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Title: The Roughest Day (Part 2/5)
Fandom: Transformers Prime
Character(s): Sierra, Smokescreen (this part; eventual Knock Out, Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Jack Darby)
Pairing(s): None
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~5030 (this part; 9480 overall)
Warnings: Canon-typical violence.
A/N: I meant to cover the entirety of the action in this chapter, but realized in the writing of it that I had more action than I'd thought. So the three chapters, prologue and epilogue of my original plan have become four chapters, a prologue and an epilogue. The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley, as the poet says. This chapter is for Ron, who introduced me to Blind Guardian ("This won't make your head explode!") and his sister Karissa, who giggled at the vain attempt to make Sierra feel better. Crossposted to [community profile] transficsation. Concrit welcomed with a jack and some Fix-A-Flat. (Part 1 can be found here.)



          The bus jounced over a seam in the tarmac, dislodging Sierra's left earbud and waking her from an uncomfortable doze. She hastily replaced the bud; though she'd turned her phone off hours ago, it remained her first line of defense against creepers and busybodies. Only the most obnoxious persisted when she pretended not to hear them and even they gave up when she responded with shouts of What? and complete misunderstandings. Sierra yawned behind her hand. She wished she could cue up one of her playlists, but then she'd also have to take notice of all the unanswered texts and voicemails her parents must have left over the past several hours. It wasn't much of a sop to her conscience, but at least she'd be able to say I didn't have my phone on when she finally called home from Grammy and Grampy's.

          That had been her first change of plan. She'd shaken Vince off easily at the mall food court: I just need to wash up, she'd said, handing him her tray before strolling into the ladies' room by the nearer of its two entrances and out again by the other. Mr. Don't-Be-Long-Babe hadn't even been watching for her return, she'd noticed sardonically, his attention caught instead by the advertisements in the window of the GameStop across the way. Counting on them to keep him anchored at the table with her cooling burger and fries until she was long gone, Sierra had extracted as much money as she could from an ATM, bought some power bars and bottled water at CVS, and hurried over to the Greyhound kiosk. But there the words One way to Carson City, please, so carefully rehearsed, had stuck in her throat. It felt too much like taking sides — and what if her mom followed her out to Aunt Caro's and stayed? But Grammy and Grampy were her dad's parents; they'd retired to Orem, Utah, a few years ago and were always glad to see her when she visited. So she'd bought a ticket to the nearest stop, in Provo, and hoped that this time her grandparents would be, if not pleased, at least sympathetic enough to let her stay a while.

          I can't go back. Not right away.

          Sierra reached into the backpack slumped beside her, wincing as the movement revealed a kink in her neck, and rummaged until she found a power bar. She hadn't been able to maintain a personal space buffer on the crowded bus from Gillette, but fortunately her seatmate had been a middle-aged Native American woman who'd snored through most of the trip. Sierra gnawed on the chocolate-chip-laced granola with a grimace. At the time she'd been unable to appreciate her luck, but half an hour in the dingy Las Vegas Greyhound terminal had taught her to recall the woman's borderline sleep apnea with something like nostalgia. Traveling to Provo rather than Carson City meant that instead of a twenty-minute break between connections, she'd had over ninety to kill. And no matter where she'd gone in the waiting area, within minutes someone had sidled up to offer her their "help" — directions, a snack or drink, a room for the night — or simply the dubious pleasure of their company. Sierra had never felt like such a skeeve magnet. Her game face had been worn down to a fuck-off-and-die snarl by the time her departure had been called and she'd claimed a seat for her backpack without a care for anyone's convenience but her own.

          Thank God the red-eye to Salt Lake City wasn't a popular route. There'd been plenty of empty places even after several families toting groggy children, a pair of dark-suited Mormon missionaries, some cowboy types in boots and well-worn hats, and a slightly louder and flashier version of the working-class crowd Sierra had ridden with from Gillette had boarded the bus. Against their T-shirts, jeans and tattoos, however, her skirt and sweater set and carefully retouched make-up stood out like a Barbie doll in a toy chest full of action figures. She'd made sure to sit across the aisle from the missionaries, but they, along with the chattiest of the boots- and jeans-wearers and all but one of the families, had disembarked at St. George about halfway through the trip. Everyone who remained, as well as the few passengers who'd boarded since, had either immersed themselves in their cell phones or reclined their seats and slept, and Sierra's own hyperalertness had given way at last to uneasy exhaustion.

          She'd drowsed and wakened in spurts, face turned to the window. The night had been fine and clear, though there was little to see along the interstate but a last-quarter moon and the dim shapes of mountains, sometimes near, sometimes well distant, some as blunt-topped as Nevada buttes, others rearing up in jagged peaks beneath a spangling of stars. In the empty country between exits the lights of truck stops and small towns occasionally flashed past; across the median southbound traffic was sparse, mostly tractor-trailers. Sierra had counted them like sheep to keep regret at bay, bolstering her resolve between naps by replaying Mel's good-bye and her parents' argument before her mind's eye.

          She crumpled the power bar's wrapper and stretched, yawning again. Her ears popped. The last time she'd noticed where they were it had still been deep night and the bus was passing someplace called Paragonah. Now the moon hung almost directly above in a sky more blue than black as dawn struggled to overtop the eastern face of the mountains closing in on either side of the highway. Sierra pushed back her jacket sleeve to look at her watch: two hours more to Provo. She drummed her fingers on the buckle of her seat belt. Most of her fellow passengers were still sleeping; maybe this would be a good time to use the restroom, if it wasn't too awful —

          The bus swerved left, then right, sharply enough to snap Sierra's knotted neck muscles. She gasped, grabbing her nape with one hand and clinging to the armrest with the other as the driver laid on the horn. No one had time to let out more than a startled curse before the bus swerved again, swaying top-heavily. "What the hell, lady?" someone behind Sierra demanded, but without answering the driver gunned the engine and swung left onto the median as if she intended to make a U-turn into the southbound lanes. Sierra's backpack tumbled to the floor and her shoulder slammed with bruising force against the window. Everyone seemed to be shouting as the bus tipped drunkenly back and forth. The horn blared incessantly, the air brakes barked and the bus abruptly heeled over past the point of no return. Shrieking, Sierra grabbed the headrest of the seat in front of her. With a concussive crump the bus rolled onto its side and skidded briefly across the grass in a strident tenor screech of chafing metal and breaking glass.

          The subsequent stillness held neither quiet nor relief. Someone was groaning and someone else was swearing and a lot of people seemed to be crying and beneath all the noise rang a faint baying or cawing, like an echo of the bus's horn blasts in Sierra's numb ears. She realized then that she was the one groaning and tried to stop, but could only reduce the sound to a whimper.

          Ow. Ow, ow, ow ...

          Pain lanced down her neck as she turned her head, receding to a dull throb when she hastily checked the movement. Her arms and torso griped at the awkward posture into which she'd been forced, hanging sideways from her seat belt in mid-air, fingers still clamped around the headrest, hip grinding into an armrest. She tried to undo the belt's catch one-handed, but her trapezius muscles screamed at the strain and she fumbled her grip. Her second attempt was no more successful; a third left her gasping in agony.

          What's wrong with me?

          Fear whipsawed through her brain. Oh, God, what if I can't get out? What if I hurt myself worse trying? Her breath came faster and faster; darkness seethed at the edges of her field of vision. And then the window above her was thrown open and the cool air of a spring dawn broke over her face like water. Sierra carefully turned her head and drank it in. "Help," she croaked. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "Help!"

          The weird cawing noise sounded louder now, more recognizably bird-like and most definitely coming from outside the bus. Before Sierra could make sense of it, however, a man with a narrow face and a receding hairline poked his head through the window. "You hurt?" he asked.

          "Stuck," Sierra answered breathlessly. "My seat belt's stuck."

          "Hang on, mija." Bending down, the man studied her predicament for a moment, then stretched an arm past her. His elbow bumped her chest; she stiffened, but his fingers latched onto the buckle and released it. "There," he grunted as he withdrew.

          Sierra wriggled off the armrest and dropped, still clutching the seat in front of her, until her feet found purchase on the bench across the aisle. "Thank you," she said, looking up at her rescuer. "Gracias."

          The man grinned and offered her a hand up. Sierra pried the lower armrest of the bench on which she'd been trapped down to make a ladder and stepped onto it, bringing her chin level with the window. She was about to take the helping hand when something impossibly large swept down out of the sky and snatched it away, then landed with a heavy rattle and crunch on the far end of the bus. Instinctively ducking, she caught a glimpse of wide, oddly glittering wings and a pair of glowing golden eyes on either side of a long, cruel, slightly curved beak that shook her rescuer as an egret might its prey, then tossed his limp body aside.

          The next thing Sierra knew she was crawling with desperate haste across seat backs toward the rear of the bus, breathing in keening gasps that almost, almost drowned out the hideous squawks of the monster outside. Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod! She clambered past and over several unmoving bodies before a vestigial sense of responsibility brought her up short. They needed help — first aid. She could help. She ought to be helping, but she couldn't think what to do. Daddy, what am I supposed to do? Curling into a ball, she rocked in place. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" she whispered into her knees.

          The bus shook with a new impact. Sierra spun in place and saw a huge clawed foot rip a window out, frame and all. Screaming, she scrambled away as another monster-bird's beak reached into the bus to pluck at a bench. On her left a dim patch of light gleamed among the shadows; she veered toward it and realized that the brightness came from an open emergency exit in what had been the ceiling. She dove through headfirst, nearly landing on a woman who crouched, sobbing, in the shadow of the bus, a wailing child clasped to her breast. "Move!" Sierra shouted at them, but the woman simply stared at her.

          Something drew Sierra's attention skyward. A baker's dozen of the monster-birds circled the fading moon, cackling loudly at one another like a murder of crows with bullhorns. The one roosting at the head of the bus shrilled up at them; in answer two more broke from the flock to dive toward the highway. Sierra threw her hands over her head and bolted for the verge. As her feet pounded across the tarmac she heard the stentorian blast of an air horn — a green and white semi had barreled around the curve a quarter mile away and was headed straight for her. She kept going, too short of breath to wail; the tractor-trailer dodged into the passing lane and the wind of its wake struck her body like a blow.

          Sierra stumbled off the tarmac and limped away down the verge, gradually gathering speed again despite the twists of cramp in her calves and hamstrings. Behind her the truck's horn sounded once more, met by a scream of challenge from the monsters. The semi's brakes groaned in agony. A rending crash, a fwoomp! of ignition — Sierra put her head down and forced her protesting body into a sprint, putting the curve and a man-high fold of worn rock between her and the mechanical carnage littering the interstate.

          She didn't dare think of the people caught up in it.

          Ahead the highway ran straight almost to the horizon before it bent out of sight behind a fir-dotted slope. On Sierra's left the verge dropped away into a deep but narrow ditch backed by a blue-green thicket of juniper bushes. Sierra hesitated momentarily as she wondered whether she should take to the brush and hide, but then what? She'd left her backpack behind on the bus; her jacket pockets were empty, both phone and wallet lost who knew where. All she had left was the fifty-dollar bill she'd tucked down her sock in Las Vegas and what good was that out here in the middle of nowhere? Oh God, oh God, help me. The clamor of the monster birds rose to a new crescendo, resounding off the dark heights, and panic drove Sierra's legs like pistons against the uneven ground, on and on and on until she tripped on a stone hidden in a tangle of weeds and sprawled prone against the chilly earth.

          For a minute or two all she could do was lie there, winded and knocked half-silly by the impact. Then her ears caught the whirr of an oncoming engine and she pushed herself vertical, sniveling at the new sting of scrapes on her palms and knees. Snot clogged her nose; she swiped her sleeve across it and sniffled loudly as she wobbled to her feet. Come on, slacker! she told herself in Coach Jo's voice. Move it!

          The whirr deepened into a high-performance thrum as the car drove into view. Squinting in the half-light, Sierra made out a low-slung profile framing the approaching headlights. Why couldn't you have been a pickup truck? she thought as she limped onto the shoulder and began waving. What she wanted — what she needed right now was somebody's mom or dad, practical and dependable, not the kind of person who careered up the I-15 in an electric blue ... Lotus coupe? Please, please, please have more sense than money. "Help!" she shouted. "Stop! Stop!"

          The sports car slowed, then pulled to a halt beside her, cutting in so close that she rocked back on her heels and nearly fell again. "Hey, what's the trouble?" called the driver without bothering to roll down his window.

          Sierra fought down a surge of anger at his behavior. "Please," she said, leaning with both hands on the glass, "please, you have to call 911!"

          "Huh?" The driver seemed taken aback at her vehemence; the engine revved briefly, as if his foot had slipped on the gas pedal. "What happened? Were you in an accident?"

          "Yes — no! The bus crashed, but — " Belatedly Sierra recognized the implausibility of her tale. Who would ever believe that gigantic birds were dive-bombing traffic in the mountains south of Provo? "I — I think it was attacked," she hedged.

          "Attacked?" The driver's voice sharpened. "Who by?"

          Sierra wished she could see him, but the windows were tinted and the windshield was dark with shadows behind the glare of the headlights. "I can't — you wouldn't — " She gulped back a sob, unshed tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "Please, please, just call 911! There's people hurt and, and in trouble — and a semi, too, and — "

          "Okay, take it easy," replied the driver kindly — so kindly that Sierra was visited by the counterproductive urge to scream I am NOT hysterical! right into his unseen face. Her hands clenched into fists. "Stay here," her interlocutor continued, oblivious to the effect of his tone. "I'll check it out."

          "No! You can't!" Sierra's gut torqued with renewed fear and her head pounded as she fought for control of the emotional Tilt-a-Whirl her brain was riding. "It's too dangerous!" The car began to draw away and she hammered on the window, frantic to keep yet another would-be rescuer ( ... a shake and a snap, arms and legs flopping like a rag doll's ... ) out of reach of the monsters ( ... bright eyes, gleaming wings, sharp beak stabbing down ... ) "Please, you have to listen to me!" she screamed, jogging alongside the car as it picked up speed, snatching at a door handle that slipped through her bloodied fingertips.

          "Stay here!" repeated the driver, his voice carrying easily over the burr of his engine as he upshifted. "And get under cover!" His tires keened, finding their grip on the road, and the car was gone, without even the odor of exhaust left behind to mark its passage.

          Sierra stumbled to a stop on the lane marker. "Go on!" she yelled after him. "Go! Die already! See if I c-care — " She choked on a sob and bent over, hands braced on her thighs, caught between tears and nausea. The heaves won; she dropped to her knees and brought up a gritty, acrid mess of half-digested granola to decorate the pavement. Go! Just go! She spat feebly to clear her mouth and her stomach lurched again, fouling her throat with acid. Coughing and wheezing, Sierra staggered upright, wiped her face on her jacket and took a few uneven steps southward. Someone else had to be coming — someone she could rely on —

          Three booms pealed behind her in quick succession, too sharp for thunder, followed by a muffled burst of furious squawking. Sierra spun around, anxiously scanning the skies. Her heart raced as she realized how exposed she was. Why hadn't she taken the driver's advice and gotten out of sight? She scrambled down into the ditch as another series of booms rang out. Dead grass prickled against the exposed skin of her neck and knees as she pressed her body into the grade and peered cautiously over its lip.

          The blue Lotus tore around the corner on the southbound side of the highway, weaving back and forth across the tarmac in a demented slalom explained by the pair of monster birds that arrowed after it. The long light of dawn tinted their glossy pinions blood-red, as if they were fledged with metal rather than feathers. Sierra's fingers dug convulsively through the dry grass stems into the hard-packed dirt beneath as she shrank away from the chase. In flight the creatures were even more terrifying than they had been perched within arm's reach, beaks cutting through the air like javelins, wings thrusting them forward with powerful strokes, their speed a promise that escape was hopeless.

          What their presence didn't explain was the music.

          She heard the machine-gun thud of the bass line first and thought that her ears were playing tricks on her. But then the unmistakable twang of a guitar joined the mix, strident and impulsive, followed by muffled voices belting out a rowdy melody: hard rock or metal, like the stuff that leaked from her brother's earphones while he was gaming. Sierra huffed out a disbelieving almost-laugh. He needs a soundtrack?

          Then the birds stooped, spiraling around each other in a deadly dive. A shriek leaped into Sierra's throat and she bit down on one sleeve to contain it. The Lotus swerved into the median and the music rose to a fierce crescendo in which for the first time Sierra could discern words.

          " — WHEN SORROW SANG SOFTLY AND SWEET — "

          Incredibly, the birds sheered off, screeching their frustration, their momentum carrying them past the Lotus and over a fold in the mountainside. The driver pivoted his vehicle into a donut, dust flying up from his wheels, and accelerated back into the northbound lane. Screeching to a stop just past Sierra's hiding place, the driver popped the Lotus's passenger door open. "Get in!" he urged over the cacophony blaring from his speakers. "Quick!"

          Sierra hesitated only long enough to catch sigh of the birds rising up over the ridge line again. She scrabbled out of the ditch and flung herself into the car, its door slamming behind her as a pair of straps belted her in automatically. Beneath the throbbing pulse of bass and drums the engine rumbled aggressively as the car sped off up the highway. Wriggling her rumpled skirt back into place around her thighs, she turned to face her rescuer —

          — and saw no one.

          The driver's seat was empty.

          Sierra was hardly aware that she was screaming until the music cut off; she was too busy tearing at the seat belts, throwing her whole weight against their inflexible webbing. "Whoa, whoa! Take it easy!" said the voice she had thought was the driver's. "You'll hurt yourself!"

          "Let me out!" Sierra shouted. She yanked on the door latch, but it refused to yield to her grip any more than the seat belts had. "Let me out!"

          "No can do," replied the voice. "You've seen what's out there, right?" The car swerved again, tossing Sierra from side to side in her restraints. She wheezed helplessly. "Sorry about that!" said the voice, itself sounding a little breathless.

          "What — where are you?" Sierra gasped, clinging to the door handle for stability now. "Are you driving this car by remote control?"

          "Uh —" The voice hesitated. "Would it make you feel better if I said yes?"

          "You — you jerk!" Sierra pounded left-handed on the dashboard, refusing to be impressed by its complex array of gauges and buttons or the high-def screen currently displaying a jagged, oscillating pattern like an EKG on fast-forward or a very busy seismogram. "This isn't funny!"

          "Yow! I'll say!" retorted the voice. Sierra raised her fist again and he hastily added, "What's your name? Mine's Smokescreen."

          "Sierra," Sierra answered automatically. Wait, what? "'Smokescreen'?" she repeated. "Is that some kind of dorky gamertag? Who are you, really?"

          "Hey, that's not nice!" the voice exclaimed. The stylized lion's face in the center of the steering wheel blinked blue in time with his words, Sierra noticed. It wasn't a logo she knew, neither the triangular Lotus monogram nor anything else she had ever seen at a race or a car show. "I don't make fun of your designa — whoa!"

          Something zipped past Sierra's window; she flinched away instinctively as the car jinked. The steering wheel spun and centripetal force squeezed Sierra against the restraints across her chest and hips as they careened through a tight U-turn. "Sorry!" shouted the voice over a squeal of tires. Then he gunned it, pitching Sierra back into her seat and giving her a perfect view of the monster bird flying straight toward the windshield.

          Sierra screamed again, but the sound was immediately overwhelmed by another salvo of heavy metal. "THE AIR WAS FILLED WITH TEARS, FULL OF SADNESS AND GRIEF, WHEN SORROW SANG SOFTLY AND SWEET!" wailed the chorus, so vociferously that her ears actually vibrated with pain. She shoved her fingers into them, trying to duck away from the din, and closed her eyes. "Make it stop!" she yelled, but could scarcely hear herself through the racket that seemed to strike her ribcage like rabbit punches. "Make it stop!"

          It stopped, and when she dared to open her eyes, the bird was gone. "Sorry," the voice said again, sounding rather strained, though Sierra's ears were ringing so badly it was difficult to tell. "I don't understand how Bulkhead can listen to that stuff. My audials may never recover."

          "What's going on?" Sierra asked weakly. "What are those things?"

          "Predacons," said the voice — Smokescreen — with the same inflection tough guys in action movies used to say, Trouble. "Raf — uh, someone told me your Greek mythology calls this subspecies Stymphalian birds."

          The window containing the fractal seismogram minimized, retreating to the upper left corner of the screen, and was replaced by a photograph of an orange and black pottery bowl decorated with a hunting scene. A large, dark-skinned figure in a complicated outfit was aiming a slingshot at a flock of not particularly massive or threatening birds that occupied most of the design. "A human hero named Heracles was sent to deal with an infestation of them in a forest near Lake Stymphalis in Arcadia," Smokescreen went on, suddenly more museum docent than action hero. "He's supposed to have driven them out with a bronze rattle he received from the gods." He paused thoughtfully. "Makes you wonder ... but, anyway, I figured they might be vulnerable to sonics and it looks like I'm right." His passing smugness dissipated in a sigh. "What I wouldn't give for that resonance blaster right about now ..."

          Sierra stared at the screen, letting the half of his words which made no sense wash past her. Giant mythological monster birds? Really? How was she supposed to believe that?

          You did see them.

          All right, but she'd also just been in an accident. A bad one. Maybe she'd been knocked unconscious and was having the mother of all nightmares. Maybe the accident was even part of the nightmare. Sierra surreptitiously pinched her forearm and winced. As if all the scrapes and bruises and muscle aches she could feel weren't witness enough to the fact that she was awake. She shook her head — carefully, so as not to disturb the migraine lurking behind her eyes. "Look," she said, "can't we just call the National Guard or someone for help and get out of here?" Reaching forward, she tapped the Bluetooth emblem at the head of an otherwise unfamiliar list of symbols hovering in the right margin of the display. Instead of a dial tone, however, all she got was the restoration of the seismogram's window to its former position on the screen.

          "Unfortunately, no — my comms are jammed but good," replied Smokescreen glumly. "I can't punch through the interference. Believe me, I've been trying." The waveform's jagged peaks contracted into a series of fuzzy beads, then expanded back to their previous height. "Somebody really doesn't want news of what's going on here to get out."

          Sierra frowned. So the pattern was showing that they had no bars? Something about that didn't quite make sense, but she couldn't figure out what. "Okay," she said. "Then let's — I don't know — drive back down into the valley until you've got a clear signal and call from there?"

          "And leave all those other humans to the Predacons?"

          Smokescreen sounded horrified and for the first time since the bus had crashed, Sierra felt something other than fear or anger: shame. But what else can I do? she thought defensively. I'm not an action hero — for God's sake, I was running away from home because I couldn't hack it there anymore! Home, where all she'd had to worry about was the cheer squad falling apart and her best friend moving away and her parents maybe splitting up — trivial troubles compared to the situation she'd landed herself in trying to escape them. Irony was a bitch. "Then what do you suggest?" Sierra asked waspishly as the car swung through yet another U-turn, this one at least somewhat less acute than the doughnuts Smokescreen seemed so fond of. "We can't keep running in circles!"

          As if in answer Smokescreen stomped hard on the gas and a brassy double cry shrilled out behind them. Sierra's heart stuttered in her chest. She craned her neck in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of their pursuers in the side mirror, not daring to swivel around for a look behind. "I was trying to draw them all off, but they only sent those two scouts after me," Smokescreen said as the car shot toward the bend in the highway, behind which a plume of dark smoke stained the brightening sky. "I guess I'll just have to annoy them some more."

          There was a note in his voice that reminded Sierra of Danny in prankster mode, a sort of sly glee. It should have exasperated her, but instead her mouth quirked into a half-smile. "I'm sure it's what you're best at," she said.

          "Hey!" objected Smokescreen, sounding exactly like Danny, and Sierra's lips relaxed into the smile a little further.

          They raced around the curve, back onto the scene of the disaster. The tractor-trailer lay overturned, blocking both northbound lanes, and its cab was burning lustily. Amusement fled, Sierra swallowed hard to dislodge the lump calcifying in her throat. Several more birds had come to roost on the bus and were yanking its frame apart, like turkey vultures tearing at the flesh of a dead deer. Others were attempting to do the same to the toppled trailer, their talons puncturing its sides and ripping great gouges in its panels. The remainder circled lazily above, bodies washed in the same rosy glow as the mountain peaks and the wisps of cloud around the moon.

          But their heads all turned toward the oncoming car at a warning shriek from its chasers, eyes luminous with more than reflected sunlight.

          A chill knifed through Sierra's belly at the sight of those eyes and her teeth chattered until she clamped her jaws tight. She remembered everything that had happened since she first saw them too clearly for it to have been a dream: the friendly hand wrenched away from hers, the arms and legs tumbled slack and still among the seats in the dark — oh, God, that lady clinging to her baby beside the emergency exit. Were they still waiting for rescue? Were their cries loud enough to keep the monsters off? Or had they been snapped up and shaken until they broke, too? Unconsciously Sierra leaned forward, bracing herself against the dash.

          "Here we go!" said Smokescreen. "Hang on!"

To be continued ...



[Acknowledgments: Transformers Prime was created by Hasbro Studios. Copyright for this property is held by Hasbro.]

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nebroadwe: From "The Magdalen Reading" by Rogier van der Weyden.  (Default)
The Magdalen Reading

August 2014

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