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The Human Stain	By : Subtext Category: S through Z > Transformers (Movie Only) > Transformers (Movie Only) Views: 2378 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Transformers movie, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 5
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- 7
The Human Stain:
Chapter 6
Would you mind if I
killed you?

Would you mind if I tried to

Cause you have turned into my worst enemy?

You carry hate that I feel

It's over now

What have you done
- Within Temptation,
What Have You Done

Warning: Some sexual references in this
chapter, nothing too heavy.

The Pentagon, Washington
D.C.

The man in
the leather executive chair swung away from his desk, his brow deeply etched
with worry.
He held one hand to his
face, pinching either side of his jaw between a thumb and forefinger as he read
the stapled report contained in his opposite appendage. Deep in thought, he did
not notice the soft knock on the door across the room.
The knock repeated itself,
a bit louder, and the man raised his head.
�Come in,� he invited with
a deep baritone.
�General, I have more
news.� The oak door fell away, revealing a middle-aged man on the other side.
He wore the trappings of the military, from the buzz cut down to the black
boots that were currently carrying him across the expansive office.
�What now?� the older man
questioned, rising from his chair with a grunt. His moustache twitched, perhaps
in annoyance, but he waited for the younger male to speak before betraying his
thoughts.
�It� you have to see this
for yourself.� Urgency hedged the man�s voice, and he gave his superior a
daunted look before producing a small memory stick from his front pocket.
�It�s bad.�
�Show me.�
The younger man nodded,
and padded across the expensive carpet to a digital projector mounted along the
far wall. The lighting in the office was dim, matching with the traditional
English furnishings � the cherry wood box panels on the walls, the Ottoman in
the left corner � all of it seemed at odds with the self-propelled projector
screen that slid out of a panel in the ceiling overhead.
General Richardson was a
decorated four-star General currently in charge of the country�s defense as the
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He directly advised the president in all
military matters. The man that busied himself with the setting up the screen
was Lieutenant General Meyers, an advisor himself to General Richardson.
Meyers inserted the memory
stick into the digital movie projector�s USB port, and then flicked off the
lights. The room fell into complete darkness, interrupted only by the dim line
of light from beneath the heavy wooden door leading to the hallway.
As the video started,
General Richardson found himself pinching his jaw again. Tiny pictures
reflected off his wide eyes from under the glow of the projector screen.
The scene that unfolded
was reminiscent of the events that had escalated in Mission City.
That whole Mission City business had been an embarrassment to the Armed
Forces of the United States,
really � all the way down to the lowliest private. Being gob smacked by alien
entities was not in the charts for that year, or for any year, and it had shown
in their preparedness. The civilians of Mission
City had seen the NBE�s
� Non Biological Entities - up close and personal, and it was reeking of Roswell already. The
damage had been quite extensive to the downtown area, and the cover up was thin
at best. Convincing the citizens that it was nothing more than an erroneous
training mission for new government technology nearly resulted in rioting.
There had been eyewitnesses, people who had seen, heard, and captured it on
cell phone cameras. There had even been a damn professional photographer there
at the time snapping pictures that were later found circulating on the
Internet. Citizens refused to listen, and had picketed outside of government
offices nationwide. The Pentagon had seen the greatest crowd of all, and would
have undoubtedly incurred the wrath of unruly masses had it not been surrounded
by a well-guarded perimeter.
The media both
participated with and acted against the government. CNN reported exactly what
the White House released, but Internet bloggers and
other independent media sources told another story. While conglomerate media
outlets lulled the majority of the American public into a semblance of false
security by adamantly shooting down reports of extraterrestrials, the
uncontrollable private sector had flourished with tales of alien life. Berkeley liberals were in solid agreement with the artists
in Greenwich Village, and even the flyover
states had their fair share of believers.
The new technology was
highly confidential, the government had claimed. They were test suits, with
human pilots inside. The appearance of these new �super soldier suits�, as they
were termed, was a grave error on the government�s part. The coordinates given
to the pilots were quite wrong, resulting in Mission City�s
demolition. The correct coordinates that would have left citizens out of danger
during the �training�, which was really meant to be thirty miles south of the
city, in a patch of undeveloped desert that held no inhabitants. The pilots of
the suits had merely gotten out of control with one another, tempers flared,
and they lost track of their location while sparring. Such things did happen �
and to make up for it, all pilots involved in the incident had been suspended
indefinitely.
�I apologize deeply for
the losses to Mission City,� the president had said, while being filmed
shortly after the disaster. �Be glad to know that your country is so far
ahead in its defense capabilities. The public was not meant to know, but now
that you do, I hope you feel that national security is a paramount concern
under this administration.�
The gathered crowd had
burst into approving applause.
That was two months ago.
They mayor was given a hefty paycheck to nod and smile with this explanation,
and all business owners within the city were also compensated fiscally for the
damage their businesses took during the ensuing chaos. Any extra grievances
were handled in much the same manner.
Still, the half-assed
cover-up � and it was half-assed, at least in Richardson�s opinion - was not at a loss for
disbelievers.
The scene flickering past
his optic nerves now was shot from space, straight from the Orbiter 2, a
satellite launched earlier that year by the United States with the sole purpose
of acting as a sentinel for asteroids. It gathered visual data before beaming
it back to Earth, where it was then sorted and stored by scientists.
It had recorded something,
indeed� several somethings, actually.
They were not asteroids �
far from it.
�Dear god,� the General
said, his words hanging in the air. His mouth was suddenly dry.
They were reminiscent of
the balls of fire that had showered the Earth before the Mission City
incident, before the arrival of the NBE�s. The only
difference here was the sheer number.
He and Meyers exchanged
glances across the dark room and then whipped their heads back at the video
footage. Their mounting fear was palpable, filling the room with an
apprehensive energy.
They streamed through
space, hundreds, maybe thousands strong. There seemed to be no shortage. They
all took the same path, followed the same route, and did not waver in their
projections.
They were the transporters
for the NBE�s, and they were headed for planet Earth.
The aging General wiggled
his tongue around in his mouth, trying to work up enough saliva to form words.
�Get me the president,�
he finally rasped.
�Yes,
sir!� Meyers
affirmed, making a dive for Richardson�s
mahogany desk and the phone that perched atop it.
Suddenly, it struck the
old General as odd that he was still holding onto the report on Mission City he had been reading before Meyers
interrupted. In the shifting and scant lighting, he noticed the paper was the
color of old bones.
General Richardson thought
of his five-year-old granddaughter in North
Carolina. A line of worry, unconscious, unbidden,
seeped into his expression.
New bones and old bones
together are still bones, and no one is the wiser.
�Sir,� Myers cut through
his morbid thoughts, �I have him on line two.�
The elderly man sighed
mentally, and turned for the phone to break the news to the President of the United States.
Needless to say, the
second call he made that morning woke up a little girl in North Carolina.

Boulder City, Nevada

Miguel
Ramirez was in love.
He had only been in love
for five minutes, maybe less, but he was definitely infatuated.
The woman across from him
was everything he wanted in a girl. Her black hair was pulled tight across her
skull, ending in a long, high ponytail that brushed her ass when she walked. He
knew this because he had been paying attention � he had been watching her all
night.
It was Monday night at the
Broken Spoke, a bar located on the outskirts of Boulder City.
It was your typical bar, but catered more to the young single than any other
age group. The bar was outfitted to appear as a saloon would in the old west.
The d�cor consisted of various animal heads looking down their noses on the
patrons. The floor was composed of scuffed floorboards, and the walls were of
the same ilk. Even the restrooms were labeled with their respective titles to
keep with the theme: Cowgirls and Cowboys. The music was
predictably country with perhaps a Latin song or two, but the live bands were
usually good. It had a small dance floor, a pool table, jukebox and other
necessary amenities that ensured the patrons kept coming back. The bar was a
long counter stretching from one corner of the bar to the other. It was tended
to by a variety of bartenders, some of which were young, attractive women.
There was an unofficial
rule about hitting on the baristas, however. Crossing the line of indecency was
liable to get you kicked to the curb � literally. Joe Rigazio,
an Italian man of sketchy origins, was usually the one carrying you out by your
collar. He was a burly man in his early thirties who probably spent four hours
in the gym each day just to remind guys like Miguel who was in charge. He was
pleasant as far as bouncers went if you didn�t get on his bad side, and Miguel
had made sure that he didn�t.
But oh orale,
the woman across from him was making him caldufo.
He had started the evening
early by downing a few beers, eyes riveted to her the moment she walked through
the door. She was alone (and thankfully not a barista), so luck seemed to be
with him that night. Her body was curvy, thick in all the right places. Miguel
was not attracted to smaller women. If he had been, he might have been more apt
to chat up that Anglo he worked with � Claire. She was nice enough, maybe a bit
too neurotic for his tastes, but she simply did not have the assets he
appreciated in a woman. Furthermore, he was not in the habit of looking at gringas on a whole � he liked his Latinas.
After watching his zaftig
goddess strut through the door in her daisy duke cutoffs and fire-engine red
tube top, he knew it was too good to be true. He watched the mocha-skinned
woman as she ordered herself a shot of tequila, and then he knew she was
perfect. Their eyes met from across the counter, and he saw her dark eyes,
heavy with mascara, flutter at his person. He watched her turn to survey the
contents of the bar, of which there wasn�t much, and that�s when he noticed her
booty.
Por el amor
de Dios, he had thought.
He had left the bar, asked
her if she would like another drink, and she had acquiesced to his offer with a
sultry smile. Her pouty lips were the color of her
tube top, and the large hoop earrings dangling from her ears winked at him
under the track lighting. It just made her all the more dazzling, in his
opinion.
Now, here they were,
flirting away and quite buzzed. Miguel broke into English long enough to ask
the bartender for another round of drinks, and the two picked up right where
they left off. He told her his name, where he worked, and she did the same for
him. From what he extracted during their discourse, he found that she too was
the daughter of Mexican immigrants. Both had grown up translating between
English and Spanish for their parents, which led to friction when they hit
their teenaged years. Torn between their family�s culture and the commercial
culture in which they had been raised, the two found a common understanding of
one another. They kept drinking, and their voices rose faster and louder above
the music. The current band couldn�t carry a tune in a bucket, anyways. He
mentioned this to her, and she laughed and nodded.
Miguel dropped his gaze to
her chest just as she took a sip of her drink and glanced over her shoulder to
the band. A droplet of liquor had skimmed down the side of her glass before
falling to the lower part of her chest. It slid in a tantalizing fashion over
one of her breasts before dipping out of sight into the recesses of her
cleavage.
�Oye!�
Mierda.
She had noticed. His head
whipped up so fast he thought he would break his neck in the process. Instead
of the angry backlash he expected from being caught ogling her bosom, he was
surprised to find he was being rewarded with a winning smile.
��A usted
le gusta, Se�or
Ramirez?� she inquired sweetly.
He opened his mouth to
reply, but unfortunately never got any further than that.
The windows blew in,
followed by a sonic rush of air that preceded a thunderous explosion. Something
slashed Miguel across the cheekbone, narrowly missing his left eye. It took a
second to realize that it was a shard of glass.
Someone screamed, and the
bartender�s voice rose over the sudden hysteria. �GET DOWN!�
Miguel didn�t have to be
told twice. He dropped to all fours, noticing his new acquaintance had done
likewise. They both stared at one another from a mere foot away, and both faces
lit with shock. Something slick and liquid ran in a rivulet down Miguel�s
cheek, and he reached up to touch it.
His hand came away, slick
and wet with his own blood. The woman, Teresa, saw it too.
He heard her gasp. �What
is going on!?� she cried, speaking loudly in English. The switch she made
between languages was instinctual, something he understood as a bilingual
speaker. When addressing another Spanish speaker, the language of choice was
Spanish. When more than one person might possibly have the answer to a
question, the language changed to include a broader audience. Everyone within
the bar was now involved as a whole unit against an unknown interference, and therefore
the mindset of the bilingual speaker adjusted to accommodate that.
The building rocked, and
the old groan of wood filled their ears. There was a fire outside, or a fire
inside, Miguel could not tell which. A searing heat licked at the bare skin of
his arms and face, and he could only imagine Teresa was feeling it tenfold �
she was exposed far more than he was.
Ka-Chuck. It was the unmistakable sound of
someone loading a gun.
Qu� demonios
pasa aqu�?!,
Miguel�s mind
blared.
It was the bartender. He was
standing now, holding an old rifle. He had the firearm pointed at the door, as
if he expected someone or something to come barging through.
Shining motes drifted
through the air channels, sparkling in the firelight from outside. Miguel
recognized them for the danger they were, and clapped a hand over Teresa�s
mouth. He felt the moist press of her lips against his palm as she shot him a
glare and mumbled something unintelligible.
�Try not to breathe and
get out of here!� Miguel heard himself say to anyone within earshot. �There�s tiny particles of glass in the air right now. You
breathe it in, and it�ll cut up your insides. Keep low to the floor!�
Some bar patrons murmured
their understanding behind the hands that were now covering their mouths, which
meant they heard him.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
Something was
approaching the building. Something very large and very
noisy. Were they under attack? Was it Mission City
all over again? A chill ran down Miguel�s spine, and he could feel Teresa
shudder beneath his hand. He kept his freehand against his mouth, and then took
his other back when Teresa supplied her own hand to cover her face. Once this
was done, he jerked his head towards the back hallway where the restrooms were
located.
There was an exit there;
they just had to cross the dance floor to make it.
�AIN�T NOBODY MAKIN A MESS
OF MY PLACE!� shouted the bartender, who was still standing behind the polished
counter. He had the rifle sighted towards the front door as he hunkered over
the scope. Miguel realized that he just might be the owner of the Broken Spoke
himself.
The bar was steadily
beginning to clear as people crawled along the floor towards rear fire exit.
Miguel motioned Teresa along, avoiding broken glass where he could. The
temperature within the place was climbing, and he could swear he heard the
crack and hiss of flames just beyond the bar�s wooden walls.
They were three-fourths of
the way to the exit. Teresa had started to cry, making muffled moans as she
traversed the dirty floor behind Miguel. Miguel, for his part, tried his best
to comfort her. He gave her encouraging looks over his shoulder while verbally
coaxing her to continue in Spanish. In that moment, he seemed the hero to
Teresa � but in truth Miguel never felt more terrified in his life. He was a
first generation American with immigrant parents, and he mixed paint for a
living. He could tell you how to strip the paint off your walls and what
product to do it with, but he couldn�t save anyone�s life.
He didn�t think so until
then, anyway.
The building swayed. It
shouldn�t have been possible, but it did.
The next thing that
happened took both Miguel and Teresa�s breath away.
First the building shook,
then it rocked, and then it cracked. The sound was sickening. A deep
fissure ran along the perimeter of the structure, and then the building was
ripped from its foundation. The night air was suddenly upon them all, and they
realized that they were inhaling smoke and cinders. A fire had climbed out of a
nearby pit, and was currently consuming all the dead grass and scrub
surrounding The Broken Spoke.
Miguel heard a gun go off,
and someone was making a high keening sound. It was Teresa. Her eyes were on
the sky, head knocked back. Miguel could only follow her horrified stare.
If he never saw something
so indescribably chilling in his life again, he would consider himself a lucky
man.
It stood over thirty feet
tall. There were no defining characteristics about it that he could pinpoint,
save for the way the brush fires reflected off its body. It seemed to be made
of steel, a towering, twisting monstrosity of metal. It held the bar aloft,
over its head. Miguel could make out blazing eyes, as red as the hide of El
Diablo. Whatever it was, it looked exactly like the things in Mission City.
He should know, he saw the cell phone videos on YouTube.
�GET OUT!� A scream tore
its way out of Miguel�s throat, and suddenly he was pulling Teresa up by her
thicker hand. The two scrambled from the bar�s foundation, blinded by the
swirling smoke that shifted about their bodies. Shadows moved around them,
figures of gray � the others.
Miguel knew they had to
move. If this was new government technology, the human piloting it had gone
haywire. The last thing Miguel had seen while the metal mammoth held the upper
section of the bar was the bartender. He was standing against the titan,
letting loose round after round. It wasn�t even phasing the thing. It was a
truly tremendous sight � the tiny dot of a man so swept up in his rage that he
burned brightly with a bravado beyond his body.
It was epic, like David
and Goliath. If Miguel had been watching the scene before his eyes as a movie,
he would have been in awe at the raw magnitude of it. It imprinted itself as an
image forever emblazoned in his brain.
He shook his head to rid
himself of the mental image. Now was not the time to lose sight of the
objective � saving his hide.
Oh, and Teresa�s too. She
had a rather nice one, and this whole mess would probably score him extra
points with her� if they lived.
Miguel and Teresa ran,
sprinted even. Teresa was fast for her size, and belied Miguel�s expectations.
�Brace yourself!�
he yelled. He anticipated the next threat, and hit the ground running once he
and Teresa were clear of the property. They found themselves against the
incline of a hill, and both dove into the dirt when the world exploded.
It hurt. Not necessarily
the auditory challenge it presented � no, that hurt in
another way � but the full spectrum was a terrible tangle of smells, sounds,
feelings and sights. There was the smell of burning flesh, acrid and pungent.
There was the sound that clapped hard against his eardrums, over and over with
relentless menace. There was the sensation of incineration if he so much as
tried to open his eyes, even a little. Teresa was screaming, but it seemed to
him a trifle, nothing quite noteworthy. His senses expounded upon him a rush of
things he could not possibly sort through all at once, and therefore his mind
simply shut off.
Before he lost
consciousness, his mind�s eye once more played back the defiant physique of the
bartender with his rifle, standing against El Diablo while the fire raged
around them. He saw the moment before the metal hellion raised
what had once been the bar over his steel cranium.
Miguel remembered the
eyes. Oh, Dios, he always would.
The titan had put the
building back down in the last second, giving back what he had taken. He had
crushed the owner of The Broken Spoke as he slammed the structure back into the
Earth. Things imploded, and the man�s spirit had fled his mortal coil when
bones broke and flesh caught fire.
The man was dead, but
Miguel�s last, fleeting thought centered on how his bravery would remain
ingrained forever in his mind. It would take the revered place of something he
could never hope to have.
The man�s consciousness
abruptly died, and his senses disappeared with it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All
recognizable characters are the property of HasTak.
All original characters are mine.
A/N: The plot begins to unfold! Sorry
for the slow start, I needed to establish the main characters before really
going into the larger scheme of things. As many of you probably already
noticed, this story leans heavily on the human side of things (hinted at in the
title), so it�s mainly told through the experience of the humans within it as
they interact with the Transformers. More to the point, it�s a �What would your
normal, everyday earthlings do� (WWYNEED?) if crossed with the world of the
Transformers.
What does Smokescreen have
to do with Claire? Why is Claire important, and why did a Decepticon
take human form � hers of all people? What will happen now that there are more
transporters headed for Earth? What does it all mean!?
Well, you�ll see. It�ll
all make sense as it goes, trust me.
Please R&R if you feel
so inclined!
To clear up a few things
for the Miguel scene, I�ll translate the Spanish slang for you guys:
Orale: This is like saying, �yeah� in
English. It�s a slang word for yes.
Caldufo: This is slang for horny, or hot.
Anglo: Standard term for someone with
European ancestry, or Anglo-Saxon.
Gringa/Gringo: Spanish term for a white person.
Por el amor
de Dios: For the love of God.
Oye: Spanish slang for �Hey!�.
Mierda: Spanish slang for �shit�.
�A usted
le gusta, Se�or Ramirez?: Polite way of saying, �Is it
pleasing to you, Mr. Ramirez?� � spoken formally to tease Miguel.
Qu� demonios
pasa aqu�?!: Spanish for, �What the hell is going on here?!�.
El Diablo: The Devil.
- 5
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The Human Stain