"Thank you... thank you so much," Sam said, pumping Whitley's hand with genuine gratitude, completely oblivious that the entire interview had been a rehearsed formality.
"You are very welcome," Whitley replied. Looking at the earnest young man before him, he recalled the explicit instructions his superior had delivered during lunch:
"The kid has a personal recommendation letter directly from a board member. Run the interview yourself this afternoon."
"Keep in mind, no matter how terribly he performs, even if he rambles like a total fool, you make sure he gets hired."
A direct recommendation from a board member carried immense weight.
In truth, a standard interview, even for a full-time senior position, would never warrant the personal attention of a department head like Whitley.
Let alone for a simple college intern.
"Most people assume Accuretta is strictly an aerospace player, but our reach goes far beyond that," Whitley said, his demeanor warming considerably now that Sam was officially a colleague. "Beyond aviation, we hold substantial stakes in telecommunications and financial assets."
The financial sector was famous for its high barriers to entry, yet in many ways, it had no real technical threshold at all.
In finance, an old saying held true: personal connections were the ultimate currency.
A single candidate who could say, "I have high-net-worth clients, and I can bring in capital," would instantly render the most dazzling resume obsolete.
Fortunately for Sam, that letter of recommendation had led Whitley to assume he had those exact connections in his corner.
"Telecom and aerospace demand specialized technical backgrounds, so Sam, I've decided to place you in our securities division."
Whitley framed the assignment as a thoughtful personal gesture, though the placement had been determined by executive leadership before Sam had even stepped through the door.
"A person's first career step sets the entire trajectory. You either land in the right division and thrive, or you get stuck in a rut for years."
"Just recently, we secured major joint initiatives with NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. There is enormous room for advancement here for anyone with drive."
"Our division netted seventeen billion in profits last fiscal year alone. People are lined up all the way down to the Willis Tower trying to get a foot in our door."
The Willis Tower was an iconic landmark in Chicago, standing at one hundred and ten stories and once holding the title of the tallest office building in the world.
From its skydeck over four hundred meters in the air, visitors could look out across four states on a clear day.
Yet architectural height was only part of its reputation.
What truly cemented the tower's status was its location on Wacker Drive, widely regarded as the city's financial heart.
During peak market hours, over twenty thousand financial professionals worked inside its walls.
Faced with such a lucrative commercial landscape, Accuretta naturally maintained a heavy presence in the district.
When Sam arrived at the tower, the sheer scale of the operation left him momentarily wide-eyed. Professionals in sharp suits moved briskly through the concourse with folders tucked under their arms.
The bustling floor carried a steady roar of phone calls and overlapping conversations, moving with the fast pace of a trading floor.
"Right this way," Whitley said, guiding Sam into a crowded elevator. "Don't mind the rush. This is the busiest stretch of the afternoon."
"Advisors are meeting clients down on the main floor, closing portfolios and positioning investments."
Whitley offered a wry, knowing smile. "As you'll learn, Sam, the hardest task in this business is convincing people to open their wallets."
As the elevator reached the thirty-fourth floor, Whitley turned with a sudden thought. "By the way, Sam, a word of practical advice: I strongly recommend you keep that presidential medal to yourself around the office."
"Why is that?"
"Well... the overwhelming majority of the partners on this floor lean heavily conservative."
"They have very traditional views. If you ruffle feathers in the executive suites, even Accuretta won't be able to shield you."
On a trading floor dominated by conservative executives, flaunting a commendation from an opposing administration was a quick way to isolate oneself.
Far across the Atlantic, on the vast savannahs of Africa...
Across the sunbaked grasslands where herds of zebra and buffalo grazed, a heavily rusted tanker truck rattled down a dirt road.
The old rig groaned with every turn of its axles, spewing thick black smoke from its exhaust stacks, looking as though it might shake itself apart at any second.
The sudden roar of the engine scattered a nearby herd of buffalo. Further down the path, the outline of an isolated structure slowly emerged—a roadside filling station, long abandoned and far from any human settlement.
Rusted car frames littered the dirt lot around the station, surrounded by stacks of old fuel barrels, several of them flickering with open flames.
As the tanker rumbled into the lot, the vibrations stirred movement inside a metal drum. An unusual mechanical head poked out from the opening.
Moments later, a small, insect-like bot climbed out onto the rim, brandishing a gnawed bone as it screeched in wild excitement:
"He's here! The master has returned!"
At the creature's screech, dozens of miniature bots poured out from the shadows of the rusted station—a pack of small, feral Decepticons.
Watching the battered tanker approach, the small scrap-feeders jumped and chattered in a chorus:
"All hail Megatron! All hail Megatron!"
Amidst the raspy cheers, the tanker pulled to a stop before the main awning, its chassis shifting with a heavy series of metallic clanks.
"Ah, my patient little scavengers. You must be starved."
Megatron cast aside the ragged tarp covering his head, scooping up a handful of loose metal shavings and scattering them across the ground.
The scrap hit the dirt, sending the tiny bots into a frantic scramble to feed.
"Plenty for all of you... plenty..."
Having fed his restless brood, Megatron walked over to the shade of a wide acacia tree, lowering his massive frame to the ground as he gazed up at the sky.
Above, two high-speed craft descended rapidly through the clouds.
Thud!
The craft touched down, shifting smoothly into two massive warriors.
"Lord Megatron."
"Megatron."
The arrivals were Skygnaw and Shockwave, having headed straight for the coordinates upon descending to Earth.
So this is where he's been hiding, Skygnaw thought, his optics sweeping over a herd of elephants grazing peacefully in the distance.
It explained why Optimus Prime had failed to locate Megatron over the past three years.
While military surveillance was formidable across human population centers, tracking a solitary warrior across the vast interior of the African wilderness was an entirely different challenge.
"Skygnaw, you have returned at last."
Megatron looked toward the crimson horizon, a faint glimmer in his optics.
Despite his imposing stature, his scarred armor and secluded hideout carried the distinct air of a veteran commander fallen from his former heights.
Even a warrior as formidable as Megatron feels the sting of defeat, Skygnaw noted privately, offering a measured nod.
"Lord Megatron, the assignments you entrusted to me are complete. I report for duty."
Skygnaw had not forgotten the formal pretext for his departure. Reaffirming his standing was a simple way to maintain operational discipline and keep Megatron's trust intact.
In Decepticon culture, strength dictated authority.
Recognizing Skygnaw's undeniable value, Megatron offered rare praise: "Well done, Skygnaw. Soundwave kept me informed of your progress. My faith in you was not misplaced."
In earlier cycles, such words might have carried weight, but Skygnaw took them with a grain of salt.
When you held Prime-level strength, even Supreme Commander Megatron adjusted his tone to keep you in the fold.
Skygnaw thought briefly of Starscream; had the Air Commander been present, he would have showered Megatron with elaborate flattery. Skygnaw, however, offered quiet respect, which was more than enough.
"Shockwave, Skygnaw, give it a moment. Soundwave is almost here."
"Soundwave?" Skygnaw turned his attention toward the dust trail rising along the eastern ridge.
A silver-grey sports car sped down the dirt trail toward the station, while a mechanical bird with an eight-foot wingspan circled overhead.
Soundwave and Laserbeak, Skygnaw recognized, watching the approach.
True to Decepticon habit, Laserbeak spotted a flock of vultures drifting near the station's roof, instantly deploying an underside machine gun and opening fire.
Ratta-tatta-tat!
A few feathers and scrap scattered through the air as the birds dropped into the tall grass.
Laserbeak let out a harsh, rasping cackle, descending toward Soundwave, who shifted smoothly into his robot mode.
Soundwave approached with Laserbeak perched on his left arm, his expression completely neutral as he walked past Skygnaw and Shockwave.
"Lord Megatron. Soundwave reporting."
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