Chapter 2: Scorched Earth, Broken Circuits
The silence after the crash was a fragile thing, broken by the intermittent groan of settling metal and the relentless drip of leaking fluids. Within the broken husk of the Valiant, the silence was psychological too—a heavy blanket of uncertainty smothering the usual hum of purpose.
Jazz stood in the scarred heart of the bridge, hands resting on the battered console. The holographic illusion outside, courtesy of Hound, was holding. Through the shattered viewport, he saw a gently rolling, moss-covered hill dotted with amber-leafed saplings, perfectly blending with the surrounding forest. It was a good lie. But inside, the truth was a mess of exposed cabling, shattered monitors, and the low, pained thrum of injured mechs.
“Report,” Jazz said, his voice cutting through the lethargy.
First Aid was kneeling beside Silverbolt, welding a fracture in his thoracic plating. The Aerialbot leader was conscious but quiet, his optics dimmed with pain. “I have three critical but stable,” First Aid said, his tone soft but strained. “Air Raid, Silverbolt, and Blades. The others… walking wounded. We lost a lot of energon in the impact. Our medical reserves were in the ventral pod.” He didn’t look up, his focus entirely on the seam of metal under his torch.
Huffer’s voice grated from a dark corner where he was trying to jury-rig a power relay. “The ventral pod. Of course it’s gone. Probably vaporized. Along with every spare part, every ounce of fuel, and every sliver of hope we had.”
“Scan the debris field again,” Jazz ordered, ignoring Huffer. “Full spectrum. If it’s out there, we’ll find it.”
Bumblebee, his yellow plating scuffed and charred, was already at a secondary station. “Running it now, Jazz. But the initial scatter pattern suggests…” His voice trailed off as data streamed across his screen. He cycled the sensors again, frowning. “That’s odd.”
“Define ‘odd,’ Bee.”
“The debris field is… incomplete. We’re seeing hull fragments, shredded interior components, bits of our port engine array. But the signature alloys from the ventral cargo pod’s frame? The denser materials from the stored crates? They’re not registering.” Bumblebee’s optics widened. “It’s not here. The pod didn’t break up with us.”
A spark of pragmatic hope flickered in Jazz’s chest. “Then where is it?”
It took Blaster, his left arm in a temporary sling, another hour to get the navigation computer’s memory cores back online. The data was corrupted, full of gaps and static, but the final trajectory log was recoverable. A three-dimensional schematic of the Valiant’s death spiral reconstructed itself above the main console.
They watched in grim silence as the ship tumbled, shedding pieces. Then, a distinct, clean signal—the jettison command—flared at the edge of the atmosphere.A smaller, heavier icon separated from the main body.
“It ejected,” Blaster confirmed, a hint of awe in his voice. “Auto-sequence triggered when we lost primary stability. The pod had its own dampeners and a crude guidance system. It broke away clean.”
The schematic mapped its descent. A shallow, smoking arc across the lavender sky, terminating not in the deep forest, but several kilometers to the west. The topography resolved into a simplified map: forest, then a strip of pale sand, then the endless blue of an ocean.
“A beachfront,” Hound said, studying the map. His voice held none of Huffer’s bitterness, only a scout’s analytical calm. “Open ground. Exposed.”
“Which is a problem and an opportunity,” Jazz said, thinking aloud. “We need that cargo. Medicine, energon, spare parts. Without it, repairs are a fiction. But if it’s sitting on a beach in broad daylight…” He let the implication hang. “The locals,” Bumblebee finished. He felt a familiar twist of anxiety in his gut. He was built for this—small, fast, inconspicuous. It didn’t make the prospect any less terrifying. “We need to know if they’ve seen it. If they’ve seen any of this.”
“Exactly.” Jazz turned from the display, his gaze sweeping over his limited crew. “Alright, y'all. Two-pronged recon. Hound, you go secure the pod. Assess its condition. If it’s intact and unseen, we figure out how to move a building-sized container through a forest without anyone noticing.” He allowed a faint smirk. “A fun challenge. Bumblebee, you’re on cultural analysis. There’s a population center here, north of our position.” He pointed to a cluster of symbols on the edge of the topographic map. “We need to know what we’re dealing with. Tech level, social structures, whether they’re currently hosting a Decepticon welcome party. Observe only. No contact. We can’t risk revealing ourselves.”
Hound nodded, already running calculations for the journey. “I can use the terrain, keep to the tree line. My projectors can handle personal camouflage if needed.”
Bumblebee felt a surge of nervous energy. “I can find a vantage point. Get a look at their cities, their vehicles, their… people.” The word felt strange. What awaited them out there? Huffer slammed a panel shut with a loud clang. “Oh, splendid. So while we’re here trying to plug a hole in the hull with literal mud and hope, you two are going on a nature walk and a sightseeing tour. Meanwhile, the locals are probably hauling our cargo away to their museums or smelting it down for tin cans!”
First Aid finally looked up from his work, his optics soft with concern. “He’s not entirely wrong, Jazz. The pod is vulnerable. And if any of our debris caused harm… if we injured anyone…” The thought clearly pained him.
“That’s why Bee’s mission is critical,” Jazz said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “We need data. Bee? You go. Stay low, and stay off comms unless it’s an absolute emergency. We’ll maintain radio silence just in case they got tech that can hear us. Check in at the designated cycles. And for Primus’s sake, be careful.”
The forest was a cathedral of sound and scent. Hound moved through it with a reverence that bordered on the spiritual, his heavy footfalls surprisingly quiet on the thick loam. He deactivated his active camouflage; here, under the dense canopy, his green and brown armor was disguise enough. He studied everything: the way the dappled light fell through the enormous leaves, the intricate architecture of a spiderweb bejeweled with moisture, the sudden, flashy flutter of a six-winged insect with iridescent scales.
It was beautiful. It was alive in a way Cybertron never was. Like Nebulos, Klo, and even Earth. A profound loneliness touched him, a longing to understand this symphony on a level his sensors never could. He wanted to feel the moss underfoot, not just scan its moisture content. He pushed the feeling down. Duty first.
The tree line thinned ahead, giving way to blinding gold. The beach. He crouched, activating his optical scopes. There it was. The ventral cargo pod lay half-submerged in the sand where the beach met the treeline, looking like a monstrous, angular seed washed ashore by a titan. It was scarred and blackened from re-entry, one corner buried where it had plowed a furrow, but its structure appeared intact. The seal of the Autobot insignia, though scorched, was still visible on its side. And it was not alone.
His fuel pump skipped a cycle. Two figures were moving around the pod. They were organics, bipedal, clothed in simple, rugged garments. They were tall, easily over two meters, with sleek builds and a distinctly canine morphology. Their fur was short and appeared in muted earth tones—one a dusty grey, the other a ruddy brown. They carried no visible weapons, only what looked like surveying equipment. They weren’t trying to open the pod; they were examining it, taking notes, speaking to one another in smooth, yipping barks that his translator module couldn’t yet parse. Locals. They had found it. But, they didn’t seem panicked. There were no crowds, no military vehicles. Just two… scientists? Surveyors?
Hound sank lower, his processor racing. He had his orders: secure the pod. But securing it now meant potentially confronting these beings. A conflict could reveal everything. He watched as the grey-furred one ran a hand over the scorched metal, its expression one of intense curiosity, not fear. He would wait. Observe. This changed everything.
Meanwhile, Bumblebee had transformed, his alternate mode a small, rugged yellow coupe that blended with the dusty forest trails he’d found. He followed the faint echoes of noise—the distant rumble of engines, the low hum of gathered life—until the trees parted on a ridge overlooking a valley.
He transformed back to robot mode behind a veil of thick ferns, his optics adjusting. Below sprawled a city. It was a breathtaking, chaotic tapestry of art deco spires and streamlined industrial blocks. Towering buildings of concrete and glass gleamed in the late afternoon sun, threaded by elevated rail lines where sleek, rounded trains glided silently. Automobiles—boxy, elegant things with prominent grilles and sweeping fenders—crawled along broad avenues. The sky was dotted with the small, slow shapes of propeller-driven aircraft.
The tech level was immediately apparent: pre-spaceflight, but advanced. Radio towers crowned buildings, and the telltale flicker of neon signs was just starting to ignite against the gathering dusk. Then he noticed the people. The streets were full of them. They walked in crowds, fur of every imaginable color and pattern flashing in the sun: brindles, spots, solid hues of black, white, gold, and silver. And Huffer’s crude description was, in its essence, accurate. Many were nude, their powerful, bestial forms unashamed and natural as they went about their business. Others wore clothing, but it was often minimal—brief harnesses, elegant skirts, tunics open at the chest. There was no uniformity, only a vibrant, casual individuality. He saw no signs of panic, no emergency broadcasts blazing across buildings, no military cordons around strange metal objects on the beach. Life, as far as he could tell, proceeded with a bustling, ordinary rhythm. A rustle in the bushes to his left. Bumblebee froze, sinking into the shadows.
Two locals emerged onto a lower outcrop not fifty meters from him. They were young, their fur sleek, carrying simple packs. They were completely unclothed, talking animatedly in their lyrical language. One pointed out over the city, then back toward the deep forest—toward the direction of the Valiant’s hidden crash site. The other nodded, pulling out a map.
Bumblebee’s internal translator finally clicked online, the software having passively sampled enough spoken language to begin building a rudimentary matrix. He caught snippets, their meaning filtering through a layer of mechanical stiffness.
“…said the meteor shower was spectacular last night,” the first one said, its voice light and eager. “The one that went down near the coast? Father said it shook the windows,” the second replied. “The astronomers are all excited. Talking about going to find fragments.”
Meteor shower. Fragments. They knew something had fallen, but they ascribed it to natural cosmic debris. The cargo pod on the beach was likely just the biggest “fragment.”
They had no idea. Relief washed over Bumblebee, cold and electric. They were undiscovered. For now.
The one with the map pointed a clawed finger directly at a spot on the coastline. “Some fishermen reported a big piece washed up near the Marrowstone Strand. Might be worth the trip tomorrow.”
Bumblebee’s relief curdled into urgency. Fishermen. Reported. The pod was known. It was only a matter of time before more than two curious surveyors would come. He had his data - Tech level: industrial, pre-space. What humans on Earth would call "art-deco". Social response: curious, scientific, no military response from what he could surmise. Immediate threat to the pod: low, but with the distinct possibility of escalating.
He needed to get back. He needed to tell Hound and Jazz.
As the two beings turned to leave, laughing about something he couldn’t translate, Bumblebee transformed back into his vehicle mode and began the careful, silent journey back to the wounded Valiant, the weight of their precarious situation settling onto his small, strong shoulders like a physical thing.