I am updating this on a different day of the week because 1) I will not be available to post this on Friday and 2) I think it's long past time to post something.
As I've said the last two updates, it might be good to give the previous chapter a quick look before reading this one; it will help put context to events in this chapter.
So life had been busy for me recently, with working more hours and going on a long vacation with family. But last month, the biggest obstacle for me in writing was a personal tragedy. That... That one hit me hard. It's made me reevaluate what is important, and appreciate what I have. But more on that down below.
Thank you to those who reviewed or favorited/followed after last chapter. Every one of them helps inspire me.
Guest 1 - Thank you for voting.
As for Unicron, he's a RAFO - Read and find out. For your talk about Shadow' and Arcee, it is not currently possible since they are not actually bonded at this point in the story; they are dating. But thank you for sharing an idea.
Thanks for the review.
Guest 2 - That seems to be what everyone is voting, haha. Thanks for doing so yourself!
TheSilentOne - He is a fun one to write. As for who he is, that is a RAFO (see above for reference).
KayleeChiara - Thank you for your input/thoughts. I sent your real account a full response to your reviews, but I did not hear back. Do you not have access to your account?
Either way, thanks again!
Thanks go to Crystal Prime for beta reading.
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro. I only take credit for this story and my OCs.
Another big change that will be coming as a result of get
Soundwave had analyzed the available data seven times. Each time, he had come to the same conclusion: Site Delta-Bravo's self-destruct had been activated manually, with Blackback's own code and authorization key.
That was one of only three sure sure facts he had found in his investigation. The other two were that Site Delta-Bravo was destroyed along with the trophies Megatron stored within, and that Blackback himself—and the entire staff stationed at Delta-Bravo—was missing.
How the system breach, alarm, and Autobot presence fit in, Soundwave did not know. Nor would he find out from the available data; Site Delta-Bravo's security footage had been wiped from the system, and any local hard copies had been incinerated in the self-destruct. Until further data could be recovered or found, the destruction of Site Delta-Bravo was shrouded in mystery.
Starscream was not pleased with his minor discoveries. Megatron even less so. Even now he was yelling at Starscream through FTL communications, furious that a storage unit for his personal trophies had been destroyed under Starscream's watch. Soundwave found verbal abuse to be of little use in this situation; the seeker was not to blame. But data was data, and at the moment the data said little else than a Black Site had been destroyed.
But that could change shortly.
On the screen in front of him, sitting within Soundwave's private, personal account in the Decepticon network, was a compressed file. It had made it through countless firewalls, bypassed dozens of communications protocols that should have sent messages to a separate account, to land in Soundwave's personal one.
The sender's address was from Delta-Bravo, and the time when it arrived in Soundwave's account was approximately one klick before Delta-Bravo's destruction.
Soundwave did not know who had sent the file, or what it contained. He would not for some time; the encryption on the file was very impressive. He had his best decrypting software working at the firewall protecting the file, and had multiple anti-virus systems dedicated to monitoring for potential malicious software it may attempt to infect their system. Even then, Soundwave estimated it would take mega-cycles to break the file's encryption.
That was why he was not planning on informing Starscream—or Megatron, if he returned in time—of the file until it was decrypted. There was no purpose in reporting new information when said information was not useable. This was especially true with superiors such as Starscream and Megatron. If he shared an encrypted file with them, they would demand he unlock it, no matter the potential risks. They did not grasp the damage a single virus could do to their network. The information that would be compromised. The automated systems that would fail.
No. They would need to wait. Mega-cycles, if they needed to. Soundwave was patient. He would decrypt the file—he would do it properly. He would review it.
Then perhaps he would be able to share the true story behind Delta-Bravo's demise.
Booth considered the brief journey on the Bainsworth an overall success.
The short trip to Miami had gone without a hitch. No attempts by other cartels to steal the shipment. No unprofessional behavior by his men. Not even a boarding by the Coast Guard, although that would have been out of Booth's control had they done so.
There were, however, two disappointing events from the trip.
First was Booth's inability to secure any form of loyalty from Garcia. Given the man's status as an ex-SEAL, and the massive quantities of money Espadas Oscuras was paying him, this was not surprising to Booth. Men such as Garcia were tough nuts to crack—and nearly impossible to in so short a time. But it was unfortunate; Booth knew from the moment they met that Garcia was nearly as dangerous as Dima.
The second disappointment was Andres had gone and gotten himself killed just as Booth was starting to feel him out for possible recruitment.
Andres' last moments were a heated argument between he and Garcia. Something that happened frequently from the time Booth and his men were brought to the Bainsworth to the moment Andres died. Like most of their arguments, Andres had been furious that Garcia was not giving him more control over the other Hitmen. Saying his decade of service in the Espadas Oscuras gave him greater authority in their job than Garcia was giving him. When Garcia, again, refused to give Andres more authority, Andres went into a tirade that ended with him drawing his sidearm and saying he was done taking orders from a foreigner.
Four seconds later, Andres was lying in a pool of his own blood, the .45 caliber hole in his forehead made by his own weapon. The bullet fired by the very man he said he was through taking orders from.
So ended the possibility of Booth adding recruits for his mission.
No matter, Booth thought. What's done is done. He hadn't gained any more allies, but his group had been paid well for their services. It was time to focus on the task in front of him.
The Bainsworth was arriving at the Port of Miami ten minutes past noon. Booth suspected most people subscribed to the assumption that illegal cargo was offloaded only at night was Hollywood's responsibility. Where in the movies and TV shows, nefarious criminals docked ships in the dead of night before a crane operator offloaded container after container of drugs, weapons, terrorists looking to get in the country illegally, and—occasionally—WMDs that threatened the free world while an army of heavily armed and grim-faced bad guys looked on.
Booth found such things funny.
In reality, armed groups such as the group they'd joined with were rarely used since their presence usually hurt the chances of an operation succeeding. The black market operated at all hours of the day. Day, night. First World, Third World. Didn't matter, so long as there was demand for goods, and suppliers to meet it. Armed guards attracted attention, especially since operations such as this usually operated right in the open, with their illegal items of trade hidden among a sea of common goods. There were probably no more than two containers aboard the Bainsworth that weren't legitimate, but it would be nearly impossible to tell which ones they were; every container on the ship had the logo of a company called Nox Consortium. Booth hadn't heard of it.
"We have trouble hiding."
Booth looked to his side at Dima, the massive Russian dressed in civilian clothing, all his combat gear stowed in a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. All armed men on the ship, be they Espadas Oscuras or Booth's group—were dressed in a similar fashion and carried a bag like Dima's. Booth included. It made them slightly less conspicuous in the eyes of CBP—Customs and Border Protection.
Although, when they encountered CBP face to face, that wouldn't matter. One thing at a time, Booth supposed.
"Yes, we will," Booth said. "But it can't be avoided."
"Good way to avoid is shoot nosy people."
"All that will do is send out a flare showing where we are."
"Then we drive away fast. Simple."
"Not when my former organization is looking for us."
Dima went silent at that. Booth figured that would shut down his argument; he had told the ex-Zaslon the extent of the S.T.F's capabilities.
As the Bainsworth got closer to the port, Booth saw a convoy of dark vehicles appear from a row of containers on shore. His instincts honed from dozens of CIA field operations immediately said the vehicles didn't belong. He glanced at Dima, and saw the massive Russian was giving the convoy the same look he was.
"What's got you two so nervous?" Carmine asked, sitting against the railing between two Russians; Booth had made sure his group had stayed as close together as they could while aboard the Bainsworth.
"Not sure yet," Booth said.
The convoy continued moving along the dock. They moved around the trucks and loaders of the workers, went through the rolling legs of a gantry crane, and rolled to a stop close to the end of the dock.
Right where the Bainsworth was to be moored.
Booth held out his hand, and Dima placed a pair of binoculars in it without being asked. Booth brought them up to his eyes.
The convoy waiting for the Bainsworth was made up of the latest models of the Range Rover Sport. A Luxury SUV. Five hundred horse power. More than a hundred grand apiece. All blacked out, even the windows.
Definitely not CBP.
Almost at the exact same time, the driver's side doors of each vehicle in the convoy opened, and Booth saw the drivers exit. Each were impeccably dressed in dark suits, and each one had a sign in their hand that they held up in front of him.
Booth froze at seeing the words on each sign.
Edward Booth.
"What is problem?"
Wordlessly, Booth gave Dima the binoculars. He, too, seemed shocked. Shocked, and suspicious. Like Booth was.
"Now you have me really curious," said Carmine. His voice carried an amusement that felt twisted to Booth.
Booth gave Carmine only a brief look. "You'll see soon enough."
It took another twenty minutes for the Bainsworth to dock. The Range Rover drivers didn't move from their position. Booth kept his eyes focused on them as he and his group stood on deck, just behind the gangway. Booth was the first to descend once the Bainsworth's gangway lowered to the dock.
One of the drivers, a short, thin man in what Booth guessed was his mid-forties, raised his thin eyebrows as Booth approached, "Pardon me, sir—are Edward Booth?"
Booth stepped right up to the man, getting within inches of his face. "Who the hell sent you?"
"Is that a yes, sir?"
Booth was thrown by the cool expression on the driver's face. The lack of interest at Booth's proximity. Not intimidation, as would be expected when someone larger and angry enters someone else's personal space, but just nothing. Like Booth was an annoyance to be tolerated.
This man had seen horrors beyond description. Booth felt it in his gut.
He nodded at the driver as the rest of his group arrived.
"Quite good." The driver lowered his sign, and the other drivers followed his lead. The first driver stepped back and to his right, opening the front passenger door in a single, well-practiced motion. "If you would please enter, sir, we shall be on our way."
"You haven't answered my question."
"Not, sir. I have not."
Booth's priorities shifted when he heard car engines from further down the dock. He looked, and saw a pair of white and grey-blue Ford Explorers with lights on top.
CBP, Booth recognized. The last people he wanted to see.
The driver looked to one of his fellows. "Manwell, please show them the document."
The man the first driver spoke to stepped away from his Range Rover and stood with his arms folded neatly in front of him.
The CBP Explorers came to a stop, and six CBP field officers got out. They went to approach Booth's group, but the driver who stepped forward called their attention to him and handed the chief CBP officer a piece of paper. The chief officer looked over the paper for about thirty seconds, looked up at Booth's group, back to the paper, and finally to the man holding it. The chief officer nodded and wished them a good day, then walked away to board the Bainsworth. The other officers followed.
Booth struggled to understand what had just happened.
Customs and Border Protection was a very professional agency. Its sixty-four thousand employees had the tremendous job of policing trade in the United States—the world's largest importer. Nothing was to be overlooked. No person standing on US soil unchecked. It was their job, and they were not bad at it.
So what had that paper said that gave twenty-eight men of multiple nationalities a free pass?
And who had given it to the driver?
Booth looked back to the first man. With those uncaring eyes staring into Booth, the man once again gestured to the open door. "If you would please, Mister Booth. Our employer is expecting you."
Nearly two hours later, the high-rises of Downtown Miami were far behind them when the drivers finally turned off I-95. Another thirty minutes went by before they entered a town.
The town was small, run down, and looked like its golden days were fifty years in the past. Most buildings were wooden and decrepit, with their windows boarded up and their roofs looking like they could cave in at any moment.
The one structure in town that had a modern appearance was a checkpoint outside the opposite side of town.
Two guardhouses at either side of the road and a gate made up the checkpoint. The gate was thick and metal, and built at a point in the road where the ground around it dropped off a good twenty feet and stayed low for as far as Booth could see, leaving the road the only travel option to the land behind it. The guardhouses were made of thick, grey concrete, with blacked out windows and a metal grate built into the ground in front of them. Booth knew from the grate's positioning that a gun turret was hidden beneath.
Whoever had sent for them, they liked excessive security.
The driver of Booth's Range Rover slowed to a stop between the two guardhouses. The door to the guardhouse on the driver's side door opened, and the most heavily armored man Booth had ever seen stepped out.
He wore a metal helmet that covered his head completely, leaving his face hidden behind a featureless mask. Heavy metal plating was at his shoulders, chest, and limbs—looking more than an inch thick at points. Kevlar covered what little metal plating didn't. The combination of metal and cloth made him looked like a modern version of a Medieval knight.
Only his sword was an M-320A.
How did they get S.T.F hardware?
Booth's driver took an ID badge from his pocket and rolled his window down. He handed it to the guard. The guard looked at the badge, then to the driver, back to the badge. He repeated the process before handing the ID back and returning to his guardhouse. The gate opened once he did, and Booth's driver led the convoy through it and down the road beyond.
Three minutes later, the convoy came to a swamp. The road continued on through the swamp, just an inch below the water's surface. It twisted and turned through the trees, but the driver never slowed or appeared nervous. It seemed like he'd made the drive a hundred times before.
Another three minutes later, a checkpoint of the same make as the first appeared ahead. But unlike the first checkpoint, it was painted with the same colors as the swamp, and the convoy was allowed to go right on ahead without stopping. A small hill emerged from the swamp, and the road continued up it. On the other side of the hill, there was a warehouse.
Old, nearly as decrepit as the town behind them, and nearly invisible due to the trees that had grown around and through it, the warehouse was a strange sight—a sight made all the stranger when Booth saw the nearby collection of prefab housing units made to blend in with the swamp, the camouflaged power generators, and additional guardhouses made to look like trees. He even spotted a community hall and parking garage among the disguised buildings.
The driver pulled the Range Rover up to the warehouse door—a simple Steel door that looked to have been installed in the last few days—and exited the SUV. He made his way around the vehicle, and opened Booth's and the other passenger doors. "Here we are, sirs—our destination."
Booth took in the fine details of his surroundings, taking note of the complete tree cover, thick vegetation beyond the perimeter, and the presence of more modern knights patrolling the area. The hell had he stepped into?
Dima dropped his duffel bag on the ground next to him and started taking out his gear. Beside him, the other Russian in their car did the same. As did the men in the car that parked after them.
"I can assure you, sirs," said their driver, voice calm and refined as ever. "That will not be necessary; our employer bears you no ill will."
"Then he won't mind if my men want to be cautious," returned Booth.
The driver nodded. "As you wish."
Booth waited until all his men were fully equipped with all their gear, then he stepped forward and opened the warehouse door.
And entered a different world.
The inside of the warehouse was clean—far cleaner than Booth ever considered it would be. Metal panels filled in the many holes in the roof, while brand new support beams kept it from collapsing. Fresh paint colored the walls a snow white, while the air smelled fresh and pure. Like it was filtered repeatedly. A row of lights on either side of the building lit up the still-curing, perfectly smooth white concrete floor. Four rooms with glass and metal walls were ahead, with electronic data scrolling by on massive plasma screen TVs fitted to the walls. Groups of men and women were looking at the screens, occasionally adjusting scientific equipment so that the displayed data changed.
And in the middle of the warehouse, watching all four rooms at once while seven guards in dark suits surrounded him, was a man wearing a pitch black suit and fedora.
The Concierge.
"This warehouse once belonged to Griselda Blanco," The Concierge said without turning around. "La Madrina, the Black Widow, the Cocaine Godmother herself. It was meant to be a storage unit for her excess product, but she underestimated the demand—the addiction—that comes with narcotics. She pulled her men out of the building less than a month after its completion. It's sat here ever since. Powerless. Abandoned. Forgotten by the world." Booth saw The Concierge shake his head. "Oh, sweet, angry Niñita—you never did learn to see potential."
The Concierge finally turned around, and he gave that hollow smile that made the hair on the back of Booth's neck stand on end. "So glad you joined me, Edward." He looked at the others that came with Ned. "And you brought the rest of your little troop. Splendid. Dima Sokolov. I'm a fan of your exploits in Afghanistan. Did you really slaughter an entire village just to gain the allegiance of another village neighboring it?"
Dima said nothing, but Booth realized then The Concierge knew more about Dima than Booth did. He knew bits and pieces of Dima's Zaslon past, but that tidbit of the village. What other things had the ex-Zaslon done?
The Concierge's unnaturally piercing eyes shifted to Carmine, who was standing in the back of the group, behind two Russians and one of the former bodyguards of his father. "There's no need for that, Jie. I don't tend to bite."
Slowly, with eyes narrowed both from suspicion and uneasiness, Carmine moved to the front, to Booth's left.
The Concierge hummed deeply. "Time has not been good to you. I remember how youthful you were at your peak—how much of your father's charm you had. Able to walk into a room and instantly put everyone at ease with a joke and your smiling eyes. It let you conduct your preferred nightly pastime so easily. So anonymously. But now look at you. Rail thin. Greasy hair. Overgrown beard. Once-smiling eyes now fully displaying that black soul of yours that you were so good at hiding. Seems the Apple really doesn't fall far from the Hsu family Tree."
The Concierge's gaze returned to Booth without waiting for Carmine's reaction to his words, silent or otherwise. "But I think I'm wasting time. Welcome, Edward. Feel familiar? The heat and humidity must remind you of your stay in Dubai."
Booth managed to keep his face straight at the mention of that particular black op—that op that never went on record. "What is this?"
"Your laboratory. I apologize for the mess, but I had to set it up on rather short notice."
He considered this a mess? Just from what Booth could see in the warehouse alone, it was better equipped than all but the finest hospitals. "You made this… For me?"
"For your virologist." The Concierge looked to Carmine and smiled again. "Go on—see how far virology has come in your absence."
Cautiously, Carmine did. At first he kept his attention on The Concierge and the knight-like soldiers at the edges of the room, taking only an occasional look at the screens and equipment inside the glass rooms. But when he saw one of the scientists activate a piece of equipment Booth didn't even recognize, much less understand, he became lost in watching all the high-tech toys that were apparently for him.
Like a kid in a candy store, Booth thought. A messed up candy store that housed bits of DNA from the deadliest viruses in human history.
"How did you do this?"
The Concierge just smiled.
Stupid question, Booth thought. Better not to know. "How did you even know we needed a laboratory?"
"Words are easy to hear when you have many ears. I figured this would be a preferred alternative over attempting to storm a government-backed lab or American university. SWAT teams tend to put an end to such an endeavours."
Spies, Booth concluded. But where, and how many? "And why help?"
"Because we both want the same thing."
"Security."
"Truth," The Concierge corrected. "The truth at last being shared with humanity at large. What better way to do that than showing the world a glimpse of the dangers that hide in plain sight?"
Booth stood up a little straighter.
"Yes. I know of them. I've known about them far longer than you have. Known how powerful they are. How dangerous. How grave a threat they are to humanity. How blind government leadership is to that threat."
"Then why not do something about them yourself. Surely you have the resources."
The Concierge smiled. Like an elder finding humor in a child's attempt to be smarter than they were. Booth's attempt to glean information had been seen. "You're a creative man, Edward. When you see a problem, you tackle it, no matter how big it is. You've done the same with this particular problem. While most would try to build bigger weapons, you thought to make a smart one. A needle instead of a hammer."
"So you're offering your assistance based on my intelligence?"
"Yes."
"But what do you gain from this?"
"What I've already said: the truth being exposed."
"But what do you really gain?" Booth knew there had to be something. Something The Concierge wanted from this—from Booth. There was no way someone like The Concierge put this much money, manpower, and resources into something and expected nothing in return.
"What do I not gain? When the truth comes out, people will be afraid. Terrified. Terrified people prepare for the end of the world. When they prepare for such a cataclysm, they find the weapons and supplies they can legally purchase to be lacking. When that happens… I'll be there."
That wasn't it, Booth's gut told him. There was something else. Something he was missing. Something that changed everything.
But as he studied The Concierge's face, he found nothing. There were no signs he was lying or stating a half-truth. No tells. No muscle twitches. Nothing.
For the first time in his life, Booth couldn't read someone. And that had him on edge.
"Well, Edward—what will it be? Go out on your own, or take my support?" The Concierge extended his gloved hand toward Booth, holding it out in invitation to shake.
Booth looked at the hand for three seconds, weighing the risk with the rewards. Those seconds felt like an eternity. Then he shook The Concierge's hand. The man's grip was strong enough to crack his knuckles.
"You've made the right choice, Edward." The smile on The Concierge's face grew, then fell. His green eyes became even more piercing. Colder than ice. "There is one minor price of admission, I'm afraid."
Booth knew he had been missing something. He was on guard instantly. "What?"
The Concierge looked to Carmine, who was still looking at all the scientific equipment greedily. "Hsu has to go."
Booth knew from the tone what go really meant. "Why? You said you built this for him to work with."
"I said it was made for your virologist; I didn't say who that virologist was to be. But for the why: one of the people he killed while he was out murdering and torturing was one of mine. An accountant. A good one. I plan on seeing to it their death is avenged."
"That was a decade ago. You've probably found a new accountant just as good."
"I have a long memory, and that's irrelevant. The death of one of my own is not tolerated. Not the next day, and not ten years later. This is non-negotiable, Edward. If you don't agree to this, you go back to the Port. No place to go. No way to get there. And nothing keeping the CBP from finding out exactly who you are."
Blackmail. Blackmail, and establishing power. That was what this was about, not one of The Concierge's accountants getting killed. At least not the primary reason. The Concierge wanted to establish the fact he was in control here, not Booth. That he was making events progress. And Booth had no way to counter. No way out. Not without jeopardizing everything.
Karma sometimes caught up to you in unexpected ways.
Booth looked to Carmine. The former virologist had turned his attention to the screens in the room closest to them, and his smile had turned into a frown. Probably finding fault in the work of the scientists. Booth was deciding his fate right now. Just as he had the decided the fate of many men in his CIA and S.T.F days. Either Carmine lived, or all The Concierge was offering him went away. He knew what he had to do; it was the only real choice to make.
After all, Booth had only chosen Carmine since he had already been running from the law.
"Alright." Booth felt Dima's eyes staring into the back of his head, but he didn't turn. He was the leader, and this decision was his alone.
The Concierge's smile returned. "Another correct choice, Edward." He walked to Carmine, silently pulling a black Smith & Wesson M&P from his suit jacket.
Carmine's frown had steadily grown deeper as The Concierge approached. He put so much of his attention on the screen, that he didn't see The Concierge coming. "Booth, there's something wro—"
The first 9×19mm Parabellum round struck Carmine in the neck. It tore through the soft skin and muscle there, turning his words to garbled, choking sounds as blood splurted out onto the floor and glass wall in front of him and flooded his throat. The second round entered his right lung as he collapsed. The third entered his left lung.
The next fourteen shots echoed around the suddenly still room. Each struck Carmine's chest, head, and stomach and caused his body to jerk with every impact.
Then it was over.
The Concierge lowered his handgun, the tinning sound of the last spent shell carrying through the air in the otherwise total silence. His head was tilted downward, fedora no longer perfectly centered on his head. He stood completely still over the mangled heap that once had been Jie Hsu and Andrew Carmine, staring at the body.
One of The Concierge's guards answered a cell phone, hung up without answering, and walked up to his boss as the room began to recover from the onslaught of gunfire. The guard whispered something into The Concierge's ear, then retreated.
The Concierge put the M&P back into his suit jacket and turned around, wearing his hollow smile. With how easily he gave it after emptying a handgun into a human being, it was even more disconcerting than before. "It seems I have some other business I need to see to. I am glad to have helped you get right where you needed to be. Feel free to start while I'm away." He adjusted his fedora, then went for the door. "Oh, and don't mind the blood; the cleaners will take care of that shortly. Also, lunch will be served shorty in the dining room. Do enjoy. The chefs make an exquisite Sea Bass."
The Concierge left. His guards went with. The room fully returned to business as usual.
Booth now understood why his driver had seen him as non-threatening.
"And that's how I became the last seeker standing."
Optimus took the information given to him by Jetfire with a steely look on his faceplate. Inside, he was puzzled. Who was this mech that attacked his soldiers? Why did he not offline them when he beat them? Why had he left one Decepticon online, when he offlined all the rest?
The Matrix was silent on the matter.
"And brought a prisoner to base without authorization," Ultra Magnus added. While there was no frown on his faceplate, Optimus could hear it in the Wrecker commander's voice.
"You know as well as anyone that sometimes communication fails," Optimus said. "But our captive is not currently my primary concern. What can you share of your attacker, Jetfire?"
The seeker shrugged, leaning further against the of the medical berth behind him. "Not much. About as tall as Ironhide. Broad, but lean. Black and dark green with heavy, streamlined armor. Battlehelm over his faceplate. Used a bow and arrow and throwing knives to great effect."
Optimus glanced to the other side of the med-bay, where Moonracer and Ratchet were treating the Autobots who had attempted to fight this unknown party, only to be entirely outmatched. They wouldn't be able to return to patrol until next cycle. "So I see."
"He knew how good he was, too. His behavior breathed a confidence so great it bordered extreme arrogance. Even when he had his bow down and I had my Rifle pointed at him, he acted like everything was happening exactly as he wanted it."
Optimus added up the physical description, weapon choice, and personality as Jetfire described, and tried to match them all with mechs he knew—or knew of—during the war. He could think of no one, and he had read every uncorrupted file in the Autobot database. "Magnus—does this sound like someone you may have encountered in the war?"
"I regret to inform you I am unfamiliar with this hostile, Prime. Three of my Wreckers prefer using a bow and arrow, but none fit this hostile's appearance, and none would ever attack a fellow Autobot. And the Decepticon Reaper Air Division lost all of their archers during their Assault on Drachma."
Drachma. Lockdown's keep. Optimus remembered when the notorious mercenary and his organization met their end even more clearly than most of his memories. For that was when the Autobots, and the rest of the planet, finally saw the unstoppable Decepticon juggernaut was not so unstoppable.
The events leading up to the Assault were long in coming. From the start of the war, Lockdown's legendary mercenary company refused to take sides. They worked for the Decepticons, and they worked for the Autobots; their loyalty was bought, never given. Both Autobot and Decepticon lives had been taken and saved by Lockdown and his organization, and not once did they fail to accomplish what they were hired to do.
Optimus had seen Lockdown as a blessing and a curse. A blessing in that Lockdown's organization was the elite of the elite, and willing to work for the Autobots with payments of raw materials, and a curse in that Lockdown was willing to do the same for the Decepticons. Optimus had spent much time and resources searching for a way to cut the Decepticons out of the picture and permanently buy Lockdown's services; he and his organization had been so effective Optimus had been willing to ignore the Autobot energon on the mercenary's servos.
But Megatron's ego made that impossible.
Tired of having to work both with and against Lockdown's forces, Megatron demanded Lockdown's complete loyalty, without payment—or face the consequences. Lockdown refused. Bluntly. Flatly. And, reportedly, while he and Megatron were communicating by holocomm.
Needless to say, Megatron had not taken the refusal lightly.
Optimus remembered thinking Megatron was about to assault Iacon when they got reports flooding in of massive numbers of Decepticons mobilizing in Kaon. Only Megatron marched for Lockdown's fortress, which stood in one of the only areas of Cybertron that had more organic matter than inorganic—Etheria, the most Northern region of Cybertron, and the second most ancient and wealthy after Iacon.
Megatron sent ten Divisions of Decepticon forces to Etheria, plus the two full fleets they came from. Lockdown had only his fortress, a great, heavily defended stronghold that was built atop impassable mountains. Beside Drachma, Lockdown had his mercenaries, and a single frigate. When compared to the forces Megatron committed, Lockdown was outnumbered many thousand to one. But what should have been a battle that lasted a breem lasted a solar-cycle. Then a mega-cycle. Then two.
In all, it took Megatron an entire jour—and sending reinforcements three different times—before he claimed victory. In reality, Megatron lost nine out of every ten soldiers he sent to Drachma, including most of the Reaper Air Division. And those casualties would have been even greater, had Lockdown not activated the self-destruct of his fortress to go out his own terms. The land around the ruins of Drachma were still littered with the remains of countless Decepticon troops and ships, serving as monuments to show how little numbers could matter when skill, position, and strategy were used properly.
"Then we're dealing with someone unknown entirely," Jetfire summarized "That puts us up to, what—five unknown players?"
The Matrix pulsed in Optimus' chestplates at Jetfire's words, and he considered what it told him. "Perhaps not. This Archer may yet be known."
Both Magnus and Jetfire looked to Optimus.
"He may have a record within the Enforcer Archives."
"With all respect due to you and more, sir," Magnus said. "I doubt common criminals from before the war could best a single drone in combat, let alone defeat entire squads of highly-trained soldiers without so much as a scratch."
"But that Archive has more than just common criminals in it," said Jetfire. "It was connected to the database of the Special Investigations and Activities Division—the the elite of the elite in the Enforcers. They went after the big names. Shanix-launderers. As—"
"Assassins. Mobsters. Terrorist networks. Rogue city-states. I also know of them, soldier; they helped the Autobots establish my Wreckers," Magnus interrupted, the normal tonelessness in his gravelly voice a touch harsh. Optimus suspected he was insulted Jetfire had tried to explain something he hadn't known Magnus already knew. The tone was gone when the Wrecker commander continued, "Even considering SIAD's impressive exploits and enemies, you have not considered this simple fact: the Enforcer Archive was destroyed when the Decepticons destroyed Petrex, and the backups at the Hall of Records were corrupted. That information is lost."
"No," Optimus said. "Not lost. Merely taken a different form. My SIC."
For the first time in many centi-vorns, Optimus saw shock cross Ultra Magnus' faceplate. It looked strange on a career special operations soldier. "Field Marshal Prowl? He was only a Captain in the Enforcers. What use did he have in viewing the SIAD database?"
Optimus just gave Magnus a look.
Understanding was also not something Optimus saw Ultra Magnus experience often. It, too, looked strange in the mech. "He was SIAD."
"Yes."
"That would explain a few of his skills."
"It does, but more importantly, it gives him an intimate knowledge of the Enforcer Archive. If there is anyone who would have known every lost file there, it would be Prowl."
"Then we will need to ask him when he returns from his patrol."
"No. I will ask him—you will return to patrol, Ultra Magnus. I will rejoin you when I can."
Magnus nodded. "Understood, sir." Then he left the med-bay.
Optimus looked to Jetfire once Magnus had left. The seeker had a blank look on his faceplate, but the Matrix—and his own experience with the mech—told Optimus Jetfire was tired. "You should get some recharge."
Jetfire nodded at the wounded. "Not until they're up and running."
"That will not be for several cycle."
"Then I'll have paid for my mistake."
"You had no time to shout a warning, Jetfire."
"I had time to realize it was a trap; I should have had time to warn them."
"And had you done so, what good would it have done?"
Jetfire was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "Probably not much; that Archer would have had a backup plan had we not entered the room. Still, I need to work on my reaction time. Can't have my old age catching up to me."
Optimus may have been Prime, but he had always admired Jetfire's drive to being a better soldier. It had inspired many since the war began. "And you can do that once you have rested. Do not have me make it an order." The last part was said in subtle humor. Something he sensed Jetfire needed right now.
The seeker nodded. "Roger that, Prime." He turned to an empty medical berth jumped up on it, then laid down.
"I was referring to resting in your own quarters, Jetfire."
"I know. But I've already established how my conscience won't let me leave. This is a compromise."
Optimus just shook his helm. And there was another attribute of Jetfire's that had inspired many, including Optimus: his dedication to those he vows to teach and protect. "Just make certain you get more than a short recharge."
"Don't worry, Prime. I know my limits. Three breems at minimum."
The Prime would have preferred Jetfire commit to at least five breems, but he trusted Jetfire in this; Primus knew the old seeker had earned such leeway ten times over.
He exited the med-bay after checking in with the other Autobots caught in the ambush. Then he made his way toward the brig and opened a comm-link with Bumblebee, who had just relieved Override of guard and space bridge operator duty when Jetfire called in his distress signal. "Bumblebee, I am coming to speak with our prisoner; however, I also am in need of a conversation with Prowl. Alert me when he is returning to base."
"He just requested a space bridge, Optimus," Bumblebee said. "I was about to bring him back."
"Then I will meet him in the ops center. Thank you." Optimus closed the link and turned around.
It seemed their unexpected prisoner would have to wait.
The Prime found Prowl in the ops center, standing in the middle of the room, slowly drinking a cube of energon. Despite being on patrol for nearly fourteen breems without stopping, his SIC looked fully alert and ready for another fourteen breems of driving.
That was a good thing. With no air units patrolling the skies, Optimus had made the tough call of giving all other Autobots—barring Grimlock, as the Dinobot leader rarely left his quarters, let alone listened to Optimus—a double shift to make up for the lost aerial coverage. He knew he would get some disgruntled comments for a few cycles, but if they were to catch Ned Booth before he created his virus, it had to be done.
"Optimus," Prowl greeted, nodding to the Prime before returning to his energon.
"Prowl," Optimus returned. "How are the others holding up?"
"They are running at acceptable levels of efficiency. None have requested permission to recharge yet. When they do, I was planning on running them in short shifts."
"That will reduce our area of coverage."
"It will, but I have found no other solutions. Our numbers on Earth are limited. Thoroughly searching a planet of even this size is a formidable task without satellite coverage. The loss of our optics in the sky has made our task that much more difficult."
"You are aware of recent events."
It had not been a question, but the strategist treated it as such. "Yes. Bumblebee filled me in on the basics while I remained on patrol. How are the wounded?"
"Far better than they could have been. Most suffered only minor injuries. They will be back in the air within the mega-cycle; however, Silverbolt will need at least twice that before he returns to active duty."
"Shattered pede. From what I understand, it was a clean break. He is fortunate. What of the Decepticon they took prisoner?"
"A technician named Twitch. According to Jetfire, he was not well liked among the Decepticons."
"Has he shown interest in changing sides?"
"Unknown; I have yet to question him. Either way, he will be held in the brig for the time being. It will give him time to recover from his own wounds."
"The Decepticon was injured as well?"
There was surprise in Prowl's voice. As much as the strategist allowed, which was nearly impossible to detect. "He was. Nothing critical, but he will need likely as much time as Silverbolt before he walks again."
"Was he injured during capture?"
"No. He was targeted by the same assailant who attacked our own, and dismantled the other Decepticons who had been on site."
"A skilled combatant who fights for neither the Autobots or the Decepticons. How many offline did Jetfire's team encounter before they were ambushed?"
Optimus did not correct Prowl by saying Silverbolt had been in command; Prowl knew it already. His SIC went by rank. "Jetfire did not take count. He estimates there were eighty Decepticons on location. Perhaps more."
"Was an assault team present with the unknown?"
"According to Jetfire, their attacker was the only other living thing within the site."
Prowl gave Optimus a brief look, optics blank. Then he looked away and took a sip of energon. "So a combatant of extraordinary skill. Did this attacker appear in our database?"
"I was hoping you might be able to assist with that. This mystery assailant does not appear to have a file in our records."
"You are hoping that may not be the case with the Enforcer Archive—specifically, the SIAD database."
There was something in Prowl's voice as he said that. A nearly unnoticeable twitch in his door-wings. A look in his optics that few could see, much less identify.
Optimus was one of two who knew why the mention of the SIAD made Prowl react in this manner—the other was Jazz.
"If you do not wish to think back to those times…"
"No. It is necessary. Tell me about the unknown hostile."
Optimus appreciated Prowl's willingness to help, but he could still see the look expertly hidden in Prowl's optics. "If you are certain. We are looking for a tall, black and dark green mech with broad shoulder-joints and a streamlined build. He wears a battlehelm and uses a Cybertronian bow and arrow."
For a brief moment, Optimus saw Prowl freeze. Then the strategist sipped his energon, and the Prime dismissed what he thought he'd seen. "Archers are a rarity among rarities in the Cybertronians."
"Yes, and that makes it difficult for them to hide. Did the SIAD encounter such individuals?"
"They did. None match the one you are looking for. I am sorry to be of no assistance, Prime."
There was nothing different or odd in his SIC's frame language, optics, or voice, but in his chestplates, the Matrix said something was not right. Something had not been said.
Something was being kept from him.
Optimus had little choice but to follow what the Matrix told him. "Is everything well with you, Prowl?"
There was the slightest twitch in Prowl's door-wings, followed by Prowl finishing the small amount of energon remaining in his cube. "All my systems are nominal, Prime. But now, I must return to patrol. When I leave, shall I warn the others of this Archer, or do you wish to do so yourself?"
The Matrix increased how strongly it was speaking to Optimus. How strong he felt the feeling of oddity in his SIC. "You may inform the others. Also, tell them I will be among them once I have determined how we will maintain our patrols while watching over our wounded and those in the brig."
"Yes, Prime." Prowl's optics dimmed as he opened a comm-link. The space bridge activated a micro-klick later, and Prowl entered it.
The Matrix never ceased giving Optimus a sense of suspicion as he watched his SIC leave the base.
Optimus nodded to Bumblebee as he entered the brig, Prowl weighing on his CPU.
The yellow and black scout returned the nod with a beep, his attention focused on the screen in front of him.
The Decepticon technician, Twitch, was sitting on a berth in one of the brig's standard cells, with the wounds he suffered from the throwing knives covered in semi-malleable casts. He was looking warily at Shadowstreaker in his Hard-Light cell, pacing slowly back and forth. Optics observing Optimus without acknowledging him. The Matrix told the Prime Shadowstreaker was troubled about something—something he had not even known until very recently. Optimus would have to speak with the Triple-Changer when he was finished with Twitch.
Twitch looked up as Optimus approached, and immediately shied away as much as he could from the cold-plasma barrier. His red optic band flashed in what Optimus saw was fear. "Y—you… You're Optimus Prime…"
"I am."
"You're… More normal than I expected. Do you get that a lot? From the way the Decepticons talk about you, I expected a giant, hideous monster of a mech with one optic that could suck the very spark out of someone's chestplates, and to have a lot of sharp, pointy things for cutting the most innocent people to bits. You got the height, though; all leaders are tall. Don't you wonder why that is? Even humans have that weird tendency. At least in their Medieval times. But that was because all the rich people horded the good food. What causes our leaders to be taller than everyone else? Do we, as a race, secretly just put the biggest bot in charge because we think size means they make a good leader? What would happen if we put a Cassette in charge? Or a Mini-Bot? Would th—"
Optimus blinked. It seemed Jetfire's description of Twitch's ability to ramble were very accurate.
"—R would they be worse leaders, since they can't put themselves in the place of anyone else? What makes a bad leader in the first place? Julius Caesar was great at winning battles, but not so great at being great, or seeing an assassin's blade coming. Does that mean he wasn't so great? And why do so many assassins go for a knife? Why not a pistol? Well, John Wilkes Bo—"
"Twitch."
"I'm rambling, aren't I?"
"Yes."
"Sorry. I just get nervous when I'm talking to someone else. Although, most of the time, I'm the one doing the talking. Maybe the rambling isn't a nervous tic; maybe I just have a constant need to fill in any kind of silence. Any period when no one is talking. That wou—"
Optimus made sure he caught Twitch's optic band with his own optics, then narrowed them ever so slightly.
Twitch cut himself off immediately. "Sorry…"
"Do you know why I have come here?"
"For my comedy show, of course! You like jokes? Well, I got the jokes. What do you get when you have a Triple-Changer, a seeker, and a grounder all in one room?"
From the way Twitch's optic band brightened, Optimus assumed he was supposed to guess. He did not.
"A combiner!" Twitch let out a loud, over-the-top fake laugh and slapped one of his knee-joints. Then he let out a louder, more genuine cry and fell to the cell floor, holding his pede. "Oh, oh, oh that's a knife wound! Yup, that's a hole in my knee. That hurts. That hurts a lot! Help! Technician down!"
Optimus let out a long sigh. "Twitch…"
"Sorry, sorry! I ju—… Nevermind. Shutting up."
Optimus waited a micro-klick to be sure Twitch really did, then tried again to get to the point of his visit. "Do you know why I am here?"
"Honestly, no. But I'm pretty sure it has something to do with acid, electricity, and unending pain and suffering."
"The Autobots do not torture their prisoners." Not anymore, Optimus added silently, thinking of the regrettable things done during the height of the war, when Jazz and Spec Ops were under unimaginable pressure to save lives from random attacks none in the Autobots could otherwise predict.
"That's not what the reports say."
"Have you been treated in a way that supports what those documents claim?"
"No, but you could just be trying to fix me up before you tear me apart. Megatron likes to do that with his prisoners. So does Starscream. And Hardshell. And Crosswire. But not Shockwave. He tears them apart, then fixes them up. Then tears them apart again. Then does it again."
"Do you believe our treatment of your injuries was done to let us harm you again?" Optimus ignored most of Twitch's words; he suspected the conversation would go nowhere if he continued to address everything the technician said.
Twitch's optic band flashed. "Um… Not really, no."
"Then there is no reason to fear. Now, you know I have come to ask you questions. With the knowledge that we have done nothing to harm you, are you willing to answer them?"
After a long pause, Twitch nodded.
"Good. Let us begin: is your name Twitch?"
For his part, Twitch didn't seem confused about the basic question; it appeared he understood that a baseline needed to be set during an interrogation. "Well, no. It's Sceptor, actually, but the Decepticons have called me Twitch for so long, I actually prefer it."
Optimus saw no sign Twitch was lying. He went on to the next question he needed to ask. "Are you a member of the Decepticons?"
"Yes."
The Prime could tell from the shortness of the answer that there was a degree of unwillingness to serve his faction. How great he would have to determine. "How long have you served in the Decepticons?"
"Since the beginning of the war. Megatron's supporters grabbed me at Kaon's market and said I was a Decepticon. That was that."
This time, Optimus saw a sign of deceit. But when he was about to reveal he knew Twitch was lying, the Matrix pulsed a warning. Not danger, it said, personal. Optimus let it go. "Are you a technician for the Decepticons?"
"Well… Yes and no."
Optimus raised an optic ridge.
"Yes, I'm a technician, but not always. Or rather, they tried to make me something else. I failed all types of combat training. Badly. Really badly. The one spar I had, they paired me up with an eighty foot mech who used to snap bots in two in the Gladiator pits. Why would they do that? Did they think putting a recruit into the ring with the best fighter will automatically make the recruit better? That doesn't happen; the best fighter just beats the other mech to scrap and walks away."
Rarely were prisoners this honest. And yet, Optimus detected no lies. Perhaps it was time to ask the important questions. "What level of access did you have within the Decepticon ranks?"
Now Twitch was apprehensive. Guarded. It was unclear whether that was an instinctive reaction or not. "Why do you want to know?"
Optimus chose the honest approach. "Because I wish to determine whether your presence here will be of strategic use."
"So I'm going to be even more confined and used here than I was in the Decepticons."
"No. I will not force you to help us. If you do not wish to divulge information, we will not force you. But if you do, there may be a place for you here."
"Like… As an Autobot?"
"As a refugee," Optimus corrected. "But the specifics of such an arrangement would depend on you."
Twitch was silent for a very long time. "The Decepticons don't take kindly to treason. Like, they really, really don't like it. As in public torture and execution dislike."
"You would be safe here. We Autobots protect our refugees."
The Prime could tell his words had done little to comfort Twitch. "I kind of like living; it has its perks. Betraying the Decepticons would end that. Probably in many, many different, not so nice ways." The technician paused, then lowered his helm. "Just… Let me think about it."
Optimus knew when someone no longer wished to speak. Twitch was at that point. "As you wish. When you are ready to make a decision, inform whoever is on duty at the desk over there. I will return when you have." He turned and walked away.
"Can I asked just one thing?"
Optimus turned and found Twitch looking at him again. "Yes. What do you wish to know?"
"That… Big Autobot, in the weird cell. Why is he imprisoned, too?"
Because he was a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off. Because mysteries and corpses followed him wherever he went. Because if he was compromised and free, there was a real chance Autobots would offline.
Because Optimus' joy was gone.
… Where had those negative and angry thoughts come from?
A deep, twisted laugh echoed around the room, the air temperature falling thirty degrees at its distorted sound.
The lights went out.
Not again.
Two multi-lensed, crimson optics appeared not a foot from his faceplate. "So you are vulnerable."
The impossibly dark form of Cold moved around Optimus, visible only because the darkness that had fallen on the room paled in comparison to his own. "All this time, I was trying to focus on you. But it turns out you're just like every other spoiled child out there: your true emotions only come out when someone takes away your toys."
Optimus had not yet recovered from Cold's sudden appearance. He took as long a moment as he would allow while Cold was there, requested strength from the Matrix, and said, "Sentient beings are not to be used as entertainment. You may not be what you are if you attempted to understand that."
Cold laughed again, the disturbing laughter reverberating around the room multiple times. "And you can put the mask back on so fast. Right back to Freedom and equality. Oh, you're good. Very good. I applaud you, Little Prime." And he did. A brief, slow clap that Optimus could only hear. Somehow, he made even that simple action frightening enough to send a chill down Optimus' spine. "I'm going to have to take that one from you. Use it against the playthings you call friends to their faces."
"You will harm no one." Optimus felt the Matrix pulse in him as he uttered those words in either approval or authority. His current state of CPU made it difficult to determine.
"Ooo. Testy, aren't we? Afraid you'll lose another toy?"
"They are not toys."
"How are they not? You study them. Find out which ones are worth more than others. Decide where they go. What they do. And when you break one, you just get another. And you've broken a lot of them in your time, haven't you?"
Optimus did not give Cold the satisfaction of getting another rise out of him; he knew now it would do no good.
"Silence can have so many meanings. Anger. Sadness. Guilt. Spite. Fear. Those, and too many others to name." Cold stalked forward, circling Optimus with heavy, slow steps. But his optics went elsewhere, gazing around at the others in the room, who had become frozen in place, ice covering them. "But what kind of silence is this? What are you hoping to achieve with it?"
Do not give him anything, Optimus thought. Do not give Cold anything he could use and twist to cause Optimus pain. The former Xel'Tor had an unnatural ability to twist lies into horrifying truths. He'd seen that the last time Cold appeared.
"Is this spite out of hearing your better state facts you don't want to hear? Is this anger at knowing I'm right? Is this guilt for all the terrible things you've done?"
Do not give him anything.
"Is this fear of knowing what you are?"
It was not the fault of the Matrix that Optimus' optic twitched. Nor was it the fault of the Wisdom it contained—from Sentinel, to Nominus, to Nova, to Rodimus, to Ather, and the thousands more Primes all the way back to Prima himself. It was his own failing.
One of many.
Cold's helm snapped to Optimus. His entire demeanor changed. Gone was the arrogant walk. The indifference. The false boredom. In its place was glee. Sick, corrupted glee. "So that's what you fear… Failure."
That was when Optimus realized he had made a mistake. Primes, guide me, he thought, requesting strength from the Matrix. Warmth spread through his frame.
Warmth that turned to ice when Cold laughed. "I was wrong. It's not losing toys that affects you; it's losing people. You really are as hopelessly attached to your soldiers as you say. That must make all the times you failed them hurt a lot more, doesn't it?"
They had all counted on him. They had all trusted him. He failed them.
"Only it took you this long to finally realize how horrible a person you are. Is that from you being numb to your failures for so long, or from trying to ignore them?"
They had all counted on him. They had all trusted him. He failed her.
Another laugh. Another temporary freezing of his spine. "Oh, so the reasons for your temporary immunity to me are much baser than pain. It's her. Your little rose-colored girl scout. You're trying to keep her out of your mind. Proof that love is a pathetic waste of time."
She had counted on him. She had trusted him.
Cold vanished in a vortex of impossible darkness, then reappeared in the Hard-Light cell, standing behind the frozen form of Shadowstreaker. "But in the end, you couldn't ignore how you failed her, could you? You couldn't take that weight any longer." He tapped the side of Shadowstreaker's helm, just under the symbol there, the metallic tinning deadened from the ice covering the Triple-Changer. "Now she only lives in here. Alone. Surrounded by nothing. That must make you feel terrible."
She had counted on him…
"But what will make you feel even worse, is the knowledge that I am going to seek her out in there, just for you. I'll find her. Torture her. I'll make her cry—cry out for you to save her. Only you won't, just like you didn't when she needed you here. Then I'll kill her. Slowly. Make hers an agonizing death. All because you're a failure." Cold gave a smile that could stop the sparks of the greatest of warriors and leaders alike. "Count on it."
Everything snapped back into focus. Optimus was standing in the middle of the brig, faced toward the brig desk and away from Twitch's cell.
Why had he chosen to stop here?
"Optimus." The Prime turned his attention to Bumblebee as the yellow and black scout finished entering a command into the computer and raised his helm. "Ultra Magnus is asking for an estimate on when you can join him on patrol."
"Thank you… Bumblebee. Tell him I… Will be there shortly," Optimus said slowly, feeling a processor ache beginning to throb at his helm. Perhaps he needed a cube.
Bumblebee's door-wings drooped. "Are you alright, Optimus?"
"I am fine. Just a processor ache."
"Okay. Drink some energon, though—it'll help." Bumblebee returned to the screen.
Optimus caught something in his peripheral vision, and turned.
Shadowstreaker was staring at him. Intensely. With narrowed, suspicious optics. Like he was trying to see something only he had seen an inkling of.
Optimus did not know why the Triple-Changer was looking at him as he was.
He looked to Twitch, who was still waiting for an answer. "What you have asked is… Complicated. One cycle, you shall know. But not this one."
The technician's optic band flashed. "Uh. Okay." He returned to looking at the floor, in deep thought.
With the purpose of his visit to the brig complete, Optimus walked to the door and left to return to patrol.
He felt a strange and urgent feeling from the Matrix that he remember something. He felt something else as well. Something louder. Both a feeling and a thought.
Three down, ten to go.
Prowl made sure to continue on his designated patrol route as he normally would have.
It was a testament to Autobot engineering that even with the lack of a precision satellite network to support them, Autobot tracking technology could pinpoint someone in the field within five meters of their actual position. They were not easily turned off, hacked, or blocked, either—the Decepticons possessed few systems that could jam Autobot tracking, and no known examples existed of Decepticons succeeding in hacking the tracking data of an Autobot.
There were, however, methods that could be done to manually disable an Autobot tracking device. It was a long, complicated process that required considerable knowledge and experience in operating complex technical systems both mechanical and digital in nature.
Prowl had taught himself the cycle the tracker was introduced.
The road he followed curved left, then right, then left again. He slowed at each turn, allowing him ample time to double and triple-check the road ahead for hazards or ambush points. It was something he always did when on a casual patrol. Looking into the records of his tracking data would show that.
Now, it also gave him an opportunity to be certain there were no humans nearby.
The road was clear. No chance of a human seeing something they should not. Prowl checked the map in his HUD. His nearest comrade was approximately twenty point two kilometers from his position. Too far to hear anything.
He stopped next to the road, just after the second left curve. He activated the sensor he had installed into his right servo, a MK-16 LRSS—or Low Radiation Signal Scanner, a portable unit built to detect and identify the radiation of unnatural energy signatures. Activating his LRSS would appear on his life signal, but any results from a scan would not. That detail was key.
Prowl ran the LRSS over the road right in front of him, deactivated it. Then he entered the channel connecting he and his fellow Autobots to base. "Bumblebee—my sensors have picked up an unknown energy signature in the jungle near my location. Please confirm."
Bumblebee took six point one micro-klicks to check for unusual energy signatures near Prowl's location. Prowl knew the slow response was the scout rechecking when nothing appeared. "I'm not seeing anything in your area."
"The signal must not be of significant intensity; however, regulations state it must be investigated."
"Do you want me to send someone to your area?"
"Negative; I neither see nor sense unnatural movement within my vicinity. I will investigate alone. Be advised: the signal may or may not cause interference with my tracker."
"Got it. I'll only send in the cavalry if you go dark without responding to hails."
"Acknowledged. Prowl, out."
Prowl stepped into the jungle. He maneuvered around trees, boulders, and streams, always making sure to eventually return to a path straight out from the road. Silently, he counted his steps, tracking how far he was from the road, and how far he needed to continue.
Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen…
At twenty, Prowl manually deactivated his tracker.
His spark beat in his chestplates. Then again. Then the official procedure message, "Base to Prowl—your life signal has cut out. Respond."
"Prowl, here," the SIC said immediately. "No emergency, Bumblebee."
"That's good. We've had enough emergencies recently. Two of them are in the room with me… One's been pacing since I took over for Override."
Shadowstreaker. A complicated issue Prowl was still analyzing. A potential threat which he had yet to develop a counter. "I am going to continue to the anomaly. I will inform you if I require backup. Prowl, out."
Prowl moved forward, again counting his steps. Again calculating how much further he should go.
Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen…
At his second set of twenty, Prowl connected to a channel that would not appear within his internal history. A channel that would not be found in civilian channels. A channel that would not be present in Autobot or Decepticon channel frequencies.
A channel Prowl never thought he would enter again.
The channel accepted Prowl's ancient passkey for the second time since he returned to patrol. Unlike the first time he entered the channel, Prowl said nothing over it. Instead, he just sent his coordinates before disconnecting.
Three micro-klicks went by. Then an emerald green space bridge opened in front of him. He stepped in without any hesitation.
Prowl came to be standing in the middle of an unfamiliar space bridge tunnel. Twice the size and far more luminous and intense than the one at base, Prowl could see the space bridge was built recently, and used technology more advanced than what Optimus had knowledge to construct with the Forge of Solus Prime. It would have the energy to transport a significant force of soldiers to galaxies beyond even Triangulum.
As expected, a group of soldiers stood in front of the space bridge, inside a large room that bore approximately forty-four individual similarities to the ops center at base. There were ten soldiers, with four technicians behind them working on four separate workstations that used a combination of physical and holographic displays. All but one of the soldiers were mechs—each Prowl's height or taller. They wore heavy armor of dark colors that bore markers of customization. Each carried an advanced rifle of a short, compact design that was neither Autobot nor Decepticon in origin.
He knew from experience the rifles packed more firepower than any other non-Paraion weapon of comparable size.
At each of their shoulder-joints, Prowl saw a familiar symbol etched into their armor: a silver Cybertronian skull with a knife embedded in one of its hollow optic casings.
"That's far enough," one of the soldiers said once Prowl had exited the tunnel. The soldier—like all the others—wore a battlehelm that hid his faceplate.
Prowl stopped.
"Scan him."
The one femme soldier stepped forward and traded her rifle for a scanning tool. She pointed it at Prowl, and a red beam of light ran over him. The femme circled Prowl, keeping the beam scanning him up and down. Once she finished circling, she deactivated the scanner and looked at a display installed on her foreservo. "Tracker's off. No weapons he didn't report to us in his hail. He's clean."
"Then we're moving." The leader gestured for Prowl to stand in the middle of their formation.
The squad of soldiers began moving once Prowl moved to the position the leader requested. They had him surrounded on all sides, rifles held easily but ready. Treating Prowl as a potential violent threat. And their formation was executed nearly to perfection.
Trained well, Prowl thought, CPU falling into his SIAD cycles. But not perfectly; the mech to his right was half a meter out of position. Few were perfect at all times.
The soldiers led him down a high metal hallway with more mechs and femmes moving from room to room, conducting various tasks. Few gave their group more than a fleeting glance.
The hallway opened up to a room of monumental proportions. The ceiling—at first a hundred meters above his helm—became two kilometers high. The walls—once fifty meters away on either side— became four kilometers in either direction, and four times that distance straight ahead. The floor became a walkway hanging in open air, a kilometer above the true floor and the eight docking cradles there. An identical walkway was to their right, on the other side of the immense room.
Prowl looked to the docking cradles. All eight were occupied. Three standard frigates, two heavy frigates, a battlecruiser, and two full cruisers. All of sleek, sharp-angled builds and dark grey in color. No method of determining if they had fighters or gunships. Not a match for even a single battleship, but a considerable amount of firepower.
It took several klicks to reach their destination: an elevated, large circular platform built at the middle point between the first walkway and the one at the other side of the room. The platform had a transparent energy shield surrounding it, and inside were close to forty mechs and femmes working at computer stations.
The tall, black and dark green mech standing at a central terminal, with holographic screens all around him and a bow slung on his backplates, drew most of Prowl's attention.
"Humans like to say there's no place like home," said the Archer, rumbling voice even deeper than normal in the confines of the platform. "They mean it in the sense that there is no place more comfortable than an apartment, house, or condo where they live, or used to live and ache for. But for people like you and I, the thought of returning to the same place every night is a vulnerability. We subscribe to the concept of home—of believing home is where we are in the element we love best." The Archer turned and smiled, optics flashing, faceplate completely unscarred, even after his long career. "Welcome home, Prowl."
"Why are you here?"
"Not even a hello. I should be insulted, but I'm not; you've never been one for pleasantries. We'll talk business, then." The Archer returned to the terminal in front of him when an icon appeared. He dismissed it. "What brings you to my corner of the dark Underworld? I admit, I was intrigued when you made contact through the old channels. Looking to return to more exciting times?"
Prowl's CPU automatically supplied memories associated with his history with the Archer. He suppressed them. "You are not supposed to be here."
"Last I checked, I was free to navigate space I see fit."
"You have been in the Andromeda Galaxy for the last vorn."
"According to rumors in the Underworld, yes. You know as well as I that rumors have a nasty habit of being wildly inaccurate. I believe I've died close to a hundred times at this point."
"Why have you returned?"
"Funny that you think I ever left. That's the beauty of space bridges and an organization that runs itself: you can go anywhere you want, when you want, and come back without anyone even knowing you left in the first place. They're a free pass to wander. I like doing that. Let's me keep tabs on my business."
"And attack Autobots."
"Ah. To the heart of the matter. Are you upset at me for that?"
Prowl caught the condescending tone in the Archer's voice. "You did not offline them."
"And therein lies the problem. You're upset, but you don't have a reason to be. I fought your Autobots. I let them go without any life-threatening injuries. Why do you find that so infuriating?"
"You are planning something, and you are going to try using the Autobots to see it through."
The Archer looked to a screen when a new icon appeared. He spent some time reading it, saying nothing.
"Whatever your plans are also involve the Decepticons. Why did you leave one of them online for us to capture?"
The Archer chuckled. "I love it when you try digging into my motives with that SIAD training of yours. What's it telling you right now?"
It was not telling him anything. Prowl saw the amusement in the Archer's optics, but nothing else. He was unreadable as he had been in Prowl's first cycles in the Enforcers, seemingly a hundred lifetimes ago. And the Archer knew it. "What were you doing at a Decepticon Black Site?"
"My business. Not yours."
"You made it ours."
"No I haven't. You of all people know what it looks like when I do."
Offline frames on a living room floor. Energon pooled beneath them. A look of horror forever etched on a femme's faceplate. Three muffled shots from a handgun.
Prowl blinked. The memory faded. "Correct."
"Then you'll need to trust that whatever my business is with Decepticon Black Sites, it must not be very interesting. Nothing like that Emitter you Autobots picked up."
Prowl said nothing. Inside, he wondered how the Archer knew of the Delphic. Did he know the location of their base? Did he have knowledge of Cold, and the so-called Council of Ardents?
"Yes, I know about the Emitter." The Archer stepped forward, passing through the holoscreens so he could stare down at Prowl. "Little free advice regarding that particularly powerful device: bury it. Throw it into space. Forget you ever saw it."
Prowl was thrown by how serious the Archer was. How real. No mask. No false look in his optics. His advice was actually meant to help. Rarely did he offer that. "We will not be discarding it."
"You've no idea what you're dealing with. I do. You don't want to play games with this. People die when you do. Lots of people. Planets of them. Take my advice. Get rid of that thing, before you catch the attention of someone far less pleasant than I. It wouldn't surprise me if you already have."
Prowl shook his helm. For once, the Archer had no idea. "We are keeping the Emitter."
The Archer stared at Prowl for another micro klick. Then he walked back to the central terminal. "Your funeral. I'll be sure to pick up the pieces of your base when you all die." He turned his attention fully to the holoscreens. "I believe you need to return to the jungle. Wouldn't be good to give people a reason to suspect something."
Prowl knew the Archer's statement was a dismissal, both from the Archer's tone and how one of the soldier's tugged at his servo, but he had been keeping track of the time he had given himself for this meeting; it was running low. He had to get back before Bumblebee became suspicious. He still had one last thing to say. "No more attacking Autobots."
"As long as they don't get in my way."
The soldier tugged at Prowl's servo again, and Prowl let himself be led away. This meeting was over.
"One last thing…"
The soldiers stopped, and so too did Prowl.
The Archer was looking at him, smile nowhere to be seen. Optics as serious as could be. "Does she know about Etheria?"
"No."
"Does she know anything?"
"If she did, I would have said."
"Of course. Just keep in mind: you'd do well to make sure she stays in the dark… Prowl."
Prowl silently cursed when his door-wings instinctively hitched upward and back at the amused tone in the Archer's voice, and the false smile that appeared on the his faceplate. The sense he was taunting Prowl. Taunting him with a subtle reminder that he knew things about Prowl no one else did.
Things about that cycle long ago that no one should know.
The strategist turned on his heel and walked away, outpacing the soldiers escorting him.
He did his best to keep his door-wings from hitching again when the Archer let out a deep chuckle.
The plot thickens. And is finally starting to get into material that I've been waiting to bring in for literally years. This will be fun.
... Hmm. I went a little Cold with that final tone. Mildly disturbing.
Anyway, about those reevaluations I was talking about above: as part of them, I have come to the conclusion that I have been writing too many things that I do not enjoy. I do not have the time, or, honestly, the motivation, to work on things which I do not feel. I have many, many ideas for stories, many of which are original. It's time I make time for them.
So, as a result of coming to the conclusion I need to make time to write things I want to, I am placing Last of the Wyrms on indefinite hiatus. May the Dead Yet Live may follow; I have not yet decided that. While I have not actually progressed on those stories in a long time, the stress of thinking I need to is very much there, and it nags at me off-and-on almost every day. This will allow me to have less stress, and, in turn, more creativity. This means, hopefully, more time for Fate Calls, Origin, and my original content. And, perhaps, a Mass Effect OC insert in the near future. Haven't decided on that yet.
One other thing about these changes: I will also be starting a account sometime soon. When, I don't exactly know, but I am researching the matter, and I will be starting one. I will be writing just original content for it, such as my novels, my short stories, or potentially other products that may be interesting. I do not know at this time. Since that will be a zone for my original content, it is likely I will not join as my pen name on this site. But when I finish my research and start my in the way I want, I will be sure to tell you all who I am there, just in case you're interested in seeing the original worlds I want to share with my readers.
Two questions for this chapter: 1) what do you think of the Archer, and his suggested history with Prowl? How does this change your view of the story? What do you expect will come from this new development? And 2) do you want me to start a Mass Effect OC insert, or shall I not? (This one is lower on the scale of priorities for answering).
This chapter's credit song is "Position Music - Enigma" This chapter was quite difficult to find a credit song for, but I believe I finally found it. This track has just the right about of epic feeling to it, while maintaining a subtle tone of mystery. It suits the ending scene well, in my opinion, from when the Archer asks Prowl his final question to the final line of the chapter.
Thank you all for reading, and I hope you take some time to leave a comment.
See you soon,
Sci