4 hours and 51 minutes until detonation:

The valet's struggles had attracted the attention of his fellow employees.

"What in the blazes of Pompeii are you doing, Drake?" asked one, a tall skinny man with a somewhat naturally nervous demeanor.

"Isn't it obvious?" smirked a second with light brown hair. "He's weight lifting so he can get some muscle in his bones. Trying to impress Trish?"

"You can't get muscle in bones, idiot," snarled Drake as he strained to push the strange man's mysterious, and now seriously annoying bike. It was if the bike was alive, or something, and purposefully trying to prevent him from doing his job.

"Excuse me," came a quiet voice. Drake turned to snap at the newcomer but pulled up short upon seeing who it was.

"Ah, sir. I, um, was just…" Drake floundered for moment as he tried to explain to a customer why his vehicle was still in the exact same area when his service promised immediate parking and retrieval.

The man didn't wait for his excuses. He swung his leg up and over the seat of the bike, and sat back gripping the handlebars with a suitcase tucked under his arm. To Drake's almost disbelieving eyes, he kicked back the stand and rode away in a cloud of grit and dust, most of which managed to get into poor Drake's eyes.

As he wiped his eyes to the sound of his friend's laughter, Drake angrily muttered, "I hate this job."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What happened in there?" demanded Arcee, as they raced along the highway.

Jack ignored her. "Ratchet, the bomb was a dud. I'm connecting you to a frequency. Can you track it?"

"I can triangulate the frequency within an approximate one point five mile radius."

"So you can track it."

"If you want to simplify things to that point, then yes."

"Will anyone tell me how either of you are doing this?" yelled Arcee.

"Borrowed a MECH comm from a grunt," her partner responded innocently.

There was silence before Arcee very calmly asked the inevitable question. "How?"

"We fought, I won," Jack responded shortly. "Ratchet?"

"Hold on the horsepower, already. This is a heavily encrypted code." Ratchet sounded almost…disturbed. "Give me a minute."

In her rear mirrors, Arcee spotted two vans pull out of a side street and begin following them.

While this ordinarily wouldn't alarm her, despite her naturally suspicious attitude, this was hardly an ordinary mission. And there generally weren't heavy duty unmarked green-and-black vans in Las Vegas, at least from what she could tell from her observation of this town.

"We've got MECH on our tailpipes. I'm taking evasive action."

"Damn it," swore Ratchet suddenly. "My firewalls are under attack! Someone's backtracked my tracer!"

"MECH's certainly has their bases covered," Jack remarked mildly. "But life's a baseball game." He pulled the suitcase from under his arm, and cradling it on his cast, popped it open and removed the dud bomb. "You can put three guys on all the bases and put a forth on bat. But that doesn't mean you'll get four more points."

With a heave of his good arm, Jack sent the heavy cylinder spinning end over end into the Vegas night air. The cylinder flew a good fifteen feet in the air, and seemed to float there, as if waiting. Then, it succumbed to gravity and tumbled straight down to land with a splintering sound on one of the MECH cars, successfully reducing the windshield into a mess of shattered splinters.

The MECH agents, now successfully blinded, swerved violently. Jack and Arcee caught a glimpse of a MECH grunt attempting to break through the windshield before the car swerved into oncoming traffic.

Horns blared. People yelled and cursed. The MECH car driver managed to break the windshield in time to avoid an oncoming horse carriage and crash into a wooden pole.

For a moment the partners were silent. Then Arcee broke the silence with, "I bet that doesn't happen every day."

Jack snorted. "This is Las Vegas, Arcee. Those kind of figures are never accurate in this world."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bulkhead tore through the warehouse, sending dust, splinters and termites fling through the air.

"Come to papa, fleshies," he crowed. "I'm going to make it harder to dissect me than Breakdown."

The lights came on quite suddenly. Bulkhead was blinded by the sudden illumination and his wrecking balls became servos again as he tried too late to shield his optics.

The tap-tap sound of heavy shoes reached his audio receptors. "Why, hello. Bulkhead, isn't it?"

"You!" the green mech growled as his optics adjusted, for it was of course Silas.

"Me," the terrorist replied smugly. "But of course there is also my henchmen," he said gesturing to the dozen or so masked men in black armor. "As well as another…friend of mine. I assume you have met General Sanchez?"
Bulkhead turned as a small device rolled in between his legs. He yelled in pain as the EMP grenade exploded, it's debilitating electricity seeking out the nearest mechanical device, also known as him.

Bulkhead fell, old, wet, and moldy cement cracking and crumbling under the weight of his frame.

"You little fr-fragger," he choked painfully, struggling to focus his failing sight on the traitorous general.

"I don't generally stoop this low," said Sanchez calmly. "But the president refuses to see what is right in front of her. She refuses to understand that you lot are simply too dangerous to allow on U.S. soil, and too dangerous to become our enemies. Therefore, in order to reshape America into the superpower it's supposed to be, the enemy of the enemy must become our friend."

Bulkhead's head hit the slimy floor weakly. "MIko…" he rasped.

Sanchez took a gun from one of the MECH grunts. "I'm afraid that Ms. Nakadai, and Mr. Esquivel as well, will soon become causalities of an alien war that their so-called guardians failed to protect them from."

As he aimed the gun at Bulkhead's prone form, he looked the near-unconscious former Wreaker in the optic and said in a chilling calm voice, "And do you who the blame of those children's deaths, as well as the hundreds, thousands of others who were completely innocent will fall too? The great Optimus Prime himself. Humans will finish in four and a half hours what Megatron could not do in a thousand years."

Then Sanchez pulled the trigger, a burst of crackling energy was released, and Bulkhead knew no more.

Yeah, again sorry that this took so long to upload. I can explain that:

See, I tend to obsess about the smallest of details, particularly whether or not a certain sentence flows right. I found it difficult in both the Ratchet/Arcee/Jack conversation, and the Bulkhead/Sanchez conversation was the most difficult to me simply because, to be frank, I was used to near simpleton Bulkhead from Transformers Animated. Prime Bulkhead is much more complex for me to write simply because I am not used to writing from the sensitive male POV.

Also, I debated long and hard with putting in a Bumblebee scene,` and in the end, I decided against it. Again, I am used to TFA Bumblebee, whose character is far from Prime's. Michael Bay's movies somehow made me dislike Bumblebee completely for a while, and it's hard for me to grasp the character of someone who doesn't talk enough to write what I feel is a suitable scene.

Finally, I wanted to give my readers a slightly longer chapter for their patience. I hope you enjoy chapter eleven.

Note: Please review. It makes me motivated to write if I am assured that there are readers waiting for me. Plus it makes a writer warm and fuzz inside!