I went to Omaha's Henry Doorly Zoo yesterday. It's in Nebraska, about a three-hour drive for us, it was freaking cold and my foot has several things to say about how much walking I did yesterday, yet I enjoyed it. It's one of the better zoos in the country and well worth visiting if you happen to find yourself in the Nebraska-Kansas-Missouri corner and have nothing to do. And I saw the sun yesterday too! We're getting into that lovely dreary stretch of a plains winter, where we have been known to go whole months without seeing the sun once. This time was four days, which doesn't really compare to last year's five weeks and three days but that's okay, and the cloud cover actually broke over St Jo so we got to see the sun for about twenty minutes. Then it set and I got up this morning to dreary grey as usual.
Judging from the feedback the favorite character in this story, both for me and readers, is Swindle. So sorry, kiddies, but you're gonna have to pick another: after this chapter he does a very wise thing and takes a powder, conveniently vanishing so the two and a half armies looking for the Allspark piece don't find him. So as this is the prelude to a temporarily Swindle-less story, he's gonna go out with a bang, which to him translates to 'as much trouble for everyone else as possible'. However, someone moves in to fill in his slot.
That's right, folks. Soundwave is finally stepping up to the plate, and he's mad as hell.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the reporter. Ah well.
---
Swindle was humming to himself, cheerfully scanning all the larger SUVs as he drove past yet another car dealership. He had every right to feel a little happy- everything was, for once, working out for him. He had the Allspark piece. He'd shaken a treacherous seeker off his tail. He'd temporarily- very temporarily, but he'd take what he could get- taken Optimus Prime out of the fight. He still had his jammer, which made him invisible on most levels, and to finish the job he would soon be replacing his eyesore of a vehicle mode. He was even working on a nice little present for Soundwave, which he affectionately dubbed his resignation.
Of course, he still had Miles. This wouldn't be too bad, as it made for a very effective back-up plan in an in-case-of-emergency-produce-hostage way, except for one small glitch. Swindle, never the most ferociously intimidating of mechs, had lost all respect after a poorly-planned conversation.
"So," Miles had asked, "you're, like, a merchant. Right?"
"Right," Swindle had answered. He was distracted, busy making sure he didn't have Ironhide crawling up his tailpipe.
"And the rest of these guys, they're all warriors, right? And they're pretty fierce."
"Mostly."
"So the reason I'm still here…" Swindle had seen where that was going but before he could come up with an appropriate lie, the boy answered his own question. "As a hostage, so you don't have to fight them! Right?" And the boy had congratulated himself on connecting the dots, and proceeded to act so smugly sure of himself that Swindle was very tempted to shot him just to prove that he still would.
"Ahhh! Boy band! Turn it off, turn it off!"
And the temptation was growing with each passing second.
"Boy, this is not a joyride," he snarled. Then he switched the radio station back to the 'boy band' and cackled when Miles whimpered.
"Five hundred robot-cars running around out there and I get the one that likes the Jonas Brothers," the human sulked to himself. Swindle snorted and returned to scanning. To be honest he couldn't care less what radio station was on; human music held little appeal to him. He also had little interest in correcting the boy's assumption of their numbers. After a few moments the human shifted, then reached forward and turned on the AC. Swindle immediately snapped it back off; his energy levels were going to suffer enough when he traded out his alternate form, he didn't want to drain any now.
"I'm hot," the human whined, and the 'con rolled his window down approximately three quarters of an inch. This generosity evidently did not please Miles, for he groaned and threw himself back in the seat theatrically. "This is torture."
"Hah!" Swindle barked, carefully passing a police cruiser. It wasn't Barricade, but there was no harm in being cautious. "You think I'm bad? Thank whatever deity you believe in that my old team mate Vortex isn't here."
"Why?" Miles asked dully.
"He's an interrogator."
"Well, that doesn't sound too bad."
"No, it doesn't. Certainly a lot less awkward than 'this is Vortex, our torturer'." Miles made an odd noise and stared at the steering wheel, clearly not knowing how to respond to that. Swindle gave a snort. "See? Instant conversation killer."
"Uhh… yeah. Okay. I have to go to the bathroom now."
"Again?" Now Swindle was annoyed. Miles had gone to great pains to explain why it was important to let him out whenever he said that. The 'con had seen it, correctly from the human's disappointed response, as an escape attempt. But since he didn't want any organic waste anywhere near him, he had offered a compromise based off an idea he'd gotten from an online video.
"I didn't go last time," the human muttered irritably.
"Why not?"
"You wanted me to pee on a fire hydrant!"
"Dogs do it," Swindle shot back. The human gave a bizarre little half-laugh.
"I'm not a dog," he said in frustration.
"Close enough to do the trick. I'll even pick a less busy street this time." He took note of the last SUV in the line, a Ford Excursion. It wasn't new, but it was the closest match to his specs he'd found so far.
"No!"
"Fine," Swindle snapped. "But don't go making the mistake of thinking you're indispensable, boy, because if you're not. If you bathroom in me, you are dead."
" 'Bathroom' isn't a verb," came the reply. Swindle was about to give some sharp and unkind response when a sensor pinged.
"Oh no," he muttered, rerunning the scan in the vague hopes that something had been misread. It hadn't.
"What's wrong?" Miles asked, sounding alarmed. He was smart to be worried- anything that could scare Swindle was probably capable of reducing him to little more than a funny-colored smear on the ground.
"I have no idea how this slagging idiot keeps finding me! I have a jammer, for Primus' sake! It took Shockwave three vorns to develop these and took me almost twice as long to get my hands on them and they keep finding me!"
Panic lent a sharp edge to Swindle's voice. He was on a one-way road that ran alongside a highway; unfortunately, there was a large ditch and two cement barriers separating the two roads. To his left was the car lot, but the entrance was behind him. With an aggravated snarl Swindle slammed on the gas and shot forward. Miles, who was leaning over to peer out the windshield, had enough time to yelp before he was flung into the back seat. He sat up and started to protest, then twisted around when he caught a bright flash of color out of the corner of his eye. Coming around the corner and going easily twice the speed limit was a golden yellow Lamborghini.
"Primus must hate me," Swindle realized suddenly. "He really must."
"Look!" The human had slithered into the front passenger's seat. He was leaning forward and pointing at something. The 'con was about to inform the boy that he had other things to worry about when he saw what Miles had seen. A sleek shape, throwing glints of silver where the sunlight caught it, blew past high overhead. It was going far too fast to be anything non-military.
"Or not," the merchant mused.
"That's that jet guy, right?" the human asked. He craned around to watch the Lamborghini, which was quickly gaining on them.
"Starscream? Most likely. Certainly explains why my jammer never seems to work anymore."
Sunstreaker was getting dangerously close. Swindle momentarily considered holding out to see what the Autobot planned on doing next. Then he decided that teasing the twins was akin to teasing a hung-over Motormaster.
"Nice meeting you, but I gotta run," he said to Miles. "Good luck with the Sunny-'bot." And with that he swung himself around, threw his door open, and dumped the human on the ground.
Right in the path of the Lamborghini.
---
Miles hit the ground hard, his breath instantly knocked out of him. He managed to look up in time to see a flash of gold side paneling as the Lamborghini braked wildly to avoid him. Then he was too busy cowering, curled into a tight little ball, so all he heard was the squealing of tires and a long string of curses before an ominous crunch-thud. The car's powerful engine went quiet and the only noise was hissing and ticking of the cooling engine and the busy backdrop of highway sounds.
After a moment Miles uncurled and hesitantly sat up. Everything hurt, but thankfully Swindle had been going slow enough that nothing was broken. Tomorrow was going to be hell though. As he looked along himself for blood, he noticed a long trail of tread marks weaving uncontrollably across the road. They led to the Lamborghini, which was sitting about thirty feet up the road. It was facing the wrong way and appeared to have slammed its left fender into the concrete barrier. And, although Miles was probably just imagining it, it sounded like it was growling.
He approached it slowly, squinting as he tried to spot the driver. The car's heavy tinting made this a difficult endeavor, but when he reached it and looked into the passenger's window he saw the reasoning behind the tinting. There was no driver. He reached forward to tap at the glass—
"Don't you dare," a voice snarled, and Miles snatched his hand back.
"Oh God, you're one of them," he said as he scrambled away. The Lamborghini restarted its engine and nudged forward, revealing the extent of the damage. It was a good thing there was no driver, as Miles doubted that anyone would be able to open the crumpled mess that had once been a door.
"Watch it, fleshling. You should be grateful I missed you; I didn't have to."
Something hissed within the car and a cool voice suddenly spoke.
"Sunstreaker? What happened?"
"Slagger dumped the human in front of me," the Lamborghini snapped. "I hit a barrier trying to avoid it."
"How bad is the damage?" a new voice demanded, and Miles abruptly realized that they must be talking on some sort of radio. He started to edge away from the car- Sunstreaker. He'd had enough fun with talking cars.
"My paneling's all messed up, I have scratches and dents all over-"
"I couldn't care less about your paintjob," the second voice interrupted irritably. "I meant serious damage."
"It is serious!" Sunstreaker thundered, and Miles quickly decided that Swindle had nothing in the intimidation department compared to this guy.
"You said Swindle dropped the human," the first speaker was back now, ending the argument before it could begin. Miles shot the Lamborghini a nervous, wobbly grin, feeling as though he were being eyeballed by a hungry tiger.
"Yeah. It's right here."
"Bring him back to base, and try to be quick. I don't want you and your brother wandering around when Starscream and Swindle are both close by."
"You think we can't handle those two cowards?" Now Sunstreaker was growling again. He sounded offended by the idea. Miles deemed himself far enough away and burst into a run. He made it over the barrier and was halfway up the hill before a large hand snagged him and dumped him back onto the road. The robot crouched over him and transformed back into the Lamborghini.
"Miles?"
The boy blinked and pushed himself onto his elbows. "Sam?" he asked incredulously.
"It's okay, Miles. You can trust these guys, they won't hurt you." He was talking on the radio, Miles realized. The boy groaned and dropped back onto the asphalt.
"You know these things?"
"Yeah. They're Autobots. They're the good guys."
"And Swindle's bad?" Miles glanced at the Lamborghini and looked away quickly.
"Well… he's complicated. He's kinda going freelancer."
"That's nice," Sunstreaker interrupted impatiently. "Can I go scrap him now?"
"No," the first voice said. "Bring Miles back to the base."
"... but he's filthy."
"Sunstreaker!" Now the speaker was getting agitated. Miles looked down at himself. Sure, bouncing off the road hadn't helped his general ambiance, but he wouldn't go so far as to say 'filthy'. With a grumble of acquiescence the Lamborghini grudgingly opened its functional door and Miles tentatively slid in. He could fell the entire car shudder as he settled into the passenger's seat.
"Touch anything and you ride in the trunk," Sunstreaker snapped warningly, and he definitely sounded much more impressive than Swindle had. Since the trunk was about the size of a postage stamp, Miles carefully folded his hands in his lap.
The ride to the base was fairly interesting. Several people gawked at the Lamborghini, probably marveling at the irony of such a beautiful car marred by such extensive damage. One cop tried to pull them over, no doubt thinking they weren't road safe, but Sunstreaker gunned his engine and took off while muttering about nosy humans. After twenty minutes Miles noticed another Lamborghini, identical to Sunstreaker save that it was fire-engine red, smoothly slipping into place beside them.
"Uhh…" he began, and was ignored. Once again he found himself making the comparison to Swindle. The Hummer had seemed much more kick-back and relaxed, but in actuality he'd been nervous and extremely cautious. Sunstreaker seemed physically unable to relax, yet he was calm and unconcerned by his surroundings. The Lamborghini was clearly higher on the food chain, and he acted the part.
"Geez, Sunny, what happened to you?" a new voice filtered in over the radio. Sunstreaker growled and swerved out of his lane, nearly clipping the red car with his already-damaged fender. The newcomer laughed and dropped back, ducking into the lane on Sunstreaker's right.
After that things went smoothly, with the red car occasionally pulling up beside them to make some snarky comment. Sunstreaker mostly ignored it, although once his passenger door exploded open and caught the red car's flank, leaving a long line of white down its side paneling where the paint was peeled off. Miles did not appreciate this, for even though he was buckled in the car was still going about ninety, and he was still sitting in the passenger's seat.
'Base' turned out to be an old warehouse. Sam and Mikaela were standing beside an open loading bay door, both looking worried. Next to them stood some black guy Miles had never seen before. He grinned broadly and stepped forward, patting Sunstreaker on the hood like a dog when the Lamborghini slowed to a stop next to him.
"Aww, lookit th' poor Sunny," he crooned, then laughed as Sunstreaker bit out a particularly detailed and anatomically impossible suggestion. He brushed his long hair away from his eyes, which couldn't be seen due to his sunglasses, and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Th' Hatchet wants to see you, but he's kinda busy chewin' Prime out right now. I'd suggest waitin' a few hours."
"Prime is getting lectured?" the red car cackled. The human smirked and nodded.
"Oh, yeah. It's th' old 'if th' 'cons are shootin' at each other, don't interrupt them' tune. Ironhide was hearin' it too, but seein' as he wasn't injured, he walked out pretty early on."
"Well, I did nothing wrong, so he has no reason to yell at me," Sunstreaker sniffed. The human barked out a laugh. Miles hesitantly started to open his door, not quite sure how he was supposed to get out when the red Lamborghini was sitting about six inches away, but the car moved while he was trying to figure it out. The teen clambered out and staggered a few steps away, dropping to the pavement. Sam was there in a flash, asking if he was all right, but Miles waved him off. He wanted to hear this; the two car-bots were treating this guy as if he were one of them.
"Nah," the human drawled. "It ain't Ratchet you're gonna be hearin' from. It's Prowl. He's not exactly happy with you two, ya know."
"What'd we do?" the red one demanded. The human held up a hand and started ticking off his fingers as he spoke.
"First you decide you don't wanna come home, you wanna wander Cincinnati, so you fake interference an' ignore Prowl's orders to return. When you do bother t' come back, you split up. Again, ignorin' orders. Then one of you geniuses starts talkin' to Starscream, of all mechs, an' then you go an' do what he tells you to do while still ignorin' Prowl's orders. You took on Swindle alone, which by now we all know is a pretty stupid idea. You transformed in public. You almost left Miles sittin' by himself on th' road. You played tag with th' cops an' you tried t' run your brother off th' road. Ratchet'll probably step in here an' remind you that if anyone's got th' right to kill Sideswipe, it's him." He held up his hands. "I'm almost outta fingers here, boys."
There was a brief, sullen silence. Then the red car, Sideswipe, spoke up.
"Sunny did most of that," he grumbled. Sunstreaker snarled and revved his engine angrily.
"Stop calling me that!" he barked.
Sam caught Miles' elbow and pulled him to his feet. "Time to go," he muttered, and Miles had to agree as the two cars started arguing loudly.
"Who is that?" he asked.
"The twins or Jazz?" Mikaela replied.
"Jazz," Miles echoed curiously. He glanced over his shoulder to see Jazz watching the two cars trade insults, arms folded and grin firmly in place. "Is he, you know, human? He seems awful familiar with those car-bots."
"Yeah, he's human," Sam agreed breezily. "He wasn't always, but he is now."
Miles started to ask the obvious question but stopped before he could get the words out. He was too busy staring at the scene before him- more specifically, at the robot sitting in the corner on a makeshift table. This one was the biggest so far, clearing thirty feet easy and maybe even more, it was hard to tell due to how he was sitting. His left shoulder was a mess of torn and melted metal, with wires and tubes and other mechanical –type guts exposed. A smaller- comparatively speaking- robot was fussing with the nasty-looking wound while giving a non-stop lecture that the bigger robot appeared to be tuning out completely.
"… very lucky he didn't get a better shot or you wouldn't have an arm, or possibly even a head-"
"I thought he was supposed to be only some mid-level warrior," someone interrupted, and Miles suddenly realized that there were three people already in the room.
"He is," the smaller robot answered in a voice Miles recognized. "That gun isn't his. It actually belonged to another 'con."
"Motormaster," Jazz chipped in from behind them as he strolled over. "Picture-perfect 'con: second only t' big Megs in bad temper an' general nastiness. He was famous, or infamous, for takin' out his anger on anythin' that got in his way. Killed almost as many 'cons that way as he did 'bots. Shockwave recommended puttin' him in a gestalt team, hopin' it'd cool him off a little, but all it did was give him his own personal punchin' bags."
"Uhh…" Miles frowned, trying to sort the eight-million-and-one questions into something resembling order. "So… what's going on here anyways?"
"How much do you know?" Sam asked, and Miles shrugged.
"Swindle called himself a Decepti-something,"
"Decepticon," Sam nodded. "And?"
"And there was this jet dude- I thought he and Swindle were friends, but then they started shooting at each other."
There was a brief silence. Then Jazz cleared his throat. "They're both 'cons, so technically Swindle an' th' jet dude Starscream are on th' same side. However, neither of them knows what 'loyalty' means. Swindle's a merchant, so he goes with th' highest bidder. Screamer's just a traitor. They started shootin' at each other cause it'd be better for Starscream if Swindle were taken out of th' picture, an' Swindle's smart enough an' been around long enough to know to be prepared for stunts like that."
"Ah. Swindle also said the Decepticons are the bad guys, kind of."
"They are," Sam agreed darkly. Miles frowned at this.
"So then… what, there's two kinds of…" He paused, trying to figure out what to call them without insulting them. "Robots?"
"Kind of," the smaller robot replied. "It's not like we have different species or breeds, like organics. We distinguished ourselves only by function before the war."
"Now we distinguish ourselves by faction," Jazz said. At Miles' blank look, he explained. "Armies. There's th' 'cons, an' then there's us Autobots."
"You're one of them?" Miles asked as he gestured towards the robots, and the entire room went still. He'd asked a very bad question, he realized, although what was so bad about it he couldn't say. Jazz merely smiled.
"Yeah," he replied, something indescribable in his voice. "Yeah, I am."
"How did-" Miles began, then stopped. Mikaela, who was standing almost directly behind Jazz, was waving her hands and mouthing the word 'no'.
"I died an' Primus, who you could say is our god, brought me back like this for reasons unknown," Jazz explained anyway. He half-turned to face Mikaela. "No need t' treat me like I'm made of glass. We got bigger things to worry about right now."
Well, that made no sense, but okay.
"When Swindle and Starscream were talking, before they started shooting, did they make some sort of deal?" The other three people, two men and a pretty blond lady, had moved closer. The man who spoke now was watching Miles carefully.
"A deal?"
"Did Starscream give anythin' to Swindle?" Jazz translated. When Miles hesitated, he explained. "Screamer stole somethin' pretty important from us. He might've given it to Swindle, thinkin' he'd get it right back after he killed him, 'cept it didn't work out so well."
"Yeah," the teen nodded slowly. "The jet- Starscream? He had something, I didn't see what, and he wanted to trade it for a signal jammer or something. He said the thing was useless but the Autobots would do anything to get it so Swindle took it."
"Did Starscream get a jammer?" the man asked.
"He got something, I don't know what it was."
"Great," the smaller robot muttered sourly. "We have a rogue seeker who's now all but invisible and a Decepticon merchant with the last piece of the Allspark."
"Not to mention Barricade an' Dead End to th' north, Soundwave sittin' over our heads, an' Megatron very possibly alive an' well," Jazz pointed out, sounding just a hair too cheerful.
"Megatron!" Miles yelped, startled by how familiar the name was, then clamped both hands over his mouth as everyone in the room turned to look at him.
"Megatron what?" The big robot spoke for the first time, leaning forward as he did so. His tone was soothing. "Did you hear something about Megatron?"
"Yeah," Miles muttered. "Starscream asked where he was, and Swindle said the humans have him."
There was a pause. Then Jazz snorted and burst out into merry laughter. "Poor Megs has had nothin' but bad luck on this planet," he said around his chortles.
"Sector 7?" Mikaela asked quietly.
"Probably," the man who had asked about Swindle's and Starscream's deal groaned. "Idiot Simmons. What the hell is he thinking?" He started to walk away and pulled his cell phone out, then paused. "Oh no."
"What?" Jazz peered over his shoulder and groaned. "Slaggin' Pit. Sam, check your phone. Ratchet, can you see if you can access the internet?"
"What's going on?" Miles demanded in alarm. Ratchet, the shorter 'bot, spoke over him.
"No access. There are firewalls everywhere."
"And I don't have a signal," Sam added. He glanced worriedly at Jazz. "This is exactly what they did last time."
"Shut down all forms of communication," the other man agreed. "Soundwave?"
"What sound wave?" Miles asked.
"Not what, who. Decepticon communications officer. Real scary mech. But he didn't do this." Jazz wandered over to Sam and frowned as he peered at his cell phone. "No reason for him to, he's already monitorin' everythin'. No, this is someone else. Someone who doesn't want Big Brother watchin' everythin', so he slaps a blindfold on him. Can't stop Soundwave from accessin' the data, so you stop the data from bein' worth accessin'."
"Starscream or Swindle," Mikaela said.
"Swindle," Ratchet answered immediately. "Starscream's too arrogant to care about what Soundwave knows and not a good enough saboteur to do anything about it if he did care."
"Cooks up a nasty line of code, bounces it off a satellite, infects Soundwave's monitorin' computers an' shuts down th' world's communications just like that," Jazz mused. "It'll take Soundwave days to untangle it all."
"You could at least try not to sound impressed," Ratchet snapped irritably, and Jazz grinned.
"This is a problem, guys," the man- Miles was beginning to think of him as the 'boss' of the human group by how he acted- informed them. "What if the 'cons decide they want Megatron back? Those S7 idiots could be in real danger."
"What is S7?" Miles wondered. Jazz answered smoothly.
"Long story. Now, I got one last question for you: that thing Swindle got from Starscream, did you actually see it?"
"Yeah. It was a piece of metal, kinda old-looking, and it had a funny pattern on it."
"It's official," Ratchet muttered. "Swindle has the Allspark piece. Do we have anything he may want in exchange?"
"Sure," Jazz snorted. "We've got th' Ark. That's what he's gonna want right now, more'n anythin': a way off this deathtrap of a planet."
"Are we going to give it to him?" Sam asked softly, looking at the big 'bot.
"We need the Allspark piece," the robot answered slowly. "I would rather not lose the Ark, but…"
"But nothin'," Jazz snapped. "Don't go tradin' our ship for a piece of scrap metal that won't even work. It's not worth it."
"Not worth it?" Now the big guy sounded a little testy. Jazz stood his ground.
"It ain't my choice, I know. But that Allspark piece isn't gonna help us, Optimus, an' I don't wanna lose our only way off-planet just to confirm what we already know. I don't want to live with that."
Miles blinked in surprise, particularly when the big 'bot inclined his head in agreement. Clearly there was more going on here than he understood.
"Which still leaves the problem with Sector 7," the boss human reminded them.
"Do you know where any of them are?" Ratchet asked. "Because if we can't communicate with them, we'll need to locate them and assume they have a way of talking to each other."
No one answered. After a moment the big 'bot- Jazz had called him Optimus- leaned back and gave a sound startlingly similar to a sigh.
"Then there's nothing we can do," he said, sounding tired. This seemed like as good a time as any, so Miles carefully spoke.
"Uhh… I still have no idea what's going on around here," he said. Jazz shot a quick glance towards Optimus, then grinned and turned to face the boy.
"Once upon a time, there was a planet called Cybertron…"
---
"Operation: Get The Slag Off This Planet commenced," Swindle muttered. Most other times he'd be worried about his new habit of talking to himself, but right now he needed the noise. Ever since he'd traded his neon-yellow Hummer mode for a more sedate dark purple Jeep Commander, the Allspark piece had been giving off a weird humming noise. He talked to himself to distract from the odd sound which, to be honest, was starting to alarm him.
He was in a business office's parking garage. He'd ducked in here to change his alternate mode so Starscream wouldn't know what to look for anymore. After that, with his energy levels dipping dangerously low, Swindle had decided to stay put for a while. Before he could recharge, though, he had work to get done.
Phase One was uploading his resignation. It had gone beautifully; the planet's communications had ceased almost immediately, effectively crippling Soundwave. Without the constant flow of data the 'con was really nothing more than another high-level warrior with one or two nasty tricks. And Swindle himself could access the internet and tap into phone lines while still leaving Soundwave in the dark, an ability the merchant needed to complete the next step.
Phase Two would take a little more effort. He wanted to force these humans to finally see what was going on right in front of their noses. Unfortunately he couldn't do this himself, so he was enlisting some help. After several minutes of scanning the internet, he found exactly what he needed: a newspaper reporter. If he played his cards right, he could cause world-wide panic, thus distracting and disabling the Autobots almost as handily as he had Soundwave.
Now all he needed was a reporter, and he already had a pretty good idea of which one he wanted. Swindle settled lower on his tires and noted abruptly that the Allspark had stopped humming. He considered that and came to a startling realization. The Allspark piece had lost its innate power, true, but it could still take in and manipulate energy around it. It was still useful, he decided. You just had to put more into it in order to get something out of it. He filed that information away and smiled to himself.
Despite Starscream, despite Sunstreaker, things were still going remarkably well.
---
Pearl Goodman was frustrated.
She'd been working the political beat for several months now. Fresh out of intern hell and keen in her field, she'd expected to go shooting straight to the top. True, there were other reporters who were more experienced and perhaps sharper than her, but she was clever and quick and daring- all the marks of a top investigative reporter. So this was frustrating beyond all belief.
It took a bit of juggling to open the door, since she was carrying a drink tray with four iced coffees in one hand and a bag of bagels in the other, but she managed to catch her foot in between the heavy door and the frame. After a moment she pushed it open. There was a meeting with the editors; with any luck she'd catch a break and someone would give her something worthwhile.
Her desk phone was ringing. She put the bagels down to answer it.
"Hello, Pearl," a silk-smooth voice said before she could say anything. "Take a quick break. I've got some news you want to hear."
"I've got a meeting in three minutes," she informed the person. She'd gotten plenty of whackos trying to impress her with some grand new story, people who wanted to see their names in the paper and found her easier to reach than any of the big-name reporters.
"I advise you skip it. Aren't you tired of being the coffee girl?"
Her head came up and she looked around, feeling foolish even as she did so. She'd walked a block and a half carrying four coffees; her role in this office was fairly obvious.
"Who is this?" she asked warily.
"I prefer to remain anonymous."
"Right," she murmured. "I'm hanging up now, and if you call again I'll block your number."
The other person actually laughed. "I would absolutely love to see you try," he chuckled. After a moment he seemed to collect himself. "All right, Pearl, you need a little proof. Easily done. Look to your left."
She looked, and saw her computer. It had been off when she'd left earlier, but now it was humming merrily away. The screen was flicking through various web sites, the mouse pointer moving by itself.
"How are you doing that?" she asked sharply.
"You might say I know machines, inside and out."
"What?"
"Sorry, that was a bad pun and an inside joke all in one. Let's just see if we can skip the 'how' and 'why' and move right along to the 'what', shall we?"
Pearl put her desk phone down and picked up her cell phone. She pressed the right sequence of buttons and the call channeled itself to the cell phone as well. Once it was connected she started recording the call.
"Pearl, I am going to tell you something that your whole world should know, yet due to government conspiracies and secret agencies, very few people are actually aware of." Her mystery caller paused and she held her breath. "There are giant alien robots running loose in America."
"Oh, please," she spat. "Not that again. Look, one of our best reporters already looked into that. He found nothing."
"That's odd. I have it on very good authority that it was one of those robots that blew out those freeway bridges in Cincinnati."
"That was poor building materials and erosion," she said. She didn't buy that story in the least, but it was the official version and her paper wasn't close enough to Ohio to do any real digging.
"Actually, Pearl, that was probably this guy."
She frowned at the phone, then glanced over to her computer. She watched as a stop-action camera took several frames of children playing on a school playground. Then an obscenely bright yellow Hummer wiped out the fence and most of the monkey bars. Pearl felt her hand tighten around the receiver as the Hummer pulled out a huge gun and aimed it at the school.
"And if that doesn't do it for you, this was taken by a traffic camera only a few hours after that."
The picture was grainy but she could see as a giant robot-looking thing strolled onto the main road. It folded into itself and literally changed back into the Hummer from the school video.
"What is this?" she asked softly.
"Proof. You can take this to whatever tech you want; you'll find that they're both real. Now, then, I can't really stick around to answer any questions. However, I have the names of a few people who might know a little more about this robot invasion than they're letting on. So here's the deal: ditch the meeting and I'll give you a name."
Pearl looked at the coffees in their cardboard tray. She looked at the phone with her smooth-talking champion. She looked at her computer screen replaying both videos endlessly.
"Deal," she said. If this turned out to be a bust she'd have lost one chance. If this was real, it would kick-start her career. If this was real, she would be the most famous and respected reporter in the country.
"The first name you're going to want to chase down belongs to a seventeen-year-old kid who happens to own a Camaro with some interesting customizations."
"Camaro," she echoed, rapidly typing everything into her BlackBerry.
"Mm-hm. His name… is Samuel James Witwicky."
---
Astrotrain stomped onto the ship's bridge, his irritation all but visible. This was torture, he'd decided. True enough, he'd let Starscream escape, and had aggravated the seeker into shooting out the ship's engines, but there was a certain line between 'punishment' and 'torture' and Soundwave had crossed it.
Rumble trotted after him, still playing that incessant noise over his comm. line. "Sorry, boss," he chirped. "No can do. We're gonna need supplies and help from someone who knows what they're doing before we go anywhere."
"Why are you still listening to that garbage?" Buzzsaw demanded, and his fellow insect turned towards him.
"Because it's fun," he answered. "I really like this one." And he cranked up the volume, filling the bridge with echoes.
"We are Siamese if you ple-ease… we are Siamese if you-"
"Rumble," Soundwave snapped, and Rumble immediately shut it off. Astrotrain suddenly noticed that the bridge seemed much quieter and darker than it had when he'd left. The computer that monitored Earth's communications activity had gone silent.
"We're being jammed?" Rumble demanded in open shock.
"No," Lasorbeak growled. "A virus was uploaded that shut down all of Earth's communication lines."
"Who did that?" Astrotrain asked. Soundwave turned to face him and the triplechanger took a half-step back. Oh yeah, the officer was mad.
"Swindle did that," he said softly, and Astrotrain decided that Swindle had best avoid Soundwave if he wanted to remain in one piece.
"So… now what?" Rumble broke the silence that followed. Soundwave turned back to the computer console and pressed a button, shutting it off. No one was brave enough to speak again until Soundwave answered.
"Now we fix this mess." The communications officer looked up, pinning a long, steady stare on all of them. "Now we go to Earth ourselves."
---
Reggie Simmons was having a bad week.
If it wasn't freeway bridges in Ohio, it was jets and pickup trucks in California, he thought wryly. The 'bots seemed to have a different understanding of 'blending in' than he did. And now world-wide communications had been disrupted again. This was starting to feel like déjà vu.
He climbed out of the SUV and slammed the door shut, striding over to the building crouching low over the sun-blasted earth. Whoever had thought of putting a military bunker in northeast San Bernardino County obviously didn't realize that the area nearby was called Death Valley for a reason. The air was stiflingly hot and unbearably dry; he could feel it baking his lungs with each breath. Not for the first time, he wondered why S7 had decided to claim this bunker as its own, especially since their headquarters in the Hoover Dam had been so close.
As he was fumbling with the keys, trying to unlock the door's seven rusted-out locks, a black sedan pulled in beside his car. Simmons stopped juggling the key ring and narrowed his eyes, watching as three men clambered out. Two of them had their guns out and ready to shoot. The third went around and started messing with something in the back seat.
That 'something' turned out to be a person, a real mountain of a man. He had about four inches over Simmons' six-foot-two frame and was somewhere in the neighborhood of two-hundred-seventy pounds of pure muscle. His sandy hair fell into his eyes; he tossed his head in annoyance and squinted against the too-bright sunlight.
There was something about him that seemed familiar to Simmons, a deep bone-chilling sense of recognition that made him want to get back in his car and just drive away.
"Ah! Agent Simmons!"
Simmons barely glanced at the man who'd recognized him. He took the last three steps until he was in front of the prisoner, who gave him a slow, feral smile.
"Agent Simmons," he repeated. "It's good to finally meet you. Recognize me?"
"Yes," Simmons said despite himself. "Megatron."
And the Decepticon lord merely smiled.