Chapter Twenty-Three: Hang On
"Where are we going?" Hunter says, trying to ignore the way Sideswipe is wheezing or the way his own feet drag.
"Cargo bay."
Which makes sense, until Hunter remembers the "punch the engines and head up" part. The engines, which are still vibrating throughout the ship.
"Why?" Hunter says.
Sunstreaker's head is nestled in the crook of Sideswipe's elbow while his hand tries to hold his chest together. It's not working. He's dribbling down his front and leaving a trail on the floor.
"We've gotta get off the ship," Sideswipe says.
They take a right. The walls are burnt where Scorpinok had shot at them; where he'd tried to kill them. Hunter glances at Sideswipe, at that hair-raising glow bursting out of him.
"We're gonna orbital jump?" Hunter says.
Sideswipe shakes his head before Hunter even finishes his sentence. "No time. And Sideswipe broke his jack when frag-face shot the console."
He keeps doing that, referring to himself as "Sideswipe." Or "we."
Hunter shivers.
A left turn. The cargo bay is right ahead. Hunter sees sunlight. Then they're through the doors. Sideswipe slows and sways. Hunter steps forward to catch him before he can land on his face.
The room is big and empty. The doors are still open. The floor ramps down into open air. Or would, anyway, if there were any.
Because they're in space.
Hunter stares at the curve of the earth. He can see where the blue atmosphere fades to black. Half of the planet's surface is covered in clouds, but he can still see directly below, the great swathe of shoreline. Lake Michigan sparkles silver.
Hunter stops dead in his tracks. Sideswipe lurches, stumbles, and manages to keep himself from tripping and rolling down the ramp.
"What the slag?" he says.
Hunter doesn't answer. He can't answer.
It doesn't look real. Even though he knows it is, he knows he's staring down at a chunk of the American Midwest, his brain refuses to accept it.
"Let's go," Sideswipe says. He nudges Hunter with his shoulder.
"We're in space," Hunter says.
"No, we're not."
"Yes, we are."
"No, it's—"
"I know what space looks like, Sideswipe! I can see the atmosphere. We're in space!"
Sideswipe cocks his head to the side. He looks outside the ship.
"Actually, we're not," he says. "We're not even halfway there, technically."
Hunter stares.
"Come on," Sideswipe says. "The engines are gonna hit critical any time now. Do you want to be here for that?"
It's not just the view his brain refuses to process. Sideswipe watches him, waiting. Hunter looks outside. A horrible suspicion tickles the back of his mind.
"What are we doing in here?" he says.
Sideswipe grins at him. He jerks his head towards the ramp.
But there's nothing out there. There's no ship or parachutes or—
"No," Hunter says. "No way. That's… even you are not that crazy."
Except that he is. Sideswipe takes a few steps down the ramp and says, "Come on."
Hunter starts to back away. "No. Oh no. This is insane. You can't be serious."
Sideswipe actually rolls his eye.
"We don't have time for this, human," he says.
"Don't have time for what? You want to jump out? How the hell is that any better than getting blown up?"
"We have a plan."
"All your plans suck!"
Sideswipe stands there for a moment longer. Then his shoulders droop. He trudges back up the ramp.
"Listen," he says. "You're new at this. We get that. But sometimes—"
Sideswipe's foot slams into Hunter's knee. Before he can even throw up his hands to catch himself, Sideswipe tackles him.
"What are you doing?" Hunter says.
Sideswipe tangles his legs with Hunter's. He twists. Hunter rolls over him and lands five feet closer to the edge of the ramp.
"Stop it!" Hunter says.
Sideswipe drags his foot up and kicks. Hunter rolls. He reaches out, claws at the deck. Metal screeches and sparks fly. Then Sideswipe is on him again, pushing and pulling, wrestling him toward the edge of certain death.
Hunter takes a swing at him. Sideswipe ducks. They slide another few feet.
"Stop," Sideswipe says. His shoulder digs into Hunter's side. "Trying." Hunter scrabbles and kicks and flails. His fingers gouge into Sideswipe's armor. "To fight!" Hunter is on his stomach, his right stump flailing in the air.
"No!" he says.
"Go!" Sideswipe says.
His legs swing out into empty space. Hunter claws at the ramp as Sideswipe wraps his legs around Hunter's torso and throws himself off, as Hunter slides, feels the deck give way beneath him, as gravity grabs him. The lip of the ramp is right there. He can see the rubber-like seal around the edge.
The ramp pulls out of his grasp. His hand clutches on emptiness. For a second, it hangs there, the cargo bay lit up in the sunlight. Then it falls away.
The cold hits. Hunter tries to gasp. He makes a sputtering noise. His limbs freeze up. The ship pulls farther and farther away, getting smaller and smaller.
There's no sound. No rushing air, no wind. They just hang there, on the cusp of blue, whirling around and around, from dark space, to white and blue planet, and back again. Sunlight glints off his armor.
Sideswipe still has a hold of him. His head digs into Hunter's back.
((There,)) he comms. ((Not so bad, is it?))
((AAAH!)) Hunter says.
Sideswipe shifts. Sunstreaker's head bumps into Hunter's side. He starts to inchworm his way up Hunter's frame.
They spin. The dark sky and the earth whirl around and around in a freakish kaleidoscope of dear god we're going to die! A pinpoint of yellow light, far above. The ship is no more than a dot.
A flash. Hunter doesn't hear anything. Clouds, the earth, a glimmer of water so far below. Brown and green patches of land. Blue sky, inky darkness, and then a spreading, orange and yellow and pink ball of fire where the ship had been.
Sideswipe lets out a whoop of laughter.
((There it goes!))
There it goes. Sideswipe's only way off the planet. Their only place to hide, all blown to smithereens with Scorpinok's Headmaster body and its human pilot, all vaporized and scattered across the sky.
The way he and Sideswipe will be spattered across Michigan when they hit.
((We're gonna die!)) Hunter says.
((Maybe,)) Sideswipe says.
The earth is flattening out. From one horizon to the other, that curve begins to disappear.
Terminal velocity. That word pops into his head. The maximum speed a falling object reaches.
Robotic shell or no, crazy healing abilities or no, he's going to plow face-first into Wisconsin going over two hundred miles an hour.
((It's not maybe!)) Hunter says.
((Just grab on when we tell you to.))
The lake stretches out below. It fills out his view. It looks so pretty from up there, so peaceful.
The first rush of wind. A faint whistling at first. Then it tugs at him.
((Sideswipe?))
((Hang on.))
The air roars. The wind hits him, rattles his armor, tears at his limbs. They're sent spinning all over again. It tries to pry Sideswipe off of him.
Metal rasps together. Sideswipe moves, pulls himself around. Hunter looks down and finds Sideswipe right there, face-to-face.
Don't look down, don't look down. Don't look at it.
The pulsing glow is worse up close. It shines out of the ragged hole in Sideswipe's chest, throbbing hot on Hunter's armor. It makes his skin crawl.
((Take this,)) Sideswipe says. He holds out Sunstreaker's head. ((Do not let go of it.))
Like Sideswipe, Hunter only has one hand now. He has to cradle the head against him. As soon as Sideswipe's arm is free, he wraps it around Hunter in a sort of one-armed hug and detangles his legs from Hunter's.
((Hold onto us,)) he says.
For when we bounce after impact?
Sideswipe wraps his legs tight around Hunter's waist. Sunstreaker's head presses between them. Hunter wants to be weirded out. He wishes he had the brain-space to be weirded out. Instead, his mind is too busy screaming, "Oh god! Are those cities?"
They fall. Hunter knows, he knows that it takes a few minutes to drop that far. They're a long way up and they only fall so fast. But it doesn't look like the ground is changing at all. Then they pass through clouds and Hunter realizes that the funny lines he sees are roads—tiny, microscopic lines twisting through green and he can see cities. The sky is no longer black but blue. And they're falling fast, so fast, whirling and whipping around.
((Hang on tight!)) Sideswipe says. ((We'll see if this thing still works!))
Hunter is right there, right next to that psychotic grin. Because that's what it is. It's not an expression of happiness. There is no amusement on Sideswipe's face. Hunter imagines that is the look an ax-murderer wears right before he lops someone's head off. It's a manic, teeth-baring kind of glee.
((Oh god,)) Hunter says.
A rumble starts in Sideswipe's back. It rattles through his frame, through Hunter's arms and Sideswipe's legs, shaking his teeth in his skull.
What the…?
Heat washes over his shins, warm at first and then hot and then burning. He can hear it over the rush of wind, a low roar.
((You have a rocket on your back?)) Hunter says.
((Jet pack.))
Tiny moving dots on the road: cars.
Gravity tugs at Hunter where Sideswipe has wrapped himself. It pulls at his innards. He hugs the Autobot for dear life.
((You can land us?)) Hunter says.
((If it lasts that long.))
They're so high up. So high, that if they kept falling, they wouldn't burst on impact, they'd bounce.
Something inside Sideswipe shifts. The 'bot tenses. Pain flashes across his face. Hunter doesn't ask if he's alright. He doesn't need to. And it doesn't matter because if Sideswipe stops, if that jet pack fails, they'll die. All he can do is cling to the Autobot and hope.
They fall feet-first. The earth is flat again. The tiny cars below have colors.
The jet pack coughs. Gravity disappears and the horizon wobbles. The pack kicks back on. Hunter's legs fly out of their own accord as he slips.
((Hang on,)) Sideswipe says.
((I'm trying!))
He risks a glance down. They're coming in over a forest. A road cuts through on the left. He can make out the trees.
Oh god.
The jet pack sputters. Lurches. The treetops are rough beneath them, the size of a fingernail. They're only a couple of hundred feet up.
Sideswipe's chest makes a sickening gurgle. He lets out a pained wheeze. His limbs lock up.
((Sideswipe?))
The roaring sputters, flares once, twice, tries to recover. And then it cuts off.
((Sideswipe?))
((Brace!))
The trees are the size of coins, of quarters. They have seconds.
They're going to hit. It's going to be hard. Sideswipe is already broken; he's leaking. The impact will kill him. But Hunter isn't a giant robot; he's just the head. His body is a shell. Not a good one, and he knows he's not big enough to make much of a difference, but it might be enough, he might be able to absorb enough of the impact.
Hunter throws his legs out and arches his back so he's between Sideswipe and the ground.
((What are you—)) Sideswipe says.
The first tree hits like a locomotive. His shoulder jerks. Hunter thinks he screams. The rest—
Green. Rush of leaves and pain. Branches breaking, clawing, tearing at him. Then he's down, through the leaves and the ground rushes up—
Everything hurts. It fills his mind, chews through his brain.
A hissing, ticking sound. His face is wet. Wind in the trees.
Fading in and out. The silence. Tentative bird song. Thudding in the air.
Helicopter?
He tries to open his eyes but it's too hard. He'd be sick if he knew where his stomach was.
Sideswipe? Where…
"—kid? Hey!"
Hands on him. Warm hands. Squishy hands on his face, his human face.
"—then you get on that phone and you get a medical team—no. I don't care. I want them here now. This isn't—"
Sunstreaker's head. I gotta…
He croaks something. His voice comes out all garbled and hissing.
"That's it, wake up."
That voice is familiar. He can't think of the name, but he knows it.
"Sssw," Hunter says.
Sideswipe? Is Sideswipe okay? Am I okay?
"He's here, kid. Mostly. You just hang on, alright? We're—Hunter? Hey, no no no. Don't you dare—"
It's too much. He's too tired. He can't…
- Three days later -
Birds chirp in the trees. Dew glistens on leaves just beginning to lose their summer green. Three, heavily-armed black hawk helicopters buzz overhead. Agent Seymour Simmons walks the last few feet to the medical tent and ducks through the canvas flap.
The inside is a few degrees warmer. Fluorescent lights hang on stands set up along the walls. He has to watch his step—extension cords snake across the floor—as he makes his way further in, past a table and folding chairs to the other entrance, the one that leads to the heart of the complex.
It's even warmer in there. There are no tables in this room, just a couple of chairs and a pile of metal in the center.
Hunter looks up as he enters. He's still pale, still has dark spots under his eyes. It's a huge improvement; at least he's awake.
"Still bad out there?" Hunter says.
"It's a goddamn circus," Simmons says. He stirs his coffee and takes a swig.
Outside, he can hear the choppers and further, growling diesel engines. Every now and then a shouted order. And below it all, a low din of noise.
"How's he doing?" Simmons says.
Hunter glances at the unmoving pile and sighs. Or approximates the sound, anyway.
"The same," the kid says.
"He said anything yet?"
Hunter shakes his head. "I don't even know if he can hear us."
They both stare for a while. There are still patches of red and silver. Some black. But every day the rash of gray spreads a little more. Every day the kid stands watch, waiting. Every day, Simmons comes by to make sure he hasn't dropped.
"You look terrible, kid," he says. "You get any sleep?"
Hunter barks a laugh. He's slumped in one of the metal folding chairs, elbows on his knees, the chair sagging underneath his weight. A bitter half-smile twists on his lips.
"I don't even do that anymore," he says.
"Yeah, well, you need to take a break."
Hunter shrugs. "Nothing much to do in here except surf the internet."
Simmons arches an eyebrow.
One of the black hawks flies right overhead and for a few seconds, all Simmons can hear is the thwock of rotors.
It's stuffy in that tent. Even unconscious—or whatever it is giant robots are when they're not awake—the NBE, alias "Sideswipe," puts out a lot of heat. Though that might just be because he's all cracked open.
Simmons considers loosening his tie.
"So why are you here?" Hunter says.
"What, I gotta have a reason to check up on you?"
The kid stares.
"Yeah, alright. I'm here to give you a heads up."
"For what?" Hunter says with a definite edge in his voice.
Simmons tries to hide his wince behind another mouthful of coffee. The way the kid looks at him, he doesn't think he succeeds.
"Some people are coming by," he says.
"Uh huh."
"Some of the higher-ups, couple of Defense Department jockeys. The usual."
"The usual?"
"Look, kid. You been here three days now. Red isn't getting any better—"
"So?"
"So I'm just saying. It's time to start thinking about your options, all right?"
The kid's jaw works. He looks away, his gaze fixing on the twisted pile of wreckage.
"I've been doing my best to give you that chance," Simmons says. "Three days, I've managed to keep these people at bay. Three days, my team has managed to keep this site secure. You know how hard it is to set up a place like this? You know how hard it is to keep the media sharks and the whack-job crazies out of here? There are limits. And we have met them."
"These people, what are they coming here for?"
Simmons doesn't have to say anything.
"Shit," Hunter says. "They're gonna move him, aren't they? They're gonna drag him off, open him up—"
"Kid—"
"It's just like Machination, all over again. I told him—"
"Kid—"
"It'll kill them, Simmons. If they move them right now, it's gonna kill them. Both of them. They're not…"
They shouldn't be alive, he means. Robots or no, by all logic, anything that torn up shouldn't be alive.
"Maybe it's for the best," Simmons says.
Hunter is out of his chair so fast Simmons barely sees it.
"No," he says. "They lay so much as a finger on them and I'll—"
"You'll do what," Simmons says. "Declare war on the U.S. government? On humanity? You gonna throw in with those Decep-whatevers?"
Simmons hears metal creak. The kid's fists tremble.
"I know he's your friend and all—"
Hunter's lips twitch.
"—but you've got to be realistic here. You're fast and you're mean—don't give me that look—but you can't take on everyone. Sometimes, you've gotta make the shit decision."
Hunter opens his mouth, no doubt to deliver some scathing remark, and freezes. He stands like that, jaw slack, gaze distant, for a few seconds. Then his jaw snaps shut. His eyes widen.
"What?" Simmons says.
"It's," Hunter says. "It's a transmission."
A ping in Hunter's brain. Not a sound, not an alert. He's just aware of it, like a scratch behind his ear only it's in his brain. The visor comes down and lights up. And there, scrolling in the bottom, right corner of his vision, is a message. It's in English, but it makes no sense—a jumble of letters and numbers.
"Transmission?" Simmons says. "From who?"
"I don't know," Hunter says. He looks over to Sideswipe, looks at the pulsing, blue light leaking out of the cracks.
There are only three sources he can think of: Machination, the Decepticons, or…
He focuses on the message. He hears a click, a burst of static, and then silence.
((Hello?)) he comms.
Silence. A few soft clicks.
((Hello? Is anyone there?))
((Who is this?)) a voice says. ((How did you access this channel? Submit your identification codes immediately.))
"Kid?" Simmons says.
Hunter waves him off.
((This is Hunter O'Nion,)) he says.
A pause. Then, ((Hunter?))
Only now does he recognize it. It's been six weeks since he heard that voice, but he knows that Autobot.
((Bumblebee?)) he says.
((Primus, Hunter, what are you—how—where are you? What's going on down there? We can't reach—))
((Whoa, slow down. Listen, Sideswipe's been hurt. Like, really bad. Where are you guys?))
((We're—))
He cuts off. A burst of static and then a new voice comes on the line.
((You claim to be the human, Hunter O'Nion?)) Prowl says.
((Uh, yeah?)) Hunter says.
((How do you have access to this communication line? Are you still on board the Ark-23?))
((No. It… we sort of blew it up.))
A long pause. Then, ((Explain.))
((It's a really long story,)) Hunter says. ((Like I told Bumblebee, Sideswipe's messed up. I don't think he's going to last very long and a bunch of military cronies could be here any minute—))
((Hunter, you need to calm down. I need information before I can act. Tell me what's happened.))
((Machination happened,)) he says. ((It was headed by a Decepticon named Scorpinok. Sideswipe and I managed to get into one of their facilities and we got Sunstreaker—his head and his spark—out. But Scorpinok came after us. He got onboard the ship. We blew it up.))
((Scorpinok is dead?)) Prowl says.
((His Headmaster is.))
The silence sounds like suspicion.
((The Decepticon Scorpinok was a Headmaster?)) Prowl says.
((He was.))
((And the rest of him was destroyed?))
((No. We haven't… he kicked our asses. We barely got off the ship. We had to jump, without parachutes. And Sideswipe's jet pack didn't make it all the way to the ground and he hasn't moved in three days and if you guys don't get your asses down here, he and Sunstreaker are gonna die.))
((Where are you?)) Prowl says.
((Michigan. Look, it'll be easy to find us. Just turn on the news.))
((The humans know of you?))
((We gouged out a crater in the middle of a national park,)) Hunter says. ((People tend to notice that sort of thing. The giant, nuclear fireball in the sky was a pretty big tip-off.))
Plus the warehouse in Detroit. That is all over the internet. CNN keeps playing the footage over and over, Hunter crawling out of the wreckage, waving his arms, crunching down into a Lamborghini. It went viral fifteen seconds after hitting Youtube.
((Hunter,)) a new voice says. A deeper voice, an older voice. ((This is Optimus Prime. What is your location?))
Hunter throws open Google and finds his GPS coordinates.
((And are you safe?)) Optimus says.
"Simmons, how long until your bosses show up?" Hunter says.
"About twenty minutes," Simmons says.
((For the next ten minutes,)) Hunter says.
Nine minutes later he's outside with Simmons, standing in the bright sunlight, staring up through the trees. Military helicopters circle overhead. He can spot other ones, civilians, circling like vultures a few miles out. The whole complex—a modified battlefield hospital tent—is ringed with big coils of barbed wire. Humvees and armed soldiers—real ones, not just Simmons's government lackeys—patrol through the trees. All of this is held within another ring of spike-tipped fences and more razor-wire. Beyond that is a swirl of movement and noise. He doesn't have to magnify his vision to know it's a massive crowd of people.
"Holy shit," he says.
"Yeah," Simmons says. "It's a goddamn security nightmare."
The tent itself takes up most of the clearing Hunter and Sideswipe made when they landed. He and Simmons have to stand next to a tree to leave enough room.
"You managed all of this for three days?" Hunter says.
Simmons sips his coffee. "Not my first rodeo, kid."
They wait. The soldiers milling around on the inner ring keep glancing their way. They've got good grips on their weapons, but Hunter doesn't see any fingers on triggers. Yet.
"You'd better be right about this," Simmons says.
"You'd better be right, too," he says. "If someone starts shooting…"
Simmons flaps his hand.
"It's not them I'm worried about," Simmons says.
Hunter notices it first: a humming in the air. A whiff of burning. He straightens. Simmons glances over and then his eyes lock on the empty space in front of them. Green streaks the air.
The background noise fades away. Hunter can barely hear the helicopters. All his attention is focused on that patch of dirt next to the tent. He feels more than hears the pop!
Simmons takes a step back. Several soldiers lift their guns.
Three Autobots fill the clearing. They're huddled together, weapons out and primed, a cluster of red and white and black and yellow.
Silence. No one moves. Beside him, Simmons's pulse doubles.
Okay, Hunter thinks. Here goes.
He steps forward. All eyes, organic and not, fix on him.
"Hey," he says.
For two seconds, the Autobots stare. The spot between Hunter's shoulder blades tingles. Any second now, someone is going to open fire. Any second, someone is going to do something stupid and why isn't anyone saying anything? Why are they just standing there? Why—
"Alright, that's enough," Ratchet says. His rifle folds back into his arm. Beside him, Bumblebee doesn't quite sag in relief. Prowl lowers his weapon but doesn't put it away.
Ratchet pushes past the two of them and takes three steps to kneel in front of Hunter. He lifts his hand. A wave of warm and tingling washes over him and Hunter takes a step back.
"Easy there," Ratchet says. "I'm just running a diagnostic on you."
Hunter catches Bumblebee waving at him. He waves back.
"Wow," the yellow 'bot says. "What happened to you?"
Ratchet beats him to it with, "A lot."
Simmons clears his throat. Prowl's head snaps in his direction. His eyes lock onto the agent.
"Are you going to make introductions?" Simmons says to Hunter. "Or am I going to have to get creative with the nicknames?"
And then Ratchet fills Hunter's vision.
"Are you in any pain?" the medic says.
"No," Hunter says, trying to lean past him, trying to see what everyone is doing, where Simmons is going. But Ratchet lifts a hand and stops him. Hunter sighs. "I've been getting kind of tired. It's not a big deal, though."
Ratchet rumbles. "I suspect you're low on energy. Is there some sort of refueling you can… intake?"
Hunter shrugs.
The expression that flashes across the Autobot's face is an odd mix of anger and sadness.
"It's happened before," Hunter says. "Like I said, it's not bad. Last time Sideswipe had me sit out in the sun for a while. It helped."
"That would work on a short-term basis. We'll have to figure out a long-term solution, however. Where is that idiot?"
Hunter points to the tent. Ratchet swivels around to look at it.
"Oh, that can't be good," he says. He stands up.
Simmons has moved to the middle of the clearing, his hands clasped behind his back, staring up at Prowl. Hunter can see the familiar glint in the man's eye, the oddball grin tugging at his features.
"—to let you know that I am not authorized to communicate," he says.
Prowl, his face completely blank, says, "And yet, here you are."
"To let you know that I can't," Simmons says.
Prowl stares. Simmons rocks back on his heels.
"Prowl," Ratchet says. "Or you, the human. I don't care. I need in there. Now."
Simmons eyebrows lift. He leans to the side to look past Prowl's legs to the tent. Then he turns to Hunter.
"This is your show, kid," he says.
"Yeah, yeah," Hunter says. He runs a hand down his face. "Deniability. I got it. Ratchet, can you just cut through it?"
Ratchet mutters something about "fragging politics." One of his fingers origamis itself into a thin, glowing blade. He doesn't walk over so much as shuffle to the side. A few, quick swipes and the canvas siding starts to flutter down.
Prowl and Bumblebee both edge to the side to give him room, coming to a stop next to Hunter, beneath the tree. Bumblebee keeps looking over, but he doesn't say anything.
"Deniability?" Prowl says. He watches Hunter from the corner of his eye, his face turned toward Ratchet.
"We thought it best," Hunter says. "That way Simmons doesn't get into trouble and none of his bosses can pitch a fit."
Prowl doesn't say anything for a minute. Ratchet peels back the ceiling of the tent.
"Yes," Prowl says. "That would be best."
He kind of twitches. Hunter almost doesn't see it and it takes even longer for him to recognize it.
Was that… did he almost smile?
It's gone before he can tell.
Ratchet lets out a hiss of Cybertronian. Hunter understands some of it. They're swear words.
The tent lies open, the siding lying in piles around the edges. Inside, the heap of metal glints in the morning sunlight. Ratchet sits back on his heels and swears again.
"What in the name of Primus did that moron do?" he says.
So, there's only one more chapter left, which I'm going to post on Monday before I begin my Epic Road Trip (that way, if I get sideswiped by a semi and my car bursts into a ball of fire, I won't leave this thing uncompleted). Thank you Starfire and lildevchick for hanging in there this long. Thank you KayDeeBlu for slogging through this whole thing.
Last chapter: It's Okay