The Human Stain: Chapter 6

Would you mind if I killed you?
Would you mind if I tried to
Cause you have turned into my worst enemy?
You carry hate that I feel
It's over now
What have you done

- Within Temptation, What Have You Done

Warning: Some sexual references in this chapter, nothing too heavy.
The Pentagon, Washington D.C.
The man in the leather executive chair swung away from his desk, his brow deeply etched with worry.

He held one hand to his face, pinching either side of his jaw between a thumb and forefinger as he read the stapled report contained in his opposite appendage. Deep in thought, he did not notice the soft knock on the door across the room.

The knock repeated itself, a bit louder, and the man raised his head.

"Come in," he invited with a deep baritone.

"General, I have more news." The oak door fell away, revealing a middle-aged man on the other side. He wore the trappings of the military, from the buzz cut down to the black boots that were currently carrying him across the expansive office.

"What now?" the older man questioned, rising from his chair with a grunt. His moustache twitched, perhaps in annoyance, but he waited for the younger male to speak before betraying his thoughts.

"It… you have to see this for yourself." Urgency hedged the man's voice, and he gave his superior a daunted look before producing a small memory stick from his front pocket.

"It's bad."

"Show me."

The younger man nodded, and padded across the expensive carpet to a digital projector mounted along the far wall. The lighting in the office was dim, matching with the traditional English furnishings – the cherry wood box panels on the walls, the Ottoman in the left corner – all of it seemed at odds with the self-propelled projector screen that slid out of a panel in the ceiling overhead.

General Richardson was a decorated four-star General currently in charge of the country's defense as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He directly advised the president in all military matters. The man that busied himself with the setting up the screen was Lieutenant General Meyers, an advisor himself to General Richardson.

Meyers inserted the memory stick into the digital movie projector's USB port, and then flicked off the lights. The room fell into complete darkness, interrupted only by the dim line of light from beneath the heavy wooden door leading to the hallway.

As the video started, General Richardson found himself pinching his jaw again. Tiny pictures reflected off his wide eyes from under the glow of the projector screen.

The scene that unfolded was reminiscent of the events that had escalated in Mission City. That whole Mission City business had been an embarrassment to the Armed Forces of the United States, really – all the way down to the lowliest private. Being gob smacked by alien entities was not in the charts for that year, or for any year, and it had shown in their preparedness. The civilians of Mission City had seen the NBE's – Non Biological Entities - up close and personal, and it was reeking of Roswell already. The damage had been quite extensive to the downtown area, and the cover up was thin at best. Convincing the citizens that it was nothing more than an erroneous training mission for new government technology nearly resulted in rioting. There had been eyewitnesses, people who had seen, heard, and captured it on cell phone cameras. There had even been a damn professional photographer there at the time snapping pictures that were later found circulating on the Internet. Citizens refused to listen, and had picketed outside of government offices nationwide. The Pentagon had seen the greatest crowd of all, and would have undoubtedly incurred the wrath of unruly masses had it not been surrounded by a well-guarded perimeter.

The media both participated with and acted against the government. CNN reported exactly what the White House released, but Internet bloggers and other independent media sources told another story. While conglomerate media outlets lulled the majority of the American public into a semblance of false security by adamantly shooting down reports of extraterrestrials, the uncontrollable private sector had flourished with tales of alien life. Berkeley liberals were in solid agreement with the artists in Greenwich Village, and even the flyover states had their fair share of believers.

The new technology was highly confidential, the government had claimed. They were test suits, with human pilots inside. The appearance of these new 'super soldier suits', as they were termed, was a grave error on the government's part. The coordinates given to the pilots were quite wrong, resulting in Mission City's demolition. The correct coordinates that would have left citizens out of danger during the 'training', which was really meant to be thirty miles south of the city, in a patch of undeveloped desert that held no inhabitants. The pilots of the suits had merely gotten out of control with one another, tempers flared, and they lost track of their location while sparring. Such things did happen – and to make up for it, all pilots involved in the incident had been suspended indefinitely.

"I apologize deeply for the losses to Mission City," the president had said, while being filmed shortly after the disaster. "Be glad to know that your country is so far ahead in its defense capabilities. The public was not meant to know, but now that you do, I hope you feel that national security is a paramount concern under this administration."

The gathered crowd had burst into approving applause.

That was two months ago. They mayor was given a hefty paycheck to nod and smile with this explanation, and all business owners within the city were also compensated fiscally for the damage their businesses took during the ensuing chaos. Any extra grievances were handled in much the same manner.

Still, the half-assed cover-up – and it was half-assed, at least in Richardson's opinion - was not at a loss for disbelievers.

The scene flickering past his optic nerves now was shot from space, straight from the Orbiter 2, a satellite launched earlier that year by the United States with the sole purpose of acting as a sentinel for asteroids. It gathered visual data before beaming it back to Earth, where it was then sorted and stored by scientists.

It had recorded something, indeed… several somethings, actually.

They were not asteroids – far from it.

"Dear god," the General said, his words hanging in the air. His mouth was suddenly dry.

They were reminiscent of the balls of fire that had showered the Earth before the Mission City incident, before the arrival of the NBE's. The only difference here was the sheer number.

He and Meyers exchanged glances across the dark room and then whipped their heads back at the video footage. Their mounting fear was palpable, filling the room with an apprehensive energy.

They streamed through space, hundreds, maybe thousands strong. There seemed to be no shortage. They all took the same path, followed the same route, and did not waver in their projections.

They were the transporters for the NBE's, and they were headed for planet Earth.

The aging General wiggled his tongue around in his mouth, trying to work up enough saliva to form words.

"Get me the president," he finally rasped.

"Yes, sir!" Meyers affirmed, making a dive for Richardson's mahogany desk and the phone that perched atop it.

Suddenly, it struck the old General as odd that he was still holding onto the report on Mission City he had been reading before Meyers interrupted. In the shifting and scant lighting, he noticed the paper was the color of old bones.

General Richardson thought of his five-year-old granddaughter in North Carolina. A line of worry, unconscious, unbidden, seeped into his expression.

New bones and old bones together are still bones, and no one is the wiser.

"Sir," Myers cut through his morbid thoughts, "I have him on line two."

The elderly man sighed mentally, and turned for the phone to break the news to the President of the United States.

Needless to say, the second call he made that morning woke up a little girl in North Carolina.

Boulder City, Nevada
Miguel Ramirez was in love.

He had only been in love for five minutes, maybe less, but he was definitely infatuated.

The woman across from him was everything he wanted in a girl. Her black hair was pulled tight across her skull, ending in a long, high ponytail that brushed her ass when she walked. He knew this because he had been paying attention – he had been watching her all night.

It was Monday night at the Broken Spoke, a bar located on the outskirts of Boulder City. It was your typical bar, but catered more to the young single than any other age group. The bar was outfitted to appear as a saloon would in the old west. The décor consisted of various animal heads looking down their noses on the patrons. The floor was composed of scuffed floorboards, and the walls were of the same ilk. Even the restrooms were labeled with their respective titles to keep with the theme: Cowgirls and Cowboys. The music was predictably country with perhaps a Latin song or two, but the live bands were usually good. It had a small dance floor, a pool table, jukebox and other necessary amenities that ensured the patrons kept coming back. The bar was a long counter stretching from one corner of the bar to the other. It was tended to by a variety of bartenders, some of which were young, attractive women.

There was an unofficial rule about hitting on the baristas, however. Crossing the line of indecency was liable to get you kicked to the curb – literally. Joe Rigazio, an Italian man of sketchy origins, was usually the one carrying you out by your collar. He was a burly man in his early thirties who probably spent four hours in the gym each day just to remind guys like Miguel who was in charge. He was pleasant as far as bouncers went if you didn't get on his bad side, and Miguel had made sure that he didn't.

But oh orale, the woman across from him was making him caldufo.

He had started the evening early by downing a few beers, eyes riveted to her the moment she walked through the door. She was alone (and thankfully not a barista), so luck seemed to be with him that night. Her body was curvy, thick in all the right places. Miguel was not attracted to smaller women. If he had been, he might have been more apt to chat up that Anglo he worked with – Claire. She was nice enough, maybe a bit too neurotic for his tastes, but she simply did not have the assets he appreciated in a woman. Furthermore, he was not in the habit of looking at gringas on a whole – he liked his Latinas.

After watching his zaftig goddess strut through the door in her daisy duke cutoffs and fire-engine red tube top, he knew it was too good to be true. He watched the mocha-skinned woman as she ordered herself a shot of tequila, and then he knew she was perfect. Their eyes met from across the counter, and he saw her dark eyes, heavy with mascara, flutter at his person. He watched her turn to survey the contents of the bar, of which there wasn't much, and that's when he noticed her booty.

Por el amor de Dios, he had thought.

He had left the bar, asked her if she would like another drink, and she had acquiesced to his offer with a sultry smile. Her pouty lips were the color of her tube top, and the large hoop earrings dangling from her ears winked at him under the track lighting. It just made her all the more dazzling, in his opinion.

Now, here they were, flirting away and quite buzzed. Miguel broke into English long enough to ask the bartender for another round of drinks, and the two picked up right where they left off. He told her his name, where he worked, and she did the same for him. From what he extracted during their discourse, he found that she too was the daughter of Mexican immigrants. Both had grown up translating between English and Spanish for their parents, which led to friction when they hit their teenaged years. Torn between their family's culture and the commercial culture in which they had been raised, the two found a common understanding of one another. They kept drinking, and their voices rose faster and louder above the music. The current band couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, anyways. He mentioned this to her, and she laughed and nodded.

Miguel dropped his gaze to her chest just as she took a sip of her drink and glanced over her shoulder to the band. A droplet of liquor had skimmed down the side of her glass before falling to the lower part of her chest. It slid in a tantalizing fashion over one of her breasts before dipping out of sight into the recesses of her cleavage.

"Oye!"

Mierda.

She had noticed. His head whipped up so fast he thought he would break his neck in the process. Instead of the angry backlash he expected from being caught ogling her bosom, he was surprised to find he was being rewarded with a winning smile.

"¿A usted le gusta, Señor Ramirez?" she inquired sweetly.

He opened his mouth to reply, but unfortunately never got any further than that.

The windows blew in, followed by a sonic rush of air that preceded a thunderous explosion. Something slashed Miguel across the cheekbone, narrowly missing his left eye. It took a second to realize that it was a shard of glass.

Someone screamed, and the bartender's voice rose over the sudden hysteria. "GET DOWN!"

Miguel didn't have to be told twice. He dropped to all fours, noticing his new acquaintance had done likewise. They both stared at one another from a mere foot away, and both faces lit with shock. Something slick and liquid ran in a rivulet down Miguel's cheek, and he reached up to touch it.

His hand came away, slick and wet with his own blood. The woman, Teresa, saw it too.

He heard her gasp. "What is going on!?" she cried, speaking loudly in English. The switch she made between languages was instinctual, something he understood as a bilingual speaker. When addressing another Spanish speaker, the language of choice was Spanish. When more than one person might possibly have the answer to a question, the language changed to include a broader audience. Everyone within the bar was now involved as a whole unit against an unknown interference, and therefore the mindset of the bilingual speaker adjusted to accommodate that.

The building rocked, and the old groan of wood filled their ears. There was a fire outside, or a fire inside, Miguel could not tell which. A searing heat licked at the bare skin of his arms and face, and he could only imagine Teresa was feeling it tenfold – she was exposed far more than he was.

Ka-Chuck. It was the unmistakable sound of someone loading a gun.

Qué demonios pasa aquí?!, Miguel's mind blared.

It was the bartender. He was standing now, holding an old rifle. He had the firearm pointed at the door, as if he expected someone or something to come barging through.

Shining motes drifted through the air channels, sparkling in the firelight from outside. Miguel recognized them for the danger they were, and clapped a hand over Teresa's mouth. He felt the moist press of her lips against his palm as she shot him a glare and mumbled something unintelligible.

"Try not to breathe and get out of here!" Miguel heard himself say to anyone within earshot. "There's tiny particles of glass in the air right now. You breathe it in, and it'll cut up your insides. Keep low to the floor!"

Some bar patrons murmured their understanding behind the hands that were now covering their mouths, which meant they heard him.

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM.

Something was approaching the building. Something very large and very noisy. Were they under attack? Was it Mission City all over again? A chill ran down Miguel's spine, and he could feel Teresa shudder beneath his hand. He kept his freehand against his mouth, and then took his other back when Teresa supplied her own hand to cover her face. Once this was done, he jerked his head towards the back hallway where the restrooms were located.

There was an exit there; they just had to cross the dance floor to make it.

"AIN'T NOBODY MAKIN A MESS OF MY PLACE!" shouted the bartender, who was still standing behind the polished counter. He had the rifle sighted towards the front door as he hunkered over the scope. Miguel realized that he just might be the owner of the Broken Spoke himself.

The bar was steadily beginning to clear as people crawled along the floor towards rear fire exit. Miguel motioned Teresa along, avoiding broken glass where he could. The temperature within the place was climbing, and he could swear he heard the crack and hiss of flames just beyond the bar's wooden walls.

They were three-fourths of the way to the exit. Teresa had started to cry, making muffled moans as she traversed the dirty floor behind Miguel. Miguel, for his part, tried his best to comfort her. He gave her encouraging looks over his shoulder while verbally coaxing her to continue in Spanish. In that moment, he seemed the hero to Teresa – but in truth Miguel never felt more terrified in his life. He was a first generation American with immigrant parents, and he mixed paint for a living. He could tell you how to strip the paint off your walls and what product to do it with, but he couldn't save anyone's life.

He didn't think so until then, anyway.

The building swayed. It shouldn't have been possible, but it did.

The next thing that happened took both Miguel and Teresa's breath away.

First the building shook, then it rocked, and then it cracked. The sound was sickening. A deep fissure ran along the perimeter of the structure, and then the building was ripped from its foundation. The night air was suddenly upon them all, and they realized that they were inhaling smoke and cinders. A fire had climbed out of a nearby pit, and was currently consuming all the dead grass and scrub surrounding The Broken Spoke.

Miguel heard a gun go off, and someone was making a high keening sound. It was Teresa. Her eyes were on the sky, head knocked back. Miguel could only follow her horrified stare.

If he never saw something so indescribably chilling in his life again, he would consider himself a lucky man.

It stood over thirty feet tall. There were no defining characteristics about it that he could pinpoint, save for the way the brush fires reflected off its body. It seemed to be made of steel, a towering, twisting monstrosity of metal. It held the bar aloft, over its head. Miguel could make out blazing eyes, as red as the hide of El Diablo. Whatever it was, it looked exactly like the things in Mission City. He should know, he saw the cell phone videos on YouTube.

"GET OUT!" A scream tore its way out of Miguel's throat, and suddenly he was pulling Teresa up by her thicker hand. The two scrambled from the bar's foundation, blinded by the swirling smoke that shifted about their bodies. Shadows moved around them, figures of gray – the others.

Miguel knew they had to move. If this was new government technology, the human piloting it had gone haywire. The last thing Miguel had seen while the metal mammoth held the upper section of the bar was the bartender. He was standing against the titan, letting loose round after round. It wasn't even phasing the thing. It was a truly tremendous sight – the tiny dot of a man so swept up in his rage that he burned brightly with a bravado beyond his body.

It was epic, like David and Goliath. If Miguel had been watching the scene before his eyes as a movie, he would have been in awe at the raw magnitude of it. It imprinted itself as an image forever emblazoned in his brain.

He shook his head to rid himself of the mental image. Now was not the time to lose sight of the objective – saving his hide.

Oh, and Teresa's too. She had a rather nice one, and this whole mess would probably score him extra points with her… if they lived.

Miguel and Teresa ran, sprinted even. Teresa was fast for her size, and belied Miguel's expectations.

"Brace yourself!" he yelled. He anticipated the next threat, and hit the ground running once he and Teresa were clear of the property. They found themselves against the incline of a hill, and both dove into the dirt when the world exploded.

It hurt. Not necessarily the auditory challenge it presented – no, that hurt in another way – but the full spectrum was a terrible tangle of smells, sounds, feelings and sights. There was the smell of burning flesh, acrid and pungent. There was the sound that clapped hard against his eardrums, over and over with relentless menace. There was the sensation of incineration if he so much as tried to open his eyes, even a little. Teresa was screaming, but it seemed to him a trifle, nothing quite noteworthy. His senses expounded upon him a rush of things he could not possibly sort through all at once, and therefore his mind simply shut off.

Before he lost consciousness, his mind's eye once more played back the defiant physique of the bartender with his rifle, standing against El Diablo while the fire raged around them. He saw the moment before the metal hellion raised what had once been the bar over his steel cranium.

Miguel remembered the eyes. Oh, Dios, he always would.

The titan had put the building back down in the last second, giving back what he had taken. He had crushed the owner of The Broken Spoke as he slammed the structure back into the Earth. Things imploded, and the man's spirit had fled his mortal coil when bones broke and flesh caught fire.

The man was dead, but Miguel's last, fleeting thought centered on how his bravery would remain ingrained forever in his mind. It would take the revered place of something he could never hope to have.

The man's consciousness abruptly died, and his senses disappeared with it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

A/N: The plot begins to unfold! Sorry for the slow start, I needed to establish the main characters before really going into the larger scheme of things. As many of you probably already noticed, this story leans heavily on the human side of things (hinted at in the title), so it's mainly told through the experience of the humans within it as they interact with the Transformers. More to the point, it's a 'What would your normal, everyday earthlings do' (WWYNEED?) if crossed with the world of the Transformers.

What does Smokescreen have to do with Claire? Why is Claire important, and why did a Decepticon take human form – hers of all people? What will happen now that there are more transporters headed for Earth? What does it all mean!?

Well, you'll see. It'll all make sense as it goes, trust me.

Please R&R if you feel so inclined!

To clear up a few things for the Miguel scene, I'll translate the Spanish slang for you guys:

Orale: This is like saying, 'yeah' in English. It's a slang word for yes.

Caldufo: This is slang for horny, or hot.

Anglo: Standard term for someone with European ancestry, or Anglo-Saxon.

Gringa/Gringo: Spanish term for a white person.

Por el amor de Dios: For the love of God.

Oye: Spanish slang for 'Hey!'.

Mierda: Spanish slang for 'shit'.

¿A usted le gusta, Señor Ramirez?: Polite way of saying, "Is it pleasing to you, Mr. Ramirez?" – spoken formally to tease Miguel.

Qué demonios pasa aquí?!: Spanish for, "What the hell is going on here?!".

El Diablo: The Devil.