Heartbreak Mentality (WIP)

Originally Posted by Prologue: Accidents Happen

Thunder roared overhead the Nevada desert highway, rain fell hard against the mangled frame of an upside vehicle unlucky enough to become a victim of 'road rage'. Barricade bore down at his comrade's handiwork with indifference. Bonecrusher had not used his usual amount lethal force and thus the pitiful creature inside had survived, just barely. The fleshbag's screams had filled his receptors, nearly drowning out the rain drumming against his armor. It had fallen silent when Barricade had decided to inspect him, with every intention of doing the silencing himself. The mangled fleshbag nearly choked on his own tongue at the sight of him and proceeded into unconsciousness when Barricade poked him with his clawed finger.

"Why did you attack the vehicle? Blackout had it taken care of," Barricade said. It wasn’t that the Decepticon cared, quite the contrary, but the less attention they brought to themselves the better. Bonecrusher shrugged giving the car a kick.

"It was in my way. The car hindered me, and in turn, allowed the protoforms to escape us," Bonecrusher hissed raising a foot. He planned to end the life of the human being completely; Barricade caught his leg on the way down and shoved him back. "Leave the fleshbag. According to Frenzy, its demise should be in a timeframe of five minutes," The Decepticon growled.

Bonecrusher reserved the urge to pull Barricade's arms from his sockets, he leaned forward into the face of his 'comrade' and growled. "I should care, because? Do not deny me the pleasure of killing these pitiful creatures, lest you wish to become my enemy," Bonecrusher snarled. Barricade did not bother to answer the transformer's threat; instead, he reverted to his vehicle mode. Bonecrusher continued to glare down at the tattered vehicle until Blackout flew overhead of him and dropped Frenzy off.

The tiny machine shook his fist angrily at the car before scrambling over to Barricade's open door. Bonecrusher cast a wary glance upon the wet desert terrain, his eyes focused on the upturned earth still smoking from the crash landing protoforms. They had received news from Starscream that two more meteorites were approaching the area Barricade and Bonecrusher were patrolling, and that they were possible Decepticons.

However, given the protoforms hasty retreat upon their discovery, the Decepticons were now sure they were no ally of theirs. More Autobots had landed on earth, most likely to aid in the search for the All Spark as well. While one Autobot worked to their advantage, three was not a number they anticipated nor welcomed. He prayed to their lost leader, Megatron that their intelligence mainframes were scrambled beyond repair.

Perhaps the human faction, Sector 7, would make short work of them if they ever crossed paths. "Bonecrusher, we're leaving," Barricade announced sharply. Bonecrusher transformed back into the Buffalo mine protected vehicle and followed Barricade down the stretch of road, while Blackout headed back the military base he took up as a hiding place.

Elsewhere, the two protoforms found themselves crouching in a ditch, monitoring the activity of the retreating Decepticons. “We’ve got to get a new travel agent," One muttered dryly. The smallest transformer ignored her friend's comment as she let out a sigh of relief. The Decepticons had almost captured them, and it was a strange and terrible blessing that there was something in Bonecrusher’s way.

"We should go now. I swear to Primus himself, I'm beginning to rust and we need to find the appropriate disguises if we're to help my commander," She said. The largest protoform made no move to follow his retreating comrade, his blue optics focused entirely on the body hanging upside down in the mangled vehicle. "Bumblebee can take of himself for a while. What about the human?"

The smallest protoform gave her comrade an undeserved whack on the head. "Didn't you hear Barricade? He has not got long to live. His vitals are dangerously low, not mention lost quite a lot of fluid. He will not last night," The second protoform, responded harshly, hoping reason would overtake her friend's overly sympathetic spark.

"If Ratchet were here, he'd help this human," The largest protoform argued, rubbing his throbbing head.

"If Ratchet were here, he'd tell the you same thing I just did!" She proclaimed. Her friend looked away, clenching his fists; a sure sign that he was about to do something foolish. The smallest protoform's eyes softened. "Please, friend. Now's not the time to be making hot headed decisions!" She tugged on her comrade's arm in order to further her point. The protoform sighed in dismay, as much as he knew his friend was right, he could not bring himself to leave the human dying in the middle of nowhere. Doomed to die or not, he deserved better. "All right, all right, we'll leave," He said, resigned.

"Thank you R--"

"But, as soon as we find the appropriate disguises, we're coming back. I can't leave him out here."

"But -- he'll be dead by then! No course of action will fix his fate,"

A look of determination crossed the Autobot's face. "Maybe not, but I can't just leave him there. Could you?"

The smallest protoform nearly blurted 'yes' but thought better against it.

Originally Posted by Chapter II: Owen

(Present Day):

Owen Armstrong awoke to the sound of his mother's fist hammering against his bedroom door, he peered up from underneath his flattened pillow with a slack eyes. Owen's eyes wavered at the sight of the sunlight peeking through the window beside him. His eyes in general felt swollen, and unconsciously he reminded himself to turn his lights off before going to sleep. He rolled out of bed. A mound clothing cushioned his fall. Owen grabbed his mattress and hoisted himself off his back. "Owen, get up! You'll be late for school!" His mother's muffled voice cried. Owen winced at the reminder; Sunday had come and gone, he would have to leave the house today. Never bothering to answer his mother, he ventured towards his bathroom at the slowest pace he would manage. "It’s either school or the medication," Michelle Armstrong warned. Owen groaned picking up his pace; the antidepressant medication prescribed to him by his doctor said to help him with his agoraphobia, only made Owen sick. The seventeen year old often asked his mother if she would ever notice if he decided to switch the pills with rat poison. It was his subtle way of letting her know that the medication gave him 'suicidal thoughts'. A rather weak excuse, especially if he hoped she’d take him off the pill.

Michelle Armstrong saw right through his ruse, however, and threatened him with the alternative; Going back to the therapist on a daily basis. Afterward Owen stopped retaliating against his mother's attempts to help him with his so called 'problem', though he give her a hard way to go every now again. He couldn’t understand why everyone thought his being cooped up in his bedroom was such a bad thing. Granted, it was not a normal thing, but hardly on the top ten lists of deadly mental illnesses if even that. Owen pushed the thoughts aside for now as he shuffled a little faster into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The desire to drown his worries in a long hot shower overwhelming now.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Owen came downstairs at a moderately calm pace, the knowledge of being fifteen minutes late for school already processing through his mind. He had taken longer to get ready than he expected, but by the blank expression on his mother's face as he entered the kitchen told him she had expected it. Owen pulled his backpack up a little further onto his shoulder. He ventured into the fridge for the sandwich he had prepared the other night and forgotten to eat, he spotted the white container stacked under several others full of leftover food from various points of the week. "Mom, why is my sandwich on the bottom of the stack?" Owen ventured.

Michelle peered past her son's lanky body and peered at the Rubbermaid container her son was currently pointing at. Her nose wrinkled at the memory of opening the accursed thing and being bombarded with the most awful smell her nose had ever encountered. It was most likely another strange mixture of condiments, she thought. "Its stale, it needs to be thrown away," Michelle answered casually. "No its' not, I made this thing last night. One of my special sandwiches," Owen stated with a smirk. Michelle rolled her eyes at her son as he yanked the container out from under the others, thus causing the others to fall over. “Seriously mom, have some respect for my stuff," Owen grumbled dejectedly. Michelle shrugged dismissively, raising the mug to her lips she sipped quietly on her coffee, wondering how she ended up with such a weird little boy -- now nearly a man. Michelle found herself lowering her gaze as Owen moved methodically through her kitchen, grabbing junk food and at least three apples, a poor counter-balance to the mounds of artificial food he usually ate the entire year. Owen finished packing his messenger bag when his mother stood up and moved away from the table, the teenager stepped back for a moment completely taken by surprise by the woman's sudden movement. Michelle smiled fondly at her son; Owen regarded her cautiously as he felt her hand slip into his. "You know I love you, right?" Michelle inquired softly, smoothing back his wild hair.

Owen plastered a goofy grin on his face and nodded, unsure where this was going. Leaning closer to his mother, he whispered, "Mom, have you been drinking again?" His brow wrinkled even more when Michelle smiled pleasantly at his question instead of scolding him. It was as if she was teasing him with a secret, he felt stupid and flinched when she pattered him on the shoulder. The next thing Owen knew he was standing at the front door. "Mom -- mom, what are you doin'?" He proclaimed nervously, his face red as a beet. Michelle didn't answer her son, instead she opened the screen door and shoved her son out the door. Owen tripped over his own feet in a desperate attempt to get back inside his house. Michelle slammed the hardwood door in his face and locked it. "Mom, I was leaving!” When no answer came, he kicked the door with as much ferocity as he could possibly could. “This is not how you reinstate your son back into normal society!" He practically bellowed at the door.

"Well, I'm tired of taking it slow! Your seventeen years old for cripes sake, go act like it!" Michelle retorted.

"I could have a panic attack!" Owen punched the door.

"Agoraphobia and panic attacks are two different things. If you do have a panic attack, stick your head between your legs. Now get to school," Michelle snapped. Owen shot the door one last simmering glare before forcing himself to march down the stairs. He paused on the last stair feeling his muscle tense, Owen swallowed against the tightness in his throat as his heart began to race, his breathing hitching. Owen patted himself down frantically in search his keys. Stupid mom, he thought bitterly. Shoving his hands into his jacket pocket, he finished out his keys. Owen bolted forward across the path as fast as his legs would allow. He allowed his eyes to wander the sleek body of his blue ‘67 Mustang fondly; as he finished his approach the door opened as if to welcome him. He halted for a moment, his keys jingled in his palm. It was a strange occurrence that happened ever since Cindy tried his steal his car. The door had swung out and knocked the teenager onto her stomach. Owen teased her about for weeks to her chagrin.

When it didn’t happen again he chalked it up to faulty locks and springs in his door. Giving the door handle a jiggle, Owen slipped inside the car taking comfort in the driver’s seat despite his trembling hands. The familiar smell of leather interior both calmed and unnerved him. Owen sat quietly in the car letting the silence wash over him. His left hand gripped the steering wheel then wandered down to its center. The boy's thumb brushed past the strange insignia, it had been there ever since after the accident. It put him on edge in the beginning, but he barely paid much attention to it now. Another custom detail to admire, appreciate. "Here, we go," Owen muttered, turning the key in the ignition. The vehicle roared to life and grinded when the key was turned too far.

Owen winced easing up on the key, the engine hummed as if in appreciation. Thank God, this is my last semester, Owen thought wearily. Pulling out of the driveway he slammed his foot down on the pedal, the reaction from the car was not one he expected. The car came to a halt throwing Owen against the steering wheel, the boy bit down on his lip praying his mother was not looking out the living room window. Inhaling he kept control of his nerves, pressing down on the gas pedal slowly he smiled when the car lurched forward and proceeded down the street.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Owen arrived at school he was already half an hour late, he had missed half of the first period. As he cruised down the empty street, he stifled a groan of dismay. The parking lot was already jammed beyond capacity, so he had to park outside school grounds. Just his luck. He pulled up behind a U-Haul truck, Owen turned the car off pausing to listen to the rumble of the engine fall away. He stepped out of the car and moved quickly across the sidewalk onto school grounds, on the look out for anyone that could land him in the principle‘s office. Owen pushed the door open and listened to it creak. It was a strange way of reminding himself that he was miles away from his house. Not caring who would see him at this point, Owen hurried down the hall. The halls, illuminated by the sunlight pouring through the skylight and double door windows, seemed to stretch on forever. Anxiety began to swell up in his chest, biting the inside of his cheek Owen bolted forward, his feet pounded against the ground, pushing him forward and onward. The rattling of the lockers almost brought him to a halt but the adrenaline kept him moving, he flew past the principle's office as the door opened. Owen turned the corner without slowing down, his feet slipped out from under him and Owen hit the floor hard. The boy's chin bounced causing his teeth to clamp down on his tongue. Bone met soft flesh, and Owen opened his mouth quickly as he forced himself up off the ground.

Cradling his throbbing chin, he resumed his jog down the hall towards the door at the very end of the hall. Becoming aware of footsteps behind him, Owen threw a glance over his shoulder. Two boys -- probably no older than he -- stumbled to a pause quickly glancing in the other direction. Owen swore he heard the kid mutter his hippie-child friend, "Oh, man -- its - it’s that guy. Uhh..." Owen heard the teen's finger's snapping quickly. "Owen Armstrong?" The hippie-child supplied, tucking his near-white hair behind his ears. "Yes, exactly, Owen Armstrong!” The brunette snapped his fingers again. Owen, like the very like him, was not known for being the most sociable person in his school. He fell somewhere between ‘non-existent’ and ‘weird’. Anyone who knew of his disposition could always set him off in all the right ways. Everyone else simply avoided him.

Maybe it was the fact that he didn't wear old spice deodorant and the Dollar Store brand that kept people away, it tended to wear off under extreme heat. That or his wardrobe -- ratty pants, oversized T-shirts, and grungy hoodies -- that scared them. Not that he worried over how he looked, that was the last thing on his mind. Owen nodded to himself in affirmative. Maybe it was the incident with the meat head Trent. That wasn’t actually his most defining moment in school history. Owen self-consciously rubbed his untamed eyebrows. Probably. As he drew nearer to the classroom door, he spotted a trashcan. Owen spat a wad of saliva and blood into the can as he passed. He entered the classroom in the middle of the teacher's speech about High-Temperature Superconductors. The entire class turned their attention on Owen, their faces a mixture of relief and irritation. Their teacher, Mr. Abrams, seemed to stare right past him. Owen began to wonder why when he was shoved further into the room by the two boys that been behind him earlier. Mr. Abrams smiled humorlessly at the sight of the trio. "Ah. Owen, Miles, and Sam. So nice of you to join us," He mused dryly. Owen shrugged his shoulders as he moved towards his designated seat. "I overslept," Owen muttered guiltily slumping in the chair. Typical seemed to be what Mr. Abrams was expressing to the teen. He turned to Sam and Miles who immediately began to speak at the same time. "Please! One at a time!" The teacher cried. The two boys clammed up then looked to each other for assistance. Sam decided to speak. "Well, you see, there was -- uh, 'problem' in our other class, and Mrs. Municipal wanted to see us," Sam chuckled nervously.

"Take your seats please, gentlemen so that I may continue teaching the class," Mr. Abrams deadpanned. Sam and Miles hurried over to the seats in the middle of the room and were rather disruptive when it came getting themselves together to work. Owen pulled out his notepad and cassette recorder, knowing he was better off copying it from the horses mouth rather than wrack his brain over it later on at home. Assuming the house was without company when he got there. A little over a week ago, Michelle had told him Craig was coming for a visit. Owen paled at the very ideal of being the same house as Craig Armstrong. His estranged father's visits were never quiet nor pleasant. Michelle always found something to argue about, but Craig kept coming back, hoping to ’set things right’ by them. It wasn’t because he was a terrible father, just the absent kind. Things were uncomfortably awkward when Craig was around, and truth be told, Owen did not feel the desire to get to know his father as most boys did. That ship had come and gone. Craig was forever to be described as a man more in love with his work than his family. Something that utterly broke his mother‘s heart. It was a terrible cliché and it was the defining attribute in his family life. The love/hate relationship between his parents disturbed him, Owen had no wish to try and figure it out the mechanics either.

Mr. Abrams spun dramatically back around to face the blackboard and began to write. "Now as I was saying; Superconductivity occurs in a wide variety of materials, including simple elements like tin and aluminum, various metallic alloys and some heavily-doped semiconductors. Superconductivity does not occur in noble metals like gold and silver. Or in most ferromagnetic metals..." Owen's mind shut down, absorbing only abstract information from the world around him. Unconsciously, he retreated to the safety of his mind. To the ones on the outside his face was neutral, without expression. The only way Owen would be found out was if Mr. Abrams called on him to answer a question and he didn’t respond. By that time, Mr. Abrams was too far-gone in his summary of superconductivity to notice that one of his students had fallen asleep.

Originally Posted by Chapter III: Flashbacks

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(March 6th, 2006):
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Owen went unseen by his parents as he moved towards the staircase, he cast an embarrassed look to his mother, who in turn, met the steady gaze of her son and smiled bitterly. “Owen, please excuse us, there‘s something Craig and I need to talk about. Go upstairs,” She said. Like I need your permission, he thought lamely. Owen’s brown eyes fell on his father, who sat silently at the dinner table his gaze meeting Michelle‘s. Owen retreated upstairs to his bedroom and locked his door. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared out his window. Night had fallen, he listened to the rain beat against his window as the thunderstorm raged with a fury the neighborhood hadn't seen in weeks. He was glad, lately the whether had been far too dry and hot for his tastes. If he listened hard enough he could hear Craig throwing a thousand obscenities at his mother who always retaliated with glass objects hurtling towards Craig’s head. Owen crept out the house through his window, praying that lightening didn’t strike the tree while he climbed down.

On nights like these, the outside was as much a comfort as sleeping in his car was when his parents fought. Owen landed on the ground in a crouch, standing up, stumbled backward, nearly loosing his footing. Righting himself, he jogged away from the tree. As Owen approached car he paused in mid-step, he cast a look towards his open window and wondered if his parents had sensed his absence yet. Owen eyed the front door for a minute, Craig would be storming out of it any second now. The last thing he wanted was his father trying to coax him back into the house. Heaving in irritation he resumed his approach toward the Mustang. Hopefully his parents were too wrapped up in their own problems to even hear him pulling out of the driveway. He slid into the drivers seat with a sigh. “Time to hit the road, buddy,” Owen said, turning the key in the ignition.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Moments later, Owen was sitting comfortably inside his car, attempting to see past rain that saw it fit to drench his windshield. Flipping the windshield wipers up to their highest mode, he urged his car onward until he reached the desert highway. The empty space put him at ease, and it was a welcome respite. Owen drove for what seemed liked hours, enjoying the sound of The Doors filtering out of his radio. He shivered at the chill that swept through his being, a sure sign that he was going have to stop soon. The radio station he was listening to crackled in and out through the static interference, the teen grumbled in irritation as he struggled to hear 'Riders on the Storm' through the interface. He tried adjusting the station but to no avail, static reigned supreme before the radio died. Owen punched his radio in frustration. "No good piece of...shit!" A loud bang rang out overhead, Owen's heart skipped beats as his body fell into the clutches of fear. Another bang echoed mere seconds after the other and this time he felt an aftershock. The Mustang jerked to the left, Owen struggled to keep from driving off the road, he virtually had no control over his vehicle anymore. Turning the steering wheel to the right, the vehicle shuddered and began to swerve out of control. The radio roared to life with a terrible screech, Jim Morrison's vocals became indecipherable wail akin that of fingernails raking against a chalkboard.

His ear drums felt like they exploded, Owen clamped one hand to the right side of his head as the windows shattered. Owen barely caught the sight of two objects crash landing not far from where he was approaching, and then the ground began to tremble. Hs eyes snapped shut to shield themselves from the jagged shards of glass. Lost in the chaos of confusion, Owen barely had second to realize what had happened to his car, by then it was too late. He was thrown violently against the door of his car, his head collided with the steering wheel.

The Mustang tumbled off the road onto desert land, rolling until it was brought it a halt by an unsuspecting boulder. Owen hung upside down in his car, saved by his seatbelt. Every nerve in his body was on fire, Owen hurt in places he’d never thought could sustain injury. “Help… help me…,” Owen choked on his words, blood bubbled out between his lips, running down his face into his nose and eyes. The car shuddered like it was being rocked by an earthquake and Owen was vaguely aware of anything, not even his pitiful gurgling screams. His body tensed and he cried out in pain, the car was rocked violently from side to side, Owen screamed louder. “Irritating fleshling,” Owen turned his head just as a towering figure lowered itself to his level. Owen nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of a seemingly mangled face trapped in a steel muzzle. His mouth hung agape allowing the blood to flow freely down his face onto the ceiling of the car. Holy crap...! A long slinger claw came toward him. Owen was frozen with fear, the sharp end of ’finger’ pressed against his stomach piercing the surface of the skin. The last thing Owen remembered was his head bouncing against the headrest.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Is he alive?”

“Yeah, but only just. Primus, humans are fragile, I might broken something getting him out that belt. Grab his car, we’ve got get him to the proper medical facilities.”

“That’s easier said than done. What I am gonna do with his car?”

“Leave it somewhere close by. A busy intersection perhaps?”

“No, they’ll be questions about how he got out the car.”

“They’ll be more concerned about his injuries than how he got out the car. Just do it.”


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The memory of blistering pain came back like a thousand bee stings, jolting Owen out his sleep. The reality of his situation came rushing back to him when his head collided with the ground, Owen drew in his lips so that they did not touch the floor. The laughter of his classmates had him standing in record time only to sway and fall down again. Owen had smacked his head on the ground a second time. Serves me right, he thought wincing. "Mr. Armstrong, I would've thought you got enough sleep, given your lateness," Mr. Abrams mused. Owen gave his teacher a sort of pitying expression as he sat back down in his chair, after giving his recorder a quick look to check if it was still on; Owen slouched in his chair. "I'm sorry Mr. Abrams, my mom kept me up all night," Owen supplied lamely. More laughter erupted from the class, Owen stared blankly at the veins visible on his hands.

Mr. Abrams scoffed. "With what?" His teacher inquired. Cognitive therapy with Dr. Baroness, what else? Owen simply shrugged slouching further into his seat, he wasn't going to answer that question in front of the whole class. His cheeks were burning hot now. Mr. Abrams pushed the issue no further than he did and only gave Owen a brief mention of staying behind after class to have a word with him. Owen participated in the remainder of the lesson with a hood over his head, listening to both the idle whispers of the classroom and Mr. Abrams.

His mind drifted to the nightmare repeatedly, the red eyes burning holes into his very being. Beforehand, Owen remembered being unable to recall anything, he hardly remembered his waking day in the hospital. Michelle sat by his bed, a sobbing mess. She told him he had been involved in a hit and run accident on the hospital. A car had come driving through the entrance of the building injuring several others in the process. According to the doctors assessment of his injuries, he suffered massive head trauma, had broken several ribs, along with his arm and leg. The doctors were saying it was a miracle that he was even alive after such a collision, but Owen did not see his fate in such a light. Nightmares and pain beyond the touch of morphine were all that welcomed him the waking world, he couldn't fall back into a coma if he wanted to. His mother rarely visited him, she couldn't bare to see in him in such a helpless state. Owen suffered alone in a crowded hospital. He underwent physical rehabilitation with the help of the hospital's nurse, Alison R. Hart-Burnett (Lady Jaye to Owen). She took care of the teenager, providing an surrogate mother relationship in the absence of Michelle. Their relationship started simply and progressed into a friendship Owen would value for the rest of his life. The thought of asking her out crossed his mind but Allison confessed to Owen, weeks before his final evaluation, that she was going to marry a man named Kup. Bummer. Within the required timeframe Owen recovered to a point the doctors were comfortable with and he was discharged from the hospital. Feeling as though she owed him, Allison took Owen home. Immediately, his uneasiness in the vehicle was noted. The only thing that welcomed Owen home was a depressed mother, and a fully repaired Shelby Mustang. He could remember the conversation with his mother well...

"Mom, it would've cost a fortune to get that thing repaired. How’d you do it?" Owen was not one for looking a gift in the mouth, but the near-mint condition of his car aroused a great curiosity in him that it distracted him from the crutches under his arm. "What thing?" Michelle looked at her son with confusion then stared out the kitchen window. Owen felt his heart skip when his mother’s face mirrored his surprise. "I didn't fix the Mustang, that thing was totaled. It should be at the junkyard now," She said.

"Totaled?" Owen squeaked. The Mustang had been killed. "What do you mean, 'totaled'?"

"Just what I meant, it was beyond repair. I’m not even --” Michelle waved her hand dismissively. “Maybe one of your friends fixed it..." She trailed off, rushing over to the microwave.

"Mom, you know as well as I do, I don't have any friends," Owen retorted. The Mustang had been killed, it was the only thing that repeated in his mind.

"Well you should work on that. It’s not healthy for boy your age," Michelle mumbled, sniffling. "Maybe one of the neighbors did it. Just be glad, you didn't have to pay a cent for it.” Moving toward her son, she stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek. Owen welcomed the affection. “I‘m glad your home sweetheart." With that, his mother shuffled back upstairs to drown her woes in green tea. His curiosity not yet quelled, he ventured outside to visit the nosey neighbor's daughter, Cindy. To his surprise, Cindy was less help than he imagined. She told him that the Mustang rolled up into the driveway one night, followed by sleek looking royal-fuchsia ‘94 Pontiac (Firebird) Trans Am.

"I saw a man in the car," She had said. "I assumed it was you, with some hot chick in the other car. It wasn't until after I heard from daddy that you were still in the hospital that I began to suspect something. Its been there for weeks so it wasn‘t stolen." While the act of bringing his car back from the grave to his house sounded mightily good-Samaritan, something stuck Owen as wrong about the whole thing. He looked his Mustang over; making sure it was the genuine article. Every single detail about his car was there on the mystery vehicle, save for the strange mask-like insignia in the middle of the steering wheel, which also replaced the cobra emblem on the front of the car. Cindy's story of a stranger bringing his 'totaled' car home made him wonder if his mother wasn't pulling his leg. Owen remembered staring out his window at the car for hours that day like it was cursed.

It was beginning of his reluctance to leave his house.

The one place where nothing could hurt him.

Originally Posted by Chapter IV: Mustang and Camaro

This just wasn't his day.

Owen had only barely managed to escape Mr. Abrams class when he dismissed the students. He blended in with the crowd and slipped out the door proceeding to run towards the exit of the school as many other students flooding out from the build were doing. All he had to do now was avoid Mr. Abrams for the rest of the day, it was a solid plan but the odds of falling off the teacher’s radar completely were harder when you were over six foot four. Owen navigated his way through the small crowds spread across the schoolyard, to his disappointment most of them had taken the picnic tables. A gaggle of 'it' girls had made themselves comfortable at the picnic table under the large tree. "That's my spot," Owen mumbled to one in particular, shuffling off to look for another spot. He finally found one near the gate, an old abandoned picnic table covered in graffiti and dry chewing gum, Owen sat dejectedly on the top of the table with a heavy sigh. Swinging his backpack from around his arm and onto his lap, he reached into his bag grabbing the containing holding his Sandwich; He munched on his lunch without much enthusiasm. He scanned his environment until his eyes landed on a car parked in the middle of the street just across from where he sat.

Owen's eyebrows rose considerably at the body of the vehicle, it was an old Pontiac, a 1990's model at best given its sleek futuristic appearance. The body was smooth, flat and rounded -- not to mention the ugliest shade of royal-fuchsia he had ever seen. "Oh, shit ..." Owen choked on his sandwich at his absentminded notice of the vehicle's shade of color. Sliding off the picnic table he moved closer to the gate, the car's engine revved at his approach.

The woman driver, who could only be described as sultry in the traditional sense. Adorned in a leather bodysuit and sunglasses akin to The Matrix's Trinity, the woman turned to meet his curious gaze, she smiled and her face flickered. In that small window of time, Owen swore he saw the exact pair of eyes that had peered down at him before, only they were blue and not red. Owen could feel his lips open and close helplessly at the sight of the stoic woman's expression, terrible memories of a sharp object jabbing him in the stomach. Oh God, Oh God, oh God, oh Go--

"Hey, are you all right?" Someone asked. Owen whipped around in response, an expression of distress etched across his pallid face. Standing on the other side of the picnic table was the girl of everyman‘s dream, and Trent's girlfriend, Mikaela Banes. She wore a more modest assortment of clothing than what he was used to seeing her in. A brown oversized hoody, a fitting T-Shirt with the words 'Policy of Truth' written across the chest, loose fitting jeans and sneakers over her boots. Owen got a hold of his emotions immediately; he exhaled heavily with a nod. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," He uttered, turning back around. The Pontiac was gone, no a sign of its presence anywhere. Owen sighed again, releasing his anxieties. He moved over to the picnic table and hoisted himself back onto the top. Mikaela eyed the teen in front of her, as far as passing strangers go, Mikaela had never seen him around, which usually meant he was new to their school or someone who played hooky quite frequently. Mikaela had been looking for Sam when she spotted Owen at the end of the schoolyard, Her curiosity urged her to inspect his frenetic behavior. Extending her hand she offered the mellow boy a smile. "I'm Mikaela Banes," She told him, her fingers wiggling slightly. Owen looked down at his sandwich, which had fallen from his grasp somewhere between his vaulting off the table and approaching the gate, he then eyed Mikaela’s hand. Removing himself from the table a second time Owen took her hand shook it firmly, noting how sweaty his palm felt against hers. "Owen Armstrong. Nice to meet you, I guess," He answered, without enthusiasm.

The pleasant glow on Mikaela’s face dimmed, he didn't mean to come off as so uninterested -- okay, maybe he did, he just didn’t expect her to notice -- so he smiled a little more. They let their hands fall away and stood in an awkward silence for a time. “Is that you car?” Mikaela inquired, pointing across the yard. Owen leaned forward and spotted his Mustang sitting across the street, he hadn’t parked it there. He blinked in bewilderment. “Yeah, it is,” He paused. “Mikaela, do you know anything about cars?" He inquired. Lame, Armstrong, lame. Mikaela shrugged. "Quite a lot. My dad was a mechanic," She answered smoothly, placing a hand on her hip. Owen found himself standing a little straighter at her response, his throat dried and his face burned. Years of unconscious conditioning had lead him to believe that girls like Mikaela Banes had no wisdom in cars, or anything else, whatsoever. To hear the opposite was a bit of a shock. “Uh, I own a Ford Mustang. 1967...Shelby Cobra,” He stammered. Mikaela’s smile widened. “I know, my dad owned one,” She said, chuckling.

“Cool.”

“Yes it was,” She answered shortly, folding her arms across her chest. Where was Sam? They planned on eating lunch in yard in order to avoid a confrontation with a bitter Trent. Her eyes shifted to Owen, he was keeping himself occupied by fiddling his backpack strap. Biting the side of her mouth she reached forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

Owen looked up in question, hoisting his backpack up onto his shoulders. “Do you mind if I take a look at your car?“ Mikaela’s fingers intertwined as her spoke, she raised an eyebrow at his blank expression. “Sure, I don’t mind. I’ve been having problems with it,” Owen answered. Mikaela’s eyebrows raised in mock-surprise. It wasn’t unheard of for someone to buy to an old classic and were unable to keep proper maintenance and repair on it. “Yeah, for instance, I parked my car in front of the gate and now its over there across the street.” That’s not much of a problem, Mikaela thought as she shot the car a look, tempting it to move. The Mustang remained where it was unfortunately. “Are you sure? Maybe you just forgot you parked it there,” She supplied. Owen shook his head saying that he would remember if he had parked his car elsewhere, he wasn’t a careless person. You don’t need to be careless to forget, Mikaela wanted to say. “Well -- maybe…”

“Mikaela! Hey! Mikaela!” Sam Witwicky’s voice startled the girl out of her thoughts. Mikaela beamed at the sight of her approaching boyfriend, Miles conveniently absent from his side. Sam kidded to a halt nearly tumbling into Mikaela. Owen watched the scene with utter confusion, unsure he should even be present for this display of dormant affection between the two. “I’m so sorry I’m late, -- I got stuck in the principle’s office,” Sam breathed, leaning into a kiss. Again? Owen thought bewildered. Mikaela smiled against his lips wrapping her arms around his neck, a loud cough broke the kiss. Sam’s eyes averted upward and stared wide eyed at the sight of Owen Armstrong. “Oh, um -- hey there,” Sam stammered, scratching the back of his neck. Owen pointed a finger at Mikaela in question. “Weren’t you dating Trent?“ He inquired. Mikaela rolled her eyes, she would’ve figured by now that the public blow-off she gave to Trent would’ve given someone the ideal that she had broken up with the dunderhead. Apparently, the message was not so well received by the public. “We broke up. Sam’s my boyfriend now,“ Mikaela supplied in a tight voice. Sam nodded in affirmative, wrapping an arm around her waist in a protective manner. Owen blushed in embarrassment, he moved past the couple desperate to escape the awkward situation. Sam watched his retreating back in question before looking to Mikaela for an explanation. “I kinda just found him over here and started talking with him. Said his car was acting weird,” Mikaela said.

“His car was acting weird? You sure that wasn’t a pick up line?” Sam inquired jokingly. Mikaela unwrapped her arms from his neck and pointed to the car sitting across the street. “His car is the Mustang sitting across the street,” She said. “He was a more than a little preoccupied with it, I don’t think he was that interested in me.” Sam shrugged his shoulders in half-agreement, doubting Owen didn’t take the time to awe at the simplistic beauty that was Mikaela Banes. The kid would have to be blind or a eunuch if he didn’t find Mikaela attractive. “Anyhow, I told him I would look at his car. It’ll have to be after school, I wanna have lunch,” Mikaela stated. “You got the box?” Sam smiled and raised the carry-out box for her to see, Mikaela grinned delighted by the smell of food. Mikaela and Sam rushed across the yard, their eyes set on the vacant table near the gate.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hot Rod sat across the street from where Owen originally parked him and watched with great amusement as the teenager stand flabbergasted at the sight of Arcee as she taunted him. She sought the unnerve the boy, a sure way to get back at Hot Rod for impeding on her search for her commander, Bumblebee, for so long. Given that they were still being hunted by the likes of Thundercracker, and Dropkick, months after the incident in Mission City, Hot Rod was careful to keep a low profile. Both of them landed just year ahead of Optimus and the others and after making sure Owen would survive his encounter with Bonecrusher, they began a widespread search for the All Spark knowing Bumblebee was most likely doing the same. Arcee was reluctant in leaving Nevada, especially if her commander was in the general area. Hot Rod was quick to remind her of their goal. Finding the All Spark before the Decepticons was their top priority, reuniting Bumblebee would have to wait. They went their separate ways, Hot Rod covered most of states in the North and Arcee took the South. When the blackout had struck, the two Autobots were attacked by other Decepticons in hiding -- they were careless in masking their spark signatures. In Canada, Hot Rod was unfortunate enough to attacked by Dropkick, in the guise of a M2 Bradley IFV, and nearly damaged him beyond repair with the seemingly limitless firepower at his disposal. Hot Rod was forced to retreat when the battle became too intense, nearly spilling out beyond the Army’s designated area, straight into the civilian cities. Meanwhile, Arcee dealt with Thundercracker, an F-22 Raptor, and Swindle, a Chevrolet Cobalt SS, in South America. They attacked a military base in Brazil to draw of her out of hiding, under the suspicion that she had found the location of the All Spark. Her discovery turned out be a trap set by the mysterious human faction, Sector 7.

Her adversaries were kinder to her as they were all attacked by the South American military the moment they revealed themselves. Arcee dealt Swindle a killing blow via through his damaged chestplate, one blast from a accurately aimed cannon did the Decepticon in. Arcee was quick to retreat the facility before the approaching Sector 7 could apprehend her. Thundercracker did the same. The Autobot duo reunited in Nevada where they went into hiding until contact with Optimus Prime was possible. It wasn’t until two weeks ago that Hot Rod picked up the message Optimus was sending to their comrades in space. Arcee was ecstatic and he was relieved, yet disappointed upon learning the fate of the All Spark.

Presently though, Hot Rod was simply waiting for the right opportunity to reveal himself to Owen, just imagining the situation was troubling. “Arcee, leave him alone,” Hot Rod called warily. Arcee wasn’t given the chance to respond, a female came up obviously noticing Owen’s strange behavior. “Hey, are you alright?” Her voice came over his frequency loud and clear. Arcee cruised past him just as Owen turned in response. “You shouldn’t bother him like that,” Hot Rod chided. If Arcee could roll her eyes she would’ve, her engine revved in response. “I wasn’t bothering intentionally. Just checking the status of his health,” Arcee responded coolly. “He still behaves erratically even after a standard year. Mental rehabilitation doesn’t seem to be working.” Hot Rod harrumphed keeping his scanners focused on the jumpy teenager. “Humans are fragile apparently. Its takes much longer, mentally, to recover from traumatic occurrences as opposed to …. us,” Hot Rod mused tentatively.

Arcee nodded in mild agreement, she knew their kind were not immune to what humans called ‘Post Traumatic Stress’, but given Owen’s youth he should’ve recovered much quicker than most. “Perhaps,” Arcee retorted flatly. “Though it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say your presence unnerves him.” Hot Rod was careful to keep his engine at the Autobot‘s observation, remembering how Owen was hesitant to even ride in his car, after finding out it had been seemingly repaired and brought back from the dead. “No way! Owen doesn’t notice anything!” He assured her. Arcee watched Owen interact awkwardly with the slim brunette girl a little while longer before turning her attention back to Hot Rod. “If our friend doesn’t notice anything, then why does inspect his car like a man waiting for a trap to spring? He eyes our Insignia constantly, caressing it like he knows…”

“Arcee, I promise you, Owen doesn’t know I’m not his car,” Hot Rod nearly growled. Arcee huffed in response and fell silent. Rodimus welcomed the silence and let his attention drift back to Owen. Arcee sighed dejectedly as she drove away in reverse and parked somewhere out of sight. Being unable to search for her commander was really starting to get to her, but there was little she could do; they had to be careful about how they went about revealing their presence to the Autobots. The Decepticons were hunting them still and attracting attention to a populated area would do them (or the humans) no good. In addition to the fact that the thickheaded Hot Rod had pointed it out infuriated her.

Rodimus was known among his elder peers as cockier version of his mentor, Kup, in his youth, especially his first couple hundred years. “An absolute terror,” Jazz grumbled once recounting an embarrassing collision with the younger Transformer. Arcee, just a year younger than him, was friends with him and another fellow Autobot, Springer (the eldest of the two). Bumblebee, a year younger than Springer and two years older than Rodimus, was always partial to associating with Hot Rod given his tendency to act before thinking and thus, always creating calamity. Something that never set well with High Lord Protector Megatron -- the one person aside from Ultra Magnus that couldn’t tolerate him. Hot Rod was barely over two hundred years old when the war broke out between the ’Autobot’ loyalists and ’Decepticon’ separatists. They spent the rest of their lives engaged in warfare with Megatron and his followers, yet it never seemed to take he edge off his Hot Rod’s high-spirits or reckless behavior. If anything, it intensified. One example would be The Battle of SimFur. He had been assigned to his commanding officer, Kup, Capt. Ultra Magnus, and Lt. Hardhead.

The four had been separated from the rest of their team and pinned down by Decepticon fire, in the jagged canyons miles from their base of operations. Hot Rod, burning with desire to prove himself to his superiors, and like the thickheaded ‘bot he was, ran out into a barrage of fire from Barricade and Devastator. The damage he took on was minor compared to the explosion he created when he fired straight into a pocket of Energon. Barricade and Devastator survived, Cybertron had a new addition to its canyon, and Hot Rod earned a month in the med-bay for his troubles. “It was dumbest thing Rodimus had ever done, but it saved our lives,” She remembered Magnus telling her when she came to check up on him. Bumblebee believed that Hot Rod’s reckless behavior stemmed from a lack of self-worth, the constant need to prove himself to the others that he was not as he always appeared on the surface. Springer chalked it up to a need for attention and Arcee had no opinion other than he was stupid for taking such chances with his Spark.

Optimus was less than pleased with the outcome of their reconnaissance mission, but never got the chance to lecture the young ‘bot on his recklessness; He was called away on a mission that required his direction attention. Hot Rod recovered, with only a scar that extended vertically past his left optic as a semblance of what he done and was placed back on active duty. Like many of the Autobots, Hot Rod was sent on yet another mission with his team to hold back the ever-rising forces of Megatron’s army. This time they were to enter Decepticon territory in order to infiltrate their base. Rodimus and Hardhead had been sent to ascertain the best route around their security defenses when Megatron ambushed them, along with the likes of Scorponok, Thundercracker, and Dropkick. “Apparently we were expected…” She remembered Hot Rod saying. Hardhead had them double back to where Kup and the others were waiting. They made halfway there when Megatron cut off their retreat. The Decepticons converged, the two locked in a furious battle -- three against two for sometime before Kup and the rest of squadron found them. It was in that moment that the tables turned in favor of Megatron. The rest of his militia emerged from hiding and like clockwork, Kup’s squad was nearly demolished. Wheeljack and Depthcharge were the first to be killed, taken out by a burrowing Scorponok, the fourth Decepticon that went unaccounted for. Arcee remembered Hot Rod telling her that he went after Megatron, against Ultra Magnus’ direct orders not to engage in any battle with the ruthless Transformer. Hot Rod held his own against the towering tyrant, though just barely, before he was literally blown across the battlefield by a blast from Megatron’s fusion cannon. The attack rendered Hot Rod’s systems useless. Left immobilized and unable to defend himself against Megatron’s next attack, Hot Rod awaited the end. As another volley from Megatron’s cannon fired, Hardhead stepped in the way of the blast. His chestplate was obliterated, his Spark extinguished almost immediately -- Hardhead was dead.

Cliffjumper, Depthcharge, and Bluestreak were also among the comrades lost that day. They were the only surviving members of their squadron left. Ultra Magnus, Red Alert, and Kup sustained minor injuries and Hot Rod once again had the privilege of spending two weeks in the Medical Wing, under the care of both Ratchet and Red Alert. “Poor kid was devastated. Hardhead took a shot straight to the chest. Died saving him,” Springer recounted. Optimus returned with news that would turn the tide of their seemingly endless battle with the Decepticons. A way to keep the All Spark out of the hands of the Megatron for good.

However, it would be at the cost the planet and it would take every Autobot among them to do it, even if they weren‘t aware of it. Only a selective few were let in on Optimus’ plan; Arcee and Bumblebee were two of the four. Arcee gotten wind of Rodimus’ release from Ratchet and Red Alert’s care she went to inform him of Optimus’ plan, only to find that the young bot had disappeared.

No one knew where he had gone and she had very limited time to search for him. Before long, she and Bumblebee’s team, along with others were sent to stop the incursion accumulating at Tyger Pax. Optimus, Ironhide, and Jazz hid the All Spark, their contingency plan ready to be set in motion incase it was discovered. Bumblebee and another defended its position, withstanding torture from Swindle until Megatron’s arrival. The All Spark was launched into space, out of Megatron’s grasp and Bumblebee paid a high price for it. Upon retrieving their fallen comrade, the thought of Hot Rod turning tail and deserting them only made her angrier. If the hotheaded Autobot had been there, Bumblebee’s torture would‘ve been lesser.

Despite this, Arcee searched for Hot Rod in between her free time whenever she was not visiting Bumblebee in the Medical wing. It felt strange to her that no one, especially Optimus, seemed to notice his absence. When Bumblebee recovered from his injuries, he set off after Megatron to retrieve the All Spark. Three months after the battle of Tyger Pax, Megatron and Bumblebee’s departures, Arcee found Hot Rod atop the observation tower of their base, brooding. “Where have you been? You deserted us in our darkest hour!” Arcee snapped, making her presence known to Hot Rod. Rodimus did not rebuke with the usual come back, instead he shrugged his shoulders and replied, “I’m sorry, I needed some time to myself.”

Arcee was more than tempted to push the issue further, especially given that his disappearance could have be seen as desertion, but the look of utter defeat in his optics stopped her. The fact that he felt responsible for Hardhead’s death had yet to occur to her and so she simply left him alone. As time went on, the battles grew more intense and the planet’s seemingly slow deterioration appeared to accelerate in turn. Both factions now had to worry about electrical storms and earthquakes so terrible that it brought up the magma that flowed beneath their feet. Hot Rod was promoted to Lieutenant soon after being placed back on active duty. Thus, his perchance for taking risks was less and less. He lead his squad of Autobots into battles as Kup had taught him. They won battles under his careful planning, yet it did nothing to turn the tide. Whoever the tactical genius was, it wasn’t Hot Rod. Without a leader, the Decepticon attacks were sloppy, yet lost none of their potency under the command of Barricade and Starscream. However, Optimus began to realize that their war was becoming a pointless endeavor with their home planet crumbling around them. Communication with Bumblebee was brief and so far, he had no luck in his search. Thus, in a last ditch effort, Optimus and his remaining comrades, along with the Decepticons, ventured from their home to aid in the search for the All Spark.

Arcee traveled with Springer for a time before going her separate way, but as luck would have it, she ended up on a water planet where Rodimus was currently spending his time in prison for insulting the Overlord’s -- a highly respected Quintesson Judge as it were-- tentacles. Arcee helped him escape and two have been traveling together since then. Since their departure from Cybertron, Hot Rod’s character seemed to change completely, and she felt like she had taken his role of the hotheaded bot in some strange way due to her impatience with him and their situation.

Hot Rod was certainly more reserved and hesitant in his decisions, she had chalked it up to discretion stemming from exploring a new world, but Hot Rod was never known for restraining himself on un-traveled road. Other changes she had noticed was his perchance to ponder over the stars for hours on end, and when he wasn’t brooding, he roamed the city for hours until morning. Arcee, however, never really considered what had happened earlier on Cybertron as an attributing factor to his change in temperament, until now. Arcee pulled herself from her thoughts when Rodimus engine revved.

“What?” She inquired, dazed.

“Were you even listening to me?” Hot Rod asked incredulously.

“No. What did you say?” Arcee answered, knowing denying the truth would lead into an argument.

“I heard Owen say to his mother that he thinks our symbols are custom made details added when his car was repaired,” The laughter in Rodimus’ voice was unmistakable. Arcee rolled her eyes in irritation. When the Decepticons were out of proper range, Rodimus and Arcee had approached the car with caution. The boy was a terrible sight behold hanging upside down in his vehicle, leaking lubricant from every part of his body. Arcee was gentle with his body as she cut him loose from the car. Owen was limp in her hand, his left arm hung at an odd angle and she feared she had damaged him. Hot Rod grabbed the vehicle up from the ground and the two began to formulate a plan as they raced across the desert terrain like ghosts. Once inside of the busy city, they slipped through the shadows of buildings and alleyways never stopping once until they reached the hospital. It was there that Arcee’s plan came to life.

Hot Rod would pose as the damaged car long enough to get Owen medical attention and then flee before the humans could ascertain him. Arcee scanned a nearby vehicle in the parking lot whilst Hot Rod reluctantly scanned the damaged vehicle, omitting the damage with an overall assessment of the vehicle’s frame before the accident. Arcee then proceeded to place all of Owen’s undamaged belongings into Hot Rod before placing the boy himself into the back seat. Shutting his door unnecessarily hard, Hot Rod pulled out of their hiding place and went speeding towards the entrance of the hospital.

The Autobot demolished their fragile doors and parked himself at the front desk. It wasn’t apart of Arcee’s plan but it got their attention well enough. Once the humans recovered from their shock, they piled around Hot Rod and discovered the injured child. Pulling him out of the car, the doctors began to prep Owen for treatment. They were so busy with tending with the boy, now lying on a gurney that they barely paid attention to the fact that the driverless vehicle sped out of the hospital, tires squealing. Arcee followed Rodimus on a different route, to ensure that no one could connect her vehicle mode with the ‘67 Mustang.

Afterward, Hot Rod sought out a better form to scan. He came across the same vehicle, of the same year and model, but this time it was red. The color change appealed to Rodimus, scanning the model into his interface, he simply camouflaged the frame in its original blue. Owen had yet to notice a difference in his ‘car’ and Hot Rod was more than willing to keep it that way for now. “So aside from the symbols, he doesn’t suspect a thing?” Arcee inquired carefully. “Nope. Not a thing,” Hot Rod assured his comrade. Arcee sighed with relief.

Originally Posted by Chapter V: Sam and Mikaela

Owen roamed down the crowded halls of the school, which was beginning to empty by the second. The remainder of his school day was a mixture between mundane and dreary, as he spent most of his time trying to stay awake. He hardly had to worry though; his cassette player should have recorded all the lessons over his snoring and the sniggering of his fellow classmates. Hoisting his backpack higher up on his shoulder for the umpteenth time, Owen stepped aside to allow a girl to go by. Owen eyed the back of her, certainly unable to keep himself from appreciating the view from behind and the way her figure bounced with every step she took. With a sigh, he continued down the hall, fiddling with the edges of the envelope given to him by the school principal. Apparently, Mrs. Municipal didn’t appreciate his “slacker attitude” and “lack of respect” for the authority figures, including herself. Owen begged to differ at that point; He had all the respect in the world for his authority figures, save the police and the meter maids.

For his rebuke, he ended up with the honor of delivering a letter detailing his less than satisfactory performance in school, to his mother. If the letter was not delivered to his mother by 5:00pm that afternoon, Mrs. Municipal would give Michelle a call personally. Owen was sorely tempted to kick his own ass for his error. Whatever was in the letter, his mother was sure to strangle him for fit. Stuffing the envelope into his back pocket, Owen made his way out of the school, he held fast to the railing as several people tried to shove him out of their way. Once he was off the stairs, he jogged across the parking lot exiting the school grounds with heavy sigh of relief. He was so intent on getting to his car that failed to notice the oncoming vehicle.

The yellow car came to a halt mere inches from his legs, Owen jumped back in alarm just as a head popped out from the drivers side. “Hey, watch where you walking buddy--” The words died on Sam Witwicky’s lips when the young man looked up from the ground. His mouth opened and closed in shock, he ducked back inside his car with a shake intake of breath. Mikaela looked up from her magazine to Sam in concern. “Sam, you act like you just saw a Decepticon. What‘s wrong?” She laughed.

Sam scratched his face nervously. “Yeah, well, he might be one,” He grumbled gripping the steering wheel. Mikaela glanced out the window in curiosity; standing in front of Bumblebee was none other than Owen Armstrong. Mikaela looked to Sam again, her eyebrow raising. “What has this kid done to deserve that?” She asked incredulously, trying not to laugh again.

Sam actually seemed to pause to think of a plausible answer, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration. Owen Armstrong wasn’t unknown to have a short temperament, like Trent the jock. In fact, Owen was docile, but the one-time outburst of physical violence aimed towards the aforementioned jock and his friends had everyone thinking twice about crossing paths with Owen. Reportedly, Owen was given 50 hours of community service over Jail time, with some help from his mother who knew someone on the inside of the justice system. “Uh, he creamed Trent about a year ago, I think,” Sam answered. Mikaela actually seemed to pause at this, she turned towards the windshield and spotted Owen standing in front of his car, fumbling with his keys. The vague memory of finding Trent and his friends in the nurses’ office, being tended for injuries struck her.

“Him? Trent told me it was one of his friends,” Mikaela said. Sam shrugged, “I’m just telling you what I heard,” He answered. Mikaela huffed; Trent was never honest with her. Hoisting herself out the window she waved to him, Owen blinked a couple times in bewilderment before his door swung open and bumped him. Mikaela watched the boy stumble sideways, eye wide with surprise. “Hey, Owen, do you mind if I take a look at your car now?” She asked, hoping to distract him. Owen turned quickly to look at her, a quizzical expression on his face. He hadn’t actually expected Mikaela to make good on her word, just making conversation with him. With a nod of his head Owen watched the girl retreat back inside the car, and stick her head out again. Her expression hesitant, she asked, “Is it alright if Sam helps out? He knows a few things about cars. Don’t you, Sam?” The befuddled look on Sam’s face said otherwise, but Owen obliged. Watching the two-step out of the car he eyed the Camaro. If he knew his cars, then Witwicky was driving a 2009 Chevrolet Camaro -- a car that wasn’t supposed to be available until late 2008 at best. So what was he doing with it?

Turning his attention away from the Camaro, he spotted Mikaela running her hand across the surface of the hood; her fingers paused, poised upon the top of his hood ornament. She looked up at him, with curious look on her face. Shifting his gaze to the back, he spotted Sam thumbing the racing strips atop the hood. “Where did you get this?” She inquired. Owen frowned, the quizzical expression returning, closing his door he joined her at the front of the car and stared at the hood-ornament, which bore the exact same insignia branded into his steering wheel and grill where the cobra once was. Owen shrugged with a dismissive wave. “I dunno -- my car was fixed up in my absence,” He answered. Mikaela raised an eyebrow at his response. “Absence?” Sam repeated, tilting his head.

Owen nodded his head again, this time unable to hide the irritating creeping up on him. “I was in a car accident. I just got out of rehabilitation a year ago and when I came home, my car was waiting in the driveway. My Mum said it was totaled, but whoever fixed it probably tagged my car like this,” Owen explained, rubbing his thumb on the rough edges of the symbol when Mikaela removed her hand. Sam walked up to front, eyeing the windshield of the car suspiciously. Immediately he spotted the Autobot insignia on the steering wheel. “Really?” Sam said doubtfully.

“Yup, but I like them. I don’t plan of getting them removed,” Owen said, just as a loud pop resounded. Owen looked down at the hood of the car, realizing it had just opened. Mikaela’s fingers the gripped edges of the hood and hoisted it above her head. Grabbing the stick prop, she placed it under the edge of the hood and leaned forward. Owen peered quizzically at his 5.4-liter, 32-valve V-8; It was the first time he had seen his engine in years, which reminded him to check the oil one of these days. It certainly wasn’t the same engine he remembered being housed inside. In fact, it was the wrong kind of engine for this car. Who would put the wrong engine in his car? A lousy mechanic, Owen thought to himself in embarrassment, covering his face.

Mikaela shot a glance towards Sam when their new acquaintance wasn’t looking, Sam nodded in silent agreement. Mikaela reached inside, checking all detachable components in and around the engine. There was nothing wrong with it, nothing explainable anyhow. Standing upright, she looked to Owen with a helpless shrug. “Well, aside from the oil change, there’s nothing wrong your car internally. As for your door, I’d suggest getting it looked at, if it continues to open without cause,” Mikaela explained. Owen’s eyebrow half-raised in understanding, he hadn’t expected her to find the cause of his car’s problem. Maybe he did park it across the street after all.

“Well, thanks for your input,” Owen extended his hand for equal measure, wiggling his fingers as she had earlier. Smiling, Mikaela took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Your welcome. Oh, wait, I don’t think you’ve properly met my friend Sam, yet,” Mikaela pulled the tall teen away from his door spinning him around to meet Sam. Sam eyed his girlfriend in question, his mouth going dry at the irritated expression Armstrong flashed Mikaela. “Sam this is Owen Armstrong, Owen this is Sam Witwicky,” She said. The two stared at each other in question, wondering what the girl’s angle was in the proper introduction to each other.

Mikaela raised her thumbs in support before retreating to the awaiting Camaro. “Mik-- Mikaela, what are you -- what you doing?“ Sam stammered in protest, reaching out to grab Mikaela. She ducked his grabbing fingers with a laugh and jumped into the car through the driver’s side. He turned to Owen with a nervous chuckle, his nerves falling him by the minute. Owen extended his hand out to the shorter boy first, putting on friendliest smile he could muster. “Hi, I’m Owen,” He laughed. “Sam Witwicky, nice to meet you,” Sam replied, shaking his hand.

“Same here,” Owen added, his arm dropping to his side. The two stood there enshrouded in silence, unsure of what to say to each other beyond what Mikaela requested. Sam eyed the ‘67 Mustang curiously, wondering if he should tell Owen his car was a possible Autobot when the sound of the Camaro’s radio coming to life beat him to the punch.

--We were just wasting time

Let the hours roll by

Doing nothing for the fun

A little taste of the good life

Whether right or wrong

Makes us want to stay, stay, stay for awhile--

Bumblebee’s way telling his charge that he had a curfew to make good on. Running his hand across his face, he chuckled. “Well, um, I’ll see you later, Owen,” He said lamely. Owen made no promise to do the same, with a nod of the head he moved toward his open car door. Sam rushed over to his car as soon as Owen’s car roared to life. The Mustang’s roar drowned out Bumblebee’s start-up without much trouble. Sam gave the hood of his car a slap as he climbed into the car, Bumblebee rolled back to allow the vehicle space to pull away from the curb. Mikaela and Sam watched as the Mustang came to a stop inches away from the grill of the Camaro and charged up the street at top speed, tire tracks left in its wake.

No more than a few minutes after the exit of the Cobra a sleek royal fuchsia Pontiac rolled out of its parking space and sped down the road after the other car. The Camaro started and headed down the stretch of road for a moment before making a turn. Sam eyed the dashboard of his car expectantly. The dials on the radio turned and Bumblebee spoke. “It would seem that Optimus’ message has worked. We have comrades among us,” The Autobot mused. Mikaela stared ahead of them watching the world fly by in a blur of colors and houses. “So, Owen’s Mustang was an Autobot?” Sam inquired. Bumblebee turned another corner coming to a halt a red light, on their right a police cruiser ran through the light, sirens screaming. “Affirmative. As was the car that followed it,” Bumblebee answered tentatively. Sam’s eyebrows rose in surprise; It had barely been two months now and already more Transformers were arriving on earth; he prayed that no Decepticons arrived as well. “Did you recognize him?” He inquired. Bumblebee gave off low frequency hum as an answer. “Not the first one no, but the second was most likely Arcee,” Bumblebee answered. The light turned green, Bumblebee continued onward toward the Banes residence, Sam removed his hands from the steering wheel to rest his throbbing muscles.

“Arcee?” Mikaela repeated, confused. “Yes, a transformer of unique design, the second and last of her kind, given how late she came into our world,” Bumblebee explained. Sam’s eyebrows raised again, he was impressed. “Why didn’t they reveal themselves to us? I mean, not like you did us, but -- you know, through the radio communication or something?” Mikaela asked. “I’m not sure. But if she is following the Autobot under Owen’s ownership, then we’re sure to see her again,” Bumblebee replied stoically.

Originally Posted by Chapter VI: Closing In…

When Owen left the company of Sam and Mikaela, he decided that he wasn’t going straight home. His father was bound to be there by now, and if his mother was telling the truth about his arrival, they were sure to be fighting -- or doing other things with each other. The very ideal made him cringe. Though he was careful to avoid the more congested streets of the city, Owen found himself stuck in several jams before finding his way to open road unpolluted by traffic. The silence that engulfed the car was comforting for once; his mind was quiet with the exception of intrigue that lingered after meeting Sam and Mikaela. They were a strange couple of characters, especially Mikaela. Owen blushed at the thought of her; Witwicky’s girlfriend put him on the spot with the introduction ploy, Owen felt rather stupid afterwards. Chewing the bottom of his lip, he pulled off onto the dirt road, which lead up to the Tranquility lookout. The car came to a halt at a couple feet away from the edge of the cliff; stepping out the car he shut the door as he moved towards the front. The orange sun glistened off the chrome finish of the vehicle’s hood, stepping on the bumper he hoisted himself off the ground and sat on upon the hood. Owen stared out at the populated world below overshadowed by the intense light of the sun. His fingers messaged his throbbing wrist for the hundredth time that day. This was first time he had driven anywhere, besides school and home, since the accident.

Against his mother’s "better judgment", Michelle had driven everywhere since his return from the hospital at his request, even to school. He had been afraid to even touch a steering wheel, but found himself on his own when his mother grew tired of feeding his fears. Owen was a rattled mess; His mother dragged him out of the house when questions about her son’s whereabouts became an irritating task to answer constantly. When his nightmares were at their worst, she would spend the night outside his door incase they got too intense. (Owen was a cranky person when he didn’t get enough sleep.)

Thus, her next step was take him to see the therapist, Dr. Baroness, who prescribed his antidepressant insisting that he come see her everyday after school. The antidepressants worked like a charm -- he just hated the drossiness and nausea that came with the unnatural calm. Owen stopped taking them a week after his first session with Dr. Baroness, so when Trent and co. decided to ‘teach him some manners’ for dropping his lunch tray into Trent's lap, Owen decided to relieve his pent up frustration on the jock and his friends whenever they interfered in his pummeling of Trent. By the grace of a gaggle of students, Trent escaped with a broken nose … his friend’s minor injuries as well. Owen’s punishment was far worse; 50 hours of community service for nine months, in the profession of his therapists choosing. His mother had a fit. Naturally, Dr. Baroness picked the grimmest punishment -- a retirement home.

Owen wanted to curse the heavens for his misfortune, wondering if Jail was still option open to him. In the nine months he spent there, he made no friends other than Mr. Greyer, a WWII veteran. He kept his distance from most people unless called upon, which was frequently to his dismay. When his time was up, Owen emerged from his punishment an educated young man and a overblown reputation at school, steeped in fear and hostility.

At Dr. Baroness’ request, he wrote a six-page apology to the school for his ungentlemanly behavior and his social problems only got worse from there. Everyday he found some rather unpleasant items in his locker, but he made no complaint against them. Instead, he purchased a mini camera with the help of Mr. Greyer, filmed everyone who ever to break into his locker, and sent an unmarked tape to the principal’s office. The break-in’s to his locker stopped soon after the principal made the announcement of her discovery. How one can become a utterly feared and repulsed figure in the eyes of the student body he never interacted with, puzzled Owen. Half of them barely knew Trent beyond his reputation as the star-football player and yet he ended up playing the victim, Owen was the unwilling villain of this Lifetime TV drama.

Yet, in spite of all of this, the incident brought a sense of confidence to Owen. Leaving his bedroom wasn’t as hard as it used to be, though he preferred staying inside, he was steadily improving. Scratching the back of his neck, he laid back on the hood and closed his eyes allowing the cool breeze to wash over him. I should really be getting home; Mom is going to be worried -- crap, the letter! Owen yelped pulling himself upright, pulling up his sleeve he stared at his wristwatch. 5:10pm! The feeling of paper crinkling in his back pocket returned, further reminding him of the grave he had just dug for himself. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!” Owen muttered leaping inside the car through the open window. He head bumped the steering wheel as his fingers turned the key in the ignition. The car roared down the hill in reverse, dirt flying in every direction.

Turning the car around Owen sped back down the road. When he returned to the main streets, the traffic was better, yet driving at the speed he was -- over the 38mph speed limit -- no less dangerous. It certainly made him think twice about being late. Mrs. Municipal probably phoned his mother by now, he could imagine Michelle’s red-beet face waiting for him at the front door as he pulled into the driveway. “Oh God, I’m so dead,” He murmured. As the lane of houses came into view Owen spotted his father’s blue Chevrolet pick-up truck immediately, apparently Michelle was distracted -- for now. Owen eased up on the gas as he pulled up into the driveway, the car rumbled for another second before falling into silence.

Owen caught a glimpse of his mother stomping past kitchen window, his father in hot pursuit. Stepping out of the car, he shut the door and proceeded across the lawn in a stealthy manner, keeping low to the ground and out of the window’s sight. Back at the driveway, Rodimus watched his human charge with amusement as he rolled across the lawn like a samurai. Scanning the house, he located the parents, currently engaged in verbal match of some sort. Strange, Hot Rod thought turning his attention back to Owen. When Owen got the tree, he grabbed a hold of the branch and hoisted himself up toward his window. The climb up through the thick branches and leaves was arduous one. Finally, he achieved his goal, Owen grabbed his window ledge pulling himself inside the bedroom, and unfortunately, he landed on his drawing desk -- a desk that was supposed to against the wall next to his bedroom door.

The table tipped over with a resounding crash, crushing Owen under its weight, his portable lamp and art utensils scattered across the floor all around him. The 17 year old laid there in utter defeat, knowing it would only be seconds before his parents came thundering up the stairs into his room, most likely armed with weapons to assault the interloper in their offspring’s bedroom. Now he was officially a dead man. As expected Michelle and Craig burst through the door wielding aluminum bats, their eyes searched around the room frantically until they spotted their son crawling out from under his fallen table. “Owen?” Michelle exclaimed in alarm. Owen raised a trembling hand in the way of response, messaging his backside he moved toward his bed like an elderly man and fell against the edge. He eyed Craig for a moment before waving again. “Hey, Craig -- I mean, hey Dad,” He mumbled.

Suddenly the confusion was gone from his mother’s face. Dropping the bat to the floor, she strode over to the panting teen and glowered at him, her face growing redder by the second. “So, I got a call from your Principal. . . Mrs. Municipal I believe her name was?” Michelle drawled lowly. All hopes of averting the disaster were now thwarted, with a trembling hand Owen reached into his back pocket and handed her the crumbled envelope. Michelle took it without missing a beat; her expression was a mix between disappointment and haughtiness. Owen pulled himself onto his bed, proceeding to take refuge under his pillow. “She told me that you haven’t been applying yourself to your studies nor paying the slightest respect to your authority figures at that school. Is she lying?” Michelle dared to venture.

Peeking out from under his pillow, which was subsequently snatched from his head the next instant, Owen answered, “Mom, we all know your gonna punish me, so just get it over with,” He half-snarled. Michelle felt the letter crumbling beneath her fist as she attempt again to get through to her son. “Owen, I wouldn’t punish you without good reason to. Now tell me the truth! Have you haven’t you been applying yourself at school?” His mother bellowed angrily. At this, the boy leapt from his bed, his fists clenched at his side. Michelle took a step back. “Yes! Yes, I’ve been applying myself at school! You’ve seen my grades mom, I haven’t failed a test since -- well you know since!” Owen sputtered, running his hands through his tangled hair. Michelle watched her high-strung son pace about the room for another minute, eyeing the unopened envelope crumbled in her hand.

Owen lowered himself to the ground grabbing the edge of his table hoisting it back up to its standing position. “The only catch to that is -- that I’ve been sleeping in classes and recording the lessons on my cassette player,” Owen added finally, biting the edge of his lip. Words of congratulations were on the tip of Michelle’s tongue, however, her son’s final words settled in before they could properly leave her mouth. “You’ve been sleeping in class? For how long?” Craig spoke up for his speechless wife. Owen averted his attention to his father with a sheepish shrug. “Pretty much, yeah. And about six weeks,” He answered hesitantly. Craig watched his son’s agitated movement, the boy behaved as if prepared for the words ‘punishment‘ to come flying out of his parent‘s mouths. He should, Craig thought grimly. Owen wanted to tell Craig to take his would-be authority and shove it in the darkest part of his little closet. Instead, he nodded to himself and added, “Doesn’t recording lessons and acing them despite my tendency to doze off in class, count for anything? Would you find comfort in the fact that I’m possibly suffering from a side affect caused by not taking my antidepressants anymore?” The boy watched his mother’s head snap up, her composure recovered from the grips of her frustration. Owen hastily included that Dr. Baroness had told him there was no longer a need for the antidepressants as he was making great progress in his recovery. “She just failed to tell me that not taking the pill might ‘cause withdrawal symptoms, such as insomnia and body aches,” Owen finished, hoping to appeal to his mother’s sense of pity.

Michelle let out of an exasperated sigh; he had failed to mention that part. Unclenching her hand she unfolded the crumbled envelope and pulled out the damaged note concealed within. Craig began to approach his wife’s side when she sent him a reproachful look. “This is none of your business,” She snapped. “Seeing that I’m his father, I think it is my business, “Craig frowned at the woman before him and moved forward until he was next to her, attempting to read the letter whenever she changed position.

Growing exasperated with their childish antics, Owen reached over and knocked over his table lamp. The lamp clattered to the ground, the light died in a blinding burst of light. The two jumped back in surprise, unsure of what happened. Michelle gave the boy a disapproving glare. “Can you tell me what my punishment is?” He inquired flatly. “No car privileges for a month, “ Michelle answered, snatching the paper away from Craig. Owen searched his pants pockets for a brief moment; pulling his hand out of his left pocket, he tossed Michelle his keys. His mother caught them effortlessly, taking the paper out of Craig‘s reach once more. “Thank you. Now can you leave my room now? I need some ‘me’ time, “ Owen gave his mother a nod of mock approval before lying down on the bed. “Keep it up, and you’ll loose TV privileges too,” Michelle called over her shoulder as she and her husband exited the bedroom. Owen glared daggers at her retreating back. Rolling onto his side so that his back was facing the bedroom door, he stared vacantly at the round gold plated discs resting peacefully on the dresser across from his bed.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Night had fallen on the city of Nevada, though the city had yet to fall under the spell of slumber, one found he could not sleep that night. Bumblebee sat on the edge of the lookout, his elbow propped on his thigh, his chin rested in the palm of his hand as he studied the stars dubiously. The suspected Autobot had not tired to contact him in anyway, not even through a coded signal, which would have concealed easily from its human charge. It puzzled Bumblebee to an extent, but recognizing Arcee’s coded signal as she followed the unknown Autobot put his mind at ease. How long had she been here on Earth now? Did she come before him, Optimus and the others? If so, why did she not attempt to contact them until now? “Something troubling you, Bumblebee?” Optimus’ sage voice startled the young Autobot out of his pensive state of mind.

Turning ‘round half way, Bumblebee spotted the Autobot leader standing some distance away from him. The ledge apparently, had become a favorite the Autobots whenever they needed to think deep and hard on something, save Ironhide, who preferred traversing the unexplored areas of Nevada when he wanted to ponder. In the background, Bumblebee spotted Ratchet by himself, checking his diagnostic system. Positioning both hands beside him, Bumblebee hoisted himself away from the edge of the lookout and stood upward. “Nothing more than usual, Optimus,” Bumblebee grunted approaching his friend. Optimus harrumphed with a shake of his head; his blue optics scanned the scout’s face curiously. “I’ve discovered Arcee and another Autobot have arrived on earth,” Bumblebee announced.

Optimus’ optics brightened considerably. “Arcee?” He repeated, astonished. “When did she arrive?” Bumblebee shook his head. “I’m not sure, I had no chance to commune with her given our current situation. She was following the lead of another Autobot who did not disclose his identity. His human charge was a boy named Owen Armstrong. I have searched the person’s database; there are three Owen Armstrong’s in Las Vegas, but only two residing in Nevada. One of them live here in Tranquility. He ‘owns‘ the Autobot in question, so it narrows things down greatly.” Optimus nodded his head absorbing the information given to him. It brought great to joy to his spark to hear Arcee had arrived on earth, yet his joy was overshadowed by the identity of Autobot she followed. His presence could mean many things, Prime certainly hoped he wasn’t a Decepticon in disguise. “Even so, we’ll have to approach the situation with caution,” Ratchet pointed out, entering the conversation. “Did you get his license plate?” Bumblebee did not miss the humor laced his friend’s vocal processor. Tapping against the side of his head, Bumblebee’s optics illuminated and the hologram of a license plate appeared. Ratchet joined the two and stared curiously upon the flickering image. “The vehicle’s license plate number is KAZ2Y50 -- oddly enough,” Bumblebee answered. “The boy’s house is only six miles from Sam’s neighborhood.” The yellow Autobot looked to their leader expectantly.

Optimus was silent, the whirring of his optics filled the otherwise empty silence, when the rumble of GMC TopKick vibrated through the air. They all turned in acknowledgement to their comrade. Ironhide transformed in motion, his cannons twisted accordingly on his arms before falling into standby after his body realigned itself to its humanoid mode. “What’s up?” He inquired casually. “Ah, Ironhide, so nice of you to join us,” Optimus mused dryly. Ironhide decided to ignore Prime’s witticism, folding his arms across his chest he raised an ‘eyebrow’ upon spotting the hologram. “What kept you?” Bumblebee asked. “Lennox and his family decided to have a night on the town, I won’t say anything more than that,” Ironhide grumbled dejectedly.

“Humph, its not nice to leave your listeners in suspense, Ironhide,” Ratchet said jokingly. Ironhide grumbled irritably stomping off towards the edge of the lookout. “If we’re done with the pleasantries, then let’s get down to business,” Optimus stated firmly. “Bumblebee, I want you to find this Autobot and make contact with him. Arcee as well, if possible.” Bumblebee nodded in affirmative, he began to walk down the hill when something flickered off in the distance, barely visible for a second. His optics focused on the sky, but there was nothing there. The yellow Autobot paused turning to face his leader once more. “What is it, Bumblebee?” Optimus said.

“Nothing sir, just thought I … saw something,” Bumblebee replied. Optimus blinked, confusion clearly written across his face. With a shake of his head Bumblebee broke into a run down the hill transforming into his vehicle mode. The sleek Camaro sped down the dirt road at breakneck speed, nearly swerving off the road in the process. Optimus watched the yellow vehicle vanish into the night, the gnawing feeling in his spark he had been feeling all day growing by the minute.

“Ugh, I’ve got that sinking feeling,” Prime muttered to himself. “That what?” Ironhide replied, almost immediately, his cannons twirling. Optimus waved his old friend off with a sigh and looked to the stars for answers. Something was about to happen, he could feel it.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Unit643, do you copy? Unit643--”

“This is Unit643. What do you need?”

“Yeah, there’s a report of a disturbance on Farce Ave. A couple of drunk drivers disrupting the commute back home. I know your shift is over, but --”

“Sure, I’ll take care of it. Unit643 out,” The radio connection between the police station and the patrol car was disconnected, Barricade’s hologram stared lifelessly ahead only turning its head whenever someone stared at him for too long. Driving through a red light dodging oncoming traffic, Barricade checked his navigation systems again to ensure the desired target had not changed location. The blue blip on the screen remained in the residential area of Tranquility. And so it should, Barricade mused. While the Decepticon was no slacker, he rather enjoyed the prospect of hunting new quarry, it made his job so much simpler when they prey remained associated in one place. So far his prey had done just that.

Two hours ago he had picked up a frequency, carrying an encoded message exclusively used by Autobots, steaming through various radio and police stations. However, given that they were four Autobots currently on earth (and two unaccounted for), this wasn’t an unexpected thing. The thing that bothered Barricade the most though, was the memory of being unable to pick up any kind of Autobot frequency or encoded message at all on Cybertron. Jetfire --once on the side of the Decepticons before he was betrayed by Starscream -- made sure all messages were encoded with the cybertronian equivalent of a firewall and enough viruses to crash their communications systems for two human months. Jetfire’s signature was all over the Autobot frequencies he had been monitoring for a months now. This particular encoded message, however, carried no signature of Jetfire’s at all. This frequency was coming from the two