Here it is! The start of the finale – once again, I'm going to suggest that anyone new read the Sterminio Principle and the Variasi Theory.
For those of you who've been kind enough to stick with me from the very beginning, here's your reward. I hope this one lives up to your expectations, especially when it comes to the twists and turns I have planned.
I do not own Transformers: Prime.
"…I swear, I about passed out when I ran into him. Tall, slender, silver hair," Miko gushed. "Anyway, enough about the looks. He, like, passed by me, right? So I keep going, thinking 'huh, what kind of guy wears an outfit like that?' I mean, green pants with a sweatshirt too tight for him? Ugh!"
"You're getting off track, Miko," Jack said tersely.
"Right, right," the girl leaped from the couch, boots landing hard against the ground. She stuck her hands on her hips and executed a fake pout, saying, "So I keep walking, and walking, and I turn this corner. I start heading towards the café, when I see it. This big, burly dude grabbing this girl – a pretty girl – and flinging her over his shoulder."
Raf leaned forward, intrigued. "What happened next?"
"He wrecked a bunch of people trying to get out. Then silver-haired wondered was there, tackling the guy to the ground. Then someone started shooting. I don't know what happened next – I started running."
Miko finished the story with a sigh, sinking into the couch.
Two humans and five Autobots stared, transfixed.
The lights in the silo flickered, casting an eerie silence over the entire base. Miko, who was twirling a strand of pink hair with her finger, kicked one foot up against the table before her and watched their expressions with her own satisfied mien, as if she'd just told the most important story in the world.
Ratchet, stumbling over his words, said, "I'm surprised you have the audacity to call that 'exciting,' Miko," lip plates pulled into a thin line and he turned back to the monitor. "Considering all the other situations you've gotten yourself into."
"You're just jealous you weren't there, doc bot," Miko called, grinning toothily. She turned back to the Autobots crowded around her, staring mainly at Optimus. Her face fell as she said, all serious business, "But…we should totally look into this, right? I mean, between you all, that guy looked freakishly familiar."
"A café shooting isn't something we can spend valuable time investigating," Optimus rumbled. "The local police force should be able to handle it – Agent Fowler has an undercover operative working there, I believe. If he finds anything of suspicion…"
"…He'll report it back to us," Arcee finished. Her optics lingered over Jack's hunched form for a moment, and the teenager looked up, pain creasing his normally smooth brow. "Besides, I think that we've participated in enough human-related events these past three weeks," she cracked her knuckles. "Hate to say it, but I'm ready to smash some con's."
"They've been silent for a while," Jack mumbled, running fingers through his hair. His back felt stiff, and Arcee's concern seemed to make it worse. He didn't need Optimus to confirm his statement. Megatron or Silas or any other major enemy hadn't even made a strike. It was weird. It was unsettling, and the lack of another relic sighting made it seem as if the world around them had come to a permanent still.
It didn't help that he was spending all of his after school time at the Autobot base. A part of him longed to go home, but Optimus and Arcee both had insisted that until his mom returned home, he was to stay in the Autobots field of vision.
The events of last week had been entirely too disturbing for them to do anything else.
His mom was in the hospital, being treated for a stab wound she'd inflicted upon herself. It had been a bold move, a stupid move, a crazy move. But the mind-control device had made her have to stab someone – mainly Jack – or something, so she'd chosen the alternative to killing her son. Killing – at least, trying to kill – herself.
If Howard Darby, who was now labeled as mentally unstable by the government, had not interfered with Jack's perfectly abnormal life, he would have been fine. Peachy. But he'd come out of nowhere as a follower of M.E.C.H and a friend of Silas, which was the worst anyone could be.
He'd gotten one of Miko's best friends killed. He'd almost managed to subdue Optimus, and had instructed that Soundwave, also under the mind control device, murder Arcee. Because of him, his mother had been teetering on the edge of life and death for days.
But all of that was nothing compared to the feeling of absolute trepidation Jack had felt when Agent Fowler, formally dressed and grey as a tombstone, had called Jack in the dead of night.
Howard Darby's body had never been found in the old warehouse. Just a dried, massive puddle of blood. No fragments, no ash, nothing. Fowler and his men had searched the surrounding forest to see if Howard had, maybe, limped out into the forest to lie down and die, like a cat.
They'd found a small trail of crimson tainted asphalt that led to nowhere.
It kept Jack up at night. Even with Arcee camping in the garage, his head had felt light as a feather. He didn't remember how long he'd lay there in his bed, clutching the phone, hunched over.
He didn't know how long he'd lay there remembering the beast. The creature that had dared call itself his father.
"…Jack?"
Jack glanced up, realizing that he'd drifted off. Arcee's finger gently touched his shoulder, and she said softly, "How about we go outside for a bit, you know, get some fresh air?"
Jack nodded, for that was all he could do.
"We received a call from Agent Fowler a few hours ago," Arcee crouched beside Jack, who was sitting on the metal roof of the outpost, cross-legged. Arcee lay on her back next to him, legs outstretched, face staring at the sky.
"Cool."
"Your mom should be coming home either today or tomorrow. Depends on how things hold up," Arcee smiled grimly. "He said that she won't be able to walk for a few days – Optimus was thinking that she could bunk here for a day or too. You can go home, if you'd want."
Jack didn't reply. Instead, he picked at a spot on the cool metal.
"Do you still think that this is your fault?" Arcee said, lifting her head. "Jack, are you even listening to me?"
"I'm listening," the teenager replied. "It was my fault."
"How so? Tell me, right now, how any of this was your fault."
Jack opened his mouth, but the original words flew out. A small tear clouded his vision, and he furiously wiped it away. "I don't know, Arcee. I don't know. You know that feeling you get when…when something happens that you can't control, and you just know, somewhere deep inside you, that it wouldn't have happened if you'd have just done something right?"
An almost imperceptible nod from Arcee had Jack continuing.
"Maybe it was something I did when I was just a little kid," he said glumly. "Something that I can't remember. Something my mom won't tell me."
"Jack, your father experimented–"
"I know what he did," Jack snapped, shoulders bristling. He took in Arcee's expression and mumbled, "Sorry. Didn't mean to snap."
"It's alright. I understand."
Silence. Then, Jack blinked and watched as a shadow whizzed beneath him. When he looked up, he wasn't surprised to find that it was just a flock of birds. He laughed and said, "I'm becoming paranoid, Arcee."
His partner tilted her head and murmured, "Are you still having dreams?"
"Nightmares. Terrible, terrible nightmares," his lips twisted into grimace. "They're always the kind where you're running and running from something. The creature never gets you, but…"
"…you just keep running anyway? Until you can't run anymore?"
Jack's eyes flashed across his guardians face. "I thought Cybertronians couldn't dream?"
"We don't need too. Our nightmares are always right there, smack in our faces."
Absently, Wheeljack began humming a tune.
It was one he'd picked up after trying to listen to human radio. The little preppy human girl, Miko, had enjoyed it, as had Bulkhead. He'd caved in to his own curiosity, and had managed to pick up a signal via the Jackhammer.
It had been loud, obnoxious, senseless, and in some cases, the language had been more vulgar the language Bulkhead used when he was jacked on high-grade.
It was awesome.
Once again, Wheeljack basked in the wonderful sensation of begin a loner. Having no rules, obeying himself, and himself only. He wondered how Bulkhead could stand it – Wheeljack respected Prime to some extent, but cared for his dignity too much to allow the old mech the power to tell him what to do.
Bulkhead was a freedom fighter, like Wheeljack. He was…risky.
But he'd lost his touch – well, Prime had most likely caused him to lose his touch.
A faint blip on the dashboard before Wheeljack jerked him out of his thoughts. It took his processors a second to make out the signal, the faint bleep of a dying spark or creature or whatever that was just a couple thousand feet beneath him.
Once again, curiosity won the battle. Jerking the gearstick, Wheeljack angled the Jackhammer at an angle, allowing it to steep towards the ground.
He landed with a jarring thud. Slipping from the ship, resisting the urge to draw his swords, Wheeljack took in the surroundings.
The ground was covered in a light coat of snow, patches of ice floating on icy cold water. Trees dappled the hillside to his left, more leading to a dense forest on his right. He'd parked the Jackhammer fifty yards from the bank of the lake, but even from here, he could see the deep furrow in the snow.
It looked as If someone had set off grenades, simultaneously, in a line. So deep was the ditch that Wheeljack could see the dirt and patches of grass splattered across the white ground.
As he approached, he found that the snow was splashed with energon. Lots of it. As if there had been a massacre, though Wheeljack could see only one body.
Or what looked like a body. It was the head of a Vehicon, the visor cracked. Raising his eyebrows, Wheeljack looked farther and saw that same Vehicon's arm, and then a leg, and then a wing, bent badly and stuck upright in the snow. A glistening, gooey pile of wires, ripped from the Vehicon's chest, floated on a patch of ice.
Someone had done this. Something.
Another sight caught Wheeljack's eye.
He walked over, limbs stiff from the sudden drop in temperature.
The blood was red, five little dots. The crimson was a startling contrast to the white beneath it. It didn't look fresh, but it was recognizable, no doubt. A foot away from it was something that caused the mech's energon to run cold. And it wasn't because of the weather.
A shredded shoe lay half buried in the snow. A human shoe.
Something horrific had happened, Wheeljack decided.
His helm turned towards the forest to his right. It took him a moment to see the trees that had been shoved out of places by an unknown force, along with the messy tracks that looked as if someone – a Cybertronian – had been running away from the scene, half drunk.
A smile touched the corners of Wheeljack's lips, and once again, the battle between curiosity and reserve began.
Curiosity won.
