Chapter 264: Expelling the Autobots

Knock, knock, knock.

A sharp rap on the conference room door cut through the heated debate.

“Enter!”

The heavy door swung open, and Holdren’s chief secretary hurried in, carrying an executive folder and an audio recorder.

“Mr. President, priority intelligence.”

“Understood. Leave us.”

Every eye around the table tracked the folder. As Holdren scanned the summary, his face shifted rapidly—brief relief, sudden apprehension, and finally a deep, troubled scowl.

Watching the president’s expression turn over in a matter of seconds kept the entire room on edge.

“Gentlemen, this is an intercept package just forwarded from the defense desk, along with an encrypted audio feed.”

“A direct transmission from Sentinel Prime.”

Holdren didn’t waste time on preliminaries. Snapping the folder shut, he looked across the table. “Sentinel Prime, the asset recovered from the lunar site under Director Mearing’s project. You are all familiar with the operational history.”

“Now, listen to the terms he laid out.”

Holdren hit the play stud. The aged, gravelly voice of Sentinel Prime filled the quiet vault:

“Greetings, leaders of humanity. I am Sentinel Prime.”

“I am aware that you desire nothing more than to restore the peace and tranquility of your world. Today, an opportunity presents itself.”

“I have come for your natural resources, which are vital to the restoration of Cybertron.”

“Once the transfer of materials is complete, I will withdraw the Decepticon legions and depart your orbit, returning your sovereignty and peace.”

“However, to secure this armistice, you must immediately expel all remaining Autobots from your planet. They have broken faith with my command, and you must sever all bilateral ties without delay.”

“These terms are non-negotiable.”

“I am Sentinel Prime. I await your response.”

The audio cut with a flat click, leaving the vault in dead silence. The secretaries traded uneasy glances.

Expel the Autobots?

None of them were naive; stripping away their only armored defense sounded remarkably like digging their own graves.

Before anyone could voice an objection, Holdren dropped the second shoe.

“The intelligence desk pushed a technical surveillance team into Chicago. Every ambient energy sensor across three sectors pegged into the red.”

Holdren paused, his eyes sweeping across the frozen table. “Their current estimate puts the troop count across those warships in the five-figure range. Over ten thousand active combatants.”

Clatter.

A collective gasp swept through the room, and Secretary of State Ponce jerked back, accidentally knocking his water glass across the polished wood.

The figure landed like a sledgehammer. The very terms that had sounded absurd moments ago suddenly felt… open to negotiation.

Ten thousand alien shock troops.

Back in the Egyptian desert, humanity had scrambled everything it had just to handle a two-digit vanguard.

In an open planetary war, they had zero chance of holding the line.

If resistance meant certain annihilation, then why not roll the dice on Sentinel’s terms?

Self-preservation quickly overrode strategic duty. Every man sitting in this vault had climbed to the peak of the political ladder; they had no intention of throwing away comfortable lives for an unwinnable stand.

Fighting meant dying, and dying meant the end of the balance sheets.

The calculation was transparent to everyone present, especially to Holdren.

“We need to move quickly,” Holdren said, tapping the mahogany surface. “We draft the response immediately.”

The secretaries exchanged quiet nods of assent.

An executive order of this nature avoided the legislative floor entirely; the cabinet could execute it unilaterally without getting dragged into endless debates with stubborn committee chairs on Capitol Hill.

Diego Garcia, Autobot base.

“We have an unverified military frequency coming in from the northern sector. I need a communications specialist on this terminal!”

“Third tactical team is across the perimeter. Awaiting clearance to deploy.”

“Route all field reports through the central switchboard. Keep the line clear.”

The base was humming with chaotic activity. Inside the temporary command hub, personnel pushed through the corridors with stacks of tactical maps. Behind the primary desk, Director Mearing was flipping through status reports, barking orders into a headset.

Sam walked in through the heavy security door, a dark watch clamped to his left wrist, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

“Everyone looks pinned down,” Sam muttered, stepping toward her desk. “Is there anything I can take off your hands?”

As he spoke, he suddenly gripped his left wrist with his right hand, the tendons in his neck tightening as his face flushed dark crimson.

He looked like a man fighting off a seizure.

“Witwicky, are you alright?”

“Fine… totally fine…”

“You don’t look fine,” Mearing observed, her sharp eyes studying his unsteady stance. “You’re pale as a ghost, and your forehead is soaked in cold sweat.”

“Just nerves, that’s all. A giant alien armada dropped over the skyline, so naturally I’m a little tense…” Sam straightened his back, thumping his chest with an awkward grin to play it down.

“Very well,” Mearing didn’t press the matter, waving her aides away before looking at him with a weary sigh. “I will grant you this much: I underestimated your warnings. You read the board correctly.”

“What do you mean?”

“You warned me that the Decepticons were playing both sides, and you flagged Sentinel Prime as the pivot point.”

“Had I cleared you for the advisory table from the start, we might not be standing on the brink of an invasion.”

For a woman who wore arrogance like a second layer of armor, a concession like that was unprecedented.

Yet Sam showed no pride, offering only a bitter, self-deprecating scoff. “I’m just a civilian with an attitude problem, remember? You run the defense shop; I’m just the liability wandering through the hallways.”

Mearing’s expression tightened, the old sting lingering, though she had no time to trade barbs.

Before she could answer, an aide jogged over from the secure terminal:

“Director, priority channel fifteen is ringing.”

Mearing’s expression hardened instantly. “Clear the line. I’ll take it in the booth.”

Line fifteen was the direct patch to the Oval Office.

As Mearing stepped into the soundproof room, Sam drifted through the command bay, clutching his wrist behind his back.

A few minutes later, Mearing stepped out, her expression grim.

“Director?” Sam asked, stepping into her path.

She didn’t answer right away, pointing toward the operations display. “Bring up the primary feed.”

An aide tapped the console, and the overhead monitors flared to life with a breaking news bulletin:

Following the rapid escalation of extraterrestrial signatures over Chicago this afternoon, the executive administration has confirmed the immediate repeal of the bilateral defense treaty. Formal directives have been issued to expel all remaining Autobots from sovereign territory, terminating the military alliance with immediate effect.

With public sentiment already souring on the alien presence, the measure encountered zero domestic friction.

For Holdren’s circle, the decision was hailed by political analysts as an effortless masterstroke of crisis management.

The broadcast screen split down the middle: on the left hung the colossal Decepticon cruiser suspended over the city towers; on the right sat a packed press room in the capital.

According to senior administration officials, the resolution complies directly with terms issued by Sentinel Prime, offering a path to conclude the long-standing extraterrestrial conflict.

The president is scheduled to deliver a live address to the nation within forty minutes.

“What is this?! They can’t do this!”

Sam lunged toward the console, shouting at Mearing. “Get on the radio and tell them to halt the order!”

“The Autobots are our only true allies! They bled beside our soldiers in the sand to keep the Decepticons off our necks!”

It was an old geopolitical reality: making an enemy of an empire was dangerous, but standing as its ally was often fatal.

The Autobots were learning that lesson in the harshest possible way.

“I know the history, Witwicky,” Mearing replied, her tone flat and distant. “Now look at the map.”

“Nobody wants to abandon an accord, but look at the sky. There is a battle fleet parked directly over our commercial centers. Do you want me to sacrifice three million civilians on principle?”

Mearing’s voice dropped, carrying a quiet exhaustion. “The order came from the very top. If you still have insight to offer, speak now. Anything on Sentinel’s actual objective.”

“I don’t believe for a second that an ancient commander crossed galaxies just to strip mine industrial scrap. But as you can see… my authority has its limits.”

Even an intelligence director was merely an executive subordinate when the cabinet made its move.

Human leadership was thoroughly confused by Sentinel’s sudden defection. Optimus offered one version of events, while Sentinel broadcast another. The administration had simply filed the whole mess away as a factional dispute they were desperate to wash their hands of.

Across the compound, the news broadcast reached the Autobots’ maintenance bays.

“Those short-sighted fools!” Sideswipe’s fist slammed into a concrete support pillar, blowing a crater through the masonry. “They’re walking right into the trap!”

“This is an orchestrated purge! Without our cannons on the line, the Decepticons will roll over their cities unopposed! Are they blind?!”

“If the humans are choosing appeasement, they’ve already severed our supply lines,” Roadbuster muttered, checking the slide on his shotgun. “Do we fall back to the interior and dig in?”

“I’m speaking with Lennox,” Silverbolt said, turning toward the perimeter.

“Hold your ground, Silverbolt,” Optimus Prime said, stepping between the warrior and the exit. “Colonel Lennox has stood by us, but this directive comes from his civilian leadership. Confronting him will only place him in an impossible position.”

The Autobots fell silent. They had operated within the human chain of command long enough to understand the limits of a field officer’s authority.

Lennox was an infantry colonel, not a general, and certainly not an elected executive.

The senior officials in Washington had avoided face-to-face contact with the Autobots from the start, keeping their distance out of fear or calculated detachment.

“I will request a direct audience with their leadership,” Optimus said, his voice measured and resolute. “I will present the tactical reality to their president. If reason fails to move them…”

He left the sentence hanging, but every warrior on the floor understood the implication.

“Optimus, whatever path you choose, the unit stands behind you.”

“Understood,” Optimus replied, his optics burning with quiet purpose. “Whatever game Sentinel is playing, I will not let our species become the architects of this world’s destruction.”

While the Autobot lines were gripped by somber resolve, the Decepticon camp was celebrating an effortless strategic victory.

Chicago, Space and Science Museum.

On the flight deck of the flagship Nemesis, Megatron had assembled the high-tier commanders.

The Terrorcons, Predacons, and Seacons were drawn up in disciplined ranks, with the three primary field leaders—Skygnaw, Shockwave, and Soundwave—standing at the vanguard.

Megatron stared curiously at the lines of augmented bio-drones standing at attention near the secondary bulkheads, letting out a low, rasping chuckle:

“Skygnaw, Shockwave reports that you brought these auxiliary units back from a distant star system?”

Skygnaw cast a sideways glance toward Shockwave, whose solitary red optic remained completely impassive.

It was only natural. Skygnaw stood as an active Prime, and while Megatron was technically the veteran supreme leader, his physical condition was a shadow of his past glory.

The rank-and-file mechs had never seen Megatron battered by Optimus Prime, so his legend still carried immense authority among the troops.

Skygnaw gave a casual nod. “Indeed, Lord Megatron.”

“Blackarachnia oversees our forward installations on their homeworld. Individually, their physical output cannot rival our alloy frames, but deployed in disciplined waves, they serve as formidable heavy infantry.”

“More than sufficient to handle human defense garrisons.”

“Very good,” Megatron nodded, his scarred helm tilting forward. “You will retain operational command of the Nemesis and the aerial fleet. Sentinel and I will secure the primary space bridge node on the ground.”

“By your command, Lord Megatron,” Skygnaw replied smoothly.

The fleet was his personal project, and retaining direct operational control suited him down to the ground. Fortunately, Megatron was too focused on crushing the Autobots to attempt an administrative seizure of his assets.

Megatron lingered on Skygnaw for a few seconds longer, but said nothing more.

He had noticed the subtle change in Skygnaw ever since his return from Mars. While the younger Prime kept up the traditional courtesies, the underlying deference had vanished. Skygnaw carried himself as a complete equal.

Nothing was more galling to an old warlord than watching a former subordinate rise to stand on the exact same footing.

Yet Megatron could not afford a fracture. He needed Skygnaw’s battle fleet to suppress the Autobots, and he needed an armored counterweight should Sentinel Prime decide to renege on their treaty.

Touching the jagged gash on his head, Megatron pushed his resentment aside. The mechs he truly wanted dead were Optimus Prime, who had broken his chassis, and Sentinel, who had humiliated him on the terrace.

Beside him, Skygnaw paid little attention to Megatron’s internal brooding.

Power naturally altered posture; a commander backed by an orbital fleet had no reason to hunch his shoulders.

“Decepticons!”

Megatron raised his heavy cannon skyward, his grating voice booming across the flight deck like a battle march from the early days of the war.

Battered and bound in salvage chains as he was, the old warlord still commanded undeniable presence. While calling it unanimous devotion was an overstatement, veterans like Soundwave and Shockwave followed his banner without hesitation.

“The Autobots are about to be driven from this world by their own allies!”

“The conquest I promised you is at hand!”

“Hail Megatron!”

A thunderous cheer tore through the ranks as weapons rattled against armor plates.

Once the Autobots cleared the system, this planet would belong to them, its inhabitants reduced to helpless resources.

Megatron would claim his prize, and the troops would have their fill of combat.

As if the board clears that easily, Skygnaw mused, a cold smirk hidden behind his faceplate.

Optimus Prime packing his bags and leaving Earth forever?

Pure fantasy.

Sentinel and Megatron had orchestrated the human political purge, rendering Dylan’s little tracking bug completely redundant.

The human broadcast feeds had already broadcast the capitulation across the globe.

A surrender wrapped in policy, celebrated as diplomacy.

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