The Human Stain: Chapter 12

Debbie just hit the wall
she never had it all
one Prozac a day
husbands a CPA
her dreams went out the door
when she turned twenty four
only been with one man
what happened to her plans?

-Bowling For Soup, 1985

Miguel frowned, shifting his eyes over the poorly lit interior of the 'Tranquil Rest Motel' that he was to share with Claire that night. From the roadside, the sprawling, one-story motel had weaved about the property like a snake. The building's pink plank siding was littered with peeling paint, random acts of graffiti, and overgrown shrubs. The neon sign announcing a vacancy from the road was in dire need of repair as well. The 'y' was completely burned out, and the first 'a' was threatening to follow suite. The parking lot was noticeably empty, and the sole source of light came from the glowing face of a vending machine and the interior lights of the cramped office behind it. Too tired to refuse, the two had stumbled out of the Subaru as Bumblebee parked nearby with Sam and Mikaela. The rest of the Autobots had dispersed, seemingly left to their own devices.

"You sure this is where you want to stay?" Sam called from the open window of the Camaro. Bumblebee's engine was running quietly, and Mikaela was tipping her head around Sam's to watch the proceedings.

"Yeah, we'll be ok," Claire waved back. "See you guys in the morning?"

"Yeah, we'll be here."

"Great, see you."

Truth was, there was not a damn thing available besides this quack shack. They had not thought ahead to make reservations anywhere else, and only the more expensive hotels in town had rooms available. Since they both worked at a large box store on very little pay, it was a no-brainer as to which place to select.

It was ugly, but it would have to do.

It was easy enough to book a room with two double beds. Modesty called for separate motel rooms, but their budget would not bend. Now as he stood in the dingy, cramped quarters of the 'Tranquil Rest Motel', Miguel's mind began to turn over just how many bodies were buried beneath the mattresses. It sounded like something you would name a cemetery, not a place for living people.

The carpet was well worn, complete with runs. The owner had made a valiant effort at disguising the worst parts by careful placement of the furniture, but even these were an eye sore. There was a small table with an ashtray near the door, but the maid had not seen fit to remove the last ashes left behind by the previous occupant. The television set was something from the early-nineties, complete with circular antennae. There was a bathroom the size of a walk-in closet towards the back, as well as a metal pole stretching wall-to-wall with a few emaciated metal hangers dangling from it. The beds – well, they were the nicest thing about the place. Two queen-sized sleepers sat apart from one another at the distance of three feet, both outfitted with (hopefully) clean sheets and bedspreads. There was a small nightstand between them with an even smaller lamp, and Miguel stepped across the room to open the top drawer. Predictably, there was a pocket bible inside.

"You have got to be kidding me," he heard Claire say.

"'Fraid not."

He heard her duffel bag drop heavily to the floor. "Do we know how long we'll be here?"

"No idea. Didn't that tall freak say something about waiting?"

She held both hands out from her location near the doorway, and then stepped closer to Miguel. Neither bothered to remove their shoes – it would be an insult to their socks. "But how long? We can't stay here indefinitely. What if we lose our jobs? Then what? I don't have enough money to carry me beyond two months."

"Same here," he admitted grimly.

He wasn't sure what they would do. They surely didn't have the money to go racing off towards an unexpected adventure, but here they were. If it involved anything less than robotic aliens from space, Miguel would have simply stayed home. As it stood, he wasn't sure if staying home had been such a bad idea after all.

He shook his head a little, jarring his senses back into focus. He noticed Claire had extracted her cell phone from her purse. She was frowning deeply as she stared down at it and pressed a small key over and over.

"Shit," she swore.

"What?" he asked.

"It's the Boyd garage. They've called five times and left three messages. I never heard anything since the phone was on vibrate the whole time."

"Isn't that the place Smokescreen followed you to?"

"Yeah," she hedged, glancing out the curtained window that faced the parking lot. The Subaru – Smokescreen – was still parked in the stall right outside their room. He was completely immobile, seemingly a harmless parked car.

"Then…"

"It's Mick Boyd, the owner. He called first and left a message telling me that my car was ready and he was sorry for the delay. He also said I was welcome to bring back the 'loaner' so they could report it to the police."

"Uh… wait, back up. He's reporting his own loaner car to the cops? Why would he do that?"

Claire made a high-pitched sound that escaped from the tight seal between her lips. Frustrated, she ran a quavering hand through her tangled hair and sat on the bed. Holding her hands helplessly before her, the woman narrowed her eyes. "You see, it wasn't his car. I stupidly talked him into loaning me it since he had nothing else and I had to get to work. He said we'd report it to the police once I had my car fixed and we would all pretend like we had never seen it before."

"How could you not see it before? He's tricked out!"

Wild eyes shot up to Miguel's face. "He wasn't, though. He was just an old beater before. Something called a Dat-son or something. He was really old and the paint was faded. When I picked you up after the bar fiasco, he just… just changed into something better somehow."

"Are you telling me he just turns into whatever car he wants to look like?" Miguel inquired rapidly.

Claire dropped her eyes to the stained carpet. "I guess…?"

"Sweet."

"Shut up!" the woman across from him cried. "This isn't a joke. Think… I'm in real hot water now. We're going to have to call in sick tomorrow, and not only that… I have to explain to Mick why I can't pick up my perfectly good car and return the one none of us owns. He put me into his confidence, and … he's just been so nice to me, and I feel like I destroyed that."

Miguel was suddenly quiet. Claire stood up.

"We're supposed to be responsible adults now, Miguel. We're supposed to be responsible, mature adults. Yet, here we are, jumping down the rabbit hole to play a waiting game against the Queen of Hearts. It… it doesn't work. We need to call this off." She was gesticulating in front of him now, her gray eyes hard.

"Yeah, really, what are our options!" he countered, a bit annoyed at her obtuseness. "You want to go back and have that thing find you? You're currently being hunted, I hope you know."

"It… it… I KNOW!" Claire flung her hands up once, and then feathered them as they lowered like she was treading water and drowning anyway. "This crap is not supposed to happen. It's just… not. I hate that I'm being forced into a pocket and left to sit there sifting through some really crappy options. Do you know how that feels?"

Miguel was now in her face, full of contempt for her loss of control. "Yeah, I know how that feels! I'm here, ain't I? I'm fucking stuck just like you and you introduced me to all of this fucked up shit!"

Claire reared back like she had been struck. In a way, she had.

Oblivious to her reaction, Miguel jabbed a finger in her direction. "I just find it really funny that you come across all high-and-mighty about what we should do when I should be at home. Don't saddle your problems on me, I have my own." That said, he whipped around and stormed off towards the bathroom.

"Miguel, I…" He heard her voice falter behind him, but ignored it.

The cheap door slammed behind him, closing him off from any further tirade of hers. He was fuming, and felt entitled to it. Yeah, it wasn't fair that the world had bequeathed them this knowledge of aliens and all that went along with it, but he was the kind to believe that what was done was done. Stuff happened along the way, stuff worked out or it didn't - but in the end you couldn't reverse what had already happened. Then, here she came, telling him off about 'mature, responsible adults'. Who the hell would be a mature, responsible adult in a situation like this one?

He splashed some water on his face after turning on one of the faucets. The surge of water was slightly comforting, but not enough. He thought back to those two kids – Sam and Mikaela, was it? It would have been so much easier to be their age again, to shirk responsibility with the knowledge that your parents would be there to catch you if you fell. Unfortunately, Miguel had a mortgage, car payments, insurance payments… the bills were nothing to be ignored. He lamented the fact they were here instead of where they should be – at work. In this, he understood Claire's frustration.

What Miguel would not tolerate was her attitude. She was a neurotic creature, he was certain of that now. He had seen it at work in the way she followed Zebrowski's orders perfectly, unwavering in what the mole-man set as guidelines. Claire always had a stick up her ass, and he was nearly close enough to telling her tonight. He figured he would, someday, if she pushed him that far.

Grimly, Miguel patted his face dry with one of the motel's towels and thought back to life as a teenager.

Outside in the bedroom, Claire crumpled to the coverlet upon the bed. Folding her head in her hands, the twenty-six-year-old woman allowed a long shudder to rack her body.

Claire couldn't think. All the burdens suddenly became too heavy, and the weight of the world settled between her shoulders. She did the one thing she had postponed for so long, the thing she could no longer suppress.

She cried.

More tremors rode upon her muscles, causing her to quake as she sobbed. She wept into her lap quietly, attempting to keep it from Miguel's attention. She faintly heard the water running in the bathtub before the shower burst to life, and she figured it wasn't likely he would hear anyways.

As the tears ran in messy rivulets down the planes of her cheeks, she lifted her head long enough to stare towards the table where she had left her purse. There was a vending machine outside, and the idea of a Mountain Dew wouldn't be so horrible. Coughing and wiping the back of her hand against her face, Claire lifted her body and the burdens both and got up.

Rummaging through her bag, she managed to scrounge up three quarters, two dimes and a nickel. An extra quarter would have been nice, but it would suffice. Sniffling, she slipped past the motel room door.

The cold night air was shocking. The outside air temperature stole the heat from her tears, making her feel like someone blew shaved ice into her face. Shivering and trying valiantly to abate a fresh new crop of tears, Claire made her way down to the office and passed the quiet Subaru in his parking stall. She kept her head turned towards the motel as she did so, just in case he might use her appearance as fodder for later insults.

The office was still lit, and the shadow of the older man that had checked them in moved about inside. Claire scanned the selection of soda as her face was cast into a ghastly yellow light from the machine. An estranged bystander would see a hollow-eyed woman, someone who appeared older than her years. The lighting did her no favors.

Obviously disappointed that the vending machine sold only coke products, she inserted the coins and punched a bar labeled 'Mello Yello'. It wasn't as good as Dew, but it was similar enough that she could pretend.

Nothing happened. Something 'clinked' within the bowls of the vending machine, but otherwise there was no reaction.

"Oh, c'mon," she murmured. She made a fist and rapped soundly against the large apparatus, and then again harder when that proved to have no effect. "You are freaking kidding me. C'mon!" Now she was gripping the defiant machine by both sides, attempting to shake her soda loose. If she was much stronger and the vending machine was not bolted to the cement, she might have had more luck.

Claire awarded the contraption with a swift kick, but only ended up hopping around in circles for that one. "Owww!"

Eff this. I'll just go back into the room and find more change. I bet it's stuck, so now I have to buy two to knock the first one loose. I bet the motel manager has it rigged that way, anyways. Crook. Sometimes the voice inside her skull was a rather pessimistic one.

Turning away with an unintelligible oath, the blonde was stopped in her tracks by the warm heat of a motor fanning her fingers and torso. Lifting one eyebrow, she spun around fully and was met with high beams to the face. "Auuugghhh!" Flinching, she closed her eyes and turned her head away at the sudden burst of blinding light.

"Need help?" a certain Subaru asked.

Still keeping her eyes averted, Claire used one free had to shoo him back in the direction he came. "No one gave you permission to leave your parking spot!" She sincerely hoped no one saw her right then, dismissing a car with words and motions. She'd be locked up for sure. Smokescreen had somehow sidled past her notice and had trapped her between his headlights and the vending machine by a small space of five feet.

Smokescreen's voice was most amused. "I told you I was autonomous. Do you understand the meaning of that?"

No, but screw you anyway, her mind shot back vehemently.

"Just go. I don't need your… HOLY CRAP." She leaped sideways, and just in time – Smokescreen spun squealing wheels and flew forward. He hit the resistant vending machine squarely in the middle, shaking it to its core.

Ka-chunk.

Slowly, the car eased forward. A 20oz. Mello Yello was sitting in the black soda slot, just as it should have been earlier.

Sorrow was quickly replaced by anger. "You… you… you nearly killed me!"

"I had faith your reflexes wouldn't be that bad."

Snatching the plastic soda bottle from the slot, Claire settled Smokescreen with a nasty glare. "Here's what I think of your faith." Twisting the cap off, Claire held the container over the car and felt awash with thin victory as the fizz burst past the bottle and showered Smokescreen with foam and tiny droplets of carbonated soda. She had counted on the soda being pretty shaken up after getting rammed by a car like that, and luckily it had.

"My PAINT!" Smokescreen gunned his engine and zipped backwards faster than she had ever seen him move forward. It was possibly 0-60 in two seconds flat.

"That's for scaring the shit out of me." The soda was running down her wrist and arm, but she hardly took notice. All she was concerned about was gloating over the fact that she had finally got the better of him. After he was no longer under the umbrella of spray, she waited for the sizzle to settle and then took a quick swig of the drink.

"You know what that liquid does to exterior paint jobs, don't you? It's acid! It will leave spots!"

"Exactly."

"What are you thinking, human!" The Autobot was enraged, to put it lightly. Claire found she didn't care. She felt a lot better, actually. The blonde sauntered away, past rows of doors and windows to other rooms, and tipped back another gulp of her half-depressed drink. Behind her, she heard a roar of indignation from Smokescreen's engine. He wouldn't be too stupid to change in plain sight, not there, and that fact did not do much to abate his rage. "I have to get this off, now!"

There was a small chance he would run her over for this transgression, but she would take her chances.

"Better start rollin', then," Claire answered coolly without turning around.

"Slaggin' squishie!"

"Rattletrap."

She couldn't tell if he had heard her or not. He was already peeling out of the parking lot, lights aimed for locations unknown. If she knew any better, he was most likely on a beeline course for Lake Mead to wash the soda off his precious paint job.

Serves you right. Still, in hindsight, why was she beginning to feel bad? It hit her suddenly like a pinprick, unexpected and unwanted. She really shouldn't care, not after all he put her through. He played with her like a cat with a mouse, and this was where she put her foot down. She drew the line here. In fact, maybe he wouldn't come back. If there were a higher power, he would see it fit to have mercy on her then and there and absolve her of all her sins so she could return home without fear of certain death.

It would be nice to believe, in theory. In practice she was just as much a joke to the man upstairs as she was to Smokescreen.

Claire re-entered her room and found Miguel watching PBS. He glanced up calmly when she made her presence known and motioned to the television set with the remote. "No cable. This place is a hole."

"Did you know the dirtiest thing in a motel room is the remote?" Another sip.

Miguel made a face, and she laughed. Maybe things weren't so bad, after all.

Mikaela Banes was curled up against Sam at home. Okay, so it wasn't technically a home to some, but it was a home to her. Mikaela's room was small, awash with blues and purples. A single daybed hugged one corner, and a small writing desk stood nearby. The wallpaper was a sky blue, the bedspread violet, and the carpet off-white. Her bedroom was possibly the best looking interior space within the entire trailer – her father was rarely home, and therefore his room was bare and bereft of life. Mikaela's mother had run off with another man when she was six, and the teen barely had any memories of the woman. Her father and mother had never married, which made it all that much easier for the woman to shirk the responsibility she had to her fledgling family and slip away like a shadow.

Yeah, a shadow. That would be the best description of the woman who gave birth to her. She had a few old pictures, but the memories were fuzzy and ill defined. They coalesced from the textured corners of her mind – sounds, sights, and feelings of need. The woman they targeted had no face, just a figure. They cropped up often when Mikaela was at her lowest like vengeful spirits, and it was only when her mood shifted that she could dismiss them.

Her father barely spoke of her mother, which was understandable. Money was tight when she was young, but despite his criminal history John Banes did care greatly for his daughter. Instead of leaving her to her own devices when he went out for 'work', he would take her with him. He couldn't afford a babysitter, but he did his best. In that way, Mikaela was very devoted to him – devoted enough to gain a juvenile record for tagging along with a car thief.

That was all in the past, however. Her juvenile record had been discreetly cleared after the Hoover Dam showdown. She had Sam to thank for that.

Speaking of Sam, he was currently attempting to slide the strap to her tank top over one shoulder. She slapped at him playfully, giggled, and flashed him a grin. He smiled back, and the two radiated in the comfort they gave each other. They had driven back to Mikaela's trailer court to drop her off, but Sam had dallied like always. Bee was parked outside, a sympathizer of their procrastination. He would be in no hurry.

"C'mon, Sam." They were both on her bed, leaning up against the headboard. Sam had to push several of Mikaela's stuffed animals aside just to make room for them when they first got there. Mikaela thought they were silly, but idols from childhood were never easily given up.

"What?" he gave her an endearing look, one too deviously innocent to pass her notice.

"You know!" They had been dating for a few months now, and hadn't gone anywhere past third base. It wasn't for lack of want – Mikaela was very experienced with sex but had made the mistake of going too fast and far with Trent, her last boyfriend. With Sam… well, she wanted to take it slow. Sam never admitted to it, but she was pretty sure he was still a virgin. He was always trying to get her to take it in new directions, but his movements and caresses were unrefined and rushed. She was the sane one when it came to their moments of physical intimacy, but she feared Sam would take it the wrong way every time she stopped him from going further.

I wonder if it would ruin everything if we took that last step, Mikaela mentally sighed. She wanted to be with him just as much as he wanted to be with her, but she just couldn't allow herself to be the one to ruin them.

"I don't know," the boy said, rolling her over beneath him. He touched his nose to hers, and she chortled.

"Sam… hey, can I ask you a few things?"

"Huh?" He shifted, and she felt his weight lift. He angled himself so that he was still bent over her, but slightly to the side. He looked concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Just… those people. Do you trust them?"

"Optimus seems to." Sam shrugged his shoulders, as if that qualification was all he needed.

"I don't know… they just… it seems odd that they were brought here by that new Autobot."

"Yeah, well, the lady kind of had her DNA stolen. I think it's a good reason." He paused, and appeared to be in a state of thought. Slowly, his slack features regained their humor. "Heeeey… are you maybe jealous that we aren't the only ones that knows about them now?"

"You're such a dork." She reached behind her, pulling a pillow free. She threw it at his face, and he caught it with a laugh. The brunette giggled again, and then let out a defeated rush of air from between her lips. "You know, maybe you're right."

"I knew it!" he crowed, pushing the pillow aside.

Mikaela sat up straighter, causing a disappointed Sam to move away and make room. "I dunno, I guess I just thought we'd be the only ones." Her hands caught up with her boyfriend's, and she twined her digits into his. "You know?" Mikaela's eyes met meaningfully with Sam's.

The teenager's face softened. "Yeah, I know. I guess I thought that too… but hey, inevitably more people will learn about them. They can't be our secret forever."

Mikaela smiled a little at that, somewhat reassured. "I suppose you will always have Bee, too."

"You bet. Bee is my guardian, just like you are my girlfriend."

He's so corny. I love it.

Mikaela Banes leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Sam Witwicky's neck. "…And you are my boyfriend," she murmured into his nearest ear as he raised his arms to return her embrace.

Over her shoulder, Sam smiled and closed his eyes.

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

A/N: And there is chapter 12. I had fun with that soda scene, admittedly. Will those two ever call a truce?

Oh, and I just want to mention I am actually working on a picture of these two in photoshop. I'm somewhat of an illustrator, so you'll see that once it is done. I am moving in three weeks, so expect a week of downtime around April 7th-14th. Sorry! I also am curious: Do you guys prefer longer chapters (about almost double the size of these) or more frequent updates? Up to you, I can do either.

Caz: Thanks for noticing how I described Optimus! I guess I just thought he would be intimidating if it were me, so it naturally came across that way. Oh, and Claire did manage to kick him in the 'holographic balls' in this chapter, in her own way. XD Score one for Claire!

Elita One: Yeah, she is usually on the receiving end of the crap thrown her way. She got to throw it back for once!

soaringphoenix: About all the explanations: you are welcome! I didn't want to bore you guys by droning on about how this and that strings together, but I had to get it in somehow. Smokescreen and Claire have a ways to go yet to understand one another, but I would say Smokescreen definitely has an interest in her by this point. He's just going about it all wrong, like you said. XD I am updating as soon as time allows me to, trust me! Thanks so much for the constant reviews. )

mariosonic: Thank you thank you! That is SUCH a nice compliment, it really is. I love it when people love what I write. And.. your n00b side is right. ClairexSmoke 4eva! Lol.

Elariel: Actually, I never noticed that line until you pointed it out. Wow, that is kind of funny. I guess I just wrote it and didn't see it for the humor until you posted it. I'm out of it… but thanks for the review!

dandyparakeet: That's a good idea to have Claire and Bee have a little sit-down and talk about Smoke over coffee. I'm sure Bee could give her some good pointers, but I think she's getting a good idea of how to handle him now. I might just do the Bee and Claire thing now that you brought it up, though!

I play wid fir3: -gives cookie back!-

BlueStar:I love the long review! Yes, I chose Smokescreen because he had the bad boy attitude and he wasn't at all a common transformer. I sifted through them all before writing the story just to find him. I am also relieved you like the plot and the pacing; I really get anxious that the pacing isn't fast enough. Some chapters like this one are 'filler' chapters, but without them there wouldn't be much character development. I believe the plot is very important and primary to a good story, but the characters need depth or you just have cookie cutters running around playing out your plot like bad actors. Thank you again for the review!