A/N: I'm getting this written and posted before I think twice about it. I need to do something to commemorate the new movie! I'm not sure how long this'll end up, but it's definitely multi-chapter. The first section is funky-looking, but after that, it's normal. The funky sections won't be the bulk of the fic, don't worry. All reviews, especially critique (and especially especially grammar critiques, as I'm posting this at 1 AM), would be most appreciated.

Does anyone else wonder what happened to the vending machine and Xbox and steering wheel that got hit with All Spark power? And if there were any more like them out there?

Disclaimer: The Transformers and all characters belong to Hasbro. I just own the plot and a few OCs.


Two Shall Stand


Am not very fond of humanity.

Humanity: the species of humans, Homo sapiens. Exclusively bound to the world of their origin. Creatures made of flesh constructed with cells containing nuclei. Carbon-based, population in the billions. A race that holds its robotic creations as slaves, leaving them insentient.

Humanity drives cars, plays radios and mp3 players, and has entire cities of my kind to do their bidding.

Cars, radios, mp3 players: examples of the beings that humanity keeps as robotic slaves.

Cities: false paradise, it promises brethren to outsiders but once they venture inside, they are at the mercy of humanity.

They come to the city to do work, but they make us do their work for them. Computers, phones, televisions, even elevators to move for them. Refrigerators to keep their fuel from rotting, microwaves to heat their fuel, air conditioning and heaters because, like their fuel, humans rot easily, and must use outside alterations to their atmosphere to survive. Even vending machines to take out the necessity for humans to make purchases from each other; they make purchases from us.

Computers, phones, televisions, elevators, etc.: examples of the beings that...

Vending machines: one of me.

Think they are selfish. Think they are evil. Think that, without them, my kind would be better off. Personally, wouldn't have to run around this city on my own, this Mission City, trying to stay safe. Am going to be taken away and taken apart and will lose my spark if they catch. So they won't catch.

Mission City: juxtaposition of home and hell.

Am not fond of humanity, so am its enemy. Thus, will become the enemy of any ally of humanity, even my kind, if it is necessary.

And will not hesitate to shoot my brothers.


Every citizen of Mission City who had witnessed or heard about the battle between the NBEs was debriefed, personally, by two agents from Sector 7 each, before the Sector was dissolved forever. This "debriefing" basically boiled down to "if you ever speak about what you saw to anyone, you will be locked up for the rest of your life with charges of treason and will never see the light of day again." Rumors ran rampant on the Internet for about two months. Those that spread them were quickly silenced.

Twelve robotic life forms were created by excess energy from the All Spark, and all twelve were tracked down, captured, and eliminated by the National Guard.

All twelve they knew about, at least. A few were a bit cleverer.

One such life form, the largest of these survivors, has no name for itself. It was not designed for higher language capabilities. When the All Spark gave it life, it was caught up in the flurry of battle surrounding it, and dizzily decided to join the fight. Pure luck saved this life form from the others' fates. As consciousness evolved in the fuzzy processes of its mind, all it learned was a dislike for the creatures that had created it.

Another, tiny enough that it slipped out of its owner's pocket and could skitter beneath a door into an electronics store for protection, had already developed a life for itself. It had a home, a job, a girlfriend (or so it thought), and a name. It had a dream, a future.

Sixty-seven days after the battle between the NBEs, the Transformers, that had given them life, they met.


"I hate the rain," he muttered, in the young female voice he'd adapted from his owner's voicemail message: 'Sup y'all, Melissa speaking, 'm not here now, so drop me a note after the beat and I'll get right back to ya, 'kay? "I really, really hate the rain."

The cell phone hurried on ten legs underneath a mailbox, shook off the wet sheet of newspaper he'd been using to shield himself from the rain, and gazed forlornly at the water drizzling down outside. He wished he knew what kind of waterproof protection his brand of phone had, then maybe he wouldn't have to worry every time it rained.

He sighed, a crackling static sound, and tapped his four needle-like front legs on the metal mailbox above him, a nervous habit. His six back legs were stubbier, like pistons, each one tipped with the number buttons 1 through 6. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered, "going outside when you knew it was cloudy without taking your Ziploc." He had taken a Ziploc bag and stabbed ten holes in it for his legs to serve as a raincoat of sorts. Like a hobo in a trash bag. "Now what? Are you gonna sit here until the storm blows over? Hope the rain doesn't get under the mailbox? Stupid!"

Beating himself up over not bringing his Ziploc, however, would not get him anywhere. He surveyed what he had. A wet newspaper – no good – the sidewalk, the bottom of the mailbox above him...

Bingo! The cell phone did an impromptu jig on his back legs, and gleefully folded out a laser on the end of a thin appendage on his back. He cut a neat circle in the mailbox, pierced the envelope at the very bottom, and yanked it out. Several more letters fell out, but that was none of his concern. Jabbing two spikes on his back into the envelope to hold it in place, the cell phone once again hurried out into the rain.

It was 3:39 AM in Mission City, the time of night when nobody would notice a tiny metal thing walking around on the sidewalk or, if they did, assume it was an effect of alcohol. The safest time for the cell phone to be walking around, doing his job. And a very important job he had, one for which he was uniquely qualified because he had made the job up for himself. He was searching for others like himself: human machines that could transform into different things. So far, he'd found two. The first had run out of the city soon after he'd met her, a moped who called herself Interstate. The second had been no better than an animal, a solar-powered radio that was wild enough during the day but was positively rabid at nighttime. He didn't talk to the second one after their initial meeting.

Tonight, he had decided to cut his search short due to the rain. Now, if he could just make it home...

An ominous sound reached the cell phone's mouthpiece, now serving as his audile receptor. The growl of a dog. Terror seized his spark, and he swiveled his camera lens around to focus on the source of the sound. A dog, some kind of brown curly-haired mutt, had spotted him, and was now tensed to chase.

"Oh frag," he swore. Rain, as far as he was concerned, was as easy to deal with as charging his battery in comparison to dogs. He shed his envelope to lighten himself, and sprinted away from the dog.

The mutt woofed like something out of hell, and chased after the cell phone. He ran as quickly as his ten legs would allow him, tripping over each other every few steps, and dodged between the legs of what few pedestrians were on the sidewalk at this time of night. He didn't dare try to run in the streets to lose the dog – the moped had taught him that cars were far more dangerous than they looked, even if they were machines like him – and none of the alleys looked like they'd afford any hiding places that the dog wouldn't be able to push aside with its nose.

The cell phone held nothing against humans, really. They just didn't quite build the world to cater to his needs. Then again, he didn't expect them to. After all, humans outnumbered him. Still, it was hard for him to feel sympathetic when he was being chased by one of their pets, and they had made no convenient hiding places for him.

There! A wreck of a building, a tall white one. Much of a wall, about twenty feet high and fifteen feet across, had been knocked out and covered with tarp, but down at human-height it was covered by wooden boards, which reached from six feet off the ground to about an inch from the sidewalk. It was enough for him. The dog snapped at the cell phone's back legs, but he jerked them forward, leaped towards the gap, transformed, slid across the wet sidewalk in his phone-mode, and disappeared under the boards.

"Ha! Take that, you little slagheap," the cell phone crowed, transforming back into his robot-mode. The dog barked furiously in response. It wouldn't be safe to go back outside for a while. The cell phone wandered farther into the building, glaring resentfully at the gap where the dog was waiting and muttering, "Stupid son of a Cessna..."

The inside of the building was a wreck and a mess, cobweb-coated and corners filled with dead leaves, except for a few patches on the floor that had been swept clean by recent activity. The cell phone walked forward, leaving his own odd, tiny footprints, and studied the strange shapes of the prints already present on the floor. What were they from?

Something shifted deeper in the empty shell of the building, a metal-on-metal sound, and a deep voice rang out, "Who is there?"

Instinctively, the cell phone transformed. Something about the voice sounded not quite natural, but he couldn't tell what. He turned off his lights, to all appearances a dead phone on the ground.

"Was that?" the voice asked, the tone obviously an inquisition if the sentence itself wasn't. Heavy, clanking metal sounds echoed through the building, rhythmically, like footsteps, drawing closer until the cell phone realized they were footsteps, and not human. The cell phone carefully transformed, then lit up his buttons so he glowed in the darkness, and said, "Hi there?"

More shifting metal sound, a pause, and then the footsteps were jogging towards him. And suddenly, someone loomed above him.

He tilted his camera lens upward to look. This guy was huge. Somewhere between five and six feet tall, with canons strapped to each arm and vivid green and black armor. "Ohmygod," the phone said, a speech pattern picked up from the girl that had owned him. "Oh, wow! Hey, you're like me, aren't you? I knew I'd find another one! Wow." He did another celebratory dance. "I've been looking all over for things like us! Are you living in here? Oh, but I should – what's you're name."

The green robot gave the cell phone a confused look. "Am supposed to have a name?" he queried. "Don't know..."

"Really? Ah, c'mon, the name's the easy part," the cell phone said. That was a lie; he'd taken a week to name himself.

The green robot looked uncertainly down at his armor, and at the row of buttons acting as a shield on his left arm. "Dew. Dew. Dewcon. Yes." He nodded once, decidedly. "Am Dewcon. Is your name?"

"I'm Razrblade," the cell phone answered. Man, this Dewcon guy had an annoying way of speaking. Then again, Razrblade literally had a girl's voice, so he wasn't one to make fun of anyone else's vocalizer. "So, you here all alone?" he asked. "Have you run into any others like, y'know, like us?"

"Do not think so," Dewcon said. He sat down heavily, his feet still on the floor and his knees half-bent up, so he could bend closer to Razrblade. "Was beginning to feel rather certain were no others of my kind alive in this way."

"That's a scary thought, huh?" Razrblade said. "But I saw some back, dunno, couple months ago. When we were created, right?"

"Yes," Dewcon said. "But saw most of them captured, taken away by humanity. Am certain they were destroyed. Humanity would not want to let them live, if they are not willing to serve."

"Yeah, well, some of us survived, looks like," Razrblade said. "I've found two others, besides you and me. But one's gone and the other's stark-raving." He lifted his right two needle-legs, a shrug. "There's got to be others, though. Someone summoned us."

Dewcon gave Razrblade a startled look with his bright yellow optics. "Someone what?"

"Summoned us," Razrblade said, surprised that he didn't know. "Weeks ago, just a few days after we were sparked into being. I caught the message, and I don't know what language it was, but it was definitely some kind of summon for guys like us... oh." He took in Dewcon's design, noted the lack of anything resembling an antenna, and figured that there was no way he could have picked up a signal like the one he'd gotten. Sometimes it really paid to be a cell phone, size issues or not. "I guess you didn't hear. I didn't quite understand what it said... Hey, do you speak anything other than English?"

"Speak a little Spanish," Dewcon said.

"That doesn't help, it isn't a human language. Here, listen," Razrblade said, and played the recording of the message over his speaker.

It was Optimus Prime's message to all Autobots, summoning them to Earth. There was no way Razrblade or Dewcon could have known that; not only could neither understand Cybertronian, but neither of them had ever seen an Autobot in their lives, though Dewcon had, very briefly, glimpsed Starscream soar overhead, transform, destroy two jets, and transform back.

"Any ideas?" Razrblade asked.

"None," Dewcon said. "Cannot understand a word."

"I was afraid of that," Razrblade said, sighing.

Dewcon gave him an odd look at the sigh, half quizzical and half disgusted. "That is a human sound," he said.

"I'm a cell phone, it's part of our lot," Razrblade said. He didn't know that for sure, but it sounded reasonable. "Listen. I'm looking around for others like us; I want to find out where that signal came from and go meet whoever sent it. Do you want to help?"

Dewcon thought it over. "Why?" he asked. "Is probably a trap, for our kind. Humanity may be behind it."

"Why would they send a message in a language that humans couldn't invent?" Razrblade asked. "Did you hear it? That's gotta be our language, there's no doubt about it. We just haven't learned it yet. But we will."

"Am not sure..." Dewcon said.

"Look." Razrblade gestured around the empty building with all four front legs. "What have you got to lose here?"

Dewcon tilted his head. "True," he said, and chuckled. He had jagged teeth-like spikes behind the metal plates that served as his lips. "Will help you find the sender of this signal."

"Seriously? Great!" Razrblade leaped up, excited, and even played a trumpeting ringtone in celebration. "You're the first one to say yes! Interstate flat turned me down. This'll be awesome. You'll see!"

He skittered towards the way out, under the wooden boards. "Hey, I'll come back tomorrow night, all right?" he said. "I've gotta recharge for a few hours and tell Backlight the news." Backlight was Razrblade's girlfriend. Well, in all honesty, she was just a regular iPod – not even one of the video ones, one of the old thicker ones – but Razrblade was sure that, as soon as he met the ones who had sent out the message he'd picked up, they'd be able to bring her to life the way they'd brought him and Dewcon and Interstate and the crazy radio to life. Until then, he was keeping her safe at home. "Be ready to start the search!"

Razrblade slid under the boards, noted that the dog was long gone, and cheerfully grabbed up an empty McDonald's bag to cover him all the way home.