TRANSFORMERS PRIME SEASON 3: Rebirth
Transformers and all related characters and IPs are property of Hasbro. Any other IPs and their related characters are property of their respective owners.
Chapter 1: Director
Montana
"Hot damn…" a MECH trooper whispered as his squad's tilt-rotor made a pass around what was left of an abandoned airbase. "You sure we're in the right place, LT?"
"Coords don't lie, Hawkins," another one replied as she adjusted her gas mask. "Better question is what the hell could've done all this."
"Chimera, that's what."
Both soldiers turned around to see another member of their squad walk up towards them, a fully laden medic's bag slung over his shoulder.
"What?" Hawkins asked.
"Silas's little pet project. Something about us building our own transformer and piloting it via some sort of wireless brain-computer interface."
"You mean the one that Novo was involved in?"
"That was Mechanoid, you dumbass!" the lieutenant snapped. "Seriously, am I the only one here who bothers to keep track of these projects?!"
"Settle down, Dietrich," the third soldier said. "Remember what they said about your blood pressure during the last physical?"
"Blow me, Reese," came the response.
"That a promise?" a fourth one with a PDA mounted on his wrist asked.
"Shut it, Batty," Dietrich fired back, her attention soon shifting back to Reese. "What makes you sure that Silas had anything to do with this?
Reese rolled his eyes, currently hidden behind a set of smart goggles. "Little birdie in Cybernetics told me she'd had a surgeon friend transferred over to Chimera after that Nemesis Prime business."
The lieutenant blinked. "Why'd they…"
"Call it a hunch, but I think we're going to find out once we hit dirt."
A few minutes later
Jesus… Dietrich thought as she and her team moved through the command bunker. There, sprawled out before them and bathed in the red glow of emergency lights, was a grisly tableau of fried machinery, broken terminals, and corpses burned to the point of barely being recognizable. What should have been concrete solid walls were now festooned with holes of varying shapes and sizes, while bits of ceiling and ductwork littered the floor.
"Malfunctioning prototype?" Hawkins shakily asked.
"Couldn't be," Batty said. "According to the information in the briefing, Silas only managed to build the one."
Reese was silent as he scanned the room, his gaze drifting from one rubble pile to the next.
Not a warm one yet.
Just then, the sound of a pained gasp rose up from across the bunker, and the four troopers raced towards the source. There, pinned beneath a particularly large slab, was a man in a bloodstained MECH uniform.
"W-w-water…" the man rasped.
"Think we can move him?" Dietrich asked.
"Tell you once we get that piece of concrete off him," Reese bluntly replied.
She nodded and gestured to Hawkins and Batty, who in turn took the hint and got into position.
"Lift 'er up."
The four raised the slab up, exposing the full extent of the man's injuries. Almost as soon as it was back on the ground, Reese assumed a kneeling stance, medical scanner already in hand as he looked his prospective patient over.
"Left arm's a total write-off," he said as he looked over the heavily burned appendage in question. "Compound fracture in the right ankle…laceration on right shoulder…potential head wound…should go without saying that he's gonna need fluids…"
"So, how bad is he?" Dietrich asked.
"Way things are looking right now, he's probably the luckiest unlucky bastard I ever saw," came the reply. "Need to get 'em back to somewhere better equipped to handle this level of injury ASAP, but he'll live. In the meantime, see if you can't get us a stretcher or something so we don't risk doing any more damage trying to get him out." He turned back to his patient. "What's your name?"
"J-J-Jenkins," the latter half-croaked.
"Well then, Jenkins," he said, "looks like it's your lucky break."
Unknown location– a few days later
Jenkins held back a pained groan as he hobbled down the colossal hallway of one of the base's cellblocks (a holdover from its days as a prison), an armed guard on either side in addition to the swarm of patrolling soldiers. By any conventional reasonable metric, he should've still been bedbound as opposed to reporting for debriefing, but such was life for the average MECH soldier. At the end of the hallway, he could see the doors of the former warden's office, another pair of guards standing at each side.
"Good luck, Private," one of his escorts said as he was handed off to the second set of guards. "You'll be needing it with the Board."
The wall of the office was dominated by eleven monitors– five on the right, five on the left, and a large one in the middle with a stylized picture of Earth with a gear border, the word "MECH" slapped squarely beneath it. As Jenkins took his seat in a folding chair in the middle of the room, the remaining ten turned on, each displaying a blank avatar with a "SOUND ONLY" card underneath.
Oh God… he thought as he heard the speakers came online.
"Private Jenkins," a man's voice proclaimed. "I understand you have some valuable information regarding what happened with Chimera."
"Y-y-yes, sir," the soldier stammered.
"Then begin. Otherwise…well, I hear that brainwave scans are most uncomfortable."
He swallowed. "Well, I a-a-assume that you heard about Nemesis Prime, right?"
"Just get to the point, Private."
Jenkins gulped. "Well, Silas managed to survive the incident."
"How?" another board member– this one a woman– asked. "Divine intervention?"
"L-l-look, all I know is that when we found him, he was still breathing, even if only barely."
"Continue," the first board member said.
"With all the knowledge we'd managed to get out of those robots, along with us still having that Decepticon body, the medical team decided to integrate his nervous system with its circuits and upload his brainwaves into the processor. After that, add energon and hit it with ten million volts, and Silas…he lived again."
A pregnant silence settled over the room as Jenkins's words sank in.
"I'm sorry, but did you just say that you managed to bring him back from death's door by plugging him into a dead robot?" a third board member asked, a distinct upper-class British accent in his voice.
"Y-y-yeah, we did. We were going to contact you, but…well…"
"Well what?"
"We got attacked."
"Attacked by whom, may I ask?" the first member said, a distinct edge to his voice.
"…Silas."
"What."
"Right after we were done with the whole operation, he said something about wanting to be in the company of titans. And then he pulled out a blaster and started shooting at everything in sight!"
Silence.
"Well," another board member said, "it looks like we're looking at one of two scenarios– either Silas decided to start working with the Decepticons, or he's decided to strike out on his own. Either way, the only thing waiting for that traitor should he dare try to return to us is a tungsten slug at Mach 7. Now, Private Jenkins, you are dismissed. As soon as you've finished recuperating, you'll be transferred to a…quieter post."
"Thank you, sirs," the trooper said, flashing a quick salute before being escorted back out. When the doors closed again, the room's atmosphere grew tense, twenty unseen eyes focusing on a bespectacled man on the cusp of middle age stepping out of the shadows.
"Well, Director Church, did you get what you wanted?" the first board member asked.
"Yes," the man replied. "Shame, really– for all our disagreements, I'd be lying if I said he lacked vision." He sighed. "Anyhow, with Chimera having met a most ignominious end, perhaps now is the time that you finally consider moving on to Metamorphosis."
"And what, pray tell, makes us think that we'll agree to your cockamamie scheme this time?" the second board member said.
"Let me put it this way– Silas taught us how to build one of those robots, Jenkins just now told us how to animate them, and we either already have the necessary equipment. All I need is your approval."
Another long silence settled over the room as the "STAND BY" icon materialized on the screens. After what seemed like a short eternity, the icons finally disappeared.
"Very well, Director," the first board member said. "As of right now, you are clear to begin Project Metamorphosis. All we desire is success and evidence thereof. Should it turn out our faith has been misplaced…well, let's just say that you had better hope your successor is as competent as you."
"Trust me when I say you won't be disappointed," came the reply.
"We shall see about that. In the meantime, this meeting is adjourned."
And with that, the screens went dark, and the doors opened to reveal a lone, middle-aged figure with a soldier's build, a metallic combat vest, and a mechanical brace on his left leg standing in the hallway.
"Commander Rourke," the Director said.
"Sir."
"It's time to forge a new future for MECH."
The hallway was still swarming with soldiers as the two made their way down it, each step echoing off the tile.
"So, I take it you heard everything?" the Director asked.
"Yes," Rourke bluntly answered. "Hard to believe that Silas would just turn his back on us, after all he did."
"Shared sentiment, Commander. Lucky us, then, that he managed to walk so that we can run."
Rourke pondered for a moment. "With all due respect, sir, may I ask as to why you're so adamant about this project?"
The Director shot his cohort a dirty look. "How about you tell me why you're so adamant about Freelancer first?"
There was a brief silence. "Touché."
The cellblock's main doors opened, and the two men stepped out into an antechamber, where another pair of soldiers stood before them.
"At ease," Rourke said, waving the two off as he followed the Director into an alcove off to the right. The latter soon came to a stop, bending over to look into a nearby retinal scanner next to another set of doors.
"Access granted," an automated voice proclaimed from the intercom.
The doors slid open, and the men walked into the waiting elevator.
"Welcome to [Special Projects]," the automated voice said as the elevator came to a stop, the doors opening just before the Director and Rourke stepped foot into the lab. There, sprawled out in front of them, sat four colossal berths, each one occupied by the basic armored framework of a transformer and located beneath a ceiling-mounted crane. Next to those, a colossal machine with four cylindrical pods on the front, a huge tank on the back, and multiple computer consoles connected to it. Meanwhile, construction crews and technicians scuttled and scurried about, and a portly man of Indian descent with a skunk stripe running through the middle of his front hairline approached the new arrivals.
"Ah, good," the Director said. "Commander Rourke, allow me to introduce you to one of our chief contributors– Professor Isaac Sumdac."
"Charmed."
"Likewise, Commander," Sumdac replied. "Now, Director, is there anything I can do for you at this time?"
"Give me the latest status report, for one."
"Well, we fixed that bug in the main conversion unit, and as you can clearly see, we've finished the basic support structures for the robots. On the other hand, Doctor Burkhart wants to know why that order of HAZMAT suits she asked for last week hasn't arrived yet, and–"
"Let me rephrase that, Professor– is everything operational?"
"Almost. All that's left are some final tune-ups on the machinery and some server recalibrations."
"How long will that take?"
"Not very."
"Excellent. Anything else?"
"Yes, just one question."
"Proceed."
"I do not believe you ever told me why you want me to be involved with all this."
"Because," the Director replied, "given that this project represents humanity's best hope for survival against our Cybertronian invaders, it only makes sense that we recruit some of the greatest experts in the necessary fields. Of course, now that it's nearly complete, all we need are some test subjects."
Rourke perked up. "If that's what you're looking for, then I can–"
"That won't be necessary, Commander. I already have some candidates in mind." He reached for his walkie-talkie. "File please."
Right on cue, a soldier walked in with a bulging manila folder under his arm, handed it over to the Director, and then left as quickly as he arrived. Once the soldier was out of sight, he opened the folder, eyes darting around in their sockets as he scanned its contents before eventually handing it over to Rourke and Sumdac.
"These are your candidates?" the former spat as he shot the Director a dirty look.
"Yes," came the blunt reply. "I've had my eye on them for a while now, and they've proven themselves ideal for the experiment. Pity, then, that with their town bulldozed by the Decepticons, they've undoubtedly scattered to the winds."
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Seeing as how I've already got some…contractors out there looking for them, all I need you and your people to do is sit, wait for a rendezvous call, and then pick them up and bring them here."
"Acknowledged," he muttered before making his way to the exit, leaving little but a pregnant silence behind. Meanwhile, as Sumdac looked his copy of the file over, he couldn't help but feel a pit form in his stomach.
"Is there a problem, Professor?" the Director finally asked.
"No, sir!" came the hasty reply. "It's just that…well, I can't help but wonder as to what you see in them."
"Go on."
"I realize that given the circumstances, we may have to resort to drastic measures, but are you sure you want to use these four? After all, they are only civilians, and one of them is perhaps a little too young to participate in such testing."
The Director gave an insincere chuckle. "Believe me, Professor," he said, "there's more to these four than meets the eye."
"How so?"
"Going from what I've heard from our field agents, they all have ties to the Autobots and are aware of our existence thanks to Silas's…less than subtle approach to operations. Experience over background, if you know what I'm saying." He gave the professor a pat on the shoulder and walked away, leaving him to his work.
"Experience over background indeed," Sumdac muttered under his breath as he looked at the folder's contents. Chief among them were multiple pictures of four individuals– a woman in her forties wearing a nurse's uniform, a black-haired boy in his mid-teens approaching a motorbike, a fifteen-year-old girl with her black/pinkish-purple hair styled in a sort of combination or pigtail and ponytail, and a significantly younger boy with spiky brown hair and glasses.
There was a quiet ding as the elevator returned to the surface and the Director stepped out, hand in pocket as he fished out his phone and dialed.
"Hello?" a man's voice asked.
"Mannheim," he replied.
"What do you want, Church?"
"I assume you got the files I sent you regarding the…VIPs?"
"Files, yes. Payment, no."
"You'll get your money as soon as you deliver them to my people and not a moment sooner."
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
To anyone who notices a distinct resemblance between this and LuisJM's Transformers Prime Season 3 fics, then this entirely intentional. To go into further detail, this fic is supposed to be a sort of revised edition of the first "episode" of that series (and yes, this was written with Luis's blessing), with the main goals being to cut down on overly unnecessary exposition, polish up the dialogue, help connect it more to The MECH Chronicles, and bring in some fan favorites who never made it to the actual Transformers Prime show.
Also, for any fans of Luis's original version, this (along with any other potential revised episodes) will be sticking relatively close to the major plot beats, though how they play out is where things can and will be drastically different.