Chapter 4: The Diner

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Sam slipped out of the church basement into the cool, pre-dawn morning. The sky was just beginning to lighten along the horizon, but sunrise was still a while off. He adjusted his book bag, which was heavier than it had been the night before. He had taken two cans of peaches, a package of tuna and crackers, and a few individually-portioned boxes of cereal in exchange for a ten dollar bill that he left on the counter. Sam wished he could have left a thank-you note as well, but he hadn't been able to find a pen, and he couldn't risk waiting around for the Reverend to wake-up. His night of sober reflection had reinforced his resolve to get to Georgia as quickly as possible.

The walk to the bus station was uneventful, but it took the better part of an hour. The sun had fully risen by the time the building came into view. It was busier now, given the time of day, and Sam kept his hood drawn low over his face. He glanced surreptitiously at the cars trundling up and down the street as he walked, but there was nothing to raise any alarm. Information about the Autobots was difficult to come by, even on the dark-net, but he knew they preferred high-end vehicles for their alternate modes. The Prime was a 389 Peterbilt truck, his second-in-command was a Dodge Charger Pursuit cruiser—even the lower-ranking soldiers assumed the form of luxury sports cars. Their apparent vanity was met with no small amount of pearl-clutching, even among the mainstream news media, but Sam had cause to be grateful for it. A Lamborghini would be far easier to spot than a Honda Civic.

The bus station was empty except for a handful of people clustered around the exit to the loading bay. Sam made his way across the waiting area towards the ticket counter against the far wall. He scanned the digital timetable affixed to the wall overhead as he approached. The earliest bus out of Philadelphia was scheduled to depart in five minutes.

"How can I help you?" The man behind the counter asked in a polite but bored voice.

Sam's brow furrowed in thought, and after a moment, he glanced down at the attendant. "I'm heading to Georgia. What's the first bus going south that doesn't have a transfer in Washington?"

The attendant looked momentarily surprised, but then he started typing on his computer. The clickety-clacking of the keyboard grated on Sam's overwrought nerves. Eventually, the guy made a considerate noise as he said, "All routes to Georgia have a transfer at Union Station, except for the eight o'clock that has a layover in New York."

Sam frowned faintly. "Does the route go through DC?"

The attendant gave him a strange look in return. "Well, yeah, but there isn't a stop-over until Virginia."

Sam shook his head in the negative. Washington was one of the most surveilled cities on the planet, and it was home to the largest Autobot embassy in the United States. Traffic stops and random searches were routine procedures in DC and Maryland—he couldn't risk it.

"What are my other options?" He asked.

The attendant was staring at him in a mixture of exasperation and impatience. "There are no other options. I'm telling you: every bus that leaves this station drives through Washington on its way south."

Sam glanced up at the digital timetable again, before asking, "...What about Pittsburgh?"

"What about it?" The attendant asked.

Sam gave him a level look. "Pittsburgh is three hundred miles west. Do their routes go anywhere near the coast on the way to Georgia?"

The guy gave him a put-upon look, but he looked up the information all the same. "...Nope. It's a straight-shot south through West Virginia and the Carolina's."

Sam couldn't prevent the relieved smile that spread across his face. "Great. When's the first bus to Pittsburgh?"

The guy nodded towards the Greyhound bus parked at the second platform. "You're in luck. Departure's in twenty minutes."

"How much?" Sam asked, pulling the wallet out of his back pocket.

Sam paid the fare in cash, before accepting the ticket that the attendant slid across the counter. He briefly counted the money left in his wallet—he would have enough to buy the fare from Pittsburgh to Valdosta, but not much more—and then he tucked the wallet in his jeans as he made his way outside.

The bus driver was in the process of loading a few suitcases into the luggage compartment, but the door was open, so Sam climbed onboard and found a seat. He pulled his backpack into his lap as he sat down, before digging out one of the boxes of cereal he had taken from the church. He ate it with his fingers as the driver finished loading the baggage onto the bus. Then, the older man climbed onboard and began checking tickets. Sam handed over his ticket when it was his turn, which the driver scanned and handed back to him. They were pulling out of the station less than five minutes later.

The drive to Pittsburgh was nice. The sky was a perfect, powder blue from one horizon to the other—a welcome change, after two days of nonstop rain. The urban sprawl of Philadelphia slowly transitioned to rural countryside as they drove. They briefly stopped somewhere in southern Pennsylvania for a connection with another bus. Sam took advantage of the thirty minute break to use the restroom and stretch his legs, and then they were on the road again. He ate the tuna and crackers around noon-time, and washed it down with a bottle of water he had purchased at the rest-stop. He kept an eye on the road as they drove, watchful for anything that seemed out of the ordinary, but there was nothing but pastureland and pick-up trucks. Sam leaned back in his seat, watching the countryside flash by. He was feeling lighter with every mile that he put between himself and Boston.

It was just after one o'clock by the time they pulled into the Pittsburgh station. Sam made his way inside the terminal, before heading directly to the ticket counter. The fare to Valdosta was $210, which left him with just over forty dollars to his name. Sam grimaced as he tucked the bills back into his wallet, before sliding it into his pocket. He would figure something out when he got to Georgia. He could manage until then.

The Greyhound station was a bustle of activity with passengers milling in the waiting area or queuing at their platforms. Sam used the bathroom, before refilling the plastic bottle with water at the refilling station in the lobby. He whittled away the hour until his departure sitting in the corner of the lobby—the position gave him a clear vantage point of the street and easy access to both exits. When his bus was finally boarding, Sam made his way outside and stood at the back of the line. The bus driver checked his ticket at the door, and then Sam was climbing onto his third bus in twenty-four hours. He found a spot next to a younger guy playing a Nintendo Switch. Sam tucked his backpack under the seat as the remaining passengers finished boarding, and then the bus was pulling away from the station.

The drive to Valdosta was far less enjoyable than the drive to Pittsburgh. The bus was full, which meant that Sam had an aisle seat for the first six hours. He ate another box of cereal and a can of peaches for supper somewhere in West Virginia. They stopped briefly in Charlotte around seven-thirty. The sun was just beginning to set, turning the sky a brilliant, molten orange. Sam stood in the warm evening air as passengers made their way inside the station, watching the sunset. Eventually, the driver announced their departure, and Sam shook himself out of his reverie and climbed back onto the bus. He was able to snag a window seat near the back of the bus—the privacy and the extra legroom were worth the proximity to the toilet.

It was full dark by the time they left the station. Sam stared out the window, watching the city lights fall away behind them. The highway meandered south through the wide, empty expanse of rural North Carolina. There were no towns or villages as they drove—no sign of life whatsoever. Just dense, dark foliage on either side of the road. They stopped briefly to pick up passengers, and then a few hours later, they were crossing the river into Augusta. Sam sat up straighter in his seat, holding his breath as the bus trundled across the bridge. It wasn't until they turned onto the road running parallel to the river that Sam released it again.

Georgia.

The bus stopped at the Greyhound station for a thirty minute layover. Sam took the opportunity to use a bathroom that wasn't in motion, before buying a coffee and a muffin from the cafe in the lobby. He made his way back outside, holding the warm styrofoam cup with both hands as he sat on the bench near the loading bay. Sam broke the muffin into pieces, washing each one down with a mouthful of coffee.

His moment of quiet introspection was suddenly interrupted by the loud, throaty rumble of a motorcycle engine drawing close. Sam's head came up as light split the darkness, briefly illuminating the bench he was sitting on, before the motorcycle disappeared behind the station a moment later. He didn't know enough about bikes to identify the make or model, but it was sleek and compact.

"All aboard." The bus driver said, making his way across the pavement towards the idling motorcoach.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, before binning the muffin wrapper and hurrying after him. He paused briefly, one foot on the bottom step, as he glanced around the empty loading bay. It was dark and quiet, except for one other bus parked nearer the station entrance. After a long moment, he turned and climbed aboard. The bus was almost empty, which was no surprise—it was almost eleven o'clock at night, and Valdosta wasn't exactly a tourist destination. Sam grabbed a window seat as the driver shifted the bus into gear, and then they were pulling out of the station. He briefly caught the flash of headlights in the parking lot as they trundled towards the road. It was too dark to make out the source, but it left an uneasy feeling in Sam's stomach. He spent the entire drive on the edge of his seat, eyes flitting back and forth between the window and the windshield. It was a relief of the highest order when the city limits finally came into sight five hours later.

They pulled into the Valdosta station just after three o'clock in the morning. There were buses of every imaginable color parked under the large awning that extended over the loading bay. Sam was on his feet before the bus had even come to a full-stop. He murmured his thanks to the driver, and then hurried inside the station. The building was lit by rows of fluorescent lighting that seemed painfully bright after hours spent in near darkness. He gripped the straps of his backpack in both hands as he crossed over to the large map affixed to the far wall. It only took him a few moments to locate Route-41 on the map. He frowned faintly. The bus station was in southeast Valdosta—it was going to take him hours to get to Mel's Diner. He briefly considered hailing a cab, but he discarded the idea immediately. He only had thirty-two dollars to his name. He was going to have to hoof it.

Decision made, Sam slipped into the bathroom long enough to relieve himself, and then he made his way back outside. It was warm and muggy, despite the late hour, and Sam unzipped his jacket as he started off down the road. The streets were empty, except for the occasional car or truck, and other than the ambient sound of a sleeping town, it was also quiet. He made his way through the outskirts of town into the financial district—if you could call it that. Both sides of the street were lined with darkened storefronts and empty green space. The downtown core gave way to the university and medical center in turn, and then Sam crossed into north Valdosta. This part of the city was more industrial than the south. There were gas stations and fast food chains and run-down strip malls on every block.

By the time Mel's Diner came into view almost two hours later, Sam's feet and back were aching from the long walk. He briefly hoped—foolishly, he realized—that the diner would be open, but it was dark and quiet. Sam stood on the sidewalk for a long time, uncertain what to do, but eventually, he turned around and hobbled back the way he came. There was a park several blocks down the road, and that was where Sam soon found himself. It would have been a beautiful park in the daytime. It had well maintained lawns and large old-growth trees all over the property. At night, however, it was dark and gloomy and cold. There was a bench near the park entrance and another closer to the treeline. Not wanting to get kicked out for loitering after dark, Sam chose the bench furthest from the road. He sat down with a long, drawn-out groan. He sat there for a long while, forearms braced on his knees, before pulling his backpack into his lap. He had one can of peaches and a mini-box of cereal left. He stared at the foodstuff for a weighted moment, and then he peeled the top off the can. He tipped peach slices into his mouth, one by one, until the can was empty. The syrup was thick and sweet. The cereal was next, and he ate mechanically, one handful after another, until it too was gone.

His paltry meal finished, Sam tossed the waste into the receptacle near the playground, and then he returned to the bench. He had no idea what time it was or what time Mel's Diner opened. He half-turned, considering the park bench, and then he pushed his backpack to one end, before lying down. He zipped his jacket all the way up, and tucked his hands between his legs. It was warmer than it had been in Boston, but it was still the middle of the night. He laid there for a long while, staring sightlessly at the distant road. He knew that he should be tired—he had been on the road for almost twenty-four hours straight—but he couldn't relax. Not here, in the open, exposed and vulnerable. So, Sam laid on the park bench, shivering and sore and exhausted as the night dragged on.

Suddenly, a loud snap brought Sam surging back to full awareness. He struggled into a sitting position, peering into the early morning gloom.

"Hello?" He called, pitching his voice to carry.

The wind whispering through the trees was his only answer. Sam sat up a little straighter, heart pounding inside his chest as he strained to listen. He could hear the sound of distant traffic, but otherwise the park was silent. He gripped the back of the bench with both hands until his knuckles turned white. The moment stretched on, taut, and then Sam slowly pushed himself to his feet.

"I don't want any trouble." Sam managed.

Once again, his words were met with silence. The breeze picked up, rustling the underbrush enough that Sam could make out the playground on the other side of the trees. He thought he caught a flash of low movement in the distance—something sleek, there and gone again a moment later—but otherwise, he was alone.

Sam released a shaky breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. He shook his head, torn between embarrassment and relief, before glancing towards the road. The sound of traffic was louder now, and the pale blush of morning light was visible at the horizon. With a jolt of surprise, Sam realized that he must have drifted off. He grabbed his backpack off the bench, slinging it over his shoulders as he started off across the park. The grass glistened with early morning dew, and it wasn't long before his feet were wet. Sam hardly noticed the discomfort. He jogged up onto the sidewalk, before hurrying towards the diner.

The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon when the building came into view. The open sign glowing in the window was one of the most beautiful things that Sam had ever seen in his life. He strode across the parking lot, gravel crunching under his feet, to pull open the front door. He was immediately met by the low jingle of a radio and the smell of hot coffee. Sam stepped inside the building, letting the door swing shut behind him. The diner looked like it had been teleported straight from the 1960s. There was a long, curved counter against one wall and a row of booths against the other. The windows were hung with red-and-white checkered valances, which complimented the red upholstery, and the walls were covered with all manner of Americana.

Sam was smiling in earnest as he approached the hostess stand. The woman behind the counter gave him a smile in return as she pulled a menu off the pile.

"Is it just you, hon?" She asked.

Sam nodded in response. "Yes, ma'am."

"Would you prefer a booth or the counter?" She asked.

Sam glanced around the room. The counter would put his back towards the door, while the booths provided an unobstructed view of the parking lot and road.

"Booth, please." He replied.

The woman nodded, before leading him to a booth against the far wall. She placed the menu on the tabletop, before glancing over at him. "Would you like a coffee?"

"That'd be great." Sam replied, un-shouldering his backpack, "Is there a payphone here?"

The woman gestured towards a narrow hallway near the kitchen entrance. There was a sign affixed to the wall overhead that read 'RESTROOMS' in sprawling, cursive writing. Sam murmured his thanks as the woman made her way behind the counter, and then he hurried to find the payphone. It proved easier than expected. The hallway was less than a dozen feet long. There was a door to the men's room on one side, the ladies room on the other, and a pay phone against the back wall. Sam dug around in his backpack until he found some quarters, and then he lifted the handset off the receiver. His hands were shaking as he punched in the number to Tiresias' burner phone.

The phone rang once, and then the line connected.

"Cypher?" Tiresias asked, gruffly.

Sam blinked in surprise. "Yes?"

"There's been a change of plans. Are you at the diner?" Tiresias demanded. There were muffled sounds of movement and voices on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, I am." Sam slowly replied, "I just got here."

"Okay, that's good." Tiresias replied, "My contact wants to meet you. We'll be there in a half-hour tops. Stay put, d'you hear?"

Sam resisted the urge to sigh in relief. He hadn't been one hundred percent certain that Tiresias would actually help him—the conspiracist was flighty and capricious by nature. It wouldn't have been out of character for him to disappear after Sam had come all this way.

"I understand." Sam said, speaking directly into the receiver, "I'm sitting at a booth in the back. Green hoodie."

"A half-hour." Tiresias repeated, his voice intense, "We'll see you soon."

The line abruptly disconnected without warning. Sam replaced the handset in the cradle, before making his way back into the diner. He glanced around the room as slid into his seat. It was relatively empty for the early morning rush hour. There was an elderly couple sitting in a booth near the door, a few trucker-or-farmer types at the counter chatting animatedly to the line cook through the kitchen serving window, and a tired looking woman in scrubs nursing a coffee several tables over.

Sam's attention was drawn back to the waitress making her way towards him, holding a carafe in one hand and a mug in the other. She placed the mug on the table in front of him, before filling it to the brim with steaming hot coffee.

"Here ya go, hon." She said, before smiling down at him, "Do you need another minute to order?"

Sam glanced at the menu, quickly weighing his options. He only had thirty dollars to his name, but he hadn't eaten a solid meal since the chicken soup a day and a half ago.

"I can come back later if you need more time." The waitress offered.

"No, that's alright." Sam said, flipping open the menu with a finger. It was a single bi fold with all-day breakfast options printed on both sides. He quickly scanned the available options, before flipping it shut again and giving the waitress a polite smile. "Can I have the breakfast scramble, please? With home fries, bacon, and sausage links."

"Sure thing." The waitress said, "It'll be right up."

Sam handed her the menu, which was when he noticed his dirty fingernails. The waitress didn't seem to notice—or if she did, she didn't seem to care. She accepted the menu and made her way to the kitchen to submit his order. Sam waited until she was gone, before grabbing his backpack and sliding out of the booth.

He hurried to the men's room, and upon finding it empty, he slipped inside and locked the door behind him. Sam glanced at himself in the mirror, before pulling a face. He was rumpled and grimy and road-worn. He quickly used the bathroom, and then he spent five minutes scrubbing the dirt from underneath his fingernails. He filled the sink next, sluicing water over his face until his skin was clean. He stared at his reflection, taking in the state of his clothing, and made the executive decision to change. He quickly divested himself of his dirty things, scrubbing at his forearms and armpits with some dampened paper towels, before pulling on his last change of clean clothes. They were rumpled, but Sam supposed that was better than rumpled and dirty. When he finished, he stuffed his things into his backpack, quickly combed his fingers through his hair, and made his way back into the diner.

The breakfast scramble was already on the table by the time he slid back into his seat. The smell of bacon and eggs made his stomach growl. Sam picked up his fork, spearing a few home-fries and popping them into his mouth. He couldn't have prevented his soft groan of appreciation if his life depended on it. He took a drink of coffee without bothering to add milk or sugar, and then began tucking into his meal.

The diner was quieter than it had been when Sam arrived. The three guys who had been chatting up the line cook were no longer sitting at the counter. He took another drink of coffee as he glanced around the room. The nurse and the elderly couple were also gone, though their plates hadn't been cleared away yet.

The bell above the door jangled as two men walked inside the building. The first one, a black guy with locs tied in a loose bun, took a seat at the counter. The other guy, a blond with an easy-going appearance, made his way to a booth without waiting for the hostess to seat him. Sam glanced over at the galley, but neither the waitress nor the hostess were anywhere to be seen.

Inexplicably, Sam felt a twist of apprehension low in his belly. He turned his head to look out the window. The parking lot had been almost empty when he arrived, but now there were almost a dozen cars parked out front. Sam glanced around the diner—there were only four people inside, not including himself.

The bell above the door jangled again as two more men entered. They made their way to the end of the counter, nearest the kitchen entrance, and took a seat. Sam glanced towards the serving window, expecting the cook to appear, but the kitchen was empty.

Slowly, it occurred to Sam that something was very wrong.

The apprehension twisting up his insides sharpened into the first stirrings of fear. Sam set down his fork and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. His hands were shaking as he tossed a twenty dollar bill on the table. He grabbed his backpack next, before sliding out of the booth and heading towards the exit.

The door swung open before he made it three feet, and then Lennox was stepping into the diner. Sam stopped dead in his tracks—unable to move, unable to breathe. He watched in frozen horror as Lennox approached, hands up and arms spread wide in an effort to appease.

"Easy, Sam." He coaxed, voice pitched to soothe, "We just want to talk."

Sam glanced around the room, looking for an escape route. The four men that had entered the diner were on their feet, two in front of the fire exit and two in front of the kitchen entrance. They were clearly keeping their distance, but they were watching the goings-on with laser focus.

All at once, in a moment of terrible clarity, Sam realized that he was trapped.

"No one's going to hurt you." Lennox promised softly, "Please, Sam. We just want to help."

"Get out of my way." Sam managed, voice strangled almost beyond recognition, "I want to leave."

Lennox's face softened in sympathy, but he did not move from his position in front of the door. Instead, he gestured towards the table that Sam had just vacated. "I imagine it's been awhile since you had a proper meal. Why don't I join you? We can talk over breakfast."

Sam was breathing harder now, and he shook his head in response. "I don't have anything to say to you."

Lennox's expression flitted through emotions almost too quickly to parse, but then his features firmed with resolve.

"So, don't talk—listen." Lennox said, "You're in danger, Sam."

"No shit, Sherlock." Sam snapped back.

Lennox slid forward another step, which caused Sam to retreat in response. He was distantly aware that he was being corralled into the back of the diner, but there wasn't anything he could do about it—Lennox had at least three inches and forty pounds of muscle on him.

"Please, Sam." Lennox implored softly, "Give me twenty minutes to explain."

The older man stepped around a table separating them, which gave Sam a clear view of the door. He reacted without thinking. Sam pitched his book bag at Lennox with every ounce of his strength, before darting around the other side of the table. The older man leaned to the side, deftly dodging the backpack, before tensing to give chase.

Sam never even had the chance to run.

Between one moment at the next, a person materialized in front of him. Sam collided with the apparition, which was as solid as a brick wall, before falling flat on his ass. He stared up at the person—Projection? Hologram?—in stunned disbelief. It took the form of an older man, broad-shouldered and burly with salt-and-pepper hair, and it was currently frowning down at him.

"Are you alright, kid?" It asked, gruff but not unkind.

Sam scrambled backwards, too terrified to reply. The frown on the projection's face deepened, but now it was shadowed with concern. Sam scuttled away as fast as he could manage until his back collided with the wall. Lennox and the projection shared a grim look between them, before Lennox stepped around the table.

"No one's going to hurt you, Sam." Lennox repeated, "I promise you're safe."

Sam's pulse was thundering so loudly that he couldn't make out the words. Lennox's face softened as he crouched down a short distance away. He seemed to consider Sam for a long moment, before he spoke.

"Take a deep breath." He urged, "In through your nose, out through your mouth."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut in denial. He could already feel the oncoming fit taking root at the base of his spine—his lungs were burning from insufficient oxygen, and he felt too hot and too cold all at once.

"Sam." Lennox prompted, voice suddenly strained and urgent sounding, "Take a breath–"

The words were lost in the roar of white noise that was building inside his head. Sam raised his shaking hands, pressing them against his ears, as he prayed to whatever god might be listening that this wouldn't be the attack that killed him.

Suddenly, there were hands on his shoulders, grasping him, maneuvering him down onto his back, and Sam went ballistic. He lashed out blindly with his fists, until his arms were pinned to the floor. He forced opened his eyes to find Lennox and another man crouching over him, while the projection watched from a short distance away.

Sam was aware that he had started screaming—he could feel it, burning up his throat—but he had no idea what he was saying.

Lennox's mouth was moving, but the sound didn't reach Sam's ears. The white noise was growing louder and louder inside his mind until he was certain his skull was going to cleave in half from the pressure. The stranger leaned into his field of vision, his expression morphing from concern to surprise to disbelief in a steady procession. He glanced sidelong at Lennox, as though to speak, but he never had the chance. Sam's spine curved like a bow, and then his vision whited out as the first wave hit him.

Sam came back to himself an interminable time later, breathing labored and pained. He moaned as he rolled onto his side. The motion was met with the crunch of glass, and he squinted open his eyes in confusion. The diner was dark and quiet with shattered glass all over the floors and tabletops. Sam pushed up to his hands and knees, before dragging himself to his feet. The room was empty, except for Lennox who was lying flat on his back a short distance away—everyone else had disappeared.

Projections. Sam thought dimly, They were all projections.

He stumbled forward, glass crunching under his shoes. A loud popping sound had Sam angling his head upwards, only to find the overhead lights were all shattered. He didn't stop to ponder the ramifications of what had happened. He forced himself forward one unsteady step at a time, before stumbling outside. The cars in the parking lot were unmoving and quiet, but a steady thump-thumping sound made Sam glance around. There were three sleek luxury cars parked in the side lot, out of view of the windows. There was a man sitting in the yellow Maserati who was pounding on the driver's side window. He and Sam made eye contact through the windshield.

The guy from the bar. Some distant part of Sam's brain informed him. Anderson.

The guy was yelling now, throwing his weight against the door. Sam watched him distantly, almost dispassionately, before turning and stumbling into the road. He had no idea where he was supposed to go, but driven to move, he forced one foot in front of the other. He had barely made it a dozen meters before a dark sports utility vehicle swung around the corner, accelerating towards him at speed. Sam stopped in the middle of the road, swaying on his feet, as the car squealed to a stop in front of him.

In the next moment, two men were climbing out of the car. The first was a skinny, older man with thinning hair and three-day old stubble on his face. The second was a middle-aged man with close-cut hair and a suit.

"Cypher?" The older guy asked, one foot still inside the car, "That you?"

"It's him." His companion said, crossing the distance to wrap an arm around Sam's shoulders. "Come on. We have to go—it only takes seven minutes for a hard reboot. Maximum."

"Tiresias?" Sam croaked.

The older man gave him a crooked smile. "Yeah kid, that's me. Move your ass—we got places to be."

Sam let himself be guided into the backseat. The man in the suit slammed the door behind him, before crossing around to climb into the car beside him. He leaned over, grasping the seatbelt and pulling it across Sam's chest, before buckling it into place.

"Here." He murmured, offering Sam a handkerchief, "Your nose is bleeding."

Sam accepted the cotton square with an unsteady hand as Tiresias ducked into the front seat. The conspiracist shifted the vehicle into gear, executing a tight three-point turn, and then they were shooting down the road in the opposite direction. Sam pressed the fabric against his face, staunching the trickle of blood from his nose. Belatedly, he raised his head, glancing into the rearview mirror. He was just able to catch sight of the diner, windows darkened and cracked, before the building disappeared behind them.

M.E.C.H.

DO NOT COPY/CONFIDENTIAL

File number: HX0006

Name: Miko Nakadai

Born: 1952

Place of Birth: Tokyo, Japan

Laterality: Left

Languages: Polyglut

Height: 160 cm

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Eye Color: Brown

Abilities:

Enhanced Lifespan

Accelerated healing

Musical prodigy

Firearms expert

Highly intelligent (No IQ score available)

Fluent in multiple languages, including Japanese,

English, Spanish, Russian, Korean, Italian,

and French

Notes:

Known associate of mechanoids "Blaster" (XX0013), "Bulkhead"

(XX00037), and "Wheeljack" (XX0008).

A senior member of Diego Garcia's Research and Development

division. Known to have developed XXXXXXXXXXXXXX. Contributed

to the development of XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

Agent XXXXXX described asset as troublesome and highly

combative.

Opportunity level: Low

Threat level: Moderate

Priority level: Moderate

On-Sight Orders: Contain and extract, if possible. Otherwise,

the use of lethal force is authorized.