One In A Billion | TFP

𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟏

By 7:00 a.m., I was suited up and ready to rumble. 

A slim black leather suit lay spread out, waiting. The black material clung to my form, accentuating my lithe figure as I suited up, material supple yet sturdy. Electroluminescent blue streaks ran down the arms and legs of the leather jumpsuit, illuminating the otherwise dim room with a futuristic glow.

My fingers footed over the hidden zippers and compartments of the suit, revealing an array of gadgets and weapons carefully stowed away. I checked the retractable blade in my forearm sheath, the compact smoke pellets, and the small vials of potent sedatives. Then I fastened on a utility belt adorned with compartments that held an array of tools – lock picks, communication devices, and a small vial of liquid that could short-circuit even the most advanced systems.

Adding to the list of gear, I strapped a pair of sleek, dual lightweight blasters to my thighs, the cool metal sending a shiver of anticipation through me.

I already had my guns meticulously laid out—an RPG, a SIG Sauer MPX, and an MR-183 'God Killer' Electrostatic Railgun. With the weapons secured, I holstered them onto my back.

My reflection stared back at me in the mirror, a girl dressed in a futuristic black leather suit and black combat boots, wearing a messy scarlet French braid, carrying a mound of heavy weaponry and comprehensively armed. 

I clenched my fists, and a surge of energy coursed through my veins. With a whisper of words in Russian, my body shimmered with a fiery glow, and in an instant, I vanished.

✘✘✘

The wind howled across the rugged Scottish Highlands, whipping through the tufts of grass and carrying a biting chill that made my breath fog. I found myself standing at the crest of one such hill, scarlet hair flowing in the chilly breeze, overlooking the sprawling landscape.

Moments later, I trudged on, my combat boots crunching against the frosted ground as I navigated the undulating terrain. Clutched tightly in my gloved hand was a dapper device. The device's readout blinked with a set of coordinates, confirming that I was drawing nearer to the terminus.

Latitude: 45.5678° S, Longitiude: -87.1234° E

I memorized the set of coordinates given to me by Bitstream, from the night before. 

Bitstream. 

The name seemed to stick with me. He was a Decepticon. And from all my time with the Autobots, I've come to understand that the Cons were their sole enemy. So why was I doing this? Why was I currently traveling almost 5,000 miles from Jasper to the middle of Loch Ness to meet with a Con? 

Well, simply put, I needed answers. 

Bitstream claimed he knew how to finish the job I was tasked with for almost a decade, and it would make sense since he was a Con, and Bots and Cons had a long history with one another. It would only make sense if I handed over the task to someone who knew more about the Autobots than I did. Because the sooner I completed my task, the sooner I could live in peace again. This was a burden I never even wanted, but it didn't come with a choice. Vassilyovich gave me an order. I had to execute it, or death would be the penalty. 

The silhouette of a steel mill emerged in the distance, blurred by the fog. 

As I approached the place, the structure loomed above me, a labyrinth of rusted beams and shattered windows. I looked down at the device one more time, a shrill beep confirming that I'd arrived at my destination. Steeling myself, I entered the dark slot cautiously, every step calculated to avoid detection.