Nightmare
By Snare-chan
Pairings: Alice/Sam
Ratings: T
Category(ies): Horror
Warning(s): Spoilers for the 2009, Revenge of the Fallen movie
Status: One-shot, complete
Summary: In college, no one can hear you scream. Because they're drunk.
Notes: For ouronlyhunter, who wanted to break me into pieces by challenging me to write Alice/Sam. It wasn't intended to be horror, but ended up working that way. I'LL TAKE IT!
Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers; wish I did like everybody else. They should put TF in stock, then I'd buy it all!
As a little kid, Sam Witwicky believed in a lot of what most American children did. He understood that there was an Easter Bunny and a Tooth Fairy (who left him plastic eggs in all the best hiding places and a dollar per tooth, respectively). There was the typical falling for the "got your nose" trick parents like his dad would pull on him, and that his mom really, magically could heal boo-boos with a kiss. Sam's favorite stories were fairytales, folklore, and fantasies, reading them with the vigorous conviction that he would someday visit these far-off lands, slay dragons, and save the damsel in distress.
And just like all young kids, he had believed in monsters. Monsters of all shapes, sizes, colors, and ferocities. Monsters in the closet, monsters that would hide behind shower curtains, monsters that lurked in garages and made strange and scary noises… He'd gone through the varied stages of fearing the dark and what stalked in it.
Thankfully, he had grown out of it. Eventually. When reality replaced his childhood wonder, it turned out that there was a logical truth for those mysteries of life, and he moved on with the adaptability of a kid cycling through the circle of life. His concerns about hairy, stinky, and powerful beasts were swapped for school bullies, learning how to drive with his parents, and giant, alien robots from outer space coming to destroy him and the world he inhabited.
Having survived all that, Sam was fine on his own, leaving the comforts of "the nest" and relaxing in dorm rooms, unconcerned that dinosaurs would rear up and attempt to eat him in his sleep or worry that Santa wouldn't deliver presents because he'd moved, and who knew if he'd updated his list? He had bigger, more serious, business to occupy his thoughts with: college homework. If he didn't finish this paper, his teacher would skin him and use it to make those cheap, ugly mugs that said "holds the souls of previous failed students." That was a larger threat than any imagined creature his four-year-old self could have come up with.
The hour was ten minutes to midnight, meaning he'd see his clock reach two or three in the morning before he'd finish his work. Leo, his roommate, was gone – partying with his computer friends, seeing as their website had "inexplicably" disappeared, along with the rest of their data and equipment. Left with nothing else to do, they could be found at multiple fraternity celebrations, his roommate convinced that he needed to score himself a hot babe before he was made road kill. Sam already had a girlfriend, and was content to study instead, taking advantage of the solitude.
He was lounging back on his bed, books and papers strewn amongst the covers as he alternately turned the pages of books and wrote out his thoughts on notebook paper. There was a tiny radio resting on top of his bedside table, blaring tunes of different genres – whatever reached the top of the charts that week – and he listened to it with half an ear. It was background music to fill in the silence as he toiled.
A song came on that he didn't recognize, and had he cared to pay attention, he probably would have switched the dial. It was an oldies hard rock song, the kind that had lyrics, but no one could understand them because they were being shouted to powerful guitar riffs and intense drumming. Sam didn't dislike that type of music, but he did prefer lighter tunes.
After finishing his third paragraph on page five, it came to his attention that it was strangely quiet in the room. Glancing at the radio, he saw that the lights were off, no power feeding the machine. Frowning, he leaned over and pushed some buttons. When that didn't fix the problem, he examined the cord. It had come unplugged. He pushed the plug back into the socket, hardcore music returning, and he went back to writing.
Ten seconds later, it stopped again. Sam was frustrated now, and looked to see that the issue had repeated itself. He shoved the plug in, glaring at the radio and daring it to turn itself off a third time. The dinky radio, a hand-me-down from his dad, who refused to buy him an updated version, was only a couple of watts; it wasn't strong enough to short circuit or blow out.
Yet it died. Again.
"Fine, you want to play rough? Then I'll play rough," Sam threatened under his breath, pushing aside his homework and placing both feet firmly on the floor. He tossed the edge of his blanket out of the way and got down on all fours, intending to retrieve his surge protector. It was stored in one of the bins he'd stuffed below his mattress.
Blindly, he reached around, fingers feeling for the container…but none were within reach. Finding that strange, he bowed his head at an angle to better see the location of his stuff.
Where thin, plastic boxes should have been, instead were shredded and melted plastic boxes, their lids ripped off and their contents scattered. His college supplies were strewn to the foot of the bed, and the metal and electronic goods were in different stages of dismemberment. It was dark, but he could see a pair of glowing red eyes gazing back at him, narrowing into dangerous slits. Sam could vaguely make out the movement of tiny, thin, hair-like appendages jerking around those bright eyes, and a spiked limb clutching the mangled cord of his radio.
Unlike before, where he screamed not like a girl, his body didn't have the willpower to do even that as he scrambled backwards in sheer, instinctual fear, to create some distance.
With a rattling hiss, like a snake readying to strike, a tongue that would put Gene Simmons to shame (granted, it was more cable than organ) struck out and wrapped around his ankle, dragging him into a steely grip. Sharp nails dug into his jeans, tearing the fabric easily where it grabbed, and climbed up his body.
He whimpered as a mechanical face – so alien and robotic – slithered up close to his, gnashing the remains of his graphing calculator within its compacting jaws. That fake tongue peeked out and slowly ran along the top lip, before the exterior shifted. Transforming in a sick parody of how the Autobots did, synthetic skin and hair concealed the metal components.
But not all. There wasn't enough of something, the Decepticon infiltrator lacking resources or power to complete its disguise. Sparks and sharp edges peeked through, reminding him of the Terminator; it was obviously not human, no matter how hard it tried to pretend.
"Can y-y-you keep a secret, baby?" a glitched, feminine voice purred, wickedly sweet and inviting, promising good things for little boys who behaved themselves. Except he didn't want what it was truly offering.
That's when he finally released the air trapped within his lungs, letting out a terrified scream. He thrashed and fought, but it was of little use. The monsters under the bed were real…and they were coming to get him.
-Fin-
A/N: Alice doesn't like rock music, apparently. :9