Saitama set out to do exactly what everyone feared—and hoped—he would.
He turned back toward the city Major Andrew Rogers's unit had driven through earlier. Not for rations, not for gear—just to get the ordinary people stranded there past the Decepticon blockade.
Maybe that sounded hard to Andrew's soldiers. For Saitama, it wasn't.
He'd seen monsters by the truckload. A few "terrifying" robot beasts that folded in one hit didn't even move his needle.
When Andrew realized Saitama wasn't heading with them toward Base One, he was startled. "H-hey, Saitama!" he called out. "You're going the wrong way! That's the direction of the civilian city! There's no food there!"
"Yeah."
Saitama's silhouette drifted farther, but his posture was all resolve. "There's no food there—but there are people I want to save."
In the time it took those words to sink in, he was already a speck on the skyline, leaving Andrew and his newly inherited unit staring at one another.
"Major, what do we do now?" a soldier asked. "If we push on, we might run into Megatron's lieutenants. Saitama saved us this time—we won't get that lucky again."
"Damn it… why won't he come with us?" Andrew exhaled. Of course he wanted to save those civilians. But as the commander, he had to keep his people alive first—then save more.
The road ahead wasn't safe. And their miracle had just walked away. Bad luck all around.
"Squad, listen up!" Andrew barked. "We're following Saitama to City Three. We're getting those civilians out!"
The team understood immediately.
"Sir, yes, sir!"
They moved with practiced efficiency. IR imagers, broadband receivers, signal sniffers—Marine kit, all online. It didn't take long to reacquire their target.
Frankly, it would've been harder not to. A man like Saitama radiated heat like a second sun.
As they trailed him, awe replaced fear. Bots that normally required incendiaries, AP rounds, and specialized tactics were strewn about like roadkill—felled by a single punch.
"Look at him go!"
"Is his fist made of steel?"
"We're all flesh and blood—but he drops a Transformer in one hit?!"
While they gaped, a black-and-white police cruiser slid onto the highway ahead, lights dead, menace palpable.
Decepticon enforcer: Barricade.
In the first Transformers war, he nearly tore Bumblebee apart. Now the predator strode onto the cross street, metal screaming as he unfolded into a towering robot.
By comparison, Saitama was an insect at his feet.
"Young man," Barricade rumbled, voice like grinding gears, "were you the one who killed my troops just now? You've chosen the road to death."
He didn't wait for a reply. The massive fist came down.
Andrew's unit collectively hissed.
"God—that's Barricade's iron fist! A normal man would be paste!"
"Cover Saitama! Move!"
Trained reflexes kicked in. Gunners racked belts; a rocketeer shouldered his tube; grenadiers thumbed safeties, waiting on Andrew's mark.
They never got to fire.
Saitama raised… a single finger.
Metal boomed—and stopped. The Decepticon's armored knuckles pressed against that fingertip and went no further.
For a second, no one breathed.
What… was that?
Andrew snapped out of it first. "Now! Fire!"
They hosed Barricade—and accidentally gave him space. He wrenched back, skidding, optics narrowing.
"What are you?" he demanded. "How did you stop my punch?"
"I'm just a hero for fun," Saitama said mildly.
Nonsense to a machine mind. Infuriating nonsense.
"There are many who want to play hero," Barricade snarled, stepping back. His arms whirred, plates splitting. "Let's see if you have what it takes."
Panels locked. Tubes irised open.
"Missiles!" a soldier shouted. "Take cover!"
They'd learned these profiles the hard way, on Autobot and Decepticon battlefields alike. Nobody was going to slow Saitama down by getting themselves killed.
Two shrieks. Two blossoms of fire.
The street became thunder. Car alarms wailed. Facades shed stone like rain, punching through windshields. A mushroom of dust swallowed the impact site.
When it thinned, a smoking crater gaped in the asphalt.
Barricade threw his head back and laughed. "Hahahaha! You're dead, baldy! Next it's your turn, little ones… Andrew Rogers. Sector Seven—the humans who put Lord Megatron on ice!"
His optics flashed and locked. Dot-reticles settled on Andrew's chest.
In that instant, Andrew and his squad felt the Reaper's hand on their shoulders.
(End of Chapter)
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