Transformation Complication

[Big Daddy]

Hey, everyone.

This is the crossover idea with Transformers that I'd mentioned in my "Greetings" thread. The title is a reference to one of my favorite episodes of FHFIF, "Emancipation Complication", and it came as a result of having extreme difficulty thinking up a perfect title for the fanfic.

It is loosely based on the plot of the upcoming movie, and it will obviously feature each and every character from the show, from Bloo and Mac to Cheese and Goo. In additional, characters from other Cartoon Network shows and some Nickelodeon ones will be involved also. For the additional CN programs, I want to pay an homage to the "Invaded" theme of last month with characters out of two of the four other shows from the special brought into the tale and three that weren't part of the theme but I'd like to be included like Class of 3000, Dexter's Laboratory, and Codename: Kids Next Door. And for the Nickelodeon shows involved, the only ones that came to mind was Jimmy Neutron and The Fairly Oddparents.

The plot of the story is the same as the one for the movie. Two groups of robots (one evil and the other good) come to Earth to find an alien object known as the Allspark, which is sort of like their afterlife. As they wage a fierce war between each other on the planet, the Foster's gang gets caught up in the mix, when a neighbor and friend of Mac's purchases a Pontiac Solstice (that's in reality an Autobot named Jazz) and shares it with everyone at the mansion. Only when Bloo sees it transform does things get out of hand, as he tries to convince everyone that they're being invaded (again!) by "Robot Guys". Of course, after the Cheese incident, no one is willing to take him seriously, at least until they discover reports of mechanical monsters attacking in certain parts of the world.

I basically just give characters of each show a certain role in the story that's either crucial to the main storyline or just back it up a little. For example, Jimmy Neutron helping the military find a way to defeat the Decepticons (the bad guys) and the Autobots (the good guys), while the KND assist the gang from Foster's, Endsville, the cul-de-sac, Little Five Points, and Dimmsdale into defeating just the Decepticons with further aid from the Autobots.

The story will be posted on this thread around the release of the film, so everyone can understand what's all going on. And if anyone feels like a few things could be changed to make it more enjoyable to read or not seem a little dumb in a way, let me know either around the film's release or sometime before it and I'll be happy to alter things.

Hope everyone will be looking forward to this fanfic and the movie itself.

[Big Daddy]

Hey again, everybody.

I'm sorry I haven't posted this story yet. I've been pretty busy recently, not just with personal matters, but creative differences as well. I've had to make some changes to the storyline and characters for the crossover, until I was satisfied with my decisions.

I'll try to have it up in .html format as soon as I can. In the meantime, check out the "teaser poster" for the story here:

[Big Daddy]

Here's the first chapter. It's not much, but it does give pretty good introduction to the main plot of this story.

Chapter One

?Miss Frances! Miss Frances! Miss Frances!?

Frankie Foster just wished for one day that dumb giant rabbit?created by her grandmother, Madame Foster?didn?t have to repeatedly say her name over the speaker like that?especially at nine o?clock in the morning, a time when she was just getting up.

?I?M COMIN?!!!!!? Frankie yelled as loud as her lungs could allow her.

That was all that it took to shut up Herriman. She never really liked screaming at other people like that. But ever since she was a teenager there at Foster?s Home For Imaginary Friends, she had to take care of the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, running fundraisers, working as the handyman, driving the house residents around in the multicolored bus, and taking care of her grandmother?s foster friends?all while under the strict supervision of Mr. Herriman?it was understandable to come under such tremendous stress.

She basically had to pry herself out of bed that morning, because she was so exhausted from her previous day of duties (and the ones before that). Even as she made her way out of her room and into the bathroom down the hall of the second floor, her mind was still on the short but bizarre dream that she had overnight.

In the dream, she was somewhere far up north, traveling in what seemed like an old pirate ship that had gotten stuck in the ice. She was buried deep within a warm, protective greatcoat and led a group of men that chopped, gouged, and chipped away at the ice pressure ridge that had not only trapped their ship but lifted it up above the waterline, using axes and picks and an occasional dose of dynamite. The captain that Frankie apparently was in her dream had alternately praised those members of the crew who were working hard while also doing her best to keep up the morale of others whose strength and spirit were beginning to flag.

?Put your backs into it, lads, or we?ll be chopping ourselves a path all the way back to the States!? Frankie said in her dream, as the expedition?s huskies howled louder and louder, sounding more anxious. And, without warning, they suddenly broke ranks and sprinted off into the haze. Cursing under her breath when she learned what had happened, Captain Foster picked up her rifle and a nearby lantern and gave chase, taking the nearest of the crew with her.

Whatever it was that had drawn the dogs away from the shelter and safety of the ship?s side was not immediately discernible. Having stopped and gathered in a circle around the object of their interest, they stood there barking and squealing. From the unholy racket they were making, Foster could not tell if they were angry, expectant, or afraid. Forcing his way through the circle of wailing, agitated dogs, one of the sailors who had accompanied the captain knelt and began pushing snow from side to side.

?Whatever it is has upset them,? the man contended, ?it?s below the ice.?

?Nothing?s below the ice,? Foster muttered as she looked on. ?This area is frozen solid and frozen deep.?

As they were debating alternative explanations there came a roar like nothing any of them had ever heard, not even at the height of a nor?easter at sea. There was no warning. One minute they were on hands and knees scrabbling at the snow; the next the surface beneath them simply parted as if smashed open by a gigantic cleaver. One sailor nearly fell through, only to be caught at the last instant by his companions and pulled to safety. A lead sled dog was not so lucky. Its terrified whines shrank with distance as it slid downward and disappeared.

A devoted dog being more valuable than a questionable woman, an anxious Foster had put her rifle aside to reach out and make a grab for the wide-eyed husky. For an instant she had it, a fistful of thick fur clutched firmly in one gloved hand. And then she didn?t. She?d lost her grip?along with her footing.

Fortunately for both woman and dog, the fissure was no more than thirty feet deep and the wall tolerably slanted. Still, it was a swift slide downward, and both landed hard when they hit bottom. While she had lost her hold on the husky, sheer determination had allowed the captain to maintain her grasp on the kerosene lantern clutched tightly in her other hand. As she hit bottom the lantern?s metal base clanged against the surface underneath. Somehow it stayed lit.

Clanged? she thought. That wasn?t right. Metal striking ice made a much duller sound.

Dazed but otherwise unhurt, she rose slowly to her feet. Body and lantern and dog all seemed to be intact. Instead of running off, the frightened husky cowered close by, whimpering against her legs. Tilting her head back, Foster hastened to reassure the frantic shouts that were raining down on her from above.

?I?m okay, lads! Nothing damaged but my dignity. I?ve taken worse falls on the hills in New Hampshire!?

Her ready and hearty response brought forth sighs of relief and not a few chuckles. Having reassured the crew, she set about reassuring herself?and promptly failed. Her eyes widened as she looked down at her feet and saw what had produced the unexpected sound of metal lantern striking unknown surface.

She was not standing on ice. She was not standing on rock. Beneath her feet and revealed in the glow of the lantern was the unmistakable gleam of metal. But it was metal unlike any she had ever seen. As she paced the surface below her feet and studied it more closely she thought she could make out a shape.

She certainly did not expect to see a hand.

It was huge, and she was standing in the center of its upraised palm. Gripping the lantern tighter than ever, she raised it above her head. Was that something else, not underfoot but shining from the ice wall directly opposite? She took a step closer?and stumbled hurriedly back, gasping in shock.

The face that stared back at her was proportionate in size to the gigantic hand on which she was standing. Its mouth was open: perhaps in surprise, perhaps in a scream. Despite the obvious eyes and mouth the visage was only vaguely human. Mouth, eyes: these she recognized. But there was also much that was inhuman and bewildering. Taken together it was all very foreign and?frightening.

She took courage from the fact that whatever it was, it was dead?or at least unmoving. Advancing slowly, she reached out and wiped at the ice with a gloved hand. Frost melted beneath her warmth or was caught and swirled away by the breeze that now filled the open fissure. She looked harder, closer. There was some kind of symbol, embedded in the shape?

Pulling her small pickax from her belt, she started chopping at the ice. If she could get a better look at the symbol, she reasoned, she might be able to identify it, and if she could identify it she could possibly determine its origin. Ice flew in chips and then small blocks, as if it had been imperfectly frozen. All the better for her, then. As she dug deeper the outlines of the symbols grew clearer. They remained unrecognizable, though. Maybe a variety of Russian, she mused.

Again and again the pickax descended in smooth, measured strokes. She was settling into a rhythm now. From beneath the point of his relentless ax, a light suddenly burst forth, bright and intense as the sun that had not been seen in days. It was replete with signs and symbols the stunned captain had no time to appreciate. Dropping the ax, she screamed and staggered backward, clawing at the burning pain that seared her corneas. Her hands ripped away her spectacles and sent them flying across the floor of the fissure. Hearing her screams, the newly anxious men clustered around the rim of the fissure and shouted frantically downward.

Foster did not answer them. Dazed and trembling, she straightened and dropped her hands from her eyes. On the floor nearby, her glasses lay open and miraculously unbroken. Had she picked them up they would not have done her any good. Their formerly clear lenses had been imprinted with a fantastic array of minute and completely unintelligible symbols that were utterly alien and incomprehensible to anyone on Earth.

But that was not why they were now useless to her. The imprinting was far too small to be detected by the human eye. They were of no use because Foster?s corneas and pupils were gone, obliterated in a single blinding surgical flash, leaving behind only a whiteness as pure and harsh and unforgiving as the snow that continued to drift down into the open, forbidding wound in the ice?.

However, none of it had made any sense to 21-year-old Frances ?Frankie? Foster, who had neither recollection of ever having an ancestor that had gone on such a bizarre expedition nor one that was a female captain. She had no idea why a dream like that would enter her mind?she just dismissed it as a result of the heavy workload she?d been receiving as of late?either that or something she ate before going to bed. Either way, she had more matters to attend to, such as waiting for Blooregard Q. Kazoo to get out of the bathroom, so she could get to cleaning herself up and getting ready for more chores of the day.

Knocking fiercely on the door, Frankie shouted, ?BLOO!! WILL YA HURRY UP?! I HAVEN?T GOT ALL DAY!!!?

From inside the bathroom, Bloo responded, ?Relax, Frankie. Beauty such as mine should be handled delicately. You don?t want me to come out looking like some type of freak, do you??

?I?d rather stand seeing you as a freak than losing my bladder from combustion!!!?

The door to the bathroom had suddenly opened, allowing Bloo to stick his head out long enough to stare up at Frankie with a big smile on his face. ?Man! Would I love to see that!!? Seizing her opportunity as it came, Frankie kicked Bloo out of her way and dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. An angry Bloo then approached the door and began knocking more fiercely than Frankie had. ?Come onnnnnn, Frankie!! Let me in!! Let me in!!!?

?Ya snooze, ya loose, Bloo!?

?Oh, come on. That doesn?t even make any sense. I just got up!?

END OF CHAPTER ONE

I'll have another chapter up soon.

[Xroc88]

Very cool!!

Man i was always wondering what if transformers anf Foster's crossed over would be like. please put goo in the story too. I want her to fight megatron LOL

Heres a little soundtrack to get you pumped up for the next chapter.
Transformation Complication Score Sample

[Ignate]

Awesome. I'm looking forward to this.

[Big Daddy]

Thanks for the comments, guys. I'll try to have another chapter up soon (hopefully by the time the movie gets out on DVD).

Originally Posted by Xroc88

Heres a little soundtrack to get you pumped up for the next chapter.
Transformation Complication Score Sample

Hey, this is getting me pumped up for it! Thanks!

[Big Daddy]

Chapter Two

Living next to the apartment of Mac was a couple of siblings that didn?t quite look relational on the outside, but very much so on the inside. These were the Andrews siblings?Sean and Alissa. Sean was a friendly, smart, generous, and handsome young man in his early twenties, who was often the one to take care of his older sister, even though she was five years older than him. Alissa was just like her brother, only she was a thousand times much friendlier, smarter, and beautiful, so much so that Sean had to keep her from being overly sensitive to the slightest stranger.

On that very afternoon they joined Mac to help Frankie and friends search for a new car for Frankie, the siblings knew that the afternoon would be quite enjoyable.

As the sign in front of the local VW-Porsche dealership loomed larger ahead, Frankie started to swerve in its direction, much to the surprise of Mac and the Andrews siblings. ?Wow, Frankie! You?re getting a Porsche?!? Mac exclaimed.

Frankie was about to happily answer Mac?s question, until her grandmother slapped her against the side of the head and answered for her. ?No, she?s not! And she?d better drive away from that shop, before she?s got no hands left to steer the wheel with!?

As Frankie veered at the last moment back into the northbound lane, she wondered why in the heck that she brought her grandmother along with Eduardo, Wilt, Coco, Bloo, Mac, and the siblings on their mission for a new car. As a matter of fact, she didn?t even remember seeing her come on the bus with them?almost as if she had slept there the entire week just to be ready for Frankie. It was her grandmother that was always saying, ?Keep the bus! It?s a company vehicle, and we need to advertise as much as we can for the friends! Don?t replace somethin? that ain?t broke, dearie!?

But as much as Frankie loved to help advertise the business with the Foster?s bus, she knew in her heart that it was time for her to get her own car?something that she could drive on her off days (when they rarely came). However, she also knew that Madame Foster would?ve never approved of her getting one, unless it cost less than four thousand dollars and came from ?Bobby Bolivia?s Auto Resale.? Bobby Bolivia?s place was the last one that Frankie had ever wanted to go to, because the cars there were cheap, smelly, and?well?pieces of pure crap. Unfortunately, it was exactly where they went, on the suggestion of none other than Madame Foster.

Gazing morosely at the train wreck of a selection on offer, Frankie was hard put to decide if the name of the shop referred to the owner?s patrimony or to the country from which the vehicles on display had been imported. The venerable machines packed too closely together facing the street were a long, long way from those shining on the lot of the Porsche dealership they had passed.

Standing out front on one side of the main driveway was a man in a clown suit. The suit had seen better days, and so had its occupant. His amateurishly applied face makeup was melting in the hot sun. Employing both gloved hands, the clown held up a sign that read, ?Cheap Wheels 4 U.? As Frankie and the others pulled into the lot, the clown flipped over the sign. The reverse declared, ?I?m not clowning around!?

?Man! Does this look like the most boring place in the world or what?!? Bloo exclaimed.

Frankie let out a deep sigh. ?I?m aiming for ?Or what?.? She turned to Madame Foster with a pleading look on her face. ?Grandma, this is the one in a lifetime opportunity for me to start driving something really cool. Something to show my friends that I?m not just some underpaid girl who can?t afford a stylish new model Nissan instead of some piece of crud.?

?Dearie, when I was your age, I would?ve been glad just to have had four wheels and an engine! You oughta count yourself lucky. You?re gonna get one with a roof, and windows, and maybe even a radio.? Madame Foster sternly told her.

?But you own something far greater than all that. You own a late-70s Pontiac Trans Am!? Frankie exclaimed.

?That?s because I?m old and I earned it! When you reach 78 and worked your fingers to the bone, you can buy one of the sportiest cars the world?s ever seen. But for now, you?re startin? from scratch!?

Frankie then said in a low tone, ?Yeah, and I bet these cars been scratched pretty darn good.?

As Frankie had parked the bus, Alissa approached her and said, ?You know, Frankie, our family has quite a motto that I think would work well for you in this situation.?

Sean rolled his eyes in exasperation. ?Oh, no, Allie. Not the family motto.?

?Hey, it?s gotten us through several worse case scenarios, and it could get Frankie through her dilemma right now.? Alissa said. ?What our family always says is ?No sacrifice?no victory?.?

Frankie took in the motto quite well, pondering over its value to her ?dilemma? as Alissa so wisely referred it as. But it wasn?t helping her out as much as Alissa hoped it would?ve for her. She felt twice as dismal as she had when they arrived at the shop, and she didn?t dare let her grandmother see how much she was, as they unloaded from the bus. Had she become an Andrews instead of a Foster, Frankie would?ve accepted that motto with open arms. But the fact of the matter was that nothing could?ve cheered Frankie up that moment. Especially not even the comments made by Bloo.

?If I knew we were gonna spend the day at the dump, I would?ve brought a clothespin to hold my nose with.? He boldly stated.

?But, Bloo, you don?t have a nose.? Wilt indicated.

?I know! And the saddest part is that I still smell one big pile of??

?BLOO!!? Mac yelled.

?What? I was gonna say ?trash?. Jeez, Mac!?

It wasn?t long before the lot?s owner met the group immediately. Professional welcoming smile plastered from ear to ear, the man approached to greet them, open hand extended to Frankie. ?Hiya, ladies and gents, hiya. Bobby Bolivia. Like the country, ?cept without the diarrhea.? His head bobbed, powered by relentless enthusiasm. To Frankie?s surprise, no wires were visible. ?At your service.?

?Nice to meet you, Mr. Bolivia.? Madame Foster stepped in. ?You probably don?t remember me, but I came to this shop, fifty-two years ago, to buy a car from your dear old father.?

?You did?? Bolivia said with much surprise, wondering how far back his family business must?ve went. ?Well, ain?t that something!? He looked in Frankie?s direction with a painted-on smile. ?So, I guess you?re here to help carry on the legacy, eh??

?Unfortunately.? Frankie muttered, not far from quite a nudge that her grandmother gave her against the knee after she made her sly comment. ?Ow!?

?Well, that practically makes us family. Call me ?Uncle Bobby B.?? Reaching out, he extended an arm and wrapped it around Frankie?s shoulders. She flinched but, trapped, decided it was useless to try and escape. ?I?ve been doing this a long time, kid. That first enchilada of freedom?s just waitin? under one of these hoods. See, drivers don?t pick their cars. Cars pick their drivers.? With his free hand, he traced an imaginary arc across the cosmos. ?It?s a mystical bond between man?or in your case, woman?and machine, for real.?

Bolivia then escorted Frankie through the heaps of metal that pockmarked the lot. Some, a discouraged Frankie decided, might once have been called cars. Madame Foster and the others followed, scrutinizing each minivan, each semi-fossilized coupe. Frankie ignored them one and all, her eyes barely focusing, and her brain on autopilot.

And then she stopped. Slipping free of Bolivia?s grasp, she retraced her steps, darting in among the ranks of junkers and discarded soccer-mom mishaps. She found herself staring at a really bright yellow Classic Camaro. Even though the color was a bit out of control, she wondered what kind of engine?dirty and probably in need of a serious tune-up?sat under the hood (assuming there was an engine). It even came with black, cheap looking racing stripes?obviously a Pep Boys? ten-dollar attempt to look cool.

She wasn?t the only one staring at the car. Bolivia gaped at it, then frowned, and finally gave vent to his confusion. ?Where?d this one come from? I don?t remember anybody rolling this out on the lot.?

Frankie tried the door, surprised to even discover that it was unlocked. She slipped inside the car and behind the wheel. The cushion felt good, comfortable, the seat back providing just the right amount of resistance against her spine. She didn?t even have to adjust it?it was just the right height and the ideal distance to the wheel.

Her initial delight at finding that the door opened and closed smoothly and that no loose springs were going to puncture her butt vanished as she studied the dash. Her expression fell.

?Gee, an actual eight-track!? She looked imploringly out the window at her grandmother and friends. ?The cassettes for this antique are bigger than my iPod. Where?s the hand-crack??

Bolivia didn?t pause to ask questions. ?Fits ya, doesn?t it? You look swell in there, kid. Great engine in these old Camaros, lemme show ya??

Moving around to the front of the car, he bent to open the hood. Then he struggled to open it. Neither muscular forearms nor the application of severe language budged the hood so much as a millimeter. As the lot owner fought with the disobedient sheet metal, Mac and Bloo joined up with Frankie in the Camaro, just as she found herself distracted by a glint of light on the steering wheel. Mac and Bloo soon noticed it as well, as it drew their gaze to an emblem. Covered in grime, its outlines became clearer when Frankie used a little spit and elbow grease to wipe away the grunge.

Mac frowned as he studied it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing along with his friends. ?What the heck kind of manufacturer owns that logo??

?Certainly not the familiar Chevy chevron, that?s for sure.? Frankie alleged.

Madame Foster had been studying both the car and her granddaughter long enough to come to a conclusion. Looking toward Bolivia, she uttered the magic words. ?How much??

?Well, uh, considering the semi-classic nature of the vehicle, the timeless lineage, the custom racing stripes?five grand.?

?Oh, that?s quite a shame.? She remarked. ?We?re not going above four.?

?But, Grandma,? Frankie quickly spoke up, ?This one has potential. It?s not like any of the other slops in this lot.?

?No use arguing, kid.? Bolivia told her. ?Outta the car.?

Leaning out the open window, Frankie gazed imploringly back at the lot owner. ?But you said cars choose their drivers.?

?Yeah, well,? he responded casually, ?Sometimes they choose one with a cheap grandmother.?

Madame Foster definitely wasn?t the one to let such a bold comment from a lowly lot owner slip past her. ?Who ya callin? cheap, you no-good son of a???

She was cut off in mid-sentence as the car?s horn started blaring. No, not blaring. It was a sonic explosion.

Maybe it was the volume, maybe the timbre, maybe something about the combination, or maybe a certain something they couldn?t hear. Like a sound that was pitched too high for the human ear to detect. Whatever it was, the resulting concussion blew out the windows of every other car on the lot. Bolivia?s lower jaw headed in the direction of southern Brazil as he gaped at the vitreous devastation. His cherished, beautiful, dollar-generating lot looked as though it had just suffered through a ten-second hailstorm. Sunlight sparked and flashed from millions of glass shards.

He took a deep breath and winced, as if his heart hurt him?which wasn?t far from the truth. Turning to Madame Foster, he weakly shouted, ?Four grand!?

END OF CHAPTER TWO

[Xroc88]

This is going along great, I loved how you made frankie take the role of sam's place. In fact i was listening to the transformers score album as im reading this.

Hope to see more.

[Big Daddy]

Thanks for the comments, Xroc.

I wish I had a chapter to post today to commemorate the release of the movie on DVD, but I haven't had the time to get another one done. I did, however, purchase the DVD today and plan on watching it this weekend.

Hopefully I'll have another chapter up tomorrow night.

[Big Daddy]

Chapter Three

On the way back to the mansion in both the bus and Frankie?s new car (which Frankie decided to drive herself), news came over the bus?s radio about an attack over a military base in western Qatar without warning?no survivors. The news had been delivered by Secretary of Defense, John Keller, who added that the objective of the attack was an attempt to hack the deepest reaches of the military network, and they weren?t sure what information the attackers were after. No one had claimed responsibility?no group, no Internet site, and no country. The only lead they had was the signal that hacked the network.

Feeling as if all that was irrelevant to them, Sean Andrews shut off the radio, just as they had approached the front gate of the Foster?s mansion. As soon as everyone was inside, they didn?t hesitate to share Frankie?s new car with all of the friends in the house, going as far as bringing them out of the house to see it. For Frankie, it was a little embarrassing, because she told half of the friends in the house that she was getting a sporty new car. And for them to see an old, rusted vehicle sitting there had to have been a huge letdown.

?Just want to let everybody know that I didn?t intend on getting this.? Frankie announced. ?I was actually on my way to get one of the stylin? Porsches at the most famous car shops in town, but??

?Yeah, yeah, yeah.? A small, green, one-eyed, deep-voiced imaginary friend known as Jackie Khones was standing near the front of the car with a few other imaginary friends as he interrupted Frankie. ?Just pop the hood, would ya? I wanna check out the engine on this thing.?

The hood gave a metallic click and swung up to reveal in the fading daylight not the grease-streaked, grime-choked hunk of half-rusted iron most had expected to see but the gleam of polished chrome, serpentine coils of wire-wrapped nonstock hoses, shining cables, and a full panoply of glistening components that were quite alien to some of the Foster?s residents.

?Whoa?nice headers!? Jackie exclaimed. ?Check out the compression setup. You have a high-rise double-pump carburetor. This has the makings of a stealth street racer. Impressive.? While Jackie was voicing his admiration for the vehicle, he barely noticed that everyone had been staring at him in utter disbelief. Once he had, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, ?What??

Next to Jackie?s vast knowledge of cars, the fact that her beat-up car had such a remarkable engine with marvelous horsepower surprised the heck out of Frankie. She was starting to realize that there was more than meets the eye with her ?new? car.


Late that night, all through the mansion not a creature was stirring. Out near the front gate, the old but brightly colored Camaro suddenly came to life, its engine rumbling softly. The sound was deep enough and near enough to wake the vehicle?s owner. After blinking one and rubbing her eyes, Frankie dashed out of her room and downstairs to the foyer. She looked through the window, seeing past the front porch to notice her now-beloved new car moving away from the front gate of the mansion. Half asleep and half hysterical, she opened the front door and ran past the porch, yelling at the presumed someone in the car.

?Hey, that?s my car. Thief!?

She went to the bus, which was parked right behind the moving Camaro, and as she hopped into it, she thanked God this one time that the keys had been accidentally left in the ignition again. Immediately starting up the bus, she gave chase in time to see the Camaro heading south. Pulling her cell phone from inside the right pocket of her robe, she dialed with one hand while steering with the other. The response was gratifyingly fast.

?911 Emergency.?

?My car?s being stolen,? she yelled toward the phone. ?Get me some help!?

?Ma?am, ma?am?we?re trying to trace your call. Are you all right? Ma?am??

?Just send some cops!? She barked at the phone before sliding it, still on, back into her pocket. As she had done so, she barely even noticed that she was passing through Mac?s apartment. From Mac?s bedroom, the roaring of the two engines, both sounding very familiar to him, suddenly wakened him.

Sitting up in his bed and rubbing his eyes, Mac looked out the window to see the two vehicles blazed past his apartment. The sight had confused him quite a bit. It was so puzzling that he jumped out of bed, slipped out of his pajamas, and put on his regular clothes. Afterwards, he dashed out of his apartment and hopped on the new bike that his mom got for him on his recent birthday, chasing after the bus and the Camaro.

The chase led directly into the junkyard near town, as the Camaro busted the lock on the gates to it. Watching the car carefully, Frankie noticed how it entered the yard and finally slowed down, which she did as well. She parked the bus into the shadows and hopped out, following the car on foot. Disappearing briefly behind a slow-moving train, the Camaro emerged a few moments later. For the first time since the car had awakened her and pulled away from the mansion, Frankie had a good look at the front of it.

There was no one in the driver?s seat.

?Frankie!? A voice shouted from behind her, and she turned to see Mac arriving at the junkyard on his bike, which he stowed carefully out of sight once he was near her. ?What?s going on??

She could barely believe that he was even there. ?Mac! Go back home! This is a dangerous situation. Someone has hijacked my new car!? At least, she thought it had been stolen. It took an actual person to steal a vehicle, and apparently, after what she just saw, there was no carjacker involved here. But if there happened to have been one, it was crucial for Mac to get out when he still had a chance. ?Just let me handle this. If I could handle a jerk like my old boyfriend Dylan, then I can??

She stopped once she noticed the odd look on Mac?s face, as he was looking past her at something. Turning her head, she realized how much worse the situation seemed to have gotten when the car, its outline muddled by distance and darkness, appeared to change its shape and stand up.

?Oh, man.? Frankie thought aloud.

Huddled behind a crate, she and Mac looked on as the dark, now-vertical silhouette removed something from its torso. Without warning, the object emitted a light as overpowering as it was unexpected, temporarily blinding the two humans. Shielding their eyes, they tried to identify the light source. All they could tell was that it had regular, precise outlines. Some sort of symbol?

Before they could get a better look or analyze it further, it leaped upward and vanished into the night sky.

?F-F-Frankie?? Mac stammered with a look on his face that was just as bizarre as when he was high on sugar?which he thought for a moment was why he was seeing what he was seeing. ?Y-Your car?s?a-alive??

Frankie didn?t have the time to give a remark for Mac?s comment. She fumbled wildly for the cell phone. Though she aimed its built-in camera as carefully as she could, it was just too dark and her ?car? too distant and hidden for her to get a clear shot. That didn?t stop her from babbling urgently into the phone, however.

?M-My name?s Frances ?Frankie? Foster. My car?I thought it was stolen, but it?s alive. Or at least self-animated, or something, I dunno. I don?t know how, but it?s alive.?

Suddenly, there was a sound. Not in front, but behind them. There was nothing of the mechanical about it. It was a long, low growl, mean and ripe with anticipation. Hearts pounding, Frankie and Mac turned and looked behind them.

There were two of the rottweilers, and each looked big as a bear.

?Oh, man, oh, man!? Frankie cried. ?Run, Mac!?

Long chains unfurled like kite strings from the dogs? heavy leather collars. Fortunately, the chains were bolted to a wall. Fortune, however, was not a companion of Frankie and Mac?s that night. With a snap and a bang, first one restraining bolt and then its companion tore free of the aging concrete.

Frankie and Mac leaped onto a pile of crates. The ascent didn?t stop the dogs, but it did slow them down for a moment. So did the barbed wire fence Frankie and Mac scrambled over, ripping their clothes as they cleared it. The dogs tore through a nearby hole under the fence. One was close enough to snap at one of Mac?s ankles. Teeth caught his pants and not his leg, but it was enough to send him sprawling into the dirt.

?Frankie! Help!?

She nearly tripped over herself as she quickly went to save him, her cell phone flying in the process. Before she could even attempt to do anything for the eight-year-old, the Camaro reappeared, spinning doughnuts around the prone Frankie and Mac and honking furiously. It confronted the startled dogs with mass, light, and complete confusion. One tire ran right over the errant cell phone, reducing it to a handful of crushed circuitry. Whimpering now, the dogs turned tail and fled. Scrambling to their feet, Frankie and Mac desired to follow them. But the car was between them and the distant exit.

Red, blue, and white lights pierced the settling dust as the sound of wailing sirens closed on the yard. The police! Pivoting, Frankie and Mac accelerated in the direction of lights and noise, nearly running up onto the hood of an arriving cruiser. Guns drawn, what seemed in the darkness like a whole company of cops had piled out of the arriving vehicles. They held their weapons steady and ready.

And every one of them was pointed at Frankie and Mac.

?Freeze!? One sergeant commanded them. ?Hands! Up!?

Sliding slowly off the hood of the cruiser, Frankie and Mac both hastened to explain, one talking over the other. ?Not us! No! Wrong people! Her car! My car! It?s??

Turning, they pointed at the Camaro. Or rather, they found themselves pointing at the spot where the Camaro had been idling only a little while ago. It was gone, and with it their rationale. They could think of nothing to say as they were spun around and dumped facedown on the same hood they had only a moment ago embraced as a savior.

?I can?t believe I?m going to jail again!? Mac exclaimed. ?This is ridiculous, I?m only eight!?

?You wanna hear ridiculous?? Frankie uttered. ?This will be my first time?I think.?

END OF CHAPTER THREE