Chapter 266: Lock Down This City

"Daddy, what's that above the big rocket?"

In an ordinary suburban home in Los Angeles, a family of three sat on the couch watching the live broadcast.

The little girl pointed at the television screen, her eyes wide as a strange silhouette descended toward the climbing booster stack.

"Daisy, it's not a rocket," her father corrected casually, keeping his eyes on the broadcast. "How many times do I have to tell you? That's our space shuttle."

As he spoke, however, his brow furrowed. Something felt wrong with the picture.

Before he could look closer, the network feed rapidly zoomed in on the upper atmosphere.

"My God, what is that?!" the girl's mother gasped, leaning forward.

A sharp, angular fighter jet with a dark, predatory profile had entered the frame, plunging straight down toward the shuttle stack. A fraction of a second later, several streaks detached from its undercarriage, trailing pale vapor trails.

"Look out—!"

BOOM!

A blinding fireball swallowed the entire screen. Though the feed transmitted no sound from the upper atmosphere, the concussive force echoed in the chest of everyone watching.

The couple sat frozen in utter shock, unable to process what had just happened.

Only four-year-old Daisy clapped her hands with delight, giggling at the brilliant flare:

"Fireworks! Look at the giant fireworks!"

"Mommy, that was so pretty! Tell them to do it again!"

Daisy's wish would never be granted. That booster stack had carried the last operational shuttle flight the nation had to offer.

Across Los Angeles, the west coast, the continent, and every timezone on Earth, hundreds of millions had tuned into the live feed of the Autobots' official expulsion.

To say the broadcast had reached every household was no exaggeration.

Watching the shuttle carrying the Autobots get intercepted by an unknown strike craft and blown out of the sky in plain view of the globe, an uneasy question crossed countless minds:

Did high command actually pull the trigger on them?

Citizens at home wondered if this was a covert strike orchestrated by their own government. After all, foreign policy was ruthless enough to justify cold calculations.

Yet on second thought, that logic fell apart. As pragmatic as leadership could be, they were not suicidal. No administration would execute an assassination of their former allies under the open gaze of international media while streaming the feed worldwide.

What purpose would that serve?

A media firestorm was already brewing, but the shock rippling through living rooms paled in comparison to the horror gripping the personnel gathered at the launch center.

Cape Canaveral, Launch Complex.

Out across the staging grounds, onlookers stood frozen, staring skyward at the flaming wreckage raining down through the clouds.

When the rogue strike craft ambushed the shuttle stack, the booster and the Xanthium had detonated in a synchronized explosion, shattering into thousands of burning fragments. Falling at hypersonic velocity, only a few scorched hull plates remained intact.

"The Decepticons... it had to be the Decepticons!" Sam shouted, dropping his field glasses and grabbing his hair. "I know that flight profile! That was Skygnaw's transformed mode!"

Standing nearby, Mearing felt a cold dread wash over her.

Of course. Who else could it be?

They had been played from the very beginning. The Decepticons had never intended to let the Autobots leave peacefully; their true aim was to eliminate Optimus Prime and his warriors in a single stroke, expending zero frontline effort.

And every official standing on this field had served as their unwitting accomplice.

High in the upper atmosphere, Skygnaw banked smoothly away from the falling debris of the Xanthium, a quiet thought crossing his mind.

As expected.

Optimus Prime had never boarded that vessel.

It was the classic game of move and countermove. Skygnaw had long understood that Sentinel and Megatron never cared about expelling the Autobots. Their singular goal was the destruction of Optimus Prime.

That trap had been laid while the two veteran leaders were conferring on the Moon.

At that time, Skygnaw had not yet attained the Prime tier, so they had excluded him from the inner loop.

Engaging Optimus in an open brawl carried the risk of sustaining heavy chassis damage, which would jeopardize the delicate energy requirements needed to transport Cybertron. A staged ambush during an orbital launch offered a clean, bloodless execution.

Even if the trap failed to kill them, forcing their formal exile would have accomplished the same operational goal.

A pity, Skygnaw sneered inwardly.

In the original timeline, Optimus Prime had played dead with surgical precision: appearing to board the craft and perish in the upper atmosphere, all while secretly rallying his troops for a devastating counter-offensive.

When the Autobots dropped their disguise, they had caught the Decepticon occupation completely flat-footed.

Knowing how the board played out, Skygnaw was relieved he held direct command over the Nemesis.

By now, Optimus had likely surveyed the layout of the fleet and counted the capital ships over Chicago.

Skygnaw had deliberately refrained from deploying his entire armada to Earth. He had brought only a third of his Martian strength through the space bridge:

Two heavy cruisers ranking just below the flagship, four destroyers, six screening frigates, and three armored dropships.

Holding reserves in the rear was fundamental doctrine. Going all-in on an opening gambit was a gambler's instinct, not a commander's strategy.

A third of the fleet was more than sufficient to suppress human air defenses and counter whatever remained of the Ark. If the situation deteriorated, Mars was merely a jump away.

Once the burning debris crashed into the ocean, Skygnaw leveled his wings and accelerated out of the sector, paying no heed to the human interceptors scrambling from nearby air wings.

The human decision to deport the Autobots hadn't surprised him in the least.

In the original events, the Decepticons had possessed no orbital fleet and no second Prime—merely a few hundred ground troops and a handful of light gunships. Even then, Sentinel's hollow threats had been enough to force humanity's capitulation.

High command might have harbored lingering hopes of turning the tables, but Optimus staying behind was entirely his own decision.

He needed Sentinel and Megatron to unveil their true endgame, ensuring humanity saw the Decepticons for what they truly were.

BOOM!

Several massive, mangled sections of twisted alloy crashed into the scrub around the launch pad, forcing the gathered crowds to scramble back in panic.

It was a grim, bitter irony. The shuttle stack had barely cleared the gantry thirty seconds prior, only to return to Earth at three times the speed, reduced to scorched wreckage.

Mearing stared at the burning metal, her face pale, unable to speak.

Sam violently wrenched the tracker watch from his wrist, threw it onto the concrete, and crushed it beneath his heel with frantic stomps. Then, without a word, he sprinted toward the largest smoking slab of metal.

He refused to believe Optimus and Bumblebee were gone.

The ambush caught everyone off guard, including the cabinet sitting in the secure bunker in Washington.

They had broadcast the launch to appease the invaders and project an image of compliance, only to have the execution broadcast live across the globe.

Yet inside the command vault at the Pentagon, President Holdren did not share the panic of his advisers. His face remained eerily calm, as if a private weight had secretly lifted from his shoulders.

One minute earlier.

The instant Skygnaw's missiles struck the shuttle in Florida, Megatron stood on the main deck of the Nemesis over Chicago, slowly raising his scarred helm.

"Sentinel Prime, your part of the bargain is complete. Optimus Prime is dead."

"Now... let these human vermin meet their true masters."

"Decepticons, deploy! Lock down this city!"

"Hail Megatron! Hail Megatron!"

Eager for violence, dozens of mechanical warriors dropped from the flight deck like falling rain. At the stern of the warship, heavy blast doors slid open, deploying a dozen assault gunships that banked low over the skyscrapers.

Down on the streets around the museum, civilians who had camped out overnight emerged from their tents, drawn by the roaring engines above.

"What's happening? Look up there!"

The museum had become a focal point for curious crowds and press crews over the last forty-eight hours. Over a thousand people were gathered outside the perimeter fences, mostly journalists waiting for a statement.

If Dylan's private contractors hadn't secured the gates, the crowd would have flooded the halls long ago.

They watched in confusion as dark shapes multiplied against the midday sun, unsure whether this sudden deployment signaled an attack or a drill.

"The space shuttle! They hit the launch stack in Florida!" a reporter shouted, staring at his tablet.

The words dropped like a match into gasoline.

"What?! Who did it?!"

"Check the feed! The entire shuttle was blown to pieces!"

"Did someone plant explosives on the booster?!"

"Are you blind?! It was an alien strike craft!"

The moment the realization landed, those with any survival instincts began slipping toward the side streets, while the rest continued to argue in disbelief.

Before the panic could fully take hold, the first Decepticon warrior dropped onto the plaza pavement.

CRASH.

The pavement fractured under heavy metal pedes. The crowd fell dead silent, a terrible realization dawning across their faces.

They slowly turned to look at the towering warrior standing in the center of the square. The mech locked eyes with the mob, a cruel sneer crossing his faceplate as his right arm shifted into a heavy plasma cannon.

BOOM!

A high-energy blast detonated directly in the center of the dense crowd.

The shockwave tore through the courtyard. Several people vanished in the initial fireball, while dozens more were thrown through the air, crashing against stone retaining walls. Blood and debris sprayed across the steps, and the survivors clutched their ringing ears, stumbling through thick gray smoke.

"Run! Run for your lives!"

"They're shooting at us! Run!"

Less than a day ago, people had fled this very square in panic, yet human nature had a habit of forgetting terror the moment the immediate threat seemed to pass.

Some in the crowd might have told themselves they were prepared for risk, but facing live plasma fire, that bravado crumbled instantly.

Thud. Thud.

More Decepticon mechs descended onto the city, their pedes shaking the ground as they fanned out through the avenues.

The purge had officially begun.

Inside the museum offices, Dylan's private security detail watched the slaughter through the high windows, their expressions uneasy.

"What are they doing out there?"

"Who knows? Should we ask the boss?"

Carly leaned over a spotting scope mounted near the glass, her dark hair falling across her shoulders.

"I take it your employer left this part out of the orientation, didn't he?" she remarked, a cold edge in her voice.

"You're right. I don't share operational details with security guards."

Dylan stepped into the office, his pace hurried and his face tense. "The Decepticons guaranteed my personal safety. I have assurances."

"Pack the portable drives. We're moving out."

"Moving where?" Carly asked.

"Somewhere you would never expect."

Dylan escorted Carly and several trusted aides through the museum's service tunnels. The moment they emerged onto the rear courtyard, a Decepticon gunship touched down before them, kicking up a cloud of loose gravel.

A massive, wide-framed warrior strode down the lowering ramp, his crimson optics glaring down at the human contractor.

"Dylan Gould? You are the human Lord Skygnaw ordered retrieved."

"I am, sir," Dylan bowed slightly, keeping his posture impeccably deferential. "May I ask your designation?"

"You hold no standing to address Grindor by name!" the giant rumbled.

Dylan's jaw twitched, but he swallowed the insult with a practiced smile. "My apologies, sir. Forgive the oversight."

"Get aboard. I am delivering you to Lord Skygnaw."

"At once."

Dylan waved his hand, and his guards escorted Carly up the ramp, with Dylan boarding last.

CLANG.

The heavy blast door sealed behind them, rattling Dylan's nerves despite his preparations.

A moment later, the gunship surged upward.

Grindor stood silently near the forward bulkheads. The flight lasted only a few minutes before Dylan felt the distinct deceleration that signaled an approach.

"We have arrived. Move out."

Grindor's deep voice prompted them forward. The ramp lowered, and Dylan stepped out onto the open deck.

The sight before him froze him in his tracks.

Even with his mind set on riding the Decepticon wave to the bitter end, he had never imagined the full scale of their military strength.

They were standing on the expansive flight deck of a colossal warship, easily spanning the area of multiple city blocks.

Ranks of heavily armored Decepticon warriors stood at regular intervals along the bulkheads, flanked by formations of unfamiliar humanoid troops.

These soldiers wore sealed combat helms resembling tactical human gear, armored in advanced ballistic suits and carrying long, exotic rifles. Those without helmets revealed weathered, ochre-tinted skin, humanoid features, and thick, reinforced limbs.

They looked strikingly familiar.

Had fossil records on Earth never established human evolution, one might have mistaken them for distant biological cousins from across the stars.

Behind Dylan, Carly took in the scene with wide eyes, though her attention immediately bypassed the foreign troops to lock onto the command dais.

Scanning the forward deck, she spotted her marks: Skygnaw, standing tall in his Prime frame, with Megatron and Sentinel Prime conferring close beside him.

30+ chapters are available now and daily updates!