Aboard the imposing Nemesis ship, silence reigned in the control room, except for the low hum of systems being operated by Soundwave. He meticulously monitored all U.S. territory using the humans' own military satellites, now under his control. As he recalibrated the Energon sensors and adapted them to the radiation affecting American soil, he detected something.
An Energon signal. Weaker than the one from the forest, but strong enough to be picked up. Similar to the one he had previously recorded from the forest, but with unique markers he instantly recognized as Cybertronian.
Within seconds, Soundwave began reconfiguring the systems to trace the exact origin of that signature. Algorithms danced across his facial screen. And even though the signal was somehow cloaked, it was still recognizable—it was Airachnid's signal.
Soundwave showed no emotion. He simply locked the satellites onto her path. But another detail caught his attention: there was a second Energon signature… unstable and confusing. He couldn't identify it immediately, but he suspected it might be the human who had been causing trouble lately.
With silent steps, Soundwave left the command center and went to the infirmary.
There, Knock Out was tending to Megatron's wounds, who still bore the visible marks of his last battle against Airachnid and other damage sustained in the aftermath. Knock Out insisted on a thorough checkup to make sure Megatron was fully operational—mostly to avoid having his own head ripped off. Megatron's body was healing, but his mind was trapped in memories of the forest.
Sensing his silent subordinate's presence, Megatron slowly turned his head, his gaze burning with impatience.
"Soundwave… have you succeeded in your investigation?" His voice carried a veiled threat.
Soundwave responded in the only way he ever did—by projecting an image on his facial screen. It displayed Airachnid's signal, moving at impressive speed along a highway in the southern region of the country. From the pattern of her movement, it was clear she was heading somewhere specific.
Megatron leaned forward, clenching his fists.
"So… she has finally crawled out of whatever hole she's been hiding in…"
He rose slowly from the medbed, his red optics glowing with the fury that had long defined his soul.
"She's likely with that human," he thought aloud. "Lock the satellites on Airachnid. I have a feeling we might be close to something even more interesting… something that could favor the Decepticons."
***
Sector 7 Base — Hoover Dam
"Sir, the Decepticons are redirecting our satellites to a single target," reported one of the operators, his tone alarmed.
Simmons and Tom quickly approached, eyes locked on the screens.
"Can you identify what they're trying to observe?" Tom asked firmly.
"Not yet, sir. But I can try…" the operator turned to his colleague. "IDIOT, HELP ME OUT HERE!"
"Are you stupid?!" snapped the other, slapping his own headset. "We're dealing with alien artificial intelligence! If we're going to hack back, it better be with finesse. Mirroring their pattern is our only chance." He slapped another nearby operator who had been getting impatient.
"Have you seen these numbers?! It's humanly impossible to access this without being detected in the first few seconds."
"Just focus on following the flow," said the first operator, pointing to the screen. "They opened a backdoor when they hacked us. We're going to slip in by masking ourselves in that same breach. We'll hack ourselves—not them."
"You're insane… but that might actually work," the second operator replied.
"You want to keep debating theory with the boss giving us that look?" he gestured subtly to Tom, who stood with crossed arms, face full of impatience.
"Okay, okay. Let's mirror the signal and show what they're seeing. But sooner or later, they'll notice."
"I don't care," said Tom, finally breaking his silence. "If the Decepticons decide to attack, at least we'll have an edge—knowing when and where."
"You're the boss," the three operators replied in unison.
Minutes felt like hours in the operations room. The sound of typing echoed like war drums.
The air was thick with tension. Operators typed so fast their fingers seemed to float above the keyboards. Sweat dripped from their temples, soaking their shirts—not from heat, but from stress. They were at their limit, playing a spy game against an intelligence that wasn't even human. It was an unfair battle.
Each one covered the other, taking turns watching data packets and mapping the access pulses that could expose their infiltration. One mistake, one sync error and it would all be over.
"GOT IT!" one of the operators shouted, as if he had just remembered how to breathe after twenty minutes.
All eyes turned to his screen. A stream of stabilized footage revealed a satellite feed.
A high-altitude camera showed, in real time, a black supercar with red and gold accents cutting through the Nevada landscape like a living shadow—racing through the forest at absurd speed.
"Is that... a Koenigsegg?" one of the techs murmured in disbelief. "Doing over three hundred kilometers per hour?"
"The Energon signal is concentrated in it..." another said, adjusting the zoom with trembling fingers.
"Who the hell drives something like that through a forest?"
Simmons leaned in, frowning.
Tom, meanwhile, kept his eyes locked on the screen, already suspecting who it could be.
Simmons turned to one of the operators and ordered firmly. "Compare that energy pattern with the data we have on the private server. Now."
The operator nodded quickly and got to work. Minutes later, the results popped up on the screen. The radiation levels emitted by the supercar matched the same energetic radiation Lux had shown during the rare occasions he had used his powers.
"Looks like it's Lux in that car," the operator confirmed, both surprised and nervously relieved.
"Why's he moving away from that forest?" asked one of the technicians. "Is he running away?"
Tom, eyes fixed on the digital map tracking the energy trails, responded with a heavy voice. "No." He pointed at the course. "He's coming toward us."
Simmons crossed his arms. "And the Decepticons are focused on him." His voice was tense. "They may have discovered what he really is."
"No," Tom repeated once more. "If the Decepticons knew the truth, if they knew what Lux was really capable of, they would've captured him already. They dominate spatial translocation. If they wanted him, they'd have jumped to his location in the first minutes. They're following him."
John Keller stepped closer, his face tight with worry.
"And he's coming straight for us..." Keller said, finally connecting the dots.
Fowler, communicator in hand, stepped forward. "Can I contact the Autobots now? We need Optimus."
Tom cut him off with a firm gesture. "Not yet." He stared directly into Fowler's eyes. "If we alert the Autobots now, the Decepticons will detect the movement and act. They'll intercept Lux before he reaches us."
A sharp silence fell over the room.
"Prepare all of our arsenal," Tom ordered. "And initiate evacuation protocol. As soon as Lux enters the range of our military outposts, I want clear skies for our jets and targets locked."
Simmons nodded. "This place is about to turn into a full-blown warzone..." he muttered as he headed toward the tactical terminals. "I'll ready our squads for combat."
Tom turned to the Secretary of Defense. "Secretary Keller," his voice steady and firm, "Sector 7 can face the Decepticons. But we cannot win if this battle drags out. We'll need reinforcements."
"How many?" Keller asked.
Tom didn't hesitate. "Everyone you can send."
Keller nodded as a soldier approached to escort him to the communications chamber, which was also shielded for his safety.
"Take the secretary. We will transmit the message in Morse code." Tom turned to his soldiers and team. "We've trained our entire lives for this. Do your job with precision, and we will succeed."
***
Nellis Air Force Base
A young soldier sipped his coffee calmly, both headphones over his ears. He was scribbling math equations into a notebook, focused, as if in another world.
The door creaked open. Two fellow soldiers entered, whispering, each with coffee in hand. One tossed a chocolate bar to the headphone-wearing soldier, who acknowledged it with a quiet nod.
The atmosphere was relaxed. The kind of silence typical of a base far from the frontlines.
Until suddenly, the soldier with the headphones froze. His gaze fixed on the wall, muscles tensed. He raised one hand, demanding total silence.
The other two went dead quiet instantly. Something in his expression stopped them cold.
The synthesized voice of the Morse translator began to echo—each tap laced with urgency.
The soldier yanked off his headphones and jumped to his feet. "Alert the general! We have confirmation, authorized engagement!" he shouted, handing the encrypted message to one of his comrades.
The second soldier sprinted through the corridors of the base, carrying two documents—one with the coded message, and the other the procedure orders. Reaching the tactical command room, packed with officers, he slammed his hand on the door.
"Permission to interrupt, sir!"
The general received the paper and read it. His eyes widened, but his voice remained calm and decisive.
"Initiate Operation Firestorm."