[Transformers G1] Hidden Agenda (Ch. 1)
Okay, another new one. This is the first unfinished work I'm posting here, so I'm going to repeat my warning: I have no idea when there will be more of this. The first chapter was finished in May of 2010 and then the second chapter didn't make its appearance until September; that's how slow I write sometimes. (Ask me sometime about the fic that took over a decade to write. Actually, on second thought, don't ask. :P) So basically, read at your own risk. Though this one, at least so far, is nowhere near as bad as I tend to be as far as cliffhangers go, so it's less dangerous than some. ;)
Introductory Author's Note: This is an old story that I had handwritten in a notebook (yes, very old), and I finally not only got around to typing it up but adding some more to it. It's basically an AU of G1, going on the basic premise that for a series with the tagline "Robots in Disguise" there was frankly NOWHERE NEAR enough actual Robots In Disguise. I mean, they did basically nothing with the hiding aspect at all! So the general idea is "What if the Autobots had actually managed to successfully hide themselves from humanity? For, oh, about ten years?"
Hidden Agenda
a Transformers AU
by Hoshikage
-Mt. St. Hillary National Forest-
-1984-
The mountain trembled as lava bubbled closer to its outer skin, sending unstable rock shifting throughout its structure. A thinner section of rock than most at the volcano's base crumbled and fell away completely, exposing long-buried metal to the sunlight once again.
The metal was corroded slightly with age, but nevertheless retained a strange, coppery shine, redder than the rock surrounding it. As more of the stone crumbled away in the wake of the mountain's uneasy rumblings, more of the metal structure was revealed, a dented and battered hull dotted with wilted, crumpled protrusions that might once have been guns, a forlorn cylinder with its side caved in that resembled an engine.
There was also a door, open to the inside of the still half-buried wreck, and as the sunlight struggled weakly through the dust to the door, green lights suddenly flashed in faded, cracked bulbs next to the opening.
The door shuddered and groaned once, a sound drowned out by the shaking of the mountain around it, and then it slowly opened wider.
The mountain grumbled once more and then settled, the only sign of its disturbed sleep a faint plume of smoke and ash drifting away into the wind from its peak.
-Portland, Oregon-
-1994-
"Hey, Spike! Where you headed for Spring Break?" Eric asked, stopping in the hallway and causing a minor traffic jam among the students hurrying toward finals.
Spike shrugged in response before shoving his arms through his backpack straps. "Nowhere. Can't afford it."
Eric looked sympathetic. "That sucks, man. Y'know, you can come with us if you want - Steve's got another space in his car."
Spike shook his head. "No way. I still think you guys are nuts, going up on the mountain so soon after that last tremor."
Eric rolled his eyes. "Aw c'mon, this is the 90s, not the dark ages. Chance of a real eruption's practically nil, even according to Professor Hayes. You know they've got about a hundred geologists watching that mountain. We're not stupid, y'know, we're bringing a radio to listen for emergency broadcasts."
Spike considered the offer. It was tempting to get away for a while, but--
"Sorry," he said finally. "Thanks for asking, but I bet my dad would kill me. He says it's bad enough that he has to go up there all the time."
"Your loss," Eric said, and waved as he headed for the door, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt against the inevitable spring rain falling outside. Spike sighed and went the other way, heading down toward the basement level to take advantage of the underground walkway to stay out of the rain a little longer. His jacket had a couple of new holes worn in it, but he really couldn't afford a new one right now.
As he emerged from the building and crossed the street, a flicker of movement in the parking garage caught his attention for a moment. He paused, moving under an overhang of the concrete structure automatically as he tried to figure out what he'd just seen.
There was a yellow Beetle parked in a space at the near corner of the garage, one that had just come to a halt there. Or at least that was what Spike had thought he had seen - but that couldn't be right, because the car had no driver.
He tried to replay the movement in his mind, but it still made no sense, so he gave up and trudged toward the MAX stop, convinced that even if he thought he'd seen an empty car parking, obviously it must have been something else. Because even in the 90s cars didn't drive themselves, except maybe in sci-fi movies.
***
Sparkplug sighed as he steered his truck around another blind curve, hugging the inside of the turn and watching the edge of the gravel road for signs that it was getting ready to give way. It had been raining at least part of every day for nearly a month, and the ground was so sodden that the logging roads - which were little better than trails anyway, barely the width of one truck and paved, if one could call it that, with a thin layer of gravel - had turned into a crumbling morass of mud. The really big hauling trucks were stranded at the top or bottom of the logging zone, sunk in mud almost to the tops of their massive tires where they'd been buried when mudslides sent the hillsides sliding down around them. Sparkplug had managed to keep most of the other equipment running, but too much more of this and he wouldn't even be able to get up there to work, because the roads were going to just wash away.
Just as he thought that, he saw a white, mud-spattered car on the switchback below his, and swore. What the hell was someone without a 4x4 doing on this road in the first place, and going up the mountain? Between all the tremors lately and the mudslides, they were taking their lives into their hands for sure.
Probably campers who had a thing for "adventure" (until they got themselves neck-deep in trouble, of course), and convinced themselves that tackling a narrow, windy, muddy, disintegrating logging road on a volcano that was showing signs of becoming active was "cool" instead of "really damn stupid." Well, he'd just have to convince them otherwise. Sparkplug smiled grimly. No way they could get past his truck - he'd just block the road until they gave up and went home. Shouldn't take long, with weather like this.
He kept an eye on the car as it navigated the lower switchback, going far faster than he thought was anything like safe. It would pass out of sight around another curve in a minute, and he needed to guess its speed so he could slow down and not collide with them head-on--
Except that as the car entered the turn, the road suddenly slid away under its right tires. Sparkplug hit the brakes instantly, staring in shock as the car flipped over and plunged down the hillside in a cascade of mud, rock, and uprooted trees.
He was less than five minutes' drive away from that turn himself.
He sat frozen for another few seconds before stepping again on the gas. Idiots or not, he had to go try and see if the drivers were okay. He could use the radio in his truck maybe, call for help - though there was only so much the guys at the camp could do. Could they get a helicopter up here in this weather? He had no idea...
The hairpin turn onto the lower switchback had him sweating, but the truck managed it and Sparkplug stopped a prudent distance away from the gaping hole where the road had dissolved. Pulling out his flashlight, both for added light in the rain and maybe to use as a signal, he checked to make sure it worked, then took his tow chain and fastened it around his own waist, attaching the other end to the truck's bumper. Otherwise, it'd be just his luck to get stuck down there and end up in just as much trouble as the people he was trying to save.
Gingerly Sparkplug stepped toward the dropoff, grimacing as the mud sucked at his boots. He peered over the edge, but all he could see was a hint of white far below. Sparkplug groaned. The car must have been mostly buried, and the people in it were probably trapped.
Nothing for it. Sparkplug took a deep breath and scrambled down the mudflow, using the chain that was still attached to his faithful truck to keep his descent at least somewhat controlled. Finally he caught himself against a tree at the level he needed and braced himself as he released the chain, then turned to look at the buried car again.
The mud was moving.
Sparkplug blinked, and looked again. At first he thought that he'd somehow triggered another collapse, but then he could see that only the mud atop the bit of exposed white metal was shifting, as if something underneath it was moving. Something big.
The mud shifted again, then spattered in all directions as with a terrible groaning sound of an overstressed engine, the car's nose and headlights suddenly surfaced from the mud. Sparkplug just stared. He couldn't believe what he was seeing as the car, coated so completely in mud that its windows were totally opaque, heaved and groaned and spun its tires until it was mostly free.
Sparkplug stared. How the hell did they do that? Cars can't do that!
And then, as he stared, the car began to change.
The front folded in, the sides opened out. Things that looked like arms splayed out into the mud, hands unfolding at their ends with mud-caked fingers clutching at the ground. There was a horrible grinding noise, and a screeching of metal against metal, and underneath it all there was a voice, a disturbingly familiar voice that sounded like a groan of pain.
And then all the movement stopped. It wasn't a car anymore, the thing lying covered in mud before him. He could see where the car's parts used to be - wheels had nestled themselves snugly into niches along the legs, the front with its woefully shattered headlights looked as though it had become a torso - but it was most definitely not a car.
Sparkplug stayed frozen where he was as the - whatever - stirred feebly, making an attempt to rise that failed utterly. It ended up in a half-sitting position, facing mostly away from him, as it had been the entire time. It didn't seem to have noticed his presence at all.
Of course, he was assuming that it had a face, and that the featureless side of what looked like its head was, well, the back of its head. Maybe that wasn't the head at all. Maybe it knew perfectly well that he was standing there.
Then again, if it did, it didn't seem inclined to do anything about it - yet anyway.
The thing made a noise that sounded like a weak cough, then suddenly spoke, though not in a language Sparkplug knew. It didn't seem to be addressing him either, because it paused, then spoke again, sounding increasingly urgent, exactly how someone trying to call for help on a broken radio would sound.
Slowly, hardly aware of what he was doing, Sparkplug edged forward.
After evidently receiving no answer, the metal creature slumped back against the trees in a defeated posture. Sparkplug looked closely, and saw dents and tears in the metal under all that mud, and started when he saw something leaking from the gaps, something that looked like blood, though it glowed faintly blue as it trickled down into the mud.
His hands suddenly itched to fix it.
Sparkplug could hardly believe it, but somehow his apprehension had almost entirely vanished. Despite a small corner of his mind that thought drawing attention to himself was complete insanity, he found himself blurting out, "Hello?"
The robotic creature visibly started and snapped its head around to stare at him with huge, glowing blue eyes. So it did have a face. That was reassuring. Sparkplug waved tentatively. "Hi," he said, then belatedly wondered if it could even understand English.
But instead of responding with either English or that strange gibberish, the robot made a noise that sounded most like a startled "Eep!" and instantly, abruptly disappeared.
Or perhaps the better description would be "tried to," because Sparkplug found himself staring at an apparently disembodied splattering of mud that was still clearly clinging to the car-robot's shape. It seemed to be holding quite still, as though certain he couldn't see it, but after the first moment of shock that the thing could apparently - sort of anyway - turn invisible, Sparkplug couldn't hold back a laugh that clearly burst the creature's metaphorical bubble. The white-and-blue metal shape reappeared under the mud as Sparkplug tried to stifle his laughter, and he could swear it looked chagrined.
"Let's try this again," Sparkplug said. "Uh, how about 'take me to your leader'?"
"What? Absolutely not," the robot said in perfect English, though inflected with a strange accent that Sparkplug could swear he'd heard on some TV show from England or something. Then, belatedly, the robot added, "What makes you think there's more than one of us, anyway?"
Sparkplug slapped his forehead with one hand. "Please tell me you just rattled your metal brain with that fall and you're not actually dumb enough to believe I'll fall for that."
The robot was silent for a moment, then muttered, "Loath though I am to admit it, you may be right. It is entirely unlike me to make such a slip. Prowl may never forgive me."
Sparkplug folded his arms. "So I guess you don't usually make a habit of falling off logging roads, either."
"This would be the first time for that, actually," the robot replied.
Sparkplug shook his head. "Might happen again if you don't give up driving like a maniac on them in all kinds of weather. And you don't even look like you have 4-wheel drive."
The robot replied stiffly, as though with stung pride, "I am far superior in construction to the Earth vehicle I resemble. I was perfectly capable of staying on the road at that speed. Assuming, of course, the road stayed put as it was supposed to," it finished in a slightly petulant tone.
Sparkplug couldn't quite hide a smile. Maybe it was just the incredibly human-sounding voice, or the flexible silver face that at least seemed to be giving the robot some familiar expressions, but he was feeling more comfortable around this giant robot by the minute. "Well, I'd say you won't be getting back up there by yourself anytime soon. You want me to try and help you out with that?"
The robot blinked at him - or at least, its eyes flickered in a way that looked like a blink of surprise. "You are... volunteering to assist me?"
"Well, yeah." Sparkplug looked pointedly at one of the rents in the skin that was still leaking blue fluid. "I mean, you're obviously hurt. I'm not sure if my truck's got the power to pull you up onto the road, but we could try it... or I guess I could try and patch you up."
The robot blinked at him again, and said nothing. Sparkplug said, "What? I am a mechanic. I fix cars all the time. I mean, not that you're a car obviously, but some things have got to be the same."
"I..." The robot seemed bewildered. "It's not that. I had had the distinct impression that your kind would be... afraid of us."
"Oh." Sparkplug considered that. "Well, some would I guess, yeah. Too many sci-fi movies with monsters from outer space or something, maybe. You don't really seem inclined to eat my face or anything though, so I guess I'll give you a chance." Truth be told, he wasn't really sure why he felt no fear of the robot himself, but he felt the same way about it that he'd always associated with the people his subconscious told him were good folks even before he'd gotten to know them well. Those instincts hadn't steered him wrong yet.
"What an absolutely revolting idea," the robot said in a tone of disgust. "That is quite possibly the last thing in the galaxy I would want to do." It paused for a moment, then before Sparkplug could say anything it went on, "I think the most prudent and simplest option would be to repair my radio so I can call for assistance. Is that within your level of technical expertise?"
"Should be, if it's not powered by magic alien crystals or something," Sparkplug said, stepping carefully over a tree root that had been halfway torn from the ground to move closer to the robot. He was looking at the ground as he tried to navigate the mud without sinking in it, but the tone of the robot's response seemed to imply that it was smiling.
"Magic is certainly not within my capabilities. Though I believe one of your authors did have something to say about the similarity of magic to sufficiently advanced technology."
"You read Earth books?" Sparkplug asked, glancing up at the robot's face again as he got within arm's reach of it. It hadn't gotten any smaller, but he still didn't feel intimidated.
"Why not? They provide useful information on the way humans think and interpret their world."
Sparkplug raised his eyebrows. "So you care about what we think, huh?"
The robot paused, looking at him for a moment. Then it said soberly, "In truth, we have little choice but to care about it. Though we would do so anyway."
Well, that was somewhat cryptic. Sparkplug had the feeling that he wasn't going to get too much farther on that topic, though. Instead he stood next to the robot's leg for a moment, wondering how to proceed, then finally asked, "So how do I reach your radio? Something tells me I can't just open a door to get to the dash while you're like this."
The robot reached up in response, and Sparkplug flinched in surprise as the huge hands pulled open what would have been the hood of the car, allowing him to see the inner mechanics. A lot of them looked surprisingly similar to parts he'd expect to see in a normal car, and he wondered how many of them were only there to fool an observer who thought to look under the hood - but underneath those, he could see fascinatingly unfamiliar shapes. He felt torn between the mechanic's urge to poke at them and feeling sick at the idea of poking at the internal organs of something alive. He was disturbed enough that the robot could just open up its skin like that, even though this was a robot and it obviously made sense for easier maintenance.
"So, uh... where's the radio?" he asked, trying not to sound too uncomfortable.
The robot's hand came up to point at an area high inside the chest, almost within the neck - a spot it obviously wouldn't be able to see very well, at least if it saw through its eyes like people did. "I suspect the fault is a minor mechanical failure," the robot said, peering down at him over the side of the open hood. "Most likely, the power connector has been pulled loose."
"You mean all I have to do is plug it in? Wish all my jobs were so easy," Sparkplug chuckled, and then paused again. He really couldn't figure out how he was going to reach up there without basically climbing up into the robot's lap, if not onto its shoulder. But if it was already encouraging him to reach inside...
He hauled himself out of the mud and onto the robot's leg, standing slowly to try and avoid slipping on the slick, muddy metal surface. The robot stayed perfectly still, as if aware of his precarious footing. Sparkplug discovered that he was just tall enough to reach for the suspicious-looking blue cord that dangled loosely from a thick twine of similar wires, but he hesitated again before touching it.
"Is something wrong?" the robot asked.
Yeah, I make a lousy surgeon. Sparkplug grimaced and grabbed the wire, and was relieved when the robot didn't flinch in an obvious fashion. As he found the other end and reached for the pliers still in his toolbelt to try and splice the ends back together, he asked, "So do you have a name? Or do you all go by numbers or something?"
"Certainly not," the robot replied, sounding mildly offended. "We have names just as your kind do, although in our case we usually choose our own rather than having them designated for us by an ancestor."
"Huh. Well, what's yours then?"
The robot paused as though considering, then seemed to decide that it was pointless to pretend to secrecy when he had pliers in its chest. "Mirage," it replied.
"Heh. Well, that fits." Sparkplug twisted the ends of the broken wire together as tightly as he could, though he wasn't sure how well it would hold without tape or anything. "I'm Sparkplug."
"Really?" Mirage sounded bemused. "I am given to understand that is not a typical human name. It sounds more like one of ours."
Sparkplug laughed ruefully. "Yeah, well, that happens sometimes. I never much cared for my legal name, and when you're working on cars all the time..." He shrugged, then pulled the pliers away. "I think that's the best it's going to get."
Mirage mused aloud, "So, your name is like ours then..." But apparently that was rhetorical, as immediately following it came a burst of radio static, and then a voice that clearly wasn't Mirage's speaking in that strange language. Mirage answered, and despite the change of languages Sparkplug was fairly certain he could hear the embarrassment in his tone.
An incredulous squawk of disbelief came in response, so very like an outraged "You did WHAT?" that Sparkplug couldn't quite stifle laughter again. Apparently that didn't go unnoticed, either, as Mirage gave him a weary look and the voice on the radio increased its volume to what was clearly a righteous rant. Sparkplug commented, "Couldn't you speak English? I hate missing all the good parts."
"Humans!" The other voice obliged him, amazingly enough. Perhaps the robot on the other end wanted only to humiliate Mirage further, because the white-and-blue robot was already sinking his head into his shoulders something like a turtle would. "What kind of gear-stripped, circuit-glitched idiot would get himself into this mess? When you get back here I'm going to strip your paint with a spoon, if Prime doesn't do it first!"
Sparkplug blinked. "A spoon?" he repeated in disbelief.
"It's dull, you idiot, it'll hurt more!" the other voice snapped, and Sparkplug blinked again.
"Oh God, you all watch our bad movies too?"
"ANYWAY!" the voice practically shouted. "Prime says he can't fit up there, so I'm sending Ironhide and Hound your way. Do you think you can manage not to get tripped over by any more humans?"
Mirage answered meekly, "Since I seem to have fallen quite far off the road, I would say that is easily accomplished, Ratchet."
"Good," the voice snapped. "See that it is." The radio snapped off with a decisive click.
Sparkplug looked at Mirage. Mirage sighed, reached up and tugged his hood closed again.
"So... that was Ratchet," Sparkplug said, raising his eyebrows.
Mirage nodded sheepishly.
"And I know I heard three other names. So, uh... how many of you are there, exactly?"
Mirage hesitated. "You must realize," he said slowly, "We had not intended our presence to be discovered by humans."
Sparkplug frowned. "What do you think I'd--" Then he flushed. Mirage had just met him. How could he know that Sparkplug wasn't going to run off to report them to the government or something? If a fall like this could do so much damage to Mirage, it was clear that they wouldn't exactly be impervious to tanks or missiles. "Well, uh, yeah. I mean, obviously there must be a reason why you can look just like a car."
"More reason than you know," Mirage said gravely. "And so... I must ask you to wait for answers until I can, as you said, take you to my leader."
That only made sense. Sparkplug looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "All right." He shivered a little as rainwater got past the collar of his coat and trickled chill down his neck.
"You are cold," Mirage observed. "These are not optimal operating conditions for humans."
"I'll live," Sparkplug replied. "You don't live in Oregon for long without getting used to a little rain."
"We had noticed that, yes," Mirage replied with irony, making Sparkplug wonder just how long they'd been there. But though he was tempted to ask even though he suspected that Mirage would just defer the question to his "leader" again, he didn't get the chance as Mirage shifted under him. Surprised, Sparkplug reached out for balance, only to find Mirage's huge fingers closing lightly around him to steady him. The robot leaned forward far enough that as he opened his hood again, it opened over Sparkplug like an umbrella, immediately stopping the tiny impacts of raindrops against his coat.
Sparkplug blinked up at Mirage as the fingers released, the glowing eyes peering at him once again over the edge of the hood.
"We may have to wait a while," Mirage said. "And Prime would be even more upset with me than he already is if I let you fall ill from the wet when there is something I could do about it."
A little stunned, Sparkplug managed, "Uh, okay..." He sat down carefully on Mirage's leg, bracing his back against the robot's torso, amazed at the gesture. "Thanks," he added.
"You are welcome. And thank you, for your assistance."
"No problem," Sparkplug said, a little awkwardly. He wasn't entirely sure what to say after that, and fell silent. Mirage said nothing either, leaving no sound around them but the pattering and rushing of the rain.
Introductory Author's Note: This is an old story that I had handwritten in a notebook (yes, very old), and I finally not only got around to typing it up but adding some more to it. It's basically an AU of G1, going on the basic premise that for a series with the tagline "Robots in Disguise" there was frankly NOWHERE NEAR enough actual Robots In Disguise. I mean, they did basically nothing with the hiding aspect at all! So the general idea is "What if the Autobots had actually managed to successfully hide themselves from humanity? For, oh, about ten years?"
Hidden Agenda
a Transformers AU
by Hoshikage
-Mt. St. Hillary National Forest-
-1984-
The mountain trembled as lava bubbled closer to its outer skin, sending unstable rock shifting throughout its structure. A thinner section of rock than most at the volcano's base crumbled and fell away completely, exposing long-buried metal to the sunlight once again.
The metal was corroded slightly with age, but nevertheless retained a strange, coppery shine, redder than the rock surrounding it. As more of the stone crumbled away in the wake of the mountain's uneasy rumblings, more of the metal structure was revealed, a dented and battered hull dotted with wilted, crumpled protrusions that might once have been guns, a forlorn cylinder with its side caved in that resembled an engine.
There was also a door, open to the inside of the still half-buried wreck, and as the sunlight struggled weakly through the dust to the door, green lights suddenly flashed in faded, cracked bulbs next to the opening.
The door shuddered and groaned once, a sound drowned out by the shaking of the mountain around it, and then it slowly opened wider.
The mountain grumbled once more and then settled, the only sign of its disturbed sleep a faint plume of smoke and ash drifting away into the wind from its peak.
-Portland, Oregon-
-1994-
"Hey, Spike! Where you headed for Spring Break?" Eric asked, stopping in the hallway and causing a minor traffic jam among the students hurrying toward finals.
Spike shrugged in response before shoving his arms through his backpack straps. "Nowhere. Can't afford it."
Eric looked sympathetic. "That sucks, man. Y'know, you can come with us if you want - Steve's got another space in his car."
Spike shook his head. "No way. I still think you guys are nuts, going up on the mountain so soon after that last tremor."
Eric rolled his eyes. "Aw c'mon, this is the 90s, not the dark ages. Chance of a real eruption's practically nil, even according to Professor Hayes. You know they've got about a hundred geologists watching that mountain. We're not stupid, y'know, we're bringing a radio to listen for emergency broadcasts."
Spike considered the offer. It was tempting to get away for a while, but--
"Sorry," he said finally. "Thanks for asking, but I bet my dad would kill me. He says it's bad enough that he has to go up there all the time."
"Your loss," Eric said, and waved as he headed for the door, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt against the inevitable spring rain falling outside. Spike sighed and went the other way, heading down toward the basement level to take advantage of the underground walkway to stay out of the rain a little longer. His jacket had a couple of new holes worn in it, but he really couldn't afford a new one right now.
As he emerged from the building and crossed the street, a flicker of movement in the parking garage caught his attention for a moment. He paused, moving under an overhang of the concrete structure automatically as he tried to figure out what he'd just seen.
There was a yellow Beetle parked in a space at the near corner of the garage, one that had just come to a halt there. Or at least that was what Spike had thought he had seen - but that couldn't be right, because the car had no driver.
He tried to replay the movement in his mind, but it still made no sense, so he gave up and trudged toward the MAX stop, convinced that even if he thought he'd seen an empty car parking, obviously it must have been something else. Because even in the 90s cars didn't drive themselves, except maybe in sci-fi movies.
***
Sparkplug sighed as he steered his truck around another blind curve, hugging the inside of the turn and watching the edge of the gravel road for signs that it was getting ready to give way. It had been raining at least part of every day for nearly a month, and the ground was so sodden that the logging roads - which were little better than trails anyway, barely the width of one truck and paved, if one could call it that, with a thin layer of gravel - had turned into a crumbling morass of mud. The really big hauling trucks were stranded at the top or bottom of the logging zone, sunk in mud almost to the tops of their massive tires where they'd been buried when mudslides sent the hillsides sliding down around them. Sparkplug had managed to keep most of the other equipment running, but too much more of this and he wouldn't even be able to get up there to work, because the roads were going to just wash away.
Just as he thought that, he saw a white, mud-spattered car on the switchback below his, and swore. What the hell was someone without a 4x4 doing on this road in the first place, and going up the mountain? Between all the tremors lately and the mudslides, they were taking their lives into their hands for sure.
Probably campers who had a thing for "adventure" (until they got themselves neck-deep in trouble, of course), and convinced themselves that tackling a narrow, windy, muddy, disintegrating logging road on a volcano that was showing signs of becoming active was "cool" instead of "really damn stupid." Well, he'd just have to convince them otherwise. Sparkplug smiled grimly. No way they could get past his truck - he'd just block the road until they gave up and went home. Shouldn't take long, with weather like this.
He kept an eye on the car as it navigated the lower switchback, going far faster than he thought was anything like safe. It would pass out of sight around another curve in a minute, and he needed to guess its speed so he could slow down and not collide with them head-on--
Except that as the car entered the turn, the road suddenly slid away under its right tires. Sparkplug hit the brakes instantly, staring in shock as the car flipped over and plunged down the hillside in a cascade of mud, rock, and uprooted trees.
He was less than five minutes' drive away from that turn himself.
He sat frozen for another few seconds before stepping again on the gas. Idiots or not, he had to go try and see if the drivers were okay. He could use the radio in his truck maybe, call for help - though there was only so much the guys at the camp could do. Could they get a helicopter up here in this weather? He had no idea...
The hairpin turn onto the lower switchback had him sweating, but the truck managed it and Sparkplug stopped a prudent distance away from the gaping hole where the road had dissolved. Pulling out his flashlight, both for added light in the rain and maybe to use as a signal, he checked to make sure it worked, then took his tow chain and fastened it around his own waist, attaching the other end to the truck's bumper. Otherwise, it'd be just his luck to get stuck down there and end up in just as much trouble as the people he was trying to save.
Gingerly Sparkplug stepped toward the dropoff, grimacing as the mud sucked at his boots. He peered over the edge, but all he could see was a hint of white far below. Sparkplug groaned. The car must have been mostly buried, and the people in it were probably trapped.
Nothing for it. Sparkplug took a deep breath and scrambled down the mudflow, using the chain that was still attached to his faithful truck to keep his descent at least somewhat controlled. Finally he caught himself against a tree at the level he needed and braced himself as he released the chain, then turned to look at the buried car again.
The mud was moving.
Sparkplug blinked, and looked again. At first he thought that he'd somehow triggered another collapse, but then he could see that only the mud atop the bit of exposed white metal was shifting, as if something underneath it was moving. Something big.
The mud shifted again, then spattered in all directions as with a terrible groaning sound of an overstressed engine, the car's nose and headlights suddenly surfaced from the mud. Sparkplug just stared. He couldn't believe what he was seeing as the car, coated so completely in mud that its windows were totally opaque, heaved and groaned and spun its tires until it was mostly free.
Sparkplug stared. How the hell did they do that? Cars can't do that!
And then, as he stared, the car began to change.
The front folded in, the sides opened out. Things that looked like arms splayed out into the mud, hands unfolding at their ends with mud-caked fingers clutching at the ground. There was a horrible grinding noise, and a screeching of metal against metal, and underneath it all there was a voice, a disturbingly familiar voice that sounded like a groan of pain.
And then all the movement stopped. It wasn't a car anymore, the thing lying covered in mud before him. He could see where the car's parts used to be - wheels had nestled themselves snugly into niches along the legs, the front with its woefully shattered headlights looked as though it had become a torso - but it was most definitely not a car.
Sparkplug stayed frozen where he was as the - whatever - stirred feebly, making an attempt to rise that failed utterly. It ended up in a half-sitting position, facing mostly away from him, as it had been the entire time. It didn't seem to have noticed his presence at all.
Of course, he was assuming that it had a face, and that the featureless side of what looked like its head was, well, the back of its head. Maybe that wasn't the head at all. Maybe it knew perfectly well that he was standing there.
Then again, if it did, it didn't seem inclined to do anything about it - yet anyway.
The thing made a noise that sounded like a weak cough, then suddenly spoke, though not in a language Sparkplug knew. It didn't seem to be addressing him either, because it paused, then spoke again, sounding increasingly urgent, exactly how someone trying to call for help on a broken radio would sound.
Slowly, hardly aware of what he was doing, Sparkplug edged forward.
After evidently receiving no answer, the metal creature slumped back against the trees in a defeated posture. Sparkplug looked closely, and saw dents and tears in the metal under all that mud, and started when he saw something leaking from the gaps, something that looked like blood, though it glowed faintly blue as it trickled down into the mud.
His hands suddenly itched to fix it.
Sparkplug could hardly believe it, but somehow his apprehension had almost entirely vanished. Despite a small corner of his mind that thought drawing attention to himself was complete insanity, he found himself blurting out, "Hello?"
The robotic creature visibly started and snapped its head around to stare at him with huge, glowing blue eyes. So it did have a face. That was reassuring. Sparkplug waved tentatively. "Hi," he said, then belatedly wondered if it could even understand English.
But instead of responding with either English or that strange gibberish, the robot made a noise that sounded most like a startled "Eep!" and instantly, abruptly disappeared.
Or perhaps the better description would be "tried to," because Sparkplug found himself staring at an apparently disembodied splattering of mud that was still clearly clinging to the car-robot's shape. It seemed to be holding quite still, as though certain he couldn't see it, but after the first moment of shock that the thing could apparently - sort of anyway - turn invisible, Sparkplug couldn't hold back a laugh that clearly burst the creature's metaphorical bubble. The white-and-blue metal shape reappeared under the mud as Sparkplug tried to stifle his laughter, and he could swear it looked chagrined.
"Let's try this again," Sparkplug said. "Uh, how about 'take me to your leader'?"
"What? Absolutely not," the robot said in perfect English, though inflected with a strange accent that Sparkplug could swear he'd heard on some TV show from England or something. Then, belatedly, the robot added, "What makes you think there's more than one of us, anyway?"
Sparkplug slapped his forehead with one hand. "Please tell me you just rattled your metal brain with that fall and you're not actually dumb enough to believe I'll fall for that."
The robot was silent for a moment, then muttered, "Loath though I am to admit it, you may be right. It is entirely unlike me to make such a slip. Prowl may never forgive me."
Sparkplug folded his arms. "So I guess you don't usually make a habit of falling off logging roads, either."
"This would be the first time for that, actually," the robot replied.
Sparkplug shook his head. "Might happen again if you don't give up driving like a maniac on them in all kinds of weather. And you don't even look like you have 4-wheel drive."
The robot replied stiffly, as though with stung pride, "I am far superior in construction to the Earth vehicle I resemble. I was perfectly capable of staying on the road at that speed. Assuming, of course, the road stayed put as it was supposed to," it finished in a slightly petulant tone.
Sparkplug couldn't quite hide a smile. Maybe it was just the incredibly human-sounding voice, or the flexible silver face that at least seemed to be giving the robot some familiar expressions, but he was feeling more comfortable around this giant robot by the minute. "Well, I'd say you won't be getting back up there by yourself anytime soon. You want me to try and help you out with that?"
The robot blinked at him - or at least, its eyes flickered in a way that looked like a blink of surprise. "You are... volunteering to assist me?"
"Well, yeah." Sparkplug looked pointedly at one of the rents in the skin that was still leaking blue fluid. "I mean, you're obviously hurt. I'm not sure if my truck's got the power to pull you up onto the road, but we could try it... or I guess I could try and patch you up."
The robot blinked at him again, and said nothing. Sparkplug said, "What? I am a mechanic. I fix cars all the time. I mean, not that you're a car obviously, but some things have got to be the same."
"I..." The robot seemed bewildered. "It's not that. I had had the distinct impression that your kind would be... afraid of us."
"Oh." Sparkplug considered that. "Well, some would I guess, yeah. Too many sci-fi movies with monsters from outer space or something, maybe. You don't really seem inclined to eat my face or anything though, so I guess I'll give you a chance." Truth be told, he wasn't really sure why he felt no fear of the robot himself, but he felt the same way about it that he'd always associated with the people his subconscious told him were good folks even before he'd gotten to know them well. Those instincts hadn't steered him wrong yet.
"What an absolutely revolting idea," the robot said in a tone of disgust. "That is quite possibly the last thing in the galaxy I would want to do." It paused for a moment, then before Sparkplug could say anything it went on, "I think the most prudent and simplest option would be to repair my radio so I can call for assistance. Is that within your level of technical expertise?"
"Should be, if it's not powered by magic alien crystals or something," Sparkplug said, stepping carefully over a tree root that had been halfway torn from the ground to move closer to the robot. He was looking at the ground as he tried to navigate the mud without sinking in it, but the tone of the robot's response seemed to imply that it was smiling.
"Magic is certainly not within my capabilities. Though I believe one of your authors did have something to say about the similarity of magic to sufficiently advanced technology."
"You read Earth books?" Sparkplug asked, glancing up at the robot's face again as he got within arm's reach of it. It hadn't gotten any smaller, but he still didn't feel intimidated.
"Why not? They provide useful information on the way humans think and interpret their world."
Sparkplug raised his eyebrows. "So you care about what we think, huh?"
The robot paused, looking at him for a moment. Then it said soberly, "In truth, we have little choice but to care about it. Though we would do so anyway."
Well, that was somewhat cryptic. Sparkplug had the feeling that he wasn't going to get too much farther on that topic, though. Instead he stood next to the robot's leg for a moment, wondering how to proceed, then finally asked, "So how do I reach your radio? Something tells me I can't just open a door to get to the dash while you're like this."
The robot reached up in response, and Sparkplug flinched in surprise as the huge hands pulled open what would have been the hood of the car, allowing him to see the inner mechanics. A lot of them looked surprisingly similar to parts he'd expect to see in a normal car, and he wondered how many of them were only there to fool an observer who thought to look under the hood - but underneath those, he could see fascinatingly unfamiliar shapes. He felt torn between the mechanic's urge to poke at them and feeling sick at the idea of poking at the internal organs of something alive. He was disturbed enough that the robot could just open up its skin like that, even though this was a robot and it obviously made sense for easier maintenance.
"So, uh... where's the radio?" he asked, trying not to sound too uncomfortable.
The robot's hand came up to point at an area high inside the chest, almost within the neck - a spot it obviously wouldn't be able to see very well, at least if it saw through its eyes like people did. "I suspect the fault is a minor mechanical failure," the robot said, peering down at him over the side of the open hood. "Most likely, the power connector has been pulled loose."
"You mean all I have to do is plug it in? Wish all my jobs were so easy," Sparkplug chuckled, and then paused again. He really couldn't figure out how he was going to reach up there without basically climbing up into the robot's lap, if not onto its shoulder. But if it was already encouraging him to reach inside...
He hauled himself out of the mud and onto the robot's leg, standing slowly to try and avoid slipping on the slick, muddy metal surface. The robot stayed perfectly still, as if aware of his precarious footing. Sparkplug discovered that he was just tall enough to reach for the suspicious-looking blue cord that dangled loosely from a thick twine of similar wires, but he hesitated again before touching it.
"Is something wrong?" the robot asked.
Yeah, I make a lousy surgeon. Sparkplug grimaced and grabbed the wire, and was relieved when the robot didn't flinch in an obvious fashion. As he found the other end and reached for the pliers still in his toolbelt to try and splice the ends back together, he asked, "So do you have a name? Or do you all go by numbers or something?"
"Certainly not," the robot replied, sounding mildly offended. "We have names just as your kind do, although in our case we usually choose our own rather than having them designated for us by an ancestor."
"Huh. Well, what's yours then?"
The robot paused as though considering, then seemed to decide that it was pointless to pretend to secrecy when he had pliers in its chest. "Mirage," it replied.
"Heh. Well, that fits." Sparkplug twisted the ends of the broken wire together as tightly as he could, though he wasn't sure how well it would hold without tape or anything. "I'm Sparkplug."
"Really?" Mirage sounded bemused. "I am given to understand that is not a typical human name. It sounds more like one of ours."
Sparkplug laughed ruefully. "Yeah, well, that happens sometimes. I never much cared for my legal name, and when you're working on cars all the time..." He shrugged, then pulled the pliers away. "I think that's the best it's going to get."
Mirage mused aloud, "So, your name is like ours then..." But apparently that was rhetorical, as immediately following it came a burst of radio static, and then a voice that clearly wasn't Mirage's speaking in that strange language. Mirage answered, and despite the change of languages Sparkplug was fairly certain he could hear the embarrassment in his tone.
An incredulous squawk of disbelief came in response, so very like an outraged "You did WHAT?" that Sparkplug couldn't quite stifle laughter again. Apparently that didn't go unnoticed, either, as Mirage gave him a weary look and the voice on the radio increased its volume to what was clearly a righteous rant. Sparkplug commented, "Couldn't you speak English? I hate missing all the good parts."
"Humans!" The other voice obliged him, amazingly enough. Perhaps the robot on the other end wanted only to humiliate Mirage further, because the white-and-blue robot was already sinking his head into his shoulders something like a turtle would. "What kind of gear-stripped, circuit-glitched idiot would get himself into this mess? When you get back here I'm going to strip your paint with a spoon, if Prime doesn't do it first!"
Sparkplug blinked. "A spoon?" he repeated in disbelief.
"It's dull, you idiot, it'll hurt more!" the other voice snapped, and Sparkplug blinked again.
"Oh God, you all watch our bad movies too?"
"ANYWAY!" the voice practically shouted. "Prime says he can't fit up there, so I'm sending Ironhide and Hound your way. Do you think you can manage not to get tripped over by any more humans?"
Mirage answered meekly, "Since I seem to have fallen quite far off the road, I would say that is easily accomplished, Ratchet."
"Good," the voice snapped. "See that it is." The radio snapped off with a decisive click.
Sparkplug looked at Mirage. Mirage sighed, reached up and tugged his hood closed again.
"So... that was Ratchet," Sparkplug said, raising his eyebrows.
Mirage nodded sheepishly.
"And I know I heard three other names. So, uh... how many of you are there, exactly?"
Mirage hesitated. "You must realize," he said slowly, "We had not intended our presence to be discovered by humans."
Sparkplug frowned. "What do you think I'd--" Then he flushed. Mirage had just met him. How could he know that Sparkplug wasn't going to run off to report them to the government or something? If a fall like this could do so much damage to Mirage, it was clear that they wouldn't exactly be impervious to tanks or missiles. "Well, uh, yeah. I mean, obviously there must be a reason why you can look just like a car."
"More reason than you know," Mirage said gravely. "And so... I must ask you to wait for answers until I can, as you said, take you to my leader."
That only made sense. Sparkplug looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "All right." He shivered a little as rainwater got past the collar of his coat and trickled chill down his neck.
"You are cold," Mirage observed. "These are not optimal operating conditions for humans."
"I'll live," Sparkplug replied. "You don't live in Oregon for long without getting used to a little rain."
"We had noticed that, yes," Mirage replied with irony, making Sparkplug wonder just how long they'd been there. But though he was tempted to ask even though he suspected that Mirage would just defer the question to his "leader" again, he didn't get the chance as Mirage shifted under him. Surprised, Sparkplug reached out for balance, only to find Mirage's huge fingers closing lightly around him to steady him. The robot leaned forward far enough that as he opened his hood again, it opened over Sparkplug like an umbrella, immediately stopping the tiny impacts of raindrops against his coat.
Sparkplug blinked up at Mirage as the fingers released, the glowing eyes peering at him once again over the edge of the hood.
"We may have to wait a while," Mirage said. "And Prime would be even more upset with me than he already is if I let you fall ill from the wet when there is something I could do about it."
A little stunned, Sparkplug managed, "Uh, okay..." He sat down carefully on Mirage's leg, bracing his back against the robot's torso, amazed at the gesture. "Thanks," he added.
"You are welcome. And thank you, for your assistance."
"No problem," Sparkplug said, a little awkwardly. He wasn't entirely sure what to say after that, and fell silent. Mirage said nothing either, leaving no sound around them but the pattering and rushing of the rain.