Seymour Simmons log entry 1984:
In 2011, Decepticon Cybertronians invaded earth. What are Cybertronians? You may know them better as “transformers,” at least, that’s how you’ve been indoctrinated to know them. Now, these Cybertronians, that invaded, committed a genocidal act against our planet; Earth, all in an effort to bring their home, Cybertron, here with the intention of enslaving us to rebuild it. Luckily, we had our own Cybertronian pals, we all know as the Autobots, to save us. Because of them, we, as a species, are still here. So why are we hunting them? Why are we stabbing our greatest allies in their backs.
End of entry.
“You can see, from this log alone, former agent Seymour Simmons will not be an asset for us, but, more likely, an obstacle.”
Inside a large briefing room, four shadowed figures sit as a panel, discussing the next steps in determining the fate of their unwanted guests. The oldest, Warren, a bulk of a man, continues his briefing.
“We can’t wait any longer for him to show his face.”
Peters, a lanky man with a sunken face, chimes in, almost cutting Warren off.
“We haven’t seen him since Charlotte Mearing had him arrested at the end of the Chicago fiasco.”
“Do we just wait then, Peters?” Decker, a piercing woman, cuts in, “or do we take action? I’m with Warren on this.”
“Calm yourself, Decker,” Peters returns, “I was merely stating a fact. I also agree that Simmons poses the same threat a dormant disease does. What do you think, Flank?”
Flank, an older, skeletal woman, gets up from her seat and walks away from the trio.
“This is pointless squabbling,” she retorts, whipping out her phone. “Let’s just have our associates of the TRF cut out this little cancer.”
“You know where he is?” Peters inquires.
“He was still making these log entries long after Chicago.” Warren answers, “our team found his server and tracked him to a deserted Sector Seven bunker.”
“Then what are we waiting for,” Decker asks impatiently, the corner of her mouth curling upward, “make the kill order.”
____________
A single, black SUV pulls up to a run down gas station on the side of the road cutting through a desert. All its doors open simultaneously, with four men stepping out checking their gear. They enter the gas station’s convenience store single file, taking tactical positions among its aisles.
“No sign of movement in here, sir,” one of the men reports.
“We’re not looking for movement, Sal,” his superior replies, “we’re looking for things like this.”
He points at a red dot coming from behind a ceiling panel.
“And don’t forget to scan for any transformers.”
He directs his men to fan out, and identify any potential traps laid by their target. The survey every possible nook and cranny, each identifying basic wire trips, pressure tiles, and laser sensors.
“Triggers identified, sir. No sign of transformers”
“You’re all a bunch moronic government lackeys, huh?”
A voice comes from the intercom inside the station’s garage.
“Former agent Seymour Simmons,” the leader replies, “the TRF has identified you as a harborer of extra terrestrial criminals.”
“No, no Decepticons here. You checked yourself, there are no Cybertronians in there.”
“In here?” one of the men questions, taking a step toward the garage.
“Hold your positions, men,” the leader barks, “he’s trying to lead us away. Keep searching for transformers.”
Inside a dark room, Simmons watches the men across four monitors. “Morons,” Simmons replies, flipping four different switches.
From aisle to aisle, shots are fired. One. Two. Three. Surprise and thud. Watching the sequence of death, their leader takes cover, forcing himself to the floor, staying out of the line of fire. As the shots cease, the soldier take a small sigh of relief, only for the floor below him to collapse, and plunge him into pitch blackness.
____________
The soldier falls into the darkness landing onto a slide that takes him even further down. As he falls he hears and feels his com fry. He’d just fallen through an EMP field. Seymour Simmons is living up to his reputation.
A small light finally appears, and as it grows bigger, the soldier’s adrenaline rises. He’s ready. He quickly thinks back on his training, remembering every pressure point, going through the process of events he thinks will unfold. Simmons will undoubtedly have a gun. He will disarm, then break. Disarm then break. Disarm then break. The light’s reached its peak height. He’s coming to the end. He balls his fist and leans forward, ready to leap. Here’s the end. Suddenly, a large, metal hand clotheslines him on his way out. Before he can get up, Simmons injects him.
“What did you-”
“Relax,” Simmons cuts him off, “it’s a mild sedative to lower your adrenaline levels. If I really wanted to kill you,” he kicks the soldier in the back of the knee, forcing him to the ground, “I would have had TC, here, do much more than put his hand out in front of you. Put your hands on your head”
“TC?” the soldier, asks, following the command.
“Right, sorry. You only know them as ‘transformers.’ But this one’s name is Trailcutter; one of the good ones. Thanks,” he nods his head toward the Cybertronian, “by the way.”
Trailcutter is a fit bot, with a body akin to his drill sergeant, Ironhide, even taking an alt-mode similar to his. His specialty is defense, being forged with shield generators in his own arms. He’s watched many of his friends and comrades in arms fall, unable to defend them.
“Of course,” Trailcutter replies, “though I’d wish you stop using me as a threat towards our guests. I don’t think it helps my species’ PR on your planet.”
“These men are a lost cause, TC, I thought you’d have understood that after they killed Dutch.” Simmons checks the monitors, “and you can turn off your shield now, there don’t appear to be anymore visitors.”
Trailcutter presses a switch in his wrist, and a blue, holographic cloth is sucked out of the walls and into his arm.
“Why don’t you go take a rest,” Simmons suggests, “reserve what little energon levels you have left.”
“But won’t you nee-” Trailcutter starts.
“Soldier boy here knows you won’t kill him now, and I kind of do need a getaway vehicle.”
Trailcutter concedes, transforming into a muscular pick up truck, as Simmons pulls up a chair in front of the subdued soldier.
“Who sent you?” he questions, “was it the four?”
“How do you know-” the soldier starts.
“Simple,” Simmons cuts him off, “They hack me, I follow the connection back to its source.”
“That’s not-”
“A clear answer? No, it wasn’t meant to be. Now, you’re TRF are you not?”
Simmons gets up from his chair, circling around his captive.
“Transformers Reaction Force,” he says with pointed disgust.
“Yeah,” the soldier replies indignantly, “we protect people from things like that pile of scrap-”
Simmons smacks the back of the soldier’s head.
“I will not condone your racism toward my friend.”
“You protect the species that seeks to wipe ours out?”
“See that’s the problem with people like you,” he comes back around, looking the soldier in the face, “you think the actions of one portion of a species determines the character of the whole? Do you not see the irony of that viewpoint if you just looked at our own history?”
The soldier takes a moment, like a child bully who was just put in his place. But, his perspective gives him a pride-stroking counter.
“Even so, that thing,” the soldier gestures at Trailcutter, “and his faction just stood by and let Chicago be hit, costing the us millions in lives. Their inaction makes them just as guilty as the rest of their kind-”
Trailcutter transforms back into his robot mode, noticeably distraught.
“You had just exiled us from your planet!” he exclaims, “and with that aside, do you think it made sense, tactically, to even attempt a defense? Nine against at least a few hundred, not including the gunships.”
“Spare me your excuses!” the soldier shouts back, “I thought you cared about us humans, and would do anything to protect us!”
Silence fills the room.
“Mudflap, Skids..” Trailcutter starts.
“What are you-” the soldier’s puzzled.
“Did you even learn their names?” Simmons says coldly, “Elita One, Chromia, Arcee…”
“Who-”
“Dino, Jolt, Q, Jazz, Sideswipe…” Trailcutter continues, “The Wreckers; my brothers.”
“How about the big names, huh?” Simmons says, getting louder. “Ratchet, Ironhide! All good bots who put their lives on the line for us, even after we desecrated the then corpse of their esteemed leader. Now look at us.” He pauses, reflecting, “We’ve turned them into failed, knockoff gobots.”
“We’ve lost people too!” Trailcutter shouts, slamming the ground, “All friends, who I will never see again.” His fist tightens, “and you people never even reflected on their lives, not even when they fought with you side by side.” His fist loosens, as he leans back, lamenting his memories.
“Let me ask you,” Simmons starts calmly, “how would you feel if the people you’ve saved, during your time in the military, turned around and started killing every member of your brotherhood?”
The soldier is finally silent, more out of fear of Trailcutter’s hands, but listening.
“So that’s what it takes?” Simmons jabs, noticing the soldier’s focused gaze on Trailcutter. “You need someone to threaten you in order for you to do the right thing.”
The soldier looks down in defeat.
“I won’t have answers for you,” the soldier admits, unable to look up.
“Prime has left our planet,” Simmons states, strolling toward Trailcutter, “And I wouldn’t blame him if he came back to end our race.”
The soldier glares upward.
“Then the TRF’s existence is justified,” he indignantly whispers.
Simmons sighs, “have you not been listening?”
“Look, I get it,” the soldier starts standing up, “we’ve treated the transformers like shit, and maybe we don’t deserve to live.” He stands fully upright. “But if I had to choose between us or them,” he brings his arms down, “I’d choose us.”
“TC,” Simmons gestures to Trailcutter.
Trailcutter nods and reverts to his truck mode. The sedative has worn off, and the soldier’s found his second wind.
Simmons, looking disappointed, reaches behind his back.
“I thought we got through to you, son,” he sighs, “what is your name?”
“My name is Leland Bishop,” he says, a smirk growing across his face, “and to help save earth, I’m taking you down.”
Bishop runs at Simmons, who calmly pulls a gun on him. Bishop freezes.
“We could have used your help, Leland, but you can’t see what’s plainly in front of you.”
Simmons’ hand is steady, this isn’t the worst thing he’s done to a living being. He and Bishop’s eyes are locked. Simmons is too far for Bishop to disarm and then break.
“Do it, traitor”
Simmons looks at him, pondering his options. He breaks his gaze and re-holsters the gun.
“My friend here wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I shot you.”
Bishop shouts with frustration, and leaps at Simmons only to be knocked back by a yellow force field that’s projected by the truck instantaneously. He leaps back up, grabbing a nearby rock and begins pummeling the hard light. Break, break, break, break…
“You’re wasting your energy, soldier,” Simmons scoffs tapping the other side of the field, “It’d literally take you a full year to even make this shield flicker.”
“Come out here and fight, traitor!” Bishop shouts.
Simmons walks away from the edge of the field.
“Thanks again, TC,” Simmons says, opening the truck doors, “We’ll have to find another Energon depot. Shouldn’t be more than a few hundred klicks.”
Simmons grabs the door and, as he shuts it, shouts, “See you at the end of the world, soldier boy.”
Once the door slams, several explosions go off, forcing Bishop into the air and to smack into the opposing wall. The force field is sucked back into the truck, as it drives off into the smoke.
____________
Seymour Simmons Entry Log 2017
Prime has returned. He’s brought Cybertron with him. His retribution is upon us, but the Autobots don’t seem to support him? Whatever the outcome, we deserve it.
End of entry.
Tsai-McCarthy press 