No one moved as the Decepticons left, unless one considers trembling with fury to be a type of motion. Even Optimus Prime glared down the mountain at the retreating convoy, his armor moving in tight, angry motions. The equivalent of someone impatiently tapping their fingers or clenching their fists as they slog through a debate with the person they most despise in the world, except more controlled and on a much grander scale.
The last set of Decepticon tail lights disappeared into the pines and the last sounds of Seeker jet wash were covered up by the subtle rumbling of Mount Saint Hilary. There was a full twenty-five-count, and then Bumblebee collapsed to the ground from the position he'd been stuck in for the past few minutes. He writhed on the ground for the briefest of moments but got his feet under him quick enough.
"Primus condemn it, Windcharger! I had him! I could have zapped him so bad, his sparklings' sparklings would have felt it! Besides, I'm fast enough to get around those slaggers-"
"And get the rest of us murdered by the most hardened killers on the Nemesis, right?" the normally quiet Outlier snapped back, wiping his bleeding nose in a long, angry motion.
That shut Bumblebee up, and even the excitable Scout petered out as he realized the consequences of his actions. "Yeah, well, I figured you guys were ready to roll anyway . . ."
There was silence again. Tension vibrated in the air like the strings on a cellist's instrument. In the angry quiet, hardly anyone even realized it when Optimus Prime left the gathering with hardly the sound of a scattering pebble. Jazz noticed, though, and followed his leader as soon as the initial shock wore off and the Autobots devolved into a furious argument.
Optimus walked for a long time, traveling along the circumference of the mountain. The grade wasn't too steep, for Cybertronians at least, and whenever a loose boulder, a lava slide, or a rocky shelf came up, the Autobot leader simply stepped over them or, failing that, crawled up the seemingly impassable cliff faces as if they weren't anything more than steeplechases. On the way, he passed dried-up mountain streams and charred pines and hardly ever slowed his pace.
Jazz, being a much smaller Transformer than Optimus, struggled a bit more, especially with the cooling, but still hot, lava flows, but between his grappling hook and his natural agility, he managed himself quite well.
Optimus finally stopped on a westward-facing slope of the mountain, just above its timberline. Up the cliff face, a few hundred feet or so, a distant glacier glittered in the pale, weak moonlight, much diminished from its usual reach by the eruption.
Poetic, Jazz thought as he made it to Optimus's side. If that ain't the sum of the Cybertronian condition, I'm Ostaros' uncle. He hung back a bit to avoid disturbing the Prime, but it was clear that his presence was known.
Jazz could see everything from this vantage point. The rolling foothills and mountains cascaded over miles and miles of land, all furnished in thick verdant pines like the area had never felt the touch of a civilized race. But the pinpoints of light scattered throughout the cloudy landscape suggested otherwise. Far to the West, the last ashy remnant of a crimson sunset was swiftly fading from the horizon as the volcanic range settled into a dark, restless night. There was a feeling on the western face of Mt. St. Hilary that suggested a nearby ocean, one that Jazz couldn't describe but appreciated all the same. Perhaps it was a taste of humidity on the eastward breeze, the one that gathered up the massive steam plume and pushed against the mountain as if trying to erase evidence of the volcano's eruption from the meteorological record. A rainstorm was coming in, one that would dampen the effects of the eruption somewhat - and provide a fitting mood for the Autobot trials of the next 24 hours.
Optimus pinched the bridge of his nose in a slow, steady motion. He still wasn't ready to talk, but the movement prompted Jazz to start considering the flow of an upcoming conversation.
His eyes followed a stream of lights, many of which concentrated around a dark ribbon of water far below, leading into the dying sunset. A river. Jazz's mind spun with possibilities - energy gathering, troop transport. A dumping ground for bodies, perhaps. It looked wide enough and deep enough to be used for a wide variety of things and was surrounded by massive sandstone cliffs that would provide supreme vantage points and vital control areas for whoever got to them first.
The Decepticons would be thinking the same way, Jazz reasoned.
The river wound into the West and - there! - some kind of huge population center at its distant mouth, given away by the golden reflection of city lights off of the low clouds above. When taken with the drab, overcast sky everywhere else, it really stood out.
Those are our two points of immediate interest, then.
He waited a few more moments, seeing if Optimus was to speak first, but the Prime showed no interest in starting a discussion.
"Pit of a situation we've got ourselves into," Jazz prompted. It was not a question, but it wasn't really a statement either. It was an observation, impassive yet edged with a taste of bitterness, expecting concurrence.
Optimus was silent for a moment, considering something. "Jazz, I would not speak a word of this to the others, but it would seem that you and I are isolated enough that my . . . childish complaints will not travel any further than I care for them to."
Jazz's doorwings rolled in a slow, tight gesture. "You know I'm here ta guard 'em."
"To be, ah, perfectly honest with you, it's times like these that I wish I would have just stayed in the Library, all those centuries ago."
The Autobot First Lieutenant didn't say anything. He might have snorted or thrown out a casual remark under other circumstances, but if there was one thing Jazz of Staxis could do, it was be quiet when he needed to and make his friends laugh when they had to.
As he suspected, Optimus continued. "But . . . if I had - and I do not intend to boast of my exploits and effect on our people - but thousands more would have suffered so I alone could enjoy what semblance of freedom was afforded to me. I would not be here, gazing over the landscape on an unfamiliar world as our brothers are dishonored by the enemy. None of us would be here, for better or for worse. Considering everything, however . . . I would not trade this fate for the universe."
Jazz thought about that for a second. "'Cause any other possibility along the way's an unknown. Here, we know our options."
"Precisely. The situation is dire, but we can make something of it."
"You know I've always done my best work wingin' it," Jazz agreed.
Optimus looked over his shoulder and chuckled, humorlessly, but with a suggestion of warmth to temper it. "Indeed. Speaking of 'winging it' . . . we wouldn't happen to have any Fliers readily available, would we?"
The First Lieutenant snapped back to attention. "No, sir. We're outschooled by the 'Cons in the flight department ta begin with, but pretty much all a' the Aerialbots were deployed to fight the Nemesis." He scoffed. "Primus knows where they are now. Anyway, your orders, Prime?"
"I think you already know the answer to that question, Jazz," Optimus said, flicking on his lights. The effect drew Jazz's attention back to the city in the West. "It's past time to get to know our surroundings."
"Can't fight in unknown country," his First Lieutenant agreed sagely. "I'll put our best guys on it. We'll move as two teams. I'll take my boys an' scout out that river valley, maybe come 'cross the 'Cons' camp while we're at it, if ya know what I mean. A larger, denser group can go spec the city and its tactical advantages, stayin' together to ward off any Decepticon attacks. I'm not lettin' another pair o' Autobots get in harm's way."
Optimus nodded. "Good plan. I, along with the other members of Command, will remain at base and review Teletraan's analysis. We need to get every byte of knowledge we can out of it before Megatron gets his servos on our one foothold."
"That is, if he ever gets a hold of the Ark."
The volcano rumbled again, drowning out conversation for a few minutes. Finally, Optimus spoke. "'If' is good, but I fear we may not have many options left. I'll work on a solution while the scouting parties are away."
"A'ight. Gimme a breem or two ta round up some heat an' some fuel, an' we'll be off," Jazz said, rolling his shoulders and neck. He tested his grapple again, throwing it around a nearby burned pine, and found the energy cable as satisfactory as it'd ever been. "Time to taste th' local flavor."
As Jazz left, Optimus turned to face him. His facemask was retracted, and weariness was writ large across his sturdy features. Despite this, the Autobot leader held the same kind of stately tension that he always did, ready to do whatever was necessary at a moment's notice. "Good luck, Jazz. I've a feeling we'll all need some."
Sanctuary Tower
Tranquility, Columbia Delta, Oregon
Mid-May 2007
A man of average height, average features, and a far-above-average gross income stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows making up the Eastern wall of his office, which itself proudly overlooked the city of Tranquility as its highest man-made tower. The office was smaller than his penthouse in Tokyo by a wide margin - enough so that the man jokingly called this one the "ol' broom closet" at times - but it was still an impressive room, paneled in black and white marble with tasteful accents in mahogany and gold. The furniture was sparse and expensive, kept meticulously clean, but instead of making the narrow office more comfortable and approachable, it succeeded in emphasizing the fact that this room was very rarely used by its current occupant. When in the United States of America, he much preferred to work out of his cabin in nearby New Glasgow.
The man gazed out of the aforementioned window almost as if in a trance, watching the erupting volcano far in the East as the ashy steam plume dissipated into the cloudy night air. He'd felt the tremors earlier, during the eruption's most violent hours, but was unconcerned for himself, for the city below, and for his tower in the center of downtown Tranquility.
His reverie was interrupted when a young lady slipped through the doors leading into the office. Her demeanor suggested that she hadn't wanted to interrupt him, but she did regardless. Nevertheless, the man at the window gave no indication he'd heard her enter.
After a brief silence, she attempted to get his attention with a quiet cough. "Still burning the midnight oil, Mr. Blackrock?"
Garrison Blackrock turned his head to better acknowledge his apprentice's presence. Josephine "Sephie'' Beller was, on the surface, your average college girl, a pretty young woman of medium build and unremarkable, yet appealing, features. Her red hair was tied back in a businesslike ponytail that went well with her conservative attire, consisting of a simple black blouse, practical shoes with similarly dark leggings, and a knee-length grey skirt. The only overly noticeable things about Sephie's wardrobe was her well-worn rime-blue snow jacket, which was hanging loosely over her shoulders, and the silver cross necklace that glittered brightly over the black fabric underneath it.
But beneath the somewhat plain, formal façade was one of the more remarkable creatures that Blackrock had ever seen, one that perfectly married genius intellect and a mountainous ambition. She reminded Blackrock of himself at her age.
"Ah, there she is! The woman of the hour!" he hailed in a quiet voice, just loud enough to make Sephie crack a modest smile. "I thought I asked you to head home already, Miss Beller. You've got a big day in a little less than-" he checked his gold-plated watch, which complemented his dark clothing and complexion like it was made to do, "- five hours. Heavens, girl, do you even sleep most nights?"
"I sleep when you need me to, sir," the assistant joked, which elicited some absentminded chuckles and repetitions of "oh please, Miss Beller'' from her boss before he returned his attention to the window.
"In all seriousness, however, you really should get some rest as long as you're staying here, then. It's not every day one gets to cut the ribbon to dedicate their very own floating city."
Blackrock could hear a faint blush in Sephie's voice. "I just did what the scholarship asked of me, sir. You're the one who actually commissioned it."
"True enough. It's still quite an achievement on your end, though," he murmured. "Imagine - a self-sustainable hybrid oil rig, wind farm, and full hydroelectric and solar plants situated around a working community nearly as large as Tillamook. In my day, it would have been seen as impossible . . . but you, Ms. Beller, are creating the future of energy."
"Oh, Mr. Blackrock, I hardly think-"
"Enough, Sephie," Blackrock said calmly, turning back towards her as he crossed the room. "Enough with this self-deprecation. I'm not trying to pump up your ego. I'm right. A project of this importance on such a grand scale will revolutionize renewable and nonrenewable energy alike. We'll corner the market if Uruk-One goes well. The entire West Coast will be accounted for, and with the oil we bring up, our . . . fellow countrymen in Flyover Country will have their share as well. Someday, we may even have sustainable ONYX platforms on every coast, every channel large enough to sustain one. It'll be bigger than Drummond Gorge, bigger than the Hoover Dam, even. You should be very proud."
Silence. The volcano smoldered in the distance, over the quiet skyline of Tranquility.
"Beautiful, isn't it, sir?" Sephie asked, fairly bursting with pride yet eager to change the subject as well. "You know, the news is saying the eruption could have been serious - or at the very least, much worse than it is."
"Yes. Worse indeed . . . I'm glad that Saint Hilary's not deciding to do his Vesuvius impersonation quite yet. Could have been bad. Terrible."
As he returned his attention to the view behind him once more, Blackrock realized something about himself. He almost hoped the eruption would have been more violent. He'd felt . . . connected to the mountain, or at least had felt connected to it before Sephie had walked in. Its quiet power, the bone-shaking rumbles that rattled the glass in his tower even from here, the plume of smoke rising up into the clouds like a military standard above the shoulder of some vast, warlike giant . . . volcanoes had always been a subject of interest for Garrison Blackrock. It was no coincidence that his main residence and center of global operations were both built at the foothills of Japan's tallest.
No one would have been hurt, not that far from the city. Some forest would have been destroyed in the cataclysm, but the rich volcanic ash in the soil would eventually herald a new age of growth. It would have been a spectacle. It would have been, quite literally, an earth-shaking event in the history of the region. There was no reason why he couldn't just-
"Well, I suppose I should find some cozy nook or another to get some rest then, Mr. Blackrock. And hey-" Blackrock turned again, jolted out of his thoughts for the third time, to watch Sephie leave with a self-satisfied grin writ large across her face - "don't stay up too late yourself."
"Me? Staying up late? Never," the CEO of one of Earth's largest tech conglomerates replied with a smile. That smile turned into a frown when he heard something, a basso hum beneath the ambient noises of his lavish penthouse office. The enormous pane of glass rattled in its frame, and this time Blackrock didn't think it had to do with the volcano's last grumblings. Nevertheless, he ignored it.
He checked his gilded watch again. "Still early. Could use a nightcap, I suppose." He dusted off his expensive jacket and hazarded one last good look out the window. "Some sea air might do me good tomorrow. I'm going crazy in this saccharine city."
Blackrock left the area. So did the small robot that had previously been doing gentle figure-eights within hearing distance of the office with a set of highly sensitive microphones. The robot, a young, slight mech by the name of Sunspot, sailed to the top of Sanctuary Tower, higher than most other points in Tranquility, to meet his mother.
"Ah . . . there's my little zori. Tell me, little one, what have you found for Lord Megatron?"
Sunspot responded with an excited series of clicks and tones, streaming images captured with his rig of cameras the whole while. It wasn't bad intel, even taking into account the fact that Spyglass had been jacked into the building's own internal network the whole time. There were prototype electronic devices, timepieces that ran on a 24-hour day/night cycle - much like Cybertron's own - models of larger-scale projects, moderately useful references to other companies across the world, and even a good-sized map of the city below, rendered by Sunspot in a 3D wireframe.
Among these pictures and intel files were images of ONYX's higher-ups, including Sephie Beller and Garrison B. Blackrock, and a couple of calendars that showed their schedules for the next few days. One event, or rather, the location where it was to take place, caught Spyglass's attention in particular.
"My, my. The higher-ups will be pleased to see this," she said, cross-referencing Sunspot's data with her own. "Well done, child. When we get back to base, someone might be in line for an Energon goodie, no?"
The minibot whirred appreciatively, fairly bursting with excitement even as he and Spyglass converted into their aesthetically similar drone forms and set off silently to the East, towards the smoking volcano and the river valley beyond.
Bumblebee sat in a dead mech's bunk, reading an ancient datapad he'd never heard of before. It was rusty, glitchy, and needed to be powered by Bumblebee's own systems, but it was some degree of entertainment while he waited for disciplinary action for his attack on the entire Decepticon army. Looking back on his exile within the barracks, he wouldn't even be able to tell anyone what the pad he was reading was about - his mind was filled with regret, a dash of fear, and an unhealthy sprinkle of misplaced rage borne of youth and adrenaline.
He hadn't wanted to actually assault Megatron on the bluff. It had been as if he was watching from some remote place as his body betrayed him. The only thing he'd seen the whole time were the piles of corpses in East Iacon. The dead eyes of his parents, who'd been killed defending him. The brutality of the Decepticon orphan gangs that clashed with his own in the underbelly of Iacon's fifth and final ring, all presented in the reddish-orange color of primal hatred.
He'd almost gotten his people killed - again. Pit, he'd almost died himself. The only things that had saved everyone were his foster brother Windcharger's quick reflexes and potent powers and the Prime's diplomatic prowess and commanding presence.
And Bumblebee hated that. He knew holding on to this much negative emotion was a bad thing, but all he wanted to do now was make up for his mistake.
He slammed a fist into the recharge slab, suddenly frustrated. "Primus below . . . you've stepped in it now, Bee. It's all your fault . . ."
Bumblebee was interrupted when an energy claw slammed into the rusty datapad in his hands and shot past his face as it retracted. The mech on the other side was, no surprise, First Lieutenant Jazz of Staxis, with none of his usual casual groove. It was like Jazz was a whole new person, with shoulders squared, back ramrod straight, feet slightly spread to provide a better center of gravity. When he spoke, he spoke with a ghost of his usual thick Equatorial accent but none of the playful mojo he was otherwise known for.
"On your feet, soldier. We're shippin' out in 30 breems. Recon mission; I hear you're good at those. You wanna make up for your screw-up? Now's your chance."
Bumblebee was up before the datapad had hit the Staxisian's hand. "First Lieutenant Jazz, sir. I'd, uh, I'd like nothing more, sir."
Jazz sized him up as he stood at rigid attention. The two mechs were about the same height - that is to say, tiny compared to the likes of Ironhide or Optimus Prime - but Jazz had been a higher-up in the Special Ops department since before the War began, and carried himself with much more confidence, class, and Cybertitanium-clad courage than the much younger Autobot. "Good. Nice to see some accountability in today's youth. Follow me, Private," he ordered, handing Bumblebee the undamaged datapad.
Jazz set off at a brisk pace, adapting to the slight slope that the Ark's halls had adopted and the refuse choking them with nary a stumble. Bumblebee kept pace well enough and relatively gracefully, but tripped once or twice on some things that he really hoped weren't some of those awful desiccated corpses the Engineers had been digging out of the lower decks.
"You'll be on the B team, Private. Thought it was appropriate, given your designation an' all," Jazz began. "You an' your boys will be movin' out with th' likes of Sideswipe an' a few other gentlemechs. General Shakar will be your CO while you're out in th' field."
Bumblebee blinked, gaining his footing again. "You mean Gears, sir? The Transport director? I thought he was staying at base and working on the recovery effort."
"Yeah, well, desperate times an' all that," the First Lieutenant muttered, glancing back at Bumblebee. "Plus, we ain't exactly overflowin' with extra hands an' wheels at the moment. Our best scouts are bein' subjected ta Primus-knows-what in an enemy camp, in case you forgot."
A series of uncomfortable images went through Bumblebee's mind, including one that hit him a little harder than the rest. It stuck in his databanks and wouldn't let go. "Yes sir . . . nasty business. I've worked under Sergeant Hound a bunch back home. Good 'bot. And the slagging Decepticons got to him. Can't believe it."
"You better believe it, Private. You almost got him an' Cliff killed on that ridge. Get that emotion under control next time. Matter o' fact, don't let there be a next time. You can start makin' up for it while you're on this mission."
"Yes, sir. My apologies, sir."
"Apologies don't mean jack if'n you don't act on 'em, Private Bumblebee. Make this a learnin' experience.
"Right, we'll move out as one group. Me, Sunstreaker, an' Mirage are gonna split off Northwest o' base an' take care o' mappin' the river valley; there's some kinda major roadway due North o' our position. The rest of you will continue West to th' population center at the river's mouth an' split up, where you'll spend the rest o' th' deployment blending in with th' locals, performing deep reconnaissance, and seein' what you can do ta get us information on th' planet an' its inhabitants. We'll be backed up by Trailbreaker back at the Ark, who'll be doin' all the research he can on Teletraan an' keeping us up-to-date on any new developments. We'll be back at base exactly two vorns before sunset. We clear?"
The two mechs had abruptly stopped at the room that was being used as the Autobots' makeshift armory. The idea niggling at Bumblebee had become impossible to ignore.
"Yes sir. Very clear. I've just got one question . . ."
Jazz's expression was inscrutable. "Ask it, then."
Suddenly, Bumblebee's throat was dry. "I didn't see Commander Ironhide on the bluff earlier, sir. Was he . . ."
Silence.
Jazz's mouth set itself into a firm, straight line. He drew himself up to his full height, pricked his doorwings up, and spoke in an emotionless, detached voice. "Several breems before tonight's parlay with enemy forces, Commander Ironhide was severely injured when attempting to halt the escape of several Decepticon prisoners. He took a mid-level EMP straight to the cranial unit, and is currently in critical condition in the medbay. I'm sorry, 'Bee. He'll prob'ly pull through, all things considered - Ironhide's a tough 'bot - but Ratchet doesn't know how he's gonna turn out on th' other side."
The scout didn't answer. A word began to pinball around his mind, hitting a little harder every time it repeated itself.
"Hey." Jazz's voice was softer, less accusatory. "Have faith, kid. Ratchet's th' best medic 'cross this entire planet, and th' Commander's been through worse. I've seen him go through worse. Your mission's what's important right now. Get your gear. Meet us at the flight deck in ten breems. And remember: Ironhide couldn't be in better servos. Right. Gotta get going now. Hop to it."
With that, Jazz slipped silently out of existence, leaving Bumblebee alone in the dingy, brimstone-scented hallway except for the thoughts in his head. While he was standing there, the word came again, at its strongest yet.
Dad.
Oh, sweet Primus.
Witwicky Residence
Argay, Tranquility, Oregon
The human was up before his alarm rang, slapping the long button atop his clock without giving the device half a chance to ring. He threw on some clothes - boxers, a pair of comfortable jeans, a simple t-shirt, and, after a moment's consideration, a thick blue hooded sweatshirt - and grabbed a roll of socks to go. He was feeling something he hadn't in a long while - the motivation to wake up properly and get out of bed, ready to face the day ahead.
I'm a senior in high school, he thought excitedly to himself as he padded down the stairs to the kitchen. Finals are two-and-a-half weeks away, and they're already winding down the school year. The senior trip will be on Thursday. Last full day's Friday the week after that; and then Finals, which will suck, but I can handle it.
"All I gotta do now is stick it out for just a few more days," he muttered to himself. "And today doesn't count!"
He rounded a corner and stopped dead in his tracks, the boyish grin on his face diminishing by a few degrees. He wasn't the first one up - again.
"Morning," the younger boy at the kitchen counter noted. His face was lit up in a most sinister fashion from below by the pale blue light of an ONYX tablet. A spoonful of cereal dangled in limbo halfway between the bowl and his mouth. The first teenager got the impression that it had been left there, uneaten, for some time.
"Hey, morning," the elder teen responded. "Brand, c'mon, man, what are you doing up so early?"
Brandon, the first kid's baby brother of a hair less than four years, shrugged his slim shoulders. "I could ask you the same question, but I'm pretty sure I already know why. I came to see you and Dad off."
Sam Witwicky frowned. It was a deliberately overexaggerated expression. As he began crossing the vast kitchen to the refrigerator placed in a spot of honor, he said, "You didn't sleep as much as you're supposed to again last night, didn't you?"
"How can I sleep when there's a new Helix experience coming out? You haven't even seen the trailer for this one, Sam. It looks fantastic."
Sam opened the fridge. "You know, I just don't get why you young'uns spend all your time playin' those gall-durn videos-games these days. Why, when I was your age, we threw eggs at passin' cars an' bet on how many major traffic incidents we'd cause!"
"Good, wholesome, fun, eh, Grandpa Herb?"
"You betcha, Buster. Now tell me 'bout this new doohickey on the devil box, why don't you?"
Brandon's chair squealed on the hardwood floor as he sat up straighter. "Oh boy. Well, I've been going over early-access playthroughs and official gameplay demos for hours, and, man it looks great! It's called Murder in the Levant - basically a film noir manhunt sorta thing that takes place during the Third Crusade in the Holy Land. You play as Grand Master Robert IV de Sablé of the Knights Templar - a real person who actually existed, by the way! - as Crusader operations in Jerusalem and Syria begin to fail. You have to investigate a string of bloody assassinations involving your closest allies and track down the killer responsible. Apparently, there's gonna be a huge twist in the midpoint of the game, a massive conspiracy, and-"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Relax a little bit, Dick the Lionheart. You're gonna spoil it for everyone in this room. Don't you want to 'experience' it yourself?" Sam questioned, pointing a gallon of milk at his brother for emphasis.
Brandon blinked. "I'm not really a big fan of surprises, and you're probably not even going to play this one."
Another shrug, this time from Sam. "Eh. Knights are tight and all. I might give it a try, but I much preferred The Lone Eagle. American Revolution and all that? Boston, Philadelphia, and New York City in their early years? Great stuff."
"Ha, of course you would say that. Jingoistic American fanboy."
"Hey now. Cut that out. At least we can both agree that, aside from that gorgeous North Italy setting, Triumph of the Borgias sucked."
"I don't know . . . It had some nice themes of duality and propaganda's effect on the people, right? Plus that one sequence in-"
Any further discussion about the Helix was cut off when the third Witwicky entered the room, unscrewing the lid on a travel thermos and sporting a bright smile.
Colonel Ron Witwicky was the very picture of a retired military man - tall, square-jawed, with the kind of muscular build that suggested a lifetime of hard work and constant exercise. He was going gray in the temples only, and the rest of his reddish-brown hair was cut in a short, neat, wedge. Today, he was wearing a gray button-up, light brown slacks, and a golden baseball cap dangling off of his belt loops.
"Buster! Spike! You boys ready to do this thing?"
"Another day at school while you two go cruise the coast? You bet, pops," Brandon said, beginning to pack up the remains of his breakfast.
"Now, now, kiddo, you know this isn't going to be a pleasure cruise. Your brother's graduating next month, and it's time he explores the avenues that are going to be available to him going forward." Colonel Witwicky began filling his thermos with steaming-hot coffee. "You two are smart kids. You could make it anywhere you want, as long as you commit and strive to get things done. But without an actionable plan, or at the very least some ideas of what to look into, well, you'll wind up spinning your tires instead of gaining ground. That's what Sam and I are going to spend today doing."
"Spinning our wheels, Dad?" the older Witwicky brother said between pulls of milk.
"Sam, you know what I meant. We'll be looking into a few different options, all right? Just options. And get a glass if you're going to have some milk, kid, cripes. Your mom would have a fit if she saw you doing that."
Sam wiped his mouth and replaced the cap on the jug. "Eh, I was done with it anyway. She'll never know. Right, where to first, Dad?"
"Hold it. Brand, you know the plan?"
Brandon snapped up his tablet. "Yeah, 'course. Normal school day. Leave ESports early. Get Rad - er, Bradley to bring me home afterwards. Mrs. McNamara will take care of the dogs while you're away. I'll throw a pizza in the oven for when you guys get home."
"Right. And clean the kitchen while you're at it. Mom's home from the French Riviera next week, and she'll want her safe space in tip-top condition. We gotta keep those standards up, or she'll have all our hides."
Sam wrinkled his nose. "All the places Mom could visit, all the cool stuff she could write about, and her editors keep sending her to the western Mediterranean and Paris. Sometimes they get really adventurous and have her go to New York or something. Why?"
"It's where the money is, Sammy," Ron replied. "And it's no Coos Bay, but it's what her audience wants to hear about. Speaking of Coos Bay . . ." the smile renewed itself, "how does swinging by that neck of the woods sound? I know a guy who's got some friends off the coast there . . ."
Brandon's cereal box fell to the floor. "You're kidding me," he exclaimed, eyes wide. "You're going to Uruk-One?! Dad, you know people who actually care about environmental responsibility, sustainable living on the sea, the future of energy and modern life, that kind of thing?"
"Come now, Buster. You know your ol' Pa's the most progressive mind West of the Mississippi. I've got friends in all kinds of places. Comes with the Department of Defense territory. And your brother just landed a special tour of the site on its grand opening day, absolutely free of charge!"
There was silence for a moment as Brandon fumbled for the cereal box. "OK. Now I'm really jealous. Are you sure I can't come with, Dad? I'll tell the teachers that I got strep throat or something. I'll work it into my Finals project in Science. Heck, I'll happily skip ESports for this. Please?"
"Some other time, Buster. I promise. Maybe in June, after Spike's grad party. We'll go there together, all right? And your brother will get exclusive rights to do the chores for a few days going forward, too."
"Fair enough," Sam shrugged.
Colonel Witwicky began to pack up, moving ever so slightly towards the door as he did so. "We're taking the Monarch, but I've got to get it ready to go. Boys, be ready to go in 25 minutes, sharp. And Brandon?"
"Yes, sir, Dad?" the younger Witwicky prompted, standing up straight again.
His father winked. "Don't lose any sleep over it. The Uruk rig will be there tomorrow, after all. It'll be there whenever we feel the need to take a drive. Everything's gonna turn out just fine!"