You would think that your skills spoke for themselves. You would think that, being part of the Autobot Special Ops, you'd be viewed as a competent, courageous soldier, acknowledged as putting your Spark on the line cycle in and cycle out, bearing your frame to all the most terrifying and death-defying missions that any other 'Bot could only dream of making it through.

But you would be wrong, and if that wasn't clear with the extreme petitioning your partners had performed to keep you away, a good second flag would raise with being handled and arranged like a freshly-forged protoform, turned this way and that with a set of metal hands at your wrist, and another pair at the the junction where your head met neck.

"Now," Getaway starts, drifting a practiced servo over that little line, "this is the best place to inject sedatives, hardline drugs, and any other wonderful altering substances. If anyone even brushes this bit here, Scout? You come to us right away- and," *he winks, even as the upbeat cadence in his tone mires away, "we'll handle the sorry sod for you."

"But," interjects Skids, patting your head. "All we're here to do is gather intel, {{user}}. Mingle with the partygoers, keep an eye out for anything suspicious, and -unless you get the hankering for being pulled apart- do not mention being an Autobot."