The Following Morning. Los Angeles.
The sun beat down on Roddy Avenue, a rare tranquil day in the City of Angels. That peace was shattered as a Saleen S281 police cruiser, light bar strobing red and blue, ignored a red light at terminal velocity. The number '643' was stark on its rear. It moved with a predatory indifference to the pedestrians staring in its wake.
No one looked up. High above, a silver interceptor banked through the clouds—a Silver Fox maintaining a low-velocity shadow.
Nathan—operating as Skygnaw—looked down at the sprawl. He had arrived in LA long before dawn. Barricade was restricted by the asphalt; Nathan was not. The thousand-mile transit from Rose City had taken less than thirty minutes at full burn.
In a derelict scrap yard in South LA, Nathan shifted his airframe, the metal folding with a violent sequence of snaps until he stood in his bipedal form. He waited in the silence of the rusted graveyard. Soon, the iron gates were pulverized as the Saleen slammed through.
With a symphony of grinding gears and shifting plates, the cruiser surged upward into the five-meter frame of Barricade. From his chassis, the spindly form of Frenzy tumbled out.
"Ugh! The stench!" Frenzy shrieked, his voice a jagged edge. "Skygnaw! Is this the node? You've been idling in a trash-heap for hours?"
Nathan's intake-fans cycled, filtering the smell of sun-baked refuse. He had deactivated his olfactory sensors cycles ago. "This is the closest secure zone to the target's residence. Planes don't exactly have the luxury of landing on residential sidewalks, Frenzy."
The yard felt strangely familiar—a flicker in his data-banks he couldn't quite localize. Barricade ignored the bickering. He had spent eons in war-zones far more toxic than an L.A. dump.
"Skygnaw. Report. Status on the asset?"
"Confirmed, Barricade," Nathan replied, his optics glowing a sharp, steady red. He transmitted the data on LadiesMan217 directly to Barricade's HUD. "Target: Sam Witwicky. 217 Crescent Drive."
Nathan withheld one detail: the presence of the yellow Camaro. According to his knowledge, the scout—Bumblebee—was an Elite-Class variable. If Barricade, a High-Tier warrior, engaged an Elite-Class scout, the probability of failure was too high to risk his own spark.
The Pentagon. Signal Analysis Hub.
Maggie Madsen checked the perimeter of her station. Ensuring no supervisors were watching, she slid a memory card into her terminal.
There's only one person who can crack this code, she thought.
Maggie copied the encrypted packets from the recent military network breaches. After the warning from Secretary Keller, her paranoia had reached a peak. She needed proof for her theories, and she knew a hacker who could provide it.
The progress bar hit 100%. Maggie palmed the card and hid it inside a compact mirror, her hands trembling as she tucked it back into her bag.
"Just have to make it to the end of the shift," she whispered.
Dusk. 217 Crescent Drive.
Sam Witwicky sat on his sofa, eyes glazed. His brain was stuck in a loop: The car is alive. The car is alive.
On the television, a news anchor spoke over footage of the desert: "...Over forty heavy-lift transports departed from the base an hour ago. The destination remains classified, and the Pentagon has issued a total informational blackout..."
Sam snapped out of his daze. "I have to tell Miles."
He grabbed his jacket and headed for the kitchen. He had been interrogated by the LAPD until dawn and was running on fumes. In the corner, Mojo—the family's bandaged Chihuahua—hopped toward the sink, snarling at the backyard.
"Mojo, shut it!" Sam hissed into the phone. "I'm trying to—"
VROOOOM.
A low engine thrum vibrated through the floorboards. Sam froze. A familiar clatter followed, and he dropped to the floor, peering over the sink.
The yellow Camaro was back. It rolled across the lawn, its rusted grill facing the house like a predator.
"Miles! Miles, listen!" Sam whispered frantically. "The car... it's in the yard! It's stalking me!"
"What are you talking about, man?" Miles' voice crackled. "You're high on sugar. Go to sleep."
"No! The haunted car is back!" Sam hung up, realizing Miles wasn't coming. He grabbed his mother's bicycle and bolted out the back door.
VROOOOM.
He hadn't made it ten yards before the engine roared behind him. The Camaro was pacing him, headlights cutting through the darkness.
"Stop chasing me!" Sam screamed, pedaling with everything he had. "I gave you the keys! What else do you want?"
He didn't notice the Saleen cruiser idling at the end of the street, its lights suddenly igniting in a silent blue.
Sam swerved onto Tucson 8th Street, hit a curb, and did a ninety-degree flip over the handlebars.
CRASH.
He hit the pavement hard.
"Sam?"
A girl's voice came from the sidewalk. Sam looked up to see Mikaela Banes sitting on a wall with her friends.
"Hey, Mikaela," Sam wheezed, tangled in the bike chain.
"Sam... you look... really stylish right now," Mikaela said, shaking her head.
"Yeah. Real style," Sam scrambled up. The embarrassment stung, but the terror was worse. "Look, Mikaela, everything is crazy. I'm being chased by my car!"
He hopped back on the bike and pedaled away. Mikaela watched him go, her expression shifting to concern. "I have to check on something," she told her friends.
High above, Nathan watched through cloaked sensors. An Elite-Class scout pursuing a terrified biological was a rare data-point.
The confrontation is imminent, Nathan thought, banking his airframe. He recognized the yellow Camaro—Bumblebee, the "God of Even Matches."
Nathan increased his altitude to avoid the scout's localized sensor-net. Below, the yellow car and the boy were heading toward an abandoned parking structure.