Autobot Midwest Divison Book 1: Out of Their Depth

by AvrgeGrmlckEnjyr

After the Decepticons have succeeded in conquering Cybertron, a group of four Autobots escape the War and find themselves stranded on Earth, their hopes of keeping a low profile dashed by arriving Decepticons whom they are outgunned by at the jump.

16. Chapter 16: Impending DOOM

CHAPTER 16: Impending DOOM

In a moment that felt like some cruel cosmic joke, the Combaticons once again found themselves hauling their battered frames out of the Pacific, clawing their way onto the volcanic sands of Oahu. The sun was merciless. The terrain was jagged. And, most insultingly, they were back where they'd started: marooned, cranky, and damp.
"Are you sure they didn't notice?" Vortex grumbled, optics twitching with agitation as she shook seawater from his rotors. Her entire posture screamed I'm-so-done-with-this.
"Blast Off should've given us just enough room to slip under their radar," Onslaught replied without looking back, voice tight with exhaustion and contempt.
"And given we aren't being carpet-bombed, I'd wager he succeeded."
"Hard Top, where the hell're we goin'?" Brawl growled, dragging his heavy feet through black sand.
"We have 3 more islands to traverse before our objective."
Brawl let out a deep, primal groan.
"UGH. More walking?!"
"Primus willing, Brawl," Onslaught muttered, optics narrowing at the ridge ahead, "this will be the last time we have to walk upon this Primes-forsaken archipelago."
As they trudged forward, his gaze snapped toward Vortex, whose right forearm was visibly leaking energon, a slow, steady drip staining the sand.
"Vortex, what caused that?" he asked, already expecting the answer.
Vortex scowled.
"Oh, that medic bot ruined my kill on the helicopter chick. Slammed my arm into the ground like he was making a point."
Onslaught's jaw tightened. The Autobots were emboldened, and worse, successful. They were being outmaneuvered by a patchwork crew of barely-trained warriors and traitors. Their ship was buried. Their resources dwindling. This operation had to work.
They didn't have another shot.
"Blast Off," Onslaught said into his comms, his voice cold, hard as obsidian,
"begin Phase 2 of the operation."
And without another word, the Combaticons turned inland toward the next the island, and whatever salvation, or reckoning, awaited them there.

Meanwhile, in Honolulu, The sky was ablaze with streaks of fire and smoke as Blast Off swept low over the city, his cannons pounding infrastructure with pinpoint aggression. It was a calculated disruption, hitting traffic hubs and supply depots, forcing attention toward the chaos, and away from whatever Onslaught was really planning.
But that chaos was short-lived.
A surge of green and gold energy ripped open the skyline, and from the ground bridge burst Impulse and Slipstream, energized and hungry for round two.
"Let's give him a warm Aloha welcome," Impulse grinned, breaking into a full sprint.
Slipstream shot skyward, her thrusters igniting in a flash of violet light as she locked onto Blast Off mid-dive. The two aircraft twisted and rolled through the air, tracing burning contrails above the O'ahu coast. They traded blasts, grazing hits scoring their armor, until Slipstream landed a clean shoulder tackle that ripped through Blast Off's stabilizers.
He spiraled downward, smashing into the Pearl Harbor runway with a smoking crash that sent shockwaves through the concrete.
"Nice job, Slip," Impulse cheered, already closing the distance. "That makes it 2–1, right?"
"Think so," Slipstream replied, hovering overhead with a smug grin.
"How's it feel, Blast Off?" she taunted as the bruised and furious Decepticon clawed at the runway, trying to stand, only for Impulse to tackle and pin him to the tarmac with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.
Blast Off thrashed, snarling, "Get OFF me!"
"You guys see the others?" Slipstream asked through the comms, scanning the horizon.
"Nope," Jeopardy answered from within Honolulu, "and the military's coming up short too. Looks like it's just him."
"That can't be right. These guys don't just go rogue," Impulse muttered, tightening his grip on the downed Decepticon.
He leaned close, optics narrowing. "Where's your boss, Blastoise?"
"Ugh. I'll never tell."
Impulse smirked. "You sure about that? Then I think you're gonna be spending some quality time with us."
He activated his commlink.
"Hermit, open the ground bridge. I got something you're gonna like."
A familiar whirl of light flickered open behind them.
And with a grunt, Impulse hauled Blast Off to his feet.
Time to get some answers.
Impulse and Slipstream stepped through the ground bridge, dragging a very disgruntled Blast Off by the arm. The Decepticon was still scorched and dented from the fight, but more annoyed than injured.
"So Impulse, what exactly is your plan?" Hermit asked, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of curiosity and impending dread.
Simmons stood nearby, sipping from a mug labeled "World's Most Overqualified Babysitter."
"Well," Impulse began proudly, "Blast Off knows what the Combaticons are up to, so we interrogate him and he tells us everything."
Hermit blinked. "Okay. And do you know how to interrogate someone?"
Impulse paused. "…No. But I figured you could use one of your thingamabobs and/or jigs to get him to talk."
"You want to torture him?" Simmons asked, incredulous.
"Well, when you put it like that…" Impulse scratched the back of his helm, suddenly less confident.
"That is VERY unethical."
"Says the CIA agent," Hermit muttered, not missing a beat.
Just then, Jeopardy and Stormsurge returned from the other end of the ground bridge. Jeopardy took one look at the scene and asked with all the energy of someone who knew it was going to be a long day:
"Why is Blast Off here?"
"We're gonna interrogate him. Wanna help?" Impulse offered like it was a group project.
"Do we even have somewhere to put him?" Jeopardy asked, reasonably.
Impulse opened his mouth, then hesitated.
"…I mean, we do have that spare room."
Stormsurge's optics narrowed.
"You mean my art studio?"
Impulse winced. "Oh… never mind."
Hermit let out a sharp exhale through his vents. "I'll see if there's another spare room that can hold a prisoner."
"And then we interrogate him," Impulse said, with the misplaced confidence of a man who had clearly watched too many movies.
Impulse and Slipstream stepped through the ground bridge, dragging a sputtering, dented Blast Off behind them. The moment they entered, all optics turned to the battered Decepticon, whose scowl was as permanent as the charred plating on his shoulder.
"So Impulse," Hermit Crab asked dryly, arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold, "what exactly is your plan?"
Impulse, ever the confident chaos engine, beamed.
"Well, Blast Off knows what the Combaticons are doing, right? So we interrogate him, and he spills the energon."
"Uh-huh," Hermit nodded, unimpressed. "And do you… know how to interrogate someone?"
Impulse hesitated, then shrugged.
"No, but I figured you could use one of your thingamabobs and/or jigs to get him to talk."
Simmons, who had been silently observing nearby with a cup of lukewarm coffee, finally chimed in.
"You want to torture him?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Impulse paused again.
"Well, when you put it like that…"
"That is very unethical." Simmons scolded, stepping closer.
"Says the CIA agent," Hermit quipped without missing a beat.
The ground bridge flickered again, depositing Jeopardy and Stormsurge back from their rescue op. Jeopardy blinked at the scene, drenched in sweat and stress.
"Why is Blast Off here?" he asked flatly.
"We're gonna interrogate him. Wanna help?" Impulse offered with a chipper grin.
"Do we even have somewhere to put him?" Jeopardy asked, not even trying to hide his weariness.
"I mean, we do have that spare room—"
"You mean my art studio?" Stormsurge interjected, very clearly not ok with a Decepticon being housed in her space.
"…Oh." Impulse deflated slightly. "Nevermind."
Hermit sighed audibly, rubbing the bridge of his nasal strut.
"I can see if there's another spare room. Preferably one with reinforced walls and no paint supplies."
"Perfect. And then we interrogate him," Impulse declared, clearly satisfied with the direction things were going.
Jeopardy looked around at the others.
"Alright, so… who here actually knows how to interrogate someone?"
Silence.
Then—
"I think I may have some ideas," Impulse chimed in, that mischievous grin returning to his faceplate. The kind of grin that meant someone was going to end up covered in glue or feathers.
Jeopardy blinked slowly.
"I'm scared to ask."
"Don't. It makes my job easier," Impulse replied far too cheerfully.
And with that, they all braced themselves for what was to come.
The dimly lit room hummed with a low, mechanical buzz, the exposed lightbulb flickering above Blast Off like a one-eyed sentinel. His hands were cuffed behind the chair—his posture tense, his optics narrowed in stubborn defiance.
The door creaked open, and in stepped Impulse, strutting in like he was the star of a one-bot stage play.
"Bet you never expected this to happen," Impulse said with a smirk, pulling a folding chair from the wall and flipping it around to sit on it backward, arms draped across the top. "Now, what's Onslaught planning?"
Blast Off spat back without hesitation.
"Go frag yourself."
Impulse sighed dramatically. "Alright then. Guess we're doing this the hard way."
He reached into his chest compartment and pulled out a suspiciously bulging plastic bag, its contents fogging up the inside. The room filled with a soft plorp as he slapped it onto the table.
Blast Off raised a brow. "Wha–what is that?"
Impulse grinned.
"These… are hard-boiled eggs. Or, well, they were. I made 'em last week and forgot about 'em."
He popped the bag open and fished one out. The moment he did, a noxious smell filled the cell, a smell that could only be described as a corpse that died eating gym socks.
Blast Off recoiled immediately.
"Are you serious? Is THIS supposed to brea—" he gagged mid-sentence, his face scrunching in visceral disgust.
"OUAGAAGH—by Primus, this is horrible!"
Impulse leaned forward, the rotten egg balanced in his palm.
"Oh yeah. And they taste worse."
Blast Off's optics widened. "How do you know that?"
Impulse's smile only widened.
"How do you think I figured out they were rotten?"
He pulled out a second egg, peeling it slowly and dramatically. The sulfuric stench intensified, wafting through the room like an airborne toxin.
"Now, what are the Combaticons doing?"
"I won't talk. Never!" Blast Off growled.
Impulse moved closer, egg in hand.
"Is that so?" he asked sweetly, "Then how about I help with that."
"You wouldn't!"
"Try me."
He moved the putrid egg closer to Blast Off's face, the yolk already turning a gray-green color, the whites sweating oil. The Combaticon's armor plates began to twitch.
This interrogation was far from traditional.
But it might just work.
The smell alone should have qualified as chemical warfare.
Blast Off squirmed in his cuffs, his normally pristine face twisted in revulsion as Impulse casually balanced the sweating, sludgy egg just under his nose.
"Even if I tell you, it's not like it'll change anything," Blast Off growled, trying to sound defiant through the overwhelming stench. "So far, everything is going according to plan."
Impulse cocked his head.
"Really? You want to eat week-old eggs?"
Blast Off blinked. "I meant my mission, not—"
"No you didn't," Impulse cut him off, inching the egg closer. "You got captured. You didn't steal anything. So what were you even doing there?"
Blast Off's optics flicked to the side.
"I-I've already said too much."
"Then let me help you shut up."
With zero hesitation, Impulse shoved the egg into his mouth, the rotten yolk squishing against Blast Off's tongue.
"WHERE ARE THE COMBATICONS?!"
Blast Off violently spat the egg out, bits of yolk clinging to his teeth and lips like battlefield debris.
"AUGH, YOU'RE INSANE!"
"Tell me something I don't know," Impulse quipped. "Like what your plans are—or what number comes after six!"
"what—?"
"TELL ME EVERYTHING!" Impulse yelled, brandishing the whole bag like a weaponized biohazard.
"OK OK, I'LL TELL YOU!" Blast Off cried out.
"FINALLY!" Impulse roared triumphantly, and then, in pure Impulse fashion, he shoved the entire bag of rotten eggs into Blast Off's mouth.
The Combaticon gagged violently, spitting the whole thing out in a lurch, his dignity disintegrating like the structural integrity of his taste receptors.
"WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!" he choked, retching.
Impulse, hands on hips, gave him a smug grin.
"For being frustrating to work with."
Meanwhile, atop the mist-laced summit of Mauna Kea, the Combaticons had secured their position at the massive radio telescope facility, the observatory complex looming around them like a citadel of exploration. Hard Top stood at the controls, his fingers flying across alien and human tech alike as he calibrated the dish to scan the far reaches of the galaxy, specifically, to lock onto Cybertron's faint signal.
Onslaught stood nearby, flanked by Vortex and Brawl, their armor scorched and patched from previous battles, their resolve unshaken.
"Locking on to Cybertron's signal is proving… complex," Hard Top muttered, optics narrowing. "But I'm close."
"You have until they reach you."
And just as if the universe had scripted the moment, the ground bridge erupted in swirling green and gold light. Out stepped Jeopardy, Impulse, and Slipstream, battle-worn but unyielding.
Onslaught's optics narrowed.
"Ahead of schedule," he noted dryly. Then, turning to Hard Top, "Progress report."
"Still attempting to lock onto Cybertron."
"Then expedite your efforts," Onslaught ordered. "We will buy you time."
Without hesitation, Onslaught, Brawl, and Vortex began descending the upper path to intercept the Autobots.
"So," Onslaught called down as they approached, "you've uncovered our ruse. I must say, I expected more resilience from Blast Off. Tell me, how easy was it to break him?"
Impulse grinned wide.
"He smells really bad now!"
Onslaught didn't even blink.
"No matter. You are too late, Autobots. Once this station is under our command, your downfall will only be a matter of time."
With that, he charged, his heavy footfalls shaking the mountain rock. Jeopardy stepped forward to meet Onslaught head-on. The two collided in a deafening crash of metal and power, blades and fists locking in brutal synchronicity.
"If you drop another spaceship on me," Jeopardy growled through gritted teeth, "I might just throw you down this mountain."
Onslaught sneered, their weapons clashing again in a burst of sparks.
"I assure you… the result of this battle will be far worse than that."
Slipstream soared upward, cutting through the thin mountaintop air like a blade, her optics locked on the radio telescope's control console, until a blur of rotors intercepted her.
Vortex slammed into her midair, knocking her into the facility's upper scaffolding with a resounding crash. Sparks burst from Slipstream's armor as she hit the ground hard. Vortex landed with a twisted grin, spinning one of her helicopter blades like a makeshift sword.
"We doing this again, sweetheart?"
Slipstream wiped energon from her mouth and pushed herself up, just in time to catch the first slash with her bare hand. The sharp metal tore into her palm, energon oozing between her fingers, but she held firm.
With a roar, Slipstream wrenched the blade from Vortex's hand, snapping the handle free and twirling it expertly.
"Hah," she smirked through the pain, "now we're even."
Vortex hissed, pulling a second rotor blade from her back.
Slipstream blinked. "How many of those do you have?"
Vortex didn't answer, she lunged again, and the duel resumed in a storm of slashes and kicks.
Down below, Impulse traded blows with Brawl, their battle thunderous. Every slam of metal on metal rattled the observatory's foundation. Brawl, no longer underestimating Impulse, countered with sharper instincts and brutal precision.
When he swung his tank cannon around for a point-blank shot, Impulse dove out of the way, rolled, and then charged with full force, slamming Brawl off his feet. The two warriors wrestled, rolling across the ground in a blur of fists and snarled threats.
Meanwhile, Jeopardy fought tooth and nail with Onslaught, matching brute strength with well-practiced precision. But Onslaught was playing defensively, constantly positioning himself between Jeopardy and the control station, shielding Hard Top as he finished the calculations.
Suddenly, Hard Top's voice crackled over the comms:
"Onslaught, I have locked on Cybertr—"
WHAM!
Hard Top was tackled mid-sentence, Slipstream smashing into him from above, sending them both flying across the platform. The technician tumbled down the slope, crashing into a supply rig.
"NO! NO!" Onslaught roared, his voice echoing through the thin mountaintop air.
"VORTEX, GET TO THE CONTROL PANEL!"
Vortex immediately broke off from Slipstream, sprinting toward the console.
Jeopardy spotted her. He leveled his pistol and fired, a clean hit to her hand, knocking her off balance. She hissed in pain but didn't stop.
Jeopardy turned to press the advantage, but Onslaught struck, tackling him and slamming him into the ground, locking him down with brute force.
Slipstream kicked away from her fight, rocketing back toward the tower, her trail of blue fire cutting across the sky.
All eyes were on Vortex, now a breath away from the control panel, hand outstretched, reaching to send the signal…
And then Slipstream slammed into Vortex with everything she had, tackling her away from the control panel in a blaze of speed and fury. The two tumbled violently across the mountaintop, tearing through gravel and steel until they finally skidded to a halt in a tangled heap.
"GOTCHA!" Slipstream grinned, panting as she pinned Vortex down.
But Vortex chuckled, low and bitter. "Heh... still too slow."
Slipstream's smile faltered.
Above, the holographic display at the radio console blinked to life, glowing an ominous crimson as Onslaught approached. His optics narrowed as the message scrolled across the interface:
MESSAGE RECEIVED BY: LIEUTENANT SOUNDWAVE
REQUEST FOR RELIEF: APPROVED
REQUEST FOR EXTERMINATION: APPROVED
APPROPRIATE FORCES: DISPATCHED IMMEDIATELY
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Onslaught turned to Jeopardy, a cruel satisfaction in his voice.
"You lose."
Jeopardy stared, chest rising with heavy, smoldering breath.
"I suggest you use your last moments wisely," Onslaught said coldly. "Leave us alone."
Jeopardy didn't respond with anger, only quiet, sharp clarity as he raised his commlink.
"Hermit. Open a ground bridge."
Returning from their failed mission, an oppressive silence hung over the Autobots, each grappling with the weight of their failure and the grim reality that Onslaught had just summoned something, or someone, to Earth. Something they weren't ready for.
Inside the base, nobody spoke. The usual banter was gone, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension.
Stormsurge finally broke the silence. "So… what do we do now?"
Hermit didn't hesitate. "There are many places on this planet we can hide. I've already selected a government facility in Alaska. Remote, secure. We can relocate until a way off-world is discovered."
Simmons raised a brow. "How do you know about that place? That's classified data." He paused, then sighed. "No, wait, that's a question for later. Right now, who the hell did those guys just call?"
"We don't know," Jeopardy answered, his tone heavy. "We just know the message got out."
Simmons threw his hands up. "Well, whoever it is, it's bad news for all of us."
"I told you," Hermit added, vindicated and spiraling into anxiety. "The picocycle we were discovered, they'd send an extermination squad. If the Combaticons weren't that squad, then we're doomed."
Impulse jogged in from the hall, peeking sheepishly into Blast Off's former cell. "Ok, so… you're all gonna laugh when you hear this…"
Everyone turned to him.
"He got out."
Hermit Crab groaned. "For Primus's sake, Impulse!"
"Hey! Not my fault his restraints were half-assed!"
Hermit facepalmed. "You had ONE job—!"
"Enough!" Jeopardy cut in, firm and loud. "Fighting gets us nowhere. Let's try to put our heads together and come up with a strategy for when they—"
He stopped.
They all did.
Because above them, the unmistakable roar of a warship pierced through the air like a thunderclap. The sky outside turned darker, bathed in the shadow of a ship descending.
"That's impossible," Jeopardy whispered. "There's no way they're already here…"
"Only one way to find out," Slipstream said, already heading to the exit.
The group followed, their footfalls growing more hesitant the closer they got to the atrium.
And then, stepping out into the light, they looked up.
Above them loomed a sleek, terrifying silhouette. Black, angular, jagged. An unholy combination of precision and brutality.
The Peaceful Tyranny.
Their worst fear, hovering above their home.
"No fragging way Onslaught called in the nuclear option," Hermit murmured, color draining from his faceplate.
"What's the nuclear option?" Slipstream asked, eyes locked on the looming monstrosity.
Hermit slowly turned to her, voice hollow.
"The Decepticon Justice Division."
"How—how did they already get here?" Jeopardy stuttered, disbelief cracking through his normally steady voice.
"Must've been in the neighborhood…" Impulse muttered, and for once, the usual bravado in his tone was gone, replaced with something far rarer: fear.
From the hovering Peaceful Tyranny, a single figure dropped, no dramatic entrance, no seismic impact. Just a quiet, calibrated descent. Controlled. Precise.
But every Cybertronian present knew: he didn't need a dramatic entrance. His presence alone was a death sentence.
"Is that who I think it is?" Jeopardy asked, half-hoping he was wrong.
"I think it is," Hermit said quietly, optics locked on the approaching figure. "Tarn."
The leader of the Decepticon Justice Division stood there, hundreds of feet away, yet it felt like he was already inside their base, looming over their very sparks.
"Everyone inside, NOW!" Jeopardy commanded, snapping into motion. The team scattered into the base, with Impulse immediately working to barricade the entrance. They could hear their own breathing, the thrum of distant engines… and then—
Tarn's voice.
Smooth. Cold. Calm. And deeply terrifying.
"Autobots of Earth, we know you are stranded. There is no escape, no running. Your time on this planet could end today."
There was a long pause, pregnant with menace.
"That is, however, unless you relinquish to me the traitor known as Slipstream, former second-in-command of the Seekers. Do so, and I will spare you… and this world… from the fury of Decepticon Justice."
And for the first time in a long time, not even Impulse could make a joke.
Slipstream felt it first, not the blast, not the words, but the weight of every optic now trained on her. Tarn's voice still lingered in the air like smoke from a fired cannon.
"You have five cycles to make your decision. Choose wisely."
And just like that, every breath in the room felt heavier.
Slipstream stepped toward the now-barricaded front door, every servo in her frame vibrating with indecision. "Do we believe him?" she asked, not to anyone in particular, but the question echoed like a death knell.
Jeopardy turned away, pacing. His mind raced, calculating probabilities, escape routes, battle tactics. And every simulation ended the same way, failure.
She could feel it in the air: the silence wasn't indecision, it was dread. The dread of knowing there may not be a winning move.
"I'll go," Slipstream said suddenly, her voice calm, resolute. "I'll give myself up."
"No." Jeopardy turned sharply. "I'm not letting you do that. We aren't trading your life for ours."
"This isn't about that," Slipstream said, her optics soft. "If anything happened to you guys, I couldn't live with that."
"And I couldn't live with myself if I let you walk out there alone," Jeopardy said, voice breaking with rare emotion. "We're not giving you up. There has to be another way."
"Then what do we do?" Stormsurge said, barely louder than a whisper. "We can't hide in here forever."
"What if we fight?" Impulse offered, fire creeping back into his voice. "We've taken on the Combaticons, Dinobots, Blackarachnia, we've got a shot!"
"Fight the DJD?!" Hermit snapped, a tremor in his voice. "You really are insane!"
But Jeopardy didn't dismiss it. He didn't laugh. He didn't deny it. He just nodded, slowly.
"…It's not completely off the table."
Then… BOOM.
Tarn's fusion cannon shattered the barricade like paper, blasting through the wall in a flash of searing light and molten metal. The shockwave threw dust, flame, and fear across the room.
"Your five cycles are over," came Tarn's voice from beyond the smoke, "Prepare to face the fury of Decepticon Justice."
"Hermit, open a ground bridge!" Jeopardy barked, urgency spiking in his tone as the walls trembled under Tarn's approach.
"Where do we even go?!" Hermit shouted back, already pulling up coordinates.
"Wherever gets us as far as we can from here!"
"But what about Tarn? He could just trace the bridge and follow us!" Stormsurge asked, her voice tense.
"He won't if I encrypt the controls," Hermit offered, fingers already flying across his interface.
"That'll take too long! He's literally on our doorstep!"
"I have an idea," Impulse interrupted, holding up an absurdly massive bundle of dynamite. It looked cartoonish in its scale, bound in black tape with a fuse that practically asked to be lit.
"You aren't allowed to ask where I got it," he said with a smirk. "Let's just say I know a guy."
"You want to blow up the control panel?!"
"Do you have a better idea?!"
There was a pause.
"…Alright. Let's do it."
Hermit opened the ground bridge as Impulse darted to the backyard, slipping through rubble and flame with explosive intent. They heard him rush outside, then they heard screaming like he was imitating a wild animal, then the scurrying of a scared animal. In the chaos, Jeopardy turned to Simmons.
"Simmons, come with me," he said, lowering his hand.
"I'm not going with you if that thing is chasing you!" Simmons shouted, backing away.
"Would you rather get flattened when he raids this place?" Jeopardy snapped, watching Tarn's silhouette grow clearer in the haze.
Meanwhile, Impulse had planted the dynamite. "Fire in the fragging hole!" he shouted, sprinting back as the fuse ignited.
Jeopardy didn't wait for Simmons to decide. "Oh, screw it!" he muttered, scooping Simmons up like a ragdoll just as Tarn charged the twin barrels of his fusion cannon.
"YOU CANNOT ESCAPE THE INEVITABLE!" Tarn roared, his hand gripping the outline of the hole he made in the wall, his voice shaking the walls. He was close enough Jeopardy could see the mechanisms of his glowing red optics.
The Autobots leapt into the swirling green and yellow vortex of the ground bridge.
And then—
BOOM.
A blinding flash. A thunderous explosion. The control panel, and the front of the base, obliterated in an instant.
The bridge collapsed behind them, destination: unknown.

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