Shorter than my normal updates, but more on that at the end. Moving along.
EDIT: I forgot to mention when I first posted this that since my chapters are so far apart in real-life time, I recommend rereading the last chapter so you understand what is happening in this one.
As per the norm, thank you all who reviewed, followed or added this story to your favorites since last update. You are one of the big reasons I keep working on this story, and I wish I could provide updates for you every day just to show my appreciation.
Guest (Chapter 11) - I am glad you are a fan of my work, and I thank you for offering the suggestions for music. However, I regret that I do not see them fitting as you do. I hope you have a wonderful day, and thank you again.
Guest (Chapter 45) - It's been an alternate universe for a while now. The Butterfly Effect in action. One change sets another in motion, and it escalates from there.
The one downside to this is that I have a lot of pieces to fit together and balance, and sometimes I need to step away from one to make sure the others are built up. Rest assured that while there are some characters we haven't seen in a while, they're still at work. There's more than just Earth to worry about, after all.
And I have no plans of not featuring that incident. It will be altered to suit my needs, of course.
Thank you for reviewing.
Seeker 3 - "Cold" is a name Cold chose for himself; his true name is something different entirely.
And not without an explanation that fits with everything I've been doing. I have a lot of plans already, including how Shadowstreaker develops.
That sounds like a few I've tried to read. Did you have an exact name for the story you're referring?
Very happy that you're enjoying this, and I thank you for reviewing.
TheSilentOne - All the feels. All of them and more.
Thanks go to Crystal Prime for beta reading.
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro. I only take credit for this story and my OCs.
The night sky was starless, blocked by clouds that would bring rain within the hour. Visibility was reduced to less than ten feet, and even then only basic outlines were visible.
Perfect for a covert pickup.
Dima's contacts had come through in a big way. One of the largest cartels operating in both North and South America—Espadas Oscuras, or Dark Swords—was on the market for mercenaries to provide extra security for a shipment of weapons and narcotics to the United States. The shipment had been just about to leave without any takers when Dima's contacts got in touch with them. After exchanging a few messages through Dima's contacts, Booth was able to secure the job for his group. It would pay well, and it would be easy to turn a good amount of other mercenaries already on the job over to Booth's side.
But more importantly, the job would ultimately land them back in the United States within five days of picking up Carmine. They would land far from Harvard, of course, but they would get a plan in order while in transit.
Booth was sitting in the front seat of one of the trucks, waiting. He checked his watch, barely able to see the hands ticking away in the dim light. One minute after they were to be picked up. Still no sign of incoming boats.
"Lookouts see anything?" He asked Dima, who sat in the driver's seat.
The massive, barely-visible form of Dima picked up an LED flashlight and used it to signal three times into the darkness to their left, where a pair of men were using night vision binoculars to stare out across the water. A moment later, two flashes responded from the black. "No. Seem like we are made to wait."
"They want to establish who's in charge. That no matter how much firepower we bring, we're still second to their own interests. My guess is they have six rigid-hulls waiting nearby, each with three armed men along with the driver. They'll show up five minutes after our agreed time."
"There will be two guards in boats, and they will be eight minutes late to make seem like accident. Also, seventh boat will be off-shore, waiting to shot us with heavy weapons."
"Compare what we correctly predict later?"
"Da."
They fell silent, watching for signs the Espadas Oscuras were approaching. Booth saw Dima look at the dark silhouette of the truck next to them. "How we keep Carmine from running?"
Booth looked at the truck as well, where Carmine was being held by men he'd placed as guards. Booth also knew another pair of eyes were watching the truck at the same time—eyes watching through a sniper's night scope. A precaution in case Carmine decided to take his chances. "We keep a close eye on him. Always make sure at least two men are watching him at all times."
"Desperate men stupid sometimes. Can't use stupid men."
Booth found that phrase accurate. Blunt, but accurate. "Then we make him want to stay. Give him some good food. Buy him some real clothes. Let him relive his glory days before he went on the run."
Dima raised an eyebrow at that, brown eyes staring at Booth intensely. Then again, they were always intense. "Let him kill civilian?"
"The ends justify the means. A common tactic for gaining an asset's trust is to give them something they like. Carmine happens to likes to torture and kill people. His loyalty might be bought if we give him a chance to do that."
Dima grunted. "He is like man I use in Afghanistan."
Booth knew Dima had been in the military during the last three years of the Soviet-Afghan War—he'd been career military, and was nineteen at the time. However, this was the first time Dima had brought up the topic. Booth focused intently on gaining any detail he could. "How so?"
"Carmine is not right in head. Man I use in Afghanistan, not right in head, either."
"Who was your asset back then?"
"Local man called Aamir. Lost son when trainer in Mujahideen accidentally kill him in exercise. Demanded justice for dead son, but denied, and shamed by other locals for questioning Mujahideen."
"So you used that personal vendetta against the Mujahideen to turn Aamir into your asset?"
"Da. Talk to him. Train him. Teach him to shoot and kill. Took to it fast—very fast. Soon was leading group of men with similar grudges against Mujahideen. But did not take long for us to see he… Enjoy killing too much."
"How? He create unnecessarily high body counts?"
"Not at first. First, he really just wanted revenge on bad trainer. Then, he wanted to bring stop to crime in his village. Then he wanted to control opium trade in area. Then mines in same area. Then started taking villagers who supported Mujahideen and force them to work opium fields and dig in mines. When Mujahideen try to stop him, he kill them, and not just fighters. Would find out names of dead men he killed, and visit their home villages to kill their families. One time, after Mujahideen attack, he go and slaughter entire village. All of them, down to last woman and child. Laughed when he tell me next day."
Booth had worked with few of those people during his time in the CIA. Sometimes they were on his side. Sometimes he was being sent to bring an end to one on the other side. War had a habit of bringing the crazies to the surface on both sides. "What happened to him when Gorbachev started to bring the war to an end?"
"Call me coward. Say Russia run from fight. Try to kill me and squad." Dima shrugged. "I kill him first."
Killing the asset when they turned on the handler. Booth had done that a few times, too.
Out of the corner of his eye, Booth saw three flashes from where the lookouts were hiding in the darkness. "Lookouts got something."
Dima already had his own pair of night vision binoculars up to his face when Booth spoke; he'd seen the signal, too. The ex-Zaslon stared out into the black night for a moment, then grunted and offered the binoculars. "What you think of company?"
Booth took the offered binoculars and put them up to his eyes. Visibility was about a kilometer when looking through the binoculars, but—as with all night vision of human origin—everything was tinted a light green. It hurt his eyes. He wished he still had access to S.T.F tech; the green tint was far less prominent.
About six-hundred meters off shore, just now turning after navigating around the far side of a small peninsula to their right, were six rigid-hulled boats. Each were about twenty feet in length, and about seven feet wide. They seemed to be made from multiple models, all of average quality.
Five of the boats began approaching the beach, while the sixth made its way a little further off-shore. No weapons were mounted on any of the boats, but Booth could see weapons held by the dark figures onboard. The five boats approaching directly had four figures onboard, three of which were armed. The one boat that wasn't approaching carried six men, the distinct outline of a gun turret was built into its bow. He couldn't make out what weapons any of the men aboard held.
"Looks like you and I were both right and wrong," said Booth, handing the binoculars back to Dima. "Signal everyone to get out and meet the boats at the water."
Booth opened his door and started walking down the beach, knowing that behind him there were flashes from Dima's LED light. He heard the doors of the other trucks open and close as the men started filing out, but he reached the edge of the water well before anyone else.
He could hear the boats, but they were still too far from shore to see with the naked eye. Booth expected they could see him and everyone else lined up behind him. He would definitely make sure his own men could see in this darkness, if their situations were reversed.
The boats suddenly materialized on the water. Everyone aboard was still just a shadow to Booth, but he could see none of them were pointing weapons in their direction. That was a good sign.
A moment later, the boats landed, and the three armed men that came with the boat drivers jumped off the side and walked through the shallow water to stand before Booth. Now that they were in range, he could see they were carrying AR-15s and AK-47s. Civilian models, but likely modified for select fire, effectively turning them into fully-automatic weapons. They were two very common weapons in drug cartels.
Seemed the Espadas Oscuras wasn't trusting this group with their best gear.
"Which one of you is Edward Booth?" One of the men off the boats asked in Spanish. He was of slight build and stood several inches shorter than Booth, but seemed to be the senior member of the group. Even in the darkness, Booth could see the man had heavily tanned skin.
"I go by Ned," Booth said. For as long as he could remember, everyone called him that, even higher-ups. Only his grandmother had called him by his full name.
The other man looked at Booth, and without being able to see his eyes Booth knew he was being sized up. "I thought you'd be… More."
Booth knew better than to react to the question loaded with false amusement. It was common in cartels for foot soldiers—or within many cartels, Sicarios or Hitmen—to intimidate or antagonize outside contractors. They were used to being the force of terror within their cartel, and didn't like when their bosses brought in strangers. It was also used as one of several ways to determine the competence of the outside contractor. If they reacted badly, the Hitmen would know the contractor was an amateur. If they ignored insults, then the contractor would be seen as professional.
"You know my name," Booth said. "What is yours?"
"Oh, where have my manners been." The other man stepped closer and offered a handshake. He was changing tactics in testing them. Booth took the hand and shook it firmly, catching a hint of Andres' dark eyes. "I am Andres, and I am in charge here."
Booth saw through the lie. He and his men were being felt out. Tested. If that testing went wrong, the boat off shore would open fire with whatever heavy weapons it carried, as likely to kill the Espadas Oscuras in front of Booth as it was to kill Booth himself. That boat would be where the real man in charge was.
"It is not smart for a commander to place himself in the line of fire of his gunboat."
Through his contact with the other man's hand, Booth felt Andres stiffen. "What gunboat?"
Booth looked out to sea, in the general vicinity where he knew the sixth boat was waiting. "The one your boss is having sit offshore, waiting to blow us all up to Kingdom Come if he so much as thinks I have ill-intentions for your cartel."
In the darkness, he could see the rest of the Espadas Oscuras share a look and whisper among themselves. Andres silenced them with a quick, "Quiet!" Then he let go of Booth's hand and took a step back. "What does it matter if I'm not the leader of all of us? I am in charge of those you see, and you are dealing with us. You need to pass our assessment, and so far you are failing."
His words were laced with a particular emotion. A specific one. A desire for control, a love of things monetary and temporary, and a love of power.
Andres was ambitious, and milking his command of these few other Espadas Oscuras for all it was worth and more. Booth might be able to use that later. "If we were failing, you'd have already sent a signal to your boss."
"Oh? And how do you know I haven't?"
"The lack of bullets flying," Dima suddenly said, surprising Booth for a moment with his masterful use of Spanish. It sounded even better than Booth's. He wondered how many other languages the ex-Zaslon spoke.
Andres said nothing for a few long moments. He probably was trying to determine if there was a way he could hold control of the situation any longer before turning it over to his superior.
Booth's conclusion was proven right as Andres pulled an object off his hip and spoke into it, "They check out. We'll be back at the ship in twenty. Juan—come pick up some of them with the rest of us."
The sound of an engine starting carried across the water. The sixth boat was joining them. "Tone back the enthusiasm," said Booth. He could feel the glare Andres gave him for the comment.
Someone tapped Booth on the shoulder. He turned his head to see Carmine looking at him, features unique even in near-complete darkness. "Andres sounds like he wants a bigger role in the cartel."
"I can tell," Booth said, keeping his voice low to match Carmine's tone.
"Can I have some fun with him?"
"You're not torturing him to death."
"Why not? The guy above Andres probably knows he's got a thirst for power. I'd be doing him a favor in taking Andres out of the picture."
It was a smart plan, Booth had to admit. Close to what Booth was considering to keep Carmine close: take care of an annoyance. "We're going to wait it out for a little while. See where we can change the most."
"Bu—"
"Patience. You of all people should know that just because you have a target in front of you doesn't mean you shouldn't wait for a better one."
Carmine said nothing else.
Two minutes of a tense silence between Booth's group and Andres' went by before the sixth boat arrived at shore. A break in the clouds allowed Booth a glimpse of the weapons that had been aimed at him not long ago. The newcomers carried sniper rifles. M82 Barretts, one of the most powerful, commercially-available rifles in the world. And fitted to the the turret built into the boat's bow was an M134 Minigun operated by a man Booth hadn't seen in the binoculars.
Now there was some of that firepower the Espadas Oscuras was notorious for.
The boat landed, and Andres gestured to it. "After you, Edward. The rest of your men will go in the other boats."
So Andres wanted a clear shot at Booth's back. About what Booth expected. "Very well."
Booth stepped forward, wading into the water so he could pull himself up onto the boat. Andres followed him aboard.
It took a few minutes for the rest of Booth's men to get up into the other boats. Once everyone was loaded up, the boat he was on pulled off the beach, and the other five followed suit. They were in open water a moment later.
Just over twenty minutes later, Booth was standing aboard the MSV Bainsworth, an eight-hundred foot container ship with US registration that was being used by the Espadas Oscuras. Its systems and comforts were all modern and high-tech. Its interior rooms were nicer than half the hotels Booth had stayed in, and beautiful works of art were bolted to the walls in many hallways.
Its crew were as quality as the vessel itself. Not a single one of them even looked nervous when they saw one of Booth's group or an armed Espadas Oscuras walk by, even when one of the jumpier Espadas Oscuras demanded to know what they were looking at. They just weren't intimidated. He could tell they were not employed by the cartel, either; they were the regular crew of the Bainsworth.
Booth wondered what they saw on a regular basis that caused them to not even bat an eye when a group of forty-plus armed men walked in front of them.
Andres gave up command to his immediate superior—a man known only as Garcia, who was apparently also acting as captain of the Bainsworth while it was at sea. Garcia had Andres and his men lead Booth's group to the ship's crew quarters. Booth himself was being brought to the bridge by a pair of Hitmen who had been aboard the Bainsworth when they arrived.
"You two do your own work on your weapons?" Booth asked the men following behind him in Spanish, even though he knew they probably spoke English. He saw they were carrying modified AR-15s, and hoped the casual topic would plant the seed that they could trust him.
They said nothing.
"Either of you like football?"
Not even a reaction to soccer. They were truly made of steel. "You two don't talk much, do you?"
"Stairs to your left. All the way up."
Booth decided to just give up on his two escorts and turned where one of them said to. A winding staircase was ahead, leading straight up about sixty feet. The bridge would be at the top.
He took the stairs two at a time all the way up, with the two silent Hitmen behind him. When he got to the top, one of the Hitmen placed a hand on his shoulder and got in front of Booth. The Hitman knocked on the metal bridge door, and the door opened from the other side.
The Bainsworth bridge was one of the strangest things Booth had seen on a modern ship. Rich wood floors, antique light fixtures, hand-painted portraits of past captains. Two small couches were bolted to the floor on either side of Booth, allowing bridge crew a space to sit down and have a cigar from one of two humidors built into the wall. It had a charm to it that didn't come from the Espadas Oscuras.
A breeze from the back of the bridge caught his attention. He turned his head and saw an open door. Outside that door was a helipad occupied by a Eurocopter EC225 Super Puma, one of the most expensive and high-end helicopters available. Its size and black coloring made it look like a dark version of its namesake, waiting patiently to attack.
Booth looked forward and saw the bridge crew working at the bridge's workstations, their high-tech nature seemingly out of place in the strange atmosphere of the bridge. Three other Hitmen were spread out in front of him, but a fourth man was what gained his attention. A man of obvious Colombian descent who stood in front of him, staring right at Booth. The man had short black hair, unfriendly black eyes, and stood a few inches taller than Booth. A modified Heckler & Koch G36 was slung across his chest, and he had his thick arms folded behind his back. The way the man carried himself screamed armed forces. Not any armed forces, either, but the US military.
"Garcia?" Booth asked in English.
"Ned Booth," Garcia returned. The only accent in his voice was a slight Texas twang.
Well, this was a surprise. "If I'm honest, finding another American at the top of this operation is one of the last things I expected while I was climbing those stairs."
"It shouldn't. It's human nature to seek greener pastures. Just so happened the greenest pasture for me is in the Espadas Oscuras. Fifty times what I made in the Teams, and I see a tenth the combat."
Booth nodded. He did understand the appeal of more money, less risk. It didn't stop him from killing about a dozen people like Garcia in his CIA days, but he understood it. "Teams, huh? Were you a Number or a Color?"
What Booth was asking was whether Garcia was part of the famous SEAL Team Six, or one of the other Teams. Team Six was the only one with its squadrons organized in color-coded squad designations.
Garcia said nothing, and his face betrayed none of his thoughts.
Booth had to admit that Garcia was good. That probably put him as former Team Six. Not someone to mess with, but someone Booth definitely wanted on his side. "Alright. I won't ask again."
"Good."
"Why did you have me brought up here?"
"I wanted to see you with my own eyes. You can read someone's credentials, but that ain't the same as seeing them in person."
"You see what's true and what was made up to look better on paper."
"Exactly."
"And how well do I match my credentials?"
"To a tee. As long as you don't cause trouble, I'll trust you to help us keep our objective safe."
"Objective? You still like acting like a SEAL."
"And you still like acting like a Spook."
"Old habits die hard."
"They do. Tell Andres if you need anything while you're aboard."
The words came out as an order to leave. But from how the two Hitmen who escorted Booth to the bridge didn't move forward, it wasn't one for them. Garcia was just done talking to him. Booth wanted to get in one last question before he left the ex-SEAL.
He looked at the dark helicopter outside. "Nice chopper. Yours?"
A particular chill swept through the room. A sense of the exact same thought running through every head at the same time. Around him, Booth saw the Hitmen and the bridge crew stiffen, frozen in place, motionless. Every pair of eyes he looked into—even Garcia's—echoed the same thing.
Fear. Absolute fear.
"No," Garcia finally said, regaining his voice. The others around him gradually returned to their duties or relaxed, but Booth could see everyone was still on edge.
"Your bosses', then?" Booth was running through different scenarios in his head that would explain the wave of terror that went through everyone. Perhaps the chopper belonged to someone feared within the Espadas Oscuras cartel. They had a few members who were the stuff of nightmares.
"No," Garcia said as one of the Hitmen behind Booth whispered to the other in Dutch, Suriname's official language and one Booth did not know a word of. The other Hitman whispered back in the same language, tone quiet and fearful.
"Then whose is it?" Surely Garcia knew whose it was; no self-respecting soldier would overlook a mysterious helicopter. What frightened him so much that he wouldn't say?
"It is The Concierge's," said one of the bridge crew members, voice hardly a whisper. Every pair of eyes in the room snapped to the crew member, each one horrified and panicked. Like they expected him to burst into flames for even saying those words.
Even Garcia looked like he expected it.
What kind of person inspired this type of fear from so many?
"The Concierge," Booth said, instantly gaining all the terrified looks given to the crewmen. He'd never heard of anyone in the criminal underworld that went by that name, even when he had access to the S.T.F's files. "Never heard of them. They a weapons dealer for your cartel?"
Garcia's eyes darted behind Booth. The terror intensified in his eyes, and he looked to the floor and picked up an empty clipboard next to him, making himself look busy. The rest of the bridge crew did the same.
Someone was behind him.
Booth turned. Then he understood why everyone was so afraid.
A man of Booth's height was standing at the top of the stairs. The man's solid frame filled out his black three piece suit with a black tie and pure white undershirt well. A black fedora and trench coat went over the suit, contrasting sharply with his lightly-tanned skin and clean-shaven face. The man wore a smile that didn't reach his striking, almost unnaturally green eyes that spoke volumes of a darkness that rivaled Carmine's.
Booth knew as soon as those eyes landed on him that he was looking at a man who possessed a vast intelligence. A dangerous intelligence. And the owner of those eyes knew it.
"Don't mind me!" The man said, his sonorous voice velvety and smooth. Like he could turn any word he spoke into a work of art. "I was just passing through. Don't let me interrupt your… Enlightening conversation."
His words went from a false sense of friendliness and security, to anger, to promises of pain and suffering beyond imagining, and back to friendly in three short sentences.
The entire bridge crew shared a collective shudder.
Booth understood then, that it was not him, or Carmine, or Garcia, or even Dima that was the most dangerous person aboard the Bainsworth. It was this man—The Concierge. And it wasn't even close.
The Concierge looked around the room, looking expectant. "Well, if you're so sure." His gaze went back to Booth, and Booth felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Those uncanny eyes… "Ah, so glad Omar listened to my recommendation for your services, Edward!"
He stepped forward and shook Booth's hand, but Booth was more focused on his words. Omar? As in Omar Martinez—leader of the Espadas Oscuras cartel? "I don't think we've met before."
"We haven't. I'm sort of an admirer. Your stay in the CIA, the S.T.F. Truly fascinating organizations. Powerful tools of espionage and warfare. But it's your most recent work that I find most interesting: Hong Kong; Namibia; Brazil. Lot of miles to travel for so little reward."
A chill went down Booth's spine. He knew. He knew where Booth had been, and why he had been there. Booth could see it in his eyes. In the way The Concierge's head tilted as he spoke, that small, false smile inspiring fear instead of joy.
"Oh, I love Brazil." The Concierge turned and looked out the bridge window like he was seeing something entirely different. "Such a diverse country. I once met a Rabbi, a Priest, and an Imam all talking religion in the corner of a coffee shop. They defended their positions so passionately, so totally, yet no threats or insults were ever exchanged. So rare in this day and age."
Booth dared not speak during the silence that The Concierge let fill the room.
He turned back to Booth, head tilted, fake smile gone. "I also once met a shop owner in Rio who was the nicest man. Friendly, compassionate, and very successful. One day a poor man came in off the street for some food, and the owner gave him the food for free. As he ate, the poor man told other customers about an idea he had to solve a problem in their neighborhood. The shop owner overheard the poor man's idea, and liked it immediately. He encouraged his customers to go along with the poor man's idea. The customers did as the owner said, and the poor man set out to make his idea come to be. The owner added his own support in secret, for he knew when they met that the poor man was a proud man who felt all the help he needed he could secure with his own tongue."
The Concierge watched Booth closely, unnerving green eyes unblinking. Staring into his very soul. "But the poor man failed, and the customers came back to the owner in a furious rage. So to calm them, the owner went out into the streets and found the poor man hiding in the dark cellar of an abandoned building. The poor man knew at that point the owner had been supporting him, and when he saw the owner he begged for forgiveness. Dropped down to his hands and knees just at the sight of him. For thirteen hours the owner stood there, letting the man weep and implore the owner to give him another chance. But the owner's compassion had run out. So he picked the man up off the ground, embraced him, and then took out a dagger and stabbed him through the heart."
The only sound Booth heard was his heart beating in his chest, and the small, quiet tapping of one of the bridge crew working at his station.
The Concierge gave another fake smile and laid a hand on Booth's shoulder. His grip was painfully strong. "Oh, Edward. You're going to do great things." He let go of Booth's shoulder and stepped around him. "I'll be sure to give your regards to Omar next time I see him!"
No one moved so much as a muscle as The Concierge walked through the bridge and stepped onto the helipad. And it was not until the large helicopter's engines roared to life and its rotors carried it away from the ship that the air of fear and certain doom left the room.
Only then did Booth regain the ability to breathe.
"Yeah, still not getting it."
The human General on screen rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You're Air Raid, correct?"
"Yeah."
"Well, Air Raid, if you aren't understanding the importance of finding Ned Booth after my third time repeating myself, then you won't understand at all. Don't ask me to explain again."
The seeker crossed his servos and scoffed. "Whatever. Least I can tell a compelling story."
Optimus resisted the urge to sigh.
General Shepherd of the S.T.F had just sent a request for a secure communications channel. When they obliged, the General filled them in on the situation with Ned Booth—the S.T.F Intelligence Officer-turned traitor who had assisted MECH from the beginning.
The former S.T.F officer had the cybonic plague. That was what Shepherd reported. Ned Booth was believed to have secured an unknown quantity of it from the plague ship where Shadowstreaker contracted the virus.
A ship that Optimus had trusted Shepherd with destroying. It apparently was sitting in the desert. As intact as it had been when they found it.
The General had been unworthy of the trust Optimus placed in him.
Even as the Matrix gave him the sense those thoughts were not correct, the Prime said, "Do not try to order my soldiers, General. You are not part of our chain of command."
"Yeah, that's right. You're overstepping!"
Optimus gave Air Raid a hard look for that comment.
The seeker had the intelligence to go silent, suddenly finding his pedes very interesting. Optimus had been told his glares that had affect on bots.
"Forgive my moment of impatience, Optimus," said Shepherd. "Regardless, you understand the threat Ned Booth now represents."
"What threat?" Broadside asked, massive frame leaning against the catwalks. "We have a cure we used on Shadowstreaker, right?"
"We believe Ned Booth is planning on splicing the cybonic plague with a human virus."
"So it'll be smaller?"
While Optimus appreciated the fact Broadside could inject humor into most situations, the Wrecker also was ignoring the danger of an organic-inorganic virus in favor of that humor.
While organics and inorganics were opposites in normal settings, an inorganic virus and organic virus functioned in the same way, and replicated in the same manner; their only major difference was that one infected organics, while the other infected inorganics. A spliced, mutated super-virus of the two would be able to infect both. If that were to happen… It would create something worse than the cybonic plague had ever been; and if it was unleashed on Earth, all of humanity would be in danger.
"Moonracer." Optimus looked at the green and white medic as she operated the workstation on her own. "Even with our technology, we were unable to find a cure for the cybonic plague. Is it even possible for human technology to splice the cybonic plague?"
"Yes," said Moonracer. "In this instance, the technological gap between our races has little to do with success or failure. The cybonic plague was so lethal because when it interacted with chemicals and medicines we attempted to use against it, it mutated and gained immunity to them. If it were to come in contact with an organic virus, it might be possible they would mutate into another virus entirely. It would need to be under the right conditions, but all that would be needed to create them would be a clean lab and a scientist who knew what they were doing."
"We believe they have at least the scientist part of that equation," said Shepherd. He nodded to one of the S.T.F technicians in the large communications room the General was standing in.
The screen on the Autobots' side of the channel pinged a moment later with an incoming data packet requesting a link between Autobot and S.T.F systems. Moonracer scanned the packet for malicious software. When it cleared, she allowed the link to form, and one of the technicians brought up a file.
The file opened with a photo of a man with Chinese and Caucasian features. Optimus immediately got the sense something was wrong with the unnamed human. A base instinct in all Cybertronians. All sentient beings. A faint voice that there was something off.
"Who are we looking at?" Moonracer asked.
"This is Jie Hsu—now known as Andrew Carmine," said Shepherd. "Once considered to be one of the top three virologists in the world, he's been an international fugitive for the last ten years after evidence was found identifying him as the Master of Pain, a serial killer who claimed fifty-three known victims over just a four year period."
"'Master of Pain'? Who gave him that name?"
"Himself. Back when he was known as Jie Hsu, Andrew Carmine had a habit of taunting authorities by leaving messages at the scenes of his crimes. In one of them, he titled himself Master of Pain, on account of the pain-enhancing chemicals he injected into his victims. The details of what he did to those people are… Grisly."
"He is running from justice and has experience with viruses," said Optimus. "He is what Ned Booth needs to modify the cybonic plague."
"That is what we're thinking, Prime."
"Have you located this criminal?"
"We didn't; we think Ned Booth already did."
"Based upon what intelligence?"
The technician working on Shepherd's end of the screen brought up a blurry image from what likely had been a human security camera. The man in the image had an average build and short blond hair, and had dark sunglasses over his eyes. He was looking over his shoulder, right at the camera.
"Three days ago, the Brazilian authorities received a report of a group of men armed with military-grade equipment stopping at a small town for fuel for their vehicles. This photo of Ned Booth was part of that report." The image changed to a wide shot of the human refueling station. A line of vehicles were parked in front of it, with armed men standing beside them. "With him are confirmed members of the Russian mob, along with two former employees of Michael Hsu, Andrew Carmine's father."
"How does that mean this Booth found him?" Asked Broadside.
"It doesn't," said Shepherd. The image focused in on a passenger still sitting in of one of the vehicles near the back of the small convoy. The passenger was male, and had long hair, beard, and a crude cast on his wrist "But this does."
Optimus agreed; the human in the image had the same eyes as the image of Andrew Carmine. "Have you sent a team after him, General?"
"That's the problem: I can't."
"Why?"
"Officially, the S.T.F has already handed the Ned Booth case over to other agencies, the FBI and CIA included. We're not supposed to be directly involved. If I send a unit to go get Booth, I'm stepping on the toes of a lot of people in the Intelligence committee. That will burn bridges the S.T.F will need in the future."
"Then you are not attempting to apprehend perhaps the most dangerous human on Earth because you fear the political ramifications for the S.T.F?" When he was upset, Optimus very rarely yelled. Instead, he settled for words that had an impact to them. Not a forceful, hard-hitting statement that clearly brought embarrassment and shame to the recipient, but an observation or question that meant more to the target than to anyone else.
What his question suggested was what Optimus believed General Shepherd feared he himself becoming: a man who feared doing what was right.
"I said that was the official reason why I can't send a unit down there. The real reason why I can't send anyone is because I can't get anyone down there in time," Shepherd said. "Right now, I have Shadow Company split across two continents; I have boots on the ground in the Middle-East; I have units fighting a terrorist cell trying to blow up a city block in Pretoria; I have men guarding peace summits; and I have dozens of other operations I can't even talk to you about. By the time I have bashed my way through the red tape and gotten permission to send a team down to Brazil, Booth will be long gone, and the cybonic plague and Andrew Carmine will be with him. Right now, you and unofficial units are all the forces I have to stop Booth."
The Matrix in Optimus' chestplates pulsed with approval, but it also pulsed with a curiosity directed at the last part of Shepherd's answer. "What unofficial units?"
The General set his jaw, his face devoid of emotion. "It might not be your planet, Prime, but Earth is still a surprisingly large place filled with a lot of bad people. I have an entire task force behind me, and we still can only get to a fraction of the threats we know are out there. Sometimes, some of these bad people are willing to do their bad things for good reasons. Understood?"
Optimus knew what the human meant—any leader did. When fighting a battle, commanders look for any way to decrease casualties on their side. Save as many of their soldiers as they could. Sometimes that meant looking to combatants whose loyalty was something other than ideals: money. Or influence, information, comforts. It varied from party to party. Optimus remembered that Lockdown—the mercenary whose organization was the most sought-after third party of the war—liked to be paid in raw materials; while Swindle, whose organization was the second-most sught-after third party, liked to be paid in information. The Prime always found those two to be odd.
"Understood. Have you contacted some of these other people?"
"A few, but there's only one in the area, or so he claims to be. You'll be on your own."
"Sounds like you doubt whether they'll be of any help," Moonracer said.
"That's because I do doubt him. He's without a doubt the best in the business, but he's a wildcard. He doesn't actually take jobs from me; he tells me when there's something of interest I should look into."
Optimus saw the slight tightening on the General's normally stoic face. "And you do not trust him."
"Not as far as I can throw one of you."
"What is the cause of your distrust?"
"He always has a personal agenda with anything he gives me. A motivation known only to him until it's far too long for me to do anything about it. And he's smart—smart enough that even we don't know his name. Not even an alias."
"Reminds me of how we didn't even know Swindle's name until he up and left his operation. Really makes me want to work with him," Broadside deadpanned.
"Since I'm the one who went to him, I doubt you'll see him. Just be warned that if you do see him, he's seen you first, and he knows who you are."
That surprised Optimus. "This contact of yours has knowledge of our kind?"
"Yes. How, I don't know. But he does, and he's yet to share it with anyone in the press. That's all I can ask for."
The Matrix pulsed in agreement. "This refueling station where Ned Booth and his allies were seen, where is it?"
Shepherd nodded to someone in his communications room, and a set of coordinates appeared on the mainscreen. "This is where they were when we lost their trail after that gas station. They were heading north when they went dark."
"How long since you lost them?" Moonracer asked.
"We had to recreate their position digitally; the entire convoy went dark not long after they stopped for fuel. As it stands right now, Booth has been off the grid for seventy-one hours, and we didn't even know he had been on the grid in the last two weeks until three hours ago."
Then he and his Autobots had a lot of ground to cover. "Moonracer—start pulling back Autobots on patrol. I need them here." He looked at Broadside. "Gather the others at the base; I wish to inform them of this threat."
"Including the ones on guard duty?" Broadside asked as Moonracer moved to carry out his order.
"Even them."
As Broadside walked away, Shepherd said, "Optimus, I made a mistake not using bigger ordinance on your ship, and an even bigger mistake in not telling you we failed to destroy it."
Optimus agreed entirely.
Shepherd had set his jaw, eyes firm, authoritative, but above all humble. Silently pleading for help, from one leader to another. "But don't let Earth pay for my mistakes by letting Booth unleash this virus. We already kill enough of ourselves. S.T.F out." He made a cutting motion across his neck, and the feed cut to static.
Optimus agreed with that, too.
"You seem tense."
Arcee looked up from the data pad containing the Kaon census data. Shadow' was standing at the other side of the cell, studying some of the pictures left behind Wildwing before he and his creators left for the Apex Sentinel two cycles ago.
"That's because I am," she said, and went back to her data pad.
"Worried about hunting down a scarily smart former S.T.F operative trying to use the cybonic plague?"
That wasn't what was bothering her, but having just been briefed on the situation by Optimus, she was worried if Ned Booth managed to modify the plague. "Yes."
She could feel her Shadow's optics refocusing on her. "Here I thought we were making an effort to be honest with each other."
She felt guilty at being caught in the half-truth. "Sorry. I'm just… Just…"
"Worried about what you'll find out about yourself."
Arcee's helm snapped up sharply. Her gaze was met by Shadow's, his deep cobalt optics looking at her expectantly, burning with an intense fire seemingly unique to him. His optics were one of her favorite features of him. Humans said that eyes were the windows to the soul, and Arcee was inclined to agree. Everyone she met had different optics—or eyes, depending on the species—and no set was the same. They could have the same color, but not the same feel. Shadow's were insightful and old. Insightful for sometimes it seemed he knew exactly what someone else was thinking, and old because they felt old. She found them comforting to look into.
And annoyingly observant when he wasn't dismissing what they saw.
"Yes," she finally said.
"Have you found anything worrying?" He asked.
"No. You know I haven't found anything." No matches for her or her sisters. No sign of the friends she grew up with.
No closer to understanding the dark silhouette that stood over her every time she closed her optics.
"Then what use is it to worry over something you don't yet know for fact?"
Arcee really loved and hated the fact her courted was logic-oriented like she was. She loved how he could help her see when she needed to think logically. But dammit, sometimes she wanted to have illogical worries! Couldn't he see that?
Emotions were weird.
"What use is it to continue dwelling on something you can't ever hope to take back?" She retorted.
As she expected, there was hurt in those cobalt optics. He hid it just like she would have, but she saw it.
And knew immediately that she had needlessly escalated the conversation and taken it to a place where Shadow' still had problems, and had done it entirely because she didn't want to think logically right now. Stupid femme emotions. "Sorry. I… I shouldn't have said that."
"No. It's okay. You're right." Shadow's voice was steady, and some of the hurt faded from his optics, but she knew he had been unprepared for that verbal jab. She had legitimately hurt him.
Arcee set the data pad down and walked up to him. She grabbed his armor and tugged at him. He bent down, and she leaned up and gave him a quick kiss. She savored the feeling of electricity, then broke the contact and looked right into his optics. "I'm sorry."
That got a familiar-looking grin from him. "If you sending an argument back to me is the easiest way for me get kisses from you, I need to start more arguments."
Arcee shook her helm and gave her courted a playful shove, her spark pulsing happily at the deep chuckle Shadow' gave at her reaction. But she knew his behavior was covering up the guilt he kept locked inside. A mask to deal with something he wished he had never done.
She noticed that mask when they talked for the first time once she returned from the Animus. He had kept it on since that moment. She knew him well enough to know his behavior was coming from a desire to be as little a problem as possible, but she also knew it wasn't going to do him any good.
And yet, calling him out on the well-placed mask would just cause him to make it harder to see; she had been finding that out since they started having frank and open discussions each cycle. And she was the same way. With people like them, personal problems were not something they wanted to discuss with just anyone, and they didn't respond well when the other person was the one to bring up the topic. The invitation was the critical component. The willingness on the other person's part to be open and listen. He had to come to her, not she to him. But he needed to be told she was here, right next to him, ready to talk. Otherwise, he'd reason his problems would be a burden on her. She would do the same to him, if their positions were reversed.
Arcee wrapped her servos around one of her Shadow's. "You sure you're okay, then?" The invitation was sent. Talk to me, Shadow', she thought. Talk to me about that pain you're keeping locked up.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
And failure. Again. The unnecessary question was a good sign, at least—it meant his resolve to keep the mask up had been shaken.
She looked up at Shadow', and he met her gaze easily. No progress this time. "Okay. I'll listen if that changes." She went back to the berth and her data pad, resuming the list of names from Kaon right where she'd left off.
Shadow' turned back to the drawings he'd put up on the Hard-Light wall, focusing on one depicting a pale, crowned mech sitting on a throne of bleached bones. "I have to say, good job."
That confused her. "What?"
"Good job on almost managing to leave the earlier topic as it was."
Arcee silently cursed. So close. "I'm not sure what you want me to say."
"Anything that's honest."
"What? That I'm scared? That I'm feeling betrayed by own sisters? That I'm angry they kept something from me for as long as I can remember? That I'm furious I can't even be angry at them because I can't feel either of them?!"
She didn't realize she was yelling until she heard her own voice echo around the room with that last question. She immediately placed her walls down around her, accidentally blocking out Ironhide for a moment and almost sending him into a panic; he was extraordinarily vulnerable without Chromia. And that just made her emotions flare up from behind her walls. She couldn't even be emotional without hurting someone.
"And why do you feel as if you should be angry with them?" Shadow' asked.
Her emotions bashed against her walls at that question. "Let me tell you a little story. Back when I was six vorns old, and all three of us were scraping by in some little, one room apartment, I found a male Cyberhound pup abandoned on the streets. I named him Rook, brought him home while Elita and Chromia were out doing odd jobs for our rent, and started nursing him back to health. When I heard Elita and Chromia returning back at midcycle to check on me, I felt scared they would take him away. So I hid Rook in a cupboard. It so happened that Elita and Chromia were hired that cycle by a shopkeeper, who was giving them enough money that they didn't have to work other jobs for a while," Arcee said, grinding out the words in a hard voice, constantly fighting to keep it stoic. Her emotions were all over the place, flaring up in ways she didn't expect, jumbling everything together in one giant sense of pain and anger.
She wasn't even sure why was telling this story.
"They stayed at home until they had to go help the shopkeeper clean up after the end of the cycle," she continued. "When they left, I opened the cupboard… And found Rook had offlined while they were there; the cupboard had no heat, and where we lived in Kaon was cold. I cried until Elita and Chromia came home when they felt me in so much distress. When they got back, saw why I was crying, and why I hadn't told them about Rook, they explained to me the nature of secrets. About how they can have consequences. How they can hurt others. And that no matter how bad or silly, no secret should be kept from family. That was what they taught me from that cycle on: no secrets from family. I never kept a secret from them after that. Yet they've been keeping a massive secret from me? From the time of my first memories? How could do that to me? How could they be such hypocrites for my entire life—lying to me as they stared me right in the optics?"
… And where had all of that come from? The self-loathing thought, the sorrow, the anger?
Those royal cobalt spheres were watching her again. Serious. Analyzing. "I don't know."
Her emotions wanted her to sigh incredulously at his short statement, but her logic demanded she refrain from a reaction like that. She had—for a reason she was still trying to understand—laid a long, personal story on her courted. A story filled with rhetorical questions and loaded with an anger she had been trying to keep at bay. She couldn't be upset with Shadow' going with a neutral response.
Shadow' stepped closer to her and leaned down, placing his servos on the berth to both sides of her. They were at optic level, and his were calm. Insightful. So very old. Like his was a soul born in the wrong time and place. "But I also know your sisters love you more than their own lives, and they would not lie to you without a reason so great they felt there was no other option."
And that was why she loved this mech. So in tune with her own sense of logic. Most of the time.
Some of the time.
… They were working on it.
Arcee closed her optics and let out a breath. Then she returned to her data pad, continuing to browse through the billions of names it held. "Thank you, Shadow'." Her frame language said she was upset, and she could hear her voice was back to a stoic tone, but she meant it sincerely. And she knew Shadow' would know, too.
Shadow' laid a quick, gentle kiss on her forehelm, and stood back to his full height. "How much time do you have left?"
During Optimus' briefing, he ordered that every Autobot other than the one on duty for guarding the humans in Jasper would be focused on finding and stopping Ned Booth. Even guard duty on Shadow'—normally made up of two guards—was being reduced to one; and if possible, that one guard would slave the ops center workstation to the brig computer, allowing them to both watch Shadow' and continue moving Autobots into and out of the base.
She had asked the Prime after the briefing if she could delay going out into the field for half a breem of time with Shadow', since it was likely there would be little to no free time for anyone in the near future. The Prime had granted her request.
And now she'd stayed three klicks over that allotted time.
"I should have been through the space bridge three klicks ago," she said, placing the data pad on the berth and standing up.
"Then get of here," Shadow' said, turning his helm to look at her.
"That's definitely what a femme wants to hear her courted tell her when leaving to take on a madman holding a vial of the deadliest plague in history."
"Would you have preferred a cliché, 'My heart will ache for you every moment'?"
She smiled. "Not really, but sometimes a femme needs to feel a little wanted."
"My heart will ache for you every moment."
Now she rolled her optics and gestured for Springer—who was taking the first shift as Shadow's guard and the base's only operator—to open the interior cell door. "I'll be back when I can."
"And I'll see if I can find you in that codex in the meantime."
She turned and raised an optic ridge at Shadow' as the door she just asked Springer to open deactivated. She gestured for Springer to close it again, and it did.
Shadow' crossed his servos. "I know that look—you're worried I'll lose your place."
"Yes."
"Don't. I'll save your progress. If I don't find you or your sisters, I'll erase my progress and it'll revert to where you left off." He looked at Springer and pointed to the door, and again it was deactivated.
She immediately gave Springer a look, and she could practically feel the optic roll he gave before obeying. "And if it doesn't?"
"Then I'll count the number of pages between where you are now and where the data pad defaults when you open it. Don't worry about it. Go kick Booth's ass. I'll just be here. Staring at a wall, or—if I'm feeling adventurous—a data pad. Drinking the worst energon ever imagined."
Arcee smiled at the humor, but shivered in sympathy. That morning, she'd taken a small sip of one of the cubes he needed to drink every four breems. The taste had stayed with her for three of those breems. "I'll make sure to find something to blow up for you."
"You're the best."
"I know." She smirked, not able to resist passing over the opportunity. She appreciated these moments they shared. The distraction they offered from her emotions and Ironhide's. The focus on something other than the pain of not having them around. There were not many things that could get her CPU off recent events like the back-and-forth she occasionally shared with Shadow'.
"So very humble." He looked meaningfully at Springer, and out of her peripheral vision she saw the green Triple-Changer throw his servos up in the air in triumph.
Arcee went to walk through the door, but Shadow's old optics suddenly went serious, and she paused; she was sure the movement in the corner of her optic was Springer letting his helm fall onto the desk. "What?"
"Just watch your backplates out there," Shadow' said. "We may have a cure for the cybonic plague, but having lived through it I can say it's one of the last things I ever want you to experience."
"He's just a human, Shad—"
"Be. Careful."
She was thrown for a moment by how firm his tone was. Arcee knew Shadow' worried about her safety, of course—he was a mech, and mechs had literal coding embedded in them to be vigilant for potential danger to their courteds or sparkmates. With Shadow' and his Protocol, this coding was more… Extreme than normal.
But he knew how experienced she was, and knew the type of training she'd gone through. He worried, but he trusted the fact she didn't need him watching her backplates to defend against a threat. It was highly unusual for him to stress a point so much.
"I will, Shadow'." She turned and finally stepped beyond the interior door. Then the outer door once Springer opened it. Then she left the room.
She felt those old cobalt optics watching her the whole way.
Ironhide roared down the two-lane street, his massive, upscaled GMC Topkick form so large that he had to drive down both lanes. A few humans in their smaller vehicles honked their horns at him, but even the semi-trailer truck didn't dare get in the way of his heavily armored bumper and grill.
He kind of wish they did; he wanted to hit something. Hard.
The cause of his anger sighed through the comm-link again. "Ironhide, I said I was sorry."
"You shut me out," he bit back at Arcee, revving his engine loudly as a human who hadn't seen him coming almost pulled out into his street. The awed look the human gave him as Ironhide roared by almost made him laugh.
"By accident," Arcee stressed. "I accidentally shut you out and apologized immediately."
Ironhide growled. They had been paired up for this zone on the human continent of South America. The others were searching different parts of the continent, moving out in a circle from where Booth and his group had last been seen. He didn't know where he and his sister-in-bond were patrolling, and he didn't care. "But why did you shut me out? Why throw away our bond and leave me in agony?"
"Primus, Ironhide. Are you listening to yourself right now? I got emotional during a conversation with Shadow'. I put my walls in place. I blocked you by mistake. I apologized. Yet now you're still shouting at me. Acting as if I blocked you out to be cruel."
He could feel the trace of pain she felt at his continued anger at her, but it just made him huff. That was about all the emotion she ever let through their bond. Even when he openly shared his pain, she didn't share hers. She didn't understand what it was like to have your everything taken away from you. To feel the bond you shared with them—like a thousand-fold sibling bond—go dark. To know they were alive and be faced with the torture of not being able to feel them.
"She was my sister before she was your mate," Arcee's voice was angry now. His emotions must have leaked through the bond, and now her own end of the bond was more open in displaying the emotions she was feeling: pain and anger. "So do not ever think I don't understand what you're going through. I am literally the only one who does!"
Some of his anger ebbed at that. He was a lot more fragile lately since 'Mia… He wasn't being fair to Arcee, not considering the fact she processed things differently than he did. Still, not having 'Mia around hurt so much…
"Sorry," he finally said as he entered the outskirts of some human city built along an ocean beach. He sent the appropriate emotions to her.
Arcee sighed again. "Don't be; we're both on edge. This cycle even more than usual."
Ironhide spent a long time studying the emotion—or lack of emotion—that came from her end of their bond. Before he became her brother-in-bond, he hadn't been able to read her for his life, but after they became family he had become pretty good at reading Arcee's mood based on how little emotion she sent through the bond.
This cycle, something was bothering her. He'd been too focused on his own emotions to notice until now. How'd he missed that all cycle?
"What's wrong?" He asked through their comm-link, honking as a car disregarded traffic laws to take a turn right in front of him. Idiotic human could have been scrap in his grill.
"Same things that have been bothering you," she said.
"Yeah, but there's something else there."
"It's finding answers to those images I told you about."
"Wanna talk about it?"
"Shadow' and I already did. He helped. I'm better than I was before, but it's going to bother me until I have answers."
"I wish I could give them to you."
"I know, but life's never been that kind to me."
Ironhide was about to get on Arcee for that, when Optimus inadvertently cut in over the universal communications channel, "Optimus to all Autobots—status updates."
One by one, everyone who was out looking for Ned Booth reported in they'd found nothing. Arcee and Ironhide were among the last to report. Arcee reported no activity first, and then Ironhide went to do the same.
But he stopped himself.
As he was driving, he noticed a human establishment just off the street. It was packed with people drinking and eating inside and outside, and a few standing up with wide serving trays to bring orders to customers.
But what drew his attention was the lone man sitting at the table closest to the street, staring directly at Ironhide from the moment Ironhide saw the establishment, to when Ironhide lost sight of it behind him.
"Standby," he said, and turned off the main road to make his way back. A few klicks later, he parked himself on the narrow street that ran along the establishment, and materialized his holoform.
He had his holoform exist his cab and make its way toward the street he'd driven on not long ago. More than a few of the humans in the area were gawking at the size of his alt mode. Just as many gawked at his holoform when they saw its wide shoulders, faint scars, and towering height, but he ignored them and rounded the bend. The crowd moving their way around the establishment gave his massive holoform a wide berth.
The lone human was sitting at the same table from earlier. He wore a black suit vest with a black tie and white undershirt. A black hat Jack called a fedora was sitting loosely on his head, and he gazed at Ironhide's holoform from behind gold frame aviator sunglasses. A human alcoholic drink sat on the table in front of him along with three empty glasses, and a suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair he sat on.
The man gave Ironhide's holoform a hollow smile as he approached. There was something about that smile that gave Ironhide the feeling there was something off about the man. Something not right. Hidden beneath the surface. He couldn't place a digit on it.
"Glad of you to finally join me," said the man, raising his half-full glass. His voice was surprisingly deep for a human's, and very smooth. "I was beginning to think none of you would pass through here."
Ironhide was instantly on edge, and he had his huge, heavily-muscled holoform stand over the lone man. "Who are you?"
"I can ask the same of you, as you are the one who has barged in on my afternoon drink," the man replied. "Oh, and back up a bit; my guards don't like it when people crowd me."
Ironhide had his holoform glance around, and he picked out seven humans in the crowd who wore dark suits and were watching him intently. Those would be the guards. They were all large, but the tallest was still half a foot shorter than his holoform. He wouldn't have any issue in fighting them all at once in or out of holoform—he could make the holoform as strong as a human body could be without bone alterations—but he needed to keep up appearances.
He had his holoform take a step back. The guards relaxed, but still watched. "You didn't answer my question."
"Nor have you answered mine," retorted the man, taking a sip from his drink.
"I asked first."
"The cruelty of life is how unfair it is."
Ironhide stared down at the man, willing his question to be answered. But the man just looked out ahead, toward the ocean, and sipped his drink.
This is a waste of time, Ironhide thought, and started to walk his holoform back to his alt mode.
"You're looking in the wrong place."
Ironhide turned back. The man had been sipping his drink when Ironhide had his holoform move away, and now the man had placed the drink down, focusing on his holoform again. "And what am I looking for in the wrong place?"
"A fugitive with a vial of something very dangerous."
Ironhide made his holoform walk back to the table. He thought back to what Optimus had said in the briefing. About the human, General Shepherd, using unofficial units. How he said only one claimed to be in this area of Earth. And how Shepherd had warned that if any of them saw this unofficial unit, they'd been seen first. "You're working for General Shepherd."
The man laughed, a seemingly unforced sound. "Oh, Lance is a great man. A genuine man. But no, I'm not working for him. He and I share a respect for one another, and out of that respect I occasionally share some interesting tidbits every now and again."
"You're not talking to Shepherd."
"I never said I always shared with the good General." The man sipped his drink again and flagged a waiter down who was always among the crowd, a tray full of drinks balanced on one hand. The man didn't continue until the waiter gave him another drink. "Ned Booth is no longer in South America. You've missed him by two days."
"And how do you know that?"
"Because my syndicate is responsible for smuggling him off the continent."
Ironhide blinked, temporarily stunned by the man's blunt statement. He just admitted to helping a fugitive carrying a plague that nearly ended Cybertronian civilization, and he talked about it like he was commenting on the weather. "You did what?"
"I did nothing; someone who works for me sent him away."
"And you didn't think of stopping them?" Ironhide's holoform growled, mirroring his mood. The guards took a step toward them.
The man waved them back and sipped from his glass. He made another gesture to the guards, and they nodded and faded into the crowd. What was he doing? "My organization is not just a few buddies working out of a garage. It is a vast, sprawling entity of great size and reach. Mr. Booth did not approach me to hide him away and transport him; he approached one of my people. My brand. And they did a phenomenal job of sending him on his way. Randomized passports, plane tickets. I didn't even know Booth approached my syndicate until a few hours ago."
"Then why didn't ya come forward sooner?"
"It took you this long for one of you to pass by. I didn't want to stress dear Lance too much with the news; his doctor has him on blood pressure medication."
"But how did ya know one of us would be here?"
"Luck, I suppose." The man smiled, yellow-tinted aviator glasses catching a ray of sunlight. Ironhide found it both alarming and infuriating the man knew one of them would pass through here. Did he know their patrol routes? Their base location? He needed to talk to Optimus.
"Fine. Keep your secrets. Can you track where your man sent them?" Ironhide asked.
"Unfortunately no," said the man. "When I make someone disappear, I make them disappear. My syndicate provides buyers with randomized passports and methods of travel out of their current location. All legitimate and clean. Even on the rare chance where we want to find someone we turned into thin air, we can't."
Ironhide huffed again, this time through his holoform and his true form; a couple humans who were examining his alt mode up close jumped at the sound of his engine revving. "Then you've done nothing to help us."
"Not so. I've told you you're looking in the wrong place. Where the right place is, I can't say. But now you know it isn't here. That leaves you with anywhere else."
"The entire planet."
"Most of the planet; this part of the world doesn't count." The man finished his drink and stood. He donned his suit jacket, adjusted his fedora, and smiled again. "This has been fun—let's do it again sometime, and under a more pleasant setting. Crowds just aren't my thing."
At that moment, a small group of young humans made their way out of the establishment and walked toward the curb, wobbling with each step. Clearly intoxicated. One of the group made a terrible, guttural noise and purged his organic tank.
Right on Ironhide's door.
Disgusting…
A crash of metal, glass, and a splash of liquid brought Ironhide's attention back to his holoform. One of the servers had dropped their tray of alcoholic human drinks nearby, and the ground was covered in alcohol.
But the man Ironhide had spoken to had vanished without a trace.
So, yeah. Not a very eventful chapter; I had to cut out a lot. Including, in my opinion, the most solid parts of the chapter. I don't feel as if it was bad, just not where I wanted it in terms of quality.
Many of you have probably noticed this chapter is a lot shorter than previous ones. I've been advised by some pretty smart and top-notch writers that it may be better to write shorter chapters instead of my near-novella length ones. This could - keyword, there - could lead to some improvement in my update speed, but it will likely also split up what I consider the "episode" that is the chapters I write, such as what happened with this one.
So I leave you with this, my readers: shorter, 10,000-12,000 word chapters, with the slight possibility of increasing update speed; or longer, 15,000+ word chapters, as I've been writing previously? Review to leave your vote on it, hopefully with some thought on the matter.
This chapter's credit song is "Kevin Mantey - Today And Forever" This wasn't a very intimidating or game-changing ending, so as such it is not a dark or massively epic song. It has the right theme for the ending, and that's what matters. I am hoping to find a song with lyrics for next chapter.
Thank you all for reading. I hope you have wondrous, marvelous days where happiness follows you.
See you soon.