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Angel of Highway 49 - chapter 10

'Military Green.'

Summary: Finding yourself stuck in the rather unpredictable company of Miko and her big, green guardian, you struggle to conciliate yourself with how Bulkhead acts, and how you thought he would act.

Bulkhead, for his part, can't entirely work out why his spark speeds up every time you acknowledge him. He only knows that it does.

And in the meantime, Agent Fowler is having one Hell of a night.

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There aren’t many phone calls that Special Agent William Fowler would say he ‘looks forward to,’ so to speak.

In his unconventional line of work, calls are seldom made in the benign spirit of enquiry.

He can’t even remember the last time his phone buzzed and the voice on the other line said something to the effect of ‘Hey Bill, how’ve you been?”

Well... admittedly, there is the exception of a certain Autobot leader, of course, though Optimus is so damn mannerly, Fowler doesn’t doubt he’d ask a spider if its day was going well.

Besides, respect where it’s due, Optimus is Work. Capital ‘W.’ Hard to separate the two when Fowler has personally filled out a veritable mountain of paperwork with Prime’s designation printed all over each and every page.

So, no. Calls from Optimus don’t count.

Tonight, Fowler has the pleasure of thumping a palm down on his phone where it’s steadily and loudly vibrating a path across the nightstand beside his bunk.

Eyes burning with the remnants of a broken sleep and far too late-a night watching romantic comedies in the rec-room, he nonetheless pries them apart to squint into the searing brightness of the screen, thumbing the ‘accept’ button and clumsily mushing the phone against his ear.

“Two in the morning, this’d better be good,” he grumbles.

Hardly a beat of silence passes before he’s met with the monotonous drone of an SAC operator.

“Just intercepted a call you might be interested in,” a voice says with the inflection of a roadkill slab.

Figures.

Groggily, Fowler clenches his jaw against a heavy yawn and swings his legs out of his bunk, sitting hunched on the edge of the mattress as he squeezes the thumb and forefinger of one hand around the bridge of his nose.

“Mm… They finally approved my vacation to Fiji?” he grunts, scrubbing the same hand down over his face and pausing to scratch at the prickly stubble growing under his wide expanse of a chin.

When he decided on that coded response with SAC, he really thought he was being funny. None of them found it funny, of course. CIA types are all alike; Roadblocks made of humourless steel.

Now though, with many years under his belt and still no white-sand beaches to be seen on the distant horizon, his little joke seems about as funny as Uncle Sam’s national debt.

Predictably, now that a secure line has been established, the voice matches his sarcasm as it always does. With a wall of total indifference.

“Negative... Civilian named Terrance Buckley. Old conspiracy theorist running a dairy outside Jasper?”

“Dairy farm?” Fowler interrupts with a grimace, “Tell me the Greys didn’t abduct another cow…”

“Negative,” the Operator says again, and Fowler has to wonder when they all got so uppity that a simple ‘no’ stopped sufficing, “He just tried calling the local law to see about a cave-in near his property...” There’s a deliberate pause, some murmurs in the background too faint to make out, then the voice returns. “Seismic readings confirm the activity.”

Fowler’s posture tightens as he sits up straight on the bunk, the fatigue draining off his shoulders like water down a plughole. “Cave-in?” he echoes stiffly.

The mention of a cave at all is cause for alarm. Particularly considering the nature of the Autobots’ latest mission that Optimus briefed him on just seven hours prior and… oh for god’s sake. “Don’t tell me…”

So, that’s precisely what they do.

“Thirty-six point four-two-seven-six-eight-two by negative one-one-four point four-six-zero-four-two-three.”

Fowler has to resist the very childish urge to groan.

Of course…

He knows those coordinates, give or take a few degrees. It’s his job to know. They’re still fresh in his mind, after all. First relayed to him by Prime, then written by Fowler himself on the mission brief he later sent to Director Brennan for a stamp of acknowledgement.

In a matter of seconds, he’s hauled his aching body off the bunk and swiped a white, collared shirt from an open drawer nearby, wrestling his arm into it as he sends a staunch command over the line.

“Give me the rundown,” he orders, feeling the weight of a familiar scowl settle across his forehead, “I’ll head out now, do some damage control… Find out exactly what this Buckley guy thinks he knows…”

Those bots owe him a goddamn month without causing any incidents after this.

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The interior of Bulkhead’s alt-mode hasn’t been this quiet since before he met Miko.

On any other day, she’d be chattering away about a new song she’d heard or a film she’s ‘dying’ to see – 'It’s a figure of speech, Bulk, quit freaking out!' – and he in turn, would tell her about what happened on his patrol, boasting of how many Cons he’d pulverized or regaling her with stories of his vorns as a young mech running with the Wreckers.

Those stories are her favourites, he was quick to discover.

If she’s in a mood - typically after suffering through detention - she forgoes talking altogether and just reaches for his radio, whacking the dial up to such a high volume that he frets about damaging her ears.

It isn’t in her nature to be quiet, and Bulkhead has long-since come to the proud, private conclusion that he wouldn't change that for the world.

So, this thick and cloying silence that hangs dead in the air between the two humans sitting in his seats is… stifling.

For your part, you’ve only made one sound since leaving the base; a hushed, trembling exhale that trickled out of your mouth when you saw the night sky open up above you. Relieved, no doubt, not to have a mountain of rock bearing down on you instead. But since then, there hasn’t been a peep, neither from his newest passenger nor his sleepy charge.

To borrow from Miko’s lexicon, Bulkhead is dying to break that silence. Several times, he’s stopped himself just short of asking her if she wants the radio on, if for nothing else than to use the background music as a crutch to start a conversation with you.

If there's one thing he's learned from watching human customs, it's that music can be a powerful, unifying force.

Then again, his younger charge does look like she’s fighting tooth and nail to keep her drooping eyelids from closing. Her head keeps nodding forwards before jerking stubbornly upright again, rinse, repeat.

The kids’ slumber party at the base had very little emphasis on ‘slumber,’ and far too much on ‘party.’

You, on the other hand, couldn’t look more alert if you tried.

Perched as close to the edge of his seat as you possibly can without falling off it entirely, you sit ramrod straight, keeping your back well away from the leather behind you, and your hands clamped firmly between your knees, trapping them there as if you’re afraid to touch anything around you.

You’d taken to staring unblinkingly at the steering wheel in front of you not long after he drove past the false wall and out of the base, your eyes tracking the way it spins and adjusts microscopically as he cruises along the road.

You don’t even seem to notice the rear-view edging around to frame your face at the centre of its reflection, and Bulkhead finds half his processor occupied by the highway, while the other half maps how his dashboard light casts a pretty, blue glow across your features.

It shines brighter on the apples of your cheeks, the tip of your nose and the curve of your chin, softening the harsh and haunted shadows hanging over and under your eyes. He’s seen similar looks on the faceplates of his fellow Cybertronians, back when they all realised, for the first time, that Cybertron was officially at war.

They looked lost…

… You look lost.

He hazards a guess that Optimus must have told you a little of what they’re doing here on Earth then.

Optimus… There’s a history there between the two of you, however short it might be. Bulkhead saw it. The others might like to gently tease him for being more brawn than brain, but even he wouldn’t miss the familiarity warming his leader’s EM field when you were speaking. And even when you weren’t, it was clear that Optimus wasn’t willing to take his optics off you.

Which begs the question; how in the Pit do you and Optimus Prime know each other?

It isn’t like the Boss to keep secrets from his team. And you’re a pretty secret.

'Pretty incredible secret,' he corrects himself hastily.

Appearing from nowhere... Out-smarting a wily con like Starscream... Shielding all three of the kids from the missile like a hero from one of Miko’s beloved action movies...

Where has Optimus been hiding you?

The question circulates in his processor as the silence starts to creep under his plating and expands to fill the gaps until he can almost feel an imagined pressure building on top of his circuitry.

Beneath his tyres, the tarmac continues to roll smoothly by, and in the distance, Jasper’s twinkling lights beckon him onwards, reminding him that this drive won’t last forever, and if he wants to know… anything about you at all – beyond the very clear fact that you’d saved Miko and it was both the scariest and the coolest thing he’d ever seen a human do – he has to make the first move.

You called him extraordinary.

Bulkhead lets his spark lift and flutter for the umpteenth time as he replays the audio for nobody but himself to hear.

'Extraordinary.'

Not huge. Not clumsy. Not even a klutz.

That's...a positive sign, isn't it...?

… Well, if you’re not going to talk, and she isn’t going to talk…

“So-“ he begins abruptly.

There’s really no dignified way to admit that at the sound of his voice, you leap out of your skin with a sharp yelp, causing him to jump on his axis so forcefully that it launches both you and Miko a few inches out of your seats.

The girl’s palm slaps against the cool glass of his window as she lands askew, eyes round, teeth clenched , effectively wide-awake.

You land adjacent, hands torn free of your knees to hover rigidly just above his steering wheel as though you meant to grab it for stability, your own eyes bulging with fright.

“Sorry!” Bulkhead exclaims at once, heaving himself back onto the right side of the road with a mortified roar of his engine. Idiot, he rebukes himself harshly, beyond embarrassed.

And yet, seized by some deeply ingrained etiquette, you find yourself squeaking out a strangled response. “I-it’s okay! Don’t be sorry! I’m the one who-…jumped.”

…And just like that, you trail off, jaw still hanging ajar as your forehead crumples into a frown, doubtless contemplating the absurdity of telling a gigantic alien robot not to be sorry for startling you.

Said robot's embarrassment swiftly gives way for elation when he realises you're talking to him, and his spark does an unexpected flip in its chamber.

There’s a second of relative hush as all three of you recover your dignities.

If yours still exists, you’ll probably have to scrape it off the footwell.

“Jeez~.” Eventually, Miko lets her hand fall from his window with a thump as she tosses the dash a bemused glare before turning the same look onto you and adding, “If you two are both gonna be wimps the whole way, I’m gonna get out and walk.”

Something bitter uncurls like a snake in your belly at the comment, but then she tilts her head at you and adds, “How come you’re so jumpy anyway? The bots aren’t that scary.”

It takes you a few seconds to realise that her question – while ludicrous and completely tone-deaf – is nonetheless quite sincere.

The snake lowers its head again, and the bitterness evaporates as soon as it arrived.

Quakily, you exhale, hyper aware of your own weight pressed into the leather seat below.

Can he feel you shifting around?

It has to be unpleasant, right?

Dimly, you can hear Bulkhead admonishing the girl for being nosy, something she adamantly refutes before redirecting her interrogative tactics onto you and huffing, “I mean, you were scared of Optimus!”

This is scoffed as if it’s the most laughable concept in the world.

“Ratchet, I get,” she attests, “But Optimus? Really? That’s like being scared of a labrador.”

If you hadn’t already heard far more outlandish things tonight, you almost wouldn’t believe what you’re hearing now. As if, even at her age, she couldn't hazard a guess as to what has you so rattled.

All of a sudden, Bulkhead’s engine hums as he shifts down a gear, notably slowing his pace along the road.

“Actually… I was… kind of wondering about that too,” he hedges, a gentle prod at your defences, his voice hesitant as though he’s wary of spooking you again, “You and Optimus, I mean. Do you two know each other?”

It’s such an ordinary question. Benign, even. Like an old friend enquiring about a mutual acquaintance over tea and cake…

Miko’s eyes are busy drilling holes into the side of your head, and while you can’t see his eyes, you somehow sense Bulkhead’s gaze even more heavily than hers.

Optimus had said he could see you sitting in his passenger seat, hadn’t he?

'Cameras... both external and internal.'

A subtle shudder crawls up your spine as it hits you that you were being watched the entire time you were inside that cabin. With his eyes…! Or whatever constitutes as eyes on these aliens…

God, you need a drink.

Maybe if you get black-out wasted, you’ll be able to convince yourself that all of this has been nothing more than an alcohol-induced fever dream. Suffer a hangover, knock back a few paracetamol, you’ll be right as rain come tomorrow night!

Ha… If only.

A slight bump on the otherwise smooth road jerks you back to the question you've just been asked. You probably shouldn't even be engaging with these beings, should you? It feels like incriminating yourself in a world in which you don't have any business being involved with. Won't every word you say only drag you deeper and deeper into this predicament?

Then again, you’ll admit, not being forced to 'see' him - the real him - is lulling you into a false sense of security. It’s easier to find your voice when faced with the interior of a car, not a robot as tall and wide as a barn.

“I… um, I wouldn’t say we know each other,” you confess meekly, missing the whir of delight his engine produces when you address him again, “My truck, it – ah – broke down on the road into Jasper… He saw me walking to town and offered me a lift.”

There’s a brief flicker of shock that ripples through the car, then Miko recoils with a shout of, “He what!?”

And at precisely the same time, Bulkhead’s wheel jerks to the left, throwing you right onto the gear-box as he blurts, “He did!?”

Grimacing from the unexpected knock, you right yourself in the seat and resume your stiff-backed poise, listening to the other two descend into rushed – if excitable – conversation.

“But Optimus is like, a total stickler!” Miko whispers loudly enough for it to be classed as a shout.

“I know!” comes Bulkhead’s gushing reply, “And he’s the one who made the rule!”

“I-… The rule?” you croak.

Rather eerily, the pair of them interpose their gossip to rattle off an answer without hesitation, their voices overlapping, entirely in sync.

“Don’t engage with unknown humans unless there’s a perceived or immediate danger to their life or ours.”

The whole thing is quoted without a single stumble or falter, and sounds both rehearsed and bored.

As you said; Eerie.

All of a sudden, Miko lets out a gasp, twisting sideways in her seat and leaning right over the centre console and into your space.

“Were you in danger?” she demands, eyes glittering in the low light, “Were you being chased?!"

Sputtering a little, you start to shake your head when the vehicle around you vibrates with a loud rev as Bulkhead pitches his voice horrifically low and growls, “Were you attacked by a Con?” The word is spat like an ugly, wretched thing into the air between you.

“What!? No, no!” you protest, the hairs on the nape of your neck standing on end at the alien's far darker tone, “I was just… It was late, I was still miles out of Jasper, and Optimus convinced me to get in his truck. I – in – in him, I guess-… Oh god, that’s-…” Pulling a face, you cut yourself off and distractedly lay a hand on Miko’s bony shoulder, pushing the girl back into her seat with a gentle nudge.

She allows it, slumping into the curve like she lives there and giving you a curious hum. “So, hold up,” she starts, “Some truck without a driver stops to offer you a ride… And you just hopped right in?”

… Ah. Probably not your brightest idea in hindsight - one among many - but he was very insistent at the time.

Clearing your throat, you peer out of the windscreen, mapping the road ahead where it’s illuminated by far-reaching headlights. “He said it was fully remote-operated,” you admit, more than a little abashed.

She promptly barks out a laugh before falling silent again, staring at you like she’s waiting for you to deliver the rest of the joke.

When it doesn’t arrive, her brows nearly fly up into her dark hairline.

“Wow,” she deadpans, “And you believed him?”

Okay, well now you’re starting to feel defensive.

“Yeah, I believed him,” you retort, jaw set, “I didn’t just assume he was a giant, alien robot right off the bat.”

She blinks at you then, lips pursing for a second before she gives her head a reasonable nod. “Huh. Touché.”

Inattentively tuned into the road, Bulkhead trundles along in a state of palpable astonishment, struck dumb by what he’s just learned.

“I think the Pit just froze over,” he warbles aloud, drawing the eyes of both humans to his dash, “Optimus... lied?”

The entire frame of his alt mode is rattled by the visceral shudder that overtakes him.

Even Miko sits back and goes uncharacteristically still, her eyes on stalks. Then, she lets out a long, appreciative whistle. "Woah~"

You have no idea why this seems to come as such a shock to either of them but you elect not to mention the funds Optimus transferred into your bank account as well.

Which, now that you're thinking about it, only seems even more suspicious, knowing what you do about what he is. It was bad enough when you suspected him to be some sort of dealer trying to hide money in a stranger's account, but even that doesn't come close to the absurdity of an alien doing the same...

As you chew it over, Bulkhead speaks up again, letting out a chuff over the speaker.

“Huh. Guess he must’ve been really worried about you.”

You don’t rightly know what Optimus was feeling but you do find it hard to believe a creature like that would concern itself with the likes of you for any altruistic reasons.

Belatedly, almost as an afterthought, Bulkhead muses, “You’ve certainly made an impression on him, that’s for sure.”

Aghast by the very prospect, your expression screws up and you make a broken sound at the back of your throat, head shaking in tiny motions from side to side. "Why?" you choke out, helplessly reaching for an explanation to a riddle you haven't managed to solve yourself, "I haven't even done anything!"

Why did he have to stop that night? Why couldn't he have just left you alone? You were getting your life back together, you were untangling the complications of adulthood one string at a time and really trying this time to make something useful of yourself.

And now this.

"Uh, were we not in the same cave tonight?" Miko snorts.

Ironically the more delicate of the pair, Bulkhead offers a pacifying reply. "Look, I don't know why," he admits, "But I mean... surely you guys must've talked when he gave you a ride?"

"Of course we-..." You're quick to snap your jaw shut before any more can fall out of it. Yes, you and Optimus talked. Nothing that was especially noteworthy though. And nothing these two need to know about.

Then, of course, comes a fresh creep of horror in realising you'd revealed far too much of yourself to who you thought was just another human.

Suddenly, you're trying to recall what you had said to one another that fateful night. You let him drive you to work, you told him you left your family behind and - oh, god, you've gone and dug yourself into a pit now, haven't you? He knows where to find you, he knows you don't really have anywhere to go back to. Nobody who'll be looking for you...

Reading between your unuttered words, Bulkhead ventures, "Maybe he just likes you." Then, emboldened, he adds, "You seem nice enough to me."

"Yeah," the girl in her seat beside you agrees, shooting you a borderline smug look from the corner of her eye, "You haven't exactly sold the 'nothing but a jerk' angle."

Stunned, you simply let out a weak, incredulous noise that could have been a laugh, could have been your soul trying to escape your body.

"I wasn't... saying I'm a jerk, I was just trying to make a poi-..." Once again however, you let the sentence trail off with an aggrieved sigh, slumping in the seat and only just remembering not to let your back hit the leather behind you. "Never mind..."

Your response does nothing to wipe the smug expression off Miko's face. If anything, her catlike grin only inches wider.

Utterly spent, you can't even muster the willpower to glare back. Besides, what would possibly be the point? For fuck's sake, you're sitting here arguing with a teenage girl and an extra-terrestrial of unbounded proportions.

In your pyjamas.

You let your eyelids droop as you turn to peer drearily out the window, watching the dark, obscure shapes of rocks and plants flit by.

“This is the weirdest night of my life…” you lament.

Quick as a whip, Miko chirps, “But not the worst?”

You can't fathom how she can go from almost-asleep to viscerally-awake in a mere manner of minutes.

Unable to restrain a wry smile at her youthful optimism, you roll your head over to look at her, cheek squashed against your shoulder. “Well, I almost died,” you point out, “So definitely bottom three.”

Her mouth stretches into a wide, toothy smirk.

You smile back for a moment, and then it fades, gone with the reminder that you weren’t the only one who could have been killed tonight.

“Come to think of it,” you murmur, swallowing thickly, “You almost died as well.”

To your surprise, rather than come to the same, sobering realisation, Miko just lets out a jocular snort and waves her hand around her head, wafting your concerns away like cigarette smoke.

“Pssh! Been there, done that, add it to the list. Near-death experiences are, like, an everyday occurrence on Team Prime.”

“Not if we can help it,” Bulkhead’s cast-iron voice butts in from the dash, “Me and the team’d sooner rip out our own sparks before we’d let one of you kids get hurt.”

His earnest declaration thumps at something hard and indifferent in your ribcage.

“… Sparks?” you whisper haltingly.

Miko gives the left side of her chest a deliberate pat, and your eyes widen, lips forming a soft ‘oh.’

Unbeknownst to either of the humans in his cab, Bulkhead has grown stuck on his own conviction, running it through his processor like a looped circuit. Unintentionally, he'd just shone a spotlight on one of his own failings, and it leaves a bad taste on his glossa.

He had almost let the kids get hurt. But there was no 'almost' where you were concerned.

He can’t see your injury from this angle, but he can sure as scrap remember what it looks like. It’s an image that’s burned into his CPU as surely as the heat burned into your own skin.

“Hey, uh.. I’m… sorry, by the way,” he utters falteringly, “For bein’ too slow.”

It's so out of the blue that you give his dashboard a double-take, frowning at the neon, blue lights.

“... Huh?”

“Starscream’s missile,” he clarifies at an awfully grave pitch, “I should’a stopped it before it reached you… I didn’t. M’sorry.”

You let the statement hang in the air for a while, squinting at nothing while the burn on your shoulders continues to sing.

“I… Um…” You swallow roughly, getting tired of uttering useless noises without saying what’s on your mind, “Bulkhead, was it?”

Perking up, he hums at the sound of his name, and the light cast by his dashboard screen glows incrementally brighter.

“That… wasn’t your fault,” you say at last, and it’s probably the most certain you’ve sounded all night.

The pause that follows smacks of genuine surprise on his end, but then his exhaust coughs like he’s clearing an unseen throat, and he stubbornly mutters, “Shouldn’t’ve let you get hurt.”

Perhaps it’s his insistence to take the blame that slows your frantic heartbeat and makes you stop and consider his behaviour, or perhaps it’s the shame laced inextricably into the spaces between each word he says, but whatever the case, you find yourself thinking he might actually mean it.

Which really puts you in a bind.

He’s not… behaving right. Not in the way your body is telling you he should be. You’re scared to death of him, you can feel it in the ache growing around your spine and the way your stomach always feels like it’s a few clenches away from purging last night’s dinner all over his seats.

And yet, nothing he's done, nothing he's said has given you any indication that he's in any way dangerous.

It's a fact that's hard to reconcile.

Even harder though, is hearing the vulnerability in your new acquaintance's voice.

Closing your eyes, you draw in a long lungful of air.

You wouldn't want anyone else to take the blame for something they didn't do. Does that line really become such a blur when it isn't a human doing the apologising?

Rendered contrite, you exhale the breath you'd been holding in, letting the words come to you without putting too much thought into who you're saying them to.

"It wasn't your fault," you tell him for the second time, tongue heavy and awkward like it's grown too big for your mouth, "You didn't know what was going to happen...." Wavering slightly, you ask, "Did you?"

"No!" The appalled shout reverberates around the vehicle, causing you to flinch. In an instant, Bulkhead is apologetic again, softening every piece of code that controls the volume of his vocaliser. "Sorry, it's just - If me or Optimus would'a known what Screamer was gonna do, we'd've taken that missile ourselves."

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you hesitate before asking, "Really?"

"Every. Time," he stresses.

You know it's foolish. You'd even go so far as to say it's downright naive, but in spite of the somewhat sensible brain sitting between your ears - apparently gathering dust from misuse - you find you can see the truth in what he's telling you.

You still don't want any part of this... But you do feel... marginally better that the kids aren't in as much danger as you thought they were.

A small hand suddenly jostles your knee, and you glance down to see Miko has reached over to give your leg a playful shove.

“I can’t believe you’re scared of this guy,” she teases, leaning forwards and offering the dashboard a hearty pat, “You know, Bulk here screamed like a little girl when he saw the Cybertronian equivalent of a spider.”

All of a sudden, the engine lets out a high-pitched whine that perfectly matches Bulkhead’s protest as he sputters, “Wh-! Miko!”

You’ll admit, there’s something so patently absurd about an alien getting indignant and exclaiming, “Of course it sounds bad out of context!” that you forget yourself for a crucial second, letting one side of your mouth hike up and blowing a wispy little snort through your nostrils.

Miko must have heard it because she stops antagonising her friend for a second to flash you a triumphant grin, and all of Bulkhead's interior lights grow dazzlingly bright, as if that one instance of amusement was the best prize he could have asked for.

"Hey! Wanna listen to some music?" Miko springs on you without warning, barely waiting for you to recover from the whiplash before she steamrolls ahead, "Bulk! Queue up some Slash Monkey!"

"I- wh- Slash Monkey?" you huff in disbelief, flabbergasted by the change of tracks, "Jesus, there's a name I haven't heard in years."

Bulkhead starts to voice his concern, "Uh, Miko? Don't you think that might be a little much for-"

"-Wait, wait, wait, time out," she interrupts, whipping around in the seat until she's facing you head-on and sporting a grin so broad it starts to colour her pale cheeks, "YOU know Slash Monkey!?"

“The... heavy metal band?” you reply, bemused, “Sure. I went to see them in Bulgaria when I was a teen. Couldn’t talk for days afterwards though.”

The girl just stares at you, her mouth gaping wider and wider. “I knew it…”

Nervous, you ask, “Knew wha-?”

Only to find yourself bowled over by the force of her ensuing shout.

“I knew you were cool!” she declares like it’s an absolute, irrefutable fact, bouncing in her seat and thrusting a fist into your bicep.

“O-oh, thanks?” you stammer, absentmindedly rubbing at the spot she’d thwacked, “That’s… definitely a new one.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t cool either until I met Miko,” Bulkhead offers.

“You were always cool, Bulk,” the girl sniffs matter-of-factly, “Not your fault the other bots couldn’t see it.”

“Aw,” he chuckles, and even an untrained ear like yours can hear the grateful embarrassment radiating out of his speakers.

Spinning towards you again and curling her hand into a fist, Miko raises the appendage and holds it out in front of you, letting it hover over the gearbox as she gives you an encouraging nod, one eyebrow quirked expectantly.

“Welcome to the Cool Club, Newbie.”

Fatigued, you entertain the notion that she might be joking… yet after giving her a thorough once-over, you come to the conclusion that she’s not.

So, you squeeze an eye shut, squinting at her fist for a while and wondering what sort of strange induction you’ve just inadvertently made yourself a part of. She’s still waiting, her grin never once showing signs of dropping.

Another few heartbeats thud by in your ear, until at last, you decide there can’t be any harm in indulging her.

Just this once…

“Tell me there’s matching jackets at least,” you sigh, raising your fist and gently bumping your knuckles against hers.

Beaming from ear to ear, she drops her arm and throws herself back against the truck’s seat with a satisfied sigh, boots once again finding their spot on top of his dashboard.

“Only if we can find one that’ll fit me too,” Bulkhead chimes in.

Miko’s lips twist into a smirk, and far too innocently, she suggests, “We can always give you a new paintjob instead.”

Perhaps sensing that he’s just opened himself up to a reaping he wasn’t prepared to sow, the bot immediately tries to backtrack. “Wait-.”

This time when you laugh, it's a much more solid noise, sending Bulkhead's spark soaring.

Exhaling the tightness from your chest, you content yourself to just lean a shoulder against the window and observe in silence as the girl tries to convince her big, green guardian that green is, in fact, a fantastic colour to pair with purple.

In truth, you’re glad she’s too swept up in the excitement of having another Slash Monkey fan in her vicinity to remind him to turn on his radio.

You aren’t confident that you can handle a full blast of Bulgarian shriek metal to the cranium tonight.

----------------------------------------------------

Fowler doesn’t think he’s lowered his eyebrows once since he arrived at this rinky-dink dairy farm sprawled out over the barren stretch of desert just beyond Jasper’s border.

“-no goddamn use fucken’ standin’ around here all slack-jawed n’ starin’-! Where the Hell’s the goddamn rescue squad!? You could’a been diggin’ ‘em out hours ago! ‘Stead, you’re wastin’ time askin’ me all’a these goddamn questions-!”

Terrance Buckley, from what Fowler has gathered during his brief but painful introduction, is just a little more than the ‘crazy old conspiracy theorist’ the SAC Operator had described.

Suspicious son-of-a-bitch might have been more apt.

Blinking very slowly, Officer Fowler stands beneath the crushed velvet sky, waiting for ‘That’s-Terrance-to-You’ to run out of breath after a solid minute spent venting hot air like he’s trying to start a fire.

When he inevitably does, wheezing slightly as he chases oxygen back into faltering lungs, Fowler doesn’t hesitate to cut in.

“As I said, Sir. We had teams scrambled the moment we got your call. They’re working as fast as they can to access the mine’s northern entrance.”

A theoretical entrance on the other side of these towering buttes.

“-And why not here!?” Terry hollers, flinging an entire arm at the wall of rubble and rock that spills out of the cave’s maw, illuminated by the headlights on Fowler’s requisitioned patrol car.

Trying not to give the collapsed shaft too obvious-a look, Fowler simply replies, “Well… I just figured this entrance might be compromised…”

The farmer’s haggard face goes through several expressions in rapid succession, beginning with outrage, shifting to realisation before finally settling on a blistering sort of indignation that comes with knowing he’s just been proved wrong.

“This is where my workhand went in!” he tries to clumsily get back on the front leg, taking an aggressive step towards ‘Officer Fowler,' who doesn’t so much as blink in response, merely allows Terry's chest to bump against his own. He can smell the man’s hot, musty breath in the air between them.

“This is where you ought’a be diggin’! Not askin’ me these pointless questions-!”

“Just trying to do my job while the rest of our units conduct rescue operations elsewhere,” Fowler interrupts with an arrogant air of boredom, “Chances are your employee escaped the cave-in well before the quake hit.”

Of course, by now he knows for a certifiable fact that all lives who were in that mine are accounted for, which makes his job a Hell of a lot easier.

He’d been in the patrol car, foot to the floor, and still a good fifteen minutes out from the dairy when he received the anticipated phone call from the Big Man himself.

While Fowler was – is – rightfully pissed that Optimus has somehow managed to adopt yet another wayward stray into his aggravating band of misfits, at least it isn’t a kid this time.

That opens up a lot of options for how he can go about handling this global security breach, options that won’t violate some facet of the Geneva Convention. He hasn't conducted a good old-fashioned interrogation in years.

For reasons far beyond the scope of Fowler’s comprehension, Prime seems to trust you. ‘Implicitly’ was the word he’d used. But Optimus always has been too quick to pass his trust out like a salesman passes out business cards. Hell, him trusting the wrong sort is half the reason why Earth is in the peril it is right now.

Luckily for Prime – and more importantly, the US Government – Special Agent Fowler doesn’t trust so easily.

Still, at least Optimus had the common courtesy to give him a concise yet glowing recap of the situation so he could be better prepared by the time you inevitably arrive back at the dairy.

The Bot spoke so highly of you...

If you’re anything like you’re employer however… God help him.

Speaking of whom-

Harsh shadows are shifting across the old farmer’s face as he draws his lips apart into a sneer, something fierce and thunderous building under his tongue.

“Don’t you try to bullshit me!” he seethes, bristling, “I don’t care what you say with that fancy federal jargon you use. That weren’t no damn quake.”

Fowler merely stares flatly at him as he stews, chest heaving, until eventually, Terry folds his arms across his bare chest and declares, “I heard the explosion.”

Whether it’s serendipity or divine intervention, Fowler doesn’t give a shit, but he’s nonetheless grateful when the glare of distant headlights turns onto the farm track, and Terry whips his head towards them like a blood hound that’s caught the scent of its quarry.

“Another Fed?” he snips, eyeballing the headlights as they grow brighter, then disappear around the front of his house, “Think this one’ll be of any help?”

Nostrils flaring, lips curled into a nasty snarl, it’s clear he isn’t best pleased by the prospect of more authorities setting foot on his land, regardless of how he’d been baying for their arrival not an hour ago.

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, Fowler sighs, “Couldn’t tell you from here. Maybe it’s someone with an update.”

Terry shoots him a suspicious glare.

“Ain’t you got radios for that?”

Hm. Old boy’s sharper than he looks.

… and sounds.

Rather than feed into his – ironically, rather founded – paranoia, Fowler just sweep a hand in the direction of the yard, “After you.”

Sparing just enough time to let out one last grumble, Terry takes off at a brisk march, heading back towards the house, arms swinging violently to propel himself faster, muttering all the way.

“… Kid’s stuck under a mountain, n’ I’m stuck dealin’ with bureaucrats… Hmph! Rather be crushed…”

Letting his eyes roll naturally to the star-flecked Heavens above, Fowler exhales a thin sigh through his nose, muses on his decision to study law and history like his mother wanted, then at last falls into step behind the crotchety farmer, the soles of his dress shoes treading flat the indents that Terry’s boots have left in the sand.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Bulkhead’s wheels crunch to a halt on the driveway in front of the old farm-house, his headlights throwing their glare far across the yard and illuminating a barn full of sleepy cattle, most of whom turn their heads lazily towards the unexpected intrusion.

From beyond the glass, you hear a disgruntled ‘moo,’ lowed by one of the heifers near the gate.

“Oops. Sorry,” Bulkhead exclaims softly, and in the next second, the lights are extinguished with a ‘click.’

The breath in your throat catches at the downright considerate gesture as you spare his dash a brief, conflicted frown.

“Well, this is your stop,” Miko announces, stretching her arms high over her head until they thud against the roof of the truck.

You hadn’t even noticed that your fingers are on the door handle, braced to hurl it open and make your escape like an animal fleeing from its cage. A few hours ago, you never thought you’d see the light of day again, let alone Terry’s farm.

Arm tensed, eyes wet with the relief that you’re actually here and not stuck at the bottom of a mine – that they’d kept their promise and let you go – you pull the handle and gasp when it gives a definitive ‘clunk,’ proving that it hadn’t been locked. The door itself however proves to be exceptionally heavy when you attempt to shove it open, the hinges resisting your efforts as if there’s someone on the other side pushing back.

You try not to think about that too hard.

Besides, it’s already wide enough for you to swing your leg out and lean forwards, gulping in that first breath of dry, desert air… only to be stopped by a small voice calling your name.

Clenching your jaw, you swallow, reluctantly swivelling your neck over a shoulder and peering back at the girl behind you, one boot on the ground, one still in the footwell, tilted halfway out of your seat.

Miko isn’t meeting your eye, frowning instead at your bare shoulders. “Hey,” she utters after a moment, finally letting her gaze trail up to find yours in the darkness, “We’ll see you around… right?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, you realise, it’s a search for confirmation that this isn’t going to be something so permanent as a ‘goodbye.’

But a goodbye is exactly what you need her to hear.

This is over, you wish you could say without having to say it.

So, steeling yourself against the very hopeful look she’s subjecting you to, you press your lips together tightly and let your expression go hard as steel. “Goodbye, Miko,” you say grimly.

She blinks, struck dumb by the deliberate edge in your tone, and even the vehicle you’re still halfway inside sags noticeably on its tyres.

“But-…” she starts, wetting her lips, “But I thought-…”

The words fizzle out on her tongue, fading into obscurity once she catches sight of the look on your face, and whatever she sees there must have robbed her of any argument she was about to hit you with.

You have to wonder what she did think. That just because you both like the same band, you’d be willing to jump feet-first into the middle of an alien war? That you’d abandon Terry when he’d been good enough to give you a job, just to go galivanting off with some kids and their extra-terrestrial buddies who could crush you as soon as look at you were you to step a foot out of line?

You’re not about to pretend that the only reason she got you talking wasn't because you were no longer being loomed over by living monoliths of metal.

You won’t… let… anyone else down. You came here to be of use to someone, and that someone is an old farmer with no children of his own and a dairy that won’t stop running just because his arthritis is acting up or his back is killing him.

But you can’t say all of that out loud to Miko, it wouldn’t be fair on the girl. It’s not her fault Optimus got you wrapped up in all of this because he couldn’t leave well enough alone…

Instead, you shrug the now-dry towel from your shoulders and fold it in half, your mouth dipping down at the corners.

“Here,” you whisper, holding it out for her to take.

Her gaze darts to the towel, then back up to your face as she works her mouth open and closed for a moment as if deciding on what to say. Eventually, she lands on, “You don’t wanna keep it?”

You don’t want to keep anything that they might use as an excuse to come and find you again, even if that excuse is something so simple and silly as wanting their towel back.

Something flinty and hard that looks so much like betrayal darkens her features, aging her by several years in the blink of an eye. She lowers her gaze then, refusing to spare you so much as a second glance as she leans out and snatches the towel from your grasp and all but tosses it into Bulkhead’s rear seats, folding her arms over her chest and turning away from you with her shoulders hiked up around her ears.

“Let’s just go, Bulk,” she snips.

Without another word, you grab the edge of the seat and haul yourself out of the truck proper, staggering a few feet away from it and nearly doubling over when the cold, night air hits your exposed back. It feels wonderful. It feels horrendous.

The door thumps closed behind you, and you pivot on the spot to watch Bulkhead reverse, his wheels churning up the loose layer of sand beneath his tyres as he manoeuvres himself around until you’re standing just in front of his bonnet, close enough to feel a wave of heat rolling off the metal.

Every muscle in your body tenses, sinews snapping taut with anticipation.

But all he does is let out a sound that comes close to the low hiss of a steam train. A sigh, you register.

“You know,” he ventures cautiously, “You’ll be safe with us…”

Your stomach sinks.

“If Starscream finds out where you live, he won’t hesitate. You know that, right?”

Exhausted beyond measure, you merely stare at the spot between his headlights, eyeing the strange insignia sitting in silver on the hood.

Persistent in the face of your unresponsiveness, he tries to press, “O-Optimus could assign you a guardian! Like I am to Miko. And you could come to the base after you finish work. The kids still go to school, a-and they’re always over at-“

“- Bulkhead,” you interject.

He shuts himself up at once, sheepishly bowing back onto his rear tyres, hood dipped low.

Pinching your lips together at the odd display of deference – from a truck, no less - you lift an arm and scratch awkwardly at the side of your head. “Listen, thank you for… y’know, bringing me back here.”

Just like that, the vehicle in front of you bounces right back up with a purring rev, and over the roof, you catch the tip of his radio antenna swaying back and forth, squeaking as it moves rapidly from left to right in quick, jerky movements. “N-no problem!” he stammers.

The wind picks up across the yard, scattering particles of sand against your boots and raising the hairs on your arms, prompting you to clutch at your elbows as you suppress a shudder. “But… And I swear I’m not trying to be a bitch, but I’m really none of your concern…”

Gradually, the antenna falls still.

For several seconds, he doesn’t respond, and the low thrum of his engine is the only sound that punctures the soft, whistling wind. But you can feel his gaze on you. Somehow. That age-old prickle on the juncture where your neck meets your back tells you you’re being watched by unseen eyes.

When he does finally speak, it’s with a surety that brooks no argument. “Well… Optimus might beg to differ,” he tells you, voice absolute.

Taken aback, your brows tilt up at the centre of your forehead as you wordlessly watch him back up, circling around you until the truck’s nose is pointed away from the farmhouse, back in the direction of the open road.

“And for the record,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear, “So do I.”

You’re unable to provide any sort of answer, partly because your tongue has velcroed itself to the roof of your mouth, but mostly because he’s pulling away, slowly chugging back up the driveway towards the metal gates where a sign swings from a rusty post.

Plagued by irresolution, you watch dismally as he turns right – indicator flashing orange and all - back onto the highway, picking up speed as he peels away from the dairy and into the early hours of a Saturday morning.

As his guttural engine fades, the rapid crunch of boots on sandy concrete twitches your ear.

Before you can even make a move to turn around and see who's approaching however, you’re promptly - and rudely - tackled from behind.

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