Disclaimer: All of these guys below belong to Hasbro. I just like playing with their fates and will return them when done. Except Gregory, he's mine. He stays with me.

Your Author: I know, nothing interesting is happening yet. Don't worry all the good stuff will come, patience is required. Finally we get to meet Gregory Witwicky, the youngest of the Witwicky brothers.

Sam floated between the conscious and unconscious world. He'd be perfectly content if he could remain in such a state for the remainder of his life. It was nice. Drifting without meaning, without worry or stress. Warmth was wrapped around him like a breathing cocoon. He didn't dare open his eyes for fear that this world would shatter in that instant.

When Mojo and Frankie decided to be faithful dogs and wake Sam up, to say he was disgruntled would be an understatement. He groaned and buried his head beneath his pillow to avoid the dog's tongues. He waved his hand at them, trying to fend them off rather unsuccessfully. He peaked at his alarm clock before rolling over onto his stomach and flat out ignoring them. After another minute or so Mojo had finally had enough with his master's laziness and trotted off. Bacon sizzled downstairs and he was hoping to get lucky. Frank followed suit, leaving Sam to the blissful peace. He tried to go back to sleep, but the dogs had shattered any hope of that. With a frustrated grunt Sam threw the covers from his body and pulled on some clothing.

A bag sat in the far corner, packed last night and awaiting transport. He hadn't been certain when he'd leave and so had merely packed it before falling into bed. He reached for his cell, which lay on the nightstand, and immediately pulled his hand back. Where once his alarm clock stood was now a charred machine that only slightly resembled what it used to be. He cursed and shoved his cell into his pocket. The alarm clock was thrown roughly into the trashcan and hid by wads of paper that had been crumpled up at the bottom. He briefly wondered if that was the fifth or sixth alarm clock he'd been through. No, that sixth one didn't count. It hadn't been his alarm clock; rather it had been Leo's. Needless to say, the man hadn't been happy when his alarm didn't go off and he woke late for class. He was even less pleased when he saw the state his clock was in.

Sam grabbed his bag and pillow then proceeded to head downstairs. The urge to cook had struck Judy, she stood at the stove turning over bacon as the dogs watched her every move hopefully. He deposited his belongings on the couch before heading into the kitchen.

-

Judy hugged him tightly before he managed to get a foot out the door and made him promise not to give his uncle too much trouble. Ron just stood to the side, as always, and bid his son goodbye without becoming the emotional mess Judy did. He shouldered his bag and looked back at his parents. When he left for college he left with a feeling of freedom, of breaking free and going out on his own, elation. A different feeling settled in the pit of his stomach now, one that made him hesitate only slightly before climbing into his father's old truck. It hadn't been used in a few years, but it would get him there. The engine rumbled lowly and he was gone.

Sam had not seen much of his uncle growing up. Once or twice at thanksgiving and Christmas, but he'd been young then so he didn't remember much. His father rarely spoke of his younger brother and urged a topic change when anyone tried. He doubted the man was a convict because Judy would have thrown a fit. It was possible that he was as crazy as Archibald, but he'd never been told anything to confirm such. He didn't really care to be honest. The man was willing to let Sam take refuge in his house, which was good enough for him. He couldn't see how working in his auto shop would be so bad so long as nothing 'weird' happened. He turned on the radio to break through the suffocating silence and drove on.

-

Gregory Witwicky lived near the mountains, away from the majority of the population and in a small town. By the looks of it, it was one of those 'everyone knows who you are so heaven help you if you get in trouble' type towns. It was an older town; obviously, many of the buildings were in dire need of repainting. Parked in dirt driveways were older car models, he saw one of similar make and model to the truck he drove. He passed a shop with a slanted sign. The bright red letters read 'Victory Auto Repair'. Even if it wasn't the only auto shop in town, he'd still have guessed it to belong to his uncle.

He wound all around the town before finally finding his uncle's house. The yellow mailbox with the name Witwicky on the side confirmed it. It was small with a nice sized garage and no lawn. Rocks and dirt were the replacement with a particularly large boulder placed smack dab in the middle. Smaller rocks were put around it in a circle and thus repeated as they became smaller. If that hadn't been enough to gather his attention, the strange device perched atop the boulder did. It was a brass colored metal, twisting and turning about in an odd pattern with red splotches here and there. Apparently it was chained down to the boulder with many silver chains running through it and around the boulder. He couldn't tell what it was, but in the dwindling light he couldn't make out a cat much less this…art piece. Was it art? Or just twisted? Maybe it was supposed to scare pigeons.

Sam parked next to an old, pale blue nineteen sixty-four Ford Mustang. He slid out of the car and headed towards the door. The door had a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey holding a 'welcome' sign on the front. He knocked three firm times. He waited before trying the doorbell and knocking again. He looked back over his shoulder at the car, perhaps that wasn't his usual car. Maybe it didn't work. Once more he knocked. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, he might as well wait in the truck. Suddenly the garage door swung open and a voice called out.

"Hey, Samuel, I'm in here." He looked around as if expecting to find some other boy called Samuel before approaching the garage attentively. Gregory Witwicky was a tall and slender man with graying brown hair. His arms were covered in oil and grease and his once white shirt was spotted black. He was in the process of wiping what oil he could from his hands onto a towel. "God you've grown."

"Hey Uncle Greg," Sam raised a hand in greeting.

"I'd give you a hug, but…" he motioned to the mess he clearly was. "I could give you one anyway." He grinned.

"No, that's okay." Sam backed up a few steps as Gregory laughed.

"How was the trip up?"

"Uneventful." Sam shrugged.

"Have you eaten?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, you can put your things in the guest room. It's going to be the door right next to this one." He tapped the door that led out of the garage and into the house.

"Cool, uh, thanks Uncle Greg. I appreciate everything you're doing."

"It's no trouble Sam. It's not as if I don't have the room." He chuckled as his attention returned to his project, which happened to be an older model black corvette. Sam weaved through the throng of electrical tools, pans and what have you in order to get inside. He tossed his bag and pillow onto the green bed sheet before checking out the rest of the house. There were no feminine touches; Gregory wasn't married and probably not dating. It was all clean, no messes like what you'd find at a younger man's bachelor pad, which was nice. There were tools here and there along with the occasional odd car part. That was strange, but considering what the man did for a living it wasn't all that strange. He obviously took his work home often.

As long as he kept away from the garage Sam could keep incidents to a bare minimum. He returned to the guest room and sat on the edge of the bed. A heavy sigh left his lips as he rested his head against his hands.