Chapter 251: We Have to Do Something

Mearing was not someone who had landed the director's seat through political favors. She had clawed her way up from the bottom tier of field operations, building her career on hard results.

The intelligence sector was unforgiving; it had no room for figureheads.

A woman like Mearing possessed sharp instincts, unyielding administrative control, and exceptional nerve.

An untested young man like Sam had little chance of shaking her resolve.

"No, no," Sam said, waving his hands defensively when she offered a replica commendation. "I only asked because I have a medal of my own."

"Awarded personally by the President," Carly added.

"Is that so?" Mearing looked faintly amused, letting out a dry chuckle. "Listen closely: if you think a White House photo-op buys you operational clearance, you will be deeply disappointed."

"The ground rules here are straightforward: I run this command. Without my explicit sign-off, no civilian coordinates with the Autobots."

"Your involvement only disrupts my tactical structure."

"With all due respect, young man, I have reviewed your file. I acknowledge what you survived, but you are not a combatant."

She leaned forward, her eyes unyielding. "You were a messenger. You have always been just a messenger."

"You were a messenger. You were just a messenger, always..."

Mearing's dismissive words continued to ring in his ears. Sam sat along the gravel ledge of a rooftop, staring out into the night sky while Bumblebee and Carly stayed close by his side.

Having walked out of the regional intelligence office, Sam had turned down Bumblebee's offer to drive him straight back to Chicago, choosing to head up here instead to clear his head.

A few yards back near a vent, Wheelie and Brains were whispering among themselves:

"Poor kid. The woman booted him right out of the room."

"Wrong. She didn't just boot Sam, she booted us too."

"Yeah, witness protection is a complete joke."

"At least we've got Bumblebee and his heavy armaments now. Way safer than before."

"Back then we were relying on that scruffy mutt, Bones. That dog couldn't guard an empty bowl..."

"Bee, I still can't believe she called me a messenger," Sam muttered, his voice caught between frustration and disbelief. "After everything I went through, she writes me off as a messenger!"

"Sam, you did everything you could," Carly said gently, wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind. "No matter what an official says, in my eyes, you are always a hero."

"I get where you're coming from, Sam," Wheelie rolled forward, his treads clicking lightly against the concrete. "We feel the exact same way. That lady had no manners at all!"

"Though I have a thought: why don't we run our own operation?"

"Our own operation?"

"Exactly! You have Bumblebee, and you have us. Brains can dig up all sorts of sensitive files..."

"Well..." Sam hesitated. While he hadn't seen Brains crack secure mainframes firsthand, Wheelie talked up the little bot's technical skills constantly.

"You're right. We have to do something," Sam said, determination returning to his eyes.

"Here is my angle, Bee: I want to know why the Decepticons targeted Jerry."

"You probably haven't heard the name yet. He's the software analyst at my office who went through the high-rise window this morning..."

"Sam," Carly cut in quietly.

Unlike Sam, whose drive had surged back, her expression was tight with concern.

"Why do you feel the need to jump back into this? It's not your..."

"Carly, you don't understand," Sam turned, gently framing her face with both hands, his gaze entirely earnest. "The Autobots need an ally on the outside, just like before."

"I can't sit back while the Decepticons put another target on our world. I have to do this, for you, and for myself."

As a partner, Carly cared for him deeply.

Yet beneath that bond lay her undisclosed role as an intelligence operative assigned to a diplomatic station. Lately, however, her focus had drifted dangerously close to compromise.

She had developed genuine feelings for her assignment.

Falling for an operational target was a fundamental failure in field craft.

Yet human emotion rarely adhered to training protocols.

Over the past year, though she had approached Sam under specific instructions, she had grown genuinely fond of this impulsive young man who carried a stubborn streak of heroism.

Earlier this evening, she had committed every classified detail from the hangar to memory. Now, looking at Sam, she was torn over whether to transmit the full report back to her handlers.

She held his gaze, her voice laced with worry. "Promise me you will only gather information. Do not step into the crossfire between the Autobots and Decepticons, alright?"

"I promise," Sam nodded firmly. "Just looking into things. I know a specialist who handled this kind of research before; I'll give him a call."

"Take the service lift down first. I'll have Bumblebee drive you home."

"Alright. And Sam, don't forget the reception this Saturday."

In Pittsburgh, Ohio...

When it came to urban revitalization, the city was often cited as a textbook success story.

Decades prior, it had flourished as an industrial titan, home to bustling riverfront docks and hailed as a heartland steel capital. It had basked in the height of heavy manufacturing, endured the choking smog that followed, and eventually weathered the economic downturn of the Rust Belt.

Yet through strategic urban planning and sound leadership, the city had turned its fortunes around. Dense green belts had replaced industrial chimneys, transforming it into a clean, modern urban hub that frequently topped national livability rankings.

Naturally, even the most desirable cities had their distinct neighborhoods.

Fox Chapel was among its most exclusive districts, lined with manicured lawns and gated private estates.

Inside one of these estates, a live broadcast was underway.

["...And now, let us welcome our next guest!"]

"Good evening, I'm Denise," the host spoke into her microphone, addressing the studio cameras. "Our next guest formerly served as a senior intelligence official within a specialized agency."

"He was among the first to publicly disclose the reality of our extraterrestrial alliance. While many view the Autobots as foreign contractors operating on domestic soil, he presents a very different perspective."

"Please welcome the author of the bestselling memoir Code of Steel, former agent Seymour Simmons!"

Denise extended an open hand toward the neighboring seat.

The feed cut to a sharp-dressed man leaning back in a plush leather armchair with one leg casually crossed over the other.

"Denise, truth be told, I'm an avid fan of your broadcast. It's a genuine pleasure to sit down with you."

Looking back at the aftermath of the desert campaign three years ago, one might wonder who gained the most from the crisis.

Was it the host nation that secured bulk wreckage from fallen Decepticons, or the military brass who claimed a geopolitical victory?

Was it Optimus Prime, who eliminated the Fallen, or the general public, who finally learned they were not alone in the universe?

None of the above.

The clear winner had been Simmons, an unconventional operator who had previously worked in the shadows.

After the dust settled in Egypt, Simmons documented his experiences, publishing his memoirs under the title Code of Steel.

When one door closed, another swung wide open.

Riding the wave of global fascination with the Cybertronians and drawing on declassified operational accounts, his book shot straight to the top of national bestseller lists. The resulting royalties and speaking fees had propelled Simmons into high society.

Sudden wealth often brought an edge of indulgence, and while Simmons remained sharp, he had certainly picked up a few eccentric habits. When the cameras rolled, rather than addressing the viewers at home, he leaned into easy banter with Denise.

Of course, the host's striking presence may have played a part in that choice.

Denise sat opposite him in a tailored white pantsuit, projecting professional elegance while keeping the interview lively.

"Mr. Simmons," Denise transitioned smoothly after the initial pleasantries, her questions cutting straight to the heart of the matter. "In your view, is this truly the appropriate juncture for our nation to align itself in an interstellar conflict?"

"Furthermore, what is your assessment of our formal partnership with the Autobots?"

"Does this alliance expose our population to unnecessary retaliation, drawing Decepticon wrath onto ordinary civilians?"

Her questions struck at the core of public anxiety. While human forces could not match advanced Cybertronians head-on, ordinary cities remained entirely vulnerable to orbital strikes.

Domestic policy had long favored non-intervention whenever possible—the notion that distant wars should stay beyond our shores. Decades earlier during the global conflict, industrial production had boomed while other nations suffered, until an unprovoked attack left leadership with no choice but to enter the theater.

"Our arrangement with the Autobots is remarkably straightforward," Simmons replied, entirely unruffled by the sharp line of questioning.

He spread his hands wide with easy confidence. "On one side, you have a group that respects our sovereignty and refrains from dictating our domestic governance."

"On the other side, you have a faction that would gladly level our infrastructure and harvest the planet for scrap."

"Given those two options, the strategic choice doesn't require a committee review."

"When neutrality is off the table, I don't believe we have the luxury of standing aside."

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