Disclaimer: don't own Transformers, don't own the rights to whatever shows/electronic brands that are referred to in this piece (specifically MIB and Star Trek).
Family Business
2: It Isn't A Car
A teenager's room says many things about him, if one can see properly behind all the clutter. Posters of various rock bands and skateboarders lined up the wall, covering the long-faded childish wallpaper of skyrockets and moons and planets. Clothes were dumped haphazardly on the floor. CD cases spilled their contents on the table. The otherwise bare ceiling had what appeared to be a scorch mark on it, the result of a volcano experiment with Miles gone awry. And somewhere in the abyss known to mortals only as 'the closet' were buried astronaut teddy bears, never-to-be-finished drawings of rockets, half-broken toys, and, very, very deep inside, was a dusty telescope that had seen better nights. And happily making her way through this insanity was Sparkplug, five of her parts engaged with watching a rerun of Star Trek, and the other five parts engaged in a chess match.
"Back," Sam announced as he shut the door to his room. "Hey, Sparkplug. How've you been?"
Sparkplug dropped what she was doing and converged on Sam, crawling up his pant leg, some parts clinging to his shirt while the other parts perched on his shoulders or on the top of his head.
I've been well. It was really boring here, though. Why couldn't I come to school again?
"Because of stupid Trent. The last time I brought you with me, he snatched you-the-cell phone and threatened to dunk you in the fountain." Sparkplug gave an indignant sniff.
A little water never hurt anyone.
"But still…I'll bring you with me on Monday, 'kay? You-the-camera. The teachers have been starting to confiscate cell phones and iPods. Cameras haven't hit the blacklist yet."
How'd your presentation go?
"Pretty well. Got the mark that I needed."
Was bribing required for such a feat?
"Heck no! Sparkplug! You know me better than that."
So you begged.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
That's because it is a bad thing.
"I hated doing the presentation though. It was lying through my teeth, I swear." Sparkplug leaped off of Sam as he bounded on the bed, his fist coming up to his face as though he was holding a microphone. She gave him her rapt attention as he made a show of preparing himself for his spiel.
"Ladies and gentlemen. I present to you my great-great grandfather, Archibald Simmons, famous (or shall I say infamous) discoverer of the Ice Man—though of course you won't know this because aliens supposedly do not exist. Shortly after this monumental discovery (which, by the way, gave you happy folks your precious iPods and Xboxes, as well as inspired a million creative ways which we can kill each other), Archibald Simmons went loco, found six other equally crazy nut jobs, and the seven of them founded Sector Seven. Then they used the Grandpa Archie's glasses which somehow became affected by the alien and used it to hunt down some strange black Cube. And they wanted to use that Cube for their experiments. Area 51? You're looking in the wrong place, folks. And even though Cubey decided to go AWOL on them, they're still doing experiments, because not only is there life out there, but that life came here. Intelligent life? I think not. And Grandpa Archibald Simmons was not only an explorer, a discoverer, and a founder, but he was also a family man, folks. Passed on his lovely, lovely legacy to his sons, and to their sons, and to their sons, and finally to me. And that's why I love the man just so damn much. Now please, folks, kindly look into the small blinking light that I hold in my right hand so that you can forget all this crazy shit that I'm spewing." And with that finale, Sam collapsed into his bed, heaving a defeated sigh and covering his eyes with his right arm. Sparkplug crawled onto the bed and Sparkplug-the-PSPII gently poked his forehead.
You didn't say any such thing, she said amusedly, trying to get him to smile by stating the obvious.
"You have no idea how I wanted to say that, though."
Yes I do. I could feel your thoughts from way over here.
"That obvious huh?"
Always.
"If only Mom and Dad hadn't mentioned it in front of Uncle Reggie, he wouldn't have insisted that I do my report on good ol' Archie."
Look at it this way. At least you can get a car now.
"That's the only thing that kept me fabricating my beautiful web of deceit, Sparkplug. I hate spreading Simmons propaganda."
But you must do it, Sparkplug said, mischief glinting in all twenty of her eyes. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile. All ten of her swarmed on him, tickling him. Assimilation is inevitable. Resistance is futile.
Sam laughed. "Cut it out, Sparkplug!" he said, trying to dislodge her.
"Sam! Who are you talking to up there?" his mother called.
"Crap! Sparkplug, quickly—" But Sparkplug had already crawled under his bed. The small mechanical noises indicated that she was also changing into her alt-forms. At least Sam wouldn't have to explain the presence of electronics under his bed.
Judy Simmons came in, and looked suspiciously around the room, ignoring the desperately innocent grin that she was receiving from her child. "Who're you talking to up here, Sammy?"
"No one, Mom."
"There were noises up here – " she suddenly broke off as a look of realization overcoming her face. "Oh, Sam. Were you engaged in…questionable content?
"Mom! No!"
"We don't have to talk about it like that. We can call it 'Sam's happy time,' or—"
"I was up here," a voice said suddenly. Both turned to look at a girl that had suddenly appeared in the corner. The shock of the appearance—and the question of why she hadn't noticed the girl standing so blatantly in the corner—was overrun by Judy's joy that her son had finally brought home a girl.
Sam tried to wipe the look of surprise from his face. Saved by the hologram.
"Oh!" she said. "Oh, I'm sorry. That was—we were discussing some 'family issues,'" she said, amazingly without much embarrassment. "I'm Judy Simmons, Sam's mother," she extended out her hand. Sam looked in horror at their predicament, but Sparkplug had enough piece of mind to not let her horror reflect in the hologram.
"I'm—"
"Judy!" Ron suddenly called up. Judy looked towards the hallway.
"Ron? What is it?"
"Did you check the dryer before you put the clothes in?"
"No. Why?"
"Because Mojo was in there!" Ron's voice was followed by the sounds of distressed yips. A look of horror overcame Judy's face as she dashed out the door.
"It was nice meeting you, dear!" her harried and guilty voice carried to the room.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Sam burst into relieved laughter. The hologram faded out, and Sparkplug crawled out from under the bed.
"Mojo's accident saved us," Sam said as he recovered.
I do hope that he's alright.
"I'm sure that he is. Mom always puts the dryer on gentle cycle. We should go check though." Sparkplug's ten heads nodded, and she transformed, tucking herself away in Sam's pockets.
"Dad, is Mojo okay?" Sam said, coming into the laundry room. He scratched the distressed dog behind the ears.
"Looks like the little guy broke something," Ron answered, holding the dog carefully. "Your mother and I are going to take him to the vet."
"Oh, okay. I'll just grab my coat and we can—"
"No can do, kiddo. Your Uncle Reggie's coming over."
Sam stopped on his way out of the laundry. "He is?" he asked, trying to keep the dread out of his voice. From the inside of his pockets, he could feel Sparkplug-the-cell phone and Sparkplug-the-iPod tense.
"Yeah. He wanted to help in picking out your first car. I'd call him and cancel, but when he first called and offered his 'services', he went on and on about how it took weeks to clear his schedule." Ron didn't say the implied: I caved and was willing to let him tag along because he just wouldn't shut up otherwise.
"Oh. That was…nice of him."
"So just stay here and Uncle Reggie'll help you out. Remember, our budget's four thousand dollars."
"Yes, sir."
Sam's mother caught him as he was leaving the laundry room. "Sam, is something wrong?" she asked, looking searchingly in his eyes, as if they'd give up the answer if she prodded deep enough. Yeah, right. He was a teenager. You couldn't get him with that trick. "You and Uncle Reggie used to be the best of pals when you were little."
Yeah, before I knew what he was really up to. "Nothing's wrong, Mom," he said, making his face as blank as possible. Judy looked like she was about to say something else, but then Mojo's distressed yapping dragged her attention away.
Panicking ever-so-slightly, Sam slowly made his way back to his room.
"Damn it," he said, shutting the door. "Uncle Reggie's coming. You remember the last time. That stupid I-am-for-detecting-alien-radiation device went off when he got too close. If it does it again, he'll start thinking twice about what I have in my bag." Nine of Sparkplug's selves gently dislodged from him, the tenth—the cell phone—staying stubbornly in his pocket.
He won't notice me if there's only one of me there, she said.
"I'd feel better if I leave you at home though—far away from him."
And I'd feel better if I could keep an optic on you when he's around. Sam nodded, gently stroking Sparkplug-the-cell phone and hugging the rest of her.
X x X
"So, Champ, you're getting your first car. Soon you'll be picking up girls and then going to college." Sam tried smiling at his uncle's attempt at small talk, his hand clutching Sparkplug-the-cell phone protectively. "Thought about where you wanted to go?"
"Not yet, Uncle Reggie. Haven't even thought about which program I want to get into." Actually, Sam had thought about it. He might go into anthropology, or palaeontology; something that had to do with Earth and only Earth, and not the stars which goaded him with their siren song. He knew what was out there after all, and after all the things that Sparkplug showed him, he'd rather just stay home. At least, that's what he told himself. Well, whatever got you to sleep at night, he supposed.
"Ah, the flights of the young," Uncle Reggie said carelessly, one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand sticking out of the open car window. "Maybe you'll get into the army? Heck, that's what your dad did. That's what I did."
"Maybe," Sam said evenly as they pulled up to Bobby Bolivia's second-hand car lot.
"The driver doesn't pick the car. The car picks the driver," Bobby said as he showed him his line-up.
No wonder. These cars would have to be doing picking to actually get a driver, Sam thought, sending the images that he saw to Sparkplug. Sparkplug—not being able to send exactly coherent thoughts since she was split up—gave instead an emotion indicating agreement. His eye landed on a yellow Camaro. That one doesn't look too bad.
Familiar, Sparkplug mused.
Sam ran his hand along the exterior and peered inside. Bobby named his price.
"The paint's faded though," Uncle Reggie protested.
"It's custom-faded," Bobby said defensively. Whilst the adults bickered, Sam went into the car.
"Feels good," he said appreciably, running his hand along the steering wheel. Strange icon though. He didn't know any car manufacturer that had that brand.
Want to see. Sam compliantly sent her an image. Sparkplug gave a sudden screech in his head, and Sparkplug-the-cell phone quivered in his pocket.
Car. Car not a car. Get out. Car not good. Car not a car, Sparkplug-the-cell phone said suddenly. Her emotions of horror and fear reverberated strongly in Sam's head. He could feel her struggling to phrase together coherent explanations, but without her other parts there, that was just impossible. But he still got her message.
Her horror rubbing off on him, Sam got out of the car rather quickly. The adults were still bickering in the background.
Very sure. Surer than sure. Get out get out get out get out run run run. As if to emphasize her fear, she sent him various fragments of memories: transforming bipedal things, vicious glowing eyes, alien robots that were easily bigger than most buildings.
"Come on, Sam, let's go take our business elsewhere," Uncle Reggie said, turning back to his nephew.
The Camaro gave a sudden screech, causing the windows of all the other cars to shatter. That was it. The car was an alien. Sam felt like he could throw up. Bobby looked at his ruined lot, and shakily turned to them, saying "Four thousand dollars."
"Well, that fits into the budget nicely," Uncle Reggie said heartily, and then muttered, "Though I'm not really sure its worth four thousand, with that radio…"
"Suddenly, I don't—don't feel so well," Sam muttered. And he really didn't. Here he was, Uncle Reggie on his right, some alien being on his left, and clutched in his pocket, the being that both of them were tracking down.
Screwed, Sparkplug put in. Yeah, that about summed it up.
"I'll think about your offer," he told Bobby Bolivia, who was still sputtering about all the glass and the noise and the general destruction.
"I'll take you home, Champ," Uncle Reggie said, patting Sam's shoulder sympathetically. "I started feeling queasy after seeing those 'custom-faded' racing stripes."
They went out of the parking lot, and missed the sight of the Camaro's passenger door opening and slamming the yellow Beetle parked next to it, irritated that he didn't get picked.