Retribution

Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own "Halo," "Transformers" or "Stargate-SG-1" or any of the characters. They belong to Microsoft, Bungie, 343 Studios, Hasbro, Takara and MGM.

The meteor streaking in-system went unnoticed. Too much going on, too many ships and chatter to notice a small body making occasional course corrections as it headed toward Earth. However, the meteor wasn't a meteor. The being disguised as a meteor monitored communications on several bandwidths at once, keeping tabs on the situation he was heading for-a war zone. Knowing this did not deter him from his task. He looked forward to it. Not so strange considering the months of inactivity, locked in his protoform, hurtling toward a backwater organic planet. But his anticipation of combat was behavior unbecoming an Autobot.

If he was able, the Autobot, designation Hot Rod, would've snorted at that notion, so often pointed out by his immediate superior, Ultra Magnus. He frequently butted heads with his unit commander. Hot Rod's present situation was no exception. Magnus wouldn't listen to anything he had to say about the situation on Earth before kicking him off the Xantium, only said he'd pass along his recommendations when he had a chance. It didn't matter what was happening on Earth, according to Magnus. Not when Hot Rod had his duty.

His orders were clear-find Bumblebee, lay low and wait for the arrival of the others. Orders be damned. He had other plans, and nothing involving looking for the missing Bumblebee. Like finding the Allspark. That's what Optimus Prime got for sending a scout in a warrior's place.

Hot Rod pushed it from his mind as he neared Earth's atmosphere, shutting down all but the most necessary of systems, preparing for his descent.

88888

The pod hit the ground, Graham counted to three, waiting for the door charges to blow. They didn't, so he kicked the door until it gave, wrenched it open, grabbed his gear and ran for cover. He ducked as needler rounds flew over his head, exploding behind him, knocking him face first into the drop pod in front of him. He stood, stunned, trying to shake it off, getting his bearings, firing at anything that moved that wasn't human.

A small pack of Grunts ran at him, swarming, knocking him down. Graham swung his SMG, catching one in the jaw, knocking off its face mask. It dropped away. Pulling his knife, he stabbed another under the chin, killing it. Now able to stand, he slashed and swung until the Grunts were either dead, dying or on the run.

He stopped for a few seconds, listening to the chatter over the comm channel, waiting to hear the voice of GySgt. Ellis, his commanding officer. No luck. And for the moment, no hostiles on his motion tracker. Graham re-loaded his SMG, checked his pack, setting off toward the installation he was supposed to protect.

6 hours later

Graham ducked behind a burnt-out truck, quickly surveying the area in front of him before giving the all-clear to the other two surviving members of his unit. He moved out from cover, Bristol and Sanchez following him out. Nothing but friendlies on his motion tracker as he stepped out onto the bridge spanning Black Canyon. He stopped, staring down at the Colorado River below, the moon glinting off Hoover Dam in the distance. Almost there.