Ratchet has the hardest job of all Transformers even back at the Ark, but now he’s doing emergency surgery in the middle of London rush hour and sweating transmission fluid. “Someone call for an emergency tow!” he yells desperately.
“I’ve got a better idea,” says a dark-robed, ice-blonde young man. He waves his wand and whisks them all magically toward the nearest garage.
Ratchet turns to him, eyes glowing with gratitude. “How can I repay you, Mr–?”
“It’s Professor,” smirks the man, “Professor Malfoy,” and though robots have no lips, they lean close and THIS WAS A TERRIBLE PROMPT
Tach catches Ashlock looking at his temples and pulls up the hood of his parka.
The captain of the Matthew Henson is tall and rightly suspicious. “You’re the investigators, you investigate,” he says. “Any supplies you need, we’ll run them down the plank and that’s that. None of my crew are setting foot on that ice.”
That’s fine by Ashlock: their cover would fold under scrutiny anyway. They hoist packs and drag the RAID-sled down to the broken road, and Dumont d’Urville rises cyclopean before them. The lights are still on, but no one’s waving. Katabatic wind burns Ashlock’s nose.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010