Work Text:
The first rule of robots is that you never see the robots. Or, at least you never let the robots know you see them.
Either works really.
It wasn’t entirely clear who the whistle-blower was. There had been a multitude of posts, pictures, and conspiracies that surfaced online. Slowly, more people found this trend and began to latch on to it. Transformers , as they were called became something of a meme, a joke, birthed on the digital frontiers of the internet and nurtured by the humor of humans bored enough to care.
Until the video.
There always had been a distinction, a difference between those earlier posts and the memes. A realism and quality that existed within the blurs and grainy footage, far beyond what Photoshop could provide. But pictures are pushed aside, buried, and ridiculed, easy to deny.
The video wasn't.
A total of six different people posted clips of a transforming car leaping over a construction barricade on an empty Chicago road. Four were locals, two were tourists, and none of them knew each other. Someone stitched the clips together, a ten-minute-long video of different angles and perspectives of the same event. Over time it became a running joke; who could prove this work of art a fake?
No one could.
It started as a game, pointing out the reflections in the background, the images of someone else filming, how the proportions stayed consistent, and how the timeframes matched up.
The videos were taken down.
Someone tried to interview the ‘creators,’ but the filmmakers they found smiled too tight with eyes too wide. Nodding as they said nothing, the locals moved out of their homes. “ A promotion, ” they said, “ a big bonus this year ,” another told them.
It didn’t take much to put the pieces together.
A conspiracy theorist slowed down the footage. Details blurred, and the form of a yellow muscle car seemed to snap in half as it tucked and rolled through the air. What pieces could be seen went unidentified by amateur and expert mechanics alike.
No one mentioned the face that was ingrained in the undercarriage, the twin blue lights that didn’t belong on a car.
People began to believe when they heard whispers of driverless cars. People didn’t blink as more vehicles appeared, making inhuman turns and pivots, a little too fast, a little too controlled.
Bets were made, disguised by veiled words and nonsense. What were these things that had suddenly appeared? Government experiment - My big bro’s latest recipe? Aliens from Mars who wanted to enlighten mankind - weirdo neighbors with the casserole? Weapons from a secret war - how many people are involved in the hair remover prank?
Never underestimate the power of nonsense.
By the time the government caught wind, the secret was out, and there was no way to put it back in. People weren’t panicking, people weren’t getting in the way, and people were quietly plotting their theory boards and judging the metal racers with unobserved eyes.
Two years after the video, the U.S. government released a statement on Twitter.
Anyone else stuck in your neighbor’s family feud? I’ve got five friends hiding out from the County Karen. They’re all weirdos in a massive prank war.
It wasn’t very funny, but the internet didn’t care.
Money was exchanged, tears were cried, and gloating was done.
It became a running gag, Where did you see the neighbors?
Algorithms were made, red string on paper boards, plots connected and happenstance made important. Energy fluctuations revealed appearances, glowing rocks were searched for, and shifts of the same strange vehicles became apparent. Someone even found a spaceship hovering low above the atmosphere.
Apps were made, Find my Neighbor and discussion boards were built.
Nevada. They kept showing up in Nevada.
A military base was found, an abandoned missile silo from the Cold War. The government was already involved. Very involved.
People are not stupid.
People are curious.
Jasper grew a silent sightseeing tour industry. Street racers appraised tinted windows with anticipation. Traffic jams resulted in wagers and ready cameras. Earth watched and appraised its visitors with mirthful eyes and double meanings.
They named the Titans they saw;
The Blue Streak: always darting by backroads, unidentifiable
The Texan: red with longhorns on its hood, the police had a file dedicated to the tickets it owed
The Sting: a muscle car painted like a bee, zips through highways but is always hesitant in residential areas
The Shavcado: an olive green hummer, muscled and rumbling, who’d been treated with wariness until its squealed reactions to squirrels were recorded. The rough exterior was a thin separation from a soft inside apparently.
The Ruby: a shiny Aston Martin raced through the night and never stopped at the finish line. By now, he had curated a small fortune from unclaimed winnings
The Mid-life: a semi with a flashier paint job than a gaudy aunt, and commonly believed to be a youngster with something to compensate for.
And then there was Blue.
No one really knew anything about blue. He was a heavy-duty car, more akin to a mini tank, and was only spotted off-roading a handful of times. Or driving with Ruby.
Everyone liked Blue. It was a thing. No one knew why exactly, other than vibes.
Humanity grew to love these hidden beings. In silence and from a distance, they watched closely. And then they watched even closer.
One day the Texan disappeared, and the world held its breath.
A week passed, then two, then three.
Blue Streak was spotted driving alone. The minds of the world speculated.
A month later, the Nevada Police Department, held services. A small memorial was given, a dented boot placed on a stand, and saluted. Death had been confirmed.
Cliffjumper received the honors of a fallen officer, thanks given, even if he would never know it.
The blog looked cheap, almost haphazard, like a child’s attempt at creating a website.
The code was anything but.
Encrypted and untraceable. Unhackable. A steel vault disguised with scribbles and paint. Hackers found their computers fried, and information was released for public judgment.
People stopped hacking.
Pictures were released, and explanations were given, names were provided. Truth liberated.
Humanity watched, focused, and silent. They had names, they had stories, and they had the truth. The blog became a window into reality, unfiltered and unmitigated.
The nonsense had never been more alive.
Jack Darby thought the ‘bots knew.
Miko and Raf weren’t exactly subtle, creating a blog that explained the backstory of the “neighbors” and who Karen was. It was only because Raf promised the site was the digital version of the Kremlin that Jack hadn’t really thought too much about it. If Miko was openly recording fights and taking pictures with every Cybertronian she met, then that was her business. The Aliens had been actively tracked and well-known phenomena for a few years at this point. The only difference was people had names and face plates to connect to the ghost cars, vandalism, and energy spikes.
Never mind how the Decepticons now had an army of “sock people,” which were being named and sparking the development of really intricate backstories.
‘Steve’ was a crowd favorite right now.
The ‘bots had to know, they had to have an inkling that their disguise was about as good as a plucked chicken being called a man. The freaking government was in on the joke. The Autobots, a highly advanced race of intergalactic warriors had to know- right?
So, why was Optimus reminding them how important it was to not reveal their cover?
At this point, Jack had two options. Question Optimus and open the doors to the hell-sites and thinly covered fanfics that featured the millennia-old grandpa and his band of misfits, or nod and keep accepting Raf's bribes. Avoiding eye contact, Jack nodded and feigned ignorance. He could not go back to burger flipping. Not with the Knockout Special existing in the same universe. How did they even make the buns shiny in the first place?
Playing the responsible angel child of a chaotic planet was too easy when one of their trio knew nothing about the art of subtlety. Miko hadn’t even bothered to come up with an excuse for trying to track down a Decepticon officer, a coincidental meeting at a cave-in was free real estate . At least Raf knew how to use his doe-eyed charm without screaming at the top of his lungs.
Safe to say Starscream refused to be interviewed.
Safe to say Miko was compiling a list of top Screamy fails.
Well, at least Jack’s bank account was benefiting from this. His entire college tuition would be funded by destroyed wrenches on eBay, but was it really worth this duplicity? To make light of this war and the life-threatening danger his planet was in?
His phone beeped, and looking at the notification, Jack was surprised to see a text from Raf.
Glancing at the boy, seated on the couch with his head almost pressed into his screen and fingers running across his keyboard, Jack opened the text.
\Soundwave wants in.
Yep, this was ride-or-die now.