A/N: I know I just wrote two chapters for this...but somehow I found a new spark for this story, despite the others I have to write. Now technically rebooting it...enjoy.

Chapter One: The Photograph

"A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know." Diane Arbus

The pyramids had broken, treasure open to see under the sun. Fallen, a more adept word would be for the once proud monuments.

Fallen, like the mech whose name and machine prompted these pyramids to rise, centuries ago. And to fall, today and now. The Sun Harvester had failed, much to the relief of humanity and to the regret of the Decepticons.

And the Autobots...they sacrificed much for the puny organics known as humans. First the Allspark, now the Sunharvester that had first given the Allspark its power...what was next to die for Earth? Cybertron?

Now everyone knew of the Cybertronians that fought over their planet. Most responded as expected, full of fear, full of curiosity. Some despised the aliens, crying "Go home where you came from! Leave Earth alone!", among other things. Some loved the aliens, and saw them as family, despite huge differences.

Others...well, others had prepared, no matter the odds. Strange things cropped up in the wake of the pyramids' destruction. Groups of those who knew the truth and acted on it. Some groups were more reasonable than others and others had their roots to edges of insanity. Groups with mysteries, hidden from the public eye.

A less educated man would call them 'cults'.

But the Autobots had more important things to worry about. Like the injury of Arcee, for example...

"I don't know how the Matrix did, but apparently you are now suffering from no damage what so ever. Even previous minor paint scrapes are gone." Ratchet told his Prime. Optimus nodded. "Good." He almost hesitated before asking, "How is Arcee and her components?"

Ratchet shook his helm. "Not good. I have been working to keep her stable constantly. She finally evened out an hour ago, but the stress of losing two of her components might become too much for her." Two pairs of optics almost went involuntary to a pile of shredded purple and pink.

The sections known as 'Arcee' and 'Elita One' may be gone, but it was almost no doubt that the third known as 'Chromia' would revert back to the designation of 'Arcee'. If she survived, that is. "She was originally without them. Shouldn't she survive?" "Yes, but her spark has spent a lot time being used to be divided in three portions by the Decepticons. Reverting back to just one-third part of her original spark is different from having a completely whole spark split."

Ratchet's armor shook, or shivered, almost. "I can't even imagine the physiological damage involved in seeing and feeling two parts of you blown away."

"How are the others?" Optimus asked, maybe in an effort to get their minds off the dark subject. Ratchet snorted. "The twins? Those slaggers were just fine. Ironhide's watching them now, making sure that the mess they're sure to be making isn't too big."

They kept having to chase humans away from the pyramid and Sunharvester wreckage. That was Ironhide's first problem. The second was the sand in his joints, from the hot desert around him.

The third was Ratchet. Ratchet's temperament at the moment could be quite understood, having to deal with Optimus, then Sam, dying and coming back to life. But Ironhide didn't care.

Not with those slagging twins causing a mess. As usual. "Wha' the squishes doin' here, anyway?" Skids. "Mabbe they runnin' from your ugly face," Mudflap speculated, causing Skids to leap at him, causing yet another fight.

Ironhide was tired of separating the two, over and over. That was the fourth problem here.

Lucky for Ironhide, or unluckily, he was about to get a fifth to the list. "Do you mind posing for us?" Ignorant tourists. Humans, that somehow, stayed in Giza throughout the whole Fallen mess and now wanted souvenirs for it. This particular specimen was an overweight white male, American judging by the accent, and one who had spent too much time in the sun judging by the complexion.

"Slag off!" No one ever said he was good at holding his temper.

"But I just want a picture, robot dude!" The man protested. A whiner. Great. Why today of all days? "I don't care, human. Leave. Now." Ironhide barked, still in the middle of bashing the twins' heads together. The human looked like he was about to whine so more, but wisely turned to leave. Thank Primus. He wasn't in the mood to deal with this. One of the twins (Skids, most likely), instead of giving up on his wrestling match, grabbed Ironhide's leg. And pulled him on top of them both. Now everything was a huge tangled up mess.

A camera went off, flashing on the tangled three. Furious, Ironhide whirled around, only to find the same human as before slowly lowering a camera. "Uh...I just wanted a picture!" Ironhide growled. And the human took the message and left, for good this time.

The fat visitor panted, heart beating fast after an encounter with one of them. Despite their reassurances, no one really believed the aliens hadn't come to hurt humanity. A group had come to him, in Giza, and said they needed a single picture of some of the robots, so they could find a way to stop the aliens. The photograph would come to great use for them, he had been told. And to tell the truth, he was glad to help chase the aliens away, and the money offered just made it more appealing. So he took it, and took the picture.

He passed various booths advertising all kinds of goods, making a beeline for one in particular. A small cafe with a single table. Another man was already sitting there, face hidden in the shade of the umbrella. "Do you have it?" "Yes," The tourist breathed, heart thrown into another fit by the threat in the stranger's deep voice. "Here."
A single picture of three robots, green, orange and black, slid on the table to the stranger.

A hand picked it up. Closely examining it, the stranger gave a satisfied grunt. "Good. Here is your fee. Never speak of it again." A yellow envelope slid to the tourist, who quickly picked it up and left the table far faster than he had sat down at it.

The stranger was left alone at the table, picture in his hands. He put a hand in his jacket pocket, taking out a IPhone. He quickly dialed in a number learned by heart. "I have the picture of the last three." A reply came back almost as swift. "Good. Move on to Phase Two. Pick a target." His right hand tapped on the side of his leg, the only sign of his anxiety.

"My guidelines?" Only a brief pause. "Pick one that wouldn't be missed. Avoid as much attention as you can. If needed, cause a distraction by going after a human teammate." He took in a deep breath and asked a question that had been bothering him for some time. "Why is one required? Don't we already have the first awake and whole?" The answer came back harsh and foreboding. "You do not need to know why," Here the voice softened, if only by a margin, "Only know your target may be dead by the end of it."

Dial tone. The man sighed again, and ended the call. Another yellow envelope came from the suitcase at his side. He emptied to reveal pictures of robots of every kind. Most were blue-eyed and few were red, but all were a threat. As well as a possible target.

Which one to choose?

His fingers tapped on one picture in particular. Doesn't the First like the colors black and white? He smiled. Perfect.