"Now, this is your service rifle, the ASR-8F," explained Ironhide, removing the weapon from its wall mount. The ship's armory was a very narrow room, clearly not intended for use by anyone over size class 4. Airazor had never been near so many weapons and explosives – in fact, this was her first time seeing the Aerialbot weapon outside of a newsreel. "It's specially-tuned for fliers, and converts into a gun pod for your altmode."

He gently lowered the rifle into her waiting arms, but Airazor was not prepared for how heavy it was. It slipped out of her hands, and nearly hit the floor before her wild scrambling caught it. "Oh, scrap," she gasped.

"I think I felt the same way when I was handed my first service weapon… of course, back then, it was just a big rock! Landed right on my foot!"

Airazor couldn't help but smile. "That's a good one."

"I try," Ironhide grinned back. "You're not the first rookie to get tossed right into the thick of things, you know. One time, I had this greenhorn under my command… I don't think he'd ever even seen a gun before he got drafted. Didn't know which way to point the thing!"

While funny, she realized that her situation was not much better. "What happened to him?" she asked, preparing for the worst.

"I take orders from him now," said the old mech with a wink. "You do, too."

***

"I mean, it's not beyond Ironhide to, uh… make things sound bigger?"

"Embellish," suggested Wheeljack.

"He likes to embellish the truth sometimes," shrugged Bumblebee, tearing open his ration pack. "But who knows? Those two rustbuckets have known each other since forever."

Wheeljack delicately crumpled the discarded film from the ration pack and stuffed it into a storage pocket. The waste disposal cans were on the far sides of the mess hall, quite the drive from the table where they sat- or at least, that's what Airazor imagined the rationale behind the trash-hoarding was. "I'd believe it. Optimus isn't like any of the Primes before him. He's not like most people in this line of work. A soldier with a Spark, you know?"

"He definitely knows his way around a gun now," said Bumblebee through a mouthful of the dessert bar. "Not an armchair general."

"Really?" asked Airazor, who took a glance at the contents of her own ration pack. There was a tin labeled "CES. SLM" which did not inspire any confidence, nor did the three Energon supplement pills. There were, however, a set of unassuming-looking cakes in a transparent wrapper which seemed inoffensive enough. She unsealed them, removed one, took a cautious bite, and found they were substantial enough.

Bumblebee nodded. "Oh, yeah. No, this one time, we were on deployment in- uh, was it… I think that time was in Kalis. We were there to intercept a courier, but the 'Cons were smart enough to send him with an escort. So me and the big Bot, there we are, up at an intersection, and they're charging down at us, and we empty all of our mags into them, and I'm thinking, okay, time to get the scrap outta there, but he just drops his rifle and runs down the road and starts beating the daylights out of the squad leader! And the rest of the 'Cons, they just broke and ran, and the squad leader gave up, and there wasn't a single casualty. It was insane."

"Oh, look at this," muttered a voice from behind. Airazor looked over her shoulder- it was the Omnibot from earlier, a ration pack of her own slung under an arm. "I've stumbled in on the choir, practicing for worship."

Wheeljack gritted his teeth. "We speak from experience. You don't know Optimus."

"Don't know him? Oh, I know what I need to. He's responsible for creating this damn war. He sympathizes with our enemies. And he thinks that you can trust protoforms with capturing lunatics," she hissed, giving Airazor a glare. The flier nearly jumped from her seat.

"Hey! I'm not-"

"What? Are you about to tell me how you're actually much more qualified than you look? Oh, that's funny," she sneered, before actually letting out a single, icy laugh. "You GIs, you're always good for a joke. It doesn't take much in the way of brains to point and shoot, does it? That explains why you grovel at the feet of any half-baked jalopy, as long as their shoulders are big enough."

Airazor balled a fist. "How can you say that? Autobots just like them fight and die for the empire every day!"

"Hey, rookie, ease up," warned Bumblebee. "Spooks like her have to get their jollies somewhere. She isn't doing any harm."

"I just don't get how you can say that kind of thing! You're an Autobot, too!" She felt her lip quiver- what was she going to say? She knew that RC was wrong, but she couldn't think of how to explain it. She dug through her mind, desperate to find anything- and then, she remembered. "Sky Lynx said that life would always be a struggle, but only until everyone could understand each other- You know, Till All-"

"-Are One? I know the speech," RC rolled her eyes. "Just like a little kid, spouting that scrap off. You know they made Sky Lynx to say that kind of thing, right? A big propaganda machine, to tell everyone that the mess your precious Optimus made was all going to fix itself. Ha! I'm glad that aftwipe died. It's fit-"

Airazor felt her knuckles brush against something soft, and realized it was RC's face. The Omnibot lifted off the ground and half-flipped in the air, colliding with the bulkhead that separated the mess with the corridor outside. Her body scraped down the wall and settled into a heap on the floor. Bumblebee and Wheeljack scrambled up from their seats, but when they noticed that Airazor seemed just as surprised as they were, they paused. She detected a wetness creeping towards the bottom of her hand, followed by a faint splatter on her foot. Airazor looked down and her insides turned. Circulatory fluids. Not hers.

RC's body jolted to life, slamming an open palm onto the floor, smearing the growing puddle of blood. She then rose, slowly, perhaps to avoid slipping, until she stood once more, her purple coat's hem dark and soggy. Blood poured from her mouth, welling up over her bottom lip and dripping down her chin.

"Mutiny against a superior officer," she mumbled, curling her soaked fingers together. "Grounds for a court martial." She spat on the floor, another puddle of blood. "You wouldn't have the patience for a trial… so here's your sentence. I'll crush you with my bare hands!"

Airazor panicked, backing into the table. Everything was happening too fast. She hadn't really meant to hit RC. But it didn't make sense. That sudden, blinding flash of anger was because of what RC said about Sky Lynx, but it wasn't many solar cycles ago that she convinced herself that his absence was a good thing. Had things really changed so much in that time, or was that what she wanted to believe? She would have thought about it more, but the arrival of RC's fist in her stomach postponed that contemplation. Airazor toppled over, landing sideways across the table.

"Hey, back off!" yelped Bumblebee, darting forward to grab RC by the shoulder. The femme pivoted on her left foot, swinging her right up to boot Bumblebee in the face. The yellow Autobot reeled, remaining standing, but only just. RC shot a glance Wheeljack, who took a step back, holding up his hands. She returned her attention to Airazor, who lay groaning on the table.

"You aren't in school anymore, you little prissy glitch," growled RC, raising her hand for another attack. Airazor gritted her teeth, waiting for the impact. She was prepared. She was not prepared for the gunshot that arrived instead, echoing sharply down the length of the mess. The shooter wasn't hard to find, standing just inside of the mess' entrance. A blue-and-grey femme held a smoking revolver aloft, with a small hole peeking out of the deck above her.

"Arroight, you dipsticks, break it up!"

RC made a concerning snort-like sound, and backed away from Airazor, dragging an arm across her bloody chin.

"Oh, good, you know to listen to people with guns! 'S an important first step. The next one is to know who the people with the guns are, and I'll help you with that." She stuck a thumb into the center of her chest's grille, and rested her revolver on her shoulder. "Name's Chromia. And since you all don't seem to be aware, I represent the law on this ship. Third order of the law is to ask who thought it'd be smart to 'ave a blue over a meal, so out with it!"

"It's her!" shouted Bumblebee, pointing energetically toward RC.

"The wingnut hit me first," RC protested.

"RC provoked Airazor," Wheeljack explained. "Who then retaliated. Afterwards RC attacked both her and Bumblebee. That's how it happened."

Chromia returned her pistol to its leg-mounted holster, and rested her hands on her hips as she sauntered towards the offending parties. "Is that so?"

Airazor pried herself off the table and into a seat, her head hanging low. How could she have screwed up this badly so soon? "Yes," she admitted.

"And the fourth step's fessing up. Fast learner, this sheila. Now, the mission hasn't really started yet, so I'm willing to let this slide on two conditions: No more provoking, and no more retaliating. Is that clear?"

"As crystal," snarled RC, dragging an arm across her chin to smear away the blood before stomping away.

"Good to have that sorted," mused Chromia aloud, looking up at the hole she had shot through the deck. "Ought to have that looked into, though."

"T-thanks," said Airazor quietly.

"Ah, no worries! I'm just doing my job. Or, ah, rather, not doing it. Point is, you're welcome. I've no love for standovers like that ratbag anyway. Government types, can't keep to their own bizzo, yeah?"

Airazor blinked. "Um… yeah."

"Well, now that I've given 'er the flick, I'll be off. Need to find where that hole goes… hopefully nowhere important."

"Sure you don't want to stick around?" suggested Bumblebee. "There's a seat open next to yours truly."

"Sorry, can't," she said with a devious grin. "You might want to look into mopping the floor, though."

Airazor looked down at the green puddle where the Omnibot had slumped earlier, and then back up at Bumblebee and Wheeljack, who had disappeared.

"Thanks, guys," she groaned aloud, finding the mop secured to a wall next to other cleaning supplies. At least she would have some time to think.

***

Route 395

South of Atolia, California

June 28, 2016

"You know, this ain't bad cold," exclaimed Richmond through a mouthful of donut-based breakfast sandwich. "It's shit like this that makes the drive worth it."

"I'm glad that's working out for you," sighed Gomez, easing the cruiser off the highway and onto an unpaved outer road.

"Come on, man. Don't be like that."

As far as Gomez was concerned, he had every reason to be like that. The drive from Ridgecrest was as boring as a drive could possibly be, and Richmond had spent it sleeping.

"Why don't you pull up the report?" grunted Gomez.

"It's supposed to be an unlisted address, or something. I think the guy was supposed to be squatting. Just look for a house, I guess."

The car rolled to a stop, and Gomez applied his parking brake, even though it was hardly necessary for the automatic cruiser. Still, the action was habitual and cathartic, and it was a good receptacle for the energy he would otherwise use to smack Richmond upside his head.

"I don't think we'll find one."

"What, you think it's a shed, or-"

Richmond finally took the time to look up from the report. In front of them, planks and timbers rose from a sooty ruin like a huge, cracked ribcage.

"Holy shit."

"Let's go," said Gomez sternly, opening the car's door. Together, they walked to where the porch had been.

"They weren't kidding about the fire," noted Richmond.

Gomez shook his head. "This wasn't just a fire."

"What do you mean? You think it was arson?"

"Arsonists don't use high explosives," Gomez explained. "Look at how little is left, how the supports are bowed out."

"You're saying that you took one look at this and can tell me it was explosives, just like that?"

"Well, the undetonated brick of C4 back there was a big part of it," grumbled Gomez, pointing over his shoulder towards a pile of rubble.

"Holy shit."

"When we got the call, I knew something was up. This Simmons guy, he was a nutcase conspiracy theorist. But he was a little different. Ex-military, for one."

Richmond took a solemn bite out of his donut sandwich. "You think all old Army guys tell the truth?"

"Air Force. He worked at Edwards. He was a test pilot back in the sixties. That's got to amount to something," said Gomez, testing the strength of the porch's remaining steps. They held well enough to support his weight.

"You're just as crazy."

Gomez gingerly crawled up the stairs into what left of the house's ground level. "Not crazy, just interested. But here we are, a conspiracy theorist gets himself blown up in the middle of the night." Against a sliver of remaining wall hung a scorched corkboard, onto which were pinned what must have once been discernable photographs.

"But would this guy have had any enemies? Ones that make sense? Ones that would have C4? Cartels, maybe? He had to be smoking something."

"I only know the rumors," shrugged Gomez, scanning the rubble of the first floor for any additional clues. Something white peeked out from underneath shattered wooden panels. Richmond headed for the parked truck across the way. Gomez slowly pulled the planks away and immediately recoiled. His tenure at the Ridgecrest police department had certainly had its surprises, but none of them had prepared him for what he had found.

"Hey, uh, I think you need to see this," called Richmond from outside.

"No, I think you need to see this," insisted his superior.

Richmond reluctantly moved back into the house. "There's something weird out-"

He was silenced when he saw what Gomez was pointing to. It was a human head, specifically most of one, the jaw missing the majority of its skin.

"That's got to be him," whispered Richmond.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Does… does that happen normally?"

"No. Deaths with explosives, they're usually injuries from shrapnel. For this, the explosion would have to be right on top of him. Or on him."

"You think he did this to himself?"

"It'd explain the crappy job he did with the rest of the house."

"But if an old man wanted to commit suicide, why would he go to all this trouble? Why blow yourself up? How does that make sense?"

"Maybe he really did have enemies, and he was waiting for them. I don't have all the answers," said Gomez. "What was it that you found?"

"That's just it, I don't know," explained Richmond. He led Gomez out of the house and toward the shed. The truck seemed undisturbed, aside from the glass that had no doubt been shattered by the explosion. But just to its left was the real anomaly- a puddle. It was no more than two feet across, though the darkened dirt nearby meant it had once been slightly larger. It was a dull green in color, opaque, with a hint of shimmering iridescence. In the center of the puddle rested something greyish and slightly translucent- across its surface scurried a single, greedy fly.

"I mean, it smells kinda rotten," Richmond added. "What do you think?"

"Yeah, rotten," Gomez agreed. "It had to have been alive, for the flies to want it."

"If something stinks, you shouldn't put your nose in it," said a voice from behind. Gomez and Richmond jolted around, half-expecting a cartel enforcer. What they found instead was a redheaded woman in a black trenchcoat, toying with a tablet. Behind her was an electric car, a big, fancy Tesla, which had been parked next to their cruiser. Hovering next to the car were two dark-suited men with earpieces and submachine guns.

Maybe she was a cartel enforcer.

"W-who are you?" stammered Richmond, just smart enough to not reach for his own gun.

"Not important," replied the woman. "But you are, Stanley George Richmond. At least, in this very moment. And don't worry, Alberto Ignacio Gomez, you aren't being left out."

"So you know our names. Are we supposed to be impressed?" grunted Gomez.

"Of course not!" she laughed. "Names are only ever a few clicks away. But you might be impressed to know that I currently have access to all of your accounts."

Richmond scratched at the back of his neck nervously. "What kind of accounts? Do you mean an email or a bank account?"

"All of them," the woman clarified. "Watch."

She tapped at her tablet, and Gomez's smartphone buzzed an alert. Wide-eyed, he unclipped it from its belt holster and read the notification that he had overdrafted his credit card.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Easy. I want you two to leave, and never, ever say anything about what you saw here. That's all."

"Listen, ma'am, we're the police!" protested Richmond. "We're supposed to-"

Gomez held up a hand to silence him. "We'll do it."

"Oh, good! I really didn't want to have to send Stanley's wife his browser history. She wouldn't have liked that," the woman smiled, gesturing towards the cruiser. Gomez sighed in defeat, pulling his keys from his pocket as he walked to the car.

"I can't believe this," groaned Richmond, sliding into the passenger seat.

Gomez shook his head. "Just shut up."

"Oh, hey," the woman called back. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll know. So don't, okay?"

The elder police officer gave her a solemn nod, and closed his door. The cruiser slowly backed away from the Tesla, turned, and headed back down the outer road.

The woman turned to watch them go. "Ah, the country yokel. It's rare to find a smart one in the bunch. I guess we got lucky today."

One of her bodyguards put a finger to his earpiece. "Just got word from the hazmat extraction team, Miss Sumdac. ETA one minute."

"Excellent," she replied, crouching by the puddle as the sound of distant helicopter blades began to emerge from underneath the gentle whisper of the breeze. "I just hope they're as excited as I am."

***

"Come on, what was that?" groaned Richmond.

"We were out of our league," Gomez replied. "Clearly we're dealing with… you know, big things. Above our pay grade. Did you really want to piss her off, with the way her mooks were packing?"

"But we're the- the road!" Richmond yelped. Gomez re-focused his attention ahead, and swerved in time to miss the vehicle charging down their lane. The cruiser spun off onto the shoulder, skidding through the dirt. Gomez punched at the wheel as they jerked to a stop.

"Dammit, I- we- we were in the right lane, right?"

"Y-yeah," Richmond stammered.

"So who's drunk-driving this early?" asked Gomez, rolling down the window. He swatted at the wave of dust that attempted to invade the car, and got a look at the other vehicle. It was an expedition truck, a sizable box camper mounted on top of an off-road vehicle that looked just a little too small to support it, its knobby tires bunched up underneath its frame as if it was perpetually tiptoeing. Its slab-sides were accented with a large, minimalist design bearing the word "ADVENTURE" in bold yellow letters. The camper bucked as it switched into reverse, crawling back towards the cruiser slowly. It cut its tires and swung around until it faced them. After a long pause, the driver's door opened, and the driver promptly tumbled all five feet to the ground.

"Oh, jeez," moaned Richmond, opening his door. "As if today could get any worse."

Gomez also disembarked, hooking his thumbs on his belt loops. The camper's driver lay flat and disconcertingly motionless on the ground. She was a young woman, probably just above twenty, with a blonde pixie cut and a designer denim jacket up top and yoga pants below. Gomez had already pieced together most of her story- she had to be one of those stick-it-to-the-man party girl types, fresh from one of the many electronic music festivals held in more prosperous parts of the state, probably perceiving the world through a molly-and-alcohol haze. That explained the hair, the outfit, the camper, and her driving.

"Turn her on her side," Gomez instructed, and Richmond complied, easing her onto her left shoulder. Gomez then unclipped his flashlight, and gently directed it towards her closed eyelids. The girl stirred, then curled inward, then practically jumped off of the dirt. She then looked down, then up, then at her hands, then back at her vehicle, then at the officers, then at her vehicle again, and finally, back at the road. She stared at the road for several seconds before Gomez decided to interrupt.

"Ma'am? Do you know where you are?"

She pirouetted on the ball of her right heel, her eyes full of wonder.

"Oh, yes! I'm still north of Edwards, right? I haven't missed it? I'm- I've got a friend I need to meet with there."

"Edwards is a few miles down the road, yet," explained Richmond.

"But you're in no shape to be driving, ma'am," added Gomez. "How much have you been drinking?"

"My exact fluid intake? Um, I haven't been keeping track."

Gomez pointed to the road. "I'm going to need you to stand on that painted line."

The girl blinked. "Why?"

"Because I asked you to."

"Well, if you insist."

She ambled to the road, and centered herself on the edge line. "Anything else?"

"I need you to walk down that line, placing your heel in front of your toes, while counting each step. Look straight ahead," instructed Gomez, approaching the line. Richmond checked his cell phone idly.

The girl nodded, and did exactly as he explained. Not once did she lose her balance, raise her arms, or miscount her steps.

"Okay, I did it," she chirped.

"Think she cheated?" whispered Richmond.

"I don't think she's smart enough to," Gomez guessed. "Ma'am, why were you driving in the wrong lane?"

The young woman gasped sharply, her face twisted with horror. "THE WRONG LANE?!"

"Uh, yes, ma'am," Richmond nodded. "You're supposed to keep right. The left side is for oncoming traffic."

"Oh, scrap! I can't believe I messed that up! Now I'm going to have to tell everybody that I was wrong!"

"Yeah, we're going to have to bring her in," sighed Richmond. "She's definitely on something. She can't be out here on the road."

Gomez shook his head. "If we don't deal with her, the suits down the way will. And that's going to be hard for them to cover up, right? If we can't do anything, maybe she can."

"Are you serious?"

"Think about it, if something happens back there, it's our job to investigate. We could get the rest of the force in on it. Whatever's going on, we need to piece it together, and we need all the help we can get. I don't like it either, but it's the only shot we have."

"You're messed up. Just plain messed up," shrugged Richmond. "But I am so done with today."

"It's all right, ma'am," said Gomez. "Just keep following the road south and you'll see the signs for Edwards. And stay in the right lane!"

The girl beamed. "No problem, sir! Thanks so much!"

She skipped back over to her vehicle, and with some great effort, crawled back up into the driver's seat. The starter growled, the engine caught, and the camper trundled away, staying perfectly within the right lane, without even stopping by the ruined house.

Richmond took another bite of his sandwich.

"Wow. Great plan."

Gomez, unable to get to his car's parking brake in time, smacked Richmond upside the head.

***

The camper rolled down into Kramer Junction, hooked a right onto 58, and drove another twenty-five miles past North Edwards, at which point it pulled off of the highway and drove out into the labyrinthine tangle of crisscrossed dirt roads that framed a city that did not yet exist. Other than the roads, the area's only defining features were the small scrub-plants, and the oppressive sun overhead. It was not a logical place to set up one's camper, but it was where the camper stopped. The driver opened her door, caught her foot on the ladder, and once again tumbled to the ground face-first.

"I've got to stop doing that," she groaned, prying herself out of the dirt. She shielded her eyes against the sun, only to find that the searing glare came not from directly above, but was reflected by the camper's stainless steel fuel tanks. She took a closer look, charmed to see her own image suspended in the polished metal. She ran a hand through her hair and posed for herself, giggling vapidly.

"This is too fun," she smiled, giving her reflection a flirtatious wink. "I don't think I've ever looked better! These clothes, this hair, this body… I could get used to this!"

She would have continued to admire herself, but a concussive blast ripped across the desert, shattering the still planes with an earthquake of raw sound. The driver knew it was coming, but the sonic boom surprised her all the same. She narrowly grabbed hold of one of the camper's handrails, saving herself from another faceplant. The source of the boom was a solitary fighter jet, which after making its flyby was now easing itself into a stall. The aircraft slowed, stopped, and fell backwards, its descent far more graceful than it seemed to the untrained eye. The jet performed a lazy loop as it fell, and at the bottom of the loop, it underwent a startling metamorphosis- the sleek, aerodynamic lines splitting into large panels, the engines separating from one another, the cockpit folding back as the nose collapsed inward. The shifting jet-jumble crashed to earth in a plume of dust, and out of that dust emerged a towering metal warrior of red, black, and grey.

"Well, aren't you looking stellar?" called the driver.

The robot marched towards the camper. "You're still playing with that toy, Soundwave?"

"It's not a toy," protested the driver. "It's a nanomatter projector. And for your information, it really works. I had a lovely chat with some humans earlier, and they never suspected a thing."

"I flew over that base nearly ten times, and they didn't notice. I think this is going to work."

"Exciting!" grinned Soundwave's nanomatter avatar before dissolving into a thin black mist, which was quickly absorbed by its octahedron-shaped projector unit. The camper then began its own changes, rearranging itself into a new version of Soundwave's distinct silhouette. "With disguises like these, I'll be able to study humans up close! I'll be able to learn their languages first-hand, so we'll never have another misunderstanding…" her voice trailed off.

"You'll have to get to work pretty fast. The next stage of our plan is locating Megatron's magic mumbo-jumbo. We'll need to be able to access nearly all of the data these humans have on their world, their history. It's the only lead we have."

"Y-yeah, of course. So you're going to head back?"

"That's right. Only long enough to deliver the new interaction protocol you drew up. After that, the rest of the crew will be getting their reformats and getting ferried down here. I'll catch a ride with them." Starscream paused, seeing the unease in Soundwave's eyes. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't worry. I believe in you."

Their optics locked together. Soundwave felt a warmth inside her chest, radiating out from her spark. For a second, she contemplated kissing him, but her uncertainty crushed that thought before it could move any closer to reality. She pulled away, nodding gently.

"Thanks… I-I needed that. I'll… I'll see you later."

"You can count on that," smiled Starscream, leaping into the air as he transformed into his new jet fighter disguise, carrying himself away on two pillars of afterburner-induced shock diamonds. Starscream became smaller and smaller, until he was simply a black dot and a glowing orange dot, and then he disappeared completely. Soundwave wiped away some stray optical lubricant, and drew a datapad from one of her storage bins. She opened the rudimentary map she had constructed from the surface scans, and set a course for the mass of glowing cities to the south.

Now, I just have to remember to keep right.