"Good morning, Fresno County! It's a balmy seventy-six degrees and not a cloud in the sky! This is Maaaaaaaarty in the Morning with your wake-up call--"
Sam Witwicky, barely aware of his own name, let alone the time of day, extended a hand out from underneath the covers and slapped blindly at the surface of his bedside table. He managed to batter some comic books, his cell phone, and a plate bearing a few forlorn crusts from a long-devoured PB&J, but no clock-radio. He had made a point of banishing that totalitarian device to the closet for the duration of the summer. The DJ patter snapped off anyway, followed by a burst of Janet Jackson:
"Get up, get up, get up, get up and show-- you--"
Hauling himself up to squint out the open window, Sam let out a pained whine. "Bee, for god's sake, put Janet away!" he half-yelled, half-hissed, knowing that the Camaro parked in the driveway below would be able to hear him without any trouble. "What time is it?"
"Workin' nine to five," the voice of Dolly Parton twanged in response. "What a way to make a livin'--"
Sam shoved his head underneath his pillow. "Okay, okay, bring Janet back! I'm up already!"
"Samuel James," came Judy Witwicky's voice from the other side of the bedroom door. "That car of yours is going off again. Your father told you to get that fixed. We're getting complaints from the neighbors."
"Sorry, mom!" Sam yelled, and angled his head so that Bumblebee would be sure to catch his next words. "Must be some screws loose."
"Killin' me softly..." Bumblebee crooned back.
Sam literally rolled out of bed, crawled to his feet and scrounged up a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. "What's with all the chick music?" he muttered under his breath as he pulled them on. He'd had about four hours of sleep, but was quickly regaining brain activity by the second. He knew Bumblebee wouldn't be acting as if something had crawled up his tailpipe without a good reason.
"Sam, what is with that radio?" asked his father as Sam descended the stairs two steps at a time. "It's like it has a mind of its own."
"Oh, that's just silly, dad," Sam blithely replied, stealing a piece of toast right off his father's plate. "Probably just a short in some wire somewhere. I'll get Mikaela to yank it out and give it a stern talking-to."
"That whole car gives me a funny feeling," Judy said, coming down the steps in a more civilized fashion. "Can't quite put my finger on it."
"I caught him talking to it," Ron commented into his coffee.
"You talk to machines all the time, dad."
"Swearing at the mower doesn't count, son. While we're at it, maybe you can explain--"
"Papa, don't preach," Bumblebee admonished via Madonna from outside.
Sam dashed for the door. "Hey, lemme go fix that! And I'm taking off, gonna see if Miles needs help with that thing."
"What thing?" Judy called after him.
"It's a thing! Bye!"
Both elder Witwickys watched as the screen door swung shut behind their rapidly vanishing son. Ron glanced at his watch.
"Nine-oh-eight AM. Who was that kid?"
Sam let Bumblebee drive himself out of the neighborhood. "This better be good," he murmured, yanking the lever to tilt the driver's seat back for a quick snooze. "You've got to be more discreet, Bee. I still don't know how long I can get away with not explaining your little GTO makeover."
No helpful musical phrase issued from the radio, but Bumblebee nudged the seat back up after only a few minutes, more or less destroying any possibility for a nap. The drive to the overlook was too short. A massive Peterbilt sat with engine idling atop the bluff, an odd sight for a traditional makeout spot, but certainly less odd than having it thunder up to Sam's house every so often.
Sam got out of the car, suppressing a yawn. "Morning, Optimus."
"Sam," intoned the Autobot leader's sonorous voice, and the thirty-foot robot unfolded smoothly into his bipedal form. "I am glad Bumblebee was able to rouse you before the sun reached its zenith."
"Human teenagers like to sleep past noon. It's a time-honored tradition among my people. So what's up?"
"We received a message not long ago from an Autobot in deep space who we assumed was in distress, but we were unable to pinpoint his location or identity before he was cut short," Optimus began.
"In distress? As in hurt or being chased by Decepticons?" Please say just hurt, Sam thought. One city-flattening robot battle per lifetime was his limit.
"One can hope it is neither," Optimus replied, kneeling. "But we must prepare for both. I have spent the time since scouring your Internet and I believe I have found where the protoform made planetfall. A report from a farmer who found a crater in his pasture, and an eyewitness who called local police to report a giant monster of some sort. Both incidents were in the same area; this cannot be a coincidence."
"Where?" Sam asked.
Bumblebee's speakers hissed. "...heavy construction on 70 westbound just outside of Topeka, so plan your morning commute accordingly..."
"Kansas?"
"Approximately sixteen hundred miles east of our present location," Optimus confirmed. "As our scout, it is Bumblebee's duty to go ahead and assess the situation. Since the newcomer has not responded to any of our transmissions, we need to find him as soon as possible."
Sam turned and looked at the windshield of the bright yellow Camaro. "So how long you think you'll be gone?"
In response, Bumblebee transformed and looked down at him. "I want you to come along, Sam." The Autobot's voice, thick with a harsh buzz, was still on the mend; he used it only sparingly these days.
"Really? Road trip?" Sam brightened considerably.
"Time is of the essence, Sam," Optimus told him. "You are able to interact with your fellow humans and go where Bumblebee cannot. This mission will have a greater chance of success if you go with him. I was hesitant to ask, since you've made much of how you value this 'summer vacation'--"
"Are you kidding?" Sam grinned at the towering mechanoid. "The road trip is another one of those time-honored traditions. Better than sleeping in, seriously. Of course I'll help you find the new guy. I just need to-- hrm."
"What is it?"
Sam gave Optimus a grave look. "I'll have to clear it with my parents first."
From within the leader's body there came a rumble that was half hmmmm and half diesel grind. Optimus Prime returned the boy's serious expression. "Do your best, Sam."
"I have tracked the survivor's position on the planet. Transmitting coordinates."
"Rumble and Ravage will make planetfall well away from the Autobot's position. Track and engage. He must not be allowed to warn Optimus Prime."
The clock next to her bed read eleven-twenty.
Nic had never gotten out of bed so fast. And a young woman who had never even dreamed of breaking the speed limit pushed it ten miles per hour over on the drive to the bike shop, swearing under her breath the whole way.
It was her own fault; she had stayed up until four in the morning doing research on the Tomahawk concept motorcycle, the bulk of the time spent downloading videos of the bike in action over the Darlings' satellite internet hookup. The weather made this task an exercise in patience as the link went up and down like an roller coaster. At one point, the signal crapped out completely and she spent about half an hour checking the connections and the dish itself before everything came back up. She had been curious as to why some alien machine would resemble that motorcycle, thinking perhaps she might find some clue in its specs and performance.
But she'd learned nothing other than the fact that it accelerated with a kick like a steroidal mule, and apparently no one could test it to its top speed because of poor aerodynamics, and the wind would tear a rider off the seat. Nic had been briefly amused by a daydream in which the silver Earthling Tomahawk sprouted legs and stomped grumpily off because nobody would ride it.
She was not amused now, though, by the thought of what was undoubtedly happening right now at the shop. Never mind the inexplicable appearance of a heavily-modified version of a Tomahawk, of which there were only ten in existence (the normal ones, at any rate), but what if Robot Boy poked its head up to say hi to her family or, better yet, a passel of customers? Her cousins would naturally think it was the coolest thing since the invention of the Atari, but she had a feeling her aunt and uncle would have significantly different feelings on the matter.
She pulled up into the gravel behind the shop and almost ran into the workshop, forcing herself to slow to a brisk but casual walk when Jacob looked up from half a Yamaha.
"Hey, cuz," the teenager greeted her, then returned his attention to the bike. Nic let out a quiet breath. Jake was acting normal. First indication that nothing had gone awry. "Ain't it your day off?"
"Is it?" Nic replied, breezing past him. "Slipped my mind. And don't say ain't."
She braced herself for a scene of Asimovian proportions in the showroom, but there were only motorcycles of the terran variety, several customers and gawkers of the silver Tomahawk, which was nicely doing its job of sucking people into the shop.
The alien, in either bike or bot form, wasn't there. Even the tarp she had shoplifted to cover it was missing.
Nic leaned against the door frame, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. But where had it gone to?
...had it even happened at all?
"Nicole? Come over here, if you please." Uncle Terry had his Parent Voice on. Nic turned, seeing him standing at the front desk, standing over the shop's ancient Dell computer. A bookish man in a white business shirt was elbow-deep in its open case. She warily approached; Uncle Terry only took that tone with the boys these days, Nic herself having long outgrown the need to be glowered at.
"I was going to wait 'till I got home this evening, but since you're here... please explain me," her uncle said calmly, "why you felt the need to take our one computer apart last night?"
Nic opened her mouth to say something, registered what he was saying, then looked down at the CPU.
The case cover had been peeled back in the manner of a sardine can's lid, with clear pinches where a pair three-fingered hands had pried it open. The motherboard was in the process of being reconnected by the Geek Squad tech, and several more of the computer's inner components were laid out on the desk nearby.
Nic felt lucky her skin was already pale, so her uncle couldn't see the blood draining out of her face. Even so, she could swear her freckles would start losing definition any second now. "Um, I can explain...?"
"We talked about this, Nicole. We're not going to futz with the computer until we can afford to upgrade the whole thing. Now it's futzed up."
"Actually, sir, the components are intact, it just needs to be put back together..." the tech piped up, but Terry plowed on.
"What were you thinking? You didn't try to clockover it, did you?"
"That's overclock, Uncle Terry, and-- no-- I was just... trying to add more RAM. Make it a little faster, run smoother, you know? It's always locking up on me."
"And what did you use on the case? The jaws of life?"
Nic was warming up to her little lie. "The screws wouldn't come loose. The thing is so old--"
"Nicole." Terry pinched the bridge of his nose. "What in the world. This isn't like you."
She fidgeted, regressing in attitude by about five years.
"This is coming out of your paycheck."
Nic looked up at him and started to protest, but shut her mouth with a snap. "Okay. I'm sorry."
"You're twenty-four hours away from being a full-fledged legal adult, Nic," he said, his tone softening a little. "Please, no more last adolescent hurrahs, okay?"
"Yes. I'm sorry." Nic turned and stalked back through the workshop floor, ignoring Jacob's 'bye, cuz.' "Can't believe I just got owned by Buck Rogers's moped," she muttered, and stood at her car door, angrily picking through her keychain for the right key. The alien was gone, leaving Nic with a week's pay deficit for a souvenir--
Movement reflected in the car window caught her eye. A soft whirr-click from behind made her turn around, just in time to see a flash of bright blue peek around the corner of the garage. One glowing lens met her eyes, then retreated behind the building.
"There you are," she grumbled, and walked around the corner. There in the shade of tall weeds and scrawny trees crouched the robot, chrome sparkling in the spots of sunlight that filtered through. The tarp was crumpled up nearby.
"Okay, you-- the computer in the shop, geez!" she hissed. Nic knew it was useless to chastise the robot, given the language barrier, but she couldn't help it. "What did you do, eat the video card? Is that a light snack on your planet?"
"I am sorry for any trouble I have caused you," it said, quite clearly. "The other humans arrived before I could properly reassemble the data storage device."
Nic choked on her next words, her ire thoroughly dashed. She sputtered for a few seconds. "But-- last night you couldn't-- how did you learn English so fast?"
"Fast?" The blue mechanoid tilted its head. "This planet completed a quarter of its rotation before I could even find the information I sought. And your device's communications module would not allow me to download more than a few bytes per second." Its voice, a sort of tenor that thrummed as if it were being spoken by steel guitar strings, was colorful with annoyance. No flat artificial monotone, as she might have expected a robot to speak with.
"Communications mod-- you mean the modem?" Nic blinked. "You downloaded English through dial-up?" Well, there's your problem right there, she mentally added. "Now maybe you can answer my questions."
"What I am," it said, "why I appear as I do, and why I am here? Those were your inquiries; did I translate correctly?"
"Uh, yes," Nic replied, blinking some more.
"Nic? Ni-i-i-i-ic?" It was Jacob's voice. Nic could hear his boots crunching into the gravel. "Hey, cuz, you still out here?"
"Shit!" Nic shot around the corner and blocked her cousin as he came out of the bay opening.
"You gonna be going by a Burger King?" Jake asked, typically oblivious to her agitated state. "I'm starving and Martin took the car."
"Drive your dad's."
"He won't let me, not after I broke the tail light out."
"Maybe you shouldn't have been trying to drive backwards through the neighborhood."
"Come on..."
"I can't run all over town today, Jake, I'm sorry. Got way too much to do!"
"What, seriously?"
Damn my nonexistent social circle! "Yeah, just for that, you're gonna have to eat that mystery hot pocket in the freezer, smarty pants."
"Hey..." He leaned to look around her. "What's back there?"
Nic flashed a glance over her shoulder at the corner of the building and saw the end of the tarp fluttering out. She turned back to her cousin and gave him a push. "Stray cats. Really cute kittens, a whole bunch of them. Better not go back there, your allergies will murder you."
Sufficiently bullied, Jacob retreated back into the workshop, muttering allegations of drug use on her part. Nic walked back around the corner, slightly ill at how easily the lies were coming out. But the alternative, the truth? The robot was obviously hiding from humans, and probably had a good reason to, along with the reason it had chosen her to contact. She needed to learn those reasons before she dared invite more insanity through the front door.
In the weeds, the robot had withdrawn into its Tomahawk shape, somehow having flung the tarp over itself as it had done so, with only partial success: the back half of the bike was exposed.
"Oh boy." She couldn't help but chuckle. "Hey, um, it's just me. You still there?" She hesitantly lifted the edge of the tarp to peer into the headlight between the front twin wheels.
"I am here, human." The robot's voice came from within the chassis, clear and unmuffled.
"Look, we can't talk here." Nic looked around, across the flat, open land. She spotted a line of trees, a windbreak between pastures. "There's some trees over there. Um, tall vegetation. It should provide some cover. Can you... uh... drive yourself over there?" She wasn't about to hop on a motorcycle, talking or not.
For an answer, the powerful alien-augmented V-10 engine roared to life.
The Autobot waited among the trees, engine at a low nervous rumble, unable to follow the native's vehicle once outside its sensor range. Apparently the Earth vehicles were restricted to the designated pathways, and so unable to take the same route he had, simply plowing across the dense grass of the open plain. He made a mental note to look further into this planet's ecosystem when there was time. Earth was micron-for-micron packed with organic life, to such a degree as he had never before seen. Organic was by far the most fragile form of life in the universe; to thrive to this magnitude on this one backwater planet was truly impressive.
But for now, it had to focus on the task at hand: Locating Optimus Prime and others of his kind, and warning them of just what was bearing down on this little blue planet.
Auditory sensors picked up a distant rumble. Atmospheric conditions in this area were chaotic, constantly shifting; though the sky at present was clear, it was probably a simple storm looming out of sight. He also heard the snapping and rustling of footfall in the dead vegetative matter on the ground. The human-- and he now knew this one to be on the female side of the species' dimorphism, after observing the others-- was approaching along the line of trees. The Autobot waited until she was close to transform to bipedal mode, privately enjoying the naked awe she evidenced at the display. The fascination, it surmised, was very much mutual.
But then she was all business, folding her arms across her upper torso. "Okay. Spill."
"Spill?" The Autobot ran a quick diagnostic. "But I am not leaking."
The human's incredibly mobile face took on a strange expression. "I mean start talking."
He paused, rifling through the data he had wrenched from the miserly grip of the primitive communications module. "Spill, to divulge information. As if to spill one's fluid. I see. An idiot."
"What?" The human's voice took on a sharp pitch. "Did you just call me-- wait, do you mean idiom?"
Thought processes ground to a halt and hastily rerouted. "Yes, idiom. That was-- the wrong word." Nonplussed, he ran another diagnostic. Vocal communication systems were closely linked to spatial wave communications-- was it possible the corruption had spread? He isolated vocals from the damaged systems as a precaution. He could not afford to be unable to communicate with the human.
"Well, you only just learned the language." The human didn't seem to be as concerned by the slip. "Let's start at the beginning. What are you?"
"The language... is inadequate." The Autobot searched for some analogous terms that the human would understand. "I am an autonomous robotic life-form from a planet very far from here. In this language you might call it Cybertron."
"Cybertron. Ooooo-kay."
Unsure whether that odd utterance was positive or not, he simply plowed on. "I am here to join with others of my kind who have already arrived. In particular, our leader, Optimus Prime."
"Wait, wait-- there's more of you already here?"
He nodded. "I know not how many. I was attacked in space and my communications systems damaged. I am unable to get a message to them. I don't even know if they know I am here."
The human gave him a canny look. "Attacked... by whom?"
"Our enemies." Again he hunted for some suitable word. "Decepticons." he decided to be forthright with her. There was little point in oil-coating the truth at this juncture. "They are following me and will do everything they can to kill me before I make contact with Optimus Prime. And with my communications and sensors crippled, they may well succeed."
"Hold the frikkin' phone," the human barked. "Let me see if I get this straight. There's at least two factions of space robots out there fighting and you just brought the fight down here? Here, right on top of me?"
"If I could have gone directly to Prime," the Autobot retorted, "I would have-- as the situation stands, I only know that they are somewhere on this continent, and this planet is our new home. But I cannot protect my new homeworld-- and its inhabitants-- if I am scrap. I need your help."
The human sat down slowly on one of the trees, one that had somehow been toppled from its vertical position and now lay along the ground. For several long moments she said nothing. Then she looked up at him. "Why me?"
The Autobot knelt and carefully touched its fingers to her upper arm, briefly, in clear mimicry of the gesture she had used to comfort him the night before. "Sentience is rare," he said, "but kindness is even rarer."
She seemed... surprised.
"Do you have an individual resignation?"
She paused, her face again adopting that odd expression. "Do I have a what?"
"Your term of self-referral. A name."
"Oh! Designation. Yes, my name's Nic."
"Understood," the Autobot said, glaring inwardly at the faulty bit of data and correcting it. He hoped that would be the last of the errors; this was becoming embarrassing. Then, because the Cybertronian word that was his own name wouldn't be comprehensible, let alone pronounceable in her language, he settled on a term that was close enough and seemed to fit. He even liked the sound of it.
"You may call me Whiplash."
Nic had a lot to think about as she walked back down the tree line to her car, which was parked on a dirt road that ran between the pastures.
This was way beyond an artificial intelligence a la I, Robot. There was nothing artificial about it. The machine's intelligence-- its sentience-- was very real; no puppeteer pilot inside, it seemed. In fact, to call him a machine felt increasingly inadequate. Though his touch had been cold metal, there was undeniable warmth in his words and movement. Whiplash was alive.
"I don't know where I'm going to hide you," she said over her shoulder to Whiplash, who was picking his way through the trees behind her.
"My chosen vehicle form will allow me to blend in," he assured her.
"Hate to tell you, Whip, but your chosen vehicle form does everything but blend. Can you do something a little more low-key? Say, a cruiser or a touring bike?" They reached the end of the tree line and she turned to face him. "Why the Tomahawk?"
"Its design is far more advanced than the other vehicles available, even given the corrections I had to make," Whiplash said, almost defensively, "much more suited to my needs."
"Your needs make you stand out like a sore thumb."
But the mechanoid would not be dissuaded. "It is still the appearance of a mere vehicle. And if the Decepticons confront me, my speed is my best weapon." He crossed his arms with a series of metallic squeaks. "No one outruns me."
Hubris much? Nic thought, grinning despite herself. If she hadn't been convinced of Whiplash's sentience before, that little display of ego sealed it. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you. You gave the freakybike a heck of a facelift." Sighing, she put her hands on her hips, drumming her fingers as she looked the tall blue-and-chrome robot up and down. "So what now? Where do we start looking for your friends?"
"With my sensors down, they could be right next to me and I would never know." Whiplash's glowing lenses actually squinted. "Have you heard no reports of Cybertronians, even rumors?"
"Think I would have paid attention to giant robots on the eleven o'clock news. Sorry."
"Then they are in hiding, as I suspected. My kind can take the shape of nearly anything of equal size."
"And you don't know what shapes they took."
"Correct."
Nic blew air through pursed lips. "Gonna be tougher than I thought. But hey, nothing worth having is easy, right?" The phrase, a favorite of her father's, surprised her. She'd been trying not to think about that. "Follow me home. We'll figure out where to stash you when we get there."
She stepped out of the shelter of the trees and looked up and down the dirt road, then approached her off-white Civic. The thing always looked in need of a wash with that color, but she didn't feel like paying for a paint job when it wasn't the looks that mattered. As she slid the key into the ignition, she tried to think of possible hiding places for Whiplash. Hopefully none of her family had decided to pop back to the house for--
A flash of color in her rear-view mirror made her pause. There was another car coming up the road behind her, kicking up a cloud of dust as it went. Nic cast a glance into the trees, and she saw Whiplash transform into bike shape and back slowly away among the trunks and brambles. She fiddled with the steering wheel and waited for the other car to pass them.
It swerved to a stop just as it passed, sliding sideways across the dirt to block the road. Another Civic, only with a paint job and modifications that far exceeded the value of the actual car: a deep iridescent oil-slick purple, tinted windows, a truly ridiculous spoiler and some equally ridiculous spiral-cut spinner rims twirling with the aftermath of the wheels' momentum. Nic let out an irritated nasal sigh. Some punk teenager with more money than taste and good sense. She leaned on the horn.
The purple Civic's engine revved a couple times. Nic glared at it and gave her horn another couple taps. The windows were so darkly tinted she couldn't even see a silhouette of the driver.
"I do not have time for this." She opened her door and half-stood out of the car. "Hey, Pimp My Hooptie-- get lost!"
The purple Civic's engine cut off.
"What," snarled a shrill whine of a metallic voice, "did you just call me?"
And it stood up.
This new arrival was much bigger and bulkier than Whiplash-- being a car rather than a motorcycle, she supposed it had to be-- and before she could react, it lifted one purple-armored arm, the limb reconfiguring as she watched into a wide cylinder. A massive piston pulled back.
Nic's brain screamed warnings at her and she jumped away from the car just as the car-bot drove its tube-arm down onto the hood of her car, the piston slamming through the hood and engine and into the ground below. The resulting tremor jolted her feet out from underneath her, and she fell roughly on the dusty, hard-packed dirt.
"Oh, shit," she said, her voice incongruously calm. She rolled over just in time to see the car-bot level its other arm at her, this one a cannon like the one Whiplash had brandished at the phone. Only bigger.
"Are all you fleshbags so mouthy?" it inquired nastily, and the cannon spun. She could see a hellish glow forming within. Nic scooted backwards on hands and butt and feet.
But it was Whiplash's cannon that fired, the ball of energy smacking broadside against the car-bot's head. Whiplash himself came flying out of the trees only fractions of a second after his shot, slamming onto the car-bot with a clamor of metal on metal.
"Nic, run!" Whiplash yelled at her, clinging spider-like to the car-bot as it twisted and tried to scrape him off.
She didn't have to be told twice. She scrambled to her feet and took off into the pasture, heading for the bike shop. She hadn't gotten far when she dared a quick look back over her shoulder, and she saw the car-bot grab Whiplash roughly by the wheels and hurl him ass-over-fender down the dirt road.
Nic stopped running. "Whiplash!"
"Typical," car-bot spat, replacing the piston-arm with a hand. "You Autobots can't land on a planet without getting your servos in a snit about the local wildlife. Watch out, might step on a bug! What a disaster that would be, eh?" And it swung its blazing red optics to glare at Nic. "Billions of these things. Planet's just lousy with 'em. I calls that an infestation."
Whiplash rattled to his feet and brought both arm cannons up. "Your quarrel is with me, Rumble. Let her go."
"I was gonna," 'Rumble' retorted, "but then the little pest went and insulted me. You don't think I'd just let that slide, do ya?" Again the cannon swung in her direction.
Whiplash was again faster on the draw, unleashing a barrage that pummeled Rumble backward. The Autobot advanced as he fired, and as he came closer, he withdrew his cannons and extended from each arm a pair of long, slender blades from either side of his curled fists. Without giving Rumble a chance to regain his footing, Whiplash again leapt, his legs lengthening as if spring-loaded to propel him blades-first into his opponent.
Rumble twisted with surprising adroitness for a creature of his bulk, and managed to make one set of blades glance off his armor with a spray of sparks, but the other set struck home, piercing into the gears and guts of his abdomen. They didn't sink in far, however; whatever these Cybertronians were made of, it was some seriously stern stuff-- or Whiplash just wasn't all that powerful.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit..." Nic recited the litany of I-am-about-to-do-something-really-stupid, and ran back to the road, crouching behind her spectacularly dead car.
"YOU SCRAWNY LITTLE--" and what Rumble said next was a tangle of electronic grinding and hissing. Nic had a pretty good guess at what it might have been. Rumble again snatched Whiplash by a wheel, but instead of tossing him, dangled him out at an arm's length. Nic watched in horror as Rumble again drew back that piston.
She picked up a rock and threw it as hard as she could. It ricocheted off Rumble's helmet with a hollow clang!
It was as if time itself had locked up. Rumble's piston arm froze. Whiplash stopped struggling to pry himself loose. Both robots slowly turned their heads to stare incredulously at her.
Rumble spoke. "You have got to be kidding me."
The moment was all Whiplash needed. One leg whipped up and connected with Rumble's face, and the hand on his wheel released. Whiplash dropped, his cannons out before he hit the ground, a more powerful charge building before he fired this time. Rumble reeled and toppled backward, knocked nearly off his feet by the force of the point-blank blast.
"Nic!" Whiplash was backing away, cannons still trained on Rumble's fallen form. "Get on!" He shifted to bike form and gunned his engine.
Two years ago, Nic had sworn she'd never get on another motorcycle.
Some oaths were meant to be broken.
No time to hesitate, no time to dither about lack of helmet, she leaped astride the seat and took the handlebars in death grip. She braced herself for the mule-kick of his acceleration but he took off with surprising smoothness, more than up to the task of handling a metric crapload of torque with unearthly finesse. They sprayed Rumble with dirt and pebbles as the purple-armored robot flailed to get up.
Nic could hear, over the roar of Whiplash's engine, the now-familiar sound of a robot changing forms. A glance back confirmed that Rumble had resumed the shape of the Civic and was screaming down the road after them.
"He's coming!" Nic shouted over the wind.
"Not for long," was Whiplash's firm reply, and he continued accelerating.
Nic had to close her eyes against the onslaught of wind. She hugged the chassis for literal dear life, praying Whiplash would not test his top speed with her on board. Rumble, fast though he was, quickly fell further and further back. She had no trouble making out his parting words, though:
"YOU ARE FOOD FOR RUST, AUTOBOT, DO YOU HEAR ME? THIS ISN'T OVER!"
"Not by a long road," Nic murmured worriedly to herself. If Whiplash heard it, he didn't respond, instead maintaining his velocity further out into the flat Kansas countryside.
Not by a long road at all...
