Just as the inaugural meeting between NEST and the Autobots was winding down, a man in a sharp black suit leading a grim-faced entourage burst into the hangar.
"Excellent. Everyone's in one place," the man said, his voice dripping with practiced condescension. "Saves me the trouble of visiting you all individually."
The NEST sentries immediately stepped into his path, rifles at the low-ready. "Halt! This is a restricted NEST facility. State your name and provide identification."
The man in the suit didn't flinch. He casually brushed past the soldier's outstretched arm as if he owned the air in the room. "My name is Lawrence. Senior National Security Advisor to Secretary of State Clarice. I handle 'complications' and defense policy."
In the world of the Beltway, an "Advisor" was a fancy term for a shark. They whispered in the ears of the powerful, and their influence was measured by how much the hand that held the pen trusted them.
Lawrence was very, very trusted.
"Alright, Mr. Lawrence," Lennox said, stepping forward to intercept him. "What can we do for you? I'm busy running a war."
Lawrence was tall, gaunt, and possessed the predatory features of a vulture—a hooked nose and deep-set eyes that screamed calculated malice. He looked down at Lennox, ignoring the rank on the soldier's shoulders.
"I'm told that during the Rushville incident, there was an additional alien body recovered—aside from the one the DoD dropped in the ocean. I'd like to know where it is."
Behind Lennox, Optimus Prime's optics flared with a cold, blue anger. The idea that a human was already trying to claim Jazz's remains as property was an insult to the memory of his fallen lieutenant.
"There are no 'alien bodies' here for you to take, Mr. Lawrence," Lennox said firmly. "And I'd like to remind you that I report to the Department of Defense. Unless you have a signed order from Secretary Keller, you aren't taking so much as a bolt from this hangar."
"Splendid, Captain. Oh, wait—it's Colonel now, isn't it?" Lawrence leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Lennox could hear. "Don't forget where your paycheck comes from, Colonel. Don't forget whose side you're on."
"I haven't forgotten," Lennox replied, his face a mask of stone. "But I have to ask: is this your request, or the Secretary of State's?"
Lawrence tilted his head, a thin, crooked smile playing on his lips. "Does it matter?"
He turned his back on Lennox and walked toward the towering frame of Optimus Prime. "And this must be the famous Optimus. Greetings."
"Human," Optimus rumbled, "my patience is not infinite."
"Patience is a luxury on a world that isn't yours, wouldn't you agree?" Lawrence asked smoothly. He didn't seem bothered by the giant's shadow. "It seems a waste to let your comrade—this 'Jazz'—go to the scrap heap. His chassis would be far more useful in a laboratory..."
"Human, I suggest you end this line of questioning!" Ironhide's heavy cannon hissed as it retracted, the muzzle thudding against Lawrence's forehead with a metallic clack.
"Ah. A pity." Lawrence didn't move an inch, his expression one of bored disappointment. "Since our 'visitors' aren't feeling particularly hospitable, I believe our chat is over."
He turned to leave. As he passed Lennox, he paused to pat the Colonel on the shoulder. "I'll remember you, Colonel. It's good to have such... dedicated officers. I'll be sure to tell Secretary Clarice to give you more responsibility. You seem like a man who can handle a heavy load."
Lennox watched him walk away. He didn't say a word, simply raising his hand and giving Lawrence a very specific, one-fingered military salute. "Whatever you say, Advisor."
Once they were back in their designated secure area, Ironhide couldn't hold back. "Optimus, why do we tolerate them? You saw him—he looked at Jazz like he was a piece of farm equipment! If the Decepticons weren't here, I bet they'd be aiming those puny rifles at us."
"That is exactly why we must cooperate," Optimus explained, shifting into his Peterbilt form. "There is a human saying: 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' I do not wish to manipulate them, but we must acknowledge the truth."
"Humanity is the master of this world. They want our technology to defend themselves. And as long as the Decepticons intend to enslave this planet, our interests align."
Optimus projected a starchart into the hangar, a blue sphere dotted with crimson pings. "The Decepticons will not stop until Megatron is revived. Alone, we cannot hunt them all. But I have also detected a familiar signal from the Bardnar system... perhaps we will not be alone for long."
In his laboratory, Skygnaw dropped a flip-phone into an energy collision chamber. He adjusted the gravity calibration and triggered a focused pulse from the AllSpark shard.
CRACK-HISS!
A visible wave of blue-bronze energy rippled through the glass. The phone underwent a violent, jagged transformation, sprouting spindly limbs and a tiny, glowing red eye.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
The proto-Decepticon immediately deployed a microscopic gatling gun, spraying the reinforced glass with useless lead. It was mindless, aggressive, and purely instinctual. Because modern human tech was based on Megatron's reverse-engineered biology, any electronic device exposed to the Spark's radiation defaulted to a Decepticon personality.
Skygnaw watched it for a moment. Finding it incapable of communication or logic, he reached into the chamber and crushed the tiny machine between two fingers.
"Finally. Success."
He felt a jolt of satisfaction. The shard wasn't a passive battery anymore; he had found the trigger to bleed its cosmic energy into other machines. He could create an army. If he funneled enough energy, he might even create soldiers of his own rank.
Skygnaw stowed the shard and headed toward Scalpel's bay. He had been isolated for over a week, and the base felt strangely empty. He'd sent Brawl and the majority of the grunts on a secret mission to establish secondary outposts, leaving only the essentials behind.
"Lord Scalpel."
The spider-bot was crawling over Blackout's cold chassis, his many eyes whirling.
"Skygnaw. You wish for me to repair the heavy-lifter?" Scalpel chirped.
"No. I want his weapon modules."
Skygnaw looked at the parts Scalpel had already salvaged: the massive space-cannon, the EMP generators, and the rotor-grinder. Skygnaw had no interest in the rotor-grinder—he didn't want a ceiling fan on his arm—but the heavy artillery was tempting.
"Skygnaw," Scalpel said, pausing his work and skittering closer. "What do you plan to do with Blackout's chassis? It is a waste to let it sit."
"It stays here," Skygnaw replied coldly. A dead Elite's body was a goldmine of parts and prestige; he wasn't giving it away for free.
Scalpel's eyes whirled in a synchronized pattern. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a buzzing whisper. "Give me the chassis for my experiments... and I will tell you a secret."
"A secret?"
"A secret," Scalpel hissed, "that will lead you to the rank of Commander-Class."
Skygnaw's fans stuttered. The leap from Elite to Commander was the difference between a high-level enforcer and a general of the Decepticon empire. He looked at the tiny, wicked doctor, his optics narrowing.
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