Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers (2007) or Transformers: Generation 1.

As I sat in the bay window looking out at the rainy morning sky, six weeks after the visit from a particular medic, a vision flashes before my eyes of a past I had tried to forget.

I'm laying on the floor on my stomach and my hand is stretched out to my mother. She's in the kitchen and the hallway is very narrow. The walls are white and the carpet is gray. She's working on something I can't see-maybe she's talking to someone or waiting for a call-and I don't care what it is. I want her attention. I want her to turn to me, to see me with her corner vision that I know works, and help me up to my feet before walking away. That's all I want. No 'are you okay?' No hair ruffle. No look back. All I want her to do is turn, see me and help me up. There is nothing wrong with me. I chose to lay on the carpet with barely-noticeable red fibers in it on my stomach for this purpose only. I lay there for minutes with my arm outstretched. The family cat is staring at me. If he can notice me, why can't you? I thought later.

Finally, my father comes along and pick me up from under the arm, which hurts and is not what I want, but I let him because saying something that even suggests a rebellious nature would be too dangerous because, even as I child, I know that therapy would be more damaging to my pride than having my mother not look at me. I know that I don't want to be treated like I'm less than a person and told that I need help when I know that I don't.

I also know that no one listens to me. Whenever I raise my hand in class, the teacher never picks on me. I'm the one who gets in trouble for things I don't do. I'm the one who gets bullied in the classroom and out of school and no one does anything about it. The teachers get angry at me. The kids laugh at me in my face and behind my back. My family talks to me like I'm a pitiful soul that doesn't know her left shoe from her right. I hate, no, loathe pity. I don't want pity. I want justice and equal rights and no one understands what those are or that I fully comprehend what those things are at six years old. I want someone to stick up for the little girl down elementary lane that no one likes or talks to except in angry, frustrated, mocking or pitiful tones. I want adults to start acting their age and not like immature sparklings. I want people to open their eyes and stop looking down on the little girl that knows more about the pain of being invisible, and the pain of having people treat me like I'm the crazy one when they finally start paying attention, than they ever will.

When my father picks me up under my arm-drunk, I notice-and asks in an amused voice: "What are you doing?" I don't answer and he doesn't stick around to press an answer out of me. He keeps on walking to the kitchen with his empty glass to get more beer. I sit next to the family cat, Charcoal, that had been watching me the entire time and pet him as I hold back tears. He doesn't purr, but he also doesn't claw at my hand. I take what I can get, wishing desperately that my parents were both out of the house with the knowledge they would be gone for hours so that I could lay my head on the edge of the dog bed and cry as hard as I can. I don't dare do that now because it will attract unwanted attention, questions I don't want to answer and life in a psychiatric hospital. I know they would send me there if they knew how I felt. They would never understand and I don't want them to. This was my life. No one else needed to know it. I went to sleep that night hoping that no one would know of my pain, and that anyone that ever, possibly, cared was dead and gone.

I can't say why my parents had been on my mind lately. It wasn't so much that I missed them, because I certainly didn't. They didn't properly care for me. At least, that was what the rest of the family...the ones who looked at it past dicipline...said. I was taken away when I was nine. I guess the yelling didn't help any. I didn't try to do anything wrong on purpose. I didn't mean to make them angry.

"Why were you thinking? Eating this much! Look-Look at this! Why did you eat all this?" My mother shoved the pan back inside the microwave, huffing. "Honestly. Don't you ever do that again." I didn't say anything to her then. I don't know why I even attempted to seek her approval when we were on completely different playing fields.

(Why did you think I was so thin when they found me, mom? Why did you think I didn't eat? Why did you think it took them so long to get me to understand that you and dad wouldn't be able to see me anymore because you were 'neglectful?' Why? Did you ever even care?)

Despite my unhappiness in that house, I didn't want to change settings...To change to a house...or a hospital...were people did nothing but stare at you and notice your flaws and ask personal questions. I never was good at answering questions or making decisions, so I always said yes...even if I really wanted to scream 'no' and lock myself in my room for an eternity. But whenever I said 'no' and tried to run away, the response was always the same. "Do I have to get your father? Do I have to call your parents? Do I have to...?" Always a threat. It worked, I'll give them that, but they didn't understand why. I was in pain. Being around people brought me pain and anxiety no one could possibly understand.

I just wanted to draw; that's all I wanted. But they...didn't understand it. The passion. How at ease I felt when I could just sit in a corner and draw...because pencils, pens and paper don't talk to you. They are more than happy to help you seek your fantasy realm and keep it a secret for as long as they are able. When I drew my savior, it made me blush. My fantasies made me smile and...sometimes giggle...but the paper didn't care about that.

When I think about him now, I...can't help being embarrassed. Him, a being of magnificent proportions, like me? Ha.

The glass sprinkled with raindrops felt cool against my cheeks. I closed my eyes as my head started to ache.

I still couldn't control myself. I was never good at that. If you asked my parents, they'd tell you I was a loose cannon...because they didn't know I was a ticking time bomb. When Charcoal passed away at eight years old, my frustrations started rising to the surface. I was unable to control those rare moments when I would lose my temper and snap statements. I couldn't play the happy kid anymore. I didn't want to. Animals made me happy. They licked away the tears, let them pet you to starve off your social anxiety at family engagements (where everyone expects you to be the most relaxed), and rub against you to make you giggle softly when your in the dining room, crying, sobbing quietly, because your father just spoke to you harshly about interrupting a conversation and left you in the dusk for the other so-called adults on the other side of the house.

Its just the alcohol, I tried to console myself. He's just drunk. He doesn't mean it.

My father always tried to lighten the mood when we were home. In public...its not like I didn't know or care or...There were just so many people in one setting. Even if it was a festival and it was supposed to be happy...I saw the drink in his hand beforehand. I shouldn't have gone. They did ask if I wanted to go; he wanted me to go, but...no one in my family understood just how far my shyness extended. I didn't try to convince myself that he didn't mean it when he snapped "What is the matter with you?" I basically ran back to the safety of my room at that statement. Sure, he asked if I was okay, but if he really cared to understand, he wouldn't have snapped in the first place. I didn't tell myself it was just the alcohol then because I didn't care. I pretended to be asleep even though I was crying into my pillow. Festivals weren't fun. Getting yelled at for being scared is not fun. Having no one understand you because your different...

When Mark and Sonya took me in after social services got their hands on me, the atmosphere was slightly different. It may not have been as painful as it was living with my parents, but there was still an awkwardness. I got the distinct impression from Sonya that she didn't want me in her house. She didn't like me; she was just putting up a front. I was okay with that. Its not like I ever tried to push it...Mark was the one who made it bearable. He said that I was always welcome in their home, even if I were to move away once I got older. Even so, I liked to keep out of trouble whenever I could. Even if Cassia and Brenna threw a hundred ninja stars at me, nothing hurt me more than a broken pride. I didn't want to disapoint Mark...a family member who didn't have a responsibility to care for me like my parents did...but did anyway. I also had a distinct feeling that he knew, at least somewhat, about the pain I felt. Regardless, he-

"Lillian! Time for din-din! C'mon, kid! I'm not eating this all by myself!" I snorted as I stood up. Despite being a soldier, Mark could be a real goof when he wanted to be. I looked out the window again before sighing and going downstairs. I looked around the kitchen.

"Where's Sonya?"

He placed his hands on his hips. "Am I that bad? No respect for the flamboyant these days." He grabbed one of Sonya's purses and glided from the room. He came back when I giggled. He dropped the bag on the counter, grinning. "What's this thing called again? A murse?"

"Think so...What's for dinner?"

"Glad you asked." He pulled out a cardboard box from the stove. "Now this is gourmet! Eh, eh?"

"You didn't have to order pizza. Don't we have leftovers or-"

"What, and miss a perfect opportunity to pig out while the law's away? You kidding? Come on, kid, cheer up! This is comedy gold here!"

I snorted, smiling. "Gold from your perspective. Looks like silver to me."

"Kid, unless you want to eat your words with this pizza..."

I held up my hands. When Mark placed a paper plate in front of me, I glanced at him. "Seriously though, where is she?"

"Working a late shift tonight. Won't be home until eleven at least. Why? Got any secret projects I should know about? I know you do, kid. Don't deny it."

I giggled. "No projects, Mark. Promise."

"Then why do you keep stealing my gears?"

My hand froze as I was reaching for the box. Busted.

Mark chuckled at my expression. "Didn't think I noticed, huh? You've been taking enough for a machine of some sort, kid. What are you doing, exactly? Building a rocket? I tried that once. Didn't work so hot. Crash landed in my neighbors dog house."

I lowered my hand back into my lap before looking up. "Was the dog okay?"

He blinked. "I think the correct question is was I okay. Damn thing chased me around the block..."

My lips twitched. "Sorry."

He waved his hand. "Don't be. I'm pulling your chain." He slapped a slice on my plate. "If you really want atonement, though, eat that before it gets cold. Lets see if we can finish this off before the law gets home. What do you say, kid? Sound like a plan?"

I smiled and answered by digging in.

When I was full and Mark was...relatively done, I cleared my throat. "Robot."

"What?"

"I'm building a robot."

"Really? Does it work?"

"I'm not trying to get it to move, Mark. Its supposed to just look pretty..." Which it does and more..."But I haven't actually build it yet. I'm still figuring out the design."

"Care to show me the design? I'd like to help."

I blinked. "Um...sure...? Wait a sec."

"I'll be in the garage!" he shouted once I started my trek up the stairs.

"Got it!"

I flipped through my latest sketch pad and ripped out the pictures that had me in it. I took my time going down the stairs, cletching the book to my chest, not quite believing I trusted Mark enough to not burn the book. The white garage door creaked open to the standard cement garage. I placed the sketch book in front of Mark at his work desk, staring at the gears as he flipped through the book and...scribbled with a pen...?

I whipped my head, staring at Mark in a paranoid manner. If he draws over them, I swear to God-

He wasn't actually drawing in the book, though. He was just scribbling on a piece of notebook paper. "These are good drawings. Very realistic." He patted the stool next to him, apparently too caught up in his own mind to look up. I followed suit and sat down beside him.

"Thanks."

"Some of these pictures...they have katana's in them. Do you want to build one for your robot?"

I blinked. "You..." Mark looked up from his work. "Actually know what a katana is?"

He snorted. "Come now. Am I that clueless looking?"

"Well, no...I was just wondering..." He raised an eyebrow. "Not many people know..." Especially not the people I know...

"Truthfully, I don't know much." He chuckled. "I only know about them from a fellow soldier. He's big on stuff like this. Ninjitsu and other Japanese mumbo jumbo...He always talks like we should know what he's talking about. Maybe you two should get together and chat once he comes over seas. I have a feeling you'd like him."

"You know Mark, most fathers act like giving their little girl away is a death sentence."

"I'm not telling you to marry the guy, Lillian. I'd just like to see you chat with him. I think it'd be an interesting conversation...and even if you did decide to marry him, he's a nice guy. I trust him."

I snorted. "You are definently not the stereotypical father."

"Is that so bad?"

I glanced at him before looking down at the design he had sketched out. "Not really. I mean, no one else would volunteer to help me with this...If I tried asking someone my age, they'd call me a dork." Which would actually be kind of nice...

He stared at me. "Lillian..." I looked up. "Does anyone in that school actually try to talk to you?"

I glanced at the gears hanging from the wall, images of the attack from a few weeks prior ringing in my head. You mean besides the cat calls, unwanted nicknames and sexual harassment...? "Not really..."

"I can have you pulled out, you know...If what happened last month is just the beginning...I don't want you to suffer for education. You shouldn't have to stress over whether you'll survive walking to school or, hell, the halls-"

I gave a sad attempt at a smile. "It's not that bad, really..." It's worse. "I like the classes." When we don't have group projects and presentations...

He considered my expression before reaching into a small gray drawer. He brought a purple and black cassette player out and placed it in front of me. "Here."

I blinked. "What is it?"

"Don't tell me you've never heard of a cassette player-?"

"Of course I've heard of one. I mean...are you...why are you giving it to me?"

"If things gets really rough, I want you to plug in to that and drown out the bad. But you have to promise me a few things before I let you walk off with it."

I blinked. "What things?"

"There are two no-plug-in zones I want you to consider. The streets and the school. I don't want some creep walking up behind you or some punk using it as a football. It may be less conspicuous than that honking red box, but it's still valuable. Secondly...try to make a friend, okay? I know its rough, but you'll find someone eventually." I highly doubted that...but didn't deny his request for an open mind. "Got it?" I nodded. "Good. Now..." He stood up and stretched. "Let's go work off that pizza."

"What about the-?"

"We can get the parts tomorrow. Come on. Up you go." I followed Mark out of the garage to the backyard. "Stand opposite me." I obeyed his orders blindly, not expecting anything. "Now, place your hands in front of you boxer style. That's right. Now, I'm going to call time. No matter what I do, I want you to duck and hit real hard, okay?"

"But-"

"Trust me, kid. I've been a soldier for a long time. There ain't no better training than at boot camp. It won't hurt much. But if your really worried, I can go easy on you."

He smiled at my pout. Go easy on me? I don't think so. I started getting into a rhythm, bouncing back on my heels. "Bring it."

He got into his own fighting stance. "You asked for it."

When Mark called time, I was thrown for a loop once he finally pinned me two minutes in. I was fine in terms of dogding...but his method of close encounters was way different than what I was expecting. After all, when your in a fight with someone on the streets, you don't expect them to tickle you to the ground.

"Come on, kid! Fight! Fight!"

"M-M-Mark! Wahahaha! Wait a-aha minute!"

"There are no breaks in battle! Fight it!"

I tried so damn hard...until I couldn't take it. "Uncle!"

"What's that?"

"Uncle!"

He chuckled as he finally stopped the torture. "That's my name. Don't wear it out...Hey, Lillian?"

I panted. "Wha...ha..t?

"Why don't you ever call Sonya or I aunt and uncle?"

"It's not...proper..."

He snorted as he gave me a hand up. "Oh yeah. You'd definently get along well with mister ninja."

"Where's this guy...from, anyway?"

"Let's just say he's from some place you've never heard of."

"Sounds awful sketchy...Are you sure your not...the cause of my misfortune?"

He poked me in the side. "Don't push it, kid. I was holding back just now."

I giggled. "Okay, okay."

Mark placed an arm around my shoulders and sterred me toward the house. "Lillian, you've got to make me another promise."

"Why don't you just make me a list?"

He raised an eyebrow, using the hand attached to the arm wrapped around my shoulders to tickle the back of my neck. I giggled, bending over. "Do that more, okay, kid? I've seen too much war for you to be mopping at home."

"Sure, Mark. Anything you say."

"Really? In that case, make me a sandwich."

I whirled and punched him in the stomach. He stared at me, bewildered. "What? Haven't you ever heard of a knuckle sandwich?"

He laughed. "Just for that, I'm introducing you to the ninja's worst enemy."

"Sounds like I'd hate him."

He grinned. "I know. It's called payback."

I snorted, walking to the house. I turned back at the door. "Hey, Mark...?" He stood up straight. "Thanks."

He smiled. "No problem, kid. Just don't forget my conditions."

I never did...even after the mail call reached our door.