Story Title: Just a Girl
Story Summary: (2007 Movieverse) AU. What would have happened if Samuel James Witwicky had been Samantha Jenna Witwicky? Simple: Chaos.
Chapter: Chapter One: Hello Sweet Nightmare
Word Count: 1, 149
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers: The Movie (Either of them) or Transformers: The Animated Series (Any of them). They belong to Hasbro and what have you. I just own an over-active imagination.
Rating: (T) - (PG-13)
Warnings: Bad humor, gender-bending, SPOILERS!
Author's Note: Yeah, okay, I have no idea. So, this is the first story I have ever posted. Be as brutal as you please. I don't care. Beware: I am British.
Chapter One: Hello Sweet Nightmare
Sam stared at the beaten-looking yellow Camaro, her smile faltering. Her brown eyes swiveled towards her father who grinned encouragingly and then back to the car that sat innocently in front of her in the drive.
"Geeze, dad… you shouldn't have…" 'Really,' she thought, 'you really shouldn't have.'
"Well," her father started, quite happy with himself, "Since it is your seventeenth birthday… and your mom and I haven't gotten you anything big since Mojo… We thought we'd spoil you."
'Oh no, dad, you really shouldn't have,' she thought sardonically, inwardly rolling her eyes at the words 'big' and 'Mojo' being used in the same sentence. "Dad… I… don't know what to say." It hurt to smile in the sucrose way she did.
"Yeah, I would have taken you but I wanted it to be a surprise," he grinned again and she felt as if she'd swallowed engine oil, "I thought that since you took that mechanics class you'd be able to fix it up nicely, just the way you want it."
'I want it in a scrap yard, preferably compressed into a cube and under a load of other dejected, compressed cars where I don't have to see that God-awful paintjob.' She didn't think it would be possible to ever fix that paintjob or get all that rust off for that matter… She tried hard not to grimace.
"Yeah, it'll be great…" She started, "… but how am I going to fix it up exactly? We haven't got any paint or anything that could help with this…" And she sure as hell wasn't going to spend her hard earned and saved cash to fix this little dump up.
"Aw, well you just tell me what you need and I'll get it for you!" Her father uttered the best string of words he had ever uttered.
"Really?" She smiled genuinely this time. She could always save up the materials and use them on another car, provided she could ever get rid of this Chevrolet.
"Yeah, of course you can, I got the car real cheap so there's a couple hundred bucks left for you to use on it…" Her smile widened, 'A couple hundred… that sounds good…'
"Well, I'll let you check it out and do what you need to do; if you want anything today you'll have to make a list of all the things you want real quick so we can go get them before all the shops close. Otherwise, you'll just have to wait until tomorrow," she deftly caught the keys as her father tossed them to her, slowly making his way to the door, "Your mom'll call you for dinner, and don't stay out too long if you have homework."
Giving a noncommittal mumble as she fingered the keys of her new car she glared at the old Chevy sitting in front of her.
In the bright afternoon sunshine, the Camaro seemed to wink at her, despite the bad paintjob.
Samantha J. Witwicky had been looking forward to getting a car for as long as she could remember. There was always something about shiny, sleek and streamlined bodies and going really, really fast that got to her. It was only natural for her to like fast cars; she'd always been a fast-paced girl. Her mother had countless home videos of her running around constantly as a child; never stopping, always moving and then bumping into something. She had even joined the track team, and would consider herself one of the best runners in California; she had countless medals to prove it, and enjoyed it immensely, but strangely it never beat the rush of going faster than was legal on the highway when she was allowed to take out her dad's car.
Running was a rush but it was tiring and she couldn't do it for hours on end, but when it came to driving? There was no need to stop until the roads stopped and the car ran out of gas. She had been looking forward to the day that she would finally be getting a car with unholy joy.
Until she'd seen the dumpy looking Chevrolet Camaro in the drive and her smiling father standing next to it.
All systems are go had turned from a tantalizing vision of tinted windows and a metallic paintjob to a nightmarish spectacle of rust and dirty, mismatched rims. And worst of all; that women's intuition her mother always talked about finally seemed to kick in. And she knew that she was doomed. It was like getting an invitation to her own funeral. Welcome to the last day of your semi-acceptable reputation. Mission Status: Abort, System Malfunction.
She'd approached, her rigid smile super-glued to her face, trying desperately to avoid her father's eyes lest she start projecting her thoughts which had quickly taken a nose-dive upon seeing the Camaro and realizing that it wasn't her father's new toy. She discovered an entirely new meaning to social suicide (not that she wasn't doomed anyway, with her track record). She'd dreaded something like this happening, but not quite to this extent and as she kept on smiling as she listened to her father with half an ear she could not stop thinking the same pathetic sentence over and over again: 'Oh please God, why do you hate me so much?!'
She'd never quite been tortured in such a way before and to make it worse that damned car seemed to be smiling at her. In the most asinine way. It didn't stop no matter how hard she glared at it.
She heaved a long suffering sigh as she ran a hand through her short, permanently messy hair, slowly easing off her back pack and tossing it gently onto the grass next to the drive, stopping for a moment; anticipating her father's voice demanding that she get off the grass. When no protest came she quickly unlocked the car and dismissively popped the hood up. Sighing as she examined the components she almost didn't notice the engine that could, quite possibly, be God's gift to automobiles. She stood unmoving as her eyes locked onto the engine of the beaten up Camaro.
Lowering the hood slightly, she gave the paintjob a scorching glare, trying to figure out exactly what she had seen before deciding that a second look would very easily verify or dismiss any suspicions she had. Slowly, ever so slowly, she lifted the hood up again and stared, transfixed again and suddenly the racing stripes made sense.
Closing the hood of the car very slowly she stepped back before smiling mischievously at the yellow car in a way that promised great and terrifying things (for the car at least).
"Oh, little Chevy, we'll make a car out of you yet."
Suddenly that annoying smile seemed to flee from the car and she almost indulged herself in a maniacal cackle.
End of Chapter One: Hello Sweet Nightmare
Next Chapter: Chapter Two: Va Va Voom
Author's Note:
Oh dear. Will I ever succeed in this? I don't know. How did I ever manage to turn Sam into a girl? Ah well… I currently have a good method…
I'm trying to make Shia LaBeouf as feminine as possible in my mind. It's worked a little. Which is why (and I'll warn you all now if you're that dense) Sam is going to be a tomboy. You know, like, if you show her some heels she'd be liable to run away screaming. It's very fun.
Also I should mention that my Sam is going to be just as awkward as Michael Bay's Sam. More awkward even.
And I'm still debating on whether or not I should turn Mikaela into Michael. Lolz.
Any feedback is welcome.
-bot
P.S. If you need a code or w/e: Italics in 'Single Quotation Marks' mean thoughts. Regular speech is in "Double Quotation Marks". Italics on their own are expression. Example: This is a really bad example.
