Thought I was gone, huh? Afraid not. I'm still here. Still writing. And I come back to you now, with updates.
... Far less epic than Gandalf, but eh. Enjoy.
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TheSilentOne - Right? They need a shovel or something. Might not be enough, though.
Usual general reminder: due to the length of time between updates, I recommend re-reading the previous one to get a better idea of what's going on.
Thanks go to Crystal Prime for beta reading.
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro. I only take credit for this story and my OCs.
Soundwave stood in the Nemesis airlock, not moving so much as a millimeter. His posture was perfect. Disciplined, as an officer of his station should be.
He could not say the same of Starscream.
The seeker was pacing. Loudly. Posture hunched, servos behind his backplates. Life signs elevated from stress. He occasionally muttered something to himself before shaking his helm, as if dismissing a suggestion. Soundwave knew the reason for the seeker's distress.
Dreadwing.
This cycle marked the arrival of the Captain and his remaining Reavers. Many Decepticons were gathered just outside the airlock, standing in ranks, their armor freshly cleaned. Tuning into one of the many off-duty communications channels would reveal Dreadwing dominated more than half all of conversations. An overwhelming majority of participants were anxious and excited about the Reaver Captain's arrival.
He would be thinking about how little excitement spread when he was set to arrive in a new system. How no one willingly gathered to greet him when he boarded a ship. How often he had to make a simple request into an order for people to listen.
Starscream would be thinking of those things and more, and it would grate him. Frustrate him. Enrage him.
Hurt him.
In his more emotional moments, Soundwave felt pity for the Air Commander. Few he knew desired respect so much, and got so little in return. Soundwave was never surprised when Starscream attempted to use blackmail and plotting to gain power.
The subtle—almost unnoticeable—vibration from the floor told Soundwave a transport had docked with the Nemesis. They had arrived.
Soundwave sent Starscream a message through a channel. No words, just a single ping. Starscream ceased his pacing and moved ahead and to his right, where an officer of Starscream's rank should stand.
The airlock hissed as it synced with the transport's atmosphere, then slid open. A great giant of a seeker stood on the other side, standing an equal distance from either side of the room. He stood taller than anyone else in the room. Taller than Shockwave. Taller, even, than Megatron. A sign of his status as a Second. He was deep blue, gold, and grey in color, with his wide shoulder-joints ending in the tips of his wings. His red optics held the look of a professional soldier.
"Air Commander. Officer," Dreadwing said, looking first to Starscream, then Soundwave. His voice was as professional as his optics.
"Captain," Starscream returned. In contrast, Soundwave heard contempt in the Air Commander's tone. He felt threatened. "We salute here."
Dreadwing calmly appraised Starscream for a brief moment, then the giant gave a crisp salute. Soundwave saw no sign of mockery in his optics.
"As you were," Starscream said, and Dreadwing returned to his previous ease. The Air Commander nodded in mild satisfaction, then looked behind the Reaver Captain. Soundwave had already noticed Dreadwing was the only noteworthy occupant. "Where are the rest of your Reavers?"
"Another transport at the edge of this system was hit by an asteroid. They disembarked to assist in rescue efforts."
Soundwave was aware of that accident the moment it occurred. Such things were rare for a Tier 2 race, but not unheard of. A routine testing of the transport's shielding required temporarily powering the defensive system down. That brief moment proved fatal to seven Decepticons. More, unless those still missing were found online.
"You left your soldiers to help, while you carried on?" Starscream delivered the question without a trace of anger or suggestion, but Soundwave knew he asked it in an attempt to smear Dreadwing's reputation, if just a little. Taking on his rivals directly was not Starscream's style. He preferred small, repeated attacks, particularly ones small enough to ignore. That fighting style was what made Starscream Air Commander, and, when used correctly, it served him just as well in political climates.
"It is protocol for the commanding officer of a unit to present themselves before the highest ranked officer in an occupied system." If Dreadwing noticed Starscream's motives, Soundwave did not see or hear it. "And alas, I am the largest and strongest of my surviving Reavers; however, that also makes me slowest. They are better suited for rescue operations. It was both practical and tactical to assign certain duties to the most able."
Starscream's wings fell a millimeter. A failed attack in his optics, Soundwave thought. "Then I shall need to conduct this tour twice," Starscream said. He made a broad, sweeping gesture to the Nemesis interior. "After you, Captain."
Dreadwing stepped forward, posture nearly perfect, silently taking note of the soldiers standing in ranks. Starscream followed with a frown, digits clicking behind his backplates.
Soundwave waited two micro-klicks, then followed, matching their pace so that he was several steps behind. Just enough to be out of the tense air. Such foolishness as rivalries were distracting.
And his duties always required his attention.
Soundwave trailed Starscream and Dreadwing for the entire tour, always keeping an optic on the data streaming through his HUD. The two seekers were never hostile, but not friendly, either. Professional, with the Air Commander sometimes subtly probing for a hole in the armor of Dreadwing's reputation, and the Reaver Captain providing answers and general statements that fit with his renowned standing.
They had just reached the Nemesis' flight deck when his HUD gave him an alert. He opened it. Then he froze.
There was a system breach in progress.
At the command center on the bridge, drones would be refocusing to address the alert that would be echoing off the walls. There, in the flight deck, there was just a general alert. A call to prepare for possible deployment. Other ships and command centers would be doing the same.
Soundwave was already making his way to a terminal, where he could fully tap into the system, when Starscream shouted, "Report, Soundwave!"
Soundwave ignored the order and the pitch of Starscream's voice, his Trepidation syndrome in action. He reached the terminal. He entered in his own authorization code, and searched the data streams.
In a perfect mirror of the last breach, all stations, ships, and bases outside Earth reported all systems nominal. He narrowed his focus to Earth, tracking the breach. Bases in Asia were secure. As were those in Europe, the Americas, Africa. Locations in Australia reported an all-clear.
All but one.
Site Alpha-Zeta. Located almost directly below the Nemesis' orbit. Another Black Site. Another of Megatron's trophy cases.
It was happening again.
Soundwave brought the data he was watching onto the screen in front of him, allowing Starscream and Dreadwing to see what he was.
"Impossible," Starscream growled, his wings hitching.
"Why does a system breach trouble you?" Dreadwing asked, professional voice curious. "Such attacks are not uncommon with a network of our size."
"The breach comes from a Black Site," Starscream said.
"Unusual, but statistically possible."
"This is the second such attack this cycle. Second under my watch!" Starscream's voice raised in pitch once again, showing his anger and distress.
Dreadwing was silent for a moment. "To have two such unrelated breaches is… Impossible."
"Exactly my point, Captain."
"Shall I investigate for you, Air Commander?"
Starscream growled. "No, I think not. After all, I am Air Commander. Any attempt to rob Megatron should be thwarted by me."
"With all due respect, sir—I am better suited for combat."
"And I am better at flying. One does not need combat expertise when you have the skies on your side."
Soundwave ignored their arguing. He tried to reach Site Alpha-Zeta's commander—Windraker. Full Decepticon, like Blackback. Special forces, like Blackback. Annihilator-class, similar to Blackback. Record of four-hundred combat missions, also similar to Blackback.
No response, just like Blackback.
"Soundwave," Starscream said. "Has there been any response to hails?"
Soundwave shook his helm once.
Starscream growled.
"If a Blacksite does not respond to hails from high command, protocol states it be considered a combat zone," Dreadwing said. "Allow me to investigate, Air Commander. I shall put an end to whoever dares infiltrate Megatron's personal facilities."
Starscream growled again, wings twitching. "Fine. We'll both go. Decepticons! To me!" Starscream stormed away from the terminal, Dreadwing following behind him. He placed his servos behind his backplates as two squadrons of seeker drones approached. "Sensors say there are intruders in one of our bases. I intend on ending them, and if they are Autobots, I intend on torturing them first. Who among you stands with me?"
"We do!" The drones answered as one, raising fists to the air. A pre-programmed response triggered when their limited processors identified certain phrases and tones.
Starscream gestured to the squadron leader of one group. "You! You and your drones are with the Captain!"
The enthusiasm displayed by the squad leader was not pre-programmed.
Starscream growled, saying nothing. He pointed to the other squadron leader. "You and your drones are with me!"
"Yes, sir!" The drone saluted.
The Air Commander looked to Soundwave. "Open the doors, Soundwave!"
Soundwave did as asked. The flight deck doors slid open, revealing the surface of Earth hundreds of miles below, behind a thin atmospheric shield.
"I leave you in command while I deal with these trespassers, Soundwave!" Starscream quickly transformed and flew out of the flight deck. Soundwave found it likely his haste was driven by the desire to arrive at the Blacksite before anyone else, including the drones he assigned to follow him.
Dreadwing and the two squadrons of drones transformed and followed after Starscream, the large Reaver Captain quickly falling behind due to his size and armor.
Soundwave closed the flight deck doors behind them and turned to tap, once again, into the system to continue carrying out his own duties as Intelligence Officer, and now Starscream's as Tactical Overlord.
He had been placed in command. This was not the first time he held such authority. He would carry out its responsibilities without fail. He would act as Megatron would want him to act. But he did not like it. He was not built for it.
He was best-suited for other duties.
Starscream kept himself well ahead of the Decepticons behind him. He did so not from necessity, but want. He wanted to show them who he was: Starscream, Air Commander of the Decepticons.
Too often, he was not given the respect his title deserved. Did they not know how much he'd done to earn his rank? Had they thought someone else braved Iacon's anti-air defenses time and time again? That it was another seeker who held their current speed record? Was his name redacted from the list of Decepticon seekers who attained the commendation of Oczkoix—two hundred or more confirmed aerial victories in a single battle? Were they confused about who had taken a mess of a Decepticon Air Force and turned it into the most lethal branch of their military?
Starscream would find a way to show them.
The atmosphere of Earth began to thicken. Sound, lost in the thin air, returned. He felt his armor heating up as the atmosphere pushed back against him, trying to incinerate him or send him back into space. It did little to slow him down.
His destination was below. He could see it, now—kilometers away. It was located in a very remote section of the Australian Outback; there was no human presence for more than a hundred miles in any direction.
Not long ago, an artifact mine had been present where the Site Alpha-Zeta was now located. After the mine had been raided by the Autobots, Megatron had pulled out any forces in the area and ordered the mine filled in. This had been a cover for the construction of a Black Site designed to blend in with the land itself. Even now, looking straight where he knew Site Alpha-Zeta was, Starscream could not tell it apart from the red dirt surrounding it.
The only indication it was there was the downed drone he saw in the desert.
He leveled off his approach when he got beneath three thousand feet of altitude. He circled once, then twice, continuing his descent at a steady pace. Then he hovered just above the unmoving drone and transformed to land next to it.
At this range, he could now see a deep puncture wound in its chestplates, not far from where its spark would have been, had it been a full Cybertronian. It did not appear to have been from a knife or sword. Energon leaked from the injury more slowly than it should, adding to a deep blue stain under the drone. It had been here a while.
"Report, drone!" Starscream barked.
"So... So fast…" The drone said, its voice a whisper, its optic band flickering weakly.
"What is?"
The drone's optic band went dark.
Starscream cursed from annoyance and scanned the drone again. Stasis lock. Even they were not immune to it. He would have to contact Shockwave to recover t—
A rumble rippled through the ground beneath his pedes.
He rose upward with the earth, as if riding a solid wave. Dust and debris flew upward into the air, propelled by a rumbling explosion that caused Starscream's entire frame to rattle from the base of his pedes to the top of his helm.
That would be Site Alpha-Zeta's self-destruct. He was too late to save it. Blast. And now he had moments before the soil gave way.
Starscream grabbed the drone's pede, then activated his jets and lifted them both off the ground, holding the drone beneath him. He detested the action, but the drone's status as a witness meant it was necessary. Unfortunately.
Moments after he lifted off the ground, another rumble came from below, and the ground collapsed inward. More debris were sent upward, surrounding Starscream in a cloud of dust and dirt and rock. Visibility was almost zero within the cloud, and sound was muffled and disorienting without visual reference.
Starscream hovered through the cloud, where he knew solid ground would eventually be. It took half a klick, but he found it. He landed, dropping the drone before allowing himself to fall to the ground. He heard jets in the distance. The others were approaching at last.
No matter, he thought. This errand could have been done by one. He looked back. Site Alpha-Zeta was a total loss. Where once was desert and a camouflaged Black Site entrance was a multi-kilometer wide crater. The billowing cloud of dirt and debris was still rising into the sky, rapidly darkening land around it.
Megatron was sure to be furious about this…
Soundwave balanced his duties and Starscream's as well as he could. He calculated an eight point eight percent loss in efficiency in both sets of responsibilities. The return of Starscream and Dreadwing would be welcome.
A notification sound came from the terminal next to him. He turn his helm to scan the new information.
It was an update from one of his software programs. It was one dedicated to monitoring activity within the compressed file from Site Delta-Bravo.
A portion of the file had unlocked. And his software was not responsible.
Soundwave immediately ran additional scans of the file, seeking potential viruses and malware. The scans found nothing. He ran them again, to be safe. When they, again, found nothing, he opened the unlocked portion of the file.
It contained an image of a single letter.
J.
I rounded the corner, continuing forward, sweeping my eyes back and forth. Scanning. Searching. Seeking a place to hide.
"Shadowstreaker!"
"Stop!"
I ignored Chromia. Ignored Elita. I kept walking. Kept searching.
The Mech of Light was dead. He was dead because of me. Because I couldn't hold things together. Because I let Cold break me. Because I wasn't enough.
Now Cold was coming for us.
The tall form of Elita dropped down in front of me, landing in a crouch. She rose, the simple movement more dignified than the collective total of every elegant moment of my life. "Stop."
That one word carried weight. Authority. Force. Like hers was a voice meant not for mortals to hear.
I did as she said. But not because of how she spoke; she was just in my way. "Move."
"No."
I stepped to the side. She did too, blocking me again. I looked up to her face. She was already staring at me, optics calm and intense. Her expression was so much like Arcee's when she was determined. "Don't do this."
"Then listen."
I said nothing and tried to push by her. She redirected my momentum so I ended up back where I started, then she grabbed both my shoulders, staring down at me. I could have fought her grip, but that wouldn't have helped. My thoughts empowered Cold. What would fighting a friend do?
"Stop." That authoritative tone backed up that single, repeated word. But there was something else in there, too. Something she tried to hide. To discard, for her own sake as well as mine.
Fear.
Fear for what happened. Fear for who she knew was coming for us. Fear for what could happen when he did. Fear for her siblings. Fear for Optimus.
Fear for me.
She was afraid of what would happen to me. Of what I'd do, or wouldn't do. For how I was acting now. How I could act soon. She feared all of that, entirely because she cared. And because she cared, she was trying her damnedest not to let me see that fear. She was trying to help me, even as I was trying to get away from her.
Sorrow provides Compassion.
I sighed and let my helm drop from her optics. "I'm fine. Let me go."
Elita stared at me for a moment longer, as if trying to tell if I was lying. Then she took her hands off my shoulders. Chromia joined us a second later. "You good, now?" She asked.
I nodded.
Chromia sighed, then looked between Elita and I. "What do we do?"
I looked at Elita for an answer, but I saw she had about as many ideas as I did. None. She had no idea what we should do. What we could do.
That scared me.
"We can do what I was doing before you stopped me," I offered.
"And what was that?" Chromia asked. "You didn't explain."
Because I'm terrified. Because I'm barely keeping it together right now. Because the Mech of Light is dead. "Look for a place to hide. Stay there."
"We cannot hide from this," Elita said.
"How'd fighting go for us?"
She said nothing in response.
"Have any other ideas?" I asked, looking between Elita and Chromia.
They didn't offer any.
"Then I think we need to hide."
They didn't disagree.
We started off then, continuing on in the same direction I had before they stopped me. The buildings around us were enormous, towering spires made from the same material as the floor, and lit up with soft blue light. Portions of them floated off from the rest of their main structure, slowly moving up and down, left and right. Like they were satellites orbiting a celestial body. Some buildings were even larger than the others, and the sections hovering apart from the others were not buildings, but Rubions. They looked small in comparison.
I'd find the sight of the buildings dazzling, if not for the fact Cold was after us.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Far outside where the dome was," Chromia said. "We never learned its name from the Disciple."
She also had a name for the Mech of Light? Was I just the least creative one here? "Do you know what it's for?"
"Storage," Elita said. "These structures are for storage."
"What kind of storage?"
"Wisdom did not elaborate."
And now he never would.
I looked up sharply as a bolt of deep emerald Light arced from one building to another. Like static electricity, only unfathomably more powerful. It came from about a dozen of kilometers above our helms, not even a fifth the way up one of the small spires. These buildings dwarfed even Cybertron's architecture.
"You see that?" I asked.
Both of them confirmed they had.
"We need to get up there."
"Why?" Elita asked. "Do you believe the Light comes from something of use?"
"No idea, but even if it's nothing, these buildings will be useful enough to hide in."
"Agreed," Chromia said. She started walking toward the building we saw the Light come from, her own form glowing with her Light. She looked blinding compared to our surroundings.
Elita looked at me expectantly.
"I'm on rear security," I said. "Go on."
"On the contrary," she said. "You are more vulnerable than we are. I will keep watch from behind." She started glowing with her own red Light, contrasting sharply with her sister's.
I nodded, any argument I had been tempted to make dead when she started glowing. "Point taken." I walked forward.
Elita followed me, and we quickly caught up to Chromia. It didn't take long for us to approach the base of the building. As we did, the floor in front of us rippled, then rose up in millions and millions of individual parts. The parts formed together, creating floating for us. They were wide and ornately designed, with a smooth appearance inherited from the floor they appeared from.
Had we been anywhere else, the formation of the stairs would have been startling and warranted a pause to appreciate their complex nature.
Here, we just kept walking.
At the top of the stairs, there was a door. Tall, solid, grand, it was several times Grimlock's height. It opened when we approached, breaking apart into countless pieces that floated off to the side at our passing.
The interior of the building looked much like the outside. Pillars, cubes, and objects of other shapes floated in the air, some suspended, unmoving, and others never stopping. The center of the building was a gigantic room, several square kilometers in area, circular and extending upward seemingly forever. Thousands of balconies lined the walls above our floor, continuing on all the way to the top of the spire.
And to think this place was one of the small buildings.
A collection of dull silver circles were arranged around our floor, spaced roughly a hundred meters from one another. We stepped onto one, and a holographic control panel appeared in front of me.
"Allow me," Elita said, gently moving me aside to work on the panel. I didn't resist since she and Chromia had actual experience here.
Elita worked on the panel for a moment, then we floated up to the second floor. The second floor had hallways and doorways everywhere, spaced out evenly, with a series of four doors, a hallway, four doors. Repeating all the way around the second floor.
The next twenty floors looked almost identical to the second. I assumed the next twenty looked the same, but I couldn't know for sure; Elita accelerated the platform. The floors raced by in a blur of dark colors and dull light. What was this place? What was behind the doors? Why so many?
Eventually, Elita slowed the platform, then stopped it. Had I not been able to look over the edge and see the innumerable floors below us—and seen those same floors we passed by—I would have guessed we were still at the second floor.
"This it?" Chromia asked, dismissing the Light painting she had started to make to pass the time.
"My best estimate," Elita said. "It is difficult to determine from outside this building."
I stepped off the platform, looking left then right, then moving along what I thought were the doors closest to the outside. There were still so many to chose from, I knew the chances of getting it right the first time were slim. I eventually chose a door and stopped. "This one."
"We must start somewhere." Elita and Chromia joined me, then they moved ahead and to the door. Just like the entrance to the building, the door separated into different parts that floated off to the side, revealing the room beyond.
My own face greeted us.
It was a copy of me, sitting at a copy of my desk. Not moving. Not even blinking. Just staring straight ahead, frozen at first, then conducting a simple action of working on something in its hands. A Cortical psychic patch.
The rest of them had one, too.
There were hundreds of copies, scattered all around the room. All frozen at first, then repeating a simple action. All depicting a different moment of the day where Cold had free rein in my head, starting with when I was in the base's reactor room and continuing along in chronological order from left to right.
Elita walked up to the copy of me right at the front, looking down at it with a barely-noticeable frown. "Memories. These buildings store memories. Back-ups for your Apex Archive."
"Yeah," I said, looking around but not at anything in the room. I didn't want to think about anything that happened that day. It was... Shameful.
I felt their optics on me when I didn't step into the room with them. "Are you going to enter, Shadowstreaker?" Chromia asked.
I glanced to the other doors. "We should check another room."
"Why?" Elita asked. The one word came out both as a challenge and a comfort. A subtle reassurance that it was okay. I had no idea how she managed to that.
"We're searching for the source of the Light. There's no Light in here—"
Light flashed in the room, originating around a shallow bend and just out of sight, rendering my argument false.
Damn.
Elita looked to the flash of Light, then back to me. "It seems we are in the right place."
"Other rooms might have Light in them, too."
"Shadowstreaker."
"Fine." I walked into the room, keeping my optics from straying from a single point of empty space straight across from me. I stopped next to Elita. "Happy, now?"
She looked down at me, optics popping with color as her frame continued to glow with her own Light. "You're agitated."
"No, I'm not." My response was too fast. Too level. It gave away my true state of mind.
Elita sighed. "Shadowstreaker—we need you, more than you know. Don't hide from your memories. Trust me when I say that makes it worse." She walked toward where the Light flashed, gesturing for Chromia to stay with me as she investigated.
"You okay?" Chromia asked, stepping over.
I gave her a quick glance, then returned to staring at empty space. "Yeah."
Chromia didn't believe me, I could tell. But she said nothing about it. A moment later, Elita reappeared and said, "It's fine. Come."
We joined Elita. I went first, and Chromia followed me, acting as rear security. I wasn't sure if it was necessary in here.
Then again, even if it was, would it matter against Cold? Where was he, anyway? There was nothing keeping him from us. Nothing guarding our presence. He should have been here by now. Killed us where we stood.
Why hadn't he?
We rounded the bend. The source of the Light was another copy of me with crimson optics, depicting a moment I wished never happened.
The copy stood in a perfect recreation of one of our storage hangers, complete with doors that led nowhere and containers that were surely empty. Near the copy were copies of Jazz and Springer. They were lying on the floor, looking up. Every few seconds, Light flashed, and the nearby row of containers fell on top of them.
Just like I remembered. At least Cold wasn't actually there.
"This was the cycle Elita and I came here," Chromia concluded. "When you were not yourself."
"What gave it away?" I looked left, then right, finding nothing else. Not even a gap in the wall for the Light to escape. "We should go. This isn't what we saw from the ground."
For once, neither of them argued my point. We exited the room and went to another. It displayed various moments of a standard day on base before I was taken by the Paraions. We moved on again. And again. And again.
After visiting a dozen rooms, Elita asked, "Are you okay, Shadowstreaker?"
I glanced away from a stored memory of an air patrol to look at her. "Fine."
"Then why have you been so silent?"
"Will talking help our situation?"
"Perhaps it will. One can never know where a Truth may be revealed."
"Unlike the Mech of Light, I've never been good at knowing facts about myself. I'll take way too much time to find an a minor Truth." I walked to the door, finding nothing of interest in the room. I couldn't help but sigh when Chromia stopped me and took point.
"Wisdom thought overwise," Elita said, taking up rear security. "His last words were instructions to find Truth."
She had a point with that. I grunted softly. "Still doesn't change the fact I've always been poor at seeing what others do when they look at me."
"Then change the way you search," Chromia said. "If one of my paintings does not wish to be painted in one way, I try another."
"I'm not painting."
"No, but you are searching. Perhaps you search in the wrong way, similar to how I sometimes use the wrong style with a painting."
And now she had a point. I'm outnumbered in more ways than one.
But even if I'm wrong, and finding Truths in time to make a difference is possible, where do I start? This place would take days to search, and it's just one of many buildings of similar size. It would take orbital-cycles to search them all, and that wasn't counting the larger ones. So was there a pattern to how the memories were stored? A filing system? Some kind of secret code that would lead us to Truths that only I could see?
But in the end, it didn't matter if there was some code or file or pattern. I still wouldn't know where to look, or what would qualify as a Truth.
The Mech of Light would have known.
Ahead, Chromia stopped, her optics widening as she looked at something around the corner. "Oh, my…"
"What?" I asked.
"You will see soon enough."
She was right, of course. It was moments before Elita and I had joined her and looked where she did. The object of her attention was a courtyard. It was large, square, enclosed by the building on three of its four sides, and had three entrances including ours just ahead. The far side was a long balcony leading outside, granting a wide view of the buildings around this one. The open space itself was filled with elaborate metal statues of sword-wielding Cybertronians and cube-based works of art.
And a floating room suspended by Light.
That was new.
"I think we found our source," I said, walking forward and into the courtyard, my head up and looking at the room. It looked to be of similar size as the ones we'd examined earlier, but its walls were rough and jagged. Like they'd been torn free. Had the room been ripped from its original location?
"And it will be more difficult to enter than we expected," Chromia said.
She was right about that. While the door looked normal, the Light around it acted like a barrier. A chain over the door and walls. It was anchored to the three walls of the courtyard, while a fourth chain hung suspended in the air, occasionally arcing with Light. What we'd seen from below.
"No obstacle is insurmountable," Elita said. "Nor lock unbreakable. It is merely a matter of finding the correct key."
Her gaze shifted to me. I understood what she was suggesting. "Don't look at me like you're expecting something."
"We are in your Animus. You influence your surroundings here."
"How's that worked for us so far?"
The Light flashed. An angry pulse that sent a bolt of lightning-like energy arcing out of the window. I ignored it. "Every single time I've tried to do something here, I've failed."
It flashed again. I ignored it again. "I've done nothing to help you. I've done nothing to stop him."
"Shadowstreaker…"
"Don't." I heard my voice quaking. Not with fear, but anger. Fierce anger I couldn't place. The Light flashed a third time, brighter than before and sending out multiple bolts instead of one. "Don't try to convince me. It won't work for your benefit. It won't work for my benefit. All it'll do is make this worse."
"You need to stop," Chromia said, taking Elita's careful tone.
"Why? Why should I stop? We're already dead because of me!"
The Light went out.
Darkness surrounded us. Deep. Smothering.
Cold.
I froze in place, my illogical anger forgotten, my trivial rebellion cast aside. Even as my optics adjusted, I could barely see Elita and Chromia. Their own Light had gone out, but whether that was from caution or fear I didn't know. Nor did it matter.
The air grew freezing, chilling me whenever I took the smallest breath. Another chill went down my spine. An unnatural one.
I slowly turned as the chill grew even colder, creating ice on my armor. All light, be it Light or otherwise, was gone. I couldn't see the room floating above us. Couldn't see the buildings right across from the one we stood in. I couldn't see the floor I stood on.
But I could see him.
Cold moved in a cloud of Darkness that stood out in the pitch dark like white on a blackboard. He wasn't in our building. He was across from us, far enough I could only see whatever he was using for transport, flying or floating through the air near one of the other structures. I could feel his presence. A dagger of ice that hovered an inch from my spark. It sent my mind into a state of black horror and acceptance of death. This was my end.
He was my end. And I deserved it. I deserved every torture he planned on giving me…
Cold came closer to our building, slowly, deliberately. Like a predator stalking its prey.
"Shadowstreaker." Elita's voice was less than a breath of wind. A sound so faint and frightened, it sounded nothing like the perfected Elita I had seen. "Shadowstreaker, think. You can do it."
Could I? Could I really? What good would come of thinking? I'd just hurt someone else. I deserved to be thrown into darkness, never to be seen again.
Cold came closer.
"This is vital, Shadowstreaker. Focus."
I heard the repetition. The words said to me not long ago, by someone else. Someone greater than me. Someone dead.
In a way, even now they were words spoken by one deceased.
"Find a tool. Find a strength. Find something else to think about besides him."
An image of Arcee floated in my mind, but it quickly faded. She wasn't here. I couldn't admire her strength from here. I couldn't rely on her. I couldn't rely on anything. They would all fail.
Cold came closer still. I could make out details. His jagged armor. The cloud of Darkness surrounding him. His terrifying, multi-lensed optics shifting from side to side. Searching. Seeking us. Seeking me.
Only he never looked at us.
That fact was just enough to create a crack in the thick layer of horror holding my CPU in a vice. He was right there. The window was open. Why wasn't he looking at us? Why wasn't he entering the building?
Why hadn't he killed us?
Then I saw why. In those soul-tearing optics of his, there was an unusual shine. It was barely visible at this distance—even with a Cybertronian's sight—but there. What was that?
Cold scowled at his surroundings, his optics flashing with anger. He took another long look at everything around him, then vanished in an anti-flash of pure black nothing.
Like a switch had been flipped, Light returned. The air warmed. A pressure I hadn't felt on my CPU lifted. We all took a breath.
"That was too close," Chromia said. "Far too close."
"Yet he did not approach us," Elita said. "Why?"
They looked at me; I shrugged. "I didn't do anything."
"You did not find a Truth?"
"No. Just looked at him, saw he didn't see us. Nothing I did kept us hidden or sent him away." I stared where the former Xel'Tor had been just a moment ago. "Either of you notice anything off about his optics?"
"No," Elita said, followed closely by an affirmative from Chromia. "What did you see?"
"Not sure," I said, frowning. "There was a glassiness to them. A… Shine, I guess? Wasn't there when you fought him."
"A coating?" Chromia guessed.
"Perhaps a final gift to us from Wisdom," Elita said. "A method to keep us hidden from Cold."
"The Mech's final gift was sending us here," I said. "We all saw him die. He didn't have time to do anything else."
"Then Wisdom is not responsible for this."
"So what is?"
Elita and Chromia had no answer for that. That made three of us.
"Regardless of what has kept us hidden," Elita said. "I do not believe he will have gone far. It would be unwise to leave this structure."
"No, you think? What makes you think that? Is it the fact an unfathomably powerful entity is still around, seeking to rip us to ribbons?" The bitingly sarcastic response was out before I could control my mouth, and I felt bad immediately. "Sorry."
"We are all nervous. Extremely so. But I trust I do not need to say why it would be best to keep such statements to a minimum?"
Because anger and hatred were like magnets for Cold. Beacons for him to follow. Too bad I had a lot to go around. "No."
"We're trapped," Chromia said. Her voice sounded weaker than before. Stronger and more authoritative than my own—simply due to her enhanced nature—but weaker. Frightened, but accepting.
Neither Elita nor I had reason to refute her. We were trapped. Trapped in a state of existence opposite of the one we belonged. Trapped in an area none of us knew, inside a building we couldn't leave, with countless rooms made up of memories recent and distant. With a former Xel'Tor actively hunting us.
The hell were we going to do?
The Past controls the Future.
I looked to the floating room above us. To the Light keeping it aloft. To the binds keeping its door chained shut. To the secrets it kept.
That was the key. Not what was down here. What was up there. That room needed to open.
And we were going to figure out how to open it.
The locations had been chosen carefully.
Ideal crowd density, wind direction and speed, security measures, available exits, and even median temperature were taken into account during the planning phase. This—along with the available timeframe—was the main deciding factor in choosing targets.
They were in Oakton, Virginia. A CDP—census-designated place—in Fairfax County, Virginia, a mere sixteen miles away from the US capital city of Washington, D.C. At just just under ten square miles in area, Oakton was a very small city home to roughly thirty four thousand. Founded in 1969, Oakton was one of several CDPs inspired by the conceptualized model of Robert E. Simon, a real estate entrepreneur who had a vision for a modern take of a planned community.
As such, Oakton was built with comfort in mind for its residents. Golf courses, restaurants, eateries, theaters, malls, and museums were occasionally so close one could walk between them. Even an airport—in the form of Washington Dulles International—was just thirteen miles away from the CDP's center. The residents of Oakton, in essence, had every modern comfort.
Too bad their comfortable world was about to be shattered.
Booth sat in the Mazda with Dima, watching the early morning crowds begin to show up for the Metro. They were mixed groups of people. Lawyers. Political aides. Stock traders. Office assistants. Executives. Some tourists were even mixed in, looking to get an early start to seeing the collection of Washington, D.C memorials, museums, monuments, and historical sites.
"Number good," said Dima, sitting in the driver's seat and looking through binoculars. Had their situation been any different, Booth might have found it comical to see the enormous Russian having to keep the seat leaned back just so his head didn't hit the roof.
"Any movement at our target?" Booth asked.
Dima shifted the binoculars to the location where two vials of Virus A were placed. The Oakton D.C Metro Station—Vienna—sat inside of the median of I-66. It could be approached by bike, foot, or motor vehicle, but all commuters eventually had to cross over elevated walkways that bridged westbound or eastbound traffic on I-66. The charges with Virus A were located in at the far side of the bridges, where travelers filed through turnstiles, moved down stairs, and arrived at the platform. The charges with Virus B, the cure, were placed outside the station, overlooking the entrances.
They had not been easy to place while avoiding security cameras and alert security staff. Not to mention the legion of maintenance workers who arrived on scene to repair the train when it malfunctioned late in the night, just before the rails closed.
Poor public transport in action.
"No one near our target," Dima said.
"Other side?"
Dima took out a radio and switched to his native tongue. It was a rugged, heavy-duty model, enabled for P25 Encryption. Each vehicle in Booth's group had two. Dima was calling the van across I-66 from their location, placed to oversee the charge on their side of the bridges. One of the Russians in that van would be looking through binoculars right now, watching to see if someone noticed one panel in the floor looked not quite right.
After a few seconds, Dima lowered the radio. "No one notice on other side."
"Crowds?"
"Little larger than our side have."
"Police?"
"No cars near."
"Wind?"
"Gusting now. When die, close to still."
Booth shifted his gaze to a flagpole just outside Vienna Station. He could see it blowing in the wind. Not violently, but enough. When the wind lessened, it would be the moment. Ideal conditions. The time they made history.
Booth took a deep breath. Let it out. Took a smaller one, and let it out slowly. "We wait for the wind to die down, then we blow the charges. Notify everyone."
As Dima spoke into the radio again, Booth felt an unnatural sense of calm wash over him. It the same calm he felt before executing an operation in the CIA, or watching a live feed as an operation he planned was carried out in the S.T.F. But instead of the operation being the assassination of an HVT, the extraction of a hostage, the sabotage of a critical enemy supply line—the operation was terrorism. For that was what he was about to become: a terrorist.
History generally frowned on such people. But sometimes, the world needed someone like that to wake up the sleeping giants.
In his perfectly calm state, Booth noticed the American flag go limp.
Dima turned to him, then said the exact words he expected, "Wind is down."
"Do it."
Dima said one word in Russian. Then Booth heard a small, metallic click next to him.
A distant thud came from outside as the C4 charge with Virus A detonated, sending microscopic death in all directions. The screams came next. Then the swarm of people running from the blast.
Booth hit his own detonator.
The secondary charges—placed upwind and on the side of a building with a higher elevation than Vienna Station—detonated with a thunderous boom that shook the ground. Glass and debris flew out into the air, followed closely by a cloud of white and tan smoke that rolled through the air like a wave of sickly water. Little would people know that wave would keep the damage to a minimum.
Booth looked to where the other charge of Virus B had been placed. It had detonated in the same fashion, its smoke overlapping with that of the first charge. Both drifted downwind, completely covering Vienna Station. And the people kept pouring out by the dozen. By the hundreds. Some were coughing. But whether from smoke or Virus A, Booth didn't know. And it wouldn't matter.
It was done. They'd just become terrorist. Time to leave.
He looked to Dima, who looked just as serious as ever. Little phased people like he and the ex-Zaslon. "Contact the others. Tell them to get to the Rally Point."
"Da."
Dima carried out Booth's order, then calmly put the Mazda in gear and started driving away. Traffic was panicked from the blast, but moving. Even so, it took three times as long to get out of Oakton than it normally should have, and twice a trio of police cruisers sped past, lights on and horns blaring. Both he and Dima checked the mirrors each time they went by, watching for signs of pursuit.
But in the end, they left Oakton without incident. They got on the highway, and started on their route to the Rally Point.
The whole time, Booth felt like he'd just intentionally stepped into a trap.
The Rally Point was dirty.
It was a motel. Cheap. Old. Remote. With staff who didn't ask questions or look up to see the face handing them their cash. Perfect for people who wanted to stay hidden. Or had to.
After making sure all his men were accounted for and in their rented rooms, Booth donned civilian clothes, put on a baseball cap, and walked across the street to the convenience store to get food. It was sure to be terrible, but terrorists didn't get to be picky.
The convenience store was an old building. Its blocky, squarish appearance looked like it had been designed in ten minutes. Its walls once had siding, but it had long fallen away, leaving behind grey cinderblock and concrete. Its front windows were stained and dirty, and one was visibly cracked. The tiny parking lot out in front of the store was empty.
Booth circled the store from a distance, searching for entrances and cameras. The building had two entrances: a front door and an emergency exit. There was an old security camera above the front door, and one above the exit; however, neither appeared to be plugged into anything. They were fake. Booth found it likely the owner wasn't willing to spend the money on real cameras.
Good for him.
Booth entered the convenience store. It was dirty and run-down like outside. Two ceiling lights and two refrigerator lights were out, and the floor was stained faintly yellow from uncleaned dirt. But the shelves were stocked with the usual snacks, liquids, and frozen foods, and the lone employee—likely the owner—sat behind the only open cash register, attention focused intensely on an old portable TV set on the counter behind him.
Booth moved to one of the aisles and started started his shopping. He started with the cheap, off-brand chips, then moved to the frozen food in the open freezer close to the back. None of it looked appetizing, but it was calories, and some of the motel rooms had microwaves. He grabbed a stack of frozen burritos.
"I wouldn't be caught dead eating any of this."
Booth's head whipped around to his left. The Concierge was there, wearing his signature suit and fedora, comparing a bag of knock-off chips with a package of equally cheap candy. Booth's gut immediately tensed.
He was in danger.
"Not only are they downmarket versions of low-end food, but they're just so unhealthy. These chips, for example. Three hundred calories per serving, three servings to a single bag. Fifty-seven grams of saturated fat between them. This one bag is enough to keep someone alive for a day, and it's in the proportions of a midday snack. And don't even get me started on this processed pseudo-chocolate junk. Companies have dozens of types of foods and drinks just like this, advertized constantly. It's no wonder why people are frequently overweight." He put the two items back on the shelf, then turned to Booth. "Hello, Edward."
Booth just blinked, shocked and suspicious. He'd been very careful to check each vehicle in his convoy for hidden trackers, just in case The Concierge decided to double-cross him. He'd found nothing. How the hell did The Concierge know where they were?
And how did he get here without Booth seeing him? Had the front door even opened?
"I believe this is the part where you return my greeting."
"How are you here?"
"Not a greeting, but I suppose it will have to do." The Concierge smiled. "You did a wonderful job in Oakton, Edward. Truly."
"How are you here?"
"It must feel a sense of accomplishment in that—detonating your dreamed weapon at last. Did it provide the thrill you expected?"
"How are you here?"
The Concierge raised an eyebrow, his intense eyes both unimpressed and confused. "Was that supposed to be a threatening tone? My dear Edward, do you even know how to project?"
Booth clenched his hand into a fist. "How?"
"I'm adept at finding people who don't wish to be found. Murderers. Arms dealers. Drug lords. Fugitives. Once, the ousted ruler of a nation. But I don't suppose you care about those stories."
Booth didn't. He only cared about how The Concierge found him, and why he was here. He'd said Booth would be on his own. He'd said he wouldn't help. Now he was standing in front of Booth, acting as if nothing was wrong, and that had Booth's gut screaming at him that something was wrong.
And that there was nothing he could do about it.
"Why are you here?" Booth asked, giving up on his previous question. The Concierge didn't answer things he didn't wish to, and Booth's gut said he didn't have time to force one out.
"To congratulate you," The Concierge said, walking to one of the refrigerators and taking out a bottle of beer to examine. "It's not everyday one gets to unleash a bioweapon. Such occasions should be celebrated. Although not with this elixer, I think. Far too bland. And in your case, you might not have the time."
At that moment, Booth heard something from the television behind the counter. A single line. Barely audible at this distance and with such poor speakers.
"Stock trading has been suspended for the day, as the White House declares a national emergency in response to multiple terrorist attacks—"
He started moving down the aisle then. His mind was laser-focused, tossing aside everything in pursuit of getting within proper hearing distance of that television and seeing what showed. Thoughts of The Concierge and how he'd gotten here were put on hold. Everything honed in on a single word.
Attacks. Plural.
Booth stopped at the end of the aisle. He was about ten feet from the register and fifteen from the television. As soon as he saw what was on screen, he understood why the owner hadn't looked up when Booth entered the store.
The screen showed a hospital in the city Jacksonville, Florida. It was consumed by an inferno. The reporter on site was three blocks away, wearing a mask to protect from the thick black smoke. The headline stated that estimated deaths at the hospital were above three hundred, all caused by two bombs that went off inside.
The news channel changed to another location. An airport. Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta. More black smoke. That headline read that a total of four bombs had gone off inside the airport. Two hundred and twenty-two would-be passengers were confirmed dead, with the total expected to rise.
Another location change. Another set of bombings. Another cloud of black smoke. Orlando, Florida. Charlotte, North Carolina. Raleigh, North Carolina. Virginia Beach, Virginia. Washington, D.C. At least two sites in each city had been bombed. Reports said they all went off within seconds of the first reported blasts.
Four charges detonated at, and around, Vienna Station.
Glass shattered behind him. Booth turned back. The bottle of beer The Concierge had been holding laid broken on the floor.
But The Concierge himself had vanished.
Booth had been played.
"Hey, you break that?" A voice asked, and Booth turned again to look at the store owner. He had a thin build, wore cheap clothing, and had wild eyes. Common in those who didn't trust outsiders. "You'd better pay for that, stranger. I don't take kindly to people who break my stuff."
"We have breaking news coming in now," the news anchor said, a middle-aged man with grey hair and a face that said the man had reported on far too many stories in his career. "Authorities report they have identified the individual behind these attacks."
They both looked to the television with an intense focus, but for different reasons entirely.
A photograph of Booth appeared on screen.
The atmosphere in the room went cold.
The human mind was, in some instances, still the fastest computer in humanity's possession. In the same thirteen milliseconds it took the eye to process an image, the store owner's brain would have searched through its logs for faces matching the one on the television, found a perfect match in the form of the customer standing ten feet away, identified him as a deadly threat, and supplied him options for several actions to take in response. First would have been Flight—to tell Booth he needed to take a leak and leave the store to call authorities from a safe distance. Next would be Fight—to confront Booth directly and kill him or turn him in. Given their location in the United States, where men tended to more openly approach danger or trouble, Fight would be chosen.
Next, the owner's brain would consider what he now knew of Booth. That he was—according to what his eyes had seen milliseconds before—a terrorist with many bombings under his belt. He would assume Booth was armed, and that assumption was correct. He would conclude that to match Booth's armaments, he needed armaments of his own.
Booth saw the owner's eyes flick downward and to his left, beneath the counter. There would be a weapon there. Many convenience stores kept one for employees to use in emergencies. Sometimes it was a bat, meant to be a tool rather than a weapon. Here, it was most certainly a firearm. Likely a pistol. Given the age and quality of the town, also something that had been in the family for a long time. Probably an M1911. That handgun a .45 caliber bullet. An old and reliable round that could stop all but the largest human beings in their tracks.
Even as Booth's mind supplied this information, his instincts said the owner was reaching for the weapon right now. To prevent Booth's own eyes from seeing the action—and thus take action himself—the owner would be attempting to move slowly, without looking away from the television screen. Despite his efforts, Booth saw the movement. Saw what the owner was doing. His own mind took thirteen milliseconds to supply and chose a course of action.
He drew the SIG Sauer P226 from the small of his back and fired three times.
At a distance of ten feet, it would have been unheard of for an experienced shooter such as Booth to miss the man in front of him. Even so, his first shot missed the mark, striking the owner two inches left of his heart; however, at their close range, the round created a cavity in the chest more than large enough to destroy the heart anyway. The second and third shots were fired for good measure.
The owner died so suddenly he didn't have time to close his eyes. He slumped back in the chair, blood pouring from his chest, his eyes wide open and staring at Booth. Shocked and accusing.
Booth returned the P226 to the small of his back, pulled his hat down a little more over his face, then stepped out of the store, his mind reeling.
He'd been played. He'd been played from the start. He'd known it, but couldn't see it. Now he did. The Concierge was using him as the patsy. He had been all along, from the moment he first revealed himself on the Bainsworth. He'd had those other bombs planted in the same cities Booth had traveled through after obtaining Virus A and Virus B. He'd even done exactly as he promised: that if he intended on killing Booth, he'd give a fair warning. Their meeting in the convenience store was just that.
But that still left the why and the how. How did The Concierge know where he was, and why had he just killed hundreds of people?
And how had he appeared and disappeared without a trace?
Booth crossed the street, looking right, then left, watching for alarmed locals. Anyone with half a brain would know what the three rapid, distinctive pops would be. But all was quiet; no one else was in sight.
The doors to the line of rooms rented by he and his men were all wide open when Booth got there. Curious, alarmed faces looked out at him, looking around for threats.
"What was that?" One of the Russians asked.
"Packed. Get packed. Spread word." Booth's Russian was broken and simplistic, but he hadn't had time to really learn the language since they started their mission.
The Russian responded by reentering his room.
"What is happening?" Dima asked in English, when Booth got to his door a moment later. Booth noticed he had his Grach hidden subtly behind his back.
"No time. We're compromised," Booth said, entering the room and grabbing his bag of gear. "The Concierge set us up. We have to go."
Dima needed no further explanation. In less than two minutes, everyone was repacked and back in their assigned vehicles and moving west, further away from any major cities or towns. They were going to draw attention, but that couldn't be avoided anymore, and they had to leave while they still could. For all he knew, The Concierge had given law enforcement their location.
"What is happening?" Dima repeated, not looking away from the road in front of them.
Booth explained everything. Dima was quiet for a long time, then he cursed in his native Russian. "What is plan, now?"
For once, Booth had no idea.
The Concierge watched from afar as Booth's convoy left town. The locals started filing out of their homes after that, likely wondering who had fired a firearm and why the strangers in town had raced away in such a hurry. He saw a few enter the convenience store. They wouldn't like what they found.
He waited a few minutes, just to be sure Booth was doing what The Concierge wanted, then took out a basic burn phone. He dialed a number he'd entered enough to remember even without his perfect memory.
As always, the receiver of the call answered on the first ring, "Go."
"My dear Lance, I'm afraid I have bad news to accompany what must already be a trying day…"
"—ill have no firm information on exactly how many casualties have resulted from these attacks," the human announcer said on the screen. Ratchet had homed in on a human satellite and tapped into the feed, allowing all of Optimus' soldiers to see what was happening across the country of the United States.
People were dying. Ned Booth was killing them. Not personally, but with highly sophisticated, coordinated attacks left in his wake. Over a thousand were dead already, and they represented a fraction of what was to come, if indeed Booth had succeeded in his ultimate goal.
He felt nothing in knowing that. The Matrix continuously said something was wrong with that mindset. He was not sure what.
"How was he able to slip through our search grid?" Ultra Magnus asked, standing to Optimus' left. "Our patrols were based upon probable routes the human himself would take."
"Too much ground to cover," Arcee said, standing behind Optimus and near the space bridge, her voice flat and frustrated. "He also could have changed vehicles. One of us may have driven, or flown, right by without even knowing."
"How he avoided us doesn't matter," General Shepherd said, the image of his face small against the news channel on screen.
"No, it does not." The simple statement came not from Optimus' own CPU, but a sense of duty sent to him by the Matrix. He wondered why the Matrix felt it necessary to guide him so strongly. "Have you examined the bombs themselves, General?"
"No one from the S.T.F, but the FBI's on-site at each location. They're sharing all the information they gather."
"Was Booth successful?"
Shepherd gave a long, heavy sigh. A sigh brought on by the weight of a planet resting on weary shoulders. "By all accounts… Yes. FBI agents have found an unknown pathogen at each bomb site."
"Casualties?" Ratchet asked grimly.
"None reported as of now, but I think that'll change shortly."
"How many infected?"
"Impossible to say. The places he hit are prime locations for the virus to spread, and the bug is similar one of our common viruses—the flu. It's hard to tell them apart at this time. That makes it all the more terrifying."
Optimus thought it of little concern; the Matrix did not. It guided him again. "What is being done in response?"
"The White House is keeping word about the virus quiet for now while we move to contain the infected, but it's just a matter of time before work leaks out. We'll have full-fledged panic on our hands when it does."
"And what of Booth?"
"What about him?" Ironhide said before Shepherd could reply, frowning around his cube of energon. "He did what he wanted. Now it's over. Containment falls on the humans. Shouldn't we be more worried about the Decepticons?"
Out of everyone in the room, Optimus currently felt closest to Ironhide. There was something about the way he spoke—about the look in his optics—that said he was always thinking the same thing Optimus was. That he had the same priorities, and the same outlook. He could trust Ironhide, and Ironhide could trust him.
"I… What? Ironhide—what are you talking about?" Arcee's voice was surprised. Optimus wasn't sure why; he had made a good point. "Booth set off his bombs, yes, but we have no proof that his plans are over. What if he keeps going? He was a high-ranking S.T.F officer. What if he comes here, detonates one of his bombs? The Decepticons will be the last of our worries if we all fall victim to the next cybonic plague."
Optimus found her concerns of little consequence. And they had detected an explosion in Australia consistent with a Black Site's self-destruct. Perhaps that warranted their full attention ins—
No. Their goals had not changed.
"Apprehending Edward Booth remains our top priority. If he has more weapons in his possession, we must prevent their detonation," Optimus said, urged by the Matrix. It had found Arcee's argument logical, and thus once again directed him. He was beginning to find the control it could maintain over a Prime—before this cycle, something it had done to him only once—an annoyance.
The look he received from Ironhide appeared to say the same.
"Good," Shepherd said. "Time is critical, and the more people we have out there, the better our chances of getting the cure before it's too late."
"Cure?" Moonracer asked. "Why do you believe this man has a cure?"
"One of my unofficial assets reached out," Shepherd said. "The one I warned you about. He found Booth's trail. He's days behind, but he found it. Provided photographic evidence of a makeshift lab and Andrew Carmine's body."
"Cleaned house once he got what he wanted," Jetfire said.
"Appears that way; however, evidence provided by the Asset suggests Carmine created a cure to go along with the weapon."
"How confident are you in your Asset's information?" Prowl asked.
"Bluntly? Not very. He always has an angle, but he also has nothing to gain and everything to lose from a plague decimating North America. If there would ever be situation where he genuinely wanted to help, it would be now."
Optimus felt that was not enough to warrant the benefit of the doubt; the Matrix thought they had little choice but to explore the information given by this Asset. "Where will you need us?"
Someone from off-screen called for Shepherd's attention. He turned the the unseen person, then looked back to them. "Afraid I just ran out of time. I've just been called to be part of a classified briefing. I'll send the information as I leave. Go where you please, Prime. You'll be a help wherever you are. S.T.F out." The feed cut to static.
The information packet came in without issue. Optimus gave orders to the others, as he always did: pursue the threat; protect innocent lives; always be in communication.
But he was annoyed, for the orders he gave were not ones he wanted to give. He did not want to go after Booth. He did not want to seek a virus. For what threat were they, truly? Surely not one worth wasting their time tracking. He could see Ironhide was thinking the same thing. So why did the Matrix insist on directing his actions?
The whispering voice in his helm said he was fine.
Getting inside the floating room was proving to be a pain in the ass.
First, we had to find a way for all of us to get up to its level when none of us could transform. Then we had to figure out if the Light surrounding the room was coming from an outsider source or something within it. Then we had to figure out how to interact with the Light. Then we tried a number of different methods of trying to lessen the Light's strength.
None of them worked.
I tossed aside the sword I'd torn away from one of the statues, the weapon falling silently, flipping once, then clattering against the floor. "Now we know the sword isn't some sort of key."
"I still think the secret lies with our Light," Chromia said, her frame beginning to glow blue. "Light counters Light."
"Unless one is grossly more powerful than the other," Elita said, idly walking along the edge of the room's doorway. There was a narrow point between the edge and the door itself that was wide enough for all of us to stand on if we were side by side. Elita liked standing on the tip of it. "We have already found that our Light is the grossly weaker side."
"We're bound to break through eventually."
"I fear we do not have the time to find out if that is true."
That quieted all three of us. We stood there, looking up at the door, saying nothing. I could feel the bravado, the determination I felt upon seeing that Cold was unable to see us, fading fast. Back was the fear. The feeling of helplessness. What point was there in trying to fight against Cold, when we couldn't even open a door?
A chilling breeze carried through the air, and I stilled my thoughts. It lingered for a moment, then went away.
"He's circling," Chromia observed.
"He knows we are here," Elita said. "But not our exact location."
"But if I keep pointing out facts, he'll come running," I said.
I felt both femmes glare at me.
"Sorry." The apology came just before I felt another icy breeze pick up, only to quickly die. I hadn't even been putting emotion into that phase, and he still tried using it to find us. How could we fight an enemy that could use that against us?
I sighed and leaned back against the door, heedless of how my wings protested, and let my head—aching, from either stress or just a random processor ache—fall into my waiting hand. Primus, God… I'd been such an idiot. Coming up with this half-assed idea and dedicating myself to it so thoroughly. Why hadn't I stopped to think first? Why had I just gone for it? Nothing good had come it.
The breeze picked up again.
"You need to stop," Elita said to me, more a gentle request than an urgent demand.
Who can Temper the Pained as Sorrow does?
I rubbed the bridge of my nose-plate to soothe my pounding helm, and forced my thoughts aside again. Sure enough, the breeze died. I raised my head and stood up a little straighter when it did. "Okay. We've found that the sword isn't a key. What else have we done?"
"We tried chopping at the Light with the same sword," Elita said.
"We tried using our own Light," Chromia added.
"And blocking the Light with a floor panel."
"And searching for a hidden keypad or scanner."
"And Shadowstreaker tried knocking it down."
I looked down at the hand I'd tried that with. The double-layered armor was bent there. I flexed it, and felt and heard the cables within stretch with a series of audible cracks. "When that didn't work, I tried thinking it open," I said. The Mech of Light had said I could influence the Animus.
Since all I'd done was let Cold know where we were, I was beginning to think that had been a load of slag he said just to make me feel better.
"What is left?" Elita asked.
Chromia and I offered nothing.
"We are missing something." Elita looked back up at the door. "This cannot be impassable."
"Why not?" I asked. "There is not a rule that says this door needs to open again once it closed."
"Because we are in your Animus. Your Animus cannot deny passage to you. That would be akin to denying my processor the ability to think. I could try, but I will most certainly fail."
"And yet, the door didn't budge when I tried thinking my way in."
"No… It didn't," Chromia chimed in with a thoughtful look on her face. Her hand glowed, and she drew a quick image with her Light—of she and I on the platform, right before Cold attacked. "Memories…"
"Hmm?"
Chromia dismissed her Light and looked up sharply. First to the far side of the courtyard, then to the door behind us. Then to me. "Memories are both good and bad."
My optic ridges furrowed together.
"What have we seen since we entered this building?"
"My memories."
"Both good and bad."
"Yes…?" Where was she going with this?
"All offered freely," she said. "Nothing that you wouldn't tell others, if they asked."
A jolt passed through me. I understood what she was talking about. And I didn't like it.
"You know what I'm talking about."
"No."
"Shadowstreaker," Elita said. "She might be right."
"I said no. There's no way that's what this room is." It couldn't be. The answer to this couldn't be that dark corner of my mind I didn't want to accept. The same dark corner that everyone had. Where their worst memories and thoughts went to be locked behind bars. Where no one liked to go.
"It could be our way in."
"It can't be."
"Why can it not?"
"Because it can't."
"Shadowstreaker…"
"I don't see you offering up your deepest secrets!" I was angry now. They didn't deserve it. But damnit! I didn't want them seeing the things even I avoided.
And there it was. An official—if internal—acknowledgment. Without even a single, coherent thought on my part, the Light around the door faded out, and the door itself slid open.
My mind went blank, my spark falling. The portal to the dark part of my mind was open. The things I didn't want ever seeing the light of day, even for me, were out. I didn't look away from Elita and Chromia, and they didn't look away from me. They could see how upset I was. How angry and scared I felt. They didn't want to add to it.
"We don't need to go in with you." Elita's words were quiet and calm. Respectful. Or maybe she just didn't want to see the darkest parts of my head, either. Maybe both. "But I feel that you must."
"You've been following me since the Mech of Light died." I could barely hear my own voice. Fear had stolen it. "You'll just follow me in. You'll see."
"No, we'll stay here," Chromia said. "We won't turn back. We won't look. W—" She cut herself off, widening her optics as she shifted her gaze a degree to my right, just inside the doorway. Her gaze snapped back to me, optics both furious at whatever she'd seen, and apologetic at looking when she just said she wouldn't. "Why do you have a memory of seeing a showering, and naked, Arcee?!"
My cooling fans kicked in. Oh, for the love of all creation itself. Out of everything I avoided thinking about, why—oh, why—was that particular memory right inside the door?! "It was bad timing on my part. Back when the genius in charge of the washracks both had them as a common room and didn't put a lock on them."
"You've seen the goods before you're bonded?!"
"Oh, Primus—grant me strength," Elita muttered, before placing a hand on her sister's shoulder. "Not the time, sister."
"Bu—"
"Not. The. Time." There was a finality to her voice, but I saw the look in her optics. She didn't know what to think of this development. Nevertheless, she was putting that aside in favor of more important matters.
Chromia opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She took a breath, let it out. Then turned away from the door, glowing with her Light. "Yeah. You're right."
Elita looked back to me. "Go. We will stay here. Guard the door." Her own frame glowed with Light.
"Right." I took a step into the room, then turned back. "Elita… Thanks…"
She didn't turn, but I saw the corner of her mouth move upward. "It is what I hope you would do for me, if our positions were reversed. Find what you need to."
I took the out and walked away, keeping my head looking down at the floor. Not looking up. I could tell the room was dark. Nearly pitch. The only light inside came from circuitry in the floor that looked not unlike the floor that spread all over my Animus. It felt cold, but not in the same way Cold did.
I made it a decent way into the room, but then the distraction of the previous conversation—the pure embarrassment I felt—ran out. I slowed, then stopped. I kept my head down at the floor. I didn't want to look up, yet I had to. I felt there was something here I needed to see, and the femmes outside did, too. I couldn't see it if I kept avoiding everything in here.
I looked up.
All around me, shrouded in darkness, were the physical representations of darkest parts of my mind. Not just painful or very particular memories I made a conscious effort to avoid, but thoughts. Dark thoughts. Deceitful. Greedy. Murderous. Sadistic. Lust-fueled. Things that I, even in my darkest moments, hoped never came to be. Things that were all the more horrifying when knowing they came from a mind considered normal.
What horrors lay in the minds of those already too far in the dark?
What would be here, if I kept going down the path I walked?
I took a deep breath and started looking around the room. The things I saw disgusted me, embarrassed me even when I was the only one there, and, occasionally, terrified me. Scalpel had been so thorough in his torture…
After a while, I noticed that there were many areas of the room that were empty. No room we'd entered here had empty spaces. They had all been full of memories, no matter how meaningless.
Something wasn't right.
I looked around the room with a new purpose, seeking something I did not know, within a room I scorned and feared and was ashamed of. I continued seeing things I wished never happened or I had never thought for a fleeting moment in time, but nothing jumped out at me.
Until I saw the cage.
It was my height. Black metal, with a matching chain leading up to the ceiling. I could see shapes behind its jagged bars, but I couldn't make out what they were.
This was it. This was what I was supposed to see. I felt it in every fiber of my being. Every part in my body. Every instinct in my gut.
They were all afraid.
Driven by a force I did not understand, I walked up to the cage and pulled up. It resisted me, another, smaller chain keeping it anchored to the floor. I pulled harder.
Don't do this, a voice in the back of my head said. Don't let it out. Leave it locked away…
The voice was enticing. Warm. Familiar. I'd never heard it in my life. I pulled harder.
Don't…
I pulled harder, my arms protesting as I pushed them to their limit.
You don't Understand…
And I need to.
With one final surge, the chain broke with a deep clang that echoed around the room. The cage drifted upward. The shapes hidden behind it took form, moving to the empty spaces in the room.
It all came roaring back into place.
Small moments throughout my life, both as a human and a Cybertronian. My near-inability to cry. My disregard for the death of my childhood dog. A subtle, purposeful effort to distance myself from a father who only wanted to help me. My indifference to seeing a classmate suffer and accident and break their back right in front of me. How quickly I got over killing Decepticons and anyone else that threatened me.
All results from a singular moment, years ago. On a snowy night in a mall parking lot. Only not as I had remembered it.
Instead of a nervous and desperate man regretting his actions, there was a crazed addict who wouldn't stop shouting. Instead of a calm and cooperative red-headed woman, there was a mother fiercely protecting herself.
Instead of a son watching fearfully behind his mother, there was a snub-nosed pistol slid across the ground to sit at his tiny feet. Instead of cowering, there were small, shaky hands aiming a weapon no child should wield, driven to be brave just like his brothers.
Instead of a siren, there was a gunshot.
Then there came the scream. Then the yell. The anguished cry of a boy calling for his mother. The flight of a man fleeing a scene he caused. Then came the comfort. The gentle words of love, before oblivion took another life.
I blinked, my optics filled with tears I did not remember crying. My voice hoarse from screams I did not remember screaming. On my knees from a fall I did not remember falling.
I shot her. My mother. The woman who brought me into the world. I killed her. After all this time, after so many conversations assuring me the opposite, I remembered at last.
I was a killer. I was a murderer. A sociopath, unable to truly feel something unless it involved me.
And that was a Truth.
"Isn't it beautiful?"
I was already so terrified that Cold running a hand over my shoulder barely drew a response from me. He walked over to one of the horrors in the room, his impossibly dark form a beacon in this light. "Darkness. The true window to the soul. And yours is splendid. So dark in so short a time. It makes me so… Happy, for you finally see what you fear: yourself. Who you are. What you are. What you've done. What you'll do. Most only know what they fear, but you're lucky. You get to see it all."
I was a murderer.
He turned back to me, his multi-lensed optics clouded by a film that was rapidly melting away. "Remarkable, isn't it? How much we can hide from ourselves. How far our minds will twist facts. One moment, you're a shining example of honor, and I'm the monster in the night; the next, you're filth, and Sparkles' parting gift is finally lifted. It's nice to see again."
Monster. I'm a monster…
"You know, I wonder… Would they have helped you, had they known about anything you've kept hidden?"
Pained moans came from outside. A battle had been fought. Cold had won. I was still a monster…
I fell the rest of the way to the floor, limp. Like I'd been shot. Tears kept pouring from my eyes, fueled by the face of my dying mother.
Cold chuckled, the sound deep and twisted. "As entertaining as it is to see you crying on the floor, I have something more… Painful, planned for you."
Darkness spread in a reverse-flash. An unseen force lifted me into the air, right up in front of Cold. "Tell me: have you ever wondered what it would feel like to watch your own mind be torn apart piece by piece?"
Monster…
"You and I… We're going to find out together." Cold laughed again, then another reverse-flash enveloped us.
All went dark. Darker than a sunless sky. A moonless night.
As deep, and dark, as I had been all along.
.
.
.
... I think I might have a problem.
This chapter was a pain to get right. I went through multiple versions before I was happy with the result, and even then it shifted away quite a ways from the original idea. But we're finally getting to some of the stuff I've wanted to write for forever and a day! Things that have been set up years in the past, and hidden within plain sight. Oh, these next updates are going to be fun.
This chapter's credit song is "The Secession - Warriors" This track starts with a deeply remorseful tone, then transitions into a dark yet intense beat. I believe it fits very well into the ending scene, beginning just as Shadow' realizes just what, exactly, he had done in the past.
Thank you for reading. If you liked what you read, please share or suggest it to a friend. And if you really liked it, leave a comment. They are the lifeblood of all writers, and it takes just a few seconds to leave.
See you soon.