Rated: M for adult themes: language, violence, mental rape, character death, mech erotica, torture, gore, and suicidal ideation. This varies from chapter to chapter, so read at your own risk.
Important Note: I started this series of fics before Revenge of the Fallen hit the theaters. This is an A.U. 2007 movie verse fic, NOT a ROTF/DOTM/AE/LK/BB fic.
Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this work of complete fiction is Velocity/Sira and Hardcore. They are mine. Everything else is copy righted and owned by some really rich people. I make no money from this, but wish I could.
XxxX
Black Sky
XxxX
Guilt gnawed on the crumbs of her thoughts. Her violent emotions and unchained actions brought Optimus to her side, and he pulled her back from the brink. Now, exertion and exhaustion overcame the Prime, and he collapsed on their recharge bunk, nearly offline before he lay down. He left medical for her and risked his repairs for her. A stupid stupid risk no one should take for her.
Velocity blinked against the shadows and curled her hands underneath her cheek. The movement disturbed the Prime, and he pulled her closer to him. She did not resist or struggle against him; truthfully, she doubted she could untangle herself if she tried. Reposed in the dark, staring at the lights of the control panel next to the door, the cool, undeserved comfort of her mate's spooned embrace chilled the heat of her emotions.
Yet, meaningful sleep eluded her as her mind whirred with disconnected thoughts. The Prime's admission of how unjustly he treated her opened a wound in her soul. Velocity never considered his actions oppressive, but now, she didn't know. Had he forced her into a relationship with him? Had he taken advantage of her naivety and claimed her like a prize?
Another long blink of her shutters, and she realized she did not want answers to those questions. She made her choice and would not – could not change it. If their bond could harm him, and he ruled an entire world, then their bond could harm a whole world. The logic made sense to her; through Optimus, she became responsible for millions of lives. She did not want that responsibility, and no one had asked her opinion.
Velocity immediately stopped that line of thought. She had a mech wrapped around her, afraid she would leave him. He had yet to ask her why he found her with her sword nearly buried in Mirage's neck. Honestly, she couldn't have told him why. She recalled returning to base with Ironhide and then nothing until Optimus touched her arm, and the world rushed back to her. Was it fried wires, or did she disassociate? Could anyone even tell the difference? Did it even matter? Whatever happened, the looks of fear and horror directed at her would forever haunt her. She spent her life hiding who – what she was to avoid those same looks from strangers, but to see these looks from friends, shame smeared a heavy, oily residue across her. She blinked and cycled her vents against the sinking weight of guilt.
Optimus tightened his arm around her. Even in recharge, he responded to her, consoling and anchoring her, keeping her from wandering the dark path of her thoughts. She knew she did not deserve this or him, but even she could not decide if her mental protest was in self-deprecation or misfortune.
Muffled voices echoed through the walls of her quarters, arresting Velocity's thoughts. Gruff tones tumbled back and forth, and she tried to translate the conversation. The Cybertronian abruptly stopped, then heavy stomps carried someone away. The femme stared at the door and waited for an intruder to barge in the room. No one did. Instead, the blue glow of the display panel flicked to magenta. Someone had locked their door, giving them privacy.
The Prime cycled his vents, and a new wash of guilt fell upon her. He risked reinjuring himself to stop her. Why would the Prime even bother with her? His apology for failing her stung, and around her thoughts spun again, a dervish of insecurity, confusion, denial, and forced acceptance.
Eventually, merciful sleep enveloped her. She relaxed against her mate, their electrical fields melding together, and their frames supported and comforted one another. Within her dreams, Velocity tried to hide, but every window offered a gap in the curtains for unwelcome faces to peer at her.
XxxX
He stood in the center of a road, around him, plowed fields soaked with rain, exemplified how inefficiently humans utilized the resources of their world. Overcrowding in cities, food shortages, and all this land sitting idle. The humans did not deserve this planet, and he decided this primitive world would serve as the first outpost of the new Decepticon Empire. But first, he had to draw the Autobots out of their hole and crush them along with their human allies.
Anticlimactically, Soundwave set the signal and initiated the beginning of the end for the Autobots. A shadowy figure silhouetted against the setting sun, alone and still, focused only on the task. Soundwave did not offer any grand gestures of victory, no pontifications of superiority, no excitement, no celebration, just a silent, unseen signal.
The command radiated out from him. The first sensors picked it up, activated and started the pulse. It would take time for all two-hundred thousand relays to synchronize, time for the effects to cover the entire nation allied with the Autobots to feel the effects, but he had time.
The first victims of the pulse lay southeast of the center of the contiguous United States. A town of fewer than three hundred people prepared for the coming night. Streetlights blinked on, porch lights flickered. Ovens and stovetops warmed the evening meals as families and individuals listened to radios, watched T.V.s, and emailed acquaintances. Cars and trucks trundled along roads and the nearby highway. Lebanon, Kansas went black as the pulse passed over. The people of rural Kansas endured frequent power outages; this would not raise suspicions. Lights went out; radios and T.V.s silenced; computer screens flicked blank. Trucks and cars rolled to shuddering stops. But this outage was different. Flashlights, generators, computer servers, cell phones, switchboards, all the tools of the electric world, rendered useless. Every electronic device died as the wave rolled along the landscape.
The armor and power of this nation became its soft underbelly: electricity and technology. To one such as Soundwave, these accouterments of civilization became easily exploited. A single electromagnetic pulse would create disruption, but he engineered a continuous loop—wave after wave of disruption to cripple the Autobot's allies and strip away their protections.
Allowing himself a moment of indulgence, Soundwave transformed and flew low over the town. The wake of his passing shook houses and whipped the trees. He circled and realigned to pass over again. As he neared, he opened fire. Missiles rained destruction. Unsuspecting and with no retreat, the humans offered no defense against him. Within minutes, he reduced Lebanon, Kansas to flames and ruin.
He banked sharply and headed to gather his troops.
XxxX
Miriam ran her fingers through the water pouring from the tap. Hot, but not too hot, perfect for a long soak. She poured a small measure of bath salts into the swirling water and watched them dissolve. A scent labeled "Mystic Tide" filled the bathroom with hints of cucumbers and mint, something clean and sharp to wash away the day's bullshit.
When the water filled the tub, the Secretary of Defense turned off the tap. She sat her wineglass on the floor and stripped off her power suit. Sliding into the hot bath, she sank as far as the tub would let her, closed her eyes, and relaxed. A deep sigh escaped from her. For a few blessed moments, she didn't have to think about the shitstorm of a world she lived on, threats to her nation, petty political rivalries, giant alien robots, or that asshole senator from Kentucky. For a few blessed moments, she could be Miriam.
Reaching over the side of the tub, she felt for the wine glass. Wrapping her wet fingers around it, she lifted it to her mouth. The cold, sweet Moscato chilled her throat. The perfect contrast to the hot bath.
As she soaked, her muscles relaxed, her heart rate slowed, and her headache eased, a small oasis of tranquility in a brutal world. She remembered she left her phone downstairs, on the counter in the kitchen. She resisted the urge to retrieve it. The world could wait. Another sip of Moscato as she stared at her toes pressed against the opposite wall of the tub.
The room went black, but she did not panic. Power outages happened, even in Capital Hill. She waited, allowing her eyes to adjust to the meager light filtering in from the window. Forgoing the rest of her soak, the Secretary of Defense quickly washed.
A sharp knock at the bathroom door startled her. "Ma'am. Are you alright?"
Miriam smiled sheepishly to no one. "I'm fine, Paul. Just finishing up." She tried to forget the CID agents assigned to protect her, even in her own home. Stepping out of the tub, she quickly dried, wrapped herself in a robe, and picked up her wine glass.
Opening the bathroom door, she found all three of the agents waiting for her. Paul held up a cell phone. His cherubic features hardened into concern. "All the phones are dead and won't turn on. We need to go."
Turning sharply, Miriam headed to her bedroom. In the dark, she retrieved the duffle bag hidden in her closet. Already packed with necessities, the SecDef added a couple more from her nightstand. Dropping in the .45 Ruger and extra clips, she mentally checked off items. Pointing to one of the agents, she barked, "Next to my desk. The messenger bag, throw in every file you can find, my planner, and my laptop."
The man left the room without a word. Miriam added extra clothes and a framed picture of her parents, taken in front of their first apartment in Little Havana, Miami. In a rush to evacuate, she forgot she only wore a robe. Going to her closet, she felt along, knowing exactly where the stretchy pants and pullover top hung. Forgoing her standard heels, she snatched her tennis shoes. Addressing the men loitering, she pointed out, "I need to change. All eyes somewhere else." Paul exited and pulled the door closed.
The soothing bath nearly forgotten, her heart raced as she dressed. The loss of phones, along with the power, scared her. She knew the dangers facing her country, and how frequently small, insidious attacks occurred against it. But this, this could be something else entirely. No power. No phones. No way to communicate. She prayed to every saint she knew, hoping the outage only affected a small area.
Dressed and ready, Miriam stepped into the dark hallway. Even in the shadows, she noticed the agents had all changed too. The suits and ties traded for jeans and t-shirts. Shoulder holsters dark lines against the fabrics. Paul explained, "The vehicle won't start. We either stay in place, or we walk."
Miriam nodded. The agents wanted to blend in, to avoid attention. "What do you think we should do?"
"We walk," quipped Thomas from further along the hallway. "You need to get to the bunker."
Nodding in agreement, Mariam pulled her bag off the bed and traded it with the jacket Paul held. On their way out, the other agents grabbed a couple of more duffels and their jackets. They shrugged on the outerwear to hide their firearms.
Locking her house, the lack of noise assaulted Mariam. No motors, no hum of air conditioners, no radios, and the few people about whispered in the unearthly stillness.
They calmly walked along the avenue. A few people loitered about, but none appeared panicked or worried, merely quiet. Few looked their way, then dismissed them. Changing into casual clothes washed away some of the G-man aura. Even in D.C., armed security raised eyebrows.
One block covered, and Miriam began to wonder if they overreacted. That portion of the human mind notorious for minimizing calamities began whispering to her. What if this was just a power outage? Ignoring the fact cell phones didn't work, blackouts happened, a regular occurrence in modern life. What if no one else showed up? She looked like the scared fool running to the bunker—another black mark for politicians to use against her.
Quickening her pace, Mariam walked next to Paul. She intended to order them to return to her house and wait it out.
Overhead, a jetliner screamed, drowning out her words. All four of them looked up. Relieved to see technology working, Miriam smiled. Listing sideways and whistling an uncontrolled descent, the passenger plane exploded. The shock wave rattled the buildings around her. Stunned, staring at the sky, she tried to fit the event into her paradigm of normality. Out of the fireball, a darker form emerged. Sleek, brutal, and alien, the aircraft roared its hate. Turning north, it headed towards the White House.
They ran, bolting through groups huddled on the sidewalks watching the attack with wide-eyed disbelief. Weaving through stalled cars and into the street, they charged forward. Above them, planes, heading to Dulles and Regan National airports fell from the sky.
XxxX
Dr. Brunhick lifted the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, ignoring the brightening smolder of the tip. He watched the Vegas lights and the steady stream of traffic flicker and dance to the rhythms of the city. Another long drag, and he snuffed out the cigarette in the makeshift ashtray the hospital staff used.
He enjoyed small breaks in his day, a solitude from those who rely upon his decisions—a chance to exist without responsibility. The doctor considered lighting another cigarette but reminded himself he needed to quit.
Instead, he leaned against the rough brick facade and fiddled with the lighter in his pocket. The day's sun had shone on this side of the building, and the bricks warmed him through his coat. Thoughts crept forward: the happy couple with their first child, a little girl healthy and pink; a scared teen they had to coax into holding her fussing son still covered in vernix caseosa; experienced parents welcoming their sixth child into the world. All of them charged with caring for a fragile little life. He thought of the NICU babies, too delicate for the world. He offered a quiet prayer for the pediatric specialists tending to such helpless newborns, glad he only delivered babies and treated the mothers.
The river of white and red automobile lights streaming through the streets like blood through veins pulled his thoughts to another young woman he treated not so long ago. She had arrived at the hospital escorted by aliens – massive robotic aliens. Dr. Brunhick's hand fumbled in his pocket and crinkled the cellophane as he fingered it. Habitual movements brought another cigarette to his mouth, followed by his lighter. Taking a drag, he wondered if the raven-haired woman had the child yet and what kind of life they would have underfoot the robots.
Darkness fell upon him, so complete and impenetrable, he thought he went blind. As his eyes adjusted, millions of stars began to twinkle overhead, and the doctor realized he did not suffer a stroke but a simple power outage. He took a long drag from his cigarette, watching the cherry glow brighter as he inhaled and waited. Carefully he counted the seconds, waiting for the ominous thumps and hums of the backup generators to kick on. After two minutes, the small hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a chill crept down his spine.
Looking over Las Vegas, his chest tightened. The endless ribbons of cars disappeared as if wiped away by an errant hand. Power outages happened, but they never darkened tens of thousands of vehicles that crawled the streets.
"Shit," the doctor mumbled to himself. Snuffing out the cigarette, he ended his break.
Dialysis machines, Insulin Pumps, Pacemakers, Vegas Nerve Stimulators, operating rooms all became worthless. Across the United States, the medical miracles of modern technology became useless. Hundreds of thousands of people died in an hour; within days, hundreds of thousands of more would perish.
XxxX
Antwon neared the end of his shift. Another day of monitoring the inflow at the Stickney WRP, the Wastewater Reclamation Plant for Cook County and Chicago. He enjoyed his job, good pay, solid benefits, and set hours; rarely anything interesting happened, so he could go home and spend time with his kids and not feel exhausted. Every day the facility cycled 700 million gallons of gray and black water. Explained as bad water in, good water out; an oversimplification of the multistage process to purify raw sewage. Every day, 700 million gallons of sewage would dump into the river without the Stickney facility and create a health and environmental hazard.
He never understood how people never thought about what happened when they flushed their toilets. "Down the drain and out of their minds," his shift foreman liked to say. The old man was correct; without all of them doing their jobs, Chicago would quickly become ankle-deep in turds and piss. Diseases usually reserved for third world countries would become common: cryptosporidiosis, E. coli, Encephalitis, Hepatitis, Typhoid Fever, Giardiasis, and the list goes on. Antwon liked to think of the guys on his shift as superheroes; he even drew a cartoon of all of them wearing capes and masks, fighting back a monster pile of shit.
The control panel in front of him blinked with routine lethargy. Dials swung calmly, displaying flow pressures and dump rates in the pipes. Setting his newest sketch aside, Antwon picked up the clipboard to chart his final reading before turning everything over to Huxley. As he jotted the inflow on North Line Six, darkness engulfed him.
With a suffering moan, Antwon slid his rolling chair towards the phone. Total darkness did not bother him; he knew the layout of the room by heart. His fingertips found the receiver, and he lifted it to his ear. Nothing. No dial tone, no hollow static of an active line, no way to call Phil and see if the generators would fire up.
It took him a couple of attempts to return the phone to its cradle. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, wanting to call his sister and have her fill the tub with water while it still flowed. The Nokia refused to turn on; he held a useless, over-priced piece of metal and glass. Sitting back, he mentally ran the calculations, trying to narrow the window of time before the blackwater would build up and backwash past the intake pumps or hit the overflow valve and dump into the Chicago River and eventually Lake Michigan.
Powerless and unable to start the backup generators, 14,748 waste treatment plants shut down. Each one of them threatening to overflow and in twenty-four hours dump 34 billion gallons of raw sewage into the rivers and lakes of the United States.
People continued flushing their toilets and run tap water down the drain, waiting for the power to be restored and continue with their lives. They unknowingly wasted the precious, clean water in their pipes. In a few hours, flowing water would become a trickle, then long drips. The pumps that pushed the water into the towers high above the towns and cities no longer churned. Hydrostatic pressure kept the water in the lines and supplying buildings, but without electricity to run the pumps, the towers could not refill. America sat on only a couple of days before the genuine threat of dehydration and endemics from tainted water became a reality.
XxxX
Catherine Cutter zipped along the 215, her car steady and purring at sixty-five miles per hour, and still, other vehicles passed her. She tried to ignore the speed demons and focused on what she would talk about on tonight's news. With Barbara out on maternity leave and her success investigating the Autobots, the production manager asked her to fill in. Every night she smiled prettily at the citizens of Las Vegas and told them of horrific world events.
Changing lanes, Catherine dodged around a slow-moving truck. She knew her newfound grace and favor at the station would not last very long. In the cut-throat journalism world, she needed another big scoop. When the red, skinny Cybertronian went missing, an impenetrable door shut between the Autobots and the outside world. She needed to gain access to the aliens again, or she would be demoted to weekend "feel-good" stories.
Her car clanked and sputtered, and the lights on the dash went dark. "What the…," she mumbled and struggled with keeping the vehicle in her lane as the power assist steering failed. Momentum kept her car rolling forward, but traffic on either side locked her in the center lane. Glancing around, the reporter realized it was not just her car. Other vehicles slowed and crunched into each other as drivers panicked or lost control.
The shriek of metal against metal snapped her attention to her rearview mirror. Behind her, a semi plowed into several cars and did not slow—old science lessons about inertia and how heavier things take longer to stop bounced into her thoughts. Struggling with the steering wheel, Catherine tried to use the last of the car's forward motion to get out of the way. Instead, she only managed to wedge her car sideways across two lanes.
The glass exploded around her as the semi pushed several vehicles into hers.
300 million vehicles became useless. The drivers lucky enough to pull their cars and trucks to the sides of roads were stranded. Others, not so fortunate, became victims of massive wrecks, pileups of several hundred automobiles. People lay injured on the sides of thousands of roadways; people became trapped in the heaps of twisted metal. They all waited for ambulances and first responders that would never arrive. Spilled gasoline, volatile and flammable, erupted into explosions and fires. Fire trucks would never arrive to quench the flames, and cars became ovens, cooking those trapped inside. A lucky few escaped the infernos, dying by asphyxiation from smoke first.
Soundwave's pulse crippled anything with delicate circuitry or electricity running through it. Diodes, capacitors, and resistors all malfunctioned. Soft, nearly microscopic metals melted and warped as the current overloaded, circuit boards became useless, killing the machines they inhabited.
Overhead, planes lost power, their engines stalled, and navigation systems offlined. At any given moment, 8,000 to 54,000 planes crowded the skies over America. An estimated 200,000 men, women, and children crashed to the earth.
Passenger trains stopped. They trapped people on bridges, in tunnels, and over roads. Air circulation and temperature controls stalled. 100,000 people were stranded, with no way to get home.
XxxX
Sam felt his way down the dark hallway, his fingers trailing along the wall. Choking panic tightened his chest, and he tried to focus on the map in his head. A knot throbbed on his forehead, a reward for slipping on the tiles in the men's room. Now, he staggered in the dark, trying to make his way back to Mikaela.
His fingers hit a doorframe, then the wooden door, then the other side of the doorframe. Finally reaching a corner in the drywall, he paused. Closing his eyes, he tried to count the number of intersections before the left turn to Mikaela's room.
Three. He had two more intersections until the turn. Opening his eyes, he held his hands in front of him and hesitantly stepped away from the secure anchor of the wall. A faint glow began to separate the long corridors from the floors and ceiling. His eyes had to be playing tricks on him; he had read where people deprived of things to see or hear made up stuff in their brains. This had to be that. Fearful his brain lied; he still kept his hands in front of him.
The walls became brighter, and details of nameplates became noticeable. Hope fluttered with the dancing light, and Sam stood in the middle of the intersection, watching a far hallway brighten.
A man stepped around the corner, his arm raised, carrying a torch like a medieval night watchman. "Mr. Witwicky?"
Sam nearly cried with relief. Instead, he quickly shuffled towards the light. "Hey! Hey, can you take me to Micky? I mean my wife. Can you take me to her?" He wanted to shake the man, but the flaming torch and assault rifle kept the urge at bay.
"Of course, we are moving both of you to a new area,"
XxxX
The pulse erased digital information. Billions of dollars, encrypted and stored on hard drives and servers disappeared in a blink. The rich became paupers, companies blipped out of existence, banks lost everything, personal records and archives deleted. The humblest family photos to entire histories wiped away. Radar for weather, planes, and national security no longer existed. Computers, tablets, smartphones all worthless, and anything stored on them gone.
With one command, Soundwave crippled the United States, returning the advanced nation to a state just before the industrial revolution.
XxxX
Teletraan sensed the pulse first. Long-range sensors picked it up nanoseconds before going offline. Fearing what headed towards it, the A.I. disconnected from the base network and retreated. It sensed the pulse chasing it along the wires.
Rushing faster to the safety of its core housing, Teletraan sacrificed parts of itself. Files, newly learned behaviors, and skills, given up for survival.
Reaching its core housing, Teletraan severed the connections to the outside world. Cocooned and untouchable, the A.I. waited for its handlers.
XxxX
A ghostly soft caress of an ethereal hand brushing along her armor pulled her from a deep sleep. Velocity onlined, but remained still, her senses seeking the intrusion. Beside her, Optimus remained curled around her and offline, the heavy, slow beat of his pump vibrating against her. Comfortable and secure, the temptation to ignore whatever woke her and return to blissful unconsciousness teased her, but her instincts whispered with disquiet.
Opening her optic shutters, she glanced around. Absolute darkness surrounded them, impenetrable and solid; she would have to activate her headlights to see. Slowly untangling herself from Optimus, she sat up. She blinked, trying to decipher what disturbed her, what created that prickle of dread up her spinal assembly. The longer she scanned the darkness, the less she found and the more that animal voice inside her head warned her of danger.
Thick and pensive, the air settled heavily around her. The longer she sat there, the stronger her concern became, but she could not pinpoint the threat. It did not inhabit their quarters, but it lurked nearby. If not for the soft mechanical sounds coming from the mech, the cycle of stagnant air, the beat of a pump, the silence would become oppressive.
Nothing. Nothing had happened. The air did not circulate through the room. The background hum of vents and electrical currents was silent; not even the display panel on the door softened the blackness. This nothing had awoken her; a subtle change alerted the ever-watchful predator within her.
Attempting to slip away from Optimus disturbed him enough to wake him. He stared at her from behind half-closed shutters, the pale glow of his optics barely visible. He reached for her, a cool hand sliding along her arm, a soft tug to return to bed.
Without pretense, she spoke, her voice soft against the stillness, "Something is wrong."
XxxX
Authors Notes:
Researching this gave me nightmares. The threat of an E1 attack is genuine. While I did take some artistic license in having EVERYTHING electronic affected, this might not be the real-world case. The reality is that most cities only have about three days' worth of food and 24 hours' worth of clean water without replenishing the supplies. The estimates I found have a long-term, widespread EMP attack causing a fatality rate of 50% to 90% within a month, mostly in cities.
Writers joke about their search histories landing them in jail, but I am pretty certain researching this chapter put me on a watchlist. Between downloading Department of Homeland Security documents and visiting prepper/survivalist websites – yeah.