Though I have been reading fanfics for Lord-knows-how-long, I never thought I'd have it in me to write them. Other people's characters just don't link to hang out in my head. However, I have noticed that the Transformers community seems remarkably tolerant of the dreaded Original Character, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

This is a collection of one-shots and drabbles. They are interconnected, but are not in any semblance of chronological order. I'll indicate in the author's notes if/when a chapter references another chapter.

Also, I am relying on MS Word and my own college-addled brain to pick up on my mistakes. Please let me know if you spot any.

Disclaimer : Transformers is the property of Hasbro et al.

Title : Roadkill

Timeframe/ Setting : Movie'verse. Post ROTF. Earth.

Summary : There are certain hazards of the road that every car, truck, and SUV will eventually encounter. Ancient and noble races are no exception.

A/N : Frankly, I am shocked at how little this particular issue is addressed in fanfics. Onward to Chapter One!

"Yeah, you got yer dead cat and you got yer dead dog.
On a moonlight night, you got yer dead-toad frog.
Got yer dead rabbit and yer dead raccoon.
The blood and the guts – they're gonna make you swoon!

. . .

You got yer dead skunk in the middle of the road,
Stinkin' to high Heaven!"

-- from "Dead Skunk" by Loudon Wainwright III

Sam was used to military efficiency. After so many years among both human and Cybertronian soldiers, he had come to realize that some things really were universal. One of these universal truths was that soldiers didn't dawdle. However, as the plane came to rest and allowed Ironhide, Bumblebee, and a collection of human soldiers to disembark, Sam would have sworn they were practically scurrying.

Perhaps something big had happened, he thought, as everyone, even Bee, hurried off without a word to him. Maybe someone was badly hurt, or they had come across an important piece of intelligence, or . . .

As he turned away to follow them, realization sent a cold clench of fear through his chest. He hadn't seen Diregrip. She had been on that mission; she was supposed to be there; why hadn't anyone – he swung around just in time to see her slinking out of the plane's dark hold and onto the runway.

His first thought was to run to her side and demand an explanation, but some sort of deep-rooted self preservation instinct froze him in place and made him take a second look. Unlike the other Autobots, Dire was not in her alt mode (a suped-up, tricked-out Jeep Liberty that Mikaela referred to as a "redneck hotrod") and she was definitely slinking. That slow, purposeful stride and rhythmically twitching tail-tip usually meant that someone was about to get slagged.

He was just about to choose the better part of valor and beat a hasty retreat (surely Bee could tell him what was up – once he caught him) when the smell hit him. Suburban upbringing nonwithstanding, he recognized it immediately. He just couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or puke.

Dire spent what seemed like half the afternoon in the washracks before surrendering to the inevitable and going to find Ratchet. By then, word of mouth and personal experience had spread her story throughout the entire base and she found the corridors suspiciously clear. The CMO was none too pleased when she showed up in his medbay, but she pulled back her audios and gave him her best lost sparkling optics.

"I can't get it off."

Ratchet hacked and gagged when he sighed, but he commed Perceptor and, after a moment's consideration, sent her back outside while they went to confer with his human counterpart.

Outside sitting on the tarmac with the heat rising off the asphalt under her paws, the scent seemed worse than ever. Ops training aside, Dire actually considered shutting off her olfactory sensors for a bit. Caution conquered comfort, and she just stuck it out.

Her audios pricked up in interest when Perceptor strode out of the hangar with a flock of humans at his heels. He set down the crate he had been carrying and began to rummage through it while Lennox rounded up what was apparently a group of volunteers from the latest bunch of new recruits (poor fools, didn't they know that an officer asking for volunteers was like a catbot asking turborats out for dinner?). Her concern for the humans evaporated in light of concern for herself when Perceptor pulled a large washtub out of the crate and began dumping various jugs of liquid and boxes of powder in it. The concoction bubbled ominously. Lennox finished up his instructions with the warning that since they all wanted to get to know the Autobots, they had better make damn sure every inch of this one was shiny and sweet-smelling by the time they were done. He sent one of them after a water hose, gave Dire a wink, and left just as Perceptor seemed satisfied with his witch's brew.

Dire waited until the boy returned with the hose and Lennox was out of earshot before advising them that there were certain inches of her frame that she could take care of herself, thank you very much, and that if anyone came near her with a bottle of Febreze she would not be held accountable for her actions.

Duly humbled, they collected their scrub brushes and set to work on her legs. Dire tried to stay still, she really did, but the fizzing solution tickled like the Pit. Her occasional twitches and grumbles, with her stern warning on their minds, made the humans jumpy. Perceptor observed for a bit until sympathy (or, more likely, curiosity) won out and he lent a hand. The humans seemed to be trying to avoid her more dangerous parts, like her skull-like jaws and the shoulder guards that hid her rifles. They never seemed to realize that her clawed paws were just as deadly, but she wasn't about to correct them. Any help was welcome help by this point, so Dire obligingly tilted her head this way and that as Perceptor scrubbed it with a soft-bristled brush, even though she knew he was going to start asking questions in about – three . . . two . . . one . . .

Sighing a little in resignation (and immediately sneezing bubbles), Dire began her tale. They had mobilized a team to investigate what seemed to be a Decepticon signal. Bee and Dire, naturally, had gone out ahead while Ironhide followed with the human troops. Once they found the trail, both scout and hunter were certain that the wayward signal was from Barricade. They gave chase on different roads but headed in roughly the same direction. Dire's path took her through some winding gravel service roads that cut through a national forest. Intent on the trail and seemingly gaining on her quarry, Dire didn't pay much attention to her scanners indicating a mammal much too small to be a human up ahead. She rounded a curve to find herself bearing down on the business end of a rather agitated black and white critter. Here, Dire paused in her narrative to add, for Perceptor's sake, that according to the internet it was in fact Spilogale putorius. Said agitated critter had just enough time to spray some sort of noxious fluid all over her grill before it met its untimely end under her left front tire. Things just went downhill from there. Dire came around the next curve to discover that she was much, much closer to Barricade than she had thought and Bee and Ironhide weren't nearly as close as she'd hoped. The silver lining was that Barricade seemed just as surprised to see her as she was to see him – two could play at the signal-dampening game, after all – and that surprise gave her enough time to transform and attack rather than get blasted on the spot. Unfortunately, the mortal remains of S. putorius had splattered all over her undercarriage, releasing more of the noxious fluid in addition to the more mundane gory bits. When she transformed, those remains got smeared around into all sorts of uncomfortable places. She managed to ignore this rather revolting development and hold her own against the Decepticon while comming for backup. Bee was wounded almost as soon as he arrived, and Barricade fled just as Ironhide and the rest of the cavalry showed up on the scene. Much to everyone's annoyance, Major Lennox opted to have Bee's injury and Dire's . . . condition taken care of rather than give chase, as he didn't particularly want to pursue the wily 'Con while two of the three Autobots were at less than their best. Dire argued that she could fight perfectly fine. Lennox countered that it is rather difficult to fight a fleeing enemy when said enemy can smell you coming a mile off. Thereafter followed a rather uncomfortable ride home and, well, you know the rest.

Dire fell silent as the humans rinsed her off thoroughly and then began scrubbing again. They repeated the procedure again, and then again when she transformed into alt mode. The humans relaxed marginally, as she seemed less likely to bite in this form. Dire, however, was paying too much attention to Perceptor to be amused. The scientist had fallen suspiciously quiet, which usually meant that he was planning something. Dire was getting her final rinse when he spoke up.

"Dr. Batrol said that this compound can be an irritant in the eyes and other membranes of organics. Did you observe something similar?"

"Er . . . not particularly, no."

She received a thoughtful 'hmm' in reply. "And it does have a rather distinctive odor, does it not?" he said, half to himself.

Dire wished that she were in robot mode so she could give him an incredulous look. "Uh . . . yes. I suppose you could say something like that."

"Although, it does seem unlikely that Barricade could actually smell you from a mile away . . ." He trailed off into thoughtful murmuring. "Might prove useful if . . . I wonder if Wheeljack and I could . . ."

With a sense of dawning horror, Dire stumbled upon his train of thought.

"NO!"

A/N : Dire should be ashamed of herself. Spilogale putorius, the eastern spotted skunk, is a threatened species in several states. Also, Perceptor's concoction is a mixture of soap, hydrogen peroxide, and baking soda. Apparently, tomato juice doesn't actually work.