"Master, what are my orders?"
Once the data upload was complete, Alice looked up at Skygnaw, her optics glowing with absolute submission.
"Put it on," Skygnaw commanded, pointing to the experintal rig.
"Yes, Master."
After a complex series of chanical clicks and whirs, the first Pretender in this era was born. Without its camouflage active, Alice resembled a skeletal, emaciated robot—a fra of raw struts and fiber-optics.
"Scan that rabbit and mimic it," Skygnaw ordered, gesturing to a cage in the corner of the lab.
Clack-clack-clack—
The biomitic plates shifted like falling dominoes. In seconds, the tallic skeleton was replaced by a creature identical in size, fur texture, and even twitching nose to the biological original. The "rabbit" hopped twice and looked up.
"Master, transformation complete."
Skygnaw nodded, genuinely impressed. Seeing the tech in person was a stark reminder of why the Pris were feared. This was more than just shifting gears; it was a total molecular reorganization.
"Black Panther!" Skygnaw called out.
The chanical drone surged into the room, its crimson eyes scanning the "rabbit" with predatory curiosity.
"Go," Skygnaw told them. "Black Panther will brief you on the journey. This mission is under your joint command. Contact only if you encounter a variable you cannot calculate."
"Yes, Master."
Black Panther crouched low, and the Alice-rabbit leaped onto its back. Skygnaw watched them vanish into the transport tunnels. He had no intention of making a personal appearance in Miami. An Elite-Class Decepticon was a nuclear deterrent; you didn't use a nuke to swat a fly. A Mid-Class drone and a Pretender were more than enough for a group of greedy humans.
Miami. Three Days Later.
Karl stood outside his corporate headquarters alone. He ignored the greetings of his staff and dismissed his favorite secretary with a curt wave. He checked his watch for the tenth ti. Finally, a tall, striking woman in a designer business suit approached him.
She was stunning—golden waves of hair, crimson lips, and a presence that radiated lethal confidence.
"Hello... Miss?" Karl asked tentatively. "Are you the Alice who contacted last night?"
"I am Alice. My Master sent to resolve your 'complications'." Her voice was smooth, yet devoid of any true human warmth. Karl didn't care; he was just relieved the "cavalry" looked like a supermodel rather than a three-story war machine.
"Wonderful! Please, co inside." Karl led her into the building, his usual arrogance toward his subordinates completely replaced by fawning servility.
Alice's stay was brief. She asked a few cold, clinical questions about the companies targeting Karl Manufacturing and ignored Karl's frantic suggestions on how to "negotiate." She wasn't there to talk business.
The Art of the "Dirt Truck" Strategy.
The most effective "business warfare" isn't a price war or a PR campaign—it's the sudden application of mass and velocity.
That night, Watrick, the CEO of Motorola, was in high spirits. He was headed to a luxury hotel to "negotiate" a celebrity endorsent deal for his company's newest button-phone. He was halfway through a call when his car entered a quiet intersection.
VROOOOM—
A heavy construction truck, loaded to the brim with gravel and sand, ignored the red light. It slamd into Watrick's sedan at sixty miles per hour. The car flipped multiple tis before the ruptured fuel tank ignited in a spectacular fireball. The truck didn't stop. It simply turned the corner and vanished into the night.
The news of Watrick's "tragic accident" paralyzed Motorola. But it was only the beginning.
Over the next week, every executive who had signed off on the hostile takeover of Karl Manufacturing, every journalist who had faked "radiation" stories, and every "witness" who claid the phone turned them black, t with a series of inexplicable fatalities. So were "robberies gone wrong," others were "freak ho accidents."
Karl was eventually brought in for questioning by the police. After all, his rivals were dropping like flies. But in Florida, money talks. Karl hired a "Dream Team" of attorneys—the kind who charge a year's salary per hour. Within twenty-four hours, he walked out of the station without a scratch.
The crisis had passed, and Karl Manufacturing—now rebranded as the Aura Group—began to expand with terrifying speed. Under Alice's "advice," the company stopped playing a solo ga. They traded shares for political protection, binding various human conglorates to their success.
In Karl's top-floor office, Alice dropped a handwritten list on his desk.
"Karl. This is what the Master requires," she said, her eight hidden red eyes practically burning through her human skin.
Karl looked at the list and felt a chill. "Alice... half of these chemicals and rare-earth isotopes are strictly controlled. This isn't just buying tal; this is international smuggling."
"Is that a problem?" Alice stepped closer, her smile beautiful but her eyes cold as a vacuum. "The Master's requirents are non-negotiable."
Karl looked at the list again. He thought of the sniper bullet on his desk and the fireball that consud Watrick. He realized that while he enjoyed the caviar and the supercars, he was essentially riding a tiger.
"I... I'll find a way," Karl stamred. "But moving this much material to the designated drop-off in Canada will be difficult. Can the Master et halfway?"
"Karl," Alice's smile vanished. "Do not forget who made you. You will deliver the materials to the coordinates provided. On ti."
She turned and swayed toward the door with an elegance that made Karl's sweat turn cold. Once she was gone, Karl collapsed into his leather sofa, ripping off his tie. When he had nothing, he was brave. Now that he had everything, he was terrified of losing it.
The partnership wasn't a business deal anymore—it was a countdown.
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