Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended.

Continuity: Generation One (G1)

Characters: Humans

Warnings: mild violence.

Author's Note: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

--

"Oh my God, I swear, I swear you're doing this to drive me over the edge," Martha, flailing blindly behind her seat, let forth a string of obscenities. The car swerved slightly, listing toward the middle lane, before she hastily yanked it back on track, whilst fellow drivers cautiously drew off, casting her dirty looks as they passed. "Laura, Laura Jane, you give that back, you give that back to him right now!"

"But it's mine, it is, and Owen took it!" The eight-year-old screeched, yanking alternatively on the doll and her younger brother's hair. The toddler wailed, stubby hands clenched tight around the torso of the cheap McDonald's toy. His mostly toothless mouth opened wide, and released a shriek that surely trailed into the supersonic. All other occupants of the car winced collectively, grinding teeth together in a fashion most unhealthy.

"I don't care! I do not care. Just give it back," Martha snarled, attempting to both drive and referee her two children.

"But it's mi—"

At last the reaching hand connected, and the forty-something (thirty if you asked) woman crowed in triumph. "You're older. You have more toys at home."

"But I don't have this one! You always let him have everything!" Laura's voice steadily rose in pitch, the last nigh unintelligible.

"Laura, stop whining, I hate it when you whine. Now for God's sake, just let him have the damn toy!"

"Owen whines, Owen whines all the time. You never yell at him! Never! Even when he broke my pony toys!" With righteous indignation, Laura pulled back with all her strength, twisting to avoid the awkward swat aimed at her forearm, and at last, the toy pulled free. There was a brief lull, a moment of silence well known to any parent, before Owen threw back his head, and began a long, hitching sob-howl.

"Oh, for the love of—"

"Waaah-yuhuh-yuhuh-yaaaaa!" He went blotchy red, various liquids beginning to seep from ever orifice of his face. Little chubby fingers clawed at his sister, pulling with cruel, mindless strength at her hair. The girl shrieked, 

wrapping both hands over the tiny wrists. Her eyes went wide with shock and pain, and she began to bawl, digging her thankfully blunted fingernails into his skin. The oscillating blubbering rose in pitch, coming to an unbearable level.

"Ow! Mom, mom, ow, Owen's hurting me! Mom! Mom! Stop it! Mom!"

"He doesn't know what he's doing, he's just a baby," Martha hollered, on the verge of pulling over to deal with this situation. "Just give it back, Laura. And don't you dare hit him!"

"No! No! No!" Laura paused briefly to snuffle pathetically, "No!"

"Waaaaaah-aahh, ahhh, yuwa, yuwa, uuhhh!"

"Oh, for chrissakes, can't you ever behave? Can't I have just one, little moment of peace before you—"

The car made a curious squeal as it was sent spinning, hopping like a mad top across the pitted tarmac. Martha was thrown from side to side against a straining seatbelt, her head cracking forward into the oncoming air bag. From behind, the wails became twin bleats of panic, and the slightly wet sound of bodies colliding. Martha's stomach turned, her body twisting about as she tried to fling herself backward, to cover her children—

It happened so fast, too fast to scream.

The second strike came from the side, crushing the passenger side in, pinning her arm between the seats. The car rolled the other way, skidding and flipping about until it landed on its top, leaving its passengers hanging against the seatbelts. The third strike was a direct collision, a nice SUV compacting the back of her bumper into a neat little concave pit. Something popped ominously from within Martha's arm, and the radio spluttered, and then she found the time to scream.

Gasping for breath, she seized her upper arm, an odd rattle bubbling up from the back of her throat, somewhere between a croak and a sob. She closed her eyes tight, mouth contorting into a white, jagged line. Sucking in great gulps of air – nearly choking on the smoke – she began to pull her limp arm through, brackish streams of mascara running into her hair. Whimpering and moaning, she managed to free herself, clutching the broken limb to her chest and biting her knuckles to keep from shrieking again.

"Ki's?" She managed from around her impromptu bit, shaking from the pain. She had though adrenaline wouldn't let you feel it, the panic of a mother giving her the strength of ten men.

She didn't feel very strong.

"Lawie? 'Wen?" Martha strained to see into the back seat, feeling an odd tingle between her shoulder blades. She peered over the partially crushed driver's seat, quivering.

"Mom, mom, mommy," Laura's muted voice floated up, sounding dazed and frightened. "Mommy, I can't move, mommy, mum, please, mum…"

"It's okay sweetie, it's okay, it's okay," Martha mustered as much confidence as she could. Her back hurt. Whiplash? Oh, God, everything hurt. "Can, can you see Owen, hun?"

He wasn't crying. He was a toddler. He had to be crying.

"Yeah."

Oh, God, it was so quiet.

"Is he okay?"

Oh God.

"I don't know."

"Honey, baby, please, can you look, for mommy?"

"Yeah." A pause, shuffling. "Mom," A small note of alarm, a need for comfort.

"What? What's going on? What happened?"

"Mom, Owen's not moving."

--

Martha, with her undamaged hand, held Laura flush against her side, the two seated on the bumper of the rescue vehicle. The paramedic had already moved on, a garish figure of bright orange among the ruined cars. Somewhere – as far from her daughter as possible – white sheets covered vague lumps, and toes with tags proclaiming identity were to be found.

Laura sniveled slightly, turning her face to press it against her mother's side. "I wanna go home," she said, words muffled by the wooly coat.

"I know," Martha replied, rubbing her daughter's shoulder. "Shh, shh, we'll go home soon. Just as soon as they… as soon as Owen gets back."

"…'Kay." Another pause, and, softly, "'m sorry. Owen can have the toy."

Wordless, Martha squeezed Laura's shoulder, trying to wipe her eyes with her shoulder. Nearby, a news crew picked its way through the devastation, the anchor staring resolutely into the camera lens.

"… leaving four dead, and twelve wounded. The scene is horrific," The newswoman hesitated, listening. "Yes, traffic will be delayed while the wreckage is cleared. It is recommended that commuters take an alternate route." Another long silence. "No, no. The police are not making any statements at this time, but several drivers have confirmed; the symbols on the cars were Autobot."