Painted Desert
Malheur Uplands, Oregon
Late May 2007
Through a desolate landscape of rolling desert and multicolored dunes that glowed in countless shades of ochre and crimson under the faint werelight given off by a single crescent moon, a convoy of ill-prepared warriors trundled interminably along some dusty backroad. Their group was led by none other than Lord Megatron of Tarn himself in the form of a brutish armored truck, who was lost in thought but not in direction as he gazed off into the future. The highway was relatively straight as it followed the Deschutes River - he knew it was called that now following Soundwave and the Cassetticons' strategic ongoing use of the planet's World Wide Web - upstream to its origin point in the state of Oregon's southern forests.
A trailer rattled over the potholes behind him. He'd borrowed it from the Photonicon transport specialist Spectro to make the upcoming battle that much more rewarding. It was currently disguised as an extension of Megatron's own vehicle form, a large fuel tank covered in olive green canvas that blended seamlessly with the material covering his own truck bed. An unusual scene to be sure on this rural desert highway - a silent convoy of military trucks, emergency vehicles, and ordinary, unassuming sedans all escorted by a small formation of fighter jets circling far above - but at the moment, there were no humans out at this early hour to wonder at the strange sight.
"Lord Megatron," a familiar voice hailed over their local comms network, breaking the silence. "I am receiving radio silence from Squadron Rho. Viewfinder has not reported back following his last contact-signal. Conclusion: Reflector and components out of commission, presumed POW."
Had he been in his primary form, Megatron would have allowed for a somber nod, perhaps accompanied by a humorless smirk. "All according to plan, then. The Photonicons will be able to handle themselves for a few cycles as we shore up our strength. I knew the Autobots could not resist betraying the terms of our parley, dishonorable Scraplets as they are. Such lowliness deserves an equal response, and a response that they will receive tenfold within the next decacycle."
"Indeed, Lord Megatron," Soundwave responded. They rode in silence for a while, past a small hamlet on the desert's rim. The silence tentatively returned, and yet, Soundwave's line was still open, broadcasting nothing for the moment but faint static.
Megatron would have quickly become greatly annoyed had it been anyone else but his second. Carelessness with commlinks was the sledgehammer that broke apart well-disciplined armies - but then again, Soundwave was never, ever, careless. There had to be a reason for the Communications officer's breach of discipline.
"Was there anything else you wished to share, my friend? Are your systems recovered and prepared for your role later this cycle?"
Immediately, Soundwave picked up his end of the line. "My functionality: irrelevant. Functionality of other Decepticons: critical. Suggestion: a brief rest is required to maintain morale."
"What do you mean, a rest is required? Do you not see my vehicle form, Soundwave?" Megatron's temper began to flare. "It's not exactly the most efficient construct around, I am towing a Transport trailer, and yet, my tanks are still full and eager to prove their worth! Have the Decepticons forgotten their unprecedented victories not two decacycles ago, when we swept across the surface of Cybertron in a matter of vorns? If I do not yet require rest, then who in this convoy, pray tell, does?"
"Everyone else," Soundwave replied curtly.
The shortness and certainty of the remark prompted Megatron to check his mirrors, aiming them at the ground forces behind him and the Seekers circling above. Indeed, many members of his rudimentary battalion were beginning to suffer from lack of fuel and rest. The Seekers were not actually flying if they could help it, merely gliding in long, languid circles, their afterburners operating on low power as they tried to conserve the limited amount of fuel that most Fliers had at their disposal while also traveling slowly enough for the ground forces to keep up. Skywarp, in particular, hardly looked alive, but he was keeping course nonetheless. A few of the bulkier, less efficient grounders behind Soundwave were beginning to unconsciously drift across the median like a man falling asleep at the wheel as they drove, and the comparatively more sprightly rear guard was far behind due to their companions' drop in speed over the past few minutes.
"Soundwave, what - what is happening? Why do the Decepticons falter?"
"Request: permission to speak frankly, Lord Megatron?"
"Granted, of course."
When Soundwave next spoke, it was in a deep, rich baritone tinged with just a taste of a light Harmonexite accent. He'd turned off his signature vocoder, an event so rare that the surprise almost caused his leader to free-wheel over a roundabout.
"Sir, you are powered primarily with Dark Energon and antimatter. They're both extremely potent power sources - but extremely rare and highly dangerous as well. Objectively speaking, no one else in the Empire is as efficient as you, despite the power demands of your vehicle form." He paused for a moment, weighing what he was about to say next. "And while all of us here have access to that same Dark Energon, for most, including myself and my Cassetticons, it is a fuel source of last resort only. Do you remember, my lord, what happened to the Raiders right before we left on the Nemesis? The same ones who accomplished the prodigal push into the North?"
"I - I do," Megatron admitted. "Over the course of a lunar cycle, they had exhausted themselves to the point of deactivation but hadn't realized it as the Angolmois kept their systems running. As we left, some began to collapse under the strain of merely existing."
"Dark Energon is a substitution, Lord. Not a mainstay, and we must-"
"But they were weak, despite their grand accomplishments in battle. These Raiders were the first to jump at the call-to-arms to board the Ark. Surely they can-"
"They will need every drop of fuel they can muster to attack our target and make away with our cargo. A moment of respite, just a handful of breems, sir, will keep them satisfied until then."
Megatron was furious at the interruption but somehow convinced himself to consider the situation at hand. After five minutes' worth of consideration, he finally came to a conclusion and, wearily, notified his second as such.
"Per the usual, my oldest friend, you do have a point. Very well then. There is a small settlement several clicks South of here yet that was mentioned in Spyglass' report earlier. Inform the troops that we will be pulling over there for a SHORT break - I cannot stress that enough - to stretch our pedes and refuel. Not a quarter of a vorn, Soundwave, and we must continue on the warpath."
"Affirmative, Lord Megatron," came the reply, once again cloaked beneath a heavy reverb. Despite that, the Decepticon Emperor could have sworn that he sensed a modicum of genuine gratitude - but then again, he'd spent enough time with the Communications officer at his right hand to know what he was thinking most of the time. "Truly, you are a wise and benevolent commander. Your troops will be grateful."
Megatron acknowledged the transmission, then shut the commlink off to be alone with his thoughts, and his fuel gauge, which hadn't left the FULL position since . . . well, for almost as long as he could remember. He hadn't even noticed how long it had been, nor how hard he'd been riding his troops, ever since they awakened the previous morning. Pit, they probably did need a break . . . but he, himself, D-16 of the Geodic Expanse, did not. He wasn't even winded.
Didn't all Cybertronians, all people, need to rest? Didn't they need to recharge, to feel fatigue and exhaustion and pain and all the emotional hindrances that made life that much sweeter?
Was he even really a person anymore, in truth?
He was still grappling with such thoughts when his army, revitalized by news of a momentary break from their hurried march Southwest, passed over a bend in the Deschutes and into the city limits of Redmond, Oregon.
The Ark, Mount Saint Hilary
Belknap Crater, Oregon
The otherwise empty corridors of the Ark descended into chaos when the scouts returned from their missions. Some had good news to share, news about some potential targets for their adversaries, detailed renditions of the immediate location that the Autobots occupied, some potential allies for the second stage of the SWORD protocol. But whatever fruit the B Team had wrought on their trip to the city was overshadowed by the tragedy that Jazz's group - well, by that point it was just him and Sunstreaker with seven prisoners in tow - had to offer.
The Decepticons had vacated their temporary camp, leaving ruin in their wake within the arid rain shadow of the Uplands, just outside the town that they now knew was called Pendleton. Clearly, they'd acquired a battle plan and a target - which was about one-and-a-half times as many objectives than the Autobots had accomplished.
Cliffjumper was safe and sound, but Hound was offline and Mirage was a traitor. Jazz, severely injured, had been picked up with the Photonicons in the only usable vessel the Autobots had at their immediate disposal - the Jackhammer, a small, tough dropship, standing room only, registered to Sideswipe and quite a bit worse for wear. The important thing was that it worked; following a hasty touch-up by Sideswipe and Wheeljack to get it back in a highly unstable flying condition, she had just enough fuel in her to get to Pendleton and back with a cargo of prisoners, traitors, and corpses.
Hound's decapitated head and perforated body, within which his spark still faintly hummed, was rushed to the medbay. Decapitation is not always a death sentence for the Cybertronian race. Meanwhile, Mirage was whisked away to the medbay under armed guard. The Autobots attempted to convince Lieutenant Jazz to take a rest too, but he turned down every attempt for aid aside from a gratuitous retuning of his doorwings, claiming that the Decepticons were still out there somewhere and ready to commit to a large-scale attack.
And so, despite the chaos, the rage, and the disbelief that Mirage would ever do such a heinous thing, the Autobots rallied. Following the Sky Spy's report of high energy readings coming from a burning distribution warehouse to the South, Trailbreaker was able to make an educated guess as to the Decepticons' next target.
After a hasty review by High Command, using the information that Sideswipe had gleaned from the recon trip into the city, it was agreed upon that the Decepticons had a new target, one that seemed overwhelmingly obvious now that they actually looked into it - a brand-new structure on the West Coast that was simultaneously an oil rig, a hydroelectric plant, a geothermal generator, a wind farm, and a nuclear power plant - though several of the structure's functions had yet to be activated. Based on the Decepticons' southward trajectory, their desperation following their reawakening, and the structure's sheer strategic potential, it was obvious - almost too obvious - that they intended to attack the energy rig known as Uruk-One.
Minutes later, the Prime had rounded up a warband, leaving only Wheeljack, Windcharger, Huffer, Jazz, and Ratchet at base to provide security and overwatch. A quarter hour after that and they were already on the highway in one vast formation, cutting through the mountainous wilderness beneath Interstate 84 as they raced through the night to defeat their mortal foes.
Trans-Pacific Fuel Depot
Redmond, Belknap Crater, Oregon
Paul MacKenzie was a down-to-earth man not given to flights of fancy, delusions, or anything of the sort. It was part of his job as a night watchman. He prided himself on his steeliness under fire, his keen critical thinking abilities, and his teetotaling abstinence from drink or drugs, anything that could blunt his sharp Scotsman's perception. If he was ever impaired, it was because he was tired, and that rarely happened with his well-planned sleeping schedule and hectic, yet balanced lifestyle.
That spring morning in 2007 was no exception. He was two hours and fifteen minutes away from being relieved of his post, but he wasn't counting down the seconds at all, despite the long shift and strenuous responsibility that came along with it. His boss had asked that Paul wear a facemask, just for tonight, to protect the watchman's sensitive lungs from the high contaminants in the air following the eruption of Mount Saint Hilary a day ago. Paul hadn't really seen the point of the thing, seeing as the volcano was a couple hundred miles North of the depot and the winds were blowing eastward off the Pacific, but he was a lifelong resident of the Pacific Northwest. He knew how dangerous the region could be and remembered the eruption of Saint Helens like it was yesterday. This one had been far less severe - though the eruption of Mount Saint Helens was admittedly a pretty high bar to clear - and in the end, Paul had figured "what could it hurt" and wore the mask anyway.
Like many extraordinary events, Paul's run-in with the cosmos began unremarkably. He'd been driving the company golf cart along the facility's Southern end, where the rails lining the fuel depot met the cracked tarmac of Redmond Regional Airport. The only sound was crickets in the dry grass, the stout wind blowing in from the West, and the hum of the cart's electric motor. Despite the ashy skies to the North, the night was clear and quiet, which Paul appreciated. In a position such as his, quiet was, after all, his friend.
He first noticed something was amiss when the gates between the airport and the depot were open - a major security risk to be sure. With a heavy sigh, Paul slammed on the brakes of his standard-issue security cart and dismounted his noble steed, ensuring that its headlights were still on to best augment the tactical flashlight that he unclipped from his belt.
"What the . . ." he asked into the breeze, the question muffled by the mask over his face. The heavy-duty security gate, which would under ordinary circumstances have to be opened by a team of at least three men, wasn't just open, it was cleanly broken in the center. His first thought was that it had been rammed by some kind of truck, but the damage was far too contained for that. It was almost as if some giant had grasped both halves of the thing in two massive hands, gently so, and then wrenched the gate open in one quick, clean movement, preserving both the integrity of the structure and any undue amount of energy in the process.
But that was ridiculous. Giants didn't exist anywhere outside of the pages of the fairy tales his wife told their kids at night and the myths and legends concocted thousands of years ago by superstitious men less intelligent than he, looking to explain the mundane phenomena that modern society called "science." There simply must be a mundane explanation for what Paul MacKenzie saw in front of him - and if there was, it was likely a criminal one.
He unclipped his radio. "Yeah, this is MacKenzie. We've got a breach on the-"
Suddenly, Paul was thrown to the ground by a tangible force. His keen hearing disintegrated into a tinny ringing as he fought to get back on his feet.
Five fighter jets soared overhead, each coming from the airport to the Southeast. As Paul struggled back to a standing position, he watched as each of them executed a swift banking maneuver, then sailed down again to the ground far away, behind the distant depot's primary warehouse. There was a brief moment of silence, enough for the ringing in Paul's ears to get much worse, then the warehouse exploded in an orange ball of flame.
Paul, ever the skeptic, could not stop himself from swearing in the name of Jesus Christ as he staggered backward. He fumbled for his radio and began jabbering into it, asking for updates, repeating his report of a breach, even chattering something about Top Gun as he tried to come to terms with the reality of his situation.
Then, as he watched, a column of ordinary vehicles - everything from unassuming coupes to military APCs and one or two fire trucks - drove out of the distant loading bay as calm as can be, not even breaking 25 as they proceeded to the main gate, switched on their turn signals, and left one by one. They shimmered in the heat like mirages under the unforgiving desert sun, and Paul began to wonder somewhere in his confused haze if he was dreaming. His suspicions only grew when it appeared.
An armored giant with blood red eyes, a vision straight out of the stories that crossed his mind not three minutes ago strode out of the burning warehouse, brushing its colossal form off as Paul himself might have done after coming inside from a snowstorm. It grasped a nearby support column with one black hand and gave it a slight tug, causing first the column, then the entire Western side of the building, to come tumbling down like a child's block tower. Cinders flew into the air in a flurry of smoldering fairy lights, escaping the ruins of what had once been Paul's place of work. He prayed that his coworkers had escaped in time.
The giant rose up from its task, opening a cruel mouth that Paul could just barely make out at this distance, and spoke in a series of high-pitched metallic shrieks that resonated over the empty railyards surrounding the disaster zone. It wasn't a long noise, but it was clearly some kind of language - albeit an alien one that sounded as if an industrial compactor had somehow gained sentience and decided to become a producer of dubstep music. Then, the giant hunkered down, its form twisting and contorting until a military-grade tanker truck sat in its place, which followed the convoy of vehicles out of the depot and continued on its way South.
Minutes later, the warehouse collapsed entirely, burning white-hot and engulfed in even more violent explosions. Once the roof came down into a pile of rubble, those jets appeared once again and disappeared into the smoky night sky - seemingly having taken off without the benefit of any runway whatsoever.
Paul MacKenzie just sat there, cowering and shaking in the driver's seat of his security cart, covered in a cold sweat as he clutched the silent radio in his arms like a religious talisman. It was a full fifteen minutes before the usually unflappable man gathered enough of his wits to take out his cell phone and dial 911 - who else could he call for something of this caliber? - only to discover that the line was busier than a shopping mall on Black Friday. It seemed that the entire population of Redmond had been shaken from their sleep by the commotion at the local fuel depot and called for the authorities. Come morning, the coffeeshops and cubicles in the city would be positively buzzing with activity, theories of what had caused the disaster flying freely through the charged air - but Paul MacKenzie was the only person for hundreds of miles around who'd seen what had happened from start to finish.
Such a pity that no one would ever believe him . . . or would they?
Coos Bay
Coastal Ranges, Oregon
Optimus Prime didn't even slow down as he arrived at the overlook over Coos Bay. He merely shifted without missing a beat, stepping decisively out of his vehicle mode and never breaking his pace. The Combat Deck that became his trailer in his rugged semitruck form followed him, skidding to a stop in the loose gravel as they both approached the edge of a steep cliff.
Casting his gaze about the land below him, Optimus had to hand it to Trailbreaker once again. The tactician, with the help of some servicable software the humans called "Nudle Maps," had chosen an excellent place to set up a field command. From this vantage point, one could make out the entirety of Coos Bay, a quaint little city perched between a collection of steep mountains and the picturesque inlet that it was named after. In the distance loomed the target itself - a behemoth on the horizon, its operating lights still active and plainly visible as the early morning turned into day and the night retreated into the West, all in the face of Terra's sunrise. It was surrounded by an army of windmills that rose above the sea they were built in and over the dunes of a sandy peninsula where the land met the ocean.
First Lieutenant Prowl, also in robot form, knelt at his commander's side. "I am aware of the fact that I brought this up at the conference earlier, but I must restate: this is a tactical risk, sir. We have no idea where the Decepticons are really going or what their plans are. Setting up here is folly. Their presence in Redmond could be a diversion, for all we know-"
Optimus gently held up a hand. "I know, Lieutenant. I know. But this is the only recourse we have at the moment. We are low on supplies. Our fighting mechs are being decimated on every mission I have the gall to send them on. We are lost in a new world that we know precious little about - but so is Megatron. And, Lieutenant, you know the Emperor better than anyone else here, do you not?"
Prowl's trademark guarded expression turned into an irritated scowl. "Affirmative. The Decepticons are close-minded, violent street thugs held together by the charisma of their commander and their desire to disrupt the peace for their own personal gain. They lack even the luxury of a base camp thanks to Megatron's poor tactical decisions. They are as confused by their new surroundings as us, just slightly faster at gaining intel due to the Seekers within their ranks. When threatened, they stick to their roots and break things without the benefit of foresight or logic. At least, their leader does - and where the Slagmaker leads, his troops follow."
"Indeed, my friend," Optimus said sagely with a certainty and evenness he didn't feel. "And, Prowl, I apologize for bringing up your past allegiance, but I believe that, at this moment, we need to confront our pasts in order to deal with the present and plan for the future."
"I understand," Prowl conceded after a tense silence. The rest of the Autobots were just arriving, most towing Mini-Trailers loaded with military gear and extra rations, and the sounds of activated T-cogs filled the cool, damp morning air. "But in the future, Prime, with all due respect, I will draw my own conclusions - without needing to be reminded of the Empire I once served."
"I cannot fault you for that," Optimus replied, rising to his full height. His Combat Deck also unfolded itself into a weapons platform, bristling with arms, ammunition, and even a real-time holographic feed of the area, supplied by the Sky Spy under Trailbreaker's control. Prowl drew his acid rifle and began to survey the area himself through its telescopic scope, preparing to formulate a battle plan.
"Autobots!" Optimus called, getting the attention of his troops. "This is where we will make our stand. This is where we turn our fortunes around and move past the poor luck that has plagued us as of late!"
Morale was low, but Optimus's voice seemed to have a tangible effect on the Autobots. With only a few words from their Prime, they weren't tired or depressed or worried anymore. Mostly, they were just angry - angry at their rash of failures ever since Iacon had been sacked what had only seemed to be a month before, angry at the Decepticons threatening to despoil a pristine new world, angry at Mirage, the traitor in their ranks who'd decapitated a beloved staff sergeant, a devout mech with courage and grace to spare, a good friend. Perhaps none felt the loss as much as Trailbreaker, who'd befriended Hound centuries upon centuries ago before the outbreak of the Great War. Even he had elected to accompany the main fighting force on the warpath upon hearing of his oldest friend's death.
"Very well. Brawn, take our Demolitions specialists and form a defensive perimeter around the peninsula. Be ready to fire on any Seekers that may organize for a strafing run. General Shakar, I want you, Sideswipe, Windcharger, and Bumblebee to stay here and prepare to provide air support to our mechs on the ground. Trailbreaker, Prowl and I will also remain here to maintain communications and provide support where needed. All others, report to Lieutenant Prowl for your assignments. Uruk-One will not fall today."
"One last thing, everyone," Trailbreaker put in. "Remember the SWORD Protocol! We are guests on this world, with no idea how the natives will treat us. I can tell you this though, they probably won't be too thrilled to see us wrecking their neighborhoods and slinging missiles around their institutions."
"Yes, thank you, Trailbreaker. The safety of the natives comes first, of course, but remember to keep cover unless it is absolutely necessary to break it. We are not the Decepticons. We hope to establish contact with the people of Terra and cultivate political relationships to help us continue our fight in the future."
"Plus, it'll help us keep the element of surprise a little bit," Trailbreaker finished. "Alright, let's do this thing. Optimus Prime, sir, if you'd do the honors?"
Despite the stress he was under, the corners of Optimus's eyes crinkled in a smile that was hidden by his faceplate, yet the warmth of the expression still radiated out from his entire body. "As you say, Captain Trailbreaker of Altihex. Autobots - transform and roll out!"
The old, lovingly maintained Monarch Motors '82 sedan pulled up in the parking lot as soon as time allowed, and its inhabitants were already out of the car practically before it had rolled to a complete stop on the fresh, smooth asphalt. The rig itself was plainly visible through a forest of windmills - and even from this distance, it seemed utterly colossal.
"Alright, kid, looks like we made it just in time," Ron Witwicky said, roughly brushing Sam's shirt off with calloused hands that caught in the fabric.
Under different circumstances, Sam might have made a joke about the quality and velocity of his father's driving all the way from their home in Tranquility, but he couldn't quite find it in him. He was entranced by the churning blades of the windmills just over the dunes, the sheer size of the energy arcology out there on the brink of the Pacific Ocean. The only thing that came out of his mouth was a muttered "Yeah, all right."
"Got your resumé? Your references?" Colonel Witwicky continued. In response, Sam weakly waved the manila folder in his left hand, still taken aback by the gravity of his situation.
His father smiled. "Hey, Spike. Buddy. Look at me," he said in a warm tone. "None of this is binding, OK? You said it yourself when we were talking with Mom just last night. Just like you said, we aren't doing anything more than exploring your options. And in a place like this, son, you've got them spilling all over you!"
He swept an arm over their surroundings - the dunes, the deeply forested peaks and cliffs of the Coastal Ranges behind them, the city of Coos Bay, visible across the inlet it was named after. "So where's all that courage and heart you showed on the phone yesterday, huh?"
Sam found his tongue. "To be honest with you, Dad, I was just pulling stuff out of my - ah, you-know-what to make Mom happy. It all seems so real now . . ."
Colonel Witwicky let loose a hearty laugh, the kind that makes cats go running to hide in the washing machine. "Well, Spike, just wait 'till we really start looking into colleges. Just gonna tell you right now, it never gets simpler."
"But that's a good thing, right? More 'opportunities' as you put them?"
"You said it, kid, not me. A veritable monsoon of 'em, ripe for the picking. Speaking of, do you have everything? You sure? Alright, come on! We're already late, should have left earlier. Guess that's on me. Frank'll be pretty ticked off, but, you know, I'll handle it . . ."
And off the Witwickys went, marching off in the direction of Uruk-One. The sun was at their backs and the cool, salty Pacific wind was in their faces. They'd had a whole day planned out, touring the oil rig, one-on-one meetings with Uruk-One's upper brass - Garrison Blackrock himself was going to be at the grand opening - a late lunch with one of Ronald's old army buddies at one of the better restaurants in Coos Bay, a leisurely drive along the Oregon Coast back North and a not-so-leisurely stop at the local supermarket before returning home. Depending on time, they might have even stopped in Salem for a quick jaunt about Capitol Hill.
But fate has a funny way of messing around with one's plans. And the Witwickys were about to be thrown headfirst, father and son, into a world they'd never even guessed existed . . .