Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

Title: Schism

Summary: Sparkbearer Saga: Part II. Alien invasions, possessed vehicles, language barriers, government conspiracies, family drama, supermarket tabloids, and tomato wars... Welcome to Earth.

Rating: T

Warnings: mild cursing, mild gore

Author Notes: A brief chapter, but we move slowly, slowly forward.

Don't worry. Things will start popping soon. ;3

Transformers: Schism

Chapter Six

Daniel Jackson: We have to go in disguise; pretend to be foreigners.
Jack O'Neill: How do we do that?
Daniel Jackson: Well, I speak 23 languages, Jack. Pick one.
- Stargate SG-1

The principle of Mason City High School wore a bow-tie, and Evelyn decided immediately that she was going to like him.

He was short but not stocky, well into his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair that grew in an even strip around the back of his head, ear-to-ear. The top of his skull was shiny to the point of reflecting the fluorescent strips overhead, and as he flipped through her paperwork, it was with quick, efficient motions that put her in mind of a bird.

His name was Phil Webster, as declared by the brass name plaque at the edge of his desk, so he had pretty much been doomed to a career in education.

"You have an impressive resume, Miss Hughes, but I do have some questions as to your previous employers."

Here it comes.

'Why, Miss Hughes, did you disappear off the face of the earth for over a year?'

'Well, you see, sir, I was kidnapped by aliens.'

'That's no excuse for not filing for a leave of absence.'

And then there would be padded rooms and long-sleeved white jackets and daily bed checks and 'Now, Evelyn, tell me about your mother...'

"Do you really expect me to believe that you are fluent in nine languages?"

"… oh."

That's not the way the script usually goes.

And it's technically ten languages now, even if that's not anything I can brag about.

She supposed that was only to be expected when one wrote one's resume at one in the morning, fueled on caffeine and desperation.

Webster was peering at her, frowning, and she booted her brain back into gear.

"I'm fluent in eight," she said at last, "and I'm… decent… in two more."

"That's not the sort of accomplishment that you need to exaggerate," he said. "Eight is impressive enough."

"I used to work in the student employment office when I was in school." She smiled sheepishly. "One of the first things we learned was to list any skill, no matter how minor. Old habits die hard."

"Would you mind if I test you?"

"Not at all."

He reached for a separate pile of papers on the corner of his desk, pulling out two sheets.

"When you emailed me your resume, I was shocked to say the least. I printed out a quiz of sorts. I have the answer sheet, and you… read these."

He handed her one sheet and leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking between her expression and his own sheet. He waited.

Okay, girl, just like riding a bike.

She scanned the sheet. There were nine short paragraphs, each in a different language. She grinned, and she began to translate.

Spanish – a soap-opera summary, easy enough. French – a recipe for chocolate croissants. Latin – an excerpt from the Iliad. Russian – a newspaper article. Japanese – a short poem. German…

Webster's eyes were wide, and he sat in stunned silence as Evelyn paused, frowning at the next sentence.

"I'm assuming you Googled these," she said.

"My daughter did, actually," he said faintly.

"What, ah… what did you think the German one was supposed to be?"

"Th-the summary says 'novel excerpt.'"

She laughed and said, "Romance novel, actually."

And she passed the paper back to him. He took it silently, a faint blush rising in his cheeks, and he put the papers away in a drawer, clearing his throat.

"Well," he said at last. Then, "Well, well. That is certainly impressive."

When he said nothing more, she replied, "Thank you."

"Yes. Very impressive. I believe our Mrs. Norris only knew English and French. It's a pity, too, since we once had quite the Spanish program here, but the teacher passed away some years back."

"I wouldn't mind teaching more than one class," she offered, only too willing to sweeten the deal. (His eyes still occasionally darted to the drawer that held the 'quiz' papers.) "And I've worked with extracurricular activities before. Is there a French club, or any language clubs?"

"No, no, I'm afraid not. Mrs. Norris is just recently out of school, you understand, and married shortly after that, and now with the pregnancy… She never had much free time to work with. It's a wonderful idea, of course."

"I'd be more than willing. Spanish, French, Japanese… Latin? We could have an extracurricular study group…"

A voice at the back of her mind was screeching, Are you insane?

"You make a convincing argument." The older man quirked a smile at her, his coloring returning to normal. The expression was there and gone in the blink of an eye. He picked up her resume once more, shuffling the papers around again and peered at them.

"Mr. Ellis from the college didn't have much to say. He did tell me that you were good at your job, but I sensed there was some sort of turbulence to result in your departure. Mr. Rowl, on the other hand, was a completely different story."

"Excuse me?" she said.

"Your current employer, Mr. Rowl – am I pronouncing it correctly? I understand that you will still want to work for him on a part-time basis, but I don't see why that should affect your work here, especially if you are everything that he says." He frowned, glanced down at the paper, and said, "There's not a first name, though. Do you know what the P stands for, by any chance? He never said."

Evelyn's brain shorted. Several synapses flickered, axons attempting to rouse their companion dendrons, but it took several moments before everything jump-started and her neurons resumed firing as they should.

"... I really don't," she replied, her voice faint. "It's never come up."

She resolved then and there to make certain any important documentation was all delivered in hard-copy form rather than through e-mail.

Unless you want thirty-foot alien warriors nosing through your business, she thought.

Which does have its perks...

This was the first interview since her return that the dreaded 'And you vanished for a year… why?' interrogation had not come up. For that, she might have to take a certain Datsun for a wash and wax.

Within fifteen minutes, she walked out of the office beaming, a happily employed woman.

And if she paused in one of the deserted hallways to do a quick happy dance… Well, that was no one's business but her own.

In the parking lot, two Datsun Fairlady Zs sat side-by-side in the guest parking spots. One gleamed a brilliant gunmetal gray while the other bore all the trappings of a police vehicle - decals, colors, lights, and ram-guard - like two brothers just basking in each other's company.

She ran one hand along the hood of the gray car as she passed, moving to stand beside the black and white, resting her hips back against its side and crossing her arms.

"Mr. Rowl, I presume?"

The car made no motion, no noise. The metal at her back was warm, though, belying the winter chill in the air - the mechs were always warm, even if their engines were running so silent that no human could hear them.

She huffed a quiet laugh, pushed away from the car, and patted it gently.

"Thank you," she murmured.

End Chapter Six

A/N: Today's special Scriptophrenia drabble: Prowl!

Also, please visit my post 'We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Programming…' I find myself in need of some assistance.