2.
"Wahoo!"
The shout originated from a young teenager as he spun in circles in the middle of a dry lakebed. From his tires came a small tornado of dust--in the middle of which a yellow Camaro twirled, paint gleaming under the moon and starlight. His name was Sam Witwicky, and, in his opinion, he was currently the luckiest high school student alive. This opinion was formed due to the fact that he was, unlike most, able to crouch atop the roof of his car, while it spun in wide circles over the old lakebed. Most drivers would be flung from this precarious pose, had they been able to accomplish the feat itself. However, being seventeen, and therefore invincible, Sam was supremely confident in his position.
Of course, having a sentient vehicle was a tremendous factor in the equation.
Each time it appeared that the teen was near to slipping, the car performed a maneuver unseen by any save the most elite of stuntmen. It slid its rear wheels sideways, keeping its hood stable while still continuing spin in great circles in the dust. Judging from the number of tire tracks, the duo had been at their antics for quite some time. And, judging by the continued shouts of glee still emanating from the boy, many more would accumulate before they finished for the night.
However, the same factors that made the car such an advantage, also made for unforeseen problems. Such as when it decided to stop of its own accord. It did not so much slam on its brakes as it did slow to an acceptably safe speed. Only then did it brake hard enough for hydraulics to protest and rubber to grind hard against the ground. With a yelp, Sam went rolling down the side of the car, landing with a padded thud on the packed earth.
Silence fell over the lakebed. Even the car's engine shut off. The silence was quickly replaced with muttered curses as the teen stood up, attempting in vain to brush the dust from his clothes. He shot a glare in the direction of the driver's seat. "The hell was that for?" he grumbled.
The Camaro shook slightly, a voice emerging from somewhere within. "We have been here for several hours," said the car. "It is nearly three in the morning."
"So, what are you, my mother?" Sam massaged a bruising spine. "I mean, we're havin' a good time right now and you just go all responsible on me?"
"I have always been responsible for you," came the calm reply. "It is my duty." Obligingly, one of the bright yellow doors popped open. "And besides, the last time we were doing this, your cycles were so far off it was detrimental to your health."
Sam paused, one hand already on the open door. "My what?"
"Your cycles," the car repeated. "Sleeping. Waking. Those. You were 'running late' all day. And, I believe, you were detained after school for being just that."
"Oh come on!" Exasperated, the teen spread his hands in a defensive gesture. "Like that isn't like everyday of the week anyhow. At least I get something fun out of it. Five more minutes then I swear, we can go home and I'll never do it again."
The car's only response was to rev its engine warningly.
"You're killing me, Bee!"
"I am not." Now Bumblebee sounded indignant, as if Sam had just suggested his friend had done something unseemly. Somehow, he managed to sidle sideways on his wheels, bringing Sam closer to the open door. "Now come on. The longer you stall, the more trouble you get yourself into."
Sam merely turned, folding his arms. Though, what he thought he could do alone in the middle of the dry lakebed, even he wasn't sure. But damn it if he were going to let Bumblebee know about it. He simply knew he wasn't ready to return home just yet. That decided, he made an attempt to saunter off on his own—hands nonchalantly shoved in his pockets—only to be stopped by the familiar sound of shifting, warping metal. Turning back, his spirit sank as the robotic form rose to blot out the moon.
"Oh no. No no no!"
He gave a halfhearted attempt to run before a robotic hand gently plucked him up, depositing him over a yellow and black shoulder. There was nothing he could do except give in, even as they headed back up out of the lakebed. An electronic whistle emanated from his companion's voice box—the Autobot's rendition of Scorpions' "Rock You Like A Hurricane".
Glaring at the back of Bumblebee's head, Sam groaned. "Dude, you have no idea how inappropriate that song is right now."
Bumblebee's voice cut over the radio. "What?" He glanced back at his reluctant passenger. Metal brows twitched in confusion.
"For real, that song as applied to you and me, it doesn't work. Trust me."
When it became apparent Sam was not going to elaborate, the Autobot sighed, abruptly cutting off "Hurricane" and replacing it with "Iron Man". "Fine," he murmured. "I'll just ask Mikaela." Perhaps the girl would be more accommodating to a curious mind than Sam.
Shrugging as best he could in his current position, Sam said, "Hey, do whatever you want man."
"Fine, I will."
They didn't speak for a while. At least not until Sam's sternum grew numb from supporting his weight against Bumblebee's shoulder. He voiced this complaint to his companion, who, upon crouching down to drop him on a cluster of sagebrush, returned to his Camaro form.
"Show me the way to go home," sang Irving King from the radio. "I'm tired and I want to go to bed."
"When have you ever seen Jaws?" Sam quipped.
In response, the door popped open, nearly hitting him in the shins. He slid into the passenger side of the Camaro. It was late enough to where no one was really on the roads, and he could always clamber over to the driver's side should there be an unexpected increase in traffic. That was another benefit of a sentient vehicle. That and he could nod off on the way home without worrying about ending up in a ditch followed by a short ride to the emergency room.
It'd gotten quite used to such a luxury in the time following the battle in Mission City. Life in general had improved by leaps and bounds after that. Being guarded by a giant, living robot for instance—Mikaela for another. She'd taken a professional's interest in the repair of Bumblebee's legs, and, subsequently, had made a friend of the Autobot's medic. A fact which was part of the reason she was absent from their nighttime foray into the desert. The two of them were back at the ridge, the place the Autobots appeared to have claimed as their temporary base of operations, doing something involving an alien welding torch and someone's left canon.
Aside from the occasional scouting mission, the duo of yellow Autobot and teenage boy rarely separated. Even though there was no more use for Sam's inherited spectacles, it had been the warrior's wish to remain as his guardian. Granted, there had been a lot of explaining to be done as far as his parents were concerned, but the endless sessions of question and half-truth-answer was well worth the reward of going on the occasional recon mission.
Suddenly, the gentle hum of late-night radio screeched into silence as Bumblebee made a hard turn, accelerating in the opposite direction—headed back out into the desert. Peeling his face off the door, Sam sputtered an irate question; something along the lines of "what the hell was that".
"An odd signal," Bumblebee replied. "I need to check on it."
"Whatever happened to 'it's three AM and you're gonna be late for school'?"
Sam was promptly thrown back into his seat as the Camaro hit a speed no earthly vehicle should have been able to maintain over desert ground. He could almost hear the mischievous grin in the Autobot's voice. "I'll be quick then."
Rock and sagebrush flew past the windows in a blur of dark shapes on moonlit earth. Ahead of them, an abandoned gas station leered into view—black and forgotten near the base of a craggy hillside. It was that hillside Bumblebee appeared to be steering towards. They raced past the gas station, swerving on a dime to avoid what looked like patches of oil or water staining the ground. They were going too fast for Sam to get a good look.
"When you say 'odd signal'," he ventured. "Do you mean like… odd as in 'oh crap Decepticons' or odd as in 'hey there's a crazy dude up on the hill tuning in alien robot radio on his homemade satellite dish'?"
The silence from his friend was not at all reassuring. "I am not entirely sure," Bumblebee admitted. "But it would appear to be the 'oh crap Decepticons' odd. Either way, it needs to be checked on."
Sam's stomach did a small flip-flop that had nothing whatsoever to do with the speed record they were setting. "Shit—Oh hell. We're in trouble," he groaned. "I thought we took those things out!"
"At the risk of sounding clichéd… you thought wrong."
The thought of those hulking monstrosities bearing down on them yet again made Sam shudder. "You sure we should be doing this alone? I mean, what if it's another tank?" He waved his hands at the interior of the cab, indicating the relative size of the vehicle in comparison to said tank. "No offense man, but you can't take out a tank on your own."
"Can." The voice from the radio sounded smug. "Did."
"Mikaela's not driving and Lennox is having family time—"
This produced an irritated growl from the engine. "Are you implying that Mikaela is a better driver than I am?"
"No! What I'm trying to say is, we're on our own here."
Bumblebee slowed a fraction. "We?" he repeated. "We are not doing anything. I am. You will stay out of sight and out of danger."
They had descended down into a sort of valley, lying between the hillside and the desert plain. Windmills dotted both hillside and valley like limbless trees. Long shadows stretched out across the ground, and the interior of the car passed in and out of darkness as it drove along. It was a decidedly spooky effect. Sam could imagine the howl of a lone—and therefore hungry—coyote accompanying the eerie shadows. Adolescent courage or no, there was no way he wanted to be left out here on his own. Not to mention the fact he certainly did not want to miss out on the action, should said action prove to be a crazed UFO fanatic and not robots bent on the eradication of his species.
On that note, he spoke up. "There's no way I'm letting you go in with out backup, Bee."
Gears shifted as Bumblebee began ascending up the hillside. He didn't say anything for a moment, as his attention was distracted by more important matters. The others needed to know about the signal, and its location, should it turn out that he did indeed need backup. It took only a moment to reach them, and before they were even halfway up the hill, he replied to his charge. "Sam, I don't detect any life readings around here besides us, there's nothing to be afraid of," he said, sounding amused.
"Afraid?" Now it was the teen's turn to sound indignant. "Who said I was afraid?"
"Then you stay here, and I'll be back for you."
Throwing himself back against the seat, Sam glowered at the dashboard. "Okay, so maybe I am afraid," he admitted, his tone suggesting he was doing Bumblebee a great favor by his admission. Though he doubted the Autobot would repeat any of it to his comrades—or worse, Mikaela—no teenage male liked admitting fear. "Listen, I'll hide once we get there. There's no way I'm going to sit out here and get eaten by coyotes."
The engine coughed, a sound oddly similar to a sigh. "There aren't any coyotes. I told you that."
"I'll hide in a corner, or even better, a vent. I'm thin as a rail, look, I'm like a refugee. It'll work." He gave the dashboard a confident pat. "Trust me."
Slowing to a stop, Bumblebee made the sighing sound again, easing one of his doors open. "Be careful then," he said as Sam climbed out. "And stay back, whatever you do."
"Yeah yeah, will do."
They had stopped in front of what appeared to be some sort of maintenance shed, although the distant hum of electricity gave it away. The long, bunker-like building before them was one of the generators for the field of windmills, converting the wind power to a more useful form. At one point, it had been surrounded by a sturdy, chain-link fence. However, a large hole had been torn through the barricade, and the twisted, warped, fence lay twisted on the ground. Tire tracks led across the gap without any sign of stopping—as if something had simply plowed into the fence, and kept on going. Further on, the structure itself had a similar hole torn in it. Whoever had broken in had not even bothered trying to open the front door.
That in mind, Sam decided it wise to let Bumblebee go first.
Still in the final stages of transformation, the yellow robot stepped in front of him, motioning him to stay back. Sam followed a health-preserving twenty feet or so behind. The weeks of practice kept him walking easily, even as his friend's footsteps shook the ground. Part of him was glad Bumblebee was going first—the other part hated the first for thinking such a thing. The memory of the Autobot crawling through the rubble on shattered limbs was fresh in his mind.
Bumblebee knelt near the wall, peering inside the dim structure. Tire treads continued into the building, then stopped shortly after entering. From there, familiar tracks continued forward, disappearing into the darkness. There was a soft whirr as the yellow faceplate slid down over fragile optics. He moved slowly into the building, steps delicate. The more carefully you moved, the less noise you made. It was what he was trained for, after all—recon.
Behind him, Sam ran for the nearest vent. It was at this point that he realized there were none of said structures available at his height.
"What the hell kind of warehouse building doesn't have vents?" he asked the large form beside him. "That's like a fire code violation or something." Looking up, he caught sight of Bumblebee making a shushing motion, the faceplate making his expression all the more stern. Sam nodded quickly and tried to move as if he had found the promised hiding place.
There was no way he was going to get kicked back outside.
Bumblebee slipped around a generator, keeping his back pressed against the gently vibrating metal. It was the last bit of cover he could see for a while. Most structures in the building barely came up to his knee. Banks of computers and long tables were nothing when a Decepticon cut loose. And given the signs he'd seen outside, he had no doubt that was what they were dealing with now.
However, all Bumblebee could see beyond his secure position was darkness. If he turned on his IR feed, they might be able to detect the EMF leakage. He would have to chance it.
Instantly, the world shifted into shades of blue. He was able to make out several things lurking near the far end of the building. One of which was a cylindrical shape—most likely a generator, like the one he hid behind. Beside it was a rectangular form, sitting upright near a doorway. A deep hole in the concrete ground was beside the two. The only other thing he could make out was a gap in the wall—almost identical to the one they'd entered through. Not a good sign.
Near the entrance, Sam had, in all honesty, scoured the area for the promised vent to hide himself in. He'd had no such luck. Unlike his companion, he was unable to see in the dark, and found himself tripping over bits of rubble and equipment. Shouldn't there have been technicians running the station? Or a security guard at least? His wanderings took him deeper into the silent building. Passing up furniture, he at last hunkered down between what looked to be a concrete wall and a generator.
Only when he squinted into the dark did he make out the faint blue glow that marked Bumblebee's eyes.
That's… closer than I thought he was.
Fortunately for him, the Autobot's attention was focused elsewhere. And, like any reasonable human being, Sam was curious as to what his companion had found.
He peered around the wall, trying in vain to make out more than vague shapes in the darkness. Nothing wanted to offer itself up to his observation until the growl of an engine cut the air. There was no other way to describe the sound—utterly different from the noises emitted by other, less homicidal, engines. The car that entered the building had no headlights; it didn't need such things. As if to dispel further doubt to its identity, the car twisted, and stood, red eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Oh… fuck, gibbered the always eloquent speech center of Sam's brain. Red eyes were bad. Very, very bad. At least it was too small to be the last red-eyed horror he'd faced down. Yet the shape of this one was familiar all the same. He ducked low, hoping Bumblebee would decide to retreat sooner rather than later.
Unlike Sam, Bumblebee had no trouble in identifying the newcomer. It was hard not to, when you had spent an evening grappling with it. He tensed, fighting the urge to fire on the Decepticon.
Barricade… He should have realized the creature had survived. None of his fellows had reported its death. And he knew he hadn't killed it in their battle in the city. What it was doing, however, he had no idea. Barricade appeared to be speaking to the rectangular object, which, to Bumblebee's confusion, had begun its own transformation. Another Decepticon?
Having apparently finished its conversation, Barricade assumed its stolen form and began its departure. The new Decepticon followed, moving awkwardly on heavy limbs.
Now!
He slid out from his hiding place, canon emerging from his arm in a few quiet clicks. Originally, he intended to charge after them, taking care of the problem quickly and without many humans around to witness the battle. However, as he drew nearer to the generator the Decepticons had been clustered near, Bumblebee froze, stumbling back a half-step in surprise.
The signal was coming, not from Barricade and his new cohort, but from the generator itself. Glancing up to check on the Decepticon position, he searched the structure.
Wired into the very generator was another boxlike shape, this one not of human make. He knelt, looking it over. As far as an exterior scan could confirm, it was a simple Decepticon beacon, nothing more. But it should not have been putting out so strong a signal. The building was built by humans. Even the weakest of their signals would have no trouble getting through. There was no reason for it to require so much power.
He took a closer look, and recoiled. Internal scans revealed it to be not just a beacon…
It's a bomb!
Hows and whys could wait. Right now, all that mattered was getting the device shut down. There might not be enough time to get away. Even if they could, the subsequent blasts from the generators would be devastating—especially if the unfortunate maintenance crew came by at the wrong moment. He knelt, tugging at stubborn casing, only to realize doing so might set it off prematurely. There was nothing else around to use as a tool. And while he really did not want to bring Sam into this mess, it would appear he had no other choice. He was not Rachet—mechanical tools did not accompany him wherever he went. Maybe Sam's smaller hands stood a chance of dismembering circuitry.
Bumblebee turned, and scanned the interior of the building for any sign of life. It turned up, much closer than he'd expected. Although, that was not too surprising, knowing Sam.
"The Decepticons have gone," he called, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. "Sam, come here."
The boy crept close, keeping low to the ground. "Bee," he murmured. "Which one was—
"Barricade," Bumblebee replied, cutting him off. "The 'crazy cop', as you called it." He gestured at the blinking device before them. "I need your help."
"You need my help? What for?" There was a brief pause as Sam took in the box wired to the generator. He stared. It was the same setup one saw time and time again in video games and movies. He would be insane not to realize what he was looking at.
"Oh shit Bee, this is a bomb! Are you aware that this is a bomb? That there is a bomb right here, currently in the room with us? And, more importantly that we're not running!" Sam's voice screeched as it hit the end of its vocal range.
"Sam!" Bumblebee crouched, coming face-to-face with the boy. "I will protect you. But I need your help. Screeching will not help us at all."
Confronted with his friend's words, Sam could only summon a weak protest. "I do not screech," he muttered.
Large hands gingerly wrapped themselves around alien metal. "Watch the screen," said Bumblebee. "When I lift, make sure nothing flashes faster. That is a bad sign."
"No, really?"
Without comment, Bumblebee lifted the frame, slowly, cautiously. Despite his care, the panels began to flash. Sam yelped a warning, and the Autobot froze, then eased the device back into place. Obviously frustrated, he pointed at a few visible wires, wrapping in and out of both device and generator. "Pull the first of those out," he said. "But carefully."
His hands were almost shaking. Not quite. There was enough adrenaline in Sam's system to prevent that. If he messed this up, they were going "boom". Probably with a capital "B". But they wouldn't be doing this if Bumblebee didn't think they could—if that were the case, they would have been in the next state over by now. When the wire came free, he was able to let out the breath he'd been holding.
"Now the next one," said Bumblebee. Even he sounded tense.
It appeared to be going smoothly. At least until the second wire came free of the device. The flashing light on the panel started Sam into a yelp. He could hear his own heart slamming against his ribcage and his hands chose this particular moment to have spasms. Something deep within the generator groaned, setting the floor to shaking.
Panicked now, Sam grasped as many of the wires as he could fit in his fist. Bumblebee was telling him something, trying to pry him away, two fingers wrapped around his chest and tugging. That gentle motion was all it took. The wires tore free in Sam's hand, and power surged through flesh and metal.
He was sure he screamed, sure he could hear Bumblebee doing the same. He felt as if he were thrown from his body, and recalled, dimly, seeing himself still holding the wires, back arched from the shock. Someone was telling him to drop it. And somehow, he did.
Then blinding light erupted and he felt himself launched against something hard and unyielding. The light went black.
