Like many other military engagements throughout history, the Raid on Uruk-One was a relatively quick skirmish for a negligible goal. Few were injured and even fewer lost their lives. Without the context of the events surrounding it, one might even be inclined to disregard the battle entirely, consign it to the dustbin of history to be forgotten about. No memorials would be erected to honor the few war dead. No books would be written about the tactical genius of so-and-so, the critical maneuver that doomed the 81st Regiment of such-and-such, the innovative tactics of that one general. All in all, the Raid on Uruk-One was completely unremarkable from both a tactician's perspective and a general's.
But the fact still remained, the crucial one that defined the reason why the Raid turned out to be of any level of significance in the calculus of the cosmos and the interplay of sentient beings.
The Raid on Uruk-One was the first major contact between the humans of Earth and the Transformers of Cybertron. It was the first Cybertronian battle fought on Terran soil, an import from a galactic war of such vast proportions the likes of which had never been experienced by Earth and its inhabitants before. The first time that humans - arguably, a very warlike race themselves - were exposed to what warfare really could be.
And yes, it was a small battle and an even smaller number of humans who actually experienced it. But what occurred in the small city of Coos Bay, Oregon, that breezy spring day would set the tone of life on Earth forevermore and herald a time of chaos and destruction that would determine the fate of both races - human and Cybertronian alike - and then some.
The Raid on Uruk-One is when everything changed. It just took a while to catch on.
The first prong of the Decepticons' attack came from the South in the form of a setup to a bad joke.
A hatchback, a motorcycle, and an off-road Jeep rolled up to Bastendorff Beach.
Not all at once, mind you, each showed up at irregular intervals and parked in a fashion that suggested nothing in the way of their relation to one another. It seemed for all the world like a normal sight, right down to the drivers of the vehicles each moving about of their own accord. They were, quite conveniently, the only ones there at the time - most surfers still hadn't rolled out of bed yet to catch some waves, the stiff spring breeze off the ocean on that particular day discouraged sunbathers, and the last older couple to take a walk along the shore had finished their daily rounds hours before as the sun rose on a new day and night retreated into the Pacific.
Bastendorff Beach was the quintessential shore on the Pacific coast - a gentle slope of fine white sand leading down to a pristine blue sea, with modest whitecaps that promised at least some sort of value later in the day, when high tide hit. For now, it was merely choppy. The view, however, was dominated by the colossal platform far out to sea and the sleek tram system that connected it to the shore. which arced over the beach on its way out.
The motorcyclist, who appeared to be a young woman of Native American descent, removed her helmet in a series of brisk, exact movements, placing it squarely between the handlebars of her steel mount. Her raven-black hair fell straight down to the middle of her back and stayed there, heedless of the strong breeze whipping off the surface of the Pacific Ocean. "Beach is clear," she hissed in a raspy, metallic, masculine voice that couldn't have been more at odds with her physical appearance. "Time is of the essence. We should attack now."
"I'm all with you, Frenzy, but the Bird hasn't finished his sweep just yet. Cool your jets," the muscular young man who'd arrived in the crimson hatchback replied. Rumble had been the first of the three to arrive at Bastendorff Beach, and he was currently using his own burly holomatter avatar to pace back and forth along the shoreline, next to a copse of scrubby bushes, ensuring that they wouldn't be interrupted at a crucial moment by some wayward soul who happened across their staging area. "Speaking of which, Laserbeak, you got anything on your end?"
"There's a bunch of activity around the monorail system," the third and final Cassetticon on the beach that day said. Her own avatar, a redheaded knockout of a woman, was the most natural of the three in physical appearance and seemed to be the most at ease, kneeling as she was on a nearby boulder and using an expensive-looking camera to snap pictures of the distant offshore rig contrasting with the undeveloped tranquility of Bastendorff Beach. "I'm no expert, guys, but if I had to guess, I'd say that this place is about to open for the cycle."
Rumble scowled, one of only two expressions that his avatar's face seemed capable of. His avatar wasn't anywhere near as crudely made as Frenzy's, but had a certain out-of-place stiffness to its movements and simply stood out like a shark in a swimming pool - too well-dressed for the beach in a black bowtie, a black dress vest, and a red dress shirt, too brawny and hard-looking to mingle at any social event conceived by mankind. "Nyeh, that might make our job tougher, huh? 'Ey, Buzzsaw! Hurry the scrap up, we got inbound fleshies an' Megs' deadline is breathin' down our necks!"
I wouldn't expect you to know this as a brutish Demolitions specialist, brother dear, but one does not simply rush quality and precision, the elder Skywing twin sneered over the Cassetticon binary bond. I am categorizing every last point of interest and every weakness this floating hulk has open to exploitation. It's not an easy task, and not one that should be-
"A vehicle is approaching!" Frenzy rasped excitedly, interrupting Buzzsaw. "Can I kill it?"
"Negative, absolutely not! Just look natural," Laserbeak snapped, momentarily distracted from her perfect imitation of an unassuming photographer. Indeed, there was a blue pickup truck rounding the corner, South of the beach. It seemed to be in no particular hurry, but it was definitely headed in the Cassetticons' direction.
Rumble spat out a curse, shifting a few feet towards the shrubs with a grace that belied his avatar's hulking stature. "Figure it's an Autobot, sis?"
An airy scoff sounded over the familial bond. Oh, please. There's no possible way those plebeian scum could mount an organized counterstrike in their position as of late. They're probably still crying over the loss of their two little groundpounding scouts. At most, they've overwhelmed the Photonicons and rescued their friends . . . and we all know how that will go for them!
"Cut back, Buzzsaw. I don't think it's an Autobot, but a native could throw a wrench in our plans as easily as an enemy combatant would. Play it cool, both of you - and keep an optic on it just in case."
The Cassetticons attempted to do so, with varying rates of success. As expected, Frenzy was the worst of the bunch, trembling with bloodlust that could just barely be interpreted as the engine of his motorcycle form idling away. His avatar glared unblinkingly straight ahead, with its head occasionally twitching this way or that - far outside the rotation range of a human head - to track his surroundings.
"Slaggit, mech, you're gonna get us sold out. Control yourself!" his brother rebuked as the suspicious vehicle closed the distance.
"Don't care. I want to kill it."
"You don't even know whether or not it's an Autobot scout, jagoff!"
"Don't care. I want to kill it anyway! Never tasted Terran before . . ."
"Primus, you're certifiable, ain't ya? Hold still, at least!"
The pickup truck finally arrived, captivating the attention of every soul on the beach. A series of agonizing, tense moments ensued as each Decepticon champed at the bit to spring into action if needed. Even Frenzy growled and stilled himself, which had the odd effect of making his avatar absolutely motionless in a way that human beings just couldn't muster. Despite the tension, it seemed that whoever was in the truck - a middle-aged man and his wife, it seemed - didn't notice anything out of the ordinary and continued on their way, around the bend and out of sight.
When they were gone, Frenzy transformed out of reflex and let loose a terrifying howl that even rattled the hardened composite viewscreens in Rumble and Laserbeak's vehicle forms. "I'M DONE WAITING! BUZZSAW! FINISH! NOW!"
Rumble rolled out of his own strangely economical, fuel-efficient hatchback form, and hit his brother with a clean left cross to one of Frenzy's jaws. "What the SLAG are you doing, you IDIOT? Get back undercover!"
The spindly droid hit the ground hard, harder than most Transformers would be able to handle, then flipped over on all six of his delicate limbs like it was no big deal. He made a noise somewhere between a cough, a staticky roar, and a chainsaw stuck in a woodchipper.
"Oh, you did NOT just say that! Not to my face! Take it back, now!"
"ENOUGH!" Laserbeak screeched. She didn't break cover, but her voice effectively cut through the brewing storm between her siblings regardless. "As your superior officer in command of this squad, lug-nuts, I ORDER both of you to transform IMMEDIATELY!"
"Stand up, freak," Rumble growled, dragging Frenzy forward with one hand. He then fell backwards, cuffed Frenzy in the back of the head as his body twisted and contorted, and was unceremoniously replaced with the hatchback once again.
Frenzy's fury was palpable, felt by all through the familial bond, but he too begrudgingly transformed. He did not, however, spawn his holomatter avatar this time, instead flipping out a simple kickstand, making it seem as if his driver had already gone down to the shore, and refusing to elaborate further.
Laserbeak's avatar, still perched on the rock down the beach, rolled her eyes, tossed her auburn ponytail over her other shoulder, and returned her attention to the Northwest. A golden helicopter, perhaps a news chopper or a privately owned aircraft, passed closely overhead, bringing with it a broad aura of smug satisfaction that could likely be felt by humans on the ground.
Ah, my precious, precious, tragically limited brothers. Looks like a certain pair of groundbound bipeds are losing their touch, eh, Laserbeak? And after only a decacycle or so away from home, too . . . tsk, tsk!
"Just give the all-clear, already," Laserbeak sighed, pinching the bridge of her avatar's nose. "This is already embarrassing enough."
More or less embarrassing than the Breakout at Kaon Prison, sister? I wasn't there, so I wouldn't know, the Skywing artist sniped as he passed overhead. At any rate, your sixes are clear. Neither a fleshling nor a machine for at least a quarter klick, it seems. Clear skies, choppy seas, and an entrance on the North platform just waiting to welcome some pilgrims in need of refreshment. So, shall we?
"We shall." Laserbeak's avatar stood up, then flickered once and disappeared into the sea breeze. When next she spoke, it was in the same ethereal fashion as Buzzsaw. Alright, let's do this. Remember, we're only here to secure the target for the others and lock down a landing site - everything else comes afterwards. Got it, boys?"
"GO TIME!" Frenzy trilled with elation, utterly nonplussed by the events of the past few minutes.
"Clear as crystal, 'Beak. I'm ready to roll!"
Laserbeak considered the irritating natures of her two brothers - especially Frenzy's - for only a second. She told herself it'd probably be fine. Without further ado, she gave the activation command. Cassetticons, eject!
As if he'd spawned from the shadows, a midnight-black Kaonian Tygar melted out of a stand of trees further down the beach without even rustling a twig. He didn't make a noise, never stopped moving soundlessly towards the shoreline, but spared the motley collection of vehicles a scathingly disappointed glare as he did so.
Новички, Ravage of Burthov muttered over the bond as he entered the water, unfolding into a seagoing vessel of respectable size, just large enough to fit all five of the other Cassetticons if needed. Laserbeak, for her part, dropped her own assumed disguise as the mid-size Jeep and transformed into a Skywing as well, taking flight with a nearly silent whir of her wing-mounted turbines. She picked up Rumble and Frenzy in each of her sharp talons - eliciting groans of mild annoyance and pain from both mechs - and threw them unceremoniously at Ravage's deck.
"You mind, birdy? That fragging hurt!" Rumble protested, transforming again to rub at his broad shoulders.
Oh, sorry about that. I guess I wasn't paying enough attention like I should have done, Laserbeak responded, not sounding very apologetic, even as she seamlessly perched on Ravage's stern section and converted into a powerful Cybertronian outboard engine in order to bolster her oldest brother's horsepower.
Rumble staggered to his feet, trying to get his sea legs on Ravage's already pitching deck. "Why, I oughta-"
Laserbeak and Ravage's twin motors kicked into action, propelling the saboteur's sleek reconnaissance craft alternate form forward in the sea and sending both Rumble and Frenzy crashing to the deck once more. Ravage's bow section, already high in the water due to the weight of the others, lifted entirely above sea level, and the Cassetticons were off to begin their mission.
Buzzsaw, still in his helicopter form, cackled unashamedly and breathlessly as he swung back out to sea again, following in Ravage's nearly undetectable wake.
Stars above, do I love raid operations!
10:15 Local Time
Despite Colonel Witwicky's initial concerns, he and Sam were bound to arrive at the Uruk-One platform precisely on time for the grand opening of the whole place at 10:30.
"Boy, do I feel like a celebrity!" the young man exclaimed, in spite of his not-inconsiderable nerves, as he and his father made their way through the pulsating throngs of media personnel and journalists clustered at the docking point of Uruk-One's tramway. "Packing priority passes and cutting in front of the riffraff to get into an exclusive event on a private island sorta thing. Just call me Lucas Lee, right, Dad?"
Colonel Witwicky chuckled. "Buddy, this is miles better than anything you'd see Lucas Lee at. This event will open up doors for you and your future, Spike, might even end in you getting a real job, starting up your career! How many galas and high-society soirées in LA and Toronto can provide that for their attendees?"
"Fair point!" Sam clutched his papers a little closer to his chest as a stiff ocean breeze blew by. The clamor of journalists, politicians, and other officials was deafening. The air was alive with motion - news choppers were darting this way and that, panning slowly over the enormous rig far out to sea. A few private planes sailed overhead. Police helicopters hovered in relaxed, predictable patrol routes, keeping the peace and restricting the sensitive airspace closest to Uruk-One by dint of their presence alone. It was an important job - everyone wanted a close-up shot of the gleaming arcology, and it was vital that ONYX's interests be protected from any undue harm. The chatter of the news reporters was an integral part of the soundscape.
"-absolutely revolutionary new sustainable energy project, Craig, expected to provide an estimated 5,000 jobs to the people of Southwestern Oregon just by itself-"
"-the brainchild of Josephine Beller of Vancouver, a Senior at Cascadia State University, considered by many to be the rising star of the ONYX Corporation-"
"-all overseen by Garrison Blackrock, voted the world's most mysterious millionaire in a recent poll by MIGHT Magazine. Blackrock is known for his candid spirit on the battlefields of international commerce, especially in the face of overwhelming competition from Sumdac Systems of Detroit, the world's premier consumer technologies firm by an insurmountably vast margin. Of late, ONYX has been making extensive forays into renewable energy research, which this platform is the primary result of.
"Only time will tell if the Uruk project is to define the ONYX Corporation going forward."
"Colonel Ron Witwicky and guest, over here!" a voice hailed, cutting through the background chatter all around the two Witwicky men. It belonged to a solid-looking black man in an ONYX worker's uniform: dark blue jeans, khaki button-up shirt with black accents, and a bright orange hard hat situated firmly atop his head.
"If it isn't Tech Sergeant Frankie Bellwether!" Ronald roared, moving in for an enthusiastic, manly embrace. "Finally sold his soul to Silicon Valley, I see!"
"Still retired, living off the taxpayer's dime like a sack of useless meat, aren't we, sir?" Sergeant Bellwether retorted good-naturedly. "Like it or not, ONYX is making the world a better, cleaner place and doing it with style . . . and I see you've brought your oldest on this fine spring day with a folder full of references, haven't you?"
Colonel Witwicky turned up his hands in concession. "Well, you got me there, Frank! Mama Witwicky's boy is a flaming hypocrite, but let it never be said that he ain't honest. Spike, you remember this guy from the vets' ceremony a couple years back, right?"
"How could I forget?" Sam shifted his papers around to stick out a hand. "Good morning, Sergeant Bellwether. It's been a while."
"That it has, that it has. And please, kid, call me Frank. I've known your dad long enough that any son of his deserves to be on a first-name basis with me right off the bat!"
Frank had a strong grip, one that Sam matched but didn't try to overpower. The older man grinned. "Firm grip, decisive shake, good eye contact. Very well done. Not too limp and not trying too hard - you're no politician and you're not trying to intimidate me."
"Honestly, sir, I don't know if I could intimidate you if I tried," Sam said, a nervous smile slightly distorting his words.
Ron and Frank both erupted into laughter.
"Your kid's a treasure, Colonel. I think he'll do just fine here!"
"I knew it from the start, but I'm glad to hear it from you too! Now, wasn't there some kind of event bound to happen soon?"
Frank clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "You bet there was! Follow me, we're just about to fire up the last gondola. Now, it's a 15-minute ride out to Uruk-One, and boy do we have a spectacle planned for y'all this morning. The inauguration, Garrison Blackrock's big speech, the grand platform tour, and your meeting with the platform manager, Sam . . . it's not something to be missed."
"Sounds like a day that'll go down in history!" Sam remarked.
"That's 100% correct, kid," Frank said. An alarm bell sounded, and a pre-recorded female voice crackled to life over a loudspeaker, talking about the last boarding call for VIP attendees. "Hear that, Witwickys? It's finally time to cast off - we should get there just in time to see the fireworks!"
Marta Velez put the finishing touches on the barrage set up within the superstructure of the great offshore platform. The fireworks display would be something to behold - over three hundred separate rockets were set to detonate over the course of the next few hours, each one expertly calculated and sequenced tightly together to provide the crowds of gentry and plebeians alike with the best possible spectacle to start the Age of ONYX off on the right foot.
The batteries were set up all throughout the hidden nooks and crannies of Uruk-One's ascetic design, concealed from sight by undulating waves of pitch-black and blinding white steel shapes that gave the enormous rig its unique design. It was made not only to be an efficient, productive energy station for the modern age, but to look aesthetically pleasing to the eye as well, and on that front, ONYX's designers - led on this specific project by that Josephine Beller girl - had certainly delivered. Uruk-One's architecture also lent itself very well to hosting events on such a scale as this.
"Row E4 is complete," she reported over a handheld radio. There was a bustle of activity all around her as workers scrambled about, traveling to and from their next stations and posts. "What's our timetable look like?"
The response came back immediately from the primary command doghouse of Uruk-One. "We're right on schedule, Velez. If you're all finished here, head up to the helipad. You're needed to finalize the preparations there, Kotke is lagging behind and has requested help with his section."
"On my way," she affirmed, letting her radio fall silent with a sigh. Amateurs, the lot of them. The lack of commitment of her peers was going to make the contractors as a whole look bad in the sight of Garrison Blackrock.
"¿Por qué tengo que hacer todo por mí misma?" she muttered, standing up and making way for the helipad. As she took an out-of-the-way maintenance passage, the compress of assorted workers like her gradually thinned until there were only a handful of people moving around.
"Morning, Marta! How's it goin' today?" a cheerful voice piped. It belonged to Jimmy Jacobson, a comfortably overweight man with a smile on his face that could light a dark room as if it were a handheld torch.
"Good morning," she replied, slowing her pace only by a hair. "I'm sorry, I can't talk. There's some kind of technical problem on the upper decks that I have to correct."
"Kotke again?"
"Yep, Kotke again."
Jimmy chuckled. "Well, good luck with that. I just got done with helping the new kids over on the South side of the rig myself. That was a headache, let me tell you! Always a struggle against the ignorance of the younger generation."
"Isn't it, though? It seems like it's gotten worse lately. I don't know if Management is dropping the ball with training or what, but whatever it is, it's gonna wind up hurting our bottom line one way or another."
"I am the bottom line, Marta. We are. I don't know about you, but I'm already feeling the pain . . . ah, but anyway. I can see you've got things to do. Drinks at the Station tonight?"
"Sounds good to me. I'll see you there," Marta responded, continuing deeper into the passageway. Soon enough, she was alone in the corridor, still moving with purpose along a route she'd walked enough times during the event's initial preparations that she could do it with her eyes closed.
She was halfway to the helipad hatch when she heard it, a series of sharp clicking noises echoing from a darkened side corridor, just enough to make her hurried pace falter for a moment. The corridor was lit only by a single red emergency light that did very little to actually illuminate its surroundings, but even so, Marta could make out the silent shapes of construction equipment and plastic sheets that hadn't been cleared out of the brand-new offshore platform just yet. Quiet, metallic noises punctuated the distant, omnipresent hum of Uruk-One firing up for the day.
As she watched, four icy blue LED lights kindled into being on the ceiling, some kind of indicator light or ventilation system or something of the sort, she reasoned. She heard sibilant, indistinct voices echoing down the corridor, like the ghosts from the stories her father once told her and her siblings back home in Monachee.
The lights began moving, slowly but smoothly, along the unlit ceiling.
"I don't get paid enough for this," Marta scoffed, turning smartly on her heel and beginning to continue along the maintenance corridor. "I have a job to do-"
She was interrupted by a series of sudden flashes of pain in her arms, shoulders, and legs, flashes that introduced themselves with several meaty THWACK noises. In the dim red light, she could see sparks flying from the metal walls that surrounded her as enormous, ragged gouges opened up on them, and shiny circular objects went spinning into the gloom.
Marta fell to her knees, her work shirts soaked through with blood and clinging to her body. She would have screamed had she the breath for it. As it were, she could barely manage to pull herself up to a sitting position, gazing with fear-sharpened eyes down the dark corridor.
A terrifying, uncannily thin creature bounded out of the shadows on digitigrade legs, all sharp edges and razor-sharp, gleaming spires, blue eyes flashing eagerly. It let out a savage, inhuman hiss as it ran and threw itself towards Marta's mortally injured form.
It hit her like a solid line drive, if the ball were ten or twelve feet tall, screaming with rage and bloodlust, and constructed entirely of blades. Marta was carried off into the darkness by the sheer force of the thing alone in an instant, already dead by the time her body hit the bulkhead not twenty yards behind her. She never felt what came next, and that was undoubtedly a good thing - because Frenzy of Stanix had never directly killed a human being before.
No Decepticon had, as a matter of fact.
And Frenzy only wanted one thing out of Marta Velez - to find out how humans worked, how they reacted to his presence, and how easily they broke under his comparatively weak, fragile limbs.
He was overjoyed to discover the gruesome results of his experiment.
A squarish Decepticon came behind him, a little taller and much bulkier than Frenzy. Though he didn't even have to duck in order to fit inside the red-bathed maintenance corridor, his wide stature meant that his elbows scraped both sides of the tunnel. Rumble was holding a sawed-off shotgun of the type commonly carried by Demolitions personnel and checked both wings of their new surroundings before moving out into the corridor - and into the crime scene that his twin brother had caused.
"Oh, Primus Below. Frenzy, stop! For the love of - stop already! Jeez, she's already dead, leave her alone! Primus, you freak . . ."
Frenzy ceased his remorseless assault on the woman's remains, venting heavily. "Not as tough as Cybertronians. Squishy. Weak. Weapons entirely unnecessary," he reported.
". . . fragging disgusting, psychopathic little creep. Just . . . just c'mon. We've got places to be."
"Yep. We do. I'll see you there," Frenzy repeated in a strange tongue unfamiliar to his brother. He wasn't any good at it yet, with an unnaturally hard edge to the consonants and a screwed-up cadence, but Frenzy was undoubtedly learning already, even at this early stage of the Infiltration.
"You have serious, serious fraggin' problems," Rumble muttered, feeling nauseous and uneasy. His shotgun collapsed into one of his signature piledrivers, melting seamlessly into his arm as he approached the bulkhead leading outside. One powerful strike later and the corridor was filled with natural sunlight and a fresh sea breeze, both of which did absolutely nothing to remove the indelible stains that his own twin brother had left in the platform's hallway.
Upon the helipad, the older Cassetticons were finishing up with their work on that front. Buzzsaw tore a long length of cable and metal from the wall, severing it in twain with a single slash of his razor-sharp tail. Meanwhile, Ravage prowled back and forth across the helipad itself, his flank-mounted ion repeaters searching for any new targets. Laserbeak zipped around in the shape of some kind of small, speedy Cybertronian bulldozer, clearing the helipad of any assorted detritus or groaning human bodies that lay strewn about.
What took you two so long? Ravage growled.
Rumble raised his hands in surrender. "You sound angrier than usual, big cat. We apologize for bein' late. Frenzy just had t' remorselessly butcher some poor, defenseless native for reasons known only to his twisted little processor."
. . . oooo-kay, Laserbeak said. Well, we don't have time to unpack that right now - and believe me, it REALLY needs some unpacking - but let's definitely talk about it after the mission, yeah? Rumble, care to do the honors?
"I'll try t' muster the presence of mind," Rumble said, still feeling gross on the inside, opening up an operations commlink with the rest of the Decepticons. "All right, Seekers, the landing zone's clear. Let's blow this thing wide open, nyeh?"
"Copy that. We're en route," Thundercracker's solemn, serious voice responded.
Not a full minute later, five aircraft soared overhead, heading on a collision course straight for the rig. At the very last second, each of them converted into the broadly similar bodyframes of Vosnian Seekers - sleek, agile, average-sized Cybertronians characterized by the distinctive silhouettes of alt-mode wings upon their backs and their remarkable similarity to one another.
One of them, done up in a classic Decepticon black-and-purple paint job, landed on the helipad in a light crouch, one hand on the scabbard that was constructed primarily from his alt mode's underslung radar array. "Coordinates locked in. I'm ready to go when you are, 'Cracker!"
Suddenly, lightning flashed down from a mostly cloudless sky, striking the tallest radio mast atop Uruk-One. From the rig's upper decks, it was just possible to make out the shape of another Seeker perched atop it, completely unfazed by the strike. "Very well. Then let us begin," he said, his transmission already crackling with increasing static - the sound of an approaching storm.
Rumble cracked his knuckles and his neck alike as the clouds began to build overhead. "So, what d'ya need from us while you're bringin' in the heat, flyboy?"
The Seeker on the helipad, Skywarp, looked around the area, committing every little detail to his memory. "Energon. I'll need all the juice you can get me if I'm gonna stand a chance of bringing in the big guys; and I'm gonna need a secure place to land each time."
"Fuel an' firepower, got it. Youse guys hear all that? Round up as much energy as you can carry! Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, keep an eye on the skies - no one, not a soul, gets near the helipad, capisce?"
Naturally, the Cassetticons had each heard Skywarp the first time, but appearances had to be kept up for the other Decepticons' sake.
"Alright," Skywarp said, his form beginning to shimmer. "Let's get cooking."
With that, he clapped his hands together and was gone.
Atop a nearby structure, probably a control tower of some sort, Bumblebee of the Fifth Ring watched unobtrusively as the Cassetticons broke up and went their separate ways to collect the first drams of fuel for the Outlier Seekers. The battle had begun.
"Sergeant, I've got eyes on the Cassetticons up above. Skywarp's with 'em too - I think they're gonna use the helipad as a landing zone for the entire Decepticon raiding force!" Bumblebee's voice was nearly indistinguishable through all the static, between the brewing storm and the depths at which Brawn and his men were lying in wait.
"Understood, little bug," Brawn replied.
"I've sent you guys the data. I'm in position, ready to go when you are."
Brawn's headlights, mounted upon his broad chest in robot form, flashed twice, garnering the attention of his entire party save Windcharger, the Outlier, the only one in their number to be one of the very few Cybertronians to be blessed with supernatural abilities that had no rational explanation. Windcharger was otherwise occupied, staring in rapt fascination at a nearby school of fish.
"Private Windcharger!" Brawn barked, startling the younger mech to attention. "Time for action is at hand. Throw Brawn. He will handle the rest."
With a deadly serious look on his face, Brawn made direct eye contact with Windcharger and raised his arms like a child wanting to be lifted, a bizarre look for the bulky Sergeant. "Throw Brawn. Make haste!"
Always earnest to please, Windcharger nodded, adjusting his stance and adopting a mask of calm over his fine, boyish features. "Right, got it. You're ridiculously dense, sir, but I think I can manage it. Get ready."
"Brawn is ALWAYS ready!" the bombastic Burthovian exclaimed. His remark was punctuated by his entire three-ton body being shot from the seafloor like an oversized cannonball, sailing up through the depths at speeds that would give any organic being whiplash and disappearing into the water's surface like a queer sort of high dive. The rest of the vanishingly spare Autobot attack squad save Windcharger, who collapsed into the silt for a moment, dispersed into the depths and began climbing up the pylons that anchored Uruk-One to the seafloor.
Up above, Brawn reached the apex of his flight, effortlessly and mostly silently grabbing onto the supports that held up the great rig's primary helipad as if they were a set of overhead bars.
"Now here we are," he muttered to himself, hanging from one arm as he rummaged around in his Demolitions satchel. "Brawn say, 'we must pursue Decepticon scum with stealth. Punch mountain, make fall on enemy ship.' Command, they say, 'oh, no, Brawn, plan is unsustainable and we cannot. Must do difficult, stupid caper instead.'" He set one of his charges on the support he was hanging from, then swung over to the secondary support and primed another.
"And now, what does Brawn have to do? He have to lay bombs. Prepare to do same thing, but with more stakes. Ridiculous."
Bumblebee's voice came over the radio. "Uh, guys, there's some heavy activity up here. Looks like pretty much the entire Decepticon raiding party. Skywarp just left again, I think he's about to bring in the big guns, so to speak. Are you all ready?"
A series of affirmations from the all-too-few battle groups were issued over the Autobot communications link.
"Brawn is in position," the Demolitions officer said, swinging to a safe position on the West side of the rig. He was the last one to report in. "Let us to blow this Engex stand."
The first few drops of rain hit the stained helipad of Uruk-One as the final member of the Decepticon raiding party stepped into being. It was as if he and his underling had just walked through a screen door, a completely unremarkable thing in of itself - but somehow, even that simple action carried with it the promise of malice and bloodshed.
It was just the kind of thing Megatron of Tarn was really, really good at.
Skywarp, utterly spent, collapsed to the deck as soon as he and Megatron were safely out of his portal. This did absolutely nothing to dissuade the leader of the Decepticons, who strolled forward through the gathering storm, fan axe held casually in his hand and fusion cannon gleaming with a threatening violet glow as he inspected his gathered troops.
This was no time for a grand speech. "Cassetticons," Megatron said, relatively quietly for his usual fare. "There were no complications, I take it? Have you marked our targets this fine morning?"
Rumble, spokesman of the Cassetticons, stepped forward, absolutely dwarfed by his commander's towering form. "Of course, m'lord. No problems, no complications t'speak of. We've added the objectives to all your maps. These squishies are completely defenseless. This'll be like takin' Energon goodies from a sparkling - easy peasy."
Megatron nodded. "Good. Mechs - take all that you can carry. Do not get sidetracked. We leave in two breems, through any avenue you can manage. You all know what to do after that. Now - begin."
The Decepticons cheered in triumph and primed their weapons. They were just turning to disperse throughout the rig when two twin comets, red and gold, fell from the stormy skies and landed directly in front of the Slagmaker himself. Lightning flashed somewhere nearby, illuminating the rapidly darkening scene, and a rumble of thunder punctuated the event.
Sideswipe of Sherma Bridge leveled twin photon pistols at the Decepticon leader. "Not bad yourself, Megsy. But how's that for an entrance?"
Megatron's lips pulled back in a silent hiss. It was a sentiment shared by most of his warriors. "So, in his vorn of failure and treachery, Optimus Prime manages to muster his twin attack dogs to stop us. Ask yourself, warrior - how much do you think two flying sports cars can do against a full Decepticon raiding party?"
"I mean, we've taken out more 'Cons than you guys before, at once, by ourselves," Sideswipe replied.
"To be fair, though, we had the element of surprise back then," his twin mentioned.
"True, true. But, 'Streaker, good ol' Megsy here wasn't there with 'em last time. He's the only guy that can motivate these bolt-bags to do something productive, remember?"
Megatron's snarl deepened to an outright scowl. "Enough of this nonsense. Decepticons, kill them."
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a mech with a rich and mellifluous, yet grouchy and bitter accent warned. General Shakar stepped out of the shadows of Uruk-One, cowl pulled over his head and a laser-edged kopis held to the throat of Captain Hailstorm, the largest and most heavily-armed Decepticon present, a Combaticon artillery officer who'd worked together with the Decepticon munitions officer Swindle in the past.
All around the helipad, battle-ready Autobots made their presence known. Handheld weapons fired up, swords left their scabbards, and the Decepticons shifted around uneasily, trying to cover their comrades while keeping their own heads on a swivel. The twin fires of battle and bloodlust still blazed in the pits of their stomachs, yet for fear of Autobot reprisal, they were forced to swallow it all for a moment as they registered this new threat.
That unease turned to outright fear as Optimus Prime himself dropped in from the air as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had done not a minute earlier, directly in front of Megatron. A jetpack on his back released a loud, steady ticking noise as it cooled down in the rain and the humid sea air. One of the Decepticons choked back a shout of fear, and the air was alive with communications once more - albeit communications that were occasionally torn to indecipherable shreds by static borne from the mounting storm.
The rain poured down in intermittent sheets now. Optimus' eyes, rendered cold and icy by the rain, narrowed - and he spoke.
"Megatron. I'm giving you one chance to surrender, here and now. Anything that happens after that is your decision in its totality."
The two commanders were of a height, and Megatron stared his adversary down in a state of polite, restrained fury. "Prime. I expected you to betray the terms of our agreement. Admittedly, I wasn't expecting you to drag the mutilated remains of your entire army all the way down here, with no concern for their morale or their well-being."
Optimus' engine growled, and he said nothing.
"I am impressed by your fortitude. It would seem that you're taking pages - no, whole chapters - out of my book as of late. If so, then you should know one thing above all else - Megatron does. Not. Surrender. And NEVER will."
The Autobot leader's lights flashed as he drew himself up to his full height, an impressive display only augmented by the brilliant orange Energon axe that dramatically flared to life in his right hand. Megatron merely rolled bloodred eyes and whirled about on his heels, effortlessly intercepting a silver form leaping down at him from above with only one of his massive, clawed hands.
It was Jazz, Optimus Prime's second-in-command, who was sent skittering along the helipad's hard deck. He had his razor-sharp, whip-thin rapier in one hand, and rolled to his feet with ease. Jazz's face was that of a marble statue's - disappointment, grief, and fury roiling underneath a blank mien and a slight frown. Unfazed by the failure of his air assassination, Jazz whirled his sword and came to rest at Optimus' right arm.
"Predictable," Megatron spat. "Covert operations. Sneak attacks. Demanding marches, trying and failing to catch up to the enemy with your own force far too small for comfort. Assassination attempts, as you know you're too weak to topple the enemy you've created for yourself. Where is your honor, Prime? You grasp at these guerilla tactics, hoping they will grant you an edge in the battle to come, hoping they will help you succeed against ME - but I am the one who PIONEERED these concepts! My people, the Decepticons, are NAMED after them, for Pit's sake! And, just as we have countless times before, throughout billions of years of Cybertron's existence, we will succeed!
"Your petty threats and pathetic pleas mean NOTHING to me, Optimus. Decepticons - this changes nothing! Resist the tyranny of the Autobots! Kill them all! Seize the fleshlings' resources! ATTACK!"
10:30
"Well, that certainly blew up fast," Colonel Witwicky remarked as the tram came to a stop. His attention was locked on his Tabula, ONYX's take on those brand-new smartphones with a slide-out keyboard and a bevy of inbuilt apps, as he attempted to track the origin of the stormclouds building up to the heavens over Uruk-One.
"Looks like we might get rained out," Sam replied. "Good thing that the site tour's mostly inside."
"Spring storms, huh? They come up out of nowhere, especially out here on the water. Eh, whaddya gonna do."
Since the tram cast off for the seaside rig 15 minutes prior, the temperature had dropped considerably, a fact that was made even more evident when the Plexiglas doors slid open and a blast of chilly, humid air tore its way into the tram's cabin. Specks of moisture came with it, and it was impossible to tell if they were raindrops or seaspray.
Frank moved up behind the two Witwickys, nearly shouting to make himself heard over the wind and the general chatter of the people around him. "Ron, Sam, you're scheduled to take the tour and have an exclusive face-to-face meeting with Mr. Blackrock himself. Do you see that golden canopy off to the left, the one with white stripes and the table underneath it?"
"Down in that sort of alcove thing, near the arbor vitae? Yeah, I see it!"
"That's the one, yep. You'll be starting the tour there, once Mr. Blackrock gives his address. Good luck! I'll see you boys later today at the Station. Don't be late!"
"Wouldn't miss it!" Ronald said.
They pushed their way through throngs of people on their way across the rig's surprisingly elegant and well-appointed courtyard. It was done up in contrasting shades of shiny black stone and gleaming white stainless steel, broken up here and there with patches of green grass, outcroppings of fake granite, and obsidian-dark planters overflowing with the native vegetation of the Pacific Northwest, ranging from bright purple lupines all the way up to two or three limber pines, the tallest plants in the courtyard. The undulating curves of the steel façade resembled whitecap waves more than anything else as they rolled up the superstructure of Uruk-One, terminating in a sort of ziggurat-like structure at the highest point of the rig in view, which served as the platform's primary oil derrick.
It was an impressive display - raw practicality and functionality concealed from view by an aesthetically pleasing, abstract modern outer shell.
"They really spared no expense, huh, Dad?"
"Not one dime. ONYX prides itself on blending function with form, practicality with style, day-to-day life with the latest in new tech and green energy. That's why this rig is equal parts semi-affordable housing and cutting-edge energy platform."
Sam nodded. "They're doing the same thing with all their planned cities, too. Eureka, Burlington, Watoga - heck, pretty much all of West Virginia at this point - and Evansville, Indiana. One in each region of the US - visions of the future, delivered by ONYX."
"Someone's done his homework! I hope you've read up on the less idealistic, more career-focused parts of the company too, though."
"Are you kidding? The mobility that ONYX offers throughout the organization is something else. I play my cards right, you could be looking at the future mayor-manager of some major US city."
Ronald snorted. "The way the world's going. Companies owning cities and whatnot. Still, your mom and I will support you whatever you do."
"That's if I even go into this line of work in the first place . . ." Sam muttered, his words nearly carried away in a peal of thunder.
"Take it easy, Sam. Everything's gonna be OK," his father reassured him as they arrived at their destination.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" a uniformed ONYX worker hailed as the Witwickys drew near. She was a kindly-looking older woman, stout and strong, with steel-gray hair and a sunny smile. "You're here for the tour and the one-on-one with Mr. Blackrock, yes? Good! We've got an incredible day planned for you. Now, as we'll be plunging into the depths of the industrial quarter and refinery decks, we do require that you wear one of these."
The worker retrieved two bright orange hard hats from a nearby rack and handed them to Sam and his father. Though Colonel Witwicky settled for holding his under his arm for now, Sam immediately situated his own atop his head of lightly curled brown hair with a cheeky twirl of the hat. "Nice."
"Real natural, avant-garde look you got going there, Spike. It fits you."
"Looks good, doesn't it? 'Course, I could make a dead fish look good."
Colonel Witwicky chuckled, only to stop short when Garrison Blackrock himself mounted the stage that had been set up at the far end of Uruk-One's courtyard. He was flanked by two individuals, a young woman and an extraordinarily tall, remarkably well-built man, each of whom took up a position at his left and right sides, respectively.
Blackrock tapped the microphone, and began speaking. He had a nice tenor that managed to carry over the rain and thunder without even needing to shout. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us at ONYX here today. I apologize for the weather, we'll get everyone inside just as quickly as we're able.
"But as long as we're here, in the elements, the wind and rain, let's take a moment to appreciate this gift that's been given to us. Since time immemorial, the wind has provided relief to the laborers of the world as they withered under a broiling sun. It ground wheat when windmills were made to harness its power, filled sails during the Age of Discovery, and even now, in the modern era, it spins our turbines, providing electricity to the human race." He gestured to the first few wind turbines in the ocean, just visible over the rig's undulating façade.
"And the rain, of course, hardly needs elaboration. It revitalizes crops, provides fresh water, keeps Seattle nice and atmospheric, the list goes on and on . . . I don't have to exhaustively outline all of the myriad benefits it gives us. Anyway, my point is, we live in terrifying times, my friends. With all the political instability, natural disasters, whole American cities being put under siege by terrorists and mercenaries alike, it's important to keep in mind the simple gifts that the Earth provides us all with. The resources of this planet are ours to receive and enjoy, yes - but with them comes a commitment to protect our natural environment as well by minimizing our negative impact on it and attempting to live in harmony with nature.
"However, this doesn't have to mean living in mud huts, losing our quality of life, or stopping all industry on a global level. That's why I personally commissioned the Uruk Project - to find a mutually agreeable, mutually beneficial middle ground between ransacking this planet for all its worth and forcibly regressing humanity back to the Stone Age for the sake of the Earth. And, ladies and gentlemen, the responses we got back from our Academic Ambassadors were truly, truly stunning. Hundreds and hundreds of excellent concepts from every corner of the world - but only one, the one formulated by this brilliant young woman behind me, Josephine Beller - was good enough to fund as a full project.
"I truly believe that Ms. Beller's concept of Uruk-One is the future of renewable energy and sustainable living. And I hope that each of you, whether you're a student or a Senator, will think the same way after today. My friends, my colleagues, my fellow human beings - welcome to Uruk-One!" Blackrock finished with an expansive gesture.
Right on cue, music began to play from hidden speakers as rows and rows of trendy, energy-efficient, tastefully arranged LED lights - the sort that few people present had ever seen in such quantities - illuminated the exterior of the vast rig, naturally drawing attention to the immense ziggurat in the center of Uruk-One. Fireworks began to light up the increasingly dark sky with bursts of bright color and peals of powerful crackles that complimented the rolling thunder that had accompanied Blackrock's speech . . .
. . . and an enormous explosion, the kind you feel in your teeth, the kind that turns one's muscles to jelly and fires up their natural fight-or-flight instincts, threw everyone in the courtyard to their knees.
"Stand your ground! They'll be back," Optimus cried as he watched the helipad calve and fall into the Pacific Ocean far below with a great groaning of fatigued metal. Brawn's explosive charges had been very well placed indeed, and the effect was evident in the scores of Decepticon warriors splashing down in the sea as well.
"These fraggers just don't quit, do they?" Huffer snarled as he watched a Scout-class Decepticon with the chassis of a nondescript black sedan struggle to maintain a grip on the wreckage. A quick salvo of Huffer's signature dual nailguns interrupted the Decepticon's shield and put an end to their struggle, sending a limp form trailing a stream of glowing purple fluid as it disappeared first into the air and then the waves.
Bumblebee, the young scout from the Fifth Ring of Iacon, hit the deck behind Optimus with a roll. "Prime, sir, they're spreading out in the water. It looks like they're trying to hit the rig from multiple angles! What are we going to do?"
Optimus' engine revved in frustration. "I expected such a tactic from Megatron, but we lack the fundamental manpower needed to cover every angle . . . It may be that we will not be able to stop the Decepticons from acquiring their objective here today."
"But we can throw a wrench into their works," Trailbreaker mused on general comms from his post at Autobot field command. The battlefield comm network was filled with assent signals from most of the Autobots present, except Gears and Huffer, of course. They just started complaining, flickers of their all-encompassing doubt only barely muted by the comm-net.
"It seems we have a majority, then," Optimus declared sardonically. "Quickly now, mechs! Take up defensive positions across the rig. Our foes come with speed and fury, but you will be the rocks that weather their storm squall. Don't try to fight every Raider that comes your way - just slow them down. Harry them with everything you have at your disposal."
"I've marked several primary objectives on your maps," Trailbreaker noted, his voice staticky but still strong and commanding, even over the radio. "Use the Decepticons' storm to your advantage. And above all, protect the Terrans with everything you've got, even if it compromises the SWORD Protocol - the Decepticons have their own objectives here today, and we have ours."
Optimus beamed with pride. "I couldn't have said it better myself. The Terrans deserve our protection, not our war. Let the Decepticons choke on their fuel for now - the lives of these innocents are vastly more important than anything they could possibly hope to grasp."
Suddenly, Megatron shot up from below, two flaming violet jets on his lower back holding him aloft. His arm-mounted cannon sounded four times, each powerful, explosive round sending Autobots flying into the air even as they scrambled to get to their new positions.
The air quivered with energy and bolts of steel-blue lightning came raining down almost as frequently as the sheets of rain that were also pouring from the skies.
"YOU DARE?!" the leader of the Decepticons roared, and he came soaring out of the sky like some vast, predatory bird - soaring straight at Optimus Prime. His right hand had been replaced by his signature mace, a vicious-looking weapon covered in crystalline growths of Dark Energon.
Optimus barely had time to raise a shield before the warlord landed with all his force. Sharp, sticky crystals of obscene power given form erupted from what was left of Uruk-One's flight deck, lashing out like the buzzing teeth of an angry, mechanical beast and surrounding the two faction leaders.
I am grateful that the Autobots got away, at least, the Prime thought to himself. Now all I have to do is entertain this fallen creature for as long as I'm able.
"Enough grandstanding," he said aloud. "Now we fight!"
He hoisted his axe above his head in its full double-bladed, two-handed form, and delivered a crushing downward chop forceful enough to cleave a passenger plane in half directly to Megatron's center mass.