Chapter 2 - Nyxen 3

Parked at the side of an old dirt track Carjack had landed on after his three month stint in space, having been spat out by a malfunctioning Space Bridge, was a 4x4. His favourite type of vehicle, durable, decent armour and almost capable of travelling across the cruelist of terrains on all fours. And best of all, it was his favourite colour; deep green. Shame it ain't the best looking of motors ever... he grumbled to himself. Oh well, anythings better than this spark - forsaken EuroFighter everyone seems so keen on flying about.
A electric red beam flitted over the lost looking vehicle and a nono-second later, wings retracted, folding in on themselves as the foreign 4x4 swiftly shooed the high performance jet out of Carjack's system.
Damn flying machines ain't worth the scrap they're made from. He spat mentally as he took one last sensory sweep of his surrounding area and sped off further down the road, secretly hoping that no one had noticed that an alien craft had morphed into a mchine of their own design. He continued grumbling and doging about things in general, with the slight feeling of paranoia lurking at the back of his mind, wondering curiously about what Krusher was doing about his sudden disappearance with his much sought-after micro chip, which was still safely stowed away within a special secret compartment that Carjack had specially created for it.


Sat beneath the sideboard of a family kitchen, a washing machine lurked, jerking about as the heavy load it bore spun wildly in it's water logged drum. As the house hold machine went about it's daily business, two Fox kits sprang past, arguing with each other; again, another daily ritual to behold in the Ferman household. Two children, a pet cat, a pet budgie and two overworked parents. A typical family, or so it led outsiders to believe...
''Nu uh! Otherwise I'll tell dad what you did to his tie!'' The young vixen hissed, paws behind her back as she leaned menacingly toward her brother, of the same age and rust red colouration.
''You skank!'' He wailed, as if he'd just been shot.
''Don't use that kind of language in my house young man!'' An older vixen shouted from the adjoining room; the living room.
A glare from the brother, a protruding tongue from the sister and all hell broke lose, right there, infront of the washing machine, both children slipping on the cold linoleum floor and landing atop one another, paws flying, screams and curses tearing through the noise of the kitchen. The mother strode in, a plump woman, her brown, white streaked hair pulled back in a loose tail, fury etched upon her features. The children continued brawling on the floor unawares of the two, larger brown paws comming down on them. Two equally surprised yelps and they were back up on their small feet, ears caught between a fore finger and a thumb, one child per paw.
''What have I told you about fighting in the house?!'' She shouted angrily. ''Eh?! No. Fighting! How many times do I have to tell you?''
''S'rry mum...'' They mumbled in unison when the initial shock of having their ears pincered wore off.
''Now, your father already knows what you did to his tie, but it was me who fended off the inevitable month's worth of being grounded without TV. So for the love of the Gods, behave, or I'll ground you myself!'' She fumed and let the two go.

The washing machine gave a horrible gurgle and the twins looked at it, brows furrowed.
''Somethin' wrong with the washer machine agen.'' They pointed out.
But, no sooner had they said that, it righted itself, continuing on with it's final spin.
The mother eyed it suspiciously. A run of bad luck had cost them the last three washing machines, and since this one was picked up second hand, no one expected it to survive beyond three months. Six years had gone by and it was still going, much to the relief of the parents of the two children. No repair man had to be called out, no belts or pipes had to be replaced. If someone said that the machine didn't sound right, it'd miraculously right itself almost immediately. The twins joked that it was from another planet, dubbing the machine Vox after one of their favourite cartoon characters, ironically an alien machine himself. No one in the house was the wiser to this irony, except for the machine itself.
''Leave it alone.'' Their mother said, recalling the last time one of them touched it; the door had sprang open and flooded the kicthen with dirty warm water.
Since that incident, no one, but her, was allowed to use it. The drum slowed it's spinning, the remnants of the water draining as soon as things came to a peaceful halt. The mother open the door carefully, and once sure nothing bad was going to happen, no leaks, no flash floods, no fires from within the drum, she grabbed the near-by blue plastic basket and scooped the wet clothes from within the machine and pushed the door to before wandering out into the garage with the loaded basket to where the tumble dryer sat squat and ugly.

The twins looked at the washing machine, leaning in for a better look. Nothing amiss. Just an ordinary, square machine with a circular glass door, a machine built to do the duty of cleaning clothes, no matter how grubby. The two flinched at the sound of the front door slamming. Their father was home and the two exchanged a quick panicked glance and bolted for the back door, seeking sanctuary in the sun bathed back yard.
No one outside the household knew of their fear of the tall, gangly, business suited man that entered the kitchen. Only the machine did, and he considered this furred fleshling to be of no use other than to be used as target practice. The briefecase was slapped carelessly onto the crowded table top of the kitchen table and he took a deep breath and called out to his family. A slight delay in reaction and the two young Foxes walked in, un-enthusiastic in their movements. There was no hug or welcome home. Just a thick silence following the mumbled ''Hi dad.''
Then the woman walked in, empty laundry basket in paw. She stopped short of the kitchen table and eyed her husband warily.
''Hello, George. Nice day at work?'' She finally said, managing an 'everythings okay here' smile.
''It was crap.'' He snorted, the sudden aroma of alchohol filling the air. ''I lost three fracking clients today.''
He ambled over to the washing machine, eyeing up the small dribble of greasy water that trickled down it's front, puddling on the floor.
With a sharp kick he snorted; ''This piece of crap still going? Fuuuck... We shoulda scrapped it years ago, y'know. Gotten ourselves one of those nice, fancy large drum machines. Maybe then you could get my washing down in time for important meetings.''

''We've never had the money to buy anything new. Even this house is ex-council.'' She snapped back, clipping her sentence short as she realised what she was doing.
The children darted from the room and back out into the more friendly sunlight as George started toward his wife, paws clenching into fists, anger blazing in his eyes.
''How many times have I told you not to use that tone of voice with me, woman?'' He snarled.
She backed up. He encroached on her. She screamed as his fist pulled back. And the washing machine just sat there, continuing to watch the daily life of the Ferman's unfold before his visual sensors.


''I don't even know why I agreed to this!'' Complained a small wagon.
Then another joined in on the complaining.
''We didn't. It was him who bullied us into it.'' He growled.
Two small, white transporter lorries, both sporting the word MANN on their fronts followed an overloaded KAMAZ, who was equally as annoyed by the sudden change in plans. Instead of delivering much needed supplies to the Decepticon forces beyond the city, he was stuck here, heavily burdened, not only with repair supplies for the damaged Space Bridge, but burdened with two young Decepticons, who both think they know better than anybody, including those with more experience welded firmly under their belts.
''Stop grinding your gears over this! If it weren't for me 'bullying' you into this job, you'd be stuck scraping out the waste ditches surrounding base!'' He snapped angrily.
There was an audible groan from behind that was quickly silenced by one of Roadtrain's sudden curses about fliers. An unidentified jet transformed mid upwards arc and free fell the rest of the way to the ground, battering the already damaged road by his weight. Two red eyes focused sharply on the three transporters, and a small grin tilted the corners of a metallic mouth.
''Krusher has sent me to escort you to the Bridge.'' He rumbled.
''We don't need no escort. Especially from the likes of you!'' Roadtrain snapped, the stress of the past week slowly becomming all too much for him to handle. He didn't need, nor want a fighter jet bound Decepticon scout adding to his burdens. They always got in the way of things, even if they could fly.

''Tough nuts, Roadie. You're stuck with me, and I'm stuck with you until this job's done. We can't have you rolling off into the distance like our old pal 'Jack did.''
A whisper of an electronic sniggering passed between the two young transporters behind him, and Roadtrain growled.
''Quit yer sniggering, or I'll make sure that you'll never snigger again, got it?!''
Both went silent and Roadtrain set his sensors back on the jet infront of him.
''Get yer rusting bolts outta the road then, yer mis-firing piston!'' He shouted.
Panels and wings slid back into place and the unrecognisable jet took off at an almost vertical angle, with a burst of yellow fire.
''Damn flyers, bane of my existence... Alright, move out!'' He barked and the small trucks trundled along laborously after their temporary boss.

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