Scotia Sea, 538 km north of the Antarctic Peninsula. Altitude: 3,671 m below sea level.
An orange crab crawled along the hydrothermal vents in search of food. There were shells aplenty, relics of mollusks and crustaceans from times long past, but live food had grown scarce in recent times. Many had perished when the enormous metal arm descended from above, crushing generations of deep-sea creatures into paste. More still had wasted away from starvation or the elements in the time following that calamity, when the geothermal hotspot that the metal arm had landed upon grew cold and desolate. Even now, the frigid water flowed painfully across the crab's exoskeleton.
There was no food to be found around the silent vents—only a graveyard of shells and stone and the burning heat of the dangerous blue fluid that seeped from underneath the metal arm. Every survivor knew to avoid those glowing blue pools. The foolish ones who tried to eat the blue poison suffered a long and painful death, corroded from the inside out.
The crab abandoned its quest, scuttling back to rejoin its brethren within the relative safety of the metal arm. Though the hydrothermal vent had cooled since the metal arm's arrival, the arm itself seemed to have gathered all that warmth into itself. Its metal surface radiated heat into the surrounding waters. As an added benefit, no predator could break through those sturdy metal plates and cables to threaten a sleeping crab. The entire crab population had moved into the metal arm for shelter after the vents grew cold.
The metal arm protruded from the ocean floor, palm up and fingers reaching for an unseen sky. Everything below the elbow vanished into the silt and rocky debris of the hydrothermal vent that the metal arm had plugged upon landing. A radioactive blue glow emanated from underneath the arm, but the portions exposed to the water were dark and free of the glowing substance. The metal arm was hundreds of times larger than even the largest crab, and a single metal plate in the thumb was vast enough to shelter the entire colony of crabs. The rest of the fingers and protrusions along the arm had come to host a myriad of other displaced sea creatures: sea urchins, starfish, krill, clams, rockfish, and a lone squid.
As the crab climbed between a bundle of parallel cables leading up the wrist toward the thumb, one pereiopod slipped against the slick glassy surface of an optical sensor node. Automatic defense protocols kicked online, jolting the metal arm into full alertness.
Fingers clenched into a fist, and fish entrails spurted out from every gap in Blast Off's armor.
As Blast Off regained awareness, a long list of warning messages scrolled by on internal displays. His whole frame was immersed in saltwater at pressures hundreds of times higher than Earth's atmosphere. Half of his frame from elbow to shoulder linkage was wedged into a crevasse in the solid rock of the ocean floor. The depths of the crevasse were slightly warm; Blast Off's radiation absorbers had latched onto this geothermal energy as a power source, but its contribution to his overall fuel reserves was negligible. Energon leaked out from an open wound in the shoulder faster than absorbers could regenerate it, and the corrosive saltwater had considerably slowed self-repairs. Lastly, and most concerning of the lot, carbon-based slime had somehow crept inside Blast Off's plating as well as sticking on the outer surface. Organic parasites had squirmed into every transformation seam, leaving their scummy residue in unmentionable places.
Aghast, Blast Off initiated an emergency transformation sequence. His shuttle mode was hermetically sealed, whereas the flared armor plates of the arm-mode permitted vermin to ooze inside and colonize unwanted places. Rearranging into shuttle mode ought to prevent further infestation by the organic lifeforms, even if it would not eliminate the existing intrusion. The shuttle's sleek profile would also be far better suited to navigating the dense fluidic environment of the ocean depths than a disembodied arm.
With half of his frame trapped between rocks, the folding of transformation jammed those rocks deeper into the shoulder linkage that would have connected to the rest of the combined form. Sharp stone scraped an open wound, and splinters of pain shot from the site of the injury.
Blast Off collapsed, no closer to escape than before. He was still an arm embedded in the ocean floor. A cloud of energon floated outward, sparse and dim from dilution with seawater. As the soft glow dissipated into dark waters, it almost resembled the outermost layer of a nebula. The sight sparked a deep and desperate longing for the wonderful emptiness of outer space. Up there, Blast Off would have the freedom to move in any direction with a minimum of effort. There would be no need to even consider saltwater or sand or parasites seeping into his internal mechanisms.
In arm shape, Blast Off's flight thrusters were located close to the palm of the hand. This was a fairly useless location when the hand pointed toward an unseen sky, since lighting the thrusters in that direction would only wedge Blast Off deeper into the crevasse. Blast Off thrashed around with his limited elbow and wrist articulation. Sand and organic remnants squished in his joints as he struggled to point the thrusters toward the ocean floor instead. When the palm finally pointed in the correct direction, Blast Off fired up his thrusters at just the right moment.
Rock heaved and metal strained. With an explosion of rubble and silt, Blast Off burst out of his prison. He spiraled uncontrollably for lack of proper navigational ability as a disembodied arm. Once Blast Off cleared the majority of the rubble, he cut power to the thrusters and drifted through dense saltwater. Gravity dragged him slowly but inevitably downward. The turbulence of descent flushed some of the organic slime out from under his plating, but a nonzero quantity lingered. Something alive still squirmed against internal sensor clusters.
The second transformation attempt went no better than the first. Pain flared, halting the transformation sequence before it progressed even a third of the way to completion. Though Blast Off had escaped from the crevasse that pressed in from all sides, several shards of rock were still lodged between armor plates. Those rocks caught on bent metal and jammed between sensitive transformation seams, preventing Blast Off from achieving either shuttle or bipedal form.
Blast Off sank to the ocean floor, defeated. The palm faced downward, and his entire frame now sat in open water instead of halfway buried, but these were only marginal improvements. Being stuck as an arm severely hampered mobility, stealing away any hope of reaching the surface via vertical ascent.
Fingers curled in frustration, scoring grooves in the sedimentary rock below. Blast Off's frame wobbled with the force of the motion. This wobble gave him an idea. Spreading out his fingers intentionally, Blast Off brought them down one at a time, digging deep into the ocean floor. When he curled those embedded fingers toward the palm, his entire frame slid forward. By repeating this grasping motion, Blast Off managed to inch along the ocean floor in a roughly linear path.
A disembodied arm crawling across the ocean floor was a most undignified sight, but it was better than sitting motionless as organic parasites colonized his armor.
Now that Blast Off could move, he needed a direction. Interstellar navigation systems indicated that Blast Off remained in the same solar system as before, and the familiar gravity well of a class-M planetoid confirmed that he was on Earth. The relative intensity of the local magnetic field indicated that Blast Off now resided much closer to the southern geomagnetic pole than previously, but he could not identify an exact location. Starscream's maps showed that oceans covered over two-thirds of the planet's surface. If Blast Off simply picked a random direction, there was a high probability that his energy reserves would expire long before he reached dry land.
There were no comms or radio signals nearby to give a hint at direction. Even by the wreckage of the Harbinger, Decepticon comms frequencies had buzzed in the background, unintelligible for their encryption but noticeably present. Human radio transmissions had also filled the airwaves over their primitive cities. While these signals were far more limited in range than comms, they could still be useful as homing beacons. Blast Off could have followed such background signals, moving along an intensity gradient to find their source. Here, unfortunately, Blast Off's transceivers detected only silence and the rhythmic sloshing of the ocean. Not a whisper of artificial electromagnetic fields could be heard. The rock of the ocean floor or the high density fluid surrounding Blast Off must have had a jamming effect on comms, because his sensors were normally acute enough to detect transmissions within the same solar system.
As a last resort, Blast Off turned his attention inward to the gestalt bond linking his spark to four others. Ever since the Combaticons became a combiner team, those four lifesigns hovered at the edge of his awareness. Blast Off typically tried to block out their presence as much as possible, since the link threatened a blending of foreign impulses and personality traits that conflicted with his very self. The Combaticons were Blast Off's team, and he gladly worked alongside them, but they were not him. Thus, Blast Off kept his side of the bond closed, preferring to maintain his individuality until necessity compelled them to combine into a greater whole. In times of desperation, however, this connection had its uses.
Blast Off prodded at those four presences. Onslaught. Vortex. Swindle. Brawl. Each presence glowed with its own distinctive energy signature. The connections felt as tightly shielded as usual, hiding all hints as to physical or mental status, but they existed. Everyone lived. Nobody was injured badly enough to be transmitting involuntary echoes of pain along the bond. The rest of the Combaticons must have emerged triumphant in the encounter with Megatron. This boded well for Blast Off's own continued survival.
Location indicators pinpointed all four of them in a general northward direction. From experience, Blast Off knew better than to guess at distances from this data. Whether his teammates were within arm's reach or ten light-years away, the quantum entanglement of sparks in a combiner team bond meant that their lifesigns would always read as equally close, regardless of physical separation.
Northward, though vague, was better than having no direction at all. Blast Off programmed a northern heading into autonomic navigation subroutines. Once the coordinates were locked in, his frame crawled along the ocean floor without conscious effort. Blast Off busied his processors cross-referencing recent flight telemetry against memorized interstellar maps to pass the time.
Everglades National Park, Florida, USA.
A transpatial ground-bridge portal opened in midair, and three Autobots drove into a bog.
The blue two-wheeler transformed and somersaulted over the deepest region, managing to avoid the worst of the mud. Arcee splashed down close to the edge, and croaking frogs scattered in every direction. Some frogs inexplicably leapt toward the giant metal legs in their midst, and Arcee froze in place to avoid harming the tiny creatures.
The striped yellow muscle car rapidly accelerated upon seeing the pond, launching from the edge of the portal into open air. Front wheels just managed to reach dry land. Back wheels squelched in mud, and Bumblebee transformed with a surprised beep. Mud trickled from the wheels now placed on his lower legs.
Optimus Prime materialized last from the portal. He halted at the cusp of the ground-bridge tunnel and saw two fellow Autobots splattered in mud. Transforming into bipedal form, Optimus Prime stepped over the bog with great dignity.
"These are new," Arcee said, slowly crouching to inspect a spotted gray frog that had attached itself to her foot.
The frog croaked.
Optimus Prime surveyed the area, but only native Earth flora and fauna appeared in the immediate vicinity. To the southwest, a line of treetops were twisted and broken as though struck by a large projectile moving at high speed.
"Remain alert. Although the hunt for Iacon relics has kept us occupied, the Decepticons do not face the same personnel shortage. Megatron may have already dispatched a salvage team to this region."
"It's been over a day since the meteor sighting. If the Cons came, they'd be long gone by now," Arcee said. Nevertheless, she transformed one arm into a blaster.
Bumblebee beeped a warning. Sensors detected the whisper of human radio signals—weak broadcasts, limited in data capacity even by the standards of human technology, and highly unexpected in what should have been an uninhabited nature preserve. The low intensity radio-wave communications were only detectable in close proximity, perfect for evading the notice of human and Cybertronian eavesdroppers alike. However, the encryption skills of the transmitter left much to be desired. The three Autobots easily cracked open the message contents.
Arcee's optics narrowed in recognition. "Not the Cons after all."
"MECH." Bumblebee uttered a low, angry buzz.
They followed the radio signals toward the meteor landing site, carefully wading through dense underbrush. Bumblebee took the lead due to his considerable experience navigating unique types of Earth terrain. The swampy nature of the Everglades made avoiding wildlife difficult, but the Autobots did their best to follow in each others' footsteps and avoid larger trees to minimize damage to the native ecosystem.
The MECH incursion consisted of two lime-green troop transport trucks, one helicopter, and twenty-one masked humans. The swamps covering the ground had made it difficult to land a helicopter, but the shattered trees from the impact provided enough clearance for a skilled pilot to land. MECH commandos swarmed around a blackened chasm in the topsoil, working diligently to unearth the meteorite. Water from a large nearby swamp trickled toward the chasm, but MECH had evidently erected a temporary wall of piled-up soil to block the flow.
As the Autobots skirted around the dry edges of this large swamp, their new observation angle revealed that the meteorite was, in fact, two offline Insecticon frames. MECH had wasted no time in beginning salvage operations. One Insecticon appeared partly ripped apart from the crash or previous battle damage. Humans with chainsaws, torches, and various other cutting implements had descended on those ruptures in the thick Cybertronian armor to systematically disassemble the more delicate inner components. Other humans scuttled back and forth between this group and the helicopter, stashing away pieces of internal circuitry as quickly as they were removed.
The second Insecticon was less damaged, but it was also partly buried in soil. Towlines attached its frame to a truck. One human was trying to use the truck's powerful engine to tug the Insecticon out of the soil. Several other humans supported this effort, digging over the buried parts with shovels.
"MECH: a most persistent organization. Their imitation Prime demonstrated the dangers of human ingenuity and ambition, both to their species and ours. We must not allow more Cybertronian biotech to fall into the hands of human terrorists—no matter the cost." Optimus Prime transformed one hand into an ion cannon and fired. The tow truck exploded in a spectacular fireball, flattening half a dozen humans. Most of them got up again, so it was alright.
Humans shouted and ran for cover. Some humans ran in the wrong direction, fell into the adjacent swamp, and flailed about in murky water that was far deeper than it looked. They crawled out bedraggled and mud-coated, except for two who did not crawl out at all, but rather floated to the surface after striking something hard in the swamp depths. A few humans with guns opened fire on the Autobots. Unfortunately, they had not prepared for the right confrontation during this salvage operation. Bullets and tear gas that should have devastated human law enforcement instead scattered off Cybertronian armor without harm.
The Autobots charged, attacking while simultaneously trying to minimize human casualties. They managed to scoop up a few unlucky humans, confiscating pistols and machine guns with ease. Captured humans struggled and screamed to no avail; human muscle was worthless against a mechanical grip. Optimus Prime conjured his trailer from subspace, and they loaded the prisoners inside.
While the Autobots considerately gathered up the MECH commandos rather than squashing them into paste, the helicopter pilot finished preparing for flight. Even if MECH lost a few members today, the cargo hold full of alien technology was far more valuable than a few human lives. The helicopter took off before even half of the remaining MECH members had boarded, quickly climbing into the sky.
Arcee and Bumblebee shot at the helicopter, but it escaped from blaster range without taking critical damage.
"Scrap. That copter was loaded with Insecticon guts." Arcee put her blasters away, shaking her head. "What next, an army of remotely operated Insecticons?"
"Sure hope not," Bumblebee beeped mournfully. The memory of Airachnid's short-lived Insecticon swarm was still too recent for comfort. Placing such power in the control of humans was a most terrifying thought.
Optimus Prime finished securing the prisoners and glanced at his fellow Autobots. "Let us focus on accomplishments, not shortcomings. Today, we have confirmed the nature of the meteor sighting, captured twelve live MECH terrorists with only four fatalities—a most regrettable loss of human life—and recovered two nearly complete Insecticon frames."
Arcee smiled grimly. "At least Ratchet will be glad to see these frames. Tox-en fried Bulkhead's systems pretty badly. He might be able to use the spare parts, even if they are… well, Insecticon parts."
So saying, Arcee took an image of the Insecticon frames and sent it to Ratchet. A tired but affirmative response immediately arrived in comms; Insecticon parts were still Cybertronian in nature and quality, and thus could be adapted despite their different physiology.
The three Autobots gathered around the Insecticon frames. Working in tandem, they managed to haul both Insecticon frames into the open. Both showed marks from a recent and vicious battle. Dented metal and twisted armor plates around the head, wings, thrusters, and other vital locations indicated the focused intent of an experienced opponent, rather than mere crash damage. In both Insecticons, a hemispherical cavity through the front chest armor had penetrated internal circuitry and shredded the spark chamber. The dense armor plates around these wounds were curiously torn, melted, and studded with metal shrapnel.
"A combination of heat and kinetic damage. Missile impact, not energon blasters," was Ratchet's diagnosis when they sent him an image of the two broken frames.
"Who uses such a weapon? Can't be Starscream, since Optimus saw him sinking to the bottom of the Antarctic ice cap," Arcee said.
"Could it be MECH?" Bumblebee wondered.
"With weapons like that? If MECH had the equipment to terminate an Insecticon in one shot, we would've been in a lot more trouble today."
"Why not ask them?" Bumblebee pointed at the trailer full of prisoners.
Optimus Prime glanced at the trailer thoughtfully. Shouting voices and banging could be heard from the twelve MECH commandos trapped inside. From the sound of it, not all of the banging was related to an escape attempt. Some sort of fistfight had broken out inside the trailer.
"Agent Fowler is better suited to handle their interrogation," Optimus Prime decided.
The bright blue ground-bridge portal opened beside the Insecticon frames. Arcee and Bumblebee gathered up one Insecticon. Optimus Prime grasped the second Insecticon in one hand and his trailer in the other. They dragged their burdens through the groundbridge and returned a second time to remove the remainder of MECH's abandoned items and deceased humans. After the last few bits of the destroyed tow truck had been retrieved, the Autobots departed and the ground-bridge closed.
All was silent after the Autobots left.
Too silent, in fact.
Though the crash landing had indeed scarred a large swath of the Everglades, disrupting the natural swamp and forest ecosystems and crushing a significant number of native wildlife, many critters had survived. Birds and frogs that would naturally sing in the treetops or waterfronts existed in plenitude around the edges of the impact, yet still they dared not utter a peep.
The birds dared not chirp, and the frogs dared not croak, for they sensed what Autobots and humans alike could not. Another presence yet remained: patient, observant, biding time until precisely the right moment.
Long after the Autobots had cleared out of the impact site, the surface of the large nearby swamp rippled. Two large gun barrels poked out of the water, and Onslaught stood up. Water streamed from his frame in muddy rivulets, revealing a patchy blue and brown coloration with black scorch marks where Insecticon blaster fire had scorched the paint nanites. Strategic use of his anti-gravity module—more potent than usual anti-grav components, due to Onslaught's function as the central component of Bruticus—had slowed the course of his fall, sparing him from the worst of the crash damage.
Onslaught had recovered individual consciousness while falling through the stratosphere, separated from the other Combaticons and under attack by two Insecticons. He had quickly formulated a plan and used the fall to his advantage, wrestling with the Insecticons and sabotaging their propulsion systems until the last possible moment. Two hundred meters before impact, Onslaught kicked away from the Insecticons and switched his anti-gravity module to maximum. He halted in midair while the Insecticons slammed into the ground. Two missiles launched, dealing two perfect hits in the instant when the Insecticons were too preoccupied with crashing to dodge. The Insecticons were offline before their frames slid to a stop, and Onslaught floated down to a gentle landing.
Onslaught might have abandoned the crash site right then, but a primitive transmission had pulled his attention. The human internet fluttered at the edge of perception, filled with data that Onslaught easily intercepted and decoded. Text, images, and videos streamed past his transceivers. Fascinated by the volumes of freely available information on this internet, Onslaught had paused to assimilate this new data. As he stood there, rapidly absorbing any and all information within his grasp, another transmission caught his attention—a radio-wave channel, not unlike that which he and the other Combaticons had employed for short-range communications. Listening in on that, Onslaught learned that some humans were approaching. Intrigued, Onslaught found a good hiding spot, dimmed his systems to their lowest power output, and stuck around to observe the proceedings.
After observing MECH work, Onslaught understood a great deal about the nature of humans. They were a hostile species of scavengers, but they understood cooperation for the sake of necessity. Despite being less than a tenth of the height of one Insecticon, the humans showed no fear as they approached the carcasses. They had a demonstrably primitive understanding of Cybertronian biotech, but they showed admirable efficiency and teamwork while disassembling the Insecticons. Through coordinated efforts, they managed to extract nearly half of the circuits from one Insecticon torso before the Autobots arrived to destroy their clever little operation.
Autobots! That put a fine wrench in Onslaught's plans. Starscream had left out the key detail of Autobot presence during their mission briefing.
The Autobots roamed the planet freely with their ground-bridge portals, evidently in competition with native humans for scraps of Cybertronian tech. Even Optimus Prime himself was here, suggesting that anywhere between the Autobot flagship and the entire Autobot spacefleet could be monitoring this planet. How had the Decepticons grown so weak that they permitted Autobots to exist unchallenged on the very same planet that the Nemesis orbited?
With Autobots present as well as Decepticons, using comms to contact his team would be too great of a risk. Even if eavesdroppers could not decrypt an intercepted signal, they could triangulate any unshielded source of broadcasts, and Onslaught did not have the luxury of a cloaked communications hub through which to route untraceable comm links. Transmitting a signal not noticeably Decepticon or Autobot in nature would invite unwanted attention from both factions. Onslaught could not afford to risk this—not while his own team was divided and scattered across an unknown world.
Given this new data, Onslaught's priorities shifted again. He could not afford to dally and explore the human internet. He needed to find the rest of his team before they ran into trouble from either faction. A background subroutine would suffice to scour the internet for keywords that might indicate a Cybertronian sighting. In the meantime, Onslaught turned toward a more reliable, though less personally preferred, method of locating the other Combaticons.
According to the geolocation markers in the gestalt bond, the rest of the team was scattered: three signals appeared to the south, while one was to the west. Onslaught calculated the centroid of all four coordinates and decided upon a south-by-southwest heading, trusting the remainder of the team to converge using a similarly efficient method.
Luiz & Co. Auto Repairs, Mato Grosso do Sul, Brazil.
Yesterday's meteor shower had sent many damaged vehicles to Luiz's humble auto repair shop, but none were quite as memorable as the yellow Jeep that looked like it had been directly squashed by a meteorite, melted in the ensuing fires, and then rolled through a field for good measure. Streaks of mud and bits of vegetation poked from the Jeep's seams. Amazingly, the Jeep drove up to the shop under its own power, if only just. The engine made an unhealthy sputtering noise as the Jeep idled.
The cracked driver's side window rolled down, revealing a young man with a familiar face—so familiar, in fact, that Luiz did a double take.
"Carlos, didn't I see you off ten minutes ago? What happened to that hatchback I just fixed? Jeez, man, what are you wearing?"
When Carlos had driven off with a brand new set of headlights on his second-hand Chevy, he had worn a sensible gray suit in anticipation of a typical Tuesday at the bank. Ten minutes later, his entire color scheme was scrambled. The respectable gray business suit turned into a mustard-yellow eyesore of identical design, while the professional white button-down became a startling royal purple. Even those wireframe eyeglasses, formerly transparent, darkened into mirrored sunglasses that glittered a shiny purple like a beetle's carapace. The yellow and purple coloration exactly matched the few scraps of intact paint left on the Jeep.
"Not Carlos, I'm afraid. I'm new to this neighborhood, but I heard that your shop was the place to go for repairs," the young man said in a voice like liquid gold. Speaking broke any illusions as to his identity. Even if not-Carlos was the spitting image of Carlos, down to the slightly mussed combover and the thin mustache across his upper lip, this outgoing fellow had nothing at all in common with the timid bank teller.
Luiz took one look at the smoke pouring from the Jeep's dented hood and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
"Junkyard is that way."
"Now, now. Let's not be hasty, my friend! I have money, and I can offer a very generous payment for repairs. Name your price," not-Carlos said, flashing a grin that could rival the sun for its brilliance.
Luiz considered this. It was almost lunch time, and the stream of damaged vehicles from last night's natural disaster had begun to peter out. No other customers were currently demanding Luiz's attention. On the other hand, fixing the Jeep would be a time-intensive project. Reaching a road-worthy state through mechanical repairs alone would take several hours of dedicated work. Repairing the bodywork to something halfway respectable would take even longer, and Luiz would need to conscript his coworkers' help to hammer out the larger dents. Then again, the challenge of repairing something that looked impossibly broken was what had driven Luiz to an auto repair career in the first place.
"Usual price is eighty an hour, but that's for simple repairs. By the looks of this smoke, you'll need a full overhaul—engine, fuel regulator, transmission, the works. It won't be easy. Considering the amount of damage and labor required, I'll have to ask for two-forty an hour," Luiz said.
"Three times normal? This is extortion, my friend! Have some pity on the wounded. How about one-sixty?" not-Carlos offered.
"Two hundred."
"One-eighty, with two hours advance payment?" Not-Carlos clearly was no stranger to haggling; in fact, he seemed to take a certain delight in the exchange. Something looked strange about the way the sunlight reflected off his shades, but his offer was good enough to dissuade further questioning. More than twice the normal hourly rate made for an excellent payment, and it was already more than Luiz had hoped to receive.
"Good enough," Luiz conceded. "Bring it around the back, and I'll see what we can do. No promises. It would take a miracle to fix all this damage."
"I don't expect any miracles. Only your best quality service," not-Carlos replied. As not-Carlos fired up the engine and rolled the coughing, smoking Jeep around toward the back garage, Luiz reflected that it was already a miracle that the engine could start at all.
Not-Carlos paid for the agreed-upon two hours' advance. He used the same type of credit card that the true Carlos had used before.
Once the payment went through, Luiz picked up a water hose and spray-cleaned the worst patches of mud off the Jeep. Clods of dirt, grass, and one cornstalk dropped onto the ground. After a minimum standard of cleanliness had been achieved, Luiz picked up a crowbar. He needed to address whatever was smoking under the hood before it either caught fire or exploded.
The other two auto repair techs, Anton and Jose, had both started their lunch break already. They passed the back garage on their way out of the shop, pausing to see what Luiz was doing. Anton whistled at the damage to the Jeep.
"That's some repair job. Guess you're going to be here a while. No chance of a break, eh?"
Luiz grunted, elbow-deep in a smoking mess of machinery. "Why? What are you up to now?"
"The fire department finished up with old Bruno's field. We're going out to look for space rocks."
"Good luck, then. Get me one for the kids," Luiz called back, still poking around under the hood.
Metal groaned. The smoke ceased. Not-Carlos, who had been hovering around the Jeep with a jittery air, gasped in concern for his damaged vehicle.
"Is this your car? Where was it, at ground zero when the meteor hit?" Jose asked.
"Something like that," not-Carlos said, voice more strained than usual.
Jose made a sympathetic noise. "Oof. Bad luck, but don't worry. Your car's in good hands. Luiz is the best there is."
With those uplifting words, the two would-be treasure hunters left in search of meteorite pieces. Not-Carlos returned to standing beside the Jeep, watching Luiz's progress.
One hour later, Luiz was confident that the Jeep would not explode if left unattended. His stomach growled. He had been so caught up in work that he had missed the usual lunch hour. As Luiz headed toward the break room, he almost missed the motionless figure of not-Carlos standing in a corner. Surprisingly, not-Carlos had waited patiently the entire time, rather than leaving and coming back later as most customers would do during a longer maintenance job.
"Leaving so soon?" not-Carlos wondered, an edge to his voice. "I paid you for two hours minimum."
"I'm off to lunch. Back in fifteen minutes, alright?" Luiz said.
Not-Carlos frowned. "Downtime doesn't count toward your payment."
"Of course not." The thought had never crossed Luiz's mind. As a matter of principle, Luiz only charged for time spent on labor. It was only fair.
Fifteen minutes later, Luiz returned to find not-Carlos standing next to the open driver's side window. Following his gaze, Luiz found the steering column skewed alarmingly. Cracks spiderwebbed across the dashboard meters, and the radio was a shattered mess of circuitry. The brake pedal bent to touch the floor, while the gas pedal had snapped clean off its mount. Once again, Luiz found himself amazed that not-Carlos had managed to operate the Jeep at all. He gathered his tools and returned to work.
Four hours later, the sun was sinking on the horizon. Not-Carlos still stood next to the Jeep in the exact same pose, staring vacantly into space.
Luiz crawled out from under the suspension, wiping greasy hands on his overalls. "I've done what I can. Cleaned and patched everything up. It's back in driving shape, but I don't have the right parts for some of the repairs you need. Lots of fancy tech inside. Must be a foreign build."
Not-Carlos remained utterly motionless except for the regular bob of shoulders in time with a normal human breathing rate.
"... uh, mister? Are you doing alright there?"
"Yes, of course." Not-Carlos shifted his weight to face Luiz, transitioning seamlessly from observational stillness to interactive animation. His mouth curved into a grin just broad enough to look utterly wrong on Carlos's face. "Foreign build indeed. The repairs will suffice. What about the bodywork?"
"Frame is bent, but we could hammer it out in a few days. Same for the rollbar. The panels and windows are a lost cause, I'm afraid. We'd have to order new parts from the factory, but that could take weeks." Luiz would have elaborated, but the sound of approaching airplanes cut him off. Out here in the suburbs, airplanes were a rare enough sight that Luiz turned to look.
Overhead, a blue fighter jet flew in front of four smaller jets in tight formation. All five had the sleek triangular profiles of military craft. The air trembled with the roar of supersonic engines as they crossed the sky in mere seconds. The five planes zoomed east toward the site of the meteorite landing.
"Huh. Even the army is interested in that rock." Luiz wondered if he should have joined his coworkers in the treasure hunt earlier. "Do you reckon it's something valuable?"
Not-Carlos had been looking up at the planes with a concerned expression, but he nodded absently at Luiz's question. "Value, my friend, is all in the eye of the beholder."
"Well put. With that attitude, you'll get far in life," Luiz agreed. In his time working with automobiles, he had seen far too many salvageable parts tossed away as junk for want of a simple repair. Decades ago, a younger Luiz had made his way into the world by collecting these parts, fixing them, and then selling them, abiding by the very same principle that not-Carlos espoused.
"That's the idea," not-Carlos said. Then, the smile dropped from his face. "Never mind about the bodywork. You've surpassed my expectations already. Five hours less two, electronic payment, right?"
As not-Carlos spoke, he was already moving over to the card reader. He produced the credit card from his sleeve as though by magic, swiping it before Luiz even had the chance to enter the charge amount into the computer.
The payment registered and went through anyway. The computer flickered onto a screen showing the correct charge for exactly two hours, forty-seven minutes, and thirteen seconds. Luiz could have sworn that not-Carlos's whole body flickered like bad reception on a TV screen at the exact same time. Confused, Luiz rubbed his eyes. Upon second glance, not-Carlos looked normal and was watching Luiz with a worried expression. Luiz shook his head. It had been a long day at work; maybe he was tired enough, or had breathed in too many car fumes, to be seeing things that did not exist.
The card reader beeped a merry approval.
Not-Carlos gave one last brilliant grin, leapt into the Jeep, and puttered off into the sunset at speeds faster than anyone ought to drive on residential streets. The engine sounded much healthier than before, but it still coughed every few seconds. It was a wonder, or perhaps a testament to Luiz's skills as an auto mechanic, that the Jeep did not stall right there and then.
As Luiz gaped at that reckless yellow-suited lad in amazement, his gaze happened to stray downward. The name on the payment invoice was Carlos Peres, same as the name on the previous two invoices from that morning. Struck by a sudden suspicion, Luiz opened the first invoice and compared the card numbers. The payment credentials were identical.
"Not Carlos, my foot," Luiz muttered. Either Carlos had lost his mind, or this was the strangest case of identity theft that Luiz had ever witnessed.