The Halloway farm was located in a lonely stretch of open grassland a little out of the town of Newport.

About a half a mile off of the highway, it sat on the top of a gentle knoll that curved down to the east for nearly two hundred acres before it ran into the edge of a long stretch of forest mixed with red pines and broad-leafed elms. On the north side of the farm was a steeper hill with a stony lane and two thick hedges that ran straight up to the top and disappeared over the other side. To the south there was a small field that had been divided in half with a wide strip of grass that was mown short. One side was a ragged, uncut growth of yellow hay and clover; on the other was a bushy plantation of asparagus that had long grown past its prime in the summer heat and had turned rank and thick and gone to flower. An electric fence ran around the edge, mostly to keep the deer out.

To the west there was another meadow, and this one was long and rolling. It was boxed in with a proper post and rail fence made of sturdy cedar logs. Trees dotted its slopes, and the grass was cropped short by horses and spotted with dry pats of manure. Thistles were mixed in, as were great clumps of flowering loosestrife and goldenrod and brittle grey milkweed plants, which had long burst their pods and scattered wispy bits of seed and fluff across the next ten acres. It was a big field, nearly fifty acres, and had once served as a grazing pasture for cattle. Signs of the animals' existence were everywhere: the wooden fence rails were chewed and rubbed out of shape in places, or had been knocked down entirely and tied back into place with wire; the earth was rough and the grass patchy and short; down at the far eastern corner the ground sloped down to a little creek that ran across a corner of the field, and where the dirt sat wet along the shallow banks there was a great cattle wade of footprints, churned into slop by hundreds of heavy hoofed feet and dried that way in the sun. Now the field was usually empty and lonely, save for the meadowlarks and bobolinks in the grass and two old horses that were turned out to graze during the day. The cows were long gone.

At the centre of all of this stood the farmhouse, the hub of the property. It was a stately brick building, maybe one hundred fifty years or older. It rested beneath the shade of a copse of maple trees, which spread their enormous green branches overhead and dropped red leaves on the roof in the autumn. It was a grand house, three stories high, with sloping gables and white shutters and broad glass windows framed with lacy curtains that faced out towards the open front yard, which rolled all the way down to the gravel road. There was a white porch that wrapped around the front of the farmhouse, with a swinging bench and a sun table with patio chairs pushed up to it, and there was a hammock tied between the posts of the southern corner. The steps at the front led down through a little garden of flowering bushes and pansies and geraniums that had been left to grow wild. A long driveway led up to the house, passed the northern side, and disappeared around the back, where the cow-byre and the barns were.

At the back of the house the driveway made a broad loop in the yard. There were two vehicles parked on the verge next to the asparagus field, an old brown Dodge with dust up and down its sides and a muddy Ford truck weighed down with a heavy round bale of hay in the back box. There was another porch at the back of the house, but it was small and square and made of unpainted grey wood that had faded in the summer sunlight. There was a barbeque on it, and flowerboxes full of tattered yellow geraniums, and the kitchen window peered out over the yard.

There were two barns at the back. The smaller of the two was old and tall and square and in a state of disrepair. It was weather-beaten and seemed to tiredly lean to one side, as if trying to rest its weight. No animals were kept inside, and it was mostly used to store hay and tools. A proper shed, it had a stone foundation and wood sides stained dark with creosote that were full of knotholes. There was a set of double doors at one end large enough to drive a tractor through, with a dirt slope leading up to them. The doors could be chained shut, but the lock was rusted and unused. The farmer kept his tractors and equipment parked in a ring around the barn instead, and the grass grew ragged and wild around their wheels. There was a rickety chicken coop on the other side, facing out towards the asparagus field. It was made of chicken wire and wood and had a sloping roof made of rusty sheet metal. There was a small hole cut into the side of the barn with a wooden plank so that the birds could take refuge inside when the weather grew cold. The ground there was thin and mostly dirt, the grass pecked low by the hens. One end of the washing line was tied to a coop post; the other end tethered itself on a pole nearby. Empty clothespins clutched the wire like ungainly bird feet.

The other barn was much larger and stood on the edge of the big pasture. It was a pole barn, made of wooden posts and rails and framed in galvanised steel. It was painted green and had a silver roof and was very clean and new looking. Long and low, it was clearly a cow barn, and inside it housed over two hundred stalls and shiny modern milking equipment. A small paddock ran around the back end where the muddy cow-byre was, bordering on the big field. Back when there were still cows on the farm, they could be let out into one or the other to graze. Like the rest of the property the barn was now mostly deserted, the mud long dried, the stalls empty, the paddock abandoned, the shiny milking equipment drawing up a fine layer of dust and shabby grey cobwebs. Only the two horses lived inside the barn, and they only came inside when the weather was too cold or miserable for them to be turned out. They had two stalls at the far end, both little more than sheds that opened out into the paddock. The only other signs of life were the barn cats, which were slim, half-wild, tail-swishing creatures that trotted briskly through the grass along the side of the building and silently hunted mice though the long rows of dark, empty milking stalls.

Now it was the early hour that separates the morning from the tail end of night. The back yard was dark and the cats were on the prowl several miles away. The sky was still heavily overcast thanks to the storm that had passed through a little while earlier, and the only illumination that fell down upon the yard came from a dusk-to-dawn light mounted up on the highest point of the tractor barn. It was a weak light, and shone dimly, casting down only a thin beam onto the chicken coop below. The hens were sleeping quietly inside the barn, and their door was closed for the night to keep out invading raccoons or foxes. Little grey mice played up and down the length of the two cars, scampering over the seats and rattling through the engine, particularly favouring the Dodge, which was full of old chip crumbs and sticky drops of soda. The grass stirred slightly in the wind, and the trailing sprays of asparagus waved softly. Everything else sat still and quiet. Even the flies had long crawled off to doze inside the old manure pile by the cow-byre. In another few hours the swallows in the tractor barn would wake up and begin their usual routine of quick, darting trips across the field to hunt for insects, and the morning doves would sit on the weathervane and call to one another, and the cats would return to sleep off the day inside the cow stalls - but for now nothing moved, and nothing roused, and the farm sat inside a dark well of silence.

Inside the farmhouse it was dark and quiet as well. The kitchen dominated the lower floor, but it was dim and silent now, the lights off. Clean dishes stood in a rack next to the kitchen sink, and the floor had been washed the previous day; the strong smell of liquid cleaner hung in the air. There were pine cupboards around the walls and scrubbed tile counters. It was a simple room, designed more for straightforward country efficiency rather than elegance, but it was certainly clean. Everything was neat and tidy and in its place; bread was wrapped in plastic on the cutting board, fruit hung in baskets at the window, and a line of wet and dry dishtowels were carefully folded over a handle near the sink. A fridge stood in the corner next to the window, and a squat little stove was tucked in beside it, one of the older types with iron elements. There was a wooden table in the middle of the room, with four wooden chairs pulled up around it and a neat array of salt and peppershakers arranged in the middle. A large stone fireplace adorned the wall that led from the kitchen to the living room, but it was kept cold during the warmer seasons. A sleek black dog was curled up on a rug in front of the hearth with its nose pressed to its nail. It was sleeping so deeply its legs twitched and jerked as it dreamed.

Next to the living room was the staircase, wooden and painted white with a green railing, which led up onto the third floor and creaked on every other step. At the top landing was another hall, which branched off into three bedrooms and a small washroom, two rooms to each side. Two of the bedrooms were small and square with sloping ceilings and were clearly decorated with children in mind; they were very clean and very sparse and carried a faded, forgotten air about them. Halfway down the hall was a hatch in the ceiling that led up to the attic. And at the very end, across from the washroom, was the master bedroom.

Although the hall door was open the room was as dark as pitch; its window faced north, where there was no light. A small bedside clock with a glowing orange face was the only source of illumination in the room. There was a heavy set of antique drawers standing in the corner, ornate and solid and as tall as a man, and a lady's dressing table with an oval mirror was pushed up against the left wall. There were strange, dainty bottles and jars arranged on its corners, and hairy brushes and combs and little silver mirrors strewn in between. An old velvet chair beside the window had a limp green dressing robe hanging over its back, and a drift of folded laundry was stacked on the seat. There were pictures on the walls and socks on the floor.

A paunchy old bed ruled over the room. The cotton sheets and comforter were twisted aside from the throes of sleep but mostly covered two slumbering mounds on the mattress. Two matted heads were sunk into two lumpy pillows. One of them wore curlers.

It was turning in sleep, this way and that, so that one cheek barely had time to rest on the pillow before it was twisted away again. It did this for a few restless minutes before it stopped and stared up at the ceiling. Somewhere beneath the covers an elbow shot into the side next to it. There was a muzzy grunt upon impact.

"Frank?" the head whispered.

"Muh?" said the other mound.

"Wake up."

"Guh."

Mrs Halloway sat up on her elbows, possessively closing the throat of her pink nightgown with one hand. She glared at her sleeping husband. "Now, Frank."

The mound stirred and cringed, curling into itself like a caterpillar. "Whaddye want, Margie…"

"I heard something," his wife told him.

The mound groaned. "Just one of the cats, go back to sleep…"

Mrs Halloway seized a shoulder through the comforter and gave it an insistent shake. "It was not a cat - it was a loud noise, like a thump."

"So, cat knocked something over, go back to sleep…"

His wife looked over at the window. It was still black outside, with barely a star for light. "I think it came from the tractor barn, Frank. Something must be in there!"

There was a muffled yawn. "You're only imagining things, dear…"

"I certainly ain't," Mrs Halloway said, rearing back with insult. "What if one of the Gregson boys are back? Do you want your lawnmower stolen this time?"

That got the mound's attention. That was a new mower. It had cost him almost two hundred dollars. He'd picked it up with the truck off of Lewis' lot only a week ago. Well, practically new. It was only slightly used, and the blade was still sharp…

It stirred uneasily. "So? Whaddye want me to do?"

"Well, go out and take a look," she said practically.

Mr Halloway finally emerged from beneath the covers. He rolled his head over on his pillow and peered at her and grimaced, licking the inside of his mouth distastefully. "It's only two am, Margie."

"Now, Frank."

There was no arguing with that tone. "Yes, dear," he sighed, and pushed back the covers with a vast lack of enthusiasm. Then he swung his legs over and slithered out of bed.

There was a parting shot from behind as he muzzily pulled on the green dressing robe and shuffled off towards the hall. "Take the torch."

"Yes, dear."

The kitchen was still dark as he creaked down the stairs and into the living room. The dog didn't stir as he walked past it, and only growled in its sleep. Mr Halloway stepped into the kitchen and up to the sink and looked around. Not a trace of dawn touched the sky. He put his hands on the counter and glared out through the kitchen window and across the yard. It was shadowy and quiet and nothing moved, not even a leaf or a bat, just as he'd suspected. And yet he knew that if he didn't find something out there worth alarm, Margie would be fearsomely cross with him upon his return to bed. So he stomped across the kitchen over to the front hall, where he sat on a wooden bench by the door and pulled on his boots and drew the laces tight, and then stood and shouldered himself into his flannel coat. He left it unbuttoned and turned and pulled a heavy torch down from the closet shelf instead, flicking it on once to test the batteries. Then he pushed open the screen door and walked out onto the back porch.

For a minute or two he simply stood at the railing next to one of the flowerboxes and huffed in the chill air, his free hand thrust in his coat pocket. He played the torch over and around the yard, shining it on the garden, across the driveway, over the Dodge and the Ford truck, which flashed back the light with their side mirrors and windows. The grass was still soaked with rain from the earlier storm, and shone wetly where the torch flickered over it. He absently ran the light towards the asparagus field, and it disappeared into the darkness at the far end, where the night was so old and black it simply swallowed the beam. The big field was so dark and broad that the torch couldn't even penetrate it, and only lit up the occasional fencepost. Mr Halloway turned the light back into the yard and stepped down off the porch.

His boots left a dark trail as he walked across the driveway and onto the wet grass. The torch ran a circle of light ahead of him, making weird shadows whenever it passed over one of the ploughs and mowers parked in the deep grass around the barn. Mr Halloway slouched in his jacket, and sniffed, and smelt the lingering presence of rain, behind which were the usual farm smells of hay and straw and horse manure, and the acrid trace of tobacco clinging to his coat. The storm was long gone but the heavy clouds still seemed to hang in the air. Maybe it would rain again before dawn. He hoped not. The horses would expect to be turned out in the morning, and he felt bad about letting them out in the weather without blankets. Maybe it would clear up, then. Even an empty overcast would be welcomed.

Mr Halloway reached the long side of the tractor barn and made a line towards the door, picking his way carefully. There was machinery hidden in the long grass, rusty and sharp, and rotten wooden skids lurked within the jumbled weeds as well. He flashed the torch along the ground to watch for any broken pieces. When he walked around the corner he turned the light ahead of him. When he saw what it shone on he stopped dead in his tracks.

One of the doors was ajar, the chain dangling from the bar. A black sliver of the barn inside was visible through it.

The farmer gripped the handle of the torch like a butcher knife. Icy worms of fear and suspicion seemed to be crawling down his spine. The open barn door was framed in the torch beam like a criminal caught in a spotlight. It was a horrible thing to look upon, ugly and wrong. Mr Halloway frowned, thinking hard. He'd definitely shut the door before going into the farmhouse for dinner, and even looped the chain through the bars. He remembered the heavy, coiling weight of the iron links in his hands quite clearly. It was a ritual he did every time he needed to shut the doors. The only thing he hadn't done was fasten the lock, owing to the fact that it was rusted nearly solid at the swinging arm and refused to latch properly. If someone wanted into the barn to root about what tools were stored inside, they could quite easily unhook the lock, thread the chain free and slip past.

Mr Halloway scowled, his face fierce and hollow in the light of the torch. Those bloody Gregson boys! This would be the third time in a month they'd struck. The two hoodlums were both in their late teens, and they came from the sheep farm a few miles to the south, stealing noiselessly over the fields on the darkest, quietest nights. The tractor barn seemed to be their prime target. It was full of an inviting selection of slowly rusting workmen clutter, things that bolted and nailed and drilled and pressed, or mowed and cut and had a gas tank and rubber-guarded cables. There were boards with pins in them for hanging tools like screwdrivers and pliers and hammers and wrenches and chisels; there were dusty old boxes of files and levels stored beneath oily workbenches, and rows and rows of dirty glass jars with nails and screws and tiny little hinges stored inside. For a farming thief, the barn was an attractive target. Already the young Gregsons had pinched nearly fifty dollars worth of tools, mostly small items that could easily be pocketed and wouldn't be missed until they were needed.

This sort of petty thievery was unfortunately becoming a common occurrence across western Montana. With all of the horrible things happening in the next state over, many of the locals were panicking and abandoning their farms and escaping to the east. Unfortunately, they tore and bit at each other as they fled, jostling for the lead. Mr Halloway was lucky the Gregsons were still only stealing tools. He'd heard of cattle being killed on other farms, and whole hay fields burnt to the ground. Even in defeat the competition was still fierce. Helpless against the invaders, they'd turned against each other instead.

Well, he'd had enough of it. It was time to stand firm and bite back. If the boys were back, this time he wouldn't bother with a shout or a warning. He wouldn't even try to call the police; they never came anymore, anyway. He knew where he kept the shovels inside the barn. They were on th wall right next to the door. This time he'd aim to leave a mark.

Mr Halloway flicked off the torch. He mutely crept up to the opening and slipped inside the barn, holding his breath as he squeezed through so as to not disturb the door. His boots crunched lightly through the dry straw underfoot, and his jacket rustled, but otherwise he didn't make a sound, not even when he reached over with his free hand and quietly freed a long-handled shovel from its peg next to the door. He set down the torch and gripped the shovel like an axe in a two-handed grip. He held it out from him and silently moved forward, so familiar with the layout of the barn that he didn't need light to find his way inside. If the Gregsons were rooting about further in, they wouldn't hear him coming until it was too late.

Come to think of it, he couldn't hear much activity himself. Inside the barn it was dark and quiet, and little light filtered through the cracks in the wood. It was so black that he felt as if he were completely without eyes, drifting unattached through space, with only his knowledge of the terrain to guide him. The farmer blindly turned his head from side to side as he crept forward, straining to focus on even the smallest of sounds. He couldn't even hear any of the usual sleepy clucking of the hens in the coop at the other end of the barn. That was unusual. If there were unfamiliar people around, or a fox or raccoon, the birds usually kicked up a great, panicky racket. Both he and Marge were frequently jolted awake at nights by their noisy clatter whenever the wolves closed in from the far fields, or a neighbour's dog paid a midnight visit. Now the chickens were unnaturally silent, as if afraid to make a sound.

Mr Halloway tried to peer across the barn. His eyes were finally adjusting to the gloom, and he was now aware of familiar shapes inside the barn, little more than black silhouettes, like the long work tables built up against the walls, the ladder up to the loft, and the tall stack of hay in the far corner that reached right up to the rafters overhead. He couldn't see any people moving about the back. He was struck with a sense of uneasy optimism. Maybe he was right, and Marge had only heard a cat. But the chickens screamed at cats too…

He steeled himself. If the Gregson boys were here, and lurking far at the back of the barn by the workbenches, they were being inhumanly silent about their business. An animal predator would have bothered the chickens, and he couldn't smell skunk - only oil and hay dust. The shovel suddenly seemed heavy in his hands and dragged them downwards, but he hefted it menacingly and called out across the dark barn, "Hello…?"

Somehow, he wasn't really expecting a response. He was shocked when he got one.

The voice that spoke up was loud and deep, as if amplified over and over through the world's largest woofer. It was a human voice, but one you only heard through a set of concert loudspeakers.

"I say!" it said cheerfully. "Shut the door, matey, I ain't decent yet."

The farmer was struck dumb, the shovel suddenly cradled in lax hands. A horrible thought had just occurred to him. He hadn't bought any hay this year...

And then Mr Halloway saw two yellow lights blink on like Christmas bulbs high up in the rafters, and when he dropped the shovel and stumbled back in a rush of terror he saw the hand, monstrous and huge, with five outstretched fingers, all of them swooping out across the straw-

Dawn crept back over the valley like a mugger with a sock full of sunlight.

The quiet summer night was fading with the approach of dawn, and a rosy glow stood pale and pink over the eastern rim of the valley. The sun was rising, and the chill of night still lingering in the air lifted with it. The sky grew light and pale, the stars paled, and drifting yellow clouds became visible overhead. Dark pine trees at the top of the hills turned into purple silhouettes against the sky, and the smoky moon hung thin and ashen above them. Goldfinches called sleepily from one clump of cedar trees to the next on the gentle eastern hill, and the thrushes warbled softly in the wet underbrush beneath. Sparrows played in the pine needles, and meadowlarks whistled morning greetings through the tall grass. The leaves turned and flashed in the light whenever a bird bounced from one branch to another. Dew glittered like tiny candles. A light breeze blew from one end of the valley to the other, cool and fresh.

Inside the valley the grass and trees were wet and shiny. A heavy thunderstorm had indeed passed through the area the night before, and flattened the valley with rain. Most of it had long drained off through the porous earth and disgorged itself into the river to the north, but the ground was still soggy and cold. The air felt empty and subdued, despite the breeze, as if the heavy clouds still lingered overhead. The grass was so bowed over from the force of the wind and rain from the previous night that shadowy tunnels of bugloss and yellow mullein and tansy snaked across the field, and little hunting spiders crawled through them. Tiny flies hummed in the grass. Underneath the hydro towers, where the ground was rough dirt and gravel, broad puddles lay in the earth and between the sharp white rocks like silver mirrors. Overhead, the damp hydro wires shone bright gold from the light of the rising sun.

Inside the pine wood the earth was soft and wet and grassless. Beneath the brittle carpet of orange needles was a thick layer of black topsoil, and it was saturated in rain. A strong smell of water and vegetation hung heavily in the air, and eddies of mist still swirled through the trees, untouched by the sun. Where the yellow light slanted down through the branches the mist was burned away. Sunlight cut streaks through the trees and left the woods dappled with light and shadow. Rain dripped off the needles, and the odd twig fell. More birds darted quietly to and fro overhead, shaking the branches and flicking down more rain whenever they landed. Every drop of water that hit the ground seemed to echo in the empty woods; further away there were more sounds, sinister, unseen, and mysterious. Deeper into the woods it was dark and still; the sun was intercepted by the thick overgrowth before it had a chance to reach the ground, and morning wouldn't arrive there for another hour or so.

Underneath the Canopy the ground was still damp thanks to the muggy air, but the rest of the clearing was as dry as straw. The rain had pounded against the invisible shield all day and all night, and the wind had blown and broken against its sides, but for all its efforts the storm couldn't penetrate, and Ace and Deuce had spent the rest of the evening pleasantly dry and untouched by the weather. It was amazing how far that one small creature comfort had gone in improving their moods, as if a little measure of luxury could suddenly make the outlook of their job that much brighter. They had spent the rest of the night either tidying the equipment to make their living conditions inside the camp a little more civilised, or talking quietly beneath the furry branches. Eventually they had powered down at midnight to conserve energy, each of them picking a pine tree for shelter. Ace had made himself comfortable at the far edge of the camp, where the trees and undergrowth grew thick and rank, while Deuce had flopped down underneath a sturdy looking fir next to the radio control panel. Both of them were still wary enough of each other's company that they had no intention of turning offline anywhere near the other. They had spent the night asleep in that fashion.

Ace's chronometer softly chimed and obediently his systems began to power online; he'd set it to wake him shortly before dawn. The world drifted back around him like water down a drain. He became groggily aware of the campsite slowly coming into focus again. Soon he could make out the fuzzy shapes of trees across the clearing, the grey outlines of their radio equipment, the jumbled ground, and the bushy fir branches that were gently sweeping above him like an umbrella. He fuzzily stared; his vision seemed unusually splotched and blurred, as if he were looking out through the bottom of a bottle; then he realised that the funny smudges were only drops of dew that had gathered on his optics overnight. He cranked up his internal temperature a few degrees and gave a soft mental sigh when the delicate glass plates heated up enough to evaporate the moisture away, clearing his vision.

Ace stiffly pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing as tensor cables that had drawn taut in the chill of the night protested the movement. He ducked when pine branches brushed across the back of his head, and reached up to push them away with one hand. Absently, his audio sensors took in the light sounds of birds calling out in the field, of raindrops still gently pattering down into the Canopy overhead, and the slight whisper of the wind through the high needles. He flexed his arms to work out the kinks in his shoulders and back and listened to the quiet sounds of an early morning with a sort of sleepy interest. Without really thinking about it, he glanced over to the last place he remembered seeing Deuce when the other Neutral powered down for the night.

The grey journalist was nowhere in sight. The space beneath his tree was empty and cold, and had apparently been abandoned for hours.

Ace glanced around the rest of their camp, absently rubbing the back of his head with one hand. Save for a few finches flying back and forth between the branches overhead, there were no signs of life. The clearing was empty, and only some light prints on the damp ground leading out of the clearing, towards the hydro field, gave any indication that Deuce had been there that night at all.

Ace's expression went flat. Sourly, he reflected that he had been half-expecting this sort of thing to happen. For all of the pissing and moaning he had done earlier about the necessity of keeping a low profile while the Autobot and Decepticon forces remained on Earth, Deuce didn't really seem inclined to sit still for very long either. Any risks he ran he'd already griped about only hours before.

The red Neutral shrugged it off. Oh well, no harm done. Ace imagined he'd only gone out to do some casual snooping around the Idaho/ Oregon border, as he'd suggested the day before. If Deuce was right, and the Autobots were sticking closer to the cities on the west coast, it was unlikely that he would be spotted by anyone unfriendly. The Autobots reportedly had a superior radar cover over the ship they had adapted for their base, but even it couldn't extend over three hundred kilometres. Their patrols would be small and spread out across a vast area of controlled territory and captured human cities; a solitary jet flying at a high altitude could spot them from a far distance and then manoeuvre into a position where the Autobots could be easily dodged. Besides, Deuce was an experienced foreign correspondent, and well used to adapting to whatever alien planet he might be sent to. Already he was familiar enough with this strange new environment to exploit it to his full advantage, and he would know the best ways to stay out of trouble and remain unseen.

No, Deuce would probably be all right. Ace, on the other hand…

Awkwardly, the red robot scrambled to his feet, ducking slightly when he stepped forward to keep clear of the lower pine branches. He wiped dirt and needles off of his legs as he walked across the clearing, and loose bits cast down from the trees during the night showered off his back. Well, he thought to himself, if Deuce wasn't planning on hanging around for the day, then there was no point in lingering behind himself. He had his own story to chase, and he wasn't going to find it in some dark little corner of the woods. He still had to calibrate the radio for Deuce, but that was an easy chore, and it could wait until later.

Right now, the day was still very young. Most of Newport would still be asleep, or else just waking up. The rest would likely be heading home from their midnight shifts. If he slipped into town now, he could quietly cruise about in his alternate mode and observe the doings and proceedings without attracting unwanted attention.

This was a big concern with him. Ace was starting to notice the odd looks he occasionally got, the same way you slowly start to see shapes in clouds if you look at them for long enough. In daylight hours, if he loitered for too long at busy or popular locations, he seemed to attract an unexpected amount of attention. Usually the humans just gave him a strange look and then went away. Sometimes they just circled, and sometimes they stood back and talked among themselves. A small handful had already walked straight up to him. One or two had even stepped up to his doors and peered through his windows, taking care not to touch him. It was a strange thrill to have them approach so closely without fear, and yet very unnerving at the same time.

Overall, the whole thing left Ace at a bit of a loss. Half the time he just sat in park on a curb somewhere and watched the humans go about their usual business. It wasn't as if he were parading about in his robot mode, or doing anything else that would draw attention to himself. He couldn't figure out what he was doing that would merit such interest. He had been worried about this sort of thing happening before leaving Cybertron, and had therefore chosen - quiet sensibly, he thought - a very old model of car for camouflage, expecting that the humans would ignore it in favour of their newer, flashier vehicles. Unfortunately, it was fast appearing as if the older the car, the more attractive it became to certain members of the species.

What a peculiar habit. Ace couldn't think of anything old on Cybertron he particularly wanted to remember. The war stretched so far into the past that his planet's history had become an ugly thing to look back upon. There wasn't much there he wanted to admire, not even from a distance.

Ace looked up at the sky. It was still a dusky blue, slowly turning pink as the sun came up. The stars were winking out, but to the west it was still quite dark. Good. He had plenty of time to get into town before the general population began to stir. He would be able to poke about without drawing attention. Hopefully the main road into Newport would be fairly empty as well; his grasp of the driving laws on this planet was still shaky enough that he felt nervous on the road. If he left soon, he would likely avoid the worst traffic. He would have a chance to slip into town unobserved and then catalogue whole banks of notes to be drawn upon for reference later when he was safely back at the campsite, all before lunch.

He picked up a pair of jumper cables that were coiled atop the control panel and eyed the tree line thoughtfully. Past the trees was the valley, and running across the field were those very handy hydro towers.

But first, as the humans would say, breakfast.

At it turned out, Deuce was exactly where his partner predicted he would be.

Cruising in his jet form at nearly forty-five thousand feet, the grey Neutral was so high up that the earth below was faint and misty, viewed through a thick layer of atmosphere. His sharp optics took in the landscape as if it were a satellite photograph. He could see the open plains, mottled green and yellow in their ripe summer colours, and the place where the long stretch of blue-grey Rocky Mountains spilled over into Idaho. There were dark swatches where the woods grew thick, and much further west he could spot a blue cresscent where the Pacific Ocean met the coast. In every direction the land curved like rind, until he felt as though he were flying through a fish-eye lens. Thick banks of yellow clouds passed beneath him, swirling and tumbling and swelling as they blew in on the prevailing winds.

He flew in silence, his dampers on to muffle the distinct sound of his engine. His alternate Earth form was that of an F-16 Falcon, a trim blue-grey aircraft with black patches on its nose and afterburner nozzles. He'd prudently kept the original Earthen paint scheme of the aircraft for camouflage rather than going with a more flashy, colourful Cybertronian look. He had even gone one step further and left its air force markings and squadron numbers intact on the single vertical stabiliser. To the casual eye, in his jet form he was almost completely unrecognisable as anything other than a perfectly ordinary American aircraft, dull and plain in its grey paint. It was an unspectacular look, but a practical one. Deuce had no intention to sacrifice natural concealment for appearance. The better he could blend in with the locals, the happier he was.

In the spirit of photo reconnaissance aircraft throughout time and space, he'd stripped his jet mode of all extraneous weight he could spare, including guns, ammunition, and ordnance, and flew totally clean, without any protruding clutter to cause resistance. Not only did this reduce drag against his sleek flight surfaces, but the lessened weight also allowed him to fly at a much higher ceiling than the aircraft's original design would allow. If he spotted trouble, it was a simple task to climb above it and then make his escape long before the intruder even knew he was there. He was pleased with the modification, which left him with a quick, compact, agile aircraft form that could easily avoid any other hostile fliers sharing the sky. Needless to say, it was right up his alley.

The wind whipped over his wings as he flew out to the west. The sun was above the horizon now, and Deuce could feel its rays shining over his tail. They were warm against his back, and he knew that his solar chargers would be eagerly drinking in the radiating energy, the photovoltaic cells working hard to convert the light into a form of electricity palatable to his Cybertronian systems. Overhead, the sky had blossomed into colour and the night was in full retreat to the west. The dark thunderhead that had lingered behind after the storm had finally been chased off by the wind, and now it hung far to the south. More clouds were being brought in from Canada, but they were too light and wispy to carry rain. It would likely be a clear day later on, overcast, but cool and dry. The heat and humidity of the previous days had finally broken and fallen to earth in a torrent of rain. It was as if the atmosphere had flushed itself out, and the air felt clean and fresh. Autumn was on its way.

It was promising to be a beautiful afternoon. But no matter how gaily the sun glowed in the east, or how golden the clouds were or how brisk the wind, Deuce still felt impatient and ill at ease. The sky was light, but his thoughts were mired in a brooding place. The world seemed tight around him that morning, like a noose, or the strangling circle within a pair of invisible hands. He was restless and edgy. He wanted to move, and keep moving, and discover what was out there waiting for him. He wanted to see and observe, to find something to occupy his mind. So far he had only discovered a strange kind of solace in the fact that the valley and the trees and the tiny crowded campsite were all far behind him.

He had flown up to a high altitude to see the world and greet the new sights waking up on a foreign new planet. To his dismay he had found little but clouds, and a place where the air was thin and the winds strong and wild and gusting. Now he was completely alone with his thoughts. At least at this height he'd left some of his more immediate fears behind - his chances of running into trouble with the Autobots were slim. Even if he did appear on their radar, he was far out of the range of small arms fire and any of their anti-aircraft guns. Even any other aircraft sharing his sky would be easy to spot as they climbed up to intercept him. That was one less thing to worry about, anyway. Deuce was in no mood for any sort of unfriendly confrontations today.

Unsurprisingly, ten minutes of the isolation treatment had bored him to tears. Without anything to catch his attention down on the ground far below, his mind began to drift, circling back to a conversation that had taken place long before he had arrived on Earth…

Deuce leaned over the terminal, hands down flat as he shot a glance down the hall. There was a light at the end of it that cast a glow into the passage, and he could hear footsteps treading lightly in the next room. Sirius was piloting the ship, which meant that the unseen pacer was likely Ace, the red robot walking back and forth as he became accustomed to the adjustments his new Earth form had left on his body. He had outfitted himself with a Terran alternate mode only days before, and was still uncomfortable with the change. The rubber tires in particular seemed to be giving him problems, distributing his weight in peculiar new places. Every now and then Deuce would pass him in the corridor that lead from the recharge quarters to the bridge, and Ace would be flicking his feet as he walked, like a cat shaking dew from its paws, the tires rocking gently in his calves.

Deuce couldn’t blame him. His own alterations had left him feeling a bit out of sorts himself. The cockpit that folded down in the middle of his chest was an unfamiliar addition, and the delta wings on his back had made sitting a chore until he had learned how to properly flick them out of the way. It had required a lot of fussy experimentation to reach that point, a lot of shifting and sliding and rising to his feet again to circle the seat before plonking down again for another attempt. Millions of years as a flier had left him very familiar with the body types that aerial alternate modes typically produced, however, and soon enough he had adapted to his most recent form.

Now he sat and wore his new shape in comfort, his legs squared and his feet flat on the floor, already at ease with himself and his frame. The rest of his new grey body was lanky and thin, the paint so fresh it still retained its gloss. He imagined it wouldn't take long for the glowing patina to be scratched and worn down again. He had done a little research on the planet they were heading for. It appeared to be distressingly organic in nature.

The ship rumbled beneath him as the Voodoo engines hiccupped, and then caught. Deuce held his head in his hands and grimaced as his processor throbbed from the noise. He waited patiently for the judders to cease, his optics gazing down at the terminal. Encapsulated within the dark little radio room he could hear every shift and creak of the old space cruiser as it thrust in flight, the walls humming as deeper vibrations worked their way through the inner workings. Light blinked randomly from the instrument panel above him, casting a gentle red glow against his face. Without anything better to do, Deuce turned back to the radio terminal and finished plotting in a call to the office. He plugged the headset into the exterior port of his audio sensors and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers, only to be told something he already suspected:

"You sound a little off."

Deuce rolled his optics. "Tell me something I don't know."

"You're not in trouble already, are you?"

It was more of an order than a question. "No, everything is fine. I picked up this Ace guy, we're on the ship and on our way to Earth, everything is okay."

“What’s Ace like?”

“Seems like a nice guy. A little green, and I guess this is his first real assignment off Cybertron, but he’s okay.”

Despite the grumpy tone, the voice sounded curious as well. "Then if everything is swanky, why are you bugging me? I’ve got a meeting in twenty-five minutes."

“I guess I just wanted to hear your ducal tones again.”

“That’s sweet. I’m disconnecting you now.”

Deuce grunted. "I also wanted to give you a heads up: I’m having some problems with the optical cameras again."

There was a long pause. “The ones I floated credit for?”

“The very same. Your cheap hardware is giving me headaches.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll put down some cash and pick you up some nicer ones the next time I’m near Cybertron. This was kind of a rush thing, if you’ll remember.”

“I remember.”

"I thought you said the updated version you bought was more or less bug-free?"

"It is. It installed just fine. Unfortunately, the new software synchs are conflicting with just about everything else I've got. This time it's fighting with the gravity adjusters."

"And I should be feeling what, exactly?"

"Do you know what it's like to have bits of yourself turn and attack other bits?" said Deuce testily.

"I can't exactly say that I do."

"Well, I'll have you know that it's very aggravating."

"I thought you said were going to get that whole thing fixed."

"How the hell can I do that?" said Deuce. "Right now the only thing that stops the peripherals from crashing is the fact that they're too jumbled up to go independently. The only way I'll get the afflicted systems straightened out is to go to a specialist on Cybertron, and I can't go back to Cybertron because the minute I enter the planet's atmosphere I'll have a pack of Autobot propaganda authorities howling for my blood. No thanks, I think I'll just live with the discomfort in peace, rather than deal with it in pieces."

The voice on the end of the line growled irritably. "Deuce, you idiot, you've gotta get that thing sorted out properly some time. This is starting to piss me off. Find a real specialist on some safe planet and get them to look at it, or these conflicts are just going to get worse."

"I’ll do it later."

The voice dipped down into a low tone and said, "If you can't be bothered to make an appointment for someone to look into it, I will. I won't have a journalist on my staff missing time on the job because fifty different chop shop incompetents did a rush job installing his peripherals. Fix the problem, or I'll fix it for you."

"What, is that some sort of threat?" said Deuce, amused.

"Consider it some intimidating advice."

"Jeez, you're so gentle with your staff."

The voice laughed. "A kiss for you too, puddin'."

This struck Deuce as a fantastic opportunity to change the subject, which he did with great relish. "You know, Manny, you don't sound so hot yourself."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, not your usual charming self."

"Those cameras are really screwing up your head, aren’t they," the voice remarked humorously.

Deuce continued. "Besides, you haven't bitched me out for charging this call to Fantastic yet."

"I haven't?"

"Nup."

"Oh. So it's that noticeable?"

"Kinda."

There was a miserable groan from the other end of the line. Deuce knew it came from the Lead Editor for the Foreign Correspondence department at the Pollux Plastic Fantastic station, an aging Liliwall gentleman with the unlikely name of Manford. He and Deuce had always gotten on rather well in the past, with the 'rather well' part depending on just how closely the journalist met his deadlines. Since becoming lead editor he'd organized so many reporters and managed so many of their articles that over the years he'd slowly concreted a permanent state of disapproval with everything he came into contact with. Manford was a walking, breathing criticism. He always sounded irritable over the radio, but this time the irritation held an overtone of discomfort as well.

Now he grumbled, "Be glad that you're a robot, Deuce."

Amused, Deuce said, "Why, what happened?"

"I think I ate some bad kabash, that's what," said the editor with a wet belch. "One of the temps over in the Glasburg weather department ordered some takeout from Beleese last night while he was on his double-shift, and I was just picking over the leftovers in the café fridge around an hour ago. Two of my stomachs are boiling over right now, and I think I'm getting an ulcer in one of them."

"Kabash… that's the stuff with all that horis meat in it, isn't it?"

"Thanks for reminding me."

Deuce laughed nastily. Sometimes a bad mood shared was a bad mood enjoyed. "Looks like we're both having an off day."

"Ah, shut it."

"Look, why don't you just go pop something and blow the day off? Take some work with you and go home."

"What the hell do you think I'm doing after I get off the horn with you?"

"Say 'hi' to Charlyn and the kids for me."

"Eh, sure. Send 'em a message sometime, they wanna hear from you. I'm sure they'd love to- whoops, hang on, I've got another call coming through this terminal, be right back-"

The line clicked, and Deuce sensed that his transmission had been paused. The journalist would have smiled at that, were he in the mood to. Instead he ran his gaze over the tiny radio room, casting about for something to grasp his attention. It was as dark and dingy as he last remembered it being however, and after a minute he just sank his chin into his palm and stared blankly at the opposite wall.

Free from conversation, Deuce could feel his thoughts drifting. Unsurprisingly, they eventually settled on his old friend, the Liliwall editor. Since most of the articles submitted to Fantastic by freelances journalists these days were either downloaded straight to the department servers or sent in on datapads by courier, Deuce hadn't actually seen Manford in person for nearly three vorn. His last real memory of visiting with the grouchy editor was from one of the agency orientation sessions for new writers, one of those mandatory deals where the entire staff showed up, shut up, and was forced into watching educational videos. Deuce hadn't wanted to be there, and neither had the Liliwall; eventually they'd just slipped out during the mid-break. As Manford was too large to fit inside the Cybertronian's space form, they'd caught a hopper flight to the closest planet fifty credits could get them to and spent the rest of the day surfing for new sensory integration cameras. They hadn't bought anything, of course. It had been one of those days off that are made ju