So, you wake up in an undisclosed open location, practically in the middle of nowhere. Yeah, I thought so too, but no. I don’t think you’d understand my predicament entirely. Oh, I forgot to answer your unasked question. I’m a bit like that, you know. Uhm, different? My mind is always all over the place and sometimes it’s hard to concentrate on a single thing for too long. Other times it’s that one thing that I would obsess about for days, weeks even months on end until I either crash and burn or I flush it out of my system by being bored of it.
But back to what I was talking about. You wake up in an undisclosed location in the middle of nowhere and you have no idea how you got there, nor the hangover to at least suspect how you got there. The land is barren and there is nothing remotely familiar about my location, except the fact that it’s nowhere near the vicinity of Paris, which is where I hail from. Sort of. It’s complicated, but ain’t all personal stories so? Oh yeah. Michael says I get off track. I get carried away, if you haven’t noticed that already.
Uhm. I really should start at the beginning. I might be able to follow all the weird thoughts randomly popping in my head and make heads and tails out of my sporadic mind. Hell, maybe even Michael can do so to some extent, but we just met and I doubt you can figure out what’s going on. You guys are lucky I have Michael with me, you know. She always helped me keep track of reality. I doubt I’d make it anywhere without her. I’d probably go out in a blaze of glory somewhere, which is perfectly fine. No, really! It’s fine! As long as people remember me. As long as I’ve left my mark on the world. As long as I’ve made a difference.
Michael says I’ve got this whole future megalomaniac thing going on about me and I wouldn’t exactly disagree with her. Michael is smart like that, you’ll see. She’s pretty bad ass and all around the best friend to have in the situation that we’ve literally landed ourselves in.
You see, for me to start at the beginning, you should know that I was born Fiona Johnson, though my mum says that Francesca was a pretty close second. I was born in 1995, 31st of July, in New York, but I’ve lived in Paris since I’ve been 5 years old. You could say that my family is very well off. We’re the pretty people and we’re the smart people and if you ever find a Johnson out there that’s both pretty and smart and has European roots, then you’re probably looking at a relative of mine. Michael says I’m full of it, but hell! I was pretty proud with who I am and where I came from.
Remember when I told you that I was a bit different? Well, I was born a genius. Like, Mr. Fantastic from the Fantastic Four type of genius. Kind of like Dexter from Dexter’s Laboratory type of Genius. You know, the mad scientist type that’s bound to end up dead somewhere in a ditch or in a little basement in a blaze of glory thanks to that latest experiment that’s gone wrong. Michael says it’s her job to keep that from happening to me, but she also reassures me that if I’d be going out in a blaze of glory, she’d make sure it was at least a decent sized blaze, not a little spark of a flame. Cus that’s what good friends do for each other, you know? They stick by your side, make sure you get where you want to get.
If you haven’t guessed by now, Michael happens to be my best friend in the whole wide world, and I’d probably do some real crazy shit if anything ever happens to her. I’m protective of my friends, given how few of them I have. I am not an easy person to be around with and I admit that fairly openly to you, folks. But that’s mostly because you are that fictional little crowd that I always imagine going Ooh! and Aah! whenever I regal you with my dramatic stories. Cus I kind of like to imagine myself as one of those awesome superheroes or tragic but still ultra-badass antiheroes. Or even as a charismatic villain. Someone capable of swaying the crowds with a single word. I think you can see where that whole megalomaniac thing comes from, I think. I am a dreamer. And I dream big. Everything I do, everything that I plan to do, that I have planned to do in my life all bounds up to one thing. That single moment, that apogee of my life where I finally do something worth living for. Where I, a mere spec of nothing in the grand scheme of the universe, finally make the world acknowledge my existence. For me, that one moment of my life would mean the world, no, the Universe for me.
And when I woke up in the middle of nowhere, among the barren wasteland of that undisclosed location, I knew that whatever I had been craving for would no longer be possible. It was as if everything that I’d done so far no longer mattered. In fact, I’m pretty sure it no longer existed.
You see, when I woke up, I was no longer human. The sheer fact that I processed that thought almost immediately, as in literally processed without panicking to the point of fainting or going into shock was… disconcerting. Nothing more, nothing less. It felt as if I was disconnected from everything, though now I was certain that at the time it was the change in the processing power of my, well, not brain…Uhm. I’d rather refer to my thoughts as part of my mind, because I know deep down inside that I’ve not always been a glorified autonomous calculator. The sensation was more of a “It’s a fact, I understand it and it is time to carry on.” So much was going on about me that I had I think I would’ve had hard time accommodating to the sheer amount of information that I was processing.
You think being a transformer is awesome? Well, duh. It’s awesome. But at those first few seconds of my life as a mechanoid I had to come to terms with a lot of things. For example, you know those things organics call instincts and reflexes? Forget those. Fuck ‘em. Mechanoids (and I will stick with that word ‘cus I like it times more than robots). As I was saying, mechanoids don’t have instincts or reflexes. We have programs and files for everything. And we have sensors all over our… uhhh bodies. I’m pretty sure my optics (those are the equivalent of an organic’s eyes) saw things in a ridiculously wide range of the Light Spectrum. And I was checking out that I also almost immediately became aware that I could actually modify said range to my heart’s delight. And I could do that with pretty much every other sensor of any type that I had. It’s like starting to play that brand new and super complicated game with ridiculous amounts of mods and you have no idea what to do, except that you actually know how to control your character. Yeah, I’m not touching the default settings. It’s what I will call them for simplicity’s sake and that’s how I described it to Michael, who is NOT a tech savvy in any way. Actually, what I did was more of the lines recounting that first time I tried to hook her up on Minecraft, only to have her give up after five minutes because she had no idea what to do with the hundred and fifty or so mods that were running.
Before you decide that I’m super –hyper-giga-mega vastly ahead of humanity now that I am an awesome transformer, let me tell you this. I have no idea what I am doing. In fact, I can’t describe to you the sensation of understanding perfectly well that this body, this-this pile of scrap that I am wearing is nothing more than a very well constructed shell that protects what I truly am – a spark. A friggen sentient, condensed amount of energy that is more or less my soul. Yeah, when you put it that way, and see things from my perspective, you can understand why I was going through an existential crisis even though I probably had more processing power than the sum of our world’s total computing power. I might be exaggerating a tiny bit (well, a lot) but I think you finally get the gist of my situation.
So, to sum up my ramblings, I present to you:
I woke up hours before Michael even started to shift out of her deep sleep cycle. She looked peaceful but I doubted she was comfortable where she lay. On the rocky ground. In the sun. Especially in the sun. My first order of business was to find some sort of cover for her, so I simply picked her up with my big ass hands. She was like a doll in my hands and I was terrified that I’d hurt her by accident. I was very careful
Oh before I forget, you probably wonder what I look like. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re asking me that but I was too busy having a monologue about my own problems, as usual. Well, to be honest, I’m not sure what kind of transformer I am myself. What I can see of my body is that it is rather tall and slim, though I don’t think anyone else would call themselves slim when they weigh just about 20 tons. My hands and feet, I think the transformers call those servos or something? Never mind. My hands and feet are rather thin and wiry and clawy and I look down to examine my legs further. I will tell you right now that the universe or whatever deux ex machina (talk about literally!) brought us here has a very twisted sense of humor.
Why? I have fucking chicken feet. Just looking at those stupid pseudo stilettos made me want to cringe. I will forever hate myself for laughing at Starscream’s design and declaring that the devil indeed wears Prada. It was still funny as fuck, though. As for color, well. It’s this dull bronze-ish, copper-ish thing that I’m not sure if I like. It does help me at least blend in a bit with the environment. I am not in a protoform, however. I could see bits and pieces of an aircraft all over me, even though if I was human I would’ve been hard pressed to figure out the model of it. I’m not an aircraft junkie, though, like every sensible human I appreciated a nice, sexy and sleek design.
You can tell I stared at myself the entire time I was waiting for MJ, that’s Michael by the way, to wake up. My shoulder and chest area were rather wide compared to the tiny and ridiculously slim hip area that I had. Forget tits and arse. I did not have these things. At least my voice was still somewhat feminine, though it was creepy as fuck. I wish I had EDI’s voice. Hell even GLADOS’ voice. Maybe even that female Microsoft voice. It was depressing to think about what my face may look like. It was depressing to think about what MJ would think of me when she woke up. She did not have the luxury to actually program herself to be calm.
It’s a rather depressing way to start your new life, isn’t it? In fact, the more I thought about it, the more problems seemed to pop up. The year was 2007, so it was obvious we were seven fucking years back in the past. Neither myself nor MJ existed in this world, which was obviously some sort of Transformers based realm. I had no idea where either Autobots or Decepticons were and I was even more apprehensive thinking about what I should do when I meet them. It might be obvious for you folks to simply join the Autobots and help them protect Earth. Well, life isn’t so simple. If I wanted to track down Autobots, wherever they may be, I’d need to send out a signal that would probably attract vultures of the Decepticon variety. And Decepticons were not a friendly bunch by default. I’d be forced to work for them and while I, myself, am a rather selfish creature and most certainly would screw the fate of the world for the sake of finding myself a niche where I fit it, I doubt MJ would appreciate said sentiments of mine.
If it was a matter of my own personal survival, then I’d fucking do it for the sake of that blaze of glory thing I talked about earlier. I’d probably stick to some sort of support role though, since I doubt even I would manage to live with myself by so actively betraying my previous race. Ugh, details. Anyways. I don’t think these sentiments of mine matter because I wasn’t alone. MJ was with me and she was still very obviously human and it was my job as the obviously more awesome and superior being to keep her safe. She’s my friend, if not THE Best Friend I’d ever have in my life and I’d probably even shoot Optimus Prime in his fucking spark with a shit eating grin on my face if I knew full well that would keep MJ alive, content and kicking. Well, probably not too content, seeing as I would have practically kicked the biggest puppy of good and goodness ever. Uhm, I’m getting off-track again and I should probably not bore you with all the scenarios running through my head.
Anyways, our safest bet is just to keep ourselves away from the big picture. I mean, as far as I could tell, I couldn’t see a single insignia that would designate me to either the Autobot or the Decepticon faction, which was disconcerting and relieving at the same time. But! I was a jet, possibly some sort of seeker and I recall quite clearly that the majority of the flying transformers are Decepticons. I don’t seem to possess any sort of readily accessible weapons, nor am I that bold to check them while I’m cradling the only link to my previous life in my hands.
MJ woke up with a jolt and started screaming and trashing, to which I had to carefully let her down on the ground. Then she started running as fast as she could away from me, at which point I knew I had to stop her before she had a heart attack or a heat stroke or something.
“MJ wait! Calm down! It’s me! It’s me!”
“G-get away from me!”
I cringed and pulled away before she could hurt herself. Humans were ridiculously squishy and I knew from first-hand experience.
“It’s me, MJ! It’s Fiona. Calm the fuck down, woman, you’re giving me the ones and zeroes’ equivalent of a headache from that screeching!”
“Fia?” she gasped incredulously, eyes even wider with shock, if that was even possible.
“Yes! You’re wonderful! Thank you God or whatever Asshole up there got us in this situation! Please calm down! Yes, it’s me! Even though I’m more or less not human anymore and …uhm… a giant fricken robot with stripper stilettos.” And probably an ugly as fuck mug.
“You’re a transformer!” she stated with that British Accent of hers so pronounced that I just had to laugh heartily (or was it sparkily?) in her face.
It took me about an hour or so to tell her what I’ve scrounged up about our predicament. Yes, it took that long because I am good at multitasking and I had been browsing the Internet for anything relevant for our situation. I also trolled on some forums because I totally could with all that awesome processing power that I’ve been regaling you about.
Right about now we were walking with MJ safely cradled in my hands. You probably wonder what she looks like. Well, MJ is tall and slim, of a wiry and athletic build. She’s very pale with rosy cheeks and lips and her eyes are a very pale blue color. She has straight, shoulder-length hair that is jet black and very shiny. She has what I call the “Good Hair Policy” and MJ is very adamant about the parameters of said policy. What can I say? Good hair is important and I am certain that I’d still appreciate this sentiment even if I technically no longer have hair. Hehe. Get it? Technically? Cus I’m a robot now and no longer an organic so…. Uh, yeah. Tough crowd and bad puns. I’ll suck it up and carry on. With the Bad Puns!
We were in Northern America, and I don’t think it’s important where exactly, because we weren’t anywhere close to Mission City or the Hoover Dam or whatever. My current and most important concern was to get the hell out of Dodge and find a suitable shelter without having Sector 7 on my shiny superior behind and MJ locked up somewhere in a government facility. Always with the cheerful thoughts, aren’t I?
I have an interesting alt form, let me tell you that. You see, I am technically a Unicorn because I don’t exist! Get it? Unicorn – Unicron? Ugh, you guys are a really tough crowd tonight, seriously! Back in 2014 in my our world, the real world, there’s this thing about Generations of fighter aircrafts that pretty much applies here as well. Well, my current fighter jet model is one that is considered a Generation 6 and from what I’ve gathered said generation was expected to be in use around the late 2020s to the early 2030s. So my alt form is based on that pile of informational shit that comes from another dimension and hasn’t even been put to exploitation. It was a two-seat, twin-engined tailless jet with a blended wing design and I had a variation of weaponry that suggested that I am pretty much scout oriented or something of the sort. Like I said, I may be a genius, but I was not someone with an unhealthy interest in cars, planes, trains and whatever other forms of transportation there was. I knew that my form was primarily stealth oriented and that suited my needs just perfectly.
“Fia, are you certain you want me to fly inside of you on your very first ever flight?”
“It’s not whether I want you to or not, considering that we are talking about popping the proverbial cherry here on so many fronts” We both had the decency to cringe at our words, don’t worry.” It’s just that we really have to get the fuck away from here before we’re swarmed with government officials and I end up was Captain Mega-Capsicle.”
“Do you even know how to fly this thing?”
“Are you a hundred per cent certain?”
“And you are a fully functional aircra-“
“For the last fucking time woman – YES!”
Transforming is profoundly weird to my senses and I doubt, given my history of being a human for some twenty years of my life, that I would ever feel perfectly comfortable doing it. I was nervous, Michael even more so, but we were also both giddy little shits on the verge of our very own adventure.
It’s a frightening prospect, you know. To start a journey. I was terrified and, in fact, still am. I was terrified of both what lay ahead of us and what would become of myself and MJ. Hell, I couldn’t even comprehend myself as an actual transformer. It’s hard to explain. I was still me. Even if I was no longer in the same body, even if I was no longer organic, I was still Fiona Fucking Johnson and I was going to kick ass and take names, all in due time. With Michael by my side I could see myself firmly standing on the edge of my future and ready to plunge directly into the great unknown.
It was strange, but it was also wonderful. To start a new life, a new journey, a new adventure. It was a clean slate for the both of us and even if it would take us time to realize just how much we’ve lost by simply being here, I am certain that neither of us would regret it. Not in the near future at least.
As it was, we were getting a clean slate and I, for once, would not look a gift horse in the mouth.
:: This is Fiona Fucking Johnson signing out until next time. ::