Though Sector Seven had been disbanded, Simmons’s conduct during the battle in Egypt had pulled him back onto the radar of influential figures.
As a result, he maintained a delicate, informal link with high-level circles in Washington.
He walked a fine line: questioning official transparency sold books, but preserving ties with old agency contacts gave him access to quiet leaks.
Naturally, on air, Simmons had no intention of undermining the establishment.
“Yet those Decepticons remain an existential hazard,” Denise pressed, refusing to let him off the hook. “According to a recent nationwide poll, over half the respondents believe Earth will only be safe once all Cybertronians leave our world entirely.”
Television debates thrived on tension; a tranquil conversation meant plummeting ratings.
Sparks, confrontation, and near-shouting matches drew viewers, because everyone loved a spectacle.
“Who came up with such short-sighted nonsense? Have them speak to me. I will gladly correct their foolish thinking!”
Whether Simmons was merely playing to the crowd hardly mattered, because Denise moved in for the ambush.
She signaled her technical crew to patch in a well-known commentator on extraterrestrial affairs.
These days, even self-styled alien specialists were drawing speaking fees. Like ducks sensing warm water in spring, professional commentators surfaced wherever money flowed.
The split screen cut to an older gentleman named Bill, sitting in a prearranged remote studio and pointing an accusatory finger:
“Listen here, Simmons! We do not need them, and we do not need the Autobots!”
“Harboring dangerous mechanized entities in our communities means sleeping with a live grenade under the pillow just to feel safe!”
Quite why anyone would feel secure resting beside an explosive, or how they planned to avoid snagging the safety pin during a bad dream, remained unexplained.
On screen, viewers were treated to two men locked in a furious shouting match, trading verbal blows back and forth:
“Simmons, have them escorted off our world immediately!”
“Bill, I may not hold every answer, but this alliance is the best strategic option we have!”
“We refuse to compromise our sovereignty for an alien umbrella!”
“As a matter of fact, Bill, I have public records showing you were separated from government service three years ago. That covert department you claim to have led has zero institutional footprint. I suspect you were dismissed for misconduct!”
“Not dismissed! Disbanded! Decommissioned due to comprehensive budget restructuring, Bill!”
“Let us examine another document, then—a psychological assessment noting severe delusional tendencies!”
“A smear! A transparent hit piece! You set a media trap to get a rise out of me, but you missed your mark completely!”
“I am simply reviewing the documentation, Simmons. Care to explain these findings?”
“Bill, you want to settle this stripped down in a ring? Name the venue, anytime!”
“You carry on like a rabid grizzly! I question whose interests you actually represent!”
“Now you’re flinching? You pushed for this!”
Simmons leaned toward the nearest lens, abandoning all restraint:
“Want the unvarnished truth behind our alien partners? Want the classified details on the war between the Autobots and the Decepticons? Pick up my book, folks! While copies are still on the shelves!”
The debate drifted entirely off course, moving from foreign policy and border security straight into Simmons pitching copies of his bestseller.
Yet the underlying tension lingered. The sentiment to expel the Cybertronians had once been confined to classified memos; now, the conversation had spilled into living rooms across the nation.
The segment concluded in complete disorder, though Denise and her production team were thrilled.
Volatile, sharp, and guaranteed to deliver high ratings.
“Chuck! Where are you, Chuck?!”
Once the film crew cleared the grounds and quiet returned to the estate, an irritated Simmons summoned his aide:
“Chuck, that broadcast was an absolute disaster. Total headache. Reject all future requests from that studio!”
“Understood, Mr. Simmons.”
Chuck was a broad-shouldered young man in a dark suit, carrying himself more like an executive bodyguard than a butler.
In truth, Chuck filled whatever role the day required—bodyguard, driver, research assistant, or physical backup.
“Chuck, what else is on my calendar today?”
“Mr. Simmons,” Chuck retrieved a planner from his jacket. “You have a midday book signing downtown, followed by a taping for the Discovery documentary block this afternoon.”
“There is another matter,” Chuck pulled out a secure mobile phone. “The Witwicky boy called this line five times.”
“What?”
“The kid. He sounded pressed.”
Simmons snatched the handset and dialed the number.
He knew Sam would never reach out without a serious reason.
Having shared the trenches in the desert, their old friction had long since dissolved into mutual respect.
The line clicked on the second ring, followed by an anxious voice:
“Thank God. You actually picked up.”
“Kid, skip the pleasantries and tell me why you’re calling. Actually, hold on—let me take a guess!”
Simmons signaled Chuck to engage the signal scrambler, lowering his voice: “Does this involve Decepticons?”
“Yes. They targeted me again. I need to know why, and I need your background files.”
“They’re after you again?” Rather than alarming Simmons, the news sparked immediate interest.
New material for a follow-up chapter…
A second later, he caught himself and sighed.
He had retired from field work.
“Don’t pull me back in, kid. I closed that chapter of my life. I have no interest in getting dragged into another mess.”
“What if I told you about a secret going back over forty years? Involving Autobots, Decepticons, and the space program?”
“What kind of secret?” Simmons reconsidered on the spot, curious to hear the outline. “Chuck, is this connection scrubbed?”
Chuck inspected the diagnostic leads and shook his head. “Negative, sir. The channel is open.”
“Then lock it down!”
“Right away, sir.”
Chuck unlatched a briefcase, revealing custom encryption gear. Slipping the phone into an interface cradle, he ran the security suite:
Signal scrambling initiated… Encryption active.
Pacing the floor, Simmons muttered to himself, “I am not jumping back into the fire. I have resources, I have comfort—why take the risk?”
“Connection secured, Mr. Simmons.”
“Good work, Chuck.”
Simmons brought the handset back to his ear. “Talk to me, kid. What kind of secret?”
“The Moon, Apollo missions, classified crash sites, dormant Cybertronians inside wreckage, key personnel getting quietly eliminated…”
“Dear Lord… Chuck! Bring up my tactical rig!”
Simmons gripped the phone tighter, shouting into the receiver: “Kid, send me your coordinates! I am en route!”
“Tell the Decepticons their nightmare is back on the board!”
Diego Garcia, late afternoon.
Two massive mechanical silhouettes stood side by side against the fading horizon.
“A magnificent world, is it not?”
Sentinel Prime looked out over the ocean, his voice quiet with reflection. “So vast, so peaceful… entirely unlike the scarred wasteland of Cybertron.”
“Sentinel, we once held the promise of an era like this,” Optimus Prime replied, his optics fixed on the distant waters. “I often wonder: had you commanded the final defense instead of me, would our people have met a different fate?”
Passing the leadership mantle to Optimus had thrust him into the deep end during a collapsing campaign.
The lines had already fallen apart, reaching a point where no single warrior, Prime or otherwise, could reverse the tide.
Cybertronian champions were formidable, yet they remained mortal soldiers, vulnerable to overwhelming numbers.
At his apex, Megatron possessed the martial strength to hold off Sentinel and Optimus together, backed by an army that blanketed the horizon.
Sentinel had taken the Ark into the void precisely because he saw no strategic path forward.
Leaving two lone commanders behind on a ruined homeworld would have accomplished nothing; the Autobot cause would have withered away regardless.
“Optimus, do not mourn what has passed. You are an exceptional commander, tempered through war.”
“It is through your leadership that our spark endures.”
“Yet you remain our rightful leader,” Optimus said, dropping smoothly to one knee before his mentor. “Sentinel, leading our people once more is your birthright.”
“On a world I do not comprehend? Among an organic civilization I have never known?”
Sentinel Prime shook his weathered helm, a faint trace of sorrow in his optics.
“My time as your mentor has drawn to a close, Optimus.”
He placed a heavy hand upon Optimus’s shoulder armor. “You are the leader of the Autobots now.”
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