One In A Billion | Transformers Prime [1]

𝟎𝟎𝟐

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Wheeljack

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Magic. Something so rare, I didn't think it would ever exist anywhere else in the cosmos. The Primes did it. There were even artifacts and relics that wielded it. But a human? 

"Hey, Doc. Question," I walked up to where Ratchet was, which was by the controls, where he was tampering with Cybertonian tech and medical devices. "I told you not to call me that," he snapped, which made me smirk. "What is it?"

"Ever wonder if humans can do magic?"

His expression said it all, slightly bemused, this time giving me his full attention. "Magic, Wheeljack? You know very well that magic isn't real. It's merely an illusion or trickery. Why in the Allspark would you ask me that?" 

I thought back to yesterday when I was on curbside duty minding my own business when out of nowhere, some girl around Miko's age was working some abracadabra scrap. It was like a solar flare in her hand, even her eyes glowed. And what I saw next threw me off, when she got wise and opened a portal. A motherfragging portal. Since when do humans make portals? It was a slight wonder to behold.

Ratchet, impatient and annoyed, was drumming a wrench in his servos. "Well?" 

I shrugged. "Just wondering," as I walked into the base's hall, I couldn't get rid of the image of the girl in my head. I knew from the moment I saw her that she wasn't normal, and I thought about how everyone at base would react if I told them what I saw. 

 That girl was no ordinary person.

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Ember

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Headset on, I sat cross-legged in the middle of my vast living room with the recording playing in my ears. My hair was pulled up into a messy bun with my clear-framed vintage glasses that I rarely wore; sliding down the bridge of my nose.

All my equipment was laid out—three monitors, a notebook, dozens of pens, sticky notes, paper clips, a bunch of case files, and a modern shortwave radio. I flipped through the pages of my notebook, reviewing the notes I took pertaining to the messages I was getting through the SWL. So far, nothing was transmitted except for beeps, static, music, and zillions of pauses which put me on edge. I'd been in the same spot for a little over four hours, jotting down every single whirr, buzz, and melody dispatching, so even when living alone, the obnoxious noises filling the house seemed to keep me comfort. 

The UVB-76, a Russian radio station that's been playing since the fall of the Soviet Union, and an idiosyncratic example of what's called a number station, was used to communicate encrypted messages to spies or other agents; something I've been trying to do as of late. I swear the life of a teenage spy is a fate worse than death, having to juggle a decadelong operation and now school. 

Double whammy. 

I increased the shortwave frequency band on the operator by a few kHz, listening intensely. Hopefully someone, a fellow agent maybe—from back home would recognize that I was communicating from the other side since I don't exactly have access to the information of my superior. Vasily is his name. I haven't seen or heard from him in years, not since I got deployed. As my commander, he was the one that commissioned the task of killing these so-called Autobots in the first place, placing me in charge of the operation when I was nine, and I was yet to find them. If I could just get a signal or a reading, maybe even Morse code, or an encrypted message through this stupid radio, I would've been further along right now.