Backyard of the Witwicky residence – Late night.
The moon hung high, its soft silver light spilling over the small garden. The wind rustled through the trees, causing leaves to sway gently, composing a quiet chorus in the still of the night. Strings of lights hung above, casting a warm yellow glow that glinted off the polished metal surfaces of the Autobots.
The chirping of crickets echoed somewhere nearby, as if the world had yet to realize that something extraordinary was unfolding right in this quiet little backyard.
The group sat around the garden. The tension had faded. What remained was a mixture of wonder and curiosity.
Ron raised his beer, took a sip, and suddenly chuckled—lightly, as though he had decided that if he couldn't understand any of this, he might as well enjoy it.
The atmosphere gradually eased. Though the presence of three Autobots was still overwhelming, the silence had shifted into something more serene.
Ron suddenly straightened up, his gaze shifting from skeptical to excited, as though he'd already grown used to the madness—and now, he just wanted to chat.
"Actually… I don't think this is so bad. I mean… it's not every day you get to drink beer with alien robots in your own backyard, right?"
Ironhide looked up, raising an eyebrow.
"Beer?"
"Ah, yeah. A fizzy liquid that makes us act even dumber than usual. It's great. Worth trying." Ron nodded knowingly.
Optimus tilted his head slightly, glancing at Mikaela, as if to ask whether Ron was serious. Mikaela smiled and gave a soft nod.
Ron laughed louder, delighted as though he'd just stumbled upon a truth everyone had been too afraid to say aloud.
"You know, money's everything to us. In our world, people say 'money can't buy happiness'... but everyone still tries. They buy cars, houses, first-class plane tickets. Sometimes even tickets to lip-synced concerts. Then they call that a 'once-in-a-lifetime experience.'"
He winked at Optimus, as if sharing a state secret.
"And honestly… I think money can buy miracles. At least, if miracles are for sale. And you guys—you're definitely not 'mere mortals.'"
Judy crossed her arms, sighing like she'd heard this speech a hundred times.
"Can you stop rambling? They're warriors, not bar patrons!"
"Even warriors need to laugh!" Ron said with a hearty chuckle.
But Optimus Prime responded slowly, his voice deep, like an echo from a distant past.
"On Cybertron, we also had something akin to money… called Energon."
Ironhide let out a quiet laugh.
"It's your version of 'currency'. But it's… far more complicated."
Ratchet nodded, eyes distant.
"On Cybertron, there was a time people believed Energon was infinite. It flowed from rivers, roots, and the earth like gifts from the ancient Primes. But like all gifts—it came with a price. Those who lived for it thrived. Those who lived becauseof it… turned to ash. Energon wasn't just for 'living' or 'shopping'… it was fuel, the lifeblood running through us. Have much, you thrive. Lack it, you wither. But the greedy... die first."
Optimus Prime grew somber, his voice rising as if from the deep core of memory.
"There was once a time when people hoarded Energon, the way you hoard money. They built cities upon reserves. Bought influence. Bought power. Then came war—not just from hatred, but greed. Many warned… but no one listened."
He turned to Ron—not in blame, but with sincere candor.
"Material sustains the body. But the soul… cannot be bought. Not on Cybertron. Not on Earth."
He lowered his head slightly, his tone quieter.
"Energon doesn't buy happiness—it gives us the freedom to pursue it. But it holds enough power to corrupt that pursuit entirely."
Ratchet nodded slowly, his voice pensive and heavy with regret.
"There was a time… I believed that with enough Energon, everything would be fine. No sickness. No hunger. No fear of death. But I watched my brothers kill each other over just a few barrels. I healed them… then buried them."
He turned away, a flicker of bitterness in his gaze.
"What we needed… wasn't more Energon. We needed someone who knew when it was enough."
Sam spoke softly, almost a whisper, his hand tightening:
"Throughout human history, resources have always been the root of every bloody conflict. In school… they teach us how to make money. But no one teaches us what to do when we lose faith… in one another."
He looked slowly at Optimus.
"Seems like… whether it's Earth or Cybertron, the lesson of happiness has never come cheap.
Ironhide let out a grunt, laughing more heartily than usual, as if remembering something.
"Happiness, huh? Back when I was a field commander, one gulp of Energon was enough to make rookies fight over suicide missions just for 'payment.' No one cared about ideals. They just wanted to live one more day—or die in a louder explosion."
He nodded at Ron.
"So I think you're half-right. With money—or Energon—you can buy 'temporary trust'… but true happiness? Not a chance."
Ratchet stepped forward slowly, hands behind his back, his scholarly voice laced with irony.
"I used to be Chief Medical Officer in Iacon. Back then, one vial of pure Energon could save thousands of units. But instead of ending up in my hands… it sat in the council's vault."
He raised an eyebrow at Ron.
"You humans buy medicine with money. We traded lives for Energon—sometimes the lives of others. Tell me, is it really that different?"
Ron blinked a few times. His smile faded slightly, then… he burst out laughing.
"Ha! You folks really are grown-ups. I was just joking around, and here you go digging into life and death philosophy! But I like it!"
He turned to Judy.
"See? Warriors can be philosophers—and still laugh like the rest of us!"
Sam chuckled, while Mikaela gently shook her head. But the strangest thing happened when Optimus… smiled. Just a flicker of light across his eyes. He said:
"Sometimes… simplicity and humor are what allow your kind to endure far longer than any technology."
Ironhide nodded slightly, looking at Ron as if he'd just met a human who truly got it.
"I want to try beer."
The warm yellow glow from inside the house spilled into the backyard, blending with the cool moonlight. The insects kept chirping, as if reminding them that despite the tilt of the universe, Earth still turned.
Ron—once bewildered—now sat cross-legged as if entertaining old friends. The beer in his hand had long since gone cold, but his voice was unexpectedly warm.
"You know… at first, I thought I was dreaming. Then I figured: 'Damn, probably the chicken from last week.' But then I realized… you guys don't disappear like dreams do."
He chuckled, turning to Optimus with an honest gaze.
"I used to think money could solve everything. 'Money can buy miracles'—I've said that all my life. But after seeing you… I get it now. Some things just aren't for sale."
A brief silence. Then he laughed softly.
"...But if you ever open a tourist service to Cybertron, I'd still like to be the first to book a ticket. Just don't make me sign an insurance waiver. As long as it's a holiday—count me in."
Mikaela laughed. Ironhide shook his head slightly, but his eyes lit up with amusement.
Optimus tilted his head, as if trying to understand a human joke, then spoke gently:
"On Cybertron, we too had moments… without war, without weapons, without commands. Only the light from the planet's core, and the laughter of millions of minds sharing one rhythm."
His gaze drifted far away—his voice now that of a storyteller, filled with longing.
"Our people had festivals, and among them was one special day called 'Cybertron Day'—it occurred once every full cycle, even during war. On that day, every Cybertronian shared memories through frequency waves. All conflicts were set aside. When Cybertron completed a cycle, like a silent symphony, we all sang—not with words, but with our Sparks. We called it 'The Symphony of Sparks.' It wasn't for show, but to remember we once knew how to live… not just survive, but to feel, to connect, and to love."
"The last time we performed that ritual… was the day our people left their home behind—a homeland that no longer felt like home." Ratchet added quietly."Some of those memories… still echo in my mind. Like the last light at the end of a tunnel."
Ron nodded slowly, his gaze softening.
Optimus continued.
"Perhaps we were forged from metal and energy… but it is your humor, your simplicity, and your trust… that remind us peace isn't a foolish dream. It's something worth fighting for."
Ron raised his can like a wine toast.
"Then here's to the things that can't be bought. And to the people who know how to treasure them."
"And to a shared future—for both humans and Cybertronians." Optimus replied.
The atmosphere fell noticeably quiet, the only sound was the rustling leaves in the breeze.
Sam, who had been nearly silent, spoke hesitantly:
"Optimus… could you sing a little of it? Not the whole thing. Just… so everyone can feel it."
Optimus paused for a long moment. The air settled. He closed his eyes, and then a sound emerged from his chest. It wasn't like singing in the human sense—it was a deep, resonant hum, like echoes from beneath the earth—slow, emotional, filled with something… distant and sacred.
The ground seemed to tremble. The backyard lights dimmed. No one spoke. Even the insects fell silent.
It was as if the universe itself had paused to listen.
The short melody ended in a silence so thick it felt suffocating. No one moved.
Ron broke the silence first:
"Man… if we could record that, I'd use it as nightly meditation music."
Judy, awestruck, murmured:
"Beautiful… and heartbreaking."
"Because it's the memory of a dead world… But thanks to you, we have a reason to go on. And this time… it won't be just a memory." Optimus said calmly.
His voice was deep, his gaze reaching far into the distance.
"The first time I received information and images of Earth… all I saw were noisy cities, crowds rushing by, endless arguments. I thought this place would soon fall into the same tragedy as Cybertron… a once-glorious home now reduced to ashes."
He paused, as though reliving a memory so distant that only he could remember it.
"But then, I looked closer… and I saw something strange. People—different skin tones, different religions, different beliefs—still holding hands, laughing, crying, and fighting for what they believed was right. You are not perfect. But you… still dare to dream."
Optimus lowered his voice.
"Perhaps Cybertron wasn't destroyed by weapons. It began to fall the day we stopped listening to each other's dreams."
He turned to face the small group before him—a little family in a quiet garden, under soft golden lights.
"But here… even with all your conflicts, you still have what we lost long ago: empathy. The ability to forgive. And something very simple… the freedom to believe in what you choose."
Ron lifted his beer and took a small sip, nodding slowly.
"Yeah. That's true. Around here, as long as you've got money, you can choose to believe in anything. Weekend discount on faith included."
"Dad…" Sam groaned.
"What? The robot guy's right. Around here, even the poor can dream. And the rich can too. The only difference is, the poor dream at night, while the rich dream during the day—with air conditioning." He shrugged.
Mikaela laughed quietly.
"At least we still get to dream."
The group chuckled. The crickets began chirping again. This time, no longer just background noise—but a quiet whisper that hope was still alive.
Optimus looked around and nodded softly.
"And perhaps… that is why we came here. Not just to seek salvation… but to relearn how to live."
He looked toward Ron—now happily chatting away with Ironhide and Ratchet about real estate prices, gas costs, and "that washing machine that shakes like an earthquake." Judy was collecting the beer cans Ron had left behind to bring into the kitchen. Sam and Mikaela sat quietly side by side.
Optimus spoke in a gentle, low tone:
"You people are strange… and wonderful. So unlike us."
Sam looked up, tilting his head.
"What do you mean?"
"Humans can disagree. Can argue. Even go to war. Yet somehow, you still manage to sit together, marry those of different beliefs, befriend those from other classes, or argue all day… and still have dinner together."
Mikaela smiled gently and replied:
"Because… we're human. A little crazy sometimes, but still choose to forgive."
"That's something Cybertron never learned. Perhaps… living too long made us romanticize the past. Maybe Cybertron was never as peaceful as we wanted to believe." Optimus nodded.
He paused for a moment, his gaze sinking into memories of long ago.
"Our planet was once divided into nine castes. From the outcasts, slaves, miners, civilians, merchants, warriors, nobles, officials, and finally—Primes."
"Each caste lived in its own world, forbidden from entering another. Those in the depths were not allowed to touch books. Those who held books were not allowed to touch weapons. Everything was preordained… until the day it all collapsed—or at least, began to change,"
Ratchet added.
Silence spread, broken only by the gentle rustling of distant branches in the wind.
Sam asked slowly:
"So the title 'Prime'… isn't your real name?"
"No. 'Prime' is a title. The highest honor. A Prime is not just someone with power, but with responsibility. Like a leader of a nation… but with sacred weight." Ratchet replied softly.
"So… what caste were you from?" Sam asked.
Optimus looked directly at him, eyes unwavering:
"The highest of the lowest. I was a miner, born to dig deep into the planet's core to extract Energon. Not because there was a shortage, but because those in power always wanted more."
He paused. His voice grew quieter, almost like a confession.
"But I was not alone. I had friends. And one in particular… someone closer to me than any other. We worked together. Shared rare breaks. Dreamed vague dreams of one day rising, of seeing the stars. A Cybertron without castes. A world where every being, no matter where they were born, had the right to live, to be acknowledged."
Ratchet whispered as if summoning a ghost from the past:
"His name… was D-16."
Optimus's eyes flickered, but he said nothing more. He didn't have to. That name—D-16—would soon become one known across the galaxy. A name that chose a very different path.
Optimus spoke softly, as if to himself:
"We used to wonder: if one day we could escape that darkness… who would we become?"
Mikaela looked at him gently:
"But you rose above it. You became a Prime."
Optimus nodded slowly, his eyes still lost in the past.
"I did. But he didn't. Both of us were chosen to learn—to study history, philosophy, strategy… But he chose another path. He chose to fight oppression with oppression. To let his fury become his guiding flame."
Sam whispered:
"And… he became…"
Optimus answered, like a truth never before spoken aloud:
"Megatron."
Moonlight filtered through the treetops, casting slanted shadows across Optimus's face. The old scars became clearer—not just marks of war, but memories, things that would never fully heal.
He looked up, as if searching for D-16 in the distant heavens.
Ironhide spoke with a somber voice, as if retelling a faded legend:
"They were once two stars born from the same place. All of Cybertron knew and admired them. But one star kept moving forward… while the other chose to stand still."
Optimus turned to Sam, his gaze kind and distant:
"That is why I believe in humanity. You give each other second chances. And sometimes… that's all a soul ever needs."
He paused. The night felt as though it too was listening.
"But sometimes, I still wonder… if I had tried harder that day. If I had grabbed his shoulder, held him back, said one more thing… would Cybertron be different?"
Ironhide remained quiet, without blame:
"They both dreamed once. Only difference… one chose forgiveness. The other chose vengeance."
Sam leaned closer, his eyes focused on Optimus, a quiet sorrow in his expression—for both souls who once dreamed under the same star.
He asked gently:
"Optimus… if you were just a miner… then why… why were you the one who became a Prime?"
Optimus fell silent. The wind rustled through the trees, the leaves whispering like old memories awakening from a long slumber. The chirping of crickets interwove with the night air, like a melody from an ancient time.
Optimus spoke, his voice low, like a legend he still couldn't believe he had lived through:
"Sam, do you remember the one I mentioned before? The first one… who saw something in me that even I had never seen in myself."
He lifted his gaze. His eyes glinted with a light of both gratitude and reverence.
"Sentinel Prime. A great Prime. Not because of strength… but because of the hope he could plant in the most barren soil. He once journeyed deep into the darkest depths of Cybertron—places where light had never reached. And there, he did not see the 'lowborn'… but dreams forgotten by time."
"He… was the one who chose you both?" Sam asked.
Optimus nodded, then gently corrected:
"Not chose… but taught. He never said, 'you are chosen to be a Prime.' Instead, he asked: 'Do you understand why this title must exist?'"
Ratchet, thoughtful:
"A Prime is not a warrior. Not a king. But a guardian of life—through wisdom, compassion… and the willingness to sacrifice everything."
"Sentinel once told me: 'Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. Not because of their function… but because their existence itself has meaning,'" Optimus continued.
Ironhide nodded, as if he had memorized those words long ago.
Ironhide added:
"That phrase changed Optimus Prime. And for us… it changed our future."
Optimus turned to Sam. His eyes now full of warmth, yet weighed down by the sorrows of the past.
"And for a brief moment… it changed Cybertron. Because I stood up—not for power, but for a dream: A world where every life—no matter how small—has a voice and a right to exist."
A soft breeze drifted by. Judy gently held Sam's hand, while Ron—normally quick with a joke—now sat quietly, his eyes lost in thought, as if remembering a younger version of himself who once believed in something greater.
Optimus's voice grew deeper and firmer, his gaze sweeping across the group:
"So when I look at all of you…Even with different religions, origins, and languages… you sit side by side, talk, argue, and then… forgive…I see hope.A hope that Cybertron lost long ago."
"But I can't do this alone. I… I don't know if I can change an entire world," Sam said softly.
Optimus leaned down, bringing his eyes level with Sam's—not as a leader, not as a Prime, but as a friend. His voice was gentle but carried immense weight:
"You are not alone, Sam.We are always here—not to lead, but to walk with you.But remember: it is not strength… but the heart that lights the way."
He stood, like a god rising into the night, but his voice was that of a teacher:
"Every great change… begins with a small choice.And Sam… you've already made yours."
Moonlight streamed down, casting Optimus's shadow long across the earth—a warrior's silhouette… and the shape of an ideal walking among mankind.
The night wind slipped through the leaves, brushing over the backyard of the Witwicky home like an ancient whisper. The moonlight shattered across plates left on the table, and the faint scent of charcoal drifted in the air. The entire garden seemed to hold its breath after the story had ended—a story layered with metaphors, truths unearthed from beneath the soil, and histories written among the stars.
Sam sat in silence. His eyes were fixed on an invisible point before him, where memories had yet to form into words.
"I guess… things are a lot more complicated than I thought," he murmured, as if speaking only to himself.
"Too complicated… if viewed only through mortal eyes."
Suddenly, a strange voice—deep, clear, and colder than the wind just brushing their necks—rose from the shadows:
Everyone turned.
At the edge of the yard—where darkness held its ground—a figure emerged. A middle-aged man, tall, with neatly combed silver hair like it had been swept with a silver brush. He wore a dark suit, leather shoes glistening with dew. His steps were calm, deliberate, as if he were the host, and all others were strangers sitting in the wrong place.
Instantly, the air shifted like a silent storm. Ironhide switched to battle mode, his gaze sharp as if it could pierce through steel.Ratchet glided forward silently, a defensive posture that needed no warning.
The humans—Ron, Judy, Sam, and Mikaela—froze, stiffened by a chill that came not from outside, but from within.
The man raised both hands, his composure almost mocking:
"Easy now. I'm just a man. No weapons. No armor. You going to crush me into paste?"
His voice was steady, each word falling like pebbles into a still pond.
Optimus Prime stepped forward, his shadow darkening the earth like a living monument.
"Who are you?"His voice thundered like judgment from another world.
The man smiled. It seemed genuine—but carried the scent of gunpowder and classified files.
"No secrets here. Seymour Simmons. Acting Director of Sector 7. And I've come… to offer you a proposal."
Ironhide growled, his systems charging:
"A proposal… with threats? Speak quickly before I flatten you."
"'Threat' is such a harsh word, my friend. I prefer to call it… a choice."
Ratchet tensed:
"And if we refuse?"
The man did not answer with words. He simply snapped his fingers.
Instantly, from all corners of the yard—the fences, the eaves, even the treetops hidden in moonlight—dozens of agents in gray-black suits emerged. Red laser dots lit up like blood trails across the Witwicky family.
A sharp click! echoed—a single heel tapping the ground—but it rang like a verdict.
Ron shouted, his voice shaking with fear and rage:
"Are you crazy?! We're civilians!"
Simmons didn't turn his head, his eyes locked onto Optimus:
"Shh… You don't want to wake the neighbors with gunfire, do you?"
Another step forward. His voice dropped—sharp as a blade slipping between bones:
"Now then… either you come with me,…or I turn this place into a bleeding beehive."
Optimus advanced. The ground beneath him trembled with each step. Every clang of metal was a warning from an ancient age.
"If you came here with force, you wouldn't have needed to say anything," Optimus said.
Simmons shrugged.
"I believe in dialogue. But I also believe in guns… when necessary."
"Then speak." Optimus's voice was low. In his eyes was a question—but also a judgment.
Simmons slowly unbuttoned his suit—not to fight, but as if beginning a long, well-rehearsed speech.
"A deal. Something… is coming. And I need beings like you… to keep this world intact."
Ironhide stepped forward.
"And what about them? Sam? Mikaela? They're not pawns in your game."
Simmons glanced at Sam. His eyes hardened, like someone who had seen too much, lost too much, and no longer had time for explanations.
"Unfortunately… the boy has always been part of this war. Since day one."
Sam swallowed hard, his voice cracking like gravel in his throat:
"F-For… for what?"
Simmons looked at him—this time with an unguarded gaze, no masks, no pretense:
"For the future of mankind. Not just survival. But a leap forward for civilization. That's why… I need all of you."
He bowed his head slightly—not in submission, but as a man acknowledging a destiny too vast for any one person to carry alone.
"But to make that happen… I need everyone safe, off the grid… and gone from here. Especially now that you're carrying… knowledge from a civilization beyond comprehension."
The leaves rustled. A distant streetlamp flickered out. The space around them seemed to contract, as if history itself was holding its breath, waiting for an answer.
The weight in the air grew heavier, as if time had stalled for this moment of choice. The lights in the yard still blinked faintly, but everything felt dimmed, like the final flickers of a fading era.
Each step taken by Optimus, Ironhide, and Ratchet was burdened with uncertainty, distrust—a new kind they had not faced before. They were not just machines. Within them still lived something—something akin to a heart—not a human one, but capable of sensing truth, deception, and responsibility.
Optimus Prime, the leader, stood silent for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. His steel heart had always been strong—but now, even he felt a weight pressing down. 'We are not just warriors', he thought. And now, with Simmons's proposition, everything had become more complicated.
Ironhide stood close, hand clenched around his cannon, his gaze burning like fire in the darkness. He didn't trust Simmons. He had seen too many lies, too many traps. His life had been war, and his loyalty to Optimus was the one thing he had never doubted. But Simmons? Absolutely not.
"Can't trust him. People like that always hide something darker," Ironhide growled.
Ratchet, more cautious, spoke with a calmer tone:
"I agree with Ironhide. But there's a strange truth in what Simmons said. It may involve the
Decepticons. Possibly even… Megatron."
Optimus remained quiet, eyes locked on Simmons.
"This world is never simple. Every decision, every step we take comes with consequences far beyond what we can foresee."
Everyone looked to him, waiting for one final signal.
Optimus took a step forward. The air around him seemed to still. Space tightened around the unspoken question:
"Simmons said something true. Perhaps, instead of distrusting him, we should reflect on our greater purpose."
"But what if he truly has a hidden agenda?" Ironhide still refused to loosen his grip on the cannon, eyes wary.
"The choice to trust or not is not one I can make alone," Optimus sighed, his voice dropping lower.
"But one thing is certain—if we do not act, what lies ahead will be unavoidable."
A glance passed between Ratchet and Ironhide—hesitant, but they knew Optimus was right.
Whatever happened, they would go together. And if this was his choice, they would follow him—even if it meant paying the ultimate price.
Optimus turned back. The glow in his eyes flickered—not with certainty, but with solemn resolve.
"We will go with you. But under one condition."
"Do not harm the innocents, right?" Simmons interrupted.
"Exactly. And we won't raise a single complaint."
"I never had the appetite for that anyway. So… we have a deal, then?" Simmons confirmed.
"We do," Optimus replied.
Though the decision had been made and the Autobots prepared to depart in silence, Simmons—like a man who had stood behind hundreds of bloody negotiations—never let trust get in the way of his strategy.
Just the slightest tilt of Simmons's head, the subtlest glance like a breeze rippling across a still lake. And then—
THUMP!
Dry pops echoed from all directions like invisible rain. From the shadows, miniature launcher tubes shot out like silver arrows through the darkness, tracing arcs of blinding light.
In an instant, the Witwicky backyard was swallowed in a thick white fog. Liquid nitrogen hissed into the air like a silent spirit—cold, ruthless. The chemical stench ripped through the peace like a verdict without a trial.
Sam screamed in panic, his voice breaking:
"What are they doing?! We already agreed!"
Ron and Judy dropped to the ground, shielding Mikaela and Sam with their bodies as the fog coiled tighter like a snake constricting its prey.
Mikaela, eyes wide in horror:
"Simmons! You said no one would get hurt!"
The three giant warriors—Ratchet, Ironhide, and Optimus Prime—barely managed to turn before their bodies stiffened, frozen like statues in the cosmic winter. Liquid nitrogen—an invisible tool of betrayal—clung to their armor, seeping into joints, paralyzing vital systems.
Ratchet's optics flared briefly as realization struck."This isn't standard cryo… They've mapped our servos… our neural paths…"
Simmons, standing calmly in the mist, straightened his cuffs and replied:
"Of course we did. We've been studying one of your kind for over a century. Ever since Archibald Witwicky stumbled upon your 'friend'... Megatron, you say? You think we didn't learn anything from that?"
Ratchet growled, internal engines sputtering like a failing heartbeat. His knees buckled—slowly, helplessly.
Ironhide, in a final act of defiance, reached for his cannon. But his body betrayed him, groaning in pain:
"You… learned too much."
Optimus—last to remain standing—stood silent in the mist. His body wavered like a mountain rocked by an earthquake. His blue eyes glowed once more… then dimmed like a star fading in a galaxy that had lost faith.
Simmons stepped forward, calm as if walking through his own garden. He brushed dust from his sleeve. His voice carried no warmth:
"I said I needed you to come with me. But I never said how. Worry not—I promised no innocents would be harmed. And I'm keeping that promise. You'll be fine."
He had watched them for hours—from beyond fences, through satellite feeds, and unfiltered mics. Their tone, their restraint, their moral lines. They wouldn't strike first. Not unless provoked. That was the gamble he took… not just to test them, but to test himself.
Because if a man couldn't walk into fear alone, he had no right to lead those who would follow him into the unknown
He stopped before Optimus, now kneeling like a fallen warrior. His voice dropped so low it barely rose above the fog:
"Regrettable… but sometimes, the survival of an entire planet cannot rest on trust."
Sam broke free from his father's arms, shouting:
"You don't have to do this! They… they came here to help us! They're not our enemies! WHY?!"
Simmons didn't turn around. He simply raised his hand in a silent signal.
"Take them. Now."
And then, with the growl of engines and the groan of mechanical cranes, the motionless titans were dragged away—like gods bound in chains.
The mist began to fade, leaving behind four small, trembling figures in the cold backyard. There were no explanations. No words left. Only a bleeding silence remained in their chests:
Trust… had just turned to ash in the white light.
—
The night sky over the outskirts of California had shifted to a pale gray. The chill crept through every brick and every blade of grass, each dewdrop like a silent needle. In the backyard of the Witwicky home—once a quiet refuge for the extraordinary—only chaos remained: the tracks of cranes, patches of scorched grass from nitrogen spray, and an air thick with betrayal.
Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Ironhide—taken. Magnetic cables bound their joints like invisible shackles. The Sector 7 task force left no room for resistance. They were lifted by heavy-duty transports, hauled off to a top-secret location—what Simmons claimed was "safe for everyone."
The Witwicky family—Ron, Judy, along with Mikaela—were not spared either. They were loaded into separate armored vehicles. Not tied up. Not treated violently. But the feeling of captivity clung to them with every passing glance from the silent, unsmiling soldiers.
Sam said nothing.
He stared out the window of the vehicle, eyes blank. On one side sat his parents, still shivering from the chemical fog. On the other, Mikaela, trying to hold his hand without saying a word. Something inside Sam had snapped. Not just trust—but the very idea that the world could be divided cleanly into good and evil.
—
Elsewhere, among overlapping shadows between rooftops and flickering street lamps, Barricade emerged. Without a sound.
He and Frenzy had been there for some time, watching the entire operation from a blind spot in human surveillance.
Barricade remained still, his cold gaze reflecting every move made by Sector 7 agents. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate—then slowly reached for the comm unit on his left shoulder.
["This is Barricade. Three Autobots, including Prime… have been captured. The humans are with them."]
A brief pause. From across space, through layers of transcontinental signal, Starscream's voice echoed—slick, icy, like a blade honed with words:
["Humans… no better after all. Let them keep the Autobots. Let their trust collapse. When this world breaks itself apart… they'll beg us to rise."]
Barricade said nothing. He folded the comm device closed. His red eyes gleamed in the fading night—not with hope, but with the clarity of a new age: one without justice, without trust—only control.
Starscream cut off the transmission, his eyes filled with arrogance and satisfaction. He had never lacked pride, and now, he felt like a king about to ascend. Each breath felt like the rhythm of victory, even though nothing had yet been finalized. But with Optimus Prime and his Autobots out of the picture, Starscream sensed that everything was going according to plan.
The world, as far as he was concerned, was already in his grasp. The Autobots—their staunchest foes—had been removed from the board. And with Simmons on the other side, there were no longer any obstacles in his path.Not even Megatron—still missing after all this time—could slow him down. Finding his location wouldn't take long.
Especially now, with the Cybertronian ancient language manuscript stolen from the Autobots, things had become far easier.
He turned away, voice dripping with confidence:
["Good. Finally. Four fragments have been found, and their Prime have been captured. Now it's time to deal with the bigger matter."]
Since the attack on the Soccent base in Qatar, more than 50 potential coordinates had been marked. But only one of them was correct. One marked the location of the fifth Allspark shard—the fragment sought by both Decepticons and Autobots alike. With each passing second, whoever found that shard first would hold the power to control everything—not just Cybertron, but the entire human world.
Starscream smirked:
["Even if they have all five shard coordinates now, they're nothing but a headless snakes. That's right, just one shard. And once we find the right one, we'll have it all."]
He activated his communicator. Instantly, Soundwave appeared on the screen, bathed in a dim glow.
["Soundwave, report to Starscream. How close are we to finding it?"]
Soundwave required no further instruction. He always understood his role. After a short pause, his voice echoed, cold as steel:
["Thirteen locations left. Still filtering for the real one—it's only a matter of time."]
Starscream nodded, staring into the screen. This time, he wasn't worried. He had prepared for everything.
["Time… is not a problem."] Starscream replied, smiling smugly. ["Now that there's no Prime to stop us, everything will soon be ours."]
He paused for a moment, then turned to look out the window, where the night sky began to pale. His eyes burned with ambition.
["This world will belong to the Decepticons. And after that… Cybertron will return under our rule."]
---
Bumblebee and Jazz rolled down a quiet road, headlights casting faint halos of light along the pavement. Their engines purred softly but carried the tension of something brewing deep beneath the surface. They knew something had happened—there was a growing unease, a rising wave of dread within their circuits.
They stopped in front of the Witwicky house—where Sam and his family lived, where things had begun to unravel. But tonight, the place felt… wrong. Too quiet.
The front door was slightly ajar. No sign of humans. No Autobots. As if the house had been abandoned.
They transformed.
Bumblebee nudged the door open. Jazz followed closely, every movement sharp and alert. They both paused for a moment, scanning the space.
Something wasn't right.
Bumblebee killed his engine, listening. Nothing. Not a whisper in the dark.
Jazz took a few careful steps forward, his face set in deep concern.Something had gone down.He turned to Bumblebee, his voice low and tense:
["This isn't good, Bee. It's way too quiet."]
The house was empty. No trace of Sam, Mikaela, or his family. But something made Bumblebee more anxious—signs of intrusion. Small footprints. Human. Leading from the front door to the backyard.
Bumblebee moved cautiously, silent as a ghost, scanning each room. From the living room to the kitchen—clues of forced entry were everywhere.
Jazz stepped through the doorway, glancing around quickly.
["There's no one here, Bee. Where… where did they go?"]
Bumblebee paused, unease rising. There were no signs of a struggle. No bodies. But everything about it screamed that something deliberate had happened. The traces left behind weren't random. This had been a calculated operation.
Bumblebee began flashing coded lights—reconstructing the timeline, drawing a picture of what had occurred.Jazz instantly understood: this wasn't an attack.It was an extraction.
They weren't just searching for Sam and his loved ones anymore.They were stepping into something far bigger than they'd expected.
Bumblebee looked back at Jazz. His optics narrowed with growing urgency.Maybe they were too late to stop something terrible.
Suddenly, from the shadows of the surrounding garden, Sector 7 soldiers emerged like phantoms—swift and precise.In their hands were high-pressure launchers, packed with tiny nitrogen canisters that hissed cold mist into the air like winter fog.
They said nothing. No warnings. Only gestures—then they struck.
Bumblebee and Jazz barely had time to react.The nitrogen blasts sliced through the night, striking at key joints. Not physical blows—but coordinated shots, clinical and merciless.
Jazz snarled as the freezing agent overwhelmed his limbs. His hands locked instantly, his voice tight with fury:
["They knew where to hit. Damn it… we should've expected this."]
Bumblebee's optics dimmed slightly as he froze mid-motion. There was no shock in his eyes—only the sting of betrayal.
The soldiers moved silently. Trained. Perfect.In seconds, both Autobots were immobilized, wrapped in reinforced cables and dragged away—helpless.
Their vehicle forms were bound. Engines silent. Hope dimmed.
—
From the shadows, Barricade watched with cold, calculating eyes.He said nothing—only observed, motionless, like a predator.
Beside him, Frenzy chuckled with glee.
["Who would've thought they'd come here just to get caught by the same pests they tried to save?"]
Barricade didn't waste time. He knew Sector 7 wasn't just any group—these humans were dangerous and precise.But if he followed them, he might find something of value.An opportunity not to be missed.
["Frenzy, follow them."] Barricade ordered, voice like sharpened steel.
Frenzy hissed:
["Normally I'd yell at you, but hey… spying is kinda my thing."]
And just like that, Frenzy vanished into the dark.No sound. No trace.
He dashed toward the Sector 7 transport truck, latched onto the undercarriage like a mechanical parasite.His small, spider-like claws dug deep into the steel frame.
His eyes glowed red under the chassis. A hidden observer. A silent stalker.
["Hehehe… Sector 7… you think you can hide something from me?"]
He giggled, the sound distorted like static from a corrupted file.He activated his recording systems, listening for every whisper.
["Where are you taking them? Underground base? Secret vault? Or… Allspark storage?"]
He chuckled madly.
["Speak, speak… even if you whisper, Frenzy will hear it. All of it!"]
He paused, eyes narrowing.
One of the soldiers said something—"Transfer at Bravo Station."
["Bravo… Bravo… That's the name on the list—the one tied to Megatron… Ooh, precious info. Starscream's going to love this."]
His voice softened to a silky whisper, like wind on power lines:
["I don't need to fight… I just need to listen… and everything will burn."]
He ended with a chilling phrase, more like a ritual than a declaration:
["Let's see… who really controls the shadows."]
And beneath the dust of the road, an invisible force followed.
Waiting.
Watching.
Ready.
---
End of Chapter 13