Dearest producer (whose name hopefully need not be mentioned),
I hate to begin it this way, but you never know who can be looking over your shoulder with a gun in their hand. If you're not alone in an unmonitored area, I need you to close this letter and find somewhere that you can read it without any disturbances. Are you there yet? Good. Let's begin.
Sorry I couldn't resist grabbing your attention so shamelessly, you know how us filmmaking types are. Besides, you'll find this actually isn't the worst idea.
I have a film pitch for ya, or perhaps a miniseries. As exposition dictates I must remind you, I've been MIA for about eight months now, and here's what's happened: I've been compiling research on this "metal demigod" race that's become so integral to our culture as filmmakers. I've been across the country, to Germany, Brazil, even Korea, just going around and compiling information from willing witnesses and local rumors. I've even tried grilling a couple government officials, although that proved unsuccessful and was probably a stupid idea to begin with. They know they can't say anything, but this is such common knowledge that it'd be worse if they try to suppress it, so I'm confident they won't get to us. Still... these are some dangerous secrets about some dangerous people and things, certainly.
But, now to lighter subjects. This compilation of information is perhaps the most comprehensive of its kind to date, if I do say so myself. In regards to the events at Area 51, even with what knowledge I've gathered there is simply no way to accurately present what happened; however, the more I learned the more I realized what ideas there were to have
I've already discussed this idea casually with a friend of mine, Martin Solsvik - you may know him for his work on some big-budget neo-Kaiju movies. He told me about some ideas he had regarding the robots themselves, and told a story of posing several action figures in front of a lamp and just suddenly seeing them as - in his very words - "unknowable dream giants from some alien place we simply cannot comprehend". Hypothetical discussion (which included blaring Numan tunes and rewatching an old Kaiju movie or two) continued until we felt we'd reached some creative agreement and our visions lined up. Now, I doubt that'll last long, but this is just some background information that I want to get out there.
Solsvik and I have gathered a story idea based on my research, and the result is that now I present a script to you, so that you'll do whatever it is producers do; you know the drill. Some more notes here and there should just about cover what we want to see happen. Still, I really hope the CIA doesn't suddenly decide I'm a security issue and react accordingly, even in this day and age of such political incorrectness. : )
Sincerely,
Kelly Shiragami, screenwriter
...
Adapto Sapiens II: Pretender
Screenplay
by
The Toa of Science Fiction
...
Black.
Begin with a white humming - faint.
Add a little whistle of the wind, and the drip-drip of (water in a cave?).
FADE IN:
Image of a purple Decepticon insignia, eyes glowing a fuzzy, malevolent red.
Synthesizer music slowly begins to ramble, building little –
SUPER: September
- by little, introducing a brass section –
SUPER (below previous): 1988
- by little, adding electronic drums -
SNAP TO:
Black.
- by little, suddenly fading in intensity, almost inaudible, until...
All instruments CRESCENDO - a harsh, intense flourish! This musical prologue cuts out, and we begin. Silence.
FADE IN:
EXT. WHITE SANDS DESERT – NIGHT
XLS.:
Still.
First the pearly white moon comes into view, and slowly its light reveals the rest of a pristine desert around midnight. Barren, save a few billowing dunes and the whistle of the wind. In waves, stars begin to reveal themselves, white pinpricks which flare up and settle into the background again.
One of these pops out: an orange pinprick, which soon becomes a fiery orb. At first, this seems like an anomaly - some SFX mishap, perhaps, or some weather balloon burning in the distance. But as its intensity only builds, distant groaning sounds commence, approaching in sync with this UNIDENTIFIED FLYING OBJECT.
Soon it takes definition as it passes overhead, ROARING furiously as we follow it to its point of contact with the ground. Sands are thrown up in all directions, followed by the delayed report of a solid THUD.
CUT TO:
A closer, slightly angled perspective of the crater and the craft inside. It is cooled back to its neutral silver color, spherical and perfectly smooth – not what you'd expect of an object from space. It sizzles slightly.
CLOSE ON: a red-eyed RABBIT, illuminated by moon and stars, curious, tilts it head and moves forward.
PULL BACK: zoom out, revealing the size of the pod relative to the approaching rabbit – it has a diameter of about thirty feet, and the rabbit takes its place a (supposedly) safe distance away from the craft.
The rabbit continues to gaze at the alien craft, until a loud POP and HISS crack the pod open like... like an egg. And the egg's hatching! A minute crack appears on the side of the pod facing the rabbit. It turns and starts to run away, aimlessly kicking up sand before gaining traction.
A shiny, mercury-like substance oozes onto the sand from the pod, almost the same color but just a bit lighter, crawling silently across the ground at an alarming rate.
INSERT: The rabbit's red eyes only widen as it continues to scurry across the sand, suddenly appears to stop.
The night desert is stark, flat and silent. The rabbit is yanked back, caught in the trap of the approaching mercury, is slowly consumed by it. The alien liquid wraps itself around the small creature, giving the appearance of eating it alive. It does not.
Several hundred feet from the pod, the substance slowly begins to swirl, spin, warp. It stretches into a tower of sorts, flowing up and down.
From the tower emerge two thin, spindly branches, like arms; the base splits into two equally gangly legs. Slowly, the rough shape hunches over, curling its limbs into a shape you might recognize.
It is a rabbit.
This new creature, the imitation-rabbit, slowly solidifies. Takes definition. Texture. Then... color. It almost looks like it could blend in with the midnight desert would it not be for the red of its eyes... and the purple of the Decepticon insignia on its leg. It turns its head as neck muscles solidify into a mesh of otherworldly mechanics. It opens its mouth reflexively, and a little of its still-liquid self appears to dribble out. It bends over, almost seems to slurp it up.
Tentatively, this new alien creature takes a step forward, sinks into the sand, slowly recovers. Blinks several times. Makes adjustments to its frame. It takes another step, this time not sinking quite as much.
Another step. Another fall, another recovery.
Another step. Success!
SUPER: the initial tracking shot of the desert, now showing the invading rabbit disappearing behind a dune; against the expelled corpse of its template, which lays eviscerated and warped but completely whole against the ground.
CROSSFADE:
EXT. AIR FORCE DESERT BASE – NIGHT
ESTABLISHING: an aerial view of the desert base in question, illuminated in floodlights so as to draw comparison to a football field.
We hear the electronic hum of the lights. Garbled radio chatter grows louder, dictating commands, codes, et cetera. Soon operators overlap each other. Now live speakers are shouting orders, operating noisy machinery, all things you would expect from a place as busy as AREA 51, Nevada. This noise drops some, but lingers as the shot changes.
Down on the ground, those lights in question shine shadows on everything as Captain THOMAS WINSTON (callsign: "Thunderwing") steps out of a building, helmet in left hand, dressed for flying. He starts walking.
A fellow pilot – callsign: HERCULES – takes his place alongside him, matching his stride, helmet in left hand as well. They pass through a crowd of brightly-dressed techs.
HERCULES
So, what's up for tonight, boss?
WINSTON
You didn't hear already?
HERCULES
(sarcastically)
Apparently, I was asleep or something.
WINSTON
Apparently. A couple combat exercises, nothing too fancy, unless you count those new drones we'll be up against. Seen 'em yet?
HERCULES
Nope, I have not.
WINSTON
Well, you will. As a kid you probably said "Oh, I wonder what cool tech they have at that AREA 51 place!" ... And I can see you're still wondering.
Hercules stops in front of his jet: a gunmetal-gray F-16 (or something like it, modified with a slightly larger wingspan and sharper edges, among other, more subtly alien features).
HERCULES
Guess I'll find out what all those years of flight school were for. Best of luck, boss!
Winston nods to him, and the two share a special handshake. He climbs the ladder leading into his cockpit.
Winston continues onward to his own, several jets down from Hercules'. He climbs in.
POV: shot from the jet's dashboard of Winston climbing into his cockpit, cursorily taking inventory, strapping in, closing his canopy, muttering to himself.
WINSTON
(providing facetious commentary)
Let's do this. Yo, taxi!
He takes the joystick blankly, more a habitual thing than anything. The sounds of engines FIRING swell almost musically. Winston initially grins at the familiarity of that sound. But...
CUT TO:
His jet moving across the base. Due to the crowds of people on the ground its wheels are obscured, and once they turn to see it they all stand suspiciously, then begin to scatter, initially at walking speed.
Hercules observes the growing scenery. The reflection off his canopy shows techs and taxis first moving slowly...
...and then running.
HERCULES
(startled, confused)
What the...?!
Gunfire – violent bursts of light not quite in sync with their reports. Bloody mist. Sparks as lights are hit and short out. CLANGING as they hit metal, sometimes ricochet to find new targets.
Hercules climbs out of his cockpit, throws his helmet aside, finds his ladder gone, leaps down, rolls, barely gets to his feet before three distinct bullets tunnel a dotted line from his chest, to his throat, to his forehead. He is jerked back and collapses again. He lies still, now made incomplete.
Winston's fighter jet rolls through over bodies on its own, marked almost entirely by its blinking navigation lights. We see Winston struggling in the cockpit, and audio of his increasingly frustrated cries grows louder amidst gunfire, yells and various crashes.
WINSTON
Let me out! Help!
Silent.
The cockpit appears to explode inaudibly. The canopy becomes a reddish-brown haze.
Still. Silent.
Silent, save that white noise still in the background. Somewhere, a hinge whines. Glass shatters (and un-shatters?).
Still. Silent.
Winston's jet remains motionless, navigation lights on its wingtips blinking red-green, red-green. We see the right side (the green side) of the craft.
- Then! -
Slowly, the texture of the wing begins to change. Soften. Become malleable. Break apart on the molecular level.
Even as the right wing recedes like sheathed claws into the fuselage, its light continues to blink green, never once obscured or distorted.
Paneling all along the plane begins to fold. Slide into other parts. Emerge as new pieces. Crawl along until the whole vehicle is now a skeleton with odd parts hanging out. Now we see both the red and green navigation lights. Neither wavers, just keeps blinking. We see the star-white taillights as well.
An arm emerges. Then another. We see them curl up, almost like those of a (rabbit).
Legs protrude from the fuselage, too. They curl up as well, reach out as if to find their footing and haul the creature upright; not quite yet.
Shoulders separate themselves from the top of the body, creating a neck and something resembling a head. This head resembles that of the invader we've already seen. The one that claimed the (rabbit). After a moment, it takes a form more accommodating of its tasks ahead.
Then it changes again. Its limbs warp, folding back into one another. Straightening out. The nosecone slides into its body and re-emerges as a new appendage.
The rest of the Transformation appears to accelerate, culminating in a creature curled up into a ball. Slowly, it stands up. Humanoid. We see now that it bears splotches of bottle-green and sickly gold. Its navigation lights continue to blink. The telltale insignia is illuminated against its arm.
The Decepticon's eyes open: red.
It takes its steps with confidence now, strolling across the base and out of frame, almost completely silent.
FADE TO:
Black.
Still. Silent. Hold here for several moments.
FADE IN:
EXT. SWAMP – DAY – DREAM
Animal calls. Warped, startling. Perhaps otherworldly. Certainly not just indigenous swamp creatures.
The water is grey; it reflects the dull green of the land. The sky is lost to a low fog, or simply does not exist here.
Pan up to reveal JOSEPH COLTON standing by the water, dressed in some version of combat attire, pistol in hand, expression readily stoic (or simply blank).
He stands there for a while, assessing his surroundings. Every new call turns his head. His gun slowly comes up. Tense, his years of training and experience abandoning him, he tries to call out into the murk. Any noise he makes is completely inaudible.
He looks down. By his feet, at first it looks like... a SEVERED LEG, dipped in blood, now scabbing over and blackening. He hears a child screaming, face briefly contorts as if in terrible agony –
BLINK
- and the severed appendage is gone. He wonders if it was ever really there. He doesn't look like he just had his soul ripped into.
A new sound comes from the river in front of him – metallic, groaning, almost musical in tonality. Fearful but suddenly overcome with curiosity, he takes three steps forward, leans over to look through the water. It is rippling. His reflection is continually twisted, shimmying up and down, in and out. His gun drops.
The leaves shake overhead. Mud squelches.
A suspended cymbal crashes. Time-keeping rolls on a snare drum. Children laughing, except... it's a delirious sound.
Slowly, the water stills, and his reflection clears.
He bends over, almost narcissistic in his curiosity over this image, until we see his relationship to it. We see both examining each other, almost as strangers. Colton waves, the other smiles maliciously. Colton shows his gun to the other, his reflection laughs silently and mouths explosion sounds to the other's discomfort. Quickly, anyone can see that the reflection is evil.
This is confirmed as it pulls its hands to its face, and appears to peel its own flesh away, revealing the bone-white skull underneath... with bits of something shiny poking through. We hear – feel – the noise as the reflection scratches away its façade of a skull, showing the grinning shark's mouth, and then the rest of a clockwork deformity.
Colton tries to go for his pistol but the reflection reaches a lanky, spiked arm matted with mud and blood through the water, digging into Colton's chest and PULLING him through the mirror into another place:
EXT. JUNKYARD – NIGHT – DREAM (CONT'D)
Colton stands alone, retaining himself and his clothes but his gun confiscated.
He stands in the middle of what appears to be a... junkyard. He looks down. Halfway up to his shins in what appears to be remnants of every material, from every time and place in the universe. Rock. Metal scraps. Glittering bone. Discarded weapons and alien ammunition. Spears.
He looks up. This mess stretches to the horizon, and at the horizon... some alien light among pure black, seeming to sing faintly like a billion out-of-tune sopranos. It's like a sun, but he knows that there's no such thing in this place. A black hole, maybe, but not a sun.
Bit by bit, the ground begins rumbling. Colton senses it quickly, tries to pull his feet free from the ground, finds he cannot, struggles even harder. He doesn't want to give up, even as these dead remains do something strange:
At first it seems like they're crawling up his legs, trying to encase him. Disciplines meaning nothing in this no-world, he attempts to shrink back even as he's surrounded, but quickly notes how they just continue on their ways.
They're floating. Levitating away, piece by piece. He looks out, and the phenomenon stretches on until the end of his vision.
That strange star seems to wrap around the land. He spins in place to see it, brushing aside floating debris.
And then he notices himself becoming lighter and lighter. He tries to find something, anything to anchor himself to the ground! He brushes away debris and finds that his feet have been suspended in midair, poking through the bottom of a layer of dust and shards.
He's floating now, floating into the empty void. He clamps and unclamps his jaw, just trying to find some verbal response, some way to acknowledge that he is dreaming before he can become lost in this unreal place forever!
He floats among the other dead things of all Creation into the void, away from the ring of unearthly white light. The last noises audible to his ears are some sort of chant among the voices of the light, slowly echoing out into nothingness.
INT. QUARTERS – JAPAN – PITCH BLACK – REALITY
A sudden, startled grunt. Panting. A lamp flickers on.
He looks around in his bunk, eyes slowly adjusting to real darkness. He's sweaty, cold, breathing laboriously. His hand comes to his face, wiping sweat off his eyebrows.
He sighs heavily, throws his sheet aside and steps to the floor. He's already mostly dressed. Impulse leads, and after a premonition like that, he follows.
EXT. HARBOR - JAPAN – NIGHT (GRAVEYARD SHIFT)
XLS:
Still.
Colton walks across an empty Japan base. Nothing moves except himself.
Silent.
In the background, we can see odd shapes being formed by shadows thrown in moonlight. Military bases don't typically allow for this kind of eerie effect, but this isn't much of an ordinary military base.
CUT TO:
Colton reaches the pier, sits down, dangles his legs over the water.
The shadow behind him clears, first as a pair of blue eyes, then the outline of some giant, like a statue thrown together out of Peterbilt truck parts. CONVOY.
A little groan as the gigantic AUTOBOT shifts its weight. This act should greatly disturb the whole pier; instead it is accomplished with a finesse many may find unnerving.
CONVOY
No rest for the righteous.
Colton, having given no prior indication of awareness to the Autobot's presence, is not surprised at all.
COLTON
Guess you could say that.
A moment of silence is shared between the two of them. They stare out into the water, unobstructed by ships nor buoys of any sort. The moon looks some kind of blue-green.
CONVOY
You've seen it, haven't you?
COLTON
(curiously)
Seen what?
CONVOY
The end. Or... (doesn't need to finish the thought)
The alien's perception is uncanny, but Colton no longer seems so surprised. He understands fully after a moment of digestion. Not THE END, but simply one possible scenario. Internally, Colton can describe his own experience as such.
CONVOY (CONT'D)
They're coming back. Decepticons don't accept defeat.
COLTON
Well, neither do we, do we? ... We're soldiers, all of us. Go, and go, and go, until either our home is safe, or it isn't. And if it isn't, it's because we're dead. (chuckles) And if THAT happens, what's left to defend?
Convoy nods subtly, preparing a response. Both soldiers continue to look straight out into the bay, never once at each other. The water here is calm, (almost?) dead.
CONVOY
More than you would believe. You've heard our story before.
Colton nods confirmation. Convoy does not (need to?) see it.
The water splashes against the docks, a little more loudly now.
COLTON
Like the view?
CONVOY
It's not the view I'm looking for.
COLTON
Meaning?
CONVOY
They're somewhere, out there, right now. You know that. And soon they'll be here - right here among us.
COLTON
And we'll be put to good use.
CONVOY
Maybe.
More silence.
Colton repositions himself on the pier. Looks over, sees now that Convoy has been sitting in the same position this whole time, his legs curling up under the deck and still halfway underwater. The two continue to contemplate, not as friends or chums but as two soldiers who can't sleep (one at all, the other right now).
COLTON
What was 'before'?
CONVOY
Not much any of us can remember, as you know. No exceptions. The others possibly know even more.
COLTON
But what do YOU know – you, yourself?
CONVOY
Less. Only that I should be glad I don't remember more.
...
We'll have news soon.
CUT TO:
An alarm on the wall of a building goes off, and emergency lights suddenly blare bright red.
Elsewhere, the radio tower becomes a veritable Christmas tree and accompanying choir.
Another klaxon next to the human and accompanying Autobot comes to life. They both see it. Now, we also see that Convoy bears deep red and blue armor, and more details regarding his figure. For a moment, his eyes glow... a kind of turquoise. Then they return to their normal cold blue.
COLTON
(trying to sound casual)
Cool trick.
CONVOY
Anyone can learn.
These alarms all blare red: Galvanized Iron is being called into action.
INT. GALVANIZED IRON HANGAR – JAPAN BASE – ALMOST DAWN
POV: Shot from the balcony overlooking most of the hangar. GALVANIZED IRON SOLDIERS gather around the feet of PROWL, SKIDS, GRIMLOCK and Convoy. In the center of the room, PERCEPTOR operates a large holographic display, punching in information and communicating with some human techs. Overhead, heavy lamps buzz, excited. Everything gathers a fuzz around it. The Autobots' forms throw shadows over themselves, an alien effect in a fully lit room.
Colton takes his place alongside fellow G.I soldier DUKE. Neither is dressed very formally, nor is anyone else at the meeting. Duke is in cartoon pajama pants, running shoes and a Galvanized Iron T-shirt. Colton examines the pants, finds Duke watching him. The two reach a silent agreement that this is not awkward.
Up on the balcony, GENERAL CLAYTON "HAWK" ABERNATHY looks down over his men, machine and human, rests his hands on the guardrail. Clears his throat not quite silently, readies his famous outdoor voice. As all eyes are on him, in all manner of dress and undress, he sees them slowly take a position of attention.
Still. He is ready to speak.
ABERNATHY
As you are all probably well aware, we've pinged UFOs as of approximately 400 hours. Unknown number, unknown size, high velocity but precisely controlled and rapidly decelerating as they entered our atmosphere. We've tracked one of these to somewhere in the Western region of the United States...
Abernathy gestures to Prowl, who is now standing next to Perceptor by the holo-display. Heads turn.
ABERNATHY (CONT'D)
Prowl will provide further details. You have the floor.
Perceptor activates the large device, which shows diagrams of the UFO's trajectory, orbiting the Earth and gathering speed.
PROWL
We believe this to be a Decepticon craft. Our strategy is to head to the area of the crash site with two troops and four - ...
He does not finish.
Footsteps.
Even on a mechanical face made up of sliding panels, Prowl's discomfort and even anger are made apparent.
Having just entered through the open hangar doors are four newcomers: HIGHTOWER, OVERLOAD, RAMPAGE and TRENCH. Each is a Constructicon, a glorified hostage taking the form of this world.
PROWL
(almost growling)
Get them out of here.
He intends to give them no say in the matter. Wheels turning freely on his arms, the police car simply stands there, waiting for them to recognize that they are not welcome. They know.
CONVOY
Let them stay.
Heads turn to him, including Duke's and Colton's. The two of them stand around Skids' shins, curious in their own ways how this will play out. Prowl's wheels continue turning, the way they do when a Transformer is thinking.
CONVOY (CONT'D)
They've shown little resistance, even taken more earthly forms, as per your orders. We need all the help we can get.
Prowl looks as if he wants to cackle.
PROWL
(quietly)
You're hopelessly naive. We lost our Monger protecting you from these cockroaches; look how that's turned out.
Convoy makes the firmness of position known, moving to stand next to the Constructicons. Galvanized Iron continue to watch, amused and concerned all in one. The other three Autobots do the same, although their own emotions on the matter are not clear.
The lamps overhead continue to buzz. They now have something of a darker tinge to them, something less yellow and more... green.
On the balcony, Abernathy continues to watch. He wants this briefing to continue in a civil, professional manner. He's a little perplexed by what he sees.
CONVOY
They stay.
His eyes glow a lighter color, matching that of the lamps. For a moment, he looks even more like the late MONGER BLITZKAISER. Colton cranes his head back to see him...
He's confused; back?
That's right – he's standing by the Convoy's leg. He's perhaps even more perplexed than Abernathy is.
Silent.
Prowl backs down. Perceptor speaks. It's a foreign noise, but not surprising. They've done most of this before.
PERCEPTOR
You will depart for the U.S. within two hours. Human troops Smiley and Zeta will accompany Skids, Prowl, Grimlock and a pack of Destrongers. You will track the Decepticon, find them and eradicate with utmost prejudice. In the meantime (a little forced, unpracticed in conversational nuance) we will keep our ears to the ground... and our eyes to the sky.
Prowl glares at Convoy, but for now his fire is gone. Everyone else is ready to get on with it. Up on the balcony, Abernathy lets loose an inaudible sigh.
The lights continue to buzz.
DUKE
(whispering to Colton, observantly)
Do aliens have siblings like we do? I think we just saw something like that.
Colton looks to his right and sees Duke right next to him. For a moment he's surprised. Then he gives a subtle shrug of his shoulders.
Convoy looks back to the Constructicons, nods. His eyes appear GREEN for a moment, but quickly fade to blue again.
RETURN TO:
Black.
We hear a rhythmic tone in the background, like some form of Morse Code, ascending and descending as it clicks. It's undoubtedly an alien sound. We cannot decipher and therefore cannot know this, but here is its meaning:
DECEPTICONS MOBILIZE STOP RENDEZVOUS AREA 51 NEVADA STOP WITHIN TWELVE SOLAR HOURS STOP.
This message repeats several times against the blackness.
Music rises and falls to its rhythm, matching its pitch. It's synthesizers, not at all out of place, perhaps simply part of the message that a Decepticon would hear.
Then slowly fades out again, and soon the message it was accompanying diminuendos until it is nothing at all.
Dusty wind howls and brittle weeds rustle, leading into the change in scenery.
FADE IN:
EXT. GAS STATION – ARIZONA – AFTERNOON
EST.
We see it from overhead: There's a thin dirt road stretching through the middle of reddish-brown dust and the occasional weed bush. It snakes, winds, happens to be more driven-over in some areas and barely touched in others. There's not much around for miles.
PAN LEFT
But it's not the road we're looking for – it's the two-pump gas station bleached and corroded by weather, some hundred feet of to one side of this little path.
Its pumps must be from the 60s at the latest, the long-gone neon sign on the roof broken into so many pieces it's impossible to tell what it once read. Now bright red paint is splattered on one side into shapes resembling words, although even now it's fading into something not even orange. This isn't invisible like the neon, simply illegible.
INT. GAS STATION – CONT'D
An old man – the CLERK – stares aimlessly from behind the counter. He wears a grubby gray-blue polo with his name scratched off the name tag. He's unkempt, gray-bearded, greasy, incredibly bored. Candy wrappers and the odd soda can or two have come to rest on the counter and the surrounding floor.
POV: We see the gas station's interior through the clerk's eyes: two aisles of snack foods with their shelves more than half cleared out, the window wall on his left lined with miscellaneous old magazines and small hardware. On the far right, empty and inoperative fridges now double as storage for cardboard boxes.
We hear only two sounds: that faint white noise, and the clerk's own (slightly moist) breathing.
There's a new sound: the loud, raspy THRUM of an approaching vehicle. Nervously, surprised, without thinking, the clerk sweeps the wrappers off the counter and onto the floor. He peers out the window nearest the cash register on his left, facing the pumps outside.
The RIG outside pulls to a halt in front of the pump farther from the clerk. The engine noise cuts out. He observes it curiously. It's a nasty acid-green and white thing with a streak of purple running along the driver's side door. And is that a SNOWPLOW on the front of that 18-wheeler?
Quickly, the driver exits and dismounts – a wiry punk clad in jeans and an offensive T-shirt, golden-haired with streaks of purple and blue. ROADBLOCK.
The clerk gawks, a little dumbfounded, as the punk swings open the door, provoking nothing more than a broken CLIK from the bell at the top. He turns to face the clerk.
ROADBLOCK
Why, good mornin', mister!
The clerk at first only continues to stare. For some reason, he thinks he should be afraid. Consciously, he's not. Yet. But this man did get the time of day wrong.
This punk continues to look around, silently noting what a dump this place is.
ROADBLOCK (CONT'D)
So, how much's gas around here, kind sir?
CLERK
(stuttering)
E- e- a- et- eighty cents a gallon.
He doesn't mean to stutter, but he's nervous. The punk approaches the counter, glancing to his right out the window at his rig.
ROADBLOCK
Now, do I pay you here for that sweet car nectar?
The clerk nods. Agreeably, the punk pulls out several bills from a pocket, lays them on the counter. The clerk does not pick them up. Scatterbrained, the punk looks back at the shelves of snacks, seeing potential.
ROADBLOCK (CONT'D)
Any recommendations, food-wise? I'm a mighty hungry boy!
The clerk considers the question for a moment, then responds.
CLERK
(Lying)
What's left is the best stuff.
Roadblock takes this in, grabs several assorted candy bars, returns to the counter. He slides them across with the accompanying bill and several coins, where they come to rest next to his gas payment. He sniffles.
The clerk continues to assess the young man. Why is he nervous? The punk assesses him back, fully aware of the older man's suspicions.
ROADBLOCK
Hol' on a sec. Let me see what else my baby needs.
The clerk stares, not imagining this punk to be the parental type. The punk sniffles again. He raises his arm to point outside.
ROADBLOCK (CONT'D)
That's my baby. Love 'er like a narcissist loves himself! Gotta take care of yer baby, right, sir?
Not waiting for a response, he opens the door. A bit of dust whooshes through, he whoops wildly, staggers only a little as he pulls an orange bandanna over his face and begins to jog towards his precious baby.
The clerk is even more fascinated than before as he sees the punk open the door, get in, and...
It's ROCKING – the truck, rocking back and forth! The windows, he sees now, are tinted pure black, and glint madly against the sun. But he wants to see what's happening!
A moment of silence, and that same stillness. Waiting.
Finally, Roadblock emerges, now holding some kind of long pipe in one hand, hair ruffled and a big grin on his face, even if his mouth is hidden.
He pushes open the door with one hand, walks in, pulls down his bandanna. There's a subtle contour line of dust, almost like a tan line, but his eyes have not been irritated at all.
The clerk shrugs this off; perhaps he's just trying to look the part, and the dust outside wasn't bad. And one glance outside says it's not. And that...
Now the rig is – it can't be – no, it is! – It's PULLING AWAY. He's wide-eyed.
ROADBLOCK
Yeah, it does that sometimes. Gotta let 'em roam, y'know?
And the clerk? He's very afraid now.
SLOW FADE BACK TO:
Black.
The Decepticon audio signal resumes.
BLINK:
A crowd, primarily of displaced Japanese citizens, looks on in fear.
BLINK:
An elderly woman holding an ancient Japanese weapon runs at something with a jarring speed.
BLINK:
A skeleton solidifies sizzles into shape; its eyes light up red.
RETURN TO:
Black (again).
The signal continues this entire time, now with a slightly altered soundtrack.
A distant BOOM. WOOSH. Silence. SPLASH. Waves rustle, a distant bell rings and men shout as if in distress.
FADE IN:
INT. CAVE – ALASKA – STORMY DAY
A silhouette crawls into the mouth of the cliffside hidey-hole, marked by its (flickering, sometimes sparking) red eyes and occasional flashes of blue armor. Eventually, blinding shoulder headlights come on, and the Decepticon makes an audible SQUEAK of shock!
Its lights fall on the corpse of an old car, rusted, unrecognizable as anything specific now.
The Decepticon crawls closer in the tight space, fascinated with what it sees. It's almost a shrine of sorts.
In some remarkably human gesture, the Decepticon rests a mangled, wet hand on the iron-brown hood of the vehicle. Outside, the waves and fishermen continue to do their evils. Infuriating!
RETURN TO:
Black. Little white worms of static skedaddle across our vision.
The signal reiterates itself again, just continues. Wolves BARK and GROWL at one another. Dozens of paws CRUNCH on leaves. Something massive whirs overhead, strikes a tree, crunches like so many snapping bones.
SLOW FADE IN:
EXT. NORTH AMERICAN FOREST – THE PREVIOUS NIGHT
The wolves are not rabbits; one – the leader – is brave enough to approach, and soon the rest follow. The pod has flattened out several trees into a sort of nest, yet still touches the ground.
Within the pack, they share a glance, come to a decision almost immediately. Their eyes move as one back to the wreckage. The pod gleams in the moonlight. It's intriguing, isn't it? Could be food.
They at first crawl over the broken limbs. One step each, two, three, four, five.
One yelps in pain, draws back. Three more look back, decide to follow it. That leaves two wolves to approach the pod.
CUT TO:
The four wolves hear their brethren yowl, cut out. They move off-screen in an ambiguous direction, quickly meet the same fates anyway. Their howls sound as one, but are silenced even quicker.
A new wolf walks into frame: CARNIVAC. There's blood in his teeth, on his mesh-fur, matted against his paws. He's as tall as your average man, a little more than twice again as long, a silvery-blue color to his fur. His eyes are, once again, red.
He licks his lips with a silvery tongue. Good meal!
SLOW FADE TO:
Black.
SUPER: An oscilloscope image of the Decepticon signal. It continues to dance as the background music rises and falls.
Rises and falls.
Rises and falls.
Swell!
Modulate.
Drop.
Crescendo!
Synths strike a dissonant chord, then ascend...
...And continue to ascend...
...Now descending as well...
Fermata. Final chord.
The line changes color multiple times.
The final clear image the oscilloscope produces is of a ring spinning in a hyperactive ring. Things resembling... fangs? — at the bottom of the circle, blinking in and out of existence.
From there it becomes more obscure, erratic.
The signal slowly fades out, and the image dies down as the music follows.
Silence. Static noise.
Hold there.
Hold.
An even alarm, beeping: Stand clear!
Now the sounds of machinery are reintroduced. Trucks. Men. Something between the two.
More dogs bark: different ones. It's a sound like a million tons of grinding metal and crackling engines, sped up and pitched down, layered on top of itself. A pack. They're BANGING against something like a fence. Excited, aren't they?
BLINK IN:
EXT. JAPAN BASE – (ROUGHLY) DAWN
The fiery orange eyes of Destronger dogs form a dancing light show as they slam against their pen walls, pushing, jostling, ready to kill. Not quite yet. They're laid out in a grid pattern, cells within cells, more for their own protection than to those outside.
WIDEN: G.I soldiers walk across the base in various levels of combat attire. Perceptor oversee maintenance and aids in some of the heavy lifting, as do Convoy and Grimlock. In the early light, everything at first appears as a black silhouette, a shadow.
GRIMLOCK
(O.S, muffled by background noise; best growling caveman imitation)
Me Grimlock like heavy lifting!
Like any collection, this group of simple scenes has its centerpiece: the massive jet fills that role – the Big One. Everything passes beneath its omniscient gaze. And it'll be dropping them out of the sky soon.
Colton, dressed in his old Army uniform, carries several satchels to a crewmember.
TECH
Nice threads, Joe. Feeling nostalgic?
Colton hands off the bags one by one, chuckling agreeably, if not to facetiously portray discomfort.
COLTON
Maybe.
CUT TO:
In the distance, Colton (silently to us, inaudible over the hustle and bustle of the rest of the base) converses with some other of the maintenance crew – friendly enough conversation. He begins walking back when a voice slices through the noise: Skids, of course.
SKIDS
(exaggeratedly raspy)
Yo, Joe!
Seeing the source of the voice, Colton finds the Autobot standing in front of the Destrongers' pens. Convoy is with him. He moves toward them.
He stops for a moment, gathers what he can from their surroundings. Behind Skids' leg is some sort of control module, accessible to the Autobots as a series of pedals and levers, and to humans as a panel covered in knobs and readouts.
COLTON
Got us a job here?
Skids nods redundantly.
In the background, the Destrongers continue to howl – louder now that we're with them.
SKIDS
We need to get three Destrongers out of there. (He points to the pen, then to the human control panel.) On my signal, you flip the red knob clockwise, and you count to three before twisting it back like it's your little brother's nipple. Convoy, you'll be my spotter. If any dogs get out... do your thing.
Convoy nods. Colton takes his place at the control panel, takes a moment to find the BIG RED KNOB. In truth, it's no bigger than a guitar volume knob, and currently it sits at the zero mark.
Skids takes his place in front of one of the pen doors; it crackles with a little (60 million volts, to be exact), yet the Destronger is fazed only just enough. Experienced but still nervous for his own skin, Skids makes several human gestures similar to a runner before a big race.
SKIDS
Ready?
Colton and Convoy both nod to him.
SKIDS
On five. One... two... three... four... FIVE!
Colton twists the knob, and for a moment the voltage surges before fizzling out again. Skids runs straight into the chaos. Around him it is a horrible mess as he appears to be surrounded on all sides by the dogs. They bark, scream. Metal clangs. Whimpers. More barking.
Convoy wrestles one of the dogs to the ground. On Colton's hand, he counts three fingers held up, throws the knob back for all he's worth. Electricity surges. CLANG. GURGLE.
CLOSE ON: One of the Destrongers – a horrible mockery of the adorable pug with the left side of his face smashed in – growls, spits at us, tries to break free.
WIDEN: He's not going anywhere. Skids holds him by a chain running out of his right arm, as he does one other.
Convoy hands him the third dog on a similar chain. Skids is practically a dog lady in the park.
Colton exhales.
SKIDS
Yeah, me too. Say hello to CUJO, WELT, and our newest addition to the gang: FANGSTER.
At the mention of their names, the dogs claw into the ground.
CROSSFADE:
EXT. PACIFIC ISLAND – CLOUDY DAY
The Decepticon signal, warped, reaches the ears of an older bunch: SHOCKWAVE and STARSCREAM.
They're disorganized: discarded and spare parts litter their little jungle world. Deforestation gives way to odd, otherworldly contraptions. Starscream stands next to Shockwave, right arm now a mangled mismatch to the rest of his body. A Monger did that.
Shockwave, meanwhile, operates the transmitter dial on his head with one hand, yellow cyclops eye blinking to its rhythm. It stops, and his eye blinks one last time before coming on again.
STARSCREAM
Well?
SHOCKWAVE
Reinforcements.
Both understand what this means. Without hesitation, they obey.
CUT TO:
Shockwave walks into the ocean as Starscream stands behind him. The two Decepticons Transform — Starscream becomes an Earth jet with kibble, Shockwave a sort of seafaring vehicle. Both take off at similar speeds.
We hold here as they both fade into the horizon. Thunder rumbles and lightning strobes – one last reminder of the MONGER that did this to them.
Silence for a few moments.
Wind rustles the remaining trees one more time. We hear the old contraptions fall apart as if on command. No usable evidence.
BLINK IN:
EXT. AREA 51 FRONT GATE – DAY
A truck pulls up outside the front gates. There is a man waiting there.
No... not a man. BLUDGEON. The skeleton in samurai armor.
Roadblock stops. Rolls down his window.
ROADBLOCK
What seems to be the problem, officer?
Bludgeon simply stands there. Roadblock gets out. Matches the Pretender's stance directly in front of him.
For a moment, neither speaks, nor even moves.
BLUDGEON
Bludgeon. Name, designation.
ROADBLOCK
Understood. Roadblock, Wild Card.
Understanding is met with understanding. Roadblock smacks his fellow Decepticon on the shoulder.
ROADBLOCK (CONT'D)
How ya been, ol' killer? Let's get our asses inside!
He hops back in his truck. The gates buzz open, and Bludgeon follows him through.
EXT. AREA 51 - CONTINUOUS
Now, four Decepticons stand across from one another in various positions. Roadblock leans on the hood of his rig; Carnivac picks over the old wreckage from a previous night; Bludgeon sharpens a sword in front of a tank; Roadgrabber – the car crash – cleans his smaller car form. All four are waiting for their commander to arrive.
He does.
A jet ROARS overhead. Clang. Crak. Whir. Grind. Thunderwing drops to the ground in the center of their little circle. He examines each member of his squad. Each sounds off their name as his eyes pass them.
THUNDERWING
Good. We should expect more to arrive soon.
BLUDGEON
(distastefully)
Starscream?
Thunderwing nods. Now comes reinforcing their intent in their mission this world.
THUNDERWING
(concluding)
"From the inside."
ALL
"From the inside."
Some quick shots, not quite one-after-another. Roadblock messes with Bludgeon's tank. Roadgrabber smacks himself in the face on impulse.
Time passes. More engines overhead: Starscream.
CUT TO:
Thunderwing waits at the gate for Shockwave to get within fifty feet of the base. A black silhouette against the shimmering heat, almost a mirage against the stark brown desert. The gate opens again.
Behind them, Starscream drops to the ground, prosthetic arm thrown loose from the impact. With a moment's struggle, he relocates it as the Pretenders look on in cruel fascination.
Thunderwing approaches Starscream. Slowly. The Commander sees this, tries to reach a form of attentive salute and is instead wordlessly thrown to the ground. Tries getting back up. Thunderwing kicks him in the chest. Glass shatters and metal creaks. The arm comes loose again, rolls off somewhere.
STARSCREAM
(groaning, muttering)
How nice to see you!
Another kick. He rolls over, cockpit on his chest visibly shattered. Thunderwing only looks down on him without pity, without remorse, without any concern over the damage he does. Let this incompetent trash sustain a bit of injury.
STARSCREAM (CONT'D)
Ooh, what's this?
Another kick. We now see that Thunderwing's feet are clawed. One makes contact with the already-misshapen face, knocking rabbit's teeth loose within the red flyer's mouth. Starscream winces briefly, bides his time.
THUNDERWING
You're incompetent.
The silver flyer slams his foot downward into his predecessor. Against his will, Starscream groans slightly.
THUNDERWING (CONT'D)
Arrogant.
Digs his foot under the Commander's body, flips him over. Kicks him again. The dents and paint scuffles are much more visible now. Loose parts dangle like limbs held to a body by skin alone. Shockwave and the four other Pretenders gather around.
THUNDERWING (CONT'D)
You failed. We're here to erase your mistake.
He kicks one last time, and Starscream, laughing, brings his arm up, his jet mode's machine gun armed. He never gets the chance. Thunderwing wraps his own arm around his victim's, twists himself and snaps the weapon free of its owner. Bullets hit him several times, but they're mechanical insects to be shrugged off. Amused, he brings his foot one last time to Starscream's face, finally knocking his front teeth loose. They tumble to the concrete, along with glass shards and good chunks of the Transformer's jet mode plating.
One more attempt to fight back! Starscream calls out.
STARSCREAM
Shockwave! Now!
No response. As Thunderwing's head turns, Starscream wrestles himself up and throws himself at the skinnier robot, half-Transforming, jets flaring. Shockwave does not move at all.
INSERT: Thunderwing's fist Transforms, becoming some clawed apparatus with... brass knuckles? Or something even worse?
He turns, arm swung back, ready for the other Commander's attack.
THUNDERWING
Stay down!
CRAK. Starscream's nosecone scrunches, he drops to the ground as a half-Transformed ball. He continues to struggle within his own contorted body.
Shockwave moves to hover beside Thunderwing over the broken flyer.
SHOCKWAVE
Regardless, there was no loyalty to him.
The Pretenders' leader takes a few moments to let Starscream writhe, for futility to sink in. His groans and moans and various bodily misfires continue for several moments, as the Decepticons and greater world around him remain completely indifferent. Even he himself expects nothing less. After a few moments, he silences his cries of pain and speaks.
STARSCREAM
Understood... Commander. What... are... your... orders?
Roadblock giggles at this. As does Roadgrabber. Even Carnivac. Bludgeon's features hint at a smirk.
THUNDERWING
I see you've denied this world's form. You and your scientist will reconcile that.
Let it sink in another few moments. No one wants to move and break the tension. Let their commander display his power. Even Shockwave, upon a single glance around at the Pretenders, understands this concept.
Starscream finally wrestles himself free, sending more parts flying in all directions, skidding across the ground, nicking the Decepticons enclosing him. Ah, so fragile he is!
STARSCREAM
I serve... the same Emperor... as you. I will obey.
Only after this does Thunderwing back away. His work is done. He motions for Roadblock to join him. Seeing this, Roadblock does something we haven't seen yet.
Eager to show himself off, Roadblock knocks on the hull of his rig. The door pops open, and the truck begins driving forward without him. When it reaches a close enough proximity to the commander, it TRANSFORMS in a flurry of sounds we've never heard before, reshaping parts of itself on the molecular level. Panels slide to new places, are bent into new shapes. The form builds on top of itself until it stands around Thunderwing's eye level.
THUNDERWING
(whispering)
Keep an eye on them. And... I think you'll like this place.
ROADBLOCK
On it, Cap'm. As for you?
THUNDERWING
There's somewhere I have to go. I leave soon, may not return as quickly.
Roadblock nods, returns to the other five Decepticons. As a representative of his leader, he claps his large, metallic white hands together.
ROADBLOCK
Now, boys! It's orientation time!
CROSSFADE:
EXT. JAPAN BASE – (ROUGHLY) DAWN
Boarding has begun. The Big One – their aerial transport – opens its rear hatch wide to accept passengers. At least two dozen G.I soldiers in futuristic Autobot battle attire carry their weapons and backpacks as they walk up the ramp. In front of them, Prowl oversees boarding, while Skids and Grimlock keep the Destrongers in check. The Autobot leader sees them, counts the dogs.
PROWL
We need at least four dogs.
SKIDS
You've never seen these three in action. They're a unit.
GRIMLOCK
Me Grimlock agree with wimpy van!
This inspires some chuckles from the human soldiers, and a grin from Skids. Prowl remains unamused, but he lets them pass.
INT. THE BIG ONE – CONTINUOUS
Duke and Colton strap themselves in at a convenient distance to one another.
DUKE
When did Grimlock start talking like that?
COLTON
Who knows? He just does it for amusement.
DUKE
Certainly amusing. I think it pisses Prowl off.
COLTON
Quiet, he'll hear ya.
The Destrongers' RUMBLING GROWLS crescendo as they board the craft. Colton turns to see them coming in, and his eyes pass back out to the figure seeing them off: Convoy.
For a moment, he doesn't know what he's looking at, but then he does.
CLOSE ON: Convoy's eyes are pulsing jade-green again. It fades as Grimlock passes in front of the red-and-blue truck. Dialogue in the background:
GRIMLOCK
Me Grimlock like flying.
SKIDS
Get on up there, you mutts!
The hatch screams shut. Engines come online; not all of them are Earthly. The craft rumbles. Duke grips his harness habitually. Colton notices it – he's never seen it before, understands instantly.
The pressure seems to build...
...and build...
Colton appears nauseous. Then again, so does every other human.
...and build...
Prowl grips a handrail hanging from the plane's ceiling.
...and build...
Two of the Destrongers – Cujo and Fangster – quiet down, shake violently with the vessel.
...and build...! Until...
UNNAMED G.I. SOLDIER
(exaggerated southern drawl)
Ladies and gentlemen, I do believe we are airborne.
Colton's head silently rolls back against the wall. Duke, after several long, deep breaths, looks around, sees everything is still in order. Slowly, he turns to see Colton, seemingly passed out. He nudges him casually. Maybe he was nauseous too, after all.
DUKE
Whew! Think we're through it now.
Colton does not respond. His head lolls to one side. Duke knows immediately something is wrong.
DUKE
Hey! We got something here! It's Joe!
And... A sound... It's familiar. We've heard it before – in Colton's dream.
FADE TO:
Red, with little splatter-style blotches of white strobes of light (like red lightning). White buzzing. Colton's dream sound continues. Behind it, an atonal music grows, uneven, like dozens of distinct car alarms ascending in pitch at different rates. White comets continue to pass across our vision, threatening, perhaps, to eventually ricochet and come out at us. This never happens.
BLINK IN:
INT. BLACK VOID – DREAM
Colton's back in a dream world. He's dressed in the same Galvanized Iron uniform, except now it glows red. But... it's not an evil red, more of a familiar red. Autobot red.
BLINK:
The red Autobot insignia. Accompanying it is a short screech, unnatural, inhuman.
He sees where he is. A flat, silvery world of textured metal floor stretching to infinity in all directions. He looks up. Not a star in that sky, only that looming body like some twisted star.
CONVOY
(off-screen, echoing)
Captain Joseph Colton.
Convoy materializes into existence next to him. The soldier cranes up out of reflex, sees nothing. Looks farther down. Convoy, standing, on his left, is now his equal in height. Something glows in his chest, fades out quickly.
No words between them, not on this plane where language doesn't exist.
Low metallic humming. Static. Sounds in reverse.
Distantly, Colton looks up to that grayed star one more time. It seems... fiery, like tendrils of silver flame are reaching down towards them. But that's ridiculous at this point, anyway.
Silently, Convoy reaches his hand to Colton's shoulder. The contact launches both into another place.
BLINK TO:
EXT. CITY STREET – XXEZZ – DUSK(?) – COLTON'S POV - CONTINUOUS
A small noise, like ears ringing. This will persist for the rest of the dream.
Colton(?) looks straight ahead. Scaly, tripedal creatures hop/run in every direction, dermal photoemitters going off randomly. It's grassy on this world, but Colton can't decide the color of the grass, nor of the pavement.
He looks at his(?) hands. Odd. He has no fingers, only mechanical tools he is incapable of recognizing, mostly blurred out for ease of comprehension. The world is filtered through color-coded lights and bass tones of varying pitch.
He looks down even further, sees tripod legs already moving, shifting into something resembling tank treads. Soon he's barreling down a gravel(?) road, rocking back and forth, getting the occasional air time as gravity is malleable here.
Colton looks in the sky. Much like before, the star is sort of that lightbulb residual shade as you turn it off. There's something unstable about it.
Something bumps him, knocks him over. He Transforms, gets to his feet, re-centers himself. Autobots like him are running, rolling, flying away. Among them are a few multicolored giants: Mongers. Now he sees they're all moving in a certain direction. Is it toward, or is it away?
One of his white-and-red subordinates pulls up next to him, flashes some signal of urgency. He makes some gesture of acknowledgement, turns himself on his treads/legs to face the thing. It's... Oh, Eternity! –
A large, sort of Mobius-strip vessel adorned in spikes orbits around some central energy core.
A Decepticon Warworld!
Colton(?) knows what he must do. He feels his frame pulsing, throbbing, his heavily color-based vision slowly becoming a wall of monochrome green and grey. He advances slowly towards the thing, seeing flyers pour out of pores everywhere like so many hostile insects marked by neon(?) streaks of orange, purple, red, barely distinguishable now.
It takes him a moment to realize he's floating. He's advancing rapidly on the ship. He raises an arm, appears to brush them aside from a distance. One gets close, he appears to slam it back before any contact is made. Energy weapons discharge aimlessly around him. Either he deflects them or can't feel them.
The ship occupies the entirety of his vision but he's still miles away. He's pretty sure he's fast enough to leave a trail in the sky, but still isn't fast enough - within the Warworld's core, a beam emanates downward into the planet itself, pure white.
Not accepting defeat, Colton(?) accelerates his pace towards the craft. It continues to grow before him. His vision goes only greener and greener. He can hear aggressive energy buildup within himself.
THONK.
Something knocks him out of the air, he can't see what. Still at full power, he tumbles toward the ground, most of his sense of direction lost.
He can feel he's closer to the ground, but... a new noise. Feels himself slowing down. Eventually, he turns just in time to see the ground STOP several meters from his eyes.
Then he goes up again.
Spinning.
He sees other Autobots, flashing signals of distress. Among them is his red-and-white second-in-command.
HELP TRACTOR BEAM PRIME(?) DO SOMETHING HELP
Colton hears yet another new sound: the various sounds of a place he almost recognizes: Animals. Trees. Some gunfire. Distant explosions.
BLINK (several times, spastic):
A shot of a jungle place, similar to the one from Colton's first dream, more lifelike.
Return to this place. He just goes up and up, now hundreds of meters above the ground. He sees Xxezi buildings - towering, curving, multilegged statues - pulled apart, drawn into the light.
At least one of two things are true: (a) the Warworld draws itself up; (b) the planet pulls away.
Soon, Colton can hardly tell that there was ever a Xxezz there. Just a few rocks remain, and some people, adrift in the vacuum. Autobots, mostly. The Warworld passes out of his field of vision.
Decepticon flyers swim among his comrades, and he can see them in their clear colors – his secret energy is gone. He sees frightened Autobots send their final flashes before blinking out. He sees them all go out, like the deaths of stars up close.
He has no choice, he must play dead!
INSERT (spastic):
Close to the ground, filtered through dirt and foliage. Unknown figures move about in front of him, filthy and armed with machine guns.
Return to the Autobot massacre. He's still, or at least he thinks he is. In front of him, he watches as a Decepticon shuttle stops. A silver figure disembarks on a tether, examines the body, runs it through with hooked antlers. For a moment his vision flares white, but he can't afford to be seen. He must play dead. He must lower his energy levels. He must...
SLOW FADE TO:
Black. The ringing persists, then suddenly dies down again.
FADE BACK TO:
INT. THE BIG ONE – DARK
Colton opens his eyes, gasps for breath. His arms flail wildly, hitting a surprised Duke in the jaw.
Skids' arm immediately goes toward him, although whether in offense of defense, no one can be sure of at first. After a moment, Colton holds up a hand: "Stop, I'm okay now."
He swallows, gasps several times.
DUKE
What was that?
Colton continues to gasp. Now more soldiers are staring. So is Prowl. Now Grimlock, too.
COLTON
I saw... I saw... Xxezz.
A curiously concerned look passes between Skids and Prowl.
FADE TO:
Purple.
Super: the Decepticon insignia again, this time white against the purple backdrop. Its eyes flare up red, then die down again. The image fades into the bottomless pit of our vision and disappears.