The chaos at Mission City was like nothing anyone had ever expected to see on American soil. Not from a war, at any rate, and even for a war, it was bad. Mission City was a nightmare, from Fort Street, where Will's people had made their stand, then radiating out in uneven lines of destruction to the cratered resting places of the choppers and F-22s that Starscream had sent pin-wheeling into buildings to rain debris and fire down on whatever lay beneath them. Smoke drifted through the streets like fog, and one simply got used to the taste and feel of chemical burn. Ordinance, spent and unspent, was continually being discovered in the ruins of storefronts and streets – sometimes in unfortunate ways where the unspent ordinance was concerned, especially if said ordinance was of alien origin and unfamiliar.

"And as if that ain't fun enough, we got aliens that bleed deadly chemicals," Epps mused, watching as hazmat teams arrived on scene to get debriefed by Ratchet. The sergeant watched the newcomers stepping wary and discernibly wide-eyed even beneath their face-shields, and shook his head. "What's next? We got any AI facehuggers comin' out of little mechanical pods yet?"

Will just shrugged. All he knew were his orders to stay well away from the dead aliens, and to keep any civilians even more well away. Ratchet had been absolutely adamant that there be no fewer than a hundred yards between human beings and the enemy dead. Not content with that, within an hour of the battle's end, he'd sent Ironhide out to 'field strip' the alien corpses of energon, thereby removing the worst of the danger. Will wasn't sure what that involved, but it sounded unpleasantly vampiric and he'd been happy to remain ignorant of the details. He really had no desire to learn whether Cybertronians could manifest fangs for themselves.

For his part, Will had occupied himself with getting cordons around the alien corpses, and drawing up a duty rotation for his squad and whatever other army and national guard personnel had been able to get through to their location. So far, Mission City, both the battle and the aftermath, had all been his to order, since no one had yet appeared with sufficient brass to relieve him. So he'd set Epps and anyone else with a useful technical specialization to work on trying to get a communications center up and running, and to try to do something about the lack of power thanks to the hit on the power grid and the disarray in the city.

"We ain't gonna make much progress on the power issue – I can rig basics, but nothing on the scale of a municipal power grid," Epps had warned. "We'll have to hope we can keep local back-up generators going 'til we can get a crew in here that knows what it's doing, and somebody up at the dam to see how bad it is."

"Do what you can," Will had ordered. "We may be out here awhile, after all."

It'd been three days so far, and the hazmat boys and girls were only now starting to arrive in useful numbers, in part because, as it turned out, before joining his squad Blackout had cut the major highways coming into the city and trashed the local airport. That certainly explained why traffic control in and out of the city had been so uneventful, but was hardly reassuring. Or helpful.

Rumor and promise had it, however, that actual repair crews would be next. Logistics was handling matters, it was said. Help would come; they simply had to be patient while the world recovered from a global communications black-out and the shock of discovering that humanity was not alone in the cosmos.

Meantime, there were chores they could do: Will had "requisitioned" shovels and trash bags and cans from a hardware shop half a mile from the destroyed city center, and he and his squad and such help as the municipality, police, national guardsmen, and concerned citizens could muster had gone to work searching for survivors and digging them out where possible.

Rather to his surprise, Ironhide had joined them, which helped with the heavy lifting sometimes needed to unblock exits. He had even been able safely to take apart the upper stories of badly damaged structures to reach survivors – apparently, the Autobot had some familiarity with architecture. His commanding officer was apparently content to trust that familiarity enough to follow Ironhide's lead in that regard, and between the two of them, they had managed to rescue quite a few people trapped in dangerously unsalvageable buildings that Will and his people would never have been able to reach in time, let alone safely.

Will had thanked them for their help, but he and his men had had to content themselves with receiving the wounded. Otherwise they were well-advised to stay clear of any falling debris such activities dislodged, though the dust raised drifted in clouds throughout the area along with the smoke, leaving the air aglitter with a fine haze of particulates.

Now that they had hazmat on site, though, hopefully FEMA personnel or other, experienced rescue teams would follow who could share such duties with the Autobots. Not that Will wasn't grateful, but he was twitchy with the sense that humanity damn well ought to be doing more to save its own. Beside him, Epps sighed, then coughed, wincing as he took a swig from his canteen.

"Man, they'd better be serious about gettin' gas masks out here for the rest of us," he groused. "I got kids. I don't wanna be fillin' out no forms for 'Mission City Syndrome' ten years from now."

"All right, enough with the happy thoughts," Will said, clapping Epps's shoulder even as he quickly shunted aside thought of Sarah and Annabelle that the sergeant's complaint had conjured up. Glancing down at his watch, he declared: "Break time's over – means we've got to get back to the protect and serve business."

"Yeah, got a date with a balky generator this shift," Epps said. He stretched his arms over his head, cracking his back, then glanced once more at Ratchet, with his captive audience, and back at his captain. "Have fun with E.T."

Will watched him go, then shook his head and went off to make himself useful.

For a wonder, rumor was in fact correct: the Army Engineering Corps rolled in as promised right after the hazmat teams that afternoon and immediately set to work commandeering whoever stood still long enough to be caught. Will made it easy on the AEC major, volunteering himself and his crew – less Epps, whose specialized skills were more useful elsewhere – for clean-up duty whenever they came off guard duty and search and rescue work.

During the next four days of back-breaking labor, shovel, gloves and pilfered ace bandages to deal with the resulting blisters became Will's new weapons of choice. As scaffolds went up and helicopters arrived to dangle rescue personnel on ropes by high-rise windows, Will dug wherever the AEC major told him to, grateful, for once, for the direction, though in many ways it was mind-numbing work. Will didn't mind; it helped when he had plenty of things he'd rather not think about preying upon his mind.

Still, he couldn't avoid those things forever. Bureaucracy would eventually catch up with him, and with the combat report that Will, as the officer in command during the battle of Mission City, had dutifully submitted through an AEC courier chopper.

Thus he really should not have been surprised by the spotless Army dress uniform loitering about his tent one afternoon. In the midst of a minor hell, after all, dress blues could only mean one thing.

And so the moment the man held out his hand, and said, "Captain Lennox, I'm Lieutenant Ryan Matthews, judge advocate general's office", Will knew exactly what was coming. It wasn't as if he hadn't been expecting it on some level, but the carnage and chaos of Mission City were a powerful incentive to ignore it as long as possible. It looked as though time had just run out, however...

"I don't suppose," he asked, without much hope, "that we could skip the formalities?" Matthews merely smiled politely, and Will sighed, then waved him toward the tent he and Epps were sharing. "All right, then, lieutenant, this way and let's get this over with – no offense."

"None taken, sir," the lieutenant assured him.

Later that evening, Epps found Lennox flat out on his cot, one up-flung arm covering his face, the other clutching a set of papers.

"Hey Lennox, what's up?" he asked, frowning. For answer, Will simply held the papers out to him. Epps received them, and as he read them, his frown deepened .

"I take it they've got you restricted since you're still here," he said at length. Will nodded, though he did not otherwise move. "Any idea how long?"

"Not too long. There's plenty of evidence," Will replied, gesturing vaguely to the world undone beyond their tent.

"Guess I should be expecting a visit myself, then," Epps sighed, sinking down onto the cot opposite Will's. "I'm surprised they didn't come after the rest of us or the Sector Seven boys."

"That's the beauty of not existing, Epps. You can't charge a ghost," Will replied, somewhat bitterly.

"Tech sergeants aren't exactly ethereal, sir."

"Yeah, but tech sergeants don't dictate tactics."

"Naw, we just follow orders. And we know how well that one goes over, eh?"

Will just grunted. "They'll probably want you guys to testify or something. Avoidance of self-incrimination and all that – not that they don't have my very self-incriminating report," he said after a time. "Matthews – that's our JAG rep – said my honesty and post-op dedication to duty had earned me restriction instead of detention – I've been deemed unlikely to flee."

"He's serious about this?" Epps demanded, brow furrowing. He pointed in the direction of Fort Street. "Has he seen the dead helicopter?"

Not with blues that clean, he hasn't, Will thought, uncharitably. Aloud, he said only: "Section one, Article forty-nine, Epps. Doesn't make a difference. '"Attacks",'" he recited tiredly, having long-since memorized the passage, "'means acts of violence against the adversary, whether in offence or in defence.'"

"Well, yeah," Epps admitted, for he, too, knew the Conventions. No one who risked being downed in enemy territory could afford not to, after all, and combat controllers, moreso even than an Army Ranger special ops team, were at risk of such. It went with the job description. Nevertheless, he protested: "But c'mon, man – alien robots!"

"Article fifty-one," Will continued, as if Epps hadn't said a word. "'The presence or movements of the civilian population or individual civilians shall not be used to render certain points or areas immune from military operations, in particular in attempts to shield military objectives from attacks or to shield, favour or impede military operations. '" He sighed. "I suppose I could always say I didn't realize what would happen."

"Don't think they'd buy it, sir."

"Probably not." Will let his arm fall, and stared up at the ceiling of the tent; "Plus, if I'm gonna get drummed out of the service, I'd rather deserve it."

The two men fell silent for a time, Epps sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together and head bowed over them, Will staring into space, arms dangling limp over the edges of the cot. At length, he closed his eyes, and with the darkness came the images of his dreams – nightmares in metal and gunfire, and God, how was he going to keep this from Sarah? She'd been there through all his nightmares after every mission, endured his night-time babbling and thrashing. She knew the habits of his unconscious mind, which never exaggerated, just subjected him time and again to the worst of his battles. Robots didn't belong in those dreams, so far as the world knew, but he couldn't imagine spending the next year on the couch downstairs just for the sake of service secrecy...

Beside him, Epps sighed, a baffled sound. "What else could we have done?" he asked, genuinely at a loss. Will snorted, lips twitching.

"Funny," he replied, softly, "I've been asking myself that since the shooting stopped."

"Like we'd've done any good heading for open desert – fish in a barrel don't begin to cover that," Epps continued. "Shit, man, would've been Death Race 2000! 'Cept for there being no out at the end."

"They'll say we should've stayed at Hoover Dam."

That got him a sarcastic guffaw. "Yeah, 'cause we would've lasted three seconds in there with Megatron blocking the exit. We'd be up to our asses by now in... phones, cars, walking power towers."

Pure truth, that. Will grimaced, then opened his eyes. Swinging his legs over the cot's edge, he rose, cracking his back with a wince. He ran a hand back over his hair, then down over the back of his neck, massaging stiff muscles as he wandered to the tent flap, lifting it to reveal evening sunlight streaming orangely over an apocalyptic field.

"Back at the dam, I didn't think twice," he said at length. "It just made sense – tactical sense. Urban setting like this – best combination of maneuverability for us and constraint for them. Limited aerial approaches. Some cover from fire. Easy to find for our guys. Pick up some radios, get some support that could cover getting that cube out, maybe screw with their sensors... blend in a little. Best odds we were going to get."

"Captain... Will," Epps spoke seriously from the depths of the tent, "we had to keep the cube – ain't nothing to argue the tactics."

"Nothing but the five hundred thousand civilians covering a military objective," Will sighed, lowering his eyes to the ground. "Article fifty-one." A chuckle, razor-sharp with incredulity, escaped him. "Never thought I'd be violating it on home soil!"

"What violation?" Epps protested, to the sound of papers flapping as he waved his arms. "It's not like you were holdin' a gun to somebody's head, sayin', 'Put up or the girl gets it.' This wasn't using human shields."

"No," sighed Will, grimly, "we were pretty much counting on the civvie population being useless as shields."

"Like anybody'd be any less dead if the 'Cons had gotten that cube back!"

"Tell it to the judge, Epps," Will replied, humorlessly. "Matthews'll get you a form." There was a little pause, then:

"It's a formality, Will – gotta be," Epps insisted, firmly. "Look, man, if they toss you for Article fifty-one, it's over for all of us. What're we gonna do when these guys show up next time?"

What indeed? Will had spent some time on that question, at least, and could only come up with one answer:

"We'll start redesigning bases – start installing Patriots, whether they work or not. Build up fire breaks, beef up anti-aircraft gun mounts – no more barbed wire and machine guns to keep visitors out. And then," he said, pausing a moment, as imagination conjured up the images, "then they'll turn to the nuclear plants, the ports and the airports, the refineries, pipelines, and the perimeters of the cities and set up check-points. Tank stations, artillery mounts, air raid shelters, choke points, EW stations, convoy stations for interstate travel. National Guard will boost its rotations in-city, the cops'll start training with them... there'll be a draft..." He shook his head tiredly as he turned once more from the ruined cityscape. "They'll probably rip the metal detectors out of schools – and start hiring armed security."

His tech sergeant was staring at him, his expression hovering between appalled and confused. Will shrugged fatalistically. "Survivability, man. You know I'm right – next time will take care of itself."

"Captain..."

With a sigh, Will waved a hand. "Forget it," he said, dismissing it all. "It's nothing, I'm just... I hate dealing with lawyers!"

Which pronouncement managed to break the tension, at least. Epps managed a laugh, and his shoulders sagged a bit. "Ain't nobody loves the JAG!"

Will sank back down onto the cot, leaning one elbow on his knee as he rubbed at his face, then once again ran his fingers back through his hair. It was getting long – he really ought to cut it, get it buzzed back down to active duty military grade again.

But perhaps he would leave it for now – no point in bothering, when he didn't know where he'd be in three months. And if he was on the beach, permanently... well, Sarah had always complained that shearing should be done only to sheep.

"You ever think about getting out of this gig?" he asked Epps abruptly.

Epps didn't answer immediately, folding his arms across his chest as he considered the idea. "Be nice to be home, see Jackie and Jameesha more," he admitted at length. "But this is what I do." He spread his hands slightly. "And if you're right about what's coming – it's survivability, like you said."

"For you or for them?" Epps just looked at him at that, and Will, after a moment, grunted softly, nodded. "Me, too," he replied to that unspoken response. But: "You know, next time could be Tranquility."

The tech sergeant grimaced as though his face would fall in. "Yeah, I know."

"Home sweet home – and your girls could be in the middle of it. Think you could still say 'yes' to a Mission City?" Will pressed him.

But Epps just scrubbed at his face, shook his head. "Hell, I don't know," he replied, in a low voice. A beat, then: "Could you?"

Will spread his hands helplessly.

"Huh."

"Yeah."

With that, they lapsed once more into glum silence. Finally, though, Will rose and plucked his court martial papers from Epps' grip. "You're probably right," he said, as he stuffed them into his backpack. "It probably is a formality – can't not do it. Anyhow, it'll turn out how it turns out – meantime, the AEC wants us digging holes tomorrow. So come on: chow time, such as it is."

Epps stood, shaking his head. "At least we got options other than MREs," he said. Even without much in the way of reliable power, a blasted urban center still had many more interesting and palatable meal options than a field unit's standard pre-packaged fare.

"Thank God for small favors."

"Wouldn't say no to some bigger ones, though."

"Don't tempt the Big Guy," Will replied, smiling faintly. "And Epps," he cautioned, drawing the sergeant to a halt just before the tent's entrance, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything to the rest of – "

Epps raised a hand, stopping him. "Trust me, Captain, if there's one thing I don't want to talk about, it's lawyers. Might get me a rash or somethin'."

Will chuckled, grateful, and not for the first time, that different services canceled to a degree the obligations to silence between different ranks. He gave the other a clap on the shoulder in thanks, then the two of them left to join the rest of the squad for dinner.

Overhead, unnoticed by the two men, and barely visible in the darkening distance, contrails billowed as a jet lit straight for the stratosphere, crying its message to the stars. What it said, no one on Earth could possibly have known, given the encryption, but it wouldn't have mattered: the warrant to prophetic fears, it could be nothing other than a promise:

Next time, we shall have our revenge...

Author's notes: Earth to Michael Bay, you have the military cooperating with your cinematic enterprise. How about hiring a strategist and a tactician next time to take care of that side of the plot?

Geneva 1977 additional protocol I

"Part IV. Section 1, Chapter 2, Article 51, 7: The presence or movements of the civilian population or individual civilians shall not be used to render certain points or areas immune from military operations, in particular in attempts to shield military objectives from attacks or to shield, favour or impede military operations. The Parties to the conflict shall not direct the movement of the civilian population or individual civilians in order to attempt to shield military objectives from attacks or to shield military operations."

"Part IV, Section1, Article 49, 1: Definition of attacks and scope of application 1. "Attacks" means acts of violence against the adversary, whether in offence or in defence."

http:// www dot icrc dot org slash ihl dot nsf slash FULL slash 470?OpenDocument

The UCMJ specifies that a soldier can be charged for failing to uphold the laws of war – this is a court-martial offense.

Even if Lennox didn't intend to use the human population of Mission City as cover, my guess is bureaucracy would have its day in court given the massive destruction of a civilian center that resulted from his choice of tactics.