable source!" Starscream scoffed, then paused. "Still, if it were true... Where did the humans say this teleportation technology could be found?"

Rumble and Frenzy glanced at each other again, optics wide. "There's only one human who has it," Rumble told him earnestly. "His name's Santa Claus, and he uses the teleporter to - "

"I don't care what he uses it for!" Starscream snapped. "Just tell me where to find him!"

"Err... in the town near where the Autobots are holed up," Frenzy said. "Someplace called the YMCA."

"Fine." Starscream smirked down at the cassettes, a plan already working its way through his devious mind. "If anyone asks, I'm out. When next you see me..." He cut himself off with a laugh and transformed, his thrusters leaving scorch marks on the floor as he rocketed back the way he'd come.

Rumble and Frenzy somehow managed to wait until they were sure Starscream was gone before erupting into laughter.

"Okay, smile!"

"MOMMY!"

Spike couldn't help but feel sorry for his father. So far that was his sixth screamer, along with eight criers, fourteen snarly parents, one drunken thirty-year-old and two wetters. His shift wasn't even half over and Sparkplug already looked worn thin under his white beard (tugged off three times so far, twice by curious little fingers and once by the thirty-year-old).

Not that Spike was any happier about this whole business. He did what he could to keep the kids moving on and off Santa's lap with a minimum of drama, but as far as he could tell he was just window dressing, there to smile festively and jingle like a pouf. Certainly the twitchy guy the YMCA had hired to take pictures scowled at him for messing up his shot every time he moved to assist yet another squalling toddler off his father's beleaguered lap.

A lesser seventeen-year-old might have been wishing for a Decepticon to knock down the building at this point, or at least step on the speaker that was currently squawking out 'Jingle Bells' for the twelfth time, but Spike was a mature and sensible young man for the most part and knew better. Consequently when Starscream burst through the wall, Spike only indulged in a moment's wearied relief - about the length of time, incidentally, it took the happy holidayers to switch from general disgruntlement to gibbering panic.

Sparkplug, by extreme contrast, had no room for either relief or panic beside his supreme irritation. He'd volunteered to play Santa knowing the frustrations it would entail, and had gamely retained his jolliness through all manner of tribulations, but this - oh, this was too much. "In the first place," he said loudly, spilling the crying child from his lap into her mother's clutches, "there's a perfectly serviceable, Transformer-sized door about two yards to your left." His voice cracked and boomed like the conspicuously-absent Autobot gunnery fire over the heads of the terrified, surging crowd. "In the second place, if you think you're coming anywhere near my lap, you've got another think coming!"

As if hearing him - it seemed impossible, the cacophony of panic had to have drowned out Sparkplug's words before they reached Starscream's audial sensors, surely the human's voice wasn't that powerful - but as if hearing him anyway, Starscream turned his head. Spike saw his optics brighten and narrow, focusing unerringly on him and his father. Images flitted like frightened birds around the back of his mind - a capture, a hostage situation, a messy death?

"Spike," Sparkplug growled, stock-still. "Call the Autobots. Now." He shoved his son off the plywood dais toward the locker rooms where they'd left their personal effects, including a communicator Wheeljack had built for them. Spike hit the ground running, head ducked down almost between his shoulders, and Sparkplug let himself watch his son only a moment before turning his attention back to Starscream.

The Decepticon was striding toward him purposefully, optics still focused on him as if on a big, fat target stuck in his crosshairs. Scattered humans, the tail end of the crowd streaming from the building, parted before his feet; Sparkplug wanted to follow him, but his costume suddenly seemed too heavy, awkward, swaths of felt tangling with gravity to root him to the spot. He swallowed and cleared his throat as Starscream bent to examine him. "Back of the line, you," he snapped, and was pleased to note that his voice was strong and clear, with hardly a quaver to betray him.

Not that Starscream seemed to notice. "You in the royal regalia, given the throne of honor," he sneered, and Sparkplug flinched at the sharp screech in his voice. "You can only be the purveyor of the technology I seek!"

"What tech-" Sparkplug protested, but he was already being pinned in one massive blue hand, lifted clear off the floor (and God almighty he hated that, even when the Autobots did it, and they were usually polite about it). "Hey!" he squawked. The next moment Starscream was transforming around him, and for a moment he thought he'd be smashed in between all those moving parts. By the time he had a chance to catch his breath and realize that he was safely sealed away in Starscream's cockpit, his captor was already firing his thrusters, blowing another hole in the roof to wing away into the clouds with his prize.

Starscream took Sparkplug to the abandoned lab of Dr. Archeville, not wanting to face Megatron until his victory was secure, and needing a place capable of both housing him and restraining the human. The place had half-caved in since he'd seen it last, and a round of blasting revealed a bare husk, long since stripped of anything useful. Of course, Megatron would do such a thing, Starscream surmised, never mind that Archeville had been his creature. Luckily, after some rummaging, Starscream found a cage in which to deposit the human.

"Now," he stated, hands flexing in anticipation, "now! You will tell me where to find that wonderful technology you wield, Santa Claus."

"San-" the human spluttered. "You actually think I'm Santa?" When Starscream only frowned, uncomprehending, Sparkplug whipped off his hat and fake beard. "It's me, me, you rust-brain! Sparkplug!"

"Who?" Starscream had no reason to remember the name, but if that human seemed to know him... He sharpened his vision and ran a memory scan on the human's reddened face. "Why," he screeched in surprise after a moment, "you're one of the Autobots' pets! You tricked me!"

Sparkplug flinched, wanting to cover his ears. "In the first place, I ain't a pet any more than you're a Christmas tree. In the second place, I didn't dress up like this for you! It was for the kids!"

"For the what?" Starscream gave him that uncomprehending frown again.

"Kids," Sparkplug sighed, patient with Starscream's ignorance of humans as he would have been with an Autobot's. "Young humans. I volunteered."

Understanding dawned. "Of course! Your Santa Claus, whatever his power, cannot appear in all the places he is wanted - so you are in his employ!" Sparkplug groaned, perversely amazed at the Seeker's capacity to consistently put two and two together and get seventeen. "Well, then, perhaps this situation is salvageable after all - if your illustrious employer is amenable to a trade! Tell me - where is Santa Claus's headquarters?"

"The North Pole," Sparkplug said automatically, then caught himself. "But he's not - "

Starscream wasn't listening. "Then the North Pole shall hear my demands!" He laughed wildly and made for the entrance. "I shall return!"

"Is that supposed to reassure me?" Sparkplug snapped at the Decepticon's retreating wings, then moaned and rubbed his hands over his face. "I'm too old for this."

The Autobots had, upon hearing of Sparkplug's capture from Spike's babbling transmission, immediately set their Decepticon-frequency-scanning equipment from 'passive' to 'active,' in hopes of either catching a clue to their human mechanic's whereabouts, or letting the Decepticons know they were prepared to receive a ransom demand. Aside from that, Skyspy, and the Aerialbots - already winging their way to the first of several likely places the Decepticons could be holding Sparkplug, although no one believed he was anywhere but in their underwater base itself - the Autobots could do nothing, and Spike petulantly resisted all attempts at reassurance or distraction. Sensitive as the mechanicals were, Spike's mood infected them all, and an atmosphere of tension settled around the Ark.

Tension, in physics, is potential energy; it longs to become kinetic. So when Starscream's voice crackled and shrieked from Teletraan-1's speakers, the Autobot's mounted erupted into activity - warriors gearing up for battle, transforming prematurely, techs running hither and yon for bits and baubles and untested weapons-of-the-week, Optimus Prime in the middle of the maelstrom trying to coordinate. "Prowl, track that signal," he ordered. "Jazz, get a strike team together. Blaster, radio the Aerialbots, tell them - " He broke off when he realized he had no idea what to tell them. "Prowl, status?"

"Tell them, 'Prowl, status'?" Blaster muttered, and it was Ratchet, being the closest, who had the honor of thwacking the communications expert.

Ignoring them both, Prowl rattled off a set of coordinates, then added, "I think you should listen to this, Prime, and so should Spike." As always, the Datsun radiated calm in the midst of the storm. "I'll call Bumblebee, tell him to bring him - "

"I'm here!" Spike, a little flushed from his mad dash from the rec room, clamored to let be through, tailed by a breathless Bumblebee. "Did you find Dad? Where is he?"

Unable to field his questions, Optimus cleared a path for him to Teletraan-1, ordering silence of his Autobots. They finally quieted down and listened as Starscream's voice continued to emerge from the speakers.

" - message repeats. To one flesh creature known as Santa Claus - I am holding one of your volunteers, answering to the designation Sparkplug, in trust for the teleportation technology I know you possess. If you wish to save his life, you may surrender the specifications of said technology to me by sundown at the following coordinates." There was a beep, followed by a pause during which Spike assumed Starscream was transmitting coordinates. "Failure to comply will result in termination of the human - and the same goes for if I catch even a glimpse of an Autobot! Message repeats - "

Prowl silenced the transmission. "Optimus," Spike quavered, his voice unnaturally loud against the Autobots' stillness. "My dad - "

Optimus knelt, cupping a hand around Spike's body in a reassuring gesture. "I promise, Spike, I will not let Starscream hurt your father." Spike smiled gratefully and the Autobot leader rose again, his manner suggesting deep thought. "First - who is Starscream addressing, and what teleportation technology is he talking about?"

"Um." Spike launched into the quickest explanation he could, but by the time the myth of Santa Claus was conveyed to everyone's satisfaction (including, in Spike's estimation, the most germane factoid, namely that he was not in fact a real person), a precious half-hour had drained into the horizon.

This, Sparkplug decided at length, sucks.

His attempts to convince Starscream that Santa Claus was a myth having fallen on deaf ears (not that the term really applied to Starscream, but somehow Sparkplug didn't think "nonfunctioning audial sensors" had the same ring), the human captive had repaired to a corner of his cage to sulk. Starscream was gone, off transmitting his ransom demands to the empty waters of the frozen north, he supposed, so he was alone in the empty lab. Maybe he should have mentioned that there weren't any land masses at the North Pole, so even if there was a Santa Claus, he couldn't - Sparkplug sighed. No, never mind.

Absorbed in the business of sulking, Sparkplug didn't notice the elf until he trundled right up to the cage and rapped sharply on the bars. "Hey. Hey! You in there!"

"Wha?" Sparkplug looked, performed one of the finest double-takes ever recorded, and spluttered, "You're - you're a - "

"Elf," the elf snapped. "Go ahead and say it, I'm an elf - a Christmas elf, if you wanna be precise about it. Homo noellus. And my name, in case you were wondering, is Jingle." He looked more or less exactly the way Sparkplug expected an elf to look - all of three feet if he stood on a soapbox, with pointed ears and slanted eyes, dressed like a colorblind Munchkin.

"I thought you didn't exist," Sparkplug found himself saying.

"And three years ago you thought giant robots from outer space didn't exist," Jingle shot back, stretching up on his jingle-belled tiptoes to work on the cage's lock. "Why are people so surprised when they're proven wrong?"

"Er," Sparkplug offered.

"Never mind." Jingle sighed and did something arcane - a click and a puff of glitter, and the cage door swung wide open. "C'mon, the fat man's waiting and the sun's going down."

"Fat man?" Sparkplug said wobbily. "You don't mean - "

"Yes!" Jingle exclaimed, hopping up and down in frustration. "Now come on!" He grabbed Sparkplug's wrist and yanked; he was surprisingly strong for being the size of a six-year-old and Sparkplug found he had no choice but to let himself be towed out of the lab to freedom. He hardly had time to savor it before he was bundled into - honest to God, Sparkplug thought to no one in particular, knowing that no one in particular would believe him - a large red sleigh, and as Jingle hopped in next to him he counted eight anxious-looking reindeer.

"Go, team!" someone shouted next to him, and suddenly they were airborne in a flurry of bells. Sparkplug groped about for something to hold onto as icy wind blasted into his face, and his borrowed red hat went sailing off his head to float away into the ether somewhere. "Don't worry, Mr. Witwicky," the speaker told him, pulling him gently back into his seat. "Hats can always be replaced."

Sparkplug glanced down at the leather-gloved hand on his arm, then up at its wearer. Jolly old Saint Nicholas gave Sparkplug a friendly wink, politely disregarding his passenger's utterly dumbfounded expression. "When you get your hat back," he said kindly, "do me a favor and keep this little adventure under it? If it gets back to the missus I'm out rescuing people at my age, I'd be in for it."

"Sure," Sparkplug agreed dizzily, and resigned himself to never, ever understanding the world.

Slingshot to Silverbolt. Reporting one big, fat target answering to the designation Starscream. Even over radio, Slingshot's excitement was almost tangible. Doesn't look like he even knows we're here. Want me to frag him?

Negative, he might be carrying Sparkplug, Silverbolt transmitted quickly, and added another order to the rest of the Aerialbots to form up on Slingshot's position. Firing his jets to do likewise, the Aerialbot leader opened a line to Optimus Prime. We've located Starscream, sir. Orders?

Do not engage, came the reply, confirming Silverbolt's instincts. Try to follow him, see where he's hiding Sparkplug.

Understood! Silverbolt put on an extra burst of speed and caught up to Slingshot. The others fell in around him, in nearly perfect formation, and Silverbolt allowed himself a moment of pride.

Skydive spoke, interrupting his reverie. "There's something else in the air, Silverbolt. It doesn't look like any craft I've ever seen."

"Huh?" Silverbolt shunted power to his radar, pushing his senses to their limits. There was something there, something small, heading toward Starscream - and them - at a breakneck pace. Its shape was indistinct, but Skydive was right - it definitely wasn't conventional, by either Earth or Cybertron standards.

"Weapons armed, Aerialbots," Silverbolt ordered. "If it's a human craft, we have to be ready to protect it." Even as he spoke, Starscream's flight pattern changed in preparation for attack. Silverbolt reacted without thinking, climbing to gain the Decepticon's six, ready to fill his afterburners with laserfire.

The irregular craft zoomed past at a velocity that really shouldn't have been possible, and Starscream flew after it, shrieking in incoherent rage.

"It was... jingling," Skydive reported faintly, orienting to face the rapidly shrinking Seeker and his quarry.

"It was a sleigh," Fireflight supplied, wobbling in midair. "With organic things on the front. With horns."

"Reindeer," Silverbolt told him. Then, "Follow that sleigh!"

"Holy snow!" Jingle cried, leaning half-out of the sleigh to stare at Starscream. "Boss, he's gaining on us!"

"Yeah," Sparkplug said grimly, "but the Aerialbots are after him." The sleigh lurched to the left, and Sparkplug snatched the back of Jingle's tunic before the elf could fall out. He couldn't help noting with some chagrin that, though it whipped wildly in the rushing wind, Jingle's hat stayed firmly atop his head. "It's Santa he's after," Sparkplug realized aloud. "He thinks you teleport to hit all the houses on Christmas Eve."

"Teleport?" Santa laughed. Unlike his passengers and his frantic reindeer, the old elf didn't seem ruffled in the slightest by the prospect of an angry Decepticon on his tail. "That's not teleportation, that's - well, it's nothing I can give him."

"Try telling him that!" Sparkplug yelped as a streak of light passed over his head. "He's shooting at us!"

"That wasn't him," Jingle piped up, still hanging by his tunic. "That was from the other guys!"

"The Aerialbots?" Sparkplug squinted. Sure enough, he could just make out the quintet of winged shapes. The air flashed around him, and Sparkplug ducked just in time to avoid getting his comb-over fried. The reindeer hollered in terror and plunged, making the sleigh buck and shudder in the air.

"Whoa!" Santa struggled to control his chargers as Starscream gained another few yards on them. "These friends of yours may be the death of us, Sparkplug." This time Sparkplug thought he'd heard a hint of worry under the joviality.

"They're kinda new," Sparkplug admitted, and turned his attention back to their pursuers. He could pick out details now, tell one Aerialbot from another, and he thought he saw the Concorde chase down one of the smaller ones. He sighed. Silverbolt and Slingshot - forever at loggerheads, even now. "Looks like the good guys wised up," he reported.

Santa made an approving noise, but Jingle scowled. "That leaves Starscream free to attack, as long as we're in the line of fire. Can't you maneuver this crate any better, boss?"

"Sleighs aren't exactly built for maneuvering, and the reindeer are running scared." Santa glanced over his shoulder and Sparkplug thought he saw the older man tense - Starscream was nearly on top of them. "If this keeps up they'll be too worn out to work tomorrow night."

Jingle said something foul-sounding in a language that sounded like Russian, not that Sparkplug was any judge. "Listen," the mechanic said, "do we have anything to throw at him? To distract him, like?"

"Jettison our cargo?" Jingle gaped. "Are you nuts? We've been in business for two hundred years and we've never jettisoned our cargo!"

"Now, now," Santa quieted him with a distracted wave. "I think our guest is onto something - and there is some cargo in here I wouldn't mind getting rid of." He pointed under Jingle's seat. "If you got a head start on loading the sleigh as you usually do."

Jingle's face broke into a grin. "Of course!" He reached down and hauled out a burlap sack almost as big as he was. "Sparkplug, gimme a hand."

Sparkplug bent to help him push and shove the sack onto the seat. Its contents felt heavy, hard and irregular, like rocks or - Unable to resist, Sparkplug peeked inside. "Coal. I don't believe it."

"What, like you never got coal in your stocking?" Jingle scoffed.

"Well, yeah, but I thought it was just Uncle Marty being funny again." Sparkplug shook his head and heaved himself up to kneel backwards in his seat, ready to dump their ammo overboard.

"Wait for it - " Jingle warned, and his voice was steady. "Don't dump 'em 'til you can see his cockpit lights."

Sparkplug had heard something similar, a long time ago on the other side of the world. He nodded, steadied himself, pushing aside panic and confusion and disbelief as unimportant. His world narrowed to his weapon, his target, and what he had to defend; and if none of those things were exactly conventional, well, at least there was tradition of a sort.

"Now!" Jingle ordered. Sparkplug gave a roar and upended the sack.

"What are they doing?" Air Raid queried.

"Incoming!" Silverbolt warned, and the Aerialbots dodged to avoid the cloud of small black projectiles. The maneuver was unneccessary - the black missiles performed admirably, most of them managing to hit Starscream right on the nosecone. As Silverbolt reoriented, he saw Starscream losing altitude and listing to the right, sputtering in disbelief as the humans in the sleigh whooped and yelled victoriously.

Whatever Sparkplug and his friends had done, it was their chance. "Aerialbots," Silverbolt ordered, "attack!" The command had barely left his vocal modulator when Slingshot barreled forward, his weapons firing in a fast cycle, bearing down on his target now that he was finally free to. Fireflight and Air Raid were right on his wings, and Skydive brought up the rear. Only Silverbolt hung back, watching with one optic as the sleigh jingled merrily away to safety.

Silverbolt to Prime, he hailed. Sparkplug is en route to your position, ETA seven point two thousand astroseconds. He's in a sleigh.

Silverbolt, Optimus Prime. In a what? But Starscream was counterattacking, stitching the air around the Aerialbot commander with laserfire in a last-ditch effort to at least get something out of this mission, and Silverbolt forgot to answer as he twisted around to return fire. Starscream was more skilled than any of his group, the Concorde knew, but even he would have to respect five-to-one odds. If he gave up now, he could avoid injury - and the Aerialbots likewise, Silverbolt sincerely hoped.

"Come on," he muttered, matching Starscream's barrel roll. "You've lost. Give up and go home!"

They passed each other - their bellies almost touched for the briefest of seconds. Then Starscream fired his thrusters and rocketed away to the west.

"Hey! Coward!" Slingshot climbed to pursue.

"Slingshot, stand down!" Silverbolt chased him down again. "Let him go. Hopefully he's learned his lesson, and - " he let a smile enter his voice - "we accomplished our mission. Let's go home and celebrate."

Returning to Optimus Prime's position, the Aerialbots were witness to Sparkplug's first parachute action in nearly forty years - he floated like eiderdown, one hand clinging like mad to the floppy red hat that seemed to serve him as a parachute, neatly into Optimus Prime's outstretched hands. "Heya, Optimus," the human drawled sheepishly, plopping the hat onto his head. "Sorry about the trouble."

"No trouble at all," Optimus answered, putting Sparkplug down, "though I confess to some befuddlement."

"Yeah," Jazz added. "Ain't that cat supposed to be a myth?" He jerked his thumb back at the receding sleigh, as "And to all a good night" floated back to them on the cooling wind.

"Supposed to be," Sparkplug grinned, and waved to his rescuers. Then he turned to his son, who'd been standing quietly at Jazz's side, arms crossed, a dark, sulking look on his face.

"What?" Sparkplug frowned.

"You," Spike accused, "told me there was no Santa Claus."

"There wasn't!" Sparkplug burst out, and shot a glare at Jazz, who was cracking up. "I thought there wasn't - and anyway, that's not what I said!"

"Yes you did, and it ruined my Christmas that year!"

Sparkplug scowled. "I told you he was the embodiment of generosity and good cheer, not that he just plain didn't exist!"

"Same thing!"

"Arrgh!" Sparkplug swiped at his son, and Spike danced away, laughing, nimble as an elf.

Optimus blinked down at the arguing humans, then at his hysterical saboteur. "Well," he sighed. "I suppose I can record this as a victory. More or less."

Jazz snickered. "Merry Christmas, chief."

"Merry Christmas, Jazz."

"Now," Megatron gritted. "What have we learned from today's little debacle?"

Starscream squirmed, trying to think beyond the pain in his wing where Megatron was pinning him to the wall. "Never listen to the cassettes," he guessed.

"Nice try." Megatron gave Starscream one of his wolfish, hard-edged grins, the kind that were utterly without humor. "But no."

"Um... never take it for granted when a human says something's a myth?"

"In this instance I think you would have been better off if you had." Megatron's grip tightened, and Starscream whimpered in pain. "You get one more try."

The Seeker, however, was fresh out of ideas for one day, and slumped against the wall, optics dimming sulkily. "My life sucks," he muttered.

He nearly jumped out of his plating when Megatron burst into laughter - the real kind, not the kind that heralded pain and suffering. "Close enough!" the warlord allowed, and let go of Starscream's wing. "Learn your lesson well, Starscream."

Starscream rolled his optics. "Yes, great leader," he said derisively, but Megatron was already gone, leaving him alone in his quarters. Starscream spared a moment to kick his berth in a burst of tantrum, then another to nurse his wounded foot, before finally settling down to attend to the irritating rattle in his cockpit that had been present since the battle.

The culprit was easily found - something small and black and mineral, that fell out into his hand the moment he cracked his cockpit open. Starscream brought it close to his face, frowning - it looked innocuous enough, but his chemical scanners were insisting something different.

Fifteen minutes later, Starscream had managed to squeeze enough energon from that stone to make one small cube of energon - dark magenta, with a slightly bitter taste that Starscream found he liked. So, he decided, today has not been a total loss.

He could live with that.

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