Disclaimer: Transformers and all its components do not belong to me. The OC, however, is mine.

As I mentioned previously in the summary, there will be some scenes of violence and some other stuff that needs the rating, like delicate thematic, if you find something too tough or excessive, please let me know.

I am open to advise!

About my OC, I have to say that my character will develop a bond with many of the Autobot, therefore, in the beginning, it might seem that her interest is directed to someone else, but this remains an OPtimusxOc story, however, all the Autobot will have their own role.

Thank you guys for the attention! I hope you will enjoy the story!

It was believed that melancholy was the peculiarity of the most sensitive souls, the deep sadness of those who looked at the world and accepted its cruelty, the hardness of something that would have always been bigger than themselves, than her.

It had always been that way.

And it mattered little that she was so small that she can be locked in a closet, or that those eyes so full of melancholy and sadness belonged to a ten years old little girl, because, the shadows that followed her had always been too cumbersome to be ignored or mistaken for her own.

Lucile was small, not stupid.

Her mind, insofar as unripe given the age, was sharp and imaginative.

It could be compared to the one of an artist who saw what no else could see, who heard what could be perceived only with the heart and not with the five senses, and just like those imaginative and abstract minds, she was more sensitive to the outside world than others, more fragile and ready to accept it as it was, even people and their actions, their cruelty.

In them, Lucile could find more shades than in other things, a range of colors to which she was able to give a name and a form, and as much as she loved to observe those shades dyeing their eyes and faces, Lucile had learned to keep a distance from them, because their emotions could crush her.

It was human's nature to attack the weakest, to break his mind, but her grandma Lucrecia had always made sure that nothing could cause her damage.

Because Lucile was a premature child.

Even before her birth, it had been clear that the complications resulting from an obvious cardiac deficiency would have compromised her health, and that the chances of dying in childbirth were very high, if not unmistakable.

The doctors had given her twenty percent of survival, but even then, her physical problems would have prevented her and her family to have a normal life.

Yet, if her mother had been willing to give her up without blinking a second time, her grandma Lucrecia had refused to support her daughter's selfishness.

Lucile's grandmother had told her that her birth had been incredibly painful and hard, but as soon as she was born, her mother Lucinda had entrusted her in the care of her grandma after recovering the money that Lucrecia had promised for carrying the pregnancy to term without aborting.

And there she was now, bent on the floor to draw the orange sky that Lucile could see every day through the glass door of her room.

She was using watercolors, the wooden floor of her room as canvas and vibrant orange to stain her cheeks whenever Lucile removed with one arm some locks of black hair from her eyes.

She was scattering the color propped on her elbows, a sea of yellow and red that she lightened with her fingertips moistened with water to give movement to the sketch.

The room was filled with shelves full of books, and every flat surface was occupied by jars of colors, but the smell of paint was mitigated by the scent of the wet grass on which her grandmother allowed her to play only for a few hours, and only in her presence.

That day, however, Lucrecia had had to go away for work, and Lucile had had to postpone her trip in her garden until the next week when Lucrecia would have been back.

Yet, she did not complain.

Lucile was used to being alone at home, and her grandma had made sure that she had everything she could need in the house, and particularly in her room.

And about her room, each wall had a different color, as well as the ceiling and the floor that could become her sketchbook when she felt particularly creative.

Everything could become a canvas on which Lucile drew what her mind wanted to see, forests, landscapes, what in her conditions she could only read in books, and that day she wanted to walk in the sky, bringing in her room the forest that encircled the back of the house.

Tallahassee was a pretty little city, maybe a little too chatty, but neither she nor Lucrecia had never cared much about what people said, even if, of things to talk about there would have been a lot, especially about her.

After all, hers was a non-traditional family, and although people could find objectionable the absence of a male figure or her lack of sociability with the children of her age, Lucile was fine as she was.

Plus, her peers could be really cruel, as well as their mothers could be extremely dramatic and unkind.

They called her grandmother the wicked witch, but in her, rather than malice, there was only sadness.

So much sadness.

Lucrecia Dumas, her grandma, had had a hard life.

She had begun to work in the fields after leaving the Spanish community in search of fortune.

It had not been easy for a woman to get her own space in a male-dominated society, but with work and patience, her grandmother had bought the first plot of land that would have been the basis on which building her trade in fruit and vegetables.

She had won everything, in the end.

A nice house, a comfortable life, everything a person could wish for, but not what she had really wanted.

Her mother had never been an example of morality, but over time, Lucinda had become a selfish and greedy woman from whom her grandma had looked away with dismay and shame.

A shallow person she was, an unnatural mother towards which she felt nothing but bitterness. And it was hard to believe that a child so small could feel so much, yet, so it was, and Lucile saw nothing wrong in her way of being.

Therefore, while the world outside was whispering evilly behind her tiny shoulders, she covered the black of their wicked words with the vibrant color of her soul.

She was just giving the last touch of orange when something strange happened.

When the water bathed her knees, Lucile was fast enough to get back on her feet with the jar of yellow that she had had time to grab now close to her chest, her eyes on the sky that had been ripped by the thunder that had shaken the glasses and had caused the fall of the basin of water.

The picture was now ruined, but Lucile kept on staring out the window in search of black clouds.

Minutes passed in silence, her gaze that slowly descended, down and down, until her eyes were filled with the green of the forest that for a moment she had seen tremble.

She waited patiently to hear another thunder, or the sound of rain, approaching the glass-door of her room step after step, hesitant of what to do.

Go out or call for help?

The right thing to do would have been to barricade herself in the house and wait for the return of her grandma, but Lucile was a very curious little child, and although she was used to following the rules blindly, for once she decided to follow her heart rather than her head.

The hiss of the door seemed to warn her about the dangerousness of her actions while the cold wind made her shiver, her hands anchored to the handle.

What to do?

Lucile could only repeat the same question over and over again in her little head before taking finally a decision.

The first step was easy to move, and even the second required a little effort, but when her fingers were about to let go, Lucile hesitated a moment longer before the rustle of bushes rekindled the curiosity in her eyes.

And while she sped through the forest as one of the heroines of her books, just a few feet from her, what Lucile had mistaken for a bolt of lightning reactivated himself with a restless and dangerous hiss.

Who could it be?

She or he?

Friend or Foe?

Go ahead with the hypothesis!