Nathan surveyed the four Basic-class Decepticons standing before him. In the brutal economy of the empire, Starscream's "generosity" was a double-edged sword. He had provided housing, fuel, and now a squad of subordinates. In a human corporation, a manager getting a private team and expenses covered might feel a flicker of loyalty; in the Decepticon ranks, it was simply an allocation of expendable assets.
"Commander, are we... scheduled for imdiate departure?"
One of the clones, an E-series unit with a twitchy sensor array, broke the silence. He was clearly impatient. The other three shifted their weight, their optics flickering with the sa restless energy. They were the only squad remaining in the Transit Hub; the other six squadrons had already deployed, and Starscream had long since streaked toward the horizon.
Nathan narrowed his optics. He hadn't been daydreaming. He was deliberately stalling—leaving his units in a state of operational limbo.
He was establishing his Command Protocol.
"Commander?" the drone prompted again.
Nathan took several heavy steps forward, his titanium-reinforced fra looming over the smaller unit. His voice dropped into a low-frequency rumble that vibrated the drone's chest plates. "Do you believe your processing speed exceeds mine, E-13?"
The four clones exchanged quick, nervous glances. They were low-spec, but they weren't stupid.
"Negative, Commander. We were rely referencing Lord Starscream's directive regarding the sweep for the High Protector—"
SLAM.
Nathan's hand shot out, seizing E-13 by the neck cables and hoisting him off the deck.
"I don't recall asking for a summary of the Air Commander's orders," Nathan hissed, his optics flaring a jagged, predatory red. With his right arm, he deployed the tri-barrel heavy repeater, the muzzles rotating with a soft, nacing whine as they leveled at the other three drones.
"In Seeker Squadron Four, there is only one source of logic. Mine."
He stared into E-13's flickering optics. "I don't care how the other sergeants run their squads. In this unit, my directive is the only one that carries weight. Do I have synchronization?"
The three drones on the floor stared at the heavy repeater aid at their spark-chambers. They went rigid. "Synchronization confird, Commander," they droned in unison.
Nathan turned back to the unit in his grip. "And you?"
"Synch... synchronized, Commander," E-13 rasped, his servos groaning under the pressure.
Nathan released him, letting the drone hit the floor with a heavy tallic clang. "Ensure that is the first and final ti I have to recalibrate your obedience subroutines."
The four clones lowered their heads, their previous arrogance replaced by a sterile, terrified compliance. They had already tagged Nathan as "Volatile/Unpredictable" in their internal data-banks. Nathan didn't care. He wasn't their friend; he was their pilot. He needed them reliable, not creative.
"Deploy," Nathan commanded.
Nevada. The Great Basin Desert. Dusk.
A light, acidic rain began to fall over the jagged peaks of the Diller Range. The water hissed against the sun-baked rocks of the Kernas Great Canyon, creating a thin veil of mist.
At the base of a towering rock face, a desert iguana perched on a scrub-bush, its eyes rotating 180 degrees to scan for predators. Suddenly, the rock wall behind it groaned. The ground vibrated with a rhythmic, chanical pulse. The lizard bolted, vanishing into a crevice as a disguised blast-door slid open.
Nathan stepped out into the open air for the first ti. The atmospheric sensors in his armor imdiately began a data-dump: temperature, humidity, wind shear, and local radio frequencies. Behind him, E-13 through E-16 erged, their smaller fras silhouetted against the glowing tal of the tunnel.
"The scale is... significant," Nathan noted, looking up at the towering canyon walls.
Starscream had chosen well. This sector was a geological maze, deep enough to swallow the thermal signatures of an entire battalion.
"Commander, what are the primary coordinates?" E-15 asked, his voice hushed. He had learned his lesson in the Hub.
Nathan checked the map Starscream had burned into his module. The Air Commander had divided the continent into seven grids. Nathan's sector was the Southern Corridor—the arid stretch of desert that sat directly between the fortress and the Hoover Dam.
Starscream thinks gatron is here, Nathan mused. Or he's using us as a screen to keep the humans occupied while he digs in Egypt.
"We proceed to the Southern Sector," Nathan ordered. He moved to the center of the canyon floor, his hydraulics hissing as he prepared for his first true transformation.
With a rapid-fire sequence of grinding gears and shifting plates, Nathan's nine-ter fra collapsed and reconfigured. In a blur of mass-shifting, he beca a sleek, black-ops interceptor. His engines roared to life, venting twin streams of ionized blue fla.
Behind him, the four clones transford into a series of smaller, unbranded scout jets. They banked hard, following Nathan's lead as he shot upward through the narrow canyon crack and into the darkening Nevada sky.
Seeker Squadron Four was officially on the hunt.
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