The Lost Son

by arabis, CarsonLane

Summary:

Set four years after the events of Schism, Sam Witwicky has fully embraced his role as Autobot Ambassador to Earth. However, the unexpected arrival of an envoy from Cybertron threatens to destroy the tenuous peace garnered between Autobots and Decepticons. The Lost Son will explore themes of political intrigue, betrayal, and redemption as Sam travels to Cybertron... only to discover a terrible secret hidden there.

Notes:

• Translation into Español available: The Lost Son by Athena610

Chapter 1

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

"Plots, true or false, are necessary things,
To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings."

JOHN DRYDEN, Absalom and Achitophel

They arrived in New York State on Wednesday afternoon. The trip had been meticulously planned down to the last detail—Sam and his delegation bridged to the National Guard Base north of Syracuse, where they were greeted by their security detail. Agent Boynton had more gray in his hair than the last time Sam saw him, but the old battle-axe was just as sharp as ever. It wasn’t until he walked down the gangway that he learned Agent Simmons had been replaced by Agent Rodriguez, a Hispanic man with an easy smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ambassador.” Rodriguez said, extending his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you as well.” Sam replied, shaking his hand before gesturing to Carter, who came to stand by his side, “You know Dave Carter, Prime’s Chief of Staff.”

“Yes, of course.” Rodriguez replied, sticking out his hand again, “It’s good to finally meet you in person, Mr. Carter.”

“You as well.” Dave replied, switching his briefcase to his left hand in order to accept the handshake, “How’s Melinda?”

“She’s good, thanks.” Rodriguez said, a smile warming his face, “It’s kind of you to ask.”

Sam gestured next to Lennox and Kelley, who were standing a short distance away. “This is Will Lennox, Prime’s Chief Operations Officer, and this is Jason Kelley, my personal assistant.”

The three men exchanged salutations and handshakes, before Rodriguez swept his arm towards the vehicles that were parked at the far end of the hangar. “We received your travel itinerary this morning. We can leave whenever you're ready.”

“There’s been a last minute change.” Dave Carter said, pulling a manila folder from his briefcase and extending it towards him, “The Ambassador will be meeting with the Secretary-General after his speech at the General Assembly.”

Rodriguez accepted the folder, before flipping it open and scanning the contents. “That shouldn’t be a problem. We will notify the NYPD of the change.”

Carter gave a terse nod of acknowledgement, and then they made their way down the hangar. Bumblebee, Trailbreaker, Hound, and Jazz were parked next to a dark colored SUV with government-issued plates. Sam’s lips curved up in a smile at the sight of the yellow Camaro—it had been three days since they last saw each other. The Autobots had bridged over in advance to conduct their own security sweep. Red Alert had returned to Diego Garcia that morning, seemingly satisfied with the result.

Sam reached out, brushing against the winter-white glow that rested at the edge of his mind. Bumblebee pushed affection and welcome back at him in response.

The hangar was boxy in design, roughly as wide as it was long, and the sound of engines and machinery echoed around the enclosed space. There were several NEST soldiers stationed near the ground bridge, and four others standing at attention near the bi-fold doors on the opposite side of the building, but otherwise they were alone. As such, Sam let the soft, fond smile spread across his face as they approached the parked vehicles.

“Hello you.” He murmured, smoothing a hand over Bumblebee’s bonnet.

The Camaro popped open his doors by way of greeting, and Sam’s smile broadened into a grin as his mental presence took on a distinct edge of impatience.

“Bossy.” He teased, before turning to look at the others, “Kelley’s riding with me. What about you guys?”

Jazz rolled forward several inches, until his fender nudged the back of Carter’s knees. The Chief of Staff turned, giving the Pontiac Solstice a wry look. “I believe I’ve been spoken for.”

Lennox snorted, before glancing at the remaining alt modes. “Any takers?”

Hound’s headlights flashed brightly by way of answer, and then he popped open his driver’s side door in a clear invitation. Lennox gave the Jeep Wrangler a considerate look, before nodding in approval. “I hope you don’t mind if I catch some sleep. I’ve been up since oh-three-hundred.”

“Of course not, Major.” Hound replied cheerfully, “It’s a road trip. I’ve also brought snacks, if you wish to partake.”

Sam fought the smile that threatened to break across his face as Kelley made his way around to the passenger-side door. The former USMC lieutenant patted the Camaro’s yellow hood, before sliding into his seat.

“What route are we taking?” Sam asked, curiously.

Carter didn’t even need to check the itinerary. “We take the I-80 to Hoboken, before crossing over into Manhattan. It’ll be three or four hours, depending on the traffic.”

Sam felt a flush of excitement blossom in his chest. The purpose of the visit was strictly professional—he was giving a prepared statement to the United Nations General Assembly, attending a taping of the Late Show, and meeting with the newly appointed American Ambassador, but still, he was eagerly anticipating New York City. He had wanted to visit the glistening metropolis ever since he was a child.

“Great.” He replied, climbing into the driver’s seat, “I guess we should get going.”

Bumblebee pulled the door shut behind him as soon as he was settled. Sam twisted, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across his chest. There was the sound of doors slamming and engines rolling over, and then they were accelerating towards the double-doors at the other end of the hangar. Jazz took point, followed by Trailbreaker and Bumblebee, while Hound and the security detail brought up the rear. The NEST soldiers standing at attention on either side of the entryway snapped off sharp salutes as they passed, earning an acknowledging honk from Jazz in return.

Sam leaned back in his seat as they rolled into the early afternoon sunshine. The sky was a deep, clear blue from horizon to horizon. A glance at the dashboard revealed that the air temperature was 60 degrees Fahrenheit. It was mild, as far as east coast Octobers went, but it was downright chilly by Nevada’s standards. He mentally thanked Dave Carter for insisting that he bring an overcoat, even though he had had to dig it out of his closet.

The delegation made their way through the National Guard Base, before turning onto the road that would lead them to the highway. The city of Syracuse, New York was nestled in a low-lying valley surrounded by rolling hills that extended in every direction. They drove through the industrial area on the outskirts of the city, stopping at a series of traffic lights that turned red with annoying consistency, before navigating the on-ramp to the I-80. The speedometer crept higher as they merged with traffic until they were driving at sixty-five miles per hour.

“I have your speech if you’d like to go over it again.” Kelley said, interrupting the silence.

Sam glanced over to find the other man sitting with his attaché case in his lap. He resisted the urge to sigh, and instead, extended a hand towards him. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Kelley opened the dark leather satchel, pulling out a thick manila folder and handing it over. Sam accepted the papers, before settling back against his seat. He and Optimus had written the speech together, at Prime’s urging, so he knew it was alright. Still, the sight of the neat paragraphs of text caused a ribbon of anxiety to wind around his innards and squeeze. Sam had accompanied Optimus on diplomatic visits twice in the past, but never before had he been asked to deliver a speech. There was a lot riding on it, too—Prime was taking an official stance on China’s human rights abuses, and there would certainly be political backlash. As one of the world’s leading super powers, and the one closest to their borders, China’s reaction could have serious ramifications for Diego Garcia.

Sam wet his lips as his eyes roved over the speech. He had rehearsed it more times than he could count—so often that he almost knew it by memory, but now, less than twenty-four hours before he was to stand in front of the whole world and condemn China’s actions towards the Uyghur Muslims and the city of Hong Kong, the words seemed clumsy and feeble.

//You're thinking too much.// Bumblebee admonished, pressing reassurance across their bond-space. //The speech is concise and well argued.//

“Yeah, well, you’re not the one who has to give it.” Sam muttered in reply, without looking up from the paper.

Kelley shifted in his seat, causing Sam to glance over at him. The older man had a sympathetic look on his face, and when they made eye contact, he flashed an encouraging smile. “You’ll do great, Sam. It’s just like we practised.”

Sam gave him a flat look in return. “Yeah, except for the millions of people who will be watching me.”

The personal assistant weathered his peevishness with good humor. “You’ve seen Prime do it a hundred times. It can’t be any worse than your thesis defense.”

Sam chuckled quietly as his gaze slid back towards the speech. He had successfully defended his thesis in April, and it had been one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of his life—including going head-to-head with Megatron… twice. A megalomaniacal dictator he might be, but the Decepticon couldn’t hold a candle to a seventy-year-old with tenure who took exception to the way you cited his research.  

“True.” He murmured, scanning the paper a final time before flipping the folder shut again, “I’m done agonizing over this stupid thing. It’s the same as it was the last two hundred times I read it.”

Kelley accepted the folder with an easy smile, before sliding it into his attaché case. Sam leaned back against the seat, staring out the windshield. The landscape had transitioned from urban sprawl to rolling hills over the last twenty minutes. The cool autumn air was already changing the foliage, splashing it with oranges and reds and golds. It looked like something out of a Bob Ross painting.

A moment later, the entertainment console lit up and the chatter from the general comms channel spilled into the cabin. Sam listened with half an ear as Hound described the topography of New York State with all the enthusiasm of a veteran geomorphologist. Evidentially, the entire region had been similar in elevation to the Rocky Mountain Range some 480 million years ago, before it had softened over time through a combination of erosion and glacial scouring. Although Sam was a human geographer, rather than a physical geographer, he still found it interesting.

The drive turned out to be pleasant, even if his legs were stiff and his back was sore after the first few hours. They passed a little town named Lenox just north of Scranton, Pennsylvania, which caused some good-natured teasing on the comms channel. After that, though, the group lapsed into a companionable silence as they continued south.

The sun was low on the horizon by the time they emerged from the Holland Tunnel onto Manhattan Island. Sam leaned forward in his seat, ducking his head so that he could look at the skyscrapers and office buildings that crowded the city. Sunlight glinted off windows and polished metal, warm and golden, but the streets were cast in shadow—the light blocked by the buildings themselves. The roads were crowded and narrow, lined by parked cars and transport vans unloading their goods. It made travel difficult and slow going, but they navigated the congested streets well enough. By the time they turned into Midtown East, the streetlights had started coming on, one by one, as pedestrians hurried home for their supper.

It was a sentiment with which Sam agreed completely. He was hungry, after four hours on the road, and he was looking forward to getting something to eat.

Their convoy pulled to a stop in front of the Millennium Hilton, an upscale hotel less than a block from the United Nations. Evidentially, the staff had been informed of their impending arrival, for they had cleared a space for the five vehicles directly in front of the entrance. Sam pushed open the door and climbed out of the driver’s seat as a middle-aged man in a sharp-looking suit stepped forward to greet them.

“Your Excellency, welcome to the Millennium Hilton.” He said, extending his hand, “My name is Dan Briks, and I am the General Manager. If there is anything we can do to improve your stay, please, let me know.”

Professional hospitality practically rolled off the man, as if it was his personal cologne. Sam accepted his hand, before gesturing to the other men who had joined him on the curb.

“Thank-you, Mr. Briks. This is Dave Carter, Optimus Prime’s Chief of Staff. He will be your main point of contact for the duration of our visit. This is Major William Lennox and Lieutenant Jason Kelley, members of the delegation.”

The men shook hands in turn, before Sam stepped aside to place a hand on Bumblebee’s hood. “This is Bumblebee, the head of my security detail. The Solstice is Jazz, Prime’s second-in-command, and these two are Hound and Trailbreaker.”

Briks inclined his head to each Autobot in turn, extending them the same courtesy that he had shown to the human members of the delegation.

“We are delighted that you have chosen the Millennium Hilton for your stay.” He said, gesturing with one hand towards the broad, glass doors behind him, “If you would please come with me, your rooms have been prepared for your arrival.”

Sam nodded, straightening his suit jacket as he followed the older man into the building. The lobby was an impressive sight, with gleaming hardwood and polished marble floors. They made their way towards the elevators on the opposite side of the room. The air was filled with the sounds of classical music and hushed conversation from the restaurant near the lobby. The General Manager thumbed the call button, before turning to smile at them. The elevator dinged a moment later, its doors sliding open to reveal an empty car. The four of them stepped inside, and Briks pressed the button for the fifth floor.

Sam always stayed between the third and fifth floors whenever he was overnighting away from the embassy. It was easy to evacuate, in the event of a fire, and it gave him plenty of vertical escape room in the event the hotel was stormed by enemy forces. His room was also located as far from the lobby as possible, to minimize the likelihood of injury in case of an explosion. It meant that the views usually sucked—he either overlooked the street or, more often than not, directly into another building, but as his curtains had to stay closed for security purposes, it didn’t really matter either way.

The elevator opened onto a tastefully decorated hallway, with thick, dark carpet and cream-colored wallpaper. They were led down the hall, around a corner, and down another hallway. The General Manager eventually stopped in front of a nondescript door, before pressing a keycard against the electronic reader. The mechanism released with an audible click, and then the door was pushed open to allow Sam to enter. The room within was of modest size, decorated in the same modern-minimalist style as the rest of the hotel—which was to say, plenty of wood tones and gleaming surfaces, with tasteful accents positioned around the room.

“This is your suite, Your Excellency. Mr. Carter is next door, Mr. Lennox is across the hall, and Mr. Kelley has the adjoining room. Is there anything you require at this time?”

Sam glanced around the spacious living area, before shaking his head. “No, thank-you.”

Birks inclined his head deeply in response. “If you require anything at all, just call the front desk.”

The older man stepped out of the room, gesturing for Carter and the others to follow him. As soon as the door swung shut behind them, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized a short distance away. Sam’s lips twitched up in a faint smile in greeting.

“Hello you.” He murmured.

It had been decided—by Red Alert, probably—that the connection between Bumblebee’s holoform and his alt mode should be kept to need-to-know only. As far as any outsiders were concerned, the holoform was just another member of Sam’s security detail.

“Hello to you as well.” Bumblebee replied, stepping into Sam’s personal space and nuzzling against the side of his neck, “I missed you.”

Sam laughed softly. “I missed you too.”

The holoform pressed a soft kiss against his jawline, causing a pleasant shiver to skitter down Sam’s spine, before he stepped away. “You’re hungry. The reservation is at eight—will that do?”

Sam glanced down at his watch, a polished Rolex that Bumblebee had given him as a graduation present. He wasn’t prone to materialism by nature, and he knew next to nothing about men’s fashion, but the stainless steel band contrasted tastefully with the navy blue clock-face, and Sam wore it whenever he was working.

“Yeah, that’ll be fine. Where’s the reservation?” He asked.

“Gallaghar’s Stakehouse.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam groaned in approval—he had eaten at the restaurant once before, when Lennox and Carter had dragged him to Las Vegas to celebrate his graduation. It had been the best tenderloin on the planet.

“You’re amazing.” He breathed, leaning forward to kiss the holoform, slow and deep, before nipping at his lower lip, “Have I told you that recently?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence was affectionate and amused. “Not very recently.”

“Well, I mean it.” Sam replied with feeling, “Absolutely amazing.”

He stepped forward until he stood chest-to-chest with the taller holoform, before tangling his fingers in his short, sandy hair. He angled his head up while pulling Bumblebee down to meet him—the kiss was more heated this time, with the hint of tongue and the occasional flash of teeth. Bumblebee obliged him for a long moment, before drawing back and giving him an amused look.

“We’re about to be interrupted.” He said, by way of apology.

Sam groaned softly as he turned, glancing over his shoulder at the door. True enough, there came a polite knock a moment later.

“Who is it?” He asked, stepping away from the holoform and reaching for the door handle.

“Kelley.” Bumblebee replied, a moment before Sam pulled open the door to reveal the aforementioned man. He was dressed in a sharp-looking suit and tie that had Dave Carter’s influence written all over it.

“Hey Jason, come in.” Sam greeted, before waving a hand in the direction of the sofa, “Take a load off.”

The older man grinned at him, before stepping into the room. “Thanks Sam. Oh, hey Bumblebee.”

“Hello Jason.” Bumblebee replied, leaning back against the nearest armchair.

“The Tonight Show has sent an updated question list. It contains the same old stuff—youngest Ambassador to the United Nations, saviour of the world, blah blah blah—but they wanted your permission to try a new segment on the Autobots.”

As he spoke, Jason handed him a manila folder with screenshots of a number of tweets from his official Twitter account. They were all photographs that Sam had taken of the Autobots, either at Diego Garcia or the embassy. There was one of Bumblebee, gleaming yellow on the airstrip in his alt mode, there was another of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe staring haughtily at the camera, and a third of Optimus Prime standing in the command center. The Autobot leader had been in mid-speech when Sam had taken the photograph, and he looked solemn and dignified. Sam forgot what he had been talking about—not that it mattered, really. Optimus would look stately while reading a phonebook.

“What’s this?” He asked, glancing up at the other man.

“Colbert wants to play the ad-lib game with you.” He replied.

Sam tilted his head as he considered his answer. The ad-lib game was taking late night talk shows and social media by storm. It was inspired by Jimmy Kimmel’s mean tweets segment, but the goal was to comment on pictures taken from Twitter without any context or explanation. It was usually in good fun, and Colbert was vocal in his support of the Autobots—it was the main reason they had chosen his show for Sam’s first public appearance.

“Yeah, alright.” He agreed, handing the papers back to Kelley, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

---

 

Sam had come to bitterly regret his decision by the time he stood waiting in the wings, as the theme music to the Late Night show swelled over the speakers. His heart was beating like a snare drum against his sternum, spurred by the loud applause from the audience and the knowledge that he was about to go off-script on national television.

“You stupid asshole.” Sam muttered to himself, rubbing his hands over his pants for the second time in as many minutes.

“You’ll do great, Sam.” Carter reassured him with his usual unflappable calm, “Just be yourself.”

Sam turned his head to direct a pointed glare over his shoulder at the older man. Carter just smiled back at him, serenely, entirely unaffected by the heat of his gaze. The non-reaction caused Kelley to grin in undisguised amusement, before he shifted forward to bump shoulders with him.

“You’re going to do fine.” He said, loyally, “It’s just like jump training—keep your eyes on the guy in front of you.”

Before Sam had the chance to reply, the production assistant came up behind them. She was a younger woman, wearing boot cut jeans and a bulky-looking headset. She had been the one to greet them at the guest entrance and take them to the green room.

“You’re on in two minutes, Your Excellency.” She said.

Sam swallowed against the anxiety that dried his mouth. “Thank-you, Tansy.”

“You got this Sam.” Lennox said, arms folded over his chest where he stood leaning against the wall, “Try to avoid any mention of China, if you can. No reason to rock the boat any sooner than you need to.”

Sam nodded faintly—Carter had said as much to him over dinner earlier that evening. His attention was drawn back to the stage by Colbert, who had started introducing their segment. Sam wiped his hands on his pants again, cursing his damp palms. There’s no way that Colbert was going to miss it.

The make-up artist, whose name Sam couldn’t remember, interrupted them long enough to reapply a thin layer of powder across his face, and then the light over the doorway was blinking green. Sam braced himself, unable to hear the words of encouragement from Carter over the sound of riotous applause and his own pulse, thundering in his ears. He took a deep breath, and with a great deal of mental fortitude, he forced himself to walk onto the stage. He was immediately met by the sight of Stephen Colbert (holy shit—this is really happening) standing to greet him. The talk show host was dressed in his signature dark colored suit and matching tie, and he was smiling from ear to ear as Sam approached. Sam glanced towards the audience and realized two things in quick succession—one, the stage lights combined with the darkened seating section effectively concealed the audience from sight, and two, people were still applauding. It was a pleasant surprise, and by the time he shook Colbert’s hand, he was starting to relax.

“Mr. Ambassador welcome to the Tonight Show. Please—take a seat.” Colbert said, extending a hand towards the nearest armchair.

Sam’s lips twitched up in a tilted half-smile as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down. “Thanks for having me. Please, call me Sam.”

Colbert returned his smile as he took his seat, “Oh, of course. Mr. Ambassador is probably your father’s name.”

The comment surprised a genuine laugh out of him. “Don’t tell that to my mother.”

It was obvious that Colbert was no stranger to nervous guests, for everything about his demeanor—from his posture, to his warm smile, to his easy jokes—served to put Sam at ease.

“Well, my lips are sealed, but if she’s watching this live, then I’m sorry to say, the cat’s out of the bag.” Colbert replied, stage-whispering around a raised hand.

Sam huffed another laugh. “I appreciate that.”

Colbert returned his smile, easy and open, before glancing down at the paper in front of him. Sam knew it was a scripted gesture—the list of potential questions had been vetted and confirmed by both parties weeks in advance.

“So, Sam—wow, that’s strange to say, Sam—I understand you recently graduated. Is that right?”

Sam nodded as he internally breathed a sigh of relief. As first questions go, this one was relatively benign.

“I did, yes. In June.” He replied.

“What was your major?” Colbert asked.

“Political Geography for my undergraduate degree, Political Science for my Masters.” Sam replied, before his lips twitched up in a smile, “It took me a while to warm up to political science, but I got there eventually.”

“No surprise there, given your role as Ambassador to the first alien species to make contact with our planet—seems like a smart choice.” Colbert replied to a smattering of polite laughter, “But human geography? What do geographers do, exactly? Memorize country names? Make maps?”

Sam grinned at him, wide and genuine. “Hey, don’t knock the cartographers. There are literally hundreds of them—they're everywhere. Probably.”

Colbert laughed in reply. “All around the globe, right?”

Sam grinned in appreciation at the pun. “Yeah, exactly.”

They progressed next to questions on what it was like to be the Autobot Ambassador (“It’s been great so far—though I’m glad I don’t have to pay for my own life insurance”), to his role as the youngest head-of-state in sixty years (“I’m not the head-of-state, that’s Prime’s job, I’m just the liaison”), to his thoughts on the forest fires ravaging his former home-state of California. The last question was the most difficult to answer, but he managed to give a reasonably coherent response. To his mingled relief and surprise, the talk show host steered clear of any questions involving the Decepticons or the growing anti-Autobot sentiment that was gaining traction in certain conservative circles. By the time Colbert introduced the ad-lib game, Sam had almost forgotten all about it.

“So I understand that you have quite the social media following. Can you tell me a bit about it?” Colbert asked.

“Yeah, sure.” Sam replied, clasping his hands loosely in his lap, “I wanted the Autobots to have an official media presence, and since it was my idea, I was volunteered to spearhead it. The idea was to let the outside world get a glimpse of it’s like to live among the Autobots.”

Colbert lifted a cue card, staring down at it over the rim of his glasses, “Well, congratulations. Diego Garcia’s official account has over 130 million followers and your personal account has over 80 million. I’d say your mission was a success.”

Sam surprised himself by shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I disagree. I won’t consider it a success until the world understands that the Autobots aren’t a threat. They’re alien and ancient and made of living metal, sure, but they’re people. Good people.”

“Well then, why don’t you tell us a bit about them?” Colbert asked with a broad smile, turning in his chair to pick up a pile of placards that had been placed facedown on the desk, “Are you familiar with the ad-lib game?”

Sam settled back in his seat with a rueful smile, “Yeah… I think so.”

“Great, then you know how it’s played. For those of you at home, I will show the audience a tweet from either the Autobot’s official account or your personal one, and then you have to explain the picture in three words or less.”

Sam’s smile was tighter this time, but he nodded his head permissively all the same. Colbert picked up a placard, showing it first to Sam and then to the audience. It was one of the first things he had posted to Twitter—a sunset shot taken from Barton Point, overlooking the water. The sky was a remarkable shade of crimson and orange that was reflected across the dark ocean.

“Peaceful.” Sam supplied automatically, “Beautiful… and quiet.”

Colbert nodded and turned around the second picture, which was the same tweet of Bumblebee that Kelley had showed him earlier.

Sam smiled in response. “Brave, loyal, and funny.”

And mine. He thought, directing the sentiment towards the winter-white glow residing at the edge of his mind. Bumblebee pressed against him, both in appreciation and in solidarity.

“This is Bumblebee, right?” Colbert asked, still holding the picture.

“That’s right.” Sam replied, relaxing into the seat—he could talk about this all day, “He was the first Autobot to make contact with me. He’s my guardian and the fastest scout under Prime’s command.”

“Not that you’re biased.” Colbert teased in reply.

“Maybe a little.” Sam agreed with a small smile.

Colbert set the placard down and picked up the next one—it was Sunstreaker, striking a pose with his servos on his hip struts. The grin spread across Sam’s face before he could stop it.

“That’s Sunstreaker—and I mean that as an adjective in and of itself.” He said, “But if you’re looking for two more, how about self-confident and proud?”

It was the nicest way he could say ‘self-absorbed egomaniac’ on national television. He and Sunstreaker got along better now than they had at first, but the warrior was still abrasive and self-aggrandizing on a good day.

Colbert evidentially understood the subtext of his words, for he gave a knowing smile. “Big fan of himself, huh?”

Sam gave the older man a tilted half-smile, and replied, as diplomatically as he could, “It’s not entirely undeserved.”

Colbert chuckled, before moving on to the next picture. It was the shot of Optimus standing in the command center.

Sam didn’t even hesitate. “He’s wise. And patient. Actually, wait, can I say patient twice?”

Colbert laughed good-naturedly. “Sure, why not? Why do you say so?”

Sam shrugged and replied without thinking. “Prime has seen things that you and I couldn’t begin to imagine. He’s suffered the loss of his home, his closest friends, his culture, and through it all, he’s remained...” Sam’s voice trailed off as he struggled to find the right words, “Human. Grounded. Humble. He deals with big personalities every single day, and he’s never lost his temper or raised his voice in all the time I’ve known him. He’s fundamentally good, you know? That’s not to say he’s infallible, because he’s not, but there’s something about him that makes you want to be a better person, just by virtue of being in his company.”

By the time that Sam had stopped speaking, the studio had gone perfectly silent. You could have heard a pin drop, it was that quiet. It took him a moment to realize the silence was due to the undivided attention he was receiving, as opposed to any shock or disbelief.

Colbert cleared his throat. “He sounds like a remarkable person.”

“He is.” Sam replied with feeling, “I consider myself fortunate to know him.”

The older man picked up the last placard that sat on the desk, turning it around to reveal Ratchet. The Chief Medical Office was standing at his workbench with a supremely unimpressed look on his face. Sam had caught him in the middle of disassembling a piece of equipment, which was likely the only thing that had prevented him from pitching Sam straight out of the medical bay when he realized what he was doing.

Sam’s mouth twitched precariously as he struggled not to laugh. “I plead the fifth.”

Colbert’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline. “Oh?”

“Definitely.” Sam replied, the grin finally breaking through to spread across his face, “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

The smattering of laughter that followed was entirely worth whatever retribution would be waiting for him when they got back to the Diego Garcia.

Chapter 2

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Note: Thank-you for your love and support! It means the world to me.

Chapter Warning: Explicit sexual content

The rest of the Late Show was an enjoyable experience. Sam was followed by Andy Samberg, which was a surreal moment in and of itself, and then a local politician who was making waves for her progressive policies. Sam nodded and laughed at all the right moments, and the show wrapped up without incident. He was grinning from ear to ear by the time he left the stage, after a brief stop to tell Samberg how much he had enjoyed Brooklyn 99. The comedian was surprisingly down-to-earth for a celebrity, and he accepted Sam’s praise with a lopsided grin.

Carter and the others were waiting for him in the wings, and after surreptitiously checking to see if there was anyone within earshot, Sam laughed in disbelief.

“Did you see that? I just met Andy Samberg!” He managed.

Kelley chuckled good-naturedly. “Congrats, Sam.”

“Oh my God.” Sam said, grinning, as they started towards the backstage, “I think that was one of the coolest things that’s ever happened to me.”

“Says the Ambassador to an alien species.” Kelley snorted, pulling the stage doors open and holding it for them.

The backstage area was teeming with people, from the camera operators to stage managers to production assistants. Tansy was there to greet him, holding a clipboard in one hand and her headset radio in the other.

“Congratulations, Mr. Ambassador.” She said by way of greeting, “You did great.”

Sam’s smile was wide and genuine in return. “Thank-you, Tansy.”

The young woman fell into step beside them as they crossed the backstage towards the guest entrance. The door was nondescript, except for a neon-green exit sign glowing above it. Sam was aware of the way that heads turned and conversation petered off as they passed. It made him feel watched in a way that sitting in front of a studio audience had not.

“There’s a crowd outside.” Tansy warned as they approached the door, “There don’t seem to be any agitators, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

Sam resisted the urge to frown at the news. He turned his attention inwards instead, and nudged against the warm glow at the edge of his mind. Bumblebee’s mental presence was alert but unperturbed, which was always a good sign. It meant that there weren’t any protestors, at least.

Although the Autobots were accepted by most—grudgingly, perhaps, and with no small amount of suspicion—there was a vocal minority who condemned their actions at Mission City. It was a direct result of Leland Bishop’s leaked footage and the trial that followed. Although the federal government had thrown the book at him—two consecutive life sentences in Guantanamo with no chance for parole—his trial had been open to the public and it had fanned the flames of anti-Autobot sentiment, both in the United States and abroad. Prime had spent the last four years on humanitarian missions and charitable works around the world, but the vitriol was persistent.

“Thanks for letting us know.” Sam replied, coming back to himself as the production assistant reached for the door, “It was nice to meet you.”

Tansy tucked her hair behind her ear with her free hand, and gave him a coy smile. “It was nice to meet you too, Mr. Ambassador. You have my number if you need it, so don’t hesitate to call.”

Sam blinked, taken aback by the obvious flirtation, but he was rescued by Carter, before he had the chance to flounder.

“Thank-you, Ms. Barnes.” He said, stepping forward to push open the door, “It has been a pleasure. We will be in touch if anything arises.”

They were met by an onslaught of shouting, camera flashes, and excited chatter as soon as the door was opened. Lennox stepped outside first, sharp-eyed and serious, followed closely by Kelley. The two men glanced around the crowd, searching for any signs of trouble, before Lennox nodded in his direction. Sam mentally braced himself and then he stepped outside after them. The guest entrance opened onto an alleyway, which had been originally used to offload equipment. Bumblebee and Trailbreaker were parked directly in front of the entrance, but beyond them was a sizable crowd of people. He turned, making his way down the loading ramp as the crowd clamored for his attention. Sam smiled and nodded politely, but he didn’t hesitate to climb into Bumblebee’s waiting cab. Kelley slid into the passenger seat a moment later, and then the doors snapped shut behind them, muffling the cacophony outside.

“Holy shit.” Sam breathed, pulling the seatbelt across his chest, “There’s got to be a hundred people out there.”

“One hundred and thirty-seven.” Bumblebee informed him dryly, as his engine turned over, “They started assembling shortly after Colbert introduced you.”

The Camaro’s headlights came on at the same time as Trailbreaker’s, illuminating the crowd. It was impossible to miss the blend of curiosity and excitement visible on their faces. The two alt modes rolled forward as they passed the bulk of the crowd, before they accelerated towards the street. There were a number of pedestrians on the sidewalk in front of the building, but it was easy enough to pull onto the road. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as Bumblebee merged with traffic and the Ed Sullivan Theatre fell away behind them.

“Another one bites the dust.” Kelley said, settling back into his seat.

“Thank God.” Sam agreed, loosening his tie as he glanced at the dashboard, “Did you make any admirers?”

“Only a few, it seems.” Bumblebee replied, all wry humor, “I must be losing my touch.”

Sam laughed, flicking the Autobot emblem on the steering wheel with his finger. “You’re so vain.”

The steering wheel twiddled playfully in his hands as Bumblebee turned the corner. Anything that Sam might have said in reply was forgotten, however, as Times Square came into sight in all of its shining glory. Sam made a strangled noise of excitement as he leaned forward in his seat, straining to take it all in. The sidewalks were crowded full of pedestrians, despite the late hour, and the electronic billboards cast Technicolor light across the chrome and glass of the surrounding buildings.

“Look, Sam, it’s the Times Square ball.” Kelley said, pointing at the glittering ball above a Toshiba advertisement.

“That’s so cool!” Sam grinned, “It looks bigger on television.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Kelley chuckled, “Wait until you see the Statue of Liberty.”

They continued past Times Square with Kelley pointing out landmarks as they drove. There was the Empire State Building, the Flatiron Building, Little Italy, Chinatown, and the Brooklyn Bridge. By the time they made it back to the Millennium Hilton, Sam was delighted.

“I’ve always wanted to see New York City at night.” He said as Bumblebee pulled to a stop in front of the hotel, “Do you think we could go to the top of the Empire State Building?”

“I’m sure it could be arranged.” Bumblebee replied, before Kelley could get a word in edge-wise. “You have time on Friday morning. Jason can make some phone calls.”

Kelley quirked an eyebrow at the dashboard, clearly sceptical, but he didn’t argue or disagree. “I’ll see what I can do—no promises, though.”

Sam grinned appreciatively as they climbed out of the car. “Thanks, Jay. Do you want to grab a drink before we head upstairs?”

“Sorry, but the lounge closed at eleven.” Kelley replied, stepping up onto the sidewalk, “Rain check?”

Sam glanced down at his watch in surprise, only to realize it was half-past one in the morning—and he had a speech to give at eleven o’clock. He groaned, shutting the driver’s side door as Jazz and Hound pulled to a stop behind Trailbreaker. The second-in-command flashed his high beams at them in greeting, and Sam waved in return.

“I guess we’d better turn in for the night.” He said, patting the Jeep Wrangler on the hood as he passed, “Though I doubt I’ll get any sleep.”

Carter and Lennox were waiting for them on the steps of the hotel. The porter stepped forward, pulling open the door as they approached. Sam nodded his thanks at the younger man, before stepping into the lobby.

“Did you guys follow us through the city?” He asked, curiously.

“We did.” Carter agreed, his shoes ringing off the polished marble floors as they made their way towards the elevators, “How did you enjoy it?”

“It was great.” Sam said, grinning again, “We’re going to try to make it to the Empire State Building on Friday.”

Carter chuckled as he thumbed the call button. “I’ve heard the view is nice.”

The doors opened and they stepped aside, allowing two couples in evening wear to exit the elevator. Carter extended a hand towards the car after they passed, and Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he stepped inside. Lennox and Kelley followed behind him, with Carter stepping inside last of all. The doors slid shut behind them, and Sam leaned back against the guardrail as the floors dinged off one by one.

“I’ll see you guys in the morning.” He said, as the doors slid open to reveal their floor, “Are you going anywhere for breakfast?”

“I was going to order room service.” Carter said, pulling his keycard from his overcoat, “Unless you had other plans?”

Sam’s lips twitched in amusement. “No offense, Carter, but you wake up way too early to make breakfast plans with you.”

The older man gave him an exasperated look as he unlocked his room. “Six o’clock isn’t early.”

The locking mechanism on Sam’s door disengaged on its own accord. He pushed open the door, before calling over his shoulder, “Says you. G’night, guys.”

The others bid him farewell as he let the door swing shut behind him. He tugged at his tie, loosening it and sliding it off from around his neck as he made his way into the room. The side lamp had been turned on in his absence, spilling warm light around the living space. As Sam shrugged out of his suit jacket, he spied a familiar-looking folder on the writing desk. He slung the jacket over the nearest armchair as he padded across the room. The folder contained his speech, printed on expensive-looking stationary with the Autobot insignia embossed at the top of the page. The sight of the speech caused something heavy and uneasy to settle in the pit of his stomach. He sighed softly, toeing off his shoes before sitting at the desk.

“It is my honor to speak with you today on behalf of Optimus Prime—“

He felt, rather than heard, Bumblebee’s holoform materialize behind him.

“You should go to bed.” Bee murmured, settling his hands on Sam’s shoulders, “You have a big day tomorrow.”

“—who believes, as I do, that freedom is the right of all sentient beings, regardless of race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, socio-economic status, age, or religion.”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep.” Sam sighed in reply, “Too much on my mind.”

“The freedom to live as one chooses, love as one chooses, and worship as one chooses, so long as those choices do not detrimentally affect another.”

Bumblebee leaned down, wrapping his arms around Sam’s torso and tucking his chin over his shoulder. “You need your rest.”

Sam sighed again as he glanced down, looking over the remainder of the speech.

“The abuses propagated by the Chinese Communist Party, directly and indirectly, besmirch this unassailable right—one shared by humans and Autobots alike. To that end, we condemn, in the strongest possible terms, the actions that the Chinese government have taken against the Uyghur Muslims, the citizens of Hong Kong, and the independent nation of Tibet.

Our long history has taught us the costs of subjugation and of tyranny, and I say to you now: there can be no integrity without freedom and no justice without integrity. It is clear that the Chinese Community Party holds no regard for these values, nor for the value of a human life.  

For these reasons, we state to you, representatives of the United Nations, that Diego Garcia will not be complicit to genocide and ethnic cleansing in the name of economic relations—not to China, nor to any other nation. We, the peoples of this planet, must lift up the weak and downtrodden. Let the mistakes of our past be a history lesson, not an instructional, on how we treat each other—with dignity and respect, until all are one.”

He sighed again, setting the speech on the writing desk. The Autobot insignia seemed to stare back at him, stoic and silent and expectant. He scrubbed a hand across his face, knuckling the grit out of his eyes.

“What if I screw it up?” He asked, quietly.

Bumblebee’s arms tightened around him as he pressed a feather-soft kiss against his temple. “You won’t.”

“Are you sure Optimus knows what he’s doing?” He asked, finally allowing himself to voice the doubts that had been niggling at him for weeks. “China’s going to retaliate, and they outnumber us by a billion-to-one.”

Bumblebee leaned forward, pressing a single finger against the stationary and sliding it all the way across the desk.

“What do you feel? In your gut?” He asked, by way of answer.

Sam was quiet for a long moment as he considered his response. He had attended the briefings on the conditions in the internment camps and re-education centers. It was horrific and appalling, and anyone with a shred of human decency would have felt the same.

“It has to stop.” Sam replied, eventually.

“Well, there you have it.” Bumblebee murmured, pressing a kiss against the crown of Sam’s head, “Now come to bed.”

Sam sighed heavily, before pushing to his feet. The events of the day—preparations in the morning, the four-hour drive, the excitement about New York City, and his performance jitters—all seemed to be marshalling against him. Bumblebee’s expression was soft as he stepped forward, unbuttoning Sam’s shirt.

“I can do that.” Sam grumbled, raising his hands to take over, but Bumblebee just brushed them aside.

“Let me do this for you, Sam.” He murmured, revealing pale flesh one button at a time, “Let me take you apart.”

Sam’s lips twitched up at the hint of suggestion in the holoform’s voice. “Oh?”

Bumblebee hummed in agreement as he smoothed his palms up Sam’s chest, before slipping the shirt off his shoulders. “I guarantee you’ll sleep like a baby, afterwards.”

Sam laughed as a rush of affection warmed his chest. “I’m not that bad.”

Bumblebee chuckled, low and indecent, as he draped his shirt over the desk chair.

“You can say that again in thirty minutes, if you’re still awake.” He rumbled, going down to his knees in front of him.

Sam’s breath hitched as the holoform slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants. His touch was sure and confident as he slid his hands around to Sam’s fly, unbuttoning the clasp and tugging the material down over his hips. Sam’s breath escaped in a long, throaty sigh as Bumblebee leaned forward, mouthing at the sensitive skin below his navel.

“I’m not opposed to doing this here, but you might be more comfortable on the bed.” The holoform mused, slanting him a knowing look.

Sam smiled down at him, running his hands through his hair. The sandy blond strands parted easily between his fingers. “I don’t know. You look pretty good like this.”

Bumblebee rolled his eyes, before reaching out to give him a stinging swat on the ass. “Go on with you.”

Sam laughed, half in surprise and half in amusement as he hurried across the room. The queen-sized bed was located in an alcove near the bathroom, and Sam sat on the edge of the mattress as Bumblebee trailed behind him.

“So, what did you have in mind?” He asked, the challenge in his words undercut by his breathless anticipation.

“I already told you, Sam: I’m going to take you apart.” Bumblebee replied, coming to stand between his legs. “You don’t need to do anything—just lie back and enjoy it.”

Sam groaned softly in response. He and Bumblebee had developed a rhythm over the last four years—sometimes Sam topped him, but more often than not, Bumblebee topped Sam. Either way, there wasn’t any doubt as to which of them was the dominant one in the bedroom.

As if sensing his thoughts, and of course, he probably was, the holoform’s face softened in a smile.

“Put your hands above your head and keep them there until I tell you otherwise.” He murmured, smoothing his palms down Sam’s thighs.

Sam’s cock twitched at the steel underlying those words. He settled back against the mattress, making himself comfortable, before raising his hands above his head. Bumblebee smiled at him, pushing approval across their bond-space as he sank to his knees in front of him. He pulled Sam forward several inches, until his pelvis was resting at the edge of the bed.

“I was proud of you tonight.” He said, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Sam’s knee, “You were well spoken and genuine—the others felt the same.”

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat as the holoform moved higher, pressing another kiss against the silky-soft skin of his inner thigh. It made Sam’s cock thicken with interest, which in turn made Bumblebee chuckle as he dragged his hands up Sam’s legs to grasp him by the hips.

“I’ve missed you.” He said, looking up to meet Sam’s half-lidded gaze.

“I missed you too.” Sam murmured in reply.

The holoform smiled at him, before taking Sam’s half-hard cock in his hand. His grip was firm and warm as he stroked him from root to tip, letting Sam’s body catch up with the program, before he took his cockhead in his mouth. Sam groaned, long and low, as Bumblebee suckled him, all soft lips and silky tongue, before he hallowed his cheeks and swallowed him down.

“That feels so good.” Sam whimpered, struggling not to wriggle his hips. Bumblebee never allowed him to set the pace of his blowjobs. “Oh man, that feels so—ah!”

Sam’s rambling was cut off in a breathless cry as Bumblebee pressed a finger against his perineum, causing sparks of pleasure to skitter through his groin. The holoform’s pace never faltered, never slowed, as he slid his finger back to tease Sam’s tight hole. Sam moaned raggedly as he let his legs fall open.

“Oh god, Bumblebee, please…” He begged, arching his back as Bumblebee slowly teased his entrance.

A moment later, his finger breached Sam’s body. He pressed in less than an inch, barely past the first knuckle, before withdrawing again. He repeated the action for a second time and then a third, teasing Sam until he was unable to control the jerk of his hips.

“God, yeah,” Sam moaned, tossing his head back against the mattress, “Just like that.”

The holoform pulled off of Sam’s cock with an obscene wet sound, and Sam whined against the sudden loss of sensation. His despair was short-lived, however, as Bumblebee sub-spaced a bottle of personal lubricant and applied a generous amount to his two fingers.

“Be patient.” Bumblebee admonished, leaning down to bite at the knob of Sam’s hipbone, “I’ll take care of you.”

Sam whimpered as Bumblebee pressed a finger against his tight hole, sliding inside him with one smooth motion. He grasped Sam’s cock with his other hand, stroking in time with his finger as he thrust in and out of Sam’s willing body. The dual assault lit up Sam’s spine, causing his groin to tighten with arousal.

“Please more.” He moaned. He would have thrust his hips, rules be damned, but he had no leverage with his legs dangling over the side of the bed.

“More what?” Bumblebee asked, with the patience of a saint—a fact that was at odds with the way he was finger-fucking Sam’s ass without mercy.

Sam blushed hotly at the question, earning himself a chuckle in response. Bumblebee often made him say what he was thinking in bed—it made him feel embarrassed and aroused and vulnerable, all at once.

“Go on then.” Bumblebee admonished, giving his dick a meaningful squeeze, “Tell me what you want.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. When he failed to answer for a second time, Bumblebee’s hand stilled on his cock—a warning, if ever Sam knew one.

“Please… finger me.” He managed to reply, as his face grew hotter.

“Finger you?” Bumblebee mused, giving him a lazy stroke from root to crown, “That could mean a lot of things. I need you to be more specific.”

Sam’s flushed deepened, spreading all the way to his hairline.

“Please… finger my ass.” He whimpered, shifting his hips, “C’mon, Bee, don’t make me beg.”

The holoform stroked him again, before swirling the pad of his thumb over Sam’s frenulum. “You know I like it when you beg—you’re very pretty.”

Sam’s screwed his eyes shut as he struggled not to move his hands.

“Please finger me, Bumblebee. It feels so good, you feel so good when you—“

His words were lost in a gasp as Bumblebee slid a finger, wet with lubrication, into Sam’s ass, and after twisting his wrist, bumped against his prostate. Sam moaned, long and low, at the pleasure that licked up his spine and spread across his groin. Bumblebee thrust several more times, before he added a second finger. The stretch was more now, a pleasant fullness that Sam loved, and he was reduced to incoherent moaning not long after.

“That’s it.” Bumblebee murmured, salaciously, “Let go—don’t think, just feel.”

Sam whimpered as the holoform traced a finger down the underside of Sam’s cock, where it lay leaking against his belly. A moment later, Bumblebee was mouthing across his heated flesh, laving it with lips and tongue, until he took it his mouth. The holoform bobbed against him, working Sam’s cock and his prostate in tandem, until he was moaning helplessly against the onslaught.

“Please, please, please—“ Sam panted, eyes screwed shut and head tossed back, “Oh fuck...”

The holoform’s mental presence pressed close as he lit up Sam’s mind with a burst of charge. White-hot pleasure rushed through his body all at once, and Sam arched his back and screamed as his orgasm crashed into him. Bumblebee worked him through the aftershocks, suckling at his cockhead until he whimpered from overstimulation. Then, the holoform glanced up, making eye contact with Sam, as he flicked his tongue across his slit, lapping up the remainder of his release.

Sam groaned, long and low, as he collapsed back against the mattress. Bumblebee kissed the inside of his thigh, before pulling Sam’s boxers back up over his hips. When he finished, the holoform stood up and padded into the bathroom.

Sam threw an arm over his face, struggling to catch his breath. He felt amazing—warm and relaxed in the best way possible. He could hear the sound of footsteps a moment later, and then Bumblebee nudged against his mind.

“Here.” He said, “Drink this.”

Sam lowered his arm and slanted open his eyes. Bumblebee was holding a tall glass of water, and all of a sudden, Sam realized that he was absolutely parched. He rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow, as he accepted the glass. The water was cool and refreshing, and he finished the entire glass.

“Come on, under the blankets.” Bumblebee prompted, turning down the duvet.

Sam leaned over, placing the glass on the nightstand, before he shimmied beneath the covers. The sheets were cool against his heated skin, and he groaned in appreciation. Bumblebee slid into bed a moment later, pausing long enough to snap off the lights, and then he settled down against the pillows. Sam snuggled against him, shifting around until he found the perfect spot—his head resting against Bumblebee’s chest, an arm wrapped around his waist, and their legs tangled together beneath the blankets. Sam sighed in contentment, letting his eyes drift closed.

As Bumblebee predicted, he was asleep well before the thirty-minute mark.

 

---

 

The room was dark, when Sam finally woke up, but sunshine peeking through the curtains was evidence that he had slept through the night. He lifted his head, staring blearily at the clock on the nightstand, only to learn it wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning yet. He grunted in disapproval, burying his face in the pillow and closing his eyes. He was almost asleep again when a hand came down on his shoulder, shaking him roughly.

“Sam, wake-up.” Bumblebee urged.

The tone of his voice, tight and serious, woke him up immediately. Sam sat up in bed, pushing the blankets away from him.

“What is it?” He demanded, “What’s happened?”

The holoform tossed him a bundle of clothing, which Sam caught in his hands.

“Our sensors have detected an unusual spike in radiation approximately 200 million miles from Earth.” Bumblebee replied, “It’s rapidly intensifying.”

Sam clambered to his feet and started pulling on clothing—first his jeans, then his shirt, before he sat back down to grab his socks.

“What does that mean?” He asked.

“We don’t know yet.” Bumblebee admitted, “It could mean any number of things—none of them are good.”

Sam stood up again, yanking on his sweater before hurrying into the bathroom. “How bad are we talking here?”

“Prowl doesn’t want to speculate based on incomplete data.” Bumblebee called to him from the living room.

Sam relieved himself and washed his hands, before striding back into the bedroom. “Can you? Speculate, I mean?”

The holoform’s expression darkened as he handed Sam his shoes and overcoat. “The radiation is consistent with early Iaconian trans-warp engines. The technology is old, but powerful.”

Sam frowned, toeing on his shoes and shrugging into his coat. “What, like a spaceship?”

The door to his suite banged open, revealing Carter in his suit and overcoat. The Chief of Staff looked at Sam, eyes raking him over from head to toe.

“Is he ready?” Carter demanded, brisk and to the point.

“Yes.” Bumblebee replied, as he started towards the door.

“Wait, what about my stuff?” Sam asked, glancing around the room.

“Leave it.” Bumblebee said tersely, “We will send someone after we've received the all-clear. For now, we’re on lock-down protocols.”

Sam’s lips thinned in a mixture of trepidation and understanding. Lock-down occurred during activations whenever uncertainty and urgency were high. It involved, among other procedures, complete radio silence and emergency evacuation.

“Where’s the rendezvous point?” Sam asked, crossing the room towards them.

“Upstate New York, near the border.” Bumblebee replied, following behind him as Carter stepped into the hallway. “We won’t know when the relief ship is arriving until we receive its ready signal.”

Kelley and Lennox were already waiting for them in the hallway. Both men were dressed for the outdoors, with heavy jackets and comfortable footwear. Carter led the way down the hall, and the rest of them fell into step behind him. No one said a word as the elevator doors slid open—empty, mercifully—and they made their way downstairs. It wasn’t until they stepped into the lobby that they realized something was amiss. There were at least two dozen people crowded around the flat-screen television affixed to the wall across from the reception desk. Even the porters and desk attendants were watching the screen, their faces pale and drawn. Sam followed their gazes, only to stop dead in his tracks.

“What the hell is that?” He managed, his mouth suddenly dry.

The television had been tuned to a breaking news channel, and it was showing a live-feed from an urban area—Chicago, perhaps, or Buffalo. A strange black mass had appeared in the sky above the apartments and the office buildings. It was larger in appearance than the moon, although scale was impossible to judge, and it was pitch-black in color. The dark mass was surrounded by a brilliant, wispy corona that blurred into the pale, blue sky.

Bumblebee’s hand pressed against the small of his back, urging him forward.

“That is a space bridge.” He replied, grimly.

Chapter 3

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Note: Here we go...

They hurried towards the glass doors on the opposite side of the lobby. The news coverage had cut back to the studio, where an attractive looking anchor was speaking into the camera. The volume was too low for Sam to hear what he was saying, but judging by the way the crowd had started murmuring to one another, it wasn’t anything good. The General Manager was standing near the reception desk, watching the television with a grim set to his mouth. He turned his head as they neared, and his face paled as soon as he laid eyes on them. The older man straightened up, before falling into step beside them as they passed.

“Do we need to leave Manhattan?” He asked, voice low and urgent.

“There is no credible threat to the city at this time.” Carter replied, without breaking his stride.

“Are you sure?” Birks asked, reaching out to catch him by the elbow, “I have kids in school. Should I go get them?”

Carter jerked his arm away and fixed the other man with a cool look. “We have no reason to believe that New York is at risk of an attack. Now, please—excuse us.”

Birks slowed to a stop, letting them pass without further comment. Sam turned his head, glancing over his shoulder in time to see the older man pull a cell phone out of his pocket. His face was ashen as he raised the mobile device to his ear and hurried into his office, out of sight.

Sam turned back around as Carter and Lennox stepped forward, pushing open the glass doors and stepping outside. He followed behind them, taking the front steps two at a time. Bumblebee and the others were already waiting by the curb with their engines idling in the cool morning air. Sam pulled his jacket closer as he hurried around Bumblebee’s front end. The driver’s side door opened as he approached, and Sam quickly slid into the seat.

“How are we looking?” He asked, turning to grab the seatbelt and pulling it across his chest.

“Traffic is heavy in the city, but it will clear up when we get on the Parkway.” Bumblebee replied, as Kelley climbed into the passenger seat.

As soon as they were safely inside the cab, both doors snapped shut behind them. Sam watched as Carter and Lennox climbed into Jazz’s front seat, and a moment later, the second-in-command was pulling away from the curb. Bumblebee followed behind him, as Trailbreaker and Hound brought up the rear. The four Autobots merged into traffic, before accelerating to thirty-five miles per hour.

“How long will it take to the get to the rendezvous point?” Kelley asked, drumming his fingers against his knee.

“Approximately three hours.” Bumblebee replied. His voice was terse, and each word was precisely pronounced. It was a tell that Sam had picked up on over the years—Bumblebee was feeling apprehensive. He reached out, brushing against the warm glow in his mind as they turned onto Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive. The road ran parallel to the water on their right, which meant they were driving north. Sam turned his head, staring out over the river at the buildings on the opposite shoreline. The sky was a perfect, clear blue and the sun was glinting off the water. It was a beautiful day—or it would have been, if they weren’t fleeing from an unknown threat. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he twisted in his seat, scanning the sky for any signs of the dark mass they had seen on television. He couldn’t see anything, but the western sky was blocked from view by skyscrapers.

“Sam, mind your firewalls.” Bumblebee admonished.

He turned his attention inwards, only to find that his filtering firewalls had thinned sometime during the morning. He frowned as he shored them up, before pulling the filter across his mind like a shroud.

“Do we know anything?” He asked when he had finished.

“The space bridge appeared eleven minutes and thirty-seven seconds ago. It is emitting background radiation consistent with interstellar travel.” Bumblebee replied, following Jazz into the left lane as the second-in-command passed a metro-bus going considerably under the speed limit.

“Interstellar travel?” Kelley echoed, his brow knitting together in concern, “Do we know how many ships?”

“We do not.” Jazz replied, his voice imitating from the dashboard speakers, “Perceptor has detected energy markers that would suggest quantum engines of some kind.”

Sam frowned faintly. He knew that the Ark had five hyperfuel intake accelerators, but he wasn’t sure how that compared to a quantum engine.

“Quantum engines are older and more powerful than Hyperfuel engines.” Bumblebee replied, answering his unspoken question, “They are also less reliable and more difficult to maintain.”

“Is there anyway to tell whether they’re friendlies?” Kelley asked.

“Nope.” Jazz replied, popping the plosive, “Both sides used quantum engines at the start of the war.”

“And there’s still no word from Diego Garcia?” Sam asked, softly.

“No.” Bumblebee replied.

The information was unwelcome, but not unexpected. He knew the four Autobots would be on radio-silence until Optimus sent the all-clear, and there was no telling when that would be. The thought gave an uneasy twist in Sam’s belly, and he shifted against the seat.

In front of them, Jazz laid on the horn as some asshole in a Subaru changed lanes without signalling, cutting them off. The driver responded by rolling down his window and giving the second-in-command the finger.

“New Yorkers.” Kelley muttered, shaking his head.

“That guy has no idea who he just flipped off.” Sam laughed, despite himself.

The amusement lasted only until they merged onto the interstate. As the island of Manhattan fell away behind them, the western sky became visible—and so too did the ominous black mass floating above the horizon. Sam’s stomach sank at the sight. It seemed larger than it had on television, and even from a distance, he could make out its wispy corona that bled into the sky.

“Bee… how many ships could come through that thing?” He asked, quietly.

The scout was silent for a long moment before he replied.

“As many as they have.”

That somber thought cast the cabin into silence, and they drove northward for two hours without speaking to one another. Sam stared out the windshield as the miles passed behind them—the landscape changing from low-lying metropolis to rolling hills, thick with deciduous forest. It wasn’t until Jazz changed lanes to take an otherwise unremarkable exit that Sam sat up straighter in his seat.

“Where are we going?” He asked, voice rough from disuse.

“The rendezvous spot is nearby.” Bumblebee replied, slowing down to navigate the off-ramp.

Sam’s eyebrows knit together in surprise. The area was remote, even by upstate New York standards. The highway transitioned into a two-lane rural road, which meandered its way through the forest. They passed by a lumberyard on the right and an old gas station with a single pump on the left, but otherwise there were no signs of human habitation. By the time that Jazz slowed down, turning down an overgrown pulp road, Sam couldn’t hold back his questions any longer.

“Where are we?” He asked.

“Forty miles away from anywhere.” Jazz replied dryly.

A faint frown turned down the corners of his mouth. “I’m serious. How can the Ark land anywhere near here?”

“Oh ye of little faith.” Jazz answered him, slowing down as he trundled over the packed dirt road.

Sam rolled his eyes, falling back against the seat as they made their way deeper into the forest. The road was narrow in parts, so narrow that the alder bushes scratched the sides of the cars as they passed. They drove for another ten minutes, before cresting a hill, and then Sam finally understood.

The road opened onto a massive clearing, easily twenty square miles in size. The trees had been cut down, leaving only stumps and crushed underbrush as far as the eye could see. The four vehicles made their way down the hill, sticking close to the tree line as they drove. Jazz finally parked about halfway down the clearing, beneath a copse of tall oak trees. Bumblebee, Hound, and Trailbreaker pulled to a stop beside him before cutting their engines.

“Well.” Sam said, breaking the silence, “No one’s going to be looking for us here.”

In front of them, Jazz’s doors popped open as Lennox and Carter climbed out of the cab. The two men stretched their backs as they looked around the clearing. Bumblebee’s doors opened a moment later in a silent invitation. The air was cool and smelled strongly of pine trees and soil. Sam unbuckled his seatbelt, before climbing out of the car.

“Well, the Ark won’t have any trouble landing here.” He said, dryly, as he approached the other two men.

“No, it shouldn’t.” Carter agreed, planting his hands on his hips as he took in their surroundings, “And the nearest town is over half-an-hour away. The fewer onlookers, the better.”

Lennox folded his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the Pontiac Solstice. “I’ve hunkered down in worse places.”

Sam fixed the older man with a wry look. “That’s not saying much—you’ve been holed up in the middle of nowhere, Afghanistan.”

Lennox conceded the point with a shrug.

They spent the next four hours waiting beneath the oak trees. At the two-hour mark, Bumblebee sub-spaced bottles of water and ration bars, and they had their lunch sitting on tree stumps in the clearing. The air warmed as the day went on, and Sam had to take off his jacket not long after. It was quiet outside, with only the sound of the wind in the trees to keep them company. By three o’clock in the afternoon, Sam’s boredom had begun to outpace his anxiety. He made his way over to Hound, who had transformed into his bipedal mode. The sentry was standing at attention, his watchful optics roving over the clearing.

“Hey, Hound.” Sam said as he approached, “Anything interesting going on?”

The sentry shook his helm minutely. “There was a lynx and her cubs on the far side of the clearing, but they fled when we arrived. A pity—she was very beautiful.”

“Really?” Sam asked, turning his head to look out across the valley, “I’ve never seen a lynx before.”

“That is not surprising.” Hound replied, “They are indigenous to Canada. This is the southern-most extent of their range.”

He stayed with Hound for another half-hour, but the sentry was unusually reserved—they all were, whenever they were on duty. He left a short while later, picking his way around tree stumps and detritus towards Bumblebee.

The scout turned to look at him as he approached, his antennae perking up in greeting.

“Hey, Bee.” Sam said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

His bonded crouched down, resting his forearms on his legs. “Hello Sam.”

Sam ambled forward until he stood in the space between Bumblebee’s knees. “This is taking a long time.”

“I know.” The scout replied, cupping his servo against Sam’s back and pulling him closer. Sam went willingly, leaning against his chassis. The smooth metal of his chest plates was warm, even through his shirt.

“No news is good news, huh?” He asked.

“It’s not bad news.” Bumblebee corrected him.

Sam was silent for a long moment, turning his response over in his head, testing it, and then he said it anyway. “Could the island be under attack?”

Bumblebee’s optics spiralled down to points, before irising open again. “We have been monitoring breaking news coverage since this morning. So far, none of the large media conglomerates are reporting any unusual activity on the island.”

Sam huffed at the ambiguous non-answer. “It’s after midnight. Could they even tell?”

“Neither NORAD nor the Indian Air Defense system has detected anything anomalous, either.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam angled his head to look his bonded in the eye. “Would you tell me if they did?”

Bumblebee’s servo curled protectively against his back. “Of course I would.”

The rest of the afternoon passed by in a blur of monotony and anxiety. The sun disappeared behind the mountains a few hours later, turning the sky a remarkable shade of burnt umber and sending long shadows across the valley. Sam and the others sat down for their dinner before it was full dark. The ready-made meals and bottled water reminded him painfully of the Nemesis, but he choked down the rations without complaint. When he was finished, he excused himself to use the bathroom, and by the time he came back, Bumblebee and Trailbreaker had transformed into their alt modes.

“It will be cold soon.” Bumblebee said, popping open his door as Sam approached, “You should get some sleep.”

Sam slid into the driver’s seat without protest. The door clicked shut behind him as the vents on the dashboard turned on, spilling warm air into the cabin. He folded his hands over his belly, staring out the windshield at the stars. The clearing was fully dark now, and were it not for the dim lights on the dashboard, he wouldn’t have been able to see his hand in front of his face.

He sat there like that for an interminable time, eyes half-lidded and drifting, before Bumblebee’s mental presence sharpened abruptly.

“Sam, wake up.” He urged, straightening his seat into its full, upright position.

“What is it?” Sam asked, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, “What’s happened?”

“Prime has sent the all-clear. The drop-ship is on its way.” Bumblebee replied, popping open the driver’s side door.

Sam scrambled out of the cabin, and then Bumblebee initiated his transformation sequence. Trailbreaker did the same, and soon the four Autobots had formed a loose circle beneath the oak trees.

“Well, what happened?” Sam demanded.

“We don’t know.” Jazz replied, folding his arms over his chassis, “Prime didn’t give us the play-by-play.”

Sam frowned faintly, “That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

The saboteur rolled his pauldrons in a shrug. “Well, it’s not the standard operating procedure.”

Before Sam could reply, the clearing was flooded with blinding, white light. He made a strangled sound as he raised a hand to shield his eyes. The floodlights softened a moment later, and then he could make out the imposing shape of the Nemesis hovering above the clearing.

Sam turned, directing a confused look at Jazz. “Why did Optimus send the Nemesis and not the Ark?”

The second-in-command’s expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “I don’t know.”

They watched as the warship descended to the ground a short distance away. The landing struts sunk deep into the earth as the Nemesis completed its landing sequence. A moment later, the starboard hatch opened with a hiss of decompression and the loading ramp extended to the ground.

“Did someone order a cab?” Thundercracker’s dry voice called across the clearing.

Sam glanced at Jazz, looking for direction, but the second-in-command just waved a servo towards the ship. “You first.”

He grimaced faintly in response, but he started across the clearing towards the Nemesis without protest. The others fell in behind him, human and Autobot alike, as Trailbreaker took up the rear. Sam briefly turned his attention inwards, intending to double-check his firewalls, but he couldn’t miss the wary quality of Bumblebee’s mental presence.

//What is it?// He asked, uncertainly, as they approached the loading ramp.

//I don’t know.// Bumblebee replied.

//Bee.// Sam said, nudging at the winter-white glow, //Tell me.//

The scout was silent for a weighted moment before he replied.

//No one is returning my pings.// He said, grimly, //I’ve only received acknowledgements in response.//

Sam’s lips thinned in concern as he turned to regard the scout. Bumblebee’s plating was clamped tightly against his chassis, betraying his apprehension. Trailbreaker and Hound were similarly tense. Only Jazz, who was strolling along beside him, acted as though nothing were amiss.

//What about Cliff?// He asked softly.

Bumblebee shuttered his optics. //Neither Cliffjumper nor Hot Rod are answering me. Only Prime is communicating with us directly.//

“Would you hurry up?” Starscream called down to them, haughty and impatient, “I don’t want to be here any longer than absolutely necessary.”

Sam glanced up to see the Air Commander waiting at the top of the loading ramp. He was standing with his weight on one pede and his servos on his hips. Thundercracker and Skywarp were standing behind him, and (thankfully) their postures were more relaxed.

He turned back to Bumblebee, before asking the only question on his mind. //Are we walking into a trap right now?//

Bumblebee shook his helm in the negative. //I don’t believe so. Prime is corresponding on a secured Autobot frequency. Not even Soundwave could falsify it.//

Sam chewed the inside of his lip with his teeth, trying to think. Why would Optimus send the Nemesis instead of the Ark? Why the continued radio-silence, even after the all clear? And why had no one said anything about the spacebridge?

His internal struggle was interrupted by Jazz, who pressed against his mind. The touch was one part rebuke, one part insistence. Sam turned, glancing at the saboteur in surprise. His expression was pointed and meaningful, and Sam understood at once—it was time to go.

Decision made, Sam climbed up the ramp and into the Nemesis as the others followed behind him. The walls were lined with crates and equipment, leaving only a narrow path to the opposite side of the hangar. Starscream was standing at the forefront of the loading bay, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Lord High Protector.” Sam said, as solemn and dignified as he could manage, “Thank-you for your assistance.”

Starscream’s brow ridges drew together, as though in surprise, before he scoffed in response.

“Oh, this is just wonderful.” He said, sarcastically, as he started towards the opposite side of the hangar, “Come along, little Prime. The ground bridge is ready for you.”

The diminutive was clearly intended as a slight, and Sam kept from narrowing his eyes at Starscream’s back with considerable effort. He followed after the Seeker, alert for any sudden movement or noise from the shadows. Jazz strolled along at his side, posture loose and relaxed, when Sam knew he was anything but.

“How was New York?” Thundercracker asked, falling into step beside them.

Sam snorted in response. “Oh, it was great. We saw Times Square, went on the Late Show, fled for our lives through the city—you know, typical tourist stuff.”

Thundercracker chuckled as they neared the doors on the opposite side of the loading bay. The light from the corridor spilled into the darkened room, illuminating the far side of the hangar.

“Did you buy a postcard?” The Seeker asked, dryly.

“It slipped my mind.” Sam replied, slanting him a half-smile, “Next time.”

Their conversation petered off as they left the hangar. Sam’s mouth went dry and his pulse ratcheted even higher at the sight of the familiar corridors. The embossed metal floors shone dully in the low light, reflecting Sam’s distorted reflection back at him. He took a slow breath in through his nose, releasing it from his mouth.

Bumblebee shifted forward, leaning into his mind. //I’m here, Sam.//

Sam turned his head, glancing up at Bumblebee to find the scout staring back at him. //Thanks.//

In front of them, Starscream half-turned, giving Sam a contemptuous look.

“Are you about to have some kind of episode?” He asked, “Your blood pressure is sky-high.”

Sam bristled with anger as he narrowed his eyes at the Seeker.

“Gee, I wonder why that could be?” He bit out.

“Are you still hung-up on that?” Starscream scoffed, “It was over four years ago.”

Sam flushed hotly in response, opening his mouth to say something decidedly un-Prime-like, when Jazz pressed against his mind. The touch was cautious and censorious in equal measures, and it was only then that Sam realized he was being baited. He closed his mouth with considerable effort, before drawing up to his full height and pinning the Seeker with a flat look.

Realizing that his fun was over, Starscream rolled his optics as he turned around and continued down the corridor.

Their procession was a silent one after that, except for the ringing of their footsteps against the metal floor. They passed doors and hatchways as they walked, but Sam didn’t recognize any of them. He was more than a little thankful for that fact—he dreaded the idea of seeing Megatron’s quarters or the medical bay again. They turned another corner, and the ground bridge hangar came into sight at the end of the hall. Sam quickened his step, eager to be off the ship as soon as physically possible.

The ground bridge hangar was small, in comparison to the rest of the Nemesis, and it was empty except for the circular archway located in the center of the room. Sam’s step faltered at the sight of Soundwave standing at the control panel, his interface cables plugged into the machine. The second-in-command was regarding them closely, his visor tracking them with as they crossed the room.

Sam struggled to keep the fear off his face, but he knew it was a moot point—Starscream had already underscored the fact that his body was betraying his anxiety.

“Prime has communicated the ready signal.” Soundwave said, in the same flat modulation that he was renowned for.

Starscream waved a servo impatiently. “Fine. Send them on their way—the sooner they’re off my ship, the better.”

A moment later, a blue-green miasma exploded to life in the archway. The swirling void sent light and color reflecting off the polished metal walls. Sam stared at the ground bridge for a long moment, suddenly uncertain. They could have been transporting them to the bottom of the ocean, for all he knew.

//It’s alright, Sam. The coordinates have been verified.// Bumblebee assured him.

Sam set his shoulders and, with a great deal of trepidation, walked straight through the archway. There was a moment of profound disorientation as the neural-network vanished in the empty void of quantum-space, before it came rushing back to him as he stepped out the other side. With its return came a dizzying rush of sensation and impression that left Sam reeling. The neural-network was alight with activity, unlike anything he had experienced before. There were dozens of unfamiliar spark signatures in his immediate vicinity, and the combined effect was almost overwhelming.

Carter and Lennox stepped through the ground bridge after him. The two men seemed to sense his disorientation, for they urged him down the ramp and away from the archway. It wasn’t until Bumblebee and the others came through the bridge that he realized the hangar was empty except for Optimus Prime, who was standing ready to receive them.

“What's going on?” Sam asked, incredulously, as he pressed a hand against his forehead.

Optimus inclined his helm, as though in a silent apology. “I must speak with you.”

The grim tone of his voice sent a thrill of apprehension down Sam’s spine. He instinctively reached for Ratchet’s familiar glow—only to draw up short. The medic’s mental presence was restless and unhappy, a fact that was at odds with the flashes of excitement and joy that he could glean from the neural-network.

“What’s happened?” He asked, flatly.

Optimus knelt down, extending a servo towards him. Sam stared at it for a long moment, wrestling with the impulse to demand an answer right now, dammit, before he climbed onto the proffered palm. The Autobot leader straightened to his full height, tucking Sam close to his chassis, and then he transformed around him. Sam was squeezed and buffeted, moved this way and that, but it was mere moments before he found himself sitting in the Peterbilt’s front seat.

The Autobot leader shifted into drive as soon as he finished his transformation sequence, and then he accelerated out of the hangar. Sam leaned over to stare into the large rear-view mirror, only to notice that Bumblebee was following behind them. He turned his attention inwards, and was immediately met with a swell of tension and uncertainty across their bond-space.

“What the hell is going on, Optimus?” He demanded.

The Autobot leader was silent for a long while—so long that Sam thought he might not reply. Eventually, he ex-vented a quiet sigh.

“The spacebridge was activated by an Autobot battleship named the Lost Light. The ship and its crew have since arrived.” He replied.

Sam’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “That’s good… isn’t it?”

It was only because Sam was playing close attention that he noticed the way Optimus’ spark signature sharpened minutely. The Autobot leader said nothing as he passed through the East Quad doors, before accelerating down the bridge at a quick clip.

“The ship was sent to deliver a message.” Optimus continued, ignoring his question, “Sentinel Prime has returned to Cybertron, and his forces have laid waste to the remaining Decepticons there.”

Sam frowned deeply.

“Alright.” He said, slowly, “I’m definitely confused now, because that sounds like great news to me.”

The Autobot leader slowed down as he drove through the West Quad doors, before continuing in the direction of his office.

“Sentinel Prime’s return, and his triumph over Megatron’s soldiers, is momentous news indeed.” Optimus agreed softly, “It means that the war is finally over—at long last.”

The Autobot leader’s voice was solemn, almost grim, and Sam’s stomach bottomed out at the sound of it.

“What’s going on, Optimus?” Sam pleaded, “What aren’t you telling me?”

His question was met by silence as the Peterbilt rolled into his office. Sam felt a touch of caution, and then the truck exploded into motion around him. The solid-looking cabin split apart, panels folded back and peeling away, until Sam found himself dropping into Optimus’ palm. The Autobot leader held him close to his spark for a long moment, before setting him down on top of the large desk that dominated the room.

“Please Sam, sit down.” He said, gesturing towards the padded armchair that Sam had occupied for hours while they talked about Cybertron together.

“I’ll stand.” Sam gritted out in reply, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Optimus inclined his helm in acquiescence as he took his seat. The Autobot leader seemed conflicted, as though he were uncertain where to begin. Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest and stared him down, waiting for an explanation. It wasn’t until Bumblebee had transformed and came to stand behind him that Optimus provided him one.

“Sentinel Prime was able to access the mainframe from the ruins of the Simfur Temple. He learned of the Battle of Tyger Pax, and the decision I made to send the Allspark into space. The Lost Light has been sent to retrieve the Cube and bring it back to Cybertron.”

Sam could feel the blood draining from his face. “But—but the Cube was destroyed.”

Optimus’ expression was very gentle as he replied. “Yes, Sam, I know.”

“You told them that, right?” Sam demanded, distantly aware that his voice was an octave higher than usual, “You told them the Cube’s gone, right?”

“The Captain has been given a detailed account of what transpired, both in Mission City and in Egypt.” Optimus replied, inclining his helm, “He remains undeterred.”

Sam went cold all over, and he thought, for a brief second, that all the air in the room must have disappeared—he couldn’t breathe around the lump that had lodged itself in his throat.

“What do you mean?” He whispered in reply.

The Autobot leader ex-vented a deep sigh. It was a weary sound—weary and remorseful.

“Captain Xaaron wishes to bring you with us when we return to Cybertron.”

Sam’s shock and confusion and dread flashed into ice-cold fear in an instant. “No.”

Optimus’ optics softened with compassion. “Sam, please—“

“No!” He snapped, blood rushing back into his face as he flushed all the way to his hairline, “I’m not going to fucking Cybertron!”

Sam was distantly aware of Bumblebee’s tumultuous emotions—anger and shock and joy and concern, all swelling across their bond-space together. It was overwhelming and distracting, and he shoved the scout as hard as he could. The sensations vanished a moment later.

“Please, Sam, listen to me.” Optimus intoned gently, but Sam interrupted him before he could continue.

“There’s nothing to say.” He bit out, “I’m not going to Cybertron—end of discussion.”

Optimus’ expression became pained as he reached out for him. Sam stiffened and jerked away—it was the first time in his life that he felt threatened by the Autobot leader. Prime’s expression grew stricken, as though reading his thoughts, and he slowly lowered his servo to the table.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Sam.” He murmured, softly.

Sam’s heart was galloping inside his chest now—fight or flight, he knew—and he had to take a moment to compose himself before he could reply.

“Are you going to force me?” He managed.

Optimus’ optics were shining with barely restrained emotion. “No, Sam. I am not.”

“Oh, really?” Sam bit out, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Optimus flinched in response, but he didn’t deny the accusation.

“My actions in the aftermath of the Battle of Giza were taken without my knowledge of your role as Prime.” He murmured, “You and I are equals. I cannot command you to accompany us, if you do not wish it.”

Some of Sam’s fear was softened by the sincerity in his voice. “What about the Captain?”

“Captain Xaaron is duty-bound to obey my commands.” He rumbled in reply, “We will return to Cybertron together, and I will explain my actions to Sentinel Prime in person.”

Something about the phrasing of his reply struck Sam as odd. He frowned at the Autobot leader as he asked, suspiciously, “What do you mean ‘we’?”

Optimus ex-vented a quiet sigh as he shook his helm. “Sentinel has ordered me to return to Cybertron with my soldiers, and I will comply with his command.”

Sam’s fear and dread were abruptly gone, obliterated by a tidal wave of possessive fury. “You’re not taking Bumblebee away from me.”

He almost didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice—it was strangled and cold, and it wasn’t until the words had left his mouth that he realized they were a threat.

“No, Sam.” Optimus replied, seemingly unoffended by his reaction, “I would not separate you from Bumblebee.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the Autobot leader, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But?”

“There is no but, Sam.” Optimus rumbled in reply, “He is your bonded—it is his right to remain on Earth, if he wishes.”

The idea that Bumblebee might want to return to Cybertron without him had never even crossed Sam’s mind. He turned, glancing up at his bonded in desperation, but Bumblebee’s expression was hardened with resolve. Sam’s knees went weak in relief at the unspoken support, and he stumbled over to sit in the armchair.

“Thank-you.” Sam murmured, after a long while. Whether he was speaking to Bumblebee or to Optimus, however, he couldn’t say.

Optimus was quiet for a long moment, as though considering his response. “I will not try to dissuade you, if you are determined to stay.” He rumbled, “But you must understand the risk you will be facing.”

Sam’s head came up as he stared at the Autobot leader. “I understand.”

“No, Sam, you must listen to me carefully.” Optimus rumbled, as serious as the grave, “I am leaving a small contingent behind to protect our Energon production. They will not be able to mount a formidable defense, in the event of an attack.”

Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown. “How small, exactly?”

“Beachcomber, Perceptor, Drift, and Ambulon.” Optimus replied.

Sam’s stomach sank a little further with each designation. A geologist, a scientist, a field medic, and a former Decepticon. Drift was the only warframe of the group—the others weren’t even combat builds.

“I see.” Sam replied, numbly.

And he did. Not only would Beachcomber and the others be unable to protect him, in the event of an attack, but his very presence would put them in danger—as it would endanger Carter, and Lennox, and every other person on the island. Shockwave would certainly take advantage of the lapse in their defenses, as soon as he learned about Prime’s departure. Sam would be a sitting duck—and Bumblebee along with him.

His comprehension must have been plain to see, for Optimus inclined his helm in response.

“I am sorry, Sam.” He rumbled, “I know this is a difficult decision.”

Sam stared sightlessly at the Autobot leader, his thoughts whirling too fast for him to marshal.

“How long?” He asked, eventually.

His voice was lifeless and dull-sounding, even to his own ears.

A look of consternation flitted across Prime’s face. “I do not know.”

“Ballpark it for me.” Sam murmured.

Optimus was silent for a long moment. “It will take over a year to travel to Cybertron—longer, if we run into difficulties along the way—and I do not know how long Sentinel will keep us there.”

Sam closed his eyes in pain. “What's the best case scenario?”

Optimus’ mental presence brushed gently against his mind. “Three years, perhaps longer.”

The words were like a knife in his ribs, but he forced himself to nod in response.

“And the worst case scenario?” He asked, softly.

The Autobot leader’s mental presence sharpened with remorse and regret, and Sam knew his answer before he even spoke it aloud.

“In the worst case scenario, we do not return at all.”

And just like that, Sam’s world imploded around him.

Chapter 4

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Note: Thank-you so much for your support, guys. It's so motivating!

Sam had no recollection of leaving Prime’s office. He came back to himself an interminable time later, somewhere along the beach. He was sitting in the sun-warmed sand, hands clasped loosely in his lap, as he stared out over the ocean. The water was a perfect, clear turquoise near the shore. It darkened to cerulean further out, past the reefs where the water was deeper.

He took a deep, shuddery breath. The air smelled like saltwater and orchids—clean and fresh and organic. Sam blinked against the sudden sting of tears, and asked, without taking his eyes off the water, “What am I going to do, Bee?”

A shadow fell across the sand as his bonded crouched down beside him. The scout’s mental presence was concerned and unhappy.

“I don’t know.” He murmured in reply.

Sam screwed his eyes shut and fisted his hands in his hair until his scalp ached. He had always known that travel to Cybertron was a distant possibility. Megatron had been defeated, his remaining forces scattered to the stars, and their trade deal with the Canadians would provide all the energon needed to rebuild the dying planet. Still, he had never thought it would happen so soon. He had thought he would have decades, maybe even centuries, to come to terms with leaving Earth.

“Oh my God.” Sam managed, opening his eyes to stare across the water, “What am I going to tell my folks?”

His grandmother was seventy-four years old. His mother and father were in their fifties. Optimus had said that it would be three years before he could hope to see them again. Longer, if one of the spacebridges malfunctioned or they experienced engine troubles in transit. It would be longer still if they returned to Cybertron and Sentinel Prime refused to let him leave again. The older Prime was the rightful leader of the Autobots, a title that Optimus had assumed in his absence, and his word was incontestable.

Sam’s throat thickened with sudden emotion.

“I can’t say good-bye.” He choked out, “Not forever—I’m not that strong.”

Bumblebee whistled at him gently as he shuffled forward, bracketing Sam’s body with his knee struts. His servo was heavy and warm as it pressed against his back, molding to the curve of Sam’s spine.

“It won’t be forever.” He murmured.

Sam’s head pitched forward at the quiet promise in his bonded’s voice.

“You don’t know that.” He whispered, miserably.

Bumblebee shuffled nearer still, until Sam was nestled in the protective embrace of his limbs. Pressed this closely together, he could hear the inner workings of his bonded’s body—the steady hiss-hush of hydraulic fluid, the push-pull of his fuel pump, and the gentle thrum of his spark. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the warm metal, listening. The sounds were quiet and familiar, and Sam let himself be soothed, if only for a moment. It wasn’t long before his anxiety and grief niggled to the forefront of his mind again, refusing to be ignored.

Sam slanted open his eyes, staring down the length of the beach. It was peaceful and secluded here, with only the cry of seagulls and the distant bustle of the airfield to disturb them.

“If it wasn’t for me…” His voice trailed off as he tried to find the right words, “I mean… if we’d never met… would you be happy right now?”

The question was clumsy, even to his own ears, but Bumblebee understood him anyway. The denial and vehemence that flashed across their bond in response was almost overwhelming in its intensity.

“I would choose you over Cybertron, no matter the cost.” He replied fiercely, “I would have done so, even if we hadn’t bonded.”

Sam closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Bumblebee’s chassis. “You didn’t answer my question—if you had never met me, would you be happy? Returning home?”

Bumblebee hesitated for a long moment. “That’s a loaded question.”

“I don’t think it is.” Sam replied, quietly.

The scout whistled at him in Cybertronian, a rolling series of glyphs and signifiers. Sam recognized beloved-onto-Primus and Cybertron, but the rest were lost on him. Bumblebee hooked a digit under his chin, angling Sam’s head up until he met his gaze.

“I do not wish to imagine a multiverse where we had not met.” He murmured, evading the question for a second time.

Sam’s smile was watery and thin in return. “It’s fine, Bee. I get it. I really do—home’s home.”

Bumblebee’s expression softened perceptibly.

“The flaw in your reasoning is not its conclusion, but its premise.” He replied, settling his servos on Sam’s shoulders, “If we had never met, then the mechanoid returning to Cybertron would be incapable of happiness.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut at the sudden, intense wave of emotion that washed over him. His pulse quickened and his chest ached from the force of it.

“I know I can’t stay.” He managed to get out, his voice catching on the words, “But I don’t know how I’ll say good-bye.”

The words felt like an admission, and Sam supposed they were. He had known that he would be unable to stay on Earth—had known it from the moment he learned about Sentinel Prime’s return. The older Prime had ruled Cybertron since the beginning of the Second Golden Age, and he was not one to be deterred.

“I’ll be with you.” Bumblebee promised, “Every step of the way.”

Sam shivered, despite the heat.

“How long?” He asked softly, “I mean, how much time do I…?”

“The Ark’s departure is scheduled for Wednesday evening.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam’s stomach tightened at the news. He had less than three days to say his good-byes and put his affairs in order. The thought should have spurred him into action, but it left him feeling strangely disconnected instead.

He stumbled to his feet, brushing the sand off his pants.

“I’m going for a walk.” He said. “I need some time to think.”

Bumblebee’s antennae perked up in concern.

“Would you like some company?” He offered.

Sam shook his head. “No, thank-you. I want to be alone for a little while.”

Bumblebee whistled at him gently, but he made no move to follow when Sam started off towards the road. The sun had risen to its zenith while they had been sitting on the beach, and Sam was sweating in earnest by the time he clambered over the rocky berm. He wiped his face with his sleeve, before shoving his hands in his pockets. It was cooler here, in the shade of the palms and coconut trees, but it was more humid as well. He made his way along the dusty road back towards the base. The vegetation thinned as he neared the Downtown, and it wasn’t long before he could see the airfield in the distance. The Ark sat gleaming golden on the tarmac, surrounded by crates and equipment. The sight of it gave him a painful twist in his belly.

As Sam passed the southern airfield, the Lost Light also came into view. It was a bulky ship with silver plating and red hash marks on its bow. Whereas the Ark was sleek and graceful, a thing of aesthetics as well as function, the Lost Light was a behemoth. There was no doubt in his mind which of the two ships had been designed primarily for combat.

He continued down the road towards the perimeter fence, lost in his thoughts. He would need to figure out how to meet his folks. He wasn’t about to tell them that he was leaving, maybe forever, over a telephone line. He wasn’t sure what to do about his grandmother. She had steadfastly refused to use the ground bridge, despite his reassurances, and he didn’t have time to drive to Ferndale. The dilemma occupied him all the way back to the Hive.

As the lift settled into the floor of the receiving room, Sam realized that it was busier than he had ever seen it before. The room was teeming with NEST soldiers, administrative staff, and forklifts loaded with heavy-looking crates. Sam made his way towards the bridge entrance, head lowered and hands in his pockets. If he didn’t make eye contact with anyone, then he wouldn’t need to speak with them.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize where he was headed until he was already standing in front of Ratchet’s medical bay. Sam angled his head, looking up at the massive red doors, as he wrestled with the impulse to enter. The Chief Medical Officer was probably busy, with all the preparations underway for their departure.

//I am.// Ratchet agreed, //But your presence would not be an imposition.//

Sam couldn’t help the faint smile that spread across his face at the medic’s wry tone. Shaking his head, he stepped through the narrow opening between the hangar doors… and then he pulled up short. The medical bay had been largely disassembled in his absence. The workbenches along the far wall were empty, and all but four berths had been removed—including the berth that contained all of the human-purposed medical equipment. The floor-to-ceiling cabinets against the back wall were open, and First Aid was carefully stacking supplies into a large crate. A dozen other crates were arranged in a semi-circle around him. The sight of the normally meticulous hangar in such disarray gave Sam a physical ache in his chest.

“Is this him?” An unfamiliar voice asked, softly.

Sam turned in the direction of the voice to find two mechanoids standing next to Ratchet. The first mechanoid was tall and broad shouldered, with a chassis design similar to the Chief Medical Officer. The second mechanoid was shorter and lithe, plated in the red and white of a field medic.

“It is.” Ratchet replied matter-of-factly.

The red and white mechanoid tilted his helm, regarding Sam with open curiosity. “Remarkable. He reads just like a newspark.”

Ratchet’s expression cooled by an order of degrees. “He is a newspark.”

“He’s yours, then?” The larger mechanoid asked, “I wasn’t sure. I thought perhaps that Prime had claimed him.”

The mechanoid’s voice was very soft, almost wistful, and he was staring at Sam with an intensity that was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable.

“I initiated the Creator bond, yes.” Ratchet acknowledged, before turning to look at Sam, “Allow me to introduce Meltdown and Fixit, surgeons.”

He gestured as he spoke, first to the green and yellow mechanoid and then to the shorter red one. Meltdown lowered into a crouch until they were more of an eye-level with one another.

“Hello Sam.” He murmured, “It is very nice to meet you.”

The words were spoken with such sincerity that Sam could feel himself flushing in response. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to turn around and walk straight back into the hallway. It wasn’t until Ratchet gave him a sharp look that he realized he hadn’t replied to the greeting.

“Hello Meltdown.” He managed, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Fixit was still regarding him with curiosity, his optics spiralling smaller and wider as he looked Sam over from head to toe.

“Your heart rate, blood pressure, and cortisol production have increased.” He observed mildly, “Are you uncomfortable?”

Sam’s flush deepened as he asked, more sharply than he intended, “Do you want an honest answer to that question?”

Meltdown chuckled as he straightened up, fixing Ratchet with a wry look. “Oh, he’s one of yours alright.”

Ratchet ex-vented an unimpressed snort, before turning to regard Sam. “I believe I can deduce the reason for your visit.”

Sam couldn’t suppress his grimace as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He knew it made him look as defensive and uncomfortable as he felt.

“Yeah.”

Ratchet inclined his helm, and then he turned to look at Meltdown and Fixit. “I will see you in the infirmary when I have finished here.”

It was a clear dismissal, and the two medics inclined their helms deeply in response. Meltdown transformed first, folding down into his alt mode with the grind and clang of metal on metal. It was an awkward, uncomfortable looking transformation, but when he was finished, there was a yellow-green Search and Rescue vehicle resting on its wheels. Sam’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline in surprise—it was virtually identical to Ratchet’s alt mode. Fixit’s transformation was faster and smoother, and a moment later, there was a red and white ambulance parked at his side.

Sam stepped aside as the two vehicles accelerated towards the hangar doors, which rumbled open of their own accord. As Meltdown and Fixit drove past him, they brushed against his mind in farewell. The touches were gentle and respectful, almost benedictory in nature, and Sam watched them disappear into the corridor before turning to look at Ratchet.

“What was that all about?” He asked, making his way deeper into the hangar.

Ratchet shrugged. “Which part?”

“All of it.” Sam replied, pushing his hands into his pockets, “Why was his transformation like that?”

Ratchet crouched down as Sam approached, settling a servo on the floor in a clear invitation. Sam climbed onto the proffered palm with practised ease, steadying himself as Ratchet straightened up and deposited him on the nearby workbench.

“Meltdown is old and battle-worn. It has been too long since he’s had any proper maintenance.” Ratchet replied.

“Is he older than you?” Sam asked dryly.

Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

Sam considered that, and then he asked, “Why does he have the same alt mode as you?”

“Meltdown does not care what alt mode he uses, so long as it serves its function. He asked to use my vehicle schematics, rather than go through the inconvenience of locating another Earth alt, and I agreed. We will not be on Earth long enough for the distinction to be important.”

Sam flinched away from the words, which brought the situation rushing back to him. It made his heart start beating faster in his chest, and he had to swallow against the panic that thickened his throat.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Ratch.” He managed, voice low and strangled, “I really don’t.”

Ratchet was watching him closely, his expression impossible to read.

“It will be difficult for you.” He acknowledged, “I am sorry that you have been placed in this situation.”

Sam barked a harsh laugh as he uncrossed his arms and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Yeah, it sucks.”

“It does.” Ratchet agreed, inclining his helm.

Sam started pacing across the workbench in an effort to cool some of the anxiety churning up his insides. Ratchet watched him in silence, letting Sam turn the situation over in his head without prompting or comment.

“What am I going to eat?” Sam demanded at last, breaking the silence, “Or drink? Or breathe? Does Cybertron even have an atmosphere?”

Ratchet, imminently practical as he was, answered his questions in rank order. “The Ark is fully self-contained and climate-controlled. It will be cooler than you’re accustomed to, but well within the requirements for organic life. Cybertron has a thin atmosphere that is composed primarily of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, nitrogen, and oxygen. It is not breathable.”

Sam scoffed derisively. “So what, I’ll just live on the Ark the whole time I’m on Cybertron?”

“If necessary.” Ratchet replied.

“Oh, this is just wonderful.” Sam snapped, his temper rising in pace with his anxiety, “I can’t wait to spend my indefinite future cooped up on an alien spaceship in the middle of nowhere.”

Sam felt a thrum of disapproval across their bond-space, which only served to stoke his temper higher.

“Your sarcasm isn’t helpful.” Ratchet admonished, gruffly.

“Well, neither are you!” Sam bit back.

Ratchet stilled from head to toe as he pinned Sam with a cool look.

“I beg your pardon?”

The tone of his voice was deceptively mild, and Sam flushed all the way to his hairline. He turned his head, unable to look the medic in the eye.

“Sorry.” He murmured.

Ratchet stared at him for a moment longer, letting the rebuke linger, before he spoke. “You will not be cooped up for the duration of your stay. The environmental mask will allow you freedom of movement, and Prime has tasked Grapple and Wheeljack with finding a solution to the housing problem.”

Sam sighed softly, scrubbing a hand over his face for a second time. “What about food and water?”

“We have been stockpiling supplies for the last five years. The fare will be limited, compared to what you’re used to, but we have taken your preferences into account.”

Sam turned, glancing up at Ratchet in surprise. “What does that mean?”

“It means what it means.” The medic replied with a shrug, “We have flash-frozen an assortment of foodstuffs you prefer, taking nutritional value and longevity into consideration, and stored it aboard the Ark. We have the supplies for seven years—longer, if we are forced to ration them.”

Sam frowned in confusion. “You have the space to store all that?”

“The Ark is a large ship.” Ratchet replied wryly.

“But what if…” Sam’s voice trailed off, grief and anxiety and denial making his voice tight, “What if we don’t come back?”

Ratchet’s mental presence brushed against him. It was a fleeting touch, there and gone again, but the pulse of reassurance that remained behind was comforting.

“We have stockpiled seeds and hydroponics equipment as well.” Ratchet replied. "If we are unable to return, then we will rely on horticulture."

Sam didn’t know whether to feel heartbroken or relieved. “It sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

Ratchet’s expression softened as he pressed two digits against Sam’s chest, stilling his restless pacing. “You have only had several hours to come to terms with this, but we have been preparing for a return to Cybertron for years. We have overlooked nothing in regards to your comfort and safety.”

Sam forced a brittle smile. “It’s a long-shot to say that I’ll be comfortable, Ratch.”

“It is my hope that you will be, eventually.” He replied, “I know that Cybertron is not Earth, but you could be happy there.”

Sam’s breath caught at the tone of Ratchet’s voice. It was soft and gentle, and it made something ache inside him. Cybertron would never be home, not so long as he was being forced to reside there—and not so long as his parents were still alive. He kept the thought to himself, rather than speaking it aloud. It seemed disrespectful and selfish.

“No, Sam. Not selfish.” Ratchet murmured, “Human.”

The words from anyone else might have come across as an insult, but Sam could feel Ratchet’s compassion through their bond. He sighed heavily, shoulders curling forward as he pushed his hands back into his pockets.

“I gotta say good-bye to my folks.” He managed.

“Yes, I know.” Ratchet replied, “Would you like to meet them here or in Jasper?”

Sam gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t think the location is going to matter, Ratch.”

“I will make the arrangements.” Ratchet promised, “Did you want to tell them yourself? Or would you prefer for me to break the news?”

Sam was caught off-guard by the question, and he didn’t know how to respond. The thought of explaining the situation to his parents was beyond horrible, but it seemed cowardly to push the responsibility—and the blame—onto Ratchet. It wasn’t his fault.

“It is not your fault, either.” Ratchet rumbled in reply, “The situation was set into motion by circumstances beyond your control.”

Sam scoffed softly. “Yeah, I know. Optimus made that pretty clear.”

Ratchet frowned, pressing the faintest glimmer of disapproval across their bond.

“It is not Prime’s fault, either.” He said, like a chastisement, “The blame lies squarely at Sentinel’s feet.”

There was something about his tone, restrained and cool, that made Sam’s heart skip a beat. He angled his head so he could look the medic in the face as he asked, hesitantly, “What’s he like? Sentinel, I mean?”

Ratchet’s mental presence became closed-off and unreadable. “I have not seen or spoken to Sentinel Prime in almost five million years.”

Sam frowned at the strange non-answer. “Well, what was he like back then?”

Ratchet stared down at him for a long moment, as though weighing his response. Eventually, he grudgingly replied.

“Sentinel succeeded Nominus Prime.” Ratchet said, “As you know, Nominus was responsible for a dark chapter of Cybertron’s history. Sentinel was chosen as Prime after Nominus’ assassination in an effort to repair the rifts between the city-states.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember. He was from Iacon but his Creators were Vosian and Kaonian.”

“That’s correct.” Ratchet replied, inclining his helm, “Sentinel Prime was an efficient, calculated leader. He reversed the Clampdown and disbanded the slums of Kalis. He was popular with the upper and lower castes alike—for a time.”

Sam’s chest tightened in trepidation, and he crossed his arms in an attempt to hide his unease. “What happened?”

“Sentinel was a firm believer in communitarianism, and as a result, he supported the caste-system. He believed, as many in the Senate did, that the individual was less important than the community, and that personal sacrifice was sometimes necessary for the common good.”

Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown. “Is that what started the war?”

“Yes and no.” Ratchet replied. “The Decepticon movement rose up against the cruelties of the caste system, true, but the war did not begin until Megatron executed the members of the Senate. By that time, Sentinel Prime had already been missing for mega-vorns.”

“Where did he go?” Sam asked.

“If Captain Xaaron is to be believed, he went on a secret pilgrimage to find the Forge of Solus Prime.” Ratchet replied.

“Did he find it?”

Ratchet ex-vented a loud snort. “Of course he did not find it—it doesn’t exist.”

Sam frowned faintly as he considered all that he had been told. “The war against the caste system lasted over a million years. What’s going to happen now that Sentinel’s back?”

Ratchet’s expression became unreadable as he shook his helm. “I do not know. There are too few of us left alive to establish a functioning caste-system, and whatever else one might say about Sentinel, he is no fool. We will need to find a way forward if Cybertron is to be saved.”

The tone of Ratchet’s voice, thoughtful and pensive, was perhaps as close to hopeful as Sam had ever heard him sound. It caused a seed of something uncomfortable to plant itself in his chest—a thing of guilt and grief and shame. He was so caught up in what Sentinel’s return had meant for him that he hadn’t really considered what it meant for them.

Ratchet was wrong. He was very selfish.

 

---

 

Sam said good-bye to his parents on Wednesday morning.

He met them at the ground bridge hangar, his stomach twisting itself in knots. He hadn’t slept for more than a few hours at a time since Bumblebee had shaken him awake in the hotel room, and it was beginning to wear on him.

His bonded stood at the control panel, watching as he tried and failed to maintain some semblance of calm. When he received the ready signal from Jasper, Bumblebee turned and activated the ground bridge. Sam braced himself as the archway exploded in a riot of light and color, and a moment later, his parents were walking through the swirling vortex. They glanced around the hangar, before their eyes settled on him, and then they started in his direction.

Sam tried desperately to think of something to say. He had rehearsed it in his head a hundred times, but all words abandoned him at the sight of his mother’s stricken face.

“I’m sorry.” He choked out as they stopped in front of him, “Ma, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Sammy.” His mother breathed, pressing her palms against the sides of his face, “Don’t apologize, sweetheart.”

His father’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery as he wrapped one arm around his mother’s shoulders and the other arm around Sam’s. It was an awkward hug, given the differences in their heights and builds, but Sam leaned into it gratefully. He slipped one arm around his mother’s waist, the other around his father’s, and held on for all he was worth.

His mother carded her fingers through his hair and pressed a kiss against his forehead.

“I’m so proud of you.” She murmured, “So proud.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and pulled her closer against him. This isn't happening.

“You be safe, Sam. Do you hear me?” His father asked roughly, “You do what you need to do, and then you come home to us.” His voice broke on the end of his sentence, and he had to compose himself before he could continue, “I don’t care how long it takes. We’ll be here waiting for you.”

Sam’s breath hitched in his chest, and his mother pressed another kiss against his forehead before pulling away and grasping him by the shoulders.

“Sammy, look at me.” She instructed, and although her voice was emotional it was firm, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Opening his eyes and looking his mother in the face without losing all of his composure was the hardest thing that Sam had ever done in his life.

“If the worst happens— No, stop, let me finish.” His mother said, forestalling his protests, “If the worst happens and you can’t come home, then we want you to be happy. Do you hear me, Samuel James? Don’t worry about us.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about you.” Sam choked out, “I love you.”

His mother’s face softened with affection and sorrow. “I know you do, sweetheart. We love you too—it’s why we want you to be happy, no matter what happens. Promise me.”

Sam’s vision blurred with tears. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Yes, you can.” His mother replied, brushing the moisture away with the pads of her thumbs, “You must promise me that you’ll try.”

Sam didn’t know if it was a promise that he could keep, but he knew that his mother needed the closure, and that was all there was to it. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded, once. “Alright, Ma. I promise.”

“That’s my boy.” She murmured, pressing another kiss against his temple, “That’s my Sammy.”

They stayed together until the late afternoon, wandering the grounds without any real purpose. They spent time at Simpson Point and strolled along the beach. He held his mother’s hand as they walked, her fingers interlaced with his. None of them said a word. They were afforded their privacy for the duration of the afternoon, but as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, Sam felt an apologetic touch against his mind.

He steeled himself, as well as he was able, before saying, “We have to go back."

Their walk back to the Hive was strange—passing both too quickly and seeming suspended in time, all at once. He gripped his mother’s hand a little tighter as they stepped onto the lift, and she squeezed his hand in return. As they descended through the floor and into the Hive, he was surprised to find that the receiving room was completely empty. He was thankful for the privacy—he felt like he was going to fall apart at any moment.

They made their way towards the ground bridge hangar in silence. It wasn’t until they stepped through the wide double doors to the sight of the empty archway that Sam’s heart climbed into his throat.

“Ma.” He choked out, turning to look at her, “I love you so much.”

Her smile was warm and tender in return. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut. “Dad…”

“You’re alright, Sammy.” His father husked softly, “Everything’s alright.”

He stood there for a long moment, struggling not to cry, when a polite cough came from behind them. Sam half-turned, glancing over his shoulder at Dave Carter, who was standing a short distance away. The Chief of Staff was watching them with a sympathetic look on his face.

“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, it’s time.” He murmured.

Sam was overwhelmed by the sudden sense of deja-vu, but his mother pulled him into her arms before he could speak.

“Be good, sweetheart.” She whispered in farewell.

All at once, Sam disconnected from reality. He lifted his arms and wrapped them around her shoulders. “I will, Ma.”

His mother pressed a kiss against his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He heard himself reply.

His father clapped him on the shoulder before pulling him down into a tight hug. “Be safe, Sam.” He gritted out, breath warm against his ear, “We’ll be here when you come home.”

“I will, Pops.” Sam murmured, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Sam.” His father replied.

“Here Sam, take this.” His mother urged, pressing a photograph into his hands, “A little piece of home for the road.”

Sam looked down at the photograph, only to recognize it immediately. He had taken the picture last Christmas at his grandmother’s house, while his parents had been decorating the tree. His mother was wearing an atrocious knitted sweater complete with blinking lights, and his father was smiling at her like she was the most beautiful person in the world. Sam had given it to her for their anniversary—she had loved it.

“Thanks Ma.” He murmured, pressing the photograph over his heart, “I mean it.”

His mother’s face creased with emotion, before she stepped back and clasped his father’s hand. “Good-bye, sweetheart.”

Sam’s chest ached with grief, but he forced himself to smile.

“Good-bye, Ma.” He said with all the composure he could muster, “I’ll see you soon.”

He watched, as though in a daze, as Carter escorted his parents to the ground bridge. Bumblebee inclined his head as they approached. His mother reached up a hand to pat his faceplates and murmured something too softly for Sam to hear. Bumblebee inclined his helm again, as though in agreement, before he stepped back and activated the ground bridge controls. For the second time that day, a blue-green miasma erupted in the archway, spilling light and color across the walls. His mother turned, waving good-bye over her shoulder, and then his parents walked towards the swirling vortex.

A moment later, they were gone.

Chapter 5

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Note: I was blown away by the reaction to last chapter. Thanks so much for your support, guys! It means the world to me.

Sam watched as the blue-green miasma collapsed in on itself, disappearing from existence. The ensuing silence seemed to echo around the hangar, as loud as the ground bridge itself. He stared at the empty archway for a long time, eyes burning and throat tight, as he tried to pull himself together.

“Sam?” Carter asked, softly, “Are you alright?”

Sam startled as he realized that Carter had crossed the room to stand by his side. The older man was watching him closely, brow furrowed with concern. It took considerable effort for Sam to dredge up the requisite energy to reply.

“No, Dave.” He murmured, “I’m really not.”

Carter’s face creased with sympathy as he reached out, clasping Sam’s shoulder and giving him a little squeeze.

“C’mon.” He urged, “Let’s take a walk.”

Sam let himself be turned around and herded towards the door. Bumblebee made to follow after them, but a sharp shake of Dave’s head had him stop in his tracks. Sam could feel the weight of the scout’s gaze on his back as Carter led him into the corridor. The East Quad was a bustle of activity, with crates and equipment being ferried towards the bridge. Sam and Carter fell into step with the stream of people, walking side by side. Men and women nodded to them as they passed, and Carter returned their polite greetings with a nod of his own. Sam said nothing, walking with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes cast downward. It wasn’t until they were making their way down the bridge towards the receiving room that Carter finally spoke.

“I’m sorry this happened.” He said, glancing sidelong at Sam, “I know it’s a lot to process.”

Sam huffed a laugh that was entirely devoid of humor. “Yeah. It is.”

They were silent for another twenty meters or so, before Carter turned to look at him. “It won’t be forever, Sam.”

Bumblebee had made a similar promise to him three days ago, after Prime had explained the situation to them, and Sam responded in kind.

“You don’t know that.”

Carter seemed to consider him for a moment before he replied. “No, I suppose I don’t, but I take it on faith.”

Sam looked at him and asked, skeptically, “Faith?”

“Yes, faith.” Carter agreed, stepping aside to make room for two men carrying a long, narrow crate between them, “Prime would move mountains for you. I know he'll do everything in his power to see you home again.”

Sam was silent as they walked through the receiving room doors. The cavernous space was once again filled with people, and the sound of shouts and machinery echoed around the room. Carter led him along the wall all the way to the lift. The red square painted on the floor to denote its edges was already full of people, some standing so closely together that they were pressed chest to back with one another. It was clear that there wasn’t any room left, even from a distance, but a cluster of corpsman spotted them as they approached and quickly stepped off the lift.

“Here, sir.” One of them said, gesturing towards the vacant spot, “Take our place.”

Carter gave a perfunctory nod as he stepped onto the lift. “Thank-you, Weiss.”

The corpsman inclined her head, before standing aside to wait her turn. Sam stepped onto the lift, taking his place beside Carter. He was sure that he wasn’t imagining the furtive glances and sidelong looks that were being directed his way, but no one approached him or said anything.

Small mercies. He thought.

The warning buzzer sounded a moment before the lift gave a jarring shudder and began to rise. Sam watched as the people and equipment below them grew smaller, before disappearing altogether as they passed through the holoform ceiling. The bunker was similarly busy, with a crowd of people waiting to get onto the lift, including a small forklift that looked fit for a warehouse. Carter waited long enough for the perimeter lights to flash green, and then he was guiding Sam towards the double doors on the opposite side of the hangar. Sam followed along in his wake, so lost in his thoughts that he never even thought to ask where they were going.

The sun had set since Sam was last outside, turning the sky a remarkable shade of golden orange. There were fair weather cumulus clouds gathered at the horizon, almost navy blue against the fading light. The temperature had cooled off as well, now that the sun had set, and there was a pleasant breeze coming off the ocean. Sam took a deep breath, trying to memorize the smell of salt water and diesel in the air—he would miss it, when he was gone.

Carter made his way across the parking lot in the direction of the shoreline. Sam followed at his side, staring mindlessly out over the water. They climbed over the grassy dunes and started down the other side. Sand, loosened by their footfalls, skittered down the embankment with each step.

“Which way?” Carter asked, looking up and down the beach.

Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

Carter considered the options—south to Simpson Point or north to Eclipse Bay. Eventually, the Chief of Staff started walking south, away from the base. Sam followed at his side. They had gotten perhaps a hundred meters or so when Carter turned his head to look at him.

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

Sam glanced at him in confusion. “What?”

Carter’s face caught the dying light well enough for Sam to see his half-smile. “You can take all the time you need, but you’re not getting on that ship until you talk to me.”

Sam’s throat thickened at the compassion in his voice, and he was forced to look away lest he see any of that compassion reflected on his face.

“I don’t know what to say, Carter.” He said, voice rough, “It is what it is.”

Carter stared at him considerately for a long moment, before he shrugged. “I’ve got all night. Take your time.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. “I don’t think Optimus would agree with you.”

“Prime named me his head-of-state in his absence.” Dave replied with a wry smile, “Consider it my first official act of office.”

Sam laughed again, weak but genuine. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

Carter chuckled, before sliding his hands into his pockets and exhaling a deep sigh. His expression seemed contemplative, almost pensive. They made it halfway to the bend in the shoreline before either of them spoke again.

“The Autobots need energon—Earth has it.” Carter said, breaking the silence, “You’ll be back before you know it.”

The words made anxiety tighten in the pit of Sam’s stomach. He considered his response, turning it over in his mouth until he was certain that his voice wouldn’t crack.

“If I don’t… my parents…” He swallowed against the lump in his throat, before turning to look the older man in the face, “Promise me you’ll look after them.”

Carter’s expression softened with understanding. “Of course I will. I promise.”

Sam nodded faintly as he turned, staring down the expanse of sandy beach ahead of them. He could hear the sounds of the airfield in the distance, carrying across the breeze. The thought made him almost nauseous with mingled nerves.

“You’re going to be fine, Sam.” Carter said, pulling him out of his anxiety-spiral, “And Diego Garcia will be here when you get back.”

Sam was silent for a long while, just putting one foot in front of the other. When they reached the bend in the shoreline, he slowed to a stop. It was almost full dark now and the stars were beginning to appear overhead. He craned his neck, searching first for the Little Dipper and then the Hadean star. It stood out against the firmament—glinting and lovely. They stood in silence for a long while, watching as the stars came out.

“I’m scared, Dave.” He murmured, eventually.

Dave reached out, clasping him on the shoulder. His grip was firm and warm. “I know, Sam. I would be too.”

The older man’s voice was sincere, and although it was a simple affirmation, it made something unclench inside of his chest. Sam turned his head, catching Carter’s gaze and giving him a small, appreciative smile. Dave smiled back at him in turn.

They stayed there until long after the stars had finished coming out. Sam didn’t say anything else and Carter didn’t press him. The silence that stretched between them was companionable, disturbed only by the sound of waves breaking on the shore. Eventually, Sam knew that he couldn’t put it off any longer. He sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and turning to look at the road.

“I guess we should go.” He said.

Carter nodded slowly. “I suppose so. Are you ready?”

He wasn’t sure whether Dave was asking if Sam was ready to leave, ready to say good-bye, or ready for whatever was going to happen next. It didn’t matter, really. His answer was the same.

“I don’t know.” He replied, “I hope so.”

Dave’s face broke out in a soft smile. “I have every confidence in you, Sam.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, but before he could reply, Carter stepped close, pulling him into a hug. Sam went still in surprise, before he sagged against the older man and hugged him back. Carter held him until Sam stepped away, and then he clapped him on the shoulder.

“Alright, let’s go.” He said, “They will be waiting.”

Sam’s lips twitched up in a smile. “How late are we?”

“A Prime is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to.” Carter quoted with a half-smile as they started towards the road. The Lord of the Rings reference made Sam bark a genuine laugh.

“I think Prowl would take exception to that.” He grinned.

Carter glanced down at his wristwatch before rolling his shoulders in a shrug. “Cybertron is approximately 30,000 light years away. They can handle a two-hour delay.”

They made their way up the beach and over the sandy embankment. Sam was unsurprised to find Bumblebee parked on the side of the road. He quirked a wan smile at the Camaro, whose headlights turned on as they approached, cutting a swath through the darkness. Sam trailed his fingers over the glossy bonnet as he circled around the front of the car. Both doors opened in unison, and Sam and Carter climbed into the cab together.

“Thanks.” Sam murmured as he settled into his seat.

Bumblebee pressed affection and understanding back at him as he pulled the doors shut behind them. A moment later, the Camaro reversed in a tight two-point turn and started off towards the airfield. The headlights illuminated the long road ahead, but it didn’t penetrate the dense vegetation on either side of them. It didn’t matter—Sam wasn’t sightseeing. His attention was fixed on the floodlights in the distance. The Camaro rocked on its shocks as the road transitioned from packed dirt to pavement, and then they were accelerating across the airfield. The Ark was lit-up in its full glory, with every window and beacon light visible even from a distance. The ship grew larger as they approached, until it seemed to blot out the night’s sky.

Optimus was standing at the bottom of the loading ramp with an unknown mechanoid at his side. The stranger was shorter than Prime, plated in the same gold hue as the Ark itself, and he was watching their approach with sharp optics. Bumblebee parked a short distance away, opening both of his doors as soon as he came to a stop. Sam took a long, shaky breath and then he climbed out of the car. Carter followed behind him, and as soon as they were clear, Bumblebee rolled back several meters and transformed into his bipedal mode.

Sam pushed his hands into his pockets as he trailed over towards the former Autobot leader. “Sorry for holding things up.”

Prime’s optics were very bright as he shook his head in reply. “Your apology is unnecessary, Sam. Are you ready to depart?”

Sam couldn’t resist the grimace that twisted his mouth at the question. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Optimus inclined his helm, before turning and gesturing towards the gold colored mechanoid. “Sam, this is Emirate Xaaron, Captain of the Lost Light. Captain, it is my honor to introduce Sam Witwicky.”

The Captain inclined his helm deeply in response. “I am honoured to serve, Prime. The Lost Light and its crew will see you safely back to Cybertron.”

The affirmation gave Sam a painful twist in his chest, and he couldn’t prevent the flush that spread across his face. It was only the realization that the Captain was staring at him, as though in expectation, that spurred him to reply.

“Thanks.”

The Captain crossed his arm over his chest and bowed deeply at the waist. He held the posture for a weighted moment, before straightening up and stepping out of the way. Sam’s eyes trailed past him to the loading ramp, which led up into the cargo bay. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat and then he turned, looking at Carter.

“Thanks for everything, Dave.” He murmured.

It wasn’t what he wanted to say—he wanted to tell the older man how much he appreciated him, as a friend and a mentor, but he couldn’t get the words out, not if he wanted to keep himself together.

Dave’s face creased with a fond smile. “Anytime, Sam.”

Optimus watched their exchange with an unreadable expression, before inclining his helm towards his Chief of Staff. “I leave Diego Garcia in your capable hands.”

Dave angled his head to look the Autobot leader in the face, as his lips twitched up in a wry smile. “It is my honor to serve, Prime.”

Optimus inclined his helm again as he straightened to his full height. Sam’s heart started beating faster in his chest as he realized the time had come. Bumblebee quickly folded down into his alt mode, rolling forward until his bumper pressed against the backs of Sam’s knees. Sam looked from the Ark to the Camaro, who popped open his door in a silent invitation.

“No thanks, Bee.” He murmured, pressing his hand flat against the hood of the car, “I want to walk.”

Bumblebee chirruped softly as he pressed against Sam's mind, supportive and encouraging. Sam looked at him for a long moment before he turned and started across the pavement. He put one foot in front of the other, focusing on keeping his chin up and his back straight. He knew that his posturing wouldn’t fool anyone—his heart was pounding fit to burst out of his chest and his hands were clammy with anxiety. Still, he stared straight ahead as he stepped onto the loading ramp. He was here by choice—a difficult choice, perhaps, but it was his to make.

The ringing of his shoes against metal was quickly drowned out as he walked up the ramp and into the cargo bay. The ship thrummed with sound, an omnipresent background noise of machinery and ventilation. The large hangar was filled with crates and equipment, leaving a narrow path to the opposite wall. There were four work terminals arranged in pairs on either side of the interior doorway, and although they were presently unmanned, the consoles were lit up with an array of blinking lights. Sam forced himself forward one step at a time as he crossed through the entryway and into the corridor beyond. He was distantly aware of Bumblebee following behind him, but he refused to turn around. He couldn’t.

Sam had not been onboard the Ark since the Upstart’s attack. He had received updates on its repairs and retrofitting, however, including a detailed floor plan and schematics. He cast his mind back, trying to remember its layout. The Ark was composed of five decks and a bridge. The cargo bay was on the fourth deck, as was the sprawling atrium and the brig. Sam paused briefly to orient himself, and then he started off for the atrium. It didn’t take him long to reach it—the atrium was located equidistant between the Ark’s stern and bow.

Sam stopped in the entryway, angling his head to stare up at the ceiling. The atrium extended the full height of the ship, and it had a spiralling walkway that connected all five decks. It was a beautiful space, albeit monstrous in its dimensions.

“Would you like to go to the bridge?” Bumblebee asked, quietly.

Sam half-turned, glancing at his bonded. The scout had transformed into his bipedal mode somewhere between the cargo bay and the atrium, and he was watching Sam with soft optics.

“No. Thank-you.” Sam managed to reply. “I want to go to our room.”

Sam and Bumblebee had been assigned quarters on the second deck—the same deck as Ratchet’s medical bay and the mess hall. He had never seen the room before, but he knew it had once been a berthing hangar for minicons.

“Alright.” Bumblebee agreed, “Do you know the way?”

Sam’s brow furrowed slightly as he shook his head. He knew its relative location, but not how to get there.

Bumblebee’s expression softened in response. He nodded towards the ramp that curved around the atrium. “Let’s go. I will show you.”

Sam followed Bumblebee as he made his way across the large room. Here, deep inside the ship, the sound of machinery and ventilation was louder than it had been in the cargo bay. Bumblebee started climbing the ramp and Sam trailed behind him, staring over the security railing at the atrium floor, located one deck below them. The floor was made of solid glass and etched with whorls and arcs. The glass was lit from beneath with Autobot-blue light, which painted the walls in a cool glow.

They passed the third deck after a few minutes of walking. Sam peered down the long corridor that ended in a T-junction. He remembered that the third deck contained the engine room and munitions reserves, but he couldn’t remember its other functions. They continued on in silence, following the ramp as it curved up to the second floor. Bumblebee gestured for him to make his way down the corridor and deeper into the interior of the ship. Sam did as he was bid, glancing at everything he passed. This part of the ship was vaguely familiar, at least—Sam had seen it when he had visited Ratchet in the medical bay after Ripcord’s attack.

Bumblebee led them down one corridor and then another. Every hallway seemed identical to the last one—metallic walls, etched with aesthetic designs and set with large doors in uneven intervals. They passed the mess hall a short while later, which served to break the monotony. Sam glanced inside as they passed. It was much the same as the mess hall on the Nemesis: long rows of trestle tables in the center of the room, Autobot-sized furniture around its perimeter. There was an energon dispenser against the far wall, and Sam could see the glowing pink liquid through the transparent container.

“There’s a kitchenette for you.” Bumblebee said, gesturing towards the wall opposite the energon storage, “Look.”

Sam turned his head, taking in the sight of a kitchenette arranged near a table and chairs. The furniture looked entirely out of place amongst the Autobot-sized things. The sight gave an uncomfortable twist in his stomach, and he turned his head to look at Bumblebee.

“Can we go?” He asked softly.

Bumblebee nodded and gestured down the length of the corridor. “It is not much farther.”

The Ark was almost a full mile in length, so not much farther ended up taking the better part of ten minutes. Eventually, Bumblebee stopped in front of a nondescript door and motioned towards the keypad set in the wall beside it.

“This is it.” He murmured.

Sam’s eyebrows knit together in consternation as he stared at the keypad. “How do I open the door?”

Bumblebee showed him how to operate the control panel—there wasn’t much to it, really, just a brief combination—and then the door was sliding open to reveal their quarters. Sam stepped inside, his eyes roving over the room. It was a small space, compared to the rest of the ship. The center of the room was arranged with furniture in a layout that was remarkably similar to his apartment on Diego Garcia. There was even a throw blanket tossed over one arm of the couch and a large view screen mounted on the opposite wall, where his television would have been.

His eyes skipped over the room, taking in the knick-knacks and paintings and honest-to-God braided rug on the floor. His eyes finally settled on the back wall. There were a series of four inset bunk beds, the bottommost of which had been made up with pillows and blankets. He wandered over, trailing his fingers across the back of the couch as he passed, and peered into the bottom bunk. The mattress was at waist-level, and although it was small by Autobot standards, it was positively enormous by Sam’s.

“Where are you going to recharge?” He asked, faintly.

Bumblebee had crouched down beside him, and his expression turned fond as he replied. “I will recharge in alt. I have no need of a berth.”

Sam nodded slowly as he glanced around the living space. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“The wash racks are located at the end of the corridor, near the junction. It has been repurposed to include plumbing fixtures.” Bumblebee replied.

“Oh.” Sam replied, unable to think of anything else to say, “That’s good.”

Bumblebee’s optics roved over his face, his antennae perking up in concern. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Sam replied as he moved to sit on the couch, “I’m pretty fucking far from okay, actually.”

Bumblebee whistled at him, a mournful sounding string of glyphs and signifiers. The space between the couch and the wall was large and empty, and the scout was able to crouch down in his bipedal mode. Sam stared straight ahead at the monitor mounted on the wall, but he made no effort to figure out how to turn it on.

“When are we leaving?” Sam asked eventually.

“Shortly.” Bumblebee replied, “We can watch the take-off from the bridge, if you’d like, or we can go back to the mess hall. You haven’t eaten in hours.”

Sam shook his head faintly, before reaching over and pulling the throw blanket into his lap. It was the same one from his apartment—it still had the Bolognese stain on one corner that had resisted even his mother's efforts at removal. He shook it out and pulled it halfway up his chest as he leaned back against the couch.

“Tell me when we take-off.” Sam murmured.

Bumblebee said nothing, but he nodded in response.

They sat together in silence for what felt like a small eternity. It turned out that Sam didn’t need to be told when they took off—the lights in their quarters flashed three times in succession before a jarring shudder traveled through the ship. It was the only indication that they were in motion; otherwise, the ship remained the same. Sam swallowed against the lump that had climbed up his throat, staring resolutely at the wall in front of him.

“How long until we reach the space bridge?” He asked.

“A few hours.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam nodded once, a barely-there dip of his chin, before falling silent again. He could feel Bumblebee’s concern across their bond space, bright and sharp, but he didn’t know how to comfort him. The minutes ticked by in silence, before Sam remembered the photograph that his mother had given him earlier. He planted his feet on the floor, lifting his hips off the sofa and pulling the picture out of his pocket. It had a crease down the center, and Sam smoothed the picture repeatedly with his fingers, angry with himself for his carelessness.

It wasn’t long before the air temperature began dipping inside their quarters. Sam shivered, putting the photograph in his lap and drawing the blanket up to his shoulders. The sound of the engines, the cool temperature, and the smell of recycled air reminded him forcibly of the Nemesis. It was not a pleasant association. He glanced down at the picture in his lap and ran his fingers over his parent’s faces. It had been a great Christmas.

He sat there for a long while, staring at nothing in particular. Eventually, he felt a gentle touch inside his mind that was laced with caution and concern.

“Brace yourself.” Bumblebee murmured.

Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. A moment later, the ship shivered forebodingly as reality twisted around him. It was a distinctly disorientating feeling, like seasickness and vertigo all at once, and then reality snapped back into place.

Sam exhaled a long, slow breath as he struggled to control his nausea. “Where are we?”

Bumblebee expression was impossible to decipher. “The Sagittarius cluster.”

Sam turned his head to stare at his bonded. “How far is that?”

“Approximately ninety light years from Earth.” He murmured in reply.

Sam’s stomach twisted at the news. The solar system was six light hours across. At ninety light years, the Ark was already trillions of kilometers away from the Earth. It was, at once, the furthest Sam had ever been away from home—and also the closest he would get again for many years.

The thought caused his throat to close up with sudden emotion. Unable to prevent it, Sam buried his head in his hands as he started to cry. He felt Bumblebee’s answering swell of distress, but he couldn’t lift his head to look at him. He sobbed out his grief, uncaring who might be eavesdropping on him. Let them watch, if they wanted—he didn’t care anymore.

Bumblebee pressed forward into his mind as he cupped one servo against Sam’s back. His mental presence was a steady swell of concern and remorse and affection and sorrow. He stroked one digit down the length of Sam’s spine, crooning softly at him in Cybertronian. Sam cried and cried until he had no more tears left to shed. When the storm of his sobbing had finally passed, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized beside him. He took the photograph from Sam’s unresisting fingers and placed it on the coffee table, before helping him to his feet. He half-guided, half-led Sam over to the sleeping alcove and urged him to climb onto the mattress. Sam did as he was told, too numb to offer even a token protest as Bumblebee helped him out of his clothes. It was too cold to sleep in his underthings, but Bumblebee was quick to retrieve clean clothes from the drawer beneath his bed. The long-sleeved shirt and pants were made from fleece, and they were soft to the touch.

When Sam was finally dressed again, Bumblebee helped him slide beneath the blankets. The mattress was made of an unfamiliar material—it was thick and dense, like memory foam, but there was less give to it. The bedclothes were layered, from sheets to quilts to heavy comforters. The top-most blanket was the one from his bed at Diego Garcia. He closed his eyes, burying his nose in the soft fabric and breathing deeply. The familiar smell was a barb and a balm, simultaneously.

When he was settled, Bumblebee’s holoform slid into bed beside him, lying between Sam and the room. He arranged Sam’s body until he was pressed against the holoform’s side, his head resting in the dip of his shoulder. Then, he pulled the blankets up to their chests and pressed a gentle kiss against Sam’s forehead.

“Close your eyes.” He murmured, “You’re exhausted. Things will seem better after you've slept.”

At the same time, Bumblebee folded down into his alt mode before he rolled forward and positioned himself against bedside. The mattress was at a height that allowed Sam to look through the passenger window and out the other side. He stared at the Camaro for a long time, blinking tired, dry eyes, before he listened to Bumblebee’s advice.

Notes:

Author's Note: I have a crazy work week coming up, so no promises on when the next chapter will be posted. I'll do my best!

Chapter 6

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Note: I know I said that it would be awhile before I had this chapter ready, but I couldn't stop myself! I loved writing every single word! :D

Sam slept for a long while, undisturbed by nightmares or the sounds of an unfamiliar place. When he finally awoke, slowly and reluctantly, it was to the feeling of Bumblebee’s fingers carding through his hair. The touch was gentle and familiar, and Sam made a soft sound in response.

Bumblebee continued combing his fingers through Sam’s short curls as he pressed a kiss against the crown of his head. “Good morning.”

“We’re in space.” Sam grumbled, shifting forward to push his face into the crook of the holoform’s neck, “There’s no such thing as morning.”

He could feel Bumblebee’s amusement swelling across their bond. “The Ark operates on a two-shift cycle. The first shift just began.”

Sam was warm and comfortable and half-asleep, which was the only reason why he asked, “How long is each shift?”

“Sixteen hours.” Bumblebee replied, giving Sam’s curls a gentle tug, “Cybertron’s planetary rotation takes thirty-two hours.”

The mention of Cybertron brought with it all the memories of the last three days. Sam’s breath shuddered out of him as he finally lifted his head, staring around their quarters. The overhead lights had been turned off sometime during the night cycle, plunging the room into shadow. The only illumination came from an emergency light located above the door, which cast an orange-red glow across the room. Bumblebee was still parked beside the bed in his alt-mode, and he looked almost golden brown in the low light.

“How are you feeling?” Bumblebee asked, softly.

Sam settled his head back against the holoform’s chest as he considered his response. He felt less raw and jagged—less like he was going to fall apart at any moment. Still, the rest had done nothing to alleviate the hollow ache inside his chest. It was as though homesickness and grief had carved him out and taken root behind his sternum.

“Alright, I guess.” He murmured, “How long was I asleep?”

“Almost ten hours.” Bumblebee replied, sliding his hand down to cup the side of Sam’s face, “You needed it.”

Sam snorted and batted his hand away. “I’m guessing I have Ratchet to thank for that.”

The Creator bond was still and quiet, but he could distantly feel Ratchet’s presence. The medic did not seem to be paying much attention to him, but Sam knew better than to underestimate Ratchet’s ability to multitask.

Or stomp all over personal boundaries. He thought, snidely.

The thought did not garner any reaction from the wizened glow inside his mind, and Sam huffed in irritation. Ratchet rarely interfered with his sleeping, but he was unrepentant whenever he did so.

Bumblebee brushed a feather-soft kiss against his temple. “He only wanted to help.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam grumbled, pulling the blankets up around his ears, “What’s the temperature? It’s freezing in here.”

“It’s nine degrees Celsius.” Bumblebee replied apologetically, “The temperature will fluctuate between five and ten degrees, unless there’s something wrong with the environmental unit.”

Sam made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat. “I should have packed a space heater.”

Bumblebee chuckled at him. “It wouldn’t help. There’s too little insulation.”

Sam frowned faintly at that. The temperature onboard the Nemesis had been one of the worst parts of his captivity. He had been cold all the time, sometimes until his body ached from it. He wasn’t looking forward to a repeat experience.

“You have plenty of cold-weather clothing.” Bumblebee assured him, “You’ll be comfortable.”

Sam didn’t trust himself to reply, and so he said nothing at all. He shifted forward, wrapping a leg over Bumblebee’s thighs and pressing against him. The holoform didn’t emit body heat like a human being, but he was warmer than the ambient temperature in the room, which was a definite plus.

He could feel the swell of Bumblebee’s fond amusement across their bond-space. Evidentially, the scout had been following his train of thought.

“I’m serious.” Sam murmured into simulated skin, “If it gets much colder, I’ll be sleeping in your cab.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re perfectly warm and you know it.” Bumblebee chuckled.

It was warm beneath the blankets and comforters and fleece pajamas, Sam would concede, but the rest of the ship would be another matter entirely.

“I’m not being dramatic—I’m being organic.” Sam grumbled in reply.

There was the sound of shifting metal and rotating components, and then Bumblebee was crouching down beside the bed in his bipedal mode.

“Yes Sam, I know.” He said fondly, “And speaking of which, you haven’t eaten in seventeen hours. You should get up.”

Sam sighed softly. He hadn’t noticed his hunger the night before, distracted as he was by his grief, but now his stomach was grumbling. He briefly considered lying back down and putting it off, but Bumblebee just quirked a brow ridge at the same time his holoform yanked the blankets aside. The rush of cold air was entirely unwelcome, and Sam shouted a protest as he reached for the covers.

“Get up.” The holoform said, twitching the blankets further away, “The sooner you get dressed, the sooner you’ll be warm again.”

Recognizing the unyielding tone of his voice, Sam scrambled off the bed and pulled open the drawer beneath the mattress. He was met with tidy rows of clothing, including pants, short-sleeved shirts, long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, and underthings. The sight of the boxers, fresh out of the package and folded neatly in piles, gave him a strange turn, but he was too cold to comment on it. Instead, he grabbed the first warm things he could find and started getting undressed.

“Traitor.” Sam grumbled through chattering teeth, “Sadist.”

Sam yanked the nightshirt off over his head, before pulling on a long-sleeved Henley. He repeated the process with his pants, and then he slipped into a cable-knit, high-necked infantry sweater. The material was thick and woollen, and Sam fastened the buttons with a twist of his wrist. When he finished, Bumblebee handed him a pair of socks and his shoes. Sam sat on the edge of the bed long enough to pull them on, and then he combed his fingers through his hair.

“I’m getting you back for that.” He promised.

Bumblebee whistled an approximation of Scooby-Doo’s ruh-oh soundbite, and then he initiated his transformation sequence. Sam gave him a pointed look as he shifted from bipedal to alt mode, and when the transformation was complete, he slid off the bed. Bumblebee opened his driver’s side door as he approached, and Sam climbed into the seat without hesitation. The vents on the dashboard were already on, blowing warm air into the cabin.

Sam’s lips twitched up in a fond smile. “Yeah, alright, you’re forgiven.”

Bumblebee chirruped at him as he rolled towards the door, which slid open of its own accord. They made their way down the corridor, but rather than turning in the direction of the mess hall, as Sam had expected, Bumblebee pulled through a set of double-wide doors at the end of the hall. It only took Sam a second to realize where they were.

The wash racks.

The room was not dissimilar in design to the wash racks in North Quad. There were nozzles of varying heights and sizes set against one wall, and a broad cabinet bolted to another. Unlike the North Quad, however, there was a tall partition cordoning off one corner of the room. Bumblebee drove towards it, and Sam saw that it was outfitted with a human-sized entrance.

The Camaro pulled to a stop in front of the partition and popped open the driver’s side door. “Go on.”

Sam climbed out of the cabin and pushed open the door with his fingertips. The space within would not have looked out of place in a locker room. There was a bathroom stall in one corner and an open-air shower in the other. A sink stood between them, and a tall cabinet was affixed to the wall on his right.

Sam stared around the space in a mixture of surprise and disbelief, before he ambled over towards the cabinet. A cursory examination revealed an assortment of bath linens, toiletries, and toilet paper within. He stared at the items for a long time, before he asked, faintly, “Who bought all of this stuff?”

“Carter and I purchased your clothing and toiletries.” Bumblebee’s disembodied voice replied.

The clear, plastic bottles contained an assortment of gels and liquids identified only by a plain label. Sam reached out, pushing aside a bottle stamped shampoo and conditioner to look at the others. There was one bottle for body wash, another for body lotion, and a third for mouthwash.

“We have stored your toiletries in bulk.” Bumblebee said, answering his unspoken question, “You can refill the bottles when they’re empty.”

Sam slowly shut the cabinet doors, and then he ambled across the space. The sink looked like something out of an airplane lavatory, complete with a paper towel dispenser affixed to the wall and a waste chute with a flap on the counter. He walked passed the sink towards the bathroom stall and, upon pushing open the door, found a standard two-piece toilet. The sight of the plumbing fixture hit Sam unexpectedly hard—he had been expecting the waste disposal system from the Nemesis or something equally alien.  

Sam stared around the space for a long moment, feeling precariously unbalanced. Eventually, his physical needs made themselves felt, and Sam went about his morning ablutions as quickly as possible—the toilet seat and the tap water were positively frigid. When he finished, he left the makeshift bathroom and climbed back into Bumblebee’s cabin.

“There are wash racks on the third and fourth decks that have also been outfitted with lavatory facilities, and there is a washroom in Ratchet’s medical bay.” Bumblebee helpfully supplied as they accelerated out of the room, “He insisted.”

Sam was silent for the time it took them to drive back into the corridor, and then he asked, “How much water did you guys store?”

Bumblebee slowed as he turned down the T-junction in the direction of the mess hall. “Approximately 50,000 gallons.”

Sam frowned faintly, trying to do the mental math, but Bumblebee answered his question before he could voice it. “The average person uses 100 gallons of water a day—most of it on bathing and waste elimination. The Ark has a filtration system that will recycle water in 1000-gallon intervals. The remaining volume accounts for perspiration, evaporation, and emergency supply.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he took in the information. “I guess Ratchet wasn’t exaggerating when he said you guys thought of everything.”

Bumblebee chir-chir-chirred in laughter as he pulled into the mess hall. The room was largely the same as it had been the night before, with one significant exception—Hot Rod, Cliffjumper, Bluestreak, and two unfamiliar mechanoids were sitting at the trestle table in the center of the room. The five mechanoids turned as they entered, and Sam could see several containers of energon resting on the table between them.

Bumblebee rolled across the room and came to a stop near the kitchenette. Sam took a deep, fortifying breath, and then he opened the door and climbed out of the car.

“Good morning, Sam.” Cliffjumper rumbled, inclining his head.

“Morning, Cliff.” Sam replied with a half-smile as Bumblebee pulled the door shut behind him and initiated his transformation sequence.

“Hey, short-stack. How’s it hanging?” Hot Rod asked, smirking at him over the rim of an energon container.

“I told you to stop calling me that.” Sam grumbled without any heat. He had long since given up on dissuading Hot Rod from referring to him in diminutives.

Bumblebee gave Hot Rod a cool look, before crouching down beside Sam and gesturing towards the counter. “Take a look.”

Sam was curious, despite himself, and he ambled over towards the kitchenette. It was similar in design to the kitchenette in Dave Carter’s apartment. There was a long row of solid-looking cupboards arranged over a countertop, which included a deep sink and a dishwasher. Sam pulled open one cupboard and then another to reveal dry goods in airtight storage containers. As with the toiletries, each container was marked with a simple label denoting its contents. Sam scanned the labels, relief mounting with each one—there was an assortment of cereals, oatmeal, granola, crackers, and trail mix. None of it seemed to require anything other than a cup of water and a microwave.

“I thought I was going to be eating MREs and rations this entire time.” Sam murmured.

“Of course not.” Bumblebee replied, before gesturing towards a storage unit against the wall, “Open that.”

The container looked like a blend between a refrigerator and a filing cabinet. Sam reached out, clasping the handle and pulling it open. He was met with the sight of tidy rows of cartons stacked on four different shelves. He leaned forward, pulling out a carton at random and read the label: Chicken Lo Mein.

Sam looked from the package to Bumblebee, a grin spreading across his face. “Are you serious?”

Bumblebee’s antenna perked up in obvious pleasure. “Absolutely.”

Sam turned back around and pulled another carton out of the fridge (“Beef fried rice”) and another (“Chicken pot pie”). He grinned from ear to ear as he glanced at Bumblebee over his shoulder.

“I can’t believe it.” He laughed, “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I love chicken pot pie.”

Bumblebee’s expression was very soft as he replied, “It’s your grandmother’s.”

Sam stiffened from head to toe, his heart suddenly palpating in his chest. “…What?”

“The chicken pot pie—your grandmother made it.” Bumblebee slowly replied, “She made a great deal of food for you.”

Sam gripped the package so tightly that the tendons in his hands ached. “When?”

Bumblebee’s expression sharpened with concern, and he shuffled forward a half-step into Sam’s personal space.

“Ratchet told her that we could flash-freeze any food she made, and she’s been preparing meals ever since.” Bumblebee replied, his wing flaps fluttering with concern, “Are you alright? I can put them in storage, if you would prefer.”

“No!” Sam choked out, clutching the container to his chest. His voice sounded strangled and pained, even to his own ears. He swallowed against the emotion thickening his throat, and tried again, “No thank-you. It was a surprise, that’s all.”

Bumblebee’s expression was inscrutable but intense. “Are you sure?”

Sam nodded emphatically. “Yes, I’m sure. How do I cook this? I’ll have it for breakfast.”

Bumblebee stared at him for a moment longer, as though trying to determine whether he was actually all right, before he gestured towards the counter. “You just put it in the—“

The scout broke off, a perplexed expression on his faceplates. Sam followed his line of sight, looking first at the empty countertop and then up at Bumblebee’s face.

“Put it in the what?” He asked, confusedly.

Bumblebee stared at the empty countertop in obvious bafflement. “We installed a microwave for you. It should be right there.”

The moment stretched on for another beat, and then someone politely cleared their intakes behind them. Sam and Bumblebee turned around in unison to find the five mechanoids watching them with undisguised interest. The noise had come from one of the strangers, a green and black war-build with jagged-looking vambraces.

“Forgive my interruption.” He rumbled in a smooth, cultured accent, “I believe I know the whereabouts of your equipment—it will be returned shortly. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Bumblebee canted his head at the same time Bluestreak leaned forward, eager energy in every line of his frame, “Sam, please allow me to introduce Crosshairs, our weapon’s supervisor and targetmaster. I told you about him once, do you remember? We haven’t seen each other since the Ark-27, and I recently learned that he was selected for Sentinel Prime’s excursion into Dark Space. Isn’t that marvellous? Pinpointer was chosen to go with him—that’s him, sitting there. They’re partners. He’s not particularly talkative, well, not like me, I mean. Crosshairs can pick-up your training where I left off. He’s a gunner and a sniper in his own right, although he would rather maintain a weapon than fire one. I guess that’s the biggest difference between Crosshairs and Ironhide.”

Sam stared at him the entire time Bluestreak rambled, waiting for a chance to get a word in edge-wise. When he finally finished speaking, Sam gave a wan smile.

“It’s nice to meet you both.”

Crosshairs respectfully inclined his helm. “It is an honor to serve, Prime.”

Sam flushed at the targetmaster’s formal tone and demeanour. He turned around, in an effort to disguise his discomfort, and opened the refrigeration unit. He placed the chicken pot pie back on the shelf, before pushing the door shut again.

“I guess I’ll have some cereal.” Sam muttered.

Bumblebee whistled at him softly, and Sam made his way over to the counter. He opened up one cupboard and then another as he took down a container and a bowl. When he went to put the cereal back in its place, he caught sight of a small canister on the bottom shelf. He reached out, pushing aside a jar of iodized salt and then grinning from ear to ear.

Veranda Blend Light Roast.

“Are you kidding me?” Sam asked, pulling down the container and turning to look at Bumblebee, “You brought me coffee?”

Bumblebee’s optics brightened in amusement, but it was Hot Rod who answered him.

“Of course we did.” He laughed, “Taking you half-way across the galaxy without caffeine would be cruel and unusual punishment.”

Sam grinned appreciatively. “Thanks, guys.”

“...For us.” Hot Rod added with a shit-eating grin.

Sam rolled his eyes as he turned around, searching for a coffee maker. He found it in a cupboard beneath the counter and, after fiddling with the outlet adapter, he plugged it in and filled it up. He picked up his bowl and started eating while he waited for the water to boil. There wasn’t any milk, so he had to eat the cereal dry, but it didn’t matter to him either way.

He briefly glanced over his shoulder as he spooned up some more Cheerios, only to pause. Crosshairs and Pinpointer were watching him with a scrutiny that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“What?” He asked.

Crosshairs regarded him for a moment longer, before he inclined his helm. “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. I have been informed that humans dislike prolonged observation.”

“…What?” Sam repeated, dumbly.

“It’s rude to stare.” Hot Rod drawled, giving Crosshairs a pointed look.

“Yes, quite.” He agreed, before turning to look at Sam, “Forgive my indiscretion.”

Sam felt a flush spread across his face, pinkening his cheeks. “It’s fine.”

Crosshairs inclined his head in response, and although he was no longer staring, Sam could feel the weight of his scrutiny. He turned around, finishing the rest of his cereal just as the coffee started percolating. He pulled sugar and powdered creamer out of the cupboard, adding them both to his mug. It turned the steaming liquid a golden caramel color. He tidied up the kitchenette as the coffee finished percolating, and then he picked up the mug.

He turned around, blowing across the steaming liquid, only to realize that Crosshairs was studiously not looking at him. The fact served to irritate him and he asked, tartly, “Oh my god, what is it?”

The targetmaster’s optics found his in an instant, his expression one of shocked surprise. “You would blaspheme?”

Sam stared at him for a long moment, gobsmacked, before he shook his head. “Yeah, no, I’m not doing this. Bumblebee?”

His bonded was watching him with bright optics, and as soon as Sam turned towards him, he initiated his transformation sequence. Sam took a deep drink of his scalding coffee, pouring the rest down the drain and leaving the mug in the sink. He was in the process of climbing into Bumblebee’s cabin when he heard Hot Rod ask, sarcastically, “Did you even decompress the data packet?”

Bumblebee accelerated out of the mess hall in silence. They were halfway down the corridor before he asked, tentatively, “Are you alright?”

Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “I’m fine. I’d be even better if people would stop asking me that.”

Bumblebee was silent for another hundred yards or so, and then he brushed against Sam’s mind. “Would you like to see the bridge?”

Sam frowned faintly as he glanced down at the dashboard. “Why would I?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence pressed close, brightening with encouragement and anticipation. “The bridge is the Ark’s crowning glory. It’s also where I’ll be stationed while I’m on duty.”

Sam canted his head in surprise. Bumblebee was usually stationed in the communications array whenever he wasn’t on patrol or standing sentry. He had assumed the scout would be chained to a desk somewhere in the depths of the ship, not stationed on the bridge itself.

“Am I even allowed?” He asked, curiously.

His question was met with a swell of dry humor. “Yes, Prime, you are allowed on the bridge.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Thanks smart-ass.”

Bumblebee chirruped something merry-sounding in Cybertronian as they continued down the corridor. Doors flashed by on either side of them, interspersed with the occasional work terminal or digital interface screen. They were almost to the atrium when Sam noticed an enormous hangar door that had been painted with a dark red “X” across its full width. He twisted in his seat, trying to get a better look as they passed, and his curiosity was met with Bumblebee’s amusement.

“It’s the science laboratory.” He explained.

Sam turned back around to look at the dashboard. “Wheeljack’s lab?”

“Yes and no.” Bumblebee replied, slowing down as he rolled into the atrium, “As the Chief Science Officer, Wheeljack oversees a number of tasks assigned by the command crew, but it is not his lab. That’s located on the fifth floor, near the shield generators.”

There was something wry about his tone that told Sam the location wasn’t a coincidence. His lips twitched in amusement as Bumblebee turned onto the first deck. Unlike the fourth and second decks, the first deck had walls of brushed gold, which contrasted against the Autobot-blue accents that ran from floor to ceiling in even intervals. The doors were different here as well—solid copper with long, geometric windows that provided a glimpse into each room they passed. Sam peered through the windshield, trying to take it all in. The color scheme, accents, and architectural design all combined to suggest an air of solemn dignity.

Sam could feel Bumblebee’s answering swell of pride across their bond-space.

“The Ark is the crown jewel of Iacon’s armada. She was built at the end of the last Golden Age, and they spared no expense.” He murmured.

Sam smiled faintly and pressed a hand flat against the steering wheel. “It’s very nice.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Bumblebee promised, slowing down to a stop about halfway down the corridor. The driver’s side door swung open, and Sam obliged him by climbing out of the cab. There was a large door on one side of the corridor, in the same copper design as the others, and a deep red Autobot emblem emblazoned on the opposite wall. Bumblebee backed up several paces and then he transformed, a rapid-fire explosion of metal and moving parts. When he finished, the scout stepped up to the doors and activated the control panel. The smooth, copper barrier slid aside with an audible snickt, revealing a long ramp that angled upwards. The gold-colored metal was interspersed with glowing blue strips set at even intervals.

Sam slowly turned to look at Bumblebee. The scout was regarding him with a mixture of affection and encouragement, and he gestured inside with a wave of his servo. Sam turned his head to stare up the long ramp, before his curiosity spurred him forward. There was a narrow landing and a second door at the top of the ramp, which slid aside of its own accord as they approached. Sam hesitantly stepped through the doorway—and then he pulled up short.

[The bridge] was both breathtakingly beautiful and alien in design. The doorway opened onto the first of three levels. There was a large workstation on either side of the entryway—Kup sat at one, Ironhide at the other. Sam slowly walked into the room, eyes skipping across the glowing terminals, the gold-colored metal, and azure-blue accents. It seemed too much to take in, all at once.

There was a large chair at the edge of the landing, and it turned around as Sam approached. He tore his eyes away from the view-screen at the front of the bridge, which provided an unobstructed view of space, to look up into Optimus’ face. The Supreme Commander was watching him with soft optics.

“Hello Sam.” He murmured, pushing to his pedes, “Welcome to the bridge.”

Sam huffed a shaky laugh in reply. “Hey Optimus. It’s really something.”

The former Autobot leader smiled at him, an affectionate twitch of his mouthplates, before gesturing around them, “May I escort you?”

Sam laughed again, a little livelier this time, “Yeah. That’d be great.”

Optimus inclined his helm, before he half-turned and waved a servo towards the two workstations behind them. “This is the engineering node and this is tactical. We can operate all functions of the engine room, defensive systems, and internal security from these workstations.”

Kup glanced down as Optimus was speaking, making eye contact with Sam. The old mechanoid spiralled one optic down to a point in a reasonable facsimile of a wink. The grin was on Sam’s face before he could stop it.

“The second level is communications and navigation.” Optimus rumbled as moved to stand on the edge of the landing, looking out over the lower portions of the bridge. He gestured towards the work terminal located on the right of the stairs, which was currently occupied by Arcee, “This is Bumblebee’s station.”

Sam turned, looking up at his bonded with a smile. “That’s really cool, Bee. What do you do?”

Bumblebee chirred at him as he replied, “I monitor ship-wide communications, as well as all known external frequencies.”

Sam tilted his head, curiously. “How many are there?”

“Tens of thousands.” Bumblebee replied wryly, “There’s good reason why I cannot utilize my holoform while I’m on duty.”

Optimus extended his arm  towards the second-level, and Sam started down the polished ramp at his urging. The sound of his footsteps was lost beneath the ringing of pedes against metal as Bumblebee and Optimus followed behind him. As he stepped onto the lower level, he realized there was another workstation directly beneath the Command Chair. Prowl was currently occupying the seat, and his servos were flying across the control panel in front of him.

“Operations.” Optimus explained, “It is manned by Prowl or Jazz.”

Sam craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of what Prowl was working on, when the third-in-command turned to look at him.

“You may observe, if you wish.” Prowl rumbled, his servos darting over the control panel.

Sam gave the strategist a hesitant smile. “Thanks, Prowl, but I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

The black and white mechanoid shook his helm. “It is not an imposition.”

Bumblebee gave him an encouraging nod, and Sam slowly made his way around the curving partition to look up at the workstation. The monitors were scrolling through Cybertronian glyphs almost too quickly for Sam to see. There seemed to be dozens of different read-outs, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of them.

“Looks complicated.” He said.

“It is detailed, not complicated.” Prowl corrected him.

Sam gave the third-in-command a dubious look. “Agree to disagree.”

“You are inexperienced.” Prowl replied, matter-of-factly, “Familiarity will come in time.”

There was something easy and accepting about his tone, as though Sam’s ability to become accustomed to life on the battleship was a foregone conclusion, that made him feel appreciative and resentful in equal measures. He stared at the read-outs a while longer, before murmuring his thanks and walking back to the main portion of the second level. The walkway provided a view of the lowest level, which contained a single workstation. Hound was sitting in front of it, but he had twisted in his seat to smile up at him.

“Hey Hound.” Sam said, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth, “What’re you doing?”

“Interstellar cartography.” Hound replied, giving his console an affectionate pat, “Looking for hazards. You know how it is—anything that might ruin our day.”

Sam’s eyebrows drew up in surprised interest. “Really? That’s so cool.”

Hound grinned at him as he swung his chair aside. “Come and see.”

Sam glanced up at Optimus, searching for permission, and when the older Prime inclined his helm, he made his way down into the lower level. Hound’s workstation was large, and it was currently displaying a two-dimensional representation of space. Their position was denoted by a glowing red dot in the center of the screen, and there was all manner of symbols and hash marks surrounding it.

“What does that mean?” Sam asked, curiously.

“That is an asteroid belt.” Hound replied, gesturing towards a long hatched line, “This is a radiation pocket and that little beauty—“ He punctuated his words by jabbing at a glowing red glyph, “—is a gravity well.”

Sam stepped forward, peering at the glyph, which was blinking in steady intervals. “Is it dangerous?”

“Oh, heavens yes.” Hound agreed cheerfully, “We’d all be crushed to death if we came within a trillion kilometers of it.”

Sam was barely paying attention to the neural-network, which is why he was taken by surprise by the directionless swell of exasperation and irritation as Hound finished speaking. The sentry twisted in his seat, staring at the other occupants of the bridge in confusion.

“What? It’s true.” As an afterthought, he angled his helm to look at Sam and said, as though to reassure him, “Don’t worry. The gravitational forces would tear the ship apart before we got anywhere near the event horizon.”

“Thank-you, Hound.” Optimus rumbled dryly.

The sentry evidentially understood the words for the dismissal they were, for he clickety-blatted something respectful-sounding in Prime’s direction, before turning back around in his chair.

Sam pushed his hands in his pockets, turning to look at the full expanse of the bridge. It was remarkably beautiful and alien—he was surprised to realize that he loved it.

“What do you think of the view?” Bumblebee asked, crouching down beside him.

Sam angled his head to look at the curved view-screen, which extended above and around them. The sky was inky blank, with only the occasional pinprick of light in the darkness.

“What view?” He asked dryly.

Bumblebee lifted his head to look at Optimus, who rumbled something to Prowl. A moment later, the lights on the bridge dimmed and then vanished. Sam reached out, steadying himself against Bumblebee, but it took only a few moments for his eyes to adjust. The view was [indescribable]—there was a glowing node directly in front of them, casting wan light across the bow of the ship. It was intersected by a ribbon of interstellar dust and debris from one end to the other. Sam’s feet carried him forward of their own accord until he was standing directly in front of the view-screen.

“It’s incredible.” He whispered, unable to prevent the catch in his voice, “What is it?”

“Teletraan-One?” Optimus rumbled in reply.

Sam half-turned, opening to his mouth to ask whether that was an answer or a question, when a smooth, metallic voice interrupted him.

“ESO 510-G13 is an edge-on galaxy located over a half-a-trillion kilometers away in the Hydra Cluster. Its unusual warped disc structure is the result of a recent collision with a nearby galaxy.”

Sam startled in surprise—the voice seemed to be coming from all around him.

“What the… What?” He spluttered.

Optimus rumbled at him in amusement as the lights came up to half-brightness.

“Sam, this is Teletraan-One, the artificial intelligence that runs the Ark’s on-board operations.”

Sam turned around, looking for a monitor or speaker or any indication of the voice’s source, but he couldn’t find anything. Optimus smiled down at him, evidentially understanding his confusion.

“Introduce yourself.” He suggested.

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and then he hesitantly ventured, “Hello Teletraan-One.”

There was an audible chiming sound, and then the smooth, metallic voice replied, “Voice identification confirmed—Samuel James Witwicky Prime.”

Sam glanced over at Bumblebee, his brow furrowed in confusion, “What does it do?”

“Anything we require.” His bonded replied amusedly, “It is a semi-sentient computer system that runs the Ark and its onboard operations, in addition to monitoring frequencies from deep space.”

Sam gave his bonded a skeptical look. “Are you telling me that you guys invented JARVIS?”

Bumblebee’s optics brightened in response as Hound chirruped with laughter.

“Ask it something.” Bee urged.

Sam frowned faintly in response. “Like what?”

“Anything.” He replied with a smile.

Sam hesitated for a long while, before he asked, “What’s the nearest planet with organic life?”

There was a beat of silence, and then Teletraan-One was replying, “EP-21-220 is located less than three billion kilometers away. The planet contains a simple phylum of prokaryotic cells.”

“That’s unbelievable.” Sam breathed in amazement.

“Teletraan-One can be accessed from anywhere on the ship.” Optimus intoned solemnly, “You need only ask for him.”

Sam turned, staring out the view-screen at the dark expanse of space. The side-on galaxy was harder to see with the lights at half-brightness, but the stars were easily visible. He raised a hand, pressing against the curved window—the transparent material was cool to the touch.

“Thank-you for showing me.” He murmured.

“You are welcome here at any time, Sam.” Optimus rumbled in reply. “Would you like to stay?”

Sam’s mouth had gone dry at the sheer force of his emotions—wonder, disbelief, joy, and sorrow, all twisted up on one another—and he had to wet his lips before he could reply.

“Yeah, maybe.” He managed, “For a little while.”

Optimus’ expression was understanding and fond as he inclined his helm, before turning and making his way back towards the Command Chair. Sam watched him go for a brief moment, and then he turned back towards the view-screen. Bumblebee crouched down by his side as he stared out into space, offering affection and support without ever saying a word.

Notes:

The picture of the ESO galaxy in this chapter is one of the few unaltered pictures taken of space. Most photographs are infrared or they're color enhanced. That picture is, for all intents and purposes, exactly what Sam would have seen with his naked eye.

Chapter 7

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Note: Thanks for your support!

Sam spent the next few hours sitting on the floor of the bridge, staring out at the stars. The view-screen curved around and above him, providing an unobstructed view of space. Bumblebee stayed by his side for the first half-hour or so, but Arcee asked for him shortly thereafter. He stood, brushing against Sam’s mind in farewell as he made his way over to the communications workstation. Sam watched him go for a long moment, before turning back towards the view-screen. It was easier to see the stars here, at the front of the bridge, and his eyes skipped across the darkness. It looked nothing like the night’s sky above Diego Garcia or Nevada or California. It was entirely other—entirely alien.

The thought made Sam shiver, despite the warmth radiating from the terminal behind him, and he drew his knees up to his chest. He stared out the view-screen for a while longer, before an odd glint caught his eye. He frowned, leaning forward to squint into the darkness.

“What’s that?” He asked.

Hound stuck his head over the workstation, whistling at him in confusion.

“What’s what?”

Sam nodded towards the view-screen. “That.”

Hound raised his head, following Sam’s line of sight. He was silent for a long moment, before whistling in comprehension.

“Ah, yes.” He chirruped, “That is the Lost Light.”

Sam turned, angling his head up to look at the sentry. “Why are they so far away?”

Hound tilted his helm in obvious puzzlement. “They are less than two thousand kilometers off our starboard bow.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Jolt, who had arrived to relieve Mirage at navigation, whistled in amusement. “We are in deep space, Sam. Two thousand kilometers is practically on top of one another.”

Sam gave the shock trooper a wry look, before turning around to settle against the workstation. The Lost Light glimmered in the distance, barely visible against the darkness. He sat there for a long while as the bridge crew carried on their work. Jolt and Arcee called across the floor to one another, relaying coordinates and frequencies. Hound hummed to himself as he drummed a steady tempo against his console. Occasionally, one of the workstations would emit a sharp tonal beeping or a whistle similar to a bosun's call. The first time it happened, Sam nearly jumped out of his skin—it wasn’t terrible loud, but it was piercing. By the third or fourth time it happened, however, he had become accustomed to the noise.

Eventually, Sam’s backside began to ache from sitting on the cold, metal floor. He groaned, clambering to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. The motion caused his spine to audibly crack, which caused Hound to chirrup in alarm.

Sam couldn’t help the half-smile that turned up the corner of his mouth. “You should hear what I can do with my knuckles.”

“I would rather not.” Hound replied, doubtfully.

Sam huffed a laugh as he walked around the workstation to look at Hound’s console. It seemed unchanged from the last time he had seen it—the red dot that denoted the ship was still blinking from the center of the screen, surrounded by all manner of glyphs and symbols. He stepped closer, tilting his head as he stared up at the display. There was a second red dot to the right of the Ark and a third trailing behind it.

“Is that the Lost Light?” Sam asked, curiously.

“It is.” Hound agreed, before anticipating Sam’s next question, “And that is the Nemesis.”

Sam stared at the blinking red dot in surprise. “I wasn’t sure whether Starscream and the others would come with us.”

“He has made his feelings on the subject perfectly clear.” Ratchet cut in, dryly.

Sam turned to see the Chief Medical Officer lumbering down the ramp onto the second-level of the bridge. His footsteps rang against the polished metal floor, growing louder as he approached.

“Oh?” Sam asked, “He’s not happy, I take it?”

Ratchet ex-vented a sharp snort as he came to a stop near Hound’s terminal. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Sam folded his arms loosely over his chest and peered up at the old medic. “What’s he mad about, exactly?”

Ratchet gestured vaguely but meaningfully to their surroundings. “Sentinel Prime’s return, the defeat of the remaining Decepticons, his impending demotion—take your pick.”

Sam tilted his head to the side. “His demotion?”

“The appointment of Lord High Protector is at the discretion of the Senate leader. As the senior-most Prime, that responsibility belongs to Sentinel, not to Optimus.” Ratchet rumbled.

Sam frowned faintly in response. He had never considered the implications of there being more than one Prime before—at least, not in terms of authority. He and Optimus had a relatively informal relationship, more a camaraderie than a hierarchy. He knew next to nothing about how Primes were supposed to interact with one another.

“When was the last time there was more than one Prime?” He asked, glancing up at the medic to gauge his reaction to the question.

Ratchet considered him for a long moment before replying. “That would have been the first Golden Age, during the reign of Solomus and Epistemus Prime.”

“Did they rule together?” Sam asked slowly, “Or was one subservient to the other?”

“Optimus would be better suited to discuss matters of position and power.” Ratchet replied gruffly.

Sam glanced towards the Command Chair, only to realize that Optimus had vacated the position in the hours since he had been on the bridge. In his place was a tall, broad shouldered mechanoid plated in brick red and army green. He was staring at the console in front of him with a stern, imperious air.

“Crossblades.” Ratchet supplied, as though listening to his thoughts, “Second-in-command of the Lost Light.”

Sam tore his eyes away from the red and green mechanoid to look up at him. “What’s he doing here, then?”

Ratchet shrugged expressively. “This is, for all intents and purposes, an armada, and the roles and responsibilities are often shared between ships. Many of the Lost Light’s crew have shift rotations on the Ark and vice-versa.”

Sam digested the information for a long moment before he asked, “But not the Nemesis?”

The Chief Medical Officer scoffed in reply. “Starscream has refused to exchange crew or allow anyone onboard his ship.”

Sam frowned faintly as he turned to stare at the red dot that was blinking on Hound’s display. “He must be pissed. Why are they even coming with us?”

“Why else? The promise of a restored Cybertron.” Ratchet replied.

Sam’s frown deepened as he considered Ratchet’s reply. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that the Decepticons and the Autobots had an equally vested interest in the restoration of their planet—as it was easy to forget that both sides had been responsible for its destruction. After all, it had been Optimus, not Megatron, who ejected the Cube into space, potentially condemning their species to a slow death by entropy.

“Enough.” Ratchet cut in, pulling Sam out of his thoughts, “The microwave has been returned to the mess hall. It’s time you ate something more substantial than cereal.”

The medic’s tone was brisk and no-nonsense, and Sam didn’t even bother protesting.

“Who took it?” He asked instead, waving good-bye to Hound as he climbed onto the second-level of the bridge.

“A sanitation bot.” Ratchet replied, lumbering towards the ramp, “Evidentially, he mistook it for a sentient organism.”

Bumblebee was still standing at the communications terminal, one servo propped on the workstation and the other on the back of the chair. He and Arcee seemed locked in a contest of wills, for they were whisper arguing with one another over something on the monitors. Sam hesitated for a moment, not wanting to interrupt them, when Bumblebee glanced over with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to be a while longer.” He said.

“That’s alright.” Sam replied, “I’ll see you later.”

The scout brushed against his mind, gentle and affectionate, as he turned back towards the workstation. Sam stared at him for a moment longer before a pointed look from Ratchet spurred him forward. He climbed up the ramp and onto the upper-level of the bridge as the old medic followed behind him. Crossblades turned in his seat as they approached, his expression unfathomable but intense.

“Prime.” He rumbled in greeting, “It is my honor to serve.”

His voice was deep and smooth and cultured—it seemed somehow at odds with his stern countenance and imposing stature.

“Hello Crossblades.” Sam replied, aiming for dignified and falling short, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Ratchet pressed his servo against Sam’s back, urging him forward. Sam nodded to the second-in-command in farewell, before letting himself be steered towards the exit. The double doors slid open as they approached and, as soon as they were in the antechamber, Ratchet transformed. Sam watched as the medic folded down into his alt mode before popping open the driver’s side door. He climbed into the cab without further prompting, and then Ratchet was accelerating down the corridor.

Sam leaned back in the driver’s seat, careful to keep his feet away from the pedals and his hands to himself. Doors flashed by on either side of the corridor, their interiors visible but dark through the glass windows. It was no time at all before Ratchet turned a corner and the atrium became visible at the end of the hall.

“It’s a big ship.” Sam said, apropos of nothing, “It’s going to take me forever to learn where everything is.”

Ratchet’s engine rumbled as he started down the curved ramp towards the second deck. “It is a great deal of empty space. The Ark was designed for a complement of 200 mechanoids.”

Sam propped his elbow against the doorframe and rested his head on his closed fist. “Have you ever served onboard the ship before?”

“I have.” Ratchet agreed, turning down another long corridor, “Both before and after the start of the Great War.”

“Oh?” Sam asked, curiosity piqued despite himself, “Were you always the Chief Medical Officer?”

“Yes.” Ratchet replied, gruffly.

Sam was silent for several hundred yards before he asked, slowly, “Were you Megatron’s Chief Medical Officer, too?”

“For a time.” came Ratchet’s clipped reply.

The medic’s mental presence had cooled perceptibly, and Sam was familiar enough with the wizened glow to understand that he was treading on dangerous ground. He hesitated for a long moment, turning his next question over in his head, testing it, and then he asked it anyway.

“Where is he?”

Ratchet was silent as he pulled into the mess hall. The large room was empty except for a single mechanoid that was standing near the energon containers that lined the far wall. The Hummer slowed to a stop directly in front of the kitchenette, before opening his door in a silent command.

Sam didn’t move, instead pinning the dashboard with an insistent look. “Tell me, Ratch.”

“He is in the brig.” Ratchet replied at last, and each word sounded like it was being dragged from his vocoder, “Where he belongs.”

Sam slowly nodded as he turned and climbed out of the seat. As soon as he had two feet firmly on the ground, Ratchet rolled backwards and transformed. Sam watched as panels split apart at invisible seams, folding and twisting and slotting into place, and then Ratchet was crouching down in front of him.

“You needn’t waste your energy worrying about Megatron.” Ratchet said gruffly, “I have ensured it.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown. “What do you mean by that?”

“I designed the firewalls that are keeping him locked in stasis.” Ratchet replied, straightening to his full height and pinning Sam with a serious look, “Megatron is incapable of breaching them.”

Sam knew that he should be comforted by his assurances, but it left him feeling a vague sense of unease. “What if someone else tried?”

Ratchet gestured meaningfully towards the kitchenette. “I have included a host of fail-safes and back-ups within the programming. His processor would be wiped clean if anyone attempted to online him.”

Sam snorted softly as he made his way towards the refrigeration unit. “Well, that would save us all a lot of trouble.”

“It would indeed.” Ratchet agreed, coolly.

Sam briefly considered the available options before he pulled the chicken pot pie out of the fridge. He pushed the door shut behind him, and then stared at the microwave. It looked like a plain old General Electric model, but there was only a single button on the control pad.

“How do I work this thing?” He asked, casting a dubious look at the Chief Medical Officer.

“You put the package in the appliance and turn it on.” Ratchet replied, all dry sarcasm, “You have a graduate degree—it should not strain your abilities.”

Sam gave the old mechanoid a pointed look. “Your tone is super helpful.”

Ratchet gave an unimpressed snort as Sam opened the microwave and placed the carton on the turntable. He pushed the door shut again and, as directed, thumbed the power button. Immediately, the microwave lit up and the carton started rotating as it cooked. The sight was so ordinary, so commonplace, that it was anachronistic in the extreme.

“How is this my life?” Sam asked, to no one in particular.

“Primus only knows.” Ratchet replied dryly.

Before Sam could reply, the microwave beeped twice and went dark. He looked from the microwave to Ratchet in confusion—it had only been on for a few seconds.

“It’s ready.” Ratchet said, correctly interpreting his confusion, “Go on.”

Sam opened the microwave and pulled out the carton, which was warm to the touch. He peeled off the plastic filament and was immediately hit with the smell of roast chicken and spices. It made his mouth flood with saliva, and he groaned in appreciation.

“I will leave you to it—I have work to do.” Ratchet said, staring down at him as Sam dug a fork out of the drawer, “You may go to the gym when you’ve finished your meal.”

Sam glanced up at the medic in confusion. “The gym?”

“I believe the term is self-explanatory.” Ratchet drawled in reply.

Sam rolled his eyes so hard they almost popped out of his skull. “Why is there a gym on the ship?”

“You will need to exercise throughout the journey to prevent muscle loss.” Ratchet replied, “It is best to begin as you mean to go on. Forty-five minutes a day, every day.”

Sam pulled a face as he sat down at the table located immediately in front of the kitchenette. Running laps or lifting weights topped the list of things he didn’t feel like doing at the moment—or anytime in the near future, really.

“I’m not in the mood.” He muttered.

“That’s unfortunate.” Ratchet replied dryly, “I imagine it will make things rather unpleasant for you.”

Sam angled his head to glare up at the chartreuse medic, who weathered his rising temper without so much as a flinch.

“Forty-five minutes.” Ratchet repeated as he started towards the exit, “Do not make me fetch you or I will be severely annoyed.”

Sam rolled his eyes again, sullen and petulant, as he started in on his dinner. The taste of chicken and gravy helped mollify his temper—it tasted as though it had just come out of the oven. He stuck his fork through the golden-brown crust and speared another piece of meat. It was tender and juicy, and his eyes fluttered shut in pleasure.

There was a sudden loud scraping sound on the opposite side of the room. Sam opened his eyes to see the unknown mechanoid wiping down one of the trestle tables. Sam tilted his head to the side, watching as he worked. He was a shorter mechanoid, perhaps Bumblebee’s height, with white plates and blue accents. Sam took another bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully as the stranger moved onto the next table. He pushed it aside, causing metal to grind against metal, and then he started cleaning.

Sam cleared his throat, pitching his voice to carry. “Hi there.”

The mechanoid startled in surprise, before turning to look at him. “Are you speaking to me?”

Sam’s lips twitched up in a smile. “Yeah, of course.”

“Oh.” The mechanoid replied, before he seemed to remember himself and straightened to attention, “How may I assist you, Prime?”

There was something earnest and uncertain about his question that made a genuine smile spread across Sam’s face.

“I just wanted to say hello. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, Prime, we have not.” The mechanoid agreed, “My designation is Tailgate.”

“Well, hello Tailgate. My name is Sam.” He replied, “It’s nice to meet you.”

The mechanoid crossed one arm over his chest and bowed deeply at the waist. “It is an honor to serve the chosen vessel of the Allspark.”

Sam grimaced deeply, an expression that went unseen by Tailgate who had not risen from his bow. “Please, call me Sam.”

The white mechanoid glanced up, uncertainty written all over his face. “That would be inappropriate.”

His voice was confused, almost plaintive, and Sam’s expression softened into another smile.

“Well it’s my name, isn’t it?”

Tailgate seemed flustered by the question, and he straightened to his full height. “I am a sanitation bot—it is not my place to refer to you by your designation.”

Sam frowned faintly, taken aback by the casual self-deprecation.

“Hey, don’t talk like that.” He said, “Of course you can call me by my name.”

Tailgate regarded him for a long moment, clearly discomforted by the conversation. “If that is your command.”

Sam made an impatient sound in the back of his throat. “It’s not a command, it’s a request.”

“As you say, Prime.” Tailgate replied, before he quickly amended himself, “Samuel Prime.”

Sam sighed as he took another bite of his food. It was difficult to swallow the pastry around the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. He had accepted the title of Ambassador, but the Autobots had always referred to him by his name. It was discomforting to consider a lifetime of titles and formalities. It just wasn’t him.

“Is there anything else you require of me?” Tailgate asked, hesitantly.

It took a great deal of mental fortitude to lift his head and look the sanitation bot directly in the eye. “I just wanted to say hello.”

“Well, hello.” Tailgate chirped, before he gestured towards the trestle table beside him, “I will continue my work, if I have your leave to do so.”

“Go nuts.” Sam replied, tiredly.

The sanitation bot chirruped an expressive string of glyphs and signifiers, and then he began wiping down the table with every evidence of enjoyment. Sam watched him for a long moment, his appetite ruined, before he stood and made his way over to the kitchenette. He shoved a few more bites of chicken into his mouth without tasting a thing, and then he threw the carton in the waste receptacle.

Thirty minutes later, he was lying on the couch in his quarters, staring at his reflection in the polished metal wall and doing his best to think of nothing.

 

---

 

Sam didn’t know for how long he lay there, stiff and cold and hollow-feeling, when Ratchet’s holoform appeared less than a foot away, startling him so badly that he almost fell off of the couch. After a heated—albeit one-sided—argument, he found himself in Ratchet’s front seat as the Hummer drove him to the gym. The smallish hangar was located on the same deck as his quarters, between the atrium and the mess hall. The room was empty except for a bench press, an assortment of weights, a basketball, and a skipping rope.

Ratchet seemed to correctly interpret his underwhelmed expression, for he snorted inelegantly. “The weights and callisthenic exercise will maintain your muscle mass. I also recommend adding cardio to your workout routine.”

Sam sighed to himself, before opening the driver’s side door and climbing out of the Hummer. The door snapped shut behind him of its own accord. He made his way across the floor to the bench press and started adding weights to the barbell. It was only after he finished that he noticed Ratchet had not moved from where he was parked in the middle of the room.

“You don’t need to supervise me.” Sam bit out, acidly.

“All evidence to the contrary.” Ratchet replied.

Sam’s face flushed in irritation as he swung a leg over the bench, “Fine.”

Ratchet did not respond to his clipped tone or surly demeanour, which only served to irritate Sam more. He laid down on the bench, grasping the barbell with both hands, and started counting off reps. He was feeling the burn by the time he got to fifteen and he had to settle the barbell in the catch by twenty-five. He sat up with a grunt and wiped his face with his shirt.

“I’m usually better at this.” Sam muttered.

“Oxygen is thinner on the Ark and the gravitational forces are six percent stronger.” Ratchet replied, “It will take time for your body to adjust.”  

“Wonderful.” Sam grumbled in reply.

Ratchet watched in silence as Sam reduced the weight by twenty pounds, and began counting off another set of reps. It was easier this time, but he was still sweating in earnest by the time he climbed off the bench He proceeded to work his way through his old routine: push-ups, squats, planks, and burpees until every muscle in his body was burning in protest. He rounded out the hour with a lazy jog around the perimeter of the room.

When he was finished, Ratchet directed him to the wash racks before he accelerated out of the hangar. Sam watched him go, his sweaty clothes clinging uncomfortably to his body. He was still hot from exercising, but he knew that he would be freezing cold before too long. That unhappy thought spurred him forward, and he quickly made his way out of the room. The corridors were empty and quiet, with nothing but the distant sound of engines to keep him company. It wasn’t long until he reached the wash racks and, with a great deal of mental fortitude, he made use of the facilities. The water was both blessedly hot and abundant, a fact for which Sam was thankful, and he stood beneath the showerhead for far longer than strictly necessary. The process of getting dried off and dressed was deeply unpleasant—the metal floor was so cold that his feet ached from the chill. He finished as quickly as he was able, and then he walked the rest of the way back to his quarters. The process of undressing was repeated as he changed from his gym clothes to loungewear, and then he climbed into bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight and Sam collapsed against it with a relieved groan.

He laid there for a long while, eyes closed and drifting, when he heard the door open. He raised his head just as Bumblebee entered the room. The Camaro was virtually silent as he rolled forward, coming to a stop a short distance away.

“I did not mean to disturb you.” Bumblebee murmured.

“You didn’t.” Sam smiled, “Joining me?”

“Briefly.” Bumblebee replied as his holoform appeared at the side of the bed, “The second shift starts in less than an hour, and I will be expected on the bridge.”

Sam shifted backwards, lifting up the blankets so the holoform could climb into bed. After some shifting about, Sam found himself curled against Bumblebee’s side with an arm wrapped around his waist. The holoform combed his fingers through Sam’s hair, before tucking a finger under his chin and angling his head up for a kiss. It was a slow, sweet press of lips—chaste and gentle.

Bumblebee pulled back far enough to murmur, “You should get something to eat before you go to sleep.”

Sam made a discontented sound as he burrowed his face into the crook of the holoform’s neck. “It’s too far—not worth it.”

“You need the calories.” Bumblebee replied, doggedly.

Sam pulled the blankets up to his chin by way of an answer. Bumblebee’s mental presence warmed with affection and concern and amusement, until Sam huffed in irritation.

“Fine.” He grumbled, “You can drop me off at the mess on your way to the bridge.”

“Thank-you.” Bumblebee murmured.

Sam grunted something that could have been interpreted as “No talking”, before he settled down against the pillows. Their combined body heat was pleasant, and it wasn’t long before he was drifting, half-asleep and comfortable. He was pulled back to himself an interminable time later as Bumblebee shifted against him. Sam squinted open his eyes to find the holoform propped up on one elbow, staring down at him.

“What is it?” Sam mumbled.

A smile spread across the holoform’s face as he threw a leg over Sam’s thighs and pushed up to straddle him. His weight pressed Sam’s hips into the bed at the same time he leaned forward, pressing his palms flat against Sam’s chest.

“I knew there was something special about you.” He murmured.

Sam stared up at the holoform in confusion. “Huh?”

“Relax, Sam.” He purred, smoothing his hands down Sam’s arms to pin his wrists to the mattress, “Just relax.”

Sam grunted in discomfort—the holoform’s grip was like iron.

“Ease up, Bee.” He complained, trying to shift his hips beneath his weight, “That hurts.”

“Does it?” Bumblebee asked, tipping his head to the side, “I seem to recall you enjoying a little pain.”

There was something about his demeanor—lazy and teasing, the way a cat might play with a mouse—that made Sam go cold all over. He yanked at his wrists, glaring up at the holoform. “This isn’t funny. Get off me right now.”

Bumblebee smiled at him softly, before leaning down to press his lips against the shell of Sam’s ear.

“No.”

Several things happened in quick succession.

First, the holoform shivered as though it was being interrupted by television static, and then its features began to change. The jaw narrowed, lips thinned out, and eyes changed shape until it was Alice staring down at him. Sam’s heart lodged in his throat, fear and confusion slamming into him with the force of a mac truck.

In the same instant, Ratchet was in his mind—yanking him out of the nightmare and back to himself. Sam’s eyes snapped open to find himself flat on his back, with Bumblebee staring down at him in visible concern. Sam scrambled away as he looked around in desperation.

“Where— What—“ Sam panted, wide-eyed and wild, “Where did she go?”

“You were dreaming, Sam.” Bumblebee soothed, pushing onto his knees and holding up his hands, “You’re alright. Take a deep breath.”

“No!” Sam snapped, “She was here… she was right here!”

“There’s no one here.” Bumblebee promised, shifting towards him, “You’re safe.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the door slid open. An unknown mechanoid stood in the entryway, backlit by the lights in the corridor. Sam couldn’t make out his identity or his frame-type—he saw nothing except for the blue-green glow of an ion canon mounted to one arm. Adrenaline surged for the second time in as many minutes as the stranger snapped something in clipped Cybertronian. At the same time, Bumblebee transformed into his bipedal mode and moved to stand between Sam and the door.

The unknown mechanoid took a single step into the room, his arm-mounted canon casting eerie light across the floor. Sam didn’t think—he just reacted. He turned his attention inward, lashing out at the unfamiliar glow inside his mind with all of his mental strength. The mechanoid shrieked in surprise and pain as he stumbled backwards, and then Sam found himself pinned beneath the combined weight of Ratchet and Jazz.

//Sam, stop!// Ratchet snapped.

//Watch the friendly fire, kid.// Jazz added wryly.

Sam stared at the unknown mechanoid, who had dropped down to one knee and was ex-venting sharply. Bumblebee had not moved from his position in the middle of the room, but neither had he engaged his battle mask. The two facts seemed completely at odds with one another.

“What the hell is going on?” He demanded, shrilly.

“Please forgive my intrusion.” The stranger managed, “I have… clearly… misappraised the situation.”

The mechanoid’s tone was wry and self-deprecating, which only served to confound Sam further.

“What are you talking about?”

Bumblebee turned to look at Sam, something like vexation on his face. “You were having a nightmare—neither of you realized it.”

Sam looked from Bumblebee to the stranger and back again, before understanding dawned on him. The mechanoid had thought the Pretender was real, and he was responding to the threat accordingly. Mortification came hard and fast, and Sam flushed all the way to his hairline.

“I am so sorry.” He managed, scrambling off the mattress, “Are you alright?”

The stranger cycled air through his vents for a second time, before pushing himself to his pedes. He was a smaller Autobot, perhaps eighteen feet or so, with solid red and black paneling.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He said before he chuckled, “You pack quite the punch. Kudos.”

Sam’s flushed deepened, and he wanted nothing more than to disappear into the floor. “Are you sure? Should you see Ratchet?”

The stranger waved the words away a flip of his servo. “It takes more than a pen-attack to take down a security bot. The name’s Peacemaker, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”

Sam crossed the room to stand beside Bumblebee, who was watching the stranger with exasperation written all over his face.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” Sam replied slowly, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“It’s all good.” Peacemaker said with a slanted smile, “Besides, it’ll make a great story—Pointbreak will love it.”

Sam’s mortification was losing its sharp edges, softening to something closer to embarrassment.

“Well, thanks for understanding.” He managed.

“No problemo.” Peacemaker replied, raising two digits to his forehead in an easy salute, “It’s an honor to serve and all that.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, but before he could reply, the door slid open again. He turned in surprise—only for his stomach to sink into his feet. Jazz was standing in the corridor, his arms folded over his chest and his head tipped to the side. His expression was a mixture of humor and exasperation.

“Hey Hoss.” He said by way of greeting, “We need to have a little chat.”

Notes:

Author's Note: Work continues to be bananas. I have no idea when the next update will be. Thanks for your continued patience!

Chapter 8

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Note: Thank-you all for your continued patience! It's been a rough few weeks, and your support means more to me than I could possibly say.

Sam flushed at Jazz’s remark, feeling defensive and uncomfortable in equal measures. “What? Why?”

Jazz looked Sam over from head to toe, seemingly taking in his disheveled appearance and pale, drawn face. After a moment, the second-in-command ex-vented air through his intakes and shrugged his shoulders.  

“Alright. Come on.”

Sam frowned, opening his mouth to demand an explanation, when Jazz initiated his transformation sequence. The saboteur folded down into his alt mode in a matter of moments, and then he popped open his passenger side door. The interior of his cabin was darkened, lit only by the lights on the dashboard.

Sam’s flushed deepened, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “If you’re going to dress me down, then you can do it right here.” Jazz swung his door back and forth by way of reply, but Sam didn’t budge. Instead, he dropped his chin and narrowed his eyes at the second-in-command. “I’m serious, Jazz.”

“Yes, Sam, I know.” Jazz’s dry voice came from inside the cabin, “Get in.”

Sam glared at the Pontiac Solstice, fully prepared to refuse, when Bumblebee crouched down beside him. His bonded’s expression was tender but reserved as he chirruped something softly. It was an unfamiliar glyph, but Sam could understand the coaxing tone of his voice. His flush deepened further still and he turned his face away.  

“It was an accident.” He muttered.

Bumblebee settled a servo against Sam’s back, giving him a gentle push towards the door.

“I know it was.” He murmured, “Go with Jazz. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

Sam nodded, a barely there jerk of his head, before he reluctantly started towards the Solstice. He glanced at Peacemaker as he passed, forcing himself to look the security bot in the face. “Sorry again.”   

The red and black mechanoid smiled at him—an easy and upbeat expression, despite the tension in the room.

“Apology accepted, Sam.”

Sam murmured his thanks, before turning to look at Jazz. The Pontiac Solstice was parked in the corridor, his passenger door open in a silent invitation. He stared at the waiting alt mode for a moment longer, before he sighed and climbed into the front seat. The door snapped shut as soon as he was settled, and then they were accelerating away from the apartment. Sam shifted against the smooth leather, resisting the urge to cross his arms or glare at the dashboard. Instead, he propped an elbow against the doorframe and stared out the windshield. Jazz said nothing as he took the corner at the end of the hallway and continued down the corridor. The silence in the cabin seemed to build as they drove, until Sam’s discomfort spurred him to speak.

“Where are we going?” He asked.

“The mess hall.” Jazz replied.

The answer took him by surprise, and the corners of Sam’s mouth turned down in a puzzled frown. “Why the mess hall?”

“Why do you think?” Jazz asked dryly, “You haven’t eaten in hours—I’m getting tired of Ratchet's pings.”   

Sam’s frown deepened, but Jazz didn’t seem keen to chit-chat and he wasn’t in the mood to play twenty questions. They drove the rest of the way in silence, and as soon as Jazz slowed to a stop inside the mess hall, his passenger door popped open.  

“Vámonos.”

Sam climbed out of the cab, before glancing around the large hangar. The mess hall was empty except for the two of them, and he had a sneaking suspicion that their privacy had been by design. The thought irritated him, and he crossed his arms over his chest as Jazz initiated his transformation sequence. He waited until the last panel slotted into place and the second-in-command straightened to his full height, before demanding, “What’s your problem, Jazz?”

The saboteur quirked an optic ridge as he asked, dryly, “Want to try that again?”

“Oh, come on.” Sam bit out angrily, “I was half asleep.”

In lieu of a reply, Jazz merely crossed his arms and peered down at him. The second-in-command said nothing, evidentially willing to wait him out. Sam’s flush deepened, spreading across his face like spilled wine.

“What do you want me to say?” He demanded, “I already apologized to him.”

Jazz stared at him for a moment longer, before he lowered into a loose crouch. The position put them at an equal height with one another, a fact that Jazz emphasized by angling his helm until he was looking Sam in the face.    

“You attacked without verifying the threat. I taught you better than that.”

Sam flinched at the note of mild disapproval that was evident in his voice. He wanted to say something, to defend himself, but he knew that Jazz was right—he had taken one look at Peacemaker and attacked, without even checking with Bumblebee first. It went against everything he had been taught, by Jazz and Lennox both. The realization made him flush with shame, and he turned his head, unable to look Jazz in the eye.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured.

“Oh, you will be.” Jazz deadpanned, “You will be.”

In any other circumstance, Sam would have congratulated him for the pop culture reference. As it stood, however, his stomach twisted with trepidation at the note of wry promise in his words.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He demanded.

Jazz leaned forward to press a single digit against Sam’s sternum. “It means that you and I are going back to the basics.”

It took Sam less than a second to understand his meaning, and when he did, he groaned in response. Jazz grinned and flicked Sam under the chin with his digit, before straightening up to his full height.

“That’s the spirit.” He agreed, “I’ll meet you here at the beginning of first-shift.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes with a substantial effort. Their training sessions had grown fewer and farther between over the last few years, as Sam’s time was consumed by his ever-increasing workload. Jazz had managed to squeeze in short sessions here and there, but their time together had been significantly constrained—a shortcoming that the saboteur was, evidentially, keen to rectify.

“Do I have a choice?” Sam asked sarcastically.

“Nope.” Jazz replied, already making his way towards exit, “Don’t be late.”

“As though I need the reminder.” Sam muttered. He knew better than to keep the second-in-command waiting. Jazz got creative when he was annoyed.

Jazz laughed good-naturedly as he walked into the corridor, disappearing from sight. Sam heaved a deep sigh, before making his way over to the kitchenette and opening the refrigeration unit. The food containers were stacked in tidy rows on four different shelves. It took only a cursory examination before he realized that the containers were organized according to meal type. There were breakfast wraps and protein scrambles on the top shelf; sandwiches, soups, and pasta on the second shelf; and a variety of entrees on the third and fourth shelves. Sam grabbed the first carton he could reach on the third shelf, before glancing down at the label.

Meat cakes.

A sudden, terrible swell of homesickness washed over him at the sight. Sam clutched the container with both hands, swallowing reflexively against the emotion that thickened his throat. He knew with absolute certainty that his grandmother had made these as well—meat cakes were his favorite comfort food. Sam blinked against the tears pricking his eyes, and when that did nothing to help, he dashed the moisture away with the heel of his hand.

There was no use crying over it now.

Sam ducked his head as he made his way to the counter, thankful beyond measure that there was no one in the mess hall to witness his tears. He opened the microwave and placed the container inside, before pressing the power button. As the container rotated on the turntable, Sam scrubbed his sleeve across his face and tried to ignore the ache inside his ribs. He was thankful when the microwave beeped a few moments later. He carried the container over to the table and slid into his seat. Steam had beaded along the plastic filament, and when Sam peeled it away, he was met with the smell of ground beef and onions. He ate slowly, savoring every bite as he tried to think of anything other than home. No matter how he tried, however, the ache inside his ribs seemed to sharpen with every mouthful.

He had just finished eating when the sound of quiet conversation could be heard in the corridor. Sam pushed to his feet so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor. He made his way over to the counter as three mechanoids walked into the mess hall. He recognized the first as Crossblades, the second-in-command of the Lost Light, but he didn’t recognize his two companions. The first was a tall, bulky mechanoid with blue plating and rotary blades hanging down his back. The second was shorter, with red and white plating and large wheels affixed to his shoulders. The three mechanoids seemed taken aback by his presence, for their conversation petered off when they took notice of him.

Sam steadfastly ignored them. He threw his garbage in the waste receptacle and wiped down the counter. He could hear the three mechanoids moving around behind him as he worked—there was the ringing of metal against metal, the scraping of heavy furniture being pushed aside, and the faint hiss of hydraulics. Sam glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder to find the three mechanoids gathered around the energon containers at the other end of the mess hall. The two strangers were engaged in low conversation with one another, but Crossblades was watching him closely.

Sam flushed in embarrassment at being caught eavesdropping, before he turned back around. He wrung out the dishcloth he had used to wipe down the countertop and draped it over the faucet. When he turned to leave, he saw that Crossblades and the two unknown mechanoids had made their way to the trestle tables in the center of the room. Sam gave them a jerky nod of his head, before pushing his hands into his pockets and starting towards the door.

“Prime.”

Sam’s step faltered at the sound of Crossblade’s smooth, deep baritone. He turned to look at the second-in-command, who was regarding him with an enigmatic expression on his face.

“Yeah?” He asked, hating the uncertain quality of his voice.

Crossblades crossed the room towards him. His companions, who had taken their seats at the table, seemed to be watching them with no small degree of interest. The second-in-command stopped in front of him, before lowering into a loose crouch. He was substantially taller than Jazz, and as a result, Sam had to crane his neck to look at him.  

“Do you require anything?” He rumbled, “I understand there was an issue with your equipment earlier.”

Sam blinked, taken aback by the consideration.

“Uh, no.” He managed, stumbling over his words, “I’m okay. Thanks though.”

Crossblades inclined his helm fractionally in response. “As you say, Prime.”

“It’s just Sam.” He replied, trying to ignore the flush warming his face.

Crossblades’ expression warmed in some perceptible way.

“It is nice to make your acquaintance, Sam.”

The mechanoid’s voice was deep and wry, and Sam found himself smiling in response.

“You too, Crossblades.”

The second-in-command inclined his helm again, before he straightened to his full height. Sam waved good-bye and made his way out of the mess hall. The corridor was empty and quiet, except for the sound of his footsteps and the hum of distant machinery. He hadn’t gotten more than ten feet when the sound of low talking wafted from the room behind him. The conversation was in Cybertronian, however, and Sam tried to ignore the niggling suspicion that they were talking about him.

The walk to his quarters was uneventful. He stopped in the wash racks long enough to relieve himself, and then he continued back to his apartment. The door slid open at his touch, revealing the darkened interior. Someone, Bumblebee, probably, had turned off the lights before they had left. Sam frowned, stymied. He had no idea how to turn them on again.

He stood in the doorway for several moments, squinting into the darkness, before an idea occurred to him. He hesitated for a moment, and then angled his head to glance up at the ceiling.

“…Teletraan?” He asked, uncertainly.

“Yes, Sam?” The disembodied voice promptly replied.

Sam flushed in a combination of embarrassment and surprise—he hadn’t been sure whether the artificial intelligence would actually respond. He hesitated for a scant second before asking, slowly, “How do I turn on the lights?”

As soon as the question was out of his mouth, the overhead lights flickered on inside the apartment. It bathed the room in a warm, mellow glow.

“Hey, that’s a neat trick.” Sam said, stepping into the apartment, “Thanks.”

The door slid shut behind him as Teletraan-1 warbled an acknowledgement in reply. Sam made his way across the room to collapse in a heap on the sofa. The cushions were cool but comfortable, and he shimmied around until his head was propped against the armrest. He toed off his shoes, which fell to the floor one by one, and then he stretched out on the sofa. He stared at the ceiling for an interminable time, not thinking about anything in particular, when his eyes fell on the view-screen affixed to the wall.

“Teletraan?” Sam asked, pitching his voice to carry.

“Yes, Sam?”

“What is that?” He asked, tipping his head towards the view-screen.

“Are you referring to the entertainment interface?”

Sam blinked in surprise, before pushing up onto an elbow. “Entertainment interface?”

There came another warble of tonal sounds, and then the screen lit up of its own accord. Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline at the long list of options that appeared on the screen. It included everything from feature-length films, to documentaries, to comedy specials, to television. Sam stared in disbelief as the list slowly scrolled across the view-screen.

“Do you wish to make a selection?” Teletraan inquired politely.

Sam stared at the view-screen for a moment longer, feeling overwhelmed and out of place. He wondered briefly who had been the one to download the multimedia—Bumblebee, perhaps, or maybe Hound. They had spent long hours in Sam’s apartment, watching television together. Bumblebee was content to watch whatever Sam liked, but Hound preferred documentaries and reality television. The sentry had developed a love affair with baking competitions that had been the subject of good-natured teasing among the Autobots and humans alike.

Sam wet his lips and asked, softly, “Do you have the Great British Bake Off?”

Teletraan warbled something in reply, and a moment later, the title sequence began to play. Sam’s throat thickened at the familiar sound of string instruments and xylophones—it lodged in his chest like a physical thing. He slowly laid down against the cushions as the music swelled and the first episode began to play. They were making cakes—he liked the cake episodes.

He laid there for hours, staring at the view-screen as the episodes progressed from one to another. At some point, he reached down and pulled the throw blanket over himself. The material was soft and warm and familiar, and he burrowed his nose in it. His eyes were burning with exhaustion by the time they announced the first season’s winner. Still, he made no move to turn off the view-screen or go to bed. He laid there, listening to the comforting sounds of home, until he passed out halfway through the second season.

 

---

 

Sam was startled awake by an unfamiliar sound. He squinted open his eyes, groaning in protest. The room was dark and quiet—both the view-screen and the overhead lights had been turned off sometime after he’d fallen asleep. He shifted against the couch cushions, and then he groaned again. He was stiff and sore as a result of his ill-advised night on the couch.

The unfamiliar sound came again, and Sam turned his head to look at the door. The light on the keypad set in the wall was blinking at him insistently. He pushed himself into a sitting position and scrubbed the grit out of his eyes. He could tell by the ache blooming between his temples and the heaviness of his body that he hadn’t been asleep for long. He climbed off the couch with a grunt, before ambling across the room. The door slid open as soon as he pressed his hand against the console, and Sam squinted against the sudden brightness. It took him a moment to recognize Hound standing in the corridor. The sentry perked up as soon as he laid optics on him.

“Good morning, Sam.” He chirped, thrusting his servos towards him, “Here.”

Sam glanced down reflexively, and then his eyebrows twitched up in surprise. There, nestled in the sentry’s protective grip, was a potted plant. It was tall and leafy, with an oversized terra-cotta potter. Sam stared at it dumbly, too taken aback to speak.  

“Do you like it?” Hound asked, tilting his head, “The Internet suggested kitchenware, but I thought a plant might be more appropriate.”

Sam looked from the plant to Hound, his brow furrowing in consternation. “Huh?”

“For a housewarming gift.” Hound explained, “I would have brought it during first shift, but I was required on the bridge.”

Sam’s eyes fell to the plant again, and he was forced to swallow against the lump in his throat.

“It’s very nice.” He managed, thickly. “Thank-you.”

Hound chirruped something in reply as he motioned meaningfully with his servos. Sam reached out to grasp the pot in both hands. It was not as heavy as it looked. The plant was perhaps a foot or so tall, with dark green leaves and a thin, braided trunk.

“Pachira aquatica.” Hound informed him helpfully, “Also known as the money tree. It is supposed to bring good fortune.”

Sam’s throat constricted with emotion at the sentry’s earnest tone. He turned on his heel, ducking his head to hide his face, as he walked back into the apartment. He glanced around the room, searching for an appropriate place, when his eyes settled on the side table. He walked over and placed the pot on the little stand, before running his fingers through the leaves. They were dark green and glossy and smooth to the touch.

“Thank-you, Hound.” Sam husked softly, “I love it.”

“You are welcome.” Hound chirped in reply, “I will bring you a growing guide, but it’s a resilient little plant. You should have no trouble caring for it.”

Sam knuckled the moisture out of the corners of his eyes, before turning around to look at the sentry. Hound was crouched in the corridor, watching him with bright optics.

“That’s really thoughtful.” Sam murmured.

Hound seemed to perk up at his words.

“I am glad you like it.” He replied, before canting his helm to the side, “Are you ready to go?”

Sam’s mouth turned down at the corners as he asked, confusedly, “Go where?”

Hound seemed taken aback by the question, for his optics spiraled down to points before irising open again.

“The first shift will begin shortly.” He replied, “I was instructed to bring you to the mess hall.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut and groaned. He had forgotten all about his conversation with Jazz, but now that he had been reminded, the memory came back with a vengeance. He was stiff and sore and tired, and he was in no mood to get thrown around the neural-network like a ragdoll. Hound seemed to sense his reluctance, for the sentry made a concerned sounding warble as he initiated his transformation sequence.

“I’m just the messenger.” He said, as soon as his tires touched the floor, “Sorry.”

Sam laced his fingers together behind his neck and sighed. He was tempted to turn around and go right back to bed, but he knew that Jazz would track him down—it wouldn’t have been the first time, either. Eventually, Sam made his way over to the couch and picked up his shoes. He pulled them on one at a time, cursing Jazz’s name as he did so, and then he approached the Jeep Wrangler parked in the corridor.

“Who’d you piss off to get put on wake-up duty?” He asked dryly as he climbed into the passenger’s seat.

“I volunteered.” Hound replied. There was something enigmatic about his tone, which caused Sam to raise an eyebrow at the dashboard, but the sentry said nothing further. As soon as Sam was settled, the seatbelt snaked across his chest and clicked into the latch of its own accord.

“Safety first.” Hound explained, accelerating down the corridor in the direction of the mess hall.

Sam made a noncommittal noise as he adjusted the strap to rest more comfortably against his shoulder. Doors flashed by on either side of the corridor as they drove. Most of them were closed, but one or two of them stood open. Sam glanced inside, curious despite himself, but they passed too quickly for him to get a good look. It was only the matter of minutes before Hound drove into the mess hall, slowing to a stop as he neared the kitchenette. The room was busier than Sam had ever seen it before. Cliffjumper, Hot Rod, Bluestreak, and Peacemaker sat at a nearby table, while a dozen others were scattered around the room, either standing by the energon containers against the far wall or sitting at one of the other tables. Sam unfastened the seatbelt and pushed open the door, before climbing out of the car. As soon as he had stepped away, Hound transformed back into his bipedal mode.

“Morning, killer. How’re you doing?” Hot Rod said by way of greeting.

Sam fixed the cavalier with a glower as he made his way towards the kitchenette. “Do I look like I’m in the mood right now?”

Hot Rod seemed to consider the question before he replied.

“Do you look like you’re in the mood? No. A mood? Definitely.”

Sam made an irritated noise in the back of his throat as he opened the cupboard and pulled down the coffee canister. He placed it on the counter, next to the powdered creamer and sugar.

“You’re hilarious.” He grumbled.

Peacemaker looked from Sam to Hot Rod and back again, taking in their conversation with an interested air. Sam paid him no mind as glanced around the kitchenette, looking for the coffee machine. It wasn’t on the counter where he had left it, so he pulled open one cupboard and then another as he searched for it. His efforts were for naught, however, as each cupboard came up empty.

Sam stared at the counter with a quickly mounting temper as he asked, dangerously, “Where’s the coffee machine?” When no one answered him, Sam slowly turned around to look at his friends, “Guys?”

Cliffjumper had an exasperated look on his face, but Hot Rod was grinning like an idiot.

“I guess it got up and walked away.” He replied, good-naturedly.

Sam’s temper swelled at the tone of the cavalier’s voice, and he slammed the cupboard shut with a great deal more force than necessary.

“I swear to God.” He gritted out, “If I have to deal with Jazz this morning without caffeine in my bloodstream, I will throw myself out the nearest airlock I can find.”

His threat was met with a directionless swell of emotion—surprise, exasperation, shock, and concern—as Sam realized that every mechanoid in the room had stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Sam narrowed his eyes and stared right back, silently daring someone to say something.

It was Cliffjumper who broke the silence first.

“It would be a lot cooler if you didn’t.” He said, mildly.

“Technically speaking, it would be a lot cooler if he did.” Hot Rod replied conversationally.

Cliff made an acquiescing sort of warble, as though conceding a point, and Peacemaker raised a brow ridge in response.

“You are both very offensive.” He rumbled, although he didn’t sound particularly disapproving.

Hot Rod tickety-bleeped something in reply as he clapped the security bot on the shoulder. Peacemaker gave him a wry look, before prying Roddy’s servo off his shoulder and dropping it on the table. Hot Rod just grinned at him, totally unrepentant. Their easy comradery made Sam do a double-take.  

“Do you two know each other?” He blurted.

Peacemaker glanced at Sam, his expression all dry exasperation.

“Hot Rod? No, only by reputation. Cliffjumper, however, is from my crèche.”

Sam perked up in surprise, as he shut the cupboard door. “Wait, you’re Cliff’s brother?”

Peacemaker’s optics dimmed in a way that suggested he was researching something, before they brightened again a scant second later.

“I suppose that’s a close enough analogy.” He replied.

Cliffjumper warbled something dry sounding in Peacemaker’s direction, before turning to look at Sam.

“We were sparked in the same clutch by the same Creators, but we are not twins.” He explained with his usual indelible patience.

Sam considered that for a moment, before he asked, hesitantly, “So, like Optimus and Ultra Magnus?”  

“Yes.” Cliffjumper agreed, inclining his helm.

Sam’s face broke out in a genuine smile. “That’s great! I’m glad you guys were able to find each other.”  

“We do not share familial bonds with our clutch-mates, as organics do, but Peacemaker and I are closer than most.” Cliff rumbled in reply.

It was as close to an admission of affection that the usually reserved mechanoid had ever made. Sam smiled at him, the coffee debacle forgotten entirely, as he pulled open the refrigeration unit. “I can’t wait to hear more about it. What was Cliff like when he was younger?”

“He was exactly the same.” Peacemaker chuckled in reply, “Our Creators used to say that they should have switched our designations. I am not entirely convinced they were speaking in jest.”

Cliffjumper’s expression was tolerantly amused, but before he could reply, a familiar-looking Pontiac Solstice rolled into the mess hall. Sam’s stomach sank with trepidation as he grabbed a protein scramble out of the fridge and popped it into the microwave. He pressed the power button as he yanked open the cutlery drawer and found a fork.

“I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying.” He called over his shoulder as the microwave beeped, “Just gimme a minute.”

The Pontiac rolled to a stop directly in front of him and popped open his door. “You can eat on the way.”

Sam pulled the protein scramble out of the microwave, hissing as the container burned his fingers. He transferred the container to one hand, shaking the other, before he hurried over to the car. He waved good-bye to Cliffjumper and the others as he climbed into the seat, and then Jazz accelerated out of the mess hall without so much as a how-do-you-do.

Sam ate the protein scramble as they drove, trying not to choke in his haste to get it down. Jazz made his way through the second deck, taking one corridor and then another until the gym came into view. Sam finished his breakfast as Jazz pulled into the small hangar. It was exactly the same as Sam had left it the night before, with two notable exceptions: there was an unknown mechanoid parked next to a large, padded mat on the floor. Sam’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion as Jazz slowed to a stop and opened his door.

“Get kickin’, little chicken.” He said, dryly.

Sam didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed out of the car, before backpedaling several steps. Jazz transformed as soon as he was safely away, and then he straightened to his full height and propped his hands on his hips.

“This here is my man, Blurr.” Jazz said by way of introduction, “He’ll be assisting today.”

Sam opened his mouth to introduce himself, when the sleek blue speedster exploded in a rapid-fire transformation. Between one moment and the next, a lithe Autobot stood in its place.

“So you’re the one that everyone’s been gossiping about.” He rumbled, staring down at Sam, “You’re shorter than I expected.”

Sam blinked, taken by surprise. The mechanoid’s words were spoken so quickly that they almost slurred together. It took considerable effort to parse out what he was saying.

“Huh?” Sam asked, unintelligibly.

Blurr stared down at him for a moment longer, before turning to look at Jazz. “Really?”

The question was so dry and sarcastic that it would have been impossible to interpret it as anything other than an insult. Sam flushed all the way to his hairline, but Jazz cut in before he could say anything in response.

“Dynamite comes in small packages.”  He said with a wry smile.

Sam’s flush darkened as Blurr’s expression turned faintly skeptical.

“If you say so.” He rumbled.

Jazz turned to look at Sam, before making a permissive gesture with his servo.

“You know the drill.” He instructed.

Blurr was watching him closely, and it made Sam feel uncomfortable. It made him feel vulnerable. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and gave Jazz a sharp look.

“What are we doing?” He asked, making no move to drop his firewalls.

“Blurr is a reconnaissance agent.” Jazz replied, lowering into a loose crouch that had the second-in-command balancing on the balls of his pedes, “He’s going to put you through your paces.”

Sam glanced over at the mechanoid, hesitant and uncertain, but Jazz nudged against him meaningfully.  

“You’re fine.” He said encouragingly, “Blurr wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

If the expression on the agent’s face was anything to go by, Blurr very much disagreed with that sentiment. Still, Sam knew that he wasn’t leaving until Jazz was satisfied so, with a great deal of trepidation, he dropped his firewalls. The neural-network brightened in his mind—it was practically vibrating with the proximity of so many mechanoids. Sam drew his mental presence as closely to himself as he could manage, but it did little to help with the onslaught of sensation and impression.

Blurr’s optics brightened as he tipped his head to the side.

“Remarkable.” He murmured, his expression intense, “You process the neural-network in terms of sensory stimuli. How… novel.”

Sam couldn’t resist the grimace that spread across his face. There were too many signatures glowing at him to count, but there were easily several dozen of them. Some were familiar—winter-white and rose-gold and amethyst—but others were entirely foreign. He could almost feel the attention that was being directed his way.

“Can we get this over with?” He asked through gritted teeth. He didn’t relish the idea of a bunch of strangers poking around in his head for any longer than strictly necessary.

Jazz took pity on him, and they began the exercise without any fanfare. Sam spent the next hour chasing Blurr across the neural-network, before being chased in turn. The reconnaissance agent was wickedly fast, and Sam couldn’t outpace or out-maneuver him, no matter how he tried. His head was throbbing before the half-hour mark, and by the time that Jazz called their session to a close, he felt nauseous from over-exertion. It had been a long, long time since the second-in-command had worked him so hard. Sam was too wrung-out and exhausted to even bother attempting a firewall.

A half-an-hour later, Sam stumbled into the medical bay in a daze. He could barely hear the sound of Jazz’s engine retreating down the corridor through the sound of his pulse in his ears. The hangar was the same as Sam remembered it: two long rows of berths occupied opposite walls, interspersed with all manner of medical equipment. It was similar in design to Ratchet’s medical bay on Diego Garcia, although smaller and more cramped. The walls were covered in thick tubes that ran from the floor to the ceiling, before coming together to run down the length of the hangar. Sam ambled forward, fingers pressed into his temples. The room was empty, although he could feel Ratchet’s mental presence nearby.

“Ratch?” He croaked.

The door at the opposite end of the hangar slid open, and Ratchet appeared in the doorway. His optics found Sam in an instant, before his mouthplates thinned in disapproval. The chartreuse medic strode forward, his footsteps echoing against the polished metal floors.

“I see that he didn’t ease you back into it.” Ratchet observed, waspishly.

Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I was late.”

Ratchet gathered him up in his servos without another word. Sam bit back his token protest as the medic curled him against his chest plates. The metal was blissfully warm, and Sam leaned against it with a grateful groan. Ratchet carried him to the berth at the far end of the hangar. It was arranged with all manner of medical equipment, including the too-familiar hospital bed. Ratchet carefully settled him on the mattress, and as Sam fell back with another groan, Meltdown appeared in the doorway through which Ratchet had come earlier. The broad shouldered medic came to stand beside Ratchet, peering down at Sam with visible concern.

“How long have they been doing this?” He asked.

Ratchet directed a cool look at his companion. “Several years.”

Meltdown’s faceplates turned down in a frown, and this close to one another, Sam could feel his surprise and disapproval. Evidentially, so could Ratchet, for the Chief Medical Officer snorted loudly in response.

“My objections were overruled. You are welcome to file your own, if you wish.”

Meltdown glanced at him, his expression unreadable but intense. Ratchet stared back for a weighted moment, before the two medical builds turned to look at Sam in unison.

“You need rest.” Ratchet said, brisk and businesslike, “Will you consent to stasis?”

The words turned over in Sam’s stomach like an iron weight. It had been years since his last stasis treatment, and although he trusted Ratchet to help him through the process without trauma, it still made his heartbeat pick-up in double-time.

“Do I need to?” He asked softly.

Ratchet folded his arms over his chest as he gave Sam a pointed look. “I recommend it.”

Meltdown’s expression became knowing, and when he spoke, his voice was very gentle. “You needn’t be afraid. It won’t take long.”

If Sam had had any doubts as to whether the newcomers had been briefed about his torture onboard the Nemesis, they were firmly dispelled. He would have been outraged by the violation of his medical privacy were it not for the pounding agony between his temples. As it stood, he just swallowed wetly and closed his eyes.

“Yeah, okay.”

He could feel Ratchet's approval a moment before the medic reached across their bond. His touch was feather-light and gentle, and Sam was swallowed by the darkness of stasis before he could change his mind.

Notes:

If you're so interested, I recently made a [Transformers blog]. It's a place to discuss the series, post fan art, and geek out about Transformers in general. :)

Chapter 9

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Notes: I genuinely don't know what I would do without you guys. Your love and support has gotten me through some pretty dark times these last few months. Thank-you.

Chapter Warning: Emotional trauma, panic attack.

When Sam awoke an interminable time later, it was to the familiar sounds of the medical bay. He lay there with his eyes closed, drifting comfortably, as he listened. He could recognize the mechanical whirring of the air exchange and the hum of medical equipment, but the sound of hushed talking was unusual. He cracked open his eyes and raised his head, trying to locate the source of the noise. It took him less than a second to do so—First Aid and Fixit were standing at a nearby workbench, murmuring animatedly with one another.

“Hey.” Sam rasped, his voice rough from disuse.

The two medics turned around in unison, and First Aid’s door flaps perked up in surprise.

“You’re awake.” He chirruped, “How do you feel?”

Sam groaned, pushing himself into a sitting position and scrubbing a hand over his face. The motion caused the blankets to fall away from his shoulders, and it was only then that he realized someone had tucked him into bed. He stared down at the blankets for a long moment, trying to reconcile himself with the fact, when First Aid whistled concernedly. Sam glanced over at the field medic and fixed him with a wan smile.

“I’m alright.” He replied, “How long was I under?”

“Four hours.” Fixit promptly answered him, “Two hours in stasis, two hours asleep.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow in response. “That’s not so bad.”

“It was bad enough.” Ratchet replied as he appeared in the doorway to his office. The Chief Medical Officer strode across the narrow hangar to stand at his bedside, initiating a medical scan as soon as he was within range. Sam grimaced as the familiar blue light swept him from head to toe, sending pins and needles across his skin.

“What’s the prognosis, Ratch?” He asked, rubbing his arms to chase away the unpleasant sensation.

Ratchet harrumphed something in Cybertronian, before fixing him with a pointed look.

“Your neural connections are repaired, although they will be sensitive for the next cycle or so.” Ratchet replied, “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.” Sam replied with a shrug.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, First Aid gave an affirmatory chirrup in response, before crossing the room towards an alcove set into the far wall. Fixit remained at the workbench, watching Sam with undisguised interest.  

“That is not the level of enthusiasm I was hoping for.” Ratchet replied, drawing his attention back towards him.

“I’m never hungry after Jazz is finished with me.” Sam grumbled, pushing the blankets aside. At the sight of his bare feet, he realized that someone had removed his shoes. He leaned over, glancing down at the berth. It took him less than a second to find them—they had been neatly placed at the foot of his bed.

“Of that, I am well aware.” was Ratchet’s flat reply.

Sam straightened up and settled back against the mattress. Although the hospital bed was firmer than he preferred, he had long since grown accustomed to it. In some ways, he preferred it to his own bed.

“What time is it?” He asked, thumbing the grit out of his eyes.

“It is seven hours into the first shift.” Ratchet replied.

Sam frowned faintly, trying to do the mental math. “What’s that on a twenty-four hour clock?”

“A twenty-four hour clock is impractical to use whilst in space.” Ratchet returned, “The Ark is calibrated to Cybertronian day/night cycles. You would do well to familiarize yourself with it now.”

Sam felt a flash of irritation at the non-answer, but before he could bite out something in reply, First Aid strode back across the hangar. The field medic had a familiar dinner tray pinched delicately between two digits and, as he approached, Sam could make out the sight of stainless steel food warmer. He sat up straighter as First Aid placed the dinner tray on the overbed table, which he pushed towards him with a single digit.

“Bon Appétit.” He chirped good-naturedly.

Sam grinned up at him as he reached for the food warmer, “Merci.”

As soon as he lifted the stainless steel cover, Sam was hit with the smell of turkey and spices. He set the warmer aside, groaning in appreciation at the sight of his grandmother’s homemade soup. The bowl was steaming in the cool air, and the smell had a revitalizing effect on his appetite. He picked up the spoon as he quirked a wry smile at the Chief Medical Officer.

“How much food did she make, exactly?” He asked.

“Your grandmother is a tenacious woman.” was Ratchet’s enigmatic reply.

Sam grinned, able to read the subtext as clearly as a billboard, and then he tucked into his meal. The bowl was filled to the brim with diced turkey, barley, and carrots. He tore the accompanying dinner roll into little pieces, soaking each one in the broth and spooning them into his mouth. He couldn’t stifle the little noises of enjoyment as he ate, and he didn’t even try. The soup was thick and silky, seasoned with thyme and black pepper. He devoured every last morsel, and then he settled back against the mattress with a groan.

Fixit, who had been watching him eat with bright optics, whistled a question. First Aid bobbed his head and chirruped something good-natured in response. Ratchet glanced over at them with a decidedly pointed look, and First Aid seemed to remember himself, for his expression grew contrite. Before Sam could ask what they were talking about, the doors to the medical bay slid open, and an unfamiliar mechanoid walked in. The stranger was paneled in red and white, with a large wheel affixed to each shoulder. Or rather, there should have been a wheel affixed to each shoulder. The wheel attached to his left side was hanging at an angle and sparking precariously.

“Hey, Doc, is this a bad time?” He asked cheerfully.

Ratchet’s expression cooled by an order of magnitude as he surveyed the newcomer. The mechanoid stopped a short distance away, and this close to one another, Sam could see that the paint on his chassis was badly marred. Evidentially, so could Ratchet, for his expression went from cool to positively glacial.

“What is the meaning of this?” He demanded.

The newcomer shrugged his shoulders, which sent a cascade of sparks and little bits of metal falling to the floor.

“I had an accident. Can you patch me up?” was the stranger’s nonchalant reply.

“An accident?” Ratchet demanded, and Sam could feel the swell of his irritation across their bond-space, “That hardly looks like an accident.” He punctuated his words by jabbing a digit at the sparking connections that were barely managing to hold the tire in place, “What sort of idiotic, reckless—“

The stranger held up a restraining servo, “Sorry, Doc, I don’t mean to interrupt what’ll surely be an epic rant, but I’m supposed to be in the science lab right now. Could we hurry this along?”

Sam didn’t even have the chance to react to what could only be described as verbal suicide, when Ratchet grabbed the stranger by his good shoulder and threw him against the nearest berth. The stranger yelped in surprise, before whistling a string of placating Cybertronian. Ratchet responded by cuffing him against the helm, loud enough for the metal to ring, and snapping something angry sounding in reply.

“Swerve? What’s happened now?” Meltdown asked, appearing from the back office with a frown on his faceplates.

Ratchet turned to pin the Lost Light’s Chief Medical Officer with a withering look.

“This fool damaged his primary rotatory line and nearly severed his arm in the process.” Ratchet spat in reply, “I have good mind to throw him in the brig for his stupidity.”

Meltdown’s frown deepened as he stepped up to the berth. “How did this happen?”

Swerve fixed him with a hesitant, lopsided smile. “Spontaneous injury?”

“Try again.” Meltdown replied coolly.

“Sabotage?”

“Swerve.” Meltdown warned.

“It’s a long story, but I maybe, kind of, got distracted on my way to the science laboratory.” Swerve replied, haltingly and with a rueful smile, “There may have been a collision involved—I don’t know, it all happened very quickly.”

The look on Ratchet’s face could only be described as thunderstruck. It was kind of fascinating, actually, to watch the usually acerbic mechanoid be rendered completely incapable of speech.

Meltdown, by contrast, just ex-vented a weary sigh.

“This is the third time in less than a cycle.” He chastised, sub-spacing a complicated looking instrument and bidding the red and white mechanoid to lie down, “One of these days, you’re going to seriously injure yourself—or someone else.”

Swerve gave a conciliatory chirrup as he settled back against the berth. Ratchet, seemingly recovered from his stunned silence, ground out something harsh sounding in Cybertronian, but, rather than stomping off or striking the reckless roadster again, he came to stand by Meltdown’s side. The two surgeons began working on Swerve in perfect coordination—they passed tools to one another and began soldering his shoulder joint, seamlessly anticipating each other’s needs without speaking a word. It was almost like a dance, and Sam watched, transfixed.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Ratchet glanced at him, ex-venting an unimpressed snort.

“If you are quite recovered, then you can take yourself to the gymnasium. You know the way.”

Sam knew a dismissal when he heard one, but he grimaced in response.

“I just spent the morning getting slapped around by Jazz and Blurr.” He protested, “I don’t feel like it.”

Swerve raised his head and fixed Sam with a grin. “That was hilarious, by the way.”

Sam pulled a face, but before he could say anything, the roadster jerked against the berth and squawked in protest. Meltdown didn’t look up from his work as he rumbled, lowly, “Mind your manners, Swerve.”

The roadster whistled something indignant sounding, but he fell silent after a pointed look from Ratchet. The Chief Medical Officer stared at him for a moment longer, as though daring him to say anything else, before he glanced over his shoulder at First Aid. The field medic was still standing beside Fixit at the workbench, and they were watching the proceedings with undisguised interest.

“Take him down.” He ordered, curtly.

First Aid whistled an acknowledgement, before crossing the room to stand beside Sam’s berth. He extended his servos towards him, beckoning meaningfully with his digits, and Sam pushed aside the overbed table with a huff. He climbed off the mattress, before crouching down to pick up his sneakers. He pulled them on, one at a time, and then gave Ratchet a pointed look.

“Fine, but I’m not doing any cardio.” He grumbled.

“You can do whatever you wish, so long as it elevates your heartrate for forty-five minutes.” Ratchet replied, without looking up.

The laugh was out of him before he could stop it, earning an unimpressed look from Ratchet and a quizzical chirrup from First Aid. Sam ducked his head so he wouldn’t have to look either of them in the eye and, grinning like an idiot, he climbed onto First Aid’s servos without another word.

 

---

 

Slowly but surely, Sam began to learn the rhythms of life onboard the Ark. He would wake up sometime after the beginning of first shift, either to the feeling of Bumblebee’s hands on his body or, less pleasantly, Ratchet pulling him out of his dreams. He was given an hour to shower, change, and eat, and then Jazz would take him to the gymnasium for training. They were usually accompanied by at least one other person, Blurr or Trailbreaker or Smokescreen, but they occasionally trained by themselves. Jazz was just as strict and demanding as ever, but he was as free with his praise as he was his criticism, and he never pushed Sam past his limits.

After Jazz dismissed him for the day, Sam would spend long hours wandering the ship. He poked his head into every room, hangar, nook, and cranny that he could find. He was familiar with the Ark’s layout from the blueprints he had received years ago, but it was another thing entirely to experience it for himself. The first deck was composed primarily of conference rooms, a situation room, and the senior officer’s quarters. He learned of the latter when he tried to enter an otherwise nondescript room, only for the door to remain firmly closed. He stared at it in confusion—no other door on the ship had failed to open at his approach—when the smooth metal panels slid aside to reveal Prowl peering down at him.

“Can I help you, Sam?” He asked, by way of greeting.  

It took Sam a moment to recover from his surprise, and when he did, he slanted a hesitant smile up at the strategist.

“Sorry Prowl, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He apologized, “I was just looking around.”

“Oh?” Jazz asked, appearing in the doorway behind Prowl and draping one arm over his shoulder, “Well mi casa es su casa, little man.”

Prowl turned his head to give Jazz a pointed look, but he made no effort to shrug off his arm. Jazz grinned and pulled him closer, and it was only then that Sam could see past the two mechanoids. The room they were in was clearly a hab-suite, complete with all manner of furnishings and décor.

Sam flushed at the realization he had just disturbed them in their private quarters.

“Sorry.” He spluttered, “I didn’t realize.”

“It is of no consequence, Sam.” Prowl intoned, “The senior officers are assigned to this quadrant. I can provide you with the schematics, if you wish.”

“Who?” was all Sam could manage in response.

Jazz was clearly amused by his discomfort, but Prowl answered him with an air of indelible patience. He explained that hab-suites were only accessible by the assigned occupants, except in the case of an emergency, and all of Prime’s senior officers had quarters in this part of the ship—except Ratchet, whose hab-suite was located on the second deck, and Ironhide, whose quarters were on the third deck.

Afterwards, Sam bid the two mechanoids a hasty farewell and hurried back to his quarters.

His embarrassment at having interrupted Jazz and Prowl was short-lived, however, and he spent the following days exploring the rest of the ship. The second deck was the most familiar, with Ratchet’s medical bay at one end and the mess hall at the other. The corridors were interspersed with crew quarters, storage hangars, and, to Sam’s delight, a hydroponics lab. The narrow room was filled with long rows of planters, and the smell of damp sod was heavy in the air. The plants were little more than seedlings poking out of the dirt, but Sam ran his fingers over the fragile leaves with a smile on his face.  

The other decks proved to be far less interesting. The third deck contained storage hangars and crew quarters towards the aft of the ship, with the engine room and munitions reserves near the bow. The fourth deck contained the loading bay, the emergency command post, Ultra Magnus’ office, and the brig. Sam had stood in the atrium, staring down the hallway towards the sealed doors for a long while. He was suddenly, painfully aware of Megatron’s proximity. It was, what, a hundred meters from the atrium to the brig entrance? The thought sent a shudder down his spine, and he hastened on his way without a backwards glance.

Sam spent his afternoons in the gymnasium and, as soon as the forty-five minute mark ticked by, lounging in his hab-suite or the mess hall. As it turned out, life onboard an alien flagship was a busy affair for most of the crew. Bumblebee spent long hours on duty, either on the bridge or working on the shield generators on the fifth deck. Sam joined him on the bridge whenever he could, but the shield generators were off-limits to him. As a result, Sam spent more and more time in the medical bay. He would lay on the hospital bed, a tablet propped against his bent legs as the medical staff went about their business. The hangar always seemed to be busy—Ratchet was either tinkering on his experiments or he was tending to the needs of the crew. Most of the work was long over-due maintenance, but every now and again, some unlucky mechanoid found themselves the object of Ratchet’s wrath.

It was approximately three weeks into their journey when Sam made the tactical error of complaining about being bored. The next morning, Ratchet met him in the mess hall and handed him a datapad. A cursory examination revealed that the datapad contained a schedule—his schedule. Sam stared at the time slots with sinking trepidation. There were the usual entries for infiltration training and physical exercise, but now his schedule included a host of other commitments, including senior officer’s meetings and debriefings. His eyes skipped down the schedule, before flicking up to look Ratchet in the face.

“Ratch… why?” He asked, aghast.

The Chief Medical Officer ex-vented an unimpressed snort as he crossed his arms. “It seems you were afflicted with an overabundance of free time. I’ve remedied the situation for you.”

Sam grimaced deeply as he looked down at the tablet again. “Gee, thanks.”

The first meeting on his schedule was a tactical debriefing later that morning. Sam finished his breakfast, and then he poured himself a cup of coffee and started off towards the conference room. He turned his attention inwards as he walked, taking in the luminescent glow of the neural-network. He had adjusted to the proximity of so many mechanoids, but he found himself distracted by their presence—it was a constant thrum of impression and sensation and emotion. Sam yearned to reach out and touch them, but he resisted the temptation.

The conference room was located on the first deck, a short distance away from Prime’s office. To Sam’s relief, the doors were open when he approached, and he slipped inside without a word. The walls were covered by an assortment of read-outs, monitors, and view-screens that cast bluish light across the gleaming table that dominated the center of the room. The space was full of mechanoids, and most of the chairs at the table were already occupied. Starscream sat at one end of the conference table with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, while Xaaron and Crossblades sat at the opposite end. Prime’s senior officers occupied the chairs along one side of the table, while a dozen unfamiliar mechanoids occupied the chairs on the other side of the table. The room was filled with the buzz of quiet talking in both English and Cybertronian.

Sam hesitated just inside the doorway, unsure where to go, when Jazz pushed through the crowd. The second-in-command crouched down in front of him, servos on his knee struts, and flashed an easy grin.

“I heard you got wrangled into this.” He said, “Lucky you.”

Sam rolled his eyes and fixed the saboteur with a wry look.

“Lucky me.” He agreed.

Jazz glanced over his shoulder, before turning back to look at Sam. “We’re about to start. C’mon, I’ll give you a hand.”

The second-in-command extended his servos towards him and, after tucking the datapad under one arm and steadying his coffee in both hands, Sam climbed onboard. Jazz straightened up, before weaving his way through the crowd towards the table in the center of the room. He was suddenly acutely aware of the curious glances and sidelong looks that were being directed their way. Jazz set him down near a human-sized desk that had been arranged in one corner of the table. Sam murmured his thanks as he transferred his coffee mug to one hand, and used the other to pull out his chair so he could sit down. Jazz took a seat a short distance away, kicking back in his chair and interlacing his digits behind his head. Prowl, who was sitting next to him, gave Jazz a disapproving look, but the second-in-command just grinned at him in return.

Sam’s attention was pulled away as Optimus took his place at the head of the table. His chair was larger and more ornate than the others, with a golden palmette that fanned out behind him. Optimus briefly met his gaze, affording him with a warm, welcoming smile, before he turned his attention to the room at large. He did not need to call the meeting to order—all talking had stopped as soon as he sat down.

“Let us begin.” He rumbled, before nodding towards Captain Xaaron.

The golden mechanoid rose to his feet and inclined his helm in Prime’s direction, before he began his report. Sam struggled to follow along—it was a technical brief on the Lost Light’s engine modifications, and he barely understood a thing. When he was finished, Captain Xaaron nodded once again, first to Prime and then to him, before he took his seat. He was followed by Prowl, who rose to his feet and launched into an overview of their course. It was difficult to infer much from the strategist’s inscrutable demeanor, but he seemed satisfied enough with their progress.  

He was followed by Red Alert and Ultra Magnus, who provided a summary of the security upgrades on the third and fifth decks, and then Hound gave a brief overview of an asteroid belt that would require an adjustment of their course. Sam was half-asleep and drifting by the time that Crossblades began his report. It was only when the second-in-command mentioned Tailgate that he came back to himself, all at once.

“I’m sorry, what?” He asked, sitting up straighter in his chair.

Crossblades turned his helm in order to look at Sam directly. He seemed taken aback by the question. “Prime?”

Sam tried not to flush in embarrassment as he found himself at the center of everyone’s attention. “Sorry, what about Tailgate?”

Crossblades inclined his helm minutely. “He has completed his punishment detail and returned to duty.”

Sam couldn’t keep the surprise off his face as he asked, confusedly, “Punishment?”

Crossblades glanced at Captain Xaaron who rumbled something in Cybertronian, before leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table.

“Tailgate was reprimanded for insubordination and dereliction of duty.” He explained.

Sam blinked, taken aback by the answer. He couldn’t imagine Tailgate, who had been nothing but polite and dutiful and respectful whenever Sam had spoken with him, being insubordinate with anyone.

“Why?” He asked, frowning. “What did he do?”

He was aware of a sudden shift in the atmosphere, although no one outwardly reacted to his question. The room seemed tense, like the charge in the air before a lightning strike.

“Tailgate received a reprimand for interfering with your holy person, and for failing to attend to his duties.” Crossblades replied, patiently.

Sam stared at Crossblades, torn between shock, disbelief, and incredulity.

“My holy person?” He demanded, sharply, “What are you talking about?”

Crossblades’ brow ridges drew together, giving him an air of consternation.

“He removed your equipment from the mess hall.” He replied, as though the answer were obvious, “In doing so, he interfered with your ability to refuel. He also failed to provide adequate maintenance for your space.”

An angry flush spread across Sam’s face, staining his cheeks a brilliant crimson. He was aware of Optimus’ heavy and solemn regard, but he refused to look at the older Prime. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at Crossblades and leaned forward, hissing, “What do you mean he failed to provide ‘adequate maintenance to my space’?”

Crossblades was visibly taken aback by the question. “I received numerous reports that you were reduced to cleaning your re-fueling station because Tailgate had failed to do so. Were these reports mistaken?”

Sam’s cheeks were burning from a combination of anger and outrage. His reply was momentarily arrested by the familiar shiver of an in-coming ping, but he ruthlessly shoved it aside.

“I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself, thank-you.” He bit out in reply.

Captain Xaaron frowned deeply, clearly taken aback by Sam’s reaction to the conversation.

“Forgive me, my Prime, but Tailgate’s duties are to maintain cleanliness and order in all areas of the ship. It is his function.”

Sam’s jerked backwards at the note of finality in the older mechanoid’s voice. He looked around the table, taking in each mechanoid in turn. The Lost Light’s crew were visibly uncomfortable, evidentially unsure how to react to Sam’s anger. The Ark’s crew, by comparison, seemed grim and taciturn, and all at once, Sam realized there was a lot more going on here than he realized.

“His function?” He asked, lowly.

“Of course.” Xaaron replied, inclining his helm, “He is from the maintenance caste. Maintaining cleanliness and order was the reason he was on-lined.”

Sam felt himself go cold all over at the dismissive, matter-of-fact tone of the Captain’s voice. He leaned forward in his seat, placing his hands flat against the tabletop as he asked, coldly, “And what if he doesn’t want to be a maintenance bot?”

His question was met with a flurry of sidelong looks and affronted murmuring among the Lost Light’s crew. To Sam’s surprise, Optimus said nothing. The older Prime was watching him closely, his optics bright and expression inscrutable.

“Whatever else would he do?” An unfamiliar mechanoid asked, clearly flustered.

“I don’t know.” Sam snapped, “Have you ever asked him?”   

“To what end?” Captain Xaaron asked, with an air of aggravation, “Maintenance is his function—no more, no less.”

Sam was momentarily speechless, too shocked and angry to formulate any kind of reply. Xaaron seemed to interpret his silence as some kind of capitulation, for he inclined his helm in response and turned to Crossblades, as though bidding his second-in-command to continue with their report. The easy dismissal incensed him, and Sam slapped his desk with the flat of his hand.

“I am not finished.” He bit out, furiously, before turning to look at Optimus, “Did you know about this?”

Before Optimus could answer him, Starscream leaned forward to prop his elbows on the table. The Seeker was watching the scene unfold in front of him with unusually bright optics. “Yes, Prime, tell us: did you know about this?”

Sam frowned at the tone of his voice—it was cool, and goading, and amused, all at once.

Optimus met Starscream’s optics without any sign of discomfort or disapproval.

“I am aware of the way that Captain Xaaron commands his ship, yes.” He rumbled in reply, “I was not aware of the reason for Tailgate’s punishment detail.”

“How are you alright with this?” Sam demanded, turning to look at the older Prime, “It’s wrong.”

“Another astute question.” Starscream put in, dryly.

“With all due respect, Prime, you know not of what you speak.” Captain Xaaron cut in, stiffly, “It is the way of things.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the golden mechanoid as he leaned all the way forward in his seat. “Well, maybe it shouldn’t be.”

His response earned a long, low chuckle from Starscream, who shook his helm in response. “Oh, this is just delightful. The irony.”

Captain Xaaron turned in his seat, pinning the Seeker with an openly contemptuous look. “Be silent, Decepticon.”

The humor vanished from Starscream’s face in an instant, replaced with cold fury. “That is Lord High Protector to you, Emirate.”

“Not for long.” Crossblades growled.

After that, the debriefing quickly devolved into a shouting match. Optimus was able to bring them back to order, but the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. The remaining reports were terse and to the point, and when the last mechanoid had finished speaking, the meeting was called to an end. Sam was aware of the way Optimus tried to catch his eye, but he refused to look at the older Prime. Instead, he pushed back his chair and stood up, before marching over to Jazz.

“Help me down.” He said, stiffly.

Jazz briefly glanced over his shoulder in Prime’s direction, before his optics flicked back to Sam’s face.

“You sure?” He asked, softly, “Maybe you should stay awhile longer.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Sam replied, his voice only just polite.

Jazz stared at him a moment longer, before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. He helped Sam down off the table, and as soon as his shoes met the floor, Sam stormed towards the door. The mechanoids were quick to step out of his way, but he was aware of the weight of their regard. He stared straight ahead, refusing to look at any of them as he left the conference room. He turned the events of the meeting over in his mind as he walked, trying to put his thoughts in order. Sam had last seen Tailgate three weeks ago, shortly after the coffee machine had been returned to the mess hall. Had he been in punishment detail all this time? Just because he had taken a stupid coffee pot? The unfairness of it stole Sam’s breath away.

By the time that he returned to his hab-suite, Sam was seething in anger. He tossed the datapad onto the side table and started pacing the room. He had known that the caste system was prevalent on Cybertron during the Golden Age—indeed, the injustices against the lowest castes was one of the factors that motivated the Great War. Yet, in all the time that Sam had known the Autobots, never once had he witnessed any kind of social hierarchy among their ranks.

Well, beyond military rank and the role of Prime, he amended himself. Optimus was a force onto himself.

Prime never held his soldiers to any pre-conceived notion of caste or class. Even Mirage and Ratchet, who had been among the social elite during the Golden Age, behaved no differently than anyone else. Sam wouldn’t have even known about it, if Hot Rod wasn’t prone to cracking jokes at their expense. The idea that Captain Xaaron was actively enforcing the caste system was deeply unsettling. He had learned enough in university to understand the predatory, exploitive nature of caste politics. The idea that an Autobot was facilitating that kind of oppression sat in his stomach like an iron weight.

Sam’s troubled thoughts occupied him for hours. He paced the room or sat on the couch, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t get Tailgate out of his mind. It took a long time to identify the sick feeling in his stomach, but when he did, the realization came hard and fast. He felt guilty for what had happened to the friendly little bot. He screwed his eyes shut and scrubbed a hand over his face. He had to do something—he just didn’t know what.

The end of the first shift came and went, but he made no effort to leave the hab-suite. His appetite was non-existent. He was aware of Bumblebee’s quiet scrutiny, but his bonded gave him his space. It was a fact for which Sam was quietly thankful. It wasn’t until later that evening, after hours of restless pacing had left him strung-out and exhausted, that he decided to get something to eat. He made his way down the corridor, lost in his thoughts. As he rounded the corner and the mess hall came into sight, Sam could hear the din of animated talking. His step faltered, and he almost turned around and went back the way he came, when he caught a snatch of the conversation.

“—doesn’t know a thing about it. It was offensive.”

“That’s a little harsh.” Hot Rod joked.

“It was offensive.” The first mechanoid, Bulkhead, repeated, “He’s not even a vorn—the Earth has been a bad influence on him.”

Sam’s heart started beating faster in his chest as he realized, with complete certainty, that Bulkhead was talking about him. He was tempted to turn around and walk away—it would have been the dignified thing to do. Instead, Sam continued down the corridor towards the mess hall.

The conversation continued as he approached.

“It was dismissive.” Arcee agreed, mildly.

“It was condescending.” Bulkhead bit out in reply, “Who is he to pass judgment? The Earth is a cesspool of xenophobia and corruption.”

“I like the Earth.” Hound’s disembodied voice put in, coolly.

“You don’t count, you’re glitched.” Bulkhead rumbled in reply. “Look at how his own people reviled him after Egypt—and he would condemn us?”

Sam’s heart was pounding in his throat now, blotting out all rational thought. He knew the exact moment that their sensors picked up on his presence, for all talking abruptly ceased. The silence that followed was damning. He stepped into the mess hall entrance to find every optic in the room fixed on him. Cliffjumper, Hound, Peacekeeper, and Roddy sat at one trestle table, while Arcee, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Knock Out sat at another. Bulkhead was standing between the two tables, his expression a mixture of consternation and embarrassment. A handful of mechanoids from the Lost Light were sitting at a table near the far end of the room, and they were clearly taken aback by his appearance.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt. You were saying?” Sam ground out.

“Sam, I apologize.” Bulkhead started, “I meant no offense—“

Sam barked a derisive laugh as he stepped further into the room. “Oh, you meant to be offensive alright. You just didn’t mean for me to overhear you.”

Bulkhead shifted on his pedes, looking visibly uncomfortable, when Cliffjumper rose slightly from his seat.

“Sam—“

Sam held up a hand, silencing him without taking his eyes off the mechanoid in front of him. “If you have something to say to me, then say it to my face.”

Bulkhead frowned faintly, glancing over his shoulder at Sunstreaker and Arcee, who shook their heads in response. The wrecker looked stymied at the lack of support, which only served to anger Sam further.

“Well?” Sam demanded, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, “You were saying something about Earth being a cesspool?”

“Sam—“ Cliffjumper tried again.

Sam turned his head and glared at the scout. “Back off, Cliff.”

A fissure of tension flitted across Cliffjumper’s face, there and gone again too quickly to decipher, but he slowly sat down again. Sam turned to look at Bulkhead, before raising his shoulders impatiently. “I’m waiting.”

Bulkhead’s frown deepened, but the provocation finally spurred him to speak.

“We are all aware of what happened at the senior officer’s briefing.” He rumbled.

“And?” Sam demanded.

“And some of us took exception to what you said.” Bulkhead replied, matter-of-factly. Whatever consternation the wrecker might have felt at being caught-out seemed to have run its course, “You know nothing about our ways.”

“Oh?” Sam asked, dangerously, as he took another step into the room, “Don’t I?”

“No, you don’t.” Bulkhead replied flatly, “And you have no right to sit in judgment of a system you do not understand.”

Sam bristled in anger, unable to believe the wrecker's gall.

“I know all I need to know about the caste system.” He spat, uncrossing his arms and balling his fists at his sides.

“How could you?” Bulkhead asked impatiently, “You’ve only ever known Earth. Your perspective will change in time.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Sam bit out.

Cliffjumper warbled something urgent sounding, causing Bulkhead to glance over at him in surprise. Whatever warning the scout had imparted seemed to go over the wrecker’s head, however, for he continued without compunction.

“Sam, you are very young.” He rumbled, “In time you will realize that humanity is not without its faults.”

Sam was flushed with the heat of his anger, which seemed to be burning him up from the inside out. He knew that the wrecker didn’t care for Earth—his derision had been evident from the moment they had first met. Still, the easy condescension inflamed him. He wasn’t a sixteen-year-old child anymore, and he knew better than most just how cruel people could be.  

“Where do you get off?” He demanded, his voice almost too low and too strangled to make out, “I am well aware of humanity’s faults, thank-you.”

“Then you shouldn’t judge a system you do not understand by the values of one that cast you aside.” Bulkhead rumbled in reply.

Sam’s throat was so tight that he almost couldn’t get his words out. “Yeah, the reaction in the aftermath of Egypt was pretty shitty—people fear what they don’t understand. But it was humans who offered you a home when you had nowhere else to go. It was humans who fought with you against the Decepticons. I mean, Christ, Bulkhead, Lennox is human. Carter’s human. I’m human.”

The wrecker made an impatient sound in the back of his intakes as he waved his words aside. “That’s different.”

“How?” Sam demanded, incredulously.

Bulkhead frowned in reply. “You’re not human. Not really—not anymore.”

The words hit him like a crowbar right in the stomach. For a brief moment, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe for the pain of it. Then, all at once, his anger and anguish flashed into a grieving, grinding fury.

“Fuck. You.” He hissed.

Bulkhead jerked back in surprise, but Sam wasn’t finished yet.

“I’m sorry you think humanity is so beneath you.” He managed, venom in every syllable, “I think I speak for all seven billion of us when I say that you can go straight to hell.”

Bulkhead stared at him, mouth agape, but Sam didn’t give him the chance to reply. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the mess hall as fast as his legs would carry him. He blinked against the tears stinging his eyes, struggling to control himself until he made it back to his hab-suite, when footsteps thundered up behind him.

“Sam! Sam wait!” Hot Rod called after him.

Sam didn’t stop or slow down. He put one foot in front of the other, while trying to maintain what little dignity he had left. Hot Rod slid to a stop in front of him, his optics bright with concern.

“Are you alright?”

Sam didn’t answer him—he couldn’t. His throat had closed up with the force of his anger and grief.  

Hot Rod jogged backwards several paces and then crouched down in front of him. “C’mon, Sam. Talk to me.”

“I have nothing to say.” Sam managed eventually, without breaking his stride.

Hot Rod scooted back another step. “Bulkhead was just blowing off steam.”

Sam’s step faltered as he looked up at the cavalier, frowning. “No, that’s not it. He meant what he said.”  

“He’s just happy to be returning to Cybertron—we all are.” Hot Rod replied.

There was something about his tone of voice that pulled Sam up short. He stopped, angling his head to look up at the cavalier’s face.

“Were you happy when you left?” He asked, flatly.

Hot Rod looked taken aback. “Of course I’m happy to be going home.”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat as dismay sent ice skittering through his veins. “That’s not what I asked. Were you happy to leave Earth?”

Hot Rod hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, and it was all the confirmation that Sam needed. He closed his eyes, struggling to breathe around the emotions that threatened to strangle him. It was a physical pain—as though someone had cracked open his ribcage without showing the mercy of administering anesthesia.

“Sam, I’m sorry.” Hot Rod murmured, stricken and apologetic all at once, “It’s complicated.”

Sam opened his eyes again, staring straight down the corridor. It was less than a hundred feet to the T-junction, and then another few hundred feet to his hab-suite. It was so close—he could make it.

“Please excuse me.” He said, his voice hoarse beyond recognition.

“Wait, Sam please—“  

Sam ignored him, walking away from the cavalier without so much as a backwards glance. His pulse was thundering in his ears so loudly that he couldn’t tell whether Hot Rod stayed long enough to watch him go. His world narrowed down to the feeling of his breathing—in through his nose, out through his mouth. He was distantly aware of Ratchet’s scrutiny and Bumblebee’s concern, and it should have come as no surprise when he rounded the corner to find his Creator waiting next to his door. He didn’t look at Ratchet as he neared his hab-suite—he couldn’t, not if he wanted to maintain the tenuous grasp on his emotions. Instead, he stared straight ahead as he walked into the room.

Ratchet followed behind him without a word, and a moment later, the door slid shut behind them.

“I’m not going to apologize.” He ground out, harshly, as he started pacing the apartment.

“That’s not why I’m here.” Ratchet replied, watching him closely.

Sam laughed—it was a sharp, ugly sound.

“There aren’t any mirrors in here, Ratchet. Nothing to worry about.”

His Creator did not respond to the obvious provocation. Sam continued pacing the hab-suite, which had never felt more confining than it did in that moment.

“How many?” He demanded at last, looking Ratchet in the face, “How many of them wanted to leave?”

“I don’t know.” Ratchet replied without compunction.

“How many?” Sam demanded, turning to face him, “Tell me.”

“I don’t know.” Ratchet repeated softly.

The gentleness in his voice was too much, too soon. Sam shook his head wildly as he started pacing again.

“Is it all of them?” He asked, his breath coming faster now, “Do they hate us that much?”

“Calm down, Sam.” Ratchet instructed, firmly but kindly.

“I am calm!” Sam yelled, fisting his hands in his hair, “I need to know.”

“Sam, you need to breathe.” Ratchet rumbled, taking a step closer, “You’re having a panic attack.”

Those words were like a knife to his heart—it had been years since his last breakdown.

“No, I’m not!” He gasped, desperately, “I’m not!”

But he could feel the truth of Ratchet’s words. His skin felt too tight for his body, and he was lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. He screwed his eyes shut as he shook his head in denial.

“I can’t do this. Not again.” He moaned brokenly, “Jesus Christ, I’m only human.”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he had said. It took a moment for the cruel irony to dawn on him, and when it did, Sam went down to his knees, keening in pain. Ratchet’s holoform materialized at his side, calm and supportive, as he got Sam to press his forehead against the floor. Sam struggled to catch his breath through the onslaught of his tears, and the entire while, Ratchet rubbed a hand across his back. Bumblebee arrived soon after, and together he and Ratchet helped Sam into bed. By that point, he was completely numb. He felt nothing—not grief or anger or loss. It was almost a mercy.

They stayed with him for the rest of the night—silent and watchful.

Notes:

Author’s Note: Thank-you so much to CarsonLane for being my sounding board. I couldn’t have finished this chapter without your unwavering support.

Chapter 10

Chapter by arabis

It was dark and quiet by the time that Sam finally squinted open his eyes. The overhead lights had been turned off while he slept, casting the room into shadow. He was aware of the hallow ache inside his ribs before he was even fully awake. His memories of the previous evening came soon thereafter, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut in response. A lengthy rest had done nothing to abate his anger and grief, which were just as sharp as they had been the night before. He reached blindly for the blankets, fully intending on going back to sleep, when he was caught by the wrist.  

“You should get something to eat.” Bumblebee murmured, pressing his forehead against the back of his neck.

Sam’s throat constricted at the prospect, and he shook his head as he pulled the blankets up to his ears.

“I’m not hungry.”

His words were met with a swell of emotion that was quickly muted and tucked away—although not quickly enough. His bonded’s concern sat like an iron weight in his stomach, and Sam pulled away from him.

“I’m tired.” He muttered, tucking his nose into the blankets and closing his eyes, “I’ll eat later.”  

Bumblebee said nothing in reply, but he moved forward until he was pressed against Sam’s back once again. It was a familiar and comforting weight. They laid there together until Sam eventually drifted into a light doze. His dreams were fleeting and bizarre—his father walking alongside him through the bowels of the Nemesis; Ravage sitting at his side as he stood on the Ark’s empty bridge; his mother, with tears in her eyes, reaching for him across an impossible distance—

Sam jerked awake with a gasp, his heart hammering in his throat. It took a second for the afterimage of his dream to fade, and when it did, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. His mother was hundreds of light years away, as was his father and everyone else he had ever known. He was all alone.  

Bumblebee’s arm curled around his torso, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“You’re not alone.” He murmured, “I’m right here with you.”

Sam sighed as he pillowed his hands beneath his head.  

“You know what I mean.” He quietly replied.

Bumblebee nuzzled the hair that curled around Sam’s ears, simulated breath warm against his skin. Sam tolerated the affection without complaint—it was comforting and he didn’t have the energy to protest. Bumblebee seemed encouraged by his reaction, for he smoothed a hand down the length of Sam’s arm to interlace their fingers together.

“Let’s get up.” He suggested, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “I’ll make you some breakfast.”

As it had earlier that morning, the suggestion of going to the mess hall made Sam feel nauseous. He shook his head, letting go of Bumblebee’s hand and tucking his arms close to his body.

“You don’t have to go to the mess.” Bumblebee persisted, “I can bring you something.”

The suggestion did little to abate the sick feeling in the pit of Sam’s stomach, and he shook his head for a second time. He could feel Bumblebee’s hesitation as he considered his response, and the prospect of arguing back and forth left Sam feeling deeply exhausted.

“Leave it alone, Bee.” He sighed, “I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”

Bumblebee wisely opted not to press the issue. Instead, he settled down behind Sam and began stroking his fingertips over any skin that he could reach—the arch of his neck, the curve of his jaw, the swell of his shoulder. Sam’s breath left him in a shuddery exhale, and he pressed his face into the pillows. He knew exactly what Bumblebee was doing—the scout often used touch to soothe whenever words were insufficient for the task. Still, Sam could feel the tension in his back begin to relax after only a few moments. Bumblebee murmured encouragement at him, and although Sam didn’t fall asleep again, he slipped into a hazy in-between place before too long.

By that afternoon, Bumblebee switched tactics and went to the mess hall himself. Sam still had not moved by the time that he returned. The holoform helped him into a sitting position, before placing the meal tray on his lap. Sam stared at the garish orange plastic with a strange twist of emotion. He had never seen a dinner tray in all his time rummaging around the kitchenette, which meant that Bumblebee must have gotten it from the medical bay.

“You need to eat something.” Bumblebee murmured as his holoform climbed onto the mattress.

Sam tore his eyes away from the dinner tray to look at his bonded. Bumblebee was watching him, in both holoform and root form, with naked concern on his face. It made the grief that had taken residence inside his chest sharpen with guilt. Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat, and then he lifted the stainless steel warmer off the tray. His eyes settled on a bowl of thin broth with two individually wrapped packages of saltines. The relief that rocked through him took him completely by surprise—the soup was clearly store bought, not homemade. He wasn’t going to waste anything precious.

“Eat, Sam.” Bumblebee implored, “Please. For me.”

Sam stared steadfastly at the bowl of soup in front of him, struggling to dredge up the requisite energy to reply. Bumblebee watched him for a moment longer, and then he leaned forward and picked the spoon off the tray. With infinite care, he curled Sam’s fingers around it and guided the spoon into the bowl. It only took a few bites before Sam’s stomach caught up with the program, and then he started eating on his own. He swallowed one spoonful after another and, when it was clear that his stomach wasn’t going to rebel, Bumblebee tore open a package of saltines. Sam accepted the crackers without a word, crumbling them into the soup as he continued eating. The quiet feeling of relief steadily grew as he ate until, finally, Sam couldn’t stand it anymore. He set down the spoon with a clatter.

“I’m finished.” He said, woodenly.

“That’s alright.” Bumblebee reassured him as he lifted the tray off Sam’s lap, “You can eat something else later, if you feel up to it.”

Sam didn’t have anything to say to that, and so he said nothing at all. He laid back down against the mattress, shifting this way and that until he was comfortable, and then he shut his eyes.

The next three days passed in much the same manner.

Sam slept off and on, refusing to get out of bed except to use the bathroom. Bumblebee brought him meals, which he either ate or, more commonly, picked at until he lost his appetite. He could feel Bumblebee’s concern and Ratchet’s scrutiny building as the days bled into one another. It was late in the afternoon of the third day that Sam finally broached the topic of Bulkhead. Bumblebee, who seemed unsurprised by the question, crouched down so he could look Sam in the eye.  

“Bulkhead is part of the elite combat unit. They have seen more carnage and destruction than any of us.” Bumblebee murmured, “His disdain for Earth is reflective of his own feelings of failure, not of your people.”

Sam stared up at his bonded’s face as he digested what he had been told.

“How many of the others wanted to leave?” He asked eventually.

Bumblebee’s expression softened perceptibly, and he reached out to touch Sam’s chest with the tips of his digits.

“Most of them.” He replied, honest and to the point, “But wanting to return to Cybertron is not the same as wanting to leave Earth.”

Sam was capable of seeing the truth of that, and he nodded faintly in response. Bumblebee raised his hand to run a single digit down the length of Sam’s side. The touch was very gentle.

“Did anyone want to stay?” He asked, softly.

Bumblebee hesitated for a long moment.

“Cliffjumper, Hound, and Bluestreak petitioned Prime to remain with you, had you chosen to stay on Earth.” He hedged carefully.

Sam closed his eyes against the wave of emotion that washed over him. The fact that Cliff and the others would have stayed with him did little to abate the hurt caused by the knowledge that no one else would have remained behind. Not Hot Rod or First Aid or Trailbreaker or Wheeljack—none of them.

“Thank-you for being honest.” He managed.

Sam withdrew into himself for the rest of the afternoon, despite Bumblebee’s attempts to coax him into a conversation. The knowledge that only three of his closest friends, out of thirty plus mechanoids, would have willingly stayed on Earth ached like an open wound. To make matters worse, the argument in the senior officer’s meeting had underscored the fact that Sentinel’s Cybertron was not Optimus’ Cybertron, and Sam had no idea what to expect when they arrived. The combination of these two facts left him feeling terribly alone, and small, and homesick—a feeling that deepened with each passing hour.

On the fourth day, Ratchet appeared in his hab-suite for the first time since his panic attack. Sam squinted up at him from his nest of blankets and, when Ratchet extended his servo towards him, he was just curious enough to look. There, nestled in the Chief Medical Officer’s palm, was a familiar paper cup containing two white tablets. Sam stared at the medication for a long moment, torn between anger, bitterness, and failure, when Ratchet gestured meaningfully with his servo.

“Take them.” He instructed, not unkindly.

Sam stared at the tablets for a moment longer, and then he started laughing. The situation wasn’t funny, not even a little bit, but he found a sort of morbid humor in it all. His shoulders were still shaking as he accepted the paper cup from Ratchet. He swallowed the antidepressants without water, and then he laid back down against the mattress. It took a long time for his laughter to subside.

“You can’t stay here indefinitely.” Ratchet said, gruffly.

“Watch me.” Sam replied, rolling over and pulling the blankets up around his ears.

He could feel the cool weight of Ratchet’s disapproval, but Sam steadfastly ignored him. The medic scrutinized him for a while longer, and then he cycled air through his vents.

“I understand this has been difficult for you.” He rumbled, “Routine and exercise will help.”

A sliver of irritation wormed its way through the miasma of his apathy. A visit to the gymnasium ranked far down the list of things he felt like doing at the moment, somewhere above getting a root canal and having a tea party with Megatron.

“Leave me alone, Ratchet. I’m not in the mood.” Sam muttered.

“I have left you alone for the better part of a week.” The medic continued, “I thought perhaps the time would provide perspective, but I see now that you need to be taken in hand.”

Sam’s irritation deepened further still, but he refused to be baited into an argument. Ratchet stared down at him for a long moment, before he turned to look at Bumblebee. The scout was watching their exchange with anxious tension in every line of his body.

“Stop bringing him meals.” Ratchet ordered, curtly, “He can eat in the mess hall with everyone else.”

Sam stiffened in affront, and he rolled over to glare at his Creator.

“You don’t get to decide that.” He bit out.

Ratchet’s expression noticeably cooled. “I just did.”

Sam’s eyes widened in disbelief, before narrowing in anger. He struggled into a sitting position as he snapped, “I’ll eat what I want, when I want, where I—“

Ratchet turned on his heel and walked away before he could finish. Sam was so surprised by the unexpected departure that his voice trailed off mid-sentence. The medic made his way towards the door, giving Bumblebee another pointed look as he went, and then he left the room. It wasn’t until the door slid shut behind him that Sam realized he had been thoroughly put in his place.   

“Did that just happen?” He demanded, incredulously.

Bumblebee’s wing flaps fluttered with restrained emotion. “Sam—“

Sam’s face flushed with sudden anger, and he turned his attention inwards with every intention of telling Ratchet off—only to pull up short. Their bond-space was dark and quiet, with the medic’s wizened glow nowhere to be found. It was a long moment before he realized that Ratchet had firewalled himself off. He stared at the bond-space for a long moment, waiting for the rush of resentment or bitterness that he thought would come, yet it never did. He was suddenly, profoundly exhausted.

Sam spent the rest of the day in bed. He got up around quarter-shift to use the bathroom, but he refused to go to the mess hall afterwards. He dozed, off and on, as the hours dragged by. He was aware of Bumblebee’s steadily building concern, which was edging into the territory of real anxiety, but he couldn’t bring himself to offer the scout any comfort. He just physically couldn’t do it.  

The monotony was interrupted sometime after half-shift when the door chime startled Sam out of a light doze. He lifted his head, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, as he stared blearily across the room. Bumblebee, who had been resting in his alt mode next to the bed, immediately transformed.

“Who is it?” Sam rasped.

No one had disturbed them throughout his self-imposed isolation. Well, no one except Ratchet, and he wasn’t likely to use the doorbell after their argument that morning.  

“It’s Cliffjumper.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam squinted in confusion. “What does he want?”

The door chime came two more times in quick succession. Bumblebee glanced over at him, as though looking for his approval. When Sam shrugged indifferently, he crossed the room and opened the door. True to his word, Cliffjumper was waiting in the corridor. The red and black mechanoid whistled a greeting as soon as the door slid open, and then he shouldered past Bumblebee into the hab-suite.

“Hello Sam.” He rumbled as he crossed the room towards him, “Here.”

The scout leaned down to deposit a black carton and a fork onto the bed. It took Sam less than a second to realize it was one of the pre-prepared meals from the mess hall, and the filament on the container was beaded with steam from the microwave.

“Cliff…” Sam managed, his throat tight, “You didn’t need to do that.”

The scout rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t mind.”

Sam stared at the container for a moment longer, before giving the scout a wan smile. “Ratchet’s going to be pissed.”

“His orders were for Bumblebee, not for me.” Cliff replied with a vague wave of his servo, “I guess he should have been more specific.”

Sam huffed a dry laugh. He was suddenly disappointed that Ratchet had firewalled himself, if only because he wouldn’t get to witness his reaction.

“Well, thanks Cliff.” He murmured, reaching out to pull the container into his lap, “I appreciate it.”

“No worries.” Cliffjumper replied as he glanced around the hab-suite, “Nice place.”

Sam tilted the container far enough to read the label (“Beef stew”), and then he peeled off the plastic filament. The smell of gravy and stewed vegetables made his mouth water.  

“It’s alright.” He conceded, and then his head came up as a thought occurred to him, “Where’re you assigned?”  

Cliff folded his arms over his chassis and leaned back against the wall. “I share a berthing hangar on the third deck with Hot Rod, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker.” He replied, before he added, “It is as enjoyable as you might expect.”

Sam might have laughed at his tone of voice, which was equal parts exasperated and wry, but mention of Hot Rod made the smile slide off his face. He ducked his head and poked experimentally at the stew, but his reaction didn’t go unnoticed.

“He doesn’t have anything against Earth, you know.” Cliffjumper said, “It’s nicer than most of the places we’ve been stationed.”

Sam didn’t trust himself to reply, so he speared a piece of beef with his fork and popped it into his mouth instead. It was too hot, but he breathed around the discomfort—anything other than addressing the two-ton elephant in the room. Cliffjumper watched him eat for a weighted moment, and then glanced over at Bumblebee.

“Did you get Live at the Apollo?” He asked, mildly.

Bumblebee chirruped something back in Cybertronian. Sam didn’t recognize the glyphs, but he caught the two humor signifiers—one to indicate generalized amusement, and the other to indicate inoffensive sarcasm. He glanced over at his bonded and quirked an inquiring eyebrow. Before Bumblebee had the chance to say anything, however, the entertainment console lit up, sending technicolor light across the chrome colored walls. Sam glanced over in surprise, only to watch as the opening credits for an older looking variety show began to play.

“It’s a stand-up comedy show.” Cliffjumper said, answering his unspoken question as he slid down to sit on the floor, “Hound recommended it.”

And so Sam ended up spending the next three hours watching stand-up comedy. Cliffjumper stayed in his bipedal mode, legs crossed at the ankle-joint and arms folded over his chest, while Bumblebee folded down into his alt mode and parked next to the bed. Sam surprised himself by finishing the beef stew—it was easier to ignore the weight twisting up his insides when a guy with the thickest cockney accent he had ever heard was popping off about America. When he finished eating, Sam laid down and scooted to the edge of the mattress, pressing his knees against Bumblebee’s door frame. None of them said a word as the comedy special progressed from one episode to the other, but it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was almost… companionable.

The following morning, Sam took his first shower in almost a week. Bumblebee’s holoform helped him strip out of his dirty clothes, and then he drew him into the shower stall. The water was hot just the way that Sam preferred it, and he shivered pleasantly as it cascaded over his head and shoulders. Bumblebee climbed into the shower after him, and then he retrieved the bottle of shampoo from the inset ledge. He poured a generous dollop into his palm, working it into a lather and massaging it into Sam’s hair. He couldn’t prevent the low grunt as Bumblebee drew his nails over his scalp—the combined effect of warmth and gentle touch was profoundly relaxing. Sam let his eyes drift closed as Bumblebee washed and rinsed his hair. When the last of the suds were rinsed away, Sam tried to locate the facecloth, but it was already in Bumblebee’s hands.

“Let me do this for you.” He murmured, already working the cloth into a lather.

Sam’s lips twitched up in a fond smile. “I doubt you’d take no for an answer.”

Bumblebee chuckled as he drew the soapy cloth across his shoulders. “Quite right.”

Sam stood quietly as Bumblebee washed the sweat and grime off his body. The holoform was generous with his physical affection—pressing gentle kisses against sensitive skin and nuzzling at the nape of his neck. Sam relaxed a little more with each ministration, and by the time the last of the soap was swirling the drain, he was loose limbed and content. Bumblebee shut off the water and wrapped Sam in a heavy towel, before leading him towards the pile of clothes waiting on the bench near the cabinets. When Bumblebee picked up his boxer shorts, evidentially intending to dress him, Sam actually chuckled.

“I can do that.” He said, making to take the boxers from him.

Bumblebee held them out of reach. “Allow me.”

Sam surprised himself by laughing out loud. “Give them here, Bee.”

Bumblebee’s face brightened at the sound of his laughter, and he held the boxers further away still. Sam grabbed at them, but Bumblebee held them out of reach as he tutted in mock disapproval.

“I’m taller than you and I’m not bothered by the cold.” He archly reminded him.   

Sam huffed in exasperation as he made one last abortive attempt for his underthings. Bumblebee held them out of reach with a pointed look.

“Fine, you weirdo.” He snorted, conceding defeat as he sat down, “Have it your way.”

Bumblebee looked inordinately pleased with himself as he knelt in front of the bench. He helped Sam into his boxers first, followed by his socks, which he slowly pulled on in some kind of reverse striptease, earning an unimpressed snort in return. Undeterred, Bumblebee helped him into his pants, shirt, and sweater in turn. When he pushed up onto his knees to fasten the buttons on the shawl collar cardigan, Sam surprised himself for a second time by dipping his head and pressing an affectionate kiss against the corner of his mouth.

Bumblebee’s face softened with affection, and he angled his head to kiss him back properly. They sat there for a long moment, breathing in the smell of each other, when the sound of animated talking caused Sam to go still. The talking drew nearer, and a moment later, the door to the wash racks slid open. He immediately recognized Jolt’s voice, which was joined a moment later by Bluestreak’s animated chatter.

Sam drew away, wrapping his firewalls around himself like a security blanket as he did so.

“I want to go back.” He said, quietly.

Bumblebee visibly hesitated, before he ventured, “The mess hall wouldn’t be busy now. We can go get—“

“No.” Sam said, all traces of his earlier good humor gone, “I want to go back now.”

He pushed himself to his feet, stepping around the holoform and making his way out of the bathroom. He was intensely relieved to find Bumblebee waiting in alt just outside the door. He climbed into the driver’s seat without a backwards glance, but he knew that his presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. He could practically feel the weighted looks that were being directed his way. Bumblebee rolled out of the hangar, before accelerating towards their quarters. It was only the matter of moments before the familiar looking doors came into view, but rather than driving into the hab-suite, as he always did, Bumblebee abruptly braked in front of the doors.  

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, frowning at the dashboard.

“...It’s locked.” Bumblebee grudgingly replied.

“What do you mean it’s locked?” Sam demanded.

He could feel his bonded’s tumultuous emotions across their bond—frustration and irritation, all mixed up with an undercurrent of anxiety. All at once, Sam knew exactly who was to blame. He reached down, opening the door and climbing out of the cabin, before slamming the door shut behind him.

“Teletraan-One?” He demanded, glancing up at the ceiling.

“Yes, Sam?” came the AI’s measured reply.

“Open this door.” Sam bit out.

There was a split second delay, and then Teletraan-I chimed in the negative.

“Authorization denied.”

Sam could feel the color rising in his face as he demanded, harshly, “I’m telling you to open this door right now.”

His words were met with another negative chime.

“I cannot comply. This room has been locked down according to medical override procedures.”

Sam stood frozen for the space of a heartbeat, his face burning and his chest heaving in anger. He briefly turned his attention inwards, but the Creator bond was as still and quiet as it had been since their argument.

//Open the door, Ratchet.// He bit out.

The bond-space remained unchanged, which only served to incense Sam further.

//Open the damn door, Ratchet!//

When his demand was met with silence for a second time, Sam narrowed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists at his sides.

“That’s the way you want to play this? Fine.” He hissed, before turning on his heel and marching off towards the medical bay. Behind him, there was the sound of rapid-fire transformation and then Bumblebee was jogging after him.

“Sam, wait—“

“No.” Sam replied tightly, “This ends right now.”   

Bumblebee tried and failed to dissuade him the entire way to the medical bay. As such, when Sam stormed through the wide double doors less than ten minutes later, he was ready for war. Ratchet, who was apparently expecting him, was standing in the middle of the hangar with a supremely unimpressed look on his face. The large room was otherwise empty, with none of the other medical builds anywhere to be seen.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Sam demanded as he marched towards him.

Ratchet’s expression was cool enough to chill the air. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

Sam glared bloody murder up at him. “I already told you that I’m not going to the mess hall—“

“And I told you that you’ll eat at the mess hall or you won’t eat at all.” Ratchet crisply returned.

Sam scoffed derisively as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Who do you think you’re fooling? You’re not going to let me starve to death just to prove a point.”

“Not to death, no.” Ratchet coolly replied, “I am confident you have more sense than that.”

Sam bristled at the edge of casual dismissal underscoring the medic’s tone.

“Read my lips, Ratchet: you are not the boss of me!” He yelled, jabbing a finger up at the unimpressed medical build.

As he spoke, the doors to the medical bay slid open to reveal Red Alert and Inferno. The two rescue bots drew up short at the sight of their argument and, after exchanging a dubious glance with one another, they turned around and walked right back outside again.

“On the contrary.” Ratchet replied, folding his arms over his chassis as he frowned down at him, “As regards to your health and safety, I am the boss of you.” Sam flushed all the way down his neck, but Ratchet continued before he could say anything in reply, “As such, I will do everything in my power to ensure your wellbeing, even if you fight me every step of the way—and judging by your behavior this morning, that seems like a distinct possibility.”  

Raw anger surged through Sam at the easy condescension, but before he could snap anything in reply, Ratchet’s expression softened somehow.

“I am a physician of the body, not the mind, and the mind is not so easily healed.” He murmured, before lowering into a loose crouch in front of him, “You have always responded to grief by withdrawing into yourself, and I can’t let you do that—no matter how much you may resent me for it.”

Sam stared at him in surprise for a heartbeat, two, and then his anger abruptly drained away. His shoulders sagged and he cradled his face in his hands, shaking his head.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” He managed, throat tight.

Ratchet made a gruff sound deep in his intakes as he reached out, drawing a digit down the length of Sam’s spine.

“You are resilient.” He rumbled, “You will persevere.”

Sam dropped his hands to look plaintively at the older mechanoid.

“I don’t know how.” He quietly admitted.

Ratchet crooked a digit to tap Sam admonishingly under his chin.

“Firstly, you will listen to your doctor’s orders—no exceptions.” He rumbled, “As such, you will adhere to a regular schedule of rest, exercise, and mealtimes. Secondly, you will resume therapy. Today, if possible.”

Sam pulled a face as he asked, dubiously, “Therapy?”

Ratchet lifted one pauldron in a nonchalant shrug. “The Lost Light has a psychiatrist on rotation. His reputation for empathy and discretion precedes him.”

Sam’s expression turned faintly skeptical. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“As a rule? No.” Ratchet dryly replied.

Sam’s lips twitched up in a wan smile, watery but genuine.

“Thanks Ratch.” He murmured.

Ratchet’s expression was difficult to read, but his mental presence glowed at Sam across their bond—warm and soft and knowing.

“You are welcome.” He rumbled in reply, “Now go get something to eat.”

Chapter 11

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Chapter Warning: Explicit sexual content

Sam met Rung the following afternoon.

The psychiatrist allowed him to choose the location for their session. He had an office onboard the Lost Light, but as the thought of leaving his quarters was daunting enough, Sam had absolutely no desire to bridge to another ship. Rung had suggested the hydroponics lab instead, and unable to see an alternative, he had agreed. As a result, Sam found himself pacing up and down the neat rows of planters as he waited for the psychiatrist to arrive. The air was humid and warm due to the misting system that kept the plants in peak condition. Each planter included a label that was written in Cybertronian—plant type or growing instructions, he assumed. He couldn’t read the glyphs to know for certain. He made his way down the aisle, his eyes skipping over the various seedlings as he walked. The air smelled like wet soil and green things, as it so often did after a heavy rain back home. It was a pleasant, albeit melancholy scent.

His introspection was interrupted by the sound of doors sliding open. He half-turned, glancing towards the entryway as an unfamiliar mechanoid stepped into the hangar. The stranger was short and thin with a narrow waist. Although he was plated in orange and white panels, he lacked the bulky armor of the other Autobots. He glanced briefly around the room, before his vivid blue optics settled on Sam.

“Hello Sam.” He chirruped in greeting, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”   

Sam resisted the urge to cross his arms by bracing his hands against the stainless steel table in front of him. The metal was cool to the touch.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He lied.

Rung smiled at him as he walked closer. His optics were large and round, giving him a slightly bookish appearance.

“This is a lovely space. Do you come here often?” He asked, glancing around the room as he approached.

Sam shrugged, a barely there twitch of his shoulders.

“Sometimes, I guess.” He replied.

Rung’s smile softened as he stopped on the opposite side of the table. Standing this close to one another, Sam realized that the psychiatrist wasn’t much taller than he was—eight or ten feet, perhaps a little taller.

“Please allow me to properly introduce myself.” He said, “My name is Rung and I am the psy-ops specialist onboard the Lost Light.”

Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion. “A psy-ops specialist? I thought you were a psychiatrist.”

Rung’s smile turned wry as he pressed his servos against the table. “I am—the latter predates the former. I have been licensed to practice psychiatry since before the Golden Age.”

Sam tipped his head to the side, suddenly curious despite himself.

“I guess I didn’t realize psychiatry was a thing for mechanoids.” He said, before realizing the absurdity of his statement, “I mean, not in any kind of formal capacity.”

If Rung was offended by his inane comment, it never showed. Instead, the psychiatrist cocked his head, mirroring Sam’s posture.

“We may not have a hippocampus, but we still process our experiences, as humans do.” Rung replied, “And sometimes those experiences don’t write properly when transferred from RAM to quartz storage. When that happens, talk therapy can help—as I know you are aware.”

Sam ducked his head, suddenly self-conscious. Unable to look the psychiatrist in the eye, he reached out and ran a thumb over the dark green, serrated leaves in front of him. The placard affixed to the planter had four distinct glyphs, and he didn’t recognize any of them.

“So, what’s the process here?” He asked, without looking up, “Do we need to go find a chaise lounge or something?”

He could feel the soft wash of Rung’s amusement across the neural-network. It caused him to turn his attention inwards, regarding the spark signature in front of him. It was a soft peachy-orange color, diffuse and wispy in nature. Even through his firewalls, Sam could glean impressions of calm and competency that reminded him of Optimus or Ratchet.

“The process of talk therapy is much the same between our two peoples.” Rung chuckled, “It involves a lot of time and patience and trust. Our understanding of medical privacy differs from yours, of course, but I have written a patient confidentiality sub-routine into my programming.”

Sam was hardly listening. Rung’s signature glowed at him on the neural-network—warm and inviting. Unable to resist, he reached out, brushing mental fingers across the orange glow. He could feel Rung’s answering start of surprise, but the psychiatrist did not protest or pull away. Sam leaned forward, in both body and mind as he smoothed across the glowing node. The sensation was pleasant and somehow… familiar. It took Sam a long moment to realize why, and when he did, his head came up in surprise.

“How old are you?” He blurted.

Rung blinked owlishly at him, seemingly taken by surprise by the non-sequitur.

“How …old?” He asked, confusion coloring his voice.

Sam flushed hotly, his mind catching up with his mouth as he realized the impertinence of the question.

“I’m sorry.” He stammered as heat blazed across his face, “I didn’t mean… I mean, you don’t look—“ He swallowed the words down, before taking a deep breath and trying again, “I just meant that your signature looks… old.”

The confusion on Rung’s face was gone, replaced by a mixture of amusement and curiosity. He tipped his head to the side, as though considering Sam closely.

“I suppose I am old, in relative terms at least.” He chuckled. “I was on-lined approximately seventeen million years ago.”

Sam stared at the psychiatrist, unsure whether he had heard him correctly.

“You’re… seventeen million years old?” He asked, incredulously.

Rung’s optics warmed to a bright turquoise as he inclined his helm.

“I am indeed. I was on-lined near the Pious Pools shortly after the end of the first Golden Age.” He replied.

Sam’s head spun with a mixture of shock and disbelief, but all he could manage was a faint, “…and I thought Ratchet was old.”

Rung surprised him by throwing back his head and laughing. He had a warm, affable laugh that had the corners of Sam’s lips twitching despite himself.  

“Ratchet would probably prefer the term experienced.” He replied at last, “Or seasoned, perhaps.”

“I’m sure he would.” Sam said dryly, “But that doesn’t make it true.”

Rung chuckled at him, friendly and indulgent, but all at once, Sam remembered the purpose of their meeting. The smile slid off his face as his shoulders drew up in sudden tension. The psychiatrist seemed to sense his shift in mood, for his expression changed, becoming professional and nonjudgmental.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” He asked, gently.

Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest, betraying his discomfort. “There’s not much to tell that you don’t already know.”

The psychiatrist would have received the same data packet as all newcomers. It contained a detailed list of files on Earth, its inhabitants, and all that had happened over the last ten years—including Sam’s role in it. That said nothing of his medical files, which included an abridged and redacted version of Karen’s therapy notes.

“Indulge me.” Rung persisted.

Sam shrugged his shoulders as he turned and began pacing down the aisle. “I don’t know what you want to hear. I was born in a little town in California. Only child. I got caught up in an alien civil war when I was sixteen—the rest is history.”

Rung walked along the opposite side of the table, keeping pace with him.

“It will be one day, surely.” He agreed, “Not now. Now it’s your life.”

Sam glanced sidelong at him. Although the psychiatrist was smaller than the other Autobots, he still towered over the budding plants that separated them.

“Yeah, I guess.” He evaded.

Rung regarded him for a long moment, before abruptly switching tactics.

“What do you hope to get out of this?” He asked.

Sam pulled a face as he reached the end of the aisle. “What, therapy?” At Rung’s agreeable nod, he barked a harsh laugh. “I don’t know. Am I supposed to say closure?”

Rung followed behind him as he rounded the table and started down the next aisle of potters. His expression was neutral but kind.

“My clients often have different outcomes they hope to achieve.” He replied, “Some may want closure for a traumatic experience in their past. Others may want to learn how to cope with new stressors in their lives. There is no one size fits all solution for therapy, Sam.”

Sam frowned faintly as he listened. He could appreciate the truth of that, well enough. Karen was always careful to distinguish between pre-existing trauma and ongoing stress, even if it was often difficult to untangle the two. He reached out, trailing his fingertips through the water that had beaded on the tabletop.

“New stressors.” He repeated, slowly, “Like being uprooted from everything I’ve ever known and thrown into a minefield of alien politics? That sort of stressor?”

“Yes.” Rung replied.

Sam sighed heavily, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the table. Rung stopped a few meters away, leaving a polite distance between them.  

“I’m in way over my head.” Sam admitted eventually.

“It has been a big upheaval for you.” Rung acknowledged, clasping his servos behind him. “Don’t try to tackle it all at once. How about this? Tell me the first thing that comes to mind when I ask this question.” He waited until Sam inclined his head, before he continued, “Why haven’t you left your quarters since the argument in the mess hall?”

It should have come as no surprise that Rung knew about his confrontation with Bulkhead, but it threw him off-balance all the same. It made him feel peeled open and laid bare. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, and tried to deflect. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not in my quarters.”

Rung pinned him with a knowing look. “Please answer the question, Sam.”

Sam could feel the color rising in his cheeks again, and he turned his face away.

“How much time have you got?” He muttered.

“All the time in the world.”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek as he admitted, quietly, “I’m embarrassed.”

“Alright, that’s a start.” Rung said encouragingly, “Why?”

Sam pinned the psychiatrist with a disbelieving look.  

“I told Bulkhead to go to hell.” He drawled, “I might not be a theologian, but I’m pretty sure that’s a faux-pas.”

“Have you been avoiding him?” Rung asked, cutting to the quick of the matter.

Sam made an exasperated noise as he pushed away from the table and continued his pacing. “Yeah, I guess. Him and everyone else.”

The psychiatrist followed behind him. “Are you afraid they will think less of you?” Sam shrugged his shoulders, but he didn’t reply. Rung let him get half-a-dozen paces before he asked, gently, “Sam?”

Sam couldn’t look at the psychiatrist, and so he stared straight ahead as he walked. The plants in this aisle was taller and leafier, and it gave the impression of privacy. It was a fact for which he was thankful, even though they were alone in the hangar. “Yeah. I am.”

“Why?”

The question was delivered with an air of professional compassion, but it still made Sam flinch. He continued another dozen paces, trying to sort the maelstrom of his thoughts into some kind of coherent dialogue. When he reached the end of the aisle, he came to an abrupt stop and sighed heavily.

“I’m supposed to be better than that.” He admitted quietly, “They say I’m a Prime—and that’s a whole conversation onto itself—but at the very least, I’m an Ambassador between our two peoples. When Bulkhead said…” His voice trailed off as his throat thickened, and he had to swallow before he could continue, “I should have shown him that people aren’t what he thinks. Instead, I threw a temper tantrum, cursed him out, and stormed off.”

Sam directed a weak smile over his shoulder. “I’m not making the best first impression.”

Rung stopped several paces away, his vivid blue optics roving over Sam’s face. His voice, when he spoke, was kind. “You were born in a little town in California. An only child. At sixteen years old, you were caught up in an alien civil war that changed you in every conceivable way. You were separated from your family, and you spent part of your formative years as a prisoner of war. Despite that, you have accepted the burdens placed upon you to the best of your abilities.” The psychiatrist’s voice turned wry as he added, “I would say that a ‘temper tantrum’ wasn’t an unreasonable reaction, all things considered.”

Sam turned his face away, blinking against the sudden sting of tears. He could hear Rung take a step closer, and then he startled in surprise as the psychiatrist placed a servo against his upper back.

“You’re entitled to your emotions, Sam.” He murmured.

The words were so like something Karen might have said that he couldn’t help but laugh. It was a thin, watery sound, but it was genuine all the same. Rung smiled as he gave Sam’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze, and then he gestured to the next row of planters.

“Shall we?” He asked.

Sam took a shuddery breath, before nodding his head.

“Lead the way.”

 

---

 

Slowly but surely, Sam’s days began to develop into a predictable pattern. He woke up at the beginning of first-shift and took an hour or so to take care of his bodily needs, before spending the rest of the morning with his nose stuck in a data-pad. He read everything about Cybertron that he could get his hands on—which, considering Teletraan-1’s extensive repository, meant that he had millions of files to pour over. It was an intimidating task, and Sam spent most of his time in those early days just trying to figure out where to begin. He would have asked Optimus for help once, but he was avoiding the older Prime like the second coming of the plague.

He made his way to the mess hall around mid-shift, when he knew the common area would be mostly devoid of traffic. He ate quickly, usually standing over the sink, before wiping down the counter and making a hasty exit. His sessions with Rung followed his mid-day meal. The psychiatrist had originally wanted to meet every day, but at Sam’s protestations, he agreed to three times a week. They met in safe, neutral locations—the hydroponics lab, or the library, or occasionally, the balcony at the top of the atrium. Their sessions weren’t anything like Sam had been expecting. They talked about everything and nothing in particular. Sam’s family, his schooling, his childhood, Bumblebee, the latest television show he was bingeing—anything but the two-ton elephant in the room. It wasn’t therapy so much as it was socialization, and that suited Sam just fine.

In the afternoons, he spent his prescribed forty-five minutes in the gymnasium, before surrendering himself to Jazz’s tender mercies. The saboteur took him all the way back to basics, a fact that strung Sam’s pride. They worked on firewalling and filtering, navigating the neural-network, and hide-n-seek. Jazz seemed especially keen on the latter, much to Sam’s dismay, and they spent hours tracking one another across the inky darkness of the neural-net.

After their sessions, which left Sam with a headache and a foul temper more often than not, he spent the rest of his evening in the hab-suite. Bumblebee worked alternating shifts between the bridge and the shield generators, but they usually had a few hours together before Sam went to bed. They spent their time curled up on the couch, mindlessly watching television. Cliffjumper and Hound occasionally joined them, whenever their duties would allow. Sam enjoyed those nights the most—Cliffjumper sprawled against the wall, arms folded loosely over his chest, while Hound sat cross-legged on the floor, staring avidly at the view-screen. Their conversation was always kept to a minimum, since talking was absolutely not permitted while Hound was watching television, but it was companionable.

Sam’s avoidance of the rest of the crew lasted for almost two weeks before his luck ran out. He spent the morning in a conference room on the second deck, reading a lengthy file on Iaconian geography. The room was of middling size, by Autobot standards, with a circular table that dominated the center of the floor. He had discovered the room during his early exploration of the ship. It was virtually identical to the other conference rooms on the second deck with one notable exception: it had a massive view-screen along the back wall, roughly the dimensions of a movie theatre screen, which provided a 180° view of space. Sam spent long hours there, lying against the curved bulkhead that framed the view-screen—sometimes reading, sometimes staring out into the darkness. On that particular morning, Sam was sitting with the data-pad resting against his knees as he read. He had barely begun the file on notable architecture when the door slid open, causing him to glance up in surprise—only to stiffen at the sight of Optimus standing in the doorway.

“Good morning, Sam.”

Sam’s mouth went dry at the sound of his familiar, rolling baritone.

“Hey Optimus.” He managed.

The former Autobot leader took a step into the room. As soon as he passed the threshold, the door slid shut behind him, enveloping them in near darkness.  

“May I join you?” He rumbled.

Sam huffed an uncomfortable laugh as he sat up a little straighter.

“If you want. I mean, it’s your ship. You don’t have to ask permission.” He replied.

“The Ark is not my ship.” Prime gently corrected him.

“You know what I mean.” Sam said.

Optimus inclined his helm fractionally in response as he made his way around the conference table. The former Autobot leader’s step was light, barely ringing against the metal floor. When he neared, Prime hesitated for a scant moment before he lowered into a loose crouch in front of him. Sam blinked up at him in surprise, but Optimus spoke before he could protest.

“You have been missed.” He rumbled.

Sam’s words died in his mouth as a warm flush spread across his face, betraying his embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” He managed to reply.

Optimus’ expression was difficult to read, but his optics were impossibly bright.

“Your apology is unnecessary, Sam.” He intoned gently. “I can… empathize with your need for space.”

Something twisted inside his chest at the depth of emotion in the older Prime’s words. He raised his head, forcing himself to look Optimus in the eye as he murmured, “Yeah, I guess you could.”

The expression on Prime’s face softened somehow. “I wish I could give you the time you need. It grieves me that I cannot.”

Sam’s flush darkened with discomfort, and he was unable to prevent his gaze from sliding to the floor.

“Yeah, I know.” He managed, voice tight, “I get it.”

Optimus ex-vented a soft sigh, a sound born of regret.

“Your altercation with Bulkhead was not… entirely unexpected.” He rumbled, visibly weighing his every word. “I am partially to blame. I should have prepared you for the tensions you would face—both with Bulkhead’s ilk and the caste system.”

The mention of the caste system caught Sam’s full attention. He raised his head, pinning the former Autobot leader with a look born of suspicion and surprise.

“Why didn’t you?” He asked.

Prime rumbled low in his chassis, a deep vibration that Sam could feel in the air.

“I had hoped to give you time to grieve.” He replied, “You have suffered a terrible loss—I did not want to burden you, before you were ready.”

Sam flinched away from the compassion he could hear in the older mechanoid’s voice. He could tell by the way Prime’s optics spiraled down to points that his instinctive reaction had not gone unnoticed.

“Yeah, well, unless you feel like taking the scenic route to Cybertron, we’re working on a deadline.” Sam tried to joke.

To his surprise, the corners of Optimus’ mouth twitched in wry humor.

“Unfortunately not, which is a shame.” He rumbled in reply, “I understand the Perseus sector is lovely this time of year.”

Sam barked a surprised laugh at the unexpected joke, and Prime’s expression warmed with pleasure.

“I’d love to see it sometime.” He grinned. “That would be a road trip of epic proportions.”

The older Prime’s expression shuttered somehow, growing hesitant, almost… uncertain.  

“There is a great deal I wish to show you, Sam.” He murmured, “All the wonders of the universe—planets where the sky glows orange instead of blue, and crystals grow rather than plants, and aurora borealis that can be seen, even from high orbit.” As he spoke, Optimus reached out one broad servo, slowly, as though telegraphing his intentions. When Sam didn’t protest or pull away, Prime curled his servo against his back, “There is so much for you to experience. This just the beginning.” 

Sam was taken aback by the depth of emotion in the older Prime’s words. He angled his head to look up into his face, which was less than a meter away from his own.

“I’d really like that.” He murmured.

Optimus did not reply right away. Instead, he stroked one broad digit across the line of Sam’s shoulders. It was a gentle, tender gesture. They sat in silence as Optimus seemed to gather his thoughts, and then the older Prime withdrew, sitting back on his heels.

“Our most recent models suggest that we will arrive on Cybertron in approximately eleven months. There is a great deal you must learn before we make landfall.” Prime rumbled, and judging by his inflection, it was Prime that was speaking.

Sam nodded as he gestured vaguely to the data-pad that lay on the floor beside him. “Yeah, I figured. I’ve been reading about the caste system and the city-states.”

“Yes, I am aware.” Optimus rumbled, inclining his helm, “But that is not all. Sentinel has reinstated the Senate, fledgling though it might be, and with it comes a host of social etiquette you must learn.”

Sam stared at the older Prime, aghast. “…Etiquette?”

“Yes.” Prime replied, “As you are aware, Sentinel is a functionist. Everyone has a role to play in his sphere of influence, yourself included.”

“But etiquette?” Sam managed, tripping over the word, “I don’t know the first thing about etiquette. I have the social grace of a water buffalo!”

Optimus’ mouthplates twitched precariously, but his reply was firm when it came. “Which is why you must learn. I have arranged for tutors to help you prepare.”  

Sam groaned as he let his head fall back to thunk against the view-screen. “You have got to be kidding me. Who?”

“Mirage, Ultra Magnus, Rung, Ravage, and Jazz have all agreed to assist you.” Prime rumbled in reply, causing Sam’s head to come up in surprise.

“Jazz?” He repeated, skeptically. The others made sense—Mirage had been a noble, in the time before the war, and Ultra Magnus was a respected scholar on jurisprudence, but Jazz was a surprise. Courtly etiquette wasn’t exactly a phrase he associated with the saboteur.

Prime’s optics brightened with undisguised amusement. “Jazz has a… varied skillset that is well suited to the task.”

Sam groaned for a second time as he climbed to his feet, before bending down to pick the data-pad off the floor.

“It sounds like a blast.” He grumbled, brushing off the seat of his pants.

“I would meet with you too, if you are agreeable.” Optimus added, “There is much to discuss about your role as Prime, particularly as it relates to Sentinel and myself.”

Sam frowned, tucking the data-pad under an armpit as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Ratchet said it’s been years since there was more than one Prime. Is that true?”

“Yes, it’s true.” Optimus replied, straightening to his full height and stepping aside to let Sam pass, “There have been two living Primes on occasion, but never before have there been three—not since the time of the Seven.”

Sam grimaced as they started towards the door. “Wonderful.”

Optimus angled his helm to look down at him, a soft expression on his face.

“I have every confidence in you, Sam.” He rumbled.

Sam angled his head to meet the older Prime’s gaze. “Well, I’m glad that someone thinks so.”  

A fissure of emotion flitted across Optimus’ face too quickly for Sam to decipher, but there was no mistaking his fond tone when he finally replied.

“I think you may be surprised.”

 

---

 

That night, Sam flopped onto the couch as soon as he walked into the apartment. He was pleasantly sore from a hard work-out, and the hot shower that followed had really hit the spot. He burrowed his face into the cushions, toeing off his shoes as he reached for the throw blanket.

“JARVIS?” He called, without raising his head.

There was an affirmatory-sounding chime as Teletaan-1 promptly replied. “Yes, Sam?”

“Can you put something on the television?” He mumbled, pulling the blanket up around his ears.

“Certainly, Sam. Do you have a preference?”

“Uh.” He managed, turning his face to squint at the view-screen. “I dunno. Something light. A sit-com, I guess?”

There was a brief pause, and then the entertainment console flickered to life as The Good Place began playing on the screen. Sam groaned in approval as he rolled over onto his back and pulled the blanket over his head. He let his eyes flutter shut, drifting to the sound of the television. He didn’t know for how long he lay there, half-asleep and comfortable, when he felt the couch dip beside him.  

“Hello you.” Bumblebee murmured, lifting Sam’s feet and settling them in his lap. Sam grunted something unintelligible in reply, causing the holoform to laugh softly. “I missed you too.”

Sam twitched the blanket away from his face so he could peer blearily at his bonded. “What time is it?”

“It’s just past joor-ten.” Bumblebee replied, stroking his fingers across the narrow expanse of flesh above Sam’s ankle, “I’m not on duty again until half-past second shift.”

“Really? That’s nice.” Sam murmured, voice rough from disuse. He enjoyed falling asleep with the holoform, but his duties rarely allowed them to sleep together for any length of time.

Bumblebee hummed at him approvingly as he settled back against the couch. “What are we watching?”

Sam glanced towards the view-screen, “Whatever you want. I’m not really paying attention to this.”

The entertainment console navigated through the menu of its own accord, and then an HBO show began playing on the screen. Sam recognized it, although he had no idea what it was called. They had started the series before leaving for New York City, but they hadn’t watched it since.

Sam rolled onto his side, pillowing his hands under his cheek so he could watch. Bumblebee continued rubbing absentminded circles into whatever skin he could reach. They were ten minutes into the show when the holoform glanced sidelong at him and asked, “When did you eat last?”

Sam made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “I grabbed some cereal after I finished at the gym.”

Bumblebee huffed in exasperation as he pushed Sam’s feet off his lap. Sam whined in complaint, shifting his hips so he could poke at the holoform with his toes, but Bumblebee smoothly avoided him as he stepped around the coffee table.

“What would you like?” He asked, tossing the question over his shoulder as he approached the cabinets near the bed.

Sam pushed up onto an elbow to watch him. “I don’t know. Something salty, I guess. Some water too please.”

He had squirreled away an assortment of dry goods for snacking, including beef jerky, trail mix, crackers, and chocolate. Bumblebee pulled open the cupboard and took a moment to consider the options, before he bent over to grab something from the bottom shelf. Sam was blindsided by the spike of arousal that hit him, low in the groin, at the sight of the holoform’s tight ass. Bumblebee froze as soon as the thought crossed his mind, before twisting to look at him.

“Yeah?” He asked, surprise in his voice.

Sam’s heart was suddenly fluttering in his throat as he nodded, jerkily, “Oh yeah. Big time.”

The surprise smoothed out of the holoform’s expression, replaced by something closer to anticipation. He made a show of shutting the cupboard doors, before slowly stalking back across the room. Sam pushed up into a sitting position, the blanket falling to the floor, forgotten, as he licked his lips.

“Would you like something, Sam?” Bumblebee asked as his bipedal mode crouched down beside the couch, “You’ll need to ask nicely.”

Sam grinned as he reached out his arms. “C’mere.”

Bumblebee smirked as he climbed onto the couch, straddling Sam on his knees. Sam arched his back, straining to capture the holoform’s mouth in a kiss. Bee chuckled at his neediness, grasping the sides of Sam’s face in his hands before he obliged him. The kiss started off slow and deep, as they shared low drawn-out groans between them, but it wasn’t long before Sam was panting, grabbing at the holoform’s waist, his elbows, his shoulders, desperate for more.

The holoform reached down, grasping the hem of Sam’s shirt and pulling it off over his head. Sam groaned his approval as he tried to lean forward, desperate to taste the simulated skin of the holoform’s throat, but Bumblebee pushed him back against the couch.

“You are not in charge tonight.” He murmured, trailing his fingers down to tweak Sam’s nipple, “This is your only warning. Do you consent?”

The holoform punctuated the question by rolling his hips against Sam’s groin. Sam couldn’t prevent the helpless whimper that stuttered out of him as he lifted his hips to meet him.

“Sam?” Bumblebee asked, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “I asked you a question.”

“Yeah.” He gasped, and at the pointed look the holoform gave him, he added, “Yes I do.”

Bumblebee’s expression warmed with approval as he leaned down, pressing his mouth against the shell of Sam’s ear. “Good boy. Now put your hands above your head and keep them there.”

The words were barely a whisper, but the wire of steel in his voice was unmistakable. Sam shuddered in anticipation as he raised his hands above his head, crossing them against the back of the couch.

Bumblebee rewarded him by mouthing at the sensitive spot below his ear. It sent shivers of pleasure down his neck, and he tipped his head to the side in order to give the holoform better access. Bumblebee murmured his approval as he began working his way down Sam’s body, kissing and nipping at indiscriminate intervals. The combination of pleasure and the hint of pain had Sam squirming against the couch cushions before Bumblebee had even reached his navel. The holoform climbed off the couch and settled on the floor. He smoothed his hands up Sam’s legs, over his knees, across his thighs to rest at the waist of his pants.

“Lift your hips.” He instructed in a husky voice.

Sam was only too happy to oblige him. He planted his feet against the floor, pushing up off the couch. Bumblebee made quick work of his zipper, before hooking his hands in the waistband of his pants and pulling them off. The holoform tossed them aside, and then he repeated the process with his boxers.

Sam was panting in excitement by the time he was finally naked. Bumblebee smirked up at him from the space between his knees as he ordered, “Spread your legs.”

Sam bit his lip to stifle the needy sound that would have otherwise escaped as he hastened to obey. The holoform seemed to consider him for a moment, before hooking his hands under Sam’s ass and pulling him to the very edge of the couch. Then, he glanced up and met Sam’s wide-eyed stare.

“What did I tell you?” He asked.

“You’re in charge.” Sam croaked.

The corner of Bumblebee’s mouth curved up in a smile.

“And?”

Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion, before Bumblebee glanced meaningfully above his head. Clarity came, hard and fast, and he blurted, “Don’t move my hands.”

Bumblebee’s smiled turned sharp as he pressed an open-mouth kiss to the inside of Sam’s thigh.

“Good boy.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut as Bumblebee began mouthing his way closer to the burning center of his need. He was painfully hard already, weeping pre-cum all over his belly. It had been weeks since they were last intimate, and Sam was feeling every second of their separation.

Bumblebee shuffled closer, licking a stripe across the junction of Sam’s thigh, before he leaned down to nuzzle at the base of his cock. He worked the sensitive skin with lips and tongue until Sam was rocking his hips in an effort to get more friction on his erection. A soft chuckle was the only warning he got before Bumblebee shouldered his legs further apart and bent down, tonguing at his puckered entrance.

Sam jerked at the unfamiliar sensation, as his head came up in surprise.

“Bumblebee!” He gasped.

The holoform’s eyes flicked up to meet his own, but he didn’t pause in his ministrations. He watched Sam with the intentness of a hawk as he massaged the sensitive ring of muscle with his tongue. Sam stared, slack-jawed and speechless as the holoform continued to eat him out. The sensation was strange but intense, and it wasn’t long before he squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back onto the couch. Bumblebee hummed at him approvingly as he continued flicking his tongue across the puckered flesh. Sam was panting with pleasure before long and whimpering not long after. It wasn’t until he felt a warning pulse from across their bond that he realized he had grasped the holoform’s shoulders with both his hands.

“Sorry.” Sam gasped, breathlessly, as he raised his arms back above his head.

Bumblebee said nothing as he continued eating him out. He paused long enough to slick up a finger, and then he was pushing past the tight ring of muscle to finger Sam’s ass. Sam tossed his head back and forth, almost incoherent with arousal, when the holoform crooked a finger and flicked his prostate. Sam arched off the couch with a choked cry, but all of a sudden, Bumblebee pulled away.

Sam’s eyes snapped open as he looked down at the holoform in desperation. Bumblebee was sitting on his heels with a coolly unimpressed look on his face, and it was only then that Sam realized he had dropped his hands to grasp at the cushions.

“Sam.” Bumblebee admonished, “Put your hands back above your head.”

The command hit Sam low in the stomach, causing his cock to jerk against his belly. He was desperate to be touched, but something possessed him to raise his chin the fraction of an inch and look the holoform in the eye.

“Make me.” He managed, lowly.

Bumblebee’s expression sharpened at the challenge, which was the only warning Sam received before he surged forward, crashing their mouths together. Sam moaned in relief as the holoform’s groin pressed against his aching erection, providing the friction he so desperately needed. Bumblebee permitted Sam to rut against him as he plundered his mouth, and then the holoform drew away slightly.

“With pleasure.” He murmured.

Before Sam could form a coherent reply, the holoform wrapped his arms around his torso and hauled him to his feet. Sam stumbled on wobbly legs, but Bumblebee steadied him as he kicked the coffee table aside. A moment later, Sam found himself thrown none-too-gently across the hood of Bumblebee’s alt mode. He moaned at the casual display of strength, but then the holoform was crowding behind him and kicking his feet apart. He rocked his hips, grinding the girth of his erection against Sam’s ass. Sam twisted to look over his shoulder, only to find that the holoform was completely naked.

“Hands behind your back.” Bumblebee ordered curtly.

Sam didn’t even consider disobeying him. He crossed his wrists in the small of his back as he settled against the gleaming metal hood. Bumblebee’s engine was purring softly, sending pleasurable vibrations through Sam’s entire body.

“Please.” He managed, pressing his cheek against the metal, “Please fuck me.”

Bumblebee chuckled as he smoothed a hand down the length of Sam’s back, before grasping his wrists with one hand and massaging his testicles with the other.

“There are your manners.” He murmured, teasing the tight ring of Sam’s asshole with the pad of his thumb, “I wondered if you had forgotten them.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered. Bumblebee ignored him completely as he set about teasing Sam to the edge of orgasm once, twice, three times. When the holoform denied him release for the fourth time, Sam had tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“Bumblebee, please.” He choked out, “Please, please let me come.”

He felt a warm pulse of approval across their bond-space as the holoform teased his prostate with the tip of his finger.

“All you ever had to do was ask.” He rumbled.

The holoform’s fingers were suddenly gone, and then the blunt tip of his erection was pressing against Sam’s asshole. He moaned, long and low, as the holoform pushed inexorably inside him. Bumblebee leaned over until his chest was flush against Sam’s back, and then he nibbled at the shell of his ear.

“Are you ready?” He murmured.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut as he nodded desperately.

“God yes, please—!“

Bumblebee grasped him by his left shoulder and his right hip, effectively pinning Sam to the hood of his alt-mode as he started fucking him. His pace was slow and deep at first, the length of his cock dragging over Sam’s prostate with every other thrust. Sam whimpered, overwhelmed by the sensation of Bumblebee below him, on top of him, inside him, when the holoform reached around and gave his dick an experimental stroke. Sam moaned raggedly, and he could feel the swell of satisfaction that his reaction had caused.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bumblebee began fucking him in earnest. Sam slid across the smooth metal with every thrust, and he had to brace his hands flat against the hood to steady himself. Rather than correcting him, as Sam half-expected, the holoform draped his body across his back. He continued thrusting in deep, even strokes as he grasped Sam’s cock and began to jerk him off.  

Sam was distantly aware that he was begging, pleading for release, but he had no idea what he was saying. Bumblebee clearly understood him, however, for the holoform leaned over and nuzzled at the back of Sam’s neck.

“Whenever you’re ready.” He murmured permissively.

The words had no sooner left his mouth than Bumblebee unleashed a low-level charge. Sam gasped, his eyes flying open in surprise as the sensation rushed over his body. It was intense—washing over him like static electricity, causing the hairs on his arms to stand up. Bumblebee’s engines rumbled in satisfaction as he released another low-level charge, causing Sam to arch his back and moan. It was as though Bumblebee was subsuming him, inside and out, body and mind.

The thought caused the holoform to chuckle, and he planted a gentle kiss between Sam’s shoulder blades as he continued fucking him in perfect time. Sam could feel his orgasm approaching with the force of a wrecking ball, and he couldn’t help but whimper in a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. Bumblebee murmured at him reassuringly, and then Sam was gone—his orgasm crashed into them both, his entire body jerking with the force of it as he came and came and came…

It took a few moments for the world to come back to him. When it did, he found himself lying on the floor, wrapped in the holoform’s protective embrace as Bumblebee leaned over them. His bonded was staring down at him with an intensity that took his breath away, and Sam surprised himself by laughing. Bumblebee chirruped in surprise, but Sam laughed and laughed until his sides hurt. When his laughter finally tapered off and he could breathe again, Sam slanted a crooked grin up at the yellow mechanoid.

“I think I really needed that.” He wheezed.

Bumblebee’s expression became knowing as he smoothed a servo down Sam’s flank.

“I’m glad.”

Sam chuckled as he struggled into a sitting position. Bumblebee helped him up, and then the holoform guided him towards the bed. Sam stood passively as he was wiped down and dressed in his nightclothes, and then he clambered onto the bed and collapsed. Bumblebee climbed up after him, arranging Sam’s unresisting body until they were curled together beneath the blankets.

“You should get some sleep.” Bumblebee murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to Sam’s sweaty curls, “I understand you have a big day tomorrow.”

Sam grumbled in protest, but he let his eyes flutter shut all the same. He lay there, listening to the sound of his breathing and the rumble of Bumblebee’s engines, until he eventually drifted off.

He didn’t stir again until morning.

Notes:

Author's Note OP's discussion about showing Sam the wonders of the universe was (lovingly) borrowed from Steelfeather's Instability.

Chapter 12

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Notes: Thanks for the continued support, guys! It's much appreciated.

Sam awoke the following morning to find himself alone in bed. He grumbled as he rolled over, burrowing his face into the pillows. The room was dark and quiet and cool—the perfect combination for drifting back to sleep. He groped around for the blankets, intending to do just that, when the overhead lights came up to half-brightness.

“Good morning, Sam.”

Sam groaned into the pillows at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Mornin’ JARVIS.” He mumbled.

“Your appointment with Mirage is in sixty minutes.” He was informed, “Do you want me to reschedule?”

Sam sighed as he raised his head to peer at the ceiling. “What time is it?”

“It is jour-one.” Teletraan-I promptly replied. “I was instructed to let you sleep past shift-change.”

Sam pushed up onto his elbow as he scrubbed a hand over his face. The stubble on his jaw was thicker than it had been in years—an annoyance, but one he found himself too lazy to rectify. He blew out a breath as he glanced around the room, debating whether to get up or go back to sleep.

“Sam?” Teletraan-I prompted.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m going.” He grumbled, pushing the blankets aside as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The air in the room was chilly, just this side of bracing, and he was quick to scramble off the mattress and grab a change of clothes. He pulled on his shoes next, and then he made his way towards the door. As he passed the couch, he noticed that the coffee table had been put back in its proper place. The realization made him grin, and he turned his attention inwards as he brushed against the familiar winter-white glow.

//Good morning.//

He could feel a perceptible shift inside his head as Bumblebee turned his attention upon him.

//Good morning to you too.// He murmured, smoothing across Sam’s mind, //Did you rest well?//

Sam grinned as he stepped into the corridor, letting the door slide shut behind him.

//Like a baby.// He replied as he started off towards the wash racks. The corridor was empty, but old habit had him walking within an arms-length of the wall in case of sudden traffic, //Thanks for that.//

He could feel the wash of Bumblebee’s amusement at his words.

//It was no hardship.// He replied dryly.

Sam laughed good-naturedly as he stepped through the wide double-doors at the end of the hall. The overhead lights came on as he did so, revealing the wash racks. The room was empty and neat as a pin, all gleaming steel and matte white tile. He tucked his clothes under one arm as he crossed the room, before pushing open the door to the partitioned space that had been designed for him. This area was notably less tidy, with a bath towel hanging over the bench and toiletries lying on the floor of the shower stall. Sam made quick work of his morning routine, using the bathroom and brushing his teeth in record time. He paused long enough to brace himself, as he always did, before shucking his clothes and climbing into the shower. The water was piping hot, and it was soon steaming in the cool air. Sam stood there for a long while, eyes half-lidded as water beat down on his shoulders—the combination of warmth and white noise was a soothing one.

When he was finished in the shower, Sam dried off as fast as humanly possible. He was dressed and on his way to the mess hall less than five minutes later, still tugging his sweater into place. It was a thick, green cable-knit material with a high, folded neckline. Sam could see evidence on Dave Carter in the clean lines and tidy seams, but it was warm, and that was all that really mattered.

When Sam neared the mess hall, his step faltered as the low buzz of conversation reached his ears. He stopped in the middle of the corridor, wrestling with the impulse to turn around and leave. He waffled for a moment or two, before he squared his shoulders and forged on ahead. He had to reintegrate back into the crew eventually, and it would be better to get it over with quickly, like yanking off a Band-Aid.

As Sam walked into the mess hall, his step faltered for a second time. Knock Out, Crossblades, and Fixit were sitting at the trestle table in the middle of the room. They each had a cube of energon in front of them, but they seemed to be ignoring the fuel in favor of staring at Hot Rod, who was crouching in front of Sam’s kitchenette. Sam’s brow furrowed in a combination of confusion and surprise as he started across the room.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

At the sound of his voice, Hot Rod jerked around to look at him. Sam had less than a second to wonder, incredulously, whether the cavalier hadn’t noticed his approach, when Hot Rod visibly deflated.

“You’re early.” He said, like an accusation.

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. “Sorry, what now?”

Hot Rod made a disgruntled sound in the back of his intakes as he shuffle-stepped aside. Sam’s eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline at the sight of the kitchenette in complete disarray. Most of the cupboards were wide open, with an assortment of canisters, condiments, empty packaging, and dishware strewn across the counter. The coffee machine was percolating away, hissing and steaming in the cool air.

“What’s this?” Sam spluttered, looking from the kitchenette to the cavalier.

Hot Rod shrugged. “I made you breakfast. You know, as an apology.”

The words were too casual, too noncommittal to be natural. It made something ache inside Sam’s chest, and he turned a small, fond smile on the cavalier.

“You didn’t have to do that, Roddy.” He murmured, taking a step closer, “It wasn’t you, it was me.”

The cavalier’s expression shifted through a myriad of emotions too quickly for Sam to process, but then he grinned at him, wide and easy.

“Yeah, well. I spent a lot of time making this, so you’re still going to eat it.”

Sam chuckled good-naturedly as he stepped up to the counter, surveying the mess.

“Well, what’s on the menu?” He asked.

Hot Rod pinched the microwave handle between two digits, before pulling it open to reveal a familiar black container. Sam reached up, grabbing the container with both hands and putting it on the counter. As he peeled back the filament, Hot Rod pushed a coffee cup towards him, sloshing caramel colored liquid over the rim. Sam’s face split with a wide grin at the sight.

“You made me coffee?” He laughed, “Oh man, all is forgiven.”

Hot Rod’s optics brightened to turquoise at the sound of his laughter. Sam reached out, picking the coffee mug up by its handle and blowing across the steaming surface. He smiled up at the cavalier as he took a deep drink, and then he immediately choked on it. Hot Rod’s expression shifted from pleased to alarmed as Sam began coughing and spluttering.  

“Are you alright?” He asked, urgently.

“What…” Sam took a deep breath as he resisted the urge to gag, “What did you put in this?”

Hot Rod stared at him in sinking dismay. “Did I do it wrong? I followed the directions.”

Sam glanced down into his mug. The coffee looked alright—it was smooth and creamy and golden brown, but it tasted horrible.

“Are you sure?” He asked skeptically. He gave the coffee an experimental sip, which proved to be no better than the first. Grimacing, he poured the contents of the mug down the kitchen sink.  

Hot Rod’s expression was stricken. “I’m certain. I even asked Ironhide—he said Lennox likes it that way.”

Sam might have been tempted to tease the cavalier, were it not for his forlorn tone of voice. So instead, he tipped his head towards the counter. “Show me.”

Hot Rod made a sound halfway between a groan and a grumble, but he obligingly walked Sam through the steps. It wasn’t until Roddy pulled the canisters across the counter that Sam understood.  

“And then I added the creamer and the sugar. Like I said—I followed the instructions.” Roddy said, a little defensively.

Sam’s lips twitched with sympathetic amusement.

“That’s not sugar.” He said, struggling to keep the smile off his face, “That’s salt.”

Hot Rod turned to look at the two virtually identical canisters with almost comic consternation.

“Salt?” He asked, flatly.

The grin that Sam had been fighting broke through, stretching across his face from ear to ear.

“Salt.” He agreed.  

Roddy let his head fall back as he groaned, with feeling, “Salt.”

Sam laughed aloud as he gathered up his breakfast and brought it to the table. He laid out the protein scramble, fork, and napkin before going back to pour himself another coffee. Hot Rod watched as he added two spoonfuls of sugar and a little bit of creamer to the mug, before shaking his head faintly.

“So close.” He sighed.

“Top marks for effort, buddy.” Sam grinned, pulling out his chair and sitting at the table. 

“That’s the second time he’s been told that this morning.” Knock Out cut in, his voice all dry humor.

Hot Rod glanced over at the medic with a look of mild affront on his face. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

Knock Out smirked at him over the rim of his energon cube as he took an unhurried drink. Hot Rod scoffed at him, before turning back to look at Sam.

“Is the food alright, at least?”

Sam nodded in agreement. The protein scramble was a mixture of eggs, ham, peppers, and onion. And, as Hot Rod hadn’t done anything besides putting it in the microwave, it was perfectly edible.

“It’s great, thanks.” He replied, spearing a piece of bell pepper and popping it into his mouth.

“You’re welcome, Sammy.” Hot Rod replied, straightening to his full height with a lopsided grin.

“Don’t call me that.” Sam mumbled.

Hot Rod’s grin sharpened, but before he could reply, Knock Out called across the room.

“Glass houses, Rodimus.”

Hot Rod’s amusement was gone in an instant, replaced by something like wounded surprise. Sam looked from the cavalier to the medic in a moment of confusion, before it suddenly clicked.

“Wait a minute.” He said, setting his fork down on the table and peering at Hot Rod, “Your name is Rodimus?”

Hot Rod shuttered his optics, a long-suffering expression on his face, causing Sam to bark a sharp laugh.

“You’ve been giving me shit for eight years, and your name is Rodimus?” He asked, a grin spreading across his face, “Seriously?”

“I like Hot Rod better.” He muttered, sulkily.

Sam barked another laugh, louder and more genuine. “I bet you do, Rodimus.”

Hot Rod stared at Sam a moment longer, before turning to pin the medic with a cool look. Knock Out smirked, leaning back in his seat and taking another drink of his energon cube. They locked gazes for a long moment, clearly communicating with each other over comms, before Hot Rod tossed his head with a scoff.

“We’ll see if you feel the same when you’re re-charging alone.” He huffed.

Knock Out’s expression remained tolerantly amused. “I guess we will.”

Hot Rod made a dramatic sound inside his intakes, before peering down at Sam and jerking his head towards the table.

“Can you believe the disrespect I get around here?” He asked.

Sam grinned sympathetically up at the cavalier.

“It’s criminal.” He said, picking up his fork and poking at the protein scramble, “And totally undeserved.”

His sarcasm was either unnoticed or ignored, for Hot Rod planted his hands on his hip struts and snorted expressively. “I know, right?”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he worked on the remainder of his breakfast while Hot Rod and Knock Out sniped at one another. He was familiar enough with their weird courtship to keep his nose out of it. The two mechanoids were prone to drag innocent bystanders into their bickering—a fact that Sam had learned for himself in the past.

When he was finished eating, Sam pushed away from the table and stood up, before surveying the kitchenette with a grim sort of resignation.

“Are you going to help me clean this up?” He asked, tossing the question over his shoulder.

Hot Rod stopped speaking in mid-sentence to look at him. He seemed confused for a scant second, and then his expression turned sheepish.

“Oh, right.” He said.

Sam groaned under his breath as he made his way over to the counter. He spent the next few minutes tidying up the space with Hot Rod’s unhelpful assistance, and when the kitchenette was finally clean, he washed his hands and gave the cavalier a farewell pat.

“I’m off to see Mirage. Talk to you later.” He said.

Hot Rod chirruped something sympathetic sounding at him, causing Sam to squint his eyes up at the cavalier.

“Was that a condolence modifier?” He guessed.

Hot Rod’s faceplates shifted, giving him a surprised appearance.

“It was.” He agreed, “The empathy-condolence one, not the sarcasm-condolence one.”

Sam huffed a wry laugh. “Well, don’t look so shocked. I’ve known you guys for over a decade.”

Hot Rod grinned at him, wide and easy, as he mussed Sam’s hair with the tip of one digit.

“Look at that! He can be taught.”

Sam pulled a face as he sidestepped away and swatted at the offending digit.

“Yeah, thanks.” He grumbled, “I’ll see you guys later.”

As he turned to leave, Crossblades swung his leg over the bench and stood up. The Lost Light’s second-in-command was tall and broad shouldered, but his tread was quiet as he approached.

“I am on my way to the bridge. I would walk with you, if you’re amenable.” He rumbled.

Sam shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets and nodding towards the hall. “If you want. I’m a slow walker, though.”

Crossblades chuckled softly. “I have time.”  

Sam shrugged again before starting towards the exit. Crossblades walked at his side, the larger war frame adjusting his pace to accommodate for Sam’s shorter stride. The deck was empty, as it had been that morning, and it wasn’t long before they stepped into the atrium. As with the rest of the ship, the atrium was both alien and beautiful. It was a cavernous space, with a curving ramp that connected all five decks. The floor of the atrium was solid glass, backlit in Autobot blue that glinted off the smooth metal walls. The sounds of clanging metal echoed up from the floor, and Sam peered over the railing to see Ultra Magnus, Ironhide, and Kup moving crates from one side of the room to the other.

“They are moving supplies from the loading bay to the storage hangar on the third deck.” Crossblades helpfully supplied.

Sam glanced over at the second-in-command, only to find him standing with his servos clasped behind his back and a patient expression on his face. 

“Oh, thanks.” He glanced over the safety rail in time to see Smokescreen and Inferno appear in the mouth of the corridor carrying an oblong crate between them. The two mechanoids walked over to the far side of the room, before disappearing under the ramp. “What is it?” He asked curiously.

“Miscellanea.” Crossblades shrugged, “Tools and power cells, mostly.”

Sam made a considerate sound as he turned and began climbing up the ramp.

“I know the Ark was low on supplies before you guys arrived.” He said.

“It is little wonder.” Crossblades acknowledged in reply.

They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence. The first deck was largely empty, although they passed Red Alert and Peacemaker near the command center. The two mechanoids were visibly surprised to see them. Sam raised his hand, giving a little wave. Peacemaker waved back, but it took a moment for Red Alert to return the gesture. The Security Director watched them as they passed, an inscrutable expression on his face. Sam thought nothing of it—Red Alert was weird on a good day.

The conference room was located almost equidistant between the atrium and the bridge entrance. They rounded the corner to find Mirage already standing by the door. The Spec Ops specialist turned to greet them, nodding politely as they approached.

“Sam.” He rumbled, before his optics flicked to the airframe at his side. “…Crossblades.”

“Hey Mirage.” Sam replied, “Thanks for agreeing to help me.”

Mirage inclined his helm. “It is my pleasure.”

Sam couldn’t help the wry twist of his lips. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Before Mirage could reply, Crossblades turned to look at him. “I will take my leave. I am required on the bridge.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam replied, “Of course.”

Crossblades tipped his head, before turning on his heel and striding down the corridor. Mirage watched him go, optics narrowed slightly, before he glanced down at Sam.

“Shall we begin?”

Sam grimaced faintly. “Alright.”

The following two hours were simultaneously fascinating and frustrating. Mirage introduced him to the concept of color theory, which was far more detailed and nuanced than Sam could ever have imagined. He learned that colors had multiple meanings in Cybertronian society, a fact that was complicated by the combination of colors and the ratio of one color to another.

“Consider the color red, for example.” Mirage rumbled, gesturing towards himself, “Red is a dignified color on Cybertron, most often associated with nobility and the upper castes.”

Sam braced an elbow on the table, propping his chin in his hand.

“Is that why Optimus has red panels?” He asked.

Mirage inclined his helm. “It is, although that specific shade is used solely by the Primacy.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth turned down in a faint frown. “What do you mean? It’s just red, isn’t it?”

“Your ability to interpret nuance is impeded by your color receptors.” Mirage replied, “We are able to discern between shades with a greater accuracy than humans.” At Sam’s stymied expression, Mirage elaborated, “Consider Hound. What color is he?”

Sam squinted at the seemingly trick question. “He’s black and white, isn’t he? Like Prowl?”

Mirage shook his head faintly in response. “He is black and white and green. The green is too dark to be distinguished by the naked human eye.”

Sam perked up in surprise. “Really? He’s green?”

“He is black and white and green, in that order.” Mirage corrected him. “Black is most commonly associated with the Pit, all-consuming and inescapable. It also has ties to authority and justice. This is why war-frames and enforcers are often black.”

Sam frowned faintly, trying to wrap his brain about what he was being told. “What about white?” He asked, “Prowl and Optimus and Ratchet all have white.”

“An astute question.” Mirage replied, folding his servos over his abdomen, “What do they have in common?”

Sam’s frown returned, deepening with a mixture of confusion and consternation. “An enforcer, a medic, and a Prime? I have no idea.”

“Service.” Mirage replied, “A Prime serves the people in his capacity as our holy leader. A medic serves those under his care. An enforcer serves the rule of the law.”

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, unsure which of the questions swirling through his head to ask first. Mirage stared at him patiently, giving him time to process his thoughts.

“What about yellow?” He asked at last.

Mirage’s face warmed fractionally in amusement.

“Yellow is an impertinent color. It is most often associated with youth and exuberance, and it’s widely favored by speedsters.”

“Impertinent?” Sam asked, skeptically, “Sunstreaker and Hot Rod, maybe, but not Bumblebee.”

Mirage inclined his helm, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“As with spoken Cybertronian, subtle differences in appearance can change meaning entirely.” He explained, “Bumblebee’s saturation is lighter, while Sunstreaker and Hot Rod are darker.”

Mirage spent the next twenty minutes providing examples of the ways hue and saturation influenced color meaning. Sam struggled to follow along, but he quickly lost track of how primary, secondary, and tertiary colors changed meaning depending on whether they were the dominant color, secondary color, or an accent.

“What about silver?” He blurted at last, thoroughly overwhelmed, “Like Jazz.”

Mirage’s optics found his in an instant, and the former noble seemed to consider him for a long moment.

“Inactive chromophores are silver.” He said at last, “As such, silver is considered a base color.”

Sam squinted in confusion. “…base?”

Mirage inclined his helm slightly. “Generally speaking, color is associated with influence. More colorful mechanoids tend to be from higher castes, while less colorful mechanoids tend to be from lower castes.”

“So… Jazz is a lower caste mechanoid?” Sam surmised.

“He was, at one time.” Mirage hedged. “He has since chosen to keep his color scheme.”

“Why?” Sam blurted, a second before he realized the rudeness of the question.

Mirage’s expression was inscrutable but intense.

“Color is meaningful.” He rumbled, “In both its presence and its absence. Remember that.”

Sam stared at Mirage as he tried to decode the strange non-answer. “Are you saying that Jazz is making a social statement?”

“Perhaps.” He replied enigmatically, “You would have to ask him.”

Mirage called the lesson to a close a half-an-hour later. He gave Sam a data-pad filled with detailed information about color theory, which included multiple visual examples. They agreed to meet the following afternoon, and then they parted ways. Sam ambled back to the second deck, flipping through the data-pad as he walked. The entries could be sorted in two ways: meaning by color type or meaning by accent-type. Sam navigated to the color type folder only to find thousands of entries. Each color had multiple sub-folders for hue, saturation, and brightness.

By the time Sam made it back to his hab-suite, his head was spinning with information. He learned that secondary and tertiary colors, such as orange and pink, derived their meaning from the specific blend of colors utilized. A darker orange, for example, placed a greater emphasis on red connotations, while a lighter orange placed a greater emphasis on yellow connotations.

Sam read for the better part of an hour, before he called it quits. He tossed the data-pad onto the coffee table and fell back against the couch with a groan. He briefly considered curling up and taking a quick nap, but a glance at the chronometer dashed that thought away. It was already half-shift: time for his jog.

Knowing better than to put it off, Sam dragged himself off the couch and over to the bed. He made quick work of changing into his workout clothes—long sleeved shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers—before he rummaged around the bedsheets, searching for his iPod. He found it a moment later, tucked beneath his pillows. He made his way across the room, pushing his AirPods into his ears one at a time, before stepping into the corridor. He took a moment to stretch his calves and hamstrings, and then he started off at an easy jog. He passed Wheeljack near the science laboratory, and the engineer waved at him good-naturedly.

Sam finished Sweet Caroline and Sweet Home Alabama by the time he arrived at the atrium. He started down the sloping ramp towards the lowest floor. He stayed near the wall as he jogged, well away from the safety rail that separated him from five stories of open air. It didn’t take long to reach the bottom. Ultra Magnus and the others were still organizing crates against the far wall, and the City Commander inclined his helm in greeting. Sam waved back in response, before shuffling his music and upping the volume to maximum as he started back up the ramp. He had discovered that the atrium provided the perfect conditions for hill training—a fact that was becoming ever more apparent with each step. His calves were burning by the time he reached the fourth deck, and he was sweating heavily by the time he reached the second deck. Still, he pushed himself harder. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, in for a count of four, out for a count of four. It only took about ten minutes to reach the top, but it felt like a small eternity. The ramp ended in a wide semi-circular balcony that overlooked the atrium floor below. Sam jogged along its perimeter, giving himself time to catch his breath, before he started down the ramp again.

He was crossing the distance between the second and third deck when it happened.

Swerve came around the corner at a fast clip, tires squealing against the polished metal floors. Sam stumbled to a stop, his heart suddenly in his throat as the metallurgist headed right for him. He knew a moment of profound terror—the kind that freezes you in place, unable to move or speak. He had a brief moment to decide whether he was going to tuck and roll or throw himself over the railing, when Ultra Magnus materialized in front of him. The holoform grabbed Sam in a bear hug, shielding him with his body. A second later, the sound of tires locking up could be heard even over the sound of music pounding in his ears.

There was a brief moment of reprieve, and then Ultra Magnus was spinning him around by the shoulders.

“Are you alright?” He demanded, pulling the AirPods out of Sam’s ears.

“Is he alright?” Swerve cried, incredulously.

It took Sam a moment to realize that his voice had come from down below. He stumbled over to the edge of the ramp, only to see Swerve in a crumpled heap on the atrium floor. Smokescreen and Inferno were crouched by his side, seemingly trying to help him, but Ironhide looked fit to tear the metallurgist part.

All at once, Sam’s knees went wobbly and he had to brace a hand against the railing to keep himself from keeling over. Ultra Magnus grasped him by the bicep, his expression reserved but concerned.

“Sam?” He asked, “Do you need Ratchet?”

It took him a moment before he could reply. “No. No, I’m okay.”

The look of grim concern on Ultra Magnus’ face softened marginally.

“I am relieved to hear it.” He replied, dryly, “Although it is uncertain for how long Swerve can claim the same.”

The sound of angry Cybertronian and the clang of metal against metal wafted up from the atrium floor. Sam huffed a weak laugh, before he stepped away from the guardrail.

“I think I’m finished for the day.” He managed, “I’m going to head back upstairs.”

Ultra Magnus’ steel blue eyes roved over Sam’s face, searching and inscrutable.

“Are you certain? Do you need an escort?” He rumbled.

Sam shook his head faintly. “No thanks, Ultra Magnus, but I appreciate it. I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

The holoform stared at him for a moment longer, before inclining his head and de-materializing. Sam took a deep, steadying breath, and then he started off towards the second deck.

The rest of his afternoon was spent lazing in the hab-suite, with brief trips to the mess hall for his meals. He alternated his time between watching television and reading the data-pad that Mirage had given him. He took notes as he read, highlighting any questions he had on a separate document so he wouldn’t lose track of them. Bumblebee arrived shortly before shift-change, and they spent an enjoyable few hours together watching television. Sam didn’t even realize he had started drifting off before Bumblebee helped him to his feet and guided him towards the bed.

“It’s cold in here.” Sam grumbled as he stripped out of his clothes.

“You’ll be comfortable in bed.” Bumblebee replied, handing him his pajamas.

Sam made a disgruntled noise as he pulled the long-sleeved shirt over his head, before yanking his lounge pants on one leg at a time. “You always say that.”

“And it’s always true.” Bumblebee archly reminded him.

Sam clambered up onto the bed and shimmied beneath the blankets. Bumblebee joined him a moment later, and Sam plastered himself to the holoform’s body, soaking in the modest amount of warmth he provided. Bumblebee chuckled at him as the overhead lights darkened to black, leaving only the emergency light over the door to illuminate the room.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Sam asked, mumbling the words against the holoform’s neck.

“I have a half-shift on the bridge, followed by manual labor on the fourth deck.” Bumblebee murmured in reply.

Sam’s lips twitched up at the corners. “Sucks to be you.”

The holoform chuckled softly, before pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of Sam’s head. “It has its advantages.”

“Mm, yeah.” Sam hummed in agreement, his eyes drifting shut, “I’m a total prize.”  

He could feel the soft swell of Bumblebee’s amusement across their bond-space. It enveloped him like an embrace, and Sam drifted off to the feeling of being surrounded by his bonded, in both body and mind.

 

---

 

Optimus reclined in the command chair as he considered the console in front of him. It displayed several read-outs, including duty rosters, personnel reports, system specifications, and, as of that afternoon, a punitive report. Ultra Magnus had compiled and submitted the forms himself, and as such, they were terse and to the point. His optics scanned the details for the third time. It seemed the incident was the result of Swerve’s notoriously poor attention span, rather than the result of any kind of nefarious motive. Still, the accident could have turned out much differently were it not for Ultra Magnus’ quick and decisive action.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bridge doors sliding open. He half-turned, glancing towards the entryway, before he stiffened in surprise. Sam was standing at the bridge entrance, wearing nothing but thin nightclothes and a distant expression on his face. It was an expression that Optimus had come to recognize over the last four years.

Sam was sleepwalking.

The Autobot leader composed a terse message to Ratchet, flagging it with high priority signifiers as he climbed out of his chair. Sam stared unseeingly ahead as he walked between the two work terminals. Ironhide and Bulkhead turned in their seats to watch him.

“Sam?” Optimus rumbled gently.

Sam gave no indication of having heard him. He continued walking, placing one foot in front of the other as he descended the ramp onto the second level. Optimus followed behind him, maintaining a close distance. Sam walked to the center of the level, coming to a stop directly in front of the view screen. Bumblebee whistled in concern as he disengaged his jacks from the communications terminal, but a sharp look from Optimus had him lowering back into his seat.

“Sam?” Optimus asked, dropping to one knee in front of the boy, “Can you hear me?” Although Sam’s blank expression did not change, something sharpened behind his eyes. It made Optimus’ fuel pump skip a beat and he leaned closer. “Sam?”

The bridge was perfectly quiet—no one else spoke a word.

Optimus hesitated for a long moment, before something possessed him to ask, “ĦƢ?”

It was one of the oldest honorifics for the Allspark. It contained two glyphs: Ħ for sacred vessel and Ƣ for gateway to the Great Spark.

The corner of Sam’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile.

“Once, perhaps.” He murmured, glancing down at his hands. “I find myself… changed.”

Prime kept his electromagnetic fields neutral with great effort, but the others on the bridge were less successful at controlling their reaction. The air thrummed with the force of their shock, and awe, and disbelief, and fear.

“I am honored to serve.” He murmured.

The Allspark stared at his hands for a moment longer, before turning to regard him. His expression was blank, almost empty, but his gaze was intense.

“I know you, Keeper.” He said, before a fissure of frustration crossed his face. “That term is incomplete. The glyph does not translate properly.”

Optimus immediately understood the source of his consternation. His title at the Temple Simfur was too complex to translate directly into English. It held connotations of protection, research, holy ordinance, and devotion.

“I have used the term Chief Scientist when speaking in English.” He rumbled softly, “It is sufficient for human understanding.”

The Allspark said nothing in reply. Instead, he turned and stared steadfastly out the view screen. Optimus knelt at his side in silence, optics roving over his face. The man standing in front of him lacked any kind of human mannerism or micro-expression. His features were entirely other—entirely alien. It sent a thrill of fear straight to Prime’s spark.

“Is Sam in danger?” He asked quietly.

It took a long moment, but eventually the Allspark turned to regard him.

“He is in terrible danger.” He murmured, “But not from me.”

Optimus’ optics spiraled open in alarm, but the Allspark shook his head.

“We are almost there—I can feel it.” His voice trailed off as he turned to regard the view screen once again. “Vos, Kaon, Helex, Tarn… it won’t be long now.”

Optimus felt a pang of melancholy at the Allspark’s words.

“Do you know what awaits us on Cybertron?” He asked softly.

The Allspark’s mouth curved up in a faint smile. “I do not. For all of my long-life, I am not omniscient.” His eyes flitted across Prime’s face, before he raised a hand and pressed two fingers against the glyph inscribed on his cuirass. “You must have faith, Prime. Now more than ever.”

Optimus did not know whether the words were a reprimand or a command, but he inclined his helm all the same.

“As you say.” He rumbled.

The Allspark regarded him for a moment longer, and then his eyes slid closed. When they blinked open again a moment later, it was Sam, not the Allspark, staring back at him. The boy stumbled backwards in shock, but Optimus was quick to steady him.

“It was Cybertron.” Sam babbled anxiously, “Iacon, I think, or maybe Praxus. It was before the war. We walked through a garden—there were blue crystals growing everywhere.” His voice trailed off as he glanced around him, suddenly aware of the intense scrutiny from the bridge crew. A look of unease flashed across his face, before he glanced back uncertainly at Optimus.

“…What happened?”

Notes:

Author's Notes: There are many versions of the Cybertronian alphabet. The characters that I used in this chapter approximated the Cybertronian symbol for 'Allspark' as near as possible.

Thanks to theonlygerm for their color theory idea!!

Chapter 13

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Note: First of all, thank-you so much for your love and support. It means the world to me! Secondly, I apologize to anyone who read the sneak-peak on my [Transformers blog]. This chapter spiraled way, way out of control. The sneak-peak will take place in Chapter 14.

The following weeks were difficult.

It was only the knowledge that Optimus had ordered the bridge crew to secrecy that kept Sam from withdrawing entirely. Still, it took the combined effort of Ratchet and Bumblebee to get him out of bed in the morning. He went about his routine in a fog: wake up, get dressed, eat breakfast, read, eat lunch, exercise, read some more, eat supper, bedtime. It was as though each day was a series of bothersome tasks to complete before he could escape to the privacy of his room. He refused to attend any of the one-on-one meetings that had been scheduled for him, including infiltration training with Jazz. Ratchet accepted his need for space, so long as Sam ate well, took his antidepressants, and attended therapy. The latter point was a contentious one, but Ratchet refused to budge on the matter. Eventually, and after many protestations, Sam relented.  

The following afternoon, Sam made his way to the hydroponics lab well before his scheduled appointment. He stepped through the hangar doors, only to pull up short at the sight of Rung bent over a worktable. The psychiatrist was wrist-deep in a terracotta potter, and he had a look of quiet contemplation of his face.

“…What are you doing?” Sam asked, perplexed.

“I am transplanting seedlings from their cartons to the potters.” Rung replied, before glancing up at him, “How was your morning?”

Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion as he stepped into the room, letting the doors slide shut behind him.

“It was alright.” He hedged slowly, “No mysterious visions or anything.” He paused, watching as Rung transferred a seedling into a long, rectangular planter, before he blurted, “Why?”

Rung glanced up at him, his expression warming with amusement. “Why am I asking about your morning or why am I transplanting seedlings?”

“The latter.” Sam replied, ambling over to stand on the other side of the table. Its surface was filled with pots in different shapes and sizes, as well as a large bin filled with loose, dark soil.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I volunteered.” Rung said, “I enjoy working with my hands.”

“Oh?” Sam asked. The psychiatrist didn’t exactly strike him as the hands-on type.

“I do.” Rung agreed, transferring another seedling from its square cell to the pot. “I make models in my spare time. I would be happy to show you, if you’d like.”

“Models? Models of what?” Sam asked, watching as the psychiatrist patted the loose soil into place.  

“Ships, mostly.” Rung replied. “I’ve made models of all the vessels I’ve served aboard.”

“Really?” Sam asked, suddenly curious despite himself, “How many is that?”

Rung shrugged good-naturedly. “Eleven, including the Lost Light. I look forward to building the Ark after we return to Cybertron.”

Sam grimaced faintly at the mention of the alien planet. Prime had shown him the security footage of what had transpired on the bridge, including his cryptic message about the Cybertronian city-states. It had forcibly reminded him, yet again, that he was in way over his head. It was one thing to have the Allspark energy regenerating inside of him, but it was another thing entirely to have it assume control of his body—as though he was just an instrument… or a puppet.

The thought made him shudder in revulsion, and he wrapped his arms around his torso. Rung glanced up at him, optics roving across his face.

“Would you like to try?” He asked, catching Sam by surprise.

“Try what?” Sam asked, before glancing down at the potter on the table between them, “Gardening?”

“Of course.” Rung replied, nodding in agreement, “Have you ever done it before?”

“Yes.” Sam replied, before he corrected himself, “Well, no. Kind of.”

Rung’s optics brightened in undisguised amusement. “Care to try that again?”

Sam gave the psychiatrist a wry look. “My folks had flowerbeds in the backyard, but Ma didn’t trust me to do it right. My grandmother had a vegetable garden too, but all I did was pull weeds. I never planted anything.” 

“Well, there’s no time like the present.” Rung replied, nodding towards the rectangular potter, “Dig a hole three inches deep in the soil, transfer the seedlings from the planting tray, and there you have it. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

The idiom startled a genuine laugh out of him, and Sam found himself reaching for the planting tray before he thought twice about it. They worked in companionable silence for the better part of ten minutes. Sam was surprised to find that he liked gardening—there was something soothing about raking his hands through loose soil and the smell of green, organic things.

He had transplanted a dozen of the little sprouts before he realized he didn’t even know what they were supposed to be.

He glanced up at Rung, who was removing one of the seedlings from the planting tray. “What are these, anyway?”

“Capsicum annuum.” The psychiatrist replied, “More commonly referred to as bell peppers.”

Sam angled his head to look at the seedling he was holding in his hands. For some reason, the knowledge that the Autobots had brought such a water-intensive plant into space just because he liked it hit unexpectedly hard. He brushed a thumb across the seedling’s tender leaves, before placing it in the hole he had prepared in the soil. He was aware that Rung had stopped what he was doing, and Sam kept his eyes fixed resolutely on the planter in front of him.

Rung let the silence build for a matter of moments, and then Sam felt a gentle touch inside his mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He murmured.

The question struck Sam as odd, and he risked a glance at the psychiatrist. Rung was watching him with an air of calm professionalism that Sam recognized immediately—it was his therapist face.  

“Why do you do that?” Sam asked.

Rung tipped his head to the side as though in confusion. “Do what?”

Sam made a frustrated sound as he brushed the dark soil off his hands. “You always ask whether I want to talk, even though I never do. Why not just ask your question?”

“I believe that’s what I did.” Rung gently replied.

Sam was tempted to scoff or roll his eyes, but he did neither. Instead, he folded his arms over his chest and frowned at the psychiatrist. “You know what I mean.”

Rung reached down, picking up a square of metal mesh and wiping off his servos.

“Would you rather I pester you with questions?” He asked, thoughtfully.

Sam narrowed his eyes in irritation. “Obviously not.”

“But you expect me to do so.” Rung surmised.

“Well, yeah.” Sam huffed, “It’s called ‘talk therapy’ for a reason.”

Rung made a considerate noise as he set the cloth on the table.

“I think I see your point.” He replied, “Let me ask you this: do you trust me?”

Sam frowned, taken aback by the question.

“I don’t distrust you.” He eventually replied.

The psychiatrist inclined his head in a manner that suggested Sam had proven his point.

“Unless the answer is a resounding positive, then it’s a negative.” He said gently, “I want you to open up to me on your own time.”

Sam’s frown returned, pulling down the corners of his mouth. “That’s not generally how it works, at least in my experience.”

“I am not Karen Anderson, and we are not working on some preconceived notion of the therapeutic process.” Rung replied, transferring the potter to a nearby table and positioning it beneath the grow lights, before turning to look at Sam. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.” 

The reassurance made Sam’s throat thicken unexpectedly, and he turned his face away.

“And if I’m never ready?” He murmured.

To his surprise, Rung actually chuckled at the question.

“I have read a great deal about humanity since we arrived on Earth.” He began, curling his servos around the edge of the table and leaning his weight against it, “Your species has over six hundred ethnic groups, six thousand languages, and ten thousand distinct religions—at present. You’re a complex, diverse, resilient people, and I have full confidence in you.” 

The words touched him, and Sam’s mouth curved up in a faint smile. “…Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Rung replied good-naturedly, “Now how about we go for a walk?”

Sam’s smile curled a little wider at the question. “A walk? Where to?”

Rung returned his smile as he gave a carefree shrug. “Wherever the wind takes us.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam replied, smiling wider still, “That’d be cool.”

Rung nodded in approval as he swept an arm towards the door. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets as he crossed the room, Rung falling into step beside him. The doors slid open as they approached, and then they made their way into the corridor. The hydroponics lab was on the second deck, a short distance from the science laboratory and the medical bay. They made their way from the science section and into the berthing section in companionable silence. It wasn’t until they passed Sam’s quarters on their way towards the atrium that he turned, glancing sidelong at the psychiatrist.

“I can’t believe I never thought to ask: what is your alt mode, anyway?”

Rung shook his head faintly. “Ah, yes. Well. I don’t have one.”

The psychiatrist’s tone was light, but Sam’s step faltered all the same.

“Wait. You don’t have an alt?” He asked in surprise, “Really?”

“Well, I suppose that’s not quite true.” Rung replied, lifting his servos in an expressive shrug, “But I don’t have a vehicle alt mode. Officially, my alt is considered an ornament.”

Sam stared at him for a long moment, before remembering his manners and hastily looking away. He could feel the heat rising in his face as he replied, “I’ve never heard of that before.”

Rung gave him a wry smile. “It’s quite alright, Sam. You’re not the only one. The… impracticality of my alt mode has confounded experts for years. They settled on the classification of ‘ornament’ after much discussion and debate.”  

Sam frowned, glancing back at the psychiatrist as they rounded the corner. “What do you mean they settled on it?”

“Mechanoids are driven to categorize and organize, especially functionists.” Rung replied, “My alt mode was considered an aberration; there is nothing useful, after all, about an ornament. I even wore prosthetic wheels to avoid their scrutiny, for a time.”

Sam could feel the heat stealing across his face as his pulse quickened in sympathetic outrage. “That’s horrible. I’m sorry.”

Rung glanced sidelong at him, meeting Sam’s gaze. “I do not consider myself deficient, although it took a long time before I could accept my quirks. In fact, my struggles with identity and belonging are what drove me to become a psychiatrist.”

Sam frowned, too caught up in his own thoughts to reply. The more he learned about Cybertron before the civil war, the more he didn’t like it. The caste system was archaic and brutal—mechanoids lived their entire lives with no hope of change or betterment. It went against everything that Sam believed about morality and autonomy.

Something of his internal struggle must have shown on his face, for Rung slanted him a wry half-smile.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He teased.

Sam worked his jaw, unsure what to say.

“Functionism is wrong.” He said at last, “Morally, ethically wrong. You can’t just do that to people. It’s not right.”

Rung tipped his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Yes, I would imagine you think so.”  

Sam’s frown returned, pulling down the corners of his mouth. “You don’t?”

“Oh no, I do, certainly.” Rung replied patiently, “It has its purpose, but ultimately the caste system causes more harm than it prevents.”

Sam mulled over his answer as they approached the mess hall. The wide double doors were standing open, spilling twinkling multicolor light across the corridor. Sam’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline, but before he could voice his confusion, Burl Ives’ Holly Jolly Christmas burst out at top volume, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin.  

“What the fuck?” He managed, quickening his step.

Rung kept pace at his side, an expression of tolerant amusement on his face. Sam stepped into the entryway, before pulling up short as his mouth fell open in surprise. The mess hall was almost unrecognizable. A large Christmas tree stood in one corner, decked out from trunk to crown in twinkling lights and ornaments. There were strings of tinsel garland looped around the perimeter of the room, interspersed by wreaths hung in even intervals. Sam took another step into the room, his eyes flitting from the standing reindeer decorations, to the faux fireplace that had been erected against the far wall, to the seven-foot tall artificial snowman complete with top hat and carrot nose.

“What… the fuck?” He repeated, faintly.

“’Tis the season, Sammy-boy!” Hot Rod said jovially.

It took a long moment before Sam could tear his eyes away from the Christmas tree, which had been decorated with such precision that either Prowl or Ultra Magnus had clearly been involved, in order to turn his head. When he did, he came face-to-face with a grinning Hot Rod, who was wearing a string of Christmas lights around his shoulders like a feather boa.

“Oh. My. God.” He managed.  

“Your god can’t help you now.” Knock Out smirked.

The medic was standing next to the kitchenette, which had been adorned with red ribbons on the cupboard doors and appliances. Cliffjumper and Bluestreak were also there, standing near the tree, while Hound was in the process of adding another reindeer to the growing menagerie. Bumblebee stood in the center of the room, his optics shining with barely restrained emotion.

“What do you think?” He asked.

Sam had to swallow against the lump in his throat before he could reply. “I didn’t realize it was Christmas already.”

“The day after tomorrow.” Bumblebee replied, taking a step closer. “Do you like it?”

Sam glanced around the room, taking in the carefully placed tinsel and garland, and the long row of individualized stockings hanging over the fireplace decal on the far wall. It left him feeling warm and appreciative and fond in equal measure.

“Yeah, Bee.” He murmured, “I love it.”

Bumblebee’s expression softened with affection. Before he could say anything, however, Jazz chuckled from where he sat reclining back against the trestle table.

“You haven’t heard the best part, kid.” He grinned, “Rumor has it, Cyber-Santa and his elves have some surprises in store for good little boys and bots.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked, pushing his hands into his pockets as he crossed the room, “And would Cyber-Santa’s elves look anything like Prime’s Special Ops?”

Jazz’s answering grin was sharp. “Now that would be tellin’.”

Sam grinned right back at him. The thought of Mirage being ordered to sneak around the ship with a sack full of presents slung over one shoulder was a mental image for the ages.

“Did you see the display?” Hound asked, materializing at Sam’s side, “I wanted to bring all nine reindeer, but I was forced to compromise.”

Sam turned his head, glancing up at the sentry with a fond smile. “I did. It’s very nice.”

Hound looked pleased by the compliment. “Thank-you, Sam. I got them at a discount. It was a steal of a deal.”

Sam’s expression warmed with amusement as he asked, “A discount?”

The sentry nodded definitively. “Of course. You should never pay full price for seasonal decorations.”

Rung, who had stopped a short distance away, was surveilling the room in visible enjoyment.

“This is lovely.” He said, “I have read about Judeo-Christian holidays. Are you devout?”

Sam half-turned, directing a wry look at the psychiatrist. “No, not at all. I probably would have considered myself an atheist before… well, you know.” He shrugged a shoulder in good-natured resignation. “Besides, Christmas is as much a cultural holiday as it is a religious one. My parents go all-out every year. They love it.”

“Oh?” Rung asked, “Is it also your favorite holiday?”

Sam considered the question for a moment before he replied. “Yeah, probably. Well, Christmas or Halloween.”

“We would often visit Sam’s grandmother for Christmas.” Hound added as he carefully repositioned the reindeer to his liking, “She and Sheena were always gracious hosts.”  

Rung seemed intrigued by the comment, but Hound’s interjection made Sam realize that he hadn’t introduced the psychiatrist to any of the others. He flushed in embarrassment as he hastily said, “Oh, this is Rung. He’s… helping me out.”

Jazz chuckled as he pushed himself to a standing position. “Nice to meet you, Rung.”

There was something wry about the saboteur’s tone, but Rung returned the greeting without compunction. “It is nice to meet you as well.” 

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but—” Jazz sub-spaced a Santa hat and pulled it down over his left audial horn, “Duty calls.”

Sam barked a loud laugh at the sight. “Oh, please. Like you’d be Santa Claus—that’s Prime or Magnus for sure.”

Jazz chuckled as he adjusted the hat, and then he tucked Sam under the chin with a knuckle. “You’re foolin’ yourself if you think Santa wasn’t part of Spec Ops. ‘He sees you when you're sleeping / He knows when you're awake / He knows if you've been bad or good / So be good for goodness sake’? C’mon, Sammy. Those aren’t his elves, they’re his spies.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t prevent the smile that spread across his face. “Uh-huh. Sure thing, Mr. Claus.”

“Ho. Ho. Ho.” Jazz replied with a shit-eating grin, before starting off across the room.

Sam turned, watching him go with a wry twist of his mouth. The attention vacuum created by his departure didn’t last long—Hound quickly stepped forward, eager to show them around the room. Sam obliged him, letting the sentry lead him from one end of the mess hall to the other. Hound pointed out each decoration, display, and table arrangement with obvious enthusiasm. While Bumblebee followed along, observing Sam’s reactions in quiet pleasure, Hot Rod and the others opted to kick back at the tables. By the time Sam had seen all there was to see, he was feeling appreciative and impressed in equal measure.

“I have no idea how you guys kept this a secret.” He laughed.

Bumblebee chuckled in amusement. “I think I’m insulted.”

“I’m definitely insulted!” Hot Rod called across the room.

Sam grinned, warmed by the banter, as he went about making his supper. Rung took his leave shortly thereafter with a reminder to meet again in two days’ time. The chicken tikka masala was perfectly cooked, even though it was re-heated, and Sam ate while sitting cross-legged on the trestle table in the center of the room. Hot Rod, Knock Out, and Cliffjumper had a bizarre dynamic—Roddy and KO would flirtatiously insult one another, while Cliff ran interference. Bluestreak was uncharacteristically quiet, only chirping in agreement whenever Cliffjumper added anything to the conversation.

When Sam finished eating, Bumblebee helped him down to the floor. He walked across the room to the kitchenette, before binning his garbage and wiping down the counters. As he rung out the dishcloth, he glanced over his shoulder at the yellow scout.

“Are you off-duty?”

Bumblebee shook his helm. “I’m afraid not. I’m due downstairs in ten.”

Sam knew that Bumblebee was referring to the shield generators, which were located on the fifth deck.

“Bummer.” He said, reaching up and smoothing a hand across Bumblebee’s face plates, “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”

Bumblebee whistled affectionately, and Sam grinned, giving his helm a playful tug in farewell. He turned, glancing over at the table and waving good-bye. “See you later, guys.”

Hot Rod smirked at him. “Yeah, Sammy. See you later.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he managed to leave the mess hall without saying anything sarcastic. The second deck was quiet, given the hour, and he made his way through the ship without seeing another person. The doors to the science laboratory were closed, as were the doors to the hydroponics lab and the primary storage hangers. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets as he walked, mulling over the events of the afternoon. He was surprised by his reaction to the decorations in the mess hall. If someone had asked whether he wanted to decorate for the holidays, the answer would have been a flat ‘no’. Rather than homesickness or melancholy, however, the Christmas decorations had left him feeling… warm. 

No, Sam internally corrected himself. It left him feeling happy.

And wasn’t that an unexpected turn of events?

He made his way through the science section and towards the berthing hangars. The doors to the medical bay slid open as he passed, and he glanced inside. The hangar was quiet and empty—not even First Aid or Hoist were anywhere to be seen. The sight caused his brow to furrow in surprise. Ratchet was never not on duty, and there were always at least two others on shift at any given time. The thought spurred him to walk through the med-bay doors. The hangar was neat as a pin, with gleaming metal surfaces, empty berths, and an assortment of medical equipment located strategically around the room. Sam ambled towards the office on the opposite side of the medical bay, turning his attention inwards as he did so. Ratchet’s mental presence was walled-off and unreadable, which was strange in-and-of-itself.

The double-doors slid open as he approached, and Sam drew up short in surprise. Ratchet and Meltdown were standing so closely that their chests were almost touching. Ratchet was clutching Meltdown’s shoulder, while Meltdown’s servo had settled in the dip of Ratchet’s waist. They were both perfectly still, almost statuesque. Sam had never seen anything like it before. 

“What are you two doing?” He asked, confusedly.

Ratchet’s optics spiraled open in an instant, and he jerked away from Meltdown as though he had been burned. Meltdown’s optics brightened a moment later, before he turned to look at him in rueful consternation. At the same time, the smell of charred ozone hit Sam full in the face.

Comprehension came hard and fast.

“Ohmygod.” Sam blurted, speaking so quickly that the words slurred together, “Why didn’t you lock the door!”

Ratchet had seemingly recovered from his surprise for he fixed Sam with a disapproving glower. “The doors are keyed to admit you. I suggest you knock next time.”

Sam could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he backpedaled towards the medical bay. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished that Megatron would rise from stasis-lock and kill him right there, “I mean, I’m sorry for… I mean, yes, I’ll knock next time!”

Meltdown gave him a sympathetic look—no wonder, he had probably never seen someone die of embarrassment before—but Ratchet just folded his arms over his chest and scoffed.

“Contrary to what you might believe, you and Bumblebee did not invent physical intimacy.”

“I know that!” Sam cried, stumbling through the office door, “But it doesn’t mean I wanted a demonstration.”

Ratchet and Meltdown followed him, and a moment later, the door slid shut behind them. Sam had never been more thankful to be back in the medical bay in his entire life.

“Are you quite finished?” Ratchet asked, coolly.

Sam’s face was burning in mortification, but he jerked his head in the affirmative. “Yes. God yes.”

“Good.” Ratchet grumbled. “I had planned to talk with you about this eventually, but now is as good a time as any.”

Sam’s blush deepened to a brilliant crimson as he vehemently shook his head. “Nope, that’s okay. Really. I’m all good. No talk necessary.”

“Not that talk, you little idiot.” Ratchet groused, earning himself a sharp look from Meltdown. He continued on, either oblivious or indifferent as to his companion’s disapproval, “You should know that Meltdown and I were in an intimate relationship before the war.”

Sam blinked, taken completely by surprise. He had never even heard of Meltdown before the Lost Light landed on Earth and completely fucked up his life. It seemed impossible that Ratchet of all people had had a long-lost romance, and no one had ever even mentioned it.

“Uh… mazel tov?” He managed.

He could feel the swell of Ratchet’s exasperation, even through the firewalls that separated them.

“We are both amenable to resuming the relationship, if we are still compatible.” Ratchet continued, as though Sam had never spoken, “As my conjunx, Meltdown will have access to both my office and my hab-suite. As such, you would do well to knock before you enter.”

“I doubt I’ll make that mistake again.” Sam muttered.

“I have complete faith in you.” Ratchet drawled.

Meltdown rumbled something reproachful sounding, earning a drawn-out sigh from Ratchet in return.  

“Cybertronian courtship rituals are complicated.” He grumbled. “It involves four acts of affection and mutual kindness which cement the bond between two individuals. It may seem confusing, but you can approach me if you have questions.” Ratchet paused, as though considering his words, before he added wryly, “I might not answer them, but you can still ask.”

“Uh… thanks.” Sam replied.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way.” Meltdown murmured, causing Sam to glance over at him in surprise.

“Not half as sorry as I am.” He replied dryly.

Ratchet scoffed again, a sound of disapproval and derision given voice. “Is there a reason why you’re here?”

Sam shrugged, before pushing his hands into his pockets. “No. Not really. I was walking by when I noticed the medical bay was empty.” He paused, shifting his weight uncertainly as he added, “The guys decorated the mess hall for Christmas, so… Merry Christmas, I guess.”  

Some of the hard disapproval on Ratchet’s face softened minutely.

“Yes, Knock Out informed me.” He rumbled, “Did you enjoy it?”

Sam slanted a half-smile up at the chartreuse medic. “Yeah, I did. I wouldn’t have believed it.”

Ratchet made a considerate sound as he leaned back against the nearest berth. “Your glucose levels are normal, so I’m assuming you ate. Did you take your medication?”

“Yes, doctor.” Sam snarked.  

Ratchet snorted expressively in response. “Do you need anything? If not, you should get some rest. It’s past shift-change.”  

“No, I’m okay. I’ll head back.” Sam replied, intensely thankful for the easy-out.

Ratchet made an agreeable sort of rumble, before pushing away from the berth and making his way towards his workbench. Meltdown glanced from Ratchet’s receding form to Sam, before giving him a small smile.

“Rest well.”

Sam mumbled his good-byes before beating a hasty retreat. He made his way out of the med-bay and through the science section in record time. He stopped at the wash racks to use the bathroom and have a shower, before returning to his apartment. The room was dark and quiet, although the lights came up to half-brightness as he stepped through the door.

“JARVIS? What time is it?” He asked, already pulling his sweater over his head.

“JARVIS?” Hot Rod laughed, “Primus, humans will pair bond with anything.”

Sam squawked in surprise as he spun on his heel, fixing Hot Rod with an incredulous look. The cavalier was leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest and a lazy grin on his face.

“What the hell are you doing?” He demanded, distantly aware that his voice was higher than usual. “How did you get in here?”

The look that Hot Rod gave him was decidedly put-out. “Seriously, man?”

“Shut up.” Sam grumbled, pulling his sweater back down, “What do you want?”

The smile on Hot Rod’s face grew a little wider, a little sharper. “I’m here to kidnap you.”

Sam stared blankly back at the cavalier. “…beg pardon?”

Hot Rod grinned, before pushing away from the wall and folding down into his alt mode. As soon as his wheels touched the polished metal floor, the Lamborghini popped open his driver’s side door.

“Get in, loser. We’re going out.”

Sam stared at the flashy alt in growing confusion. “What do you mean ‘out’?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Hot Rod replied, before rocking impatiently on his wheels, “Tick-tock, Sam. We’re on a schedule.”

Sam stared at the Lamborghini for a moment longer, before shrugging in resignation and climbing into the cabin. The door snapped shut behind him as soon as he was settled in the driver’s seat, and then Hot Rod was driving through the doors and down the corridor. The interior of the alt mode was all dark leather, with an expensive looking digital panel above the gear shift. As Sam watched, the entertainment console lit up and navigated to the radio, before Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal burst from the speakers.

“Is this a bad omen?” He asked dryly.

“We’re going to know in about five minutes.” Hot Rod returned.

Sam raised an eyebrow at the dashboard, but the cavalier said nothing else on the subject. They made their way through the berthing section, down the atrium ramp to the third deck, and into the engineering section. To Sam’s surprise, Bumblebee was parked outside the engine room. Hot Rod didn’t slow down as he drove past, and Bumblebee fell into position behind him. Sam twisted, looking through the back window as he reached out, brushing mental fingers across the winter-white glow at the edge of his mind. Bumblebee bumped against him, and Sam could glean impressions of anticipation and exasperation from the scout.

“What the hell is going on?” He asked, confusedly.

Hot Rod tutted at him as he turned down a long, empty corridor. “Spoilers.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard enough to hurt, before settling back into his seat. They made their way down another corridor, took another turn, and then they rolled through two wide hangar doors somewhere near the aft of the ship. As soon as they cleared the doorway, Sam’s heart leapt into his mouth. There, in the center of the room, was a ground bridge. The semi-circular archway was the only thing in the hangar, except for Cliffjumper and Bluestreak, who were parked a short distance away, and Wheeljack, who was standing at the control panel.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Sam asked, curiosity and confusion coloring his voice.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Wheeljack bobbed on his pedes and activated the ground bridge. The blue-green miasma burst to life in the archway, casting brilliant light across the metal room. Hot Rod continued towards the semi-circular arch without so much as slowing down.

“Wait!” Sam urged, bracing one hand against the door and the other against the center console, “Wait, wait, wait!”

Hot Rod did not wait. Instead, he drove straight through the swirling vortex, emerging a moment later in an unfamiliar room. Sam shook his head, trying to regain his bearings as Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Bluestreak came through the ground bridge behind them. Their signatures were almost lost in the thrum of hundreds of unfamiliar mechanoids—their sparks lighting up the neural-network in a wash of sensation and impression that left him reeling.

“Holy shit.” He breathed.

“Sam-my-man.” Hot Rod chuckled, navigating across the cluttered hangar towards the wide doors on the opposite side, “Welcome to the Lost Light.”

Notes:

Author's Note: Shenanigans are about to go down. :D

Thank-you to CarsonLane who has acted as my sounding board, editor, cheerleader, and enabler in equal measure. <3

Chapter 14

Chapter by arabis

Notes:

Author's Note: I want to thank every single member of the Signature Series Discord Channel. Your enthusiasm and support has meant more to me than you will ever know. Thank-you also to CarsonLane and GERM, who have acted as sounding boards, editors, and enablers in equal measure.

I don't deserve you guys!

Sam was rendered speechless, both by the unexpected turn of events and the distracting thrum of the neural-network. Hot Rod accelerated through the wide double doors on the far side of the hangar and into the corridor beyond, but Sam barely noticed. His attention was focused inwards, basking in the presence of so many mechanoids. Their spark signatures glowed at him, bright and vibrant and alive.

“This is incredible.” He whispered.

“Hm?” Hot Rod asked, before he made an understanding sort of warble. “Oh. Right. The Lost Light has a complement of two hundred mechanoids, though there’s usually a dozen or so serving onboard the Ark at any given time.”

Sam narrowed his eyes in concentration. The neural-network had a feeling to it that was difficult to describe. It wasn’t empty, as he had once believed, but it was vast. The presence of so many spark signatures in close proximity seemed to change its fabric somehow. Sam reached out, brushing mental fingers across the darkness.

“Was this what it was like on Cybertron?” He asked softly.

Hot Rod twiddled his steering wheel in an approximation of a shrug. “More or less.”

With concerted effort, Sam turned his attention away from the neural-network and back to the matter at hand. They were driving down a long, well lit corridor that was lined by square doors on both sides. The walls were two-toned, fading from a light lavender near the ceiling to pewter-gray near the floor. The walls were crosscut at chest-level by a narrow banner of geometric shapes that had been etched into the metal. The combined effect was aesthetically pleasing, albeit alien in design.

“Where are we going?” Sam asked, without looking at the dashboard.

“If I told you, then I’d have to kill you.” Hot Rod replied.

Sam rolled his eyes and flicked the Autobot emblem set in the steering wheel with a finger. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Keep your pants on.” Hot Rod replied, sliding the seat back as far as it would go, which caused Sam to startle in surprise, “We’re almost there.”

Sam settled back against the seat and brushed against the winter-white glow at the edge of his mind. Bumblebee’s mental presence was awash with exasperation and the hint of humor.

//Do you know where we’re going?// He asked, curiously.

//I do.// Bumblebee replied.

Sam waited a beat, and when nothing else was forthcoming, he gave his bonded a mental nudge. //Care to elaborate?//

“Hey, that’s cheating!” Hot Rod protested.

//Nope.//

Sam couldn’t resist the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Did you at least tell someone we were bridging over?”

“Sort of.” Hot Rod replied.

The ambiguous answer made Sam sit up in his seat, pinning the dashboard with an alarmed look. “What do you mean sort of?”  

“Sam, Sammy, Sam-my-man. You worry too much. Just sit back and relax, we’ll be in and out, a few hours tops.” Hot Rod replied, slowing down to navigate a T-junction in the corridor.

“That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, Roddy.” Sam snarked. “If I get in shit for this, I’m throwing you under the bus.”

Hot Rod chuckled, seemingly unaffected by the empty threat. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Red’s the jealous type.”

It took Sam a second to catch his meaning, and then he threw back his head and laughed. He was still chuckling as Hot Rod drove into a small, windowless room at the end of the corridor. Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Bluestreak pulled in beside him, and then the doors slid shut behind them. It wasn’t until the room jerked and they started ascending that Sam realized they were in a lift.

“The Lost Light has elevators?” He asked surprisedly.

“Well, yeah.” Hot Rod replied, rocking back and forth on his wheels. “It’s almost two kilometers tall from hull to hull.”

Sam knew the ship was large—it had been an imposing sight in the sky above Diego Garcia—but he had no idea it was that large. The Ark was less than half a kilometer tall, by comparison, and it was an enormous ship by Sam’s standards.

“Why is it so big?” Sam asked, flabbergasted.

//It’s a deep-space battle frigate.// Cliffjumper replied, his voice emanating from the speaker’s on Hot Rod’s dashboard. //Its size is a reflection of its function.//

Sam mulled over the words for a few seconds before asking, tentatively, “So… the extra room is for fuel and energon?”

//As well as weaponry and ammunitions, yes.// Cliff agreed, //There is good reason why Sentinel Prime was able to defeat the remaining Decepticons without incurring significant losses.//

As Cliffjumper spoke, the lift shuddered as it came to a stop, and then the doors slid open to reveal another long corridor. Hot Rod rolled forward, driving out of the lift before accelerating to thirty miles per hour. The halls were virtually identical to the ones on the lower deck with one notable exception: these corridors weren’t empty. They passed numerous mechanoids as they drove, both in bipedal mode and alt mode. Sam leaned forward, staring in wide-eyed curiosity at the vehicles they passed. They were similar enough to Earth vehicles to identify them as such, but otherwise their designs looked nothing alike. Some were boxy and cube-like with treads instead of tires, while others were long and sleek, with wide fins and tapered spoilers. None of the vehicles they passed had windows or doors, although a few had a sloping, semi-transparent metal panel at the front that might have been a windshield.

“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.” Sam admitted.

Hot Rod scoffed, causing Sam to glance at the dashboard in surprise.

“What, those jalopies?” He asked, “You should see the specs for my original alt mode—it’s a thing of beauty.”

Sam’s face split in a wide, toothy grin. “Roddy, you are hands-down the vainest alien I have ever met.”

“Thank-you.”

The sincere appreciation in the cavalier’s voice made Sam burst out laughing. He could feel swell of Bumblebee’s emotions across their bond—exasperation, amusement, affection, relief. It made Sam smile widely, and he bumped against the scout as they took another turn. The corridor was shorter than the others, ending in a set of double doors that were standing wide open. There was a neon sign affixed to the wall above the entryway, casting garish red light across the polished metal. Sam sat up straighter in his seat, curiosity and anticipation building with every meter they drove, until at last Hot Rod pulled through the doors.

Whatever Sam had been expecting, this was decidedly not it.

The room was relatively large, at least according to Cybertronian standards. There was a wide, circular table in the center of the floor, surrounded by a dozen or so chairs. There were booths taking up the full length of one wall and smaller tables arranged against the other. Sam’s eyes were immediately drawn to the wall opposite the entryway, which had a long, square counter in front of four cylindrical tanks. The tanks were made of a transparent material, providing a clear view of their glowing, liquid contents.

Sam stared in stunned silence for the space of several heartbeats before he blurted, incredulously, “…Is this a bar?”

Hot Rod drove towards the smaller tables arranged on one side of the room, before pulling to a stop and popping open his door. Sam scrambled out of the cabin without prompting and stared around the room in amazement. There was a large monitor affixed to the wall to his left that was easily the size of a home theatre screen. It was tuned to some kind of sports broadcast that involved alt modes and an obstacle course. Sam watched as a small dune-buggy like vehicle accelerated over a ramp, briefly catching air before landing again on the other side of a deep ditch.

“I take back what I said.” Sam grinned, “This is the coolest thing I have ever seen.”  

Bumblebee, who had transformed into his bipedal mode, crouched down beside him. The scout was watching him with a delighted expression on his face, while Hot Rod, Cliffjumper, and Bluestreak pulled out seats at a nearby table. The sound of approaching footsteps caught Sam’s attention, and he half-turned as Swerve ambled towards them.

“Welcome to my humble establishment.” He greeted, dropping into a low bow, “I’m honored to serve—and I mean that quite literally.”

Sam’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “This is your place?”

“It is indeed.” The roadster replied, planting his servos on his hips with an easy smile. “What can I get you?”

Sam assumed the question was directed towards Bumblebee or the others, but when Swerve continued to stare at him expectantly, he glanced towards the bar in confusion. He surmised that the glowing liquid inside the canisters was energon, but he doubted the roadster would have anything that he could safely consume.

“Uh…” Sam trailed off, “I’m good. Thanks.”

From his place lounging at the table, Hot Rod chuckled at him.

“C’mon Sammy, you don’t think we’d leave you high and dry, do you?” He asked. At Sam’s perplexed expression, Hot Rod rolled his optics and sub-spaced an amber-colored bottle, which he tossed in his direction. Sam caught it with both hands, his face splitting in a wide, disbelieving smile as he read the label: Glenlivet 18-Year Single Malt Scotch.

“Carter sends his regards.” Roddy grinned, interlocking his servos behind his helm.

“Oh my God.” Sam managed faintly, turning the bottle over in his hands, “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

Bumblebee made an amused sound, before cupping his servos and extending them towards him. Sam grasped the bottle in one hand, before climbing onto the proffered palm and steadying himself with the other. Bumblebee straightened to his full height and carefully deposited him on the nearby table. There was no chair for him, so Sam sat cross-legged on the tabletop itself.

“Well, can I get you something or not?” Swerve asked good-naturedly.

“Do you have a glass?” Sam asked, gesturing meaningfully with the bottle, “Human-sized, preferably?”  

“I’ll see what I can find.” The bartender replied.

“Do you have Engex?” Bluestreak asked earnestly, leaning forward in his chair.

“Yes, I do—” Swerve began, but he never had the chance to finish before Bluestreak started talking over him.

“Oh! Wonderful. I haven’t had Engex in ages. The last time was at Maccadam's Old Oil House. Have you ever been? It was located just east of Iacon on sub-level six, near the Sherma Bridge. My partner and I used to go after shift when we had the shanix to spare. The facilities were nice and Maccadam was kind—he didn’t mind my talking, even back then. There was a little femme waitress named Lickety-Split that staffed the bar. I wonder whatever happened to her?”

Swerve stared at Bluestreak until he finished monologuing, and then he asked dryly, “So… Engex then?”

Bluestreak made a quiet, affirmative warble, and then Swerve turned to regard the rest of the table. “Anyone else?”

Hot Rod and Cliffjumper both ordered high-grade, while Bumblebee hesitated a moment before ordering a polonium spritzer. Swerve nodded sharply and made his way back over towards the bar. Sam watched him go, before twisting to look at his bonded who had taken the seat behind him.

“Polonium spritzer?” He asked.

Bumblebee ex-vented an exasperated snort. “It was an old favorite.”

Hot Rod grinned as he leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. “Newsflash Sam: your bonded is a lightweight.”

“I’m not a lightweight.” Bumblebee snorted.  

“The facts don't support that assertion.” Cliffjumper replied dryly.

Sam glanced from one mechanoid to the other, his smile stretching a little wider with each new quip, before he looked down at the bottle in his hands, “When did Carter give this to you?”

Hot Rod shrugged expressively. “The day after the Lost Light arrived.”

He was surprisingly touched by the knowledge that Carter had gifted the alcohol knowing that Sam would be in deep space when he received it. He smoothed his thumbs over the glossy label, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“That sounds on-brand for Carter.” He murmured.

Swerve arrived shortly thereafter, carrying a tray with both servos. Sam sat up a little straighter, staring in curiosity at the containers of glowing liquid that he placed in front of the four mechanoids. The high grade was a soft, opaque purple, while the Engex was a bold shade of Day-glo blue. The beverage placed in front of Bumblebee was a mellow lemon color, and to Sam’s surprise, it was fizzing visibly in its glass.  

“Here. This should do the trick.” Swerve said.

The bartender handed him a hexagon-shaped cube that was roughly the size of a Pyrex container. Sam turned it over in his hands—it was lightweight and transparent, but heavier than glass would have been.

“It’s transparisteel.” Swerve supplied helpfully, “I cleaned it, don’t worry.”

Sam slanted a smile towards the bartender. “Thanks Swerve. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, no problem.” He replied, returning Sam’s smile. “Consider it repayment for almost killing you that time.”

Bumblebee’s expression cooled by several degrees, causing Swerve to wince apologetically. Sam just laughed, setting the glass in front of him and opening the bottle with the twist of his wrist. He poured a generous portion into the container, before capping the bottle and setting it aside. He picked up the glass, well aware of the scrutiny that was being directed his way, and took an unhurried drink. His eyes fluttered shut as the whiskey rolled over his tongue, spicy and smokey and wonderful.

“Oh alcohol.” He groaned in appreciation, “I think I missed you most of all.”  

Bumblebee chirruped in amusement, causing Sam to glance over at him with a wry smile.

“Well, go on.” He urged, swirling the whiskey in his glass, “Let me try it.”

His bonded gave him an exasperated look, but he indulged him all the same. The polonium spritzer was different than energon—it was cool, and sharp, and carbonated in a way that was refreshing rather than satisfying. Sam’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline as Bumblebee set his cube back on the table.

“That was different.” He said, working his tongue around his mouth, “I think I like it better than energon.”

“Me next.” Hot Rod interrupted, nudging insistently against Sam’s mind.

Sam slanted the cavalier a wry look, but he pinged him all the same. A moment later, Hot Rod’s mental presence filled his head, eager and anticipative, as he took a long, deep drink. The high grade was different still—sharp, acidic, and metallic—and Sam pulled a face in response.

“That’s terrible.” He said matter-of-factly, pushing Hot Rod out of his head, “You make terrible life choices.”

“That’s my line.” Knock Out chuckled.

Sam half-turned, following the sound of his voice, only to find Knock Out, Hound, and Thundercracker approaching their table. The three mechanoids were in their bipedal forms—Hound in the lead, Knock Out and Thundercracker trailing behind. Sam couldn’t prevent the wide, happy smile that spread across his face at the sight of them.

“What are you guys doing here?” He laughed, delightedly.

“Sorry we’re late.” Hound said, sliding into the seat beside Bumblebee.

“My fault.” Thundercracker apologized with a rueful smile, “It’s a long walk from the ground bridge hangar.”

Sam grinned at him as the Seeker pulled up a chair. Thundercracker sat down, mindful of his wings, before reaching out to poke Sam in the chest. The friendly gesture caused Sam to rock back slightly, and he steadied his glass with both hands.

“I see you got your gift.” Thundercracker observed.

Sam grinned, lifting his glass in a haphazard salute. “Sure did.”

They were interrupted briefly by Swerve, who came for another round of drink orders. Thundercracker and Knock Out both ordered Visco, while Hound ordered something called Old Fortran. By that time, Hot Rod had finished his high grade, and so he ordered another. Sam thought that sounded like a capital idea, and so he finished the rest of his whiskey, before pouring a modest amount into his glass. As he sipped on the amber-colored spirits, he glanced around the room. The lights were at half-brightness, which illuminated the energon containers behind the counter and the monitors mounted to the walls. There were only a handful of other patrons milling about, either sitting in the booths on the far side of the room or occupying a seat at the bar. It was so similar to what he might have seen in a pub or tavern on Earth that he couldn’t help chuckling to himself.  

“Something funny, little man?” Hot Rod asked with a lopsided smile.

“Don’t call me that.” Sam protested in mock affront. “I might be little, but I can still hurt you.”

Hot Rod’s smile sharpened as he took another drink. “Oh, is that so?”

"Yeah, that's so." Sam grinned, before leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially, “Your paint job is garish.”

Hot Rod gasped dramatically, his servo flying to his chest, as he turned to look at Knock Out. The medic rolled his optics as he picked up his cube of energon.

“Your paint job is lovely.” He said dryly, “Don’t listen to the organic with only three color receptors.”

Sam just shook his head, a smile playing on his face, as he took another drink. The whiskey was room temperature, but it left a pleasant warmth in his belly. He turned, glancing over at Thundercracker who was sitting further away than the others. The Seeker was fingering the glass in front of him, his posture relaxed but alert. It made Sam realize that he was probably the only Decepticon on the ship.

Former Decepticon. He reminded himself firmly.

“Glad you were able to make it, TC.” He said, directing a warm smile at the Seeker.

Thundercracker’s expression was tolerantly amused. “Of course. I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“How’s Skywarp?” Sam asked, attempting to draw him into conversation.

“He’s fine. Working.” Thundercracker replied with a shrug, “Oh. Here. Merry Christmas.”

The Seeker reached out, sub-spacing a cube-shaped package and setting it on the table between them. Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord as he leaned forward, pulling the box towards him. It was wrapped in Santa Claus themed paper, and whoever had done the wrapping had done a decent job of it.

“What’s this?” He asked, a shy smile spreading across his face.

“It’s a gift. From Skywarp.” Thundercracker replied. “Well, from both of us, I suppose, but Skywarp picked it out.”

Sam glanced up at Bumblebee, who was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. He nudged the scout through their bond, before setting aside his glass and pulling at the wrapping paper. It only took a moment for him to recognize the gift, and when he did, he threw back his head and laughed.

"A snow cone machine?” He choked out.

Thundercracker looked pleased by his reaction. “It’s in its original packaging. He was very proud.”

Still laughing, Sam pulled the box into his lap. The packaging did indeed look older, with a plastic Snoopy on a red and white doghouse. Sam ran his fingers over the box, smiling so widely and so earnestly that his face hurt.

“I love it.” He said with feeling, “Where did he find it?”

Thundercracker waved a servo in a vague gesture. “eBay.”

Sam stilled, glancing up at the Seeker in dawning surprise. “…eBay?”

“Well, yes.” He replied patiently, “It’s vintage. They don’t sell them on Amazon.”

“Wait.” Sam said, holding up a forestalling hand, “Just… wait. If you can use eBay, why didn’t Barricade just buy my grandfather’s glasses?”

Thundercracker shrugged nonchalantly. “He didn’t have a credit card.” 

Sam stared at the Seeker in sinking dismay. “Are you telling me that the fate of Earth, Cybertron, and all of humanity hinged on the fact that Barricade didn’t have a VISA?”

Thundercracker seemed to consider the question, before huffing a wry laugh.

“Yeah, I guess so.” He replied. “It’s funny when you say it like that.”

The sheer absurdity of the situation rendered Sam completely mute. Eventually, he picked up his glass and knocked back the rest of his whiskey. It burned all the down.

“Primus has a fucked-up sense of humor.” He grimaced.

There was a sharp in-take of air from a short distance away, causing Sam to lift his head. He came eye-to-optic with an unfamiliar mechanoid, who was staring at him in naked surprise.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Hot Rod said reassuringly as he braced an arm against the table, “Mr. Allspark McPrime here gets a free pass.”

Maybe it was the alcohol singing in his bloodstream or the general camaraderie they were sharing, but Hot Rod’s words made Sam laugh out loud. The stranger looked taken aback for a scant second, before he turned around in his chair. His companion watched them for a moment longer, before hastily looking away after making eye contact with an unimpressed Cliffjumper.

Sam went to take another drink, only to find that his glass was empty. He stared at the container in consternation. Had that been his second drink? Or his third?

“It doesn’t matter either way.” Hot Rod grinned, pushing the bottle towards him with the tip of one digit, “Bottoms up.”

Sam pulled a face as the cavalier responded to his unspoken thoughts. He took a moment to shore up his firewalls, before picking up the bottle and unscrewing the cap with a well-practiced twist of his wrist. “I better not be hung-over tomorrow.”

They spent the next hour talking and drinking together. Sam eventually settled back against Bumblebee’s chest, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He held his glass in one hand, while he ran his fingers of the other over Bumblebee’s forearm. The metal was cool and smooth to the touch. Across the table, Hot Rod and Knock Out were sitting side-by-side. Although Knock Out was acting aloof, Hot Rod was far more generous with his physical affection. To Sam’s combined amusement and surprise, Knock Out tolerated his advances without complaint.

Or rather, without much complaint.

Cliffjumper finished his drink in companionable silence, while Bluestreak chatted at length about nothing in particular. Thundercracker was similarly introspective, only adding to the conversation in monosyllables, but he seemed to be having a good time. The bar was growing progressively busier as the time passed, with mechanoids of all shapes and sizes finding their way into the room. Sam was finishing his third drink when he happened to glance up and notice Mirage sitting at a nearby table. His brow furrowed in surprise at the sight of the former noble, but before he could say anything, he noticed Smokescreen and Red Alert standing across the room. The tactician and security director seemed engaged in a quiet conversation, although they hadn't touched their cubes of energon.

“Sam, do you think that Sheena will notice our absence?” Hound asked abruptly.

Sam turned, glancing across the table at the sentry. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, we visit her every Christmas.” He replied unhappily.

Sam considered the question as he drummed his fingertips against his glass. “Well, I suppose she might, but Nan will keep her busy.”

“That’s good.” Hound murmured. “I wouldn’t want her to be lonely.”

Sam smiled fondly as he finished the rest of his drink. He considered pouring himself a fourth, but he was feeling pleasantly drunk, and so he opted for the water instead. He cracked open the bottle, taking an experimental drink. The water was room temperature and a little stale, but it tasted good all the same.

The room was filled with the sound of low talking, the scrape of chairs, and the clinking of glassware. Despite the fact that he was on an alien spaceship in the middle of nowhere, it was still the most normalcy that Sam had had in a long time.

The thought warmed him as surely as the alcohol.

He was just about to ask Bumblebee to take him to find the wash racks when he noticed Crossblades making his way across the room. The second-in-command was followed by two other airframes: a blue and white mechanoid with elegant wing-flaps and a navy blue mechanoid with rotary blades hanging down his back.

He sat up a little straighter as they approached, fixing the second-in-command with an easy smile.

“Hey Crossblades. Did you want to join us?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam became aware of an odd tension in the air. The conversation at the table had died off as Crossblades approached, and Bumblebee had gone preternaturally still behind him. Hot Rod and Cliffjumper turned in their seat to regard the newcomers, but there was nothing welcoming about their body language.

“I appreciate the invitation.” Crossblades rumbled in reply. “Thank-you Sam.”

As Sam opened his mouth to suggest they pull up a chair, Crossblades brushed across his mind. The touch was featherlight and gentle, but it was well outside the bounds of polite convention, and Sam jerked away in surprise. He didn’t have the chance to react any further before Bumblebee squealed in outrage and threw himself at the second-in-command. The two mechanoids went to the ground in a tangle of limbs and screeching metal as Sam scrambled to his feet.

“Bumblebee!” He shouted, aghast, “What are you doing!”

Suddenly, Sam found himself scooped up by Cliffjumper. The red scout smoothly pirouetted away from the table, clutching Sam close to his chassis as he did so.

“Put me down!” Sam snapped, pushing against Cliff’s chest plates.

“Not a chance.” Cliff replied, stepping away from the fray.

Sam twisted in his grasp until he could watch the scene unfolding in front of him. Bumblebee drew back a fist, punching Crossblades across the face. His optics were burning like a butane flame above the smooth expanse of his battle mask. Crossblades grunted at the impact, before hooking one heel around Bumblebee’s knee and rolling over, effectively pinning the smaller scout beneath him.

“Get off him!” Hot Rod snapped, leaping to his feet.

“Sit. Down.” The blue flier rumbled.

Hot Rod pushed his chair aside, making to grab at Crossblades, when the flier caught him by a pauldron and threw him against the table. The impact rocked the assorted beverage containers, sloshing energon across the metal surface.

“Mind your manners, cavalier.” He growled.

Sam leaned to one side, desperately trying to catch sight of Bumblebee. The scout’s body was obscured by furniture and mechanoids alike, but Sam could feel his rage and affront rolling across their bond in waves.

“Oh-ho.” Hot Rod drawled, battle mask engaging, “I thought it smelled like bitch in—”

Whatever Roddy was about to say was cut off as the flier sucker punched him in the throat. His helm snapped back, clanging against the table, as the flier started peppering his mid-section with blows. Hound jumped forward, grabbing the flier by his arm, only to get elbowed straight in the face. The sentry grunted in pain, his left optic sparking precariously as it dimmed to black.

Suddenly, Jazz was there.

The saboteur materialized from the crowd like an apparition. He grabbed the flier by his wing struts and threw him aside. The blue mechanoid collided with a nearby table and crashed to the floor. He didn’t even have the chance to get his servos underneath him before Mirage was wrestling him into submission. Hound hastily backpedaled out of the way as Jazz stalked towards Bumblebee and Crossblades. The saboteur’s expression was dark and hard—Sam almost didn’t recognize him. He grabbed Crossblades by a rotary blade, bending the metal until it groaned.

“Get off him.” Jazz growled.

Crossblades hesitated for a second too long. Jazz grabbed him around the throat, talons sinking into sensitive metal, before slamming him into the floor. The flier’s servos flew to Jazz’s wrist as he began to struggle, but the saboteur gave him a sharp shake.

“Stay down or I’ll put you down.” He promised coldly.

Crossblades seemed to consider his options, before raising his servos in surrender. Jazz stared down at him for a moment longer, his expression uncharacteristically hostile, before he slowly released the flier’s throat. Jazz stepped away, straightening to his full height. By the time he turned to look at Sam, his expression had grown wry.

“What did I say about good little boys and bots?” He asked dryly.

Cliffjumper set Sam on a nearby table, before bending over to help Bumblebee to his feet. Sam’s heart leapt to his throat at the sight of his bonded—his gleaming yellow plating was marred and dented, with deep gouges across his chest plates from Crossblades’ talons. The sight incensed him, and he rounded on the flier in a fury.

“What the hell is your problem?” Sam demanded, face flaming.

He was distantly aware that the crowd was being dispersed by Red Alert, but he couldn’t have cared less. Crossblades struggled to his feet, humiliation on his face.

“I meant no offense.” He ground out, “I thought you would welcome my advances.”  

“Your advances?” Sam repeated, incredulously, “What are you talking about? I’m bonded.”  

Crossblades pressed a servo against his side, staunching a thin trickle of energon. The sight gave Sam a savage twist of satisfaction deep inside his chest.

“Bonded pairs are not necessarily monogamous.” Crossblades replied stiffly.

Sam’s flush deepened in a mixture of embarrassment and outrage. “Well, this one is!”

Crossblades stared at him for a long moment, before lowering into a stiff-looking bow. “I apologize for misreading the situation. Prime.”

His words were formal and polite, but his tone was cold. His companion, the navy-blue flier with rotary blades, crossed the room towards him. Hot Rod shoved him as he passed, spitting something decidedly rude sounding in Cybertronian. The flier bristled in response, turning and shoving Hot Rod hard against the chest plates. Roddy stumbled backwards, tripping over a chair, before crashing into their table and catapulting the half-empty beverage containers into the air. Sam barely had the chance to brace himself before energon caught him across the chest as it splashed to the floor.

He angled his head, staring down at the technicolor liquid, as Knock Out’s voice cut across the room.

“Get out of the way!”

His tone was sharp and urgent, and Sam glanced up in surprise as Knock Out shoved Hound aside. At the same time, he became aware of a building heat in his arms and chest. He frowned, plucking his shirt between forefinger and thumb, pulling it away from his skin.

“Don’t touch it!” Knock Out snapped, stepping up to the table and transforming one digit into a pair of shears.

The heat intensified as Knock Out cut Sam’s sweater and undershirt off his body. The medic tossed the soaked garments to the ground, but still the strange sensation continued to build—spreading across his left arm and upper chest like a rising tide.

“This is getting really hot.” Sam managed.

Knock Out’s expression was grim as he sub-spaced a bottle of water and handed it to him. “Pour this over yourself wherever you’re wet.”

Sam obeyed without complaint, twisting off the cap and upending the bottle over himself. It did almost nothing to alleviate the steadily building heat, which was transitioning into the first stirrings of real pain.

“Seriously, Knock Out, this is starting to hurt.” He gritted out.  

Knock Out’s expression was unreadable as he sub-spaced a large square of metal mesh.

“It’s only going to get worse before it gets better.” He said gruffly, drawing the material across Sam’s arm and chest.

When the medic finished drying him off, he gathered Sam up in his servos and tucked him close to his chassis. Sam grimaced as his skin pulled white-hot as Knock Out transformed around him. He found himself in the medic’s driver’s seat a moment later, and then they were accelerating across the room through the doors. The vents in the dashboard kicked on, blowing icy air into the cabin as a gel pack landed in Sam’s lap.

“Apply it quickly.” Knock Out ordered.

They made their way through the Lost Light to the ground bridge hangar. Focused as he was on the burns that were beginning to spread across his skin, Sam was only peripherally aware of Bumblebee following behind them. He was shivering in earnest by the time they reached the Ark. His arm throbbed painfully with each heartbeat, and when he lifted the cold compress, he could see that his skin was red and wet-looking. He swallowed down the bitter taste of bile as he quickly pressed the compress back against his burns. 

“Are you going to vomit?” Knock Out asked, matter-of-factly.

Sam took a fortifying breath before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you certain?” Knock Out asked, turning onto the atrium ramp, “I can sub-space a basin. I’d rather not clean energon and the contents of your stomach out of my interior.”

Sam fixed the dashboard with a wry look. “I’m sure. Thanks, though. Your concern is touching.”

Knock Out scoffed, but the sound was lacking its usual derision. They made their way up the ramp, past the second deck, before turning down the wide corridor in the direction of the mess hall. Sam was so distracted by both the pain and his embarrassment that he never even noticed Ratchet’s ire until Knock Out pulled to a stop in the medical bay. The Chief Medical Officer had his servos planted on his hips and a furious expression on his face.

“Ohmygod.” Sam managed, staring through the windshield in sinking dismay, “He’s gonna kill me.”

“Would that I could.” Ratchet snapped, rapping Knock Out sharply on the hood, “Get out.”

The Aston Martin popped open his door without protest, and Sam climbed gingerly out of the seat. The door snapped shut behind him and, as soon as Sam stepped away, Knock Out transformed into his bipedal mode. Sam was momentarily distracted from the coming Armageddon by the sound of engines rumbling in the corridor. He half-turned, glancing over his shoulder as Bumblebee, Hot Rod, and Hound rolled into the hangar. Their alt modes were noticeably damaged, with dents and scratches in their usually pristine metal plating.

“You three find a berth. I’ll deal with you in a moment.” Ratchet growled.

Sam turned back around, slanting a hesitant smile up at the irate medic.

“Hey, Ratch.” He tried, “Long time no see.”

Ratchet did not deign to answer him. Instead, he crouched down, gathering Sam up in his servos before straightening to his full height. Despite the cold fury that was radiating off the wizened glow at the edge of his mind, Ratchet’s actions were exceedingly gentle. He crossed the room to the berth filled with human-purposed medical equipment and deposited Sam directly onto the hospital bed. Sam leaned to the side, looking past Ratchet to watch as Bumblebee climbed onto a nearby berth. The yellow scout’s expression was unreadable, but his movements were stiff and awkward.

“Of all the pit-blasted idiocy.” Ratchet groused as his holoform materialized on the berth, “I’m going to enjoy writing up each and every one of you.”

Sam glanced back at the medic, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth.

“It wasn’t their fault.” He protested as the holoform stepped up to his bedside, “Crossblades started it.”

“Crossblades is a conniving little social climber.” Ratchet bit back as his holoform snapped his fingers impatiently. Sam obediently extended his burned arm, which the holoform grasped by his wrist and elbow, rotating the damaged appendage so that Ratchet could get a better look, “But it was your bonded that threw the first punch.” From his perch on the nearby berth, Bumblebee whistled something angry and sharp-sounding. Ratchet turned around, pinning the scout with a withering glare. “Be silent or I’ll remove your vocoder and use it as a paperweight.”

Bumblebee narrowed his optics, but otherwise he did not respond. First Aid and Meltdown suddenly appeared from the back office, each carrying a crate in their servos. The two medics crossed the room, First Aid going to Bumblebee and Meltdown going to Hot Rod. The cavalier was lying supine on the berth, and for the first time all evening, he was keeping his opinion of the proceedings to himself. Meltdown whistled something to Knock Out and extended the crate he held towards him. The medic inclined his helm in response, accepting the crate and setting it on the berth beside Hot Rod.

“You have first-degree burns over most of your arm.” Ratchet rumbled. “It will need to be bandaged.”

Sam cracked a lop-sided smile in an effort to lighten the mood. “Just like old times, huh?”

Ratchet fixed him with a glower that could have flash-frozen molten lava. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you.” When Sam opened his mouth to protest, the holoform squeezed his uninjured wrist in warning, “Not. One. Word.”

“Oh, come now Ratchet. It’s not as serious as all that.” Meltdown chided, coming to stand beside Ratchet’s bipedal mode, “It was just a bit of youthful mischief gone awry—no lasting harm done.”

Although Sam was thankful for the intervention, he still couldn’t quite look Meltdown in the eye after what he had walked in on earlier that day. The memory was burned into his brain like it had been branded there.

“I will thank-you to keep your opinion to yourself.” Ratchet rumbled icily as he started arranging medical supplies on the overbed table.

Meltdown sighed heavily, and a moment later, a holoform materialized on the opposite side of the bed. Sam started in surprise—the holoform was older, perhaps late fifties with dark hair that curled about his ears. Like Ratchet, his eyes were steel blue and his hair was shot through with gray. Unlike Ratchet, however, his holoform was dressed in a button-up shirt and slacks, rather than military fatigues.

“I can take over from here, Ratchet.” He rumbled, picking up the bandages that Ratchet’s holoform was arranging to his liking, “Knock Out will need your assistance replacing Hot Rod’s tertiary fuel-line.”

Ratchet stiffened in anger, but Meltdown just gave him a small, knowing smile. “You made me his secondary care provider, did you not? This will give me the chance to work with him. Go on—your newspark will be fine.”

Sam glanced from Meltdown to Ratchet, waiting for the inevitable explosion. To his surprise, the two CMOs stared at one another for a weighted moment, and then Ratchet gave a stiff nod. Sam’s eyebrows climbed all the way to his hairline as his Creator turned around, crossing the room towards Hot Rod. First Aid whistled at Ratchet as he approached, gesturing meaningfully to a spot near Hot Rod’s abdomen. Ratchet rumbled back, before taking his place next to Hot Rod’s berth, obscuring the cavalier from view.

“May I have your arm?” Meltdown asked, pulling Sam back to himself. He glanced over at the holoform, who was holding a nondescript tube in his hands, “I need to apply an ointment and then bandage your burns. It won’t hurt.”

Sam nodded faintly as he extended his arm towards him. Meltdown murmured encouragement at him, before pulling the overbed table up to Sam’s chest. The medic worked on applying a thin, clear gel to the worst of Sam’s burns. It was cool and left a pleasant numbness in its wake. When he finished, Meltdown set the ointment on the overbed table and picked up a roll of gauze. The holoform glanced up, meeting Sam’s curious stare.

“So, did you have fun?” He murmured.

Sam blinked, taken aback by the conspiratorial tone of the medic’s voice.

“Yeah.” He said eventually, “I really did.”

Meltdown’s eyes creased with a fond smile. “I’m glad.”

It took the better part of half an hour before Sam’s burns were treated and bandaged. When he finished, Meltdown gathered up the supplies and carried them across the room. Sam lay back against the mattress, watching as Knock Out and Ratchet worked on Hot Rod. The cavalier was silent until Ratchet stepped away to ready his supplies, and then he slanted a half-grin up at his companion.

“So, surgery huh?”

“Yes.” Knock Out replied coolly, “That’s what happens when you go up against a mechanoid twice your size, you absolute twat.”

Hot Rod’s grin curled a little wider as he reached out, giving Knock Out’s hip a squeeze. “Aw, c’mon Red. I wasn’t about to let Bumblebee get a beat-down.” Bumblebee raised his head, tickety-blatting something sarcastic sounding in Hot Rod’s direction. The cavalier cheerfully ignored him. “Don’t get your wires in a twist. I’ll be good—I promise.”

Knock Out slapped his servo away as he fixed Hot Rod with an unimpressed look. “When have you ever been good?”

The cavalier assumed an expression of wide-eyed innocence. “I’m good! I’m so good! Name one time I was anything less than good!”

“Are you serious?” Knock Out asked, “Do you want your transgressions listed alphabetically or by date?”

Hot Rod seemed unphased by the medic’s sarcasm. “So I’m spontaneous—it's one of my better qualities.”

“That’s enough.” Ratchet rumbled, returning to Hot Rod’s side and jacking into his medical port. “The surgery won’t take long, several hours at most, but you’ll be immobilized for a day or so while the welds set.”

Hot Rod groaned in dismay. “That sounds terrible. Look, here’s my counteroffer—”

Before Hot Rod could continue, he abruptly collapsed against the berth. Sam pushed up onto his elbows, concerned for his friend, but Ratchet and Knock Out began assembling their tools without any hint of urgency. Sam settled back against the mattress with a laugh once he realized that Hot Rod had been forced into stasis.

He’s going to be so pissed-off when he wakes up.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. First Aid tended to Bumblebee and Hound, repairing gouged metal and broken wires with his usual cheerful competency. Meltdown brought his meal shortly thereafter, and Sam picked at the stew as Ratchet and Knock Out worked on Hot Rod. As predicted, the surgery took about two hours in total, and then Ratchet disconnected his hardline as Knock Out began cleaning up. After he finished eating, First Aid handed Sam a familiar paper cup, before clearing away his tray. Sam swallowed the powdery tablets with a mouthful of water, and then he pulled the blankets up to his armpits. He fell asleep sometime later to the sound of Bumblebee, Knock Out, and Hound talking quietly to one another.

The following day was similarly uneventful. Sam awoke sometime after first-shift to the sound of Hot Rod arguing with Ratchet. He groaned, rolling onto his side and pulling the pillow over his head. It did little to muffle Hot Rod’s complaining. Meltdown changed his bandages two times, once in the morning and then again in the afternoon. Sam was allowed to go to the washroom to use the toilet, but otherwise he was consigned to bed. The only break in the monotony came in the early afternoon when Ironhide arrived to escort Bumblebee to the brig. Despite Sam's protests, his bonded went willingly—his optics narrowed and frame tense, but willingly nonetheless.

It was later that afternoon when Ratchet informed Sam that he was to meet with Rung at jour-ten.

“Why?” Sam asked, pushing up to his elbows. “We’re not scheduled to meet until tomorrow.”

“He changed the schedule.” Ratchet replied, lowering the rail of the hospital bed, “You'll have to ask him why yourself.”

And so, Sam found himself in the hydroponics laboratory less than an hour later. The room was quiet, except for the soft hiss of the misting system that kept the plants properly hydrated. He and Rung ambled down the aisles side-by-side. The psychiatrist asked him how he was doing (“Fine”) and whether he had fun the night before (“Yeah, mostly”). It wasn’t until they rounded the corner and started down the next aisle that Rung glanced side-long at him.

“Are you alright?” He asked softly.

Sam curled the fingers of his good hand around his bandaged arm. It didn’t hurt—not anymore. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

Rung glanced down at his arm, before his optics flicked back to Sam’s face. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. Crossblades will be reprimanded.” The words were spoken like a promise, but they made Sam uneasy all the same. Evidentially, something of his emotions must have shown on his face, for Rung asked, astutely, “Does that make you feel uncomfortable?”  

Sam shrugged wordlessly.

Rung walked at his side for another dozen paces, before turning to look at him. His expression was sincere and intense. "What happened last night wasn’t your fault.”

Sam flinched away from the compassion in the psychiatrist’s voice. He pushed his hands into his pockets, trying to put his thoughts in order, when the ship suddenly shuddered hard enough to rattle the planters against the tables. Sam turned, glancing at Rung in confusion.

“What the hell was—”

His words were lost in a startled scream as the ground suddenly dropped out from beneath him. He fell a short distance, before slamming into the floor. The room tilted precariously as the ship listed hard to port. Sam scrabbled at the polished metal, desperately trying to find purchase, as he began sliding towards the far wall. He was distantly aware of the sound of shattering pottery as Rung grabbed him by the bicep, halting his fall.

At the same time, an ear-splitting klaxon erupted from the overhead speakers. Sam winced, pressing his forehead against the floor, but there was no escaping the noise. The lights flickered off and on again as the ship lurched for a second time, and then the room righted itself with a groan of protesting metal. Sam lifted his head to find himself lying next to Rung, who had magnetized himself to the floor.

“What’s happening?” He demanded.

The psychiatrist pushed himself into a standing position, before helping Sam to his feet.

“We’re being boarded.” He replied tightly.

Sam’s stomach bottomed out at his grim tone. “Boarded? By who?”

Jazz’s voice was inside his mind before Rung had the chance to reply.

//Evacuate to the medical bay. I’m sending reinforcements to your location.//

Rung half-pulled, half-led him across the room, past the toppled tables and upended planters. Sam turned his attention inwards, shoving at the saboteur's mental presence.

//Is it the Upstart?// He asked, heart fluttering in his throat.

It took a moment before Jazz replied, and when he did, his voice was hard and flat.

//It’s the Decepticon Justice Division—they’ve come for their Master.//

Chapter 15

Notes:

Chapter Warning: Major Character Death, canon-typical violence, torture, trauma.

The brig was a relatively quiet area of the ship—or at least, it was in Bumblebee’s limited experience. The room contained four cells along the back wall and a long, narrow holding cell to the left of the entryway. The holding cell was intended for short-term incarceration, and as such, this was where he was directed.

“In ya git, bitlet.” Ironhide rumbled, nodding towards the interior of the cell. As soon as Bumblebee was inside, Ironhide activated the energy barrier—the translucent plasma shimmered into existence with an audible crackle. “For what it’s worth, tha’ was a nice right hook.”

Bumblebee resisted the urge to say something sarcastic, which would surely land him in solitary or stasis-lock, depending on Ironhide’s mood. Besides, he didn’t need to give Optimus any more ammunition for the lecture that he would inevitably receive. Bee crossed the floor and settled on the bench against the back wall. Ironhide double-checked the security panel, before ambling towards a table on the opposite side of the room. He nodded to Ultra Magnus as he passed—the City Commander nodded tersely in return without looking up from his workstation—before pulling out a chair and sitting down with a grunt. Even from a distance, Bumblebee could see that a Tadek board had been set-up on the table. Ironhide seemed to consider the playing tiles arranged around the board, before rumbling low in his chassis.

“Problem?” Kup asked, striding through the entryway.

“No.” Ironhide replied, gesturing towards the empty chair across from him, “Have a seat. I believe it was your turn.”

The Elite Guard glanced into his cell as he passed. Bumblebee returned his gaze without shame or remorse, for he felt neither. Kup gave an unimpressed snort, before making his way across the room and sitting at the table. He briefly considered his options, before pushing a stack of red tiles diagonally across the board.

“Ya sure you want to be makin’ that move?” Ironhide rumbled.

“I made it, didn’t I?” Kup returned smoothly.

Bumblebee watched as the two war-frames moved pieces around the board. Occasionally, one or the other would steal a tile, but otherwise neither gained an advantage—a surprise, given that Ironhide had been a Tadek grandmaster in the years before the war. Still, Kup seemed to be holding his own against the weapon’s specialist.

The silence stretched on, interrupted only by the occasional rumble of engines or the hiss of the air exchange system. Bumblebee briefly turned his attention inwards, leaning towards the warm presence at the edge of his processors. Sam was radiating a complicated mixture of uncertainty and discomfort that made his Guardian protocols ping a stream of low-level alerts. He dismissed them out of hand—he would speak with Sam later, after he was released from Ironhide’s tender mercies.

His thoughts were interrupted as the ship shuddered violently. Ultra Magnus stilled, raising his helm as Ironhide and Kup turned in their seats to regard him.

“What was—”

Ironhide never got the chance to finish his question. The ship suddenly listed hard to port, throwing Bumblebee into the energy barrier, and sending Ironhide, Kup, and the table crashing into the wall behind them. At the same time, the tactical network flared to life as the proximity alarm began wailing overhead.

Bumblebee planted his servos against the floor, frantically trying to push away from the energy barrier that was sending electric current racing through his frame. He was distantly aware of Ultra Magnus shouting something, but he couldn’t hear it over the static buzzing in his audials. Then, almost as quickly as it had happened, the ship righted itself with a groan of protesting metal. Bumblebee rolled onto his side, ex-venting harshly in an attempt to dispel the heat that was overtaxing his internals. Across the room, Ironhide and Kup lumbered to their feet, swearing so viciously and so creatively that Bumblebee would have been impressed—in any other situation. As it was, his attention was focused on the high-level alerts that were flashing across his visual display.

>>Proximity alert: unknown ship, 9000 kilometers. Make and model: galaxy-class warship.

>>Proximity alert: unknown ship, 7500 kilometers. Make and model: galaxy-class interceptor.

>>Proximity alert: The Peaceful Tyranny, 100 meters off starboard port.

Bumblebee’s spark iced over inside his chassis as the last alert rolled across his HUD. He struggled to his pedes, before lurching over to the energy barrier and slamming his servo against the metal archway.

“Let me out.” He demanded, harshly.

The high-level alerts continued, flashing across his visual display and coded with high-priority signifiers.

>>Warning: Unauthorized docking—loading bay.

>>Warning: Depressurization, fourth deck, section 5C.

>>Warning: Depressurization, fifth deck, section 6A.

>>Warning: Depressurization, fifth deck, section 2F.

“Let me out!” He roared, slamming into the wall again. He could feel Sam’s fear and confusion flooding across their bond—it would have brought his battle protocols online, had Ironhide not deactivated them just moments before. The initiation failure sent a flood of red-line warnings cascading across his HUD.

Ironhide and Kup engaged their weapons as they took their positions in front of the holding cells. The glow of ion and plasma canons sent bluish light gleaming across the metal floor. Ultra Magnus’ servos flew across the workstation in front of him, his expression pinched and stoic. A moment later, the security lights on all five cells flashed in unison as the energy barriers solidified into a force field.

Bumblebee’s fuel pump almost missed a beat as he realized that Ultra Magnus had initiated maximum containment protocols.

“What are you doing?” He demanded, pounding a servo against the solid barrier separating him from the brig, “Let me out of here!”

“Sorry, bitlet.” Ironhide rumbled, rolling his shoulders, “But that’s the safest place for you right now.”

Whatever Bumblebee might have said was forestalled by Sunstreaker’s arrival. The yellow scout burst into the brig, weapons primed and battle mask engaged.

“Lock it down!” He snarled.

Ultra Magnus flipped the emergency override switch, and the lights above the entryway flashed red as the blast doors began sliding shut.

If Bumblebee had had a heart, it would have frozen inside his chest.

“Let me out!” He screamed, throwing himself at the force field, “I need to get Sam!”

Ironhide glanced sidelong at him, sympathetic but unyielding. “You can’t help him. You’re a target, too.”

Bumblebee pounded his servos against the force field as the doors closed with a resounding clang. He could feel Sam’s terror, his desperation, and Bumblebee threw himself at the transparent barrier until energon flecked its glowing surface. At the same time, situation reports began rolling across the tactical network.

//Vos and Kaon have breached the airlock in Sector 5-D. Moving to intercept.//

//Hound and Trailbreaker, enroute to Sam.// Hound sent, //ETA four kliks.//

//Helex sighted on the fourth deck, heading to your position. ETA two kliks.//

Ironhide and Kup ignored his shouting, staring instead at the blast doors with a kind of grim certainty that he recognized all too well. Realizing the futility of his actions, Bumblebee sagged against the force field as he reached for Sam. His bonded was frightened but unharmed, so Bumblebee did the only thing he could do—he began relaying information.

//Has Tarn been sighted?// Prime demanded, sharply.  

//Not yet.// Prowl’s cool voice washed across the tactical network in reply, //Repositioning security teams to Decks 2 and 4.//

//I’ve lost optics on Vos.// Jolt cut in suddenly, his voice tight with anger, //He phased out on the third deck.//

//Tesarus has breached the hull. We’re preparing to engage.//

A sudden, terrible bang shook the blast doors on their hinges. Bumblebee stilled, turning towards the entryway in sinking dread. The doors were three feet thick and solid durasteel—nothing short of a Constructicon combiner team should have been able to put a dent them. A second and third bang followed the first, causing the metal to bow inwards with every blow.

Ironhide shifted on his pedes, a low rumble building inside his chassis. Sunstreaker took his place at his side, priming his weapons as Ultra Magnus pulled his shock rifle out from behind his desk.

//Tesarus has broken through the line of defense. He’s on his way to the brig. We need medical immediately—Bluestreak and Inferno are down.//

//First Aid is enroute.// Prowl replied, imminently calm. //Does anyone have a visual on Vos?//

As soon as Bumblebee relayed the message, the bond lit up with fear. He turned his attention inwards, spark sputtering in his chest, as Sam’s voice whispered across his processor, small and terrified:

//We have visual on Vos.//

 

---

 

Sam stood frozen to the spot as the intruder finished phasing through the wall directly in front of them. He was tall and lithe, with charcoal colored paneling and glowing purple accents. He could feel Bumblebee’s helpless horror as the intruder turned to regard them. His expression was thoughtful, measuring.

“Well met, relic.” He rumbled.

Rung flung out an arm, sweeping Sam behind him.

“Run.” He ordered, flatly.

Sam’s heart was beating so hard that he could feel it in his throat, thick enough to choke on. The psychiatrist planted himself between Sam and Vos, to the Decepticon’s visible amusement. He seemed to take in the smaller mechanoid, optics lingering over a frame without armor or weaponry, before chuckling.

“Are you so keen to meet your holy Maker?”

Desperate and terrified, Sam grabbed at Rung’s wrist. “Come on!”

Rung looked as though he was going to refuse for a brief moment, before turning on his heel and giving Sam a sharp shove. “Go! I’ll be right behind you.”

Sam turned, breaking into a run as Vos’s laughter echoed behind them. He could feel the swell of Bumblebee’s anxiety, and it spurred him faster still. Rung followed after him, his footsteps ringing against the metal floor. They were almost to the bend in the corridor when Vos phased through the wall in front of them, causing Sam and Rung to stumble to a stop.

“There is no need for these theatrics, little one.” He rumbled, pulling his leg through the wall as he turned to face them, “Come—you will be reforged with your Master once more.”

Sam realized, belatedly, that the Decepticon was toying with them.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Sam spat defiantly, before something possessed him to add, “And Megatron is not my Master.”

The Decepticon pulled up short, surprise flitting across his face.

“So, the fleeting whispers were true. You are indeed a Prime.” He rumbled.

Before Sam could reply to the strange non-sequitur, Rung grabbed him and dragged him backwards. He stumbled several steps before regaining his balance as the sound of engines reverberated down the corridor. Vos glanced up, scowling as Hound and Trailbreaker came around the corner at a fast clip. Sam almost went weak in relief, but then the Decepticon surged forward and grabbed him around the waist.

He had less than a second to struggle before they were phasing through the floor together. Sam couldn’t prevent his terrified scream at the feeling of cold metal closing around him, and then he was falling. He collided with the ground a moment later, hard enough to drive the air out of his lungs.

Vos straightened to his full height, glancing down at Sam in disdain. “So fragile is this anointed flesh.”

Sam pushed up onto his elbows, desperately trying to catch his breath. The Decepticon stared at him for a moment longer, his optics flitting over him from head to toe. Whatever Vos saw seemed to amuse him, for his face twisted into a cruel facsimile of a smile.  

“Primus favors his humble servant indeed to have delivered you so easily to mine hand.”

“You know nothing of His will, Decepticon.” Smokescream spat.

Sam angled his head to see Mirage and Smokescreen materialize from thin air less than a dozen feet away. Smokescreen launched himself at Vos, catching him around the waist and crashing to the floor together. The Decepticon shrieked in rage, and Sam could hear the sound of charging capacitators even over the clash of metal against metal. Mirage stepped forward, weapons primed and battle mask engaged, placing himself between Sam and the dueling mechanoids.

“Go, Sam. This is not the place for you.” He commanded.

Sam didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, before stumbling down the corridor in the opposite direction. He glanced over his shoulder to see Mirage and Smokescreen battling the Decepticon together—their movements fluid and coordinated, despite the chaos of battle. Vos lashed out, catching Mirage across the abdomen with his vibro-blade. The former noble stumbled backwards, hand flying to the stream of energon that was pouring from his internals. At the same time, Vos grabbed Smokescreen by the throat, claws tearing sensitive metal as he chokeslammed him into the floor.

“Let us then test who holds the favor of His spark.” He rumbled.

Smokescreen grabbed the Decepticon’s wrist, his arm-mounted canon charging in a rush. He never got the chance to use it. Between one moment and the next, Vos’ servos went transparent—and Smokescreen went transparent with them. The Decepticon pushed Smokescreen, still struggling, half-way through the solid metal floor.

“By His will.” He purred.

And then Vos let him go. Smokescreen rematerialized inside the metal plating, shorn crudely in half. The feeling of his spark guttering out rippled across the neural network like a shock wave. Sam stumbled to a stop, turning around to stare in panicked disbelief at Smokescreen’s body. He waited for a long moment, half-expecting the tactician to pull himself up, but Smokescreen remained where he fell, energon and internal fluids spreading across the floor.

“Run, Sam!” Mirage bellowed, before activating his dampening fields.

Vos half-turned, looking at the space that Mirage had previously occupied before blaster fire erupted from a short distance away. The Decepticon howled in pain as he unleashed a volley of counter-fire, but it streaked uselessly across the empty corridor.

At the same time, the sound of squealing tires caused Sam to turn back around. Jolt and Sideswipe drifted around the corner, transforming as they sped passed him. Jolt lashed out with his electro-whips as soon as he was within striking range, catching the Decepticon around both wrists.

Sam took advantage of their arrival to pivot on his heel and take off down the corridor. The sounds of battle grew louder as he approached the atrium. He burst onto the ramp, looking around to make sure the coast was clear before starting towards the second deck. He hazarded a sidelong glance towards the floor as he ran—and his blood turned to ice. Two of the largest mechanoids that Sam had ever seen in his life were peeling open the blast doors that separated the brig from the atrium. Blaster fire streaked through the gaping maw in the metal, pinging ineffectually off their armor.

A third mechanoid surveyed them, silent and alert. He was tall and plated in charcoal gray with massive wheels affixed to his pauldrons. He seemed eerily, unwaveringly calm as the two Decepticons tore apart the brig’s defenses. Then, as though aware of his audience, the intruder glanced up, meeting his wide-eyed stare. Sam realized, with a sort of detached surprise, that the intruder’s face had been surgically altered to resemble the Decepticon insignia.

“Sam!”

Sam turned, watching in weak-kneed relief as Arcee and Bulkhead sped towards him. The wrecker didn’t even hesitate before he transformed, vaulting over the railing and plummeting to the floor below to join the fray. Arcee squealed to a stop in front of him, her tires leaving skid marks on the smooth metal floor.

“Get on.” She snapped.

Sam scrambled to obey her. As he sat down, gripping the seat with his knees and clutching the handlebars for dear life, he heard the approach of thundering footsteps. He twisted on his seat, watching in disbelief as the third intruder ascended the ramp at an impossible pace. He was followed closely by two identical looking mechanoids, both plated in matte black and neon purple.

“Hold on.”

Arcee drifted sideways as her tires spun against the smooth metal, before shooting forward as she gained traction. Sam was distantly aware of the sound of rapid-fire transformation behind them, but he didn’t turn around—he couldn’t, if he wanted to keep his balance. Instead, he bent low over the handlebars and squeezed his eyes shut. Arcee was driving fast enough to steal the air from his lungs, and Sam had to turn his head to breathe. A moment later, Arcee took a sharp turn onto the second deck. Doors whipped past them as they shot towards the science section. It was quieter here, and as a result, Sam could hear the loud, throaty roar of hauler-grade engines directly behind them. He shivered in mortal terror, but neither he nor Arcee spoke a word until the medical bay came into sight.

“Get ready to run.” She instructed grimly, “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

Sam’s pulse was hammering in his throat, but he nodded numbly all the same.

Arcee’s engines increased in pitch as she pushed herself faster. A brief spike of determination was the only warning he received before she braked hard, swinging to a stop directly in front of the medical bay. Sam scrambled off the seat, launching himself through the wide double doors as Arcee initiated her transformation sequence. He had barely stepped inside the hangar when the doors started sliding shut behind him.

“Sam! Go!” Ratchet snapped, jerking his head in the direction of the back office.

Ratchet and Knock Out were standing at Hot Rod’s bedside, welding seams as fast as they could manage. Roddy was staring at the med-bay doors, his optics feverishly bright and battle mask engaged. He was sitting up on the berth, digits curled around the edges of the metal platform as the medics worked. All at once, Sam realized that the cavalier was still immobile, unable to fight or flee, as the medics desperately tried to save him.  

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Arcee’s scream ripped through the air, followed by the tell-tale thud of a body hitting the floor. Sam didn’t even have the time to wonder whether she was dead or alive before the third Decepticon appeared in the narrowing doorway. He grabbed a door in each servo, wrenching them back open with a shriek of protesting metal.

Ratchet straightened up, activating his surgical saw as he planted himself in front of Hot Rod’s berth.

“Tarn.” He spat.

Knock Out never wavered, never hesitated—he continued welding seams with the steadfast determination of a battlefield medic. At the same time, he leaned into Sam’s mind and nudged him sharply.

//Quickly! Hide!//

Sam slipped beneath the nearest berth as Tarn stepped fully into the medical bay. The platform provided poor cover, but he was small—he curled himself between the support beam and the wall, staying as low as he could. The Decepticon was an imposing figure, but he offered Ratchet a pleasant smile as he advanced.

“Come now, medic. No need for such incivility.” He rumbled, advancing further into the room. The two black Decepticons strode in behind him, taking their place at his left and right shoulder respectively. They glanced around the hangar, seemingly looking for combatants or weaponry, but there was nothing for them to find. Sam’s attention was momentarily captured as Ratchet’s office door slid open, revealing a strained and harried looking Meltdown. The surgeon drew up to his full height at the sight of Tarn and the others, but before he could step any further into the room, the Decepticon officer shook his helm minutely.

“Ah, ah, ah. Stay where you are please.” He rumbled as the fusion canon mounted to his arm brightened to off-white, “It would be a terrible waste to kill you.”

Meltdown stopped in his tracks, his expression dark and forbidding. One of the black Decepticons stepped around Tarn, striding down the length of the medical bay. Ratchet half-turned, watching him with narrowed optics. Sam shrank back as the Decepticon walked past the berth he was hiding under, making himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. The intruder stopped halfway down the aisle, one weapon trained on Meltdown and the other on Ratchet. Knock Out continued welding seams, the sputtering hiss of his plasma torch the only sound in the room.

Tarn tipped his helm, burning red optics pinned on Ratchet.

“You know what I want.” He rumbled.

Ratchet’s spine stiffened, but otherwise he did not move.

“I do.” He bit out in reply.

Tarn stalked forward, circling Ratchet slowly and carefully. The Decepticon officer left a sizable distance between them, remaining just out of striking range.

“Don’t be a fool.” He rumbled, his voice persuasive, coaxing. “Give me what I came for, and we shall leave.”   

“Slag and smelt you.” Ratchet growled.

Tarn considered Ratchet as he circled him, his expression contemplative and pensive. Ratchet turned, keeping himself between Tarn and Hot Rod. In doing so, however, the medic had to turn his back to the black Decepticon. Sam could see the tension in Ratchet’s body as he struggled to keep both combatants in his line of sight. The maneuvering seemed to amuse Tarn, for a sharp smile spread across his face.

“Don’t fret, medic.” He rumbled, “I have no desire to—” As he spoke, Tarn glanced towards Hot Rod’s berth. Whatever he saw caused his cool façade to shatter, replaced with sudden, feral rage.

“You.”

Knock Out turned, sub-spacing his energon baton with an audible crackle. He never even got the chance to raise his weapon, before the black Decepticon was on him. Knock Out lashed out, catching his attacker in the mid-section, but it did not slow him down. In the next moment, Knock Out was pinned against the wall, the Decepticon’s arm across his throat.

At the same time, Ratchet took advantage of Tarn’s momentary distraction to rush him. The surgeon had an intimate knowledge of Cybertronian anatomy, and he used that knowledge to devastating effect—his surgical saw severing energon lines and sensitive components in rapid succession. Tarn didn’t even make a sound as he grabbed Ratchet, one servo around his throat and the other around his forearm. There was a sickening crack and Ratchet’s surgical saw clattered to the ground. The medic sub-spaced a vibro-blade, but it followed his surgical saw a moment later. Clearly at the end of his patience, Tarn tossed Ratchet aside as though he weighed nothing. The medic slammed into the nearest berth, causing it to tip over and sending them crashing to the ground. Meltdown moved to go to his side, but he had a gun in his face before he could take a single step.

As Ratchet struggled to get to his feet, wounded and bleeding, Tarn stalked across the medical bay. For a brief moment, Sam thought he was headed towards Hot Rod, but the Decepticon walked by him without a second glance. Hot Rod was bellowing in Cybertronian, the glyphs coming so fast that he was practically spitting static. Sam couldn’t understand the words, but he understood the look of animal desperation on his face.

A look that was directed squarely at Knock Out.

The black Decepticon that had been pinning Knock Out against the wall stepped aside as Tarn approached. The medic had a brief moment of respite, before Tarn curled a servo around his neck and slammed him against the wall—once, twice, three times until Knock Out’s expression was dazed. Hot Rod was screaming now, struggling against the berth to no avail.

“Hello, traitor.” Tarn purred, a look of savage satisfaction on his face, “What a blessing this is.” 

Knock Out’s vocoder spat static as he reached up, clawing at Tarn’s wrist with both servos. The Decepticon chuckled lowly, as he leaned forward, pressing his mouthplates against Knock Out’s audial in a cruel mockery of a lover’s embrace.

“I have envisioned this moment ever since I learned of your treachery.” He spoke slowly, softly, as though he were picking over each word. Knock Out’s face twisted in a rictus of agony, although Tarn wasn’t touching him other the servo around his throat. “Know this, medic—I will cherish these memory files for the rest of my functioning.”

“Tarn! Stop!” Ratchet snarled, pulling himself off the floor, “I yield. I’ll give you the cypher!”

The Decepticon half-turned, glancing over his shoulder with a pleasant smile.

“Of course you will.” He agreed, “That was never in question. The medic’s life, however—” He shook Knock Out sharply to emphasize his words, “—has been forfeit from the moment he betrayed our Lord.”

With each word that Tarn spoke, Sam became aware of a strange tension in the air. It was an unpleasant sensation, like the sound of nails on a chalkboard, and it sent goosebumps across his skin. Knock Out writhed against the wall as though he were being flayed alive by the power of Tarn’s words.

Sam realized, in dawning horror, that was exactly what he was witnessing.

Knock Out’s spark signature was undulating erratically, brightening and dimming in sync with every syllable that Tarn spoke. As the Decepticon persisted, Knock Out’s agony and fear reverberated across the neural network as his firewalls fell apart under the assault.

Sam didn’t think, he just reacted—lashing out at the dark maw that was the Decepticon’s mental presence. Tarn jerked in surprise, but he didn’t let go out Knock Out’s throat as he turned, optics landing on him in an instant.

“Well, hello little one.” He murmured.

Sam felt a directionless swell of horror, although he couldn’t have said who it was from. He steeled himself, lashing out at the Decepticon for a second time. A look of irritation flitted across Tarn’s face, before he cuffed Sam hard enough to make him see stars.

As Sam stumbled backwards, Tarn leaned towards Knock Out once more. “I regret not being able to give you the execution you deserve.”

Tarn sank his talons through Knock Out’s chassis and tore the spark from his body. Hot Rod was screaming—in grief, in rage, in anguish—but Tarn paid him no mind. He held up the fragile metal spark casing, staring at it considerately, before crushing it to shards. He tossed aside Knock Out’s graying frame, before turning on Sam.

“I was told that you are spirited.” He said, shoving aside a berth as he advanced, “Come along, little one. It would not do to separate a newspark from its Creator.”

Sam felt a swell of incandescent rage a moment before Ratchet launched himself at Tarn. The attack seemed to take the Decepticon by surprise, for he stumbled backwards under the assault. At the same time, Meltdown pushed aside the gun that had been shoved in his face, before driving a surgical tool into his captor’s abdomen. The Decepticon shrieked in pain, falling to the floor as he reached for the blade lodged deep inside his internals.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Meltdown warned.

Ratchet’s mental presence pushed into Sam’s mind—he could feel the medic straining as he grappled with Tarn on the floor.

//Go now!// He snapped, //Get to Meltdown. He will take you to safety.//

Tarn cocked his fist before driving it into Ratchet’s face. “You will pay for that, medic.”

//Sam! Go!// Bumblebee snapped, pushing urgency across their bond-space.

Sam stood frozen to the spot, completely unable to move. He watched in distant horror as Tarn sank his claws into Ratchet’s exposed side, tearing out a handful of components. Ratchet bellowed in pain and anger, but he was unable to protect himself from a second blow.

“Get the boy.” Tarn snapped impatiently.

The uninjured Decepticon started across the hangar, tossing aside berths as he advanced. He had barely gotten a dozen feet before the sound of a rapidly approaching engine cut across the din. A moment later, Jazz burst into the medical bay at top speed. He transformed in the rapid-fire slide of metal against metal, before straightening to his full height. He was holding a wicked looking blade in each servo, and he raised his arm, pointing one weapon directly at Tarn.

“Damus, darling. I’d say it’s good to see you again, but we both know that would be a lie.”

Tarn’s face twisted with undisguised loathing.

“Meister.” He spat.

Jazz’s faceplates stretched into a thin, cold smile as his plating rapidly darkened to off-black. In the space of a blink, he vaulted across the room and tackled the second Decepticon to the floor. The Decepticon snarled in rage, grappling for Jazz’s arms, but the saboteur hooked a pede around his knee joint, leveraging the other’s greater weight to force him onto his stomach. Jazz’s expression was devoid of emotion as he grabbed the struggling mechanoid by his faceplates, yanking his helm back and drawing his blade across his throat cables. Energon sprayed across the floor and up the walls as the Decepticon gurgled in agony.

By the time Jazz rose to his feet, Tarn had Ratchet in a chokehold, his servo splayed over his spark chamber.

“Everyone is expendable, Meister.”  He rumbled in warning.

Jazz nodded once, perfunctorily, as he strolled to the wounded Decepticon’s side. Without taking his optics off Tarn, Jazz pulled the surgical implement out of his abdomen. The Decepticon warbled weakly, his servos pressing against his plating as he began rapidly hemorrhaging energon.

Tarn narrowed his optics, but otherwise he did not outwardly react. As the Decepticon and the saboteur squared off against one another, Meltdown crouched in front of Sam.

“Sam, come here. Quickly.” He urged.

Sam didn’t move—he stared at Ratchet, heart jackrabbiting inside his throat. Ratchet stared back at him, before nudging against him meaningfully.

//Go with Meltdown, Sam. I will be alright.//

But Sam couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave Ratchet behind, to die or be taken prisoner—he couldn’t lose him again.

Ratchet’s expression softened in understanding. He reached out, enveloping Sam’s mind in a warm embrace. Sam was distantly aware that Tarn was speaking, but he heard nothing over the soothing pulse of his Creator’s mental presence. Ratchet did not try to hide his emotions—they flowed freely across their bond. His affection, his pride, his love.

And then, the gentlest pulse of regret.

Sam stumbled backwards into Meltdown’s waiting servos, trying to fight against the tug inside his mind. Ratchet’s touch deepened as Meltdown straightened up, cradling Sam against his chassis as he turned to flee.

//Ratchet, don’t—!//

His Creator’s face was the last thing that Sam saw before he was pushed, gently but irrevocably, into the quiet embrace of stasis.

Notes:

Author's Note: As of this chapter, The Lost Son is now co-authored with the lovely CarsonLane. <3

Chapter 16

Notes:

Author's Note: First and foremost, I am so sorry for the months-long cliffhanger. I bought a house at the end of June, and my summer has been consumed with packing, cleaning, unpacking, and work. Thank-you for your patience! I hope to resume a relatively normal update schedule from here on out. Thanks also for your support! It means the world to us!

Optimus Prime sat in the command chair, focused on the monitors in front of him. They provided a constant feed of information on shield status, weapons systems, and fleet formation. The Ark and the Lost Light were engaged with the Peaceful Tyranny and the unknown battle frigate. The Nemesis was seventeen thousand kilometers to port, exchanging volleys with the smaller interceptor-class warship.

The bridge crew worked in tense, coordinated silence as the battle raged on around them. Skids, Cliffjumper, and Mudflap manned the stations on the anterior decks, while Red Alert and Chromia stood at tactical and engineering, respectively. A cursory glance at the battle reports confirmed what Optimus already knew: the Ark had taken moderate damage to the bow and forward control thruster. A substantial concern, but it was far less damage than the Peaceful Tyranny was capable of meting out.  

No sooner had the thought crossed his processors than the Ark shuddered with the impact of another volley. The command display in front of him lit up with a series of high-priority alerts.

“Prowl, status report.” He ordered.

It took only a moment before his third-in-command replied. “A direct hit near the port proximity sensors. They are currently offline.”

Prime clenched his servo into a fist. The proximity sensors were located between the crew quarters and the engine room at the rear of the ship.

“Casualties?” He asked, tightly.

Prowl sent a glyph of negation by way of reply, and Prime pinged back an acknowledgment. The Peaceful Tyranny was laying down a deliberate pattern of strikes intended to incapacitate them. The knowledge that Tarn had no intention of destroying the ship while Megatron was still onboard was little comfort.  

“Emergency containment fields have been activated on decks two, three, and five.” Chromia reported, grim and matter-of-fact, “The hull breach is going to take time to seal.”

“It is time we do not have.” Prime replied, “Current oxygen levels?”

“Between fourteen and nineteen percent.” Red Alert answered him, “It didn’t help matters when they blew a combiner-sized hole in the side of the ship.”

Prime grimaced internally. Fourteen percent was barely sufficient for human functioning. “Reposition Wheeljack and Brainstorm for emergency repairs. Get the oxygen levels stabilized.”

Although the security director pinged an acknowledgement, his electromagnetic fields betrayed his apprehension. It was a concern that Prime shared himself—neither Brainstorm nor Wheeljack were well suited to battle. The two scientists had only minimal armament and sporadic combat experience between them. Still, needs willed out. As long as Helex and Tesarus were tearing apart the brig, there was no one else to spare.

Prime turned his attention inwards, scanning through the situational reports on the tactical network. His spark contracted inside his chassis at the list of causalities: Bluestreak, Inferno, Hoist, Mirage all injured. Smokescreen dead. He was not so foolish as to hope that might be the end of it. The Decepticon Justice Division were Megatron’s most loyal, most fanatical soldiers. They were going to leave a trail of devastation in their wake—he only prayed they could minimize the fallout.

At that thought, Prime turned and keyed up the situational report from the brig. The outer doors had been breached, but the interior blast doors were still in place. They were three feet of solid durasteel, but Prime knew it would not be enough to forestall Helex and Tesarus indefinitely. The two berserkers had been cold-constructed for destruction.  

//I have optics on Tarn.// Bulkhead suddenly reported, //Atrium floor, near the brig entrance.//

Optimus stiffened at the confirmation that Tarn had entered the battlefield. He had not anticipated that the Decepticon officer would lead the strike-team himself, although perhaps he should have.

Megatron would have done so, after all.  

Prime stood quickly, stepping away from the command chair as he keyed up his battle protocols. The status check returned a series of low-level alerts, nothing significant, and he dismissed them as he initiated his transformation sequence.

//Be wary, Bulkhead.// Optimus warned, already accelerating from the bridge, //Tarn has an outlier ability that allows him to modulate the resonance of his voice.// He suppressed another grimace. He had seen the after-effects of Tarn’s particular brand of torture on more than one occasion. //He is a skilled and brutal opponent.//

//So am I.// Bulkhead rumbled darkly.

//Stand fast.// Prime ordered sharply, //I am moving to intercept.//

//Negative.// Arcee replied, //I have Sam. Tarn is in pursuit, third deck, section 4-D. I can’t shake him.//

At the same time, an all-points bulletin flashed across his visual display. The message was from Ultra Magnus, and it was coded as top priority. Prime did not hesitate—he opened the message, already bracing himself for the inevitable.

//The DJD have breached the perimeter. The brig is overrun.//

Optimus knew a moment of spark-felt helplessness. It would only be a matter of time before Helex and Tesarus broke through the line of defense. The City Commander and Elite Guard were seasoned warriors, but they had neither the firepower nor the mass to hold off the berserkers indefinitely. He knew he was needed on the frontlines—his presence would determine the outcome of this battle, one way or the other. He also knew it was a moot point. Tarn was closing in on the medical bay. Prime could not speculate whether Sam or Ratchet was his objective, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

Tarn would not have them both.

The throaty roar of Prime’s engines reverberated down the corridor as he accelerated towards the atrium. At the same time, he accessed the dynamic battle log, taking note of causalities and troop positions. He considered the information briefly, before he pinged the tactical network.

//Jolt and Sideswipe: reposition to the atrium. Ultra Magnus: hold the line.//

It was such a simple command. Hold the line. Ultra Magnus replied with an acknowledgement less than an astrosecond later—ever the consummate soldier, even though they both knew the order would likely seal his fate. The knowledge sat inside Prime’s chassis like an iron weight, as tangible and inescapable as the Matrix of Leadership itself. The relic burned behind his breastplate, a sensation that grew more profound as he raced down the corridor.

The sounds of battle grew progressively louder as he neared the atrium. He did not spare a glance towards the fighting taking place below him, turning instead towards the ramp that would take him to the second deck. The air was hazy with smoke and ionized gas, causing his tactical subroutines to return several high-priority environmental alerts. He briefly glanced them over, before relegating the subroutine to a secondary processor. The alerts dropped to medium-priority, then low-priority as he drove down the ramp, before blinking away altogether as he entered the second deck. He was almost to the mess hall when a proximity alert flashed across his visual display. It was the only warning he received before a purple mass phased through the smooth durasteel walls directly in front of him. A moment later, Vos and Kaon were standing in the middle of the corridor. The two Decepticon officers assumed a lazy combat stance, their weapons glowing off-white in preparation for battle. 

Prime engaged his air brakes, entering a controlled slide as he initiated his transformation sequence. He sub-spaced his ion blaster, leveling it at the two intruders even as he straightened to his full height. The Decepticons spread apart, Vos flanking him on the left and Kaon flanking him on the right. Prime kept a wary optic on Vos, well aware of the scientist’s outlier ability. He briefly considered transforming back into his alt mode, but he knew he could not evade the smaller mechanoid. 

“Vos. Kaon.” He rumbled darkly.

“Prime.” Kaon purred, slapping his inert plasma blade against the flat of his servo, “I had so hoped to see you again. How long has it been?”

In no mood to bandy words, Prime fired his blaster three times in quick succession. Kaon and Vos anticipated the attack, leaping aside and bringing their weapons to bear on him.

“How discourteous.” Vos squeezed off a warning shot that scored the wall beside him, “’From Primus, whence all truth and virtue stems / Onto the Primes, His holy Grace extends.’”

Prime’s fuel pump constricted inside his chassis at the obvious provocation. He narrowed his optics, keeping the smaller mechanoid in his sights. “Do not quote scripture to me, Decepticon. I know it well.”

“Clearly.” Kaon drawled, all dry sarcasm, “And what does the Covenant say about a Prime’s most holy responsibility again?”

At the same time, Optimus received an encrypted message on a secure channel. He recognized the identification codes immediately.

Jazz.

//On my way, boss. ETA: as soon as slaggin’ possible.//

Prime fired his weapon at Kaon, who had been sidling closer one step at a time. The Decepticon brought up his sword, deflecting the blast with the flat of his blade. The liquid ion splattered against the far wall, glowing red hot before cooling to a glossy black.

//Negative, Jazz.// Prime returned, //Make haste to the medical bay; I will join you when I have dispatched our uninvited guests.//

There was a brief delay—a small eternity, by Jazz’s standards—before he relayed a confirmation. The wait was more than sufficient to convey his disapproval, but the second-in-command offered no further objection. Prime turned his attention back to the two Decepticon officers standing in front of him. His visual display listed their known strengths and weaknesses, which he fed into his tactical processor. The end-result was an error log: by all available battlefield simulations, Kaon and Vos favored subterfuge over direct confrontation. That they would do so now, and against a Prime no less, was highly unusual.

It took less than a microsecond to understand their objective.

“You are stalling.” He rumbled.  

Kaon lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Tarn has business with your medic.”

Almost as soon as the words had left his vocoder, an automated warning began blinking in the corner of Prime’s tactical display.

[Intruder Alert: Central Medical Bay]

At the same time, Ratchet pinged the tactical-net with a high-priority message. It overrode the half-dozen conversations that were taking place simultaneously on the network.

//Arcee is incapacitated. I cannot get to her. Fixit: fall back to the medical bay immediately.//

Ratchet’s words were tight and hard, but there was something else in his voice too. Something Optimus had rarely heard from the grizzled old medic.

Resignation.

The Matrix of Leadership suddenly flared inside his chassis. The burning sensation spread like a virus, pulsing in time with his spark. The strange present-but-not-present sensation seemed to whisper at him, urging him to move, to act, to protect. At the same time, his offensive protocols returned a series of medium-level warnings as the Matrix attempted to reorganize his priority trees. It took a considerable effort to wrest the sub-routines back under his control.  

Kaon, who had been watching him with an expression of mild interest, asked, “Problem?”

Optimus narrowed his optics. “You are standing in my way.”

He fired at Kaon and Vos in quick succession. Kaon brought up his sword, deflecting the strike, as Vos phased out of sight. Prime gave him no time to recover. He lunged forward, retracting his servo as he activated his energon axe. The melee weapon flicked into place as he swung down in a diagonal strike. Kaon parried with his plasma sword, causing both blades to sputter superheated liquid across the floor. The smaller Decepticon was forced back by the blow, and Prime wasted no time pressing his advantage. He fired his ion blaster at his opponent’s mid-section, aiming for the creases where the armor was weakest.

Kaon grunted in pain at the impact, before flicking his arm to the side. Prime registered the dagger a moment before the Decepticon jabbed it into his elbow joint. The crunch of metal against metal was accompanied by a burst of white-hot pain. Kaon twisted the dagger, snapping it off at the hilt. Although the wound was a minor one, it effectively impaired his range of motion. Optimus planted his pedes and brought his considerable weight to bear against the smaller Decepticon. Kaon grimaced as he slid backwards across the polished floor with a shriek of protesting metal.

At the same time, the barest flicker of electromagnetic radiation brushed against Prime’s fields. It was all the warning he needed to reach forward, grabbing Kaon by the throat and tossing him aside. The smaller Decepticon was airborne for several meters before crashing to the ground, but it was sufficient enough distraction to cause Vos to flicker in phase-shift from where he stood, less than an arms-length away.

It was all the opening that Prime needed.

He swung his energon axe in a tight arc, catching Vos at the base of his neck. The axe embedded itself all the way down into his chassis, sundering armor and protoform alike. The scientist flickered in and out of phase-shift like a mirage before he finally solidified. Vos stared down at himself in surprise for a long moment, and then his leg struts gave out beneath him. He briefly hung, suspended by the axe, until Prime wrenched the weapon up and away. It came free, accompanied by an arterial spray of energon that painted the walls.  

Vos warbled weakly as he collapsed to the ground in an uncoordinated pile of limbs. Prime did not spare him a second glance. Instead, he yanked the dagger from his elbow joint, tossing it aside as he initiated his transformation sequence. As soon as the last panel locked into place, he engaged his engines and accelerated towards the medical bay. He monitored Kaon for the length of a corridor, long enough to watch as he crawled towards his companion, but then he was turning a corner and both Decepticons disappeared from sight.

The medical bay was located approximately three hundred meters from the atrium. Under normal conditions, it would have taken approximately two kilks to travel from one to the other. As Prime keyed up the tactical network, however, he learned of all that had transpired during his battle with Vos and Kaon.

Knock Out’s torture and execution. Sam’s abortive attempt to save him. Ratchet’s skirmish with Tarn.

Prime’s spark constricted inside its chamber with each new development. He rerouted auxiliary power to his propulsion systems until he was driving faster than his design tolerances allowed. It caused a cascade of low- and medium-level alerts to flit across his HUD, but he ruthlessly shunted them aside. It took less than half a kilk to traverse the distance, but each second weighed on him like a personal failure. Hot Rod’s grief-stricken keening could be heard even as the medical bay came into sight. The wide double doors had been wrenched open, and as a result, they were hanging from their hinges at an odd angle. Fixit was crouched a short distance away, tending to Arcee who was lying on the floor. Prime engages his air brakes and initiated his transformation sequence. Fixit did not glance up at his approach—the surgeon was entirely focused on stemming the energon that was pooling around Arcee’s unmoving form. It took considerable effort to leave them behind as Prime walked into the medical bay.

The usually meticulous hangar was in complete disarray. The berths had been toppled or shoved aside, and medical equipment was strewn across the floor. Tarn stood in the center of the room holding Ratchet in a headlock. The medic had energon dripping from a puncture wound in his abdomen, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear. The same could not be said for the two Decepticons who were graying-out on the far side of the room. Their energon was everywhere—across the walls, the floor, the berths. The cause of the destruction was immediately apparent: Jazz stood a short distance from Tarn, and he was flecked in energon from helm to pede. It stood in stark contrast to the saboteur’s plating, which had darkened to off-black in an obvious threat display.

Prime risked a glance at Hot Rod as he stepped further into the room. The cavalier was lying prone next to Knock Out’s grayed frame. The trail of energon streaked behind him suggested that he had dragged himself across the floor. He was wailing in NeoCybex, a wordless combination of signifiers and emphasis glyphs that were too garbled to understand.  

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

Prime narrowed his optics as he turned to regard Tarn. The Decepticon officer seemed unperturbed by his arrival. His posture was alert, but not overtly tense, and other than the servo he held pressed against Ratchet’s spark chamber, he showed no signs of aggression. Optimus glanced briefly at Ratchet as he opened a secured comm-frequency between them.

//Sam?// He asked tersely.

//He’s safe.// Ratchet replied, //Meltdown has him.//

The Matrix of Leadership pulsed softly at the confirmation of Sam’s wellbeing. It served to soothe the sense of urgency and purpose that had burned through his processors from the moment the Peaceful Tyranny dropped out of hyperspace. He grimaced faintly behind his battle mask—the ancient relic was willful by times, and it had no qualms about working at cross-purposes with him if it took a mind to do so.

“Do you not even deign to greet me?” Tarn asked, and there was a distinct edge to his voice now, “Do I not merit the courtesy from a Prime?”

“Courtesy?” Ratchet spluttered, struggling against the arm that restrained him, “You don’t know the meaning of the word!”

Tarn dug his talons into the metal covering Ratchet’s spark chamber, which was all the warning needed to quell his resistance. Ratchet went still, his optics burning with impotent rage.  

“You would speak of courtesy after the atrocities you have committed?” Prime demanded, stepping further into the room, “No, Tarn. I offer you neither courtesy nor consideration. You are undeserving of either one.” 

The Decepticon officer narrowed his optics minutely, but otherwise he did not react to the insult.

“You do not stand in judgment of me, Prime.” He rumbled with stark certainty, “Your authority died on the Senate floor with the other oligarchs. Lord Megatron ensured it.”  

Prime was aware of Tarn’s particular brand of fanatical devotion. Still, it made him grimace to hear Megatron’s name spoken with such reverence. It would have disgusted Megatronus to his core. The thought caused him to lower his chin so that he could pin the shorter Decepticon with a hard look.  

“Let him go.”

Tarn affected an air of exaggerated surprise as glanced sidelong at Ratchet. “Who, the medic? Alas, I still have need of him. You may fetch the boy, however, and we will be on our way.”

“Never.” Ratchet spat, driving an elbow into the Decepticon’s side.

Tarn grabbed Ratchet by the wrist joint and wrenched the servo behind his back. When Ratchet was fully restrained, he leaned forward, murmuring into his audial, “That was unwise, medic. I abhor incivility.”

Ratchet leaned his head away, his face twisted with disgust. Tarn chuckled quietly, before glancing up at Optimus. His optics glowed crimson behind the metal planes of the Decepticon insignia. 

“Lord Megatron has forbidden us from off-lining you.” He said conversationally, “Perhaps he will reconsider when we have freed him from his bondage. It would be my honor to present him with the Matrix of Leadership, after I have sundered it from your graying frame.”

Jazz, who had been silent from the moment that Optimus had arrived, ex-vented a derisive snort.

“You know your problem, Damus?” He asked, twirling his daggers in each servo, “You just love to hear yourself talk.”

At the same time, Ultra Magnus pinged the tactical-net on an encrypted comm frequency. The message was coded in binary and lacked any signifiers or emphasis glyphs, but it required neither.

//Megatron’s cell has been breached. We cannot hold them off any longer.//

Evidentially, Tarn received a message to the same effect, for a self-satisfied smirk spread across his face. He clutched Ratchet closer, before leaning over his shoulder to sneer, “Until we meet again, usurper.”

Between one moment and the next, both Tarn and Ratchet dematerialized. Prime stared at the empty space in disbelief, his battle processor sorting through all manner of possible explanations for their disappearance. He was saved the effort of running the simulations by Jazz, who swore darkly as he turned to regard him.

“Sub-space transponder.” He gritted out, sliding his daggers into the sheathes on his forearms, “It has an effective range of a thousand kilometers or so.”

At the same time, Ultra Magnus commed Optimus directly.  It was a terse message, direct and to the point as Ultra Magnus was wont to do, but it was glitching so badly that it was barely comprehensible.

//We have failed. Megatron is gone.//

Prime shuttered his optics, momentarily overwhelmed by the crushing weight of his failure. The open comm lined blinked at him insistently, and with a great deal of fortitude, Prime forced himself to reply.

//Casualties?// He asked.

It took longer for Ultra Magnus to answer, but when he did, his voice was flat and strained sounding. //Ironhide, Kup, and Sunstreaker are down. I am… hemorrhaging energon too quickly for my internal repairs. //

//I understand.// Prime replied, already patching new orders to the medical-network, //Hold fast. Help is coming.//

//Acknowledged.//

Prime spiraled open his optics as he keyed up the tactical network. There were several dozen new messages of varying urgency, the earliest tagged just microseconds after he had entered the medical bay. He scanned through the list, noting the damage reports and casualty reports. Prowl was already repositioning mechanoids to respond to the changing threat landscape, but all evidence suggested that the Decepticons had abandoned ship after Megatron had been extricated.

“Prime.” Jazz called, catching his attention, “I need your help.”

Optimus turned towards his second-in-command, who was kneeling next to Hot Rod. The cavalier was clutching onto Knock Out’s frame, keening in wordless grief. The sight brought Prime back to himself all at once. Thoughts of failure would have to wait—there was still work to do.

“Of course.” He rumbled, crossing the distance between them, “One moment.”

Prime bent down, grabbing a berth with both servos and hauling it back into its upright position. The metal frame protested as it was pushed into place against the wall. When he finished, he turned to regard Hot Rod. Jazz was crouched at his side, a cable extending from his wrist joint as he tried to jack into the cavalier’s auxiliary port.

“C’mon, Roddy.” Jazz coaxed with artificial cheer, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

The cavalier tried to wrench his arm away, spitting static in protest, but Jazz was faster. The saboteur grabbed him by the wrist, pinning his arm to the floor as he pried the protective metal off his access port. Prime crouched down beside them, leaning forward until he was within overlapping distance. Hot Rod’s electromagnetic fields were awash with grief and rage and self-loathing, and Optimus teeked his fields with his own.

“We are here, Hot Rod.” He murmured, infusing the touch with reassurance and calm, “It will be alright.”

As though sensing the inevitable, Hot Rod went limp all at once. He lay unresisting on the floor, his fans whining in strain until Jazz was able to hack him off-line. The sight of Hot Rod’s optics fading to dark was a grim sort of relief. Jazz disconnected his hardline, retracting it back within his forearm before he ex-vented a deep sigh.

“This was a clusterfuck, Boss.”

Prime was familiar enough with the human vulgarity to privately agree.  Aloud, he rumbled, “I was not aware that Hot Rod and Knock Out were conjunxed.”

“They weren’t, not yet, but they might as well have been.” Jazz replied, before sliding his servos under Hot Rod’s shoulders, “Help me get him up.”

Prime grasped the smaller mechanoid under both knee joints, and together he and Jazz lifted him off the floor. They carried Hot Rod the short distance to the medical berth, before laying him down again. Prime was no medic, but he had triaged enough mechanoids in the field to understand the basics. Hot Rod was bleeding sluggishly from his abdomen, but the energon loss did not appear to be life-threatening.

At the same time, the sound of engines and raised voices could be heard in the corridor. Prime half-turned as Fixit and Jolt hurried through the entryway, carrying Arcee between them. There were a dozen other berths in the hangar, but most of them had been knocked over or shoved aside. Prime made haste across the room to grab the berth nearest the door and wrest it back into position. Fixit and Jolt heaved Arcee’s prone form onto the medical slab with the clang of metal against metal.

“What is her condition?” Optimus asked.

“Stable.” Fixit returned, moving over to the wall and pulling down a complicated-looking piece of equipment, “She will need her primary supply line replaced, but she’ll live.”

Jolt tore his eyes away from Arcee to glance around the room. The shock trooper visibly blanched as surveyed the toppled berths and the energon sprayed across the walls, before his optics settled on Knock Out’s body.

“Primus.” He managed, faintly.

Prime internalized a grimace at the dismay in the smaller mechanoid’s voice. It was a sentiment with which Optimus was intimately familiar—and one that he could not give voice to, not in front of his soldiers. Instead, he straightened to his full height and fixed Jolt with a firm look.

“There are more wounded on their way.” He said, brisk and to the point, “Assist me.”

His tone of voice had the desired effect—Jolt seemed to come back to himself all at once, straightening to attention as he jerked his helm in a nod.

“As you say, Prime.”

Together, he and Jolt and Jazz began the arduous process of setting the medical bay to rights. The berths were stood up and pushed back into place against the walls. Then, the equipment that had been strewn across the floor was gathered up. Prime did not know enough about the delicate instruments to know whether they had been irreparably damaged, so he placed everything on a workbench for the medics to examine. At the same time, the casualties began streaming in. Bluestreak and Inferno were the first to arrive. The two mechanoids were pushed through the doors on a hover-gurney by First Aid, who was uncharacteristically grim.

“Fixit, come quickly.” He called urgently.

Together, Fixit and First Aid lifted the injured mechanoids onto two nearby berths. Prime watched closely, but he did not interfere. Medical frames were built for strength—if they required his assistance, they would ask for it. Mirage and Sideswipe were the next to arrive. The two soldiers limped into the medical bay together, with Sideswipe supporting Mirage’s weight. The spymaster was bleeding heavily, energon running in rivulets over his side and down his legs.  

“Put him over there.” Fixit ordered, jerking his helm towards an unoccupied berth, “Do you know how to apply an arterial tourniquet?”

“No.” Sideswipe gritted out, helping Mirage onto the berth as directed, “He’s leakin’ pretty bad, Doc.”

“I got it.” Jazz said, stepping forward to lean over his secondary commander, “Hey ‘Raj. How’s it kicking?”

The former noble warbled a series of emphasis-humor glyphs weakly in reply. Jazz chuckled good-naturedly as he pushed a servo into the spymaster’s internals as he attempted to staunch the bleeding. Mirage’s face twisted with pain, his heels drumming against the metal berth as he struggled not to move.

“Steady, Mirage.” Prime rumbled, “Steady.”

A moment later, there was a distinctive clicking sound as the tourniquet snapped into place. Jazz withdrew his servo, which was dripping with Mirage’s internal fluids. “You good? System’s check come back clean?”

Mirage’s optics dimmed as he ran the diagnostic. It was only the space of a few moments before he nodded faintly. “That was the primary rupture. The others are leaking at less than five PSI. My internal repairs can handle it.”  

“That’s my mech.” Jazz praised softly.

Mirage spiraled his optics closed, his chassis shuddering from the force of his cooling fans. Sideswipe stood at his berth-side, grim-faced and silent. Jazz watched the former noble for a long moment, his expression inscrutable, when shouting in the hallway drew their combined attention. Prime glanced up just as Hound and Trailbreaker appeared in the doorway supporting Bulkhead’s dead weight between them.

“Help us.” Trailbreaker begged, “He’s hemorrhaging out.”

Prime and Jazz stepped forward together, helping the two smaller mechanoids hoist Bulkhead onto the nearest berth. The wrecker was grievously injured. His abdominal armor had been torn asunder, and all the metal plating had been melted together. The wound was so deep that Prime could see Bulkhead’s spinal strut through the energon that was already pooling in the gaping maw.

“Fixit, you have a new priority.” Jazz ordered, curtly.

The surgeon glanced up from Arcee’s prone form, before handing his surgical implements to First Aid. The battlefield medic accepted them without a word, seamlessly resuming repairs. Fixit hurried over, his expression unreadable as he jacked into Bulkhead’s medical port. It took the medic less than a half-klik before he regretfully shook his head.

“It is too late for him.” He murmured softly, “His spark casing has been ruptured.”

Prime released an audible ex-vent at the news. A ruptured spark casing was invariably fatal, even without Bulkhead’s other injuries. He had seen it for himself in the field—mechanoids suffering for joors while their sparks slowly leaked into the atmosphere. It was kinder to off-line them, a mercy that Prime had provided himself on more than one occasion.

Trailbreaker looked from Fixit to Bulkhead in desperation. “What do you mean it’s too late? He’s still alive. Do something!”

Fixit’s expression softened marginally as he glanced sidelong at the strategist. “I am sorry. His field containment has already dropped to seventeen percent. There’s nothing I can do.”

Trailbreaker made an anguished noise deep inside his intakes. Hound stepped close, bracing a servo flat against the strategist’s chest plates—equally supportive and restraining. Trailbreaker grasped the edge of the berth for support, seemingly unaware of the energon pooling around the tips of his digits. Prime felt a twist of sympathy for the strategist. He had served with Bulkhead and Hound in varying capacities for meta-vorns.

“But he’s still alive.” Trailbreaker repeated faintly, “Look at him. He’s still alive.”

Fixit inclined his helm fractionally in response, before turning to look at Prime. His expression was equal parts apologetic and regretful.

“He’s in stasis-lock. It won’t be long now. I am sorry—I must tend to my other patients.”

With that, Fixit crossed the room to resume his place at Arcee’s side. First Aid handed the medical instruments back to the surgeon, before stepping away to tend to Bluestreak. Optimus watched them for a weighted moment, before turning to look at Trailbreaker. The strategist was leaning over the berth just scant inches from Bulkhead’s frame. It would be obvious to anyone with a functioning sensory array that he was attempting to overlap his electromagnetic fields with the wrecker. It was just as obvious that he was going to be unsuccessful. Bulkhead’s fields were so thin and weak that they were virtually undetectable. At the same time, Grapple shouldered through the doorway with Sunstreaker in his arms.

“More injured are coming.” He ground out as Jolt hurried across the hangar to assist him, “Where’s Hoist? I can’t raise him on comms.”

“We need to find Meltdown.” Jazz murmured, glancing up at Prime, “This is going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”  

Optimus inclined his helm in agreement, before opening a secured comm-frequency with the medic. His ping was returned unanswered a moment later, which caused his mouthplates to turn down in a frown.

“C’mon.” Jazz murmured, stepping away from Bulkhead’s berth, “I can guess where they’ve gone.”

Prime followed his second-in-command down the length of the hangar. Ratchet’s office door was locked, but it was only a matter of moments before Jazz had it sliding open for them. The room within was dark and quiet with datapads and equipment scattered across the floor. Jazz carefully picked his way around the desk, his pedes crunching on broken glass. The door to Ratchet’s quarters was located on the far wall. The light on keypad was red, indicating the locking mechanism had been engaged.

“Gimme a second.” Jazz murmured, crouching down to pry the plate off the keypad.

As the second-in-command began hacking the lock, Prime glanced around the empty office. The shelves lining the walls were mostly bare, their contents knocked to the ground during the firefight with the Peaceful Tyranny. His optics trailed over the files and medical compendiums, before a faint glimmer caught his attention. Prime shifted forward to nudge a crate aside with his pede, revealing a broken snow globe. He recognized it at once—Sam had given the same ornament to all the senior staff for Christmas two years ago. He had been amused by the idea of snow globes on a tropical island. It made Prime’s spark clench to see the glass dome shattered, its contents spread across the floor. He didn’t have the time to dwell on it before the door to Ratchet’s quarters slid open, revealing a darkened interior.

“Meltdown?” Jazz called cautiously, straightening to his full height.

The glow of two optics suddenly appeared in the gloom—narrowed and hostile.

“Come no further.”

Jazz slowly raised his servos, before making a show of unsheathing his daggers and tossing them aside. They clattered to the floor on the opposite side of the room, lost amongst the detritus.

“It’s alright.” He soothed, stepping forward cautiously, “It’s just us.”

“I said no further!” Meltdown snarled.

“Alright.” Jazz conceded, glancing over his shoulder at Prime, “We’ll stay right here.”

Prime keyed up his sensory array to its fullest extent as Jazz spoke, revealing the interior of Ratchet’s quarters. The room was relatively unscathed by the battle, although it had been sparsely decorated to begin with. Meltdown was standing in front of the berth, his plating flared in warning. His servos were clenched by his sides, devoid of any kind of weapon.

“Come no further. No further.” Meltdown repeated on rote, shifting his weight from pede to pede.

“No problem.” Jazz agreed, propping one shoulder against the doorframe. “Say, while we’re waiting, why don’t you re-boot your tactical software?”

Meltdown bristled at the suggestion. “To what purpose?”

Jazz shrugged expressively. “Humor me.”

Meltdown’s expression grew wary, but his optics went distant in a way that suggested he was doing as Jazz said. A moment later, the medic stiffened from helm to pede, his vocalizer resetting with an audible click.

“Forgive me.” He managed, aghast, as his posture loosened, “When Ratchet was taken, I…”

“Can we come in?” Jazz asked abruptly, pushing away from the doorframe.

“Yes.” Meltdown murmured contritely, “Of course you may.”

Jazz stepped cautiously into the room, but Meltdown’s posture remained noncombative. Prime followed behind his second-in-command, activating the overhead lights as he soon as he crossed the threshold. He could now see that Sam was lying supine on the berth behind the medical officer, his face lax as though in sleep. The sight of him made something wound tight inside Prime’s chest relax, all at once.

“He’s unharmed.” Meltdown offered, stepping aside as they approached.   

“I am relieved to hear it.” Prime murmured in reply.

“There’s a lot of injured mechs out there.” Jazz said, jerking his head towards the door, “You should go.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Meltdown replied, gathering himself with great effort and turning to look down at Sam, “Shall I wake him?”

“No.” Jazz replied before Prime could answer, “Let the kid sleep. We got cleanup to do, and more mechs to triage than will fit in the medbay. We don’t need a Creator-less newspark on top of everything else.”

The words caused Meltdown’s optics to spiral down to points, before irising open again. He stared at Sam, compassion and grief written in every line of his face. The boy’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, totally unperturbed by the goings-on around him.

“Something will have to be done.” He murmured, before turning to look at them, “He cannot be left unattended.”

Prime inclined his helm in response. Sam was too young, his neural connections too immature to be left to his own devices. Yet, despite that, he knew Sam would not readily accept another Creator. He had formed a close, almost familial attachment to Ratchet. The boy would surely perceive his acceptance of another Creator as a sign of disloyalty, regardless of medical necessity.

“We will discuss the matter after we have secured the ship.” Prime replied.

Jazz nodded in agreement, before glancing sidelong at Meltdown. “You should go. Fixit and First Aid are going to need your help.”

Meltdown straightened to his full height, his expression going hard and determined. “Of course.”

“I will stand guard until Bumblebee arrives.” Prime said, nodding towards the berth.

“Alright.” Jazz agreed, his voice uncharacteristically grim, “I'll start on collecting th' dead.”

Notes:

Author's Note: To exactly no one's surprise, this chapter spiraled way out of control. To that end, I will announce the winner of the [Dialogue Without Context contest] once the next chapter has been posted. Thanks again for your patience!

Chapter 17

Notes:

Author's Note: Hey! We didn't have to wait two months for an update this time! :D

Chapter Warning: Brief allusion to a main character's suicidal ideation.

The darkness that surrounded him was all-encompassing. There was no sense of direction or the passage of time—no indication of where he was. His thoughts were sluggish and ephemeral, slipping away before they could take proper form. He briefly wondered if he ought to be afraid when he was enveloped by a comforting weight—a presence—and although it was not the presence, the one he had come to associate with this featureless place, it was calming, nevertheless.

//Don’t be afraid.// It murmured, //You are not alone.//

The words were meaningless, but he understood the soothing pulse that accompanied them. He curled forward, leaning into the presence instinctively. The motion was met with a gentle thrum of surprise that was quickly tucked away, and then he was sinking into the darkness once more.

He had no idea for how long he drifted, insensate and content. Occasionally, unfamiliar sensations would prickle at the edge of his awareness. It took a great deal of effort to focus his attention, but when he managed it, the sensations converged into comprehensible sounds.

“—suspected. Are you certain?”

The reply was immediate.

“Vos spoke the Primal Vernacular. Sam not only understood it—he replied.”

The name snagged his attention like a lure glittering in dark water. Sam. He knew that word—he was sure of it. The recognition brought with it a sense of burgeoning curiosity, and he pressed forward on instinct. Immediately, the presence returned, enveloping his mind in warmth and weight.

//I'm sorry Sam, not yet. Soon.//

The words were accompanied by a faint pulse of regret, but before he could voice his confusion, he was sinking deeper into the void. The noise in the distance receded, swallowed by the same darkness that claimed him. It was a bizarre feeling—at once familiar and strange. It caused him to stiffen in alarm, but the presence was smoothing across his mind before he could panic.

//Easy, Sam. You’re alright.// The voice soothed as his consciousness slipped away once more, //Sleep now—I will be here when you wake.//

It was a considerable while before he came back to himself again. The darkness remained vast and all-consuming, but the presence was with him. It enveloped his mind like an embrace, impossibly warm and gentle and buoyant. The sensation brought with it strange images that flashed through his mind like quicksilver.

Warm water. Bright sunshine. A ribbon of sand separating lush forest from endless, blue ocean.

The presence shifted forward, brushing across his mind.

//It is a beautiful memory, Sam.// It murmured.

The words were accompanied by a gentle swell of affection, as well as something else—something softer, more melancholy. It took him a long moment to recognize the sensation as grief. He shifted uncertainly, but the feeling was gone again a moment later. The presence gathered him up, drawing him close, and he went without protest, taking comfort in the closeness.

//Rest, Sam.// The presence murmured, //And think of happier times.//

He drifted for a long while, his consciousness ebbing and flowing like the tide. The presence was never far when he surfaced—a familiar, soothing weight against his mind. It was often silent inside the void, but occasionally the presence would speak to him. It was too much effort to make sense of the words, and so he didn’t even try. Instead, he drowsed, letting the voice wash over him.

//—clinic in the Dead End. It was small and ill-equipped, but he never turned a patient away. I knew I loved him, even then. Especially then.//

The voice continued speaking, although he was only partially cognizant of the fact. The words pattered against his consciousness like a gentle rain. It was not until he felt an insistent nudge that he realized the voice had stopped speaking.

//It’s time, Sam.//

It took a few moments for the words to register, and when they did, he felt a flash of dread.

Time for what? He wondered.

The presence pressed close, herding him gently but inexorably across the void.  

//It’s time to wake up.//

His dread sharpened at the strange answer, but before he could protest or resist, the void twisted confusingly. He experienced a moment of vertigo and heartfelt panic, and then the darkness fell away around them.

 

---

 

Sam groaned as he came around. Longstanding experience had him taking stock of himself even before he was fully conscious. He was lying flat on his back, and the surface beneath him was soft. He reached out reflexively with his hands, fingers twitching against the familiar, rough weave of a flannel blanket. The material had been drawn up his chest and tucked around his body.

He forced open his eyes. The lights in the room had been lowered, but it still made his eyes water. He winced them shut again, before raising a hand to scrub at his face. The movement was arrested by the too-familiar pull of an IV, which had been inserted into the back of his left hand.

“How long?” He rasped.

There was a minute pause, before Meltdown murmured in reply, “Six days.”

Even as he spoke, Sam became aware of the emptiness inside his mind. It was dark and quiet where the Creator bond should have been. The realization made his stomach bottom out in instinctual panic, but it took another moment or two before the memories of the battle crowded into the forefront of his mind.

The attack. The Decepticon Justice Division. Tarn and Knock Out. Ratchet.

Oh God.

Ratchet.

Sam’s throat thickened with sudden grief. He forced his eyes open again to find Meltdown and Bumblebee standing at his bedside. The two mechanoids wore identical expressions of concern on their faces. He swallowed, trying to force down the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t budge.

Eventually, he forced himself to ask, “Is he dead?”

“We do not believe so, Sam.” Optimus intoned softly.

Sam turned his head, following his voice to find the former Autobot leader standing a short distance away. His expression was weighted and difficult to interpret, but Sam recognized the anguish he saw reflected in his optics—it was a mirror to the hollow ache inside his own chest.

“How can you be sure?” He choked out.

Optimus took a step closer, his expression gentling in some tangible way.

“I have three reasons to believe that Tarn will not kill him.” He replied, his voice a low rumble, “The first is that he needs Ratchet alive—he is the only one with the knowledge required to release Megatron from stasis-lock.” Sam was sure that he did not imagine the way Optimus’ voice caught on the warlord’s name, “The second reason is that the Decepticons are woefully short of competent medics. They cannot afford to offline him this late in the war.”

Tarn had said as much to Meltdown in the medical bay, but the knowledge was cold comfort. He knew that Ratchet would treat anyone that needed help, regardless of faction. He also knew that the guilt of doing so would eat him alive.

“And what’s the third reason?” He asked, already dreading the answer.

“As your Creator, Ratchet also has substantial value as a political prisoner.” Prime replied, “Shockwave is well aware of your relationship. Tarn would have been informed.”  

Sam closed his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. Ratchet was going to suffer for their relationship—he was sure of it. Megatron was both vindictive and cruel, and the medic would be a convenient target for his wrath. Sam shuddered at the thought. He knew full well just how effective Megatron could be at inflicting pain without causing permanent damage.  

“What’re we going to do?” He rasped eventually.  

His question was met with a directionless swell of emotion that had him opening his eyes again. Meltdown was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face, but Bumblebee was looking at Optimus. The former Autobot leader was wearing an air of solemnity like a shroud. Sam looked from one mechanoid to the other, before understanding finally dawned on him.

“You aren’t going after him.” Sam realized.

“No, Sam.” Optimus replied, confirming his fears, “We are not.”   

Sam stared up at the older Prime in disbelief, before pushing up onto his elbows.

“What do you mean?” He demanded, anger and incredulity sharpening his tone, “Of course we’re going after him.”

Meltdown made a concerned sound deep inside his intakes. “Please, Sam. Lie back down. You’ve been in stasis for almost a week.”  

Sam ignored him. He kicked off the blankets, pushing into a sitting position and glaring up at the former Autobot leader. “You can’t just abandon him!”

Optimus reached out, pressing two digits against Sam’s sternum. The simple touch stilled his movements, and with gentle pressure, the older Prime guided Sam back down onto the mattress. He went without protest, although his face was flushed with the heat of his anger.

“We are in no condition to launch a rescue.” Optimus murmured, “The Peaceful Tyranny ruptured our hull. The repairs are holding for now, but they will not withstand another battle.”

“So, send the Lost Light or the Nemesis instead.” Sam protested.

“Knock Out, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen are dead.” Optimus continued, his gentle tone at odds with his firm demeanor, “Most of my soldiers have sustained some manner of injuries, and half the command crew are incapacitated. The situation is much the same on the Lost Light.” His voice dipped, growing apologetic, “We do not have the forces necessary to launch a rescue, even if we knew their location, which we do not.”  

Sam’s heart sank with each new revelation. By the time that Optimus had finished speaking, he thought he might be sick.

“Oh.” He managed, tasting bile in the back of his mouth. “I see.”

Meltdown’s holoform suddenly materialized at his side. He looked just the same as Sam remembered: a kind, weathered face framed by dark hair that was shot through with gray. He reached for the water pitcher on a nearby side table, filling a plastic cup before extending it towards him.

“Here.” Meltdown murmured. 

Sam accepted the offering without a word, taking a slow drink. The water was cool and clean, but it did nothing to alleviate the sour taste in his mouth.

“I am sorry, Sam.” Optimus intoned, “My spark empathizes with your loss. Ratchet is a dear friend. I promise that we will rally our forces as soon as we can.”

“But not now.” Sam managed, “Not soon.”

“No.” Optimus replied regretfully.

There was something final about his tone that made Sam’s eyes sting anew. He quickly knuckled away the tears before they could fall. Bumblebee’s mental presence shifted forward, pressing against his mind. Sam recognized the gesture of support for what it was, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at his bonded. Instead, he stared at the cup he was holding in his hands. The water reflected his distorted visage back at him, little ripples pulsing in time to the low, steady thrum of the Ark’s engines. For some reason, it brought back memories of his break-down after his rescue from the Nemesis. It wasn’t the same stranger staring back at him, but he didn’t recognize this person either.

“Sam.” Meltdown murmured, reaching out to place a servo on his shoulder, “Take a breath.”

Sam blinked hard, before taking a shuddery breath and knocking back the last of the water. When he finished, he placed the cup on the overbed table and pushed it away with his fingertips.

“I’m okay.” He said hollowly, “I’m fine.”

“No one expects you to be fine, Sam.” Meltdown murmured.

Sam flinched away from the compassion he could hear in the medic’s voice, feeling simultaneously vulnerable and ashamed. Ratchet was his Creator, but he was Meltdown’s conjunx—or near enough, anyway. He wasn’t the only one who was mourning his loss.

“I’m alright.” Sam repeated roughly. Suddenly desperate to change the subject, he asked, “Is Roddy…?”

His question was met with silence, and he was suddenly aware of the weighted looks that were being exchanged above him. He frowned deeply, angling his head to look first at Optimus and then at Bumblebee. The two mechanoids looked equal parts grim and disquieted.

“What is it?” He demanded. “Is Hot Rod okay? Is he alive?”

Bumblebee hummed something that made the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand up, but it was Optimus who answered him.

“Hot Rod’s injuries were not life-threatening. He was released from the medical bay three days ago.”

The words should have been a relief, but Prime’s tone did nothing to comfort him. Sam planted one hand on the mattress, before pushing up into a sitting position so he could look Optimus in the face.

“But?”

Prime visibly hesitated.

“Hot Rod has suffered a terrible loss.” He said by way of reply, “Cliffjumper is with him now.”

Sam understood the subtext immediately. Although he wasn’t terribly close to Hot Rod—or, at least, not as close as he was to Cliffjumper and Hound—he knew the cavalier’s gregarious manner was a defense mechanism. Hot Rod used humor to deflect and misdirect, never letting anyone see behind the curtain.

Anyone except for Knock Out.

The two mechanoids had orbited one another from the moment that Knock Out defected. They had traded insults and barbs with mutual derision for years. Yet, somewhere along the way, their antagonism had lost its teeth. Hot Rod had told him once that Knock Out was the only person who tolerated him. Sam had been confused at the time—after all, Hot Rod had plenty of friends—but over the years, he grew to understand. Hot Rod and Knock Out were two sides of the same coin: using humor and bravado to carefully control the way others perceived them. Yet, within each other, they had found a kinship of sorts. They both knew the pain of loneliness and self-loathing, and neither had judged the other for it.

And now, Knock Out was dead and Hot Rod was alone again.

“Can I help?” He asked softly.

Bumblebee shook his helm slowly.

“No, I don’t think so.” He murmured, “He needs time to grieve.”

Sam’s stomach twisted at the grim understanding in the scout’s voice. Before he could say anything, however, Prime’s mental presence brushed against his mind. The touch was gentle but insistent, and Sam angled his head to look up him. The former Autobot leader was staring down at him with a regretful expression on his face. It made Sam stiffen in alarm, even as Bumblebee pressed reassuringly against his mind.

“What is it?” He asked, warily.

“Sam, with Ratchet’s loss—”

The words were spoken gently, almost apologetically, and Sam understood at once what Optimus was about to say. He adamantly shook his head before the older Prime could even get the words out.

“No.” He refused, “No.”

“Sam, please—”

Sam pushed into a sitting position, heedless of the concerned noise Meltdown made deep inside his intakes. “I said no.”

“I do not ask this of you lightly—” Prime tried again.

Sam’s face heated with an angry flush as he shook his head again. “You’re acting like he’s dead. We’ll get him back.”

“Sam.” Bumblebee implored, leaning forward to bracket Sam with his body, “Please listen to what he has to say.”

Sam leaned away from his bonded, his shoulders curling forward defensively. Bumblebee did not press forward, but neither did he pull away. Instead, he brought one servo to settle against Sam’s back, molding to the curve of his spine. The weight and warmth were familiar, and although he wasn’t in the mood to be mollified, it still served to comfort him.

Prime waited until some of the angry tension left Sam’s body before he continued speaking.

“Although you have made remarkable progress for one so young, your firewalls are still rudimentary and immature. Even with Bumblebee’s assistance, they will not last long—a few hours, perhaps a half-cycle. After that, you will be exposed to the wider neural-network.” His voice softened, “We do not wish for you to suffer unnecessarily.” 

Sam flinched at the compassion in his voice. He had only experienced the full brunt of the neural-network on a handful of occasions, but they had left a lasting impression each time. He did not relish the thought of suffering through that again, let alone giving anyone within range unfettered access to his mind.

Still, the thought of accepting another Creator was loathsome in the extreme.

Some of his feelings must have been plain on his face for Prime rumbled softly. The sound was equal parts sympathetic and reassuring.

“I am sorry, Sam. I understand this is difficult.” He intoned.

Sam couldn’t look at him directly, so instead he set his jaw and stared into the middle distance.

“Who?” He asked lowly.

The older Prime hesitated before he replied, but his words were firm when he finally spoke.

“There are a number of possibilities. Both Meltdown and Mirage have the necessary expertise. If neither of them meets with your approval, Sunstreaker is another option. He has never on-lined a newspark before, but he has the requisite programming, and he has expressed his willingness to serve.”

Sam listened reluctantly—none of the options were particularly appealing. He and Meltdown had barely spent more than an hour in each other’s company. He knew nothing about him other than the fact that he was Ratchet’s conjunx and Sentinel’s personal physician. Mirage was polite enough, but they didn’t know each other either. The spymaster was reticent and reserved, and he rarely associated with anyone outside of Spec Ops. And Sunstreaker was a hard pass—they may have repaired their relationship in the years after his on-lining, but Sam would never give the front-liner that kind of power over him.

He sat mulling over his non-options when something suddenly occurred to him. Frowning, he turned his head to look up at the Autobot leader.

“What about you?”

Optimus’ expression gentled in some definable way.

“I would be honored.” He rumbled, “And, if that is your choice, I am willing.”

Sam narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “But?”

Prime cycled air through his vents in the equivalent of a human sigh.

“But you are a Prime—my equal, in every sense. A Creator bond would introduce a power imbalance in our relationship that would be… inappropriate.”

Sam’s frown deepened further still. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he was a Prime—or on the implications that fact held for him. It all seemed like some kind of ludicrous cosmic joke. The notion that he and Optimus were equals in any sense of the word was just as absurd.

The thought made Sam feel even more off-balance and uncomfortable. He wrapped his arms around his torso and hunched over until his arms rested against his knees. Bumblebee crooned something soft sounding as he stroked a digit down the length of Sam’s spine. Sam tolerated the touch, although it gave him no comfort.

“I don’t want anyone else.” He managed eventually, hating the forlorn tone of his voice.

“I know, Sam.” Optimus replied simply, “I am sorry.”

Suddenly overwhelmed, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Bumblebee pressed closer, his mental presence restless and concerned. The feeling served as a reminder that, sooner or later, he would have a perfect stranger inside his head—yet another person with exorbitant control over him for the rest of his life.

“Sam?” Meltdown murmured.

It took considerable effort, but eventually, Sam managed to open his eyes. Meltdown was standing nearby, his expression concerned but reserved. Optimus was no where to be seen—evidentially, the older Prime had taken his leave while Sam was gathering himself. The thought gave Sam pause, and for the first time upon waking, he took stock of his surroundings. The room was small, not much larger than Sam’s quarters. There was a berth against one wall and a cluttered desk against the other, separated by a large, oval porthole that provided an unobstructed view of space. The walls were bare except for a large monitor bolted above the desk, but there were several shelves around the room that contained a few personal effects. His eyes settled on a familiar snow-globe sitting on a nearby shelf—its glass dome had clearly been broken and repaired. The sight caused his throat to close up with sudden emotion. They had put him in Ratchet’s quarters.

“You need to rest.” Meltdown said, firmly but not unkindly, “Do you want to stay here?”

Wordlessly, Sam shook his head. He couldn’t bear to stay in Ratchet’s room for a moment longer—not while the medic was likely being tortured by Tarn and his ilk at that very moment.

“Okay, Sam. It’s alright.” Meltdown soothed, evidentially understanding the source of his distress, “The medical bay is triaged for our critically injured, but the hangar has been repurposed for overflow. Lie down and be still—I will move you over.”

Sam shuddered from head to toe, but he laid back against the mattress without complaint. As soon as he was prone, Meltdown reached over, lifting the siderails of the hospital bed and locking them into position.

“Hold on tight.” Meltdown instructed.

There was a sudden, jarring jerk and then the berth on which his hospital bed was positioned was being wheeled out of the room. Bumblebee kept pace at his side, watchful and alert as they made their way down the corridor. Their footsteps rang against the floor, but the sound was eclipsed by the noise of construction taking place somewhere nearby. Sam was momentarily distracted by the noise—the ringing of metal against metal and the rat-tat-tat of heavy machinery—and then he was being wheeled into a large room at the end of the hall. The hangar was filled with medical berths, which had been arranged in three evenly spaced rows across the room. There were a handful of medics walking down the aisles or standing at bedsides—Sam noticed Fixit near the entryway and First Aid further across the room. Meltdown guided his berth towards an empty spot on the far side of the hangar. Sam cringed away from the curious looks being directed his way by the conscious patients that they passed. He soon found himself tucked in a quiet corner beside another berth which, to his surprise, contained an injured Thundercracker. The Seeker winked at him as Meltdown locked the berth into place and lowered the siderails of his hospital bed.

“Try and get some rest.” Meltdown instructed, checking the bag of IV fluids that were hanging from the stand next to his bed. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he found, the medic added, “If you have trouble falling asleep, we can administer a soporific.”

Sam reached down to grasp the blankets in both hands, before pulling the material up to his shoulders. It did little to alleviate the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable.

Meltdown’s expression creased with sympathy.

“Rest, Sam.” He murmured, patting the foot of the mattress with one broad servo, “It will help.”

Sam privately doubted that it would, but he gave a jerky nod anyway. Meltdown glanced him over for a second time, before turning and making his way towards First Aid. The field medic was jacked into the medical port of a bulky flight-frame several berths away.

“Hello Sam.” Thundercracker greeted.

Sam turned his head to look at him. The Seeker was lying on his side so that his wings were hanging over the edge of the berth. Even from a distance, Sam could see the fresh weld-lines and metal-mesh patches that were bandaging his sensitive components. It looked painful.

“What happened to you?” Sam asked, brow furrowing in concern.

Thundercracker’s expression grew wry as he lifted his uninjured shoulder in a shrug.

“The Fatal Consequence blew a hole through the Nemesis’ hull.” He explained, before adding, “Unfortunately, I was in the vicinity.”   

Sam winced sympathetically, before rolling onto his side so that he could look the Seeker more fully in the face.

“That sucks.” He commiserated, “Were you boarded?”

Thundercracker shook his helm. “No, thankfully not. It seems Tarn had other priorities.”

Sam grimaced at the Seeker’s wording. He had first-hand experience of just what Tarn’s priorities entailed.  

“Yeah, well. Consider yourself lucky.” He replied bitterly, “The guy is a maniac. I think he could have killed everyone onboard the ship if he wanted to.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, a strange expression flitted across Thundercracker’s face. It was there and gone again so quickly that Sam wondered whether he had imagined it.

“Yes.” Thundercracker agreed lowly, “We were very fortunate.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Fixit, who stepped between their berths. The surgeon busied himself with changing the mesh dressing that was holding Thundercracker’s chest plates together, before turning to look at Sam. Sam frowned, taken aback by the intensity of his regard, but before he could voice his confusion, Fixit was sliding a syringe into the injection port of the IV bag hanging next to Sam’s bedside. The cloudy, amber-colored liquid dissipated into the saline, turning it faintly yellow.

“You need sleep. The midazolam I just administered is a benzodiazepine. It will do you good, but it hits like a truck.” Fixit informed him, before adding wryly, “Nighty-night.”

Sam bristled with indignation at the casual violation of his personal autonomy. He tried to struggle into a sitting position, but Fixit pressed a servo against his chest, pushing him back onto the mattress.

“Trust me: you don’t want to do that.” The medic warned.

Sam narrowed his eyes, before shoving the medic’s mental presence as hard as he could. Fixit jerked backwards in surprise even as Bumblebee stepped close, leaning over Sam’s body with a low, warning trill. Fixit ex-vented air sharply through his intakes, before snapping something back at Bumblebee. Whatever he said caused the scout’s mental presence to cool by an order of degrees, but Sam was suddenly in no condition to do anything about it. He groaned, letting his head fall back to the pillows as the room began swimming in front of him.  

“He’ll be asleep for eight to twelve hours.” Fixit said stiffly, “I will be nearby if he needs me.”

Fixit turned on his heel and started down the aisle. Bumblebee watched him go, his wings tense and armor plating pinned close to his frame. Sam struggled to keep the scout in focus, but his vision was too blurry. The thought should have alarmed him, but he was too far gone to care.

Suddenly, Bumblebee leaned his field of vision. The overhead lights glowed around him, framing his helm like a corona.

“’Baby, I can see your halo.’” Sam slurred, reaching out to touch the scout’s face. The metal was cool beneath his fingertips, and for some reason, that left him feeling profoundly sad.

Bumblebee gently grasped his wrist, before lowering his arm back onto the mattress.

“Close your eyes, Sam.” He murmured, resting the tips of his digits against Sam’s sternum. “I’ll be right here when you wake. I promise.”

Sam made an unhappy noise, but his body was suddenly warm and heavy. It was the easiest thing in the world to let his eyes drift shut and sink into the darkness that was already rising up to claim him.

Chapter 18

Notes:

Author's Notes: Thanks so much for your patience and support, everyone! I hope to settle into a weekly update schedule after this, so keep an eye out.

As promised, the benzodiazepines kept Sam in a medicated slumber for hours. He slept deeply at first, unbothered by the clamor and din of the makeshift medical bay. However, it wasn’t long before his dreams turned ugly, spurred on by half-remembered grief. He was roused occasionally by the feeling of warm hands or the sound of urgent voices, but his awareness was fleeting and disjointed. The only thing that he could understand was the impression of people—too many people—and his own choking terror, before he was sinking into the darkness again.

When Sam came back to himself an interminable time later, it was to the sound of quiet music. He drifted, groggy and disoriented, neither fully awake nor fully asleep. Eventually, he blinked open his eyes to the sight of Jazz at his bedside. The saboteur was reclining in a chair with his pedes kicked up on the berth, and he was holding an unfamiliar instrument in his servos. As Sam watched, Jazz plucked out a melody one chord at time. The music was softer and more resonant than he would have expected.

“Back with us, kid?” Jazz asked without looking up from his instrument.

“Yeah, I think so.” Sam rasped, pushing up onto one elbow. The instrument that Jazz was holding was unlike anything he had ever seen before—it had the pear-shaped body and long neck of a lute, but it was adorned with a complicated keypanel that almost resembled a synthesizer. “...What is that?”

Jazz grinned as he plucked another chord progression. “This little beauty? It’s called a, uh...” He trailed off mid-sentence, making a thoughtful sound in the back of his intakes. “The lexicon is suggesting manga march as the translation, but that doesn’t render well to English. Either way, it’s a favorite of mine.”

Sam lay on his side for a long while, watching Jazz with half-lidded eyes. The music was harmonic and distinctive, and it was a pleasant counterpoint to the unfamiliar bustle of the hangar. He didn’t even realize that he was drifting off again until Jazz chuckled quietly.

"You're cuddly when you're sleepy, kid."

Sam opened his eyes, casting a bleary look at the second-in-command. Jazz was watching him with an amused slant to his mouth, his lute-guitar resting in his lap. It wasn’t until the saboteur nudged him meaningfully that Sam became aware of the pleasant warmth inside his head. He turned his attention inwards… only to jerk away in embarrassment. Jazz’s familiar, indigo-colored glow was resting at the edge of his mind, and until that moment, Sam had been pressed in close—far closer than polite convention would allow.

“Ohmygod, I’m so sorry!” He blurted, heat blazing across his face.

Jazz favored him with a dry smile, bumping gently against his mind. “‘S’okay kid, I ain’t offended.”

Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position, flushing all the way to the roots of his hair. The hangar was quieter than it had been when he was sedated. Fewer than half of the berths were still occupied, and the remaining patients appeared to be in relatively stable condition. There were only a few who were lying quiet and unmoving on their berths—and unlike the day before, the remaining patients seemed to be doing their level-best to look anywhere other than his direction. Sam’s eyes slid across the hangar, settling first on Hoist, who was standing near the entryway, and then on First Aid, who was fiddling with a piece of equipment half-way down the hangar. Fixit was nowhere to be seen—a fact that served to tighten Sam’s mouth in grim satisfaction.

Good.

Jazz chuckled again, before leaning over to prop his lute against the wall. “Fixit was transferred back to the Lost Light by order of the Prime. Effective a few hours ago.” He looked at Sam, long and hard, “How’re you feeling, kiddo?”

Sam grimaced at the question. Now that he was fully awake, the warm haze of the benzos was fading with each passing moment. In its wake, his head felt… uncomfortable. The neural-network was too loud, too vast—too much. It seemed to press in on him from all sides. He reached instinctively for his firewalls, and he shuddered in relief when they fell neatly into place. It was only then, with his attention turned inwards, that he noticed Bumblebee’s spark signature. The familiar, winter-white glow was mellow and soft. It took Sam less than a second to realize that his bonded was deep in recharge. He leaned over, following the mental trail to find Bumblebee parked in his alt mode next to the berth. The Camaro’s headlights were dark, its front fender pressing against the berth’s support struts.

“He asked me to ping him if you woke up.” Jazz offered conversationally, “He could use the rest, though. He hasn’t recharged since before the attack.”

Sam was already shaking his head as he settled back against the mattress. “No, let him sleep. He needs it.”

Jazz made an affirmatory noise as he leaned back in his chair. It wasn’t until Sam reached for the covers that he noticed his IV was missing and a bandage was affixed in its place. He frowned down at the gauze in puzzlement—it was wrapped around his hand from his knuckles to his wrist. He curled his fingers experimentally only to grimace at the pull of tender flesh.

All at once, Sam realized that Prime’s second-in-command wasn’t sitting at his bedside for the company.

“What happened?” He asked, turning uneasy eyes towards the silver mechanoid.

“You’re alright, kid.” Jazz said reassuringly, “Jus’ panicked a bit when you woke up earlier than Fixit expected. We got you settled just fine, though.”

Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown. Jazz’s explanation brought with it vague memories of vastness and fear, but nothing substantial—nothing that he could remember. The expression on his face must have been telling, however, because Jazz lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Yeah, heavy-duty benzos will do that.” He agreed dryly.

Sam grimaced deeply as grabbed the blankets and pulled them up his armpits. The roughhewn material did little to abate the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable. He crossed his arms over his chest, letting his head fall back onto the pillows.

“When can I get out of here?” He asked tightly.

“Soon.” Jazz promised, crossing his legs at the ankles. “You hungry?”

Truthfully, Sam wasn’t hungry in the least. He was feeling unsteady and muzzy-headed, as though he was recovering from a bad hangover. The prospect of eating turned his stomach, and he said as much to Jazz.

“Well, I doubt First Aid’ll let you outta here until you eat something.” Jazz predicted mildly.

Sam had spent enough time in the medical bay to see the truth of that. He sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Yeah, alright. I could probably eat.”

Jazz hummed an affirmative, but he made no move to get up or leave. Instead, he reached down, picking his instrument off the floor and plucking another chord progression. The tune was livelier this time—something upbeat and showy. Sam rolled onto his side, pillowing his hands under his face so he could watch. Jazz grinned at him, wide and easy, as his digits flew across the strings.

“I ever tell you that I used to be a street performer?” Jazz asked.

Sam’s eyebrows quirked up in surprise. “No. Really?”

“Yep.” Jazz agreed, sliding his digits up the fretboard, “A bonafide Polyhexian original. The one and only.”

Sam watched him play as he considered his response. He turned the words over in his mind, weighing them carefully, and then he asked his question anyway.

“Is that why Tarn called you Meister?”

Jazz’s servos never faltered, but it was a drawn-out moment before he replied.

“Nah, kid. That ain’t why.”

His tone was mild and introspective, but Sam could recognize an admonishment when he heard one. He flushed in response, unsure whether to apologize or change the subject. He was spared the trouble of figuring it out by Jazz himself, who gave Sam a wry look.

//I ain’t mad. It’s just a story for another time.//

Jazz continued playing without saying anything further on the subject. They remained in companionable silence until First Aid arrived a short while later. The medic stepped into the space between Sam’s berth and Thundercracker’s berth, before jacking smoothly into the Seeker’s medical port. Thundercracker’s optics irised open at the intrusion, but he offered no objection to whatever First Aid was doing. Sam knew that his concept of medical privacy differed markedly from theirs, but he averted his eyes all the same. After a moment, First Aid made an approving sounding chirrup as he unjacked his medical cable. Sam didn’t even have the chance to brace himself before the medic was turning towards him and initiating a sensor scan. The familiar light swept him from head to toe in quick succession.

“How are you feeling, buddy?” First Aid asked, all earnest concern.

Sam resisted the urge to grimace with no small degree of effort.

“I’m fine.” He said, trying not to sound plaintive when he added, “Can I go back to my hab-suite now?”

The medic shook his helm as he replied, “You need to eat something first. It’s been almost a week since you’ve refueled.”

Jazz leaned forward, catching Sam’s eye and giving him a knowing grin. Sam gave the second-in-command a wry look, before turning back towards First Aid. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.”

First Aid’s optics brightened in approval as he whistled something too quickly for Sam to parse out—there was an acknowledgement glyph, and he was pretty sure the upwards inflection at the end was an emphasis modifier, although he couldn’t tell which one—and then the medic was hurrying down the length of the hangar. Sam watched him go, before shifting against the mattress. The motion caused the skin on his upper arm to pull white-hot, and he glanced down at himself reflexively—his skin was still pink and shiny from the chemical burn, although the bandages had been removed sometime during his stasis treatment.

He curled his fingers around his forearm, grounding himself. The trip to Swerve’s felt like another lifetime ago.

“...Do you know any rock?” Sam asked eventually, desperate for a distraction.

Jazz chuckled as he strummed the opening bars of Stairway to Heaven. 

“Kid, I’m about to blow your mind.”

Sam listened quietly as Jazz played. The Zeppelin classic was followed by Dream On and Sweet Child o’ Mine. The saboteur took some liberties, but the blend of acoustic and electronic lent itself well to the classic rock. First Aid arrived shortly thereafter with a familiar tray pinched between two digits. Sam pushed into a sitting position as the medic placed the tray on the overbed table as gingerly as one might place a teacup on a saucer.

“Bon appétit.” He said, grandly.

Sam directed a wry smile at the medic as he lifted the stainless-steel warmer off the tray. The smell of his grandmother’s turkey soup hit him full in the face before he even had the chance to set it aside. Sam stared down at the steaming bowl for a long while, wrestling with emotions that he didn’t have the luxury of feeling—not now, not anymore.

“Sam?” First Aid asked, dropping his maître d' act, “Are you alright?”

Sam swallowed down the lump in his throat, before setting the warmer aside and directing a tight smile at the medic.

“I’m fine. Thanks for bringing this.” He said, picking up the accompanying roll and tearing it into little pieces.

First Aid stared down at him, his gaze uncharacteristically intense.

“Would you prefer something else?” He asked, shrewdly.

Sam shook his head without meeting the medic’s optics. “No, this is great. Thank-you.”

First Aid shifted his weight from pede to pede, clearly skeptical, but the click of rapidly approaching heels forestalled whatever he might have said. Sam angled his head to watch as Starscream swept up the aisle to stand next to Thundercracker’s berth. The Air Commander’s wing flaps were flared and rigid as he stared down at his trinemate. Thundercracker ex-vented a meaningful sigh as he stared back at him—the two were clearly having a private conversation over comms.

Skywarp trailed behind Starscream. His posture was tense and wary, but his expression warmed considerably when he caught sight of Sam on the next berth. He stepped around his Wing Lord, offering Sam a small but genuine smile.

“Hello, Sam.”

Sam quirked a smile of his own as he dunked a piece of roll in his soup.

“Hey, Warp.” He said, taking a bite of the sopping bread, “Thanks for the gift. It was great.”

Starscream scoffed something derisive sounding, but Skywarp seemed unaffected by whatever he said. Instead, the Seeker directed a pleased smile down at Sam.

“I’m glad.” Skywarp rumbled in reply, “The reviews were favorable. Did you see that it comes with a viscous sugar water additive?”

Sam laughed, despite himself. “Yeah, I did. Thanks.”

As he spoke, Sam picked up the spoon and used it to ladle turkey and barley onto a piece of bread. The broth dripped over his fingers, warm and fragrant, and he bent down to pop the roll into his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste of thyme and marjoram. Starscream’s faceplates tightened in disgust as he ladled another spoonful into his mouth. Sam just stared back at him, deadpan, as he chewed his food.

“Problem?” He asked, his mouth full.

Starscream turned to look at First Aid without deigning to acknowledge the question. “When can he transfer back to the Nemesis?” He demanded, clearly referring to his trinemate, “He can convalesce just as well in my medical bay.”

“What’s the hurry, Screamer?” Jazz asked, speaking for the first time since the Air Commander had arrived, “You got somewhere you need to be?”

Sam glanced over at the second-in-command in surprise. His tone had been mild, almost curious, but even he could hear the insult underlying his words. Starscream stiffened in affront, his wing flaps drawing tight to his chassis, but rather than answer the question, he turned back towards First Aid instead.

“Well?” He demanded tightly, “Discharge him.”

First Aid’s expression grew disapproving, “Thundercracker was very lucky—” he began, but Jazz interjected before he could say more.

“Your trinemate was lucky, wasn’t he?  All of you were.” He mused, adjusting one of the tuning keys on his instrument, “It could have been a lot worse—the Fatal Consequence ain’t exactly a pleasure vessel.”

Starscream stiffened almost imperceptibly, “Do you have a point to make?”

“Like the good doctor said: you were lucky.” Jazz replied, leaning back in his chair before adding, “The thing about luck, your Highness, is that it’s known to turn—won’t nobody be surprised when it does.”

Starscream narrowed his optics, which had darkened to claret-red. Sam’s heart skipped a beat at his expression, which was suddenly, unexpectedly hostile. Jazz tipped his head to the side, returning his gaze without compunction. Everything about the second-in-command, from his posture to his body language to the mellow thrum of his spark signature, was mild and inoffensive. Starscream stared down at him for a moment longer, as though daring him to speak, before he abruptly turned on Thundercracker.

“Get up.” He snapped. “It’s time to leave.”

Thundercracker’s expression was shuttered and unreadable as Skywarp helped him to his pedes. First Aid moved aside without protest, letting the larger flight-frames step around the berth. Thundercracker pressed one servo against the metal mesh patches that were stitched into his components, his optics dim from the effort of standing. Skywarp stepped close, hooking one arm around his trinemate’s waist and the other around his shoulders. Together, they slowly started down the aisle. Starscream straightened to his full height, his wings flared out on either side of him, before following them. Sam watched, bewildered, as the three Seekers made their way across the hangar. It wasn’t until they reached the wide doors that Jazz tipped his head back, calling after them:

“See you real soon, Screamer.”

Starscream’s step never faltered as he swept into the hallway, leaving Thundercracker and Skywarp to hobble after him. It was only after the three air-frames had disappeared through the doors that Sam turned, directing a perplexed look at Prime’s second-in-command.

“What was that all about?” He asked.

Jazz shook his head, something like a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Bless your spark, kid.” He murmured, before jerking his chin towards Sam’s half-finished meal, “You better hurry up. Your food’s gettin’ cold.” 

Sam stared at Jazz for a moment longer, but when the second-in-command said nothing further on the subject, he turned back to his meal with a resigned shrug. The soup had cooled considerably during the altercation with Starscream, but it was thick and silky, and Sam ate without complaint. He was ladling the last remnants of barley into his mouth when he felt the spark bond brighten meaningfully inside his mind. He half-turned as the sound of transformation preceded the sight of Bumblebee straightening to his full height. The scout’s optics found him in an instant, and he warbled quietly in Cybertronian as he stepped close to the berth. Sam smiled wanly, easily interpreting his bonded’s concern.

“I’m fine.” He said, settling his spoon and bowl on the bedside table and pushing it aside, “Can we get out of here already?”

Bumblebee cast a questioning glance at First Aid, who was watching them with unusually bright optics. As soon as the field medic inclined his helm permissively, Bumblebee helped Sam out of bed. It was uncomfortably cool in the hangar, and as a result, Sam was shivering in earnest by the time he pulled on the last of his clothes.

“Thanks for the company.” Sam said, tossing the words over his shoulder in Jazz’s direction, “I appreciate it.”

“No problemo.” Jazz replied, “I enjoyed breaking out the ol’ girl. I haven’t had much time to play recently.”

As he spoke, the second-in-command pushed to his feet, slinging the instrument over his shoulder in one fell motion. It wasn’t until Jazz was stepping around the berth that Sam noticed the short, curved blade hanging on his hip. His gaze lingered on the weapon until Jazz whistled, catching his attention.

Sam glanced up reflexively, and as soon as they made eye contact, Jazz brought two fingers in his forehead in a lazy salute.

“See you around, kid.”

Jazz made his way down the aisle, whistling cheerfully to himself as he went. Sam stared after him for a long moment, before dragging his eyes up to Bumblebee’s face. The scout was looking at him, his expression reserved but concerned.

“Can we go?” Sam asked tiredly, “I’ve already had a hell of a day, and I’ve only been awake for a few hours.”

Bumblebee extended both servos towards him, beckoning meaningfully with his digits. Sam carefully stepped onto the cradle of his palms, before letting himself be tucked against the scout’s chest. The metal was warm and smooth against his body. Sam closed his eyes as Bumblebee initiated his transformation sequence. He was curled, this way and that, before he finally found himself in the driver’s seat as the Camaro finished transforming. The steering wheel slid up, locking into place as the engine turned over. By the time that Sam had settled back against the supple leather, they were already accelerating down the aisle and out of the hangar. To Sam’s surprise, the corridors were lit only by the dim glow of emergency lights.

“The Ark is running repairs.” Bumblebee explained, answering Sam’s unspoken question, “All unnecessary functions have been shut-down to reroute power to main engineering.”

Sam worried his hands together in his lap as he asked, quietly, “Are we going to be okay?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence leaned into his mind, warm and reassuring.

“Yes, Sam.” He murmured, “We are going to be okay.”

The Camaro’s headlights gleamed off the metal floor as they drove. They took one corridor and then another, before they passed the mess hall on the right. Sam’s mouth went dry at the sight of scorched marks peppering the walls—clearly, someone had been engaged in battle right outside the mess. The sight was gone again a moment later when they turned the corner.

Sam sat in silence for the rest of the way to their hab-suite. The room was relatively unscathed after the events of the last week, although the plant that Hound had given him was nowhere to be seen. Its absence was almost painfully conspicuous—a fact that Sam forced himself not to dwell on as he climbed out of the cab. As soon as he stepped away, Bumblebee transformed back into his bipedal mode. The scout crouched down in front of him, an inscrutable look on his face.

“What can I do?” Bee asked, plainly, stroking a digit down his back.

Sam didn’t need their bond to intuit what the scout was asking.

“Nothing.” He said, pushing his hands into his pockets as he walked around the couch, “Thanks though.”

Bumblebee regarded him a moment longer, before scuttling several steps closer.

“We don’t have to stay here.” He murmured, “The fourth and fifth decks are undergoing repairs, but everything else is accessible. We could go to the bridge or the hydroponics laboratory if you wanted.”

Sam’s lips thinned in a grimace. He and Rung had been at the hydroponics laboratory when the Peaceful Tyranny had attacked. The thought caused another concern to rise unbidden in his mind.

He turned to look at Bumblebee, anxiety furrowing his brow.

“The hydroponics lab… are they going to be able to salvage it?”

Bumblebee’s optics softened in understanding.

“Most of it, yes.” He replied, “We lost a dozen planters and many of the seedlings, but we were able to salvage the rest. Rung has already planted the next crop.”

Sam’s breath hitched at the confirmation his emergency supplies hadn’t been destroyed. At least starvation wasn’t going to be an immediate concern on top of everything else that he had to worry about.

Bumblebee brushed against him, his mental presence a confusing mixture of protectiveness and compassion.

“Your reserves were undamaged by the attack.” He said reassuringly, “The fighting never came within a ship's breadth of the storage hangars.” 

Despite the reassurance in the scout’s tone, Sam was seized with a sudden, visceral need to see the reserves for himself—to confirm with his own two eyes that he wasn’t stranded in space, trillions of kilometers from home, without any means of survival. He twisted, looking up at his bonded in desperation.

Bumblebee reached out, drawing a single digit down his spine. The touch was gentle and grounding, but it did nothing to settle the panic that was seizing up his insides.

“It’s alright, Sam.” Bumblebee murmured, “We can go.”

As thought the words were some kind of release, Sam lurched to his feet and stumbled towards the doorway. He didn’t wait for Bumblebee to transform—he had to go, right now, right this second to make sure that his supplies were intact. Bumblebee whistled after him, his voice pitchy and concerned, but Sam ignored him. He hurried out of the hab-suite, walking as quickly as his legs would carry him. He was distantly aware of Bumblebee following him, but his whole world narrowed down to the corridor in front of him. He took the corner at the end of the hall, the emergency lights casting a dim, orange glow around him. He tried to ignore the way that the shadows seemed to stretch as he passed, as though reaching for him.

“Sam, calm down.” Bumblebee urged, keeping pace at his side, “You’re alright.”

“I need to see it.” He gasped, “I need to see it right now!”

He broke into a run, the sound of his ragged breathing and the squeak of his shoes the only noise that accompanied them until they neared the aft section of the deck. It was only then that Sam became aware of an unusual sound—it was a high-pitched whine, sharp enough to break through the haze of his incipient panic attack. He stumbled to a stop, his heart thundering inside his chest. The sound rose and fell in waves, but it was so intense that Sam could almost feel it in his bones. He stood there for a long while, just listening, before turning troubled eyes towards his bonded.

“What is that?” He asked uncertainly.

Bumblebee ex-vented softly as he turned to look in the direction of the noise.

“It’s Hot Rod.” He murmured in reply.

Sam stared up at him, taken aback by the quiet grief written all over his bonded’s face. All thoughts of planters and seedlings and flash-frozen meals were gone in an instant, replaced by a sinking feeling of trepidation.

In all his years living among the Autobots, Sam had never once heard someone make a noise like that. It was a terrible sound—keening and desperate and forlorn.

Sam found himself padding forward without having made a conscious decision to do so. Bumblebee followed behind him in silence. The noise got louder as they made their way down the hall until an open hangar came into view, spilling dim light into the darkened corridor. The feeling of trepidation in Sam’s chest tightened, becoming almost claustrophobic, but he couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. He put one foot in front of the other until he stepped into the entryway—and then he pulled up short.

The room within was a mortuary.

It was a small space, perhaps two or three times the size of Sam’s hab-suite, but it was filled with fallen mechanoids. Their bodies were draped in metal-mesh and arranged in a long row in the center of the room. Unlike the mausoleum at Diego Garcia, however, the hangar was almost painfully barren, devoid of any markers or funerary art.

It wasn’t a place to honor the dead, Sam realized abruptly. It was just a place to store them.

His eyes trailed across the room, before settling on Hot Rod. The cavalier was on his knees next to Knock Out’s frame, which had had its funeral shroud pulled down to his waist. Sam’s throat thickened in emotion—both at the sight of Knock Out’s corpse and at the sight of Hot Rod, arms folded over his chassis, keening in grief at his side.

Cliffjumper and Sideswipe stood a respectful distance away, their servos clasped at their waists. They turned to regard him as he stepped into the entryway, but neither of them spoke a word.

Sam stood frozen to the spot, unable to move, to speak—scarcely daring even to breathe. Hot Rod’s keening wail rose and fell in tandem with his movements: he bent at the waist, pressing his forehead into the floor at Knock Out’s side, before straightening his back again. He repeated the supplication over and over without falter. Sam had no idea how long he stood there, but Hot Rod’s keening wail eventually trailed away as he sat back on his heels. He stared down at Knock Out’s corpse for a long moment, his optics preternaturally bright.

Eventually, the cavalier turned to regard him.

“Did you know that mecha cannot weep?” He asked, softly.

Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat, shaking his head in lieu of a reply.

“We lack the necessary components, and thus our mourning is less… visceral than your own.” Hot Rod continued, turning to look down at Knock Out’s corpse, “Less visceral, perhaps, but no less terrible.” He was silent for a long moment, his servos curling into fists where they rested on his thigh struts.

“I cannot imagine the act of grieving providing any manner of peace.” He murmured at last, before turning to look at Sam, “How I envy you that physical release.”

Sam swallowed against the grief thickening his throat. He had never heard the cavalier sound so resigned, so forlorn—not in all the years they had known one another.

“Roddy… I’m so sorry.” He managed, his voice little more than a strangled whisper.

Hot Rod’s optics were burning like a butane flame as he regarded Sam for a moment longer. Eventually, the cavalier turned, staring down at Knock Out as he bent at the waist, pressing his forehead against the floor. The sound of his high-pitched, keening wail began to build as he resumed his benedictions.

“Sam.” Bumblebee murmured, pressing the tips of two digits against his back, “We should go.”

Sam stared at the cavalier for a long moment, unable to move.

“Sam.” Bumblebee tried again, more insistent this time, “Come with me.”

Sam slowly angled his head to look up at the scout. Bumblebee’s mental presence was shuttered and withdrawn, but Sam could see the grief and guilt reflected in his optics—it was the feeling that was twisting up Sam’s insides too.

“You should stay.” He murmured, pressing a hand against the smooth, yellow metal of Bumblebee’s chest plates. “He needs you.”

A complicated expression flickered across Bumblebee’s face, too quickly for Sam to decipher.

“You need me.” Bumblebee replied, “You’re my priority, Sam.”

Sam’s expression softened with affection as he reached up, grasping the edge of Bumblebee’s face plates. “Of course I need you.” He murmured, “But Roddy needs you more right now.” When the scout looked as though he might refuse, Sam gave his faceplates a meaningful tug, “I’ll be alright. I promise.”

Bumblebee stared at him for a long, weighted moment, before finally inclining his helm. Sam smiled faintly, giving his faceplates a gentle pat.

“You know where I’ll be if you need me.” He said softly. “Take care of Roddy, alright?”

Bumblebee smoothed across his mind, appreciative and regretful in equal measures. Sam’s smile curled a little wider as he bumped against him, trying to infuse the touch with as much reassurance as he could muster, and then he turned, walking out of the hangar with Hot Rod’s grief-stricken keening echoing down the hall behind him.

Notes:

Author's Notes: Happy Turkey-day to all our North American readers! We couldn’t resist Sam having some turkey soup to commemorate. Oh, and if you're curious, Jazz's dagger is a kind of karambit, a weapon specialized for slashing cuts, joint manipulation, and ripping. Picture the Ulaks wielded by Riddick in Pitch Black!

Chapter 19

Notes:

Author Notes: Thank-you so much for your continued support. I know we say this every time we update, but words can't express our appreciation for all of the comments/kudos/subscriptions. It's fuel for the fire! You guys are the best.

The days that followed were difficult.

The atmosphere on board the Ark was strained in the aftermath of the battle. The Autobots went about their shift rotations, repairing damages and shoring up defenses, but things were different. The easy camaraderie that had been present when they departed for Cybertron was missing. In its absence was a grim determination that seemed to suffuse every conversation, every interaction, and every mechanoid. 

Sam made himself as unobtrusive as possible, steadfastly refusing to add to the burdens of the crew. He went about his days on rote: eating meals, exercising, and sleeping on a schedule. Ratchet’s schedule. It was almost tolerable at first—the structure and the routine helped—but the neural-network pressed in, eroding his defenses a little more every day, and Sam went to bed hurting and exhausted each night. Bumblebee kept him company as often as he could, but their time together was limited by necessity. The scout was required elsewhere—either on the bridge, monitoring all known comm-frequencies for any signs of Decepticon activity, or watching over Hot Rod, who was still showing no improvement. They stole brief moments together here and there: an hour one morning, a few minutes at shift-change. Bumblebee used the time to shore up the tattered remains of Sam’s firewalls, but it did little to relieve the constant ache between his temples. Sam knew that Bumblebee was worried—it would be impossible to misinterpret the guilt and disquiet at the edge of his mind. Still, Sam was always the first to pull away before sending Bumblebee onto his next assignment. 

What else could he do?

Cliffjumper was the first to express his concern, and he did it in a typically Cliff fashion: by showing up at Sam’s hab-suite on the second day, unannounced, with a steaming container of goulash in one servo and an energon cube in the other. Sam was too tired to protest, and so he stepped aside, letting the scout into his room. They ate their respective meals in silence while the entertainment console droned on in the background. Cliffjumper never pressured him to eat, but he stayed until Sam had finished his meal. 

Hound was the second person to show up at his hab-suite unannounced. Sam opened the door to the sight of Hound’s holoform standing in the corridor. He was holding the money tree that he had gifted Sam when they left Earth, and although the pot had been replaced and its branches had been pruned, the plant seemed none the worse for wear.

“I was able to salvage it.” Hound said, extending the plant towards him.

Sam accepted the offering with trembling hands, before hugging the pot close to his chest.

“Thank-you.” He managed, quietly.

After that, others found excuses to spend time with him as well. Bluestreak caught him the following morning on his way to the archives, and they spent the day with Crosshairs and Pinpointer in the armory. It was a surprisingly effective distraction, even though Sam was too small to handle any of the weapons himself. 

Wheeljack was next—he brought Sam to the science laboratory, before proceeding to educate him on the intricacies of space bridge technology, which, Sam learned, differed markedly from ground bridge technology. Sam’s head was pounding by the time he made it back to his hab-suite for reasons that had nothing to do with his tattered firewalls.

Sam was thankful for the company despite the concerned glances shared among the crew when no one thought he was looking. To Sam’s intense relief, no one else had brought up the issue of a new Creator since Optimus had spoken with him when he first awoke from stasis. Well, no one except Bumblebee. The scout broached the subject whenever he bolstered Sam’s firewalls—tentatively, perhaps, but doggedly all the same. Sam always refused, even though he knew his time was running out. His firewalls were too thin and thready to offer any real protection from the relentless press of the mechanoids around him. Nothing helped—not throwing himself into his work, not resting. Eventually, not even Bumblebee could do anything to ease the omnipresent misery that consumed his every waking moment. 

It should have come as no surprise that someone eventually cornered him, but Sam had not been expecting Sunstreaker of all people. It happened late in the evening four days after he left the medical bay. Sam was in the mess hall, microwaving a meal that he knew he wouldn’t eat, when Sunstreaker strode into the hangar. Sam didn’t even realize that he had approached until his shadow fell across the kitchenette.

“You need to make a decision.” Sunstreaker rumbled, matter-of-factly.

Sam half-turned, frowning up at the front-liner who was staring at him with an unyielding expression on his face. It made him look even more imperious than usual. 

“I had a long night, Sunstreaker.” Sam muttered, turning to watch the plastic container rotate on the turntable, “I don’t want to have this conversation right now.” 

In truth, Sam had spent most of the night staring sightlessly at the ceiling of his hab-suite, trying to ignore the steadily worsening ache between his temples. 

As though reading his thoughts, Sunstreaker made a disgruntled sound deep inside his intakes. “You’re suffering.” 

“Back off, Sunny.” Sam warned.

Whatever Sunstreaker might have said was forestalled by the microwave, which beeped three times in quick succession. Sam pulled open the door and retrieved the steaming carton. He studiously ignored the yellow mechanoid as he grabbed his fork and glass, before making his way to the circular table next to the kitchenette. 

“You know this cannot continue.” Sunstreaker said, surprising Sam by lowering into a loose crouch, “Sam. Please.” 

The concern in his voice needled Sam for reasons he couldn’t explain. It was a familiar topic of contention, but still: it felt grossly invasive for Sunstreaker to broach the subject. The two of them were barely on speaking terms.

“I’m not going to choose you, Sunstreaker.” Sam bit out, more sharply than he intended.

If Sunstreaker was insulted, he didn’t show it. Instead, his expression changed, growing earnest and intense. “It’s not about that. Choose someone else—choose anyone else. Pits, choose Mirage for all I care. Just choose.” 

Sam was blindsided by the soft, imploring tone of his voice. His eyes fell to his meal, which was steaming gently in the cool, hangar air. He stared at it for a long while, unable to look Sunstreaker in the face. Eventually, the warrior ex-vented a quiet sigh. 

“I know you think you’re helping.” Sunstreaker murmured, straightening out of his crouch, “But you’re not.” 

Sam’s head came up, a cold retort on the tip of his tongue, but Sunstreaker was already striding away. He watched him go, a frown knitting his brow. Sunstreaker never even gave him a backwards glance as he marched out of the hangar, leaving Sam with nothing but the echo of his words for company. 

Sam forced himself to finish his meal out of spite, but it sat in his stomach like an iron weight for the rest of the evening. 

 

---

 

Sam slept restlessly that night, even by his standards. 

He tossed and turned until well past shift-change, tangling the blankets around his legs. The room grew steadily colder as the night dragged on, and eventually, Sam pulled the bedclothes over his head. He laid there quietly, trying to warm up, until sleep finally claimed him sometime later. He slept until the lights in his hab-suite brightened to fifty-percent, denoting the beginning of first-shift. He woke slowly, reluctantly, as the throbbing between his temples dragged him back to full awareness.

“You are very stubborn.” A smooth, feminine voice spoke beside him, “Or perhaps very foolish.” 

Sam startled in surprise, before twisting to find Ravage sprawled on the berth, looking for all the world as if she belonged there. The cyber-cat’s posture was relaxed, her tail draped over Sam’s knees as she regarded him with her single ruby optic. Sam stared back at her, slack-jawed in disbelief. 

“...Am I dreaming?” He rasped.

Ravage rumbled in amusement and butted her head against his shoulder. The motion rocked him backwards onto his elbows, solid and grounding and real. Sam barely had the chance to recover before she was rubbing her faceplates across his chest.

“No, little Prime.” She murmured affectionately, “This is not a dream.” 

Sam raised a hand, pressing it flat against the top of her head. The metal was smooth and warm, just as he remembered. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked. 

Ravage chuckled quietly, before nudging against him until Sam took the hint and laid back against the mattress. The cyber-cat followed him down, leaning her weight against him. Sam could feel the faint purr of her internal workings, even through the blankets that separated them. 

“I think you already know the answer to your question.” She rumbled, resting her heavy head on his abdomen. 

Sam sighed softly, running his fingertips along the seams on the back of the cyber-cat’s neck. The metal was thin and delicate, but Ravage tolerated his touch without protest. He knew that Soundwave had tasked Ravage with his well-being during his captivity onboard the Nemesis, just as he knew that Ravage still considered herself bound by the obligation. 

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Ravage rumbled at him reproachfully.

“A responsibility, perhaps.” She admonished, “Not an obligation.” 

Sam snorted, but there was no heat in it. “Stay out of my head.” 

“Stop being so morose so loudly, and I just might.” She countered. 

Her dry tone caused Sam to laugh softly in response. He stroked his fingers along the delicate panels of her head, ghosting over the fine metal of her faceplates. To his surprise, Ravage dipped her head to the side, allowing him better access. At the same time, Sam became aware of the sharp note of vigilance at the edge of his mind. He didn’t even need to turn his attention inwards to know that Bumblebee was watching their interaction with the intentness of a hawk.

“You’re going to get in trouble.” He murmured in warning.

Ravage stretched out her two front paws, before tucking them close to her chassis.

“The thought does not concern me.” She rumbled lazily. 

Sam’s lips twitched in a faint smile, despite himself. Ravage was pressed against him, shoulder to hip, the silver panels of her body reflecting the dim glow of the overhead lights. Sam settled his arm across her neck and chest, before letting his eyes flutter shut. The warmth of her body was already soaking through the blankets, and Sam shifted closer on instinct. Ravage rumbled at him approvingly, before shuddering a long, contented sigh. The room grew quiet, except for the muted sound of her internal workings and the distant rumble of the ship’s engines. Sam’s breathing evened out, slowly but surely, as the heat from her chassis loosened muscles that had been knotted for days.

He drifted for a long while in the soft, liminal space between fully awake and fully asleep. It wasn’t until the door chime sounded, startling him into wakefulness, that he realized he had dozed off again. He lifted his head, squinting over his shoulder at the door. The keypad set in the wall beside it was blinking insistently at him. 

Sam groaned softly as he maneuvered into a sitting position. The movement set off a painful throbbing inside his skull. He ground the heels of his palms into his brow bone, willing the headache to subside. 

“Who is it?” He rasped. 

“My warden, I’d wager.” Ravage rumbled in return. 

The cyber-cat had not moved from where she lay sprawled beside him, although she was staring intently at the door. Even Sam, who had precisely zero experience in special operations, could tell that her posture was too relaxed, too… staged to be natural. 

Ravage’s gaze flicked towards him, her expression thoughtful. “You’re learning.” She said approvingly, before adding, “If the Creators on board the Ark do not meet with your approval, my Master would be happy to have you.” 

Sam stiffened at her too-casual suggestion. He shifted to the side, putting space between himself and the cyber-cat. 

“No offense, Ravage, but I’d rather let Scalpel give me a root canal.” He returned, tightly. 

Ravage stretched languidly on top of the mattress, before nuzzling into Sam’s arm in silent apology. “Forgive me. I did not intend to distress you.”

Sam huffed a breath, before glancing towards the door. The light on the keypad was still blinking insistently. “Yeah, well. The thought of Soundwave inside my mind is distressing.” 

Ravage’s expression was strangely intense as she leaned forward, catching his eye. “Your fear is unnecessary. My Master would not hurt you.” 

“Again, you mean?” Sam retorted, coldly. 

The door chime sounded again, more insistently this time. 

“My Master would never force someone to bond with him.” Ravage said, her tone oddly distant, almost sorrowful, “It is against his principles.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Sam bit back sharply, “Because he has so many of those.” 

Ravage ex-vented, softly. “To force a bond is anathema to a carrier mechanoid. He would never.” Her voice had grown mournful, and she visibly collected herself before she continued, “Not even if it were necessary. Not even to protect someone from destroying themselves in their grief.” 

Sam frowned deeply, but the door to his hab-suite slid open before he could deny her implication. He turned, blinking in surprise as Mirage stepped into the room. The spymaster’s optics were unusually bright in the low light—landing first on Sam, before flicking to Ravage who was lying at his side. Sam could feel the warmth stealing up his neck and across his face at the minute gesture. 

“Good afternoon, Sam.” Mirage intoned smoothly, “I have brought your mid-day meal.” 

The former noble’s tone was carefully mild, offering neither disapproval nor rebuke, but Sam still felt as though he had been caught with his pants down. 

“Thank-you.” He managed.

Mirage inclined his helm, before placing a tray on the coffee table in the middle of the room. The underlying message was hardly subtle: it was time to get out of bed. 

Sam tried to ignore the flush heating his face as he pushed the blankets aside. He missed their warmth as soon as they were gone—it was frigid inside the room, an unfortunate consequence of the emergency repairs that were currently hobbling the ship’s environmental controls. Sam slipped off the mattress, grimacing as his head began pounding anew, and then he crouched to pull open the drawers beneath the berth. He grabbed things indiscriminately, not caring whether Dave Carter would approve of his fashion choices. He pulled a thick, woolen sweater over his head, before yanking a pair of thermal pants over his long-johns. He ignored Mirage and Ravage as he got dressed—it was too fucking cold to worry about modesty. 

When he finished, he padded over to the couch. The stainless steel tray contained a pre-packaged meal, a bottle of water, and a small paper cup. Sam grimaced faintly as he sat down, grabbing the bottle and twisting off the cap. He only hesitated for a moment, before leaning forward to retrieve his medication. His lips thinned at the sight of two small, yellow tablets rattling around inside the cup. 

Meltdown had increased his dosage. 

Sam quashed his knee-jerk irritation with no small degree of effort. He raised the cup, tipping the medication into his mouth, before taking a long drink of water. It was only after he lowered the bottle that he noticed the way Mirage was looking at him. It wasn’t a penetrating stare, not exactly, but the former noble was watching him closely. 

It put Sam’s hackles up immediately. “What, are you going to stand there and watch me?” 

Mirage's expression was carefully neutral, but he inclined his helm all the same. “I have been given my orders.” 

Sam stiffened, his earlier irritation coming back in full force. He had been doing just fine since the attack. It hadn’t been pleasant, but he had been eating his meals and taking his medication, thank-you-very-much. He briefly wondered who was to blame for the invasion of his privacy. If he were a betting man, Sam would put odds on Jazz or Optimus. He doubted that Meltdown would be so forward. The medic had gone out of his way to respect Sam’s privacy in the days since he had awoken from stasis. Meltdown and his conjunx had proven to be entirely different in that regard. 

The thought of Ratchet made his chest ache, and Sam's voice was sharper than he intended when he snapped: “I don’t need a minder.” 

“As I said: I doubt that he is your minder.” Ravage rumbled, gracefully leaping off the berth. The sound of her paws ringing against the metal floor was loud in the ensuing silence. 

“And how did you manage to find yourself onboard the ship, Ravage?” Mirage asked mildly, “You were not expected for another cycle.” 

Ravage padded across the floor to sit across the coffee table, curling her heavy tail over her front paws. She returned Mirage’s gaze without a hint of guile. 

“Surely, Prime’s special operations have been able to ferret that out.” She replied, just as mildly. 

Sam grimaced at the thinly-veiled animosity that was being exchanged above him. He didn’t have the physical or mental fortitude to withstand it—his head was already pounding, and it was barely even half-shift. 

“Would you two knock it off?” He grumbled, reaching out to pull the container into his lap. The container held a breakfast scramble consisting of eggs, ham, bell peppers, and a gratuitous amount of cheddar cheese. Sam stabbed at it with his fork, taking a bite of the food. It was still steaming—Mirage must have left the mess hall in a hurry. 

To his surprise, the two Spec Ops officers were quiet for the duration of his meal. Mirage stoic and reserved, while Ravage’s silence was more companionable. Sam ate until his stomach began to feel heavy in a foreboding sort of way, and then he stood up, tossing the rest of the meal in the waste receptacle. When he turned around, it was to find Mirage and Ravage looking at him expectantly. 

“...I have an appointment with Rung.” He said lamely. “I should go.” 

“I will walk with you.” Ravage said, pushing herself to her feet. 

Sam gave her a dubious look. “Don’t you have better things to do than babysitting me?” 

Ravage chuckled as she padded towards the door. Mirage shifted his weight as she passed, but he didn’t step out of her way. The cyber-cat seemed unphased by the micro-aggression—she slunk around him, all feline grace, without so much as a flick of her tail. 

“Come along, little Prime.” She said, glancing over her shoulder as the door slid open at her approach, “You don’t want to be late.” 

Sam was hit with a sudden sense of deja-vu that was so strong it took his breath away. 

“No.” He agreed faintly, “What would people think?” 

Ravage made an amused sound as she padded into the corridor. Sam stared at her receding form for a long moment, before forcing himself to follow her. The lights in the corridor were still operating on the emergency generator, casting an orangish glow down the passageway. It caused the sense of deja-vu to deepen, and Sam turned, glancing behind him. The corridor extended all the way to the T-junction at the end of the hall—empty, except for the three of them. The sight caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. 

“Sam?” Ravage asked.

The sound of his name brought him back to himself all at once. He gave himself a mental shake, before turning to look at her. “Sorry. I was… lost in thought.” 

The look that Ravage gave him in return wasn’t skeptical, not exactly, but it was certainly measured. She stared at him for a long moment, before tipping her head in the direction of the hydroponics lab. “Shall we?”

The half-smile was on Sam’s face before he could stop it. Of course Ravage already knew where he and Rung were meeting. 

He fell into step beside her, and acting on impulse, he settled his hand against her broad head. She was taller than he remembered, with her withers coming up to his hips. It was only when they had gotten halfway down the corridor that he realized Mirage was following them—silent and unobtrusive, but in plain sight. 

Sam might not be an expert in statecraft, but he recognized a warning when he saw one. 

The remainder of the walk was a quiet affair. Sam’s headache was back in full force, pounding at his temples in time with his pulse. He was relieved when the wide, double doors to the hydroponics laboratory came into view. He quickened his step, sighing softly when the doors slid open and a wave of warm, humid air washed over him. 

The hydroponics laboratory had not escaped the attack unscathed, but Rung had done an admirable job of setting it to rights. The tables had been righted and arranged in long rows down the length of the room. They were laden with planters already showing signs of new growth—stubborn, resilient little sprouts breaking through the soil. Sam stopped in front of the nearest table, smiling down at the tender seedlings.

“Life will find a way.” He said, dryly. 

“Hello, Sam.” 

Rung’s words were soft and measured. Sam half-turned, following his voice to find the psychiatrist standing near the storage containers a short distance away. 

“Hey Rung.” Sam said, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Long time no see.”

The psychiatrist favored him with a welcoming smile as he carried a stack of terracotta planters over to the nearest table. He set them down with a quiet clatter, before turning to regard him. 

“You look tired.” Rung observed, mildly. 

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. After a morning spent navigating Ravage and Mirage’s doublespeak and innuendo, the psychiatrist’s directness was almost disconcerting.  

“I haven’t been sleeping well.” He replied. 

Rung stepped around the edge of the table, before walking closer. His step was measured and unhurried. “Have you taken the soporifics you were prescribed?” 

Sam grimaced deeply. “I’m not a big fan of sedatives.” 

“Yes, I suppose I can understand that.” Rung said, coming to a stop in front of him, “Considering recent circumstances.” 

The compassion in his voice put Sam’s teeth on edge. 

“Forget about it.” He said, crossing his arms over his chest. Suddenly desperate for a change of topic, Sam turned on his heel, searching out Ravage. The cyber-cat was sitting near the entryway, looking like a suitable distraction. “Have you met Ravage? She’s a friend.” 

Rung’s expression darkened in consternation. “Forgive me, Sam. I should have mentioned it earlier, but Ravage and I are already acquainted. We spoke briefly when she was invited to attend our meeting.” 

Sam’s eyebrows drew up in surprise. “You asked her to join us? Why?” Another thought occurred to him, and he turned to pin the cyber-cat with an exasperated look, “And why didn’t you say anything earlier?” 

Ravage pushed up to her feet, before padding across the room towards them. Her footfalls were virtually silent, despite her large size.

“What do you know about Cybertronian languages?” She asked, watching him closely. 

“Ravage.” Rung rebuked, softly. 

Sam looked from Rung to Ravage and back again. “Cybertronian languages? Next to nothing. Why? What does that have to do with anything?” 

“That is not important at the moment.” Rung said, directing a quelling look at Ravage. "Moreover, I was not the one to invite her. Her presence is at Prime's discretion."

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why would Optimus invite Ravage to my therapy appointment?"

"This is not a therapy appointment, Sam." Rung said, shaking his helm. "We have been asked here to discuss the attack. More specifically, your altercation with Vos."

Sam's mouth turned down at the corners. He had done his best to put the memory of Vos tormenting him like a cat with a mouse out of his mind altogether. He pushed his hands in his pockets and said, stiffly, "You were there. You know what happened." 

“I do—” Rung began.

“But do you?” Ravage asked, tipping her head back to look at him. 

“Ravage.” Rung repeated, more sharply, “We will discuss the matter after Prime has joined us.” 

His tone was decisive, almost definitive, and it made something clench in Sam’s gut. 

“What the hell is going on?” He demanded, harshly, “The last time Optimus needed reinforcements to tell me something unpleasant, I found out that I wasn’t aging anymore.”

“I apologize, Sam. I realize this must be frustrating.” Rung replied, inclining his helm in apology.

All at once, Sam realized that Rung was employing every microexpression and mannerism meant to soothe in the human playbook—his posture was subdued and nonthreatening, his arms were spread wide, palms up in appeasement. Even his shoulders were curled forward, mirroring Sam’s body language.

The combined effect made Sam go cold all over.

“What's going on? Tell me."

“Sam, please—” Rung tried, before Ravage pinned her ears and cut him off at the pass. 

“It is not your secret to keep.” She bit out, “Neither yours nor Prime’s. He has the right to know.” 

“Jesus Christ!”  Sam snapped, “Know what? ” 

“What do you remember of your altercation with Vos?” Ravage asked, bluntly. The look that Rung gave her could have frozen the south, but she ignored him in favor of meeting Sam’s gaze, “The phase-shifter.” 

“I know who he is.” Sam said, a frown knitting his brow. He had no idea what the Decepticon Justice Division and ancient Cybertronian languages had to do with him. 

Sam’s attention was drawn back to Rung by the sound of a soft ex-vent. The psychiatrist’s posture had sagged, growing resigned as his optics flicked up to Sam’s face. 

“Do you remember what he said to you?” Rung asked, softly. 

Sam’s frown deepened as he cast his mind back to the battle. “No, not really. Something about reforging me with Megatron. It’s all a blur.” 

“That’s not uncommon.” Rung murmured, “Trauma can have a profound effect on memory retention.” 

Sam resisted the urge to snap something sarcastic—’No shit, Sherlock’ came to mind. Instead, he gritted his teeth and pinned the two mechanoids with a cold look. 

“Do you have a point to make?” He asked tightly. 

Rung hesitated for a long moment, obviously choosing his words with care. “Vos is a member of an old religious order called neoprimalism. It is a fringe sect with stringent beliefs about the holiness of The Seven and, subsequently, the Primes.” His voice softened, growing gentle as he added, “Vos and the other members of his order speak only the Primal Vernacular as a demonstration of their faith.” 

Sam’s mouth turned down in confusion. “The Primal Vernacular?” 

“It is an ancient language.” Ravage explained, her gaze fixed on Sam, “It was one of the first on Cybertron, predated only by the logograms inscribed on the Cube.” 

Sam could feel himself paling with each new word she spoke. “The Cube?” 

“Sam.” Rung said softly, catching his attention again, “What Ravage means to say is that the Primal Vernacular is a functionally defunct language. It was replaced by NeoCybex over three hundred million years ago—there are very few who still speak it.” 

Sam almost felt lightheaded—his confusion, his shock, his anxiety all marshalling together against him. He had to wet his lips to manage a shaky reply: “I don’t understand.” 

Rung stepped forward, telegraphing his intentions as he curled his slender servos around Sam’s shoulders. 

“Vos only speaks the Primal Vernacular, Sam.” He murmured, very gently, “Not NeoCybex and not English.” 

Sam frowned again, but this time in irritation. “Yes, he does. You were there—you heard him.” 

“No, Sam.” Rung said, his optics unnaturally bright, “He does not.” 

Sam shook the psychiatrist’s servos off his shoulders, the blood rushing back into his face as he flushed hotly in anger. “Are you glitched? Yes, he does. Of course he does. I heard him—reforged with Megatron, newsparks, Primus’ will. He’s an unhinged headcase, but he spoke English.” 

“Sam.” It was Ravage’s turn to sound gentle, “Vos has spoken the Primal Vernacular for over seven million years. He has no cause to speak English.” 

Sam’s face was burning now. He crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes at her. “You’re wrong. I heard him.” 

“No, Sam, You understood him.” Rung corrected, “Those do not amount to the same thing.” 

Sam stared at the psychiatrist in rapidly mounting anger. “What are you implying?” 

“He is implying nothing.” Ravage refuted, “Vos spoke the Primal Vernacular, and you understood it—understood it so well, in fact, that you were able to converse with him.” She tilted her head, her gaze intense, “There are very few who are capable of doing so.” 

Sam’s gaze flitted between Rung and Ravage, torn between incredulity and denial and burning anger. “What are you saying? I can understand an alien language? A dead alien language? That’s absurd.”

“Remarkable, perhaps, but not absurd.” Rung said, shaking his helm, “You are a Prime. You would have received the ability when the Matrix touched you.” 

Sam scoffed in naked derision. “You’re delusional. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

Rung’s expression softened as he asked, very gently, “Sam… do you think I am speaking English right now?” 

Sam's eyes darted between the two mechanoids in quickly mounting horror. His heart was drumming against his rib cage so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest. "This is a joke. This has to be a joke."

Rung’s expression softened in sympathy as he reached for Sam again, as though to offer reassurance, but Sam stumbled away from him.

“Don’t touch me.” He snapped, shaking his head in denial, "You can't just learn an alien language without realizing it!"

“Take a breath, Sam.” Rung urged, optics bright with concern, “You’re alright.” 

Sam barked a harsh laugh that brought with it the taste of sour bile, sitting heavy in the back of his mouth. He could tell the difference in Rung’s voice—it was the intonation of the syllables, the lilt of his speech. The realization drove the air out of his lungs as effectively as a kick to the chest. How in the hell did this keep happening to him? Allspark visions, and alien symbols cluttering his mind, and now an entire language inside his head and he didn't even realize it.

I'm going to be sick.

Sam backpedaled a step, then another, and then he turned on his heel and fled. He ignored the voices raised in concern behind him—desperation propelling him through the wide double doors and into the corridor beyond. Mirage glanced down in surprise at the sight of him, but Sam rushed past him without a backwards glance. His breath was coming faster now: short, sharp pants through the mouth that was making his head spin. He was distantly aware of Bumblebee’s concern, but Sam pushed him away with all of his mental might. He didn’t want him to see, he didn’t want him to worry—

Oh, fuck. He despaired, ducking into an alcove that was cast in shadow, This isn’t happening. Not again.

He doubled over, hands braced flat against the cool metal wall in front of him. His head was buzzing now, a familiar, hated feeling that he could feel in the back of his fucking teeth. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to suck in a breath, but his chest felt like it had been banded by iron.

Five things you can see. What are five things—

Sam was jerked back to himself by a gentle touch inside his mind. He forced open his watering eyes to see Jazz crouched down a short distance away. The second-in-command was looking at him with an uncharacteristically sympathetic look on his face.

“C’mon, kid.” He murmured, curling one servo over Sam’s back. “Let’s get you warmed up.” 

Notes:

Author Notes: Enjoying the story? Consider joining the Signature-verse Discord server! We share loads of head canons, one-shot snippets, fan art, and sneak peaks for our members. We'd love to have you!

Chapter 20

Notes:

Author Notes: Sorry for the long hiatus. Here: have 8k words of bonding and emotional turmoil as an apology!

Sam didn’t protest as Jazz gathered him up in his servos. The saboteur’s chassis was unfamiliar beneath him—angled metal plates and sharp edges that dug into his sides—but it was mercifully warm. Jazz curled one servo against Sam’s back, steadying him as he started down the corridor. The sensation of gentle movement and the warmth of Jazz’s chassis provided a welcome distraction from the maelstrom inside his head.

The pneumatic hiss of doors sliding open brought Sam back to himself all at once. He lifted his head, squinting in confusion as Jazz made his way into a darkened room. It only took a moment for Sam’s eyes to adjust to the gloom, and when they did, he saw they were in a hab-suite. There was a berth arranged against the back wall, which was separated from the living area by a long, low shelf. Sam glanced around the room, his confusion suddenly eclipsed by his curiosity. The living area contained a broad, Autobot-sized couch positioned across from an entertainment console that dwarfed the one in Sam’s living quarters. The room was warmer than it had been in the corridor, and the resonant hum of the ship’s engines was louder here as well.

Jazz deposited him onto the couch, before fixing Sam with a wry look. “Don’t go anywhere, kid.”

Sam gave him a wry look right back. The couch was easily eight or ten feet off the floor—he wasn’t going anywhere without Jazz’s help.

The saboteur grinned, before making his way to a kitchenette area along the opposite wall. Sam sat up a little straightener, trying to get a better look.The small space was filled with floor-to-ceiling cabinetry that gleamed in the low light. Jazz opened one cupboard and then another, before pulling open a tall cabinet. The motion caused its contents to rattle on the shelves, but the sound was lost over the satisfied hum that Jazz made deep inside his intakes.

“Found it.” He said, turning around and kicking the door shut with his heel, “I don’t use the fridge much. Prowler usually takes care of her.”

Sam’s brow wrinkled in confusion, but Jazz crossed the space between them before he could voice his question, “Here.” Jazz said, gesturing meaningfully with a servo, “This is for you.”

This turned out to be a gel pack the size of an inflatable bath pillow. Sam accepted it gratefully, pressing it against his forehead with both hands. The cold leached into his skin, leaving blissful numbness in its wake. Sam couldn’t have bitten back his groan of relief if he tried.

“Here.” Jazz said, nudging the couch with his knee to get Sam’s attention, “Put out your hands.”

Sam peered up at him in confusion, but he dutifully transferred the bulk of the gel pack into one hand and extended the other. Jazz reached out, clasping his wrist and rotating his arm until his palm faced upwards, and then he carefully tipped something into Sam’s hand.

“And that’s for her.” Jazz said with an easy grin.

“Her?” Sam asked, glancing down in confusion at the pile of cheerios in his palm, “Is that supposed to be an–”

Sam was cut-off by a sudden cacophony of flapping and excited screeching. He nearly jumped out of his skin as a green blur winged across the room to perch on the back of the couch. The gel pack fell into Sam’s lap, totally forgotten, as he found himself staring at a bird. It was relatively large, perhaps twelve or fourteen inches tall, and it was entirely green except for a small band of yellow plumage across the nape of its neck.

“What the fuck?” Sam managed, voice strangled.

The parrot hopped closer until it could peer into Sam’s face, tilting its head this way and that, obviously intrigued. The bird had a dark colored beak and small, intelligent eyes. Sam stared back in disbelief, before twisting to look up at Jazz. “When did you get a parrot?”

Jazz shrugged as though it was nothing out of the ordinary. “This is Green, Prowler’s bird-wife.”

“That doesn’t answer my question—like, not even remotely.” Sam retorted.

Jazz chuckled, leaning forward to nudge Sam’s arm towards the parrot. The bird waddled closer, before reaching out to grasp Sam’s sleeve with its foot. A moment later, the bird had leveraged itself up onto Sam’s arm, talons curling in the fabric of his sweater for purchase. It was heavier than Sam was expecting—larger too, this close up.

He glanced up at Jazz, uncertainly. “Can I touch it?”

“Sure, kid.” Jazz agreed, watching him with bright optics, “She doesn’t bite, so long as you respect her boundaries.”

Sam closed his hand into a fist, so as not to dump cereal all over the place, and then he cautiously drew a knuckle down the parrot’s chest. The plumage was surprisingly soft, and he repeated the motion, earning himself a low, contented chirr-ing sound for his efforts.

“Green, huh?” Sam murmured.

“Green.” Jazz agreed.

Sam huffed a laugh, before raising his knuckle to rub the side of the bird’s face. Her little orange eyes went half-lidded, evidently pleased, and she nuzzled his hand back in response.

“I’m guessing Prowl named her?” Sam asked dryly.

“You guessed right.” Jazz chuckled, lowering down onto the other side of the couch. “You gonna feed her or what?”

Suddenly remembering the cereal clutched in his hand, Sam uncurled his fingers and offered his palm to the parrot. She shuffled down his wrist one small step at a time, before cocking her head to regard the offering. Eventually, after some scrutiny, she leaned forward to grasp a single cheerio in her beak, before hopping down onto the couch to eat.

Sam’s face softened as he watched her. “She’s kinda cute.”

Jazz chuckled good-naturedly as Green shuffle-hopped across the couch towards Sam once again. Sam lowered his hand, which she regarded first with one eye and then with the other, before she plucked another cheerio out of his palm. They sat like that in mutual silence as Green nibbled at the cereal in Sam’s hand, biting each piece into dust and making a mess in the process.

It wasn’t until she began preening the cereal crumbs out of her plumage that Sam realized Jazz was watching him. The saboteur’s expression was mild, but the scrutiny made him flush in discomfort. Sam looked away, his eyes falling to the gel pack in his lap, and suddenly grateful for the distraction, he picked it up and pressed it against his forehead. The cold was bracing, but it served to dull the pain throbbing behind his eyes. He blindly settled back against the couch, trying to make himself comfortable. Bumblebee had told him once that Cybertronian furniture was made of softer metals, like nickel and bronze, but Sam supposed the subtlety was lost on him—it felt like he was lying on a slab of concrete.

Jazz chuckled to himself, before pushing up from the couch. “Lemme see if I can find you something to eat.”

Sam slanted open his eyes, watching as Jazz puttered around the kitchenette. The saboteur whistled to himself as he rummaged through cupboards and storage containers alike, before turning around to flash an easy grin in his direction.

“Here you go.” He said, “Green won’t mind sharing.”

Jazz crossed the space between them to deposit a bulk-sized plastic bag on the couch. Sam pushed up onto one elbow, reaching over to grab the bag and pull it closer. A cursory glance revealed it contained an assortment of nuts, seeds, and dehydrated fruit. As Sam surveyed its contents, Green hopped across the couch to nibble at his shirtsleeve. He couldn’t help the wry smile that turned up the corner of his mouth at her not-so-subtle suggestion.

“Is there anything in here she can’t eat?” He asked, clumsily opening the bag with one hand.

“It’s Prowler-approved.” Jazz replied, gracelessly dropping onto the opposite end of the couch.

Sam dug a handful out of the bag, offering Green a brazil nut, before tipping the rest of the trail mix into his mouth. He could identify the contents by taste and texture: dehydrated coconut, papaya, cranberries, cashews, and peach. Sam made an appreciative noise, before rummaging around in the bag for more peach slices. He ate them one at a time, enjoying the novelty after months of reheated meals and dry cereal.

Eventually, Green seemed to decide that Sam wasn’t sharing quickly enough. She scuttled closer, biting at the plastic bag before half-hopping, half-climbing up Sam’s chest to peer into his face.

“Sorry.” He murmured with a wry tilt to his mouth, “Here.”

He dug another handful of trail mix out of the bag, before letting Green take her pick. The parrot considered her options for a scant moment, before taking a cube of yellow-orange fruit daintily with her beak. Sam poked the pile of trail mix with a finger until he found another piece, which he promptly popped into his mouth.

Apricot.

Sam made a quiet noise of enjoyment in the back of his throat, before rummaging around the bag for more of the dehydrated fruit. He and Green took turns eating—the bird perched on his chest, while Sam half-reclined against the armrest. Jazz watched them both in silence from his place at the end of the couch.

When Sam had eaten his fill, he re-sealed the bag and pressed the gel pack over his face. His headache was in the ‘bothersome but manageable’ stage, but Sam knew it wouldn’t be long before it worsened—the longer he was awake, the more painful it would become. He closed his eyes, letting the cold numb his skin. He had no idea how long he lay there, trying to ignore the something lodged uncomfortably inside his chest, when Green waddled closer to nibble along his jaw.

Sam lifted the gel pack enough to peer down at her with a crooked smile. “Can I help you?”

“She’s preening you.” Jazz said dryly, “Guess she doesn’t appreciate the Paul Bunyon look.”

Sam snorted as he dragged his fingers through his scraggly excuse for a beard. It wasn’t that long, but it was definitely longer than he had ever chosen to wear it. He didn’t even remember the last time he shaved—it had been before they went to Swerve’s, and that was over two weeks ago. Sam couldn’t help the grimace that twisted his mouth. It was hard to believe that so little time had passed since the attack. It felt like another lifetime ago.

“I’ve had other things on my mind.” He said eventually, giving Green a little push when she tried nibbling at his facial hair again. “And there’s no hot water.” He added. The boiler had been shut-off with the other nonessential functions to conserve power while the ship was undergoing emergency repairs.

Jazz tipped his head to the side, considering him closely. “I’ve got supplies here that might work in a pinch. You want me to give you one?”

The question took Sam by surprise, and he lifted his head to look at the second-in-command. Jazz was kicked back in his seat, one arm slung over the back of the couch. He seemed perfectly serious, but the question was so incongruous that Sam found himself forced to ask, confusedly, “A shave?”

Jazz slanted him a wry smile. “What, you prefer the beard?”

Sam rolled his eyes, even though he knew it would set his head pounding. The beard was itchy and uncomfortable, and it reminded him too much of his time onboard the Nemesis—and that said nothing about Wheeljack’s constant pestering about his facial hair interfering with the airtight seal necessary for the environmental mask to function.

“No, not really.” He frowned, “Do you have a razor stashed away with the trail mix?”

Jazz gave him a decidedly put-upon look as he shifted, pulling a sharp looking knife from the subspace pocket on his hip. He turned it this way and that, letting the small blade catch the light. “Not exactly.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline. “Are you insane?”

“Nope.” Jazz returned, popping the plosive, “Prowl had me tested.”

Sam gave him a withering look in response. “You can’t be serious.”

Jazz chuckled, flipping the blade open and closed with a flick of his wrist. “Sure am.”

Green waddled close enough to duck down, nibbling at his chin. Sam leaned his head away—her beak wasn’t sharp, but the tugging on his facial hair was uncomfortable.

“Have you ever shaved anyone before?” He asked dubiously, before realizing that his question wasn’t an outright refusal.

“It’s never come up.” Jazz replied dryly, “But believe it or not, I’m pretty good with a blade.”

Sam resisted the urge to snort at the understatement. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the wiry bristles catch at his palm as he considered Jazz’s proposal. He was certainly tempted—he always had a straight-razor shave whenever he went to the barber, and it would save him from freezing his ass off in the wash racks.

“Do you have any hot water?” He asked, surprising himself.

“Sure do. We’ve got a microwave for Greenbean here.” Jazz replied, before tipping his head towards the kitchenette, “Is that a yes?”

Sam pushed up into a sitting position, which caused Green to flap over to perch on the back of the couch with an affronted squawk. “Yeah, alright.” He said, before adding, “…thanks.”

Jazz chuckled as he pushed himself to his feet. Sam set the gel pack aside, before clambering to his feet as well. The second-in-command bent down far enough to offer his cupped servos, which Sam climbed unsteadily onto, and then Jazz crossed the living area to deposit him on the countertop.

“Gimme a minute.” Jazz said, rummaging around in the cupboards.

“Take your time.” Sam replied dryly, leaning against the floor to ceiling cabinet. He watched as Jazz pulled down a glass container, filled it with water from the sink (actual water, not solvent), and then popped it in the industrial-sized microwave that was indistinguishable for the rest of the gleaming metal cabinetry. The sound of the running water caused Green to whistle excitedly, before winging over to land gracefully on the kitchen faucet.

“Bath? Bath?” She chirruped, making strange bubble-like noises with her beak, “Good girl? Bath!”

Sam laughed softly in surprise, before crouching down to look at her. “She talks?”

“Never stops.” Jazz chuckled, running his digits through the stream of water and flicking the droplets at the parrot—much to her obvious pleasure, “You should hear her swear in Cybertronian.”

Sam laughed again, louder this time. “Prowl must love that.”

Jazz grinned at him over his shoulder, “Who do you think she learned it from?”

Sam grinned right back at him, so wide and genuine that it almost hurt. “I can’t believe I don’t know any Cybertornian swears. Can you teach me some?”

Jazz chuckled, before shutting off the faucet and pulling the basin of water out of the microwave. “Sam-my-man, I elevate profanity to an art-form. I’m not sure you’re there yet.” He said, setting the basin on the counter, “...but the next time you see Starscream, tell him this.”

The second-in-command whistled a low, warbling trill that ended in a plosive-like pop. Sam was grinning almost too wide to copy him, but after a few fumbling attempts, he managed a reasonable facsimile that made Jazz laugh in approval.

“Perfect.” He grinned, “I only hope I can be there to see the look on his face.” At the same time, Jazz drummed his digits against the smooth, metal countertop. “C’mere, Greenbean.”

Green climbed down the kitchen faucet, before hopping across the counter to climb into the container. The water wasn’t deep, maybe a few inches, but she proceeded to fling it absolutely everywhere. Jazz chuckled, before filling another basin with water and popping it into the microwave.

“You good here?” He asked, “Or would you prefer the couch?”

Sam shrugged, before lowering down to sit on the countertop. “Here’s fine.”

Jazz made a considerate noise as he pulled open a deep drawer. It was readily apparent that the kitchen was designed to accommodate Green—the sink with running water, the refrigeration unit, the industrial-sized microwave, even the towels that Jazz was piling onto the counter were clearly intended for the bird. Sam glanced around the hab-suite as Jazz continued his preparations. There was a human-sized birdcage in the corner, with an assortment of perches and dangling toys, and several other smaller perches located around the room. Sam leaned to the side, craning his neck to get a better look. Now that he was paying attention, he could see that the room was a mixture of utilitarian minimalist and bohemian packrat—the desk near the door was neat and tidy, as was the berthing area and kitchenette, but the rest of the room was an eclectic mixture of knick knacks and decorations. There was a stand against the far wall that contained a dozen different string instruments, and the shelf that separated the berthing area from the living area was filled with statuettes and crystal sculptures that refracted the dim light.

It suddenly occurred to Sam that this wasn’t just a hab-suite—it was their home.

Jazz chuckled as he gestured for Sam to lie back against the thick cloth he had repurposed into a makeshift pillow. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. We’ve been here a long time.”

Sam settled back against the countertop as Jazz handed him a warm, damp towel. Sam was familiar enough with the process that he pressed the towel over his face without further prompting.

“How long?” Sam asked, voice muffled.

“For as long as I’ve been with Prowler.” Jazz replied, before adding dryly. “Well, excluding that brief period when I was unalived. Imagine my surprise when I get resurrected only to find out my conjunx replaced me with a bird.”

Sam huffed another laugh as he shifted around, trying to get comfortable. His head was still throbbing, but the room was comfortably warm and the towel on his face was bordering on too-hot, and the combination was oddly relaxing. He lay there for a few minutes, listening to Green splashing around in her makeshift bath as Jazz moved around the kitchenette. It was only after the towel had cooled off that Jazz pulled it away, before peering down at him.

“Ready?” He asked.

Sam tipped his head back, baring the column of his throat in response. “Yeah, sure.”

Jazz stared down at him for a long moment, as though in consternation. Sam blinked, taken aback by the unexpected tension in the saboteur’s posture, but then Jazz ex-vented, long and low, and the spell was broken.

“Primus, kid.” He muttered, setting the blade down on the counter, “Damn short list of people who would let me put a knife to their throat without reservation.”

Sam’s mouth quirked in a wry smile, but Jazz handed him a squat container before he could say anything sarcastic.

“Here: rub this all over your face.” He instructed. “It should work well enough.”

Sam glanced down at the container, but it didn’t contain a label or any other identifying features. Curiously, Sam twisted the lid and peered inside to find a thick, creamy-looking paste. He stuck a finger inside, swirling it around in the strange substance.

“What is it?” He asked, curiously.

“Prowl’s creation.” Jazz replied with a shrug, “Birdbrain gets dry skin.”

Sam gave him a skeptical look in return. “Is it safe to use on people?”

“It’ll be fine.” Jazz assured him breezily.

Sam was openly skeptical, but he scooped a small amount onto his palm anyway. The paste worked into a foam that didn’t smell like anything in particular, but it didn’t burn or itch either, and he supposed that was a good sign. He carefully slathered it onto his face and neck, scooping more product as required, before lying back down and accepting the towel that Jazz provided. He wiped off his hands and then tossed the towel aside as the saboteur leaned over him, brandishing the razor blade.

“This is sharp, so don’t move.” Jazz warned, before adding wryly, “…or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Sam closed his eyes as Jazz pressed the tips of his digits against his face, pulling the skin taut. The first pass of the razor slid over his jaw as smoothly as a warm knife over butter. Jazz tilted Sam’s head this way and that as he worked, alternating between long, smooth strokes and shorter flicks that nicked away any stray hairs. Sam was distantly surprised to realize that he was drifting—the room was warm, far warmer than his hab-suite, and the rasp of the razor blade was a known quantity.

“We’re near the engineering shaft.” Jazz murmured, bringing Sam back to himself, “Works out pretty well for Tweety-bird here.”

Sam huffed a soft laugh as Jazz tipped his head back, drawing the razor blade down the length of his throat. “How’d you get permission to bring her?”

He felt the mental equivalent of an airy, easygoing shrug. “Personnel requests for surplus cargo require approval from two members of high-command. As it turns out, Prowler and I are a part of high-command.”

Sam’s lips twitched with the effort of restraining his laughter, “You gaming the system, Jazz?”

The saboteur snorted in mock affront. “Only since the moment I was created.”

Sam’s smile slowly faded away as Jazz’s reply served as a reminder of his current predicament. He swallowed against the something that seemed permanently lodged in his throat ever since he had woken to find Ratchet gone and the neural-network pressing in on him. Jazz angled his head to the side, pulling his skin taut as he drew the blade down his face. Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed again, but the lump of emotion refused to budge.

“You okay, kid?” Jazz asked, voice unassuming and soft.

Sam opened his eyes, staring sightlessly across the room. He could hear Green crooning to herself over the distant rumble of the ship’s engines, but otherwise it was quiet.

“I have to choose, don’t I?” He asked, softly.

Jazz paused, before drawing the blade down the curve of Sam’s jaw.

“Yeah, kid.” He murmured, “You do.”

The something in his throat seemed to be growing roots, for his chest was getting tighter by the minute. He took a shuddery breath, before quietly admitting, “I don’t know how.”

Jazz made a considerate noise as he tipped Sam’s head back, flicking the blade over the last patch of facial hair. “Well, then. Let’s go over your options.”

Jazz set his blade aside and retrieved a towel that was soaking in the basin of warm water. He rung it out and handed it to Sam, who wiped it over his face as he pushed up into a sitting position.

“They aren’t great.” Sam muttered, unable to regret his bitter, sullen tone.

Jazz took a moment to wipe off his blade, before tucking it away and emptying the basin of water. When he finished, he turned around and offered Sam his servos. “Come on.” He said, beckoning with his digits, “Let’s have this conversation somewhere more comfortable.”

Sam soon found himself ensconced in the corner of the couch. Jazz momentarily disappeared into the berthing area, before reappearing with a wide swath of metal-mesh in his servos. The silvery material glinted in the low light as Jazz tucked it around Sam’s body. Sam’s mouth went dry at the sight. He hadn’t seen metal-mesh in years, not since Knock Out—

“Would you prefer something else?” Jazz asked abruptly.

Sam slowly shook his head, running his palms over the smooth material. “No. That’s okay.”

Jazz regarded him for a moment longer, before tipping his head in acknowledgement as he settled onto the opposite end of the couch. He assumed the same relaxed posture as earlier, with his arm hooked over the backrest, left leg propped against his knee, but his expression was different, more intense.

“Any frontrunners?” He asked, eventually.

Sam twitched his shoulders in a barely-there shrug. “No, not really.” He replied, before forcing himself to admit, “Well, Optimus, I guess. I know him the best.”

Jazz made a considerate noise, something between a rumble and a hum. “Solid choice. He’s been a Creator for a long time, almost as long as he’s been a Prime. He’s onlined a lotta newsparks, knows what he’s doin’.”

Sam frowned faintly at the tone of Jazz’s voice. It was more speculative than definitive, as though there was a massive caveat hanging at the end of his sentence.

“...But?” He prodded, eventually.

Jazz ex-vented a quiet sigh. “But it’s complicated. He’s a Prime—as are you.”

Sam’s frown deepened, wrinkling his chin. “He said the same thing, but I don’t understand why that’s a problem.”

“Short answer? Politics. OP’s gonna have a lot to answer for when we return to Cybertron.” Jazz said, causing Sam’s heart to skip a beat, “We’re not sure what Sentinel will do, but Prowl’s projections aren’t great. There’s a 96% chance of demotion, 83% of remedial punishment, 41% chance of imprisonment—” Sam’s blood turned to ice with each new pronouncement, but Jazz held his gaze as he continued, “28% chance of excommunication, and 9% chance of execution.”

Jazz spoke with an air of tactical certainty, as though he weren’t spelling their inevitable demise with each new statistic. Sam felt dizzy with denial and shock and fear, and he had to swallow in order to work enough moisture into his mouth to reply.

“Execution?” He managed, voice almost too low and strangled to make out, “But he can’t… I mean, he didn’t—”

“Sam.” Jazz interrupted, gently, “Execution is unlikely. It’s more probable that OP will be removed from his position as Supreme Commander and made to assist in Cybertron’s recovery. Temporary imprisonment is possible, but Sentinel has a vested interest in maintaining the perception of Primal infallibility. He’s unlikely to execute him without good reason.”

“Why didn’t anyone say anything?” Sam whispered, barely able to get the words out, “Optimus could be going back to his death.”

Jazz shrugged, “Prowl’s confidence intervals are all over the place, and Prime didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. Either way, having the Allspark vessel tied to him with a permanent bond would… concern Sentinel. Best case scenario? He demands you receive a more suitable Creator. Worst case scenario? It’s him.”

Sam swallowed down the acrid taste of fear in the back of his throat. “What’s going to happen to me, Jazz? Tell me. I need to know.”

Jazz stared at him for a long moment, as though considering the request, before he lifted his shoulders in another shrug. “Sentinel will be suspicious of you, certainly, and he will seek to verify your legitimacy, both as Prime and the Allspark’s chosen vessel, but when he realizes that you are what you claim, then he will do everything in his power to protect you.”

Sam was girding himself for Jazz’s response, so the final admission took him completely by surprise.

“Protect me?” He echoed, equal parts uncertain and confused, “What do you mean?”

“C’mon Sam.” Jazz coaxed with a wan smile, “You have the Allspark energy regenerating inside your body—you can resurrect our fallen mechanoids. Sentinel will venerate you as a means of bolstering his own position, both among the nobles and the neutrals. They’re all desperate to see Cybertron survive the war.” Jazz’s expression was reserved and difficult to read as he added, “Prowl’s almost certain of it: 98% confidence level, margin of error less than ± 1%. You're gonna be fine, kid.”

Sam supposed that he ought to have been relieved by the assurance, but he wasn’t. It was cold comfort to know that Sentinel would spare his life because it furthered his own goals.

“What about you guys?” Sam asked, voice strained, “You don’t have the Primacy or the Allspark to protect you.”

Jazz seemed taken aback by the question, before his face softened in a genuine smile.

“Don’t worry about us.” He murmured, “The senior officers will be reassigned, maybe demoted. We probably have some manual labor ahead of us, but nothing to stress over.”

Sam stared back at him for a long moment before asking, quietly, “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Cross my spark, kid.” Jazz replied without an iota of hesitation, “It’ll be fine.”

The easy promise made Sam’s heart sink, but he didn’t call Jazz out on it. Instead, he swallowed down the lump in his throat and asked, haltingly, “What’s he like?”

Jazz canted his head as he seemed to consider the question. “Sentinel? He’s serious and strict and too hung-up on etiquette and decorum for my taste, but the general consensus is that he’s a good leader. Fair, not really prone to outbursts of temper or ego.” Jazz paused, before adding wryly, “I’m not a big fan of the whole functionism shtick, but I guess we can’t have it all.”

Sam was quiet for a long while as he considered all that he had been told. Eventually, he sighed heavily and met Jazz’s optics. “If not Optimus, then who?”

“I can’t make that decision for you, kiddo.” Jazz refused, gently.

Sam’s frown returned, turning down the corners of his mouth. “I know that, but what do you think? You’ve known Mirage for a long time, right?”

“I have, yes, and I trust him with your life.” Jazz replied readily enough, “He’s a good Creator too, from what I seen, but I also think the two of you would be a terrible fit.” At Sam’s perplexed expression, Jazz favored him with a crooked smile, “Mirage is former nobility turned SpecOps SIC. He’s not used to being questioned or back-sassed or refused by his Creations. He wouldn’t know what to do with you.”

“Thanks.” Sam snorted.

“Just callin’ ‘em like I sees ‘em.” Jazz replied wryly.

Sam frowned again, but it was contemplative rather than unhappy. “Well, Sunstreaker’s out of the question, so I guess that leaves Meltdown.”

“Out of the first-round draft, yeah.”

Sam glanced up in confusion. “First-round draft?”

Jazz shrugged, settling back onto the couch. “Well, if none of the front-runners meet with your approval, then we can consider others. There are a couple onboard the Lost Light that could work in a pinch, though they’re Sentinel’s people through-and-through.”

Sam couldn’t resist the wry twist of his mouth as he asked, “So, Starscream doesn’t make the cut?”

The look that Jazz gave him in response was decidedly exasperated. “Even supposing the Boss took complete leave of his senses and invited the Supreme Commander of the remaining Decepticon forces to form a Creator bond with you, Starscream would never agree to it. He’s a tad xenophobic, even by Vosian standards.”

Jazz’s sarcasm triggered a memory from earlier that morning, and Sam frowned faintly in response.

“Ravage said that Soundwave would do it.” He murmured, “I turned her down.”

“Solid survival instincts, kid.” Jazz retorted, his tone suggesting that Sam’s admission came as no surprise, “But it wasn’t a genuine offer, not really. Soundwave doesn’t have Creator programming.”

Sam’s head came up as he squinted at the saboteur in confusion. “Are you sure? She seemed pretty sincere.”

Jazz twitched one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “Ravage is operating under the assumption that Soundwave could form a carrier-bond with you, though that’s unlikely given the fact you ain’t a cassette.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter.” Sam replied, “I’d never agree to him either way.”

“Well then.” Jazz returned dryly. “I guess that’s that.”

Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought about his conversation with Ravage. Eventually, he surprised himself by asking, “What did she mean when she said that forcing a bond is anathema to a Carrier mechanoid? She seemed… upset.”

“Cassettes choose their carriers, not the other way around.” Jazz replied, head tipped to the side in thought, “But there’s bad blood there, too. Soundwave lost a young cassette at the beginning of the war, a little intelligence-build called Rumble. His spark-twin almost self-destructed when he died. Soundwave was able to save his life, but Frenzy blamed him for Rumble’s death.”

“Frenzy?” Sam repeated in surprise, “Like, Barricade’s Frenzy? The evil little scorpion of doom?”

“One and the same.” Jazz agreed, “He used to be an intelligence build like his twin, but after Rumble died, Frenzy modded himself to the point of dysfunction. He’s more drone than cassette now, and there was nothing Soundwave could do to stop him.”

Sam felt an entirely unwelcome twinge of sympathy for the communications specialist. “Why didn’t Frenzy just leave? Why choose Barricade if he could choose anyone he wanted?”

“Why do you think?” Jazz asked, his expression suddenly intense.

Sam only had to think about it for a few moments before comprehension dawned on him.

“…He’s punishing Soundwave.”

“What can I say? The little glitch is a Decepticon, through and through.” Jazz replied grimly, “I guess I can admire the courage of his convictions. Most spark twins are close, but Rumble and Frenzy were damn near inseparable. Soundwave dug them out of the rubble of their crèche early in the war. There were no other survivors.”

Sam turned his head, averting his gaze. Ravage’s matronly behavior during his captivity onboard the Nemesis, as well as her apparent fondness in the years since, suddenly seemed a lot less contrived—though Sam supposed that he was probably being naïve.

“Nah, kid. Not naïve.” Jazz murmured, watching him closely, “Kind-hearted.”

Suddenly eager for a change of topic, Sam asked, “So, what do you know about Meltdown?”

“Meltdown consented to a hardline interface, so there’s not much I don’t know about him.” Jazz retorted dryly, “He’s a surgeon—a good one too, if Hoist’s opinion means anything. He worked at a couple of well-respected clinics in Iacon and Crystal City, before his appointment as Primal Physician. He and Ratchet were on-again, off-again before he left on Sentinel’s crusade.” Jazz hesitated as he offered, a little awkwardly, “His feelings for Ratchet are genuine, if it matters.”

The words hurt more than he would have thought. Sam blinked against the unwelcome sting of tears and asked, roughly, “Anything else I should know?”

Jazz seemed to be considering him closely. “He thinks the caste system is a necessary evil, but he’s conflicted about the morality of it.”

“Really?” Sam asked, surprised. It seemed out-of-character for Sentinel’s personal physician to have doubts about functionism, given all that he was learning about the older Prime.

“Meltdown supports the Primacy.” Jazz hedged carefully, “And he believes in Sentinel’s vision for a better Cybertron.”

Sam frowned at the half-answer, but he wasn’t sure how to ask for clarification. He supposed it should be a relief that Meltdown wasn’t a true believer, but his continued support of Sentinel still seemed like a giant red flag.

Jazz tipped his head to the side, regarding him closely. “So, what’re you gonna do?”

It was Sam’s turn to give a helpless little shrug. “I don’t know. If I choose Optimus, then I’ll be putting a target on both our backs, but if I choose Meltdown, then I might be giving Sentinel leverage over me for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it.” Jazz agreed mildly.

Sam chewed on his lip for a long moment, lost in the turmoil of his thoughts. Eventually, he pushed aside the blankets and climbed unsteadily to his feet.

“Thanks for the shave, Jazz. I appreciate it.” He murmured, “I think I’m going to take a walk and try to clear my head.”

Jazz climbed off the couch, before helping Sam onto the floor. As soon as Sam’s feet were underneath him, Jazz crouched down to look him in the eye.

“Don’t fret none, Sam.” The saboteur reassured him, “If you choose Meltdown and it backfires, well… I’ll take care of it.”

Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. Creator bonds were permanent, so he wasn’t sure what Jazz could do about it, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.

“Thanks, Jazz.” He husked, before pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants, “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah, kid.” Jazz replied, optics bright, “I’ll see you around.”

Sam turned on his heel, making his way towards the door. A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he glanced over to find Green perched on a piece of PVC piping about halfway up the wall. She watched him with unblinking orange eyes as Sam stepped into the corridor, and then the door slid shut behind him.

He made his way through the darkened corridors of the ship, lost in his thoughts. The physical exertion set his head to pounding before he even made it out of the officer’s section. It was colder here than it had been in Jazz’s quarters as well, which only compounded his discomfort. Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits for warmth. It took him less than ten minutes to reach the atrium, even at his listless pace. The vast, cavernous room was empty and quiet, except for the distant sounds of construction echoing up from the fourth deck. Sam turned the conversation with Jazz over in his mind as he walked. He knew that it was time to make a decision. He hadn’t been able to maintain his firewalls for more than half-an-hour at a time in almost two days, and the omnipresent press of the neural-network was its own kind of torture—and that said nothing of the complete lack of privacy he had endured from the moment he awoke from stasis.

Sam sighed softly as he made his way down the curved ramp and onto the second deck. The emergency lights were brighter here, casting a garish orange glow across the gleaming metal corridor. Sam glanced inside the mess hall as he walked by. The Christmas decorations that Bumblebee and the others had painstakingly arranged for him were gone. Bumblebee had told him, quietly, that Hot Rod had destroyed it all in a fit of grief.

Sam couldn’t say that he blamed him.

He continued down the long corridor, taking one corner and then another. He passed his hab-suite a short while later without so much as a sidelong glance—he had no interest in sitting alone for however long it took Bumblebee to finish his shift on the bridge. He continued walking until he found himself at the junction that would take him to the medical bay. He pulled up short, struggling to breathe around the something that was lodged inside his chest. The harder he tried to quash it down, however, the more it twisted behind his sternum, as though trying to escape.

Sam was hurrying down the corridor before he even made the decision to start walking again. He put one foot in front of the other, head lowered and eyes downcast, though he couldn’t have said where he was going. It wasn’t until he was standing in front of Ratchet’s quarters that he realized where his feet had taken him. He stared up at the large entryway with his heart fluttering in his throat. Eventually, Sam stepped up to the doors, which slid open as he approached.

The hab-suite within was dark, but the lights came up to half-brightness as the doors slid open. Sam stood in the doorway for a long moment, glancing around the space that Ratchet had called home for who-knows-how-long. It was roughly the same size as Jazz’s hab-suite, but it was almost painfully utilitarian in comparison. Sam took another step into the room, and then another, and then the doors slid shut behind him. There was a berthing area against the far wall, which was separated from a work-area by a paneled partition. Other than the desk, which was cluttered with all manner of data pads and tools, the room was relatively barren of personal effects.

Well, except for the two rows of shelving along the back wall. A cursory investigation revealed a modest collection of crystal sculptures, awards, plaques, and a three-dimensional hologram of a building that Sam didn’t recognize. He walked closer, peering curiously up at the flickering projection. It would have been small by Ratchet’s standards, but it was large by Sam’s—perhaps a meter tall, a half-meter wide, and rotating slowly on its y-axis above a pedestal-projector.

“Protihex Medical Mechanics University.” A voice spoke from behind him, “Ratchet received it for graduation with highest distinction.”

Sam startled badly in response, pivoting on his heel to find Meltdown standing in the entryway that led to Ratchet’s office. It took Sam a moment to recover from his surprise—he hadn’t even heard the door open.

“Forgive me.” Meltdown murmured, inclining his head, “I did not intend to startle you. Would you prefer to be alone?”

Sam didn’t know how to answer his question, and so he ignored it instead. He half-turned glancing up at the hologram in consideration. “I don’t know much about Ratchet’s life before the war.”

Meltdown’s faceplates shifted, as though in surprise, and then he took another step into the room. “Oh?”

Sam shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets. “He isn’t a big talker.”

Meltdown chuckled quietly, as though at some private joke. “No, I suppose he’s not. Not unless he has something to say.”

“And then watch out.” Sam replied wryly.

“And then watch out.” Meltdown murmured in agreement.

There was a lifetime of emotion contained in those four words. Sam shifted uncomfortably, and then desperate for a distraction, he started a circuit around the room. A closer inspection confirmed the room was sparsely decorated, giving it an almost unlived-in appearance. Meltdown sat down on the edge of the berth, watching him as he walked.

“How long have you two known each other?” Sam asked, tossing the question over his shoulder as though the answer didn’t matter to him.

“A long time.” Meltdown replied, “We met when Ratchet was still a Senator, and I was a physician at the Cybertron Central Infirmary. I was often called to Iacon to speak in front of the Senate.”

“So, that was, what… like ten million years ago?” Sam asked.

“Closer to six million, actually.” Meltdown returned, a wry smile turning up the corner of his mouth, “We remained friends even though Ratchet left the Senate shortly thereafter.”

“And was it love at first sight?” Sam asked softly, more a challenge than a legitimate question.

A shadow of something flitted across Meltdown’s face, there and gone against too quickly for Sam to analyze. “It was for me, certainly.”

Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest as he continued his circuitous route around the room’s perimeter. There wasn’t much else to see, and as a result, Sam soon found himself standing in front of the cluttered desk again. He grimaced, pacing the length of the desk as the silence in the room seemed to deepen, growing taut.

Eventually, Sam turned on his heel to look at Meltdown and demanded, apropos of nothing, “Have you thought this through? Me and you?”

Meltdown tipped his head to the side, his expression reserved but attentive. “I have, yes.”

Sam resisted the urge to scoff, but only just. “Are you sure? I’m not a newspark or a sparkling, and I won’t be treated like one.”

The medic’s optics softened, growing dim. “I know who you are, Sam.”

Sam flushed at the quiet sincerity in his voice as he desperately soldiered on. “I’m stubborn. I don’t take direction well. I’m human. I’m loud.” He insisted, before adding, “I drove Ratchet absolutely crazy.”

Meltdown regarded him for a long moment, before leaning forward to brace his elbows against his knee-struts. “Do you really think that?”

The question pulled Sam up short, and it took him a moment before he could reply.

“I know it.” He bit out, sharper than he intended, “Ratchet told me so himself on the regular.”

Meltdown’s expression shuffled through emotions almost too quickly for Sam to categorize. There was understanding and compassion and wry humor, and then the medic was pinning him with a pointed look. “Well, that’s not what he told me.”

Sam knew exactly what Meltdown was doing, but he couldn’t prevent himself from taking the bait.

“What do you mean by that?” He asked.

Meltdown leaned back to brace his servos flat against his thighs. “Ratchet came to see me onboard the Lost Light the day that you and I met. We spoke about a great many things—Sentinel’s crusade, the uprising, the civil war… you. Ratchet told me that you are young and stubborn, and yes, aggravating at times, but he also said that you are brave, and selfless, and good. He was very proud of you.” Meltdown’s voice caught at the last, and he cleared his intakes to murmur, “…Is. He is very proud of you.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them with the heel of his palms until he saw stars. “I don’t even know you.”

“Not yet.” Meltdown agreed, voice soft and sincere, “But then, I didn’t know any of my Creations at first.”

Sam dropped his hands, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling as he struggled to control the turbulent emotions that were threatening to undo him.

“I’m just so tired.” He managed, voice breaking, “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

Meltdown pushed to his feet, before crossing the room to crouch at Sam’s side. His expression was very gentle as he murmured, “Then let someone help you.”

Sam sighed, before shaking his head as though in defeat.

“Alright. Okay.” His voice sounded thin and watery, even to his own ears, “If I have to choose someone, then I choose you.”

Meltdown ducked his head to look Sam in the eye. “Are you certain?”

Sam stared back at him for a long moment, fully aware that there would be no escaping the ramifications of this decision—not for better or worse, not for the rest of his life.

“Yeah.” He murmured, “I think it’s what Ratchet would want.”

The medic’s expression was impossible to read, but his optics were very bright as he reached out, curling his servo against Sam’s back. “I hope so.” He seemed to take a minute to compose himself, and then he met Sam’s gaze again. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Sam managed.

Meltdown dipped his head in acquiescence, before murmuring, “Very well. This won’t hurt.”

A moment later, Meltdown’s mental presence smoothed across Sam’s mind. The touch was warm and gentle and intimate. Sam resisted the urge to grimace as the medic pushed deeper inside his mind. It wasn’t painful, but it was unpleasant in its invasiveness. Meltdown murmured an apology, and then there was a familiar brightening sensation as the Creator bond snapped into place.

All at once, the omnipresent ache of the neural-network was gone. Sam’s breath rushed out of him in an explosive exhale of surprise. He hadn’t realized just how bad things had gotten until the pain was abruptly gone. His knees went wobbly from the sudden relief, but Meltdown was steadying him before he could pitch forward onto the floor.

With some effort, Sam raised his head to look the medic in the face. Meltdown was watching him closely, but his expression was openly gentle.

//Hello Sam.//

Sam couldn’t prevent his huff of helpless laughter. Meltdown’s mental presence was warm and bright and buoyant, like the Indian Ocean in late August. He reached out to brush against the medic in greeting.

//Hey Meltdown.//

“It would be best if you rested while the bond stabilized.” Meltdown said, switching back to spoken English, “Will you consent to stasis?”

The question made Sam’s heart skip a beat before picking up in double-time.

“I don’t… I mean—”

Meltdown’s mental presence softened with compassion, and he stroked a heavy digit down the length of Sam’s spine. “I understand. I’ll be with you the entire time—you won’t remember anything. I promise.”

Sam’s eyes flitted across the medic’s face, searching for any sign of facetiousness, but there was nothing but solemn regard. Eventually, and with a great deal of trepidation, Sam nodded his head.

Meltdown murmured encouragement, his digits tightening around Sam’s body to prevent his fall, and a moment later, Sam slipped into the dark embrace of unconsciousness.

Notes:

Author Notes: Interested in receiving the chapters before they're published? Consider joining the Signature-verse Discord channel for live readings and chapter discussion. We'd love to have you!

Chapter 21

Notes:

Author's Note: In the spirit of Halloween: we're baaaaaack! Thanks for your patience over our brief hiatus!

For the first time in weeks, Sam’s sleep was restful. 

When he eventually awoke, it was to the faint, familiar hum of Bumblebee’s internal mechanisms. Sam drifted, warm and content, as he listened. It was a soothing sound—like the hiss of waves against sand or the rustle of wind through beachgrass. 

It sounded like home. 

The thought was met with a gentle pulse of affection that had Sam raising his head and casting a bleary glance over his shoulder. Bumblebee was lying next to him on the berth. The soft, blue glow of his optics was the only light in the otherwise darkened room. 

“Hey.” Sam croaked, “Good morning.” 

Bumblebee chirred softly in amusement. “Good evening, actually. It’s half-past second shift.” 

Sam’s brow furrowed as he tried to do the mental math. “How long was I out?” 

“A little while.” Bumblebee murmured in reply. “You needed it.” 

Sam settled back against the berth, which had been layered with an assortment of sheets and blankets and metal-mesh. The end result was that he was perfectly comfortable, even though the air in the room was bracingly cold. Sam lay there for a moment or two, letting himself wake-up, before he turned his attention inwards. His mind was still and quiet and empty. Bumblebee’s winter-white presence glowed at him from across their bond-space, but the omni-present ache of the neural-network was gone. 

Sam released a shaky sigh of relief. He had almost forgotten how cosseting the Creator bond could feel in comparison. 

“Sam?” Bumblebee murmured. 

“I’m alright.” Sam managed, before offering his bonded a crooked smile, “It’s just… very quiet.” 

Bumblebee reached out, tracing a digit along the curve of Sam’s spine. “I’m relieved.” 

The scout’s voice was soft and sincere, and it made Sam’s chest constrict with guilt. 

“I’m sorry for worrying you.” Sam said, eyes flicking up to his bonded’s face, “I thought I’d be alright, at first—thought maybe I could handle it.” His mouth hooked up in a self-deprecating smile, “I was wrong.” 

Bumblebee’s expression was unreadable as he shifted closer. He carefully arranged himself around Sam’s prone form until the two of them were lying almost chest to chest. They were close enough that the ambient heat from Bumblebee’s body warmed Sam’s face. It was nice. Soothing. 

“Don’t apologize, Sam. Not to me.” Bumblebee murmured, “I know how hard this has been for you. Not just Ratchet’s loss… all of it.” 

Sam resisted the urge to grimace, instead touching his forehead to Bumblebee's chassis. “That was one of your better understatements.” He tried to joke.

Predictably, Bumblebee ignored his attempt at levity. “No one begrudges you the time it took to come to terms with all that’s happened. No one, Sam.” As he spoke, Bumblebee pressed the tips of his digits against Sam’s back. The touch was gentle and benedictory—like a promise. 

It made the something wound tight inside his chest ease up—just a little bit, but enough to let Sam breathe again. 

“Well, that’s good, I guess.” He managed.  For a long few minutes, Sam simply laid there, soaking in the presence of his bonded and the stillness in his mind, and then a thought occurred to him. He leaned back so he could look Bumblebee in the face, “Bee, what’s the date?” 

Bumblebee met his gaze without compunction. “It’s January 9th.” 

The knowledge that it had been less than three months since they departed Earth gave him complicated feelings. In some ways, it was difficult to believe that he was in deep space, but in other ways—more salient ways—it felt as though they had been traveling for an eternity. How could so much have happened in such a short amount of time? It almost beggared belief. 

“Well, Happy New Years, I guess.” Sam murmured, eventually. 

Bumblebee whistled softly at him. It was an unfamiliar glyph, but Sam recognized the emphasis modifiers. Whatever it was—it had been sincere. 

Sam’s lips twitched, despite himself. “Yeah, right back at you.” 

Before Bumblebee could say anything in reply, Sam felt a perceptible shift inside his mind. He stiffened in surprise. A moment later, Meltdown brushed against him—gently, like a forewarning—and then the door to the hab-suite was sliding open, spilling warm light into the darkened room. Sam rolled over, watching as the medic stepped into the room. 

“Mind your eyes.” Meltdown advised.

The overhead lights came up to half-brightness, which is when Sam realized that he was still in Ratchet’s quarters. The feeling gave him an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. He pushed the discomfort down and away—it wasn’t something he could think about right now. 

The medic approached the berth with a cafeteria tray pinched delicately between two digits. Sam pulled the blankets closer as Meltdown leaned forward to carefully place the tray beside him. Sam glanced down reflexively—the tray contained a stainless steel food warmer, a plastic drinking cup, and a fruit bowl covered with cellophane. The smell of something delicious wafted up at him. 

All at once, Sam realized that he was absolutely ravenous. 

The thought was met with a warm swell of amusement—although whether it came from Bumblebee or Meltdown, Sam couldn’t have said. 

“I am relieved to hear it.” Meltdown rumbled, watching as Sam pulled the tray into his lap, “How do you feel otherwise?” 

Sam twitched his shoulders in a shrug as he lifted the food warmer off the tray. The sight of bacon-potato hash made his stomach rumble. “Okay, I guess. My head feels a lot better.” 

Meltdown made a thoughtful sound as Sam started eating. “Your neural-connections will be sensitive for the next few cycles. The damage was more extensive than we originally anticipated. I would prefer to keep you inside the Creator bond for the next few days, if you’re agreeable.” 

Sam stilled, fork half-way to his mouth, as he glanced up at the medic. “How extensive?” 

“Nothing permanent.” Meltdown was quick to reassure, “But it’s important you don’t overexert yourself until you’ve had the chance to properly recover. Your neural-connections are little more than filaments at this stage—easily damaged and difficult to repair.” 

Sam stared at him for a moment longer, before twitching his shoulders in a shrug and taking a bite of his food. The hash was only lukewarm, but the taste of onions and bell peppers had him grunting in appreciation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten a proper meal without feeling like he might be sick. 

“When can I leave?” He asked, taking another bite. 

Meltdown tipped his head to the side, as though in consideration. “Whenever you wish. I’ve cleared you for a return to light activities—no infiltration training, low impact exercise only. I’ll monitor you over the next several days, but please alert me at once if you begin to experience any discomfort.” 

Sam’s gaze flicked up to Meltdown’s face. The medic was watching him with an air of clinical scrutiny that might have reminded Sam of Ratchet were it not for his mental presence. Meltdown glowed at him from across the Creator bond—warm and gentle and buoyant, whereas Ratchet was gruff and no-nonsense. The two medics couldn’t have felt any more different if they had been designed that way. 

An odd expression flitted across Meltdown’s face. It was there and gone again too quickly for Sam to parse, but it would have been impossible to misinterpret the sudden reticent quality of the medic’s mental presence. 

Sam’s face warmed in sudden discomfiture. “I’m sorry.” 

Meltdown shook his head minutely. “You have done nothing to give offense.” 

Sam grimaced at the sincere tone of the older mechanoid’s voice. He stabbed at a bell pepper with a great deal more force than necessary, before popping it into his mouth. “I warned you—I’m loud. It’s not going to get any better.”

To Sam’s surprise, Meltdown chuckled in wry humor. “Loud is something I’ve grown accustomed to while sharing a medical bay with Ratchet, I assure you.” 

The words hit Sam harder than he would have thought—amusement and grief and regret, all tangled up with one another. He swallowed his food, before poking at the hash, moving it around the plate. “So… what now?” 

Meltdown gave him the courtesy of not pretending to misunderstand. 

“I am under no misapprehensions, Sam.” He replied, gentle and reserved, “I realize our arrangement is one of necessity, not preference. As such, I will be whatever you wish, insofar as our respective positions permit.” Meltdown hesitated for a moment, before venturing: “I would welcome the opportunity to know you, if you would allow it.” 

This time, it was Sam’s turn to huff a wry laugh. “You’ve read the data packets—you already know all there is to know. I’m an open book.” 

The medic smiled at him, amused and fond in equal measures. “For some reason, I find that difficult to believe.” 

---

 

The medic stayed at his berth-side until Sam had finished eating. Then, he cleared away the tray and helped Sam climb out of the nest of blankets. Sam was surprised to find that he was unsteady on his feet—an after-effect of his treatment, he was informed, before Meltdown initiated a medical scan. Sam pulled a face as the blue light crawled over his skin. Meltdown clicked thoughtfully at whatever he found, before telling Sam and Bumblebee that they were free to go. 

The days that followed were uneventful. Sam spent a great deal of time sleeping or laid up on the couch watching television. His appetite also returned with a vengeance. He worked his way through four or five pre-packed meals a day in addition to the snacks he had squirreled away in his hab-suite. It got to the point that Bumblebee would shake his head in exasperation whenever Sam started talking about food. Still, the meals arrived at his hab-suite with comforting regularity—often before Sam could even give voice to his hunger. 

It took six days before Meltdown declared him well enough to return to regular activities. After that, it seemed the entire command crew wanted to get their hands on him. The first offender was Prowl, who arrived at his hab-suite the following morning with a detailed crew roster. Sam stared down at the data-pad in sinking trepidation as Prowl announced that he would be assigned a security detail. Sam protested, of course, but it fell on deaf ears. 

“We almost lost you during the attack, first to Vos and then to Tarn.” Prowl informed him matter-of-factly, “You are a Prime, Sam—we can no longer afford such lapses in security.” 

Prowl had taken his leave shortly thereafter, but he left the data-pad for Sam to review. Sam looked through the files with a sick feeling building steadily in his gut. There was detailed information about training, weaponry, previous missions, commendations, and special assignments, but it was the casualty count that drew his attention.

Hound (sentry): 112 confirmed kills

Trailbreaker (sentry): 324 confirmed kills

Cliffjumper (scout): 277 confirmed kills

Chromia (infiltrator): 203 confirmed kills

Elita-1 (Special Operations): [redacted]

Arcee (Special Operations): [redacted]

Hot Rod (cavalier): 701 confirmed kills

Sideswipe (front-liner): 1200 confirmed kills

Sunstreaker (front-liner): 2333 confirmed kills

Jolt (shock trooper): 1889 confirmed kills

Bluestreak (sniper): 5763 confirmed kills

Sam flipped from profile to profile as he read. There were other statistics as well: Probable kills, possible kills, morbidity count, mission count, and on it went. The numbers stared back at him—cold, objective, immutable.

Sam took a deep, fortifying breath before he flipped to the last file.

Bumblebee (Infiltrator, scout): 421 confirmed kills

Sam stared at the number in numb disbelief. 421 confirmed kills . He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He sat there for a long time, staring at statistics that painted the tableau of a grim and hopeless conflict, when he felt a familiar touch brush across his mind. Sam lifted his head to find Bumblebee crouched in front of him, arms resting on his knee struts and an impossible expression on his face. Sam hadn’t even heard him arrive. 

“It was war, Sam.” Bumblebee murmured.

Sam’s fingers tightened around the edges of the tablet. “I understand that.” 

Bumblebee reached out, resting the tips of his digits against Sam’s thigh.

“No, you don’t.” Bumblebee replied simply, “And I pray you never do.” 

Sam spent the rest of the evening going through the roster. He read every word of every file while Bumblebee sat at his side. It was a difficult decision, but when Prowl arrived the following morning, Sam had a short list prepared: Cliffjumper, Hound, Trailbreaker, and Jolt. 

Prowl glanced over the list, before nodding perfunctory. “I will present your selection to the High Command. I do not anticipate any objections.” 

From that day onwards, Sam had an escort whenever he left his quarters. It was jarring the first time he stepped into the corridor to find Cliffjumper and Jolt stationed by his door. He offered the two mechanoids an uncertain smile, before starting off in the direction of the wash racks. They followed behind him at a respectable distance, before taking position on either side of the wash racks entrance. Sam took his time showering and getting dressed, but they were still waiting for him when he stepped back into the corridor. 

Sam quickly came to realize that it wasn’t just their presence that was unsettling—it was their demeanor, too. The four mechanoids assumed their roles with a solemnity that left Sam feeling wrong-footed. Even Hound and Trailbreaker, who were easy-going and affable by nature, seemed to take their new assignment with purpose. 

When Sam returned to his quarters that evening, Cliffjumper and Jolt took their positions on either side of his door. Sam asked whether they wanted to come inside, maybe watch some television together, but he was gently refused. Sam didn't ask again.

Mirage was the next member of High Command who tracked Sam down. The former noble continued tutoring him on courtly etiquette, and it was just as monotonous and confusing and frivolous as Sam remembered. Mirage taught Sam about the structure of a Prime’s court, including the different ranks and responsibilities of both the nobility and landed gentry. It only got worse from there. 

Sam was dismayed to learn that upper caste mecha considered non-verbal communication in the form of body language, gestures, and mannerisms to be an archaic and inferior means of communication. However, the physical expressions that the upper caste did utilize were painfully detailed. The way one bowed their head, bent at the waist, and moved their bodies all had meaning. Sam learned about the proper way to greet a Prime, which was similar but distinct from the way he was expected to greet nobility, which in turn, was different than how he was expected to comport himself in the presence of landed gentry and lower castes. 

Sam hated every minute of it. 

His schedule filled out a little more with each passing day. In addition to lessons with Mirage, there were also senior officer meetings, security debriefings, tactical and strategic meetings, and incident debriefings. Sam attended each meeting with the same grim determination that had earned him a graduate degree with distinction. He listened. He took notes and asked questions. He read the materials that were assigned to him without complaint. 

Ultra Magnus was the next member of High Command to add himself to Sam’s schedule. The City Commander began meeting with him twice weekly to discuss matters of jurisprudence and constitutional law, particularly as it related to the caste system. Sam found the subject matter to be frustrating and fascinating in equal measures. Ultra Magnus proved to be a patient instructor, albeit direct and to-the-point, and so their meetings usually ended early. That suited Sam just fine—the City Commander was prone to assigning reading lists that would make even a tenured professor blanch in horror. 

After Ultra Magnus came Optimus Prime, who met with Sam whenever his schedule would allow. They talked for hours about religion and history and philosophy, but Optimus always steered their conversation towards the topic Sam dreaded most: the Primacy. Sam learned that Primes were equal in their roles as holy men, but the Prime who protected the Matrix of Leadership was afforded their own rank as Holy Steward . It was a position of utmost respect and solemn responsibility. 

“So, what happens when we get to Cybertron?” Sam asked, approximately two weeks later, when he and Optimus met in an empty conference room to continue their discussion from the previous night.

Optimus ex-vented a quiet sigh, before moving to stand in front of the large view-screen that provided an unobstructed view of the Ark’s sleek, golden hull. Beyond the ship, interstellar space spread out in every direction. 

“I will surrender the Matrix of Leadership to Sentinel upon our arrival.” He rumbled. “As the leader of Cybertron and the most senior Prime, the Matrix of Leadership is his by right.” 

Sam frowned. “But Sentinel gave it up. He just… left it behind.” 

Optimus stared out at the inky blackness without speaking for several moments. Then, as though remembering himself, he gave his helm a minute shake. “Sentinel Prime left the Matrix of Leadership in safe-keeping. He knew there was a chance he may never return from his expedition.” 

Sam leaned back in his chair, which had been positioned at one end of a large, oval table in the middle of the room. He drummed his fingers against the armrest, considering Optimus’ response. “Why didn’t he tell anyone what he was doing? Why the secrecy?” 

Optimus rumbled low inside his chassis. “I do not know, and I cannot begin to speculate. Sentinel had a reputation for being a keen strategist—I am forced to assume he acted with good reason.” 

“It would have to be a pretty damn good reason.” Sam snorted. 

Optimus made a noncommittal sound in reply, which caused Sam to glance over at him in surprise. The former Autobot leader was standing in profile with his servos clasped behind his back. From his position on the conference table, Sam could see the expression on the older Prime’s face—it was one of heavy contemplation, almost brooding.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. 

“I’m sure things’ll be okay.” He offered, hesitantly, “If Sentinel’s as intelligent as everyone seems to think he is, then he’ll know that you did what you had to do.” 

Sam’s words seemed to take Optimus aback, for the older Prime lowered his head and ex-vented a soft huff of air. It was a weary, compunctious sound. 

“Did I?” He murmured, as though to himself, “I often wonder what I could have done differently—if any of it matters, in the end.” 

Sam’s heart started beating faster inside his chest at the recriminating tone of Optimus’ voice. He wasn’t sure what to do or say to comfort the older Prime. He knew the war weighed heavily on Optimus’ conscience. Millions dead, cities razed to the ground, their shared culture that spanned almost a billion years lost, perhaps forever. Optimus shouldered the blame for it all. 

“Don’t say that.” Sam said, more fiercely than he intended, “The war isn’t your fault, Optimus.” 

Sam half-expected the older Prime to offer him a smile or change the subject with the quiet dignity he always projected, but he did neither. Instead, Optimus turned to look at him fully—and Sam was taken aback by the troubled expression on his face plates.

“Sam, there’s a great deal you don’t know about the early years of the war.” He rumbled, like an admission, “It is not an easy subject for me to discuss.” 

Sam’s stomach bottomed out at the regretful tone of Prime’s voice. He curled his fingers around the arms of his chair, bracing himself. That tone had never boded well for him in the past. 

“Optimus, I gotta warn you, I’m at my limit for Earth-shattering revelations.” He tried to joke, “I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact I know a dead alien language, so if Sentinel is your long-lost father or Primus incarnate, then go easy on me. Please.” 

The older Prime’s expression shuttered, growing pained—it was the most human that he had ever seemed. The sight made Sam’s heart start jackrabbiting behind his sternum. 

“Optimus, what is it?” He asked unsteadily, “Tell me.” 

The older Prime’s optics flicked towards the view-screen for a scant moment, as though hoping he could find answers in the vast expanse of space, before his gaze slid back towards Sam. There was something intense about his expression—intense and wary and resigned. The last time Sam had seen that expression on Prime’s face, he learned Optimus had had his American citizenship revoked. 

“I want to tell you a story.” was Optimus’ opening salvo, “Although it is not an easy story to share, it is far past due.  I promise you the unadulterated truth. No equivocations, no omissions. I will tell you the whole story, as I understand it, and afterwards, I will willingly submit myself to your judgment.” 

As Prime spoke, his holoform flickered to life a short distance away from Sam. Sam’s grip tightened on the arms of his chair. The last time he had seen the Autobot leader’s holoform was before Sam left for the United Nations General Assembly in New York. He looked older than Sam remembered. The dark of his hair was shot through with more gray and the smile lines around his eyes had deepened to crow’s feet. The expression on his face was the same as his bipedal mode: weary and resigned, but grimly determined. He stared at Sam, as though searching for permission, and when Sam gave a barely there nod of his head, Optimus began to speak. 

“As you know, I was sparked as a lower-caste mechanoid during the second Golden Age. The clutch I was sparked into were predominantly information builds—data clerks, analysts, support specialists, and the like. It was a humble calling, but one that I excelled in. Parsing information, organizing it, categorizing it, making sense of it. I was a good worker.” Optimus’ holoform shook his head ruefully, “I was fascinated by the power of words—how data became information, information became knowledge, and in time, how knowledge became wisdom.” 

Sam slowly uncurled his fingers from around the armrests, before clasping his hands together between his knees. He listened without interruption as Optimus continued.

“Eventually, my thoroughness and dedication caught the attention of the Head Archivist, Alpha Trion. It was a great honor when I was chosen to assist him in his endeavors.” Optimus grimaced faintly as he continued, “I dedicated myself wholly to his service, but still… My presence at the Great Library caused discontent. I was a lower-caste mechanoid. My place was in the Repositories or the Pergamum, perhaps, but it was not at the Grand Library and it was certainly not in Alpha Trion’s presence.” 

Sam pressed his lips together. His opinions of the caste system weren’t relevant at the moment.

“Alpha Trion was a patient and gifted mentor. Not only did he disregard the misgivings of his colleagues and contemporaries, he raised me up to the position of his apprentice. You must understand: this was a scandalous action on Alpha Trion’s part. Social movement was only ever horizontal, never vertical.” Optimus grimaced deeply, “I was fortunate. I was sparked into a service caste. It could have been worse—I could have been among the ritually unclean.” 

Sam rubbed his hands together, worrying the skin of his knuckles. “The what?” 

Optimus’s holoform inclined its head. “It was the lowest caste of mecha. The very bottom of Cybertron’s hierarchy.  You may have heard the term cold-construction?” At Sam’s slow nod, Optimus continued, “These mechanoids were not sparked. They were onlined en masse as fully functioning adults to fulfill a specific purpose. Concubines. Indentured servants. Gladiators. An entire caste of mecha that were designed to become disposable workers.” 

“That’s horrific.” Sam grimaced. 

“It was.” Optimus agreed, “The cold-constructions were brought online with limited and constrained programming. They could not better themselves, even if they had the opportunity to do so—and few did, which was by design.” An fissure of tension flitted across Optimus’ face, before he continued. “I was largely ignorant of the injustices of the caste system. I worked diligently under Alpha Trion’s tutelage, and eventually, I began accompanying him during his travels. It was limited, at first—Iacon for a few cycles, Crystal City for a day—but it was enough.” Optimus’ mouth thinned in tightly leashed disgust. “I was a data analyst. I was constructed for the sole purpose of identifying trends in data, and I was very good at it.” 

Optimus waited until Sam glanced up, meeting his eyes, before he continued.

“It began slowly. Alpha Trion had sent me to fetch a package from the Repertory, and I decided to cut-through the marketplace on my way. It was a shorter route. It was only logical.” The holoform’s lips thinned in a grimace, “I heard a terrible commotion, and when I went to investigate, I saw a scullion being whipped by two enforcers. No one intervened—myself included. The mini-bot was beaten off-line and dragged away. I don’t know why that particular instance stuck with me, but it did. I thought about little else over the following cycles. Soon, I began observing other instances that stuck with me as well: a peaceful protest that was put down with brutal force by the Primesguard; a dead mecha in an alleyway who was left to gray; political graffiti in Iacon and Praxis and Harmonex. So, I did what I was designed to do: I observed, categorized, and identified patterns in the data.” 

“And what did you find?” Sam asked, quietly. 

“A genocide happening in plain sight.” Prime replied, just as softly, “The suffering was primarily limited to cold-constructions and the lowest castes, but its effects were beginning to ripple—the discontent was spreading.” Optimus’ holoform seemed to take a deep breath, as though collecting himself, before he continued. “I brought my concerns to Alpha Trion, who firmly rebuffed me. It was not my place to speak on matters of social cohesion. He urged me to attend to my duties, which I did—albeit reluctantly. Not long after, Alpha Trion had me attend him at the Fête of the Primes.” 

“The Fête of the Primes.” Sam repeated, moistening his lips, “That’s where you first saw Megatron, right?” 

“Megatronus.” Optimus gently corrected him, “And yes, it is. I knew about Megatronus, of course—he was quite famous by then. The Cold-Construction from Kaon that rose through the ranks of the Colosseum. His matches sold-out arena after arena, which is how he eventually earned his freedom.” 

Sam grimaced. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard this one before.” 

Optimus continued as though Sam hadn’t spoken. “Megatronus was no exception to the rule—he might have earned his freedom, but he was still a low-caste cold construction. He used his meager savings to purchase body-mods that allowed him to join the mining caste, and then he spent the next half-million years underground.” Optimus’ expression shifted, growing almost… fond. “But not even two kilometers of bedrock could contain Megatronus’ will. He taught himself written language, one glyph at a time, and then he began writing précis. They were brief at first, clumsy perhaps, but bold. He spoke against the Senate, the caste system, and social inequality in ways few others had dared.” 

Sam looked askance at the holoform. “You sound like you admired him.” 

“I admired him tremendously.” Optimus replied without an iota of hesitation, “I read everything he penned that I could find until his writings were banned by the Senate. They claimed his words were heresy of the highest order.” Optimus’ expression darkened ominously, “The hypocrisy. Primus himself tells us ‘Freedom in unity, suffering in division’.” 

“So… what happened then?” Sam asked, curious despite himself. 

“And then I had to make a choice: subservience or sedition?” Optimus shook his head. “I am ashamed to admit that it took me decades to choose the latter. It happened by chance—or at least, I had thought so at the time. I have since come to wonder. I overheard murmurs of a rally being held on egalitarianism in lower Iacon. It was strictly need-to-know; the enforcers had begun putting down civil unrest with extreme prejudice. I took my life into my hands that night, as the humans say, but I went anyway.” Optimus’ lips twitched with self-deprecating humor as he added, wryly, “It was admittedly out of character for me.” 

“Is that when you met Megatronus?” Sam asked. 

Optimus shook his helm. “No—but it was where I met Ratchet.” 

Sam’s heart gave a painful twist. “Ratchet was there?” 

“He was indeed.” Optimus murmured softly, “Ratchet had seen for himself the brutality of the upper caste towards the lowest members of society, both as a Senator and as a medic. He assisted those who had no other means of obtaining medical care, and eventually, he used his Dead End clinic as a front for the resistance.” 

Sam’s eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline. “Ratchet was a freedom fighter?” 

Optimus’ expression warmed in good humor. “Ratchet supported the cause in his own ways.” 

“He told me a little about the early years of the war, but he left out that part.” Sam huffed a soft laugh, “I didn’t know he had it in him.” 

“Ratchet is nothing if not tenacious.” Optimus rumbled, “I met him several more times over the following months—always discrete, never in public. He was suspicious of my motives.”

Sam cracked a wide smile. “He told me he thought you were a spy.” 

Optimus laughed softly. It made him appear younger, somehow. “Yes, I know. He distrusted me for years.” 

Sam frowned, wracking his memory. “Ratchet told me you two grew close. How’d you win him over?” 

The smile slowly faded off the holoform’s face leaving a stricken look in its place. “Sam… I promised you the full truth. You have my word that you will have it, but please try to understand… this was not something I intended to keep from you. I cannot speak of it easily—none of us can.” 

The earnest, almost pleading tone of his voice made Sam’s stomach sink like a stone. 

“You can’t speak about what easily?” He asked, heart in his throat. 

Optimus stared at Sam for a long time, eyes roving over his face, as though trying to memorize whatever he saw there. Eventually, he dipped his head and spoke. 

“I attended a rally for egalitarianism in Polyhex, not far from the Dead End. Ratchet accompanied me. It wasn’t until we were standing in the square that I learned Megatronus would be in attendance. I was anxious and eager in equal measure.” Optimus stumbled over his words, his voice growing strained, “His speech was everything I had come to expect. I was greatly moved by the passion of his convictions. Afterwards, Ratchet and I retired to his clinic, where several members of the Underground were waiting for us. Ratchet had arranged their presence—he believed my position as Alpha Trion’s protege could be used for the betterment of the cause.” 

“So, is that when you met Megatronus?” Sam forced himself to ask.

Optimus’ expression shifted, growing uncharacteristically forlorn. 

“It was, yes.” He murmured, “And it was also when Orion Pax bonded with him.” 

Chapter 22

Notes:

Chapter Warning: Discussion of prior abuse, sexual assault.

Sam stared at Optimus uncomprehendingly. 

“...What?” 

The holoform’s mouth did something complicated, but he met Sam’s stare directly. “Ratchet had arranged for Terminus, Impactor, and Strika to meet us after the rally. Terminus was a Kaonian miner. Impactor and Strika were old Quintesson war-frames. Ratchet did not realize that Megatronus would be accompanying them. I doubt he would have invited me if he had.” 

Sam could feel the warmth stealing up his neck and across his face. “What do you mean bonded?” He rasped.

A ripple of something passed over the holoform’s face, but he did not look away. “Orion Pax and Megatronus bonded in Ratchet’s storeroom. It happened instantaneously—I don’t know which of us was more surprised.”

Sam sat frozen in his seat, as though pinioned there by some external force. The warmth that had been spreading across his face was growing hotter by the second. 

“No.” He managed, shaking his head in denial, “No, that can’t be true.” 

The holoform lowered his chin a fraction of an inch. His voice was rough but composed as he continued. “Orion Pax and Megatronus spark bonded in Polyhex during the Great Unrest. We kept it quiet for a time—only those present were aware of what had transpired. I used my position as Alpha Trion’s apprentice to ferret information to the Resistance, but eventually, it became too great a risk. I removed myself to Uraya shortly thereafter at Megatronus’ urging.” 

“I don’t understand.” Sam managed, struggling to get the words out,  “You’re bonded? You and Megatron are—?” 

“No, Sam.” Optimus interrupted gently, “We are not bonded. Not anymore.” 

Something ugly was building inside Sam’s chest—ugly and hot, digging its claws in right behind his sternum. He reached out, bracing his hands flat against the arms of his chair, trying to steady himself. 

“Explain.” He gritted out. 

The holoform’s chin lowered another inch, but he clasped his hands behind his back and soldiered on. “I aided the cause from Uraya however I could. Writing precis, organizing rallies, meeting with suspected sympathizers. It was a fraught and difficult time. The Senate was rooting out resistance cells in Nova Cronum and Praxus. Those unfortunate enough to be caught were either killed on sight or dragged before the High Courts for a mummer's trial. Their executions were bloody, public affairs.” 

“If you have a point to make, you better get there fast.” Sam snapped. 

Optimus slowly inclined his head. “The Senate had tried to assassinate Megatronus in the past, of course, but their efforts proved unsuccessful. Strika and her lot were a part of the Old Guard—political subterfuge, assassinations, guerilla warfare… it was why they had been constructed in the first place.” Optimus visibly hesitated, as though trying to wrestle his thoughts into order, “Sentinel Prime had a moderating influence on the Senate. In his absence, their daring grew beyond all measure. They dropped any attempt at subterfuge, preferring instead to send one assassin after another with little regard as to what would happen if their attempts were uncovered.”

Sam’s chest was growing tighter with each passing second. He curled his fingers around the armrests of his chair, gripping the wood until his knuckles turned white. The holoform must have noted his sudden tension, for he had the grace to look abashed. 

“Forgive me. I did not intend to burden you with the minutiae.” Optimus murmured, “It became clear to the Senate that Megatronus was too skilled an opponent to attack directly. They thought to try a different approach instead.” The holoform’s expression shifted, growing darker. “I do not know whether they had learned about the spark bond—perhaps they were merely opportunists, wanting to dismantle his support network. Either way, when I received a summons from Alpha Trion, I had no cause for suspicion. Megatronus urged me to heed caution, but I was naïve. Foolish. I had hoped to sway Alpha Trion to our cause. I was certain he would listen to reason.” 

“I’m guessing it didn’t go to plan?” Sam asked, tightly. 

“No, it did not.” Optimus rumbled in reply. “Shockwave and I met in Iacon and traveled together to the Archives. Shockwave was a scientist with numerous political connections at the time—intelligent, but cautious. His presence would cause no undue suspicion. The letter I had received bid me go to the registry, which was in the deepest part of the Archives.” As the holoform spoke, Optimus’ bipedal mode straightened, crossing the room to resume his place by the viewport. “It was a trap, of course. We were ambushed within moments of stepping into the registry. There was no trial—no fanfare. Orion Pax was executed on the spot.” 

Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown. “You died?” 

“Orion Pax died, yes.” came the rumbled reply, “And Optimus Prime was remade in his place.” 

“I don’t understand.” Sam said, “How?” 

Prime half-turned, glancing at Sam over his shoulder. “I told you once. Do you remember?” 

Sam’s frown deepened. Optimus had told him of it in the past—how Alpha Trion had bestowed the Matrix of Leadership upon him, remaking him into a Prime without his express desire or consent. “Yeah, I remember.” 

Optimus nodded tersely, as though in acknowledgement or appreciation, before turning back to stare out into the inky darkness of space. “I have often reflected on the time that passed from the moment I died as Orion Pax and came on-line as Optimus Prime. It had seemed instantaneous. One moment, I could feel the burning agony of plasma fire, and the next, I was coming on-line with the Matrix of Leadership inside my chest.” Sam could see Prime’s expression reflected in the transparisteel—adrift, forlorn, lost. “I awoke in a foreign frame, a warframe.  It took a moment or two for my new systems to come on-line properly. When they did, I realized at once that the spark bond was gone. I do not mean that it was empty—an absence born of distance—I mean that it was missing entirely. The Matrix of Leadership had not seen fit to remake me with our bond in-tact.” 

The pain in Prime’s voice made Sam flinch. It cut through his anger and betrayal and confusion like a white-hot knife. Sam had suffered Bumblebee’s absence every day onboard the Nemesis , but the spark bond had been a source of comfort throughout his captivity—a reminder that Bumblebee was alive somewhere, waiting for him, searching for him. Sam couldn’t begin to imagine his grief and despair had he awoken to find their bond missing. He was sure that he wouldn’t have survived it.

“Why?” Sam managed, finally. 

“I do not know.” Prime admitted. “The Senate was quick to claim it was because Megatronus was unfit—but how could that be so? He and I were of one spark, one soul. If Megatronus was unfit, then so too was Orion Pax.” 

“I’m sorry.” Sam murmured, and he meant it.

Prime dipped his helm, his optics growing dim. “I returned to Uraya as soon as I could. I was certain that I would be returning to a corpse, but instead I found Megatronus in a new frame—remade, as Orion Pax had been remade.” He glanced sidelong at Sam. “He attacked me at once. It was only the combined efforts of Ratchet and Soundwave that stayed his hand.” 

“I don’t understand. Why would he remake himself?” Sam asked, confusion furrowing his brow. 

“He did not. At least—not at first.” Optimus corrected with a shake of his head, “He almost died when the spark bond guttered out. Ratchet and Soundwave saved his life, but at great cost. You must understand: I lost the spark bond when I was remade, but Megatronus did not. The pain of separation has been with him ever since.” 

Sam grimaced at the memory those words evoked. He could still remember Megatron leaning into his mind onboard the Nemesis , pressing against Sam’s aching spark bond the same way one might press against a bruise. The warlord’s mental presence had been reflective, almost contemplative. It made terrible sense now. 

“I was a stranger to him.” Optimus rumbled, “No, worse—I was an imposter. A ghoulish caricature of his dead bonded, masquerading about in a frame that represented everything Megatronus and Orion Pax had advocated against.” The holoform’s expression shifted, growing pained. “I tried to convince him otherwise, but nothing I said had any effect. He was frenzied and half-mad in his grief. The senate claimed Megatronus was a monster, and Megatron sought to prove them right. The martyrdom of Orion Pax had become a lightning rod, and the storm was only just beginning.” 

A silence fell after Optimus finished speaking. Sam waited until it was clear the older Prime had said his piece, and then he clasped his hands tightly in his lap. “You should have told me.” 

“I know.” Prime conceded, softly. 

“I trusted you.” Sam continued, his own voice growing pained. “I confided in you. How could you let me confess everything he did, when you knew—” 

“Sam, please—” Optimus began, voice strained. 

“No, you’re done talking. It’s my turn now.” Sam snapped. “The isolation. The abuse. The… the rest of it.” Sam stumbled over the last accusation—he had never before spoken the word aloud, not even to himself. “I bared my soul to you, and you just… let me.” 

Optimus was staring down at him, in both bipedal mode and holoform. His expression was impenetrable, but he made no further attempt to defend himself. He weathered Sam’s anger the same way the ocean weathers a storm—silent, accepting, inexorable. 

If anything, it made Sam even angrier. 

“You know, I think this may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.” Sam said, almost conversationally, as he pushed to his feet, “And I gotta tell you, that’s a long goddamn list.” 

Prime flinched as though Sam had struck him. “I am sorry.” 

“I don’t care.” Sam replied flatly. He stared at the holoform for a long moment, before turning to look at Prime’s bipedal mode. The former Autobot leader was watching him closely, stoically, as though waiting for Sam’s indictment. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want the truth. Do you understand?” 

Optimus lowered into a loose crouch, so they were more of an eye-level with one another. It was clear that he was being given the older Prime’s undivided attention. “You have my word.” 

“Were you…” Sam trailed off, unsure how to put his misgivings into words, “Did you keep this from me so I would come to Cybertron?” 

Optimus looked taken aback by the question, but then his expression grew aghast. “No, Sam. Never. I swear it.” 

“Then why not say anything until now?” Sam asked, his shoulders drawing up in tension.

Optimus ex-vented a quiet sigh, before curling his servos around the edge of the conference table. The tips of his digits were less than a meter away from Sam’s sneakers. “Could you speak easily about such matters with another?” 

The question nettled him, because of course he couldn’t, which is why he snapped, “Well, my bonded isn’t a war criminal.” 

“Neither was mine.” Prime replied gently, like a reproach. 

Sam folded his arms tightly over his chest. “But why now? Why drop this on me today?” 

A fissure of something flitted across Prime's face—something grim and resigned, there and gone again before Sam could examine it properly. “I told you because you deserved to know.” Optimus rumbled, “And because you deserved to hear it from me. I expect that I will be tried for my role in the civil unrest and the devastation that followed. The truth will surely come to light—I did not want you to be caught unawares.” 

“So, you’re only telling me because you had no choice.” Sam inferred, flatly. 

“Sam, whatever else you might think of me right now, it was not my wish to deceive you.” Optimus murmured, “Orion Pax and Megatronus died together over four million years ago. It was not my story to tell—at least, not in the way it was theirs.” 

Sam was incensed by the equivocation, which had been spoken as sincerely as a prayer. He pitched his voice to cut as he demanded, scathingly, “Do you still love him?” 

His words had been intended to injure, but Sam was unprepared for the visceral agony on Prime’s face. It gave him cause to regret his vindictiveness immediately. 

“I will love Megatronus until the day my spark gutters and dies.” Optimus rumbled, his voice almost too low and rough to be understood, “My feelings for Megatron are a great deal more complicated. Sentinel Prime will likely blame me for the war and all the devastation that followed, and he would not be wrong to do so.” 

“Optimus… I’m sorry.” Sam managed, shame warming his face.

“You owe me nothing, Sam. Least of all an apology.” Prime sighed.

The older mechanoid’s voice was strained and weary. It made Sam grimace in sympathy, despite the newfound tension between them. 

“Still… I’m sorry.” Sam managed, pushing his hands into his pockets. “It’s just… it’s a lot to take in. I’m going to need some time.” 

Optimus inclined his helm as his holoform fizzled and disappeared. “Of course, Sam.  I understand.”

The older Prime helped Sam down from the conference table. His digits lingered on Sam’s back for a brief moment, before he straightened and stepped towards the viewport. He resumed his stalwart position staring out at the vast inky nothingness that surrounded them. Sam watched him for a moment longer, before he turned and woodenly made his way out of the conference room. The door slid shut behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss. Cliffjumper and Bluestreak came to attention as soon as Sam stepped into the corridor. Sam offered them both a distracted nod, but otherwise he said nothing as he started walking. The two mechanoids silently fell in step behind him. 

Sam made his way through the corridors of the first deck, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders curled forward as he thought about all that he had learned. He supposed it made sense, in a Shakespearean tragedy sort of way. The thought caused his mouth to flatten in disdain. If Primus was real, then he had a hell of a lot to answer for—though, Sam supposed, he’d probably have to wait in line. 

Eventually, his thoughts turned to Megatron and the Nemesis. He could only recall bits and pieces of their more companionable moments together. Most of his memories centered around fear and pain and desperation. Still, he could remember the times that Megatron had spoken of Orion Pax and Optimus Prime, in amusement and contempt, respectively. He also remembered what Megatron had told him once, early in his captivity: 

“Whatever you want to know about our history, about the war, about my relationship with Optimus, I will tell you. I can’t promise that you will like what you learn, however.”

“You absolute bastard.” Sam muttered with real feeling. 

His cold anger was met with a not-so-subtle shift inside his mind. Sam leaned away from Bumblebee’s mental presence. His bonded seemed to understand his need for space, for he let him go without comment. Suddenly, Sam was struck by the realization that Bumblebee knew too. They all did. 

Everyone but him.

Sam wasn’t sure for how long he wandered. The low rumble of the ship’s engines was the only sound that accompanied him. He was cold and footsore by the time he eventually found himself at the map room. It was a relatively large space with monitors situated along three walls, and long viewports running parallel to one another along the fourth. Sam liked it here. The center of the floor was dominated by four cubicle-like workstations that provided the illusion of privacy, even when others were working. Sam ambled a slow circuit around the exterior of the room, before he stepped into the workstation furthest from the door and sank to the floor. It was warmer here too. He shifted around until his back pressed against the smooth metal of the computer terminal. It wasn’t long until the residual heat soaked through layers of cotton and wool to warm his skin. Sam drew his legs up so he could prop his elbows on his knees as he mulled over his thoughts. The puzzle pieces were beginning to slot into place, one by one, revealing the unspoken context of a story he already knew:

Optimus, telling Sam that his transition to Prime had been difficult and painful—offering Sam the choice he was never given, as best he could.

Megatron, face-plates twisting in contempt, as he denigrated Alpha Trion. 

Optimus, telling Sam that it was Megatron who inspired his beliefs about freedom and individualism—

—and Megatron’s self-satisfaction when he pressed Sam about Diego Garcia. At the time, Sam had thought the warlord was manipulating him, but now he could recognize Megatron’s reaction for what it was: vindication. 

Sam sighed heavily, letting his head fall back to thunk against the metal paneling. It was no wonder that Megatronus and Orion Pax had spark-bonded. The two of them deserved one another. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the hiss of the door sliding open. Sam absentmindedly picked at the skin on his thumb, half-expecting Hound or Wheeljack to poke their head over the cubicle wall. Instead, a shadow fell over him, and Sam glanced up to find Jazz staring down at him. Sam grimaced deeply, before directing his attention back towards his hangnail. Jazz stepped into the cubicle and settled down against the opposite wall. He was too tall to stretch out his legs properly, so he bent his knees and propped his pedes against the computer terminal that Sam was leaning against. It was a tight fit with the both of them. 

Sam didn’t say anything. Jazz didn’t say anything, either. The silence stretched on between them for so long that Sam hazarded a glance up. The saboteur was twiddling his thumbs in his lap and staring at the ceiling. He seemed perfectly content to wait Sam out. 

Sam sighed softly in resignation. “So, they all know, huh?” 

Jazz angled his head to look at him. “Yeah, kid. They know. It was the catalyst for the war.” 

“Someone should have said something.” Sam said, bitterly. 

Jazz lifted his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “It wasn’t their story to tell.”

The phrasing was so close to what Optimus had said earlier that Sam gave the second-in-command a hard look. “Were you eavesdropping on us?” 

Jazz knocked Sam's shoulder lightly with his pede. “I wasn’t in the air ducts, if that’s what you’re asking. Your firewalls fall apart when you’re upset.” Jazz gave him a wry half-smile, “We’ll have to work on that.” 

Sam turned his attention inwards. His firewalls seemed okay—a little thin in places, but generally intact. He frowned faintly, before pulling an egress filter over his mind. It settled over him like a blanket. Sam was distantly aware of the Jazz’s scrutiny, which was the only reason he took the time to adjust it properly. 

“Better.” Jazz teased. 

Sam scoffed softly, before crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He knew it made him look defensive, but since Jazz had just spent God only knows how long inside his head, he figured it didn’t matter if his body language betrayed his discomfort. Sam mulled over his thoughts for a while longer, unsure which part of the whole thing bothered him the most. Eventually, he settled on: “I think Optimus still loves him.” 

Jazz made a thoughtful sound in response. “Yeah, probably. Don’t think he ever stopped."

The admission hit Sam unexpectedly hard. He had been hoping for a denial with an intensity that ached. 

“But he’s a monster.” Sam managed. 

“We’re all monsters in war, kid.” Jazz murmured. 

Sam wasn’t sure whether the second-in-command was being deliberately obtuse, or whether he didn’t know the full extent of the abuses Megatron had inflicted upon him. Either way, it spurred Sam to grip his hands together until his knuckles ached from the strain. The pain was centering enough that Sam could ask, quietly, “Do you know what he did to me?” 

“Yeah, Sam.” Jazz replied gently, “I do.” 

The quiet compassion in the saboteur’s voice ate away at Sam’s composure. He nodded once, entirely incapable of speaking, before dropping his gaze. His eyes were starting to sting with unwelcome tears. Angrily, Sam knuckled the incriminating moisture away. 

“Did you know that Megatronus was a cold construction?” Jazz asked, seemingly out of nowhere. 

The question caught Sam off-guard. He raised his head, giving the second-in-command a quizzical look. “Yeah?” 

Jazz nodded once, perfunctorily. “Cold-constructions were brought on-line as fully-functioning adults. They didn’t have Creators, as you understand the term—they had Overseers. Most of them were disposable workers, yeah, but others were constructed for a higher purpose. Murder, pleasure, entertainment—whatever their Masters’ demanded of them.” Jazz’s expression was perfectly opaque, betraying nothing of his feelings. “It don’t matter how fancy the construction, though—they were all property. Understand? And property don’t got rights.” 

Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What’re you trying to say?” 

“The Overseers and Masters weren’t kind.” Jazz replied grimly, “Abuse was rampant. It was one of the things Megatronus fought against.” 

It took a moment to understand his meaning, and then Sam’s heart lurched. “B-but… why then? Why did he—?” 

“For the same reason they did: power, dominance, subjugation.” Jazz twitched one shoulder in an abortive shrug, “I think that’s when Prime realized there was no redeeming him. It might have taken four million years to fester, but eventually, Megatronus became what he hated most.”

Sam’s thoughts were whirling almost too quickly to marshall. He had done his best to repress the memories of Megatron’s abuse, but there was no forgetting the way he had leaned over Sam’s prone body and rumbled, “There is no shame in accepting what your Master offers.”

Sam had to swallow against the acrid taste of bile in the back of his mouth. It took a moment before he could rasp, “I couldn’t understand why Soundwave betrayed him. I guess it makes sense now.” 

“Soundwave didn’t betray him. He was saving him.” Jazz snorted, “He’s one of Megatron’s most loyal soldiers, and his amica to boot. Don’t fool yourself, kid—Sounders is still a staunch believer in the cause.”

Sam frowned faintly. “Does Prime know that?” 

The look that Jazz gave him was clearly exasperated. “What do you think? It’s not like Prime’s keeping me around for my pretty aft and charming personality.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Smart aft, more like it.” 

Jazz raised two fingers to his helm in a jaunty salute. “I aim to please.” 

Sam huffed a laugh, but their moment of levity was short-lasting. The silence that rose up to take its place felt suffocating. Sam grimaced, stretching out one leg and then the other, before rubbing his knees. The cubicle might have been warmer than the rest of the ship, but the metal beneath him was still bracingly cold. 

“So, what am I supposed to do now?” He asked, without looking up.

“That’s up to you, kid.” Jazz replied. 

“Well, I have no fucking clue.” Sam admitted softly. 

“You’ll figure it out.” Jazz promised. “It ain’t that complicated if you think about it.” As he spoke, the saboteur climbed to his pedes, before extending a servo towards Sam. Sam stared at the offered appendage for a moment, before heaving a sigh and letting Jazz help him to his feet. His body protested the sudden change in position after so long sitting on the cold floor. 

“Thanks, Jazz.” Sam murmured, rubbing his backside, “I appreciate it.” 

“My bill’s in the mail.” Jazz replied, flashing his visor in the parody of a wink. 

Sam rolled his eyes again, but he was smiling when he said, “See you later, Jazz.” 

The saboteur offered him a knowing smile. “See you around, kid.” 

Sam was introspective and quiet as he made his way back to the second deck. Cliffjumper and Bluestreak followed at a distance, clearly giving him some space. The distant rumble of the ship’s engines grew steadily louder as he approached the atrium. The cavernous room was still undergoing repairs, but the sound of electric torque wrenches and reciprocating saws had become less frequent over the last week. They had made a lot of progress since the attack. 

Sam put one foot in front of the other with no real destination in mind. He glanced inside the mess hall as he passed. It was relatively empty, but that was no surprise. It was still a few hours until shift-change. Sam soon found himself turning down the corridor that led to his hab-suite. He ducked into the wash racks long enough to use the toilet and brush his teeth, before making his way back to his room. Bumblebee was waiting for him when he arrived.

“What’re you doing here?” Sam asked as the door slid shut behind him, “I thought you were on duty.” 

“I was relieved.” Bumblebee replied, lowering into a loose crouch in front of Sam, “Are you alright?” 

Sam sighed heavily as he pulled his sweater over his head. The cool air made goosebumps break out over his arms, even through his long-sleeved shirt. “Yes? No? I don’t know.” He glanced sidelong at the scout. “You should have told me.” 

Bumblebee’s expression grew pained. “It wasn’t a secret. Not really. It just… isn’t talked about.”  

“Yeah, so everyone keeps telling me.” Sam muttered, tossing his sweater over the back of the couch. 

Bumblebee made a mournful sound, before shuffling forward to draw Sam close to his chassis. Sam went without protest, pressing his forehead against Bumblebee’s chest plates. The metal was warm and welcoming against his skin. 

“Forgive me.” Bumblebee murmured. 

Sam reached out, curling his hands around the metal paneling on the scout’s legs. He breathed the smell of metal and hydraulic fuel and energon. It took him a long time before he could work up the nerve to say: “You killed over four hundred people. Did you ever…?” He screwed his eyes shut, and pressed his forehead harder against the scout’s chest plates. “Were they good kills?” 

What Sam meant to ask was whether they were clean kills, but Bumblebee seemed to understand him anyway. 

“Whenever I could.” He murmured, pressing a servo against Sam’s back, “It wasn’t always possible to kill quickly, but I was never cruel for cruelty’s sake—not even at my worst.” 

“Well, that’s good.” Sam said with a watery laugh, “Because war crimes are so grounds for divorce. Just so we’re clear.” 

Bumblebee’s digits tightened around Sam’s back. “Sam… I don’t want to mislead you. I’ve done things I’m not proud about. It was wartime—we did what we had to do.” 

Sam’s chest ached at the tentative, almost hesitant tone of his voice. Once, a long time ago, Optimus had told him how the Battle at Tyger Pax had irrevocably changed Bumblebee. Sam had never pressed Bumblebee for specifics. They spoke about the years between Tyger Pax and Earth in the same way that Sam spoke about the Nemesis— vaguely, and with great reluctance.

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Bee.” Sam murmured, fingers curling over the edges of the metal plates in his bonded’s legs. 

Bumblebee ex-vented a quiet sigh. “Of course I do, Sam.” 

Sam turned his head to tuck the side of his face against Bumblebee’s chest. He could hear the faint thrum of his bonded’s internal workings through the metal plating. Sam closed his eyes.

“Can we go to bed?” He asked, before Bumblebee could say anything further on the matter, “Please? It’s been a really long day.” 

Bumblebee’s digits curled reflexively around Sam’s torso. “Of course, Sam.” 

Sam pressed his lips against warm metal, before pulling away. The scout helped him strip out of his clothing, one piece at a time, before handing him his sleep clothes. As Sam got dressed, Bumblebee half-turned, glancing at the berth. It was a relatively small alcove, meant more for mechanoids of Wheeljack or Rung's stature, but as Sam pulled the pajamas down over his head, Bumblebee carefully shimmied into the narrow space. The scout arranged himself so that he was lying against the back of the alcove, knees drawn up to his waist, before he turned down the blankets.

“Join me.” He murmured. 

Sam laughed softly. “What’re you doing?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago.” Bumblebee replied, patting the mattress.

Sam gave him a skeptical look. “That doesn’t seem very comfortable.”

“I’ve never been more comfortable in my life.” came Bumblebee’s dry reply, “Come to bed.” 

Sam’s lips curled up in a half-smile as he padded forward. The floor was cold, even through his thick wool socks, and Sam wasted no time climbing onto the mattress. It took some work getting himself situated beneath the covers. Bumblebee lifted his hips as Sam tugged the duvet this way and that, but he soon found himself curled against the scout’s chassis. 

“This is nice.” He mumbled, his voice muffled by blankets.

Bumblebee chuckled quietly. “It is.” 

As he spoke, the room was slowly plunged into darkness as the overhead lights shut-off. The alcove was illuminated only by the faint, blue glow of Bumblebee’s spark emanating from between the metal seams on his chest. Unbidden, the sight conjured thoughts of a gladiator and an archivist who had lost one another to the machinations of a corrupt Senate over four million years ago.  

It made Sam’s chest ache with sympathy. 

“You’re alright.” Bumblebee murmured in the dark. “I’m right here, Sam.”

Sam pulled his arm out from beneath the blankets, before pressing his hand against the smooth metal of Bumblebee’s chassis. The warm, blue light of his bonded’s spark glowed between his fingers. They stayed like that—pressed against one another, as closely as they could manage—until Sam fell asleep an interminable time later.

Chapter 23

Despite the enormity of what Sam had learned, life aboard the Ark trudged onwards — as it inexorably must. His days settled into the same routine he had adopted prior to the attack. He was awoken at the beginning of first shift, either by Bumblebee or JARVIS, and spent the better part of an hour getting ready for the day. Afterwards, he was shuttled from one meeting to another with only brief breaks to eat or attend to his other needs. 

In addition to the standing appointments on his calendar — therapy with Rung, etiquette with Mirage, jurisprudence with Ultra Magnus, infiltration training with Jazz — other appointments were added on a day-by-day basis, depending on availability. He talked about culture with Ravage, military history with Kup, and, to Sam’s surprise, art history with Sunstreaker. The front-liner was stiff and standoffish at first, as though he was expecting mockery or derision, but when Sam offered neither, he seemed to thaw out. Sam learned that Cybertronian culture was widely influenced by its long subjugation by the Quintessons. As such, art history was generally delineated into distinct periods: pre-Quintesson occupation, early occupation, late occupation, early independence, the first Golden Age, the second occupation, the Second Golden Age, the Great Unrest, and the modern period. Each period had its own styles and influences and great artists. 

“So, who's your favorite?” Sam asked off-handedly one afternoon.

Sunstreaker gave him a hard look. “Favorite what?” 

“Your favorite great artist,” Sam replied, propping his chin on the palm of his hand.

Sunstreaker turned around to face the large monitor affixed to the wall of the conference room. The screen was lit up with a dozen examples of sculptures and ceramics from the Second Golden Age. He was silent for so long that Sam thought he might not answer, but eventually he ground out, “Artifex. He was a painter.” 

A moment later, the monitor flipped through slides too quickly for Sam to parse, before settling on a single image. It was an abstract landscape with individual features all rendered in simple geometric shapes. The painting was done in muted shades of green and gray, with stronger colors in the foreground and weaker colors in the background, providing the illusion of distance. 

“It’s beautiful,” Sam murmured. 

Sunstreaker’s shoulders bunched with tension. “It was, once. It’s gone now.” 

The front-liner’s tone was harsh, but Sam didn’t let himself be phased by it. He was familiar enough with Sunstreaker’s temper to recognize his grief.

“I know,” he replied instead. “I’m sorry.” 

Sunstreaker half-turned to look at Sam over his shoulder. His expression was closed-off and inscrutable, but there was something else there too. Something intense. He stared at Sam for a moment longer, before he snorted softly, breaking the spell. 

“Well, don’t listen to any of those new-age purists who prefer Novus Tabula’s style,” Sunstreaker muttered. “It’s washed-out garbage. Here, let me show you.” 

Sam laughed and let Sunstreaker redirect the conversation. They spent the remaining half-hour comparing work done by the two artists. Sam wasn’t an art historian by any means, but he could appreciate the aesthetics of color, shape, texture, and space well enough to form an opinion.

And he was astute enough to keep that opinion to himself. 

Sam rarely saw Optimus in the weeks that followed. They both attended senior officer’s meetings and tactical debriefings, but otherwise, the older Prime seemed to be giving him a wide berth. On the few occasions that they were in a room together, Optimus would incline his helm in greeting, but otherwise he made no move to approach. It was uncomfortable at first. Sam was hyper-aware of the older Prime’s presence. He couldn’t help analyzing everything Optimus said or left unsaid in the context of what he now knew. Sam watched the older Prime receive reports, give commands, and accept council without saying a word. 

If Optimus was aware of his scrutiny, he never said anything about it. 

In the evenings, Sam would return to his hab-suite, either worn-out from a day full of meetings or nursing a headache from training with Jazz. He would eat, complete Ratchet's exercise regime, and finish his readings in whatever order suited him, before stretching out on the couch to watch television. He watched the same shows on repeat, day after day: The Office, The Great British Baking Show, IT Crowd, and Psych. He refused to watch anything else. The familiar dialogue and sound of canned laughter was soothing in its predictability. Bumblebee would join him whenever his duties permitted. Sam either fell asleep beside him or woke up beside him, but never both. Bumblebee was one of the only communications specialists aboard the Ark, and he was required on the bridge more often than not. 

The emergency repairs were completed almost six weeks to the day after the attack. There was no fanfare or announcement. Sam just woke up one morning to find the emergency lights had been shut-off sometime during the night. He scrambled out of bed and hurried to the wash racks. The shower sputtered when he turned it on, but the cold water quickly turned hot. Sam tipped his head back and groaned in appreciation, before quickly shucking his clothes and climbing into the shower. He stood under the steaming water for a long time, basking in the warmth with half-lidded eyes, until he heard a quiet chuckle. 

“You’re going to use all the hot water,” Bumblebee warned, all dry humor in his voice. 

Sam’s mouth curved upwards in a fond smile. He tipped his head back, pushing the wet hair out of his eyes, before glancing at his bonded. The holoform was standing just outside the spray of water. “This is the first proper shower I’ve had in almost two months. The sink baths weren’t cutting it.” 

Bumblebee’s expression brightened with amusement. “No comment.” 

Sam laughed good-naturedly, before leaning over to grab the face cloth and a bar of soap. “Yeah, alright. Message received. Gimme five minutes.” 

Sam was keenly aware of Bumblebee’s gaze on his body as he lathered up and scrubbed off. He washed his hair next — it was getting long, almost long enough to tuck behind his ears. He scrubbed his fingers over his scalp, before glancing sidelong at the holoform, who was still watching him closely. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Sam snorted. 

Something mischievous flitted across the holoform’s face. “You’re assuming I haven’t already.” 

Sam snorted a laugh as he tipped his head back, rinsing his hair. “Oh, yeah. Because who wouldn’t want my pale ass etched in their quartz memory for all eternity?” 

Bumblebee grinned at him. “I'm pretty fond of your ass.” 

Sam huffed a laugh as he turned off the shower and grabbed his towel. He dried off quickly, before wrapping the towel around his waist and padding towards the sink. Bumblebee followed behind him, and when Sam leaned forward to pick up his toothbrush, the holoform stepped in close, pressing a kiss against Sam’s bare shoulder. 

“You should see what else I have in quartz storage,” Bumblebee murmured suggestively. 

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. “Yeah?” he asked, a little breathlessly. 

Bumblebee caught Sam’s eye in the mirror over the sink, before offering him a roguish smile. “Definitely.” 

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I’ve got some time if you wanna…?” 

Bumblebee grinned, before pressing a kiss against the corner of Sam’s mouth. “No, you don’t. You’re meeting with Mirage in twenty minutes. Hurry up and get ready.” 

Sam huffed an annoyed sound, before turning on the faucet. “You’re a tease, do you know that?” 

“You love it,” Bumblebee laughed, before his holoform disappeared. 

Sam rolled his eyes, and then grabbed the toothpaste off the counter. He made quick work of brushing his teeth and getting dressed, before combing his fingers through his hair. Bumblebee was waiting for him in alt mode by the time he left the wash racks. The Camaro’s engine was purring softly, a low smooth rumble that reverberated in the narrow confines of the corridor. Sam nodded to Jolt and Trailbreaker, who had taken position on either side of the wash racks entrance, before ambling towards his bonded. Bumblebee popped open the driver’s side door as he approached. 

“I’m getting you back for that,” Sam murmured, smoothing his hand over the gleaming, yellow metal. 

//Promises, promises,// Bumblebee smoothly returned. 

The grin was on Sam’s face before he could stop it. He climbed into the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut behind him, and then Bumblebee drove to the mess hall. The communal space was surprisingly busy. There were mechanoids standing around the energon dispensers, sitting at the trestle tables, and milling in small groups around the room. Bumblebee slowed to a stop in front of the kitchenette, and as soon as Sam climbed out of the car, he transformed into his bipedal mode. As Sam put his breakfast in the microwave, Bumblebee made his way towards the energon dispenser against the far wall. Mechanoids nodded to him or warbled in greeting as he passed. Sam recognized Peacemaker, Crosshairs, and Pinpointer at one table, and after scanning the room, he spotted Red Alert and Inferno at another table, but otherwise he didn’t recognize anyone else. The sound of conversation had petered out when they arrived, but it slowly picked up again. It gave Sam a funny turn to realize that they were all speaking in Neocybex and Basic — no one was speaking in English. 

The microwave beeped, pulling Sam’s attention back to the matter at hand. He grabbed his breakfast and utensils, before making his way to the only human-sized table in the room — a small, circular table bolted to the floor directly in front of the kitchenette. Sam peeled the filament off the tray just as Bumblebee returned with a cube of energon. 

“What’d you get?” Sam asked, tucking into his meal.

“The same as everyone else,” Bumblebee chuckled, lowering into a loose crouch. “What about you?”

Sam speared a piece of sausage and popped it into his mouth. “Breakfast scramble. Same as yesterday.” 

They shared a knowing look between them. It was the same conversation they had had every morning for the last two weeks. Sam speared another piece of sausage when he felt a rush of something through the spark bond. Sam glanced up in confusion just as Bumblebee turned to look at the door. A moment later, Sideswipe and an unfamiliar mechanoid entered the mess hall together. The stranger was tall and broad-shouldered with a narrow waist, and he was plated entirely in silver. Sam frowned faintly. He had only ever met two mechanoids who had chosen silver for their color scheme: Jazz and Megatron.

As though aware of Sam’s sudden scrutiny, the silver mechanoid turned in his direction. The two of them locked eyes across the crowded room. It took a moment, but then recognition struck Sam like a bolt of lightning. 

Hot Rod.

The cavalier looked at him for a long moment, as though letting Sam stare his fill, and then he turned, making his way to the energon dispensers against the far wall. Sideswipe followed behind him, and then the two of them were lost in the crowd. The sight of the usually gregarious and flamboyant cavalier in silver tones made Sam’s stomach sink like a stone. 

He glanced up at Bumblebee and asked, quietly, “Is he alright?” 

“Would you be?” Bumblebee murmured in reply. 

Sam grimaced faintly. “I meant… will he be alright?” 

Bumblebee half-turned, glancing across the crowded mess hall. “I don’t know,” he replied.

Sam’s eyes fell to the half-eaten meal in front of him. The taste of sausage and eggs had soured in his mouth. He took a long drink of water, before picking up his fork and finishing his meal. When the container was empty, he cleaned off the table and binned his garbage.

“I have to go,” Sam managed. “Mirage will be expecting me.” 

“I can take you,” Bumblebee said, before folding down into his alt mode. As soon as his tires touched the polished metal floor, he popped open the driver’s side door. //I have a double-shift, so I won’t see you until tomorrow.//

Sam pushed half-hearted acknowledgement across their bond-space as he climbed into the Camaro’s front seat. As soon as he was settled, Bumblebee shifted into gear and accelerated out of the mess hall. Jolt and Trailbreaker folded down into their alt modes as they drove by, and then fell into place behind them. 

It was a quiet drive. Sam and Mirage usually met on the first deck, and that was where Bumblebee took him. Sam was familiar enough with the ship’s layout by now that he recognized the rooms they passed even though all the doors looked the same. Bumblebee eventually rolled to a stop in front of one of the smaller conference rooms. Sam pushed open the door, before climbing out of the cabin. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sam murmured, letting his palm linger on Bumblebee's hood. 

Bumblebee brushed across his mind in farewell. Sam watched him accelerate down the corridor in the direction of the bridge entrance, before huffing a soft sigh and making his way inside. The conference room was a relatively modest space, by Cybertronian standards. There was a burnished metal table in the middle of the room, and an assortment of monitors affixed to the walls at varying heights. The far wall was composed of floor-to-ceiling viewports that provided a truncated view of space. 

As Sam entered the room, Mirage rose from his place at the table. The former noble inclined his helm deeply in greeting. “Good morning.” 

Sam hesitated for a moment, and then inclined his head in return. “Morning, Mirage.” 

Mirage’s expression warmed in tolerant amusement. “Almost, but not quite,” he rumbled, before lowering into a loose crouch in front of Sam. The former noble reached out, tucking Sam under the chin and angling his head a little higher. “Mecha and humans are different in many respects, but in this we are the same: eye contact is meaningful. You lower your eyes to no one.” 

Sam grimaced faintly. “I knew that. I’m sorry.” 

“That is why I am here,” Mirage replied, as he lowered both servos to the floor and beckoned meaningfully with his digits. 

Sam reached out, steadying himself on Mirage’s forearm, before stepping onto the proffered servos. Mirage tucked Sam close to his chest and rose gracefully to his feet. A moment later, the former noble carefully deposited him on the conference table. There was a large cushion already waiting for him, and Sam sat down, crossing his legs and glancing up at Mirage.

“So, what’re we talking about today?” he asked. 

Mirage chuckled, before sitting in the nearest chair. “Whatever you wish. I thought we might continue our conversation from yesterday.” 

Sam sighed, drumming his fingers against his knees. Their last conversation had been about displays of deference among the social castes. Sam had learned that transforming into alt mode was one of the strongest displays of deference – and submission – among the lower castes. Sam had never thought twice about mecha transforming from root mode to alt mode, but after their conversation, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. It certainly gave him a new perspective about the time First Aid had transformed into alt mode after upbraiding Ironhide at the training grounds.

However, Sam wasn’t in the mood to talk about social deference. “I saw Roddy this morning. He changed his colors.” 

Mirage leaned back in his chair, helm cocked to the side. “Oh? I was unaware.” 

“Yeah,” Sam murmured, fingers curling and uncurling around his knees. “He's silver now.” 

“Silver?" Mirage asked, before steepling his servos in front of him. "Do you remember your color theory?”

Sam hesitated a moment. He knew that inactive chromophores were silver, and that it was considered a base color among the upper castes. He also knew that mecha turned silver when they died. He had seen it for himself when Knock Out was killed. 

Eventually, Sam ventured a guess. “Is silver a mourning color?” 

Mirage inclined his helm in agreement. “It is, although mecha do not often display their grief so viscerally.” The former noble peered down at him contemplatively. “Are you familiar with Cybertronian courtship rituals?” 

The question came so far out of left field that Sam wasn’t sure how to answer. “I mean, a little, I guess,” he replied haltingly. “Ratchet told me that your courtship rituals are complicated. Something about three acts of mutual affection?” 

“Four,” Mirage corrected him patiently. “As you know, our intimate and romantic entanglements are different than your own. In our culture, polyamory is the norm, not the exception. Accordingly, our courtships are far more convoluted than humans’.” 

Sam frowned. “What does that have to do with Hot Rod?” he asked, before another question occurred to him. “And what do you mean convoluted?” 

Mirage chuckled lightly as he settled back in his seat. “Mecha typically court one another over the course of decades, even centuries. One aspect of our courtship rituals involve four acts of affection and kindness.” Mirage looked at him meaningfully. “Public acts.” 

It took a moment for Sam to parse the meaning behind Mirage’s words. When it finally clicked, he stared up at the former noble in sinking dismay. “Do you mean Roddy’s…?” 

Mirage shrugged expressively. “You would have to ask him.” 

Sam gave the former noble a pointed look. “I’m not going to ask him, Mirage.” 

“Whyever not?” Mirage asked, a perplexed look on his face. 

“What do you mean why not?” Sam demanded. “It’s not… who would ask that?”

Mirage stared down at him, as though he were trying to puzzle out the root of Sam’s objection. “He is wearing mourning colors.” 

Sam stared back at him incredulously. “That’s my point. He’s mourning.” 

“Ah, I think I understand,” Mirage replied, inclining his helm. “Sam, mecha do not shy away from their grief, as humans do. Hot Rod is honoring Knock Out through his actions. It would not be insensitive or impolite to broach the subject with him.” 

“You’re telling me that it wouldn’t be insensitive to ask Hot Rod if he’s wearing mourning colors as a public display of affection for his dead lover?” Sam asked sarcastically. “I find that very hard to believe.” 

“That is what I am telling you, yes,” Mirage replied patiently. 

Sam stared up at the former noble in mounting frustration. He knew that Cybertronians and humans differed in many respects, but he couldn’t believe they differed so much in this one. “I don’t understand.” 

“Sam, Hot Rod will mourn Knock Out’s loss for the rest of his functioning,” Mirage murmured. “His memories are etched in quartz storage as vivid as the day they occurred.” The former noble’s tone softened as he gently added, “Time does not soften our grief — we can only temper it.” 

Sam stared at Mirage for a long moment, processing what he had been told, before dragging a hand across his face. “I guess I never realized,” he admitted, before lifting his head to stare imploringly at the older mechanoid. “How do you guys manage to function like that?” 

Mirage’s expression shuttered, growing difficult to read, as he leaned back in his chair. 

“Not easily,” he rumbled, eventually. 

Sam flinched at his words — and all they implied. He very carefully did not think of Megatron, or the terrible breadth of his grief.

“I’m sorry," he murmured. 

Mirage shook his helm minutely. “As I have said, it is not insensitive or impolite to broach the subject.” 

Sam sighed and dropped his gaze. “How could I have known that? There’s so much to learn. I’ll never be able to understand it all.” He made a frustrated noise as he picked at a loose thread on his pants. “I feel so… ignorant.” 

“That is not your fault,” Mirage retorted. “Prime has neglected his responsibilities in leaving you so unprepared.” 

Sam’s head came up at the undercurrent of disapproval in Mirage’s voice. “Hey, that’s not fair. I was only eighteen when I was naturalized to Diego Garcia. I didn’t exactly make things easy for him.” 

Mirage shook his helm firmly in response. “Optimus Prime has a duty to you, Sam. You are a ward of Cybertron and a Prime. It was a folly to leave you in ignorance for so long.” 

Sam stiffened in affront. “He didn’t leave me in ignorance. I had other things on my plate.” 

“Nothing so important as this,” Mirage countered. “You are woefully uninformed about our ways. It was nearly disastrous once already — if Prime had guided you, as he should have, then the altercation with Crossblades could have been avoided.” 

Sam flushed hotly at the reminder of what had happened in Swerve’s bar. “That wasn’t my fault.” 

“Cybertronian courtship rituals involve public displays of affection and kindness,” Mirage reminded him. “You asked him to call you by name. He escorted you through the ship. You invited him to dine with you in public. He punished Tailgate for his—” 

“ He what?” Sam demanded. 

“—insubordination,” Mirage continued. “You may have been ignorant of Crossblades’ intentions, but according to our customs, he made himself perfectly clear.” 

Sam’s face burned with outrage and embarrassment as he pushed himself to his feet. “How is that my problem? He knows I’m bonded. He knows I’m human.” 

Mirage peered down at Sam for a long moment, as though scrutinizing him. “Forgive me. I did not intend to cause offense.” 

Sam scoffed loudly. “Well, guess what, Mirage? I am offended.” 

A look of consternation flitted across the mechanoid’s face. “Sam, I only meant that you have a great deal to learn and little time in which to learn it.” 

“Well, it's even less time now,” Sam snapped. “Let me down.” 

Mirage visibly hesitated. “Sam, please understand—” 

“I’m sorry, is there some form of formal address I need to use?” Sam asked sarcastically. “Let me down, Lord Mirage. Now.” 

Mirage rose to his feet and leaned over the table in one fluid motion. Sam bore the indignity of being picked up and carried in silence. The former noble carefully set him down in front of the entryway, before lowering into a loose crouch. 

“It pains me to know I have given offense,” Mirage murmured, inclining his helm.

Sam recognized the deferential gesture immediately. He resisted the urge to say something scathing — Mirage already thought he was ignorant, there was no need to prove him right. Instead, he jerked his head in a stiff nod of acknowledgement, as proper protocol would dictate, before turning on his heel and walking out of the room without so much as a backwards glance.

Let Mirage interpret that however he wanted. 

 

---

 

That evening, Sam lay sprawled out on the couch, trying and failing to read a file on legal theory. He had been staring at the words for so long that they stopped making sense altogether. He sighed, letting his head fall back against the cushions. His argument with Mirage had been on his mind all day. Sam didn’t know what bothered him most — the fact that Mirage had been victim-blaming or the fact that he was probably right. Sam was ignorant of Cybertronian norms and customs, and the fact needled him more than he cared to admit. 

Eventually, Sam struggled into a sitting position and tossed the datapad onto the coffee table. He wasn’t going to make any progress tonight. He glanced up at the ceiling. 

“JARVIS?” he called. 

“Yes, Sam?” the artificial intelligence replied. 

“What time is it?” he asked. 

“It is jour-two,” JARVIS promptly answered him. 

Sam wasn’t positive, but he thought the voice sounded faintly disapproving. He grimaced deeply. He should have gone to bed hours ago, but there was little chance of that happening now. Sam planted his hands on his hips, stretching his back, and abruptly decided to go for a walk. He sat on the edge of the coffee table long enough to pull on his shoes, and then he made his way towards the door. Jolt and Trailbreaker glanced down when he stepped outside. 

“Hey guys,” Sam greeted. “Still on duty, huh?” 

“Yes,” Jolt replied dryly. “Where are you headed?” 

“I don’t know,” Sam replied with a shrug. “Just felt like some fresh air.” 

“Well, lead the way,” Jolt chuckled. 

Sam had no real destination in mind; he just started walking. Red Alert and Inferno passed them near the wash racks, but otherwise there was no one else around. The wide double doors to the mess hall soon appeared on his left, and Sam quickened his step. It had been long enough since his last meal that a bite and a nightcap sounded like a great idea. However, as soon as Sam stepped into the mess hall, he drew up short. The room was empty except for one mechanoid who was busying themselves near the energon dispensers. Sam recognized the little blue-and-white build immediately. 

“Hey, Tailgate,” Sam called as he started forward. “How’re you doing?” 

Tailgate jerked around to face him. “Are you addressing me, Prime?” 

Sam’s face broke out in a rueful smile. “I thought I told you to call me Sam.” 

“Forgive me,” Tailgate warbled. “Are you addressing me, Sam?” 

Sam pushed his hands into his pockets. “Listen, I wanted to apologize for… what happened. I didn’t know you had gotten in trouble until after it was over.” 

Tailgate started worrying a square of metal mesh that he was holding in his servos. “Your apology is unnecessary. I was in error.” 

The uncertain, imploring tone of his voice would have made Sam feel uncomfortable four months ago. After all that had happened since they first met, however, it left Sam feeling protective instead. It was an intense and unexpected reaction.

“Well, I never meant for you to be reprimanded,” Sam replied. “I’m sorry it happened.” 

Tailgate visibility hesitated. “Your graciousness is beyond measure.” 

Sam couldn’t prevent the bubble of laughter that escaped him. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but gracious definitely isn’t one of them.” He glanced over Tailgate’s shoulder to the energon dispensers on the back wall. “Have you refueled recently?” 

Small blue optics shuttered in surprise. “I am scheduled for rations at jour-eight.” 

Sam offered him a cheerful smile in return. “I was going to get something to eat. Why don’t you grab a cube and join me?” Then, remembering the conversation he had had with Mirage earlier in the day, Sam added, a little awkwardly, “I should probably clarify that refueling is common among friends where I’m from.” 

“I wouldn’t presume—” Tailgate stuttered. “I mean, I couldn’t possibly—” 

“Well, you don’t have to,” Sam smiled, “but I would appreciate the company. I have some questions about the ship’s design, and I bet you know it better than anybody.” 

The flattery had its desired effect. Tailgate snapped to attention, nodding eagerly. “Oh yes, sanitation bots know the ins-and-outs of every vessel on which they serve. It is our function.” 

Sam resisted the urge to grimace with no small amount of effort. “Wonderful. Why don’t you get a cube while I make myself something to eat?” 

The sanitation bot hesitated for a moment, before inclining his head in acquiescence. Sam made quick work of reheating a pre-packed meal — he didn’t even read the label before putting it in the microwave — and then he hurried across the room. Tailgate was standing near a trestle table, shifting his weight from one pede to the other, clearly out of his element. 

“Would you mind helping me up?” Sam asked, offering him a wry smile. “I can’t climb up there by myself.” 

Tailgate hastily set down his cube of energon, before helping Sam onto the table. “Do you require anything else, my… Sam?” 

Sam grinned at him as he stirred the steaming mash. “Nope. Have a seat.” 

Tailgate gingerly swung his leg over the bench, before sitting down. He looked almost painfully uncomfortable. 

“So,” was Sam’s opening volley, “How many vessels have you served on?” 

The question seemed to take the little bot by surprise. “Well, that depends. Are you counting pleasure crafts or military vessels?” 

“Both,” Sam replied. 

“Oh, well then,” Tailgate hummed thoughtfully. “I have served aboard two deep space frigates, three cruisers, and forty-seven pleasure vessels.” 

Sam blinked in surprise. “Forty-seven?” 

Tailgate nodded exuberantly. “Yes, forty-seven. I can provide their makes and models, if you wish. I am a Class-11 sanitation and maintenance bot. We’re a highly sought-after class. There weren’t many of us left even before the war.” 

Sam might have his own opinions about the caste system, but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of pride in the little mech’s voice. He offered Tailgate a warm smile. “That’s really impressive.” 

“Thank-you,” Tailgate replied. “Did you have any questions in particular?” 

Sam thought for a moment. “How many ships did Sentinel take on his voyage?” 

“The Lord Prime’s flagship was accompanied by two dozen other vessels. Battle frigates and cruisers mostly, but the Leviathan is a galaxy-class dreadnought.” The little mechanoid’s voice sounded wistful. “It boasts a crew of 1200, not including support staff. It’s the largest ship in Cybertron’s fleet — larger even than the Lost Light.”  

Sam’s eyebrows climbed all the way to his hairline. “That’s a big boat.” 

Tailgate laughed lightly. “The Leviathan measures fifteen miles in length and ten miles in width. It was constructed for voyages into deep space.” 

Sam blew out a breath. “That’s a really big boat.” 

“Yes, it is,” Tailgate agreed. “And as you might imagine, it requires an enormous amount of maintenance.” 

Sam hummed thoughtfully as he took another bite of his food. “So, which one’s your favorite?” 

Tailgate shuttered his optics in surprise. “I have never categorized them by personal preference before. Please give me a moment to reflect.” The little mechanoid seemed deep in thought for a moment, before he said, “I enjoyed the Intrepid a great deal, but I suppose my favorite would have been the Nautilus.” 

“Oh?” Sam asked, curiously. “Why?” 

“It was a small ship. The crew was tight-knit,” Tailgate replied, before his voice turned wry. “And a smaller ship means I had a lot less to do.”

Sam chuckled good-naturedly. “I guess some things are universal.” 

Tailgate looked flustered. “Forgive me, Prime. I did not intend to suggest dissatisfaction with my assigned function.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Tailgate. I like my free time too,” Sam grinned, before nodding to the untouched cube of energon on the table. “You should refuel.” 

The little maintenance bot reached out, curling his digits around the energon container. He stared at the glowing pink liquid for a long moment, before raising it to his intakes and taking an unhurried drink. They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Tailgate cleared his intakes. 

“Forgive me, Sam,” he hesitated. “May I ask you a question?” 

Sam looked up at him in surprise. “Of course.” 

Tailgate hesitated a moment longer, before tipping his head towards Sam’s meal. “Your foodstuff. Sometimes you heat it prior to consumption, but sometimes you do not. Is there a reason?” 

Sam made a thoughtful sound as he stirred his food. “That’s a good question. Some food tastes better hot than it does cold, and vice versa. Some food tastes good either way.” He huffed a laugh as another thought occurred to him. “I could never eat cold turkey soup, but I like gazpacho just fine. It doesn’t always make sense — people can be peculiar.” 

“I have been informed of your species’... eccentricities,” Tailgate replied, delicately. 

Sam couldn’t help it — he threw back his head and laughed. It was a loud, hearty laugh that went on for a while. Tailgate jerked backwards in his seat. His expression shuffled from surprise to confusion to naked fascination in a steady procession. If anything, it made Sam laugh even harder. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam grinned once he could get a word in edge-wise. “That's the politest way I've been called weird in a while.” 

Tailgate's optics flickered in alarm. "I intended no disrespect."

"Hey, none taken," Sam said, spooning up another bite of his food. "This was fun, we should do it again sometime. What's your shift rotation?"

“My shift rotation?” Tailgate asked, confusion audible in his voice.

“Yeah,” Sam replied. “When’s your next down time?” 

“Prime, forgive me, but maintenance workers do not have shift rotations. We are on-duty at all times except for recharge and scheduled repairs,” Tailgate replied slowly. 

Sam stared across the table at him. “You can’t be serious.” 

Tailgate shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the change of topic. “It is a grave offense to give false testimony.” 

Sam could feel the rush of familiar anger quickening his pulse. He did not trust himself to speak, and so took another bite of food while he composed himself. 

Tailgate’s expression grew wary at the sudden shift in Sam’s mood. “I apologize if I have given offense, Prime,” he murmured. 

Sam winced. “It’s not you, Tailgate. Just… no off-time? That’s inhumane.” 

“But I am not human,” Tailgate replied in obvious bafflement. 

“You’re still a person,” Sam insisted. “You deserve leisure time, just like everyone else.” 

Tailgate blinked at him, looking shocked, and then he said, “You would be best not to say such things in the hearing of others. It will not gain you many allies.” 

Sam twitched his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m a newspark, and a Prime, and the living vessel of the allspark — not to mention all my organic peculiarities. I think my principles are the least of my concerns.” 

Tailgate glanced towards the entryway where Trailbreaker and Jolt were standing sentry, and then he learned forward to murmur quietly, “You are gracious, my lord, but please be careful. There is no room for grace on Cybertron.” Before Sam could formulate a reply, Tailgate sat back in his seat. “I must attend to my duties. May I have your leave?” 

The sanitation bot climbed to his feet and bowed deeply in valediction. Sam slowly inclined his head in return. It was a perfect poise — Mirage would have been pleased. Tailgate took a moment to wipe down the table and dispose of his empty cube, and then he left the mass hall.

Sam sat in silence for a long while after he was gone.

Notes:

Author's Note: So, I am sure that some of you have probably seen the writing on the wall, but I am losing my motivation for writing in a big way. If you're still out there, reading and enjoying the story, please let me know.

Chapter 24

Notes:

Author's Notes: I wanted to thank everyone who took the time to leave a comment on the last chapter. I have been feeling discouraged with the writing process for a little over a year now, and it means the world to know that so many people are still reading and enjoying the series. Seriously -- thank-you so much. I am deeply touched.

Sam jerked awake with a gasp. The overhead lights automatically came up to half-brightness, illuminating the empty hab-suite. It looked exactly the same as it had when he went to sleep. Sam rolled onto his back, pressing the heels of his hands against his brow bone. The pressure sent little sparks of light against the back of his eyelids. The nightmare was already fading from memory — all that was left was half-formed impressions of fear and loneliness. 

“I’m alright,” Sam rasped, to no one in particular. 

There was a perceptible shift inside his mind as Bumblebee pressed against him. //This was the third time in less than a week.// 

Sam grimaced as he struggled into a sitting position. The cool air caused goosebumps to spread across his sweaty skin. “Yeah. I know.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “What time is it?” 

//Jour-five,// Bumblebee replied.

“It is jour-five,” Teletraan-I replied at the same time. 

Sam’s grimace deepened. He had only been asleep for five or six hours — not long enough, but it would have to do, because going back to sleep wasn’t an option. As he shoved aside the blankets and slid off the berth, he felt another shift inside his head. It was a hesitant, almost uncertain feeling, and then Meltdown was brushing across his mind.

//I could put you back under, if you wish,// the medic murmured. //It would take only a moment.//

Sam resisted the urge to sigh as he crouched down, pulling open the drawer beneath his mattress. He pulled out clean clothes at random, before straightening up and pushing the drawer shut again with his knee. 

“That's okay, Meltdown,” he replied, already making his way towards the door. “Thanks, though.” 

Cliffjumper and Trailbreaker glanced down at him as he stepped outside. Neither seemed particularly surprised to see him, despite the late hour. Cliffjumper inclined his head in greeting as Trailbreaker crouched down, peering into Sam’s face. 

“Trouble sleeping?” he asked, sympathetically. 

“What else is new?” Sam tried to joke. 

Trailbreaker made a low, warbling sound in reply. Sam offered him a tilted half-smile, patting him on the knee joint, before starting off towards the wash racks. The second deck was quiet, which was no surprise, given the time, and Sam was relieved to discover that the wash racks were empty. He made quick work of using the bathroom and brushing his teeth, before he climbed into the shower. He left the water warm just long enough to scrub the sweat off his body, and then he turned the dial all the way down. The shower ran hot for a second or two, and then it turned ice cold. Sam swore under his breath as he stood beneath the frigid stream. He stayed just long enough to wake up properly, and then he shut off the shower. He dried off and dressed in record time, before making his way back into the corridor. 

Trailbreaker and Cliffjumper were waiting for him a short distance away. The strategist stared down at him in obvious bafflement as he approached. 

“Why do you do that?” Trailbreaker asked. 

Sam combed his fingers through his damp hair as he started off towards the mess hall. “Do what?” 

“55 degrees Fahrenheit is well below your optimal design tolerance,” Trailbreaker said, the upward inflection in his voice making the statement sound like a question. 

It took a moment for Sam to realize that the strategist was referring to his cold shower. He knew that his Primesguard were keeping a close eye on him, but that was definitely too close. He slanted an annoyed look over his shoulder. “New rule: keep your scanners to yourself when I’m in the shower.” 

Trailbreaker looked taken aback. “But, Sam—” 

Sam pivoted on his heel to give the strategist a pointed look. “No, no buts. You can consider it a direct order, if that helps: what I do in the wash racks is no one’s business.” 

Trailbreaker’s optics spiraled down to points. “...As you say.” 

Sam made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat as he started off again. “It’s only jour-five. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.” 

The mess hall was a little livelier than the rest of the second deck, but not by much. There were two unfamiliar mechanoids standing near the energon dispensers, and a few more sitting around the room, but otherwise it was quiet. The mechanoids glanced in his direction as he made his way towards the kitchenette, but Sam ignored them. He was used to the unwanted attention by now. He brewed himself a pot of strong coffee, and while that was percolating, he grabbed a container out of the refrigeration unit and tossed it in the microwave. 

As soon as the food started rotating on the turntable, Sam folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter. The room smelled like energon and metal and hot coffee—it was a familiar, comforting scent. He reached out, brushing against the winter-white glow at the edge of his mind.

//When’re you free?// he asked. 

He felt Bumblebee’s focus shift, settling on him. It was like a tangible weight inside his mind. 

//Not until shift-change,// he replied. 

Sam made a considerate noise as the microwave dinged and went dark. //Are you in the engine room or on the bridge?//

//I am on the bridge,// Bumblebee replied, before his mental voice turned wry. //Be careful.//

The warning was imparted too little, too late. Sam hissed as he burned his fingers pulling the filament off the plastic container. “Dammit, that hurts.” 

//I tried to warn you,// came the amused reply. 

Sam scoffed softly as he picked up the container — a great deal more carefully, this time — and made his way over to the table. He briefly returned to the counter to pour himself a travel-sized mug of steaming hot coffee, and after adding a generous amount of sugar and powdered creamer, Sam slid into his seat. 

//Who’s on shift with you?// Sam asked, picking up a fork and starting on his breakfast. 

Rather than replying to him directly, Bumblebee pressed an impression across their bond-space. It was an image-not-image, or maybe a memory-not-memory. Either way, Sam could tell at once that Hound was at interstellar cartography, Mirage was at navigation, Red Alert was at tactical, Wheeljack was at engineering, and Prowl was at Ops. 

A wide grin split his face. “That was so cool.” 

//I do my best,// Bumblebee replied, all dry humor. //You should come to the bridge. There’s something I want to show you.//

His bonded’s tone immediately piqued Sam’s interest. He quickly started shoveling food into his mouth. //I’ll be right up.//

Bumblebee’s presence brightened in amusement. //See you soon.//

Sam picked up the container, which had cooled in the time he and Bumblebee had been talking, and finished the last scraps of his breakfast while he stood over the sink. The container was tossed into the waste receptacle, followed in short order by the napkins that Sam used to wipe down the counter, and then he topped-off his travel mug and left the room. 

The bridge was dark when Sam and his entourage stepped through the wide double doors less than ten minutes later. The only illumination came from the work terminals, which spread cool light across the burnished metal floors. The low light meant that he had an unobstructed view through the sloping viewscreen at the bow of the ship. Sam’s breath caught in his throat. The usually vast and empty expanse of space was alight with color. Wispy tendrils of blues, whites, and reds slowly undulated across the darkness. Sam’s feet carried him forward until he was standing at the edge of the second deck. As he watched, a ribbon of blue light ghosted over the viewscreen, before dissipating into nothingness. 

“What is it?” Sam asked, a catch in his voice. 

“Ionized gasses,” Bumblebee murmured. Sam glanced over to find his bonded crouching down beside him. “It’s the remnants of a star that went supernova over twenty thousand years ago.” 

Sam angled his head to stare at the riot of light dancing above them. “What makes the different colors?” 

“The view has been enhanced so you can see it,” Bumblebee replied, angling his head to follow Sam’s gaze. “The blues are ionized oxygen. The reds are ionized hydrogen and nitrogen. The rest is interstellar dust.” 

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Bumblebee’s mental presence softened in affection. “For me, it’s a distant second.” 

Sam huffed a fond laugh as he reached out, pressing his hand against the side of Bumblebee’s face. The scout angled his helm to lean into the touch. Sam stroked a thumb across the smooth metal, murmuring, “You big charmer.” 

Bumblebee chuckled lightly as he pressed the tips of his digits against Sam’s hand. “I’m glad you like it.” 

They stood there together on the edge of the second deck, watching the lightshow, for a long while. It was almost like they were alone together, despite the bridge crew bustling around them. Eventually, however, Bumblebee’s station emitted a low, tonal sound that had the scout immediately straightening to attention. 

“What is that?” Sam asked curiously. 

“I’m not sure,” Bumblebee replied as he resumed his place at comms. 

The scout’s mental presence was focused and attentive, but it wasn’t overly concerned, and so Sam made his way down to the third deck. It was darker here than it was elsewhere on the bridge, with only the glow of Hound’s terminal to illuminate the space. Sam took a long drink of his coffee, before glancing sidelong at the sentry.

“Morning, Hound,” he said. 

Hound chirruped at him expressively. “Good morning, Sam.” 

Sam made a considerate noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t know that glyph.” 

“It is ::Acknowledgement, Beloved friend,” Hound explained. 

The answer made something warm throb inside of Sam’s chest. Without thinking, Sam whistled an approximation of the glyph back at him. Hound swiveled in his chair to regard him in a mixture of surprise and delight. 

“Sam, that was wonderful,” he enthused. “It was wholly incorrect, but it was wonderful all the same.” 

Sam laughed out loud at the matter-of-fact tone of Hound’s voice. “Show me again.” 

The sentry obliged him, repeating the glyph more slowly for Sam’s benefit. Sam tried twice more before Hound’s optics lit up with obvious approval. “Perfect.” 

Sam grinned, whistling once more in appreciation, before taking another drink of his coffee. The light roast was mellow and mild with a hint of cocoa. Sam’s eyes fluttered shut in satisfaction — it was like heaven. When he opened his eyes again, Hound’s attention was focused back on his terminal. 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Sam asked, curiously. 

“The nebula,” Hound replied. “It is a marvel, of course, but the ionized gas is interfering with our extended sensory array. I am attempting to find an optimal route through the cloud.” 

Sam frowned faintly. “Can’t you just go around it?” 

Hound glanced up from his terminal as though taken aback by the question. “The nebula is over 110 light years in diameter, Sam.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.” 

Hound made a considerate noise as he turned his back to his work. “It would have been possible to avoid the nebula, yes, but this is the safest and most direct route to Cybertron. A deviation in our course could add decades to our journey.” Hound shrugged expressively. “And besides, this is hardly the only interstellar nuisance we will encounter along the way.” 

It was strange to hear Hound refer to the nebula as a nuisance, when it was easily the most wondrous thing that Sam had ever seen in his life. He huffed softly. It was all a matter of perspective, he supposed. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Sam said, before turning to make his way back to the second deck. “Are we still on for tomorrow?” 

“Yes, of course,” Hound replied, optics fixated on the task at hand. 

The two of them had been spending long hours discussing Cybertron’s geography, climate, geomorphology, and xenobiology. It was easily Sam’s favorite addition to his schedule. He had learned that the Hadean star was smaller and hotter than Earth’s sun, but it was also further away. Cybertron was also tilted on its axis, as was Earth, but the angle was higher, resulting in a stronger contrast between its seasons. Accordingly, Cybertron had a varied climate, depending on location and time of year. Sam had always thought of the alien planet as desolate and barren, but in actuality, it had a wide array of physiographic and climatic regions. He learned about the singing sands of the western steppe, the towering peaks of the Uraya mountain range, the great Rust Sea, and the wind-swept plains of the Southern Isles. What shocked Sam most, however, was learning that Cybertron had native flora and fauna. He had stared in slack-jawed surprise the first time that Hound showed him an image of a turbo-fox. It was larger than its equivalent on Earth, with a long, jagged mane and sharp red eyes, but it was still recognizable. 

Sam wandered back onto the second deck, where Bumblebee, Mirage, and Prowl were stationed. The former noble caught his eye as Sam stepped onto the landing, before inclining his head in greeting. Sam nodded back without thought – neck straight, eyes up, chin lowering an inch. 

“Well done,” Mirage praised, voice a low murmur. 

Sam was still irritated about their disagreement two weeks prior, but he had the tact to say, “Thank-you” without too much snark in his tone. He made his way over to Bumblebee’s workstation. The scout was studying the terminal with an intense expression on his face. 

“What is it?” Sam asked, uncertainly. 

Bumblebee glanced sidelong at him. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” 

“But what is it?” Sam persisted. 

“We’ve detected an anomalous signal. It could be a transmission or it could be the nebula interfering with the ship’s extended sensory array,” Bumblebee replied. 

A frown knitted Sam’s brow. “Could it be the Peaceful Tyranny?” 

“Old Megsy ain't about to give us a heads-up before dropping out of hyper-space,” Jazz put-in dryly. Sam turned to watch as the second-in-command made his way down to the second deck. “It’s probably a sensor artifact.” 

“Hey Jazz,” Sam greeted, before his eyes were drawn to the command deck by the sight of Crossblades and Ironhide assuming their stations. Sam’s heart started beating faster in his chest. It was the first time he had seen Crossblades up close since the altercation at Swerve’s. The flier settled into the command chair, before keying up a tactical read-out that blinked into existence above his terminal, partially obscuring him from view. 

“Isn’t it a little late for you to be wanderin’ around the ship?” Jazz asked good-naturedly. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam replied, tearing his eyes away from Crossblades. “What’re you doing here?” 

“Moi?” Jazz asked, flattening one servo against his chest. “I came to relieve my one-and-only. He’s due at tactical at jour-eight.” 

Sam frowned faintly. He had woken up at jour-five, and he was sure that he hadn’t been on the bridge for longer than an hour or two. “Aren’t you a little early?” 

"And? I'm under-quota on my Prowler pestering duties this week."

“Jazz often comes earlier than I’d like,” Prowl replied, voice dry as a desert, as he started disconnecting himself from his work station. 

At the sound of Prowl’s voice, Jazz wheeled around to fix the enforcer with, what Sam assumed, was his most winning smile. “Prowler. Sweetspark. Did you miss me?” 

“Your absence was noted,” Prowl replied. 

Jazz’s smile grew a little wider as he crossed the distance between them. Prowl watched him approach with a wary sort of attention as he finished disconnecting. Jazz smoothly stepped between the strategist and his workstation, before hopping up to sit on the edge of his desk. He swung his legs back and forth, heels bouncing off the metal paneling with a light clang, before leaning forward to grin into his conjunx’s face. 

“I missed you too, lover,” Jazz purred, his voice dropping an octave in obvious flirtation.

Prowl gave him a pointed look – which Jazz cheerfully ignored – before reaching out and forcibly pushing Jazz off his workstation. The second in command dropped to his pedes with a light laugh. 

“Do I stand relieved?” Prowl asked, all dry exasperation in his tone. 

“Oh, baby. I'll relieve you anyway you want,” Jazz grinned. “Standing up, lying down, bent over—” 

“Jazz,” Prowl warned. 

“Yes, dearest?” Jazz asked, cheerfully. 

“I stand relieved,” Prowl sighed, before stepping out from behind the workstation. “The quarterly reports have been compiled. They’ll need to be reviewed and signed-off before they’re submitted.” 

“Prowl, treasure, you can’t be saying things like that,” Jazz said, before jerking a thumb in Sam’s direction. “Young ears are listening.” 

“I’m 26-years-old,” Sam interjected wryly. 

“Call me when you’re a vorn, and then we’ll talk,” Jazz bounced back. 

Sam rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything sarcastic, Crossblades made a sharp noise. Both Sam and Jazz turned to regard the Lost Light’s second-in-command, who was watching Jazz with a frown.

“Your behavior is unbecoming of a bridge officer,” Crossblades rumbled lowly. 

Sam stiffened at the disapproval in Crossblades’ tone. Jazz’s expression could have been carved out of stone as he tipped his head, regarding the flier. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a bridge officer, then.” 

Crossblades’ optics narrowed into azure slits. “When you are in command of the bridge, you may comport yourself however you wish. When I am in command, you will follow regulations.” 

Sam’s mouth downturned hard. He didn’t know the finer intricacies of the Autobot command structure, but as far as he could tell, Jazz outranked Crossblades. They were both second-in-command of their respective vessels, but Jazz was Optimus Prime’s spymaster and Chief of Special Operations. Crossblades was nothing to Sentinel Prime. 

Sam opened his mouth to say something, when Jazz pressed against his mind in warning. Sam glanced sidelong at the saboteur in surprise. 

“As you say,” Jazz replied, voice neutral, before dipping his head in acknowledgement. 

Crossblades’ mouth plates thinned in displeasure, before he turned back towards his workstation. He did not incline his helm in return. Sam half-turned, giving Jazz a quizzical look, but the saboteur shook his head in reply. 

//Not now.//

It was only two words, but Sam could take the hint. He pressed his lips together as Jazz took his place at the Ops station. Sam watched him for a moment longer, and then he made his way back down to the lowest deck. Hound nodded as he approached, but otherwise he remained focused on his work. Sam padded forward until he was standing directly in front of the viewscreen. The vantage point gave him a clear view of the nebula. He stood there, drinking his coffee and watching the thin ribbons of ionized gasses undulate across the darkness. 

The usually easy-going atmosphere on the bridge was strained in the aftermath of Jazz’s dressing-down. It left Sam feeling uncomfortable and out-of-place. He made the decision to head back to his hab-suite when a massive ship dropped out of hyperspace directly in front of them. Sam cried out in surprise, dropping his travel mug and stumbling backwards as the emergency lights began to strobe. At the same time, the bridge crew burst into action as an ear-piercing klaxon shattered the silence. Sam watched in horror as another ship dropped out of hyper-space, and then another and another — blinking into existence close enough to the Ark that Sam could make out their individual features. 

Suddenly, Jazz materialized at his side. “Sam, with me. Now.” 

The second-in-command turned him around, evidentially intending to steer him towards the second-deck, when Crossblades barked something in Cybertronian. Whatever he said had an immediate effect — bodies stilled, voices trailed off, and heads turned in his direction. Crossblades said something else in Cybertronian, before directing an order to Ironhide. The weapon’s specialist rumbled something in return, and then the alarm shut off. 

The ensuing silence was deafening. 

“What the fuck?” Sam asked, turning panicked eyes towards Jazz.

“My sentiments exactly,” Jazz muttered, before herding him towards the ramp. As they made their way onto the second deck, the wide double doors to the bridge slid open, and Optimus Prime stepped onto the command level. The former Autobot leader strode towards Crossblades, who quickly stood as he approached. 

“Prime,” he greeted, tipping his head in acknowledgement. 

“Crossblades, report,” Optimus commanded sharply. 

The flier stepped aside so that Prime could view the command display. “Seven ships have dropped out of hyperspace. The first has already transmitted its ident-codes – it is the Gauntlet, a galaxy-class cruiser.” Crossblades glanced sidelong at Optimus, his expression meaningful. “It is the flagship of Sentinel Prime’s armada.” 

Sam’s stomach dropped like a stone. He was aware of the conversation happening around him, but he couldn’t process the words. It seemed very far away. He stared through the viewscreen at the massive ship floating directly in front of them. Ribbons of ionized gasses brushed across its silver hull, before dissipating like smoke. 

Suddenly, a high-pitched tonal sound not unlike a bosun’s whistle startled Sam back to himself. He glanced sidelong at Bumblebee, who had turned in his seat to regard the command deck.

“Prime,” his bonded interjected respectfully. “The Gauntlet is requesting visual.” 

Sam twisted, following Bumblebee’s line of sight. The older Prime stood at the edge of the command deck, servos curling and uncurling at his sides. Prowl, Ultra Magnus, and Kup must have arrived sometime during Sam’s zone-out, for they were gathered behind him. 

“Put it through,” Prime rumbled.

Sam’s heart climbed up into his throat as he turned to regard the viewscreen. A moment later, the Gauntlet shimmered and disappeared, replaced by the visage of a wizened looking mechanoid. He was plated almost entirely in red with fine, detailed face plates.

Primal red, Sam thought with a detached sort of hysteria.

Sentinel Prime inclined his helm, before rumbling something in Cybertronian. Optimus inclined his head in return. Sam glanced from the viewscreen to Optimus and back again, before turning to look at Jazz. The second-in-command was watching the exchange with an inscrutable expression on his face. 

“What’s he saying?” Sam whispered, voice strained. 

Jazz glanced sidelong at him. //He introduced himself, asked for Optimus’ designation. It’s a lot of pomp and ceremony. There haven’t been two Primes in a long time.// Jazz gave him a wry look. //Sorry. Three.//

Sam glanced back towards the viewscreen. Sentinel was saying something that Sam couldn’t understand — but he could certainly understand the hard set of the older Prime’s mouth. He said something with a query modifier. A question.

Jazz pressed against his mind, cautious and restrained all at once. //Look sharp, kid.//

Optimus rumbled something in reply to his question. Sentinel’s expression was impossible to interpret, and then Sam suddenly found himself under scrutiny by the older Prime. Sam could feel the blood draining from his face as Sentinel regarded him. A thousand thoughts flew through his mind too quickly to marshal. Was he supposed to introduce himself? Nod? Bow? He had only just begun to learn about the ways Primes comported themselves in public. Sam broke out in a cold sweat — he had no idea what he was supposed to do. 

Before Sam could panic further, Sentinel returned his attention to Optimus. The older Prime rumbled something in clipped Cybertronian, and then the visual shimmered and disappeared, revealing the Gauntlet once again. 

“Fuck,” Sam managed through numb lips. 

“You’re alright, kid,” Jazz murmured. “Take a breath.” 

Sam released the breath that he hadn’t realized he had been holding. It left him feeling weak-kneed and shaky. “Jazz, I’m about as far from alright as it’s possible to be.” 

Jazz’s expression was quietly sympathetic, but before he could reply, Optimus made his way towards them. Sam’s heart started beating faster as the older Prime approached. 

“Optimus… what did he say? At the end?” Sam asked softly. 

The older Prime lowered down onto one knee, before angling his helm to meet Sam’s gaze. “He has ordered us to board the Gauntlet so he may verify the legitimacy of my claims.” 

“When?” Sam managed to force out. 

“Three jours,” Optimus replied, gently. 

Sam shook his head wildly in desperation. “I can’t do this, Optimus. It’s too soon. I’m not ready.” 

“Have faith, Sam,” Optimus murmured, softening his tone. “All will be well.” 

The words were spoken like a promise, but it did little to alleviate the cold feeling in the pit of Sam’s stomach. He knew about Prowl’s risk estimates — he had read the analysis himself. The possibilities played in the back of his mind like a glitch. Demotion. Ex-communication. Imprisonment. Execution. He had no idea what they were about to walk into, but it certainly wasn’t going to be a warm reception. 

Prime’s expression softened with understanding, before he straightened to his full height. “Come, Sam. I would speak with you in private. There is much we must discuss.” 

Notes:

Author's Notes: The discussion between Sam and Hound about Cybertronian glyphs was loosely inspired by Xenoethnography by Therrae (Dasha_mte). Their world-building and character development is god-tier.

Also, if you're interested. the nebula in this chapter was based on the Veil Nebula.

Chapter 25

Prime brought Sam to an unfamiliar room a short distance from the bridge. It might have been a ready room or a tactical suite. There were monitors displaying all manner of complicated read-outs affixed to the walls, and the only furniture was a large table arranged in the center of the room. That was where Prime carefully set Sam on his feet, before he pulled out a chair and sat down. The older mechanoid’s posture was difficult to read. 

“Alright, what do we do?” Sam asked, thickly. 

The older Prime inclined his head. “We use the time Sentinel has given us to prepare.” 

“Prepare for what?” Sam managed. “Optimus, what’s going to happen?”

Prime rumbled lowly inside his chassis. “I cannot state for certain what Sentinel will do when we board the Gauntlet. I can only speculate.” 

“Okay,” Sam nodded, heart pounding. “So speculate.” 

Prime stared down at him for a long moment, as though weighing his response – and for a mechanoid capable of sifting through petabytes of data in less time than it took for Sam to draw breath, that was really saying something. Eventually, Optimus ex-vented a quiet sigh and folded his servos in his lap. 

“You and I will bridge to the Gauntlet together,” He began. “We will bring only a small contingent with us. I have chosen Ironhide and Kup as my Primesguard. You may choose whoever you wish to accompany you.” His voice was inflectionless as he added, “It would be expected of us.” 

Sam’s mouth twisted in disdain. “Who should I bring?” 

Again, Optimus hesitated before answering him. “You must choose someone you trust.” 

Sam’s brow furrowed in consternation. “That doesn’t help narrow it down.” 

“A Primesguard is not an honorary position — it is a sacred responsibility,” Optimus rumbled softly. “You must choose someone you trust completely. Not just to stand for you, but to fight and die for you, if necessary.” 

Sam’s heart lurched painfully inside his chest. “Die for me? You think Sentinel’s going to—?” 

“No, Sam. I do not,” Optimus interceded gently. 

“Then, why…?” Sam asked tightly. 

“Sentinel Prime is well-known for his pragmatism,” Optimus rumbled. “He would not act rashly without first verifying the legitimacy of your claims. However, there are ten thousand mechanoids in his armada, and another ten thousand under his command on Cybertron.” Optimus looked at him closely. “Do you remember why I was willing to cede the title of Lord High Protector to Starscream?” 

Sam remembered that conversation in vivid detail. “You said my existence will divide public opinion,” He forced himself to reply. “You said I’ll be a target of extremists.” 

Optimus inclined his head. “What happened in Mission City was… Sam, forgive me, but it was a miracle. The Allspark was not well understood, not even during the height of the first Golden Age, but nothing we’ve learned of its properties would suggest transference was possible, and certainly not to a carbon-based organism. The Allspark could have chosen another vessel, Megatron or myself or even an object of sufficient mass, but instead it chose you.” Optimus’ tone grew softer as he continued. “An organic youth from a planet teeming with energon in a quiet corner of the galaxy, somehow untouched by our war. It is a miracle, Sam… but also an incomprehensible blasphemy.” 

Even though Sam knew his existence went against the central tenants of the Covenant of Primus, it still made him flinch to hear it spoken so plainly. 

“The Allspark energy will be simple enough for Sentinel to verify,” Optimus continued. “Any mechanoid with a functioning sensory array can detect its trace energy within your body. Your claim to the Primacy will be harder. I am not sure what Sentinel will demand as proof.” 

Sam shifted his weight uncertainly. “I brought you back. You and Jazz.” 

“That is true,” Optimus conceded, inclining his helm. “But there is no physical evidence to prove it.”

Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Well, I’d say the fact you’re both still alive is pretty compelling evidence.” 

Optimus offered him a wan smile in return. “I heartily agree, but I suspect Sentinel will not.” 

Sam ignored his attempt at levity. “I can understand the Primal vernacular.”

“As do Vos and Ravage and Rung,” Optimus reminded him. “Your fluency is also not sufficient proof in and of itself – and it certainly will not satisfy Sentinel of your claims.” He gestured meaningfully to his chest. “The Matrix of Leadership may provide the evidence we need, if it comes to that.” 

Sam frowned deeply. “How?” 

Rather than answer his question, Optimus pushed into a standing position. Sam watched closely as the older Prime raised his servos to the level of his chest. The red and blue metal folded back, one section at a time, until his spark was visible. Sam’s feet carried him forward of their own accord. Optimus' spark was beautiful — a deep, brilliant blue with wispy tendrils ghosting across the metal that encased it. As Sam watched, the Matrix of Leadership unfolded itself from deep inside Prime’s protoform. It looked just the same as Sam remembered it — delicate and spindly and ethereal. The relic floated forward to slot into the space between Prime’s servos, where it began rotating slowly in place. 

“The Matrix of Leadership has an innate intelligence. It answered your call in Egypt, and then again in the mausoleum,” Optimus rumbled softly. “Call it to you now, Sam.” 

Sam stared at the alien relic for a long moment, before forcing himself to meet Optimus’ gaze. “I don’t know how.” 

The Matrix was casting pale blue light across Prime’s face plates, illuminating his smile. “It is not something you know, Sam. It is something you feel. Close your eyes.” 

Sam gave the older Prime a skeptical look, before obediently closing his eyes. He felt Prime shift forward, smoothing across his mind. The touch was gentle and patient. 

“Do you sense it?” Optimus rumbled.

Sam’s frown returned as he shifted his attention towards the neural-network. The neural space was just as vast and incomprehensible as ever. He could glean the presence of dozens of mechanoids — some familiar, some not — but he couldn’t sense anything unusual or out of the ordinary. 

“I don’t think so,” Sam replied uncertainly. 

Rather than reply verbally, Optimus’ presence shifted forward. Sam recognized the familiar shiver of an incoming ping, and with no small degree of trepidation, he let the connection blossom to life. At once, Optimus’ warm and familiar presence was inside his mind. 

The older Prime seemed to observe him. After a moment or two, he murmured, //The Matrix of Leadership is a repository of collective consciousness. It does not have a spark signature for you to perceive.// 

Sam’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand.” 

//As I have said, the Matrix is not something we are meant to understand,// Optimus rumbled gently. //Will you allow me to show you?//

Sam hesitated. His personal experiences with the Matrix had been limited but intense. He wasn’t particularly eager to have another go at it. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

The warm swell of Prime’s amusement passed between them. //I am certain the Matrix poses no risk to you, Sam.// 

Sam slated a snarky look at the older Prime. “That doesn’t answer my question.” 

Prime’s mouth plates twitched in a smile. “I have been waiting for you to ask about the Matrix of Leadership ever since you arrived on Diego Garcia,” He intoned. “I did not wish to press you before you were ready — I am well aware of the burdens that have been placed upon you.” The older Prime’s expression softened with something indefinable and nameless. “But this… this is a privilege, Sam. I would be honored to share it with you, if you allow me.” 

Sam could feel the older Prime’s sincerity, his earnestness. It was almost painful in the depth of its emotion. 

“Yeah,” He found himself saying, “Yeah, okay.” 

Optimus brushed against his mind, like fingers ghosting across sensitive skin, before he pulled Sam’s mental presence close to him. 

“This can be… disconcerting the first time,” Optimus warned him wryly. “Do not be afraid.” 

“Oh, because that really inspires confid—” Sam’s words were lost in a gasp as Optimus reached out, willing the Matrix to answer him. The soft blue glow of the ancient relic suddenly brightened almost to the point of blindness. Sam stumbled backwards, raising a hand to shield his eyes, at the same time Optimus steadied a servo against him. 

All at once, Sam understood. 

The Matrix of Leadership was a singularity. 

It was the physical manifestation of a phenomenon that existed across all of space-time, everywhere and nowhere, simultaneously. Optimus had said it was a repository of collective consciousness, but it was more than that. It was every Prime who had ever existed, in every stage of their being, all at once, together. It was Prima, and Vector Prime, and Solus Prime, and Micronus Prime, and Amalgamous Prime, and Quintus Prime, and Megatronus Prime, and every other Prime including Sam himself. He could feel the weight of their attention on him. Their consideration. It wasn’t a welcome per se, because that would suggest Sam was meeting them for the first time. He wasn’t. He had always been and would always be one with them. 

Sam didn’t realize he was weeping until Optimus brushed softly against his mind. “I was similarly affected the first time the Matrix of Leadership touched me,” Optimus murmured, inclining his helm. 

Sam couldn’t prevent the shaky laughter that escaped him as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “Yeah, no kidding.” 

He and Optimus were so closely intertwined that Sam could feel him. His amusement, his affection. The vastness of his love and the heavy burden of his grief. And too, his relief — it was like coming up for air after being too long underwater. It was a heady thing, to be so clearly and perfectly understood, after eons spent alone. 

“You’re not alone,” Sam managed, reaching out to grasp the older Prime’s arm. “Optimus—Orion—you’re not alone.” 

The cool blue of Optimus’ optics darkened with emotion. His fingers curled around Sam’s torso, as though taking comfort in his presence. 

“I have wanted to share this with you for a long while,” Optimus murmured. “Can you feel it now? The Matrix?” 

Sam knew that he was referring to the physical object, not the vast and incomprehensible presence of the Primes. He jerked his head in an affirmative nod. “Yeah, I can.” 

“Then call it to you,” Optimus urged, beckoning meaningfully with his servos. 

Sam didn’t need to ask how or why. He understood perfectly. He reached for the Matrix, willing it to obey him — and it did. The ancient relic floated forward, spinning slowly in the air, casting fractals of brilliant light across the room. Sam lifted his hands so that it could slot into the space between his fingers. He could feel its pull inside his mind — beautiful, and other-worldly, and older than time itself. As Sam stared at the delicate filigrees of metal, he had the distinct impression it was staring back at him. 

“Hello, you,” he murmured.  

He wasn’t expecting a response, and he didn’t get one. 

“Now close the connection,” Optimus rumbled. “Do you understand how?” 

Rather than reply, Sam reached out, willing the Matrix to withdraw back into itself. The relic responded instantaneously — between one moment and the next, the presence of the Primes was gone and the Matrix had darkened again to a soft, blue glow. 

The ready room, which had felt almost infinite in the presence of the Primes, now felt painfully small and plain in their absence. Sam shook his head, before giving the ancient relic a mental push. It floated back towards Optimus, who carefully plucked it from the air and tucked it inside his chassis. The metal panels on his chest shifted back into place, one by one, obscuring the Matrix from view. 

“Is it always like that?” Sam asked softly. 

“It can be, yes,” Optimus murmured. “As you will come to learn, the Matrix of Leadership chooses what wisdom to impart to its bearers and when.” The older Prime’s mouth plates twitched up in a wry smile. “It is not always so cooperative.” 

Sam huffed an uncomfortable laugh. “Well, here’s hoping it plays nice today.” 

Optimus rumbled lowly deep inside his chassis. “I am confident the Matrix of Leadership will provide sufficient evidence of your claim to the Primacy. The question is whether Sentinel will acknowledge it.” 

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?” 

The intensity of Optimus’ gaze could have pinioned Sam in place. “I will not offer false reassurances to you, Sam. The situation we face is delicate. It is true that Sentinel Prime is known for his pragmatism, but so too is he a traditionalist. He believes that every member of a functioning society has a role to fulfill. Those roles are clearly defined and delineated. Sentinel, and other functionists like him, struggle with the unknowable. The uncategorizable.”

Sam wet his lips. “Is that what I am? Uncategorizable?” 

“No, Sam,” Optimus rumbled. “It is much worse than that — you are entirely unique. You will not fit easily into a functionist society.” 

The conversation was shifting into uncertain territory, and it left Sam feeling painfully unmoored. “So, we’re really squaring the circle here, huh?” he asked, trying and failing for a light tone. 

Rather than engaging Sam’s attempt at levity, Prime shook his head. “It is Sentinel who will decide whether to acknowledge your claim to the Primacy. It is imperative that he do so. Without the Primacy to protect you, you are… vulnerable.” 

“Yeah, I get it,” Sam managed, grimly. 

“No, Sam. I fear you do not,” Optimus urged, lowering down to look him directly in the face. “The Primacy affords you both status and authority. Primes are not dictated to, not even by other Primes. If Sentinel refuses to acknowledge your claim, then you will be merely a vessel. Do you understand?” 

Unbidden, Jazz’s words from their conversation about cold-constructions came back to him. Sam's stomach churned with newfound anxiety. “...And vessels aren’t people. They’re property.” 

Optimus slowly inclined his helm. “It would be more correct to say that vessels do not have autonomy, but you have grasped the crux of the matter.” 

Sam’s pulse was racing so fast that it made him feel lightheaded. “Optimus… what the hell am I supposed to do? I’m not ready for this. I don’t know how to act. I don’t know what to say.” Sam made an ugly, desperate sound. “I’m going to fuck something up. I know it.” 

Optimus brushed across his mind. The touch was gentle, reassuring, affectionate. It served to soften some of the anxiety cutting up his insides. “You must have faith, Sam.” 

Sam barked a miserable laugh. “That’s easy for you to say. No one’s going to be doubting whether you’re a Prime.” Even as the words left his mouth, Sam realized they were in poor taste. He knew full-well the scrutiny and condemnation that Optimus would face for his role in the war. He grimaced faintly. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.” 

“Your apology is unnecessary,” Optimus murmured, “but it brings us to the second matter I wished to discuss.” The older Prime clasped his servos behind his back and inclined his helm, as though in contemplation. “Sentinel will surely indict me for crimes against the Primacy. I want you to know that I have no intention of disputing his accusations.” 

Sam’s head came up in disbelief. “What?” 

“I accept Sentinel Prime’s right to render judgment,” Optimus continued in a low rumble. “And I will accept whatever sentence he chooses to levy against me.” 

“Optimus!” Sam protested. “You can’t be serious. It’s not your fault that—”

The older Prime shook his helm minutely. “Not entirely my fault, perhaps, but it is certainly my responsibility.” 

Optimus’ tone was firm and unyielding. Sam stared up at him in rapidly mounting desperation. “Optimus, what are you saying right now?” he asked. “You can’t seriously expect us to just stand by while you take responsibility for the war. That’s not fair!” 

“Fairness is a conceit of sentience,” Optimus rumbled. “Through my actions and inaction, I have contributed to the death and suffering of millions. I forsook my sacred vows. I would have condemned my species to a slow extinction through entropy.” Prime ex-vented quietly. “I will accept Sentinel’s judgment without compunction or regret.” 

Sam’s throat was so tight that he had to force his next words out. “But you could be imprisoned for the rest of your life. God, Optimus, he could execute you.” 

“Sentinel will mete out judgment according to his conscience,” Optimus murmured. 

Sam stared up at the older Prime in anguish. “Optimus, please— ”

“Sam, I beg you, please listen,” Optimus interjected softly. “I am not acting rashly. There is a common idiom on Cybertron. Its meaning does not gloss well to English, but we might say ‘my spark is discordant’. I accept that, through my actions, however motivated by necessity, I have contributed to inconceivable suffering. I must atone for those actions… and you must let me.” 

Sam ducked his head so Optimus wouldn’t see the visible evidence of his distress. He couldn’t speak — his throat was too thick to get any words out, even if he knew what to say. 

The silence stretched on between them as Sam struggled unsuccessfully to get himself under control. Eventually, Prime reached out, pressing two digits against the small of Sam’s back and whistling quietly in NeoCybex. 

Sam scrubbed a hand across his face. “I don’t recognize that one.” 

Prime’s expression softened in affection. “It could perhaps be interpreted as ‘your grief resonates profoundly with my own’.” 

Unable to think of what to say, Sam curled his hand around an exposed cable in Optimus’ wrist-joint. The metal was warm and smooth against his skin. He struggled to find the words to express his thoughts — his regret, his sorrow, his understanding — but Optimus ex-vented softly before he could speak. 

“Forgive me, Sam,” he sighed. “We are about to be interrupted.” 

No sooner had he words left his mouth than the door slid open. Sam half-turned, staring in surprise as Ironhide stomped into the conference room. The war–frame folded his arms over his chest, before rumbling something in Cybertronian. Optimus gave him a pointed and quelling look, and then he offered Sam a wry half-smile.

“My Primesguard informs me that I am required in the wash racks,” Optimus translated dryly. 

“That ain’t what I said,” Ironhide retorted. 

“Ironhide—” 

“I said you’re a stubborn, half-clocked factory reject,” Ironhide interrupted before Optimus could finish. “Are we goin’ to the wash racks or not?” 

“Thank-you for the direct translation,” Optimus replied dryly. 

Ironhide shrugged. “I’m sure he’s heard worse.” 

Before Optimus could respond, the doors to the conference room slid open for a second time as Kup stepped into the entryway. The grizzled old veteran inclined his helm — too stiffly to meet Mirage’s exacting standards — before rumbling something with query modifiers. Optimus ex-vented softly, and then he turned back towards Sam. 

“Forgive me. There is much to be done before we bridge to the Gauntlet.” As he spoke, Optimus lowered his servos to the table-top in a clear invitation. Sam hesitated for only a moment before allowing the older Prime to gently scoop him up and place him on the floor. Optimus lingered for a long moment, optics roving over his face. “Remember what I told you, Sam. We must have faith — now more than ever.” 

Sam slowly nodded. “I’ll try.” 

Optimus’ mouth plates twitched up in the ghost of a smile. “Do or do not, there is no try.”

Sam smiled faintly. “Yoda? Really? I would’ve taken you for a Trekkie.” 

Optimus chuckled, before straightening to his full height. “I will see you soon, Sam.” 

Something indefinable and intense gripped him as the older Prime turned to leave. “Optimus, wait,” Sam blurted, taking a hasty step forward. “I want you to know I'm glad we met." His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly. "And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat."

Prime’s optics were very bright as he inclined his head. “Thank-you, Sam.” 

There was nothing else to say, and so Sam inclined his head in return. It wasn’t a valediction shared between two equals of social standing — it was less formal, less proper. It was a gesture of friendship. Optimus stared down at him for a moment longer, before turning and making his way from the room. Ironhide and Kup had taken position on either side of the door, and as Prime passed them, they followed him into the corridor. The door never even had the chance to slide shut behind them before Bumblebee appeared in the entryway. The scout’s gaze was heavy as he made his way into the conference room. 

“Are you ready?” he murmured. 

Sam gave a helpless shrug. “Not really.” 

Bumblebee lowered into a loose crouch in front of him. “Do you know who you’ll bring?” 

Sam lowered his head. He had chosen his Primesguard with his comfort in mind, rather than their safety. It hadn’t fully occurred to him that his friends would be the first ones in the line-of-fire if there was another attack. His heart clenched with shame. The threat had seemed abstract somehow, even after the DJD’s assault. His conversation with Optimus had certainly put things jarringly into perspective. 

“No,” Sam admitted. “I don’t want to put anyone at risk.” 

“Sam,” Bumblebee murmured, angling his helm so he could look him directly in the eye. “Cliffjumper and the others knew the risks when they swore their oaths.” 

That might be so, but the thought of Cliffjumper or Hound or Trailbreaker or Jolt taking a bullet for him made Sam nauseous. He thought of Smokescreen shorn in two and of Knock Out’s graying frame. Suddenly, the room felt too cold. Sam absently rubbed his hands up and down his arms. 

“I don’t know who to choose,” he managed. 

Bumblebee’s expression softened with understanding. He reached out, pulling Sam to stand in the space between his knee-struts, before carefully folding his arms around Sam’s body.  Sam leaned gratefully into his bonded’s warmth. 

“Do you want my advice?” he asked. 

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. He leaned back just far enough so he could look Bumblebee in the face. “Yes.” 

“Choose Trailbreaker and Cliffjumper,” Bumblebee replied. “Trailbreaker’s outlier ability is virtually impenetrable. It gives him a considerable defensive advantage.” His voice turned wry as he added, “And Cliff is technically a member of a minor house.” 

Sam stared at Bumblebee in confusion. “A minor house?” 

Bumblebee made a considerate sound. “The glyph doesn’t gloss directly into English. The closest analogy would probably be landed gentry.” 

“Are you saying Cliff’s a noble?” Sam asked incredulously. 

Bumblebee’s optics brightened in amusement. “Not in the same way that Mirage or Starscream are nobility, but yes, he is a member of the peerage.” 

Sam gave a choked laugh. “I’m going to give him so much shit for this.” 

Bumblebee chuckled as he drew his digits across Sam’s back. The soothing touch, the warmth from his chassis, and the faint hum of his internal workings were all known quantities. Sam closed his eyes and let himself take comfort in it. 

“You will need to shave,” Bumblebee murmured, digits ghosting down Sam’s spine. “The Gauntlet will not have a breathable atmosphere.”

Sam pressed his forehead against Bumblebee’s chest. “In a minute, okay?” 

“Okay, Sam,” Bumblebee agreed softly, stroking Sam’s back. 

Unfortunately, their moment of reprieve was short-lived. The doors to the conference room slid open as Cliffjumper stepped into the entryway. Sam’s insides clenched with anxiety at the sight of him. The scout’s armor had clearly been detailed — it gleamed in the low light. 

“Forgive me, Sam,” he murmured. “We are running short of time.” 

Sam nodded faintly and stepped away. Bumblebee let him go, digits lingering on his back, before standing up and transforming into his alt mode. As soon as his wheels touched the floor, Bumblebee popped open the driver’s side door for him.

The drive to the wash racks passed in a blur. Sam stared unseeingly through the windshield as the lights flashed by overhead. He was aware of Cliffjumper’s presence following behind them, and as they neared their destination, he realized that Hound and Trailbreaker were waiting for them. The two Primesguards stepped aside as they approached, allowing Bumblebee to drive through the wide double doors. 

The Camaro pulled to a stop in front of the partition that separated Sam’s facilities from the rest of the wash racks. The driver’s side door swung open as Bumblebee’s holoform materialized beside the Camaro. “Come on, Sam.” 

Sam let himself be guided into the partitioned area. It looked just the same as it had earlier that shift. His towel was even hanging from its hook, still damp from his shower. Bumblebee parked him in front of the sink, before he began pulling items out of the tall cabinet beside the counter. Sam angled his head to watch as a razor, shaving cream, and after-shave balm were placed on the counter, followed by a pile of linens. 

“Take off your shirt,” Bumblebee murmured, turning on the sink. 

Sam reached down, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. The simple action seemed to jump-start his brain. He picked up a towel and draped it around his neck. He stood there with his hands braced flat against the countertop, head hanging between his arms, until the water started steaming. Then, he reached out and picked up the shaving cream. This was familiar, at least — he popped the cap with his thumb, before squeezing a large amount onto his palm. He was aware of Bumblebee’s gaze on his back as he lathered his face. When he finished, Sam ran his hands under the tap, rinsing off the remaining product. 

It was only then that Sam realized his hands were shaking. 

“Here, let me,” Bumblebee murmured, stepping forward to pick up the razor. 

Sam stood passively as the holoform tipped his head back and began shaving him. The razor dragged across his skin with each pass of the blade. Bumblebee’s fingers rested against Sam’s jawbone, pulling the skin taut or angling his head as he worked. The intermittent tap-tap-tap of the razor against the side of the sink seemed painfully absurd in the grand scheme of things. 

As Sam watched, the water grew cloudy with shaving cream and stubble. When Bumblebee finished, he wet a face cloth and pressed it into Sam’s hands.

“Wipe your face,” he murmured gently. 

Sam did as he was told. 

When they were finished, Bumblebee led Sam to the bench against the wall. There was a large bundle of clothing already waiting for him. Sam stared down at the familiar charcoal-colored material in consternation. 

“I have to wear the full suit?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Bumblebee replied. 

That made sense, Sam decided dully. If the Gauntlet didn’t have a breathable atmosphere, then it probably wasn’t climate controlled, either. He reached down and unbuttoned his pants, before sliding the material over his hips. 

He tried not to dwell on the fact that his armor was also intended for close-quarters combat. 

His pants soon joined the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. When Sam was down to his boxers, Bumblebee picked up the bundle of metal-mesh and lowered into a crouch.  Sam slipped in the bodysuit with Bumblebee's help. It was soft and pliant, but somehow, also heavy. Sam pushed his arms into the sleeves as Bumblebee stepped behind him, hands smoothing over his flanks, as he began on the bindings. The armor seemed to grow heavier with each clasp that was fastened. His boots and gloves were next, and then Bumblebee brought him the environmental mask. Sam turned the familiar contraption over in his hands. He had worn the mask often enough during training that its appearance wasn’t alarming in and of itself. Still, Sam’s insides felt watery as he pressed the mask over his mouth and nose. It formed an air-tight seal as soon as it was in place.

Sam took a deep breath and then another, willing his heart to stop beating so erratically. 

Bumblebee’s holoform stepped in front of him, before clasping the sides of his face. “You’re going to be fine, Sam,” he murmured. 

Sam didn’t say anything as he pulled the holoform closer, but that was okay. He knew that Bumblebee would understand him either way. 

 

---

 

The ground bridge hangar was filled with mechanoids by the time that Sam and Bumblebee arrived. 

Optimus, Ironhide, and Kup were standing nearest to the large circular archway in the middle of the room. Bumblebee pulled to a stop a short distance away, before popping open his door. As Sam climbed out of the driver’s seat, he realized that Optimus had been meticulously cleaned and polished in the short time since they had seen one another. The overhead lights were gleaming off the older Prime’s metal plating. Sam gave a jerky nod of acknowledgement as he stepped back to give Bumblebee some space to transform. 

Optimus’ senior officers were gathered nearby, except for Jazz who was standing with Meltdown near the ground bridge controls. Sam gave them both a weak smile in greeting, before glancing at the other mechanoids assembled around the room. 

They seemed to be arranged according to rank, but Sam couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Mirage was standing with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. Wheeljack was shifting his weight from pede to pede near Red Alert and Inferno. The others were similarly arranged in pairs and groups according to some convention Sam didn’t understand. His eyes skipped from one familiar face to another when realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.

None of the Lost Light’s crew save for Meltdown were in attendance. 

Behind the environmental mask, Sam worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He wasn’t sure what message Optimus was sending — but he was sure it was intentional. 

“Sam,” Optimus rumbled, pulling Sam back to himself all at once. “It is time.” 

Sam’s heart, which was already thundering beneath his sternum, started to race. “Okay,” he replied, hating the unsteady quality of his voice. “Where do you want me?” 

Optimus gestured meaningfully beside him. Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat as he forced one foot in front of the other until he was standing at the older Prime’s side. At the same time, Ironhide and Kup took their place behind Optimus while Cliffjumper and Trailbreaker took their place behind Sam. To Sam’s mingled relief and surprise, Jazz and Meltdown joined Bumblebee at the rear of their little procession. A moment later, a kaleidoscope of light exploded to life inside the ground bridge archway. The blues and greens were swirling in on one another in a beautiful, chaotic miasma of color. 

Suddenly, Sam felt a firm nudge inside his mind. He turned his head, following the mental trail to find Jazz watching him closely. The second-in-command gave him a lop-sided smile, before tapping the underside of his chin with the back of his servo. 

Sam understood the sub-text immediately. He lifted his chin and straightened to his full height, before staring steadfastly at the swirling vortex in front of him. 

Optimus angled his helm to look down at him. “Are you ready?” 

Not even a little, Sam thought but didn’t say. Instead, he nodded his head. “Yes.” 

Optimus nodded fractionally in response, and then they walked through the ground bridge together. 

Notes:

Chapter Notes: And after 140k words, the big moment has finally arrived. Things are going to pick up from here on out! ;)

Also, the phrase "Fairness is a conceit of sentience" is borrowed from Xenoethnography by Therrae (Dasha_mte).

Chapter 26

Notes:

Chapter Warning: So much fucking politics.

I have written over 130 chapters in this universe, and this one was by far the hardest chapter I've written to date. It took us weeks. I really hope you enjoy it.

There was a brief moment of disorientation, and then Sam found himself standing in an antechamber as the swirling blue-green miasma dissipated around them. The room was impossibly large with gleaming metal surfaces and ornate light fixtures hanging from a ceiling at least a hundred feet above them. 

Before Sam could properly scrutinize their surroundings, Optimus was stepping forward to greet two unfamiliar mechanoids. Sam couldn’t help but stare in surprise. The strangers were easily the tallest mechanoids that he had ever seen in his life. They were also identical, each plated entirely in white with deep red accents along their pauldrons and an ornate maedate on their helms. Sam’s eyes were immediately drawn to the halberds they were both holding. The weapons were somehow taller than the mechanoids themselves and ended in long pointed blades that glowed red in the mellow light. 

As Optimus rumbled something in greeting, Sam became aware of the others taking their positions behind them. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm everyone had made it through the ground bridge, when one of the strangers stepped forward and said something in Cybertronian. Sam jerked around, glancing first at the stranger and then at Optimus. The older Prime shook his helm and intoned something in reply. The stranger rumbled in acknowledgement, before turning to peer down at Sam. He seemed to consider him for a moment, and then he repeated his question. 

Sam flushed under the stranger’s scrutiny, but before he could flounder, Bumblebee pressed into his mind, translating for him. 

//He asks, "Are there any weapons on your person?”//

The translation came quickly, even before the mechanoid had finished speaking. It was strange to hear the question asked twice, first in NeoCybex and then again in English. It took a moment for Sam to parse his meaning, and then he shook his head. 

“No,” he managed faintly. 

The Primesguard—and it was a Primesguard, Sam knew with certainty—inclined his helm as his partner stepped forward to inspect the others. The stranger was far less courteous in his ministrations than his partner had been with Sam and Optimus. First, he initiated a sensor sweep of the group, then he unspooled a hardline from somewhere inside his chassis and jacked into each mechanoid in turn. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him, for when he finished, he turned and rumbled to his companion, “They are unarmed, First in Service.” 

Again, the words came twice—first in NeoCybex, and then again in English. Sam’s brow knit together in confusion. He had no idea what First in Service was supposed to mean. 

//It’s the closest approximation offered by the lexicon,// Bumblebee explained, an undercurrent of irritation in his tone. //The glyph doesn’t render directly to English.//

Sam watched as the second Primesguard rejoined his companion. //Well, what's it mean?//

//The role doesn’t have a direct comparison,// Bumblebee replied. //He is Sentinel Prime’s senior-most Primesguard, but he also manages aspects of his Household.// There was a thoughtful pause. //Maybe seneschal would be a better translation, but that’s not quite right either.//

Sam’s chest tightened with anxiety. Their situation was serious enough — the possibility of accidental offense caused by a mistranslation had never even crossed his mind. 

Sam was saved the trouble of worrying about it by the First in Service, who crossed one arm over his chassis and bent at the waist. As soon as he straightened to his full height, the two Primesguard turned on their heels and started towards the tall doors on the opposite wall. Sam glanced uncertainly at Optimus, who met his gaze and inclined his helm, before gesturing meaningfully towards the two mechanoids. Sam released an unsteady breath, and then he started after them. Optimus kept pace at his side, and the others fell into place behind them.

The antechamber was long and narrow with alcoves set in even intervals along both walls. Sam glanced sidelong at them as he walked. Each alcove housed an ornate sculpture — statues and busts mostly, but there was an abstract piece that looked as though it was made from shards of broken glass. Each was different in terms of pose and adornment, but they were all life-sized and detailed. Some were made of metal, others were made of a pale stone that might have been marble or mother-of-pearl. Sam’s heart ached at the sight. They were perhaps the last remnants of a shared culture that had spanned millions of years before the Great War. 

As they approached the doors that would, ostensibly, lead them to Sentinel Prime, Sam carefully reached out towards the neural network — and then he jerked back. The neural space was thrumming with the presence of an impossible number of mechanoids. He couldn’t hope to count them all, but there were easily hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. They lit up the neural space in a complicated mixture of impression and emotion and sensation that left him reeling. Sam hastily pushed his firewalls back into place, causing the all-encompassing press of the neural network to recede to a distant hum. 

The two Primesguard stopped in front of the entryway. The doors were a burnished, brassy metal that extended almost to the ceiling far above them. Sam craned his neck so that he could look. The metal was etched in an intricate design of the Seven Primes. Their visages faced each other—one on the left door, the next on the right—extending from the floor to the ceiling with Prima at the very top. Each Prime was surrounded by a delicate pattern of whorls and geometric shapes that almost resembled a halo or a crown. The two Primesguard stepped forward, pressing their servos against the doorframe. The metal glowed blue beneath their digits, and then the doors were slowly sinking through the floor. 

Sam’s heart started beating faster in his chest as the room within was slowly revealed. It was long, like the antechamber in which they stood, but it was far larger — massive, even by Cybertronian standards. There was an aisle that ran down the center of the room, extending from the entryway on one side to a raised white stone dais on the other. The walls were lined with tall gothic-style windows that offered an unobstructed view of space. As the doors finally slotted into the floor, Sam realized the room was crowded with mechanoids on both sides of the aisle. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. It was many times more mechanoids than he had ever seen in his life. 

Sam’s attention was pulled back to the two Primesguards as they took their positions on either side of the entryway. They were so similar in appearance and they were standing so still that Sam might have mistaken them for statues, had he not known otherwise. He stared at them, waiting for some indication of what they were supposed to do, when there was a gentle touch inside his mind. Sam half-turned, following the mental trail, to find Optimus watching him with an expression of tolerant understanding on his face. 

//We may enter whenever you are ready,// Prime murmured. 

Sam looked up at him for a moment longer, before turning to face the audience hall. Some of the mechanoids nearest to the entryway had turned to regard them, but otherwise, no one seemed to acknowledge their presence. It was very quiet. There was no announcement, no murmur of hushed conversation, no trumpets or choral music. The only thing that Sam could hear was the distant rumble of the ship’s engines and the sound of his own anxious breathing. 

Somehow, he found the strength to start walking. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and keeping his head held high. Optimus walked beside him, adjusting his gait to account for Sam’s shorter stride. Sam was aware of the intense scrutiny from the assembled mechanoids they passed, but he kept his eyes fixed steadfastly ahead. Sentinel Prime rose from his throne on the dais as they approached, two more Primesguard standing in a parade rest behind him. Sentinel was tall — taller even than Optimus — and plated entirely in vibrant Primal red. Even from a distance, Sam could tell that his armor was more ornamental than practical. The panels were all clean lines and tapered metal, polished to a shine with no evidence of wear. Despite that, Sentinel was holding a massive warhammer in one servo. The shaft was taller even than he was, and the hammerhead was made of gleaming, golden metal beset with intricate whorls. The older Prime leaned heavily on the shaft, almost like a walking stick, as he stepped forward to stand at the head of the flared staircase leading to the top of the dais.

Sam and Optimus came to a stop a short distance away. This close to one another, Sam could make out the linked chains of metal on Sentinel’s face that almost resembled a beard. The older Prime peered down at them for a long, weighted moment, and then he began to speak. 

“Blessings upon you, Optimus Prime, Bearer of Holy Wisdom,” he rumbled, voice echoing around the vast audience hall. 

It took Sam a moment to realize that he could understand what Sentinel was saying, even without Bumblebee translating for him. It took him a moment longer to realize that was because the older Prime was speaking in the Primal Vernacular, not English. 

Optimus inclined his head in greeting, “And to you, Sentinel Prime, sovereign leader of Cybertron and Steward of the Holy Covenant.” 

Sentinel seemed to consider him for a moment longer, and then he lifted his head and spoke, addressing the assembled masses. “‘In the beginning and unto the end, there is Primus. The First and the Last. So great was his solitude in the Time Before that Primus created the First Spark, which he named beloved above all others, Prima, the warrior of light, and in doing so, the cosmos rejoiced.’” As Sentinel spoke, his gaze swept across the vast assembly hall. “‘Primus heard the Litany of the Stars and knew it was good. Together, Primus and Prima brought forth six more sparks, and with each one, the universe grew brighter and more magnificent.’” 

Sam risked a glance up at Optimus. The former Autobot leader was standing in stoic silence, optics dimmed and head bowed, and all at once, Sam realized that Sentinel wasn’t monologuing, he was praying. 

“‘But as the light of the Seven spread across the cosmos, an evil stirred — the Great Destroyer, Unicron, had awoken — for although the light warms all its touches, so too does it illuminate the darkness.'" Sentinel turned his head to regard Prime. “These are our sacred words.” 

“They are,” Optimus agreed softly. 

“Then justify your actions, Optimus Prime,” Sentinel intoned. “For what you have done has violated the most sacred tenets of our Holy Covenant.” 

The words were spoken smoothly and without any indication of anger, but Sam had the strong suspicion that Sentinel wasn’t utilizing the nonverbal pack — if he had even received it in the first place. The older Prime’s face was devoid of microexpressions or emotion, and his demeanor was impossible to read. Sam swallowed, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. He had no idea what Sentinel was feeling. The older Prime might have been in a black rage or bored out of his mind, Sam had no way of knowing. 

“I have provided an accounting of all that transpired in your absence,” Optimus replied, lowering his chin. 

Sam’s heart was racing inside his chest as he glanced up to gauge Sentinel’s reaction. The older Prime’s expression remained unchanged except for a slight narrowing of his optics. “Yes, that is true, and the accounting was long indeed. A civil uprising that led to full-scale war; our cities bombed to ash and our planet razed to the ground; millions upon millions dead or scattered to the stars; and the Allspark, the Blue Star, the last hope of Cybertron, lost in the darkness.” Sentinel pinned Optimus beneath his gaze, as though daring the younger Prime to contradict him. “Our people have survived much throughout our long history, Optimus Prime, but it remains to be seen whether they will survive you.” 

Optimus bowed his head so deeply that his chin almost touched his chest plates, and then he lowered onto one knee. Sam’s heart skipped a beat as the panels on Prime’s chest peeled away, one at a time, to reveal the Matrix of Leadership. The ancient relic slowly floated forward to rotate in place halfway between the two Primes. A low murmur passed through the crowd assembled behind them. Sam hesitated, unsure whether he should kneel as well, when Optimus brushed against his mind. The touch was laden with signifiers of caution and restraint, and so Sam remained on his feet.

“All you say is true,” Optimus murmured. 

Sentinel’s optics fixated on the Matrix of Leadership, which was casting fractals of blue light across the smooth metal floor. He seemed to consider the relic for a moment, and then he lifted his chin to speak — but he never got the chance. The heavy silence was suddenly interrupted by a distant shriek of outrage, which caused Sam to startle in surprise. He turned on his heel, staring incredulously back towards the antechamber. At first, nothing happened, and then Starscream appeared in the entryway. Sam heard a soft ex-vent from somewhere nearby, although whether it had come from Optimus or Sentinel, he couldn’t have guessed. 

The Decepticon swept down the aisle, the click of his heels deafening in the silence.  Starscream’s wings were flared outwards and his helm held high as Thundercracker, Skywarp, and Soundwave followed in his wake. The crowd began to murmur animatedly to one another, but Starscream didn’t deign to look at them. He unceremoniously pushed between Ironhide and Kup as he passed, and then came to a stop directly between Sam and Optimus. Sam hastily stepped aside to avoid getting clipped by the Seeker’s long wings. Starscream and Sentinel seemed to measure one another up, and then Starscream spread his arms wide and bowed deeply from the waist. 

“Sentinel Prime,” he simpered, pressing both servos over his spark. “Glory of the Skies to you.” 

Sam grimaced faintly at the abrupt switch back to NeoCybex and Bumblebee’s accompanying translation. It was disorienting to hear the words spoken one on top of another, like a feedback loop or an echo. 

Sentinel’s expression remained devoid of emotion as he regarded Starscream prostrated before him. “And to you, Prince of Vos.” 

“Forgive my lateness, Your Grace,” Starscream continued, angling his head to look at Sentinel without rising from his bow. “I only just learned of this assemblage.” 

Sentinel’s mouth plates tightened briefly, as though in displeasure. “You were not summoned.”

“I am a Prince of Vos — it is my right and privilege to attend,” Starscream smoothly replied. 

Sentinel narrowed his optics. “This is a temple matter, winglord. It does not concern you.” 

Starscream’s wings twitched towards his body, before spreading out again. Sam was familiar enough with the body language of the Seeker-class to recognize genuine irritation when he saw it. He frowned behind the environmental mask. He wasn’t sure what part of Sentinel’s reply had caused offense. Was it the exclusion? Or the title?

“On the contrary, Your Grace, the accounting of Optimus Prime concerns us all,” Starscream demurred. 

Sentinel Prime’s optics flashed as he drew up to his full height. “You would dare? You, a Prince of Vos, who spurned his privilege and swore fealty to the Usurper, have the gall to speak of hearing and judgment?”  

Sam’s mouth went completely dry at the naked enmity in the older Prime’s voice. He didn’t know whether Sentinel was utilizing the nonverbal language pack to emphasize his point, or whether he was so incensed that it came through in his tone. Sam took a cautious step to the side, trying to put more distance between himself and Starscream in case the Seeker thought to do something foolish, but to his surprise, Starscream seemed unphased by the accusation. 

“Our choice was taken from us,” Starscream retorted. “Vos remained neutral until the Autobots destroyed the Spires.” He glanced sidelong at the assembled crowd, his optics moving from one mechanoid to another, before turning to look at Sentinel. “There is not a single Vosian alive today who would condemn me for it.” 

“There are far fewer alive today to do so,” Sentinel bit out. 

Starscream waved his servo, as though brushing aside the words. “Every lost Vosian spark was repaid a thousandfold with Autobot dead.” 

Sentinel rumbled deep inside his chassis as his optics slid slowly, purposefully, down Starscream’s body to linger on the Decepticon insignia soldered to his chest. “And once the Spires were avenged? What then, Air Commander?”

Starscream snorted expressively. “The war stopped being about functionism long before Vos joined the fighting. You have the records — you know there are upper-caste mecha in both factions. The conflict began because of an assassination attempt that drove Megatronus insane, and then it became about revenge.” Starscream twitched his wings in the equivalent of a shrug. “Vos joined the Decepticons to mete out retribution for the Spires, Polyhex and Nova Cronum joined the Autobots in retaliation for the attacks on Harmonex, and on it went until the dead outnumbered the living, and then it was just about survival.”  

“Do not prevaricate, Air Commander,” Sentinel growled. “Your factions reduced the planet to ashes, and for what purpose? A tenuous peace brokered after eons of suffering?” 

“Don’t be so reductionist,” Starscream sniffed. “The war was inevitable.”  

“Inevitable?” Sentinel repeated, narrowing his optics, “Had I been in the Senate, it would—” 

“But you weren’t in the Senate, as I recall,” Starscream interrupted mildly. “You disappeared into unchartered space with two dozen warships and half the Iaconian garrison. The rest of us were left to choose between a feral warframe and a naïve Prime too weak to put down the rebellion. As Decepticon second-in-command, I was able to temper Megatron’s wrath. I made the choice for the good of our people.” 

Sam’s eyes were drawn to Sentinel’s servo, which curled and uncurled at his side. “You chose the Usurper over the Senate — over the Primacy. You dare justify your actions to me?” 

“By your own indictment, Optimus Prime has committed many sins against the Covenant,” Starscream retorted. “What else was I supposed to do?”

Sam flushed in outrage at the casual deprecation. His eyes fell to Optimus, who had lifted his helm to watch the exchange, but the older Prime made no move to argue or defend himself. In front of him, the Matrix of Leadership hung suspended in mid-air, casting fractals of light across the polished floor. 

“We are not here to discuss your actions, winglord,” Sentinel ground out. “Autobots and Decepticons alike will be brought to task for the destruction they wrought. Cybertron in ruins, the Allspark destroyed, countless dead—” 

“Lost perhaps, but not destroyed,” Optimus interrupted from where he knelt on the floor. Sentinel’s optics narrowed dangerously, but Optimus continued on, weathering his anger. “The Cube was merely a vessel. The Allspark is safe.” 

Sam’s heart climbed up into his throat as he found himself the sudden object of Sentinel Prime’s scrutiny. The wizened old mechanoid peered down at him with narrowed optics, all but pinning him in place.

“Ah yes, the boy,” Sentinel intoned cooly. “I thought Xaaron had taken leave of his senses when I received his report.” 

“As you can see, he has spoken the truth,” Optimus rumbled in reply. 

Sentinel’s mouthplates pinched in displeasure. He seemed to consider Sam for a moment, and then he asked, “And by what designation does Primus know you, little one?” 

It took Sam a moment to realize that Sentinel had switched back to the Primal Vernacular. Sam anxiously wet his lips, but he didn’t agonize over his response. He already knew the answer — the Matrix of Leadership had shown him. 

“Samuel Prime, Your Grace,” he managed, hating how treacherously small his voice sounded. 

Sam’s pronouncement was met with an agitated murmur from the crowd. It took all of his mental fortitude to tip his chin up and look Sentinel directly in the face — unflinchingly and without compunction.

The older Prime stared down at him, his gaze measured and intense. “That remains to be seen.” 

Optimus released a sharp ex-vent. “Sentinel—” 

“And what proof of this blasphemy?” someone cried from the crowd. 

“Sacrilege!” shouted another voice. 

Others began to call out, their voices raised in outrage and disbelief, as Sentinel watched on in silence. Sam turned anxious eyes towards Optimus, looking for some indication as to what he should do, but the older Prime’s optics were fixed on Sentinel. Eventually, and only once the clamor had reached a fever-pitch, Sentinel raised his servo. It was a simple gesture but an imminently effective one, plunging the room into silence. 

“We all bear witness to the energy signature residing inside this… organic vessel,” Sentinel rumbled, causing Sam’s anxiety to spike. “I know not whether this is a miracle or a sacrilege, nor what wisdom guided His hand to make it so.”  

Sam swallowed thickly around the knot in his throat. Optimus’ words about vessels and autonomy returned to him in force, and he knew, deep in his gut, that this did not bode well for him. He cast his mind back, reflecting on all that had happened since they arrived. Sentinel had greeted both Optimus and Starscream by name and rank, but he had ignored Sam entirely until he was brought to the older Prime’s attention — and even then, he referred to Sam only in diminutives. Little one, boy, organic. 

All at once, it occurred to Sam that the audience was going much worse than he realized. 

“Yes, yes, Primus works in mysterious ways,” Starscream was saying by the time Sam tuned back into the conversation, “I’m glad you got the memo.” 

Sentinel’s optics narrowed into slits. “You go too far, winglord.” 

Starscream folded his servos over his spark and dipped his wings. “I intend no disrespect, of course. I am merely observing that when the Cube was destroyed, at Optimus Prime’s express command, the Allspark found another vessel.”

“That is more an indictment of Optimus Prime’s suitability, rather than an indication of the boy’s,” Sentinel snapped.

“I defer to your wisdom in all things, my Prime,” Starscream demurred, sweeping into a bow. 

Sentinel narrowed his optics again, before lifting his head to peer out at the crowd. Suddenly, and with a conviction Sam could not explain, he knew the older Prime was about to render judgment. He was just as sure that he couldn’t let that happen. 

Without giving it conscious thought, Sam found himself blurting, “Sentinel.” At once, he found himself pinned beneath the older Prime’s heated gaze. “What they say is true.” 

“The Holy Steward has not addressed you, boy,” Starscream hissed. 

Sam lifted his chin and said, quietly but definitively, “I am the things they claim.” 

There was a loud titter of Cybertronian from somewhere nearby. Sam ignored it. 

Sentinel’s expression was impossible to read, but his optics were glowing with restrained emotion. “Is that so?” 

Sam met his gaze without compunction. “Yes.” 

Sentinel stared down at him for a long moment. Despite the way that Sam’s heart was hammering inside his chest, he weathered the scrutiny as directly as he could. He was aware of the growing agitation of the crowd, but he tried to put them out of his mind. He knew that Sentinel Prime was the only one who mattered right now.

Eventually, the older Prime cocked his head, as though in consideration. “Have you studied our sacred texts? Do you know our words?” 

“No,” Sam was forced to reply. 

“Then perhaps you do not know the impiety of that which you speak,” Sentinel Prime said in a deceptively mild voice. 

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t dare risk a glance at Optimus, though he desperately wished for the older Prime’s guidance. He knew that he was treading on dangerously thin ice, and their success or failure would depend on whether Sentinel accepted his claim to the Primacy, just as he knew that he would not be the only one to suffer if he did not. 

“I may not know the scriptures yet, but I know that I was chosen — the Primes told me so before they gave me the Matrix of Leadership.” Sam’s voice was treacherously uneven as he added, “It would show you, if you looked.” 

Sentinel’s expression was perfectly opaque. “The Matrix of Leadership is not a clockwork mechanism.”

Sam’s anxiety spiked. He almost choked on it. “I’m sorry… I don’t understand.” 

Sentinel made an impatient sound inside his intakes. “Does the phrase not gloss well to your language? Clockwork mechanism. That through which truth is revealed in due process.” 

//He means a litmus test, kid,// Jazz translated wryly. 

Sam pushed appreciation at Jazz without care as to how loud it might be. “No, it’s not,” he agreed earnestly, “But it is the repository of holy wisdom. The lineage of the Covenant. I know because I’ve seen it.” 

The flash of movement out of the corner of Sam’s eye caused him to startle badly in surprise. He turned in time to see a tall mechanoid push his way to the front of the crowd. The stranger prostrated himself by going to one knee and bracing his servos flat against the floor. 

“Holy Steward, please, do not suffer us to hear anymore,” he entreated. “There can be no truth to these claims.” 

The crowd murmured and shifted, once again growing restless. 

“Sentinel, I accept your right to render judgment on me, freely and without reservation,” Optimus said, cutting off the older Prime’s reply. “But all we have said is true, witnessed by Autobots and Decepticons alike and corroborated by those loyal to you. First Emirate Xaaron, Legate Crossblades, and Chief Medical Officer Meltdown can all attest to the Allspark energy regenerating inside this man’s body, a feat made possible by his claim to the Primacy.” 

Sentinel’s optics narrowed to azure slits, but he said nothing. The silence was interrupted as someone shouted from somewhere in the crowd, “Impossible!”

“All evidence to the contrary,” Optimus rumbled, meeting Sentinel’s heated gaze directly. 

“Evidence? What evidence have you provided?” Sentinel sneered. “A handful of inanimate shards and a trace energy signature. That is not evidence — it is heresy.” Optimus opened his mouth to reply, but Sentinel raised his servo, cutting him off. “You speak of evidence, then let us have evidence.” The older Prime turned, pinning Sam with an exacting look. “Show us what miracles you can perform. Touch the Well.” 

Sam’s insides turned to ice. “Wh-what?” 

At the same time, Optimus pushed to his feet, his faceplates tight with restrained emotion. “That is an unfair trial, Sentinel.” 

The older Prime turned his head, spearing Optimus with a hard look. "You claim he has rebuked death twice already. What is once more?” His face twisted in a deep grimace. “After all, it is not as though we are lacking the dead to choose from.” 

A high-pitched ringing was building in Sam’s ears. It wasn’t fair. Even he knew that Primes didn’t command Primus — they could only ask of him. He was distantly aware of the sound of raised voices, but the words seemed very far away. What if it didn’t work? What then? Sam’s breath started coming faster. Oh God. What if it did? 

Something moved out of the corner of Sam’s eye. He slowly turned his head to find Ravage slinking through the crowd. He watched as the cyber cat made her way between the assembled mechanoids, narrowly avoiding getting stepped on as they shifted back and forth, jostling one another in their agitation. He followed her progression through the crowd as the argument raged on in front of him. She briefly disappeared behind a massive mechanoid with pauldrons that fanned across his chest plates like feathers, before appearing again a short distance ahead. Inexplicably, the sight of her calmed the panic that was twisting up his insides. The cyber cat slunk behind a tall stone pillar, before settling in an empty alcove. Her body blended into the shadows except for her single red optic, which was just visible in the darkness.

“Hello you,” Sam breathed. 

He felt the slightest thrum inside his mind — a shared memory of loss and residual grief. After Jazz had told Sam about Frenzy and Rumble, Sam had tried to express his sympathy to Ravage during their next lesson. She had stared at him for a long moment, before murmuring, almost too softly for him to hear, “Forgive me, Sam. I cannot speak of it.” 

Ravage never said another word about it, and so neither did Sam.  

“Rumble,” Sam murmured, almost like a revelation. 

“Sam,” Optimus called softly. 

Sam jerked back to himself. The room had gone still and quiet again. He raised his head to find Optimus and Starscream staring down at him. Optimus’ expression was difficult to interpret, but there was no mistaking the surprise on Starscream’s face. Even Sentinel seemed to be regarding Sam with a sudden and disconcerting interest. 

Sam wet his lips, eyes darting back to where Ravage was sitting, but she had already slipped away into the crowd. Sam stared at the empty alcove for a moment longer, before turning to look at Sentinel Prime with sudden determination.

“Rumble,” he repeated firmly. Even as the name left his lips, he knew it was the right decision. “That’s who I choose.” 

Sentinel tipped his head to the side, as though in contemplation. “There are others who—” 

“No,” Sam said, cutting off whatever the older Prime was about to say. “It’s Rumble.” 

To Sam’s mingled relief and surprise, the older Prime didn’t argue with him. Instead, Sentinel seemed to consider him for a long moment, and then he dipped his head in acknowledgement. 

“Then it shall be so.” 

 

---

 

After that, things happened very quickly. 

Sam was taken to a sacristy located a short distance from the audience hall. It was a relatively small and modest room without much adornment. There was a narrow cabinet against one wall and a tapestry hanging on another that looked as though it might have been woven from organic fiber, though Sam didn’t recognize the scene it depicted. Otherwise, the room was barren except for a polished stone altar located in the center of the floor. The combined effect gave the space a cold, unused feeling. 

Optimus carefully set Sam on his feet at one end of the altar, giving him a clear vantage as others filed into the room. Sentinel came first, followed by a procession of four mechanoids plated entirely in gleaming white armor. The strangers each wore an unusual helmet that covered their faces except for a narrow slit at the level of their optics. To Sam’s surprise, they also wore long, white cloaks that flowed behind them as they took their positions around the room. 

Sentinel and his entourage were followed by Starscream and Soundwave. The Air Commander stepped into the room with a suspicious glance at the nearest white-plated mechanoid, before taking his position beside Optimus a short distance from the altar. Lastly, Meltdown stepped into the room, looking out-of-place and unsure. The medic stepped off to the side, clearly trying to make himself unobtrusive, as one of the white-plated mechanoids pulled the door shut behind him.

Sam glanced uncertainly at Optimus. “What about the others?” 

“The sacristy is not for them,” Sentinel replied, circumventing whatever Optimus might have said. He stepped up to the altar, before turning to regard Soundwave. “You may approach.” 

The communications specialist came forward at Sentinel’s command. Sam watched as he raised his servos to the level of his chest plates and sub-spaced a small bundle. Soundwave carefully placed the bundle atop the altar, before pulling the metal mesh aside. Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Rumble was small, even by cassette standards, perhaps even shorter than Sam himself. The little mecha was plated in dark metal that had been meticulously, painstakingly, cleaned and adorned with funerary art. Sam’s heart ached at the obvious display of mourning laid out in front of him. 

“So young,” Sentinel murmured, real dismay in his voice. “Such a terrible waste.” 

The older Prime stared down at the little body for a moment longer, and then he turned to rumble something to one of the white-plated mechanoids. Sam glanced up at Soundwave. The former Decepticon was staring at Rumble in stoic silence, and Sam didn’t need a neural connection to understand the depth of his grief. 

“I’m sorry in advance if this doesn’t work,” Sam murmured. 

At first, Soundwave gave no indication that he had heard him. After a moment or two, however, the Decepticon angled his head just far enough to meet Sam’s gaze.

“Appreciation: not predicated on your success,” he intoned softly.

Before Sam could say anything in reply, Sentinel Prime turned around again. He glanced down at the scene in front of him, before raising his servos to the level of his chest and calling forth the Matrix of Leadership. The ancient relic floated into the space between his servos, casting blue light across the small room.

The moment stretched on, second ticking by in silence, as Sam waited for Sentinel to push the Matrix towards him. Eventually, the older Prime gave him a pointed look. 

“Well?” 

Sam flushed hotly in embarrassment, before reaching out and calling the Matrix to him. To his intense relief, the artifact responded immediately, drifting through the air towards him. Sam lifted his hands so the relic could slot into the space between his palms. He stared down at it for a long moment. The delicate filigrees of metal formed a lattice around the pulsing blue singularity that would ultimately decide what was about to happen. 

“In your own time, Sam,” Optimus murmured. 

Sam glanced sidelong at the older Prime, who offered him a small smile in support. Sam slid his gaze back to the Matrix of Leadership, and then he blew out a long, slow breath. 

“Well, here goes nothing,” he muttered. 

Sam reached out, pressing his fingertips against the cool metal. 

Unlike with Jazz, there was no darkness, no free-falling into nothingness, just a sudden, strange lurching sensation, and then the little body in front of him spasmed against the altar as his spark blossomed to life. Sam knew a split-second of profound relief, and then Rumble’s optics snapped open. The little cassette burst into motion with an ear-piercing squeal of Cybertronian, knocking Sam backwards as he leapt to his feet. 

Immediately, Soundwave pushed forward, speaking sharply in Cybertronian as he pressed two digits against the glass panel on his chest. Rumble whirled around, optics landing on Soundwave in an instant, before chattering a long, loud string of Cybertronian. Again, Soundwave tapped two digits against his chest plates, more insistently this time, and Rumble leapt into the air, transforming down into a vaguely cube-shaped mass, before somehow disappearing inside Soundwave’s chassis. 

There was a brief moment of stunned silence, and then all hell broke loose. 

Starscream started shrieking something at Soundwave, who was standing with his servo pressed protectively against the glass panel on his chest. Optimus was saying something to him, but Sam couldn’t hear him over the sound of his pulse thundering in his ears. Sentinel's entourage were talking urgently to one another, their voices pitched to be heard over the clamor, and then there was the sound of pounding footsteps from somewhere outside. 

Meltdown pushed forward, stepping around more of the white-paneled mechanoids who were pouring into the room, so he could approach the altar. He immediately initiated a medical scan, sweeping Sam from head to toe with a too-familiar blue light. 

“I’m fine,” Sam managed, offering Meltdown and Optimus a wan smile. “It was easier this time. At least I didn’t pass—oh.” 

He didn’t even get to finish his sentence before his vision began to swim. He reached blindly for Meltdown’s holoform, which had materialized in front of him with a concerned pinch to its mouth. "Nevermind," Sam croaked, and then the room slid sideways as his legs gave out beneath him.

The last thing that he saw before darkness spread across his vision was Sentinel Prime staring down at him with something sharp and shrewd in his expression. 

Notes:

Author's Note: Congratulations Sam on acquiring one (1) new foul-mouthed baby brother. The card's in the mail.

Chapter 27

Notes:

Chapter Warning: Canon-typical violence

INTERLUDE

I. Jazz

The audience with Sentinel was going about as well as Jazz expected – which was to say it was a total clusterfuck. He shifted on his pedes, glancing discretely around the hall. The upper-caste mecha were jostling one another in their impatience, and the press of so many mechanoids was starting to make Jazz feel twitchy. He resisted the urge to press a servo flat against the sub-space pocket next to his spark casing, which contained two of his blades. Sentinel’s Primesguard had missed it when they frisked him. It was the only body mod that his former Master had installed for which Jazz was thankful. In eight million years, only Prowler had been able to find it against his will – and that had taken days of Jazz playing hard to get.

(Or, as Prowler recalled it, days of “frankly aggravating resistance to interrogation”.)

Tomato, to-mah-toe.  

Jazz was only half-listening as Starscream started bickering with Sentinel. He scanned the room, visor obscuring his field of vision as he calculated their exit strategies. The audience hall had two access points — the main entrance, through which they had entered, and a small door behind the dais. Neither was particularly appealing as a last resort. As far as Jazz could see, they had two options if things kept going south: fight their way to the antechamber under the protection of Trailbreaker’s force fields and hope Soundwave could hack the ground bridge (not ideal), or hand Sam off to Skywarp and hope he’d survive the warp-flight off the ship (less ideal – even if he did, Bumblebee would still be vulnerable.) 

Jazz’s attention was pulled back to the present by Sam, who took a faltering step forward. 

“Sentinel,” Sam called out, “What they say is true.” 

Jazz resisted the urge to grimace as Sentinel’s full attention landed on the kid. The older Prime’s optics narrowed as he regarded the little organic in front of him, and the intensity of that gaze had Jazz’s situational protocols pinging in alarm. 

Evidentially, Starscream recognized the danger as well, because he snapped his head to the side, wings held stiff, and hissed, “The Holy Steward has not addressed you, boy.” 

Sam ignored him, lifting his chin to say, softly but definitively, “I am the things they claim.” 

In front of them, Sentinel’s optics brightened with tightly leashed anger. “Is that so?” 

Jazz’s spark tightened inside his chest. He recognized that look — half challenge, half warning. He had seen it on his former Master’s face more times than he cared to remember, and it had never preceded anything good. 

Sam returned Sentinel’s gaze without flinching. “Yes.” 

For the second time in as many kliks, Jazz resisted the urge to grimace. Sam was too young and too inexperienced to understand the impudence of his actions – but Sentinel wouldn’t see it that way. Jazz took a moment to feed the most recent data into his tactical software, and when the results returned a moment later, he internalized a sigh. The new projections weren’t particularly encouraging. 

A sudden spike of anxiety had Jazz glancing towards Sam again. It took him less than an astro-second to realize that the lexicon hadn’t translated Sentinel’s phrasing correctly. 

//He means a litmus test, kid,// Jazz offered wryly.

The accompanying wave of appreciation made Jazz’s mouth plates twitch despite himself, but his amusement was short-lived. A tall mechanoid shouldered through the crowd a short distance away, and Jazz’s servo went instinctively to his hip, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The mechanoid went to his knees, prostrating himself in front of Sentinel, his electromagnetic fields flaring and dimming with emotion. 

“Holy Steward, please, do not suffer us to hear anymore,” he beseeched, bowing his helm. “There can be no truth to these claims.” 

Jazz resisted the urge to roll his optics. Pits, upper-caste mecha could be so dramatic. 

Optimus lifted his head, speaking before the older Prime could reply. “Sentinel, I accept your right to render judgment on me, freely and without reservation, but all we have said is true, witnessed by Autobots and Decepticons alike and corroborated by those loyal to you. First Emirate Xaaron, Legate Crossblades, and Chief Medical Officer Meltdown can all attest to the Allspark energy regenerating inside this man’s body, a feat made possible by his claim to the Primacy.” 

The low murmur that had been steadily building since they arrived was punctuated by angry cries and exclamations throughout the crowd. 

“Impossible!” shouted a small femme near the podium.

Jazz sized her up in an instant. Minimal armament, no weaponry. Not a threat. 

“All evidence to the contrary,” Optimus rumbled, meeting Sentinel’s heated gaze directly. 

“Evidence? What evidence have you provided?” Sentinel sneered. “A handful of inanimate shards and a trace energy signature. That is not evidence — it is heresy.” Optimus opened his mouth to reply, but Sentinel raised his servo, cutting him off. “You speak of evidence, then let us have evidence.” The older Prime turned, pinning Sam beneath his gaze. “Show us what miracles you can perform. Touch the Well.” 

Sam visibly blanched. “Wh-what?” 

At the same time, Optimus pushed to his feet. “That is an unfair trial, Sentinel.” 

The older Prime turned his head, spearing Optimus with a hard look. "You claim he has rebuked death twice already. What is once more?” His face twisted in a deep grimace. “After all, it is not as though we are lacking the dead to choose from.”

For the first time since entering the audience hall, Optimus’ electromagnetic fields roiled with barely restrained emotion. “Surely, there are other tests—” 

“None so definitive as this,” Sentinel interrupted. 

Optimus frowned deeply. “Primes do not command of Primus, Sentinel, we can only—” 

“Do not quote scripture to me, Optimus Prime,” Sentinel warned coldly. “I will not suffer it. Not from you.” 

Before Optimus could reply, the Matrix of Leadership flared brightly, causing its blue glow to spread across the audience hall. Optimus and Sentinel turned in unison, their expressions mirror images of surprise, to regard the ancient artifact. The Matrix was rotating slowly in place, equidistant between them, brightening and dimming in a steady rhythm. The agitated murmuring of the crowd trailed off as its light grew brighter and more magnificent with each pulse.

Jazz’s attention was momentarily arrested by an incoming ping from Cliffjumper, which appeared on his visual display flagged with highest priority signifiers. Jazz accepted the connection immediately. //What is it?//

//It’s Sam,// Cliffjumper replied without preamble, his voice strained. //Something’s wrong.//

Jazz glanced in Sam’s direction. The kid was standing in the same spot near the podium, but unlike every other person in the audience hall, he wasn’t looking at the Matrix of Leadership. Instead, he was visibly tracking something through the crowd. Jazz half-turned, following his line of sight, but he couldn’t see whatever had caught the kid’s attention. Not quite sure what to expect, Jazz keyed up his extended sensory array — and then he blinked in surprise. Sam’s biometrics were reading base-line normal across the board. Heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature, respiration, all normal. The realization made Jazz’s fuel lines run cold. He glanced at Optimus, who was watching the Matrix of Leadership in consternation. 

//Boss?// he pinged. //I think we might have a situation here.//

Immediately, Optimus turned, first to regard Jazz, who tipped his head towards the kid, and then to regard Sam. Prime’s face tightened in concern, before he took a step closer. 

“Sam?” he murmured. 

Sam gave no indication of having heard him. He was staring at something on the far side of the audience hall, his brow furrowed as though in deep thought. Jazz followed the kid’s line of sight for a second time, but he still couldn’t see anything that would account for Sam’s unwavering focus. He glanced sidelong at Bumblebee, who was watching Sam with an anxious cant to his door wings. Wordlessly, Jazz sent a status query. Bumblebee’s optics flicked briefly to his face, before he shook his helm in reply. 

Optimus lowered into a loose crouch in front of Sam, who gave no indication he was aware of his presence. “Sam? Can you hear me?” 

Starscream, who was watching the goings-on with a tight frown, glanced sidelong at Prime. “What is it? What’s happening?” 

Optimus’ brow furrowed slightly in consternation. “I don’t know,” he admitted. 

After a long moment, stretched almost to the breaking point by the oppressive silence that had fallen across the audience hall, Sam exhaled a soft breath. 

“Rumble,” he murmured, almost like a revelation. 

Optimus leaned closer. “Sam?” 

The kid seemed to come back to himself all at once. He glanced first at Optimus, his eyes flicking across the older Prime’s face, before he turned to look at Sentinel. Jazz immediately recognized the determined set of the kid’s shoulders — he had seen it for himself often enough, and Jazz found himself bracing for impact before the kid even opened his mouth.

“Rumble,” Sam repeated firmly. “That’s who I choose.” 

Sentinel’s earlier anger was no longer apparent. Instead, the older Prime was watching the scene unfold in front of him with an inscrutable expression on his face. “There are others who—” 

“No,” Sam said, cutting off whatever he was about to say — Jazz would have been impressed by the kid’s temerity, if their afts weren’t all on the line. “It’s Rumble.” 

Rather than the cold indignation Jazz might have expected, Sentinel seemed to consider Sam for a long moment, and then he dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Then it shall be so.” 

Sentinel turned, rumbling something inaudible to the two Primesguard who were standing on the dias. The nearest of the two postured deferentially, before they both turned and made their way through the door that Jazz had tagged earlier. The crowd shifted restlessly as Sentinel gestured for Optimus and Sam to join him. It took some doing — the steps weren’t exactly sized for humans. When they finally ascended the dais, there was a brief discussion, and then Sentinel turned to regard Soundwave, who was standing in stoic silence at the back of Starscream’s retinue. 

“Do you have the frame?” he asked, not unkindly. 

It took a long moment, but eventually, Soundwave inclined his helm. “Affirmative.” 

Jazz knew a brief moment of surprise. It was no secret that Soundwave greatly mourned Rumble’s loss, but Jazz wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to carry an inanimate frame in sub-space. It just wasn’t practical. Sub-space pockets were constrained by mass, rather than size or shape, and an in-tact frame – even the intact frame of a cassette – would have surely maxed-out his capacity. Even Jazz, who was prone to the occasional bout of sentimentality, wouldn’t sacrifice the sub-space needed for energon or weaponry, and especially not during a mission. 

Sentinel inclined his head. “Then come forward.” 

Thundercracker and Skywarp stepped aside as Soundwave started towards the dias. Starscream watched him with an unreadable expression on his face, which for Screamer probably meant that he was doing some serious thinking. As Soundwave made to start up the steps, Starscream took a step forward and swept into a low bow.

“I would accompany him, Your Grace,” Starscream demurred. “With your permission, of course.” 

Sentinel frowned down at him. “To what purpose?”

Starscream pressed a servo above his spark casing. “As a witness, Holy Steward – to spread the word of whatever happens here.” 

Sentinel ex-vented an undignified snort. “All and sundry will know of what happens here today, whatever that outcome may be. You are hardly needed.” 

From his vantage point, Jazz would see the way Starscream’s wings tightened fractionally in irritation, but otherwise the Seeker gave no indication of offense. “That is true, but as Megatron’s former second-in-command, the remaining Decepticon forces would be more likely to believe it coming from one of their own.” The winglord dipped lower into his bow. “Your Grace.” 

Sentinel stared down at Starscream for a long moment. Briefly, Jazz wondered whether the Seeker had overplayed his hand, but then the old Prime inclined his helm. “You may observe, if you wish.” Sentinel turned to go, before glancing over his shoulder. “In silence.” 

Starscream spread his arms wider in acknowledgement, before straightening from his bow. He glanced sidelong at Soundwave, faceplates tight, and then the two Decepticons made their way to the top of the dais, before following Sentinel and the others out of the room. Meltdown, who heretofore had been standing on his own, suddenly jerked, as though in surprise, and then he started forward. The CMO seemed apprehensive as he approached the dais, but as neither remaining Primesguard impeded his progress, he made his way up the steps, before disappearing after the two Decepticons.

As soon as the doors swung shut behind them, the crowd immediately broke out in animated conversation. Jazz glanced sidelong at the others. Cliffjumper had moved to stand beside Bumblebee, whose plating was tucked close to his frame in an obvious display of agitation. In Optimus’ absence, Kup and Ironhide repositioned themselves to flank them. Trailbreaker remained at Jazz’s side, his optics sliding over the crowd, vigilant and alert. Jazz ex-vented a long, slow release of air. Their situation had gone from bad to worse. Sam and Optimus, deep inside the Gauntlet, weaponless and surrounded by potentially hostile forces, being subjected to an unfair trial with little chance of success.

Oh, yeah. This was going swimmingly. 

With little else to do but wait, Jazz glanced around the assembly hall. There was a group of Vosian lords near the dais who looked none-too-pleased. The four mecha were huddled together, seemingly engaged in intense conversation, although Jazz couldn’t pick up anything from a cursory penn-test. He briefly debated pressing deeper, but he discarded the idea almost immediately. There were too many of Meister’s former clients in the crowd to risk revealing himself. Otherwise, the gathered mechanoids looked exactly like Jazz would have expected from Sentinel’s retinue. Polished. Poised. Powerful. 

“Wonderful,” Jazz sighed.

Trailbreaker glanced sidelong at him. //Sir?//

Jazz shook his helm minutely. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ out loud.” 

Whatever Trailbreaker might have said was forestalled by a sudden pulse of Allspark energy that rocked through the audience hall like a shockwave. Jazz was momentarily rendered blind and deaf until his internals compensated for the surge. When his vision finally cleared, audials still ringing with feedback, it was to find that the others in the audience hall had been similarly affected. The nobles and their ilk were leaning on one another and shaking their helms as they tried to regain their bearings. 

Prowl had grudgingly told him about the night of Jazz’s resurrection, but it was another thing entirely to experience it for himself – the air still thrumming with the touch of something divine. 

Jazz couldn’t prevent the small huff of disbelieving laughter that escaped him. Attaboy.

The nobles’ disorientation lasted for about three astroseconds – and Jazz knew, because he was counting – and then the audience chamber erupted into chaos as everyone started shouting over one another. The true believers were easy to pick out in the crowd, because they immediately began prostrating themselves in front of the dais. Others transformed into alt mode, which was an impressive display of deference by nobility under any circumstance, let alone in Sentinel Prime’s audience chamber after he had been made to look a fool in front of his entire court. 

Jazz suppressed his grin at the thought. Sentinel’s expression must be glorious right now. He wondered whether he could weasel an image capture out of Starscream – it probably wouldn’t be that hard. Jazz’s grin curled a little wider. He was gonna have it printed and framed and hung in his hab-suite.

//How’s the kid?// Jazz commed Optimus, his optics sliding across the crowd. The clamor was growing louder with each passing moment. 

There was a brief pause, and then Optimus replied, //He fainted. Meltdown is with him now.//

Jazz was caught off-guard by the sudden visceral concern that stabbed through him. //He alright?// 

//Yes, Jazz,// Optimus murmured. //Sam will be fine.//

The gentleness in Prime’s voice made Jazz realize that he had revealed too much. He grimaced faintly, before sending a terse acknowledgement and closing the connection. Jazz’s attention was drawn back to the crowd – the nobles were jostling one another in an effort to approach the dais, and the space that had been afforded to them upon their arrival was quickly dwindling. 

Jazz turned, directing a terse, “Form up,” to Ironhide and the others, who stepped closer to Bumblebee. The scout turned, whistling something sharp and pissy sounding to Ironhide, who ignored him. At the same time, a willowy noble stumbled into Jazz as he was pushed from behind. Jazz gave him a sharp shove back towards the crowd, before glancing sidelong at Trailbreaker. “Crowd’s gettin’ a little rowdy for my tastes.”

Trailbreaker grimaced deeply but said nothing in reply. 

Suddenly, the doors against the back wall swung open. Sentinel’s Primesguard appeared first, taking their positions on either side of the dais, and then Sentinel appeared in the darkened entryway. The clamor, which had been growing in pitch and volume ever since the Allspark pulse swept through the hall, reached a fever pitch at his appearance. The nobles, the landed gentry, and their retinues all shouted over one another as they vied for his attention. Optimus appeared next, although the crowd paid him little attention. Their attention was focused on Sentinel – and on the open doorway behind him. OP came to stand a short distance away from Sentinel, his head half-turned to regard the older Prime. The warrior priests and attendants came next, their white armor standing in stark contrast to the gleaming charcoal metal all around them. Meltdown came next, already in alt mode, and he drove forward just far enough to clear the doorway before pulling to a stop. 

Jazz glanced sidelong at Bumblebee, ready to order him back into position if he started forward, but the scout remained where he stood – tense, but unmoving. 

Sentinel raised his servo, but it took almost a klik before the clamoring mechanoids fell silent. When at last the only sound in the audience chamber was the distant rumble of the ship’s engines, Sentinel inclined his head and began to speak. Jazz barely listened to the face-saving slag he spouted to course-correct in the wake of his asked for miracle — holy ordinance, divine will, Primus works in mysterious ways, blah, blah, blah. Most of the assembled nobles seemed to be eating it up, but others weren’t as… fervent. Jazz made a mental note of the opaque expressions and rigid shoulders – it seemed there were some infidels amongst the true believers in Sentinel’s court.

And then Sentinel said something that commanded Jazz’s full attention. 

“After the Prime has recovered, he will be moved aboard the Gauntlet. Optimus Prime has agreed to remain here, as my guest, to prepare a place for him—”

Jazz stiffened in alarm. //Boss?//

“—so as to ensure his comfort and safety. It will require adjustments on our behalf. The requirements for organic life are—”

//There was no other way,// Optimus replied.

//No other way?// Jazz repeated skeptically. //The kid’ll never go for it.//  

“—but Primus has made His will known. The Allspark must be protected at all costs.” Sentinel finished, inclining his head. The crowd hummed their assent — a low pitched vibration that set Jazz’s dentae on edge. 

//He will,// Optimus replied. //Sam understands what is at stake.//

Jazz suppressed a grimace. The kid only knew what they wanted him to know.

As Sentinel finished his speech, two of the white armored warrior priests stepped forward, transforming into alt mode and driving down the sloping side ramp. The crowd parted as they approached, giving them a wide berth. Meltdown followed behind them, and then, to Jazz’s surprise, two other mechanoids took up the rear. The first was a tall medical build in red and white with the tell-tale chevron on his helm, but the other was harder to peg. He was tall and lithe with deep blue, almost indigo colored paneling. He didn’t have any noticeable kibble that would set him apart as a member of the nobility, but his armor was fine and detailed. 

Jazz glanced up at Optimus, their optics meeting across the distance that separated them. //Who’re the stiffs?//  

//Pharma and Sigil,// Optimus replied, his tone opaque. //Pharma is Sentinel’s Chief Medical Officer. Ratchet had… many things to say about him, over the years. Sigil is an attendant.//

Jazz raised a brow ridge as the retinue started down the aisle. //Whose attendant?//

Even from a distance, Jazz could see the grimace on Optimus’ face. //Sam’s. Sentinel would not be dissuaded.//

Jazz ex-vented a soft snort. The nobility loved their attendants — mecha to clean and fetch and dote on them, a fact Jazz knew all too well. He also knew Sam was going to absolutely hate it. 

As the retinue approached, Bumblebee transformed down into alt, before falling into place just behind Meltdown. He drove so closely that he wasn’t more than a few inches from the ambulance’s rear bumper. Cliffjumper and Trailbreaker followed suit, taking their places behind them, which left Ironhide, Kup, and Jazz standing alone in the middle of the aisle. Jazz was in the process of composing a message to ask whether he should return to the Ark when he received an incoming ping without ident-codes or signifiers. Jazz glanced at the entryway behind the dais to find that Starscream and Soundwave had returned to the audience hall. The communications officer wasn’t looking in his direction, but that was fine. Jazz understood how this game was played. 

//Hey Sounders, I hear congratulations are in order,// Jazz greeted with artificial levity. //Mazel tov on the bouncing baby boy.//

The immediate press of caution had Jazz’s battle protocols trying to come on-line. He rejected the request and re-routed the sub-routines to a secondary processor, before sending a single query glyph in reply. 

There was a protracted pause, and then Jazz’s primary visual display blinked with a data transfer request. Jazz stared at the notification in surprise. //Care to tell me what’s inside that file?//

//Intelligence,// Soundwave replied.  

Ironhide and Kup started towards the dais at Sentinel’s command, and Jazz kept his expression neutral as he fell into place behind them. Jazz was an excellent infiltrator, but Soundwave was better, even without the whole mind reading thing that Sounders was rumored to have going on. The file was flagged as a memory datum, but it could be anything. 

//Sharing information with the enemy?// Jazz asked neutrally. 

//Starscream has negotiated peace with Optimus Prime,// Soundwave returned. 

//Yeah, yeah,// Jazz mused as he pulled the meta-data. It didn’t look suspicious, but that didn’t mean anything from an intelligence frame. 

//Information: of interest to Jazz. Open it or not,// Soundwave replied, before severing their connection.

Rude, Jazz snorted as he considered the datum. It wasn’t a large file, so if it was mal-ware or a virus, it would have to be something short-acting, and it certainly wouldn’t hold a candle to Jazz’s security protocols. All things considered, it would be a ridiculous risk for little gain, which is what had Jazz decompressing the file on the spot. Soundwave was a lot of things, but short-sighted wasn’t one of them. 

The memory datum was from Soundwave’s perspective. It began just after Rumble docked inside his chest. Jazz was taken aback by the depth of the Carrier’s emotions — stunned disbelief, joy, relief, joy. Jazz hadn’t known the stoic mech was even capable of it. The feeling of Rumble hard-lining into place was odd, but the rush of connection was almost rapturous when it happened. 

Jazz felt a flash of frustration. What was the point of this?

On the altar, Sam’s knees went out from under him. Meltdown’s holoform caught him before he hit the cold stone. The medic was surprisingly composed as he worked — laying him down, running a medical scan, checking him over. Jazz was grudgingly impressed. Meltdown was a competent physician, but he didn’t have Ratchet’s unflappable calm or his Ratchety-ness in general.

Soundwave watched it all — just as he watched the other occupants in the room. Starscream was still shouting at him to bring Rumble out of his dock. Optimus Prime had joined Meltdown to attend to the boy, who seemed none the worse for wear. Soundwave found the boy’s unconsciousness somewhat alarming, but he knew that involuntary stasis was a side effect of accessing the Allspark’s power.

Jazz frowned deeply as the last thought flashed through his mind. And just how do you know that, Sounders?

And while everyone else was watching Sam, Soundwave watched Sentinel Prime. The older Prime was watching Meltdown assess the boy with an impenetrable expression on his face. Still, Soundwave was so distracted by the events of the last two kliks that he almost missed the encoded transmission. It brushed against his mind like a breeze, and he found himself pushing through the firewalls on rote. 

//Watch the Prime,// Sentinel instructed. //Report back to me on all he does — miss nothing.//

Soundwave angled his helm slightly. The older Prime was still staring at the boy laid out on the altar. The message had been too quick to fully parse — but the undertone of command was unmistakable. 

As was the reply, immediate and definitive. //I obey.// 

All at once, Jazz found himself back inside his own processors. If he was physically capable of purging his fuel tanks, he would have done so. 

Well, fuck.  

 

---

 

II. Ratchet

The brig was dark and quiet – as it had been for the last deca-cycle. Ratchet had expected to be tortured immediately, but Tarn had laughed and called him uncivilized, before stripping him of his armor and weaponry and tossing him into a cell. That was where Ratchet had been ever since, kneeling with his arms bound behind his back, watching as his fuel levels slowly decreased. Tarn arrived before they went critical, of course. The DJD leader deactivated the energy barrier, and then made a show of dragging a chair into Ratchet’s cell. The squeal of metal against metal was painfully loud to his sensitive audials after days (weeks?) spent in silence. Tarn settled in his seat like he was lounging on a throne, before sub-spacing an energon cube. The soft, warm glow of energon illuminated the sardonic half-smile that pulled at Tarn’s mouth.

“You must be hungry,” Tarn surmised. 

“Starvation of prisoners is a war crime,” Ratchet growled — or tried to, anyway. His vocoder was staticky from disuse. 

Tarn made a polite sound of concern in the back of his throat. “My apologies. We have been rather busy, and I’m afraid the time has gotten away from me. Regardless, I am here now, and look, I have brought your rations.” 

Ratchet was briefly tempted to tell Tarn exactly where he could shove those rations, but he wasn’t foolish enough to do so. Tarn wasn’t about to let him off-line from fuel loss, which meant that he wouldn’t allow Ratchet to refuse rations, either. 

“What do you want, Tarn?” Ratchet ground out.

Tarn hummed softly as he turned the energon cube over in his hands. “You know what I want.” 

“Yeah, well, smelt you and your Master both,” Ratchet rasped.

Tarn glanced up, a frown tightening his face plates. “Don’t be impolite.” 

“Slag off,” Ratchet bit back.

Tarn’s expression was impassive as he transferred the energon cube to one servo, and then backhanded Ratchet roughly across the face with the other. “Manners.” 

Ratchet’s audials were still ringing when he spat at Tarn’s pedes. “I’ll never give you the codes.” 

“Your cooperation is neither expected nor required,” Tarn replied, a wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “The codes will be retrieved regardless.” 

Tarn smiled down at him, before pushing to his pedes. He made another show of pulling the chair out of the cell, and then he reactivated the energy barrier. Ratchet’s intake lines constricted as Tarn peeled open the energon cube and poured it down the drain set in the middle of the floor. 

“We can try again tomorrow,” Tarn tsked, before leaving the empty energon cube, still glowing with residue, on the chair in front of Ratchet’s cell. “Rest well, medic.” 

The next three days followed the same pattern. Eventually, Ratchet stopped responding to Tarn’s barbs, which seemed to suit the Decepticon just fine. His lack of overt defiance earned him another energon cube, which Tarn opened and held up to his intakes. Ratchet stared at him in outraged disbelief, but Tarn just raised a brow ridge expectantly. The resulting quarrel, though one-sided and pathetic, given Ratchet’s condition, nevertheless resulted in the energon cube being taken away again. The process was repeated until his fuel levels were critical, and then the DJD medic administered an energon drip – just long enough to keep him conscious – and then the process continued. 

By the time that Ratchet finally allowed Tarn to hand-feed him, he was on the brink of a full cascade failure. The DJD medic was often at his side now, hard-lined into his systems and watching his vitals with a frown on her face. Tarn stroked the back of Ratchet’s head as he drank. When the cube was half-gone, Tarn asked, idly, “Do you know why I’m doing this?” 

Ratchet shuttered his optics. Of course he knew why — Megatron had suffered a similar indignity while imprisoned on Diego Garcia.

“We never starved him,” Ratchet rasped. 

“That’s irrelevant,” Tarn said, not unkindly.

Ratchet thought it was wholly relevant, but he said nothing in reply. Tarn continued feeding him until the energon cube was empty, and then he handed it off to the medic. “What is his status, Nickel?” 

“Most of his systems are critical,” she replied, an undercurrent of disapproval in her tone. 

“And?” Tarn asked wryly.

“He’s stable for now,” Nickel groused. “But if you want him to stay that way, you’ll keep his fuel levels above 40 percent.” 

“That’s marvelous news,” Tarn announced, pushing to his feet and making his way back into the brig. “Medic, isn’t that marvelous news?” 

Ratchet watched warily as Tarn approached a large object on the far side of the room. It was waist-height and perhaps several meters in length, and it had been covered in a metal-mesh sheet throughout his entire imprisonment. Tarn yanked the sheet away in a flourish, revealing an interrogation bench. Although the rest of the room had a dusty, misused feel to it, the interrogation bench was clearly well used and maintained. 

All at once, Ratchet realized why there was a drain in the middle of the floor. 

“And now, medic,” Tarn announced, steepling his servos as he offered Ratchet a serene smile, “you and I can chat about those access codes.” 

 

---

 

In the days that followed, Ratchet suffered. 

Tarn turned off his internal chronometer, so he was unsure how much time passed while he was strapped to the chair, but the torture assumed a predicable pattern. Tarn would ask him questions, and then he would inflict pain in direct proportion to the usefulness of his answers. The torture was mostly mental — Tarn was an adept infiltrator in his own right, and he was capable of inflicting great pain with a minimal amount of damage. The first time that Ratchet tried offering up a sleeper code, however, Tarn flayed his protoform with a knife until the agony eventually tripped Ratchet into a full cascade failure. 

When he came back on-line an interminable time later, it was to find Tarn staring down at him. The Decepticon’s face was perfectly opaque, revealing nothing of his thoughts. When it was clear that Ratchet was fully conscious again, Tarn leaned down and murmured, “I would not advise you to try that again.” 

And then, as though to emphasize his point, he lightly slapped Ratchet’s chest with the blade he had used to flay his protoform. The curved metal was still dripping with his internal fluids. 

It took almost a full cycle before Tarn’s medic deemed Ratchet was stable enough to continue the interrogation. This time, however, Tarn worked in silence, speaking only to ask questions or give commands. Ratchet’s world became a blur of pain and fear and disorientation. Tarn’s temper began to fray as time trudged onwards without success. He was quicker to punish, was sharper with those who assisted him. 

But through the red haze of agony that had subsumed Ratchet’s waking moments, he realized that his firewalls were holding. 

The realization would have made him weep in relief, were he physically capable of it. 

The next time that Ratchet struggled up from the darkness of stasis, it was to the feeling of a cool cloth against his brow. He jerked in alarm, but his restraints held firm.

“Easy, Hatchet,” an amused voice murmured from somewhere nearby. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” 

Ratchet forced open his optics to find Strika standing at his side. The former Quintesson-era war-frame was wiping him down — the cloth she was holding was streaked with his energon and other internal fluids. All at once, Ratchet knew a moment of profound despair. The last he heard, Strika had been stationed in deep-space. The only person who could have recalled her was—

The sound of metal being dragged across the floor caused Ratchet to turn his head. He watched in sinking dismay as Helex and Tesarus positioned a berth against the far wall. Megatron lay supine on its flat surface — still in stasis, but very much alive. Tarn stood nearby, watching as Nickel rearranged medical equipment and double-checked intake lines, and at his side stood Shockwave, waiting in stoic silence for whatever the DJD leader would command of him. 

Ratchet angled his head to stare at the ceiling in sinking resignation. So, it had finally come to this.

“You should have given him what he wanted,” Strika murmured, pressing the cool cloth against the side of his face. “You knew this was inevitable.” 

“Do you know what he’s done?” Ratchet rasped without looking at her. “Do you know how far he’s fallen?” 

Strika faltered in her ministrations, but only for a moment. “I have been informed, yes.” 

The admission shouldn’t have wounded him, but it did. Strika was a member of the Old Guard. She might have been a Decepticon, but she was the best of them. Ratchet would have thought better of her — more the fool, him. 

At some unspoken command, Shockwave stepped up to Ratchet’s berth. The former Senator wasted no time establishing a hard-line, and then he was burrowing inside Ratchet’s processors. The pain was indescribable. Shockwave peeled apart his firewalls, one by one, and then he was rifling through the deepest recesses of Ratchet’s mind. 

Ratchet tried, Primus, he tried, but Strika was right — the end was inevitable.

When Ratchet came back to himself afterwards, it was to Tarn standing by his side. Strika was nowhere to be seen. Briefly, Ratchet wondered whether he had hallucinated her – he hoped that he had. 

“There you are,” Tarn murmured, almost kindly. “I’m glad you’re awake. I wouldn’t want you to miss this.” As he spoke, the Decepticon reached out, clasping Ratchet’s chin and gently angling his head to the side. Ratchet watched helplessly as Shockwave jacked into Megatron’s ancillary port. It only took a matter of moments before the Decepticon leader jerked against the berth—and then, vents shuttering loudly, Megatron opened his optics. 

Unable to do anything else, Ratchet despaired.

Notes:

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Chapter 28

Sam’s return to consciousness was met with the sound of arguing. 

“I would remind you that I am the Primal physician,” an unfamiliar voice sneered. 

“As am I,” Meltdown returned, stiffly. 

Someone ex-vented loudly in irritation. “As the Highest Esteemed, I am commanding you—” 

“This is my medical bay, Pharma,” Meltdown interrupted, sharply. “You do not issue commands here. If you need to be reminded of the fact, I can have you removed.” 

Sam’s eyelids fluttered with the effort of opening them. At once, he felt an almost imperceptible shift inside his head as Bumblebee and Meltdown focused their attention on him. His bonded’s presence slid across his mind, warm and comforting, as Meltdown’s mental fingers plucked at the edge of his awareness, as one might pluck a harp string. It was an odd sensation — odd enough that Sam forced open his eyes and turned his head, following the mental trail. Meltdown was standing at Sam’s berthside, his expression softening as soon as it was apparent that Sam was awake. 

“Is everyone okay?” Sam rasped. The effort of speaking caused him to realize that there was an oxygen mask affixed to his face. Now that Sam was a little more cognizant of his body, he could feel the hiss of cooled air against his skin. “Did everyone make it back?” 

Sam’s question was immediately met with a directionless press of caution against his mind. “Everyone is alright, Sam,” Meltdown reassured. “You need to rest. Your vitals are well below normal levels.” 

Sam reached up, resting his fingers against the oxygen mask. The silicone was cool and smooth beneath his fingertips. “How bad is it?” he managed. 

Meltdown’s mental presence was difficult to read, which was telling in and of itself. The medic’s moods were usually easy to interpret – he was almost as effusive as Ratchet was closed-off. “Not so bad,” Meltdown murmured, pressing two digits against Sam’s shoulders, as though to reassure. “Certainly not as bad as the last time.” 

Sam’s head was starting to swim, and so he closed his eyes. “Was easier with Rumble,” he said, his voice breathy and labored. “It was like…. he was… waiting for me.” 

“Don’t talk,” Meltdown chided. “Rest.” 

At the same time, an unfamiliar voice interjected to say, “He’s conscious now, so if you’re done stalling, you can give me access to the boot code. I will check it myself.” 

The flash of Meltdown’s anger that followed was bright and sharp — and impossible to misinterpret. “I’m not stalling, Pharma. I've refused.” 

Sam forced open his eyes again. It took a moment for his blurry vision to clear, but once it did, Sam realized that the medical bay was full of people. Bumblebee and Meltdown were standing closest to his berth, but Cliffjumper, Trailbreaker, and Jolt weren’t much further away. Sam struggled up onto an elbow so he could get a better view, ignoring the disapproving sound that Meltdown made as he did so. Hoist and First Aid were standing together near the workbench on the opposite side of the room. Sam couldn’t interpret their body language — the two medical builds were so closed-off and unreadable that they may as well have disabled their non-verbal communication packs. Their combined attention was directed at an unfamiliar mechanoid who was standing at the foot of Sam’s berth. The stranger had the chevron and red/white paneling of a medical build, but he also had blue paneling on his torso and legs. 

As soon as Sam and the stranger made eye contact, the stranger inclined his head. “Prime,” he rumbled in a smooth, even bass. “My designation is Pharma. I am the Chief Medical Officer of Sentinel Prime’s armada and serve at His pleasure as Primal Physician.” The medic’s voice turned wry as he added, “I would offer you my credentials, but you lack the necessary ports.” 

Sam stared back at him blearily. “Oh, um… hello?” 

Pharma inclined his head again, before straightening to his full height. “Given what transpired onboard the Gauntlet, it is crucial that I conduct a thorough examination. Please instruct your physician to grant me access to your boot code.” 

“...what?” Sam asked, stupidly. 

Meltdown’s paneling flattened to his frame with the audible groan of bending metal. “He is incapable of giving informed consent — I will not.”  

Pharma angled his head to direct a penetrating stare at Meltdown. “It is not your prerogative to refuse.” 

“Well, I just did,” Meltdown snapped. 

//Sam,// Bumblebee murmured. Sam turned his head, looking up into his bonded’s face, and Bumblebee crouched down so they were more of an eye-level with one another. //Pharma wants access to your central coding. It would give him control over your primary and secondary neural functions -- don't allow it.//

“Oh,” Sam managed, before angling his head to look at Meltdown. “No, I don’t want that.” 

Pharma’s expression tightened fractionally. “Respectfully, Prime, I must protest. From what I can ascertain from your medical records, your on-lining was sudden and unexpected. I can only imagine the shoddy hack-job—” 

“Say another word, Pharma, and I’ll have you thrown off this ship,” Meltdown warned, coldly. 

Pharma’s spinal strut stiffened in affront. “Take care, Meltdown,” he ground out, slow and dark. “It is a grave offense to threaten the Prime’s envoy.”

“Not sure it was a threat,” came an amused voice. “It sounded more like a promise to me.” 

Pharma half-turned, directing a venomous look over his shoulder. “If you aren’t going to be helpful, then you will be silent while I am speaking, attendant.” 

Sam was fading fast, but he leaned to the side just far enough that he could see the person to whom Pharma was speaking. It was another stranger — medium height, lithe, with a narrow waist, and plated entirely in a deep indigo blue. The stranger was leaning against one of the berths, his arms folded loosely over his chest, and he seemed entirely unphased by Pharma’s vitriol. 

“Our Holy Vessel already said ‘no’,” the stranger shrugged. “Seems like it would be in your best interest to let it go, but what do I know? As you said – I’m just the attendant.” 

Pharma’s face twisted in impotent anger, but Sam heard nothing more. The darkness he had been fighting finally rose up to claim him, and Sam sank into its embrace without a sound. He slept fitfully in the time that followed — waking first when Meltdown and Bumblebee began stripping him out of his body armor, and then again when Hoist placed the IV. Sam made a weak sound of protest each time he was roused, but warm hands and soft words comforted him until he drifted off again. 

It seemed like a long time before Sam finally woke of his own volition. The medical bay was far quieter than it had been the first time he woke-up. He lay there for a while, drifting in the liminal space between fully awake and fully asleep when memories of the Gauntlet drifted through his mind — like ships passing in the night. The memories were fleeting and disjointed, but it was enough of a shock to wake Sam up properly. He forced open his bleary eyes to find that the medical bay was dark and quiet. 

“Bee?” Sam croaked. 

There was the rapid-fire sound of a T-cog engaging, and then Bumblebee was leaning into his field of vision. The scout’s optics were preternaturally bright in the otherwise darkened room. “I’m here, Sam. How do you feel?” 

“Why’s it so dark?” Sam asked, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

No sooner did he ask the question than did the overhead lights come up to half-brightness. The sound of heavy footsteps heralded Meltdown’s appearance at his berthside. As soon as the medical build was within range, he initiated a sensor scan that prickled over Sam’s skin. 

“I lowered the lights,” Meltdown replied, his gaze intense and distant in a way that suggested he was reviewing the scan’s results. “I didn’t want to disturb your rest.” 

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, before grabbing the guard rail and struggling into a sitting position. Bumblebee immediately pressed a servo against his back, helping him up, at the same time that Meltdown bent over, fiddling with the bed’s controls to incline the mattress. 

Sam sank back against the pillows with an appreciative grunt. “So, what’s the prognosis, Doc?” 

“You’re doing better,” Meltdown replied vaguely. 

Sam slanted him a wry look, but didn’t pry any further. It was an imminently Ratchet response – opaque and firm, all at the same time. “Well, that’s good, I guess.” 

Meltdown made a considerate click in the back of his intakes. “Better than the alternative, surely. Do you think you could eat something? The intravenous dextrose has improved matters, but I would prefer you to have something by mouth.” 

Sam shrugged. He wasn’t hungry, but he wasn’t nauseous, either. “Yeah, I could probably eat.” 

Meltdown inclined his head. “I’ll have something brought over.” 

“Thanks,” Sam replied, fiddling with the plastic tubing to the IV. “So… what happened? Afterwards, I mean.” As soon as the question left his mouth, Bumblebee and Meltdown exchanged a meaningful look. It made Sam’s stomach twist with newfound anxiety. “What is it?” he asked, sitting up a little straighter in alarm. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Meltdown hastened to reassure. 

“We need to talk,” Bumblebee said at the same time. 

The tone of Bumblebee’s voice — grim, reluctant — made Sam’s pulse quicken. “Bee, seriously, what is it?” he asked again, anxiety making his voice sharp. “What’s happened?” Sam looked back and forth between the two mechanoids in mounting desperation when a terrible thought suddenly occurred to him. “Bumblebee… where’s Optimus?” 

Immediately, the warm presence at the edge of his mind pressed closer, offering comfort and reassurance. “Optimus is fine, Sam,” Bumblebee replied. “He’s still onboard the Gauntlet.” 

“What?” Sam asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Why?” 

Bumblebee hesitated, obviously considering his response. Sam opened his mouth to demand an answer, but before he could get the words out, Bumblebee said, “He’s preparing a place for you.” 

Sam gave him a baffled look. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Sam,” Meltdown interceded, drawing Sam’s gaze. “Sentinel has invited you to stay onboard the Gauntlet for the remainder of our journey — you and Optimus, both.” Everything about Meltdown’s demeanor from his tone of voice, to his body language, to the warm glow of his presence was earnest and encouraging. “Sentinel has made it clear that no effort shall be spared to ensure your comfort and safety, and so Optimus has remained onboard the Gauntlet to oversee preparations for you.” 

Sam stared up at the medic in stunned disbelief. He was feeling too many things all at once to focus on a single emotion, but irritation was definitely working its way to the front of the line. “And was anyone going to ask for my opinion at any point in time?” he demanded, acidly.

It was Meltdown’s turn to hesitate, but before he could say anything in reply, the doors to the medical bay slid open and an unfamiliar mechanoid strolled inside. Sam turned to watch as the newcomer approached. It took only a moment to recognize the indigo-colored mechanoid from earlier. The stranger was carrying a familiar orange tray pinched between two digits, which he placed on the overbed table after a permissive nod from Meltdown. 

“Your Grace,” the stranger greeted, before sweeping into a bow that would have met all of Mirage’s enacting standards. “My name is Sigil. I am honored to serve.” 

Sam stared at him in consternation. “Uh… hello?” 

Sigil straightened from his bow, before offering Sam a polite smile. “I was unsure which foodstuffs you would prefer, so I erred on the side of caution.” As he spoke, Sigil nodded meaningfully to the tray on the overbed table. “Simple carbohydrates, as instructed, as well as some proteins. The cargo manifest seems to indicate a preference for scrambles, so I took the liberty of preparing one for you.” 

Sam’s eyes dropped to the breakfast tray, which was crowded with an assortment of dishes and containers. He reached out, pulling the overbed table closer, so he could investigate. There was yogurt, applesauce and a croissant, each individually sealed in what appeared to be cellophane, in addition to a familiar black carton whose plastic filament was beaded with steam. There were also two drinking glasses — the first was filled with water, while the second was filled with an orange liquid that, upon inspection, Sam realized was orange juice. He couldn’t help but stare in surprise. In all the time he had spent exploring the kitchenette and rummaging around the storage hangars, he had never seen half of this stuff. 

“It was placed in medical storage,” Meltdown explained, answering Sam’s unspoken question. 

“Oh,” Sam replied unintelligibly. “...Was there not enough room in the cargo hold?” 

Meltdown chuckled. “Some of your foodstuff was categorized as ‘medical supply’ and stored accordingly. I can have a portion moved to primary storage, if you wish.” 

The realization that some of his food had been earmarked specifically for medical storage hit Sam harder than he expected. How many times had Ratchet brought him bland meals in the medical bay because other food was ‘too rich’? Certainly more times than Sam could remember. 

“What all did he bring?” Sam asked huskily, after a moment. 

Meltdown’s expression softened in understanding and compassion. “Typical fare, mostly. Broths, soups, and simple carbohydrates – easily digestible, nutritionally balanced.” 

“Bananas, rice, applesauce, toast?” Sam asked, clearing his throat. 

Meltdown gave him a peculiar look. “Those items appear on the manifest, yes.” 

“Of course they do.” Sam gave a watery laugh, before picking up the yogurt and a spoon. He glanced at the label as he peeled off the aluminum lid – plain vanilla, no surprise there – and then he started eating. It wasn’t until he was scraping the bottom of the container that he realized Sigil was still standing a short distance away, watching him. 

As soon as they made eye contact, Sigil inclined his helm. “Do you require anything else, Your Grace?” 

Sam gave him a weird look. “What? No.” As an afterthought he added, “And stop calling me that.” 

Immediately, Bumblebee pressed into his mind. The touch was restrained, but Sam could feel his bonded’s restless energy — it felt penned up and uncertain, almost guarded. Sam turned, his eyes finding Bumblebee’s optics in an instant. As with Hoist and First Aid, Sam couldn’t readily interpret Bumblebee’s body language. He was holding himself stiffly, wing flaps angled downwards and close to his body, but his battle mask wasn’t engaged and Sam couldn’t hear the hum of his capacitors. 

It only took Sam a moment to realize that, although Bumblebee’s battle protocols weren’t running, he was still feeling deeply uncomfortable with whatever was happening. 

Sigil was speaking, but Sam ignored him to ask, urgently, //What is it?//

Bumblebee didn’t prevaricate. //Sigil has been… gifted to you — for your “use and comfort”.//  

//What do you mean he was gifted to me?// Sam demanded, torn between disbelief and outrage. He planted his hands on the mattress and pushed himself into a sitting position. //Gifted by who?//

Bumblebee grimaced internally. //Sentinel.//

Sam’s stomach twisted in anxiety. //Bee… what the hell happened after I passed out?//

Bumblebee brushed against his mind again, though Sam wasn’t sure whether he was offering reassurance or seeking it. //After you revived Rumble, Sentinel addressed his court. He affirmed that you are indeed the Allspark’s chosen vessel and a member of the Primacy. The reaction was… varied, insofar as we have been able to tell. After that, Sentinel announced that you would be moved aboard the Gauntlet for your safety.//

Bumblebee’s words were accompanied by a memory — or at least, that’s what Sam assumed it must be, for suddenly the echo of Sentinel Prime’s words were inside Sam’s head. 

“The Allspark must be protected at all costs.”

It was the strangest thing, because the words were spoken in Cybertronian — not English, not the Primal vernacular, but Sam could understand them all the same. It was like nothing he had experienced since his on-lining — it had the same ‘feeling’ as a dream, but it came with a sense of vertigo that left him reeling. 

At the same time, Sam felt the sharp twinge of Meltdown’s disapproval. The overlapping sensations were confusing and discordant in the extreme. 

//What was that?// Sam managed. 

Bumblebee whistled apologetically. //A memory datum. I’m sorry, I should have known better.//

Sam reached out, picking up the orange juice and taking a long drink. When his head felt a little less wobbly, he slanted another look at his bonded. //What about Optimus? Did he say anything about a trial?//

Bumblebee shook his head minutely. //No, he didn’t, nor has he said anything since.//

Sam worried at his bottom lip with his teeth. Their situation had been precarious before the audience with Sentinel Prime, and now things were changing — but Sam didn’t know whether they were changing for the better or the worse. He glanced up, meeting Bumblebee’s optics. His bonded was watching him with an intensity of expression that Sam still couldn’t name.  

//Bee… give it to me straight,// he entreated softly. //Are we still in trouble here?//

Bumblebee reached out, pressing two digits against Sam’s thigh. //I don’t know.//

“Sam,” Meltdown murmured, interrupting their conversation. “Please, try to eat something. If Jazz’s resurrection was any indication, then you aren’t likely to be awake much longer.” 

Sam resisted the urge to snap something in Meltdown’s direction with no small degree of effort. Instead, he reached out, picking up the scramble and a fork, before tucking into the food with single-minded determination.

//Give me the new risk estimates,// he asked as soon as he had taken a bite. 

Bumblebee stroked Sam’s thigh through the blankets. //Prowl’s latest projections are… encouraging.//

//So why don’t you seem particularly encouraged?// Sam shot back immediately. 

Bumblebee’s mental presence was carefully controlled, but Sam still caught flashes of consternation and frustration across their bond space. Sam stabbed a piece of bell pepper and popped it in his mouth as he waited for an answer. Eventually, Bumblebee ex-vented a quiet burst of air and said, //If anything, Prowl’s projections have improved. He predicts that Sentinel is less likely to pursue capital punishment given yesterday’s events. Our best guess is that Sentinel will ask — order — Optimus to oversee the reconstruction efforts in Polyhex or Nova Cronum as penance for his actions.//

//Okay, that does sound encouraging,// Sam agreed slowly. //So, where’s the ‘but’?//

//There isn’t one,// Bumblebee sighed, but before Sam could call him out on it, he elaborated, //And that’s what bothers me – it seems too good to be true, and in my experience, that usually means it is.//

Sam frowned faintly as he pushed the scramble around with his fork. //Well, what does Jazz think?//

Again, Bumblebee grimaced internally. //Sam… Jazz is no longer serving as Optimus’ second-in-command. He resigned shortly after returning to the Ark.//  

Sam’s heart leapt into his throat — he almost choked on it. He twisted, staring up at Bumblebee’s face in disbelief. “He what?”

Bumblebee looked away. //Sam—//

“But why?” Sam managed, forcing the words out. 

//I don’t know,// Bumblebee admitted. //It’s not unusual for senior command to shuffle their duties. Both Prowl and Ultra Magnus have served as second-in-command in the past. But this… isn’t that. Jazz resigned his commission entirely.//

Sam shook his head, unable to process what he was hearing. “I need to see him,” he managed, dropping his fork and pushing aside the overbed table. “Right now.” 

“Sam—” Bumblebee tried again. 

“Sam,” Meltdown interjected gently, catching the bedside table and pushing it back into position. “You’re in no condition to be going anywhere.” 

Sam narrowed his eyes and gave the table another shove — it didn’t move an inch. “Meltdown—” 

Meltdown shook his head in disapproval. “Your blood pressure is low enough to be tripping my internal alerts, and you're producing gamma-aminobutyric acid in the brainstem — in short, you’re moments away from falling asleep. As I said, you’re not in any condition to be roaming the ship right now.” 

Sam flushed in anger. “Then get me a coffee, because I need to speak with him.” 

Meltdown’s mental presence cooled by an order of degrees, but his voice was controlled when he said, “I will let him know that you wish to talk — after you’ve rested.” 

“Meltdown, I’m not going to—!” Sam protested hotly.

“Yes, you are,” Meltdown interrupted, firm and no-nonsense, as he folded his arms over his chassis. “Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid.” 

Sam stared at the medic in rapidly building anger. “I told you I’m not a newspark. Stop treating me like one.” 

Meltdown narrowed his optics minutely. “I’m not treating you like a newspark, Sam. I’m treating you as a patient — and as your physician, I am telling you that you’re in no condition to be anywhere but this bed. Now, do you want to finish your meal before you rest? Yes or no?” 

“No!” Sam snapped. 

“Fine,” Meltdown returned crisply, before plucking the tray off the overbed table and handing it to Sigil without taking his optics off of Sam. The indigo-colored mechanoid accepted the tray without a word. “Feel free to get comfortable — you won’t be awake much longer — but if you step one foot off that bed, I’ll put you to sleep myself.” 

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Meltdown turned and strode away without another word. Seething in impotent anger, Sam watched him go. The medical build parked himself in front of his workbench and began disassembling a boxy looking contraption without so much as a backwards glance. Sigil glanced back and forth between them, before lowering into smooth bow and excusing himself with a murmured valediction. Sam barely noticed him leave — he was too busy glaring daggers at Meltdown's back as the medic studiously ignored him. 

//Sam,// Bumblebee murmured, lowering into a loose crouch so that they were more of an equal height with one another, //He’s right — you should rest.” 

//Don’t you start too,// Sam warned. 

//I’ve messaged Jazz,// Bumblebee offered, a little ruefully, as he curled his digits over the guardrail of Sam’s bed and rested his chin on his servos. //He said he’ll drop by later.// Bumblebee hesitated a moment before adding, //… he seemed fine.//

To Sam’s mingled frustration and anger, he could feel his body getting heavier. He angled his head to stare sightlessly at the ceiling as he fiddled with the bedsheets. Sam didn’t know Jazz very well in the grand scheme of things, but he thought they knew each other better than most. Sam had certainly spent more time in Jazz’s company than anyone other than Bumblebee or Ratchet — more so even than Cliffjumper or Hound. And although they didn’t spend much leisure time together, there was a certain level of intimacy involved in infiltration training. Jazz had spent hours rifling around inside Sam’s head — instructing him, disciplining him, encouraging him — and the Jazz that Sam knew, the one who could go from cracking jokes about slasher flicks to being battle-ready in a heartbeat, wasn’t someone to abandon his post when things got difficult. 

So, what in the hell was going on?

Sam’s eyes were starting to get heavy, and he knuckled at them frustratedly. Suddenly, warm hands enclosed Sam’s own. Sam glanced over in surprise to find Bumblebee’s holoform standing beside the bed, his expression reserved but affectionate as he lifted Sam’s hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss across his knuckles, before climbing awkwardly over the bed rail to lie beside him. Sam immediately shifted over, making room, and after some maneuvering, they were lying side by side — Sam beneath the blankets, Bumblebee above them. The holoform slid his leg over Sam’s thigh, shifting closer, and then he interlaced their fingers together and rested their hands on Sam’s abdomen.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” Bumblebee murmured, pressing his lips against Sam’s temple. 

Sam sighed softly, but he didn’t protest as Bumblebee began carding his fingers through Sam’s hair. The touch was admittedly pleasant and it wasn’t long before Sam was drifting. He was just beginning to drop off when he angled his head just far enough to stare into his bonded face. 

//Bumblebee… would you tell me if there was something wrong?// he asked softly. 

Bumblebee gave Sam’s hand a meaningful squeeze. //Of course I would, Sam. Always.//

Sam let his head loll against the pillows. He didn’t know how to ask his next question without causing offense, but after a moment he asked it anyway. //…But would senior command tell you?//

Bumblebee’s expression didn’t change much — his mouth tightened a little and his brow furrowed — but Sam could feel the surprise and uncertainty that brightened across their bond space. It was all the answer that Sam needed. Sam gave the holoform’s hand a little squeeze, and then he rolled onto his side, tucking his face into the pillows. Bumblebee’s quiet reflection followed Sam all the way down into the dark and dreamless sleep that claimed him not long after.

 

 

When next Sam woke, it was to a scene of carefully coordinated chaos. 

The medical bay was full of people again — some familiar, some not. Hoist and First Aid were busily packing equipment and supplies into the large gray totes that were resting on the workbenches and berths on the opposite side of the room. Once a tote was fully packed and sealed, an unfamiliar mechanoid appeared to take it away. The strangers were plated similarly to the First-in-Service who had greeted Sam and Optimus when they arrived on the Gauntlet — white paneling from helm to pede with deep red accents along the pauldrons. But these mecha were much shorter, more of a height with Bumblebee or Cliffjumper and they carried out their duties without a word. 

Trailbreaker and Jolt were also in attendance. The two Primesguard watched the scene unfolding in front of them with sharp optics. Trailbreaker was leaning against the nearest berth, arms folded over his chest, staring down anyone who wandered too close, while Jolt was standing near the entryway, scrutinizing everyone who entered the room. 

Meltdown appeared from the back office almost as soon as Sam woke-up. The medical build crossed the distance between them and initiated a glitchy blue scan that swept Sam from head to toe, before clicking thoughtfully at whatever he found. Evidently, Meltdown wasn’t holding a grudge from earlier because he went about his duties with his usual polite concern, before inquiring whether Sam wanted anything to eat. When Sam murmured his agreement, Meltdown touched his knee briefly before departing, and Sam inferred that all had been forgiven.

Sigil brought Sam’s breakfast shortly thereafter. Sam murmured his thanks, before tucking into his meal. It was another spread clearly intended to tempt Sam’s appetite. Sam picked up his fork and started on the scramble without another word. It had been made with a generous amount of cheese, peppers, and bacon — certainly heavier fare than yesterday. Sam watched the goings-on as he ate. It was immediately obvious that the medical bay was being gutted, but it wasn’t just Sam’s things that were being packed away. Some of the Cybertronian equipment had been carefully disassembled and stored, and two of the floor-to-ceiling cabinets against the back wall had been emptied. Sam didn’t know enough about the things being packed to readily identify which items were being moved and which were being left behind, but by the time he was finished eating, the medical bay looked a great deal sparser than it had when he’d woken up. 

Once Sam pushed aside the overbed table, Meltdown came back to disconnect the IV tubing from the cannula taped to the crook of Sam’s arm. Afterwards, Bumblebee pushed the blankets aside and helped Sam to his feet, before ferrying him over to the bathroom. The shower that followed was heavenly. Sam stood there for a long time, letting the hot water cascade down his back, before Bumblebee’s holoform lathered up a cloth and started running it across his shoulders. At one point in his life, Sam might have protested, but not now — now Sam understood that communal bathing was a deeply personal, deeply intimate expression of affection among mechanoids. So, Sam stood passively under the water and let Bumblebee bathe him without a word. The holoform was careful and meticulous — all but worshiping Sam’s body with his hands. Sam leaned into the winter-white glow resting at the edge of his mind, sharing the sensation of warm water and gentle touch. Bumblebee’s affection and amusement were shared across their bond in turn. 

After the shower, Bumblebee helped Sam get dried and dressed. By that time, his assistance was less about intimacy and more about necessity — Sam was fading fast. The holoform guided him back into the medical bay, at which point Bumblebee’s bipedal mode carefully gathered him up and brought him back to bed. The human-purposed area was the only part of the medical bay that had been left untouched by the chaos. Sam laid back against the pillows, his breathing labored and his heart thudding erratically against his sternum. Meltdown appeared at his side as though summoned from thin air — the medical build reconnected the IV, before unwinding a nasal cannula from its stand against the wall and helping Sam to hook the tubing over his ears. 

“Let me know if you need anything,” Meltdown murmured, once he was satisfied. 

Sam nodded mutely as he tugged the blankets a little higher up his chest. Meltdown stared at him for a moment longer, and then he inclined his head and slipped away. Sam wasn’t sure how long he lay there before his breathing evened out, it was longer still before he didn’t feel quite so lightheaded, but he was still awake when he felt a flare of surprise across the bond-space that had him opening his eyes again. Sam angled his head towards his bonded, who was staring at the entryway in obvious consternation, and so Sam turned his head, following his line of sight,  and immediately saw Jazz strolling down the aisle towards them.

Sam’s heart leapt into his throat. He grabbed the bedrail, pulling himself up into a sitting position, which caused a torrent of emotion to swamp Sam from all sides. There was concern and disapproval and exasperation, but Sam didn’t have the mental wherewithal to figure out who was feeling what. 

“Hey, kid,” Jazz offered with a wry smile as he approached. “How’re you feeling?” 

“I’m fine,” Sam rasped. “Jazz, what’s going on?” 

The saboteur stepped up to Sam’s berthside, before bracing his forearms against the guardrail of Sam’s bed and leaning his weight against it. Sigil, who had been standing beside the next berth ever since he had delivered Sam’s meal, shifted closer to the wall to make room for him. 

Jazz’s face broke out in a wry grin. “What can I say? You really kicked the hornet's nest. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many upper-caste mecha hustle like that before.” The silver mechanoid chuckled good-naturedly. “Kudos, kid.” 

Sam shook his head. “You know what I mean, Jazz.” 

Jazz twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “Not much to say. Sentinel’s been doing some reshuffin’ of the ranks — appointed Crossblades as the Ark’s primary commander in Prime’s absence.” 

Anger rushed through Sam, sharp and hot. “And Crossblades demoted you?” 

Jazz’s answering smile was wry and fond. “Aw, kid. I’m touched. But it ain’t like that. Not really. Until Sentinel officially recognizes a Lord High Protector, he’s the one callin’ the shots, and he’s gonna put people in command that he knows and trusts. It’s nothin’ personal.” 

Sam frowned deeply. Jazz seemed genuine in his conviction, but Sam couldn’t understand how anyone could be so lackadaisical about an undeserved demotion, and especially not from Crossblades, who had antagonized Jazz on more than one occasion. 

“Who else got demoted?” Sam asked, still frowning. 

“I wasn’t demoted,” Jazz corrected wryly. “Crossblades gave me a choice, and I chose to resign my commission. You think I'm really gonna turn down some Primal-approved leave? I haven't had a decent PTO in ages, unless you count the whole unaliving-stint. I got no paperwork, no meetings, no admin headaches. I’m not exactly complainin’ here, Sam.” 

Sam’s frown deepened. “Answer the question — were you the only one who got demoted?” 

“Not demoted,” Jazz shook his head in exasperation. “And no, I wasn’t the only one who was affected. Prowl, Mirage, and Grapple have been reassigned to the Gauntlet; Wheeljack and Inferno have been reassigned to the Discovery; and Ultra Magnus, Sunstreaker, and Arcee have been reassigned to the Solaris.” 

“But why—?” Sam started. 

Jazz expression softened with something like appreciation. “Just trust me, okay, Sam? Everything’s copasetic. ‘Sides, you know me — I’m like a bad penny. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” 

Sam couldn’t help but laugh at the understatement. The Pit itself hadn’t been able to keep Jazz down for very long. 

Jazz’s face split in an answering grin. “There ya go, kid. That’s the spirit. Now why don’t you get some rest, before your medics throw me out on my aft?”  

Sam searched Jazz’s face, looking for any sign of duplicity or hesitation, but he saw nothing to indicate that the silver mechanoid wasn’t being perfectly sincere. After a long moment, Sam lowered himself back down onto the mattress.

Jazz cycled his visor in something like a wink, before stepping away from the berth. “I’ll see you later, okay, kid?” The silver mechanoid threw a wave over his shoulder as he started back down the aisle. 

“Yeah, Jazz,” Sam murmured, watching him go. “I’ll see you around.” 

Notes:

Author's Note: Still reading and enjoying? Please let us know!

Chapter 29

After what felt like only a few moment’s sleep, Sam was roused by Bumblebee gently shaking him awake. Sam groaned in protest, pushing clumsily at his bonded’s holoform, but Bumblebee was undeterred. 

“Sam, c’mon,” Bee murmured, giving his shoulder a meaningful squeeze. “You need to wake-up. We have to go.” 

Sam’s body felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds – it was a monumental effort to force open his bleary eyes and lift his head. Bumblebee’s holoform was leaning over the hospital bed, his expression unreadable, while his bipedal mode watched from the berthside. It took a moment or two for Sam to realize that the medical bay was just as full as it had been the day before, but the crowd of unfamiliar mechanoids were waiting near the entryway, rather than moving back and forth around the room. It took Sam a moment longer to realize they were waiting for permission to begin whatever task they had been assigned. 

The knowledge that he had an audience helped wake Sam up a little. “Oh,” he rasped, planting a hand against the mattress and struggling into a sitting position. “Sorry.” 

Bumblebee pulled the blankets aside, and then lowered the bedrail. Sam swung his legs over the side of the mattress, scrubbing a hand down his face, before letting Bumblebee help him down. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but nothing like the last time he’d been awake. Sigil walked into Sam’s line of sight holding a bundle of clothing, which he handed to Bumblebee. Bumblebee said nothing as he accepted the bundle, which he handed to Sam, before gathering Sam up in his servos. Sigil stepped aside as Bumblebee brushed past him. Sam clutched the bundle of clothing closely to his chest with one hand, steadying himself with the other, as the scout set him on his feet in front of the bathroom door. 

Bumblebee lowered into a loose crouch. “You don’t have time to shower.” 

Sam nodded mutely in understanding, before pulling open the bathroom door and stepping inside. He did his best to get through his morning ablutions as quickly as possible — using the bathroom, washing his hands, brushing his teeth — but he felt slow and clumsy. It frustrated him to no end. Logically, Sam knew that it had taken days before he could get out of bed after Jazz’s resurrection, but he also knew that he didn’t have the luxury of weakness. Not here, not now — not when Sentinel Prime would surely learn of it. 

Sam splashed cold water on his face, trying to wake himself up, but it only served to get water all over the counter. He made a disgruntled sound as he started pulling on his clothing. Long-sleeved shirt, woolen cardigan, lounge pants. The clothing was loose-fitting and comfortable — briefly, Sam wondered whether Bumblebee had chosen the clothing, or whether Sigil had taken the liberty of going through his things. 

//Sam,// Bumblebee nudged. //Please hurry.//

“Sorry,” Sam managed, putting thoughts of clothing out of his mind as he pulled open the bathroom door. The sight that greeted him in the medical bay made his step falter. There were six different mechanoids of varying heights and builds already disassembling the human-purposed equipment on the opposite wall. As Sam watched, the hospital bed was swiftly and efficiently broken down into its composite parts and placed on a hover-gurney waiting near the berth.

Wordlessly, Sam turned to look at Bumblebee. His bonded was crouched beside the bathroom door, his forearms resting on his bent knees, and as soon as they made eye contact, Bumblebee chirruped softly in reassurance.

Sam grimaced faintly. “So what now?” 

“We have to go — we’re being expected,” Meltdown said, appearing in the doorway to Ratchet’s office. The medical build crossed the distance between them, before lowering into a loose crouch of his own. Immediately, a familiar blue light flickered to life from the nodule on Meltdown’s helm and swept Sam from head to toe. 

Sam bore the medical scan with strained patience. “Being expected by who, exactly?” 

“Optimus is waiting on the other side of the ground bridge,” Bumblebee explained. “From there, we will head to your state room, where Sentinel will receive us.” 

Sam’s heart jumped — both in relief that he would see Optimus again, but also at the knowledge that Sentinel Prime was waiting for him. “Receive me? What does that mean?” Sam glanced down at his clothing, which was just about the furthest thing from formal attire that he could imagine. “Should I be wearing something else?” 

Meltdown chuckled understandingly. “It’s alright, Sam. I understand the visit will be brief — Sentinel will welcome you aboard properly after you’ve recovered.” 

Sam resisted the urge to pull a face. He was well aware that Meltdown had served as Sentinel Prime’s personal physician for many years. There was often an undertone of familiarity and respect in Meltdown’s voice whenever he spoke of the older Prime. On one hand, Sam supposed he should be grateful that Meltdown seemed unphased by their imminent transferral to the Gauntlet. If anyone knew the ins-and-outs of Sentinel Prime’s temperament, it would be his personal physician. But that’s not the feeling that settled in the pit of Sam’s stomach. He felt anxious, uncertain — and Meltdown’s easy acceptance of the situation wasn’t helping matters. 

“Your vitals are much improved this morning,” Meltdown continued, either unaware of Sam’s inner turmoil or politely respecting his mental space. “You’re recovering faster than anticipated. I expect you should be mostly recovered in another day or two, perhaps less.” 

“Well, that’s good,” Sam replied uncomfortably — the sooner he was back on his feet, the better. “So, when’re we leaving?” 

Meltdown glanced over at Sigil, who had been standing unobtrusively a short distance away. The attendant inclined his head politely. “The ground bridge is ready for you now, Prime.” 

Sam’s stomach flip-flopped at the news. He wet his bottom lip, before glancing uncertainly at Bumblebee. “Okay, so what’s the protocol? How’re we doing this?” 

By way of answer, Meltdown straightened out of his crouch, before taking two large steps backwards and folding down into his alt mode. As soon as the last yellow-green panel slotted into place, the driver’s side door popped open in obvious welcome. Sam stared at the Search and Rescue vehicle with something painful building inside his chest. He had totally forgotten that Ratchet had given Meltdown the specifications for his alt mode. 

“Sam,” Bumblebee murmured, drawing his attention. “You’ll go with Meltdown; your retinue will follow behind.” 

Sam’s pulse picked up a little. “I want to go with you,” he managed.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Bumblebee promised, crooking a digit to stroke a knuckle down Sam’s chest. “Go on. We shouldn’t keep Prime waiting.” 

Sam searched his bonded’s face, looking for any indication of wariness or concern, but there was nothing over than the low-level discomfort that Sam had been feeling at the edge of his mind for days. Bumblebee whistled at him softly, encouragingly, and Sam reached up, pressing his palm against the side of Bumblebee’s face, before turning and climbing into Meltdown’s front seat without giving himself the chance to second-guess his actions. The Hummer’s interior looked almost identical to Ratchet’s, and it hurt more than Sam was anticipating. The dashboard was a complicated control panel with a touch screen monitor, switches, dials, and lights; the driver’s seat was separated from the passenger’s by a large bulky storage compartment; and the whole interior was paneled in creamy dark leather and hard plastic. 

As Sam’s eyes slid around the familiar interior, the driver’s side door carefully clicked shut behind him. “Seatbelt, please,” Meltdown instructed, voice emanating from the dashboard speakers.

Sam didn’t bother arguing. Ratchet had always insisted that Sam use the seatbelt whenever they were driving together, and he doubted that Meltdown would be any less of a stickler for passenger safety. Sam twisted, grabbing the belt and pulling it across his chest, before pushing it into the latch with an audible click. As soon as the seatbelt was secured, an object popped out of subspace at chest-level and landed in his lap. Sam glanced down in surprise only to immediately recognize the environmental mask. 

“It’s a necessity, I’m afraid,” Meltdown apologized as his engine rolled over with a loud rumble. “The Gauntlet is being retrofitted to support human life, but currently, only the forward sections of the ship have a breathable atmosphere.”

Sam made a moue of distaste as he lifted the environmental mask and pressed it against his face — a moment later, the mask decompressed with an audible hiss, forming an air-tight seal around his mouth and nose. Sam worked his jaw, checking to see if it pinched anywhere, but the seal was comfortable. Wheeljack and Perceptor did good work. 

“It shouldn’t take much longer before the rest of the ship is up to par,” Meltdown continued as he started towards the medical bay doors. “The engineers seem confident.” 

Carefully, Sam settled back against the seat, being mindful not to touch anything. Cybertronians could be tetchy about humans in their alt modes, and Sam didn’t know Meltdown well enough to tell whether he’d be put-out by Sam touching something he shouldn’t. “How long’s it been since… well, you know.” 

Evidentially, Meltdown did know. “It’s been thirty-nine hours since you resurrected Rumble.” 

Not even two days, and yet Sentinel Prime had already prepared a living space for him, arranged to have his things transferred to the Gauntlet, and begun the process of terraforming the ship. It had taken over two years to get the Ark off the ground after Megatron’s attack — longer still, to make the ship safe for human habitation. 

“Sentinel works fast,” Sam observed tonelessly.

Meltdown chuckled, causing the ambulance to vibrate around him. “You forget that Sentinel Prime has nearly ten thousand mechanoids under his command. What is it the humans say? ‘Many hands make for light work’?” 

Sam grimaced hard enough to hurt his jaw. “Trust me, I didn’t forget a thing.” 

The medical bay doors slid open, revealing the wide corridor outside. Sam immediately spied Cliffjumper and Trailbreaker who were waiting in their alt modes with three other mechanoids that Sam didn’t recognize — their alt modes were Cybertronain in design, sleek and low with wide fenders and a narrow body almost reminiscent of a Formula 1 race car except the body section was solid metal, rather than an open-top design. The unfamiliar vehicles were plated in the red and white of a Primesguard, and that told Sam all he needed to know.

As soon as Meltdown crossed the threshold, two of the Primesguard separated from the others to take the lead. Meltdown continued ahead, falling in behind them, and Sam leaned over to watch in the side mirror as Cliffjumper, Trailbreaker, and the remaining Primesguard took up the rear of their procession. As promised, Bumblebee was driving behind Meltdown’s alt mode — close enough that Sam couldn’t see his front fender from his angle — and an indigo colored Cybertronian alt mode that could only be Sigil was following behind him. 

“Sam,” Meltdown began hesitantly, “I understand you’re anxious. I can’t imagine how difficult this whole ordeal has been for you. But please, believe me when I tell you, you have nothing to fear.” 

Sam glanced down at the dashboard. Now that he was paying attention, he could feel the weight of Meltdown’s regard through their bond. The medic’s presence, which was typically warm and buoyant, felt sharper and more turbid. It took Sam a moment to identify what he was feeling — it was concern. Although whether it was concern for Sam’s well-being, concern about Sam’s discomfort, or concern about their impending meeting with Sentinel Prime, Sam couldn't guess. 

Sam resisted the urge to frown, even though the lower half of his face was concealed behind the environmental mask. “Do you really believe that?” he asked, the question motivated partly by necessity and partly by morbid curiosity. 

“I do,” Meltdown replied, immediately and with conviction. “Sentinel Prime is a fair and just ruler. Now that the legitimacy of your claims has been proven, all will be well. You’ll see.” 

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t sure whether Meltdown was being realistic, optimistic — or naive. They turned the corner, before accelerating in the direction of the atrium. Doors flashed by on either side of the corridor as they picked up speed. When they neared the mess hall, Sam turned his head to watch it pass only to realize that it was teeming with mechanoids. They passed too quickly for Sam to tell whether he knew them or not, but still — it was many more people than Sam had ever seen in the mess before. 

“Meltdown… how many people are assigned to the Ark?” he asked, distractedly. 

The medic fell silent for a moment, evidentially taken aback by Sam’s abrupt change of topic, before he said, “The duty roster currently lists 187 personnel assigned to the ship — others will rotate in and out, depending on staffing needs.” 

The answer made Sam shift uneasily in his seat. There had been less than forty mechanoids on Earth until the Lost Light arrived — royally fucking everything up in the process. The knowledge that there were many more times that number currently stationed aboard the Ark made him realize just how outnumbered they were by Sentinel’s forces. Even if Prowl’s projections were trending into more optimistic territory, and even if Sentinel Prime proved to be as “fair” and “just” as everyone claimed, it still made Sam feel… apprehensive. 

In the distance, Sam could see the corridor opening onto the atrium, spilling pale light in their direction. The procession continued ahead, taking the ramp down to the second deck, before turning down the corridor that would take them to the ground bridge hangar. Sam’s pulse picked up as the Gauntlet — and Sentinel Prime — drew proverbially closer. 

“What do I need to know?” Sam blurted without thinking. “About Sentinel, I mean.” 

Meltdown made a thoughtful sound. “In what context?” 

“Any context,” Sam replied, a little desperately. 

Meltdown’s mental presence shifted at the edge of Sam’s mind in a way that gave the impression he was thinking over his answer. “I have known Sentinel for a long time. I first met him when I was called to testify in front of the Senate regarding the conditions in the slums. He was the only person who seemed at all interested in what I had to say — he listened, he asked questions. It was a short meeting, but it left a lasting impression.” As Meltdown spoke, the wide double doors to the ground bridge hangar came into sight. There were two bulky looking mechanoids standing sentry on either side of the doorway who inclined their heads deeply as the convoy approached. “Shortly thereafter, I was invited back to provide informed counsel regarding a proposal being put to vote — the Dissolution of the Kalis Slums. I was immediately wary. It was hardly the first resolution that had been put forward regarding the slums.” 

“Why?” Sam found himself asking. 

“The conditions inside the slums were horrific. Illness, starvation, crime, and abuse were all rampant. Many had petitioned to have the slums disbanded, but none succeeded.” Meltdown’s voice darkened as he added, “They couldn’t get the necessary votes. There was concern that if the destitute were forced out of Kalis, they would seek shelter in Iacon instead.” 

As Meltdown was speaking, the convoy passed through the wide double doors into the ground bridge hangar. The semi-circular archway was standing in the middle of the room, empty and quiescent, while the rest of the room was anything but. There were a few dozen mechanoids — too many for Sam to easily count — assembled in two long columns leading to the ground bridge platform. They were all standing perfectly still, like identical rows of toy soldiers, but each mechanoid inclined their head as the first vehicle of the convoy passed in front of them. 

“But Sentinel disbanded the slums,” Sam remembered. 

“He did,” Meltdown agreed, and there was something almost fond about his tone. “It took a great deal of convincing, but Sentinel is and was a gifted orator. After the bill passed, he oversaw the disbandment himself — an unseemly task, for a Prime, but he was undeterred by the Senate’s disapproval. He ensured that the residents were relocated safely to Kaon, and then razed the slums down to the last cornerstone.” 

As they neared the archway, Crossblades stepped forward from where he had been standing near the ground bridge controls. Something hot and visceral and angry bubbled up inside Sam’s chest at the sight of him, and he rubbed his hands against his thighs to stop himself from white-knuckling the door handle or the center console. Crossblades inclined neatly at the waist, before straightening up and speaking to the mechanoid standing near the ground bridge controls. 

“And that’s why I followed Sentinel Prime into deep space,” Meltdown continued as the ground bridge technician started keying in the bridge sequence. “The Primes before him — Nominus and Zeta Prime — were corrupt. Ruthless. Self-serving. They didn’t care about anything beyond their own ego and position, and they certainly didn’t care about the well-being of anyone outside their circle of influence. Sentinel is different.” Meltdown’s voice grew softer, more introspective. “I believe the two of you will accomplish great things together.”

A moment later, a whorling blue-green vortex exploded to life inside the semi-circular archway. The two vehicles in front of them immediately drove into the miasma, disappearing from view, and then Meltdown started forward. 

“Brace yourself,” Meltdown urged. 

Sam sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, and then they were being engulfed by the glowing vortex. There was a moment of profound disorientation as reality dropped out from underneath him — a moment where gravity and time and sensation ceased to exist — and then it all came rushing back as they emerged on the other side of the gateway. 

Suddenly woozy, Sam swayed in his seat. Immediately a firm hand pressed between his shoulder blades, guiding him forward to rest his forehead against the steering wheel. 

“Deep breaths,” Meltdown sympathized. Sam angled his head to stare blearily at the holoform sitting in the passenger seat. As soon as they made eye contact, the medic offered him an encouraging smile. “It’ll pass soon.” 

Sam nodded mutely, his cheek scraping against hard leather, as he took a few deep breaths, struggling to get his queasiness under control. Meltdown’s holoform watched him closely, head tipped to the side, and then he asked, shrewdly, “Are you going to vomit?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” Sam rasped, and then after a moment, he asked, “Does it feel that way for you guys too?” 

“Bridging is… disorienting,” Meltdown allowed, “but it’s perhaps not as disorienting for us as it is for organics. Do you feel any better?” 

Sam took careful stock of himself — he was still uncomfortably aware of his stomach, but he no longer felt in imminent danger of spewing all over Meltdown’s front seat. He had a moment to be thankful for the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything before they’d bridged over, when he became aware of the distant rumble of hauler-grade engines. Sam’s head snapped up, and he immediately caught sight of the familiar red and blue Peterbilt truck idling a short distance in front of them.

Relief washed through Sam so quickly and so profoundly that he felt lightheaded. Optimus was accompanied by Ironhide and Kup, both in their terran alt modes, as well as three other vehicles in the red/white paneling of a Primesguard. Immediately, Sam tried to reach for the older Prime, only to collide with the firewalls that were keeping him safely ensconced inside the Creator bond. Irritation swelled, but before Sam could give voice to it, Meltdown shifted forward, and then the firewalls were lowered just enough that Sam could feel Optimus’ presence, dignified and ethereal, glowing at the edge of his mind. 

//Are you alright?// Sam pinged without preamble. 

A gentle wash of affection passed between them. //I am well, Sam. Thank you.//

Sam sat back in his seat with a frown. //Optimus, what’s going on? Sentinel’s reassigning people, Jazz resigned his commission, we’re being moved to the Gauntlet — what's happening?// He could feel Optimus’ presence brighten perceptibly, as though he were taking a deep breath, and Sam added warningly, //Tell me.//

There was a prolonged pause, and then Optimus murmured, //Please, Sam. Join me.//

As he spoke, the Peterbilt’s driver’s side door swung open in invitation. It took a moment longer, and then Meltdown’s door clicked open a crack — just far enough to let the Gauntlet’s cool air wash into the interior. 

“Don’t overtax yourself,” was all Meltdown said, before swinging the door open wider. 

Sam was touched — both by his concern, and by his willingness to let Sam make his own choices. He wasn’t sure that Ratchet would have been so accommodating, given the circumstances. Sam offered Meltdown’s holoform an appreciative half-smile, before carefully climbing down out of the Hummer’s interior. 

The hangar in which the ground bridge was located was unfamiliar — it certainly wasn’t the grand foyer they had bridged to the first time they came to the Gauntlet. The ground bridge was located nearer to one wall, while the only exit — a massive door that was guarded by two intimidating looking mechanoids — was located on the other. The large space echoed with the sounds of so many engines in close proximity. Sam walked around the front of the Hummer, before making his way over to the Peterbilt truck. As Sam approached, Optimus lowered down until his chassis touched the floor, and then the driver’s side door swung open wider still. Sam reached up, gripping the grab handle, before pulling himself into the Peterbilt’s front seat. Optimus’ interior looked exactly as it always had — warm wood paneling with chrome accents and creamy dark leather. 

Sam settled into the driver’s seat and waited. 

Eventually, Optimus ex-vented a sigh that made the entire Peterbilt shudder. “First, I wish to express my appreciation. Were it not for your bravery, I fear our audience with Sentinel may have ended very differently. I am grateful to you.” 

Sam shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t bravery, Optimus. It was bullheaded desperation.” 

“In my experience, the two are not so different,” Optimus offered wryly. 

There was a note of amusement underlying Optimus’ tone, but Sam wouldn’t let himself be distracted. “Don’t blow me off, Optimus. Please. What’s going on?” 

Optimus brushed across his mind, and the touch was laden with affection. It would have been impossible to misinterpret it. “I can only tell you what I know.” 

“Which is?” Sam asked, anxiously. 

Optimus ex-vented a quiet sigh. “Sentinel has treated me graciously, but cautiously. I have been formally recognized, as you have been, and given apartments befitting my role. Sentinel has also removed me from all positions of military authority.” Sam’s head snapped up in alarm, but Optimus continued before he could protest. “This is neither unexpected nor unprecedented. It has been a great many years since there has been more than one Prime. It will take time for the three of us to negotiate our roles and responsibilities. Until then, Sentinel remains the sovereign leader of Cybertron and its peoples. He is well within his rights to reassign mecha according to his judgment.” 

“What about Jazz?” Sam asked, leaning forward to grip the bottom of the steering wheel in both hands. “You can’t expect me to believe he actually resigned.” 

“I reacted similarly when Jazz informed me of his decision,” Optimus replied. “And I suspect the reasons he gave me are the same reasons he gave you — just as I suspect that those reasons may have little to do with his actual motivation.” 

Sam frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Optimus rumbled lowly, deep inside his chassis, a sound that Sam could feel in his bones. “I doubt even Prowl could suss out Jazz’s true intentions unless Jazz were to tell him directly. To my knowledge, he has not.” 

Sam’s frown deepened, but before he could tell Optimus to stop being so opaque, the two Primesguard that had led Sam’s procession through the ground bridge started towards the wide double doors on the opposite side of the hangar. Ironhide and Kup fell in behind them, and then Optimus followed in their wake. 

“We don’t have much time, so please, Sam — listen carefully.” The serious tone of Optimus’ voice made Sam’s pulse start to race. “As a result of your actions in the sacristy, Sentinel has recognized your claim to the Primacy. I understand that topics of spiritual and religious significance do not always make you comfortable, but it is imperative you understand the enormity of what you have accomplished.” 

The doors slid open as the Primesguard approached, revealing a wide corridor lit by recessed lighting beyond the hangar. The metal floors were polished to a mirror shine, and the walls were etched with directorate whorls and geometric shapes that reminded Sam of the Ark’s lower decks. 

“Our Sacred Covenant tells of the transformative power of the Matrix of Leadership — it is a repository of Holy Wisdom, of Primus’ divine intention, yes, but it is much more than that,” Optimus continued. “There is scripture that tells of the Matrix’s ability to resurrect an extinguished spark, but it has never been accomplished in living memory.” 

Sam glanced down sharply at the dashboard. “What do you mean? You told me that you tried with Jazz.” 

“I did,” Optimus agreed, driving through the wide double doors. “I had hoped to resurrect Jazz, as you had resurrected me. As you know, I was unsuccessful.” 

As Optimus spoke, the convoy took a left-hand turn at a large junction. Sam’s heart immediately jumped into his throat at the crowd of mechanoids lining the walls down the full length of the corridor. Some were in their bipedal modes, and they inclined deeply at the waist as the Peterbilt drove past them, while others were in their alt modes, sitting quiet and still, while still others had transformed down into vaguely cube-shaped masses. Sam turned his head, staring in numb disbelief as they drove. There were mechanoids of every conceivable shape, size, and color — tall and short, bulky and lithe, glossy and matte, bright and understated — and they were all jostling one another to get a good look at the convoy. 

“Sam,” Optimus interceded gently. Slowly, Sam turned his head to stare at the dashboard. Once it was clear that he had Sam’s attention, the older Prime continued. “Do you understand the difference between wisdom and knowledge?” 

Sam’s brows drew together in confusion. “What? No. I mean, maybe. I don’t know.” 

The presence at the edge of his mind brightened perceptibly — though in what emotion, Sam couldn’t tell. “Wisdom is knowledge that has been tempered by experience. Wisdom cannot  be imparted — it can only be earned. Do you understand?” 

Sam gave the dashboard a pleading look. “Optimus, what’re you—?” 

“Follow your conscience in all things, Sam. It will serve you well. ” Optimus brushed gently against Sam’s mind. The touch was laden with affection and… something else. Something heavier. “And above all else, have faith — in yourself, in the passion of your convictions, and in providence.” 

Sam stared at the dashboard uncomprehendingly, but before he could give voice to his confusion and anxiety, the convoy drove through an archway into a large atrium. The ceiling was many storeys high — Sam had to lean forward, angling his head to peer up through the windshield. There, far above them, was a curved glass dome that seemed to provide an unobstructed view of the vast expanse of space. The convoy continued ahead, bearing left towards one of two curved ramps that led to a mezzanine that ran around the perimeter of the room. In the lee of the two ramps, which let out facing one another, there was a large intricate sculpture of a mechanoid holding a trident in one servo and a datapad in the other. The sculpture’s stern visage stared towards the entryway as though in disapproval. 

The convoy started up the ramp, which curved towards the back of the atrium, before continuing down the left-hand side of the mezzanine. There were columns set at even intervals along the edge of the mezzanine and doors set in sporadic intervals against the wall, and they both flashed by on either side as the convoy picked up speed. The mezzanine provided a clear vantage of the atrium, which was grand and impressive by anyone’s definition of the words. 

Suddenly, the convoy slowed and turned through a nondescript doorway located about half-way down the mezzanine. Sam’s mouth immediately went dry at the sight of Sentinel Prime standing in the middle of what was, to Sam’s best guess, a large receiving room. The older Prime looked much the same as he had in the audience hall. Tall and imposing, Sentinel was paneled entirely in Primal red, the metal having been polished to a gleaming shine. The two Primesguard at the front of the convoy split off, one veering off to the left, the other veering off to the right. Kup and Ironhide did the same. Optimus slowed to a stop in the middle of the room, almost directly in front of the older Prime, who was watching their arrival in silence. 

As soon as the Peterbilt came to a full stop, rocking Sam gently in his seat, the driver’s side door swung open in an unspoken directive. 

“Optimus—” Sam started, unsteadily. 

“Please, reflect on all I have said,” Optimus murmured in reply, before the seat shivered underneath him. “It is time, Sam.” 

Sam’s eyes flicked down, searching the dashboard — though for what, he couldn’t have said — and then he glanced up, taking in the sight of Sentinel Prime waiting to receive him. Something uneasy twisted in the pit of Sam’s stomach, but he forced himself to reach out, grasping the grab handle in his left hand, before climbing down from the Peterbilt’s interior. Once Sam's feet were under him again, Optimus rolled back several meters and initiated his transformation sequence. As soon as the last panel slotted into place, Optimus looked down at him, optics bright, before gesturing meaningfully to the mechanoid standing in front of them.

“Sam, it is my honor to introduce Sentinel Prime,” Optimus rumbled. It was a tone that Sam immediately recognized, for it was the same tone that Optimus used whenever he introduced Sam to people of import. It was a dignified greeting, stately and polite, but it revealed absolutely nothing of Prime’s inner thoughts and feelings. 

Sentinel inclined his head. “Welcome aboard the Gauntlet, Samuel Prime.” 

Sam knew this much, at least. He inclined his head in return — spine straight, shoulders back, eyes up. “Thank you for receiving me, Your Grace.” The words tumbled out on rote. How often had he said the same thing to Mirage? More times than he could remember, certainly. 

Sentinel’s mouth plates twitched in good humor. “I think, given all that has happened, we can dispense with the formalities. Would you agree?” 

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. “Um, yeah. Sure. I mean, if that’s what you’d like.” 

Sentinel’s mouth plates curved upwards in the ghost of a smile. “I am gladdened. Do you prefer Sam or Samuel as your informal form of address?” 

The question was, at once, both patently bizarre and wholly familiar. He found himself answering, “Sam,” out of habit, and then because he was speaking to the sovereign leader of an alien people, he added, “I prefer Sam.” 

Sentinel inclined his helm in acknowledgement. “It is a pleasure to meet you properly, Sam. You may call me Sentinel, if it pleases you. It is both my designation and my regnal name.” The older Prime cocked his head, peering down at Sam as though in deep scrutiny. “How are you feeling? Your physician informs me you are recovering well.” 

Sam flushed hotly — both at the question, and at the knowledge that Meltdown had spoken with Sentinel about his condition. “I feel alright. A little tired, I guess.” 

Sentinel inclined his helm in understanding. “Yes, I have been informed. I won’t tarry — shall we adjourn? I would see that you’re settled before taking my leave.” 

As he spoke, Sentinel gestured towards the tall doors located on the back wall. Sam glanced up at Optimus, looking for guidance, and the older Prime inclined his helm in return. Sam turned to look at Sentinel, before slowly nodding his head. 

In the end, the tour of Sam’s new apartments proved to be anticlimactic, if thoroughly overwhelming. Sentinel led them into the next room, which turned out to be a large living space. The room was sized to allow mecha of Optimus’ and Sentinel’s stature to move about comfortably, but the furnishings were all proportionally sized for Sam — proportionally sized and extravagant. There was a sitting area in the middle of the room with plush and ample seating arranged around a low table. One wall consisted of shelving that extended all the way to the ceiling. Each shelf laden with glittering crystal plants and ornate sculptures and, to Sam’s astonishment, plants. As Sam stared around the room in growing disbelief, he saw that there was abundant greenery located in almost every nook and cranny. Tall sweeping fronds, and hanging ivy, and potted plants with wide leaves. Sam reached out to touch a broadleaf plant that was sitting on a narrow table only for his fingers to pass right through it. 

“Holoforms,” Sentinel explained, gesturing to several plants in his vicinity. “Although we have amassed a collection of organic artifacts and other oddities, most flora are unable to survive the rigors of deep space travel.” 

As with the atrium, the ceiling of the living area consisted of a curved dome that revealed the inky darkness of space. The room had four doors leading from it, not including the door they had just passed through. There was one door on the left wall, set in between the shelving, one door on the back wall, and two doors on the right. 

When one of the mecha who had accompanied them into the apartments — a short, lithe femme paneled entirely in mother-of-pearl white — noticed Sam’s staring, she hurried to explain.

“This leads to your berth room,” she said, gesturing towards the door on the left wall. “It should have all of the comforts and amenities you wish. The wash racks can be accessed from both your berth room and through this door,” as she spoke, the femme half-turned, gesturing towards the door set in the back wall. “The wash racks have been retrofitted to account for human bathing norms, but we can make additional changes, depending on your preferences.” 

“Oh,” Sam managed. “Thank you.” And then, because he might be feeling overwhelmed but he still had manners, he asked, “Sorry, and you are?” 

The femme clasped her servos in front of her chest and bent deeply at the waist. “Forgive me, Most Sacred, I did not mean to interrupt. My designation is Lumi.” 

Sam opened his mouth to tell her not to call him that — it was on the tip of his tongue — but he was all too aware of Sentinel Prime, who was watching their exchange. There was nothing censorious or disproving about the older Prime’s demeanor, but Sam still found himself swallowing down his objection. 

”Well, thank you, Lumi. That was very helpful,” he said instead, before nodding towards the two remaining doors on the opposite side of the room. “And where do these go?” 

Lumi seemed to be aware of Sentinel’s scrutiny as well, for she hesitated a moment before straightening from her bow to answer. “These doors lead to the servants’ lodgings. It’s where your household staff will reside for the duration of our voyage.” 

“Thank you,” Sam said again, softly. 

Shortly thereafter, Sentinel Prime took his leave with the assurance that he would visit again once Sam was feeling better. He was followed by a retinue of mechanoids that were swept along behind him, but the room seemed no less empty in their wake. In addition to the mecha that Sam knew — Optimus, Bumblebee, Meltdown, Ironhide, Kup, Cliffjumper, and Trailbreaker — there were five or six other mechanoids that were flitting in and out of the room or standing sentry, including Sigil and Lumi. 

Once Sentinel left, Optimus engaged his holoform and accompanied Sam as he explored the apartment. The older Prime showed Sam some features he hadn’t noticed before, such as the fact there were Cybertronian-sized seats located around the room obscured by holoform to look like part of the architecture, or the fact that there was a viewscreen hidden by paneling on the back wall. He also led Sam into his berth room, which was enormous by anyone’s standards — there was a large bed that could have been a triple queen located on a low platform against one wall. The berth room also contained another sitting area tucked in one corner, as well as an ornate desk and chair that looked like it could have come out of a museum in another. 

Optimus led him to the wash racks next, which were so extravagant and ornate that it bordered on obscene. The floors were made of gleaming white stone, which extended halfway up the walls, and there were still more holoform plants placed invitingly around the space. In the center of the room, there was a massive bath — the water was shallower at one end, perhaps only knee-deep or so, but it got progressively deeper towards the other end until Sam couldn’t even see the bottom anymore. Sam crouched down, running his hand through the liquid and rubbing his fingers together to confirm that it was actually water, not solvent. 

At each corner of the bath, a large fluted column extended to the domed ceiling high above them. Both the domed ceiling and the leftmost wall were made of transparisteel, offering an unobstructed view of space. The rightmost wall also had an assortment of things to see. There was a sink and toilet, both of which were terran in design, and as such, seemed wildly out of place in the gleaming room, as well as a hidden cabinet for Sam’s toiletries. 

Sam stared at the neat row of bottles and toilet paper in mounting disbelief, before turning to look up at Optimus. It may have been the exhaustion creeping up on him again, or it may have been the fact he was feeling totally out of his depth, but all Sam could think to say was, “This is fucking weird, right?” 

Optimus briefly looked taken aback, and then he seemed to suppress a smile. “It was common for Primes to be pampered and doted upon in the time before the Great War, but yes, it can be... overwhelming.” 

“It’s obscene,” Sam muttered, pushing the cabinet shut. 

Optimus rumbled lowly inside his chassis, but offered nothing else in response. 

By the time they made their way back into the berth room, Sam was fading fast. Optimus took his leave, but not before promising, as Sentinel had, that they would see each again soon. After Optimus’ departure, Sam sat heavily on the edge of the bed while Meltdown and Bumblebee moved around the room, getting things ready for him. Sam’s movements were stiff and mechanical as he ate dinner, took his antidepressants, and changed into his pajamas. It galled him to return to the wash rack long enough to use the bathroom, but it wasn’t long before he was able to crawl into bed. 

Sam was almost asleep when the mattress dipped beside him. He twisted, glancing over his shoulder in confusion, only to find Bumblebee lying next to him. Sam couldn’t prevent the small smile that spread across his face. “Hey,” he croaked. “You comfy?” 

“Very much so,” Bumblebee chuckled, before brushing against Sam’s mind as gently as a breeze. “Go to sleep, Sam. I’ll be right here when you wake.” 

And despite everything — the change, the uncertainty, the strangeness of an unfamiliar place — that’s exactly what Sam did. 

Chapter 30

Sometime later, Sam was awoken by the sound of applause.

He squinted open his eyes to find that the berth room, which had been dark and quiet the evening before, was awash in cool blue light. He lifted his head in confusion only to come face-to-face with what was, to Sam’s sleep-addled brain, a portal into the Late Night Show with Stephen Colbert. The show’s namesake was standing at the foot of his bed with the familiar set in the background as applause rolled through the room.

“Thank you! Welcome one and all,” Colbert grinned, pushing his hands into his pants pockets. “Welcome everybody, in here, out there, Mr. and Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea. Welcome to the Late Show. I’m your host, Stephen Colbert—” 

“What the fuck?” Sam mumbled. 

A warm swell of amusement washed across his mind. “Good morning, Sam.” 

Sam turned his head to find that Bumblebee was reclining next to his bed. It took him a moment longer to realize that the scout was sitting in a wide-backed Cybertronian-sized chair. Sam stared at his bonded in confusion, before turning back towards Colbert — which is when Sam realized that he was staring at a massive entertainment console, not a rift in the space-time continuum. The console was located on the wall opposite the bed, and it was easily the dimensions of a small theater screen. It made Colbert look almost life-sized as he stood on the stage delivering his monologue. 

“That’s… big,” Sam managed. 

Bumblebee settled back in the chair, his elbows propped on the armrest and his legs stretched out in front of him. “It’s not small,” he agreed. 

Sam snorted softly, before pushing the heavy blankets aside so he could sit up. “What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”

“It’s just after half-shift,” Bumblebee replied. “I’ve been watching television for a while, but you were dead to the world. How do you feel?” 

Sam took a moment to consider the question seriously. His head felt less muddled than it had in days, and he actually felt rested for the first time in recent memory. No small feat, given all that had happened over the last week or so. 

“I feel pretty good, actually,” Sam replied, before offering his bonded a sheepish smile. “I could definitely eat something.” 

Bumblebee chuckled good-naturedly. “Your breakfast is already on its way, Prime.” 

Sam shot him an exasperated look, before pushing the pillows against the headboard and settling back against them. He had been too tired and overwhelmed the night before to really scrutinize his surroundings, but now that was exactly what he did. The berth room was roughly trapezoidal in shape. The bed was located on a low platform against the longest wall in the room — the door to the washracks was located to Sam’s left, and the door to the living space was located further away to Sam’s right. Every surface in the room — the walls, the floor, the ceiling — seemed to be made of the same polished metal as the rest of the ship. But now that Sam was looking, he could see that the walls were etched with a subtle but elaborate design that extended from the floor to the ceiling.

Sam frowned faintly, leaning over to get a better look at the wall beside his bed. The lattice-like etchings reminded him a little bit of Cybertronian logograms, but nothing looked familiar.

“What’s this mean?” he asked, nodding towards the design.

Bumblebee briefly glanced in his direction, before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m not sure.” 

“Are they… words?” Sam asked, tracing one whorl with a fingertip. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Bumblebee replied, canting his head. “It’s not anything I recognize, anyway.” 

Frowning faintly, Sam settled back against the pillows. The room was undoubtedly elaborate and beautiful, but it was also unquestionably alien in design. Even the things meant for him, like the bed in which he was lying, or the entertainment console, or the holoform plants, weren’t quite right, weren’t quite human. 

And although it was obvious that great efforts had been taken to ensure Sam was comfortable in his new space, if anything, all the little touches left him feeling homesick instead.

Evidentially, Bumblebee had been following Sam’s train of thought more closely than he was letting on, for he turned to look at him. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

In truth, Sam wanted nothing less. He shook his head faintly without taking his eyes off the entertainment console on the other side of the room. “No. Thank-you, though.” 

Sam could almost feel the intensity of Bumblebee’s regard, but before either of them could say anything more, the doors to the living area slid open, revealing Sigil standing in the doorway. The indigo-colored mechanoid inclined his helm deeply in greeting, before crossing the room towards them.

“Good morning, Prime,” Sigil asked, gesturing meaningfully with the tray he was holding in both servos. “Where would you like this?” 

“Oh, uh,” Sam glanced around the room — the table was too far away, and he didn’t know where else he was supposed to eat. “Here, I guess?” 

Sigil inclined his helm and stepped forward, carefully setting the tray down on the mattress. Sam’s eyebrows immediately rose at the sight laid out in front of him. The tray itself was far larger than its orange counterpart in the medical bay. It was made of burnished copper or brass, and it had elaborate handles that were large enough to accommodate Sigil’s digits. Sam’s meal had also been plated in a series of elaborate metal dishes — there was a potato hash steaming in one silver bowl with a delicate filigree etched around the rim, oatmeal in another, yogurt in a third, and dry cereal in a fourth. There were also two tall glasses on the tray, each made of what appeared to be etched blue crystal — the first contained water, the second contained coffee. Lastly, there was a long-necked fluted pitcher made of the same material sitting on the tray. Sam reached out, grasping the pitcher by the handle, before tipping it to the side just far enough to peer inside. Water glinted back at him, looking almost silvery in the low light. 

“Is everything to your satisfaction, Prime?” Sigil asked, and there was an undercurrent of concern in his tone. 

Sam set the pitcher back on the tray, before clearing his throat. “Um. Yeah. Everything looks great. Thank you.” 

“It was my pleasure,” Sigil replied, the ghost of a smile warming his expression. “Did you sleep well?” 

Sam picked up a fork with one hand and pulled the potato hash closer with the other. “Yeah, I slept alright. The bed’s comfortable.” He poked at the hash experimentally, and the potato broke apart, sending steam into the cool air. Sam speared a piece with his fork and popped it in his mouth. It tasted as though it had just come off the skillet — the potatoes were crispy and salty, and there was a smoky maple flavor from the bacon. He recognized the taste immediately. He had ordered the same thing almost every morning that Chef Jefferson had been in the kitchen for the last two years. 

Sam took another bite, before a thought occurred to him. He glanced sidelong as Bumblebee, who was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. //Have you refueled?//

Bumblebee’s mental presence shifted, growing softer with affection and fondness. //I have.//

Sam nodded to himself, before taking another bite of his food. It wasn’t until he had chewed and swallowed that he realized Sigil was still standing a short distance away, watching him eat. Sam glanced up at the indigo colored mechanoid, considering him for a moment, before he speared a piece of bell pepper with his fork. “So, what exactly does an attendant do, anyway?” 

Sigil made a thoughtful sounding click inside his intakes. “Whatever you require, Most Holy.” 

Sam immediately gave him an irritated look. “Don’t call me that.” 

Sigil tipped his head, as though in consideration. “Do you have a preferred term of address?” 

“How about my name?” Sam grumbled, popping the pepper into his mouth. 

“If that is your wish,” Sigil acquiesced easily. “I daren’t call you by your familiar name in the hearing of others, but I will gladly do so here. Would you prefer the rest of your household to do the same?” 

Sam set down his fork so he could give the indigo-colored mechanoid his full attention. Sigil seemed to be asking the question in good faith, and so Sam replied in kind. “Look, I know we just met, but yes, I would prefer that people call me Sam, because that’s my name. I know you guys have big feelings about titles and decorum, but I’m still coming to terms with… all that.” 

Sigil visibly hesitated. “Sam, if I may? You asked me what an attendant does. The truth is that we do whatever is required of us. It may involve menial tasks, such as fetching or delivering missives, or it may involve more skilled work, such as entertaining guests or overseeing our household’s budget. I have a … diverse skill set. I would be happy to help you navigate this new normal, if you wish.” 

Sam frowned faintly. “A diverse skill set? What does that mean, exactly?” 

Sigil’s mouth plates twitched, as though he were suppressing a smile. “Typically, it’s considered polite to offer one’s credentials through a hard-line, but given the circumstances, I could summarize instead?” 

Despite himself, Sam found that he was curious. “Sure,” he agreed, nodding. 

“Well, let me see,” Sigil hummed. “I speak twenty-nine languages, including all of the major Cybertronian languages and their sub-dialects. That includes NeoCybex, Cybertronix, Cyberglyphics, Vosian cant, and the Primal Vernacular, as well as a number of alien languages, including Quintesson, A’ovan, Thraal, and now, English. I am also fully versed in the history and… intricacies of the different Cybertronian Houses and estates. As a result, I have often been called upon to act as translator and guide.” Sigil offered him a self-deprecating smile. “I can also entertain, if that’s your wish. I am more skilled with string instruments than I am in percussion or brass, but I’ve been told I am passably competent in both.” 

Sam resisted the urge to pull a face. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with a musician who spoke twenty-nine languages, but before he could say as much, Sigil added, “And of course, I’ve been trained in defense tactics and protective countermeasures.” 

Sam glanced up at him, his fork half-way to his mouth. “...What?” 

Sigil glanced searchingly at Bumblebee. “Have I mistranslated? The lexicon was not specific.” 

“No,” Bumblebee replied without inflection. “You haven’t mistranslated.” 

“Ah,” Sigil nodded. “That is a relief.” 

Sam set his fork down on the tray. “You’re trained in protective countermeasures? Does that mean you’re a member of the Primesguard?” 

Sigil shook his head once in negation. “The Primesguard are a specialized class – I have neither the frame specifications nor the processing capabilities to qualify for service. But I have received specialized combat training. Surely this is not so unusual? I was led to understand that your previous attendant was similarly trained.” 

Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion, but before he could say that he’d never had another attendant, Bumblebee cut in to explain. “He’s talking about Jason.” 

Sam turned, giving him a weird look. “Jay was my executive assistant, not my attendant.” 

Bumblebee’s expression turned wry, and he twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “He was classified that way on the HR paperwork, but not so to us. There isn’t a glyph for executive assistant in NeoCybex.” 

Sam frowned thoughtfully. It was true that Kelley didn’t exactly fulfill the typical duties of an executive assistant. He organized Sam’s calendar, brought him meals, made travel arrangements, booked hotels, confirmed speaking arrangements and public appearances, dropped off his dry-cleaning, proofread speeches, and yeah, they had undergone tactical field training together. Jason was Sam’s go-to guy for just about everything. 

Sam cast Sigil an uncertain look. “So, that’s what you do? Jay’s job, I mean.” 

Sigil offered him a small smile. “As I said, Sam: I do whatever is required of me.” 

Sam thought about that for a moment, before shrugging a little and picking up his fork again. The potato hash had grown lukewarm in the time they’d been talking, but it still tasted delicious. “That kind of helps, actually. I wasn’t sure what attendants did exactly.” Sam’s voice turned wry as he added, “I guess Mirage and I never got to that part of the syllabus.” 

Sigil chuckled good-naturedly, but said nothing further. Sam worked through his breakfast one elaborate dish at a time until he was comfortably full, and then Sigil gathered everything up and took his leave with a polite bow. Sam watched him go, before rolling over onto his hip to look at Bumblebee. 

//Alright, what do you think?// Sam asked without preamble. //Honestly?// 

Bumblebee leaned back in his chair. //About Sigil? I’m not sure. Prowl didn’t raise any objections.//

Sam frowned a little. That didn’t really answer his question — except that it did. //And what about all the rest?//

In the background, Stephen Colbert stood up from behind his desk and waved to the audience as the show’s theme music began to swell from the speakers. Sam never took his eyes off Bumblebee’s face. The scout’s optics were unusually bright as he seemed to consider the question. 

//If anyone has raised concerns beyond the obvious, well… I haven’t heard about it,// was all he said by way of reply. 

Sam’s frown deepened. “Comforting.” 

Bumblebee turned in his seat to look at Sam properly. He leaned forward, bracing one elbow strut against the armrest of his chair. //You know I share your reservations. But I don’t think Optimus would keep us in the dark — not if there was a real threat.//

//Are you sure about that?// Sam asked, skeptically. 

//Yes,// Bumblebee replied with complete conviction. //I am.//

Sam sighed and rolled over onto his back. He knew that Bumblebee’s faith in Optimus was unshakeable, but Sam had been on the receiving end of Prime’s obfuscation and maneuvering on more than one occasion. Would Optimus tell them if they were still in danger? Sam hoped so, but he couldn’t say for certain, not if the older Prime thought he had good cause to keep them in the dark. 

After all, experience had been a bitter teacher.

Bumblebee’s expression tightened fractionally. //Sam—//

“I don’t want to argue,” Sam cut him off, pushing himself into a sitting position and climbing off the bed. “Is there a shower? I could really use a shower.” 

After a moment, Bumblebee pushed himself to his feet. “There’s a nozzle in the baths. I’ll show you.” 

The two of them made their way across the room without another word. Although Bumblebee’s mental presence was reserved and withdrawn – or, as withdrawn as the bond would allow – Sam could still feel the depth of his emotion, even if he couldn’t pick out individual thoughts or impressions. The doors slid open as they approached, spilling golden light into the darkened berth room, and as Sam stepped into the doorway, he pulled up short in surprise. The leftmost wall of the room, which had been dark transparisteel the night before, revealed a vast expanse of pale blue sky. Sam’s heart lurched painfully behind his sternum, and he could feel Bumblebee’s surprise echoing back at him through their bond. The angle of sunlight suggested it was early morning, but the shade of blue was unlike anything Sam had ever seen. It looked almost blueish-gray, like gunmetal or steel blue — the sort of way the sky looked after a storm, but there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Sam’s feet carried him forward of their own accord, and he was distantly aware of Bumblebee doing the same. The closer he got to the transparisteel, the further he could see — there were some reddish-brown clouds drifting below them, but Sam couldn’t see anything else but pale blue sky. 

“Where are we?” Sam managed, his voice huskier than he intended. 

Bumblebee was silent for so long that Sam thought he might not answer, but then he replied, “We’re still in deep space. It’s just a hologram.” 

“Are you serious? A hologram of where?” Sam asked, eyes sliding across the vast expanse, looking for some indication of what they might be seeing. 

“Vos,” Bumblebee replied, softly. “Cliffjumper tells me that rooms throughout the entire ship have been programmed to look the same way.” 

The tone of Bumblebee’s voice caused Sam to turn and look at him properly. The scout was staring at the vista in front of them with an intensity of expression that Sam couldn’t name, not right away, but he barely had to lean into their bond before realization washed over him like a wave. 

Bumblebee was feeling homesick. 

It wasn’t the same feeling that Sam associated with homesickness, but there was no mistaking it — it was loneliness, and joy, and grief, and surprise, and longing, all at once. 

“Bee,” he murmured, reaching out to touch him. “You okay?” 

Bumblebee stared at the vista in front of them for a moment longer, before turning and making his way over toward the baths. After a short backwards glance, Sam trailed after him. Bumblebee walked around to the shallow end of the pool, which was separated from the deeper end by a wide stone ledge that extended just above the waterline, before crouching down behind one of the ornate columns. A moment later, a curtain of water streamed from the archway above the shallow end of the pool. 

Sam’s eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline. “You have got to be kidding me.” 

Bumblebee snorted expressively, before rising from his crouch. “The upper caste love their luxuries.” 

Frowning, Sam leaned forward to stick his hand into the stream. The water was comfortably warm — not as hot as a shower, perhaps, but a great deal warmer than a pool. Sam shook his hand off, before turning to look at the scout. “How many gallons is this?”

Bumblebee angled his head, seemingly taking in the dimensions of the pool, before he replied, thoughtfully, “I’m guessing somewhere in the ballpark of 50,000.” 

Fear lanced through Sam’s chest, sudden and hot. “Are they fucking insane? That’s all the water we brought!” 

Bumblebee pressed against his mind comfortingly. “It’s alright. They made more.” 

“What do you mean, they made more?” Sam demanded. 

“Water isn’t difficult to make, Sam,” Bumblebee explained patiently. “Oxygen and hydrogen are two of the most common elements in the universe. If you mix them together in the right proportion and under the right conditions, then you get water.” 

Slowly but surely, Sam’s heart rate evened out, and he felt a little ridiculous for his overreaction. “Oh. Right.” 

Bumblebee chuckled agreeably, before tipping his head towards the pool. “Wanna give it a spin?” 

Despite everything, Sam found a grin slowly spreading across his face. “Definitely.” 

Bumblebee whistled at him encouragingly, and that was all the prompting Sam needed to start stripping out of his clothing. As soon as he was naked, Sam stepped down into the shallow end of the pool. The water was comfortably warm and came up to just above his knees. Sam waded over to the curtain of water streaming into the pool, before ducking his head into the flow. The volume was a lot — Sam found himself bracing under the torrent — but it certainly got him wet in a hurry.

Sam leaned back, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes, before laughing delightedly. “Listen, I’m not gonna lie — this is definitely a tick in the pro column.” 

Bumblebee’s amusement glowed across their bond-space. “Here,” he said, nodding meaningfully as he set an assortment of items down at the edge of the pool. “Get started. I’ll join you in a moment.” 

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. He had never even considered the fact that the pool was definitely deep enough for Bumblebee. “I can’t wait,” he grinned, wading back towards the edge of the pool. 

Bumblebee winked at him, causing Sam’s grin to spread even wider, and then the scout made his way back into the berth room. As soon as the doors slid shut behind him, Sam started rifling through the different items that Bumblebee had brought him. There was shampoo and conditioner, body wash, and a facecloth. Sam made quick work of lathering his hair, and then he dunked his head below the water, rinsing himself off. He grabbed the facecloth next, working it into a sudsy lather, before scrubbing himself down. When he finished, Sam put everything back on the edge of the pool, and then leaned back, letting himself float in the water. Sam groaned softly in appreciation. After the Peaceful Tyranny's attack, Sam had suffered through cold water showers for weeks. That, coupled with the lowered temperature during emergency repairs, meant that Sam had been cold most of the time. The bath was a luxury in comparison. 

The muffled sound of the door sliding open heralded Bumblebee’s return. Sam smiled without opening his eyes. “What took you so long?” 

“Forgive me, Sam,” an unfamiliar voice apologized. “I was led to understand that humans prefer to eliminate their waste in private.” Sam’s eyes snapped open to find Lumi standing at the edge of the baths. The femme had her servos clasped in front of her waist and a rueful expression on her face. “Have you already finished bathing?” 

Sam yelped loudly in surprise, arms flailing, causing his head to go underwater. He surfaced a moment later, spluttering and scrambling away from the edge of the baths. Lumi made a high-pitched squawk of shock in return. 

“What the fuck!” Sam hollered, before remembering his nakedness. He quickly clapped his hands over his genitals and dropped down in the water, his face burning with embarrassment. “What are you doing in here!” 

Suddenly, both doors to the wash racks slid open. Cliffjumper was first inside, his plating clamped down close to his frame and his capacitors humming loudly enough that Sam could hear it. Two unfamiliar mechanoids in Primesguard red-and-white rushed in behind him, their footfalls heavy enough to disturb the water in the baths. Almost at the same time, Bumblebee appeared in the doorway leading to the berth room, his posture rigid and his optics aflame with anger. The two groups converged together in front of the baths — not a dozen feet away from him.

“Oh my God,” Sam groaned, hunkering lower into the water. 

The larger of the two Primesguards demanded something sharply in Cybertronian. Sam didn’t recognize the glyph, but he definitely recognized the emphasis modifiers. Lumi immediately folded her long arms over her chest plates and bowed at the waist, before initiating her transformation sequence and folding down into a cube-shaped mass. Cliffjumper’s expression was difficult to decipher, but his optics flicked back and forth from Lumi to the Primesguard and back again, before he warbled something quellingly in reply. Bumblebee narrowed his optics and snapped something back at him. At the same time, the doors to the berth room slid open again as Sigil hurried into the room. The indigo colored mechanoid drew up short, his optics sweeping the room as he quickly took in the scene in front of him.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Sam managed, torn between humiliation and incredulity. “Is there anyone else we forgot to invite?” 

“Sam, are you alright?” Sigil asked, his voice carefully composed, as he approached the baths. 

“At this exact moment?” Sam asked sarcastically. “Not really!” 

Bumblebee ex-vented a sharp burst of air, and then he made his way over to the long counter against the opposite wall. He returned a moment later, shaking out an oversized towel, before stepping into the baths and wading over to Sam. The scout held it out, blocking Sam from view of his unwelcome audience, and Sam quickly stood up, wrapping the warm fabric around himself. 

Once his body was covered, Sam turned, glaring at the interlopers. “Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” 

One of the Primesguard angled his helm, casting an inscrutable look down at Lumi, before nudging her with his pede. Almost immediately, the cube-shaped mass split apart like a lotus blossom as the femme initiated her transformation sequence. Sam watched in surprise as panels slid into place, joints unfurled like a stamen, and her helm angled up out of what was her chest compartment — it was easily one of the strangest and most graceful transformations he had ever seen. 

As soon as Lumi was bipedal again, she clasped her servos over her spark casing and bowed deeply at the waist. “Please, forgive my error in judgment.”

Sam frowned, clutching the towel a little closer to his body, waiting for her to explain, but she didn’t — her posture stayed exactly the same, submissive and inoffensive, and she offered neither explanation nor protest. 

“Sam,” Sigil interjected softly. After a moment, Sam turned to look at him. Sigil’s expression was difficult to interpret, but he tipped his head towards the tableau in front of them, and asked, almost gently, “Do you wish to have her disciplined?” 

Sam flushed hotly in outrage. “What? No!” 

Sigil inclined his head in acquiescence. “As you say.” 

Sam could feel the blood rushing to his face — he knew he must be burning red. “What kind of question is that?”

"A necessary one, I’m afraid,” Sigil replied. “We serve at your discretion. To offend you is to offend the Primacy.” 

Sam gripped the edges of the towel tighter around his body as he started wading towards the edge of the baths. Bumblebee reached out, steadying him as he walked — a fact for which Sam was immediately thankful. The towel was long enough that it was dragging through the water, and the last thing Sam needed was to fall flat on his ass. Lumi was still bowing as he started up the stone steps that led out of the pool. 

“Lumi, stand up,” Sam groused, and she immediately obeyed him. For some reason, that only nettled Sam further. “I’m getting dressed, and then I want to make a few things crystal fucking clear. Everyone got it?” 

“Of course,” Sigil agreed. “Do you want me to assemble your retinue?” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Sam bit out irritably, “but I’m only going to say this once, so anyone who needs to hear it had better be there.” 

Slowly, Sigil inclined his helm in acknowledgement. Sam huffed and shuffled awkwardly towards the berth room, leaving a trail of water and his dignity behind him. Bumblebee followed in his wake, his mental presence going sharp and reserved the way it did when he was doing some serious thinking. 

Sam dropped the towel in a wet puddle as soon as the doors slid shut behind him. “Where the hell are my clothes?” he grumbled.

“Here,” Bumblebee said, stepping around him and making his way over towards the wall nearest the wash racks. The scout did something to cause a large panel to fold away, revealing a wide compartment at his waist-level. Sam ambled closer to get a better look. The compartment was some kind of pull-out drawer, though it was massive — easily large enough to fit all of Bumblebee’s armor three times over. Sam had to stand on his tiptoes to see inside. Every textile that Sam had packed — all of his clothing, his undergarments, his body armor, his outerwear, his linens, his blankets, his towels, everything, was lined up inside. 

And it didn’t escape Sam’s notice that he wouldn’t be able to reach anything without assistance. 

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Just give me whatever you grab. I’m freezing my ass off.” 

Bumblebee handed him clothing one item at a time, and Sam pulled them on right there. As soon as he was dressed, Sam started off towards the door at a determined clip. 

“They out there?” he asked, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. 

“Yes,” Bumblebee answered, falling into step beside him. “What are you going to say?” 

“I don’t know, exactly,” Sam replied tightly. “I guess that depends on them.” 

The doors slid open as they approached. The living room was full of mechanoids of different shapes and sizes. Many were waiting near the entrance to the servants’ quarters, but others were standing individually or in pairs around the room. As soon as Sam and Bumblebee stepped through the doorway, the low murmur of conversation evaporated in an instant.

“Is this everyone?” Sam asked, to no one in particular. 

“Yes,” Sigil replied, appearing at Sam’s side. 

Sam’s eyes skipped from one mechanoid to another. He recognized many of them, but not all — Cliffjumper and Trailbreaker were standing near the entrance to the wash racks, Lumi was standing off to one side by herself, and to Sam’s surprise, Meltdown was standing with a turquoise colored mechanoid on the opposite side of the room. The medic’s mental presence was warm and reserved — Sam’s hadn’t even noticed him until that moment. 

Sam angled his head to look at Sigil. “Can you introduce us?” 

Sigil stared back at him for a moment. “How so?” he asked, a little hesitatingly. 

“Designation and role,” Sam explained with strained patience. “They know me; I don’t know most of them.” 

Sigil nodded slowly. “Of course.” 

The first mechanoids to be introduced were the two Primesguard. The pair approached Sam in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of his first audience with Sentinel, before inclining their heads deeply in unison. Although the two mechaniods were both paneled in the signature red-and-white of the Primesguard, otherwise they looked nothing alike. One of them had a chassis-design similar to Ironhide — stocky and broad and heavily armored — while the other had a chassis design almost identical to Bluestreak and Prowl. 

“This is your First in Service,” Sigil explained, gesturing to the nearer of the two mechanoids. “As the highest ranking member of your Primesguard, he is responsible for your protection.” Next, Sigil gestured to his companion. “And this is your Second. In addition to assisting your First in his duties, he is also responsible for managing your Household.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Sam replied, before giving the First in Service an inquisitive look. “Praxian?” he guessed. 

The First in Service looked briefly taken aback, before inclining his helm deeply in acknowledgement. “Yes, Sam.” 

Sam’s mouth curved upwards in a wry smile. Sigel must have gave them the memo about his preferred term of address. “I know a few Praxians. Good guys. One of them’s a hell of a shot with a laser rifle.” Sam angled his head to peer at the First in Service more closely. “What’s your name?” 

The First in Service frowned faintly. “I do not understand.” 

“I mean, what’s your designation?” Sam explained. “What do I call you?” 

Sigil and the First in Service exchanged a meaningful glance, before Sigil explained, “First in Service is his designation. Once they reach the rank of Third in Service, members of the Primesguard renounce their former identities.” 

Sam frowned deeply. “That’s… I mean, it’s not—” 

“It is a great honor, Sam,” Sigil murmured, and there was something pointed about his tone.

Sam bit off his instinctual protest and reminded himself, not for the first time, that he was the outsider -- and moral absolutism had no place here. “Well, it’s nice to meet you both,” he said instead. 

Next, Lumi approached. The little femme walked so quietly that her footsteps were almost silent. “And of course, you know Lumi,” Sigil continued.

“We’ve been acquainted, yes,” Sam replied, wryly. 

“Lumi is your body servant,” Sigil explained. “Hence, her confusion.” 

Sam stared blankly at the indigo colored mechanoid. “I’m sorry—she’s my what now?

A shadow passed over Sigil’s face. “It is possible that I am mistranslating. The glyph does not render directly into English.” The attendant tipped his head in a manner that suggested he was scrutinizing the lexicon more closely, and then he said, “Perhaps ‘bedroom servant’ would be a better translation?” 

“It had better not be!” Sam exclaimed, incredulously. 

“She’s a valet, Sam,” Bumblebee interjected, his voice as dry as a desert.

Sam twisted to look up at him. He’d binge-watched Downton Abbey enough times with Hound to recognize the term. “A valet,” he repeated slowly. “Alright. But just so there’s zero ambiguity here, can you tell me exactly what that means?” 

“I have a great many responsibilities,” Lumi answered for herself. “Most often, I am called to assist my Lord with daily tasks, such as bathing and dressing, but I am responsible for all aspects of his physical appearance.” She hesitated for a moment before adding, “Your bonded has explained that humans are often discomforted by their nakedness in the presence of others. I apologize for my presumptuousness. I intended no disrespect.” 

Sam’s brow furrowed in consternation. “Listen, Lumi, none taken, but I don’t really need a—” 

“Sam,” Sigil interrupted, and although his tone was perfectly polite, there was an underlying urgency that pulled Sam up short. “May I speak with you privately?” 

Sam frowned faintly. “What? Now?” 

“If it pleases you,” Sigil replied, inclining his head. 

Sam’s frown deepened, but he nodded faintly all the same. Sigil took him aside just far enough to give the illusion of privacy — Sam knew their conversation would be overheard by anyone who wished to listen — and then he murmured, quietly, “Is it your intention to have Lumi punished?” 

Sam jerked backwards, before narrowing his eyes. “No! Why do you keep asking me that?” 

“Although you may not relish the prospect of a personal valet, your dismissal would have terrible consequences for her,” Sigil explained in an undertone. “It would imply great dissatisfaction with her performance. Do you understand?” 

Sam could feel the angry flush rising to his face. “No, actually. I don’t. I’m not dissatisfied with anyone. I just don’t need a valet, or body servant, or whatever she is — I can bathe and dress myself just fine.” 

Sigil shook his head minutely. “Her dismissal would not be interpreted that way by others.” 

Sam stared up at him in mounting disbelief. “That’s not fair.” 

“Perhaps not,” Sigil conceded. “But it is the way of things.” 

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but all at once, he found himself at a loss for words. What could he possibly say? The caste system was monstrous, but he didn’t have the luxury of saying so, not onboard Sentinel Prime’s flagship — not without consequences. 

Flushing hotly, Sam averted his eyes. Sigil seemed to regard him for a moment longer, and then he tipped his head towards the crowd of mechanoids that were still waiting to be introduced. “Shall we return?” 

The rest of the introductions went smoothly — or smoothly enough, anyway. Sigil introduced Sam to two lower ranking members of his Primesguard, Cyclonus and Whipshot, and then another attendant, Glory, who seemed sharp-eyed and reserved. Glory was followed by Buffer, a little sanitation bot who reminded Sam painfully of Tailgate even though the two looked nothing alike, and lastly, Sigil introduced Sam to the turquoise-colored femme standing with Meltdown, who turned out to be another medic. 

“Lifeline and I have known each other for a long time,” Meltdown rumbled, giving the femme a wry look. “I’ve appointed her as your secondary care provider.” 

Something twisted uneasily in Sam’s chest. “I thought Hoist was my secondary care provider.” 

“He was,” Meltdown agreed easily. “But he’s been reassigned to the Mercy for the duration of our voyage. As you can probably imagine, there are a great number of mechanoids who require maintenance after all that’s transpired. I trust Lifeline to fulfill her duties in his place.” 

“Oh,” Sam managed, wetting his lips. “Okay.” 

Sigil leaned down to murmur, discreetly, “If you still wished to make your announcement, now would be an opportune time.” 

The statement took Sam briefly by surprise until he recalled his reasons for asking to meet his retinue in the first place. He grimaced faintly, unsure how to navigate the complicated mess of political and social norms in which he found himself without causing undue offense. 

Eventually, Sam cleared his throat. “It’s really nice to meet everyone…” he began, before trailing off. He sounded like an awkward teenager introducing himself to a new class for the first time. Flushing hotly, he tried again. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t enter the berth room or the wash racks while I’m in there.” Sam was all too aware of the combined attention of his new Household staff, who were staring back at him, blank faced and silent, as he stumbled through his pronouncement. He could feel himself getting redder in the face of their scrutiny. “Please.” 

“Sam?” a small voice asked. 

Sam turned, following the voice, to find Buffer standing unobtrusively near the back of the crowd. The little sanitation bot was raising his arm inquiringly. 

“Yeah?” Sam managed. 

“May we enter the rooms if they are otherwise unoccupied?” he asked, before hastening to explain, “To clean and perform any necessary maintenance, I mean.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Sam replied. “Of course.” 

Buffer bobbed his head eagerly at the confirmation. At the same time, Glory asked, “What if you have need of us?” 

Sam forced himself to soldier on. “Then I’ll ask for you.” 

“And how do you propose to do that?” Glory asked, dryly. “Your access to the neural-network is intermittent and limited.” 

Something about her tone rubbed Sam the wrong way. “I’ll yell,” he shot back stiffly. “I’m sure you’ll hear me. I can be plenty loud when I want to be.” 

“Sam, I must protest,” the First in Service interjected, his expression pinched. “Leaving you unattended for such long periods would surely jeopardize your safety.” 

“I won’t be unattended,” Sam frowned. “I’ll have Bumblebee.” 

“The consort cannot be with you at all times,” the Second in Service argued back, and there was no mistaking the undercurrent of frustration in his tone. “A potential assailant would surely take advantage of such a lapse in our security.” 

Sam’s flush darkened in anger. “He’s not my consort, he’s my bonded, and he was my Guardian long before that.” 

“Be that as it may,” the First in Service shook his head, “Bumblebee cannot be with you at all times, and you must not be left unattended in his absence. Primes have died for lesser mistakes in the past — I will not allow it to happen again.” 

The First in Service’s phasing pulled Sam up short. Frowning, Sam stared up at him, eyes roving across the large mechanoid’s face, taking in the hard line of his mouth plates and the rigid set of his shoulders. Sam’s pulse fluttered strangely in his throat as he forced himself to ask, hoarsely, “...First in Service, are you asking me? Or telling me?” 

The large mechanoid was only silent for a moment before he rumbled, “I am telling you, Most Holy.” 

Sam’s heart constricted painfully behind his sternum. He was distantly aware of Sigil speaking to him in an urgent undertone, but the words were lost in the buzzing roar that was starting to build inside his head. 

“Oh,” Sam heard himself reply. “I understand.” 

And then he turned around and left the room without another word.

Notes:

Author's Notes: Turns out, it's spelled spelled Sigil. Whoops.

Chapter 31

Notes:

Chapter Warning: Explicit sexual content

Over the days that followed, privacy became something of a distant memory. 

In the mornings, Sam awoke to the sound of a shift-change. It wasn’t loud per se — just the door sliding open and the tread of heavy footsteps — but it was enough to jostle Sam into wakefulness. He would listen from under the blankets as one set of footsteps crossed the room, paused for a moment, and then another set of footsteps left the way the first came. Sigil would arrive shortly thereafter with his breakfast, which was served at the sitting area or the writing desk. At first, Sam ate in silence, forcing down one bite after another, but then Bumblebee began turning on the entertainment console as soon as Sam was properly awake, and the familiar sounds of canned laughter and sound effects helped soften some of his discomfort. 

After breakfast, Sam would go to the wash racks. Bumblebee was the only one to accompany him, a fact for which Sam was intensely thankful, but it was still awkward going about his morning routine in the hearing of another person, even if that person was his bonded. When Sam got out of the baths, dripping wet and anxious to be dressed again, he hurriedly dried off and made his way back into the berth room. The morning after his disastrous meeting with the Primesguards, Lumi had been waiting for him with an assortment of clothing to choose from. The femme had been visibly taken aback at the sight of Sam already dressed for the day, but she gathered up the clothing and returned it to storage without a word. The same thing happened the following morning. On the third morning, however, Lumi beat him to the punch. 

The little femme arrived with Sigil, and while Sam stumbled over to the sitting area, head still muzzy from sleep, she crossed the room and started rifling through his clothes. After a moment or two, Lumi pushed the doors shut and carried over her selections, which she held up for Sam’s inspection.

“Although I am still learning the intricacies of human social norms regarding fashion and design, I believe these would do nicely,” Lumi said, looking pleased. She gestured meaningfully with her left arm, over which was draped one of Sam’s button-up sweaters and a pair of slacks. Sam just stared back at her. As the seconds ticked past, one after the other, Lumi’s expression shifted, growing hesitant and uncertain. “...I could fetch something else, if you prefer.” 

Suddenly aware of the other people in the room — Cyclonus, standing near the doorway to the living area, Sigil standing unobtrusively off to the side, Sam swallowed against the sour taste in the back of his throat. However much he hated the notion of being dressed on top of everything else, he had no desire for Lumi to be ostracized because of his refusal. 

“No, it’s fine,” he managed, leaning forward to pick up his fork. “Thank you.” 

Lumi’s optics whirred smaller and larger, a mannerism that Sam had come to associate with a mech that was doing some serious thinking. After a moment, she bowed slightly at the waist, murmuring a valediction, and then she slipped away. Sam’s meal that morning had been one of his grandmother’s breakfast wraps, but he had had to force it down, barely tasting a thing. 

The rest of Sam’s days during his convalescence were long periods of monotony interspersed with brief but intense moments of culture shock. The first occurred when Sigil announced the arrival of the Primal Armorer late on the second day. Sam made his way into the living area to find a stately mechanoid waiting for him near the entryway. The newcomer bowed deeply at the waist, one servo pressed to his spark casing, the other pressed against the side of his helm. Sam stared at him in consternation, waiting for him to rise, but he didn’t move. 

After a few moments of awkward silence, Sigil stepped forward to discreetly murmur, “He is waiting for your leave.” 

Sam could feel the heat creeping up his neck and across his face. “Please stand up.” 

The armorer rose with a flourish of his arms. “Of course. I am honored to serve you, Sacred Vessel.” 

In this instance, serving involved presenting Sam with a dizzying array of options for new armor. The Armorer, who introduced himself as Chisel, began by discussing the pros and cons of different materials, only some of which Sam recognized by name. There was more to it than Sam initially realized — different materials had different tensile strengths, ductility, melting points, conductivity, and toughness. Materials that provided the most protection, such as tungsten and steel, were also the heaviest and most cumbersome. Conversely, materials that were more aesthetically pleasing, such as rhodium and palladium, tended to be a lot flimsier. 

Sam followed along as well as he could, but by the time Chisel started talking about complementary textures and colors, he was totally lost. The Armorer seemed to correctly interpret his overwhelmed expression  — either that, or someone comm’d him to wrap it up — for he abruptly swept into a deep bow, before sub-spacing a datapad and handing it to Sigil. 

“I have compiled a few preliminary designs for your consideration,” Chisel explained. “I have also included a list of materials we currently have in supply, in case none of the designs meet with your approval.” The mechanoid’s mouth plates curved upwards in a confident smile. “I can make anything you wish, given the necessary time and specifications.” 

The “few preliminary designs” turned out to be several dozen mock-ups. Some of them were relatively simple, not dissimilar to the armor that Wheeljack and Perceptor had made — plain, functional, practical. But other designs were far more ornate with a blend of metal and organic materials that looked like something out of a Cirque du Soleil performance.

Later that afternoon, Sam sprawled out on one of the sofas in the sitting area of his berth room, flipping through the different designs. Bumblebee’s holoform sat beside him, elbows propped on his thighs and hands clasped loosely between his knees while Sigil and Lumi hovered in their periphery. There was an episode of the IT Crowd playing on low in the background, but Sam wasn’t paying it any attention.

When Sam reached the end of the file, he resisted the urge to pull a face. “This is… a lot.” 

Sigil politely cleared his intakes. Sam glanced towards him — it was a surprisingly human mannerism for someone who would have only recently decompressed the socio-cultural packets. As soon as they made eye contact, Sigil offered him a rueful half-smile. “Need some help?” 

Sam snorted, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Probably.” 

Sigil chuckled good-naturedly, before joining him on the sofa. It was a long piece of furniture positioned against one corner of the room. There were holographic plants on squat tables located at either end, and the one closest to Sigil shimmered as he sat down — which was when Sam realized that while the sofa was sized for humans and mini-cons, it could clearly support the weight of a full-grown mechanoid. 

“The armor is categorized by function, see here?” Sigil gestured meaningfully to a glyph that was located in the bottom right hand corner of the screen. “The glyph with four pips is least formal, and the glyph with one pip is most formal. The least formal designs are appropriate for day-to-day wear, while the most formal designs would be reserved for public events.” 

Sam wet his lips. “And will there be many of those?” 

Sigil angled his head to look at him. “That’s for you to decide, Sam.” 

Sam grimaced faintly — he could recognize a loaded comment when he heard one. Optimus might have stressed that Primes were not dictated to, not even by other Primes, but Sam was well aware of the tenuousness of their standing in Sentinel’s sphere of influence, just as he was aware of the expectations of those around him. 

“What kind of public events are we talking about?” he asked, eventually. 

Sigil seemed to correctly interpret the crux of his question for he cut straight to the point, “Your presence would be expected at formal events, such as the High Holidays and other public appearances, but it would be… unusual for you to be absent at the curia regis.” 

Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Curia… regis?” 

Sigil tapped his pede against the floor in contemplation. “It is not a good translation. Curia regis is latin for ‘the royal court’, but of course, Sentinel Prime is not a king. Perhaps Romana curia would be more accurate, but he is not a Pope, either.” The attendant shrugged expressively — another human mannerism. “It might have been called a joint session, at one point in time, but the Senate no longer exists.” 

A gentle touch inside his mind had Sam turning his head. Bumblebee gave him a meaningful look. “He’s referring to when Sentinel holds court.” 

“Well, yes and no,” Sigil returned dryly. “As I said, Sentinel Prime is not a king.” 

Sam frowned a little as he paged through the file. Most of the designs were rendered in a charcoal color. There were a few designs that were rendered primarily in white with charcoal colored accents, and several designs that were primarily white with Primal red accents around the throat and shoulders, but there were no designs with Primal red as the base color. 

Sam glanced up at Sigil. “What’s with the colors?” 

“A precautionary measure,” Sigil shrugged. “Sentinel Prime wishes to emphasize your role as the Allspark’s chosen vessel. The faithful may have reservations about your role as a holy leader, but none can deny the Allspark radiation regenerating inside your body.” 

Sam’s frown deepened as he angled his head to regard the design currently displayed on screen. The armor was primarily charcoal colored with a high white collar and gold accents. A supplementary file included the accouterments: knee-high boots, ornate vambraces, gloves, and a knee-length white cloak, not dissimilar in design to what the priests had been wearing in the sacristy. 

Out of morbid curiosity, Sam glanced at the glyph in the right hand corner of the screen. Two pips. He suppressed a grimace – he couldn’t imagine what they would expect him to wear for more formal events. 

“That’s lovely,” Lumi offered, a little hesitantly, nodding towards the image displayed on the screen. “And it will convey the right message.”

“Oh?” Sam asked, giving her a look over his shoulder. “And what message is that?” 

Lumi inclined her head. “That you are among the highest esteemed, of course.” 

This time, the grimace that Sam had been fighting finally broke through, tightening his mouth. It had been difficult enough to come to terms with his changed nature on Earth, where he’d been treated like an object of curiosity or a victim of unfortunate circumstance by those who didn’t know him, but everyone else — his family, his friends, the Autobots — had treated him like a person. To them, he was just Sam Witwicky. Not Samuel Prime. Not the Allspark’s chosen vessel. Here and now, however, he was surrounded by strangers with very different beliefs — about him, about society, about morality, and Sam wasn’t sure whether it would get any easier. The titles, the protocol, the esteem — it just didn’t suit him. 

Sigil leaned forward, catching Sam’s eye and offering him a crooked smile. “May I?” he asked, wiggling his digits expressively. 

Sam handed over the datapad without comment. Sigil began flipping through the different designs, making a thoughtful sound in the back of his intakes as he considered the options. “Do you have any preferences? Or would you like some advice?”  

The question was so like something Carter might have said to him that Sam couldn’t prevent a wan smile from turning up the corner of his mouth. “I’m open to suggestions.” 

“Well, these designs are perfectly functional, but they’re too drab for your purposes,” Sigil said, flipping to a set of designs marked by four pips. Sam leaned forward to look. The three designs that Sigil had highlighted hardly looked drab. The white metal was detailed and delicate — it looked like something that belonged in a museum, not something that was intended to be worn. 

Sam frowned a little. “Why not?” he asked, trying to mask his confusion. 

Lumi leaned forward just far enough to get a look at the screen, and then she laughed lightly. “It’s the colors. They’re far too understated.”

“They look exactly the same as the other designs to me,” Sam snorted. 

Lumi looked mildly scandalized by his pronouncement. “Is your… Sam, forgive me, but is your vision impaired?” 

The question was asked with such polite concern that Sam barked out a laugh. Lumi jerked back in surprise, which caused Sam to laugh again. “Sorry, Lumi,” he chuckled. “Humans only have three color receptors. I’m practically blind compared to you guys.” 

“Not hardly,” Bumblebee retorted dryly. 

Sam grinned at him. “Have I ever told you that your paint job looks exactly like Sunstreaker’s?” 

“Have I ever told you that you have stripes?” Bumblebee shot back without missing a beat. 

Sam laughed, fully expecting Bumblebee to smile or laugh along, but the scout just arched an eyebrow at him. The smile slid right off of Sam’s face. “I have what now?” 

“They’re very fetching,” Lumi offered, in the tone of someone trying to diffuse an argument. 

“You’re joking,” Sam said, torn between disbelief and incredulity.

“I’m not,” Bumblebee replied. 

Sam looked down at himself, pulling up one sleeve and then the other. He couldn’t see any evidence of stripes – or any other kind of abnormality, for that matter. “What are you talking about?” 

“Don’t slip a gear,” Bee snorted. “All humans have them — you just can’t see them. They’re called Blaschko's lines.” 

Sam’s confusion and disbelief were quickly being overtaken by his curiosity. He turned his arms over, examining the skin closely. “Really? Where? What do they look like?” 

“You have them all over,” Bee shrugged. “They’re thinner on your back and arms, wider on your belly.” His voice turned wry as he added, “It took me months to realize that humans couldn’t see them. I assumed that the way people were depicted in media and advertisements was a cosmetic ideal – not how you actually perceived yourselves.” 

“That’s so weird,” Sam snorted, pulling down his shirt sleeves. 

“It’s your species,” Bumblebee retorted, wryly. 

Grinning, Sam gave the holoform a playful shove. Bumblebee humored him by rocking slightly to the side. Sam knew it was an affectation — their holoforms could be solid enough to stop bullets, but it still made his grin stretch a little wider.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sigil chuckled. “But the Armorer is going to need your decision. Do you have a preference?” 

Sam reached out, patting Bumblebee on the knee affectionately, and then he turned to look at Sigil. “No, not really. I don’t know enough about your social customs to have an informed opinion.” And then, because the idea of being decked out in gold from head to toe made him want to jump off the atrium balcony, he added, “I prefer the simpler designs. I don’t want to stand out any more than I already do.” 

“It is the function of a Prime to be noticed,” Lumi opined, uncertainly. 

“Well, this Prime would prefer to be noticed in something simpler,” Sam snorted. 

“Leave it to us,” Sigil said assuredly. Lumi bowed her head, as though to emphasize his point.

Later that evening, Sigil presented Sam with three different armor schematics. The first was relatively simple — it was predominately white metal with gold accents and charcoal colored under-armor. The other two were far more ornate — the first was the charcoal colored armor with a high white collar he had been lingering on, and the second was a similar design with Primal red accents along the throat and ribs. They were both embellished with metal embossing and included numerous accouterments, but considering some of the more outlandish designs, they were relatively understated in comparison. 

When Sam handed the datapad back to Sigil with his murmured thanks, the personal attendant bowed deeply at the waist and slipped out of the room. 

The second culture shock came when Mirage arrived the following morning. Sigil announced his arrival just after breakfast, and Sam was so relieved at the prospect of seeing a familiar face that he hurried into the receiving room without waiting to hear the rest of Sigil’s spiel — only to pull up short as soon as the doors slid open. Mirage was almost unrecognizable. Not only had the former noble switched up his color scheme — the bold red replaced with a blue and white combination — but he had also replaced his bulkier armor mods. Even Sam, who knew next to nothing about aesthetics or design, could see that the metal was detailed and delicate. 

Mirage inclined his head deeply in greeting. It was such a familiar exchange that Sam found himself inclining his head in return without giving it conscious thought. 

“Thank you for receiving me, Prime,” Mirage intoned. 

Sam swallowed the instinctive urge to protest Mirage’s use of a title. Instead, he heard himself asking, as though from a distance, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“It has come to my attention that a number of the upper caste have formally petitioned to meet you,” Mirage explained without preamble, even though the words made Sam’s heart lodge in his throat. “I thought you might wish for me to attend alongside you. I know most of the mecha, either personally or in passing, and I could help navigate the introductions.” 

Sam’s pulse picked up in double time. He had known this was inevitable — that his role as Allspark and Prime would force him into the political arena sooner or later. He had been preparing for it most of his adult life. But somehow, it still seemed too soon. 

“When?” he croaked. 

Mirage made a permissive gesture with his servo. “Whenever pleases you.” 

Sam gave him a sharp look — he wasn’t in the mood for any bullshit. “When, Mirage?” 

“As soon as possible, preferably,” Mirage replied, tilting his head. 

Sam resisted the urge to pull a face — it wouldn’t be courtly — and nodded stiffly instead. “Fine. Make the arrangements.” 

As it turned out, Mirage worked fast. The former noble returned late that afternoon with two attendants and a bulky mechanoid in the armor plating of a combat build. Mirage and his retinue waited in the receiving room while Sam dressed — or rather, was dressed. Lumi laid out the armor that WheelJack and Perceptor had made, fretting to herself about the lack of suitable accouterments, and then Bumblebee helped him into the suit. 

When the last clasp was fastened, Lumi gave him a critical once over. “Would you consider dying your hair?” 

“What?” Sam asked, giving her a peculiar look as he tugged at his cuffs. “No.” 

Lumi sighed softly. “Then I suppose this will have to do.” 

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Thanks, Lumi. You too.” 

The little femme just looked at him, clearly taken aback — though whether her reaction was because of his sarcasm or his refusal, Sam couldn’t guess. 

Once he was dressed, Sam made his way back into the receiving room. Bumblebee and Sigil accompanied him, while Lumi stayed behind. The receiving room had been rearranged in the short time that Sam had been away — most of the furniture had been removed except for a long, low stone bench situated towards the back of the room. The extra space, coupled with the abundant holoform greenery and curved transparisteel dome overhead that was currently displaying a Vosian sky at mid-morning, gave the impression of an airy solarium, rather than a room in the middle of a galaxy-class cruiser.

Mirage inclined his helm as soon as they entered. “Prime.” 

Sam huffed under his breath. “Let’s get this over with. Where do you want me?” 

Mirage gestured towards the bench, which was bookended by large ferns on either end. Sam crossed the room and sat down, before tugging at his armor in an effort to get comfortable. Bumblebee moved to stand a short distance away, while Sigil crossed the room to stand to the right of the wide double doors. The First in Service was already positioned on the opposite side of the archway — he was standing perfectly still, head up, optics staring straight ahead, holding a tall halberd at his side. It gave him an imposing and otherworldly air, like a stone sentinel standing guard over a royal tomb. 

“Do you have any questions?” Mirage asked, practically. 

Sam gave the question a modicum of thought before asking, “How many people are coming?” 

“Today? Not many,” Mirage replied, before slipping behind the bench to take his place at Sam’s left shoulder. “Perhaps a dozen or so.” 

Sam stared at the entryway with rapidly mounting anxiety — both because of the number of mechanoids he was about to meet, and at the tacit confirmation there would be more to come. He took a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves. “What am I supposed to say to them?” 

“It’s no different than meeting with political representatives on Earth,” Mirage answered. “Welcome them, engage in some polite small talk, and send them on their way.” The former noble lowered his voice to murmur, “You know this, Sam. You’re going to do just fine.” 

Sam blew out a long, slow breath and nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.” 

The first mecha that was admitted into the room was a tall Vosian with sharply angled wing plates. The stranger stopped about half-way across the room, directly below the curved dome overhead, and inclined his helm in greeting. 

“Sacred Vessel,” he rumbled, his voice a low bass. “Glory of the Skies to you.” 

//Stratus of Vos,// Mirage supplied. //Third of his House.//

Sam glanced over at him in surprise. The former noble was standing unobtrusively a short distance behind him, his servos clasped behind his back, and he gave no outward indication that he had spoken. Slowly, Sam turned back around and inclined his head in return. “Welcome, Stratus. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Thank you for receiving me, Your Grace,” Stratus intoned in reply, dipping his wings slightly. 

Sam hesitated, unsure what to say, when Mirage comm’d him a second time. //The House of Pale Morning is an old and well respected one. They were among the first Houses in the Eyrie.// This time, Sam knew better than to look at him. He stared straight ahead, his face an expressionless mask as he listened. //They have a great many political ties in both Vos and Iacon — Starscream is a member of his peerage.//

Sam blinked in surprise and blurted, without pausing to consider the full weight of his question, “You know Starscream?” 

Stratus slowly shuttered his optics — it gave the impression of a wizened old owl staring down at him. “I do, Your Grace.” 

Taken aback by the reserved reply, Sam pinged Mirage to ask, //Are they on good terms?//

//As much as Starscream can be on good terms with anyone,// Mirage replied.

Sam struggled to suppress his smile at the wry undertone in Mirage’s voice before looking at Stratus with new interest. “That’s great. Have you two had the chance to see one another?” 

Stratus seemed to consider him for a moment before speaking. “We have, Your Grace. Starscream and his trine were received aboard the Aetheria shortly after your miracle.” 

Sam’s heart sank at the world miracle, but he knew better than to object. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, a little uncomfortably, “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Starscream and I have known each other for a long time.” 

Stratus’ faceplates shifted, giving the impression of quickly suppressed emotion — surprise, perhaps, or disbelief. The expression was there and gone again so fast that Sam would have missed it if he’d been paying less attention. 

Sam’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Stratus inclined his helm, and there was no mistaking the undercurrent of wry amusement in his voice. “I am reminded that yours is a young species.” 

It took Sam a moment to catch his meaning, and then he smiled awkwardly. “Oh, yeah. I guess ten years isn’t a very long time for a species that routinely lives past ten million.” 

To Sam’s surprise, Stratus actually chuckled. “And that ten million feels far longer in Starscream’s presence, I assure you.” 

Sam couldn’t help it — he barked a sharp laugh. Stratus inclined his helm again, his wing plates dipping and spreading apart in a way that Sam had come to interpret as acknowledgement, and even though they were members of two different species separated by great distances and impossible circumstances, at that moment, Sam felt they understood each other perfectly. 

After Stratus came another Vosian, a tall flyer with the largest wingspan that Sam had ever seen, and then came three mechanoids from Iacon: an archivist, a historian, and a former senator. When the senator arrived, Mirage brushed against Sam’s mind, careful and cautionary. Sam appreciated the warning — the Senator proved to be oily and unctuous, even by a politician’s standards. The Senator was followed by a willowy femme from Crystal City, who was followed by a scholar from Harmonex, who was followed by three mechanoids from Nova Cronum — a Carrier and two of her cassettes. Sam found himself sitting up a little straighter in his seat to get a better look for the Carrier, who introduced herself as Nara Velis, looked nothing like Soundwave. She was tall and stocky, yes, but she had three optics and mandibles, similar to WheelJack’s appearance, as well as dozens of cables extending from the back of her helm that almost looked like braids. 

And unlike Soundwave, Nara Velis did all the speaking while her two cassettes — a mini-con and a little flyer — stood behind her in silence. 

Sam was relieved when Mirage finally gave him the green light to dismiss them. 

After the Carrier and her cassettes came two more from Iacon, and then another from Nova Cronum. Sam was lagging fast by the time Mirage announced the last visitor, but whatever relief he might of felt evaporated in an instant as the noble murmured, //Zephyr, Tyger Pax, priest.//

Sam’s heart climbed into his throat as a tall and stately mechanoid stepped into the room. The stranger was plated entirely in charcoal black with long, tapered armor, and he strode across the room, arms bent at the elbows and servos interlocked in front of him, to stop beneath the curved dome. Sam shifted against the stone bench, suddenly intensely uncomfortable, but before he could reach out to Mirage for support, the stranger lowered down onto his knees and prostrated himself on the floor. 

Sam’s mouth went completely dry. “Please rise,” he managed, his voice almost a croak. 

Immediately, the stranger planted his servos against the floor and pushed back onto his heels. His head was bowed so deeply that his chin was almost touching his chest plates. “May the faithful rejoice in your Litany, ĦƢ.” 

Sam could feel the heat rising up his neck and spreading across his face. “Don’t call me that.” 

The stranger touched two digits to his spark chamber, and then to his forehead. “In all things, it is as you say — command me, and I shall obey.” 

Sam’s face was burning now. He reached out, curling his fingers around the edge of the stone bench, gripping until his knuckles turned white. “I’m not the Allspark, Zephyr.” 

The priest finally raised his head. His expression was difficult to decipher, but Sam had the distinct impression that he was being looked through, not looked at. “Forgive me, Prime. I was there when Sentinel Prime uncovered the Allspark from the ruins of Ky-Alexia. I was there when the Allspark was transported to the Temple Simfur for safe-keeping. As temple lord, I was there when Sentinel Prime first coaxed the Allspark into bringing forth new life.” Zephyr’s face plates pinched, his optics darkening to cobalt blue. “And I was there when Sentinel Prime walked through the ruins of that holy place to find that the Allspark was gone.” 

Sam could feel the edge of the bench digging into soft skin on his hands — he held on tighter, trying to ground himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” 

Zephyr continued, as though Sam hadn’t spoken. “But I was not there when the Allspark was ejected into the darkness of space, nor was I there when it crash-landed on a planet teeming with primitive life that would abuse and profane it, and I was certainly not there when Optimus Prime commanded it be destroyed — but He was there. He interceded.” 

The casual depreciation put Sam’s back up, and whatever anxiety he’d been feeling was abruptly subsumed by cold anger. “Well, I was there,” he bit out. “And if Primus was anywhere near Mission City, then he let a lot of innocent people die that day.” 

“My spark empathizes with the loss of your brethren,” Zephyr murmured, inclining his head, “but their deaths were not without purpose.” 

All that once, Sam reached his limit. He pushed to his feet, inclining his head stiffly in valediction, and then he strode towards the wide double doors that led to the living area without so much as a backwards glance. The sound of rapid-fire transformation was cut off as the doors slid shut behind him. Sam stalked across the floor, garnering startled glances from Lumi and Buffer, who were working on the far side of the room, and went straight to his berth room. As soon as the doors slid shut behind him, Sam started yanking on the clasps of his suit, cursing under his breath. The doors slid open again a few moments later as Bumblebee stepped inside. Sam glanced up at him, anger tightening his mouth as he struggled with the clasps, and Bumblebee whistled softly as he crouched down, his large servos settling over Sam’s hands. 

“Sam, stop,” he murmured. “Let me.” 

Sam flushed in impotent anger and embarrassment, but he turned so Bumblebee could help him with the suit all the same. The feeling of intention brightened across their bond space a moment before Bumblebee’s holoform fizzled into existence. The holoform squeezed Sam’s shoulders gently in solidarity, and then he started unfastening the clasps, one after the other. At the same time, Bumblebee crossed the room to the storage drawers and started pulling out clothing. Once the last clasp was unfastened, Sam yanked the material off one shoulder and then the other, before wiggling it down over his hips. As soon as the offending garment was off, he kicked it aside, leaving him standing in nothing but his boxers. The room was uncomfortably cool, and so Sam walked over to pull the flannel blanket off the end of the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. The material was warm and familiar against his skin. Slowly, Sam sat down on the edge of the mattress and buried his nose in the soft flannel, breathing deeply. It gave him a pang to realize that the blanket smelled like metal and recycled air, rather than like home. 

The bed dipped as Bumblebee’s holoform sat beside him. Without a word, Bee wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Sam went without protest, listing against the holoform’s side and tucking the blanket tighter around his body. They sat together in silence for a long while — Sam, staring into the middle distance, Bumblebee, rubbing a hand up and down Sam’s back. 

Eventually, Sam sighed and pulled away. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.” 

“Perhaps not,” Bumblebee replied, making Sam’s stomach sink. “But I would have done the same thing.” 

Sam gave a watery laugh and pressed a kiss against the holoform’s shoulder. At the same time, Bumblebee’s bipedal mode crossed the room and dropped the bundle of clothing on the edge of the bed, before crouching down in front of him. The scout’s optics were very blue in the low light. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sam sighed again. “I’m not looking forward to the inevitable lecture, though.” 

Bumblebee chuckled softly. “Mirage already left. He said he’d check on you tomorrow morning.” 

Sam snorted expressively and twitched the blanket over his bare legs. Bumblebee reached out, tucking the ends of the blanket together, his thumbs smoothing down the length of Sam’s shins. The touch was gentle and grounding. 

Sam’s mouth curved upwards in a wan smile. “I love you.” 

Bumblebee angled his helm to give him a wry look. “I know.” 

Sam laughed softly, before reaching out, clasping the side of Bumblebee’s face with his hand. The metal was warm and familiar beneath his palm. “You strike me as more of a Chewbacca type than a Han Solo.” 

“I’m not the one covered in hair,” Bumblebee reminded him, dryly. 

Sam laughed again, more forcefully this time, but before he could say anything in reply, an odd tonal sound chimed through the room. Sam’s head came up in surprise at the same time that Bumblebee’s expression tightened in irritation, and then the doors slid open, spilling cool fluorescent light into the darkened room. 

“Forgive me, Sam,” Sigil apologized as he stepped into the doorway. “It’s time for your evening meal. Do you have a preference?” 

Sam grimaced deeply and hunched his shoulders, pulling the blanket more tightly around himself. “No, not really.” And then, because the smell of metal and recycled air was still on the forefront of his mind, he added, “Actually, can I have the meat cakes? Please?” 

Sigil inclined his helm and took a step backwards; the door immediately slid shut again. Sam huffed and gave Bumblebee a resigned look. “I guess I should get dressed.” 

Bumblebee whistled understandingly, and then handed Sam a pair of lounge pants from the pile of clothing on the bed. By the time Sigil returned with his meal a short while later, Sam was dressed and sprawled in one of the armchairs in the little sitting area as Better Call Saul played on the entertainment console. Sigil crossed the room to place the tray on the side table next to Sam’s chair, and then he inclined his head and took his leave. Sam picked at his dinner, having little to no appetite despite the fact that the patties of mashed potato, hamburger, and onion tasted as though they’d just come off a hot skillet. 

Sam was starting on the second patty when the door slid open and Cliffjumper stepped into the room. The former scout inclined his head deeply in Sam’s direction, before making his way over to his customary spot in the corner. Cliffjumper’s presence had been one of only two concessions that the First in Service had allowed: the first was that Cliff would be the only Primesguard allowed in the berthroom when Sam was sleeping, and the second was that Bumblebee would be the only one to accompany him to the washracks. The austere old battle-axe hadn’t been exactly thrilled about it, but he had eventually conceded when it became apparent that Sam would not.

Once Sam had eaten enough to assuage his guilt, he tossed his fork onto the plate and stood up with a heavy sigh. Bumblebee, who was sitting in his bipedal mode on one of the oddly padded benches, watched as Sam ambled over to the bed on socked feet. 

“Going to sleep?” he asked, neutrally. 

Sam shrugged noncommittally as he climbed under the blankets. His bed was far larger than the one aboard the Ark, and as a result, the sheets had been made of a strange metal-mesh material that glided against his body like satin. Sam rolled onto his back, bunching the pillows behind his head, and stared disinterestedly at the television. After a moment, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized beside him. The hard light projection stared down at him for a moment, and then he settled down beside him — Bumblebee over the blankets, Sam beneath them. 

Better Call Saul was followed by an episode of Arrested Development, which was followed by an episode of Friday Night Lights. Sam watched it all through half-lidded eyes. Sigil arrived shortly thereafter with a cube of energon, which he handed to Bumblebee, who was still reclining in his spot on the bench. His bonded warbled something too low for Sam to make out, before peeling the filament off the cube and taking an unhurried drink. Even though Sam was only tangentially paying attention as he drank, there was no mistaking the warm glow of satisfaction and satiation passing across their bond. After Bumblebee finished his energon, Sigil returned briefly to retrieve the empty container, and then he was gone again.

Sam knew the moment that the proverbial clock struck jour-two for Meltdown shifted in the back of his mind, and then the Creator bond rose up, effectively separating him from the wider neural-network. Sam breathed out softly through his nose. Infantilizing though the Creator bond might be, it was still a relief to let go of his firewalls — like dropping a weighted blanket he’d been holding for too long. 

Sam settled back against the mattress as another episode of Friday Night Lights began to play. Bumblebee’s holoform shifted to accommodate him, but Sam could tell by the distant quality of his mental presence that he was distracted. Sam glanced over at his bonded’s bipedal mode — Bee was still sitting on the bench, but he was staring intently at a datapad rather than watching the entertainment console. 

“What’re you doing?” Sam murmured.

“I’m reading Hound’s latest report,” Bee-the-holoform replied. 

Curiosity piqued, Sam pushed up onto an elbow. “Oh? What’s it say?” 

There was a subtle pause. “He’s been repositioned to the aft-deck.” 

Sam frowned deeply. “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘Repositioned’?” 

“It’s not unusual,” Bumblebee answered. “A Prime has multiple Primesguards for a reason — some to protect their person, others to assess potential threats.” 

“And is that what he’s doing?” Sam asked, and his voice sounded faint, even to his own ears. “Assessing potential threats?” 

“Yes, but his report only identifies a few low-level concerns,” Bee-the-holoform replied, giving his hip a meaningful squeeze. “Nothing to worry about.” 

The reassurance helped to settle his nerves. Sam might not trust Optimus to tell him the full truth about their circumstances, but he trusted Hound — and he definitely trusted Bumblebee. Slowly, Sam settled back against the mattress, shifting this way and that, trying to get comfortable, before he finally found a spot that suited him. He was just about to open his mouth to ask Bumblebee to turn down the lights when the door to the living space slid open. Sam’s pulse jumped — first in surprise, and then in anger as the Second in Service strode inside. Sam tugged the blankets higher up his chest as the Primesguard crossed the room — his optics taking in everything, including Sam glaring at him from the bed — before stopping in front of Cliffjumper. He stayed only a moment, just long enough to convey whatever message or report or instruction he intended to convey, and then he made his way back the way he came.

“You aren’t supposed to be in here when I’m sleeping,” Sam bit out. 

“You were not sleeping,” Second in Service replied, levelly. 

Sam’s face went hot with anger — both at the tacit confirmation that his Primesguard were monitoring him so closely, and at the casual way he said it. Before he could think of anything to say in response, the Second in Service left the room as purposefully as he had arrived. Sam watched the door slide shut behind him, and then Sam fell back against the pillows with a soft curse.

Bumblebee’s holoform gave him a sympathetic look. “Do you want to go to sleep?” 

“Yes,” Sam muttered, rolling over onto his side and jerking the blankets up around his ears. 

Hardly a moment later, the entertainment console blinked off and the overhead lights went dark. Sam waited for his eyes to adjust, but he could see no further than the faint outline of the chair Bumblebee had positioned beside the bed, even when he squinted. After a few minutes, Bee’s holoform climbed under the blankets and pressed against Sam’s back. Sam lifted his elbow invitingly, and Bumblebee slid his arm over his ribs, pulling him close. 

“Close your eyes, Sam,” Bee murmured, pressing a kiss between Sam’s shoulder blades. 

Slowly, reluctantly, Sam did as he was told.

As the minutes ticked by, one after the other, and sleep continued to elude him, Sam’s thoughts began to spiral. He thought about the audience with Sentinel and all that had transpired afterwards. He thought about the disastrous meeting with his household, and the few precious concessions that he’d been able to eke out for himself. He thought about the meetings with the nobles and other gentry — and he thought about the priest from Tyger Pax. 

The words primitive life swirled inside his head like stormwater circling the drain until the sound of heavy footsteps approached from the other side of the room. Sam saw Bumblebee’s optics before he saw the rest of him — glowing a familiar, azure blue against the shadows. As soon as he neared, Bee crouched down until they were more of an eye level with one another, and then he just waited. 

Sam only waffled for a moment. “Can I—,” he hesitated, aware of how ridiculous his question was going to sound. “Can I sleep in your cab?” 

Without a word, Bumblebee took a step backwards and folded down into his alt mode. The smooth rumble of his engines had Sam pushing back the blankets and climbing out of bed without a second thought. Bumblebee’s headlights came on just enough to illuminate the stairs down to the floor, and then he popped open his driver’s side door. Sam slipped inside and settled back against the driver’s seat, which slowly reclined until it was almost recumbent, and then the door clicked shut behind him. 

“Thanks,” Sam murmured. 

“You’re welcome,” came a voice from beside him. 

Sam angled his head just far enough to see Bumblebee’s holoform, which had materialized in the passenger seat. The lights on the dashboard illuminated the side of the holoform’s face just enough for Sam to make out the curve of his smile. He offered the hard light projection a wan smile in return, before rolling over to face him properly. 

“Hey you,” Sam husked. 

The holoform’s expression was fond as he reached out, tucking an errant curl behind Sam’s ear. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Sam shook his head, and Bumblebee didn’t press him. Instead, the holoform trailed his fingers down Sam’s arm, bumping over the curve of his wrist, to interlace their fingers together. Sam gave him a little squeeze, and Bee squeezed back. Long-standing habit from had Sam glancing at the clock on the dashboard — 9:21 glowed back at him from the corner of the multimedia screen. 

“Is that AM or PM?” Sam asked, voice rough with tiredness. 

“AM,” Bumblebee replied. 

Sam was quiet for a moment longer, and then he asked, softly, “Is it still accurate?” It had never before occurred to him to ask. 

“Yes, Sam. It’s accurate,” Bee murmured. 

Sam’s throat went tight. “What day of the week is it?” 

Bumblebee’s thumb stroked across Sam’s knuckles, as steady as a metronome. “It’s Monday, February 23rd.” 

Sam’s breath hitched in his chest. Over five months then. He cast his mind back, trying to remember his schedule. Mondays were usually reserved for leadership meetings — first with the administrative staff, and then with High Command. They started somewhere around 7:30 or 8:00 AM and often went late into the afternoon. Sam used to complain about them at length (“This could have been an email,” was a familiar joke among the senior staff), but at that moment, he longed for a bland conference room and scalding hot coffee with an intensity that shocked him. 

Abruptly, the driver’s seat slid all the way back. Sam jerked in surprise, twisting to look. It was definitely further back than a regulation seat could go — the headrest was almost touching the rear window. At the same time, Bumblebee’s holoform climbed over the central console to straddle Sam on his knees. 

Sam turned back around, staring up at his bonded in confusion. “What—?” 

Bumblebee cupped the sides of Sam’s face in both hands, before leaning down to kiss him. It was a sweet press of lips, gentle and coaxing, and Sam’s breath caught in his throat. It had been a long, long time since he and Bumblebee had been physically intimate. Bee immediately pressed his advantage, licking into Sam’s mouth, deepening the kiss. Sam groaned softly, automatically grasping Bumblebee’s thighs for purchase. The holoform rewarded him with one slow roll of his hips, making Sam gasp, before pulling back just enough to smirk down at him. 

“If you don’t want to talk, do you want some help clearing your head?” Sam’s dick twitched in growing interest — he shifted his hips, trying to get pressure where he needed it. Bumblebee pushed up a little on his knees, not giving it to him. The holoform’s smirk took on angles, growing sharper. “That’s not how you ask for something nicely, Sam.” 

Sam glanced uncertainly at the driver’s side window. It had darkened to opaque black, but he didn’t need to see through the glass to know who was standing at attention on the other side of the room. “Cliff—”

“Can’t see or hear you,” Bumblebee cut over him, biting lightly at the shell of Sam’s ear. “So what do you say? Need some help?” 

Sam groaned again, deeper in his chest. “Yeah, okay,” he managed, wetting his lips. “Help me, then.” 

Bumblebee chuckled, before leaning down to kiss him again. There was nothing gentle or coaxing about it this time. The holoform plundered his mouth with lips and tongue until Sam was left flushed and gasping, and then he kissed a wet line along Sam’s jaw to his ear.

“Happy to oblige,” Bee murmured, lowly. At the same time, he dropped his hands to Sam’s shoulders, before smoothing down his arms to interlock their fingers together, and then he was pulling Sam’s hands above his head. The angle forced Sam to arch his back a little, which caused their groins to press together. Sam choked on a breath, his thickening erection caught between their bodies. Sam’s eyes slipped closed as he rocked his hips, finally getting pressure where he wanted it — but they flew open again a moment later as the seatbelt snaked around his wrists, pulling taut. 

“What’re you doing?” Sam asked, confusion coloring his words. He gave an experimental yank, but the seatbelt held fast. 

“Helping you,” Bumblebee murmured, rubbing the pad of his thumb against Sam’s lower lip. “As I recall, you had a difficult time keeping your hands where I put them the last time we did this.” 

Arousal spiked, sharp and hot and sudden, low in Sam’s pelvis. For all they had experimented with their dynamic in the past, Bee had never introduced restraints into their sex life — had never even floated the idea. Slowly, Sam twisted his wrists, getting a feel for the pseudo-nylon against his skin. He could feel the intensity of Bumblebee’s regard across their bondspace, and knew that he was waiting for Sam’s pronouncement one way or the other.

Slowly, deliberately, Sam relaxed back against the seat. “Do I need a safeword?” he asked, only partially joking.

Bumblebee gripped Sam’s hips with both hands — his expression was hungry in a way that Sam rarely saw. “Do you want one?” 

Sam’s mouth went completely dry. “No,” he managed. “I know you’ll stop if I ask.”  

Bumblebee’s grip gentled, and he let go of Sam’s hips to ruck his shirt up a little, revealing the pale expanse of Sam’s belly. “Yes, I will,” he agreed, eyes flicking up and locking with Sam’s. “But unless you ask, I’m going to do whatever I please with you.” The holoform’s hands settled back on Sam’s hips, giving him a meaningful squeeze. “Nod if you understand.” When Sam nodded jerkily, Bumblebee gave him a smile that was all teeth. “Then feel free to be as loud as you need. I won’t stop until I’m finished – or until you tell me.” 

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat, and he watched, wide-eyed and quiet, as Bumblebee shifted backwards until he was kneeling in the footwell between Sam’s spread legs. The holoform reached up, hooking his fingers under the waistband of Sam’s pants and tugging the material down around his ankles. Sam shifted his weight to allow Bumblebee to pull the material off of him, but the holoform just crowded closer, trapping Sam’s shins against the driver’s seat. 

“Comfortable?” Bumblebee murmured, smoothing his hands up to Sam’s thighs, tugging lightly at his leg hair. 

“Yeah,” Sam managed, voice gone low and husky. 

“Good,” Bumblebee smirked, and then he leaned down and took Sam’s half-hard cock in his mouth, swallowing him all the way down to the base. Sam jerked and gave a startled yell of surprise — the holoform’s mouth was warm and wet, his tongue teasing the underside of Sam’s dick every time he bobbed his head. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Sam to go from half-hard to throbbing. He breathed sharply through his nose, trying to get himself under control, but Bumblebee wasn’t having it. The holoform shouldered Sam’s knees a little wider, and then he grasped the base of Sam’s cock in one hand, pumping him lightly, and pressed two fingers against Sam’s perineum with the other. 

“Fuck!” Sam gasped, spasming against the seat. “God, Bumblebee, you don’t do things by half—ah!” His words were lost in an inarticulate cry as Bumblebee hallowed his cheeks and hummed. Sam’s orgasm crashed into him with all the sudden explosiveness of a dam burst. He threw his head backwards, his spine curving like a bow, as every muscle in his body contracted all at once. He felt every pulse as he emptied into Bumblebee’s willing mouth — as well as the accompanying flutter of the holoform’s throat as he swallowed around him. 

Sam shuddered through the last of the aftershocks, before sinking back against the seat. His heart was galloping inside his chest like it was trying to break free. “Jesus,” Sam drew out, slowly, disbelievingly. 

Bumblebee settled back against his heels, watching Sam closely, as he stroked him through the last echoes of his orgasm. The holoform’s grip on his cock was light, almost teasing. 

“Sorry,” Sam laughed breathlessly, once he was capable of speaking. “I guess it’s been awhile.” 

Bee hummed in agreement, but continued stroking Sam’s cock. Sam shifted against the seat, overstimulated — now that the pleasure had ebbed, the touch was starting to get uncomfortable. “Okay, Bee, that’s good. Thanks.” 

The holoform’s gaze was intense. His grip firmed around Sam’s softening cock, and he stroked him from root to tip. Sam yelped, spasming like a live wire — at the same time, the seatbelt went taut, stretching Sam’s arms back far enough that his fingertips brushed the backseat. 

“What are you doing?” Sam choked out, trying to shift away from Bee’s touch, which was starting to make his toes curl — and not necessarily in a good way. 

Bumblebee watched him, sharp-eyed and knowing. “Are you asking me to stop?” 

Sam stared down at him incredulously. “Are you serious? I can’t go again yet.” 

Bumblebee lightly teased the frenulum on the underside of Sam’s dick with the pad of his thumb. “I think you can.” At Sam’s skeptical expression, he leaned over biting lightly at the inside of Sam’s thigh, right where the skin was softest. Sam jerked helplessly against the seat. “You know the rules, Sam. Say the word, and I’ll stop —until then, I’m going to do whatever I want with you.” 

Nervously, Sam wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Bumblebee’s eyes flicked down, following the motion, and his expression darkened possessively. That look made something twist low in Sam’s belly — something new, something thrilling. Carefully, purposefully, Sam forced himself to relax against the driver’s seat.

“You’re so good for me, sweetspark,” Bumblebee murmured, his grip firming and gentling around Sam’s now flaccid cock — and the praise hit Sam unexpectedly hard. “Close your eyes. It’ll start to feel good again soon.” 

Releasing an unsteady breath, Sam did just that. 

Bumblebee made a low, approving sound, and then he started to tease Sam back to hardness. Sam tried to stay still, but it was an impossible undertaking — he was soon sweating and writhing against the seat, skin slippery against false leather as he yanked at his restraints, trying to shy away from Bumblebee’s touch. The scout tolerated his squirming up until a point, and then the seatbelt pulled far enough that Sam’s back was forced to curve — as soon as he did so, Bumblebee gripped one of Sam’s hips, pressing him down against the seat, effectively immobilizing him. 

“Feel free to be as loud as you like,” Bumblebee reminded him. “No one can hear you.” 

And then he took Sam’s cock in his mouth and started to suck. Sam nearly squealed, his voice breaking into helpless little noises that steadily rose in pitch and volume until he was near crying from it. Bumblebee ignored him, just like he said he would, until finally, finally the torrent of toomuchtoomuchtoomuch started to coalesce into something warmer, something more enjoyable. Sam was trembling from head to toe as familiar pleasure started building in his groin again. He whimpered in relief, trying to catch his breath for the onslaught he knew was sure to come, when Bumblebee pulled off Sam’s half-hard cock with a wet noise. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Bumblebee informed him, matter-of-factly. “You’re not allowed to come yet.” 

Sam lifted his head, giving the holoform a baleful glare. “If you try to leave me high and dry after the shit you just pulled, I’m going to slash your tires.” 

Bumblebee laughed as the glovebox popped open. “I must be going too easy on you if you still have enough energy to complain.” He leaned over, rummaging around inside the glovebox, before sitting back on his heels. The lid snapped shut on its own accord. Sam lifted his head just far enough to see what the holoform was holding — Bumblebee obliged him by holding up the small bottle of lubricant for him to inspect. 

Sam’s eyes fluttered shut as he let his head flop back against the seat. 

Bumblebee chuckled and uncapped the bottle with an audible click. A moment later, a well slicked finger trailed down the length of Sam’s cock, over his balls, and along his perineum to trace the tight ring of muscle. Sam blew out a long, slow breath — this much was familiar at least. Bumblebee teased him with a fingertip until Sam was loose and relaxed, and then he slipped one digit in up to the first knuckle. He let Sam get accustomed to the invasion, before he started tugging lightly, stretching him open.

By the time that Bumblebee had three fingers buried deep inside him, teasing out pleasurable gasps and shudders, Sam was hard again. Sam could feel the warm glow of Bumblebee’s satisfaction across their bond space, and he let Bumblebee feel him in turn — his pleasure, his affection, his anticipation, his relief. The last thought made Bumblebee huff a laugh, and then he readjusted until there was just one finger inside Sam’s body, teasing gently at his prostate. 

Sam groaned softly, burying his face against the leather of Bumblebee’s seat. Bee loved to stimulate Sam’s prostate whenever he was edging him. 

Again, Bumblebee chuckled, something warm and approving in his tone. It made Sam’s groin tighten in arousal, and he didn’t even know why. Bumblebee leaned over, capturing Sam’s cock in his mouth, and then he started to bob against him. Sam could already feel the tell-tale pressure building in his pelvis. His breath was coming faster now, great heaving gasps that sounded impossibly loud in the confines of Bumblebee’s interior. 

Sam was close — fuck, he was so close. But right before he reached the point of no return, he forced himself to gasp out, “Bee!” 

Immediately, Bumblebee slowed and stopped, letting Sam come back from the edge. 

//Good boy,// Bee murmured, low and indecent and approving.

“Fuck,” Sam groaned helplessly.

Bumblebee waited just until Sam had caught his breath, and then he started again. The holoform brought Sam to the edge two more times — at first Sam complained, then he threatened, then he pleaded, but it wasn’t until Bumblebee had three fingers buried deep inside Sam’s body, rocking in tandem with Sam’s clumsy, desperate little thrusts, that he finally, mercifully murmured, //Come for me, Sam.//

And Sam did. 

Whereas his first orgasm had been like a dam burst, violent and messy and sudden, this orgasm swept Sam away like a tidal wave, rising and cresting all at once. Sam knew that he was shouting — could feel it, in the straining of his vocal cords — but he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his blood roaring in his ears. 

When Sam came back to himself afterwards, he felt almost punch-drunk. He lay bonelessly against the driver’s seat, soaked in sweat and trembling like a junkie coming down off a high, only peripherally aware of Bumblebee running his hands up and down Sam’s flanks. It wasn’t until Sam’s breathing had evened out again that Bumblebee inquired, gently, “How do you feel?” 

Sam had to take a moment to collect himself before he could answer. “Like a puddle,” he admitted, before cracking open his eyes to peer down at the holoform. “I thought you wanted to fuck me.” 

Bumblebee’s thumbs teased Sam’s inner thigh, easing the tension that had gathered there. “I did say that, didn’t I?” 

It took Sam a moment to catch his meaning, and then he screwed his eyes shut. “Bee, I can’t.” 

“Then you know what I want from you,” Bumblebee reminded him. 

“Bee, please—,” Sam whimpered. 

“You’re the one calling the shots here, Sam,” Bee murmured, pushing up onto his knees. “Say the word, and I’ll stop. No disappointment, no expectations. I have you.” 

Sam shivered violently. He knew that wasn’t just a platitude. Bumblebee would never ask for more than he was willing to give. All at once, the seatbelt around his wrists felt… different. The material was no less tight than it had been since this whole thing started, but it suddenly felt grounding and secure — safe, instead of restraining. Sam found himself melting into it, his whole body relaxing all at once. 

“Okay,” Sam managed — his voice sounded very far away to his own ears. “Do it. I want you to.” 

Bumblebee leaned down, pressing a kiss against Sam’s mouth. It was gentle and benedictory, almost reverent. Sam let his eyes slip closed as Bumblebee pushed up onto his knees. A moment later, the blunt head of the holoform’s cock was pressing against Sam’s entrance. 

“Take a deep breath for me,” Bumblebee urged.

Unthinkingly, Sam obeyed.

As soon as Sam released the breath he was holding, Bumblebee pressed inside. It was a slow, intense stretch — familiar, yet totally different than anything Sam had ever experienced before. There were no lightning bursts of pleasure lighting up his spine, no slow roil of arousal ratcheting him higher — just a steady, slow, deep thrum of pleasure — and Sam let himself sink into it. Bumblebee leaned down, grabbing Sam’s right leg, getting it over his shoulder, and then he gave an experimental thrust. The warm glow of pleasure spreading outwards from his navel banked a little brighter as the holoform bottomed out. 

“Bee, please…” Sam breathed, little more than a puff of air. 

One hand came to cup the side of Sam’s face, thumb smoothing over Sam’s cheekbone, while the other braced itself against Sam’s hip, and then Bumblebee was moving, a steady roll of hips that pushed Sam a little higher with each thrust. Sam was very quiet as the pressure started to build — his mind and body felt tenuously connected, like he might float away at any given moment. It was a strange, intense, disorienting feeling. 

“You’re okay, Sam,” Bumblebee murmured, and from the gentle, patient way he was speaking, Sam got the impression it wasn’t the first time he'd said it. 

“Please,” Sam gasped. “Bee, please, I–” 

“It’s okay,” Bumblebee promised, reaching down to grasp Sam’s weeping erection. Until that moment, Sam hadn’t even realized he was hard again. “I told you: I’ve got you.” 

Sam rocked against the seat with the force of Bumblebee’s thrusts, which had started coming deeper and faster. He went pliant, and just let it happen. Bumblebee murmured something tender and raw sounding, but Sam was too far gone to parse it out. 

“Do it, Sam,” Bumblebee urged, gently. “Come with me.” 

Sam took a deep breath, and then another — and then he flew apart, knowing that Bumblebee would be there to help him find himself afterwards. 

Notes:

The art that inspired Sam's armor can be found here and here. The first is an AI generated image from Google search, and the second is from DeviantArt. I've tried to find the original creator to provide credit, but I've had no such luck. If anyone knows them, please let me know so I can give proper attribution.

Chapter 32

Summary:

Author Notes: Many thanks to Ahziel, who graciously agreed to help beta this chapter. We appreciate you!

The following morning, Sam learned that Bumblebee could be meticulous in other ways too. 

He frowned, considering the board in front of him for a long moment, before giving his bonded an annoyed look. “You’re cheating.” 

Bumblebee huffed an unoffended laugh. “I am not.” 

Sam snorted and angled his head to peer at the stacks of brightly colored tiles arranged in front of him. The Tadek board was similar in design to a chess board. It contained 120 squares arranged in 12 vertical rows called columns and 12 horizontal rows called streets. The goal was to collect tiles — from both the board and your opponent — building towers as you did so. The winner was determined by the number, height, and color of the towers each player controlled at the end of 32 turns. They were currently on the 28th turn. Bumblebee had six towers — three yellow, one red, two blue. Sam had nothing but a stack of different colored tiles to his name. 

Sam blew out a breath and leaned back in his chair. “This game is impossible without a processor.” 

Sigil laughed lightly, before propping one elbow against the top rail of Sam’s chair and giving the board a long, considerate look. “He’s using a provincial approach. It favors a strong forward advancement and rear defense. Look,” Sigil said, pointing to a square located diagonally across from Sam’s stack of tiles. “If you move here, then here, you’ll gain four tiles and be well positioned for an attack on his bastion.” 

Sam grinned up at him. “Hey, thanks.” 

“Yes, thank you, Sigil,” Bumblebee agreed, dryly. 

Sam laughed, before leaning forward to move his stack of tiles. As promised, the board awarded him three more tiles, and then the square beneath Bumblebee’s bastion lit up in pale red to indicate a potential attack next turn. Sam carefully added his new tiles to his existing stack, before settling back to watch Bumblebee’s next move. The scout examined the board for a scant moment, and then he moved his bastion two spaces to the right and flanked it with his spire — preventing an attack on the bastion, but leaving his citadel wide open. 

Sam’s brow furrowed in thought. “Are you trying to bait me into a trap?” 

“Maybe, maybe not,” Bumblebee shrugged. Sam turned, looking up at Sigil, but before the attendant could say a word, Bee whistled in warning. Sigil looked down at Sam with a grin, before miming locking his lips with two digits and throwing away the key. 

Sam barked a loud laugh. “You know what? I think I’ll risk it.” 

“If you say so,” Bumblebee shrugged. “Be my guest.” 

Undeterred, Sam leaned forward and halved his stack of tiles, leaving one stack in the original square and positioning the second stack to attack the bastion. As soon as the stack was placed in the appropriate square, the square lit up in white and Sam’s stack of tiles was transformed into a blue tower. Sam laughed triumphantly and collected his replacement tiles from the board. 

“Well done, Sam,” Sigil praised. 

“Yes, Sam. Well done,” Cyclonus rumbled in agreement. 

Sam glanced over at him. The Tadek board had been arranged in the middle of the living space between the two sitting areas, and its location provided a clear vantage of the room — and the people in it. Cyclonus was positioned next to the entryway, posture straight and formal, but he was evidently standing close enough to follow their game. Buffer was working quietly in the corner, Lumi was flitting back and forth between the berthroom and the servant’s quarters, and Glory was standing unobtrusively off to one side, watching the goings-on with sharp optics. 

“Thanks,” Sam said, directing his comment to Cyclonus. “Beginner’s luck.” 

Cyclonus’ optics spiraled down to points. “It is a challenging game to learn,” he replied, like an acknowledgement.

“Do you play?” Sam asked, examining the board before stacking his new tiles on a square in the central district. 

“I do,” Cyclonus intoned in reply, “though I do not often get the chance.” 

“No free time?” Sam guessed. 

Cyclonus chuckled. “No suitable competitors.” 

Sam’s mouth curled up in a humorous smile. “You’re that good, huh?” 

“I have some skill,” Cyclonus conceded. 

Lumi, who was in the process of carrying a stack of folded linens to the berthroom, whistled admonishingly. “He is being modest. Cyclonus is a second-level master,” she explained, and there was no mistaking the undercurrent of pride in her tone. 

Sam’s eyebrows quirked up in surprise. “Oh yeah?” 

Somehow, Cyclonus’ already perfect posture straightened even further. If he were a bird, it would have looked as though he was preening. “I was so honored, yes.” 

Bumblebee slid his spire over to flank Sam’s newly formed tower. Sam grimaced as the square under the tower went dark, and then turned back into a stack of tiles, two of which Bumblebee picked up and added to his own stack. 

“You suck,” Sam sighed. 

“Not at this, I don’t,” Bumblebee laughed. 

Sam rolled his eyes, before turning to look at Cyclonus. “You should play Ironhide sometime. He’s a grandmaster.” He gave an awkward laugh. “I mean, so I’ve heard. I’ve never played him or anything.” 

Cyclonus’ optics brightened minutely, but before he could say anything in reply, there was an audible groan of metal somewhere overhead. In almost perfect unison, every person in the room – human and mechanoid alike – stilled and looked up at the ceiling. 

“What was that?” Sam asked, confusedly.

Without taking his optics off the ceiling, Bumblebee pushed to his pedes. “I don’t know.” 

Suddenly, there was a terrible cacophony of metal against metal directly above them. Bumblebee shoved the Tadek table aside, scattering colored tiles all over the floor as he lunged for Sam. At the same time, something crashed through the ceiling, plummeting to the floor below. Sam didn’t even have the chance to cry out in surprise before he was roughly grabbed and yanked out of his seat. In the next instant, he was being tucked against Bumblebee’s chest plates, and then the room cartwheeled dizzily — floor, ceiling, floor — as the scout dove to the side, rolling out of the way. The taste of blood filled Sam’s mouth, metallic and hot, as he bit through his cheek. There was a second crash, nearer than the first, and then the lights immediately overhead went dark, casting the room in shadow. 

Still reeling, Sam was hauled up again — even though he wasn’t quite sure which way was “up”. Through the ringing in his ears, Sam could hear the sound of thundering pedesteps, the high-pitched whine of charging capacitors, and… swearing? Unsteadily, Sam tried to get his feet under him, but then he was being moved again. Instinctively, Sam reached for the neural network, and then he pulled up short. He recognized the signatures in his vicinity. All of them. Even—

“Stop,” Sam croaked, pushing at Bumblebee’s chest plates. At first, Bumblebee didn’t seem to hear him — or if he did, he was ignored. Gathering himself, Sam shoved sharply at the winter white glow at the edge of his mind. “Bee, I said stop!”  

“No,” Glory shot back tightly. It took Sam a moment to realize she was at Bumblebee’s side, battle mask engaged and two arm-mounted blasters protruding from her forearms. For some reason, that surprised him. Sam hadn’t realized that Glory was a combat build. 

Despite Glory’s refusal, Bumblebee did as Sam bade him, though he still held Sam closely to his chest plates. His grip wasn’t exactly gentle, either. One servo was splayed across Sam’s back, the tips of his digits bright points of pressure against his ribs, while the other was braced against the backs of Sam’s legs, pinning him close. 

“For God’s sake, Bumblebee,” Sam groused, shifting uncomfortably in the scout’s grasp. “It’s only Rumble.” 

Sam felt an answering start of surprise and recognition through their bond as Bumblebee half-turned, glancing back the way they came. Sam leaned to the side as far as Bumblebee’s embrace would allow. His eyes tracked first to the gaping hole in the ceiling. The metal plating was bent downward in jagged angles and wires and cables were hanging in great loops from dark maw. One of the cables was sparking precariously, sending flecks of light cascading down to the floor where Rumble was being restrained by Sigil. The room was quickly filled with other mechanoids — First and Second in Service were first through the door, then Cliffjumper, then Whipshot, who swept into the room like an angry archangel. Second in Service and Whipshot fanned out, clearly assessing the room for other threats, as First in Service and Cliffjumper headed right for Rumble. 

At Sam’s insistence, Bumblebee carefully set him on his feet, though it would have been impossible to misinterpret the firm pulse of warning as he did so. Sam wiped the blood from his chin as he cautiously started forward. Sigil was kneeling on the floor, his back to Sam, but it was obvious even from Sam’s angle that the attendant was pinning Rumble beneath him. Cyclonus was hissing something in angry sounding Cybertronian, and Rumble was spitting static back at him, either too scared or too angry to form proper glyphs. 

“Let him up,” Sam ordered, and he was distantly surprised by the tone of his voice. It was firm and hard — and brooked no argument. 

At first, Sigil seemed to ignore him. The attendant’s posture was rigid, his shoulders and spine set in hard lines, and his paneling pinned close to his frame. Sam walked closer, aware of Bumblebee and Glory following close on his heels, as well as the way the other Primesguard angled their helms to regard him. Cliffjumper warbled softly as he approached, cautioning him, but the other Primesguard were less restrained in the censure. 

“Sacred Vessel, you should not be here,” First in Service rebuked, his voice a dangerous rumble from deep inside his chassis. 

“You do not command me, First in Service,” Sam replied coldly as he moved to get a better look at the furious little mechin. Rumble was struggling with all his might, swearing up a storm from where he was pinned beneath Sigil’s knee, but it was obvious that the fall had injured him. His right optic was dim, and his left arm was sparking precariously at the shoulder joint. Sam’s gaze flicked up to Sigil. The indigo mechanoid was staring down at Rumble with something hard in his expression. Something dangerous. Sam almost didn’t recognize him. 

“Sigil,” Sam snapped, his voice going glacial. “Let him up. Now.” 

Sigil angled his helm slightly to regard him. The indigo mechanoid seemed to take in the hard line of Sam’s mouth and the tension in his shoulders, and then his demeanor changed, shifting somehow, until it was Sigil, not a stranger, kneeling in front of him. 

“Forgive me, Sam,” Sigil apologized wryly as he shifted his weight to lift his knee off Rumble’s chest plates. “Old habits.” 

“Frag your old habits, you slaggin’ junkion!” Rumble snapped angrily. 

Sigil chuckled lightly, before straightening to his full height. It was only then that Sam saw the blade he was holding in his servo — short and curved, like a veliciraptor’s talon — before it disappeared into his sub-space. “You’ve got a real vocoder on you, bitlet.” 

“Ain’t a slaggin’ bitlet, you overclocked rust stack,” Rumble complained, struggling into a sitting position. “And don’t you forget it, neither.” 

Sam couldn’t suppress the smile that softened his mouth. “Rumble, what’re you doing here? Where’s Soundwave?” 

At the sound of his voice, Rumble’s head came up, his one good optic finding Sam in an instant, before brightening with obvious enthusiasm. “Oh, heya, Sam! Good to see you again. Sorry for dropping in.” There was a pronounced pause, and then Rumble's faceplates widened into shit-eating grin. “Did I say that right? Dropping in? Get it?” 

Despite the astronomical absurdity of the situation, Sam couldn’t help but huff a laugh. “Yeah, I get it. Very funny. Now answer my question: what’re you doing here? You could have gotten hurt.” 

“Well in my defense, it wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” Rumble muttered, poking experimentally at his sparking shoulder joint with one digit. “The schematics didn’t say nothin’ about a patch.” 

Sam didn’t know what that meant, but it certainly garnered a reaction. Whipshot rumbled lowly in his chassis, an ominous sound that made the hairs on Sam’s arms stand up, as First in Service narrowed his optics at the little mechin. 

“How did you access the ship’s schematics?” First asked, his voice a threatening rasp. 

“Uh, hello? Spec Ops build?” Rumble snarked. “Snooping around where I’m not wanted’s literally in my job description.”

First in Service released a sharp ex-vent of air. “You irreverent little—” 

“Rumble, I’m serious,” Sam said, cutting across the First in Service before he could start upbraiding the mechin. “That was such a reckless thing to do. Does Soundwave know you’re here?” 

Rumble scowled, one pede kicking out petulantly. “Dunno. I haven’t seen him in ages.” 

Sam frowned, but before he could press the cassette to explain what he meant, the entryway doors slid open, revealing a small assemblage of mechanoids who strode into the room. The first was Meltdown, who was frowning hard enough to pinch his faceplates together. It gave him a commanding and disapproving air. The Chief Medical Officer was followed by Lifeline, who seemed to grasp the crux of what had happened, for her expression became knowing in an instant. The two medical builds were followed by a matched pair of mechanoids that Sam didn’t recognize – but First in Service certainly did. The stern old mechanoid stepped aside, inclining his helm deeply in benediction. 

“General,” First in Service intoned respectfully. 

“First in Service,” the shorter of the two unfamiliar Primesguard rumbled in reply, though short was a relative term – he was easily eighteen feet tall. “We have been dispatched by Sentinel Prime to assess the situation.” The stranger glanced sidelong at Rumble, an unreadable expression on his faceplates. “I see the situation is well in hand.” 

At the same time, Meltdown stepped around the fallen Tadek table and approached Sam. As soon as the medic was within reaching distance, his holoform materialized in a burst of blue static. The human projection looked much the same as the last time Sam had seen him: dressed in comfortable looking civilian clothing, dark hair shot through with gray that was thicker at the temples. At the moment, however, his brow was knit in something like professional concern. 

“Are you alright?” Meltdown-the-mech murmured, lowering into a crouch. 

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m fine, Meltdown. No need to fuss.” 

The medic’s holoform regarded him closely for a moment, his eyes roving over Sam’s face, before he raised a hand and, telegraphing his intention, took Sam by the chin. He gently angled Sam’s head to the side, seemingly inspecting him for injury. 

Sam huffed a breath, but he tolerated the touch with strained patience. “I said I’m fine.” 

The holoform’s brow furrowed slightly, and then he rubbed the pad of his thumb against Sam’s chin. Sam flushed with embarrassment as he realized that Meltdown was wiping flecks of dried blood off his face. He jerked his chin out of the holoform’s grasp — Meltdown let him go without protest. 

“You seem none the worse for wear,” Meltdown conceded, a note of wry humor in his voice. 

“Glad we’re in agreement,” Sam grumbled. “Listen, Rumble’s actually hurt, so if you want to mother someone, you can mother—” 

“I have him, Sam, don't worry,” Lifeline informed him good-naturedly from where she was crouched down at Rumble’s side. Rumble had gone quiet, watching warily as the medic worked on his shoulder. “It’s a straightforward repair. He’ll be fine.” 

“That remains to be seen,” First in Service rumbled, lowly. “He has committed a grievous offense.” 

Sam’s spine stiffened as he turned to regard the older Primesguard. “Last time I checked, curiosity isn’t a crime.” 

First in Service angled his helm to regard Sam. His expression was unreadable, but his optics were sharp. “Perhaps not,” he agreed without any inflection whatsoever. “But unauthorized access to sensitive compartmented information, trespassing, property destruction, and reckless endangerment are all crimes.” 

Anger quickened Sam’s pulse, but he resisted the urge to rise to the provocation — he had learned his lesson about losing his temper in the face of First in Service’s implacability. Instead, Sam drew in a long, slow breath and pinned the Primesguard with a look. 

“Are you charging him with something?” Sam asked, coolly. 

Rumble looked up in surprise. “Wait, what? Are you serious?” The little mechin leaned away from Lifeline’s touch to glance back and forth between First in Service and Sam. “It was just an accident, I swear. Maybe unclench your tailpipe a little, big guy.” 

“Rumble, stop talking,” Sam said without ever taking his eyes off First in Service. Wisely, the little mechin did as he was told. “Answer my question.” 

“It is not his place to do so, Your Grace,” the General answered, his voice a low, smooth rumble. “Rumble has committed an offense against the Primacy. Whether he is to be detained is at the Primes’ discretion.” 

Sam frowned faintly. “The Primes’ discretion? So, it’s my choice?” 

The General inclined his helm. “Unless Sentinel or Optimus Prime choose to levy charges against him, then yes, his fate is yours to decide, Your Grace.” 

Sam blew out a long breath. “Alright,” he said, nodding slowly. “Then I say he’s free to go.” 

The General inclined his helm in acknowledgement, but First in Service frowned hard enough to pinch his face plates together — an impressive bit of human mimicry, considering that the older Primesguard rarely ever emoted. 

“Is that wise, Prime?” First asked, glancing sidelong at Rumble in obvious distaste. 

“I don’t know whether it’s wise,” Sam replied, twitching one shoulder in a shrug, “but that’s my decision.” 

Although Sam’s pronouncement seemed to satisfy the General and his comrade, who had turned to converse with one another in muted Cybertronian, it did little to mollify the First in Service. The older Primesgurd stared down at Sam with an impenetrable look on his face — probably trying to decide how best to reason with him without causing offense. 

At the same time, Rumble’s face split in a wide grin, and he leaned away from Lifeline to offer his servo for a high five. “Thanks, man! That’s two I owe you.” 

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes and smile, knowing it would undercut his tone, but he leaned down to press his hand against the mechin’s servo. Rumble chortled in amusement — a high-pitched undulating whistle that sounded something like a tea kettle going off. Sam couldn’t help it; he winced, which only seemed to amuse Rumble further. 

“Rumble,” Lifeline scolded, reaching out to grasp him by one of his chest plates and pulling him closer. “It’s a simple repair, but a delicate one. Stop moving.” 

The little cassette grumbled unhappily, but did as he was told. Sam watched Rumble as Lifeline worked, something warm and fond building in his chest, while the other mechanoids began to disperse. The General and his companion were the first to leave after a quiet conversation with First and Second in Service. The large Primesguard looked no happier than he had after Sam’s pronouncement, but he inclined his head in valediction all the same. The door had hardly slid shut behind them before Glory made a snide comment about the mess and took her leave. Sam nodded to show that he had heard her, but he didn’t watch her go. Lumi appeared long enough to right the Tadek table and gather the game tiles, and then she too slipped away. Eventually, it was just Sam, Bumblebee, Meltdown, and Sigil waiting while Lifeline finished her work. Meltdown watched the medic as she worked, his gaze sharp and observant, but he offered neither guidance nor critique as she worked.

Suddenly, there was a familiar chiming sound that had Sam turning automatically towards the wide double-doors leading to the entryway. Cliffjumper was standing on one side of the doorway, Cyclonus on the other, and Sam didn’t even have the chance to open his mouth before Cyclonus intoned, “Nara Velis has arrived.” 

Sam gave him a peculiar look. “What does she want?” 

“She has come for the cassette,” Cyclonus replied, evenly. 

Sam frowned deeply. “She’s not his carrier.” 

“Soundwave is unavailable,” Cyclonus replied, answering Sam’s unspoken question. “Nara Velis has been sent in his stead.” 

Still frowning, Sam glanced down at Rumble. The little mechin was sitting quietly as Lifeline finished her repairs, but there was no mistaking the sullen scowl on his face – or the way he was staring very determinedly at the floor. 

Sam’s frown deepened. “Rumble, what did you mean when you said you haven’t seen Soundwave in awhile?” 

The little mechin shrugged, causing Lifeline to tickety-blat something sharp sounding in his direction. “Just what I said. He’s still onboard the Nemesis.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Sam persisted, before lowering into a loose crouch so they were more of an eye-level with one another. His eyes flicked over the cassette’s face, trying to read micro-expressions that weren’t there. “Why aren’t you with him?” 

“Sam, shall I admit—?” 

Sam held up a restraining hand, and Cyclonus fell silent. “Answer me, Rumble.” 

“Dunno,” Rumble scowled. “No one’ll tell me slaggin’ anything.” 

“There’s no cause for alarm,” Meltdown hurried to reassure. “Soundwave is preoccupied with other matters that require his attention. Nara Velis has graciously offered to mind Rumble in his stead.” 

Something uneasy twisted in Sam’s stomach. He didn’t claim to know Soundwave very well — in truth, the two of them hadn’t spent more than a few hours in each other’s company, either during Sam’s captivity onboard the Nemesis, or during the ensuing peace that followed. But Sam knew of Soundwave. Ravage had spoken of him often, and although she was a creature of few words, Sam had heard more than enough to form an opinion. 

And biased though Sam might be, even he knew that Soundwave would never willingly leave Rumble behind in potentially hostile territory, especially not after all that had happened – knew it all the way down to the marrow of his bones. 

Uncertainly, Sam glanced up at Bumblebee only to find his bonded staring back at him with an impenetrable look on his face. Dread immediately settled in Sam’s stomach like a leaden weight. 

//What do you think?// Sam asked, anxiously wetting his lips. 

Bumblebee met Sam’s gaze directly. //I think Soundwave would sooner raze this ship to rubble than cede Rumble to another carrier.// 

Sam’s insides seized with apprehension. If Soundwave hadn’t left Rumble behind voluntarily, then they must have been separated by force or deceit. Nothing else would explain the carrier’s continued absence. But how did it happen? Sam didn’t know where Soundwave ranked in terms of privileges and power in Sentinel Prime’s armada, but the communications build was a carrier, and Sam knew that carriers were a part of the upper-most castes. So, who would have the authority to ban Soundwave from the ship? Or to prevent Rumble from bridging to the Nemesis himself? It would have to be someone of substantial rank, even more so than Starscream’s rank, because Sam knew there was no way the Seeker was sitting idly by right now – if not for the disrespect being offered to Soundwave, then for the disrespect being offered to himself by extension. Sam could feel his heart starting to beat harder inside his chest. He couldn’t imagine that very many people had that kind of authority on Sentinel Prime’s flagship — and the implications of that were enough to make Sam lightheaded with anxiety. 

Meltdown angled his head to regard Sam, something like a puzzled frown playing across his faceplates. Suddenly, Bumblebee pressed against Sam’s mind. It was a subtle touch, barely there, but it was sufficient to convey caution and guardedness in equal measures. It only took a moment to catch Bee’s meaning, and then it felt as though all the air had been pulled out of the room. Sam could feel himself paling as he turned his attention inwards. Meltdown’s presence was a buoyant glow at the edge of his mind. The medic didn’t seem to be pressing in or eavesdropping, but Sam was far too inexperienced to be able to say for sure. 

Slowly, surreptitiously, Sam withdrew as far as he was able, knowing full well that Meltdown would be able to determine the source of Sam’s distress if he really wanted — and there would be nothing Sam could do to stop him, if that was the case. 

Sam swallowed dryly. “Cyclonus. Please dismiss Nara Velis.” 

Unobtrusively, Bumblebee took a step closer to Sam. Cliffjumper, who was standing opposite to Cyclonus near the entryway, stiffened a little, and Sam didn’t need to ping him to know that Cliff had fully grasped the crux of the situation. 

Meltdown frowned, seemingly taken aback. “For what cause?” 

Sam knew that he tended to sprawl across the neural-network. It had caused him – and Jazz – no small degree of hardship over the years. Knowing this, Sam did his best to draw his mental presence close, not knowing whether he was being entirely successful, and then he pulled the strongest proxy firewall he could manage over his mind. It was clumsy and rudimentary at best, but it would have to do. He was physically incapable of erecting anything stronger. 

“Cyclonus, do as I command,” Sam managed. 

Rumble’s head immediately came up in surprise, and his optics, which were both fully functional again, thanks to Lifeline’s patient work, brightened to an animated off-white color. Cyclonus inclined his helm deeply in acknowledgement, and then he left the room. Nara Velis was briefly visible in the foyer before the doors slid shut behind him. 

Meltdown’s frown deepened in disapproval, though whether the disapproval was for Nara Velis’ dismissal or Sam’s use of proxy firewalls, he couldn’t guess. It may well have been both.

“Sam, that was ill-advised,” Sigil interjected, his voice too tight to be casual. “Nara Velis was appointed by His Holiness.” Sam resisted the urge to grimace. No need to ask which ‘Holiness’ Sigil was referring to. “Your dismissal has afforded them both a great deal of disrespect.” 

Sam knew he was treading on dangerous ground, and he chose his words with care. “Cassettes choose their carriers, Sigil, not the other way around,” he reminded, doing his best to keep his voice cool and controlled. “Rumble, do you want to go with Nara Velis?” 

“Slag no,” Rumble shot back. 

“Well then,” Sam remarked, meeting and holding Sigil’s gaze. “There you have it.” 

Sigil stared back at him, his expression impenetrable but intense. “Your actions will have consequences, Samuel. I urge you to rethink your decision.” 

Sam could feel the echoes of Bumblebee’s cold, affronted anger, but he did his best to ignore it. “It wasn’t my decision to make — not mine or Sentinel’s. It’s Rumble’s choice.” 

“Hey, thanks man!” Rumble enthused, clambering to his pedes. “You’re way cooler than Lazerbeak says you are!” 

Despite the charged atmosphere in the room, with the various assembled mecha looking disapproving, or tense, or timid by turn, Sam gave a soft huff of laughter. “I can’t even begin to imagine what the gaudy old bird has to say about me.” 

“Samuel,” Sigil interceded again, something low in the tone of his voice. “There’s still time to reconsider.” 

Meltdown, who had been watching the scene unfold with a look of consternation growing on his face, inclined his helm, as though in affirmation of Sigil’s point. “Sam, please heed his advice,” he urged, his voice soft and persuasive. “Sentinel Prime interceded for good cause.” 

Sam stiffened at the confirmation that it was Sentinel who had barred Soundwave from the ship. Despite the way his heart was thudding strangely behind his sternum, Sam’s voice was level when he said, “You may tell Sentinel Prime that Rumble will be staying with me until he returns to his carrier — and in doing so, please remind His Grace that Soundwave saved my life.” 

It was unnecessary to elaborate further. Sam knew from first-hand experience that life debts were no small matter in Cybertronian culture. Meltdown’s face did something complicated, but Sam didn’t try to puzzle it out. He turned, angling his head to look at Rumble. It was the first time that the two of them had stood side-by-side, and Rumble was smaller than Sam initially realized. The top of the little mechin’s head came to just below Sam’s chin, and his shoulders weren’t any broader than Sam’s. 

The realization made something almost painfully warm throb inside Sam’s chest. 

“Well, you obviously received the language pack,” Sam mused, fondly. “Have you gotten the socio-cultural data packets?” 

“Some of ‘em,” Rumble agreed, flicking his servo expressively. “And I got some questions.” 

Sigil watched the exchange in silence, before inclining his head in valediction and withdrawing without another word. Sam watched him go, something uneasy settling in the pit of his stomach. He was certain that he hadn’t heard the last about Nara Velis – not by a long shot. Lifeline gathered the few supplies she’d used for Rumble’s repair back into her sub-space, and then she climbed to her pedes. After a moment, Meltdown crossed the distance between them, warbling quietly to her in their dial-tone language. 

Sam angled his head to look at Bumblebee. //Do I need to be worried?// he asked, as unobtrusively as he could. 

//About Sentinel? I would imagine so,// Bee replied tonelessly. //About Meltdown? I don’t know.// 

Sam grimaced internally, but before he could reply, Rumble poked him in the shoulder with one blunt digit. “Uh, hello? I said I got questions.” 

With effort, Sam forced himself to set aside thoughts about Sentinel Prime, and Nara Velis, and Meltdown. There was nothing he could do about it now anyway. “Well, I’ll try to answer them,” Sam smiled wanly, before tipping his head towards the berthroom. “Do you want to come inside?” 

Rumble glanced towards the berthroom as though in surprise, before turning curious optics back towards Sam. “Really?” 

“Yes, really,” Sam chuckled, pressing his hand against the shoulder plating in the middle of Rumble’s back. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some of my favorite shows.” 

“Oh, I’ve already seen the directory,” Rumble enthused, darting towards the berthroom without any further encouragement. The doors slid open as the little mechin approached. “I barely got a chance to watch anything before Soundwave left. Totally unfair.” And then, as though a brilliant idea had just occurred to him, Rumble whirled on his heel to fix Sam with an eager grin. “Hey, let’s watch Survivor! How many people die in the first episode?” 

Sam’s face broke out in an exasperated smile. “No one dies, Rumble.” 

Rumble gave him a weird look. “What do you mean, no one dies? The description says there’s only one survivor.” 

“It’s reality television, Rumble,” Sam laughed, making his way into the berthroom. “It’s all staged and scripted. No one dies.” 

Lumi had evidently been busy while Sam was otherwise occupied, for the room had been tidied in his absence. The bed was made, his dirty clothes had been removed, and his breakfast dishes had been cleared away. Bumblebee came into the room on Sam’s heels, and although the scout’s body language was neutral in every regard, Sam could feel the extent of his disquiet. 

As Rumble rushed towards the entertainment console, which turned on of its own accord, Sam angled his body to press his hand against Bumblebee’s chest plates, right over the warm thrum of his spark. Bumblebee stared down at him with an impenetrable expression on his face. 

//Have Cliffjumper recall Jolt, Hound, and Trailbreaker,// Sam murmured. //First in Service can scout the aft-decks himself, if he thinks it’s so important.//

Bumblebee pressed two digits against the back of Sam’s hand. //Jolt has been repositioned to the vice-flagship. It will take time before he returns.//  

“Hey, Sam!” Rumble crowed. “What’s a Kar-dashian? I’m guessing it’s some kind of vehicle?” 

//Tell him to hurry,// Sam urged quietly. 

Bumblebee inclined his head in agreement. 

“C’mon, Sam!” Rumble stressed, his voice drawing out in an entreating whine. “I’m gonna start the first episode without you.” 

“I’m coming,” Sam called over his shoulder, before starting off across the room. Seemingly satisfied, the little mechin settled down on the floor in front of the entertainment console, and then the show began.

Chapter 33

Notes:

Chapter Warnings: Canon-typical violence

The first thing that Sam noticed was the heat. It was oppressive, thickening the air, making it difficult to breathe. He could feel it against every inch of his exposed skin, he could almost see it in the air. It felt overwhelming and inescapable. 

It felt dangerous. 

The second thing that Sam noticed was the noise. The loud clang-clang-clang of heavy machinery in an enclosed space, the groan of metal, and something else… something nearer. Sam angled his head, straining to listen. It was a long, low cacophony of sound, rising and falling like the wind moaning against the eaves in a storm.

Sam shivered violently. “What is that?” he managed, licking at his chapped lips. 

Ravage said nothing in reply. The cybercat was staring straight ahead, her broad head lowered almost to the ground. There was tension in her haunches and along her spine that Sam didn’t understand. 

The foundry was old and run-down. Most of the overhead lights were broken or missing, but a few of the still-functional ones cast a weak light that barely reached the production floor many storeys below them. Most of the illumination came from the smelters that ran down the full length of the production floor. The large vats of bubbling liquid metal cast an eerie orange-red glow that reached almost to the ceiling. 

“Ravage?” Sam asked again, uncertainly. 

Rather than answer him, the cybercat started walking. The gantry on which they were standing was made of thick latticed metal that ran along the back wall, branching off at uneven intervals to cross the room and connect to an identical walkway along the opposite wall. Sam hurried after Ravage, falling into step at her side. As they walked, the low cacophony of sound that Sam could hear in the distance rose and fell, seemingly without pattern. For reasons he couldn’t explain, the noise left a sinking feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach – a feeling that grew more pronounced with every step they took. 

“Ravage… I want to go back,” Sam managed, forcing the words out around the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. 

Again, Ravage said nothing in reply. 

Sam’s pulse quickened. “Ravage, seriously. I don’t want to go any further.” When the cybercat failed to acknowledge him again, Sam abruptly stopped walking, his heart in his throat. “Ravage, please—” 

Suddenly, Sam found himself walking beside the cybercat again, far ahead of where he’d been a moment ago. Ravage continued onward as though nothing unusual had just happened. Sam made an inarticulate noise of fear and confusion, stopping dead in his tracks — and again, he found himself at Ravage’s side further down the gantry. 

“This isn’t real,” Sam gasped, leaning backwards, digging his heels against the latticed metal, but something pulled taut inside his chest, dragging him forward. “Ravage, stop it! Please!” 

Still, Ravage said nothing. They continued in fits and starts down the full length of the production floor. No matter how Sam begged or pleaded, no matter what he did, he always found himself back at Ravage’s side as she pushed inexorably ahead. All too soon, he found himself stumbling along beside the cybercat as they approached a junction in the gantry — the right fork led across the production floor to the opposite wall, while the left disappeared around the corner. Ravage turned left and continued walking. Sam found himself putting one foot in front of the other, following at her side. The gantry continued along the wall to a smaller production floor at the back of the factory. It was much brighter than the main room. From his vantage point, Sam could see several pieces of heavy machinery suspended from the ceiling by thick metal chains. It was much hotter, too – the air shimmering and rippling from the heat. 

Instinctively, Sam knew that it was too hot, lethally hot. He glanced down at his hands, turning them over, but his skin was somehow pale and unblemished. 

As they neared the production floor, the strange sound began again. It was much nearer than it had been earlier, and as a result, it was also much clearer. Sam’s heart fluttered strangely in his throat. What had once sounded like the distant moaning of the wind now sounded like a low chorus of voices all harmonizing together.

Suddenly, Sam was terrified. “No. No. Please don’t make me watch this,” he begged, without fully understanding why. 

As they neared the end of the gantry, Sam found himself squeezing his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to block out whatever horrors awaited them. 

“No, Prime,” Ravage rebuked. “You must bear witness.” 

Thrashing his head, Sam refused, squeezing his eyes tighter and tighter, but it was all for naught. Suddenly, he found himself placed upon the precipice of the gantry, overlooking the smaller production floor. 

It took him only a moment to realize what he was seeing. 

The production floor was filled with hundreds of mechanoids. The ones kneeling in haphazard rows had been stripped of their armor, their servos secured behind their backs. It was difficult to tell what frame-type they were, given the distance and the heat distorting the air, but they all appeared to be ground-types. Some were large and stocky, like Ironhide or Ultra Magnus, while others were smaller and lithe, like Jazz or Cliffjumper – but all of them had been stripped down to bare protoform. Overseers marched between the uneven rows, watching the prisoners with sharp optics. The overseers were plated entirely in heavy black armor, and they all held weapons at the ready. 

Suddenly a dozen more black-clad mecha marched into view. The low keening moan of the prisoners started building again as each black-clad overseer grabbed one of the kneeling mecha, hauling them to their pedes and dragging them back across the room. Some of the mecha struggled, twisting their bodies, trying to kick or use their weight for leverage, but any resistance was immediately met with a fatal plasma bolt straight to the chest. Sam found himself walking down the gantry to watch where they were dragging the prisoners – only to immediately regret it. There, built into the wall, was a massive smelter. Easily larger than any in the main production area, and it was only a dozen feet or so above ground-level. 

As Sam watched, the enforcers dragged the prisoners to the edge of the smelter, and then, one by one, tossed the captive mecha inside. 

There was no care as to how they did it — some landed head-first, disappearing immediately into the molten metal, but others landed on their knees or their underbellies, scrabbling in horror for a few short moments before the molten slag swallowed them down. 

Sam stared in frozen horror as one mechanoid, who had landed almost on his pedes, struggled frantically towards the edge of the smelter, sinking lower with each step. His flailing was observed by two dispassionate enforcers until the prisoner had reached the rim, and then Sam watched, sick, as one of the enforcers pressed the butt of his rifle against the mecha’s chest and pushed him backwards. The mecha immediately lost his balance and fell backwards into  the glowing metal. 

After the last mecha disappeared beneath the molten metal, the enforcers made their way back towards the crowd. Suddenly, Sam found himself on the production floor, walking in step with one of the enforcers. He gasped in fear and horror as the burly mechanoid grabbed the nearest prisoner and hauled her to her pedes. The little femme didn’t struggle as she was dragged towards the smelter — but Sam did. He planted his feet, trying desperately to break whatever invisible restraint was tethering him to the nightmare in front of him, but as before, his struggles proved useless. 

“Please don’t make me watch,” Sam begged, his gorge rising as another enforcer stepped forward, grabbing the femme by her knee struts. “Please don’t make me—!” 

 

---

 

Sam bolted upright in bed with a strangled scream. He was immediately assaulted by a discordant swell of surprise and confusion, but the sensations were subsumed by the smell of molten metal and oxidized iron and energon. Sam’s mouth flooded with sour bile, and he barely managed to lean over the side of the bed before he was violently sick. The confusing hum of emotion at the edge of his mind sharpened with alarm, but Sam was in no condition to do anything about it, reeling from what he had been forced to witness. 

Almost immediately, gentle hands grasped him by the shoulders, maneuvering him away from the sour mess he’d made. Sam, trembling violently, was only distantly aware that the touch was familiar, just as he was only distantly aware of his own body. He felt disconnected — from his surroundings, from himself, from reality. He stumbled along, guided by gentle touch and firm words. The noise was meaningless, but the cadence was soothing. 

When Sam eventually came back to himself, it was to the realization that he was in the baths. He was sitting in the warm water, Bumblebee’s holoform a solid presence at his back. Slowly, Sam angled his head to look down at himself only to find he was wearing nothing but his boxers. He frowned. He couldn’t remember getting undressed. 

“There was vomit on your clothes,” Bumblebee murmured. 

Despite the warm water, Sam shivered. “Oh. Okay.” 

There was a gentle pulse of surprise and relief, and then Bumblebee’s holoform was leaning over to look him in the face. “Back with me, sunshine?” 

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted with a tremulous laugh. “I think so.” 

The familiar prickle of a medical scan crawled over Sam’s skin. He grimaced at the unwelcome sensation, but otherwise didn’t protest or pull away. 

“Your blood pressure is lower than I’d like, but your vitals are otherwise stable,” Meltdown murmured from somewhere to Sam’s left. “Do you think you could drink something?” 

Sam turned his head just far enough to catch sight of the medical build, who was crouching down at the edge of the baths. As soon as they made eye contact, Meltdown offered him an encouraging smile. 

“Yeah,” Sam rasped. His throat felt like it had been scrapped raw. “I think so.” 

“I’ll have something brought for you,” Meltdown approved with a small smile. “How do you feel otherwise?” 

Sam grimaced again, shifting around in the water. “I’m sore.” He angled his head to give Bumblebee a puzzled frown. “How long have we been sitting in here?” 

“A little while,” the holoform evaded, standing up and helping Sam to his feet. 

Bumblebee didn’t elaborate, and Sam didn’t press – he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know the answer. The holoform helped him wade over to the edge of the baths where Bumblebee was already waiting with a towel. As soon as Sam stepped out of the water, Bumblebee drew the towel across his shoulders. It was oversized and soft, and reached almost to his knees. 

Sam clasped the edges of the towel with both hands. “Thanks, Bee,” he murmured. 

Bumblebee whistled at him softly, and then he straightened from his crouch and guided Sam back into the berthroom. Meltdown followed behind them, a watchful minder at their backs. The room had been tidied in Sam’s absence – the bed stripped and remade, the mess cleaned away, and his dirty pajamas removed. Bumblebee brought Sam to the bed, and then he stepped away to fetch some clean clothes. Sam sat down with a heavy sigh, rearranging the towel around himself for modesty and warmth. 

“Hey, so that was bananas,” Rumble popped up from the floor at the foot of the bed, causing Sam to startle badly. “Does that happen often?” 

“Rumble,” Meltdown rebuked, frowning. 

Recovering from his surprise, Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. “More often than I’d like.” 

Bumblebee returned with a clean pair of clothes, which he handed over to Sam. Sam accepted the bundle with something warm and appreciative blossoming inside his chest. Bumblebee had brought him clothes, not pajamas, knowing that Sam wouldn’t want to go back to sleep. 

//Thank you,// Sam sent with a wan smile. 

Rumble shifted onto his knees so he could prop his elbows on the edge of the bed. “So, what did you mean?” 

“Rumble,” Meltdown repeated, sharper this time. “That’s enough.” 

“Don’t strip your wires, ya old rust pile,” Rumble grumbled as the door slid open. Sigil stepped into the room bearing a familiar serving tray. “I’m just asking what everyone else’s thinking.”

Sam angled his head to frown at the little mechin. “And what’s that exactly?” 

Rumble’s optics brightened in eager curiosity. “What did you mean, ‘she made me watch’?” 

Sam’s stomach tightened in anxiety. “I said that?” he asked, clutching the towel tighter around himself. 

“Yeah, man. You said all kinds of shit.” Rumble peered at him closely, his expression going serious and searching in a way that made him seem far older. “Don’t you remember?”

Sam hesitated, but before he could say anything, Sigil walked around the foot of the bed to place the meal tray on the mattress between Sam and Rumble. Once he did so, the attendant turned to look at Sam, his expression difficult to interpret. “Do you require anything else?” 

Sam shook his head faintly in reply. “No, thank you.” Sigil inclined his helm slightly in valediction, making to step away, when an errant thought occurred to him. “Actually, wait,” he blurted. “I want to speak to Optimus. Can you ask him to come? Please?” 

Sigil paused, angling his helm in acquiescence. “What reason shall I give?” 

Sam grimaced deeply. “Tell him I’ve had another dream. He’ll come.” 

Sigil seemed to scrutinize him for a moment, and then he inclined his helm in polite valediction. “As you say.” 

The attendant took a step back, before making his way from the room. Once the door had slid shut behind him, Sam let out a soft sigh. “Rumble, turn around. I’m getting dressed.” 

To Sam’s surprise, the little mechin did as he was told, though not without some grumbling. Sam stripped out of his wet boxers, and then pulled on his dry things. The material clung uncomfortably to his damp skin. As soon as he was dressed, Sam sat cross-legged on the bed and pulled the dining tray towards him. The meal Sigil had brought was just as elaborately plated and excessive as everything else he’d eaten onboard the Gauntlet. Sam’s stomach still felt off, but he knew he needed to eat something so he started lifting lids off of the serving dishes. There was a breakfast scramble with ham, cheese, peppers, and onions; yogurt and berries; dry cereal; and a carafe of unknown dark liquid. Sam leaned over, breathing deeply, and then he groaned in appreciation. 

Coffee.  

Sam poured himself a cup, drinking deeply even though it scalded his mouth, and then he started in on his meal. The breakfast scramble was light and fluffy as if it had just come off the skillet, but Sam ate mechanically, trying his best to think about anything other than the Allspark vision. He was going to have to rehash it all with Optimus – he didn’t want to think about it any more than necessary. 

Soon enough, Rumble offered him a suitable distraction. As Sam ate, the little cassette’s expression morphed from curious, to disbelieving, to horrified. Still, Rumble managed to hold back on his commentary until Sam speared a piece of ham with his fork, and then he exclaimed, “That is disgusting.” 

Sam gave the cassette a wry look. “Well, it’s what I’m having, so keep the commentary to a minimum, thanks.” 

“You actually like that?” Rumble asked, skeptically. 

“It’s fine,” Sam shrugged, spearing another piece of ham and popping it in his mouth. 

Rumble gave him a skeptical look. “It’s a congealed slurry of animal proteins and fat.” 

“Yup,” Sam agreed, deadpan, taking another bite. “And there’s peppers and onions, too.” 

“That’s not an improvement,” Rumble objected. 

Sam didn’t know whether to roll his eyes or laugh. He took another drink of coffee before asking, dryly, “Wanna try it?” 

Rumble pulled a face. “And have dead animal flesh mucking up my internals? I’ll pass.” 

Unbidden, a smile broke across Sam’s face. “That’s not what I meant. Here, lemme show you.” 

Carefully, Sam lowered his firewalls enough to send Rumble a cursory ping. The cassette’s expression grew openly dubious, but he returned the handshake protocol a moment later. Sam was aware of Bumblebee’s intense scrutiny as he initiated the connection, but he had done this enough times with Hound to know the process inside and out. A moment later, Rumble’s presence was inside his filtering firewall, at the edge of his mind. The cassette’s presence was different than a mechanoid’s — smaller and not as luminous, but somehow more intense, like a neutron star. 

“I like that analogy!” Rumble remarked, crawling up onto the foot of the bed. 

Sam huffed a laugh. “You shouldn’t have heard that. Sorry. I’m still figuring this out.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, Bumblebee leaned forward in body and mind, nudging Rumble to the very outskirts of Sam’s mind. “A proxy firewall would be better.” 

Sam pulled a face. Proxy firewalls were a lot harder to control, especially while also maintaining a connection with another mechanoid. Filtering firewalls were easier, but they didn’t offer the same level of protection. 

“Give me a second,” Sam muttered, and after a moment, he was able to pull his proxy firewall over his mind. It was rudimentary and clumsy, but it would have to do. Once it was in place, Sam let the filtering firewall fall apart. 

“Better,” Bumblebee murmured, approvingly. 

“Here, Rumble,” Sam said, sending another ping. Rumble’s optics brightened in obvious interest as their connection snapped into place. Sam moved his fork around his plate, spearing up eggs and ham and peppers, and then he brought it to his mouth. This time, he let himself savor the texture and flavor, before swallowing it down with a mouthful of coffee. 

Rumble stared at him, transfixed. “That was weird – do it again.” 

Laughing, Sam took another bite of the protein scramble, and then he moved onto the other items on the tray. Rumble thought the yogurt was the worst (“It’s the fermented mammary sections of an animal – a disgusting animal!”), but he seemed to like the berries and cereal well enough. Sam was working on the last of his coffee when the door to the hab-suite slid open, revealing Sigil. The attendant bowed at the waist, before gesturing meaningfully to the sitting room behind him. 

“Optimus Prime has arrived.” 

Sam’s heart skipped a beat, and then it started pumping. He and Optimus had had these conversations on more than one occasion in the past, and they were rarely ever pleasant. Even the ‘nicer’ visions evoked such strong feelings of melancholy and nostalgia that Sam was often left feeling unmoored after their talks — and that said nothing of their current circumstances, which were tenuous at best. 

A little unsteadily, Sam set the coffee cup on the tray and climbed off the bed. “Thank you, Sigil.” 

Sam directed a meaningful look at Bumblebee who inclined his head in return, and then they made their way into the sitting room. The large space was conspicuously empty except for Cliffjumper and Cyclonus, who were standing at attention on either side of the entryway. Sam hurried across the room, bracing himself as he nodded to Cliffjumper, and then the doors slid open. Something wound tight inside Sam’s chest relaxed as soon as Optimus stepped into view. The older Prime looked well — his armor had been carefully attended and detailed, the scuffs and dents and gouges from years of battle no longer visible. 

“Sam,” Optimus intoned, approaching. 

“Optimus,” Sam managed, offering him a tilted half-smile. “Thanks for coming.” 

As Prime walked into the apartment, Sam briefly caught sight of two unfamiliar Primesguards in the receiving room. The tall red-and-white builds were standing side-by-side, each holding a halberd-like weapon, but the doors slid shut before Sam could get a good look at them. 

Optimus’ expression gentled in some indefinable way as he lowered down onto one knee in front of Sam, lessening the height difference between them. “I will always come when you call.” 

Sam flushed uncomfortably. “What did they tell you?”

“I was informed that you asked for me,” Optimus replied in his bassy, calm tone. “And that you had another dream.” 

“That’s it?” Sam asked, skeptically. 

“Bumblebee assured me you were well, but otherwise, yes, that’s all I was told.” Optimus inclined his head, meeting Sam’s gaze directly, and asked gently, “What do you want to tell me, Sam?” 

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, his breath coming out in a shuddery exhale. “I don’t even know where to begin. It was… awful.” 

Optimus inclined his head, before gesturing meaningfully to the sitting area. “I will hear whatever you want to share.” 

It was a familiar refrain. In his former life, Optimus had been the Chief Scientist at the Temple Simfur. Studying the Allspark, trying to understand its nature and properties, had been his primary responsibility. Although the older Prime had never once pressured Sam to reveal the things he was shown – at least, not once they understood what the dreams were – he made sure to let Sam know that he was always willing to listen. 

Sam’s stomach felt heavy as he made his way towards the nearest seat. Before he could sit down, however, there was a distant chime from the receiving room. Sam frowned, turning towards the entryway as Optimus climbed to his feet. 

“Cliff, what’s—?” Sam started

“Sentinel Prime is requesting an audience,” Cyclonus answered, cutting across him. 

Sam turned, giving Optimus an uncertain look. The older Prime’s expression was impenetrable, but he slowly inclined his head. “It is not for me to say, Sam.” 

Sam’s heart flip-flopped behind his sternum, and well aware of the way Cyclonus was staring at him expectedly, he sent Optimus a cursory ping. //Does he already know?//

//I would suspect so,// Optimus replied, his tone even and measured. //This is Sentinel’s flagship. Not much happens without his knowledge or approval.//

Sam didn’t need the subtext spelled out for him – he understood. His Household staff might have been assigned to him, but they were Sentinel’s people, through and through. Even if the older Prime had only received an abridged version of what had happened, he surely would have put the pieces together and realized the Allspark was involved. 

Sam grimaced faintly. “Cyclonus, please let him in.” 

The Primesguard bowed formally at the waist, before disappearing into the receiving room. Sam’s pulse ticked higher with every second that passed, but mercifully, it was a short wait. The doors slid aside a few moments later to reveal Sentinel Prime. The wizened old mechanoid inclined his head as he entered the room. He was followed by two imposing Primesguards that Sam immediately recognized as the ones who had received them when he and Optimus were first summoned to the Gauntlet. Cliffjumper stepped aside as they took position on either side of the entryway. 

“Hello, Sentinel,” Sam managed, thickly. 

“Hello, Sam,” Sentinel intoned. “Thank you for receiving me.”

“I think I can guess the reason for your visit,” Sam said, trying for a tone that was polite and wry — and failing miserably. 

Sentinel inclined his head fractionally in response. “Are you well?” he asked, taking Sam aback with his directness. He had fully expected the older Prime to dance around the issue for a while, rather than address it head-on. 

“I’m alright, thank you,” Sam replied, forcing a smile. “The… episodes can make me feel tired and muddled afterwards, but I’m fine.” 

Steepling his digits in front of his waist, Sentinel canted his head. “Oh?” he asked. “And do you have these episodes often?” 

Sam felt a little like he was trying to find his footing on thin ice. “Um, yes and no. It varies. Sometimes they come pretty often, maybe two or three times a week, but then there’ll be a lull and I won’t have anything for a few months.” 

Sentinel’s optics were intense. “So, it was the Allspark, then?” 

Sam didn’t see the point in denying it. Sentinel Prime was no fool. “Yes.” 

Sentinel walked closer. “And what did the Allspark show you?” 

Sam hesitated. The Allspark visions were always clearest upon waking, and like any other dream, their memory faded with time – but this had been different. This had been visceral. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to recount all he had seen, and beyond that, he wasn’t sure whether it was wise to do so. Sentinel Prime might have been the rightful ruler of Cybertron and its people, but he was also a stranger. An unknown. 

“Sam, you must not feel coerced,” Optimus rumbled, correctly interpreting his hesitation. “These visions… the Allspark has revealed them to you. It is your decision whether and what you share.” 

Sentinel’s expression didn’t change, not exactly, but he cut Optimus a look that was penetrating and intense. It was a familiar expression — similar to the way he’d once stared down at them from the throne room dias, and it made Sam’s heart lurch to see that look directed at Optimus. All at once, Sam realized he had made a grievous error. His position was tenuous in Sentinel Prime’s court, but Optimus’ position was far more so. In inviting Optimus to discuss Allspark matters without also inviting Sentinel, Sam had unwittingly put a target on Optimus’ back. 

“It’s fine, it– it was a message for all of us, I think. Not just me,” Sam blurted, anxious to mollify, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized it was the truth. 

Sentinel’s gaze found Sam again. “And what was the message?” 

“It’s a long story,” Sam managed, his throat sticking. He half-turned, searching the room, before he saw Sigil standing a short distance away. Sam hadn’t heard the attendant enter, but he was suddenly glad of his presence. “Sigil, can I have a drink of water, please?” 

The water was brought, in a fluted glass, no less, and Sam accepted it with unsteady hands. He took a long drink before sitting on the nearest bench. He was aware of Bumblebee’s scrutiny, though the scout was giving him his mental space, just as he was aware of the full weight of Optimus’ and Sentinel’s regard. The two Primes followed his lead, each taking a seat on a large armchair that had been previously disguised by holoform to appear as part of the architecture.

Sam took an unsteady breath. “Organics, we dream when we sleep.”

"I'm familiar with the phenomenon," the older Prime intoned. 

Sam nodded, half to himself. "Well, sometimes, when I dream, they're not… dreams, they're Allspark dreams. They’re more like–" 

"Visions," Sentinel intoned gravely. 

"Communion," Optimus corrected. "We have come to realize that the Allspark speaks to Sam, though its messages are not always clear." 

Sentinel gazed at Optimus, his expression intense, before turning to look at Sam. "And what message did Primus bestow upon you?" 

"It--", Sam felt his stomach lurch, the memory hitting him again.

"Sam?" Optimus intoned, reaching out to touch Sam's back with one digit. 

"Optimus, it--" Sam's voice cracked. "It was a massacre." 

Distantly, Sam felt Bee's awareness sharpen over their bond. "What do you mean?" Sentinel asked. 

Sam took a steadying breath. “We were in some kind of industrial warehouse. There were overseers or guards or something, I don't know, but they were clad in all black plating. Matte black. And these guards… they were dragging mechanoids, living mecha, to a smelter. Just, tossing them inside." He turned to look at Optimus, trying to make the older Prime understand. "She made me watch them die. It was like I was there, Optimus. I can still smell the protoform melting. God, I even know what it sounds like.” 

Suddenly, Optimus' holoform was there, pulling Sam into a hug. Sam shuddered, but he burrowed his face in Optimus’ shirt collar all the same. 

"Black-plated guards?" Sentinel asked, the question devoid of inflection.

Optimus rumbled, low in his chassis. “Nominus Prime’s special forces were plated in black, weren't they? Could it have been him?” 

Slowly, Sentinel turned to look at Optimus, and he seemed to be considering the question. “It is possible. Nominus was known for his cruel treatment of dissenters.  Entire groups were disappeared at his command.” 

“He was a tyrant and a kleptocrat unworthy of the primacy,” Optimus gritted out. 

“I am aware,” Sentinel returned. “I deposed him for a reason.” He turned to look down at Sam, his expression considerate and searching. “What else do you remember?” 

Sam leaned away from Optimus’ holoform, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I remember everything. I don’t always — but this time, I do. It was visceral. It was a warehouse or a factory of some kind. The main room had large smelters running down the production floor, but the murders took place in a smaller room in the back.” Sam frowned, wracking his memory. “The building looked derelict. The overhead lights were busted or not working, and the whole place smelled like rust. It was hot, too. Like… really hot. I could see the way the heat hung in the air.” 

“Did you see anyone else?” Sentinel asked. 

“No,” Sam replied, shaking his head. “It was weird, actually. A big factory like that, you’d think it would be operational around the clock, but there wasn’t another soul around. It was totally empty.” 

“Fewer witnesses,” Optimus rumbled lowly. 

Sentinel made a thoughtful sound deep inside his intakes. “Perhaps.” 

Sam took a long drink of water. “Anyway, now you know. I’m sorry for the fuss. I’m not always cogent when I first wake up.”  

Sentinel stroked the linked chains on his chin, not dissimilar to the way a wizened old man might stroke his beard. “This is a remarkable gift, Sam,” he intoned at last, before shaking his head. “Terrible, yes, but remarkable.” 

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “If you say so.” 

Sentinel ex-vented softly, before rising to his feet. “It grieves me that all you know of our society is conflict and strife. We were a great people, once – our culture and influence spanning across the stars.” 

“You’re still a great people,” Sam replied unthinkingly.

Sentinel’s expression softened somehow. “We will be docking at Xenon Nexus within the mega-cycle. While we refuel and resupply, I will be going aboard to speak with the Faithful. You may accompany me, if you wish. I would welcome the opportunity to share this with you.” 

Sam canted his head, brow furrowing in confusion. “Xenon Nexus? What’s that?” 

“It’s a space station,” Optimus replied. “In the early years of the war, many neutrals fled to our outposts and colonies to avoid the conflict. Xenon Nexus was one such outpost. It has since grown into a thriving trade center for many different species.” 

Sam gave him a disbelieving look. “Are you telling me that we’re going to visit DS-9?” 

Optimus laughed softly. “Deep Space Nine is technically a military installation whereas Xenon Nexus operates on strict neutrality, but yes, there are parallels. The station allows many different species to congregate peacefully while facilitating trade, diplomacy, and scientific collaboration.” 

Sam was on his feet in an instant. “How many species are we talking about? Are they all Cybertronian? Are there any organics?” 

“Many different species,” Optimus intoned fondly. “And yes, there will be organics.” 

“Does this mean you wish to join me?” Sentinel asked in a smooth rumble. 

“Yes, absolutely,” Sam grinned, feeling lighter for the first time in weeks. His mind was already spinning with all the different possibilities. “I can’t wait.” 

Notes:

Author's Note: Apologies for the months-long delay in getting this posted. The authors are both adults with "careers" and "commitments" and "responsibilities". Bah. Please let us know if you're still reading and enjoying!

Chapter 34

Notes:

Chapter warning: politics, religion, and canon-typical violence, in that order.

The Gauntlet’s bridge was an impressive display of Cybertronian engineering by anyone’s standards. A gleaming expanse of polished metal interspersed with clusters of terminals and workstations, the command center was far grander than even the Ark’s counterpart. As Bumblebee drove towards the mezzanine that overlooked the lower bay, Sam leaned forward, craning his neck to stare up through the windshield. A latticed dome of transparisteel arched over the bridge, offering a wide view of the surrounding expanse that was currently dominated by the silhouette of the Xenon Nexus space station.

Bumblebee pulled to a stop a short distance from where Sentinel Prime was waiting. With effort, Sam tore his gaze away from the viewscreen to unbuckle his seat belt. The driver’s side door swung open of its own accord as soon as the latch released. 

“Thanks, Bee,” Sam murmured, directing his words towards the dashboard before carefully extricating himself from the car. It was no easy feat. That morning, he had been dressed in his new regalia. It was one of the simpler designs, though that distinction was relative: a charcoal colored bodysuit overlaid by silvery-white metal with gold embossing on the shoulders, sternum, and collar. The armor itself wasn’t so bad — it hugged his body and allowed for a comfortable range of motion — but the accoutrements were cumbersome. 

Sentinel turned as Sam got out of the car. The Cybertronian leader was adorned in his usual Primal red paneling, but the gleaming metal had been accented with a ceremonial gorget and delicate gold chains that made him look even more regal. He surveyed Sam from head to toe, before rumbling in approval. “Welcome, Sam. It is my honor to receive you.” 

“Thank you, Sentinel. I appreciate the invitation.” Sam offered up a hesitant smile as he glanced around the expansive space. Whereas the Ark’s bridge was a blend of both function and aesthetics, the Gauntlet’s bridge seemed designed to impress. “It’s really beautiful.” 

Sentinel inclined his head, accepting the compliment. “We have some time before the final docking sequence. Would you care for a tour?” 

Sam blinked in surprise. “Really? That would be great.” 

Sentinel chuckled as he gestured permissively towards the ramp leading down into the lower bay. “Well, then. Allow me.” 

Sam glanced over his shoulder. Bumblebee idled a short distance away. Farther back, the rest of his retinue waited near the bridge entrance — Cliffjumper, Trailbreaker, and Sigil were parked in their alt modes, while Mirage stood near the large double doors. As soon as Sam made eye contact, Mirage tipped his head, as though in encouragement. The unspoken prompting needled him, but the smile he offered Sentinel before starting down the ramp was unforced all the same. 

“The Gauntlet was commissioned early in my tenure,” Sentinel rumbled, adjusting his gait to account for Sam’s shorter stride. “Its design and construction was overseen by Skyfall’s office. The lower bay contains communications, systems control, and navigation.” As he spoke, Sentinel gestured to a row of workstations located directly below the mezzanine. Each terminal was manned by an imposing mechanoid plated in the white-and-red of the Primal Guard. “The lower bay also contains command stations that tie-in to their respective departments. This is the science station, that is engineering, and that is medical.” 

As he spoke, Sentinel gestured to several clusters of workstations located around the lower bay, each with a slightly different configuration and design. The closest was the medical workstation, and although Sam couldn’t make sense of the complicated readouts streaming across the monitors, he immediately recognized the medical corps insignia on the station itself. As Sam and Sentinel passed, the white-and-red mechanoid manning the workstation bowed his head respectfully. 

As they drew nearer to the viewscreen that curved around and over the lower bay, the Xenon Nexus space station seemed to loom larger in front of them. Sam angled his head, unable to prevent the way his lips parted in disbelief at the sheer enormity of it. The central portion of the space station was a long fluted column that terminated on both ends in a large semi-circular bulb of metal. The center-most part of the column was surrounded by a massive orbital ring that was connected to the main structure by metallic features resembling spokes on a bicycle wheel. There were smaller orbital rings located near the top and bottom of the central column that didn’t appear to be connected to the main structure. Despite the distance that separated them, the space station appeared massive — Sam couldn’t even begin to speculate as to its actual size. 

Sentinel must have noticed him staring. “Impressive, no?” he asked.

“It’s one of the craziest things I’ve ever seen in my life — and that’s saying something,” Sam admitted with a laugh. “How big is it?” 

Sentinel half-turned, angling his head to look at one of the mechanoids standing at the science station. The white-and-red build immediately straightened to attention and inclined his helm. “Sacred Vessel, the circumference of the Xenon Nexus’ central ring is 28.2 kilometers, the height of its central column is 17.6 kilometers, and its total habitable area is 854 square kilometers. It has the docking capacity for up to 90 frigates or 120 cruisers, and it can support upwards of 110,000 lifeforms at any given time, depending on their size and physiological needs.” 

Sam’s eyebrows drifted towards his hairline. “That’s enormous.” 

“The Xenon Nexus is of middling size for a space station hub,” the science officer replied. 

“Well, it’s enormous to me,” Sam said dryly. “How many species are there?” 

The science officer inclined his head to acknowledge the question. “It is difficult to say, Your Grace. The space station’s census is not public record.” He paused, as though considering his next words. “Based on the Lost Light’s first docking, I would estimate there are sixty or seventy species at any given time, perhaps more.” 

Sam stared. “Sixty or seventy?”

“Approximately, Your Grace,” the science officer stressed. 

Sam huffed a disbelieving laugh. When he was younger, he and Bumblebee used to drive out to the Tranquility reservoir at night. It used to be so quiet — no one around for miles. Sam would lay on Bumblebee’s hood, staring up into the night’s sky and listening as Bee regaled him with stories of interstellar travel. Once, Sam had asked how many species he had met during his travels. Bumblebee had thought about it for a moment before saying, “A great many. The galaxy is a large place.” 

“How many of them are organic?” Sam asked the science officer, eager for more detail. 

“Most of them, Your Grace,” the officer replied. “Non-organic species include Cybertronians, of course, but the Geth and the Synths are also commonly present.” 

“You will likely see most of them,” Sentinel interjected, his amusement evident in his tone. “We must cross the concourse in order to reach the temple.” 

The grin was on Sam’s face before he could stop it. Sigil had given him a broad-strokes overview of what to expect on the space station, but he was eager to see it for himself. 

“I can’t wait,” he admitted with a laugh, excitement bubbling in his chest. 

Sentinel chuckled, before gesturing towards the curved ramp that led up to the mezzanine level. Sam’s step was lighter as he made his way back to the upper deck. Sentinel kept pace at his side, pointing out features of interest or importance as they walked. Once they crested the ramp, Sentinel showed him the command chair, the security station, tactical and weapons control, and operations — which was where Sam caught sight of an enforcer build among the officers, identical to the others except for the familiarity of his spark.

“Prowl?” Sam exclaimed.  

Prowl lifted his head, optics raking Sam from head to toe, before he angled his head in greeting. “Your Grace.” 

Sam’s exuberant smile froze on his face. Prowl was reticent and taciturn by nature, but his reaction was more reserved than Sam would have expected. Sam’s brow furrowed — but then he became aware of Sentinel Prime’s silent presence at his side, and comprehension came fast and hard. 

Swallowing his initial reply, Sam said instead, “It’s good to see you.” His voice sounded strained, even to his own ears. 

“And you, Your Grace,” Prowl intoned without missing a beat, his doorwings giving a respectful dip before he turned back to his station. 

Suddenly, one of the white-and-red plated mechanoids standing at flight control interjected with a respectful warble of Cybertronian. Sentinel turned to regard him. Immediately, the mechanoid inclined his helm and said, “Prime, we’ve received clearance to begin the final docking sequence.” A pause. “By your leave.” 

Sentinel rumbled in approval. The officer’s servos immediately began flying across the workstation in front of him. Sentinel turned, angling his head to look down at Sam. “It is time. Are you ready?”

With effort, Sam forced himself to turn away from Prowl’s station. “As ready as I'll ever be, I guess.” 

“Then let us depart,” Sentinel rumbled. As soon as he spoke, a group of Primal Guard standing near the entryway started towards them. Sentinel turned as they approached, rumbling out a long, commanding string of Cybertronian. Sam recognized Sentinel’s First and Second-in-Service, but the others were unfamiliar. 

“Sam.” 

Sam jerked around to find Mirage crouching a short distance away. “Uh, yeah?” 

Mirage’s mouthplates twitched in a smile. “It will likely be several hours before we return. Is there anything you need before we go?” 

Sam grimaced faintly — he understood what Mirage was actually asking. Are there any inconvenient organic matters you should deal with first?

“No,” he replied. “I’m good to go.” 

“Alright then,” Mirage smiled. “You’re with me. The rest of your retinue will follow behind.” 

Sam frowned in confusion. “What? Why? I want to go with Bumblebee.” 

Mirage shook his helm slightly. “That would not be appropriate.” 

Around them, the bridge was growing steadily busier as additional crew arrived to prepare for the final docking sequence. The new arrivals took their place at stations located around the mezzanine, and as such, Sam was painfully aware of his audience. He managed to bite back his initial reaction with no small degree of effort, but his voice was a great deal tighter than usual when he asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Mirage’s demeanor was both calm and patient as he explained, “As your Guardian, Bumblebee’s place is at the rear of our procession.” 

“Oh?” Sam asked, his voice going cold. “What about his place as my bonded?” 

“That would be even less appropriate,” Mirage shook his head. “Bumblebee isn’t a member of the peerage — to esteem him in such a way would be seen as nepotism.” 

Sam narrowed his eyes. Cybertronian society was a rigid caste system — by definition, the power and status enjoyed by the upper castes was imparted, not earned. “Well, we certainly can’t have that,” he bit out sarcastically. “What would all the nobles think?” 

“Sam, you are a Prime,” Mirage murmured. “If you wish to go with Bumblebee, you need only give the command. I am duty-bound to obey.” 

Suddenly uncomfortable, Sam averted his eyes. He didn’t know Mirage that well, but he recognized a rebuke when he heard one — even when it was delivered with utmost respect. Sam had publicly and vehemently denounced the caste system. It would be the height of hypocrisy to use his position as Prime for his personal advantage now. Wouldn’t it? 

“It’s fine,” Sam managed, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across his face. “Transform. I’ll go with you.” 

Mirage seemed to scrutinize him for a moment longer, before politely inclining his head. “As you say, Your Grace.” Straightening to his full height, the noble took several steps backwards before transforming down into his alt mode in a flurry of shifting panels and rotating parts. A moment later, there was a sleek blue Cybertronian roadster idling in front of him. 

Sam gave the alt mode a skeptical look. “Got rid of the Ferrari?”

A trapezium-shaped panel slid aside, revealing a darkened interior. “It would be impractical to retain a terran alt-mode while on Cybertron,” Mirage’s disembodied voice came from the vehicle. “This was one of my favorite alts in the time before the war.” 

Feeling equal parts curious and uncertain, Sam ambled closer. Although Mirage’s alt mode shared some similarities with a Formula One racing car, no one could mistake it for an Earth vehicle. It was larger, for one — the interior was easily comparable in size to Jazz’s cabin — but it was also undeniably alien. There were no doors, or windows, or windshields, and the wheels were metal tracks, not rubber treads.

“Do you even—?” Sam cleared his throat. “It doesn’t seem like a passenger vehicle.” 

Mirage chuckled. “ There’s a seat for you.” 

Sam leaned down to peer inside. Sure enough, there was a single seat in the very center of the interior that looked more like a cross between a bucket seat and an egg chair than anything belonging inside a vehicle. 

“Are you sure…?” Sam trailed off.

“Quite sure,” Mirage replied patiently.

Sam hesitated for a moment longer, before carefully climbing into the vehicle’s interior. As soon as all of his limbs were safely inside, the trapezium-shaped panel slid back into place, plunging the cabin into darkness. Sam froze, reaching out blindly to feel for the seat — when he found it, the leather was warm and alive beneath the pads of his fingers. Exhaling an unsteady breath, he carefully sat down. Mirage’s chuckle ghosted through the cabin as the curved panel in place of the windshield slowly turned transparent. The ‘glass’ was tinted almost black, letting very little light inside, but the view was somehow unimpeded. At the same time, a faint blue-green glow began to build around the cabin. Sam lifted his head, staring in surprise. The pale glow was coming from thin accent lights lining the interior of the cabin. It reminded Sam of the glow from bioluminescent algae — beautiful and strange, all at once. 

“Okay, that’s kinda cool,” Sam admitted. 

“Seatbelt, please,” Mirage chuckled, before adding dryly, “Your Grace.” 

Sam laughed under his breath as he started looking around, but it proved to be unnecessary. The seatbelt slithered across his waist to click into place of its own accord. In front of them, First and Second-in-Service took point at the head of the convoy, while the other vehicles fell into position behind Mirage. Unable to see Bumblebee from his vantage point, Sam instinctively reached for his familiar winter-white glow. Immediately, Bumblebee’s warm presence filled his mind, and Sam could tell that he was positioned near the end of the procession between Sigil and Cliffjumper. This closely intertwined, Sam could feel everything: the low rumble of Bumblebee’s engine, the distracting thrum of a dozen different subroutines running on his primary and secondary processors, the anticipation of their arrival — all of it overlaid with something else, something sharper. Sam needed only to lean against the winter-white glow for understanding to pass between them, wordless and instant. 

Bumblebee was feeling restless — restless and almost… guarded. 

Frowning, Sam brushed against his bonded’s presence. //What is it? What’s wrong?//

//Nothing,// Bumblebee replied automatically. 

Sam pulled a face, knowing that Bumblebee would feel his skepticism. //Whatever happened to ‘infiltrators are excellent liars’? ‘Cause that one sucked.//   

An answering pulse of fond exasperation softened some of the anxiety that was starting to tighten Sam’s stomach. //It did not.// 

//Yeah it did,// Sam grinned, settling back into the seat as the convoy drove through the wide double doors that led from the bridge. //And I gotta say, I know a thing or two about you and sucking.//  

The swell of incredulity that followed was entirely worth it. //A dick joke? Really?//

Sam laughed out loud. //Yeah, really. Not sorry, by the way — it’s part of the package deal.//  

//Pun intended?// Bee asked, his voice as dry as the Mojave desert. 

//Sure, why not?// Sam rolled his eyes. //But don’t change the subject. What’s wrong?//  

The amusement Bumblebee was projecting seemed to dim or dull somehow, and it was a long few moments before he responded. //It’s probably nothing. I don’t want to bias you without reason.//  

Sam frowned, shifting in his seat. //Bias me? How so?//  

Again, Bumblebee seemed to mull over his answer before speaking. //Let me sit on it for a while, alright? If I feel the same way in a few days, we can talk.//

Sam’s brow furrowed in surprise. //A few days? So it’s not about the trip?//  

//I’m not worried about security, if that’s what you’re asking.// Bumblebee gave a mental shrug. //Like I said, it’s probably nothing.//  

Sam was briefly tempted to argue, but he thought better of it. He trusted Bumblebee — wholly and without question. If his bonded needed some time to mull something over, then who was he to deny him? //Alright, // he drew out slowly. Then, trying to change the subject, he asked, //When was the last time you were on a space station like this?// 

//It’s been awhile,// Bumblebee admitted. //I spent most of my time scouting enemy territory, or in deep cover. Neither took me to large settlements.// Ahead of them, the convoy took the long, curving ramp that led from the command deck. The lower levels were far busier than the command deck — all manner of mechanoids and drones could be seen walking together and working as the convoy drove by. //I suppose the last time would have been a few vorns before I was dispatched to Earth, actually. It was a small outpost near the edge of neutral space, though I only stayed long enough to deliver new orders to one of Jazz’s agents.//

Sam perked up in interest. //Really? What kind of agent?//

Bumblebee shrugged again. //I wasn’t required to know. But Jazz has agents stashed all over—some in deep cover, others not. I delivered her new orders, and then I left.//  

//How many agents, exactly?// Sam asked, curiously. 

//That’s above my pay grade,// Bee replied dryly. //If I had to guess, I’d say a few hundred, maybe more. It depends on how many of them are still alive.//

Mirage slowed as he navigated a tight turn through a tall archway. Ahead, the corridor opened into a large hangar, its walls lined with curved bulkheads running the full length of the room. Some held sealed hatchways, others featured large portholes, and a few stood empty. The space bustled with mechanoids in both bipedal form and alt mode. Sam recognized many of them as members of the Primal Guard — their white-and-red plating was a dead giveaway — but the rest were unfamiliar. As the convoy approached, the crowd parted like the red sea, revealing a wide circular airlock that dominated the hangar’s posterior wall. 

“Sam,” Mirage interjected. “You should put on your environmental mask now.”

Heart beating a little faster in excitement and anticipation, Sam reached for the environmental mask that was hanging around his neck. He breathed deeply, and then pressed the apparatus to his face — it automatically formed an airtight seal over his nose and mouth. He took a few more unsteady breaths, and cool, refreshing air filled his lungs. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” he laughed, running his fingers along the soft edges of the seal to check the fit. 

“Yes, you will,” Mirage disagreed patiently. “You’re a quick learner.”   

Sam gave the dashboard a wry look. “Not sure how you can think that after trying to drill Cybertronian etiquette into my skull for months.” 

Mirage chuckled. It was a rich, warm sound. “It has not been quite that painful.” 

Sam snorted expressively. “Speak for yourself.” Satisfied that the mask was as comfortable as it was ever going to get, he dropped his hands into his lap. “So, after the temple, then what? Sigil said there was a marketplace. Will we get to see it?” 

Mirage paused. “Perhaps. We shall await His Grace’s command.” 

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Can’t you just ask Optimus?” 

Again, Mirage paused before speaking. “Optimus Prime will not be accompanying us.” 

Sam’s head came up fast enough to wrench his neck. “What? Why not?” he demanded. 

“He is sequestered in prayer,” Mirage replied, imminently practical. “He’s not to be disturbed.”  

Frowning deeply, Sam reached for the winter-white glow at the edge of his mind. Evidently, Bumblebee had been following their conversation, for he immediately shifted forward, pressing back against him. //Ironhide says it’s true.//  

“He’s in prayer,” Sam repeated flatly. In all the time they had known one another, Sam had never known Optimus to engage in ritual devotion outside of the High Holidays. “That doesn’t strike anyone else as a little weird?”  

“Sam,” Mirage sighed. 

//It’s unusual,// Bumblebee agreed. //I’ve comm’d him, but he’s not receiving messages.//  

“What’s going on, Mirage?” Sam frowned. 

“We should discuss this after—” Mirage began.

“No,” Sam interrupted sharply. “Tell me now. What’s going on?” 

In front of them, the large wheel-like airlock began rumbling open. Mirage seemed to waffle for a moment before he sighed, causing his whole frame to shudder. “Optimus feels a great deal of guilt for his role in the war. He’s trying to atone for the sins of his past — confession, repentance, and supplication are a means to that end.” 

The wheel-like airlock thudded against the wall, and orange lights set above the circular archway began strobing in quick succession. A flash of movement in the corner of his eye made Sam turn his head just in time to see a large, sleek Cybertronian vehicle driving forward. He had never seen Sentinel’s alt mode before, but he recognized it on sight — the polished, mirror-like Primal red plating made it impossible to mistake the vehicle for anyone else.

“So, what?” Sam asked, leveling a cold look at the dashboard. “He’s just going to stay cloistered for the rest of his life? Is that the plan?” 

“That decision is between Optimus Prime and the Almighty,” Mirage replied with just the hint of disapproval in his tone. 

“Are you referring to Primus or Sentinel?” Sam bit back. 

There was a moment of heavy silence. “You devalue Optimus’ actions with your accusation,” he said at last, his words clipped.

Sam flushed hotly at the reproach. “Am I wrong?” 

“You are welcome to ask Sentinel Prime yourself, if you wish to know,” Mirage replied coolly. 

Sam pressed his lips together. He had no idea what to say to that. Mirage seemed to take his silence as a concession; he started forward without another word. One by one, the assembled mechanoids made their way through the airlock and into the long docking tunnel. Lights flashed overhead as the convoy picked up speed. Far ahead, another airlock loomed larger as they approached.

//Bee…// Sam started hesitantly. //Let me know when Optimus responds, alright?//  

//I will,// Bumblebee promised. 

Sam’s stomach felt heavy as they passed through the second airlock into a long corridor. Despite himself, Sam leaned forward to get a better look. The passageway was enormous, even by Cybertronian standards — the ceiling was easily sixty or seventy feet above them, and a dozen vehicles could have driven abreast without issue. Torn between anticipation and concern, Sam resisted the urge to fidget as they approached the terminus in the distance. As soon as they passed through the wide hexagonal archway, however, all of Sam’s anxieties were gone in an instant, replaced with astonished disbelief. 

The archway opened onto a wide gallery that curved around a central wall. The port side of the gallery was lined with booths and market stalls tucked beneath a tall mezzanine stretching as far as the eye could see, while the starboard side featured recessed doors set at uneven intervals. But what really stood out was the people — the space was crowded with them. There were a great many Cybertronians visible in both alt mode and bipedal mode, but they stood out among a throng of organics. Sam’s heart fluttered inside his chest, and he practically fell out of his seat trying to take it all in. Most were humanoid — two arms, two legs, a head — but that’s where their similarities to humanity ended. The aliens were in every conceivable hue; Sam saw flashes of bluish-gray, ivory, sage, mauve, lavender, onyx, and more as they made their way down the gallery. Some of the aliens wore protective body suits, others wore long flowing robes, and still others wore sleek armor. What stood out most to Sam was the… mundaneness of it all. The aliens were walking in pairs and small groups, or waiting in line at the stalls, or milling together near the bodegas. Some turned their heads as the convoy passed, but most just went about their business, entirely disinterested in their arrival. 

“This is the concourse,” Mirage explained, his voice warmer than it had been earlier. “The vendors here are on short-term leases — most will only stay for a few days, perhaps a week, before moving onto the next station. The permanent vendors are at the marketplace.”  

Sam let out a watery laugh. “Mirage… this is incredible,” he breathed. 

“It’s… colorful,” Mirage agreed dryly. 

“What do they sell?” Sam asked, leaning so far forward that the seat belt cut into his hips. 

“A little bit of everything, I suppose,” Mirage replied. “Though It’s mostly junk.”

“Junk?” Sam echoed, disbelievingly. 

“Trinkets, baubles, that sort of thing,” Mirage shrugged. “Like I said: junk.” 

“You and I have very different definitions of junk,” Sam retorted. “Can we stop on the way back? I want to see what they have.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Actually, what currency do they use? I doubt they’ll accept my credit card.” 

Mirage laughed lightly. “It’s a Cybertronian station so they’ll accept shanix, of course, but they’ll also accept universal credit — and they’ll barter, on occasion.” 

“There’s a universal credit?” Sam asked. 

“There is,” Mirage agreed. “It’s about the only useful thing the Galactic Council ever did.” 

“There’s a Galactic Council?” Sam echoed, disbelievingly.

Mirage snorted — an impressive feat of human mimicry. “Yes, there is a Galactic Council. Ostensibly a peace-keeping force, the Galactic Council negotiates non-aggression pacts between its member worlds.” 

“Ostensibly?” Sam asked, frowning. 

“When civil war broke out on Cybertron, Optimus formally petitioned the Galactic Council for aid. Their standing navy is among the strongest and most influential in this galaxy. The Council turned him down, saying that our war was an internal matter.” Mirage’s tone was too light to be anything other than an affectation as he continued. “Later, when our fighting spilled out to other planets, the Galactic Council voted unanimously to revoke our membership. We’ve been on our own ever since. It was only recently that the Council passed a resolution to allow trade with us — before that, space stations such as this were embargoed by its member-states.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “But these stations were occupied by refugees, not soldiers. They didn’t have anything to do with the war.” 

“It didn’t matter,” Mirage replied simply. “They were all just Cybertronians to them.” 

Familiar anger curdled inside Sam’s chest. “That’s really fucked up.”

“An apt assessment,” Mirage agreed. 

In front of them, the gallery opened onto a beautiful public space. Sam’s breath caught in his throat. It was almost like an arboretum, but instead of trees and plants, there were crystals growing everywhere. They were primarily shades of blue — azure, cerulean, sapphire, cobalt — but there were other colors as well. The convoy slowed as they navigated the manicured pathway leading to a raised dais on the opposite side of the room. The wall behind the dais was made of transparisteel, offering an unobstructed view of the Celadon Drift—a swirling, gaseous cloud that enveloped the system’s luminous blue star. Bound by the star’s gravitational pull, the gases slowly spiraled around its glowing, blue-green core. 

Tears stung the corners of Sam’s eyes. For the first time in his life, words failed him. 

The pathway led to a semi-circular open space, organized with several rows of benches, each facing forward and arranged to form two clear paths leading to the dais. At the front of the convoy, Sentinel Prime slowed to a stop and then transformed. Immediately, a dozen or so white-plated mechanoids stepped forward to receive him. The rest of the convoy broke off, some going left and others going right. Mirage drove straight ahead, before coming to a stop a short distance from the dais. 

“Sentinel Prime will instruct you,” Mirage rumbled. At the same time, the door panel slid aside, spilling cool air into the vehicle’s interior. 

Still reeling, Sam climbed out of the car. Once he was on his own two feet again, Mirage rolled backward and transformed. As the former noble straightened to his full height, Sam turned in place, trying to take everything in at once. The air was alive with noise: the distant murmur of conversation, the low rumble of engines, the whoosh of an air exchange — and something else, something lower. Sam cocked his head, and his eyes widened in disbelief as he realized that the strange thrumming noise was coming from the crystals.

A cluster of pale blue crystals grew along the pathway a short distance from the dais, and Sam’s feet carried him forward of their own accord. The crystal structure towered several meters above him. It had numerous clusters, each angular and distinct, with flat, smooth faces that converged at sharp edges to form perfect triangular prisms. Its color was deepest near the base and grew paler and more translucent toward the top. A low, quiet humming seemed to be emanating from the central portion of the structure near the ground.

A gentle mental touch had Sam automatically turning his head. Bumblebee was crouching a short distance away, his expression soft — in his preoccupation, Sam hadn’t even heard him approach.

“Bee…” Sam managed, his voice husky and uneven. 

“It’s their singing,” Bee murmured. “The sound, I mean.” 

Sam’s throat thickened. He turned to look at the crystal structure again. “They sing?” 

“They do,” Sentinel intoned as he joined them. “Can you hear them? I wasn’t sure your physiology would allow it.” 

Sam closed his eyes and listened. It was less of a sound, and more of a sensation. Like a low vibration that he could feel all the way down to his bones. It was soothing, almost… comforting, although he didn’t understand why. 

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “I can hear them.” 

Sentinel inclined his head. “Stranite crystals used to grow in abundance on Cybertron, especially near energon. Their harmonics—that is, their resonance—match that of our sparks. In essence, they are singing to us.” He angled his head, his optics roving over the cluster of blue crystals in front of them. “Many take their existence as proof of His divine providence. After all, how could something so sacred exist without a Creator?” 

“They’re beautiful,” Sam agreed, his voice soft and tremulous. 

Sentinel seemed to study the crystals for a moment longer before angling his head to look down at Sam. “Mass will begin shortly. I wish to present you to the clergy before the faithful arrive.” 

With one last glance at the humming crystal structure, Sam turned to look at the older Prime. “Um, okay. Sure. Do I need to do anything?” 

“No,” Sentinel gestured meaningfully towards the white-plated mechanoids standing on the dais. “The temple has four clergymen and seven acolytes. Although a comparison with terran faiths would be… inadequate, you could nevertheless think of them as priests. Together, they lead worship and represent the faith.” 

As they made their way to the dais, Sam glanced behind him. His retinue were standing together near the back of the seating area. As soon as Sam and Bumblebee made eye contact, his bonded brushed against his mind, offering support without a word. 

The corners of Sam’s mouth curved upwards. //I haven’t been to church in years,// he tried to joke. 

Bumblebee’s answering swell of reassurance made Sam smile for real. He turned, tilting his head to look up at the clergymen as he began climbing the steps. The mechanoids were pretty uniform in height — maybe 14 or 16 feet tall — and they were all plated in the same ivory-white metal that flowed over their frame in smooth, uninterrupted curves. Each segment of their armor arched gracefully, interlocking without a single hard edge or jagged seam. As Sam and Sentinel stepped onto the dais, four mechanoids separated themselves from the others. In one smooth motion, they bowed deeply at the waist, their servos pressed together as though in prayer. 

“Sacred Vessel, the Faithful of Xenon Nexus welcome you to our temple,” one intoned. 

“Welcome,” the others chorused. 

“We are honored by your presence,” the first continued. 

Sam flushed hotly in sudden discomfort. Mirage certainly hadn’t covered this in any of their lessons. “Um, thank you for receiving me,” he managed. Then, remembering the one thing that Mirage had drilled into his skull over and over again, Sam inclined his head slightly without lowering his eyes. 

“May the faithful rejoice in your Litany, ĦƢ,” the first mechanoid replied, dipping lower into his bow. 

“This is Rook, the senior-most clergyman of the temple,” Sentinel rumbled, nodding towards the mechanoid who had led the call and response. “He has sheltered many of the faithful seeking refuge from the war.” 

“I am honored to serve, Most Holy,” Rook murmured. 

“And so you have, beloved servant,” Sentinel replied. 

Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The cadence of Sentinel’s voice made it seem as though the phrase beloved servant was a title or an epithet, rather than a strangely familiar term of endearment. 

Rook rose to his full height, though he kept his head bowed and his servos steepled together near his waist. “Holy Prime, Sacred Vessel, the clergymen of Xenon Nexus are yours to command.” 

Sam stared, unsure what to say, but Sentinel saved him the trouble of figuring it out. “Have you already undertaken the sacramental preparations?” the older Prime asked.

“Yes, Most Holy,” Rook replied. 

“Very well,” Sentinel rumbled. “Then let us begin.” 

Rook bowed deeply from the waist, and a moment later, the other clergymen followed suit, their movements in perfect unison. He then made his way to the back of the dais, taking his place in front of the transparisteel viewscreen. The others fanned out, forming a semi-circular ring that stretched from one end of the dais to the other. 

“Sam,” Sentinel rumbled lowly. 

Sam’s head snapped up to meet Sentinel’s gaze, which was fixed on him with scrutiny. “Mass will be given in the Primal Vernacular,” the older Prime explained. “Do you wish to contribute to the service?” 

Sam blanched. “God no.” Immediately realizing his impudence, his face went hot with mortification. “I mean, no, thank you. I wouldn’t know what to say,” he added quickly. 

Sentinel’s expression was unreadable. “Very well. Then you may take your place with the clergymen.” 

Face still burning, Sam jerked his head in a nod and made his way to the back of the altar. Rook, who was watching as he approached, gestured respectfully to his side. “Here, Your Grace,” he murmured. 

Once Sam was in place, he lifted his head, gazing out across the temple grounds. The seating area was framed by interconnecting crystal spires — the crystals glinted and glittered, refracting the blue-green glow from the Celadon Drift. From his vantage point, Sam could see that both his and Sentinel’s Primal Guard were positioned strategically around the area. Most notably, however, there was a row of mechanoids plated in white-and-red positioned along the front of the chancel between the dais and the nave. He craned his neck, trying to get a better look, but a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye had him automatically turning his head. Bumblebee and Sigil were standing together in the wings, almost obscured by shadow.

Sam’s brow furrowed, but then Sentinel rumbled something curt and commanding to one of the attendants, who bowed deeply at the waist and hurried towards the portico. Moments later, mechanoids in bipedal mode began streaming into the temple grounds. Sam’s heart skipped a beat, and he reflexively reinforced his mental defenses. There were hundreds of them — each spark signature pattering against his firefalls like rain droplets pattering against the sand. The mechanoids made their way down the manicured paths towards the seating area. Although no one was jostling or pushing ahead, there was nevertheless a strange energy in the crowd — an anticipation, as though they were all collectively holding their breath. 

Soon, the benches were filled with mechanoids of every size, shape, and color. There was no discernable pattern as to where they were sitting: mini-bots, flyers, ground frame, racers, and more were scattered throughout the nave. It wasn’t long before the benches were full, and still mechanoids kept coming. They stood wherever they could — first, at the back of the nave, then along the pathway, then in the open space near the portico. 

When the stream of worshipers slowed to a trickle, Sentinel Prime stepped forward. The room fell utterly silent. Sam could almost hear the sound of his own circulatory system—it was that quiet. Sentinel raised his servos, palms facing upward, and began to pray in the Primal Vernacular.

“Beloved brethren, welcome. 

Today, we the Faithful receive you— the shellworn, the weary, the displaced. 

Today, we the Faithful bless you — you, who have endured the Great Sorrow far from Hadean’s light. 

Today, we the Faithful rejoice with you for all is not lost. The Great Destroyer has been defeated, and the vile corrosion spread in his wake has been purged. At long last, Cybertron is saved. 

Today, we the Faithful bring reassurance — for what was lost has since been found. The Allspark, the Blue Star of Cybertron, has been rescued from deep space.”

Sam’s heart climbed into his throat, but Sentinel didn’t even turn to look at him. Instead, he continued on with his liturgy in the same solemn tone. 

“And today, we the Faithful bring glad tidings — for what was lost may be built anew.” Without turning from the crowd, Sentinel extended his servo towards the wings. An attendant stepped forward carrying a massive warhammer. Sam immediately recognized it as the same warhammer that Sentinel had been holding when they first met. Sentinel’s servo curled around the thick metal shaft, and then he brought its pommel down against the polished stone dais — once, twice, three times. Each strike echoed through the temple space, sharp and deliberate. “Primus has seen fit to reward our pilgrimage into deep space with the means to rebuild our planet. I give to you the Forge of Solus Prime.” 

Sam was blindsided by a rush of shock and disbelief that surged across the bond-space, but Bumblebee’s emotions were overshadowed by the crowd’s reaction: shouts, and cries, and exclamations filled the air, a noisy clamor that echoed around the temple grounds. Sentinel watched it all with a stoic expression on his face. Some mechanoids pushed to their feet, others prostrated themselves on the ground. Still others stared at the Forge with the same disbelief that Sam was feeling himself. 

Eventually, Sentinel continued. “With the Forge of Solus Prime, we shall rebuild our planet — one building, one monument, one temple at a time — until Cybertron is the glory of our quadrant once again.” Sentinel angled his head, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. “It will not be easy. The war has left Cybertron a twisted ruin. But we will persevere, as we always have. Thus, I beseech you, beloved brethren — help us in our labors. 

Together, we will rebuild Cybertron anew.”

The answering call from the crowd was deafening, causing Sam to wince back reflexively. Mechanoids surged to their feet, crying out in NeoCybex and standard, a layered cascade of whistles, bleats, whines, and chirps that grew louder with each passing moment. Sentinel inclined his head, as though in acknowledgement or appreciation, and took it all in. 

The rest of the service passed in a blur. Once the congregation calmed down, Sentinel bade Rook to join him at the front of the dais. Together, they gave mass — a call and response that had Sentinel intoning a prayer, and the congregation repeating it back to him. The whole time, Sam stared at the Forge of Solus Prime, lost in his own thoughts. The golden warhammer glinted and shone, catching and reflecting the overhead lights when the angle was just right. The Forge was supposed to be an allegory — everyone thought so, even Optimus— but the crowd of mechanoids swaying in the nave believed it to be true, if their fervent expressions were anything to go by. 

//Bee… could it be real?// Sam asked.

//I honestly don’t know,// Bumblebee admitted quietly.

After the service, the congregation left the temple grounds in pairs and small groups. It took a long time for the space to empty. Sentinel handed the Forge to one of his attendants who accepted it with a look of reverence before carrying it away. 

Relieved of his burden, Sentinel turned to regard Sam. “I understand you wished to see the marketplace, is that so?” 

The question was so… mundane after all that just happened that it threw Sam off-balance. “Uh, yeah. If it’s not too much trouble.” 

“Regrettably, the marketplace is on the other side of the station, and our clearance is only for the half-joor.” Sentinel tipped his head as though in thought. “Would you care to see the concourse instead? We have time for a short visit.” 

“I would love to,” Sam admitted, before scrubbing unconsciously at the back of his neck. “The mass… that was really something.” 

“Oh?” Sentinel gestured for Sam to follow as he started across the dais. “We will be stopping at all of the major outposts on our journey back to Cybertron. I intend to spread word to the Faithful that it is time to return home.” 

“What if they don’t want to return?” Sam asked, making his way down to the nave. “I mean… there’s not much for them there. You said it yourself — it’s a ruin now.” 

Sentinel shook his head. “We cannot rebuild Cybertron without the neutrals. There are too few of us as it is. The fate of our planet depends on their willingness to return, and I will do everything in my power to convince them to do so.” 

Sam mulled that over as they made their way down the manicured stone pathway. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Bumblebee and Sigil were following at a respectful distance. Eventually, he asked, “The Forge… is it true?” 

“Such a lie would be a blasphemy of the highest order,” Sentinel replied. “Yes, it is true.” 

“Where’d you find it?” Sam asked, glancing up at him. “I mean… it’s not supposed to be real.” 

“Not all religious stories are mythopoeic.” Sentinel glanced down, meeting his gaze. “To answer your question, the Forge was found deep inside a temple on a dead planet located in the far reaches of deep space. It was a long and difficult journey there and back again.” 

Sam grimaced, conceding the point. “But the Forge—”

“The Forge of Solus Prime is a divine creation tool,” Sentinel cut across him. “That is all we must know in order to proceed.” 

“It’s also a weapon, as I recall,” Sam retorted unthinkingly. 

“Tool or weapon, its discovery was divine providence,” Sentinel replied, his tone final. “We could not have found the temple, nor the Forge’s chamber therein without His guidance.” 

Sam fell silent, unsure what to say. As they neared the portico, he spotted their retinues waiting by the entrance to the temple grounds. Sentinel’s people stood to one side, and Sam’s to the other. The contrast was striking—Sentinel’s retinue, dressed in identical white-and-red, shared similar heights and builds, while Sam’s was more varied in stature and appearance. 

Mirage inclined his head deferentially as they approached. “Lord Prime, we await your command.” 

Sentinel gestured dismissively with a servo. “We will walk the concourse. Follow behind.” 

Mirage bowed deeply and stepped aside. “As you say.” 

Beyond the portico, the concourse stretched into the distance. The wide, bright space was filled with shops and market stalls, even this close to the temple grounds. The air was filled with the sounds of music, conversation, and vendors hawking their wares. Sentinel’s First and Second-in-Service marched ahead, taking position a dozen or so meters in front of them, while two others flanked them on either side. As Sentinel stepped onto the concourse, a crowd of mechanoids loitering near the temple grounds immediately began prostrating themselves—some bowing deeply at the waist, others dropping to their knees, and still others transforming into vaguely cube-shaped masses. Sentinel inclined his head and made a motion with his hand, as though inscribing a glyph in the air, before continuing on. Sam stared at the crowd as they passed. He wasn’t used to this kind of reverence—Optimus neither invited nor cultivated it.

“I understand this is your first excursion into deep space,” Sentinel intoned. 

Sam’s head snapped back around. “Uh, yeah. It is.” 

“A pity,” Sentinel replied. “There are many wondrous things to see in the galaxy.” 

“That’s what they tell me.” Sam gave an awkward laugh. “I’m looking forward to seeing some of those things myself one day.” 

Sentinel made a considerate sound deep inside his intakes. “Although this is far from a pleasure cruise, there are some sights that might interest you on our return voyage. The Black Sea and the Hadean quasar come to mind.” 

“The Black Sea?” Sam echoed, interestedly. 

“It’s a natural curiosity,” Sentinel explained, his tone indulgent. “Billions of years ago, a red giant star went supernova, collapsing in on itself and forming a supermassive black hole. Over 200 million years ago, however, it began accreting the Vaspera nebula. The result is a glowing cloud of gas and dust spiraling a vast expanse of total darkness. It’s quite beautiful — although it's also quite dangerous.” The older Prime chuckled. “Which I suspect is part of the appeal.” 

“That sounds really cool,” Sam agreed. 

“We will pass it in several deca-cycles on our way to Calypsis Station,” Sentinel said. “I will ensure you are informed.” 

They walked together for a while longer, the concourse growing busier as they progressed. The crowd parted before them like water before a ship, leaving a clear path in their wake. Sentinel was neither reticent nor talkative, though he occasionally pointed out things of interest as they moved further down the concourse. Every so often, Sam glanced back, searching for Bumblebee, but his bonded was never far behind. The vendors grew increasingly dense the farther they got from the temple, until they were packed tightly beneath the mezzanine with barely any space between them. 

At the next vendor, Sam stopped dead in his tracks. A Cybertronian — an olive-colored ground frame no taller than Sam himself — was selling crystals in small individual planters. Sam’s eyes darted from one delicate crystal structure to the next. Most were the same pale blue as those in the temple grounds, but there were other colors as well. Some were clear, others opaque, and some had an almost smoky appearance. Sam stepped closer to get a better look. Most of the crystals were a single color, but a few were bicolor or tricolor. Sam’s gaze was immediately drawn to a small cluster of bluish-purple crystals set in an ivory container. The crystals were cerulean at the base, deep purple at the top — the two colors met in the middle, blending seamlessly into each other.

It was beautiful.

Sentinel must have noticed Sam’s preoccupation, for he came over to join him. “They’re low quality,” he said, giving the crystals a cursory glance. “Not worth the credits it would take to dispose of them.”

Although Sam knew that Sentinel was more knowledgeable than he was, the dismissive remark still needled him. Before he could say anything in reply, however, Sentinel’s First-in-Service stepped forward.

“My Lord Prime,” he interceded respectfully, inclining his helm. “There is an urgent matter on the Gauntlet that requires your attention.” 

Sentinel’s expression seemed to cool. “What is so important that it cannot wait until my return?”

First-in-Service lowered his head further in apology. “Forgive me, Most Holy. The Consortium—” 

Sentinel raised a servo, and First-in-Service immediately fell silent. “If the esteemed members of the Consortium require my presence, then I shall come,” he said, his tone as dry as a summer sidewalk. After First-in-Service bowed and stepped away, Sentinel gave Sam a wry look. “For all that we are esteemed, even Primes must acquiesce to the financiers on occasion.” 

Sam pulled a face. “Sounds awesome.” 

Sentinel suppressed a smile. “I shall leave you in the capable care of your retinue. Do not tarry long – you must return within the groon.” 

Sam tried not to look too eager. “Alright, then, I’ll see you later,” he said. 

Sentinel inclined his head, before initiating his transformation sequence. A moment later, there was a sleek Cybertronian alt mode in his place. Sam watched as the older Prime accelerated down the concourse, flanked by his Primesguard, before disappearing from sight.

The grin was on Sam’s face before he could stop it. “Bee?” he called, turning to look for him.

It proved unnecessary — his bonded was only a short distance away. “I’m right here, Sam,” Bee said, stepping forward. Sigil and Mirage followed closely behind him, while Cliffjumper and Trailbreaker walked ahead, taking point. 

“This is so cool,” Sam laughed, relieved he could finally drop all the pretense. “Is this like any of the other space stations you’ve visited?” 

“Most Cybertronian stations are pretty similar,” Bee chuckled, before nodding towards the crystal vendor. “You liked these.” 

“I did,” Sam agreed, before glancing up at the olive green vendor who was watching them curiously. “They’re very beautiful.” 

Bumblebee whistled a translation. The vendor bowed his head, before whistling something in reply. Sam recognized the query modifier of a question. 

“He asks which is your favorite,” Mirage interjected. 

Sam’s eyes darted from one crystal cluster to the next, but it was no contest. “That one,” he said, nodding towards the small cluster of bluish-purple crystals. 

Again, Bumblebee offered a translation. The vendor hesitated, before bowing his head and gesturing animatedly towards the planter while whistling a long string of Cybertronian in reply. 

Mirage stepped close and lowered into a loose crouch. “The vendor wishes to give you the crystal, as a token of his esteem.” 

“Oh,” Sam blinked. “Um, that’s nice. Tell him thank you.” 

“Perhaps,” Mirage conceded, in the tone of a teacher imparting an important lesson. “But there are nuances you must consider. The vendor may feel pressured to give you his wares for fear of offending the Primacy. To do so would be a grave offense. On the other hand, he may be hoping to curry favor with the temple clergy or the faithful — for word of your interest will surely spread and bolster his sales.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Well, which is it?” 

“It could be both,” Mirage shrugged. “It could be neither. It’s just something for you to consider.” 

Sam’s chest tightened with anxiety. “I just wanted to do some window shopping.” 

“It’s fine, Sam,” Bumblebee cut in. “I’ll buy it for you.” 

Before Sam could protest, Bumblebee sub-spaced a small device that looked almost like a tricorder. He and the vendor went back and forth for a few moments before the vendor relented. Bee’s device was scanned, and then the vendor murmured something with approval modifiers. When Bee turned around, he was holding the planter in his servos. It looked larger up close than it had on the vendor’s shelf—perhaps the size of a cooking pot or wash basin.

“Here, Sam,” Bumblebee murmured, lowering down onto one knee.

Sam walked closer without conscious thought. The crystals were even more beautiful than he’d realized. They glinted and glittered in the low light. Leaning down slightly, Sam closed his eyes and listened. The distinct humming sound was quieter than the crystal spires in the temple grounds, but there was no mistaking it.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, running his fingers over one of the faceted shafts. He glanced up, meeting Bumblebee’s optics. “I want to give it to my father. You know… when we get home.”

Bumblebee gently tucked him under the chin with a knuckle. “He’ll love it.”

Sam’s answering smile was so wide and earnest it almost hurt. “Yeah, I think so too. A garden he doesn’t need to water or weed—what’s not to love?”

When Sam was finished admiring his purchase, Bumblebee tucked it into his sub-space. They made their way down the concourse, stopping at any stall that caught Sam’s attention. Mirage hadn’t been wrong—the bazaar had anything and everything for sale: holographic models of buildings, planets, and spacecraft; shimmering textiles that flowed like water; jewelry, pendants, and brooches made of finely crafted metals and gemstones; puzzles, toys, and board games; hand-painted vistas and portraits; crystal sculptures of every variety; intricate metal kibble; and an impossible variety of practical goods, including respirators, battery packs, tool kits, cookware, filters, translator chips, and medicine.

Although Bumblebee kept track of time, he never hurried them along. Sam was allowed to browse at his leisure, and whenever he saw something that piqued his interest, Bumblebee would buy it.

“Just how much money do you have?” Sam asked, a little incredulous, as Bumblebee finished the transaction for a shimmering silken scarf that looked like woven starlight.

Bee shrugged as he sub-spaced the package. “I have no idea what my balance would be in USD, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I mean how much money do you have?” Sam persisted. “Like… in general terms.”

“I can afford to buy some souvenirs,” Bumblebee chuckled. “I couldn’t buy a spaceship.”

Sam laughed. “So, not ‘fuck you’ money, huh?”

“I worked at the Temple Simfur for a long while before the fighting broke out,” Bumblebee said with a chuckle, continuing down the concourse. “And Optimus’ soldiers were salaried in the early part of the war.” He gave Sam a wry look. “I'm doing alright.”

Sam put that assertion to the test when they reached a vendor selling an assortment of liquors and intoxicants. Mirage and Bumblebee helped him look through the merchandise, pointing out which spirits humans could safely consume. Sam bought gifts for Carter, Kelley, Morrison, Lennox, and a dozen other people he interacted with on a regular basis.

In addition to the assortment of knick knacks and trinkets, there was also an abundance of food and drink for sale. Sam wished he could have taken off his mask to try some of the things they saw. There were meat skewers, glow candies, sporecakes, stews, and pastries of almost every conceivable variety. One vendor was selling a local delicacy that looked almost like cotton candy, stick included, except it was dark green—Sam was surprised to learn it was actually a flora native to a nearby planet. Another vendor was selling a foam-like mousse that could take any shape you wanted before hardening into a flinty, chocolate-like substance.

“It looks better than it tastes,” Bumblebee said dryly. “It’s a savory dish, not a sweet one.”

A short while later, they came across a vendor selling Cybertronian candies. Sam laughed as Bumblebee perked up in interest. “Go on,” he grinned. “Maybe they’ll have rust sticks.” 

Bumblebee didn’t need any further prompting. Together, he and Cliffjumper made their way over to the vendor’s stall, perusing the various candies and additives. Sam stayed with Mirage as they shopped, and he couldn’t help but sneaking glances at everyone and everything. He counted at least a dozen different alien species in his immediate vicinity. There were tall humanoids with bluish-gray skin and smooth fin-like or horn-like projections at the back of their heads, and others with mauve skin and prominent bony crests running from the forehead and down the back of their skull, and still others with orange-red skin and long, flexible appendages hanging from the backs of their heads. It was a lot to take in all at once. Sam closed his eyes, casting his mind outwards. The neural network was alight with thousands of spark signatures — some nearer, some farther away, but all of them thrumming with sensation. Not for the first time, Sam felt a pang of sorrow. Cybertronians were a deeply social race — he couldn’t imagine how lonely it must have been for Bumblebee when he’d first arrived on Earth. 

Sam was just about to ask whether they should head back to the Gauntlet when he saw it — a flash of familiar indigo amongst the other signatures. Sam’s eyes snapped open as his heart leapt into his throat. Following the mental trail, he hurried ahead with Mirage, Sigil, and Trailbreaker in close pursuit. He didn’t have to go far. Sitting cross-legged between two vendor stalls was Jazz, plucking a soft melody from the string instrument in his lap. Sam almost didn’t recognize him — the saboteur had traded his usual silver armor for a nondescript blue-and-white combination with red accents. 

“Jazz!” Sam laughed, bounding over. “What are you doing here?” 

“Greetings, Jazz,” Mirage greeted, and there was something about his tone that took Sam aback — something cool and disapproving. “I did not realize that Crossblades gave you leave to disembark.” 

Jazz’s digits stilled for a moment, before they continued plucking over the strings, drawing out sweet music. At the same time, he inclined his helm deeply, almost reverentially. “...I am honored to serve, Your Grace.” 

It was such an odd exchange, so devoid of Jazz’s usual personality, that Sam was momentarily taken aback. Then, remembering how Prowl had behaved earlier while they were on the bridge, he realized that Jazz was probably on his best behavior. Smirking, Sam turned his attention inwards to give the saboteur a mental thunk — and then he froze. 

Other than Bumblebee and Ratchet, Sam knew Jazz’s spark signature better than anyone else’s. They had spent hours together, chasing each other around the neural network, playing hide-n-seek, and pen-testing with one another. Sam knew that indigo-colored glow like the back of his hand, and this spark signature… wasn’t right. Jazz’s spark signature had striations of darker purple, but these striations were reversed, almost like he was looking at a mirror reflection, and the color was off — not much, but enough for Sam to tell the difference. 

“I don’t get it,” Sam said to Mirage, brow furrowing in confusion. Jazz had given him plenty of odd and impromptu training sessions over the years, but this was something else. “Is this supposed to be a test?” 

“What do you mean?” Mirage asked, perplexed.

Sam frowned, eyeing the stranger warily. “That’s… not Jazz.” 

There was a beat of silence — and then things happened very quickly.

First, Mirage went rigid, his battle mask snapping into place as he sub-spaced his laser rifle. 

“You,” he snarled, roughly pushing Sam behind him.

At the same time, the false ‘Jazz’ sprang to his pedes, his plating darkening to midnight black in an instant. He flung out his arm in Sam’s direction — Sam barely had time to flinch backward before a glowing blade embedded itself in the force field that sprang to life just inches from his face. Sam landed hard on his ass, armor plating biting into his tailbone as he scuttled backward until he collided with the other side of Trailbreaker’s force field. Around him, the concourse erupted in pandemonium. Screams and shouts filled the air as people scattered in all directions. The imposter unveiled a sleek looking blaster from his sub-space, firing four shots that splattered uselessly against the force field, before tossing it aside and grabbing a small canister from the belt on his hip.

“Sam!” Mirage bellowed. “Cover your—!”

In the next instant, the whole world went white. Sam screamed in pain and terror, expecting to be blown apart by a shockwave or incinerated by plasma fire. He couldn’t see or hear anything; for a moment, he thought he was dead. But then he was being grabbed around the torso and lifted off the ground. Unable to see who had him, Sam screamed again and began to struggle — until a firm mental shove broke through his panic.

Sam went light-headed in relief. Trailbreaker.  

A moment later, he was being tucked close to a solid metal chest. Sam braced himself as Trailbreaker transformed around him, and then he was being pressed back against a leather seat as they shot down the concourse. Sam rubbed at his aching eyes, but it did nothing to improve his milky, blurry vision, no matter how he tried. 

“I can’t see,” Sam gasped, shaking his head in desperation. “Trailbreaker, I can’t see!” 

Distantly, Sam could hear Trailbreaker speaking, but his voice was muffled — Sam couldn’t hear him over the high-pitched ringing in his ears. 

“Wait,” he begged. “Where’s Bumblebee? We can’t leave him!”

A steady mental touch inside Sam’s mind calmed much of his panic. //I’m right behind you,// Bumblebee promised him. //Are you in any pain?//  

“I can’t see anything,” Sam babbled. “Oh God, oh God, am I fucking blind?”  

//You’re not blind,// Bumblebee promised. //It was a flash bomb. You should start regaining your vision soon. What else?//

“I can’t hear anything either,” Sam choked out, panic still clawing at his throat. “It’s all muffled.” 

//Your eardrums may be ruptured,// Bumblebee said, then anticipating Sam’s next question, he said, //It’s probably not permanent.//  

“Probably?” Sam demanded shrilly. 

//Sam,// Bumblebee interrupted, his voice firm and hard. //I need you to listen to me. Are you in any pain elsewhere? How’s your chest? Does it hurt to breathe?// 

Forcing himself to calm down, Sam took several slow, deep breaths. “No,” he managed. 

//Okay, that’s good,// Bumblebee praised. //I want you to move around. Wiggle your toes, bend your knees, lift your arms, that sort of thing. Do you feel any pain?//

Sam did as he was instructed. “No,” he said, feeling marginally calmer when his twisting and wriggling didn’t reveal any hidden injuries. “I’m sore all over, but nothing really hurts.” 

//Let me know if that changes,// Bumblebee instructed. //Your vitals are elevated, and we can’t afford to stop for a medical scan.//

“What the fuck was that?” Sam croaked, heart still rabbiting in his chest. “Bee, what the fuck was that?” An assassin? There was no doubt that the imposter wanted Sam dead — and he would be, were it not for Trailbreaker’s fields. “That wasn’t Jazz,” he added, after a moment, fingers clenching and unclenching around the metal of his suit. “I know Jazz, and that wasn’t him.”  

//Whoever he was, he had Jazz’s handshake protocols. The autho-codes were older, but they checked out too,// Bumblebee replied grimly. //We’re trying to raise Jazz on comms now. No luck so far.//  

“I don’t understand,” Sam rasped. “He had Jazz’s clearance codes?” 

//He had his authorization codes,// Trailbreaker stressed. //Autho-codes are for personal security, clearance codes are for military use.//

It didn’t make any sense. Jazz was notoriously careful about infosec — there’s no way he’d give someone his authorization codes, either on purpose or by accident. 

“Bee,” Sam breathed, “What’s going on?”

//I don’t know — but I intend to find out.//

Notes:

Wondering what the crystals looked like? Have some inspiration! [Here], and [here], and [here].

Chapter 35

Notes:

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your patience! It's a busy time of the year for us, so this took a lot longer than we thought. <3

The cockpit was darkened when the forward door slid open and the black-clad mechanoid stumbled inside. As he passed through the archway, the mechanoid slammed his fist against the control panel, and the door slid shut behind him. Each shuffling step sent a white hot bolt of pain through his internals. Grimacing, he pressed a servo flat against his abdomen, staunching the energon leaking freely down his side. 

Frag, that hadn’t gone well.

As he made his way towards the flight console, he took a moment to access the damage report that had been blinking insistently for the last two groons. Immediately, internal alerts and vital statistics began streaming down the rightmost portion of his visual display. He grimaced again: a laceration extending into subcutaneous protoform; numerous superficial burns; energon levels at 40%; mobility impairment of 20%; and internal temperature rising. He quickly scanned the report again and dismissed it, before initializing a system’s assessment. It only took a moment to return the results — secondary and tertiary systems compromised, sub-space access limited, extended sensory array off-line. 

No, that hadn’t gone well at all. 

Gingerly, he lowered himself into the flight seat with a pained grunt. For a moment, he just sat there, ex-venting loudly, and then he initiated a hydraulics test. An error message immediately flashed across his visual display: coolant levels critical. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he muttered, “pipe down already.”

In front of him, the ship’s emergency repair kit was already open, its contents spread across the console ledge. He stared at the emergency fluids, tourniquets, metal-mesh patches, and hemostatic dressings with something like grim appreciation. It wasn’t the first time he’d benefited from his own foresight, and he hoped it wouldn't be the last. 

After a moment, he leaned forward and grabbed one of the waiting tourniquets. His field hack-job had reduced the sensitivity of his pain relays as much as physically possible, but it wasn’t enough — he felt almost everything as he pulled his armor plating aside and dug into the gaping wound. Optics shuttering, he rooted around, trying to find the bleed. Finally, he located the severed line and applied the tourniquet with a twist of his wrist. 

As soon as the metal band snapped into place, an alert appeared on his visual display. Primary rupture stabilized. Coolant levels: critical. Internal temperature: rising. 

Releasing another strained ex-vent, he opened his optics and reached for the coolant packet. Uncaring about the potential mess, he tore it open with his dentae and began sucking down its contents. Almost immediately, the alert flashing in the corner of his visual display turned yellow, and by the time he finished the packet, it had blinked away altogether. 

Tossing the empty packet aside, he reached next for the emergency rations. The sachet contained a 60:40 blend of medical-grade/high-grade fuel intended for triage care — which meant it was expensive as slag. He was a great deal more careful in tearing it open and feeding its contents down his intakes. 

By the time he was refueled – or as refueled as he was going to get while still in the field – he was feeling well enough to begin disembarkation procedures. He quickly swept the medical supplies back into the emergency repair kit before tossing it aside. Disembarkation was going to be a challenge — primarily because he hadn’t embarked in the first place. The docks were the first place to get locked down after an incident, especially a high-level incident like an assassination. No one in or out – and out was his immediate goal. To that end, he had cut a hole through the station’s plating. It had taken orns to do properly without tripping the station’s security alarms, but he was a bonafide professional.  

His servos flew across the control panel in front of him, bringing the skiff’s systems back on-line. He had to keep the engines on stand-by for as long as possible, or he risked alerting the station’s proximity net. One by one, the lights on the console blinked into existence. Navigation. Propulsion. Flight control. Shielding. Tactical. 

Perfect. 

Once the initial systems check came back clean, he reached for the throttle and activated the engines – but nothing happened. Frowning, he double-checked the system's read-out, and then he thumbed engine control again. Still nothing. 

“Useless piece of slag,” he muttered angrily, bringing his fist down on the console with a resounding clang. It didn’t bring the engines back online. 

Pushing to his pedes, he stepped around the command chair and limped towards the ladderwell.  The lower level was cramped and dark, lit only by the dim orange glow of back-up lights. He braced a servo against the wall, preparing to climb down to the engine room, when a flash of movement had him jerking around — but it was too late. Something solid barreled into him, and he went down hard. Snarling, he tried to subspace his weapons, but he couldn’t get to them in time. His vision flickered as he was struck in his injured side, hard, right where he'd just applied the patch, and then something heavy smashed into the back of his helm. 

The last thing he saw before crashing off-line was the familiar blue glow of a visor. 

 

---

 

By the time Trailbreaker burst into the Gauntlet’s medical bay at full speed, Sam’s vision was already beginning to clear. At first, there had been nothing but a blinding, formless white haze — as suffocating as his own panic. But shapes and shadows soon began to take form as the minutes passed. The improvement was enough to steady his nerves as Trailbreaker braked hard and transformed. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as he was lifted, jostled, and set back on his feet. Disoriented and unsteady, he staggered — only to be caught by unseen hands.

//You’re okay, Sam,// Meltdown said, steady and composed. //We’ve got you.//  

“I can’t see,” Sam managed, flinching at the sound of his own voice. It was muffled and distorted, as if he were hearing it from underwater.

Suddenly, Bumblebee’s presence was inside his head. In the next moment, Sam knew exactly where he was and what was happening around him. Meltdown, Lifeline, and another medical build — Mender — were standing around a berth that had been prepared for him. Sam reached out and found the hospital bed exactly where he knew it would be. The knowledge wasn’t visual — he wasn’t seeing the things around him. It was more an innate sense of awareness, like spatial proprioception. 

//Yes, we’ve been informed,// Meltdown was saying. //Please sit down. I need to examine you.//  

Bumblebee’s holoform materialized beside him, and together he and Meltdown helped Sam onto the hospital bed. As soon as Sam was seated, Meltdown touched him gently in warning. At almost the same time, the familiar prickle of a medical scan washed over him from head to toe. 

//No internal hemorrhaging or fractures,// Meltdown reported. //Your vital signs are improving. Aside from your vision and hearing, how are you feeling?// 

“Okay… I think,” Sam managed. “A little dizzy, I guess.” 

//That’s not unusual,// Meltdown replied. //I’m going to touch you now. It shouldn’t hurt. Let me know if it does.//  

Warm hands settled on either side of Sam’s face, then his head was carefully tipped backward. Although his vision was still hazy, he caught a sudden flash of movement right in front of his nose and flinched away – only for Meltdown’s hand to brace the back of his skull.

//I know it’s disorienting, but please try to stay still,// Meltdown murmured. 

Grimacing, Sam held himself steady as Meltdown continued his examination. Mercifully, it didn’t take long. After a few moments, the medic’s holoform gave him an encouraging squeeze and released him. 

//There’s no permanent damage to your eyes,// Meltdown explained. //Your vision should largely return to normal within the next half-hour or so. I’m going to administer some anti-inflammatory eye drops and an analgesic. You’re to avoid bright light and eye strain for the rest of the day. Your right eardrum has a small perforation, which is why your hearing feels muffled. The good news is that a perforation of this size will heal on its own in a few weeks. The bad news is that you need to keep your ear dry until it does, so you’ll need to be careful when bathing.//  

The relief that came with Meltdown’s prognosis was enough to make Sam’s throat thicken. Unable to speak, he nodded to show that he’d understood. 

//Alright, we’re going to get you out of your body armor so you can lay down. Are you hungry? I can have something brought for you when we’re finished.//

After Sam shook his head, Meltdown stepped aside to let Bumblebee help him undress. Taking off the body armor proved to be just as finicky and irksome as putting it on – more so, because his tailbone was still aching from falling flat on his ass. Once Sam was finally free of the cumbersome material, Bumblebee pressed a bundle of clothing into his hands.

//Lumi brought you some things,// he explained.

“Oh,” Sam replied. “Can you tell her I said thank you?” 

As it turned out, Lumi had brought him his favorite loungewear – a long-sleeved threadbare 49er’s shirt and sleep pants. How she had known it was his favorite was anyone’s guess. After Sam finished dressing, he was instructed to lie down on the bed. Lifeline administered the anti-inflammatory drops while Meltdown observed, and then a gel pack was pressed into his hands.

//Keep this on your eyes,// Meltdown instructed. //I'll check on you again in 15 minutes.//  

Obediently, Sam pressed the gel pack over his eyes. It felt cool against his heated skin. With the raw terror of being deaf and blind no longer consuming his thoughts, a steadier, simmering anger began to take its place. It didn't seem like a coincidence that his attacker had taken Jazz’s appearance. What he wanted to know was why — and how.

The questions churned in his mind until Meltdown returned. The second exam was easier than the first; Sam’s vision had improved, and his vitals were stable. When it was over, Meltdown gave him strict orders to rest and began tidying the overbed table. Sam could see well enough to realize he was lying on a hospital bed set up on a wide berth near the back wall. Although the Gauntlet was a larger and grander ship than the Ark, their medical bays looked much the same — gleaming metal floors, cabinetry and workstations arranged with military precision, and berths spaced evenly along the walls. It was also busier than the Ark’s medical bay with medics, cleaning drones, and sanitation bots moving efficiently around the hangar. 

Once he’d finished, Meltdown crossed the room to an office tucked against the far wall. Its transparent walls gave a clear view of the interior, which was filled with desks and workstations. It reminded Sam a little of a nurses’ station in an emergency room. On the way, Meltdown dimmed the overhead lights to half-brightness, casting the space and its occupants into shadow. 

Once they were alone again, Sam turned to Bumblebee. “What have we found out?” 

//Nothing of value,// Bumblebee said. //The Xenon Nexus is a neutral station, which means we don’t have the authority to conduct a search. The station chief has been cooperative, but the response has been slow.//  

“Who’s taking point?” 

A mental grimace passed between them. //Mirage and Sigil.//

“Sigil?” Sam echoed, surprised. “Why Sigil?” 

//Sentinel insisted,// Bumblebee replied. 

Sam frowned. “Well, at least Mirage is going. He knows Jazz better than most.” A thought suddenly occurred to him, and Sam twisted to look at Bumblebee. “I think Mirage knew the attacker.” 

Without a word, Bumblebee picked up the gel pack, his touch steady as he pressed it back over Sam’s eyes again. //Why do you say that?//  

“I knew it wasn’t Jazz – his signature didn’t look right,” Sam hurriedly explained. “I thought maybe it was a test or something. You know how Jazz is with training. When I said that to Mirage, he said ‘You’, like he knew the guy.” 

Bumblebee frowned. //That wasn’t in the incident report.//  

Sam opened his mouth to reply when a warning touch inside his mind had him swallowing his words. Suddenly very aware of where he was and who might be listening, Sam turned his attention inwards. //Why wouldn’t Mirage include that in his report?//  

//I don’t know,// Bumblebee replied, uncharacteristically serious. //It’s not the SOP.//  

Something uneasy twisted in Sam’s belly. //What exactly did the report say?//

//It was brief — just the specifics of the attack,// Bumblebee replied. 

//Is that normal?// Sam asked. 

//For an incident report? Yes.// Bumblebee’s hand settled in the curve of Sam’s shoulder, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against his skin. //The after-action report will include more detail.//

Sam chewed on his lip, the uneasy feeling in his stomach growing heavier by the second. //I was the target. Right? I mean, if Sentinel was the goal, then the attacker could have gotten to him easily. He was waiting for me.// 

Bumblebee gave his neck a little squeeze. //It appears that way, yes.//  

//But how did he know I was going to be there?// Sam asked, flustered. //I wasn’t supposed to be. Not originally.//

//It’s possible this was a crime of opportunity,// Bumblebee reflected. //Before our arrival, the Primacy released a statement regarding the defeat of Decepticon forces and the reclamation of Cybertron. In it, both you and Optimus are mentioned by name. It may be that the attacker was waiting to see if one or both of you would attend the mass.// 

Sam grimaced deeply. “I don’t know whether that makes me feel better or worse.” 

Bumblebee went quiet, his thumb still rubbing little circles into the curve of Sam’s neck. //I don’t want to frighten you unnecessarily, Sam, but there is a possibility this was an inside job. The attacker had Jazz’s authorization codes and handshake protocols, and he knew where to be – and when. That kind of rapid mobilization doesn’t happen without help.//  

A sick, hollow chill spread through Sam’s middle. //Who’s help?//  

//We don’t know,// Bumblebee murmured.

//Run the scenarios,// Sam insisted. 

A breath of tension passed between them. //Sam, I don’t have enough information to—//

//Bee,// Sam interrupted. //Please.//  

Bumblebee hesitated for a moment longer, before relenting with a heavy sigh. //There aren’t many people who have access to Jazz’s ident-codes and handshake protocols. Off the top of my head? Prowl. Ratchet. Optimus. Soundwave. Maybe Mirage, I don’t know. But it’s not a very long list.//

Disbelief and shock had Sam twisting to look at his bonded. His vision was still a little milky, but he could see well enough to make out the grim look on the holoform’s face. “Bee, what’re you saying?” 

The warning touch inside his mind was heavier this time— heavier and urgent. //The attacker had to get those codes from somewhere. That leaves three possibilities: either someone with access to Jazz’s codes handed them over willingly, or they were compromised somehow. A fast-acting virus, perhaps. Maybe a hack-job, if one of them was stupid enough to store his information on a data-pad.//

Sam stared at his bonded in sinking horror. After a long moment, he forced himself to ask, //What’s the third possibility?//

Bumblebee shook his head. //That the attacker got the codes from Jazz himself — either willingly or unwillingly.//  

Anger surged up from the pit of Sam’s stomach. //Never,// he spat. 

//I’m not questioning his loyalty,// Bumblebee insisted, //but the situation isn’t good. Jazz hasn’t been seen in hours, and no one can raise him on comms, not even Prowl. It’s possible that he was attacked sometime this morning and forcibly hacked off-line.//  

Sam’s burning anger extinguished in an instant, replaced by ice-cold fear. //What are you saying? Do you mean Jazz might be—?// The idea of Jazz being injured or killed hadn’t even crossed his mind. It felt impossible. Jazz was Jazz.

//Prowl’s already conducting a search,// Bumblebee promised. //We’ll find him sooner or later. There’re only so many places he could be.//  

 

---

 

Flickering emergency lights cast a dull orange glow over the otherwise darkened room. Jazz walked in a slow circuit along the perimeter, arms crossed loosely over his chest. It was quiet inside the belly of the skiff — there was only the distant rumble of sub-warp engines and the occasional clatter of metal against metal to distract him. Pausing as he passed the engineering console, Jazz glanced at the read-out again. Hull integrity: 80%, Fuel Level: 60%. Engine Status: Stand-by. 

Good enough.

A low groan had Jazz turning towards the middle of the room where the would-be assassin was restrained. Jazz surveyed his handiwork with a critical eye: the black-plated mechanoid was sitting in one of the chairs from the cockpit, which had been bolted to the floor. His arms were tied behind his back, his legs were secured to the chair’s legs, and he’d been tied around the waist and chassis. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon — that is, if he ever went anywhere again.

Jazz waited as the assassin finished coming back on-line. It took longer than he was expecting, but then again, there was a fair amount of energon puddling on the floor beneath the chair. 

Still such a fuckin’ amateur.

Jazz could tell the exact moment when the assassin finally tried to online his optics only to find them inaccessible  — his whole frame stiffened, and his raspy vents grew quieter and more controlled as he began to fully process the precariousness of his situation. Subtly, the assassin canted his helm, listening for any sound that might give away the location or identity of his attacker. Jazz watched him in silence. With all of his stealth mods engaged, he was virtually invisible. Neither the quiet exchange of his ventilations nor the hum of his systems would be detectable to anyone within range. 

He was a ghost — both by necessity and design. 

Long breems ticked by one after the other. Eventually, the assassin began testing his bonds, twisting his wrists and flexing forward in his seat. But he soon learned what Jazz already knew — there was no getting out of those restraints. 

“Not bad,” the assassin rasped, leaning back in his seat. His voice glitched badly on the last glyph. “Mind tellin’ me who you are?” 

Still, Jazz said nothing. 

The silence built for a few moments, before the assassin released a hoarse laugh. “Well, I’m still functioning, so I’m guessing you're not Prime’s special operations, and I’m not being booked for attempted murder, so I’m guessing you're not Station Guard, either. Feels rude not to introduce yourself, but hey — I’m a traditional kinda mech.” 

Normally, Jazz would’ve drawn things out and let him marinate for a while. In his experience, keepin’ a perp off-balance and guessin’ tended to make them chattier when the interrogation finally began. But Jazz was working on a tight schedule here — it was only a matter of time until the skiff was discovered, by one party or another. 

Decision made, Jazz crossed the room without a sound. The assassin’s posture was relaxed and unbothered, but his electromagnetic fields told a different story. They were too tight and too controlled to be natural. Jazz stopped directly behind the chair, before angling his head to examine him. Energon bubbled lazily from the wound in the assassin’s side — the sight gave him an uncomfortable twist deep inside his chassis that he immediately, ruthlessly pushed aside. 

“If you’re here about the Triad game, well, I gotta tell ya, this isn’t a great time.” The assassin shifted in his seat, ostensibly trying to get comfortable — and then he froze as Jazz began tracing the sharpened tip of one talon up his arm. Jazz took his time, drawing a lazy line across his plating, curving over his shoulder, and then hooking the clawed digit around a minor energon line in this neck. 

The assassin’s spine was a rigid line of steel as Jazz applied just enough pressure to get his attention — and then he started laughing. It was a low rolling laugh, equal parts disbelieving and incredulous. 

“Frag. Meister,” he ex-vented. “Gotta say, ‘s been a while. I thought you were long gray by now.” 

Behind his visor, Jazz’s optics spiraled down to slits. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he severed the energon line in the assassin’s neck. The mech jerked in his seat as glowing energon began trickling down his chest plates. “Not what I want to hear.” 

The assassin huffed derisively. “Well, I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but I can’t really see, now can I? Nice hack job, by the way. I don’t even have an annotation in my meta-data.” Another low laugh rumbled up from deep inside his chassis. “Though, that shoulda been my first clue.” 

Jazz stepped around the chair and backhanded him across the faceplates hard enough to send him pitching against his restraints. “That ain’t what I want to hear, either.” 

The assassin shook his head, before struggling back into position. “Slag, Meister. You still hit like a pile driver, ya know that?” 

Jazz backhanded him twice more — once for the attitude, and then again just ‘cause he could. “Big talk for a mech who has, apparently, been making good use outta my bad reputation.” 

Groaning, the assassin’s head lolled back against the chair. “Is that what this is all about? You pissy ‘cause I stole your IDents? ‘S not like you were using them. Last I checked, you'd run off under Optimus Prime’s banner. Forgive me for figurin’ that you’d offlined under it too.” 

Genuine irritation sparked inside Jazz’s chassis. Balling up a fist, he drove it right into the assassin’s injured side, earning a drawn-out hiss of pain. “I ain’t fuckin’ talkin’ about me,” he hissed, the human expletive rolling off his glossa. “This is about you.” 

Ex-venting harshly, the assassin ground out, “What about me?” 

“How stupid you gotta be to take a contract on a Prime?” Jazz demanded, lowly. 

“D’you mean the squishy?” the assassin asked incredulously.  “You’re givin’ me the full Meister treatment ‘cause I tried to offline some organic whelp—” 

Jazz grabbed the assassin by the throat. “Stop. Talking,” he growled, his clawed digits digging into sensitive cables and protoform. Wisely, the black-plated mechanoid fell silent, but Jazz didn’t release him. “You shoulda never gone after the kid, but you did, so now this is personal,” he ground out, dentae bared. “And I ain’t never been so grateful for your Pits-damned incompetence as I am now, ‘cause if you had killed him, this little tête-à-tête we’re having woulda been a whole lot bloodier.” 

Although the assassin’s visuals were still off-line, he somehow managed to look Jazz right in the optic. “Personal?” he echoed, his tone equal parts disbelief and disdain. “Pits, Meister. What’ve you gotten yourself tangled up in now?” 

“Like I said, this ain’t about me — it’s about you.” Jazz straightened to his full height. “Who commissioned the contract?” 

The black-clad mechanoid settled back in his seat like they were having a casual fuckin’ conversation over iced energon. “Why do you want to know?” he asked. “You moppin’ up loose ends for the new Prime? Or is the archivist still holdin’ your leash? Guess it’s whoever that enforcer prefers since—” 

Jazz struck him hard across the face. “Designation. Now.” 

His demand was met with low, derisive laughter. “You told me ages ago you aren’t goin’ by Meister no more, so what's the harm if I do? And what do you go by now, anyway?  What did the fleshy call you? Jazz?” The would-be assassin bared his dentae. “Does the little fleshbag know how many people you’ve killed, Jazzy? What about your time as Meister? Or Folgore? Or Marshall? Or–” 

Quick as a striking snake, Jazz grabbed the black-clad mechanoid by the chin and crowded into his space. “I’m working on something of a deadline here,” he growled, claws denting metal plating. “I figure we got a few joors before the skiff is detected, and I’m not gonna be here when that happens. So let me be clear — you’re gonna tell me exactly what I wanna know, or Imma slit your fuckin’ throat cables and leave your corpse for the Primesguard to find. Do you understand?” 

The black-clad mechanoid stilled, his vents almost too quiet to hear. “Aw, c’mon. Who’re you foolin’?” he asked, his voice an unsteady drawl. “You really gonna kill ya own spark twin, Jazzy?” 

Something deep inside Jazz’s chassis hardened to stone. Claws puncturing metal plating, he pulled the would-be assassin as close as his bonds would allow. “Well, I don’t know, Ricochet,” he murmured, almost like a caress. “You tell me.” 

Chapter 36

Once Sam’s eyesight improved to Meltdown’s liking, he was moved back to his apartments, where the remainder of his recovery passed in a restless fog. Although, strictly speaking, he wasn’t confined to bed rest, his attendants took to hovering whenever he was on his feet for any length of time. It quickly became irritating, and Sam’s patience frayed more with each passing day. Mirage returned to the Gauntlet less than forty-eight hours after the attack without any new information — either regarding the identity of the attacker or Jazz’s whereabouts. Shortly after Mirage’s return, a fleet-wide search was conducted, but it similarly came up empty. 

For all intents and purposes, Jazz seemed to have disappeared into thin air. 

Days passed without any new information. At the start of each shift, Sam paced his apartment, waiting anxiously for answers that never came. On the fourth day after the attack, Bumblebee informed him that a breach had been discovered—a hole cut into the outer hull of the space station, likely used by the attacker to board without being detected. But beyond that, there was nothing. No security footage. No witnesses. No clue where Jazz had been taken—or if he was even still alive. 

Ten days after the attack, Sam was awoken by a shuddery jerk. Even as he struggled into a sitting position, he realized that the distant rumble of the ship’s engines was louder than it had been the night before. 

“What’s happening?” he rasped, squinting reflexively as the lights came up to full brightness. 

As his eyes adjusted, he saw Bumblebee and Cliffjumper standing near the entryway, locked in a low, urgent conversation. They fell silent at the sound of his voice and exchanged a glance—brief but loaded with unspoken meaning—before Bumblebee stepped away from his companion and crossed the room toward him.

“Sam,” Bumblebee murmured, lowering into a loose crouch at his bedside. “The Gauntlet’s disembarking.” 

Sam was still waking up, so it took a moment to process what he was hearing. “What do you mean disembarking?” he asked, confusedly. “Disembarking where? Did we find him?” 

Bumblebee’s expression was impenetrable, but he was less successful at masking his emotions. Sam could feel the low roil of his apprehension across their bondspace like static building in a charged wire. “No,” Bee replied. “The search has been called off.” 

Sam stared back at him. “I don’t understand,” he said, his disorientation and confusion beginning to blur into something else — something sharper and more urgent. “What do you mean the search’s been called off? He’s still missing.” 

“Officially, Jazz has been classified as an unexplained disappearance,” Bumblebee said, his voice low. “But since he’s no longer enlisted, it’s considered a civilian matter — not military. Sentinel handed the investigation over to the station chief and ordered the fleet to move on to Calypsis Station.” 

Anger surged up from the bottom of Sam’s stomach. “A civilian matter?” he demanded, suddenly wide awake. “Jazz was the Chief of Special Operations until two months ago! His imposter tried to kill me. What does he mean, it's a civilian matter?”  

Bumblebee straightened out of his crouch as Sam threw aside the blankets and stormed to his feet. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve sent queries, but I’ve only received acknowledgements in response.” 

“What does Mirage say?” Sam asked hotly.

Bumblebee grimaced. “He’s the one I asked.” 

Sam pulled up short, before giving his bonded a disbelieving look. “Mirage brushed you off?” 

“Well, he wasn’t forthcoming,” Bumblebee replied grimly. 

Something inside Sam’s chest went flinty and hard as anger honed itself into purpose. “Can someone get me something to wear?” he snapped. “And tell Mirage that I want to speak with him. Now.” 

As Cliffjumper crossed the room to fetch his clothes, Bumblebee stared down at him, watching him closely. The expression on his face was closed-off, but the low thrum of apprehension-unease leaking across their bondspace was getting easier to read. 

“What are you going to do?” Bee asked, bluntly. 

“I’m going to get some answers,” Sam said tightly, pulling his nightshirt over his head and tossing it onto the bed. 

Cliffjumper returned with an assortment of clothing for Sam to choose from. Figuring he ought to look the part if he was going to demand answers from a former noble, Sam picked the silvery-white body armor with gold filigree along the shoulders, throat, and sternum. It was formal enough to send a message without the cumbersome trappings of the other designs. 

First, Sam tugged on the soft undersuit—a snug, cotton-knit layer meant to keep the armor from chafing. Then Bumblebee and Cliffjumper helped him get dressed. The armor fit him like a second skin — sleek, lean, and built for movement rather than bulk. Sam sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots, which were knee-high and ornate, and then he stood so Cliffjumper could attach the pauldron cape. It was a charcoal colored length of fabric that draped over his left shoulder. 

When he was dressed, Sam gave Bumblebee an annoyed look. “I feel ridiculous.” 

“You look dignified,” Cliffjumper disagreed. 

“You certainly look official," Bee remarked wryly.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Where’s Mirage?” 

“He’s waiting for you in the gardens,” Cliffjumper replied. 

Sam gave him a peculiar look. “The gardens?” 

“There's an arboretum on the aft deck,” Bumblebee explained. “It’s reserved for the highest ranking members of Sentinel’s court.” 

Sam’s mouth thinned in distaste. “Well, God forbid any of the commoners muss up Sentinel’s private gardens.” 

Bumblebee and Cliffjumper exchanged a meaningful glance, before initiating their transformation sequences. Sam took a step backwards to give them space. The two mechanoids folded down into their alt modes with near-perfect precision — it looked almost choreographed, but Sam knew it was just their familiarity and experience. 

As soon as the last panel slid into place, Bumblebee popped open the driver’s side door. Sam climbed inside the Camaro without a word. Together, they accelerated out of the bedroom and across the living space. Sam was wholly unsurprised to see Cyclonus and Hound waiting for them in front of the main entryway. Cyclonus took point, while Hound fell into formation behind Cliffjumper. The wide double doors slid open and as they approached. Outside, there were two imposing warframes standing at attention on either side of the entryway. Sam turned his head as they drove past – he didn’t recognize either one of them. 

“Increased security,” Bumblebee explained. “Both Optimus’ and Sentinel’s quarters have been similarly guarded since the attack.” 

As the convoy made its way along the mezzanine and down the curving ramp to the main floor, Sam’s fingers drummed distractedly against the center console. He had no idea what he was going to say to Mirage — no idea what he could say really, to make a difference. But he knew he had to try. 

He owed Jazz that and more. 

 

---

 

The gardens were located in a quiet section of the secondary aft deck. It was an expansive, airy space with vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling transparisteel windows looking out over the endless dark off the stern. Cyclonus pulled to a stop just inside the wide entryway, before initiating his transformation sequence. Bumblebee pulled alongside him and opened the driver’s side door. As Sam climbed out of the Camaro’s cabin, he turned, watching as Cliffjumper and Hound parked pulled up beside them. 

“Lord Mirage is waiting for you, Prime,” Cyclonus rumbled, gesturing towards one of the paths winding away from the entryway. 

Sam frowned a little. The path was wide enough for two vehicles to drive abreast with room on either side left over, but it seemed small compared to the space around them. The path was lined with tall, intricately connected crystal structures that stretched towards a ceiling that was easily forty of fifty feet above them. As with the space station temple, the crystals were all various shades of blue, which contrasted against the dark metal hull. Even from a distance, Sam could hear the crystals singing, a low quiet thrumming he could feel deep inside his chest. 

It was beautiful — and otherworldly. 

“Thank you,” Sam said, directing the words over his shoulder as he stared at the path in front of them. “Bumblebee will accompany me. Please wait here with the others.” 

Cyclonus dipped his helm in acknowledgement and stepped aside. As Sam started down the path, he felt a little like Alice tumbling through the looking glass. Crystals grew in clusters along both sides of the walkway. Some were squat and broad with flat facets that caught the light at precise angles, while others seemed more delicate with splintery strands that looked as though they might crumble with a single touch. As they made their way deeper into the arboretum, they came across a number of small open areas — one had several benches arranged around a low table, while the others had sculptures of metal and stone.

It was in one such pavilion that they found Mirage. The former noble was lounging on a settee, a datapad held loosely in one servo and a half-empty cube of energon sitting on a narrow table beside him. Behind him, two attendants stood quietly like statues. The bulky combat build who had accompanied Mirage during Sam’s meet-and-greet with the nobles turned as they approached, optics flicking between Sam and Bumblebee, before rumbling something in Mirage’s direction. 

“I am aware, Hardline, thank you,” Mirage returned in English, before setting aside his datapad and rising to his pedes. “How may I assist you, Prime?” 

“I need to speak with you,” Sam said, cutting right to the point. “Privately.” 

“Of course,” Mirage acquiesced easily. 

Without so much as a word or gesture from Mirage, both Hardline and the attendants inclined at the waist and slipped away. Sam watched them go with a frown, before turning back to the former noble. 

“Why was the search called off?” Sam demanded bluntly. 

Mirage inclined his head, before gesturing to the settee. “Will you sit?” 

“I’ll stand,” Sam said. “Answer the question.” 

Mirage ex-vented softly. “As you know, Jazz has resigned his commission—” 

“As you know, he wasn’t given much of a choice,” Sam interrupted, coldly. 

Shaking his helm, Mirage sat down on the edge of the settee. “Sam, there’s a great deal you don’t understand about the situation.” 

Irritation pricked at Sam, making his pulse pick up. “Don’t talk down to me, Mirage. I might not have the processing power of a supercomputer, but I’m not an idiot, either. Jazz was forced to resign his commission, and less than two months later, he goes missing after a look-alike with an attitude problem tried to assassinate me, and you expect us to believe this is a—” Sam turned, giving Bumblebee a pointed look. “What did you call it again?” 

“A civilian matter,” Bumblebee replied flatly. 

“Right,” Sam said, turning back around to stare down the former noble. “A civilian matter.” 

“Sam, please listen,” Mirage urged, his tone calm but firm. “Jazz’s disappearance is concerning, yes—but it isn’t unprecedented. He has a long history of vanishing without warning, even in the middle of critical operations. He always turns up again. Eventually.”

Mirage’s reasonable tone only served to stoke the flames of Sam’s anger even higher. “And how many of those disappearances happened after an imposter tried to frame him for murder?” he demanded. 

Mirage ex-vented a short, sharp gust of air. “Sam—” 

“I want to know exactly what you found during your investigation,” Sam interrupted. “And I want to know it now.” 

Mirage tipped his head. “I can give you the full reports, but they won’t tell you anything you don’t already know,” he said after a moment’s consideration. 

“Send them to Bumblebee — unabridged,” Sam added. 

“As you say,” Mirage said, bowing his head. 

A moment later, Bumblebee’s optics dimmed in a manner that suggested he was reviewing whatever files Mirage had sent him. Sam angled his head to look at his bonded, waiting for his pronouncement. It took less than a minute but it felt like a small eternity. 

“He’s right,” Bumblebee murmured, cutting Sam a grim look. “Jazz was last seen on the Ark two standard hours before your retinue disembarked the Gauntle. He signed-off his duty roster shortly thereafter, though there is no visual record of him doing so.” Bumblebee made a thoughtful sound inside his intakes as he reviewed the files again in greater detail. “The fleet-wide search turned up nothing, and it was thorough — every room, every corridor, every crawlspace and bulkhead of every ship was searched. There were no signs of a struggle and nothing was out of place that wasn’t explained. The only anomaly was the hole cut into the space station's hull that—” 

Sam glanced up as Bumblebee trailed off. “What is it?” he prompted. 

Bumblebee’s optics spiraled down into points. “The breach was located in a section of the station that was recently closed for maintenance. The odds that the assassin chose that location without insider knowledge is…” 

“Impossible,” Sam inferred, flatly. 

“Highly unlikely,” Bumblebee agreed. 

“Well, that’s three odd coincidences by my count,” Sam said, all dry sarcasm. “Now, I’m no Spec Ops agent, but that doesn’t sound like a civilian matter to me.” 

“You misunderstand,” Mirage shook his head. “The attack is not being considered a civilian matter.” 

It took Sam a moment to parse his meaning. “You’re saying that you don’t think Jazz’s disappearance and the attack are related?” he asked, disbelievingly. “Come on, Mirage. Get serious. The assassin had Jazz’s handshake protocols and his ident-codes. He even looked like him.”

“I didn’t say they aren’t related,” Mirage returned patiently. 

Sam narrowed his eyes. “God, could I get a single straight answer out of you?” 

Mirage sighed softly. “Sam, you haven’t known Jazz for very long, so I appreciate this is new to you. Jazz has a long history of going off the radar during sensitive missions. I suspect, and Prowl agrees, that Jazz has likely gone to ground in order to investigate the attack.” 

“But why—?” Sam began.

“Because he no longer has the authority to do so in an official capacity,” Mirage said, before his mouth plates curved up in a half-smile. “And Jazz has always been more of a ‘it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission’ sort.” 

Sam frowned deeply. “You really mean to tell me no one thinks it’s strange that he’s disappeared without a trace — without even so much as a word to you, or Prime, or Prowl? Right after an assassin with his handshake protocols and ident codes tried to kill me?” 

“On the contrary, the whole situation is highly unusual,” Mirage returned. “But Jazz’s disappearance isn’t what makes it so.” 

Frustration had Sam dragging a hand down his face. “So… what? We just wait around and hope he reappears? What if he needs our help?” 

Before Mirage could answer, a surge of surprise and urgency rushed across the spark bond. Sam jerked around to look at Bumblebee, who nodded toward the path behind him. Sam pivoted on his heel just as Sentinel Prime appeared around the bend. The older mechanoid was garbed in long, tapered metal that resembled robes more than armor plating. At his side walked a small retinue of mechanoids — including, to Sam’s distaste, Pharma and Crossblades. 

In one fluid motion, Mirage stood and bowed at the waist. “My Lord Prime.” 

“Mirage,” Sentinel rumbled in greeting, before turning to regard Sam. “Hello again, Sam. I am relieved to see you looking so well. How are you feeling?” 

Fortunately, Sam had the political experience to be able to pivot from a private conversation to a public one with relatively little effort. Straightening his back and clearing his throat, he said, “I am doing better, thank you, Sentinel.” 

The older Prime gave a slight nod— acknowledgment, and perhaps the faintest hint of relief. “I have been kept abridged of your recovery. You have exceeded all expectations.” 

“A miracle, to be sure,” Pharma agreed, from where he stood just behind and slightly to the side of the older Prime. “When I first learned of your accelerated healing, I was certain its reports must be exaggerated. It was… remarkable to witness it firsthand.” 

Sam’s spine stiffened. He wasn’t aware that his medical records were being shared beyond his immediate circle. “Well, Ratchet isn’t one to exaggerate.” 

Pharma let out an insincere laugh. “Forgive me, Prime, but my experience would indicate otherwise.” 

The tone of his voice — amused, a little patronizing — immediately put Sam’s back up. “Oh?” he asked stiffly. “Do you know Ratchet well?” 

“I know him well enough,” Pharma gave a thin smile. “We served on the Senate Committee on Technological Ethics together — though we have since taken very different paths, of course.” 

“Of course,” Sam remarked coolly.

“His decision to leave the Senate was a shock to us all,” Pharma said, his voice lifting with polite surprise — though the glint in his optics told another story entirely. “Though perhaps not quite as shocking as learning that he joined the medical profession.” Another insincere laugh followed. “A healer, Ratchet was not.” 

Sam bristled at the casual condescension “They say he was the finest surgeon to ever graduate from Protihex Medical Mechanics University.” 

A crack appeared in Pharma’s amused facade. “And what a legacy,” he agreed stiffly, his optics darkening to cobalt blue. “A run-down clinic in the Dead End. No proper equipment, no sanitation standards, no ethical review.” Barely concealed contempt slashed across the physician’s face in the form of an ugly smile. “Although we now know that his philanthropy was just a front for his other… activities.” 

All pretense of polite conversation vanished in an instant. “Don’t speak about him that way,” Sam snapped, anger making the words come out sharp. 

“Pharma,” Sentinel interjected, his voice level and heavy. “You are being discourteous.” 

Pharma angled his head to look at the older Prime — whatever he saw caused him to bow politely at the waist. “Of course. Forgive me.” 

Sentinel stared at the physician for a moment longer before turning to regard Sam. “I am aware of all that transpired on your journey. Ratchet’s abduction was a terrible loss — such an act of wanton aggression against the Primacy cannot go unanswered.” 

Sam’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” 

Sentinel angled his head slightly. Immediately, Crossblades stepped forward. The blue flyer immediately bowed at the waist before straightening to his full height. 

“After we have secured the Praerorus Wharf, my forces will launch an assault on the remaining Decepticon forces,” Sentinel intoned. “Crossblades has been given command of the fleet.” 

“It is an honor to serve, Prime,” Crossblades rumbled respectfully. 

“Preparations have already begun,” Sentinel continued. “Scout ships have been dispatched to the largest Autobot outposts in this sector. Although few in number, the additional troops and ships will provide the advantage needed to rout out the remaining Decepticon forces.” 

Relief and hope and disbelief wrestled inside Sam’s chest. It was such an abrupt shift from his earlier outrage that it was enough to give him emotional whiplash. “What does Optimus say?” 

“Optimus Prime has counseled caution — and wisely so,” Sentinel rumbled. “The Usurper is a resourceful and capable opponent, but I do not intend to repeat the mistakes of the past. Once we control the Praerorus Wharf, we control Cybertron. We will fortify and defend, rather than spread our forces across the quadrant. Megatron has neither the resources nor the troops for a full-frontal ground assault, which means he will try to engage us in space warfare.” A wry smile turned up the corner of his mouthplates. “And I just so happen to command the finest fleet that has ever flown under our banner.” 

Sam’s head was spinning. “What if he doesn’t come?” he asked. “What if he falls back and gathers his troops instead?” 

Sentinel gave him a measured look — it reminded Sam a little of the way Professor Andrey would look at him as he waited for Sam to work through a problem to its inevitable conclusion. “Of course he’ll come.” 

“But—”

“The Usurper bombed the planet to ashes in his thirst for conquest, but he abandoned it all to chase the Allspark into deep space.” Sentinel rumbled deep inside his intakes. “Is it likely he would remain in hiding while you draw breath on Cybertron? No. He will come for you — and we will be ready when he does.” 

Sam flushed. “I don’t know how I feel about that.” 

“Whether we wish it or not, Megatron’s obsession with the Allspark — and with you — leaves little doubt. He will come,” Sentinel rumbled. 

A turbulent roil of emotion caught Sam off-guard. He half-turned, casting an uncertain look over his shoulder. Bumblebee caught and held his gaze. The scout’s posture was taut, charged — but not hostile. Not aggressive. Whatever Bee was feeling, it was fierce… but not dangerous. At least, not for him.

After a long moment, Sam turned back around. “If Ratchet’s alive, he’ll be on the Peaceful Tyranny. I’m sure of it. Megatron would want to keep him close.” 

Before Sentinel could say anything, Crossblades crossed an arm over his chest and bowed his helm. “On my honor, I will do all I can to ensure his safe return.” 

His sincerity threw Sam off-balance. It stood in stark contrast to the last time the two of them had spoken to one another. After the altercation at Swerve’s, Sam had done his best to avoid Crossblades and had assumed the flyer was doing the same. 

“Thank you,” Sam managed, trying to ignore the flush spreading across his face. He couldn’t identify the emotion welling up inside his chest. Confusion, yes, but there was something else too — something uncomfortably close to appreciation. 

Sentinel watched the exchange in silence, his expression calm and unreadable. “As you can likely infer, it is of utmost importance we return to Cybertron as soon as possible — both to secure the Wharf and to prepare for battle. I have given instructions to the fleet to make haste. As such, we will only be stopping three more times on the voyage. First at Calypsis Station, then at Troja Major, and lastly at Caminus. I will use these stops to spread word to the faithful and encourage them to return home.” 

Unbidden, a frown turned down the corners of Sam’s mouth. “Is that wise? If we expect Megatron to bring the war to Cybertron? 

“All Primus’ faithful have a role to play in the restoration of Cybertron,” Sentinel intoned. “Neutrality is no longer an option — if they will not stand for peace, they stand in the way of it.”

Something ominous skittered down Sam’s spine. “And if the neutrals refuse?” 

“I will ensure they do not,” Sentinel rumbled. 

The certainty in Sentinel’s tone, and the finality of it, made the bottom drop out of Sam’s stomach, although he didn’t quite understand why. The war had dragged on for over a million years. Millions of Cybertronians were dead, and millions more had been scattered to the stars. People on both sides were weary of the conflict. If the end was near — and by all accounts, it seemed to be — then was it morally wrong to strongarm the neutrals into joining the war effort? If it finally meant peace? 

Sam didn’t know the answer, but the thought made him feel uneasy. 

Sentinel was either oblivious to Sam’s internal conflict or indifferent to it. “Given the recent attempt on your life, it would be unwise for you to accompany me when I address the faithful. We will make arrangements for you to be presented at the Temple Simfur upon our return.” 

“I thought the temple was destroyed during the war,” Sam managed. 

“It was,” Sentinel intoned, “but I have instructed my engineers to rebuild it, along with the rest of the Great City. They have made great progress — I am confident the reconstruction will be complete upon our return.” 

A tsunami of surprise and disbelief and hope surged across their bond. For the second time that morning, Sam jerked around to face his bonded, but Bumblebee wasn’t looking at him — he was staring at Sentinel Prime, his optics almost white with emotion.

“You’ve rebuilt Iacon?” Bee asked, addressing Sentinel directly.

Sentinel angled his helm slightly to regard him. “Not all of it, but we are making progress.” 

“What have you—?” Bumblebee visibly cut himself off. “If it is not disrespectful to ask, Prime, what has been reconstructed so far?” 

Sentinel regarded him for a long moment before speaking. “Much of the city center has been rebuilt. The Senate, the Plaza, the Great Dome, the Primal Palace. If you wish to know specifics outside of the city center, you may consult my counselors."  

Bumblebee’s optics spiraled down to points, then he bowed his head. “Thank you, Prime.” 

Sentinel stared at Bumblebee for a moment longer, before he turned to look at Sam. “I am required on the bridge. Please, stay as long as you wish. The Gardens are yours to enjoy.” 

With that, Sentinel inclined his head and started off down the path. Sam stepped back to allow the retinue to pass. Sentinel walked first, Pharma and Crossblades fell into step behind him, and the courtiers, attendants, and Primesguards followed behind. It took a few moments for the last of the retinue to disappear around the bend in the path. When they were gone, Sam turned, looking up into Bumblebee’s face, which was more emotive than unusual. 

“I can’t believe it,” Bumblebee murmured. “Iacon was… there was nothing left by the time we launched. Nothing but twisted metal and smoking ruins. It seems impossible.”

“I can share the schematics, if you like,” Mirage interjected, his tone more considerate than usual. “I’ve been assigned to the Infrastructure and Systems Commission at the Prime’s behest.” 

“Yes,” Bumblebee murmured. “I would like that.” 

 

---

 

The energon sieve let out a loud buzz as it finished titrating. Ratchet ex-vented a heavy sigh and shuffled over to the workbench, his steps short and awkward owing to the hobble secured between his ankles. The sieve would have been an outdated piece of junk in the early years of the war — now, it was practically an antique. Ratchet read the display with a frown tightening his mouth. Even after multiple adjustments, he couldn’t get the sample’s impurities below 18%. Not nearly good enough for medical grade energon. 

Ratchet released another sigh causing Road Rage to give him a hard look. “Problem?” 

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Ratchet groused without turning to look at the Decepticon standing sentry at the medical bay’s entrance. “This is impossible.” 

“Quit moanin’,” Road Rage rumbled low in his intakes. “You have your orders.” 

“Perhaps it has escaped Megatron’s notice, but I am not a magician,” Ratchet snapped. 

Road Rage shrugged indifferently. “Knock Out made due. Figure it out.” 

“Well then, it’s a pity Tarn killed him,” Ratchet bit out. “Perhaps he would have made a better prisoner of war than me!” 

Dropkick laughed, a low mocking rumble. “There weren’t no chance the Boss was gonna let him live after his betrayal. If anything, Tarn did the little glitch a favor. Mighta tossed him to Tesarus instead. Now that woulda been a show.” 

Familiar anger quickened Ratchet’s spark, but he said nothing in reply. It was impossible not to think about Knock Out in this place where everything was still organized, catalogued, and arranged according to his preferences — a fact of which Ratchet was painfully aware, as he’d spent stellar cycles trying to break the former Decepticon of his old habits. The storage rooms, the lay-out of the berths, Pits, even the way the Energon drips were set-up all reminded him of Knock Out — and his sacrifice, at the end. 

When Ratchet didn’t rise to his bait, Road Rage made an irritated noise and settled back against the wall. “Stop squawkin’ and get back to work.” 

Unable to see an alternative, Ratchet did. 

The joors passed slowly. Ratchet recalibrated the sieve and tried again. 24%. He took it apart, cleaned it, reassembled it, and tried again. 18%. Not for the first time, Ratchet wondered whether he should just poison the mix, hang the consequences — and not for the first time, he pushed the thought aside. 

He wouldn’t break his oaths — at least, not the few that remained unbroken. 

Suddenly, the doors to the medical bay slid open. Both Ratchet and Road Rage turned in surprise. In all the time that Ratchet had been held prisoner, no one but his minders had come to the medical bay — no patients, none of the other medical staff, not Megatron. No one. The sight of Strika striding into the hangar caused a physical ache deep inside his chassis. 

It was too much to hope that he’d hallucinated her, Ratchet decided. 

“Hello, Ratchet,” Strika’s low, smooth voice called out in greeting. 

“Strika,” Ratchet replied, turning back to his work. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

The old Quintesson war-frame made her way towards him. Ratchet watched her out of the periphery of his vision. She paused when she was near enough to take in the state of him — the hobble around his ankles; a frame stripped of all but the essential components; the scars on his protoform, still glossy and new. 

Strika took it all in an instant; optics flicking down, then up. “You’ve looked better,” she commented, mildly. 

Ratchet angled his head just far enough to look at her. There was a time he might’ve answered with sarcasm, or fury, or something in between. But whatever warmth he’d once felt for her had long since burned away. Now, there was only contempt — cold, quiet, and complete. 

“What do you want, Strika?” he asked flatly. 

To his surprise, the war-frame hesitated. “It’s not what I want, actually. It’s what you want.” 

“I have little time and less patience for riddles,” Ratchet said stiffly. “Say what you mean.” 

Strika inclined her head slightly, conceding the point. “I have news you’re going to want to hear, but you need to make a choice: your pride, or your practicality.” As she spoke, she subspaced an item and held it out for him to examine. 

Ratchet’s gaze fell to the item in her servos. A stun collar. His optics immediately narrowed, before flicking up to her face. “Is this your idea of a joke?” 

Strika shook her head. “No. It’s my idea of a compromise.” 

“A compromise?” Ratchet sneered. “Has the hobble escaped your notice? No? What about the fact I had my T-Cog removed? Were you aware of that? And what about my mods? They were all deactivated when I was brought aboard. Would you like a complete list? I’m sure Hook has one somewhere.” 

“Ratchet, listen,” Strika urged, low and serious. “I don’t have the time to walk you through this. If you want to see what I have to show you, then you wear the collar.” She gave him a long, meaningful look. “Yes or no: what’s it going to be?” 

Ratchet resisted the urge to tell her to smelt herself. Strika was a practical person — subterfuge and intrigue weren’t really in her nature. If she was here, then it was probably for a good reason. Whether it was her own reason or someone else’s, however, Ratchet couldn’t say. 

Ratchet frowned. “What is this is all about?” 

Strika paused before casting a subtle but meaningful look in Road Rage’s direction. “It’s about Sentinel Prime,” she said. 

Something nameless and painful gripped him tight. He understood her meaning at once — whatever she wanted to show him, it had to do with the Autobots. Strika knew him well enough to know he’d never suffer a shock collar for Sentinel Prime’s sake. If she had information, it had to be about Optimus and the others.

“Give it to me,” Ratchet said gruffly. 

“Turn around,” Strika urged, “and be quick about it. We’re already late.” 

Ratchet turned around, and Strika fastened the collar around his neck. He grimaced as the nodules sent a low-level shock through his protoform as the collar clicked shut. He reached up, his digits curling around the thick metal band and shifting it around, but it remained tight and uncomfortable. Next, Strika lowered into a loose crouch and produced a security key. When she pressed it against the sensor on his hobble, the chains fell away. 

“Come with me,” Strika said, rising and heading towards the door. 

Without a word, Ratchet followed her. 

Strika led him through the bowels of the Peaceful Tyranny. It was Ratchet’s first time actually seeing the interior of the ship — all of the other times that he’d been dragged from one hangar to another, he’d been blinded or unconscious. He paid careful attention to their route while trying not to be obvious about it. The corridors were mostly empty, and all the doors they passed were sealed shut. Other than a few markings on the walls at critical junctions, Ratchet had no idea where they were or where they were going. Strika led him to an elevator, and a short ride later, they stepped out into a busier area of the ship. Ratchet didn’t recognize any of the Decepticons that filed past them, but it didn’t escape his notice that they were all giving them a wide berth. 

“We’re here,” Strika said, stopping in front of a large double door. “Do not speak unless you are spoken to.” 

Ratchet’s mouthplates pressed into a thin line as the doors slid open. The room within was a darkened conference room, and it was currently filled to capacity with the entirety of Decepticon High Command. Ratchet’s spine stiffened in surprise, but then Strika was taking him by the shoulder and steering him towards the back wall. Megatron sat at the head of the table in the middle of the room, elbows propped on his chair and servos steepled in front of his face. Cold anger made Ratchet’s spark quicken. The Decepticon leader looked none the worse for wear after his time spent in stasis. Around Megaton were his senior officers: Shockwave sat immediately to his right, Hook to his left. Barricade, Sixshot, Overlord, Thunderwing, Lugnut, and Tarn sat around the table. They appeared to be in the middle of a briefing – the screen at the front of the room was displaying a star chart with several locations of unknown importance highlighted in red. 

“As far as we can tell, there were no fatalities,” Lugnut was saying. 

“Do we know the fleet’s destination?” Tarn asked. 

Lugnut raised a remote and pointed it towards the screen. In the next instant, three lines spread out from a single point in the middle of the screen. “Our agent reports that Sentinel Prime gave mass at the Xenon Nexus temple. It seems as though they’re trying to rally support among the neutrals. Given this and their exit trajectory after the attack, we believe their next destination will be Outpost 1a-x, Calypsis Station, or Port Arx.” 

“Of these, Calypsis Station is the most logical,” Shockwave interjected, his voice inflectionless and flat. “It has the greatest number of neutrals and the most resources of the three.” 

Megatron angled his helm to look at his second-in-command. “Any word from the 4th fleet?” 

“Negative,” Shockwave replied. 

Megatron made a considerate noise as he turned to regard the view screen. “When repairs are finished, send the Harbinger and the Rash Action. They will be the fastest ships for our purpose. I want to be informed as each fleet is readied.” 

“As you say, Lord Megatron,” Shockwave intoned. 

Megatron glanced across the room. “Nickel, how are the preparations?” 

A small blue-and-white femme shouldered between two hulking mechanoids to address the Decepticon leader. To Ratchet’s surprise, the two war-frames stepped aside without comment. “Not as well as might be wished, Lord Megatron,” she replied, her voice grim but melodic. “As you can see from the inventory I provided, we have sufficient surgical supplies if they are needed, but we have far fewer treatment supplies. At present, we only have 11 boxes of splints and braces, 10 IV bags, 18 foley catheters, —” 

Ratchet’s spark seized inside his chest as he realized, all at once, that Nickel was listing human medical supplies, not Cybertronian. 

“—20 boxes of syringes, 10 boxes of cleaning agents and wipes, and 10 boxes of wound care supplies.” Nickel made a thoughtful sound. “Thankfully, we have sufficient medication, so I do not anticipate a problem in that regard, though my knowledge of human pharmacology is… limited.” 

“Oh?” Megatron asked, pointedly. 

“Unfortunately yes, my lord,” Nickel replied without any of the cowering or hesitation Ratchet might have expected. “Knock Out’s notes were brief, and the Upstart's database does not have any files on human medical care.” 

Megatron turned, and then Ratchet found himself the object of the warlord’s attention. Fuel burned inside his lines as anger and refusal and hatred made his pump piston inside his chassis. 

“Well thankfully, we have the expert on human medical care here among us,” Megatron rumbled, an undercurrent of wry amusement in his tone. “You may go to him with any questions you have about the boy.” 

“Never!” Ratchet spat, causing all the heads in the room to turn in his direction. 

Immediately, Strika pivoted on her heel, turning to face him with her back to Megatron. “Don’t be a fool, Ratchet,” she murmured, her voice low and intense. “Your refusal will change nothing except his odds of survival.” 

Megatron reclined in his chair, unfazed by Ratchet’s outburst. “Nickel, you have your orders.” When the little femme bowed and stepped away, Megatron turned his attention to Strika. “You may put him back where you found him.” 

Strika inclined her head respectfully. “As you say, Lord Megatron.” 

Ratchet locked eyes with the Decepticon leader, refusing to look away, until Strika’s servo came down on his shoulder. The former Quintesson war-frame was a great deal less patient when guiding Ratchet back down to the medical bay than she had been in bringing him to the upper decks. Ratchet let himself be hauled along without protest. His attention was turned inwards, replaying the meeting in his mind, again and again. 

When the doors to the medical bay slid open, Road Rage straightened to attention. “Commander.” 

Strika gave a curt nod. “Nickel has been given leave to visit the prisoner, by order of Lord Megatron. You will ensure she has all she needs before she leaves.”

Road Rage snapped off a sharp acknowledgement. “As Lord Megatron commands!” 

Strika grunted in agreement, before unfastening the shock collar around Ratchet’s neck. Ratchet braced himself to be hobbled again, but to his surprise, Strika turned to leave without doing so. He watched her walk towards the door before something compelled him to call out to her.

“Strika?”

The war-frame half-turned to regard him over his shoulder.

“The attack… was Sentinel the target?” 

Strika shook her head slightly. “No. We believe it was the boy.”

Ratchet’s spark went cold, but he said nothing in reply. She watched him for a moment longer, before inclining her head and walking out of the room, leaving Ratchet alone with his thoughts. 

Chapter 37

Vaultline was nothing but deadweight as Jazz and Rico lifted him through the airlock. The financier’s pedes bumped and thudded against the metal floor as they dragged him further inside the ship. The Tempo had been prepared before their departure, so it was a simple matter to get their guest trussed up in the engine room — in the very place Rico had found himself just five cycles ago. 

“Primus, finally,” Rico grunted, rotating his shoulders as he straightened to his full height. “This scrap-heap weighs a ton.” 

“Get the restraints,” Jazz instructed as he crouched down in front of the unconscious mechanoid.

“Get ‘em yourself,” Rico bitched. “This is your shit show.” 

Jazz half-turned, giving his twin a flat look. For a long moment, Rico just returned his stare — then, when it was clear Jazz wasn’t backing down, he scoffed and grabbed the restraints off the workbench. Jazz watched him work for a few kliks before pulling a knife from subspace. Carefully, he worked the tip of the blade beneath the panel on Vaultline’s forearm. With a twist of his wrist, it popped free. He set the blade on the floor and dug around until he found what he was looking for — an access port nestled among the bundle of wires inside the second joint. Once found, Jazz turned the delicate interface over in his digits, frowning. He didn’t recognize the make or model.

//That’s a pretty piece of hardware for a financier,// Rico observed, wryly. 

Jazz was forced to agree. This wasn’t a run-of-the mill root access port; this was something else entirely. Something custom… and expensive. Jazz turned it over again, giving the port a better look, when he noticed the extra wire extending from the output side of the device. 

Pinching the extra wire between two digits, he cast a pointed look at his twin. //Any guesses why there’s a looping connection on this?// 

Rico glanced up in surprise. //There is?// He shifted to get a better look at the wire Jazz was holding, then let out a low whistle. //Well, I’d say someone really doesn’t want you messin’ around in their processors.// Finished with the restraints, Rico straightened to his full height and perched on the edge of the workbench. //I wouldn’t recommend jacking into that directly, but hey — you’re the expert.//  

Jazz gave him a look that was equal parts professional affront and have you seriously forgotten who taught you this?  

Rico just huffed, unimpressed. //You bring a bridge or not?//  

Jazz resisted the urge to say something cutting — which was, of course, the reaction Rico was angling for — and instead pulled the device from his subspace. 

//Shame,// Rico remarked dryly. //Woulda been amusin’ to watch you fry your processor.//  

Again, Jazz kept silent. Working quickly, he popped the panel on his forearm and dug out his own access port. Within moments, he connected the bridge’s ingress to Vaultline’s port, and its egress to his own. Immediately, an automated stream of data appeared on Jazz’s primary visual display: a low-level encrypted handshake response, a unique system hash, latency and connection metrics, and readings of power levels and system load. 

Jazz glanced through the data before dismissing it. //Connection’s good. I’m bringing him back on-line.// 

Rico crossed his arms over his chassis and settled back to watch. Jazz turned his attention inwards and pinged Vaultline’s core processor. Data streams flickered hesitantly at first, then the core processor woke up with a pulse of encrypted handshakes and system verifications. Vaultline jerked in his seat as base-level autonomous functions came back online one after the other in rapid-fire succession. Jazz observed it all through the bridge device: core processor; primary, secondary, and tertiary systems; neural processing unit; and power processing and conversion systems. 

It was only surface-level data, but that was fine — they were just gettin’ started. 

“—the guards!” Vaultline shouted, finishing the sentence he’d been speaking when Jazz hacked him off-line. It took a moment for the financier’s processor to sift through the error logs and systems alerts before realizing he was no longer in his hab-suite. In the next instant, the data streaming across Jazz’s primary display abruptly cut off. 

Still crouching in front of the bound mechanoid, Jazz rested his forearms on his leg struts, his posture loose and unbothered. “Easy does it,” he murmured, his voice a low caress. “It’ll take a moment to properly parse those error files and systems tests.” 

Vaultline’s optics spiraled down to points. Jazz could hear his internal mechanisms getting louder as his systems sought to reorient in the aftermath of his forced off-lining. 

“If you want my ransom, then you should contact my head steward,” Vaultline gritted out. 

Jazz laughed lightly, his amusement leaking into his fields. “Ransom?” he repeated. “This isn’t about your money, Vaultline.” Then he allowed a wry smile to spread across his face. “Well, not exactly." 

Vaultline stiffened. “What are you driving at?” 

Jazz made a tsking sound inside his intakes. “Well, you see, it’s not your money I want — it’s your clientele.” 

Vaultline straightened as much as his bonds would allow to glare down his nose ridge at Jazz. “Even were I willing to hand over my records to a filthy construct, my coding would never allow me to compromise the identity of my clients.” 

Jazz offered him an easy smile. “Well, that’s where this comes in.” Gripping Vaultline’s wrist, he raised both of their arms to show off the bridge connecting their two ports. “Ya see, you don’t gotta hand over anything — I’m going to hack the information outta your systems.” Jazz glanced up, meeting Vaultline’s gaze. “Though, I gotta admit, it’s gonna be mighty unpleasant. That kinda hacking takes a while and hurts like a bitch. So whatdaya say? Wanna play nice?” 

Although Jazz could hear the sound of Vaultline's internals increasing in pitch and tempo as anxiety or anger made his systems speed up, the financier’s expression remained a mask of icy disdain. “I won’t cooperate.” 

Sighing, Jazz shook his head. “They never do. At least — not at first.” 

“When my security team arrives, I’m not going to let them kill you,” Vaultline said, his tone almost conversational except for the undercurrent of cold assurance in his voice. “I’m going to have you brought back to the Trinity, and then I’m going to take my time taking you apart. Strut by strut, joint by joint, piece by piece, until you’re nothing more than—” 

The financier’s voice was lost in a squeal of static as Jazz pushed through the initial encryption. It was nothing special — four layers of firewalls guarding the network, backed by standard transport protocols. Immediately, Jazz’s visual display began filling with pings and identifier probes, which he dismissed out of hand. Instead, he focused on the transport layer. It looked like something out of a base programming package, which seemed unlikely given the fancy tech in this guy’s arm.

“Now that’s interesting,” Jazz murmured.

Using the bridge as an intermediary processor, Jazz pinged the transport layer — and was met with a rapid-fire barrage of command injection loops and connection requests. He pulled back slightly, analyzing the incoming assault. 

“My compliments to the chef,” Jazz offered.

“You’re going to smelt for this,” Vaultline ground out.

“Mmhm,” Jazz hummed, examining the incident report: 46.875 terabytes of network traffic in under four kliks. Grudgingly, Jazz was impressed — if also inconvenienced. This was going to take longer than he’d anticipated. 

“Now, that’s quite a sophisticated software suite for a financier,” Jazz remarked, glancing over the incident report one last time before dismissing it. “Consider me intrigued.” 

Vaultline said nothing, but that was fine. Financiers weren’t known for their peak conversational skills. Moving deftly, Jazz began working through Vaultline’s secondary encryption. As with the initial layers, the secondary encryption was nothing special. He briefly hit a snag with the intrusion detection system, but Jazz’s defensive countermeasures were more than sufficient for the task. 

Jazz worked in silence for several more kliks before he was through the secondary encryption. Immediately, he could detect Vaultline’s consciousness across the bridge that divided them. The mech’s mental presence was steely and opaque, despite the precariousness of his position. 

Jazz glanced up, giving the financier a curious look. “You seem pretty calm ‘bout all this.” 

“I already told you: you’re going to smelt for this,” Vaultlne said, his voice rough and cold. 

“Maybe,” Jazz agreed mildly. “But not before I pry the information I need outta your processor.” 

“Good luck,” was his only reply. 

The words weren’t said haughtily, or defiantly, or grimly. Instead, Vaultline’s tone was almost… flat. As though he had zero concerns about Jazz breaching his third-layer encryptions. It was enough to pull Jazz up short. Financiers were rich enough to afford the high-tech gadget he had in his arm, and they dealt with sensitive information often enough that investing in the technology could make good financial sense — but hackers and mnemoscrapers they were not. Vaultline was behaving far too calmly for an upper caste mech who had been forcibly hacked offline and kidnapped by unknown assailants, which meant he was either glitched outta his processor… or Jazz was missing something important. 

Frowning, Jazz gave the mech in front of him a closer look. “Who are you? ‘Cause I’m startin’ to suspect you’re more than a financier.” 

“Try my third-level encryption and find out,” Vaultline invited. 

“This is taking too long,” Rico said, as he slid off the workbench. Vaultline stiffened in his bonds — whether at the sound of his voice or the realization there was someone else in the room was anyone’s guess. Rico circled wide, coming to a stop in front of the bound mech. “Tell us who commissioned the contract.” 

Vaultline gave Rico a steely look. “What contract?” 

Rico huffed an annoyed sound and backhanded him across the face. “Don’t play stupid.” 

The blow sent Vaultline listing to one side; he lingered there a heartbeat, then rolled his head back to fix Rico with a flat stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you anything. You aren’t the first gangsters to threaten me, and I daresay you won’t be the last.” 

Rico let out a put-upon sigh before hitting him again. Hard. “Listen, you jumped-up little loan-shark, we both know what contract I’m talkin’ about: the Prime’s assassination.” He crouched down, balancing his weight on the balls of his pedes, elbows resting on his leg struts. At this height, the two of them were optic level with one another. “Now cut the slag and tell me who paid for the job.” 

“Are your audials malfunctioning?” Vaultline gritted out. “I never—” 

Quick as a striking rust-snake, Rico seized Vaultline’s chin and yanked him forward as far as his bonds would allow. “I’d think real careful ‘bout your next words, moneybags,” he murmured, his voice a low, grinding threat. “I know someone deposited fifty thousand shanix into your account to bankroll the hit. Now, one last time, who—” Rico punctuated the word with a sharp shake of Vaultline’s helm. “Commissioned.” Another shake. “The contract?” 

Vaultline’s glare was hot enough to melt solid tungsten. “I don’t know anything about the Prime’s assassination attempt.” 

Rico huffed a laugh, then reached out and gave Vaultline a mocking pat on the cheek. “’Course you do,” he smiled, voice cold and steady. “And I know that ‘cause I’m the guy you paid to kill him.”

For the first time since coming back on-line, Vaultline’s composure slipped. He stilled, his expression tightening with something like grim realization before going carefully, purposefully blank.

“Meister,” he ground out. “I should have known.” 

“Probably, yeah,” Rico agreed. “Now answer the question.”

Jazz twisted, shooting his twin a steely look, but Rico’s optics never left the bound mechanoid before him. Vaultline shifted uneasily under the weight of that stare.

“Meister, be reasonable,” he said, voice slick. “You’re a professional. You know how this works. You were paid to do a job. No designations. No contact.”

Rico ex-vented sharply. “You’re tryin’ my patience. I want that designation, and I want it now. You can give it up easy or give it up hard, it’s all the same to me, but Option A? A whole lot less painful for you. Believe me.” 

Vaultline’s optics flicked between Rico and Jazz. “Meister, please—” 

“Option B it is then,” Rico shrugged, before driving the knife he had sub-spaced deep into Vaultline’s shoulder. The financier screamed in agony, which gave Jazz the distraction he needed. Assault software fully primed and ready, Jazz initiated a brute-force attack on Vaultline’s third-layer encryptions. He could feel the financier’s agony and desperation as he scrambled to respond to the rapid-fire incursions, but it was no use. Despite the fancy tech, Vaultline was no infiltrator. Rico twisted the blade, shredding protoform, and Vaultline’s defenses fell apart. Immediately, Jazz pressed forward, defensive sub-routines on loop, and began rooting around in the mech’s processor. It didn’t take long to find the memories in quartz storage. 

The initial contact from a mech who identified himself only as Vector (the memory datum laced with Vaultline’s derision and affront at the obvious pseudonym). 

Their first in-person meeting on the Trinity (and Vaultline’s surprise at the stipulation he must receive body mods and software to prevent incursion). 

Their second in-person meeting on the Sovereign where the details of the contract were laid out in black and white (and Vaultline’s shock at both the target (He might be an organic but Sentinel says he’s the Allspark incarnate) and the chosen assassin (Meister? Pits. Someone really wants this kid dead).

And finally, the notification of acceptance, which landed in Vaultline’s private comms less than one orn before the attack was planned. The financier stared at the message for a long time, something like dread weighing down his internals, but then he deleted it. The machinations of the nobility were not his concern. 

Jazz ex-vented sharply as the last memory datum ended. He glanced up, meeting Vaultline’s optics, which were pained and dimmed. “Not your concern?” 

Vaultline shuddered with the effort of drawing air through his vents. “Concern… is not… my function.” 

Behind his visor, Jazz’s optics narrowed to points. 

“Got what you need?” Rico asked, yanking his blade from Vaultline’s shoulder, earning a drawn-out moan of pain. 

Jazz combed through Vaultline’s memory storage one last time — only four little datums. Apparently, a Prime’s assassination wasn’t worth much space in the financier’s mind. Just business as usual.

“Yeah, I got what I need,” Jazz murmured, shunting the memory datum through the bridge and into his own storage before slipping out of Vaultline’s processor. 

“Good,” Rico nodded, then he drove his blade into the financier’s chest. Vaultine spasmed and cried out as his spark chamber was ruptured. The smell of ozone quickly filled the air as the financier slumped over in his bonds, his optics darkening to black. 

“Jesus H. Christ, Rico!” Jazz snapped, leaping to his pedes, the bridge still connecting him to the dead mechanoid in front of them. 

Rico gave him a peculiar look. “Who?” 

Angrily, Jazz yanked the connector out of his access port and threw the device down. Still connected to Vaultline’s arm, the bridge swung lazily back and forth, the egress cords dragging on the ground. “Why did you do that?”

“What, kill him?” Rico asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “Seriously? Jazzy, he saw our faces. If we let him go, then our names woulda been poppin’ up on a contract board somewhere.” 

“I was gonna wipe his memory!” Jazz growled.

Wiping off his blade on the dead mech’s leg, Rico snorted. “Oh yeah, ‘cause an upper caste mecha with a hole in his memory is a lot less suspicious than a missing person.” 

“Of course it is!” Jazz snapped. 

Rico gave him a pitying look as he tucked the blade back into his sub-space. “You been outta the game a long time, Jazz. That ain’t how this works. No witnesses, no mercy — ever. You shouldn’t need me to remind you that.” 

Jazz grabbed his twin by the shoulder strut and dragged him closer. “Whoever issued that contract was rich enough to hire Meister on short notice. That means it’s gotta be a member of the peerage or the nobility. How do you think that person will react when their financier turns up dead?” 

Rico shrugged. “He ain’t gonna turn up dead if we toss him out the airlock.” 

Not for the first time since Rico woke-up in the engine room five cycles ago, Jazz resisted the urge to scrub a servo down his face. “Rico, you’re a dumb-aft, but you ain’t that dumb. Whoever this Vector is, he’s gonna rabbit as soon as he realizes Vaultline is missing.” 

Rico shot him another peculiar look as he moved to cut the corpse loose. “Rabbit?” 

Rapidly reaching the end of his patience, Jazz bit out, “He’s gonna vanish.” 

Vaultline’s corpse slumped onto the floor with a resounding thud as the ropes were cut. “Well then,” Rico shrugged, “I guess we better work fast.” 

 

---

 

As the ship drew closer and closer to Cybertron, the mood aboard seemed to shift. Conversation flowed more freely, laughter came more easily, and even First-in-Service was less stern than usual. Mirage and Sam still met almost daily for lessons in Primal history, etiquette, protocol, and public duty. Privately, Sam suspected the effort was wasted on him, but Mirage seemed satisfied with his progress. As they moved deeper into the “syllabus,” Mirage began to include more practical exercises alongside the theory: private audiences with nobility, attending mass, and hosting guests. It wasn’t as bad as Sam feared — he had plenty of experience making small talk with big egos, and as it turned out, those skills were transferable.

The fleet arrived at Calypsis Station the following deca-cycle. It was a smaller station than Xenon Nexus, but one of several that orbited a habitable planet. Sam and his retinue saw Sentinel off. Standing among the nobles and courtiers, Sam watched as Sentinel disappeared through the airlock. It was a relatively short trip compared to their last one, and when Sentinel returned, he presented Sam with a cluster of pale blue crystals growing in a small planter.

“I was told your planet appears blue from high orbit,” Sentinel rumbled thoughtfully. “I was assured the color is accurate.”

Deeply touched by the sentiment, Sam held the planter close to his chest. He had only seen Earth from areocentric orbit once before, when the Ark was first repaired. He’d gone up with Carter and Lennox as part of a media blitz. They had been taken aback by how fragile Earth looked against the vastness of space — just a pale blue dot in the darkness.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice a soft hush.

The crystals were smaller and more delicate than the ones he had purchased aboard the Xenon Nexus. Their ‘stems’ were almost hexagonal in shape, and the ‘leaves’ were clusters of flat, multifaceted crystals branching off at acute angles. The arrangement was smaller as well — the whole thing could have fit inside a mixing bowl.

“They will grow quickly,” Sentinel intoned as they started back toward the habitation deck. “In a vorn or two, they will be taller than you unless you prune them.”

When Sam returned to his hab-suite, he placed the planter on his bedside table. The light caught the arrangement at just the right angle, making the crystals glitter and glow. That night, he fell asleep to the sound of quiet humming that seemed to touch something deep inside him.

It was the best sleep he’d had in ages.

By early June, they arrived at the Black Sea, and Sentinel invited Sam to watch their approach from the bridge—an invitation Sam eagerly accepted. Side by side on the mezzanine, they watched the fleet draw closer to the vast expanse. The Sea itself was perfectly inky black, a stark void against the surrounding darkness. In the distance, the remnants of the Vaspera Nebula glimmered — a bluish-white glow trailing a long tail of gas and interstellar debris, spiraling inexorably toward the black maw that consumed it.

Strangely, the sight made Sam uneasy, as if he were witnessing something beautiful being slowly devoured alive.

It took almost three full cycles for the fleet to navigate past the Sea, and throughout that time, Sam avoided looking at it again.

Less than a deca-cycle later, they arrived at Troja Major. Sam and Bumblebee watched their approach from a viewing room on the starboard bow. The rust-colored planet was relatively small, compared to some of the others they’d seen, but it was surrounded by hundreds of vessels of varying makes and sizes. As they drew closer, Sam could see a number of small cities and outposts dotting the planet’s surface. 

“Look,” Bumblebee murmured, crouching at Sam’s side, as he pointed to a cluster of lights on the dark side of the planet. “That’s Outpost Omega One. Cliff and I served there in the early years of the war.” 

Curiously, Sam stepped closer to the glass. The outpost was shaped almost like a compass rose with clusters of lights at each of the four points. The resulting cruciform shape stood out against the darkness surrounding it. 

“Yeah?” Sam asked, interestedly. “What’s it like?” 

Bee huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s one of our larger outposts, so it sees a lot of traffic, and it’s far from the front lines, so it doesn’t see a lot of fighting.” He gave Sam a wry look. “A perfect combination for a couple of young mechs with more free time than common sense.” 

“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” Cliffjumper called from where he was standing with Sigil, Lumi, and Trailbreaker a short distance away. 

Sam laughed and turned to look at the planet again. Though the hundreds of ships in its orbit appeared at first glance to be a confusing jumble, it didn’t take long for him to pick out the shipping lanes weaving through the chaos.

“Well, I’m sorry I won’t get to see it,” Sam smiled. 

“There’s not much to see,” Bumblebee admitted. “It’s nothing but barracks, training grounds, and storage facilities for miles and miles.” 

“Lots of soldiers, though?” Sam asked. 

Bee nodded. “Yes, though the number varies depending on what’s happening in the sector. It can house up to 20,000, but usually there are between four to five thousand stationed there at any given time.” 

The number was both a surprise and a comfort. There had been so few Autobots on Earth that it was staggering to realize there was such a large fighting force stationed on a planet less than an eight-month voyage away. 

“Well, yes and no,” Bumblebee said, responding to Sam’s train of thought. “The journey would have been much longer without the space bridge. It took us almost 80,000 years to find our way to Earth — Optimus’ transmission calling for reinforcements hasn’t even reached the Sagittarius cluster yet.” 

Sam huffed. “Fair enough.” 

Watching the comings and goings of the planet eventually lost its appeal—something Sam never would’ve imagined a year ago—and it wasn’t long before they made their way back to the apartments. It had been a long day of meetings, so seeing their doors finally come into view was a relief. Bumblebee drove inside, then navigated toward the bedroom. As soon as he stopped in front of the bed, Sam was already climbing out of the cabin.

“I feel sweaty and gross,” Sam grumbled as Lumi stepped forward to help him out of his body armor. He turned so she could start on the fasteners that ran from shoulder to hip.

“Do you wish to bathe before your evening meal?” Lumi asked, deftly unfastening one clasp after another. 

It was an appealing suggestion. “Actually, yeah,” he agreed. “That sounds amazing.” 

Finished with the clasps, Lumi grasped the material in her servos so Sam could slide his arms out of the sleeves. “As you say. The baths are ready for you.” 

The baths were always filled with water, no matter the hour, so Sam supposed she meant the room was clean and empty. Humming in appreciation, he shimmied his pants down his legs and stepped away from the pile of clothing. Before he could even bend to pick it up, Lumi was already gathering the garments from the floor and draping them over her arm. 

“Thanks, Lumi,” he smiled. “I appreciate it.” 

“Of course, Sam,” she chirped in her melodic voice. 

Dressed only in his boxers, Sam made his way into the bathrooms. The room was warm and humid with a faint, sweet scent lingering in the air. Eagerly, he stripped down and stepped into the baths. Warm water lapped at his feet, then his calves, as he waded deeper. As he sat down, he became aware of Bumblebee’s presence — a warm, amused glow at the edge of his mind.

“I think you’d live in there, if you could,” Bee chuckled, walking around to the deeper side of the baths. 

A wide grin split Sam’s face. “Listen, not that I’m keeping a running tally of the pros and cons of all this—” He was, kind of. “—but this definitely goes in the pro column.” 

Bumblebee rolled his optics expressively, causing Sam to laugh. “I’m surprised the Allspark hasn’t given you gills yet,” he said, stepping down into the baths. “You certainly spend enough time in the water to make it seem like a good idea.” 

Again, Sam laughed. “Yeah, thanks but no thanks.” 

Once inside the baths, Bumblebee sat down, causing the water to come halfway up his chest. Immediately, an iridescent sheen appeared around him as the oils and solvents in his joints met the water. At the same time, a low humming sound filled the air as the filtration system kicked in. Sam and Bumblebee had bathed together enough times for Sam to know the drill by now. He stood, wading over to the fountainheads on the other side of the baths so he could scrub down while Bumblebee did the same. By the time they were both finished, the water was clear again. 

“So, what’s on the docket for tomorrow?” Sam asked, sitting on the underwater ledge that separated the shallow end from the deep end. 

“Mass in the morning, then lessons with Mirage until noon, then a break for lunch, then visiting with members of the court until supper.” Bumblebee gave him a wry look. “Which column is that?’

Sam rolled his eyes. “Not the pro column, that’s for sure.” 

Suddenly, there were warm arms wrapping around his waist. “Poor boy,” Bee’s holoform murmured, nipping lightly at the curve of his neck. 

Sam’s dick gave an interested little twitch. “Wanna make it up to me?” he asked, angling his head to give the holoform his most winning smile. 

Bumblebee chuckled and pressed a kiss to the knob of Sam’s shoulder. “Hold that thought. We’re about to be interrupted.”

Sam pulled a face, but the doors to the main room slid open before he could protest. He turned to watch Lumi approach, holding a dinner tray in her servos. She bowed politely, then crouched to set the tray at the edge of the baths.

“Your blood sugar is starting to dip,” she said, straightening to her full height. “I thought you might like something to eat while you bathe.”

Sam blinked. “Oh,” he said, a little dumbly. “Um. Thank you.” 

“You are most welcome,” she said, clasping her servos in front of her waist. “I have laid out your clothing on the bed. Is there anything else you require?” 

“No, thank you, Lumi,” Sam shook his head. “This is more than enough.” 

The attendant chirped an acknowledgement, bowed her head a second time, and walked back the way she came. Sam watched her until the door slid shut behind her, then waded over to the edge of the baths. The tray was adorned with an assortment of finger foods—crackers, slices of fruit, cheese cubes, olives, and nuts—and a fluted glass filled with a clear liquid. Sam took a tentative sip and immediately spluttered; whatever it was burned his sinuses.

“What is this?” he coughed. 

“That’s the Kavrin,” Bumblebee chuckled. “It’s one of the spirits you purchased on the Xenon Nexus.” 

After Sam finished coughing, he gave the glass a cautious sniff. It smelled strong and smoky with a hint of something sweet, but he definitely recognized the sharp smell of alcohol.

“Well, forewarned is forearmed, as they say,” Sam mused, before taking another sip. It went down easier this time, leaving a pleasant warmth on his palate. “Hey, this isn’t bad.” 

“I thought you might like it,” Bee said. 

Sam hummed appreciatively and took a deeper drink. It tasted almost like scotch, but it was a deeper flavor — something that lingered in the back of his throat in a way scotch didn’t. 

“Carter’s gonna love this,” Sam grinned.

Bumblebee’s holoform settled down beside him as Sam considered the assortment of food laid out in front of them. He tried the olives first, which tasted as though they’d just come out of the bottle, before moving onto the crackers and cheese. Bee watched as he ate, something fond and amused playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“Who thought of packing olives?” Sam asked, popping another into his mouth. It’s not like they were a regular part of his diet in the years prior to their departure. 

“We’ve been preserving and storing a variety of food-stuffs for years,” Bumblebee shrugged. “There’s your regular fare — those’re the freeze dried, ready made meals you’ve been eating — then there’s the food earmarked for medical storage — simple carbohydrates, broths, soups, crackers, fruit, that sort of thing. And then there’s the calorie-dense foods: nuts, seeds, cheeses, olives, cured meats.” He twitched a shoulder in a shrug. “Admittedly, we’ve packed less of those than we should, but we prioritized MREs, survival bars, and food packs instead.” 

Sam pulled a face. “If we’re in a situation where I need to start eating MREs regularly again, then please, just mercy kill me.” 

The holoform gave him an exasperated look. “They’re called emergency rations for a reason.” 

“I said what I said,” Sam said, giving an airy shrug. 

By the time Sam worked his way through the rest of the tray — and the rest of the Kavrin — he was feeling pleasantly warm and full in a way that only good food and alcohol could achieve. They lounged together for a little while longer before Bumblebee shooed Sam out of the water. Sam didn’t realize how much the alcohol was affecting him until he tripped over his own two feet while trying to pull on his pants. Once he was dressed, he flopped down onto the bed, feeling dreamy and detached. 

“This is great,” he announced, to no one in particular. 

“Uh-huh,” Bumblebee said, his voice as dry as toast. “Why don’t you get under the blankets?” 

That sounded like a capitol idea actually, so Sam wriggled around until he was under the covers and comfortable again. He was just beginning to relax when something large landed on the bed, causing him to bounce against the mattress. 

“Whatcha doin’?” Rumble asked, scuttling closer. 

Groaning, Sam threw an arm over his face. “Sleeping.” 

“Don’t look like you’re sleeping,” Rumble commented. 

“I’m trying to sleep,” Sam said. 

“Boring,” Rumble complained, poking at Sam’s thigh. “How does your species manage to get anything done when you’re unconscious for three jours every orn?” 

“I don’t know,” Sam groaned, dragging an extra pillow over his head. “We just do.” 

“It’s weird,” Rumble stressed. “We all just hafta stand around while you impersonate a corpse for a few groons, and we can’t even do anything fun in case we wake you up. It’s the worst!” He emphasized his words by bringing his fist down on the mattress a few scant inches away from Sam’s leg, earning a sharp whistle of warning from Cliffjumper who was standing sentry in the corner. Rumble whistled something back at him that sounded less than complimentary.

“Rumble, if you let me go to sleep right now, I promise we can play Call of Duty tomorrow,” Sam mumbled. 

“You work all day tomorrow,” Rumble grumbled. “Just like every other day for the last deca-cycle.” 

Sam groaned into his pillow. “I’ll cancel on Mirage, okay? Just please let me sleep.” 

“Really?” Rumble asked, perking up. 

“Yes,” Sam promised fervently. “Now please stop talking.” 

"Hell yeah!" Rumble exclaimed, scrambling off the mattress. “You get your beauty sleep or whatever. Imma go fuck with Cyclonus. Don’t tell anyone, but he’s a huge softie.” 

“Uh huh,” Sam mumbled, and a moment later, the sound of rapidly receding pede-steps heralded Rumble’s exit from the room. Sam sighed in relief as he settled down to go to sleep. The peace and quiet lasted just long enough for him to start drifting off, and then a god-awful crash from the living room had his eyes snapping back again. 

“RUMBLE!” 

Screwing his eyes shut, Sam groaned again. 

Chapter 38

Outpost Omega One was busier than the last time Marshall had been planetside. 

The yard rang with shouted commands, clanging metal, and the crackle of announcements from the overhead speakers. Marshall stepped around a group of soldiers working on a turret as he continued towards the garrison. Behind him, a welding arc hissed and buzzed, sending sparks of molten metal into the air. He kept his expression neutral as he walked. The Outpost was one of the Autobots’ primary hubs in this sector, but even so — he’d never seen this level of activity before. 

As he neared the wide double doors leading into the central garrison, he spotted two officers approaching from the other side. Quickening his pace, he pulled the door open and stepped aside to let them pass.

“Good morning, sirs,” he nodded. 

Both officers were airframes with the bearing of middle command. One glanced sidelong at him as they passed, but his gaze slid away again without recognition. Not that the guy would be able to recognize him. Marshall was a low-level ground worker with an unremarkable service record — there was nothing to recognize. 

Once the officers passed, Marshall stepped inside and continued on his way. The garrison was quieter than the Yard. On the second floor, he passed one of the berthing rooms and glanced inside to find it full of single-wide berths, all of which appeared to be in use. The next two berthing rooms were much the same. Doing the mental math, he guessed that the Outpost was near or at capacity, something that hadn’t happened since the early vorns of the war. 

As Marshall rounded the next corner, the teams room came into view. It was a nondescript room intended for missions briefings and after-action reviews — and because of the sensitive nature of those meetings, the room was unmonitored. As the countdown in the corner of his visual display reached zero and began flashing, indicating that the camera on the opposite end of the hall had begun looping its feed, he slipped inside the room and shut the door behind him. 

“It’s about time,” a familiar voice drawled. 

Turning away from the door, Marshall took in the sight of Elita-1, former Autobot Commander, sitting at the table that dominated the center of the room. The femme was leaning back in her chair, posture easy, servos folded in her lap — but she was staring him down with an intensity that made his protoform itch. 

“Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic.” 

Elita-1 tipped her head. “I bet.” 

Marshall glanced around the room. It was a space of middling size with a long table occupying the center of the floor and a row of dark monitors affixed to the back wall. Judging by the analyst’s board full of star maps and satellite pictures standing in the corner, the room had been used recently. A quick sweep revealed no cameras or listening devices that he could find, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything — not where Spec Ops was concerned. 

“It’s clean,” Elita-1 said, as though following his train of thought. “Now are you going to tell me what in the hell’s going on, Jazz?” 

Marshall — Jazz — tsked disapprovingly as he stepped away from the door. “Using designations on assignments now? I taught you better than that.” 

Elita-1 snorted. “Feel free to write me up. Oh, wait. You can’t. You resigned your commission and took off right after a mech with your ident-codes tried to assassinate Witwicky.” Cocking her head, she gave him a hard look. “Got anything you wanna tell me?”

Jazz ex-vented softly. There was a great deal he wanted to tell her, but nothing he could risk sharing. Elita-1 was one of his most capable agents, but this was well above her pay grade. Hell, it felt like it was above his too. 

“Sorry, Elle. That’s classified.” 

Elita-1 rose to her pedes and stepped away from the table. “You expect me to just accept that?” 

Jazz watched as she approached, a wan smile tugging at his faceplate. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. Now I don’t have much time, so it’d be a big help if we could dispense with the unpleasantries and get down to business.” 

The femme stopped in front of him, angling her head to give him a penetrating look — one that seemed to see past Marshall’s paint job and the custom mods, right down to his protoform. “Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot — you’re on the clock.” She scoffed softly. “Just so you know, I could be court martialed for even speaking to you.” 

“Yeah, probably,” Jazz agreed, meeting her gaze. “But here you are anyways.”

Elita-1 stared at him for a long moment — long enough that Jazz wondered whether he had made a mistake in contacting her. But then she let out a long ex-vent and shook her head. “Alright. What do you need?” 

“Never doubted you for a minute, Elle,” Jazz chuckled, before pinging her a data packet. Elita-1 frowned as she decompressed the file. It contained all the information that he’d hacked from Vaultline — including the specifics of the contract and the wire transfer details — as well as all that he’d managed to learn about the mysterious ‘Vector’, which admittedly wasn’t much. “I need you to run his designation and specs through the registry to see if we find any hits. I doubt he was stupid enough to use his actual designation, but who knows? We’ve caught people for less.” 

Elita-1’s expression clouded a little as she reviewed the packet in greater detail. “Why not bring this to Prowl? He has more connections than I do here.” 

“No can do, girlie pop,” Jazz smiled. “Prowler’s been assigned to the Gauntlet.”  

As Sentinel Prime’s flagship, all communications in and out of the ship were monitored as a matter of course. It would be virtually impossible to contact Prowl without his message being intercepted, and it would be harder still for Prowl to access the database from the Gauntlet without being flagged.

The grimace on Elita-1’s face tightened perceptibly. “Do you want the packet sent to Marshall’s burner?” 

“If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother,” Jazz said with a wink. “Thanks. You’re a peach.” 

Elita-1 let out another sigh. “Alright, I’ll do what I can, but no promises. Security’s tighter than a glitchmouse’s aft ever since the assassination attempt.” 

“Much obliged,” Jazz said, lifting two digits to his forehead in a lazy salute before making to leave — but a servo on his wrist drew him up short.

“You should know…” Elita-1 trailed off, frowning. “It’s probably nothing, but you should know that the fleet is being restructured.” 

“Restructured?” Jazz asked. “Restructured how?” 

Elita-1 hesitated. “Almost two hundred commanding officers have been reassigned — so far. Many of them were demoted, but some of them were moved to ships in Sentinel’s fleet. The empty posts were filled with officers from Sentinel’s armada.” Her frown returned, tightening her brow. “It doesn’t make any sense. They’re good officers. Capable, competent, knowledgeable about the sector. I understand Sentinel wanting to restructure, but this… doesn’t feel like that.” 

Jazz frowned as he considered the new information. “Can you get me a list of the reassignments?”

“I can do you one better,” Elita-1 retorted. “I can get you the full orders — reassignments, ship schedules, duty rosters, all of it, but it’ll take some time.” 

Jazz grimaced as he reached for the door. “Unfortunately, Elle, I don’t think time is on our side.” 

 

---

 

Becoming Folgore again had been surprisingly easy. The personality mods, the kibble, the color scheme — it all fit, just like he remembered. The only difference was that he was moppin’ floors instead of playing music for a disinterested audience, but then, Rico had blown that part of his cover all to hell. 

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, Jazz thought wryly. 

“After you’re done there, then you can bring the empty fuel cells down to the depot,” Kipper said distractedly. He didn’t even bother looking up from his work. 

“Sure thing, boss,” Jazz agreed, easy as a breeze. 

Kipper made a vaguely approving sound in the back of his intakes—more a grunt than an acknowledgment—and went right back to ignoring him. That was fine. Jazz was in the business of being ignored. Whistling a tune, he pushed the mop around the floor, occasionally glancing out the storefront as he did so. The shop was nothin’ special, but it was located right in the middle of the promenade. The strip was a busy place, but today it was packed to capacity: mechanoids and aliens alike stood shoulder to shoulder along the thoroughfare, three or four deep, jostling for a better view. It had been that way since before the store opened earlier that cycle. The thoroughfare had been decked out to the nines in preparation for the Prime’s visit to Caminus —banners, pennants, streamers, and arches had been arranged days in advance.

Jazz could tell when the Prime’s retinue arrived—he could hear the commotion even this far from the airlock. The Primesguard strolled into view first: four imposing mechanoids plated in red and white, walking in step and holding halberds at their sides. Behind them came Sentinel Prime, wearing his usual ceremonial attire: Primal-red armor with long tapered panels that looked more like Terran robes than armor plating—and wasn’t that the irony of all ironies?

“Oh, wow,” Kipper ex-vented, hurrying out from behind his desk toward the storefront windows. “He looks even taller in person.”

“He does,” Jazz agreed mildly. 

“They say he found the Forge of Solus Prime,” Kipper continued, staring through the windows. “I don’t know if I believe it, but that’s what I heard.” 

Behind Sentinel came the clergymen, then a handful of nobles, and then the highest ranking members of Prime’s parliament — a dozen mechanoids walking in three even rows, lookin’ jumpier than usual. No wonder, considering what happened the last time Sentinel made a public appearance. The crowd didn’t seem phased by the potential for danger though. They were cheering, or waving, or praying, and the combined effect was enough to make his audials ache. But Jazz wasn’t payin’ attention to the crowd — or at least, not any more than his situational analysis programs required — he was payin’ attention to the retinue. After the senators came the councilors, then the envoys, and then the attendants, with six Primesguard bringing up the rear in tight formation. 

Something twisted inside Jazz’s chest at the realization that neither Optimus nor Sam were among the retinue. He couldn’t tell whether their absence made him feel uneasy or relieved.

As the procession passed, the crowd spilled onto the promenade, following behind them. That was his cue. Jazz plunked the mop into the bucket and pushed it aside. 

“I’ll take those fuel cells over now,” he called over his shoulder, before heading towards the backroom.

“Hm?” Kipper asked, distractedly. “Oh. Right. Don’t forget to get a receipt.” 

The fuel cells were packed in storage crates stacked on a dolly near the back door. Jazz grabbed the handle and turned around so he could push the door open with his aft, and then he maneuvered the dolly into the back alley. He walked quickly, keeping his head down as he made his way from one alley to the other, before ditching the dolly beside a dumpster. By the time Kipper started wondering what was taking Folgore so long at the depot, Jazz would be in deep space.

Affecting an unhurried gait, Jazz made his way back towards the promenade. By the time he arrived, a crowd of mechanoids twenty or thirty deep had gathered in front of the temple grounds. It was an easy thing, slipping back into a role — looking interested, craning his neck, and catching snatches of conversation as he weaved through the crowd.

“Do you think it’s true?” one mechanoid asked another.

“It can’t be,” his companion replied. “The Forge of Solus Prime? It’s a fairytale.” 

Jazz pushed ahead. At the entrance to the temple grounds, several large-framed mechanoids were keeping the crowd under control. He didn’t recognize them as part of Sentinel’s retinue, but they were too heavily armored to be part of the temple guard. The grounds were otherwise empty — Sentinel and his retinue must have gone inside for the service. 

“You’re glitched,” a little femme laughed as Jazz wove past. “An organic?” 

“I’m serious,” her companion insisted. “That’s what it said.” 

“An organic is the new Allspark?” the femme asked, her voice more uncertain than sarcastic. “That can’t be right.” 

“It’s true,” a smaller olive-green ground frame interjected, drawing the femme and her companion’s attention. “I was on Xenon Nexus when they arrived. I saw him myself.”

“Really?” the femme asked, stepping closer. “What kind is he?”

“I don’t know,” the ground frame admitted. “Not a species I’ve ever seen before.”

“What does he look like?” the third mechanoid pressed.

“Well, you know organics — they all kind of look alike,” the ground frame said. “But he was on the smaller side. Smaller than some cassettes, even. Bipedal. Bilaterian. No unusual appendages or protrusions that I could see.”

“What color was he?” the femme asked, curious.

“Plain as plain could be,” the ground frame chuckled. “Pale organic mesh. Dark fur, but only atop his helm and above his optics. The only interesting thing about him was his stripes, and they weren’t much to talk about.”

“Really?” the femme said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. “Sentinel Prime is so grand. I would have expected… something else.”

“Don’t be sacrilegious," her companion scolded. “The Allspark isn’t meant to be beautiful. It’s meant to be holy.” 

The femme’s reply was lost as Jazz made his way deeper into the crowd. He hadn’t gone more than a few dozen meters when an excited clamor erupted near the temple grounds. Jazz looked up to see Sentinel Prime walking out onto the temple steps, flanked on both sides by clergymen who fanned out behind him. Sentinel made his way to the edge of the landing, servos loosely steepled in front of his waist, and stared solemnly over the promenade. He waited to speak, letting the clamor rise in pitch and volume until the assembled mechanoids were jostling one another, eager for him to begin. 

Grudgingly, Jazz was impressed. The guy really knew how to work a crowd. 

After a moment, Sentinel raised a single servo. A hushed silence spread from one mechanoid to another like a virus until the only thing to be heard was the distant hum of the station’s engines. 

“Beloved brethren, welcome,” he intoned. “We the Faithful receive you.” 

“Holy Steward, we the faithful rejoice in the hymn,” Jazz responded in time with the crowd. 

As the call-and-response died down, Sentinel looked over the gathered crowd. His gaze was steady and measured, lingering over sections of the crowd as though really seeing them. 

“My brethren, hear me now, for the long night is lifting. 

“Not long ago, our fleet met the Usurper’s troops in combat near Iacon and Kaon. The battle was bloody but decisive, and in the end, the Decepticon forces were defeated. Routed, they fled our planet, driven from Cybertron in disgrace. 

“I say to you now — at long last, the Great War is over.” 

For a moment, the crowd held still, Sentinel’s final words hanging in the air like a spark waiting to catch. Then the promenade erupted. Voices surged together in a roar of jubilation, rising so loud it seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. The sound was raw, exultant—joy bursting free after too long buried in silence and fear. 

Jazz resisted the urge to grimace. 

Like a consummate showman, Sentinel let the crowd’s energy swell, feeding on itself until it reached a fever pitch. Then he lifted his servo, a single, deliberate gesture calling for silence.

“The threat has passed. Our planet — and our people — have endured. 

“And now, as the smoke clears, we turn our gaze not to war, but to renewal. Where ruin stood, builders now labor; where silence reigned, the sounds of reconstruction ring out. Even as we speak, Iacon is rising from the ashes, but it will not be the last — in time, every city-state will be built anew.

“To those who remained faithful, who kept hope burning through the long cycles of shadow: I say this — you are welcomed home. Stand proud, for you have endured, and in your endurance lies the strength of Cybertron.”

As Sentinel monologued, Jazz surreptitiously scanned the crowd. Most of the gathered mechanoids were openly rejoicing at the news, jostling one another in their excitement. No wonder, Jazz thought. It had been a long damn time since the common folk had anything to  celebrate. The war had brought lean times for everyone, soldiers and neutrals alike, especially with the Galactic Council’s moratorium on trade. People were tired — tired of the war, tired of bein’ hungry and homeless, tired of bein’ constantly on edge. 

Jazz couldn’t say he blamed ‘em. He was tired too. 

Using the crowd’s momentum, Jazz slipped between mechanoids, letting the press of bodies carry him closer to the temple grounds without drawing notice. It was there that Jazz spotted his mark — Senator Proteus. Iaconian. Strict Functionist. All-around Grade “A” Asshole. He was standing with a half-dozen other nobles and upper caste mecha nearest the temple grounds, separated from the rest of the crowd by a row of imposing war-frames. 

Elita-1’s search hadn’t turned up any hits on a mechanoid matching Vector’s description — no surprise there — but she’d had the foresight to dig into Vaultline. The financier’s records weren’t publicly available, yet he’d been seen often enough in public alongside the senator for Elle to flag him for review. As it turned out, no review was necessary. Jazz knew Proteus — or rather, knew of him. The good senator’s dealings in the pleasure trade and organized crime ran deep — and that was only the part Jazz could prove. Proteus had the resources, the connections, and the flexible morality for a contract killing. 

Now he had to prove it. 

On the temple steps, Sentinel Prime continued workin’ the crowd. 

“Peace has been hard-won, but even now, the Usurper seeks to destroy all that we have achieved.” Sentinel’s tone hardened, the warmth of his earlier words giving way to cold steel. “Less than three deca-cycles ago, a Decepticon assassin attacked the Sacred Vessel while leaving the Xenon Nexus temple — where the Faithful had been praying for peace and prosperity for all of Cybertron’s people. 

Despite himself, Jazz stiffened, all thoughts of Proteus momentarily forgotten. 

“Such acts of treachery remind us that there are those among us who would rather see Cybertron remain a crumbling ruin than to live in peace together — those who feed on conflict, who revel in suffering,” Sentinel continued smoothly. “For I ask you: what does a warmonger become after the fighting ends?

“Now, I speak to the remaining Decepticon forces, scattered across the stars. If you renounce your allegiance to the Usurper and submit yourselves to the mercy of the courts, you shall be shown leniency. Repentance can be earned through labor by rebuilding what you have destroyed. But anyone who does not lay down their arms, who refuses the path of redemption, will be hunted without pause. There will be no safe haven for you — not in this sector, not in this quadrant, and not in this galaxy. For today, Cybertron’s rightful place in the Galactic Council has been restored. In their wisdom, the Councillors have recognized the threat posed to all sentient life by the Decepticon scourge, and they stand with us in opposition to it. 

“To the remaining Decepticons, I implore you: lay down your arms. Choose peace. For if you persist in your folly, then the darkness of the Void is all that awaits you.” 

The roar of the cheering crowd was deafening, reverberating around the enclosed space. Jazz had to fight to keep his balance as the mass of celebrating mechanoids carried him forward like a living tide. On the dais, Sentinel Prime inclined his helm, embracing their reaction. The crowd’s momentum brought Jazz perilously close to the heavy-plated mechanoids separating the nobles from the rabble, so Jazz did what he did best — he played a role. Folgore smiled and whistled along with the crowd. To anyone watchin’, he was just another mechanoid hearing the Good Word — but internally, Jazz was runnin’ probabilities like a gambler with too many dice. 

Sentinel Prime was renowned as both a pragmatist and a strategist. On the nose, his announcement seemed like a good strategy: brand the Decepticons as Public Enemy Number One, and watch as the masses united against a common enemy — one they could blame for all of the strife, and hardship, and loss they’d suffered. And if the neutrals weren’t keen to get in line for a lifetime of hard labor rebuilding the city-states, then the Decepticon prisoners would provide an indentured work force. 

But somethin’ wasn't right. 

Megatron inspired loyalty in his soldiers. Maybe not all of them — especially not the neutrals conscripted over the last few vorns or so — but many of them. They believed in the Decepticon ideals of freedom and equality. None of them would be willing to submit themselves to a Prime, being labeled a seditious traitor in the process, for the opportunity to rebuild a system they’d spent a million years taking apart. Especially not Sentinel Prime.

It just wouldn’t happen — and Sentinel had to know that. 

So, if Sentinel wasn’t expecting the Decepticons to surrender, then he was expecting a fight. Although Folgore’s cheery facade never faltered, internally, Jazz grimaced. It would explain why Sentinel was restructuring the fleet, but it didn’t explain why he’d reassigned or demoted over two hundred experienced officers, including the entirety of Optimus’ High Command. 

What was he missing? 

On the dais, Sentinel turned to converse with the clergymen. Jazz glanced towards the nobles, who were making their way into the temple grounds. Proteus stood among them, looking just as imperious and imposing as Jazz remembered, but the senator was too far away and surrounded by too many witnesses to risk tagging him. 

Proteus, unfortunately, would have to wait. 

The crowd followed Sentinel’s retinue all the way back to the airlock, which served Jazz just fine. The clamor and confusion allowed him to slip away without being noticed. He’d memorized the location of every camera, every sentry, and every checkpoint between the promenade and docking bays, which he used to his advantage. In less than a joor, he was sitting on a public transport, waiting to disembark the station. The ship was full of people — Cybertronian and alien alike — and though Jazz listened with a half an ear to the different conversations happening in his vicinity, his attention was turned inwards. 

Why would Sentinel reassign two hundred Autobot commanders, all experienced in Decepticon engagement, if he expected the Decepticons to attack? Hells, he was practically provoking an attack — by securing Cybertron’s place on the Galactic Council, there’d be nowhere for the Decepticons to run. Megatron would have no choice but to strike — and soon — if he didn’t want to risk being forced from the quadrant. Megatron wasn't exactly the sort of mech you wanted to play a game of warfare chicken with.  

Jazz grimaced internally and hunkered down in his seat, keeping a close watch on the two exits as the ship pulled away from the station. He was missing something crucial. He could feel it. 

Thankfully, the flight to Telus III proved to be uneventful. The ship shuddered and groaned as it docked at the moon’s orbital ring, and then Jazz was pushing to his pedes and making his way towards the airlock with the other passengers. If everything went as planned, then the Tempo would be waiting for him in Hangar 12 — and if not, then he’d kick Rico’s ass up one side of the sector and down the other when he finally tracked him down. 

Together, the passengers spilled through the airlock and onto the walkway. A few Cybertronians transformed and shot off in their alt modes, but most continued in bipedal mode. The mood among the passengers was light and jovial, which meant that most of what he overheard was gossip: gossip about Sentinel, gossip about the end of the war, gossip about Cybertron. Gossip about Sam. Information passed between passengers like trading cards or trinkets. Word travelled fast.

Jazz was about halfway to the hangar when he realized he had a tail. 

It was second nature by now to keep his demeanor and fields neutral, even when taken by surprise. He strolled along, keeping his posture relaxed and inoffensive. As he neared the hangar doors, he ran a systems check — a moment later, all systems came back green. 

Alright, Jazz thought, stepping through the hangar doors. Let’s see what this is all about.  

Inside the hangar, the Tempo was docked near the launch bay with its boarding ramp lowered to the ground. Good to see Rico wasn't a complete idiot, but there was still a thick fueling line connected to the coupler on the aft side of the ship, which was going to be a big pain in their afts if they needed to disembark in a hurry. Jesus Christ.

Behind him, the hangar doors slid open again. 

Jazz turned, leveling a pointed look at the mechanimal in front of him. “If you blew my cover, I’m going to be really annoyed.” 

Ravage padded silently into the hangar, tail whipping gently in the air. As soon as she passed the threshold, the doors slid shut behind her again. The mechanimal had changed her appearance since last Jazz saw her — the sharp, silver panels and single red optic were gone, replaced by a sleeker, darker build. Very Old School Functionist Chic, Jazz thought.

“If Sentinel Prime’s security didn’t tag you at Caminus station, then I doubt you have cause for concern now,” she rumbled, smoothly. 

Jazz’s situational analysis programs pinged in alarm — with effort, he shunted them aside. Ravage wasn’t a reconnaissance agent. She wouldn’t be scouting this far from the Nemesis without a damn good cause. 

“Well then, what’s new, pussycat?” he asked, lightly. 

Rather than reply, Ravage sat on her haunches, her thick, coiled tail curling around her paws. A moment later, a connection request blinked onto Jazz’s visual display, sender unknown. He gave it a cursory glance, before tipping his head to peer at her. 

“Care to tell me what this is all about?”

“My Master bade me deliver this to you,” Ravage rumbled. “I think you’ll find it interesting.” 

Jazz hesitated, eyeing the request blinking on his display. Despite the coup, despite the armistice, despite the last four years — Soundwave was a Decepticon, through and through. Jazz didn’t know his angle yet, but he knew there was one. Still… intelligence was intelligence. With a sigh, he keyed up his defensive countermeasures and accepted the connection request. A flurry of handshake protocols, status pings, and identifiers passed between them, real formal and polite-like, and then a notification of a pending transfer appeared on his visual display. 

Jazz scanned the file, before digging through its metadata. It was a hefty packet — large enough to contain some pretty nasty malware, as a matter of fact. 

“If this is a trojan, I’m gonna hack the Nemesis to play Baby Shark on repeat until Starscream kills Sounders himself,” he informed her, tone light. 

Ravage watched him with unblinking optics. “If that’s a trojan, then we both have bigger things to worry about,” she rumbled. 

Jazz snorted softly. To the best of his analysis, the file was clean — though, not for the first time, he wished Prowler were here. The tactician’s threat assessment programs were leagues better than his. Still, Jazz was no slouch, and if Soundwave was willing to send one of his cassettes to deliver the package, then it must be something both sensitive and urgent. 

Shaking his head slightly, Jazz ex-vented a sharp breath and decrypted the data packet. 

Immediately, a long list of file names began streaming down his HUD, organized by size and tagged with a date and time stamp. Jazz frowned a little. They all appeared to be some kind of audio-visual file, but he wasn’t familiar with the file type. Picking the first one on the list, he scanned the file out of habit and opened it. 

Suddenly, Jazz found himself dropped in the middle of a memory.

Proteus watched Sentinel Prime’s speech in front of the Caminus Temple with grudging admiration. The wizened old Prime could command the common rabble unlike any noble he’d ever met. As Sentinel began talking about the Decepticon horde, Proteus angled his helm slightly to regard the crowd. The Neutrals were watching him speak with rapt attention — some with joy, others with reverence, others still with suspicion or skepticism. Turning back to the dais, Proteus couldn’t resist the smile that curved his mouthplates. He did so enjoy when well-laid plans came together. 

Jazz found himself back in his own processors as the memory datum ended. Frowning deeply, he gave Ravage a hard look. “What in the Pits is this?” 

Ravage stared back at him unblinkingly. “The answers we've been searching for.” 

Jazz’s frown deepened as he replayed the file. It was definitely a memory datum — but it wasn’t Proteus’ memory datum. Cautiously, Jazz opened a file further down the list. 

Proteus leaned back in his chair and took an unhurried drink of energon. The back wall of his office was filled with screens displaying tactical data on the Autobot fleet — troop numbers, force structure, command hierarchy, capabilities, and readiness. All of it laid out in plain detail, organized by sector.

“We’ll need to secure the Hadean sector first,” he rumbled. “Sentinel doesn’t have the numbers to manage it alone. The Third and Fifth fleets can be repositioned with minimal effort.”

“Will they obey orders?”

Proteus shrugged. “I’ve prepared a list of loyalists for reassignment. Once the commanders are removed, the rest won’t be an issue.” He slid a datapad across the desk. “I’ve also taken the liberty of suggesting some replacements.”

An indigo servo reached forward to pick up the data pad that Proteus had slid across the table. “And the remaining Autobot forces in this sector?”

Proteus lifted the energon cube again, voice steady. “The First, Second, and Fourth fleets are deployed as instructed. They’ll bear the heaviest fighting — and the heaviest losses. Autobot intelligence estimates Decepticon strength in this sector at forty to sixty thousand. Simulations of a direct assault project thirty to forty thousand casualties. A steep cost — but strategically decisive. Afterward, neither side will remain capable of posing a significant threat.” 

“Sentinel desires as few builder-caste deaths as possible,” he was reminded.

“I am aware,” Proteus returned coolly. “Anyone Sentinel might find useful has already been reassigned. The First, Second, and Fourth fleets are mostly Autobot rabble — their deaths will be no great loss.” He paused. “A few hundred upper-caste mecha remain with the fleet, but their removal wasn’t possible.”

“A regrettable tragedy.”

Proteus smirked and finished the rest of his energon. Tragedy was an overstatement — there was no one of note left in the fleet. Some members of minor houses, a dozen landed gentry, a disgraced Senator, and a few Seeker trines of no great renown. Their deaths wouldn’t even merit a footnote in the annals of history.

“Inform His Grace that operations are on schedule,” he rumbled, setting aside the empty energon cube. A servant stepped forward, head lowered and posture inoffensive, to take it away. “I await his next command.”

Vector angled his head, watching the servant as she carried the energon cube to the sideboard, before turning his attention back to Proteus. “In all things, I obey,” he rumbled. 

Jazz jerked back to himself in disbelief. The memory datum clearly identified the indigo colored mechanoid as Vector, but that wasn’t the designation Jazz knew him by. 

“Tell me this ain’t the same Vector who commissioned the contract,” he managed. 

Ravage stared back at him, expression unreadable. “I wish I could,” she rumbled. 

Jazz’s fuel lines ran cold as he rewatched the memory datum again. Vector — Sigil — looked different than the last time Jazz saw him, but there was no mistaking the indigo colored paneling or the frame-type, even with the different kibble. 

Mother- fucker.

“Sigil is Sentinel’s slave coded mecha,” Jazz realized, before dawning horror made his spark twist painfully inside his chassis. No wonder Sentinel was so eager to have Sigil assigned to Sam. “Primus… are you tellin’ me that Sentinel commissioned the contract on Sam?” 

“That’s what the evidence suggests, yes,” Ravage replied. 

Jazz frowned deeply as he started piecing all of the pieces of information together. “But that doesn’t make any sense. If Sentinel wanted the kid dead, then Sigil could make it happen, easy — an accident, a poisoning, hell, Sentinel could command him to kill the kid himself. Why go through all the trouble of contracting an assassin? A famous one at that. That’s witnesses, a papertrail, evidence. ” 

Ravage regarded him closely, her expression unreadable. “Oh, Jazz,” she ex-vented softly. “You should know by now that Sentinel Prime has machinations within machinations. The goal wasn't  Sam's death —  the goal was to have the Allspark vessel under Sentinel's complete control.” The mechanimal shook her head, before pushing to her feet. “I don’t know when we’ll see each other again. Watch the remaining files. Learn all that Sentinel Prime has done — and when the time comes, remember who your real enemies are.” 

 

---

 

Whatever else Sam thought about Sentinel Prime’s tendency towards material excess, he couldn’t deny a fondness for the crystal gardens. 

In the evenings, Sam wandered along the wide paths, lost in thought. The garden was unlike any arboretum or biosphere on Earth, but it somehow evoked the same quiet serenity. Sam learned that the crystals grew in different arrangements, depending on their internal structure, the ambient temperature, and the way they were pruned. Some were upright and thin, like Italian Cypress or Juniper, while others grew thicker and wider. The thicker the crystal, Sam also learned, the deeper the resonant hum it emitted. Sam would sit for hours, reading or relaxing, listening to the crystals as they sang. 

It was very peaceful. 

So naturally, when Rumble pestered him to go somewhere interesting, Sam’s first thought was the crystal gardens. 

“Don’t touch anything,” Sam warned, climbing out of Bumblebee’s cabin. 

“I won’t,” Rumble promises, trotting towards the path that led away from the entryway. 

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was sometimes easy to forget that Rumble was almost nine hundred years older than him. Shutting Bumblebee’s door, he gave his bonded a wry look. “We won’t be long.” 

“Do you want us to wait here?” Bumblebee asked, dryly. Behind him, Cliffjumper, Trailbreaker, and Sigil were parked just inside the garden entrance. 

Sam turned, glancing towards the path — Rumble was already nowhere to be seen. “Uh, whatever you think,” he said, before jerking his thumb towards the pathway. “I gotta go find him.” 

As Sam hurried to catch up with the little mechin, Bumblebee flashed his high beams in farewell. Sam brushed against him, letting fondness and exasperation and amusement leak across their bond space. He’d only known Rumble for a few months, and he was already attached — even though the little glitch could drive him up the wall at times. Sam made his way deeper into the gardens, passing a small group of nobles sitting together in the first pavilion. In unison, all three rose to their pedes and bowed deeply at the waist. Sam inclined his head, just as he’d been taught, and continued on without stopping. 

“Rumble?” he called out as he rounded the next bend to find the path empty. He frowned. There was no sign of the little mechin anywhere. “Where are you?” 

A scuttling sound had Sam’s head snapping around. The path had opened onto a large rest area with four semi-circular benches arranged around a tall fountain. The fountain rose in multiple tiers of white stone, each basin spilling water into the one below. Atop the structure stood an imposing mechanoid, sculpted from silver metal, its angular form gleaming in the overhead light.

“Rumble, so help me God,” Sam warned, “If you break something, I’m going to wring your neck.” 

Suddenly, Rumble popped up from behind a crystal cluster less than an arms-length away. Sam startled badly, almost landing flat on his ass in the process. “And what’s that gonna do? Your grip strength is embarrassing.” 

Recovering from his surprise, Sam gave the little mechin an exasperated look. “Don’t jump out at me like that. You almost gave me a heart attack.” 

Rumble rolled his eyes — or tried to, anyway. His optics were immobile. “Your species is so fleshy. I mean, you’re organic, so you’re obviously fleshy, but you’re like… really fleshy.” 

Sam rolled his eyes, just because he could, before starting off down the path. Behind him, he could hear Rumble scrambling to catch up. “Stop disparaging my species.” 

“Hey, you’re not so bad,” Rumble said as he fell into step at Sam’s side. “I’ve met worse. Like, this one time, Soundwave was stationed on this dirty little mudball in the Iron Verge. One of the local species was this semi-aquatic organic type. They lived in swampy areas of the planet, so their skin secreted this slime that was mostly mucus, short-chain fatty acids, and bacteria. Pits alive, you wouldn’t believe the smell.” Rumble offered him a reassuring smile. “You mostly smell okay.” 

Sam suppressed a smile. “Gee, thanks, Rumble.” 

“No problem,” Rumble grinned. 

In front of them, the path opened onto a wide, open area, with a hill-like rise on the right-hand side and a clear view of the transparisteel dome on the left. There were fewer crystals here—just a long hedgerow of waist-high growth where the dome met the floor, and a few squat crystals arranged in clusters around the space. Sam was just opening his mouth to suggest they head back when Rumble suddenly tipped his head and made an excited whistle-chirp inside his intakes. 

“Hey!” he exclaimed, “Thundercracker and Skywarp are on their way!” 

Sam blinked in surprise. He hadn’t seen the two Seekers in months. From what he’d gathered from Mirage, Sentinel was keeping Starscream and his crew sequestered on the Nemesis until he was certain of their intentions, which was why Rumble had been kept aboard the Gauntlet. “Really?” he asked. “When? Now?” 

“Uh huh!” Rumble grinned, hopping from one pede to the other, practically vibrating with excitement. “I bet this means ol’ Buckethead finally came to his senses!” 

Sam suppressed another smile. “You shouldn’t call him—” 

“Oh shit,” Rumble said, the grin sliding off his face. 

Sam frowned, taken aback by the sudden tone shift. “What?” 

“Oh, shit!” Rumble exclaimed. 

In the next instant, Rumble was grabbing Sam and pulling him close to his chest plates. Sam barely had the opportunity to register how strong the little mechin was when a shockwave hit them both. It was only Rumble’s arms around his torso that kept Sam on his feet. Sam cried out, ducking his head, just as a sonic boom rolled through the clearing, shaking the ground beneath them. 

Forcing open his eyes, Sam realized the clearing — no, the Gardens — were destroyed. The tall, thick clusters of crystals that had provided the illusion of privacy were in pieces all around them. Some had seemingly shattered in place, while others had broken and fallen apart. Still reeling, Sam realized that he was covered in glittering crystal dust. 

“Oh, hey, sorry about that,” Rumble said, a little sheepishly. It took Sam’s addled brain a moment to realize the words weren’t being directed towards him. “I guess I got the coordinates wrong.” 

Sam twisted out of Rumble’s grasp to see Thundercracker and Skywarp approaching at a rapid clip. His first reaction was a mix of disbelief and dismay—he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Sentinel would blow a gasket when he saw the state of his gardens. Then his brain caught up with him: both Seekers were plated in combat armor, their battlemasks down and engaged.

Icy dread shot down Sam’s spine so quickly that it left him feeling lightheaded. 

“Rumble, to me,” Skywarp commanded. 

“Jeez, talk about overreacting,” Rumble snarked, but he darted towards the Seeker all the same. 

Skywarp lowered into a crouch, quickly gathering the little mechin up in his servos, before shooting his trinemate a hard look over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Get him.” 

Thundercracker rumbled something in Cybertronian, something pointed and quelling, before turning to look at Sam. Sam’s heart skipped a beat, before lodging itself in his throat. Instinctively, he took a step backwards. Broken crystals crunched beneath his boots. 

Thundercracker grimaced. “Sam. Please. Come here.” 

“What’re you doing?” Sam managed, the words sticking. 

“I don’t have time to explain,” Thundercracker replied, raising his servos in a universal gesture of appeasement as he slid a step forward. “Please, Sam. I need you to come with me.” 

“We don’t have time for this,” Skywarp bit out, clutching Rumble close to his chest as he straightened to his full height. “Just grab him.” 

All at once, Sam’s blood went cold. “Thundercracker, don’t.” 

Again, Thundercracker grimaced. Skywarp hissed something venomous to his trinemate as his chest plates split apart, revealing a blocky cockpit. Rumble quickly scuttled inside, whistling something cheery sounding as he did so, and then the plates shifted back into place. Distantly, the sound of angry shouting and squealing tires could be heard over the klaxxon alarm screaming overhead. 

Thundercracker hesitated, something uncertain flickering across his faceplates before his features hardened with resolve. He squared his shoulders and strode forward at a determined clip—only to pull up short as a shimmery blue dome fizzled into existence between them. Sam caught the emotions chasing one another across Thundercracker’s face: surprise, understanding, regret… and finally, grim acceptance.

As the shouting and the crash of breaking glass drew nearer, Sam stared at Thundercracker through the shimmering force field that divided them. He tried to speak, to force the words out, but nothing came. Because he knew — he knew — Thundercracker and Skywarp wouldn’t risk a jailbreak for Rumble, tearing up Sentinel’s gardens along the way, if they planned on sticking around to face Prime’s wrath. Sam didn’t know where they were going, or why, but he had a pretty good idea.

“TC… please don’t,” Sam managed, his voice wrecked almost beyond recognition. 

As Skywarp hissed something at his trinemate, the thrusters on either side of his spinal strut began blowing up clouds of crystal dust as they brightened from deep red to off-white.

Thundercracker shuttered his optics. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, right as Skywarp grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. “Sam, please, be caref—” 

In the next instant, the two Seekers disappeared in a wash of transdimensional energy.

Notes:

Author's Note: Hey folks! We're going to be taking a short break from The Lost Son to spend some time on Fission. We'll see you again sometime in late October/early November! Until then, thanks for all of the love and support. We appreciate you guys more than words can say!

Notes:

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 7 of Signature