On Samuel James Witwicky's sixteenth birthday, his father promises to buy him a car if he can fulfill two conditions.
To save 2.000 $ and to get three A grades.
The first is easy, since he's been saving money since he turned fourteen.
The second…
"Yes!" Sam shouts, hastily putting his things in the back of the car and climbing in.
"Done?" His father asks, slowly pulling himself out of the half-asleep state he's slipped in while waiting for the teenager.
"A minus, it's an A." He answers, unable to get the smile off his face, and the man snaps at attention.
"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait." His father stops him, reaching for the paper with the grades that's almost being shoved in his face. "I can't see. It's an A?" There's a small smile on the man's face, and the boy quickly assures him that yes, it is. "Okay."
And so, they drive away and, despite the oh-so-funny joke of his father driving in front of a Porsche dealer after promising a surprise, Sam gets his car.
Most of those they see are old or broken, and there's barely more than two that don't have their paint scrapped somehow, but, after a long time searching and a bit of bargaining, Sam gets it.
It's not a beauty nor is it the coolest car ever, but it's his and he's going to make sure to give it a second layer of paint and a good waxing so that it looks good enough.
A 1976 deep blue Camaro with a silver stripe on each side.
It's old and a bit scrapped, but it works, it's cool, and it's his.
Sam is more than happy as he drives it back home.
So happy, in fact, that he almost doesn't see the person running across the street just in front of his path.
With a startled shriek, he presses the brakes with as much strength as he can, jerking forward painfully against the seat belt as the car stops after a second of skidding.
He stays staring forward, breathing heavily, at the empty street.
And then, shakily, he unstraps himself and runs to the front of his new secondhand car.
Nothing.
No trace of the blur of yellow and black that had decided to bolt across the street.
No sign, except for the echo of metal skidding on metal resounding in his ears and the dent and long scratch from side to side of the hood, as if someone had slid over it with bladed skates.
Sam keeps staring at the long, sharp-looking scratch for some time, processing it all.
And then, he curses loudly and looks around.
"It was new, you idiot! Look where you're going!"
There's no answer, for the street is empty, and so, the teenager gets in the car again and drives away.
AN: Ever had something in your head that is killing to get out? To be written? I do, all the time. But this one?
This one almost literally did it.
It's a full story, and it's finished, and I've been writting non-stop since yesterday afternoon, only stopping to refuel.
But, not happy with just that, it begged to be published. And so, after who knows how long inactive, I'm back. And in English! Hope it's understandable...
Anyway, I decided to cut it into chapters so I can look it over and clean it. I have no schedule set up for uploading the rest of the chapters, nor any idea into how many parts I'm going to put it, so I guess it will depend on how well it's received or how long it takes the plot bunny (rabid bunny-like monster is more like it...) to kick me into doing so.
Reviews are welcome, and constructive criticism and/or pointing out any mistakes that may have slipped under my radar even more so!
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro, and this particular universe is Michael Bay's. There are lines from the movie and the comic adaptation, some modified, some written as they are. The title is that of a song from the Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children movie.