Fate Calls

by Sci-Fifan95

In life, the only certain thing that applies to us is death. We cannot escape it. We cannot outrun it. It is a fate that finds us all. However, He plays chess. And you don't find out until too late that He's been playing with two queens all along.

39. Escape: Part 2

Well, this took WAY longer than I wanted. I can't say I am sorry enough, my readers. This shouldn't take me this long to write. And I am sorry for leaving so many of you waiting for so long. But at least I wrote this novel of a chapter.

... No, seriously. This chapter would be considered a novel on its own; it's over 40,000 words long.

Let's see, is there anything I can comment on here that I didn't before? Hmm. Well, Age of Extinction still looks awesome, though I am REALLY trying to keep my hopes down so I can be surprised and not disappointed. Pretty much it for the notes up here. Oh, wait! Since I have now been writing this story for more than two years *that doesn't make me feel like an old guy on here at all*, I have decided, on suggestion from LeaderPinhead, to begin using hyphens, colons, and semi-colons in Fate Calls. But be patient with me as I start to use them regularly; I am just NOW learning how to use them properly, and my beta cannot catch all of the times I mess them up.

Thanks go to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed since last chapter. We are now over 320 reviews, 110 favorites, and 90 follows! I am really humbled to have as many readers as I do, and I thank you all. :)

Guest (Nexus) - I tried to get a moment of humor into that scene since it was quite serious, and it seems I succeeded.

I am very hard on myself when it comes to writing. I want to do the best I can do every single time, not just sometimes. So that can make me look at my work in a very negative manner. And Optimus riding Grimlock with a giant sword is the definition of epic.

Thank you for the review!

SunnySides - My main issue with it was that was all the chapter was - a battle. I usually try to put more into chapters besides action, but there wasn't anything besides that. I fixed that in this one.

*Listens* Hmm. Sounds like a combination of Pendulum and Nightcall. Personally, I liked the song suggested. And some are weapons from the Transformers: War for Cybertron and Fall of Cybertron games, but most I make up.

Thanks for reviewing and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

CEGryphon - Glad you enjoy it a lot; I enjoy writing it more than I can express. And I hope you continue to enjoy it!

Thank you very much for reviewing.

Guest (chapter 20) - That would require a plot element being introduced where Starscream can suddenly see events from the past. And for a single scene, and I do not introduce plots with no reason. At one point I did, I admit, but those days are behind me.

Thank you for the review and I hope you read and enjoy the rest of Fate Calls and see this, but I am not going to write-in a plot element like that. Again, thank you.

Guest (chapter 6) - What can I say? I like rock music a lot.

Thanks for reviewing.

Guest (chapter 19) - There are two problems with that request. 1: Beast Wars ended well before I ever got into Transformers, and I cannot find episodes of it anywhere. And 2: I would need a good reason to have Shadowstreaker receive visions of another reality not related to the Prime-verse, as Beast Wars would not have a lot of purpose in the world of Fate Calls. So, thank you for the review and suggestion, but I don't see something like that happening, least not in the way you're picturing.

I hope you read the rest of Fate Calls so you can see this note, and thank you again for the review and suggestion.

Guest of chapters 1 and 2 (same reviewer) - As a writer, I can say that getting story requests is something that authors can appreciate - since it means someone wants us to use our skills to write something people want to write in our style - but they are also very difficult to write. Writers get ideas, we shape them, consider writing them, and then write them, put them to the side for the moment so we can write what we are currently working on, or discard them; having to work with someone else's idea can be more difficult than you'd expect. Your potential story is very specific in its main cast of characters, plot, setting, and themes. You've already written the story in your head, it's yours. And I already am having problems writing on my own stories. If you want to see that story written, why not get an account and try for yourself? Or write it without an account? You may be surprised by how creativity can flow.

So, thank you for the reviews and suggestions, but I must politely decline to write your story.

everyone and really (same reviewer) - I will freely admit that I take too long in getting updates out nowadays; I make it a point to mention how I don't like my update speed every chapter. I am sorry that I took so long you got bored enough to come back and leave a joking review. And I do like how you were trying to joke, however, text does not reveal tone voice or the look on someone's face. It very easily leads to misunderstandings, and I honestly thought you were someone who was thinking yelling at me to update was going to help the writing process, which for me is slower than I want right now. Jokes are good, but be mindful that it is difficult to carry through text. Also, Author Prime's reaction to your initial review is understandable due to the reason I explained above. It was a reaction to what appeared to be a demanding reader. Just explaining his reason for basically replying to you.

I hope this chapter is worth the wait, and that I explained everything clearly. Feel free to ask for clarification if I was not clear the first time.

Thanks go to Crystal Prime for beta reading.

Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro. I only take credit for this story and my OCs.

---

July 15, 2013 5:12 P.M

Autobot base, outside Jasper, Nevada

I didn't have any time to wonder why I felt the drawing was important, since an alarm sounded from the workstation, gaining the attention of everyone in the ops center besides Wildwing, who climbed off the energon pallet and started looking around the room—it was likely he was trying to find something to climb.

Optimus stepped up behind Prowl, optics focused on the main screen. "Report."

"Sensors just detected seven Autobot life signals at the location of the main Decepticon base," Prowl answered, digits typing commands as a rapid rate. "Their readings suggest they are all weakened, but three are more injured than the rest, and two of the wounded are in critical condition."

"So they're escaped prisoners," I concluded flatly, holding back memories of my own captivity at the thought of prison, forcing myself to analyze the situation neutrally.

A solar-cycle after Arcee's family, Jazz, the twins, Smokescreen, and Flareup arrived, we had only been given our first and only opportunity to inspect the base, and Arcee and Jazz were sent inside, since they had the most experience with stealth and reconnaissance. They returned three breems later with no information on its final size or layout, but they had seen enough to know its basic technological specifications.

And nothing had sounded good.

No less than twenty anti-ship Warp Cannons, three to five-hundred anti-air turrets, over fifty Fusion Missile silos, eight gunship hangers housing at least fifteen gunship wings each, a system of automated anti-infantry missile turrets, and a shield generator usually found on a battledreadnought deterred any direct attack, and also blocked any electronic signals from entering or leaving its dome. At least one munitions factory was inside the base itself, along with a weapons testing facility, a mine on an energon vein we hadn't been able to detect that was large enough to supply more than half of the total energon all other Decepticon mines produced, and a small drone assembly plant.

A drone assembly plant. Inside a base on Earth. That meant as long as he had the proper materials, Shockwave could churn out up to ten drones every solar-cycle. It might not have been a huge number, but it added up quickly. In short, with anything less than a small fleet and army backing us up, we weren't going to get anywhere near that place.

It made sense for Shockwave's base to have a prison built inside; it was the Decepticons' most secure location besides the Nemesis. And with how I heard the others speak about Shockwave, he would have a large number of… Projects with him, and would need a place to keep them locked away. He also had a reputation for capturing Autobots and experimenting and torturing them as much as he wanted.

He sounded a lot like Scalpel.

"That is the most likely scenario," replied Optimus to my statement. "It is also possible they were being lured to Shockwave's base and did not realize their mistake until it was too late."

Cyberfrost looked up, optics wide in panic, even when Flightstorm wrapped his servos around her, his own optics dimming slightly as he likely contacted her through their bond. "Shockwave's on this planet?"

"We have yet to encounter him in the field, but his personal ship has been in the system for nearly an orbital-cycle, and we have fought troops who have mentioned him by name," Prowl said. "There is only a two point one percent chance he is not on Earth."

Wildwing's carrier didn't react more to this confirmation, but the sparkling himself finally noticed the distress she was in, likely through leaking emotions he got from her. He put his search for a place to climb on hold and jumped into her servos, his own little servos doing their best to wrap themselves around the femme like his sire's.

"Have you had a run-in with Shockwave before?" I asked.

"Yes, briefly," Flightstorm answered. "It was twelve orbital-cycles ago. We had landed the Collected on a young garden world to harvest energon from a large lake. That was when Shockwave appeared with his own vessel. He landed right next to the Collected and claimed the lake as a Decepticon resource, gave all neutrals five klicks to get back on our ship before he started shooting. We managed to get everyone back to the ship and leave the planet before Shockwave's ultimatum."

"Everyone except a friend of ours," Flightstorm's sparkmate added quietly, smiling weakly at her son and mate's efforts to comfort her.

I easily got the implication, and didn't speak further on the matter. "What's the plan, then?" I asked Optimus. "Gather everyone together and get to those Autobots before the Decepticons do?"

"Nearly everyone," replied the Prime.

"By 'Everyone,' I was meaning everyone besides me and Smokescreen," I clarified. The white and blue mech could barely walk—he was definitely staying behind.

Optimus looked at me from over his shoulder-joint, and around the Star Saber. "I was using it in the same manner."

I raised an optic ridge. "Who else is going to stay behind?"

"Our most recent arrivals—until we recover these Autobots," the Prime said. "Silverbolt and Air Raid have not adjusted to Earth's diverse climate; and I have not been given a chance to discuss Override's possible recruitment with Ironhide, Prowl, Elita, and Jazz." He glanced up at the screen again. "And it seems flight and speed will be of little use on this rescue mission."

I had come to that same conclusion regarding the mission itself, but hadn't voiced it. It was clear this mission was going to be different than any I had personally been a part of. The unique circumstances in play made sure of that.

Shockwave's base was on an island, and besides flying, the only way to get off an isolated landmass was through the water—usually by swimming or by boarding a ship, if you were human. But the problem was, the only ships Cybertronians built were made to fly in and out of atmosphere, and we couldn't swim. At all. Even without armor, the most lightly built Cybertronian femme was at least two and a half times as dense as water of equal volume. Also, mechs typically were about twenty-six percent denser than femmes because we tended to be made out of stronger and denser metals, not including our thicker armor.

Basically, no matter how strong a bot was, when they stepped into deep water, the only direction they were going to go was straight down until they hit something solid. After that, it essentially business as usual for us, minus use of our alt modes.

"You're going underwater?" Raf asked, bringing me out of my thoughts as he, Jack, and Miko joined Agent Fowler on the catwalk next to Prowl.

"Their readings place their location at currently four point eight kilometers below sea level, and will reach the ocean floor exactly six micro-klicks from now," said Prowl. "Reaching them through a communications channel is impossible without knowing what frequency they use. This means following them down is our only option for making contact."

"And how 'bout getting them back here once you find them?" Asked Fowler, frown starting to form on his face. He gestured to the deactivated space bridge. "That thing's not gonna work with water flooding its circuits."

"An issue we will address when the time comes," Optimus said. "Prowl, shut down the combat simulator, and contact the others—tell them to report to the ops center."

The stoic mech carried out Optimus' orders silently, typing a quick command into the workstation before his optics dimmed as he opened a universal communications channel. "All Autobots—report to the ops center immediately." He closed the channel with that simple relay of the Prime's order.

After Prowl closed the channel, Arcee opened a comm-link with me. She asked, "What's happening in the ops center?"

I blinked. How did she know I was in the ops center? I had only told her I was going to the med-bay when we were parting ways—I hadn't even known where I would have gone after that. "And how do you know I'm in the ops center?"

"Some things are for me to know, and you to wonder."

"You realize that sounds creepy, right?"

"A femme's intuition has been known to unsettle mechs."

I resisted the urge to roll my optics. "I find it hard to believe your intuition is what's telling you I'm in the ops center; the deductive reasoning that the ops center is a regular hangout for three other people who I need to speak to is better than a feeling you can't explain."

"Says the mech who has more unknown factors swirling around him than a bad mystery-vid, is referred to by a name no one can even translate, has conversations with beings with no names in his recharge, and has two near-mythical bots as his creators," Arcee countered.

I went quiet for a moment at that. Well, she pretty much destroyed my argument. "Well-played."

"I thought so. Seemed appropriate to use your own logic against you."

"Yes, yes I get it—you're proud of yourself. You going to rub it in?"

"That depends. Are you going to answer my original question?"

I walked up near the workstation and looked at the main screen again, ignoring the way Jack and Miko glanced up at me before moving back to the Xbox area. So they were avoiding me, now. "Sensors picked up seven Autobot signals near Shockwave's main base. The common theory is they're escaped prisoners."

"And we're going to go get them."

"Yes, and it looks like you're going swimming—they just hit the mark of five kilometers beneath the ocean surface," I said.

"An underwater rescue mission? Interesting. It's been a while since I was on one of those."

"You've been on a mission like this before?" I asked, a slightly surprised tone in my voice. I hadn't even heard of an underwater operation before this one. That didn't mean there hadn't been one—obviously—but it also didn't mean they were common.

"You can add up every skirmish the humans have ever documented in their history, multiply the resulting number by ten, and they would still only account for a tiny fraction of the battles in the war on Cybertron," the blue and pink femme replied. "With a war of that size and totality, battles are going to be waged everywhere—no matter how strange the location."

I paused briefly, considering her words for a short micro-klick before continuing the conversation, "Sounds like there's a few stories behind that statement."

"More than a few, but they'll have to wait until I'm back from the mission," Arcee answered. She paused for micro-klick. "I'll be at the elevator soon-I'll see you in the ops center, Shadow'." She closed the link from her end.

I went back to looking at the main screen, although I was still dwelling on Arcee's earlier words. I had known how large the war on Cybertron since I became a Cybertronian: Eighty-four thousand cities destroyed by missile strikes, naval battles, bombing campaigns, and ground warfare; nearly the entire surface was rendered uninhabitable; all infrastructure, transportation, power stations, and energon harvesting plants were damaged beyond repair; and more than ninety-nine percent of Cybertron's population of two point eight trillion beings were extinguished. I hadn't discovered that last fact until after I had last seen Shadebreaker in the Pocket Universe, and decided to research the homeworld of my race after being shown images of it in its ancient glory.

Thinking about a war on that scale was impossible to imagine, and only quantifiable when you knew someone who had lived through it.

Someone like Arcee.

But even then, it would take many orbital-cycles for her to tell me all the stories she had accumulated during her service. And that was if we sat down and didn't move, only going from one story to the next.

Makes me feel even younger than I am.

I looked at the door to the hallway as my fellow Autobots started to report to the ops center. Ratchet and Moonracer were the first, having been the closest to the ops center.

Ironhide, Chroma, and Elita arrived shortly after them.

Jetfire entered the ops center with Springer next, followed closely by Silverbolt and Air Raid, the last of which made a point to not even look in my direction.

Jazz, Flareup, and Bumblebee reached the ops center next, with Override tailing shortly behind; she probably was simply curious about the alert.

After they arrived, Bulkhead and Smokescreen entered, Smokescreen coming to rest against a wall so he didn't need to continue using his crutches. Both of them acted in a similar manner as Air Raid—they didn't ignore my presence entirely, but they just didn't give me a friendly glance.

The twins reported to ops center nearly half a klick later. They didn't ignore me, either—they simply glared at me before looking at Optimus like everyone else.

Arcee was, surprisingly, the last Autobot to arrive, and she came to stand next to me.

"What took you so long to get here?" I asked my courted—that was still was strange to me. She usually was the first to arrive when we were told to report to the ops center. Provided she was in the base, of course.

"I was on the far side of the Safe, just ran the obstacle course," she answered, simply and shortly. And that was all that was required.

"Autobots, I will keep this short. Time is of the essence," Optimus began, optics gazing at all of his gathered forces. "Our sensors have detected seven Autobot life signals just outside a Decepticon base in the Indian Ocean. The little information we have of them suggests they have escaped captivity, but it is also possible they have just arrived on the planet."

"The big, rude mech wouldn't be so mad at Mister Shockwave if they just got here," Wildwing said innocently, as if we all knew what he was talking about.

All of us Autobots glanced at the mechling, who had made his statement without letting go of his carrier or looking at anyone else. His creators gave us looks similar to the ones we were giving their son, but they were silent, not interrupting Optimus' briefing like Wildwing had.

"Currently, these seven Autobots are kilometers underwater, alone, and unreachable through communications," Optimus said, continuing his earlier statement like the seekerlet had never spoken. However, I could tell by the look in his optics that he was filing away the sparkling's words for later analysis. "We are going to find and recover them before the Decepticons in the area find them first. Primarily, this mission will be a rescue operation; however, we cannot assume we will not be fighting the Decepticons while we search for our lost comrades. But, we also do not have time to outfit ourselves with weaponry recovered from the station Jetfire, Springer, and Shadowstreaker visited. Therefore, the majority of you will accompany me on this search and rescue."

"'Majority?'" Questioned Silverbolt.

The Prime turned his attention to the silver seeker. "Smokescreen's injury prevents him from operating at his full potential, and you and Air Raid shall remain here. You do not have any experience on this world, that could hinder you both severely if you were to accompany me on this mission. I cannot allow that."

Silverbolt looked to be understanding of the circumstances. Air Raid's wings twitched in annoyance, and he crossed his servos with a frustrated look on his faceplate.

Optimus turned his attention to the lone Velocitronian on base. "Override—you must also remain here. I have had no time to discuss your request with my lieutenants, and your preferred method of battle will not be possible in liquid water of such depths."

"As you wish, Optimus Prime," the red and yellow femme said with an incline of her helm. Then she walked off to the side, near the Xbox area, and said nothing else.

The Prime looked at me. "Shadowstreaker—you will operate the space bridge while we are gone."

"Acknowledged, Prime." I walked over to the workstation, let Prowl step away and stand at Optimus' right, then took the SIC's place.

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw some of the bots who had stormed out of the war room exchanged moderately confused looks.

"Temporary suspension from duty," I said stated, not turning from the workstation until I had quickly familiarized myself with the computer; I hadn't used it since before the S.T.F had done a refit of the base's computer systems.

My short explanation seemed to have answered the unspoken question several of my fellow Autobots had, since they were no longer exchanging curious looks by the time I turned away from the workstation.

"Open the space bridge twenty meters above the ocean, and six kilometers east of the Autobot signals," Optimus instructed. "We do not want to attract unnecessary attention from Shockwave."

I carried out Optimus' order immediately, silently typing in the requested Latitude and Longitude, and entering the required digital coding that controlled the altitude where the space bridge would open. When I finished entering commands into the computer, I said, "Ready to open on your order, Prime."

"Open it."

I hit enter, and then turned to see the green portal open behind my fellow Autobots.

Optimus walked toward the space bridge, and I heard his battlemask deploy. "Move out."

Everyone that hadn't just arrived or were unable to accompany the Prime moved in step with Optimus, following our leader closely.

I opened another comm-link with Arcee as Optimus, Prowl, and Jazz stepped halfway into the space bridge, pausing for a moment before disappearing entirely. "Be careful."

"I survived the war, Shadow', I'll be fine."

"I'm your courted, now. It's kind of my job to worry about your safety."

"Then make sure no Decepticons take us by surprise." Arcee turned and gave me a little half-smile, then entered the space bridge with Elita and Bulkhead. They were the last ones to leave.

I watched her go with a neutral look on my faceplate, then turned back to the workstation and deactivated the space bridge. Since I had finished my training, I had accompanied Arcee on more than a hundred skirmishes and missions—mostly ones that ended up barely worth the energon to activate the space bridge. Now I wasn't going with her, wasn't watching her backplates for a Decepticon trying to flank us. It made me feel out of place and uncertain what to do.

And this could have been avoided, had I simply not sought out my Protocol.

Suppressing the guilt and memories that now went with the thought of my Protocol, I sighed and looked up at the main screen, intently watching the life signals of my fellow Autobots—both the ones I personally knew and those those I had yet to meet.

Probably was going to be looking at this screen a lot for the foreseeable future.

---

July 16, 2013 4:15 A.M

Indian Ocean, six point four kilometers east of Decepticon base

Optimus reached the end of the space bridge, and leaned forward enough for his chestplates and helm to break through the other side. He caught sight of Jazz and Prowl in his peripheral vision doing something similar.

Dark clouds blocked out any starlight or moonlight from above, leaving the area beyond completely black beyond a fifty meter radius of the space bridge—seemingly the only source of light for miles.

Fifteen foot seas raged beneath him, the waves crashing into each other and breaking apart to create new waves, or combining into twenty, twenty-five, or even thirty foot swells. Nothing besides water was visible within the light generated by the portal.

The Prime stepped fully through the space bridge and let himself fall into the turbulent ocean, feeling his audio receptors become muffled by the dark liquid.

Two faint, subdued splashes sounded from above Optimus as Jazz and Prowl followed him into the water. And as he continued sinking, the Prime heard the rest of his soldiers fall into the ocean, each splash growing more and more faint as he descended further and further into the sea.

He counted each impact his audio receptors picked up, silently accounting for his troops. When his count reached fifteen including Prowl and Jazz, he opened a channel with his SIC. "How long until we reach the ocean floor?"

"That would depend on your definition of 'We'," the stoic mech replied. "Ironhide and Bulkhead are the densest of us, and soon will pass all other Autobots and reach the sea bed well before you or I do. The majority of us are of similar density, but also different enough that there will be noticeable gaps between our arrivals. Jetfire is built for flight, and as a result he will take longer to reach the sea bed than any mech here. The femmes are the least dense of all of us, and will take the longest to land on the bottom of the sea. Accounting our numbers and our various densities, the average time required for each individual to reach the ocean floor is three klicks eleven micro-klicks; however, Ironhide and Bulkhead will finish their descent only two klicks following their entry into the water. The femmes will take four klicks and fifteen micro-klicks to make the same journey."

Optimus silently listened to the lengthy answer, mentally comparing his SIC's response to his own calculations and finding they matched perfectly. Part of the reason he had ordered Shadowstreaker to open the space bridge far east of the Autobot signals was to account for how long it would take he and his soldiers to reach the same depth of the ones who were fleeing from Shockwave's base. The other part was to avoid the vast array of defenses installed in the facility, and to not create a portal close enough to be detected. Their own headquarters had sensors to detect both ground and space bridges, there was no reason the infamous Decepticon scientist would not.

It left them with few options for safely reaching the unknown Autobots. And also reduced the time he and his troops had to recover and heal the two Autobots who were in critical condition. It would not be the first time his Autobots offlined before he could mount a rescue.

Optimus trapped that thought before it could affect him. Thinking of the times he had failed his Autobots in the past would not help the ones that were far below him, fleeing for their lives. He had to focus on them, not the ones who now lived at Primus' side.

With his resolve in check, and his calculations confirmed by his inquiry to Prowl, the Prime finally acknowledged his SIC's statement, closed the channel, at last let his optics do what they could to adjust to the darkness that had surrounded him since he left the space bridge. He looked down into the black that he was sinking into, silently accepting the wait ahead of he and his team.

Until they arrived at the ocean floor, that is all they would be doing.

---

Shockwave walked along the floor of the bottom level of Base Zetta-3, moving through the hallways toward Crawler's current location—where a section of the base's wall had been destroyed.

The entire level, including both of his laboratories, was flooded with more than ten feet of seawater. Shockwave's height left him mostly unhampered by the water's presence, but most drones and full Decepticons were already having difficulties moving at their typical pace because of the flooding. Damage to electronic systems was minimal, however; but, the scientist cared little about how many computers would or would not need repairs.

He only cared about the Autobots who had broken free from his lab.

Shockwave rounded the last corner he needed to turn to reach Crawler's hallway, sending two drones several steps back and to the side when they saw they had been in his way.

Crawler was overseeing the makeshift repair of the section of wall which had been destroyed—the source of the water flooding the level. It had been a very impressively-sized breach before a group of engineers were able to block it with several metal plates that were to be installed on the walls further down the same hallway. If they had not closed the hole, it most certainly would have completely submerged the entire level.

The Decepticon lieutenant turned to Shockwave as his commander approached. His frame language was strict and professional, and the look on his faceplate was neutral. His optics, however, revealed his apprehension at facing the scientist. "Commander." His voice held a forced calm.

"Report, Lieutenant."

Crawler looked over at the team of Decepticons welding additional metal plates alongside the ones they initially plugged the hole with. "Breach is sealed, sir. It'll need to be repaired from the other side as well, but it will hold for now."

"I was not aware this section had a structural weakness." Shockwave's tone gave nothing that told the lieutenant what he was thinking.

"I didn't know the hallway was so close to the ocean either, sir," said Crawler, quickly. It was the honest truth. The engineers had never given an indication that any part of the base was vulnerable. "It's a mistake I'll make sure is corrected within the breem."

Shockwave's single optic fell on the engineers, who fidgeted in fright when they met his gaze for any period of time. "And the Autobots?"

Crawler's wings twitched. "It… It looks like they blasted through the wall and used the sea beyond to escape. They're nowhere to be found."

"And whose fault is that, Lieutenant?"

A servo suddenly shot out, so fast Crawler had no time to react, and the lieutenant screamed and fell to his knee-joints as digits locked onto his right optic. The other Decepticons halted their work to look on the scene in fear.

"Whose fault is that, Lieutenant?" Repeated Shockwave in an unnervingly patient tone.

Crawler's screams intensified as the scientist twisted the smaller Decepticon's optic an inch counterclockwise.

"Well? Whose fault is it?"

"IT'S MINE! MINE!"

Crawler's optic turned another inch counterclockwise.

"Is it? How? How could it be your fault? Did you show them another exit?"

"No. I—AH!" The smaller Decepticon was prevented from properly answering as his optic was twisted two more inches, and the servo that held his optic tugged out. The movement had no strength behind it, but it redoubled his suffering.

"No? Did you help them escape?"

The lieutenant's optic went three more inches counterclockwise and was tugged, snapping multiple lines and cables that connected his optic to his processor, and pulling the optic two inches out of Crawler's helm; his screams echoed down the hallway, and he grabbed the larger mech's servo, as if he had the strength to keep Shockwave from turning his optic any further.

"Did you fail to activate the Purge?"

"Y-Yes…" Crawler's words came out quietly, but not because he wasn't in pain. He simply was running out of strength to open his mouth.

Shockwave turned the lieutenant's optic an inch clockwise, lessening his pain. "I could not hear you. What did you say?"

"Yes."

The optic went back counterclockwise. "Yes what, Lieutenant?"

"I failed."

The scientist turned Crawler's optic two inches in the opposite direction. "What did you fail?"

"I FAILED TO ACTIVATE THE PURGE!" Cried the smaller Decepticon, using the last of his strength to yell out his statement.

Shockwave turned Crawler's optic all the way back to its proper position, then bluntly hit the optic back so it returned to being fully in the smaller mech's helm.

The lieutenant fell back, covering his optic with both servos and continuing to cry out in pain. While crude, Shockwave's treatment was technically the same as a medic would have given—only far less gentle. There were hundreds of thousands of parts in the optic, and all of them were important and sensitive to touch. True medics would prolong the repairs of an optic for this reason.

But Shockwave did not care, especially when the mech he had treated had failed him. In time, Crawler's auto-repair systems would restore his optic to its previous state.

It wouldn't, however, be a painless process.

The scientist took a step forward so he was standing directly over the smaller Decepticon. "The next time you fail me, I will take out that optic. The next time, I will take the other. And the third time, you will not live through my punishment," he said emotionlessly. He looked up at the other Decepticons in the hallway, who had yet to utter a sound since Shockwave first grabbed Crawler's optic. Then he just stared at them.

All the Decepticons returned to their work, unable to meet the single optic of their commander—they didn't want to inadvertently challenge the silent command he was giving them.

Shockwave turned and began walking back the way he had come, heading for his next destination: The gunship hangers.

"Skycharger," the scientist said through a communications channel he quickly established with the officer in charge of the hangers. "Prepare the gunships. We are going hunting."

---

July 16, 2013 4:17 A.M

USS Michael Murphy, Indian Ocean, four-hundred seventeen miles northeast of Madagascar

Commander James L. Ford IV analyzed the Michael Murphy's course heading on the conn, mentally comparing it to course he had set nearly six and a half hours ago. It wasn't his or the navigator's job to operate the conn, but he liked to make sure where his ship was going.

Ford was a short man by most definitions at five feet six inches, but he had a stocky build and could take on a man who had a foot of height on him. His steel eyes were experienced and weathered like the man they belonged to, and had seen more ocean than land in their time. Ford's head was totally bald, and had been for as long as he could remember—even as a child of six.

The commander was tenth-generation Navy, and the fifth man in his family to bear the name, 'James L. Ford.'

The original 'James L. Ford' was a Continental Navy sailor during the Revolutionary War. He had been a Seaman on the USS Boston, and survived the treatment aboard the infamous HMS Jersey when he was a prisoner of war after the Boston's capture. He died fifteen years after the war ended, near the turn of the century.

James' great-grandfather was given their ancestor's name on his birth, and served in World War I as a Petty Officer Second Class onboard the Delaware-class dreadnought North Dakota.

Ford's grandfather passed his name onto his third son—the commander's grandfather, James L. Ford, JR.—and he served on the Enterprise during World War II as an Ensign. He served until October 26, 1942, when he lost a leg when 'The Big E' was bombarded during the Battle of Santa Cruz Islands

James, JR. then passed his name to his first and only son, and he served in numerous wars and operations for more than four decades before retiring a mere eleven years ago. He had been a full Admiral when he finally left the Navy, and one of the most heavily decorated, tactically brilliant, and longest-serving officers in US Navy history, at least according to historians and analysts. Now, he had a seat in the Senate for the Republican Party, and was rising in the political world.

Then there was Ford. The son of the great, 'Artist of Naval Warfare,' his father. The descendant of a man who fought in World War I. The grandson of a brave man who sacrificed a limb in the service of fighting against the Axis Powers of World War II. The next in an unbroken line of sailors dating back to the beginning of the only current superpower on Earth.

The thirty-eight year-old bald full Commander whose name was known to no one outside his ship and those higher up the chain of command.

He had never been involved in a memorable event in history, never had his name mentioned in a news story, and never had been more than average at anything in his life. Most would see this as a sign they were failing at their careers; Ford saw it as a sign he was doing his job properly.

James kept studying the course readings, checking his ship's Latitude, Longitude, and speed multiple times over. No matter how many times he ran the data through his head, he got the same result.

At some point in the last six and a half hours, they had veered off course at least nine degrees.

"Ensign Davis, why are we off course?" Ford asked .

The Ensign Edward 'Ed' Davis was slightly taller than Ford at five foot eight. He had short, light hair, silver-blue eyes, and tan skin. His build was slimmer than Ford's, but he was no weakling. Davis was also one of the least experienced member of the crew, only commissioned within the last month. He was still getting on-the-job navigation training from Ford's XO.

Davis looked at the Commander. "Excuse me, sir?"

"We're off course," said James. He gestured for Ed to join him at the conn. When the junior officer did, James said, "By these readings, we've been nine degrees to the port side. XO Williams has been unable to perform his duties the last day due to a fractured leg, and I've been getting rack time the last six hours. You had the bridge during that time. Explain how and why we are now off course."

Ed looked at the course data, and compared it to the notes he had taken. "I don't, ah, I don't know." To himself, he added, "That can't be right. I double-checked everything…"

"Oh, you don't know?" Asked Ford incredulously. "How about this: Do you know the top speed of an Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer? It's thirty knots. Do you know what our speed has been the last six hours? Thirty knots. And do you know how far south we could have gotten in that time? About nineteen and a half nautical miles." His steel eyes stared into Davis' silver-blue ones. "Tell me, Ensign—how can we be effective at searching for the MV Sea Dog when we're ten miles out of the search zone?"

The MV Sea Dog was a missing container ship that had been caught in Tropical Cyclone Ama, a storm that developed and became a full cyclone in a mere forty-eight hours, and dissipated twenty-five hours ago. The Sea Dog hadn't been seen or heard from since. The USS Michael Murphy and USS Halsey were two of the ships sent to search for the missing container ship, and the first to arrive in the area since they had been deployed to Diego Garcia.

"Not effective, sir," Davis replied, his tone accepting of the fact he had made a mistake, and was now paying for it. But within his own mind, he was running over everything he had done six hours previously to try and see what he did wrong.

"You're damn right we won't be effective. Fix your error, and share the correct course with the helmsman," Ford ordered, then stepped back from the conn and let the Ensign operate it. His tone had likely given Edward flashbacks of being chewed out by instructors during training, but James had to drill seriousness into the younger man; it was the only way he would learn to always double-check all of his calculations.

The Commander walked to the side, looking out at the dark ocean and sky through one of the bridge's small windows, watching for signs of a life raft strobe light. The seas were rough tonight and coming down from the north; there was a chance the waves had propelled a raft from the Sea Dog this far south.

A very slim chance, but Ford had seen it happen before in his twenty years of service in the Navy.

The Michael Murphy's Sonar Technician, a young, petite, red-haired woman named Janette Smith, turned Ford from his thoughts by taking off her headset and saying, "Commander—I have something on sonar."

James gave the Petty Officer Third Class his full attention, along with half of the bridge crew. "Bearing?"

"South," Petty Officer Smith replied. "That's about all I can say. The sound seems to be originating beyond sonar's normal range."

Now Ford was confused, and it showed on his face. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"Distance estimates are limited to a system's operational range, and everything I'm hearing is telling me it's beyond the typical range of sonar," answered Janette.

"Then how are you picking something up?" Ed asked, the new development a welcome distraction from adjusting the Michael Murphy's course.

"Well, it's… It's loud. Really loud. Loud enough for sonar to pick it up beyond its effective range." Smith placed her headset back on for a moment, and removed it just as quickly. "My estimate on the volume is about one-hundred decibels. That's way louder than anything within range of a destroyer would want to make if it was trying to stay hidden—especially for a sustained period of time."

"A Blue Whale, then?" asked Ford.

Blue Whales were the loudest animals on the planet, able to produce low-frequency pulses up to one-hundred and eighty-eight decibels. These pulses, though almost too low for human ears to pick up, could be heard from hundreds of miles away on sonar. It was common for ships to pick up such calls when in the same ocean as the massive creatures. And the Indian Ocean was home to some of the last groups of Blue Whales in the world.

Janette shook her head. "No, sir. I've heard a Blue Whale before, and it sounds nothing like this. What I'm getting is… Odd. It sounds like a compartment being flooded."

James' eyebrows furled. Ironically, rapidly flowing water wasn't heard in the open ocean—there was no place else for the water to move. The fact Smith was hearing this unusual sound could mean another vessel, friendly or not, was taking on water. Yet this conclusion was not logical. The Michael Murphy was listening to all commercial channels for the MV Sea Dog, and they were getting no distress messages. In fact, there were no other ships, commercial or military, for nearly a hundred nautical miles; Command would have warned them if a warship from another nation was in the area.

So what was the sound's source?

The Commander wanted to suppress his curiosity, his desire to search for something he could not make sense of. But in the end, he gave into it. "Ensign Davis—change of plans, turn us south. We're investigating the Petty Officer's sonar anomaly."

"Yes, sir," acknowledged Ed, then quickly plotted a course directly south of their location and rattled off their new heading to the helmsman.

No one else on the bridge needed to be told what to do. They knew their superior well, and trusted his judgement absolutely. They carried out their required tasks without question.

Within only a few seconds of Ford's new order, the Arleigh Burke-class destroyer banked to its starboard, and traveled south at thirty knots—they were now moving with the sea.

None onboard knew Commander James H. Ford IV had just sealed the fate of the Michael Murphy and its crew.

---

I continued looking up at the mainscreen, resisting the urge to anxiously drum my digits against the workstation.

The life signals of my fellow Autobots were being displayed on the main screen, along with the signals of the other Autobots my comrades had gone to rescue. They were at the ocean floor, if the computer was correct, and moving west at a slow pace. The other Autobots had reached the bottom of the sea long before Optimus and my comrades, and were moving closer to northeast then simply east; they also were moving at a significantly faster pace than my comrades. The two groups of Autobots—known and familiar, and those whose identity were a mystery—were about four kilometers apart, but were closing the distance between each other fairly quickly. By my estimate, they would meet in about three klicks.

If the Decepticons didn't meet them first.

There was still no sign of Shockwave deploying troops to intercept the Autobots who escaped his base—if they had indeed been prisoners. The lack of activity from Shockwave was unusual, and even eerie. There were Autobots on his porch. Not only that, but if our sensors could pick them up without placing beacons in their armor, then their life signals had only the mandatory tracking chips all Autobots were given upon their enlistment. Those chips had been partially compromised in the middle of the war—any Cybertronian sensor could detect them. The Decepticons likely couldn't pinpoint their location, but they would definitely know there were unmasked Autobot signals in their area.

Shockwave had seven Autobots right outside his door. All of them were injured in some fashion. All of them were moving at a slow pace, because of the combination of their injuries and their location. And Shockwave could detect all of them with his sensors. He must know those Autobots are nearby.

So where were the Decepticons? Where was Shockwave? Why was there no activity from the Decepticons? With how close that base was, the lack of movement was more unsettling than seeing a ship appear on the scanners.

It made me an unnerved mech. And a very agitated courted, with Arcee involved and not being able to be with her. Watching her. Protecting her. Acting as her bullet shield.

I buried my thoughts before they could distract me. Arcee literally had millions of times more experience in war than I did. She may have gotten into a few situations where I had to help her, but I had gotten into half a dozen times as many where she had to help me. She didn't need me to watch her backplates. She didn't need me to protect her. She could take care of herself. Plus, she had fifteen other Autobots to rely on. She was safer than I was, at the moment. There was no logical reason for me to worry about her so much.

Of course, matters of the spark were rarely logical.

"Any sign of the 'Cons?" Fowler asked, pacing on the catwalk next to me. Raf was near him, silently observing. Override, Silverbolt, Air Raid, and Smokescreen were still present, as well. Jack and Miko were still near the Xbox area.

"None," I replied, and pointed out, "If there was, I would have said something."

The government agent grunted. "I don't like this quiet," he said, not addressing the second part of my statement. "The 'Cons are never silent when you 'Bots are out and about. What are they waiting for?"

The answer to the question ringing in both my helm and Fowler's head, was answered not three micro-klicks after the government agent spoke.

An alarm, different than the one that signaled the appearance of the unknown Autobots, sounded out from the workstation, drawing the attention of everyone besides Fowler and I. A red circle formed on the main screen. It was west of my comrades, and just outside the shield surrounding Shockwave's base. Even without analyzing the signal, I could tell it was from a Decepticon gunship, since gunships typically weren't given more than basic stealth treatment by either Autobots or Decepticons; such simple stealth systems were only partially effective against modern sensors. It was probably a LSC-11 Techraptor, the same type of gunship that crippled Jetfire and Springer on the Paraion station—and almost crippled me.

"Decepticons have appeared." I entered a command into the workstation that brought up more information about the hostile energy signal. After looking at the readout for about a nano-klick, much faster than Fowler or Raf could possibly read, I determined the signal wasn't a Techraptor like I had assumed. It was a HAC-177, the much larger, more heavily armored, and extensively armed cousin of the Techraptor. In battle, it was typically used as a mobile command center for ground attacks.

That could be a bad sign.

"One gunship, command class," I informed the others, simultaneously trying to set up a universal communications channel with Optimus and everyone else who was with him, but quickly failing when the computer refused to connect. Their close proximity to Shockwave's base was probably causing interference; I should have created a channel while they were still in the base. "Estimated speed is around three-hundred kilometers per breem."

"That slow?" Asked Override, no hint of humor in her words.

"That's… A lot less of a response than I was expecting from the Decepticons," Agent Fowler said. "When was the last time you Autobots had them outnumbered on a mission?"

Never, we never did.

Another alarm sounded from the workstation, and an entire wing of Techraptors appeared on the sensors. A second wing appeared after the first, then another, and another, and another.

Within a few micro-klicks, thirty wings of gunships were on the sensors, spreading out in all directions around the Decepticon base. Thirty wings. There were twenty gunships in a wing.

Six-hundred gunships were now out there. Each standard Techraptor could carry up to ten drones along with a pilot and gunner. That came out to six-thousand troops, assuming each was filled to capacity—about seven times as many soldiers as we estimated the Dark Matter originally transported Earth.

Even worse, our sensors couldn't detect smaller Decepticon signals that far away. There could be pair of Brute Seekers for every gunship on screen, and we would have no idea.

"Primus…" Silverbolt said, echoing my exact thought.

"That's a damned army," added Fowler quietly.

"It's several, compared to anything else the 'Cons have deployed," Raf said, his voice barely a whisper. He was scared, terrified, even.

And he wasn't the only one.

Arcee was out there, in the path of scores of gunships. No matter how much skill a bot had, no matter how much experience in battle, gunships were gunships, and numbers were numbers. A single gunship possessed the firepower of a company of soldiers. And in the numbers they were currently deployed, those gunships could take down a battledreadnought.

I had to warn Arcee and the others.

I blocked out the words of the people and bots around me, and redoubled my efforts to establish a universal communications channel with the group who left the base ten klicks ago.

It was all I could do from here.

---

Shockwave stood on his HAC-177, just behind the heavy gunship's pilot and two gunners. Two score of drones were in the troop bay beyond the door behind him.

It had taken one klick and fifty-seven micro-klicks for Skycharger to prepare the gunships Shockwave requested. Another four klicks and ten micro-klicks had been required for the pilots and gunners to get to their aircraft and run through their checklists of pre-flight tests. An additional three klicks were needed for the drones to fill the troop bays of all gunships Shockwave had called for; the only reason so many were able to board in so short a time was because Shockwave had a brigade of drones posted in each hanger for sole purpose of rapid deployment into battle.

Now his force was leaving Base Zetta-3 through its immense hanger doors—fifty meter-thick walls of solid Xieron disguised as rock from the outside. Each door was five-hundred meters wide, and a quarter as tall. The bottom of the hanger doors were a mere ten feet above the waves outside the base.

Shockwave opened a communications channel to the commanders of the wings of gunships, and the leaders of seekers and Insecticons who flew between the larger aircraft. "Decepticon forces—search everything within a fifty mile radius of the base. I want every anomaly investigated, every rock, trench, and crater on the seabed explored. If you make contact with the Autobots, shoot to offline, but do not destroy their frames—I want them intact. Proceed to your assigned coordinates and dive. Do not attempt to contact me unless you have confirmed sighting of our targets." He closed the channel without waiting for any acknowledgements. He spoke, they heard. Unneeded speech wasted time that could be spent searching for the Autobots.

Searching for him.

Grimlock was by far the most successful experiment Shockwave had conducted—and also the most dangerous. The scientist spent jours designing the Dinobot leader's new form, armor, and abilities. Orbital-cycles of work went into his transformation. Every surgery had taken breems, sometimes solar-cycles, to complete; they had been art, and art could not be rushed. Shockwave had put too many resources into Grimlock to allow the Dinobot leader's frame to slip from his remaining digits.

Shockwave's HAC was the first gunship to leave the hanger, and after it reached its top atmospheric speed and past through the shield covering Base Zetta-3, Skycharger, who was piloting the HAC,said, "Sir, scanners are picking up a human warship."

"Where is it located, Major?" Asked Shockwave, taking two long steps forward and standing behind the black, red flame-trimmed mech. Custom paint, a common feature among pilots, and one Shockwave allowed them to make. As long as they were useful.

"About sixty miles north," Skycharger answered.

"Class and nationality?"

"Unknown. I haven't researched human vessels, or their politics." The pilot tapped a display next to his seat without taking his other servo form the HAC controls. "If it helps, the vessel is approximately one-hundred and fifty-five meters in length, and is displacing ninety-two hundred tons."

Shockwave compared Skycharger's report to the dimensions of human naval ships, and found that the most likely match was an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer. It was a warship designed around a radar combat system that allowed it to guide its main armament, cruise missiles, to their chosen targets. Only the United States currently used the vessels in its naval fleets.

"What is the vessel's heading?" Shockwave asked after confirming the class of ship on sensors.

"Straight toward the base," replied Skycharger.

"Then it cannot be allowed to continue on its course," said the scientist. "Adjust our flight path and intercept that ship."

"Yes, sir." Skycharger immediately turned the hundred and ten meter-long gunship further north, toward the US warship. The HAC's four escorting Techraptors followed far behind.

Shockwave remained standing behind the pilot, silently waiting for Skycharger to move their heavy gunship to the human vessel. It was regrettable that the humans had come so far south of their usual patrols and shipping lanes—they were distracting Shockwave from hunting the Dinobots.

But at least the gunners of the HAC would get some target practice when they came upon the human ship.

---

Ultra Magnus struggled to see in the darkness bathing the surroundings he and the others. It seemed to be the night-cycle of this planet, but even if it had been during the peak of its solar-cycle, light did not penetrate liquid water that was more than a kilometer in depth. They were well over a kilometer down; they had traveled more than a kilometer during their descent alone. Now their only guidance were the low-powered spot lights installed in Sludge's shoulder-joints, and those only allowed their darkness-adjusted optics to see fifty meters ahead of them. Beyond that, everything was black.

Magnus fell back from his position next to the limping Grimlock—and the gravely injured Slug, who he still carried—and came alongside Sludge and Swoop. The former still had Broadside in his servos, and the latter was in the middle of treating the huge Wrecker again. "How is he doing?" He asked through a communications channel he had established with the Dinobots who were still standing.

"No good," reported Swoop as he balanced on one of Sludge's servos. "Bad bug focused, really want to eat him Broadside's spark!"

"Is there anything else you can do for him?" Asked Magnus.

"Helped to me Swoop's end. Me Swoop good, but no have right tools." He looked down at the Wrecker commander moving at the same pace as Sludge. "He have half breem before bug eat spark, maybe little more, but me can do no more. Me Swoop need focus on Slug, now!" He jumped off Sludge's servo, covering more distance than he normally would because of their location underwater. He then climbed up Grimlock so he could treat Slug again, whose frame was still leaking energon that sank to the ground since it was denser than water.

Ultra Magnus silently cursed. Broadside had been a loyal Wrecker since the start of the war. He had defeated whole squads of Decepticons by himself, taken down destroyers without help. Out of all of his Wreckers, Magnus considered him to have the most physical strength and firepower of them all, with Ironhide coming in a close second. And now, Broadside was being defeated by an opponent he could not fight: A parasite. It was an unfitting fight for such a warrior.

But that was war.

Magnus and the other Autobots kept running as fast as the crushing water around them allowed them to. It didn't matter that they didn't know where they were, what world they were on, or if there was an Autobot presence on the planet—anything was better than remaining in Shockwave's captivity.

The Wrecker commander's audio receptors began to pick up faint, muffled splashes from far above and behind them. Each splash was accompanied by a ripple of a concussive wave that traveled through the water above them.

The Decepticons had started their pursuit.

"What that?" Snarl asked, looking up as if he would see the source of the noise.

"Decepticons," Ultra Magnus answered. "It was only a matter of time before Shockwave gathered a search party; he wants us back badly."

"Then we make sure he no find us," said Grimlock, his voice growling and grinding even through the channel. He looked to left, optics searching and analyzing the darkness beyond the range of Sludge's spotlights. "What on the left, Sludge?"

Sludge swiveled one of his spotlights where his leader's gaze was fixed, revealing that the seabed fell away abruptly about three meters within the now-longer range of his spotlights. How Grimlock had seen the end of the ocean floor without the full assistance of Sludge's lights, Ultra Magnus did not know.

"It looks like a trench, perhaps a large crater," Magnus observed. "What are you thinking, Grimlock?"

"Me thinking we need deeper water." Without another word, Grimlock turned almost a full ninety degrees, and disappeared below the edge of the deeper water just as Ultra Magnus and the others came to a halt. He took Swoop with him, since the smaller Dinobot had not even looked up from his treatment of Slug.

Snarl immediately went after Grimlock, and Sludge offered Magnus a servo as the other Dinobot went beyond the range of the light. It was a kind offer, considering he was already carrying a mech less than twenty feet shorter than himself.

Magnus grabbed the edge of a piece of the larger mech's shoulder-joint armor, and stood on Sludge's upper servo. He was not as dense as the Dinobots. If edge in front of them was deep, he would most certainly be left behind by the combination of Grimlock's habit of moving at his pace and his general dislike of other Cybertronians.

Sludge ran forward once Ultra Magnus secured himself, and he jumped off the edge and quickly caught up with the less-dense Snarl, who grabbed onto Sludge's other shoulder-joint.

Together, they followed Grimlock into the black ocean for the second time in less than half a breem.

---

I watched the progress bar on my latest attempt to establish a communications channel with Optimus and the others stall thirty percent of the way through the process. That was the fifth method to fail in less than a klick. Fragging thing wouldn't work.

"What's taking so long?" Agent Fowler asked, his arms crossed.

"I'm getting interference from an unknown source," I said calmly, technically correct since I didn't know if Shockwave's base was preventing me from contacting the others. "I'm still trying to work around it."

"I can help," Raf said. His voice lacked enthusiasm or a lot of emotion except for sadness, but the look in his eyes said he genuinely wanted to help. And he should have. His friends were out there, too.

I gestured to human computer next to Fowler, along with Jack and Miko; they had rejoined us after seeing the massive amount of gunships heading toward my comrades. Toward Arcee. "Log on, then. Any help you can provide is appreciated."

The government agent stepped back as the youngest human on base ran past him and turned on the computer, fingers flying across the keyboard almost before he had even sat down. "Is it a jammer?" He asked.

"No. If it was, more than just our communications would be effected," I said, glancing up at the mainscreen as Decepticon signals started to disappear from our sensors. They were going underwater. It made sense, logically, considering Techraptor engines were powerful enough to propel themselves through the water. Only the largest seekers could use their alt modes in an environment like that. That meant any Cybertronians who were fleeing the Decepticons would automatically be at a disadvantage without gunships of their own.

Just like how my fellow Autobots lacked a gunship.

"Perhaps it is a localized anomaly?" Override asked.

"They're too close to the Decepticon base," Raf informed suddenly, confirming my earlier suspicion. "It's giving off static that's effecting our systems."

Jack looked over the younger boy's shoulder. "Can you get through it?" He asked, voice neutral and professional. It was almost an Optimus-like tone.

"Of course," Raf said. His fingers flew across the keyboard again, and once he finished typing a series of commands, he looked at me. "Try creating a channel again."

I did as he said, and the progress bar went across the mainscreen without issue, completing the process of establishing a communications channel in less than five micro-klicks. Whatever Raf did, it certainly worked. I'm going to have to learn more computer skills, since I will likely be on space bridge duty far more than before.

There was no time now, of course.

Silently thanking Raf's computer abilities—which made up for my own, current inexperience—I addressed Optimus through the universal channel I had just created, speaking into a microphone in the workstation for the benefit of the humans, "Optimus—be advised, the Decepticons have deployed multiple wings of gunships in your area. You're going to have a lot of company soon."

---

"Understood," Optimus said to the black Triple-Changer, then muted the new channel for the moment. His attention was focused on the sound originating from above them—the sound of a large amount of metal impacting water at a high speed.

On the outside, Optimus was the picture of calm: His optics were relaxed, his walk was precise, and his voice was composed. Only his shoulder-joints had any trace of tensity, but no more than they normally were on a mission.

A number of the other Autobots with him, however, were not.

"Six-hundred gunships?" Jazz asked through another channel, which the group established between each other once they reached the ocean floor. "Dat's enough ta take out a small fleet." His visor flashed with humor, illuminated by the lights of Bulkhead next to him, as well as his own. "Ah'm flattered da 'Cons find me such a threat. 'Bout time Ah get some recognition for my work."

"I don't think Shockwave sent all those gunships after only you, Jazz," said Bulkhead, lacking his usual buoyant tone as he helped guide the path for his fellow Autobots to walk.

"Ya never know, Bulk'."

"Enough," Optimus said firmly, switching to the local channel. "We need to shift our position—gunship fire will be the end of us if we spread ourselves too thin. Regroup on me."

The four groups of four they had divided themselves into upon landing on the seabed soon started to become one on Optimus' order, continuing to move forward at the same time.

Prowl's group, with Springer as their primary source of light and the twins following behind, were the first to join the group of Arcee, Bumblebee, and Flareup, who Optimus was leading.

Elita's group of Chromia, Ratchet, and Ironhide added their numbers and lights to the main squad shortly after.

Jazz's group made of up of Jetfire, Moonracer, and Bulkhead were the final group to join Optimus, since they had wandered slightly further away than the other groups.

"Autobots—deploy your weapons and get behind me; I will guide us forward. Bulkhead, Ironhide—guard our flanks. Springer—you are on rear security with the twins," Optimus ordered calmly, at the same time deploying one of his blasters and pulling the Star Saber from his backplates.

The sword immediately started radiating its own blue light that was almost bright enough to reveal the way ahead on its own, without assistance from any of their headlights—or spotlights, in the case of Jetfire and Springer. Optimus felt something inside him pulse powerfully as he held the ancient blade, as he always did when the sword was in his servo. It enhanced his sense of duty, justice, his ability to give compassion, his will to fight, and his strength. It truly was a creation of the Ancients, of Solus Prime.

If he ever had the honor of speaking to Shadowstreaker's carrier, Optimus would need to praise Solus' ability to create an object that channeled a Prime's very being.

The Prime waited for his troops to arrange themselves as he had instructed. Once they did, he returned to the channel with their base, and spoke to Shadowstreaker again, "What is the latest from our lost Autobots?"

---

I waited for Optimus to speak again after his short acknowledgement of my words. He had sounded calm when I told him an army of Decepticons was heading toward him, but to be fair, I had never seen him nervous about anything—even during the ambush that led to my capture by the Paraions.

To my time as Scalpel's captive.

I was saved from starting down the path of thinking about my time as the Paraions' captive as Optimus broke his silence, "What is the latest from our lost Autobots?"

My optics flicked to the mainscreen. The other Autobots had changed their path, and now moving straight north and at a slower pace than before. The reason their pace had slowed was quickly apparent after observing the screen for a moment: They were moving into deeper water.

I quickly told the computer to run a more detailed scan of the area of the ocean floor near the unknown Autobots. It took only a micro-klick for the scan to finish, revealing the presence of a fourteen kilometer-wide, two kilometer-deep, circular crater that seemed to be currently undiscovered by human science, since I found no mention of it in any oceanographic data centers I quickly went through on the internet. The unknown group of Autobots had just reached the crater's far southwestern edge, and were about to finish the initial descent to the crater's gradual decline that led to its center.

"They have found a large crater on the seabed, and are descending into its deeper waters," I answered Optimus' question.

"Where is the crater located compared to our current location?"

"About one and a half kilometers due north of you position," I replied. "However, the crater is large; you'll still be about three kilometers east of the other Autobots when you arrive at the edge."

"Acknowledged, Shadowstreaker," said the Prime. "Update us on their location once we reach the crater. Until then, I want this channel clear unless you have further news on either our lost Autobots, or the Decepticons."

"Yes, sir," I said, and muted the microphone without hesitating, even though I had reservations about doing so. I was in a position to provide Optimus and the others constant updates on the location of the Autobots they were searching for; I could potentially walk my comrades right in front of the Autobots they were after.

But no matter how accurately I could track the other group of Autobots, it didn't matter if Optimus' group were attacked.

The Prime's order was rational. Our sensors couldn't track unfriendly gunship signatures when the craft itself was obscured by any type of object—even something as simple as water, as shown by the signals that were rapidly disappearing from the mainscreen. If I couldn't track the gunships, then Optimus and the others would need to keep their optics open for any sign of the Decepticons. My constant updates on the location of the unknown Autobots would distract my comrades from their surroundings, and could lead to someone missing the flash of a gunship's search lights, or delay them in reacting to a missile fired on their position. In short, without the ability to track the Decepticons underwater, I was a distraction.

A distraction who really wished he was out in the field with his courted right now.

---

Ford's steel eyes searched the early morning sea and sky, continuing to watch for signs of unnatural light as the Michael Murphy cruised south at more than thirty knots—surged forward by the surging ocean. Even though he and his crew were shifting their focus primarily to investigate the sonar anomaly picked up by Petty Officer Smith—which she had lost only a few minutes into their new heading—James was unwilling to totally abandon searching for the Sea Dog. If he missed the lost vessel's life raft because he was now chasing an unknown sound, he would never forgive himself. His conscience wouldn't allow it.

"I have something on sonar," Janette informed, addressing the entire bridge. She paused for a moment, then added, "Scratch that, it's gone."

"Was it the same anomaly as before?" Asked James.

"Negative, Commander," Smith replied. "It seemed different, more concussive, like a giant anvil hitting the surface of the water. I think we just picked up sonar anomaly number two."

The Commander frowned at the news. 'As if one unknown wasn't enough.'

"Did this one have a bearing?" Ford asked.

"Straight ahead of us. No idea on the range."

"Couldn't get its distance, like the other one?"

"No, sir."

"Then keep listening, Petty Officer." Ford turned to one the Michael Murphy' radar operators. "Picking up anything, Zeke?" With their current pursuit a dead end, all Ford could do was check in with the various operators on the bridge.

Petty Officer First Class Paul Zeke, a bear of a man at six feet ten inches, shook his head. "Negative. The sky's as empty it can get."

"Good," was all Ford said, then he moved onto Petty Officer Second Class Romero, a tall woman of Brazilian origin who immigrated to the United States when she was three. She operated the ship's communications. "Anything from Command or the commercial channels?"

"No, Commander," Petty Officer Maria Romero replied. "We haven't received anything since we alerted Command of our change of course, and the commercial frequencies have been silent since we left Diego Garcia."

"Alert me if you pick up anything," said James. He moved away from Romero, and stood next to Ensign Davis.

The Commander was about to ask for an update on their heading, when Janette spoke, "I got it again! This time I have a bead on it."

Ford focused on Smith instantly. "Bearing and range."

"Straight ahead like before, fifteen nautical miles out," A confused look appeared on Janette's face as she answered Ford's question. "Hold on, I'm picking it up again. Five degrees starboard, sixteen miles out."

"Well, where is it, Petty Officer?" James asked. "Straight ahead, or five degrees starboard?"

Smith ignored her superior. "Got it again. Five degrees to port, thirteen miles. And a fourth time, ten degrees starboard, ten miles out." Her face became puzzled. "Three more just appeared in the last second, and the first one has changed. Now it sounds like… A jet? An engine?"

A pit suddenly formed in the pit of Ford's stomach, and the hair on his neck stood on end. Every instinct was starting to yell at him that something was wrong with their situation. Something was very wrong. "What are we dealing with, Petty Officer?"

Janette looked at Ford. "I have no idea."

"Contact!" Zeke cried out. "Low-altitude cruise missile incoming, twenty-thousand meters and closing! Altitude ten-thousand feet and dropping, twenty degrees to port!"

James immediately activated the intercom, at the same activating the ship's deafening alarm. "Missile inbound, all hands to Battle Stations! Repeat, all hands to Battle Stations!" He flipped off the intercom, and rapidly fired off orders to the bridge crew, "Communications—contact Command and tell them we're under attack. Helm—take evasive action. Damage Control—prepare for extensive damage. Weapons—take that missile down!"

The bridge became a flurry of activity. Romero reported they were under attack to Command. The helmsman turned the ship hard to port without slowing, resulting in the Michael Murphy tilting at almost a thirty degree angle for a brief moment. Damage Control began to plan for the worst. And Weapons locked onto the incoming missile with a pair of RIM-66M Standards and sent them toward the approaching hostile ordnance.

The RIM-66 Standard was a medium-range surface-to-air missile originally developed by the United States Navy in 1967 as a replacement for the aging RIM-2 Terrier and RIM-24 Tartar—missile systems developed in the late 1950s and earlier 1960s, respectively. It had no set purpose; it had been designed for potential refits for multiple roles. Its list of targets included: Hostile jets;aircraft; air-to-surface, cruise, and surface-to-surface missiles; and even other ships, if it was required. Originally, the missile was designed to be used by the MK 13 GMLS, or Guided Missile Launching System. When the MK 13 launcher became outdated, the Standard was converted for use by MK 26, the first system of the widely-used Aegis Combat System. Then it was modified for the MK 92 Fire Control System, and finally, it was modified for use with the MK 41 Aegis VLS, or Vertical Launching System. This was the system currently used by Arleigh Burke-class destroyers.

The bridge was lit up by orange-yellow light as the doors to two forward cells opened and the Standard Missiles inside launched within half a second of each other. They rocketed straight upward until they reached one-thousand feet in altitude, then their flight paths angled out toward the incoming missile, and the Standards accelerated to their maximum speed of three and a half times the speed of sound.

Within four seconds, the two Standard Missiles reached the larger and slower hostile missile. They rapidly gained altitude, approaching their target from below.

They never hit their objective.

A principal of missiles of all types was that once they had a target, they flew toward this target in the most efficient way possible: Directly. Some missiles fired in a straight line, some fired on a wire that guides the explosive projectile during its flight, some had heat-seeking abilities, some were directed by radar and thermal imaging, and some were guided with a combination of satellite feeds and onboard computers that allowed them to track their targets with unnerving accuracy. But while in flight, they were all the same, and they all stayed in a straight line until they were in range of their objective.

But not the hostile missile.

It suddenly dove down, briefly traveling backward as it moved to avoid the Standards. The missile continued on its path until it hit the water below, and vanished beneath the waves without exploding. It then straightened its course, and resumed its journey toward the Michael Murphy.

The Standards, unable to match the agility of their target, registered they effectively overshot their objective, and self-destructed as they were programmed to do when they failed to reach a target.

The hostile missile rose out of the water after the Standards detonated, climbing to one-thousand feet before leveling out.

"What the hell just happened?!" Ford yelled, heart beating furiously as adrenaline pumped through his body. His Fight-Or-Flight had reacted as soon as Zeke said a missile was incoming.

"Enemy missile has evaded SAMs!" Zeke said. "Estimated fifteen seconds to impact!"

James let out a string of choice words he normally would not utter in front of the crew—a calm demeanor from a ship's commander reassured its crew. "Take it out with the Phalanx as soon as it's in range!"

"Yes, Commander!" One of the weapons operators, a blond male Petty Officer First Class named Thompson, said.

The Phalanx CIWS was a close-in missile-defense system that was equipped on most modern military ships, or at least had an analog. It was a 20 mm Gatling gun that fired forty-five hundred rounds per minute, essentially sending a wall of armor-piercing Tungsten at a target at more than a kilometer per second. The Phalanx was incredibly precise, but it also was limited to a range of four-thousand meters, too short to hit the approaching missile at its current distance; Thompson would have to wait roughly three seconds before engaging, allowing the CIWS' stream of projectiles to travel out to meet the missile before it was fully within range.

Those three seconds seemed to never come to Ford. Each millisecond felt like a year, each second a dozen lifetimes. His sense of touch, taste, smell, and hearing were jumbled, numbed and useless. His one-hundred and sixty-one heartbeat was the only thing he felt, and each thump seemed to be separated by hours.

Then he realized the three seconds were up.

The bridge was once again lit by orange-yellow light as the Phalanx, located just below and in front of the bridge windows, fired on the threat, creating a virtual beam of red light the red-hot rounds accelerated toward the missile. The sound of the weapon firing was so great, the concussive force from the massive armor-piercing rounds so powerful, that Ford felt his teeth rattle even behind the glass.

Missile and Tungsten bullets met each other in the air. The first twenty flattened harmlessly against the missile's armored shell, then the missile banked sharply to the right and reduced its altitude, dodging with agility no ordinary missile could match.

But the Phalanx was a different type of weapon; its precision was greater than any missile, and it delivered hundreds of bullets, not a single warhead.

The Phalanx followed its target flawlessly, riddling its armored hide with dozens of 20 mm rounds. When a Phalanx acquired a lock, there was no escape.

The missile tried diving into the water like it had done to escape the Standards, but its armored shell was finally breached, and the wall of 20 mm armor-piercing rounds tore its internal systems apart. The missile's warhead detonated prematurely, showing the ocean below with balls of molten metal, and its shell was incinerated in the blast.

On the bridge, a silent, collective sigh of relief escaped the crew. Disaster had been avoided.

Then four more missiles of the same type as the first appeared on the radar.

Ford sent out the same order as he did with the first; the bridge crew reacted to their instructions; more Standards were fired; the Phalanx's barrels kept spinning. But internally, Ford, and by extension everyone on the bridge, knew their defenses wouldn't be able to defend against four missiles of this strange type.

They were finished.

After the Standards failed to find their targets, the Phalanx was able to destroy one of the incoming missiles. But it was too little too late.

The first missile hit the bridge, piercing the metal effortlessly and detonating inside the bridge itself.

Commander James L. Ford IV was to be the first of the Michael Murphy's crew to die, being located near the center of the bridge at the time of the missile's impact. Petty Officers Romero, Zeke, Smith, and Thompson were the next—Ensign Davis followed them. In those seemingly unending moments before the missile hit, some were afraid for what would happen to their loved ones and families, others felt they still had much they could do with their lives. Most feared death more than anything. But, some did not, and they felt an otherworldly peace fill them, comforting them like the embrace of a loving parent when they were children.

Then they were gone; their deaths were painless.

The other two surviving missiles were aimed at the Michael Murphy's twin VLSs, containing the ship's load of missiles. An Arleigh Burke-class had the capability to carry a total of ninety-six missiles of varying uses. Ten had been used in the attempted defence of the Michael Murphy, leaving eighty-six left in the VLSs. Each missile was the rough equivalent of six-hundred kilograms of TNT—the total amount of explosive power was, at the least, equal to fifty-one metric tons of TNT.

The Michael Murphy, quite simply, disappeared.

The fireball burned hotter than any natural fire, engulfing the vessel and the water around it in a sphere of flame that would have been seen for miles around if the sea had been occupied. Shrapnel was sent beyond the curvature of the Earth, never to be found. The shockwave from the blast was so powerful, and the sound so loud, it could be heard and felt fifty miles away.

Miraculously, the Michael Murphy's keel—along with what remained of its hull just above the water line—was still afloat when the explosion subsided. Burning Oil leaked from it like blood, its metal was white-hot as if it had been molten for hours, it lacked propulsion or control, and every square inch of its surface was on fire, but the Michael Murphy continued to sail on through the sea—looking like the makings of a ship from Hell itself.

What was left of the Michael Murphy listed to port, then a large wave flipped it over.

And the Michael Murphy vanished beneath to ocean, joining its crew in death.

---

Shockwave observed the burning Oil that remained on the surface, the last remnants of the human ship.

It had been mildly fascinating to see the humans respond to the threat of the first Thunderstroke missile he ordered the gunners to fire. They reacted with a sound strategy—defensive missiles followed by an inescapable wall of bullets. Shockwave would admit that he had been surprised by the human vessel's, and its crew's, ability to repel attack; few lesser-advanced races had ever succeeded in detecting a Thunderstroke, let alone downing one. But in the end, their technology was simply too primitive, and they failed easily.

However, if Shockwave were to pit a single gunship against a group of human ships of that class, or one ship they created a vorn from now, the result of the battle may have been different. He would have to account for that, when the time came.

The scientist dismissed his thoughts. "Take us down. It is time to join our escorts," he ordered Skycharger.

The pilot complied silently, and the HAC dove and slammed into the water with a splash that would have sounded like an explosion on the outside. But inside the large gunship, the impact was silent, and the force was nothing more than a slight jolt.

Now, the real hunt could begin.

---

Optimus held up a servo for his soldiers to come to a halt when he heard a muffled explosion over the usual sound of gunships entering the water above, along with a weak shock wave from ahead, just strong enough to disturb the sediment on the sea floor around him. He could tell the sound and wave originated far from their current location, but it was still a matter of concern; few natural processes on Earth created such large discharges.

"What was that?" Arcee asked, azure optics searching the darkness just like Optimus was.

"It felt like a bomb," said Ironhide. He looked at Optimus and suggested, "'Con gunship encountering our Autobots?"

"Perhaps and perhaps not, but if that indeed is the case, we will not be able to assist them from here. We will need to increase our speed," the Prime answered. He gestured for his soldiers to move out, and started picking up his pace as fast as he could in the crushing water, spending almost a micro-klick suspended in the liquid between each step he took.

The others followed their leader's example and moved to catch up. Some were less successful than others.

The Autobots continued on their new pace for half a klick, before Chromia reported, "Gunships on the left!"

Optimus reacted immediately, and did the best thing he could do with no cover around them. He slid to a halt, willed the Star Saber to cease producing its own light, turned out his headlights, and crouched down as low as his tall frame would allow. "Go dark, Autobots."

His Autobots carried out his instructions as quickly as they could, and within three short micro-klicks, all of them had blended into the darkness. Arcee and Jazz vanished even faster than that—Optimus had not even finished speaking before he saw them disappear; it was a true testament to their training and experience with stealth operations.

The gunships arrived moments later, engines creating a cloud of sediment behind them. There were four of them, and each was a heavily-equipped Techraptor—even more than usual; an automated Heavy Ion Turret was attached to the searchlight under each gunship, and Optimus could see two extra missile pods near the Turrets.

The Techraptors passed over the Autobots, and stopped just under a hundred meters to their right, floating an equal distance above the ocean floor. A pair of doors opened on either side of each gunship, sending a giant bubble of air out and up into the darkness above. Standard Decepticon drones started exiting the doors once the cabin was flooded, each creating a small veil of fine sand as they landed on the seafloor. There were forty drones in all. Each one held a heavy weapon in their servos, had two large spotlights on their shoulder-joints, and was outfitted with additional armor plating.

After the drones deployed, four unseen Brute Seekers landed on the seafloor next to the drones. Their thin, tall frames had additional armor as well, and their missile launchers and chainguns and already at the ready.

"Extra armor, heavy weapons, all weapon ports being used on their gunships. They're equipped like they're expecting to fight an army," Arcee observed from where she was hiding behind a six foot-tall, sharp rock edge that had been just beyond the range of her and her fellow Autobots' headlights—only her training allowed her to see it.

"There were only seven Autobot signals in this area. We're invisible to their sensors and are greater in number, but the Decepticons have never been this cautious with us ," said Springer. "Why are they treating these seven like such a large threat?"

A potential answer formed in Optimus' processor, one that he refrained from sharing only because there were seven Autobot signatures they were chasing, and not five. But, if those five were here, then the Decepticons' caution would certainly be warranted—especially if he was here.

"Each of you, chose multiple drones to track. Ironhide—add a gunship to your targets; I will handle the other three," Optimus ordered as the gunships started to slowly circle the area, searchlights scanning the seabed.

Ironhide pulled his Hydra Cannon off his backplates and aimed it at the nearest gunship at Optimus' order. He also aimed his Thermo Missile Cannon at two drones who had been deployed from the gunship he was targeting, while at the same time the others marked their own Decepticons.

Optimus considered several different ways he could destroy the three gunships Ironhide was not targeting, and quickly decided on targeting them separately; attempting to attack multiple at once would limit his effectiveness. "Steady, Autobots," he said after formulating his plan of attack, if it was needed. "Do not fire unless we have been seen." Attacking the Decepticons first would be counterproductive—the loss of one of their patrols would cause the Decepticons to focus on searching for two groups of Autobots instead of one. Concealment was their only advantage against Shockwave's forces, and Optimus wanted to keep it for as long as he could.

The gunship Ironhide was targeting turned slowly to the left, taking it on a path that would lead it dangerously close to Optimus and his troops.

"I'm not liking where this thing's heading," Bulkhead said, his position the closest to the gunship's path.

"Roll out of its path, wide-load," said Sunstreaker, tone as blunt and rough as ever.

"If I do that, the 'Cons over there might hear me moving."

"Then crawl! Wiggle your way into the mud like the creatures your squishy Miko likes! Create a portable space bridge and teleport yourself next to Optimus! I don't know, but shut the frag up!"

"Calm yourself, Sunstreaker," Optimus reprimanded neutrally—neutrality was the best course to take when dealing with the elder of the twins when he was angered.

There was an irritated scoff through the channel, but Sunstreaker went silent.

"Stay where you are, Bulkhead, changing your position increases your chance of being detected," the Prime said.

"Got it… Staying put," the green Wrecker replied, voice uncertain, yet unquestioning.

The gunship continued getting closer, its searchlight swiveling in regular intervals from one side to the other as its pilots surveyed the sea floor. It reached the Autobots' position, searchlight between switching from its left side to its right, quickly moving toward the Autobots. The sea-traveling gunship paused as the edges of its searchlight came within meters of Bulkhead. The light remained there, unmoving, apparently focusing on the unsettled sediment that Optimus and his troops had disturbed when they rushed to blend in with the darkness.

"Permission to fire," Ironhide said, digit tightening around his Hydra Cannon's trigger.

"Not yet," Optimus replied, but he, too, was gripping his own weapon firmer than before. If that searchlight moved another foot toward Bulkhead, the Prime would reverse his order without hesitation.

For several tense moments, the gunship remained stationary, and its light remained fixed in place. Finally, the pilots decided the cloud of sand, mud, ancient, powdered rock, and Sea Salt was not noteworthy, and the gunship started to move along.

Then the searchlight created a glint off the twins' shinier-than-normal armor.

The light snapped back up, directly over the twins. The gunship turned toward them, angling downward for its missiles to have straight paths to their targets. A red tracer appeared on Sideswipe's armor as the automated Ion Turret targeted him.

The Brute Seekers and the drones deployed on the seabed, and the other three gunships—likely hearing a report from the pilots of the first gunship—turned as well. As one, the drones shouldered their weapons and aimed them at the twins, the Brute Seekers pointed their chainguns at the two Autobots, and the other gunships started to make their way over.

"Well… This is a predicament," Sideswipe joked. "May we shoot now, Prime?"

"Yes."

Ironhide was the first to open fire. His Hydra Cannon spat out its single, orange projectile, and the missile multiplied into scores of identical, micro-missiles. In the nano-klick it took the missile to split, it locked onto the gunship above the twins, and all of the new rockets accelerated to their target.

A blinding, orange-tinted light appeared as soon as the missiles impacted, nearly blinding every Cybertronian present and turning the dark depths of the ocean into a second sun. The explosion that accompanied the light was so loud, Optimus had to mute his audio receptors.

And just as quickly as it appeared, the light vanished, taking with it the sound of the explosion as well. What little was left of the gunship slowly sank toward the ocean floor, disappearing into amber ashes before it could hit the seabed. It became deathly quiet.

The silence was broken almost immediately as Arcee fired at three of the drones she had targeted, sending them off-balance in a single burst from one of her Photon Burst Rifles by changing targets fast enough for each round to hit a different Decepticon's helm. She fired two more, identical bursts from her Rifle, and the armor of the three drones failed—they offlined before they could pinpoint her position.

That was the spark that started the rest of the battle.

The Brute Seekers and drones opened fire with their heavy weapons—ranging from missile launchers, to Neutron Cannons, to Scrapmakers, to Cybertronian Railguns Optimus had not seen until now. But without being able to see their targets, the Decepticons' aim was very inaccurate until they managed to locate an Autobot.

The Autobots themselves, ironically aided by the lights on the chassis of the Decepticons and the searchlights of the Decepticons' own gunships, did not have this problem.

They fired freely and accurately, downing nearly a dozen drones and one Brute Seeker before their enemies started to fire back with increasing effectiveness.

Until the other three gunships joined the battle. Their searchlights moved up into the darkness the Autobots currently enjoyed, revealing them to the Decepticons on the seabed and allowing them to fire accurately, injuring Prowl and the twins with repeated Scrapmaker shots, along with bullets fired from the Turrets of the gunships themselves. The pilots then armed the missile pods of their gunships. They waited as the weapons locked onto each of the Autobots, and fired half a dozen missiles for each of their enemies.

The missiles would never reach their targets.

Optimus stepped forward, boldly walking toward the heavily armed drones while looking up at the gunships. He used the Star Saber to block a Cannon shot aimed at his helm, then felt a power he still did not understand surge within him, overriding his thoughts and enhancing the affect the Star Saber had on him by ten-fold.

Guided by the power within him, the Prime channeled his energy into the Star Saber, lighting up the blade to the point it was bright enough to overwhelm the searchlights of the gunships. He brought the Ancient artifact across his chestplates and down near his left hip. Then with a ferocity he normally would never call upon, he swung the Star Saber out in front of him in a horizontal arch.

A long, wide wave of celestial energy and solid light—its edge thinner than any matter in existence— flew from the Star Saber, bathing the dark ocean in a white glow almost as bright as the Hydra Cannon shot. It hit the missiles, destroying them faster than any Cybertronian's optic could register. The wave kept going and struck the nearest gunship, and the Decepticon craft simply disappeared. One moment it was there, and in the next it burned as if struck by a massive Hard-Light round, then it disappeared before anything else could be seen. The wave continued on for another two-hundred meters, then faded away.

The Decepticon Brute Seekers and drones stood in an unwilling, detached awe and fear. Only when Moonracer took off the helm of one of them were they able to break themselves out of their trance, and they returned to the battle.

The pilots of the remaining gunships were able to keep their processors more than their fellow Decepticons on the seabed. They attempted to focus their fire solely on Optimus as soon as the other gunship vanished, but the Prime was too fast, and the power within him was too great. He repeated his swing twice more, and the last of the gunships disappeared in a white glow.

And just like that, Optimus returned to normal, and the Autobots regained the advantage of firing with the cover of darkness.

Bulkhead opened fire with his own weapons after Optimus took down the gunships, offlining a drone who was slow to recover from the loss of the gunships' searchlights. He quickly moved to the side to avoid having his location compromised.

Ironhide fired his Thermo Missile Cannon at a Brute Seeker and a drone. The Cannon launched three projectiles that spun in a tightening circle around each other, becoming one just before they impacted. The drone wwastorn apart by the resulting shock waves released by the exploding bubble of gas created by the missiles—the Brute Seeker required two more shots to offline. Like Bulkhead, Ironhide changed position as soon as he fired.

Chromia took down a drone who was firing on her mate's last location, her shot piercing his armor and destroying his spark. She followed the strategy of Bulkhead and her sparkmate.

Flareup took out a drone with her customized Photon Grenade Rifle, the drone sharing a fate similar to those shot by Ironhide. Before she could move after firing, a heavy rifle round from a Brute Seeker's chaingun caught her in the tank, and she was sent down onto her backplates—her energon flowing from the wound and pooling on the seabed below her.

Bumblebee uttered a furious series of beeps through his broken vocalizer as Flareup was injured, their meaning lost in the water. He aimed both his weapons at the offending Brute Seeker and riddled him with bullets, most of which were stopped by the Decepticon's heavy armor and additional plating—only one shot caused any actual damage.

The Brute Seeker raised a servo in front of his faceplate, and fired his chaingun blindly at Bumblebee on its highest firing setting. More than ten rounds a micro-klick flew toward the yellow and black scout at velocities human weapons wouldn't reach for the next vorn, each one packing enough power to stop a fifty foot-tall Cybertronian in their tracks.

But Bumblebee refused to let up in his assault, or even try changing position. He continued shooting the Brute Seeker, hitting any weak point he even thought he saw. Even as the Brute Seeker landed two lucky shots—one on his right side and the other on his left hip—Bumblebee kept firing; not even when he was knocked to the ground by the bullets, did he stop. His barrage finally halted when the Decepticon was hit in the neck, optic, and helm by three of Bumblebee's bursts in quick succession, and even then he only stopped because the Brute Seeker was offlined.

No one hurt Flare' and got away with it.

"Get their attention away from Flareup and Bumblebee!" Ratchet barked, and advanced on the two injured Autobots as Bulkhead and Springer attracted the Decepticons' attention by rapidly firing their weapons, lighting up their locations.

"How fragging idiotic can you be?!" Ratchet asked after reaching the yellow and black scout, taking his medical kit out from a sub-space pocket. "You stood in the path of oncoming heavy weapons fire. You're lucky you're not missing a limb, or worse!"

"Oh, it's not that bad, Ratchet." Bumblebee looked down, quickly spotting the large hole in his side, and the twisted remains of his left hip. "Oh. Well, I've had worse."

Ratchet made a note to hit the younger mech with a wrench later, after they were back at base.

The battle was over shortly after that, after Jazz—who had used his skills as a saboteur to sneak around the Decepticons—shot one of the two remaining drones in the helm, and stabbed the last one through the backplates with his sword. The sole remaining Brute Seeker was offlined under the combined fire of the others.

"If da rest of da 'Cons didn' hear dat mess, they need ta have their audios checked," Jazz said after sliding his sword out of the drone he stabbed, walking toward Ironhide as the Wrecker officer turned his headlights back on, along with most of the other Autobots.

Optimus barely acknowledged the Saboteur's joke, and turned to where most of his other Autobots had grouped together as he turned his own headlights on. "Sound off, Autobots. Who is wounded?"

"Good here," reported Arcee.

"I was hit by a few shots near the end of the battle," Springer said. "But nothing too serious. I'm fine."

"Same," Bulkhead added.

"Untouched," said Jazz.

"One round hit my servo," Jetfire observed, looking down and seeing the damage to the inside of his right servo for the first time. "However, that seems to be my only injury."

"Ratchet and I got through the fight unscathed," Moonracer said as she tended to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. "But Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Prowl, Flareup, and Bumblebee will need repairs when we return to base. Ratchet and I are doing what we can, now."

"Our job would be easier if certain a mech wasn't reckless," Ratchet said, pointedly looking at Bumblebee as he sealed Flareup's wound.

The yellow and black scout rolled his optics, but said nothing in his own defense.

Optimus noted each injury, and asked those who not yet reported, "Are there any other injuries?"

"One of those Railguns got me in the shoulder-joint," Ironhide replied, rolling his left shoulder-joint uncomfortably. There was a noticeable hole in that section of his armor. "Those things pack a surprising amount of firepower. But I've had worse. I'll live."

"This pile of bolts is a pain. Literally," Chromia said with a dismissive gesture toward her sparkmate, referring to how they shared each other's discomfort. "I'm good to go for now; I'll pay him back later."

"Was that a threat or a proposition?" Asked Ironhide.

Optimus ignored Ironhide and Chromia and turned his attention on Elita, who was standing near him. All of his Autobots, save Jazz and the femme he looked at, missed the flash of worry that passed through his optics.

Elita returned his gaze. "If I was injured, I would have said so," she said, not outwardly acknowledging the look in Optimus' optics. However, a different look flashed in her own optics, a silent thank you for his concern.

Optimus accepted the answer to his question, and turned away from Elita after he saw her own optics flash. He was a Prime—he could not let himself be distracted. "Get the wounded on their pedes," he ordered. "We need to leave the area before more gunships arrive."

Moonracer and Ratchet quickly finished tending to their injured comrades and helped them to their pedes, then leaned them against other, waiting Autobots who weren't damaged in the battle. Prowl, the twins, Flareup, and Bumblebee redeployed their weapons after being paired with uninjured bots, and looked at Optimus, ready to continue despite their condition.

"Ya ain' gonna need ta walk far, Prime," Jazz said, he and Arcee's headlights visible about three-hundred meters ahead, where the Saboteur had gone to investigate something he saw during the battle and taken Arcee with him.

Optimus led his other troops, injured and healthy, to Jazz and Arcee, and he saw what the smaller mech was referring to.

They were now standing on the top of a cliff, overlooking water that was even darker than it was behind them. The cliff extended on to their left as well as their right; its face was gradually curved outward. And even when Ironhide, who had the most powerful headlights of the Autobots present, turned his lights downward, the cliff continued on beyond their range.

They had arrived at the crater.

Optimus unmuted the channel Shadowstreaker had established with he and the soldiers around him. "We have reached the crater, Shadowstreaker—give us an update on the location of the other group of Autobots."

---

The atmosphere of the ops center was tense as we all watched the mainscreen, waiting for the others to reach the crater and contact us again. Few words had been exchanged since we heard from Optimus, and it seemed like that was for the best; everyone was on edge, especially my fellow Autobots. Without a doubt, Smokescreen, Silverbolt, and Air Raid wanted to be out in the field, assisting our brothers and sisters in arms. It was torturous for them, being on the sidelines while those they cared about went into battle.

I knew, I was in the same boat.

Override, Flightstorm, and Cyberfrost were less tense than we Autobots, but I could tell by the way Override lightly tapped a digit against her servo—and the way the optics of Cyberfrost and Flightstorm were marginally dimmed often in silent conversation—that they were also anxious to see the safe return of the others.

The only one who seemed unaffected by the mood in the ops center was Wildwing. He was on a pipe just above the human elevator, happily drawing and humming to himself. The picture he had drawn of a bot's faceplate was lying next to him, but he wouldn't allow anyone to look at the image he was currently working on.

Considering his recent work, I wouldn't be surprised if he was unlocking the secrets of the universe.

All of us except Wildwing continued gazing at the screen in silence, until the life signals of the team in the field came to an unexpected stop, halting about three-hundred meters from the crater.

I internally frowned. What were they doing? They were well beyond the range of their headlights, so they couldn't be stopping because they saw the crater. A random pause to examine something they found on the ocean floor didn't make sense, either—it would waste valuable time on a rescue mission. Had they been found by Decepticons?

"Why'd they stop?" Flightstorm asked, seemingly just voicing his thoughts.

"Wondering the same thing, myself," I said, checking the readings of each of my comrades out in the field. Their sparkbeats were slightly elevated, and their nanite activity was higher than normal. Their chassis were preparing themselves for damage. Not good, when an army of Decepticons were in the area.

"One way you could stop wondering is if you actually contacted Prime on your own," Fowler said, marginally raised voice suggesting the tense situation was starting to get to him, and was getting annoyed at things that normally would not annoy him. A common way of venting frustration or stress. I knew, I was guilty of doing it as well, at times.

"The life signals of the team are more stressed than they were until a few moments ago," I informed. "I can think of two reasons why battle-hardened soldiers would become tense while out in the field: They are under attack by hostile forces, or they are uncomfortably close to hostile forces. Both are equally as stressful, and both require your full attention—contacting the squad now would distract them from more important things."

Fowler sighed. "And a distracted soldier is a dead soldier."

"Exactly."

The room returned to silence for a brief period of time, before the life readings of the squad in the field became even more tense than before. Shortly after everyone's readers spiked, the signals of the twins became erratic and noticeably weaker, with Prowl's signal following in their wake a moment later.

"Moderately severe injuries" I reported, digits tensing against the workstation console. So they were in battle.

And I could do nothing but wait and watch.

"Who's hurt?" Air Raid asked, sounding more professional than I had heard him be before now.

"The twins and Prowl." The life signal of Flareup became erratic as I spoke, and Bumblebee's followed suit shortly after. "And now Bumblebee and Flareup have been wounded."

Raf's eyes widened, and his lips parted in a silent gasp. On the human computer, he opened the specifics of Bumblebee's life signal and read all the information available there, eyes scanning everything as quickly as possible.

I gave the youngest human on base a sympathetic look as he browsed Bumblebee's life signal data, then I turned my attention back to the mainscreen. It must be difficult for him to know his best friend was injured, and be unable to do anything about it except see how badly they were wounded. If it wasn't for the fact I needed to keep an optic on everyone's life signal, I would be doing the same thing Raf was. Only I'd be looking at Arcee's life signal data in the case she might be injured.

Almost as quickly as their signals spiked, the readings of the rest of the team in the field started to level out and return to a state of normalcy. No one else had been wounded, according the computer.

"The battle ended," Override concluded.

"Looks like it," Smokescreen agreed, digit tapping one of his crutches.

I ignored Smokescreen and the tall Velocitronian as the signals of Jazz and Arcee moved away from the others, stopping at the edge of the crater. The main group, injured bots included, joined them a few micro-klicks later.

After the squad apparently regrouped, Optimus reopened the channel I had created. "We have reached the crater, Shadowstreaker—give us an update on the location of the other group of Autobots."

"They've returned to their previous pace and are deep in the crater now, but they're back to moving east," I said, flicking my optics to the signals of the other Autobots. "If you're fast enough, you'll be able to intercept them a few kilometers north of your position."

The channel was quiet for a moment, and I saw the signals of my comrades begin to sink in the deeper water of the crater. "Acknowledged. We are beginning our second descent, now. Keep us upda—"

"Wait," I interrupted, knowing Optimus wanted to keep our conversations short so he could focus on the mission. "Before you ask me to go silent again, what are the status of the wounded?"

"They will require repairs when we return, but they will be able to finish the mission," the Prime answered. He was silent for another moment, probably waiting to see if I was going to ask another question. "Keep us updated on the location of our lost Autobots." He muted the channel again.

Back to playing the waiting game, it seems.

---

Grimlock suddenly came to a halt, causing Ultra Magnus and his Dinobots to do the same. The titanic mech felt a vibration in the water, a hum that carried further than it should. It wasn't unlike the explosion they heard earlier, or the flashes of light they saw in the distance to their right.

But this was different. It was constant and no louder than a conversation, nothing like the explosion or light flashes. It also was rapidly getting louder, and the vibrations it produced were becoming stronger.

It was close.

"Why have you stopped, Grimlock?" The little Wrecker asked.

"Decepticons," said Grimlock. "They close."

"Then we need to find cover; we won't stand a chance out in the open."

The Dinobots' leader growled, the rumble distorted by the water. The little Wrecker was always trying to lead, but he was not the leader. He Grimlock was.

Grimlock rounded on Ultra Magnus, absolutely dwarfing the Wrecker commander. "We do what me say. And me Grimlock say we fight!"

"With what, Grimlock?" Ultra Magnus asked, hiding any prohibitions he had of speaking against Grimlock behind a facade of calm. "We lack Broadside's heavy armaments, Slug is injured, and you are limited by your own injuries and lack of weapons."

Grimlock's horns pulsed dangerously at the mention of his broken sword, his most prized possession. To Grimlock, it was no mere weapon—it was a part of him, an extension of his frame, processor, and will. But even without it and with his injuries, he was more of a warrior than Ultra Magnus could ever hope to be. The little Wrecker was in dangerous territory...

The vibrations continued getting stronger, and the humming got louder, and Magnus was saved from an angry Grimlock by the arrival of two Techraptor gunships.

Before Grimlock even had a chance to shout his command to fight, the gunships launched a missile at each of them, and opened fire with the Heavy Ion Turrets attached to their searchlights.

The Autobots acted instantly.

The Dinobots' leader turned his backplates against the incoming missile, his heavy armor absorbing the blast and shielding Slug from further harm. Scores of Ion Rounds slammed into his armor.

Sludge brought up his Diffraction Barrier and blocked the missile meant for him, detonating it harmlessly and far from he or the unmoving Broadside.

Snarl and Ultra Magnus fell to the ocean floor, and the missiles exploded behind them, just far enough away to not cause serious damage.

Swoop, however, fared worse than the others.

He tried to dodge the missile fired at him, but he was a nano-klick too slow, and it hit him in the lower chestplates. The explosion sent him tumbling through the water, until he landed heavily on his backplates. A second missile followed the first, then a third, and a fourth. A fifth projectile was blocked by Sludge's Barrier, but not before the gunship also hit Swoop with a burst from its automated Turret.

By the time it was over, Swoop had taken four direct hits from Thunderstroke missiles, and a total of eighteen Heavy Ion shots had torn through his armor. Energon was leaking from his frame at an alarming rate, and his optics were so dim they were almost out.

Grimlock looked at Swoop in numb horror. The flier was the first of the Dinobots to join his unit back when Grimlock called it the, 'Lightning Strike Coalition Force.' Since before they were in their current, immensely powerful forms, Swoop had been the unit's little brother, their source of entertainment—and, at times, the cause of their annoyance. He was Grimlock's oldest and closest friend.

And he was grievously injured.

A missile was fired at the Dinobots' leader, but the massive Dinobot wildly slapped it aside with the back of his servo without letting go of Slug, causing the missile to explode on the seabed next to him.

Grimlock turned his helm and glared at the gunships, horns pulsing a deep crimson as he silently dared the Decepticons to test him again.

They did, and another missile was sent toward Grimlock.

The titanic mech made no move to avoid the missile, and quicker than the average optics could see, slapped it to the side like he did with the other one. This time, he had not been wild in deterring the missile. It was redirected by his strike, and took a long, looping path back to its target.

A path that one of the gunships was right in the way of.

The missile blew up against the gunship's hull, tearing a massive hole in its side and causing it to turn violently to the left. Its nose ended up against the right side of the other gunship, directly in front of its weapons, and an armed Thunderstroke missile. By the time the pilots of the second gunship realized a live Thunderstroke missile was about to be fired right into their comrades, it was too late.

The Thunderstroke fired, exploding almost before it had left its tube. This caused the nearby, unfired missiles to detonate, which in turn detonated all of the missiles from the two Decepticon craft.

Both gunships vanished in a brilliant flash of light and a shockwave powerful enough to knock Grimlock back a step. Then it was over.

Grimlock's brief battlerage faded once the gunships were destroyed, and he looked at the fallen Swoop in unmasked worry as he was treated by Ultra Magnus, whose basic-level medical skills were apparent as soon as he started to treat the flier.

"How Swoop?" The Dinobots' leader asked, tone not as hostile toward Magnus like it had been before; he was Swoop's only chance of treatment since no one else present even knew the basics of medical treatment. They hadn't been through the training Autobots normally went through.

"He has a dozen holes in his frame, his shoulder-joint is almost detached, and his tank was ruptured," Ultra Magnus said. "He is not good."

"You Magnus able to fix he Swoop?" Sludge asked, optics looking younger than they usually did.

"I never went through advanced medical training—I can only do so much," Magnus replied. His optics narrowed an eighth of an inch as he failed to seal a main energon vein. "I can't even stop the leaking."

Slowly, and with a shaky servo, Swoop reached out, and grabbed Ultra Magnus' servo. He guided the Wrecker commander's servo a few inches higher up, and said, "Veins… Must be closed far away from big… Hole…" His helm fell back against the seabed, and he entered stasis lock.

Magnus stood up from the Dinobot flier's side, and Snarl picked up his smallest brother. "He is in stasis. Nothing else can be done for him," he said, helm turning to Grimlock. "But he will offline if we don't get him to a medic, just like Broadside and Slug."

"Only medics around are Decepticons," Grimlock said.

Magnus' gaze turned to their right, where they had all seen multiple bright lights in the distance. "Perhaps not."

"You think lights were Autobots?"

"It is the only way to explain the lights we all witnessed. We are on a very wet, organic world. In water, natural light of that magnitude can be produced in only two ways I am aware of: Lightning, and erupting volcanoes. But we are too deep for lightning, and the water is too cold for us to be standing on a volcanic vent. The only other explanation is an unnatural source of light, such as a high explosive detonating. And if there were explosives involved, it is logical to assume the Decepticons encountered a force of Autobots sent to find us." Magnus blinked once, clearing sediment from his optics. "We need to need to move to that location."

Every feeling, every instinct, and every fiber of his ego yelled at Grimlock to discard Ultra Magnus' advice. He was in charge, not the little Wrecker! If he wanted them to go straight, they would go straight! If he wanted them to turn back, they would turn back! The little Wrecker had no right to tell him what they should do!

But Grimlock still had his thoughts, and when he pushed his powerful feelings, instincts, and pride to the side, he saw that Ultra Magnus' suggestion was the best thing he could do for his Dinobots—his brothers.

"Then we go," Grimlock said, and turned and moved in the direction they had seen the lights from earlier.

The others followed him, and together they made their way to what they hoped would be the help they had been searching for.

---

We all watched the mainscreen after the channel I had established with Optimus and the others went silent, waiting for when both groups of Autobots would cross paths. If they both continued their current pace and direction, they would meet each other in less than five klicks.

That wasn't a long time by any means, but with so many gunships in that area—none of which I could track—I hoped it wouldn't be too long.

The signals of the group of unknown Autobots abruptly came to a stop. They simply stayed motionless for a moment, then one of their life signals dropped dangerously low and fluctuated wildly, even more than the two who were already in critical condition. They must have had a Decepticon encounter.

Soon after one of the signals dropped and fluctuated, it evened out, at least somewhat—it was still very, very weak. Then the entire group started to move southeast, almost exactly where Optimus and the others had been when they had their own encounter with the Decepticons.

"They were attacked," Flightstorm said, coming to the same conclusion I had.

"And one of them was given some nasty dents," Fowler said, obviously referring to the injured Autobot.

I unmuted the universal communications channel I had created with Optimus and the others. "Optimus—it appears the second group was attacked. They've now moving roughly in your direction, and another of them has been seriously injured. If you adjust your path twelve degrees west, you will end up right in front of each other."

The channel was silent for a long micro-klick. "We might already be, Shadowstreaker," Optimus said, sounding as if his attention was focused mainly on something else. "Confirm: Our lost Autobots are now traveling southeast?"

"They are."

"And how far are they from our current location?"

I glanced at the mainscreen. "A kilometer and closing."

"Then there is no need to change our path—we are already in front of each other," the Prime said. "We have a visual on a light from one member of their group."

I could almost feel everyone's nerves easing at that piece of news. "Acknowledged, Optimus. Should I prepare the space bridge?" I asked evenly, not allowing my sense of urgency to relax at all until my comrades—Arcee especially—were back at base. I couldn't afford to let myself think the mission was already over—it could cause me to not react quickly if I needed to.

And that could lead to someone getting offlined.

"For now, yes. Lock the space bridge onto my coordinates, but do not open it unless we have no other choice; it may still be possible for us to return to base without destroying the space bridge in the process," Optimus answered. "We are going to go silent as we make contact with our lost Autobots. We will contact you when either we have a plan for extraction, or we require the space bridge immediately." The channel fell silent.

I swiftly typed a command into the computer to tell it to lock onto Optimus' location, then I stood to my full height for the first time since the Prime and the others left the base, knowing I could do nothing else until Optimus contacted us again. Even though I was keeping myself from relaxing in the slightest, the atmosphere in the room had lightened considerably. It was almost normal, now.

Almost—Raf still looked very concerned about Bumblebee.

"About time they found them," Miko said to Jack, giving her boyfriend the smallest smile I had seen from her when she was sarcastic or purposefully incredulous. That probably had something to do with my presence, and the fact the others were still out there, with Decepticons searching the waters around them. "I was starting to think they weren't trying."

"They're already trying, but sometimes their missions get a little… Sketchy," said Jack. "We've now seen that twice today." He was remarking about the battle my fellow Autobots fought over the Endless Slaughter just before I contacted base, from what Arcee told me.

"Let's just hope this one doesn't get any worse," Raf said, head on his hands as he attentively watched the screen of the human computer, mainly the life signals of everyone who was injured.

Air Raid chuckled at Raf's words, but in an encouraging manner and not a mocking one. "You don't need to worry, little guy. Most Autobots will watch out for fellow Autobots, no matter what. Bumblebee will be fine."

While Air Raid's statement sounded genuine and comforting, I detected a hint of accusation and distrust. Subtle wording in his statement added to what I faintly heard. He said, 'Most Autobots will watch out for fellow Autobots,' instead of, 'All Autobots will watch out for fellow Autobots.' The choice in wording sounded intentional and directed, and was hidden well in a reassuring comment.

It was a subtle slap toward me. Because of what I did on the Hammer, he thought I didn't look out for my fellow Autobots at all.

Despite how much his delicate words stung, I didn't give any indication I got their hidden meaning. I had given him a pretty damn good reason to be angry with me.

I had given everyone a pretty damn good reason.

The humans and bots around me started some conversations after Air Raid comforted Raf and threw a hidden, verbal jab at me, but I blocked them out. I had to focus on the task before me—I could be needed at a moment's notice.

But then Wildwing got off the pipe he had been lying on and walked toward me, humming happily with each step. He reached the railing of the catwalk nearest to me, and held his drawing out to me.

"What's that?" I asked, not taking my optics off the mainscreen. Optimus and the others were getting close to the second group, now.

Wildwing looked at the piece of paper, then back up at me. "It's a drawing," he said with a tilted helm, as if he was confused I didn't know what a drawing was. "The funny feeling wanted me to draw it, and now it wants you to see it."

That got my attention immediately. I turned my optics away from the main screen, and analyzed the picture Wildwing had drawn.

It was a black and white image of a dark, mostly rocky, and also slightly inclined wasteland. Twenty tiny figures were in the center of the image. All but three were highlighted by lights they carried individually, and one that had lights attached to it also carried a great light in its arm. The figures varied in size, but three of them—and one in particular—dwarfed the others. The largest figures appeared to be carrying something.

But what was most noteworthy about the image were the dark shapes just beyond the range of light around the figures. They were ominous and intimidating, and great in number. One was also at least twice the size of the others, and was closest to the figures.

Now what's that supposed to be? And why is it noteworthy?

---

Optimus led his soldiers toward the other group of Autobots, using the Star Saber as his primary guide instead of his still-active headlights. They were almost close enough see the second group, and the Prime could now tell that the light his soldiers had seen belonged to only one of his lost Autobots—the others walked with no lights. He also could tell that the Cybertronian with the lights was very tall, probably nearly twice his own height. This fact, combined with how he could feel the Earth shaking heavily with each step that came from the direction of the second group, all but confirmed Optimus' earlier suspicions of their identities. He could think of no other Autobots who fit their rapidly-forming descriptions.

"One with the light's a big fragger," Ironhide stated as his cannons rotated, the warrior in him automatically wary of a larger Cybertronian.

"They do seem to be rather… Large," Moonracer agreed from the Wrecker officer's left as she supported Flareup.

"The leader is larger," Optimus said, neutral voice carrying a factual tone.

Instantly, the Prime felt the optics of his soldiers look at him questioningly.

"How do you know?" Arcee asked.

"Simple logic."

The other Autobots exchanged curious looks at their leader's cryptic answer, but they were prevented from inquiring further as the second group finally began to materialize.

The first of the second group to come into view was the only one with lights. It was the towering, ninety foot-tall frame of Sludge. His primary color was silver, duller than Jazz's polished paint, and he had a mixture of black and yellow trim. His chestplates were red, and an Autobot symbol was embedded in them along with the Dinobots' own symbol.

In Sludge's servos, he carried a bulky, dull green and earth-colored mech who was nearly as large as Sludge himself. The second mech Optimus recognized as Broadside, a Wrecker well-known for his ability in battle. The mech looked to be physically fine, but he was not moving, and his optics were closed. Something was crippling him.

The next bot to come into the light of Optimus' soldiers was the stocky, seventy foot-tall chassis of Snarl, who in turn carried a heavily-damaged, more lightly built Swoop. Both mechs had red paint, but while Swoop was more dark grey than red and had a hint of gold, Snarl was primarily red, and his gold and silver secondary colors covered almost an equal amount of his frame.

Of the two mechs, only Snarl moved. Even at a casual glance, it was easy to tell Swoop was in stasis lock.

A smaller figure emerged from the darkness after Snarl and Swoop. He had wheels, unlike the others, and his blue, red, and grey armor was known throughout the Autobot ranks. He stood just a foot under Optimus' fifty-one foot height, but the extra armor on his shoulder-joints extended above his helm, technically giving him greater height than the Prime. He held his helm high and properly, but it was obvious he was far from his full strength. He was Ultra Magnus, leader of the Wreckers.

Optimus did not need to see Ironhide, Bulkhead, and Springer to know that they almost certainly snapped to attention at the sight of Ultra Magnus. The Wrecker commander would expect nothing less from them, even with the presence of another Wrecker who clearly was in need of medical treatment.

Then Grimlock arrived.

He'd been well behind the others for a reason Optimus did not know, and the Prime could feel the ground shaking with each of his steps. After a moment, he entered the light, his obsidian armor gleaming like polished stone. His hulking chassis made even Sludge look small, and his red, visor-like optics burned with a barely-contained fire—nine foot-long metal horns on his helm enhanced his aura of intimidation. A small amount of blood red and yellow made up trim and highlights on his thick armor, but it was dominated primarily by black.

In the light of he and his group, Optimus could see that Grimlock had suffered more damage than everyone else combined. And yet, they seemed more like an annoyance than anything else to the titanic mech; he did not even show a sign of mild discomfort.

The seriously injured form of Slug was being carried in Grimlock's servos. His armor and paint had a collection of elements from Sludge, Snarl, and Swoop, and had the unique feature of jagged spikes on the sides of his servos. These features, however, were marred by the melted armor and gaping hole in his chestplates. Whatever had hit him, it had required only one shot to do its damage. That was disconcerting, considering the incredible quality of the armor of all the Dinobots.

For a long moment, Optimus' group stood looking up at the Dinobots in various stages of awe that ranged from Arcee's raised optic ridges, to the twins' openly gaping mouths and widened optics.

"The Dinobots… I thought they were just a rumor," Flareup said as Arcee supported her, reacting to the Dinobots' presence in a similar manner to the twins. She may have held a higher rank than Smokescreen, the twins, Springer, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee, but that was only because she was a demolitions tech, and all demolitions techs were given the rank of Third Lieutenant upon completing their training. In reality, she had the least amount of service time with the Autobots, and had met only a tiny fraction of the Autobots' many special units before Cybertron's population dispersed. To her, the Dinobots had been rumor only, with no faceplates to go with them—meeting the Dinobots in person was like having characters from a story come to life before her optics.

"Ah thought da same thing 'bout da Thirteen," Jazz commented.

The awe on the group was broken as Optimus used his headlights to signal to the Dinobots. He turned his lights off and quickly back on again four times rapidly, then left them off for half a micro-klick before turning them on again. He was was using an old code the Autobots once used to send messages across short distances without fear of them being intercepted by the Decepticons. What Optimus sent was, channel frequency?

Sludge looked at Grimlock for permission.

Almost reluctantly, the Dinobots' leader nodded once, his optics not turning away from Optimus.

Sludge then gave a complex series of signs with his own lights, seemingly flashing them randomly if one did not know the code Autobots used. 109-841.044, was the signal.

Optimus keyed his communications systems to the frequency Sludge signaled, and he established a channel. "Grimlock," he said through the newly created channel, connecting it with the channel he already had with his own group.

"Optimus," came the growl of Grimlock's reply.

"All reports and witnesses concluded you and your unit were offline."

"They were wrong."

"It appears so. How have you survived this long on your own?"

"By being away from you."

The Dinobot leader's response surprised many within Optimus' group, and they exchanged looks of shocked offence at the disrespect to their commander.

Optimus did not react to the insult, partially because he felt it may have been justified—countless had lost their lives under his leadership. "If that were entirely true, you would not be in this situation."

Grimlock said nothing in response.

Optimus was about to continue, to point out to Grimlock that acting in an antagonistic manner did not help his Dinobots, but then the Prime froze. The water had subtly shifted, reacting to something unseen. A humming could be heard from all around them, and it set off alarms in his helm.

And from a short look he gave his group and Grimlock's, the Prime was not the only one who felt uneasy. They were all tense and looking around their inky surroundings suspiciously, as if expecting something to jump out at them from the darkness. It suddenly felt like they were being watched, analyzed—hunted.

The Thunderstroke missiles hit without warning.

For each Autobot, there was at least one missile that targeted them, and at least three targeted each Dinobot.

Ironhide was among the first to be hit, and he went down with two missiles hitting his chestplates.

In a twist of fate, Ironhide being one of the first hit saved his Chromia's life. Her spark felt the same pain its mate was feeling, and she fell to the seabed next to him, saving her the full brunt of the Thunderstroke that targeted her. She was still wounded, but if she had been standing, her more delicately-built frame would have been torn apart by the projectile.

Instinct took over for the other Autobots at that point, and time seemed to slow as their CPUs processed everything around them in nano-klicks.

Arcee, reacting on reflexes honed through countless orbital-cycles of training, pushed Flareup to the seabed, and used the falling femme as a brace for her to jump and flip over the missile meant for her. Jazz dodged the Thunderstroke meant for him at the same moment.

Elita managed to avoid the initial projectile fired on her, but another exploded just to her right, and she went down with shrapnel embedded in almost the entire right side of her chassis.

Springer and Bulkhead were hit at nearly the same time, and both fell heavily to the ocean floor with holes in their armor. The twins fell with them and barely avoided taking further damage from two other Thunderstrokes.

Ratchet and Moonracer went to throw themselves and the Autobots they supported out of the direct path of the missiles. But despite their quick efforts, they were still caught in the blast, and all four went down, two with even more injuries than before.

Jetfire avoided one missile, but was hit immediately by another, and he fell next to Elita.

Optimus swung the Star Saber behind him at chestplate level, cutting a Thunderstroke meant for his backplates in half from warhead to engines. Behind him, Ultra Magnus went to ground as a missile hit him in the exact place Optimus was to be shot, while Snarl and Sludge went down after taking three and four missiles each.

Grimlock remained standing after being hit by half a dozen Thunderstrokes, but he dropped Slug to the ocean floor to prevent the smaller mech from taking any damage meant for Grimlock himself. His roar of challenge was lost in the water, but the red from his horns illuminated an area the size of a small building.

The Prime felt the power within him he did not understand surge, numbing the horror he felt at seeing his Autobots injured. He swung into the darkness, sending another wave of celestial force out from the Ancient artifact. The wave was wider and longer than the ones he used before.

The wave impacted three gunships far in the distance, erasing them from reality; however, the resulting blasts briefly revealed the presence of no less than three gunship wings that had silently surrounded them on all sides, led by an enormous HAC-177 closer to the group and to Optimus' left.

They were trapped.

The power within Optimus guided his servo, and he cleaved another missile meant for him in two. He swung the Star Saber again, and two more gunships vanished as a wave of light cut through them as if they hadn't been there.

Another missile was meant for the helpless Elita, and Optimus destroyed it as well, along two others fired at the twins.

But even as he removed the threats, Optimus felt the power within him begin to fade, and his frame start to become fatigued. For every moment he used the Star Saber, more and more of his energy was sapped. Before long, he felt as if he had not consumed energon in several cycles, and his movements—controlled by the power within him—slowed considerably.

Finally, after four more missiles were destroyed by the ancient blade, Optimus reacted too slowly to block a fifth, which was a larger, more powerful version of a normal Thunderstroke. It exploded against his side, tearing his armor and damaging his internal systems. He was thrown back almost thirty meters by the explosive force—further away from his soldiers than any of the Dinobots—and the Star Saber was sent five times that distance away from the nearest Autobot. He felt a piece of himself disappear as the artifact left his servo.

Arcee and Jazz, who had been able to dodge missiles with their speed, agility, and natural skill and intelligence, were injured by nearby explosions shortly after. They were the last of Optimus' group to fall.

Only Grimlock remained standing, but even he fell to a knee-joint after so many missiles hit his armor.

Once Optimus, Jazz, and Arcee were injured, the barrage of Thunderstrokes suddenly halted. The lights of each gunship were turned on, and Optimus saw that his earlier estimate was off—there were at six gunship wings around them.

The gunships started to move in closer, and more than a hundred red tracers appeared on the frames of the Autobots, multiple coming from the HAC-177.

In that moment, with the heat of battle beginning to fade away as his injuries set in, Optimus knew they had no time left before the Decepticons opened fire again.

And this time, his soldiers could do even less to defend themselves.

The Prime unmuted the channel to base and roared, "OPEN THE SPACE BRIDGE!"

The bridge opened so quickly it seemed like Optimus had summoned it from his CPU. As soon as it opened, the green portal started to suck water into it like a massive vortex.

The Autobots closest to the bridge were sucked into the portal along with the water, as if powerful servos had picked them up and taken them to safety.

One by one, every one of Optimus' Autobots were sucked into the bridge. Even the massive Dinobots were pulled away, leaving Optimus the last one on the other side of the bridge.

Optimus was the last Autobot on the wrong side of the bridge for only a moment, as the green portal started to pull him back to the base as well. But it was flickering, now, dimming. It was failing from the other side.

In a last effort, the Decepticon gunships opened fire on Optimus, sending thousands of rounds in the direction of the Prime.

But it was too late. The portal pulled Optimus into its powerful vortex, and away from the Decepticons, the gunships, undoubtedly Shockwave himself.

… And the Star Saber.

The Ancient artifact lying on the seabed was the last thing Optimus saw before he entered the space bridge just as it failed entirely.

---

Conversation inside the ops center was still mostly easy and casual after we saw that Optimus and the others finally were right next to the other group of Autobots, but I didn't join in.

I was still too focused on getting my comrades—and hopefully seven other Autobots—back to base at a moment's notice, to have an actual conversation at the moment. It may have only been a black and white image, but something about Wildwing's drawing now wasn't sitting well with me. I felt like Optimus and the others were in more danger now than they had been at any point in the mission, and it seemed like the mission was just beginning, and not ending. My spark was telling me to get them all back to base now, and forget the space bridge; Optimus could create another one.

But logically, I knew I couldn't do that. I would be going against my commander's orders, for one thing, and probably get me some time in the brig or at least extra duties on the base. And for another, bringing my comrades and the other Autobot group back would create at least a mega-cycle of unnecessary work for Optimus. He may have had my carrier's Forge, but that didn't mean he knew how to use it as well as she did. To create something as complex as a space bridge, he would need to create it piece by piece, and section by section; he had done that when upgrading the ground bridge into the space bridge. Not only that, but having seawater flood the ops center would destroy more than just the systems of the space bridge. Multiple energon power lines would shut themselves off when water made contact with them, and those would need to be repaired before work could even begin on the space bridge.

In essence, opening the space bridge now, against Optimus' order, would cause problems I could not justify simply by saying I felt as if it should have been done. Waiting for Optimus to contact with further instructions was the best thing to do. He would, more than likely, order me to open the space bridge anyway. And waiting for a few extra micro-klicks was not a serious risk.

At least, that is what I hoped.

Without warning, the life signals of almost all of the team weakened and became erratic. The signals of the other group of Autobots weakened as well, though one less than the others.

I unmuted the channel with Optimus and prepared to activate the space bridge, even as the people and bots around me just started to react to the sudden drop in the team's life signals. But before I could either speak or activate the bridge, I became locked in place as new information appeared on the screen—information that turned my spark to stone.

Arcee was just injured. And I wasn't there.

Thought began to rapidly leave my processor, replaced immediately by white-hot rage. Someone hurt her.

No, no, no. This is not the time for this. The Protocol is not what is needed right now.

My vision started to go red, but I forced my optics shut in an effort to starve off my Quriomus Protocol. This wasn't going to help Arcee.

It would help if I tore whatever attacked her into pieces.

If something was able to injure her while she was on alert for Decepticons, it will tear me apart.

Not when I can repair myself as quickly as I'm damaged.

The red started to creep into my darkened vision, and my hearing faded as I focused even more on keeping my Protocol from activating; dimly, I could hear alarmed statements from everyone else in the room.

Repairing myself is only useful if I can damage whatever hurt Arcee.

What couldn't be damaged with such vastly enhanced strength?

Primus, the Thirteen, Cybertronian warships, Omega Supreme, orbital defenses, multiple Annihilators, large numbers of well-equipped, normal Cybertronians, long-extinct wildlife native to Cybertron. Not necessarily all in that order.

Scalpel and the Paraions on the Hammer would disagree. So would the Hammer, if it could talk.

More red creeped into my vision, and my servos clinched, crushing the metal of the workstation beneath my digits. My spark was beating a mile an astro-klick, while at the same time my thoughts were becoming harder to form—the pure, white-hot rage was starting to bubble.

I was losing.

That was with the element of surprise on my side. And my guards were ordered to keep me contained, not offline me.

They weren't trying to contain me after I offlined one of them—they were trying to take me down after that. The riot soldiers weren't trying to subdue me when they showed up outside my cell. Neither were the soldiers in the hallways trying to recapture me, nor were the bridge crew of the Hammer. All of them had been firing or stabbing to offline me, not disable me in any way. And that hadn't worked out well for them, had it?

… So many lives gone…

Just as my will to fight the Protocol began to crumble entirely, a shouted command from Optimus cut into my deadened hearing, "OPEN THE SPACE BRIDGE!"

My hearing came rushing back in a deafening flood of sound. My optics snapped open, red rapidly disappearing from my vision and clearing. The white-hot rage of the Protocol faded away, replaced by a determined focus on Optimus' order—that was the only thing keeping the Protocol in check.

I slammed my fist on the button that would open the space bridge faster than I had ever carried out a command before, breaking the console without trying. I turned to the space bridge and started walking toward it before my vision was even completely clean of red, nearly missing three nearly identical looks of shock from Jack, Miko, and Raf gave me as I briefly turned to them. My optics must have a hint of red to them.

"Get Wildwing out of here!" I barked far louder than I meant to and at no one in particular, my voice a touch deeper than normal. It solidified my suspicion the Protocol was partially effecting me, both mentally and physically.

The space bridge opened before I heard anyone acknowledge my yelled statement. A virtual wall of dark water came flowing from the portal like it was being shot from a gargantuan fire hose, dimming the light of the portal and flooding the space bridge tunnel. It quickly poured out into the ops center in a violent tide as high as Arcee was tall. I had to brace myself against the flow, but I remained standing despite the massive amount of water streaming from the space bridge.

The first of my fellow Autobots came tumbling through the portal, but I didn't know who they were because they were only a vague silhouette in the dark water. However, from their size, they couldn't be any larger than Prowl.

What could have only been the majority of the rest of my returning comrades came through the space bridge before the first one even stopped moving, littering the floor of the space bridge. An unknown figure—seemingly similar to Optimus and appearance, yet distinctively different—followed them.

The first silhouette of the second group of Autobots was soon followed by six other, massive silhouettes. Each of them were definitely larger than Optimus: One was between Optimus and Megatron in size; three were between seventy and eighty feet in height; one was probably around ninety feet in height; and the final one was so large, they took up nearly the entire space bridge completely all on their own. That mech—because there was no way a femme would be shaped like that—shook the ground when he hit the floor of the ground bridge tunnel.

Once what was certainly the second group of Autobots came through the space bridge, the bridge itself started to fail. The portal flickered, strange, unnerving sounds started to come from the machinery of the bridge, and something in the air began to vibrate.

I had not seen Optimus come through the space bridge yet, and for a moment, it seemed like he would never appear. But then I saw what had to have been his silhouette exit the space bridge.

The bridge failed as soon as Optimus came through, cutting off the supply to the water flooding the ops center and the base itself. The water dropped quickly after that, and soon the tide I had braced against disappeared; however, there was still about ten feet of water in the ops center that was slowly draining to other parts of the base.

I hurried forward as the water drained, carefully walking around my injured comrades—my CPU still being affected by the Protocol and the desire to find and protect Arcee. In moments, I had found the femme I loved. She had a series of nasty-looking puncture wounds on her left pede and a few near her hip on the same side, however the wounds were minor compared to most of the injuries I saw in the others.

But despite this fact, my spark and my chassis were screaming at me to stop standing in front of her, pick her up, take her to the med-bay, treat her wounds until they were completely gone, and then come back to treat the others. I struggled against that course of action, knowing that, logically, she would be okay while I tended to more serious wounds. And, logically, I should not be this willing to forgo others for her when we had only been officially courting since I kissed her upon my return to Earth. Cold logic dictated that I should not be this attached to her so soon. Even with our Imprints and the fact I truly loved her—our processors had not caught up to our sparks.

My spark—and part of my CPU—did not agree with this, and an internal battle between logic and my feelings started to be waged, effectively shutting me down from any type of action.

But then my best friend—newly-redesignated as my courted—looked up at me. And in those azure optics, I saw a look of understanding, and of urging. She knew how I was feeling right now, and was telling me to treat the others first.

Thanks to Arcee, logic won against my feelings—for now. I looked back at the bots who had stayed behind with me. I faintly noticed the absence of Wildwing and Flightstorm, as well as the fact that even the humans on the catwalks were drenched from the water that poured from the space bridge.

"Help me treat the injured," I said, voice normal once again. "Tend to the most seriously wounded first; those with minor injures can wait."

I didn't wait for acknowledgments from the bots in the ops center, and got to work immediately by crouching next to the second smallest of the new Autobots. He was about six feet taller than Optimus, and built a little heavier. It was clear he did not have a vehicle as an alt mode, but instead transformed into what seemed to be a flying dinosaur—a type of Pterodactyl, to be exact. But I wasn't familiar with the exact species.

Upon basic observation and examination, I found the mech to be in stasis lock, leaving a minimal amount I could do to improve his chances until Ratchet or Moonracer were able to treat him. His armor was, like my own, thicker than what was normal for a flying Cybertronian, but it was torn to shreds in many areas. Whatever had sent him to stasis lock, was something that would have offlined most other Cybertronians.

I sealed what injuries the stasis lock hadn't closed, made my way away from the stasis-locked mech, and crouched next to the mech who was similar in size to Optimus. His appearance, when not clouded by water, was very different from my leader's, but he had the same basic colors as Optimus, and he was still about five feet taller than I was. Along with a shoulder-joint that was shredded to the point of it being useless, the mech also had holes melted in his armor, and a long slash across his chestplates that went almost a foot into his internal systems.

"Can you hear me?" I asked the mech in the language of Cybertron as the bots who had been with me in the ops center started to move to other Autobots, minus Smokescreen due to his own injury. There was no telling how long this second group had been on Earth, whether any of them had downloaded Earth's languages, or even if they had access to the internet at any point. But, our native language was guaranteed to allow communication—it was used by nearly all Cybertronians.

"I can, but that is not important," the mech replied. His voice was much deeper and rougher than mine, yet carried a calm and commanding tone to it; he sounded very much like Michael Ironhide, an actor whose work I had enjoyed when I was still a human. He pointed to an unmoving, very large, dull green and earth-colored mech whose frame was almost covered in weapons. His servos were damaged severely, but besides that the second mech seemed to be fine. "Broadside needs treatment more than I do."

"What's wrong with him?" I asked. "The wounds on his shoulder-joints are minor for a mech his size."

"A parasite has been trying to pierce his spark since he freed me from my cell." The mech gestured to the flier I had just treated with his helm. "And according to Swoop there, Broadside has less than half a breem before the parasite succeeds."

I frowned internally. I may have known basic medical treatment—and maybe even had picked up a little more from how many times I had been injured myself—but a parasite was something totally unknown to me. Hell, I only knew Cybertronians could even get parasites because it was a topic briefly addressed during my training. Even then I knew little about how to deal with one serious enough to threaten a bot's life, let alone treat it effectively—the servos of a proper medic were needed for that job.

"Override," I said to the red and yellow femme, who was currently treating Elita for some pretty serious shrapnel damage. I pointed at the unmoving frame of Broadside once she looked up at me. "We need one of the medics up. A parasite is endangering the life of Broadside here, and I don't have the ability to destroy it."

Ratchet, obviously hearing me, opened a sub-space pocket and started to go through it with one servo—his other servo and most of his opposite side were heavily damaged. Several times he brought his servo out of the pocket, tossed a strange-looking medical tool away, and went back to going through the pocket. After going through several tools, he took out a dark, circular device and tossed it to me.

I caught the device easily. "What's this?" I asked, turning the object around in my servo. It had to be a medical tool of some kind, but I had never seen it before.

"Surgical magnet, designed to catch and hold shrapnel in place until a surgeon can treat the injured bot," replied Ratchet.

"Will that stop a parasite?"

"It's a Primus-damned parasite—of course it won't stop it!" The white and red medic snorted. "But, it should slow the parasite down long enough for the critically wounded to be stabilized without first wasting time on Moonracer or I."

"I heard that, Ratchet," Moonracer joked through gritted denta, nursing wounds to her backplates.

I looked back at the unnamed mech who wanted me to treat Broadside. "I lack the skills required to remove or destroy the parasite, and the medics are refusing to be treated until the seriously wounded are stabilized, but I have been given a tool that should delay the parasite long enough for us to get to everyone else. Do you understand?"

The unnamed mech nodded once, optics carrying an accepting look.

I quickly moved to the huge form of Broadside and placed the surgical magnet on his chestplates, just above his spark. I heard the device hiss quietly as it attached itself to Broadside's armor, then the magnet began to hum equally as silent. It was working.

I turned around to make my way back to the unnamed mech, but paused as the largest of the new arrivals picked himself up off the floor, shaking it a bit with each movement.

His armor was nearly as dark and inky as mine, and was highlighted with a little blood red and yellow trim—a modified Autobot symbol was in the center of his chestplates. His armor was impossibly thick, and it was clear he had taken enough damage to offline a small army, yet it barely seemed to effect his movements.

As he stood up, I saw that proportionately he was between Ironhide and I in build, but would have been thrice my height, if he could stand up straight—he was hunching over. Long, metal horns extended from his helm, making him appear twice as intimidating as he already was. Furious, visor-like red optics glared at everything around him, as if he saw it all as weak and disgusting to look at.

It was, at that moment, that I realized I was looking at the mech from the picture Wildwing had drawn.

The enormous mech looked down at me for a moment, helm tilted down as if a sparkling stood in front of him.

"Hey, how you doing?" I asked casually, hiding my discomfort at the titan's stare. It was hard to decide who intimidated me more—this mech or Extremis.

The titan snorted at my words, admitting smoke from behind a battlemask that was covering his faceplate. Then he walked toward the ops center, his steps shaking the ground as he barely made an effort to avoid stepping on injured Autobots.

Once the titan walked away, I made my way back to the unnamed mech and crouched next to him again. "That's all I can do for Broadside. Now, let me treat your own injuries."

The unnamed mech nodded, and pushed himself off the floor so he was sitting up, making it easy for me to treat his injuries. "What is your designation, soldier?"

"My name's Shadowstreaker. I'm the heavy weapons specialist for Optimus Prime's team on Earth, the planet you currently are on," I replied, closing a minor energon vein in the mech's shoulder-joint. "Yours?"

The mech's optics narrowed a millimeter, as if surprised at my question. "Major General Ultra Magnus, leader of the Wreckers."

I blinked. This was Ultra Magnus? No wonder he was surprised—the name Ultra Magnus was almost as famous as 'Optimus Prime.' But what was he doing all the way out on Earth? Optimus had given him the task of preventing the Decepticons from conquering Cybertron after its population dispersed, and the ranks of the Decepticons and Autobots split apart.

"It's an honor, sir, but If you don't mind me asking—what are you doing out here?" I asked as respectfully as I could, at the same time blocking an energon leak from one of the holes in Ultra Magnus' armor.

"Running," Ultra Magnus replied, his voice carrying a noticeably hard edge to it.

"'Running?'" I asked. That wasn't in Ultra Magnus' nature, from what I had read about him.

The Wreckers' leader grimaced as I pulled a jagged piece of metal from his shoulder-joint, what appeared to be a ball of metal from a Thunderstroke missile. "Five vorns ago, the continuing conflict on Cybertron was as it was since the population scattered: Cold and tense. We built one defense tower, they built a defense tower; we constructed a fleet, they constructed a fleet; we equipped ourselves with better weapons, they equipped themselves with better weapons. But we didn't fire on the Decepticons, and they didn't fire on us—energon was too scarce for war on the scale as it was when Optimus was among us."

"Sounds like something changed."

"Something did. In a time where tensions between us were at a relatively normal level, I was sent a message from Shockwave: 'You will leave the planet, or else.' Naturally, I refused to leave my post… But…" He trailed off, and his optics became.

I closed another energon vein. "But?"

"But Iacon payed for it," Ultra Magnus continued after my prompting. "Shockwave began bombarding our shields with high-hypersonic artillery located in several neighboring city-states—we never saw them coming. Almost a quarter of a million shells had impacted the shield by the time we managed to get our own artillery up and running, and by then Teletraan-1 had reduced the barrier's coverage of Iacon to protect as many vital sectors as it could." He set his jaw, optics hardening. "The small civilian sector of Aloix was wiped out with no survivors, right inside the Walls of Iacon. Six-hundred and thirty-three thousand were offlined before we were able to return fire and stop the bombardment, and those casualties are just from Aloix; elsewhere, another one-hundred and thirty thousand were claimed by artillery. It was the largest loss of life Cybertron experienced after most of the population dispersed."

Damn, three quarters of a million gone in a moment. "What was your response to that attack?" I asked, continuing to seal what injuries I could—he had a lot of small ones that would be one, large one if I didn't treat many of them.

"The only response I could give: I kept up a continuous bombardment of the surrounding region, and evacuated all sectors that would be vulnerable to another assault. Then I… Followed Shockwave's demands."

"Why did you do that?" I asked. "Clearly, Shockwave wanted to weaken the Autobots by taking you from command."

"Shockwave threatened further bombardments across all Autobot territories if I did not leave, and promised to use orbital assets if he needed to," Ultra Magnus answered. "So, I informed the Autobots of my decision, made arrangements to leave with two companies of volunteers to search for Optimus, left Sandstorm in charge of our forces on Cybertron, then we left. And Shockwave followed us."

"Then you were captured?" I asked.

Ultra Magnus shook his helm, grimacing again as I had to dig into his shoulder-joint to seal a wound. "No, we led Shockwave on a long chase across several galaxies for the next five vorns. But then, yes… He finally captured us about two orbital-cycles ago."

"And the volunteers who came with you?"

The Wrecker commander's faceplate became stony. "Broadside and I are only ones left of that group. And along with the Dinobots, we represent the last of Shockwave's captives." He looked at his destroyed shoulder-joint. "I ran away to protect lives, but my actions led to lives being lost despite my motivations."

I had no idea what to say to that, and I honestly didn't want to. The way Ultra Magnus was talking about his decision to leave Cybertron was drawing parallels in my processor to my own actions on the Hammer.

At last I was nearly finished getting Ultra Magnus into stable condition. "I would suggest you share your story with Optimus—he'll want to hear it." I twisted one last vein closed, then I could no more without tools. "There. Now I've done what I can for you," I said, silently thankful I was done. I stood up and made to go over to Ironhide, finding myself not wanting to say anything else to Ultra Magnus for now.

"I intend to share it when I can. And, Shadowstreaker," Magnus said to me, regaining my attention. "May I give you some advice?"

I nodded, uncertain of what the Wreckers' leader wanted to say.

"The mech you spoke to a short time ago, Grimlock—be very careful about what you say and how you act around him," Ultra Magnus said, tone and optics even more serious than they had been since I started talking to him. "He has… More than a bit of a temper, and he does not like anyone who is not one of his team. Do not be casual or let your guard down when you are near him."

That made him sound like an energon-thirsty Decepticon. But then again, he was acting very different than any Autobot I've met. "Noted," I said, then turned away and walked to Ironhide.

Not in the mood to talk for a few klicks, I wordlessly started repairing Ironhide, even as the others who had stayed at the base each went to treat another bot. And yet, there were still those who needed to be tended to.

This was probably going to take a while.

---

It took almost a breem to stabilize the bots who had been critically wounded, transport them to the med-bay, and hook them up to the right medical equipment. Not only that, there was still about a foot of water still covering the ops center and the rest of the ground floor of the base—it had fried dozens of electrical systems already.

In terms of injuries, the four Dinobots—as I learned the group that Grimlock led was called—besides their leader would be at a hundred percent within two mega-cycles, even with the severity of Swoop and Slug's wounds.

Grimlock himself would be recovering for longer than his team. He had refused treatment, but definitely not for a noble reason. After my brief encounter with him, he had retreated to the most secluded corner of the ops center and claimed it as his personal space, since he was too tall to walk in our hallways. Whenever someone tried to approach and tend to his absolutely horrific injuries, he glowered at them until they turned and walked away, growling if they didn't do so immediately.

By all appearances, his desire to remain untreated was an issue of pride. And now his pride was going to keep him out of action until his auto-repair systems healed his wounds on their own. If there was ever a pointless reason to refuse medical attention, it was because of pride.

Out of all who were injured, four of the team who went with Optimus would be recovering from their injuries for the next jour, nine would need three mega-cycles to be back to full strength, and the rest would be off their pedes for one mega-cycle at the minimum. Only Broadside's recovery time was less than a mega-cycle, and technically he could be out on patrol in the next three solar-cycles once he onlined; but he was still out after Ratchet and Moonracer gathered enough strength to remove the parasite from the huge mech's sparkcasing.

Treatments for everyone were still an ongoing process, but most of the wounded been moved to the med-bay and were being supervised by Ratchet or Moonracer.

Optimus, Jetfire, and Arcee were the only ones who yet to be moved to the med-bay, but out of choice. Ever since they returned, they had been refusing to be moved or accept medical attention until everyone else had been treated for their injuries.

But, now that everyone besides Grimlock was in the med-bay, Jetfire was the first of the three to finally accept treatment for his wounds. That was what I had just finished giving.

"You should be alright to move now, Jetfire," I said to the seeker, placing the last crude patch on the holes in his wings.

"You mean, 'Be moved,' youngling," Jetfire corrected mildly, looking at the shrapnel sticking out of his pede. "I can only limp, right now."

"I was meaning you could move your upper chassis without accidentally damaging your wings even more," I said, and pulled him onto up onto his pedes before helping him lay down on the hovering energon pallet we had been using as a gurney.

The old seeker snorted, wincing as he put his weight on his damaged wings. "Hmph. And my wings had just healed from the last time I was shot by a Thunderstroke missile. I'm too old for this slag."

I smiled at Jetfire's words and looked at Override, who was waiting to push the energon pallet. "Put him on a berth near Moonracer and Ratchet—they'll advise on how much painkillers he should have."

"Right." Override walked away with that simple acknowledgement, and Jetfire laid in silence.

I watched the Velocitronian take Jetfire away. It felt strange, giving her orders. She was the leader of an entire faction of Cybertronians, and I was just a grunt; it didn't seem right. But, she had only been on Earth for a few breems, same as Air Raid and Silverbolt. And Smokescreen was injured, and logically an injured bot who wasn't a medic should not be giving orders in how to treat wounded. The role of de facto supervisor fell to me until the wounded were taken care of.

Not sure how I felt about that.

I turned to Arcee, who was resting against one of the rings of the now-defunct space bridge.

She narrowed her optics. "Oh, no you don't. Treat Optimus first, I'm fine."

"And if I go to do that, Optimus will insist on me treating you first," I said factually, knowing how Optimus would react to being repaired before one of his soldiers. "And not only are we both sworn to follow his orders, but I want to treat you, as well. You have both a Prime and your courted against you on this. I think you lose this time."

The blue and pink femme sighed, letting her helm fall back onto the ring she was resting against. "Fine. Go head."

Pleased that I managed to convince her to get medical attention, I went to a knee-joint beside her and silently began examining her damaged pede.

After several micro-klicks of silence, Arcee raised one of her optic ridges at me, as if she had expected something. "Well?"

"'Well' what?" I asked, carefully using a medical tool I got from the med-bay to remove a piece of metal from one of the puncture wounds in her pede and placing it on the floor.

"Aren't you going to say something about how you just won an argument?"

"That wasn't an argument. If it was, there probably would have been some shouting involved."

"Not all arguments are loud," my spark pointed out, a slight smile forming on her faceplate. "Have you tried getting into a serious argument with Optimus?"

"A few times," I said. "It's pretty much impossible to succeed without a second person. Optimus never raises his voice in a disagreement, and it's hard to disagree with someone when they can defend their viewpoint so calmly and precisely."

"And also explains very clearly why he's right," said Arcee. "Elita, Prowl, and Ultra Magnus are the only ones who consistently match him in arguments."

"Why do I get the feeling Optimus is more affected by the arguments of one of those bots than the others? And here's a hint: I'm not talking about a mech."

Arcee chuckled at my joke, though it was quickly cut off when I pulled another piece of metal from her pede. "When it isn't something that requires professionalism, I would absolutely agree. But you've seen him in arguments, you know how he is. When a decision needs to be made, he will never show favoritism to anyone."

"I know," I said. "I just wanted to get a laugh out of you."

Arcee smiled, but was silent for several moments—the look in her optics was thoughtful. "How are you holding with being left out of action again?" She finally asked, no trace of the amusement she was feeling not long ago.

I paused after taking out another shard of metal, thinking deeply on the question. Right now, I was completely fine with being sidelined. But I definitely wasn't fine while she and the others were out taking bullets and missiles, while I stared at a computer. And then there was how the Protocol almost activated when I saw that Arcee had been hurt. When I look back on that moment where I struggled against it, it seemed that the Protocol was activating because I couldn't see her—I wasn't near her. It hadn't activated when she was almost offlined right in front of me, and the only reason I could reach that explained why it didn't activate was because I had been near her at the time of her being hurt.

Then again, my Protocol had also been activated for the first time less than ten breems before then, and I had still struggled against it.

"I'm… Better than before," I finally chose as a response, resuming my repairs on Arcee's pede.

"So I can see."

I raised an optic ridge questioningly.

"Jack called me while you treated Ultra Magnus," the blue and pink femme answered. "He said your optics had a red tint to them, and that for a moment, you didn't sound like, well—you."

I sighed quietly. "Yeah. That happened."

"That all you're going to say about it?"

"No." I took out another shard of metal from her pede, placing it on the floor with the others. "I had to battle against my Quriomus Protocol, stop it from activating."

"From what Jack described and what you've said about the Protocol, you didn't succeed entirely."

"I didn't succeed at all," I said bluntly. "I was losing the fight, and would have failed entirely if Optimus hadn't called for the space bridge."

Arcee seemed surprised to hear that. "This isn't a major injury, Shadow'."

"No, but my Protocol apparently doesn't like it when you're hurt and I'm not in the area." I removed the last piece of metal from Arcee's pede, then moved to the shards in her hip. I quickly found I had to make a conscious effort not to look at her curves more than necessary, and at times I looked at the floor instead of what I was touching—it wasn't mine to look at.

I didn't have to look up to know Arcee was either amused or pleased at my actions; maybe it was a little of both. But she still said seriously, "You know, Jack said you scared he and the other kids pretty good."

"It wasn't of my own doing. And if that scared them, my Protocol when it's fully activated would give them heart attacks," I said, removing the first of two halves of a metal shard that had broken in two while embedded in her hip. "Also, Jack shouldn't have been scared; he was there when the Protocol made me offline Airachnid and destroy MECH."

"So was I, yet I saw nothing. He may have been there, but his focus was on his mother. He only saw glimpses of you, nothing more. This was the first time he really saw a hint of what the Protocol does. And Miko and Raf hadn't even seen a passing image of the Protocol before now—it shocked them," Arcee defended. "But that's besides the point. What he said truly scared them was not your optics or your voice—it was your behavior."

I blinked at that. "My behavior?"

My spark looked over at the workstation, at the broken console and the crushed metal on its edges. Then she looked back at me, optics meaningful.

I went back to taking pieces from her hip. "Signs of me struggling against my Protocol."

"I know. Jack and the others were trying to speak to you when it was happening."

"They were? I heard nothing directed at me."

"That's exactly what scared them," Arcee said. "You listen, no matter what you think about something, but you didn't react to anything they said. That—along with how you destroyed the console and had what Jack described as a 'Chilling' demeanor after you opened the bridge—scared them; they aren't used to seeing friends act like something else."

"They walked out of the war room without saying a word, yet they consider me friend two breems later?" I asked, genuinely confused by their behavior. Either they were angry at me, or they weren't—it couldn't be both.

Arcee shook her helm lightly, as if I wasn't understanding her. "They're teenagers, Shadow'. Human teenagers. There are enough hormones running through their veins to affect their brains like a few cubes of high-grade. Things they usually find comforting may suddenly annoy them, and their moods shift faster than I can change speeds. They may have left before you could explain anything further, but that doesn't mean they don't see you as a friend. They're just… Emotional."

I hummed. It was possible hormones had something to do with Jack, Miko, and Raf leaving, even if Raf had appeared sad instead of angry. I had dealt with my early teens by developing a mostly logical thought process, as well as joking with people I was close with—but all teens dealt with their emotions and hormonal changes differently. "So, what should I do about them, then? I had been about to talk to them about their departure from the war room when the sensors detected the Dinobots, Magnus, and Broadside."

My spark was silent for a few micro-klicks, faceplate blank, but with thoughtful optics. "I would give them some time before talking to them. My transition vorns were not a happy time for me—I'd wait for them to ask you to talk. And with Jack being the unofficial leader of their group, you shouldn't be waiting long. He's smart, and he'll realize sooner or later avoiding directly talking to you is immature."

I hummed again. "I'll consider that. But, what about the others who walked out?" I asked, giving her a serious look.

She had no answer for that.

We were silent until I finished taking out shards of metal from Arcee's hip. Good thing, too—it was starting to get harder to avoid looking at Arcee's rather… Well-proportioned curves. "Finished. Do you need help getting to the med-bay?"

The blue and pink femme looked at me in mock offense, and pushed herself off the floor and onto her pedes. She tested her weight on her left pede, and immediately grimaced and almost fell. When I went to help her, she waved me off. "No, I'm fine. I'll limp to the med-bay, but I'll be fine. Go treat Optimus—he's the last one, now."

I remained standing in front of her.

Arcee rolled her optics. "I'll. Be. Fine. Now, go; I'll see you later in the med-bay." She didn't wait for me to reply, and started to limp slowing toward the hallway. She was wincing with each step.

I felt like I should help her anyway, but I grudgingly listened to her assurances and walked over to Optimus, who was sitting against the wall below the human catwalks.

The Prime looked worn from the rescue mission, but his only wound was a large hole in his side. His optics were a bit dim and secluded, as if his attention was not on his surroundings. His battlemask was also still in place.

He looked up at as I approached, the look in his optics disappearing. "Shadowstreaker."

"Optimus," I addressed in kind, kneeling so I could treat his injury. "Sorry it took so long to get to you; there were a lot of wounds we needed to tend to."

"And there will be for quite some time. Our injuries will continue to demand attention until they are repaired. In order for that to happen, our frames will require a great amount of rest," Optimus noted. His optics grew guarded again. "But I fear we cannot afford to rest."

I removed part of a solid ball of metal that had pierced Optimus' armor, at the same time giving my commander a puzzled look. "Why?"

"I have... Lost the Star Saber." Optimus said the words slowly, yet with a cold indifference that seemed forced. It was like his statement pained him.

I looked at him sympathetically, then returned to getting pieces of the ball of metal out of the Prime's side. I had noticed the Star Saber was missing, but I didn't have a chance to ask about it until now. "I figured. But, losing the Star Saber isn't the end of us—we still have my carrier's Forge and Megatronus' Omni Saber."

"Neither can match the Star Saber in power," the Prime countered. "Shockwave is also a very gifted mech in the field of science; he will account for a security system built into the Star Saber. How much will he be able to learn from the technology of the Ancients?"

I had no response to that, so I focused entirely on healing Optimus.

Optimus and I descended into silence for about half a klick, then the Prime said, "I have heard you experienced a moment of… Distress."

"Arcee told you what Jack said to her?" I asked.

The Prime nodded. "She did. The others in the ops center at the time also found it worthy of mentioning to me. Agent Fowler was particularly vocal."

Not surprising there. Fowler was the only one I hadn't asked Optimus to call to the war room for my debriefing—he had no information of the Quriomus Protocol. "My Protocol didn't like Arcee being injured while I wasn't close to her. I didn't like her being hurt."

"Injuries are a part of our duties as Autobots," Optimus said. "If Flareup's wariness of your Protocol proves to be founded, you may begin to develop complications in the future; your Protocol should not activate so easily."

"Yeah. I know," I said, not meeting Optimus' optics as I took out another piece of metal.

The Prime seemed to sense my mood, and added, "But, it is good your Protocol did not activate this time. And you managed to still activate the space bridge when I requested it. Everything turned out the best that it could, under the circumstances."

"This time it did, but what about the next one?"

"If there is one," Optimus said firmly. "You will deal with it when it is in the present. Worrying about it now affects you in a negative manner."

I dropped my argument, knowing it was pointless to continue. Arcee and I had just had a discussion on how arguing with Optimus never worked, so why did I even try?

Silence fell on us again. But as I treated Optimus, I saw that Grimlock was glaring in our direction from his corner. When I looked fully at him, the titan continued to glare, then looked away, staring at the wall in front of him.

Normally, I would have been unnerved that Grimlock was glaring at me, but while I was treating the others, I noticed Grimlock deliberately glaring at Optimus on two different occasions. He had a problem with the Prime.

"What's between you and Grimlock?" I asked, thankful I was able to come up with another topic to talk about before the silence continued for too long.

The Prime sat up a little straighter, optics focused forward and away from the titanic mech. "Grimlock and I have seldom agreed on strategy, logistics, or personal philosophy. He views losing three cities to save four as worth the price, while I always search for a way to lose no cities at all; he finds the finer points of command pointless and a waste of time, yet soldiers will offline from lack of energon if those duties are not planned and ignored; and he views anyone who is weaker than his Dinobots as a pathetic excuse for a life, while I value all lives regarding of race. These disagreements have greatly increased in frequency since he became a Second."

"'Second'?" I asked, giving Optimus a confused look. I had never heard that term before.

"A Second is a term used to refer to Cybertronians whose sparks have been transferred to another frame," answered Optimus. "The process is very delicate and can end with the Cybertronian's spark being lost before their time, but it was not uncommon before and during the war for a Cybertronian to have their spark transferred to a chassis they built specifically for war."

"So, Grimlock was… Shorter, at one point?"

The battlemask made it impossible to know if Optimus reacted to my casual joke. "At one point, Grimlock was your height. Sludge, Slug, Snarl, and Swoop were all shorter than Bulkhead, as well."

"All the Dinobots are Seconds, then?" I asked, taking out yet another shard out of Optimus' armor.

"They are."

"What happened to make them all want to change frames?"

The Prime went silent, a saddened look appearing in his optics in a flash, then vanishing just as quickly. "It was not by their own choices."

I paused and looked up, waiting for him to explain.

"Late in the war, Shockwave managed to capture the Dinobots; back then, they were still called the, 'Lightning Strike Coalition Force,'" Optimus said. "They endured four vorns of Shockwave's experiments, tests, and tortuous treatments. During their captivity, Shockwave found the frames of the Dinobots lacked the strength and durability to withstand his experiments. He created new, larger frames for each of them, and designed them exclusively for battle. Their armor was thicker, their weapons were more powerful, their strength was multiplied ten-fold, and they were given new alt modes."

"Dinobots," I said, suddenly seeing the name in a new light. I couldn't believe I hadn't realize it before. "Their alt modes are dinosaurs."

"Now that I understand what dinosaurs are, I can say with certainly that Shockwave did base their alt modes on those creatures," Optimus said. "It is my personal opinion that Shockwave admires the primitive ferocity of Earth's ancient monsters, and desired to create that ferocity in Cybertronians through experimentation."

"Shockwave wasn't done with them, yet?"

"Unfortunately, he was not. Shockwave's goal was to create super-soldiers, Cybertronians vastly powerful who were loyal to him and him alone." The Prime shook his helm. "He did not succeed with any of them. Even with their new forms, Sludge, Slug, Swoop, and Snarl lacked the strength to live through the treatments Shockwave gave them—each one them were revived on the operation tables multiple times. But Grimlock… Grimlock was different than the others. His chassis accepted each treatment he was given, no matter how extreme or painful; he remembers every moment of them, as well. His strength was greatly increased for a second time, and his armor thickened. But instead of creating the loyal super-soldier Shockwave desired, the experiments created something he did not count on: Grimlock's temper."

I raised an optic ridge at that, and returned to treating Optimus' injury by taking out another piece of metal. "Grimlock didn't have a temper before he was captured?"

"He did, but it was nothing compared to what it is now. Something inside Grimlock broke during his captivity—a dam that contained his rage. When in battle, he is more like an embodiment of black fury than a mech. And when not in battle, his anger is still present, still affecting him constantly; and at times, he loses control of it even while off the battlefield. Rarely have I seen Grimlock with no trace of anger after Shockwave conducted his experiments."

"You're making it sound like he's closer to a monster than a bot," I said, glancing at the titanic mech out of my peripheral vision as he continued to just sit in his corner, barely moving at all.

"Then I am explaining incorrectly," said Optimus. "Grimlock does not slaughter others, and he does not let himself surcome completely to his murderous rage. He is simply… Troubled, and has decided the two things he has left to live for are his Dinobots, and working toward the goal of revenge against Shockwave."

I looked at Grimlock again as I took out the last piece of metal in Optimus' armor and started to seal the wound. Now that the Prime had explained a little of Grimlock's personal history, I felt that I understood the titan a bit better than before. The mech had been pushed beyond his breaking point under Shockwave's treatments, and had pulled himself back together before he was completely lost. The experience changed him in a negative way, but the fact he did not let himself be reduced to a thoughtless monster proved his will to resist must be have been… Immense. I respected that; it made my own struggle with the Protocol seem almost trivial.

But unfortunately, what was reality and what seemed like reality could be two completely different things.

Just as I finished sealing Optimus' injury, I saw Flightstorm and Cyberfrost enter the ops center with Wildwing, the mechling contentedly being carried by his sire.

"Shadowstreaker, did you leave your courted to limp back to the med-bay on her own?" Flightstorm asked as he and his family moved over and stood next to Optimus and I.

"She insisted on bringing herself to the med-bay, told me twice to let her leave without me before I could say anything," I replied.

Cyberfrost and Flightstorm shared a look, then they both looked at me. "Rookie mistake," they echoed at the same time.

"What?" I asked. I obeyed Arcee's wishes—how was that bad?

The two neutrals smiled, but didn't answer before they looked at Optimus. "We—"

"Wanted to continue attempting to find an answer to your son's unusual behavior," the Prime interrupted calmly.

"Yes…" Cyberfrost said slowly, blinking at how Optimus correctly guessed the reason she and her mate were in the ops center with us. "How did you know that?"

"You waited patiently for me to construct the needed parts for your vessel, our time was cut short when I led the rescue mission, and I promised to help you find an answer," Optimus listed. He looked at Wildwing as the seekerlet get out of his sire's servos and climbed down to be next to Optimus, soon lying down at his uninjured side. "But I do not believe further questioning of Wildwing will be necessary. After spending time speaking with your son about his new behavior, and pondering my thoughts during and after the rescue mission, I am now convinced Wildwing is a Seer."

Wildwing's creators looked at Optimus in confusion, and I joined them; Wildwing stretched himself out against Optimus' side and started to nod off.

"What's a Seer?" Flightstorm asked.

"And how are you sure that Wildwing is one?" Followed up Cyberfrost.

"All that is known of Seers comes from the Matrix I carry. It has told me a Seer is a sentient who is able to see, know, and predict thoughts, feelings, and even events from both the past and the future," the Prime said. "Seers cannot explain how, where, or why such information comes to them, and rarely have they understood the significance of the knowledge they are gifted. Before Wildwing, there were only two Seers known among any being—Cybertronian or otherwise—to have ever existed: A femme in the Golden Age named Windrider; and an organic named Meralc of a race called the Chitor. I firmly believe Wildwing is the third Seer to be documented in our history."

I shared a surprised look with Cyberfrost and Flightstorm, then we all looked at the now-recharging Wildwing with a newfound wonder. Everything Optimus said fit with what Wildwing himself had shared. Not only was he experiencing a feeling he could not explain or understand, but he was receiving images and information he couldn't possibly have found out on his own; his numerous drawings and factual statements of events, feelings, and places he had no knowledge of proved that. Wildwing was a Seer, like Optimus said. I had no doubt about that, when I examined the facts we knew.

But the question was: If Wildwing was a Seer, who—or what—was providing the mechling with all of his new knowledge and strange, indescribable feelings?

"What will we have to do with him?" Asked Cyberfrost, breaking us from our own thoughts.

"Even the Matrix does not know," replied Optimus, looking down at the recharging seekerlet at his side. "Seers are so rare, the true potential of their abilities is unknown, as is the affect such knowledge may have on their long-term mental health. My personal recommendation is to have Wildwing examined on a regular basis, and to speak to me about every instance where he draws or feels something he does not understand. If the Matrix is allowed to monitor Wildwing's habits and progress with his abilities, it may allow the Matrix to formulate a better plan for Wildwing, and any other Seer in the future."

"For you to speak to Wildwing that much, he would need to stay here," Flightstorm concluded, tone clearly indicating he did not like the idea. I couldn't blame him for that—I would act the same way at even the suggestion I wouldn't see my son.

"I would never ask a creator to separate themselves from their creation. And yet, Wildwing's status as a Seer may prove to have importance none of us can imagine. Which is why I have an alternative suggestion for you two, and a potential offer to take to your captain," the Prime said, not looking up from Wildwing.

Flightstorm and Cyberfrost gave Optimus nearly identical looks.

"What kind of offer?" Asked the former Decepticon.

"And what type of suggestion?" Cyberfrost added.

Optimus finally looked back up at Wildwing's creators. "The offer and the suggestion are tied together. What I propose is that you return to Apex Sentinel and have a medic give Wildwing a short examination every solar-cycle, and have him write about every feeling he received he does not understand; however, in two jours, you will return to Earth for a period of time of your own choosing. You would bring copies of every note your medics wrote during Wildwing's examinations, every drawing and writing Wildwing created. He and I would then speak about every picture he created and every note he wrote, while my own medics would make certain of his physical and mental health while you are on Earth. In exchange for making the journey to Earth, each visit I will provide whatever resource the Apex Sentinel requires up to the quantity the Collected is able to safely carry. Is this compromise agreeable to you?"

Wildwing's creators were silent, though I could tell they were communicating through their sparkbond. Finally, Flightstorm said, "We both find the offer generous, and your willingness to monitor Wildwing's… Gift to be more than welcome, but…"

"We can't accept, not without approval from Delta," Cyberfrost carried on for her mate. "It wouldn't be right for us to make a decision like this without first consulting our captain."

"I understand and respect your decision to discuss the matter with your captain," said Optimus. "When I stand, I will give you a channel frequency for you to use to contact us with your definitive answer after you have discussed my proposal with Captain Delta."

"I wouldn't worry about getting us that frequency too quickly—we're not going anywhere for a while," Flightstorm said, looking at the ruined space bridge.

Optimus shook his helm. "I am going to begin repairs to the base within the breem. The only reason I am sitting now, is to allow my frame a little time to accept the repairs Shadowstreaker has given me."

I looked at the Prime in surprise. "Optimus, you have a giant hole in your side. That is going to take more than 'A little time' to repair. If you force yourself to stand, you'll just make the injury worse."

"And if I do not stand, our base will remain damaged," Optimus pointed out calmly, his attention now focused on me. "With the destruction of the space bridge and the console of our workstation, we have no communications, defenses, sensors, or effective transportation. The only way our base will be fully restored within a reasonable amount of time is to use the Forge of Solus Prime to create temporary systems to replace those that are damaged, and begin repairs to to the base once temporary systems are in place. And only I can use the Forge."

I internally sighed at how easily he defused my protest. With almost everyone down due to injuries, there was little we could do to repair the base. We could repair or restore many systems, of course, but the most vital ones would take an unreasonable amount of time. Even if it was going to be damaging to Optimus himself, his plan was still logical and would return the base to proper functionality in a relatively short period of time.

A crash from the hallway halted my thoughts, and we all looked at the hallway entrance. What was that?

"We told you letting Arcee walk there on her own was a rookie mistake," Flightstorm said factually, turning his attention on me.

I sighed and stood to my pedes. "I'll be back," I said, and walked into the hallway to investigate the noise, hoping it wasn't Arcee injuring herself on her way to the med-bay. Perhaps I really should I have gone with her.

After moving further down the hallway, I came upon Arcee, and it was clear she had indeed been the source of the crash I heard.

She was lying on her tank, just starting to pick herself up off the floor. Her left pede was even more limp than it had been before, and I could tell she was wincing every time she moved it or her left hip even marginally. Something had given out in her hip or her pede, or maybe both of them.

Arcee rolled herself onto her backplates, faceplate set in a grimace of pain as she had to move her pede more than before. She noticed me standing near her at that point, and narrowed her optics. "I don't want to hear a word from you."

I crouched next to her. "I should have ignored you when you said to treat Optimus instead of helping you."

"Probably, because my innermost femme emotions are somehow trying to pin the blame for this on you."

"So, by obeying what you told me to do, I am at fault for your pede giving out, even when I offered to help you before?" I asked, tone confused. That made absolutely no sense...

"That is what my emotions are saying to me," deadpanned Arcee. She crossed her servos. "And I am considering agreeing with them."

"How could I—oh, nevermind." I reached down and picked my courted up and carried her, being careful not to jostle her left pede or hip any more than I needed to. Then I started walking toward the med-bay.

Arcee examined my servos and hummed in thought. "I suppose this will make up for your earlier failure," she said evenly, bordering on a serious tone.

"Have your emotions forgiven me?"

"They are undecided. But, I believe the delivery of half a cube of high-grade may improve your chances of complete redemption," she joked.

"I'll take that over an outright, 'No,'" I said with a short chuckle.

Neither us said needed to say another word after that.

---

(Human calendar) July 16, 2013 8:18 P.M

(Cybertronian date) 1103432 (Centivorns since the end of the Golden Age)

Decepticon base, three-hundred and fifty miles northeast of Madagascar

Shockwave made his way through his secret laboratory, his single optic taking note of every electrical system that would need to be replaced.

Many breems had past since the failed mission to recover Ultra Magnus, Broadside, and the Dinobots. The lowest level of Base Zetta-3 had been drained of seawater in that time, and repairs to damaged or ruined systems were ongoing; repairs to the doors Grimlock had broken had yet to begin. But that was a task Shockwave would have the automated systems of his secret laboratory see to—the optics of normal drones would see things they were not meant to.

Not until the time was right for him to strike.

Since before the war had broken out on Cybertron, Shockwave had been Megatron's most loyal follower—the first to carry out his orders. When Megatron required a city-state to be devoted to the Decepticon cause, Shockwave made sure its citizens became willing to give up anything to fight the Autobots. When Megatron wanted bots to stop protesting the tyrannical rule and moral code of Decepticons, Shockwave personally saw to the punishment to the masses; he also would execute the ringleaders if Megatron was not available. Countless times, Shockwave turned Autobots against their allies, or used them as unwilling tools or bombs against Optimus Prime and his followers.

But times were changing—the war had dragged on long enough for Shockwave's tastes; Megatron's use to him was running out rapidly. The time was fast approaching for Shockwave to cast aside the cloak of false loyalty he had hidden his own ambitions, goals, and desires behind since before the war, and usurp the title of Lord of the Decepticons from Megatron.

Under his leadership, Shockwave knew he would be able to pacify the Autobots at last, reform the Decepticons, and create the ideal Cybertronian civilization—free of both freedom and scientific stagnation. A new Golden Age of economic prosperity and scientific research would commence, ushering in fantastic advancements in technology. Advanced treatments would turn all military personnel into super-soldiers loyal to Shockwave and Shockwave alone, securing him firmly as the ultimate ruler and leader. Countless fleets of thousands of ships would conquer any planet with resources of value, and return Cybertron to its status as the most dominating superpower within a hundred galaxies.

In the centi-vorns since the war began, Shockwave had slowly gained the loyalty and respect of many important individuals in the Decepticon ranks. Chiefly among these were the Warlords Thunderwing, Slipstream, Straxus, and Grindcore. Their fleets, armies, and the resources of their conquered worlds secretly were loyal to Shockwave and not Megatron. They were very powerful allies, and their voices carried great weight among the Decepticons in the Triangulum and Andromeda Galaxies.

However, even with the support of his secret followers, Shockwave's ultimate goal was currently unreachable. While all data and logical conclusions pointed to Shockwave being the most efficient and effective choice as leader of the Decepticons—and some had come to realize this—most did not agree. Megatron inspired a fanatical loyalty from most of his followers—ninety-nine point point one percent of all Decepticons overwhelmingly approved of the former gladiator's leadership; the remaining point nine percent knew better than to say anything against Megatron. And no matter how powerful his allies were, Shockwave would not be able to overcome sheer numbers.

Shockwave also held no illusions that he would be able to openly confront Optimus Prime and come out victorious. The Prime was Megatron's opposite in every way, yet he was the stronger of the two warring brothers. Not physically—Megatron beat him in that—but in personal restraint, capability for compassion and mercy, raw intelligence, and tactical finesse.

All but the final two traits were useless, but they inspired a loyalty almost as powerful as Megatron's—one that was truly genuine and borderline zealous in nature. No matter how many Autobots fell, as long as the Prime was online, the Autobot cause lived on to gain more followers. And as long as Optimus lived, Megatron would hunt him no matter where the hunt took him.

The conflict between the two brothers was both what allowed Shockwave's plans to be possible, and the reason they were just out of reach. He needed Optimus Prime to offline and demoralize the Autobots, but perhaps the only mech who may have been capable of doing so would destroy Shockwave's own plans for leadership by solidifying his superiority over all other rivals—Shockwave included—by offlining the mortal enemy of the Decepticons. His plans were in an unending limbo between success and failure.

What Shockwave required was insurance that in the end, he had an advantage against both Optimus and Megatron that neither of them were aware of—an advantage he could use to topple both, if necessary.

The scientist continued on through his secret laboratory, examining experiments and the Ferals he had locked away when Grimlock began to break out of the most secure area of the lab. Then he came to a massive duraglass container in the middle of one of the rooms the Autobots had nearly demolished on their way out of the lab.

A mixture of sediment and seawater was inside the container, and on top of the sediment, the legendary Star Saber was lying in the exact same position it had fallen when it was dropped by Optimus Prime.

After the Autobots fled the battle which claimed multiple gunships, Shockwave ordered a troop transport equipped with a container to report to his location. It arrived as ordered, and created a crater around the Star Saber that was twenty meters in diameter. Then it merely closed the container around the weapon, and returned to Base Zetta-3 with the Star Saber safely held behind the duraglass, away from the servos the Ancient artifact deemed unworthy to even touch it.

Shockwave read the report Soundwave filed for Megatron after the Decepticons' current leader attempted to recover weapons of the Ancients, and taken particular note of the apparent defense systems installed into the artifacts. Such security was brilliant. If any undesirable made contact with an object deemed important and given the countermeasure, the object would simply crumble to dust, preventing the undesirable from laying their hands or servos on what they desired.

But Shockwave had not touched the weapon during its recovery, and now it was in his possession. The scientist had seen the blade in use, and never had he seen a personal weapon equal to its power. If a mech like himself had been able to use the Star Saber, it would have given him more than adequate insurance against both Optimus Prime and Megatron; neither of the mechs would withstand the Star Saber's power when it was focused on them.

Unfortunately, the Star Saber was evidently restricted to the use of a Prime—studying it from behind a container would have to do. He likely would learn little of use from the Ancient artifact, but that was, perhaps, for the best. It was, after all, illogical to stake the success of centi-vorns of planning on the ability to use a single weapon.

However, that was precisely what Shockwave had done.

When he captured Grimlock and his unit, Shockwave immediately saw their potential for his Dinobot Program. They were stronger and more aggressive than any other Autobots, and few Decepticons could match the ferocity they brought into battle; their wills were admirably powerful. They were warriors before they were Autobots, and the Autobots knew and respected that. Shockwave expected that, when the treatments began, the warrior qualities of then-Lightning Strike Coalition Force would be amplified along with the strength of their new frames, while also reducing their intelligence. From there, it would be easy to manipulate their CPUs into believing loyalty to Shockwave would give them unending opponents to prove their skills as fighters against.

Unfortunately, Shockwave overestimated their ability to withstand the operations required for the full success of the Dinobot Program; their frames could not withstand the punishment. He created new frames for them, but even then the treatments increased the strength of their new frames was only moderately; their intelligence remained nearly the same as before.

Grimlock's transformation into a super-soldier, however, was nearly a complete success physically, but his CPU was the least effected by the treatments. He now harbored a hatred for Shockwave that no one else could truly understand, simply because of its intensity. If they were within a hundred kilometers of one another, Grimlock would hunt Shockwave with a steadfast determination—Shockwave knew from experience.

The scientist looked down at the Pulse Cannon that made up his left servo, the only permanent injury Shockwave had ever received. It was given to him by Grimlock, when the newly-renamed Dinbots escaped his tower on Cybertron. Shockwave had been watching their progress from an observatory at another location, treating Grimlock's brutal slaughter of the Decepticons in his way as nothing more than an unexpected, yet controllable test.

Shockwave had been wrong.

Grimlock offlined hundreds of Decepticons that cycle, overcoming the strongest obstacles Shockwave could place in his path as he relentlessly searched for the scientist. And eventually, he found Shockwave, more than ninety kilometers away from where Grimlock and his Dinobots had been held. Shockwave attempted to offline Grimlock with security systems contained within the room, but the massive mech simply destroyed them and overpowered Shockwave. The Dinobot leader then tore Shockwave's left servo off and beat him with it until the armor of his chestplates cracked, his pedes were broken, and his tank was ruptured. Grimlock would have offlined him there, if not for the timely arrival of a Decepticon heavy frigate Shockwave had called for evacuation klicks before the Dinobots' arrival. The frigate fought the Dinobots—mostly Grimlock—off, and took Shockwave away to mend his extensive injuries.

Since that cycle, he had been trying to find a way to force Grimlock into his service—the other Dinobots were secondary. Having a loyal attack Cyberhound with power like Grimlock's would be invaluable when Shockwave ousted Megatron's command, and would give Shockwave a hidden advantage against Megatron's forces. When Shockwave finally tracked down and recaptured Grimlock and his Dinobots again a little more than vorn ago, he made sure to keep them in maximum security cells at all times—even when he conducted further experiments to force their loyalty he did not move them.

But, nothing he used to try bending Grimlock's will to his had worked; the changes to his frame overrode Shockwave's efforts beyond sabotaging the massive mech's ability to transform. If anything, the new experiments made him stronger—that conclusion was supported by the destruction around Shockwave. This led to Shockwave enacting his last resort: The Clean Slate.

The Clean Slate was Shockwave's final hope of harnessing Grimlock and the Dinobots' power. It involved heavily sedating the Autobots, removing and destroying their CPUs and sparks, and replacing their CPUs with basic, dumb processors that were easily programmed to be absolutely loyal to Shockwave. It would greatly reduce the combat effectiveness of the Dinobots, Grimlock in particular, but they would still be very powerful servants. And when Shockwave also unexpectedly found Ultra Magnus and a number of Wreckers while traveling in the Dark Matter, Shockwave eagerly added the Wrecker commander of the strongest individual Wrecker to the Clean Slate—they would have been a useful psychological tool against the Autobots.

Yet, not even the Clean Slate was available to Shockwave. Grimlock and the Dinobots had escaped, and Ultra Magnus and Broadside had gone with him. The Dinobot Program was a total loss, and Shockwave had nothing to show for the vast resources he had invested into it. He had no new force of completely loyal super-soldiers, no new play against Megatron and Optimus Prime, and he had no way to decrease the massive disparity in the number of his followers compared to Megatron's.

The thought of numbers created a new thought, and Shockwave looked across the room, where the Universal Bridge sat. If he was to make the Bridge work and gather resources and technology from other realities, what prevented him from taking on new subjects for use in experiments?

They would be untraceable, limitless in numbers, and potentially could have qualities and abilities not seen in this reality. Shockwave could take them from their home realities, study them, implant them with the inhibitors he attempted to use on Grimlock, and make them loyal to him before augmenting them. He would likely be limited to capturing organic races, but in the world of science, everything could change. If he needed them to be organics, they would remain organics; if he needed them to be mechanical, they would be mechanical. It would take time for such modifications, but in the end, they would be what he wanted them to be.

Through the use of the Universal Bridge, the Dinobot Program may not be a total loss. It could be reformed, improved. It would be turned into something far larger and more powerful, and produce far more than just five altered mechs with the strength of multiple bots.

Project:Predacon… Would make armies.

Shockwave turned his thoughts away from the prospect of the Bridge. Currently, the Universal Bridge was plagued by a problem Shockwave lacked the ability to solve: How to actually enter different realities and return safely. Even entering alternate realities was beyond him. Using the Universal Bridge was a logical answer to his problem, of course, but his inability to solve the difficulties that prevented it from unlocking physical portals to different realities made it an unobtainable goal. And it was illogical to create ambitions and plans when an insurmountable obstacle made them impossible to complete.

… Or were they not impossible?

An idea began to form in Shockwave's CPU, and he looked back to the Star Saber—a weapon said to be sharp enough to cut atoms at will—with a calculating, if thoughtful gaze.

Perhaps the Star Saber could be more useful than he thought.

---

July 15, 2013 10:40 P.M

S.T.F 141 Headquarters, deep in the Rocky Mountains, Wyoming

Lieutenant General Lance Shepherd sat at his desk, flipping through reports as he always did in the late hours of the night on Fort Creed, one of many bases created exclusively for use by the S.T.F.

Fort Creed was less than three years old, but it was also perhaps the most advanced human military installation currently in existence. It was more than twenty-six miles from any form of civilization, and built into two sections. One was built into a mountain—protected by more than a mile of rock above—and one was built alongside the mountain.

The outside section of Fort Creed had two, thirteen thousand foot-long runways that were wide enough for the largest planes the S.T.F designed to land with no issue—hangers built into the mountain could house up to four-hundred and forty aircraft. Buildings for personnel and land vehicles were also outside. Testing grounds for prototype tanks, APCs, and aircraft were located north of the base, even further away from civilization. Numerous firing ranges, both for infantry and for armed vehicles, were scattered throughout the base. One firing range was for experimental weapons only, and it was more than five miles in length; soldiers stationed at Fort Creed tended to call it, 'Curvature,' due to the fact the end of the range would be beyond the curvature of the Earth if it was at sea level.

The inside section of Ford Creed was built mostly for security and intelligence purposes. Its sensors could tell the difference between a Rabbit and a Hare more than ten miles away, and knew when something as small as a Gnat was in its airspace. The most advanced missile shield the S.T.F had ever designed protected the base from missile strikes, even when the base was rated to not only survive a nuclear blast from several miles away, but remain fully functional after taking a direct hit from a Russian R-36 ICBM. A collection of supercomputers were housed within its rocky walls, cracking most encrypted data in seconds, or simply unlocking messages from secure channels. A large room in the center of the base housed the main communications and satellite hub. A number of laboratories and assembly plants were also in the inside portion of Fort Creed, creating the advanced equipment, materials, weaponry, and everyday technology the S.T.F fielded and researched for future use.

Shepherd read several reports within a minute; he had always been a speed reader. Many reports were useless or bland, as they should have been—it would be a bad sign if every report the General received was noteworthy. But he paused for a moment as he picked up a report from Captain Johnston, the Navy officer who officially ran the newly-refitted Diego Garcia.

After the Decepticon attack on the Al Udied Air Base four years ago, the United States set new security requirements for all military installations and reevaluated the defenses of each military base they operated overseas by using drills to simulate attacks against each installation one by one—most were found to be inadequately defended with the new security standards set in place.

Within a month of the reevaluations, Congress authorized the funds necessary to bring all overseas military bases up to the new standard. Localized missile shields were created, advanced sensors, anti-tank, and anti-infantry systems were deployed, all types of equipment were hardened against EMP attacks, and prototype barricades and new materials for walls and buildings were set in place. Many Naval bases were increased in size so that even Nimitz-class or the new Gerald R. Ford-class aircraft carriers could make port and resupply.

Diego Garcia was one of these bases, but it was one of several locations around the world that Shepherd had established a presence for the S.T.F. This resulted in the island seeing more development than most other Naval bases: A water treatment facility and distillery had been constructed, providing the population of the base all of its water needs and treating all waste and sewage created; a system of anti-air and anti-missile systems were spaced along the entire island; a state-of-the-art radar and sonar system could tell the difference between an insect and an F-22 Raptor more than a hundred nautical miles away; Camp Thunder Cove had been expanded greatly—it now had two full battalions of Marines equipped and ready to deploy into any type of battle; the Camp's capacity for deploying and servicing air assets had seen similar expansion, and seven-hundred and fifty bombers, multi-role fighters, strategic bombers, stealth bombers, long-range, stealth drones, experimental aircraft, and even several X-47Cs were on Diego Garcia on any given point.

The port had been expanded as well, and upto three Nimitz or Gerald R. Ford-class carriers or as many as five Tarawa, Wasp, or America-class amphibious assault ships could dock at the same time. Upto ten Ticonderoga-class cruisers, Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigates, or Arleigh Burke-class destroyers could be docked along with the carriers without interfering with the now-thirty-three support vessels deployed at any given moment to Diego Garcia. However, only three warships were currently docked to the base: The USS Port Royal; the USS Halsey; and the USS Wayne E. Meyer.

The number would have been four, if the Michael Murphy had still been afloat.

Since the Murphy's disappearance, the world's powers had been on high alert: Russia had become a black hole to the outside world, as its government had a talent for doing; China had tripled its naval activity within its maritime borders and beyond, escalating tensions in the region even further; India was demanding to know what happened in its own backyard; Israel locked down its borders; North Korea wanted to honor whoever sunk the Murphy, and was throwing around threats of war as South Korea stepped up its military activity; and the United States and the other nations of NATO were preparing for an attack from anywhere—even each other. War could break out unless heads of state kept their heads clear, and any personal egos or hatreds in check.

Just another day on Earth.

The hardened, landline phone on Shepherd's desk beeped, signaling one of his aides wanted to speak with him.

Shepherd answered the call. "Go," he said simply, beginning to read the report from Captain Johnston. It seemed the man suspected the Michael Murphy was sunk by Decepticons, something Shepherd already knew as fact.

The voice who answered the General's statement was that of Major Briar, the senior of Shepherd's two aides. "Sir, Director Galloway just arrived at the base—he's on his way to you, now."

There were few things that could make General Shepherd curse. Not type of curse used in the military's almost universal language of obscenities, but a true, personal curse that was absolutely unnecessary and could only be heard by him. Galloway's arrival at Ford Creed was one that consistently could cause such remarks.

"Understood," was all Shepherd said in response. He then doubled-checked to make sure his desk and chair were perfectly centered—which they always were—placed his hands on his desk, and stared at his door. Considering how far Major Briar's station was from Shepherd's office, and how fast Galloway tended to walk, the Director of National Intelligence would arrive in three… Two…

On cue, the General's door flew open, admitting Theodore Galloway into the room. He stood six inches shorter than Shepherd, and was about thirty pounds lighter. Bags under his eyes made him look older than the General was, despite the act he was ten years Shepherd's junior. His rapidly thinning, greying brown hair had receded to the top of his scalp. Demanding and somewhat intelligent brown gazed out from behind thin eyebrows and glasses. His blue-grey suit had more threads per square inch than Shepherd had dollars in his bank account, and it looked freshly cleaned. A blue, striped tie hung loosely from his collar due to his suit jacket hanging open. In his hand, he carried a metal briefcase.

"Director Galloway," General Shepherd said, tone neutral. "What brings you this far out from Washington?"

"You know damn well what brings me this collection of stinking Mole tunnels you call a base," Galloway snapped, and Shepherd did know what brought him there. The Director dropped his briefcase onto the desk, scoffing the finish of the Kingwood furniture that Shepherd paid for from his own pocket. Galloway opened the briefcase, reached in, and dropped a file in front of Shepherd, the same file that made him pause before—Captain Johnston's report.

"Your Autobot friends really screwed up this time," Galloway said after dropping the file.

Having read the file already, Shepherd pushed it to the side and fixed a heavy look on the Director of National Intelligence. "It's hard for them to screw something up when they didn't even know about the Michael Murphy."

Galloway scoffed and paced in front of the desk. "Three-hundred and twenty-three dead—including the captain, who was the son of a Senator from Virginia; global tensions running high and calls for war already being shouted; and one US military vessel sunk without warning. And where were the Autobots when United States lost a billion dollar vessel—a billion dollar ship?!"

Lives were numbers; money was precious. Shepherd thought that thought process was unfortunately common among many politicians. "Fifty to sixty miles away, on a rescue op for seven of their own who had escaped the Decepticon base the Autobots warned us of last year."

While Shepherd had not actually spoken to any Autobot on base, he had managed to send a message through an old channel that used Morse Code, and received a response from Optimus Prime. Their base was damaged and without proper communications because their own return to base flooded parts of the structure, and nearly all of them were wounded. But the Autobot leader made it clear they did not even know a human ship had been in the region when they rescued their captured brethren, and the Prime passed on their sympathies for the loss of life. Optimus also offered to have a more thorough discussion of the day's events, both on the end of the Autobots and humanity's, in the future; Shepherd planned on taking the Prime up on the offer, when his incredibly busy schedule allowed.

"So they were in the area—they could have saved the Michael Murphy, and didn't."

"As I said, they were on a rescue op."

"But they could have saved the Michael Murphy if they wanted to—if they had been an official military unit."

"A unit's official status does not effect its ability in combat, you know that."

"But it does effect it."

"Stop reaching for your desired answer, it's hard to watch," said the General, tone calm, hands folded neatly around each other.

Galloway crossed his arms, face set in a frown; he never could take Shepherd's ability to know when he was looking for a certain choice of words. "Reaching or not, you haven't given me a reason not to reach—my original question wasn't answered."

"Do you listen when someone responds to you, or do you just hear the words you want?" Shepherd asked. "I told you the Autobots were in the area, yes, but they were on their own mission to rescue seven other Autobots who escaped captivity from the nearby Decepticon base. Nearly all of them were wounded during the mission, and they didn't even know they were in within a hundred miles of a human ship until I contacted them."

"Well, isn't that reassuring—our guardians in shining armor are down with bobos and papercuts!" Galloway yelled, leaning down to get in Shepherd's face. "The Autobots were supposed to prevent another Al Udied Air Base disaster! Not sit on the sidelines as it happened right next to them!"

The General looked down at the two hands planted on either side of his own, then his ice-blue eyes stared into Galloway's brown ones. "Get off my desk."

The Director held Shepherd's gaze for a moment in bravado, but he could take no more of the icy stare being sent his way and stood to his full height. He straightened his tie after taking his hands off the desk—Shepherd knew that was a nervous habit of his.

"Let me explain something to you, Director." Shepherd put a bit more emphasis on the word, as if it was sour and he wanted to spit it out. "I have followed the movements of the Autobots since the S.T.F was formed, and I have seen a lot of footage of them in action. I have seen them ripping Decepticons in half; I have seen them take out the eye of a Decepticon from the top of a mountain simply because the curvature of the Earth makes it impossible to see their target otherwise; I have seen the slowest and weakest of them use speed and have strength we would consider superhuman, if we were the same size; and I have seen them take punishment a dozen of our best tanks couldn't handle and come out almost unscathed. And not one time have I ever seen or heard of an Autobot complain about a single injury they sustained. They are out of action, but not because of 'Bobos' and 'Papercuts.' So, politely, keep your mouth shut the next time you think to insult their ability to take pain—especially when the worst injury I've seen you take is a stubbed toe on a trash can. That doesn't qualify as a damn bullet."

Theodore's demanding air deflated a tiny amount at the General's words, but he reinflated himself quickly. "It's their job to be soldiers; it's my job to tell them what to do. But I can't do that job if the Autobots can't do theirs."

"They fight the Decepticons almost daily, and have kept them distracted from humanity for the last four years. Does that not qualify as, 'Their job''?" Asked Shepherd. "Or do you expect them to know when you change a destroyer's course, and come to its rescue when that same destroyer kicks up a hornet's nest?"

Galloway's face went blank.

"Don't look surprised," the General continued. "You're standing inside the S.T.F—it's our job to know things. The search zone for the MV Sea Dog should have been fifty nautical miles north of where Command ordered them, but you saw the search as an opportunity, didn't you? You've wanted to know how close we can get to that Decepticon base since you first heard of it. You modified the Michael Murphy's orders before its captain received them, had them travel further south. But that wasn't enough, was it? You activated its Remote Control protocols and gave it a nudge to the south, just to see what would happen. You used a code we created to be used by Presidential authority and Presidential authority only." Shepherd leaned forward, eyes boring into Galloway's skull like a drill. "I should arrest you for not following that protocol, then put you in front of a damn firing squad for getting more than three-hundred of our men and women killed."

The Director of National Intelligence adjusted his tie again and unbuttoned the top of his collar. He had lost all color in his face, and the sweat on his head revealed how nervous he was to any casual observer. "The President has already cleared me of any actions I may or may not have taken; the captain chose to go further south on his own."

The General clenched his hands at the technicality, but said nothing and continued staring at Theodore. The man had ultimately caused three-hundred deaths, and was trying to blame someone else for them. Pointing fingers—something else common in politicians.

Galloway stood uncomfortably for a moment, then reached into his briefcase again and pulled out another file. It was red and had the thickness of a small book, and was sealed with a metal binder. "With their failure to save the Michael Murphy, it has come to the attention of the Committee that we can no longer rely or trust the Autobots on the level we currently do," he said, directing the conversation away from his own deeds. He dropped the file on the desk with a loud thud, showing how heavy it really was. "We've already prepared for such an event."

Shepherd looked at the file Galloway evidently delivered from the Committee, the heads of state of each nation that was part of the S.T.F and a team of advisers of their choosing; it served as the official head of the S.T.F, since no single nation could say the S.T.F belonged to them. He unclasped the file's binder and opened it, flipping the page every few seconds as he examined everything in the file.

It was a collection of diagrams, measurements, technical specifications, potential building materials, technologies, and compatible weapon systems for use in building several different, humanoid-looking machines that had cockpits for pilots—they weren't unlike bulkier, lesser armed and armored Cybertronians.

The General's eyes flicked to the title at the top of the page.

It read, 'Project:Mecha.'

Shepherd closed the file and returned his attention to Galloway. "This had better be a sick joke, Director."

"It's no joke, General," replied Galloway, returning the favor for the tone Shepherd had used before. "The Committee has had this plan in place since the Al Udied Air Base was turned to a glass parking lot. And thanks to the massive amount of alien corpses we've been able to study, the excellent work of S.T.F's scientists, and our funding, Project:Mecha can be a reality."

"What you're talking about is beyond even the S.T.F's reach. Both the Autobots and Decepticons are countless of millennia ahead of us technologically—we can't even recreate technology they use everyday."

"Maybe so, but your scientists have reported that our own robotics technology has advanced a year every month since the S.T.F was formed," said Galloway.

"This isn't unlike the goals Arkeville had in mind," pointed out Shepherd coolly. "In fact, this is exactly what he wanted; and what we worked to destroy."

"We have different motivations. He wanted to create a new world order; we want to secure our survival against the aliens." The Director recrossed his arms, fully regaining his confidence from Shepherd's earlier rebuke. "And now's the perfect time to take the first actual step to obtaining that goal. The world's crying out for protection, and we have the advanced robotics, materials, computers, and weapons that can give them that protection. We already would have given it to the world, if you made more helical railguns—you've already shown how they might be able to kill the aliens."

"'Might' is a keyword in that statement. The only Cybertronians we have tested the helical railguns against are drones—full Cybertronians wouldn't be so easily injured," said the General, leaning back to his proper posture. "And the fact each helical railgun like the one we used in those tests costs a quarter of a billion dollars has something to do with lack of production. With what you're envisioning, the materials alone would be twice S.T.F's annual budget per twenty-five units."

Galloway smiled thinly, and along with the look in his eyes, he looked like the animal Shepherd associated him with: A Snake. He pulled out another file, this one thinner than the other two, and dropped it on the desk. "A list of countries who previously skipped out on becoming a part of the S.T.F, and now are asking to provide men and money," he explained, smile widening like the Snake inside him was about to eat a Mouse. "The S.T.F's budget just increased by ninety-three percent, and we have yet to hear from Japan, Australia, Taiwan, and South Korea."

While Shepherd was thankful more countries were joining the S.T.F, the price of their admission was going to be too high. "That is still not enough."

"We know, which is why the Committee is ordering you to put a stop to all projects besides the ongoing upgrades to existing military forces, and Mecha."

Shepherd narrowed his eyes. "Those projects lead to saving or providing trillions of dollars in the long-term. Not only that, they will make entire militaries self-sufficient of fuel and supply lines; soldiers fight more effectively when they don't need to worry where their next meal or magazine will come from."

The Director waved a hand dismissively. "All of them will be pointless when Mecha is completed and starts to rollout units."

No, no they wouldn't be. The Committee was not accounting for the costs of maintenance, the long-term affects on pilots, the logistics of creating Mecha, and what chaos it would create across the world when the first, human-made, powered combat walker went active. Their potential for battle was tremendous, but how many wars would break out simply because other nations felt threatened?

How many nations with access to Mecha would feel threatened?

"Director, I acknowledge the Autobots are not infallible or invincible—Shadowstreaker's death in May proves that—but they have been fighting the Decepticons since dinosaurs walked the Earth. They know their tactics, their weaknesses, and their true combat capabilities. Despite the fact they can't be perfect, they are the best chance we have against the Decepticons—the best chance for everyone. Project:Mecha will only put humanity back on the Decepticons' crosshairs. I ask this of you, not as a subordinate, not as a prideful man, and not as a rival, but as a man who has seen war for more than thirty years: Don't make me carry out this program. I will not stand for needlessly putting men and women in harm's way, not after seeing what the Decepticons can do to anything less than the Autobots." Shepherd paused, debated if he should add something else, then said, "Right now, you and I are allies, Galloway, I agree with little you say, but you're my ally. But if you have me do this, if you make me create suits for men and women to die for you, then you and I… We're going to become enemies. And you don't want me as an enemy, Director."

Galloway huffed, unimpressed. Then he closed his briefcase and picked it up. "You have six months to start making progress. If you can't produce, the Committee will find someone who can." He walked out of the office with a noticeable saunter, as if he just won a political debate with an opponent and now was going to look good to the press and the unsuspicious public. Then he was gone.

After the Director left, Shepherd leaned heavily into his chair—a headache was already forming. He was now being ordered to, sooner or later, to send numerous soldiers to their deaths. Normally, that prospect didn't bother him so much; he was a general, he was used to it. But the fact he would be sending those soldiers up against an enemy so far beyond humanity's technological capabilities that Earth could be conquered by as few as a hundred of them, made Shepherd more wary than he had been in a long, long time. Yet if he stepped down or refused to comply with the command he was given, someone else may send a hundred times more soldiers to their deaths as Shepherd would. What was worse, that same enemy wouldn't stop at just the soldiers sent against them—they would send humanity to extinction in the blink of an eye.

It all made Shepherd want a drink.

Standing from his desk, the General walked to a nearby cabinet, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass, filled the glass with the strong alcohol after adding some ice, and returned to his desk. He sipped the strong drink like water, then opened a drawer and grabbed a cigar and lit it with a lighter that had been next to the cigars; smoking had been an on-and-off habit of his since he joined he lied about his age and joined the Army at sixteen. He needed a few draws after Galloway's visit.

As Shepherd enjoyed his whiskey and cigar, a man in his late forties wearing an ACU designed specifically for the S.T.F stepped into view and leaned against the doorway. He was of average height, average build, and average looks. His eyes were brown, and carried a wide variety of emotions at the appropriate time. His hair was almost the same color as his eyes, and was longer than regulation for most militaries. He had no beard or facial hair of any kind. He looked, to the average eye, an unremarkable and harmless man.

However, few saw the danger that lurked behind his expressive eyes even when they learned the man—General-Major Vadim Avilov, Shepherd's SIC—used to be Russian Spetsnaz, the Russian Federation's equivalent to the United States' Green Berets.

"Was Director Galloway as charming as usual?" Vadim asked, his deep voice carrying almost no accent. "Do I have to spit in his face like when he demand I call him, 'Sir'?

"Worse," said Shepherd, face lighting up as he sucked in a breath through his cigar.

"How bad?"

"Terrible."

"Explain to me."

Shepherd took in another breath, and let it out through his nose, surrounding his face in smoke that should have burned his eyes, yet didn't. "The S.T.F has been ordered to start producing robotic mechs for soldiers to pilot and use against the Decepticons."

Vadim went silent, his face unreadable. He stepped into his superior's office, but continued to be silent.

Shepherd, knowing his SIC, pulled out another cigar and handed it to Vadim. "There's some vodka in the cabinet."

---

*Flips through mental notes* This seems to be all the plot elements for a while. Huh. I'll take that as a cue to work on what I have.

Alright, so I have just one thing to say down here: I am taking a month off. No, not the month off you'd think, but a month off THIS story - my favorite story I've written or will write.

Let me explain. Back when I was writing 'Journeys,' I decided I was going to put Fate Calls on hold until I finished the first draft of my novel. But I decided I'd do both after I wrote Journeys in a short amount of time compared to how long it is. It was right after I made that decision, that my writing progress went to crap. Nothing flowed, motivation came and went. And you all can see where that ended up. Yes, I've written chapters, but they are a lot less than I wanted to do, and they took way longer than I wanted them to. For this reason, I'm going to force myself to focus on my novel for a while. You might think that won't help with my speed in writing, but I am going to get weird here.

When I was writing the chapter following Journeys - 'Home' - I decided I would go with my initial decision and work on my novel whenever I finished the chapter.

The day following this decision I wrote 3,400 words and finished the chapter.

Once this happened, I decided I would actually work on both projects, mostly on Fate Calls.

It took more than two months to finish the chapter before this one, and I only finished it because I decided I would work a bit more on my novel.

I then decided about four to five days later that I would return to working on Fate Calls and the rewrite of Last of the Wyrms.

The rewrite of Last of the Wyrms took FIVE months, this chapter took nearly three months to write, and I only got any real progress done on it after I decided, for the third and final time, I would focus solely on my novel.

I've written about 30,000 words on this chapter in the last three weeks. If that isn't supposed to tell me something, I don't know what is. Have... Have any of you ever felt like you needed to do something? You couldn't explain why you needed to, only that you had to do it. That's what I feel like when I think about my novel, and I consider when I look at my writing progress on Fate Calls and Last of the Wyrms, and how quickly a steady pace disappears when I decide not to work on my novel. I feel like this is something I NEED to do.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not abandoning any of my stories. In fact, my writing tomorrow looks like this: Edit and post rewritten Last of the Wyrms prologue; work on detailed outline of Fate Calls including names of places, weapons, metals, objects, characters, plots, and ideas; a rough outline of Last of the Wyrms; and a reworked outline and collection of ideas for my novel. Those things are going to take a while to write, but after that, I am going to start a what I am calling a Hard Month, where I write 1,500 to 2,000 words on my novel every single day, with room to write two or even three times that, on a good day. Then I will probably see how my muse reacts to starting the first, real chapter on Last of the Wyrms before returning to what will always be my favorite project: Fate Calls. Be patient and don't panic - I'm not going anywhere.

Sorry for the long note, but I felt I needed to explain why I am going to focus on my novel for a month.

This chapter's credit song is "R. Armando Morabito - Rising Force" This song, while fitting with Shadowstreaker and Arcee's ending part, does fit with the two scenes I have following that one. The percussion is right, the ominous theme is there, and the vocals send a chill down your spin. It's a fantastic song.

Please take a moment to leave a review to give any type of feedback you want: constructive criticism; what you liked you didn't like; where I went wrong or where I went right; suggestions for how to use hyphens, colons, and semi-colons. I appreciate everything.

Thank you for reading, and have an excellent day and or night. :)

See you soon.