Spitfire
Chapter XLIV

His heart was a resonant tribal drum beating rhythmically within his chest, throbbing against his ribcage in a way he considered almost pleasant. His senses were tweaked, no longer uncomfortably so but to an unbelievable perfection; he could see, despite the thin, trickling glimmer of the moon, the individual cracks within the brick walls of apartment buildings and the shadowed carcasses of insects trapped inside each sputtering street light he stalked beneath. He was acutely aware of his movements, every silent step he made poised to land not on a shattered glass bottle or a stray scrap of tin foil, but beside it.

I have never felt more alive,he thought, the voice of his subconscious echoing distantly and dripping with more truth than he believed possible.

It had been an incredibly long time, nearly a year, since he had played a major, physical role in a man hunt such as this one. William Lennox could not have imagined how much he would miss the rush of the chase, the adrenaline eking through the network of his veins, seeping into his muscles, tightening, strengthening, refining. It was during these moments, creeping amongst the shadows as nothing more than a shadow himself, he could believe without question that human beings had once hunted clawed, fanged beasts armed with nothing more than their bare hands, perhaps a roughly sharpened stick.

Evolution was never more evident to him than when he himself became as primal as his archaic ancestors must have been, pursuing the deadly unknown equipped with the mental and physical finesse of the most lethal predator.

Pressing himself against the shadowed wall of the closest apartment building, Will slipped into an effortless crouch, his gaze, having quickly adapted to the early-morning darkness, focused on the street that stretched emptily before him. Nearly ten minutes had passed since their first encounter with one of Thomas's Locomoticons, and despite the creature's languid clumsiness and stunted intelligence, he, Robert, Grayson and Ironhide had been unable to locate it. It was as though, after slipping and slamming a mindless path through the alley way, strewing garbage and crushing dumpsters, the Locomoticon had disappeared.

Still swung low in his defensive crouch, Will suddenly froze. Some nameless sense, a strange love-child of his ability to hear and his ability to see, alerted him that Robert, Grayson, and Ironhide were returning from their individual investigations and were quickly approaching him from behind, if not close to him already. As if to prove this conviction, he saw two human-sized silhouettes slowly detach themselves from the enclave of shadow nestled at the corner of the building across from his own and pivot deftly amongst the urban rubble until Robert was standing at his shoulder and Grayson was huddled before him, one padded knee resting on the cobblestones, his weapon drawn as he kept a watchful eye on the immediate area. Not a second later, Ironhide, enormous and oddly obscure amidst the darkness, lowered himself until his head hovered only a foot or so above his own. Glancing up at his guardian, Will noticed that the Autobot had dimmed his normally bright optics until only the softest shade of blue luminescence was visible, reaching no further than what would be the cheekbones on a human being's face.

|Main Street is clear,| Ironhide's gruff voice rumbled deeply within Will's ear. The weapon's specialist had, after some quick tweaking, added his own communication connection to Will's, Robert's and Grayson's headsets before the four soldiers had set off in different directions. |I also saw no evidence of the Locomoticon's presence there at any point in recent time.|

|Preston Street's clear too,| Robert added, his Cybertronian-range firearm cocked firmly across his padded chest. |All its alleys were empty, 'cept for some loose trash and a bunch'a goddamned cats.|

|Harrison's clear.| Although he did not abandon his position, Grayson's helmeted head swiveled around as he glanced at Will from over his shoulder. |All its adjoining alley ways are clear as well.|

Will let out a disgruntled sigh as the others regarded him in expectant silence, his visored gaze stop-starting across the empty street, the shadowed apartment buildings, the littered alley ways. |Where could the little fucker have possibly gone?|he whispered furiously, tapping one gloved finger against the butt of his Cybertronian plasma cannon.

After one, last visual sweep, Grayson pulled himself up and out of his crouch, taking a step backward so that he stood beside Robert. |What I want to know is how something that can barely walk a straight line is so goddamned pro at hide-and-go-seek,| the young soldier muttered, absently rubbing the barrel of his locked weapon against his thigh. |Considering the thing's as dumb as a door knob, the four of us ought to have found it by now.|

|Maybe all this zombie shit is a joke.|

Will, Grayson and Ironhide looked to Robert, eyebrows and optic ridges raised in question. Beneath their curious gazes, the soldier shrugged sheepishly. |Problem is, the kid's right,| he said, cocking a gloved thumb at Grayson. |We ought to've found that Locomoticon by now, 'specially considerin' that it ain't supposed to be much more than a wind-up toy. But we haven't. We haven't even found any evidence pointin' to where it was or where it could be, no crushed dumpsters, no cracks in the asphalt. That's why I think we're bein' played.| Robert Epps was quiet for a moment, glancing suspiciously up and down the empty, dimly-lit street, before continuing. |I bet that thing is just as smart as Prime, Ratch', and the rest of you, Ironhide. I bet any amount of money.|

In the wake of what Robert had suggested, silence bloomed as Will, Grayson and Ironhide gave his idea serious consideration. It unnerved the soldiers, Ironhide included, to think that perhaps the slipping, bumbling, almost comical Locomoticons were, in reality, incredibly good actors with considerable cognitive skills, at least with intelligence enough to think of using mindless stupidity as a ploy. What better way was there to pump the Autobots and their human allies so full of confidence that at least one, most likely more, would overstep himself and become theirs for the ending?

Ignoring the troubled wisps of worry that tried to twine their ways around his thrumming heart, Will rubbed the back of his helmet and let out a dismissive snort. |Well...there's not much we can do about that except to stay on our toes, huh?| he said, watching as Robert, Grayson and Ironhide gave slow nods of agreement. Nodding rather quickly himself, Will then hefted his plasma cannon across his chest and dropped into a defensive crouch; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robert and Grayson follow suit, Ironhide lowering himself until he existed in the alley way's thick shadows as nothing more than a pair of softly glowing, blue orbs. |At any rate, we can't stop now. As long as there's even one Locomoticon in Mission City, we have a job to do. Let's get it done.| He lifted a gloved hand and flicked it forward, his heightened senses registering the soft shift of booted feet as he, Robert and Grayson began to creep across the deserted street. A subtle rumble echoed through the pavement beneath him as Ironhide brought up the rear. |Stay close.|

It took only a minute or two for Will, Robert, Grayson and Ironhide to stalk their way up the empty street, dodging the milky rays of the moon, their Cybertronian weapons pressed to their bodies and their heads constantly swiveling, searching for the disfigured silhouette with sickly, yellow optics. Reaching the street corner without incident, Will came to a stop, waiting for the others to reach him before continuing on to the next street. During the three seconds it took for his companions to appear by his side, Will observed the city block that spanned before him with tiny snakes of discomfort kneading uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

Although it was short, only a handful of buildings long, the block was wide and unbelievably dark. On one side of the street sat a row of decrepit-looking apartment buildings, their brick walls slathered with layers of fading graffiti. On the other side of the street, however, two enormous, abandoned factories loomed. These crumbling structures blocked out the dying light of the moon and cast the entire block into impenetrable shadow. It was as though someone had taken a massive pair of scissors and had cut a short slice away from Mission City's street grid, leaving a blackened hole as dark as that which is left by an extracted tooth.

With Robert huddled at his right shoulder, Grayson at his left, and Ironhide poised protectively behind him, Will abandoned his hesitation and led their small faction into the ebony.

He would have fallen, perhaps cracked his skull or broken his arm on the way down, if Ironhide had not stopped him.

His ignored discomfort bloomed into a bright, white explosion of fear when he felt his booted feet touch air instead of asphalt, the thick, rubber soles struggling to find purchase on a precipice he had not expected. Even with an alarm sounding relentlessly within his mind, PULL BACK PULL BACK PULL BACK, Will could hear crumbling bits of broken rock tumble over the edge and bounce off of the pointed sides of whatever mysterious cavern had suddenly opened in the center of the city block. Something within him, perhaps another strangely heightened sense that had remained unidentified, registered the fact that, while he was not going to be able to stop himself from plummeting painfully into the hole, he wasable to stop Robert and Grayson. Snapping out his padded arms, he gripped a handful of shirt from either soldier and shoved his companions backward even as he was propelled forward, the fearful gallop of his heart slipping a grateful notch as he heard both Robert and Grayson collapse safely to solid ground.

With plumes of cold, earthy air thrusting against his cheeks, his flailing body poised almost perfectly above the gaping crater, Will suddenly felt an enormous hand catch and cup him, Ironhide's pointer and middle fingers wrapping protectively around his torso.

His breath whooshed from him in a trembling gasp as his guardian curled him reflexively to his armored chest. Trembling exhaustion suddenly weighing upon his bones, Will remained collapsed in the Autobot's massive palm for a moment, his chest rising and falling as a delayed wave of shock rippled through him, chilled him to the core. He could hear Robert and Grayson reacting, gasping through the head set's connections, their thick boots scrabbling against the gravel-littered pavement as the two soldiers crabbed clumsily away from the unexpected chasm. Will closed his eyes upon hearing them, gratitude seeping into every empty niche of his body. We're okay. We're all okay.

When he managed to open his eyes, Will was met with Ironhide's optics, a pair of softly shining orbs stop-starting across his face. "Are you all right?" his guardian asked quietly, not speaking through the head set, but aloud.

Catching his friend's gaze, Will presented him with a small smile. |I'm all good, bud.| He curled his gloved hand into a fist and pounded it playfully against Ironhide's thumb, loosening it as soon as it came into contact and laying it atop the Autobot's fingertip. He clasped it gently. |Thank you.|

Ironhide returned Will's smile with one of his own. "You're welcome," the Autobot replied, twining his enormous fingers once again around Will's waist and placing his charge upon the ground beside him. As soon as Will was standing of his own accord, Robert and Grayson approached him at a jog, their weapons cocked loosely across their chests.

|That was fuckin' close!| Grayson whistled, his voice tinged with undeniable excitement. He patted Will heartily on one padded shoulder. |You saved my sorry ass back there, boss man!|

|Shove off, assholes,| Will snickered, giving Robert a solid push to the chest as his friend attempted to rattle his helmet. |You're welcome, you're welcome. Just don't let that shit happen again.|

Their relieved banter quickly tapering off into a silence that was almost uncomfortable, Robert somberly appraised his companions, pointing toward the troublesome hole with the barrel of his weapon. |So...what the fuck is that?|

Before Will could respond, Ironhide took a large, rumbling step forward. |Let's find out,| the Autobot grunted, beginning to fiddle beneath the heavy armor of his chassis. Within a second, his headlights flickered on, casting enormous cones of bright light across the pavement.

The four soldiers froze.

What Ironhide's headlights had illuminated was a dirty street plagued with massive holes, each surrounded by a thick litter of torn asphalt, crumbling clods of dirt and shining bits of pipe. There were at least ten in all, every single one tunneling deeply within the ground, the messy openings thick with shifting shadows.

There was a soft click! as Grayson tilted his helmet backward, revealing a young, smudged face that was trickling sweat and very, very pale. His eyes were gleaming black marbles surrounded by identical pockets of exhaustion-bruised skin. "What the hellis all of this?" he squawked weakly.

The answer formed suddenly, solidly, within Will's mind, pulsating against the curve of his skull: They're rabbit holes.

Beneath his booted feet, the ground trembled.


Agreeing to be Will's guinea pigs was easily the worst decision we could have made,he thought to himself grimly.

Peering at his companions through his cracked facial guard, Bumblebee could see the worry, pain, frustration, and poorly-hidden exhaustion he too felt reflected in the dimly-lit optics of the other Autobots. Despite the fact that the numbers were tipped in their favor with he, Jazz, Hound and Ratchet facing just three Locomoticons, Thomas Duke's creations had not undergone several hour's worth of Cybertronian-range weapons testing. Granted, none of the Autobots had been severely wounded during the tests, but the fact remained that the ordeal had been both debilitating and unpleasant. He had finished it with a handful of energon-dribbling scrapes, a variety of dents, a ruined paint job, and the desperate desire to collapse atop his berth and re-charge for however long was required for him to feel decently online once again.

Thomas, however, had had other plans.

Quickly shaking himself out of his thoughts, Bumblebee barely managed to duck yet another clumsy, heavy-handed Locomoticon punch. Pulling himself down into a crouch, he raised his fists menacingly and watched with surly amusement as the half-sparked creature tripped over its own feet, its rusted arm swinging in the air where, only a moment ago, his head had been. After a second of panicked flailing, it collapsed to the ground, whistling despondently and scrabbling at the floor with weak, grasping hands, like a spider that had had one of its legs plucked off.

Bumblebee glared at the half-spark suspiciously, creeping toward it with his tightened fists remaining cocked protectively before him. Once he was close enough, he slammed one balled hand into the writhing creature's shoulder with all of the force he could muster, leaving a satisfying dent. Furious confidence mixing explosively with every other emotion flickering through him, each as potentially powerful as a struck match, he began to batter the Locomoticon's backside with a volley of quick, hard punches, the clouts leaving visible craters in its rusted armor. Each time he drew backward to deliver another blow, his confidence, worry, pain, frustration and exhaustion twisted, burned, melted together until the combined sensations sparked into the ugliest, bloodiest shade of agonized rage.

Suddenly, instead of the rusted screeches of metal grating metal, the buffets rang with names, Thomas Mikaela Optimus Antonia Sam Sam SAM, with blurred faces that appeared within his processor, with familiar voices that whispered into his audials. Memories flashed before his optics, overlaying his brutal attack on the Locomoticon, who had begun to shriek, like a thin, opaque film - Sam and Mikaela, their small hands clasped between them, observing him with wide, glittering eyes on the night they had first met. Antonia's pale, terrified face as she instructed Barricade to kiss her ass. Pilar, silent and sad, resting the tips of her fingers upon the screen shot of that single, bloody hand print. Optimus Prime flinching upon hearing his dead lover's name. Ironhide, his narrowed optics shining with defensive guilt, the evening Bumblebee had found him standing quietly in the hallway, listening to Tyler strum on an old guitar in one of the base's many empty rooms and croon to an audience he did not he had -

I'm FINE, do you hear me? the final memory, an incredibly painful end to that mental slide show, unexpectedly howled at him, made him cringe. It was, of course, of Sam, Sam with his tearing eyes, his terrified defiance, his glowing life lines. I'm FINE!

When the Locomoticon, pathetically dense and in a pained frenzy, clasped its trembling hands over its head and tried to worm away, Bumblebee halted his relentless battery, gripped its struggling legs by the over-sized ankles and dragged the wailing creature until he straddled it beneath him. His right hand loosening from its tightened fist and quickly shifting into his plasma cannon, Sam still wailing his convictions that sounded so much like accusations within his thoughts, Bumblebee reached down, grasped the Locomoticon by its quivering helm, jammed the barrel of his weapon against the back of its head, and pressed the trigger. There was a dull bang!; the creature's struggles instantly ceased, its optics no longer yellow, but black.

I'm FINE, do you hear me?

Releasing the half-spark's shattered helmet from his grip, its hulking body slumping to rest lifelessly upon the floor, Bumblebee aimed his plasma cannon at its backside and began to fire. Smoking, bubbling burns appeared wherever the bright projectiles made contact; within seconds, the Locomoticon's shoulders and torso were nothing more than hot, noxious puddles of black liquid, specks of which flecked Bumblebee's own ruined armor with back-splatter. He, however, kept his pointer finger clasped down on the trigger, thick bullets of plasma exploding from its barrel in a spasmodic rhythm, until he could no longer hear his agonized, wild-haired, young charge screaming within his processor, I'm FINE I'm FINE do you HEAR ME, until he could hear nothing but a piercing whine that seemed to resound from the pit of his own chassis.

Finally, speckled with liquefied Locomoticon and trembling hard, Bumblebee staggered away from butchered creature, nearly tripping over its splayed legs as he attempted to step across its remains. As soon as he was standing safely beside it, Bumblebee suddenly kicked the enormous body and watched, still trembling hard enough to rattle his door wings, as it tumbled across the shattered floor, coming to a rest only when it collided with the wall. What was left of its shoulder rang loudly as it cracked against the metal panels, dousing them with a fan of hot, stinking droplets.

It was only then, his anxious quivering no longer so strong, his rage simmering down into something along the lines of detached horror, that Bumblebee noticed the silence.

Peering over his shoulder, his optics widened.

Although Jazz, Hound and Ratchet remained locked in their sparring positions with the two half-sparks, all five mechs were no longer actively fighting one another. Instead, his friends and their foes were frozen in place, varying degrees of shock playing across their faces as he and what was left of his unfortunate victim were observed carefully by every pair of blue and yellow optics in the room.

Beneath these curious gazes, Bumblebee fidgeted uncomfortably, his every insignificant movement incredibly loud amidst the silence, his baffled shame growing with each quiet second that ticked by. What had gotten into me?he thought to himself, shooting the decimated Locomoticon that lay only a few spattered feet away a glance.

As if to answer his question, the memory of Sam's small, thin form shouting up at him with his fists raised defiantly, I'm FINE!, reared its ugly head once more. It was as momentary as the afterimage left by a lighting strike, but Bumblebee still flinched as though someone had struck him.

Halting the desperate stop-start of his gaze, Bumblebee looked to Ratchet, meeting the medic's confused, almost disappointed optics with his equally confused own. "Ratchet - "

The single, spoken word broke the paralysis that had lay draped over the Autobots and the two remaining Locomoticons suddenly and forcefully. One Locomoticon, the larger of the two, tore Hound from where the scout had been resting upon its back with his arms tightened around its stub of a neck, and dropped him unceremoniously to the floor. Then, with a lithe speed unknown to the half-sparked creatures, it ripped both Ratchet and Jazz away from its companion and nonchalantly tossed the two surprised Autobots into a noisy pile atop Hound. Without pausing to regain its composure or to even lift a hand to help pull the smaller Locomoticon to its feet, it turned to face Bumblebee, its dim, yellow optics locked upon his face.

Before Bumblebee could register what was happening, the two Locomoticons began to lurch clumsily toward him, rusted arms outstretched, over-sized digits flexing menacingly, as though the simple, half-sparked creatures wanted nothing more than to tear every limb from his body as slowly and as painfully as possible. He had barely managed to cock his fists in front of him before an explosion of grating metal diverted his bright gaze away from the incoming Locomoticons. Within a second, Ratchet, having effectively disengaged himself from the writhing pile of Autobots, wrapped his arms around Bumblebee's waist and brought him abruptly to the ground just as the half-sparks propelled themselves forward in a clumsy, shrieking leap. The medic curled Bumblebee to his chassis, ducking his head protectively above the scout's own, and observed the Locomoticons' slow descent to the floor only a handful of feet away from where he and Bumblebee sat crouched together.

As soon as the mindless creatures made loud impact, they began to swing at, scratch and punch one another, each mistaking the other for the young Autobot who had so brutally ended the stunted spark of their companion. Taking advantage of the mutual misunderstanding, Jazz and Hound quickly untangled themselves and pounced into the melee, landing blows and dodging those that were thrown without thought. It was in this way that the two remaining Locomoticons were defeated, saving extraneous Autobot effort by weakening each other to the point that, by the time the half-sparks realized that Bumblebee was nowhere in sight, it no longer mattered.

Even as the Locomoticons pealed pained shrieks and rumbles, their agonized cries echoing throughout the room like the wails of unhappy ghosts, Ratchet and Bumblebee remained where they had landed, the medic's arms still wrapped paternally around the small, trembling scout. The one time Ratchet had loosened his hold, Bumblebee's quivering had strengthened; he had dug his head hard against the older Autobot's chassis like a weeping sparkling. Ratchet, who realized quickly that something was wrong, did not attempt to pull away again. Instead, he stroked the top of Bumblebee's helm, soothing him as much as he possibly could.

After first dismantling and then collecting the lifeless Locomoticon husks and placing them in a pile of bits and pieces, Jazz and Hound approached Ratchet, watching with compassionate curiosity as the medic gently tugged at Bumblebee's arm until the youngest Autobot, still pressed so close, pulled himself up, stood on his own. With one arm slung companionably around Bumbleebee's shoulders, Ratchet observed his friend, his bright, inquisitive optics stop-starting across Bumblebee's guarded expression. "Are you all right, little one?" he asked quietly, using a nickname that Bumblebee had not heard in an incredibly long time, but one which was still able to pinken his spark with an unexpected wave of sweet, simple love all the same.

Silent, attempting to regain his composure, Bumblebee nodded. His trembling had stopped.

Ratchet was quiet for a moment, carefully gripping the scout's chin between his fingers and giving his head, specifically his face, a thorough look-over, before nodding as well. "I am glad to see you are better," the medic stated soundly, presenting Bumblebee with a smile that was small, tired, but nonetheless sincere. "You had me worried for a moment."

Bumblebee slowly returned Ratchet's smile with one of his own. Yet again, a wave of mingled admiration and love for the medic swept through him, reminding him that, for all of his grumbling and down-talking, Ratchet had been, was, and always would be one of the few Autobots, other than Optimus Prime and Ironhide, who had cared for him since the day he had been discovered by their faction, dirty, starving, so very young...and determined.

I am still determined, he thought to himself, his hands slowly clenching into fists. That terrible memory of Sam, tired and frightened, flickered once more before his optics. It had, however, become faded, the pain it brought no longer as sharp. His charge's defiant words, he suddenly realized, were not accusations, but cries for help. I am determined to save Sam. Not just from Thomas, Diesel, and Soundwave, but from everyone who wishes to harm him.

Wiping a splotch of liquefied Locomoticon from his chassis, Bumblebee nodded to Ratchet a second time, more readily than he had before. As he did so, his plasma cannon slowly, confidently shifted into existence.

His expression grim but unwavering, Ratchet carefully met the gaze of Jazz, Hound, and finally, Bumblebee. "Let's find our friends."