(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Sam's consciousness ebbed and waned like a tide.
The first time he resurfaced from the warm, dark place that sheltered him, it was to the sensation of movement. He was lying on his back, his head resting on something soft. This fact seemed at odds with the low, smooth rumble of an engine from somewhere nearby. He tried to open his eyes, but they would not obey him—his body was heavy and unresponsive, as though it belonged to someone else.
"It's okay, Sam." Someone murmured from nearby, "You're safe now."
Sam didn't recognize the voice—or maybe he did, it was difficult to concentrate. He couldn't seem to hold a thought in his head for longer than a few seconds. They kept slipping away, ephemeral and half-formed. Eventually, he stopped trying to think, to remember, and so he just drifted.
When he came back to himself an interminable time later, it was to the sound of quiet conversation.
"—a cocktail of sedatives and anti-psychotics. Not all safe for human use." A voice was saying, "It will take time for his body to metabolize the medication."
"They weren't taking any chances." Someone grunted.
"It was a significant risk." The first voice murmured, "It's a miracle that he's still breathing."
"How's he doin' otherwise?" Another voice asked.
"He's showing some signs of malnutrition, but nothing that can't be remedied with time." Sam heard the rattle of metal against metal, and then someone was grasping his wrist. "I have him on a lactated ringer's solution. It will address the dehydration and sodium depletion."
Sam's eyelids fluttered with the effort of opening them. He had the brief impression of an enclosed space and soft, mellow light when someone slipped their hand into his, giving him a gentle squeeze.
"Hey, you're alright." Someone said, "Can you take a deep breath for me?"
Sam tried. He drew a shuddsery inhale that brought with it the smell of silicone and antiseptic. It reminded him of long nights spent at Cedars-Sinai Hospital watching his father waste away. It was a familiar, hated smell. His heart started beating erratically as he lifted an arm, pawing blindly at the oxygen mask affixed to his face.
"Calm down, Sam." Someone instructed as his hand was intercepted, "I need you to lay still—you'll dislodge the IV."
Sam made a ragged sound in the back of his throat, trying to thrash, but then someone else was carding their fingers through his hair. It was a gentle touch—fingernails lightly scratching over his scalp, a thumb stroking at his temple. It was enough to cut his incipient panic attack off at the root. He stilled, the fight going out of him as his arm was lowered back onto the mattress.
"Yeah, there we go." A voice murmured directly into his ear, "You're alright, baby boy—just relax."
Sam resisted, struggling to open his eyes, but then a palm was pressed over his face, cutting off his vision. It was warm and heavy against his brow and the bridge of his nose.
"Close your eyes, sweet spark." The voice continued, low and firm, "That's it. Easy now."
Sam's entire body relaxed, muscle by muscle, as the voice continued murmuring at him. He was half-aware of the sound of movement, the rustle of fabric, and the distant crunch of gravel, but it was a peripheral annoyance. His whole focus—his entire world—narrowed down to the hand covering his eyes, the fingers carding through his hair, and the voice murmuring praise into his ear.
It was only the matter of moments before Sam slipped back under. This time the darkness lasted much longer.
Sam squinted open his eyes to the sight of warm lamplight playing across a low, vaulted ceiling. He stared up at the exposed wood in confusion, before turning his head to survey his surroundings. He was in a modestly sized, tastefully furnished bedroom. Sam pushed up onto an elbow to get a better look around. The bed in which he found himself was arranged against the wall directly opposite a small dormer window. The sheer curtains were pulled back, revealing the darkened night sky.
He stared at the window for a long moment, before struggling into a sitting position. The sudden movement caused his vision to waver. He groaned softly, holding his head in his hands until he felt a little steadier, and then he peered around. There were two doors in the room. The first was located beside the bedside table—it was firmly shut, without any light visible around the frame. The second door was ajar, casting a wedge of amber-colored light across the hardwood floor. Sam leaned forward until he caught sight of a pedestal sink set beneath an oval-shaped mirror.
A bathroom.
Suddenly, Sam became aware of his aching bladder. He pushed the blankets aside, his movements clumsy and sluggish as he struggled to his feet. The change in position caused a spike of vertigo that made the room spin precariously. He braced his weight against the bedside table until the floor felt solid again, and then he stumbled into the bathroom. It wasn't until after he turned to wash his hands that he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was wearing a soft cotton tee-shirt and gray drawstring pants. He frowned down at himself—he had never seen either piece of clothing in his life. He reached to pluck his shirt between forefinger and thumb, which is when he noticed the cotton ball taped to the back of his hand.
All at once, his memories of the farm surged to the forefront of his mind. Sam's stomach twisted at the phantom sensation of warm arterial spray across his face. He stumbled backwards, bare feet scrambling against the tiled floor, until his back collided with the wall. He ran his hands over his face, down his chest, and then he grabbed the hem of his pants, pulling them down far enough to see the crescent-shaped bruise purpling his hip. He stared at it for a long moment, before pressing it with unsteady fingers. The accompanying throb of pain confirmed he wasn't imagining things.
Sam's chest rose and fell with each sharp intake of breath. He lifted his head, staring anxiously into the bedroom, but it looked the same as when he had awoken: no soldiers in combat gear or mysterious projection-people were lurking in wait.
Sam took an unsteady step forward, grasping the door frame with one hand for support, before glancing around the room with a great deal more scrutiny. It was a small space—in other circumstances, Sam might have found it cozy. The bed occupied most of the floor space, but there was a dresser against one wall and an accent table against the other. Sam's eyes widened at the sight of his backpack resting innocuously on the wingback chair in the corner near the door.
He stumbled back into the bedroom, putting one unsteady foot in front of the other until he reached the chair. He grabbed his backpack, unzipping it and rifling around inside. His clothing had been washed and folded neatly at the bottom of the bag. His wallet and the IDs he had stolen from Maccadam's were resting on top of the pile. He touched them with trembling fingers, as though to confirm their existence, before he staggered over to the bedroom door. His vision was going fuzzy at the edges, and he braced a hand against the wall as he tried the knob.
To his mingled surprise and confusion, the door swung open without protest. He leaned forward to peer outside. The room was located at the top of a narrow, quarter-turn staircase. The bottom steps were illuminated by warm light that was coming from somewhere downstairs, but Sam couldn't see beyond the turn in the staircase. He leaned his weight against the door frame, his breathing growing labored as he strained to listen for any noise from the ground floor. The moment stretched on, taut and charged, when the sound of distant footsteps caused Sam to jerk backwards in alarm.
He pushed the door shut as quietly as he could, before stumbling over to the window. It was difficult to see outside, but the light from the downstairs windows illuminated a narrow parking area surrounded by well-maintained green space. He raised unsteady hands to the window clasp, unsure what he would do if he could even get it open, when the sudden flash of high beams illuminated the backyard. Sam froze like a deer in the headlights. There were cars parked outside—at least a dozen, of varying makes and models—in tidy formation between the house at the tall, lattice top wood fence. The flash of light had come from a sleek, silver coup parked nearest the house.
Sam slowly backed away from the window, his heart jackrabbiting in his throat, until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. He was distantly aware that he was hyperventilating, but he felt oddly disconnected from his body, as though this was happening to someone else, and he was just an impartial observer. He sat down heavily on the bed—the frame squeaked beneath his weight.
Autobots. Sam thought to himself in a detached sort of way. They're all Autobots.
The room was spinning again. He fell back onto the bed with a groan, and when he managed to open his eyes, it was to the sight of shadows dancing across the vaulted ceiling. He shouldn't have slept—his body was thrumming with adrenaline and the bone-deep instinct to do something—but his eyelids grew heavy as the shadows spread across his vision like an inky tide.
Sam startled awake sometime later to the sight of warm sunshine streaming through the curtains. He rolled onto his side with a long drawn-out groan. He had fallen asleep with his legs hanging off the side of the bed, adding a sore back and a cricked neck to his list of bodily grievances. Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, before struggling into a sitting position. It wasn't until he was slumped at the edge of the bed that he realized two things in one fell swoop:
Firstly, it was morning. He had met Tiresias shortly after sunrise, which meant that he had been unconscious for at least a day. The knowledge settled in his stomach like a heavy weight. He tried to put all thoughts of Tiresias and Ray (and cruel hands and the sound of gunfire) out of his mind. He distracted himself by taking stock of his condition—his mouth was tacky and dry, and he'd need a bathroom soon, but he finally felt clear-headed again.
The second realization was that it was morning… and no one had come to fetch him. He half-turned, glancing over his shoulder at the door. He had expected to wake up in handcuffs or the back of a prisoner transport. He certainly hadn't expected to sleep until—he glanced at the clock radio on the bedside table, a grimace flattening his mouth—nine o'clock in the morning.
Slowly, Sam pushed himself off the bed. He was immediately relieved when the floor remained solid and unmoving beneath his feet. He carefully padded over towards the window, leaning forward just far enough to peer outside. The long, sloping driveway was filled with vehicles. Sam didn't know every make and model, but the Lamborghini and the Ferrari were easy enough to identify.
His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of three men below. They came around the corner of the house talking animatedly and jostling one another. Sam pulled back far enough that he wouldn't be caught watching them. They walked towards the two cars parked nearest the house: a sleek yellow roadster and a massive black pick-up truck. As they drew closer, Sam was able to recognize two of the men. The first was the redhead from Maccadam's—Anderson—and as Sam watched, he jogged ahead, before propping his hip against the front fender of the yellow car. The car immediately rolled backwards several paces, causing Anderson to lose his balance. He was caught by the other man that Sam recognized: the guy with glasses from the Hartford station. Anderson was grinning as he straightened up, before giving the yellow roadster a cheery middle finger.
Suddenly, all three men went still, before turning in unison to look up at him. Sam jerked away from the window. He stood there for a long moment, heart hammering inside his chest as he waited for the sound of people on the stairs. But there was nothing—no thundering footsteps, no raised voices… nothing.
Sam frowned faintly as he stepped away from the window. He made his way into the bathroom next, relieving himself and washing his hands, before drinking deeply from the faucet. The water was cool and clean and almost sweet . He drank his fill, before turning off the tap and padding back into the bedroom. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. The house was clearly surrounded—he wasn't going to be able to make a clean escape like he had in Boston and Connecticut. He quietly and carefully walked to the bedroom door, before cracking it open. He was immediately met with the smell of frying bacon and the clatter of dishware.
Sam frowned deeply. Were they making him breakfast?
He stood there for a moment longer, listening to the sounds of someone moving around the kitchen, before he half-turned, searching for his shoes. They were nowhere to be seen. His frown deepened as he looked under the bed, around the wingback chair, and in the bathroom, but his shoes were missing. The knowledge sent a sharp stab of irritation right through him.
He sincerely doubted it was an oversight.
Sam briefly considered his options. He wasn't escaping through a second-story window—at least, not without breaking his ankles in front of a dozen Autobots. That left the bedroom door. He padded across the sun-warmed hardwood to grasp the knob, and with a deep, fortifying breath, he pulled it open and stepped cautiously onto the landing. His bedroom was the only room at the top of the stairs—it might have been the servant's quarters, once upon a time. The landing was otherwise empty. Sam walked to the top of the steps, fully expecting someone to appear at the bottom of the staircase, but no one did. He frowned, feeling uncertain and off-balance, before he started down the stairs. The wood groaned under his weight with each step.
The stairs opened onto a bright, airy country kitchen. The well-worn hardwood contrasted against the white countertops and stainless steel appliances. However, that's not where Sam's attention went first. He stared at the large table in the center of the room. Lennox was sitting on the opposite side, facing him, with another man sitting beside him. Sam recognized the other man from the diner. The guy with the locs. They were both watching him closely, as though waiting for him to speak.
Although Sam's heart was beating erratically inside his chest, he shored up his courage, straightened his back, and asked, coldly, "Where are my shoes?"
The ghost of a smile split the stranger's face, before he jerked his head towards the screen door on the opposite side of the room.
"On the shoe rack—with everyone else's."
Sam made his way down the last few steps, until he caught sight of his shoes. They were arranged neatly by the door next to a half-dozen other pairs. He resisted the urge to go over and grab them—it's not like he would get far in his pajamas. The thought made his shoulders draw up in tension. Someone else's pajamas.
"Sit down, kid." The stranger said, pushing out a chair with his foot, "We're overdue for a chat."
Sam half-turned, staring distrustfully at the proffered seat, before narrowing his eyes at the two men watching him.
"I already told you: I don't want to talk." Sam bit out.
"And we already told you that talking is optional—listening isn't." The stranger returned, before nodding towards the chair, "So, take a load off."
Sam was intelligent enough to know they had him in check. He heaved a frustrated, resigned sigh as he pulled out the chair and sat down across from the two men, glaring them both down. As soon as he took his seat, Lennox gave him an encouraging smile, before pushing away from the table and making his way over to the counter. Sam twisted in his seat to watch as the older man grabbed a plate, and began spooning up food from the various pans simmering on the stove.
"I hope you like your eggs scrambled." The stranger said dryly, "It's the only way Lennox makes 'em."
"It's how I learned." Lennox returned over his shoulder, tone just as dry.
The older man made his way back towards the table, before depositing the plate in front of Sam. It was an almost perfect replica of the breakfast he had ordered at the diner. At the same time, the stranger filled a tall glass from the carafe on the table, before pushing it towards him.
"Eat up, kid." He instructed, settling back in his seat, "You could use the calories."
Sam was too hungry to refuse out of principle, so he picked up a fork and began eating. The food was lukewarm, but there was a lot of it. He worked his way through the scrambled eggs, home fries, and bacon before stopping long enough to take a drink. The orange juice was sweet and pulpless, and when he drained his glass, the stranger refilled it without comment. It was only after he had cleaned half his plate that Lennox leaned forward, planting his forearms on the table to look at him.
"How're you feeling, Sam?" He asked.
Sam paused, fork halfway to his mouth, as he glanced across the table. Lennox was watching him with a look of honest sympathy on his face. Sam took his time chewing and swallowing the rasher of bacon, before he twitched his shoulder in a shrug.
"Alright, I guess." He hedged, "You know, all things considered."
"You're damn lucky, kid." The stranger said, head tipped to the side, surveying him, "Those friends of yours weren't playing around."
Sam stiffened in anger. "Lucky?" He hissed, gripping his fork until his knuckles turned white, "My life has been royally fucked over. In what universe am I lucky?"
Lennox glanced sidelong at the stranger, his expression meaningful and pointed, but the stranger didn't take his eyes off Sam. He leaned forward, meeting Sam's heated glare, before folding his hands on the table.
"Those friends of yours? The ones that held you down and drugged you? They're part of a fringe extremist group. Bonafide homegrown terrorists." The stranger held up his hand, forestalling whatever Sam might have said, "Now, I know what you're probably thinking: 'one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter', right?" He chuckled mirthlessly, "Believe me, I appreciate the irony, but no—these guys are bad news, and the things they woulda done to you, kid… ain't nothin' pretty."
Sam set down his fork, anger and fear and uncertainty combining to spread a flush across his face. "Why?" He asked eventually, "Why do you all want me? What did I even do?"
"You didn't do nothin', kid." The stranger replied, his voice going soft.
Will leaned forward, catching Sam's gaze. "It's not what you've done, Sam. It's what you are." The older man's voice was earnest and intense. It caused a sliver of anxiety to twist its way through Sam's chest.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked, licking his lips.
Lennox regarded him for a long moment, seeming to consider his response, before he finally said: "You think you're sick—you're not."
Sam went cold all over. It caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. "W-what?"
Lennox's face softened in sympathy. "What's happening to you… it's not… You're not sick, Sam. You're different."
Sam didn't know what part of his statement to address first. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, before he could manage: "How did you know that?" His voice trailed off, his throat tightening with emotion. It took a long moment before he could grit out, "And what the hell is different supposed to mean?"
Lennox's expression was earnest as he reached out, as though to grasp Sam's hand, but he seemed to change his mind at the last minute. He pressed his palms flat against the table instead, fingertips drumming lightly against the wood.
"You're not sick, Sam, and you're not alone." He murmured, "The seizures, the nightmares, the paranoia. We can help you."
Sam stared back at him, unable to formulate a coherent reply. Eventually, he stuttered out, "But, how did you…? Why—?"
"Sam." The stranger interrupted, his voice kinder than before, "The symptoms are going to get worse without treatment. Diego Garcia has the means to help you."
Sam's mind was whirling with too many thoughts to marshal. He braced his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands. The Autobots were well connected—they could certainly access his father's medical records without authorization. If they did the same to Sam's personnel files at Harvard, then it wouldn't be difficult for them to infer the reason for his withdrawal. Is that how they found them? Sam shook his head—that was hardly the biggest issue at the moment.
"How did you know about… all that?" He asked, dropping his hands into the table, "You must have known before the diner."
"We did." Lennox replied slowly, "We've been looking for you, Sam."
"But why? How? " Sam demanded.
Lennox hesitated for a long moment. The stranger watched him struggle for words, before leaning over to pick something off the chair next to him. He held it up for Sam's inspection—it was a sheet of cream-colored paper—before sliding it across the table towards him.
Sam glanced down, before stiffening in surprise. It was one of his sketches that had been tacked to the wall of his apartment. He reached out, touching the edges of the thick, textured paper. It was one of his oldest sketches—he had drawn it shortly after his father died.
"Did you take everything?" Sam asked, voice low and rough.
"We did." The stranger replied, before placing a tablet on the table and sliding it towards him, "What do you see?"
I took Sam a long moment before he could muster up the conviction to look at the tablet. When he finally did, he stiffened in surprise for a second time. The tablet was open to a watercolor painting. The cityscape was painted in rich, saturated colors—Prussian blue and sepia and Payne's gray. The artist had used negative space to contrast the buildings and the skyline.
It was the very same skyline that Sam had spenthours trying to get just right.
Sam lifted his head, staring beseechingly across the table at the two men, who were watching his reaction very closely.
"I don't understand." He managed.
"I told you, Sam: you're not alone." Lennox murmured. "There are more of us."
Sam's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean, us? Did you paint this?"
Lennox's lips quirked in a half-smile. "Nah, not me. I can't draw a straight line with a ruler."
The older man's attempt at levity fell flat. Sam was in no mood to be mollified right now.
"Tell me how you knew." He demanded. "And don't say medical records because I've never seen the doctor about it."
Lennox and the stranger exchanged a glance, before Lennox gave him a sympathetic look. "I promise that we'll explain everything when we get to the island."
Sam narrowed his eyes. "Explain it to me now."
"I'm sorry, Sam. We can't. Not everything, at least." Lennox said.
"Why not?" Sam snapped.
"Because you're a security risk." The stranger replied without an iota of remorse in his voice, "And I'm not in the habit of disclosing sensitive intelligence to wild cards with a flight risk."
Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest, before glaring across the table. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on."
"Hate to break it to you, kid, but the train's leaving the station at ten o'clock. You can protest and complain all you want, but one way or another, you're coming with us."
"Jazz." Lennox admonished sharply, "That's not helpful."
Sam went cold. The stranger gave Lennox a pointed look, but Sam barely noticed. His heart was making a solid attempt at climbing right out of his chest.
"You're Jazz. Prime's Head of Special Operations. Prime's cleaner." Sam managed, his voice strangled with shock.
The identity of the Prime's spymaster was a matter of speculation—something cobbled together from decades of rumors and hearsay and conjecture. Sam had read the theories posted on the dark-web. No one could agree on his appearance or alt mode or capabilities—the theories didn't even agree on whether he was still on the planet—but the same name kept appearing over and over again:
Jazz.
The stranger turned to look at him, eyes narrowing in consideration.
"Now, that ain't public knowledge. Your darknet buddies tell you that?" He asked with a too-sharp smile.
Sam pushed away from the table before standing up. He didn't miss the way that both Lennox and Jazz stiffened at the sudden movement.
"Oh my God." Sam managed, staring at Jazz in rapidly mounting horror, heart beating a staccato in his chest, "Are you… disappearing me?"
"Of course not, Sam." Lennox frowned.
"Depends how much you annoy me." Jazz drawled at the same time.
"Fuck off, Jazz." Lennox snapped, earning himself a lazy shrug in response. He turned back towards Sam, "I already told you: no one's going to hurt you."
Sam barked a strangled laugh. "I don't believe you."
"That's fine," Jazz drawled, standing to gather the things he had laid out on the table, "You will eventually. Now why don't you finish your breakfast? I'm sure whatever half-cocked harebrained scheme you got formulatin' in that big brain of yours'll go better on a full stomach."
At that, Jazz stepped away from the table and strolled out of the kitchen at an easy pace. Sam watched him go, shoulders drawn up and tense. It was only after the projection had disappeared down the hall that Lennox cleared his throat.
"Are you still hungry?" He asked with a wan smile "There's lots of food left. Morrison always buys too much. He likes the left-overs."
Sam half-turned to frown at the older man. He had no idea who 'Morrison' was, and he wasn't the least bit interested in learning.
"No." Sam replied coldly, "I'm finished."
Lennox nodded once in understanding, before pushing to his feet. The older man began gathering the dishes and cutlery off the table. Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot, uncertain what he was expected to do, when Lennox slanted him a half smile. "I'll clean this up. Why don't you go have a shower? The water pressure in the loft's pretty good, but it takes a few minutes to warm up."
Sam worked his jaw, but he didn't argue. He felt grimy and road-worn, and he was eager to wash the last three days (four days?) off his body. He turned on his heel, making to go back upstairs, when Jazz suddenly called out:
"Hey, kid. Heads up!"
Sam turned just in time to catch the flying projectiles that the Autobot lobbed towards him. He grunted in surprise, before glancing down at the shoes in his hands. The laces had been tied together, but otherwise, they were none the worse for wear.
"You got forty minutes, kiddo." Jazz advised him, infuriatingly cheerful, as he started back down the hall.
Sam resisted the urge to snap something uncomplimentary. He was intelligent enough to avoid antagonizing the Prime's head of Special Operations without good reason. He tucked the shoes under one arm, before hurrying up the stairs two at a time. It was a strange relief to shut the door behind him when the bedroom had felt stifling less than an hour ago. He dropped his shoes on the bed, before grabbing his backpack and making his way to the bathroom. He quickly divesting himself of his clothing, kicking the unfamiliar things into the corner to be forgotten.
The shower took a full minute to warm up enough to climb inside. Sam wasn't at all surprised to find an assortment of travel-sized bottles resting atop a washcloth on the inset shelf.
"Jesus Christ." He muttered, annoyed by the consideration.
Still, Sam poured some body wash onto the cloth and set to scrubbing all traces of dust and dirt and sweat off himself. It took longer than he would have thought. He was sore all over—though, he couldn't say whether it was from spending two days on the run, sleeping on a park bench, being manhandled by terrorists, or passing out on the edge of the bed.
Probably all the above, He thought, caustically.
When he finished, Sam hung the face cloth over the faucet and poured a generous amount of shampoo into his palm. The water was good and hot by now, causing steam to billow in the shower. He worked the gel into a lather, before massaging it into his hair.
Sam stiffened from head to toe.
The feeling of hands in his hair, the scratch of nails against his scalp, brought with it the sudden, visceral twist of disgust. Sam blinked suds out of his eyes as the memory of Ray seared itself into his mind. The older man had touched him like that—hands on the nape of his neck, in his hair, down his throat—and Sam had responded to it.
Sam swallowed against the sudden, acrid burn of bile in the back of his mouth. The idea of being manipulated like that frightened him to his core. He had no idea how or why it worked… only that it had. Sam quickly stepped into water, rinsing his hair in an effort to chase away the phantom sensation of hands on his body.
Never again. He swore to himself.
He wouldn't be complicit in his own kidnapping. He might not have many options available at the moment, but that would change on the road.
After all, it was a long way to Diego Garcia.
M.E.C.H.
DO NOT COPY/CONFIDENTIAL
File number: HX0009
Name: Raphael Diego Esquival
Born: 1993
Place of Birth: Toluca, Mexico
Laterality: Right
Languages: Polyglot
Height: 167 cm
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Abilities:
Highly intelligent (IQ 270+)
Highly proficient in technically and cybersecurity
Holds multiple degrees, including two doctorates and four
master.
Fluent in seventeen languages, including Spanish,
English, French, Japanese, Russian, Latin, Geek,
Hindustani, Mandarin Chinese, Afrikaans, and Arabic.
Notes:
Known associate of mechanoids "Blaster" (XX00013),
"Wheeljack" (XX0008), "Perceptor" (XX0031), "Optimus Prime"
(XX0001), "Ratchet" (XX0005)
Opportunity level: Low, Rarely leaves base.
Threat level: Low, non-combatant
Priority level: High
On-Sight Orders: High-priority target. Alive-only. Contain and
extract.
Notes: And now the fun begins.