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.

45. Omnis

Various holidays, events, and mental roadblocks have made writing in the last three months quite slow. I've been doing my best, but as you can see by the date, I am still quite slow in updating this.

As always, thanks go to all who reviewed or favorited/followed since my last chapter. I appreciate your feedback and your desire to keep coming back to read my work. I hope I continue to keep you all entertained.

Guest - My work has always been influenced by canon; however, that does not mean I stick with it. Having events of the episodes happen in the same - or very similar - way as the show doesn't make a lot of sense with all the characters I have in play. That is why so often when I do go to an episode of the show, the events are so different. It's a lot more fun to write something more original than it is to write essentially a novelization of the show.

That being said, I have plans for more chapters based on episodes in the future.

Thanks for the review.

TheUselessOne - Do you mean in a "Life is like a box of chocolates" sort of way? Because Optimus might need to do more than just run.

Thanks for reviewing.

Luna's Freedom (Chapter 42) - Thank you. I appreciate your kind words. I've been doing better for the most part, but I still doubt myself often. Comes with looking at your own work without the perspective of a writer. Hope to see you with this update.

Thanks for the reivew, and also for the luck.

Fearfaller (Way back to Chapter 1) - I just enjoy putting in references to other franchises in my work. Maybe I'll have some subtle cross-overs in the future, but for the most part I like keeping each story separate from another. Let's me focus more on the current material and less on trying to make sure a cross-over fits together correctly.

Thanks for the question.

Seeker3 - Thank you for thinking so. And I agree that the summary needs work, along with many others who have voiced something similar to me before you. I wrote the thing about four years ago, and it shows. I was going to write the new summary when I had finished the re-writes of a few early chapters, but I think I'll put up my new summary now instead. Hope the new one is better than the first one.

I assume you're talking about all unknowns I've placed along the way. If so, they are meant to get that sort of reaction/thoughts from the reader. And I actually hadn't heard of that story until your review. I will need to read it to be sure, but a quick look tells me it's coincidence. I may have started work on this story almost three years before SecretEnigma started theirs, but the concept of some sort of rage-fueled protective ability has been around in literature for a very long time. Long before either of us were writing, that's for sure.

Glad you're loving this. Hope to see you with this update.

Thanks go to Crystal Prime for beta reading.

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

---

I awoke to a throbbing head.

The throbbing was centered at either side of my helm. Where Cold had grabbed me to crush my helm in his servos, or make it feel like he had. Even now I could feel his icy digits crushing me, bending and snapping my armor just before bringing my world to a temporary end. I could see his optics, the look in them more terrifying than anything I'd seen before...

I closed my optics again, forcing my breathing to remain normal. I'm alive. Cold is gone. I'm okay. I don't need to panic.

After calming myself, I opened my optics and sat up. A cube of the chemically-altered energon was sitting on the floor nearby. I grabbed it and downed the cube in one gulp. It burned as it went down, foul taste staying long after I'd emptied the cube. The throbbing subsided—as it always did when I drank this type of energon. I knew the chemicals added to it were all that was keeping Cold out of my head, but wow they tasted terrible. This swill would have been even worse, too—if half the energon hadn't originally been high-grade.

At least, Ratchet said half of it originally had been high-grade. I didn't believe him for a second. No matter what you did to it, there was no way anything with high-grade could make you want to purge as soon as you drank it. This stuff did. Either Ratchet was lying, or high-grade had, quite suddenly and without explanation, turned into a liquid as foul as waste water.

I'm going with the former.

I placed my empty cube on the berth next to me and stood up, shaking off fatigue. It was early in the morning. Very early. Early enough that no one else would willingly wake up at this breem.

It was my new normal.

The energon keeping my link with the Delphic closed was effective for only about four hours—five, if I fell into a recharge immediately after consumption. When its effects were about to run out, my head would start to throb, and the throbbing would wake me up. I found it hard to fall asleep again after that. As a result, I was slowly getting used to four breems of recharge.

I walked away from the berth, carefully stepping around the dozens of pictures scattered across the floor of my cell.

The pictures were Wildwing's, the sparkling arriving with his creators and the Collected last night for their bi-monthly visit. He and his creators had visited me last night, bringing with them one of the many containers of pictures the mechling had made since he was last on Earth. Apparently, he'd been busy.

However, the first batch he brought with him had been meaningless to me. Only four stuck out.

First was of a pale-colored mech sitting on a throne made of bones, a rusting crown resting on his helm, an Autobot symbol on his chestplates that had been crossed out. A warhammer was lying across his pedes, and in his right servo he tightly held a black crystal that gave off an otherworldly blue light. The look in his yellow optics was one of a mad man—crazed and paranoid.

Second was of two different mechs. One pure white in color and large, the other neon green and smaller. The pure white mech was lying in what appeared to be an organic field, badly injured and holding a servo to what should have been an ugly wound in his chestplates. Or what should have been an ugly wound—that section lacked detail, as it should have since its arist was young and innocent. A sword was sticking out of the ground next to him, but Wildwing had not drawn that in detail, either; my guess was it was also covered in energon. The smaller mech was holding a crude staff and approaching with a look of concern on his faceplate. Behind him and in the distance, there was a herd of strange-looking organic herbivores, grazing.

Third was of Extremis. He was standing before the sphere he had wanted me to open. In his right servo was a white sword made with unrivaled craftsmanship, and floating above his left was a small metal cube that reflected its surroundings like a mirror.

Four was the most disturbing. It was of a shadowed face, its features hidden. Two purple optics stared out at whoever looked the picture, the anger and hatred contained within them horrifying to look upon even in paper form. Like owner of the optics could use its image as a portal to see you. Study you. Watch you. Twist you.

I turned that last picture over, gazing over the others with a frown. These were not the only pictures that focused on mechs or femmes, but they had a different… Feel to them. An air of importance. Just a glance said that Wildwing had taken extra care with these four, making sure the smallest detail sprang off the paper like the illustrations would come alive at any moment.

They were unnerving.

I picked up the third picture—the one depicting Extremis. What was he holding? It was not from the sphere behind him, since the sphere was still closed in the image. Where did he get it? Why did he want it? What was important about that cube?

The smallest pieces of the puzzle are the most significant.

The thought came easily, though it did not feel as if the words came from my own processor. I ignored them.

What of the other three pictures? Who were the mechs Wildwing depicted? Why take so much time drawing every little detail? What part did they have to play?

I picked up the drawing of the pale mech sitting on his throne of bones. I'd never seen anyone like this before, and from searching the records Optimus had of Autobot service members, no one within the Milky Way had. Who was he? What did he have in his hand? Why cross off his Autobot symbol—his badge of honor?

Honor means little to those without it.

The thought again came easily. Again I paid it no mind. His image certainly inspired thoughts of one who no longer was part of the Autobot cause. But why did he leave? Why the crown? What gave him the idea of crowning himself like he was some sort of king?

I set the pale mech's image down and picked up the picture of the injured white mech in the field. He did not look like any Cybertronian I'd seen before, either in person or in records. Not in a significant way, but there was just something off about his appearance. His armor was just a little too smooth. Optics just a little too large. Proportions just a little too broad for a Cybertronian. Each servo looked unfinished, with three digits instead of five. He looked Cybertronian at a quick glance, but with another Cybertronian nearby who looked completely correct in appearance, he didn't look right.

With Wildwing's amazing ability to draw, these details were purposefully made in the drawing. So why had he drawn this mystery mech this way, while keeping the other mech exactly as Cybertronians appeared? Was the pure white mech simply deformed? Were his wounds so great they had warped his entire frame? Was he not a Cybertronian? If he wasn't, then who and what was he to look so much like one?

Why is Purity absent?

This time I knew where the thought came from: the footage of Arcee's interview with Prowl. She'd left my cell about a breem after she returned from the Animus, promising she'd be right back. She returned a few minutes later, carrying a data chip and data pad with her.

Then she'd showed me all the things she didn't remember saying. I had no idea what to make of anything she'd said in that footage, but there were three words she said that continued ringing in my helm long after the footage ended.

Anger. Bearer. Purity.

The way Arcee had said those words… They sounded like titles more than just words. Anger. Bearer. Purity. Were those titles of other members of this Council of Ardents I'd been hearing about since I returned from the dead?

Was this picture an image of Purity? If it was, what happened to him? And who was the other mech?

Yet more questions, and not a single one of them answered.

I put the paper down and looked at the drawing I'd turned over. A chill went over me as I imagined the image's purple optics seeming to stare straight through the paper and directly into my very soul. I left that paper turned over.

For the next twenty klicks—or minutes, if I felt like thinking more like a human—I looked over the other drawings that littered my floor, trying to find meaning in any of the others. I didn't.

With my peripheral vision, I caught movement at the door. I looked up in time to see Sideswipe and Sunstreaker walk through the door and into the brig.

I gave them a nod of greeting.

In return, they stood a little straighter and gave me a guarded stare.

About what they've been giving me since I returned from the dead. I suppose it was too much to ask for them to nod back; they'd fought Cold personally, and Cold had used my own body to do it. As far as they were concerned, Cold could come back at any moment, and they weren't wrong. They feared him, as they should have. I didn't have a problem with that.

The twins had the early morning shift for guarding me. The guarding was more like watching from outside to see if I behaved like Cold. I was to be kept in here for another week. One month of solitary isolation, just to be safe. That was how Optimus wanted the effectiveness of the altered energon to be tested.

I don't think it was enough of a test.

Prowl, who acted as my guard during nights, looked as thankful for the change of shift as his nearly emotionless faceplate could be; I'd known he'd been awake all night long, filing reports. Once he had given one of the twins his chair, he stood from his desk and left the brig to leave guarding me to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. But before he left, he gave me one last look. A hard, suspicious look. Like he was trying to see something only he could. Then he was gone.

He gave me that look every morning. It didn't take a genius to see how little he trusted me after Cold took over, but there was something different about that look he gave me. There was another reason he gave it. Another purpose behind it. A different motivation.

Was he making sure Cold wasn't taking over again, or was he searching for something else? I'd heard from Arcee that Cold had talked about things he shouldn't have knowledge of. Had Cold said something to Prowl—something he wanted to see if I knew myself?

What Sins does Rationality carry?

I shook my helm and gave myself a light Gibbs slap, earning an odd look from the twins outside. I was going to have to tell Ratchet I was having random phrases pop into my helm again. That was the third time this mega-cycle. He and Moonracer will be probably be upping the dosage of… Whatever slag chemicals they put in my energon.

I shivered at the thought.

---

"Where are its weapon systems?"

"Why isn't it walking?"

"Is this all you've done with your budget?"

"Where's the bathroom?"

In times like this, that Lance Shepherd truly hated politicians and generals who hadn't earned their rank. It was one thing to receive power you shouldn't have, but it was another thing to have no respect for the responsibility that went with that power.

In the two months since the Michael Murphy's sinking, thirty-three nations had committed to joining the S.T.F. Some had long histories of military prowess and competence. Others… Did not.

Whatever the status of their individual militaries, each new nation had pledged their best to the 141. Their help was welcome, but Shepherd was still sorting out the complications of having such a diverse military force. The veterans from the Original Four founding members of the S.T.F—or OF, as they had started to be referred to even in official reports—were more adaptable than the newcomers. More experienced. More than half of those who came from the new nations were suffering from culture shock or didn't speak a common language with most of their new comrades. Such obstacles were a current hinderance on the 141's effectiveness, but they would be sorted out in the coming months.

The new members of the Committee, however, would not.

With thirty-seven nations now part of the S.T.F's official head, the Committee had grown from twenty-six members to more than two hundred in just sixty days. All of them wanted something in return for the money and soldiers they pledged: trade deals; Oil; top-of-the-line military equipment at massive discounts. It varied between nations. However, they all wanted S.T.F units stationed in their countries to handle various threats.

Every new member nation also needed to be brought up to speed on the S.T.F's true nature. As such, General Shepherd was required to show representatives of the new Committee members the work being done at Fort Creed's most secure locations once the new member nations' heads of state were read into the Autobot-Decepticon conflict—and show them the progress made on Project:Mecha, which Director Galloway had been making a point of explaining to all new Committee members.

That pain in the ass.

Shepherd knew the real reason the Committee sent their new members to Fort Creed wasn't really to bring them up to speed, but to annoy him. To get him to make a mistake. Give them a reason to replace him. Galloway hated him, and he had the ears of most Committee members. He didn't blame them for being on Galloway's side more often than not; the man was admittedly charismatic when he put the effort in.

It also didn't mean he liked them, either.

Shepherd kept his face calm as he let the Committee's newest members fire off question after question. He knew a bits and pieces of nine languages, but not enough to catch much of what most were saying. That was what the interpreters around him were for. "Mecha is in its earliest phase; progress did not begin in earnest until the USS Michael Murphy was lost. With technology as experimental and untested as this, we don't know how much damage an accident would cause; we do not wish to take any chances. And the bathroom is down the hall, third door on your left."

The interpreters relayed his words, and one short politician made his way to the bathroom while—about as he expected—most of the generals and politicians nodded with thoughtful looks on their faces. Like they had known all along that you didn't just slap weapons on the framework of robotic suits just because that's how they looked in movies. In reality, they were just doing it out of habit, and he knew it.

Shepherd answered more questions about the basic framework of Mecha on the other side of the glass, until he decided it was time to move on. He moved so he was half-turned and gestured down the hall. "If you'll move down this hallway to the sixth window on the right, we will move onto the new ODIN Main Battle Tank we've just put into the prototype phase."

The squad of Shadow Company soldiers Shepherd put in suits to play bodyguard for the group ushered the new Committee members down the hallway. Most of the group didn't glance his way when they went by, but the few generals and politicians in the group whom he actually respected gave him sympathetic looks, aware as well as he was that he'd be up all night catching up on work he'd put off for this pointless tour.

One Shadow Company soldier remained with him after the rest moved with the main group. Captain MacTavish. Who, given Colonel Lennox's current absence due to a mission in Africa, was serving as the commander of the remainder of Shadow Company left behind.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Asked the Scotsmen, fidgeting in his suit. He looked uncomfortable.

"Permission granted," said Shepherd, not asking why MacTavish was still there. He knew they were both waiting on the politician who'd found it more important to go to the bathroom than to ask questions about Mecha.

"How long do we have to keep these bloody idiots entertained?"

Shepherd's face didn't even twitch, despite how he found the Captain's choice words amusing. "Until they get bored."

"Then we can get back to actually working?"

"I already have an assignment lined up for a five-man squad once this is done."

"Anyone in particular you want on it?"

"I leave choosing the team up to you, Captain."

"Even if I put myself on the team?"

"Again, that's up to you. I'll send you the file at 2100 hours. It will contain all the information we have on the anomaly at Oslo."

"Yes, sir."

Neither man said anything else until the politician finally returned from the bathroom. Then they returned to the rest of the group.

---

Shepherd was finally able to return to his offices nearly four hours later. He had a headache from answering so many pointless questions. Sometimes even after decades of service, he was still surprised by just how many times the same question could be asked in different ways.

He walked by the stations of his aides on his way to his personal office, located in the middle of a long hallway that, on the other end, his SIC General-Major Vadium Avilov had his own aides stationed. His office was located right next to Avilov's, and they had identical amounts of space and freedom to decorate. Their offices even shared a long window that gave them an identical view of the exterior section of Fort Creed, built with bullet and RPG resistant glass over a foot thick.

As he passed Captain Steven Black, the junior of his two aides, stood up. "A moment, General."

Shepherd stopped at looked back at Captain Black. The man was two inches taller than Shepherd's six-three frame, but had a slighter build. His fair skin, light gold-blonde hair, blue eyes, and long, narrow skull showed that he had very little of his father's Italian looks. He had been Shepherd's junior aide for three years.

"Yes, Steven?" Asked Shepherd.

Black's blue eyes held a sympathetic look in them. "Sir—my old boss is waiting in your office."

Shepherd had to hold back the immediate urge to sigh; he'd wondered where Galloway had wandered off after seeing Mecha's progress. Black had been an aide to Galloway for three years before transferring to Shepherd, and as such knew how infuriating the man was. Shepherd found it impressive the younger man still had all his hair.

"I see." Shepherd lost the battle to hold in his sigh, and he let out a long one. "When he came by, what was your initial impression of his mood?"

"Agitated. Stressed. Snappy. Angry. No different than he usually is on the surface."

"And beneath the surface?" Shepherd had learned within a few days of meeting Black that the man knew how to read and get in the heads of people—a skill common in people who work with, or are, in the political spectrum. It was a skill Shepherd had been wary of until Black had consistently shown how much he respected and tried to get to know those he worked with over intimidating or influencing them.

Black paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "He seemed like he was upset about something. Almost embarrassed. He also hasn't had any coffee today; he was slower than usual."

"Thank you, Captain." Shepherd turned and walked away.

"That's not all, sir."

The General paused, turning back to Black.

"That… Budget report you were expecting? I put it in your office."

That got Shepherd's attention. "Did you leave it on my desk?"

"No, sir—that'd be sloppy. I used the key you gave me. It's in the locked drawer, on your left."

Shepherd nodded. "Thank you again, Captain."

"Doing my job, sir. Good luck."

The Director of National Intelligence was sitting on the desk—Shepherd's desk—when the General entered the office Galloway wore the same expensive suit he had on when Shepherd saw him after the Michael Murphy was sunk, but his striped blue tie had been replaced by a blood red one.

He still had his suit jacket open. He couldn't be bothered to button up just one button?

"General," Galloway said neutrally when Shepherd entered, looking at the map showing S.T.F base locations instead of Shepherd himself. "We need to have a chat. Take a seat."

The General remained standing. "You're on my desk again, Director."

He stared at the Director for a long moment. Galloway was only able to hold his gaze for a few seconds before breaking and standing.

Only then did Shepherd sit down. "What is this about, Director?"

"What is it about? It's about the future of our security; it's about the most important project ever given to your organization! It's about that collection of scrap metal and wires you call progress!"

It was about Mecha, then. Shepherd thought it would be. "You sound like you have concerns."

"You're damn right I have concerns! Concerns isn't a good enough word for what I have. Do you not realize how important it is to have new nations join the most important joint task force in history? How vital it is to put emphasis on the most powerful and promising weapon this task force is creating to combat the greatest threat to humanity's very existence? Do you understand how embarrassing it is for the United States to at last show this weapon to these new nations, only to show them framework a ten-year-old could have made in their parent's garage?!"

"Believe it or not, creating the most advanced robotics humanity has ever conceived isn't as easy as it is on paper."

"Need I remind you how the Chinese refused to join the S.T.F? How they're making their own version of the S.T.F as we speak? We're now in direct competition for the same allies. The United States is supposed to be a leader to those nations. An example of what they can be if they join us instead of China. That junk you displayed today has damaged our international image and pushed our allies closer to the Chinese!"

"It is not my job to make you look good, Director," said Shepherd, seeing right through Galloway's talk of the United States, and its image, and the Chinese. The Chinese may have started their own program, but they were too late to the game. Far too late. And Galloway was too self-centered for truly caring about such things. "My job is to run the S.T.F."

"And the S.T.F answers to me. I—"

"The S.T.F answers to the Committee. Not you. I would suggest you crush that notion right now, before you get yourself in trouble."

Shepherd saw a dark anger enter the Director's eyes for that comment, and he stared at Shepherd in a furious silence. Despite what Black said about Galloway being slower than normal, the General saw little sign of lethargy in the other man.

Galloway broke first again and looked away, beginning to pace. "The fact of the matter is, our allies were expecting to see something to hold onto. To hope for. Your pathetic display has weakened their resolve."

"I am not at fault for over-selling a project that is far from ready to be reviewed, much less paraded around like an unrivaled achievement."

"You've potentially compromised our most important task force with our allies. For that, I should start lining up potential replacements for your job right now."

Now Shepherd dismissed what courtesy he'd been giving Galloway. "What you should be doing is stopping that line of thought, Director."

Galloway stopped pacing and blinked rapidly, head drawn back as if struck. He looked shocked Shepherd had used such a tone with him. He recovered in a moment. "You have no right to be angry at me, General—I only voice the complaints of the Committee will give to me."

"I find it interesting they have knowledge of Mecha's progress when you haven't had the chance to brief them yet."

Galloway paled for a split-second, caught in the lie. "I haven't briefed them; I know what they will say when I give my report."

"Then if they have such complaints, they are in the wrong."

"You were ordered to produce results for the Committee. Instead, you've given them nothing. They have the right to get rid of you, General."

"No, I was ordered to begin producing results within six months. I've started producing a prototype in a third of that time."

"That trash you call results doesn't even move!"

"You are correct. But go anywhere else in the world, and you'll have to wait two years or more before a prototype even leaves the concept phase. We've started building a prototype in just two months. Be thankful we're fast workers, Director. Now if you'll excuse me, I have ten calls to make today, all of them politicians who are demanding their nation should be the first country where we start constructing new S.T.F bases."

Galloway just glared at him. Silent. Hands flexing, eyes smoldering, vein at his forehead visible beneath the skin. His anger was great enough to elevate his heart rate. He looked desperate to find a way to counter Shepherd's words.

Shepherd knew he wouldn't find one.

Finally, the Director turned away to the door. "I had better see quality results next time I'm here." He exited the room.

Shepherd had no doubt the man would be back next week, bringing the same complaints with him. And the next week, and the next. Until he made ground with the Committee to have Shepherd replaced. Galloway was tenacious that way.

It also didn't mean he'd succeed.

Once the General was sure Galloway had gone, he stood up and closed his door. He made his way back to the desk, took out a key he had with him at all times, and unlocked the drawer at his left.

A thin file was sitting in the drawer, on top of a box of Custom Hornady 240 Grain .44 Remington Mag. Jacketed Hollow Point rounds, his preferred ammunition for the Magnum at his side. He found the name unnecessarily long.

He took out the file and opened it. Inside was a police report from the Hong Kong Police Force. Michael Hsu, the second-richest man on Earth, had reported a home invasion more than a month ago at his private penthouse in Hong Kong. Not uncommon for the wealthy to find themselves becoming victims of a crime.

Only his private penthouse was nearly half a mile in the air.

Shepherd had the blueprints of Shílì Tower on file. The penthouse Michael Hsu built for himself at the top of the Tower had no direct ground access. No one way of getting up or down. It had two elevators and a stairway that connected it to the rest of the building, of course, but those were heavily guarded and required biometric keys to grant access. No average home invader was going to get through that security.

The most vulnerable point of entry was the penthouse's helicopter pad. It bypassed most of the armed guards Michael Hsu employed, and was large enough for two helicopters to land side by side. But there was a problem with this method of breaking in as well.

No one—be they police, politician, or military—used Michael Hsu's helicopter pad without the billionaire inviting them first. They would be swarmed by Hsu's security before they could even step out of their helicopter, with the billionaire himself already out of the penthouse and halfway to the ground floor.

The home invader had been a guest of Hsu's—a guest he had neglected to name in his police report. This guest—whoever they were—had gained an audience with Hsu, killed two of the billionaire's guards, forced Hsu to transfer ten million US dollars to three separate accounts, then left. All without leaving any physical evidence they were ever there.

Such a flawless operation could only have come from Booth. Since he took no classified intelligence or equipment with him, Shepherd was technically supposed to give the search for Ned Booth over to the FBI, Interpol, and any other civilian law enforcement who may cooperate in the search. The General had officially done so.

And yet, he couldn't let it go. Not when it involved someone from the S.T.F. Not one of his own. Not when it was a traitor. Shepherd was the commander of the S.T.F, and as such had to take responsibility for the actions of all its members—both current and former. Whatever Ned Booth did on a daily basis was as much Shepherd's fault as it was Booth's. At least when it came to his own code: the actions of one reflect on the actions of all. A unit was only as good as its worst member.

Booth was making the S.T.F look bad.

He had to put a stop to that.

Out of habit, Shepherd re-read the file to see if he missed any detail regarding the statement Michael Hsu gave the Hong Kong Police. Besides the billionaire mentioning he had felt powerless during the incident, the rest of it was lie after lie. Shepherd knew; he had the digital information to prove it.

He closed the file and put it through the paper shredder. His landline phone beeped once the file had been turned to ribbons. That would be Black, since Major Briar was in the middle of a week of leave. "Go."

"Sir—Colonel Lennox just reported in. Wants to talk to you immediately. Ops has him on Line-2."

"Good." Shepherd hung up the phone and switched it to Line-2. When he picked it up again, he could hear wind blowing from the other end of the line. "I'm waiting, Colonel."

"I'll make it brief then, sir." Lennox's voice crackled through the phone. Interference from the sand storm. "It looks like you were right about Striped Badger, sir; we think he was here at Luderitz, but we missed him by about a week."

'Striped Badger' was Ned Booth's case name given by the FBI. Shepherd expected to hear the Lieutenant Colonel report Booth had been in the Port of Luderitz, but he had hoped that, somehow, Booth had been stupid enough to stick around for Lennox's team to take him down. It had been foolish to hope for that. "Any clue where he went?"

"Locals aren't saying, but we're working on them. We think they were intimidated by group Striped Badger had with him."

It was something for the time being, at least. "What do you have on the group?"

"We managed to piece together some information given to us by a few different locals. There were about two dozen of them. All masked and armed."

"How heavily?"

"'Like army' is the common statement we've been getting. They had modified Toyotas with them when they came rolling in. We tracked down the guy they sold them to and ran the plates with Intel. They belong to a dummy corporation believed to be a front for the Russian mob."

Now that was an interesting piece of information. Something to investigate later. "What else?"

"They've seen a lot of wear and tear recently. Far more than they should, even in a place like this. Locals say the vehicles had extra fuel tanks attached to them when Booth and the Russians came into town. They dumped them in the trash after arriving."

That got the gears turning in Shepherd's head. He pulled a map of Africa out from a drawer and laid it out on his desk. He focused on Namibia. "How much extra fuel did they have?"

"The trucks have mounts for three twenty-gallon cans, along with some other modifications for off-roading. I'd say they had a range of over a thousand miles."

Shepherd made a mental line between the Port of Luderitz and the nearest city with a heavy Russian mob presence. It was close enough that the long-distance modifications were unnecessary. Why modify them?

Unless…

He thought back to the Hong Kong Police report. The name Hsu suddenly struck a bell within him. A news report from a decade ago. A vicious murderer who drugged his victims, tied them up, and injected them with toxins that increased sensitivity to pain before torturing them to death. He had been revealed to be the son of a billionaire. The billionaire was suspected of helping his son escape until his wife was found murdered by the very son he had supposedly helped. Even then, the billionaire never confirmed or denied helping his son.

Michael Hsu had helped his son get away with the murder of dozens. Including the murder of his own wife.

Shepherd went back to the map with the thought of a genius murderer with a love of chemicals and viruses in mind. He made another mental line on the map. This time, he went from the Russian city straight out into the desert, tens of miles away from any significant civilization. He accounted for the distance between this second point and the Port of Luderitz.

The trucks would have had only fifty miles of fuel left.

A piece of the puzzle fell into place.

He needed confirmation. "Colonel—I need you to take your team to the coast and start driving."

"Which direction?"

"North."

Lennox went quiet. "Are you saying Booth went to that crashed Autobot ship?"

"I need you to confirm it, Colonel." Pray that I'm wrong, were the words left unsaid.

For if Shepherd was right, the visit Booth had paid Michael Hsu had not been one for money—he had paid it to find Hsu's son. Booth wanted to find him.

Booth wanted to find him, so he could make Booth a biological weapon.

Shepherd knew he should have just nuked that damn ship.

---

Ned was riding up front in the small convoy of old Land Rover SUVs he'd bought with some of the Russian mob's money. Dima was driving the truck Booth rode in.

He had been having the Russians run the name Andrew Carmine ever since he gave Michael Hsu a visit. It was fortunate that the Russians had given him a positive match before Booth betrayed them.

They were in Brazil, far from any significant military or police presence. The town they were driving in was filled with abandoned buildings, old heavy machinery, and shanties. Relics left behind by some corporation that used to run the village's Iron mine; the shanties had been built after the corporation left.

The people in town were watching them suspiciously, unused to newcomers or visitors. Especially ones that traveled in large groups This far into the jungle of Amazonas, the largest state of Brazil, the only vehicles that passed through usually would have been owned by locals from other nearby villages.

"Man we look for, he here?" Dima still wore his protective gear. His personal arsenal consisted of his normal P-96 and Grach, along with his Karambit and a Kalashnikov AK-12 Assault Rifle hanging from a strap across his shoulder.

Unlike its grandfather the AK-47, the AK-12 was a modern weapon made with the purpose of combining the reliability and simplicity of the AK-47 with the adaptability of newer rifles. As such, the AK-12 barrel could be changed out for different rounds, use many different magazines, and be fitted with a wide variety of attachments. Dima's AK-12 was fitted to fire 7.62×51mm NATO rounds, and a GP-34 grenade launcher was fitted at the lug under the gas chamber.

"It is," Booth confirmed. "A man who perfectly fits Andrew Carmine's description has been seen multiple times in this area."

"Does not make man one we look for."

"It is when he hides from anyone who tries to take his picture. Only someone who's smart and wanted by a lot of people avoids taking so much as a single photo on their phone."

"How we know he here, then?"

"Your former boss has a source here. A man who is one of the few people in this town with money to spare; he's the one renting a house to Carmine."

That satisfied Dima.

They exited the Land Rover and had the men split up into groups of two, each taking a different route to the target house. He and Dima paired up.

The target house was one of only three in the town. It was small, old, and of poor quality. Parts of its roof had caved in, leaving gaping holes open to the elements. Its walls were bent and misshapen, looking like the entire structure was about to fall over. A rickety wood fence was built all the way around the house, just tall enough that only someone of Dima's size could step over without making a sound.

"That house?" Asked Dima.

"That would be the one. Have everyone move in."

Dima spoke into the walkie-talkie he had with him. The rest of the men materialized from the crowd and surrounding buildings and forest, rifles up. Four stacked up on either side of the front door, while four more did the same with the back. They kicked in the doors simultaneously, while other groups stayed back to cover the windows.

A moment later, Booth heard the men inside call out in Russian. One of them appeared at the front door, rifle held low. Booth knew what the look in the man's eyes meant.

"Empty," Dima said, reaching the same conclusion as Booth.

"Let's have a look anyway."

He and Dima walked up the short set of wooden stairs leading to the front door, Dima ordering the men outside to form a perimeter in the meantime; a group of locals had started getting curious. A poorly-made table with a single chair, a stove fueled by a tank of Propane, and a dirty mattress lying on the floor in the corner was all that was inside the house's single room. Its ceiling was barely tall enough for Dima to stand in.

Booth looked at the stove. A pot and pan sat on its two burners. Ingredients for a basic stew were sitting around them.

"He here not long ago," Dima said, looking at the stove as Booth was.

One of the men walked across the middle of the floor. As he did, Booth heard the barely-together floorboards make a slightly different, hollow sound. As if the man had just walked above something.

A hole.

"No. He's still here." Booth pointed at the floorboards, which he could now see were looser than they should be. Loose enough to move. He stepped closer.

Dima had already been moving when Booth spoke. The massive man barked in Russian, and two of the men positioned themselves around the floorboards, rifles aimed down. Dima then stomped one of his heavy combat boots down on the floor, snapping two boards right in half.

Booth heard a voice below cry out in alarm, but couldn't see down into the hole that had been dug in the ground beneath the raised house.

Dima brought his boot down a second time, and two more boards were broken. The gap in the floor was now wide enough that Booth could have jumped down if he wished. He did not.

The ex-Zaslon crouched down and reached into the dark pit below. He pulled his arm back a moment later, bringing up with it a man of Booth's height and build.

The man had both Chinese and Caucasian features, though his Caucasian features were dominate as his father had only been fifty percent Chinese himself. A mess of dirty, long black hair covered his head and parts of his face. His beard was also long, but had a red-brown color to it. His dark, panicked eyes were wide with fear, and he fought against Dima's grip fiercely.

He was having even less success than Booth would have.

Dima, holding the man up to eye level with just one arm, looked almost bored as he tried to break Dima's grip. The ex-Zaslon let the man continue fighting for a few moments, then huffed and casually tossed the man at Booth's feet.

Only after being thrown to the floor did the man notice the other armed men in the room. Whatever fight he had left vanished as his gaze went to each armed man crowding in his small house. His face paled as he realized just how massive and heavily armed Dima was.

At last, his dark eyes went to Booth, appearing to hold genuine terror in their irises. "Who are you people? What are you doing in my home?" The man asked in Portuguese, Brazil's official language. His voice was quiet and careful, as if he feared he would be shot if he was not respectful.

Booth found Andrew's attempt at playing a local amusingly amateurish; he was speaking the language with a heavy Macanese accent. "You should first master a language before you try to use it to play a part, Mr. Carmine. Using only what you were taught in private school gives you away immediately."

Andrew Carmine's eyes widened at Booth's perfect useage of the Brazilian dialect for the first part of his statement, then using the Macanese dialect just as well for the second. He dropped the act of a terrified local. Instead, Booth was looking at a still-scared but extremely intelligent and sadistic man. "You're American." His English was also accented heavily, a product of living most of his life in China and Hong Kong.

"I could be," Booth said in German, another language he knew Carmine spoke from researching his background. "Or perhaps I am Spanish."

"Stop with the roundabout. You're American."

"Oh? And how do you know I'm not Canadian?"

Carmine smiled, dark eyes lighting up with a sick joy. "You know who I am, so you know I've killed enough of both to know the difference. Maybe I'll kill one more before the day's done."

Booth smiled right back. "Dima, if you would please."

The massive man brought a boot down on Andrew's back, slamming the man down to the floor with enough force to crack a floorboard. Andrew cried out in pain.

Booth made a show of dragging the single chair in the house across the floor until it was right in front of Andrew. Then he sat down and crossed his legs, brushing a bit of dirt from his pants. A deliberate display of power and lack of care. "Now, do you know where you went wrong with that threat?"

"I didn't cut off your lips first an—"

Andrew's answer was cut off as Dima stepped on one of Andrew's outstretched hands.

"That was a rhetorical question—keep quiet while I speak." Booth snapped his fingers, and one of the nearby men—catching onto what Booth was doing even without knowing what he was saying—pulled out a water bottle from his tactical vest's pouch and handed it to him. It likely had been the only thing the man had on him that wasn't related to combat.

Booth opened the bottle and took a long sip. Then he took another. And a third following it. Another statement showing Andrew just how outmatched he was. "Ah. Refreshing. Now where was I? Oh, yes. You threatened me as if I had been one of your victims: drugged up; filled with chemicals that increase pain sensitivity; secured tightly with rope. A helpless victim, isn't that right?"

"I—AH!"

For the second time, Dima cut Andrew off by stepping on his hand. This time he broke two of Andrew's fingers, gaining another scream from the fugitive.

"Please keep up with the rhetoric, Mr. Carmine." Booth took two more long sips of water. "Now, for the sake of fairness, let's say I really was in the position of one of your victims. Let's say I was one of those fifty-odd men and women, boys and girls you grabbed. How am I different from the rest? For starters, I'm not a foot shorter and half your weight. Second, just from looking at you, I probably am stronger than you are. Third, I didn't get through college just because my mommy or daddy was rich and powerful; I got through because I'm intelligent—in some ways, even more than you are. Fourth, and most importantly, I know how to kill you with my arms tied behind my back, while none of your victims had any training in self-defense."

Booth leaned down in the chair so Andrew could clearly see his eyes. "In short, you're a coward, Mr. Carmine. A smart coward who, admittedly, knows how to hide and how to remain off the grid. But the only reason your body count got as high as it did was because you never targeted someone who could fight back. While I, on the other hand, am the type of person who throws the first punch in a fight against a giant. Add my good Russian and Chinese friends to the mix, and you're in a world of hurt if you so much as twitch."

The fire in Andrew Carmine's eyes had long faded. Now, he looked like a man who always had been the smart kid in class only to realize he was now in a room filled with geniuses.

Booth sipped from the bottle again and nodded for Dima to take his boot off Carmine's hand. "You can speak now."

Andrew cradled his hand, wincing when he moved his broken fingers. Wisely, he kept his question short, "What do you want?"

"There's just one thing I want, Mr. Carmine, but you don't need to know what it is. What I need, however, is another story." Booth reached into his pocket and brought out one of the vials of cybonic plague he'd recovered from the crashed ship. "And what I need from you, is help with this."

Andrew raised his head to get a better look at the vial. Confusion spread over his face as he stared at its contents. "What is that? Looks like blood, brains, and puke mixed together."

"You don't need to know what this is. All you need to know is that it is dangerous, and you're going to help me make it more dangerous."

To his credit, Andrew understood what Booth was asking within moments. "You want me make a bio-weapon."

Booth gave a fake smile. "I see why you were considered such a prodigy, Mr. Carmine."

"I can't do what you're asking."

"Oh, come on, Carmine—you know you can. You were a virologist. One of the best in the world, even. You were paid to understand how things like this worked; people like you advised governments how to prepare for an outbreak. If there is anyone on the planet who knows how to splice viruses, it's going to be someone like you."

Annoyance flashed in Andrew's eyes; he had been caught and he knew it. "What's in it for me if I help you?"

Booth finished off the water. "You get to live."

"That's it? No deal."

"This is not a negotiation, Mr. Carmine. You're wanted for murder in a dozen countries, all of which would happily cooperate with each other if it meant you ended up locked up in a dark cell without a key. I go to the police, and you're never seeing the light of day again. I shoot you right here and now, I'm doing the world a favor. Refuse to cooperate, and one of those things comes to pass."

Andrew's eyes were searching Booth's. The other man was desperate for another way out of this—another tactic he could use to slip away like the rat he was.

He wasn't finding one. "And if I cooperate?" He asked.

Booth shrugged. "That depends on how good a job you do. If you mess up, you're done; if you do a good job, I let you go."

"Right back here?"

"If you wished."

Andrew said nothing for a long time. Then at last, he nodded. "You have a deal. But if this is going to happen, I need proper lab equipment."

Booth nodded back. "Yes, I know. What do you need?"

"A lot," Andrew said uncertainly. "None of it can just be bought on the street. And that's just the equipment itself. To splice this… Virus you have, I need access to other viruses. There are very few places where you can do that, and none of them give a tour. For this to work, I need to get into a laboratory. A high-tech, very expensive laboratory."

"I suspected as much."

"Then you also know that wherever viruses are being researched, a lot of security follows. The places I'm thinking of? They're basically fortresses. You're either going to need to arrange a full-scale assault, or come up with a really good plan to get inside."

Now Booth gave a smile. A real one. "Let me worry about that, Mr. Carmine. Just tell me: where would be the best place for you to work?"

Andrew didn't hesitate, "The Department of Microbiology and Immunobiology at Harvard University. They're the best in the world."

It was only a matter of time before he had to return to the United States. Booth looked at Dima. "Use your contacts to find us some work. We're going to need more people."

---

"This one's really pretty! I like how the ship says 'Norman Andy' on the side!"

"That's nice, Wildwing."

"Oh! I loved making this one! The space station looks a little like a wheel on its side!"

"It does, Wildwing."

"And this one is a city! A big city! There are people everywhere!"

"There are, Wildwing."

The sparkling kept on going on and on about the new set of pictures he was showing Arcee and I. Mostly me.

Arcee was splitting her attention from Wildwing to reading one of the many data pads she had borrowed from Optimus. In this particular one, there was a civilian registry of Kaon's population before Megatron took over. Every mech, femme, and sparkling who had a permanent residence at the time of Megatron's takeover was listed in the registry, along with an uncomfortable amount of personal information. Some of which even the listed people were unaware of. The Council's caste system apparently hadn't been designed with personal privacy in mind.

Her search for answers to the flashes she'd seen had taken her to Ironhide shortly after she'd returned from the Animus. He was just as clueless as she and I were. As sparkmates, they shared mind, body, and soul. Their everything. No secrets were kept, and each sparkmate knew everything about their mate. Despite this, the only thing he could think of was Chromia's early memories always held a feeling of regret to them. A deep regret centered at something or someone. Beyond that he didn't want to say; going through her memories was hard on him when he couldn't hold her in his servos.

Since Ironhide was not able to help, the registry was one of the only reliable sources of information Arcee could use in her search. I didn't know how much time she spent reading outside my cell, but she had brought the data pad with her each time she entered my cell since she came back. She still hadn't found she or her sisters yet. Consequence of living in the largest city of Cybertron after Iacon.

Wildwing picked up another picture and made his way to where Arcee and I sat against the cell wall. He handed me a picture of a planet covered in water and grassland, the landmass and water equal in area. "There are a lot of nice plants and animals here, but the people are mean."

I frowned at his words, but nodded. "I'll be sure to keep note of that if I ever visit it."

Wildwing smiled and went back to the crate filled with drawings, chatting away as he shifted the drawings around to get at the ones he wanted to show first.

I looked at the mechling's creators, who were currently seated on the berth. "Most of his drawings are pretty average for a sparkling with an imagination."

"That's what we've noticed, too," Cyberfrost said, her tiny pedes dangling over the side of the berth, unable to touch the floor. "But he insists they're all incredibly important. That this feeling wants him to draw everything in a certain way. Sometimes when he doesn't understand what he's drawing." She gave the four pictures I had looked at this morning a disdainful look, but hid it quickly.

"But even with those, he usually finds some way to make them good," said Flightstorm. "Some innocent and profound way of viewing his own drawings that melts your spark. Sometimes I wonder where he gets that."

"That would be me," Cyberfrost claimed confidently.

Flightstorm didn't correct her.

As we talked, Wildwing came over and walked away twice. First trip he had given me a picture of a six-legged reptilian predator, and on the second he handed me a picture of a large space bridge with a yellow tint to its color. Both were exceedingly detailed and against white backgrounds. He told me what made the pictures special, but the words left his mouth so quickly—and his next sentence merged with his statement so completely—that I had no idea what he said.

I didn't ask for him to clarify; he would probably answer with something I didn't understand or held no meaning to me.

I looked at Arcee as the mechling went to bring us another picture. "Anything?" I asked the question each time she visited me in my cell—once or twice daily, depending on if Ironhide was guarding me or not.

"You would not believe how many femmes and mechs share the same names," Arcee said, digits swiping at the screen, dozens of names passing by with each movement. "I'm honestly surprised I haven't met two bots with the same name in my own lifetime."

"So that's still a no?"

"Still a no."

I frowned at her lack of results. I wanted her to find whatever it was her sisters hadn't been telling her—telling anyone—but I also feared what she would find. If Arcee hadn't been told this secret for her entire life, there was a reason for it. A very good one. I felt like it would be. Still, either way, I would support her and not let her bear the weight of this search alone.

It was the least I could do, since I was the reason her sisters weren't with us.

"So… What are you looking for so intently?" Cyberfrost asked.

"Something important," Arcee replied.

"That's specific. Almost sounded like you wanted to talk to me."

My courted winced and lowered the data pad a few inches. "Sorry. I have a lot on my CPU; I cut down on unnecessary words when I'm thinking."

"We can tell," deadpanned Flightstorm. "You were using that data pad almost the entire time we were in here last night, and this is the only time this cycle we've seen you take your optics off it. I echo my mate's curiosity. What happened since we were last here that's demanding so much of your attention?"

Oh, we could be sitting here for a while.

"It's… Complicated," Arcee said.

"Uh-huh. Does it have anything to do with why Shadowstreaker is in a cell?"

"They are very much intertwined, yes," I said.

"Okay," Flightstom said slowly. He gestured to the cell around us. "And how did this come to happen?"

"He offlined!"

We all went still at Wildwing's proclamation.

"He offlined because the mean mech wanted to control him and hurt people. But don't worry—he came back! See?" The youngling pointed at me, as if no one else would have noticed me otherwise, and went on, "But before he came back, Light had to talk to some of the Ardents, so he brought them to the CPU place! Two of them had to stay there so they could play a game called Path. I don't know why they didn't just bring it with them. Oh, look! I found the picture of the garden! I knew it was in this box!"

Wildwing walked over and gave the picture—a highly detailed drawing of a beautiful garden of both organic and nonorganic plants—to Arcee. "The funny feeling also wants you to know that you don't need to be sad or upset. Sometimes we go through bad things so we can be better!"

Wordlessly, Arcee accepted the picture. Wildwing smiled and went back to the crate of pictures, humming to himself, the optics of all four of us following him.

None of us said a word.

The intercom near the door came to life. "Looks like you've all lost the ability to speak."

I stood up and made my way to the intercom, glancing outside the cell. Jetfire was leaning forward in the chair and had a digit on button to activate the intercom, looking right at me. Smokescreen was sitting next to him, also looking into the cell. He looked more uncertain than Jetfire.

I pressed the button on the intercom. "We're just collectively stunned by the fact Wildwing perfectly summarized how I ended up in here."

Jetfire raised his optic ridges; Smokescreen looked even more uncomfortable. "Did he get to the part about Air Raid and I getting knocked out by Light?"

"He left everything as 'Hurt'."

"I suppose that's fair from a sparkling. Let me know if you need anything." He leaned away from the intercom button and turned to Smokescreen, engaging the young mech in a conversation.

"Excuse me, but did he say they were sent unconscious by light?" Cyberfrost asked incredulously.

Arcee and I explained everything behind Jetfire's words. Cold. How he came to control me. What he'd done while controlling me. Me being offlined. All of it. We did our best to shy away from some details for Wildwing's sake. Even if he probably already knew.

"That's… Interesting," said Flightstorm, looking at me and Arcee in a new light. An uncertain one.

I didn't blame him in the slightest.

"Not the word I would use," Arcee said.

"Or me," I agreed.

"Is this… Cold gone?" Cyberfrost asked. She had subtly moved closer to Wildwing during my explanation. Always thinking about protecting her sparkling, without always showing it. Good maternal instincts.

"He is." At least for now, I didn't add.

"And this Animus. Where our thoughts here are literally alive there. You've called it the opposite of our reality—of our state of existence. Everyone—good and bad—creates an Animus by thinking. They went into yours."

"I was offline at the time. But yes."

"And you're part of something called the Council of Ardents," Cyberfrost went on, focusing on Arcee. "A group of individuals who do… What?"

Arcee shifted slightly under Cyberfrost's gaze. Not as a result of it, I saw, but because of the topic; she didn't like talking about what the Mech of Light had told she and the others. "You know as much as we do on that."

Cyberfrost and Flightstorm shared a look, then looked at each of us respectively. "Do you know how unbelievable this all sounds?"

"Your son knows about things he shouldn't, no matter how far away he is from the events," I pointed out flatly. "Believe it, don't believe it. Doesn't matter. The truth is the truth."

"Still just… Wow." Cyberfrost looked between Arcee and I, optics filled with both wonder and humor. "You have so much more interesting lives than we do."

I appreciated the humor, and I could tell Arcee did, too. We didn't show it beyond a small smile.

"Look at this one!" Wildwing said happily. It seemed he hadn't paid attention to our conversation in the slightest. "I really liked making this one!"

The mechling moved over to me and waved a drawing for me to see. It was a picture of me sitting at pond I had met the Primes in my last visit to the Pocket Universe. In it, I was laughing with all of them.

The picture brought up emotions I had been keeping in check for a long time. The Thirteen. The Primes. My creators. People who saved my life. Who I'd grown to trust, to look up to, to care about. Even to love like family.

People who had let me get captured and tortured.

People who let me die.

Why? Why save me from my original reality, only to let me die in this one? Some of their actions said they genuinely cared about me, yet they did nothing to help me against my Paraion captors. They did not stop Cold.

Why?

And where had they been since I fell into stasis? Since then I'd only seen Megatronus and Solus, and even then it had been a brief conversation. They had wanted to help me, that much I admit was true. But they arrived too late—far too late. Cold had me in a vice by then, and they left as soon as they realized it. They went through the trouble of breaking the fabric of reality itself to speak to me, then left within a few klicks. How did that make any sense?

And what was so important about them running out of time?

I saw Arcee looking at me, and quickly pushed my thoughts aside. "That's a good one, Wildwing. You almost have the Pocket Universe down perfectly; the sand is a bit off in color."

"Okay. I'll make sure the next one's right!" He smiled up at me, carefully placed the picture down, and went back to the crate.

Arcee was still looking at me.

I gave her a meaningful look. As meaningful as a stoic faceplate could be. This wasn't the time to talk about my creators. We would talk, but not now.

She accepted the look with a blink. Then she returned to her data pad.

"Has all this changed you two?" Flightstorm asked.

"Emotionally or physically?" I returned, sitting next to Arcee again.

He looked amused. "I was talking about the relationship between you two."

That was my third option. "I am not sure I should answer that. Arcee, should I answer that?"

Arcee glanced up from her data pad. "It's a relatively normal question for a couple to be asked. An answer usually follows questions."

I'll take that as a green light. "In that case, what we've been through has changed our relationship."

"In good ways or bad ways?" Asked Cyberfrost.

"Too early to tell," Arcee said, this time keeping her attention on the data pad. "Recent events have… Definitely been a negative. But they didn't involve our relationship. Not directly. And since I've come back, there have been some marked improvements."

"Honesty?" Flightstorm guessed.

"Yes. Sharing more often is another. We've both been talking in detail about life experiences we've had."

"Wait, since when have we been doing that? All I remember is the scrolling of that data pad's screen. Scrolling and scrolling…"

"Multitasking, Shadow'. Multitasking."

Wildwing's creators chuckled.

"What?" I asked. "We were being quite serious."

That only made the spark-bound couple chuckle a little more.

"They don't seem to believe us, Shadow'."

"Huh. Seems they don't. Should we be insulted?"

"I believe we should."

"Very well." I looked at Cyberfrost and Flightstorm. "You've insulted us."

Cyberfrost shook her helm. "It's good that you two are keeping your senses of humor throughout this ordeal."

She didn't need to know the humor was a mask for Arcee and I. A mask I could see Flightstorm had seen right through.

He didn't comment.

"Oh. I found this one." Wildwing's tone was unusually serious for him, and he walked toward me and Arcee without any excitement. He held up the picture.

Arcee and I stiffened.

It was a drawing of Cold standing in a metal hallway. He didn't have the appearance I was used to seeing in him. Instead he looked like Cold as Arcee had seen him in my Animus. Tall. Jagged armor. Multi-lensed optics twisted. The lights behind him all out, leaving Cold in the picture surrounded in darkness.

It was too real for comfort.

With the mindful insight and innocent words only a sparkling or child could achieve, Wildwing said, "He is not nice."

"No he's not, Wildwing," I said quietly. "No he's not."

"I don't want this one." The sparkling handed the picture to me seriously.

In turn, I gave it to Arcee. She tore it apart without me asking if she wanted to.

Wildwing turned back into his happy self so fast I didn't even see the change. "I know what I should show next!"

And we went back to talking to his creators as the sparkling showed picture after picture, talking about things none of us understood. The conversation was pleasant, and Wildwing's genuine smiles and unending optimism was infectious.

The drawing of Cold and his multi-lensed optics still stayed with me at every moment.

---

Optimus hammered the Forge of Solus Prime down one last time, completing the upgrade to the Collected's reactor.

He had been hard at work all cycle upgrading the ship's systems to more adequately protect Wildwing—the third Seer known ever documented in Cybertronian history. His work was not in vain. The Collected now boasted shields, armor, and weapons on par with a war cruiser, along with a reactor significantly more powerful than it truly needed to power its new engines. These additions, along with the cloaking device he had built for the ship in its last visit, made the vessel a formidable combatant.

He hoped the ship he would eventually build for his Autobots would be just as powerful.

He had not contacted the human governments with permission to use more land to build a hangar and ship for his soldiers; he knew it was not quite the time to make such a request. But he knew that if they continued to rely solely on space bridge travel, they would never win the battle for the Sol system. His Autobots needed a ship, a very powerful one.

But not this cycle. This cycle, he needed rest.

Optimus turned and left the reactor room, ignoring the amazed looks on the faceplates of the engineering crew who just witnessed the Prime alter the very structure of the ship simply with his thoughts and a hammer. He was used to it; the entire crew of the Collected had given him a similar look at one point or another in the solar-cycle.

He went down a hallway and halfway down another. Then stopped right in his tracks.

Ahead, Cold stood in his way, all lights behind him dark.

"I must say: you've done a good job today, Little Prime." Cold advanced toward him, striding casually, lights going out as he got closer. "You were productive, focused, and above all you made sure this pathetically primitive craft got the best stuff you could give it. Not bad for someone who's more scum than mech."

Optimus relied on the Matrix in his chestplates to have Cold's words bounce off his figurative armor. He relied on it again to keep himself from shying away as the former Xel'Tor stopped directly in front of him, towering above him and gazing down with those unnerving, multi-lensed optics.

"Aw, no reaction? You hurt me. Should I go find someone else to torture?" Cold stepped forward, and through Optimus with a distortion of black smoke. The smoke felt like ice.

Optimus had learned from the first time Cold appeared to him that the former Xel'Tor wasn't physically present. Cold was influencing his CPU, creating illusions. He could not harm Optimus—only taunt him.

These facts were of little comfort.

"You should just leave."

Cold turned back to him, optics filled with a disturbing glee. "Ooo! You have a little fight in you today. I like it. Maybe you aren't as boring as you seem to be. Still doesn't do anything to wash away all the blood on your hands—all the blood built up from millions of years of war."

The Matrix gave Optimus the power to fight the regret that surged in him for that remark. He still struggled to remain stoic.

"Oh, I saw that. You have a heart today. Regrets. How touching. I'm sure all those you've killed appreciate the sentiment."

"Their faceplates never leave the forefront of my processor."

Cold scoffed, the simple sound somehow twisted and terrifying coming from him. "Oh, please. When you're a monster, at least own up to it; I do. Word of advice: just stop with the lies. They make me want to vomit."

The Matrix again gave the Prime strength. He did not rise to bait Cold had laid.

"Come on! Give me something! I'm growing bored already."

"If you are not entertained, then leave and do not return."

The former Xel'Tor tilted his helm and looked up at the ceiling, considering. "The not coming back part is out of the question. But the going away? That's promising. Really, it is; I have others I can drop in on."

That made the Matrix flare protectively, and this time Optimus required no strength. "You will go to no one else."

Now Cold laughed. He chilled the hallway with it. "What do you expect from me, Little Prime? To listen to you? Please. A dead animal wouldn't listen to you. And besides, what else can I do? I'm still waiting to get my favorite toy back."

"You will not have Shadowstreaker."

"Oh, but I will, Little Prime. I will have the Xel'Tor back as soon as one of you makes a mistake."

"We will not make another mistake with him."

Another laugh came from the former Xel'Tor, this time as a chuckle. "Maybe you won't. But I never said you'd make a mistake with him. You'll make mistakes with yourselves. And when you do, I'll be there."

A shiver went down Optimus' spine. "You want to control me as you did Shadowstreaker."

"Preferably all of you Ardents."

The sheer bluntness of Cold's statement shook Optimus before the Matrix strengthened him. Cold never was so straightforward with him. Something was not right. "You won't have any of us."

"Don't be so sure, Little Prime." Cold started circling around Optimus, multi-lensed optics never leaving him. "All it takes to break a mind is finding the right approach. The right button to push—the right time to push it. Everyone's different. I found the right button with the Xel'Tor, and now he's mine if he misses drinking that troublesome energon on time." He leaned over Optimus, the darkness surrounding them both leaving his massive frame only a silhouette. "If I can break a Xel'Tor, I can break any of you Ardents. And the moment I find the right button to push, I will break you all."

Optimus the mech felt genuine fear at those words. Optimus the Prime felt compelled to speak without a trace of that fear, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why take control of us?"

Cold returned to his normal posture, then looked at Optimus in nightmarish amusement. "Why? Because I can. Because it's fun."

The Prime saw through the lie like a young sparkling had been the one to tell it. "No. You have another reason. Another purpose. You don't want us, you want something else."

The amusement left Cold's crimson optics. In its place was annoyance. Then grudging respect. Then amusement once again. "Well, look who grew a brain. You're partially right. I don't want you, but I do want the Xel'Tor. I'm just exploring other opportunities while he's unavailable. As for what else?" He laughed again, smiling a cruel smile. "That's for me know, and you to fear."

All the sudden, the hallway was lit again. Cold was gone. And Optimus was left standing there, Forge of Solus Prime in his servo, Matrix in his chestplates urging him to find answers to the questions the conversation uncovered.

What did Cold want?

---

Screams filled the room.

Blood-curdling. Deep. Subharmonic. Ultraviolet. No one scream was like the other, and some were colors in the air instead of sound.

Machine arms moved along rails on the ceiling and floor. They carried medical tools, syringes, expired bodies, and cages with new subjects.

Red, blue, purple, orange, and black blood coated the floor around any cage where a scream originated. The combination of so many colors created a sickly, dark brown liquid that smelled foul and oozed into any cracks it encountered.

Shockwave watched everything from a platform above the floor. All machinery was controlled by his lab's computer, and he controlled the computer from the terminal next to him. Every injection, operation, and test was done exactly as he wanted.

But it seemed that was the problem.

This was the fourth group of potential subjects of Project: Predacon he had obtained from using his Universal Bridge, and half of them had expired in the last twenty-four breems. None of them would survive the next twenty-four. Just as the previous three groups had not survived. He was wasting resources at this point.

Shockwave turned to the terminal and entered the necessary command to terminate the rest of Group A-4.

Immediately, the syringes held by some of the mechanical arms emptied, and a new liquid filled them. The arms moved forward and injected the liquid into each surviving member of Group A-4. The screams echoing around the room gradually died.

Shockwave typed another command to dispose of the expired test subjects, and examined the data at his terminal, searching for answers for his continued failures.

A few test subjects had genetic anomalies he had not caught in his initial scans that explained their sudden deaths when his procedures began, but the rest should have lived through them. His calculations said they would. Yet they died so rapidly.

Either his data was wrong, or his calculations were.

He lowered the platform and moved to the main terminal for the computer, where he could use multiple screens at once. In moments, four screens—each a hundred square meters in area—were filled with data only a scientist of Shockwave's caliber would have understood. He checked, rechecked, and triple-checked each equation on each screen.

His calculations were not wrong. He was not surprised by this; his calculations were never wrong.

Shockwave brought up the scan data—both initial results and the new data he had received since his procedures began—for each member from Group A-4. Again he checked over the data three times, and again he found no major faults that could have caused the expiration of so significant a percentage of his test subjects.

He was missing something. But what? Transforming an organic to an inorganic should have been easier than this: he injected the correct chemicals; he created nanites for each subject; he supplied the metal necessary for the nanites to do their work. He even supplied each subject with a source of nutrition compatible with their unique physiology; no one subject was of the same species as another.

He had determined the neural reconstructor—a device he created to wipe away the identities of each subject and create new ones of his own design—was not to blame for this string of failures. Nor were the chemicals he was using. Not even the nanites were killing his subjects; the countermeasures he had in place were preventing the nanites from transforming the organics too rapidly.

What was he missing?

An alert from the computer forced him to put the question aside for the moment. He minimized the data and his calculations, and brought up the alert. If he had the capability to frown, he would have when he saw what the alert was.

The latest data from his Multiversal Scanners had arrived, as it did every other jour. His sensors had detected more Impressions in the Multiverse. Many, in fact. As expected.

His initial estimation that Impressions were rare in the Multiverse had been proven quite incorrect upon further study. Impressions were incredibly common in the Multiverse—a product of an infinite number of realities where an infinite number of people could crack the secret of traveling Time and Space.

However, these Impressions—all eighteen of them in the last jour, according to the sensors—were related to his own reality. Into or out of it, sometimes both. None originated from his own Universal Bridge.

Shockwave spent some time examining the data, and found that each new Impression led to, or originated from, a place he could not track. That was rare in the Multiverse. Rarer still to have so many centered in one reality of the Multiverse. And unheard to have fourteen of them occur over a timespan of one jour.

That made twenty-one Impressions in the last nine-thousand centi-vorns that were related to this reality. Shockwave could only account for one—a government experiment gone wrong just before the war broke out. Had Shockwave been invited to be part of team in charge, he was certain it would not have resulted in the pet cyberhound of one of the scientists being lost.

An irrelevant fact.

He entered a command into the computer, and it focused on Shockwave's own reality. He entered another command, and the computer started to search for other Impressions that led to or from locations he could not track, like the twenty recent Impressions. He waited patiently for it to complete its search.

He had to wait a long time. For there were only two other Impressions whose origins his sensors could not determine.

Shockwave brought up the readings of the twenty recent Impressions, and the two others his sensors had detected. The gap between the two groups was massive. For them to be so far apart the two Impressions he just searched for and found had to be… Ancient.

He ran a quick test. No, they were beyond ancient. His sensors could accurately date Impressions from the beginning of the current Cybertronian Age—the Age of Stagnation, which immediately followed the end of the Golden Age. The gap between the two groups of Impressions he was looking at was greater than the gap between the end of the Golden Age and the present.

Why such a gap between Impressions such as these? What made them return? Where did they lead?

Who, in this reality, had the power to travel through the very fabric of reality itself?

And where were they going?

---

Extremis stood on a private balcony built into the side of a building in the city of Alphox, the largest of the four Paraion cities settled on the system's second garden world: Rucina.

Ventqura Munitum may have been the focus of his research and their main fortress, but his organization was too large to house on the dangerous and wild planet. Rucina was in many ways Ventqura Munitum's opposite: temperate; dominated by enormous herbivores; and made up half of water and half landmass. It was the largest and most populated terrestrial planet in the system.

As most Paraion constructions were, Alphox was built like a fortress. Every building was constructed of high-strength materials, and equipped with anti-aircraft and missile batteries hidden on their rooftops. Hard-Light turrets—which fired a wide range of weapons that could be used against infantry and ships—were installed beneath every street corner, controlled by the city AI, Sentinel. A heavily fortified military base was built in each direction outside the city limits, the largest of which contained a shipyard large enough for even the largest ships in the Paraion fleets to make port.

A massive, shimmering dome of Hard-Light surrounded the city and parts of the enormous, rolling plains around it, covering nearly half a million square kilometers of area. The dome allowed the anti-ship weaponry to fire through it, while forcibly keeping any unauthorized ships or other vehicles outside. It was rated to withstand a direct impact from an antimatter warhead.

Despite the security measures and military bases built within sight, Alphox still had touches of artistry seen in any city not made exclusively for military usage. A fountain here, a park there, the occasional building that had been shaped with a certain element of style.

Extremis allowed some leniency in how his followers built their homes.

Extremis was on Rucina to see the graduation of the latest recruits. This group had been rated highly by all Overseers. As such, the first Rotation for most of them would be straight to the Military Division.

All Paraions—and their sparklings—went through some level of combat training and worked in or for the Military in some fashion, but only a third worked in combat positions at any given time, and only chosen officers remained in the Military full-time; the fleet was only so large. When not serving in direct combat roles, they were transferred to other positions, such as Research or Intelligence. Such transfers were called Rotations. The average soldier Rotated through each Division every other solar-cycle. Having a first Rotation be directly to the Military was seen as a mark of pride to most of his followers.

This graduating class was made up entirely of the sons and daughters of veteran Paraions. They were only the third generation since Extremis' organization settled in this system; he kept a grip on population growth so it did not strain resources. As such, those that wished to have a sparkling had to be cleared to do so. Authoritarian, but necessary.

His private balcony overlooked the courtyard of the Alphox School of Warfare, the largest academy the Paraions had. In the courtyard was the graduating class.

Fifty-thousand Paraions were gathered below, twelve-thousand of which were the recruits of the graduating class. The class was divided into four regiments. Those regiments were in turn divided into battalions. And the battalions were divided into platoons. Not one recruit was out of place.

Extremis knew each and every faceplate he saw in the formation. Their histories. Their personalities. Their strengths and weaknesses. He knew them better than they knew themselves.

They would frightened if they knew that.

"You have made it this far, cadets," said the general in charge of Basic Training, a tall grey femme called Speed. Her voice echoed around the courtyard due to a number of hidden speakers. "That means I do not have to tell you the Code of the Paraions. Recite it to me, cadets."

As one, the graduating class of twelve-thousand mechs and femmes shouted out at once, the sound so thunderous it did not need to be amplified to be heard for miles around.

"We are not Autobot or Decepticon!

"We are ahead, and They are behind!

"We are the Sword and the Shield!

"We are the Watchers!

"We are Necessary!

"We are Paraions!"

"Yes you are, cadets," General Speed said. "As of this moment, I graduate you from Basic Training. Enjoy your first official leave."

The great cheer rose from the graduating class and the other Paraions in attendance. Units broke formation, friends moved to celebrate with each other, and families came down from the stands to congratulate those who had just finished training. Pride and excitement radiated from the crowd.

Extremis felt nothing.

He space bridged himself from the balcony and back to his sanctuary—his official one, not the real one hidden within a wall. Outside, he saw gunships of his own design flying through the air, patrolling as they often did. A series of walkways criss-crossed over the Ancient complex ahead, marring its incredible beauty with Paraion utilitarian construction. His scientists had wanted to study the countless runes that covered its walls.

He sat down in his chair, the holoscreens in front of it feeding him information from dozens of different projects at once. He minimized them all and shut his optics.

With the graduation finished, he had completed all pressing matters for the cycle: no projects needed his presence; no Division commanders had things to show him; no races were encroaching Paraion space.

In a rarity, he had nothing he needed to do.

Moments such as this were to be taken advantage of. He did not need to recharge, and he did not need breaks to sort out mental stress, but meditation was something that allowed him to process information even faster than normal. However, he rarely had time to meditate for any length of time.

That was why he immediately fell into a meditative rhythm of breathing. Breath in. Breath out. Slowly and steadily.

He could hear the echo his breaths created in the room; he could hear even more than usual. He ignored sound and focused on imagery.

He could see it all. The room around him. The black crystal-metal hybrid reflecting light perfectly. The window in front of him. His chair. The minimized holoscreens. The door to his hidden sanctuary. The handle of his Shard at his side. It was all so clear, yet he was not using his optics to create the image, or seeing his memories. He simply was recreating a perfect image of his surroundings.

He pictured the scientists moving about his facility. Conducting experiments. Progressing technology. Making discoveries. They rarely stopped, excited as they were about the work in front of them.

He sat there for some time, until he felt something disturb his meditation. He could feel… Something. Something alien. Alien. Advanced. Powerful. Something pulsing constantly like a spark.

Something about it had changed.

His optics snapped open.

He took the handle of his Shard of Oblivion from his hip and willed the blade into existence. In flashes of Light, each piece of the sword appeared and and fell into place. It shimmered with light even without him directing it to.

His Shard constantly pulsed with power. It was a subtle feeling. Faint. Like it was far from its true potential. It had pulsed since he claimed it. As a result, he had grown so used to its energy that he only felt it pulse when he used it in battle, or when he allowed himself a moment of meditation.

A moment like he had just given himself. But even now, he could feel it pulsing.

Something about his Shard had changed. Transformed. When had it changed?

How much had he missed?

"Vigilance—open File S11-722. Classification Black."

"Your authorization codes are required for display of files classified Black, sir" Vigilance's voice echoed.

"Gamma-7714. Secondary authorization: Mind of the Damned."

"Codes accepted."

A metal door shut over the window that made up half of Extremis' sanctuary. An energy barrier activated over the door, humming audibly. A blast door closed over the door leading out of the room, and another barrier activated over it.

Once the door and the window were secured, the holoscreens in front of him were dismissed entirely. In their place, the contents of a single data file was displayed. The file was made up of images contained within the mind of a deceased adversary. Extremis focused on one of many images that displayed a metal wall carved with runes in a language known to no one else. Instead of horizontal lines, the runes were written in triangular patterns

"The Awakening of the Xel'Tor brings the First; the Calling of the Council, the Second; and with the Arrival of the Chaos Bringer, comes the Third. What follows is the completion of all Paths, ready or otherwise," Extremis read aloud to himself, his mechanical voice rumbling in the air like a storm.

The words spoke of the changes Extremis expected to see at the Xel'Tor's arrival. Yet Extremis had felt no changes when he had arrived. No transformations. No progress. No Key. The Xel'Tor himself had felt… Incomplete. Confused. Unpowered. Extremis had realized this when the Xel'Tor had escaped—the Xel'Tor was not as he should be. Not yet. He was not the source of this change. This ripple Extremis felt.

The Chaos Bringer was also not its source. He would have known if the Chaos Bringer had arrived—the entire universe would have known. Such an event was impossible to miss.

That left the Calling of the Council. They had been chosen. He could almost feel it. Where were they? Who were they? Were they on their pointless Paths—their irrelevant personal journeys that only wasted precious time?

Extremis looked down at his Shard again, focusing on its slightly-altered pulsing. When had it changed? It could have been anytime between the present and when he'd last used it—against the Alpha of the Swarm. He had not used it since, leaving the taming of the other Alphas to the original.

And how had the Shard changed? It was just slightly different. Not significantly, or even enough to improve its power. It was just different. He could not place its change. Would the Second and Third change it more?

He looked back at the file, focusing on another image, another set of runes. "When all three Alterations come to pass, all Shards—those that belong to the Council, and those that have been made for the mighty Warriors—shall become Synthesis. So, too, shall their masters. And together, they shall Stand against the Darkness."

So a greater change was in the works. There were just two more Alterations before it arrived. Out of his control.

He examined more images, but saw no other mention of the Council or the Shards of Oblivion. The rest were mysteries to him; the runes made up a language more complicated than any other. A single rune could have a million different meanings depending on position, angle, and number of other runes contained in a triangle. Extremis had translated only a small part of the language.

Extremis was about to close the file when he caught sight of another grouping of runes. A group he felt he had seen before in another image.

One that belonged to another file.

"Display file M59-I112."

Next to the first file, the contents of another file appeared. It contained a copy of the partial information recovered from the Xel'Tor's CPU.

He scrolled through the images of the new file until he came to the one he wanted. Like the others, the image was distorted beyond recognition. Shapes, letters, and images were mixed together.

Extremis took hold of the image and overlapped it with the image from the first file. He adjusted it, analyzed it, until at last he saw it.

In the second image, among the cluttered mess that was the Xel'Tor's CPU, one distorted shape looked eerily similar to the runes.

And as he looked at the two images, he found the overlapping picture they created looked almost exactly like symbol on the Xel'Tor's helm when flipped over.

How very interesting.

---

Not a very long chapter, and also lacking in actual emotion. It's filler, basically. Unfortunate, but not every chapter can be intense and emotionally-driven like I've tried to make the last two; if each chapter was, then the chances of everyone being numb to the big, important moments goes way up.

This chapter's credit song is "Universal Trailer Series - Collapsing Time" This song has Extremis' signature dark, enigmatic tone. Like that of a unrivaled titan standing just out of sight. I always enjoy listening to the songs that suit Extremis' scenes.

Thank you all for reading, and I hope you all have fantastic days and or nights, depending on when you read this.

See you soon.

PS: Star Wars was freaking awesome. But my feels... So many feels...