Sideswipe furiously skated on wheeled feet throughout the narrow corridors and between the habitation units of Uruk-One, kicking up beautiful fountains of sparks wherever he had to change direction on a dime and occasionally using his arm-mounted swords as fulcrums in order to swing his body around corners easier. He didn't want to risk using his jetpack, not when pretty much all of the Decepticons could fly better and faster than he could. The storm above turned the sky black with heavy rain liberally interspersed with lightning.
The electrical interference played hell with his guidance systems, but he could tell from the light pressure in the back of his processor that Trailbreaker was doing all he could to keep the commlinks open and filled with useful information - at any rate, the waypoints on Sideswipe's radar representing the key energy nodes that the Defensive Operations Strategist had marked were constant despite the storm. Sideswipe himself was nearing one of them - expecting a fight when he got there and eager to oblige his adversary.
He hoped it wasn't one of Soundwave's Twins, though. Creepy little buggers were absolutely cutthroat, and ridiculously hard to hit to boot.
"Eh, I'll do my duty regardless," he muttered, sliding into an access hallway designed for lifeforms a little less than half his height. He kicked a hatch open and hurtled down it, ending up on a portion of the rig's substructure that was open to the ocean on his right, never meant for anyone other than seriously hardcore maintenance techs to lay eyes on. Nevertheless, the area provided a magnificent view - just barely visible through the rain, which wasn't so bad on the South side of the rig - of the coastline South of Coos Bay and the nearest windmills to Uruk-One, standing like dead, bone-white trees deep in the vast forest closer to the Ark's crash site.
As there weren't any obstructions between Sideswipe and the objective at this level of the Uruk-One complex, he was also treated to a wonderful view of a single Decepticon standing at the far end of this lonely sector of the rig. Though the raider - an electric-blue Seeker whom Sideswipe recognized immediately - had been bent over a portable Energon refinement device hooked up to what was probably an electrical substation for the windmills just outside and was busy filling up plasma containers with fresh, pure Energon, he keyed into Sideswipe's entrance immediately and turned towards the intrusion.
"Howdy, teach," Sideswipe hailed, not even attempting to be stealthy at all. "Pretty nice storm you've got going on here. One of your best, I think. I'm impressed."
Even from this distance, one could see Thundercracker sigh in a very professorial manner. "Chalk it up to the wonders of Dark Energon, I suppose," he shrugged.
"Hey, modest as always. Good to see there are some things about you that the literal poison coursing through your veins hasn't stripped away."
At this, Thundercracker released a deep, booming growl that echoed throughout the substructure. "Look, kid. It's been a long couple of cycles and I'd really rather not do this right now. Be on your way. You won't get any trouble out of me regarding the fleshlings up above, I couldn't care less about them. Don't care for slaughtering innocent beings in the first place. Your energy would be better spent defending them from some of my more . . . violent colleagues. Last warning."
"Oh, don't worry about them, sir. I've got enough energy to spare to kick your skidplate and get back up top to mop up the rest of you psychos, too."
Thundercracker rolled his eyes, every bit the exasperated teacher that he was back before the war. "Fine, whatever. Go ahead."
"With what?" Sideswipe barely had time to ask before the back of his neck erupted with little prickles of supernatural energy. He whirled around, just in time to watch as Skywarp, Thundercracker's trinemate, materialized out of nowhere with his finely curved katana already out of its sheath and slicing at an angle destined to bite deeply into Sideswipe's spine or gut. At the last second, Sideswipe's twin Sunstreaker soared in from outside and landed directly in front of Skywarp, effortlessly deflecting the backbreaking strike with his wickedly polished, wickedly sharp machete and instantly trading a series of lightning-fast strikes and counterstrikes with the midnight-black Seeker.
Sideswipe wasn't too shabby in a close-quarters scrap either, and returned his attention to Thundercracker, who had closed the distance between them in a matter of seconds, just in time to repel the Outlier's buzzing chainsaw and razor-edged hammer.
What followed was a series of blows that had never before been matched on Earth. Between them, the four fighters had more than twenty thousand years of cold, hard fighting experience, Thundercracker had a long stint in the Pits of Kaon and the rest in various forms of Cybertronian martial arts. Sunstreaker was naturally the master at work here, the most skilled of all three martial artists, but Skywarp had risen to the second-highest chain rank in the Metallikato School of the Blade just before the War had broken out and Sideswipe had experienced just as much instruction as his brother - only refused to pay as much attention or take the arts quite as seriously as Sunstreaker had in lessons.
Add in a dash of Outlier abilities - Skywarp's teleportation and Thundercracker's ability to control the weather - and you had yourself quite the spectacle. Even so, all the combatants were more or less perfectly matched, doing more damage to the substructure of the rig than they did to each other.
Suddenly, there was a great rending of metal off to the South, and the Autobot twins had just enough time to glance over their shoulders, through the steel blinders flapping in the wind, and beheld an ominous dark shape that was growing larger by the second.
"WINDMILL!" Sideswipe shouted, grabbing his twin around the waist and throwing him bodily across the room. Indeed, the nearest windmill to Uruk-One threw its own hat into the fight, chewing through a few layers of deck and dealing just as much, if not more, catastrophic damage to itself as it did to the rig. The noise was terrible, and shrapnel peppered the Autobot twins' faces.
When the smoke momentarily cleared, swept aside by the strong winds off the ocean, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe could just watch helplessly as the two Seekers gathered the reserves of Energon they'd collected from the substation, which was now irreparably damaged, and dove off the side of the rig, converting to their signature jet forms and soaring off into the stormclouds. At the ragged chunk of rock upon which the windmill had rested just that morning, they could just make out the tiny shape of Rumble of Stanix, who spared them a very rude gesture and dove into the whitecaps that surrounded him.
Sunstreaker rose to his feet, not even breathing hard. "Better move. This battle's already lost, but we've got more to win."
"Yeah, yeah, prettyboy . . . just help me up already."
At the primary oil derrick located at the heart of Uruk-One's grand ziggurat, the Decepticon Fuelhog finished filling his oversized fuel tank - as a matter of fact, he was essentially one big fuel tank, being the Decepticon's resident Fueler and all - with pure, crude oil straight from the source.
Granted, he'd had to destroy the derrick to get a good-sized gusher going from whence he could fill up, but no matter.
He shifted uncomfortably as sounds of pitched battle all around them filled the air and bounced off of the many hard surfaces of Uruk-One, which delivered a very nice acoustic experience at the ziggurat in the center of the rig. There were screams too, metallic ones from Cybertronians giving orders and getting shot - and a constant chorus, quieter than the Autobots and Decepticons yet still raw, primal, and unsettling, of terrified Terrans as well.
"Are you done already, beast? If it's all the same to you, I'd like to get moving already," Fuelhog's second, a disagreeable little Tarnite worm of a Stunticon Warrior, grumbled. "We're too exposed here, innit?"
A frown marred Fuelhog's porcine features. "These things take time, my friend, and I'm going as fast as I can. Why do you think I broke the spigot outright instead of using it as it was intended like a normal person?"
"'Cos breaking stuff is fun," the Stunticon snorted. "And you're not exactly a normal person t'begin with, aren't you? Beast."
The nerve . . . Fuelhog thought darkly, holding himself back from releasing his discontent in a primal, cathartic growl, squeal, or any other animalistic noise that might give the Tarnite any ammunition.
"Look, buddy, I'm confused as to what your endgame is here. We're on the same side - Megatron's side. The Great Liberator, remember that? I thought we had moved past petty Functionism a long, long time ago, and anti-Beastformer sentiment along with it."
The Stunticon shrugged in a blasé manner. "I dunno, mate. I signed on to shoot fascists, clean up a rival outfit, an' get paid fer doin' it. Don't really give a frak about ideology."
"You little piece of scrap," Fuelhog's yellow optics flashed, and he drew himself up to his full height as he took a series of heavy steps towards his rogue attendant. This damaged the derrick further, sending a hot shower of onyx droplets gushing into the wind-tossed air. "Then allow me to retort with something a little more material. First: I am the only Fueler on this little expedition of ours. I essentially control your food supply-"
"Don't need it. I'm on the Dark Energon diet."
"That'll keep you going in a tough scrap, but it won't sustain you forever. Your point is invalid. And, regardless, I will still see to your medical needs - should you get damaged by an unknown assailant in the heat of battle - and determine whether you warrant being rescued from the field."
"That a threat, beast?"
Fuelhog spread his hands in a mollifying gesture. "Far from it, far from it. I would never deny a brother-in-arms fuel or medical attention, no matter how I felt about them. I'm merely trying to understand where you're coming from with all this prejudice, this hatred. Why hate me because I worship, because I am descended, from a slightly different Prime than you? Were the Primes not all batchmates to begin with? Offspring of the same progenitor?"
The Stunticon rocked back upon his heels. "I don't worship any Prime," he sneered. "It's a title built on a legacy of lies for Autobot politicians an' elites what think they're better'n everyone else, justifyin' their position at th' top of the pyramid."
"Then turn that anger against the Autobots, soldier."
"Oh, I fully intend to. But that doesn't mean I 'ave ta like or even respect you, beast. An' at th' end of the cycle, you are still a filthy, disgusting - ACK!"
The Stunticon went utterly limp, Energon spattering Fuelhog's face before he even realized what had happened. Suddenly, the Decepticon faced General Shakar of Median, aka Gears, whose coattail-like skirts, clearly the result of a land-based alt mode with a convertible soft top, snapped every which way in the wind. Gears stepped over the rapidly graying body at his feet and leveled a flaming axe, the same one he'd used to cut the other Decepticon's throat, at Fuelhog's chest.
Fuelhog gulped, throwing his hands up in surrender. All he could do was stare in wide-eyed terror at Shakar's thermal axe. He was very, very aware that he was absolutely covered in highly flammable oil and filled to the brim with more of the same.
A terrible image of his messy, explosive death filled his mind. He did some quick calculations in his head and figured that he was filled with enough fuel to take out a significant portion of Uruk-One - with him at the epicenter of it all.
"Disgusting," Gears began, barely audible over the sounds of battle, the thunderous storm overhead, and Fuelhog's hammering spark. "Good word for it. These insurrectionists can't even put aside their differences for a single mission-critical operation."
"Really makes a 'bot wonder how they managed to keep the War going for so long, doesn't it?" another dangerously quiet voice asked from behind Fuelhog. He whirled around as much as his bulk allowed him to, only to behold a crimson minibot pointing a photon pistol at his cranium.
Gears released a sharp warning whistle. "Hold your fire, Cliffjumper. This big one's filled up and covered with gallons and gallons of fuel. A stray shot breaches his tanks, we all go boom."
Cliffjumper grinned rakishly, an expression made ghoulish in the low light and intermittent lightning, and produced two long knives from somewhere on his person instead, even as Gears quenched the flame wreathing his weapon. "Then let's bleed him out . . ."
"Like a stuck pig," they finished in unison.
Fuelhog started backwards in alarm. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Please don't kill me! I'm a Fueler, a Medic, for Prima's sake! Please don't-"
Two sigils, the uncaring face of Autobot oppression, fell on him - and it was like something in the darkest reaches of his mind snapped.
Gears was first. Fuelhog caught the shaft of the Autobot general's incoming axe with only a little flinch - a flinch that he turned into a powerful headbutt strong enough to shatter the visor of Gears' combat mask.
Admittedly, the headbutt was drastically improved with the addition of Fuelhog's drill-like face whirling at full speed and his twin razor-sharp tusks, but who's really keeping score here?
Without wasting a beat, Fuelhog brought up his own hand axe from where it rested on his left hip and effortlessly parried a stabbing strike from a short sword that his opponent had drawn at some point. He planted a kick in the small of Gears' back, sending the general staggering away for the time being.
Acutely aware of the second Autobot, Fuelhog just barely managed to turn in time to block a salvo of furious slashes from Cliffjumper and his daggers. He took advantage of a split-second lull in the combat to strike Cliffjumper across the face with a mighty sumo slap, causing the minibot to hit the deck hard enough that his head rebounded off the diamond-plated oil platform. Fuelhog wound up and kicked the smaller Autobot below the ribs like he was scoring a field goal in a particularly intense game of mechasoccer. Cliffjumper flew across the ziggurat with ease, hitting the opposite wall with a resounding ringing noise that suggested he wasn't going to get up again for at least a few minutes.
Once again, the Decepticon Fueler spun on his heels, which was substantially easier for him than it would have been for most mechs of his approximate size and weight class, and grabbed Gears by the throat before he could deliver a potent leaping strike to Fuelhog's head from behind.
The general dropped his weapons and clutched at his throat, completely suspended by Fuelhog's massive hand. Despite himself, the Decepticon unleashed a triumphant, animalistic squeal, then pitched Gears with all his strength out to sea.
It gave Fuelhog no small measure of enjoyment to watch as Gears hit a steel railing, obliterating both it and Gears' battle mask, right before he flipped end over end and ragdolled into the ocean.
"Yeah, I'm a Medic . . ." Fuelhog admitted, rubbing his jaw. He wasn't even that tired, thanks to the burst of primal strength that came easily with the territory of being a Beastformer. "But I'm a Decepticon Medic, no matter how thankless a job it is. And being a Decepticon always comes first."
With that, he shuffled away, planning to dive into the ocean, weighted down by all the ballast he was now carrying, and sink to the bottom like a stone before nonchalantly driving out of the surf a couple dozen miles away. He'd had his fill of fighting for the day, and had done more than his fair share of energy collection to boot.
But as he passed the graying shell of his former accomplice, even Fuelhog couldn't resist the urge to spit on the Stunticon's inert form as he passed by.
"There's your share of fuel for the cycle, kid," he grumbled by way of parting.
Everyone has their limits on just how much they can take from their peers and enemies alike.
The courtyard had transformed into a scene straight out of Dante's Inferno - and Garrison Blackrock had no intention of going to Hell today. From the moment the first explosion had issued from the direction of the rig's main helipad, his erstwhile head of security Roman Giordino had snapped into action immediately, not wasting a single second per the usual. He seemed to know immediately that an aerial evacuation was no longer possible and instantaneously formulated an alternative course of action. And that was why Blackrock paid him and his consultation organization so handsomely.
With a curt "We're under attack. Head for the speedboat," the three senior ONYX officials had turned their backs on a throng of confused politicians, celebrities, journalists, and school groups before their fog of tense bewilderment could condense into terror - the kind of terror that attracted hostile attention and sparked lethal stampedes.
"Wait! What about - what about the people back there?" Sephie Beller squeaked as Giordino clamped a callused hand on hers and Blackrock's upper arms alike.
"If they're smart and savvy, they should be fine. My job's not to protect them - it's to make sure Mr. Blackrock is safe before anything else."
"That's cruel! How could you do that and still sleep at night?"
"Cruelty has nothing to do with it whatsoever, Ms. Beller. You can't save everyone, that's a cold, hard fact. But I can do everything in my power to save a select few."
Sephie's blood ran cold as the screams began behind them. There were more explosions, gunfire that sounded like nothing else she had ever heard. Uruk-One groaned in protest, like a dying giant.
The small, unhappy party hung a sharp left and barrelled down a long, unassuming flight of stairs, then through a conspicuously unlocked door, eventually winding up in some kind of pumping station filled with pipes and circuit breakers. There was no light to see by except the lonely, threatening glare of blood-red emergency lights that washed everything in an oppressive rouge.
"All right, we're halfway there," Giordino reported in a calm manner. He drew an enormous pistol with his right hand even as he flicked open his smartphone and seemed to write a quick message to some unknown recipient with the other as they navigated with haste through the machinery-and-debris-choked pump room.
"Ms. Beller, Mr. Blackrock, I'm going to need you to squeeze through a pair of tight maintenance passageways up ahead here. After that, it's just a quick lift ride straight down to the docking stations, and we should be home free after that. I'll cover you from the rear. Move quickly. Waste no motion. We'll be out of this in a few minutes."
Sephie gulped. "I'm not really a fan of tight spaces, but-"
"You'll have to be, I'm afraid. It's just two crawlspaces, barely ten feet put together. Your choices are momentary discomfort or facing whatever the hell's going on upstairs alone. Choose wisely, Ms. Beller."
Blackrock turned to face her, sympathy in his eyes. "It's all right, Josephine. I'll be right behind you all the while. I promise."
In truth, it was less of the tight squeeze that had Sephie's pulse racing and more so the situation itself. Like any sensible person, loud noises and the threat of bodily harm scared her, no matter how intelligent she was or how many oil rigs she'd designed. And the terrible noises that, even now, echoed from above, the idea that she was stranded aboard a confined location in the ocean with only a dinky little speedboat as her only hope for survival, the concept of her fellow human beings milling about in the line of fire while she got a free pass away from danger - they all added up and weighed on her something fierce.
And yet, she still gathered her nerves, took a deep breath, and mumbled something along the lines of "okay, let's go."
Blackrock tried for a weak smile that came out looking more like a pained grimace. "Very well. Ladies first."
The two inventors pushed through the first passageway in less than a minute, inch by inch along the narrow path. The otherworldly noises of combat and voices, distorted by the layers of metal they had to pass through to reach them, only got harsher and louder. Pressed tightly to the walls on both sides of her body, Sephie could feel every tremor and explosion that shook Uruk-One.
A series of earsplitting metallic screeches, chaotically interspersed with percussive clicks, eerie dial-up tones, and stranger noises that almost sounded as if they had the cadence of human speech all mixed together as Sephie passed in front of a horizontal vent. Through its slats, she could barely make out the bulky, ominous shadows of whichever faction was attacking the rig. It was impossible to discern anything else - even their heights or the exact model of weapons they were using - but it looked like they were wearing some kind of hard-edged metallic armor.
"Who are these people?!" Sephie wondered aloud. She was on the verge of panic, but thought that she was handling herself remarkably well given the circumstances. "What do they want with ONYX?"
There was a long pause, seemingly made longer by the tense atmosphere and tight quarters. Finally, Blackrock spoke. "This world's getting to be a crazier and more dangerous place by the day, Ms. Beller. Who knows these terrorists' capabilities, their motivations? If I had to guess, I'd probably wager that their little crusade here has something to do with your designs."
Despite herself, Sephie released a nervous laugh. "Too efficient, too far ahead of their time, and too beneficial to society as a whole?"
"Something like that, yeah. As for their armaments, their reach, well . . . with everything that's been going on these past few years, God only knows what they have up their sleeves. Could be COBRA for all we know, or some small-time ecoterrorist group with deep pockets and generous donors packing some of that new Stark-like technology. I hear it's very popular on the black market since Hammer Industries went under. Heck, they could be space aliens, for all I know."
Sephie stepped out of the cramped maintenance passage into something of a medium-sized supply closet, illuminated by a shaft of light streaming from underneath a basic, unassuming birchwood door directly to her left and a Plexiglas maintenance hatch integrated into the center of the floor.
Had the hatch been unlocked, would have opened into an enclosed steel catwalk that ran the length of the rig all the way to the tramway on the East side of the arcology - a way for kitchen workers to arrive quickly, unobtrusively, and with style, whether they be coming in to work straight from the shore or from the hab-suites on the South face. Sephie knew this because she'd drafted the concept herself, inspired by her very first job as a fry cook at the local greasy spoon.
It had been late on a Tuesday night in her dorm room back home in Vancouver. She remembered feverishly sketching the plans up until past midnight - much to the chagrin of her roommate - as if she'd done it yesterday.
The hatch and the catwalk allowed Sephie to reorient herself after the hectic escape from Uruk-One's courtyard and the subsequent twisting, confusing gauntlet through the bowels of the rig. With this knowledge, she immediately placed the otherwise nondescript supply closet as belonging to the only restaurant on the lowest level of Uruk-One. The mop tubs were still spotless, every bottle of cleaning chemicals on the shelves untouched, the ice machine full up and ready to dole out the cooling chunks within to the dozens of high-profile guests enjoying the grand opening of Uruk-One.
Now, none of that would ever happen.
It was all very taxing, emotionally and physically, for Sephie, and she sank down onto a fresh five-gallon pail of sanitizer solution, still sealed shut for safety reasons. She took a fraction of a second to catch her breath. Blackrock wasn't too far behind, and slipped out into the open soon after she did.
"Are you OK, Ms. Beller? Are you hurt?" he asked, only a few moments after seeing her in such a state. Concern was writ across his face, in addition to the deep, sharp creases of fear that had marred his features since the first crack of thunder had sounded over the sea.
Sephie removed her glasses and rubbed at her face with her other hand, trying to keep it all in. She doubted that she'd be able to, and made a vague sort of gesture about her surroundings. "No, sir, I'm fine . . . it's just . . . all of this . . . all the work everyone put in to make this dream a reality . . . and it all goes to waste the second some band of psychopaths set their sights on it for one reason or another? It just - it just evaporates into thick, choking smoke and - and the screams of people who came this morning to have a good time and feel like they were doing something for once in this world? It's just . . . awful, Mr. Blackrock. Awful in every way. And - and I'm scared."
Blackrock nodded calmly, ever the understanding boss, forced from his usual businesslike distance and aloofness by the outlandish circumstances surrounding him. "I understand, Ms. Beller. I knew it from the moment I read the written portion of your first scholarship, all those years ago. I understand because I can relate. You're the kind of person who likes to be in complete control of their situation all the time. Because of that, you feel responsible for this - all of this chaos and pain going on outside."
"They wouldn't be here, wouldn't be in harm's way, if it wasn't for me," Sephie sniffed despondently.
"Wrong, Ms. Beller. Whatever their motivations, these scum outside feed on misery and fear. They don't care what their target is, as long as it's high-profile and juicy enough to garner media attention, in hopes of drawing more demented individuals into their twisted games. The way things have been going on the global stage recently, if it wasn't Uruk-One - if you hadn't revealed your revolutionary ideas to the world - it would have been one of the Planned Cities we're setting up across America, or some aerospace foundation, or, I don't know, a bank in downtown Tranquility."
"What's your point, Mr. Blackrock?"
"My point is, there will always be risks and rewards in this line of work, Ms. Beller. Costs and benefits. They're unavoidable parts of doing business on this level in this geopolitical climate. That doesn't make any of . . . this right, not by a long shot. And I'm as disgusted by this senseless violence as you are, believe me. Once we're home free, I'll assess the situation and do everything in my power to make it all right, no matter what the costs were."
"Would you look at that. Garrison Blackrock has a heart," Sephie remarked halfheartedly.
"Of course I do. And here's the best advice - the only advice - that it can give you right now: Focus on what you, personally, can control, OK? There will always be scum of the earth waiting in the wings to destroy every good thing that people like you and me build. What we need to do is learn from these experiences - wretched as they are - and do everything in our power to rectify the possibility that they could happen in the future."
"Learn from our mistakes. No matter how much it might hurt. Then make sure that pain can never, ever happen again."
"You've got it. Don't try to shoot for the stars, or you'll wind up falling short. Just take things one bit at a time. Only focus on what you can control. Manage the situation to the very, very best of your ability - and the rest will all fall into place. How do you think I became the CEO of one of the world's largest tech companies, now? It wasn't all part of my master plan, let me tell you."
Sephie was still for a moment. She listened to the sounds of battle resonating throughout her rig, her floating city, her Uruk-One. They seemed so far away, this deep in Uruk-One's failing corpse.
Even so, she could just barely hear the screams. She committed them to her flawless memory - determined to never hear the thready shouts of terror, pain, and fear again, if she could help it. Certainly not in a way that could ever be directly connected to her work.
Never again.
"I . . . I think I understand, Mr. Blackrock. Thank you. You've led me to an epiphany."
At this, Blackrock beamed, if only for a moment. "You know, Ms. Beller, I don't say this very often . . . but, despite all my brilliance, I genuinely don't know what's going on here. Can you believe that? Me, Garrison Blackrock, one of the richest, most intelligent men in the world, am utterly clueless.
"Oh, I intend to find out why my business - and your creation - was targeted in this way, mark my words. But right now, here, huddled in this closet with you? All I can do is run and hide in terror, regroup. Remember everything that went wrong and work to undo it in the future. Stay safe now and pick up the pieces later. I have no idea - none whatsoever - of what's happening."
"I've got a few theories, myself," Giordino snarled as he left the corridor, much faster and with greater precision than either Sephie or Blackrock had practiced.
Sephie frowned. "Wait, what do you mean by-"
"Doesn't matter one way or the other. We need to keep moving." With that, Giordino stalked across the room and, only using the power in his shoulders and chest, moved the ice machine a few feet out of alignment, revealing another small, constrictive gap between the far Western wall and a column of pipes and cables.
"The lift's just on the other side of this squeezeway. We're almost home free," Blackrock said. "Thank goodness!"
Sephie rose to her feet and headed for the two men who had taken up position at the far side of the room. A surge of relief that surpassed even her feelings of guilt and fear flowed through her. All she could think about were the faces of her family, her boyfriend, and the epiphany she'd had. Her steps were lighter and measured as she reached the Plexiglas hatch in the center of the floor.
A single creak of stressed metal that resonated up through her legs, much closer than the din of whatever was happening on the top deck, was the only warning that she was given. Her gaze snapped down so she could see what had caused it - and a mere handful of seconds stretched out into an eternity.
Furious, blazing eyes the same color as the emergency lights back in the pump room stared mercilessly up at Sephie Beller from a featureless, coal-black face framed by slightly curved horns.
A demon from below, separated from her only by a single pane of Plexiglas.
It was taller than anyone she'd ever met - though admittedly, not by much - and twice as wide at the shoulders as any human could possibly be. It moved with a kind of self-sure, serpentine grace as the sparse light gleamed off of its metallic carapace, buffed to a mirror shine and colored alternately in shades of bloodred and abyssal black.
And despite the robotic thing's terrifying appearance, all Sephie could think was It's beautiful - even as it reared back like a striking snake and struck the hatch with a single earthshattering blow from one of its piledriver-like arms.
Unfortunately, Sephie had been partially standing on the hatch when it flew up and violently embedded itself into the ceiling. She wasn't spared a flight through the air, but she also wasn't unlucky enough to wind up with the same vector as the hatch. Instead, Sephie was thrown backwards, splintering the beautiful birchwood door to the supply closet. She hit her head somewhere along the way. Her vision exploded into stars and strobes, and when she could see again, she saw that she was lying in the center of the deserted restaurant and bar situated on the lowest level of Uruk-One.
The floor here was Plexiglas as well, pane after pane of clear, thick, scratch-resistant plastic. The idea was originally meant to make the residents and workers of Uruk-One feel connected to the natural environment and human industry alike, as they wined and dined at the Michelin-starred restaurant and availed themselves of the comprehensive buffet, all situated a hundred feet above the open ocean as whitecaps crashed against the rig's supports. Ideally, one could almost feel the sea spray on a pleasant day as they enjoyed a fine meal in a nice, enclosed environment.
Now, all Sephie Beller could feel was pain and fear - because the mechanical monstrosity climbed nimbly out of the hole it had left in the floor and was only feet away from her stunned, broken form. She couldn't see it very well at all - her head seemed to weigh just a little bit more than it usually did - and before she knew it, she was trying to pull herself together on the Plexiglas floor and staring aimlessly down at the roiling steel-grey ocean far below.
"Josephine!" she heard Blackrock cry in surprise.
"LEAVE HER! MOVE, MOVE, GET OUT OF HERE!" Giordino roared. There was a salvo of small-arms fire as Blackrock's bodyguard emptied his pistol, presumably at the robotic creature, and then a series of horrible, discordant noises that she recognized at once as what she'd heard echoing through the ductwork not five minutes earlier. Now with context as to the true nature of whatever party had attacked Uruk-One, Sephie immediately recognized it, even in her stunned state, as some kind of bizarre language, completely unapproachable by merely human vocal work.
The room stopped spinning quite as badly, and Sephie shook her head despite herself, fighting back cries of pain as her skull instantly filled with pressure. She clawed away from the supply closet, feeling as if her head was about to explode, and tried three times to stagger to her feet. Only the third attempt was successful, and then only just.
Behind her, Giordino cried out once, a full-throated shout of effort and pain, and was silent.
Her heart stopped beating. She was afraid to look behind her.
But she wasn't making much headway either. In the end, she shifted to the side and began moving backwards as quickly as her throbbing head and shoulders allowed her to.
The killer robot emerged from the back closet, awkwardly ducking down and turning sideways in order to navigate its enormous shoulder pylons through the shattered doorframe. Despite the undeniably alien features of its face, its movements were curiously familiar and very humanlike, especially how its three-fingered hands alternated between massaging the center of its chest and the edge of its jawline. Sephie could have sworn that it looked somewhat pained as it stooped down to enter the restaurant.
The restaurant that she was also in.
As the creature came into full light, a number of other details jumped out at her. First, Giordino had scored at least two hits, which still gave off long, thin lines of smoke from charred, smoking holes on the thing's chest. Second, there were clearly . . . pieces . . . of some preppy little hatchback mounted on and integrated into about a half dozen points across its body.
Trophies? Or anatomy? Sephie wondered in some distant corner of her conscious mind.
Third, it was headed straight for her with a very determined look in its glowing red eyes. As it approached, it let out more of that guttural, electronic language, directed at her and for her alone.
The thing was speaking to her. She could have sworn that there was some kind of emotional tone to the robot's "voice," some expression of surprise or something of the sort. And the only thing that even sounded like a word was something along the lines of ". . . Terran . . ."
With that, the creature stepped into her personal space, towering over her. She only had time to let out a sob as it shifted to the left a little bit, then hit her in the ribs with a lackadaisical, almost nonchalant sweep of its arm - as if she was merely a stray object that got in its way.
Sephie felt ribs crack. She knew because she'd sustained broken ribs plenty of times before, on the slopes of Mount Hood or deep in the Whitetail Mountains with her mother and brothers. A breath later, she felt the small of her back strike the edge of the well-stocked bar table with the weight of her entire body and the mechanical creature's strength combined behind it.
Her world exploded into white-hot agony, and she landed in a heap among broken glass and spilled liquors of every description.
Then, there was nothing but blackness and a deep, dark slumber that not even the distant thunder of battle and nature alike could interrupt.
The second the music started, Colonel Witwicky and Frank leaped into action, herding every wayfaring tourist and visiting dignitary they could find into the nearest covered structure.
"Stay down, stay quiet!" Colonel Witwicky roared as the two men barricaded the swinging double doors leading to the courtyard. Lightning flashed overhead and rain lashed the windows.
"Christ, what's happening? What's happening?"
"I KNEW IT! I told my agent time and again that this was a bad freaking idea! I TOLD her!"
"It's just like Mercer Island . . . My sister was at Mercer Island . . ."
"Everyone just stay calm," Frank said. He'd picked up a fire axe and held it like he knew what he was doing. "Stay quiet, don't move, and we can find a way out of this."
So it went. The terrified conversation died down to tense murmurs as the collected citizens huddled together, heedless of their differences, their careers, or their places on the spectrum of rich and poor. They were all equal that day in their fear, their desire to stay hale and hearty.
Granted, it was somewhat difficult to appreciate that in the face of the situation they were embroiled in. As time went on, the sounds of combat got closer and closer.
"That doesn't sound like any weapons fire I've ever heard," Colonel Witwicky mentioned about ten minutes after the attack began. His voice was pitched low enough that no one there should have been able to hear him speaking over the storm outside and the fear in their own voices - but Sam heard every word, his senses sharpened by adrenaline.
"It's probably some crazy Stark tech or something like that - God knows there's been a big push for that sort of thing in the black market," Frank replied. "We can't stand up to whatever that is out there, Colonel. We're going to have to cut and run."
"But how? Me and some of the others have combed this place top to bottom. No exits. We're fish in a barrel here, Joe."
Joeseph waved a hand. "There're secret passageways and maintenance hatches all over this heap. Blackrock insisted on it. He's probably high and dry somewhere ashore by now, the cheeky punk . . . As for us . . . worst case scenario, we'll have to make a break for it across the lawn."
"That's a pretty darn big worst-case scenario."
"Yeah. Not great. But it might be all we have."
Shaking his head, the Colonel came back over to the throngs of terrified people cowering behind the podiums and stands, all holding ridiculously overpriced art whose value now seemed utterly trivial. He kneeled beside Sam, interposing himself between the boy and the barricaded door. "How are you holding up, son?"
Sam huddled close to his father. "I heard everything. Absolutely everything you and Joe were talking about just now. Dad, I'm scared."
"So am I. But we'll get through this, Sam. I know we will."
They stayed that way for some time. Yet, all told, the amount of time they actually spent in the same position was likely much briefer than it felt, given the adrenaline coursing through their bodies.
Their reverie was broken by Frank, who let out a joyous shout as he returned to the cowering mass of civilians. "I found a way out! There's a floor hatch over by the canvases. If I'm right, we should be able to get on the rig's underbelly and escape through an underwater tunnel - but we've gotta be fast about it. Mind lending me a hand?"
Sam opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, someone on the other side of the art gallery screamed, "LOOK OUT!"
An electric-blue motorcycle crashed through the nearest pane of glass and lost control on the polished wooden floor of the gallery. Swerving drunkenly, it crashed into a marble sculpture occupying a place of honor in the center of the room - and it began to shift and change jerkily.
As the terrified onlookers watched, a tall, vicious-looking robot approximately twelve feet in height rose to its full stature, parts of the motorcycle situating themselves across its four-armed form. The creature rolled over the abstract sculpture in an altogether boneless, fluid manner, then threw itself into the crowd with gusto.
Sprays of red immediately shot up to paint both the clean white walls of the gallery and the minimalistic pieces hanging on them in almost-equal measure. Jackson Pollock meets Jason Voorhees.
It was a slaughter.
To their credit, Frank Bellwether, Ron Witwicky, and his son Sam didn't dally. They were already across the room and charging full-tilt for the broken window by the time the motorcycle had stood to its full height. Sam himself had just narrowly missed being hit by what appeared to be a flying disk made of jagged metal, one that seemed to screech its disappointment and fury even as it flew past him and rebounded off a pillar. Eyes wide and feet pounding, they made it to the window, slipped on the rain-slick floor covered with shards of broken glass, and vaulted wholesale into the storm. What other choice did they have?
Frank cursed in awe, his steps momentarily faltering, as they emerged into the open air. The battle had reached the courtyard. That is, after all, what it was - not a terrorist attack, not some violent riot as they'd initially assumed it to be - but a full-fledged battle, with two distinct factions duking it out all across the rig.
And the combatants - towering, alien creatures of metal - were very clearly not human in any way.
Any people that met their deaths on the rig were merely collateral damage. Accidents, it seemed, with the exception of the poor souls still cornered in the art gallery behind them. For the most part, the colossal cybernetic warriors were focused entirely on each other, blasting away with widely varied ranged weaponry or closing in with all manner of melee weapons. Their movements as they fought were curiously familiar, and, had any one of the three men stopped to look a little closer, they would have seen that at least one of the two parties was constantly throwing themselves into the line of fire, taking shots and tackling their foes so the few humans still scrambling across the courtyard could escape.
Understandably, however, their minds were not exactly on that subject.
"Get to the tramway! It's our only chance!" Colonel Witwicky shouted at the top of his lungs. His profound voice, usually the loudest thing in the room, was all but drowned out in the din of otherworldly combat and the rolling thunder that shook the sky and set the little cars themselves to swinging drunkenly on their lines.
"Dad, wait! Stop!" Sam shouted, equally deafened. Nevertheless, his father heard his slightly higher-pitched voice, and glanced back at him in the middle of a full run. His eyes widened and he dug his heels into the elegantly manicured patches of grass that covered the courtyard in strips.
"GET DOWN, SAM!" he barked, catching his son with a lineman's tackle to the midsection and driving both of them down into the wet turf. The robot from the art gallery, slick with blood, sailed over the Witwickys' heads in a ferocious pounce, screaming in a register far too high and far too loud to ever be replicated by anything other than industrial accidents. Sergeant Bellwether, who was slightly ahead of the Witwickys, was directly in the creature's path.
However, the Sergeant reacted quickly and dodged to his left side, spinning desperately on his heels and swinging his appropriated fire axe as he did so. The weapon dug into one of the robot's two left arms, even as one of its own blades just barely missed Sergeant Bellwether's neck.
Glowing purple fluid shot out from the psychotic robot's arm in a long spray, standing out in sharp contrast to the pitch-dark skies above, and the thing released an agonized scream that threatened to rupture eardrums. It landed in a pile between the three men and the tramway, rising quickly to a position that could be described as "crouched on all fours." It favored its wounded limb, two forearms hanging loosely from its elbow joint. A bolt of lightning split the sky overhead and the robot's four eyes gleamed with hatred.
"What is that freaking thing?" Sam panted in horror. He never got an answer, for his father and his father's old war buddy were equally clueless and equally speechless.
The robot let out another tortured-sounding electronic noise, and rose to its feet in a singleminded swift-footed sprint directly towards the three humans. It was interrupted by an enormous warhammer sparkling with golden flickers of electricity, which flew overhead as if it had been hurled by Thor himself and struck the bone-thin nightmare beast straight in its delicate-looking center mass. Another robot, a golden thing about the same height as the first with the same azure-colored eyes, immediately followed the weapon, small shield in hand, and began a fierce session of hand-to-hand combat with the skeletal motorcycle creature.
Suddenly, all three men were scooped up by enormous metal hands and shuttled across the courtyard. There was a brief moment of weightlessness, and they all laid in the shadow of yet another metallic creature, this one roughly the same size as the first two, done up in a beautiful platinum paint job, and clearly covered with all manner of gashes and battle damage. It moved as if it was severely pained, even as it threw its arms out to cover the three smaller beings.
There was a tremendous noise, like a rubber band the size of a small city finally snapping under strain, and a resonant groaning of metal and fiberglass as the high-tech tramway gave into some previously unseen damage, possibly caused by the storm or sabotage. It didn't matter at this point.
The high-tensile steel cables that anchored Uruk-One to the town of Coos Bay failed on the day they were inaugurated, flying into the air like dying serpents striking at anything that was within their reach. Shrapnel flew far and wide, some of it striking the rig very close to the Witwickys' position. The robot that had positioned itself between them and the tramway jerked mightily, letting out a noise that sounded very much like a pained grunt, but maintained its position and posture.
The row of trams, stretching all the way to the distant Oregon shoreline, fell into the furious ocean.
"That's it. We're stranded," Sam heard himself say.
Sergeant Bellwether struggled to his feet. "Take that!" he cried, swinging his axe with all of his might at the silver robot's nearest extremity. The towering creature took note of this immediately, and withdrew its hand with grace unbecoming of its size, using just two fingers on its other hand to gently push the muscular man to the ground. The fire axe skittered away across the rig's rain-slick steel façade and fell off an artistic outcropping of curved metal, dropping like the trams before it into the sea.
The whole ordeal lasted less than two seconds, and now the three men were completely defenseless.
But the silver robot raised both of its hands in an unmistakably nonaggressive gesture, backing away from the humans in another display of that uncharacteristic grace, only slightly marred by the robot's pained mannerisms. An expression crossed the thing's very humanlike face that instantly translated as a wince.
"Bah weep gragnah. Weep ninny bong," the creature appeared to say, a series of alien phonetics that nevertheless lacked any of the earsplitting electronic screeches, percussive clicks, or staticky blasts of completely inhuman musical tones that the two factions of robotic soldiers had previously made. They were the closest thing to an actual language any human had heard a Cybertronian say up until that point.
Utter confusion was writ large across the faces of all three men. They huddled closer to a nearby air conditioner unit to put distance between them and the silver creature and to avoid slipping off of the gently sloping architecture of this portion of the rig.
The robot nodded in a businesslike manner, lowering its hands. "你们好吗？你会说这种语言吗?" it asked.
It was trying to communicate with them. Moreover, though none of the three men spoke any Mandarin whatsoever, they recognized it immediately.
"Are . . . are these a new Chinese superweapon?" Colonel Witwicky wondered aloud.
"Why would a Chinese superweapon be fighting its own units instead of cutting down innocent people?" Sergeant Bellwether replied with no small amount of heat in his voice. "Why would this one be tryin' to talk with us?"
The robot frowned, seeing their noncomprehension. "Wie wäre es mit diesem? Sprachen sie Deutsch?"
German, then. Colonel Witwicky wished desperately for the skill with languages that his wife had. They had spent significant amounts of time - especially romantic nights in luxurious hotels by the Rhine River - in the Northern European country, but the Colonel himself never seemed to truly grasp the language like Judy could.
"Ah . . . English? Do you speak English?" Sam courageously asked the titanic death machine.
"I could try it," the robot instantly, if haltingly, replied in a computerized masculine voice. Sam couldn't help but notice that his lips were no longer moving, but its voice was issuing from a pair of speakers on either side of its head. "Then 'English' is the language of this region? Very well."
Sergeant Bellwether tried to shake his head in disbelief. It came out as little more than a minuscule left-right twitch of his hard hat. "This day just gets weirder and weirder."
The robot glanced over its shoulder as the battle receded somewhat behind it. It raised its right hand to its chest, grimacing somewhat as a cloud of tiny sparks erupted from its elbow. "I am called Music-of-Staxis-and-Spark. I am known by another designation, shorter, with no direct translation. The closest analog in your language is . . . is . . . no . . . Please be excusing me."
Music-of-Staxis-and-Spark cleared his throat again, the sound much more recognizable at this point. From his chest, which greatly resembled the front of a sports car, a soulful tune with off-beat rhythms and a blistering saxophone solo, one that Sam recognized but could not name, issued as if from a radio. The robot looked at the humans expectantly and gestured with a "go ahead" gesture.
" . . . Jazz," Sam identified. "Your name is Jazz?"
"Jazz . . ." the robot mused aloud, using his mouth to feel out the single syllable. Once that was done, he returned to speaking from his stereo system. "Yes. That feels correct. Please tell me, what are your designations, as given by your creator and carrier?"
"S-Sam and Ronald Wit-Witwicky," the teenager stammered, indicating his father and himself.
"Frank . . . Frankie Bellwether."
Jazz nodded, pointing at each one in turn. "Frankie. Ronald. S-Sam."
"No, no . . ." the boy squeaked. ". . . just Sam for me. Only one 'S' sound. Sorry. I'm nervous."
A grim smile crept across the robot's face for half a second. "Very well. Sam. Ronald. Frankie. You are all in great danger - but I will deliver you."
An explosion occurred somewhere very close by, causing the humans to startle and claw for purchase on the smooth, wet steel.
"What do you mean, deliver us?!" Sergeant Bellwether demanded. "Who are you gonna deliver us to?!"
Jazz threw back his head. "One thousand apologies. Better translation is 'save'. 'Rescue.' I have not truly learned the English right now. I am relying for the time being on Terran software known as . . . Nudle Translate."
Colonel Witwicky laughed hysterically, despite himself. "Been there, done that, believe me."
Another explosion shook the rig, causing even Jazz to stumble. "We must be fast! I have to free you from this boat immediately, do you understand? My methods will be scary for you all, but I will not let you be harmed no matter what. Please right now - may I lift you?"
"Sure, sure! Just get us off this thing already!" Sergeant Bellwether exclaimed.
Jazz tilted his head in confirmation, scooping the three humans up again in one arm and making a break for the wrecked tramway. In some rational corner of Sam's mind, he noticed just how gracefully and efficiently the creature ran, resulting in a ride so smooth he could barely feel each colossal footfall. Even when another nearby explosion tore the courtyard asunder and caused Jazz to slip for a moment, he immediately righted himself and kept running with no effort at all.
Of course, that was all before they reached the tramway ruins.
"Please be holding on very, very tightly!" Jazz's translator ordered. Then, without further ado, he leaped about a quarter mile out to sea and began to plummet towards the angry whitecaps below, aided the whole while by rocket boosters that fired up at the small of his back.
Sam's stomach immediately slammed into his lower ribcage, forcing his pounding heart to temporarily move up into his throat. It was like the time he'd ridden the Serling Towers Hotel at Magic Kingdoms Adventureland down in Los Angeles, combined with a nice, cool, salty shower from a firehose and the Space Shuttle taking off, all rolled up into one experience. The high sea winds tore at his face and lips, and he dug his fingers into a chink in Jazz's armor so tightly he thought he'd seriously dent the robot.
It was exhilarating - but also the most terrifying experience he'd ever had.
His heart and stomach reluctantly but forcefully switched positions as they hit the nadir of their dramatic dive. Just as they were about to leave their greasy marks on the surface of the slate-grey swells, Jazz launched some kind of grappling hook at one of the tramway's support structures - the only parts of the transportation network still standing - and swung dramatically into the air once again, this time at least twice as high as they'd started out as.
Sam's ears popped so badly he thought he'd broken his eardrums. He didn't even have time to come to terms with this before Jazz started to fall again, pointed straight down like a swan diver. Despite the enormous amounts of acceleration and deceleration at work, Jazz was in perfect control of the situation and regulated his falls enough to save the three smaller, weaker beings from the fatal effects of whiplash.
This repeated four or five times, then Jazz hit the ground in a gentle, controlled roll, setting the humans down as gently as he possibly could. As it were, they were far too dizzy to sit up, much less stand. A fifteen-minute journey out to sea facilitated by a comfortable tram ride had been transformed into a dangerously fast thrill ride that barely clocked in at one and a half minutes.
At some point, Sam managed to stabilize his vision enough to rise to his hands and knees. He'd thrown up at some point, and he stared at the sour remains of his meager breakfast until he could move again.
Jazz was standing at attention over them, some kind of pistol in his hands, eyes locked on the distant rig. When he saw that the humans were more or less all right, he saluted them all with crisp precision and dropped off the side of Uruk-One's loading platform to dive deep into the raging sea.
"Sam . . . Sam . . ." his father gasped in the strained voice of a dying old man, staggering on all fours over to his boy. "Sam . . . we gotta go. Gotta go. Come on. Hurry."
Together, the Witwickys started on a painful, unsteady path through Uruk-One's forsaken visitor's center, built in the same vein as Frank Lloyd Wright's Prairie-School-style works and meant to resemble the seaside cliffs and towering pines of the Oregon coast. Its pristine displays and intricate models stood in sharp contrast to the ruined, smoking hulk barely visible through the storm outside.
Father and son finally made it outside to the parking lot, only to find an enormous black SUV, like some kind of souped-up Brubeck Polar, waiting for them with its doors open. It resembled a battleship in size and shape more than it did any kind of commercial van, really. There were one or two other vehicles trundling away underneath the center's porte-cochére as well. As the Witwickys watched, four survivors of the attack on Uruk-One were escorted by a single police officer from the cavernous interior of the SUV and to a rugged-looking police truck done up in the local livery of Coos Bay.
"Gentlemen! Over here, if you please. Step quickly now!" a voice called from inside the gargantuan SUV.
The Witwickys did as they were told, hopping inside the vehicle without wasting any movement. It had the somewhat musty, yet not disagreeable, scent of a brand-new car, all freshly made leather and nylon seats tempered with the smell of clean carpet, with just a touch of sweetness from some type of automotive shampoo. Colonel Witwicky, the seasoned mechanic, could have sworn that he caught a whiff of motor oil and lubricant as well - if he had bothered to pay much attention to such matters in his shellshocked state.
There was a huge man with a shining bald head and skin almost the color of freshly tilled earth in the back of the vehicle with them, sitting on a bench seat that ran parallel to the one that the Witwickys had found for themselves. He wasn't necessarily fat per se, but he was barrel-chested, very tall, and took up a truly staggering amount of space inside the vehicle. He wore a custom-tailored suit that fit his immense form very well along with a pair of dark sunglasses - even inside a black vehicle during a severe thunderstorm.
"My, you gentlemen have certainly had the scare of your lives. I'm truly sorry you were caught up in the whole affair," the man rumbled in a light baritone. "I'd offer you coffee, but I'm afraid we rolled out much too fast to think of it."
"Who . . . who are you? What's going on?" Colonel Witwicky demanded, exhausted, as Sergeant Bellwether finally caught up to them and struggled to get inside the SUV.
"And one more for the road," the mysterious man said, producing a tablet from inside his jacket and consulting what appeared to be a list of ceremonial attendees. Once Sergeant Bellwether was situated, the bay door rolled shut and they were off, all with a single button press and gesture to the vehicle's unseen driver, respectively.
"Wait . . . my car . . ." Colonel Witwicky protested weakly.
"The old '82 Monarch in the South lot, correct? Don't worry about it, Colonel. I'm pleased to report that it escaped the worst of the fighting and is still sitting, entirely unharmed, where you left it. We'll make sure you'll be able to see it again."
". . . 'Kay . . ."
The man's small smile got a bit wider at that. "All right. To business. Gentlemen, my name is Agent Terry Baker. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, although I do wish that it had been under better circumstances. I'm with the United States Government, the State Department, to be exact - and I'm here to help you three understand what has happened here today."
"There were . . . creatures there. Horrible, robotic things, freaking nightmares given form," Sergeant Bellwether managed. "What was all that crap, man?"
Agent Baker pressed his lips together. "What you've witnessed today was nothing more than the latest in a long string of repulsive, cowardly terrorist attacks. I'll give them one thing, though - they're crafty. Very crafty. They utilize the very latest in weapons technology for their own means, combining their cutting-edge weaponry with those 'robots' you've seen today. It seems that their modus operandi is to strike hard and to strike quickly with their technology, targeting sources of energy. They're dangerous. They are ferocious. But they've only got that one chance to strike. If that's foiled or compromised, they melt into the background with their tails between their legs."
"But . . . but some of them helped us," Sam countered.
Agent Baker scratched his chin. "Yes, well. We do have our own . . . countermeasures to this new threat. Like I said, if we gum up that first attack, there shouldn't be another one - and we're getting better and better at combatting this organization as time goes on and our situation changes. I'm sorry, gentlemen. It's been a tumultuous few years as of late, hasn't it? This was one that slipped through our fingers. It will not happen again, I promise you."
The three men on the other side of the SUV frowned, but were too exhausted to argue, and remained silent.
"What are they, though?" Sergeant Bellwether asked.
"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that in detail at this time. However, I can tell you that what you saw are . . . suits, to some degree. A threatening outer shell to grant its user tremendous strength, incredible power, and greatly improved stealth capabilities. Though there are only a handful of operatives in the field, the suits allow their user to be extremely durable. Tough to pin down in the first place, borderline impossible to put down for good. But we specialize in the borderline impossible."
Sergeant Bellwether buried his face in his hands. Despite the activity earlier, he was somehow still wearing his hard hat, whereas the Witwickys had both lost theirs somewhere along the way. "Freaking Stark tech, man. I called it. Jesus, I knew that was going to change the world when it first appeared on TV. And not for the better."
Agent Baker merely smiled sympathetically. "While I don't disagree with you, Sergeant, the situation at hand is certainly more than meets the eye. And that brings me to the most important part of our conversation here. I'm led to believe that both of you gentlemen are retired military men, yes?"
Colonel Witwicky nodded. "I joined the USAF when I was eighteen. Spent 27 years in service, even got in to the DoD for about half of that. Retired just four years ago, and I'm loving every minute of it."
"More or less the same," Sergeant Bellwether followed, "minus the government career. I was in the Marines, met Ron on a military base in Kharbombia. I did two tours in Afghanistan. Of course, I wasn't wearing some stupid-looking metal suit and blowing up tanks with a wayward glance while I was there, but I did my part for Uncle Sam. When I got home, I wanted to do anything but that, and took up at ONYX just before they built that burning hulk out there." He scoffed. "Figured I might as well affect some positive change in the world, never have to enter combat again. Look how that turned out in the end."
Agent Baker shifted his considerable weight, somewhat uncomfortably. "Thank you for your service, Sergeant. We could certainly use men of your caliber in the months to come. This attack, I fear, is just a preview of what's to come as the world gets more and more chaotic. My superiors and I worry that certain individuals in the highest echelons of the government are not taking the threat as seriously as they should be."
"Ain't that the way of the world. Just look at all those terror groups that have cropped up in the last five years. Raven's Shield, Shi Huan, the Brotherhood of Mutants . . . we're in dire straits and it's only getting worse and worse."
"Quite. At this rate, we may be forced to bring our own concerns to the federal level once again - remind our representatives of the active threat that this organization poses to the country, to humanity itself. Can we count on you gentlemen to help us reach people who may be able to aid us in this objective?"
Sergeant Bellwether narrowed his eyes. "What, you want us to testify before Congress or something?"
"Not necessarily - just helping us broaden our sphere of influence, expand a network of people like you and me who know what we're up against and can help our representatives realize this. Offer a unique, weighty perspective on our enemy, that kind of thing. We've already got agents working on this as we speak, but against a foe like this, we need all the help we can get."
There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the rumble of the SUV's tires over asphalt. Finally, Sergeant Bellwether spoke. "If it prevents crazies like these from unleashing their metal monsters on innocent people, I'm all for it. I've still got a few people I can call."
Colonel Witwicky blew out a breath. "I know all kinds of folks high up in the hierarchy . . . maybe it's time for me to call in a few favors. Although I'm not looking forward to dipping my toes into that cesspool again."
"Excellent. We'll keep in close contact," Agent Baker beamed as the SUV rolled to a stop. "I must caution you all, however - this is a potentially volatile situation. Please, I implore you - do NOT speak of what you saw here today to anyone that you do not fully trust. If word of the organization's assault, if news of their capabilities get out to the general public before we can solidify our networks with your elected officials, there may very well be panic in the streets, do you understand? And of course, the organization itself may turn . . . even more violent if they are thrust into the light of the public eye. They may feel the need to defend themselves and their positions, cornered and exposed like a feral animal. Please - only speak about this to people you would trust with your life."
"We understand," Sergeant Bellwether said. "The last thing modern society needs at this point is another panic."
"Very good. All right, we're here, and you're safe at last. Follow me, gentlemen."
With considerable effort, the agent heaved his great bulk up and out of the vehicle, into a blast of warm, humid air that filled the interior of the SUV. The Witwickys and Sergeant Bellwether were close behind - but it was only as they left that Sam noticed the benches they'd been sitting on consisted of nothing more than large, blocky, complex-looking pieces of machinery, covered with padded foam seats and light strips of canvas that didn't quite cover what was underneath them.
A panorama of the Coos Bay area stretched out beneath them - city, beach, mountains and all, lit by a noontime sun that collaborated with the ominous clouds and the contaminants in the air to turn the sky a sickly shade of yellow. The sight of the thunderhead of thick black smoke and bright yellow flames that Uruk-One had become, silhouetted by the seemingly natural supercell churning around it, sent more than just a shiver running up and down Sam's spine.
Scattered around the spacious scenic overlook were several vehicles, each one occupied by official-looking agents in much the same vein as Terry Baker himself. There was also a semitruck trailer set up on the edge of the gravel lot, its tractor nowhere to be seen. A mobile field headquarters, perhaps? Sam wondered.
Agent Baker led them to the nearest vehicle, a yellow Monarch Motors sedan not unlike the one that Colonel Witwicky had made into his daily driver. This one, however, was a much newer model than the Colonel's own and sported a series of racing stripes on its side panels and running down its hood.
"This here is Agent Barry Williams," the large man said, indicating a young mustachioed brunette of medium height and a lean build. Like Agent Baker, Williams wore sunglasses and an easygoing grin, but complimented his crisp tailored suit with a knee-length overcoat that matched his hair. "He's going to take you gentlemen home today."
"Heh, Barry and Terry," Sam chuckled wearily. "Funny."
Agent Baker's smile remained unchanged. "I'm sure I don't know what you're insinuating."
"Ah, nothing, never mind. It's . . . it's been a long day."
"I understand, son, and I'm sorry you had to go through all that. Where do you all live?"
"Not across country, thank God," Colonel Witwicky said. "Argay. Tranquility, Oregon."
"Great! I love Tranquility," Agent Williams exclaimed. "I was actually headed up there anyway. Official business, you understand. And you, Sergeant?"
Sergeant Bellwether sighed, gesturing forlornly at the city below. "I moved up here from Redding a month ago. My apartment's . . . well, it was on the rig. 'Blending Hard Work and Easy Living' and all that. The 'Fifteen-Minute City of the Future - Today!'"
Colonel Witwicky reached out and rested a hand on the Sergeant's shoulder. "You can stay in our guest room until you're back on your feet, Frank. We'd be happy to have you."
"I wouldn't want to impose, sir. I'll rent a hotel room in town or something."
"I insist, Sergeant. We both know you've saved my skin dozens of times over in the desert. Let me do something for you, now."
A softer man than Franklin Bellwether might have teared up - but it wasn't the place of the former Marine to do so. Instead, he licked his lips and offered the Colonel a clap on the back. "Thank you, Ron. Thank you a thousand times over."
"Don't mention it, pal. Anytime."
"It's probably for the best, anyway," Agent Baker interjected. "We fear that the terrorists responsible for this attack may or may not target survivors, especially individuals with such influence as you two. Removing witnesses, as it were. If you're both in one place, we'll be able to keep tabs on you both. Whatever they decide to do, you can rest assured that we won't allow you or your families to come to harm."
Colonel Witwicky ran one hand through his reddish hair and offered the other one to Agent Baker. "I appreciate it, Agent. Thank you for helping me and my boy out. We're in your debt."
Agent Baker's large, slightly cool hand enveloped even Colonel Witwicky's as they shook on it. "It's no problem at all, Colonel. We'll keep you posted on events as they unfold later this month. Safe travels."
Agent Williams escorted the three men to his vehicle. As they pulled out of the gravel lot, Sam sank into his father's side in the economy sedan's backseat, utterly exhausted. He was asleep in fitful slumber before they even hit the interstate.
"Hell of a day," Colonel Witwicky mused as his head hit the back of the seat. He, too, was asleep in a short period of time, but he lasted at least halfway to Salem.
The large agent watched as the Monarch's taillights disappeared around the bend. He released a great sigh befitting of his frame and simply dissolved into motes of light. Behind him, the enormous SUV unfolded into a similarly enormous Autobot.
Trailbreaker of Altihex rose to a crouch, making sure he was out of view in case any citizen of the small city down below happened to glance up at the scenic overlook rather than the smoking ruin on the sea.
"Not bad, Captain," the red muscle car parked by the outhouses remarked; and turned into Windcharger. "Not bad at all. Two potential leads and three lives saved right there. You should be proud of yourself."
Rubbing at his neck, Trailbreaker could only gaze out to sea. "I can't be proud of this, kid. I'm a Defensive Operations Tactician - the only one here, mind you - and I couldn't defend jack scrap. Look at this - the 'Cons got away with their prize, dozens of Terrans died horrible deaths, completely uninformed as to what they were facing, and the Decepticons still probably aren't done with that Witwicky family. What, exactly, about that situation can I take pride in?"
"You did your best, Captain. We all did. And that's all that we could have done," the younger bot shrugged.
Before the two Outliers could continue down that dark line of conversation, none other than Optimus Prime arrived by air, borne along by the jetpack he'd retrieved from his Combat Deck. He was accompanied by several other Autobots, chief among whom were the Twins, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, who were each carrying one or two of their groundbound brothers-in-arms.
"That was . . . bleak," Optimus remarked laconically, for once at a loss for words. His Combat Deck transformed again, just long enough for the Prime to hang up the extraneous weapons he'd handed out to the other Autobots and dock his jetpack for a charge, then returned to the innocuous form of a semi-trailer.
"Hey, speak for yourself, Optimus. We gave the Seekers the fight of their lives, and even managed to get topside to save a couple dozen fleshies from a crew of Stunticons."
"Metal or flesh - neither of them saw me coming, nor did they register it when I left," Sunstreaker gloated, dropping two Minibots that he'd had the kindness to transport.
"Prima's Sword, Cliff, what the Pit happened to you?" Windcharger exclaimed when he saw the diminutive archaeologist.
"I don't want to talk about it. Ever."
While the infantrymen bickered and boasted, a white-and-blue Jeep Gladiator - absolutely soaking wet, and caked in mud from the depths of the Pacific Ocean, as it was - ripped up the scenic road to the North and came skidding to a stop beside Optimus.
"General," Optimus hailed as the smaller truck transformed.
"My liege. The Decepticons are falling back, victorious, through the depths. They're expecting to confuse any pursuers, split up, slip away into the highway."
"Their early victories will make them careless. We need to shore up our strength, make gains elsewhere - away from the field of battle, if necessary," Optimus replied. "As long as we've saved the lives of most of Uruk-One's Terrans - and mark my words, we have sufficiently done our duty on that front - and broadened our network of contacts, we can rebound from these losses."
"Even so," General Shakar contested, raising an open hand for emphasis, "we still have little enough intelligence on the Decepticons. We must maintain at least some knowledge of their whereabouts."
"They'll be expecting a tail; splitting up as you said."
"Then we need a field operative with the ability to hide even from a wary quarry. If I may speak plainly, sir, someone a bit more . . . unorthodox in the field, seeing as every last one of our best trackers and scouts are currently deceased, incarcerated, or . . . volatile."
Optimus did not miss the General's barbed comment, directed at Cliffjumper's back. Nor did he miss the gravity of having none of his usual reconnaissance operatives available for deployment.
"I agree, Shakar. I know it's not your usual posting, but time is short and our list of available mechs even shorter. We are stretched far too thin. For the time being, are you up for the task?"
"Yes, my Prime. Anything for the Cause."
"Just 'Optimus' will do in the future, my friend. Very well. You have my permission to leave as soon as you're ready. Do what you can, track whomever you see fit. Our foreknowledge of one group of Decepticons is much better than wallowing in utter ignorance of any of them. From your records, I can see that you're well suited for this endeavor, at any rate."
General Shakar saluted. "Aye, Commander. I will leave immediately."
"The AllSpark be with you, General."
"Local scans are showing Uruk-One is free of all Decepticons and most Terrans, Optimus. Should I give the recall order?" Trailbreaker inquired as General Gears took the short way off the outcropping - a mighty leap to the streets far below.
"Go ahead, Trailbreaker. We've done our parts here today. The human authorities can handle the rest."
The black vanformer saluted in confirmation, then shrank back down to his heavily armored alternate form. Communications gear seemed to set itself up even as Optimus watched, and the Autobot leader began to tear down their field headquarters alongside his men.
"Critical order to all Autobots: The day is lost, but we've saved a great majority of the innocents caught in the crossfire. Recall any way you can. We rendezvous at the Ark in exactly six vorns."
After a moment's pause - and perhaps some prompting from the Prime - Trailbreaker saw fit to amend his transmission with a "Good work today, mechs. The Decepticons just enjoyed their last victory on this new world. See you all back at base - we've got a lot to discuss. Over and out."
The Coquille River Lighthouse was erected in 1895 to guard the scores of ships traversing the waters just off the rocky shores of Southern Oregon's Coastal Ranges as they set their courses for Tranquility, Seattle, and Vancouver. First lit on February 29th of the next year, it was a beacon to travelers for only 43 controversial years before being unceremoniously shut down in favor of a new, unmanned light on a rocky jetty instead.
Now, it watched in silent vigil as the steely waters first boiled, then released a six-wheeled armored personnel carrier onto the nearby shore.
Soundwave of Harmonex wasted no time in executing the next phase of his plan, characteristic of the tape-carrying Decepticon Spymaster. He had somewhere to be and refused to idly wait to receive his orders, as he already knew what was expected of him. His wheels churned in the soft sand as he set a course for the nearest highway, intending to travel Southeast for some time.
He'd just exited the city limits of Medford and was heading for the state border with Jefferson when his powerful communications antenna picked up the signal he'd been waiting for. Dutifully, he remained silent and ensured his commander's message was crystal-clear and reached each one of the troops as intended.
"Decepticons, we have achieved the latest in a long string of victories! So preoccupied with protecting the fleshlings of Terra as our weak-willed opposition was, they allowed us to walk away with every last drop of fuel that we so crave! You all know what your next assignments are, my revolutionaries. Follow them to the letter. When next we meet, the Autobots will kneel before us - our oppressors turned into naught but slaves - and the fleshlings will worship us as gods. You have all earned my favor this cycle. Now - disperse, learn, and await further instructions."
Megatron didn't sign off. He didn't need to. As such, his second did it for him as he continued on the long road ahead, his next mission fixed firmly in his mind.
Meanwhile, back in Coos Bay, the battle to save ONYX's great rig still raged, except this time it was waged by law enforcement personnel, SWAT teams, and firefighters. To their credit, they had the situation well under control, rescued every last survivor that the Autobots hadn't, and within days several freelance environmental organizations had been contracted to actively clean up the major environmental disaster the Raid on Uruk-One had caused.
However, none of them would be able to give a satisfactory answer to the press about what had happened there that day. Every camera had been destroyed, every remaining witness rendered incoherent.
The best that the ground-level authorities could muster was the nebulous excuse of "terrorism" that was becoming all too common in America, along with promises to look into this or that and platitudes about "bringing those responsible to justice."
At least three major syndicates, however, somehow knew exactly what they were looking at when the dramatic story hit national news - then global news. They knew how to combat this threat. They knew what to expect from the age-old battles between Autobots and Decepticons..
And they all knew what they were going to do about it.