A/N: Finally got the next chapter out of my head in the form of somewhat coherent thought and onto paper!

And, for the record: Because I want an OC with a name that should plainly go with the opposite gender. It confuses people.

3. Acclimate

Ever since she had been thirteen, Benita Avery had been passed around foster families.

After all that had happened in the interim six years up to now, the all encompassing threat of death by alien machine failed to make her meek.

Making her somewhat uneasy was something of a different story.

After a bit of...aggressive coaxing, Ben had gotten into the mechanoid's cab, realizing that the odds of her actually outrunning a truck—or someone four times her height, at that—were slim to nothing.

Aside from that, the middle of nowhere in a cold Wyoming field was not a friendly place for an unsupplied human.

If that was even where they still were, she realized as she had climbed into the truck, trying not to think about what she was doing.

He'd hardly explained anything more to her; in essence, all she'd gotten was that something or someone apparently in a higher position than he was wanted her alive for her usefulness, he happened to be the unlucky caretaker, and she was to do as he told her. The underlying, giant-alien-robot-is-in-NO-mood-for-games threat had been clear in the last part.

Ben didn't bother to ask how they planned to cover up her disappearance; it seemed to be fairly clear.

She was dead. Her remains had been incinerated from the sheer heat of the "meteor's" impact.

She knew she must have stayed awake for all of half an hour after she and her new keeper had set off and again found civilization in the form of the paved road. She was unable to help herself from staring a little paranoidly around the interior, the only other option to stare at the eerily turning steering wheel in front of her (hands firmly sat upon). It didn't help that the dim moonlight didn't reach everywhere; Ben kept partly expecting something to come from the dark space of cramped foot room behind either front seat and grab her.

For the entire ride as she sat in horror movie suspense, the robot-made-truck's radio had been tuned in to various news feeds, some of which she was sure were not standard for even overpriced satellite radio.

While the un-standard appeared to be people speaking in coded messages as they took turns reporting updates on what Ben perceived to be a search, the standard was the droning news she was used to. Talk of what was left of the house she'd left behind never came up in it.

Of course. Where there are alien robots, there's sure to be government involvement and cover-ups.

Eventually, Ben lost interest as the inevitable imperative of sleep demanded to be addressed. She gave the steering wheel one last suspicious look—its effect lost due to the exhaustion burning her eyes and the constant, throbbing headache—before she carefully laid her head on a shoulder and cautiously closed her eyes.

A sharp, electronic noise startled her out of sleep what seemed like minutes later.

Eyes wide and posture alert, it took Ben a moment to reregister her situation. The moonlight haloed trees outside of the windows had been replaced by sunlight ringed buildings and a few early bird people.

Taking this in, she rubbed her eyes and stretched with an irritated groan.

Not only was the self-driving shadowy-red truck apparently beyond a hospital-administered morphine plus antiseptic induced illusion, still real despite her nap. But it was sentient and demanding too.

She was not liking this.

At least her new keeper wasn't too much of a stand out, as she suggested to herself as a consolation. Now that it was light out, she studied his interior. It was superficially normal; air vents, radio, speedometer and other partner dials, even a blank, in-dash GPS scr—

"Hands on the wheel," the mechanoid rumbled through his speaker system.

Ben came back from her zoning out with a start at his words. This was going to take some getting used to.

Despite herself, old rebellious-against-hostility habit kicked in.

"And if I refuse?"

Arson gave his equivalent of a snort at the significantly insignificant query. "I have no quandary. If we draw attention, however, the future ramifications will come down on your malleable organic back."

The human gave her own snort and leaned back into the seat, her eyes closing and head going back in clear insurgence.

"No one's going to notice anyway. If they do they won't believe their eyes."

Arson could see already that he was caught in something he would enjoy far less than he'd already imagined. From the very first one he'd seen to the ones passing his guise at that very moment, he felt justified to conclude that humans were such frustratingly contradictory creatures. The one he'd been charged with especially so, it seemed.

"It is amusing that you would speak so nonchalantly," he intoned, injecting his words with derision.

Ben responded without moving anything but her lips in a sigh.

"How so?"

"You are anxious."

She gave the steering wheel a convincingly indignantly questioning look, as if to say, "What? I am not."

"Your nervous system's registry tells me as much."

Yep. Definite getting used to.

She put on a passive facade.

"Yeah, well you would be too if you were sitting and riding inside of a sentient machine that could—and probably very much would like to—kill you at any moment in almost any way it wished."

Arson inwardly felt a swell of dark humor at the thought. At least his primitive little human had the sense to be aware of her surrounding situation.

"Yes. If I was a fleshy, primordial organic such as yourself, I might just kill myself before anyone else got to it first," he quipped mockingly. "Remember that."

She glared. This was satisfying enough for him. That is, until a moment later, when her eyes closed and she leaned back again as a slight smirk found her lips.

His alien augmented engine sent a rumble through him.

This infernal organic had nerve. And a definite audacity that was starting to show. Audacity that he was sure would get the human hurt or otherwise—worse—in the long run. The ramifications of which would come down on his back.

It was only a few minutes more of driving before they pulled into a parking lot and Ben heard the engine cut. She stared at the quaint little bank across the parking lot through the passenger's window on the other side, incredulously listening to the mech's instructions.

"Won't a dead person taking money out of an account look kind of suspicious?"

"Barricade will adjust it to make it look as if you withdrew from your assets yesterday."

She paused halfway out of the cab and turned to regard the steering wheel.

"What's a 'Barricade?'" Surely he wasn't talking about an actual roadblock?

Her seat vibrated lightly with the by now all too familiar rumble from the pretend truck.

"Barricade is a reconnaissance scout."

Names?

"You got a name too?"

"Arson."

Ben paused thoughtfully.

"Is that—"

"Go," the truck growled at her with finality.

Ben sighed dismissively and slid out to her feet. She concentrated on slowing her heart from the most recent adrenaline rush the mechanoid had caused. It didn't help her to be any less annoyed when she remembered that he could apparently detect her heart rate.

The doors of the bank swung open smoothly and with ease, the warm air that flowed through them scented with the smell of copy paper and a general office setting.

At the less discreet stares of the few people in line, she became self-aware of her somewhat tattered and definitely dirty clothes. She inwardly groaned.

Ben walked to the back of the line, sending a "discreet" glare back at a little boy whose gaze had tarried on her longer than everyone else's. He moved closer to his mother and quickly turned away.

Her turn in line came mercifully quickly.

Doing as she'd been told, Ben withdrew about two thousand dollars from her personal savings account; her "parents'" account was out of the question, as they only credited a card they'd left with her enough of a monthly allowance for whatever she needed. And then she only got more than that when she called them and told them what she needed to do.

The accountant stared at her somewhat suspiciously for a few moments when she'd asked for it all in cash, but forked it over anyway.

At least this part made sense, Ben thought. If they were supposed to be keeping a low profile—which was obviously the case, since Arson hadn't simply ripped the ceiling off the place and demanded money for her, or hacked an ATM and risk giving her a card to use and being tracked—cash was the optimal way to go.

Tucking the money safely away in a pocket, Ben made her way back out to the truck.

"I think I just got a cashier fired." She wasn't sure the limit on cash payouts. But if two thousand dollars wasn't it, it had to be at least pretty close. "And I'm gonna need some new clothes if I have to keep going out in public like this."

"You can get what you need when we arrive at our destination."

Her look turned questioning.

"Where are we going?"

As if to answer her question, when the engine turned and started, the GPS screen flickered on. It was just for what must have been all of two seconds, but it was enough to answer the human's question.

"Arizona? Why are we going there?"

Arson felt another ping of irritation. The organic was becoming more and more courageous in talking to him. An attribute which was becoming more and more annoying with each comment. He sighed.

Ben felt the airflow into the cab from the vents, the mechanoid apparently meaning it to be obvious as it blew her mid-shoulder-blade hair back.

"We aren't staying in proximity of our planetfall," he answered.

"Yeah, okay. But why Arizona?"

"It is most convenient. It's away from the site, and there are multiple Spark casing pieces to retrieve there," growled the speakers at her again.

"Are you kidding me? The things spread out that far?"

There was a rumble—obviously translated to Shut up, human—before the truck spoke again.

"It was just entering this planet's upper atmosphere when it broke apart."

Ben groaned, falling back in the seat. She was obviously not happy, her brow furrowed.

"Arizona," she repeated. "And it's hot there."

She'd just gotten used to Wyoming's temperatures, and found that she liked the warm summers better than the sweltering hot summers she'd been used to. And now? Back into the heat she went. Worse heat than she was used to, at that.

"This planet is distant from the sun at present in its orbit."

"Yeah it's winter now. But it gets hot." She sighed. "Just until we get these 'pieces?'"

"I am not a home for organics, human."

Ben groaned now as she brought her hands up to massage her eyes.

"Permanent residence?" she groused.

.

"Permanent residence," she repeated to herself, looking up at the dilapidated building through the windshield as they approached it.

They'd definitely picked an out-of-the-way place for her to stay.

Ben was certain the guised truck had taken a roundabout way to their destination; there was no way it took more than twenty-four hours driving non-stop to go south two states. Sometime after finally seeing the big "Welcome to Arizona!" sign between drowsing in the silence, she'd watched as they'd gone through and left the city and through the suburbs, continuing on until small and quaint neighborhoods every once in a while were all one came across.

Exurbia.

The large garage door on the building's side slowly opened as they approached, Arson rolling through it when it was wide enough. He braked and his engine cut.

Her door popped open, and Ben involuntarily drew back from the dreary view in the opening.

"A hangar?"

The dimly lit room was at least a good twenty square feet in area, ceiling almost twice as high above. The concrete floor was covered in dust and dirt, splotched different shades through aging and some kind of chemicals. Cobwebs were even viewable high in the corners from where she sat in the driver's seat.

"We'll be staying here," the omnipresent voice announced in its apparently natural growl passively.

Ben turned to regard the dashboard, facade questioning. This was a small hangar. Small hangars usually meant Busch planes. Busch planes usually meant noxious pesticides.

"Uh,—"

She cut short when the vehicle around her shook. Or rather moved, in a way manmade vehicles usually didn't.

She quickly scrambled out and away from him.

Trotting to the wall, she found herself standing in front of a flimsy metal door, the peeling faded black paint identical to the rest of the wall.

Ben stared at it. There was more to this building? It occurred to her that the side the door led to had been obscured from view the way they'd pulled up. The fact that it was late afternoon played a vital factor as well.

She reached out for the weathered handle and turned it—but not before looking back and glaring at the claret colored Avalanche for causing her false alarm. The door swung open slowly at her push with one quick, lone squeak.

A kitchen. The floor here was covered in a cheap, roll-out covering imprinted with tile patterns. It was scuffed oddly in some places. There was a counter a few feet in front of her, parallel to the wall she'd come through. On top of it sat a small, analog TV.

Ben walked in further. There was a small refrigerator, a stove, and multiple worn-down wood cabinets. Through a new door she found a small bathroom.

She walked back to the "garage," still reveling in bemusement at why someone would add an extension to a hangar. Obviously giant alien robots couldn't have done it. Then again, if they were advanced enough to perfectly mimic other machines... But no, the handiwork here was too rough.

She'd been opening her mouth to speak when she reached her initial entrance, but trailed off when her eyes wandered to the small bed right beside the door. An old, thin mattress sat on top of an undoubtedly old, rusting metal bed frame.

Ben looked from it to the truck twice. Right across the room, where she couldn't move without him seeing it .Where she couldn't breath without him hearing it. Though he'd made a point to settle as far away as the room allowed, it was still a short enough distance that he could be within human-squashing distance with merely a few of his ten-foot strides. Her head shook slowly.

"I—probably should have seen that one coming..."

Ben slept with her back to the mechanoid. Regardless of her situation, once she put it out of her mind to give her brain a rest, it was one of the deepest sleeps she'd gotten in some time.

Taking a shower had been the same in that it topped all others. The only somewhat warm water stung in her various obtained cuts and scrapes, an especially painful stinging area on her back. With no soap on hand (she had a feeling there was more she'd forgotten too; toilet paper thankfully not among them. Still, she hoped they'd go for vital vittles again once her mind had managed to wrap itself around all that had happened and settled enough to think straight), she'd tenderly cleaned up as best she could and waited leisurely until the water wasn't clouded with dirt and ash going down the drain before she got out.

Being as how they were in for the freezing nights of the desert climate and no air conditioner, Ben drowsily sat up from where she'd been curled up under the bed's thin sheet fully dressed.

She gave half a stretch as she stood up unseeingly, joints popping. Her hand managed to find the doorknob in the dim moonlight, walking through the door on a bathroom call.

When she returned, she froze with a start beside the bed.

Her wide-eyes stayed locked on the giant, mechanical creature lying in the corner. It hastily rose to its feet a second after she saw it, as if in response to her spike in heart rate. A low, almost rumbling grinding sound ripped from the metal dragon's mouth between its now exposed metal teeth, gleaming like finely sharpened daggers in the faint moonlight. A dull glow grew from the noise's source in its throat.

Ben was keenly aware as she watched its head move as it scanned the room twice. When its violet optics fell alertly on her, the grinding noise receded, the glow subsequently doing the same. Still, it didn't quiet click in the human's head until the beast gave a familiar, almost dismissive and condescending snort, the dark-red color of its armor finally reaching her in the scant light as the beast laid back down on the floor.

"—Arson?"

The dragon rolled its eyes at her, again condescendingly. She gawked.

Ben knew, if this were TV, now would be around the time the sizzling of her brain could be heard and steam started coming out of her ears. Or the like.

First the truck had revealed itself to be bipedal, and now, this? The four-legged Arson had even sprouted a tail.

A giant, wingless, meachanical dragon.

Slash-robot-slash-truck.

Ben shook her head slowly, brain still sorting things. The rumbling. The growling. The pretty much all around feral attitude. Not to mention appearance.

"Well that explains a lot," she said finally, falling into the bed.

Arson just growled.

"Mr. Secretary."

Secretary of Defense John Keller looked up from his paperwork on his desk.

"Yes?"

The young man in the doorway saluted in a somewhat casual military fashion.

"Just a progress report, sir. Nothing bad."

Keller sighed knowingly, only partly able to keep himself from smiling.

"Still nothing?"

"No sir. Still nothing." The young man hesitantly mirrored his smile, knowing his news was somewhat bad.

Keller nodded vigorously.

"Well," he spoke. "It's been over a week and a half since the new ones fell."

"Yes, sir," confirmed the soldier solemnly.

The Secretary of Defense sighed again. "Obviously the Decepticons did disperse from the area. They're laying low. Real low."

He turned to the young man, gaze asking for an opinion. The soldier couldn't help but to smile somewhat again, though unhappily.

"Something bad," was all he said.

"Yeah," agreed Keller. The man laughed after a few moments, running a hand across his forehead.

"Optimus Prime says we will know when the Decepticons are about to strike. I guess all we can really do right now is trust his judgment.

"Tell your commanders to continue the search, but cut the party in half. No point in wearing those men out over a lost cause. If they were going to do something immediately, they would have done it already."

"That really doesn't make any sense."

Lennox stood with one hand on a hip, the other hefting a handheld device giving off readings as he stared at the wreckage in front of him. Just a pile of ash and blackened wood from what it used to be, mostly contained within the foundation perimeter that could be made out.

"What doesn't, Captain?"

Lennox turned to Epps as the man stepped over stray rubble to take a place by his side.

"The matter at hand. The fact that we can't find anything."

Epps clapped his fellow on the back encouragingly. "Man, they aren't called Decepticons for nothing."

"Epps," the other parried, determined to rant. He motioned a gloved hand over the property. "There are readings all over this place. Like a Decepticon purposely made use of this house as something to cushion its planetfall—half the stuff here was completely incinerated. And yet, we can't find anything that amounts to a trail, or better yet, a Decepticon."

"Well, it's not like this just happened today," Epps proposed. "These kinds of trails disappear real fast. And this is, what, about the third time we've been back here from trying to follow 'leads'?"

"Yeah, but..." Lennox sighed, his breath curling into the cold air in front of him.

"Speaking of 'this.'" Epps looked over the property again. "How did the owners take it?"

The other sighed again, bigger. "I don't know. I wasn't the one talking to them."

Epps turned to look at the other. His tone and posture had changed. "Did...they lose something other than the house?"

"Yeah. A girl, from what I hear."

Both soldiers stood there in unanimous silence for a few moments. As they listened to the sound of plants rustling quietly in the seemingly endless cold breeze, both minds undoubtedly wandered back to their own loved ones.

Finally, Lennox sighed.

"There's nothing we can do about that obviously." He returned to his initial tone. "But it's enough to make you want to kick at least one Decepticon ass before we head back."

Epps chuckled.

"We'll get something—"

"Pack it in, gentlemen."

"—unless they tell us to pack it in," Epps finished in exasperation, twisting the deadened grass beneath his heel as he turned to pick up his equipment.

Lennox extracted his small radio. Though, like Epps, he already anticipated the next words that would come from it.

"What happened?" he asked anyway.

"Top of the brass just called for a fall back," the voice over it answered. "Cut the searching in half. They especially want you guys back. A lot of work waiting on you apparently, sir."

"All well and good," he responded, his tone contrasting the remark. "Heading back."

He turned to look behind them. Past the ruin strewn path that used to be a driveway, two vehicles were parked next to the road. Though only the neon ambulance looked out of place where it sat next to the oversized black truck.

Epps returned then, and the two of them walked out to the road.

"You guys didn't pick up anything new, did you?" asked Lennox, hefting his gear into the backseat of the truck.

"My sensors didn't pick up anything noteworthy," came Ironhide's voice through the speakers.

"Nor mine," supplied Ratchet, his voice relaying through the truck's sound system as well for the sake of the humans' hearing.

"Well. Damn." Lennox shut the door once he was situated in the driver's seat, Epps doing the same in the passenger's.

It was silent for another minute, the wind outside howling as it blew past along with the scenery.

"It does. Not. Make. Sense!" Epps jumped at his fellow's spontaneous outburst. Lennox scratched his head roughly, his hand somehow retreating without a chunk of scalp. "It's like they just got up and flew...away..."

He stared blankly out of the window.

"There are those able to adapt themselves for flight among Cybertronians," Ratchet reminded considerately, as if finishing Lennox's thoughts for him. "We discussed that possibility...? We just returned to the site just now to try and find a few better readings and clues."

Silence.

Epps crescendoed in a fit of half contained laughter.

"We both know you already knew that," he chortled. "And that overreaction proves that a human needs sleep and not caffeine to survive so they won't have hit and miss lapses of old age."

Lennox rubbed his forehead with a resigned smile.

"When is the last time I caught up on my sleep?"

"I don't know," Epps managed. "But you need to."

"The trip back offers a window of recharge time," suggested Ironhide.

"If that is possible with your driving," said Ratchet. Ironhide muttered something incoherent back.

"I might have to take you up on that anyway," said Lennox, already stretching.

"We'll wake you up if something happens," Epps offered, mirth still audible in his tone.

Lennox huffed. He twisted around to crawl into the backseat, careful about Ironhide's upholstery, allowing Epps to take the wheel.

"I would think you wouldn't have to if something did."

A/N: *is amused by thoughts of Ben frightening little children in banks*

Yes-yes, Arson gets three forms. But it comes with a catch; temporary weapons lock, anyone? (insert evil laugh here)

And so the third chap. is done!

Forced labor doesn't tend to make mechs tolerant towards witty organics. The snap comes soon...