Yeager Chronicles: After Extinction

24: Optimus

A/N:  I made a language translator for the trash language I made for this thing. https://lingojam.com/Dalicix and sorry this took so long. I've not been the right frame of mind to write so I hope this is alright.

Nightblade slide out her truck and Skyblaze doing the same, a middle-aged man approached them. "What do we expect to find?" asked a man with a silvering goatee. "A little alien tomfoolery or some world-shattering hubbub?" He looked around and grumbled, "Perfect place for a hiding spot."

"Simmons, do yourself a favor, shut up," Skyblaze snapped, obviously she did not care for him. Nightblade stepped around the truck stopped beside her. She raised a hand slightly to Skyblaze, a way to quiet her. "What we are here to find is none of your concern. What is your concern, however, is making sure everyone stays out of the area. Kapish?"

Optimus stepped down from his frame, not watching the three, only taking a glimpse at Moondancer who to a dust-busting halt beside him, throwing up dirt into the air. Her door slammed shut. Optimus was a little kinder to his frame.

"Aye, aye. I kapish." Simmons threw his hands up in submission. "But you're messing with my addiction, Anna." Who is this Anna? Optimus asked himself only as he walked up to them. Moondancer was only a few steps behind him.

"You have an addiction, I have a job."

"A job implies that you're getting paid," Simmons smirked, his tenor poking into a falsetto. "Who's payin' you four? CIA? FBI? The Canadians?"

"I'm not paying you to yap," Nightblade snapped. "I'm paying you to keep people away and quiet, you got me? And when you're in the know, you'll know. But, you are not and won't be."

"Oui m'dame," Simmons replied with a nasally accent. Moondancer rolled her eyes and waded her way in between Simmons and her creators. "Can you handle this, Seymour Simmons?"

"Oh ay, ay! I've done this before little lady," his New Yorker accent replaced the french—thank primus—but his tongue was still there, flapping about.

"Shut up. Let's get moving," Optimus pitted in, his baritone was enough to silence the man for a moment. He stared directly at Simmons and said with toxic precision, "I don't like it here." He gave the coldest glare that could be mustered in his feeble, flesh-like holomation, and thankfully that was all that was necessary. The tension for once was not of his doing, however, still it irked him all the same.

Black trucks that Optimus had not seen at first moved some closer and some further away from where they were standing. It was just like when the CIA, when Attinger, was after him. It took everything he had to not stand up in his frame and slash them all to smithereens. It took everything to keep his cover. Somehow, he believed that Simmons recognized his voice. Optimus could not dwell on that, considering that if he does continue to think more about it, it will only serve to fry his circuits.

Nightblade turned her head and eased her glare. She pointed with her eyes, back to his rig. As if he needed to be asked again, leaving sounded great. Swiftly he turned on his heel and left, as did the others, leaving Simmons to stand alone in the dry landscape.

"Does he really irk you so much?" Optimus overheard Skyblaze ask Nightblade. Optimus lingered a moment, mere meters away from his door. "No. Yanks do. His mother may have been kind enough, him however... how he goes about things—that irks me," she supplied. And Optimus stopped listening, slamming his door shut as he watched the three women walk to their vehicles. Simmons, he only stayed there, in the middle of the dirt and rubble.

Then why the slag did you call upon him? Optimus hissed. He's been nothing but trouble from the moment I've known him. Had I known you'd call upon him, Night, I would have stayed behind. It was only a half-truth. He would not have fit in with those on the Martian, amongst the emptiness of space. It was one thing he never wanted to do again.