Disclaimer: standard.

Author note: Sorry for the long delay! But "Hunt" and "Family Business" are being most disagreeable. (Dialme and Writer glare at Spike). Dammit vampireSam! Work with us here!

Hunt

4: Predator and Prey

Spike sat cross-legged in the middle of the salt circle he had constructed. Frustrated, he brushed the runes that covered the floor, written in chalk and in salt.

The runes were not magical, though at first glance they seemed so. The runes merely acted like an antennae, something to hone in his tracking skills as he scanned for the frequency of the old man, with the help of the items. Everything at least semi-living had a frequency, from vampires to humans to worms to amoeba. This frequency was somewhere on the electromagnetic spectrum, but humans had yet to find a tool to measure it, and were still ignorant of its existence.

Not to say that this frequency had no effects. Far from it. It was this frequency that made prey wary and alert, for they could sense the frequency of a predator nearby. However, humans had so dulled their senses to this frequency by boxing themselves up—boxes within boxes within boxes—that humans wouldn't know that a vampire was a vampire until he was munching at their throats.

The four items that he managed to track down over the years with the help of Miles were lying at the borders of the circle. The compass faced the south; the map faced the east; the telescope faced the west; and the glasses, lying in front of him, faced the north. The old man's frequency still reverberated from them, echoes from a dark past. He picked up the glasses absently, vaguely noticing the little scratch marks that adorned one side.

Three nights of trying to track down the old man ended in failure. He'd never quit; but he was ready to admit that he needed to rest. The darkened attic of the house was already getting lighter with incoming daylight. It wouldn't disintegrate him or anything (it was not a weakness common to his Clan) but it would make him extremely tired. Thank goodness it was a weekend.

Carefully, he got up from his salt circle, and placed the four items—the compass, the map, the telescope, and the glasses—carefully in a little black box, and stored it in the attic. Heading down the stairs, the hunger pang that he had been ignoring for three nights increased so sharply and so strongly that he was almost forced to his knees. He winced as his fangs elongated, his gums feeling as though they had been ruptured by the movement.

Oh, fuck! He had waited too long. Three nights of delay, and his body was wasting no more time in telling him that he was so damn thirsty.

Feed me now, or the next person you see dies.

He forced the thirst back with a promise that he would feed in less than an hour. He staggered past the kitchen, grabbing Mikaela's spare keys as he did so, and went out the door.

X x X

As he sat in the middle of Mikaela's disorderly driveway, Bumblebee contemplated his next course of action. He was unsure about what he should do next. For one thing, the Autobots didn't even know if Sam Witwicky had the glasses. He had to be related to the famous explorer—he definitely was Samuel James Witwicky, all laws of time and physics aside (and Bumblebee here had to at least temporarily disregard almost all the things that Perceptor taught him)—but that didn't mean that the glasses had passed into his hands. They could potentially drag in a human into something that he shouldn't have been involved in the first place.

On the other hand, they could say that about all the humans. It was their war, but being brought to the human world. The only thing that could somewhat rectify the situation was if the Allspark could be found, saved, and brought away from Earth, luring the Decepticons away from this fragile planet.

The Decepticons…were a rather large factor in whether or not the benefits in revealing themselves to Sam Witwicky outweighed the risks. The child was in danger just by bearing the Witwicky name. And if Bumblebee was this frustrated after five years of searching for remaining Witwickies, then he really didn't want to know what the Decepticons would do if they had a Witwicky in their possession. No, it was far better for Sam to be under Autobot protection, regardless of whether or not he had the glasses.

His processor was made up. Bumblebee would contact Optimus, Jazz, Ironhide, and Ratchet, and then together, they would find the next suitable course of action.

He'd have to warn them about the he-tends-to-freeze-logic-processors problem though.

Bumblebee was about to start up his engine when he felt a gloved hand against his metal frame. Bumblebee nearly jumped. What in Cybertron—Sam Witwicky had approached him without him sensing anything. Odd.

The child was looking at Mikaela's window, his gloved hands still on Bumblebee's roof, as if he didn't know whether or not to get in. The girl was asleep—Bumblebee had taken it upon himself to regularly scan for the whereabouts and state of being of his temporary charge. Sam was biting his lower lip, trying to make a decision, and—and were his canine teeth unusually long and sharp for humans? Bumblebee didn't remember them being that long the last time that he checked.

Sam sighed then, and took out Mikaela's spare keys. Bumblebee obediently unlocked his door, and the child got in. Again, Bumblebee had to note that his internal temperature was a bit cooler than Mikaela's—in fact, it was cooler than many of the students that passed by Bumblebee as he idly waited for Mikaela to finish school.

Bumblebee played insentient car for the first fifteen minutes, and realized that Sam was driving into the city nearest Tranquility. Bumblebee didn't know what he was planning to do there—at four in the morning, no less—but the Autobot decided to go along with it. Calling the others could wait.

X x X

Spike left the Camaro at a relatively decent, public spot—if he got so much as a scratch on it, he was certain that Mikaela would re-kill him—and walked the rest of the way, passing other hunters of the night as he did so.

Most vampires lived in the city, not only because a pale face could get so easily lost in the crowds, but also because their prey was there, teeming in numbers.

Most of them were Brujah, street-thugs who fit right in with their environment. The Ventrue Clan were well known for their weak stomachs, and were rarely seen in the city. They opted for high-end suburbia people, or better yet, high-end mansion type of people. In the United States, most of them hung out in estates, country clubs, and Hollywood.

Luckily, Spike was a Gangrel, meaning that, while the blood of rats would not sate him as it sated the grotesque Nosferatu, he could drink the blood of a diseased prostitute and still find it palatable. Not that he was particularly eager to relive that episode.

Disease and drugs and desperate, vain attempts at happiness seemed to plague humans left, right, and centre, poor things. The only thing more self-destructive than humanity was their vampire spawn, their hunters, the darkness in their shadows.

At least that's what Gabriel told him. But then again, Gabriel was a Toreador, considered pansies by the rest of the vampire society, and had a much better hold on his humanity. Spike's other mentor, Severance, was a Brujah, and would have said that humans were cattle, and were to be bred, culled, and eaten.

Still, for all their opinions on humanity, Gabriel with his pitying scorn and Severance with his outright disdain, they embroiled themselves in the human world. Last Spike heard of them, they were working for some secret government agency, something to do with (and the rest of the vampires laughed heartily at this) aliens.

And the Camarilla wondered why he was so messed up, with those two practically raising him.

He talked a random girl—a runaway, younger than Mikaela, giving her body for survival in the streets, poor thing—into going into an alley with him, in a deserted section of a desolate street. She was already intoxicated, and was highly amused by his stuttering.

Weren't they all? Eloquence of speech and elegance in posture were not among the vampiric gifts passed on to him. Luckily, she was too drunk, and persuasion was a common vampiric trait, so he got her there without trouble.

He had already fed and laid her on the ground—breathing shallowly, but still breathing—before he noticed that he had an audience.

A police car had stopped right outside the mouth of the alleyway. The moustached police officer was looking at him blankly. He was probably still trying to figure out what he was seeing. Damn. He'd have to take care of that. A quick bite, and the officer wouldn't remember the occurrences of the last five minutes.

Spike went over to the car and yanked the door open.

What the—? He peered in, brow furrowed, absently licking the last traces of blood at the corner of his mouth. The only 'passenger' was a boom box, which was weird in and of itself. But he could have sworn that—

A screeching noise filled the roads, the sound of rubber and asphalt and far too much friction. Spike's head snapped to the right, looking at the source of the noise. His eyes widened.

The freakin' Camaro! Without a freakin' driver! Heading straight for him!

Strangely, Spike's first clear thought was: Man, Mikaela's gonna be pissed; she really worked hard on that car.

He started to back away from the police car, noting an escape route right behind him, in the direction opposite of the possessed car, when, without warning, the police car's door swung shut, pushing him inside.

X x X

Bumblebee kept Sam on his scanners until he had disappeared in an alleyway with a young girl. Then the yellow scout shut his scanners off.

Bumblebee had been through the human Internet. He had a sneaking suspicion as to what Sam would be doing with that girl, and he had no wish to look. Human methods of reproduction were odd at best, and demanded a level of physical intimacy that Cybertronians did not know. There was a huge stigma, though, against doing it in alleyways and in exchange for money. Bumblebee, not being of the planet, did find it, at the very least, disconcerting that humans would do such a thing amongst strangers. If you did not know them through spark, how could you expect to know them through body?

Though Bumblebee was not one to judge, he kept his audios off all the same, and scanned the surrounding area idly. Humans were such strange creatures.

Disease and drugs and desperate, vain attempts at happiness seemed to plague humans left, right, and centre, poor things.

His musings were cut short when his scanners picked up Barricade's presence, right in Sam's vicinity.

Bumblebee, cursing both his inattentiveness and Barricade's shielding abilities, started his engine, without bothering to turn on his hologram, and sped down the alleyway.

By the time he had reached the area, Barricade already had the boy in his interior. He could see two dark shapes moving in Barricade—probably Frenzy deciding to have some 'fun' with their captive—and Bumblebee hit the gas, tearing after Barricade as the mech entered the freeway. He'd deal with the ensuing human confusion later. Right now, he had to ensure his charge's survival.

It was a short-lived chase. Out in the deserted freeway, for no apparent reason, Barricade suddenly swerved, his sides tearing against the guard rails, leaving streaks of paint. Then the mech made a sharp turn into a construction site, attempting to lose Bumblebee before stopping. But why was he stopping?

His efforts were in vain. Bumblebee made the turn, transforming as he did so.

Something dark hurtled out of Barricade before the mech even stopped, and entered the darkened, half-finished building. Bumblebee caught a glimpse of rust-red metal before his attentions were turned elsewhere. Swiftly, Barricade transformed, ejecting Frenzy. Frenzy followed whatever came out of Barricade, and Barricade was about to do likewise, before Bumblebee smashed into him.

Leave the boy alone! Bumblebee transmitted, sending his fist into Barricade's faceplate. Bumblebee scanned wildly for his charge. Sam was still in the area, being pursued by Frenzy. He must have escaped without Bumblebee noticing…that was the only logical explanation. The other dark shape that had ejected from Barricade—what was it? A Decepticon minion that the Autobots were ignorant of? Bumblebee didn't know, and he didn't have time to find out.

"Little fragger, Lord Megatron did you good, didn't he?" Barricade sneered. The mech was definitely the worse for wear. He had somehow sustained damaged to his wires, and who knows what else to his interior. It looked like some savage animal had mauled him.

Some lucky 'bot had landed some good hits while Barricade was in his alt-form.

Bumblebee didn't reply, and instead focused on bringing his opponent offline. The sooner he did that, the sooner he'd be able to get to Sam before Frenzy did.