Four

It wasn't exactly a bonanza of a haul. Half a petrol tanker of fuel equated roughly one half a condensed energon cube.

But there they were, Astrotrain, Blitzwing, Motormaster and a particularly surly looking Brawl.

Upon debrief, Prowl would have a slight processor crash as he tried to calculate his way around the pathetically illogical statistics that even though they'd gained this measly half a cube, the attack would have cost them at least twelve.

The truck had pulled into the service station around 0530 hours. The four armed guards would never have had a chance against Decepticons, but they had never been hired to protect against that type of mob. The paperwork was signed, the payment double checked and the driver and service station manager began the process of unravelling the hoses to deposit the luxury item. Despite the minuscule amount, the station did enough business that its manager and staff could survive. It was in a relatively busy part of town, in least in terms of thoroughfares, while essentially low income, high density residential and commercial, there were enough people who could afford to run a car. Most, of course, via illegal means, but money was money and the police oftentimes looked the other way, as a few dealers pumping gas into 1980s imports wasn't really the top of the priority list.

Hold ups and occasional turf wars were part of the deal in this economy when one chose to open a gas-station. The manager, a gruff man of 84, a veteran of too many wars, a retired farmer, widower of six years and raising three grandchildren under the age of 18, he had no option but to keep working. Twenty years back retirement was looking good, though he was impatient for that golden number to roll round. He and his wife had kept excellent health, were from long-lived stock and were also incredibly fiscally responsible. They were able to weather the crash, but not without the reality that both would now have to seek employment. His wife had worked three part time jobs, one as a cleaner for a school, health care assistant at a rest home on Saturday and some work in a diner on Sunday – that was, until she came home one evening, said she had a headache, lay down and died on the couch. Peacefully, in her sleep. Best one could hope for really.

The service station lay in a cluttered portion of the city. A long abandoned and now seriously derelict McDonalds was neighbour on the left. A well boarded up ghost of better times, surrounded by heavy chain linked fencing with barbed wire crowning the top. A fire had seriously damaged it a few years back, likely squatters. To the right was a very cheap, very scruffy looking department store of sorts. It specialised in nothing really, and in all honesty the majority of its wares had come from good-will stores and whatever crap had had been picked up from the side of the road and could be brushed clean with little effort. It opened around 9 and would close sometime about 8 in the evening. It was generally steady. The empty lot out the front was home to those who lived out of vehicles they couldn't afford to run, but the owner of the junk store allowed them to stay as long as they paid their rent on time. It wasn't an uncommon practice, and it certainly increased the overall look of poverty that hung heavy over the metropolis. Across the street a building that stretched the width of the service station as well as that nasty store, a fifteen floor apartment complex that in all probability, a stiff breeze could knock down. More windows were broken than not, sheets of plastic or plywood for the luckier few passed as repairs. The door to the main lobby had long been destroyed, and the lack of such allowed a good view into a dim, most likely stinking and overly vandalised ruin. The elevators hadn't operated in years, a far too frivolous expense for penny-pinching owners. However, said owns had clearly understood the importance of good security to protect what was left of the shabby investment, so installed very heavy doors with coded locks on the entrances to the stair-wells. Can't have been easy to move furniture in and out, but most people didn't own much these days. Places like this, the appeal was also that they were furnished, the quality of such was open for debate. The gamble was then on whether or not the beds were riddled with bugs or diseased fluids.

It was a foul, smog stained edifice, built in a bland, decoration free rectangular structure, void of any individuality from either tenant or owner. Even the red bricks would have been a boring sight to look upon in its hay-day. Lighting, a tad hap-hazard, either from people using improvised candles, or those who could afford power didn't tend to use it all that often. It was seldom you'd see it well lit.

Its neighbours included an equally bland, slightly higher, but considerably less structurally sound looking housing development, albeit one that seemed more populated, and the remains of probably an identical building that had been burnt out long before he'd found employment in the petroleum distribution industry. Behind the station had once been something of an artistic icon, a towering structure of about thirty floors, with a rather large ornate glass dome over five story division that jutted out to the left. The glass panels that remained intact were smeared in filth from years of financially driven neglect. Built to be mostly offices, restaurants and a language school the crash had caused most of those businesses to close and was now, like the others, holding cheap accommodation.

Acquisition of the fuel was rather swift and generally bloodless, the humans weren't going to surrender their lives for such, even if it meant some annoying meetings with company execs. Astrotrain clutched the tanker and lifted it into the air before sub-spacing.

Blitzwing had expected a bit of resistance, from someone, somewhere, maybe a passing Autobot, so when this expectation hadn't come to fruition, he decided he may as well get the ball rolling with a well-placed grenade into the former art-deco inspired wonder. Of course the explosion was something of note. A huge fireball engulfed the side-section, the force sending the long weakened floors upwards, tearing easily through the dome, such as it was. The resulting 360 shockwave sent heavy debris and a good rush of flame through into the neighbouring structures. The rest of the building pancaked, but its neighbour's bottom floors blown out by a well flung chunk of masonry causing it to topple backwards, spilling itself and its contents, both human and materialistic, across the overly cracked road. The memento of the fall still pushing its upper levels into the adjacent structure, a very seedy looking strip joint and a large and dilapidated casino. No one had money to gamble, even those most serious of addicts had enough sense to know when was enough.

The triple changer laughed loudly, one little grenade causing this level of damage? He was amused and fired off three more into larger buildings placed about a block away respectively. The results were pretty much the same.

"Blitzwing".

Astrotrain stated deadpan.

"Oh come on, Astro, you can't say that wasn't in some ways chortle-worthy".

"And think of the all those wretched meat-sacks that just went squish".

Motormaster chimed in as he decided on more brutish means of demolition, namely his fists. He jumped the fence of the old McDs, ploughed his servos through the frontage of the once busy provider of obesity and after he realised there was very little likelihood of fatalities as a result of his activities, he turned, grabbed the large sign and flung it like a javlin.

It tore through the apartment complex across the street, digging in at about the ten story level, thrown with enough force that while the M tore off, the metal pole continued on its trajectory until it punctured the opposite wall.

"How much damage do you think we have to do before the Autobums show up?"

Blitzwing mused loudly, more to himself than anyone else.

"Dunno, but I'm here, I've done my job, so screw you mutts if you think I'm not going to take a bit of fun for myself!"

Motormaster punctuated his statement with a swift kick to an abandoned car, sans wheels, into the department store. The residents of the makeshift shanty town had long since taken off, however, many of the residents of the local apartment buildings were not as lucky, nor would they be. The death toll was going to be catastrophic.

"Maybe we can check for other fuel sources?"

Brawl grunted. Of course he didn't mean it, not a word of it, but he, like Motormaster did revel in a good amount of destruction, and they were here now, there wasn't an Autobot to be seen, so why the Pit not?

ooOOoo

They had demolished an area stretching three kilometres down the road from the service station by the time they reached the large, mostly abandoned industrial park. It was separated from the residential zone by a series of well-worn rail tracks, the other side began with what had once been an incredibly profitable curtain manufacturer. Dark and empty now, and of course with so few humans in the area to murder, the pursuit of destruction lost all appeal.

"Well, if we keep going we're bound to reach some more suburbs".

Blitzwing noted as he watched Astrotrain fire three missiles, one into the Curt's Curtains, another into a nameless low level factory with an overly large chimney and one into what had into a plant that produced car radios.

"I think we better head back, Megatron is probably going to be less than impressed that our expenditure is more costly than our gain".

Astrotrain monotoned. Someone had to be the voice of reason, they'd had their fun, no Autobots had shown up, and the satisfying screams of dying humans had long since gone silent.

Even the usual sounds of sirens were absent from this recent bout of violence; given the poverty of the neighbourhood, the substandard roading and the overall lack of desire by the emergency services to extend themselves into a losing situation, there just seemed no point now. He wasn't sure if that was sad, pathetic or just plain needless.

"Yeah, maybe, but you know, if we knocked out a few schools, maybe a Mosque or Church or something, it'd piss off the humans, especially seeing as there ain't no 'Bots about".

Brawl had a point, and it'd been a while since really any of them had caused some mischief. So none of them were too hard to convince. They transformed into their respective vehicle modes and moved through the industrial zone blasting at random, within twenty minutes they'd reach some clusters of human activity.

ooOOoo

It was, thankfully, not a school.

Nor was it a Mosque or any other religious structure.

However, it was a very large outdoor market. Too early for there to be patrons, but the vendors, property managers and poorly paid security noted the noise of the approaching destruction. Being that it was something most were familiar with and all had no desire to experience they began a hasty and disorganised evacuation. With that said, these merchants, despite their fears of robot initiated demise, had to concern themselves with the reality that this was their livelihood, that these sad looking tents with their shabby merchandise was all they had to feed their family with. Many were killed trying to load their commodities into vehicles, many were killed trying to flee, laden down with goods in sacks and bags.

There were the screams that Astrotrain ever so enjoyed.

"A lot of this shit is really flammable!"

Motormaster laughed his optics focussing on a small fire as it blossomed into a massive inferno. It'd been an ember from a burning fruit stand that was flicked up by the wind landing on a generous pile of dusty and well frayed rugs. Once those caught, there was really no stopping it, the flames jumped easily between the fabric of the tents, upholstery in cars – their doors still open, the dry grasses and plastic matting laid down on the ground. Human bodies lay in numerous piles charred and burning amongst the poverty.

It was a glorious sight for one so depraved.

Brawl was certainly enjoying himself.

Neighbouring this small plot of struggling capitalism was a car park that once serviced a very large and expansive shopping Mall. It was a bit of a recurring cliché now, the structure was long deserted, there had been a few small shops on the outlaying portions of the hub that had managed up until about a year ago, but they too, now, were gone.

"A match in that'll go good!"

Blitzwing laughed as he aimed a missile and fired. It easily flew across the empty lot and smashed through the first floor window display, there was a few seconds of lag before a massive explosion blew out shards of glass and whatever else wasn't sufficiently fastened. It wouldn't' take long before the thing was completely engulfed, massive black plumes of smoke ambled upwards at its own sluggish but very well pronounced pace. Soon it started to settle on nearby buildings, people, cars. It was going to be a hell of a clean-up.

"I just googled the locale, turns out there's an old battery recycling centre not far from here. About ten K's that way!"

Motormaster pointed east of their direction.

"We blow that, it'll cause a lot of carnage".

"Why the hell not?"

Astrotrain shrugged, but the smirk that pulled at the corners of his mouth betrayed his desire to unleash some further damage upon this pathetic ball of mud.

ooOOoo

To say it was a decent explosion would have been a rather gross understatement.

The chemical processes involved in recycling car batteries were quite volatile, and while a lot of concern for the environment had gone the wayside since the crash, and perhaps a bit before, the idea of just chucking old batteries into landfills to leach their poisons into the earth didn't sit well with even the most money-grubbing and environmentally laziest of politicians.

This facility was the largest provider of jobs in the region. It ran four shifts a day, operating twenty four hours, its employee contingent on at the time of the attack was an unsettling eight hundred and forty-three. Shift change.

It didn't take long for the four Decepticons to completely lay waste to the entire plant and its peripheries. All humans on site would die. Hundreds more in the immediate surrounds would also be killed. That added to the eighteen thousand six hundred and three persons who died in their rampage. The human leadership of America was going to be very displeased, well, at least in their official standing. Spoken quietly, such death tolls were greatly appreciated, they pulled the population down somewhat ease the strain on already over-burdened infrastructure.

From woe to go, as the humans were fond of saying, the Decepticon adventure lasted roughly three hours, and in that time not a single Autobot showed to attempt to slow their spread.

The primary reason had simply been lack of communication. The first the Autobots heard of it was through the media. The humans in the area had alerted their authorities as per standard protocol, but said authorities had in turn not alerted the Autobots – as per theirs. The starkly uncomfortable reality had been for years that individual humans or civilian entities no longer had direct access to Autobot assistance. Cantankerous military officials and prideful politicians didn't like that they were not the first line of defence for their citizens. Concurrently, they stated the Autobots had an awful lot to worry about, and the tragic reality that a Decepticon attack would have on a civilian area had to take a backseat to a strike on energy production or a military installation. What was never mentioned, of course, was that communication lines were sorely impacted by the pollutants in the atmosphere, and it was most certainly not helpful that human military transmission experts actively worked to block private interactions with the Autobots. Regarding the recent mess at that filthy coal burning plant, well, they were lucky to be able to intervene there, someone in management knew someone in the military who didn't particularly want that someone in management to die, so quickly dropped a line to the Autobots, who, were of course, only too happy to assist, though it was likely the military personnel would have lost their job. Tragic in this economy.

Putting aside the lack-lustre concern for the dignity and sacredness of human life, the practical stand of the government was to never alert the Autobots if civilian or light industry was being attacked. It was a prideful approach, the human authorities of this country did not want to look as if they needed the Autobots to pull them out of every mess the Decepticons started.

To the public, the unfortunate and asinine excuse was further compounded, that Autobot involvement might have prolonged the attack, increasing its death toll and damage. Blame, of course, was always laid squarely at the feet of the Autobots, much to Prime's ever growing annoyance with this branch of the human species. How could those tiny creatures actually state that they were to be the first port of call for civilians then not bring the Autobots into fight a far superior enemy? Their understanding of their flaws and weaknesses was considerably lacking. While the crash may have all but have obliterated civilian functioning, finance was always found for military applications, but those applications could never legitimately compete with the Decepticon forces.

Optimus Prime reclined in his chair as far back as the struts would allow. He exhaled rather obviously through his vents as he irritably flicked the datapad onto the desk in front of him. It skidded its own length three times before coming to a stop, the video footage of the explosion began to replay, albeit on mute.

"Jazz".

He activated the private comm.

"Yeah boss-bot?"

"With no desire to add to your already pulsating workload, but how much of an effort would it take to script a seriously firm letter of displeasure to the humans regarding the recent Decepticon attack and their lack of communication?"

"Well… um, I don't think they'd take it all that well, but I'm sure I could cook something up that was all nice-like".

"On second thoughts, don't. Instead, chat with Blaster, tell him to prioritise work on clearing the air-waves so we can be better informed next time Astrotrain wants to go on a rampage for a half a cube".

"That, I think is probably a better use of everyone's time, boss".

"Oh, and Jazz?"

"Mmm?"

"See if you can find out what in the name of Vector Sigma Megatron is doing authorising these barely rational attacks".

"Could simply just be bored mechs, boss".

"Could be…, but try and find out anyway. Prime out".

The commander spun around in his chair, stood in one smooth motion and stepped towards the window. He deactivated the tinting and glanced out over the perpetually smoggy landscape. Even in Autobot City, which was quite well cleanly operated, the filth from the neighbouring human metropolises could be visualised. It was now always impossible to gauge the colours created by the Sun's comings and goings behind the horizon, instead of the once vibrant reds and violets, the stunning blues and teals produced by the natural process of this part of the universe, now there was just an ever unpleasant array of sooty tones, greys, the occasional very unnatural green and unpleasant purples. The toxic mess the humans were making of their planet did concern him, while it certainly wasn't helpful for the organics, it sure didn't help Ratchet's workload. Soot in vents was always an issue.

Then there was the acid rain, and it didn't seem to have much logic as to where it fell. During the worst days of the war on Cybertron, acid rain was weaponised, seekers would seed the atmosphere with this death and it'd pour down on the battlefield, maiming or outright killing both friend and foe alike. On Earth, it was random. Entire forests far from anything resembling "civilisation" had been killed. Cities bore the pocked marks of the hazard. Generally concrete structures were a little sturdier, but wood and metal often fell prey more quickly. The less said about its effect on organic life the better. It was also difficult for the human scientists to predict the showers, so there were always high injury and death rates from each burst.

Prime re-tinted the window, not wanting to stare out over such bleakness when his mind still held the beauty of this planet firmly in his memory banks. Beauty that he'd witnessed so often less than a vorn ago. He turned back to his desk and sat down, he wondered if there was any point heading back to his quarters for a rest. Ratchet would certainly be pleased, but the datapads were piling up. Every Autobot and his cyber-dog seemed to have an opinion on Megatron's recent shenanigans, and they were more than happy to try and find something that resembled evidence to punch into a report. Well, except Jazz, that bot would go out of his way to avoid writing things down. That was Prow's domain, and the statistician more than made up for Jazz's half-afted contributions to the paper trail.

It had been a hard day, but as frustrating as it was – the human leadership and Decepticon activity alike, the Autobot imagined that for a lot of humans their day was far worse.

Or simply over.

War gave the Prime many opportunities to be frustrated, not to mention far too many circumstances to feel completely in the dark. Days where there wasn't enough information, or none at all. Hearsay, hyperbole and shoulder shrugs. Days where he was left wondering if he was doing any good at all. Days he contemplated throwing in the Matrix and driving off, rolling out. Days where despite all the best mechs with all the best intel there were no answers. Days like that bothered him. It meant something was brewing. Bad things. And annoyingly so, days like this were getting more frequent.

This was one such day.