Transformers: Starscream Ascendent

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I believe that point is rather obvious.

Summary: The day after Tranquility High School's Graduation Prom, two former S7 Agents visit two separate young men, both acquainted with giant alien robots, who are now nursing the worst hangovers of their lives. So much so that they haven't been watching the news.

1:30 PM, Thursday, June 19th

Tranquility, California

The day after the Prom

Upon awakening, the second thought Samuel James Witwicky came up with was 'I'm never drinking ever again'. The first thought was not nearly as coherent, being merely an incomplete train of thought that registered the extreme sensory stress he was experiencing. It was, to quote: "Oooh... my head".

Alright, maybe having that second glass of wine was a bad idea... and the third... as well as those jello shots... and drinking that vodka was definately not a good plan. Unfortunatley, he couldn't remember what happened after Miles fainted, so that left about a quarter of the Graduation Party unaccounted for.

Well, the first things he ought to do would be: A) Take a leak B) Take a shower and C) Go downstairs in a quest for nourishment.

Afer accomplishing the first two, Sam Witwicky, dressed in an old shirt and his boxers, walked unsteadily down the stairs to the main floor of the Witwicky home. What he needed was coffee... and food, that was the ticket. A nice hot breakfast, a cup of black coffee and maybe a B-Vitamin or two; then maybe he could work out what the hell happened last night.

Judy Witwicky had long ago awoken, and had anticipated that her son would wake up in such a state. Her family, while not being particularly prone to alcoholism, had seen it's share of hangovers and the corresponding development of folk-cures. As Sam entered the kitchen, his mother had already been working on food for him: hot banana oatmeal with honey... and a glass of tomato juice. "Alright... I know what you're thinking: tomato juice with porridge? Just trust me, it'll make you feel alot better." His mother went back to the cutting-board on the counter, and proceeded to chop what appeared to be root vegetables.

Sam hesitated for a second before taking an experimental sip of the juice. It passed the first test: he didn't go blind. It was then that he decided to ask the burning question. "Mom... what, exactly, happened last night at the hotel?" He was wondering how Bumblebee had been able to get him home. A giant robot surely couldn't fit in an elevator.

"Well, for one thing your father and I had to come get you three. First we had to get you, Miles and Mikaela down to the lobby, which wasn't easy. Then your father had to sit in Bee's drivers' seat while I drove the Greeny home, and it's not that I don't think your father did a good job restoring that thing, but I honestly think it hates me! Are you sure it isn't one of those... December-wazzits?" Even after hearing the whole story, being cleared by the Feds and signing enough NDA's to ensure complete secrecy, neither Ronald nor Judy Witwicky could properly pronounce the name of a major side in the Cybertronian Civil War, a war that had raged on past the death of the planet itself and only recently stopped when their leader's spark had been overloaded.

"It's Decepticons, and no, I don't think so. It it was, I think it would have tried to do something other than just guzzle premium." Shoveling oatmeal into his mouth to salve this hunger, he heard the front doorbell ring. The first clue that suggested that it wasn't just some neighbor or Mormon missionary was the fact that Mojo, the family Chihuahua, suddenly got up from the sofa and ran to the door, where he began growling.

Abandoning her vegetables, Judy Witwicky went to the front door and, mindful of Mojo's barking, used the peephole to see who it was. When she saw who it was , the only two words she could come up with were "Oh, Hell!" After a badge was flashed, Judy felt no choice but to open the door... to reveal Reggie Simmons, late of Sector-7, wearing dark sunglasses and holding up the badge.

"Reginald Simmons, FBI. I'm here to make inquiries about your son's... unique aquaintances." It was then that he felt something warm and wet splash against his left trouser leg. He looked down and saw that Mojo had lifted his leg and "lubricated" him. Turning back to Mrs. Witwicky, he smiled in a somewhat strained manner. "Your rodent just watered my leg."

"Well, it's not like you didn't deserve it." Judy Witwicky kneeled down to take her dog in her arms and then stood up again. "What do you want? Perhaps an investigation of my potted plants? Or are you just here to torture my son's car?" The first impression she had had of Agent Simmons was of a rude, smarmy, arrogant government asshole... which was pretty much the opinion of everyone who knew him on a professional level. His actions had not bettered this image at all.

It was at this moment that Sam walked into Simmon's view, having heard the agent's voice. Simmons turned up the smarm again. "There's our man!" Groaning, Sam could only ask what he wanted at this time in the morning. Simmons was blunt. "First, it's a quarter past 2; and second, by signing the various agreements between yourself and the United States Government, you are obligated to provide, at request, any information you have regarding Non-biological Extraterrestrials. As such, I need to ask a few questions regarding your history with these things. Plus, we need you to get straight answers out of 'His-Primeness'."

"Have any of them... done anything?" Asked Sam warily, remembering that Ratchet and (especially) Ironhide had experienced difficulty dealing with human traffic without being able to resort to walking, firepower or an EM pulse.

"Not as of yet." Answered Simmons, "But I believe that both you and your acquaintances have a history with a certain blunt instrument by the name of... N.B. E. 6?"

Trying to match up the agent's naming system up with known Cybertronians and their order of identification by the government, Sam finally came up with something. "The cop car?"

Simmons nudged his shades down so that his eyes were visible before replying, matter-of-factly, "The cop car."

Meanwhile, the Lancaster Residence

Miles Lancaster had also awoken that day. However, due to his parents being at an Engineering conference in Vegas, he had passed out on the kitchen floor in his tuxedo shirt and awoken this morning in a puddle of his own bodily fluids. After four hours of busy activity which included cleansing himself, taking the suit to the dry-cleaners, and mopping the entire kitchen with pine-scented disinfectant, the only material he had ingested so far today was two B-Vitamin capsules, several glasses of orange juice and the spicy, greasy goodness that was a breakfast burrito.

As such, he hadn't been paying attention to the small details around him.

The doorbell rang, drawing a fully-coherent and fully-dressed Miles to the front door, which he opened to find a dark-suited man in sunglasses and possessing a mustache. "Tom Banachek: I'm with the CIA. May I come in?"

Miles, shaggy though he may have appeared, was quite savvy in certain areas concerning government paranoia. "Why? Okay, look, I've never smoked anything in my life, especially not the whacky-tabaccy, and I don't care what other people think of me, I'd never do that sort of thing. And I already signed all the forms after finding out about the giant robots..."

"Mr. Lancaster..." Banachek said, interrupting Mile's rambling. "I do not particularly care about whatever drug habits you may or may not have. What I need is information concerning someone; a female exchange student from Kentucky that you might have had contact with last year." He saw Miles' eyes widen in recognition.

Bingo

"Have you watched the news today, Mr. Lancaster?" Tom's hand motioned for him to be invited in, and Miles, shaking his head in the negative, bid him enter just as silently. Making their way to the Living-room entertainment centre, Miles snatched up the remote and asked what channel.

"All of them." Was the agent's reply.

Finally reaching the default cable news feed on the TV, a blonde, female news reader was just going into a new segment.

"Getting back to our top story, Indiana police are still seeking answers in the kidnapping of four-month old Alvin Schlotter. It happened last night at the suburban Evansville home when, in what had been described as 'the most violent kidnapping in recent memory' , the boy's adoptive parents were assaulted by his birth-mother, 18-year old Edith McPherson of Louisville Kentucky. The public is being urged to volunteer information, but not to interfere, as the suspect is reported to armed and dangerous...."

Banachek clicked the off-button on the unused remote, and noticed Miles was still sitting on the sofa, staring at the now blank television. Sitting down on an adjacent chair, he lowered his face to the level of the young man's. "We need whatever information you may possess about any violent tendencies she may have, but more importantly, she needs us to have that information so that we don't rush to any conclusions."

Now Miles was just shaking his head, muttering. "I don't understand." He said weakly, "She isn't like that! She wouldn't hurt a fly!" To say that he was looking like a lost puppy was likely a bit of an understatement.

Banachek sighed. "Mr. Lancaster, even though she was present at the scene, we find it highly unlikely that Ms. McPherson did any appreciable damage."

"And why do you think that?" asked Miles.

"Because it is the opinion of the CIA that a girl of her age, stature and history could not possibly rip the front wall off of a bungalow, in one piece, and toss it ten feet."