Good chapter!

 

The transwarp jump had gone on without a hitch, truly remarkable for a vessel that had never been intended to travel in such a manner. Of course, other Destron vessels had been retrofitted with transwarp drives in the past without disaster, but Megatron still felt that such a painless maiden voyage was an omen of ill yet to come. Outside of the bridge, the stars slipped past as the Nemesis charged towards her goal, the tiny set of shimmering spots dead ahead.

"Do we have an estimated time of arrival, comrade helmsman?"

"Approximately three solar cycles CT, comrade Megatron," the helmsman replied.

"Excellent. Then we will continue as planned. Full speed ah-"

"Comrade Megatron!" wailed a voice from behind. The bridge's sliding doors disgorged a speeding utility hauler, which promptly spun out, collided with a low railing, and unfolded as it transformed into a femme that tumbled down the short steps to the wheelhouse floor.

"Comrade Soundwave? What is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, I'm going to feel that tomorrow," winced Soundwave, picking herself up from the floor. "Listen, Megatron, sir, there's- there's something you need to see! I mean, hear! Just- we've got to stop!"

Megatron narrowed his optics. "Comrade Soundwave, there is no doubt an Autobot flotilla warping towards us as we speak. If we were to stop, we would risk coming under an attack. If you have information that could outweigh that risk-"

"They're out there," Soundwave interrupted, her voice trembling. "They've made contact."

"Comrade helmsman, divert course into the nearest empty sector and engage cloaking systems. Hold there until further orders."

"Aye, comrade Megatron!"

The Decepticon leader saluted the bridge crew goodbye, and transformed into his armored hauler mode.

"Show me what you found."

***

Starscream sat quietly, his optics closed. There were several possibilities why Soundwave might invite him into her quarters and then dash back out, but he was electing to not think about any of them. It was better to have no expectations at all then to have them crushed. Besides, she had proved extremely hard to read when she had met with him before, so it would be unwise to assume anything about the nature of this encounter.

What he did know was that her quarters were an absolute wreck. Most of the room was occupied by a large computer, which she had not shut down in her absence. The computer was taking up the space that the other officer quarters used for storage, which meant that her personal effects were strewn across the floor. That was before the sprinklings of empty ration packs that had been distributed to nearly every surface in the room.

I mean, she's still cute for a slob, he thought.

With the thought of her flirtatious smile still fresh in his memory banks, the door opened. Starscream stood and faced the entrance, and his previously-hot circulatory fluids instantly ran cold.

"Air commander Starscream," mused Megatron, who stepped into the room cautiously, as if he might step on something. "This is a surprise."

"It certainly is, comrade Megatron."

"I mean, I was aware that you were familiar with Soundwave, but I had no idea you were this intimate."

"Oh, no, sir, it's not anything like-"

"All right, everybody's here!" cheered Soundwave, sidling around Megatron to squeeze through the door. "Could you lock that behind us, maybe? This is… it's big," she explained as she tiptoed through the debris along her floor to her computer's swiveling chair.

"It was about oh-thirty CT today. Apparently, the electronic warfare module had kicked on," she said, waving her hand over the computer's gesture sensor to snap it out of its sleep mode, dispelling the Telesoft logo. She clicked through a few menus until she arrived at a folder full of audio files. "It' not supposed to do that automatically, unless it thinks we're being pinged. So I opened up a feed, and we were getting interference. But it wasn't from an Autobot scanner. This is what we got."

She point-clicked a file, and the computer began playback. The sound was faint, and the quality was scratchy, but the pattern of noises was instantly recognizable.

"It sounds like someone talking," whispered Starscream.

"How do we know that this isn't some sort of encrypted Autobot transmission?" asked Megatron.

"That's what I thought," Soundwave replied. "So I decided to see if I could clean up the quality. The problem was that the signal was choppy, it had been interrupted by something. So I started splicing together what I could. That brought me to this." She played another file.

"…listening to… one hund... its… ercial fr… back to the music!" buzzed the voices in the file, before being drowned out by a distinctly-patterned drumbeat.

Soundwave paused the track, and began to lose her battle against her excitement. "The language is completely unknown. There are some similarities to some smaller Cybertronian dialects, but it's almost entirely new. The syntax, the phonemes, everything! And then, at the end there- it's music! And that wasn't the end! These transmissions, they're increasing in regularity. I've been splicing more of them together as I receive them, but I can't keep up, there's so many! It's just amazing! There's a culture, there's a society! I mean, what else could it be?"

"Then it is as Glyph predicted," Megatron muttered. "A planet full of life. Life that does not yet know of Cybertron. That is quite the variable to add to the equation."

Starscream rolled his optics internally. Soundwave had just discovered sentient extracybertronian life, and Megatron simply written it off as a potential roadblock. He supposed it was a very military way of looking at things, which led him to question his own mindset towards the mission. Starscream recalled his dream of the femme and the canyon- there was no solace to be guaranteed on this foreign world. Whatever was happening between him and Soundwave was not likely to go any further without serious repercussions. This wasn't a pleasure cruise, after all. But there might be a way to delay that harsh reality a little longer.

"Permission to speak freely, comrade Megatron?" asked Starscream.

"Of course," his commander replied.

"Our mission will put us on a collision course with this alien life. As long as we are on that planet, there is a chance that there will be contact. And we have no idea how they might respond to this contact."

Megatron nodded. "Go on."

"What if we were to assemble a scouting party? A small, stealthy team that could land on the planet undetected and directly observe its inhabitants might serve to prepare our larger expeditionary force. It's best to tread lightly in a dark room, after all."

"Ah, one of Yōketron's proverbs," smiled Megatron. "Such wisdom is commendable. Very well, Starscream. You will have your scouting party. Assemble your team. I will arrange for your transport and inform the crew of our change in plans," he said, heading for the door. "Do not fail me."

Soundwave spun her swiveling chair to face Starscream. "Did you just score me some field work?"

"I think that's what happened," said the flier with a coy smile.

"So I guess you're a flier and a talker, then."

"Sometimes a mech can improvise."

"However you did it, thanks. It means a lot that I can finally get out there and do something, you know?" She placed a hand on his shoulder.

Play it cool, Starscream. Play it cool.

"Hey, don't mention it."

Soundwave retracted her hand, nodding slowly. "Well, I had better get back to studying this. It would help if we could speak their language by the time we land."

"Y-yeah. And I have a crew to pull together," mumbled Starscream, who knew it was time to make himself scarce. "I think we'll need a scientist along. Do you know any?"

"I think the engineering team, those Constructicons, they've got a chemist. Her name's Mixmaster. I ran into her while I was picking up my rations earlier. She seems kind of off-putting, but she might be the best you can get."

"I'll see if I can get ahold of her."

"Does that make us even?" asked Soundwave with a wink.

"You bet," said Starscream, making his exit. He tripped over a tray on his way out.

***

The dropship was meant for a much larger group than what Starscream had gathered, which was something of a positive. Mixmaster, who was just as difficult as Soundwave had implied, could sit at the far end of the troop bay, alone with her multi-volume codex. The logistics mech, a huge linehauler, was sleeping close to the front, his engines sputtering along in a long, grinding snore. This meant that he and Soundwave could occupy the cockpit in peace. The linguist had plugged a playback device into her audio receptors, as she practiced the alien world's foreign language.

"Hello," she said quietly. "We… come… in… peace… from… the… planet… Cybertron…"

Starscream made sure that the dropship's course was steady, and took a moment to observe the femme while she wasn't looking. Her bright optics were focused straight ahead, twinkling in the soft glow of the instrument panel, her lips gracefully adjusting to the foreign sounds. She was a statistical anomaly, an outlier. Beautiful things had a very low chance of appearing in Starscream's life. There was nothing good, pure, or innocent about Caminus, and Cybertron had not been much better. The war was just and righteous, but it was not attractive. And yet here she was, next to him, mouthing out words she had never spoken before as they traveled together to a new world.

"Gorgeous," he said aloud.

The word seemed to shatter her trance. She plucked the playback device out of her audio receptor and turned her attention to the Seeker. "What's that?"

"The planet," said Starscream quickly, glad that the celestial body's proximity offered an easy out. "Look at it."

"It's amazing how much it looks like Cybertron. With all of the lights."

She certainly wasn't wrong. He had seen Cybertron from space many times, and the array of golden flecks jeweling the surface of this planet did bear a great resemblance to the homeworld.

"It looks more peaceful, though," Starscream added. "I like that."

"Me, too," she smiled. "We'll have to set down in a dark region, though. Avoid the population centers. Our first contact needs to be isolated."

"Right," Starscream sighed, the warm, cozy feeling extinguished by her reminder of the delicate nature of the mission. Everything depended on Soundwave being able to establish a peaceful relationship between them and the natives. To be at war with the aliens, however easily they might be defeated, would be a waste of time and resources that they didn't have.

The dropship rattled as it began to enter the planet's atmosphere. Starscream put his mind back to piloting, and prepared to fight the controls.

"This is it, people! Buckle up!"

Warning klaxons began to shriek, alerting him to the increase in atmospheric density and hull temperature. The ship had been pushed far harder than this before, but he had no idea how it would respond to the environment of the new planet.

"One hundred kliks to surface!" he called out, shoving the yoke forward to force the nose of the craft down. The dropship was built primarily for entering and exiting atmospheres, a bus that could carry soldiers between larger spacecraft and planets. It had the aerodynamics of a rock, and was best flown roughly like one.

"HOLY SCRAP!" wailed Soundwave, reaching for the cockpit's grab-handles.

"FIFTY KLIKS!" The vibrations through the cabin continued to grow more intense.

"OHH PRIMUS L-L-LOOK AT THAT," Soundwave yelped. "W-WE'RE GETTING R-REALLY CLOSE TO THOSE VAPOR CLOUDS!"

"WE'RE GOING TO GO RIGHT THROUGH THEM," explained Starscream.

"BUT WHAT IF TH-THEY'RE ACID?"

"WHY WOULD THEY BE ACID?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

Despite Soundwave's protests, the ship dove directly into the clouds, which were not acid after all. In fact, they did nothing, exactly as Starscream had predicted. He had flown through clouds on numerous planets before, and none of them had been acid. He couldn't blame Soundwave for being skittish, though. She had never left Cybertron before and, Cybertronian natives didn't usually take their first off-world excursion in the front seat of a military dropship. Starscream flipped a switch to his left, which engaged the cockpit's integrated low-light scan mode. The landscape below them pulsed into an eerie green, revealing a few rocky crags in a mostly flat expanse. Just to the west, a thin black strip cut through the scrubland. Starscream heaved back on the controls, and the dropship evened out into a more gentle descent.

"Is… is that a road down there?" asked Soundwave. "That's what it looks like."

"I don't know, maybe it's acid," Starscream teased.

"Ha-ha, very funny. A road might be a good place to meet a native, though. They wouldn't build something all the way out here if no one used it."

"I'll put us down nearby. I suggest you go brief everyone else."

Soundwave nodded and disengaged her safety harness, which allowed her to clamber back into the troop bay.

"How did everyone enjoy the flight?" asked Soundwave. The logistics mech shrugged. The chemist was much more vocal about her opinion.

"I hate you."

"I'm going to ignore how unnecessarily hostile that was, and get down to business. We're about to land. Everyone here has a job. I do the talking. Mixmaster, you need to collect samples. You- uh, big guy- uh, name?"

"Hotbox," the linehauler sighed.

"Hotbox, great! You're going to carry the gifts. And Starscream is in charge! Any questions?"

Mixmaster raised a hand. "Do you ever tire of your vapidity?"

"I am going to pass on that one," grunted Soundwave. The troop bay floor jolted underneath them, and the dropship's engines began to wind down.

"Okay, mission is go," Starscream stated as he climbed out of the cockpit. He pressed a button on a camera pod fitted to the side of his head, triggering a small red light. "Synchronize your clocks. Move together and stay calm. Let Soundwave handle communication with the aliens."

Hotbox gave a thumbs-up, and Mixmaster pouted. Starscream marched to the end of the bay and punched the bay door release, causing the giant hatch to crack open and depressurize with a significant hiss. Soundwave took a hesitant breath.

"It seems… normal," she murmured.

Mixmaster wrinkled her nose. "That smell, though."

"Like burnwater," Hotbox remarked.

"All right, let's get mobile," said Starscream, making the historic first steps onto the planet. His feet fell upon dry, crunchy soil that cracked under his weight.

"It's a little soft," he warned.

"Is it safe?" asked Soundwave.

Starscream stomped his right foot down, failing to make the ground collapse any more than it already had.

"Should be. Now, stay close."

He crept forward, stepping lightly in case his assumptions about the soil were less than correct. The others followed as instructed, moving in tight formation.

"We're approximately a klik from the road. No signs of sentient life," whispered the Seeker for the benefit of the camera pod.

"Wait," interjected Soundwave. "There's something due south."

They turned around, locating the something instantly. Across the vast, dark plain, a single spark of light wavered in the night. Below it, short shapes were framed in shadow.

"Let's move to investigate."

They exchanged their former course for a southbound one, walking parallel to the road. As they moved, Mixmaster opened her storage drum and removed a vial, which she filled with the crumbly soil.

"Requires further evaluation," she muttered under her breath.

The walk lasted only a few cycles, but it felt much longer. The aliens could be watching. The sky was full of strange stars, and only one moon. And the air did smell a little odd. Starscream tried his best to remain focused, but with every step, his concerns doubled. Those concerns only grew as they approached the light. The light itself was being produced by a lamp affixed to the exterior of what appeared to be a solitary residence. The structure was rather plain looking, with a simple construction of some sort of horizontal beams, but there was one feature that everyone agreed was extremely uncanny.

"It's so small," whispered Hotbox.

"Perhaps this is a splitter residence," Mixmaster theorized.

Soundwave shook her head. "Then why are there haulers sleeping outside?"

She pointed towards an even smaller structure, just barely illuminated by the lamp. Outside sat two small haulers, both covered in a fine dust of soil. Why they would park themselves outdoors overnight was a mystery, however.

"Note the curvature of the frontal bumper structure," murmured Mixmaster. "It would seem to suggest that the natives have evolved with single large powerplants located in the anterior region. Reminiscent of ethnically Kalicean altmode layout."

"Here, I'll try to wake them up gently," offered Soundwave, drawing her audio playback device from under a storage panel. She carefully adjusted the volume, and pressed the play button. The device crackled out a few lines of the transmissions she had recorded on the Nemesis.

"Non-stop… hits … three-hour… latest from… album…"

Then the ghostly music began, disjointed, but still recognizable. The natives did not seem to respond. Soundwave paused the playback, and put the device away. She instead opted to speak to them directly.

"Hello," she began, having carefully practiced the words. "We come in peace from the planet Cybertron. We are like you, but from far away."

This also failed to get a response, so she tried again, louder. The natives did not stir.

"Hello?" she asked loudly, bending in closer. "Hello?"

She reached her hand toward the closer of the two haulers, making every movement as gentle as possible.

"Should she be doing this?" asked Hotbox.

Starscream felt his neural net tense up, causing him to shiver with fear. "I don't know."

Soundwave's fingers made contact with the native's outer panels. She immediately withdrew her hand, and yelped.

"Oh, Primus," she gasped. "It's so cold- they- they're dead!"

Before Starscream could try to comfort her, a clattering sound emerged from the larger of the two structures. What seemed to be a small window suddenly illuminated. A shadow raced past the light, and Starscream dove forward to stifle another scream from Soundwave. The structure continued to creak and groan, thump and stomp. And Starscream began to realize why- the small buildings, the unresponsive haulers- it fit together in a way he hadn't thought of. No one had thought of it.

"They're not dead," he whispered. "They were never alive."

"Then… then who are the natives?" sniffled Soundwave.

The Seeker pointed at the larger structure. "They are."

A small door on the larger building burst open, and a diminutive creature shambled out into the dim light. It was around the size of a splitter, maybe smaller; it walked with a limp. It wore no armor, and its skin was not divided into plates. There were no altmode components visible on its structure, though it did resemble a bipedal robot mode. Its skin was tan, similar in shade to the dirt that it must have lived near, the surface wrinkled with age. Its head was covered with thin white filaments. It rested a hand on one of the large structure's railings, and stared up into Starscream's optics.

"Mother of God," it said softly, the words incomprehensible to Starscream's audio receptors. "You bastards came back."

Soundwave blinked her disbelief away, and reminded herself of the task at hand.

"Hello. We come in peace from the-"

"Oh, so you sons of bitches learned to talk?" it interrupted, staggering off of the railing and onto the ground. Its movements were slow and uneven, as if it were ill. "You think that's gonna fool me? Ain't no way, not on God's green Earth!"

"Earth- is that what this place is? Is this Earth?"

"I ain't tellin' you! Not any of you! You're not going to get away with your plan!"

"Our… plan?" asked Soundwave.

"I've seen it! They gave me visions! It's there, right there in the pyramids! In Stonehenge! It's all part of your plan! That's what they showed me, in the visions! I was smart, I figured it out! I merged minds with you bastards! I've seen beyond time and space!"

"What's it saying?" mouthed Starscream.

"It's crazy," replied Soundwave silently. She tried to calm the native down. "We come in peace, from the planet Cybertron."

"No," it said, shaking its head. "No you don't. You didn't come in peace last time." It lifted something off of the ground- a long, narrow implement.

"It's got a gun," whispered Starscream. "Soundwave, we need to back off, now."

"No- I… I think it's trying to tell us something. I need to know more," protested the linguist. "Last time? Do you mean you have seen our people before?"

"You were bigger. Angrier. I know they've got more of you, the government. They're scared of you. But they didn't know you were coming back. I did! I followed the signs, just like the visions told me! I- I knew- I- ugh," it moaned, leaning forwards over the railing. It made a series of sickening grunts before vomiting onto the ground. Starscream, Soundwave, and Hotbox all winced, but the creature's illness had the opposite effect on Mixmaster, who crept closer.

"Tell it I want a sample," she hissed.

"My friend wants to help you," translated Soundwave, taking some liberties.

Mixmaster drew a scalpel from her backpack. "Ask it what part is infected."

The creature was only just starting to recover from its episode when it spotted Mixmaster closing in. It raised its weapon, its aim shaky.

"Don't- don't come any closer! I swear, I'll-"

"Get back!" cried Soundwave, "You're just scaring it more!"

"There will be more of them. There's no reason in trying to talk to this one. But the tissues… they'll be very useful."

Despite Soundwave's pleas, Mixmaster lurched forward, catching the creature by a leg. It wriggled in a futile attempt to escape as she lifted it into the air upside-down.

"Amazing… life independent of CNA. It's so soft." The creature yelped in pain.

"You're hurting it!" wailed Soundwave.

"It won't be hurting for much longer," Mixmaster explained, raising her scalpel. As if it understood, the native creature stopped struggling. Starscream's spark skipped a beat when he realized the real reason why. It still had its weapon.

"The human race says hello," it snarled, and pulled the trigger.

Compared to the sound of larger Cybertronian weapons, the pop of the creature's little gun was almost toylike. It was still loud enough to echo across the flat plains that surrounded them, traveling out into the wastelands beyond. The night air, formerly what seemed to be somewhat warm, felt cold on Starscream's skin. Mixmaster dropped the creature and her scalpel and clapped her free hands to her face, letting out a roar of agony.

"GYEAAAAAAARGH!"

Everything that could have gone wrong, had. Starscream watched the horror spread across Soundwave's face, the beauty lost amid the terror. Reality had arrived, and it was just as unpleasant as he had feared.

"Abort mission," shouted Starscream. "Abort mission! Fall back! Hotbox, get Mixmaster out of here!"

"Yes, sir," growled the linehauler, wrapping an arm around the scientist, and hefting her over his shoulder.

Soundwave knelt over the creature, the human, as it had called itself, as it stared up at the stars, gasping for breath.

"No, no," she cried. "I didn't want this to- I only wanted to help… I- I'm so sorry."

Starscream had already begun to escort the rest of the team back to the dropship when he realized she had stayed behind. "Soundwave, we need to move!"

"I gotcha," the human wheezed, its lips pulling back into a pained smile. "I finally gotcha. If this… is where it ends…" he coughed, releasing what Soundwave guessed were circulatory fluids.

"Don't die, no! Please! What did you mean- what did you mean when you said you had seen us before? What did they say?"

"Look at you… look at you now," it gasped. "Now you ask me the questions… heh… I'll tell you, sweetie… you sound like my… I'll tell you."

It coughed again. Soundwave leaned closer, desperately trying to make things easier for the human.

"What? What did they say?"

"They told me… that if I ever saw them again… they said… the seals are open… the devourer… is awake."

"What… what is that? What does it mean? What is the devourer?"

"You ain't… never going… to find out," he whispered, running out of breath. He pulled out a small device from underneath his garments, a box with a plunger and wire. "Go to hell."

Soundwave turned away just before the human erupted into a huge fireball. The structure he had come from exploded as well, scattering thin shards of shrapnel. The blast threw Soundwave forward, into the waiting arms of Starscream, who was shouting something she couldn't hear. Eventually, her audio receptors began to function again, but she wasn't listening. All she could think of was the little creature, the human, and its sad little eyes. They looked like her father's eyes. For all of its hair and vomit and red fluids, it was so much like them. Why was it so much like them? Why?

"Why… why… why…?" wept Soundwave, completely incoherent. Starscream ignored her, focusing all of his effort on running. They were nearly back at the dropship now. There, they would be safe. But then the dropship would fly back to the Nemesis, and the Nemesis would fly back to the planet. And then they might never be safe again.

***

The flight crews stood on standby as the dropship approached the hangar bay, eager to perform the basic post-mission checks and return to what remained of their off-duty shifts. Megatron waited with them, stern and silent, expecting the worst. His intuition was not wrong. The dropship entered the bay on-course, but landed far harder than it was meant to, crippling the starboard landing gear. The team scrambled out from the vessel, the massive logistics mech at point.

"We need a medic, now!" he roared, taking a moment to look down at the limp femme in his arms. It was the Constructicon chemist, a variety of vital fluids leaking from her head. As the ship's medical staff began to arrive, the first mate and intelligence officer emerged, moving much more slowly. In fact, Soundwave seemed reluctant to leave the ship at all. Starscream located Megatron among the crowd and greeted him with a terse salute.

"Comrade Starscream, report."

"The natives were not what we expected," strained the Seeker. "I have the mission recording, but if you want a full debrief-"

"They were hostile?"

"The one we encountered, yes."

"Only one?"

"It was small, but heavily armed. From what Soundwave tells me, it's possible that Cybertronian life may have made contact with them before."

Megatron nodded in understanding. "Yes, that would align with Glyph's theories. We will have to avoid the population centers, then. But that may delay us even further."

Starscream did not like the sound of that. He had a mission to complete, and the longer they were stuck on that accursed rock, the harder it would become. There had to be a solution. Soundwave slumped up against the side of the dropship, burying her head in her hands.

"Not necessarily," said the Seeker. "Have you heard of Operation Green Flag?"

"Yes, in my studies of the Colony wars," replied Megatron. "That's standard reading for Decepticon recruits now, isn't it?"

"Autobot forces were able to infiltrate Promet-2's guerrilla forces by reformatting themselves into metazomorphs. Since the colonists associated standard altmodes with the security forces, they had no idea that the enemy was among them. These creatures don't have altmodes, but they do have vehicles. An exact-copy reformat wouldn't even be a stretch for most of the crew. We could sit around in plain view, and these natives-"

"They'd have no idea about the robots in disguise. A clever idea, Starscream. But your last idea was clever, too. Perhaps you are familiar with this proverb- 'Two failures a coincidence, three a pattern'."

"I understand, comrade Megatron," gulped Starscream. "I won't let you down again."

Megatron wagged a finger. "Oh, it won't be a personal offense. You'd be letting everyone down. Now, why don't you see to comrade Soundwave? She seems shaken."

He turned on a heel and marched away, his coat billowing out behind him. Starscream stood motionless as the flight crew began to make repairs to the dropship. His hope had given way to fear, which had given way to numbness. Perhaps that lack of feeling was because he had felt too much over the last few solar cycles. Or perhaps it was because he was uncertain of what the future held. Gradually he lowered himself into a sitting position, as numbness gave way to exhaustion. He looked to his right and found Soundwave looking back at him.

"S-so…" she whimpered. "Do you think that's going to work? Your plan?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "I don't know about anything anymore."

"I know that you're here," she said softly, opening her arms and falling onto him in an embrace. Starscream was too tired to be surprised, or to put any effort into what was considered proper professional conduct. He let his head slide back against the dropship, and savored the warmth of her body against his, an anomalous moment of beauty after the harshness of reality. He looked up, away from Soundwave, who had buried her face in his shoulder, instead focusing on the hangar bay's viewports. The planet was once again visible in the distance, a tiny blue orb gradually increasing in size. It was unlike the world in his dream, but he was unwilling to let go of that fantasy. There had to be some way to make it come true.

 

"Now, this is your service rifle, the ASR-8F," explained Ironhide, removing the weapon from its wall mount. The ship's armory was a very narrow room, clearly not intended for use by anyone over size class 4. Airazor had never been near so many weapons and explosives – in fact, this was her first time seeing the Aerialbot weapon outside of a newsreel. "It's specially-tuned for fliers, and converts into a gun pod for your altmode."

He gently lowered the rifle into her waiting arms, but Airazor was not prepared for how heavy it was. It slipped out of her hands, and nearly hit the floor before her wild scrambling caught it. "Oh, scrap," she gasped.

"I think I felt the same way when I was handed my first service weapon… of course, back then, it was just a big rock! Landed right on my foot!"

Airazor couldn't help but smile. "That's a good one."

"I try," Ironhide grinned back. "You're not the first rookie to get tossed right into the thick of things, you know. One time, I had this greenhorn under my command… I don't think he'd ever even seen a gun before he got drafted. Didn't know which way to point the thing!"

While funny, she realized that her situation was not much better. "What happened to him?" she asked, preparing for the worst.

"I take orders from him now," said the old mech with a wink. "You do, too."

***

"I mean, it's not beyond Ironhide to, uh… make things sound bigger?"

"Embellish," suggested Wheeljack.

"He likes to embellish the truth sometimes," shrugged Bumblebee, tearing open his ration pack. "But who knows? Those two rustbuckets have known each other since forever."

Wheeljack delicately crumpled the discarded film from the ration pack and stuffed it into a storage pocket. The waste disposal cans were on the far sides of the mess hall, quite the drive from the table where they sat- or at least, that's what Airazor imagined the rationale behind the trash-hoarding was. "I'd believe it. Optimus isn't like any of the Primes before him. He's not like most people in this line of work. A soldier with a Spark, you know?"

"He definitely knows his way around a gun now," said Bumblebee through a mouthful of the dessert bar. "Not an armchair general."

"Really?" asked Airazor, who took a glance at the contents of her own ration pack. There was a tin labeled "CES. SLM" which did not inspire any confidence, nor did the three Energon supplement pills. There were, however, a set of unassuming-looking cakes in a transparent wrapper which seemed inoffensive enough. She unsealed them, removed one, took a cautious bite, and found they were substantial enough.

Bumblebee nodded. "Oh, yeah. No, this one time, we were on deployment in- uh, was it… I think that time was in Kalis. We were there to intercept a courier, but the 'Cons were smart enough to send him with an escort. So me and the big Bot, there we are, up at an intersection, and they're charging down at us, and we empty all of our mags into them, and I'm thinking, okay, time to get the scrap outta there, but he just drops his rifle and runs down the road and starts beating the daylights out of the squad leader! And the rest of the 'Cons, they just broke and ran, and the squad leader gave up, and there wasn't a single casualty. It was insane."

"Oh, look at this," muttered a voice from behind. Airazor looked over her shoulder- it was the Omnibot from earlier, a ration pack of her own slung under an arm. "I've stumbled in on the choir, practicing for worship."

Wheeljack gritted his teeth. "We speak from experience. You don't know Optimus."

"Don't know him? Oh, I know what I need to. He's responsible for creating this damn war. He sympathizes with our enemies. And he thinks that you can trust protoforms with capturing lunatics," she hissed, giving Airazor a glare. The flier nearly jumped from her seat.

"Hey! I'm not-"

"What? Are you about to tell me how you're actually much more qualified than you look? Oh, that's funny," she sneered, before actually letting out a single, icy laugh. "You GIs, you're always good for a joke. It doesn't take much in the way of brains to point and shoot, does it? That explains why you grovel at the feet of any half-baked jalopy, as long as their shoulders are big enough."

Airazor balled a fist. "How can you say that? Autobots just like them fight and die for the empire every day!"

"Hey, rookie, ease up," warned Bumblebee. "Spooks like her have to get their jollies somewhere. She isn't doing any harm."

"I just don't get how you can say that kind of thing! You're an Autobot, too!" She felt her lip quiver- what was she going to say? She knew that RC was wrong, but she couldn't think of how to explain it. She dug through her mind, desperate to find anything- and then, she remembered. "Sky Lynx said that life would always be a struggle, but only until everyone could understand each other- You know, Till All-"

"-Are One? I know the speech," RC rolled her eyes. "Just like a little kid, spouting that scrap off. You know they made Sky Lynx to say that kind of thing, right? A big propaganda machine, to tell everyone that the mess your precious Optimus made was all going to fix itself. Ha! I'm glad that aftwipe died. It's fit-"

Airazor felt her knuckles brush against something soft, and realized it was RC's face. The Omnibot lifted off the ground and half-flipped in the air, colliding with the bulkhead that separated the mess with the corridor outside. Her body scraped down the wall and settled into a heap on the floor. Bumblebee and Wheeljack scrambled up from their seats, but when they noticed that Airazor seemed just as surprised as they were, they paused. She detected a wetness creeping towards the bottom of her hand, followed by a faint splatter on her foot. Airazor looked down and her insides turned. Circulatory fluids. Not hers.

RC's body jolted to life, slamming an open palm onto the floor, smearing the growing puddle of blood. She then rose, slowly, perhaps to avoid slipping, until she stood once more, her purple coat's hem dark and soggy. Blood poured from her mouth, welling up over her bottom lip and dripping down her chin.

"Mutiny against a superior officer," she mumbled, curling her soaked fingers together. "Grounds for a court martial." She spat on the floor, another puddle of blood. "You wouldn't have the patience for a trial… so here's your sentence. I'll crush you with my bare hands!"

Airazor panicked, backing into the table. Everything was happening too fast. She hadn't really meant to hit RC. But it didn't make sense. That sudden, blinding flash of anger was because of what RC said about Sky Lynx, but it wasn't many solar cycles ago that she convinced herself that his absence was a good thing. Had things really changed so much in that time, or was that what she wanted to believe? She would have thought about it more, but the arrival of RC's fist in her stomach postponed that contemplation. Airazor toppled over, landing sideways across the table.

"Hey, back off!" yelped Bumblebee, darting forward to grab RC by the shoulder. The femme pivoted on her left foot, swinging her right up to boot Bumblebee in the face. The yellow Autobot reeled, remaining standing, but only just. RC shot a glance Wheeljack, who took a step back, holding up his hands. She returned her attention to Airazor, who lay groaning on the table.

"You aren't in school anymore, you little prissy glitch," growled RC, raising her hand for another attack. Airazor gritted her teeth, waiting for the impact. She was prepared. She was not prepared for the gunshot that arrived instead, echoing sharply down the length of the mess. The shooter wasn't hard to find, standing just inside of the mess' entrance. A blue-and-grey femme held a smoking revolver aloft, with a small hole peeking out of the deck above her.

"Arroight, you dipsticks, break it up!"

RC made a concerning snort-like sound, and backed away from Airazor, dragging an arm across her bloody chin.

"Oh, good, you know to listen to people with guns! 'S an important first step. The next one is to know who the people with the guns are, and I'll help you with that." She stuck a thumb into the center of her chest's grille, and rested her revolver on her shoulder. "Name's Chromia. And since you all don't seem to be aware, I represent the law on this ship. Third order of the law is to ask who thought it'd be smart to 'ave a blue over a meal, so out with it!"

"It's her!" shouted Bumblebee, pointing energetically toward RC.

"The wingnut hit me first," RC protested.

"RC provoked Airazor," Wheeljack explained. "Who then retaliated. Afterwards RC attacked both her and Bumblebee. That's how it happened."

Chromia returned her pistol to its leg-mounted holster, and rested her hands on her hips as she sauntered towards the offending parties. "Is that so?"

Airazor pried herself off the table and into a seat, her head hanging low. How could she have screwed up this badly so soon? "Yes," she admitted.

"And the fourth step's fessing up. Fast learner, this sheila. Now, the mission hasn't really started yet, so I'm willing to let this slide on two conditions: No more provoking, and no more retaliating. Is that clear?"

"As crystal," snarled RC, dragging an arm across her chin to smear away the blood before stomping away.

"Good to have that sorted," mused Chromia aloud, looking up at the hole she had shot through the deck. "Ought to have that looked into, though."

"T-thanks," said Airazor quietly.

"Ah, no worries! I'm just doing my job. Or, ah, rather, not doing it. Point is, you're welcome. I've no love for standovers like that ratbag anyway. Government types, can't keep to their own bizzo, yeah?"

Airazor blinked. "Um… yeah."

"Well, now that I've given 'er the flick, I'll be off. Need to find where that hole goes… hopefully nowhere important."

"Sure you don't want to stick around?" suggested Bumblebee. "There's a seat open next to yours truly."

"Sorry, can't," she said with a devious grin. "You might want to look into mopping the floor, though."

Airazor looked down at the green puddle where the Omnibot had slumped earlier, and then back up at Bumblebee and Wheeljack, who had disappeared.

"Thanks, guys," she groaned aloud, finding the mop secured to a wall next to other cleaning supplies. At least she would have some time to think.

***

Route 395

South of Atolia, California

June 28, 2016


"You know, this ain't bad cold," exclaimed Richmond through a mouthful of donut-based breakfast sandwich. "It's shit like this that makes the drive worth it."

"I'm glad that's working out for you," sighed Gomez, easing the cruiser off the highway and onto an unpaved outer road.

"Come on, man. Don't be like that."

As far as Gomez was concerned, he had every reason to be like that. The drive from Ridgecrest was as boring as a drive could possibly be, and Richmond had spent it sleeping.

"Why don't you pull up the report?" grunted Gomez.

"It's supposed to be an unlisted address, or something. I think the guy was supposed to be squatting. Just look for a house, I guess."

The car rolled to a stop, and Gomez applied his parking brake, even though it was hardly necessary for the automatic cruiser. Still, the action was habitual and cathartic, and it was a good receptacle for the energy he would otherwise use to smack Richmond upside his head.

"I don't think we'll find one."

"What, you think it's a shed, or-"

Richmond finally took the time to look up from the report. In front of them, planks and timbers rose from a sooty ruin like a huge, cracked ribcage.

"Holy shit."

"Let's go," said Gomez sternly, opening the car's door. Together, they walked to where the porch had been.

"They weren't kidding about the fire," noted Richmond.

Gomez shook his head. "This wasn't just a fire."

"What do you mean? You think it was arson?"

"Arsonists don't use high explosives," Gomez explained. "Look at how little is left, how the supports are bowed out."

"You're saying that you took one look at this and can tell me it was explosives, just like that?"

"Well, the undetonated brick of C4 back there was a big part of it," grumbled Gomez, pointing over his shoulder towards a pile of rubble.

"Holy shit."

"When we got the call, I knew something was up. This Simmons guy, he was a nutcase conspiracy theorist. But he was a little different. Ex-military, for one."

Richmond took a solemn bite out of his donut sandwich. "You think all old Army guys tell the truth?"

"Air Force. He worked at Edwards. He was a test pilot back in the sixties. That's got to amount to something," said Gomez, testing the strength of the porch's remaining steps. They held well enough to support his weight.

"You're just as crazy."

Gomez gingerly crawled up the stairs into what left of the house's ground level. "Not crazy, just interested. But here we are, a conspiracy theorist gets himself blown up in the middle of the night." Against a sliver of remaining wall hung a scorched corkboard, onto which were pinned what must have once been discernable photographs.

"But would this guy have had any enemies? Ones that make sense? Ones that would have C4? Cartels, maybe? He had to be smoking something."

"I only know the rumors," shrugged Gomez, scanning the rubble of the first floor for any additional clues. Something white peeked out from underneath shattered wooden panels. Richmond headed for the parked truck across the way. Gomez slowly pulled the planks away and immediately recoiled. His tenure at the Ridgecrest police department had certainly had its surprises, but none of them had prepared him for what he had found.

"Hey, uh, I think you need to see this," called Richmond from outside.

"No, I think you need to see this," insisted his superior.

Richmond reluctantly moved back into the house. "There's something weird out-"

He was silenced when he saw what Gomez was pointing to. It was a human head, specifically most of one, the jaw missing the majority of its skin.

"That's got to be him," whispered Richmond.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Does… does that happen normally?"

"No. Deaths with explosives, they're usually injuries from shrapnel. For this, the explosion would have to be right on top of him. Or on him."

"You think he did this to himself?"

"It'd explain the crappy job he did with the rest of the house."

"But if an old man wanted to commit suicide, why would he go to all this trouble? Why blow yourself up? How does that make sense?"

"Maybe he really did have enemies, and he was waiting for them. I don't have all the answers," said Gomez. "What was it that you found?"

"That's just it, I don't know," explained Richmond. He led Gomez out of the house and toward the shed. The truck seemed undisturbed, aside from the glass that had no doubt been shattered by the explosion. But just to its left was the real anomaly- a puddle. It was no more than two feet across, though the darkened dirt nearby meant it had once been slightly larger. It was a dull green in color, opaque, with a hint of shimmering iridescence. In the center of the puddle rested something greyish and slightly translucent- across its surface scurried a single, greedy fly.

"I mean, it smells kinda rotten," Richmond added. "What do you think?"

"Yeah, rotten," Gomez agreed. "It had to have been alive, for the flies to want it."

"If something stinks, you shouldn't put your nose in it," said a voice from behind. Gomez and Richmond jolted around, half-expecting a cartel enforcer. What they found instead was a redheaded woman in a black trenchcoat, toying with a tablet. Behind her was an electric car, a big, fancy Tesla, which had been parked next to their cruiser. Hovering next to the car were two dark-suited men with earpieces and submachine guns.

Maybe she was a cartel enforcer.

"W-who are you?" stammered Richmond, just smart enough to not reach for his own gun.

"Not important," replied the woman. "But you are, Stanley George Richmond. At least, in this very moment. And don't worry, Alberto Ignacio Gomez, you aren't being left out."

"So you know our names. Are we supposed to be impressed?" grunted Gomez.

"Of course not!" she laughed. "Names are only ever a few clicks away. But you might be impressed to know that I currently have access to all of your accounts."

Richmond scratched at the back of his neck nervously. "What kind of accounts? Do you mean an email or a bank account?"

"All of them," the woman clarified. "Watch."

She tapped at her tablet, and Gomez's smartphone buzzed an alert. Wide-eyed, he unclipped it from its belt holster and read the notification that he had overdrafted his credit card.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Easy. I want you two to leave, and never, ever say anything about what you saw here. That's all."

"Listen, ma'am, we're the police!" protested Richmond. "We're supposed to-"

Gomez held up a hand to silence him. "We'll do it."

"Oh, good! I really didn't want to have to send Stanley's wife his browser history. She wouldn't have liked that," the woman smiled, gesturing towards the cruiser. Gomez sighed in defeat, pulling his keys from his pocket as he walked to the car.

"I can't believe this," groaned Richmond, sliding into the passenger seat.

Gomez shook his head. "Just shut up."

"Oh, hey," the woman called back. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll know. So don't, okay?"

The elder police officer gave her a solemn nod, and closed his door. The cruiser slowly backed away from the Tesla, turned, and headed back down the outer road.

The woman turned to watch them go. "Ah, the country yokel. It's rare to find a smart one in the bunch. I guess we got lucky today."

One of her bodyguards put a finger to his earpiece. "Just got word from the hazmat extraction team, Miss Sumdac. ETA one minute."

"Excellent," she replied, crouching by the puddle as the sound of distant helicopter blades began to emerge from underneath the gentle whisper of the breeze. "I just hope they're as excited as I am."

***

"Come on, what was that?" groaned Richmond.

"We were out of our league," Gomez replied. "Clearly we're dealing with… you know, big things. Above our pay grade. Did you really want to piss her off, with the way her mooks were packing?"

"But we're the- the road!" Richmond yelped. Gomez re-focused his attention ahead, and swerved in time to miss the vehicle charging down their lane. The cruiser spun off onto the shoulder, skidding through the dirt. Gomez punched at the wheel as they jerked to a stop.

"Dammit, I- we- we were in the right lane, right?"

"Y-yeah," Richmond stammered.

"So who's drunk-driving this early?" asked Gomez, rolling down the window. He swatted at the wave of dust that attempted to invade the car, and got a look at the other vehicle. It was an expedition truck, a sizable box camper mounted on top of an off-road vehicle that looked just a little too small to support it, its knobby tires bunched up underneath its frame as if it was perpetually tiptoeing. Its slab-sides were accented with a large, minimalist design bearing the word "ADVENTURE" in bold yellow letters. The camper bucked as it switched into reverse, crawling back towards the cruiser slowly. It cut its tires and swung around until it faced them. After a long pause, the driver's door opened, and the driver promptly tumbled all five feet to the ground.

"Oh, jeez," moaned Richmond, opening his door. "As if today could get any worse."

Gomez also disembarked, hooking his thumbs on his belt loops. The camper's driver lay flat and disconcertingly motionless on the ground. She was a young woman, probably just above twenty, with a blonde pixie cut and a designer denim jacket up top and yoga pants below. Gomez had already pieced together most of her story- she had to be one of those stick-it-to-the-man party girl types, fresh from one of the many electronic music festivals held in more prosperous parts of the state, probably perceiving the world through a molly-and-alcohol haze. That explained the hair, the outfit, the camper, and her driving.

"Turn her on her side," Gomez instructed, and Richmond complied, easing her onto her left shoulder. Gomez then unclipped his flashlight, and gently directed it towards her closed eyelids. The girl stirred, then curled inward, then practically jumped off of the dirt. She then looked down, then up, then at her hands, then back at her vehicle, then at the officers, then at her vehicle again, and finally, back at the road. She stared at the road for several seconds before Gomez decided to interrupt.

"Ma'am? Do you know where you are?"

She pirouetted on the ball of her right heel, her eyes full of wonder.

"Oh, yes! I'm still north of Edwards, right? I haven't missed it? I'm- I've got a friend I need to meet with there."

"Edwards is a few miles down the road, yet," explained Richmond.

"But you're in no shape to be driving, ma'am," added Gomez. "How much have you been drinking?"

"My exact fluid intake? Um, I haven't been keeping track."

Gomez pointed to the road. "I'm going to need you to stand on that painted line."

The girl blinked. "Why?"

"Because I asked you to."

"Well, if you insist."

She ambled to the road, and centered herself on the edge line. "Anything else?"

"I need you to walk down that line, placing your heel in front of your toes, while counting each step. Look straight ahead," instructed Gomez, approaching the line. Richmond checked his cell phone idly.

The girl nodded, and did exactly as he explained. Not once did she lose her balance, raise her arms, or miscount her steps.

"Okay, I did it," she chirped.

"Think she cheated?" whispered Richmond.

"I don't think she's smart enough to," Gomez guessed. "Ma'am, why were you driving in the wrong lane?"

The young woman gasped sharply, her face twisted with horror. "THE WRONG LANE?!"

"Uh, yes, ma'am," Richmond nodded. "You're supposed to keep right. The left side is for oncoming traffic."

"Oh, scrap! I can't believe I messed that up! Now I'm going to have to tell everybody that I was wrong!"

"Yeah, we're going to have to bring her in," sighed Richmond. "She's definitely on something. She can't be out here on the road."

Gomez shook his head. "If we don't deal with her, the suits down the way will. And that's going to be hard for them to cover up, right? If we can't do anything, maybe she can."

"Are you serious?"

"Think about it, if something happens back there, it's our job to investigate. We could get the rest of the force in on it. Whatever's going on, we need to piece it together, and we need all the help we can get. I don't like it either, but it's the only shot we have."

"You're messed up. Just plain messed up," shrugged Richmond. "But I am so done with today."

"It's all right, ma'am," said Gomez. "Just keep following the road south and you'll see the signs for Edwards. And stay in the right lane!"

The girl beamed. "No problem, sir! Thanks so much!"

She skipped back over to her vehicle, and with some great effort, crawled back up into the driver's seat. The starter growled, the engine caught, and the camper trundled away, staying perfectly within the right lane, without even stopping by the ruined house.

Richmond took another bite of his sandwich.

"Wow. Great plan."

Gomez, unable to get to his car's parking brake in time, smacked Richmond upside the head.

***

The camper rolled down into Kramer Junction, hooked a right onto 58, and drove another twenty-five miles past North Edwards, at which point it pulled off of the highway and drove out into the labyrinthine tangle of crisscrossed dirt roads that framed a city that did not yet exist. Other than the roads, the area's only defining features were the small scrub-plants, and the oppressive sun overhead. It was not a logical place to set up one's camper, but it was where the camper stopped. The driver opened her door, caught her foot on the ladder, and once again tumbled to the ground face-first.

"I've got to stop doing that," she groaned, prying herself out of the dirt. She shielded her eyes against the sun, only to find that the searing glare came not from directly above, but was reflected by the camper's stainless steel fuel tanks. She took a closer look, charmed to see her own image suspended in the polished metal. She ran a hand through her hair and posed for herself, giggling vapidly.

"This is too fun," she smiled, giving her reflection a flirtatious wink. "I don't think I've ever looked better! These clothes, this hair, this body… I could get used to this!"

She would have continued to admire herself, but a concussive blast ripped across the desert, shattering the still planes with an earthquake of raw sound. The driver knew it was coming, but the sonic boom surprised her all the same. She narrowly grabbed hold of one of the camper's handrails, saving herself from another faceplant. The source of the boom was a solitary fighter jet, which after making its flyby was now easing itself into a stall. The aircraft slowed, stopped, and fell backwards, its descent far more graceful than it seemed to the untrained eye. The jet performed a lazy loop as it fell, and at the bottom of the loop, it underwent a startling metamorphosis- the sleek, aerodynamic lines splitting into large panels, the engines separating from one another, the cockpit folding back as the nose collapsed inward. The shifting jet-jumble crashed to earth in a plume of dust, and out of that dust emerged a towering metal warrior of red, black, and grey.

"Well, aren't you looking stellar?" called the driver.

The robot marched towards the camper. "You're still playing with that toy, Soundwave?"

"It's not a toy," protested the driver. "It's a nanomatter projector. And for your information, it really works. I had a lovely chat with some humans earlier, and they never suspected a thing."

"I flew over that base nearly ten times, and they didn't notice. I think this is going to work."

"Exciting!" grinned Soundwave's nanomatter avatar before dissolving into a thin black mist, which was quickly absorbed by its octahedron-shaped projector unit. The camper then began its own changes, rearranging itself into a new version of Soundwave's distinct silhouette. "With disguises like these, I'll be able to study humans up close! I'll be able to learn their languages first-hand, so we'll never have another misunderstanding…" her voice trailed off.

"You'll have to get to work pretty fast. The next stage of our plan is locating Megatron's magic mumbo-jumbo. We'll need to be able to access nearly all of the data these humans have on their world, their history. It's the only lead we have."

"Y-yeah, of course. So you're going to head back?"

"That's right. Only long enough to deliver the new interaction protocol you drew up. After that, the rest of the crew will be getting their reformats and getting ferried down here. I'll catch a ride with them." Starscream paused, seeing the unease in Soundwave's eyes. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't worry. I believe in you."

Their optics locked together. Soundwave felt a warmth inside her chest, radiating out from her spark. For a second, she contemplated kissing him, but her uncertainty crushed that thought before it could move any closer to reality. She pulled away, nodding gently.

"Thanks… I-I needed that. I'll… I'll see you later."

"You can count on that," smiled Starscream, leaping into the air as he transformed into his new jet fighter disguise, carrying himself away on two pillars of afterburner-induced shock diamonds. Starscream became smaller and smaller, until he was simply a black dot and a glowing orange dot, and then he disappeared completely. Soundwave wiped away some stray optical lubricant, and drew a datapad from one of her storage bins. She opened the rudimentary map she had constructed from the surface scans, and set a course for the mass of glowing cities to the south.

Now, I just have to remember to keep right.

 

I like where this fic is going so far. While I was originally sceptical about them calling each other "comrade" (it's a bit on the nose, to be honest), I'm especially how the Decepticons are being portrayed so far. Usually in Transformers media, while we occasionally see said faction's "start of darkness" so to speak, be the time the story's begun, they've usually abandoned their original ideals in favour of a lucrative career of moustache-twirling and puppy-kicking. And most traditional depictions have them see humans as a nuisance in the way of their conquest, or worse, a contamination to be exterminated, so seeing them actually attempt to make peaceful first contact with humans for once is a breath of fresh air.

The individual characterisations are pretty fresh and interesting as well, from Soundwave as a wide-eyed idealist, Arcee as a jerkwad High Council hitwoman, Airazor as a raw recruit looking to live up to her absent father's legacy, to Sari as a government spook working for what I assume to be this story's Sector 7/Skywatch equivalent.

But I'm left wondering: what kind of state must Cybertron's government be in that Arcee can just walk up to Optimus Prime, basically say, "Hi, the High Council wants me to assassinate you the moment it becomes politically convenient to do so," and get away with it?  

All in all, great story so far, and I'm interested to see where it goes from here.

 

Thanks!

To answer your question, Cybertron's government is the Council, and they appoint the Primes. They're extremely corrupt, and since they already don't trust Optimus, they find his off-world trip to meet with their worst enemy, who Optimus has stated publicly that he agrees with, very concerning. It's somewhat like the Apocalypse Now scenario, except with Willard tagging along with Kurtz from the beginning.

 

Airazor made her way through the narrow corridors of the ship as quickly as possible, with the hope of avoiding another confrontation with RC. She had finished cleaning up the mess, and was looking forward to locking herself in her quarters for the remainder of the trip. She knew it wasn't a realistic idea, but she was willing to promise herself anything at the moment. This couldn't have been the mistake it felt like.

It's not a mistake. Everything is fine. This is how it's meant to be. It's destiny, or something.

This was the mantra she ran back and forth through her processor, trying to convince herself of its truth. It was taking a lot of effort- enough effort that she did not pay close attention to where she was walking. She rounded a corner, and did not stop in time to avoid a collision with a mostly-unfamiliar silver femme. A datapad flew out of her hands and clattered just out of reach behind Airazor, who scrambled to pick it up.

"Oh scrap," stammered the flier. "I'm so sorry, I didn't-"

"It's all right," said Airazor's victim. A second glance made her identity obvious- she was the scientist from the briefing. She hadn't seen her since, until now. She was middle-aged, but wrinkles were only just beginning to set in on her face. As she regarded Airazor, she tapped her cheek, deploying a pair of corrective lenses for her aging optics. Beyond the magnifying effect of the glass, her eyes widened.

"Uh… is it all right?"

"Of course, I'm- I must apologize. I thought you looked familiar."

"I've been getting that a lot lately," Airazor sighed, handing back the data-pad. "I'm Airazor. I'm… new."

"It's nice to meet you, Airazor," said the older femme, who bowed in return. "I am Breakthrough, of the Takara clan."

"So you're along to survey this planet, right? I don't mean to pry, just wondering." asked Airazor, recalling the discussion she had in the briefing.

"I am," replied Breakthrough, her countenance mournful. "It's… an opportunity, I suppose. But I am afraid our introduction must end here, I have some sensors to recalibrate."

Seeing an opportunity of her own, Airazor spoke up. "I could help you with that!"

"Oh? Well, if you're not busy…"

"Definitely! I mean, not! I mean, definitely not busy!"

"If you insist," smiled Breakthrough.

Airazor wished she hadn't insisted. While it got her out of RC's way and occupied her with something other than the rookie short-straw jobs, it wasn't exactly an entertaining diversion. Breakthrough sat at a computer console, plucking away at the keyboard, leaning in close to the screen to discern hard-to-read characters. Meanwhile, Airazor sat next to her at another console, recording the variables that the other machine produced.

"So… with the alpha channel at thirty, the spectrum scanner's range is… root fifty seven… carry the one…"

Breakthrough's ramblings were not easy to decipher, and it didn't help that she would occasionally slip into speaking Yōke, which was completely beyond Airazor's comprehension. Perhaps her frustration was too obvious, because after calling out the last few values for the alpha channel, Breakthrough turned to her and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Airazor, do you really want to be here?"

"Honestly, I'm not very good with sensors."

"No, I mean on this ship."

"I don't know," she replied. Airazor wished she had a better answer.

"You're indifferent to being a soldier?"

"It's not like that. I just don't know what to make of it yet. I just started. What about you? You've got experience, what do you think about it?"

Breakthrough's optics narrowed. "I don't know which to take more offense at, calling me old or assuming I'm a military woman."

"But aren't you?" asked Airazor, confused. "A military woman, I mean. You've got the Autobrand, right there," she countered, pointing to the insignia on her collar.

"Just because you're an Autobot doesn't make you a GI. I was a geneticist. I worked on mapping the Cybertronian genome, and… some other projects. But it didn't matter. Once I did what they needed me to, they stopped funding me. That's why Zhicorp bought me up. The point is, you seem like such a nice girl. I don't know why you signed up and it's not my place to. But I want to warn you that all of this could chew you up and spit you out."

It wasn't the kind of advice Airazor had expected to hear. She didn't want to believe it, didn't want it to sour the vows she had made back in the briefing room. This was how it was meant to be, wasn't it?

"I guess… I'll just have to see how it turns out, then."

"It's all anybody can do," murmured Breakthrough, staring into the center of her screen. She blinked once or twice before turning back to Airazor, visibly upset. "I'm sorry if I scared you, I- I shouldn't have said that. I just don't like how young they convince kids to enlist these days. So I saw you and just… you have to forgive me. Don't listen to me. I'm just a jaded old woman. Put tea in boiling water too long and it will be bitter."

"No- I understand what you're saying, but maybe you were right the first time. I've had my own doubts about all of this, and I don't think convincing myself that there isn't any risk is the right solution, not anymore. So I'll thank you for the perspective, if that's okay. You really poured yourself out, there. And we've only known each other for a few cycles!"

Breakthrough smiled and nodded, burying her face in her hands. "Oh… I suppose I didn't- I'm sorry, it's like I said before, you look like someone I once knew. I felt like I was talking to them. I really am a silly old lady."

"You've just had more time to get to know people, that's all. Thanks for your time, Breakthrough," said Airazor, who stood and gave the older femme a courteous bow before leaving. Breakthrough folded her hands in her lap and sighed, thinking about the young mech's face, his soft lips twisted in worry. She then remembered that she was in the middle of calibrating the sensors, and no longer had an assistant.

Silly, silly.

The clouds formed an endless white plain below, the stars an ocean of black above. Only a tiny glimmer of orange broke that pinpricked tapestry, flickering brighter with every passing second. Two fighter jets hung somewhere between, knitted together in tight formation, cruising across the crests of the cloud-peaks. NASA liveries crested both of the prototype machines' tails, marking them as prototypes, but a diligent observer would know that the Grumman X-29 and General Dynamics F-16XL had been grounded for years. The museum pieces had other plans.

The X-29 performed a gentle roll, never breaking formation. It came to rest inverted, its cockpit hanging downwards towards the dense clouds.

"This is taking forever," she groaned over the comms to her wingmate. "Can't we put in another call to Overcast?"

"Orders says we let Overcast call us, not the other way round," replied the larger fighter. "'Sides, their job's just as boring as ours is, and just as important. Look on the bright side, you ain't gotta suffer alone."

"But I like suffering alone. That's pretty much my favorite thing."

"That and your black chic chips," cooed the mech. "Skywarp, the world can be a nice place if you let it."

"Nice places are lame."

"You're all kinds of backwards."

"Pretty sure you're the only backwards one here, Thundercracker."

"Knock it off, you two," crackled the voice of their commander. A third fighter emerged from the clouds below, grey like the fin of a jet-powered shark. It was a modern F-22, which did little to mend the credibility of the other two fighters.

"Whatever," sighed Skywarp, rolling right-side-up and inching aside to let her commander take the lead position.

"How's it look down there?" asked Thundercracker.

"We're good. Dirge will keep an eye on things down there. It's time for the next stage of the operation."

"That means it's time to stop goofing off," the F-16 jabbed.

"That means it's time to stop goofing off," Skywarp sing-songed back.

Their commander gave an irritated grunt, silencing them before he opened the comms channel again. "This is Knife Leader to Lookout, do you copy?"

"This is Lookout, reading you loud and clear," boomed the voice of Overcast. "How's the weather, Starscream?"

"Clear up top and down below. Let's bring it home."

"Copy that. Lookout to Knife Team, proceed to your designated watch positions on full combat alert."

"Roger," said Starscream, breaking formation and banking west. "Knife One, beginning air combat patrol."

Thundercracker broke off in the opposite direction. "Knife Two, beginning air combat patrol."

Skywarp remained on her previous course, taking the opportunity to roll inverted once more. "Knife Three, beginning air combat patrol."

"Dirge will maintain air combat patrol," echoed the voice of Dirge over the comms.

"Solid copy, Knife Team," said Overcast. "Basket One, you are clear for landing."

Slowly, the orange glimmer grew brighter, transforming into a distinctive silhouette. The Decepticon dropship screamed down from the night sky, its heat-resistant underbelly still glowing from its recent re-entry. Starscream would have piloted the ship smoother, he was sure, but he was glad to be flying on his own. He did not envy whatever unlucky pilot was carrying that cargo. His musings were interrupted by Thundercracker opening his channel again.

"So you've seen them up close, right?"

"What?"

"The humans," the other Seeker clarified.

"Yeah," Starscream replied, without enthusiasm. He would rather not think about what happened on the night of first contact.

"Do you think we could get along, us and them?"

It wasn't something Starscream had even considered.

"It's too much of a risk. If we want to stay safe, we'll never know."

"Until somebody slips up and transforms in front of a human. Then we'll know for sure," suggested Skywarp dryly. "Hey, this whole 'robots in disguise' thing was your idea, wasn't it?"

Starscream briefly switched his radar into air-to-ground mode, just to be safe. "I didn't invent it, I just recommended it to Megatron," he clarified, his attention focused more closely on a tiny pulse echoing back to his sensors.

"So if somebody screws this up, it all comes back to bite you in the aft," Skywarp giggled, her high-pitched inhalation lost as static over the comms.

The signal was weak, but it was getting incrementally stronger, inching its way towards existence. There was something there, something small- and that was all it might take to ruin everything. He didn't want to make the call, but he had to. He opened the comms on all channels.

"Bogey bearing 0-3-0, range 15 kliks, altitude point two kliks, aspect 0-0-5 right, closing," he reported, remaining calm.

"Knife One, this is Lookout. Should we abort?"

"Negative. I'll break to intercept. Everyone keep doing what you're doing. This mission is too important, we've got to push through. I'll update you when I can."

Starscream pushed his engines into full afterburner. He broke off from his patrol course and veered towards the target below. He looked for a light, a glint of reflected starlight, anything that might illuminate the intruder, but he saw nothing. It was so low, what was it? Maybe it was just a large bird- Soundwave said that the largest flying creatures on this planet were comparable in size to some species of Cybertronian fauna, which was a very Soundwave way of saying things. She had been assembling whole charts of measurement conversions and translated maps and "Survival English" guidebooks, all of which she sent to him first for evaluation. Starscream knew nothing about the language or measurements or the topography, so he would smile and thank her and tell her that they looked great. He knew she didn't actually expect him to have advice. She had spent enough time studying that flirting didn't come naturally to her, especially when they were so far apart, or at least that was what he had to assume she was doing.

With the river the humans called "St. John" to his left, Starscream ducked down lower, matching his target's low altitude. He eased off of the throttle, halving his airspeed. He felt the air around him slow down, the lift that held him aloft slackening its grip. He switched the radar back into air-to-air, and his target reappeared. He guided the beams closer and closer until he locked it in. Out in the distance, he could see it, but only faintly. A sliver of moonlight that had slipped through the clouds bounced off of a tiny teardrop-shaped fuselage. Inside sat the tiny profile of a human, clad in thick, bulky clothes. Above was a swept, triangular wing, flapping in the night air, and behind it was a sputtering engine, driving a small propeller. Starscream considered his new body's fighter form, its sleek lines and huge screaming engines. It had been built by humans to help them fly, and so had the tiny, pathetic rattletrap ahead of him. But how? He was surprised such a machine could even stay aloft. It looked like a strong gust of wind might tear it apart, and there were plenty of those tonight.

He gently began to bank, making a slow turn, carefully easing up behind the un-airworthy craft. He reduced his airspeed further and turned on his navigation lights. His intention was to pull up alongside the ultralight and imitate the interception procedures Soundwave had sent him, but the universe had other plans. The lift beneath his wings weakened as he slowed- he was going to stall, and he was still three times faster than the ultralight. He had never really thought much of the hovering fliers, who were almost always slower than jets like himself. What was the point of hovering in vehicle mode, when you could hover in robot mode? But now that his vehicle mode was a disguise, his inability to hover seemed like a crippling weakness. Unable to slow down any further, he blasted past the ultralight and began to bank hard into another turn. He reluctantly turned on the radio, and sent out a message on the civil band.

"Attention, you are in violation of restricted airspace," said Starscream, careful to pronounce the words exactly as Soundwave instructed.

"Oh, jeez," came the feeble reply. "I'm off course, then."

"I will escort you out of the area," he replied, passing the ultralight once more, making a slow turn southward. The ultralight complied and repeated his action, though its cloth wing was buffeted by a powerful gust.

"I think it's this wind that blew me off course," called the ultralight's pilot. "I don't have navigation signals out here. I took off from Red Pine Grove, could you get me back there?"

Starscream cursed under his breath and switched back to the Decepticon comms channel.

"This might take a while," he reported.

"Copy that, Knife One," replied Overcast. "I'll send Knife Three to cover your patrol area. Basket has nearly made it."

"Solid copy, over and out," replied Starscream, switching back to the civilian band. He hadn't studied enough of the survival English guide, but he had to make do with what he had.

"I can get you there. No further."

"That's all I need. Thank you, sir. You know, I always wanted to be a pilot," added the human that, as far as Starscream understood, was currently a pilot. "But the Air Force wouldn't take me. Bad eyesight."

Maybe that's why you flew off course, Starscream thought.

"I understand," is what he said.

"But I love flying. Loved it ever since I was a little kid. I wasn't going to let somebody stop me from getting up there. Up in the sky, you're free. There's nothing holding you down. But you know how that is."

"Yes," said Starscream, catching the meanings of a few of the pilot's words. He vectored his thrust upward, holding himself at a higher angle of attack, cutting his speed even more while staying aloft. This allowed him to get a closer look at the ultralight's pilot before passing them again. The human in some ways reminded him of the one from that first night, in that its face was lined with age. Its hair was not white, but a dull brown. Its face was softer around the edges- feminine.

"That's one of those new fighters, right? My daddy, he flew Mustangs. That's what I wanted to fly, but they're not around anymore."

The words might as well have been ancient Destron to Starscream's audio receptors, but he couldn't help be moved by them. This little creature, unaware of who or what he was, could sense the commonality between them. And he could sense it, too. They really were more alike than they were different.

For thirty minutes he stalled, looped, and doubled back, escorting the ultralight with an ungraceful flying limp. The whole time, the woman spoke; for a portion of it, Starscream listened. It wasn't for a lack of interest, but the language barrier. When he spotted the linear clearing in the endless forest below, he was disappointed. Disappointed that it had to end, that his connection to this human would end there, before he could hold a real conversation with her. She had reached out to him, after all. He loitered overhead while he watched the ultralight land, reconsidering his answer to Thundercracker's question.

"Thanks for the lift," she said, laughing.

"Yes," was all he could muster in response. He turned away, kicked back onto the afterburner, and climbed up through the clouds.

"Good to have you back on station, Knife One. I'll take it by the lack of gunfire that we weren't compromised?" speculated Overcast.

"No. Just a… Just a civilian. I escorted her out of the area."

"Took you long enough," snapped Skywarp. "Basket just landed. You got to sit out while the rest of us busted our tailfins up here. That's just the perks of being Air Commander at work."

Starscream wanted to protest, but couldn't bring himself to. He banked towards the landing zone as his wingmates formed up with him once more. He instead turned his focus to the task ahead.

"That's another mission for the books. Good work, Knife Team. Now we've got a new assignment- welcoming committee."

"I reckon I could rest my wings a spell," sighed Thundercracker wistfully.

They dropped down below the clouds and skimmed over the forest towards the hunched back of the huge transport ahead of them. One after another they cut their engines and transformed, landing between the trees in their robot modes. Starscream stood in the center, his tall, aggressively angled frame overshadowing the spindly Thundercracker and petite Skywarp. A sonic boom cracked overhead as Dirge arrived in the airspace, the Soviet bomber's wings swinging forwards to slow its descent before it converted into the fourth Seeker, who crashed through a swathe of forest before slowing himself enough to walk.

"Another classic Dirge landing," sniped Skywarp.

"Dirge lands in precisely the way he intends," answered the large robot emerging from the forest's remains, his bulky body dwarfing all three of the others. "Dirge's will cannot be restrained by the ground."

"I don't think it's your will that the ground's going to restrain," giggled the smallest Seeker.

"Dirge perceives a lack of faith in the fortitude of Dirge's will."

"I'm sure there's nothing wrong with your will's fortitude, Dirge," said Starscream, stepping in, "but you might want to tone down the landings a bit. If you make a mess every time you touch down, the humans will start to notice."

"Dirge will then limit his confrontations with this planet to more momentous occasions."

Starscream smiled and nodded, even though Dirge had completely missed the point. Knife Team might have been a mess, but they were his mess. They were family. Could a human be family?

The cargo doors of the dropship opened, and the cargo emerged. Constructicons, their broad shoulders and huge arms bearing new Earth vehicle shapes. They marched out and immediately set to work, their loud foreman immediately directing their surveyor to begin plotting the perimeter of their new project. Their scientist was familiar to Starscream- it was Mixmaster, who had no codex in her hand but did have an ugly-looking patch bolted over where her left optic should have been. A scowl of pure hatred was etched across her jaw. Starscream decided that now would not be a good time to exchange pleasantries. The final parcel to be delivered was the most important. Heavy boots clanked down the loading ramp as one last mech took his first footstep onto Earth. He looked around at the forest, took a deep breath in, and smiled.

"So this is Earth, then?" asked Megatron. "It seems like such a pretty place."

"I have to agree, comrade Megatron," said Starscream, snapping into a salute.

"You know, when the songwriters say the battlefields of the revolution will be beautiful, they weren't imagining this. I could admire this scenery all night, but we have some work to do first."

The Constructicon foreman fell silent, and his workers followed suit. They knew what was coming. Starscream was glad that he wasn't the only one to have picked up on the signals.

"Yes, my fellow Decepticons, tonight there will be no sight-seeing. There will be no daydreaming or idle chatter. Our lips will not move, but our feet will. Our hands will speak for us, our arms, our shoulders too. Tonight, the revolution will be drawn forward by the strength of our backs and the grease of our gears! Now our cause spans not worlds, but galaxies! On this fate-gifted world, we will make the proudest stand that a Cybertronian has ever made! We will change the course of our history! And that is reason to celebrate!"

A cheer burst forth from the crowd as fists rocketed into the air. Even Overcast opened the comms to whoop with the rest. When Megatron raised his hand, the raised voices descended, waiting.

"But we will not celebrate tonight. Tonight, we will earn our victory. Tonight…" he reached behind his back, removing a small cylinder. With a flick of his wrist, it expanded into a full-sized shovel. "… we dig."

"Unbelievable," growled RC. "Assaulting a superior officer, and what does she get? A slap on the wrist and cleanup detail. What kind of operation is this?"

The medic removed a tissue bonder stylus from a rack of precision instruments, tilting it sideways to check its battery charge.

"The kind that'd be easier if you weren't talking," she grunted, giving the device a flick, which activated the internal high-intensity laser. The medic stuck a finger under RC's lower lip and began to draw the damaged gums back together with the stylus. Her freckled face twisted into a grimace of concentration, which in RC's opinion was excessive for the task at hand. A few uncomfortable cycles later, and the medic withdrew her device, RC's mouth pleasantly vacant.

"You really got busted up in there. That rookie's got quite a punch."

"Hmph!" snorted RC, appalled that the medical staff would dare to compliment such reckless insubordination. She re-deployed her coat and stormed towards the medbay exit, but the medic whistled to get her attention once more.

"Hey, you're going to want to make sure that doesn't open back up again. I've got some advice."

"And what would that advice be?"

"Keep your mouth shut," grinned the medic.

RC reminded herself that she was a professional PROFESSIONAL professional and that most servicemechs and femmes probably harbored similar levels of resentment to Omnibots like her. On the surface, the Omnibot life seemed preferable to that of the GI. Omnibots got to jet around colony space, they had codenames and private ships, they had the latest gadgets and bleeding-edge augmentations. The Council rarely assigned Omnibots to the front lines- they were too valuable. They got cushy missions spying on enemies of the state, signals intelligence, and high-value target elimination- RC's forte. The perks were nice, but RC couldn't help but feel guilty about them. The Council had given her a penthouse in the center of Iacon after Schwarzwald, but spending time there felt wrong. Relaxing wasn't her job, keeping the empire safe was. And she was very, very good at it.

She hadn't always been, but that was what their training was for. She spent days being tortured in the way that she would later be allowed to torment others. Suspended from her fingers, beaten, electrocuted, holes drilled through flesh, dipped in acid, burned. She was thrown onto the Sea of Rust for three weeks with nothing but a knife and a shovel- she survived by ambushing a raider convoy, killing the crew, and arranging their remains to look like wreckage, which attracted more vulnerable raiders. She memorized the silhouettes of every vessel operated by the Decepticon navy and where their critical systems were, and how to breach them. Her body was reformatted countless times to study the combat techniques that came most naturally to fliers, destroyers, cruisers, and splitters, learning how to counter each. She watched film after film explaining the evolution of the Decepticon ideology, highlighting the corruption of its leaders, how many lives each one was responsible for ending. They even plugged a film or two right into the base of her skull, making all of the facts much clearer and easier to understand. She could recognize the face of any Decepticon power-player in a crowd- she was terrified one day to realize that, upon looking in a mirror, that she had a little discolored patch below her right eye that looked vaguely similar to one on the face of Megatron, so she immediately resolved the discrepancy by digging it out with her knife. Placing her thumb against the scar was some faint, ghostly connection to who she had been before, a person that had been surgically erased from her mind. It was a reminder that imperfections can always be corrected with enough force. RC stroked the scar gently as she headed for her quarters, contemplating how much force it would require to correct this disaster of a mission.

Offing that rookie would be a start. I'm certain I could make it look like an accident. Or I could get in touch with some of my underground contacts…

She considered various avenues of correction until she arrived at her quarters, just past the berth compartments. By her request, she and her bodyguards had been given the rooms normally reserved for officers. Either Prime was particularly generous, or he was just as much of a pushover as she had assumed he was. The small section of corridor opened into four separate compartments, but none of them were occupied at the moment, as the contractors were standing in the middle of the hallway. They had been paid for by the Council, so it was not RC's place to turn them down. The Lightning Strikeforce firm had a reputation for reliability and efficiency, and they had even sent along the unit's organizer to ensure maximum effectiveness. His name was Grimlock, and he seemed to be exactly the sort of mech that would run a private military company: Big servos, big knives, big guns. He had not spoken to her beyond clarifying the terms of their contract, and the handful of instructions she had already given him. But there he was, talking to his soldier.

"Are you feeling nervous?"

Grimlock's subordinate mumbled a half-discernable affirmative. She certainly didn't look nervous. She had a vast destroyer-type chassis, layered in armor, gun pods, and grenades. She was taller than him by a significant margin, and wider, too. If anything, it seemed like Grimlock would be nervous in her presence.

"Don't worry. We don't have much further to go. You won't be all cooped up anymore."

"Hmmm," she gurgled in response, sounding satisfied.

"Am I interrupting something?" asked RC. Grimlock turned away from his fellow mercenary and acknowledged RC with a curt nod.

"Scorn doesn't like long flights and tight spaces. She can get a little worried and a little cranky when she has to deal with it for too long."

"You said we didn't have much further to go?"

Grimlock gently brushed his fingers across Scorn's forearm and pointed towards one of the doors, which the larger robot reluctantly shuffled towards.

"It's what I heard when I passed by the bridge earlier. Prime and that rustbucket were discussing ETA. A solar cycle, and some change."

RC nodded back. This new planet would be the same as any other- it was environment with targets for her to eliminate. After she was done, she would leave. Of course, the things that happened between placing bullets inside of cranial casings and leaving was what made things more complicated, but she was not concerned.

"Anything else of note?"

"They mentioned the long-distance communications systems. Maybe that means something to a spook like you."

"It means they're probably going to try to negotiate," RC huffed. "And there's no way that will go well."

 

"Transwarp sequence complete," announced Wheeljack as the Axalon returned to normal space. In the distance, a sun flickered, seemingly alone, its system of planets not yet visible.

"Looks familiar," said Ironhide, swiveling in his navigator's chair to face his commander.

"It does indeed," agreed Optimus Prime. "It's time to begin Operation Chosen Stars. Science officer Breakthrough, begin long-range scans."

"Yes sir," replied Breakthrough, flipping switches at the sensor console.

"Wheeljack, remain on station and maintain course. Ironhide and I will draft our demands. We need not stain this innocent world with the blood of our wars."

The two haulers left the bridge, and Wheeljack switched to the navigator's chair.

"Is he really always like that?" asked Breakthrough, looking away from her displays.

Wheeljack locked the autopilot in and rotated the chair around. "What do you mean?"

"He talks like he's giving a speech."

"Yeah, that's normal," Wheeljack answered. "But he means every word of it."

"A lot of people don't take him very seriously," whispered the scientist, as if Prime was still in the room.

"They haven't met him. If they had, they wouldn't take him anything but seriously."

Carl looked down at the plate of nachos suspiciously. He didn't like the way the meat looked. The beef was ground too fine, creating a consistency that reminded him of dog food. But he wasn't in a position to complain. After all, he wasn't paying for the meal. He could put it in a to-go box, take it home, and let his dog decide whether it was palatable. Mike, on the other hand, was halfway through his plate.

"Damn, this is incredible," he moaned through a mouthful of chips.

"Uh-huh," agreed Carl unenthusiastically. Mike grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the tabletop dispenser and dragged them across his face, removing most of the cheesy debris.

"Whenever the boss picks a dive like this, you know she's got something big planned."

"She's probably just finishing that project for Boeing and wants to celebrate."

"Nah, she'd get the board in on that. This is something else, for sure," said Mike, before something on the far wall of the dimly-lit cantina caught his eye. "OK, here she is."

With a screech, she hauled an extra chair to the booth, awkwardly pushed her coattails out of the way, and sat down.

"What did I tell you? Pretty great, huh."

"It beats catering," grinned Mike.

"And the prices are so low," sighed Carl.

Mike eased back into the booth. "So what's the deal, Sari? Usually when you call us out to a joint like this, you've got something to announce."

"How perceptive, Mike. You've figured me out."

"So what is it? More military stuff? Or an app? Maybe a ride-sharing partner?" asked Carl.

"Good guesses, but no. It's not software."

"Hardware, then?" guessed Mike. "We're going to build motherboards for smartphones?"

A waiter set down a glass of what Carl assumed was horchata in front of Sari. She was clearly a regular here. "Not hardware, either."

Carl furrowed his brow. He had tried to rein in Sari before, and it had been fruitless. "Sumdac is a tech company. Are you telling me we're going to try to take on a whole new market?"

"My father founded this company to help people, and that's exactly what I plan on doing," said Sari, drinking her horchata.

"You might risk moving the whole company backwards," warned Carl.

"Not backwards," smiled Sari. "Sideways."

"Ugh, whatever," Carl groaned. "What is it?"

Sari cast a careful glance around the dark, smoky restaurant, drew a small vial from her coat, and placed it on the table. Inside was something pale and green.

"It's that promotional Shrek mustard? From back in the day?" wondered Mike.

"Better," whispered Sari, unable to contain her giddy grin. "It's blood."

Carl leaned in closer to examine the vial, then sat back up and massaged his forehead. "Sari, you and I both know that no animal has green blood."

"Not animals, Carl. Gods."

Chromia raised an eyebrow in concern. "Advice?"

"Yeah, like how to be good at… uh, this, you know," Airazor clarified, scratching at the back of her neck. The dorsal corridor of the Axalon was vacant as it only really led to the bridge and weapon emplacements, meaning it was a great place to avoid RC. Since Chromia patrolled the whole ship as Security officer, Airazor waited for her to pass through and took the opportunity to talk.

"You mean, a soldier? Ah, I couldn't help you there, sheila. I'm new to this yakka meself. When I was starting out, I was just a jillaroo. Then I worked my way up to stockfemme. And now I'm 'ere. Nary under a Nebulos sun goes as planned!"

Airazor nodded slowly, indicating to Chromia that she understood, and to herself that she had no idea what the other bot was talking about. Fortunately for her, Chromia's communicator began to ring, and the Nebulan quickly took the call, walking away with a cheerful wave goodbye and a short Nebulism that was equally incomprehensible. Airazor decided to hide in her bunk instead. It wasn't exactly stealthy, but it was out of the way.

She reached the rotating berth assembly and typed in her bunk number. It was like the chambers of a revolver, with a bed in place of each bullet. Each bunk was surrounded in transparent plastic, but using an electric current the panels could be turned opaque for privacy. They weren't fancy stasis chambers, but Airazor hadn't found them too uncomfortable. They were small, but cozy. And they had access to the ship's library, which had a few issues of Style By N2 on record. Airazor's bunk rotated into place and popped open. It was not as empty as she had expected- within was the reclining frame of RC. The Omnibot slowly turned her head to lock an icy stare onto Airazor.

"Well, if it isn't that insubordinate little scraplet," RC growled greedily. "Fancy meeting you here."

"This is my bed," Airazor protested, the rush of fight-or-flight chemicals leaving her lightheaded.

"That's what the medic's files said. She didn't even notice me reading them, but then again she was busy fixing my face. You know, the one you screwed up."

"I didn't mean to-"

"Shut up," RC hissed, vaulting out of the bunk. "I'm going to teach you a lesson. And we'll both save a lot of energy if you don't scream."

Airazor began to stumble backwards, but RC caught her by the throat.

"No, you're not going anywhere," RC grinned. "If you stay here I can make this look like an accident. It's not too hard to get caught between the bunks when they spin, I'd bet. All you would need to do is slip…"

With a surprising amount of force, the speeder-bot yanked Airazor to the deck, pushing her head towards the rotating assembly. Airazor struggled, but RC's thumb dug into a nerve and locked her body in pain.

"Oh, I have to say this has gone pretty smoothly. There's not even anybody around… to… hear," RC's voice trailed off. "Wait… where is… no," she gasped, letting go of Airazor. The flier was quick to respond, rising into an uppercut that knocked RC off the deck. As soon as her assailant returned to the ground, Airazor continued her retaliation, straddling the Omnibot to strike at her face again and again. RC wriggled an arm free and forced her palm into Airazor's gut, bringing the assault to an abrupt end as the stunned flier gasped for air.

"Get off of me, you idiot," roared RC, shoving Airazor away. She propped a foot onto Airazor's chest to ensure that she would not rise again. RC then snapped her nose back into place and wiped the fresh coat of blood from her lips. "They're all gone," she hissed. "I can't believe it. He's going through with it."

RC transformed into her speeder mode and raced away in the direction of the bridge, leaving Airazor coughing in a pile on the deck. Processing what had just happened seemed less important than RC's vague words. Who was going through with what? Anything that could stop RC in her tracks was something worth knowing. Airazor struggled to her feet and headed back towards the bridge. At the far end of the dorsal corridor stood Chromia, with an unconscious RC at her feet and a stun gun in her hands.

"Ah, there you are," said the security officer, waving Airazor her way. "Thissun's mad as a cut cybersnake. I was told she'd be coming this way."

Airazor nursed a bruise on her neck. "Wait, what?"

"Strewth! I was on orders to keep it quiet, but I'll give you the drum now that the whacker's out cold. The bossmech's in negotiations, through there," she gestured to the entrance to the bridge. "He knew she'd be up to no good and asked me to stop 'er. So I did."

"Negotiations?"

"He's trying to come to terms with the Decepticons. His goal is to arrest Megatron and bring that mongrel back to Cybertron for a proper trial. If it all works out, it makes our mission a piece of piss, really."

Airazor had assumed that they would capture Megatron like action heroes in a big-budget movie, but this made more sense when she thought about it. After all, they didn't have enough soldiers along to wage war on the 'Cons. Talking things over with them was probably the safest way to do things. And not all Decepticons particularly liked Megatron, especially after what happened in Apophenia- Airazor could still remember watching the footage on the news. But the prospect of an easy conclusion to the mission filled her with annoyance as much as it did relief. How was this supposed to help her figure out who she was, or where she was going in life? Nobody ever found themselves by sitting still in a cramped ship with an aftwipe trying to kill them.

The door to the bridge clicked open and the broad form of Ironhide emerged from within. He looked down and chuckled at the sight of RC's limp body.

"So she tried to muck things up after all," he sighed. "Good job, Chromia. Take her to the brig. I think she needs some time to calm down."

"No worries. How'd negotiations go?"

"It's not everything we wanted, but it's damn close. Megatron wants to have talks with Prime on his turf, but he's allowing a military escort. We're making planetfall in three solar cycles' time."

"We're closer than three solar cycles away," noted Chromia. "What's the delay for?"

"According to the Decepticons, the planet is inhabited by intelligent alien life."

"Holy scrap," Airazor breathed.

Ironhide nodded slowly. "Yep. The real, honest-to-Primus deal. Although I guess this proves he doesn't exist. Anyway, the point is we can't just up and waltz around on this planet. The 'Cons pulled a trick from the Autobot playbook and reformatted themselves to match local machinery. We're going to have to do the same. That's what the delay is for. Reformats all around."

Airazor bit her lip. She liked her transformat just the way it was, and if she let herself admit it, she was a little scared of the procedure. She had heard all sorts of awful things. But, she reminded herself, this was part of being a soldier. She didn't own her body anymore, the Autobots did. She wondered what an alien machine would look like. Maybe it would be grotesque, or maybe it would be beautiful.

"Will we have some choices?" asked the flier.

"I couldn't tell you yet. But if Megatron has his whole crew disguised, there's got to be a variety."

"Great," said Airazor. "Can I get my bunk number changed?"

The three solar cycles that followed were busy. Airazor signed up for the last possible reformatting slot, because she was scared of it. That meant that the other Autobots were occupied with their own procedures while she wasn't, so she had to cover for them. She was hastily taught how to man the point defense weapons, maintain the ship's autopilot, check the fuel lines, and re-stock the ration dispenser. As the other soldiers came out from reformatting, she was heartened to see that they didn't look too different. The pieces of their altmodes were a little more segmented, and they all featured some sort of glassed-off cabin, which she didn't understand until late on the last solar cycle.

"It's where the aliens sit when they operate the machine," explained Bumblebee after emerging from the reformat facilities. He flapped his new altmode doors open and closed to demonstrate. He transformed back to his robot mode, which placed the doors behind his shoulders, and he made a point of wiggling them there too. "Now I know what it's like for you fliers to have wings!"

Airazor didn't find the joke particularly funny. After all, the doors weren't wings.

"So they're pretty small, then?"

"Yeah, at least that's what the data packet we got from the 'Cons shows. They're about the size of a Splitter, maybe a little smaller. The reformat gave me all of these weird handles and levers and scrap. I guess that's what they use to pilot it."

"Weird," Airazor agreed.

"Well, I mean, the idea seems weird, but this new body… it feels really good. I don't know any way to explain it, other than that. Everything just seems better. I'm sure you'll be fine."

Ironhide swung around the corner, his new body doing nothing to hide his age. It was some kind of bulbous heavy-duty hauler, though some of its features made it seem a little impractical. His Active Armor had been hidden inside the machine's elaborate paintwork, which resembled tribal etchings.

"Bee, what did I tell you about flirting with Airazor?"

"Aw, shove it, old mech," snapped Bumblebee in response.

"Sorry, but I'm under orders not to shove it. Prime and the others are ready to head down to the surface. The Omnibot insisted on coming along. I need you to keep her in line. We can't risk something going wrong here."

Bumblebee wrapped his hands behind his head and groaned. "Well, you heard him. I'll catch you later, when you're wearing something exciting," he smirked, winking as he turned to leave. Airazor rolled her eyes and headed in for her turn under the knife. The reformatting facility was located aft of the berths but ahead of the engines. The room was large- rated for size class 6 mechs and femmes. Among the crew, only Broadside took full advantage of that space. In the center of the room was the operating table, which used beefy pseudoservo actuators to expand and accommodate the size of its occupant. Near the front of the room was a small console manned by Breakthrough, whose new body was an unusual combination of dull silver and matte-black chunks.

"Ah, Airazor! There you are! Ready to begin?"

"I hope so," she mumbled, stepping up towards the table, which shifted horizontally to allow her to slide onto its surface.

"There's no need to be afraid. I'm here to monitor everything. The process is… it's a little complicated. First, we administer a strong mutagen into your bloodstream. This is to guarantee that your body accepts the modifications as natural and doesn't try to reject them. We follow that with a set of custom-programmed nanomachines that will reshape your body to the new specifications, in this case, a machine from this planet. The nanomachines will feed off of medical-grade Cybertronium in order to add mass as needed. We'll put you under anesthetic to make sure you don't feel anything. Any questions?"

Airazor squirmed against the cold metal of the table. "Did you have to tell me how it worked?"

"Uh, no I just thought you would want to… it made things worse, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"Sorry. I'm familiar with reformatting systems, but I'm not a doctor. I mostly work with numbers. Why don't we not think about that and pick out the new you instead? We've got some from the data the Decepticons sent us and some from our own long-range scans. Pretty much everyone has picked from our own scans instead of theirs so far. It's probably smarter, since we'll avoid them having familiarity with our capabilities in advance."

Breakthrough pushed a few buttons, and a holoscreen appeared above Airazor's face. Several images blinked in, each one showing what looked like flier altmodes, though they all featured those same segments and little cabins for the tiny aliens to sit in.

"Default protocol is to keep you in your current size class. But if you want, you can be taller."

Airazor actually had once considered going up a size class, since a lot of the flier models in Style by N2 were leggier than her. However, she was nervous enough about the operation that she decided to keep things simple, and therefore safer. "I'll stay the same."

"All right. There aren't many options for fliers at your size class, but there are still a few. On the right side of the screen you're going to see a preview of how your transformat might change for each choice. This one is called 'Yak-130'."

A live rendering of Airazor's body appeared just where Breakthrough said it would, though it was now sporting the alien plane parts. It didn't look bad at all, but she wanted to make sure she saw all of the choices. She pointed at another image. "What about this one?"

"That one is… it's called 'L-15'. The specifications on it are stellar."

Breakthrough typed some more, and the preview appeared. It seemed a lot more aggressive than the first choice, which definitely was a look, but Airazor was certain it wasn't her look.

"Any others?"

"Sure. This one is called 'Scorpion'."

"Oh, wow," gasped Airazor as the new preview appeared. It was just the right blend of angles and softer curves- it felt like a reworked version of her current looks. "I think I'll go for that one."

"I'll lock it in," chirped Breakthrough, tapping away at the console. She moved to the table and drew a syringe. "Trust me, you'll wake up feeling brand new."

 

The Mojave Desert

South of Cadiz, California

July 6, 2016

An unlikely convoy sped down the road in the afternoon sun, chased by a trail of unrelenting dust and exhaust. A navy-blue semi was at point, followed closely by a hot hatchback and a particularly ostentatious pickup. Behind them was an off-road trim Subaru, and a shimmering purple Nissan Skyline. Bringing up the rear was a massive military recovery vehicle, towing a flatbed loaded with a main battle tank. A heavy-lift helicopter flanked the convoy, and glimmering on the horizon was the glare of an Air Force gunship's cockpit. Even a casual observer would know that something was very wrong about this set of vehicles, but they would not be able to conjure a fitting explanation. The Autobots were unconcerned about lasting impressions. They had a job to do.

"This is Broadside to ground forces, I've reached the loiter point and am holding position, over," fizzled the voice of the Wrecker over the comms channel.

"Copy that, Broadside," replied Optimus Prime. "All ground forces, commence operation. Roll out."

The semi swerved off the road into the desert, and the rest of its convoy followed. The vehicles settled down into a baked dirt valley, and began to split apart. The Skyline and recovery vehicle swung east and drove behind a hillock, where a cloud of their own dust shrouded their transformation into robot mode. RC waved the dirt away and braced her railgun against the slope.

"This is RC. Hurry your little date up. Some of us want off this rock as soon as possible."

Behind her, Grimlock stoically loaded rounds into his shotgun's magazine. "You really like to pick fights, don't you?"

"You're not being paid to ask questions," she hissed, calibrating her weapon's scope.

"I am being paid to keep you alive, which you keep making harder."

RC pulled back on the bolt and loaded a round into the railgun. Her helmet split apart, with two large chunks rotating down over her eyes to form a scan visor. "You haven't seen anything yet."

The heavy-lift helicopter broke off, away from the group, and hovered near the road.

"Lifeline here. I'm on standby outside of the mission zone. Just call if you need medevac."

"Everyone's in place, Prime," reported Ironhide, his International RXT altmode pulling up alongside the semi.

"Now we're just waiting on Megatron to show," said Chromia. "Providing he doesn't wuss out."

"Megatron is no coward. He will be here," replied Optimus Prime, slowly easing onto the brakes. The convoy came to a halt, and their trail of dust drifted away from them.

"Visual contact, ten miles and closing!" reported Broadside. "It's a flier, a big one!"

It was not long before the grounded Autobots could detect the coming presence too. The desert valley served as an amphitheater, boosting the volume of the incoming jet engines. Strobe lights pulsed through the only cloud in the sky, as a monumental aircraft emerged into view. It floated down towards the desert until it reached an altitude only a few meters from the sun-baked dirt. As it neared, its nose tilted upwards, separating from the rest of the fuselage. A dull-green wedge crawled out of the dark recess and tumbled to the ground, its form already shifting in the air. The huge aircraft returned its nose to its original position and blasted the Autobots with an assault of wind and sound as it departed over them, floating back up into the sky. The green form it had ejected rose up from its dust cloud, having reconfigured itself into a bulky robotic silhouette, with a coat billowing in the breeze.

"You wanted an audience, you have an audience," said Megatron. "Don't waste it."

Optimus Prime and his allies transformed into their own robot modes, but they did not ready their weapons.

"Megatron, the Council wishes for you to pay for your crimes against the Empire," intoned Optimus gravely. "If you surrender yourself to us, you will be taken to Cybertron to await your trial. The forces under your command will be allowed to remain here. They are not the Council's concern."

The former Decepticon leader crossed his arms in front of his chest and tilted his head with skepticism. "That is the offer you bring me? Optimus Prime, I thought better of you."

"It is the offer I have been ordered to present."

"Ordered, yes, that's right. You don't make the orders anymore, they give them to you. Funny how their respect for your rank only extends as far as your loyalty, isn't it?"

"We are not here to debate my rank," said Optimus sternly.

"Come on, Optimus. I had faith in you, in that name of yours. I had faith you would choose the right path. And you did! Until the Council slapped you on the wrist. You, the most powerful mech in the galaxy, no, the universe! You, who commanded legions, who directed navies, who ruled the skies, were laid low by a room of fat leeches. They told you 'no' and you sniffled like a disobedient child and got back in line. To think it is you they sent, to tell me to end my revolution. This revolution should not have been mine, Optimus, it should have been yours."

"I am offering your troops amnesty," said Optimus, his voice as calm and grave as always.

"Amnesty? No, I think you and I know better. You'll take me to the gallows on Cybertron, and then a colony fleet will glass this planet and every mech and femme on it before setting up a jewel mine. Don't pretend otherwise."

Optimus Prime stood silent. Bumblebee looked to his leader for some sign, but found none. Ironhide frowned. Chromia twitched her fingers idly, forming the shape of her revolver's grip.

Megatron took a step forward, opening his arms. "Optimus Prime, I am not here to tell you what you already know. I am also not here to accept your offer. I am here to make a counter-offer. Listen closely to my words, and consider them well."

Behind the distant hillock, RC carefully shifted her aim from the head of Megatron to the head of Optimus Prime. She tightened her trigger finger to a half-pull, her directed audio receptors listening in for treason.

"I have a Destron cruiser parked behind this planet's moon. I have nearly one hundred soldiers at my disposal. I have already assembled a base of operations. We detected the ship you flew here in, it's hardly a threat to us. You probably have the whole crew here right now. You see, Prime, you were never in a position to bargain to begin with. The Council didn't send you here to bargain, Prime. They sent you here to die. You are no longer useful to them. In fact, you're an obstacle. That's why they need you out of the way."

"Is he right, Prime?" asked Bumblebee. Optimus held up a hand to quiet him.

"I am right," Megatron replied. "The Council has killed for far more insignificant offenses. But a Prime, well, that's different. A Prime dying in a stateroom in Iacon is too suspicious. But send him out on a mission as far away as possible, to a planet no one knows anything about, chasing down the notorious terrorist Megatron? Why, it's only logical he would die there! They even get a martyr, to boot. Optimus Prime died learning that you cannot negotiate with Decepticons! It all works out so nicely for them, it's poetic. But it doesn't have to end that way, Prime."

"What are you suggesting?" asked the towering blue leader-mech.

"In simplest terms, an alliance."

Ironhide and Optimus exchanged a quick glance. Megatron continued.

"I have come to this planet seeking the answers to life, and I have not come away empty-handed. This planet is teeming with creatures, ones that think and talk and look just like us. These aren't aliens, Prime, they're our relatives. And our common progenitor was an artifact of unimaginable power, the Allspark. It's here, somewhere on this world, hidden. All we need to do is find it, and we can create a utopia on Cybertron and beyond! A world with infinite life, with no need for classes or exploitation. No Council to dictate our lives. No war, no hunger, and no hatred. Look me in the optics and tell me that's not something bigger than the badges we wear. It's the future of our species, of all species. We'll find this Allspark and together we will return to Cybertron, overthrow the Council, liberate the colonies, and secure eternal peace. THAT is my counter-offer."

Optimus sighed. "Megatron, I understand what you are trying to achieve. I also understand my current position. However, we cannot deny that there is blood on your hands. I must deliberate further with my allies."

With that, Optimus Prime turned around to ask Ironhide his opinion.

RC decided she had heard enough, and pulled the trigger.

The breeze, and a slight nod from Optimus, meant that the bullet missed its intended mark and instead streaked past Megatron's temple.

The first shot of the new war was a miss.

"Well, that is unfortunate," said Megatron as the echo of the gunshot began to subside.

"Oh, scrap," whimpered Bumblebee.

"That Omnibot glitch," growled Ironhide.

"I believe that concludes negotiations," mused Megatron, his demeanor shockingly calm. "I have retracted my offer. If you reconsider, let me know. Until then, I have a mission to complete, and I can't have you sending word back to the Council and getting this planet glassed." He placed two fingers along the side of his helmet. "Knife Team, bring the ship down. Decepticons, attack!"

The desert seemed to bloom with color as several mounds of dirt lifted way, revealing themselves to be no more than camouflage sheets over waiting Decepticon soldiers. As far as Optimus could tell, there were only ten, barely more than what he had brought. But they were already positioned to flank, at the edges of the valley, and there was no cover. He turned to the Autobots and announced his plan.

"Run," he ordered, before charging directly at Megatron.

As Optimus tackled the Decepticon to the ground, Bumblebee and Chromia transformed back into vehicle mode and retreated as fast as their new engines and transmissions would take them. Ironhide hung back, allowing his Active Armor to soak up bullets for his allies.

"Get to the road!" the old soldier shouted over the comms channel. "We need to drive back to the dropship!"

"I'm going, I'm going," yelped Bumblebee, swerving away from an explosion he guessed was a mortar shell.

"Bugger," swore Chromia, as debris from a similar blast sprayed against her doors.

"Omnibot, I MIGHT not kill you if you can take out that mortar," growled Ironhide.

RC ducked underneath the hillock as a spray of bullets eroded the dirt above her head.

It's not over, she reminded herself. I can still kill him. I can kill every Primus-forsaken 'Con on this rock. Then I can call back to the Council. I can get out of here. And… I'll start with that mortar.

She pulled the bolt on the railgun back and loaded another round. After the gunfire subsided, she popped back up and located the vertical barrel of a distant mortar, and soon found the head of the soldier operating it. She fired once more, compensating for the wind this time, and watched the distant cranium dissolve into a shower of blood. RC backed away from her scope and was immediately tackled by different Decepticon, a blue mech with bad teeth and a large knife. He snarled and lifted his blade, put paused as he looked down at her.

"Hey, your face-"

Grimlock cut him off by ramming a shotgun into his stomach, which pinned him against the hillock. The big hauler then fired, perforating the Decepticon's insides.

"Okay, I've seen something now, haven't I?" Grimlock grunted.

RC gave the mercenary the stinkeye and slung her railgun over her shoulder. "Hitch up your brute and let's move. We need to clear out the position on the other side of the valley."

Grimlock gave the tank a gentle pat. "She doesn't mean it," he whispered, before doing as he was told.

Optimus slugged Megatron in the face, but the Decepticon's jaw was tougher than he anticipated. Megatron kneed Optimus in response and sent him sprawling in the dirt, though the blue bot quickly rose to his feet.

"I find your diplomatic strategy lacking," smiled Megatron, drawing two automatic pistols from holsters on either side of his hips. Each weapon moved in a silky arc until the Decepticon held both guns in an unorthodox martial arts pose. "Artfire-ryu gunkata… are you familiar with it? They teach it to all of the Omnibots."

"I'm about to get a lesson on it, I'm sure," muttered the Autobot commander. Megatron lunged at Optimus, swinging his right-hand gun in a sideways chop. Optimus blocked with his left arm and had barely enough time to raise his right leg and block the second gun, which approached at a lower trajectory. Thus deflected, Megatron charged through Optimus' arms with his shoulder, knocking the hauler back. He then twisted into a reverse roundhouse kick. The Prime saw through the telegraphed attack and caught Megatron by the boot, only to find that the Decepticon now had both weapons trained on him. Optimus quickly threw Megatron's leg upward, and the Decepticon leader elegantly somersaulted to his feet.

"A revolution isn't built on words or ideas alone," said Megatron coolly. "I spent years training in the arts of war, knowing that martial force was a necessity!"

"Martial force is never a necessity," replied Optimus Prime, deploying his battle mask. "It is only ever chosen as the simplest way of resolving conflict." He unclipped his survival axe from its storage rack on his left shoulder.

"I should have known you preferred things simple, Prime," Megatron hissed, charging back into the fray.

Bumblebee, Chromia, and Ironhide skidded back onto the pavement and began to pick up more speed.

"PRIMUS, that was a scrapstorm," wailed Bumblebee.

"We ain't out of the woods yet," warned Ironhide as an up-armored Challenger 2 chugged into the middle of the road ahead of them. Its heavy, segmented armor broke apart as it became a towering Decepticon warrior, who leveled his 120-millimeter smoothbore gun at the approaching vehicles and fired. The Autobots broke formation just in time to avoid the massive crater the tank round blasted into the road. Bumblebee's Fiesta ST altmode tipped over under the hard turn and rolled off of the road, forcing him to transform back into robot mode. Chromia's wheels kept their grip just enough to stay grounded as she converted, snapping her hand to her revolver and peppering the tank-bot with three rounds. Each shot ricocheted away uselessly. Ironhide came to a halt before transforming.

"A fraggin' Destroyer?" moaned Bumblebee. "Just kill me now!"

"Don't waste your ammo, his armor's too thick for our peashooters. We need air support!"

"This is Broadside, I copy, but I'm preoccupied," came the reply on the comms. "Three flier fast-movers just entered the airspace. I'm dead meat without any fighter presence! I'm pulling back from the mission area!"

"Scrap," swore Ironhide, switching channels on his communications array. "This is Ironhide to Axalon, Ironhide to Axalon, over! We're engaged with Decepticon forces and have no fighter support! Get Airazor down here, ASAP!"

Ironhide finished the call and ducked underneath another blast from the tank-bot. The huge mech slammed a fist against his chest and let out an impassioned scream.

"There's more where that came from, Imperialist scum!"

Ironhide pulled a chip of asphalt out of his armor and let out a roar of his own before taking off at a sprint towards the Decepticon, driving a fist into an unarmored spot on his gut. This forced the tank-bot to stagger backwards and cough in pain.

"And there's more where that came from, too, you overgrown pillbox!"

Before dodging the Decepticon's next attack, Ironhide briefly looked up towards the sky. For a moment, he remembered the last time he had prayed.

 

Well RC started a war. Good job idiot.

 

"…Airazor? Aaaaairazor? Come on, I know you're coming to. Come on. Airazor."

The ceiling was familiar. It was the reformatting facility, she recalled. Yes, that was what she was doing before she had fallen asleep. She felt so, so tired, and woozy. She really wanted to go back to sleep, but that voice kept pestering her.

"Airazor, wake up. I need to talk with you. It's urgent. You don't need to move, you just need to listen. Can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me."

Airazor had no choice but to blink. Her arms and legs felt strange. Not numb, but something else. Resistant. Heavy.

"Good, good. I need you to stay calm and listen closely. You are perfectly healthy. You're one-hundred-percent functional. But something happened during the reformatting… again, you're fine! It's just that there was a little… hiccup."

"Whuhh," groaned Airazor, trying to form words. "Whuh hiccuh?"

"I tried to stop it, but- near the start of the process, the nanomachines encountered some feedback. I'm not sure why, but it changed your altmode selection. I couldn't get it to go back, and, uh, it completed like that."

Airazor tried to move her head, but it also felt heavier. "Imma… Imma flier, right?"

"Oh, yes, dear, you're still a flier. But the system didn't give you the one you picked. You're a little… bigger."

The flier put all her might into lifting her head, and managed to glimpse Breakthrough below her. When she had started the operation, they were nearly the same height.

"How bad is it?"

"You're a class 4C now."

"Oh scrap."

"Now don't fret! Your reformat is completely operational. Your servos have been increased in size to handle the extra mass, and your inner audio receptors should be adjusting their fluid levels for balance right now."

"I don't want to be a 4C, I'm huge, ohhh Primus noooo," sobbed Airazor.

"Airazor, it's very foolish to place so much value on someone's size. I once knew this handsome young man who was a class 8, and such a looker! In fact, your new transformat looks a little like his."

"Great, great," groaned Airazor noncommittally. She was feeling less tired now, and heaved herself up into a sitting position, from which she could begin to survey the damage. Her chest and torso looked about the same, but her shoulders had grown in size and weight. Each one now featured a large thruster nozzle emerging from the far end. Her arms looked similar, but now her wings were collapsed along the underside of her forearms, into a long, clumsy-looking protrusion. "What exactly did it end up picking?"

"The system says it's called 'Su-38', but there's absolutely no data on it at all, no specifications, no history, nothing. It looks very similar to some of the other class 4C options like 'Su-27' and 'Su-33'."

"That has literally no meaning to me," grunted Airazor as she pushed herself up to her feet. She definitely felt much heavier, but her body mostly moved like it did before.

"I'm sorry if you don't like it, Airazor, but there was nothing I could do."

"It's all right. I can get changed back when we get back to Cybertron."

"Of course," smiled Breakthrough. "Don't worry about it."

She was given plenty of reason to worry when the ship's deck suddenly rose to meet her face. The lights flickered, and buckling metal could be heard through the bulkheads. Breakthrough screamed.

"What's going on?" asked Airazor, prying her cheek off the floor.

Red emergency lights replaced the previous white ones, and klaxons began to sound. Wheeljack raced through the door to the reformatting facility.

"Guys, we just-" he spotted Airazor. "Wow, that's an upgrade."

"We just what," Airazor snarled.

"Right- we just took a hit to the engines from some kind of long-range missile. There were three fliers on radar and they're headed away now, but- but we're going down! I can't maintain orbit with the power we have left!"

Unbelievable. I came all this way, and went through all of this scrap, just to die in a tin can in space, raged Airazor internally. This can't be it. I can't die here. I have to find out who I am.

"Can you land the ship?" she asked.

"I'm fighting this planet's gravity with barely any maneuvering thrusters… I might be able to put us down, but it won't be pretty," Wheeljack replied.

"Ugly is better than nothing," said Airazor, looking down at herself.

The emergency klaxons halted as a global comms broadcast replaced them.

"This is Ironhide to Axalon, Ironhide to Axalon, over! We're engaged with Decepticon forces and have no fighter support! Get Airazor down here, ASAP!"

"Okay, here's what we're going to do," commanded Airazor, rising to her new full height. "You two are going to land this ship as far away from the aliens as you can. I'm going to get in an escape pod and launch myself towards Ironhide."

"That's insane!" cried Wheeljack.

"Do you have a better idea?" asked Breakthrough. Wheeljack seemed stunned, but quickly steeled himself.

"Okay, we'll give it a shot. It's the only one we have."

"I'll make it count," said Airazor, giving the smaller bots a thumbs up. "I'll see you two later. Breakthrough, you're going to tell me all about your big boyfriend, okay?"

"Sure!" she cheered. So they put their plan into motion. Airazor moved through the large-size corridors to the escape pods and clambered into one, making sure to adjust the restraints for her new bulk. It was annoying, but she had to live with it now. She made a plan to smack Bumblebee the next time she saw him- all of that 'everything seems better' stuff had been a load of scrap. She definitely did not feel better. Not physically, at least. But in her Spark, she felt on top of the world. She had just issued commands to save a dying starship! That had to count for something.

She punched in the coordinates that Wheeljack had given her and watched the hatch snap shut. With a jarring jolt, the escape pod blasted away from the Axalon. She could see the ship racing away from her though the escape pod's small viewing panes. A huge gash had swallowed the back half of the vessel, and was now crackling with electricity. Debris clouded around it like a swarm of devouring insecticons. 'Wheeljack is good with machines' was the line of thought that guided her plan. Hopefully he was as good as she imagined.

The pod tumbled towards the planet below, its thrusters automatically rotating it and adjusting her course. She didn't plan on riding it all the way down, however. Once the altimeter hit 3 kliks, Airazor pulled the emergency release. Her restraints snapped off, and the hatch opened, sucking her out into the sky of this strange new world. She spun and flipped, feeling the air across each of her new aerodynamic surfaces. It filled her with a kind of joy she hadn't experienced for a long time, like being a little kid playing around in the clouds again. She would have stayed in free-fall forever, but she had a job to do. She tried flexing her new ailerons and almost immediately righted herself. That was strange- she felt so much heavier, but she could roll and change directions much faster than she could in her previous body.

I wonder what else I can do. I should transform…

She attempted to transform, cautiously moving her body along the points of her old transformat. When she felt something obstruct her path, she tried a different direction. Each change did feel heavier than before, but also more satisfying. The momentum of each action carried into the next, and her reconfiguration felt much easier, even though it had more steps. She stretched her shoulders back, further than they went before, until they clicked into place behind her back. She twisted her torso one hundred and eighty degrees and curled her chest inwards, forming a straight line down her toes. She then flung her legs backwards and pulled her calves into her thighs as her new engine assemblies opened up, connecting to her shoulders. Her tail binder, which was much larger now, folded down and locked into place as her nosecone. She tucked her arms along her sides and collapsed her ungainly wing growths in until they became a pair of graceful, swanlike wings. Finally she pulled her head in, and began to see through her secondary sensors.

"Oh, wow, this is…" she found herself stammering aloud.

It's incredible, she thought. She rescinded her promise to smack Bumblebee, he was right. A swarm of data collected around the edges of her jet-mode vision. She had missiles now, and a cannon. She had flares and chaff, countermeasure systems. She had not one but two radars, one forward and one aftward. She had ECM- she had no idea what ECM even was. Her new engines roared to life, pulling her forward, telling her they had plenty of power to spare. She tried an aileron roll and found she spun even faster than robot mode. She tried a loop and discovered she could nearly spin in place! She didn't just feel incredible, she felt invincible. She tried to remind herself that she wasn't, but then seriously considered the possibility that she was. She turned towards the mission area, rolled once more for good measure, and began the short flight down.

Overcast's regularly-scheduled message came a little earlier than Locktone expected.

"Razor Team, check in."

Locktone opened the comms and replied. "This is Razor One here. We're all in the clear and that flying pig is staying far away from the battlefield. Any reason you need our report early?"

"Maybe he's getting antsy, up there all alone," suggested Skyjack.

"That's a negative, Razor Two," replied Overcast. "An unidentified object just entered the atmosphere five kliks to the north. Its radar signature matches most closely with a Sukhoi Su-37 air superiority fighter."

"So there are humans inbound?" asked Wingload.

"The key word is unidentified, Razor Three. Until we know for sure, play it safe. Do not engage unless fired upon."

"That sucks, but whatever," sighed Skyjack. "When's Knife Team coming back? I'd feel better with them around."

"Shove it, Skyjack. We don't need those overblown gloryhogs clogging the airspace any more than they already are," snarled Locktone.

"Maybe you could avoid bringing that up," warned Wingload. "It's a sore spot for Lockie."

"I bust my ball bearings to push my scores higher than any Decepticon flier in history, and pretty-boy swoops in and steals the Hero of the Revolution award," Locktone grumbled. "It's not fair, old man."

"You can rest easy knowing you'd beat him in a dogfight, though," Wingload noted.

"Now there's a matchup I'd kill to see! Starscream versus Locktone, battling it out to become king of the skies!" mused Skyjack.

"He'd turn it down," sneered Locktone. "He'd say 'king' was too bourgeois for a title. Fragging party-line prick."

"I hate to break up your discussion, Razor Team, but that bogie just entered the mission area," Overcast warned. "Redirect and intercept immediately."

"What about that gunship?" asked Skyjack.

"I'll direct Knife Team to keep it at bay if I have to. You have your assignment, get on it."

"Copy that, Lookout," grunted Locktone. The F-14D banked to the north, and it was followed by its F/A-18E and F-8E wingmates. The Navy planes streaked over the Mojave until they could see the glint of a distant cockpit in the sky.

"Eyes on," reported Locktone. "Prepare for intercept."

They carefully guided themselves into a tight formation behind the bogey as they closed in. Overcast's report did seem to be correct, it looked like the little picture labelled 'Su-37' in their spotting manuals. This one was wearing bright demonstrator colors, however, and it seemed to have a slightly different engine assembly.

"I'll handle this," said Locktone before switching his radio to the civilian band.

"This is the United States Navy. You are entering a restricted airspace. Please turn back." Only after he had said the words did he realize he had spoken the wrong language.

"Oh, is it? I didn't know. I also didn't know the aliens spoke Cybertronian," replied the unidentified jet.

"It's an Autobot!" shouted Wingload. "Break!"

The F-14D and F-8E split away from the Autobot fighter, but the F/A-18E stayed directly on its tail.

"No way! I've got a perfect shot lined up," crowed Skyjack.

"Get out of there, kid! You don't know what she's capable of!" Wingload protested.

"Come on, I'm just about to have a-" Skyjack paused as he watched the large fighter tilt nose-up, somersault backwards, and settle into level flight directly behind his tail. "-lock," he whispered.

"Gotcha," sang Airazor, as her new cannon tore through Skyjack's left wing and vertical stablilizer. The F/A-18E teetered in place for a moment, until the damage to his wing forced it to snap off in a spray of oil, fuel, and blood. The entire aircraft fell from the air like a stone, with Skyjack's screams present through the comms until his fuselage hit the desert floor, exploding into flames. Then, silence.

Locktone switched the comms back to the civil band, and spoke softly.

"Hey, Autobot… when I'm done with you, all they'll be able to find will be a smear on the dirt."

"Don't try anything stupid, kid," advised Wingload.

"Shut up, old man."

Locktone pulled his wings back into full sweep and engaged his afterburners. He had downed Aerialbot punks before. They always had a tendency to think too highly of their own abilities, and this femme seemed to suffer from similar symptoms. He closed in, but the Autobot flier dove downwards, into the weathered Mojave hills. Locktone had no choice but to follow. He had to beat her at her own game.

The blue-and-white fighter leveled out at an altitude of a half-klik or so, dangerously low for her current speed. Locktone didn't care. He was going to show her up and make her pay. He followed her movements, trying to predict her course. South meant she was headed for the battle, but her nose was definitely not pointed towards Cadiz. She instead darted into a series of worn gray mountains, lazily banking and drifting between the peaks. This did not slow Locktone down, but it did throw off his aim. He had wanted to finish her off with the cannon, but he lamented that a missile would be a better option. He armed a Sidewinder and his systems immediately reported a lock.

No sooner had the missile locked on than the Autobot halved her speed, then quartered it, and stalled to a stop in midair, transforming into her robot mode. Locktone attempted to slow himself, but found that he could not mimic her sudden stop. She raised her left arm and struck him beneath the fuselage, tossing him into an uncontrollable backflip. Locktone panicked and switched to robot mode, halting the spin but giving the Autobot an opportunity to kick him in the stomach. He sailed back into a waiting mountainside, stunned. She hovered in the air a moment longer, oddly staring at herself instead of him, before transforming back and jetting away.

Wingload gracefully touched down on the mountainside below Locktone, his weapon drawn.

"She's gone," Locktone sighed.

Wingload nodded and holstered his pistol. "It's been a while since I saw you get your aft handed to you."

"I think last time, it was you doing the aft-kicking," groaned the younger mech.

"Damn straight," chuckled the veteran flier. "Let's get you out of here. This is Razor Three to Lookout, we're down two fliers and in need of medevac. The Autobot bandit is en route to the combat zone. You'll need to direct someone else into the area for support."

"Copy that, Razor Three," replied Overcast. "I'm vectoring medevac to your location now."

"They had better not send Knife Team," coughed Locktone.

"Beggars can't be choosers, kid."

Between the whitish sky that touches the ground and the cold black of the upper atmosphere was a layer of crystal-clear blue. It was one of Starscream's favorite places to cruise and think, and he had a lot to think about today. The Autobots had tried to negotiate, but then attacked anyway. Optimus Prime was with them, which raised further questions. It certainly made carrying out Shockwave's orders more difficult. Megatron's orders, on the other hand, were easy to accomplish. He had carried an anti-satellite missile to the edge of his altitude ceiling, locked onto the Autobot ship, fired, confirmed the hit, and headed back down. It was a simple mission, cut-and-dried. By staying within the atmosphere, he didn't even risk getting hit by the ship's weapons. Skywarp and Thundercracker might as well have stayed at the forward operation base. Skywarp was aware of this, and made it abundantly clear.

"Ugh, that climb took a lot out of me," she groaned.

"I reckon I could use a rest as well," added Thundercracker.

"That's up to Overcast," answered Starscream. "Knife One to Lookout, over. Mission complete."

"This is Lookout, Knife One. You're needed in the mission area. Razor Team is down."

"Wait, what?" asked Skywarp. "What do the Autobots have, an anti-air battery?"

"Negative. One flier entered the airspace and engaged Razor Team."

"Just one flier… it must be some kind of Aerialbot ace," pondered Thundercracker.

"Knife Two and Three aren't in shape for a dogfight," said Starscream. "I've got plenty of fuel in the tank, however. If you can secure a flight path back to the FOB for them, I'll take care of your Aerialbot problem."

"Solid copy, Knife One. Glad we could work something out."

Starcream banked away from his wingmates, heading for the mission area.

"Hey, stay safe down there, ya hear?" called Thundercracker.

"You don't have anything to worry about," huffed the Seeker leader, though he was unsure of his words.

Though she had made sure to keep it a secret from her mother, Airazor had tried simultronics once with Split-S. The idea was that the drugs in the patch caused your processor to send out nothing but pleasure signals, and that sensation would drift down into the rest of your body. It was a thrilling high, but eventually it wore off and caused her to throw up, over and over. The high she was feeling now, as she raced only a few meters from the desert floor, was not wearing off. In fact, every discovery she made about her new body only seemed to push that euphoria further. She had never shot a gun before, but picking off the slow-by-comparison Decepticon was a thrill. He had probably landed and was cursing himself for not being as fast as she was. And the second one seemed slow, too, as she nonchalantly knocked him out of the sky. And she wasn't just faster. When she had kicked him, her servos felt like an explosion, the actions' speed an intensity completely beyond anything she had experienced before. She was stronger, much stronger. Her giddy daydream of invincibility was quickly becoming a verifiable fact. She was fine with being big now. This body was unreal.

She adjusted her rudder and nudged her nose slightly more southward while testing out her internal comms systems. "This is Airazor, uh… hello? Is this the right channel?"

"Copy that, Airazor," replied the rumbly voice of Broadside. "Glad you could make it. Nice job handling those 'Cons."

"Oh, thanks. It was really… it was nothing."

"I'm moving in to provide support. Keep any other Decepticons you see off my tail."

"All right, will do! Keep Ironhide safe!"

Ahead of her, a grey dot widened into the form of a banking gunship, drifting towards a dusty road. Though her head was stuffed into her new altmode, she was sure she was grinning. She was good at this. Every movement, every action made sense to her, and she could execute them quickly and naturally. She had made the right decision. Being an Autobot was her calling. It had to be.

That charming thought was interrupted by a vicious impact on her right side. It was the hardest she had ever been hit in her life, and her new body did little to soften the blow. Unable to fight against the attack, she spun to her left. She strained against her ailerons to attempt to regain control of her flight, but try as she might, she could not recover. She transformed back into robot mode and swung her limbs to counteract the force, eventually bringing herself into a stable hover. The entire right half of her body, particularly her arm and leg, felt sore. She scanned left and right, trying to find the source of the attack. A shadow passed over her, and she looked up to find a silhouette blocking the sun. From within the darkness glowed two green spheres.

"So you're the one who wiped Razor Team," it said, creasing its mouth into a frown. It was a flier-mech, hovering with his arms crossed and his back to the sun. His flight was remarkably stable for someone with foot-mounted thrusters, as opposed to her back-mounted ones- no doubt he had trained to achieve this. The closer Airazor observed him, the more striking he became. He was young, probably around her age. He was covered in sharp creases and angles, but none of them seemed jagged. His bright eyes were inviting and accented by two fashionable Camien-style facial tattoos. His servos bulged just enough to accent his trim, tall body. He was gorgeous. She had spent time with Style by N2 mech-model articles far less attractive than him. He did, however, have a Decepticon emblem above his left chest intake.

"Oh, wow," she mumbled.

"Hmm… no, an Aerialbot would be shooting at me right now. So you're not an Aerialbot," he mused, stroking his fantastic, boyish chin.

"No, I'm… I'm not," Airazor continued to mumble. In movies, Decepticons weren't pretty. But this one certainly was.

"My next guess would be that you're an idiot."

"Wait, what?"

"Definitely an idiot. You're some poor ditz who thought joining the Autobots would make your life easier. Your job, your identity, your life, handed to you as orders. You don't have to do any of the thinking. That definitely is who you are. But it doesn't answer how you took out Razor Team."

He snapped down, un-blocking the sun, forcing Airazor's hands to her eyes briefly. It was just enough time for him to swing a kick into her side, sending her rolling through the air. Airazor grunted as the pain shot through her left side. Yes, he was very cute. But she couldn't let herself get distracted. He was an enemy soldier, and she wasn't going to be asking him out on dates anytime soon. She did, however, consider that possibility.

"What have you got? It's not stealth, I know that. I have you on radar right now. And those missiles don't look like anything special. You're not cocky like an ace pulling a hustle. So what is it?"

He boosted towards her for another kick, but Airazor fired her own thrusters and deftly scrambled under the attack. The Decepticon wheeled back around, eyeing her with suspicion.

"So you've decided to wake up. Good. Maybe I'll get some answers out of you."

The Decepticon charged back in, swinging for a punch. Airazor dashed past the blow, but he immediately repositioned himself for another, which connected with the center of her chest. As a twitch reaction, she shot her own right arm forwards and struck him across the face. She had to stop herself from apologizing. The Decepticon reeled back and extended his right arm. A small panel slid open, releasing a short burst of cannon fire. Airazor dodged once again, as an undercurrent of fear began to swell underneath the euphoria of this new body. She might have thought she was invincible, but she didn't really want to find out if that was true. She transformed into her jet mode and spooled her engines up to full reheat, zipping away from the Decepticon.

If I can just get some breathing room, I'm sure I'll be able to trash this guy, just like the others. Just breathe, Airazor, you'll be fine.

A harsh, repetitive warning tone told her a different story. It was a missile lock. He was too far away to try the same trick she had used before. She had to try something else. She kept her speed up and banked towards the east. The tone shifted into a rapid series of beeps, warning her that the missile had been launched. She saw the thin, smoky trail rise from the pursuing jet.

Come on… a little more…

She forced herself faster, feeling the thick low-atmosphere air push back against her like a gelatinous wall, curling around her wings as wispy vortices. Her spark was racing. Her plan would solve several problems at once, but it was beyond risky. If it didn't work, she was dead- and she had no idea if it even could work. The missile closed in further. She could see its white tubular form leading the smoke trail.

Now.

She transformed back into robot mode once more, and raised her tail binder. She concentrated and fired her cannon backwards, directing a burst into the missile's path. A cannon round clipped the missile, which exploded into a glowing orange fireball. She switched into jet mode immediately after and again pushed her engines to full reheat, flying directly towards the explosion. The g-forces pulled at her, clawing her blood away from her vital organs, but she forged onwards, flying into the flames.

Starscream raced towards the explosion. The missile had hit, but he wasn't certain that the Autobot had been dealt with. She didn't fight like a normal Aerialbot and she didn't act like one either. She was unpredictable, but unpredictability often waned under close scrutiny. As Starscream approached, he heard a whine from within the conflagration.

"Scrap," he swore.

The massive Flanker ripped through the smoke and rolled into a knife-edge pass, shrieking past only inches from Starscream's right wing. The Seeker, stunned, cranked back hard instead of entering the dissipating smoke. The Autobot nosed up into a stall and transformed as she crested the arc, tumbling back down towards him in robot mode. Starscream transformed as well, and the two fliers collided in an opposing grapple two kliks from the desert below.

"Just who the hell do you think you are?" grunted Starscream, pushing back against his opponent, trying to overwhelm her thrusters.

"You can call me Airazor," she smiled, leaning forwards. "Would you like my number?"

"What?" asked Starscream, before Airazor kneed him in the gut. She pushed her thrusters to full power and toppled him, following with a firm boot to the chest. He began to fall, but Airazor wanted to keep the momentum up. A pressure built in her shoulders and two panels opened to reveal ranks of small warheads. A message in her heads-up display read "MICROMISSILES READY".

"Oh, these are new," she murmured before locking every one of the tiny missiles onto Starscream and firing. They arced away like a spread of fireworks, each micromunition spiraling along its own path, jolting back and forth as they sought their target. Starscream transformed into his F-22 mode and forced himself back into controlled flight. Airazor changed modes and gave chase as well, trailing her missiles as they followed the Seeker's movements. He banked and dove, swooped and rolled, pirouetting out of the way of each tiny missile's proximity trigger. He knew he could dodge all of them, but it would take effort and time, which would also allow Airazor to move into a better position.

Is she really as dumb as she seems? Or is this some new level of Autobot trickery?

As he continued to dodge the missiles, he opened up his comms channel again.

"This is Knife One to Lookout. I need my weapons," he grunted, dodging another small blast. He saw the Flanker sweep down into his six and swung right, trying to break her line of fire.

"Copy that, Knife One. I'm tracking your coordinates now. ETA two cycles."

If he didn't have to roll out of the way of a cannon burst, Starscream would have been sure to thank Overcast for his stalwart support. Now all he had to do was keep Airazor occupied for a little longer. He extended his wing flaps and cut his speed, dropping back behind her. If he could just keep a lock on her, he could pressure her out of the area. His IR missiles quickly found her heat signature, chiming on their buzzing lock drone. But Starscream soon heard another tone- the rapid beeps of an enemy locked on to him! There were no other fighters in the air besides them. There was only one explanation. Even though he was out of reach of her radar or missile seeker heads, she had achieved a lock.

Starscream extended his flaps again, but it was too late. A single underwing missile dropped off of the Flanker, twisted backwards, and flew towards him.

"Scrap," he swore as he shoved his engines to full afterburner. He pulled up and began climbing, desperate to evade the missile. But the heat-seeker only followed more closely as he pushed his engines harder. Once he had gained enough altitude, he cut the throttle end ejected a set of flares, which sent the missile off-course. Starscream somersaulted backwards into a dive, hoping to fire an infrared missile of his own in response, but Airazor was no longer below him.

"Maybe you could just give me your name? I could look you up, instead," said Airazor, flying only a meter to his left.

She must have started climbing as soon as I did… I was so focused on the missile I didn't notice.

"I'll admit, you've put on a good performance so far," he replied. "But I'm going to find out when you break."

Starscream twisted his ailerons hard and rolled, flipping upside down onto Airazor's dorsal surface. The sight of the two fighter jets back-to-back would have looked very strange, but it served Starscream's purposes well.

"Don't you think we're taking things a little fast?" asked Airazor, joking through her concern. She had no idea what he was planning.

"Shut up," Starscream growled, moving his engines to full afterburner once more. This propelled the tangled jet-mess downwards, quickly pushing them past the sound barrier. "This is a Death Spiral. In order for either one of us to break out, we'll have to overcome a lack of lift and negative angle of attack. If you do that, you'll lose your airspeed and be vulnerable to attack. But if we both don't pull away, we'll crash into the ground."

"Why would you ever do something like this?" wailed Airazor, trying to pull herself away but failing. The Decepticon did not respond, and simply continued to push them towards the ground faster. He was right- pulling away at this angle would be difficult, and it would push her engines into a low-pressure zone, potentially stalling them. But she was determined to not end up as a smear on the dirt, like the other Decepticon had threatened. She had to find a way out. Thinking quickly, she strained to push her airbrake open. It was a large rectangular panel down her dorsal centerline, meant to act as a wall against incoming air, and it was easily strong enough to push Airazor away from Starscream as it opened. Now free to turn as she pleased, Airazor rolled right-side-up and pulled up, exiting the Death Spiral.

"Clever," Starscream admitted as he transformed into robot mode.

"Oh, I'm blushing," snapped Airazor. "Let's see how you like my Death Spiral!"

Airazor cranked her rudders hard left, and directed her thruster nozzles in a similar direction. Her entire jet mode shuddered under the high-g maneuver, but it did not break apart. It was jerked sideways instead of forwards, as the nose turned in to point at Starscream. Without the forward movement, her wings could not generate much lift, so she began to sink as she circled sideways, drifting around Starscream. The Decepticon was overwhelmed by multiple missile lock warnings.

"Well, scrap," he groaned.

Airazor fired off a barrage of missiles as she circled, both radar-guided and infrared. She emptied her cannon's magazine into the fray as well, making sure every shot converged on Starscream. The Decepticon, though at a distinct tactical disadvantage, also refused to back down. He dodged every missile he could, nearly warping his thrusters with the stress. He shot down the missiles he couldn't dodge with his cannon. The Seeker and circling jet became a tornado of smoke, flames, sparks, and missile fragments as they descended towards the ground. Airazor was sure that the Decepticon was beginning to slow down, just as she ran out of ammunition.

"What a waste," he smirked as he touched down, his thrusters opening up into ground-worthy feet. "This is a battle, not an airshow. Now you're completely unarmed."

Airazor transformed into robot mode and began to touch down when she noticed a glint on the horizon- another missile, a big one, headed directly for the Decepticon. It wasn't one of hers. Had the other Autobots fired it? Whatever the case, she decided to keep her distance from him for a little while longer.

"Aw, you're right," she sighed mockingly. "Guess I got a little excited."

"You're a very skilled flier. But you lack the discipline of a dogfighter. I'm going to show you why you and your Autobot friends should have left this planet alone."

The missile raced towards him, but at the last moment, it veered upwards and dispensed two large, blocky objects. One fell into each of his waiting hands and changed form, creating two elongated steak-knife shapes. Their upper surface was dotted with ventilation grates and a bulky ejector port. At the very tip was a small protrusion of a barrel. The Decepticon held out each weapon at his side, their bladed edges down.

"Oh, they're swords," murmured Airazor. "Scrap."

The Decepticon charged towards her, swinging the oversized blades at her midsection. Airazor boosted backwards, narrowly dodging the slash.

"Scrap!" she cursed as she sidestepped an overhead swipe. Airazor was not ready for something like this. She had never so much as held a sword in her life, let alone trained to fight with or against one. All she could do was dodge, but that was not a permanent solution. The Decepticon thrust one of the blades forward, and Airazor twisted her torso away from the attack. Seeing an opening, she swung her off-hand and punched him in the chin, prompting him to slide back.

Ha-ha! That's it! If I can just wear him down-

The enemy flier raised his new weapons, not to swing, but parallel with the ground. Airazor screamed as they exploded with gunfire, hurling bright tracer rounds her way. She crouched to dodge the burst, but her foot, being heavier than she was used to, sunk into the earth awkwardly. She tried to free it but only succeeded in toppling onto her back. The Decepticon walked to her side and loomed over her, raising his right-hand blade.

"This isn't anything personal, Autobot. I just have a job to do that you are making very difficult. Sorry."

He swung the sword down, and Airazor closed her eyes. She heard the sound of screeching metal and a heavy weight crash against her left arm and chest. It didn't hurt, which aroused her suspicion. She opened her eyes to find the Decepticon's sword rattling just above her neck, suspended by a thin, elongated structure emerging from her wrist.

"It's my wing," she gasped. "My wings turn into swords? My wings turn into swords!"

Filled with renewed courage, Airazor activated her thrusters and sprung off the ground, pushing aside the Decepticon's weapon as she regained her footing.

"Now we're even," she grinned. She flexed her right wrist, and the formerly awkward folded wing snapped forwards, re-orienting itself into a bladelike configuration. She still had no idea what she was doing, but it didn't matter. She had solutions for everything.

He charged back towards her, but now she had her own weapons to counter. She blocked each slash like she would a punch, placing her blade between her body and the attacking weapon. The individual segments of her new wrist blades caught the Decepticon's sword, preventing it from sliding off and dealing any damage. He backed off again, aiming his weapons as guns, but Airazor went on the offensive, swinging her swords and forcing him to defend.

"Are you sure I can't get a name out of you?" she asked, holding his swords in place.

"Starscream," he grunted.

I'd definitely scream for that, mused Airazor.

She eased her right foot behind his and tripped him, quickly pulling him forward to guarantee a satisfying faceplant.

"Well, Starscream, it's been fun," Airazor said, catching her breath. "I wish we could have met under more casual circumstances."

The downed Starscream freed an arm from beneath himself and snapped his sword backwards, forcing Airazor to hop over the shallow attack. It was just enough space for him to struggle to his feet, glare back at her, and transform, flying away from the setting sun.

Airazor stared at the slowly-disappearing engines before falling to her knees and laughing aloud.

"I did it," she chuckled weakly. "I lived!"

And for the moment, she was right.

 

Hey Airazor didn't die!

 

Just got around to reading all of this, and it was great! All the characters were really well written and likable, and I like the military themes. It feels very Gundam-esque.

 

Thanks for the feedback and the read! Gundam definitely was a big inspiration here, as I very much wanted to tell that kind of story.

 

Ironhide had been around for a long time. He knew what it felt like to be sick, to be old, to be close to death. As he struggled for breath in the middle of a Californian highway, he felt closer to death than ever.

The Decepticon tank towering over him grinned with confidence. "What's wrong, gramps? Back giving out on you?"

"Actually, it's these rotator cuffs," panted Ironhide, flexing an arm. "They get so stiff when you're my age."

The Decepticon didn't find the retort nearly as funny as Ironhide did, and replied by reaching out and shoving the elderly Autobot into the pavement. He was immediately peppered with a half-magazine of small-caliber rounds from Bumblebee's PDW.

"Yeah, that's it, over here," called Bumblebee as the tank-bot's attention swung his way. "Come get me, you brick with legs!"

Obviously still not amused, the Decepticon just shot at Bumblebee. The scout threw himself sideways as the blast annihilated a family of yucca shrubs. Feeling confident, Bumblebee decided to charge in, ducking under another shot as he closed. He could make out the unarmored spot on the tank-bot's abdomen. If he could make it to point blank, he could drop the 'Con and carry Chromia away in his arms. And Ironhide would be safe, too, he supposed. Bumblebee raised his weapon, took aim, and was immediately knocked aside by the tank-bot's dense right-arm bracer.

"Nothing makes me happier than watching punks like you get atomized," cackled the Decepticon, smiling greedily as a loud clunk announced that a new round had been loaded into his cannon. Three bullets plinking against the back of his helmet convinced him to save his ammunition. He turned again to find the smoking barrel of Chromia's revolver pointed his way. She flicked a release and dumped the spent shells from the weapon before returning it to its holster with a spin.

"Ain't you built like a brick scrap house, then?"

"Nebulan traitor! You've got a lot of nerve, turning your backs on the colonies to work for the oppressors!"

"Strewth! Not the first time I've been called a nervy Sheila. If I were you, I'd be worried more about me own turned back."

"What kinda moonspeak- gyargh!" wailed the Decepticon, as he began to rise into the air against his will. He was propelled upwards by Ironhide, who roared as he shouldered the massive mech skyward.

"H-how?" stammered the airborne 'Con.

"I may be old, but I can still throw my weight around," coughed Ironhide with a painful smile. "Which is less than I can- ngh!- say about you! You were so busy being distracted by these whippersnappers that you didn't catch me sneaking around! Guess that's what- gah!- happens when you've got armor for brains!"

With an agonized roar, Ironhide hoisted the tank-bot above his head, then plunged him to the ground skull-first. The huge, Chobham-armored limbs scraped onto the ground as they went limp, and Ironhide quickly joined them, exhausted.

"The old bloke's right stuffed," exclaimed Chromia as she rushed to Ironhide's side. The elderly mech mumbled something to the asphalt, so the femme carefully flipped him face up.

"I'll… I'll make it," he gasped. "Just… just need a moment to… breathe, that's all…" he wheezed.

"You'll be served to do your breathing somewhere safer," Chromia replied, looking back over her shoulder at the slowly stirring Decepticon. She opened a call to the medic standing by. "Lifeline, we could use a hand! Ironhide's come a guster and needs medevac!"

"He did what?"

"He's come a guster!"

"I don't know what that means!"

Chromia gritted her teeth and affected her best Iaconian accent. "He. Is. Not. Doing. Well!"

"Why didn't you say so?" asked the voice of Lifeline from outside of the comms, as a wall of wind swept over the road. The heavy-lift helicopter fluttered down above Ironhide and dropped a series of cables, which Chromia quickly wrapped around the old mech's body.

"We're heading for the dropship," said Chromia deliberately, forcing down any Nebulisms. "We'll meet you there!"

"No problem," replied Lifeline, spooling her engines to full power as she lifted Ironhide away. Bumblebee snapped up from the ground and shook himself awake.

"Aw, Primus. What'd I miss?"

"That 'Connie got 'imself stonkered by Ironhide," she explained. "Problem is, he ain't dead."

As she spoke, the mass of armor and weapons behind them began to shift.

"I haven't gotten word from Broadside yet," sighed Bumblebee. "I only have half a clip left. You?"

"I'm right out," she admitted, patting her holstered weapon.

The tank-bot punched the ground with an armored fist and he rose to his feet, baring every weapon in his arsenal. Bumblebee shot Chromia a nervous glance.

"Well, I hope you're good at keep-away."

***

With a violent tug, RC freed the base of her Heat Machete's blade from the cranium of the deceased Decepticon, allowing space for his body to fall. These soldiers did not seem like the kind of elite guards Megatron would bring to defend himself. They were sloppy, borderline untrained. They were a waste of her talent.

"That should be it," grunted Grimlock, ejecting spent shells from his shotgun. "We need to regroup and get the hell out of here." He used his hand to block the sun and looked out over the desert. "Optimus Prime and Megatron are still fighting…"

"Sounds like a problem solving itself," RC scoffed.

"Do you ever think that mindset might get you into trouble?"

"Again, you're not being paid to ask me questions."

Grimlock discreetly rolled his eyes behind his combat visor.

"How's this for a question… how long do you plan on living?!"

The voice did not have a visible source. Grimlock and RC snapped to attention, readying their weapons.

"Longer than you," spat RC, twirling her oversized melee weapon.

"Wrong answer," shrieked the voice. RC felt a blade dig into her guts. She looked down and saw the blood bubble out of a gash, coating a thin shape in green. The shape flickered and then jumped into visibility. It was a heavy dagger, gripped by an armored hand. A head leaned over her right shoulder, a manic grin spreading across its half tribal-masked face.

"Ooo-hoo-hoo!" it cackled. "What a find! The Butcher of Schwarzwald, as I live and breathe!"

RC's assailant yanked her from her feet and spun to face Grimlock, digging the knife in further as he twisted.

"Not… much longer," hissed RC.

"Drop her," commanded Grimlock, taking aim with his shotgun.

"Feh! Why should I? At this range, if you shoot me, you'll kill her too. I'll keep her where she is. I won't give up a prize like this so easily!"

Grimlock did not put his weapon down, but RC could see his eyes scanning for alternate solutions.

"Freak," he grunted under his breath.

"Yes, that's right! I'm very different from the rest of these pushovers. Perhaps you've heard the legends of Hatchet, the infamous scalp collector? I've cut down more Autobots than you can count on your hands!"

"So at least eleven," replied Grimlock.

"That's right! AT LEAST eleven! Bwa-ha-ha!"

Grimlock lowered his shotgun. "Yeah, that is something. But do you know how many Decepticons I've killed?"

Underneath the savage mask, Hatchet's giddy grin straightened.

"Well, I, uh, don't know who you are."

"Maybe you've heard of my company, the Lightning Strikeforce?"

"Oh, those morally bankrupt mercenaries? Yes, I've heard of them. So what? I bet you die just as easy as anyone else. Am I supposed to be scared of your big gun?"

Grimlock clipped his shotgun to his waist and shrugged. "Oh, I thought you would have heard more. I guess I need to put more money into advertisements, then." He pointed at his holstered weapon. "That's not my big gun."

Hatchet's exposed mouth betrayed a great deal of confusion. RC felt the ground ripple through the tips of her feet. She wouldn't have expected a mercenary to have such a penchant for theater. Even with a knife in her gut, she couldn't help but smile.

"What are you talking about? How is that not your big gun?" Hatchet crowed.

Grimlock pointed over his shoulder. "She's my big gun."

Hatchet did not have time to turn around before he was bowled over by a massive collision. He was thrown past Grimlock and sent sprawling into the dirt, where his grip on RC loosened just enough for the Omnibot to break free. RC ripped his knife free and jammed it into his own stomach before clawing her way out from underneath his stunned body. A look back confirmed her assumptions. Towering over Hatchet was the hulking mercenary Grimlock always kept nearby- Scorn. Her new transformat had given her extra layers of ceramic armor, making her already-threatening silhouette all the more bulky. The Decepticon began to crawl away before one of Scorn's massive feet crushed his legs.

"Don't… run," she gurgled.

Hatchet wailed in pain, trying to free himself with his arms unsuccessfully. He could not overcome the massive weight holding him still. Scorn lifted her arm as her huge smoothbore gun folded into place underneath her wrist. A pistol grip extended out into the palm of her hand, and her fingers settled over the trigger.

"N-no! I'm Hatchet, d-dammit! I can't die-"

Scorn pulled the trigger and blasted his insides out onto the dirt, leaving little of his upper body intact. She folded the weapon away again, and stepped off of his shattered legs.

"Hmmm," she grumbled.

"Good work, Scorn," said Grimlock, gently stroking her wrist as he passed. He unclipped a cylinder from his belt and tossed it towards RC. "Heal up."

RC pulled a hand away from her wound and caught the quickfix, popping one end off of the canister to spray medical foam into the bleeding gash. She was used to the stinging sensation, which felt much better that the agony of being gutted.

Grimlock placed a finger to the side of his helmet, switching on his communicator. "This is Grimlock to all friendly forces. What is your current situation?"

"Leave them," hissed RC. "We can take the dropship… and get off of this rock."

Grimlock turned off the communicator and grimaced at his charge.

"That's not happening. The Axalon is going down. You're not abandoning these people any time soon."

"Huh," grunted Scorn.

RC stood up, staggered towards what remained of Hatchet's legs, and hacked them into indistinguishable pieces with her machete, screaming all the way. Scorn gave Grimlock a concerned glance, which the other mercenary returned.

***

Megatron dodged another one of Optimus Prime's predictable swipes, but was surprised to see him immediately follow with another. He raised a heavy gauntlet to block, and the survival axe bounced off of the thick armor. Both of the Autobot's arms were raised, his midsection completely exposed. It was the perfect opportunity to counter. He swung his right-hand pistol up, aimed squarely into Prime's abdomen, and fired. His weapon produced only a dull click.

I've underestimated his capabilities. This battle has gone on much longer than I expected.

The Decepticon quickly booted his opponent away and leapt backwards. He covertly opened a comms channel and paged the line with orders for an emergency retreat. His work here was done, after all.

"What's the matter, Megatron?" said Optimus Prime in between heavy breaths. "I thought you were made of sterner stuff!"

"Don't think I'm finished with you quite yet," smirked Megatron, receiving an acceptably close ETA. "My Seekers tell me that your ship is plummeting towards this planet as we speak. I'll give you another chance to accept my offer."

"With what conditions?" asked Optimus Prime, readying his axe for a throw. He paused when he heard familiar engines overhead. He stepped aside in time to dodge a thick steel cable swinging down from above. Megatron extended a hook from a chest-mounted winch and clipped it to the cable as it passed. The cable yanked the Decepticon skyward, suspended beneath the same huge aircraft he had arrived on.

"They're to be determined," called Megatron as he ascended into the clouds. Optimus Prime sighed and stowed his survival axe. Megatron was a battle for another day. He had a crew to worry about.

"This is Optimus Prime to Axalon, over. What is your current situation?"

"Not good!" came Wheeljack's nervous reply. "We're definitely going to crash. I've found a good, quiet spot to aim for. Right now I'm just trying to minimize damage!"

"I have faith in you, Wheeljack. If anyone can put that ship down safe, it's you."

"Thank you, sir! I'll try my-" the transmission buzzed out. Optimus Prime turned back towards the road. This planet was too beautiful to become yet another front for this miserable galactic war. But if it had to, he swore it would be the very last.

***

Bumblebee's tires lost purchase on the baked dirt for a moment, causing him to slide sideways. It was only a small lateral movement, quickly corrected, but it was enough of a lapse to allow the stream of .50 caliber bullets to catch up with him. A single round found its way through his passenger-side taillight.

"Aiiieeee!" he shrieked.

Across the road, Chromia narrowly dodged a blast from the tank's cannon. Between them, the Decepticon's vehicle mode tracked them with its independently-swiveling weapons.

"Quit your whinging and keep moving!" barked the femme. She cut her wheels and adjusted course, driving straight towards the tank. She transformed and carried her momentum into a jump, landing atop the turret. The .50 caliber machine gun swung towards her, but she managed to grab the barrel before it could reach her. Using her free hand, she drew her combat knife and began to hack away at the weapon's supports, until she cleaved it free of its mounting and tossed it aside. The turret beneath her began to split and shift, so she threw herself off before the Decepticon's transformation could complete.

"You little glitch," he swore, rising to his full height.

Chromia would have offered a witty response, but a long-awaited voice crackled over the comms channel.

"This is Broadside. The last Decepticon flier just left the airspace. Ready to provide air support. ETA ten microcycles."

"Ace! We'll catch you about!" Chromia rolled away from a swipe and hopped to her feet, ready to dodge again. She had not expected the Decepticon to have the cannon already in place, centered on her chest. His first attack had been a feint.

Chromia felt nearly weightless, even in the gravity of the moment. That was all it took? A little mistake like that? Maybe she wasn't cut out for being a soldier. To think that every afternoon of work out in the fields, every evening with a cold drink and a fun programme had all led up to one little misstep that would instantly kill her.

Oh, she thought.

The cannon erupted and flung its deadly payload out of the barrel, devastating the air between Chromia's right arm and body. It would have hit, if it were not for the interference of a black-and-yellow blur, which nudged the barrel away at the last moment.

"No you don't," grunted Bumblebee as he collided with the Decepticon's arm. Smacking into the tank-bot at full speed hurt, but it was a small price to pay for a close-up view of Chromia's awed face. There was basically no way she could turn him down now. He almost didn't mind when he felt the Decepticon's hand clamp down around him, forcing him to a halt. He definitely did mind, however, when he was lifted into a crushing chokehold.

"Not so fast now, are you?" snarled the Decepticon.

"No! Bumblebee!" cried Chromia, sounding more distraught than thankful. He quickly realized why. Above him was the dark silhouette of Broadside, with a veritable forest of weapons pointed in his direction. Towards the Decepticon, who was now holding him.

"Scrap," he gasped, attempting to wriggle free. The tank-bot's grip was too powerful.

"Don't worry, Bumblebee," called a familiar voice. The Decepticon turned to find Optimus Prime advancing towards him, survival axe in hand.

"Come any closer, and I'll crush him like a bug!"

The Autobot leader stopped. "If you insist." He then flung the axe forward, the blade digging into a sliver of exposed joint between the tank-bot's left arm and body. His arm instinctively jolted back, leaving enough room for Bumblebee to drop through. He was in vehicle mode as soon as he hit the ground, and nearly blew his engine racing away.

The Decepticon pulled the axe out of his shoulder. "You son of a-"

A torrent of tracer rounds tore down the road and into the tank-bot, knocking him from his feet as he was assaulted by the rain of bullets. The autocannons shredded his armor, while the howitzer removed large chunks of his body. Very little of the destruction was visible through the thick haze of powdered asphalt and dust that exploded into the air.

"This is Broadside. Air strike complete."

"Autobots, form up on my position," said Optimus Prime over the comms channel. The Axalon's dropship swooped down next to the road. Bumblebee and Chromia quickly boarded the vessel.

An unfamiliar screech turned Prime's attention skyward, as a large fighter aircraft rearranged itself overhead before plowing into the ground.

"I'm okay! I'm okay," Airazor yelped, scrambling to her feet.

"I'll assume that you were responsible for clearing up the airspace?" asked Optimus Prime.

"I mean, I think so," the flier mumbled.

A red mech limped onto the dropship's boarding ramp. "You did great, kid!" he smiled, giving her a thumbs-up.

"I believe you've earned a ride," said Optimus Prime, gesturing towards the dropship's interior.

"I'll take it," Airazor sighed.

Brakes hissed as the armored recovery vehicle arrived, with its tank in tow and flanked by the Skyline. RC sullenly stormed into the dropship without so much as looking at Optimus, Airazor, or Ironhide. Grimlock transformed and shook his head.

"I'm… I'm sorry," he said, glancing uneasily towards the Autobot commander.

"You have your own orders," Optimus Prime replied. Grimlock nodded and guided Scorn into the dropship.

Airazor decided to turn down the dropship ride.

***

Starscream touched down at the forward operating base low on fuel and patience.

"So, what knocked out Razor Team? A light breeze?" asked Skywarp, sipping on an energy shake.

"A rookie," huffed Starscream, who headed straight for the battlenet uplink.

"HA! I'm sure that'll rile up that… ah, what's his name? That swing-wing kind of guy?"

"Locktone?" asked Starscream.

"Yeah, him. He'll be pissed."

"I didn't win."

"'Scuse me?" asked Thundercracker, rising from his seat.

Starscream typed in his access code and opened a long-distance communication channel. An odd face appeared on the screen, all soft and pink. It was attempting to fold a greasy-looking triangle into a shape that would fit into its mouth.

"Soundwave, are you… available?"

The human girl blinked. "Oh, you mean, right now?"

"Yes," Starscream frowned.

"Oh, sure. Sorry, I was just trying some 'pizza'. You are not going to believe human food. It's just stellar! The flavors, they're all completely different!"

"And you're eating it with your nanomatter… thing?"

"Yeah, it's got a taste function."

"I know. I'm trying not to think about it."

"I prefer to eat with my own mouth, though. You get more of the textures. Right now there are some humans around. I can't exactly be myself."

Skywarp poked her head into the call. "Hey, do you have something better to do than talk to your girlfriend about taste functions?"

Starscream pushed her out, and narrowed the camera's field of view. "Can you send me the database of known Autobot ace pilots, and any video recordings we have of them?"

"No problem. I'll do that right after I finish eating this pizza. Om nom nom."

Starscream closed the call and glared at Skywarp.

"Are you meanin' to tell me you got dusted by a rookie?" said Thundercracker.

"Yes and no," sighed Starscream. "I had fuel and missiles left over. I'm sure I could have kept up with her for longer. But there was something about the way she moved… it seemed familiar."

"Careful, you had better not talk like that when Soundwave's on the line," cooed Skywarp.

"She's new, but you think she trained under somebody famous," Thundercracker concluded.

"Exactly. And we just shot down their ship. We're definitely going to run into her again. I need you all to be ready if you run into her. We can laugh all we want at Locktone, but he's a good flier. Taking him down is no small task. This Airazor is dangerous."

"Guys, I think I'm going to eat some human food! I'll act like a total doofus and make some sexy noises while I chew it! Won't that be great?!" mocked Skywarp.

"Skywarp, I think now would be a good time to tell you that I've replaced your entire shockdrone collection with Kalicean folk," snapped Thundercracker.

"No way," sputtered Skywarp.

"Every single audiochip."

"You didn't."

Thundercracker removed an audiochip from one of his storage panels. "What's this? 'On a Sea of Rusty Blood' by Grindcore?"

"You did!" Skywarp wailed, giving up on teasing Starscream to weep for the loss of her music. Starscream tried to smile, but couldn't. This was normal. But it didn't seem like it. What was missing?

***

Split Mountain

Glacier County, Montana

July 6, 2016

The high was wearing off.

Airazor's body still felt more responsive, more agile, and more natural than it had any right to, but now there was a tiredness creeping in, seeping down her wings. She had been flying for so long, and she was so hungry. The fight had taken a lot out of her. She wasn't used to pushing herself that hard while flying, and her new body had a much hungrier metabolism. Her stomach ached, and she felt a little light-headed. And it was cold up here. Still, she was glad she hadn't taken a ride in the dropship. The short-range comms continued to prove her decision the correct one.

"We wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for her," accused Bumblebee.

"Megatron had an entire attack force hidden, waiting for us," retorted RC. "If we hadn't shot first, they would have."

"I think we all know your first shot wasn't aimed at a Decepticon."

"Just at an equally large problem."

"That's enough," growled Grimlock. "It's clear to see that a conflict would have started one way or the other. I think we can all be thankful that we suffered no casualties."

"I'd drink to that," said Chromia. "We nearly lost you, Bumblebee."

"Aw, you do care," he said softly, evidently convinced that no one on the short-range communications could hear him.

"What happened is in the past. Hopefully it will stay there," intoned Optimus Prime. "Our focus now should be solely on the future. We are currently trapped on an alien planet- a potentially hostile one- and our enemies outnumber us ten to one. If we plan on surviving, we must all function as a single unit. No grinding gears."

"I'm with you, Prime, but the future isn't exactly looking bright," Lifeline warned.

Airazor could see it too- nestled in a bowl-like depression in a towering mountainside was the smoking skeleton of the Axalon, looking less like a spacefaring vessel and more like the corpse of some long-dead monster. The ship had twisted around itself, its modular sections sheared in half.

"That ain't flying anytime soon," gawked Broadside. The dropship lurched into a hover and settled down next to the ship. The two fliers landed carefully, making sure to not disrupt any potentially reactive wreckage. A small, whirring object circled the dropship before flying to Airazor's eye level. It was circular, with a scan gimbal underneath.

"There you are! You're all right!" called Breakthrough, emerging from a tunnel of wreckage. The scanner flew back to its owner and nestled in her right-shoulder datadeck. Breakthrough moved for a hug, which Airazor really did want to return, but found the new difference in size to be a hindrance. She awkwardly knelt to accept the embrace, which led to Breakthrough only committing to the hug halfway.

"I should say the same to you. You made it! But did-"

Wheeljack emerged from the same tunnel, skidding in the loose mountain gravel to greet the dropship's occupants. "I did my best to hold her together. But we had lost maneuvering thrusters, so all I could do was guide the ship here."

Optimus Prime placed a hand on the engineer's shoulder. "You did more than that, Wheeljack. You saved Breakthrough's life and your own. With your combined expertise, we'll be more than capable of surviving on this planet."

"I also managed to save an Energon synthesizer, and the computer network's eighty percent functional. The armory survived, too."

"What about interplanetary communications?" asked Ironhide.

Wheeljack bit his lip. "Dead. We're on our own on this one."

"I suppose we always were," sighed the old mech.

"Stuck on an alien planet lousy with Decepticons… yeah, that's a new one for me," scoffed Bumblebee.

The more Airazor thought about the logistics, the more tired she felt. She decided to take her mind off things.

"Breakthrough, aren't you going to tell me about that boyfriend of yours?"

"Oh, yes!" said the scientist, scurrying back over to the young flier. "The Class 8 one?"

"Yeah, him."

"Well, it's really a kind of funny story. You won't believe me, but… you know about Sky Lynx, right?"

Airazor knew a little too much about Sky Lynx. She motioned for Breakthrough to hold on for a moment, and vomited out everything that was left in her stomach.

"This is going to be a long mission," growled RC.

 

Another great chapter. I had a feeling Breakthrough was referring to Sky Lynx in the other parts.

 

Hotbox heaved the final container into place, sliding it into the growing stack of similar rectangular boxes. The storeroom was far from full, which meant he was going to be coming back soon with more supplies. Until then, he decided he would take a well-deserved break. He dusted off his hands and made his way towards the freshly-dug mess hall. The walls of dirt and stone took some getting used to, but they worked well enough. The sparse lighting was more of an issue, since it was hard to tell where you were going with no light. It was especially bad around corners, where even the briefest of flickers could mean a collision, like the one Hotbox avoided by only the smallest of margins as he turned down the hallway. The light came back on, revealing his would-be victim as the resident scientist, Mixmaster, head buried in a datapad.

“Careful. You don’t want to run into anybody,” he warned.

“Hmph,” grunted Mixmaster.

“You’ve been pissed at everybody since that night when you… you know. Do you need to talk about it?”

“No. I need to fix it.”

“Well, I’m sure the medics have prosthetic optics.”

“I can do better.”

“Well, don’t let ‘em hear you say that.”

Mixmaster didn’t bother with a reply and marched onward. Hotbox decided to let it go and headed for his own destination, arriving at the mess hall without further interruption. The late shift was still in full swing, so the mess hall was nearly unoccupied. It even took a while for anyone to arrive at the counter. Eventually, a bright green Constructicon wandered out of the makeshift kitchen.

“Sorry, I was back there patching a leak. There’s a river right overhead, you know.”

“So I’ve heard. Not to pry, but how do you keep things clean back there?”

“Awnings for cooking and prep surfaces, and a whole lot of scrubbing.”

“I don’t suppose you could use an extra scrubbing arm?”

“A volunteer for kitchen duty? That’s something you don’t see every day.”

“After a day of pulling boxes around, I think a little cleaning would be a nice way to wind down.”

“If you want to sign on, you should get in touch with Offroad. He handles the personnel assignments on-base. Now, can I get you anything?”

“A can of Engex, if you’ve got it.”

“Can you live with Commonwealth?”

“I’ll make do.”

The Constructicon handed Hotbox his beverage, and the linehauler took a seat at the only occupied table, across from a heavily-armed flier femme. Between two fingers she held a lit cygarette, and in her other hand she held a steaming mug of what was presumably instant kremzeek.

“Let me guess… a big hauler like you decided to take a break and catch the night life?” she purred, dragging on her smokeable.

“Finished early,” corrected Hotbox.

“Ain’t you diligent?”

“I try to be. There’s nothing like good, honest work.”

The femme rolled her eyes. “Psshh, really? Come on. Nobody actually believes that.”

“I do,” replied Hotbox, sipping his Engex.

“’Honest work’ is what big corporations try to sell you on so they can work you to death.”

Hotbox frowned. He knew better than anyone that companies could treat their employees however they pleased. But he doubted that his love of hard work was any form of brainwashing. After all, he was working for the Decepticons, wasn’t he?

“So what is it that you enjoy, exactly?”

“Shooting things!” she huffed, as if it was obvious. Hotbox did suppose that she looked the part of a gung-ho warrior, but she lacked the professional air of a career soldier. “And getting shot at! Living on the edge! That’s experiencing life!”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s experiencing death. Or close to it,” countered Hotbox.

“That’s exactly the point. Nothing makes you appreciate life like bullets whizzing past your head! That thrill of pushing towards the end and pulling away at the last moment, that’s what I live for.”

“You do you, then,” Hotbox grunted. “Is a late-night kremzeek part of living on the edge?”

“It’s a part of an early morning. I’ve got about a megacycle until I’m deployed.”

Hotbox almost did a double take. Outside of the Seekers and the materiel teams, there had been no real deployments in nearly an orbital cycle.

“Where do they have you headed?”

“Some place called Egypt. The intelligence officer- you know, that kid who won’t shut up?- she says it’s a likely location for that artifact Megatron is looking for. The aliens there are having some political instability, so the search party needs to be armed. And of course, there’s a chance the Autobots might show up. I’m excited, but my eyelids are weak. That’s why I need my smoke and my drink,” she explained, holding up her mug.

“Sounds interesting,” mused Hotbox. “Well, I hope it’s close enough to the edge for you.”

The femme looked as if she was about to give a snide retort, but stopped to place a finger to her earpiece.

“Yes? Yes, sir. Copy that. Sandstorm out,” she said curtly, ending the call. She took a final swig of her beverage and doused her cygarette in the remainder.

“Stay safe around all of those bullets,” called Hotbox as she stormed away.

What a nutcase, he thought.

***

Split Mountain

Glacier County, Montana

August 3, 2016

7:39 AM local time


The Decepticon leaned forward, his face so, so close to hers. She could see every little fleck of color in his wonderfully green eyes. His hand slid behind her back, tracing her spine.

“You were really impressive up there,” he whispered.

“Just giving it my all,” Airazor breathed.

“Think you can do that again?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can,” she replied, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, the Decepticon was gone, replaced by a familiar middle-aged scientist.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” Breakthrough cooed.

Stunned, Airazor pulled away from the embrace to find that her arms and her body were not hers, either, but instead the monumental build of her father.

She screamed, hit something hard, and awoke from her dream on the floor of her little hut, her wing-swords deployed in panic.

“Holy scrap,” she gasped, placing a hand to her chest, partially to calm her agitated spark, partially to check that she really was herself. She had nearly an entire orbital cycle to come to terms with Breakthrough’s story, but she wasn’t feeling any better about it.

As the old femme had told it, she had worked on the project that ‘created’ Sky Lynx. In reality, he was not completely their creation. He was a volunteer from another branch of the armed forces. It was their job to turn an unremarkable soldier into the most powerful being in existence. He was modified by upgrades both mechanical and biological, including the introduction of several strands of prehistoric Destron CNA. During the course of their experiments, he developed a very amicable relationship with the scientists, including Breakthrough. Breakthrough claimed that the attraction she had for him was, in her words, ‘largely unrequited’, but that qualifier left a lot of room for things Airazor didn’t want to think about.

There were plenty of distractions available during her waking hours. Wheeljack always needed help in wrangling the Energon synthesizer, while Optimus Prime and Ironhide had been hard at work rearranging what was left of the ship’s interior into a working facility. It was mainly for housing the armory and the sensors, but it had real doors and everything, much better than the little scrap-metal huts that had been constructed for everything else. Airazor’s was only large enough for standing room and a cot, which did little to accommodate her new body’s dorsal radar. Sleeping on her stomach or side remedied this, but also tended to produce more unsettling dreams. She considered sleeping in her alternate mode, but her landing gear seemed too spindly to sit on for very long. She knew she would blow over in a breeze, and there were plenty of those in their new mountaintop home.

Airazor pushed aside the tarp that hung over the entrance to her hut and stumbled outdoors. She immediately stepped into a stray lump of snow.

“Ew,” she groaned, pulling her foot out and shaking it clean. It was already too cold for her liking, and the persistent winter weather did not help. According to the information they had been given by the Decepticons, their location was experiencing the planet’s summer, but the air was so chilly on the mountaintop that the snow refused to melt.

“Not exactly a dream vacation, huh?” chuckled Bumblebee, sliding through the mountain gravel before transforming into his robot mode.

Airazor rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the sympathy.”

“Sympathy? This is war. When old timers say ‘War is-‘ they usually don’t follow that with ‘comfortable’.”

“I just thought we’d be moving around more. I thought after that battle we’d be on the run, but all we’ve done since is sit and wait.”

“The ‘Cons won’t chase us,” said Bumblebee, shaking his head. “We’re virtually not a threat to them. Besides, they have limited resources too. If they tried to send their ship back to the Empire, or even to Chaar, they’d be intercepted before they had a chance to turn on the air conditioning. In a way, they’re stuck here too. And they’re looking for that Allspark thing. Why waste their time and energy hunting us down if it jeopardizes their mission?”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“It’s complicated, though. Capturing Megatron is one of two things that would make the Council drop their kill order on Optimus. And now’s about the best time to do it, since Megatron is preoccupied and has a limited number of troops to support him. The other one is securing the Allspark. You can bet that if Megatron wants it, the Council doesn’t want him to have it. Even if it’s a bunch of nonsense.”

Airazor scowled. “So we’re staying here because of Optimus Prime?”

“That’s a simplification,” Bumblebee corrected, waving her accusation off. “Basically all of those reasons also have broader implications. Megatron really is a bad guy, and it’s much more likely that the ceasefire will continue if he’s in custody. And if the Allspark turns out to be real and magic or whatever, then it would be much better for the Autobots to have it.”

“Whatever,” groaned Airazor, idly kicking at a stone on the ground. It bounced along the exposed rock of the mountainside, hit a divot, and shot into the air before clattering against one of the Axalon’s remaining antennae. Bumblebee transformed and revved his engine.

“That one’s on you, rookie,” he called as he peeled out, heading for the northern edge of the crash site.

“Dammit,” Airazor swore, heading towards the ship. If she offered to help, maybe no one would suspect her. She began to formulate a cover story- it was a freak rockslide, caused by one of the native birds defecating. Absolutely foolproof! She opened the door and found a wide-eyed Breakthrough waiting for her. Recalling her dream for one hellish moment, Airazor lost all confidence in her plan.

“Um, oh, hi,” she mumbled.

“Get Optimus Prime. Now,” said the scientist under her breath.

***

Wheeljack stared at the display panel in utter disbelief. He twisted the dials back and forth, adjusting the finer details of the transmission, but there was no mistaking the audio that was being projected into the makeshift headquarters.

“…designated area of operations is a circle with radius of 50 kliks around coordinates 30 north, 31 east… maintain local communication on secure bands only… good luck, brave revolutionaries.”

“This is a Decepticon frequency,” murmured the engineer.

“You don’t say,” snipped Bumblebee.

“It’s just surprising,” Wheeljack clarified for the gathered Autobots. “For us to simply find it on accident means that it’s running on an unsecured frequency. That doesn’t seem like normal protocol.”

Optimus Prime stepped forward, into the center of the room. “Unless the Decepticons want us to find them.”

“A trap, you mean,” grunted Grimlock.

“Well, I hope they start broadcasting some easy listening, then,” scoffed Lifeline. “That’d be more useful to us than a trap.”

Ironhide cracked a smile and chuckled. “Did you fight in the Colony Wars? On Animatron, in the jungles, any?”

Lifeline blinked, and pointed towards herself. “Who, me? Hell no. How old do you think I am?”

“You see, I did,” Ironhide continued. “I once saw a field full of landmines, more bombs than grass. My mechs had orders to cross that field, so we did. We had learned from previous experience that the mines’ detonators used a primitive switch, prone to electrical shorts. So we backtracked two kliks, drained a rice paddy, flooded the minefield, and walked through without a single mine going off. Traps have two parts- they surprise you, and you can’t figure out how they work before they get you. But we already know this is a trap. All we have to do is figure out how it works.”

“You’re actually insisting that we should wade directly into an ambush,” RC groaned. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“We wouldn’t have gunpowder or buffaloid milk if it weren’t for idiots,” snickered Ironhide. “Besides, I’m not advocating that we spring the trap. Just that we observe it. After all, we need to keep tabs on the Decepticons, anyway. Oh, I suppose I forgot- that’s supposed to be your job, right, Omnibot?”

RC gritted her teeth and shook with rage, but remained silent.

“If we rock up far enough from any Decepticons, we’ll be able to ‘ave a squizz at their operations, potentially without them ever knowing we were there,” Chromia offered. “I’m all for it. I’m also right tired of the cold. Equator weather sounds nice.”

Airazor feebly raised her hand. “I also wouldn’t mind getting out of the cold.”

“I’m always down for busting Decepticreeps,” grunted Broadside.

“The tactical value of keeping tabs on our enemies’ movements is immesurable,” said Optimus Prime, indicating that deliberation was over. “We must not allow this opportunity to pass us by. With careful movements and communication, we can avoid detection by the Decepticons, and potentially intercept their supply lines for much-needed resources. Wheeljack, begin fueling the dropship. Breakthrough, get a fix on those coordinates. We leave at 1200.”

Airazor gave a subtle pump of her fist and turned to leave, only for a heavy hand to hold her in place.

“Before you go,” intoned Optimus Prime, “I spoke with Breakthrough. In the future, I hope you can refrain from damaging the sensors for fun.”

“I… um, I just… y-yeah. W-will do, sir.”

“Very well. As you were.”

The young flier tiptoed out of sight before wiping away the cold sweat from her forehead. She was glad it didn’t freeze to the back of her hand.

***

13km Northwest of Cairo, Egypt

August 4, 2016

8:53 PM local time

The interior of the cargo plane rattled with the turbulence, causing the BMW motorcycle within to slip free from its straps onto the floor. It wriggled in place, rearranging itself into a slim, irate robot.

“Hey, would it hurt youse to fly straight, you overgrown kite?” he snarled, shaking his fist at the walls of the cargo bay.

“I would not curse Breakbulk, Wheelie,” whispered the Axiam Mega Track tied down just behind him.

“Oh yeah? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t give him a piece of my mind?”

“Because you have undone your moorings, and he can open the door whenever he wishes.”

Wheelie grimaced, then slouched against the wall, jittering against the cargo plane’s vibrations. It had been a long trip, and Wheelie preferred to stay as close to the ground as possible. This mission meant that wasn’t possible, but he was damn certain that flying around in another bot’s undercarriage was not the most luxurious compromise. And Qibli was the worst traveling buddy, always telling him that he was wrong, and that he lacked couth. Couth! Wheelie knew nobody with half a fragging processor even said the word ‘couth’ anymore.

“Getting’ thrown out the back would be just divine, compared to this. I’d have a nice view on the way down.”

“Sorry, but I’m not offering any one-way tickets to the ground today,” crackled the voice of Breakbulk over the interior PA system. “We’re here. Brace yourselves for landing.”

Wheelie grabbed a handful of half-tied straps and pulled himself towards the deck, which suddenly rose to meet his face. The Mega Track, still tied down, lurched in place.

“Scrap,” Wheelie cursed, massaging his head. The cargo bay door hissed open and a blast of cool desert air swept in, carrying a light cloud of sand with it.

“I hope everyone has their costumes ready,” said Breakbulk.

“To be honest, I’ve never used a nanomatter projector before,” mused Qibli. “But as long as we keep a low profile, we should not worry about it.”

“Easy for you to say,” groaned Wheelie, who removed his octahedral projector unit from one of his storage boxes. “I’m supposed to keep this running all the time. I tell ya, the system’s rigged against Splitters.”

He pushed a button, and the projector emitted its black, smoky cloud, which solidified into a leather-bound human with a polarized riding helmet. Wheelie transformed back into his BMW RG1100 GS altmode, and the faux rider mounted the bike.

“I believe we are prepared,” replied Qibli.

“Good to hear. Just head for Cairo, blend in with the traffic, don’t cause trouble, and make your way to the Forward Operations Base. You’ll get your next orders there. I’ll be in and out delivering supplies. There will be plenty of time for Wheelie to learn how to fly later.”

The straps fell slack around the Mega Track, and the lifted supercar rolled down the cargo ramp onto the sand.

“Whatever,” grumbled Wheelie, revving his engine and following Qibli out into the night. The two vehicles raced through the foreign desert, bounding over dunes as they raced towards the glow of the city. They subtly merged onto the Cairo-Alexandria desert road, hung a left at the 26th of July Corridor, and raced into the heart of the city. From there, they split up, taking two separate southbound routes to the same destination- a slummy, riot-worn neighborhood on the south side of town. They crept alongside a dilapidated warehouse, and as the sliding door began to open, they rolled inside.

“Aaaaand there are our last arrivals,” chirped Soundwave, who sat in the center of the room, surrounded by opened ration packs. She closed her laptop datadeck and pushed aside an empty juice carton with her foot. “Welcome to the Egypt FOB. It’s, ah, a work in progress.”

“You don’t say,” grumbled Wheelie, transforming into robot mode and surveying the mess. To be fair, the only real disaster zone was around Soundwave’s computer, but it didn’t instill him with any confidence. Qibli changed form as well, giving the femme a deep bow.

“We are here to serve you however you desire, comrade Soundwave.”

“Oh, wow, so polite! You must be Qibli, right?”

“That is correct. I am sure my reputation precedes me.”

“Oh, uh, no. The roster I got from Offroad lists the size class and altmode of everyone assigned to the mission. Am I supposed to know your reputation?”

“Ah, you are one of the civilian recruits. Do not concern yourself with this, it is no slight to me. Among the ranks of the Decepticons, I am known as one of the foremost desert warriors.”

“Well, that does line up with the function Offroad wrote next to your name,” Soundwave replied, opening her laptop datadeck and turning the screen to face him. She pointed at a line of text. “See? ‘Qibli: Desert Warrior’.”

“Ay, what’s it say next to my name?” asked Wheelie.

“Well, if you’re Wheelie, it says… um… ‘Thug’.”

The splitter shrugged. “If the tire fits. So what are we here for, exactly? The briefing kind of… slipped in one audio receptor and out the other.”

“We’re what you call a ‘strategic deterrent’,” oiled a voice from the back of the warehouse. A heavily-armed and armored mech emerged from the darkness, spinning a revolver on his finger. At his side was a slightly-smaller femme, who tapped on her communicator, held it into the air, and made a face as the camera’s flash countered the dim lighting.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot to introduce you guys,” said Soundwave, scratching her head. “I’m kinda new at all of this command and control stuff. This is Sixshot and Bombshell.”

“Shrapnel,” corrected the femme.

“Oh, yeah, Shrapnel, right. Sorry. Sixshot and Shrapnel. Sandstorm is currently on patrol, but I’m sure you’ll meet her later. Knife Team is going to be operating in the area for air superiority. And of course you’re familiar with Breakbulk.”

“A little too familiar,” groaned Wheelie.

“Sixshot is right, though. You are here to keep patrols up in case either the humans get hostile, or we get any Autobot visitors. I’m here to study. Millennia ago, the Egyptians developed a society much more advanced than their neighbors. If the Allspark was the key to accelerating the development of Cybertronian life, then it might stand to reason that Earth’s Allspark was at play here. I’ve got a lot of information to translate… I’d say your part of the job is a lot easier,” mused Soundwave.

“We will do our best,” Qibli insisted.

“Just make sure you’ve brushed up on your Arabic language manuals. I worked hard on those!”

“I studied on the flight over,” reassured the Desert Warrior.

“I… looked at it,” Wheelie offered.

“Great! I need to get back to work, so I suggest you guys bunk up for the night. You’ll start your patrols tomorrow morning. Sleep tight!”

“And keep an eye open for scorpions,” added Sixshot.

“Great,” sighed Wheelie. “Scorpions. Great.”

 

Nice work! I like what I've read so far. I like that this seems to barrow from various offical fictions like animated and the movies (Mainly, just egypt.) I also get and Ancient Aliens vibe, which is a very good thing. Subscribed!

 

Author's Note: Kept you waiting, huh?

The man under the bag was no longer whimpering. His neck hung low, raw from struggling against his restraints. His hands had opened, the palms bloody from his uncut nails. He had survived a month of imprisonment and a week of torture. But Yasin did not need him much longer. His job was to scoop out the insides, and this one’s shell was nearly broken.

“You still alive?” asked Yasin, firm, but distant. The man did not answer, so Yasin un-perched himself from the edge of his folding chair and crossed the bare concrete floor of the abandoned parking garage. He squatted next to the bagged man’s chair, eyeing the bloody ropes carefully. This one was not crafty, and had not snuck a knife in. His ropes remained tied. Yasin reached out and pressed his fingers against the back of the man’s wrist. The man twitched, his relaxed fingers springing to life. A muffled cough could be heard beneath the bag.

“So you are,” he muttered. “We had one who thought he was a hero, once, and thought he would escape if he played dead. So he held his breath and stopped moving. Of course, he didn’t know that we have a habit of shooting our garbage.”

A half-whimper oozed from the bag. Yasin sighed.

“We know you have information valuable to us. We will give you one more chance to tell us what we need to know, before you become garbage as well.”

Yasin reached under the bag and lifted, pulling the rough cloth away. Blood had fused the man’s hair to his cheeks, rendering the blindfold redundant. He twitched, desperate to move. Yasin untied his neck, and the man thrashed his head, clinging to what little movement he had. A strong slap corrected his behavior. Finally, he removed the strip of duct tape. Yasin waited patiently for the man to stop screaming. It did not take long, because he did not have much energy left. During the man’s tirade, Yasin picked up his rifle from the floor and checked the magazine. He flipped the safety to “off”, and crouched in front of his captive.

“Come on. We’re waiting.”

“I already told you, I don’t know anything,” the man spat. “These men you say I know, I’ve never met them! They are strangers to me!”

Yasin nodded, shrugged, and shot the man in the knee. He roared in agony, his body twisting in pain but unable to move.

“You continue to lie to me,” muttered Yasin. “Our operations here were meant to be a secret. Yet two days ago, Abdullah’s men disappear without a trace. Did they get lost? Or is someone tracking us down? Abdullah grew up here, so I believe it to be the latter.”

“P-please,” bawled the man. “I have a wife, a family! Let me go! I am innocent!”

“Innocence is difficult to achieve in the eyes of God. Yet you sit here, lie to me, and tell me you are without sin? All of the evil in the world is sealed in a room, and lying is the key. That makes you an evil man.”

“You and your kind are worse than scum,” snarled the man through gritted teeth. “I hope you get buried in some shit-filled gutter!”

“It is said that the sign of an evil man is one with no kneecaps…” pondered Yasin aloud, prodding the man with his weapon.

“You bastard! Just stop! I’ll… I’ll tell you everything!” said the man, struggling for the deeper breaths he desperately needed.

Yasin pressed the barrel of the gun against the man’s chest. “Go on,” he said firmly.

“They… they said it was a government man, an agent,” gagged the man between sobs. “They said he was driving a fancy car around. That’s all I know.”

Yasin frowned. It sounded a little far-fetched, but not impossible. Perhaps they did not work for the Egyptian government.

“You say that’s all you know?”

“Yes, it’s what I overheard.”

“Good,” said Yasin, before shooting him in the head. He drew his cell phone and holstered his rifle.

“Omar, this is Yasin. It’s a government spook. Keep an eye open for a fancy car. Get in close before you shoot, we don’t need any more attention than what we already have. I will talk to you later.”

In the best-case scenario, no one would be hunting them down to begin with. But their operation was essential. Forcing their pursuer out and eliminating him was the only way to guarantee they were in the clear. And it would only buy them a little time. Once this agent was dead, the drones would start hovering nearby.

Yasin sighed and walked back to his own folding chair, which he collapsed with one hand. He nodded to his point men, who gathered together the garbage and tossed it to the ground floor. Together they left the parking garage, and were immediately surrounded by dark suits and submachine guns. In the center of the dark formation was a black car, the windows tinted to opacity. The rear passenger-side door opened, and a woman stepped out, her coat billowing in the evening breeze.

“Yasin ‘Al-Jabbar’, I presume?” she asked in accented Arabic. She was definitely a Yankee, Yasin was sure, but to his eyes she looked a bit subcontinental. She had a tablet tucked under her arm, and her hair was uncovered. It was a dangerous statement to make, but she seemed to be very dangerous herself.

The woman continued. “I’ve heard the rumors. ‘The Calculator’. The most ruthless torturer in ISIL. I suppose you’re here on vacation?”

Yasin dropped his folding chair. “Kill me now, infidel. I know God is watching.”

“I’ve blacked out cell phones, radio, and internet in a three-mile radius. If God is watching, he’s getting very poor reception. It’s a shame. I’m sure he’d love watching me kill you. But that isn’t what I’m here for.”

“Then what is it?”

“I need a set of eyes, Yasin. Eyes without a mouth. Since you’re not supposed to be here, I don’t think you can do much but accept my offer.”

Yasin looked skyward, hoping for an answer. All he saw were clouds.

“What do you want me to find?”

The woman smirked and shook her head. “Not anything in particular. But, if over the course of the next week you see something you can’t explain, call this number.”

A submachine-gun wielding man stepped forward and pressed a slip of paper into Yasin’s chest.

“That’s it?” asked the militant.

“That’s it,” she replied. “We’ll be in contact soon.”

And with that, her men filed into black SUVs and drove away. She slipped into her car, which left silently, without so much as a rumble.

One of the point men turned to Yasin, his eyes wide.

“What have you done? Did we just make a deal with the enemy?”

“No,” said Yasin, looking down at the slip of paper in his hand. “With Satan himself.”

***

Ironhide’s voice crackled over the comms. “Sitrep, Airazor- what’s it like out there?”

“Well, it’s warm. And there aren’t too many clouds,” she replied.

“I mean, are you picking up anything suspicious on radar?”

“Oh,” Airazor winced in embarrassment. She flicked her radar back and forth between air-to-air and air-to-ground modes, and on finding nothing, made her call. “No, nothing suspicious. Just light traffic to and from the airport.”

“Good. We’re going to set down outside the city and then work our way in. And you-“

“I’m going to patrol around the perimeter of the operation area, and call you if anything shows up,” Airazor interrupted, hoping it would prove she was paying attention.

“Exactly. Broadside will move in and take your position in a megacycle, and then you can return to our designated rendezvous point to rest up.”

“Solid copy,” said Airazor. “I’ll catch you around.”

The dropship carrying the majority of the Autobots broke off, descending towards the edges of the desert city below. Airazor, freed from the formation, pushed her throttles up a few notches, ascending further into the pristine blue sky. It would be easy to get distracted by how nice it was here, especially compared to that damn mountain. But she had to do her job well- she had to prove to them, or at least herself, that what happened Cadiz wasn’t some sort of fluke. The things she could do, the way she had moved, it had all felt so natural. Could she really do that again? Was this supposed to be that easy?

She had a nagging suspicion it wasn’t.

***

Ahmed pressed in the tab on his Styrofoam box and lifted the lid, filling the cabin of the Unimog with a thick, garlicky odor.

“By Primus, that smells good,” said Soundwave, taking her nanomatter avatar’s eyes off the road for a moment to investigate her guide’s food. Using the NMA was fairly intuitive, but there were moments when it still felt very strange- the “out-of-body” experiences were the strangest. And here she was, physically driving herself using the wheel and pedals. She was having to concentrate just to keep composure. The food seemed to be helping, though, as it grounded the avatar in its own senses.

“It’s just shawarma,” Ahmed explained. “And… Primus? Like the band?”

“Uh… yes. Like the band,” gulped Soundwave, a bead of sweat involuntarily forming on her temple. “I just really love Primus so much that I swear by the band. Their music, it’s just so uplifting.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it uplifting,” Ahmed said, confused.

“I mean, of course not! But it’s just a very personal type of experience,” she continued to bluff. “It helped me through a lot of tough times.”

“Like when you killed your friend and had to bury them?”

“Excuse me?”

“’My Name Is Mud.’ That’s what that song is about.”

Soundwave blinked a few times in silence, attempting to formulate a response. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I always thought it was about… uh, like… a kind of… some other kind of thing.”

Ahmed rolled his eyes and took a bite of his shawarma. “Americans,” he muttered under his breath.

Soundwave sighed with relief and returned her attention to the road. She flicked on her turn signals and pulled into an empty spot in the dusty parking lot. She then took a deep breath and carefully shifted herself into reverse to park, which felt so strange that she couldn’t help but shudder- the floor beneath them rocked hard, and Soundwave found herself gripping the steering wheel in a spasm.

“What was that?” asked Ahmed, setting down his boxed shawarma.

“This thing’s transmission is going out,” she replied. “I ought to have it worked on.”

“Yeah, you ought to,” agreed Ahmed, opening his door to exit.

“Actually, could you not leave your food in there?” Soundwave asked.

“I can’t bring it in.”

“That’s fine, but just don’t leave it in my truck.”

“Fine, fine,” he groaned. “But you’ll have to wait until I eat the rest.”

Soundwave bit her lip in frustration. “Okay. Just hurry.”

Ahmed took another large bite from his shawarma and tossed the rest in a nearby trash can.

“You owe me for a quarter sandwich,” he said sternly.

“We’ll work out the specifics later,” Soundwave said, looking up towards the gigantic structure behind them. “As long as you can get me inside.”

“Is this some kind of fetish thing?”

“Wait, what?”

“Are you turned on by pyramids or something?”

“No! That’s ridiculous.”

“But who needs to see the pyramid when it’s closed? Why can’t you get a ticket and tour with everyone else?”

“Ahmed, am I paying you to ask questions?”

“No, but you’re paying for a quarter of my shawarma, I’ll see to that.”

“You’ve got me there,” Soundwave admitted.

***

“This traffic sucks,” groaned Bumblebee, caught behind a row of dented vehicles, themselves stuck behind a delivery truck making a turn in a non-turn lane.

“Imagine how Prime must be doing,” chuckled Wheeljack, stuck a few cars behind him.

“I imagine he’s hardly budging.”

“We could make more progress if we found some quieter way into the city,” the engineer suggested.

“I’m down for that. Anything to get moving,” said Bumblebee eagerly.

“All right. I’m looking up a satellite map through GPS and I think if we make a left at the intersection ahead, we’ll head south. There’s some greener areas down there, maybe the traffic will lighten up.”

“Left it is,” said Bumblebee, blasting his horn a few times until the car immediately in front of him crept forward. He surged onto the gas and slipped into the next lane over, with Wheeljack following close behind.

“This town’s got roads for days, but they’re all too crowded to have any fun,” Bumblebee complained as they weaved down a side avenue.

“Maybe you could learn to appreciate things beyond driving fast.”

“What, and worry over my paintjob like you do? I’ll pass. There’s no excitement to be had in sitting still and looking pretty.”

“That’s because there’s more things to do than chase excitement all day.”

“Like?”

“Take a look ahead,” said Wheeljack as the road opened up ahead of them. Looming over the road was a vast black shadow, chiseled into a perfect triangle.

“What in Primus’ name is that?” asked Bumblebee.

“One of the Great Pyramids of Giza,” Wheeljack answered. “I’ve been studying the data we were sent by the Decepticons. This country was home to an advanced civilization that built large monuments like those before most other humans had begun settling down to farm. It’s a cultural touchstone for almost all humans, a world-wide symbol of their past.”

“Well, look at that. It was really interesting me, and then you started talking about it. Old, important stuff is the opposite of fun. It’s like the… the… wait a cycle…”

“What? Need a moment to come up with a suitable adjective?”

“No, I was just thinking… the Decepticons are looking for the Allspark, right? Megatron said it was hidden somewhere here on Earth. If they’re in this city to look for it…”

“Then the most logical place for it to be… would be right there. Should we call this in?”

“Considering that we’re heading away from the city, and we’re basing this on a hunch? No,” asserted Bumblebee. “We slip in and check, and if we’re right, then we call and lay low.”

“That’s fair. Let’s not get in over our heads.”

“Right.”

The Autobots drove onwards, towards the looming ancient edifice.

***

Concerned mothers pulled their children from the street, and jaded men narrowed their eyes at the sight of the approaching military vehicle. It had Egyptian markings, sure, but the people still did not appreciate the intrusion.

“Well, you’re sure getting the stinkeye,” giggled Shrapnel, keeping pace behind the slower, tracked vehicle.

“Aliens probably don’t care for armed strangers any more ‘n we do,” replied Sixshot. “But we’ve got to figure out what’s messing with long-range communications, and this is the quickest way through town.”

“But, like, do we have to? With no long-range communications, we could say… anything we wanted,” she said with a coy snicker.

“Damn, you have got a one-track mind,” Sixshot grunted, locking one tread to turn around a street corner. “When we get this sorted out, and we’re sure it ain’t some kind of Autobot shenanigans, then we’ll find some quiet place and-“

Plink.

Sixshot stopped dead in his tracks. A stone had bounced off his vehicle mode’s armor. Across the street, a boy in a stained polo shirt stood resolute, one fist clenched around a collection of similar rocks. He stared up through a furrowed brow towards the two vehicles, his teeth gritted.

Sixshot did not budge an inch. He had felt this tension before. A standoff. The alien had no chance of hurting him, that was certain. But the way he stared, that burning look of accusation… did he know? There could be a million other reasons why, but what if it was that one?

A man rushed out from the building behind the child and snapped his hand shut around the boy’s wrist, causing him to drop the rest of his payload. He waved some calming gestures toward Sixshot, before looking back down and mouthing something to his son. In a standoff, the first to hesitate loses. But who had been the loser, here? Sixshot wasn’t sure, so he drove onward, with Shrapnel close behind. After a few slow, quiet miles, they arrived in a run-down part of town, the scars of recent riots still fading into the bricks. Sixshot’s ECM sensor was screaming. They were close.

“Damn, the jamming here is thick. Be on the lookout.”

“For humans?”

Sixshot’s vehicle mode stopped in place and began to unfold, the lower half turning inside-out as he rose to his full height.

“Do you see any humans?” he asked.

“I mean, I don’t think I do.”

“That was a rhetorical question. There aren’t any humans out here. But there might be Autobots.”

Shrapnel’s truck mode quickly metamorphosed into her robot mode. She pulled her shotgun from the cargo compartment she wore as a satchel and gave Sixshot a nod.

The mech moved slowly, keeping a hand on the holsters of his revolvers. He scanned each opening between the broken buildings, each alleyway and rubble-strewn avenue. No movement. No Autobots. Nothing unusual at all, save for a sparkling new corrugated metal shack pressed up against the back of an abandoned apartment. Sixshot motioned towards Shrapnel, and the femme followed him up to the suspicious structure. It was too small for most Cybertronians to hide in- so did it belong to the aliens? Sixshot drew his combat knife, and knelt down by the building. He looked back at Shrapnel and raised a finger to his lips. It took her a moment to interpret the gesture, but finally, she nodded back in understanding.

Sixshot reached for the door, and pulled. Nothing squealed or screamed or pissed itself. Nothing jumped out and shot them. The only thing inside was a brick of batteries, topped by a small control box, and a v-shaped antenna. The mech pulled it out of the shed, and set it in the palm of his hand. He deployed his multipurpose eye visor and snapped a picture, before pulling the control box away from the battery.

“What is it?” Shrapnel asked.

“A jammer. It was our problem,” he said, scratching his stubble. “But it don’t make a lick of sense. The controls are human. But this...” he said, holding up the battery. “This ain’t.”

“What… what does that mean?”

“Damned if I know. But whatever it is, it ain’t good. Let’s get out of here.”

He transformed back into his vehicle mode, and the anti-aircraft platform drove off at full tilt, with Shrapnel’s ammunition truck in close pursuit. They had nearly exited the ruins when Sixshot halted again. Shrapnel hit the brakes so hard she skidded sideways.

“Careful, sweetheart. You have any idea what you’re carrying?”

“Ammo for you, right?”

“I want you to think about that for a bit.”

“What’s there to think about?”

If Sixshot had been in robot mode, he would have rolled his eyes.

“You’re cute, but you ain’t got a lick of sense.”

“I lick things just fine,” Shrapnel protested. “Why are we stopped?”

“Because with that jammer down, my radar is working again.”

“And?”

Sixshot did not reply. In the silence, the sound of a jet engine echoed overhead.

“Someone’s up there.”

 

Hey, I hope this necromancy doesn't threaten the realm too badly.

As I mentioned on my art thread, I'm not going to finish writing The Chosen Stars, not as a whole, at least. My life is just too chaotic and busy these days. I've known that for a long time, and I'm sorry it took me this long to come around and say it (though I figure all of you already figured that out). I always had some general plans for how I wanted the story to go from start to end, however, so in lieu of completing the story, I'd like to share a rough timeline of the story's events.

Over the next couple of days, I'm going to post this timeline of how the story would have gone. As a creative effort, I wouldn't say The Chosen Stars is totally over, I'm really proud of the world I made and I think I might still make some stories that take place in it, and I'll definitely be sketching some of the characters too.

Thank you for all of your years of reading along.

 

This is the comprehensive timeline of everything that was planned to happen with The Chosen Stars universe. This timeline assumes that you have read all of the chapters posted on TFW2005/FF.net/Ao3 as well as the historical events on the lore thread since those events are not included in full here. This goes beyond the material I planned to publish and also includes the forum RPs and TTRPG sessions I ran. I will summarize the information necessary for the story really briefly, where applicable.

This is the first of many posts.


Millions of years ago:


The Quintessons, a race of near-godlike humanoids, create the Allsparks, artifacts with the ability to influence the evolution of sapient life. They seed the galaxy with the Allsparks. One lands on Earth, resulting in the KT extinction event. The other lands on Cybertron, which had its own native population of mechanical lifeforms. On both planets, the Allsparks begin their work of directing evolution towards a predetermined end goal: life in the image of their creators. After sufficiently advancing this process, the Allsparks self-destruct as a safety precaution, scattering into shards throughout the world. However, the Quintessons were jealous gods. In each Allspark, they programmed a failsafe: If one of their creations ever reassembled the Allspark and attempted to wield it to create their own life, the device would unlock the mortal’s Genetic Killswitch, transforming them into a bioweapon that would wipe every one of their own kind out, allowing the Quintessons to start fresh.

Thousands of years ago:

The lore thread has covered most of the important events during this time period, like the Destron War. I’m only explaining the details I left out to avoid spoilers before. If you need to be caught up, check over there.

The legendary monster Jukejoint is a very real part of history, not simply a legend. Jukejoint’s transformation into her monstrous form is actually the activation of the Cybertronian Allspark’s Genetic Killswitch, activated by Jukejoint’s own anguish and desperation while holding a shard of that same Allspark. Ancient Destrons would refer to her monstrous form as “Unicron,” a word for a abstract concept of unity, for the way she could dissolve anything she touched into black ooze that then formed a part of her body. This is, in reality, the effect of the Genetic Killswitch at work. Jukejoint absorbs and destroys every remaining Cybertronian Allspark fragment but one. Jetfire defeating his once-beloved is not just a heroic tale, but literally the salvation of all Cybertronian life, though the Destrons and even Jetfire himself never knew it. Jetfire uses the last remaining shard of the Cybertronian Allspark to hold Jukejoint in stasis in her “coffin,” really just a big hermetically sealed container. He brings that coffin with him when he is later exiled by Whaleroad. His longship, very slow by modern standards, takes a while to reach its destination.


Eventually the Knights of the Line figure out the importance of the Allspark shards and leave Cybertron to try to find Jetfire. Their ship is not much faster than Jetfire’s. Spies within the court of Simfur pass a broken version of this information on to Iacon, but it is disregarded by the Primes since it is a heresy against Primus. These events pass into myth. A few cults do spring up around this myth, believing in an Allspark creation, and the existence of a second Cybertron full of life. These become the Cults of Unicron, which vanish entirely around the Pax Cybertronia.

Within the last hundred years:


Tidal Wave, the Sea Ogre, the Pirate King of Yōke, and a Unicron Cultist, launches himself into the Black Unconquered (space), attempting to hunt down the second Cybertron. His rudimentary transwarp drive smashes him into the Pacific Ocean in 1945, where he is attacked by the IJN, who defeat him after expending immense resources to do so. The records of this battle are eventually recovered by the US government. Impressed by their firepower, Tidal Wave scans the battleship Yamato and begins a slow, unconscious reformat beneath the sea, preparing to eventually rise and claim his new promised land.


The Knights of the Line arrive on Earth in the late 1940s, following what they approximate to be Jetfire’s flight path. They begin to seek out the Earth’s Allspark shards for safekeeping but they run into two problems: Jetfire isn’t here yet, and humans are everywhere and hostile. In order to make their search easier, the Knights of the Line decide to reformat themselves into local heavy-duty vehicles, but due to the limited technology of their reformatting, they could only become steam engines. While this did allow them to covertly find the Allspark shards, it also made their bodies extremely resource-hungry. After waiting for Jetfire as long as they could, they decided to leave behind a message for their seemingly-lost hero explaining the presence of an Allspark on Earth, as well as transcriptions for the human language, all psychically encoded on a message-beacon in the United States desert, the work of the Knights’ magician. The Knights then go into stasis as their steam engines die out…

Jetfire arrives on earth in 1966, following the faint echoes of the beacon the Knights left. His Longship crashes through a secret USAF airbase and destroys a prototype XB-70 Valkyrie bomber as well as its crew, an incident which is later covered up as a crash during testing. Jetfire and Jukejoint survive, and the dazed Jetfire, overwhelmed by the psychic beacon, rampages through the base in a clash with the US military. Eventually, he begins to understand the message, and knowing firsthand the danger the Allspark poses, commits to aiding the Knights in protecting the Allspark. Not wishing to fight the humans any longer, he enters stasis as well, but stays just conscious enough to monitor his surroundings and keep track of his Cybertronian shard and Jukejoint’s coffin. He passes the beacon off into the mind of Seymour Simmons, a USAF test pilot, hoping that humanity will eventually come to understand the Allspark as well. However, Seymour Simmons is driven insane, and retreats into the desert where he attempts to make sense of the swirling images in his head. Jetfire is studied by the US government as NBE-1, and all attempts to crack open Jukejoint’s coffin fail.

Sky Lynx is created as part of a secret Autobot program to create the ultimate soldier, capable of fighting in every theater and defeating any opponent with overwhelming physical force and advanced weaponry that his body can grow and adapt from instantaneous reformatting. He can also split himself into two alternate modes, a process that required psychological augmentations carried out by the scientist Breakthrough. These augmentations were successful, but resulted in Sky Lynx gaining the ability to briefly read the thoughts of others, mostly those nearby. His conditioning was meant to make him into an obedient weapon, but he quickly developed an empathetic personality due to his innate understanding of the emotions of others. His publicity tour featured him making several pro-unity statements, including his iconic “Till All are One!” speech, which angered the Council, who wanted his power to help inspire nationalism and fervor for the Empire to return to war against the Decepticons. The program was canceled and no further super soldiers were created. Sky Lynx was assigned to simple space patrol duty, and it was during this deployment that he began to hear a new voice in his head, a beacon calling him to a far away planet. He was certain this was a higher purpose than the charade of Imperial politics, and made up his mind to leave Cybertron in secret and investigate the source of this signal, intending to return to Cybertron. However, his arrival is anticipated by the US government’s extraterrestrial task force and he is captured in (Earth Year) 2001. Experts including Isaac Sumdac are brought in to study this so-called NBE-2.


Megatron attempts to win over the Raksha rebels of Kalis in order to gain a strategic advantage for the Decepticons. To do so, he travels with them and assists in their attacks on Autobot forces. During this time he forms a close relationship with the Raksha leader, Nightracer, and the two have a brief, intimate romance. However, this quickly sours as Nightracer realizes that Megatron is using her cause for strategic ends, and burns all ties with the Decepticons. Some time later, Nightracer abandons a protoform in the wilds, hoping it will die.