Chapter 12: Hide, Seek, Chase (2)

10 Hours Before the Main Event

Break Room – Department of Defense Headquarters, Washington D.C.

A lazy ceiling fan turned overhead. Below, the thick scent of coffee blended with old paper and the faint ozone tang of the printers. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, slicing the room into sharp golden beams.

A wall-mounted TV replayed footage from the explosion at the SOCCENT base. Blurry thermal camera images flickered on screen, accompanied by urgent commentary:

— It's a miracle six people survived. Otherwise, this would've hit a dead end.

— Yeah.

— Hey… you hear what they're saying about the SOCCENT incident? Something about alien tech.

A young analyst chuckled, blowing gently on his steaming coffee cup.

— Here we go again. Yesterday it was terrorism, the day before—rogue A.I. drones. Now it's aliens?

The older man, thick glasses slipping down his nose, leaned closer and lowered his voice.

— I'm not joking. There was some leaked internal data… after the incident, someone accessed Project Ice Man.

— Ice Man? The hell is that?

— Not sure. But that name's tied to a group I've heard whispered about… Sector 7. Ultra-classified. If you weren't working in government, you'd think it was from a spy movie.

The younger man leaned back in his chair, frowning.

— I thought that was some defunct old division.

— Exactly. No one really knows if it ever existed. But ever since the Qatar incident, all access to federal systems gets filtered through them. It's like… they're watching us, not the other way around.

Silence settled between them. The TV played on. Both men sipped their coffee, but one name echoed over and over in their thoughts.

Sector 7.

---

A faint hiss of encrypted signals buzzed in the sealed chamber. Frosted glass walls shimmered with waves of data and live surveillance feeds from global hot zones.

No windows. Only cold, artificial light bathing the metallic floor. The air smelled faintly of ozone and scorched plastic.

Agent Simmons stood at the control table, eyes locked on a transcript of the earlier break room conversation. A label blinked above it:

Clearance Level: PASSIVE SURVEILLANCE / NON-INTERVENTION

Beside him, Agent Salazar scanned through detailed maps marked with suspected extraterrestrial activity.

Dozens of screens lit up the room—grainy, distorted footage from security cams, satellite reports, and surveillance drones. In some, towering metallic figures blurred past the rainforests of South America. Others showed scorched impact craters—with no sign of a meteor.

A senior officer stood before the briefing room, voice tight:

— They're not here to invade. At least not yet. They're searching for something. And I have reason to believe it's tied to Project Ice Man.

Another agent spoke up, his hand trembling:

— They know about it. They're trying to wake it.

Suddenly, a young agent burst into the room holding a tablet.

— We just intercepted drone footage from Los Angeles. Civilian unit. It matches everything we've been tracking.

The room fell silent as the screen shifted—shaky, blurred video inside an abandoned power plant. A fierce chase unfolded between two colossal machines. One was Bumblebee—agile, swift. The other, Barricade—relentless and brutal.

But what froze the room wasn't the battle.

It was the names that popped up from facial recognition:

Mikaela Banes

Sam Witwicky

One officer broke the silence:

— Witwicky... isn't he the descendant of Archibald Witwicky? The one who discovered the artifact?

The room stirred in sudden realization. The puzzle pieces clicked—Project Ice Men, the search, the cryptic signs... and now, a human with direct ties to the metal beings.

An agent blurted out:

— They're not just after Ice Man. They're chasing the secret the Witwicky family buried over a century ago. Why else would they target him?

A 3D map appeared—every house in Glendale, California rendered in detail. One red marker pulsed over address 115.

The Witwicky residence.

Simmons' low voice cut through the cold room:

— We don't know what they're after. But if every alien in this mess is converging on that kid... then he's not just some bystander.

Another agent asked cautiously:

— Because he's Archibald's descendant?

Simmons narrowed his eyes, leaning forward:

— No. But if it comes down to it… the kid will tell us what only he knows.

He turned back to the console:

— Activate Hawk-Eye Protocol. Surveillance satellite on his house. Tap every line. Jam all comms. And if there's even a whisper of contact with a metal entity—

— Use force. Detain the entire household if necessary.

No one objected. The order was given. 

A normal family had just become the epicenter of a secret interstellar war.

—-

Back to the present

The chase begins.

Through alleys as dark as the throat of a mechanical beast, where cables hang like spider webs and low rooftops press together like layers of forgotten memory, three shadows dart forward—two in pursuit, one fleeing.

No sirens. No lights. Just leaps, the soft whir of engines, and a clear, haunting laugh from someone who doesn't know fear.

Los Angeles by night—moonlight slips across cracked buildings, casting shadows on dangling fire escapes, painting silver across the peeling paint of a dying world. This isn't a place for noise. It's the domain of speed-born ghosts.

Buckethead—a gust of mischief shaped in metal—glides along the tin roof, breezing past a broken chimney like she's playing a game she made up herself. A grappling hook fires with a snap, catching a balcony across the way. She giggles, swinging through the air like a dancer who's just found her favorite stage:

[Up yet, Jazz? Or should I toss down a rope ladder?]

She lands weightlessly, rolls, then slides down a wall pipe with a ringing laugh. Even the night air seems to laugh with her.

Behind her, Jazz—silent, precise—crosses the same rooftop with surgical grace. No wasted movement. He leaps, spins, grabs, and vaults like his body is music and this world is the stage he's memorized note for note.

[If you spent less time talking, I might've caught you already.]

He mutters, though the corner of his mouth quirks—almost a smile. Quick, rare.

Bumblebee follows—bigger-bodied, but no less agile. He's not chasing to win. He's chasing to make sure no one gets hurt. Using a streetlight as a launch point, Bee vaults up to a second-floor balcony and slips through a half-open window. His radio voice crackles through—half stern, half teasing:

"Careful, Bucket. If you fall, I'm not dragging myself down these alleys to scrape you up!"

Bee calls up from below, eyes on her as she perches on a battered old container.

"My legs are way too nice to be near that trash smell!"

From above, Buckethead calls back, playful:

[Oh Bee, if I fall, I'll be flying. I won't even touch the trash!]

She laughs wildly, already reaching the next rooftop.

They move like streaks of light across a sleeping city—a thrill-seeker who won't slow down, a cold warrior close behind, and a steady brother holding the line.

There are no police in this chase. No audience. Just soft footsteps on rooftops and one lingering question:

Who's really chasing whom?

Vents, rusted AC units, tangled fire escapes—all become a shifting playground where three Cybertronians dance through a symphony of motion and instinct. No explosions. No destruction. Only speed, precision, and predator reflexes honed over centuries.

Buckethead leads like a streak of light in a steel maze. She spins on a drainpipe, launches off a wall, climbs higher like gravity's a joke. Her slim legs find footholds no wider than a cat's eye, and her gaze sparkles with childlike mischief—this is her playground.

Jazz's voice cuts through the comms—short, crisp:

[She's heading for the abandoned site east of here. Bee, swing right and block her path. Don't let her vanish into the dark again.]

Buckethead chuckles, voice melting into the wind:

[Come on, Jazz. The night's still young… and I've got so much more to show you.]

No response. But Bumblebee shifts course—no words, no promises. The clean grip of his hands on the next rooftop shows he knows exactly what he's doing.

In the dark, three figures weave through steel, heat, and moonlight. A chase not for destruction—but for something closer to joy.

The night air is cold and dry. Gentle wind sways laundry lines and rooftop tarps. The neighborhood is quiet, with only a few windows still lit. Then—

A shadow flashes across a rooftop, trailing a grappling hook like lightning.

Buckethead springs off a cracked brick wall, landing on the second-floor railing of a crumbling old house, metal hair fluttering once before she darts off again.

Jazz is right behind, feet slamming onto the roof with a loud clang—just enough to wake an old man napping near the window.

- What the hell? the old man mutters, pulling back the curtain just in time to glimpse a silver robot flying past—too fast to make sense of it.

Down below, a couple out on a late walk hears the grappling hook's hiss. They look up and barely catch a slender girl swinging like a ninja from one balcony to another.

- Did you see that?! the woman gasps, yanking her boyfriend's arm, eyes wide.

- It's huge... was that a robot? They're not filming something, right?

At that moment, Bumblebee clears a low wall, landing in a narrow alley between two buildings. His chest-mounted headlights flicker once—then cut off to avoid detection.

Jazz transmits a message directly into Bumblebee's mind:

["Careful, civilians nearby. Don't expose yourself."]

["Understood."]

Jazz gives a sharp nod, just as Buckethead skims across the roof of a 24-hour convenience store. Inside, a young clerk sits under the glow of his phone screen, eyes glazed.

The metal blur above rattles the ceiling. He looks up, stunned—like he just saw something not of this world.

A moment later, he bolts from the counter, but outside, only the wind stirs the rooftop. Buckethead is gone, as if she'd never been there. Only a security camera blinks, capturing a blurry shape of mechanical motion—unidentifiable, uncertain.

Across the street, Buckethead touches down lightly on the mossy roof of an old building. She pauses—for the first time in the chase—still clutching an old, dark-leather book: Archibald Witwicky's journal.

She glances back, eyes flashing in the dark, and a quiet smile plays on her lips:

[Jazz… only you can make me feel this alive, you know?]

[And that… makes me want to play even more.]

Without waiting another beat, she pushed herself forward, sliding down the spiral iron staircase that led into an abandoned construction site. Hollow metal bars clattered as she passed, then everything fell silent. Buckethead had vanished into the night, thick and heavy like tar.

Behind her, Jazz and Bumblebee continued the chase—without slowing down. Not because she disappeared, but because they knew: the game wasn't over yet.

Jazz landed on the edge of the second floor of the construction site, his heel hitting the dusty concrete with a dry, sharp sound. He said nothing. His eyes scanned the area—nothing but a maze of rusted scaffolding, empty shipping containers, cranes half-sunk in shadow, and tarps fluttering in the wind like the skin of some sleeping beast.

In the distance, Bumblebee appeared too, no need for a call. He stood on a curved steel frame and gave a silent nod. For a few seconds, neither moved—they knew Buckethead was still here. The sensors didn't lie. She was waiting… or setting the stage.

Jazz crouched, pressing his ear to the ground. A faint vibration. Not from machinery, but from footsteps—deliberate, playful. She was circling back.

He exhaled slowly.

[She's playing that game again, like always… Like a dancer commanding the whole stage.]

Metal clanged somewhere below—Buckethead. She wasn't hiding. She was calling.

A soft light flickered behind a pile of containers. Jazz leaned sideways, signaling Bumblebee to flank from the other direction. No need to speak, no plan required. They'd worked together in more dangerous situations than this—but never against someone like Buckethead.

She felt like a child.

Not stronger. Not faster. But she had something few others did—the fearless recklessness of a child who doesn't know fear, and the cunning mind of someone who never imagined failure.

Jazz dropped to the lower floor, gripping a steel beam and landing softly. His steps were slow, smooth, like a predator. The deeper he went, the dimmer the light became—until only the sound of metal, the whisper of wind, and a vague unease remained… as if the site itself was breathing.

Suddenly—a quiet laugh, almost a whisper:

[You really think you'll catch me this time, Jazz…?]

A net dropped. But Jazz twisted away just in time. The first trap. Not meant to harm—just to test his reflexes.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

[At this rate, we'll be here until morning.]

But deep in his mind, Jazz knew—this wasn't just a game of chase. Buckethead had something important. Something tied to that journal… and with it, a piece of something far greater.

Buckethead sat perched on a steel beam, legs swinging like a child waiting for her favorite play to begin, her hand gently brushing over Archibald Witwicky's weathered journal as if it were a cherished toy.

Below, Jazz's footsteps echoed—steady, calm. Of course he dodged the first trap. She knew he would. He was never easy to predict.

She tilted her head, smiling:

[Just as I thought, Jazz… You haven't changed, even after all these years. Always walking straight into the eye of the storm, not a moment's hesitation.]

She flipped off the beam, twisting mid-air to land on a vertical concrete pillar. Not a sound. Her feet clung light, green eyes glowing with mischief.

For a moment, she paused. Staring into the void ahead, where Bumblebee was closing in. She knew they moved like one breath. And that… was what made this game fun.

[Being hunted by two legendary Autobots, all for an old journal and a few ancient scribbles? Ha. I've never felt this… important before.]

She leapt down, deliberately stepping on a loose metal plate to make noise.

Jazz turned instantly. Bumblebee shifted his angle.

Buckethead laughed out loud:

[Guess what? Not that way!]

She zipped past a toppled crane, vaulted two makeshift walls, and kicked off a safety net, turning it into a temporary slide to somewhere else.

The space was pitch dark, dust curling up with every step. But she didn't stop. The journal was still in her hands. And in her heart… a feeling she couldn't name, something she always felt when Jazz shouted over the radio—worried or angry—she couldn't quite tell.

[You can't catch me, Jazz. Not because you're not fast enough. But because… some part of me always wants you to chase me.]

She vanished into the darkness. Behind her, Jazz and Bumblebee were closing in.

—

As tension reached its peak, Sam couldn't take it anymore. The guilt of the stolen journal, the fear for the Autobots' safety, and the worry that his dad might accidentally ruin everything—all merged into chaos in his head.

- Dad, don't come any closer! Sam shouted again, lunging out the window in a desperate attempt to stop his father. But in his rush, his foot caught the edge of the bed.

He stumbled.

- Ah—! A short cry escaped him as his hands grabbed at the window frame, nails digging into the wood like his life depended on it.

Ron immediately spun around at the sound of his son, panic in his voice.

- SAM!

At the same moment, the Autobots below all looked up, eyes locking on the young man dangling mid-air.

Sam's grip slipped. Sweat and tension made it impossible to hold on. In that moment, the whole world held its breath.

And then—a thunderous burst like a rumble from deep beneath the earth.

Optimus launched from his hiding spot, stunning Ironhide and Ratchet. He didn't hesitate. All stealth protocols, all efforts to stay hidden, were shattered by a single decisive leap. His massive steel arm shot upward, catching Sam just before he hit the ground.

Sam landed safely in that enormous hand, breath ragged, eyes wide as he looked up into Optimus' calm, softly glowing blue face.

Ron, rushing to his son, froze.

Standing before him, in the middle of his backyard… was a towering robot, gleaming with metal, eyes bright as stars.

His jaw dropped.

- Dear God… what the hell—?!

Optimus looked straight into Ron's eyes. His voice echoed like it came from the origin of the universe itself:

- Mr. Witwicky… there is no need to fear. Your son is safe.

Sam still clung to the giant hand, his voice trembling.

- Dad… I'll explain later…

But no one was sure if there *would* be a "later"—because now, the greatest secret had been exposed. And tonight… was only the beginning.

Ron, instinctively stepping back, seemed ready to scream—but then… he stood tall, his gaze fixed on Optimus Prime. He stared at the gleaming insignia on the Autobot's forehead. His breath still quick, but not panicked. On the contrary, there was something strange—something calm, as if he had dreamed of this moment before.

His voice came, slow but firm:

- You're… an Autobot, right? I've seen your symbol… in my dreams.

Optimus paused. For a tiny second, the light in his eyes shifted—not from being discovered, but from surprise. He knew the Witwicky bloodline could see Cybertron in their dreams. But unlike Sam, this man… wasn't afraid. Not entirely.

- Yes.- Optimus replied, voice deep as the earth breathing.

Ron gave a slight nod. His eyes flickered with confusion, but also something else—like he was trying to piece together fragments of an old memory. The Witwicky bloodline… perhaps passed down more than just dreams.

But the quiet moment was shattered when hurried footsteps echoed from inside the house.

- SAM!? What happened—?!

Judy and Mikaela burst out the back door, eyes scanning for Sam, then froze at the threshold when they saw… Optimus Prime—tall, mighty, standing in their yard, still holding their son.

For a split second, Judy's face contorted—fear, shock, confusion… and about to explode into a scream.

- OH MY GO—!

- MOM! Sam yelled.

Mikaela lunged and clamped a hand over Judy's mouth on instinct. She whispered through her teeth:

- Please, don't scream… he's a friend…

Judy stepped back, eyes wide, still muffled by the hand over her mouth, making a furious, confused "Mmmm!" noise.

Optimus gently lowered Sam to the ground and nodded slightly to the three of them, his voice softer now:

- Apologies for the surprise. But we don't have much time…

Ron squinted, watching every word, every movement. Though he said nothing more, Optimus knew: he… remembered something.

A buried memory was waking. And the truth—once again—was ready to speak.

—-

The chase between the three Cybertronian entities showed no sign of stopping. Rooftops stretched endlessly, iron staircases, construction cranes, and still-drying concrete walls formed the perfect terrain for a dazzling display of speed, skill, and recklessness. Jazz and Bumblebee kept a relentless pursuit of Buckethead, who constantly changed her path, turning every corner into a part of her escape dance.

In Bumblebee's hand was the notebook. In a daring moment, he had reached out and snatched it, just milliseconds after Buckethead had used her auto-grapple to launch herself across two rooftops. A short-lived victory. Bee knew it.

He opened the notebook while in motion — ancient symbols glowed faintly, as if something inside recognized him as an "unauthorized reader."

And then she turned back.

Not with brute strength — but with agility and cunning. Buckethead twisted mid-air, clamping Bumblebee's arm with her legs in an instant, and with her free hand, snatched the notebook back as if it were a familiar game. Once again, it was in her possession.

[Clumsy hands, Bee! This one's not for you boys.]

[Watch out, Bumblebee! She's not easy to handle.]

Despite their best efforts, Buckethead gained the upper hand once again. Archibald Witwicky's notebook was back in her hands, and the pursuit continued without pause.

Below, an old neighborhood. Streetlights cast a glow on crumbling walls of aging buildings as the figures of the chase passed by. Some local residents, stunned, couldn't believe their eyes as a blur darted across the rooftops, too fast to grasp what was happening.

— What the hell was that? — a middle-aged man exclaimed, pulling his wife indoors, unable to believe what he'd seen.

— How are they even up there? Are those... robots? — a panicked woman asked, pointing at the shadows chasing each other above.

But the chase didn't stop, not for a second. Jazz and Bumblebee kept pushing forward, refusing to let Buckethead gain too much ground. The notebook passed hands again and again, but one thing remained constant — Buckethead always ended up with it.

As the chase tore through quiet streets, from small homes to construction zones, Bumblebee knew this wouldn't end here. The pages weren't yet secured, and none of the Autobots could ignore the invaluable information inside.

As expected, Buckethead used her impressive skills, slipping through corners and alleys, darting between buildings and scaffolding without a moment's hesitation. The notebook returned to her hands once more. But this time, Bumblebee had managed to preserve what he had captured — at least part of the precious knowledge would not be lost.

At last, in the stillness of night, with only hurried footsteps and fleeting shadows in the dark, the chase continued. And Archibald Witwicky's notebook, holding secrets of Cybertron, remained a treasure Buckethead had no intention of giving up.

Jazz growled through the comms:

[Don't let her drag this out! She's leading us in circles!]

But Buckethead was prepared. She tossed a small circular device behind her — a Pulse Distorter. In less than a second, an electromagnetic pulse burst out, jamming navigation sensors. Bumblebee stalled for half a second; Jazz veered slightly off course, enough for Buckethead to break away.

She activated two micro-thrusters on her heels, launching herself in a double-jump up toward an abandoned clocktower. As she landed, she giggled.

[What, didn't bring your toys, boys?]

She threw another batch of devices mid-air — Holo-Drifters, creating three moving holograms of herself heading in different directions. Bumblebee collided with a fake; Jazz paused to analyze.

And just then, Buckethead slid down the crumbling scaffolding behind the tower, dropped onto a side alley leading into a construction basement — and vanished like a shadow.

From above, Jazz looked down and took a heavy breath. He clenched his fist.

[She's not just a thief anymore… she's playing with us.]

Bumblebee nodded, holding a dissolving holo-drift fragment.

Below, Buckethead placed the notebook on her knee, gently stroked an ancient Cybertronian symbol, causing it to glow again.

[Shall we keep playing, Jazz? I don't think you've seen the best part yet…]

The chase carried on like a high-speed symphony, through damp rooftops, rusted staircases, and the half-finished skeletons of a sleeping city. Buckethead stayed in the lead — light as smoke, mischievous as a laughing breeze.

Jazz and Bumblebee pushed on, but they began to realize — she wasn't just fleeing. She was toying with them.

As Bumblebee landed on a low roof, a small device exploded beneath his foot — a Grapple Snare, a pressure-triggered net mine. A fine metal mesh snapped up and caught his leg. It took a few seconds to break free — enough to lose sight of her.

Above, Buckethead zipped past a faded sign and tossed a Reflector Pod — a gadget that manipulated ambient light. Jazz saw her image veer left, when in truth, she had leaped onto a crane.

Jazz gritted his teeth.

[She's messing with me.]

Buckethead fired her grapple and swung around the building. As Jazz and Bee followed, she deployed a Holo-Lure — a device that projected her voice in three different directions:

[Come on, heroes! I'm waiting — did you bring Energon? I'm afraid you'll be out cold before you even get close to catching me.]

The two were forced to pause briefly to scan for audio interference, giving her even more distance.

At a sharp turn, she threw down a Stasis Spark — a device that emitted a short electric wave that scrambled balance systems. Jazz stumbled as he landed, nearly slipping off the rooftop edge, grabbing a pipe just in time.

Buckethead glanced back and whistled playfully:

[Careful, Jazz! I really don't want to fish you out of there!]

Sliding across a steel scaffold, she sneakily planted a pair of Echo Bombs on the frame. As Bumblebee passed, the bombs didn't harm him, but released a shockwave that hit his audio sensors — fragmented laughter echoed in the night, forcing him to take a few steps back to regain balance.

Jazz was running out of patience:

[She's turning tonight into her private performance.]

Under the moonlight, Buckethead landed on a rooftop overgrown with moss and weeds, giving a playful bow to the two shadows behind her.

[Just a few more minutes. Then we'll see what's inside this notebook together, yeah?]

And then she vanished again, down a flight of stairs leading into the dark basement of the abandoned site.

Meanwhile, Jazz couldn't take his eyes off Bumblebee. A brief silence before he shouted.

—-

The chase reached its peak in the heart of the abandoned structure. Cracked walls, broken staircases, and the flickering glow of distant streetlights illuminated only shifting silhouettes—an ideal maze for those who thrived on misdirection.

Buckethead knew she had the upper hand.

She slid along a ventilation duct, vaulted onto scaffolding, and flipped through the air like a shadow. A flick of the wrist, and a small circular device flew behind her—Decoy Spark: a blinking light clone that mimicked her body's movement. Bumblebee saw "her" turn left down a narrow hallway and immediately gave chase.

Buckethead chuckled softly.

[Someone just took the bait...]

But moments later, a low engine hum echoed from the other side.

Bumblebee—somehow—had intercepted her, standing at the right exit, eyes glowing, an energy analyzer still running silently in his visor. He hadn't followed the decoy; he had tracked her real thermal signature.

[Not bad,] Buckethead muttered, then snapped her fingers.

A series of Cryo-Dust Pellets shattered on the concrete floor in front of Bumblebee. The ground froze in an instant, making him slip and forcing him to grab a nearby steel beam to steady himself.

Seizing the opportunity, Buckethead spun around and tossed an EMP tripwire behind her, flooding the hallway with static interference. Jazz had just landed when his sensor system glitched momentarily. His optics blinked a few times. Buckethead used the gap to slip through an old wall crevice and rushed past a series of rusted machine rooms.

But as soon as she hit the ground, she heard Jazz's voice—close.

[I've seen you pull that move back in Iacon,] his tone was cold as steel. [Static-type EMP. Range is barely two meters.]

An arm reached from the shadows, grabbing her shoulder. She reacted instantly, elbowing backward and launching a spinning kick. Jazz pulled back just in time. She vaulted up to the next floor using a shattered stairwell, tossing a flare grenade that overloaded sensors with blinding light for a few seconds.

But as the light faded, Bumblebee was already there.

He didn't need sensors. He relied on footfalls, Jazz's position, and most of all—experience.

Buckethead froze, eyes scanning rapidly—no more climbable walls, no grappling wires, and every exit blocked.

Ahead, Jazz stepped from the shadows, half-covered in a layer of dust:

[Time's up, kid.]

Buckethead looked at both of them, exhaled like she'd just sprinted through a maze dream.

[So I guess… this is the part where I say 'You got me', huh?]

Jazz didn't flinch:

[No, this is the part where you hand over the notebook before this whole building collapses from another one of your stunts.]

A beat of silence. Then she slowly pulled the notebook from her side compartment, hand still clutching it.

But her eyes—even cornered—lit up like she was already planning her next move.

Buckethead stood there, still holding the notebook, her gaze darting between Jazz and Bumblebee. No way out, but a clear glint of amusement on her face.

[Well… close.] Her voice was barely a whisper. [You guys are getting better.]

She tilted her head, then suddenly pressed a small button on her wrist. A brief flicker of light flashed—and the floor beneath her vanished. More precisely, it had always been a fake layer disguised by holo-mapping, set up in advance.

She dropped into the gap below.

Jazz reacted instantly, diving to the edge and sliding down without a word. Bumblebee followed close behind, activating a shoulder light to illuminate the dark underbelly of the structure.

Below was a maze of air ducts, rusted steel supports, and echoing footsteps mixed with Buckethead's trailing laughter, like she was dissolving into the shadows.

[You really want to keep playing? Fine… I've still got a few surprises left.]

Jazz gave a signal, and they split up to cut off her exit. Buckethead knew it. She slid into a narrow passage, tossing a jamming beacon behind her that scrambled their internal maps for a few seconds.

But only for a few seconds.

Jazz had seen this kind of trick before. He shut down all navigation systems, relying only on sound—tracking each clang, each uneven breath.

He spotted a silhouette slipping through a tight gap ahead—not rushed, but rhythmic—like she was leading him into another trap.

Jazz kept walking. Not falling for it. Not rushing. He waited.

And Bumblebee, coming around from the opposite side, had already armed his EMP launcher.

When Buckethead glanced back, she realized… two beams of light were converging. One final exit led outside—she bolted for it.

But this time, no holo. No wires. No traps—just speed, agility, and resolve. And this time, Jazz was faster. A low slide, then a sudden leap, using the opposite wall to change direction and cut her off.

Each of Buckethead's steps slowed as she realized she was truly cornered. Jazz kept his eyes locked on her, waiting for the moment. Bumblebee moved with practiced grace, using the environment as cover, not giving her any opening to reclaim the notebook.

Meanwhile, Buckethead sensed a shift in the air. She began to back away, eyes darting around in search of an exit — but every route was blocked. Jazz stood to the left, carefully watching her every move, while Bumblebee closed in quietly from the right.

Buckethead once again showed her grit and determination. She didn't look worried — instead, she smirked and replied:

[Running isn't the only way to win, Jazz.]

At that moment, Bumblebee stepped forward, cautious, ready to act if necessary. The standoff became a game of instinct — each side trying to read the other's next move and stay one step ahead.

Buckethead started using her speed to feint, throwing off their rhythm and trying to bait the Autobots into a trap. But Jazz and Bumblebee worked too well together. Every move Jazz made was calculated, every step Bumblebee took was to block her evasions.

The chase wove through the ruins like a tense dance, every step deliberate. Buckethead used every trick: false signals, holo-net illusions, smoke grenades with glowing luster, and even a moment where she split into two holographic projections running in opposite directions.

But Jazz wasn't fooled. He knew her rhythm — footsteps light as air, always veering left after every third change in direction. He wasn't watching her — he was reading her, like an old song he knew by heart.

Bumblebee, though not as fast, was precise like clockwork. He didn't chase — he blocked, cutting off her escape routes with pinpoint accuracy, slowly forcing her toward the center of the site.

Eventually, she fell right into the trap they'd carefully set: an old chamber with three collapsed walls and a single exit — which Bumblebee now stood firmly in front of.

Buckethead stood there, breathing hard, still clutching the notebook. Her ruby-red eyes scanned for a way out — but there were none.

Jazz approached slowly from the left, Bumblebee from the right. No words were needed — their movements were in sync, like two closing gates.

And then, Buckethead realized she had no options left. Trapped between two Autobots, unable to move forward or back. The notebook now fully within their control.

With the notebook finally in Jazz's hands, it seemed the chase had reached its end. A breeze slipped through the shattered walls of the abandoned structure, bringing a quiet that felt like closure.

Jazz and Bumblebee stood facing Buckethead — who no longer wore her usual smirk or confidence. But just as they began to relax, Buckethead suddenly... dropped to the ground.

[Oh, for the love of Primus!!!] she howled, grabbing her head, flailing like she was being utterly oppressed.

[You… you… BULLIES!!] she shrieked like a child, voice sharp and eyes flicking upward to check if they were watching. [I just wanted to feel a little thrill tonight!! And you two chased me down, pinned me, SNATCHED my stuff like street thugs!!]

After countless battle cycles on Cybertron, this was the first time they'd ever seen such a… tactic-defying move: a battlefield tantrum.

Jazz and Bumblebee froze for a few seconds, glancing at each other — their optics practically spelling the same silent question:

"What the hell is happening right now?"

Their opponent, the elusive thief known for vanishing like a ghost, was now… rolling on the ground, clutching her head, sobbing like a child denied candy.

The high-speed chase seemed over, but something didn't feel right. A strange tension crept back into the air. Like they were being played again.

Bumblebee stood still, head tilted, as if reprocessing data — trying to determine whether this was a new psychological tactic or if she had genuinely… snapped.

Jazz folded his arms, squinting, his face showing a mix of irritation, confusion, and a laugh he couldn't quite suppress.

[Oh Primus…] he muttered. 

Buckethead didn't stop. She rolled again, pointing dramatically at the notebook like she'd lost her entire world:

[You took my notebook! That was mine! I found it first! I was holding it first!]

Then she sniffled, whining:

[It's not fair… not fair at all… two grown bots ganging up on a poor little girl… don't you have hearts…]

Jazz sighed.

[Bee, give her some of your Energon chips. Maybe we'll get more info in return.]

Bumblebee shook his head slightly but let out a sound that could only be interpreted as a stifled laugh.

Buckethead still lay on the ground, hand over her eyes, trying to hide the sly smile creeping across her lips.

Just as Jazz and Bumblebee hesitated, unsure how to handle this "tantrum tactic" that defied every combat manual — Buckethead suddenly changed the tone again.

A soft *click* sounded as her visor dropped down over her eyes. Before either Autobot could react, a cluster of tiny Cybertronian flash-bombs landed at their feet. In an instant, the whole area burst into blinding light, overwhelming their visual sensors.

Jazz instinctively backed away, eyes dazzled. Bumblebee raised his arm to shield his face, his navigation systems flickering for several seconds. That was all the time she needed.

Through the haze and flickering light, she moved — silent as midnight wind — and brushed Jazz's cheek with a fleeting kiss.

[Thanks for chasing me all night.] she whispered, voice mischievous yet oddly warm. [Let's play again soon, Jazz~]

And then, as if she was never there, Buckethead vanished into the shadows. Only the sound of footsteps on metal roofing and a faint scent of ozone lingered in the air — and the ancient notebook was no longer in their hands.

As the light from the flares faded, Jazz stood motionless, shaking his head with a long sigh:

[…Primus… did she just kiss me?]

Bumblebee was still blinking, recovering vision, and muttered into Jazz's mind:

["This… was not in the training manual."]

The chase ended abruptly and unexpectedly, leaving Jazz and Bumblebee with a lingering sense of unease. Buckethead had outwitted them again — but how many more tricks did she have left to keep evading the Autobots?

The night swallowed the abandoned site, leaving only scattered glimmers from the fading flares — like colorful remnants of a cosmic prank.

Jazz stood there, staring into the space where she vanished. Still faintly aware of the ghost-touch on his cheek — her teasing kiss — equal parts frustrating and strangely amusing. He clenched his fists and sighed. Everything had happened too fast. And once again, the trickster had slipped away, as if the whole affair was just a game to her.

A cold wind swept through the cracked concrete layers, adding to the gloom.

Bumblebee approached, silent as always. Without a word, he rested a hand on Jazz's shoulder. A calm, steady touch that spoke more than any comfort ever could.

["Jazz,"] his voice echoed in Jazz's mind, ["You didn't lose."]

Jazz turned, surprised. His eyes reflected doubt and disbelief.

[What do you mean? She's gone. And the notebook… it's stolen.]

Bumblebee didn't answer right away. His optics glowed, and immediately, a projection appeared — digital pages from Archibald Witwicky's notebook.

["While we were in the urban zone,"] Bumblebee explained, ["I scanned the entire book. Not perfect, some pages blurred, but most of the content is preserved."]

Jazz looked down, seeing ancient runes and Cybertronian glyphs glowing across the display. His eyes lit up — no longer tired or disappointed. He laughed, this time with real relief.

[You actually… pulled that off? Bee, you never let me down.]

Bumblebee nodded slightly, still focused on the screen like a soldier retrained to study forgotten histories.

["We may not have kept the book, but the information — that's what matters. And now… we have it."]

Jazz took a deep breath. The sting of defeat faded, replaced by a new energy — of hope, of purpose, of a goal still within reach.

[Then,] he said, punching Bumblebee lightly on the arm, [we didn't lose. Just… called it a draw.]

Bumblebee flicked on his radio, playing a short burst from an old rock anthem — "We're not done yet."

The two Autobots stood among the rubble, the glow from Bumblebee's device lighting their faces. No more hesitation, no more doubt. Though the darkness still surrounded them, there was light in their eyes — the light of a new chance.

And they knew — the next battle wouldn't be easy. But this time, they were ready.

—-

In a narrow, cramped alley where old pipes intertwined like cobwebs and weary neon signs flickered against stained walls, Buckethead sat perched on a rusted container. She swung her legs lazily, flipping the notebook she had just snatched from Jazz's hands as if it were nothing more than a toy she'd found in a park.

Behind the glint of her protective visor, a smile spread across her face — not one of triumph for completing a mission, but something stranger… a radiant grin, as if her Spark was still pounding from an exhilarating ride.

Her slender steel fingers brushed her lips, absentmindedly tracing where she had kissed Jazz on the cheek — like it hadn't quite satisfied her.

A dry voice crackled through the comms.

[Did you get it?]— It was Barricade, sounding completely out of patience.

Buckethead giggled as if someone had just told her a joke.

[Yeah, yeah, I got it... but you won't believe what happened...]

She rolled onto her back atop the container, hugging the notebook to her chest like a precious gift.

[...It was Jazz! Jazz chased me! My ultimate rival! Oh my spark, the way he ran after me up three floors and slid down that broken steel pipe… it felt like I was in an action holo-film!]

On the other end, there was a pause — the kind that made the air feel heavier. Frenzy broke the silence first:

[Oh Primus… you're glitched again, aren't you? You lunatic?!]

Barricade let out a long sigh, the kind that reeked of resignation.

[I don't care who chased you, Buckethead. Bring the notebook back, immediately. The target was the data, not your little holo-vid fantasy.]

But Buckethead didn't bother replying. She stayed sprawled on the metal crate, eyes gazing up at the night sky through her visor. That mischievous smile lingered on her face. She was still lost in the thrill of the chase — not because it scared her, but because it excited her.

[Jazz was good. Strategic, strong, quick...] — her voice dropped like a breeze, then suddenly soared — [But... he's still adorable, you know!]

She burst into a fit of giggles, the sound bubbling from her like a wordless song of infatuation. Her limbs twitched with joy, like a kid fresh off a thrill ride, still breathless with glee. She looked exactly like a fangirl who just got an autograph from her idol — if said idol had spent the past thirty minutes trying to arrest her across half the district.

Barricade was speechless. Frenzy shrieked:

[You're totally fried, aren't you?! He's a Class-S agent! You're supposed to run for your life, not call him 'adorable'!]

Buckethead sat up, kicking her heels against the container in rhythm to a tune only she could hear.

[I was running. Running and laughing. It was great.]

[Relax, you guys are way too serious. I got the notebook and I got to play. An absolute win.]

She giggled like a child, then cut off the comms on a whim. Tucking the notebook safely into her chest compartment, she shrugged and snapped back on the part of her armor that resembled a mask. Once again, she melted into the shadows — leaving Barricade and Frenzy in a state of total, helpless disbelief.

—-

At Sam's House

The group sat gathered around a table in the backyard. The air was still heavy, though no longer as tense as it had been. The steady hum of insects filled the night, as if the world outside hadn't yet realized something extraordinary was unfolding right here, in this small garden.

Judy sat pressed close to Sam, her hand clutching his tightly, eyes locked onto Optimus and the two Autobots — as if the moment he moved even a little, she'd bolt.

- I… I still can't believe this… Talking machines… gigantic… aliens… sitting and chatting in my backyard. she said, her voice shaking.

Mikaela, seated next to Sam, tried to reassure her.

- Mrs. Witwicky… I know this is hard to comprehend. But it's real. It's not a prank… not a delusion.

Judy glanced at Mikaela, then turned to her husband.

- And what about you? How can you be so calm? You think this is normal!?

Ron leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep sigh, his gaze fixed on Optimus with a look that was hard to read.

- I've told you before… ever since I was a kid, I had these strange dreams. Of a metallic planet, of war, and… giant robots. Thought it was just too many sci-fi movies.

He turned to Sam.

- Your grandfather had those dreams too. So did your great-grandfather. And that little notebook from Archibald Witwicky… no one ever understood what it meant. We all thought it was hallucination. But now… it's all clear.

Sam nodded, though part of him was still reeling from the fact that the notebook… was now gone.

- And that's why they're here. Sam said, eyes turning toward Optimus.

Optimus gave a slight nod, his voice deep and resonant like the earth itself.

- Your family shares a deep connection with Cybertron's past. Those dreams… are not mere illusions. Though we do not know how, they could be remnants of memory from the AllSpark's arrival on this planet — the artifact that created us, and left its imprint on minds sensitive enough to perceive it.

Ironhide crossed his arms, his voice more gruff.

- And now, someone wants to exploit those memories. The one who stole Archibald Witwicky's notebook… it's not just a keepsake. It's a key.

Ratchet spoke next, his tone gentler.

- We mean no harm. But if we can't recover that notebook… if it falls into the wrong hands… then not just us, but this Earth could be in danger.

Sam clenched his fists.

- They're telling the truth. Th-They're here for help.

Silence fell over the table again. Judy looked at each face — her son, Mikaela, then the three towering warriors sitting in her garden. At last, she sighed and released Sam's hand.

- Alright… But no one steps on my tulip bed again. I've replanted it three times already.

Ironhide bowed his head slightly, as if taking orders from a supreme commander.

A brief stillness — then Ron chuckled softly.

- Well… if my father were alive to see this, he'd probably say, 'Told you so!'

As for Optimus, he simply nodded — because he knew: from this moment on, they were no longer aliens. They were allies.

—-

At the same time, miles away, a secret Sector 7 surveillance outpost — disguised as an old radio tower — began to tremble as signals came in from one of their scouting drones.

Inside the control center, the main screen flickered on, displaying a slightly blurry but unmistakable image: Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Ratchet — and Sam Witwicky, along with his family — seated together in conversation, right in the backyard of a suburban home.

A man in a black suit, hands clasped behind his back, stepped forward. Simmons. His gaze lingered on the metallic faces of the Autobots, then shifted to the Witwicky family.

He said nothing, only gave a small nod. The assistant next to him got the message and turned to the console.

"Activate Static Storm Protocol. Estimated impact radius: 3km. Priority: capture alive."

Simmons spoke quietly, his voice icy.

- They've resurfaced. And this time… we won't let them slip away.

A red alert flashed on the monitor. A mechanical voice echoed through the room:

Capture Operation: Activated.

The screen now displayed the deployment of armed drones and special units heading toward the coordinates of Sam's house.

Simmons turned and began to walk away, but paused before exiting the room.

- Remember, no mercy. Everything is for the good of mankind.

—-

End of Chapter 12