Bumblebee could see in other spectrums which served to amplify very low light from faint embers, or took in various types of radiation which he then processed as light. But other spectrums were more difficult, to hold them in view, to process and to make sense of. Objects that would've been perfectly visible in normal light might disappear, and traces of energy or vibrational disturbance in the air would register as if they had substance so that he was not only inclined to try and go around 'nothing' but also had difficulty seeing through it to anything beyond.
Yet to turn on a running light or headlight in places like this was death. It was so dangerous, in fact, that most scouts these days had modified optics, or carried equipment with them that did the work for them. None had quite the range of vision and recording capabilities that Bumblebee did, but they also didn't have to cope with their vision shifting as a result of their mood.
However, scouts weren't the only bots out here running in darkness. On Bumblebee's fourth scouting mission with Cliffjumper, he found himself faced with the one thing every scout in the field feared above all else: jets from Starscream's armada.
Fliers had always operated more by scanner and radar than by sight, so though the darkness impeded them slightly, they were far from blind. And they were always willing to deviate from their assigned course to eliminate another scout. Scouts had become high-value targets of late, when earlier in the war they had been more like a nuisance. The job of scouting had always been somewhat important, but now the elimination of a single scout felt as if it might turn the tide now at the end of the war.
Bumblebee heard the jets long before he saw them, their engines roaring thunder in the void somewhere beyond visual range. He immediately whipped around to move away from the sound, but the jets had noticed him and tracked after him, altering their course to intercept.
Well alright, if that's how they wanted to be about it.
Pulling a tight U, Bumblebee drove back the way he'd come, marking a jagged course through the shelter of crumbling ruins that would keep the jets from landing or getting a clear shot at him. Every scout knew where cover was at all times, and used it. The jets were faster than Bumblebee and screamed deafeningly overhead, but they had to sweep back because they didn't know where he was going and therefore could not simply land somewhere ahead to block his route.
As they were circling back, Bumblebee took the opportunity to shift course. Transforming, he climbed over an enormous debris pile to get onto what remained of a road headed perpendicular to where he'd been aimed before. There was a chance, not a great one, but a chance, that the debris field might mess with their scanners and that they would lose him as they circled. Many a scout had made a narrow escape just by hopping off to the side or changing direction after jets passed over him.
No such luck, the jets were back on Bumblebee as soon as they'd made their turn.
Dropping back to tires, Bumblebee raced off on his new course, bobbing and weaving in and out of debris as the jets tried to get a clear enough shot at him for it to be worth the trouble. With energy resources at an all-time low, there was not a Cybertronian alive who was willing to take potshots.
Jets cost a lot of energy to keep airborne as well. If Bumblebee were to elude them for long enough, the jets on his tailpipe would be forced to reconsider his value in relation to their rations of energon and decide whether he was really worth it after all. On the other hand, he couldn't afford to burn himself out hoping to get rid of just these jets, because there was always the possibility that they would simply call in reinforcements from nearby to take over. A scout on the ground could only go as long as he had cover, and jets on a relay could outlast him.
Bumblebee's recently installed radio squelched, "What are you doing, Bee? Kite them this way."
Evidently, Cliff had heard the jets in the distance and knew from the sound that they'd tacked onto a target they were zigzagging after. Even though Bumblebee knew that laying traps for him to drive pursuers into was Cliff's whole job, he hadn't given a thought to it.
Jets had chased him a couple of times, but only briefly, and at too great a distance for his escort to pick up on it. He'd never called for help, and had forgotten that he was supposed to expect any. The problem now was, to reach where Cliff was supposed to be set up, Bumblebee had to leave his cover and bolt across almost four miles of open terrain with the jets snapping at his fenders.
He could make that. He was sure of it. What he wasn't sure of was whether Cliff would actually be there. All Cliff had to do was leave Bumblebee to navigate without knowing where the traps were laid, or just not lay traps to begin with, and let the jets do the rest. Cliff could report in that they were attacked by Decepticons, which was not only true, but eminently believable.
If Bee turned out of the cover he was now enjoying in these city ruins, he was trusting his life absolutely to Cliffjumper. And he was pretty sure Cliff hated him. Did he have enough value as a scout for Cliff to overlook his distrust? Bee rather doubted it.
"Come on, there's more on the way. Let's lose these and get gone before the others tack onto us."
Apparently Cliff could hear jets in the distance from his position, or had set up a portable monitoring station that was scanning the skies for him. Assuming what he'd said wasn't just a ruse.
Now Bumblebee had to make a decision. If he delayed and more jets came in from Cliff's direction, his opportunity to get clear would be lost. But, if he went out there and Cliff left him out to rust…
With a growl, Bumblebee launched up a mound of broken steel and broke into the open, at the same time flipping on his headlights and switching visual spectrums so the coming explosions wouldn't blind him. The instant he broke from the cover of the debris field, the jets opened fire, bright blasts churning the world around him to jagged flame and clouds of choking dust as the shrapnel the shots tore out of the ground peppered his back and flanks. All he could think was that Cliff had better be there.
Now, for the first time, he'd actually gotten a good count of the jets. As long as it had been dodge and weave, he'd only been guessing, as they were seldom in view. It was a large Flight of six, all painted vehicon colors, each seeking to distinguish himself in battle and thus earn a name for himself. Literally.
Their hunger made them reckless and they streaked low after him, hoping to hit him with their front-facing blasters, which were weaker than their heavy guns, but took less energy to fire and were generally more accurate. Only one was equipped with missiles, the others were running on empty in that department. That one was hanging back, letting the rest of the Flight take their shots, miss as Bumblebee swept back and forth to evade them, and then pull up as they roared past Bumblebee to circle back for another round. One lined up, chundering fire from two points beneath the wings, blazing red light that tore the world asunder on either side of Bumblebee for hundreds of yards, before the speed the jet was required to sustain to stay airborne caused him to overtake Bumblebee, making opening for another jet to sweep in and take over.
One down, but five more. Four, if you didn't count the one with missiles.
Those missiles were heavy and costly to produce in time, energy and material, and that's why they were being held back in the hopes of not having to deploy them. But those missiles would be deadly, almost impossible to dodge at such close range with no cover to get behind, capable of producing an explosion that could reduce a reasonably large structure to ruins. Even if the missile missed him, the concussive force would probably be enough to send him into a tumbling spin, rendering him a helpless and easy target for the jets circling back around.
Calculating the distance he had to travel to reach the coordinates where Cliffjumper was set up, his own speed, the rate at which the jets were overtaking him and the potential decrease in speed he would suffer another mile on because of unfavorable terrain, Bumblebee was pretty sure that missile-laden jet would have a chance to hit him before he got to where he could only hope marginal safety lay.
If he put the hammer down any more, he'd lose his steering, and with it his ability to evade the shots coming at him like lightning-infused hail; not to mention that he might crack once he hit the rougher terrain. But if he didn't accelerate, he was convinced a missile would tear him apart. A less than two minute run across open terrain was seeming now like a lifetime.
At the same time, his concentration was being rattled from an unexpected direction, as he recollected the last time he'd fled from Decepticons across open like this. He kept twitching a side mirror to look up, searching subconsciously for Soundwave to come screaming down from the blackened sky to smash his hood and destroy his life once again. This was impossible for a couple of reasons.
One, Bumblebee had armor too solid for him to be taken out that easily now. Two, Soundwave's present location was known, as he was engaged in a prolonged battle halfway across the planet. Bumblebee had heard the report just this morning. But he couldn't keep himself from looking.
Glancing off to his right, Bumblebee felt a sudden longing to head that way. Where the terrain ahead became rougher, the ground to the right smoothed out, headed downhill, and ended in what looked like potentially good cover. That's not where he was supposed to link up with Cliff, but it sure would be easier on the shock absorbers than trying to floor it over that rough stuff ahead. Going at top achievable speed, he might even break something important or, worse, get stuck and become a sitting target.
Resisting temptation took all his willpower, which he then had to pour into accelerating as the second jet peeled off to be replaced by the third. As it turned out, that third jet had anticipated that Bumblebee would change course. Either he had sufficient understanding of the mechanical limits of ground vehicles, or he had seen Bumblebee's mirror twitch multiple times to check that direction. Either way, his first volley chopped a smoking line about five hundred yards to Bumblebee's right, where Bee himself would've been if he'd made that disastrous turn at his previous speed.
Bumblebee had no time to marvel at the preciously narrow margin by which his life had been spared, because he suddenly hit pothole central at breakneck speed. His left front tire went into a dip, giving him a rough downward wrench at that point as the ground was no longer there. But he continued forward, propelled by three other tires, for that one in the dip to catch the edge of the pothole and give him a jolt that felt like it was about to be ripped right off him. Momentarily blinded by the pain, Bumblebee forged onward, struggling against the reflex to turn left in an attempt to reduce the pressure, even as that wheel popped free of the pothole and he realized that he wouldn't be able to spare the rear wheel from the same fate because he could neither slow nor turn… so he braced for another jolt.
It was worse than the first, in part because he was still trying to regain his internal balance, and partially because the third jet decided to lob a bomb as it passed over him. He hadn't known it to be a bomber, and so was not prepared for the concussive force that slammed into his right side. With a left tire in a hole, it didn't take much to cause him to spin out and flip.
There was no choice. Bumblebee had to transform to make sure he didn't come to a complete stop upside down. A complete stop was unthinkable. He had to shift modes, roll, get control of it, and drop back into v-mode with accelerator on maximum to avoid taking a direct hit.
All well and good in theory. But, as he transformed, he felt something was wrong. He was certain of what it was as he rolled onto his shoulder with the intention of transforming back. That pothole had broken something after all. Something in his shoulder gave and instead of getting control of the roll, his shoulder collapsed under his weight and he kept going, briefly stunned by pain, until he landed on his back. That should, by all rights, have been the end of him.
Were he still a Decepticon or a scavenger or a slave, it would have been. But he was an Autobot.
From his observer's post, Cliff had seen the bomber prepare to drop and realized what would follow. He'd broken from procedure, leaving the rendezvous point to careen recklessly down a steep incline, drop to v-mode and shoot across the open towards the scene of the battle. Seeing Bumblebee already rolling, Cliff attempted to force the Decepticon jets into distraction by flashing on his headlights and hitting the horn. But only the jets in the process of circling back even noticed him as the others were too close and hungry for their target to even know what was around them.
Closing the gap further, Cliff sprang to robot mode and dropped to one knee, blasters out, and opened fire on the current leader of the jet formation. The jet was so hot and low that he could hardly miss, his shots ripped open the nosecone and tore at the plating of the cockpit. The jet pulled up, while the last of Cliff's shots aimed for it ripped a hole in one of its wings.
Not knowing what had hit them or how many they were, the jets peeled off as a collective before regrouping. It was a matter of seconds before they realized they were being attacked by a single Autobot, but that was all Bumblebee and Cliffjumper needed to drop to v-mode and race to the trapped area, rigged with explosives and smoke grenades, which provided them ample cover to get out of the area without sustaining any further damage.
"You came for me," Bumblebee managed to gasp gratefully as they fled for their lives.
"Of course," Cliff replied indignantly. "What do you take me for, some kind of lousy 'Con? We Autobots don't leave our own for scrap. Even if they are a turncoat vehicon."