He's online.

Hound knows this because he's aware of an excruciating pain in his chest and CPU; because the smell of charred earth and Cybertronian chassis fluids fill his chemical tracers, his audials are pounded with whip-sharp flurries of gunfire, his comm system is aflame with frantically-parsed data, the ground beneath him is quaking like thunder, and his other dozen sensors are feeding him the unmistakable tells of battle.

The captain's optic feeds are still static, but he doesn't need them to know that Ratchet and Trailbreaker are with him, and that Astrid isn't. Panic rises and he trains his sensors to the ground underneath him. Nothing's there but dirt and a little vomit.

"Wh... where is she?" are the first words out of his mouth. The servos responsible for the motor function of his vocalizer burn and he slurs the question as his optics heave themselves back online. In spite of this, his desperation is palpable and cuts through the air like raw shrapnel.

"Got the hell out of Dodge, captain," the medic cuts in, getting to his feet and replacing his surgeon's tools with a rifle.

Hound wants to go to her. Ferry her to safety and get her out in one piece. He wants to lay her down on a soft bed and stand guard while she sleeps for days. He wants to...

He wants to take her camping, have her use him as a tent so she can snuggle up in her sleeping bag in his back cargo area and he can feel her soft breath on his insides. He wants to go to Moab with her for one of the big Jeep Jamboree events so he can blow everyone else out of the water and have her take all the credit for the green magic mystery vehicle stuffed full of custom "aftermarket" parts. He wants to commission Wheeljack to overhaul his hardlight system so that the can hike the PCT with her like a human - all 4,200 kilometers of it, and all in one go. He wants to road trip with her from Death Valley to Alert, Nunavut. He wants to...

I do love her, don't I?

The green mech doesn't have time to wonder what this means, because Ratchet's firing at someone coming up behind him.

"Hound, buddy, we need ya about now!" Teebs shouts over the din as he and Ratchet wrestle with the much larger 'Con. It's Hook.

For a split second, he wants to sweep the area to see where she is, if she's safe. But he has to trust that she is, because if he doesn't get to his feet right now, there's a good chance she won't make it out of here if she is.

And just like that, something clicks. The pain in his joints, the aching in the holes blown through his armor from the barrages of MANPADs: gone. His sensors recalibrate in a fraction of a second, and he's able to focus on the detail of every sound, every vibration, every piece of flying metal or clod of dirt.

Hound has his wits about him.

And that's bad news if you're a Decepticon.

He plucks a piece of data from the invisible swarm of Cybertronian code flying through the air that tells him how many 'Cons are in the vicinity and who they are: Constructicons, Seekers sans Starscream, triplechangers, and a few other miscellaneous others. They're outnumbered and out-muscled. But there's no time for Hound the Autobot captain to strategize - the skirmish is already well underway, and just as skirmishes go, it'll be fast and violent. This isn't the lethargic exchange of fire between two units who would like nothing more than to throw their guns to the ground and crack open the energon. This is the sort of thing that seals fates. Stakes are high here, and it's going to be all or nothing. Unfortunately, that's going to mean there are precious few ways to end this for the Decepticons: either they surrender, escape, or die trying. Of course, take too long here – Hound knows their timeframe to be less than an hour – they can expect to all be greeted by a B61 jacketed in stars and stripes.

He's been in these kinds of conditions, though, and without consciously thinking, he jumps to his feet, bright white rifle suddenly in his hand, and gives Hook a swift kick that sends him to the ground, prone.

"Trailbreaker!" he barks, and the black mech knows what to do. Ratchet helps him: quickly, they have the Constructicon restrained in a crushing embrace, and a few moments later, the giant green mech gives a strangled cry before spasming and falling limp. It's an old, ugly trick of theirs: isolating the spark chamber via Tailbreaker's forcefield until the spark fluid is choked off. It's not lethal, but it's a quick, devastating way to incapacitate a soldier if you can get close enough. They drop him like lead and regroup.

With his "mind's eye" he's constructed a map of the situation. Mirage at his 7 o'clock; Jazz, Skyfire, Ironhide, Bee to his 4; Prowl to his -

"Good to have you back, captain," the black and white calls in that flat voice of his.

Hound looks off to his 2 o'clock, exchanging a wordless breeze of their real native Cybertronian tongue: part body-language, part electronic pheromone, it's barely a blip on either of their radars but their camaraderie is suddenly reaffirmed.

You've got until 1150 to wrap this up, Prime suddenly broadcasts through their heads. May Primus be with you all!

Hound's chronometer reads 1108, local Earth time.

Hound! Do your thing! Jazz bellows over their shared comm, struggling through a heavily dented helm. Spark fluid is dribbling down the back of his neck from underneath the black plating.

"Can do!"

He flexes not muscles, but electronic infrastructure in his head and body, and suddenly the killing field is strewn with copies of himself. With so many clones, he nearly loses consciousness, spreading himself so thin. But there's a jerk in his side and Ratchet's to the rescue: he's plugged a thick cable from his shoulder to a port underneath one of Hound's tires, and he's flooded with both spare energy and cogency.

What the -!

Did he just teleport?

Autobots don't have teleporters!

Who cares, get 'em!

The Decepticons are so startled that their own comm chatter leaks out into the open for a few exchanges. It buys the 'Bots a precious half-second, though. And it's almost just enough.

They've been driving for twenty minutes now, heading north on the 95 freeway with no signs of stopping.

"This is kidnapping," she says.

"Maybe."

"No, this is kidnapping."

Her captor has barely spoken this entire time, leaving Lori – Melinda is her real name – with nothing but the low, muffled growl of a powerful engine and the whining of her dog to listen to. She has no idea what's going on.

"What happened to those questions you were gonna ask me?"

The Mustang's RPMs jump, pressing her back into her seat a little.

She wonders if she should maybe keep her mouth shut.

"Plans have changed," that inhuman voice says in a way that sends the hairs on her neck standing on end. There's an urgency there that wasn't before.

The woman scowls, gathering her dog up in her arms and holding him close. "What the hell does that mean?"

The car is silent.

"I'm going to call my lawyer if you don't -"

"You won't get a signal here."

She quickly checks her phone: the car is right. No bars.

"Son of a-!" she yells, kicking the glove compartment futilely. "Where are you taking me!"

There's a pregnant pause. "Portland."

"Oregon?!"

"Portland, Oregon."

"Like hell you are!"

Melinda starts smashing buttons on the dashboard, the door, tries the handle. When nothing yields, she starts pounding on the window with her fist, trying to wave and yell at the cars that pass by.

The Mustang roars and pulls off the highway with screeching tires, and down a short dirt road to a long abandoned gas station. The door opens as the car turns, sending her tumbling out into the cracked concrete pad, into the dust, dog clutched to her chest. What she sees next is something she's been waiting the past damn fifteen years to see with her own eyes, something that steals the breath from her lungs and sends her scrambling for something solid against her spine.

The Mustang turns. Like how those shabby romance novels describe werewolves turning. Things become other things. There's suddenly limbs where there were none before; a torso; feet; fists. Before she knows it, there's a face glowering above her: harsh blue lights framed by silver white, bent into a grimace of its own.

"We've just been attacked, and I'm to keep you safe, understand?" said the machine from its strange mouth. Anger and frustration rake its voice. "Even though I don't think you deserve it, that's not my call to make."

Melinda quivers against the crumbling wall of the gas station. She must be quite the sight, clutching her dog and staring at the giant, metal thing now looming, hunched, above her. Her teeth chatter, and not because it's cold.

"Y-y-you..."

"I am Chromia," the robot hisses, its hands balling into fists. "And for the next twenty hours, you are my Primus-slaggin' charge until I can get you to headquarters."

Melinda stares, dumbfounded, up at the blue and white giant. She has nothing to say; none of this makes sense in the way she's used to things making sense. Not even the sort of sense she's used to constructing out of the stuff of conspiracy theories. So long chasing these things, and suddenly one's looking her in the face.

The Chromia snarls, rolls its head, and collapses back down to the ground; landing, as it were, in the shape of a blue and white Mustang. The engine roars, and the door flies open impatiently. "Now get in. There'll be a manhunt for you soon enough."

Melinda obeys.

Several mechs, familiar with Hound's abilities, take the opportunity his softlight clones have given them to gain ground. Skyfire bounds over to Blitzwing, and gives the ten-meter mech a rough stomp mid-transformation. He cries out in sheer agony – transformation is a Cybertronian's most vulnerable moment on a battlefield. Blitzwing's a tangled mess by the time the great white bomber presses the end of his weapon to that splayed chest. He won't deliver a killing blow – its not in Skykfire's nature – but one of their worst opponents has been incapacitated.

"Ironhide, behind you!"

Skywarp has suddenly appeared on the scene: a huge, menacing black figure with wild optics and a murderous grin on his treacherous face. Mid-air, he blasts Ironhide in the head with the thrusters in his feet, and the old veteran grunts in pain, being thrown back by the force. Hound has one of his clones rush him – startling him for long enough to get the Seeker to fire on the massless facsimile before Jazz dives for his knee-joints, knocking him to the hard ground.

Cliffjumper is going at it with Drag Strip and Dead End – the small red fighter overcomes the latter with a sort of practiced ferocity that's always made Hound a little uneasy, but gets the job done every time. Shimmering silver fluid geysers from Dead End's inner thigh – another lethally important spark main is located there – and he slumps. Cliffjumper uses his fallen enemy to launch himself at the remaining foe, but Drag Strip feints and catches the Autobot by the leg. Using his own momentum, he smashes Cliffjumper against the pointed edge of a bulldozer's bucket, and a dull crack fills the air.

Hound's losing power fast. Every second he continues to generate clones, is one more second of quickly diminishing returns, and he decides to pull them.

Someone – he doesn't have time to remember them – shoots him in the shoulder, popping a tire and sending him to his knees in pain. He whips around, still in at a disadvantaged position, but Trailbreaker tackles the 'Con with a grunt and shoots him a few times in the chest. But not without sustaining a few injuries himself: Hound looks on in anger when the black mech recoils with a slagged hand. Ratchet finishes their enemy with a few shots to the head.

It's over, Thundercracker grinds out over a small comm shared between him and Soundwave alone. They've taken to hiding on a low ridge about a half-klik away, dwarfed by the thick cover of trees. Soundwave has kept in a kneel for the past fifteen minutes, watching, waiting… and fingering a pair of small metal cylinders.

The multiple doesn't respond, doesn't move. A faint cloud of heat rises from his aft vents like fog, then disappears.

Where are your symbiotes? the blue Seeker asks. He wants a response. Any response. He waits for a long moment.

"Are you listening to me?" Thundercracker growls aloud in their tongue, catching a glint from the panoptics behind that deep orange visor.

We still have the upper hand, the Decepticon General drones. Primus, Thundercracker hates that voice – it sounds like the Void.

"You're not seriously considering using that slag, are you?"

Silence.

"It'll kill us all."

This is it, though. The end of the line, whether they like it or not. Everything they've been, everything they've done on this ugly planet, has brought them to this moment. So Thundercracker takes his place at Soundwave's side, and returns his gaze to the battle below, and waits. Who knows – maybe Megatron's right hand is right.

"We can't keep going like this!" Hound exclaims over the chaos. There's horror in his voice as he remembers that this is Earth, not Cybertron. And that this is harder than he remembers.

"We can't," Ratchet reaffirms haggardly. "And we won't. Look!"

Hound knows where to look because he sensed their gathering to his now 4 c'clock: a group of humans: marines with MANPADs. They've come out of hiding and have gathered their courage.

Suddenly the sharp bang and hiss of ordnance fills the air and two more 'Cons are hit hard enough to knock them off-balance, giving their combatants the upper hand. They go down in short order, but not before Ironhide and Bumblebee are injured too.

The MANPADs fill the air with more smoke, more noise, more red light. One of the 'Cons gets his bearings and opens fire on the humans, mowing three marines down with his grossly oversized ammunition. Their chests explode like they'd been hit by an anti-tank cannon. Hound can't look. He wants them to make a run for it, but he knows all too well what a soldier's loyalty is capable of inspiring.

Behind him, someone's taken up the turret gun on a blasted out Humvee and is firing away at whatever looks like an enemy. It's not a good use of precious ammunition, but Hound realizes that the point of this isn't to deliver killing blows, but to distract. And Hound knows all about the art of distraction. A little resolve spurts into his proverbial engine cylinders and ignites.

His sensors tell him that it's only Trailbreaker, Ratchet, Jazz, Prowl, Skyfire and him that are left standing now; Jazz just barely, and Trailbreaker, having used up most of his forcefield, is only one more blow away from being a sitting duck. Mirage is MIA, but that's not exactly unusual for the special agent. Hound wishes he could pinpoint him.

Suggestions?! Jazz bellows out over their channel.

Ratchet's trying to get a look at Trailbreaker's mangled hand while Hound stands over them, rifle drawn. He lifts it to his busted shoulder and squeezes the trigger when a Decepticon gets too close. There's little recoil with this weapon, but it still hurts.

There's a few stilted comms, but nothing good.

Hound the captain is thinking about cover – brawling in the open like this is the worst position to be in, hands down. No amount of strategy will win you in a situation like this; just pure speed and brute strength. But there's no cover here that will withstand so much as a blast from Thundercracker's afterburners though. Nothing here except for…

The tunnel! Hound broadcasts suddenly. Everybody to the tunnel!

They'll think he's crazy, and under any other circumstance, he'd say it was a deathwish. But this isn't just any other circumstance. He remembers what Soundwave told him, when that bastard was still in his head. There's a chance they could at least use the bottleneck of earth to their advantage.

Everyone who can still use their legs does, and they rush over to the low hill where, not half an hour ago, Hound was busy ripping out the excavation equipment against his will. The Decepticons are left wondering what in the pit is going on, but they give chase anyways; some of them think the Autobots are retreating, and act accordingly. Hound's hit in the leg, twice, and the pain shoots up into his spark chamber. He keeps running.

I'll slow them down, Skyfire broadcasts. He's too big to fit inside the tunnel.

Like frag you will! Jazz snaps. And that's an order!

Prowl cuts in just as they slide, one by one, down the rocky orifice, whipping around to cover themselves. Transform and get out while you still can, Specialist.

But sir, I -!

Now!

Skyfire takes a few hits from the advancing Decepticons, before transforming and taking off just as Skywarp appears beside him with a flash, fist just a split-second too late to land its blow.

"Trailbreaker!" Jazz barks. The black mech, still favoring his hand, gets into position at the mouth of the tunnel, and with gritted denta, a wall of pink cuts them off from the oncoming fire. Ratchet hunkers down next to him and pulls the same trick as he did with Hound. Trailbreaker breathes a little easier now, knowing that he won't run out of juice so fast.

The captain assumes a position along the left side of the tunnel and levels his rifle at the 'Cons, firing at will. The others do the same. Suddenly, Hound's aware of heat and sound coming from behind the Decepticons, and it looks like they are too. They stumble forward, as though hit, and through the smoke and snow Hound can make out two more groups of marines, with four more MANPADs between them. Boom. Boom. Boom.

A Decepticon succumbs to his injuries, his face twisted in an expression of pain – but not just physical pain. The dirt trembles when he hits the ground. The silver spattered down his side glistens in the bright flashes of gunfire.

Thundercracker's fists clench as the fight disappears behind the formation under which lies the Nemesis. The Seeker's sensors aren't as good as Soundwave's, but it's obvious enough that the Autobots have retreated back into the excavated hillside. What they plan on doing from that position worries him tremendously: there's no way out, and there's no telling what they might try to do in their desperation. Or perhaps it was part of some premeditated strategy.

"You should not have told him," Thundercracker mutters balefully, growing impatient and worried. "They all know what we're after now."

There are just five remaining, Soundwave intones.

"And only two Decepticons."

Soundwave chuckles – barely – and the sound almost makes the big jet's spark cease spinning. He's never heard him do that before. "You have either forgotten how to count, Lieutenant, or you are already planning your defection."

Thundercracker bristles and scowls, trying to hide his building anger and unease.

He senses a presence nearing – two, actually – and it's a welcome distraction. But when he turns, his scowl only deepens. It's Ravage and Laserbeak. The two of them, small as they are, are competent soldiers, but they are the oldest and most complete of Soundwave's symbiotes, and have therefore long lost the ability to speak to anyone but their master.

The three of them are still, and seemingly silent for a few brief moments before the pair disappear into the trees again, heading in separate directions.

I have instructed them to eliminate all humans from the area, Soundwave announces. For they pester our comrades.

Thundercracker is half of the mind to shoot Soundwave in the spark right now; but he's also of the mind to just transform and get out of here. This isn't how he wants to die.

Soundwave, the slagger, is somehow able to read this in his subordinate's EM field. Betray Lord Megaton now, Seeker, and it will be the last thing you ever do.

That cold, panoptic visor is suddenly in his face, sensors boring into his very spark chamber. Thundercracker's air cycling hitches and he takes a step backward. The Multiple's field flares dangerously, and it feels like hi mains are icing up – and not the pleasant kind he gets from flying at altitude. Soundwave is an impenetrable wall.

Thundercracker steals a sensor glance down at the battle again, and notices that a single full-sized Decepticon is left standing: Skywarp. He's phasing in and out as quickly as he can to avoid fire, all while trying to return it. Thundercracker's mouth twists into a harsh grimace as he watches his wingmech suffer the full brunt of at least three Autobot guns. He looks away.

"Glory to Megatron," he recites bitterly. "May he lead us forever."

Jazz had taken a nasty hit to the arm and can no longer hold, let alone aim, a weapon, and Trailbreaker and Ratchet are all but spent. Hound and Prowl comprise the remaining offensive as the others retreat a little ways into the tunnel.

Whoever's got arms left needs to – unh! – needs to start digging back there! See if you can't get into the ship and activate some kind of self-destruct sequence or something!

By my estimate, Prowl grimly cuts in, We have exactly 28.419 minutes to finish this, or else, as Hound says, it will be finished for us.

And for the whole of Denali and everyone in it. Hound chokes back a surge of despair as he shrinks back into his shallow alcove to take a moment.

No one's getting nuked, Jazz snaps. And that's a promise! Now tell me where the frag to start digging, Hound!

Coordinates incoming..!

"Come out, little Autobots!" Skywarp's voice echoes down the tunnel like a nightmare. Prowl is in the alcove opposite the Captain, replacing the fuel cell on his weapon; he doesn't so much as pause at the manic threat. "Or I'll blow your house down!" The black Seeker suddenly starts firing not on them, but the roof of the tunnel above their heads. Rock goes flying, and Hound shields his head with a painful arm as a deep, thundering rumble shakes the entire hillside.

"He's trying to cave us in!" Trailbreaker calls from further down.

Hound whips his rifle out again, taking something resembling point, but it's just in time to see Skywarp transform and blast out of view, shooting at the tunnel from a much safer distance.

"Dammit!"

"He'll cut us down if anyone so much as pokes their head out."

"We're trapped!"

Hound wracks his CPU for a solution, for some way the hardlight might help, but not a minute later before his sensors detect something. Before anyone knows it, Skywarp hits the ground about a hundred meters from the tunnel entrance, with Skyfire on top of him.

"Holy -!"

He and Prowl watch as the great white mech pummels the living daylights out of the Decepticon, who is so struggling to keep the fists out of his face that he doesn't even attempt to teleport. Before long, Skyfire has the mech in a compromising hold, and silver is dribbling down the Seeker's black backside. It looks to Hound like he can't teleport now, even if he thought to.

I apologize for disobeying orders, now someone help me! Skyfire calls out to them over the comm, and Prowl doesn't miss a beat. He transforms in a single fluid motion, quickly covering the distance between them, and leaps back onto his feet just in time to deliver a precisely-aimed incapacitating blow. Skywarp jerks and falls limp.

Thundercracker is still at large, Prowl warns, scanning the skies from where he stands beside the fallen jet.

He wouldn't try anything by himself, Jazz says. He's not a hero by anyone's standards.

We need to get everyone out of here before the Bureau shows up with bombers, Ratchet interrupts, panic lacing the edges of his voice. Hound senses him limp out of the tunnel and head for the nearest injured: Bumblebee.

Forget about us, Ironhide practically gasps. Git yourselves outta here!

Cliffjumper and Bee are silent. Hound worries for them.

What about the ship? We just leave it here? Trailbreaker cuts in.

We get out, Prowl says. The site is going to be sanitized regardless. We need to get back to headquarters and negotiate later. And everyone is coming; today is not the day for heroics.

Hound's foreprocessors are swimming, and he doesn't even know that he's stood up and has begun to jog out of the tunnel. The comm chatter of the Autobots fades, and all he can hear, strangely enough, is a kind of ringing. Once outside, he stops and looks up at the dark clouds overhead.

"It's stopped snowing," he murmurs to himself.

He glances around, noticing the trees dusted with white, and the wall of mountains to the east of them. They, too, are white; always are. Around them lay the shredded remains of a work camp. Strewn about are the unconscious and, maybe, the dead; he counts the bodies of eight marines in the icy dirt. He remembers their names; he doesn't want to.

There's movement behind him, and Hound turns. Four more marines warily step out from behind a few earth-movers; three of them are still holding onto their MANPADs, and the fourth is spattered with silver. He's tried wiping it from his exposed skin, but it's still resulted in what looks like a painful chemical burn. This is the one that points to the ground, jerking his head in Hound's direction.

The Jeep bounds over, and what he sees behind the bulldozer startles him: it's Ravage, full of holes, and bled out on the ground. Hound senses no spark activity.

He's about to open his mouth to speak when something small and warm touches his leg. It trembles faintly, and the pulse he feels in the fingertips is running quick, but those fingers, those whorls and waves on their tips he knows anywhere. He turns and looks down to see Astrid. She's holding a MANPAD, its long, thin body awkward in her arms.

Hound's taken a knee faster than he could say her name, and he's reaching out to grab her, bring her close, when he stops. Something doesn't feel right.

"I'll tell you later, big guy," she says, and he's surprised he can hear her through that ringing silence in his audials. There's a tremor and a hoarseness in her voice; a tone that worries him beyond all sane reasoning. "Is it over?"

He shakes his head, and it pains him like nothing else to do so. The Autobot looks down at the humans beside him, and is overcome with something.

Jazz, we gotta get them out of here. He muscles back into the comm with desperation in his data signature, not knowing what else has been said over the past few moments.

"I'll take them," Skyfire offers aloud, stepping away from Skywarp as he gets his bearings.

"Hound, what's going on? Take us where?"

The green giant turns again to look the human in the eye. "Take you away from here."

"What do you mean?" She lets the MANPAD fall to the ground – it's a heavy piece of weaponry, all things considered, and he senses she'd rather not pick one up ever again. "Away? Like hell am I -"

He interrupts her with his spark burning because he doesn't want to hear her usual protestations. "Where's Doley?" That's what comes out, though: he won't have the courage to tell her about the bomb until she presses him.

There's a pregnant pause, and she's suddenly got her first thousand-mile stare. "He's… he's dead."

Hound sways at the news, quite unsure of how to feel, but one thing's for certain: without Agent Doley to call anything in, the air base will be sending a care package.

"Are any of the other Bureau agents alive?" he asks the gathered marines.

"Not that we know of, sir."

"He wouldn't have called it in even if he were still kicking," Hound mutters, looking up at the gray sky with a distant fatalism. "This all is too much for the Bureau to handle."

"What are you talking about?" she presses.

He looks down at her – at them – and suddenly there's a trembling in his servos and his spark burns small and hot. "There's… there's no way around it. They're going to..." Hound can't say the word. He can't. No, he has to! He slumps and holds the sides of his head with his thick, black hands."We have twenty minutes before they drop a thermonuclear weapon on this very spot."

The marines start; this is news to them. They murmur to each other, gasp, stagger and grope for something to hold onto. But there's a trained resolution there that keeps them standing. His human doesn't have that to fall back on, though, and Astrid's face is like a knife through his spark. The color drains from her cheeks, and she reaches out to brace herself against the side of the bulldozer. Hound gathers her up into his arms and holds her close. Shields her head from the outside world. She trembles and is shook by a single, loud, sob.

"Hound…!"

He presses his hard cheek to her hair. "We're all going now."

"Hound," she continues, her voice struggling to be more than a hoarse whisper. "They can't do this. It'll kill… it'll kill everything..."

He has no words of comfort for her. He simply turns from the marines and the fallen Ravage and heads towards the others.

Holy Primus, Jazz sends them all. He's still, according to Hound's sensors, down in the tunnel, and digging with his busted arms. You all should see this. It's… it's the Nemesis, alright.

I'd rather not look at that eyesore, Trailbreaker says.

Jazz floods the channel with the equivalent to a grunt. I might be able to get inside.

Jazz, Prowl says. We don't have time for that.

Skyfire transforms out in the open, and quickly opens his hatch. Prowl waves at the bewildered marines, gesturing for them to get inside. After a moment, they throw down their weapons and do as they're told. Hound sets her down so she can at least walk away from this with a little dignity.

"No," Astrid murmurs as she watches them embark up the gangway and disappear into the Autobot's cavernous cargo bay. "No, this isn't right."

More of Hound's Cybertronian "tears" threaten to arc out of his fingers. "Boots, there's nothing we can do!"

"Call the governor! J-jam their launch sequence! Impersonate Doley! Just do something!"

"It doesn't work like that!" he shouts at her. He's immediately ashamed of himself. She looks up at him in shock, suddenly very small and very fragile, before narrowing her eyes into hardened chips of amber.

Astrid turns from him and heads towards Skyfire, with Hound brooding, fearful, in tow. But he stops and turns to Prowl. The barest glimmer of a hope is on his CPU.

"What would it take to offline the air base?"

Prowl's hard gaze turns into a frown as he calculates this. "More time than we have," he concludes grimly.

Hound's face twists up into an ugly scowl. "Thought so."

Something tickles him just outside of sensor-shot right about then, and he stops short of the gangway to train his sensors to the air.

It's not a tickle for long, though.

A pair of aircraft go suddenly screaming overhead. He and Prowl watch as they do a single pass before transforming mid-air and fall to the ground upon two pairs of feet.

Skyfire's quick on the comm: Should I -?

Stay put, Prowl orders.

The massive Cybertronians hit the ground hard, sending the frozen earth shaking underneath them. One of them has taken an Earth mode, while the other still wears the harsh geometry of his native form like an affront to everything this place is. Hound knows exactly who the two of them are, though. And one of them he'd love nothing more than to knock into stasis with his own two fists right about now.

"Why you slagging..."

Hound can't help it. He begins to close the distance between himself and Soundwave, hands tightening, ready to shatter that visor and count just how many eyes are behind it. But before he can even get within arm's reach, the great gray and blue mech produces a pair of objects from subspace and holds them out for all to see. Hound stops, because he knows exactly what they are as well.

"I give you now a choice of deaths, Autobots."

In his hand are two plain, metal containers. The Autobots have in their possession a third one just like them: it's behind a sturdy containment field at headquarters, and its innocuous contents can kill a Cybertronian in less than 24 hours.

Hound can feel every mech in the vicinity stiffen at Soundwave's chilling words, spoken, as they were, in perfect English. Astrid cowers in Skyfire's threshold along with the other marines.

"We're not interested in your games today, Soundwave," Prowl says, low and not a little dangerously. "Now go back to your hole and hide like a good Decepticon."

Soundwave ignores him. "It may be either quick and painless, as from the humans' bomb, or slow and agonizing… as from the Red Hand."

Hound's mouth twists into a snarling grimace. "Thanks, but we've already made plans."

"You really are dense, aren't you?" Thundrecracker growls. "Give us the Nemesis, or we'll uncork these here bottles of joy right now."

"The blast will merely disperse the virus throughout the whole of this planet's atmosphere," Soundwave explains. "Ensuring every single Cybertronian on Earth eventual contamination."

"Some slaggin' choice!" Trailbreaker bellows from where he's staggering out from the mouth of the tunnel.

"You think this is how we wanted things to end?" Thundercracker barks, a deep bitterness on his voice.

Prowl narrows his optics. "But here we are."

Soundwave's visor flashes with distant emotion. "Indeed."

Hound's sensors perk up at another something off in the distance. It's not a plane, or a bomb – it's more like a faint sound that's changed pitch. His hindprocessors have a hunch of what it might be, but it takes Jazz announcing it over an open broadcast to clue him in.

Well I picked option C, the Autobot colonel declares. The Nemesis self-destructs in one breem.

Thundercracker curses in their native tongue – a sharp, jagged harmony of tones that abruptly ends in a choked cluster of clicks – and turns to Soundwave, hate writ on his face. Soundwave, though, turns his panoptic gaze towards Hound, and for one brief moment, the Jeep is able to count 36 optic sensors behind his visor before the ground is suddenly ripped from beneath them both.

"Hound!" he hears Astrid scream from below.

"You," is all the huge Decepticon general says as he lifts them both up into the air with tremendous force. He's three times as big as Hound, and there's murder in his spark. Soundwave's got a vice-grip around Hound's arm, and the captain can only watch in horror as his other hand drops one of the cannisters and breaks open the remaining one right over his spark chamber.

It almost happens in slow motion as the metal can buckles open, and the black dust inside sprays like a fine, shimmering mist, clings to their armor and covers them both.

Hound looks down on himself: his open wounds will make it that much easier for the virus to spread throughout his system. He doesn't have long, now.

Which is why he takes the opportunity to wind up his favored arm and deliver a tight-fisted punch to that panoptic face so hard that his visor shatters and faceplate left with a dent in the shape of four fingers. Soundwave reels, but makes no sound, and with a growl Hound gives him a swift kick with both legs and wrenches himself free from that tyrannical grip.

The green mech is falling, now. Soundwave is quickly lost to the thick, gray clouds, and Hound can see nothing but that gray all around him. He falls, and he offlines his optics for the moment, thinking about how ironic it is that Astrid would be the one attending his funeral.

So this is what dying feels like.

He doesn't hit the ground, though. Something rushes up to meet him, and with a crash, he finds himself landed in a pair of awkward arms. He "opens" his eyes again and is greeted by red.

Thundercracker says nothing; just quickly lowers him to the ground and leaves him beside Skyfire before transforming and roaring off into the dense cloud cover. Astrid's suddenly at his side, and so is Prowl, Trailbreaker, and Jazz.

"What happened!" Astrid cries, nervously touching him for lack of anything else she might do. Hound sits up on the ground and cups her face in his big, black hand. A tiny little arc escapes his finger and tickles her cheek.

"Soundwave got what he always wanted," he quietly begins. "Revenge."

With that he weakly gestures to himself. There would be no use in attempting a quarantine now – that mushroom cloud would make the dispersion total. But when he looks down, following the other Autobots' gaze, the dust is no longer black – it's changing, slowly, but still apparent to the naked optic, to a dull, minty green.

"What the…?"

"Is it… oxidizing?" Jazz murmurs.

Ratchet, still alive, staggers over to the group, and covers his mouth at what he sees. "By Primus..."

Hound is about to do a sensor sweep, but Skyfire beats him to it. "No," the Cybertronian jet says, astonishment on his voice. "It's chemically reacting with the water vapor in the air. It..." He pauses, performing, it seems, his own analysis. "It's being… neutralized."

Everyone falls silent to contemplate this, but they're shaken from their thoughts by the sound of a jet engine once again, followed by blasts of heavy fire. Prowl raises his weapon and Trailbreaker readies what dregs of forcefield he has left, but all that greets them is the sight of Soundwave appearing from the clouds, plummeting toward the ground, and landing in a limp heap with a great crash. Following him is Thundercracker, descending more slowly as he looks on his master with anger and weariness on his silver face.

He turns toward the gathered Autobots, hands clenched into fists. "The slagger was ready to kill all of us," he shouts. There's almost a pleading quality to his voice. "Like… like a sparkling having a fraggin' fit."

Again, everyone is still. Hound notices Astrid trembling beside him, looking on with that thousand-mile stare. His hand around her shoulder wakes her from her nightmare, and, making sure to meet her gaze, he sends her to board Skyfire once again. "We need to go."

Jazz nods, cracked visor flashing. "Hound, help us gather up the wounded."

The Jeep stands, and with Prowl, Ratchet, and Traillbreaker, they quickly ferry Cliffjumper, Bumblebee, and Ironhide over to the great white shuttle. Thundercracker just stands beside Soundwave amid the scorched battlefield, glowering at the Decepticon general's body.

"You're coming with us!" Jazz calls to him as they load up.

"He released the Red Hand," he says bitterly. "There's no point. I'd rather die here."

"Your virological doomsday weapon is ineffective on Earth," Jazz explains matter-of-factly. "Water molecules, of all things, kills it."

Thundercracker just stands there, still scowling, and says nothing. "You're lying."

"Well you're not going to find out by staying here and getting vaporized," Ratchet barks at him before disappearing inside the cabin to tend to the others.

The last standing Decepticon lets out a burst of loud and unpleasant EM before transforming and roaring away in jet mode. He was, it appears, heading south.

"Now where the frag is Mirage?" Jazz growls, looking around the place frantically as though that would help.

"Sir?"

The colonel stands in the doorway, not tall and proud but small and unsteady. His eyes are wide and his hand trembles as he holds a single sheet of paper in his hand, and the commander scowls at him even though he knows – he can practically smell it creeping into his office – that there's something he should be afraid of.

"Speak up, Grayson."

The colonel holds up the paper as though he can can even read it from that far away.

"What the hell's the matter? And tell me in plain goddamn English."

The colonel crosses the floor and reaches for the edge of the desk as though without it he might fall over. "S-sir, we… we didn't hear from that black site in Chugach today."

Commander Ellis stops. Freezes, even – doesn't blink, doesn't move, doesn't breathe. His blood runs cold. After a moment he blinks, and lifts his eyes to meet the colonel's gaze. "How long has it been?" he murmurs.

"Half an hour, sir."

Ellis' hand, trembling now too, reaches for a framed photo on his desk of two smiling little girls and their mother, his daughter. He stares at it for a long moment before putting it back face down. He rises from his chair and begins to pace.

"S-sir, aren't we supposed to…?"

"Close the goddamn door before you start talking about this shit," he snaps. Ellis rubs vigorously at his eyes as his subordinate does as he's told.

"Sir, we're supposed to -"

"I know goddamn well what we're supposed to do." He paces faster, clutching the side of his head. "But there's got to be another way. By God there's got to be."

Chugach is a stone's throw away from Anchorage. Drop a nuclear weapon there, and he might as well be dropping it on the city. Dropping it on himself.

"Get some birds in the air," he decides. "I want photos of that site, and I want them on my desk in twenty minutes. If something's happened right under our noses, I want to know what, and I want to know why."

The colonel nods frantically and all but flees the room. "Yes, sir!"

In the meantime, Commander Ellis reaches for the phone and dials the one man he knows who might be able to advise him. Using a secret line and keying in his authorization, a telephone operator's voice greets him on the other end. "Get me General McKinley. I've got a situation up here."

Getting in was easy – he slipped right in, with no one the wiser.

When it became apparent that the battle was not going to go smoothly, Mirage made an executive decision: abandon the fray to tackle something a little bit bigger.

He's infiltrated a large hangar, crawling with human personnel, and housing all manner of glossy and expensive equipment. Mirage doesn't have much time, and though he's invisible to all human technology, all it would take is someone walking into his leg to end this operation.

Hacking into the Elmendorf server network, he pinpoints the location of their biggest and baddest payloads: they're in a reinforced bunker some meters below his feet. Access is provided by just a a single freight elevator, which requires several different kinds of identification checks and passcodes to enter.

Mirage has done work like this before, and it should be even easier to sabotage human tech instead of Cybertronian. First things first, though: he'll need to cut power to the entire base.

"Shouldn't we be contacting the White House for God's sake?" Ellis gawks, forgetting his deference. "With all due respect, sir -"

The general ignores him. "You think the President wants to sign off on this? You think he wants to know about this?"

"Who the hell are we going to blame this on? North Korea? The Russians? Poor handling procedure?" Commander Ellis' voice rises and rises until he's practically shouting into the phone. "Dammit, general, I didn't think I'd actually have to -"

McKinley's words are like cold, hard steel. "No, Ellis, you didn't think. You didn't think you'd have to make the call, and here we are."

Ellis collapses into his chair. "I've scrambled a couple planes for a flyby to see what we're dealing with," he says quietly. "It may just be a mistake. It may all just be a mistake."

"Let's hope so, commander. But until you know for sure, I'd get those tsunami sirens working."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going to get some people on the phone, and I'll call you back in half an hour. But you need to understand, Ellis, that one city is a small price to pay if these robot things have suddenly decided that they don't like us very much anymore. ALCOM has a duty to perform for the people of this country."

"I… I understand, sir."

There's a pause long enough to make Ellis wonder if he's been disconnected, but McKinley's gruff voice is suddenly a little softer on the other end.

"It won't come to nukes, Tom. Elmendorf has bunkers full of ordnance that can take those things out. We both know that. It won't be pretty, but it'll at least mean there'll be an Anchorage left standing afterward. Now stop talking to me and get the hell out there. Your men need to be battle-ready twenty minutes ago."

Ellis nods to himself and squares his jaw. "Yes, sir."

There's a click as the line is disconnected. Commander Ellis doesn't bother setting the earpiece back into the cradle before dialing up another number: the governor's office, so he can work on getting the city evacuated. In the muffled distance, he can hear the thunderous scream of an F-22 leaving the tarmac, one and then another. He trusts that Grayson had them prepared for potential air-to-ground engagement if things didn't look right down there.

"Governor Bradley speaking. Who's this?" answers a younger voice than McKinley's.

"This is Lieutenant General Tom Ellis of Elmendorf Field. I've been notified of a potential crisis situation, and I need for you to order the evacuation of -"

The lights suddenly go out, and the line is dead. Ellis freezes, taking stock of the situation. Backup power should be engaging any second now…

But it doesn't.

"For fuck's sake," he shouts, slamming the phone back into its receiver, and dashes out the door, navigating a darkened hallway quickly filling with the echoes of distant shouts.

Disabling the backup power first via EMP means that once he finally got around to cutting the main lines feeding the base, it was going to go dark and stay dark.

Mirage wracks his CPU about what to do next – he does not want them accessing that weapons bunker, but how to bar entry without making it look like hostile sabotage? After a few precious moments of thinking and watching the humans run around, trying desperately to get communications back online, he decides that this is enough. Any more is above his paygrade, and beyond his ability to think through – the worst case scenario he can conjure up, quite frankly, terrifies him. So for now, he's done his part: bought them all a little more time.

With that, he slips out as invisibly as he came in. Once back on civilian pavement again, the black ops soldier transforms into a sleek and beastly Maclaren F1 and races back to Chugach at almost 450 kilometers per hour, still cloaked.

I'm just about there, Mirage suddenly broadcasts to the general comm.

Hound almost starts, but Prowl and Jazz are mad as hell as they wait for their missing Autobot as everyone else straps in aboard Skyfire.

Where the frag were you? Jazz all but shouts, trying to keep his cool. But with barely two minutes to go before the Nemesis is blown sky-high, his frustration is twisting into anxiety.

Let's just say that the humans aren't in any shape to launch an assault for a little while. I'll explain later.

Hound can feel his approach now. Even cloaked, the scout's delicate sensor arrays can detect his movement at such high speeds – the air compression in front of him is like a hot spot on infrared.

"Elmendorf is the least of our worries right now!" Jazz barks as the blue and white Autobot quickly transforms nearby and bounds for the shuttle. "C'mon! We've got ninety seconds!"

Mirage doesn't miss a beat – he knows to ask his questions later – and in an instant he's found a spare seat and has strapped himself in, venting hot gusts of air haphazardly. Prowl and Jazz follow suit, and the hatch closes quickly behind them, barely giving anyone even a second before he makes a hair-raising vertical ascent.

Hound's got Astrid clutched tightly to him again, just like before. He can feel her little body shaking with fear, depleted adrenaline, and what surely must be pain. She doesn't look at him, just holds onto one of his big fingers tight enough to whiten her hands.

"I'm detecting two fighter aircraft to the north," Skyfire announces. "It looks like they're making an emergency landing at the airport."

Jazz shoots Mirage a look, suddenly unreadable behind that visor, before his optics settle on the handful of marines in their midst. Two are huddled between Prowl's feet, and two more are bracing themselves against Trailbreaker.

"Take us a klik above Chugach," Prowl says.

A few breaths later: "Altitude reached, sir."

"Pull it up on screen, please."

A display appears at the front of the cabin space: Skyfire's bird's-eye view of the Bureau's excavation site, the merged combination of infrared and radar creating a legible image from through the thick cloud cover. Hound can see the fallen Decepticons, white-hot blobs dotted across the deep black field of frozen earth, cleared of trees. Colder, but no less visible, are the other vehicles, the Humvees, the civilian cars, the excavation equipment. Some of the ground, too, is still radiating heat from explosives in faint patches of blue.

"Don't look," Hound murmurs to Astrid as his clock nears zero. He tries to look away himself, but like her, he can't help it. In silence, every set of eyes and optics is fixed on the display as the view suddenly blossoms into white. Not a sound can they hear through Skyfire's armor plating, but a second later and everyone is rocked by the shockwave that hits them.

"God Almighty," one of the marines whispers.

"There were Decepticons on board the Nemesis," Jazz says suddenly. The tone of his voice commands attention, but not in the usual way. Hounds thinks that he sounds… profoundly sad. "I saw them, tossed around from the crash, all in stasis. If Soundwave had gotten to them, it would have been a holocaust."

"Who?" Ratchet asks, voice grinding and weary.

Jazz looks down at the Autobots before him, clinging to life in stasis. "Sixshot," he mutters. "The Predacons..." There's a pause and Hound can almost feel the 2IC's spark cease spin. "Megatron."

The cabin falls deathly silent again, and Hound's spark almost does the same thing. He looks down to Astrid for something, some kind of comfort; she's still holding onto his finger for dear life, but she doesn't lift her gaze to meet him. Jazz's words haven't registered to her, and why should they? Her eyes, wet with tears, are still fixed on the display before them, now showing a roiling mass of hot smoke billowing out of a hole in the earth.

Once back at AHQ, the marines are quickly escorted to the nearest military installation by Smokescreen, and the rest is almost a blur to Hound.

Of the three critically wounded Autobots, Cliffjumper did not make it. When he tells her the sad news, Astrid is quiet and distant. They sit together in their quarters for the better part of an hour, not saying a word, until a pinging in his comm tells him that it's time for Prime's debriefing. Hound touches her shoulder and tells her that they need to go.

"I wanna sit on the couch in the rec hall," is all she says, her back turned to him. "Come get me later."

With a silent nod, he lifts her gently up to his shoulder and takes her there. When the lift opens and he steps out, the cheery atmosphere of the place is all but gone. No one's behind the counter, and only two other mechs are there, each alone with their thoughts. Hound sets Astrid down on the bench and she slides off him limply.

"Grab me the bottle, please."

He finds the tiny thing under the counter and hands it to her. She takes it from him, and looks at it for a moment before uncorking it and taking a long swig.

Hound stands there, swaying a little. There's a yawning blackness in his spark, and he imagines there's something similar in that tight knot of muscle in her chest too. He wants to say something; do something.

"We could have lost more," he murmurs, looking at his feet.

Astrid just stares at the wall and nods, taking another gulp of poison.

Hound is having a hard time paying attention during the debriefing, and some of the others are too. Even Jazz looks distracted.

"Hound?"

Prime's voice snaps him out of his CPU, and the green mech stands at attention. "Sir?"

"Your account, please?"

"Oh. Uh… of course, sir."

Hound takes his place at the front of the room and tells his story of what happened between his sleeper activation and when the Autobot fireteam showed up, and then resumes his place at the back of the room. It seems so eerily far away already.

Ratchet gives his damage report, and quietly mentions that they need to make funerary arrangements. The room falls silent. They all know that this is the first Autobot they've lost to combat while on Earth.

"Cliffjumper was a good soldier," Prime says softly. "Brave, kind, and loyal. There is not a mech among us who he wouldn't have laid his life down for. And we would have done the same for him." A pause to let the words sink in. "But his sacrifice helped this planet avoid untold catastrophe. And in that, he died a hero. May his spark find Primus, even so far from home."

In grave chorus: "May his spark find Primus."

Prime is about to call Jazz up to give his report, but is interrupted, though, by Silverbolt on the comm. "Ah, s-sir? I know this is a bad time, but… Thundercracker's here, requesting clearance to enter the flight bay."

"Perhaps," Prime thoughtfully rumbles, "Just as we have lost a friend, we have gained another."

Hound can't help but feel stung by those words, but that was the pain of loss, even in war. Maybe Prime was right, though. Maybe Thundercracker could switch sides.

He certainly had nothing to go back to.

Prime continues. "Grant him clearance. Treat him as a guest, not a prisoner – he is a fellow Cybertronian on a strange planet that I'm sure has just gotten all the stranger for him. He needs us now."

"Yes, sir."

He turns his great masked face to the rest of the room, and gives a slight nod. "For now, you're dismissed. We'll resume in 0200 hours."

Hound finds himself in at the shooting range. He doesn't remember walking there; it was like he'd fallen into a dream and woke up in the doorway. He'd been thinking about Megatron, he supposes, and the others - the World Breakers - whom Jazz had made the executive decision to eliminate. He and the others should be elated at the news. Megatron, leader of the Decepticons, finally dead. Imagine that.

But for some reason, this whole thing feels like a defeat rather than a victory.

The culmination of a long, slow, 25-year defeat.

He runs his black fingers along the coppery walls, and observes the quiet as if this were some hallowed house of Primus. He hears the gentle movement of cycled air, and the deep, distant thrum of power systems. His own blocky feet make a harsh shuffling pa-thump as first his tire-heels touch the floor, then the rest of the plated metal skin.

The ritual is old and shopworn to him, which is why his gun is suddenly in his hands and he doesn't remember doing that either. He glances up at the 100-meter target before him, and remembers his hours with Astrid in here.

Astrid…

The gun disappears and he's suddenly lost the strength in his legs. Hound slumps and turns, backside dragging against the counter wall as he covers his face with his hands. The weight of what's happened has all come rushing back into him, and he's not strong enough to bear the weight of it. With his guard down now, he's feeling the pin-prickling caresses of television broadcasts being beamed down all around him.

"- US military experts have not yet said what the cause of the explosion was, though they suspect it may be an attack by -"

"- once power was returned to Elmendorf Air Force Base here in Anchorage, but the base Commander, Lieutenant General Tom Ellis, could not be reached for comment -"

"- officials expect the President's emergency address to announce a heightened state of battle-readiness in the form of a DEFCON level three or perhaps even two -"

"- all flights are currently in the middle of being grounded in response to the mystery explosion, as you can see here at Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport -"

A hundred newscasters in a multitude of languages bombard him.

"What did we do?" he whispers.

He recalls, with photographic clarity, that thousand-mile stare on Astrid's face. He's seen that look before: in Earth movies, in historical footage of human soldiers fighting human wars… in the faces of his own, often young and inexperienced troops.

But something happened to her today. Something broke. He can feel it.

His human has no concept of what blowing up the Nemesis, of what destroying its precious cargo of energon, and killing its high-priority targets on board means. All she knows is that the area around Flattop Mountain just southeast of Anchorage - that pristine, perfect wilderness - is a smoking crater now. And that her future looks much the same.

Hound stands up, and suddenly he's in the doorway of the rec room.

There she is, still sitting on the bench in silence, completely dwarfed by the size of the furniture. Beside her, though, are others now: Skids, Bluestreak, Red Alert, and closest to her is Trailbreaker. No one's looking at each other; no one says a word.

Hound crosses the floor and stands behind her, touches her shoulder. She jumps, like she hadn't even heard him, and meets his gaze for the first time in at least an hour. There are no tears there, no redness; just listlessness and exhaustion.

"He was gonna kill me," she says quietly.

Hound's audials perk up and he stiffens.

"He was gonna kill me, and you. But I killed him first."

Hound's spark slows its spin, burns cold. You what? Hound doesn't even need to be told who she's talking about. Deep in his CPU he knows. His legs threaten to give again.

"Astrid," he begins. "Boots… Prime's gotta… he's gotta know."

A loud bark of a laugh is strangled out of her and she covers her mouth, chest heaving. "Cliffjumper's dead, Doley's dead, Chugach's… Chugach's half-blown to pieces." She pauses to take a swig from the bottle, but nothing's left. "I'm next."

"Boots, you're not gonna..." Hound's vocalizer quakes but he steels himself. "It was in self-defense. And besides… all the evidence is gone now."

Astrid sucks in a breath and raises the bottle like she's going to throw it, but Hound is quick to take it from her. She tries to wrench it free from his grasp, but knows its futile and lets go with a ragged growl. Hound sits the glass down beside Trailbreaker, who takes it without missing a beat, so he can worm his fingers under her arms and lift her to him. He stands like that, pressing her to his uncomfortable chest and covering her with his arms when she finally lets go and begins to cry.

"It's going to be OK," he whispers. "It's going to be OK."