Beeps and Buzzes

⚔️ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7

　　　

Forty minutes.

New record.

Rather than run - frantic, panicking - like your comrades, you strode forwards in a leisurely jog wearing perhaps the most unenthusiastic expression known to man. Gait echoing countless years of personal training to be efficient, to an untrained eye appearing effortless.

Or perhaps it was cheating to have genetically tweaked muscles and numerous other biological improvements stemming from a Great and Powerful alien relic.

Schematics.

Just about to breach the threshold - just about to see the absurdity of Colonel collapsing under his own bravado and age - something had slammed into your gut. Thinking, at first, it was an absurd new attacking strategy from TRF you soon came face to face with a good old fashioned football. Except way heavier.

Cogman jeered at your poor catching form, so you automatically concluded he was (again) your antagonizer. Stuck on why he stowed away a piece of sporting equipment in the getaway car, pulling a funny look and temporarily distracted from the rapidly approaching constabulary.

On closer inspection, the leather rippled with silver. Telltale sign of Transformium. In a matter of moments you cast aside the form of a sphere, manifesting a [F/C] backpack instead. Granted it was still heavy, but there was excess mass stored inside so… win some, lose something else.

Some may say the Autobot insignia was a touch on the nose… they'd be right.

Train of thought promptly derailed, Edmund called for your attention “Miss [Y/N], you'll be accompanying us! I'm afraid we will need your expertise!”

“What's that in, ‘Fugitive 101’”

Inches away from stepping into the dapper looking Aston Martin that Cogman and Edmund had prepped as their getaway car, gut churning at the mere prospect of driving during a high stakes chase, almost relieved when you'd been rather forcefully snatched away and ushered to a different vehicle.

“Your generation and your depraved sarcasm; No, instead we need use of your communication skills with Ex American Special OPs –”

You perked up “Simmons?” I mean, did you need to ask.

“Who else would I mean?” Edmund tittered, ducking into the Aston Martin just as Hot Rod somehow stopped time. You weren't sure how that kind of weapon functioned, though chalked it up to Alien Magic of which you'd be seeing a lot more of in the future.

Speaking of magic – you've been paired up with a Hyperbike, new territory for you and probably what might wind up killing you. You'd seen adverts in passing, so felt fairly confident that this was a Suzuki Hayabusa. Couldn't say much else, really, other than it was fast.

Shoving on the helmet hanging from its handle, slinging a leg over the top, praying for your life before zipping out the front gates! Racing alongside Hot Rod, having to trust that you won't run into problems that would leave you stranded and lost in England's bizarre geography.

Because that would be embarrassing.

Nothing but trees and rivers, rocked by damaged roads as you dodged potholes and cyclists. There was a vague notion that you were all being stalked overhead, fixated by Cade's abstract hand signs and Vivian's eventual verbal confirmation.

At least there weren't any drones.

Ground level pursuit didn't really happen until you hit London's roads, where traffic was dense and the streetlights confusing. In a way, sort of anticlimactic - you'd been expecting something more from TRF other than some black SUVs and a couple of Helicopters looming overhead possibly sheltering a squad leader. Either way, all this went down the same way. Get chased through a city, shoot out a few tires, ignore all the red lights and numerous traffic violations in a bid to win this chase.