A/N: Gosh dang, people! Where are all the MECH and Silas stories? Where are the stories involving interactions between Jack and the Decepticons?
I recently got hooked on Transformers Prime. It's a shame that the show is finished–I really appreciated the darker undertones shot through the episodes. It's been a while since any TV show actually went beyond the shallow scope of silliness and stupidity that makes up most of the animated cartoons today.
Anyway, this deviates from the episode "Crisscross". What if June Darby had died?
Read and review, please. I am more inspired to write when I see that people enjoy my stories.
In all of his time with the Autobots, Jack had never, ever predicted this horrible situation. Sure, he had recognized the dangers presented by interacting on a daily basis with the Autobots, but he had never imagined that the punishment would be taken out on an innocent.
"Jack," his mother gasped. She writhed as much as she was able to in the silken cocoon, which, admittedly, wasn't much. Jack's heartbeat was pounding in his ears, and his stomach rolled violently with nausea–sickened by the situation, by the location. He gingerly stretched his neck over the edge of the walkway. The ground was so far away, and the longer he stared at it, the farther the dizzying drop seemed to extend.
He tore his eyes away, with effort.
"Jack," his mother gasped once again, but this time it came out more as a sob. Her shoulders shook so violently that the threads of webbing tightly constricting her body trembled. Another pang of nausea. There was something terribly real about this whole debacle–in movies, his mother would have looked up at him and courageously told him to stay calm, and he would, and then Arcee would save the day, and they'd drive off into the sunset (or in this case, sunrise).
But this was not a movie.
Jack suddenly found himself highly conscious of the cold wind whipping across his cheeks, the deadly altitude, the fearsome Femme Cybertronians fiercely grappling with each other many, many yards beneath them. The wind stung his cheeks, cooling the hot tears that had unconsciously overflowed. When had he started crying, and why? It was going to be okay. Arcee would save them. Arcee always saved him.
Save me, Arcee, he thought deliriously. He was unsure why. If anyone needed saving, it was his mother. But the hysterical thought glitched into repeat in his mind and he found himself mentally chanting it over and over, like a prayer.
"Mom," he said, voice strangled, hands fluttering uselessly around the sticky rope just barely holding his mother above certain death. He wasn't strong enough to pull her up, and Airachnid was successfully driving Arcee away from where June Darby dangled helplessly. He was on his own.
Save me, Arcee.
The webbing creaked. Jack latched onto it quickly, feeling the white fibers stretch thin under his hands, like a little kid pulling a string of gum from their mouth. "Mom, stop moving!" He shouted. "You're weakening the web–"
June Darby screamed as the cocoon suddenly dropped another three feet before catching on the last thick strand connecting the cocoon to the walkway. Jack yelled hoarsely, enraged at his own helplessness, at Silas and M.E.C.H. and Airachnid for creating this mess, at Arcee for not helping him…
June Darby craned her neck backwards, wide, tearful blue eyes locking onto his paler, slate-blue ones. Wisps of black hair tugged free from her ponytail and waved violently in the breeze. Jack tried to search for something reassuring to say, but came up short. There was a large lump in his throat, a painful ache that made it hurt to breathe. The vulnerability on his strong, fearless mother's face frightened him.
"It'll be okay, Jack," June whispered, and then her face crumpled up in sobs. He could barely hear her over the breeze. "It's gonna be ok–"
–SAVE ME, ARCEE–
The rope snapped, and Juny Darby fell.
The base was filled by an oppressive, shocked silence.
Arcee subtly wiped the tears of cleaner fluid from her faceplates and chanced a timid peek at the curled figure huddled in the far corner of the base, half-draped in shadows. Even at this distance, she could see the shoulders bouncing from the force of muffled sobs, trembling underneath the heavy shock blanket. Jack was crying in silence, face turned into the wall.
Agent Fowler wordlessly shook his head, passing his dark-skinned hand over his head. "Poor kid," he ground out, and then shook his head once again and fell quiet.
I failed him, Arcee thought. Another trail of cleaner fluid welled up from the tiny ducts surrounding her optics and spilled over. Self-loathing hooked its pointed claws into her spark. Her whole body trembled with indecision, torn between wanting to comfort Jack, and wanting to flee to the dim, back-hallways of the base in order to scream and yell and punch the walls.
Fowler sat down heavily. "He needs to be taken to a hospital," he said haltingly. "He's in a delicate condition right now."
"I am perfectly capable of administering professional medical care for the child," Ratch interjected. His tone was brittle with grief and pity. Fowler raised his head, cut his eyes between the medic, Arcee, and the silently sobbing boy.
"No offense," he said quietly as he stood up and began dialing an ambulance, "but I think Cybertronian faces are the very last thing Jack needs to be surrounded with right now." Without meaning to, his weary gaze lingered on the femme Autobot. Arcee reared back as if physically struck.
When the government-issue medical van arrived, Jack had deteriorated into a dreadfully detached manner. Fowler explained that this was called "shock", a common occurrence among those who have suffered traumatic experiences. The EMTs loaded a limp, complacent Jack onto the gurney. He obediently allowed the doctor to fasten the padded cuffs around his arms and lay back without a fuss, staring vacantly up into the shadow-swathed ceiling.
Fowler sorted out the details and discussed the situation in low tones off to the side with the head EMT. As government personnel with the appropriate clearance levels, the medical technicians were allowed to be briefed on the ghastly events that had taken place that night. When he finished relating the details, the EMT coughed politely, gazing around.
"And the, uh, the mother? Her body?"
Fowler shook his head. "Believe me," he said, "at that height? There wasn't much left to… to gather for the records. She struck the ground so hard, she just…" sweat glistened on his brow, brought on by nausea. He cupped his hand around his mouth, as though holding back the urge to vomit. "I've served in multiple branches of military," he spoke through his fingers, "but I've never seen anything like that before. And the kid saw the whole thing, too, from the fall to the–to the impact."
"My God," the EMT said softly, looking over at the catatonic child staring upwards through listless eyes.
Silas reclined in the computer chair, steely gaze pointed upwards at the massive HD screens that took up one whole wall of his office. He reach out and hit replay once again. Captured footage of the night's events rewound and began to play anew.
It was a shame that June Darby was killed, he thought absently to himself, not really caring. In some way, he had almost expected the Autobot designated "Arcee" to swoop in and save the day. Guess the Autobots weren't as infallible as he had previously thought.
Still, the day had brought its own small treasures. M.E.C.H. had learned how the Cybertronians scanned vehicles for their "alt-modes", and they had struck the Autobots a demoralizing blow by emotionally crippling one of their human allies.
That train of thought led him back to the black-haired boy whose life he had pretty much destroyed in less than two hours. His pale lips tipped into a vaguely entertained smirk, deepening the jagged lines of his facial scars. He recalled the way the boy had tricked him and a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. Others in his position may have felt enraged at being fooled so easily, but Silas had never been ordinary. In fact, he was rather nonplussed by the outcome of the situation.
Instead of mindless anger, he found himself feeling a strange amalgam of pride, condescension, and anticipation. He was rather looking forward to meeting with the child again. A solid knock reverberated shortly through his office space. Silas swiveled the chair.
"Enter," he rumbled.
One of his Lieutenants opened the door and leaned against the jamb, dressed in the standard black jacket and round goggles. "Sir," he said, "The Board is waiting for you."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Silas dismissed him cordially. The ex-soldier nodded and left the room, closing and locking the door behind him. Silas dimmed the lights and then opened the video feed icon at the bottom of the desktop, standing and folding his arms behind his back.
The screen split into four smaller screens. Each separate video-call bore the intentionally-blurred silhouette of the person behind it.
There was no time spared for trivial greetings.
"The mission?" One of the figures interrogated succinctly in a flat, impersonal tone. The voice had been purposefully tampered with, altering the pitch to further conceal identity.
"The Autobot known as "Arcee" escaped before sufficient data could be collected. The Decepticon "Airachnid" likewise fled before she could be properly contained. There was a human casualty–one of the Autobots' humans, Jackson Darby, lost his mother, June Darby, to Airachnid's schemes. In a more… positive light, our strike team discovered how Cybertronians obtain their alt-forms," Silas summed up the night's events vaguely. He'd include the more intricate details in the debriefing packet later.
"M.E.C.H. casualties?" This time, the pixelated figure in the lower square on the right side spoke up again. Though the voice has been changed, it was still clearly female in origin. Silas shrugged.
"Eight casualties, none fatal. Worst of them being a broken arm." His lip curled in distaste. "The Autobots refuse to engage with lethal force when dealing with humans."
"That can be used to our advantage," the person occupying the top left square mused aloud. The other members of the Board nodded their agreement.
"And Project Chimera?" One of the members questioned.
"Ah, I've been thinking about that…" Silas interjected smoothly, instantly gaining the attention of the Board. "See, what with the skyrocketing expenses generated by the Project, and the projected failure rate given to us in the latest update by our scientists… I wish to propose a new Project."
Momentary silence.
"Are you insane, Silas?" One of the blanked faces growled, incredulous. "After all this time we've spent on Chimera? and you wish to abandon it, mid-way?"
"What would you propose instead, Silas?" The second voice, the feminine one, interrupted coldly before the first speaker could go off on a rant.
Silas could not restrain his cruel grin. "We've been trying to create a mimic-Cybertronian, but it's clear that these… transformers… are more than just wires and slabs of metal. There's something inherently human about them–their actions, their words, their inter-relational bonds. If we proceed with Chimera, all we will end up with–if the project even succeeds–is a mindless drone. That's not what M.E.C.H needs. We need a soldier who can think, a pawn who can adapt accordingly, and still be kept nice and servile under M.E.C.H.'s thumb."
"That's all well and good, but I fail to see where you are taking this."
Silas tipped his head to the side. "Why not start a bit… smaller? I propose that M.E.C.H shifts its prerogative to creating a hybrid, a welding of Cybertronian systems and human flesh. A techno-organic, if you will."
"The idea has its merits…" the testy voice drawled reluctantly. "But where would you retrieve a suitable test subject? And the Cybertronian parts?"
"We have enough weaponry, wires, and metal stolen from the Decepticon "Breakdown"," Silas reassured them. "The Cybertronians under-estimate human technology–especially the cutting-edge systems in M.E.C.H.'s possession. Our top scientists should be able to successfully equip a human body with Cybertronian implants."
He paused for a moment, relishing in the memory of black hair and tearful blue-gray eyes. "As for the test subject… I believe I have a suitable candidate in mind."