"STICK 'EM UP, THIS IS A ROBBERY!"

The year is 1995. Northern California, exact location unknown. 1:53 a.m., local time. A third-rate gas station called KwikBrake is being held up by a kid, barely seventeen, masked with a white bandanna and flea-market sunglasses but not exactly competent. Outside, a decent flow of traffic reminded the world inside that the world outside was alive.

"Please, son, no one says that anymore," the old man grumbled, barely moving his hands above shoulder-level. "Now just… put that pea-shooter down." With any luck, this kid would actually do just that. If not, no one goes about in the US unarmed anymore.

"And if I don't?"

"Hopefully it doesn't get that far. People can get hurt."

With his free arm, the kid waved around the unoccupied shelves - all one of them, not counting the fridge and thirty-year-old TV on the counter to his left.

"You see anyone in here that can get hurt? I don't think so. You just don't want to get yourself robbed. Well, too bad."

He shoved the empty-looking black revolver another six inches in the clerk's direction, bringing it over the cash register.

Fake register, if any businessman in town had brains left to use clever mechanisms. At least, it would not be the whole register. Now people used coin tunnels and slot drops, contraptions meant to make even finding deposited cash from the day inconvenient.

"You want something valuable? Antique TV." His eyes briefly shot to his right, the delinquent's left. "Poor and starving? Couple options: Option A, move out of the most expensive state in the country; Option B, get a job, we're hiring; Option C, just take some of the snack food."

Inexperienced, getting a little frustrated, needed some way to show he was done with some big-mouthed geriatric! His mouth needed to be bigger.

He shot into the ceiling. If the clerk had spent any time on God's green Earth, that was the kid's only bullet. Wrong; one other bullet in another chamber. It snowed a bit onto his faded windbreaker.

"SHUT UP!" He shoved the revolver just a little farther into the man's face. "Just… shut up. And pass me what's in your register." (As if) forgetting, he took this time to momentarily pull his gun a bit farther away and pull out his duffel bag. "Shove it in there. All of it."

The clerk really wanted to get it through that the kid was making a big mistake, but he'd already tried everything.

But this kid hadn't demanded to come back here and get it himself, however tricky that would've been anyway. Another mistake the last robber or two hadn't made. Then again…

Concealed carrying wasn't a crime, either, it was a job description. Things got ugly, from professional gangsters to incompetent kids who still thought cash registers were easy pickings.

"Alright, okay, let me just get that stuff for ya," he enunciated, quickly, so the kid didn't think he was mocking him. He wasn't. The kid was empty, though.

He brought the shotgun up, aimed directly at the kid's head.

Without another word, the kid raised his own pistol and fired his next two bullets. One of them went through the middle of the clerk's forearm, nicking both bones and leaving him left-handed until the day he died. His shotgun went flying up and forward, but the kid was already moving.

The second bullet hit a bundle of cigarette packets and poofed harmlessly out of the picture. That is, if not for the glass paneling it had to go through first.

The clerk grunted in pain as he slowly fell against the back wall, glass planting roots in his skin and spine, sending him tumbling forward against the fake register. The kid, however, made his escape. Empty-handed. That much, at least, made the pain just a little bearable for the old clerk. He could always brag on his deathbed that no one stole from my store and got away from it, not once! Hah!

Paramedics would arrive a bit late to save the arm, but he kept his job a little while longer. A decent insurance policy didn't hurt, either. Still, that would prove the least of the kid's worries in the foreseeable future...

Shit! Not the plan, not the plan! Then again, he'd had no plan. Now he was running along the sidewalk, trying his best not to be conspicuous. If only palm trees also provided pitch-black shade at night! Oh, if only!

His eyes were sweating like a gored pig filled each socket, and he threw the cheap sunglasses into the street. He couldn't breathe through the bandanna, so he tossed that, too. Even the spent gun, he let go of with trembling, ever-buzzing fingers. Oh, he'd do this again until he got it right, that's what he decided he'd do. Next time he'd get a better gun, more bullets, that'd solve the problem, like it solved all problems.

When that happened, there'd be incident after incident, jobs going off without a hitch. Gone screwy real fast, that's what this had been. Truth is, not even he knew what it'd been for, anyway. He felt no sympathy for the clerk who'd tried talking him down, but that didn't make any of it right. He deserved to win!

A motorcycle whizzing by, nearly taking his head off, laughed at his dreams of winning. Its front wheel was two inches from fully mounting the sidewalk, its back kicked dog-grey smoke into his face. He found himself stumbling against a chain-link fence, coughing to pump the exhaust out and pull the oxygen in. His entire being burned.

Another vehicle followed, faster than the first, this time being kind enough to use the other side of the street: the right side, in all regards. He kept sputtering, but he looked up from his torn sneakers when he heard the distinct sound of a two-vehicle collision. And he caught enough to see two cyclists slam into some kind of beat-up thing with four wheels…

Hard enough to split it in half, spilling both into someone's yardful of choked grass and failed petunias. Something told him to go forward, to watch this unfold. Another part said no, go back, that's safe!

I'm safe just watching, aren't I?

He creeped forward, not exactly sure what he was seeing. It was so dark, even with all these headlights, streetlights, lights indoors. When they saw the action outside, the people inside simply turned out their lights and decided 2 a.m. was a good time to turn in. Right they were, too.

All at once, there was like this metal-on-metal clinking, like some samurai swords. Maybe a bit of yelling, too. Everything might as well have been on fire, because there were sparks everywhere. He knew he needed to get the hell out of the way, but that wasn't happening, his feet were firmly planted in what must've been a parking spot for whatever house had the chain-link fence.

There was plenty he didn't catch, but this just wasn't his show.

It was Bludgeon's and the mute's.

The chase went well for Bludgeon. After all, he'd managed to finally make physical contact with this pursuer of his on his own terms. He would own this battle as he had owned none before it. His sword was at the ready, and this was the perfect battleground! Oh, he would make his Emperor proud!

He swung his sword but the mute had his own raised. They clashed, and Bludgeon pulled out the fanciest combination of slash, parry and footwork changes he could manage. He even leapt from the bisected car and wanted to plant his blade in the black-clad ninja's head, if not for the figure making haste and moving away with the hastiest of hastes. Oh, how he loved this!

"You'll die soon, you know!" he shouted between bone-white teeth. "We're all going to die! Hahahahahah!"

But the mute kept its word. No reply out of 'em, that was for sure. Very well.

"Oh, it's just a good, clean fight you want? Well, too bad. I'm a Decepticon, remember!? AAAAGACKACKACGKAGKAGKAAA!" Still, nothing fazed the self-proclaimed fellow ninja. Like a force of nature, he just kept coming, just kept refusing to relent. Gradually, with each clash and near-hit of each blade, they came closer to the nearest intersection between roads, where a curious little spike in traffic was sure to occur some time soon. No path stayed empty for long in this town, someone always had to be somewhere.

Around them, Bludgeon heard, a metal fence rattled as some fleshy youngling ran for their life. He wanted to grin a skully grin at the thought, to direct at this assassin who had not revealed its eyes at all. He was only guessing it was human, much less a man. It sure handled a sword like a Decepticon.

And it just kept coming.

With a gimp?

Yes, with a gimp. Left leg, Bludgeon thought.

This assassin was not his first order of business, but Bludgeon wouldn't pass up the chance to gut another target or two. Maybe he'd go on a spree when this was over. It wouldn't hurt the cause, now, would it?

He raised his sword. Started running at this pursuer. Maybe he'd drop a tree on this enemy, he thought. The sword was his preferred weapon, but not his only blade, he could sure do it. Right now, if he needed to. Right now…

A car was headed their way. Another blared a siren from maybe half a mile away. Most likely some criminal's doing, messing with "the justice system" or whatever these humans believed dictated their every whim.

Bludgeon kept charging, just right on along. The gimp - his knowledge of English vocabulary had him chuckling a little at the phrasing - raised its sword once the Decepticon was in range, then - !

Performed a leap over Bludgeon's head, slicing away redundant armor from his living-metal frame in chunks totaling up to the volume of his finger. He let out a groan and threw his arm up, reaching to throw this gimp into the dirt. Apparently the black-clad thing was just fast enough to get over his head before he could catch them. He whirled himself around in time to deliver a crippling (ha, get it) blow to the body, he wasn't sure exactly where.

A car was moving in their direction. Bludgeon didn't care, he could bisect that car with a flick of his wrist, he could euthanize its passengers before they saw this new roadblock. He could become the car, damn it!

He grunted in frustration when he took a switch of wood the size of his forearm to the head. Sure, it shattered against his helmet, but the head inside was ringing. Oh, he'd enjoy this!

But the gimp had changed their mind: they didn't want to battle, after all. A motorcycle was being kicked into motion. No, he wouldn't let it be that easy! The Pretender broke into a run just as the other swordsman's bike declared its refusal to die with an animal's growl and began speeding off. He growled back his reply, just kept running. Half-liquefied servomotors behaved like the fastest set of human legs in Creation, but sometimes that's no match for a set of tires and a tankful of strong gas.

A four-wheeled cart bearing the dents of half a dozen missteps and blaring some rhythmic electronic noise behind a DJ's toast turned down their little street, most likely from the heavy intersection some four or five blocks away. Let them see him, he eschewed discretion at his own discretion. Some blond humans, females, bobbed in time behind the windshield. They would not stop him! He made his leap, following the chemical and audio trail left by that motorcycle, up and over the car and eliciting a good couple squeals from its occupants. Something about that sound thrilled him to no end.

He didn't even bother with his own bike yet, and with his own Alt. Mode long abandoned with his greater body he'd found solidarity with his own living-metal feet. A little hairline crack in the greyed pavement when he touched down, red eyes flaring in the decorative skull of his faux face, and he was off again, after that noise, that smell!

A block further down, out in the opposite direction of the gas station, and the road became a little busier again. Two parked cars and a third below cruising speed. The cycler moved between them, Bludgeon was content to leap over the cruiser's hood and plant a crater in its trunk, disembark and just keep after that little gimp! Oh, he'd gone so long without pushing himself like this, not even that idiot Starscream's screwup carjacking caper had required he push like this.

He got within three meters of the bike not even one block later, passing freely under yellow-tinted streetlamp after orange-tinted streetlamp after washed-out white-tinted streetlamp. He gripped his sword with the strength surplus to snap the average blade into splinters. He could sure throw it, but he would not waste himself in such a way, nor a good strong blade cast from his own flesh. He simply pumped his legs a bit harder.

The gimp did not once look back, the roar of the little motor did all the talking. And it sure was talking. With his peripherals, Bludgeon saw a very dirty-looking man emerge from his house with a blunt weapon. Unusually fast for such a quick occurrence, out of shouting distance within thirty seconds of arriving, but at least it told him at least some humans were scared onto their toes. Just as they should be.

"Hey!" he heard the man distantly, but clear as the howl of the Devastator Winds. "What the hell's this!?" Why, it was a threat to your entire species chasing a limping swordsman on a bike down the street!

Another block. Two drivers bearing head-on for Bludgeon. Again, just leap over them. He caught this prey looking back, examining the predator, and saw it bank left around a streetsign almost completely covered by an outstretched and growth-spurted cactus tree. Bludgeon knew to follow, because he saw it.

Yet when he rounded the corner, the cyclist was gone. Chemical trail stopped around the area they dropped from his view at the turn. No lingering light, sound, scent of fuel and smoking rubber. Nothing from that point on. Unless a magical trapdoor sprung up to let the gimp into some underground tunnel and resealed itself under his feet without a seam, that was, and his own limited imagination could only chuckle at the idea. Just like it chuckled at what the Decepticon would do to that swordsman once he met them again. He even hoped there were friends along for that next encounter, he needed something to play with, and spares when the playing got too tough.

He would find the nearest designated rendezvous point, and then he'd shoot out of there, not to be contacted until further notice.

Or maybe he'd simply vanish. Didn't matter that much to him.

It was only now that he let himself so much as scratch his balls. The would-be KwikBrake Bandit loosened his grip on the fence to resume running home, not only freaked shitless but scared straight.

...

A/N:

"Third (main) entry in the Adapto Sapiens series, which, to be honest, is starting to feel a bit empty. Which is why it requires care, and time. My writing style is changing, and I'm not sure what to do with it. Chapters becoming shorter, almost pulling away from a small group of characters until it becomes an ensemble act: individual voices lost in the ensuing harmonies. Then again, this is just an author's ramble.

"Here's the plan: a story told from five perspectives, eventually interlocking into one narrative which represents the end of the Transformer war as we know it. And from there, it just goes down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down...

"Enjoy your day!" : )