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urbanamazonI know. I should be working on original things. Believe me, I know. It's also 12:30 right now and I should be sleeping.
Lo, fear my geek. I'm writing Transformers fanfiction. No, no... that's not it. I'm writing cross-generation crossover Transformers fic, drawing largely on unofficial canon and no small personal preferencing.
Cookies to whoever can guess who I might be writing about.
Work in progress. Feedback is joy.
Unending
Fandom: Transformers (2007)
Length: 734 (work in progress)
Summary: Optimus Prime puts out a call to any surviving Autobots. Silly Optimus... you're looking in the wrong direction.
Spoilers: Yes. For more than one generation of Transformers.
When Sam Witwicky had turned five years old, his cousin Franklin had presented him with a rectangle covered in over-taped gift wrap and a birthday card shaped like a volcano. The gift had rattled when Sam eagerly shook it, and had revealed itself in torn swaths to be a videocassette of Jurassic Park. Sam and Franklin both hadn’t seen the look that Mrs. Witwicky had leveled at her brother-in-law over the boys’ heads, just like they didn’t hear the placating shrug back, claiming that it wasn’t that scary at all.
The rest of the cousins had clamored to watch it, ringing themselves around a big bowl of chips with soda in plastic cups of primary colors. As the adults hung back and talked about whatever it was that adults talked about at a five year-old’s birthday party, Franklin and Sean had played the role of elder cousins and ran off halfway through the movie to chase each other around the house with mock roars and curled fingers like claws. His friend Charlie from first grade had fallen asleep, and his mom’s friend’s daughter Trina had half-watched, mostly playing with Sam’s new Nerf darts.
Sam had watched the whole thing.
Like most parties, the guests were declared to go home as the credits rolled up across the television screen. Sam waved goodbye and carried his unwrapped presents up to his room to find places for them all, with the glossy cardboard box of Jurassic Park ending up top of his dresser as a place of honor. His mom had quizzed him as she tucked him in, concerned in that embarrassing way that moms always were. Of course Sam had liked the movie. Yes, he said thank-you. No, it hadn’t been scary. Maybe a little.
The dinosaurs had been really cool.
Sam Witwicky had woke up the night of his fifth birthday with nightmares of Velociraptors breaking through his bedroom window and opening his door. The movie went back to Uncle Bruce with a stern apology, and Sam never watched Jurassic Park again.
It had just been the one nightmare, really. Sam didn’t remember having any others, or even being afraid of any of the dinosaur movies that he’d seen afterward. There was no phobia, no lingering jumpiness of things that bumped in the night. He’d gone with the grade-school trends of action figures and toy soldiers instead, then toy cars and science sets and computers, and then cars again.
And then the car. His car, and everything else that had come with it in a rush of just a few days.
Sam had a few nightmares about that. More than a few. There were still nights when he woke up with cramps of pain in his hands and the smell of power arcing and burning far too close. He still heard ghosts of that horrible roar, that voice, and flinched at the squeal of a passing train, the throttle of a police motorcycle.
On some of the worst nights, he took a pillow in hand and slipped stealthily out the back screen door to sleep in the leather bed of his Camaro’s back seat. He was afraid of the dark, more than a little, until the comforting gleam of bright headlights cut the dark away, and the reassuring hum of what was guarding him from within that yellow chassis lulled him to sleep.
Just a more-than-slightly shell-shocked teenager and his alien robot car, nothing to see, move along.
There wasn’t a lot of time for adapting, let alone anything like real healing or denial. Optimus Prime had made no illusions to Sam or the other Autobots about the message he’d broadcasted after their victory; there would be more of their kind converging on Earth… not to mention there was no reliable way to confirm that there weren’t more already there. Starscream was still out there, somewhere, as well as Barricade, and a nightmarish Decepticon that Ironhide had confirmed as Skorponock to Captain Lennox’s description. Despite the scope that Optimus tended to speak in, of universes and civilizations and thousands of years, Earth was still a big place, and ten thousand years was plenty of time to scatter to the solar winds.
Megatron’s fluke crash-landing aside, neither Autobot nor human being had ever considered the possibility of another transformer waiting on Earth the entire time, before the AllSpark had even fallen to hide in terran soil.
Lo, fear my geek. I'm writing Transformers fanfiction. No, no... that's not it. I'm writing cross-generation crossover Transformers fic, drawing largely on unofficial canon and no small personal preferencing.
Cookies to whoever can guess who I might be writing about.
Work in progress. Feedback is joy.
Unending
Fandom: Transformers (2007)
Length: 734 (work in progress)
Summary: Optimus Prime puts out a call to any surviving Autobots. Silly Optimus... you're looking in the wrong direction.
Spoilers: Yes. For more than one generation of Transformers.
When Sam Witwicky had turned five years old, his cousin Franklin had presented him with a rectangle covered in over-taped gift wrap and a birthday card shaped like a volcano. The gift had rattled when Sam eagerly shook it, and had revealed itself in torn swaths to be a videocassette of Jurassic Park. Sam and Franklin both hadn’t seen the look that Mrs. Witwicky had leveled at her brother-in-law over the boys’ heads, just like they didn’t hear the placating shrug back, claiming that it wasn’t that scary at all.
The rest of the cousins had clamored to watch it, ringing themselves around a big bowl of chips with soda in plastic cups of primary colors. As the adults hung back and talked about whatever it was that adults talked about at a five year-old’s birthday party, Franklin and Sean had played the role of elder cousins and ran off halfway through the movie to chase each other around the house with mock roars and curled fingers like claws. His friend Charlie from first grade had fallen asleep, and his mom’s friend’s daughter Trina had half-watched, mostly playing with Sam’s new Nerf darts.
Sam had watched the whole thing.
Like most parties, the guests were declared to go home as the credits rolled up across the television screen. Sam waved goodbye and carried his unwrapped presents up to his room to find places for them all, with the glossy cardboard box of Jurassic Park ending up top of his dresser as a place of honor. His mom had quizzed him as she tucked him in, concerned in that embarrassing way that moms always were. Of course Sam had liked the movie. Yes, he said thank-you. No, it hadn’t been scary. Maybe a little.
The dinosaurs had been really cool.
Sam Witwicky had woke up the night of his fifth birthday with nightmares of Velociraptors breaking through his bedroom window and opening his door. The movie went back to Uncle Bruce with a stern apology, and Sam never watched Jurassic Park again.
It had just been the one nightmare, really. Sam didn’t remember having any others, or even being afraid of any of the dinosaur movies that he’d seen afterward. There was no phobia, no lingering jumpiness of things that bumped in the night. He’d gone with the grade-school trends of action figures and toy soldiers instead, then toy cars and science sets and computers, and then cars again.
And then the car. His car, and everything else that had come with it in a rush of just a few days.
Sam had a few nightmares about that. More than a few. There were still nights when he woke up with cramps of pain in his hands and the smell of power arcing and burning far too close. He still heard ghosts of that horrible roar, that voice, and flinched at the squeal of a passing train, the throttle of a police motorcycle.
On some of the worst nights, he took a pillow in hand and slipped stealthily out the back screen door to sleep in the leather bed of his Camaro’s back seat. He was afraid of the dark, more than a little, until the comforting gleam of bright headlights cut the dark away, and the reassuring hum of what was guarding him from within that yellow chassis lulled him to sleep.
Just a more-than-slightly shell-shocked teenager and his alien robot car, nothing to see, move along.
There wasn’t a lot of time for adapting, let alone anything like real healing or denial. Optimus Prime had made no illusions to Sam or the other Autobots about the message he’d broadcasted after their victory; there would be more of their kind converging on Earth… not to mention there was no reliable way to confirm that there weren’t more already there. Starscream was still out there, somewhere, as well as Barricade, and a nightmarish Decepticon that Ironhide had confirmed as Skorponock to Captain Lennox’s description. Despite the scope that Optimus tended to speak in, of universes and civilizations and thousands of years, Earth was still a big place, and ten thousand years was plenty of time to scatter to the solar winds.
Megatron’s fluke crash-landing aside, neither Autobot nor human being had ever considered the possibility of another transformer waiting on Earth the entire time, before the AllSpark had even fallen to hide in terran soil.
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Date: 2007-07-27 05:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-28 12:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-30 05:32 am (UTC)