zylly

It was when they were leaving the grocery store that Sparkplug first noticed they were being followed. Two men. Military or government by the look of them. He’d seen enough of their type working on oil rigs and in mines and traveling all over the globe. He knew how to deal with them too. But his first priority had to be his son.

“Spike, take the groceries out to Bumblee. Get in, and lock the doors. Don’t unlock them for anyone but me.”

Spike gave him a funny look, but the seriousness in his eyes stopped any argument before it began.

He waited until he was certain Spike was safely inside Bumblebee. Even the smallest and weakest Cybertronian was more than a match for anything a human could throw at them. That only the Autobots had been successful in repulsing the Decepticons was proof of that. Only when he was certain that Spike was safe did he turned around to get a better look at the men who’d been following them.

One was tanned and all straight lines, his suit pressed, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He stood ramrod straight and watched everything with the dispassionate confidence of a man more than capable of taking care of himself. The other black and overweight, his suit ill-fitting and wrinkled. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, especially in the company of the other man.

It was the man in the rumpled suit who approached him and Sparkplug fought the urge to simply run. It wouldn’t do him any good and he wasn’t in the shape for it anyway. And he knew what this had to be about. Though it had only been a week since the Autobots had brought down the Decepticons’ spaceship and saved the Earth, word had spread fast about how he and Spike were friends with the Autobots. He’d already fended off plenty of offers from businessmen and other unscrupulous types wanting to exploit the relationship. He was surprised it had taken this long for representatives of the government to want to lean on him as well.

“Mister Witwickum?” the man asked.

“Witwicky,” Sparkplug corrected automatically. He’d have laughed if the situation wasn’t so potentially dire. He’d had his last name mangled more times than he could count.

“Mister Witwicky,” the man said amiably. He was smiling, friendly. Definitely not your typical government spook. “I’m Agent Fowler. And my happy friend over there is Colonel Franklin. We’re hoping you could come with us, answer a few questions.”

Entirely too nice for this kind of thing, Sparkplug decided. Unless he was just the distraction. But no, the man Fowler had called Colonel Franklin was still hanging back, looking intimidating but unmoving. He blinked slowly, trying to decide if he should look over his shoulder and check on Spike and Bumblebee.

Fowler must have sensed his uneasiness. The government agent held up his hands, slowly and carefully. “Stars and stripes, Mister Witwicky, take it easy. We’re not here to hurt you or your son. Uncle Sam just wants a few answers and you’re a hard man to track down. I’m going to—can I reach into my jacket here, thanks—I’m going to give you my card. Have your Autobot buddies vet me with that fancy computer of theirs if you want. Call me when you’re ready to talk. I think we can help each other.”

He passed the card to Sparkplug, then tossed him off an easy salute, before walking away. Franklin watched him for a moment further, then nodded, and walked off himself.

“What the heck just happened…?” Sparkplug asked himself, staring at the card.

* * *

The Air Force base sat not far from town; airmen were a frequent sight in Central City. Sparkplug had driven there on his own in a borrowed car. Despite vetting both Fowler and Franklin, the Autobots had wanted to send him there in one of their own. He had vetoed the idea. He didn’t want anything escalating the situation. Ironhide hadn’t been happy about it, but Prime had talked him down.

He wasn’t stupid, however. He was wired so they could monitor him and he had a distress signal he could trigger if he needed it. He was lucky to have such friends. He’d had many good buddies over the years, but few that might go to war with the United States government if he asked it of them.

He showed the card he’d been given at the gate after long moments on the radio, they waved him inside, directing him to one of the administrative buildings. He parked next to a jeep and went inside, where an airman was waiting for him and escorted him to a small, claustrophobic room. He declined the offer of anything to drink and took a seat.

Long minutes passed, while he wondered if this was a good idea. If anything he’d done lately had been a good idea. He liked the Autobots, he genuinely did. And he could never repay them for how they had saved his life and Spike’s life. But even if the Decepticons were truly gone, just how safe could life be with giant robots in it? Especially since Spike still wanted to go to Cybertron with them when they had completed the repairs to their spaceship! When they’d left their planet, it had still been at war. What if it still was? That was no place for either of them.

Sparkplug had seen war. Real war, in steaming jungles with the enemy hiding in every shadow. He’d left that behind, come home. He had no desire to ever see that again or to subject his son to it if he could help it. A part of him wondered if they weren’t too involved already.

The door opening shocked him out of his introspection. Just Fowler. He was a bit relieved, Franklin had seemed far too intense for his liking. Unless they were aiming to play good cop, bad cop with him. He wasn’t sure.

Fowler smiled slightly, then looked down at the clipboard in front of him, before looking back at Sparkplug. “William Irving Witwicky, army sergeant, honorably discharged. Married 1970… widowed 1972.”

Fowler’s voice trailed off for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment. “Long list of jobs in all corners of the world, including the mines of Burma. Most recently, the Caroli Oil Rig, off the coast of Cali.”

Sparkplug frowned, forced himself not to think of Sarah. It still hurt, even after all this time. Instead, he focused his thoughts on the oil rig. It had been good work, well paying, if not necessarily following all government rules and regulations. He’d liked his coworkers, liked the job. He hoped that they’d be able to find work elsewhere. From what the owners had said, it would take months, maybe even years, before they were able to rebuild after the Decepticons had wrecked it. Which put most of them out of work.

“And that’s when you met your giant friends,” Fowler finished.

***

It should have been a typical day on the rig. The thing practically ran itself, but it still needed plenty of manpower. As shift supervisor, Sparkplug ran a clean and efficient shift, but he didn’t need to do much to make it happen. His people were good at what they did, were hard working folk. The worst that happened was when Fred and Joe got into some kind of scuffle about some girl in town.

Spike probably shouldn’t have been working there; he was only fourteen, but rules were sometimes bent, and a smaller pair of hands came in handy when something needed fixing. And it was only when school wasn’t in session. It let him keep an eye on the boy and let him show Spike what honest, hard work was like. Spike was a good kid, never the kind to start trouble, but not always terribly keen on his studies and prone to getting into it with the other kids, when he felt someone was being treated unfairly or was being wronged. One of these days, it’d probably get him into real trouble.

Sparkplug had few regrets about his life, he’d served his country, learned several trades along the way. But like all parents, he wanted something better for his boy.

That day, though, should have been normal.

It wasn’t. It truly wasn’t.

Fighter jets that turned into massive robots. A boxy blue robot that spouted cubes that hurt his eyes to look at. A smaller robot that sounded like a street hood. And a terrible grey robot with a massive cannon on his arm. There had been no warmth in those red eyes, only menace. They looked on the oil workers with contempt, as though they were all something gross they had scraped off their giant feet.

Sparkplug had never felt so small, so helpless, as he had, watching them attack the rig and steal the oil, somehow turning it into a strange energy that filled the cubes. It had been years since he had feared for his life like that.

And then… more robots had arrived. The Autobots. And there was courage in their voices, and fear, but more importantly, warmth. They moved not just to fight their enemy, but to protect the humans as well, Optimus Prime himself even risking his life to shield Sparkplug and Spike from the roaring flames.

Sparkplug recognized the war-weariness in Prime’s voice when he spoke, recognized the voice of a leader who truly cared for his men and for those they fought to protect. It was an idealism he had seen beaten down so many times. But Prime’s… Prime’s remained. It touched something in him. Without hesitation, he had offered the Autobots not just his friendship, but his aide.

The Autobots were his friends, absolutely. He owed them everything. But they were more than just that. They had become his family.