Detonation time: unknown
Bulkhead woke to find himself strapped down and immobile. His processor felt fried and the pain in his joints beckoned to the fringes of unconsciousness that stellercycles of training fought against.
Where the slag am I?…feels like my head hit the Doc-bot's wrench…wait…there was a mission…bomb…government…SANCHEZ!...he was a traitor!...hang on… where is Miko?...if he hurt her!...
Bulkhead almost started to thrash against his bindings but stopped just in time. He could see several MECH agents from the corner of eye on the right, and all had their guns pointing at his head. He knew that those weren't ordinary weapons, and had no doubt that there were several other men he could not see. If he started acting crazy and they knocked him out again, he would be in no position to help his friend. What he needed was a plan.
Which, unfortunately, was something he wasn't really good at making. Very few Wreckers were. Now that he thought about it, Bulkhead wasn't sure exactly how so many of their group had survived as they did before the war. It must have been their teamwork, he mused. That explained why so many of them fell so quickly when they broke apart to different units of Autobots and Decepticons back on Cybertron.
Bulkhead's musings were brought to abrupt halt when one of MECH agents kicked his servo.
"Stupid lump of metal," the man muttered.
"Can't wait to melt it down," agreed another.
"Maybe the boss will let us make the girl watch her precious robot turn to molten lead," said the first one.
"Yeah, that'll teach her to bite me, the stupid kid," growled he second. "I hope she screams."
The first one smirked. "I know a way to make her scream."
There was pause before the second man hooted. "What, Katie showing wear and tear already?"
The first man joined into his friend's derisive laughter. "Hey, she thinks I'm on a tour of duty in the middle of the ocean. I haven't had any fun in ages. When a guy has needs, he meets them anyway he can." He then lowered his voice. "In fact, I bet this thing won't be waking up for hours. That's more than enough time for me and his little lady to have some…fun."
Now Bulkhead wasn't exactly on top of current human idioms and phrases, but he was protective enough to research potential dangers for his charge, and the warning signs for such dangers. Plus, he'd learned enough lingo from puberty-inflicted boys who thought Miko's Japanese culture meant she was an exotic tourist and stupidly oblivious to their advances. And with this prior knowledge, Bulkhead's protective instinct rushed up full force, along with his damaging rage. All notions of a plan were erased, and the only thoughts that went through his processor were something along the lines of this: Protect Miko…crush MECH…protect Miko…crush MECH…protect Miko…
Bulkhead's restraints were built to hold Cybertronians based off of Breakdown's physical power. However, they were not designed to withhold the violent expulsion of Bulkhead's concern and rage, and to the shock of the two MECH agents, the Cybertronian warrior's arm tore the bindings from the floor like it was no more than paper. They, along with the rest of their team, were so shocked, neither man realized that the arm was now falling towards them at an ever increasing velocity, the servos now tightly formed into an enormous fist.
The second man was quite unlucky. Bulkhead's arm width was larger than his body and he was promptly crushed beneath the titan's limb. The first man was luckier, but not by much. He'd snapped out of his daze quicker and had thrown himself backwards. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on one's point of view) he failed to completely clear himself of the danger zone, and everything below the waist (yes, everything) was tuned into something vaguely resembled a child's vomit after an all-you-can-eat spaghetti festival.
Bulkhead's satisfaction at the men's misfortune was short-lived as the rest Mech agents started to fire at him. But their normally impeccable aims were off, as they struggled to shake off the violent death and maiming of their companions. In the first volley of shots, maybe a third of the shots hit the target, and most of the hits were of the sides, legs and shoulders of the Autobot, all places which were heavily armored and produced little effect on the behemoth.
Before the men could get their bearings for a second volley, Bulkhead was moving, using his arm as leverage to wrench himself up, and tearing his bindings on his throat and chest in the process. The second volley was released by all the shots hit his back and chest. Bulkhead finally managed to free his upper body and reached down to tear off the binding around his legs.
Agony tore through his servo angrily and Bulkhead released a pained grunt. One of the shooters had managed to tag him with a lucky shot, and the effects were far from good. Less than a couple of seconds after the hit, and already his servo felt numb. He needed to get out of here, quick.
Using his right servo, the former wrecker seized the binding metal around his legs and pulled.
Concrete cracked. Metal screamed. The sound of gunfire reached an almost desperate level. And then…
Success.
With a triumphant yell, Bulkhead tore the restraints from their holdings, concrete, dust and the now mangled remains of underground piping rising in the air.
Hauling himself to his feet, Bulkhead threw his shackles away from him, toward a large bank of computers where several men were attempting to try to make a connection. Yelling the men, scrambled out of the way, and the tangled mess that passed as a projectile landed haphazardly, reducing months' worth of research, technology, and planning into a mess of wires and plastic.
Bulkhead bared his dentas at the group of men now converging on him that consisted of the remains of his guard, as well as the Bumblebee's guards, who rightly determined that a free Autobot was more dangerous than one still shackled.
Both parties stared at each other, waiting for one to make the first move. Bulkheads fists tightened. The MECH agents grasped the holds on their guns, their index fingers almost aching with anticipation.
And then a black-clad figure flew into the warehouse through the window, and all hell broke loose, drowning out the sound of still falling glass.
Outside, one and a half minutes earlier
Optimus shifted his weight, and the sharpshooters followed his movement like hungry dogs following the movement of a thick steak. Tension was thick in the air, for despite being professionals, the men were still human. And being human, they were of course afraid of the nearly five-story tall robot who, despite his battle mask, and impassive face, still gave off the aura of a person who really wants to step on a distracting, bothersome ant. A little more than two dozen distracting, bothersome ants. Not that Optimus saw them as ants. Ants could not talk. Nor could they shoot, fly helicopters, and dissect enormous robots from outer space.
Despite all the insult and crimes laid against each other, Optimus still found it in his spark to be able to forgive humans. They destroyed their environment, set off in war against each other and often killed for more than petty items. In many places, the officials of government were corrupt, and lived in palaces in lives of luxury as their people starved and died in the streets below, reminding Optimus far too clearly of the castes of the dead Cybertron.
But in the murky darkness, light continue to shine, in one's heart if not their eyes. Whenever Optimus roamed the streets of Jasper, he would often see children playing and talking, or watch a teenager relax with book at night or send a friendly e-mail in their rooms. With children, there was no caste system. Children of different race, of different background, of different status befriended each other, not affected by the issues that adults seemed to insist was part of the world. In places the world over, children reached out for aid or support through technology, not limited by the geological and mental borders set by their elders.
Adults said that technology rotted children's brain, and made into little more than robots. Perhaps they were right. But for now all, Optimus could see was the wonder and connectivity of the children's tech, and was moved by the bonds forged through it.
And so, the last of the Primes could feel nothing but anger as a group took the technology of the future, developed by the future, into their own hands for power and control. And to add injury to insult, they were willing to kill off one of their young to achieve it. He could not, would not allow them to succeed.
The sound of tearing metal suddenly reached his audio receptors, and Optimus looked up at the warehouse from where the disturbance had come. He wasn't the only one; all of his guards looked up in wary curiosity and fear, which immediately turned into concern when gunfire erupted. The men started towards the warehouse and Optimus saw his chance. Shouting for Agent Fowler and June to run, he placed himself in front of them while simultaneously sweeping his right arm along the ground so that when the MECH gunners turned towards the group, his arm acted as both a barrier and an oncoming wall.
The tactic worked exactly as he expected; the rain of gunfire aimed towards the fleeing humans was blocked by the Prime's enormous arm. The men were still shooting when Optimus's arm's momentum swept the men aside like a child scattering leaves. One man was caught on the tip of one of Optimus's servos, and when the Autobot leader's arm reached the upward peak of his impromptu attack, the man was thrown away, spinning end over end through the air, and crashing through the window of the warehouse. The moment he went through, the gunfire, which had briefly halted, started up again in earnest.
Fowler was quick to drag June out of danger, half carrying her away into a modified SUV that looked like it was designed to withstand a tank. They almost got there without incident, due to most of the attention being turned to the enormous metal being that was now rushing away to the warehouse where the trouble had first started. But then, almost making something never won a prize.
A MECH commando wielding a what appeared to a set of oversized curved knives appeared out of nowhere, almost slitting June's neck. She jumped back with a shriek, bumping into Fowler and falling to the ground. The government agent stepped in front of the helpless (and good looking) nurse protectively.
"Yo, samurai! How 'bout you scuttle off and grab us some sushi?"
The commando said nothing, instead opting to twirl his blades and crack his neck.
Fowler cracked his knuckles in response as June scrambled to her feet. She slowly began to back away as the two men began to circle each other.
While he maintained his confident demeanor on the outside, on the inside, Fowler was figuratively sweating bullets. He'd been taught hand-to-hand combat back in the army, but that had been years ago and had been mostly about blocking against an enemy who had gotten up close and personal and was either boxing you or trying to hit you over the head with his gun. There hadn't been an instruction course about guy who wielded swords and really how to use them. If there had been, Fowler had most likely slept through it, seeing how he really hadn't gotten the hand of early rising then.
Assuming a boxer's stance, Fowler called out, "Let's see what you got!"
The commando complied immediately, moving at the agent quickly. Fowler jumped back at the first swing, hit the ground and rolled, coming unsteadily to is feet.
As he reoriented himself, Fowler's eyes caught sight of something colorful on the ground. It looked a lot like…
A quick check confirmed his suspicions: the MECH commando had sliced his favorite tie in half.
Fowler glared, his dark eyes meeting the inhuman goggled gaze of his opponent. "Oh, now it is on."
Yes, if you suspect this is filler, you are correct. I realized that I really hadn't been expanding to the other characters as much, and attempted to try to write through the eyes of the others. Fowler's part came as a surprise, but this story has kind of been writing itself lately.
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