Chapter 2: The Chase

It was raining again by the time the Greyhound bus pulled out of the station. Sam sank deeper into his seat, book bag clutched in his lap, as he watched North Quincy fall away behind them. It had taken him three hours to get across the city, but only twenty minutes to lose his pursuers. He knew every street, back alley, bus station, and subway stop from Cambridge to the South End. He could have taken the Greyhound nearer to his apartment, but he figured it would be the first place they looked. Instead, he took the red line to Quincy and purchased his fare in cash.

Sam glanced down at the ticket in his hands. Boston, Massachusetts to Augusta, Georgia. His lips thinned in a grimace. It would take over twenty-six hours and three transfers, but no one would be looking for him in Georgia. He had no connections to the state except Tiresias, and they had never even met in person.

He exhaled a shaky sigh and pressed his forehead against the window. The glass was vibrating hard enough to make his eardrums itch, but it was cool against his skin. The rain had cast the city into shadow, and the streetlights were already on despite the early morning hour. The passenger compartment briefly lit up as the lights flashed overhead, before plunging into darkness again a moment later. It was almost hypnotic—the steady drumming of rain, the vibration from the engines, the low murmur of conversation from the other passengers. Sam briefly lifted his head to glance around the compartment. Less than half the seats were full, but he was sure that would change before they reached New York.

The thought gave him a brief pang of regret. Sam had always wanted to visit the city, but he never got the chance. First, he had been too busy adjusting to life as a sixteen-year-old at Harvard, and then he had been totally absorbed by his schoolwork. It had been a singularly invigorating experience to be surrounded by so many like-minded people. Later, after he learned his father was beginning to display symptoms of the same degenerative neurological condition that had killed his great-uncle, grandfather, and great-grandfather, Sam had briefly switched his major to Neurobiology and Anatomy. He had been in the program for less than six months before his father killed himself.

Sam briefly closed his eyes against the pain. It had been over four years since his dad died, and he could still smell the tulips from the funeral.

After a moment, Sam opened his eyes and stared sightlessly through the window. Things had been different after he returned from California. He had taken a semester-leave at the end of his third year, and then dropped out the following August. His first seizure happened three weeks later.

Sam pushed the thought aside with some effort. It was no use dwelling on the past, and his ghosts were no use to him now. He frowned, tightening his arms around the damp book bag in his lap. He had no idea what was happening or why, but he had his suspicions about the two men from this morning. Lennox and Epps. They had found his apartment even though no one in Boston knew his address. They both had the bearing of career military or law enforcement, but they had been dressed in casual wear and didn't provide any credentials. Sam's mouth tightened in a grimace. The pursuit through Boston had been over almost as soon as it began, which suggested an unfamiliarity with the city that made BPD seem unlikely. That left any of the three-letter agencies, but they hadn't identified themselves as federal agents.

The bus slowed down as it turned onto the on-ramp. It was raining harder now, and the bus sent up curtains of water as it began accelerating towards the Interstate. Sam turned his attention inwards, recalling every aspect of the altercation the previous night. The two men at the bar, Anderson and Sunny, had seemed normal enough, or rather, they hadn't stood out enough to take notice. Still, Lennox had specifically said that he wanted to talk about what had happened at the bar. The thought caused Sam's mouth to turn down at the corners. Nothing had happened at the bar worth speaking about. Anderson had ordered a drink, Sam had mixed it for him, John had butted into the conversation like he always did, and then the blond had grabbed him. The only thing that Sam couldn't reconcile was Anderson's reaction when his companion had ordered a drink. It wasn't the pleasant surprise of a friend changing their mind—no, Anderson had been shocked, as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

It only took a few hours for Sam to parse through the available information: Lennox and Epps knew his identity, his address, and they knew about the altercation at the bar. They were not BPD or federal agents, though they had the same bearing. Sam would also wager that they knew the two men at the bar—Anderson had said they were in town on business, and Sam hadn't recognized his credit card. The weight of evidence suggested the four men were searching for something, and they weren't limited by jurisdiction or federal codes of conduct.

The knowledge settled in Sam's stomach like an iron weight. There was only one agency that existed outside the boundaries of judicial power outlined in the Constitution of the United States:

The Prime's Special Operations.

On the surface, the Autobots portrayed themselves as dignitaries and peacekeepers. The official story was that they arrived sometime in the 1880s when their search for energon led them to Earth. Over the last century-and-a-half or so, they had taken an active role in human affairs: diffusing conflict between nations, developing new vaccines and medical treatments, and sharing their information and communications technology with the world. The United Nations would have the public believe that the Autobots were guiding humanity towards a brighter future—but not everyone was buying the sales pitch. The Autobots were able to broker peace between nations because they had the arsenal to deter any potential conflict, and yes, technological development had exploded over the last century, but it was all based on Cybertronian technology. The Autobots had the Earth and its governments in a strangle-hold, and most people didn't even realize it.

Or rather, if they did, most people chose to turn a blind eye. It seemed the price of self-determination was world peace, universal healthcare, and affordable housing—interplanetary politics meant almost nothing in comparison.

There were those who spoke out, of course, but their protests were largely dismissed as baseless fear mongering. There was a man from Colorado who ran for political office a few years back on the platform of federal separation. He had been starting to influence political opinion at the state-level when his dodgy search history was suddenly leaked to the public. He resigned his candidacy within twenty-four hours, and dropped out of public life shortly thereafter. His disappearance had barely been a footnote on mainstream news media, but speculation had run rampant on the Internet.

Sam shifted anxiously in his seat. He had no idea why the Prime's Special Operations were targeting him. He spent a fair amount of time on the dark-web, sure, but he rarely posted anything inflammatory, and certainly nothing that could be traced back to him.

So, how had they found him?

All of a sudden, the Greyhound bus slowed to a stop in the middle of the highway. Sam sat up straighter in his seat, expecting to see traffic or an accident, but he was met instead by the steady strobe of police lights from the cruisers parked across the road. Sam's mouth went dry with fear as he glanced around the compartment, looking for an exit strategy, but there was nothing. The other passengers were murmuring amongst themselves or leaning into the aisle to get a better look. A moment later, a state trooper in a knee-length rain jacket climbed onto the bus.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." He called, his voice pitched to carry, "My name is Trooper Joshua Harding of the Massachusetts State Police, badge number 22812. This motor vehicle is being temporarily detained under Title 28 of the United States Federal Code. Please have your photo identification ready for review."

The trooper's tone was crisp and professional, even though the brim of his hat was dripping water onto the floor. He was quickly joined by two other troopers who made their way down the aisle. The first trooper stopped next to a young guy near the front of the bus, maybe early 20s, as the second guy headed straight for him.

"Identification, please." The trooper instructed, unhooking a flashlight from his belt and shining it directly into Sam's face.

Sam hoped the trooper didn't notice his shaking hands as he reached into his book bag, and pulled out one of the confiscated IDs from Maccadam's. He glanced down at the identification briefly, before handing it over to the trooper.

"Mr… Parker." The trooper read, turning the identification card over in his hands, "Where're you headed?"

Sam wet his lips, before replying: "New York City."

The trooper held the identification card up for closer inspection, before shining the flashlight in Sam's face again. "What's your business in the city?"

"I'm going to a taping of Last Week Tonight." He replied, slanting a hesitant smile at the trooper, "I'm a big John Oliver fan."

The trooper frowned faintly, before glancing down at the identification again. "What's your date of birth, son?"

Sam didn't hesitate: "3 November 2000."

"Address?"

"875 Pearl Street, Weymouth, Mass. 02191."

The trooper glanced down at him, his expression sharp. "And your ID number?"

The reply was on the tip of Sam's tongue—S99988801—when it occurred to him that most people don't have their driver's identification number memorized. So, he affected a confused expression instead and asked, "...ID number? Uh, I think it starts with a nine? Maybe?"

The trooper glanced down at the identification card again. Sam assumed that he was trying to decide whether the guy in the picture—Mr. Thomas Parker of Weymouth, Massachusetts—shared a close enough resemblance to the person sitting in front of him. They looked similar enough that Lizzie had commented on it, which is why Sam stole the ID in the first place, but they weren't exactly identical twins. Sam's hair was darker, and he had brown eyes instead of hazel.

"Where's the taping?" The trooper asked, idly.

"It's at the CBS Broadcast Center." Sam replied, "I'm sorry, I don't know the address offhand."

Abruptly, the trooper clicked off his flashlight and handed the identification card back to Sam. "Enjoy the show. Make sure you try the franks at Gray's Papaya on the Upper West Side."

And then the trooper was moving onto the next guy fitting Sam's general description. Sam resisted the urge to exhale a sigh of relief as he tucked the ID into his backpack, before hunching down against the window. The police cruisers were lighting up the rainy highway, and there was a half-dozen officers milling in the general vicinity. He listened to the trooper grilling the guy two seats back—it was clear he was working off a script, the questions were almost identical. When he finished, the trooper made his way to the front of the bus and began speaking to his partner. Sam tensed instinctively, half expecting them to look in his direction, but they didn't. Instead, the first trooper murmured something to the driver too low for Sam to hear, and then the two men exited the bus. The door closed behind them with the hiss of hydraulics.

Sam sat up straighter in his seat, straining to get a glimpse of the two troopers. The men made their way over to the waiting cruisers, before waving them through the checkpoint. The driver shifted the bus into gear, and then they were rolling past the troopers standing in the rain. Sam averted his face, and a moment later, the bus was accelerating down the highway again.

All at once, Sam became aware of the way his body was trembling. He leaned back against the seat, pressing a hand against his chest, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. The rest of the journey passed uneventfully, but Sam had to listen to the murmured speculations of the other passengers for the entire way. It was the better part of an hour before he stopped glancing out the window, expecting to find police cruisers in hot pursuit, and it took longer still for his hands to stop shaking.

It was almost noon by the time they arrived at the Hartford, Connecticut station. Sam shuffled off the bus with the other passengers, before making his way into the building. It was a relatively small station with a ticket counter against one wall, and a poster board filled with schedule information affixed to the opposite wall. Sam crossed the waiting area to the back hallway, which led to the restrooms. He quickly relieved himself, before spending the better part of five minutes at the sink. He stood there, eyes half-lidded and hands under the faucet, listening to the water patter against the porcelain. Eventually, he pulled himself up and grabbed a fistful of brown paper towels from the dispensary. He tossed the wadded paper into the waste basket as he left the restroom.

The waiting area was busier than it had been when they arrived. A second Greyhound bus was parked next to theirs, and passengers were streaming into the building. Sam briefly glanced around until he found what he was looking for—a row of payphones in an alcove off the main lobby. He hurried over, digging a handful of change out of his pocket as he lifted the handset off the cradle. His heart was hammering in his chest as he fed quarters into the slot, and then dialed the number he had memorized four years ago.

706-452-8719

The line connected, and then Sam began counting the rings. One. Two. Three. Four.

On the fourth ring, Sam hung up the phone. He stared at the old clock affixed to the wall over the ticket counter, and after one minute, he lifted the handset and dialed the number again.

The phone rang once, before the line connected.

"How's the weather?" came a male voice across the line.

Sam swallowed reflexively, and replied on rote, "It's always sunny in Georgia."

"I never thought I'd hear from you." Tiresias said, gruffly. "What's the special occasion?"

All at once, the enormity of all that had happened over the last twelve hours hit him like a ton of bricks. He sagged against the phone booth, before pressing his forehead against the metal. It took him a moment before he could reply, "I don't know what's happening. Two guys showed up at the bar last night, started acting real shady. My boss threw them out, but the next morning, there were two other guys at my apartment." He paused, wetting his lips as he added, "They knew my name, my address—"

"You've been made." Tiresias replied, and there were the sounds of movement on the other end of the line, "Lay low. Ditch your cell phone, if you were stupid enough to bring it, and don't use your bank cards because they'll be monitoring them. Don't contact me again, kid."

"Wait!" Sam cried, voice sharp with desperation, "Tiresias, please wait. I need your help. I don't know what to do. I don't even know why they're after me. I'm nothing—I'm nobody."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and for a brief moment, Sam was afraid that Tiresias had hung-up on him. Eventually, the older man exhaled a grudging sigh.

"Alright, listen. You've had my back for a long time, so I'm giving you this one chance. I know a guy who knows a guy who might be able to give you some answers. Do you have a pen?"

"Yes." Sam lied, squaring his shoulders in determination, "Tell me what to do."

"Go to the Mel's Diner on Route-41 just north of Valdosta. Call 706-452-0907 when you arrive. It's a burner phone, so I won't answer, but I'll get there when I can. If anything looks suspicious when I arrive, then I'm outta there. You understand?"

"Yes, I understand." Sam replied, fervently grateful for the conspiracist's caution, "I'll be wearing a baseball cap and a green hoodie."

The line disconnected without another word. Sam took a shaky breath, before setting the handset on the cradle. Valdosta. He could be there in less than two days, if the bus schedule lined up. Sam bent down, grabbing his book bag and heading over to the vending machines. He hadn't eaten since the night before, and the relief from having a plan of action helped rally his appetite. He briefly considered his options before selecting two chocolate bars, two bottles of water, and because breakfast was the most important meal of the day, a Nature Valley granola bar. He stuffed his selections into his book bag, before slinging it over his shoulder and turning back towards the lobby when he pulled up short.

There were two men standing in the waiting area next to the wide, glass doors that led to the loading dock. The first was a younger guy with dark hair and glasses, while the second guy was taller with an olive complexion. However, while both men were dressed in casual wear, they were wearing combat boots polished to a mirror shine.

Sam stepped back into the alcove, before glancing surreptitiously around the station. There were a few dozen other passengers milling around the room, which was filled by the sounds of talking and retail music. The only other exit was an emergency door next to the ticket counter in clear view of the two men. Sam watched them for a few moments—they were clearly casing the place, although it seemed they weren't quite sure to what purpose. Glasses was shifting his weight from foot to foot, glancing at every passenger that entered the waiting area, while his companion was standing perfectly still, almost statuesque, as he stared through the glass windows at the Greyhound bus that Sam had just been on.

Sam turned, crossing the hall and slipping into the bathroom without a sound. There was only one window in the room, and it was easily six feet off the floor. Sam tipped the garbage barrel onto its side, before hoisting himself up to jimmy the window open. He glanced outside, confirming the window faced the wooded area in the back of the building, before tossing his book bag out first. Then, he reached through the window, grabbing the brick sill in both hands, before hauling himself through head-first. It was a tight fit—the window was barely two feet wide—but he tumbled out a moment later.

He picked himself off the wet ground, before grabbing his book bag and hurrying into the brush. He would need to find another way to Valdosta… and soon.


Epps was already in the process of deconstructing Witwicky's apartment by the time Will made his way back to the building. He pushed open the door to find a half-dozen file boxes stacked in the middle of the room with Search and Retrieval stamped across the flap in bold lettering.

Epps half-turned as he entered, directing a sympathetic frown over his shoulder. "No luck?"

Will shook his head. "The kid's slick. We lost his trail near Fort Hill—Hide and the others haven't been able to pick it up again."

"We'll get him." Bobby said, reassuringly, as he started untacking the newspapers affixed to the wall. "He'll go to an ATM or call his mother. It won't be long."

Lennox frowned, ambling over to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him. The wall was covered from floor to ceiling in newspaper clippings, ticket stubs, photographs, pages torn out of textbooks, and hand-drawn sketches. He reached out, brushing aside a brochure to reveal a hastily sketched city-scape. The buildings were dark spires set against the night's sky.

In the back of his mind, Maggie shifted perceptibly.

::Well, there's no doubt he's our missing cassette.:: She said, wryly. ::Not even Raf's apartment was this bad.::

Will's mouth thinned in a grimace. ::It sure looks that way.::

He could feel the gentle thrum of Maggie's surprise, even across the hundreds of miles that separated them. ::You don't think so?::

Will walked along the perimeter of the room, his fingers trailing over the paraphernalia tagged to the walls. There seemed to be no discernible pattern in the content: there were personal mementos alongside political Op-Eds. It was going to take them a long time to parse through it all if they didn't find Witwicky first.

::I don't know.:: Will admitted, stopping next to the worn-old armchair in the corner. ::He fits the profile, but Maggie… this place is steeped with Allspark energy. I'm surprised they couldn't detect it from orbit. I've never seen anything like it.::

::What are you saying, Will?:: Maggie asked, soft and coaxing.

"Lennox." Epps said, pulling him back to the here-and-now, "You need to take a look at this."

Will turned to find Bobby holding out a square piece of cardstock. It was small, maybe the size of a baseball card or a business card. His lips quirked in a half-smile. "What, find a limited edition?"

Bobby didn't return his smile as he gestured meaningfully towards him. "Seriously, Will. Here."

Will stepped forward to accept the piece of paper, before turning it over in his hands. The smile fell off his face at the sight of a prayer card staring back at him.

RONALD KEVIN WITWICKY

October 1, 1975 - April 10, 2018

He stared at the laminated stock for a long moment. April 10, 2018. That date was seared into his brain as though it had been branded there. In the back of his mind, Will felt the echo of Maggie's surprise and remembered grief.

::That poor kid.:: She murmured.

"We have to find him." Will said urgently, lifting his head to stare at the space the prayer card had occupied on the wall. It had been taped to the center of a large charcoal drawing—the largest visible in the room. "We have to find him now."

Epps opened his mouth to say something, but Maggie's voice was suddenly filling his head.

::What is that?:: She demanded urgently, ::Will, the drawing on the walllook at it for me.::

Taken aback by her unusually sharp tone, Will stepped closer to the wall, letting his eyes rove over the charcoal drawing. It was another cityscape drawn in the same style as the others: dark buildings set against the sky, but in this sketch, there was a single building dominating the middle distance. It had three tall spires that rose into the sky, before tapering off to narrow points.

He could feel the answering thrum of Maggie's shock. He frowned, brushing against her mind inquiringly, but she shifted away from his touch.

::That's the Grand Library.:: She said, mental voice fraught with strain, ::I've just sketched it for Prime. He agrees it's Iacon.::

Will shook his head in disbelief. ::That's not possible. He's not even bonded yet.::

::Wrap things up, Will.:: Maggie instructed, suddenly brisk and business-like, ::You're being repositioned to Providence. Jazz will rendezvous with you there.::

::They've recalled Jazz?:: He asked in surprise. The second-in-command was running interference on a cartel operation in Montreal—the Canadians wouldn't be pleased.

::They've recalled everyone .:: Maggie replied, grimly. ::Finding Samuel James Witwicky just became our top priority.::

M.E.C.H.

DO NOT COPY/CONFIDENTIAL

File number: HX0002

Name: Margaret "Maggie" Madsen

Born: 1901

Place of Birth: Tasmania, Australia

Laterality: Ambidextrous

Languages: Polyglut

Height: 172

Hair Color: Blond

Eye Color: Green

Abilities:

Enhanced Lifespan

Accelerated healing

Internal Affairs

Highly intelligent (No IQ score available)

Rumored proficiency in hand-to-hand combat

Fluent in multiple languages, including English, Arabic,

Farsi, Mandarin Chinese, Bangali, Hindustani

and Russian.

Notes:

Know associate of mechanoids "Optimus Prime" (XX0001) and

"Ultra Magnus" (XX0004). Possible connection to unknown

intelligence frame. Known associate of standard-human asset

David Benjamin Carter (see case file HH0267).

Often works in political spheres, assisting with Prime's

"Guiding Hand" global policy.

HH0002 is heavily guarded wherever she leaves Diego Garcia.

Agent XXXXXX's extraction attempt in 19XX was unsuccessful.

Current agents have been unable to make contact.

Opportunity level: High

Threat level: Moderate

Priority level: High

On-Sight Orders: High-priority target. Alive-only. Contain and

extract.