Transformers: Fugitives

"And now for ANN 6:00 news, here's Mark Teller to bring you the latest." the TV announcer spoke, immediately switching to the anchor. Now an average caucasian man recorded for nationwide broadcast posed professionally to deliver the daily news.

"Good evening, I'm Mark Teller for ANN 6:00 news," he spoke. "Five years ago on this day, July 11, 2020, Mankind had been visited by an extraterrestrial civilization known as The Transformers. When this advanced robotic species came to our homeworld, we learned of their civil war fought between heroic Autobots and tyrannical Decepticons. Autobot Leader Optimus prime expressed about his race's continuous warfare raged for millions of years."

Recorded footage of a tall red and blue machine shaking hands with humans appeared. "He vowed to defend our way of life, aligning himself and his friends with the United States Military to form Skywatch. For the next three years, their combined efforts led to countless battles, slowly but surely pushing the vile Decepticons off our world. It all culminated on one fateful day--when our enemies invaded New York City, killing over 3,000 people in total. During which, Decepticon leader Megatron perished by Optimus' hands, fully terminating the warmonger himself." the anchor paused, breathing through his nose.

"Sadly, all good things come to an end, for the Autobots no longer required our assistance." footage now showed a trail of humanoid machines walking into a space shuttle. "On April 15, 2023, tearful goodbyes were exchanged as our extraterrestrial allies entered their makeshift ark, journeying back to their world. While our time together was short, mankind will always remember the heroic Autobots fighting the evil Decepticons. In the words of Optimus prime, Till all are one."

[-]

Bright gloomy azure by the prominent full moon illuminated the darkness below. The murky swamp water littered with chirping crickets and ribbiting frogs capturing unsuspecting prey hold prisoner an enormous boat. The boat in question was an abandoned cargo ship belonging to a now-defunct company, its' logo reading 'Nova Inc' on the bow.

The ship's entire front held overtly visible notice as its' sunken rear provided little chance for a clearer picture. Even if authorities could balance the vessel, common vicious predators like the alligator surround the marshland with their lurking presence. Not to mention the sheer weight potentially damaging local wildlife, effectively angering environmentalists. Plus, angering the environmentalists yielded little benefit.

On the other hand, locals from a nearby Wisconsin town have crowned this vessel as the 'Titanic 2.0', named after the RMS Titanic's signature moment of demise. Now its pointed bow staring high into blue skies create rusted beauty only seen by fated coincidence. Truly a sight to behold.....

......especially when viewed from afar.

"There it is." a man comments on the object, removing the charcoal binoculars from his determined green eyes. The soldier's rugged white skin encased within standard kevlar equipment clashes with insufferable solace heat as moisture rolls down his face in drops, wetting slicked-back inky hair. His black uniform ranked Major, bearing no country flag nor unit logo, envelopes the warrior in complete darkness.

"Major Perez." the soldier rotated 180 to meet the individual behind him. The man in question stood in front of a long car carrier truck, carrying four Porsche 959s. "All Spychangers here and accounted for. We've got ten mikes till our backup arrives."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Lee," Perez nodded at his Asian Second in Command, who strolls toward his CO's side as dark hazel eyes shared the view. "Real beauty, isn't she?"

"For a large target, anyway," Lee spoke with a shrug. "I imagine our victim had little trouble nesting inside, knowing his tremendous height associated with them."

"Considering the extra space, where else could've he gone?" Perez replied. "If I was a giant sentient robot, I'd find a place just right for me."

"One crashed ship wasn't enough," Lee gripped his fists. "Now it's anything anywhere to escape punishment. The day every Transformer dies will be a day of celebration, no matter their allegiance. Autobot or Decepticon, they're all the same."

"Careful with that anger, Lee. One wrong move, somebody 'accidentally' bites it," Perez shared his pain, albeit holding disagreements. "Never let the rage go, but use it wisely. Otherwise, people will die, regardless of our actions."

"Any moment now, I want to rip out their optics," the SIC uttered. "Watch as they beg for their miserable existence, pleading me to stop. But I won't ever stop till their lights go out."

"See, that's exactly what I'm talking about," Perez noted. Just then, radio static interrupted their intensifying conversation.

"Spychanger 1 to Battle Convoy," the caller said.

"Go ahead, Spychanger 1," Perez replied, anxiously awaiting news. "Are we being attacked?"

"Negative. Command just relayed a message to us," the female soldier reported. "Our backup Sixshot is arriving earlier than expected. ETA three mikes."

"Looks like we're ahead of schedule," the CO mumbled to Lee, earning him a nod. "Understood, Spychanger 1. Keep me updated."

"Solid copy, Battle convoy," the call ended, prompting both to run towards the cab. Perez takes the wheel while Lee rides shotgun. The interior utilized a typical dashboard seen in trucks with a ham radio placed on top. Lee pressed a button near the right vent--causing his side to rotate upward, revealing a secret radar control unit. Now their real mission begins, ending the sightseeing activities. Lurking inside that shipping container held a force unstoppable by normal means.

Perez grabbed the mic. "All units, prepare to disembark and transform. Once Sixshot arrives, we're commencing operations. Remember folks, this is strictly by the book. We get in then get out. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" he smiledat his troops' enthusiasm. With a swift touch, Perez flipped an easy switch to lower the bottom ramp. Mechanical noises emitted from the lowering bottom ramp, soon followed by two silvery Porsches rolling out. Both cars had their fronts exposed. Next, the lower half retracted, ensuing the upper ramp's descent. Another two Porsches drove out, joining their buddies in single-line formation. Containing no distinct markings or patterns, the Spychangers wore distinguished grey sweeping their bodies. No faction symbol nor unit logo appears on their chassis.

Suddenly, each car instantly changed shapes. In five seconds, each polished vehicle had converted to a sleek, humanoid form. Both doors hung straight down off the shoulders of dynamic blocky arms, whose blackened coloration provided needed contrast. All had legs formed out of the car's rear, evident by the back wheels near each shin. The bulky squarish but slender chest derived from the Porsche's hood kept its' tires tucked inside. Finally, their rounded gruff domes sported Crismon red visors alongside a smooth facemask and blocky pointed foreheads. At ten meters heightwise, All four units individually stand in monocratic fashion. Each had a compartment open on their leg's side, pushing out a handle, which in turn revealed a long rifle whose barrel extended forward to complete its' conversion.

"Contact--ten meters north," Lee uttered, monitoring the radar. "Analyzing signature.....receiving incoming data...... Got it! Primary target movement confirmed. He's here. Dirge is here!"

"Alright then. Battle convoy, transform!", like the Spychangers, Perez's charcoaled car carrier converted into a large humanoid form via simply pressing a button. The steering wheel retracted inside, replaced with two joysticks and a targeting monitor. Next, the windshield, darkened by folding panels, became a full 360° cockpit. Finally, a rapid system check was performed to ensure functional capability.

Targeting system: Online. Weapons: Online. Appendages: Online. All systems green.

Now, at fifteen meters, Battle convoy stood with grand authority towering over the Spychangers. Broad shoulders extending upward complemented the beefy blocky arms and hands. A slim abdomen leads high towards an immensely wide chest, finishing it off with oversized lower legs connected by rectangular bulky thighs attached to a slender waist. The narrow face under an angled helmet sported luminous grassy pupilless eyes above a fierce battle-mask with a square chin and cylinder-shaped antennas on both ear spots.

"Listen up," Perez spoke. "Split up in twos and encircle the freighter. Close in then fire explosive rounds at the bow. Once that bastard bursts out, light him up till he's dust, but keep the spark intact. I'll stay behind to provide support. Don't let him even one centimeter near you. Understood?"

"Spychanger 2 to Battle convoy, I'm detecting movement in the Tanker." Another female pilot commented. "Target Dirge is moving below. He's heading for the cargo hold."

"What for, that area's sunk. Now, what's he...." Perez then had a terrible realization. Knowing Drige's infamous fear tactics capable of frightening unsuspected folks, that damned Seeker could burst out right now. Yet, those details carried little weight. Something else held his attention.

"Major?" Lee's concern became evident on his face. "Is something wrong?"

"I got a bad feeling about this," Perez uttered.

"About what, sir?"

"Heat signature detected near cargo hold." Spychanger 2 reported. "Ah, readings just spiked."

"Looks like he caught us. Everybody, scatter!", Perez's cries over the radio coincided with an erupting red Laser bursting outta the murky water, prompting all units to split off and crouch with their weapons pointed.

"What was that?!"

"A null ray beam," Perez said. "Seekers love to abuse them. Cowardly bastards, all of them."

"Signature closing in fast. He's coming out!" Spychanger 2 yelled.

"Then let's show him Diaclone's moves. One way or another, he's going down." Just then, out of the blue....

"...Mind if I join the party?" asked a mysterious voice emitting from an oddly shaped sleek hovering above, which turned all heads. Like them, the plane transformed into a humanoid form, revealing the stranger's identity. The unknown machine smoothly landed on the muddy soil arms crossed. His wide squarish chest accompanied by protruding wings on each side flowed nicely with the slim abdomen. Thick chunky legs were attached to a small but broad waist. Blocky dynamic forearms containing wheels as makeshift shields lead to authoritative extended shoulders also including tires. Two plane wings pointed upward on his back afforded little vehicle kibble. Yet none can forget that deadly faceplate below glowing frightening red eyes.

"Sixshot!"

[-]

Meanwhile in Oregon

Heavy snores permeated the tiny bedroom, its' wooden walls contributing meager efforts to cancel the noise. Luckily, no one but one man lived here, for he alone owns it. A man once revered by media outlets as a champion, evident by the racing trophy case near the window. Each trophy varied between third, second, and first place, yet all had one name: Buster T. Witwicky.

Mr. Witwicky sleeps soundly on his comfy medium bed, dreaming whatever internal folly arises. Either rapid acidic roller coaster-ish insanity which vanishes the next morning or incompressible nightmares ending in embarrassing arousal. Either way, he won't remember.

Sadly, it doesn't last long courtesy of loud blaring rings emitting from his phone. A hand reaches out determined to cease its' ungodly cries, swiftly grabbing it. Buster rose himself up, scratching curly bed-ridden mustard hair. Sleepy amber eyes peer into the commotion's source, finding a familiar name requesting communication. His small nose breathed in and out, then pressed the 'accept' choice.

"Hello?" Buster mumbled softly scratching his back clad in a cobalt pajama shirt.

"Good morning, Mr. Champion!~," an ecstatic male voice erupted, startling Buster. "How are you on this fine day?"

"Uh.....Morning, Mr. Beaver. I'm doing great." He replied, shaking off his fright.

"Looks like I woke you at a bad time. Want me to call you later?" Beaver's light country accent came through.

"No, I'm fully awake," Buster answered. "You've already got my attention. What gives?"

"Is that a yes?"

"No, sir," he quickly shook his head. "I-it's a no."

"Much better," Beaver said. "Glad to know the best mechanic in town can get shit done early."

"Well, that's just me. Doing the best.....early.", his forced smile strained him.

"Don't praise yourself too much, or you'll regret it later. Anyways, sorry to call on your day-off, but I got a situation here."

"What kind?" Buster inquired, getting up to unfold the window's blinds.

"Large. Ginormous even. Have you keeping up with town rumors?"

The tired blonde gazed into the glistening lake. "On what, sir?"

"Something about large shadows walking around the town square. You heard that one?"

"Isn't that the one people call 'Mr. Alien'--the one where a giant shadow's been photographed by the local theater?" Buster recapped.

"Plus the one where giant footprints were found," Beaver added.

"I'm guessing you found something?"

"Well.....not exactly. Unless you count a rusted semi-truck."

"Semi-truck?" The blonde repeated.

"I know--weird, right? You step into an abandoned theater hoping to find ghosts, whatever wandering spirits occupy it. Next thing you know, you find a semi-truck sitting there. Boy all-mighty was it rusty.", Beaver explained.

"So....you want me to restore it?"

"Fix it, restore it, doesn't matter. Just patch it up and get back to me. I'm gonna try an' sell it to a buyer in Arizona."

"Nobody else wants to?"

"Wrong," Beaver bluntly stated. "Nobody bothered to. You'll see why soon."

Something was up. The former racing champion felt unease in his gut. It's telling him not to go, but curiosity intrigued him regardless. How can anyone concern themselves over a semi-truck, let alone one stranded alone inside an abandoned theater? True, it would raise eyebrows, but generally, no one bothers with supernatural happenings. Excluding those involved in supernatural happenings like occultists.

"Alright, I'll be there momentarily," Buster said. "Sounds like an easy job."

"Great! See you soon, buddy." the caller hung up, leaving the pondering blonde still looking outside alone. Something told him, whether by instinct or reason, that he won't like the results.

"No point in thinking too hard. Not good when you think too hard," Buster glanced at a galloping deer. "Ain't that right, Jessie?"