AUTHOR COMMENTS:
Copyright 1994, Robert A. Jung
Originally published October 9, 1994

All characters depicted or mentioned in this story are the trademarks and/or copyrights of their respective holders, except for those that aren't. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, is coincidental, etc., etc. Geez, it's just a story, guys. Don't get too uptight over it...

* * *

Fingers tapping lightly across the keyboard, the woman reflected sadly on her lot in life. Even after all this time, she was still an outcast and a pariah, crusading against a threat that only she could see. Though she had dreamed of single-handedly defeating the enemy, reality refused to cooperate. Her foes refused to die, and seemed to grow in number with each day. Eventually, she swallowed her pride and faced the truth: she needed help.

So here she was, searching for allies in the recesses of a database few people knew existed. A string of characters on the CRT hinted at something useful, and keys clattered as she listed the subdirectory's contents. She no longer worried about being interrupted. The building's security was by sophisticated sensors and electronic locks, but she easily bypassed them. As the guards never patrolled, no one ever knew of her visits so as long as she cleared her traces and left before the dawn.

Hope died as the listing revealed nothing but a series of memos. What kind of logic do they use on these filenames? she wondered. Out of boredom, she called up the latest file and skimmed it. Unfamiliar names and cryptic schemes flew by, but one item caught her eye-an urgent reference to a code name, one that matched something she saw earlier.

Her fingers flew as she retraced her steps. Her eyes widen at the contents of the directory; so many entries! Two questions immediately sprung to mind: Who are they, and can they help me?

With mounting interest, she opened the first file.

* * *

The worst of the morning commute was over, but even so, enough cars remained on the roads to ensure that any trip would not be quick. While visitors to Washington, D.C. may have been disappointed that the nation's capitol wasn't immune from the woes of urban congestion, to the natives it was just another Tuesday morning.

No one therefore paid any special attention to the tractor-trailer rig that patiently rumbled down Sixteenth Avenue. At 1631 South, it eased into a gray parking structure, barely clearing the maximum height limit. Once inside, it took the appropriate ramps and lanes and descended into the bowels of the building.

Once it reached the fourth basement level, the truck pulled through a pair of unmarked double doors, which closed silently behind it. As the trailer's ramp descended, recessed ceiling lights flooded the room, revealing a featureless giant chamber that could have been turned into a respectable gymnasium.

Three men approached the truck as two police cars rolled out of the trailer. Once the cars were clear, the cars and the tractor unfolded, each transforming into a giant robot. One of the car-robots was painted black and white, while the other was blue and yellow, and both were around fifteen feet tall. The cab-robot, predominantly red and blue, stood at twenty feet and barely cleared the ceiling.

One man stepped forward and said, "Thanks for coming, Prime." He had dark amber hair in a conservative cut, and was dressed in a typical "working white collar" look-shirt, tie, and slacks. Aside from the pistol strapped under one arm, he could have passed for one of the city's thousands of clerks and engineers. "I'm agent Markowitz."

He gestured towards his companions and continued. "This is agent Papin, and intelligence officer Brant." Papin nodded with a broad grin; aside from his blonde hair, he was as nondescript as Markowitz. Brant smiled politely through his thick beard, his eyes sparkling against his dark brown skin. His clothes were hidden by a green electrostatic robe, leaving only his sneakers and jeans visible.

Optimus Prime nodded to each man in turn, then introduced his party. "This is Prowl, my chief tactical officer, and Streetwise, my intelligence specialist." Prowl remained immobile, leaving Streetwise to smile to the humans.

Markowitz asked, "You had a nice trip?"

Prime replied, "Yes. I admit, however, that I wasn't expecting you to send a C-17 Galaxy out for us."

"Well, we needed to get you here quickly, without a lot of attention. No offense, but your own aircraft would have stuck out like a sore thumb at the airport."

"While nobody cares about C-17s in this town," Papin added.

"I am also curious as to why you requested a live meeting. We have no reason to believe the data link between the Ark and the CIA office is compromised."

Markowitz shook his head. "This stuff's real touchy. The system is cleared only up to Secret access."

"Then we should begin immediately," Prowl suggested.

"Right." Markowitz pulled out a small remote-control from his pocket and pressed a button, plunging the room into darkness. A moment later, the quiet whirl of a projector could be heard, and a rectangle lit up on the far wall. He handed the controller to the bearded man. "Go for it, Brant."

The intelligence officer coughed softly, then began. "Are any of you Autobots familiar with the situation in Rwanda?"

"Generally, yes," Prime replied. "But not in great detail."

"All right," Brant continued. "The fighting's over now that the rebels have won, but it was not a clean uprising." The projector clicked rapidly, flipping through several photographs of the war. Human bodies lying dead in pools of blood. An unidentified building exploding, its debris flying with flaming arcs. A small crowd gathered in fascination as a man writhed on the ground, his body aflame. A ragged gang of fighters running in retreat as their opponents gunned them down.

Streetwise gaped; the others watched in morbid silence. "You may have seen some of these on the news services," Brant emotionlessly explained.

Prowl finally spoke. "Pardon me for asking, but how does this pertain to us?"

"Take a look at these next slides," said Markowitz, "the ones that haven't been released to the public."

The next scene showed a man in a full-body armored suit, flying through the air as he fired an energy weapon into a crowd of soldiers. The next featured eight more men overturning a burning truck. The third had an armored vehicle, hovering off the ground and firing a vicious blast of orange energy. Three more slides featured variations on those themes.

"Look familiar?" Papin asked.

"I..." Prime started, then stopped himself, unsure of what to say.

Brant filled the silence. "We think that the advanced armor and weapons were developed with basis in Cybertron technology."

"Which would be a direct violation of U.N. resolution 426-3," Markowitz added.

Prime replied firmly, "The Autobots have not been giving out our technology. I trust my people implicitly."

"But the Decepticons might be," Prowl suggested. "They're not bound by any resolutions."

"Let's throw out some more stuff first," Markowitz interrupted. The slide changed, showing a raised metal disc, embossed with a hawk's head in profile. "Do you know of a group called the Warbirds?"

Prime looked to Prowl, who looked to Streetwise, who shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"I'd be surprised if you did." Markowitz confessed. "The Warbirds are the folks who were wearing the suits and driving the tanks. They're a gang of mercenaries and arms merchants, who sell their 'services' to anyone who pays. We don't use them, of course-"

"Of course." Streetwise smiled slightly.

"-but we've got at least eight incidents in the last three years where the 'birds have interfered with U.S. ops. They've been around for years, usually competing with other merchants like MARS, but it was strictly conventional arms. Only recently have they showed up with the big guns."

"I don't understand," said Prowl. "If they're such a danger, why haven't you stopped them before?"

"They've never done anything illegal, since there're no laws against selling guns or soldiers. These guys aren't terrorists like Cobra or the Black Band. They sneak around a lot, but everything they do is on the up-and-up. And they're not affiliated with any government, so we can't bring international law on them, either."

Prime nodded, then asked, "Who is in charge of the Warbirds?"

"Glad you asked." The projector clicked again. On the screen was a slightly blurred photograph of a masked woman. She was Caucasian, with light brown eyes and amber-black hair that ran down to her shoulders. A blue headband was wrapped around her forehead, while a blue mask covered her nose and mouth.

"Her name is 'Ladyhawke,'" Brant said.

"Here's the situation as we see it," Markowitz explained. "(1) Is Ladyhawke and the Warbirds using Cybertron science for their new toys? (2) If they are, did they get it from the Decepticons? If the answers are yes and yes, then you and the Autobots can go in and stop them."

"And if you happen to break the 'birds in the process, we won't complain," Papin added with a small grin.

"Now wait a minute," Streetwise interjected. "Is it possible that the Decepticons aren't involved at all? Could the Warbirds have developed this all on their own?"

Everyone looked to Brant, who slowly replied, "It's possible ... but ..."

"...not very probable," Prowl finished. "I'd have to agree. For the Warbirds to make such a technological leap on their own seems unlikely. Prime, I would estimate the chances that the Decepticons are involved somehow are greater than 95%."

Prime stroked his faceplate in thought. "Perhaps. But Megatron wouldn't simply give it away for free. What would Ladyhawke offer him in exchange?"

"Energy?" Papin suggested.

"Perhaps. But then he would simply steal it."

Silence filled the room for a long minute. Finally, Streetwise admitted, "Well, I'm stumped."

"So are we," said Markowitz. "But now you see why we called you in on this. We were hoping you could've said whether or not the Warbirds were using Cybertron tech to begin with."

Prowl shook his head. "If we had something to examine, we could give you the answer. But a few photographs isn't enough."

"Yeah, we figured as much. We need more information before can commit to a plan, but I think that we can work together and come up with something..."

* * *

The suitcase bounced off Michael Wilmington's lap as the sedan hit a rough spot, but he was quick enough to catch it before it fell. He wondered how long he had been riding; reflexively, he glanced at his wrist, stopping when he remembered that his watch wasn't there. Taking a deep sigh, he settled back in his seat and started quietly singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall."

He was down to forty-two bottles when the car rolled to a stop. There was nothing visible through the tinted windows, but he could hear the crunch of heels on gravel as his hosts climbed out of the front. A moment after he unbuckled his safety belt, the door on his left clicked, then swung open.

"We've arrived, sir," announced a clipped British voice.

Wilmington climbed out of the car and stood next to the speaker, a middle-aged man sharply dressed in a three-piece black suit. Nearby were the man's companions, two massive bodyguards who had never spoken a word. Looking around, he saw that he was in a velvet green countryside, with soft rolling hills that were dotted with assorted flowers and trees. In the distance, gray mountains faded upwards to white, standing proudly against the blue sky in prelude to the coming winter. It was a classic European countryside, though Wilmington had no idea exactly where in Europe he was.

Most impressive of all was the large castle that stood before him to the west. The design was based on the English model; what it lacked in height, it made up in territory. The stone wall, impressively large from the front, hinted at a grand estate within. The main keep was a rectangular building that stood fifty feet tall at its height. The only identification was a silver flag bearing a bird's head in black profile, which gave the structure an eerie atmosphere of secrecy. A stone path led from the car to the drawbridge, which was presently lowered over the moat.

Across the drawbridge came a female figure, just under six feet tall and clad entirely in Azure blue. Wilmington's eye was immediately drawn to her body-specifically, to the flexible metal mesh armor that covered it. On her hands and forearms were gauntlets made of the same material, and she wore knee-high flat-heeled boots on her legs. A matching headband and face mask rounded out the ensemble.

She addressed the man in the suit. "Is he clean, Watson?" Her voice was clear even with the mask on; Wilmington detected a hint of an accent, though he wasn't certain of the nationality.

"Yes, madam. His laptop computer had a hidden video camera, and his watch had a homing transmitter. They are both in his hotel room."

Ladyhawke turned with a twinkle in her eye. "Tsk, tsk. You know the rules, Mr. Wilmington. I hope my Hawks didn't hurt you too much when they took away your toys."

"No, no," Wilmington hastily replied.

"May I examine your briefcase?" It was not a question.

"Sure." He rested it on the hood of the sedan and quickly opened it.

Ladyhawke was immediately by his side as she poked through the contents. "Pens ... papers ... German/English dictionary ... a tape player?" She peered at it, and asked in polite mockery, "'Q-in-Law.' Books on tape, Mr. Wilmington? I thought you were more literate than that."

He smiled in embarrassment. "I have a small bit of insomnia. The player has a timer; I use it to help me sleep."

She pressed the PLAY button, and Majel Barrett's voice came forth: "Picard flushed slightly, and he could sense behind him that Worf was ready to charge. He saw Riker-"

Ladyhawke flicked off the player and returned it to the suitcase, then smartly closed it. "I enjoyed that book," she confessed, "but you'll have to leave it inside." Once again, her tone left no room for debate; Wilmington could only nod politely as she handed the case to him.

"Shall we proceed, then?" Ladyhawke asked, smiling again. Without waiting for a reply, she began walking towards the castle. Wilmington caught up to her with a short dash, leaving Watson to trail behind.

* * *

The woman failed to fall asleep for the fifth time. She was not sure if it was due to guilt, anticipation, or the loud roar of the jet engines. Perhaps it was all three. Though coach class was crowded, she was acutely aware of the conspicuous looks people gave her. That could not be helped; dressing inconspicuously would have made her stand out even more. But no one dared to approach, so she could at least pretend to be normal.

Just another tourist. Right. Most tourists didn't bypass airport security, or faced awkward questions about prosthetics, or forged their tickets. Even though the airline was a faceless conglomerate, even though her cause was just, she knew that what she did was wrong. And while she pledged to repay the costs someday, it didn't assuage the guilt.

She closed her eyes again, just before hearing the young boy who asked about "the funny-looking lady." A woman scolded him with a sharp whisper and admonished him for pointing, but the damage was done. She wondered how she would bear the remaining seven hours.

* * *

The walk from the sedan was a relatively short one. From the drawbridge and the barbican, Ladyhawke led Wilmington past the front court, into the keep, and then to a cozy little library overlooking the rear bailey. A thick oriental rug covered the floor, and the far wall was dominated by a massive case packed with books. Ladyhawke glided into a large chair, turning it so her back was to the fireplace.

She gestured to a seat next to the bay windows, and Wilmington took his seat. "Nice place you have here," he commented. Watson stood by the door, quietly deferential.

"Thank you. I'm very proud of the Nest. I've kept it as well as the day when I took over from Father."

"It'd make a nice vacation spot," said Wilmington with a grin.

She chuckled back. "I'm afraid we don't do packages."

"Well, my wife wanted to go to Japan anyway."

Ladyhawke leaned back in her chair, then crossed her legs and pressed her fingertips together as she peered at him. "Then let us discuss your presence, Mr. Wilmington. Why are you here? I thought your government wasn't interested in associating with us."

His demeanor turned professional. "Policies change. After all, it's a different Administration now, with a new President."

"Yes. But I understand she's having a hard time with Health Care." Ladyhawke laughed softly at her joke, then resumed. "I suspect, however, that what has really piqued your interest are our newest 'offerings'?"

Wilmington shrugged in confession. "I won't deny it; that armor and those heavy weapons you're using are beyond anything we have."

"Yes; I'm glad to see your intelligence facilities are still up to snuff. Are you actually here to make a purchase, or are you merely shopping around?"

"Just looking around, I'm afraid. But my superiors are prepared to make an offer if my report is positive."

She smiled. "Then perhaps I should be certain that you're suitably impressed. Maybe we can give you a few photos for souve-"

A beeping sound interrupted, its tone soft but shrill. "Excuse me," she said. Tapping her right wrist, she spoke into the back of her hand. "Ladyhawke."

The anonymous voice replied quickly, with no sign of emotion. "We have a 487. Six blips, bearing seventy-nine mark three. ETA one minute."

"Acknowledged. Go to yellow alert, and prepare the Phoenix." She tapped her wrist again, and a quiet electronic wail started echoing from somewhere deep within the castle.

As Ladyhawke stood, she said, "It appears you may be getting a different demonstration than the one I had planned, Mr. Wilmington." Her tone was dispassionate and professional now, and he caught the suspicious glare she threw at him. Quickly, she ran out of the library, with Watson at her heels. After a moment's decision, Wilmington scrambled out of his chair and gave chase.

The three dashed out of the keep towards one of the towers, where they bounded up a spiraling stairwell to the top of the east wall. Wilmington was panting heavily by the time he reached Watson, who was holding a pair of binoculars at arm's length for his mistress.

She didn't need them. Clear on the eastern horizon were six shapes, flying fast and low over the gentle landscape. Five were aircraft; the sixth was immediately recognizable to Wilmington, a giant gray humanoid form-

"Megatron."

Ladyhawke acted as if she hadn't heard. She pressed another control on her gauntlet, and the sirens howling in the background increased in pitch and volume. Over the din, she shouted, "Hostile intruders, prepare for siege! NCPs evacuate immediately!" She whirled towards the two men. "Watson-Get our guest clear, and make sure he has a good view."

Not waiting for acknowledgment, Ladyhawke climbed over the battlements and leaped off. She landed with a tumble thirty feet below, then snapped upright and dashed back into the keep. With surprising strength, Watson grabbed Wilmington's arm and started to lead him away.

* * *

Blitzwing could barely contain his excitement. Sitting around Decepticon headquarters had left him bored and restless, but there was nothing for him to do between campaigns except alternate between target practice and being surly. As a result, he was eager to leap into a rousing battle, even if it was against mere fleshlings. It didn't promise to be much of a fight, but it would provide a few hours of change, at least.

They were almost upon the castle when anti-aircraft batteries suddenly emerged from the top of the ramparts and the towers. The weapons fired as one; the Decepticons broke formation, quickly scattering to avoid the attack. Giving the firing order, Megatron bellowed, "Destroy them!"

Thundercracker and Dirge surged ahead. The AA guns tracked and fired again, but the two dodged the second volley with sharp banks that no Earthly jet could ever match. Dirge took out two of the guns as he flew by, his engines wailing a song of doom and dread. Thundercracker followed a second later and rocked the castle with a sonic boom to emphasize the point. As they banked for a second pass, shells licking their tails, the other Decepticons spread out, landed, and surrounded the castle.

Blitzwing reconfigured into his tank form and landed forcibly before the castle's front gates. An explosive shell leveled the barbican, killing one human even as another dove into the moat. Megatron touched down a second later and began firing rapidly; each blast of his fusion cannon tore out a gaping hole in the wall. "Prepare to die, worms!" Blitzwing cried.

An orange bolt caught Megatron in the back and sent him stumbling. The two turned, to be greeted by a floating platform carrying a large cannon. Part of the meadow behind them had sunk, providing an access ramp to an underground cavern. Even now, a dozen armored humans were streaming forth into the afternoon sun, followed by another hovertank.

A second shot caught Megatron in the right shoulder. He staggered briefly before counterattacking. The tank skirted sideways and easily dodged the blast, then fired for a third time. It caught the surprised Megatron in the chest and sent him back another step.

The foot soldiers charged at Blitzwing. He surged forward to meet their attack, then fired point-blank. Half were caught in the blast, but the other six leaped into the air and flew by overhead. Before he could turn his turret and fire again, the men landed behind, dove underneath, and started to lift him. They were joined by their fallen fellows, whose armored suits were smoking and darkened but otherwise seemingly unharmed. As they hefted him off the ground, Blitzwing could only gape and wonder how he was having problems with mere fleshlings...

* * *

Wilmington rested against the tree and struggled to catch his breath. Next to him was Watson, standing with the same air of unflappable detachment he always wore. Ladyhawke's aide ("butler" didn't seem right to him, somehow) had guided them through an intricate labyrinth of underground rooms and corridors, to emerge north of the Nest in a grove of trees. The sloping hill gave them a good, safe view of the conflict. With a little more detachment, Wilmington could almost pretend it was a movie instead of a narrow escape for his life.

In front of them, a large red and gray robot-apparently one of the airplanes they'd spotted earlier-was battling some of Ladyhawke's troops. He managed to stomp a hovering cannon, but had a harder time fighting off the second tank and the armored men who were flying around him. He crushed one or two, but the others nimbly kept out of his reach and fought back with their weapons.

A muffled voice broke Wilmington out of his reverie. He and Watson exchanged confused glances before looking around, but they didn't see anyone nearby. The voice spoke again. Remembering, Wilmington snapped open his briefcase and pulled out the recorder.

"Michael, What's going on?" the voice asked. "I thought I heard Decepticons!"

Wilmington caught a glimpse of Watson's surprised expression as he replied, "You heard right. They're attacking the castle."

"Castle? What castle? Never mind, I will call Prowl. Let me out."

In agreement, Wilmington ejected the cassette, which flew out of the case and unfolded into a red robot just under two meters tall. It turned towards the battle, then pressed a finger against its forehead. "Grand Slam to Prowl, Grand Slam to Prowl. Can you hear me? We have a situation here..."

* * *

Flying wing-to-wing, Thundercracker and Dirge accelerated for another sweep over the stronghold. Most of the anti-aircraft guns were knocked out now; Dirge figured two more strafing runs would take them all out.

They swept from the west, separating in parallel rolls to avoid a volley of concussive shells. Thundercracker fired a rocket at the untouched wall as he flew by. It detonated with a deafening explosion that could be heard above the background noise of battle.

"Yeah! Direct hit!" Thundercracker cackled in glee. Dirge said nothing, but simply wondered about the skill need to hit a wall. He turned right and flew south. As he passed overhead, Dirge fired haphazardly at some of the humans that were swarming around Thrust. They're worse than scraplets on a husk, he thought with a touch of disgust.

Thundercracker pulled up next to him. "This is too easy," he said. "Where's the challenge of-yaah!"

Another laser bolt sizzled by just as Thundercracker spiraled east in evasion. Dirge glanced around and saw five small one-man airships. Four were a combination of airplane and helicopter, moving with the versatility of both. The fifth was a low-profile jet with sharply angled wings. There was no outer hull; the entire structure was exposed and painted in yellow and orange. Assorted weapons and guns lined the bottom of the wings, and a woman wearing blue was visible in the cockpit.

Dirge banked hard to the right. The yellow ship and one of the 'copters followed, leaving the other three to chase Thundercracker. Dodging bolts and shells, Dirge suddenly dropped in a power dive. He spiraled to port in an outside loop, then snapped upright and transformed. As the humans tried to follow, he sprayed with his arm-mounted machine guns and destroyed the helicopter.

The yellow ship swerved to avoid the flaming debris. Reverting back into his jet mode, Dirge pursued it, too absorbed to notice the new roar from overhead.

* * *

"Now!"

Prowl leaped a second later, arms and legs spread wide as he pinwheeled towards the ground. Despite the spin, he quickly assessed the situation below and radioed his orders. "Warpath, Brawn! Take the front of the castle! Smokescreen, you've got the south! I'll get Starscream! Jetfire, the air is yours!"

"What about the humans?" Brawn asked.

Prowl hesitated for an instant, and decided to err with caution. "Don't attack them! We're only after Decepticons!"

As the others acknowledged, Prowl fretted. The strike force was supposed to be used in case of an emergency extraction, so he had selected Autobots best suited for a quick rescue from a human structure. But the Decepticon attack had changed all of that. Prowl didn't know why they were attacking, but prudence led him to side with their victims.

He put away his displeasure at the improvisation involved. Being outnumbered and outgunned was bad enough, but this aerial assault was worse, since it left the Autobots vulnerable during free-fall. He agreed to it only because it was the quickest means of insertion available, and he hoped the combatants below would be too busy fighting to notice them.

Five seconds from impact, Prowl activated his jet pack, leveling out as he darted towards the northern end. He swooped low over the wall even as one of the anti-aircraft guns fired at him. Surprised, he realized, They think we're Decepticon reinforcements! Then just as quickly, he dismissed it; there was no time to explain, even if he could.

He touched down roughly on the moat's northern shore. Starscream was in front of him, his back towards Prowl. He was waving the remaining hovertank in both hands, swatting the flying soldiers that swarmed around him. "Pathetic germs! Humans are no match for me!" He emphasized the point by batting one deep into a grove of trees.

Prowl shed his jet pack even as he shunted in his rifle. With practiced reflexes he shot three times, his acid pellets sketching a diagonal line in Starscream's back. The Decepticon cried as he staggered, then turned angrily. "Interfering Autobot!"

Starscream flung the hovertank at Prowl. He dove to the left, and the tank smashed into the castle wall instead. Prowl leaped again to avoid a second burst, then transformed and hit the ground running. Dodging a third blast, Prowl rammed into Starscream and bowled him over. The humans then pressed the advantage; they landed on the Decepticon and began using their energy weapons like scalpels, trying to dissect him.

* * *

Megatron wordlessly vaporized one of the fleeing humans, then lowered his cannon. The others were out of range now, and didn't warrant the effort to hunt them down. Broken bodies and smashed hovertanks littered the field, a gory testament to the losers.

Still, Megatron couldn't help but admire their skill and courage. What they lacked in firepower they made up in agility, and the Warbirds fought to the end, inflicting a fair share of damage and incapacitating Blitzwing in the process. If only my Decepticons were so devoted! Megatron thought.

He was shaken out of his reverie by a quiet roar from behind. Megatron turned in time to be blindsided by Brawn's flying tackle. The two stumbled and fell, then Megatron flung the Autobot away. He climbed to his feet just in time to dodge a mortar that exploded nearby.

"Zowie! Let's try that-Pow! -- again!" Warpath, now landed and in his tank form, quickly rotated to track the Decepticon leader. But Megatron was faster; his fusion cannon blasted the ground nearby, and the ensuing blast sent Warpath tumbling like a pebble in a hurricane.

Before Megatron could fire again, Brawn charged, punching him square in the jaw. "We're taking you down, Megatron!"

Megatron recovered quickly and slapped the Autobot back. "Runts like you? Never!" he laughed. He squeezed out another shot before Brawn could recover, striking him in the left side.

Pain erupted in Megatron's back as Warpath's next shell connected, and the explosion sent him spinning. Before he had recovered, Brawn leaped on his back, grabbing with one hand while bludgeoning with the other. "You can't call me a runt and get away with it!"

"Yeah! We'll-Wham! -- him! Blammo!"

* * *

First things first, thought Jetfire, as his tracking systems pinpointed the nearest cluster. He set an intercept vector, banked sharply, then kicked in the afterburners.

Up ahead, Dirge was doggedly chasing a yellow craft. The pilot was going through a wide repertoire of evasive maneuvers-power climbs, wingovers, spiraling dives, Immlemann turns, and a few snap-back somersaults that would tax most aviators-but Dirge refused to be shaken. He matched the human move for move, nipping occasionally with a burst from his machine guns. Given enough time, the yellow ship would fall.

Jetfire changed course to one parallel to the two planes and rolled halfway on his side. The quad underbelly guns spat violently as he passed by. Their particle beams thoroughly sliced Dirge with surgical precision while leaving the other ship untouched.

Ignoring his original quarry, Dirge swept to the left and went after Jetfire, leaving the yellow ship behind him. Almost simultaneously, its lasers and Jetfire's cannons fired again, riddling the Decepticon from both fore and aft.

Unglamorously, Dirge fell. Jetfire quickly set a new course across the battlefield towards Thundercracker, not anxious for a confrontation with the human. Fortunately, the yellow craft didn't bother with him, but instead turned towards the besieged citadel on its own path.

* * *

Wilmington watched the unfolding battle with a variety of emotions. The Autobots were having mixed success against the Decepticons, while Ladyhawke's men were faring worse. Though he had professional reasons to see the Warbirds lose, all he could feel was a sense of revulsion. He was no stranger to death, having killed in the line of duty, but the Decepticons' wholesale slaughter was far worse than anything he had ever inflicted.

He looked away out of nausea. Behind him was Grand Slam, standing alertly with dual repulsor guns at the ready, a glorified bodyguard. Wilmington then realized something was amiss. "Hey, where's Watson?"

Grand Slam peered around, surprised. "I am not sure. My sensors detect no trace of him nearby. Do you think he might turn on us?"

"I doubt it. What's the point?"

Grand Slam pondered a moment, then said, "You are right, I suppose."

Wilmington shrugged in resignation. "Nothing to do but wait until the shooting's over." The Autobot nodded silently as he continued to record the grisly sounds of warfare. Suddenly, on the horizon, a fast-moving dot approached the battlefield.

* * *

Warpath was down, but Brawn made up the difference with renewed determination and vigor. The Autobot was agile enough to dodge Megatron's cannon most of the time, and rugged enough to withstand off its blasts. Megatron's strategy was therefore a defensive one; he dodged the rampaging attacks, responding with a kick or a punch when the opportunity appeared. He was confident that he could outlast Brawn, given enough time.

He had just leaped over Brawn's latest charge when two things happened in rapid sequence. The first was an energy blast that singed his side; Megatron turned to face Smokescreen, straight from his battle with Thrust and clearly a bit worse for wear. Megatron snapped off a shot, but Smokescreen leaped to the ground, dodging the blast as he folded into a red and blue sports car.

A second later, the sun was blotted out as a massive shadow crossed the sky. The subject landed in the castle's bailey with a crash that shook the earth. A golem of the modern age, it stood nearly seventy feet tall, a seemingly disorganized hodge-podge of military vehicles assembled in the frame of a man.

Bruticus.

He attacked without warning. One kick shattered a storage shed. A fist the size of a small car effortlessly caved in a roof. Inside the buildings, rare collections and priceless objects d'art were ruined beyond recovery. Glass, stone, wood and steel shattered and buckled as Bruticus' rampage escalated.

Smokescreen barreled forward as thick black smoke poured out of his exhaust pipes. Megatron sidestepped and fired, striking him in the rear as he yelled, "Your pathetic tricks won't work with me, Autobot!"

Brawn slammed into Megatron from behind with enough force to send him to the ground. "How about my pathetic tricks, then?"

Megatron growled as he threw Brawn off his back, then yelled, "Bruticus! Destroy the Autobots!"

Without interrupting his symphony of destruction, Bruticus lifted a cottage and hurled it eastward, violently interrupting Smokescreen's next charge and scattering stones across the meadow. Half of a tower crumpled in his hands, to be thrown northward at Prowl and Starscream. With chaotic efficiency, Bruticus violently tore out chunks of masonry and steel, then turned them into missiles against his foes.

An explosion against his right arm sent him stumbling with a roar. Bruticus spun to face a small yellow jet and was rewarded with a second rocket in the chest. The giant staggered, smashing a house in the process. He flung part of a wall at the ship, but the pilot dodged it easily. With remarkable agility, the jet continued to elude Bruticus' swipes and attacks even as it fought back with its lasers and missiles.

On the ground, Megatron roughly shoved Brawn into Smokescreen, sending the two Autobots in a tangle. Spotting Prowl approaching from the northwest, Megatron quickly decided for discretion and leaped into the sky.

Flying towards the yellow ship, his fusion cannon flared twice, and a bolt of white seared through the right wing. Wounded, the jet flew away, smoking and wobbling as it went. Megatron smiled the predator's smile as he gave chase.

The erratically-dodging craft eluded him for a few seconds, until a third blast from his cannon clipped the left wing. He chased it in a steep power dive as it pinwheeled towards the ground, collapsing and imploding on itself as it went.

Suddenly it straightened out, its transformation complete. It was now no longer an airplane, but a sophisticated exoskeleton, humanoid in shape and about twelve feet tall. Thick legs and clawed hands made it suitable for a variety of heavy tasks, while the weapon racks on its shoulders clearly marked it for warfare. It flew with the twin jets on its back, and the cockpit had folded down into a control seat in the center, giving a clear view of the pilot, a blue-garbed human female.

It pulled up and stopped in mid-air, giving a half-turn as Megatron flew by in surprise. A salvo of missiles struck him in the small of his back and ruptured a few of his subsystems. Ignoring the pain, he spun and fired his cannon in one motion. "Die!"

The exosuit's rear engines suddenly stopped. The human dropped suddenly, leaving the fusion bolt to pass harmlessly overhead, then retaliated with a laser barrage at Megatron. He spun rapidly to avoid the attack, then swore to crush the pretender as he bolted forward.

* * *

The woman slowly sipped her cappuccino, frustrated and puzzled. The information she had was highly fragmented and maddeningly incomplete, but she had concluded that this sleepy village was the most probable location for a hideout. But from all indications, there was nothing covert either about the town or its people.

She drained the cup and peered over the local map again, mentally kicking herself again for not copying the clues that she had found. Working from memory alone, she was now considering alternative places to explore. It could be anywhere in a forty-mile radius, she concluded. And most of that's undeveloped countryside. What chance do I have? Maybe if I-

Her thoughts died suddenly as she spotted the thin column of smoke on the far horizon. A sick sensation twisted her guts even as instinct told her that she had found her quarry...

* * *

Jetfire quickly landed north of the castle and shifted to his robot mode. He sprinted by Starscream's immobile form, half-buried under a pile of stone, then crouched to a halt next to one of the smashed hovertanks. It was relatively intact-a big surprise-and he hoped the other Autobots could keep Bruticus distracted while he worked.

The outer armor took all of his strength to peel. Once it was exposed, he quickly found the weapons systems and carefully dissected those, inspecting them with his scientific eye. At the same time, molecular analyzers in his optics performed a scan of the composition of the materials used. It was not as accurate as a well-kept laboratory, but the general results it gave would suffice for his needs.

He performed the same rapid examination of the tank's propulsion and power systems. Then, respectfully, he took out the dead pilot, still encased in his battle armor. A micro-laser in his fingertip sliced it open, and Jetfire rested the body in the grass before he inspected the suit itself. When he was finished, he dropped the suit and activated his communicator and reported.

"Prowl! I've examined the Warbirds' equipment. They're not, repeat NOT, using Transformer technology!"

"What?!?"

Surprised by Prowl's outburst, Jetfire continued, "There's some very efficient designs, but nothing here that's beyond human knowledge. I've recorded everything in my memory banks, so we can double-check later, but I'm sure of my results. What should we do now?"

* * *

Megatron slammed into the ground on the west side, his arms locked around the armored human. Though smaller and weaker, the pilot was clever enough to use the exoskeleton's speed and strength well. The claws were now swinging madly, roughly knocking his head and face with each blow, but the Decepticon leader remained determined.

He spun suddenly and pinned the human beneath him. Pushing himself up on one arm, he hissed, "Enough!" as he pointed the fusion cannon at the cockpit.

The suit's legs quickly lashed out and kicked him away. He fell back to a sitting position just as the power suit tumbled into the moat. It staggered upright, slowly backing onto the small ledge of dry ground at the base of the castle.

Megatron fired but the human dove forward, falling face-down in the moat even as the blast struck the wall instead. Undaunted, Megatron swept his arm, firing again and again, each bolt striking the base of the ramparts. With a moaning roar, the battlement suddenly collapsed, burying the woman beneath tons of rubble.

Megatron slowly climbed to his feet as he watched the moat. Aside from the ripple of water and rising clouds of dust, there was no sign of movement. A sense of satisfaction filled his circuits. He rubbed his dented faceplate as he considered continuing the battle against the Autobots, then dismissed it. Aside from Bruticus, the other Decepticons needed repairs, and there was the chance that more Autobots would arrive.

No. His objective was accomplished, and he was content.

* * *

"What should we do now?"

Bruticus lurched forward before Prowl could answer Jetfire's query. "Fall back! Fall back!" he shouted, even as the Autobots complied. They fired as they went, but none of their weapons had a significant effect on the seemingly invincible gestalt.

Bruticus took two steps forward, then kneeled and scooped up Blitzwing's shattered body in one smooth motion. Without a second glance, he jumped skyward and flew away. Trailing him was Megatron and a number of Decepticon jets, in various states of disarray.

Quicker than it had begun, the fight was over.

Stunned, Prowl looked around. The fortress was a shattered, smoking ruin, nothing left but twisted beams and stones scattered as far as one could see. The mashed and mangled remains of armored soldiers littered the battlefield, and the smell of burnt vegetation hung heavy in the air. It would take some time before anyone could make sense of what had happened here today.

Prowl flicked on his communicator. With a weariness of voice that surprised himself, he spoke, "Grand Slam? You and Agent Wilmington can come out now. Jetfire, prepare for transport ... We're going home."

* * *

Megatron was feeling wonderful, gladly savoring every moment of the flight back to Decepticon headquarters. There was something primal and satisfying about simply destroying the enemy, without any tactical advantages or complex plans to complicate the issue. He was refreshed and invigorated, even though he knew that he should be feeling pain and exhaustion instead. Nothing could ruin his mood now. Not even...

"Megatron?"

Megatron braced himself as he slowly replied, "Yes, Starscream."

"Now that this fiasco is over..." Despite his own extensive injuries, Starscream was still able to convey enough contempt to be truly irritating. "...would you mind telling me the purpose of this pointless attack?"

"Pointless, you say?" Megatron laughed. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No!" Starscream's voice was shrill. "What have we got to show for this? No fuel, no weapons, no Autobots, nothing but lots of damaged Decepticons!"

Megatron spoke pleasantly. "Precisely, Starscream! Look at the difficulty we had fighting these 'Warbirds' today. Try and imagine how much more trouble they would have been if they were at full strength. Then imagine how much harder it'd be to vanquish the Autobots and take over this miserable planet if humans like that were everywhere."

His voice rose as he hammered his argument home. "Now, however, they are vanquished. Their leader is dead. A potential threat has been removed from our path. That is why we attacked. Now do you understand?"

Starscream pouted silently. Megatron knew that his point was made, and that he had reinforced his leadership in the process. His smile returned; Nothing would ruin his mood.

* * *

Forty-some-odd miles to the southwest, the Autobots were heading over the Atlantic Ocean inside Jetfire's passenger bay. Brawn and Smokescreen were tending to Warpath's injuries, while the others tried to make sense of the day's events.

In the front of the room, Jetfire flashed a series of schematics and graphs on a small display screen. "...So you see, Prowl, that there's nothing alien about these plans at all. It's all Earth science, coupled with some new and unusual designs."

"Risky designs, you mean," said Wilmington. "I'm no expert, but some of those schemes look pretty dangerous to me. The power systems on that battle armor has almost no shielding at all. Anyone who wore that suit probably increased their chances of cancer by three hundred percent."

"Maybe Ladyhawke-Yow! -- paid them enough-Zing! -- not to care," Warpath suggested.

"Or maybe she didn't tell them," Prowl added. "All right, Jetfire. I'm convinced. Looks like we were wrong; the Decepticons haven't been feeding Cybertronian technology to the Warbirds."

Smokescreen soberly added, "Yeah, but there isn't much of them left now."

Everyone turned to Wilmington. "We'll see. We know the Warbirds have hideouts around the world, though we don't know where all of them are. I doubt all of the 'birds were killed, but Ladyhawke was the force that held them together. If she's dead, anything can happen."

"In any event, this is no longer our concern," Prowl said. "It's clear that this is strictly human politics."

"Right. Thanks for helping us clear this up."

Grand Slam finally spoke. "I am still wondering about the Decepticons' attack. I cannot think of a reason why Megatron would bother, especially if there is no tie between them and the Warbirds. And the fact that they attacked at the same time we were trying to infiltrate their headquarters is very suspicious."

"I agree," said Prowl. "I'll have to check for security leaks when we return to the Ark. As for Megatron's motives, I can't see a reason either. Perhaps we'll never know."

"Aw, maybe Megatron was bored," Brawn suggested.

"Yeah! Blam! Maybe he-Powie! -- just wanted a big-Kaboom! Heh heh!"

* * *

Watson waited until the white jet was over the horizon before he came out of his hiding place. He quickly dashed to the western side of the estate, where he had seen Ladyhawke and the Phoenix last. The sight of the stone-filled moat greeted him. Without hesitation or regard for dignity, he climbed onto the tallest pile and began pushing the stones off.

A splash to the right caught his ear; he turned in time to see a blue-gloved arm reach out of the shallow waters. Quickly, Watson scrabbled off the mound, then reached Ladyhawke's side as she pulled herself ashore.

He moved to help her, but she weakly waved him away. He stood passionlessly as she laid on the shore, coughing up water, her chest heaving with each breath. Her outfit was torn and battered in numerous places, and ugly bruises and cuts were visible where the flesh was exposed. But if her injuries gave her pain, she didn't show it.

Finally, she had gathered enough of her composure to pull herself upright. Looking at the debris that was once a castle, she muttered, "Damn. I loved that place."

Watson stood silently. Ladyhawke finally turned to him, as if just noticing his presence, then said simply, "Report."

He pulled a small palmtop computer out of his breast pocket, flipped it open, and consulted it. "The action against the invaders was unsuccessful. All of the Owls, Ravens, and Sparrows here were successfully evacuated and are currently in transit to the French Nest.

"Of our Combat Personnel, we have over eighty-five percent fatalities overall. The Falcons, the Eagles, and the ground-assault cannons are total losses. The Hawks did better, though survival came only from those who retreated from the battle. They are, to a man, wounded in varying degrees and are now awaiting rescue and extradition.

"All of our weapons and equipment should be considered lost, except for our computer files. Naturally, they were copied to the other facilities. The total financial losses are pending."

Ladyhawke nodded, not showing any hint of emotion. "Have a team of Ravens down here immediately. We must remove all signs of our presence before the authorities arrive. Alert the Robins. I want an air-tight cover story in three hours, tops. Oh, and send for the Steel Talon; I need a bath."

Watson keyed on the computer as she spoke, then replied, "I took the liberty of calling the Talon earlier, along with a team of Nightingales; its ETA is currently under ten minutes."

"Very good, Watson. I knew I could count on you." Her mask tensed with what he knew to be a satisfied smile. As an afterthought, she asked, "What happened to Mr. Wilmington?"

He softly cleared his throat. "I believe he has departed with his friends."

Ladyhawke's brows narrowed darkly. "So he was responsible for the attack?"

"Oh, no," Watson quickly corrected. "I am quite certain that he was not. He had an ... 'accomplice,' hidden inside his tape recorder. After we had escaped to safety, this robot called for assistance."

"Ah," she said, stroking her chin thoughtfully. "Those must be the others who helped fight off our 'visitors.' Perhaps I owe him a word of thanks."

A new voice from the left suddenly interjected. "You shouldn't bother; they're all working together anyway."

Watson and Ladyhawke turned as one to face their visitor: a Caucasian woman, standing at five feet eight inches with close-cut blonde hair. Her only form of clothing were strips of silver metal which crisscrossed her from head to toe. Aside from the poise of a tired warrior, she had nothing else.

Ladyhawke stepped forward and took in the stranger's outfit with a skeptical eye. "Who, my dear, are you?"

"I'm called Circuit Breaker. And I want to talk to you about those robots."

"Oh?"

"Yes. As you can see," she waved to indicate the ruins, "they are cold, emotionless killing machines! All they want is to destroy everyone on the planet! But the world governments are cozy with them, and refuse to see the danger. I've been fighting them by myself, but there are too many of them. I need your help to-"

"Hold it," Ladyhawke sharply interrupted with a raised hand. "This sounds like a business proposition. No offense intended, but I'm in no mood to talk about work until I get myself cleaned up. If you are willing to accompany me, however, I'll be glad to hear your story..."

* * *

Three hours later, Josie Beller-a.k.a. Circuit Breaker-was flying at 30,000 feet inside Ladyhawke's jet, the Steel Talon. True to her word, after Ladyhawke had bathed, cleaned, and changed into a new suit of armor, she promptly locked the two of them into a private office.

Josie was slowly coaxed into telling her life story: how, as a child genius, she went from the orphanage to the care of the Blackrock Enterprises. How she was almost completely crippled while manning the security systems on an oil rig under attack by a band of robots. How she had built her network of metal circuitry tape, which duplicated the work of her dead nervous system and gave her a host of new powers. And how she swore to use those powers to eliminate the giant robots that menaced the planet.

Ladyhawke, in turn, listened with complete attention. She would occasionally prod with a question, or type something at the computer on her desk. Once, she had Josie remove one of the metal strips of her suit, and studied it with intense concentration.

Now Josie was finished. Ladyhawke leaned back in her chair and pressed her fingertips together. Taking a deep breath, she slowly said, "You need help, my dear."

"That's why I came to see you-"

"No, no, Josie. You need help. As in professional, psychiatric help."

"What?"

"Have you ever listened to what you're saying? It does not match with reality. For instance, if all of those robots that attacked me were evil, then why did the ones that arrived later fought off the first set?"

"It's a ruse--!"

"Yes, yes. Grand schemes to fool the public." Ladyhawke waved the air absently as she continued, "Frankly, Josie, your conspiracy theories would be a dream come true for Oliver Stone. It's obvious that you're bitter over your accident, out for revenge, and as a result grossly oversimplifying the issue."

Josie leaped out of her chair. "I didn't come here to be insulted! If-"

"Sit-down!" Ladyhawke commanded suddenly, with a piercing glare that sent Josie scowling back into her seat.

Once she had settled, Ladyhawke leaned forward and resumed speaking in her normal tone. "Now listen to me. I don't claim to be a professional counselor. And even if I were, I've better things to do than to 'cure' you. I'm not a nursemaid. I said those things because it's the truth; whether or not you choose to believe them is your own matter. And frankly, I don't care if you are daft in the head-some of my best operatives are certifiable lunatics. But they get the job done, and that's all I ask for."

Ladyhawke climbed out of her chair and started pacing before Josie. "I don't believe in this 'evil robots are out to destroy the Earth' theory of yours. I do believe that those who call themselves 'Decepticons' are out to plunder our resources, while the 'Autobots' are trying to stop them. There's enough evidence in the public record to support this.

"That does not, however, make everything all right. Good intentions or no, the chances are very high that whenever these 'Transformers' get together, there'll be a lot of collateral damage to whoever's nearby. There is also the possibility that the Autobots may fail to stop a Decepticon attack. Or worse, that the Decepticons may eventually defeat them and leave us all helpless."

"So we have to stop them!" Josie yelled.

Ladyhawke ignored her as she continued lecturing. "The Autobots are also not entirely in my best interests. They are currently staying out of human affairs, but that may not hold forever. And if that happens, I'd rather not have Autobots who may interfere with a target of mine someday.

"So, Josie-" Ladyhawke stopped now, and turned to look down on her. "Though your obsession seems misdirected, you do bring up some valid points. For my own interests and those of the human race, you are right. We should work together against the Transformers."

Josie's expression broke into one of hope. "You mean you'll help me?"

Ladyhawke leaned back against the edge of her desk. "Not entirely. I want to hire you. I've had your personal records pulled while you were talking, and I must confess, they are impressive. You are a certifiable genius, and that suit of yours is the best proof possible. I want you to work with my Owls, in research, weapons design, or whatever else you care for. Also, I want you to protect my resources in case the robots attack again.

"In return, I'll give you my men and my facilities to fight the Transformers. You'll answer directly to me, but you can wage whatever missions you want-provided that they don't interfere with our contracts and assignments. Business first, vendettas later. Your jobs would also be a good way to keep my men in shape; the last thing I need are complacent soldiers."

Josie pondered for a long time. Finally, she looked up and said, "I won't fight humans for you."

"I won't need you to."

"And you know that anything I develop will be for fighting robots."

Ladyhawke crossed her arms indifferently. "Fine with me. You create the hardware; I'll put them to use."

Josie glared at her. "And I won't like you."

"As long as you obey me, I don't care. So ... Do we have a deal?"

Josie closed her eyes. Ladyhawke's attitude and personality irritated her greatly. Yet she also realized that this was the best opportunity she had to defeat the robots. Once, she believed that she would deal with the Devil himself to reach that goal. And now she was asked to give up her soul...

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and looked up. "Deal."

The End