Author's Note: I know, this update is beyond late, and I am deeply sorry for the delay. The time between Chapter 3 and 4 of this story has been busy, and any updates on my works have been patchy. Simply said, the latter half of 2014 held several obligations, combined with dreaded writer's block. This year, however, I am planning for some changes, along with a better update schedule on all of my writings.

On that note, to all the followers, favorites, and reviewers: THANK YOU! Her Guardian would be nonexistent without your support and love, and I appreciate the time and patience you have given this story. You all are amazing!

Enjoy Chapter 4!

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers by any means whatsoever. Those rights belong to their respective owners. However, any characters or scenes not seen in the Transformers: Prime universe are rightfully my creations.

Chapter IV:

These Games We Play

"Fear stifles our thinking and actions. It creates indecisiveness that results in stagnation. I have known talented people who procrastinate indefinitely rather than risk failure. Lost opportunities cause erosion of confidence, and the downward spiral begins." –Charles Stanley

Jane deliberately avoided Jack. Not because she did not have the opportunity (he was present at school—punctual, of course); and not because Jane feared her neighbor's reaction to her carefully planned accusation (well, perhaps a fraction). No, she simply could not find the courage to ask the dark-haired teenager after seeing the drawn, ghostly expression plastered on his face.

Her determination had melted into a pathetic puddle of pity—or, perhaps she should label her automatic reaction as sympathy, for pity rolled bitterly off her tongue. She was familiar with both terms, the latter resurfacing a few unwanted memories that quickened her heartbeat and snatched away her breath. Jack certainly did not deserve the poor outlook of pity. He needed time—he needed space. Jane, in a strange sense, understood, and she decided to leave the matter untouched.

Unfortunately, her suspicions did not die as easily. Her mind spun with questions, and her concentration wavered constantly from class to class. She found herself idling creating sketches on any available surface, and her gaze often darted toward either the windows or—if possible, without being caught—Jack. She was worse when she wandered the halls, bumping shoulders and nearly knocking books out of students' hands (which, as punishment, she received a handful of irritated retorts about her obliviousness).

Melanie laughed initially, lightly scolding Jane's ignorance; and Jane never denied the blame, for she did not want her cousin to pry at her thoughts. She could barely keep her brain in order; therefore, how could she possibly explain to Melanie her dilemma? Simply, she could not, and she would rather avoid any confrontations about the subject—at least until she had solved some quandaries for herself.

Her drifting mind, however, came with a consequence—a consequence that made Jane second-guess her decision not to speak to Jack; for if she had, she may not be caught in this situation. Jane refrained a huff of laughter; her uncle, infamous for his idiom usage, would have used the phrase 'caught between a rock and a hard place'—an excellent description, she grimly realized.

School had ended and Jane was departing her locker, aiming for the front doors. Her hands were stuffed in her pockets and her eyes flitted from poster to poster on the white walls—not that she was reading the words inscribed upon them, only lazily studying the pictures and the wide range of colors used. She was curiously analyzing the final advertisement when she pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the hot, Nevada air; and, of course, she never noticed the redheaded boy paused just beyond the threshold. She collided into his back, and she gasped in surprise and stumbled backwards, the closing door behind her clipping her shoulder blade. Instinctively, her hand grasped her shoulder; however, her fingers were too short to reach the throbbing abrasion. An unfortunate discovery, but her concern quickly shifted from her bruised shoulder blade to the redheaded teen that had whirled around to face her, features contorting in anger.

"Sorry! I didn't—"

"You're sorry?" he asked, eyebrows arched incredibly high on his brow. "You're just lucky you didn't break my phone." As if to add proof to his words, he lifted the mobile device for Jane to see. Her eyes darted to stare at the object, a slight frown tugging her lips downward. The faint scuff marks on the bottom corners of the cellphone were a blatant contrast against the black color scheme—at least, to Jane they were obvious. But, then again, she was the one withholding the blame here. The scratches may have been exaggerated in the haze of her panic to apologize for her mistake.

Struggling to regain her composure, she said, "Again, I am so sorry—especially about your phone. But you were standing right in front of the doors. I couldn't see you."

"Really? Is that your excuse?" he drawled. Jane could have sworn he had shifted closer, fury evident in his green irises.

Jane took half-a-step backwards. "From my point of view, it's the truth."

"And do you think I care about your 'point of view'?"

"Obviously not," she muttered under her breath—an unwise decision, she soon realized when she saw the resentment shadow the redheaded boy's face. She was tempted to dart back into the school, her left foot pivoting to carry out the motion; however, before she could completely turn around, a hand clasped her shoulder, eliciting a visible jerk from Jane. Glancing over her shoulder, she was pleasantly surprised to find a familiar, black-haired teenager standing just to her left—Jack, she recognized.

"It was an accident, Vince," Jack said, his tone calm and dull. Jane wondered if he had had to deal with this 'Vince' character often, or if he simply responded well to pressure. Either way, she was relieved to have his support.

Vince leaned backwards, straightening to his full height. He was roughly two inches taller that Jane, but the arrogance that radiated from his stance added another foot. Jane watched as the redheaded teenager closed his cellphone and slipped the scuffed device back into his pocket.

"And what do you know, Darby?" Vince countered, malice laced into his tone. He folded his arms across his chest. "Trying to be the hero again?"

Again? Jane barely managed to keep the thought to herself, her mouth forming into a thin line. Jack was helping—now was not the time to turn against him.

Jack's voice was still level as he continued, "No, but I do know that you have had those scratches on your phone for a few months now; and they certainly don't look fresh, either."

Vince huffed, green eyes flashing. His lips twitched, as if he was preparing to spit out another retort; however, whatever venomous words he had been about to deliver faded away with a roll of his eyes. "Whatever. I don't have time for this." He glared at Jane, nose scrunched in a perturbed expression. "Just make sure it doesn't happen again. Got it?"

"Sure," Jane answered flatly. She was tempted to add a sarcastic remark, but she had no desire to spark an argument. Jack had managed to rescue her from a tussle with the redheaded teenager, and she was not going to waste his precious victory on a snide remark.

Vince trotted down the stairs and strode toward a black muscle car decorated with red and yellow flames. Jane's eyebrows soared upward as soon as her gaze landed on the powerful vehicle. A peculiar car choice; but, considering the display Vince had given her, Jane was not entirely surprised by the grandeur automobile.

She shook her head, ridding any thoughts of Vince and turning sideways to face Jack. "You have no idea how grateful I am for that save," she sighed, tugging at the straps of her backpack. "I owe you one."

Jack shrugged. "Vince waits for these things to happen. He's usually looking for a fight. You'll learn to avoid him."

"Seems like you two are well acquainted."

"More like experience."

"Ah. History."

Jane glided down the stairs, Jack mirroring her pace as he joined her. A few seconds of silence passed between them, the concrete steps blurring beneath their feet until they finally reached the sidewalk. Jane seized the opportunity to glance at the blue motorcycle parked in its respective slot, leaning to the side and glinting in the hot afternoon sun. The bike was normal—innocent. Truly, if Jane had not peeked out her window last night, she would never believe that the motorcycle—much less, its rider—had partaken in a midnight excursion. But, then again, what evidence had she expected to find on the bike? Was she hoping to see a video feed in the headlight, rerunning the events that reflected in the glass?

Her gaze drifted back to Jack, the sheen of blue metal remaining in her peripheral sight. "So does that same history apply to what Vince said to you? You know, about 'trying to be the hero again'?" she asked, shifting her weight to her left foot and praying that the question was not a sensitive subject.

Jack rubbed the back of his head, hesitating for a moment before explaining vaguely, "Yeah, I guess you could say that. Although, I wouldn't say I was a hero—actually, I think I just embarrassed him."

Jane nodded, sparing a glance at the black muscle car pulling out of the school parking lot and rumbling down the road. "Well, if that's the case, I believe you have struck again," she said.

He followed her gaze. "For better or worse," he agreed grimly.

Jane shrugged. "Then it'll be my turn to watch your back if he decides he wants a round two."

Jack huffed lightly, a hint of a smile expressing his humor. "Thanks. I'll be sure to let you know if that happens."

Another tangible silence filtered between them, prodding for words but unable to garner a response from either teenager. Jane was tempted to ask a few pressing questions about the sleek motorcycle sitting behind Jack; but, when her anxious subconscious produced a handful of unwanted scenarios that may arise from such an interrogation, she refrained, pursing her lips. Besides, he had saved her from an ugly confrontation with Vince. She at least owed him some respect in return.

Finally—and Jane could not have been more thankful—Jack spoke: "So, I have a shift that I need to be at…" he began, that hesitant edge returning to his tone. Jane was taken aback by how quickly the dark-haired teenager could switch from confidence to nervousness.

Then, her embarrassment began to rise, and she took half-a-step backwards, nodding briskly. "Right. Sorry," she said. He had a shift—a job to attend to—and she was stalling him. Suddenly, she wished she could disappear, if only for a brief moment to wash away the sensation of a thousand eyes staring at her expectantly.

But, with a casual air that both surprised Jane and eased her worries, Jack nonchalantly replied, "No, it's okay." He slid his helmet on and clambered onto his motorcycle. "I'll see you around?"

Jane blinked, an automatic response leaving her lips faster than her brain could process. "I don't plan on leaving Jasper any time soon."

"You're hilarious."

Jane smiled. At least he noticed her deliberate answer—remembered his own words the first time they met. Giving a single, farewell wave, Jane watched Jack depart the parking lot and dart down the road. Admittedly, she was surprised that he did not take advantage of the empty roads with his fast and easily maneuverable vehicle. Jane had seen a handful of motorcyclists back in Sparks who would weave through the traffic and let the speedometer slowly increase to a dangerous speed. Truly, the only force that could have stopped them had been the rare police officer that had been able to keep up with them and urge them to pull over. Here, though, those motorcyclists could have dominated the roads; and, undoubtedly, they would have. It was a thrill that was nearly impossible to resist.

Jane shook her head. She was talking about Jack, the boy who eluded her in the subtlest manner. One moment, he was the kindest person she had ever met; the next, he was a mystery, question marks seemingly floating around him.

Suddenly, she was beginning to regret looking out her window at midnight, for now she found herself switching her neighbor between innocent and suspicious.

You're a glutton for punishment, Jane. You really are.

Nightmares. Jane despised the word alone, and she withheld a rancorous hate toward the aforementioned term's contents. Haunted memories, twisted delusions, nearly tangible experiences—a nightmare was Jane's worst enemy that lurked in the shadows of her mind, pouncing at the strangest times during the year. She clearly remembered her constant struggles against the demons of the night after the death of her parents, her brain tormented with realistic replays and unfathomable, alternate endings; and she dreaded the regular reappearance of the horrendous dreamland, counting the days on her calendar in an attempt to spot a routine. She never did find that looping path; therefore, she linked her nightmares with some new event—some trigger that struck her memories perfectly and shined a bright light on a hidden secret.

And tonight was one of those nights.

Jane awoke, surfacing from a sea of tumult. Her forehead was damp with sweat, and the sheets that covered her body felt like thick quilts. Frustrated, she pushed away from her pillow and tossed away the sheets, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her bent legs. She inhaled deeply, reveling in the biting, freezing air of her bedroom (how could she be so hot when her surroundings were so cold?).

Another episode—the second one that night, actually. She had only escaped the first sequence because she had managed to find another point of interest to direct her wandering thoughts—a distraction. This time? The precarious bridge had collapsed and dumped her into the roiling waves of horror. She had been swept away by repressed memories of the fatal car accident and the unidentifiable being who had detached her from the metallic carnage—a helping hand that dragged her toward the surface before the trauma pulled her back down. It was endless—or, rather, had been endless until her conscious mind decided to shut down her twisted dreamland and return her to reality.

Now, she found herself in this helpless position.

Her racing heart began to slow, becoming a faint thump behind her sternum. She closed her eyes, exhaling heavily and wiping away the droplets of sweat that had gathered on her face. Silently, she reminded herself that the disturbing visage was merely a fictional world. Her nightmare was not tangible—it was not real by any means. She was only experiencing a reoccurring loop, revived by—by what? What could have summoned those memories? What could have possibly happened during the past week that would have caused their appearance? Of course, she had lapsed into a reverie during the long trip to Jasper; however, her voluntary recollections were rarely the reason behind her nightmares. No, it had to be an outside source.

She sighed exasperatedly. "What now?" she asked herself, as if her bedroom could answer her desperate question. And, strangely, she actually did receive a solution, an invisible force guiding her gaze to the trash bin occupying the far corner of the room.

Furrowing her brow in mild confusion, Jane rose from her bed and sidled toward the bin, kneeling beside it once she reached the aforementioned object. With a finicky hand, she picked through the scraps of paper filling the bin, selecting a few and unfolding them—only to find the wrong page and set it aside in defeat. She was beginning to wonder if her search was a fruitless attempt, a stack of useless, crumpled paper building beside her right thigh; however, that disappointed thought was quickly whisked away when she found her quarry. Her fingers brushed against the rough surface of the sketchbook paper while her eyes examined the spindly lines and deep shadows.

It was Jane's sketch from the other night; and, as soon as her brain processed the partially finished image of her savior, her heart fell and left a hollow sensation within her chest. A snippet of her nightmare returned, matching her drawing with stunning accuracy—aside from the holes in her artwork that rendered her project incomplete. And those missing patches pleaded to be filled with a flourishing design.

Another sigh escaped her lips as she collected the worthless scraps she had sorted through and returned them to the bin. Then, with the unfinished drawing in her hand, she shuffled to her desk, claimed a pencil, and sat down heavily in her chair. The lamp on her desk came to life with a flip of a switch, illuminating the single, wrinkled piece of paper sprawled across the desk's surface.

Her hand moved automatically, adding and editing, her brain fully yielding to her memories. For the briefest moment, she allowed herself to sink in to her ten-year-old mind, letting the pencil swirl and twist. To an observer, the movement and resulting artistry may have been elegant, or at least interesting; however, to her, the flow of her hand and the obedience of the pencil was natural—instinctive, even. She was in perfect balance, despite the odd hour and the subject of her sketch.

The time that had passed was unknown to her. She never did glance at the clock or acknowledge the heaviness of her eyelids. She focused solely on the scratch of graphite against paper and watched as her savior materialized. Inwardly, she knew that peaceful sleep would not return unless she did this one deed. Why, she could not guess, only hope that her assumptions would prove true. If it rid the nightmares that plagued her, she would finish this sketch.

Of course, her foolhardy work may only result in deprived sleep, but her haunted dreams would have done the same. She would lose one way or another. The only difference was whether she attempted to fight back or not—and by all means, she would try to resolve the issue.

A yawn escaped Jane's lips as she finished the final details, her exhausted mind begging for sleep. With semi-careful movements, she polished the rough lines around the being's skull, her forehead creasing in confusion as she transmitted her memory onto the paper. The shape, the structure—even against the dark background that was the nighttime sky, she could not say that what she was seeing before her was normal. Of course the curvature of the head hardly raised any suspicions; however, the three, thin, straight-edge bands that sprouted from the forehead and on either side of the cranium told a different story. The projections resembled horns; yet, in a sense, they were the complete opposite of the comparison. Actually, nothing seemed to adequately define the characteristic, the descriptions completely indifferent to what she was seeing.

The baffling conclusion made Jane lean back, jaw slack and grip loose on her pencil. Her eyes scanned the paper: left to right, top to bottom. Granted, she mostly saw shadows; however, mixed within the various shadings, she saw a figure—humanistic, but foreign in every aspect. She made note of the sharp, harsh angles of the torso; the broad expanse of the shoulders and their ending curves; the vague features composing the face, highlighted by deep, azure eyes; and—for the second time—the protrusions originating from the skull. She saw hints of humanity in her savior; yet, she was mostly blinded by the sheer number of abnormalities that inflicted the being she had created—that she remembered from a very real experience.

No. No, this had to be pure fiction—a delusion concocted from her ten-year-old mind. She could not possibly believe that she had been rescued by whatever being she had scribbled onto the paper. Her savior had been an everyday man, rushing to the aid of the helpless—right?

But where was my savior after he rescued me? I never saw him again. I don't even remember what he said to me after he lifted me out of the wreckage, let alone what became of him. So who saved me?

Jane rested her head in both of her hands, her cheeks warm compared to her freezing palms. A small part of her wanted to scream, while another sliver of her wanted to force her brain to remember that terrible night. Her distressed curiosity wondered why these dreams and recollections were dogging her so suddenly, while her boiling anger demanded immediate answers to all of her musings. She was beyond conflicted or confused; she was a mess of emotions that failed to withhold their full, potent effect.

"Who are you? What are you?" she whispered, shaking her head indignantly as she stared at her drawing. "And why did you save my life? What were you trying to tell me? Why did you leave me afterward, alone?"

As the pitiful questions slipped past her lips in an incoherent mumble, she realized how desperately she desired information. She was speaking to the flat image on the paper as if the inanimate drawing could respond to her and grant her answers. Oh, she wished such a phenomenon would occur at that very moment; however, as the minutes passed and her sentences attained more space between them, she grimly realized that the idea was too far-fetched. She was thinking idiotically—irrationally. She was exhausted, and the factor was effecting her sensibility. She would have to consider the sketch in the morning.

Of course, her brain was too stubborn to move away from the subject, her subconscious nudging at some buried secret. Deep in her mind, she held a remembrance; but, unfortunately, she was unable to fully unearth this tantalizing, hidden truth. It toyed with her, urging her to remain seated at her desk, but not promising any results from her commitment—a daring risk she was unwilling to take.

With finality, Jane switched off the desk lamp and stood abruptly, collecting the sketch and slipping it into the top drawer of her desk. The mattress was cool when she clambered back into her bed, the warmth failing to return immediately as she relaxed against the plush pillow. Hours seemed to past before her eyelids succumbed to her wishes and oblivion enwrapped her mind—an oblivion that did not come without vague visages.

She did not relive the fatal car crash; she did not find herself surrounded by clouds of smoke and twisted metal—no, she skipped to very end of the sequence, the unknown being looming before her, shadows masking his features save for his glowing eyes. For a surreal moment, she felt a warm breeze brush across her skin, and she felt smooth metal beneath her palms. Her heart pounded and her lungs fought for fresh air; yet, panic did not blossom. Actually, she was infected by her young, innocent curiosity, staring into the blue orbs with wonder and amazement and gratefulness. She clutched her notepad, hugging it tightly to her chest, as if the stack of paper could protect her from any possible danger.

A slight, barely noticeable shift in the being's face piqued her interest further. She scrunched her brow and leaned forward, hoping to identify the being's expression. The night was too dark, though, making her efforts futile; however, she could have sworn she saw the thin line of a mouth—a mouth that parted, rumbling words tumbling from its lips.

Always, the memory concluded here. But tonight was different. The being spoke, his reverberating words shaking her to her very core. She could not be certain that everything she heard was a true recollection or a figment of her imagination; nor could she judge whether the statement she heard was the entire piece the being had spoken. What she did know were the four words that echoed in her eardrums, wracking her soul and halting her racing thoughts:

"I am deeply sorry."

The oxygen left her lungs in a great whoosh, her eyelids snapping open in utter surprise. She did not pay any heed to the clock and its early hour; she did not listen to her aunt's wakeup call from beyond her closed door—she merely focused on those four, apologetic words, squirming out of her bed for a second time and tugging open the top drawer of her desk. The sketch was still there, resting on a stack of notebooks with its blue eyes boring into her own. She reached for her pencil holder, grasping a ballpoint pen, ripping the cap off of aforementioned pen, and jotting down the statement at the top of the page.

I am deeply sorry. For what? Why was he sorry? For what reason would he be sorry? Did he feel responsible for the accident? Was he the cause behind the accident?

Jane's stomach churned at the slew of thoughts racing through her mind. She closed her eyes, perching her elbow on her desk's surface and resting her forehead in the palm of her hand.

For five years, she had been striving to recreate that terrible night, wishing to remember the details her young mind had failed to process or consider; yet, with every attempt, she could not pass a certain marker—as if the segment between the car crash and her arrival at the hospital had been carved from her life. But now, she had another piece; she had four, precious words that bounced around in her skull, kindling astonishment and an aching desire for more knowledge.

A loud knock at her door stirred Jane from her musings, and she glanced sharply over her shoulder, her right forearm covering her artwork.

"Jane? Are you awake?" The voice belonged to Melanie, and Jane's throat constricted in panic.

"Yeah—yeah, I'm awake. Just a little slow this morning," Jane replied, biting the inside of her cheek.

There was an uncomfortable pause before Melanie responded, her cousin's tone hinting at an unseen shrug, "All right. Don't take too long, then. Mom almost has breakfast ready."

Jane blinked, surprised. How long had she been looming over her desk, wondering about her strange dreams? Too long, apparently, judging by the time posted on the digital clock and the scent of savory food drifting from the kitchen.

Shaking her head exasperatedly, Jane called back, "No problem. I'll be out in five minutes."

After listening to the retreating footsteps of her cousin, Jane finally leaned away from her desk and held the sketch in her hands. Azure eyes met her light blue stare in a somewhat mocking reenactment, and Jane had to refrain from crumpling the paper for a second time, her fingertips turning white at the pressure of her grip.

I am deeply sorry. Perhaps her savior had known the untold pain she would experience in the aftermath; perhaps he had known that she would be haunted for the rest of her days, weighed down by this great burden. Perhaps he had fled afterwards because he was the one to blame for the entire ordeal; perhaps he did not want to see a broken, little girl; perhaps he was not the savior she kept calling him. Perhaps he was someone else entirely; or, something else.

But that did not matter. No, what mattered was the fact that she had collected another piece—here, in Jasper, far away from the origin of the car crash. Jasper was much grander than a small, homely town; it held a key, and it was tauntingly waving that same key in front of Jane's face.

Jane scowled. If that was the game, she refused to be a pawn. She would have her answers, and the mystery behind the accident and this unimaginable, sympathizing being would be uncovered. She refused to be deterred, especially in a place that was meant to give her a new beginning.

Replacing the sketch back into the drawer, Jane rushed through her morning routine, mind clouded and heart heavy. It was not until she heard the distinct purr of a familiar engine zoom past her bedroom window that her determination finally began to kindle. She did not want to be afraid anymore; she wanted to be courageous and test her boundaries—for, truly, the cramped fortress she had created around herself was becoming a chain, keeping her from departing the encroaching past. If she wanted a new beginning, she had to fight, not sit and wait for results. She had to do something for herself.

No more cowering in the corner. I believe it is time for me to learn a few things about my new home. Maybe—just maybe—I will find some solace.

Jane could only hope.

To the Reviewers:

SunsetLover1234: There is no need to apologize for rambling; your reviews are always helpful and supportive, and I appreciate that special email in my inbox :). So thank you for taking the time to write them!

It is good to hear that you enjoyed Chapter 3! And, on a side note, I must say that Jane will often have these moments of consideration (as you will probably notice in the above Chapter). For some reason or another, those are my favorite scenes to write: just the thoughts running through a character's mind seem...intriguing. Weird, probably; but I enjoy those sequences nevertheless.

Also, I agree with you wholeheartedly about Transformers: Age of Extinction. Granted, there were a few moments that could have been improved; but, every film will have its flaws. I believe that, if I leave the movie theatre smiling and in awe, then the film deserves the admiration.

Thank you again for your review, and I hope you liked Chapter 4! :)

IronHidescannonlover: I apologize for the wait, but here is the new update! I hope you enjoyed it!