Marshall High School, Los Angeles.
Inside the classroom, Sam's best friend, Miles, watched Mikaela's retreating figure with wide eyes. He leaned over and whispered to Sam.
"Sam, are you two actually... for real?"
"Of course!" Sam nodded firmly. "It's been almost a month."
Seeing Miles's skepticism, Sam pulled out his phone and swiped to a photo. Miles, who wore his brown hair long like a garage-band frontman, tossed a strand back as he took the phone. He stared at the intimate selfie of Sam and Mikaela and let out a long whistle.
"Whoa. That's incredible, Sam. Unbelievable. The hottest girl in school, and you actually..."
Miles paused, his expression turning a bit concerned. "But hey, Sam, I've heard her reputation isn't exactly great. I mean, she's had a few boyfriends, and until recently, she was always hanging around Trent..."
Trent was the school's alpha bully—six-foot-one, built like a linebacker, and always seen in a varsity jacket driving a modified Ford Mustang. He and Mikaela had been an "item" for a long time.
"Trent?" Sam shrugged, looking indifferent. He had stared down giant alien robots; he wasn't about to lose sleep over a high school jock.
"Don't worry about it, Miles. Mikaela explained everything. She and Trent are just friends."
In this day and age, friends hug and hold hands all the time, right? Sam thought with a sense of misplaced confidence.
Miles shrugged, handing the phone back. "I hope for your sake it's like she says. Congrats anyway, bro."
"Thanks, Miles."
After the Battle of Rushville, Mikaela had kept her promise of a "surprise." She had asked Sam to be her boyfriend before he even had the chance to officially ask her.
After school, Sam drove Mikaela home in the yellow Camaro. Between having the most popular girl in school on his arm and a brand-new muscle car, Sam had become a local legend at Marshall High. Even Trent had stopped hassling him—mostly because people who survive "terrorist attacks" in big cities tend to carry a certain weight.
When they reached Mikaela's house on Tucson 8th Street, her father was already in the garage, working on a customer's car. Thanks to the deal Sam had struck with Sector Seven, her father's parole had been secured, keeping him out of prison despite his "colorful" history.
"Thanks, Sam. See you tomorrow." Mikaela saw her father watching and gave Sam a quick peck on the cheek before hopping out.
"See you tomorrow! I'll be here on time!"
Sam watched her disappear upstairs before shifting the Camaro into gear. On the drive home, he leaned back and talked to the dashboard.
"So, Bee, what are Optimus and the others up to?"
"They are tracking Decepticon energy signatures. We have several leads," a deep, resonant voice responded. It was a far cry from the static-filled radio clips of the previous month.
Ratchet had finally repaired Bumblebee's vocal processors using components salvaged from Jazz's remains. It was a bittersweet upgrade—a piece of a fallen comrade allowing the scout to speak again.
"Well, it's taking them a while. Those Decepticons are better at hiding than sewer rats," Sam muttered. Then, he remembered something. "Hey, Bee, can I ask you a favor?"
"What is it, Sam?"
"Summer break is coming up. I'm planning a picnic with Mikaela. Do you think you could... you know, give us a little space? Some 'me and her' time?"
Bumblebee didn't hesitate. "No, Sam. The Decepticons could retaliate at any moment. As the human who extinguished Megatron's spark, you are their primary target."
"Fine, fine. I figured you'd say that. They're all probably too scared to come after a high school kid anyway..."
Sam grumbled but didn't push it. He'd lived with the yellow scout for a month; he knew when an argument was lost.
Northbury, Peru.
Northbury, the so-called "Romantic Capital of South America," was a sprawling metropolis established in the 16th century. Including its satellite towns, Greater Northbury held nearly thirty percent of Peru's population. Around this hub sat numerous military installations.
One hundred and sixty miles from the city center lay the Fermi Institute, a high-security military research facility. Under the cover of dusk, a massive armored convoy rolled through the gates. At its center was a transport rig carrying a starship that was clearly not of this Earth.
The governments of the world weren't as blind as they appeared to the public. Decades ago, during a severe drought, a receding river had revealed a buried Decepticon craft. Fearing the recent events in the US, the Peruvian government was moving the "artifact" to a more secure location.
Unbeknownst to them, every move was being watched.
Skygnaw sat on a ridge overlooking the Fermi Institute. Thanks to Barricade's intel, he had tracked the convoy with ease. Scalpel sat on Skygnaw's shoulder, his spindly limbs twitching with excitement.
"Skygnaw, when do we strike?" the medic buzzed. He had been waiting over a month for this; for a Cybertronian, it was a blink of an eye, but for the frantic doctor, it felt like eons.
"Wait until the escort soldiers leave, Lord Scalpel," Skygnaw said, watching the horizon. He wasn't the type to rush into a base for the sake of a fight. Even if Peru wasn't a superpower like the US, a focused military response was an unnecessary risk.
"Time to move, Lord Scalpel."
Once the sun had fully set and the heavy escort units had rotated out, Skygnaw shifted into his Pave Hawk form and banked toward the institute.
The Fermi Institute was Peru's highest-level lab, deep in the pocket of the Ministry of Defense. They were clearly rattled by the news of the "Alien War."
Skygnaw didn't bother with stealth this time. As the base's automated sirens began to wail and radar locks pinged in his cockpit, he simply ignored them. He leveled his sights at the center of the facility and fired his EMP Cannon.
VROOOOM—
A visible wave of pale blue distortion rippled out like a stone thrown into a pond. It didn't cause physical damage, but it instantly fried the institute's communication arrays and local power grid. The sirens died mid-scream.
With the communications severed, Skygnaw transformed in mid-air, landing heavily in the central courtyard. His left arm was now dominated by the massive bore of the EMP Cannon, while his right hand remained free.
The base guards, recovering from the initial shock, scrambled out of their barracks, rifles blazing.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Skygnaw snapped his energy shield into place. The human bullets sparked harmlessly against the orange hexagonal grid. He didn't want to waste time on the infantry. He launched a few localized EMP grenades to disable the nearby armored vehicles and strode toward the cargo landing.
He found the ship almost immediately. It was still on its transport rig, the researchers having barely begun their intake procedures.
"Lord Scalpel, we've arrived."
The reddish-bronze ship was roughly a hundred meters long and just as wide. To a human, it was a massive vessel; to a Cybertronian, it was a compact scout craft.
Skygnaw scanned the hull. It was rusted and seemed entirely seamless, as if it had never been opened. In truth, the Peruvians had been too terrified of "Pandora's Box" to force it. They had spent decades verifying it wasn't a biological hazard before they even touched the exterior plating.
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