Okie dokie, everything's under control. Thanks for being patient. I'm glad for the speculation in your reviews; I can't say I didn't hope to tease some guesses out of you folks with that particular ending.

I couldn't acquire the Transformers rights while I was at J-house this evening, nor did I receive any money for writing this since I last posted. sniff

Without further ado, I hereby post this next chapter. Hoorah!

Toyotas! Less than Meets the Eye…

O.o

"…a small, white vehicle jostled into the light of the midnight meeting…"

The scandalized, shell-shocked Secretary Whitmore's query came out as a wheezy, panicked whisper.

"How… just how many of you are there?"

Again Optimus and in fact all the Autobots went silent as they ran the figures, clicking and chirping to each other as they did. Apparently this was a somewhat more difficult question.

The attention of the little group, however, was centered on the small, white station wagon parked next to the shiny black SUV. Out sprang a well built man of around thirty years, who was somewhat puzzled by the focus directed at the vehicle he'd vacated. Awkwardly he sidled up next to Chief Hiller, also looking at the plain hatchback.

He jumped when the tall, elderly man lurched forward, waving his arms and bleating "Think yer being sneaky, don't you, sitting there all innocent-like. I'm on to you, so why don't you just do your fancy little thing and state yer business like a real man?" With that he crossed his arms and stood back, looking terribly smug.

Looking very much like he would if he were trying to shake a scorpion out of his combat boot, Captain William Lennox addressed the deranged old man. "Mr. Hiller, sir? I think there must be some kind of misunderstanding here; that's not an Autobot."

"Well is it a Decepticon? Somebody shoot the damn thing!"

"Nooo, no. Respectfully, sir, there will be no shooting. It's not a Decepticon or any kind of robotic extraterrestrial. It's a Toyota."

"Are you sure about that? It looks pretty sinister-"

"Yes, sir, I'm positive. My wife has had that thing for eight years. She calls it Chloe. I don't think any self-respecting alien robot would put up with being called Chloe for that long."

Lennox threw a glare at Ironhide, who had powered up his cannons and was muttering something along the lines of: "I'll grumble…frag…grumble…wench …grumblegrumble …Lola… grumble-stringofexpletives!"

"No, I suppose not." Turning back to the innocent white wagon he pointed at it menacingly. "Consider yourself warned, Chloe."

Optimus, who was disturbed not only by Ironhide's crass language but also by the fatigue that must be causing the humans to threaten an innocent Japanese vehicle, did his best rendition of throat-clearing. It sounded something like a handful of rocks in a blender, but it worked.

"Regarding our numbers, there are only four of us and three to four of the enemy currently on this planet to our knowledge."

"So it's a deadlock now?" Keller looked extremely concerned.

"No." Ironhide rumbled, shifting around on his enormous supports in agitation. "The match is not even. Two of the Decepticons are of smaller body types and are considerably weaker. They are infiltration and tracking specialists who lack the firepower to oppose us in battle. Even you humans managed to damage them without much trouble."

Ratchet emitted something like a snort; either that or something was crushed in his faceplates. "Your definition of trouble and theirs may have some discrepancies, you gun-turret with legs. Regardless of weaponry, Frenzy can be deleterious even to our mainframes, let alone theirs. And Scorponok is a sizeable threat in that we can't locate him. Not all danger is limited to the battlefield."

"Fine. But with Blackout dead his range is limited. And since Starscream turned his aft into his fore and pointed his jets at the ground, I'd say we're in a fine position to go four against one and two halves. We just have to find 'em."

Optimus decided to take back control of the conversation before the medic and the war machine descended into one of their unsightly arguments. "I understand your point, Ironhide, but without Jazz I doubt we can find those three, and frankly I would be happier if Starscream had stayed planetside. There's no telling what he's up to left on his own." With that admission his bickering officers quieted and Optimus, never one to forget an enquiry, again regarded the humans. "Having been separated without means of communication for so long, there is no way of knowing how many formerly of Cybertron are left in totem or exactly where they are. Of the Autobots, death reports place our spark count at roughly one thousand as of our last transmission, though many more have undoubtedly been lost. We can only assume that the Decepticons have a similar tally."

"Only two thousand…?"

"Believe me, Miss Secretary, one Decepticon took out fifteen F-22s all by himself in twenty minutes and then rocketed into space using just his own F-22 vehicle mode to do it! These guys can be nasty, and I would notqualify two thousand with "only" when referring to them."

"We once numbered over ten billion, Mr. Simmons. We encrusted our planet, approximately the size of your Saturn, with gleaming cities of metal and crystal. We constructed huge energy rings and communications arrays around Cybertron and two of the other three planets in our system. We engineered a bridge to our geostationary moon and several clusters of planetoids to orbit our sun outside the energon belt. There were then thousands of ships that filled the space around Cybersol, and there was peace. Each of us is as dangerous as you suggest, but most of us learned to destroy out of necessity, not desire. Such a necessity was born from Megatron's treason, and it is contrary to our very programming. We are builders by nature, but those billions who could not learn violence well enough are gone. So do not think that now, when we will never again gather as more than scant hundreds, we are not few."

And with that, seemingly buckling under the pressure of a hundred millennia of grief, Optimus Prime's tall form shifted and shrank into the familiar shape of the Peterbilt semi.

As the other Autobots followed suit the red and blue truck declared that it was time the humans be returned to L.A. under escort by Captain Lennox, Chloe, and Ironhide. It was with relief that the tired elderly folk of the Cabinet and Intelligence agencies piled into two separate vehicles, calling their thanks to Optimus for meeting them and wracking their PDAs to clear their schedules.

Oblivious to the success of the evening, and to the bright yellow vehicle sneaking past the large, black, and probably still angry truck toward him, Sam Witwicky was lost in profound contemplation. It hadn't occurred to him before, but he couldn't recall ever seeing Optimus transform from standard to alternative mode. He was always awed at his other transformation and how repeatedly explosive it was; parts and components veritably bubbled from the Autobot leader in waves as he left his truck form, forming and reforming over and over. The opposite effect was… disturbing. It was like he collapsed again and again, turned inside out, compacted, and turned inside out over and over. Sam thought it looked downright painful, from his perspective anyway.

He mentally added this to the "Things to Ask Bee About Later" list.

He was startled out of his contemplation by bright headlights and "Take Me Home Tonight!" blasted as his six-cylinder friend pulled up and insistently opened the drivers' side door. As Sam ducked behind the wheel the clouds above were just being illuminated by the splendor of dawn.

Hell yeah it was Later. As they cruised out of the twisting lane onto an undivided highway, Sam started the Robot Inquisition.

"So what's this about me being an Autobot?"

888888888888888888

Ooooh, we're finally out of the woods! In a purely fictionally literal sense. Really literally I'm still in the woods. Living in the woods, actually. Fictionally figuratively, I'm nowhere near done with the poor guys. I hope you're as excited as I am.

blood shifter- My magic pirate skull tells me: "Nay, scallywag!" but don't trust him. He's a shameless liar. Just hang in there; stuff will happen.

teh blumchenkinder- Hold your horsepower, we're not there yet.

Hmmm, who have I made up this week? It's Inkjet, the transforming mecha-printer you never need to refill! That crap is expensive… And the mini-twins, Rave and Blare, my light-up color-changing speakers of doom! If you get cited for disturbing the peace while you are in fact not in your dorm, these two have probably rappelled into your room and thrown a crazy dance party- Cybertron style. Vivant les 80s dance tunes du original TF movie… Booya.

For those who care…

Optimus's age? I made it up. My version of Cybertron? It's largely B.S., but then, so was most of every TF series because the comic made so little continuous sense anyway... Deleterious- wtf, 10-cent vocab?! It's a real word. I swear. My (witty, as ever) chapter titles..? I think I'm funny. I hope I at least amuse you. I'll explain Methuselah Prior later, in context.

That's all folks! For tonight anyway. Sleep for the win.