The black Charger rolled up to the restricted access gate at Hoover Dam just before dawn. The sky was still bruised purple, the Colorado River far below reflecting the first faint streaks of light.
Government plates gleamed under the floodlights; the engine purred low and authoritative. Henry—now fully Agent Harlan Crowe—lowered the window.
A Sector 7 guard in tactical gear scanned the credentials that had materialized in the glove compartment the moment the identity settled.
"Agent Crowe, Pentagon Liaison," the guard read aloud, voice clipped. "Level 8 clearance confirmed. Proceed to sub-level access, sir."
The gate rolled aside without another word.Henry drove through the massive concrete archway, tires humming on the smooth tunnel asphalt.
The dashboard screen flickered once—Omnitrix syncing with the facility's encrypted networks—then went dark again.
He parked in the designated black-ops bay, killed the engine, and stepped out. The air inside was colder, drier, laced with the metallic bite of machinery and ozone.
Armed personnel moved with practiced efficiency: black fatigues, suppressed rifles slung low, earpieces buzzing with constant chatter.
No one questioned his presence. Level 8 clearance carried weight here. He followed the red-striped corridor signs down three levels, boots echoing on grated metal flooring.
At the final checkpoint—a heavy blast door flanked by two guards and a retinal scanner—Captain Sarah Walker waited.
She stood at parade rest, arms crossed, posture rigid but not stiff. Tall, blonde, sharp-featured, with ice-blue eyes that missed nothing.
Her fatigues were immaculate, sidearm holstered at a precise angle on her thigh. Battle scars—faint lines along her jaw and temple—spoke of years in hot zones long before Sector 7 pulled her in as watchdog.
She had the look of someone who had stared down death more times than most people had stared down a mirror, and walked away every single time.
"Agent Crowe," she said. Voice calm, clipped, Australian accent smoothed by years of American command structures. "Pentagon finally decided to grace us with oversight?"
Henry met her gaze evenly—unflinching.
"Captain Walker. I'm here to ensure containment protocols remain ironclad. Nothing more, nothing less."
She studied him for a long beat—then nodded once.
"Follow me."
She swiped her card; the blast door hissed open. Inside, the main observation deck overlooked the containment chamber: a vast cylindrical vault carved deep into the dam's bedrock.
Floodlights bathed the center in harsh white. There—suspended in a lattice of cryogenic coils and reinforced alloy struts—hung Megatron.
Frozen. Immobile. A thirty-foot titan of jagged black-and-silver armor, optics dark, fusion cannon arm locked in mid-swing.
Frost rimed every seam and joint. The air around the body shimmered with cold; temperature gauges on the walls read –196°C. Liquid nitrogen mist curled lazily from the floor vents.
Henry stepped to the railing beside Walker. Other agents—techs in white coats, security in tac gear—worked quietly at consoles, monitoring vitals that had flatlined decades ago.
"Stable," Walker said without prompting. "No energy spikes in seventeen years. The cube's signature is still locked in the sub-vault below. We rotate cryogenic cycles every six hours. No breaches. No incidents."
Henry nodded slowly—eyes never leaving the frozen Decepticon leader.
"Impressive work, Captain. But the AllSpark's energy isn't static. It's… curious. Adaptive. If something—or someone—were to introduce an external resonance, even a faint one…"
He let the sentence hang. Walker's jaw tightened fractionally.
"We've modeled every conceivable intrusion vector. EMP shielding. Quantum dampeners. Redundant fail-safes. If anything tries to wake him, we'll know before the first servo twitches."
Henry's lips curved—just enough to be polite.
"I don't doubt your thoroughness."
Inside his wrist, the Omnitrix vibrated once—soft, almost imperceptible.
A mental ping: scanning initiated.
Alien DNA analysis running in background. AllSpark signature detected—blueprint-level complexity, infinite replication potential.
Cross-referencing with Cybertronian profiles already stored in the device's archives.
The scan completed in seconds.
AllSpark compatibility: 100%. Replication protocol unlocked. Weaponization pathways available.
Henry kept his expression neutral. Behind him, a junior tech at a console frowned—then leaned closer to his screen.
"Captain… faint anomaly on the outer perimeter sensors. Low-frequency pulse. Could be nothing—atmospheric interference—but it's directional. Coming from the north access tunnel."
Walker's eyes narrowed.
"Lock it down. Double patrols. No one in or out until cleared."
The tech nodded—fingers flying across keys.
Henry turned slightly—gaze drifting toward the massive vault doors on the far side of the chamber.
The pulse wasn't nothing. It was a signal.
Decepticon.
Deep in the frozen dark of Megatron's chassis, something stirred—not movement, not yet—but a microscopic energon filament thawed for a fraction of a second.
A single red optic flickered behind the ice—gone so fast no human eye caught it.
Starscream's voice—distorted, encrypted—whispered through hidden comms channels only the Omnitrix could intercept:"…leader… awakening protocol initiated… infiltration team en route… freedom is near…"
Henry's hand rested lightly on the railing—fingers curling. The game had just accelerated. He glanced sideways at Walker.
"Captain," he said quietly, "I believe we're about to have company."
She met his eyes—sharp, assessing.
"Then let's make sure they regret the visit."
The Omnitrix on his wrist pulsed once more—ready.
Hoover Dam.
Sector 7.
The AllSpark below.
And a frozen tyrant on the verge of waking.
Henry—Agent Harlan Crowe—smiled inwardly.
Perfect.