Bumblebee knew this dream well.
It had no beginning. He would manifest in medias res, driving endlessly across Cybertron's rounded surface—lost in a haze of computations geared towards the cleaning and clearing of bad-data and self-inflicted malware. He would be content, high even, amid the mountains of binary that formed the building blocks of his psyche. But then came the creeping fear. Then came the anxiety that in this dream-like state during stasis there was something in there with him.
He never did get around to assuaging himself of such thoughts before Cybertron's night sky would shatter into several geometric fragments, each bladed and stained with violet, and collapsing onto him. Into him. With each cut across his small frame (and he felt very small indeed), he relives another harrowing moment in his life. The silhouette of Megatron watches him from across the numerical streets, crimson optics pressing against his spark-casing, searing into his soul. Caressing it. But this was not the legendary figure older Autobots would speak of in hushed whispers, but the real historical slag-maker that had built the Decepticons up before martyring himself in space.
A flash of light and he's back in Tyger Pax, being torn into by those dark grey servos.
Another flash and the shadows of Decepticons (or were they Autobots?) sit in judgement over him—tall, looming and Dracula-like.
Another and he watches in horror as the big three: Starscream, Soundwave, and Shockwave, lead a united squadron into one of the last Autobot strongholds on the planet.
He tries to accelerate away, but finds he's on foot now, unable to transform and trudging through molten metal. He must have fallen into a smelting pool. Of course. This must have been Polyhex. Except he's not supposed to be in Polyhex, he's supposed to be on Earth. He's supposed to be protecting it. What would Optimus think to have seen him so far from his assigned mission? He needed to find a way back.
But it's too late! He sees Optimus standing on the other side of a chasm, but he's out of focus and blurring around the edges. He flickers time and again, his movements looping like a glitching holographic image. He is trying to speak to him, but his words sound like they are being spoken from another room. He was repeating something, growing more frustrated with each repetition.
"What do you want from me?"
Optimus mumbles something. His face an indecipherable blur. Head and limbs flickering in and out of existence around a rotten torso.
"Boss-bot, please—you need to tell me what to do!"
Before Bumblebee can defuse his melted ankles and drag himself closer, the Optimus-thing melts away, and what Bumblebee felt before—that other presence—that thing that was watching is now all around him.
He turns around, and what he sees is no demon, or boogeyman, but a hellscape. He was not wading through metal. He was wading through a fleshy conglomerate, sweating and shedding, and oozing. The human race. This was Earth, and he had failed. A million bloodshot eyes opened at once across the steaming pink and brown surface and stared at the Autobot.
Bumblebee screamed.
His airbag went off in Charlie's face. She woke with a start, her exclamations muffled into soft yellow pillows plastered with Autobot sigils. Shaking off the post-stasis haze, Bumblebee manually deflated his airbags and grappled with his sense of reality.
He realized he had been very lightly accelerating into a bristlecone pine tree, his wheels spinning uselessly against the red earthen sands. They were in the Nevada desert. The Great Basin, under a bright sea of stars. It was coming back to him now. This was not Cybertron. This was 1987 Earth. This was real. He put himself into park.
"You okay, Charlie?"
Her eyes were only half open, but he could sense her heart racing. "I'm fine, your hilariously on-brand airbags seemed to have done the trick." She seemed like she wanted to go back to sleeping in his driver's seat, but instead tightened her blanket around herself and sat up. "You were sleep-driving again."
"Oh," he said, sheepish. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"No, no."
"You're absolutely sure? Your neck's still attached to your torso and everything?"
"I don't think I'd still be alive if it wasn't. But no, Bumblebee, I'm fine. Just a little shaken up I guess."
"Well, okay," a pause. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth." The apology was genuine, but it didn't sound like it. He was still recovering from his post-stasis haze and was trying to wean off the aching sensation of having essentially body-checked a tree.
"It's not your fault. It's not like it was on purpose or anything." She started folding away his deflated airbags. The maudlin Autobot face-symbols now scrunched up and droopy from the creases, as if they had been eating sour candy. "For a second there I thought we were under attack."
"Attack?" He tried to laugh off the notion, but it sounded hollow. Noting the silence, he added "We're not going to be attacked. I know I told you before we went off-grid that we needed to be careful, but I don't really give off a traceable energy signature. Too small. Besides, there's no one around for miles. So… that's it. We're off the grid. We're safe."
She leaned against his wheel and settled her cheek into the crutch of her arm. "I know, Bee. I just thought— well, I keep thinking about those guys from Sector Seven. I kept seeing them standing in driveways and on street corners while we were still in Cali."
"Relax," he reversed slightly. Surrounding them were miles of sand and shrubs, with the odd bristlecone pine sprinkled across the horizon. "If they were on our case then we would have caught sight of them by now. Besides, if they did show up, I could just, you know— I would just dunk on 'em."
She smiled slightly at this and yawned. "Yeah. Yeah, I know you would, scrappy."
"They take one look at me in robot-mode and they'll do that thing you humans do when you get really scared. You know what I mean."
"I actually have zero clue what you're talking about."
"You guys have one for everything. A physical response I mean. When you're sad you cry, when you get, like, really focused on something you sweat. When you get scared you…?"
"Piss ourselves?"
Bumblebee was aghast. "No! What?! That's horrible! Do humans really do that when you're— oh Primus, please tell me you didn't do that just now while I was—"
"No! Bee, look, I'm trying to be serious here. What if they did follow us out here? Or what if they're waiting for us in Detroit?"
Bumblebee knew their odds. "Well, if they did try to follow us out here," he still refused to give them to her, "they'd certainly have a lot of desert to cover. And if they didn't bother us in public before then I don't see how Detroit would be any different."
She sighed and curled up in Bumblebee's driver's seat. "Alright, fine. I trust you. Listen, I'm exhausted. Can you put Asleep back on?"
"Alright, alright." He shifted uncomfortably. Was this her way of shutting him up? Having him use the radio for music so he wouldn't be able to speak through it in his usual pastiche of lyrics and field recordings? No. He was ashamed to have had to remind himself. Charlie isn't like that. "Does it have to be Asleep?"
"Please? You know it's the only song I can, well, sleep to."
"Every night, though."
"It's a good song, Bumblebee."
"Every night, though."
She sat up, staring at his dashboard pleadingly. Bumblebee wondered if that's where she thought his eyes ended up in vehicle mode (it wasn't). She did seem exhausted.
Bumblebee rarely found himself having to make tough choices. He had been career-focused all his life—making the most of what his minibot-class frame had to offer through dedication to the cause and loyalty to his commanding officers. He never considered an alternative to the life he had been given. Not after Megatron and his subsequent abandonment of the planet. Not after the defiling of Vector Sigma and the resulting sterility crisis. Not even after the humans—the Sector Seven organization, rather— hunted him across an alien continent, intent on killing and dissecting him despite all he had done to protect the human race. It wasn't until this teenage girl took him in and rebuilt him in her garage, and showed him her silly but lovely music, and took him out for drives, and put herself at risk with the law, and the Decepticons, to protect him, did he first find himself reconsidering his priorities. He remembered laughing to himself in those early, foggy days in the garage. Unable to believe for a second that a human—this race of testosterone and dopamine-fueled warmongers and pathological hunters—would ever do something out of the goodness of their hearts. He was wrong.
He wished to stay with the girl.
Abandoning the mission was out of the question. He knew that if he had, it would mean disaster for the world he was to be guardian of. Perhaps he was overrating himself and his relevance in the greater conflict. But the Decepticons were here, and he had made a vow to protect this planet from them so that Autobot and human alike could thrive.
When it came to choosing between the mission and Charlie, he opted for both. Charlie agreed without hesitation. Brighton Falls had been crawling with Sector Seven agents ever since his presence had been revealed. The agents they had dealt with previously was but one branch of this Nation-wide organization. It had been generally understood around the community that the Watsons were hoarding Government military property (hah) and refusing to give it up. The so-called support Sector Seven intended to give the family following the incident with the Decepticons was smothering at best and abusive at worst. Charlie knew it was her they wanted. She knew more about Bumblebee and why he was here than anyone. Sector Seven wanted what she had. Her family had nothing to do with it.
On the flip-side, Bumblebee found he could justify having her along for the mission if it meant she could provide palpable assistance to the Autobot cause. Forming an alliance with the humans was technically on the docket—he had just done so a few decades earlier than planned. And he did need her help. If what he suspected the Decepticons were up to was true, then a human collaborator was going to be necessary for his work.
It didn't matter in the end. Regardless of his mission, regardless his own sense of loneliness, he was repaying Charlie's assistance with probable death. Perhaps he was putting her in danger for selfish reasons. But he needed her.
"It doesn't even have a bass drop," he said.
"Of course, there's no drop," she fumed, "It's The Smiths!"
The construction of Sumdac Tower in 1937 sparked the intrigue of Detroit's rapidly expanding population. While some feared the project would only waste the city's funds during a period of economic instability, reassurances had been made that the tower was a government funded investment designed to streamline the production of innovative technologies for the years to come.
"It's going to be big," stated former actor turned Mayor of Detroit, Michigan Harold Edsel, "This tower is going to be our first great leap towards turning Detroit into the heart of automotive and technological innovation in America. Big, big things are happening. I can't say much yet but mark my words. Big things are coming."
Many were shocked, however, to discover that the first step in developing such a tower would involve a massive drill tunnelling an indescribably deep chasm into the center of the city. Panic ensued, and little could calm the nerves of Detroit's rapidly paranoid populace. There had been talk of the city trying to dig a portal to hell. Others joked that the city was attempting to dig a hole big enough to bury all of Mayor Edsel's various scandals. When questioned what the point was to implement so many basement levels considering the tower's already substantive projected height, architect George R. Apple responded with a shrug and five-word statement: "Big things require big spaces."
Rumours spread during the construction process. Rumours of strange men diverting city-goers towards alternative routes away from the site. Of these same men loading massive machine parts into its underbelly in the dead of night before disappearing in the day.
"They weren't unloading machinery," stated one elderly witness. "I was lucky enough to be an engineer during the depression and what they were loading into that foundation had no place in any manufacturing plant I had ever seen. They resembled severed body parts more than they did any type of machine."
The company responsible for the overseeing of Sumdac Tower—Sumdac Systems, wowed the world long before the tower's completion. Remote controlled construction droids now joined the various engineers working day and night to build the tower. For many, this was seen as the first step towards the fabled utopian "World of Tomorrow" that had only been dreamed of at New York's World Fair a year prior. For others it was a drastic, terrifying change amid a century that was already seeing huge technological leaps. It had seemed that the passage of time had become well and truly apathetic towards the average human attention span.
In 1941, upon the United States formal involvement in the Second World War, Sumdac Systems received great sums to provide the military with the edge required to overcome the Germans' own Panzer-Giganten. While the extent to which these technological developments were implemented was never made public, many would deem the famous Walther Antimatter Death Ray, in addition to its wielder, The Megaman: a machine nicknamed "Joey Slick" by the few soldiers who had seen it in action, as one of the key weapons that won the Allies the war.
The wars provided a subsequent kick-start for the development of robotics and harnessing of antimatter technology. Surgical androids saved the lives of thousands following the conflict. Mechanical prosthetics replaced missing limbs and would later become fashion statements among the lower classes. Once purely theoretical concepts such as sub-space and mass-displacement had become tangible goals for the modern scientist to strive for. Perhaps most controversially, handheld Death Rays had become commonplace among law enforcement agencies across the country. And while the projected increase in jobs never came to fruition, in sharing its technology with its allies, the United States of America, and Sumdac Systems by proxy, became rich beyond measure.
While Sumdac Systems ensures the public that it no longer supplies weapons or technologies to the United States Department of Defense, there have still been reports of the legendary Megaman traversing battlefields and engaging in conflicts relevant to American interests.
- From The World of Tomorrow Today: a Documentary.
Sponsored by Biotech Unbound.
They didn't sleep much that night, but when day broke Bumblebee started his engine, Charlie used the washroom (behind a rock), and the pair carried on their pilgrimage across the Nevada desert. They were, despite Bumblebee's reassurances, very much exposed during the day.
"I don't know what to tell you," Bumblebee said, driving over a large clump of dirt and causing Charlie to bounce. "The Talking Heads? I just don't get them at all."
"They brought African polyrhythms and funk to the post-punk genre—" Charlie paused to bite into one of the several gas-station sandwiches they had stashed into Bumblebee's trunk. "Everyone and their aunt considers David Byrne is a new-wave genius."
"New-wave penis, more like," Bumblebee said, turning Charlie's own brand of material against her. She gasped audibly at this, unable to believe her Bumblebee had said this. It made Bumblebee chuckle. "And that video where the guy keeps bending over with all those copies of himself. I mean what even was that?"
She folded her arms around herself in defiance, "It's supposed to be artistic."
"You can't just say it's artistic as if that alone explains those funky bending dudes. This 'Letting days go by' stuff and—and other stuff about water doing weird things. I just don't know where to even begin with that."
She chugged her Dasani to wash down her crappy ham sandwich and shook her fist at the dashboard. "First you diss The Smiths and now this! You know, I'm beginning to question whether Cybertronian music is even all that to begin with."
"Nah, we…" Bumblebee tried to think of music he might have listened to from Cybertron. He couldn't think of anything specific. He vaguely remembered a communications officer working in Polyhex who showed him some old pre-war tapes, but by and large Earth music was the first music he had bothered to really listen to. "We have something kind of like Rock-and-Roll actually. But we call it… shoot, what's a good translation…? Apocalypse and Roll? Dying and Rolling?"
She tilted her head to the side, "Okay fine, those do sound pretty metal. Which is... fitting, I guess."
"It 'sounds' completely different from metal, but I'd say it's more or less culturally analogous to 'rock'n'roll'."
"You know, there are some people out there that think metal and rock'n'roll are products of the devil. Personally, I think aliens came up with them, so—"
"Ragnarök and Roll!" Bumblebee honked his horn ecstatically. "That's the one! That's what we call it."
"Okay," Charlie crumpled the plastic water bottle and tossed it into a black garbage bag with the rest. "Judging from the name alone, Ragnarök and Roll might be the most metal music genre to ever exist. I have no idea how you even translated that, but I don't really care. What does it even sound like?"
"It sounds kind of like…" Dust kicked up under Bumblebee's wheels as he tried to remember, "Kind of like: doot-do-doot-doooooo… bum-bum-bum-bum… bwaaaaaaahhh— kind of like that. But with completely different instruments. And… and sounds, yeah."
She clapped with mock enthusiasm. "Wow. I don't think I've ever been so wrong in my life. Talking Heads doesn't have anything on what you guys have been cooking up."
"Well, I haven't heard it in a while. Besides, I don't hate all human music. I like Nick Cave. Swans, too."
"You 'get' Swans but not Talking Heads?!"
Two men sat in adjacent bathroom stalls in some cheap downtown San Francisco restaurant and bar. They entered separately. One carried a briefcase and wore a cheap suit. The other wore headphones and a hoodie.
"Some weather we've been having."
"All sectors seem even to me."
The code-phrase was accepted, and the suited man's briefcase opened. The man pulled out several crumpled papers and passed them under the stall to the other. The hooded man accepted the paper-ball and unfolded it.
"Followed?" asked the suited man.
"Obviously not."
"This business in the Persian Gulf seems a little extreme, don't you think?"
"There is nothing 'extreme' about fighting in service to God and Country."
"If you ever heard that thing speak then you would know it has no connection to either of those things."
"It's been docile for almost a century now. If it had any reservations about serving us it… hm."
"Go on, say it."
"Well, I would think none of us would still be around to discuss such implications. I'm curious about this "first contact" business in California. Quite the momentous occasion for your branch."
"We sent our report."
"You sent me the abridged version."
"They were here for NBE-2," said the suited man. "According to them the NBE we've been chasing is some kind of terrorist or serial killer— by their standards at least."
"They're machines."
"I'm not disagreeing, I'm just relaying what they told us."
"Continue, then."
"We collaborated with NBE-42 and NBE-43 to capture and contain it. They provided us with technology that advanced the development of our "World Wide Web" by decades—
as a result it only took us a matter of hours to track it down."
The suited man stopped speaking as the doors to the public restroom opened and a third man entered. The man took a piss in the urinal, whistling to himself. He walked out without washing his hands.
The suited man continued, "We're still considering whether to introduce the beta-version to Sumdac for public dispersal."
"We'll discuss it. Now, the fact that you currently don't have NBE-2 in your possession means something clearly went wrong."
"There would appear to have been a kernel of truth in what the NBEs were saying, despite everything else they tried to pull."
"What do you mean?"
"NBE-2 had slain them both before fleeing the state."
"The bodies?"
"Barely worth scavenging. NBE-2 had basically eviscerated them. We have their heads stuffed in cryo but no way of reactivating their 'brains'."
"And where is NBE-2 now?"
"Last spotted exiting California and escaping into the Great Basin with a human hostage. We've deployed the circuit breakers to intercept."
"Perfect."
"Is that all you wanted to know?"
"42 and 43. Did they give off any indication that they might have been… aware?"
"Of the others? No, it seems they came here exclusively for NBE-2. And before you ask, no, we're confident they are not the same ones we believe to be hiding in orbit. We launched a test-probe to see if the results would be any different with 42 and 43 out of the picture."
"And it was shot down."
"Like the rest, correct."
The toilet flushed, and with it the documents in the hooded man's possession. "Thank you for your report, Agent Powers and good hunting. We won't be meeting like this again."
"I still think we'd be more successful if you Nevada boys provided us access to—"
"No. No! For the last time, NBE-1 will not be deployed on U.S. soil. Do I make myself clear?"
They spent much of their daytime drives talking like this. At times stopping by the wayside to stretch their legs. Other times just sitting in silence, aware of a shared, unspoken need to be mentally alone. Taking in the hum of Bumblebee's engine and watching as the scenery passed them by. The better Bumblebee got at speaking through his radio and audio recordings the less time they spent "talking" it seemed. Things were different now that he had his voice. Complicated concepts could be shared, but often weren't.
By dusk they would scan the area for materials to build a bonfire. While it was warmer for Charlie to remain inside Bumblebee, the novelty helped break the days apart. Even if they had run out of marshmallows on day 2. Bumblebee was surprised by how little Charlie would ask about Cybertron or the war. Maybe she was afraid doing so would be too intrusive. But every once in a while, she would ask something along the lines of:
"How far away is Cybertron, anyway?"
Cybertron. Last known galactic co-ordinates: orbiting Proxima Centauri of the Alpha Centauri Star System. Current predicted galactic co-ordinates post-Project Dreadnought Engine Test 50341: approximately half a light year away from the Alpha Centauri system on a collision-course with the Sol Oort Cloud. Projections may vary.
Bumblebee frowned at their bonfire. It was small, but it still gave off warmth. "Even if I knew, I'm not sure I'd be able to tell you."
Charlie had been poking at the fire with a large stick she had snapped off a tree. "Why not? Is that some kind of highly classified Autobot spy-secret or something?"
"It has to do with our codes of interplanetary conflict. There are all these accords in place to protect the planet from potential extraterrestrial…" he was about to explain, but then thought better of it. "…well, it's complicated."
"Hm," she nodded thoughtfully, but seemed dissatisfied by his response. Bumblebee couldn't discern from her expression whether it was because he was refusing to share information or if she was simply processing his reference to other extraterrestrials. "So, you don't know where your planet is, then."
"It's technically a rogue planet now," he explained, pausing to check on the dust-storm that had been manifesting in the distance. It was away from them, and he had already calculated that its trajectory wouldn't pose a problem. "No star, no orbit. Just kind of floating around up there. It's a long story, but at one point the Decepticons wanted to turn Cybertron into this massive planet-sized dreadnought, but they only got as far as moving the planet out of our parent star's orbit before resources for the project dried up. We don't really have days or nights there anymore, but we're also kind of impossible to map. Which is good since it keeps us more or less hidden by extraterrestrial threats."
"That's kind of sad."
"Right? Project Dreadnought was doomed from the start: the surface would have become totally unlivable, and that doesn't even account for how you would even steer the damn thing without totally gutting the planet's—"
"I mean it's sad that your planet doesn't get daytime anymore."
"Oh," he considered it. Proxima Centauri never gave off that much light, and there were far worse things that had been done to the planet in the years since its exile from the sun.
"I guess you're right."
"Do you miss it?"
Bumblebee sat up, the question took him off-guard, "What like… am I homesick?"
"Sure, yeah."
He laid on his back with his head next to the fire, listening to it crackle. He watched the stars for movement. A sign. Just in case. "I miss my friends."
Liar. A voice said in the back of his head. What friends? Who would care about you?
B-039? Dead. B-110? Smelted. B-019? Tortured to death. To death! When are you going to sacrifice yourself like they did, B-127? When are you going to live up to their example?
He shook off these intrusive thoughts and decided to answer her honestly. "But it's like I said before. When your planet is run by a military state dedicated to killing off what's left of your kind, it can be kind of a difficult place to miss."
"I see," Charlie was leaning against him now. Blanket wrapped around her. The tip of her poking-stick burned as she lifted it out of the fire and examined it. "I'm sorry. I genuinely can't begin to imagine."
"Don't be, it's not like Earth is without its own brand of displaced peoples," Bumblebee wanted to convince her in some way that it was okay. But he couldn't just blatantly lie to her like that, so instead, decided to shift the focus away from himself, "What about you? We've been away from Brighton Falls for… well, for some time now." He was aware he was sounding grim. It was because he was afraid of how she'd answer. "Are you homesick?"
Charlie watched the flame on her stick sparkle against the night sky. "I miss home. I mean yeah, of course I do. I miss Otis and Mom. And Memo. I even miss Uncle Hank." She lowered her poking stick back into the fire and leaned closer to Bumblebee, who was now sitting up cross-legged, listening to her attentively. "But there's a lot I don't miss as well," she said, trying to sound reassuring. "Like some of the… well most of the people actually."
"You know if you ever wanted to go back—"
She shook her head. "To be honest a road trip across the country and away from it all is exactly what I need." She glanced to her right. The dust-storm was kicking up in the distance. It was still far enough away that she needn't worry about it intercepting them, but its rumbling had gotten louder. "The weather, not so much. Actually, I think being out here has given me a greater appreciation for certain things."
"Like civilization?"
"No. God no. Anything but. Civilization, or what passes for it nowadays, is terrifying. Brighton Falls is one thing, but Detroit?" She tightened her blanket around her and anxiously returned to her poking-stick. "All those body-modded people—and those skyscrapers! It's not the kind of place I'm used to being in, Bee."
"Charlie, I'm serious." He leaned over so he could face her eye to optic. "This isn't a kidnapping. You tell me you want to go back then we go back. No questions asked. You don't need to come with me to Detroit."
At 0800 hours the navigator of the Iranian Vessel Jumal informed his captain of the arrival of the USS Bridgerton, flanked by a Kuwaiti oil tanker. The Iranian Navy were well aware of the United States dipping their toes into their war with the Iraqis, so the appearance of the vessel on their radar was of little surprise to them. The Americans had declared over a year ago that their involvement in the Iranian Exclusionary Zone would be for the "protection" of Kuwait tankers across the Persian Gulf, though the Iranians were well aware that this was American code for "we are going to support the Iraqis and ruin everything".
At 0801 hours contact with the Bridgerton was attempted but no response was given. The Iranian navigator checked the radar and noted that the Bridgerton wasn't moving and had indeed remained on the periphery of the exclusionary zone.
At 0900 hours one of the helmsmen aboard the Jumal began to experience what appeared to be an acute psychotic episode. After the crew had sat him down and forced him to drink some water, he relayed what he had seen. He stated that draped off the side of the Bridgerton was some kind of steel monster. It was staring at them. Crimson eyes piercing through the fog. Its grey body slouching off the side of the ship as it dipped its feet gingerly in the water. Upon commandeering the spyglass, the Captain managed to spot the metal titan just as it disappeared under the waves. It had been the first confirmed sighting of the Americans' "Megaman" since the Vietnam War. Radar indicated there was now a "submarine" sitting dormant next to the tanker.
At 0910 hours the captain declared to the crew: "The Americans have sent their shackled demon to intimidate us. They will not. If they are to cross into the exclusionary zone, then we will open fire."
At 0940 hours, the Bridgerton, the Kuwaiti tanker, and the Americans' pet demon had advanced into the exclusionary zone. The captain ordered the firing of three Exocet missiles, however upon further advisory from his senior officer, it was agreed that the Iranian Navy be informed of the incursion before direct action was taken.
At 1020 hours the captain received a new set of orders. Crack open the Pearl of Bahoudin and destroy the Americans' greatest asset using Iran's own extraterrestrial weapon of mass destruction. Further protests were offered by the crew members, however, as it had been understood that the Pearl would not only drown everyone on board, but also jeopardize the climate of the gulf and its northern coast for decades to come. Alternatives included activating the experimental anti-grav technology on board in order to reposition the ship overhead, providing them with an aerial advantage should they come to blows. The navigator quickly dismissed the notion, claiming that the demon would be upon them long before they'd manage to get airborne. The size of its monstrous arm-cannon was also discussed.
At 1040 hours, the American "submarine" increased its heading towards the Jumal prompting the captain to order the activation of the Pearl.
At 1050 hours a mutiny occurred aboard the ship resulting in the incarceration of the captain and his first lieutenant. A final warning is provided to the Americans before seven Exocet missiles are fired at the submarine's location.
At 1053 hours visual of the submarine is lost.
At 1054 hours the navigator peers out the side-view window and finds himself face-to-face with the Devil. His last recorded words are a declaration that the machine's "eyes" were caressing his soul.
At 1055 hours the Jumal and its crew are incinerated by what the crew aboard USS Bridgerton would later describe as "the most destructive antimatter beam" they had ever witnessed.
At 1069 hours, the Jumal is reduced to a charred and molten hunk of twisting metal. It is compared to that of an overcooked piece of meat by the crewmen aboard the Kuwaiti vessel.
At 1073 hours the last crewman of the Jumal perishes.
At 1100 hours the Pearl of Bahoudin is recovered by the Americans.
At 1175 hours NBE-1 proceeded to destroy three Iranian oil rigs in further retaliation before reconvening with the USS Bridgerton and completing its escort of the tanker to the Iraqi port.
"Yes, I do." Charlie was frowning at him now, as if he was talking smack about one of her favourite bands again. "You need my help, and this is my planet that's at stake as much as it is yours. I live here. I want to do what I can to make sure it doesn't get blown up, or whatever."
He cupped his palms and gestured towards her as if presenting her with an offering, "I could think up a new plan. I'm an espionage agent, remember? Coming up with sneaky plans is basically my whole thing next to being yellow."
She raised her poking stick and held the burning tip up towards Bumblebee's faceplate. The flames reflecting off its silver surface. "If the Decepticons are sharing technology with Detroit's tech companies then you need a human to investigate. Being a car won't get you anywhere."
"Charlie, that's literally what cars are for."
"No, I mean being the size of a car won't get you into the buildings necessary to get you…" she tossed her poking stick aside. It landed adjacent to the bonfire where its flame flickered feebly against the sand. "Well, you get the idea. The point is I want to protect the planet with you. I'm scared sure, but I also get to feel like myself when I'm with you." Her eyes were becoming moist. "And that makes me happy. With you, I am happy."
Bumblebee didn't feel nearly as relieved by this as he thought he would. He was only reminded of the danger the city posed for them. But there was still some relief. He didn't really have a plan for Detroit without Charlie. And beyond all of that—beyond the mission, and the guilt, and the paranoia— hearing Charlie say she was happy made his spark soar. "Listen, if we are really doing this, then you need to know something. I don't think the Decepticons are here for the same reasons the last ones were. I think they're here to—"
Charlie jumped to her feet and backed herself into Bumblebee's thigh, her eyes locked on something at the other side of the bonfire. "Shit!"
Instinct overtook Bumblebee's processor as he shifted into a defensive stance. His faceplate dropping down with a shink. "What?!"
She pointed across the bonfire. The flaming tip of her poking-stick had illuminated a new patch of the darkness around them, exposing something. It was standing only a few feet away from them.
It was the silhouette of a naked man. Still and statue-like. Staring at them. They couldn't make out any features and could only really discern from his build that he was a male between his mid-thirties and early-forties. Even as the length of the flame's light reached his feet, no further details emerged. He was pitch-black. Like a human-shaped hole in the world.
Bumblebee crept towards him slowly. In his head he was activating an energy-scan, shocked that his olfactory sensors didn't detect anything. The storm must have been interfering with his sensors. "He's wearing some kind of skin-tight morph-suit. Light-bending tech, I think. Either that or shadow-people exist, I guess."
Charlie kept close as they advanced towards the man, hand touching the side of Bee's leg. "How long has he been standing there?"
"We don't want any trouble, friend." Bumblebee kept one servo lowered to shield Charlie and the other extended peacefully at the man-shaped void. Peace might have been an option. "I hate to say it, but you can't tell anyone about what you're seeing right now. If you do…" he gestured to Charlie, "my friend here is going to have to run you over with her car."
Scan complete:
Twenty-seven electric-based energy signatures detected within a 2km radius.
"Frag!" Bumblebee activated his headlights and immediately wished he didn't.
They were surrounded by over twenty men in identical pitch-black morph suits, standing meters from their bonfire in a ritualistic circle.
Charlie covered her mouth, "Oh God, they did follow us!"
Bumblebee shifted into alt-mode and swung the door to his driver's seat open: "In. Now!"
She complied, and Bumblebee's wheels spun against the sand. The lack of traction cost him. As if a switch had been flicked, the twenty-seven men ceased their silent vigil and broke into an insane flat-handed sprint towards the Camaro.
Before he could switch gears, Bumblebee experienced what felt like a dozen bags of meat smacking into his frame at mach speeds. Dozens of hands grabbed and groped at his vehicle mode as warm bodies climbed on top of him and tugged at the handles to his car-doors in a violent attempt to tear their way inside.