Getting to Know You
Chapter Four
By Dreaming of Everything
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, in any of its incarnations, in any way, shape or form.
Author's Notes: The summary has been re-evaluated, and this fic will have six chapters in total. …Twice as many as originally planned, yes. But on the upside, I now have an updated outline. Plans have changed.
In other news, nice long chapter here! Hope you enjoy.
As always, thanks to my beta, mmouse15!
oOoOoOo
Bec screamed and fell backwards as the car she was standing besides transformed. She had a sudden impression of roaring heat and noise—an explosion. She might have screamed again.
That yellow streak running past her—over her—must be Sunstreaker. The ground shook with the footsteps of the footsteps of the giants surrounding her, and then the more with another explosion, and another. There were a handful of metallic scrapes, squeals and crashes, and then a scream, awful and metallic, that made the hair at the nape of Bec's neck stand up with an instinctual fear.
"Sunstreaker got him," said Sideswipe casually. Bec could hardly hear it over the ringing in her ears.
"Are you alright?" a voice asked, behind her. It was hard to tell—she couldn't hear well, and it was hard to think through the new wave of adrenalin—but she thought that it sounded concerned.
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
"You're in shock, you're bleeding and you may have sustained a concussion," the voice corrected.
"So, was asking me how I was just some sort of twisted formality?" said Bec, exhaustion and new fear overcoming her, turning into irrational, uncharacteristic irritation. She'd probably regret it inside an hour, but right now she couldn't resist the urge to be childish and petty. Damn, that cut on her leg was worse than she'd thought it had been.
"Yes," said the voice as Bec turned around. She nearly fell over again as she tried to lurch back—her head was swimming—because the 'voice'—it belonged to one of the robots, who was eyeing her inscrutably.
She'd been back-talking one of them. Irrationally, it reminded her of grade school, when she and a friend had been caught making fun of the scariest teacher in the school by the woman herself.
"Here," he said, handing her an unmarked bottle. "It's an antiseptic." He handed her bandages as well. "Can you take care of the cut yourself?"
Bec stared dumbly for a long second before her mind caught up and she nodded, swiftly.
"So, are you just saying that because you don't want to disagree, or because you actually do know how?"
Bec thought she was going to cry. "First aid training," she finally managed. Which was true, although it had been years and years ago that she'd taken the course. She'd probably be able to manage bandaging the simple cut on her thigh, though. She was just starting to notice the pain in any big way; it couldn't be that bad.
"Good," said the robot—Autobot—and he did sound relieved. How odd. He stood, towering above her even more than he had been, then turned to walk in the direction Sunstreaker had gone. "I'm going to kill that fragger," he muttered to himself. The yellow twin had not made a good impression.
Bec picked her way over the rough ground limping slightly and hardly able to see anything—let alone the ground—through the thick dusk. Reaching a small stand of trees, all the cover she was going to get, Bec slipped out of her jeans quickly and as stealthily as she could, wincing as it pulled at her now-throbbing cut. Damping down a piece of bandaging with the liquid, she dabbed gingerly at the sticky blood surrounding the mouth of the wound. It didn't hurt nearly as much as she expected it to. In fact, as she even-more-carefully worked bits of gravel and dirt out of the cut itself, it seemed to go blissfully numb. A little bit more than just an antibiotic, then.
Working quickly, aware of the people still milling around—not to mention the robots—and the growing chill, Bec bandaged the cut and pulled her pants back on. Tentatively, she walked over to rejoin the main group.
"Oh, good, there you are," said Judy, sounding only slightly distracted. "Would you mind helping Bobby and Glen pack up the picnic things? I wouldn't ask, normally, but I think it's time to go and I can't do it myself immediately. Optimus?"
"—Yes, Mrs. Witwicky?"
"Judy. Although 'Mrs. Witwicky' is better than my full name… Anyway. I was going to see about assigning Bec to Jazz, or Jazz to Bec, however you want to think about it, but it seems he's already slipped Ratchet's lead and left with the Secretary of Defense. I can probably put her up at my house for a while, but my couch will get old quickly, and I think she might want a little privacy at this point. Am I right, Bec?" The girl nodded agreement, looking even more dazed than she had been earlier. "Alright. Just keep the matter in mind, please—although I suppose Lord knows you've got enough to think about already."
"Sorry to interrupt," came Sideswipe's voice from a little ways away. He didn't sound particularly sorry. "But there's been a bit of an accident." In fact, he sounded slightly gleeful.
"…What sort of accident?" asked Optimus, sounding as if he had a guess as to what sort of problem it was, and that he was hoping that he was wrong.
"Ironhide got one of the human vehicles with his cannon. Kind of took out another one with it. And Sunny stepped on another one."
"Honey?" called Ron, his voice penetrating the surrounding darkness.
"Yes, dear?"
"The Honda's a total loss."
Judy looked back up at Optimus. "And I—we—will also need someone to get us all home in the first place. Six of us aren't going to fit into Ron's Truck and Bumblebee."
oOo
Bec felt tired beyond exhaustion. She'd found a rock to sit on for a few minutes, and it was cold, hard and unpleasantly irregular, and she still kept on snapping out of a momentary dazes she couldn't remember falling into in the first place.
Judy's voice clearly snapping out an "Oh, damn," jolted her out of it momentarily.
"What?" Miles said in response, surprised and a little frightened by Judy's lapse. It took a hell of a lot to faze that woman, he knew.
"Ron and Trent left in Ron's truck—which wouldn't be a big problem, but I wanted to give Bec the chance to go home in a car that wasn't an Autobot. She'll have to go with Bee, instead."
"I know I'm ready to head back," said Miles, sounding exhausted.
"Alright, then," said Judy decisively. "We'll just have to make do with what we have. Bec, you can head home with Bumblebee and Miles, and Sam and I can go with… Sideswipe." Who was the only mech left except for Optimus Prime, who just wasn't subtle enough to ferry around humans to residential areas.
Bec nodded, not happy to be getting back into one of the Autobots, but not wanting to argue and needing, desperately, time to think and someplace to sleep. Blearily, she stuck the last of the picnic into the final bag and carried over to the waiting, apparently innocuous, car. The trunk popped open for her as she approached, making the woman jump.
Hesitantly, she shuffled the bag into place, shifting around all the other things filling the small space to make it fit, and then went around to the front, hesitating, not sure what to say or do. A teenage boy—Miles, she thought—was already waiting in the front seat; as she slowed, not sure what she should be doing, the driver's door opened. Hesitantly, Bec slid inside and fastened her seat belt.
Just like with Sunstreaker, the car started on its own and did the driving for her. Except for the crunch of tires over gravel, it was unnervingly quiet. That wasn't helping Bec's nerves, and she tried to calm herself down, slow her racing pulse a little.
Miles looked like he was more than half asleep: slowly, his head drooped lower and lower until Bumblebee hit a pot hole and he collided painfully with the window.
"Nnngh," he said, rubbing at the bump, voice a little hoarse with sleep. "Where are we?"
"Half an hour," said Bumblebee, voice sounding tight, strained and staticky. Bec jumped a little. She half-wanted to ask a question—what was wrong with his voice? Sunstreaker had sounded metallic, but…
She didn't say anything, though.
But Miles did. "Sam told me he—Bumblebee—got injured in a battle a while ago and his voice-not-box because he's not human, duh, Miles, think, for god's sake, but his voice got damaged or something, and for a long time he couldn't speak at all and even now it can give him trouble."
"Oh." Idly, Bec rubbed at a spot on her neck—it was sore, too many days in a car, a Transformer, with a seatbelt edge that dug into her neck—and then fiddled briefly with a strand of hair.
There was a brief stutter of static, and the sound system turned on, LED display bright in the darkness, with no streetlights on the deserted road they were on, or even other headlights. "Relax, take it easy—" crooned the singer.
"Mika?" muttered Miles, sounding vaguely unnerved. Then, louder, "Well, that would explain why the radio was always acting up back when I thought you were just a car… And why Sam would always try to kick surreptitiously at… you, I guess, whenever it happened."
There was a vaguely affirmative beep. Despite herself, Bec relaxed a little. This Autobot just wasn't as… Threatening.
And she was so tired…
oOo
"So," said Judy firmly, lips thinned and face set. "You're Sideswipe."
"Yeah," came the reply. Sideswipe's tone was light, unconcerned, and straddling the fine line between informal and disrespectful.
"Sunstreaker's… 'Twin.'"
"You humans don't really have a word for it. It's like being… Connected. We're partially the same person."
"I see." She probably didn't, actually, not completely, Judy knew, but she could puzzle out the finer details of the matter later. "Does this mean you're likely to scare the spit out of some poor innocent as well?"
There wasn't any answer. Sam was almost sympathetic—his mother had raised him, after all—but not quite.
"We're not identical," said Sideswipe carefully. "I'm my own person."
"Good to hear." Wow—his mom really wasn't giving an inch. Sam was impressed, quite frankly.
"…And Sunstreaker's kind of an asshole."
Judy snapped. "That's one way to put it! The girl—young woman—was literally sick with fear! She couldn't eat! And that's nothing compared to the asthma attacks, which your brother—" her tone was scathing "—did nothing to discourage! From the sounds of things, he actively encouraged it! That's not asshole behavior, it's sociopathy!" She paused to draw in a breath of air, as if to start speaking again, but sighed instead. Sideswipe started to speak, but Judy overrode him.
"You think I haven't heard from my own son how he met the Autobots? He was cornered by a homicidal Decepticon in the first few days, and Bumblebee still managed to be more comforting than your brother all on his own—and Bumblebee couldn't speak!"
"I'm right here, Mom," Sam said, sounding almost amused. Judy ignored him.
"I was introduced to the Autobots, and it was marginally horrifying, but they all did their best to make me as comfortable as possible, considering the circumstances! Miles and even Trent have adapted better than Bec has, and their first inkling of the existence of you Transformers at all was being attacked by a rogue police car! Even Ironhide did a better job introducing himself to Sarah Lennox!"
"Look, lady, it's not my fault. I'm not Sunstreaker, I'm not responsible for his behavior and, Pit, even I think he was out of line—and not because he was breaking regulations, that's just the extra bit of stupid on top of the whole thing. He has a lot to answer for…"
To start with, Sideswipe had recorded this whole conversation to play back for his dear brother when they had time.
Judy subsided for the time being, although she still looked distinctly disapproving.
oOo
Sunstreaker was unhappy. The Autobot behind him—Ironhide—was tailgating. The Autobot in front of him, Ratchet, was refusing to speed up and, after the first time he'd tried it, had informed him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not going to be allowed to pass. The order had been backed up by Optimus Prime, who had helpfully reminded him that he was on probation. And then his brother had commed him to swear him out. And then Bumblebee, the little spy, had informed him that if he even thought of treating the two organics who were his charges, or any of the other humans connected to the Autobots, the way he had treated Bec, they wouldn't find enough recognizable parts for Ratchet to be able to put him back together. Ratchet had piped up to say that there was no guarantee he'd want to try at all.
Finally, Optimus Prime had issued a few warnings and the others had backed off a little, and Sunstreaker had been left alone to bask in a little peace and quiet.
Unfortunately, all he seemed capable of doing was brooding.
Alright, he'd been pretty slagging nasty to the organic, even if she had been unpleasantly crazy and then annoyingly prone to panicking. And just…
So she wasn't that bad. She'd never used him for reproductive behavior or eaten in him, just dragged around uprooted bits of damp vegetation. And she hadn't washed him even when he was filthy, and she had insulted his color on several occasions, and…
But she hadn't… She had…
Autobots didn't breathe. They had no equivalent, far as Sunstreaker knew. There were ventilation systems, yeah, to help with overheating, but they weren't particularly necessary, let alone regularly used. They didn't eat, not the way humans did, either. They had no equivalent for vomiting—a reflex that, originally, got rid of potentially toxic substances that had been ingested, although apparently some humans didn't seem to realize that. Nerves—the useless organic didn't even have properly functional systems.
Although the malfunctions had been his fault.
Or—no, it was just as much her organic progenitor, who had 'given' him to her. And the Decepticons for forcing him to reveal his presence instead of just disappearing some night, after he'd heard from Sideswipe. And Sideswipe himself, for not finding Optimus Prime and the other Autobots fast enough, making him need to collect a driver and go in search of him.
No, that was stupid. It really was just him—and the organic—who were responsible. Even Sideswipe thought so, and Sunstreaker knew him—and had, when they had been close enough to
each other, back at the lookout, felt a certain amount of anger and disgust radiating from him. Directed at Sunstreaker.
Slag.
He needed to fight something. …And if Ironhide tried tailgating again, it was going to be him.
oOo
Bec was in bed at eleven and slept until noon the next day, before she managed to drag herself awake, mostly because the sun was getting in her eyes—the Witwicky living room couch wasn't all that comfortable, either, although it was better than a car seat, and anything—or nothing—was better than Sunstreaker.
The yellow Autobot from the night before, the striped one—Bumblebee; the name was bizarrely, inappropriately apt—was sitting in the driveway, but other than that, the house seemed to be deserted. Judy had left a note on the table: Bec, I'm out with the boys—help yourself to anything you want to eat, and if you want to go anywhere, ask Bumblebee. Do whatever you feel like doing. –Judy
She found herself some toast—she'd never really liked cereal—and an apple, suddenly hungry again, and then wandered out into the garden. Green growing things always relaxed her…
At first, she just wandered around, looking at the beds and inspecting few plants—Judy had founds some truly spectacular rose varieties, even if they weren't their best in this climate—but it was hard to not want to get her fingers in the dirt.
…And no sane gardener would turn down free weeding, right? So it was fine if she did some. She could just avoid all the marginal weeds. She had California poppies in her own gardens, after all, and Bec knew that most people didn't weed out daisies with the single-minded hatred that she did.
oOo
When Judy pulled into her driveway, Jazz behind her, she hadn't expected to find one of her house guests waist-deep in dirt and weeds—her shirt, which had been a nice shade of light blue, was beyond recovery, absolutely covered in grass stains, mud and one patch that looked suspiciously like dead aphids, and what she could see of the jeans were worse—but actually smiling. A really happy smile, something she hadn't seen from her, yet.
That faded, though, as Judy walked over to look at what she'd done, to be replaced with something that clearly had a lot of embarrassment to it, but was something else as well. Judy guessed that it was Bec's interpretation of the emotion that accompanies a reality check. The girl—young woman—couldn't ignore what had happened forever.
"Sorry," Bec said, cheeks warm with embarrassment. "I didn't…" She scrambled to stand up, hands wringing nervously.
"No, no, I should be thanking you!" Judy said immediately, because it was true. "I've been so busy lately I've been neglecting things horribly—I'm sure you can tell!"
Bec protested, of course—manners were important—and, gradually, the two women made their way inside.
An hour later, Bec was back outside, to pick up the now-wilted weeks (she'd forgotten them) and do some watering. It was a hot day, and the newly-turned-over soil would pick it up nicely, and after having their roots disturbed, the other plants could use it. She wondered if Judy kept any mulch on hand…
This time, Beck couldn't have—and didn't try to—keep her thoughts at bay. She needed to face things, after all…. And last night, hadn't her only wish (after sleep) been to have the time to think?
And now she actually had it.
…So. Aliens were real, after all. At least, in the form of giant alien robots, they were. That was… It would have been interesting and slightly unnerving, but it was just kind of horrifying. Because of Sunstreaker. And because she was involved. She'd never asked for this. She'd never asked for much of anything, other than having a… Normal life. More normal, at least. She'd liked being almost entirely alone, which was a little weird, and she wanted the chance to garden, which was strange for someone in their early twenties, especially, but less weird. Other than that, though…
Once she graduated, she could work as a garden designer and she'd work instead of living off of her parents' money, and she'd never be rich but she'd be happy, and nobody would ever notice her passing them in the street, because she wouldn't be in magazines as part of the upper-class party circuit, or wearing custom-made ultrafashionable designer clothing, or driving a, a startlingly bright yellow Lamborghini.
It had been years since she'd really wanted to change the world. Once hopeless idealism wore out and reality—and realism—set in, Bec had accepted that very few people were going to be earth-shakers, and most people were just going to be background, within the range of 'normal,' and she was one of them. Simply… Average.
People would probably tell her that that was a defeatist's view. Maybe it was.
She'd graduate and design pretty gardens and retire and die, and nobody would remember her except for maybe a few other gardeners. She'd be happy with that. When she inherited after her father's death, she'd probably donate most of the money, anonymously, to some charity or another. The business would go to her sister—certainly not to her, and her brother had no head for business.
But…
…but now she was around heroes. People—and not-people—who had made a difference, even though a lot of them were ordinary, except for that they'd found the strength to save the world. Sam; Mikaela; William Lennox, the captain, and his other team members; Maggie and Glen—although they hadn't really been average to start with.
The Autobots.
Not… Not Sunstreaker, or his 'brother,' but the others. They had all risked their lives to save the world. Which mean saving her, and her mother, her father, her brother and sister. They'd risked their lives to save every person she knew, and every other person there was, sight unseen. They weren't even the same species. They weren't even both carbon-based. Biologically, she had more in common with phytoplankton than she did with any of them.
All she'd ever wanted was normalcy. Maybe to fight for that, once she'd been thrust out of it… Maybe, that was selfish.
She wasn't a soldier. She wasn't a hacker. The only 'gifts' she had were a good head for Latin, provided she studied, and a knack for leaf-shape recognition. And a fear of the Autobots that surpassed anyone else's.
…She'd go home, once this was all over. Before it was. She wasn't a hero.
And she couldn't fail her classes, after all, and she hadn't brought the work with her. She didn't want the last of her spring lettuce to bolt before she could eat it.
oOo
Mikaela wasn't shocked to find the kitchen empty when she walked in, first thing in the morning, but was kind of surprised that it looked like everybody else had already eaten. She was an early riser—her grandmother always called her a morning lark—so it was still a little bit before eight, and they'd gotten back pretty late the night before.
Mikaela shrugged mentally—oh, well—and found herself a bowl of cereal.
Mikaela decided to straighten up the kitchen a little—after all, Mrs. Roring (not Whitman, she needed to remember that; Judy had told her that she was Glen's maternal grandmother, after all) was putting up with a number of 'houseguests,' including Ratchet, who was hardly inconspicuous in a civilian driveway… And that was after she'd been forced to follow her grandson across the country when the government had asked him to move closer to the Autobot project—she was too old to live alone. The least Mikaela could do is try to make things a little easier for her.
So she was up to her elbows in soapy water when Maggie and Glen walked in, looking like they'd just finished working out, or something like that, sweaty and exhausted.
"Ratchet made us go running," Maggie explained, collapsing into a chair. "Glen—okay, fine, obesity is a serious health problem—"
"Hey!"
"—but why me?"
"It's probably good for you," Mikaela pointed out.
"I'm a computers specialist! A good one! Last I checked, that didn't involve needing to meet any physical standards. –And why didn't he make you go with us?"
"I go to the gym almost every day," Mikaela said. "So does Sam. We both figured it was a good idea, after Mission City. Anyways, I'm going to start studying Autobot medicine with Ratchet, and most parts are pretty big, compared to me—they're not going to be easy to lift."
Maggie muttered something that sounded uncomplimentary, although it was hard to tell, with her face buried in her arms.
"Six-thirty AM is a godless hour," Glen announced, sitting down across from her with a bowl of yogurt. "Which is perfect—Ratchet is clearly some satanic minion."
Mikaela choked on her laughter. "He's not that bad," she protested, biting her lip.
"Yes, he is," Maggie said firmly, Glen nodding his agreement. "Just you wait."
"Fine," Mikaela said. She was fighting a losing battle. "Ratchet might or might not be of satanic origin. So, what do we do today?"
"I've got a new firewall that needs testing!" Glen said enthusiastically. Maggie's expression brightened considerably.
Mikaela groaned. Maybe Bumblebee would be able to pick her up—then she could spend the day with him and Sam, and probably Miles, Trent (which was a pity, but couldn't be avoided…) and possibly Jazz. At least none of them would be talking about complex computer-things she couldn't hope to understand.
oOo
Bec's cell phone was currently in Oregon, three states away.
She'd left it on purpose, not wanting to have the temptation of being able to call someone. She hadn't wanted to give Sunstreaker a reason to do—
Regardless, now she didn't have it. She wanted to call her Dada, just to talk to him. She wanted to call her mom, to listen to her pointless gossip and to ask her to call the gardener her Dada had hired, and make sure nothing too horrible happened to her garden while she was gone.
As things were, she couldn't. She didn't want to ask Judy if she could use her phone—she was imposing enough as things were.
Maybe she could find a phone card in town. Yes, that was a good idea.
"Judy?" she said quietly, walking into the kitchen, where the woman was busy with something complicated-looking—she kept on cross-referencing through the stacks of papers spread out around her, and then scribbling notes.
"Yes, dear?" she replied, looking up and smiling in her direction.
"I'm going to go for a walk. Can I pick up anything for you while I'm out?"
"Oh, that's so sweet of you, to think of me! No, I think I'm fine, but thanks for asking. Oh, wait, could you pick up a loaf of bread? If it's not too much trouble. Just a second, I'll give you some money—oh, and before I forget—I meant to ask you already, but I forgot—do you have a cell?"
"Yes," said Bec. "But it's in Oregon. I didn't… Want to…"
Judy tried to hide her frown. "Hmm," she said, as non-judgmentally as she could manage. Bec seemed to be the sort of person who hated conflict, even when none of it involved her. She really did need to have a chat with Sunstreaker, though—it probably wouldn't be too hard to convince Jazz to let her use his radio. Even Bumblebee probably would, at this point—he took his role as a guardian seriously. "Well, that's too bad—I think it's a good idea for you to have some way of getting in touch with people, when you're on your own, what with the Decepticons targeting people connected to the Autobots—which you really are now. I'm sorry…"
"Maybe it'll turn out for the best," said Bec, looking up suddenly to meet Judy's eye, smiling a little—but it was only a smile because it wasn't anything else, Judy thought. It was an odd expression, accepting and scared and maybe hopeful but just as much—or maybe more—despairing and probably confused (who wouldn't be?) and definitely tired.
Poor girl. At least she seemed to have stopped rejecting everything connected to the Autobots—especially her role in the proceedings—automatically.
"Anyway," Judy said, suddenly aware that she'd let the silence drag on too long. "Here, take my cell—and if there's anyone you want to call, use the house phone, okay? If there's an emergency, just press and hold number two—that'll call the Autobots, they'll show up even if you aren't able to say anything. Oh, and here's some money for the bread."
"Thank you," said Bec, looking down again. She hesitated, as if she was going to say something else—Judy thought about pressing her, then decided that it might end up discouraging instead of encouraging her. Finally, looking hesitant, the girl—young woman—spoke up. "Do… Could I call my d—my father? I can pay for the cost, because it's long-distance—"
oOo
Bec wished the phone wasn't cordless, so she'd have something to fiddle with while she was waiting for someone—probably her Dada's secretary—to pick up on the other end.
She really was glad that she'd asked to call. She probably should have waited for a phone card, but the little corner store that served the suburb the Witwicky's lived in didn't look like it carried much—it would be kind of a long shot. And she really hadn't wanted to wait any longer, even though there wasn't any reason for her not to. And Judy had offered.
But she felt bad that she'd also insisted that Bec not pay her anything for the call. She was already another body in the already overfull house—the Witwickys were feeding and housing three extra people now, two of them teenage boys, and that didn't include the Autobot in their driveway—did they need gas to run? Or something like that? They probably needed some sort of fuel… Unless they'd somehow managed to solve the energy crisis. Which was also breaking some sort of scientific law, Bec thought, based on her vague memories of freshman year high school chemistry.
"Hello, you've reached the office of—"
"I'm his daughter, Bec," she said, interrupting him, then feeling bad about it—it was rude. She shouldn't have. She did her best to think about things like that.
"I'll put you through, ma'am."
This time she watched her manners. "Thank you," she said quietly.
There were a few moments of silence—her father would never tolerate background music for a phone on hold—and then she heard his voice.
"Hello?"
"Dada!" she said.
"Bec!" he said, clearly thrilled to hear from her. "My little girl! How are you doing? Did you hear? Your sister said she hadn't gotten in touch with you when we talked this morning—"
"Hear what?"
"Don't worry, nothing too bad—but the garage was broken into. Well, actually, it was almost half-destroyed, like someone tore the top off of it—and there are the damndest marks in the lawn
from whatever sort of machine they used to do it with, almost like giant footprints. I'm telling you, Bec, we'll have conspiracy theorists and UFO-hunters showing up any day now. It's the damndest thing, I'm telling you—"
Bec leaned back against her chair, feeling weak. Giant footprints?
How could you tell your father 'I know what caused it—robotic alien life forms. One of their counterparts just kidnapped me…'?
They'd gone after her father. At least he was still alive.
He'd been so close to dying, and she hadn't known it. She'd almost died too, the night before, but that was… Different.
She'd thought her Dada was indestructible, when she'd been younger. She still thought that, in a way. She couldn't imagine him just laying down and dying.
She'd been so close to needing to bury him.
…But she couldn't think about it now. Finish the conversation, she told herself. Think about this later. When you have the time. When it'll be okay if you start crying.
oOo
Bec was trembling a little as she came into the kitchen, blank faced, and put the phone down on the bale with too-careful movements, as if she was needing to think, hard, about each physical action.
Her body was buzzing with tension again. She felt very tired, but only faintly—she felt as if her consciousness had been removed from her body, and the two parts were communicating from opposite ends of a very long, empty hallway.
"What's wrong?" Judy asked, looking up with sudden concern spreading quickly across her face. "Bec—has something happened?"
Bec sat down and then swallowed hard, twice, trying to find her voice. "I think my father was attacked by Decepticons," she said, voice raw.
"Oh my God—Is… Is everyone okay?"
"Yes," Bec said, looking over, trying to remind herself that nothing had happened, that her father was fine. "It—He said someone broke into the garage, forced the roof open and left—left what looked like giant footprints in the yard."
Judy clucked to herself, letting the other woman bury her face in her shoulder and cry while she hugged her closely.
"How did you get him?" Judy asked. "Sunstreaker, I mean." She needed to get all the information she could, then get in touch with the Autobots.
"My—he was a gift from my father," Bec said, surprised enough by the apparent incongruity of the question to answer unthinkingly, unflinchingly.
"I should have realized," Judy said immediately, suspicions answered. "I should have—your father bought the car, and I bet there's something somewhere on some computer with Internet access, some piece of information, that ties it to him—"
"The paint was custom," Bec interjected, eyes downcast. "You can't—not that exact color."
"I bet the Decepticons were looking for Sunstreaker. That means they know his alt. form at the very least—maybe license plates, too, if we're unlucky. It's not exactly an every-day car, is it?"
"Oh God," Bec said. "He was… My father—"
"I know," Judy said soothingly. "but at least they know he's not there. They won't go looking again. And your father's still alive…"
oOo
"Here," Judy said, handing the phone to Bec. "Captain Lennox wants to ask you a few more questions."
"Alright," said Bec meekly. Then, to Will, "Yes? May I help you?"
"Well, yes—first off, I'd like to apologize. This never should have happened."
"I understand—It's okay," Bec said softly.
"—Great," said Will. "But would you mind speaking a little louder? I'm having a hard time hearing you. It's a madhouse over here—you've probably heard, I've got my whole unit over here, and we're just starting lunch—we got a little held up in meetings this morning."
"Okay," Bec said. She made an effort to speak up. "Is… Is there anything else?"
"An address and phone number for your father, and—let's see—his full name," Will continued.
"Alright—Thirty-four—"
"Hand on a second, I need a pad of paper—There! Okay, would you mind repeating that?"
Bec rattled off the information, then tried to answer a few more questions—she didn't have the answers to any of them; her father hadn't told her much in terms of specifics. She figured the whole matter was in the government's hands, now.
"Do you have any questions?" Captain Lennox said at last. "Anything I can answer for you, or ask someone else to answer? Anything I can do?"
"I—" Bec bit hard on her lip. She didn't…
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
So maybe she was useless. It was her fight now anyways. And it never hurt to try.
Right?
oOo
Bec was prying dandelions out of the lawn—she needed something to do, after all—with a dibber (1) and humming tunelessly to herself when Judy found her that afternoon. It was her third day at the Witwicky house.
"Hello," Bec said as the older woman approached, shifting so she was sitting back on her haunches and looking up at her, shading her eyes with one hand against the bright summer sun.
"Hi," Judy replied. "You know, you don't need to do this—I can't imagine weeding a lawn is any fun—even Ron avoids it, and he's devoted to that grass."
'I like to keep busy," Bec explained, standing up so she was on a more equal footing with Judy and clasping her hands together to try and wring off some of the dust. "And really, it's not too odious a chore. It gives me something to do."
Judy shook her head. "I can't imagine what you would consider an 'odious chore,' then."
"Algebra," said Bec promptly, ducking her head to hide a smile. Judy laughed.
"I never disliked algebra all that much—I liked math class. It wasn't my favorite subject, but wasn't chemistry or biology—I hated them. Of course, I haven't used any of those since before I graduated college, so the teachers were wrong there—and that was the main complaint against math classes that I remember."
"I liked bio," Bec said. "It was a class where I could get my hands dirty. I've always liked that." She held out her hands demonstratively: they were still stained with mud, dandelion sap and pollen and green residue from the grass.
"Well, I can understand that," Judy responded. "Anyway, I wanted to know if you'd like to come into town with me this afternoon—I've got a few chores to do, which isn't all that exciting, I
know, but I could show you around Tranquility. If you want to stay, the boys will be spending the afternoon hanging out around the house—and Sam was saying something about how Mikaela might be coming over, too, if she can talk Ratchet into giving her a ride."
Bec hesitated.
"There's a new nursery that's just opened I've been thinking of visiting, too," Judy continued, pulling out her figurative trump card.
"Yes, please," Bec said. "I'd like to go. I think it sounds wonderful."
oOo
Bec was quietly nervous as she delicately pulled open Bee's passenger-side door and perched on the seat.
She couldn't slow her heartbeat, though, and Bumblebee was used to tracking the vital signs of the people riding in him, out of habit—it was a good way to keep track of certain moods and emotions.
And Judy was picking up on Bec's mood, too. She thought that she didn't realize how differently she talked when she was afraid: she was always quiet and unobtrusive, but now she was almost whispering, hardly spoke at all and looked as if she was trying to pull in on herself until she disappeared.
Judy thought that she should probably feel guilty for encouraging Ron to take the truck that morning. It left them with only Bumblebee—and Jazz, who'd been planning to drop in later, or any other Autobots that happened to drop by and were willing to play chauffer—for transport.
Bec did need to adjust to them, though, and by now she'd had a few days to calm down and think things over—and to distance her from her first exposure to the Autobots, which had been so shatteringly calamitous. Judy thought so, at least, although apparently Will thought that she was overreacting a little—not that he thought it wasn't reasonable for her to feel panicky, just that she had taken things too far. Either way, Bumblebee was probably the best 'bot to start her on: he was friendly and approachable, and the closest in 'age' to the young woman. Jazz was also friendly and younger—and even more outgoing—but he could be intimidatingly Machiavellian, and had a weakness for head games—not something Bec needed, although there was a chance she would be particularly susceptible to them. She wasn't very confident, very sure of herself.
It was odd, watching her retreat back into her shell, like a prodded snail—in this case, the prod being Autobots, wielded by Judy herself.
Well, she'd need to fix that.
"I'm not sure you've been introduced—Bec, this is Bumblebee. Bee, Bec."
"Nice to meet you," said the car cheerily. Silently, Judy thanked him for having the social grace to pretend that nothing was abnormal about the situation.
"N—Nice to meet you too," Bec breathed, eyes darting nervously around the interior of the Autobot, trying to find something to address, some equivalent of a face—Judy could sympathize with the problem. She was also sure that Bec had only managed to say that much because the words were automatic: she didn't need to think about them.
After a few minutes of uninterrupted silence, Judy elbowed the car door as unobtrusively as possible--making sure that Bec, who was looking out the window at the passing roadside—didn't notice, to try to get Bumblebee to try and start a conversation.
"I'm sorry you had to deal with Sunstreaker," he said finally. "I promise you that the rest of us are nothing like that."
Bec's breath hitched a little oddly in her throat. Judy understood.
"I'm sure Sunstreaker didn't help with anything—" Judy was damn sure, in fact "—But all of you can be a little intimidating, you know, Bumblebee. And not everyone wants to jump head-first into adventure."
"Yes," Bec said softly. When Judy looked encouragingly at her, clearly hopeful, she added a little bit onto her original statement—or word. "I've always been a homebody."
"—I don't want to see a ghost: it's the sight I fear most.I'd rather eat a piece of toast and watch the evening news—" (2) played the radio.
Bec looked blank for a few minutes, surprised, before she started giggling, and then outright laughing. She was positively shaking with hilarity.
"So what was all that about?" Judy asked as Bec finished, but she was smiling.
"The lyrics," Bec replied, biting back another giggle. "Is—Is that a real song?"
"Yes." Bumblebee had replied, that time, and Judy was heartened by Bec's more-relaxed reaction: she was still far from calm, but it was better. Much better.
oOo
"So, you'll be willing to help me get these in the ground?" Judy asked as the two of them stood in line with a wagon—this nursery's answer to shopping carts—half-full of plants.
"Of course," Bec said. "But—the car—"
At least she'd had the sense to be discreet, Judy thought to herself. This wasn't a secret that needed to be shouted from the rooftops. Not yet, at least, although there was a good chance that
it was just a matter of time before video footage of one Autobot or another hit the Internet, at which point the government would need to end up doing some frantic backtracking.
"It won't be a problem," she said cryptically. "I've got drop-cloths, but even if I didn't, I don't think he'd object."
"Oh," Bec said, looking at her wide-eyed, as if she'd been surprised.
—Oh. Judy could guess. She'd press her for details in a few minutes, in the car.
The two women pulled the plants back out to the car, and Judy loaded them into Bee's trunk while Bec returned the wagon. The two—the woman and the Autobot—were waiting for her when she returned.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said quietly as she ducked down into her seat and pulled on her seatbelt.
"So," Judy said, without preamble. "What you were saying about plants in cars?"
Bec was silent.
"Well, dirt in the upholstery can be kind of unpleasant," Bumblebee said, a little doubtfully. "Especially when you're new. Earth is really… Different. Although if you put down some sort of cover and don't leave the plants in there too long, it really shouldn't be a problem—"
"It was when I—didn't know," Bec said abruptly, hands on her thighs, palm down with the fingers digging into her legs, and hunched over, curling in on herself. "I was… I didn't know… Really. It doesn't matter."
And it didn't, or at least it shouldn't. That was thing, Judy thought. But on top of everything else Sunstreaker had done, it did.
She made a mental note to track down Jazz soon. She needed to talk to him. She should probably wait a while to talk to Sunstreaker—which didn't necessarily mean she would. Just that it would be for the better if she did.
oOo
After Bec had expressed an interest in seeing the desert—not something she was particularly interested in, herself—Judy had gotten an idea. It had been remarkably easy to set up, too, although the guide to local plantlife had been a little hard to track down—she didn't think much of the near-by bookstores.
All it had taken, really, other than that, was a call to Jazz.
oOo
Bec wasn't sure how she'd ended up in the Autobot called Jazz, the two of them speeding out into the desert. She tried to concentrate on calming her pulse and keeping her breathing slow and natural. It was completely silent inside the car, with only the noises of tires on the road and the wind rushing past them to interrupt it, until Jazz spoke.
"So, an Irishman, a Scotsman and an Englishman walk into a bar." There was a brief pause. "You'd think one of them would have seen it."
Bec stared uncomprehendingly at the dashboard for a long minute, thrown off by the sheer incongruity, before she giggled, and then started laughing.
When she'd finally quieted—although she was still smiling, just barely—Jazz spoke again.
"Okay, so I know I'm funny, but I didn't think you'd find the joke all that hilarious."
"Maybe I just needed to laugh," Bec said quietly, sounding almost shy.
"I find it usually helps," Jazz said happily. "And you've had a rough couple of days—I'm sorry about that, for what it's worth."
"Thank you." Bec's voice had gone even quieter.
"T'be honest? It was nice to see you smile. The other times I've seen you, you've looked down-right miserable."
"It's been—hard." Her smile was gone again, and she was almost whispering. Jazz wasn't sure what to say to that, because it was true, what with Sunstreaker and her father and how she'd been surprised and then almost attacked by a Decepticon—and he was pretty sure that a second joke would be inappropriate. Even if the joke itself wasn't. Before he could come up with something, Bec surprised him.
"You're very—very different," she said carefully, looking away at the emptiness they were passing through.
"Should I be insulted?"
Bec let out another surprised giggle. "I wouldn't be," she said hesitantly, not wanting to actually give offense, and still so unsure of what the boundaries were in this new game of social interaction.
"Have to say, if it's Sunshine I'm being compared to, I'm not too unhappy that we're coming across pretty differently. The mech's an ass—I am not looking forward to serving as commanding officer for him or his brother, but Sideswipe at least has boundaries—I think…"
"Commanding officer?" Bec parroted back.
"Hm? Oh, yeah—I'm Optimus' second-in-command."
Well. That was—unnerving, Bec thought, eyes wide.
"Hey, whoa there—don't go taking me too seriously, now!"
Bec didn't respond verbally, but gave a quick twitch of a smile, a brief moment when her face lost the too-serious half-scared expression she usually seemed to wear.
A few long, silent minutes, Bec spoke up again. "J—Jazz?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank—Thank you for taking me out here. I know it's kind of… weird, and probably boring for you, and you doubtless have more important things to be working on—"
"Hey, careful with the assumptions! You know what people say about them. I got no problems with helping you get around—and I haven't tried anything like this little trip yet, so I don't know if it'll be boring or not. And more important things to do—nah, just paperwork. People, even if they're organic, are always more important than glorified secretary duty—which is what being second in command means, y'know."
Bec laughed a little again, but the noise was weak and nervous.
"I'm here to help—you got any questions? Any at all? I'll answer 'em for you, best as I can. Helping you get places whenever I'm free—easy. Ask me, and I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you," Bec said, ducking her head. "I will."
Somehow, Jazz doubted that. "Seriously—take me up on this! I warn you, I am damn hard to insult. When I say 'ask me anything,' I mean it."
"Thank you," she repeated, even more quietly.
"'Course, if you're asking questions, I want a chance to ask questions back—an answer for an answer, that sort of thing. That okay?"
"Yes," said Bec, looking up and smiling in the vague direction of the dashboard—which part was the 'face,' the bit you talked to, when they were like this?
"Great—thanks. Can I go first?" Bec nodded a hesitant affirmative, not sure how she'd suddenly been roped into something that seemed oddly reminiscent of games of truth-or-dare in the seventh grade. "Why—No, what makes you so interested in plants?"
Bec shrugged helplessly. "I—I guess I just don't know. But I have, since I grew sunflowers in the grade school—it felt like a miracle, you know, those gorgeous flowers towering above me when I knew they'd just been tiny little seeds a while ago. I loved those plants—sunflower yellow was my favorite color for years." She laughed humorlessly, the sound bitter. "It's how I ended up with—him." She fell silent but Jazz didn't speak, so she kept talking, trying to explain herself. "I—I suppose it still feels a little miraculous to me—do you know anything about desert wildflowers? They look as if they're some kind of mistake, some of them look so out-of-place in the midst of all this dry dirt and sand and rock, delicate and exuberant and colorful flowers mixed up in all that brown. Everything out here lives under such harsh conditions—and that's just one example. It's all just interesting, too. Farming changed the course of human history."
"I could see that," Jazz said after she'd finished, once it was clear she wasn't going to continue. "It's a world's difference from Cybertron—literally as well as figuratively, I suppose."
"What was… —Cybertron like?"
"Well, in its prime it was the most beautiful planet I've seen—and I've seen a lot…"
oOo
Judy looked up from her notes as a car pulled into the driveway: she smiled as she recognized Jazz. Before she could get up to greet the mech and the girl—young woman—with him, the driver's-side door swung open, Bec stepping out. She paused to say something—that was new, Judy thought, slightly smug but mostly relieved—and smiled slightly before heading towards the patio, where Judy was still sitting. The car door slammed shut behind her and Jazz's holoform flickered into being, as eerily blank-faced as they all were, even with the eyes hidden behind sunglasses—none of the Autobots could manage a good human face, and she doubted the Decepticons could, either.
Judy just had time to wave good-bye before he was gone.
Looking at the still-clearly-happy Bec—who was no longer smiling but still looked as if she might at any minute—she decided she owed Jazz considerably more than a thank-you. Maybe she could talk Ratchet into putting him back on active duty—although she'd been planning to do that anyways.
"How was the desert plant life?" Judy asked as Bec started up the steps.
"Really pretty—there's going to be some kind of cactus blooming tonight. There were lizards, too. It's been too long since the last rain for many flowers, though." She sounded distracted.
"And how was Jazz?" asked Judy calmly, with a slight smile. She hoped it wasn't too much of a cat-in-the-cream grin, although Bec didn't seem to notice it at all. For someone who could pick out an interesting leaf variation from twenty paces, she could be remarkably unobservant.
"Thank you for… Setting me up like that," said Bec suddenly, looking up from the patch of grass she'd been looking at to face the older woman, gaze square. Judy's face went blank with wide-eyed surprise for a quick second before her smile returned—although this time there was a softer edge to it. Maybe she'd been wrong about Bec's apparent obliviousness when it came to other people.
Something Bec saw in Judy's face relaxed her a little, and she turned away again, sitting down in one of the lawn chairs Sam or one of the other boys—probably not Mikaela—had left out. She wasn't sure whether or not Bec was waiting for her to speak up again, to respond, but she was going to reply either way.
"I'm glad it worked out," Judy said at last, thoughtfully and gently. "I thought it would. Jazz is good at… Not calming people down, but putting them at ease. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah," Bec said. "I… Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't that."
Judy laughed. "That's the Autobots in a nutshell. And Jazz too—especially Jazz."
"I know. I still don't know what I would have expected one of them to be like, but… Nothing like that. –He really liked the lizards, you should have heard him when one of them crawled onto his foot to bask."
"The lizards?" Judy asked, amused.
"I think he thought the plants were kind of boring, although he was polite about it, but there were all these lizards zipping around—I think the vibrations from his footsteps disturbed them, something like that." Judy laughed again, and Bec smiled.
"Do you want to meet the others—the other Autobots? I mean really meet them, get to know them a little better…" It was a risky question to ask the woman at this stage, Judy thought, but she hadn't seen the girl look this happy before, let alone without the help of something that could photosynthesize. There was something worrisome about that, and about how shy she was, at her age—even the teenagers put her on edge. So did Judy herself, (although admittedly less so,) for that matter.
"No," said Bec abruptly, standing, the chair scraping across the cement patio as she stood and started pacing, staring almost blankly at the vine growing on a small trellis to one side. "I don't." Then, voice gentler, "But you know? I think I will anyway."
Before Judy could respond, Bec spoke again. "This is mislabeled—it's not a hybrid clematis, it's a Clematis armandii, it's going to get too big for this trellis."
"Really?"
oOo
"Hello, Mrs. Witwicky," a voice behind her said as Judy bustled her way across the wide expanse of floor, headed determinedly for the human-sized entrance to the Autobot base, located on the far wall.
"Oh! Optimus—it's good to see you again. How are things going?"
"We're at a loss when it comes to the source of the Decepticon attacks, and we can't seem to find a pattern, but there haven't been many more incidents, and they don't seem to be attacking uninvolved humans. How is Bec doing?"
"Thank heaven for minor mercies, that's what I say. As for Bec—much better, actually. She's no social butterfly—I'd be worried if she was acting like one, or trying to—but she's opened up a little. I'm pretty sure I have Jazz to thank for that—he's the one who opened her up. I don't think Bumblebee really knew how to get around that."
"So that's where he went when he snuck off the base. Ratchet was furious."
"I think he would have snuck away anyways, even if I hadn't asked him to talk to Bec," Judy replied, suddenly privately amused. "He certainly didn't mention he'd been confined to base again—just that he was still on medical leave."
"He strained that seam again," Ratchet said sourly, entering the room. "You know, where I had to weld two halves of him back together. I keep on telling him that a wound like that isn't going to fix itself as quickly or painlessly as a superficial slash will, and it'll take even longer than normal—not that there's anything normal about this situation—because of the strain being dead put on his body and spark—"
Judy laughed. "Has Jazz ever listened to you while he's capable of moving under his own power? From the sounds of things, he hasn't… At least not often."
"He's a worse patient than Ironhide."
"At least he's helping Bec adjust," Optimus said, voice quieter but asking for—not demanding—attention. "Sunstreaker's been disciplined, but that doesn't undo the damage he's done."
Judy scowled. "It's good to hear that he's been talked to—I have to say, I keep on having to repress some choice words of my own, when it comes to him. That said, Bec's surprisingly resilient—I think she'll manage."
"Good to hear. –And as for Sunstreaker, he could probably stand to hear certain things another time." His voice was mild as milk.
"Although, so far, he's been talked to by you, Optimus, and Jazz and Captain Lennox; he was given a lecture on human psychology and physiology by me; threatened by Ironhide and probably Bumblebee; and informed of how the United States government looks at the death,
accidental or otherwise, of humans, or even their torment, by the Keller and a few aides. I think even his brother's upset with him."
Judy smiled, a mean expression—there was very little to do with happiness to it. "Good," she said, somewhat coldly. "Maybe he'll finally get it."
oOo
"I just don't get it," snarled Sunstreaker, pacing across the room he shared with his twin. Sideswipe was sitting, watching him.
"It's not hard, glitch-head. This planet currently has a human population six times that of Cybertron in its golden age. And it's a smaller planet. Living here means getting along with organics. When you're kidnapping and terrorizing them, that's hard to do. And then they like the humans, Sunstreaker. The crazy one with the guns? He treats a set of humans like they're a group-bond—and I'm not sure the squishies realize that, but he does. And I'm not getting within cannon range of those adolescents Bumblebee's attached himself to, and I'm not even the one he threatened—that would be you. Because he's afraid you're going to slag around with them like you did that girl—Bed?—you—"
"Bec," growled Sunstreaker.
"Fine, Bec. The point is, bro, what you did is the stupidest thing either of us have ever done, and that includes that one time. You know which one I'm talking about."
Sunstreaker aimed a solid kick at the door, which rocked back in its frame. "Just—let it go."
"I want to know what you were thinking! They were thiiis close to throwing you in the brig! –And you could have killed the human. Something easily avoidable. You know what gets said about you, Sunshine—you want to convince you everyone you actually are a cold-blooded uncontrollable psychopath?"
"You know I'm not." His eyes were dangerously bright, and he was positively shaking with rage.
Sideswipe softened a little. "Yeah, I know. You've convinced at least one human otherwise, and gone a long way towards convincing everyone else on the base, at the very least. And they'd probably have been willing to completely ignore your—our—old record, just dismissed everything on it—a new start. But when even I'm wondering if you've lost it… What was going through your mind? Were you seriously enjoying her fear like that?"
"…Yes." Sunstreaker couldn't miss his brother's disgust at his answer.
Sideswipe didn't respond.
"No. Slag, I don't know— She kept on putting slimy organic things in me. And she didn't wash me—it was disgusting—"
"She thought she was going to die. Even when she wasn't choking to death."
"—I didn't know! I just thought… I don't know, but I didn't know, alright? And it wasn't even like I did all that much! I stopped threatening her! I started asking her to do things!"
"Really."
"Don't give me that look, you fragger—I did. After she… Un-ingested food when I told her to eat. That's all I did then, too! I didn't stuff it down her face, she could have said 'no'…"
"Sunstreaker. Sunny. Sunshine. You are violent, unpleasant and built to kill—you scare your teammates. Sometimes you scare me. Bed's a timid organic with a processor prone to malfunctions who didn't even know that anything like you—us—existed before you sprung it on her. Bumblebee freaked out the humans when they first met him, and he's little, friendly and had just saved their lives instead of threatening to step on them or something. And those humans are more out-going, as far as I can tell. What did you expect, someone who treats you like I do? You've had commanding officers too afraid to say 'no' to you."
"But—"
"What, it's okay because she didn't maintain your polish?"
"Bec—not Bed, glitcher—should have taken better care of me—"
"She didn't know you were alive! She had no real reason to!"
The broke off the argument to stare at each other, glowering. The metal of the table Sunstreaker was gripping creaked warningly.
Sunstreaker finally spoke. "Fine. I… Shouldn't have. I—Slag it, I didn't mean to freak her out that badly."
His brother relaxed. "That wasn't too hard to admit, was it?"
"I'm not saying it's all my fault. I'm just saying I… Might have done a few things a little better."
"Hmm. It's a pity she'd probably have a miniature breakdown if you went anywhere near her, and then you'd be shot at by five mechs and a handful of humans bent on revenge. If that wasn't the case, you could apologize."
Sunstreaker stared at him with a what-are-you-thinking? expression stamped on his face.
"Don't look at me like that, I've seen you apologize before: I know you're capable of it—"
"No. No, I'm not."
"Wiseaft."
"Oh, look who's talking!"
oOo
Judy was halfway across the common room when she realized she was being watched. She looked over, staring Sunstreaker, a few Autobot-sized chairs away, straight in the face.
"I hope you're happy with yourself," she said, clearly and calmly, and continued on her way.
After all, she was running late for her meeting with Will—Captain Lennox—and the base was big enough and to a large enough scale that it was hard for humans to manage in.
Sunstreaker didn't respond.
oOo
Trent was still surprisingly polite and well-behaved around Judy, or any of the Autobots, but when Sam's mom wasn't around or there wasn't a clearly visible Autobot in sight, he was starting to revert back to his normal school behaviors.
Sam was really, really sick of it already. Mikaela was furious. Miles was as close to committing homicide as he'd ever been.
"You throw like a girl, Gillon," Trent sneered.
You are above him. You are above the taunts, the idiocy, the misogyny— Miles reminded himself.
"At least I don't scream like one." There went that plan. And bringing in the attack by Barricade was a low blow, he had to admit.
"Either of you keep the sexism up—or hell, any of your attitude in general, especially you, Trent—and I get Bumblebee to turn you into jam," Mikaela snarled through gritted teeth.
"I'd take her seriously," Sam added as Bee transformed to poke Miles in the side demonstratively. Trent gulped and backed down. Miles gave it up and laughed.
The five of them had taken a day off to get away: Ratchet had provided the teens who hadn't fit into Bumblebee with a lift up into the mountain they were on—he was free while Maggie and Glen were at the Autobot base—and Ironhide had been reluctantly convinced, or at least argued into, picking them up later. It had been a great opportunity to get out of the Witwicky house, which seemed to be shrinking, rapidly. Unfortunately, the attempt at a friendly game of Frisbee had ended… Badly. Even if you didn't count Miles colliding with Mikaela and accidentally
groping her when he was trying to get off her. Really, though, the only person who'd been truly embarrassed had been Miles, and the only other person who'd really cared had been Trent. He'd taken full advantage of the lovely opportunity to insult both Miles and Mikaela.
"So what now?" Mikaela asked, flopping down.
"We could eat," Sam said, hopefully.
Miles agreed. "I'm up for that."
"Sure," Trent said, sullenly.
There was an awkward silence.
"Could you please lose the attitude?" Miles said finally. "Yeah, I get it, you could pound me into the ground in a fight or any sport ever invented, but I'm inclined to think that that doesn't necessarily make me a worthless person. And you are being down-right unpleasant, young man, as my mother used to tell me. Er, still tells me, unless last month counts as 'used to.'"
"I'd appreciate it, too," Sam said mildly. "I know you're probably not all that happy—I know I think things could be better. I want my room back, for one—but none of us are, and we're all dealing. And keep in mind that we're trying to keep you safe. I don't want to see you dead, even when you're being an utter ass."
"Yeah," Mikaela said, with considerably more attitude. "And you know what? Insulting my boyfriend or Miles isn't going to make me go running back to you. It's over, Trent, I'm not interested. I wouldn't be interested even if you were someone I'd consider dating if I didn't have the perfect boyfriend already—which I do—and you're not."
"Ouch," said Miles, with a wince. "That was mean, Mikaela."
"Fine. Sorry, Trent."
"…Fine."
"And I'm pretty sure that 'fine' isn't an acceptable response to 'I'm sorry.'"
"Shut it, Gillon."
"My name is Miles. And Trent—there are four people at our school who know about the Autobots. We are the other three. Do you really want to push us away? I know I like having someone to talk to when it comes to this."
"I want to pretend this never happened," Trent muttered. "Just go back to school and the team—Not any of you freaks and the, the robots…"
"Trent," Miles said seriously, looking over at the other boy, waiting until Trent returned the gaze. "This is—our chance to really do something. You seriously want to just let it go? This is history."
"…No," Trent said finally. "I'm sorry, okay?"
"Not a problem," said Miles breezily, flopping down again. "Hey, Sam, your mom packed us a picnic, right?"
oOo
Bec wondered where her life had changed. She wondered what would change: where would learning how to get the best tomatoes from the least light fit into the world of giant robots and explosion-filled fights she'd entered?
For that matter, now that she was here, what was she going to do?
Or maybe nothing would change. Everything was different, true, but maybe this would wrap itself up and go home, and everything would return to normal, except for her. And that would fade eventually, or scab over, at least, or maybe just start feeling unreal, like it had never happened.
But who knew? Maybe things really would be different. Right now she couldn't imagine life beyond the next day. Who was to say?
oOo
(1) A dibber is basically a small pointy stick, usually metal in today's world. Fancy versions come with a additions like a handle or a slightly forked end. You use it for weeding. (At least, 'dibber' is the word my research came up with. I would probably refer to it as a pointy tool for weeding, or 'hey, hand me that thing next to trowel, would you?')
(2) From Life, by Des'ree. Yes, those seriously are real lyrics.
--End chapter 4--