A/N: First time writing for Sunstreaker. I only know of him from other fanfictions, and a very few G1 episodes on Youtube. Please keep that in mind while reading this, and forgive me for any mistakes I may have made. I hope I didn't go overboard with his conceitedness . . . but that's what made him fun to write for!

This was going to be a very, very long oneshot, but the idea just kept growing . . . well, I don't think it will all fit in a oneshot anymore. Instead, it'll be written in a few short chapters. Probably won't go over five chapters, in fact. Just something I wanted to write for fun, ya know?

The only pairings in this fic will be Mikaela/Sam and Bumblebee/Arcee. No OC/canon character pairings. Promise.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Oh, c'mon. Why even bother writing this? It's already freakin' obvious that I do not own Transformers or anything related to it.

Towed

No Parking After Hours

Violators Will Be Removed

At Owner's Expense

Frag you, Sunstreaker thought viciously. He glared at the bent "No Parking" sign hanging from the lamp post directly in front of him. Well, he glared as best he could in his vehicle mode—cars don't exactly glare very well. Yes, even though he was a beautiful, exotic, intimidating Lamborghini Gallardo Superleggera (he had to admit, humans did have a way with names) it was hard to get his anger across with his usual glare. And the fact that he was glaring at a sign didn't help much.

So, after accepting the fact that not even he could scare an inanimate object with his most menacing glare, Sunstreaker settled for mumbling to himself and cussing out random objects that lay in his range of vision (Stupid bubblegum wrapper, Pit spawned shoe lace, slag sucking pebble. . . . )

After a while, even that got boring. He called it quits after cursing an ant scurrying across the sidewalk behind the lamp post.

Now what?

Now what. Hm. That was a toughie. He'd cursed every single thing he could see (and some stuff he couldn't, like that mud puddle he'd driven through eleven hours ago on his way to the Ark, the one that had splattered his gorgeous aft with reeking sludge,) and before that he'd listed the top ten most beautiful things about himself (there were just so many beautiful things about himself, it was hard to chose) and before that he'd listed the top ten things that pissed him off (again, so many things) and before that he'd invented a whole new list of curse words (they were quite unique and only one as knowledgeable in the world of curse words as himself could have come up with them.)

What was he supposed to do now—count the damn pebbles?

I've got an idea, he hissed to himself, practically trembling with rage, how about I get the frag out of here!

That was a good idea. He liked that idea. It pleased him.

Now, if only he could figure out how to get the frag out of there.

You see, there was this one little problem that had plagued him for well over seven hours: he couldn't move. At all. He couldn't even twitch his windshield wipers. His engine wouldn't turn on, his wheels wouldn't spin, his doors wouldn't open and his headlights wouldn't flash. Nothing was working.

And it was pissing him off. (In fact, all that had been counted as one on his Top Ten Things That Piss Me Off list.)

. . . dare he admit it? Yes, ok—it was also depressing him. He was incredibly miserable and depressed. And who could blame him? He'd been stuck in that damn parking lot for almost seven hours. It wasn't fun.

And oh, how he missed the marvelous roar of his engine, the smoothness of his precious tires on the blacktop, the refreshing feeling of the wind gliding over his shapely spoiler . . . .

Oh, what had he done to deserve any of it? He'd been relatively good for the past few days (in his honest opinion.) What did Primus have against him? What had he done to make Primus believe he deserved a terrible, miserable day such as the one he was suffering?

The day had started out well enough. He'd woken up on time for his morning shift (something he didn't look forward to, but he actually got out of recharge the minute his internal alarm clock went off,) dodged his brother's daily pleading for assistance in some stupid new (or old) prank, enjoyed a cup of freshly brewed energon, went off for the morning briefing then accompanied Bumblebee and Arcee on their assigned patrols.

Ever since the new arrivals landed on Earth in response to Optimus' long awaited message, they'd all been sent on daily patrols around the surrounding areas in search of Decepticons. Once more landed (so far only the Twins, Arcee and Bluestreak had answered Optimus' message) they would be spread further out. But for the time being, they stuck close to home.

Sunstreaker, Bumblebee and Arcee had been assigned to Las Vegas that day. They'd driven for an hour after leaving the Ark, which sat a few miles away from Tranquility in the Nevada dessert, before reaching Sin City. Once in the crowded city, the three split up and did their searching.

Four painstakingly boring hours had passed. They'd found nothing.

Sunstreaker found the entire patrolling deal pointless. They'd been at it for almost nine months and found neither filthy hide nor disgusting aft of the Decepticons. And he honestly believed they wouldn't be finding anything anytime soon. The Decepticons were stupid, but at least a couple of them had enough smarts to know that moving away from Nevada would be the best thing to do. The Autobots' base was there, for Primus' sake! Even Bonecrusher (quite possibly the stupidest Decepticon in existence) would know that staying anywhere near the Ark was stupid.

Sunstreaker had voiced his thoughts to his partners, too, once their shift was over. They'd answered in exasperated tones that they knew how he felt about it, he'd told them exactly four hundred and seventy times already.

Bumblebee and Arcee had gone back to the Ark without Sunstreaker (Sunstreaker could only imagine what those two were doing on the hour long drive back; after witnessing Bumblebee follow Arcee around like a cyberpuppy and as eager to please her, and watching Arcee enjoy the whole thing in her own pathetic way, Sunstreaker decided that maybe he didn't really want to know.) The yellow Lamborghini had opted to stay behind for a much needed wash. He'd seen a nice looking car wash on his patrol, and after examining the mud on his aft and the thick coat of dessert dust on his lovely body, he decided he really, really needed a good wash.

So he got his wash. In less than two hours cool, refreshing water and foaming soap had washed away the dirt and dust and nasty mud, and three coats of wax had made him shine like the amazing golden mech that he was. He had begun to head for home.

And then, of course, it had started to rain.

Figures. His first wash in two days, and the sky decides to let loose a bombard of rain. Just his luck.

He'd headed for cover as soon as he could. There was no way he was going to drive through the pouring rain, only to run through more mud puddles and get water marks on his precious paint job just after he'd gotten washed! Hell. No.

Thunder had crashed and lightning had forked through the darkening sky. Sunstreaker had never seen such ferocious lightning before; he'd been in a few light showers since he'd come to Earth, but he'd never seen anything like the storm that struck Las Vegas that day. Why hadn't anyone told him there was going to be a thunderstorm? If he'd known, he'd have headed straight for base and gotten that human girl to wash him! (He only let that girl touch him; he didn't trust Bumblebee's human boy, he was too twitchy.)

He had spotted an entrance to an underground garage by a few office buildings during his patrol, so he headed back there. The rain had begun to fall as soon as he found the entrance. He'd cursed the stupid Earth weather and raced for the dark garage.

The clap of thunder was deafening, and the lightning strike was one of the most painful things he'd ever experienced.

Thirty million volts of electricity had traveled throughout his body, frying his circuits and sending his CPU into a frenzy. He'd only had time to curse the weather again before his HUD flickered and fizzed and blacked out . . . .

He figured it must have been an hour before he came to. The sight of a bent "No Parking" sign had greeted him. He must have rolled to a stop by the lamp post after being struck. And just a few feet away from the lamp post was the garage entrance.

That's when he found he was paralyzed. He couldn't move, he couldn't talk, he couldn't send any messages to the Autobots and he couldn't even turn his radio on. All he could do was glare at the sign and make Top Ten lists while he sat in the cold rain instead of relaxing in a nice, dry, warm garage.

The rain had stopped soon enough and night had come. Sunstreaker could feel the water gliding down his frame, tickling him like crazy and leaving water marks—and he couldn't do anything about it! And it was getting cold and he was bored and angry and depressed and yes, frag it, he was lonely, he wanted his fragging brother, or Jazz or Bumblebee or even Bluestreak, just as long as he wasn't alone in the nasty human infested city!

Fragging Earth and its fragging weather!

Frag you! He hissed mentally at the world in general, Frag you and your fragging weather! Or is it fuck? Isn't that what your nasty little humans say? Yeah, fuck you, Earth! I hate you!

The Earth responded with deep, laughter-like thunder and a second barrage of chilly rain. Apparently, Earth hated him back.

Fuck you, Sunstreaker repeated miserably.

With nothing better to do than to discuss how much he hated Earth and its weather with none other than himself, Sunstreaker sulked beneath the chaotic sky angry, depressed, and utterly, utterly alone.

Where the Pit are they?

Sunstreaker was fuming. He'd spent the entire night in the empty parking lot, alone, pissed off and rained on, and not a single Autobot had shown up wondering what the hell he was still doing in Las Vegas.

They had to be worried about him. They had to be wondering why he hadn't shown up at base already. He was sure of it.

But if they were worried, wouldn't they have tried to contact him?

Maybe they had. Maybe they had and the weather had interfered. Maybe the lightning bolt had totally screwed up his communication systems. He knew he couldn't send out any messages, so maybe he couldn't receive any either?

Yeah. Yeah, that's right. Because, you know, they had to be looking for him. They had to be.

They'd better be.

And then, right on cue, the rumble of an approaching engine sounded behind him.

His spark leapt in joy. He was happy. He was happy and pissed off. He was happy and pissed off and he was going to kick some serious aft.

What the Pit took you so long? He thought sourly. The Autobot, whoever it was, was around a corner and closing in on him. Hurry the frag up and get your aft over here!

His HUD gave him a 360 degree view of his surroundings, enabling him to see pretty much everything around him. So he watched the street behind him, ignoring the early morning commuters driving along, and waited for the Autobot to show himself. Maybe it would be Sideswipe, ready with a corny joke, or Bluestreak, who was obviously enthralled with Sunstreaker (honestly, who isn't?) and wouldn't be able to rest until his idol was safe in the Ark, or Jazz with a friendly greeting and jamming out to some hip-hop --

A vehicle rounded the corner.

Sunstreaker's spirits fell.

An ancient, beat up, grimy tow truck turned into the parking lot and rolled towards him. The yellow mech felt numb; that was no Autobot, and it wasn't there to enjoy the view (though he would understand if it was, because he was a very enjoyable view.)

The truck made a turn and backed up until their afts were touching (Eeee-yech! Keep your aft to yourself, fragger!) The engine died, and the driver's door swung open.

A woman climbed out onto the wet pavement and slammed the door shut. Sunstreaker wasn't sure which was dirtier: the truck or her hands. She hefted her drooping, oil stained pants up and strode over to Sunstreaker's paralyzed body.

Running one dirty hand through her frizzy hair, the woman whistled appreciatively as she admired the yellow Lamborghini. Sunstreaker preened under her wide eyed gaze.

"Damn," she said incredulously, "Who the heck would leave a beauty like this behind?" She shook her head and planted her fists on her hips. "Well, buddy boy, looks like you're going to the impound lot."

What! Sunstreaker's mind was in a flurry. He was going to a freaking impound lot? Oh, hell no!

"Guess I should be used to it by now," the woman was saying to herself as she strolled to Sunstreaker's backside. "In a city like Las Vegas, you get a lot of cars like this laying around. I'm telling you, the owner is gonna come in drunk and pissed 'cause he lost a fortune at the casinos and looking for his precious baby—"

Sunstreaker couldn't believe it. He was going to be towed away. Towed! Him! Like some normal, un-incredible vehicle! Unbelievable! Unfair! Uncool! Just so wrong!

"You know," the woman said conversationally. If Sunstreaker could talk, he would have told her to shut her mouth and get the fuck away from him. "I'm surprised you haven't gotten stolen. A car like you all alone and abandoned in the open? A miracle."

Sunny didn't care. It had been a miserable miracle, and he hated it.

"Okie dokie, buddy boy," the woman said with a determined tone, "Let's get you hooked up."

Within six agonizingly long minutes, Sunstreaker's aft was in the air and his underside was exposed to all prying eyes. He felt naked.

Well, at least there wasn't a hook in his aft. He'd seen videos of tow trucks towing away various vehicles (Optimus had made them watch these videos as a warning of what would happen if they broke the humans' rules) and a lot of those had tow trucks sticking hooks under the cars' bumpers. It looked painful. Instead of being held up by a pointy, sharp hook thing, he had a weird metal contraption under him.

If he fell off and got hurt, he was going to run over that dirty woman.

"And there we go," the woman said with a slap to Sunstreaker's hood.

Ah! There was a nasty hand print on his gorgeous hood!

The woman sighed and slowly began to walk around him. "Man. I'm tellin' you, I still can't believe someone would leave you lying around. If I had a car like you," she ran her hand along the edge of his roof, "I wouldn't even let you leave the garage."

Stop touching me! Sunstreaker howled. She was leaving grease and oil and dirt streaks all over him—oh, what had he done to deserve such horrific torture?

One last slap to his gleaming frame and the woman climbed back into her truck. The engine sputtered to life and Sunstreaker was brutally dragged across Las Vegas, silently growling and moaning the entire way.

A/N: And there ya go. Please alert me to any mistakes . . . Hope ya enjoyed it!