Chapter 1

The day was gloomy with overcast skies as Mark Taylor pulled into the driveway of his father's neglected house. In the past few years he rarely, if ever talked to his father and now he regretted being so stubborn. Two weeks ago his father had died, all alone in a hospital without a soul visiting him.

In the past few days Mark has been battling several mixed emotions of guilt, sadness, and hatred. For his whole life Mark hated his father since he rarely showed any emotion to the son he fathered. Mark's dad had basically shut down right after his wife passed away, unexpectedly in a car accident when Mark was only two.

Though Mark treated his father badly he was still left something in the old man's will. He just hoped it wasn't the house since it was probably a money pit.

"Okay dad, what did you leave me." He took an envelope from his back pant's pocket, tore it open and began to read his dad's overly neat handwriting. "'What I am leaving you is in my garage, under the tarp. You are not to tell anybody about what your going to see'." He read aloud.

Mark shook his head, folded the letter then took out a yellowed garage opener. It took a few presses before the door eventually rattled upwards. What greeted him was a lot of junk and a tarp that seemed to be covering a car.

He let out a groan of frustration as he ripped off the tarp so he could see his dad's cherished 1966 Ford Mustang. He cursed as he picked up a wrench to throw at the car's windshield. This is what his dad loved more than him so why leave it in the will?

While in mid-swing something made Mark pull his arm down. Though it was rather dusty the car appeared to have rolled off the factory floor just yesterday. But how can that be, his father never drove the stupid thing in years.

"Why did you want to keep this dad?" Mark questioned as he went for the door handle. "What is so important about this vehicle..." His voice trailed off as he began to study the Mustang's interior. "What the...?"

There was a manila envelope sitting on the dashboard with Mark's name written in bold letters. What was this? Mark grabbed it, unhooked the clasp and pulled out a thin, plastic sheet. Though it was intriguing Mark ignored it to a read a letter.

'Dear Mark,

If you are reading this then I have died and I am terribly sorry that we were never close. But this letter isn't an apology, instead it is a warning for you. If you have not heard about Decepticons then there is still time.'

Mark took a look around the garage wondering if his dad had gone crazy. "What the hell is a Decepticon?"

'If you never heard about Decepticons let me explain briefly who they are. Decepticons are a race of robots that crave power and sources of energy. They will kill without thinking and there is no real way to defeat them unless with some help. That is where the Mustang comes in. There should be a plastic insert that came with this letter.' Mark studied the plastic sheet with it's strange lettering. 'Please be careful and remember, do not tell anybody about this.'

"Dad, what do you want me to do with this sheet of plastic?"

The ten by eight sheet was completely transparent except for some colored squares and the strange writing. What was so important about this item that his dad would put it in the will?

He took out his cell phone, punched in a number and as it rang he began to walk around the cramped garage. Every now and then he would glance into a box only to see photo albums or stacks of composition books.

"Mark, wow long time no talk." Came Anderson Miller's voice from the other line. "What's going on?"

"I'm in town going through my dad's stuff and I was wondering if you want to grab a bite to eat."

"Sure, you want to do it today?"

"Yeah, where and when?"

"Charlie's just off the strip. Should be quiet enough."

After he hung up Mark began to dig through the first box he came across only to find more composition books. Why would his father keep so many journals? He gingerly took one out to see that the book was titled: Summer - 1968a.

As he flipped through the book he spotted sketches, photos and his father's handwriting. One drawing in particular caught his attention and he quickly went to search for it. Once he found it he saw a robot that was far more advanced than what you would expect from the late sixties.

Curious, Mark picked another notebook up and quickly went through it until he came across more intricate drawings. He knew his dad was an amazing artist but this was something different. The detail given to each of the sketches was something straight from a movie studio.

He began to read the journal entry that followed a sketch of a dented robotic arm.

'Trace's damaged arm was repaired today by Perceptor, however only time will tell if it'll be fully functional. Hopefully the 'Cons won't attack while he's down. As for Steve, he's a bit shaken up but otherwise will be fine.'

Curious as to why his dad would write this information down Mark began to take boxes out to his car. He will have to piece things together back at his hotel but for now he had to meet up with his friend.

XXXX

Ten miles away Anderson sat in a booth at Charlie's with a menu in front of him. Though he knew what to order he still enjoyed skimming through the menu just in case something new was added. After several seconds he put the laminated sheet down so he could look out the window.

Why is it that Mark never came to visit? Anderson knew Mark had problems with his father but surely he could visit his friends. What did his friends ever do to deserve the silent treatment?

Five minutes later Mark came into the cafe, went straight to Anderson's table and threw a manila envelope down. Anderson took one look at his friend before reaching for it.

"What is this?"

Mark sat down across from Anderson with a shrug. "You got me and it's not the only strange thing that I found. My dad kept journals of strange events that had happened when he was our age. Stuff that is still boggling my mind."

Anderson slowly pulled the plastic sheet from the envelope and brought it to is face. "What kind of language is this?"

"Wish I knew but I think the answers lay within my dad's journals." Mark pulled a composition book from within his coat and opened it to show an intricate drawing of a robot. "I think my dad might have been sane after all."

"No, what it means is that your dad has been watching a bit too much Terminator."

Mark closed the book to show Anderson the date on the cover. "This is from 1968! Terminator wasn't around back then."

Anderson shook his head. "Look, he left you a mysterious package with a dire warning about robots that crave energy. Sounds too fictional to be real."

"Anderson, did your dad leave you anything when he passed away?"

"As a matter of fact he did." Anderson quickly took out is wallet and started to go through it. "In his will he said not to go to his safety deposit box until your father passed on."

Mark took the bank's business card that Anderson offered him, read it then smiled. "How about we check it out after lunch?"

Several Miles Away

The highway underneath the 1967 Ducati sped by with such speed that any other vehicle would have blown it's engine, however Velocity was not your average motorcycle. In fact even her rider was not really all human after an incident left him morphing into a living machine.

"Velocity, how much farther until we reach our destination?"

Velocity revved her engine as she moved into another lane to avoid a slow moving vehicle. "At this speed, less than an hour."

"Excellent." Her rider said as he leaned forward to reduce drag. "It's been awhile since we've since our friends."

"Hopefully it was our friends that tripped the signal and not a 'Con."

"Yeah well, we'll worry about that when we get there."