Rated: M for adult themes: language, violence, mental rape, character death, mech erotica, torture, gore, and suicidal ideation. This varies from chapter to chapter, so read at your own risk.
Important Note: I started this series of fics before Revenge of the Fallen hit the theaters. This is an A.U. 2007 movie verse fic, NOT a ROTF/DOTM/AE/LK/BB or whatever follows fic.
Disclaimer: The only things I own in this work of complete fiction are Velocity/Sira and Hardcore. They are mine. Everything else is copyrighted and owned by some really rich people. I make no money from this, but I wish I could.
XxxX
Full Velocity: Apocalypse Code
Chapter 16: Stand Off
XxxX
A gurgling cough choked him out of a restless sleep. Sweat soaked him, and the sheets clung to his skin. His left leg had to have a cramp in it - if he could feel it. "Small miracles," his sarcastic thoughts echoed. Sighing, Reginald Seymour Simmons, ex-super-secret-agent-of-the-so-classified-it-didn't-exist, rubbed his eyes with an unsteady hand; images of the dreams still lingered like ghosts in a crumbling mansion. It was a strange mishmash of all the horror he had seen: decapitated heads, melted bodies, gunshot wounds, his aunt's feral chihuahua with its bulging eyes chewing on a human leg. He had never witnessed the chihuahua eating a human leg, but he understood basic psychology and did not need a therapist or some crystal-sniffing-hippy-chick to tell him what his dreams meant. Unless the hippy chick was cute, then she could give him a sponge bath. Who was he kidding? He couldn't control half his body and had a tube shoved up his dick so he didn't piss himself all day. The hippy chick would turn away in disgust; maybe he could convince her to turn his pillow to the cool side before she disappeared.
Leaving his fantasy, Simmons rolled his head to glance at the clock, an old windup antique someone had maliciously placed in his room to help him keep track of the time. Just what he needed, to watch the ornate glowing green hands tick away his remaining life and inform him it was half past five in the morning. Simmons wondered if he could shorten his misery by licking the radium-coated hands, letting the alpha and beta rays bounce around his innards until they rotted something vital.
A desert breeze ruffled the sheet covering his broken and withered body, pulling cricket songs into his room. Once, he might have found the sounds of night insects soothing, but now, the noises irritated him. Simmons knew he was dying; the doctors didn't have to tell him. His body was weakening; he couldn't move, his lungs slowly filled with fluids, the sores on his ass wouldn't heal, and his head hurt all the time. The doctors and nurses did what they could, trying to keep him active with stupid games and physical therapy, but nothing could stop the inevitable. Maybe if the Decepticons had not set off the pulse, his chances would have been better, but with every piece of high-tech medical equipment turned into million-dollar paperweights, death slowly stalked him.
What annoyed him was how long this would take, this dying. Simmons always accepted he would die: his career at Sector Seven, his stint in the military, a misspent youth that forced him into the military; at any moment, he could have met an unsuspected and quick end. He assumed death would be in a blaze of glory, a final battle to protect his country, shot, blown up, squashed by a giant alien robot, but not this lingering misery.
The night bugs went silent, their songs of love and territory cut off like someone threw a switch. Simmons waited, listening, his finely honed senses on alert. Outside, the gravel crunched. He turned his head to squint out the window, watching the early morning shadows for movement. Even though he resided on the second floor, most of his guests spoke to him from the window; humans never visited him to chat.
A massive form peeled away from the darkness, the night dulling the virulent green coloring; the blue glow from his optics disappeared and reappeared as the mech blinked.
"Hey," croaked Simmons, words catching in his dry throat. "You checking up on me?"
"Yes," Ratchet admitted without any hint of irritation. "I check on you daily, mostly receiving updates from your doctors. When I visited yesterday, you were in physical therapy. I thought I would try a different time, and I have found you awake and unengaged. How are the bed sores?"
Simmons frowned at the Autobot. "Did you come here to discuss my ass, or do you have something to tell me?" he managed to say between wheezing breaths.
Ratchet started to speak, then stopped, glancing around like a paranoid spy in a comedy. The mech lowered his volume, leaning closer, "I have recovered the protoforms. One has received damage from a torn seal on the stasis pod, which allowed a rodent in the capsule. It made a nest in the helm, chewing apart connectors and wires. The other protoform appears functional, but I must ensure its viability."
"And how long will this take?" Simmons snapped; he didn't want to live as an invalid, trying not to shit on himself any longer than necessary.
"Agent Simmons," thick metal fingers gripped the windowsill, "I am only fifty percent confident this will work. The number of things that can go wrong is astronomical if Optimus is present. If the Prime refuses to assist, it is almost a guaranteed failure. The likely outcome is that you die in the procedure." His warnings carried a note of sadness. "Sira wasn't human; the nature of her species made her a perfect candidate," the medic added as a final point.
They had been through this argument before, with Ratchet laying out everything that could go wrong and Simmons not giving one fuck. Oddly, he had faith in the alien medic, faith the Autobot would do the right thing. He stared Ratchet in the optics. "I don't care what the chances of success are. If I die, I die, but I want to try to change my odds and go out fighting."
"I understand," Ratchet sighed, cycling his vents, filling the room with steamy heat. The fingers slid from the sill, and the mech disappeared into the predawn darkness.
Alone once more, the broken man contemplated trying to sleep. He slept more and more, anything to get away from the misery of his life. As the sun lightened the sky, Simmons drifted off, wondering what his metal body would look like and what kinds of weapons they would let him have.
XxxX
"What was that about?"
Ratchet startled at the question, and panic ignited in his circuits. How much had Ultra Magnus heard? Had the general poked around the infirmary and opened the pods? How far did the Autobot want to push his unbending views of laws and justice? Taking the defensive, the medic snapped, "That was about confidential medical care. Humans have laws that protect and ensure privacy between doctors and patients." He continued walking, trying to put distance between them.
Easily sliding next to him, Ultra Magnus kept pace, his electrical field pushing and prodding. This annoyed Ratchet; he hated the ridiculous games of intimidation and dominance. Having dealt with much scarier mechs long before Magnus was ever sparked, Ratchet stopped, his peds anchored to the concrete of an abandoned street. "What do you want?"
"I want to understand what you and the human were discussing?" The general crossed his arms over his chest and towered over the CMO. "From where I stand, you were discussing a transference. The process of moving a sentient consciousness from one host frame to another, an act prohibited for all species but Cybertronians." The frown on the mech's features deepened.
Standing at full height, Ratchet mimicked his aggressor's pose and bluffed. "I know what a fragging transference is, and if it's illegal, why would I do such a thing?"
Stabbing a finger at Ratchet, Ultra Magnus hissed, "I know you, and just like your bondmate, any illegal activity is acceptable if you decide it is for the greater good."
Anger started burning away his initial panic, and the medic squared off for a fight, physical if necessary. Narrowing his optic shutters and tipping his helm to scowl at his opponent, the CMO stated with conviction, "Laws do not guarantee the greater good, and sometimes they cause more harm. I swore to help and not cause harm. If that means ignoring or breaking ridiculous laws, then so be it."
"Without laws, there is only anarchy and chaos," Ultra Magnus snarled back. A civilization cannot function in such a state. If a law is harmful, unwarranted, or outdated, we change it through official channels. Optimus has been fighting for that since the orn he became Prime." His words steadily increased in volume.
Ratchet barked a harsh laugh. "What official channels?" He made little air quotes with his fingers, even though Cybertronian did not use such punctuation. "Our government, when it existed, never allowed for changes in legal statutes, and that was what started the whole fragging war; Optimus constantly battled pushback from the Senate and the Council of Ancients while his brother subverted everything to benefit himself."
Calmer, Ultra Magnus retorted, "That is an oversimplification, but Optimus was trying to establish and use proper channels to challenge unjust laws."
Ratchet leaned closer to the mech and whispered, "Are you sure? Are you certain that Optimus didn't lay credits in a few palms, coerce a few senators to get the processes moving, or know whom to send in to accomplish those things? Why do you think the Autobots had the best spies?"
Fury flashed in the general's optics as his hands clenched into fists. "How dare you!" he roared and slammed his chest into the medic, forcing Ratchet to stagger backward. "If I discover you are doing anything that breaks Cybertron's or Earth's laws, I will throw you in the brig."
Recovering his balance, Ratchet taunted, "Until Optimus needs me and overrides your authority - again."
As Ultra Magnus's optics darkened to a dangerous blue, Ratchet wondered if he had taken the diversionary tactics too far.
"Hey, guys, is this a bad time?" Hot Rod's unduly chipper voice cut through the tension like a scalpel through a fuel line. "I can come back."
Ultra Magnus composed himself, straightening. His armor plates loosened as his electrical field retracted. "I am just leaving," he announced, turning on his ped to march away.
Relaxing, Ratchet scowled at the younger mech. "About time you showed up. I need a few items immediately moved to the Parhelion and placed in secure storage."
XxxX
As the rugged mountains and serene forests immediately disappeared into an open and impossibly flat land, loneliness, a familiar companion, joined her. This new environment was endless and unfettered grasslands in all directions, as barren as the desert she had called home, but somehow worse. The prairie teased the viewer with thick grasses speckled by wildflowers, promising to be full of life, but the only life she saw continuously splatted across her windshield as she drove through buzzing clouds of insects. The few small towns they passed huddled beside the highway as if desperately clinging to civilization's artery, hoping to be noticed. Old, worn buildings teetered on the edge of obscurity, knowing nothing would inhabit them but lizards, bats, and birds when their owners left.
A gray melancholy subdued Velocity. Already, she missed her friends, the companionship of Hound and Wheeljack. To her, having friends was different and new. Her life - before - had been solitary, a near monastic isolation from people. Now, she had friends she enjoyed and cared about, and they didn't expect her to be anything other than herself as they offered easy smiles, quick banter, stories, gossip, and laughter.
Those friends were behind her as the Prime pressed eastward, every mile separating them further. She had Optimus, but their relationship was - partners? Spouses? Lovers? Yet, none of those terms fit; they were too simple. She realized he had high and unstated expectations of her, and she doubted she could ever meet them, driving the irritating thorn of her inferiority into their relationship. Velocity intentionally dodged thoughts of her and Optimus, focusing on the current convoy. Longhaul and Huffer barely spoke to her, and she didn't know what to say to them. Sideswipe offered companionship, but he always took things too far, and the humans weren't even a consideration - Susan filled every second with questions and noise.
The zigzag path of Interstate twenty-four led them away from Colorado Springs and to the northeast. When that road turned to the perfectly east line of Interstate Seventy, the viciousness of the wind startled Velocity. She vaguely noticed a breeze but attributed it to the slipstream coming from large mechs. Now that they faced the east, the Southern wind hit them broadside with enough force to rock her on her tires and whip the semitrailers back and forth. Without trees or mountains, the breeze from the Gulf of Mexico had nothing to slow it down, letting it build until it howled unrestrained over the plains.
She should have been exhilarated by the wide-open spaces and brilliant blue sky, but the empty land only increased her depression; even the brilliant cloudless sky couldn't lift her glum mood. Wrapped in her melancholy, Velocity slowed, dropping behind, allowing a gap to widen between her and the convoy. Eventually, the land and sky blurred, and following the last trailer became reflexive, lulling her to ignore everything for miles.
A honk jerked Velocity out of her trance, and she swerved before straightening out again. The red Lamborghini pulled alongside her, his laughter heard over their engines and tire noise.
"Earth to Velocity. Come in, Velocity," Sideswipe shouted, their doors only inches apart.
"I fucking heard you. What?" She didn't try to hide her annoyance but realized how far she had fallen behind the convoy, and embarrassment warmed her circuits.
Revving his engine, the melee warrior shouted, "Race ya."
"What? Why? No." Velocity huffed and sped up. "Leave me alone. Trying to escape Sideswipe, Velocity pulled ahead, leaving him behind her.
Instead of taking the hint, Sideswipe shoved her bumper and sent Velocity spinning out of control. As the world swirled past, the femme braked and turned her wheels to regain control. The femme slid to a rocking stop, facing where she came from. Velocity sat stunned, and the convoy traveled further away with every second. With a roar, she gunned her engine and spun around. Laying several feet of smoking rubber behind her, the red Saturn Sky shot down the highway to catch a Lamborghini. It only took seconds for her to shred the distance to the red twin and then rocket past him, only inches separating them, so close her driver-side mirror clipped his with a painful crack. Ignoring the pain, the femme maintained her speed and squeezed between Optimus and Longhaul.
Behind her, the red melee warrior sped after her, his mirror hanging at a crooked angle. Velocity wondered if she had pushed it too far but decided she didn't want to find out and gunned her engine harder.
Blowing past Optimus and Longhaul, only open spaces and dead vehicles to slalom lay ahead of her. Behind, Optimus swerved, cutting off Sideswipe and forcing him to break or get crushed between the semis.
Velocity laughed and slowed, hearing the Lamborghini's horn answered by the blare of a Peterbilt. Her chuckles did not last long. From the Prime's other side, the red twin appeared, a red blur trying to pass Optimus. Bigger, longer, and heavier, the Prime could not swing in the other direction fast enough to block the Lamborghini.
"Oh, shit," Velocity squeaked, the red warrior approaching fast.
They raced down the highway, eating the miles with ease as they slid effortlessly between stalled cars, sideways trucks, and a couple of motorhomes. The land rose and sank in long, lazy waves. Her tires screamed, and her pump pounded at the exhilarating speeds. If Sideswipe could have beat her, she did not know; he never moved past her, staying nose to nose, except when they had to dodge other vehicles. Steamy, late summer air hissed over and through her intakes as sheer speed rushed through her circuits. Had she been in an organic body, she would have called it a workout high, the surge of endorphins numbing the pain after exercising. Whatever this euphoria, she gleefully accepted it.
The land dipped again, and the span of an overpass marked the subsequent rise. They had traveled some distance from the caravan, but she did not worry. She didn't trust Sideswipe, but she knew he would keep her safe, even if he attempted to feel her up in the process.
They sped toward the overpass, an odd fixture in such an open land. There could not be enough people to need passage over the interstate; she mused as she searched the stalled cars for a path through them. Finding one, she pulled ahead, wanting to beat Sideswipe. A minivan, several trucks, a smattering of sedans zoomed past, a blur of paint and shiny glass. Her tires gripped the concrete as she leaned forward on her shocks, the whine of her engine and the air rushing over it filling her audios. Sideswipe must have had the same path picked out, for he easily kept up with her. She might be fast on two legs, but more experienced Autobots easily beat her on four tires. Not this time, she promised.
The opening would only fit one, forcing the other to break or slam into the gravel truck or a bridge pillar. Sideswipe pulled a head, but she matched and beat his speed, if only by a hood length. A little faster. Aiming for the opening, she locked her steering rack, fearing the mech might try to pit maneuver her again. Tires squealed, and Sideswipe disappeared.
Velocity entered and exited the opening in less than a second, but a gray-brown mass filled her sight. Slamming on her brakes, Velocity yanked her tires to the left, trying to avoid whatever loomed over the road. Physics asserted dominance over the too-fast femme, and inertia carried her sideways onto the shoulder. Tires bit into the softer dirt, and she flipped, flipped again, and continued flipping until the momentum burned out.
At some point, she transformed during her tumble through a field. Though she did not remember the process, it left her face down in the dirt. Raising her helm, she meant to growl at the universe and whatever had blocked her path, but the threat died in an undignified squeak.
A bull elephant, long ivory tusks gleaming in the sunshine, raised its trunk in the middle of the eastbound lane and trumpeted a threat. Flapping its massive ears, it charged toward her, thick legs carrying it improbably fast. Too stunned by the sight, she froze, wasting precious time.
"Hey! Hey! Over here!" Sideswipe called, waving his arms frantically.
The beast turned and flapped its ears in annoyance, the head swinging to and fro as if it could not decide where to charge.
"Velocity, on your peds - NOW!" The last word, shouted, spurred the elephant into action, and it charged. She barely reached her peds as the pachyderm stomped where she had lain. Charging again, she easily pirouetted away from the beast. Almost as tall as her and easily outweighing her, the animal could inflict severe damage if it pinned her.
Trumpeting again, the elephant flapped its ears and rumbled, the sound vibrating the air and ground like close thunder. Velocity backed away, holding her hands up, and cooed, "Easy, big guy. I'm not gonna hurt you. Easy."
Eventually, the big bull took a chance and ran past her, its thick legs kicking up dust.
"So that's how you coax the boss bot into bed?" Sideswipe giggled. Before she could retort, he grabbed her helm and turned her head. Further in the field, a herd of elephants, females and a couple of calves lingered. The bull rushed towards them. Grumbles and squeaks startled a flock of birds as the family greeted the male.
Staring at the herd, Sideswipe smiled. "I've always wanted to see an elephant up close. They are the coolest things in the universe."
The femme smacked at his hand, still resting atop her helm. "The entire universe? There aren't more fantastic life forms on some distant planet?"
Still watching the herd slowly walk along the fence line, picking bodark apples off the trees with prehensile trunks and shoving them in their triangular mouths, Sideswipe shook his head. "Nope. The intelligence and power. They recognize their dead, which means they are sentient, and humans hunt them. Fuckers. Did you know…?"
Velocity let the warrior ramble on about elephants and checked herself over, flicking and pulling clumps of debris stuck in her armor.
Sideswipe still spewed random facts about elephants when the blare of a semi announced the convoy's arrival. Sideswipe still watched the retreating family, and Velocity walked toward the road.
Optimus first appeared from the bottleneck beneath the bridge. Pulling to the side of the road, he quickly unhooked from the trailer and transformed. "Velocity?" His deep voice held relief, worry, and a question as his optics roved over her.
A smile lit up her face; she couldn't help it. "Elephants," she said and watched as confusion contorted her mate's features; the questions hung around him like a halo.
After several seconds, he asked, "Elephants? They are found here?"
A giggle escaped the femme as she imagined him searching his processor for information on elephants, like a librarian flipping through an old card catalog. She touched the Prime's arm. "Nope. They are only in zoos. These either escaped or were set free."
"Well, good luck to them," Chris offered as he raised his rifle and looked through the scope.
Velocity snarled and twisted toward the man. Swiping with a hooked hand, she knocked the weapon up, and it spun in the air to land, clattering in the distance. Crouching on all fours, the femme glared optics to eyes with the human. "What the fuck are you doing?" she growled low and threateningly.
The startled man held his hands up, eyes wide with fear. "I was only getting a better look." He backed up several steps.
Stalking forward, the femme stayed inches from him; her growls never wavered. Metal lips pulled back, exposing her dental plates as optic shutters narrowed to sharp, dangerous slits.
"God, I swear, I wasn't going to shoot them. I just looked down the scope to see them. Human eyes aren't like your optics. I wasn't going to hurt them. Oh, God. Please don't hurt me. Please," The man rambled, his body shaking with adrenaline.
"Velocity!" snapped Optimus, and a cooling wave crashed into her from their bond. She froze; her growls gurgled to rapid silence. Blinking, the femme straightened and sat on her haunches. Green optics darted to their small company, and all eyes and optics stared at her, their shock evident; only Sideswipe appeared unfazed, tossing the rifle in the palm of his hand.
She sniffed and glanced away. With uncertain and slow movements, she stood. Walking toward the nearby overpass, the femme sought refuge in the shadows and sat on the hood of a Ford truck, her elbows on her knees, hands dangling in humiliation. Nothing was more fascinating than the concrete between her peds.
XxxX
Miriam racked her knuckles against the washboard and hissed. Never again would she complain about any modern washing machine, even the unbalanced ones that thunked annoyingly during the spin cycle. Stretching her stiff back, she wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead with a wrist. "This sucks," she said to the nearby hen and her brood of fluffy yellow chicks.
Plunging her hands back into the soapy water, she scrubbed the pants. After a few more tries, she gave up attempting to remove the jam stain and transferred the wet clothes to the rinsing tub. If Brian wanted the stain gone, he could scrub the jeans himself.
Glancing up from her chore, she smirked. Warpath lay on his back at the edge of the yard, his arms behind his head and a branch stuck between his teeth - dental plates. The Autobot resembled a ginormous sci-fi, Tom Sawyer. All he needed was a ginormous straw hat.
"Why don't you come and help me?" she offered, swirling her arm through the soapy water to find the next garment to scrub.
Warpath didn't even open his optics shutters and calmly stated, "Nope," from around the branch.
Miriam did not expect a different answer. Bumblebee might assist with chores, but none of the Cybertronians helped with washing, butchering an animal, or anything related to human biology. If you need a tree cut down, call Warpath; if you need to feed the cows, Bumblebee; or if you need help maintaining the outhouse, not a single Autobot can be found.
The thunder of a galloping horse snapped the Secretary of Defense out of her ruminations. Paul slid his bay to a stop.
"Get to the house," the CID agent ordered as he jumped out of the saddle and looped the reigns around a nearby sapling.
Dropping the laundry into the tub, Miriam turned and followed, but not before Paul planted a brief kiss on her lips. From the periphery, she saw Warpath prop his mass on his elbows.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"A group of people are headed this way. They were involved in a confrontation at the Open Market. Now they are headed here 'to sort out who's in charge.'" He took her hand as they reached the house. Yanking open the screen door, Paul ushered her inside.
News of a "confrontation" at the Open Market rankled the SecDef. The Open Market had been a communal creation where anyone could trade and barter supplies: clothes, eggs, vegetables, medicine, live animals, guns, knives, matches, moonshine, illicit drugs, anything and everything. The only rules were no fighting, no selling people, and no prostitution. Held every ten days, the market attracted more and more people from the area and offered a good survey of the remaining population and their needs.
Entering the house, Miriam took the pistol off the table and slipped it into the back waistband of her pants; then, she grabbed the shotgun from behind the door. "Do you know anyone in the group?"
Paul nodded. "Frank Smith, and Herman Hendricks."
A long moan left the SecDef; she knew both men, too. They lived on the other side of the valley that held Gilbert Creek, and both had become increasingly outspoken, their statements against the Autobot presence more vitriolic. They thought they should be in charge, and everyone should ask them what to do at the town meetings that coincided with market days.
A horse's whinny and Miriam glanced out the front window. A wagon, Frank and Herman sitting at the front, and eight to ten others filled up the back. As the wagon stopped and everyone dismounted, they checked their weapons, cracking open rifles and shotguns and then snapping them back together. "Shit," she muttered. With everyone at the market, including the rest of the Autobots, they were seriously outnumbered. "You ready?" she asked Paul.
Not waiting passively for their summonsing knock, Miriam threw open the door, ignored all politeness, and barked. "What?" the shotgun clutched tightly across her chest. The posse had stopped in the yard, none of them made it to the porch. That suited Miriam just fine; the porch was her territory.
Frank stepped forward, brown eyes squinted in the afternoon sun. "They say you are the new President of the United States." He shifted from leg to leg and checked behind him, making sure the group backed him up.
Miriam laughed bitterly, aware of wash suds drying on her dirty tank top. "I am the Secretary of Defense, sixth in the line of succession. No one knows if the President is alive or dead, so I am not the President of the United States. A lot of people have to die for me to become the President."
"A lot of people have died," mumbled one of the men from the group.
"Well, I didn't vote for any of y'all. None of those criminals in Washington represent me or mine. It's time for the common man to stand up and take back what's his."
The assembly behind him cheered and muttered similar comments in solidarity.
"Then go to Washington and take it back." Miriam immediately regretted the words; these guys would probably be welcome there if any of the reports about the city were true.
"I think it is time for an unelected woman to step aside and let those of us from here make the decisions for the community. You don't belong, and showing up with ideas at the town meetings confuses things." His gun casually rested in the crook of his arm, pointed at her feet, but the threat remained.
The SecDef scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I'm not in charge of the town or anyone in it. Everyone is free to offer ideas and plans, and then we vote on it. We," she waved her arm to encompass Paul and the nearby homes filled with refugees from D.C., "have helped the people of this community. We are trying to get people to work together for the survival of all. And what have you done besides bitch and spit lies about us?"
Frank's eyes narrowed, and red blotches spread along his cheeks. He shifted, one leg behind the other, a shooting stance, but he did not raise the barrel of his gun. "You…" His words died on his tongue as a shadow dropped over the group. All eyes lifted upward.
"Do they need to leave?" grumbled Warpath. "I think they need to leave; they interrupted my nap." He rubbed a fist in the palm of his hand, animosity rolling off the massive Autobot in a hair-raising fog.
Still staring at Warpath, Herman chimed in, a soft quiver in his voice, "Them aliens need to go. This is Earth, and God made it just for us." As the words left his mouth, several men at the back of the group turned and walked away, one grabbing a sack from the wagon. Apparently, the tank on two legs was too much for some of them.
"The only reason people listen to you is 'cause you have the robots." Frank spat the word like a racial slur, but the heat on his face paled as the blood drained away. "If you didn't have them, no one would give you a second thought."
Warpath placed his ped inches from the assembled group, partially blocking Miriam and Paul. "This robot? This robot thinks you don't know how to count and thought Miss. Hernandez was all alone. You can leave now." The dark barrel of his cannon dropped toward the men, then a whine followed by the glow of his energy weapon charging. "Yeah, this is a disruptor-free zone, so you can disappear, and I don't care how."
Fortunately, the threat could not be ignored. The dissentious group glared but kept their mouths shut as all boarded the creaking old wagon and headed away. Warpath followed them, ensuring they made it the mile to the road.
Paul wrapped her in his arms. "We need to change security protocols."
XxxX
Author's Notes
Ugg. The world has gone topsy turvy on me working on a master's degree because of new employers (I have the same job but now need a master's to keep it), so I'm unsure how often I can update. Fortunately, writing this is a nice break from writing papers for school.