Usually, I tend to write for the TV show "The Walking Dead" but I set out on a quest to test out new waters. The Transformers franchise has always been a fiction to which I have adored since a very young age, so I felt compelled to explore the topic. That being stated, this particular fanfiction takes place during the events of the fourth movie: "Age of Extinction".

DICLAIMER: I do not own Transformers, nor do I take credit or profit from the ideas previously existing in the universe. The creative concept behind the Transformers franchise belongs to its rightful owner. The only aspect I take ownership of is my original character.

Chapter 1: Orenda

- (noun) a mystical force present in all people that empowers them to affect the world, or to effect change in their own lives.

855-363-8392

Every day I repeat those digits, that number, in my head – quietly. No one but myself knows I do so, and I can't think that most of the other kids my age even notices the billboard that wasn't there five years ago planted in the cornfield. The flat land housing the sign is intercepted by rusty rails and chipped boards on a train track. All you can see on the dirt leading to the sign are tire tracks indicating major wear and tear. Every bump, every disturbance on the surface, can be felt on that road. The same path we travel on every day to and from school.

During the ride home on the yellow school bus – where I always sit crammed up against the window – I press my face close to the glass, so it fogs the tiniest bit, as we turn on the infamous road. I wait for a cutting edge to peer over stalks of corn and that's when I recite:

855-363-8392

I get it right, checking back over my shoulder to make sure while we pass. It was only the first few times after the scenery changed on my bus rides that I could not quite grasp all the numbers as I furiously scribbled on notebook paper. At the time, I was eight and it was hard to tell a three from an eight, or a nine from a six. Now, I pretend that the number is my home phone number that never rings because it most likely got disconnected, or a cell phone I don't have. Pretending is so much easier - offers an excuse, adds purpose.

Purpose. That's what memorizing the number is lacking.

"Remember Chicago" is what the board says, and I do, but I also know how to report alien activity because of it. Maybe that is the trick of it all . . . Because when it boils down to it, I don't know if I would dial the numbers I know so well, if I could press call. Telling myself I am strong enough to do so helps. Lying is bad but doing nothing is worse.

The bus squeals to a stop when it runs out of road, the engine – which I have become accustomed to – idling. It is an older model and big and hefty, but it gives the vehicle minor character, at least. I can spot it easily in the school parking lot.

Knowing this is my stop because it is never changing, I stand and haul my backpack over my shoulder, swearing the object gets heavier every new school year. I mosey down the slim walkway wedged between seats. Most kids don't bother to look at me, so it makes it easy for them to become background noise once more. The bus doors are open when I reach the front, the little red stop sign swings out for no one I wouldn't already know because we don't get unfamiliar traffic here.

Clambering down the steps, my feet collide with the soil at the exact moment the dry heat does with my skin. The bus drives off to some place I do not care about enough to look for and I'm caught in its wake, coughing as dust from the back tires reach me. I readjust my position by swinging the other backpack strap over my shoulder, and then I begin the same journey I do every weekday to the same destination.

Lockhart, Texas. A town that isn't as sleepy as it used to be, except for the outskirts. Some people at school who came from elsewhere claim Texas to be a dusty state . . . but I think it is beautiful. Lockhart definitely is, at least. The only dust is that of what we create from disturbing nature, yet people act as if this place is suffocating. I like the ruggedness of farms and ranch style homes.

I pass the neighbor's cow field and spot little black heads poking over the tall grass. They're sprinkled around the space. Tessa's friend, or whoever lives there, I think – can't remember her name. She's pretty, though, just like my sister and all of her friends.

My pace is brisk, and I arrive at the cluster of mailboxes settled under the oak tree faster than expected. My boots slide across gravel as I halt. I scan over the various paint-chipped mailboxes as I recall the second number I have stored in my brain because it is my job.

803, 803, 803 . . .

Third one down, covered in bold advertisements – 803, Yeager. Bingo.

Opening the mailbox, I remove its contents, stuffing them into an empty pouch in my book bag. I close the mailbox up and continue on down to my next task at a chicken coop a few feet off. Instead of chickens, clutter greets me, and I grab the smaller items of the many, dumping them into an awaiting, red wagon. I catch a glimpse of the sign, making sure it is there because people need to know –

"Neighbors –

Drop repairs here.

Pay what you feel it's worth."

Sighing, I grip the wagon's handle with both hands and haul it around. I begin going up the long driveway to the house – which sits in the middle of a wheat field – lugging the weighted object behind me. My dad owns a local company called Yeager Robotics or something along those lines. The name doesn't even matter because it still isn't enough to get us out of this hole we've dug. He fixes other people's junk or tries to invent his own. It makes him feel better, I think, because he never got the opportunity to put everything back together in his own life. Mom died during childbirth with me . . . his inventions never work out properly either. But yet he still tries. I wonder why sometimes.

I drop the wagon off in the front lawn, and upon my arrival, the same face that greets me everyday busts through the front door. He barks what is supposed to be "imitating" as Dad called it, and I merely reach down to scratch behind his metal ear,

"Hey boy,"

The robotic dog wags his tail made up of strong, bendable wire. He moves into what I assume was supposed to be a roll over, but instead flops to the wooden planks of the porch in a bark, wheels spinning. I sit him right-side-up, grumbling about how a real dog would be better. Dad isn't into organics, though, despite the fact he is one. I never named the dog like he suggested because there's no use getting attached; the thing only works half of the time.

I rip the bright orange EVICTION NOTICE off the screen door and head inside.

Depositing my backpack on the kitchen floor, I toss the mail on the table and the sealed information expands and scatters across the wood surface. The dog followed me in, and I hear him rolling down the hallway after me. I crumple the notice that is still in hand and throw it in the trashcan. It is proudly pasted to the front door each evening and I don't need the reminder because I know. I know.

I fall back into one of the kitchen chairs only to hear my older sister's shoes tapping on the front porch steps. The dog whirls to the door, pushing through while barking.

"Yes, I know I'm home . . . " Tessa says, a hint of annoyance in her tone, "Thank you."

The robotic dog's broken voice gurgles out, "Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Back away from the premises!"

"Voice recognition! It's me!" She's close to the door now, her voice easier to pick up on.

"I am dialing 911."

"Go right ahead." The door opens – slams. "I don't care . . ."

"I'm still calling 911."

I snort, resting my feet on the kitchen table. The thing won't call – never does.

"Cassie!?" she calls, her voice bouncing and echoing off the hallway walls.

I yell back, even though she's right there because we're sisters after all, "Yeah?"

"Did you get the mail?!"

"Of course!"

And then she's here, standing in the archway. Her dirty-blonde hair hanging around her face; the same hair I have only hers is lighter. Tessa's overshirt – a flannel – is coiled around her arm and her one-strapped book bag slouches heavily down to her thigh. We meet eyes, her green on my brown, and then she glues them to the tips of my boots pressed into the surface of the kitchen table. I drop my legs and they fall with a single thud, a prickly feeling running back into the limbs. I lean back further in the chair.

She doesn't speak a word of the incident because she may just be too tired to. That's fine by me . . . I don't need her to patronize me – not her. I learned that word in school, means to talk to someone like they're a little kid. I may be thirteen and Dad says I'm a kid, but I am not little.

Tessa reaches over my head for the mail on the table. "Jesus, Cassie, you don't need to chuck it."

What? We already know what's in there: overdue payments, final notices, discreet threats. The paper plastered on the door is enough for me.

But I forgot an aspect, I realize, when she pulls out one letter that is different from the angry looking ones. It looks more refined, more polite – college.

She tears the seal of the letter open with her fingernails. But before my older sister unfolds it, she takes a moment to plead to whoever bothers to listen: "Please . . . please . . ." like it will change the information inside, whatever it is.

And then I hear the defining moment after the reveal. A sigh. Tessa's shoulders slump.

"No financial aid. Great."

She drops the bad news back on the table like it stung her and maybe it did on the inside where nobody can see; she's pretty good at covering up, wearing a mask. The letter slides across my vision and I read the DECLINED stamp in big red letters. I hear Tessa slowly climb the steps to her room. I put the decline where it belongs with the eviction notice.

On the bright side there are only two more weeks of school.

But that also means time for my older sister to get accepted into a college is slowly shrinking.

I am folded up on an old rocking chair settled on the porch, a book in my lap because Dad says it is good to read. He purchased the book from some library that was on the brink of closing so he could get it for less than what it was worth. I remember when he handed it to me in the barn while I was trying to get some of his "inventions" to actually do their job. To Kill a Mockingbird the title read as I smoothed a finger over the raised surface. My dad said it was a classic and he read it for school way back when, but when I asked him about it, he told me that I would have to figure this one out on my own. That was over a month ago and I still have yet to crack open the front cover . . . I don't think he actually read it.

The sun is low when my ears pick up on faint rumbles. I glance up to see no other than Lucas' black Mini Cooper flying up the worn driveway. The rumbles turn into shrieks when he skids across the gravel, nearly missing where road meets grass. My dad had been complaining this morning about how Lucas wasn't coming into work today within those few, precious moments I have before I need to bolt out the door and sprint down the driveway to the awaiting bus. I think I rushed out when he was in mid-vent, but I spot my father in the small car with Lucas now, so it couldn't have been that bad.

Lucas cuts off the engine of his car and my eyes run over the white surfboard secured on the roof. However, my gaze switches gears to what's coming next; the reason for my dad and his work partner's reunion.

A large yet solid form of a tow truck creeps up the driveway. Its surface was recently polished even with the dirt particles desperately trying to stick to the metal. A silver chain sprouts from the back of the tow truck's roof and gleams when the sun touches it. Attached to the chain is the truck's cargo: a bulky and rusted tractor trailer, just without its trailer.

I spring up from the rickety rocker and the book flips to the porch floor, landing on its thin pages. My legs itch to move, but my mind is elsewhere, so twisting back around, I pick up To Kill a Mockingbird and sit it on the now vacant chair. Dashing down the three steps that hold the structure of the house above nature's core – the ground – I meet Dad and Lucas at the only actual "car" here.

"Where did you get this?" I ask, referring to the pretty-much-dead-already truck that must be ours. My eyes dart between the two of them.

My dad is wearing a coat of sweat, typical in Texas, and he smells of old leather. "Some run-down movie theater we used to go to as kids." he replies, patting my shoulder, "Check it out!"

Dad walks forward and I go to follow, but I spot Lucas lingering behind – unusual for him. He leans on the hood of his car, arms crossed, shaking his head. I feel my face scrunch up as my eyebrows furrow.

The tow truck is still coming closer, faltering in movement now, and my dad holds up his arms, signaling whoever is driving to proceed.

"All the way!" he yells over the loud motor. I stare at the bull horns on the tow truck's grill for a moment and Dad forms his hands into fists. Stop.

The tow truck huffs, steam blowing out as the brakes are put on. It is almost as if dragging that other truck – our truck now – up here was a chore. Dust settles in the air. The engine grumbles while cooling off. Lucas sighs loudly, taking after the vehicle.

"A truck?" a voice no other than my sister's squeaks out as she rounds the decorative fencing we have and plants foot in the makeshift driveway. My body is rigid and stiff, muscles flinching, and I internally tell them to relax. She startled me. I didn't hear her shoes, didn't hear the door because she always lets it close more roughly than Dad, or I, or even Lucas does.

Tessa walks up to the new addition, assessing it. Her flannel – which is back as being her overshirt – flaps back in the slight breeze. "Dad, please tell me you didn't spend our money on – "

What? Junk? Dad hates that word, but Lucas beats her to the chase. He jumps off his car, walking forward,

"Oh no, don't worry – he didn't. He spent my money. A hundred-and-fifty bucks of it."

That would explain why Lucas is so sour about the whole subject, but he still let Dad buy it. By the looks of it, that thing is barely worth much of anything.

"As an advance on your regular paycheck – " my dad reasons while squinting under his baseball cap. Lucas goes to the fence, leaning on it with Tessa trailing close behind.

"What regular paycheck?" he interrupts.

" – which you will get back."

I listen closer; this is all news to my ears. The man driving the working truck has since hopped out and is working on unhooking our truck. I wonder if he's listening, too.

"When?"

"Never." Tessa tosses over her shoulder. She's still walking, most likely back to the house where less of these problems exist. "We're broke."

"Tessa, please," Dad asks, gently, "Not in front of your sister."

She stops, turns, "Like she doesn't already know?"

My head lowers. I think about the eviction notices sitting in the trashcan.

"I knew it." gasps Lucas. My gaze lifts back up. Some of his shoulder-length, curly hair falls in his face.

"Sweetheart, could you please not drive a wedge between employer and employee?" Dad is talking more sternly now, for his first warnings were not listened to, and he moves his arm in an uppercut for emphasis.

"Hold on," starts Lucas, gripping the fence, "I thought we were . . . partners?" he backtracks.

"Look, I came up short, okay? I had to buy her a prom dress and Cassie books for school." Dad is explaining. I watch him, frowning, because he's lying and that is something we aren't supposed to do around here. One book. He bought me one book and it's on the porch's rocking chair right now. Sure, he did buy Tessa a prom dress, but still. One book that barely cut into his wallet. He opens his arms, and his sweat stains are visible, which I look away from, "You want me to deny her an education? Tessa, a prom dress?"

"Might as well . . . You denied her a prom date." Lucas completely skims over my problem because you can't fight school. Tessa points to him, agreeing. No boys, that's the rule, and although guys barely talk to me, Tessa, on the other hand . . .

"No, I offered to take her and chaperone."

"Nobody wants to go to the dance with their dad. It's weird."

Dad looks to me for help. I glance down at my boots, shrugging and twitching my face. It is kind of weird . . .

He recovers, shaking his head, "Okay, well, that's not the issue."

"Maybe it should be." argues Tessa. I stay silent, meeting no eyes that could persuade me to lean one way or the other.

"Hey, could you two just get off my case? You know what the engine on this runs for? I can break it down, strip it for parts."

"Dad," I offer, nodding at the truck, "it doesn't look like there are many parts left."

And even from looking back here, where the lighting isn't all that great, I know I'm right. The truck has no trailer, making it not whole. Its dull in color and covered in rust, and the thing looks sad, so very sad . . . Falling apart at the seams.

". . . shorts are shrinking by the second, okay?" I catch the tail-end of my dad's statement. Immediately, I look down to realize I'm not even wearing shorts but rather jeans. "Cold water, air dry – please. Or wear pants like your sister."

Rolling her eyes, Tessa storms back inside. This time I hear the front door ending its journey. I tend to wear jeans like now in the early days of May because I simply prefer not getting feasted on by bugs. Dad and I walk back to the truck. He talks to the guy that towed the vehicle here while I run my forefinger through the planes of a symbol on the front bumper. When the man leaves in his nice truck that we could only dream of, I relieve my focus from the truck, still keeping my hand on the only place that isn't rusted. That symbol.

"You know, this isn't that bad." I tell my dad, the only guardian I have left. "It could be worse."

And he smiles a smile I can see right through to know that we are no different than the sad truck missing its trailer.

Thanks for reading :)

~ Rainy