Literally copy-pasting stupid excuse for why it took me so long to post-
However, this being my senior year, I have to deal with all the fun of ACT's, SAT's, college applications, scholarship essays, creating portfolios, re creating 12 paintings because my bastard of an art teacher didn't like any of them, so now I have nothing to enter in a competition, and my parents not thinking that a freaking 28 on my ACT's and a 1960 on my SAT's isn't good enough.
Yeah, sooo, sorry if I take a long time, I'm probably in a mental institution suffering a nervous breakdown.
My heartfelt apologies.
"Ratch does dat a lot- randomly walk off, dat is. Well, d'en there's me- Jazz, spec-ops, intelligence, and just all aroun' awesome."
"Awesome my aft. For special ops, you're ridiculously clumsy. Why it was just the other day when you-"
Jazz quickly set Sam down on a nearby shelf and darted over to Ironhide, tackling him to the floor with a servo over the black Autobot's mouth.
"Didn't we ment'on some sor' of agreemen'? Ya know, the sor' of agreemen' where you agree never t' talk about certain events ever again and I agree not t' email mah entire stock of embarrassin' high-grade induced photos t' the Femmes?"
There was a muffled answer, but apparently being Special Ops meant you had to be fluent in that kind of stuff, because it seemed to appease Jazz enough to get him to remove himself from Ironhide.
Sam, feeling overwhelmed all the sudden, carefully scooted across the shelves to Miles, whom the medic had placed there before running off to yell at the two bots wrestling on the floor. He felt the need for some relatively normal... normalness.
"So, Sammy, how's your bitch of a caretaker?"
"Still a bitch. How's your dog?" Sam asked, sitting beside his friend and watching the medic chase the two other bots around with a random piece of scrap metal he'd picked up off the floor.
"Also a bitch. Literally. We took him to the vet, and it turns out he's actually a she. Who knew?"
"Cereal?"
Miles slapped him over the head.
"Bad Sammy. Proper English. And yes. Her name's Masonda now."
"Masonda? What the hell kind of name is that?"
"Mom picked it," Miles answered, as if that explained everything.
And it did. Miles's mother was, well, weird as all hell. Totally into faeries and unicorns and crap, always thinking up the weirdest names for things- and people.
"What is your mom going to do about... you being friends with a giant alien robot?"
"Freak, scream, pass out, wake up, hug me, threaten said giant alien robot, and then squee about how awesome this whole thing is," Miles said, completely serious.
"Sam?"
The skinny teen looked up, almost face to face with his silver protector.
"O-P wants t' see th' glasses- depending on th' condition dey're in, i' could take a while t' get the coordinates offa dem."
"How did you guys even find the glasses, anyways? It's not like I hung them outside my window with a sign saying 'Ancient Robot Artifact, Come and Get It!'."
"Jazz here," the big bot, Optimus, had walked over after hearing the question, "hacked into various government data storage units until we found something pertaining to us. It was about your grandfather, Archibald Witwickey. We then googled your last name, came up with an article about you, and sent Jazz to stake you out in case you knew anything. He saw you with the glasses, and it all happened from there."
"Well, at least you didn't say... something stupid, like, I don't know, Ebay or something. That would have sucked."
"Yeah, Sammy, the giant alien robots found you out using...EBAY! Doesn't sound as cool, does it."
"Nope."
Sam shook his head at Miles and handed the glasses to the leader.
"I'm sorry if they're not of help... they, and just about everything else, were damaged in the house fire, and I'm not sure how that could have affected the... coordinates."
Optimus gently removed the glasses from the frail human's hands, hyperaware of the fact that even the slightest overcalulation of pressure could result in the destruction of the most important thing on this entire planet.
"I thank you, Samuel, for risking yourself in thins manner. I apologize for having to demand this of you. Is there any way I could repay you for what you've done?"
Sam looked away, clutching his doll close.
"Nothing- I haven't... really done anything in the first place. I just..."
"What?" Optimus probed gently, somehow sensing that this was something important.
"When you find what you're looking for," Sam blurted out, "what are you going... to do? Will you just... leave?"
His scans, while not as detailed as what Ratchet could produce, showed the boy's heart rate and blood pressure increasing, and a quick search indicated that such things were caused by high levels of stress. Optimus was shocked. Why would the small human worry himself so over such a thing? In fact, shouldn't the human want them gone? After all, they were intruding on this species planet...
"We may have to stay- just because we have the Allspark does not mean the Decepticons will leave your planet in peace. May I ask why you are so worried about this?"
The small human flushed- a sign of embarrassment, he noted with some confusion.
"I- It's just... when you guys leave, it'll just be Miles and me, again. He likes hanging out with you- I can tell, even though... we've only known about your existence for a day or so. And... Even though I haven't known him for very long, I still think of Jazz as a friend and I'd be sad to see him leave."
"Realleh? Yer friend? Ah'm honered, Sammeh-boy!"
The small giant alien robot bounced over, happy as a lark. (What the hell is a lark and why is it so happy anyways?)
"Even If Ah had t' leave, Ah could jus' give you a comm frequency an' we could still talk, yanno," Jazz said, more serious, "Besides, do ya honestly think Ah'm just gonna up and leave such an interestin' little human?"
Sam laughed softly.
"Nice to know you won't just... up and leave in the middle of the night."
"Never," Jazz said quietly, the most serious anyone in the room had ever heard him.
The whole room was quiet after that one statement, so quiet, in fact, that it grew quite awkward.
Sam giggled nervously.
"Well, it's been nice meeting you all! Very... interesting, the whole giant alien roboty-transformy car thing, and all. Yeah. Very nice."
"'Giant alien roboty-transformy car thing'? Seriously, Sam, could you have come up with a weirder name for them?" Miles snickered at his friend's embarrassment, safely perched on Ratchet's shoulder once again.
Optimus took the spurt of conversation to examine and scan the fragile glasses. Slag.
"I am afraid to say that it will take at least a full day to repair the glasses enough so they are readable. Jazz, if you will continue to accompany Sam as his guardian for that time? If we have discovered his connection to the Cybertronians, then the Decepticons could too."
"Sir yessir!" Jazz saluted, morphing once more into a car and beckoning the skinny teen inside with a door.
"C'mon, doll, hop inside, an' Ah'll take ya on the ride of yo' life!"
"Doll?" Sam muttered as he climbed inside the not so giant alien robot turned solstice, grumbling good naturedly, "Could you have possibly picked a more demeaning nickname?"
"Don' complain if ye know what's good for ye," Ironhide rumbled from the corner, right before the door shut, "Ye could always b' Bahrbie."
Sam gulped.
"Jazz...? Please promise me you'll... never call me Barbie."
The only answer was a shriek of tires and a crazy laugh as the car swerved out of the warehouse.
I present you with your dose of crap. I hope you enjoy it.