Earth is getting big in the window.
Like—absurdly big.
Obnoxiously blue.
Beautiful in that way you don't want to admit because you're currently on your way to help conquer it.
I hover just above the outer atmosphere, taking a moment I probably shouldn't take. Not that anyone can stop me. It's just me, the void, and a Cybertronian body I'm maybe 8% competent with.
"Okay… think. Where the hell are Barricade and Brawl? Earth's huge. Stupid huge. They could be anywhere."
Pause.
"Pfffft, who am I kidding? Of course they're in the U.S."
Every Transformers plot ever made.
It's like a cosmic law.
The question is where in the U.S., and how many idiots with binoculars are going to see me when I descend.
I angle downward, letting my hull drift into the thinning atmosphere at a controlled velocity. Not too slow, not too fast. Enough that friction doesn't turn me into a flaming disaster streaking across the sky like a meteor having a mental breakdown.
Air friction really is a bitch.
But God… Earth is gorgeous from up here. Clouds curling like whipped cream. Ocean folding in layers of blue. Whole continents sprawled like postcards.
I'm admiring the world I used to live in when a hard ping slams into my HUD.
Incoming transmission.
…Shit. I still haven't figured out how to reject calls.
The comm-line snaps open automatically with a harsh, irritated voice:
"You done admiring the view, Rookie?"
Ah.
Barricade.
Of course.
I try to sound like I know what I'm doing.
Blastech's instincts help a little.
"Barricade. Commander Starscream assigned me to assist with your mission."
"Requesting coordinates for rendezvous."
Barricade snorts, loud enough the comm distorts.
"Yeah? Then maybe stop announcing yourself to the entire planet while you're at it."
Wait.
What?
I drop maybe fifty feet in altitude out of sheer confusion.
"What do you mean? Human radar can't lock onto me."
I know this.
I can feel the radar sweeps bouncing off my frame like raindrops—soft taps, harmless, scattering right off. My armor eats detection signals for breakfast.
Barricade's voice comes back dry enough to rust a steel beam.
"Humans don't need radar to notice something moving at Mach 10 across their sky, genius."
"Especially when it doesn't show up on their radar."
…okay, fair point.
"Wait—how do you know I'm flying over the—"
Oh.
Oh no.
"The Humans already know I'm here, don't they."
Barricade clicks his vox in a way that very clearly means duh.
"Congratulations. You've achieved basic awareness."
I hear something like tires crunching gravel in the background.
"Go toward the Pacific and ditch them there. They'll write you off as some experimental spy jet and move on."
That's… surprisingly good advice.
"Then what?"
"Then meet me at Death Valley." A pause. "Try not to screw up."
The comm cuts.
Just like that.
No goodbye.
No "welcome to Earth."
No "hey, by the way, you're about to be involved in planetary conquest."
I stare at the horizon for a long second.
"Well… that's reassuring."
---
My scanners ping again. A proximity cone flashes across my vision, feeding me trajectory data before I even register the shapes.
Two… no, three aircraft approaching from high altitude.
I zoom their signatures automatically—sleek silhouettes with delta wings, advanced composite structure.
F-23s.
My brain freezes.
"Wait. What??Those things exist here??"
Oh.
Alternate timeline.
Which means my death, my Earth, my Google search history—none of it matters here.
Thank the matrix.
Still, the jets close in. Clumsy. Slow.
Like toddlers trying to chase a motorcycle with pool noodles.
Their radar beams hit me in puffs of harmless static—my Cybertronian hull absorbs, scatters, and laughs at them.
I do a lazy roll, just for fun.
One of them tries to match it.
He almost stalls himself in the process.
"Aww. They're doing their best."
I dip lower, letting them get close-ish, then punch forward again, keeping the distance just beyond visual clarity. Not enough for them to photograph me. Not enough for them to even confirm I'm real.
A few minutes of this and they start Running out of fuel. They circle, hesitate, then peel away, returning to whatever base launched them.
I almost feel bad for them.
Almost.
I turn my nose back toward continental North America, throttle down to something that won't light the entire sky on fire, and let myself drift in at a casual Mach 2—slow enough for me to think.
Death Valley.
Barricade said to meet him there.
Problem is…
"Where the fuck is Death Valley again?"
I know it's in the U.S.—which narrows it down to… not much.
My nav tries to draw a line but keeps flickering. Cybertronian maps aren't exactly synced with Earth's tourism guides.
"Okay okay, think. Big desert. Hot. Rocks. That narrows it down to like ninety percent of the American southwest."
I pull up a map overlay—continental landmass, thermal readings, elevation markers. My scanners sweep for minimal population density. Eventually a patch lights up: barren, hot, geologically unstable.
"Yep. Looks dead enough to be Death Valley."
Before I dip back toward land, I coast for a minute over the edge of the atmosphere, staring down at the Earth. Blue oceans. Green land. Cloud swirls like spilled milk.
I shouldn't be sentimental.
I'm Decepticon enough to know that.
But even so…
"Damn. It really is beautiful."
Beautiful and fragile.
Beautiful and small.
Beautiful and… about to be invaded.
My spark twinges at that.
Or whatever part of me that used to be a human heart.
I descend.
Atmospheric entry is smoother this time—I tune the thermal dispersion plates properly, easing my hull temperature as I cut through the upper sky. Even cruising at high speed, the drag is manageable.
Air friction might be a bitch, but at least I'm a bitch-proof jet now.
As mountains come into view, my scanners ping again.
Ground layout. Topography. Mineral content. Fault lines.
But no sign of Barricade.
I almost open a comm channel to ask for more precise coordinates—but after how last time went…
Nope.
Not giving him the satisfaction.
So I drift lower, following the valley floors, scanning for Cybertronian alloy signatures among the rocks.
Still nothing.
Maybe I should look for the densest concentration of "bad attitude" within a fifty-mile radius. That feels like it'd get me close.
My scanners catch a faint signature—Decepticon-grade alloy, low-power mode, buried under heat haze.
Bingo.
"Found you."
A lone black police cruiser tearing down a deserted highway, lights off, attitude unmistakable. Even from the air, he radiates "I hate everything within a five-mile radius."
Barricade.
I trail him until he abruptly veers off-road like he's trying to ditch someone.
Probably me.
I transform mid-air—awkward but improving—and slam down hard enough to crater the dirt. Dust billows. The ground trembles. Pretty cool entrance honestly.
Barricade transforms too, one smooth snap of plates and hostility. He's small. Compact. Sharp angles. He looks like the version of Barricade that would mug the movie version for lunch money.
His optics lock on me.
And yep—there it is.
Immediate, unfiltered disgust.
"Congratulations, Rookie."
His voice drips sarcasm.
"You've been on this planet for five minutes and you already screwed up."
Nice to see consistency across universes.
He gestures vaguely at the sky.
"You set off every Human alarm system from here to the east coast. They've got half their military looking for you. Great job."
I open my mouth—speaker?—to respond.
He cuts me off.
"Don't talk. It'll just make it worse."
Okay. Wow.
I cross my arms anyway. "Maybe if certain individuals had sent proper coordinates, I wouldn't have had to play hide-and-seek across an entire hemisphere."
Barricade's optics narrow into slits.
"Look at this. He thinks he's clever."
He circles me once, slow, judging every inch of my frame.
"You don't even know what you're doing, do you?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Barricade snorts—an actual mechanical snort.
"It means you're Just a stupidbot."
He says it like this is a long-running tradition.
He taps my shin with one finger.
"Starscream really scraped the bottom of the scrapheap this time."
Okay. That stings.
I step forward, looming over him. "Starting tô get really annoying there Pal."
Barricade doesn't flinch.
If anything, he looks amused.
"Well, one of us knows how to lay low without alerting every Human with a radio. Hint: it's not the Stupidbot with wings."
I'm starting to see why people hate working with him.
He steps back, transforms halfway, engine revving like a growl.
"Listen up, rookie," he says—because apparently that's my new name.
"You want to be useful? And I'm really stretching that definition—"
He revs impatiently.
"Scan a Human jet. Get a real alt-mode. Something that doesn't scream 'I'm an alien, shoot me.'"
He finishes transforming, tires kicking up dust as he turns.
Before he drives off, he throws one last remark like a grenade:
"Contact me when you're done embarrassing yourself.
If you can manage that much."
And he peels out without waiting for a reply.
Dust sprays over my legs.
Silence swallows the desert.
And I'm left standing there, almost twice his height, twice as confused, and apparently the biggest disappointment since the invention of Sentinel Prime.
I look up at the sky.
Human jets. Radar sweeps. Patrol routes.
My job?
Blend in.
Without blowing up anything important.
Or detonating my own dignity.
"Great," I mutter to myself.
"Let's go find a jet."