Mine! My Spark!

I watched the disassembly of the huge aliens, standing under the protection of the building. Of course, I could have run away to save my precious skin, as other people did, but... so that I would miss SUCH a sight?!! Never! I won't forgive myself later!

Stupid? Yes. But this happens once in a lifetime, and it's not too rich in events and adventures, which something in the depths of my soul craved so much.

Other extreme sports enthusiasts also shared my opinion: I saw a guy gawking at what was happening from the restaurant across the street, and two more were filming a fur fight on their phone. Three lame scumbags with no instinct for self-preservation at the other end of the intersection were waving their arms excitedly, clearly rooting for some kind of fur and completely ignoring the attempts of a group of military men to remove them from the street. Judging by the violent enthusiastic reaction of the scumbags to the actions of the Silver One, their sympathies belonged to him, which, however, is quite understandable: the powerful mech moved very beautifully, smoothly and swiftly, and beat with knowledge. Professionally, prudently, harshly, strongly, but carefully.

Why Megatron still hasn't torn Prime's head off, even though he could, has remained a mystery to me. But he finished off the victim to the state of an unresisting, but not too crippled body quite quickly and technically.

The first explosion made me recoil in surprise. My feet went on glass fragments, I lost my balance and fell on my ass, cutting my hands on the glass, and the silver giant swayed from a direct hit by a rocket. The explosion! Glowing dull purple drops fanned out, drenching me from head to toe, and I sat among the glass fragments and watched as if fascinated by what was happening....

The mighty victor was shot like in a shooting gallery: The rockets exploded, knocking him down, inflicting colossal wounds, the soldiers around him fired, and he got up and got up to receive another rocket or grenade in his back or chest. He stood up, splashing purple drops. He stood up until, finally, in a final dash, he rushed after the fleeing man with the cube in his hands...

I got up, climbed out, and silently watched a powerful and proud creature die, liberally doused with a sticky purple substance that made my skin tingle slightly. Yes, it's kind of hostile to us humans, but... but...

"I'll kill you!" Megatron was already crawling towards the man, unable to get to his feet. He crawled and growled: "Mine! My Spark!"

The red one stirred...

"Sam! Put the cube in my chest, quickly!"

But the kid... the kid did something else: he blew himself up, lifting a cube filled with shining blue light with both hands and... put it under the Silvery Man's torn chest....

I didn't see what happened next. Massive Megatron completely blocked visibility, but now, a blue wave passed over him, flowing onto the asphalt, and he staggered back on his knees, clutched his chest, covering the red-hot spot, wheezed... and collapsed backwards.

I shook my head, retreating into the darkness of the trashed cafe, and the words came out of my mouth:

"What a... pity..."

I still didn't understand what happened next: the purple liquid that the dying alien had lavished on me suddenly shimmered, sharply absorbing into my skin, a strange blue-light blue wave passed through my body, and the world... somehow faded by itself.

Prime's words were the last to be imprinted on his fading consciousness:

"You left me no choice, brother...."

Chapter 1: The Diamond in the Landfill

Eight and a half years later

"Where are you going?" I purred affectionately, creeping up to the little scoundrel retreating from me.

The scoundrel was sidling away from the table and was now retreating, sticking out metal plates and helplessly waving the milk nozzle: he knows that attacking me is fraught.

"I'm asking you, WHERE'S MY COFFEE, you little bastard?"

The arrogant and long-established toaster, flashing its red, slanted, cunning eyes, slowly crept up on its terrified counterpart, carefully rearranging its outstretched paws: this parasite had done its job and prepared toasts for me, so it could calmly poison the lives of its relatives. Standing on tiptoe, the vacuum cleaner gripped the edge of the table with thin segmented fingers and moved the hose funnily. All this was watched from the ceiling by an alarm clock that escaped in the morning and a phlegmatic fan that stubbornly continued to do its job. Until he wants to fly.

"Coffee! Immediately!"

I put the cup on the table and pushed it towards the terrified coffee machine, which had inadvertently come to life. This bastard ruffled up, forming cannons, but as soon as a tiny blue lightning flashed between my fingers, the change blew away and obediently poured coffee. With milk. Then he carefully pushed the steaming cup away from him.

That's a completely different matter! And they say that disepticons are not amenable to training. They also give in if you find the right whip!

Clever. — I picked up the cup, sniffed, took a sip... no, without any coasters, everything is as it should be: coffee latte with sugar. And did you have to squirm like that first and then panic?

She reached out and patted the disheartened parasite on its tousled head. A small dysepticon of my own production stomped dejectedly to the other side of the table and defiantly transformed into its original form: a Bosch coffee machine.

"But don't get into the offended position here!" The coffee machine ignored me, aggrievedly flashing a red indicator. "If you're offended, I won't give you any treats!"

This argument worked flawlessly: the litle disepticon stopped portraying the innocent victim and immediately transformed, faithfully looking into my eyes. And the toaster, the sycophant, even brought a plate of toast. And fried the way I like it: evenly, with a crust.

"It will be delicious in three days!"

The little ones looked downcast, but they couldn't stay depressed for long, just physically, and soon the toaster got into a fight with the coffee machine again, slamming it with a red-hot foot. Koff screamed, spat a trickle of milk at Tos and ran to complain to the Dust about the limitless man, who was slowly but surely seizing power among his small relatives, hiding behind the plump green carcass of a former vacuum cleaner.

At that time, Nyashka, the food processor, was climbing on the imperturbable huge stove, which had escaped after me from my previous place of work, and was looking into empty pots, checking them for the presence of "yummy". Naturally, there was no such thing, and each piece of debris was characterized by the word "no", angrily scattering the covers. The stove didn't like it, and just a couple of seconds later, the pest jumped up with a squeal, flashing its burnt paws. Already on the floor, choking on a raspy curse, he expressed his dissatisfaction to the listeningly listening Litya. The swearing was completely childish, but it was very emotional and expressive.

However... they were all ordinary children. Even the old trailer we lived in. Although not. The trailer looked more like a lazy teenager. He's also... alive. But he didn't drive us and rarely transformed, preferring to keep the shape of the car and not glow unnecessarily. And his complaisance was explained simply: he was saving up energy for a third alt-form. He wanted to become a racing car, and I promised to personally make a "yummy treat" for him, so necessary for gaining strength, if he would be my home. So we have a complete understanding with the calm and balanced Trell.

Someone knocked on the door. Panic began among the relaxed disepticons: the little things quickly ran into their places and took on a natural alt-form, returning to the appearance of household appliances, from which they originated. The displeased stove pulled the curtain shut with its clawed paw.

"Nana, are you there?" Mark Dykes' loud voice rang out at the door. The Evil one hissed, but when he met my gaze, he returned to the form of a teapot and fell silent. That's what a nasty dirty trick it is! It stands and boils, illuminated by red diodes.

"Mr. Dykes, I'll be right back!" Straightening my clothes, I opened the door and jumped down onto the sandy, rock-packed soil.

"Nana, the holiday season will start in a week and people with cars will arrive. I'm going to have to ask you to make room in the parking lot." The good-natured man said somewhat guiltily. "I hope your car gets fixed soon." I spread my hands. "The car is old. They can't find any spare parts. And what is there is very expensive."

"Look at the dump. She's three miles away from me. They seemed to have cars on the move. Mark pointed somewhere to the west. "Go there. I'll give you a bike. Maybe you can pick something up."

"Thank you. I'll take a walk, I can walk. The weather is good today. Solar."

The joke about the nice sunny weather in Nevada was on duty.

Mark laughed and left, and I began to think where to get this mythical car that I didn't have. Of course, the Trell could transform into a pickup truck, it had such a shape, but how am I going to explain the sudden disappearance of a large van?

Sighing, I returned to the trailer, and red glowing eyes were already staring at me expectantly from all sides, only the kettle was hissing angrily and spitting boiling water towards the door: he disliked Mark after he unceremoniously grabbed him to pour himself tea.

"Well, it's a small thing. We're going to have to get out of here soon." I rubbed my face. "Trell, while I'm gone, make sure that this pack of uglies doesn't scatter."

Four red eyes appeared on the wall and winked. He likes to bully this small pack: without his permission, they may spit here, but they won't go outside: the Trell is bigger and stronger.

I didn't put off going to the dump: it's still early and I can get out before the heat sets in. And maybe I'll really find a car: even if it doesn't drive, it doesn't matter. For me— it will go... after it comes to life. The main thing is that the whole dump doesn't come to life... and doesn't try to kill me.

Although... it seems that not a single lively disepticon has raised his paws on me yet. They did dirty tricks, of course, but not out of malice, not wanting to harm. Their nature is like this: belligerent and aggressive. And they vent this aggression in constant skirmishes and hunting each other. It is quite understandable and familiar pastime for combat cybernetic creatures. Even tiny ones.

Or am I already used to them? To constant fuss, hunting, outbursts of aggression and anger, endless swearing and squabbles that instantly stop as soon as real danger appears. The instincts of a belligerent creature do not depend on its size: small disepticons crave battle, venting their aggression on each other, arranging a kind of outdoor games with a combat bias.

A hot breeze blew in, raising fine, powdery dust. The sun was shining brightly from a clear blue sky, untouched even by light clouds. It's going to be hot. And at night, it's cold as always. Pulling my wide-brimmed straw hat lower so that the shadow covered my face, and adjusting my homemade poncho made from an old cotton pareo, I stomped on, already habitually putting a small plastic button in my mouth.

Three miles is not such a long distance. I've already gotten used to hiking in the desert. I learned to walk on it so as not to get heat or sunstroke and not to get dehydrated, having developed several simple rules that help to live normally in this territory.

It is necessary to drink properly in the desert. Especially when hiking. Strictly observing the water norm, following simple rules for its consumption and using simple thirst control methods. Such as an ordinary button stuck in your mouth: a foreign object stimulates salivation and slows down the onset of thirst.

And you also need to be able to dress. Especially to dress up and walk properly. I've learned. And for the same reason of controlling the consumption of moisture in the body, I refused the bicycle brand offered. The usual measured step is less harmful. I'll get there easily and without unnecessary stress on the body in the desert.

How did it happen that I moved from a big metropolis to this deserted hole? I had to... Willie, you asshole, you kicked me out of my job at the cafe and didn't pay the money, writing it off to pay for the damage. The funny thing is that his expensive stove, along with the pots and the cash register, suddenly ran away after me. Yes, Cassie... This wonder-hungry creature stayed in the trailer to meditate over colorful candy wrappers and bottle caps, carefully counting them and carefully storing them in cells in his stomach. He's the epitome of GREED in a surprisingly quarrelsome and petty disepticon: he drags everything that glitters and looks beautiful, and it's very difficult to take even one wrapper away from him. I had to take his LIFE once.

This execution impressed EVERYONE, and after that my little ones became amazingly compliant, unconditionally recognizing my right to command them. Including the newly revived greed. He even gave me a stolen wallet somewhere. The thought came up again that Cassie should buy a couple of decks of cards and let her meditate. He'll like it.

As I stomped along the side of the road, I remembered my life, which had changed dramatically since that momentous day when the Silver One doused me with his blood. I knew intellectually that it wasn't just the purple liquid, there was something else, but what? I did not know. I didn't even have any assumptions due to lack of knowledge, and the chaotic pictures that had been composing my dreams for years hadn't brought much understanding yet... except that I suddenly discovered that the squeaks and barking curses of my scoundrels had acquired the meaning of coherent speech. And here are the images that glided through my mind.... Apparently, I haven't grown up to their awareness and understanding yet....

Anyway, about a month later, when the severe phantom pains were gone and the alien coloring disappeared from my skin, I found the first litle dysepticon in my apartment.

It turned out to be... my cell phone. Nokiy. Quarrelsome and harmful, like all disepticons. He was the first person I unknowingly revived back then, but far from the last. Time has shown that I can transform any technique into transformers, even just passing by... if I don't control myself. And now most of this filth of my production is running around somewhere in the desert, having emigrated with me from the big city. The most annoying thing is that they don't leave me far, except for those who, for some reason, immediately left for unknown distances. Given the extremely lousy nature of all the disepticons, and I was the ONLY one who could do it, my life was... not boring: like the teacher of a vicious kindergarten of small demons, each of whom was somehow armed with MILITARY weapons. Even if it's small, like a needle thrower or a nail thrower. But they could kill ANYTHING! Oh, there was also an electric drill that came from nowhere, crawling out only to feed.