Howdy one and all!
So, I know I haven't written much in a very long while, and you have my apologies. I've been – for a lack of a better term – just not up to it. A variety of reasons can be listed, but the simple one is that I just didn't feel like it.
It's how it goes sometimes.
Thankfully, it seems like I've somewhat gotten back into the groove of things with my spare time, as you can probably tell. I will admit, not writing for, oh, almost six years does rust my skills, so you have my apologies on that front if you run into anything that ain't right, or if things feel stilted in my writing. Nevertheless, I am tentatively back, and writing once more.
Writing indeed! I – for reasons known only to my hyper-fixations – have been thoroughly enjoying Transformers Media recently, and have decided to bang something out to try and quell my thoughts. It hasn't worked. Still, I got, what, close to 10K written for this first chapter along, so I figure that'll do something, numbers-wise, rambling aside.
So, what to expect from this fic? Well, I'm basing much of the run off the first two Bay-Verse Movies (2007 and 2009 respectively), with a few modifications in the story along the way. One of these modifications is the introduction of our protagonist: Leopold Thompson. I've got a lot of lore around him, but not from the TF-Universe, so I'm using this poor schmuck as our template for the story going forward. If you're lucky, dear reader, I may impart more lore if I'm in the mood. Other bits and bobs of change are mostly around the designs of the Cybertronians themselves.
Bay put most – if not all – of the Transformer's at whopping heights. Like, Optimus Prime is around 28 Feet tall in the Bay-Verse, while in the newer Bumblebee/ROTB Universe he's much smaller – around 16 Feet tall. So, I'll try and be sticking to the more grounded heights of that newer timeline than Bay's.
Other than that, I do sincerely hope you enjoy. I put a lot of work into this, and enjoyed writing it.
Also, major shoutout to my friend, PhoeLimePie on AO3, for being a Beta Reader for this mess. I do appreciate the help.
Now then, on with the show!
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"Talking."
'Thoughts?'
"Written Words / Past Spoken Word"
- "Radio Speech" -
- Cybertronian Radio Speech -
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Eighteen-year-old Leopold Albert Quinn Thompson the Second – (Thompson or Leopold to his friends – for the most part) - was in a bit of a pickle. Actually, scratch that – he was in something a bit bigger than a pickle. A pickle suggested he could easily extricate himself from said pickle – this was more an extreme inconvenience. A very, very delicate extreme inconvenience considering one wrong move would have him found out and possibly disintegrated and/or experimented on – not in that particular order.
And what kind of extreme inconvenience was our dear Thompson in?
Well, for starters he was supposed to be in English class right now, bored out of his skull. Yeah, funny that. It was the middle of the gosh dang week, and he actually wanted to be wasting away in Ms. Esther's' boring English class back in Tranquility. Instead, here he was stuck – tied-up even – inside an F-22 Raptor's cockpit, trying not to draw attention to himself by making any noise or by trying to struggle inside said cockpit.
Oh, yeah, that was the second bit of information that upgraded a slight pickle to an inconvenience: being locked inside the cockpit of a jet fighter. And not just any jet fighter mind you! No, Thompson's shitty luck had him stuck inside one of the only three jet fighters this side of the galaxy that weren't human-made aircraft: the Second-in-Command of the Decepticon Army, Leader of the Decepticon Seekers, Trine-Head of Seeker-Unit-One, and royal pain in Leopold's ass, the Decepticon known as Starscream.
And how, you may ask, did a human like Leopold get stuck inside of Starscream's cockpit? Easy. He got kidnapped. Simple as really. Starscream showed up to his school, threatened it, and kidnapped him for use as a hostage.
At least, that's what any sane person would say if not for the simple fact Leopold SOMEHOW managed to get himself into the position of Starscream's "Favourite Human Pet". He wasn't even sure how he managed that impressive feat himself, to be honest.
Which brings us to the third bit of information that upgrades this inconvenience into either an extreme inconvenience/absolute cock-up in Thompson's opinion: he was currently stuck in Starscream's cockpit, tied up with the safety belts that goes with the F-22 Raptor's pilot's seat, trying not to draw attention to himself, on board the Deception Flagship The Nemesis, while Starscream was in a major meeting with not only Megatron, Leader of the Decepticons, but also Soundwave, Shockwave, and basically every other major high-ranking Decepticon official this side of the Milky Way.
So yeah. He was kinda-sorta fucked if he got spotted through the tint of the cockpit's canopy, and would most undoubtedly be screwed.
Oh yeah, and The Nemesis was in space, orbiting the moon.
Fuck.
At least he had homework to finish up, silently.
And how did this all come to be, dear reader? Well, it's a long, boring story involving alien Cameros, a prosthetic arm, poor choices, and a leap of faith. Let's backtrack a bit...
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Tranquility, Nevada – Saturday, June, 2013, 1530 hours, PST
Leopold Thompson was not a happy camper, at this very moment.
He should've been, by all accounts. School was close to being out for summer in a weeks time, all his exams/finals were accounted for and studied for, the weather wasn't *too* terrible out this way in Nevada. He even managed to clear most of his schedule for the weekend so he didn't have to worry about nothing.
Mostly nothing. He did have two glaring problems that were being big ole' Debby Downers for him. Both were, ironically enough, car issues. One was his, one was someone else's he promised to take a look at.
The seventeen-year-old Thompson wiped his sweaty brunet hair out of his blue eyes with his right arm, as he leaned over the open engine bay of his - (His!) - 1973 Buick Gran Sport 455 Stage 2, rooting inside and searching for the problem he had been having for the past week. It was either the fucking timing belt or the carb; he was sure of it this go around. He'd spent the last week getting the damned thing race-ready for Friday night at the local track, and of course the poor thing had crapped out on him only ten laps in.
So here he was, on a poor, sunny, Saturday morning, rooting around the literal guts of his car looking for the problem.
And that was even before he could get into the upcoming problem next Friday: his neighbour's new car that he promised to look over when he got it.
The Thompson's – that is to say, his father Franklin, his mother Rebecca, and Leopold himself – had been living in the quaint town of Tranquility since Thompson was at least ten-years-old, so it was only natural that by now he was well and truly familiar with his neighbours. And that included the odd – and sometimes neurotic – Witwicky family across the street.
Leopold meshed really well with Samuel "Sam" Witwicky ever since the two met back in 9th Grade. Thompson's sardonic and sarcastic nature and Sam's nervous ramblings were like a bro-match made in heaven – and once you added in Sam's friend Miles Lancaster, then the trio was the oddest mesh of grease-head (Thompson), neurotic weirdo (Sam), and bog-standard Hippie weirdo (Miles) that everyone swore could never had worked.
And yet the trio were the thickest of thieves, always getting into detention together in the oddest of ways and just vibing the best they could. Forever stuck in the odd social clique of "Not odd enough to be weirdos, not cool enough to be A-Listers, not smart enough to be nerds, and not sporty enough to be jocks", the trio existed in the odd space between cliques.
But now, it was getting close to the end of their 11th Grade Year, and somehow Sam had managed to swindle a deal with his father – notorious cheapskate Ronald Witwicky – to get himself a car if he managed to secure four As, and two-thousand dollars. And Thompson, greasy gear-head he was, promised Sam to take a look at whatever he bought so he could the undoubtedly rusted-out bucket up to road standards. But that was later in the week. For now, he had to focus on his own car issues.
She was a beauty of a beast, no doubt. He had managed to snag it from a barn sale for his fourteenth birthday, and he and his father had been working on it for the past three years so far. It was in a heck of a poor sight when he first bought it: rusted to all heck underneath, smashed windows, animal crap and stench in the interior, and the most garish paint ever – faded hot pink. But she had wheels, she ran, and it would only take two years working off and on to get her street-ready for his sixteenth birthday.
By then she had new wheels, new upholstery, new dashboard dials, a CB radio, new windows with a deep tint to them, the engine had been upgraded and refurbished, rust taken care of, and most importantly a brand spanking new paint job that now lent the GS-445 Stage 2 her name.
The paint was a deep indigo, with a lighter mulberry pearlescent that shined in the sunlight. In the evening and the night, however, the paint and pearling made the car appear almost black. All of this added up to the name Leopold had christened his mighty V8 chariot: Nightingale. Named equally so after the bird for the roar of the engine as well as the paint, he had thus far given up trying to explain it wasn't named Florence Nightingale, and just went along with it.
It took a lot of sweat, tears, blood, and oil to get her to this point, and once more he was arms deep into the engine.
"Goddamned fucking hunk-a-shit engine," he muttered, wiping his hands on an oily rag with another curse, spitting into the engine block with another curse, "Out of all the times you had to go and do that, it had to be then huh?"
"Well, would you rather have it crapped out on you when you were driving to the race?"
Leopold looked back into the garage to see his father standing in the doorway inside, hand in pocket, holding a glass of cola with a smirk on his lips.
"Honestly?" Leopold responded, stepping over to his toolbox, "I'd rather she not crap out at all, but at least she crapped out in a safe place to do so."
"Fair, fair." His father replied with a deep laugh, walking over to his son, "At least nothing major came out of it in the end. You did get paid though, right?"
Leopold nodded, rummaging for the bit he needed. "Yeah. Managed to get my starter's pay for the race at least. Didn't get the winnings sadly, but c'est la vie. And the starting pay is almost enough to pay for new bits and bobs if I need them urgently, so you know. Not as bad as it could've been. Other than that, what brings you out here, dad?"
Franklin Thompson shrugged, setting his glass down on the wooden workbench in the corner of the garage, before leaning over his son's shoulder.
"Just figured I'd pop in and see how you're getting along," he answered, ruffling Leopold's hair, "I know she means a lot to you son, and I figure I got to show interest in my favourite son's hobbies from time to time."
"Like how mom doesn't?" Leopold bit back tersely, before sighing and shaking his head. "Sorry. Shouldn't have said that dad. I know she's been busier than usual, but..."
Franklin merely shrugged, giving Leopold a pat on the shoulder as he returned to his drink.
"I get it son," he replied, taking a long sip. "You know she works hard – harder than most – to provide for us. Her work doesn't just mean a lot to her, it's her life's passion. It's something she's always wanted to do with her life, and she's happy there. But you know that if that anything happens to you or I – God forbid – you know she'd gladly sacrifice that work to keep you safe, happy, and provided for. You know that."
"Yeah, but that's the problem!" Leopold responded, anger tinging his words. "She spends so fucking long away, all week, and then barely comes home like she's supposed to on the weekends! I barely even see her sometimes Dad, and it's worse when everyone at school makes fun of me for that! And we don't even know what she does cause of the NDA she signed. All we ever get is the 'Sorry Leopold, mommy's working on something super important for the Government – you'll understand when you're older' spiel. I'm getting sick of it!"
There was a clang, as Leopold tossed a monkey wrench back into the garage, watching with satisfaction as it slammed into his toolbox before falling to the ground. The silence that followed echoed through the garage like a bell's toll, as father and son stared at each other. Finally, with an exhausted sigh, Leopold wiped his oil-slicked hands with a rag, before closing the hood of Nightingale. With another toss, he threw the dirty cloth into a separate bin filled with other dirty rags, before he shook his head.
"Sorry." he apologized at a murmur, looking outside toward the street.
"It's... alright, I suppose," his father muttered, "I figure you've got a lot pent up things on your mind at this age, especially around this time of year. Don't get me wrong Leopold, I don't like it either. Her working long hours like this and not knowing what she's up to, I mean. When do you think the last time she and I had a night to ourselves, after all?"
"Too long?"
"About three months back, when you were went to race out in Mission City." His father laughed, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. "So, yeah. I can understand you right now. But, look at it this way: your mom's working for the United States government, on some top secret program that not even her husband can know about. She brings in six figures a month, and because of that we can live in this nice house, in a nice neighbourhood, with nice cars. So if you and I not knowing what she does means all of that, then her lack of presence can be a decent con. And also, it's not like she doesn't not show up – she's still one hundred percent showing up for your race this coming Friday, you know that."
"Yeah, I sure fucking hope so dad," Leopold replied, exhaling a heavy sigh. "I'm gonna take Nightingale out for a test run, once I finish cleaning up here."
Franklin nodded, turning to head back inside, before he stopped. He seemed to hesitate, as Leopold started packing up the toolbox, before turning back to look at his son.
"Hey, Leopold?"
"Yeah pops?"
"How's that arm holding up for you...?"
Leopold stopped, a monkey wrench in his right hand, before he cast his gaze to his left arm. The metallic sheen of his prosthetic greeted him, shining in the morning sun streaming in from the open garage door. With a slight flex, the rudimentary digits curled inwards towards the palm, before uncurling when he relaxed. It was quite an interesting design, much better than any other on the market really, as it was a lot more durable and a lot easier to move and position with muscular flexing and other such tricks he learned over the years, thanks to both his mother and physiotherapy respectively. Now, he barely even noticed it at all.
How long had been, though? Almost seven years now, since the accident. Since the paramedics had to pull him from that wreckage by amputating his left arm at the bicep. Man, had his mother been upset – besides herself – with worry. Any mother would've, he supposed. His aunt, who had been in the car with him at the time, came out unscathed in comparison 'Luck of the draw.', one paramedic said. After that harrowing experience, he'd been stuck in physio for almost a year with a very rough prosthetic arm.
Then, he and his parents had moved out west, to Tranquility, getting away from rural Illinois when his mother was offered a high-paying job with the government out Nevada way. Whatever she was working on with them, she couldn't say, but by his twelfth birthday his mother had gifted him his first new prosthetic, replacing the older one easily. This newest one, given to him two weeks ago – a day or two before she had gone back to work – was the fourteenth out of all the arms so far, and much more technical than the rest.
It was attached to an end cap in the middle of his bicep, where – according to his mother and the technician assisting her in installing it – was so that the bio-electrical current his body made could connect to the low-level electrical current in the arm's battery, which assisted motor functions. The three separate parts – bicep, forearm, and hand – were all fully articulating, with a wide range of motion, of which the fingers were included as well. All-in-all, it was much closer to an actual human arm and hand than the previous version, but it still wasn't his arm in the end. But, beggars can't be choosers after all.
On a side-note, it was water-proof too, which was nice.
Leopold curled his fingers once more, before finally answering his dad. "It's... Good. Very good. Thanks for asking dad."
"No worries son," Franklin murmured, slipping back inside. "Be safe now."
"I will, no worries dad."
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The purr of Nightingale's V8 echoed throughout the neighbourhood as Thompson cruised at a reasonable pace down main street. Music from Barry Gibbs of the Beegees filtered through the Grand Sport's 8-Track stereo, slightly muffled by the quiet rumbling purr the engine made whenever they came to a stop at a stop sign or red light. With the windows rolled down, Thompson easily soaked in the sun's rays and the nice summer breeze with a grin on his face. In all terms, it was a beautiful Saturday: the sun was shining through a slight cover of clouds, it wasn't too hot, there was a nice breeze blowing in from the north-east, and even more was that the traffic out and about was at a reasonable amount – especially on the Main Drag.
Tranquility's Main Drag – as most small to medium-sized town's main thoroughfares are usually dubbed – was the main artery through the town, surrounded on both the north and south sides by late-1800 to early-1900-era buildings mostly made of brick and mortar. The road, aptly named Main Street, ran west-to-east through the town – drive west long enough and you hit California, drive east long enough and you hit the I-95, and that easily takes you to Las Vegas. Of course, Tranquility had enough roads going north/south as well – it was by no means a small town. Heck, it had a population of around one to two thousand or so – more than enough to rank it as a large town.
It also had a thriving hot-rodding community – of which Leopold was most definitely a part of as well.
But none of that really filtered through Leopold's head as he cruised.
Instead, he focused on the world around him – common locales like Pop's Diner, the library, the park and community centre, and of course his high school: J. D. Thorton High. The birds were chirping as they flew through the air while he waited at the lights, folks chatting on the side of the street, the sparkling, brand-new Mustang Saleen police cruiser across from him, and – wait.
Leopold blinked, turning his gaze back across the intersection once again as Elvis Presley's Suspicious Minds echoed out of the radio. Nope, his eyes hadn't deceived him. Sitting directly across from him at the intersection sat a 2010 Saleen S281 Mustang, painted the standard cop black-and-white of Tranquility, and looking very much the standard US cop car design with its massive push bar out front of its grill and lights on it roof. With a closer glance, Thompson spotted the car's pennant number on its bumper: 643.
'That's odd,' he thought to himself, leaning back into Nightingale's leather seats as he waited for the light to turn green, 'wonder when the 'Fuzz got one of those bad boys. Wonder where they got it too, thought Saleen didn't make those no more. Ah well, they probably got it as an interceptor.'
It definitely felt off to him, but he shrugged nonetheless. Not his concern to be honest – after all, if the Tranquility Police Force had enough for a new interceptor it's not like he would've heard about it. Still, it'd probably be tons of fun to race it at the local quarter-mile.
The light finally turned green, and as Leopold got Nightingale rolling once more, he gave the officer behind the wheel a short wave and a nod. He passed before he got a return wave, but man did it seem like the cop behind the wheel was sneering at him as they made eye contact.
Asshole cop.
Again, not his problem. He had a destination in mind. Well, two actually. First was to head to his Boss' garage for a pop-in. Second was the track if he had the time. Key word being IF in that scenario – there was no doubt that work would have at least a few cars for him to work on. Barring that, he could always shoot the shit with his coworker Miguel Garcia for an hour or so until he was needed to go to the track. And if all else failed, he could just go back home and study some more and prep for Mr. Richards' Sociology Final.
Ugh. Studying. God knows he's done more than his fair share of that this past month.
Eventually, brick and mortar, and well kept lawns gave way to the sandy desert of Nevada as Leopold continued his cruise westward. It was always peaceful for him to do this, taking the route west out of town. He could watch the desert roll by without a care at all, listening in to the chatter of truckers and cops on his own CB as he cruised towards his destination.
His destination, of course, being Watson's Scrap and Repair Yard – or the Steelpit as his boss lovingly calls it. Officially, Leopold didn't technically work there considering he was technically underage when he started there at fifteen, but he was definitely working there. Hell, when he and his dad had first bought Nightingale, it had been from the Steelpit, and it was there that Leopold had spent most of his time fixing her up over weekends and after school. If you wanted to get technical about it, the Steelpit had become a second home for him. And it was all too familiar these days for him to pull all-nighters on the weekends tuning up either Nightingale or helping Miguel out with some of the back-stocked repairs or scrap. That's why they had the storeroom/cots down in the basement.
Just in case.
Nevertheless, all the tension flowed out of Leopold's body as he pulled off the road and onto the dirt road to the side parking lot of the Yard, coming to a rest with Nightingale in his usual parking spot.
Putting his ride into park and stepping out into the hot Nevada sun was always fun. Thankfully, the blistering sun was hidden behind a bunk of clouds for the time being, so Thompson confidently made his way around to the front of the shop. The familiar signage of "Watson's Scrap and Repair Yard" blazed bright red in the mid-day Nevada sun, with the still familiar but entirely unknown script below it also shining in the sun.
He never could get a straight answer out of his Boss over what exactly that phrase written in odd lettering underneath the shop signage meant, only a smirk and a small response of "... they know what it means, and that's all that matters."
Always odd, his Boss was.
Watson's Scrap and Repair Yard was actually three buildings: the main repair shop facing towards the highway, the scrap building with the added junkyard behind it piled high with junked cars and scrap, and finally the Boss' Bungalow where – naturally – his Boss lived. The whole place was surprisingly busy most of the year, mostly due to the fact that they were one of two scrap/repair-yards in the immediate area of Tranquility – the only other one being owned by the Banes within Tranquility's town limits. And busy usually meant weird things popping up from time to time.
Ignoring his Boss's eccentricities, they've had two unknown vehicles pop into the shop, three unauthorized drop offs for the scrap yard, and the funniest – and most dangerous – in Leopold's opinion: a misread job order that had dropped off several broken units of hospital equipment only a week and a half ago. Which, funnily enough, included two x-ray machines and an MRI machine that still had something special in the x-ray machines.
Cobalt-60. Enough radioactive material that HAZMAT from the nearby Mission City and Nellis Air Force Base had to be called in to clean up – after both Thompson and Miguel had started to dismantle them a little bit, getting dosed with radiation completely by accident. Honestly, the paperwork had said that the containers holding the radioactive material had been properly disposed of prior to arriving at the scrap building.
It had been an interesting experience, getting checked out with Geiger Counters and hearing the tick-tick-ticking of the things rise the closer they got to him. There had been fears that both he and Miguel had been dosed just a bit too much with rads, but careful observation at the hospital in Mission City had come back with the knowledge that they'd be fine – barring some minor radiation sickness for a couple of days.
Fun times.
Reminiscing aside, Thompson stepped into the open bay doors of the repair shop, glaring at the familiar odd lettering positioned underneath the marque of Watson's Scrap and Repair Yard as he did so. Off in the farthest bay on the right sat a cherry-red, 1958 Chevy Bel Air on top of a lift, and underneath it watching the oil pour out of it was Miguel Garcia.
Standing at an impressive 5'9", the Cuban-born 32-year-old had tied his dark brunet hair back into a short ponytail to keep it from falling into his eyes as he worked. The navy-blue mechanic jumpsuit he usually wore was tied around his waist, so only the white tank-top he wore underneath covered up the various tattoos adorned his chest and arms as he rooted around in the undercarriage of his car.
With his back turned to Leopold, it was easy to make out the phrase '2 Corintios 4:18' stretching across just underneath his shoulder blades, the head of Mary of Nazareth poking up from just below it. His left arm forearm, adorned with the word 'Fuerza', was mirrored by his right forearm with the word 'Paz y unidad', while all the spaces around and between from his hands to his chest were covered in smaller tattoos. His whole body was a canvas of impressive artistry to be honest.
Making his way to his coworker, Thompson gave a small cough, letting Miguel know that he had arrived inside as he finished up with emptying the oil reserve.
Miguel's head swivelled around Thompson's way, a small smile slipping onto his goatee'd face as he gave a small nod.
"Hola amigo," he greeted, his brown eyes twinkling with mirth, "how you doing?"
"I'm doing alright friend," Leopold replied with a smile, patting Miguel on his shoulder as he came up alongside him, "Just popping in to get out of the house is all."
"Ah, I see. Well, welcome into the shop once more amigo. I heard what happened at the track last night, everything okay with Nightingale?"
Leopold shrugged, helping Miguel recap the oil reserve on the Bel Air, shunting the filled oil catcher over to the proper disposal area before answering.
"Yeah, something popped out in the engine about twelve or so laps in man," he replied, waving a hand dismissively, "Other odd things happened to a bunch of other racers before and during the race too, so I wouldn't be too surprised that someone fucked around with a bunch of cars prior. Hell, Mickey blew a fucking engine on lap twenty-five and damn near wrecked out himself and several others. Johnston took first in the end, but man was his face fucking coated in oil and debris."
"Oh shit," Garcia muttered in return, cleaning his hands of excess oil, "You think he was the one?"
Thompson shook his head, watching as Miguel lowering the lift back down to set the Bel Air back on its wheels. "Nah, not a chance. They checked his car after the race when they had to push it into the pits – his engine had thrown a rod at the end there, and two of his brake pads had been taken off prior to the race."
"Goddamn."
"Mhm. About the only racers not having any problems were those dickheads from out East, the 88s, and that weirdo Porsche driver."
"No one got hurt?" Miguel asked with concern, popping the Bel Air's hood to pour new oil in.
"Surprisingly no, no one did."
"Ah, that's good then!"
"Yeah, until they find the ones who did the sabotage," Leopold added with a laugh, getting Miguel's hum of agreement when he continued. "then there's gonna be a couple of folks getting hurt. You know how the Commission is when it comes to this kind of thing."
Ah yes.
The Commission.
Officially know as the United Underground Racing Circuit Commission, UURCC – or more informally nicknamed URC or just the Commission – it was the official governing body put together of a large assortment of legal, illegal, and in-between legalities of underground racing groups in North America. Officially formed in late 1986, the Commission had been technically around since the late 1940s when NASCAR was becoming hot out in the South-East of the US, and had been sponsoring underground racing circuits in the US, Canada, and Mexico since the 1970s. They only officially came into being when several rich groups of powerful folk finally had enough of paying US and Canadian law enforcement off when they ran their races, and instead went legit; paying race track owners large sums to allow their groups to race their when the tracks weren't being used.
Of course, considering the illegalities of the Commission prior to the 1980s, it was no surprise that half the races were money laundering fronts, and the other halves were legit but not shown off, and televised for added revenue at some tracks. And also for rich cartel fellows to flaunt their wealth by sponsoring exorbitant racing teams to compete in the High Rank Races Circuit.
Even the way the whole thing had been structured by the Commission was by the books.
You had the lower-tiers – which Thompson was happily a part of – which was completely or close to completely stock muscle and sports cars, the middle-tiers with more powerful 1980s NASCAR-esque stock cars with restriction plates and everything at the big tracks, then what everyone called the High Rank Races Circuit, or the Herks: bad-fast sports and high-end races with super expensive cars, purpose bought teams, and a margin for error that'd be on par with F1 race rules.
Of course, even in the lower-tiers you could be sponsored much like the middle- and high-tier race teams, but most people at Thompson's group were just guys out for a race every Friday night: out for fun, and maybe some winnings if they got lucky. Hell, one of the main reasons Leopold got involved in racing with the Commission in the first place was because of the Shop. Watson's had been one of the starting backers for small West Coast/Nevada Teams when his Boss got the place up and running back in the late-1990s, and Thompson could say that had it not been for that backing from the Boss, he wouldn't have scratched that speed itch he got from his grandpop – that, and secured that nice college/university nest egg he'd squirrelled away for himself.
"So other than that man," Leopold continued, looking around the surprisingly empty shop, "we get any new jobs come in? New Oddities show up? Or are we just chilling for now?"
Miguel gave a shake of his head as he slammed the hood of his car down, "Nah, we got nothing new come in. I think Boss called in a few favours since she's out in San Fran for the next couple of weeks, so we don't got much in terms of car work. Scrap work on the other hand?"
It was here Miguel hissed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
"Well, you know how much scrapping we got to go through sometimes amigo, and it's always there." He said quietly, sitting down at the lunch table they two had walked over to. He poked at the lunch pail he'd brought along, grabbing a can of soda from it.
"Scrap huh? That all?" Thompson asked, leaning back in his chair.
"Si, that's all really," Miguel responded with a shrug, before perking up with an odd look on his face. "Actually, there was something this morning when I came into work. An Oddity of sorts."
Thompson perked up as well at this, leaning over the lunch table. "Ah?"
"Si, you remember the first Oddity you worked on amigo? The purple-red Boss 302 Mustang?"
"How could I forget?" Thompson asked with a laugh.
And honestly, how could he?
Oddities at Watson's Scrap and Repair Yard were few and far between, but they stuck with you when they did arrive. He had been working at the Steelpit for maybe two months at the point, officially, when he'd come to work on a Saturday to see a junked red and purple 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1 Boss 302 sitting out front of one of the repair bay doors. The passenger side door and frame had been crumpled into shit, like it had been t-boned by something at full tilt, the front grill, hood, lights, windshield, windows, and interior dashboard dials and gauges had been smashed, shattered, and generally fucked up, and it was resting in the Nevada sands on flats. All-in-all, the poor thing looked like it should've been dumped into the scrapyard rather than out front.
His Boss, on the other hand?
All she did was take a quick walk-around the poor 'Stang, peaked her head inside to look at the steering wheel of all things, popped her head back out and calmly told Thompson that he of all people was gonna work on it solo. With Miguel giving a helping hand, if need be. Of course, he argued with her – it was gonna take weeks to fix this thing up all they way. Boss just laughed, and told him to worry about one thing and one thing only:
"All you need to do is fix up the internals young man. Engine, transmission, fluid lines, maybe a new pair of wheels for our friend here, et cetera. The owner will worry about the body work."
So, he got to work.
He and Miguel rolled that poor old 'Stang into one of the bays, loaded it up on a hoist, and Thompson got to work. It took him a solid week and a half to work on fixing the engine, another day or two to get new wheels and brakes loaded on, and to top it all off it took another week after that to get everything he really needed fixed done. And when he finally turned that engine over, by the Gods had it roared – like a giant awakening from a deep slumber. And man, was that smile on his face worth it.
And then, it was gone. Honestly and truthfully, Thompson swears that it just went and disappeared the next day. Boss had explained that owner had come late in the night to pick it up, and was impressed with Leopold's work, but he didn't really believe her that much.
Miguel, on the other hand, just calmly took him aside and explained that's what Oddities were like at the shop, and to leave it be.
So, hearing that from a 32-year-old Cuban man tattooed up to the gills with vaguely cartel-esque tattoos, Thompson took his advice.
And now here they were once more, talking about the Mustang 302.
Miguel leaned forward even more, motioning Leopold in to whisper. "It was back, amigo. And it wasn't alone neither."
Leopold recoiled a bit in shock, before leaning in conspiratorially, "Did'ja get a look at the drivers?"
"Nah man," came Miguel's reply as he cast a look out to sandy parking lot out front, "their windows were completely tinted black – sides, front, rear – complete black out. But it was him, I'm sure of it. Same purple-red colouring, same scuffs on the front of the hood you accidentally left, everything. He was parked alongside some cop when I rolled into work this morning, but it was him."
"Jeez, what do you think he was doing back here?"
"I sure as Hell don't know buddy, but man if those two cars didn't wheel outta here the second they saw me pull in."
Leopold leaned back in his chair, giving a low whistle. "What do you think they came back for? I mean, we don't see too many Oddities as return customers, y'know?"
Miguel shrugged, moving onto his ham sandwich. "I have no earthly idea Thompson, not a single one. I get paid to repair and scrap cars, not think."
"Ah, fair."
"At least Three-Oh-Two had a license plate this go around, even if it was a vanity."
"A vanity plate, really? What'd it read then Miguel?"
"Well amigo, it read something pretty simple," Miguel answered with a grin, lifting his soda in a small salute as he prepared a pun, "Owner must've been one for tumbles and grumbles, cause I'll be a Pinko Comunista if that plate didn't read back as Romeo-Uniform-Mike-Eight-Lima-Echo across the board."
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Eventually, after spending most of his Saturday scrapping down old, derelict automobiles on Saturday and then spending the most of Sunday studying, good old Monday morning rolled around. The weekend, once more, was over – and people awoke on that somewhat cloudy Monday morning to suffer another week.
For some, it was work.
For Thompson and so many other teenagers his age, it was exams and final projects. Monday was easy enough: English and Philosophy, lunch, then PE and Science. Those classes he had been doing rather well in this year, and in his opinion all the exams had gone quite well. Lunch was spent with both Miles and Sam, sitting out in the courtyard, discussing how their respective exams went. Thankfully, known asshole jock Trent DeMarco and his other football pals had dipped out after their morning exams, so the only annoyance Thompson had to put up with was listening to Samuel pining over his crush, Mikaela Banes – daughter of the owner of Banes Automotive Repair, Cal Banes (also a known car thief, but hey who doesn't get the urge to commit Grand Theft Auto now-and-again?) - but thankfully Miles garnered a few laughs outta him with some off-brand humour whenever Sam started getting all doe-eyed.
Tuesday was much of the same: exams. Well, three exams and a project for Auto Shop, but Thompson just pulled out the stops by rolling Nightingale into the garage, took the engine outta her, disassembled it, reassembled it, slapped it back into the right spot, and gave Mr. MacKay the biggest shit-eating grin he could when she turned over the first time. His History, Math, and Home Economics exams were rough, but he figured he squeezed them by about 75% at least.
And then, that finally left the final exam for Wednesday. The one he was most worried about: Sociology. To be honest, he was doing quite well in the class – he'd be going into the exam with a very even 82% in the class. The problem was two-fold, sadly.
One: the teacher of the class, Mr. Richards, was a bit of control freak with any of his classes, expecting absolute obedience – unless it was from any of the jocks, because of his son Trevor Richards who was Trent DeMarco's best friend. So yay, guess who gets free passes all the time in that class?
Second: the exam was less of an exam, and more of a final project for the year. And, technically speaking had it been any other class it'd be an easy project – just research your family tree, find someone neat, and talk about them. Except, uh oh! Mr. Richards wanted folks to bring in visual aides, so now you gotta bring a lot of junk with you to show off. It'd have been nice to know about that when he handed the project off four weeks prior, but noooo the Dick had to drop that on the class last Friday, so everyone was left scrambling.
Well, everyone except the jocks.
Fun.
So, with constant complaints, Thompson had managed to gather what he needed over Sunday afternoon for his project. Now, however, the problem was one of – if not the most important – prop.
You see, Leopold had gone and chosen his great-grandfather on his father Franklin's side of the family: Lieutenant Colonel Miles Quentin Thompson of the United States Navy Air Force, a decorated veteran of the Second World War, Korean War, and Vietnam War, family man, and one of Leopold's favourite family members other than his parents. He had been apart of the famous Carrier Air Group 15 aboard the USS Essex during the War in the Pacific, and had ended his career with a respectable total of thirteen confirmed areal kills. Sadly, Lt. Col. Thompson had passed away at the age of 96 a year ago, and a lot of his stuff had been mothballed or given out to various family members in his will.
Which brings us to the prop item Leopold wanted to use, alongside his grandfather's old CV-9 USS Essex leather flight jacket covered in patches, and several smaller props, was an item that had been gifted to him by his great-grandfather for his sixteenth birthday: a custom Smith and Wesson Model 27 revolver, chambered in .357 Magnum. To quote his great-grandfather, Lt. Col. Thompson: "Every man has a need for a weapon my boy, just as they have a need for their secrets."
To say his parents had been slightly upset at this was a bit of an understatement, but Leopold placated them by getting his firearms license and a special lock-box for the revolver when he wasn't using it.
The revolver itself was a custom-made one, bought by great-grandfather Thompson in 1939 from Smith and Wesson directly when he saw the clouds of war brewing over the world. It was a Model 27, double-action revolver, with a 10 and 5/8 inch barrel, a swing-out six shot cylinder for the .357 Smith and Wesson Magnum round, and was coated in a nickel-plated finish with a maple wood custom grip. It was an amazing revolver, with a hell of a kick when fired, and Leopold loved bringing it to the range every once and a while.
The problem now, is that Leopold had spent the last two days negotiating with the Principal, Vice Principal, Mr. Richards, and J. D. Thorten High's Security Officer Daniels about being allowed to use the Model 27 in his presentation. It had taken quite a bit, but he'd finally been allowed to use it following some strict limitations. Firstly, he had to meet Officer Daniels at school a half hour before exams were to start to hand it off – this way, Daniels could inspect the weapon, pat Leopold down for anything else like ammunition, and then keep it and its case on hand so nothing nefarious occurred. Second, before Leopold had to do his project in front of the class, he'd have to call Officer Daniels in so he could deliver the revolver and be present when it was shown off. And thirdly, when the presentation was done, Officer Daniels would hand the revolver back to Thompson in its case a half hour after exams ended, for safety once more.
All-in-all, it was a bit convoluted, but this way no one would (hopefully) freak out about him bring a firearm to school – even if it was unloaded and he had no ammo on hand.
So now, with the sunlight peaking through the blinds to shine in his eyes, he had to actually roll out of bed and get ready for school. He gave a quick glance to his alarm clock: 6:45 a.m. An hour and fifteen minutes before school. Great.
With a groan, he untangled himself from his bedding, stumbling towards the bathroom with his towel in hand. He grumbled the entire way, even through the shower itself as he washed up, making it back to his room to get dressed. It had always been a pain one handed, washing up. Drying off to, he supposed.
His jaunt back to his room was quick, and he calmly grabbed his arm from its charging port, connecting it to the port on his arm with a snap-hiss. He gave a slight wince, as the slight volt of electricity zapped him, and he rolled the prosthetic through its checklist his mother had given him. When that was done, he randomly chose something easy enough for the day to wear: a plain white tee shirt, and a pair of khaki slacks, and quickly grabbed his prop bag, as well as the oak wood revolver case on his dresser, before heading downstairs.
It was quiet, as it usually was this early in the morning. His mother was still at work – wherever the Hell that was – and his dad had already left for the day for his shift at the bank. The note he had left on the fridge was simple as always:
'Love ya son, have a good day, don't forget your chores when you get home – Dad.'
Leopold smiled, grabbing the lunch he'd made the night before from the fridge, before ambling out into the garage from the kitchen.
Nightingale sat in the dark in the garage, and Leopold wasted no time in hitting the garage door's auto-opener, calmly tossing the bag of props into the backseat as he slipped into the driver's seat. The roar of Nightingale's 7.5 litre V8 echoed into the quiet street as Thompson slowly eased her back out of the garage, making sure to click the auto-opener once more to close the garage door, before pulling out into the street and easily parking just out front of the Witwicky's abode. A quick tap of the horn announced his presence, and he quietly stowed the revolver case into the glove box as he waited for Samuel to stumble out the front door.
A minute or two of idling in the street later, the front door of the Witwicky's opened up, and Samuel 'Sam' Witwicky stumbled out the door, bag over his shoulder, yelling something back into the house as he raced down the flagstone to the street. The teen was around 5'10", with curly, dark brunet cropped short enough to keep out of his brown eyes, but long enough to give himself some shade on the back of his neck from the hot, hot Nevada sun. His clothes were light too, a light grey polo shirt and a pair of jean short to keep cool and calm, even though he rarely was.
Thompson honked the horn again, almost causing Sam to slip on the concrete flagstone leading to the street. Sam merely flipped Leopold off as he steadied himself, grabbing open Nightingale's passenger-side door.
Leopold just gave Sam a smirk as he tossed his bag in the back seat, before he slumped into the passenger bucket seat with a huff.
"Alright there bud?" Leopold asked, giving a wave to Mr. 'How many times to I have to tell you to call me Ron?' Witwicky as he pulled Nightingale out onto the street once more.
Sam gave a shrug, clipping his seat belt into place, "You know how my dad can be, he was just reminding me about our deal."
"Ah, the Triple A slash Get a Car Deal?"
"That's the one. And the two grand."
"Well, at least you got the two outta three so far, plus the money," Thompson replied helpfully with a chuckle, turning Nightingale's blinker on as he headed for the Lancaster House. "So, you just need to get your grade for Mr. Richards class, and Bob's your uncle, huh? May the Many Gods Above grant you Their strength then, Samuel James Witwicky."
"Har har, very funny Thompson," Sam bit back, giving a light punch, "yuck it up man, you'll be regretting that when I finally get my own car and don't have to ride along with you all the time."
"Oh no, whatever shall I do with my free time?" Leopold bit right back in pure deadpan, rolling his eyes. "Such a shame that I have nothing better to do other than drive my car-less friends around and hang out with them. Such a sham of a life."
"Dick."
"Dumbass."
They both chuckled as Leopold pulled Nightingale up to the lights to Main Street. It was still early enough in the morning that traffic was still pretty light, even on Main Street, and they still had enough time for the jaunt North across town to pick up Miles and make it to school in time for Thompson's deal. Easy peasy.
"So what's the whole plan then?" Leopold asked as the light turned green, gently easing through the intersection.
"Pardon?"
"The whole plan you and your dad got, over this car," he clarified, giving Sam a side-long look, "Because getting a car for four thousand ain't really gonna be much of a pull, so when you do get this car you're gonna have'ta bring it by the Steelpit, so Miguel and I can give it a look-see, you know?"
Sam hummed, leaning over to the passenger-side window a bit. "Well, I don't know too much of the plan, or where dad's gonna take me. All I know is that he wants to go look in Mission City. Somewhere cheap."
Leopold grimaced, shaking his head. "I have no idea how anyone can be that cheap, it's absurd."
"You're telling me!" Sam replied with a chortle, "Still though, thanks for the offer of the checkup at least, it means a lot."
"No worries, that's what I'm here for."
"Well, that and your charming personality," Sam supplied as they turned on Mile's street. "Say, your Boss still out West, Thompson?"
Leopold nodded, pulling Nightingale into the Lancaster's driveway, honking once. "Yeah, Boss is still out San Fran way for a week or two more. She's visiting family to my knowledge, so it's just me and Miguel at the shop."
Sam hummed in acknowledgement, as Leopold laid on the horn again, longer this time, until the front door to the Lancaster's opened, and Milton 'Miles' Lancaster popped his head out.
The stoner skateboarder was – for a very specific term – a giant, standing at his usual 6'4" height when he unslouched. A sudden growth spurt when he turned fifteen launched the shortest member of the trio to the tallest in less than a year, and he lorded the height advantage he had over Thompson and Witwicky whenever it was funny enough. A pair of bright green eyes twinkled with mirth from behind shoulder-length blond hair, while he rubbed his chin – fuzzy with barely grown in peach fuzz for facial hair – as he made his way to the car.
"Howdy fellas," he announced as he approached, waving his skateboard that was perpetually at his side at them, "Off for one more exam, huh?"
"It would appear so," Sam replied, opening the door and getting out so he could fold the seat forward, "Don't you have the day off Chewbacca?"
"Yeah, I do," Miles responded with a shrug, ignoring the perpetual nickname he had accrued with his height and hair, "but you know me man, always ready to do the unknowable."
"Bullshit," Leopold stated as Miles climbed in, folding in on himself to fit on the backseat while Sam returned to his seat, "you just wanna hang with the rest of the skaters and do your Ollies or whatever the heck you Board Jockys do during classes."
Miles merely laughed in response, leaning forward to rustle Leopold's hair as they pulled out of the driveway and started for the high school for Leopold and Sam's final exams of the school year. Summer break was just around the corner, and by the Gods could the Trio almost taste the freedom.
From a far enough distance away, a police car lurked away.
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'Holy fuck was that boring.'
That was the only thought ricocheting around Leopold's head as he waited for Sam to make his way out of the classroom after the end of the Sociology Exam. It had been about two and a half hours of just pure boredom that he'd never get back, but there had been a few cool history bits his classmates had given. Two that immediately came to mind were Petrov Solokov, who's great-grandfather fought with the Red Army in the Second World War as a tanker, and Jonathan 'Jack' Jones, who's great-great-grandfather Leo Jones had been a famous bounty hunter back in the Twilight of the Old West in the 1890s. Other than Sam's great-grandfather Archibald Witwicky and Leopold's own great-grandfather Lt. Col. Miles Thompson, no one else's Final had been that interesting.
Now, with all his props stowed back in Nightingale – with the exception of the revolver and its' case, which he had in his hands – Leopold was more than ready to get the fuck out of school and into summer break proper. Sadly, he and Miles were stuck waiting for Sam, as the poor guy negotiated his way to getting an A-Grade of some kind at the front doors of the high school.
"So how'd it go then?" Miles simply asked, leaning against the wall with his longboard sat upright next to him.
Leopold shrugged in response. "I think I did well. Lotta boring-ass families though. 'Bout the only interesting folks around were myself, Sam with his Grandpa Archie, Triple J with his bounty hunting grandfather, and that Ukraini, Petrov."
"Huh."
"Yeah, pretty boring," Leopold continued, casting his gaze out to the parking lot as students celebrated the end of the year. "Still, pretty sure I managed to nab myself at least a A-. I used the whole half-hour slot, got to show off some cool shit from my Grandpop, and got to wear his sweet flight jacket, so I figure it was at least a good show for the rest of the class. Sam on the other hand..."
"He bomb it?" Miles asked with a laugh, "Is that why he's taking so long?"
Leopold shrugged once more, glancing over to where Ronald Witwicky was currently waiting in the parking lot in his deep-green Aston-Martin.
"I wouldn't say bomb it, I'd argue it was more of a... pawn presentation than anything else."
"Yikes," Miles responded with a wince, "so he's probably up there giving his 'What would Jesus Do?' spiel, huh? Ah, speak of the Devil, here he comes."
And so Sam did, exploding through the front double doors waving a piece of paper like Neville Chamberlain returning from the Munich Conference in 1938.
"I got it!" he proclaimed, racing towards Leopold and Miles excitedly, "I got it! I mean, it's an A-, but I got it! Three As, and three grand! Hell yeah!"
"Well done there bud, well done," Leopold stated, giving a slow golf clap as Miles gathered his board and the trio started to walk over to Mr. Witwicky, "how much canoodling did'ja have'ta to do to the Dick to get that?"
"Too much," Sam answered, shaking his head, "Way too much. Still, third one secured, and you know what that means? Brand new car!"
Thompson gave a quiet scoff, leaning over to Miles to fake-whisper, "Knowing Ron, that's gonna be a slightly newish, completely used car."
"But ain't that what you for, Mr. Fixer?" Miles shot back, a grin on his face as Sam pouted.
"I suppose," Leopold finished with a faux sigh as they came up to Mr. Witwicky. "Oh, the things I do for my friends. Howdy Mr. Witwicky, engine still purring there for you?"
Ronald Witwicky was, for the most part, a decent fellow in Thompson's books – if not a bit of a hard-ass and a cheapskate sometimes. The 50-something-year-old may have been sporting a decent-sized bald spot in an otherwise tamed forest of dark brunet hair, but it was ignored for the jovial twinkle in his brown eyes, and he somehow moved with the energy of a 20-year-old whenever he felt like it. Or when you were stepping on his well-manicured lawn instead of the flagstone paths he'd set down.
He and Leopold had something of a running joke too, where even though Ron kept telling Leopold to call him Ron, Leopold would hands down always keep calling him Mr. Witwicky just to piss him off. It was just a funny thing in Thompson's mind to do, and it never really bothered Ron anyways.
"Purring like a cat that caught a bird," Ron replied to Leopold's question, turning his attention to his son, "now, what's this about you're hollering about?"
Sam merely gave a laugh, shoving the paper in his father's face as he clambered into the Aston-Martin, "Third A, see? What'd I tell you?"
"Hold on, hold on – get it out of my face so I can actually see it," Ron responded, making a show of squinting his eyes at the piece of paper in Sam's hand, "Alright then, that's the third one then?"
"Yup! Bargain upheld, now come on!"
"Yeah yeah, hold on, jeez. Have some patience Sam."
"I don't think that's in his vocab, Mr. Witwicky," Thompson butt in with a laugh, tapping Sam on the shoulder, "Hey, you still interested in selling those glasses Sammy?"
Sam blinked owlishly at Thompson, before starting. "Oh, yeah, sure. Twenty bucks."
He paused.
"Why?"
Thompson shrugged, handing the oak wood revolver case over to Miles. "Well, you know how I got that imaging system at home? Figured I'd pawn them off you, see what's on the lenses, then pawn them back to you."
"Oh you dick!" Sam replied with a laugh, tossing the case to Leopold as Ron started the punchy little green Aston-Martin.
"I aim to please," Leopold said with a wave as he and Miles stepped back, allowing the Witwicky's to take off.
There was a brief pause as the two watched Sam and his father leave for Mission City, before they started the walk to Nightingale. Nothing of any note was spoken between the two as Leopold stored both the revolver and glasses cases into the glove compartment, both feeling exhausted for different reasons. It was only when Leopold put the car into drive to leave school did Miles speak up.
"Weren't you going to tell them to get to the Steelpit after they buy that car?"
"Oh Gods DAMNIT."
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The police interceptor waited in the shade as the two automobiles pulled away from the school. It had arrived just late enough to see the green car with his target leave, but it had seen a passing of something to the two in the purple vehicle. It couldn't tell what it was at a distance, so there was no telling if it was what it had been after. Nevertheless, it had to act.
The Interceptor vented air through its system – reminiscent of a human sigh, but sounding more like a growl coming from the engine – before pulling away and following the second vehicle.
It was a fifty-fifty shot, and there was a higher chance of catching one of the humans alone with the second vehicle rather than the first. He'd been watching them long enough to know that. The driver would drop his compatriot off, and then head for his domicile or the neutral grounds out of town. Those would be the best times to nab his prey.
A questioning ping rang through the vehicle's computer system. Easy enough to respond to as he shadowed his target. The message was simple: head for this location to receive package.
Didn't that idiot understand how close the Interceptor was to his target, to their goal?
Another ping. A threat.
Fine.
- Roger, Barricade acknowledges. Hail Lord Megatron. -
The Interceptor known as Barricade left his hunt, headed East towards Nellis Air Force Base. He'd hunt the answers down at a later date.
Was it what it had been after or not, though? Only time would tell now...
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Hey look, the end of the chapter.
Hope you enjoyed reading it, dear reader. If you got a comment, question, et cetera, then by all means, drop a line. I'd be thrilled to respond.
Other than that, I should say to not expect a rigid posting schedule. I write mostly in my spare time after work, if I'm in the mood, so I can't guarantee a proper time to expect Chapter Two.
Although, at the time of posting this, Chapter Two is like, 7.7K words long, so I don't know.
Once again, thanks PhoeLimePie, and I hope you all have a good day!