At 217 Crescent Drive, Judy and Ronald Witwicky were engaged in a low-stakes conflict over the structural integrity of their front lawn. Near the curb sat a weathered yellow Camaro, its chassis marked by two aggressive black racing stripes.
Judy, wearing white gardening gloves and clutching a bouquet of hydrangeas, stepped tentatively across the stone walkway. "Ronald, this section is non-linear. The alignnt is off."
Ronald, crouched in the dirt with a trowel, didn't look up. "It's within tolerance, Judy. I'll recalibrate it."
"You say that every ti. We should have contracted a professional. Every ti you 'recalibrate' the landscaping, it destabilizes within a week."
Their dostic dispute was interrupted as Sam erged from the house, notably well-grood. He was heading to an outdoor gathering later that afternoon, and he had heard Mikaela Banes would be in attendance. His objective: provide post-event transport.
Sam jingled his car keys toward his parents, a silent declaration of his departure.
"Oh, Sam..." Ronald groaned, shaking his head.
"What? I'm just going out," Sam replied, confused.
"I don't want biotric signatures on my fresh sod! That's why I'm reinforcing the walkway!" Ronald pointed toward the stone path with his trowel. "Utilize the designated transit lane, Sam. Avoid the grass."
"There aren't even any footprints, Dad. And technically, the lawn is a shared family asset—"
"You'll understand the value of territorial maintenance when you own your own grid," Ronald snapped.
Judy stepped in, her tone placating. "Sam, listen to your father. He's still in a state of high-alert after those unidentified tire tracks appeared last week. He hasn't finished the structural repairs yet. Don't trigger a secondary event."
"I just want to catch the guy who did it," Ronald muttered, a mask of visceral frustration crossing his face.
The "unidentified tracks" were, of course, the legacy of Nathan's previous reconnaissance mission, during which his electromagnetic pulse had also fried the local security grid.
"Fine, Mom. Designated lanes only." Sam retreated to the walkway and headed for the Camaro.
"Ho by 23:00!" Judy called out.
"Seatbelt on! Maintain safe velocity!" Ronald added.
"Copy that! 23:00!"
Sam slid into the driver's seat. Before turning the ignition, he ran a thumb over the center of the steering wheel—a stylized, angular shield that looked like a stern chanical face. He had chosen this car specifically because of that emblem; it felt... familiar.
He twisted the key. The engine coughed, belching a cloud of black and yellow exhaust that briefly engulfed the entire yard in a localized smog event.
"Well, Ronald," Judy coughed into her bouquet. "Your taste in 'first vehicles' remains consistent."
Ronald watched the blurry yellow silhouette pull away. "You don't get it. A man's first transport is supposed to have character."
Austin, Texas.
In the outskirts of the southern capital, within the hollowed-out shell of a derelict manufacturing plant, a five-ter-tall chanical giant vented his frustration into a concrete pillar. On his right forearm, the words 'To Punish and Enslave' were etched in bold, aggressive Gothic script.
"Where is the Seeker Soundwave promised?" Barricade roared, his fist pulverizing a section of the wall.
"The target is approaching the Austin sector," replied a spindly, four-eyed machine nearby. Frenzy's antennae-like optics twitched with nervous energy. "If the backup doesn't arrive within the current cycle, we'll have to initiate the siphon alone."
"We wait no longer. We move—"
Barricade cut off as his sensors registered five incoming thermal blooms. High above, a Silver Fox interceptor and four secondary Seekers carved through the clouds, their sonic booms rattling the factory's rusted windows.
The five units perford a synchronized vertical landing, the impact cracking the concrete floor.
Nathan stood at the head of the formation, his eight-ter fra looming over Barricade. He noted the "To Punish and Enslave" decal—the mark of a Decepticon who enjoyed the visceral side of the occupation.
"Lord Barricade," Nathan rumbled, his voice carrying the weight of his new High-Tier Spark. "I am Skygnaw, responding to the Spymaster's directive. I am here to facilitate the recovery of NBE-1."
"Skygnaw?" Barricade's optics narrowed as he scanned Nathan's dense Cybertronian Steel plating. He rembered a Mid-tier drone from the atoll days. "You've undergone a significant structural upgrade in a very short window, Seeker."
"Optimal performance requires optimal hardware," Nathan replied coolly.
Frenzy scuttled forward, his four blue eyes glowing. "Whoa! A full squadron? Let's initiate a high-intensity breach! We can take Executive One! We'll show the squishy humans the aning of data-loss!"
"Silence, Frenzy," Barricade hissed, his fra tensing as he stepped toward Nathan. "Skygnaw, you are behind schedule. And why have you brought a full contingent to a clandestine operation? This mission requires surgical precision, not a carpet bombing."
Nathan noted the shift in Barricade's frequency. The Enforcer was projecting authority, but Nathan sensed the underlying caution. Barricade hadn't yet been humbled by the yellow scout; he was still operating with the arrogance of an elite hunter.
"The squadron is here as tactical insurance, Lord Barricade," Nathan stated, signaling E-13 and the others to return to their flight modes. The four drones launched imdiately, circling the factory in a holding pattern. "I operate under the dual-authority of the Air Commander and the Spymaster. My presence is a guarantee of mission success, not an obstacle."
He lowered his tone, letting the harmonic resonance of his Spark vibrate through the floor. "Starscream expects a report. Soundwave expects results. Shall we begin the siphon, or would you prefer to argue about the logistics of my arrival?"
Barricade stared at Nathan for a long, silent beat. He recognized the na of the Air Commander—a leader known for his petty vengeance. He wasn't ready to test whether Skygnaw truly spoke for Starscream.
"The Executive One signal-patch is live," Barricade finally rasped, turning back to the consoles. "Frenzy, initiate the logic-bomb. We have a planet to bleed."
User Comments
0 comments from readers