The untold story of the Transformers
Summary: If you thought you knew the Transformers, think again! (I had to do a good deal of reading private journals and dumpster diving to find this stuff, but I have it!) Rated T
A/N: I fully expect this to earn enough flames to light every camp fire in the world, but that's okay! I do welcome flames for this (but unless I specify in my other stories, don't flame my other stuff) in moderation. If a person gets too rowdy and threatening, I will block you or quit taking anonymous reviews!
Also, this probably won't include any one not in the new Transformers movie unless I can beg my two friends to help me. I did watch Transformers, but sadly I was only two years old at the time.
This doesn't actually cough have a plot cough, sorry! This is actually the result of what happens when I drink too much soda and get hyper.
Let's see what else...oh, this is rated T for themes and all that. Everything I write is rated T, anyway...this may not need to be, but I don't want to risk anything!
Disclaimer: Let's see, I'm in college and already up to my neck in debt...nope, I don't owe Transformers, though if I did it's be awesome!
Chapter 1: Optimus Prime
The Cybertronian Gas and Grill was dark, smokey and mostly deserted by now. The only people left were an elderly old bot whose real name had been forgotten about a million years ago but now went by Gassy, and a tall, lanky boy-bot named Optimus Prime. He hadn't been legal for very long now, but he had been coming to this dump for almost as long as he had been alive.
"Closing time, boys." The bartender announced solemnly. "Come on, get up." He helped Gassy up, then ambled towards Optimus. "Hey there, big fella. Time to go."
Optimus mumbled something unintelligible but managed to stand up unsteadily for a second before he crashed back down. The bartender helped him over to the door, then let go.
"You got a friend you can call to tow you home, fella?" The older robot asked uneasily. Optimus mumbled something unintelligible and shrugged. "You just be careful then." He advised the younger but faithful patron. "You want a few gallons for the road?"
Optimus visibly brightened and nodded, and the bartended vanished into gas and grill long enough to grab a full gas can, then returned. He cringed watching the already wasted robot tip back the fuel container. If the bartender wasn't mistaken, and he rarely was when it came to this, Optimus had already drank at least ten gallons of premium fuel that night, not including the can he was busily devouring. A bit predictably, the soused robot fell backward and transformed into a large, impressive eighteen wheeler. With a sigh of relief, the bartender hooked his tow line to Optimus and began trudging off to the huge garage where Optimus lived. Incidently, he was the same one who served Optimus his first taste of gas when he was only two hundred years or so. Had he known exactly how wild the robot would go for the taste of regular and premium fuel, he wouldn't have given him any at all.
Briefly, the bartender peeked in Optimus's front windshield. As he had expected, the cab was full of empty gas cans and receipts. He's a full blown fuelaholic. The older robot thought grimly. He knocked on the door and nodded a greeting to the now familiar face of Rachet, the only robot awake so late. In the background, a pretty robot girl waited impatiently, her arms folded over her protruding pregnant belly. "He's completely out of it." The bartender announced, resisting the urge to peek at the girl again. "If you have the time, you might want to run him through a cold car wash a few times, see if you can't get some of the fuel out of his system."
"Thanks." Rachet hooked his own tow line to Optimus and dragged him into the garage. "I'll get him hooked up to his bed, too." Both of them glanced over to a rather forlorn looking corner, swamped with gas cans and coupons for more fuel. Direct opposite that corner was Rachet's private bed, surrounded by pin ups of rather sexy Transformers and other unidentifiable objects. To the left of that corner was Bumblebee's bed; he was already sprawled over it, snoring contently as half a dozen posters of himself beamed down, wearing only a pair of white boxer briefs over the words CYBERTRONIAN BOXER BRIEFS: ONLY THE BEST FOR THE BEST! And, across from Bumblebee, Jazz sat contently on his bed, surrounded by illegal fuel injectors and discount oils, as he counted out that day's profit. The only private bedroom was Ironhide's; the muted wailing of country western music could be heard through the door. Rachet banged on the door as he headed to the car wash.
"Hey, Ironhide, turn it down! Optimus is home and you know what happened the last time he heard country western music!" Ratchet bellowed.
An immediate reaction rippled around the room; Jazz dropped his handfuls of bolts and cringed, Bumblebee opened his eyes and curled up in a fetal position, and the music promptly stopped as the pregnant Transformer girl gasped and sprinted out the door.
With that unknown but apparently unpleasant memory, Rachet continued onto the car wash, and we continue on to the end of this incredibly short chapter.