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The battle in the ruins of Chernobyl was a symphony of chaos. The mysterious armored soldiers—a diverse unit, their armor customized with cultural motifs from around the globe—attacked the giant Decepticon with the coordinated ferocity of a wolf pack. They moved like vicious dogs, a blur of silver against the grey ruin, leaping and dodging the hulking machine's clumsy attacks.
Some were armed with advanced projectile firearms, laying down a constant stream of suppressive fire. Others wielded melee weapons of pure, shimmering blue light—plasma-edged katanas, high-frequency Tang swords, and crackling energy lances. With each swift pass, they carved another glowing wound into the Decepticon's chassis. The cuts were insignificant on their own, a thousand paper cuts on a titan, but the plasma energy caused the wounds to sizzle and expand, a creeping technological venom. The Janissaries, wearing their biological mecha, flowed flexibly around the massive body of their target, acting like ruthless lumberjacks, working together to bring down a great, ancient tree.
In the rear, the NEST soldiers had surrounded the area, using the rubble for cover, preventing any chance of escape. Plasma cannons, a new addition to their arsenal, glowed blue in the hands of some soldiers, providing long-range support.
"What is this? Go away! Dirty ants!" Shockwave roared, his voice a distorted bellow of rage and frustration. He tried to swat the reptile-like humans swarming over his body, but his cumbersome movements were useless against their impossible speed and agility. Sparks flew from his sputtering joints, some from the impacts of the armored soldiers, others from the light artillery providing cover fire from a distance. His massive, heavy-duty tires, his primary means of escape, had been expertly sliced to ribbons. His retreat was cut off. His death was now set.
From a safe distance, Ironhide and the other Autobots watched the scene unfold with complicated expressions. Ironhide, who had always been dismissive of human technology, found his processors struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. It is impossible, he thought, his optics zoomed in on the fluid, deadly movements of the silver-armored soldiers. Their technology is primitive. Yet… they move with the grace of a Cyber-cat and the ferocity of a scraplet. They are using our forms, our biology, as a blueprint… How? His deep-seated contempt for organics was being rapidly replaced by a grudging, fearful respect.
Optimus Prime was also puzzled, but for a different reason. He could feel a faint, almost imperceptible aura emanating from the soldiers' armor, a familiar energy he had not sensed since he had sent the AllSpark hurtling into the void of space so long ago. It was the energy of creation, the lifeblood of his race. How have these humans harnessed it? And who is the one leading them?
The end came swiftly. The Janissaries, in a final, coordinated attack, created an opening. One of them, wielding a massive, black plasma lance, leaped from a ruined building, his thrusters firing at full power. He plunged the weapon straight through Shockwave's single, glowing optic. The giant robot shuddered, let out one final, agonizing groan, and then crashed to the ground, silent and still.
After confirming the death of the Decepticon, the mysterious armored team retreated as quickly as they had appeared, melting back into the shadows. A NEST soldier, watching them go, shook his head in envy. "That armor is handsome," he muttered. "A pity I couldn't get a look at the men who wear it." The human forces were ecstatic. After this experiment, they knew that, with the exception of heavy weapons, they finally had a way to fight these giant robots on their own terms. They stepped forward and began the arduous process of disassembling the massive corpse, loading it onto a large truck destined for a secure facility in Los Angeles.
In the two years that followed, the world changed. As Optimus Prime's call echoed through the universe, more Cybertronian escape pods began to fall to Earth. For every Autobot that arrived seeking refuge, a Decepticon seemed to follow. A secret, undeclared war was being waged across the globe.
The joint task force, NEST, continued to cooperate with the Autobots, but the alliance began to fray. The military brass grew increasingly dissatisfied with Optimus Prime's refusal to share their advanced technology. They felt like junior partners in the defense of their own planet. In quiet, smoke-filled rooms at the Pentagon, certain politicians and generals began to whisper, thinking of the powerful Decepticon leader, Megatron, still imprisoned in a naval base. The politician who had first proposed keeping Megatron alive felt his decision was becoming more prescient by the day.
At the same time, the "Magician Program" was officially opened, a global, multi-agency search for the mysterious red-and-blue man who had vanished with the AllSpark. The Decepticons, hacking into every electronic device they could, were conducting their own parallel search. But so far, there was not a single hair. For all intents and purposes, the "Magician" had ceased to exist.
But in March of the second year, things took a turn. A politician from the Intelligence Bureau, Harold Attinger, delivered a top-secret report to the generals in charge of the NEST program. It was from Kinetic Solutions Incorporated—KSI. Based on the salvaged corpses of the fallen Decepticons, they had developed a biological warfare armor that could be worn by humans.
The military immediately initiated contact. The experiments revealed a fascinating, and problematic, truth. The biological armor had a mind of its own; it had to choose its wearer. But for the chosen few, it granted superhuman strength, speed, and reflexes, and when paired with newly developed plasma weapons, it made them more than a match for a Cybertronian drone. The only drawback was that the material needed to create the armor could only be harvested from the corpses of the Cybertronians themselves, putting an end to any idea of promoting it to the whole army. But the advantages—its flexibility, its power, its ability to one-hit-kill—were undeniable. And this breakthrough made the military remember the man who had created this type of armor in the first place: the reclusive chief scientist of KSI Corporation, Snow Jacob.
The general in charge of the Chernobyl operation, a man with a slight Russian accent and thinning yellow hair, watched the KSI test footage with growing excitement. He saw a human test pilot in the new bio-armor outrun a sports car and punch clean through a concrete wall.
"This," he breathed, his eyes gleaming with ambition, "is the answer. Independence." He turned to the politician standing next to him. "Mr. Attinger, I need to meet the creator of this biological armor. In person."
"If you can get the final approval for the transfer of the Chernobyl corpse to KSI," Attinger replied smoothly, "we can leave right now." Research results always opened doors.
"Consider it done," the General said eagerly. "I want to meet him immediately."
"No problem," Attinger smirked. "But don't forget to settle my account."
The general, an adjutant, and the officer of the intelligence bureau, Attinger, got into a car and headed for the headquarters of KSI, ready to meet the man who held the future of human warfare in his hands.