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A Timeline of Human Evolution, Exemplified by the Case Study of Dylan Gould
For a kid, going from elementary school to middle school was a big, exciting, scary deal. For Dylan Gould, it didn't seem all that impressive. It basically just meant he'd be going to a new building and might not have recess as often. Oh, sure, he'd have new teachers, but he had a new teacher every year, so that barely registered. And most of his classmates would be the exact same people who'd been his classmates all through elementary school; Daniel Gould wasn't quite stinking rich yet, but he was definitely starting to smell, and he'd made sure to send Dylan to the best schools money could buy. If a kid's parents hadn't been rich enough and stuck up enough to send them to the same elementary school Dylan had gone to, they probably wouldn't decide to send them to his new middle school.
It would all just be more of the same, in a slightly different place. No more of a big deal than going from fourth grade to fifth grade had been. And he was at that kind of fidgety, bored age where he was between milestones, past that weirdly exciting tenth birthday where he'd hit double-digits, but still a couple years away from being a teenager. His father was for some reason already making vague rumblings about him taking over the family business, but from what he could tell the family business involved a bunch of numbers and responsibility, and so it seemed, to a discerning eleven year old, to be deathly boring. There was absolutely nothing exciting about his life.
And then his father let him in on the secret.
There were, quite frankly, a lot of better ways he could have done it. After picking Dylan up from school one day, he suddenly turned and parked their car in the lot of a nearby clothing store, took a deep breath, and turned to face his son in the seat beside him.
"I need to go to a meeting," he said, "with my... business associates. And I think it's time you met them."
Dylan wasn't too sure about that, but he wasn't too alarmed yet, either. The way his dad talked to him about his 'dotdotdot business associates', always vague and a little nervous, Dylan had always just gotten the impression that his dad was dating again. He didn't know what the big deal was, or why he'd lie about it; he and mom had been divorced for a long time.
That long-running theory was finally shot down when his father continued, "You're going to be taking over my position someday, and you need to know-- you need to understand what we're dealing with, here. These people are... Well, they're scary, they might look like they're dangerous to you, but you'll be safe. They're not here to hurt us."
That little stress on us. This had suddenly gotten alarming -- but kind of fascinating, too. "Do you work for the Mob?"
Dylan actually found that kind of cool, kind of exciting, not just alarming and scary. He was eleven, after all. Part of him imagined it would be fun to be a mobster. Part of a Mafia family. Another part of him really didn't want to get shot, or arrested, and was alarmed at the sudden idea that his dad might get caught and arrested or... or taken out in a Mob hit or something, and his expression suddenly crumpled from fascinated disbelief to intense concern.
"No," his father said quickly. "No, nothing like that." He turned in his seat a little more. "There's a war, Dylan. It's been going on for a long time, and it's going to come here. And I've made sure that this family is going to be in the winners' good books."
He searched Dylan's face for understanding, didn't seem satisfied with what he found, sighed and turned back towards the windshield again, pulling them back out of the parking lot. "I'm telling you they might scare you because I'm going to need you to be polite anyway. I expect you to be on your best behavior, do you understand? These people -- they gave us all the funding we ever needed, they're the reason we can live in such a nice house, that you can go to the best schools..."
Dylan's mouth felt weirdly dry. This was sounding a lot more like treason, which didn't have the glamorous and exciting associations that the Mafia did. Even if "spy" was still a cool word, this didn't make his dad a spy, it made him... one of those people the spies dealt with, maybe. Informants. "Informant" just sounded like something you'd get in a lot of trouble for.
He swallowed, finally managed a few words, one of the many questions jumbled up in his head. "...What country?" The Soviet Union? Had to be. Probably had to be.
"None of them. These people... They aren't from any country on Earth." He spared a quick glance over, despite the traffic. "They're aliens, Dylan."
Dylan was abruptly annoyed -- no, honestly kind of pissed, all that excitement and disbelief and worry and fear crashing down with the realization that his dad was just messing with him. What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn't even a joker, ever, he didn't do things like this, and Dylan wished he hadn't decided to switch that up today.
"You're kidding me," he muttered, and slouched down in his seat, irritated and embarrassed at himself for buying any of it in the first place. He'd actually asked his father -- Daniel freaking Gould, an accountant, the new head of an investment firm -- if he worked for the Mob! If anyone found out about that he'd never live it down, he knew it. "Okay, I have homework, so can we just go home--"
"I'm not joking."
"Dad."
"Dylan Elliot!"
It wasn't just the use of his first and middle name, that clear sign that he was in trouble, that stopped him short. He'd only ever heard it said in that tone when his father was really, really stressed, or when he was in a ton of trouble. His mouth dropped open.
"You need to take this seriously," his father continued, more calmly, but with a strain in his voice that Dylan was pretty sure meant he was either angry or worried out of his mind -- either way, he was a lot more tense than Dylan had noticed before. "You need to understand the position that we're in. These aliens are powerful, and they are meant for war, and whatever is going to happen, it's going to happen on Earth. There are some things they need done, records changed, creative accounting, greased palms... A few words here and there. They're-- technologically brilliant, but they can't do it all themselves, not while keeping their presence here a secret. They need us, and we can take advantage of that. If we're useful to them, we'll survive, and thrive. And we will have the best lives money can buy us until the world changes. Do you understand that?"
Dylan was starting to get a sick, sinking feeling that his dad actually believed all of this. What... How did someone convince him that aliens were real? Was he just delusional? Or was it really some other country, pulling off some amazing hoaxes, ones that had convinced even someone so down-to-earth and boring as his dad that he was working for some alien army?
He'd used to think his father was down-to-earth, anyway. He wasn't sure what to think now. It sounded like he hadn't been boring for a while, if he'd thought he'd been aiding an alien war.
For years? Since Dylan was a baby?
"Dylan," his father repeated with exaggerated, obviously faked patience, in the face of his non-response. "Do. You. Understand?"
"No," he said, honestly, and looked away, out the window. He was suddenly scared again; they weren't going home, that was obvious, and the area they were driving through now had much less traffic, they seemed to be heading out to more deserted places. No -- he didn't understand.
He heard his father sigh, frustrated, heard the quiet drumming of his fingers against the steering wheel, just for a few seconds before it stopped again. "Maybe you aren't ready for this." His voice was flat. "But you're going to have to be."
Dylan didn't respond that time. He just shrank down further in his seat, and tried to figure out where they were going from the scenery passing by his window.
They ended up at a warehouse outside the city proper, abandoned, broken down, and not exactly reassuring to a kid who'd been quietly freaked out more and more as the ride had stretched on. This was a place Dylan could imagine people would get taken to be killed, or kidnapped, or threatened, and he thought about just refusing to get out of the car, until he remembered the way his father's voice had sounded, and he knew that wasn't going to fly.
His father sounded a lot calmer now, though, and he balanced somewhere between friendly and businesslike as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "Now, I told them I wanted you to get to meet them sometime, and that you should be old enough to know about all this soon, so they shouldn't be too surprised to see you. If you can't be charming, be polite, and if you can't be polite, be quiet, all right? Let me introduce you, and let them decide how they're going to address you. And-- don't be afraid of one of them has his... pet, with him. It's never attacked me; you'll be perfectly safe."
Do I have to do this? I don't want to do this, dad. Can't I just wait in the car? Dylan thought of all the different things he wanted to say to get out of this, but settled on, "Yeah. Okay."
"There you go." He favored his son with a strained smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "I knew you'd adapt. You're a natural, bud." He didn't call Dylan bud very often, and it always sounded fake.
Dylan unbuckled as his father's door banged shut, and slowly opened his own door, stepping out of the car. The sun wasn't quite setting, but it was still getting cool out, early October putting chill in the air. His father stood waiting for him, to lead him into the warehouse. Dylan looked at the busted up windows and faded letters on the side of the building, and he shivered.
He was expecting intimidating men in suits, or maybe army uniforms, something impressive, with scowls on their faces, "go-betweens" for these aliens his dad thought he was working for. Or maybe some kind of-- of robotics, something convincing enough that his father had been taken in, he'd braced himself a little for that, for being impressed by what someone had been able to pull off.
He hadn't been expecting a Toyota Corolla to be idling inside. Silver, a few years old, faded and a little scuffed up, a car just like everybody else was driving. Obviously they'd been waitings inside for them to show up, Dylan told himself, and then the engine growled and he could almost feel his heart stop, thought wildly, they're going to run us over and make it look like an accident.
And then the car shifted, its smooth surface separating into metal plates, and for a split-second Dylan thought that it had some weird advanced kind of sunroof, except that it wasn't just happening to the roof of the car.
Limbs and an almost human-like form, except way too big, distinguished themselves from the strange shifting mass, all to the tune of -- like some sort of factory equipment almost, only smoother. What might almost have been a third arm forming itself from the figure's chest detached itself completely, dropping to the ground and turning out to be a catlike shape instead, with a big circular light in its face, sharp teeth and a lashing tail. And then everything seemed to have clicked into place in a totally different way, the sounds stopped, and the larger figure had wound up settled almost kneeling, on its hands and knees.
Red lights flared to life on the larger figure's face as well -- red eyes -- and looked straight at them.
It could have been terrifying, it should have been terrifying. Hell, it should have blown Dylan's mind, shaken the foundations of his world, left him reeling. He could even have reacted with denial, maybe, rebelling against what he saw and clinging tight to the idea that someone was just trying to trick them.
Instead he was amazed, rapt, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as the figure spoke, one simple word:
"Daniel."
"Soundwave." His father had slipped into his smooth, friendly businessman voice, all apparent warmth and comfort with the situation. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting, you know how it is. The traffic in the inner city." He chuckled, and clapped a hand on Dylan's small shoulder. "I'd like to introduce you to my son -- or rather, my son to you. This is Dylan. Dylan, this is Soundwave."
He'd been told to wait and let Soundwave decide how it -- he? -- wanted to address him. He didn't think he could have managed words yet if he'd been ordered to.
It was obvious that his father expected some sort of response, and it was hard to really tell, but Soundwave seemed a little irritated, but humored him anyway. "I see."
Well, that was hard to figure out how to respond to. If he was supposed to be following Soundwave's lead, it wasn't a very clear one. He decided not to try to speak yet, nodding to him in acknowledgement instead.
The giant robot (giant, transforming alien robot car! this was amazing, he couldn't believe how incredible this all was) didn't seem interested in him, and honestly Dylan couldn't blame him for that. Why would a being like that be interested in humans? They must seem like-- like ants, or something, to them. Ants that were sometimes useful.
And because they were sometimes useful, Soundwave was talking to his father, and Dylan listened, fascinated, as he said, "We will be leaving this world for a time. I expect you to continue to make sure another moon landing is not... financially feasible for your people."
His father grinned broadly. "You have my word, as long as you have me doing creative accounting, we'll never make it back up there. I'm sure we'll still be getting the... financial support that a project of this magnitude needs...? Enough to seem trustworthy, grease a few palms..."
"Enough to pay for whatever you desire." Dylan wasn't imagining it, was he? That was impatience in Soundwave's voice, annoyance, something surprisingly human. Soundwave didn't like his dad, and that suddenly made nervousness creep back in, nervousness that grew stronger when he heard a sound that was a little like a growl and a little like a motorcycle engine, close by.
He looked over. The catlike creature that had separated itself from Soundwave during his transformation had padded closer, and had its one big, glowing eye fixed right on him.
Dad said it's never attacked him, he said I'd be safe. But that thought was followed up, treacherously, by, Yeah, but Soundwave sounds like he really doesn't like dad...
The creature kept coming closer, and Dylan's alarm grew until he opened up his mouth to call over for help -- at which point it surged forward and headbutted him in the midriff.
He just about managed a squeak, the air sort of knocked out of him. It rubbed its face firmly against his hipbone then, circling around him and making another engine-growling sound, then rearing up to get its big metal claws -- paws? -- up on his shoulders.
Its weight hit him heavily, way too much for an eleven year old, and he tumbled backwards with a yelp, the creature on top of him. Landing really did knock the breath out of him, that time, and he heard his dad exclaim his name, sucked in a deep breath after a few tries and realized that the creature was rubbing its face industriously against his face, still rumbling.
Purring. It really was like a big robotic cat, he realized; it was acting like it was scent-marking him, though he didn't know if it was, and was purring up a mechanical storm, engine thrumming happily. By the time his father actually reached his side, he'd gone from fear to amazed laughter, and was stroking the big cat's head and behind its ears with both entire hands.
"Dylan--" his father began again, uncertain, but was interrupted by an unfamiliar sound -- an odd, rasping chuckle from Soundwave, who had followed him over, and Dylan looked up at him to see... Was that amusement he recognized in that alien face? A flash of interest in the eyes that looked infinitely more like turn signals than gooey human orbs?
"She seems to like him," he noted.
Dylan looked from him to the cat purring on top of him, who'd started licking at his hair with a long, strange tongue that looked like a hose and was dripping with some thick liquid that smelled like gasoline. "She's a she?"
"Her name is Ravage," Soundwave informed him.
"Ravage," he repeated. He gave her a few more scritches behind the ears, feeling as much as hearing the warm rumbling. "Hey, there."
"You..." Dylan's father didn't seem to know how to react to the situation, watching as Ravage groomed and slimed up Dylan's hair, glancing at Soundwave as he talked to him. Trying to get back to business, weakly. "You said you were going to be leaving, for how long...?"
"It could be years," Soundwave said, a bit dismissively. "We'll be keeping an eye on you. And of course our... other allies."
"Oh." Dylan's father didn't sound too thrilled with that, and Dylan wondered idly, as Ravage flopped down half beside and half on top of him, and panted, finally satisfied with her work, how they'd be keeping an eye on them if they were off planet. Then he thought, Duh, Dylan. They're the most advanced technology you've ever seen. You think they can't do surveillance from some other planet?
There didn't seem to be too much else for the two of them to arrange, and it wasn't long before they were heading back out to the car -- reluctantly, in Dylan's case and only Dylan's case, a complete reversal from the way things had been on the ride over. He crouched down to give Ravage a few more scritches as she lay curled on her side, watching him pleasantly, and she rubbed her face against his hand before he got up to leave.
Unexpectedly, Soundwave stopped him before he reached the warehouse doors. "Dylan."
He stopped short, surprised, then turned around and looked up at the giant robot, abruptly nervous again at being addressed directly and reminded of exactly how big and intimidating this particular alien was. "Y-Yes, sir?"
"Ravage isn't fond of humans." Despite Soundwave's words, there was that amusement in his voice, and again, that flash of what Dylan could almost swear was interest. And then, as if the two thoughts connected somehow, "You will make a good replacement for your father."
Dylan's heart jumped, and he tried to figure out how to respond. "Thank you. Really. Um... Goodbye. Have a safe trip," he blurted out, impulsively, then turned around and ran out, practically overwhelmed with embarrassment.
Have a safe trip! He'd told a giant robot to have a safe trip, through outer space.
His father was waiting about halfway to the car, and looked relieved when Dylan caught up, walking back with him in silence. It was a silence neither of them broke until the car had backed out of the warehouse parking lot, and was driving back towards home. His father was frowning, and said abruptly, voice short, "Take a shower when we get home."
Dylan knew he smelled like gasoline, the entire inside of the car smelled like gasoline already. "Okay," he agreed.
He ended up showering every day for nearly a week before the smell finally disappeared, but even though his father obviously hated it, he felt disappointed when it was gone.
That one meeting affected Dylan more deeply than he would have thought possible. Or maybe he'd always been fated to turn out the way he did, but would never have had words for it, would never have understood it, if not for the Decepticons.
Decepticons. That was a new and strange word, and he didn't learn it from any of them. His dad finally explained things, maybe not everything or even everything he knew, but enough that Dylan wasn't totally in the dark, maybe three days after the meeting, in his study, while Dylan still smelled faintly of Ravage's gasoline-spit bath.
They were the Decepticons, and they were in the middle of a war with a group called the Autobots. That war was going to come here to Earth, eventually. Something very important of theirs was on Earth's moon, and so they needed a few humans to make sure that no one at NASA ever found it. And the most important human in this project, as their official liaison, was Daniel Gould.
Dylan's father stated this fact with a mixture of pride and nerves. Dylan would remember that years, decades later, when he was the Decepticons' liaison, when he felt he understood what his father had been feeling all those years ago.
When he was a kid, of course, he didn't exactly get it. The relationship Dylan's father had with the Decepticons, and was very clearly intending to pass onto his son, was the one thing in years that had made Dylan think his dad was kind of cool. And, to his surprise, he wasn't the only one who knew about it. A few of his father's business partners, and a few old, rich family friends, were also in on it, and even at eleven Dylan found himself wondering if they'd been rich before the Decepticons.
Dylan wasn't excited for the riches, though. That was pretty cool, yeah; he liked nice things already, and he had been taught for the past few years to respect and be careful with good craftsmanship. But the Decepticons themselves, these... completely alien mechanical beings, not just from another planet but living technological creatures that could disguise themselves, shift the parts of their bodies around like puzzle pieces, take other forms, they were the most amazing thing about all this.
And it didn't take him long to realize, though he almost couldn't believe it, that no one else seemed to think that way.
So Dylan was, against all odds, the only person he knew who kept thinking back on the aliens in fascination, even though he'd found out that a lot of people knew about the aliens. Was it because they were adults? Like adulthood hadn't already seemed boring! The only thing making him look forward to it was the new, enticing promise that he'd get to work with the Decepticons too.
For a while, though, he didn't even see any of them. Life, disappointingly, settled back to normal, though he never forgot -- how could he? 'Normal life', though he had to live it, seemed impossible to him now; he felt a rift between himself and his classmates, and mostly only 'hung out' with a few children of the men and women who were in on the secret, and even then only by their parents' arrangements.
Puberty was... weird, for him. Oh, he went through all the normal changes, except he never actually found himself interested in any girls. He could tell when a girl was pretty, even beautiful, but it was all in the abstract. He was fourteen when he started wondering if he was gay and just hadn't noticed it, but when he tried to look at his guy classmates, they didn't hold any more appeal for him than the girls did.
At fifteen, he tried dating a classmate anyway, a girl named Diane that he'd been having play-dates with since he was eleven and his entire world had changed, whose father was in on the secret and was close friends with his own. It was nice, he guess. She was nice. He enjoyed her company.
His father gave him a car for his sixteenth birthday. He broke up with Diane.
It probably wasn't a good thing that the first time he really understood all that talk about curves, noticed them and found himself drawn to them, was when the curves belonged to a Ford Thunderbird. And he probably shouldn't have dumped his girlfriend in response to that particular epiphany, but he panicked.
In truth, though, it didn't take him all that long to calm down. It might have been weird, but there was no changing it, so he had to deal with it. He wasn't into human girls or human guys, but alien robots -- all right, now that he knew they existed, obviously some part of his brain was really happy that they were an option. And because of Soundwave, he associated them with cars, so he saw a beauty in cars that he just didn't pick up on in humans.
Understanding all that really didn't help his love life any. He might as well have just stayed not attracted to anyone, except that with this sudden understanding, he now felt even weirder dating someone he knew he wasn't interested in, and he decided he wasn't going to try that again. He might as well just buy subscriptions to Car and Driver and Autoweek. It wasn't like he was never going to see the Decepticons again -- he hoped -- but he'd be having a business relationship with whoever he ended up working with, and he already knew that it'd be unprofessional as hell to flirt with a client.
Besides, it might be Soundwave, and he couldn't really imagine flirting with Soundwave.
All of this definitely affected him. But none of it ended up being any use to him at all for more years than he'd been expecting -- many more than he'd been hoping. He graduated at eighteen and went to college while working as a part-time intern at his father's firm. He wasn't, embarrassingly enough, any good at investing, but his father pulled him aside one day and confided that that was okay, as long as he had a good looking degree, it didn't actually matter if Dylan was good at his job. Even from this long distance, Daniel Gould was getting fed information and advice on the human stock market by Soundwave, or at least by someone associated with Soundwave.
Dylan honestly felt kind of offended that he'd never known about this. The Decepticons were keeping in touch with his father that easily, and he'd thought for years that there'd been no word from them? But he didn't say anything about it; it was a weird jealous feeling, it wasn't rational, and he knew it was just one more thing that he should probably keep to himself.
He kept his head down, and he graduated with a four-year BBA specializing in finance. He wasn't any good at finance, but with a little help -- and, admittedly, a good show of confidence and some bullshitting, because he was good at bullshitting -- he made it through and started on his master's, still working part time but no longer an intern. He was moving up in the world, and it was only a little frustrating that it was mostly happening because it had been decided that he would when he was still a kid. Mostly, things were... kind of exciting. It was the start of the 90's, and at the age of twenty-two he considered himself a wise and mature adult; it still wasn't working with aliens, yet, but it felt pretty good anyway.
He was making coffee one morning at Hotchkiss Gould Investments, leaning against the counter and enjoying the smell and the quiet before the busy day started, and nearly jumped out of his skin as the fax machine across from him suddenly shifted and transformed.
“Jesus!” Dylan yelped, and then realized what was happening, catching his balance on the counter and staring at the... bird? Winged snake? Was this another of Soundwave's pets? “Oh-- fuck.”
“Dylan?” His father entered, and, unexpectedly, paled when he saw the bird.
More unexpected, the bird spoke, lifting off from its perch and flying closer to Dylan's father without bothering to flap. “Hello, Daniel,” it cooed, in oddly light, silken tones but with a slightly raspy voice. “Is this your son?”
Dylan had forgotten how much he'd been at a loss for words the first time he'd met these beings, but he was right back there now. Probably that was why the first thing he blurted out was, “How long has a bird been our fax machine?”
“Charming.” Laserbeak sounded amused, and maybe that or the question Dylan had aimed at him snapped Dylan's father out of it, but he finally spoke up himself -- sounding pretty shaky, still.
“Laserbeak... Dylan, this is Laserbeak, he's... He's one of Soundwave's... associates.”
Then why do you sound so frightened? Dylan's dad was practically stumbling over his words, he couldn't help but wonder.
He didn't ask that. Instead, he tried to calm himself down, easier now that he was older and more practiced, and easier still when the shock was giving way to a frisson of excitement at the idea that Soundwave was contacting them again in a more personal way than those long-distance communications.
He smiled at Laserbeak with honest enthusiasm, hand barely twitching up in an aborted attempt at offering a handshake before resting his hands on the counter behind him instead, a relaxed posture. “Sorry, I wasn't expecting it after so long,” he apologized. “It's an honor to meet you, Laserbeak.”
Laserbeak cocked his head, entire long neck swaying to that side as he did so, eyes quizzically on Dylan. Then he gave an apparently-unnecessary flap of his wings, and curved in the air around Dylan's father, refocusing on him instead.
“Don't worry.” What was with the way he talked? It was amused and faux-friendly and wicked and a little overly-familiar, and it made Dylan's skin crawl, but not in a bad way, necessarily. Little shivery feelings. “I'm here as a messenger.”
“As opposed to what?” Maybe he shouldn't be asking that, because those red eyes shone in his direction again, but Laserbeak didn't seem offended.
“A reminder.”
His father shuddered. Dylan could only imagine what 'reminder' actually meant. A threat? Probably; Laserbeak looked like he could be very dangerous. “Something he couldn't share with us over satellite?” his father asked, apprehensive.
“That isn't for anything important,” Laserbeak dismissed. When he spoke again, he clearly enunciated every word; Dylan wasn't sure if he was exaggerating patience, trying to make sure his father understood, pretending his father was too slow to understand otherwise, or making sure it was clear that this was an order. Maybe something else entirely? Dylan grabbed the coffee pot and his mug, absently pouring himself a cup as he kept his eyes on Laserbeak and his father, fascinated. “We want you to make certain the Hubble Telescope's imaging problems are fixed by its first servicing mission.”
More smoothly again, he continued, “The funding will be there. Be sure that it goes where we need it to go.”
Dylan's father seemed unnerved. “What use could the Hubble Telescope have to you?”
“That isn't important, Daniel.” Laserbeak's voice was wheedling, exaggerated reassurance without actually being reassuring.
His father hesitated, then nodded. “We'll make sure they get everything fixed.”
“I know you will,” Laserbeak cooed again, then -- suddenly swung around to Dylan, a wide swoop around back of his father and over near his side as he was taking a sip from his coffee cup, and he almost fumbled and spilled it. “You don't have any questions?”
Was he teasing or trying to be intimidating? Either way, Dylan was kind of intimidated, and nervous, and, to his own horror, a little bit turned on. Fuck. “No,” he said, trying to sound professional and with it, summoning up another smile. “No, I don't see any need to ask questions. If your people want this done, we'll make sure that it's done.”
Laserbeak's birdy face looked almost intrigued, and certainly amused, and he snickered, backing away from Dylan. “Daniel,” he sing-songed over his shoulder. “Your son is a much faster learner than you.”
Orders given, Dylan had kind of been expecting Laserbeak to leave at that point. From his father's obvious disappointment when Laserbeak flew back over to the fax's stand and transformed back into hiding, he had been expecting so, too, or at least hoping it. Dylan smiled again in the direction of the fax machine, and vaguely raised his coffee mug towards it, almost a toasting gesture, and asked, “Would you excuse us? Dad, can we talk a minute?”
He walked out of the room with his dad quick on his heels, noticing his relief at getting out of the room, and when they were out in the hall he started, voice low, “Look, why are you--” He paused. “How good is his hearing?”
His father looked nervous. “Let's talk in my office,” he muttered.
It was only after the he'd closed and locked the door behind them both that his dad seemed to relax any, and even then he kept his voice down. “We should be safe in here.”
'Safe', Dylan noticed. “Why are you so nervous about this one? You didn't seem to mind Soundwave, or even Ravage.” And Ravage was a big needle-mouthed cat, though admittedly one that Dylan felt a strong remembered fondness for. He honestly missed her more than Soundwave.
“Soundwave can be intimidating, but he's a professional.” Dylan's dad fussed nervously with the pens on his desk, straightened the picture frame there. “And Ravage, as near as I can tell, she's just an animal. Possibly dangerous, like a tiger, but she seemed trained. Laserbeak is...”
“Not trained?” Dylan quip-guessed, when his father just trailed off, and his father gave him a baleful look.
“Don't get smart. Laserbeak isn't an animal. I know you noticed that. But he's still a predator, through and through. I figured that out by watching his face, he's always... gauging people, like prey.” Was he? He'd definitely been keeping a close, intent eye on the both of them, Dylan had noticed that. “And I know for a fact he's who Soundwave sends when he wants to make a few threats... And I suspect that he's responsible for a few-- disappearances.”
“You mean deaths,” Dylan said flatly. “That's why you're jumpy -- he kills people? If they mess up or try to go public, or--?” Or outlive their usefulness? A suspicion trickled through him for the first time, and he lowered his voice, not to keep from being heard but to resist the urge to shout at his father. “This job. When they don't have any use for us anymore, are they going to kill us?”
His father had turned red. “Don't talk to me like that,” he said, his own voice quiet but forceful.
“Are they?”
His father must have picked up on the panic in his voice, or maybe his own fear had finally won out. He sat heavily in his chair, slumping down in it, and putting his face in his hands. “I don't know,” he admitted. “I've suspected...”
“And when did you start suspecting, huh?” Dylan asked hotly. “Dad? Before or after you got me involved in all this?”
His father scrubbed at his face. “Bud...”
“Don't call me that -- you've always been full of shit when you call me that.” Not exactly the wittiest, most stinging retort in the world, but it would have to do. Dylan slammed the door on his way out, and while he wasn't about to wait to see if his dad was going to follow him out of his office, he couldn't help noticing that, from the sound of it, the door wasn't opening again behind him.
His heart was hammering. He holed himself up in his own office until it was time for him to leave for class. He didn't go to any of his classes, though; he went home, restless, scared and even more than that, angry. He contemplated quitting the company, getting himself out of all this, decided he was going to and worked himself up to do it as soon as his father got home that night, riding on that determined high for a few hours.
By the time the sun was starting to set, though, all that was quickly starting to fade. Well, not the anger; he was pretty sure he was going to be angry at his father for a long time. But the determination to quit, that certainty that he should extract himself from this business with the Decepticons...
He hadn't ever cared about taking over his father's business. He'd never been interested in the investment firm itself; it had just been a means to an end, and that end had always been the Decepticons. Working with them, for them... He'd wanted to do that since he was eleven. Literally half his life had been spent yearning for this opportunity. If he threw it away now, what would he even do? What goals would he have for his life anymore?
Don't be short-sighted, he told himself, but unconvincingly. You can make new goals. You can't do that if you're dead.
You don't even know that the Decepticons are planning on killing you. All you have are dad's suspicions and fears. How do you know Laserbeak had anything to do with those people's deaths, or if he killed them for anything other than trying to betray his people?
If you run from this, they might think you're a danger to them. They could just kill you for that.
...Wow. Thanks, self.
Before his dad got home, he ordered in dinner, then closed himself in his room and went to bed early. It might not have been mature to be completely avoiding his father like that, but he didn't care; he might have decided against quitting, but he still didn't want to talk to him just yet. He left for the company building even earlier than usual the next morning, and was the first one there by far -- he and his father were always the first ones, so they could talk business and do a few things privately if need be -- turning on the lights and hesitating in the halls. He wasn't sure if he wanted to head straight to his office or risk getting coffee; he'd have to pass near the alien “fax machine” that he assumed would still be there if he did. He wished he'd just picked up some Starbucks on the drive over or something.
He didn't have to make the decision. Laserbeak flew out into the hall, and Dylan froze, surprised.
“Dylan.” There was an almost coaxing warmth, or faux-warmth, to the tone, his name stretched out pleasantly in this alien's mouth, and he shivered, not entirely from fear. “You haven't ordered a new fax machine.”
“Huh?” he said, intelligently. Then the penny dropped. “Oh. ...What happened to our first one?”
“I destroyed it.” Laserbeak drifted a little closer, tilting his head. “It was bought with our funds.” As was all their state-of-the-art technology; the new one would be too, Dylan knew, so he didn't feel any inclination to complain. The Decepticons did pretty much own the building.
“Fair enough,” he agreed. He wasn't sure if he should try to edge around the bird or not; the way he was drifting lazily back and forth in the air, Laserbeak could effortlessly shift to block Dylan's path and make it look like an accident, and Dylan didn't exactly want to do that awkward little dance with an alien bird robot. That would be even more embarrassing than doing it with another human being.
A thought occurred: “Is that why you stuck around? Waiting until we replace the fax machine?” That was actually... surprisingly thoughtful.
“No.” Laserbeak shot that down pretty quick. “I'll be keeping an eye on your company for a few days... Seeing how everything runs.”
“It's my dad's company.” That was almost automatic, and Dylan wondered why he'd said it. Laserbeak made him nervous, antsy. Both because of his father's suspicions, and just in general.
“Of course,” Laserbeak soothed, as he curved in the air to circle around behind him, and it almost sounded sincere. Dylan tried not to look surprised. “But it will be yours. Isn't that what you want, Dylan?”
“I don't know.” Oh, God, stop talking. “I never cared about this company,” he explained quickly, starting to walk towards his office, with Laserbeak trailing behind him. “And I'm no good at finance. But it was a package deal: Become CEO of Hotchkiss Gould Investments, become-- human liaison for the Decepticons. So I'm doing what I have to.”
Was it just him, or was Laserbeak surprised? His eyes couldn't widen, but he was open-mouthed, a strange, almost unsettling three-part split to his beak that revealed teeth, for some reason. Incredibly sharp-looking teeth. Good grief. He was like the unholy metal lovechild of a buzzard and a snake. Why didn't noticing these things stop Dylan from feeling attracted to him? He supposed if the worry that Laserbeak might murder him someday wasn't going to douse his libido, nothing would.
“So that's what Soundwave meant.” If Laserbeak had been surprised, he recovered with amusement. Dylan stopped at the door to his office, hand on the doorknob, caught off guard.
“Soundwave?”
Laserbeak seemed to ignore him. “You've been wanting to work with us... So unlike your father. He's very tiresome,” he confided, and Dylan felt slight worry for the man, even as upset as he was with him. Laserbeak somehow noticed that, and he added, “Don't worry, Dylan. We're not going to kill him. Not just for being a shortsighted, selfish little insect.”
“That's reassuring.” Dylan opened the door to his office, pausing inside as Laserbeak insinuated himself after him, going to sit without shutting the door behind them. He didn't exactly feel any more afraid being alone, closed in his office with the bird, since he'd been alone and closed in the building as a whole; this wasn't any less safe. Besides, Laserbeak hadn't done anything to him yet. He just didn't want to have to go open the door again when Laserbeak wanted to leave.
“Your father wants money, prestige. To be among the human elite. This company is a bauble for him, to show off to the easily-impressed.”
“Then why are you paying for it?”
“Dylan,” Laserbeak chided. Jesus, he really liked using people's names, didn't he? That was a problem, the way he said Dylan's name was not doing him any favors. “Your father is our liaison, and our greatest example.”
That seemed to be all the explanation he'd be getting. Dylan paused as he waited for his computer to boot up, running those words through his head again. Our greatest example...
“He's one of your baubles,” Dylan said slowly. “To show off. To show people what they can get if they choose to work for you.” The carrot part of the carrot and stick equation.
Laserbeak hissed, but it almost sounded like a pleased sort of hiss. He didn't seem irritated, anyway. “A much faster learner than your father,” he repeated, and flew back out of Dylan's office, the sounds of his engines disappearing back down the hall.
Dylan waited a few moments, then stood, to finally close his door. Then he sat back down at his desk, ignoring his computer for the moment in favor of pulling a phone book out of its drawer. He was going to have to call down and order a new fax machine, after all.
Laserbeak didn't say goodbye; that apparently wasn't his thing, or maybe wasn't an alien robot thing in general. True to his word, he didn't wait around for the new fax machine to show up, either. He stayed for two more days, barely talking to Dylan or his father after that point, and then left sometime before the next morning.
They put up a little sign that the fax machine was completely dead and they'd be getting a new one, and by the end of that week, everything was back to normal.
Just like the first time he'd met the aliens, though, just like when he was eleven years old and trying to make sense of this new truth of the universe, and embracing it as a desirable truth... Just like it hadn't back then, it didn't feel like everything was back to normal now, either.
This time around, though, it all felt different. He felt hyperaware; he found himself staring at office equipment and other appliances as if he might see movement or a flash of lights that would clue him in on its real nature, found himself watching cars as they passed by or sat parked across the street. And he didn't know if he was worried that something else would be an alien in disguise, or if he wanted it, but either way he felt like he was waiting for it.
He ended up waiting for a long time. Again. He hadn't known what to expect, after Laserbeak's arrival, and he hadn't known what to expect after his just as abrupt disappearance, but if he'd had to venture a guess, it wouldn't have been this. Maybe that was just wishful thinking; they'd stayed away for over a decade last time they'd left, so it wasn't like this was breaking any patterns. He wondered, not for the first time, how long they lived, and wondered if this was normal for them, if they just thought nothing of not speaking with someone for years, only to pick back up like it had only been a few days.
He settled on the less attractive truth that they were just busy with their own concerns, and had no real reason to care about interacting with humans unless it was absolutely necessary.
Years passed, again. Fund went exactly where the Decepticons wanted them to, and the Hubble Telescope got its “spectacles,” correcting its optical focus. That was apparently a satisfactory fix, because it got radio silence from Soundwave, which Dylan's father assured him was a good thing. Things were still... tense, between the two of them, but they were on speaking terms again, if only for the sake of business.
Dylan got his Master of Science in Finance degree, though it took longer than the “normal” three years; it was 1995 when he completed it, at twenty-seven years old, and his father granted him full partnership in the company. By that point he'd stopped feeling quite so on edge, though still he watched cars pass by and planes fly overhead and wondered, sometimes. How could he not? When you knew you weren't alone in the universe, and that alien life had reached Earth and was capable of hiding so completely, right under your eyes, how could you look at the world in the same way? And he had too much spare time, now, time to schmooze and give orders and wonder.
He needed a hobby. Desperately. And he ended up finding it, ironically, in cars.
He'd stopped driving his Thunderbird several years before he graduated, replacing it with a Mercedes-Benz, but he hadn't traded it in or sold it. There hadn't been any need to, so he'd kept it, and kept it in good shape. He found a 1925 Bugatti Type 35 Grand Prix to restore and, a little while later, a 1935 J12 Cabriolet that needed very little done to it. His father didn't seem to get it, but also didn't seem to mind -- not even when Dylan mentioned eventually buying a gallery to display these works of art in, only half joking. Not even half, really.
But his dad seemed happy to let him do and have whatever he wanted, so long as he also did well for the company and the Decepticons. Maybe he was trying to make up for things, but there was a rift between them that Dylan wasn't sure could ever heal. It only seemed to get worse the older he got, and the more he realized how fucked up it was that his father had driven him out to an abandoned warehouse when he was eleven to get him involved in an alien war with beings that he was personally afraid of.
Sure, Dylan had ended up into it, though he was starting to wonder more and more what was going to happen, but that didn't excuse how much of a kid he had been, or how careless his father had been, and Dylan couldn't shake the idea that his father didn't care so much about him as he did having an obedient heir who would follow his plans and orders.
Then Dylan's father died. January 28th, 2002. No enemy attack, no execution for betraying country and species, no “you've outlived your usefulness.” Just a heart attack at age fifty-four, one he never fully recovered from, and complete heart failure at age fifty-six, and this time, Dylan's life didn't change... at all.
Oh, he became owner and CEO of Hotchkiss Gould Investments, like had always been planned for him. He shifted into his father's role entirely, like had always been planned for him, liaising with the other humans working for the Decepticons and becoming the sole person to check Soundwave's communications advising him on how to run the company without screwing everything up. His father died and he stepped into the dead man's shoes and just picked up and kept going smoothly.
But he felt, at most, a few ripples from it. He didn't feel shock, he didn't feel the world changing for him like it had when he'd seen Soundwave's transformation, when he'd been nuzzled and purred on by Ravage, when Laserbeak had unfolded himself from the fax machine. It was just a thing that happened and that he had to adjust to, and he adjusted to it.
The Decepticons didn't say anything about it for months, and then there was a light tapping sound at his window one evening, and he looked out to see metal and bright, round red eyes, and he moved to open the window before he even really got a good look at his visitor.
Its body was almost insectoid, and small compared even to the other small Decepticons that Laserbeak had seen. Ravage had been bigger than him, probably a little bigger than most humans overall, and Laserbeak had been the size of a human, but this one was about the size of his head, but incredibly skinny, with many sharp skittery legs and antennae, and no visible mouth. He squinted at it; tiny little speakers, maybe? Two of them? Was that what he was seeing?
He didn't have the chance to greet the alien first, or even wonder if it was animal or, as Laserbeak had been, animal-y person. It was speaking up while he was still taking it in. “Mister Dylan Gould. I'm from Soundwave -- Scalpel. The doctor.”
He blinked. The little bug-doctor's voice was heavily accented, a German accent of all things, its English totally understandable but sounding imperfect, and it spoke in quick, simple, clearly-enunciated bursts. “Scalpel,” he repeated. “Soundwave... sent a doctor?”
“Yes. Be looking you over.” Scalpel leapt from the table by the window onto his arm, and he froze, overriding his instinctive urge to flail his arm to try to get it off. It climbed swiftly up his arm onto the front of his shirt, which it clung to with those sharp feet, stretching up to peer into his eyes with its own. “A check-up.”
“Oh. O...kay.” He held very still, awkwardly still, hoping Scalpel wasn't tearing up his shirt with his feet, and then Scalpel's eyes flared up bright for a moment and Dylan just managed not to clap a hand over his eyes. “Agh!”
“Pupil dilation is sound,” Scalpel announced to the air, and hopped back down as Dylan was still blinking. “Now we need a blood sample!”
“Blood... blood sample,” Dylan murmured, then refocused on the doctor, following him over to the table despite his apprehensions. “What's this all about?” Wait. He had a guess: “My father?”
“Yes, yes!” Scalpel jumped up onto the chair, not seeming to have any problem with that distance, then onto the table proper; Dylan winced at the idea of the scratches he would leave on the wood, but when he looked closer he didn't seem to be leaving any. That was a relief, anyway. “Death came young -- even for a human! They want to know your health.” Scalpel peered up at him, flipping the extra set of lenses -- almost like spectacles -- down over his eyes. “And your mind.”
“My mind?” Dylan took a seat at the table and, after a moment's hesitation, laid his arm and hand on the table, palm up. Scalpel skittered over.
“Mind, heart... Emotions! Psychology,” Scalpel explained. Dylan hissed, but didn't flinch, as the doctor sliced open his palm with his front foot, blood welling up. “You have suffered loss.”
“They're worried about my emotional state?” This wasn't exactly giving condolences, but Dylan was honestly surprised that they'd sent someone to check on his mental health, on how he was holding up. He supposed that if someone was too deep in grieving, they might not be of much use to them for a while, but still...
“Humans are fragile. And you aren't a soldier! Your first death?”
That seemed to be a question, so Dylan admitted, watching the blood pool in his palm with mildly horrified fascination, “There were my grandparents, but I didn't know them very well... So I suppose you could say that.” He'd been lucky; he really didn't know anyone else who'd died.
“There we are.” Whether he was talking about what Dylan said or the amount of blood in his hand was unclear. It wasn't actually that much, about the size of a nickel if even that, but bloodletting was so alien to him that even that much looked like a lot. Scalpel dipped his antennae into the blood, seeming to concentrate. Was he able to assess Dylan's health with his own body like that?
“That's amazing,” Dylan confessed, and Scalpel didn't glance up at him, his head lowered as it was -- and he didn't even have mouthparts -- but Dylan still thought he detected a smile in his voice.
“Danke sehr.”
There, that wasn't just an accent, Scalpel didn't just sound German-ish: “You speak German?”
“I spent much time in Germany, at first. Learned Earth language, local.” As if sensing that Dylan was about to ask what he'd been doing in Germany, he waved his hands -- arms -- front legs? -- in a sort of 'stop' gesture, backing off from Dylan's palm finally. “Vergiss es. Never mind! You're healthy-- no cancers, heart is strong.”
It was reassuring, but strange that Scalpel could tell all that so quickly and from such a minor procedure. “Thank you.”
Maybe it was the accent; Dylan almost expected Scalpel to get all Freud on him, and how are you feeling? He didn't, and there wasn't even any more German; he seemed to be mostly trying to stick to English. “No problem! I will return clean bill of health.” He sounded happy with that fact, expression oddly smile-like even without the mouth or eye movements to be able to smile with.
Or maybe Dylan was just reading too much into that little face, humanizing an alien robot -- unfairly humanizing, even -- but he smiled back, anyway. “I'd appreciate that. I want to settle any concerns they might have about whether or not I'm still up to the task of working with them. It's true that I'm mourning my father, but it hasn't been a problem for me, and it's not going to be. We weren't particularly close these past ten years.”
Scalpel was peering up at him again, watching him closely. “You are angry with him?”
Dylan paused. Had he sounded angry? Maybe with that last part; he definitely still resented what his father had done, or rather, what it had told him about his father's priorities. “A little,” he admitted. “But that won't be a problem, either. Frankly, I felt more bitter before he died; I don't see any point to it now. It's over and done with.”
“A normal processing of grief,” Scalpel observed. “I will report. And you've been a good patient, very cooperative!”
“I appreciate hearing that.” Dylan got up, holding his hand carefully so that he didn't drip blood anywhere, heading towards the kitchen so that he could wash the cut. He'd probably need to disinfect and bandage it, too, but Scalpel had obviously been careful, and he could already tell he wouldn't need stitches. He glanced over as he ran warm water over his palm, trying not to wince. The doctor was strangely approachable, reassuring in a way neither Soundwave nor Laserbeak had been. That might have been why he actually asked, instead of just wondering in his own head, “You know, my father made it sound like your big war is coming to Earth, Decepticons on one side and Autobots on the other.”
“Oh, yes.” Scalpel actually seemed to be grooming himself, in an insecty way, on Dylan's dining room table, fastidious with his two foremost sharp metal legs. “There's no doubt.”
He felt a chill go through him. War meant death, a lot of death, and he'd just received a clean bill of health and his father had just died three months ago and he didn't want to think about dying himself just yet. “Do you have any idea when? You're the first Decepticon I've seen in over ten years.”
“Soon.” That was cryptic, and what counted as soon for Decepticons anyway? Dylan still didn't know how long their natural lifespans were. Would Scalpel be saying soon if he meant ten years? Fifty? A hundred?
...All right, ten would still be too soon for Dylan's tastes. He was only in his thirties, he wanted at least another fifty years. Getting to die in his sleep of old age would be nice.
“I'm not sure we share the same definition of soon,” he tried, crouching to get the first aid kit out from under the sink.
“Ah, yes. Humans have tiny lifespans!” Dylan smiled, small and fleeting, despite himself. He'd thought as much; there was absolutely no reason that aliens, especially robot aliens, should grow old and die at the same rate that humans did. “It will not be ten more years.”
He stopped, first aid kit in hand, still crouching. Then he stood, slowly, after a long moment. His mouth was dry, and he turned to look at the little alien. “You're sure about that?”
“Oh, yes! We're very close!”
He turned back to the counter, feeling numb. He managed to open the first aid kit and pull out the antiseptic and gauze without fumbling, anyway, and he tried to keep his voice businessman-friendly and cheerful. “Well, thank you for telling me that. It's the first solid news I've gotten since finding out there was a war.” Over twenty goddamn years ago. What would he have done if he'd known that aliens would be fighting a devastating war on his planet before 2012? What would his life have been like? He'd probably have been a nervous wreck these past few years, anyway.
“Apologies.” It was short, but all of Scalpel's words were oddly short and he sounded sincere enough. “Soundwave will return soon. Very soon! Will be checking in with you.”
How soon is very soon? Less than five years? He held his tongue. Scalpel was actually telling him things, after all, and being decent, being downright friendly. He didn't deserve sarcasm or snappishness.
“Then I hope he'll decide I've been meeting his standards when he does,” he said instead, calmly. As calm as he could muster. He turned to look at Scalpel once again, wrapping his hand as he spoke. “Once I'm done with this,” he sort of raised both hands slightly to indicate what he was talking about, then lowered them back again to where they'd been, “can I offer you anything? I should have asked before, I know.”
It was pure politeness, not just politics because he honestly did want to be polite to Scalpel, but he wasn't expecting the little doctor to take him up on it. What could he possibly offer?
But Scalpel answered, promptly, “Oil. And screws!”
Well. That actually made a kind of sense. Maybe the oil, at least, would count as a snack, or at least something to drink. That would make this a surprisingly normal host-and-guest interaction, all things considered.
“I won't be staying long,” Scalpel continued, rubbing his front legs together with constant restless movement. “But those will be useful!”
Dylan couldn't see why, but he ended up watching fascinated as Scalpel drank the oil, about a quart's worth. Even watching him, he couldn't figure out where Scalpel's mouth was, or maybe he just didn't have one -- maybe there was just some little... tube, somewhere, specifically for absorbing oil. He seemed thoroughly satisfied with it, though as if he'd just had a nice cup of coffee or tea. He didn't do anything with the screws that Dylan could understand, just tucked them away somewhere, then thanked him and jumped down from the table, making his way back towards the still-open window.
Dylan didn't bother closing it after he'd left. After all, there was nothing wrong with a little fresh air, even if it was cold. He'd shut it again before he went to bed that night, but it would probably be very late or, even more likely, early in the morning before he felt like he could get any sleep.
It will not be ten more years.
He wondered, when their war came here, what exactly being a 'liaison' was going to entail, and how safe he'd actually be on their side. What use could humans -- especially single, individual humans -- even be a war between robotic titans, and what reason would those titans have to care about any of them?
It wasn't the first time he'd wondered any of that. Over the next few years, it would be far from the last.
With a promise that the world was going to be caught up in a terrible war within the decade, Dylan supposed that something like collecting cars was more than a little pointless. But he kept on -- and somehow each acquisition still felt satisfying, each completed restoration made him proud, even if he wasn't doing the work himself.
He wondered if that was how any of the others felt. Then he wondered if they even knew. They certainly carried on as if they didn't, exquisitely calm and showing every sign of continued enjoyment and pleasure in the finer things in life. He supposed he couldn't judge them for that, though; he must come off in the same way, and it was surprisingly easy to just keep living life normally. Run the business, network with people, eat, drink, sleep, and if he was going to be doing all these things anyway, why not have good food and fine wines? He'd been taught to know the value of things, and to take good care of them; if he was going to have a bed, and a couch, and a desk, why not have beautiful, good quality, comfortable ones, and keep them in good condition?
He was fastidious with his things, if not with himself; he started entering his cars into shows, and a few even into races, and he wasn't afraid personally to get dirty -- if he was dressed for it, he didn't like ruining his good suits. But what was wrong with that?
It would be too easy to get fatalistic about things. War was coming in a handful of years, but why should they act like it was here now? There was no point in letting things slide. The United States wasn't exactly a war torn country just yet, and besides, he had an image to uphold. He was young, rich, successful, “cool.” He was, like his father had been before him, everything the Decepticons had wanted other humans to see, a grand and charismatic example of what one could gain from such a partnership.
The Decepticons themselves, however, remained no-shows. Dylan was hardly even surprised anymore. While they had been a shadow-presence in his life for over twenty years, their impact on him and his family's loyalty to them clearly felt even when they were tens of millions of miles away at least, they had very rarely actually been around on Earth.
At least, he reminded himself, that he knew of. There was a lot they weren't telling him, certainly. Scalpel had been in Germany for a while, at least, and he wouldn't have known about that if the little doctor hadn't told him so.
But they had only been present, around him, for maybe a half-dozen days of his life. All of their help, advice, and financial support had been from a vast distance, and even with Scalpel's other promise, that Soundwave would be checking in “very soon,” Dylan had kind of just started assuming that it would always be that way. Which was more than a little disappointing, despite his highly apprehensive feelings about the war. Part of him actually wondered if Soundwave would bother checking in in person at all.
Then, not quite five years after his meeting with Scalpel, near the end of 2006, Dylan noticed a Cadillac LeMans in his garage that he'd never seen before.
This wasn't just a car he didn't remember; however many cars he owned now, a '53 LeMans would definitely not slip his mind. And while he let a few others use his garage to do repairs and restorations on their own cars, they always asked his permission, and he knew he hadn't cleared anyone for this.
He closed up shop early, even though it was barely afternoon yet; he apologized to his mechanics, sincerely, assured them that they'd all be paid for a full day's work, and sent them home with his regards. Once the garage was empty, its doors shut, he turned back to the offending car.
“All right,” he said, placing his hands together, and folding them, fingers entwined. “I'm listening.”
Noise came before words, of course, the familiar sound of transformation filling the garage as the car's flawless surface sprouted cracks and rearranged itself into a familiar form. Soundwave was courteous enough not to damage any of Dylan's cars, even transforming in a confined space with them like this, and Dylan felt... strangely calm, as he looked up and met red eyes.
“You could have called ahead,” he pointed out impulsively, and Soundwave stared at him for a moment. Long enough that he regretted the words, wondering if he'd offended him, but then the Decepticon chuckled.
“You've done well for yourself.” It didn't sound like a compliment so much as just a blunt comment, and Dylan wondered if he was being tested somehow, for some reason.
“You knew I would,” he pointed out, not sure if he was handling this right. “I have the Decepticons to thank for it. I owe you...” he shrugged, spreading his hands as if to encompass everything, “basically my entire life. Right?” Them and his father; he wouldn't be here if not for that bastard. Time had helped with mourning.
It was hard to tell, because Soundwave's mouth was strange and fanged, but it looked like he might have smiled slightly. “Not yet.”
That was unnerving. Dylan was beginning to realize exactly how little he knew this alien, and he tried not to shift uncomfortably, like a little kid caught doing something they weren't supposed to. “So,” he changed tracks a little, turning to pace a little, rather than approaching or retreating. “The doctor said you'd be coming to check in. I take it there's something you need me to do?”
Funny, now that the time had come to meet with them and help them in person again, it felt almost like a business meeting. His heart was pounding, he wasn't calm, but he was clear-headed and his hands and voice didn't shake. He could fake calm.
“We need you available,” Soundwave said simply, and Dylan turned in surprise, mouth opening. Soundwave continued as if he hadn't reacted at all, “And informed,” and he closed his mouth again, staggered. “We need to accomplish our goals more quickly.”
“What goals?” The question was immediate, and Dylan added weakly, “I'm not going to be much help in a war.”
“No,” Soundwave agreed, and there was that flash of amusement again. “You're no soldier. You won't be fighting.” Dylan felt a surge of relief at that; he hadn't even realized how worried he'd been until he was left feeling lightheaded.
“What do I need to be informed about?” he finally asked, and Soundwave wordlessly transformed again, settling back into the smooth shape of the LeMans and opening the driver's side door.
The invitation was clear, as was the fact that he wouldn't be getting any of his questions answered at least until they were driving, and possibly not until they'd reached whatever destination Soundwave had in mind. Dylan wavered only a moment, then stepped forward, walking crisply to the car and slipping into the driver's seat, but courteously leaving his hands off the steering wheel.
“I have a lot of car lovers working in my garage, you know,” he informed Soundwave, as the car closed his own door after him and its engine came to life. “They'll notice if a LeMans keeps appearing and disappearing.”
“I will stay there for now.” It was strange to hear Soundwave speaking -- sourced from nowhere in the car that Dylan could pinpoint -- without a mouth, even though Dylan had wondered if he might be able to. “When I leave, you can replace it.”
“No, you're right, I probably can. I'll have to start looking for one.” And that was a pleasant thought; no reason to turn down an excuse to buy a real '53 LeMans. It was an absolutely gorgeous car.
Dylan buckled up, belatedly, just in case any cops saw them, and slowly moved his hands to the steering wheel, just to rest there. He was hesitant to do it, but Soundwave didn't seem offended, and he didn't grip too tightly or turn the wheel at all. It was probably fine, then. The silence was starting to get to him, though, and in lieu of pressing his luck and turning on the radio, he said, “Thank you for sending your doctor, by the way.”
“You have been useful to us,” Soundwave said, by way of explanation. Dylan nodded. He'd figured out as much, that they'd wanted him to keep being useful for as long as possible. It was almost comforting; it felt like it made his position, and his life, more secure. He had solid proof that they considered him more useful to them alive than dead, after all.
“And the way you said you needed me to be available to you.” He spoke a bit more carefully, there, not wanting to press for information, but practiced by this point at getting information and agreements without needing to press. “You do mean more available than usual? I hope I've always shown you that I'm dedicated to your needs as clients.”
He almost winced at himself even as he spoke; that sounded embarrassingly weasel-wordy even to him. He sounded, in fact, like his father, or at least he reminded himself of him. But Soundwave made an amused huffing sound, almost a laugh.
“Yes. You're our most dedicated follower.”
He'd suspected that would be the case, since everyone else he knew who also worked for the Decepticons seemed to see them as a means to an end, but it was strangely uplifting to actually hear it from Soundwave. “Well, thank you.”
“We need you able to perform fast, informed actions,” Soundwave continued. “In the coming conflict, we will not always be available to give you orders. When we do, we will need you to follow them with immediate understanding.”
At least he'd already been assured he wouldn't be anywhere near the front lines. Dylan resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the steering wheel nervously; he felt it turn slightly in his hands, and let them move with the motion, as Soundwave took a corner. “That makes sense,” he agreed. “So you need me to know what you're actually trying to do?”
“Some of it.” They were heading towards his apartment, Dylan realized. “Your telescope has spotted Autobots.”
For a moment, that didn't make sense to Dylan, and then it clicked, and he felt a chill. The Hubble telescope. “Coming to Earth?”
“Not yet. Soon.” That was only a slight relief. Soundwave continued, “We must find two things before they arrive. Megatron and the All Spark.” He paused. Dylan didn't want to interrupt, and knew he couldn't ask any intelligent questions yet anyway, so he stayed quiet, and Soundwave rewarded him by continuing to explain: “Our leader and the source of our life.”
“The source of your life?” That seemed more important than asking about Megatron, though Dylan had to wonder exactly how long their leader had been missing, and if -- and why -- they thought he was on Earth.
“Without it, we can reproduce, but the hatchlings die.” 'Hatchings', Dylan noticed, and mouthed to himself, but he didn't ask after that either. This was not a Cybertronian biology lesson, as mind-boggling as the idea of these robot beings... what, laying eggs? was.
“And you think this All Spark, and your leader, are somewhere on Earth?
“We're sure of it. Another of our own disappeared on your planet almost a century ago, when it came to search.”
Dylan wasn't sure how one of these gigantic alien robots could possibly just disappear on Earth unless they were actively hiding, but he wasn't arrogant enough to say so, instead casting about mentally for a possible answer. “Earth is about seventy percent water,” he said slowly. “Do you think it could have landed in the ocean?”
“Possible,” Soundwave acknowledged. “But that wouldn't interfere with its communications.”
Dylan nodded. This wasn't what Soundwave had said was important, anyway; he hadn't even come close to implying that what he wanted was for Dylan to try to solve the mystery of where his companion had disappeared to. “But you can't just want my help finding them,” he noted. “Or you could have asked me to try a long time ago.”
“No. You need to know what we need, and why.” Another pause, and then an unexpected clarification, “I hate to under-inform.”
Dylan could have almost laughed. Soundwave, sounding almost like he was justifying himself? To him? He did smile, almost a grin, briefly. “All right. Makes sense.”
“There was a project,” Soundwave continued. “With luck, it will still go smoothly. Your people discovered it, and your father and his... colleagues have covered it up for us since.”
Dylan's expression switched to a frown quickly. “I didn't know about this.”
“Your father spoke of it when we met. There are people on your payroll still following our request.”
Dylan racked his brain trying to remember. When they'd first met! That was decades ago; he was thirty-eight now. He'd been a child. He remembered that he'd been paying attention, even when he'd been distracted by Ravage; he'd been fascinated by the fact that his dad had been working with these aliens--
They'd been covering it up since. I've known about it, I just never knew what it was all about, that's all...
“We've been making sure they never get another man up on the moon,” he realized. “Since the first launch.” He would have stared at Soundwave, but he didn't know where to stare: Steering wheel? Rearview mirror? Middle of his dashboard? He stared at his hands, instead, relaxing the grip he'd taken on the wheel at some point. “Did they find something up there?”
“Something they cannot know about,” Soundwave agreed. “And the Autobots cannot know about, until the right moment.”
“A weapon?”
“It can be a source of weapons.” But Soundwave didn't seem the type, Dylan was noticing, to keep quiet about something just for the mystery of it, or to tease. “A ship. And a Prime. And hundreds of space bridge pillars. Transportation devices, advanced beyond your understanding.”
Dylan wasn't offended; that was fair enough, he wasn't even a scientist or technological genius by human standards. There were good odds that Soundwave had meant 'human' when he'd said 'you're' there, anyway. He'd made the pillars clear enough even with such little detail, so what Dylan asked about was, “A Prime?”
“An Autobot,” Soundwave explained patiently. “A particular kind. Deified among our people -- formerly. He alone recognized: Our war would destroy us. He will help us restore our world.”
Dylan nodded again, as if he understood better than he did. They were pulling down his driveway now. “So until then, he's hiding on the moon.”
Soundwave chuckled, as if he'd said something funny. “Close.”
“All right, so you're searching Earth for Megatron, and the All Spark, and you know exactly where this Prime and a few hundred transportation pillars are. I'm following you so far.” I think. “Oh, and the Autobots will be coming soon. I can't forget that. What are they waiting for?”
“A sign,” Soundwave said. Dylan's family estate was not empty, but the people in his employ were those who were in on the secret, and after opening his door to let Dylan out, Soundwave transformed right in his driveway, Ravage beside him this time -- where did he keep her? -- peering down at him with red eyes. “They suspect the All Spark is on Earth. They suspect that we know. But they aren't certain.”
“So... Keep things subtle.” Dylan clapped his hands together once, quietly, and rubbed them, the hopefully universal sign of being ready to get to work. “Got it. Speaking of subtle, you're not going to drive yourself back to the garage, are you?”
“No,” Soundwave agreed. “I'll stay here overnight. You will drive me in the morning.”
Dylan was already thinking of ways to explain that, deciding quickly on the story that he'd gotten this car reportedly 'in perfect condition' and had driven it home to test it, when Ravage padded over to him. She didn't knock him over this time, or even jump up on him, and he lowered his hands, smiling down at her, and she wound around his legs. Or something like that; she came up higher than his waist. “Hey, long time no see.”
“Ravage,” Soundwave continued, “will stay in your home for now. She'll relay information to me.” So she was... kind of a security camera that Soundwave would have constant access to, staying close to Dylan, in his home. Somehow, he didn't feel too bothered by that.
“I guess that makes sense,” Dylan agreed, trying to catch her behind the ears as she circled him, then almost stumbled as she rubbed up against his knees, rubbing at her shoulders instead almost as much to fend her off as anything. “Whoa -- I know I'm taller now, but you forget I'm still small, Ravage. And I bet I weigh a hundred pounds less than you do. At least.”
Ravage gave a growling purr of pleased agreement, and padded away from him again, slinking towards the house.
Dylan lingered, hesitating even as Soundwave transformed back, settling into car form halfway up his driveway. He didn't bother driving the rest of the way up, at least not yet... Waiting? He was silent, patient as the grave, and Dylan felt an odd surge of frustration. He'd been patient, too; he'd waited most of his life for the Decepticons to come back into it in any solid way, and had almost come to terms with the idea that they might not. Just words on a screen, and maybe the occasional visit to startle the hell out of him, lasting, what, a few days at most?
And now they were just... inserting themselves. Fine. Fine, that was fine. He'd been prepared for this, even if they'd thrown him off. Take that frustration, tamp it down; this was more like what he'd been dreaming of back when he was a kid, right?
“If you need anything, just let me know and I'll have it brought out to you,” Dylan settled on, and turned away from Soundwave, walking up the drive towards his house.
Ravage stuck close to him those first few days, but it was hard to chalk that up to her simply keeping an eye on him. He'd always owned dogs but he'd always liked cats, too, maybe in part because of her influence on him, and he recognized the way she got underfoot as affectionate. When he finally gave in and sat down, he chose the couch, instead of one of the armchairs, and as expected she jumped up and flopped across his lap like the world's heaviest seatbelt.
“Please don't knead on my furniture,” he told her. It had all been expensive, and he'd kept it in spotless condition. “...Or on me. I'm not made of metal like you are.”
Her eye flashed a brighter red, and then she lowered her head down onto her big paws, engine rumbling contentedly. Just like the first time they'd met, and just like then, this was nice, it felt comfortable and okay, and while it didn't feel normal, the fact that it wasn't normal felt like something great. It felt like something he could get used to, if he was just given the time to.
“You'll make me wish you were going to stick around, being all affectionate like this.” He stroked a hand up and down her back, then she raised her head to let him scritch under her chin, careful of her teeth and the odd prongs she had up under there. “But I'm guessing you and Soundwave will need to leave in a few days. I just hope you won't take so long to come visit me again,” he joked.
She purred a little louder, and wriggled around to flop onto her side and present her belly, and of course she didn't answer, and Dylan was suitably distracted by the standard conundrum of whether a cat actually wanted him to pet her belly, or if falling for the little act would result in him losing a hand -- maybe literally, in this case.
He went ahead and petted her. She didn't attack him even once, as if remembering what he'd been saying about his own human fragility.