The first freak-out session came a few days later. Who knew a broom closet would be the perfect setting to break down in a psychotic fit?

What survivors there were-- including, to his own amazement, Sam himself-- had been packed up aboard the air craft carrier and were currently en route to Diego Garcia via the Red Sea, making the week long journey back to the Indian island. Autobots-- the battered, the torn, and the recently resurrected-- had all been granted ample steerage space among the cargo housed below deck. It was the only place large enough for them to move around in. There was always the deck, of course, but after the first night the brass skittishly nibbled their fingernails and requested (ordered) that they remain out of sight and away from the danger of being spotted by the very sattelites that had previously afforded the Decepticons all the information they could ever want. Ever pragmatic, the Autobots had agreed.

The human left-overs were boxed into pre-existing quarters after being thoroughly poked and proded and bandaged. Most were soldiers, and as such had elected to bunk with others of their species. The few civilians sprinkled among them (including a reluctantly rescued Galloway) recieved the luxury of their own private rooms. Though 'rooms' might have been too generous a term.

Sam could pace five steps from the door to the bed, which occupied the back wall, and three steps across the width. There was a tea cup metal sink and a mirror, but no toilet, and the bed itself could have passed for a slab of concrete. His parents, to his mingled relief and horror, occupied the room directly beside him. He tried and failed to force up something approaching a laugh when he found out that they would be sharing bunk beds. The quartermaster had given him an odd look, to which he shrugged in a round about way and studied the walls. Not his brightest idea. There were no windows; Starscream could attack at any moment and he would never see it coming. Not that it would make much of a difference if he could-- the Autobots' powerful scanners would detect the vicious seeker long before human eyes could pick out a spot on the horizon. But nevertheless, he hated the feeling of being blind to any possible threats lurking around them. It gave him the feeling of being trapped in a metal box, slowly sinking...

Most of the time, he was left to his own devices. His parents smothered him for a day or too; at first they merely held him with a quiet, almost reverent thankfulness that was more unsettling than screaming fits or violent sobs. Although those came, as well, and once they were relatively sure that he was alive and solid enough not to vanish into a puff of air at the slightest jostle they started verbally letting loose with both guns. He humored them in silence, simply drinking them in with his eyes in a way that unnerved them both. They couldn't understand, and he didn't try to explain, that he would take the shouting and hair pulling and empty (and not-so-empty) threats over silence and flowers and newly carved headstones. But at long last they finally calmed down a little, at least enough to let him sleep the entire night in his own bed without being awakened by a tousled head poking around his door at three am, just to be sure that he hadn't splattered into a pool of human goo while they weren't looking.

While in some ways it was a relief to be rid of the constant attention, the unwavering scrutiny, in other ways he longer for some minor disaster or other to wreak a little chaos. Having too much time alone with his thoughts was a Very Bad Thing. They kept showing him things; Blood. Splattered gray globs of brain. Severed limbs. And things the shrinks never even considered to spout off about; Bumblebee--Rachet--Optimus--Ironhide--Bumblebee--Bee--Bee--Bee struggling, dying, parts torn away and falling off, crawling, crawling, from the laughing, twisting shadows looming above, electric wails of fear, screaming--

No, the resident shrink they had sent him to never even considered something like that. They didn't know, and he had no plans to tell them, that the whole time he was running across that desert he was less afraid for himself than he was for his powerful (fragile) friends. Especially Bee.

But for being such a large, complexly operated ship, there was distressingly little for a civilian without a college degree to do. And so his waking nightmares began to creep from the cracks in the walls.

The day of the first incident began normally enough. Well, as normal as could reasonably be expected when your temporary home was an air craft carrier and your best friends were thirty foot tall alien robots that had just finished beating the shit out of another group of alien robots to try to stop the sun from being destroyed. So yeah. Normal.

He woke abruptly from from yet another turbulent dream, feeling exhausted. That was the way of it now; nights so full of dreams that he scarcely seemed to sleep at all, and not even after spending ten hours unconscious did he feel well rested. He only felt wired. ...He he. Wired.

To his dismay, his watch read 5:13am. Almost too early to venture to the mess hall for breakfast, yet far too late to roll over and hope for a few more hours of darkness. The numbers glared back at him, alien red, staining his sheets and arms in a bloody glow. Stolid. Implacable. Accusing.

The watch itself was not his, but rather a 'gift' from a worshipfully grateful government scrambling to cover its ass. The clothes crumpled in piles on the floor were not his either, but he would rather wear the starchy, impersonal garments than the rags he had worn when he was dragged from the desert. Once was enough to teach the hazards of keeping groty D-day gear around-- you never knew when a creepy alien artifact was going to tumble out the pockets and totally screw up your day.

Deciding he would rather face being the first one in line for bacon and eggs than another hour or so of staring at the ceiling, Sam rolled out of bed and set off on a hunt for a reasonably non-smelly pair of pants. Brown slacks. Belt. Plain white t-shirt. A bomber style jacket, a throwback to the eighties when (apparently) looking like a dork had been fashionable.

He paused at the door and retraced his steps to the small desk rammed into one corner of the room. In order to facilitate interactions with the litterally hundreds (thousands?) of people needed to staff something the size of an air craft carrier, everyone accompanying them from the Egyptian desert had been presented with a security clearance card. Though it provided no amount of clearance whatsoever, it did prevent him from being tossed over the side on suspicion of being a stoleaway/spy. And it allowed him to get as much food as he wished, no questions asked.

He scooped the credit card-sized badge off the desk and stuffed it down one pocket. No need to advertise that he didn't belong.

Despite it being an ungodly hour of the morning, the halls were far from deserted as he moseyed off to find some food. Some of those he passed recognized him and waved-- he pasted on a smile in return, hoping to ward off those dreaded repetitions of 'are you okay?'. No, he wasn't okay. Okay described the opposite of whatever he was. But of course, he couldn't simply come out and say that. So he smiled and nodded and danced to whatever tune they played for him, praying that the next person to come around the corner would be a complete stranger he could ignore without seeming rude.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to bang on the walls (walls closing in so tight). He wanted to jump up and down and throw a trantrum and pull his hair out and bite his hands until they bled. How could they act so normal? There were things out there that wanted to KILL them, kill them ALL and had nearly done the job TWICE! How could life go on as though nothing had happened when mere days before the entire human race was nearly wiped out? They nodded like puppets and smiled like dolls and only Sam could see their strings, so many strings pulling them through life and into death, pulling them helplessly into death, and he knew they would keep smiling and nodding even if blood began to pour down their faces because that's the way the puppet master pulled their strings, smiling and nodding--

He blinked. He found himself outside the mess hall, simply standing there contemplating a blank wall. Enticing, mouth watering smells drifted from the doorway, but suddenly he wasn't the least bit hungry. Need, nameless, festering need, began to prickle beneath his skin.

Abruptly he turned away and started down another corridor, not knowing where he was going but knowing he needed to get there. He descended deeper and deeper into the ship, down stairwells and around corners, following the siren song of restless, aching need. Only when he found himself staring down the hallway to the cargo hold did he realize what he had been searching for.

Two guards stood sentry outside the door. In another time, another life, the guns they held at the ready would have seemed impressive, and maybe more than a little intimidating. Now they just seemed pathetic. He had been shot at with guns larger than their whole bodies. Their G.I. Joe replicas just seemed silly in comparison.

Not in the mood for arguing with the pair of grunts (trembling fear that he might start screaming and never stop if he opened his mouth) he flashed his security credit card thingy and continued striding towards the door without pause. Just let them try to stop him. Just let them.

Luckily they seemed to have been forewarned that he might come to visit and let him pass without a fuss.

He didn't know what he expected to find on the other side. A bunch of robots lazying around, sitting on crates and gossiping in that dial-tone language of theirs? A giant alien robot orgy? (A slightly hysterical giggle).

Instead he discovered a scene remenicent of the infamous Trashing Of The Backyard night; a veritable truck stop. He hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he was interuptting their recharge cycle or something. Did robots dream of electic sheep?

Of course it had been stupid to think they might be waiting for him. They had just emerged from the figurative pit of hell and deserved a few days to sleep it off without being bothered, not to mention the fact they had no way of knowing that he was coming at that exact moment to see them, to assure himself that they were, in fact, all in one piece. Just glimpsing the familiar, if a bit worn and dirty, shapes eased the coiling monster in his chest that had tried to choke him on the entire walk (sprint) down to the cargo hold.

He didn't want to leave. He wanted to continue to bask in their calm presence, even if they were not aware of him. It had been so close, so close. A mircale, really, that they weren't hauling at least one giant hunk of scrap metal. His eyes were drawn to the imposing prescence of Optimus Prime who managed, even when in truck form, to radiate an aura of power and authority (and kindness, sadness...). He winced at the visible damage to the exoskeleton, sending up another thankful prayer for the shining moment when the alien leader had coughed back to life on the desert floor, resurrecting hope and light with him. He would still have to live with being a murderer, but somehow the knowledge of his crimes hurt less now.

Natural shyness had him withdrawing into the doorway. They were his friends, yes, but they were also nearly immortal aliens with unimaginable power and intelligence. They could smash through buildings like they were cardboard boxes and pull up hundred-year-old oak trees to use as clubs. Their day dreams could probably put Einstein to shame. Heck, even Bumblebee, the youngest of the group, made the pyramids seem like shiny new toys!

They certainly didn't need a twitchy, all-around-average human breathing down their necks.

He turned to go.

"Sam."

The familiar, gentle voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly to face the heavily scratched Camaro.

"Hey, Bee," he answered softly.

Bumblebee. A tiny yellow insect. A talented alien scout sent to earth to hunt down the key to saving his (its?) entire race.

After having recovered from the shock of watching his dumpy old car split apart and reform into a towering robot, after coming down off the adrenaline high of witnessing said car-turned-robot slug it out with a black demon masquerading as a police car, he had actually found the alien known as Bumblebee to be quite friendly. Almost harmless, in a way. He played snippets of songs over his radio, did an endearing little dance and clapped expressively. It had almost been like interacting with a child-- a happy, bouncy, curious little child.

Boy, had his first impression ever been wrong.

The autobots-- and, by extention, cybertronians in general-- were adept mimics. Chameleons. With fours years of experience skimming the periphery of human society under his belt, Bumblebee had proven more than able to adopt the ideal persona to set a skittish pair of humans at ease. Not that he had immediately turned around and skewered them alive to dissect their brains or anything, but by bits and pieces Sam had come to realize that the Bumblebee he interacted with day to day was but an act, a character he slipped into the way he would slip on his battle mask. Play pop songs at full volume. Blow raspberry sound bytes. Bounce on his tires and twiddle the steering wheel playfully. Squirt water to imitate tears. All (or almost all) were actions carefully executed to elicit a desired response.

At first Sam had laughed and played along, thinking he had found the coolest co-conspiritor ever in the form of an alien robot. After all, what teenaged boy didn't dream of befriending an alien and using the super-awesome powers of said alien to prank his friends and take revenge on his enemies? There was also the awe inspiring (maniacal giggle inspiring) factor of even knowing an alien to begin with.

But then reality had come crashing down around their ears, and the goofy (harmless) yellow car changed from best friend to ruthless warrior as easily as flipping a light switch. The battle mask came down; innocent, open features vanished beneath hard, cruel lines, and the playful Bee changed into a deadly hornet. The same hand that patted his back and mussed up his hair burst apart, clicked, whirled, became a cannon that, with a searing blast of torquoise light, blew molten holes in the sides of buildings and other robots.

Not that he wasn't worshipfully grateful for the alien's fire power. Quite the opposite, in fact. Plunging back into battle with the bottom half of his legs missing (metal struts poking out like exposed bone) the way he had probably saved many lives, including those of Sam and Mikaela. But it was as if the buddy you hung out with at school had suddenly taken a hatchet to a group of muggers harrassing you in the parking lot-- terrifying, and very disturbing. The sheer intensity with which the Bouncing Baby Bumblebee had gazed at him after the battle, body horrendously scarred and wounded, blue optics gleaming with an almost feverish passion, and quietly, solemnly, requested to continue his mission of guardianship had frightened Sam. Where was the happy yellow camaro he had tenatively begun to call friend?

After a while the unnerving Warrior had submerged again and the quirky, familiar Bee had taken its place. But he never forgot. And suddenly every song, every gesture, every word held a sour note of wrongness. The cardboard cut-out, inflatable doll no longer seemed real; he itched to peel back the thin top layer of skin on the Bee onion, but didn't quite dare. He dreaded what he would find beneath, or how many false personalities he would have to sift through to get there.

Anyone thousands of years old, not to mention someone killing in a brutal war for thousands of years, was bound to have a whole collection of skeletons in the closet.

As he slowly turned to take in Bee's motionless form, it was hard to recocile the scratched, docile, inanimate car before him with the merciless, uncannily graceful defender that had only days before smashed in the face of one demented robot and literally ripped the spine from a second. What do you say to your savior? How do you prove yourself to someone who would come running at your panicked call and kill for your without a second thought?

"So...what's up?" Not the most brilliant thing that had ever come out of his mouth.

But Bee didn't seem to mind the laid back greeting. With a barely audible rumble he started his engine and rolled forward until his front bumper was barely six inches from Sam's shins.

"At the moment? The ceiling."

The sound of Bee's actual voice rather than a canned snippet of dialogue raised his spirits. A little. Contact with the allspark over a year before had healed whatever damage had prevented him from speaking in anything but rasping wheezes. Like all the autobots, his voice was smooth, measured, masculine. One of the first questions he had sprung on his guardian after the flurry of activity in the wake of Mission city had begun to calm was why, if the autobots were genderless, did all their voices posses a male inflection? The answer he recieved was simple, if troubling in its starkness of preception-- to humans, male voices carried more power, authority and, ultimately, more credibility. The sad thing was, he had to concede that they were right. If Optimus had started speaking with a woman's voice when they first met, he might not have been as inclined to follow his instructions as if they were the word of God.

"Hardy har-har. Like I haven't heard that one before," He glanced nervously to the other vehicles sitting silently nearby. He kept his voice low, hoping not to wake them if they were trying to sleep. Recharge. Whatever.

"There is no need for reticence. Your presence does not disturb us."

Sam jumped slightly at the interjection from the Hummer search and rescue vehicle sandwiched between a black Topkick and a Peterbilt truck. Its dark interior disturbed him a little. Like talking to a ghost. (And ghosts have a habit of coming back, don't they? Megatron was dead dead dead and then he was alive again...)

Then he blushed faintly, feeling stupid. Of course, his mere footsteps were loud enough to alert their audio sensors of his entrance. He also fervently wished he knew what 'reticence' meant.

"Uh...right." Once again, he astounded himself with his own brilliance. Way to go, Sam. "I guess I just wanted to see if you guys were, you know, okay. Not that you wouldn't be, no reason for you not to be, your as tough as nails after all-- tougher, actually-- and that's great because there were an awful lot of decepticons and ancient voodoo robots blowing shit up-- not that I didn't think you could beat them, you guys are awesome, awesomely strong and fast, no reason why you shouldn't beat them--"

"Sam, what is the matter?" Bee interrupted him softly, inching forward until Sam could feel the warm, vibrating metal pressing up against his legs.

What's the matter? Everything. Nothing. No one died, they're all still together in one piece, but it was so close to being a planet-ending disaster that he can still taste the bitter bile of fear, a yawning chasm of hopelessness and despair opening up to swallow him whole. There was so much blood, so much pain, so much fear and desperation and keeprunningkeeprunning that it soaked in like a sponge and won't go away--

He swallowed. Hard. "Nothing. Nothing's the matter. I'm cool."

"I still do not understand the purpose of such a nonsensical phrase," Ironhide huffed out, grinding his tires back and forth, "Your body temperature has remained a constant 98.623 degrees fahrenheight, indicating that no 'cooling' has taken place."

Sam gave a weak little chuckle. "I can't believe no one's explained it to you yet, what with all the time you spend hanging out with us humans and all. Especially the military types. From what I've heard, they have their own language, though I'm pretty sure 'cool' is in there somewhere. What I mean is, I'm--" (don't grimace, don't grimace) "--fine."

The feel of Bee's bumper against his shins began to make his skin crawl. He took a minute step back, relieved when the disguised transformer did not follow him.

"So...how are you guys holding up? Aside from, you know, working out the dents from just having a knock-down drag-out fight against the devil incarnate," he forced his voice to remain steady, keeping his eyes fixed on the crescent of steering wheel he could see through Bumblebee's windshield no matter how they itched to slip away and linger on a certain flame-decorated truck. (--dead dead dead, all to save me, not running even from two, three, four decepticons all at once, a defiant 'I'll take you all on!' ringing out like a trumpet, a battle cry as he went to the cross--)

He drew in a deep breath. Held it, fluttering, in his chest. Scanned the walls, the ceiling. "Sorry they stuck you down here. Can't say I like what the interior decorator did with the place. Still, at least you don't have to put up with curious sailors staring at you all the time."

"Our injuries were, for the most part, minor, Sam. Rachet patched us up, and our internal repair systems are taking care of the rest," Bee soothed, ignoring his attempt at misdirection.

Rachet made a sound suspiciously like a snort. "Still, it will be better when we finally reach Diego Garcia. I do not have access to all the materials I need to complete all the repairs on board this ship, but I did manage to convince them to set up a rudimentary medical bay back at NEST headquarters. It is not as advanced as I would prefer, but it will certainly serve to get the job done."

Sensing an undercurrent of anxiety to the words, Sam could not help but dart a glance to the imposing figure of Optimus Prime. His stomach folded itself into knots at the horror-filled thought that he had not yet spoken because he could not speak. Not quite daring to ask outright, and hoping beyond hope that the other autobots would not sit there calmly conversing with him if their leader were in immediate danger of dying once more, he deliberately misunderstood the implied urgency.

"Are we, like, in danger of Starscream swooping in and taking pot shots at us when there's no where for us to go but the bottom of the ocean?"

Even as the words bubbled up through his throat he dreaded the response.

"No," Ironhide huffed, "'Screamer may be one scary bastard on the battle field, but in general he's a coward. Neither he nor Megatron left without serious injuries, I made sure of that. They won't risk an attack unless they're sure they can win, and with only two of them even moving about, half of us could probably sit out the fight and we'd still win."

"Oh. Well, good."

"'Have no fear, have no fear,'" Bee chirruped, "'I'll take care of you, kid!'"

The heavy, laden parasite in his chest began to writhe and squirm.

"We will protect you and your family, Sam," Optimus Prime intoned firmly, causing Sam to flinch violently in a sort of whole body jerk. He hadn't realized the powerful autobot was even aware of their conversation. But along with the shock came a profound sense of relief. Muscles he hadn't even realized were clenched slowly relaxed. He didn't know much about robo-anatomy, but he assumed that some basic principles were universal; talking = conscious = not-on-death's-door.

Optimus' tone changed, growing softer, carrying a note of solemn promise that seemed inexplicably regretful. "You need never fear decepticons again."

A crushing flood of guilt washed over a mental dam and drowned him in the frothing tide. His stomach soured; he fought back the urge to throw up. Aware of the flushing red coloring his ears he turned to studying his hands, picking at the mitten-like bandage covering the burn he'd acquired when Jetfire had done that freaky light show that dumped them in Eygpt.

He murmured softly, "It's not Decepticons I'm afraid of."

He never saw Bumblebee move, it happened so fast. One moment there was a car before him and the next-- flashing, whirling parts spinning outward; sliding, clunking, reforming-- he was staring up at a super-advanced alien robot (way too advanced to be Japanese). Having reverted to his natural form, Bee lowered himself until they were face to face, boy to robot, one alien to another.

"Sam," for the first time in months, Bee's voice emerged strained, "there is no need to be afraid of us. We would never, ever, hurt you."

Sam jerked his head up, stunned by the words. Gobsmacked that his whispered comment had been interpreted in such a manner, he responded without thinking.

"Maybe not on purpose--"

This time, Bumblebee jerked away from him. And hearing the short, mournful whine the yellow autobot gave, his mobile antenna flattening to his helmet, he felt truly sickened with himself. A large hand reached out to him (a comforting finger resting on his shoulder, hand wrapped around his side and cupping his back, stargazing together-- which one is Cybertron?) but pulled away again slowly before making contact, fingers curling inward.

"No, wait! That's not...that's not what I meant. I wasn't talking about you guys!"

"And yet you are afraid of us, if only subconciously," Bee said quietly, voice only a whisper of sound. His radio was dead. Utterly dead.

Sam wanted to deny it. Needed to deny it with the same itching, burning compulsion that had driven him to the cargo hold in the first place. He even opened his mouth to do just that. But for some reason his proclamation of unwavering faith got twisted around on the journey from his mind to his tongue and became, "Look, my conscious and subconscious are so mixed up right now I don't know what I'm afraid of, okay?"

"Hey Sam!"

For the second time that morning he spasmed as though tasered. Turning on his heel he found Mikaela standing in the doorway looking sleep-rumpled, irritated and utterly gorgeous.

"Um. Hey, Mikaela." Mr. Smooth Operator.

"Everyone's been looking for you, Sam. Why didn't you come to breakfast?"

"Because I was here, obviously. As in, standing. In this room. Talking."

She only rolled her eyes and smiled indulgently, sauntering forward to grasp her mentally impaired boyfriend by the sleeve and tug him along after her, back towards the door.

"We'll see you guys later at the debriefing," she tossed to the autobots, "I have to go make sure my absent-minded boyfriend eats something before all that's left is congealing bacon grease. Later."

Sam twisted to look back over his shoulder, heart contracting painfully at the sorrowful hunch to Bumblebee's frame. "Yeah. Like she said. Bye, Bee," he added softly.

The door closed, cutting off the view. He resisted the urge to bang his head into it until it left a dent or two.

The mess hall was crowded, but not so crowded that they couldn't find two seats together. Unfortunately, they ended up at the same table as Simmons and Galloway. Needless to say, no soldiers had been inclined to eat in their company. Sam groaned as Mikaela began to bee-line for the two losers, tray held like a viking battering ram before her. Catching up, he playfully bumped his hip into hers and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Come on, 'Kaela. Simmons? Simmons? Let's go find someplace else."

"There IS no place else, Sam," she responded loudly, loud enough for the two adult losers to hear, a touch of agitation coloring her tone. With a resigned sigh he set his tray on the metal table top and seated himself beside his girl friend. (..Sam! Do you hear me!? I said I love you!...)

"Ah, look who deigned to come sit with us mere mortals!" Simmons observed mockingly, "It's resurrection boy and his hotty girl friend!"

Sam graced him with a lukewarm glare before turning his attention to opening his carton of orange juice. He liked orange juice. Every morning he could get it, he used it to wash down a granola bar before darting off to class (two days, he had been in college for TWO DAYS) or to school or to Miles' house. It energized him more than coffee without making him spaz out like he was high. His mom encouraged him to drink it because of all the health magazine articles she had read about the benefits of vitamin C. He humored her and pretended to choke it down for her sake when really he would have drunk it any way, without any vitamins at all. It made her happy and proud of him, so he supposed it was worth it to play along.

But when he peeled open the white lip of cardboard he froze. Orange juice, contrary to its name, was not actually orange. It was yellow. Yellow like Bumblebee's armor. (Bursts of energy exploding like bombs, louder than fire works, hot enought to melt steel, valiant yellow melting, melting, sloughing away into the sand--)

"Sam, you okay?"

Mikaela's fingers ghosted over the back of his hand. He blinked, realizing he'd been staring down into his carton of juice for a long time. Slowly, he folded it closed again and pushed it away from him, all the way to the other side of the table. He was losing his mind.

He looked up to see Simmons watching him with a guarded expression, but when the man felt his gaze he returned his attention to mutilating an egg on his plate.

"Don't go all loco on us, kid. You, her, and that jar head seem to be the only ones the big guys trust," he advised sternly, pointing him into submission with a fork.

"Which is ludicrous, considering he's a teenager," Galloway ranted mulishly in return.

"Hey! I'm have you know I'm eighteen. I can smoke and buy a house and everything."

The sallow-faced politician, resembling nothing so much as a rumpled vulture swimming in a garish 80's jacket not unlike his own, hacked at his own breakfast without looking at them. "Oh yes. Because both of those things make one so mature."

Simmons looked at him. "You did go see that shrink, right robo-boy?"

Sam pulled a face around a bite of bacon. At any other time it would have been pretty good. But for some reason, he felt like he was chewing wet cotton. Completely tasteless.

Worried that being caught up in a fire-fight with thirty-foot-tall aliens bent on rending you limb from limb and destroying your planet would cause some amount of psychological stress, a faceless bureaucrat had made an hour-long conseling session with an onboard shrink a requirement for every human member of the survival party. If they had thought they could have pressed the autobots into obeying them, they probably would have requested that the alien robots do the same. (snicker) Sam would have almost taken facing Frenzy again to get out of it. Almost.

When his turn had come, he entered the closet-sized office with as much trepidation as a doomed man presenting himself to the firing squad. The hospital-green walls and musty old couches crammed into the space did little to put him at ease. Neither did the plastic smile of the thirty-something woman behind the lamenated desk.

She asked him his name. He told her.

She asked him about his childhood. He told her.

She asked him about how he met the autobots. With only slight hesitation, he told her. If she was asking to begin with, she must have already been given the security clearance to hear the tale.

She asked him how he was feeling. He stared at her. Then he laughed. Laughed a hollow, sharp-edged laugh.

Eventually he got sick of her trying to pick apart his mind like he was some lab specimen, asking him to just tell her everything like she was his best friend (Bee. Bee. Bumblebeeeeee!!!) and not some complete stranger who really didn't give a damn and whose whole world existed inside a text book. If she could have known, if she had been there, if she had run with him through that city, faced down the real life monsters with him, watched humans flicked aside like bugs with him, screamed for help when none was coming with him, cried for the life of a sacraficed friend with him, then she wouldn't be asking him any questions. She wouldn't have anything to say. Anything at all.

All told, the only thing his 'therapy' session had accomplished was to give him the firm conviction that there was someone in middle management who owed him an hour of his life back.

"Yeah. I did." Sam shrugged, "Fat lot of good it did me."

Galloway scowled. "You probably weren't even trying. It's not a miracle cure, you know. You have to work at it."

His hand tightened around his fork until he thought it would bend in half. He looked up with a half smile, tendons standing out on his arm, and replied cheerfully, "You are absolutely correct. I didn't try at all! Maybe I'll schedule in some accupuncture next, you know," he shrugged again, scrunching up his face in a jovial expression of thoughfulness, "Just to say I've done every piece of useless bull shit I possibly can. I'll hire a feng shui guy right after that to round out the list. And if I can find a carnival psychic, I'll throw him in too."

"Sam!" Mikaela hissed at him. Her livid expression surprised him, but it only added fuel to the fire.

"Don't you agree? I mean, I don't know about you guys, but somehow talking about my 'feelings' doesn't make the world go back to being happy smiling rainbows and unicorns."

"That's it," With shocking vehemence, Mikaela slammed her cup down on the table, pushed her chair back and stood up, "If you're going to act like a spoiled brat who wants to go cut his wrists in the bathroom every time something bad happens I don't want to eat breakfast with you anymore."

Feeling like a runaway plane that just flew into a boiling thunderstorm without realizing it, Sam found all his ire draining out of him.

"Mikaela, wait!" He reached for her arm as she snatched up her tray in preparation of stalking off. Some little part of him glowed with happiness that she did not jerk away from his touch. Sighing deeply, he slipped his hand around her wrist and gently rubbed the dip in her palm with his thumb, feeling her rapid heartbeat beneath his touch. "I'm sorry, okay? What's wrong? You've been wound up all morning."

Shaking her head, she relcutantly folded herself back into the chair beside him, rotating her arm so that they clasped hands beneath the table.

"Not ALL morning," she corrected grumpily. The ice in her eyes thawed with warmth as she looked at him, but as she grudgingly turned to face Galloway they hardened over again. "HE can tell you what's wrong with me."

Looking affronted, the older man brought a fist down on the table. "Now look here, I haven't the faintest idea what's caused all this madness--" he indicated with a waved hand the mess hall in general, "--but I assure it has nothing to do with me."

Simmons, looking far too gleeful at the lovers' spat, glanced at Galloway before raising a lewd eyebrow in Mikaela's direction.

"Something you're not telling your boyfriend, girly?"

A glare hot enough to melt decepticon armor washed over him without apparent impact.

"Get your prevented mind out of the gutter," she turned her heat vision on Galloway, "Does the word 'debriefing' ring any bells?"

Now looking confused, affronted, and mildly distrubed all at the same time, he glanced between Sam and Mikaela without comprehension.

"Well, yes! Debriefing is standard precedure after the completion of any military mission. When the situation calls for it, all civilians that are deeply involved are included as well. But what does--"

Rolling her eyes, Mikaela turned away from him to face Sam head on. He gulped, not liking the sympathy-filled look on her face. She normally only used it on little kids, dogs, and decepticon spies she was threatening with a torch.

"You can't go back to college, Sam."

Never let it be said that Mikaela liked to beat around the bush.

Sam croaked incoherently for a moment, then managed to eek out, "What? Why?"

She shook her head, reaching for his hands and squeezing, hard. "I don't know. I couldn't find out more than that. It must be classified or something."

Feeling like someone had just knocked his chair out from under him, he looked from Mikaela to Simmons to Galloway and back again. A disbelieving grin crept across his face, and he huffed out a breathless chuckle.

"What, is missing the first week of school punishable by expulsion or something? Did my parents not foot the bill on time and they decided to put me on probation?"

"Even those two aren't dumb enough not to know how to sign their names to a check," Simmons sneered. Sam rounded on him.

"Hey! You leave me parents out of it! Remember that rule, 'if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all'? Well, that's what we're going to do here," he motioned to all the occupants of the table with a circular window-washing motion, "Only positive vibes allowed."

"Sam," the feel of a warm body leaning towards him refocused his gaze on Mikaela, "I don't know why they don't want you going back to college, but supposedly they're going to tell us at the debriefing."

Maintaining his upbeat grin with furious determination, he concentrated on trying to breathe around the stone lodged in his chest. Normalcy: college, parties, tests, marriage, kids. Was that too much to ask? Never mind that he'd only saved the world TWICE and all. The floor just kept tilting and tiling away beneath his feet with no indication that it would ever right itself.

"Great, so when is it?"

Eyebrows pulling up in the middle, an incomprehending blink of fathomless blue eyes, and Mikaela reluctantly dropped his hands. He instantly missed their warmth. Her distrusting posture-- leaning back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest-- clearly indicated that she wasn't buying his act for a moment.

"At ten. They want us to meet in confrence room 52 on level 3 so they can pick our brains about what happened and how, precisely, one of the eight wonders of the world ended up a pile of bricks."

"Not to mention, the cat's out of the bag now!" Simmons intoned with a distinctly accusatory air, "Everyone in the world saw that nasty robot piece of work announcing the end of existence on network television! There's going to be hell to pay, that's for sure--" he aimed a predatory glance at a suddenly nervous Galloway, "--and more than a few head are going to roll."

"Why have the debriefing now, then?" Two sets of eyes turned to look at him with expressions that clearly stated when they thought of his IQ, "I mean, why not as soon as everyone was discharged for the infirmary? Why did they wait a few days?"

Simmons took a noisy slurp of coffee. "It's all thanks to you, matrix boy. Those big alien friends of yours insisted that stopping a world wide outbreak of terror could wait until everyone was absolutely positive that you weren't going to drop dead of a heart attack!"

Uncharacteristic fury flooded him with heat. Hadn't he survived this far? Hadn't he done what they could not, without armor or guns or giant glowing swords? He accepted that, as a human, he was phsyically (perhaps mentally) inferior to the alien visitors, but assuming he was going to stress himself into a heart attack was downright insulting.

"I'm not that fragile!" He spat.

Galloway gave him a strange look. "Well obviously you weren't enrolled in a medical program, because if you had been you would have realized that anyone who has just suffered a near death experience and been revived via defibrilator is in danger of a post-trauma relapse: i.e, a heart attack."

And just like that, all the air left his rapidly swelling balloon of righteous indignation with a small farting noise.

"Oh."

He blinked, trying to refocus his thoughts, and his gut crammed itself into a hard little knot as his mind circled back to the one problem he didn't want to feel or examine. Optimus' death had hurt like a sudden hole blown through his chest-- he kept walking, kept moving, kept living, but a large part of him ached and sobbed with emptiness (itsallmyfaultitsallmyfault). This, however, conjured a different type of pain. The thought that he would not be able to return to college, get a degree, make something of his life, hurt the way an invisible fist squeezing his insides together might. Only a sliver of dimly realized determination prevented him from being swallowed up by the pain. Maybe it was stubborness. Maybe it was courage. Maybe it was a rock-headed, foot-planted, tantrum screaming desire to do whatever he wanted to do anyway, government impositions be damned. But whatever the feeling that drove him, it lodged a flinty gleam of will-not-surrender in his eyes that felt dangerously similar to the will-not-die that had only just begun to fade. And if his survival record was anything to go by, that feeling usually caused him to get his way, simply by virture of refusing to back down.

He swallowed, took a deep breath in through his nose, and spoke, "They may have their reasons for not wanting me to go back to college, but they have no right to stop me. I paid for it, didn't I? Well, my parents did, but that's not the point. You'd think that after all this they'd trust me to take care of myself. Besides, since when did the government take any real interest in one person's well being?" He tried to snicker at his own little anti-governement joke, but the attempt fell flat. Though seeing Galloway appear so greviously affronted was enough to bring a tiny smile twitching to life.

"Young man," the politician began, working for a thunderous tone but ending up with something two steps short of nagging, "I don't know what shenanigans you and your alien buddies have gotten up to in the past--"

"Here we go," Mikaela muttered, propping up her chin with one hand.

"And you mind your manners, young lady! --I don't know what rules you've broken in the past, Mr. McWilly, and frankly I don't care. But what we're dealing with here is very serious business! Can you even comprehend the sheer magnitude of what has occured? Everyone knows your little secret, now, and all those taxpayers whose money is going into funding your friends' globe-trotting romps are going to wonder if it's a worthwhile investment! Not to mention all the foreign nations that are going to question if we plan to turn these alien weapons on them-- they might just launch nuclear missiles on the US as a preemptive strike!" He paused for breath, crouching forward to spear him with a well-manicured finger, "So you damn well better do whatever they tell you to do, because it may just save your own life as well as millions of others!"

Sam stood slowly and picked up his tray, feeling as though he had just been flash frozen in liquid nitrogen. His rib cage wouldn't expand, but suddenly he didn't feel the need to breathe. The dark, empty stare he leveled on the petty-minded man was utterly cold. He hadn't hated Megatron, not even after the evil alien killed Optimus. All he had felt was terror, terror and the animal need to flee from a predator. For a while, he had naively thought he lacked the ability to hate. But now he knew otherwise, and for the barest sliver of an instant he hated Galloway with a passion that frightened him to the core. How DARE the man accuse him on not comprehending the danger when he had never been the target of over a dozen enraged aliens that could each destroy a city without straining a muscle cable, aliens that had sought above all else to crush him into a pulp? He had never heard the sickening crunch of bone as a human was flicked aside like an annoying bug. He had never had to look into the face of evil and defy it, knowing that defiance meant certain death!

There were many things he could have said or done, most of which would have been very gratifying but not very mature. But instead, he stated calmly, "No."

And he turned towards the tray busing station, fulling intending to leave without ever looking back. He refused to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him tremble. "Come on, Mikaela. Let's go say hi to Bee and the others."

"Yes, do go skipping off to see your alien friends," Galloway called after him, the elevated tone of his voice causing more than a few heads to swivel in his direction. The hair on the back of Sam's neck began to prickle as the curious stares fell heavily on his wooden form. "And while you're there, inform them that that their days as free agents are numbered!"

Unable to take another step, Sam came to an abrupt stop. His knuckles whitened on the edge of his tray. An anchoring touch brushed his arm as Mikaela pulled up alongside him.

"No problem," he ground out, astonished that his voice remained level and even pleasant, "And while I'm at it, I'll deliver the lace-trimmed invitations to come take over the world to the decepticons."

"The 'decepticons' would not even be an issue if Sector Seven had simply finished what it started with that yellow one--"

Before the words had finished leaving his mouth, a strange buzzing filled Sam's ears and blocked out the riotous noise of the mess hall. Without even being aware of moving, he flung himself around and lunged towards Galloway. The tray in his hands came up, and with every scrap of strength in his body he brought it swinging around and smashed it into the side of the startled man's head. Globs of food splattered their clothes and slopped across the table, the tray following the meal in quick succession as Sam abandoned it in favor of fisting his hands in the front of the man's shirt. Though Galloway had at least three inches and twenty pounds on him, Sam hauled the politican from his chair, toppling it with a clatter, and slammed him into the wall as if he were little more than a sack of flour.

As frantic hands started to grasp his shoulders, pry at his fists, he became aware by parts of a sorid littany pouring from his throat and over his tongue and teeth-- I'll kill you! You hurt him and I'll kill you! I'll kill you, you sorry bastard!

"Sam, stop! Stop!" Mikaela.

Blink. The world came back into focus.

Panting breaths snorted from his nostrils. Icy sweat stood out on his temples, trailed a slick line between his shoulder blades. Little by little his fists unclenched, and suddenly firm, insistant hands were pulling him away, sandwiching him between Mikaela on one side and Simmons on the other. One touch warming, the other repulsive, but he couldn't find the stength to care either way. He was still shaking, still shaking like a leaf, hearing the echoes of metallic screams and fighting the bitter sting of cryo guns to no avail while the gentle, friendly robot continued to thrash and wail, clawing the concrete, but it was so cold and he couldn't reach him and no matter how he fought he wasn't strong enough to stop them, stop the torture, and still the sacraficial lamb screamed--

"If you hurt them, I'll kill you." Calm. So cliched it was almost silly. Deadly serious. He stared deep into hazel eyes widened with fear and repeated the solemn promise. "I will kill you."

Mikaela was saying something, strong fingers pulling at him, leading him away like she would soothe a snarling dog, but the words dropped through the air without impression, uninteresting as pieces of gravel. He couldn't hear her voice, or feel her touch, or smell the raspberries of her hair. All the world was pounding white static, and he was adrift in its fog. The killing rage had banked, but only just, leaving him with the feeling that his skin would crawl from his bones to escape the pointless nothingness fear and senseless death had striped the world to. Crawling, itching, insatiable need overcame him again, but this time it was the need to get away. There were too many people, too many stares cherishing him, hating him, ignoring him, fearing him.

With a sudden burst of will he wrenched himself away from the grasping cage of hands. He pushed back through the crowd, startled when it yielded to let him pass (black gloved hands restraining, throwing him back-- Bumblebeeee!).

"Sam, wait!"

He whirled and fled.

Metal lined halls narrowed before him, all stark angles and primitive technology that buzzed beneath the flourescent lights. His pounding footsteps reverberated from the low ceilings-- the snare drum beat to the wild, fluttering rag-time of his heart. Sometime between sprinting from the mess hall and skidding around the first two corners, a giant magnet of unknown design had started up deep in the bowels of the ship. It pulled at his heart and soul like gravity, teasing him at every descending stairwell he passed, calling him down to familiar leather seats and shining blue optics that gazed at him with some emotion he dared not name. But ever the champion of heroic efforts, he resisted the siren song, only running as far as he could without going up or down. When finally he could no longer hear the chorus of voices calling after him he slowed to a walk.

Ketchup and eggs made for an interesting fabric die. Leaning against the wall, he plucked his shirt away from his body and made a few feeble swipes at the leftovers festooning his government-issue clothes (anything to keep from swiping at his eyes-- tears are like the monsters under the bed, pretend they're not there and they'll go away). Quickly realizing his efforts were a lost cause without soap and running water, he struck out to find a washroom (--wash away the blood, wash it away like it never existed--).

Finding a toilet on an air craft carrier was a notoriously difficult undertaking. But luck was on his side, and he gratefully ducked into a bathroom only two hallways away, surprising himself with how giddy the fact that the mirror was not cracked made him. Definitely losing it, Sam. For the most part the bathroom itself could have fit inside the average closet. Only the basic amenities were included: a single stall and a urinal. And a sink.

The water came out of the tap lukewarm. Foggy memories of lectures on using cold water when removing stains came creeping out of the wood work, yet at the moment he could not muster the effort to care. He snatched a handful of paper towels to serve as a rag, shrugged out of his jacket and pulled his shirt up over his head. Oh yeah. Eggs and ketchup made the raunchiest puke-orange this side of the seventies. If he ever saw Miles again, he would have to tell him that for his next tie-dying project.

He pressed his palm into the soap dispenser. No soap. Uselessly rattling it didn't make any spontaneously appear, either. Deciding to hell with it, he plunged his shirt beneath the stream of water and started viciously scrubbing.

His jacket, crumpled on the floor, began to play 'Shake your Groove Thing' not a minute later. He ignored it.

After an eternity the song fell silent, then started up again. Sam kept scrubbing.

Pack-it-all-in-a-mini-cooper-and-send-it-over-a-cliff, lukewarm water alone seemed to do no more than make his shirt wet and unwearable. He needed to find some soap. (needed to run run run-- run boy, death's snapping at your heels!)

Not bothering to ring out his shirt, Sam turned off the water, scooped up his jacket and pulled out the blackberry vibrating like the energizer bunny on crack in his pocket. Another gift from the government. Not that he had had a phone to get trashed in the fight to begin with, but hey, if they were giving away freebies he was more than willing to take them off their hands. He pushed the talk button and held it to his face, flinging open the door to the bathroom and striding back out into the cramped hallway. (no where to run, no where to hide, 'I smell you, boy!'---)

Ignoring the tiny voice that immediately began to speak on the other end, he skipped the customary hellos and gushed cheerfully, "Sorry, Mikaela. I'm a little busy right now, trying to wash my shirt and all. Talk to you later." Without waiting for a response he hung up. And switched the phone off.

Now, where to find a janitor's closet? He tried every door he came to, finding most of them locked and requiring a security clearance key. Those few that opened lead to other hallways or rooms whose function he could not define. At last, however, he happened upon something that might have belonged to the janitor from hell's OCD big brother. It was larger than the bathroom by a long shot, and full of cabinets decorated with hazard tape and requiring a key to access. Those were towards the back, though, probably following the philosophy that a terrorist seeking them would be too lazy to cross the entire room to steal them and simply give up his nefarious plot. A simple floor-to-ceiling metal shelf held recognizable cleaning supplies, though no soap on first glance.

Sam draped his jacket and wet shirt over a shoulder high cabinet and started searching through the multi-colored bottles for a simple thing of soap. Cleanser, WD-40, Borax, Raid, Bleach, Ammonia, Windex, drain cleaner and so many others-- anything, seemingly, but soap. His skin started to crawl again, adopting an eery paleness in the glow of the single bare bulb overhead. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine wires crawling beneath his flesh. But of course that was silly, because humans didn't have wires crawling under their skin (and cars don't stand up). It was also silly to look at the bottles and imagine them as things other than bottles. Because of course they were only bottles. But this squat green one looked like skids, and this yellow one with a orange label looked like rachet, and the blue windex with its white and red label could have been Optimus Prime in a weird game of make believe.

Where was that soap?!

He started pulling bottles from the shelves and letting them fall to the floor. Pinesol. Mr. Clean. Thunk, roll.

"Kitten-calendar-kitten-calendar-" he muttered under his breath, repressing a hysterical giggle.

Jazz. Ironhide. Arcee. Sideswipe. Rachet. Fall from the shelf, fall from grace. Thunk, rattle, roll.

"Kitten-calendar-kitten-calendar-kitten-calendar--"

Optimus. Bumblebee. Bee, Bee, Bee, Bee. All fall down dead.

"Kitten-calendar-kitten-calendar-kitten-ca---"

His phone started ringing, and the moment shattered. Sam froze, standing on tip-toe to clutch another bottle. Two entire shelves had been emptied; the technicolor evidence (all sloshing thankfully restricted to the specified containers) lay scattered around his feet.

He was almost certain he had turned off his phone, which meant that it should have been impossible for anyone to call him. But if living for over a year with a robotic alien had taught him anything, it was that the word 'impossible' usually didn't apply to cybertronians, especially when the subject at hand involved technology. If they could hack the US military computer system with only a few hours of effort, bypassing the 'off' status of a simple phone would be a cake walk.

Like waking up from a particularly twisted nightmare, the world suddenly snapped into focus around him, bringing with it a bewildered embarassment (when had he taken his shirt off?) and a spark of the trembling awe that comes from stepping out of the path of a runaway bus without realizing it. Pressing his back to the cabinet, Sam slid slowly to the floor, rolling cleaning supplies out of his way as he went. Then he reached up and grabbed his jacket, dragging it over the side and letting it pool in his lap.

"'Shake ya groove thang, shake ya groove thang, yeah yeah!--'"

The vibrating blackberry found its way into his hand. The little device registered an incoming text message. Where there should have been the number of the caller printed on the screen was an incomprehensible string of staticky blocks and glitchy computer symbols. After about thirty repitions of the song he finally managed to gather the courage to accept the message.

BuzzingBee: where r u?

Unable to do more than simply sit there breathing, Sam didn't try to send a response, either to come clean or lie his ass off. Thirty seconds passed, then a minute, and the phone buzzed again. Accept message.

BuzzingBee: where r u?

BuzzingBee: where r u?

BuzzingBee: where r u?

BuzzingBee: come back :(

Hot, writhing guilt rose in his chest and tighened his throat. Fearing even more repititions of the heart breaking plea, he swiftly reeled off a response.

SamuelW.: hiding

There. Short and sweet, revealing nothing while reassuring his best friend that he wasn't passed out somewhere from a 'post-trauma relapse'. Though he couldn't help but grimace at his lack-luster user name. He supposed there was a price to pay for a free blackberry.

BuzzingBee: why?

He swallowed, blinking back tears.

SamuelW.: need time to think.

For a long while the LED screen glowed up at him quietly, blank but for a garish american flag in the background. Just when he thought Bee might have accepted that for an answer and granted him the requested time, the phone vibrated in his hand and the glitchy symbols returned. He would never admit how glad he was that his friend had not left him alone.

BuzzingBee: think out loud.

SamuelW.: ???

BuzzingBee: talk to me

SamuelW.: i dont know what to talk about

BuzzingBee: why did u run off?

SamuelW.: dont want to talk about it.

SamuelW.: wait, how do u know about that?

BuzzingBee: mikaela came to find us when she couldnt find u. she told us what happened.

SamuelW.: so then u know why i ran off

There was another very long pause, then:

BuzzingBee: if u want to find another car, ill understand. nest gives us some $$ to use, i could buy u a new one

SamuelW.: what?? no, B. i don't want another car. i like having u

BuzzingBee: u r not worried i might be a threat to u?

SamuelW: no, i never thought that. im just mixed up right now, b. real mixed up.

BuzzingBee: thats not what galloway says

This time it was Sam who paused to collect him thoughts-- or rather, paused to unclench his fists so that he could type out a response.

SamuelW: hes a jerk. what has he been telling you?

BuzzingBee: he suggested to u that we r dangerous, and u hit him. maybe ur mixed up mind is afraid hes right.

Every fiber of his being rebelled again of the very idea, but previous experience with having to accept the unacceptable tempered his reflex flare of white-hot denial. Emotion asserted that Galloway was a pompous know-it-all who had his head so far up his rear that he could not comprehend the idea of two beings of unequal strength sharing a balanced friendship. His heart felt no fear around bumblebee. Reason, however, quietly inserted that a healthy respect of his friend's demigod power would not come amiss. It whispered that a human friend's goals might be very different from an alien friend's goals, and that in bonding himself to an alien he was entering into a hitherto unexplored twilight zone where a sign of goodwill might involve saving him from a slow death of old age by tearing his still-beating heart from his chest.

Long buried and ignored instinct told him that a lion was still a lion even if it laid down for a while with the lamb.

BuzzingBee: u have nightmares every night.

Blinking at the apparent non sequitor, it took him a moment to frame a reply.

SamuelW: how do u know that?

BuzzingBee: im ur guardian, sam. i never let u out of my sensor range. ur heartbeat is always much higher than it should b when u r sleeping. elevated heart rate suggests fear. fear is caused by nightmares.

SamuelW: aaand thats not creepy at all

BuzzingBee: what do you dream about?

Sam would have thought the answer was obvious, given how much time they had spent together.

SamuelW: u.

Another stretch of time, waiting.

BuzzingBee: u r my ally. my brother in arms. my friend. i will do anything i need to do to prove myself to u.

SamuelW: ???

BuzzingBee: do u want me to leave and never come back? i can do that.

BuzzingBee: do u want to disappear to another country, start a new life? i can take u there.

BuzzingBee: do u want me to bring u a rock from pluto? i can get it for u

BuzzingBee: do u want me to kill starscream? megatron? soundwave? i will destroy them for u

BuzzingBee: i will do anything not to be the demon in ur nightmares, sam.

No amount of will power could hold back the traitorous drops of moisture that streamed silently down the sides of his nose. It was such a wussy thing to do, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care. Restrained sobs tore at his chest as he curled himself around the blackberry clenched between his hands, holding onto it like a lifeline. Wonderful, brave, loyal Bee. He didn't deserve to have the alien angel as a friend, not when he had already failed the most crucial test. The one time he had been called upon to protect the ageless robot had ended in disaster. And Bumblebee had become the living sacrafice to take their place. (Wind sucking him down, breaking his grip-- tumbling, falling through the air, nothing to hold onto, then suddenly Bee is there, Bee the guardian angel catching him as he falls-- they stab him with their harpoons, pulling him down with chains, swarming black rats eating him alive, spraying him with poison-- 'he's not fighting back!!'-- a broken voice crying, pleading, wailing, a hand reaching toward him-- save me-- and then the screaming stops and all is still, still as death--)

SamuelW: u got it backwards, B. im not scared of u, im scared for u. u think i like listening to u scream every nite?

BuzzingBee: not ur fault.

Somehow, Bee knew. He always seemed to know, even when he played dumb and pretended that he didn't.

SamuelW: i couldnt save u. i tried. i tried so hard. im sorry.

SamuelW: guess im a lousey sidekick, huh?

BuzzingBee: but u did save me, sam

SamuelW: unless im missing something, they still packed u on ice and carted u away

BuzzingBee: there r other ways to save someone. i have seen and done many terrible things, sam. i have been tortured worse than s7 could have ever hoped to do. when i came to earth, i was dead inside.

Sam had heard about moments like these. Some people called them moments of grace. Sam called it looking up and realizing there were stars. Reading the lines of text shining up at him, Sam knew, knew, that he was standing on the edge of something so very powerful it could not be explained.

BuzzingBee: do u know the most beautiful thing i have ever seen, sam?

SamuelW: i dont know. a supernova or something?

Instead of a text reply, his phone chirruped to indicate the string of glitchy symbols was sending him a picture. With only the faintest hesitation, he opened it.

An image of himself, as seen from an etreme high angle, flooded the tiny screen. Darkness enshrouded most of the scene, save for a faint light touching one side of his face. With an abrupt jolt he recognized the grassy hill he and Mikaela had climbed approaching the transformed Bumblebee for the first time. His own eyes gazed back of him, full of wonder and awe, so bright and--to his slight embarassment-- innocent.

BuzzingBee: i have known nothing but war all my life. i did not think goodness and mercy existed anywhere in the universe as something other than abstract concepts. u didnt teach me how to fight, but u reminded me what we r all fighting for.

Shrieking, tearing, burning metal. Guns, swords, cannons, fangs. Lies. Hate. Darkness. Death.

Gentle hands lifting him. A reclined seat on a sleepless night. Endless patience to endless questions. Maimed, rising up, fighting back. 'I wish to stay with the boy,' 'I'll take you all on!', 'You are the person I care most about'.

Sam curled even tighter around the shining tether to the alien far below him, laughing and crying all at the same time.

SamuelW: Bee?

BuzzingBee: ?

SamuelW: when we get back, i owe u the wash and wax of a lifetime.

BuzzingBee: XD

A debriefing, as it turned out, was not nearly as cool or exciting as its drama-show name implied. After retracing his steps to his quarters to change into a clean shirt, Sam hiked up to level three and followed the lines of armed guards to room 52. Yet despite the spine-tinging intrigue conjured by the presence of such tight security, the scene he encountered beyond the doorway-- once he had been allowed to pass after surrendering his phone-- reminded him not so much of a CIA training room as a PTA office in a middle-America high school. Green carpet and bland beige walls added to the feel of stepping back in time to the waiting room outside the principal's office. There were more guards here, as well, standing sentry beside a closed door in the far wall. Coupled together with an absence of windows and the empty oval table dominating the space, the room could have served double duty as a Wallmart board room. Or an interrogation room.

Half of the scratchy upholstered chairs were already filled; Lennox, Epps and several other burly military types that could have only been his team clustered together on the opposite side of the table, surverying his entrance with the air of a mafia gang holding court. It seemed marines had a penchant for arriving early. Sam smiled uneasily and lifted a hand in greeting, relieved when the gesture was returned with a "Hey, kid" and a nod of acknowledgement.

The only other occupant of the table didn't seem aware of his entrance; Leo-- hunched over something in his lap, shoulders trembling slightly-- never raised his shaggy head (chia pet...he he) at the sound of the door opening. For an awkward moment Sam thought he was crying, but then a muffled howl reached his ears and he realized his ex-roomate was shaking not with sorrow but with laughter.

"Sam!" Leo jerked his chin in a signal to come closer, "Come look at this little piece of awesomeness!" And his hands tilted over the side of his leg to reveal a cell phone. With a panicked glance at the guards, Sam slid into the chair beside him and pushed the piece of contraband farther out of sight beneath the table.

"What are you doing?! They have guns!" he hissed. His warning went ignored as the exuberant teenager shrugged him off and turned the tiny device so that he could see the glowing screen.

"I happened to have this baby on at just the right time and caught aaallll the action! Watch."

A new window opened on the screen showing a paused video clip. He pressed a button, and the miniature acters sprang to life on their 2-D stage; an inch-long Sam, face contorted with almost comical amounts of rage, leapt at an unsuspecting Galloway figurine and bashed him over the head with a breakfast tray. Leo pressed another button-- the food sucked itself back onto his plate, and sam pirouetted away from the table, back to his starting position. Clamping his lips together around a peal of unmanly giggles, Leo fingered the recording to life again. Scream, jump, wack. Repeat.

Sam's hand shot out and snapped the phone closed around another chibi head-bashing, cutting off the clip.

Leo pouted, but compliantly stuck the device back in his pocket. "Spoil-sport."

Contrary to Sam's first impression, the two guards were not oblivious to their whispered conversation and secretive antics. One had made his way around the table to stand behind them, and the two teenagers, absorbed in their guilty revelry, were blind to his presence until he dropped a heavy hand on Leo's shoulder, causing the teen to jump as though electrocuted and let out a squeal. Sam spun around as his ex-roomate jerked upright, moaning for the other boy's idiocy as the guard simply held out a hand.

"Phone."

Grumbling under his breath, flushed a deep scarlet, Leo reluctantly dug out the offending device and passed it over. Without a word the guard slipped it into a pocket of his vest and strode away.

Leo dropped his head onto the back of his chair and let out a quiet wail of despair.

"Awww man, this sucks! Thanks a lot Sam, you just lost me the winning vid on America's Funniest Home Videos," he paused, crossing his arms, "And no matter what anyone might say, I did not just scream like a girl. I was just surprised."

"Of course not."

"Not only did I not scream like a girl, I didn't scream at all."

"Definitely."

"Actually, I wasn't even startled. I just had to pretend like I was to keep los jefes happy."

"Had to keep them happy. Got it."

"And if you ever tell anyone otherwise, I know what room you sleep in. Intimately."

"Would you put a lid on it, kid?" Lennox snapped, his eyes gleaming the way they did when he threatened Agent Simmons of S7 with a gun.

Leo gulped, visibly backpedaling. "You got it, bro. No problem. Shutting up now."

But Sam wasn't listening anymore. The other boy had said 'sleep'-- present tense, as though when they finally docked in India and flew back to the US everything would go back to the way it had been, including Sam sharing a room with a techno geek who talked too much and had hair resembling a chia pet. Once more his universe had flipped upside down, and even someone who had survived the battle in Egypt with him, seen the very terrors that stalked his nightmares, had been left behind, left right-side-up. Because this time everything wasn't going to go back to normal. He had never bragged of being the brightest student in his class, true, but he had always taken a certain pride from being more quick-witted and clever than all the jocks and stoners and math geeks (and Megatron). And after scraping his way through the remainder of high school with better than average grades he had managed to achieve the previously unthinkable-- he had been accepted to an Ivy League school. That didn't matter now, though. None of it mattered. Though he didn't yet know the specifics, the fact that Galloway had not been surprised by Mikaela's announcement was tacit proof that the government was conspiring to keep him from going back to college. The second best thing he had ever done in his life, and they were taking it away from him. Just like that.

Leaning forward with his elbows braced against the table, he laced his fingers behind his neck and pressed his forehead into the synthetic wood grain (not real, nothing feels real). He stayed that way, tracing the pixelated patterns beneath his nose to find where they repeated, until the door opened again and his parents shuffled through.

"Sam! Oh, we were so worried after we saw what happened at breakfast, weren't we, Ron?" His mother gushed, rushing towards him. Sam straightened at the sound of his name and hitched a smile on his face, docilely submitting to being crushed in a head-hug.

"Yeah, sure we were," his father clapped him on the shoulder, hard, "Did you break the bastard's nose?"

"Ron! You shouldn't be encouraging this aggressive behavior!" She mimed a cutting motion over his head as though he could not see her, sinking into the chair beside him.

"Judy, he isn't Mojo."

"Maybe not, but the concept still applies."

"Am I in trouble?" Sam interrupted, tapping out a pattern on his knee to distract himself from the crushing ache of remorse engendered by their obvious concern. They didn't know yet that their baby boy would not be getting a college degree. Maybe not ever. "Cause I'm sure there's something in the rule book about self defence extending to harassment cases."

"He was harassing you?" His mother gasped at the same time his father growled, "What kind of harassment?"

Sam abadoned his tapping in favor of waving his hands in a physical halting motion.

"Not the kind you think! Not the pedophile, shouldn't-be-around-kids type, or even just the physical type. It was just, you know, just playground bully stuff. Teasing. That's all."

At the tale end of his speech the door opened again and Mikaela entered, sauntering towards him with a half-lidded gaze in her eyes. Sam groaned, knowing she had heard at least part of their conversation

"It wasn't just teasing, Sam," she sighed in exasperation, "Trent used to 'tease' you, but I never saw you attack him like that--"

"Not that you know of," he interjected with a cocky grin.

"--and you're not such a coward that you would run off and hide for hours at the drop of a hat."

She slid in between Sam and Leo, gracing the other boy with a winning smile and batting her lashes.

"Um, I believe this is my seat," she told him silkily. He gulped, mouth sagging open like a fish under the full power of her eyes, but he nonetheless held his ground.

"No way, chica. I was here first. But you're welcome to share with me." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Mikaela bent towards him from the waist, clasping her hands between her knees.

"Let me rephrase that. I'm wearing steel-toed boots and I know how to use them. Now move!"

Faster than a rabbit fleeing a fox, Leo squirted from his chair and sought another farther down the table. "Moving!"

To the sound of Lennox and his team's laughter, Mikaela seated herself in the vacated chair and leaned against him, wrapped one arm around his back. In response he draped his own arm around her shoulders.

"You were gone a really long time, Sam. What happened?"

"I was in my room. Reading."

"Liar." She punched him in the arm with her other hand. It wasn't a girly punch-- his face muscles strained to keep from wincing. "I checked your room. You weren't there."

Glancing around at the many pairs of eyes watching the exchange with interest, he ducked his head to breathe against her cheek, "Not here, okay? Please, Mikaela. I just--" he took a deep breath, "--I just freaked out, alright? I don't know if I can talk about it. Now or ever."

A slim, warm hand reached out to grasp his, running a finger along the web of his thumb in a strangely erotic manner. Then, with a gentle squeeze that conveyed support more clearly than any words, it let go.

"Okay."

The door in the opposite wall chose that moment to swing open, and a wide assortment of decorated officers, suited bureaucrats, and pencil-pushers dressed in gray and carrying clipboards entered. A man with a square block of flashing metals sheathing one side of his chest took the helm. His steel gray eyes surveyed them with vague detachment, his arms clasping behind his back.

"Good morning. I am General Thatcher. Thank you for joining us."

"Like we had a choice," Leo muttered under his breath.

"Today is going to be a little unorthodox because so many of you are civilians. Just cooperate and answer any questions you are asked to the best of your abilities and we can all get on with our lives."

"Wait, where are Simmons and Galloway?" Mikaela muttered suddenly, looking around. Sam blinked, only just realizing that their group was not complete.

"You may have noticed that two of your number are missing," he continued, possessing either mind reading abilities or exceptional hearing, though his gaze never once lingered on Mikaela, "Simmons and Galloway, as agents past and present of the US government, are being interviewed separately for the individual portion of the debriefing. They will rejoin us once all of your solo statements have been taken, at which point the autobots will also join us for a video conference."

This announcement sparked murmurs of fear and anticipation from the small crowd. Some of the tension eased from Sam's muscles at the promise of being able to see his friends again so soon. The fact that Thatcher had not excluded Optimus meant that the giant robot must have been in good enough shape to participate. But it was the thought of seeing Bumblebee, even surrounded by so many others, that made his stomach do backflips. Had it really only been five hours since he had felt metal so warm, so alive, pressing with infinite gentleness against his legs?

Thatcher clapped his hands together, motioning to the suits accompanying him.

"That said, let's get started, shall we?"

One of the faceless gray bureaucrats stepped forward and began to speak, never taking his eyes from his clipboard.

"We will call you one at a time to give individual statements. You are not to discuss with anyone else what transpires during your interview until after every name has been called. Understood?" A few nods, but he continued without waiting for their acknowledgement. "First up--Captain Lennox."

Boredom was a concept not unknown to any teenager, especially Sam. But in the hours that followed, hours spent cooped up in the rapidly shrinking room as one by one the people around him disappeared into the inner chamber, the word 'boredom' took on a whole new meaning. It was no longer only a state of being-- it was a special place in Hell reserved for twitchy, slighty psychotic 18-year-olds convinced, with every passing moment spent in idleness, that a group of decepticons was amassing just outside the walls. First it was merely Starscream circling the ship, demon red eyes peering through layers of steel to watch his heart beat, waiting for the perfect moment to spear it with a lazer the width of a hair. Then it was Starscream and Megatron, Megatron slowly but surely tearing the ship to bits without alerting anyone to his presence, tearing his way towards Optimus and Bee and all the others waiting unawares below deck. The next minute Soundwave joined the group, cutting off their communications so that they could not cry for help when the assault began. Soon, every slashing, raging, tearing metal monster wearing a purple badge he could dream up waited on deck to kill them all.

When his own turn came, it took several repetitions of his name to tear him from his waking nightmare. His hands had unknowingly become clenched together; he peeled them apart, shocked by the brusied crescents on the back of his left hand. He didn't remember feeling any pain.

They lead him back through a short corridor to an office almost identical to the one the shrink had inhabited. Nausea inducing colors, little decoration, plastic furniture. Having watched more cop and lawyer dramas than was probably wise, he expected them to use a good-cop/ bad-cop routine to try to catch him out in a lie. Instead, they told him to start from when he first met the Autobots and work his way up from there to the moment before he stepped into the office. For the most part he spoke uninterrupted (editing out Bee's attempts at match making and the make-out incident with the freaky, long-tongued robot), at times instructed to give greater detail about this or that event. It was rather cathartic, in a way, to simply let himself spew about all the things he couldn't spew to Miles (who usually assumed the position of spew- absorber). When he finished, they started asking questions he felt were rather redundant (describe those decepticons you mentioned again, are you sure there were thirteen?) but thankfully not too personal.

At long last the three pencil-pushers taking notes on their lab tops and clipboards capped their pens and saved their documents, and the men-in-black wannabe proding him through his tale handed him a bottle of water and sent him out. He drained the whole thing before he emerged back into the waiting room.

Apparently, he had been the last one to be called. When he returned he found the previously empty table not-so-empty anymore-- three hastily erected flat screen monitors stood at one end of the oval table, facing the assembled group that had clumped together at the other end for the best view. Sometime during his absence Simmons and Galloway had slunk into the room and now occupied chairs at the very back of the group. He glared at them both. Galloway scowled back. Simmons merely rolled his eyes theatrically and shook his head.

He slid into his seat beside Mikaela just as a techy stationed near the screens began typing away on his lap top, setting up the connection. Trying to hide the damage to his hand, he folded his arms and tucked the marred apendage against his side. More preceptive than he tended to give her credit for, Mikaela saw the motion for what it was and tugged his arm free, pulling his hand into her lap. As the vid-conference screens flooded with light, he felt her touch her lips to the place where he had bruised himself with his own fingernails. The light contact sent a zing of warmth racing down his limbs.

He leaned over to rest his chin on her hair. "I love you," he whispered.

"Since you said it first," she whispered in return, "I guess I love you too."

"Connection made. We're live, General," the techy announced.

Thatcher moved to stand at the apex of the table, centering himself in the black beady eye of the camera mounted on top of the center screen. "Good. Start the camera feed."

The monitors blinked simoltaneously, and suddenly three familiar faces stared back at them, scaled down until each filled approximately that same space as a human head. Sam's heart fell-- Optimus Prime in the center, Rachet and Ironhide flanking him. But no Bumblebee.

"Good afternoon," Thatcher started speaking, tone crisp and business-like, "Thank you for agreeing to this video conference. It would have been rather difficult to arrange such a meeting in the cargo hold, I'm sure you understand. As you may know or may not know, I am General Thatcher," he inclined his head slightly, "I believe we have already met, Optimus Prime."

Sam thought he detected a meaningful undercurrent to his words, but he could not possibly guess what it was.

"Indeed we have."

"Ladies and gentlemen--" he gestured grandly to the three screens, "For those of you who have not already become aquainted with the Autobots, I am proud to have the honor of being the first to introduce you. Center stage is Optimus Prime, the leader of the autobots and diplomatic head of all Cybertronians."

"Tell that to the Decepticons," Lennox muttered darkly, stirring up a smattering of nervous chuckles.

Sans battle mask, Optimus intoned, "It is an honor to meet you all. It is my sincerest wish that human-cybertronian relations will continue to develop with an air of mutual respect and cooperation in the future."

Thatcher lifted a hand towards Rachet.

"To your left, I present you with Rachet, Chief Medic and Science Officer of the Autobots."

"I do not have a full range of sensor data at my disposal upon which to base my conclusion, but it seems that you all look quite ill."

Despite his dismal mood, Sam managed to crack a smile.

"It's the lighting, Rachet. Don't worry about it."

The medic turned to regard him with a look that on a human would have dripped skepticism.

"I am not so green as to be completely fooled by poor lighting, youngling. If I had my way this meeting would not have taken place for some days yet, but I suppose the damage is done now."

Flushing deeply, Sam ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling every gaze in the room swivel to focus on him with sudden scrutiny.

Thatcher cleared his throat and lifted a hand in Ironhide's direction.

"And on your right, last but not least, is Ironhide, the Autobot's chief weapons specialist and battle field strategist."

The sight that followed-- Ironhide crossing his arms and jerking his chin up with a laid back "What's up?"-- caused Sam and Mikaela to curl up and choke with laughter. Leo, Ron and Judy looked stunned and more than a little confused. Lennox and his team just smiled and waved in return.

"Nothing much, man. Nothing much. Been stuck in this room for hours, but that's 'bout it," Epps answered with a casual shrug, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"Sucks."

"After you are dismissed," Thatcher adressed the humans, sending a pointed glare at Sam and Mikaela that only caused Sam's sides to heave even harder, "You may, if you wish, meet the other Autobots on board the ship. That is, of course, if they are amenable to the idea." He directed the last statment towards Optimus, who inclined his head.

"We are."

Sam couldn't remember the last time he had laughed. It felt wonderful, even if it did seem that his cracked ribs would split apart again under the pressure. He simply couldn't reconcile the image of a cannon-toting, decepticon-blasting Ironhide with the jaunty slang of a boy from da hood. (And it tickled him to no end to hear a robot of any description say 'sucks' in that blase tone they used with everything else.) The weapons specialist must have surfed the internet for more common idioms after his confusion with the word 'cool'. At last, however, Sam scraped together enough self control to calm his stomach-heaving peals of laughter into nerdy little giggles.

"Now, on to business." Thatcher clasped his hands behind his back again, stiffening his posture into a more serious pose. "As you all know, for a very long time we humans have been disinclined to believe in the possibility of aliens. If it were not for the fact that the existence of other lifeforms was broadcast world wide less than a week ago, you would all currenly be signing your way through a stack of non-disclosure agreements the size of a phone book. As such, you will still be signing many, many forms before you leave this room, but they will only amount to slightly less than a phone book." The ironic humor in his words elicited a few weak chuckles, but they died at his next words.

"A grave crisis may have been avoided, but the Decepticons are still a dire threat to our national security and to people all over the world. Any little piece of information you have learned may, if spread without check through the community, provide them with the ability to do even greater harm."

"Now, more than ever, it is of greatest importance that we work together rather than at cross purposes to each other," Optimus spoke up, "The revelation of our existance may prove to be either a boon or a devastating blow, depending entirely upon how the world community choses to recieve us. The decepticons will try to turn the tide in their favor by sowing discord, as we cannot fight the greater evil while at the same time fighting amongst ourselves."

"So basically you need us to lie our asses off about how great you guys are," Ron summed up with a touch of disgust. Optimus turned to regard him. Sam shivered, grateful he wasn't the target of that revealing blue stare.

"What we need most is for you to say nothing at all," he rebuked calmly.

"Which is why, when you leave, you will be getting one of these--" Thatcher picked up a bound packet of papers the thickness of the paper back novel and held it up for illustration. "After we go over the immediate plans for the next few days, all civilians will be required to leave the room."

A light bulb went off in Sam's head, and he looked from Rachet to Ironhide with new appreciation for their presence in a meeting that seemed to be more of a lecture than a conference. The soldiers would, of course, need to discuss tactics and battle plans with their robotic allies, and it appeared that the PTA-waiting-conference room would soon be put to use as a war room as well.

"We will dock in two day's time at a naval base on the Indian coast. From there, C-17's will airlift the Autobots and Lennox's team back to NEST headquarters. The rest of you will be put on a plane back to the states as soon as possible. Upon reaching US soil, you will be met by NEST agents who will convey you back to your homes and remain in contact with you for two months' time in case you have any problems or feel the need to report any suspicious (read: Decepticon) activity."

Sam sat up straighter in his chair, feeling the first stirrings of panic begin to prickle in his chest.

"Wait," he objected, "What about Bumblebee? How's he going to get back?"

Thatcher turned to look at him heavily, the same inexplicable resignation he had felt in Optimus' voice earlier that day coloring his tone. "He will be accompanying the other Autobots via C-17 back to NEST headquarters."

"Which is where, exactly?" Leo piped up.

"That's classified."

Sam looked from Thatcher to Optimus, uncomprehending.

"So he's going to go with Rachet and get repaired, right? And then you'll send him back?"

Suddenly none of the Autobots could look him in the eyes. His heart started beating faster, and the air grew too thick to breathe.

"He's only going to be gone for a little while. A week or two and he'll be back! Right?"

"Son..." Thatcher began. Sam sprinted ahead of him, cutting him off with a dire urgency to keep the words he knew were waiting on his tongue from materializing in the air.

"S-s-o that's the plan? They'll fix the dents, make him right as rain, and then send him home to me?"

"Bumblebee will be accompanying us to NEST, Sam," Optimus affirmed softly, voice impossibly soft.

Sam scarcely heard him. Black began to creep in along the edges of his vision. The floor tilted sideways and rolled away from under his chair.

"...But he will not be returning to the United States."

And the world inverted itself.

Many people who met the Sam limping from the Egyptian desert-- covered in brusies shaped like the hands of giants and proudly boasting of two cracked ribs, second-degree burns on his hand and numerous lacerations-- mistakenly assumed that he had only died once. No one but his parents and Miles knew that this presumption was technically untrue.

At six, buzzing with energy and full of enough curiosity to put cats to shame, he had decided that it would be fun to try to swim out to an island in the middle of the lake where they held their annual family vacation. Without a life vest and without telling anyone what he was doing (wanted it to be a surprise-- guess what I can do!) he boldly set off on this self-appointed quest. Though he could swim, he had never gone very far before and couldn't get the hang of floating. So when he could no longer touch the bottom, he was a little scared, but it was no big deal. He was a Big Boy, and as such he couldn't be afraid of anything. Soon, however, he started to get tired and decided that he didn't really want to go to the island after all. He tried to put his feet down-- and remembered that there was nothing beneath him but more water as his head sunk under the surface. Suddenly terrified, he came up for air, thrashing. He tried to float but kept sinking, and his limbs started to ache and scream with the need for rest, but he couldn't touch the bottom.

Somewhere in all of that he got a lungful of water and flailed in panic, turning the wrong way around, going down instead of up. Years later he couldn't remember much of the details of what happened after that, save for the feeling of what it felt like to drown. Lungs cramping, straining, hurting with the need to breathe when there was no air to be found, surrounded by endless water in all directions, water that went down, down, deeper than a well or an abyss, down into the eternal dark.

Now, there was plenty of air. He was sitting in a chair, not splashing helplessly in the center of a lake. But the one being that, like his father, could have come diving to save him would not be arriving. And Sam was left adrift, fighting for air. (please, don't go...)

Back in the real world Mikaela came to his rescue. Features narrowing in tightly leashed anger, she speared Optimus with a glare containing slightly less wattage than a bolt of lightning.

"And what does Bumblebee have to say about this arrangement?" She questioned, tone hard with suspicion.

"Bumblebee is one of my soldiers and therefore required to obey my orders. For the time being, at least, I believe it would be prudent for us to remain 'underground', as it were, and allow the media storm time to calm."

Thawing slightly, just enough to grab onto the thread of the conversation (breathe in slowly, don't let them see you gasp for air), Sam worked to make his voice sound calm and rational. He succeeded, barely. "But no one knows he's my car. Everyone looks at him and sees-- well, a car. Doesn't that count as being underground?" He paused to suck in a deep breath, taking in so much air that his abused ribs flared in agony, "Well, not technically underground as in beneath dirt, but underground as in no one knows where he is or what he is--"

"The United States government," Thatcher cut off his rambling, "Has also requested that all of the Autobots be present for the drafting of a treaty between our two peoples. Would you prefer that your friend be bound by a contract in which he has no say? Remember, too," he continued as both Sam and Mikaela opened their mouthes to speak, "That your perfect disguise has already failed once, to disasterous consequences."

Thrown for a loop, the roaring hole of pain in his chest momentarily quieted as Sam racked his brains for a time when someone might have discovered their secret. He could not think of one incident, especially not one that had resulted in 'disasterous consequences'.

Seeing his look of blank incomprehension, Thatcher glanced over his head and prompted, "Galloway? The file."

Sam twisted around in his chair as the politician rose and transfered the briefcase laid across his knees to the table. He watched, with growing apprehension, as the latch was thumbed back and the lid propped open, exposing a neatly organized stack of manila folders. Although Thatcher did not elaborate on his obscure order, Galloway seemed to know exactly what file he was looking for and swiftly extracted it from under the others, sliding it down the table to the General.

Without taking his eyes from Sam, Thatcher trapped the sliding folder under one hand and flipped it open.

"At 11:23 am on the second of September, 911 dispatchers in the New Jersey area recieved no less that 214 calls from students at Princeton university claiming that a 'metal monster' was in the process of destroying the main library."

Using all the care an antique vase collecter would give to his priceless collection, Thatcher pulled no less than a dozen six by eight glossy photos from the file and arranged them on the table in front of Sam.

Beside him Mikaela gasped, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

Like miniature windows onto the aftermath of a tornado, each of the pictures showed a different view of the gutted library: light fixtures torn from the ceiling and hanging by their wires over dustings of shattered glass; eight foot shelves toppled like so many dominoes, their books spilled out over the floor; balconies and staircases torn into nothing but splinters; wood flooring marred by smoking furrows where blasts from an ion cannon had missed their mark; day light streaming in through a giant whole in one wall, scattered chunks of plaster all that remained from before it was blown into an impromptu doorway. And other things that made him want to turn away and retch-- human shaped mounds covered with blue tarps, pools of blood so dark it appeared black.

"Sam, what it the world is all this?" his mother blurted. She reached out a hand and started sorting through the pictures. "My God, there's blood everywhere!"

Unable to bear the shocked, silent gazes of the people around him, Sam moved to bury his face in his hands, lacking the strength to continue looking at the grisly records of an event that still continued to haunt him. --But then something occured to him, something that glinted in his mind like the possibility of a loop hole. Almost as soon as his hands touched his forehead they sprang away again, smacking down on the table with sudden inspiration. Feeling that Thatcher was not the authority to whom he needed to make his appeal (so simple, why hadn't they already thought of it?) Sam turned his pleading gaze to Optimus.

"Look, this is bad, okay? I'm not saying it's not, because it is. But you've got this backwards-- that thing didn't come after me because of Bumblebee, it came after me because it happened to see me freaking out with all those weird symbols in my head." He twiddled his fingers by his temple for emphasis, striving to make him tone logical rather than begging, "So his cover hasn't been blown after all."

It was Rachet, rather than Optimus, who refuted his chain of reasoning. "And why do you think the Pretender happened to be mimicking someone at the very school you attended, Sam?"

His heart plummeted, though he struggled not to lose that golden glimpse of a way out, refused to let the mirage out of his sight. "I dunno, maybe it way just scouting around, scoping things out!"

But Rachet only shook his head.

"As I am the only one of the Autobots with scanners powerful enough to penetrate the disguise of a Pretender, it was my responsibility once Optimus' body had been secured to return to the school and seek it out, lest it attempt to return at another time-- repaired-- and finish what it started," he inclined his head meaningfully towards the array of photos scattered across the table. "Given my ability as a medic to access the core processing unit of any other Cybertronian for the purpose of repairs, I was able to...presuade...the Pretender to reveal how it had come to your school. Sam, when Bumblebee transformed in your yard to deactivate the protoforms attacking you and your father, someone else was watching in secret."

Ice cascaded down Sam's insides. "Starscream," he mouthed breathlessly.

"No. Soundwave," Ironhide corrected. The way he stressed the name lended it a certain menace, hinted at an evil darker than even Starscream could contend. "The same Pit-blasted Decepticon that discovered the location of the Allspark shard and Megatron's corpse."

Feeling that he was somehow missing a crucial piece of information, Sam glanced at Mikaela and found Mikaela glancing at him in a similar manner. It was Leo, to his surprise, that made the connection.

"Satellites!" He breathed in awe, face lighting up the way a world-weary knight's would upon tripping over the Holy Grail, "That robot-- that Soundwave-- must have hooked up to a satellite and used it to look for any cars that spontaneously morphed into robots. Oh, that is so wicked!" He fisted his hands in his hair and bounced a little in place. If the situation were not so serious, and if his hands were not curling into fists beneath the table with the desire to punch his lights out, Sam might have found the geek-out to be rather amusing.

"Your description may be crude, but it is essentially correct," Rachet huffed.

His father, looking increasing befuddled and outraged by parts, leaned forward and pointed a stubby a finger at Optimus, then Rachet, then Ironhide, not seeming to know who to target.

"Alright, what is all of this about Pretenders and satellites and whatnot? And what about that thing in the desert? Why did it go and kidnap us and try to murder our son just to wreck a pyramid?!"

Thatcher road rough-shod over anything the Autobots might have said, replying sternly, "Mr. Witwikity, believe me when I tell you that the less you know, the less someone might try to torture out of you."

Paling to a stark white, his father slowly curled his extended finger back into his fist and lowered his arm, clamping his lips together. Sam caught sight of his other hand reaching for and tightly grasping his mother's under the table. The worm of remorse weighing heavily in his heart began to wriggle again at the sight of his parents-- his goofy, overprotective, normal parents-- having to deal with a world that did not stop for a glass of wine and frequently did not contain its horrors to the six o'clock news. Two years ago he had longed for something, anything, to come crashing into his life and shake things up a little, give him an adventure to be read about in mass-market paper backs. Now, two years older and a hundred years wiser, he would have cut off his right leg and hand delivered it to Megatron to be able to go back to a time when the most dangerous thing he did on a daily basis was confront Trent and the closest he came to carrying the world on his shoulders was heading a group project on environmental decline ('Take the cube and run!'-- 'I have to get this to Optimus!'--).

Kids never realized how much they relied on their parents' ability to handle anything life might throw their way until the day when those selfsame parents could no longer handle it anymore. And suddenly those kids found themselves very alone, and very scared.

Staring, eyes unfocused, at the white-bordered collage of death and chaos spread out before him for his intimate viewing pleasure, Sam started to giggle. His hands found the arm rests and tightened around them, fingers digging into worn fabric; his lips twitched, pulling up and sagging again, not seeming to know whether or not to smile. Giggle, stop, giggle again.

"You know," he said conversationally, "This is just all so fucked up I can't even describe it. I mean, woah."

Finally, he managed to contain the bubbling outbreak of hysteria and his mouth settled itself into a flat, emotionless line. He couldn't process this right now, so he wasn't going to. "At least Bumblebee will be safe with you guys. The Decepticons wouldn't dare attack you all directly, so I don't have to worry about him getting blown up and stuff-- and he'd finally be able to transform and stretch his legs without worrying about being caught. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm glad that he's going," he ardently refused to believe he was starting to cry, no matter how much he blinked or how blurry Lennox's face was becoming, "I mean, he's an Autobot. He's a thinking, living person who's so strong and brave and selfless that it's ridiculous," (don't stop, don't think, take a deep shuddering breath), "he deserves so much better than to be living in a dumpy old garage."

Rather than acknowledge the way he had to swallow several times before he could continue, Sam hitched a wavering grin to his face and attempted to change the subject. (not coming home to me, not coming home to me-- Bee come back!)

"I guess my school-- sorry, my former school-- is pretty mad at me right now. Heck, I'd be mad at me too if I went and wrecked my library like that-- not that I did a lot of the actual wrecking, I don't have a gun, I can't do that level of destruction," he looked blandly at Thatcher. "That's why they kicked me out, right? Can't have a student like me trailing several million dollars of collateral damage around after him, can they?"

Vaguely aware that he was trembling like an adrenaline junky coming down off a recent high, he tried to appear as openly (sanely) curious as possible-- just a regular guy, nothing to see here, folks. Most everyone-- save for Mikaela-- seemed to be buying the act, no longer casting leery glances at him as though he would slump from his chair in a dead faint at any moment. But apparently Rachet was more adept at judging human conditions that Sam had given him credit for. After throwing a hard look in the human's direction, he curled his fist around the camera in the cargo hold, blocking off the view, and proceeded to hiss an angry stream of static at Optimus. The Autobot commander ducked out of view for a moment, replying in the same series of whirls and clicks incomprehensible to the human ear. Though by no means fluent in dial tone, Sam was convinced that they were arguing. He hated the creeping suspicion that it was about him.

Thatcher regarded the pair of unoccupied screens for a moment as though debating whether or not to allow them time to finish, then turned to Sam.

"And how, precisely, would you know that you have been 'kicked out'?"

Suddenly, saying 'Because my girlfriend told me so' seemed like a stupid reason. He turned helplessly to Mikaela, who turned with a raised eyebrow to Galloway.

As Thatcher's attention followed their line of sight and zeroed in on the object of their scrutiny, the polician swallowed and tugged at his collar a bit.

"Technically, General, I had nothing to do with this. I merely answered Ms. Banes' questions. How she chose to interpret them is another matter entirely."

Mikaela gave a very un-lady-like snort. "Please. If you're going to lie, at least do it well," she turned to Thatcher, "I overheard him muttering about Sam while he was having a cup of coffee and reading through one of those files. When I asked him what he was talking about, he spilled the beans trying to defend himself before he even realized I hadn't heard the whole thing."

Galloway shrank from the cool stare Thatcher leveled in his direction. "I see..." the General muttered. Then, to everyone's surprise, he graced Sam with a tiny smile.

"Despite of the poor opinions you may have of authority figures, son, we are not, in fact, a raving pack of monsters. You were not 'kicked out' because of the damage done to the library. The United States government requested that the Dean cancel your enrollment as a precaution to protect your safety as well as the safety of other students."

"Because it killed a bunch of people coming after me," he dead-panned.

No hesitation. "Yes."

The two distracted Autobots chose that moment to end their furious, though mostly silent, discussion, and the monitors once again filled with their alien visages.

Mikaela, suddenly furious once more, alternated between glaring at Thatcher and the reemerged Autobots.

"You guys are supposed to be super-advanced robots with IQ's of, like, 3000 or something! How can you go and do something so stupid like take Bumblebee away when the whole reason Sam can't go to college is that giant evil aliens are trying to kill him!?

If Sam hadn't been closely following Thatcher's expression, he would have missed the slight frisson of tension that passed through his frame at her words and the quick, almost unnoticable glance he darted at Optimus. Alarm bells started ringing in his head-- what was going on?

The General hesitated, visibly scraping for words. "Steps are being taken to insure every survivor's safety," he evaded, "There are still a few issues being hammered out in the first draft of the treaty--"

"An issue which is neither here or now," Optimus cut across him abruptly, "As my medical officer has kindly informed me, time is growing short, General. Important as it is to tie up these loose ends, we need the chance to discuss our future battle plan with Captain Lennox and his team. If we could continue this another time...?"

Clearly upset at having been so effortlessly snubbed, Thatcher stiffly collected the grisly photographs and slipped them back into the file.

"Of course, Optimus Prime."

He closed the front flap of the folder-- the nausea-inudcing stills vanished from view, as if they had never existed.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Day one aboard the air craft carrier, stomachs cramping from voracious post-crisis hunger, Sam and Mikaela had turned the enormous vessel upside down looking for a vending machine. What they had uncovered instead was a fully stocked lounge that not only boasted of two ratty couches and a TV, but a mini kitchen as well, complete with sink, fridge, and microwave. Not quite as satisfying to sugar pangs as a package of M&M's and a Coke, but the presence of abundant sandwich materials had sufficed to turn them back into rational human beings. Every day since then they had returned when the food in the mess hall proved unpalatable, often cuddling together on the sofa afterwards to pop in a VHS into the ancient video player perched atop the TV.

Gliding trace-like down the hallway, Sam found his feet carrying him towards the familiar hideaway. Clenched tightly in his left hand, dimpled from the pressure of his fingers, he carried one of the packets of promise-not-to-tell forms. From experience dealing with the aftermath of Mission City, he already knew most of what was contained within and as such had not bothered to read a single word of it when the they started passing around pens and telling everyone to get started (SAT's from hell...giggle).

Mikaela had hissed at him over his shoulder, but that still had not stopped him from attacking each page with his pen in quick succession, putting himself down for all posterity under such pseudonyms as 'Matrix Boy', 'Mr. McWilly', and his personal favorite 'Lay D. Sman'.

Now, finally free from the torture room after a grueling seven hours, tired, hungry, and drained from emotional pinball, he decided to go make himself a sandwich. Not that he wanted a sandwich, but making one was the normal thing to do when hungry, and he much preferred the simple manual labor to running as fast as his feet would carry him to the cargo hold, throwing his arms around Bumblebee's leg and blubbering all over him.

Mikaela caught up to him in the hallway outside the longue.

"Hey, Sam!" She called. Ignoring the little voice that whispered to him to turn around, crush his girlfriend to his body and kiss her senseless, he continued along his shuffling course without acknowledging the greeting.

"I know you're not deaf, Sam. I already have one man-child in my family-- I don't need another."

A hand clamped down on his shoulder-- he spun, knocking it away, and ground out, "Look, Mikaela. I really don't want to do this now, so could we jus--"

Whatever he had been about to say forced itself back down his throat as soft, rose petal lips met his with wild passion, a pair of hands knotting in his hair and pulling him down into the kiss. The Book of Lies dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers as his arms slipped around her waste in response. He yanked her firmly against him, clutching desperately at the warm body. He couldn't relax into the moment-- he started kissing every part of her he could reach, restlessly moving his lips from her mouth to the tip of her nose, to her eyelids, to her cheek, to the hollow of her thoat, suddenly terrifed that she would vanish into a puff of air the instant he let go (water everywhere-- can't breathe--).

"Wow, if I'd known you go all sex-crazy on me every time I act like a man-child I would have started doing it sooner," he mumbled against her skin. Suddenly realizing something, he gently tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her head to him so he could kiss her ear. "Now when you said 'familiy', you mean...." he trailed off suggestively, kicking himself when she pulled away in response.

But rather than teasing, her face was hard and serious. Closed off.

"You need to talk to Bumblebee."

Reality-- better than a cold shower. No longer in the mood for kissing but not quite secure enough to let go, he gently guided her head back to the curve of his shoulder and felt her relax there, tension sliding from her shoulders.

"I know," he whispered against her hair, wishing his voice didn't sound so broken, so lost.

"What were you doing down here anyway?"

"Going to make myself a sandwich."

Resisting his efforts to hold her head to his chest, Mikaela craned her neck to look up at him.

"A sandwich."

"Uh-huh." Then, "I'm hungry."

Her beautiful face twisted into the picture of sorrow.

"Sam..." She trailed off, and he realized with shame that she looked like she was trying to hold back tears, "You need to spend all the time with him you can before-- well, before you never have the chance to again."

"I know!" He realized he was shouting and struggled to lower his voice. "Don't you think I know that?" He gently, lovingly, placed his hands on either side of her face, "Don't you think I know that this is it, this is the end? After this it's 'Bye-bye, Bumblebee, have a nice life' and, 'Oh, next time you get the chance to come see me don't bother, I'll be dead and buried already, just leave some flowers on my headstone'!" He gazed into her eyes, struggling for words, hardly noticing as a lone drop of crystal moisture rolled slowly down his cheek. "I'm not...I'm not strong enough to do this, 'Kaela. I have to get used to him not being around. I'm not strong enough to say goodbye."

"Samuel James Witwicky," she murmered reverently, wiping away the tear with the tips of her fingers, "You are the strongest being, human or otherwise, I have ever met. So don't you dare try to get out of telling your friend you love him by saying you don't like goodbyes."

"You don't know what it's like!" He cried, crushing her to him again, holding her recklessly close as if invisible hands were trying to snatch her away, "You don't know what its like to suddenly realize you'll never see someone again, never talk to them again, never sit with them again." Fiery images consumed his mind's eye, showing him a continuously looping tape of Optimus turning to face the descending horde of Decepticons. (--dancing the dance of death with all of them at once, so many (too many) against one and still he fought, still he sought to protect him, even as one move came too slow, one punch to late, and Megatron had him from behind, Megatron with his arm locked around his neck, driving his blade into his back and out through his chest, and still Optimus struggled, struggled against death, all for him, but it was too late and his optics flickered and died, flickered and died, blue life fading and leaving only gray--

"Yes, I do, Sam," her voice caressed him-- a velvet promise, a solemn prayer. She copied his posture, positioning her hands on either side of his head, carding her fingers through the sweaty hair over his temples. "I know what it's like to say goodbye. After all, I had to watch you die," she leaned up and kissed him under the jaw, "And if you know what's good for you, you won't dare do that to me again."

Sam's world inverted again, but this time it didn't send him tumbling into a bottomless sea. After all his ploys, after all his games and tricks to try to keep from saying those three little words, trying to keep the woman in his arms from moving on when she discovered he was too easy, Mikaela had finally told him that she loved him. Satisfied for the moment that he had secured a measure of affection from the girl he was absolutely crazy about, he had responded in kind. I love you. Three little words, libraries and oceans and universes of meaning. He had never doubted for a moment his own sincerity when he silently swore by all the myriad things those three little words implied, but until that moment it had never really dawned on him that Mikaela had sworn to those unspoken things too. She didn't just say that she loved him-- she actually loved him. It was enough to lift the dark cloud around his heart, if only a little. He had something to go home to after all.

Just when he was thinking about kissing her again, a bright flash of light shattered the moment.

"Perfect pose, my man! Awww, you guys are so cute together!" Leo. Standing a few paced behind them, phone held up and at the ready to snap another picture, he grinned. "Two questions: 1) are you guys going to make out, and 2) can I join?"

Seeing the fierce glares both tried to light him on fire with, his leer faltered and he amended, "Can you at least wait to start the action until I can go get my camcorder?"

Sam lifted Mikaela's hands and kissed their backs in a gentlemanly fashion. "Hold that thought. I have a geek to beat to a pulp. Be back soon!" He bent and retrieved his fallen booklet from the floor, handing it to her. Then, he turned to face the intruder.

"Dude!" Leo scurried away from him as he approached, but he still narrowed his eyes in a conspirital manner and whispered, "You and me, we're in this together, Sam. We know the ways of technology--" he breathed the word with all the reverence of a fanatic, still backing away from him, "--Us techy bros have to stick together around the ladies. If you don't watch it, they will eat you aliiiiiiive."

"Well, then I guess Mikaela can have her fill of you after I trash your phone."

Sam lunged, but Leo anticipated the move and held the infuriating device just out of reach. He wiggled it back in forth in a taunting manner.

"You already trashed one of my phones! Besides, you might want to hold off on me and worry about yourself-- you forgot to pick up your blackberry when you dashed out of there like a wimp fleeing from a pack of jocks. Those guys? They are reeeaaalllllly serious about the security thing; they might destroy it if you don't go get it."

Sam froze in the middle of his assault, suddenly winded. His entire conversation with Bumblebee from that morning was still recorded on the blackberry. That someone might decide to read it did not scare him nearly half as much as the thought that if the blackberry were destroyed his last conversation with Bee would be forever lost. He couldn't risk that. He couldn't lose his last link to his best friend.

Abadoning his pursuit of Leo's phone, Sam leapt into a sprint back down the hallway, sandwich completely forgotten. At the last minute he called over his shoulder to Mikaela, assuring her that he would be right back.

Running at full tilt, it only took about ten minutes to make it back to level three. This time, however, they would not let him near the conference room, most likely because Lennox's team was still inside planning on how best to go about handling the surviving Decepticons. A few minutes of shouting at the guards about getting his phone back, however, did eventually result in the return of the requested article. Snatching it from the guard's hand, he turned his back and quickly scrolled through the recorded messages. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was still there. He would still be able to read it in the years to come and feel close to Bumblebee, even if the alien were a world away.

Pocketing the blackberry, he retraced his steps back down to the lounge at a much more leisurely pace. Both Mikaela and Leo were within, albeit occupying different corners of the room. Leo stood with his back to the cabinets in the kitchen area, fiddling with his phone and laughing. Sam surpressed a growl, closing his eyes and counting to ten. When he opened them, he had mellowed out enough to decide that he didn't care what the other boy did. Sticks and stones, and all that.

"Welcome back, Sam!" Leo greeted without looking up. "Your girlfriend dumped that rule book of yours in the sink."

Sam tried to smile at the sentiment, but couldn't quite remember how to do it. His eyes sought out the other occupant of the room.

Mikaela, he noticed with some interest, sat ramrod straight on the couch, so absorbed in the images flashing across the TV screen that she did not hear him enter.

"Kaela?"

Her head whipped around. When she saw him, her face closed down, expression becoming unreadable.

"I think you need to see this, Sam."

He came closer as she returned her attention to the TV. Rather than a soap opera, Judge Judy rerun or a cooking show, she was watching CNN. Lifting the remote, she thumbed up the volume.

"....and authorites are still on the hunt for the illusive Samuel James Witwicky, shown here, reportedly missing for the last five days since disappearing from Princeton University after a deadly attack on the school claimed thirteen lives. So far, no one seems to know who, or indeed what, he may be, or why the creature calling itself 'The Fallen' so desperately wants to find him..."

All the air left his lungs, and Sam found himself rooted in place, unable to move.

He had, naturally, known that practically everyone in the world had set off on a man hunt for him after the Decepticons held civilization itself for randsom and demanded him as the price. But after being caught up in the battle in Egypt and having seen the power of the Fallen utterly destroyed, some part of his mind had assumed that everything would just go back to the way it was and no one would give a hoot about him anymore. Obviously, he had been wrong. Dead wrong.

"Woah, what's going on over here?"

Leo, catching onto the tail end of the news broadcast, wandered over to stand beside him. Seeing Sam's flickering picture thrown up on the screen, he paled, eye widening.

"Shit," he whispered emphatically.

"...just last night, we recieved word from our on-sight reporter in the middle east that one of the great pyramids of giza has been torn down, supposedly the work of the giant machines seen three days ago in every major city all around the world. No live footage of the destruction has become available, however, due to a fifty mile wide perimeter around the sight preventing anyone from entering. The Egyptian government has also been refusing to allow any news helicopters access to air space over the sight, and it is rumored that F-22 fighter jets have been stationed all around the no-fly zone to shoot down anyone attempting to enter..."

"That's not all," Mikaela warned them through trembling lips. She flipped the BBC, a british news station.

"....no leads on Samuel James Witwicky, as seen in this snap-shot, have yet come to light, but the hunt is still on to track him down as quickly as possible..."

Next she changed it to a spanish station. Though Sam could not understand the words the swarthy reporter bleated into his microphone, english captioning made it possible to follow along with what was being said. It was hardly a mystery what they heralded as the top story, though-- here, as with the other two, his picture remained a constant feature in a little box in the upper right hand corner.

"...some speculate that these creatures are not part of a terrorist plot at all, but are rather visitors from another world. Though their reasons for wanting this boy, Samuel James Witwicky, are unknown, many within the population are calling for his immediate apprehension to try to prevent wide spread destruction as threatened in this message--"

A sandwich. Just a normal sandwich. He wanted a sandwich, needed a sandwich, so he was going to make himself a sandwich. Leaving an enraptured Leo standing hypnotized by the alerts flashing continuously across the screen, Sam turned deliberately away and went to the kitchen area, fumbling open cabinets to dig out sandwich supplies.

*Click*

An arabic channel, with a voice-over in english.

"--fear is at an all time high. No one knows what these creatures are and if, or when, they will return. Our egyptian brothers are still refusing to allow anyone a glimpse of the ruins of one of the great pyramids. Some speculate that its destruction is merely a demonstration, an expression of displeasure with how long it is taking to locate Samuel J--"

A plate first. Then bread, two slices of wheat. Shaking fingers pulled open a drawer, pulled out a knife, dropped it. Picked it up, dropped it again. Get out another knife, set it on the counter. Open a cabinet-- peanut butter, ketchup, mustard. Sandwich, sandwich, sandwich. ('Bumblebeee!')

*Click*

Chinese this time. Continuous scrolling announcements at the bottom of the screen.

"--disappeared from Princeton University in the United States. Large contingents of soldiers, local police and volunteers have begun organizing to start combing China for the wanted boy. But so far, no one seems to have any idea where S--"

Yank open the refridgerator; jelly, onions, lettuce, tomato, cheese, ham, roast beef. Pickles. Keep it normal, keep it sane. Just a sandwich, Sam. Just a normal sandwich. (no air, no where to go-- can't breathe--)

*Click*

A dark African man, skin almost black, standing in front of a peeling background. Something that sounded like portugese.

"--mass outbreaks of sectarian violence among christians and muslims in the north, each claiming that the arrival of these otherworldly visitors is a punishment for the other's sins. The only thing anyone can agree on at this point is the need to find Samuel Witwicky before any more atrocities on the scale of the recent happenings in Egypt can occur--"

Can't remember which end of the knife to use, get out a spoon. Scoop out a large glob of peanut butter, slather it on the bread. Onions next, then jelly, and a few slices of meat. Squirt ketchup in a spoon, try to smear it on the other piece of bread, rip a hole in it. Oh well. Mash it back together again. It's only bread. You can tear it to pieces and always mash it back together again later. Tear and mash, tear and mash. (How do you expect the bread to survive having so many holes?)

*Click*

"--no word yet on exactly what has occured to the pryamids in Egypt or where the mysterious Samu--"

More meat. Cheese, lettuce, tomatos. Crush the two pieces of bread together and mount the completed work on a plate. (throw knives and spoon into the sink with the worthless book of papers, book of lies)

*Click*

"--question on everyone's lips is where is Samuel Wit--"

*Click*

"--suggested that now is the time when the needs of the many outweight the needs of the f--"

*Click*

"--hunt continues for S--"

*Click*

"--..'Deliver to me this boy'...--"

"Hey...Sam?"

At the sound of Leo's voice, Sam wheeled around and threw the plate and its captive sandwich as hard as he could into the wall. Condiments splattered everywhere with a dull thud, painting the white wallpaper red and brown and purple and yellow. Without any means of support, the plate fell to the floor with a sharp crack of struck ceramic, though it did not break. For a moment the sandwich hung suspended by its own stickiness on the wall. But as they watched-- one gaze empty, one startled, and one flat out terrified-- it languidly slid to the floor beside the plate, leaving a trail of technicolor ooze.

Leo gaped for a little bit, then rasped, "That only missed me by about three inches," his eyes slipped to Mikaela, who had risen from the couch in shock at the sudden commotion. "Your boyfriend just tried to kill me!" He squeaked at her.

"Then I guess it's a good thing he missed," she retorted, starting forward, "...Sam?"

"Give me a minute. Please."

All the coiling, sparking energy had rushed out of him the moment he threw the plate, leaving him feeling curiously drained and empty. Empty was good. He didn't feel happy or sad or frustrated or terrified or one of the many un-nameable things he had felt in the past 24 hours. Instead he felt suddenly calm. Rational. Reasonable.

Straightening up, he went to the sink and turned on the water, not bothering to remove the non-discolsure agreements fouling up the basin. Then, he washed his hands.

"Okay," he nodded to himself, switching the water back off and drying his hands. "Okay."

He turned, finding Leo still gaping at him, phone clutched between his hands. The coil in his chest wound a little tighter at the sight, but he didn't think that he was in danger of it breaking free again.

"What did you want to tell me? You know, before I took a break from reality and had a spaz moment."

Pressing his eyes closed and shaking his head as if to clear it, Leo forced a toothy smile back onto his face and jogged the last few steps to come stand beside him. If Sam had been in a mood to care, it could have stirred a little pity in him seeing the other boy having to try so hard to maintain his carefree playboy mask (the mask of the warrior, not really a mask at all-- which is real, the Bee or the Hornet?).

"Just this," he turned on the phone and called up a web page through his WiFi internet access. "I saw how you went nutso over me taking a video of you-- seriously bro? the nutso thing is not cool-- so I decided to make it up to you by putting together this little piece of hotness. Check it out!"

The way he had earlier that morning, Leo started the video. It resembled nothing so much as a crudely realized photoshop monster-- the clip started with a cropped picture of Mikaela leaning amorously against a stick figure representation of Galloway with a sign pointed at his head that read 'A-Hole'. The stick figure leaned in to french her, and then the sceen changed to the video from breakfast of Sam attacking Galloway, this time with the little scrawled caption beneath it reading, 'Don't you touch my girl friend, bitch!!!". The miniature epic summed up with the completed picture of Sam and Mikaela together surrounded by little hearts and topped by the words 'THE END...?'

Okay, so Sam had to cut the guy a break. He was trying.

"Thanks. That's, uh....some spectacular drawing you've got going there."

"Yeah, I know, right? Just wait until this thing becomes the number one hit on YouTube!"

Simulatenously, Sam and Mikaela froze into twin blocks of granite.

"...Youtube?" Sam breathed, hoping against hope his ex-roomate wasn't that hopelessly stupid. "You're going to post this on YouTube?"

Not catching the dangerous undercurrent to his voice, Leo scrolled up to the top of the page and gestured to the familiar logo. "Already done!"

"...You IDIOT!"

With a feral strength he hadn't realized he possesed, Sam snatched the phone from Leo and hurriedly removed the incriminating video from the internet movie sight. He feared that the damage had already been done, however.

"What IS IT with you, dude?" Leo cried, wrestling his phone back, "That was my best post yet!"

And the spring inside of him snapped. Sam pushed the other boy up against the counter, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling them nose to nose.

"Were you alive for the last ten minutes, or did you truly miss the fact that everyone, EVERYONE in the world is currently hunting for me?" Calm. Even. Deadly.

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Oops."

Wild-eyed, snorting with slow, measured breaths through his nose, Sam slammed him up against the counter one more time for good measure and then let go, retreating back a few steps to avoid giving into the temptation to do far worse.

Straightening up and rubbing the small of his back, Leo glanced to Mikaela for support. She folded her arms over her chest, lips thinned to a pencil line.

"Look, how should I have known that--"

The phone rang in his hand. He jumped, fumbling with it as though it had suddenly turned into a live snake. After many tries and endless repetitions of "Miss American Pie" he managed to flip it open and bring it to his ear.

"Joe's pool hall, eight ball speaking. How may I help you?"

The response was so loud he yelped and held the phone at arms length, distrusting gaze giving the impression that he thought it was a snake in disguise and might actually bite him. In fact, the response was so loud even Sam could hear it clearly.

"YO, CHIA PET! GIVE THE PHONE TO DOUBLE-OWE-ZERO OVER THERE ON YA LEFT!"

Sam would have recognized that voice anywhere. Mudflap.

"What?" Leo yelled towards the phone, helplessly befuddled.

"WHAT, YOU DEAF O SOMETHIN'?" Skids. "GIVE. THE. PHONE. TO MISTA SECRET AGENT MAN!'

"W-what, you mean 007? As in James Bond?"

"BOY, YOU REALLY IS STUPID, AIN'T YOU? NOT DOUBLE-OWE-SEVEN, DOUBLE-OWE-ZERO, AS IN STUMBLEBEE'S PET!'

"Sam? You mean Sam?"

"UH, DUH."

Leo slid a glance at Sam.

"He's not here. You got the wrong number! I'm Leo McCool."

"NO, YOUSE LEO MCSTUPID! HE'S STANDIN RIGHT NEXT TA YO SORRY ASS! NOW PASS OVER THE FRAGGIN PHONE!"

Leo paled, whirling around as if to discover the Twins hiding under a table or stuffed in the freezer. "How can you see us?"

Sam, looking around at the same time, discovered the answer to the riddle in the form of a camera in one corner of the ceiling. A sinlge red light glowed down at them like a malevolent eye. "Up there."

"DOUBLE-OWE-ZERO SHOOTS AND SCORES!"

Leo followed Sam's gaze and almost dropped the phone. The camera slowly rotated to face them, pinning them with its red eye.

"SAY HELLO TO THE CAMERA, BITCHES!"

Faster than he would have thought humanly possible, Leo all but chucked the phone at Sam. Fearing a continuation of the boisterous shouting, he held it a little away from his ear until a tiny, whispering voice crooned, "Let's talk all secret like, Sam-mah-man."

Shrugging at Mikaela when she mimed asking what was going on, he touched the speaker to his ear.

"Mudflap? Skids? What's going on?"

"Shh. Not there. We got a big old surprise for ya, but ya can't go talking about it with the hotty and chia pet hangin around."

Sam felt his ire rising again and forcefully beat it down. "Her name is Mikaela, not hotty."

"Woah, cheeel double-owe-zero, no need to pop a cap on us. Micky it is for miss hotty."

Resigning himself to the inevitable bestowing of nicknames, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Guys, if this is some kind of a game, now is really not a good time."

"This ain't a game, man. This is serious business! We got somethin we gotta show ya, but you have to ditch Micky and Leo McStupid first."

Sam hesitated, first and foremost because he didn't trust the twins to be 'serious' any more than he trusted that Megatron was really just a misguided do-gooder. And not that he particularly relished Leo's company, but he enjoyed any time spent with Mikaela. And he really, REALLY did not want to venture down into the cargo hold where he was sure to run into Bumblebee.

Sensing his hesitation, they replied, "Ya don't have to go far. We're waiting to meet you in the stair well between levels uno and dos. But ya gotta hurry, or you'll miss all the action!"

Sam looked to Mikaela, torn.

The twins sweetened the deal. "Da bosses been hiding stuff from you, double-owe-zero. You really gonna take that lyin down?"

Remembering vividly Thatcher's meaningful pauses and the obvious tension between him and Optimus, Sam realized it wasn't really much of a choice at all.

"What do I need to do?"

War, as seen through the eyes of history, is the most powerful agent of change, greater at toppling nations and sparking revolutions than any natural disaster or slow economic decline. After only a few short years in Vietnam, the American populice did an abrupt 180 in their views of life in general and war in particular, warping from a nation rallying behind its troops in a way reminiscent of WWII to condemning soldiers as baby killers and throwing flowers at politicians.

But the natives of Cybertron had not been fighting for only seven, or fifty, or one hundred years. Ever since the Great Betrayal over four million years earlier, a slim margin of the population labeling themselves 'Autobots' had fought against the tyranny of the warrior caste who had abused their power to assume absolute control, the Decepticons. For four million years, an entire species had been at war-- the equivalent of 571,428 consecutive Vietnam wars. Needless to say, more than the structure of nations had changed as a result. The Cybertronians themselves, in a desperate bid to survive, changed their very bodies as well, altering themselves until they could blend seamlessly with their environment and thus raise their chances of living for another thousand years or so.

This adaptability, however, was not limited to the physical form. With every new lifeform they encountered, the Cybertronians set out immediately to not only find suitable disguises, but also to download and assimilate as much of the native culture as possible. Arriving on earth, most of the Autobots (and a handful of the Decepticons) had skillfully sorted through the multitudes of different cultures, dialects, and customs to find those most likely to give them an advantage when dealing with humans. And so all learned to speak english, almost all (except for Arcee) adopted male personas, and most acted in a similiar manner to a well-balanced, middle-class white American. Most, that is, except for three quirky outliers-- Jazz, Mudflap and Skids.

Darting secretively down the hallways, cell phone pressed tightly to his ear, Sam knew-- intellectually-- that the twins were merely engaging in a carefully planned act. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not imagine either one saying 'indubitably' with a straight face. If it was an act, it was certainly one they enjoyed.

"Yo! Get yo butt in gear, man! Frozen dog shit could move faster than that!"

"Gonna have ta have to bust youse down to double-owe-negative-one if you don't make like a faucet and run!"

"I'm going as fast as I can!" Sam skidded around the next corner, plowing through the red fire door he had been instructed to find without slowing down. "Couldn't you have picked some place closer?!"

"Could've hacked our legs off too, but then ya wouldn't get to play secret agent with the twins!"

Emerging onto the narrow landing of a stairwell, Sam was forced to skid to a stop and grab onto the railing at the shock of hearing Mudflap's voice both over the phone and echoing from the metal walls. Lowering the phone to his shoulder, he leaned his upper body over the rail and looked up at the endless stairs leading to the floors above.

"Psst! Double-owe-zero! Down here."

Following Mudflap's broad urban accent, Sam found the Autobots twins one floor beneath him. The sight of them crammed into the narrow space, stuck almost on top of one another-- bumping the walls and themselves with a jumble of elbows, knees, hands and feet-- made him sputter, inexplicably amused. He was still freaked, wigged out, losing it, but now he was freaked, wigged out, losing it AND entertained.

"Thanks for the support," Skids, partially smushed beneath Mudflap, sulked at his snicker.

Sam flipped the phone shut with his chin and started down the stairs, taking two or three steps at a time. "I aim to please," he panted.

Stopping just short of the tangled mass of robotic limbs, he bent over and planted his hands on his knees, huffing from the strenuous sprint he had undertaken from the lounge to the back stairwell that seemed (to Sam) a mile away from anything at all. During the last two minutes of his run he had not encountered a single person, and even the walls themselves seemed to breathe a neglected air. Though he could have taken a few breaks, or even contained himself to a jog, he had chosen instead to bolt down the hallways for all he was worth, slowing only long enough to be sure he wasn't about to bowl someone over. Any spare second of unoccupied time, even if it was a second spent pausing for breath, was a second in which his mind started to gibber with stark terror and crushing despair (not coming back not coming back, Bee help me!).

"How did you guys manage to fit in here anyway?" he asked between breaths. He didn't really care about the answer, not exactly, but it was something to focus his mind on.

"Ain't you figured it out yet? We got talent fallin off us like spare parts!" Mudflap struggled forward, trying to disentangle himself from his brother. He ended up kicking Skids in the face in the process.

"Yow! Watch it, ya stumble-footed after-burner!"

A green fist lashed out and caught Mudflap in the side, doing no real damage but connecting with a resounding CLANG that rattled Sam's teeth.

"Youse the one blockin up the whole place with yo aft, slagger! That thing bigger than Screamer's ego!" Mudflap retaliated, twisting his brother's arm behind his back and getting him in a head lock. Even more entangled that before, the noisily stuggling pair stumbled into a wall, causing the whole stairwell to rumble.

If they had been human (or if he had been Bumblebee) he would have rushed into the fight, prized them apart, and knocked their heads together. But ten feet shorter and several tons lighter than the yellow scout, Sam settled for pin wheeling his arms and shouted, "Will you two knock it off?! You're making a racket! Everyone's going to know we're here!"

Still crushed in a head lock, Skids piped up, "Secret agent man got a point."

Mudflap smacked the back of his head but grudging released the entraped arm from his grip. "Suck up."

"Bitch."

"Toad face."

"Aft-kisser."

Only space-faring alien robots, Sam reflected with something like awe, could make an exchange of insults sound like terms of endearment. Restored to the spirit of the misson, the Las Vegas Christmas-colored robots moved with relative swiftness and grace to extricate their respective body parts with a minimum of noise. Their hunched frames still filled the corridor, giving it the feeling of being no more than a rat's hole, but no longer did they appear to be contestants in a Twister tournament.

"Alright. Well, I'm here, obviously," he spread his arms to emphasize the fact, "So what's this 'surprise' you guys were talking about? What's going on with Optimus and Thatcher?" His lips quirked, though this time there was no humor in the expression, "Are they dating, or something? Please tell me they're not dating."

"Eeew..." They shuddered in unison. "Ya fried my processer, man!" Skids lamented at the same time that Mudkip muttered, "Did NOT want that image in mah head."

"So then why did you have me rush down here? And if you say 'Sike', I'm going to sic Bumblebee on you," He paused, "No, scratch that. I'll sic Mikaela on you."

"Micky," Mudflap scoffed, "What's the hotty think she gonna do? She don't stand a chance against da mastas!"

The twin robots cackled and bumped their fists together.

Sam let an eery, flat smile spread across his face. "Let's just say she can be very creative with a welding torch."

They froze, then started verbally backpedaling. "Naw, naw! This ain't no joke!" "Serious business here, double-owe-zero."

"And that's another thing-- why did you nick-name me after James Bond?"

Mudflap leaned towards him conspiritally, bringing his wide head so close to Sam's that he could track the minute whirling of the lens-like rings that made up his optics.

"You, me, an him? We got some spyin to do," he said lowly.

Sam's heart started to knock loudly against his ribs, his throat drying to a desert-like consistency.

"You mean that meeting they're having now, right? You want us to eavesdrop on a Optimus and Thatcher while they're talking to Lennox's team?"

"Them?" Skids snorted, "Who'd want to spy on those dried up sticks? Nah, we got somethin much jucier to show you, somethin no one's supposed to know about, 'cept we caught 'em arguing 'bout it."

Mudflap pulled back, straightening up as much as was possible in the confined space.

"See, right 'bout now that meetin should be lettin out-- that's the end of the legit part of all this mess. The stuff some o dem gonna talk 'bout all secret-like after? Not so much."

Sam looked between them dubiously. "And you're going to help me spy on your leader."

"No duh. For offin Megatron, you really ain't too bright."

Mentally shaking himself like a dog shedding water, he ignored the insult and replied, "Cool. Awesome. Nifty. Let's do it."

It was nothing if not fascinating watching the twins attempting to pose as tour guides. Their size limited them to a very circuitous route through the ship, most of the time traveling through stairwells and corridors where the space between the walls was greater to allow the passage of large equipment. Adopting the graceful, fluid stride common to the alien visitors, Mudflap and Skids were able to lope along too fast for Sam to keep up. At such times-- and when they lithely dropped down between floors without bothering to use the stairs-- one of the other of the pair would snatch him up and carry him along. The gentleness of their hands set a strange counterpoint to the brusqueness of their manner; he never felt even the faintest bite of pain.

The observation of their careful handling lead to another, more unnerving observation-- both Mudflap and Skids were strangely possesive. Not in the way that Bumblebee was possesive-- Bumblebee, who had a habit of appointing himself not only Sam's guardian but his potential-friend screener as well, acted possesive the way a...well, the way a lonely alien would snatch up his friend and hiss at anyone else who tried to come near (my friend, my ally, my-- my--). The twins, on the other hand, regarded him as a cross between co-conspirator, amusing thing, and pet.

When at last Mudflap, who had assumed the position of unofficial leader, brought them to a halt in the middle of a corridor facing nothing but a blank wall, Sam was thoroughly sick of being passed around. Smoothing his transformer-wrinkled shirt, he threw a glance around them and said, "Now what?"

"Watch and learn, Padawan!" Skids reached up and touched a boring stretch of metal ceiling, moving his fingers as though tracing an invisible pattern. Just about to suggest that maybe he had a few loose screws rattling around in his head somewhere, Sam gaped as the tips of his fingers transformed into flat-edged tools resembling spackle knives-- which he then effortlessly inserted around the edges of a nearly invisible metal panel. Jiggling the revealed plating loose from its moorings, he pushed it up into the crawl space above and slid it aside.

"All right! Now we're gettin somewhere!" Mudflap enthused, using his brother as a strangely shaped ladder to vault into the enormous duct.

"Pit-spawned slagger! Watch where yo puttin yo feet!"

As the inevitable hand came toward him, Sam submitted docilely to being set into the crook of Skids' arm like an life-sized doll. Tucking the human down against his armor, the neon green transformer leapt after his brother. One inside the shaft, he nudged the panel back into place with his foot. Utter blackness, like the dark of night inside a cave, descended with moth wings over Sam's eyes, and a rush of gratefulness that he had been picked up flooded him. He would never have been able to follow them unaided in the pitch black.

From somewhere to their left Mudflap hissed, "Come on, rust bucket! We ain't go no more time to fool around!"

And Skids started forward into the darkness. For a moment Sam was gripped with panic, heart leaping into his throat at the thought that the robot carrying him-- the several ton robot carrying him-- was wandering around blind and might, at any moment, fall through the ceiling beneath them (ceiling below, floor above, everything is upsidedown/downsideup).

"If you can't see where you're going, I don't want to know," he whispered to his handler. Out of nowhere, something that felt suspiciously like an enormous finger poked him in the back of the head.

"Say, 'infrared scanning' with me, home boy."

"Oh. Okay, now I feel stupid."

Poke, harder this time. "You IS stupid if you can't do somethin this simple. Say 'infrared scanning'!"

Folding his arms over his chest and scowling crossly into the dark, he repeated, "Infrared scanning," and felt like a trained parrot. Ugh.

To his astonishment and humiliation, Skids actually giggled. "Ooo, Freaky. Say it again."

Instead, Sam made a rude gesture in the dark, knowing that the robot could see it with his 'infrared scanning'.

"Now that is just plain mean."

"Shut up!" Mudflap whispered furiously. Sam jumped-- the other robot could not have been more than five feet away. "Youse both idiots! Gabberin like a bunch of femmes-- we gotta be slick o Prime'll drop-kick both our afts an nail 'em to the wall!"

At this point the vent must have constricted-- Sam felt Skids hunch over him as he ducked to squeeze himself through. They continued that way, shuffling awkwardly forward in silence, until Sam glimpsed a spot of not-darkness up ahead.

Something made a clicking noise in the dark, then whirled and whined like a dog whistle ascending in ptich-- and suddenly a faint blue light illuminated Mudflap's silhouette. Since the robot's back was toward Sam, he could not see what sort of device he held that gave off the light. The redish robot signaled with a waved hand to his Sam's lumpy transportation, and Skids scuttled forward, stopping short of the spot of not-darkness. Closer now, Sam recognized it as a slotted grate similar to the kind found at base-board level in homes, though this one was the size of a sewer grate.

Silently, moving with more care than seemed possible for a creature of such size, Mudflap set down the device in his arms beside the grate. To Sam's punch-drunk mind, it somewhat resembled those tapering wooden towers given to babies and used to hold stacks of rings of various sizes and colors. He tapped the device, gave it a sharp twist, and the blue light flared momentarily before settling back into a steady glow.

"Alright, you can unstick yo lips now, Skids."

But it was Sam, struggling slightly to be let down, who spoke first.

"What is that thing?"

"Dis baby here? Only da best sensor nullifier dis side of da Milky Way."

Skids set him on his feet, and Sam cautiously approached the large grate and the device sitting quietly beside it, vaguely fearful that it would suddenly go Ka-BOOM.

When no more information seemed forthcoming, he prompted, "And a sensor nullifier would be....?"

"Means no bot will be able to pick us up on his scanners. 'Less a course he know's we're here and he comes looking for us, in which case we're screwed," Skids answered, crouching down beside him. The three formed a loose semi-circle around the grate. Opening his mouth to ask what they needed a sensor nullifier for, Sam looked down through the grating and answered his own question. Somehow, they had ended up in a vent overlooking a hidden corner of the cargo bay. Fifty feet beneath them sat Optimus in truck mode, neither moving nor speaking nor doing anything mildly note-worthy.

Somehow he knew, without being told, that they were waiting for someone else to arrive.

"And you're sure he doesn't know we're here? He's not like, you know, snickering at us and waiting until our backs are turned to jump up and cut the floor out from under us with that glowing sword of his?"

Skids waved him off. "Not a chance, double-oh-zero. We's slick as black ice-- ain't no one knows where we at."

"I hope you're right," Sam muttered to himself under his breath.

"Oo! Dis side give ya the best shot of the action-- get over here!" Interjected Mudflap excitedly.

The red robot reached for him. Sam could not help the animal reflex that screamed Dark! and Wantstoeatme! that caused him to flinch away slightly. But before the orangy-red appendage could pick him up, two hands closed around his rib cage from behind and lifted him up and away. Skid held him at arms length away from Mudflap, using a foot to the face to hold the other Autobot at bay as he attempted to lunge across the grating.

"My human! Go find ya own!" And skids made a noise very similiar to a defiant raspberrry.

Torn between fuming in outrage and slapping a hand over his face in exasperation, Sam glanced back down through the grating to check on Optimus (just in case)-- and saw Thatcher rapidly approaching the disguised alien leader.

"Enough!" He snapped, pointing down at the scene far below when both twins looked at him in confusion. Abadoning their fight as though it had never taken place, Skids and Mudflap straightened up and leapt lithely back to their places, Skids taking the time to set Sam back beside the grate from where he had snatched him.

Holding his breath, Sam leaned forward to peer through the slatted bars, feeling the two aliens do the same on either side of him.

Looking as stiffly enraged as a man can look when viewed from above, Thatcher stalked towards the parked Peterbilt. His polished shoes tapped out a staccato rythm on the metal planking. Surprisingly enough, he came sans briefcase or clipboard (or a helper bearing the two items), carrying with him only an air of crackling frustration tinted with a kind of helpless resignation. It was like watching a kid jump into a boxing ring with the heavy weight camp-- the kid knew he was going to lose, and that fact frustrated him all the more, fueling his defiance. The feeling was a familiar one to Sam. (No where to run, no where to hide, a metal demon stalking towards him-- give me the cube, boy!)

"You are the most stubborn jackass I have ever met," Thatcher stated with authority to the silent truck.

Sam choked on air; Skids pounded him on the back.

In any other scenario, telling a driver-less truck that it was a jackass would be ample reason to stick the name-caller in the looney bin on suspicion of drunkeness. But the incident unfolding in the cargo bay was not any other scenario-- the truck, despite appearences, was not inanimate, and Thatcher was as stone cold sober as a priest on Sunday.

The highly decorated General stopped ten feet from Optimus' front bumper, clasping his hands behind his back. As serene as ever, Optimus did not rise to the taunt.

"Some would consider that a compliment, General."

"But you know damn well it isn't, so I say again: You are one stubborn SOB," He grunted, "I'll have you know you've gotten Washington stirred up like a nest of angry hornets over this. I had to turn off my phone so I wouldn't have to hear a million repetitions of the same old questions."

To Sam's surprise, Optimus rumbled in a way that could have been a laugh.

"I have full confidence in your ability to handle it."

"Yeah, well I don't," Thatcher refuted. He ran a hand through his hair, just as if he were a little bit nervous, "I don't have the authority to do what you're asking-- Hell, I don't have the political pull to even get one foot in the door with this!"

"But it must be done, General," Optimus' voice, though soft, held a steely note of resolution. Determination. Like granite. "And it must be done soon, before we dock in India. I have no desire to cause an international incident by being charged with kidnapping."

Sam's heart missed a beat, stuttered, and picked up in double time, thudding so quickly that it hurt. He leaned down until his forehead rested on the grating, hooking his fingers around the slats. (Breathe, remember to breathe)

"Which is why I had to ask the slimey bastard for his help, as much as I might wish to throw him over the side. He has the connections and the know-how you need if you're so damned determined to do this thing.

"I am," Optimus affirmed, then hesitated. "Although the fact that he has demonstrated considerable animostiy towards us in the past seems to indicate that he would be unwilling to help us now."

"Us? What 'us'? This is your problem, Prime-- your quest, your shitstorm."

There was a long pause, then; "You are not as hard-hearted as you would like me to believe."

Thatcher swore vehemently, using vocabulary so colorful that he must have been a sailor earlier in life.

"Look, I'm not saying I agree with you or what you're doing....but in the interests of diplomacy, I know a few marines that are good at keeping their mouths shut if I need to dangle him over the side as presuasion."

"I thank you," Optimus answered the unspoken affirmation of support.

"What on God's green earth are you up to now, Prime?" An angry voice called from somewhere out of sight, swiftly growing in volume to accompany the approaching rat-a-tat of another pair of shoes. Sam recognized the second man by his voice long before he strutted into view-- Galloway. Unlike Thatcher, Galloway carried a bulging briefcase in one hand and a wad of files in the other, files which he was currently involved in waving angrily through the air. "General Thatcher, I insist that this- this parody of a joke be terminated immediately!"

Posture radiating a distinct coldness, Thatcher turned from Optimus to observe the advancing Galloway, nonplused by his theatrical gesturing.

"I assure you, sir, that this is not a joke."

Sam blinked at the use of the respectful term, then remembered from sophmore politics class that all army hierarchy was technically subservient to the civilian government. Thatcher wasn't brown-nosing-- he was showing the minimum respect required.

Galloway motioned violently towards Optimus, not even having the decency to face him-- as if he were not there, or as if he were unworthy of being faced.

"Really? Then how about a psychotic delusion? He just came back from the dead-- how do we know he didn't lose a few circuits in the process?"

For an instant, Sam wished more than anything else that Jetfire was there to teleport him to the floor of the cargo bay so that he could beat the bastard senseless.

"If you wish," Optimus interrupted, "My medic can provide you with a detailed report on my physical and mental state-- though I am sure you would find that the only thing I am lacking is time to rest."

"One robot insisting that another robot isn't crazy," Galloway mocked in an airy tone, throwing up his hands, "Because of course that is an objective way of proving relative sanity."

Thatcher, hands still clenched tightly behind his back, stepped up into Galloway's personal space and glared down at the smaller man.

"How about," he copied the other man's mocking lilt, "You do the right thing for once in your miserable life and either help us or resign so that someone else can?"

"You cannot force me to resign," Galloway responded stiffly. Thatcher gaced him with a distinctly predatory smile.

"Of course not. You'll simply be fired when it comes to light that you cannot act without extreme bias towards the very people we are trying so very hard not to piss off."

Galloway stiffened. "The President--"

"The President may just get down on his knees and lick Prime's feet in gratitude. Or hadn't you heard that it's no longer fashionable to try to undermine human-Autobot relations?"

Galloway glanced from Thatcher to Optimus and back again, face more pallid than alabaster.

"Very well," he finally said. Stiff. Faint. "I'll make a few calls. See what I can do."

He jumped when Optimus spoke; "Whatever needs to be done must be done by tomorrow night. I cannot delay telling him any longer."

As though struck by a bolt of lightning, Sam jerked backwards from the grate, scrambling away from the sight of Optimus, Thatcher and Galloway fighting over something about him. Logic whispered that Optimus did not seem to be plotting to harm him, yet instinctual fear washed over him in wave after wave of terror that they were planning on turning him in, arresting him like some wanted criminal ('--still hunting for the illusive Samuel James Witwicky--') and turning him over to the mercy of the masses-- or the mercy of the Decepticons (--Megatron, starcream-- slashing claws, fangs snapping together near his cheek-- 'I'll let you be my pet'--).

Sinking through water, sinking through air (can't breathe), he flailed away on his hands and knees-- an accidently kicked over the sensor nullifier. The machine whirled, clicked, and the blue light went out. Their web of protection vanished. Almost at once, the sound of a lightning fast transformation echoed from below and Optimus cried to the two humans, "Run!"

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" The twins were screaming, scampering away, and Sam was left flailing like a fish. A powerful electric whine of a cannon charging up, and with an almighty shriek of tearing, burning metal a searing bolt of blue energy ripped through the vent beside him, missing incinerating him by scant centimeters. The concussive force of the blast lifted him up and slammed him into the side of the vent-- he cried out as he felt something in his arm give way with a sickening snap. Then he was falling, slipping through the hole in the vent and plummeting towards the concrete floor fifty feet below.

Before he even had time to feel fear of splattering into a pile of human goo, a familiar yellow hand snatched him out of the air-- and slammed him up against a metal crate, fingers curling around him in a cage of claws. Sam stared in horror at the cruel lines of Bumblebee's battle mask, the mask that turned the friendly Bee into the Hornet (my ally, my friend, my--), as his guardian angel in robotic form pulled back his cannon and began to charge it for a second blast.

Terror-- stark, pants-wetting terror-- often comes without a sound, without even a scream. It was all happening so fast, too fast, and he had not yet had time to process what was going on around him. But as he stared down the humming barrel of Bumblebee's ion cannon, terror overcame him, and though he uttered not a sound, on the inside he began to scream (Bee--Bee--Bumblebee, no!!)

The moment stretched and held-- a sliver of time frozen into crystal, trapped in amber. Slowly, so slowly, his identity began to dawn on the yellow robot, and the glow deep in the pit of Bee's cannon faded away. The harsh pressure of Bumblebee's hand around him retreated, becoming a gentle hold rather than a restraining grip.

"...Sam?" The yellow scout whispered, only Bee once more.

"Um..." he shuddered out, "...is this a bad time?"

Before he could blink, the Autobot pulled him into his arms. The motion wasn't a hug, not really. Too many metal lumps and hard angles to make a Bee snuggle-bear. But he found himself craddled by the giant robot, held with infinite gentleness as Bee crouched to the floor and drew him in against him, curling his body around the vulnerable, fragile human as if to make himself a living shield.

"Sam..." Bee murmured again, voice rough, broken, trembling.

"Um, Bee?" He grated, his own voice wavering so hard that he doubted anyone but his robot guardian could understand him. "My arm, I think it's broken--"

In another invisible movement, Bumblebee yanked himself away from his charge-- still holding him, but not longer wrapped fearfully around him.

"Sam, I...."

"My arm," Sam repeated firmly, content to lie there limply for a moment staring at the smoking ruins of the ceiling, even if a metal plate was digging painfully into the back of his head, "Could you scan it, see if it's broken? I might need to go get a cast put on it," The trembling moved from his voice to his whole body; his teeth chattered, his toes twitched and jerked, "N-not that I like casts, they're kinda dorky, but it hurts like hell..."

There was a slight, almost unnoticable pause in the sound of Bee's inner workings, and then he replied, "Yes, your arm is broken. Sam, please--"

"Okay," he cut off the broken plea, "It's okay. I just need....could you let me up, please? I need to have a word with Optimus and then I need to get my arm fixed."

By this time, the other occupants of the room had sufficiently recovered from the shock of seeing Bumblebee's swift and brutal response to flock around the scout and his boy. Rachet and Ironhide must have heard the commotion and come running-- he was vaguely aware of them standing behind Bumblebee, furiously engaged in doing....things. Skids and Mudflap had slunk back in as well, looking as though they expected to be blasted at any moment (though if the angry clip of Rachet's voice was anything to go by, they just might).

Slowly, unwillingly, Bumblebee helped Sam to his feet. He swayed in place for a moment, steadied by a hestitant (trembling?) hand across his shoulders. Then he glanced blearily at Optimus, who was staring at him with open amazement as the wickedly sharp blade extending from his forearm retracted beneath an armor plate.

"...Sam." Probably the most un-intelligent thing he had ever heard come out of the wise robot's vocalizer.

"My arm hurts," he stated without prompting, only remembering after the fact to craddle it to his chest as if it did actually hurt (which it did). "Bee says it's broken. So I'm going to go get that fixed, and then you're going to tell me what Rachet and Thatcher and everyone else has been telling you to tell me."

He blinked again, looking around at all the people staring at him in confoundment, not really seeing any of them save for Bee and Optimus.

"Sam...." Optimus began. Filled to the brim and overflowing, Sam went off on him.

"God damn it, what is it with everyone saying my name and then trailing off!! Oh, poor Sam, let's all get together and throw him a big pity-party while plotting things behind his back!! Things that, I don't know, involve his life!! No-no, can't tell him, he's just a kid, he needs to let those people who know what they're doing handle it!!"

He stopped, breathing in spasmodically, making strange little gasping noises in his throat.

"So I'm going to go get a cast for my arm now. And Optimus?"

The robot went to his knees, giving him his undivided attention.

"When I get back, I hope you trust me enough to tell me what is going on. I saved your life-- the least you could do is inform me of all the ways in which mine is being flushed down the toilet."

Brushing off Rachet's attempts at ministration, he turned and walked away from them, away from Bee, away from Optimus. And kept walking.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Far above the surface of the earth, above the layers of thunderhead clouds and above the wisps of ice clouds, above all the thinning strata of the atmosphere, a silent monolith hung in orbit around the blue planet.

A satellite, but not. A carbon copy of one made by human hands, every detail precisely replicated except the color. This satellite was black, the color of the empty spaces between the stars.

Alive, and far more intelligent than the fly-brain software running its counterpart, the black satellite silently observed the world beneath it, ever watchful. Trillions of gigabytes of data flowed through it every second-- cell phone calls, e-mails, security cameras; bank records, military records, school records. Searching. Many, many references to a previous target, though no useful information. A cold trail. Still searching-- news broadcasts, radio broadcasts, websites.

--and for approximately 42 seconds, a new glimpse of the previous target, Samuel James Witwicky, appeared in the stream of data. 42 seconds, enough time to scan the video clip 11,234 times with its higher level processors. Analysis of data: 78% complete. Conclusion: Unusable. Location still unknown.

Analysis of data: 94% complete. New conclusion reached: Probable secondary target. Emotional connection to previous primary target. Searching.... location unknown. Conclusion: Unusable.

A burst of new data trickled down one antenna, originating not from the planet it watched but from the newly constructed Decepticon base hidden in Saturn's shadow. ::Work on symbiote, designation: Ravage, 88% complete. Probability of full recovery-- 98%. Addendum: Come on, Soundwave! Don't be such a stiff. Just one little question, that's all. Why did the chicken cross th--::

Communique terminated.

New analysis of data needed. Review tape. Logic processors circling through various plans, options, ideas, weighing the validity of each.

New Conclusion: Data status-- usable.

A channel opened, sent off a brief message to a Decepticon, designation: Starscream, relaying the proposed plan.

Waiting....

Response recieved. ::Excellent work, Soundwave. Continue.::

The drifting satellite remained as silent as ever, but within its wires a new message cycled. A change of status.

Target acquired: Mikaela Banes

Sam had never broken a bone before. In fact, he had never even been to the hospital before, excluding the time he arrived there by proxy through his mother as she gave birth to him.

To a kid, this was a very depressing state of events. No getting out of school to eat ice cream and watch TV all day, no monster scars to show off, no neon orange casts to have signed by his fifty closest friends. But at 18, he realized that having something that required going to the hospital (or the equivalent thereof) was Not Fun. Not only did the doctor in the infirmary x-ray his arm on a portable machine and stick him with about a thousand needles, he was in too much pain to really enjoy the fact that she was pretty hot. Mikaela was hotter by about a million degrees, but he assumed that every teenaged male at one point or another indulged himself in the fantasy of making out with a sexy nurse. Nope, making out with the doctor took a firm back seat to trying not to throw up all over her. In fact, any kissing at all came in last place to all the other things he didn't want to do but dreaded not doing even more. First and foremost: telling his parents and Mikaela that he had broken his arm. Oh boy.

Somehow, his blackberry had survived being sizzled by the blast from Bee's cannon and being slammed up against a wooden storage crate. The thought of losing it didn't bother him as much as two hours before-- he was as lost as a football player in a computer store when it came to what Optimus/Thatcher/Galloway/the Government were planning for him, but no longer was he certain it meant total separation from Bumblebee. A little squeeing thing inside of him did tiny little backflips at the thought that maybe Optimus was in a shitload of trouble for defying the politicians and deciding to let Bee come with them anyway. He hoped.

He pressed the button to start up the blackberry, swaying side to side in place as the brand name icon appeared on screen with a cheerful little blurt of electronic music. His arm had been swadled in white plaster from elbow to wrist (he'd asked for bright green and recieved a strange look in return) and he was currently doped up on two little pain pills of the extra-powerful variety. They took away the pain alright, and a portion of his stability-- he still felt like shit, emotionally and physically, but everything just seemed funnier all of a sudden. He'd even giggled a little as the doctor told him she was going to go check the results of his blood work and retreated to the office on the other end of the infirmary. Alone, fuzzy with pain and drugs, he stared at the screen for a good two minutes before he realized the garish American flag background had already loaded.

He wanted to call Mikaela-- needed to, wanted to, intended to-- but instead of punching in her number, he went to the list of recorded calls and selected Bee's string of gibberish from among the standard earthly numbers. For a moment he hesitated, longing to hear his friend's voice but fearing it would emerge as shattered and fearful as it had been in the cargo bay, back when he had laid in the alien's arms and Bee had keened in a way that tore at his own heart. ('Sam....please, I--')

So instead, he sent out a text message. More impersonal. Distanced.

SamuelW: B, u there?

Because he wasn't quite sure that trying to text a number that wasn't actually a number would connect him with his friend, he felt the need to ask a question that in any other setting would have seemed redundant.

He waited. When it seemed that his friend wouldn't respond (he refused to think that he was sending out a text into a blank pocket of nothingness) he typed out another message and sent it along after the first.

SamuelW: seriously, b. we need 2 talk.

Again he waited. And waited.

SamuelW: b?

Finally, after an achingly long pause, Bumblebee sent a reply.

BuzzingBee: im here.

Sam sighed with relief (and giggled, stupid drugs). The whole day had started off crappy and gone spiralling downward from there, so he decided it would be worth a shot to try to start the whole thing over again, beginning with their disasterous conversation at the crack of dawn.

SamuelW: whats up?

He knew Bee remembered his lack-luster greeting-- he had the memory capacity of 6000 super computers. He remembered everything. But apparently, the yellow scout was not in the mood to play along with the whole 'starting things over' game.

BuzzingBee: call ur parents and mikaela.

And a little message popped up saying that BuzzingBee was blocking his calls.

Ouch. If that was not the most obvious snub he had ever recieved, he didn't know what was. He tried not to feel too hurt about that. It didn't help that the morphine knock-off instructed him to giggle at the supremely non-funny fact that Bee possesed mind reading powers and was currently pissed at him. He lost the battle. Giggle.

Just as he started plotting ways to counterattack, the doctor strode out of her office with a clip board in hand and came to stand before his perch on one of the examination beds in the large, open room.

"Congradulations, Sam," she announced brightly, flipping through his chart, "It's a boy."

He stared at her, his eyes going as wide as saucers. It took him a minute to realize she was joking with him, at which point he scowled internally at the defunct medicine. Naturally it wouldn't make him laugh at something actually funny.

"Don't worry. I'm just playing with you," she eased, smiling prettily. Sam put a hand over his heart dramatically.

"How long do I have to live, doctor?"

She pretended to consult the chart once more.

"Well, if you keep eating your veggies and exercising regularly you'll make it to at least 90."

He tapped his fingernails absently against his cast to keep himself from giving into the impulse to collapse into fitful chuckles, though he doubted 'exercising regularly' referred to running from evil alien robots. That didn't stop him from grinning infectuously, however.

"So, no real problems with my arm? Aside from the fact that it's broken."

"Nope, no problems. Even though the bones snapped in two places, they were both relatively clean breaks. If something had been jarred out of alignment, I would have had to put you under to reset the bone," her friendly gaze turned quizzical, and almost suspicious. "How did you break your arm, again?"

"I fell," he blurted, then racked his brains for the rest of his genius-level story, "Down two flights of stairs."

"Two flights of stairs."

Oh yeah, definitely suspicious now. Sam really, really didn't want to deal with a suspicious doctor who wouldn't understand or react well to 'my friend thought I was a decepticon and tired to turn me into Spam with his cannon'. In only one day (had it really only been less than a full day?) he had frightened Bee, found out he couldn't go back to college, beaten up a politician with a breakfast tray, freaked out in a janitor's closet, sat through many torturous hours in a debriefing, learned his friend wouldn't be coming home with him, viewed the carnage of several dead bodies, realized that he was the most wanted person on the face of the planet, threw a sandwich into a wall, spied on Optimus scheming about him (heard Optimus called a jackass...giggle...), been blasted from an air vent, slammed into a wall, and threatened with an ion cannon wielded by his best friend. Now his arm was broken and he had so many people he needed to talk to, lie to, comfort and confront he just wanted to scream, pack it all up in a cardboard box and shove it over the side of a cliff. End of story, now Sam gets to go stuff his face with pizza, sleep till noon, and play videogames with Miles all the next day in his NORMAL life. (well, maybe not the pizza part-- he still felt like he might need a bucket.)

"Yep. Two flights of stairs," at her disbelieving look, he elaborated, "I tripped. And fell. Down, you know, two flights of stairs. Oh, and I broke my arm."

She didn't look like she trusted him as far as she could have chucked Optimus, but she obviously decided to just let it go. "Well, try to be more coordinated in the future. The injuries you came out of the desert with are still healing-- any more 'falling down two flights of stairs' might undo all the good a few days of rest have done."

"I'll make sure he has a mattress or two to land on," Mikaela spoke up from the doorway.

The sound of his girl friend's voice startled Sam into a whole-body flinch. Not a good thing, in retrospect, as the motion jarred his broken arm and reminded him of how extraordinarily painful broken limbs could be.

"Mikaela!" he squeaked guiltily as she strode casually through the door. He cleared his throat, then practiced his skills at stating the obvious. "You're here."

She came to the side of his bed and hoisted herself up beside him, swinging her dangling feet. He tried not to stare at her tanned legs.

"Rachet called me in full-blown mother hen mode to come check on you. He would have come himself, except that he wouldn't fit through the door."

Sam darted a glance at the doctor as she moved a respectful distance away to check some equipment. She didn't seem surprised at the mention of the alien passenger, so he relaxed marginally. Accidentally spilling the beans to a civilian would have just been one more thing he really didn't need.

"I'm fine. My arm's just busted-- it's not like I'm dead or anything."

The creeping, crawling, itching started to work its way from his spine to his finger tips, making them tremble with the need to get a message to Bumblebee. He needed, for his own sanity, to bring his friend out of his funk. Hell, HE was the one who had almost been blown to pieces. If anyone had a right to be huffy, it was him. Suddenly stumbling over an idea, he called up an internet browser on the WiFi connection.

Mikaela leaned against him (on his good side, luckily) and rested her chin on his shoulder to see what he was doing.

"Well that's good. Otherwise I'd have to drag you back so I could kill you for putting me through your death, again. And then I'd have to drag you back again after I killed you so I could kiss you senseless."

"Sounds like fun," he answered, distracted, as he typed out an e-mail to Bumblebee's address, "The kissing part, I mean. The rest not so much."

Mikaela heaved a theatrical sigh. "Rachet would have a cow if I did, though. The killing part, that is. And then Bee would kick my butt."

He sent the first e-mail and started working on another one.

"I certainly hope not. I like your butt. --Hey!" He cried out as she got him in a head lock from the side and gave him a vigorous noogy. Though he blushed to his ears at the second grade antics, the childish contact warmed him from the inside out like a big mug of hot coco. "You're messing up my hair!" he whined, grinning so much it hurt. For once, the expression felt real.

"Baby. Your hair's not short enough to mess up." His tormenter released his head and gave him a playful shove.

"But you've got to admit, it's certainly stylish." Sam waggled his eyebrows and passed a hand over his hair. The ploy worked-- Mikaela threw back her head and laughed.

Pressing send on the second e-mail, Sam opened a new page and started working on a third. There was no way he was going to let them end on bad terms. So yeah, okay, he could see why Bumblebee would be mad at him. Furious, even. He'd spied on their leader, then gone and almost gotten himself killed. Heck, he'd be mad at himself in Bumblebee's place. But if he had to say goodbye, the last thing he wanted was to leave with his best friend still pissed at him. So he was going to fix this. Somehow.

Craning her neck to look over his shoulder when he returned his attention to the blackberry in his hands, Mikaela asked warily, "Sam, what are you doing?"

"Spamming Bumblebee."

She processed that for a moment, then repeated, "You're spamming Bumblebee. With e-mails."

"Yep. He blocked my texts."

Suddenly tense, she straightened away from him.

"You mean he hasn't come talk to you yet?"

That made him look up from composing his fourth message.

"No. He's been avoiding me. Why?"

"Because Optimus ordered him to come talk to you."

Sam froze, blinking, like a deer in the headlights.

"You've been to see Optimus?"

"Yeah." Unexpectedly, she shivered. "It was scary, Sam. I've never seen him so angry. Never. Not even when fighting Megatron or the Fallen. It was like being in the middle of a lightning storm-- I thought he was going to start shooting at any minute."

"...at Bee?"

"No, at Mudflap and Skids."

Sam cringed, ducking his head with a sigh. "So you know, then," he muttered, stealthily sending out another nagging e-mail.

Mikaela grimaced. "Yeah. But don't worry, I don't blame Bee. It was just a misunderstanding. I blame you."

"Me? But I'm the invalid, here! See?" he held up his broken arm, "Have pity on a man in a cast!" But then his train of thought carried him to the next logical conclusion, and his let his cast-swaddled arm drop back to his side, mood sinking like a rock. "I guess my parents know too, then."

Just what he wanted to deal with. He had hoped to ply them with the same story he had used on the doctor, counting on their natural inclination to believe the more innocent version of events to keep him from a painful argument about his choice in friends. Painful, because on some level he knew that, if it came down to it, he would choose his guardian angel over his parents. That wasn't a choice he wanted to have to make.

But Mikaela surprised him. "No, they don't. Not yet. I was supposed to tell them (working from the theory that they would be more responsive to another human) but I thought you should be the one to do it."

"Yeah," he answered hollowly, mood roller-coastering up and down, "Thanks."

Planting her hands on the bed, Mikaela leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. It was such a sweet, sisterly, and somehow sexy thing to do. It reminded him that he did have an anchor after all-- his girl friend.

"Don't worry," She breathed against his neck, making his heart race, "At least you have something to do to give you time to think up a good excuse."

Spaming Bee with a single-letter e-mail, Sam tilted his face down towards her and touched his lips to the tip of her nose.

"Yeah? Like what?" He murmured, hoping she was thinking about getting into a much-needed make out session.

"Like talking to Optimus."

Damn. Not only was she good at making a freezer start to steam, she was also adept at sudden turn offs. Feeling suddenly sulky, Sam pulled back and hunched over his blackberry, forgoing the typing out of actual messages in favor of sending various letters, numbers, and punctuation marks, all designed to fill up Bee's inbox. He couldn't give him the silent treatment forever. Already he must have pushed 'send' at least 27 times.

"Yeah, well, he's been keeping me in the dark, so maybe it's time he got a taste of his own medicine-- turn about is fair play, and all that."

Mikaela pulled back and pinned him with a flat look. "So you're going bitch about him not telling you anything, and then go and not let him tell you anything."

Childishly he refused to meet her eyes, pretending to be absorbed by e-mail number 34. She threw up her hands in exasperation and slid off the bed.

"Well, when you decide to grow up and behave like an adult give me a call. I have to go tell Leo what's going on-- he's convinced the Twins stuffed you in a meat locker with dead bodies or something."

Sam jerked his head up as she snapped off a little wave and turned to leave, pleading, "Don't tell him what actually happened, ok? I've had enough of people wigging out on me for one day."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Are you counting yourself? Nevermind," she added when he opened his mouth to object, "What's the story we're going to use?"

Deciding that he really didn't want to hang around in the antisecptic-scented infirmary anymore, Sam mirrored her and slid from the bed with considerably less grace than his girl friend.

"You already heard it, remember?"

"'I fell down two flights of stairs'?" A wry snort. "Please. No one would believe that you're that clumsy."

"No really," he insisted, sliding a glance to the doctor working half way across the room and knowing she was listening in, "I DID fall down two flights of stairs." And he jerked an indicative thumb at their inconspicious watcher.

Mikaela only laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder and sauntering away.

"Whatever you say, Sam. Whatever you say."

Trying not to appear clingy, he waited until she vanished out of sight down the hallway to follow her through the door. To his intense morification, he could have sworn he heard muffled laugher from behind him as the door swung shut on his heels.

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When under the influence of drugs, various body parts had a habit of disobeying him. His stomach, for one, would not stop informing him that he needed to remain in close proximity to a bathroom. His arm, too, ignored his mentally shouted commands to Stop Hurting Damnit! And his feet, in direct defiance of his conscious mind, lead him away from the cargo bay and up towards the flight deck.

Despite all of his vehement rants and embarassing outbursts, now that the time had come he feared hearing the truth. Not that he objected to truth in general, but in his experience the most outrageous, terrifying, and potentially lethal things that had come from the Autobots' vocalizers turned out to be true. World-endingly true. ('We must find those glasses', 'He's going to use it to destroy the sun!') And his world had already ended enough for one day, thank-you-very-much. The part of him fed on adrenaline roared that it was his life and that he needed, deserved to know what was going on and wanted to watch Optimus squirm for plotting behind his back. But another, slightly larger part of him hoped that if he ignored whatever it was it would go away. Fade out. Become nothing more than a dream (don't think about the nightmares, thinking about them keeps them with you).

So he stumped down a few hallways and climbed a few flights of stairs, seeking out the calming brilliance of the stars. Light, but not too much of it. Silent beauty that remained unchanged no matter how the ground beneath his feet heaved. As he walked he continued to pummel Bee's address with e-mails (65). Away from Mikaela's calming influence, his fears and doubts began to ooze from the cracks in his mind again. Maybe he should give his friend the space he obviously wanted-- maybe Bee was so angry with him he wanted Sam to stew for a while in his own funk. Grudgingly he had to admit that it would serve him right. The yellow scout was his friend, but he had overstepped his bounds. No matter how strong his own curiosity, he had no right to spy on them. Even if the truth had finally (partially) come out, he still felt lower than dirt. Perhaps not enough to choose a different path if he could go back and do everything over again, but enough to ensure that whenever he finally collapsed into bed it would not be to sleep.

At last he twisted the rotating axel to open the ground-level door onto the flight deck (awkward to do with only one arm) and stepped out into the cool evening air. A playful breeze tugged at his clothes and tousled his hair as he pushed the door closed behind him and drew in a deep, cleansing breath. The rows of planes, crouched before him in the near dark like so many giant birds come down to roost, glowed silver in the moonlight. Save for the hissing churn of waves as the carrier plowed forward through the ocean, all was quiet. Peaceful.

Shivering slightly from the night chill, he tucked his fists beneath his arms and wandered farther out onto the deck. At last he could think and breathe without something or someone reminding him at every turn of how very screwed he was. The inanimate jets (don't think of starscream don't think of starscream) didn't care. The deck beneath his feet didn't care. The ocean didn't care. The stars didn't care. This place, these things, would continue on with or without him, never knowing or stopping to realize that standing among them was Samuel James Witwicky, the most wanted person in the world. God, sometimes he hated having his name.

Unwrapping his arms to zip up his jacket, he tilted his head back to look at the stars. He could only spot a few of the familiar constellations, and even those were upside down. Thinking back to the time Bumblebee had pointed out Cybertron (my friend, my guardian angel-- come back...), he tried to find the pin prick of light from which alien visitors had descended to earth. But the sky wavered and danced before his eyes in a way that did nothing to assuage his nausea, refusing to hold still for long enough to allow him to search out the oft-observed star.

Whatever. He hugged himself beneath his jacket for warmth, quickly coming to the realization that the light ocean spray wetting his exposed skin and the chilly air were not a pleasant combination. Though he did not particularly wish to return inside and seek out either Optimus or his parents, neither did he want to get sick and have to add a cold to his swiftly growing list of things amiss in the Sam universe. With one last glance out at the undulating ocean, he turned to go back inside.

---And stopped cold, heart leaping up into his throat, at the sight of Optimus Prime crouched on the second level deck of the observation tower, watching him. Directly beneath the silent monolith of living metal, one floor down, stood the door through which he had passed. Awed shivers trailed their icy fingers up and down his spine; the Autobot leader had been there, watching him, waiting for him, ever since he had first stepped out onto the deck.

Though he knew Optimus would not harm him, he didn't dare take a step forward. Awash in starlight, the robot's body seemed to change, becoming more dangerous, more alien. The patriotic red and blue faded out into the gray of night; every metal plate, every angle, caught the wane light with a knife-edge gleam. The two optics riveted to his wooden form glowed an intense, unwavering blue that pierced through the gloom like the watching eyes of some repentant demon.

As the alien leader slowly, sinuously, unfolded himself from his crouch and dropped without a whisper of sound to the deck below, Sam felt his palms grow slick with sweat. His heart boomed between his ears, each pulse shaking his whole body. Instantly he felt annoyed with himself. This was Optimus-- the world-saving, ass-kicking, sorta-friend that had given his life to save him from the wrath of Megatron. In defiance of animal instincts that screamed 'predator' he took a few shaky steps forward to meet the approaching Autobot half way.

"Hey, Optimus," he greeted, working for nonchalance and failing spectacularly. He sounded like a young boy going to meet his girl friend's ex-con father for the first time-- and when he had done that he hadn't sounded nearly this frightened. Maybe because Mikaela's father wasn't thirty feet tall. And made of metal. And totting giant guns and swords. "Nice weather tonight, huh? Can't usually see this many stars at home-- it's pretty sweet. The cold sucks, though. Do Cybertronians even get cold? I mean of course Megadork was, they kept him frozen after all, but does chilly weather bother you guys?"

Optimus let him talk himself into a hole uninterrupted, only moving to stand right beside him and looking down at the smaller human. In the dark, the only thing he could see of the robotic face were his blue optics. Not that a robotic face usually gave away all that much (they'd be awesome at poker), but usually there was at least a twitch to go by. Now, there was nothing but a looming shadow from which gleamed two impossibly bright eyes.

"I had thought, after your outburst earlier, that you would come sweeping back into the cargo bay with all the fury of a hurricane," Optimus commented quietly, not even bothering to answer Sam's rambling questions. They both knew that whether or not cybertronians got cold was not the issue on the forefront of his mind.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is," Sam evaded, dreading the way the entire lop-sided conversation seemed to be leading up to the very discussion he now wanted to avoid at all costs, "Pain and happy pills are good at taking the wind out of your sails-- I mean, good at calming you down from a hurricane of fury to something the consistency of fudge. Not a lot of fight left."

"It heartens me considerably to see that you are, indeed, calmer. Or at least not ready to physcially attack me."

Sam had to snort at that, attempting to edge his way around one large foot. The door was only twenty feet away. "Optimus, even majorly pissed off, I'm not suicidal enough to try to attack you. The fight would be over as soon as you stepped on me."

Ever watchful, the alien caught his surreptitious sneaking and moved his foot to properly block his route of escape.

"I should hope you would think better of me than to worry about my 'stepping on you'."

Completely missing the strained note to the robotic voice, Sam continued his edging, trying to think of a way to stall him for long enough to make a break for it.

"Figure of speech."

He knew Optimus wasn't fooled by his careful sidestepping of the question, but he didn't comment on it. The robot turned to track his movements as he slowly backed his way towards the door, hands shoved into his pockets despite the cold in an effort to seem unpreturbed. Crossed arms was a classic defensive posture. Thank you, high school psychology.

"Sam," Optimus said softly, "We need to talk."

Heart fluttering like a caged bird inside his chest, he continued to back away, even as the other took a minute step forward to maintain the distance between them. "Talk! Talk is good. What do you want to talk about? There's the weather, but we kinda already covered that. Or we could swap manly, er, stories and laugh till we puke-- well, I'd puke, maybe without even needing a story to get me going."

"I know that you are frightened, Sam. But now that you have discovered that I have been conferring with General Thatcher about you, it is time you heard the whole truth. You certainly seemed to want it an hour ago."

Ten feet. He could make it. He could stop this train wreck before it started (--ignore them and they'll go away--). "That was an hour ago," he shot back, "And now I've decided I really don't want to have to listen to you lying to me anymore. So no, I don't want to talk about this--" he gestured with a furious hand to the not-so-large space between them, "--whatever this is. Whatever you and Thatcher were planning, you can both stuff it," Five feet. So close. "Stuff it under your hat, stuff it in a sock, just get rid of it, because I don't want any part of it. I have a life, and I'm very eager to get back to it." He paused in his tirade to refill his lungs with the sweet night air, turning away from Optimus. "I have to go tell my parents that I'll be in plaster for the next six weeks before the go Mt. Vesuvious on me," he paused awkwardly, finally tearing his eyes away from the metal giant. "So bye."

His hand brushed the door, but he never had the chance to open it.

Optimus effortlessly plucked him up by the back of his jacket and pulled him away from the portal to freedom.

"Hey!"

The alien brought him close to his chest, trapping him between his hands as he curled his body around the human-- and began to transform.

Sam had seen Bumblebee transform several times up close, but never this close. Every part of the metal body all but exploded outwards, splitting apart along thousands, millions of invisible seams, shifting, rearranging, sliding, reforming according a pattern impossibly complex yet somehow made reality. It was like a giant robot-shaped Rubick's cube, albiet one with pieces smaller than the nail of his pinky.

Another difference between this transformation and Bumblebee's was the fact that he was not watching it occur from the outside-- it was happening around him. Living pieces of shifting metal cascaded over his head, abruptly cutting off his vision. He was lifted up, buffeted, curled into a tiny ball and pushed this way and that with the same gentleness that marked all the Autobots' interactions with humans-- though jostled and terrified out of his mind, he was not harmed.

In a matter of seconds that seemed to Sam to have spanned several hours, he found himself dropping heavily onto the seat in Optimus' cab. The curve of the steering wheel snapped together and locked into place, clear liquid flowed UP from the doors and dashboard to form the windows and windshield, numbers and letters appeared on the instrument panel like oil separating from water. Breath heaving from his chest at a rate near hyperventilation, Sam looked widly around, stunned to find himself sitting in the interior of the very ordinary looking truck.

Then, he did something that only seemed very natural to any human used to non-thinking vehicles-- he slid across the seat and pulled on the door handle. Not only was the door locked, the handle reacted as though carved from stone, refusing to budge even an inch at his insistent tugging.

"This is BULLSHIT!" he exploded, still jiggling the handle frantically. And though he knew the result would prove to be the same, just to satisfy his need as a human to beat his head against the proverbial wall he slid all the way across the bench seat and tried the other door. Yep, still shut tight. Might as well not have been a door at all. "You cheated!" It really, really, really didn't seem fair.

"We need to talk," Optimus repeated calmly, sounding as though he were sitting beside him rather than forming the truck around him, "Though you may not wish to hear what I have to say, you will simply have to 'suck it up and deal with it'."

"No. No! No! NO! NO!" He cried wildly, hysterically, "I'm sick of this! I'm sick of you and how you always need me to come clean up after you! What part of 'I'm a teenager and don't know how to handle this shit' don't you understand!!"

Releasing the handle with a snap, he reared back and smashed one curled fist into the window with all his strength. It was a good thing the solid-yet-not material bowed outward to accomadate the blow, or else he would have probably broken his hand.

"First you show up and tell me I need to find a pair of dinky old glasses to keep Megatron from taking over the world, and that was okay, because what did I care about the stupid things?! But then somehow that morphed into, 'You have to destroy the allspark, Sam' and I ended up getting blown off a fucking BUILDING!! Then, just when government stooges stop dropping by every week and my life FINALLY starts getting back to normal, YOU pull me away from college after ONE DAY and tell me that I need to do even MORE world-saving shit, because once just obviously wasn't enough!!"

He sucked in gasp after gasp through rattling teeth, trembling as though he might shake to pieces. Directionless anger grew and fed on itself in its chest, breaking loose of his carefully maintained moorings and flaring into a firestorm that consumed all else. Every scrap of frustration, of terror, of righteous indignation, of the sense that none of it was any fair came roaring up inside of him all at once. He needed something, anything, to lash out at and rid himself of fire so hot that it threatened to roast him alive if he didn't break something. But there was nothing breakable within reach. So he settled for taking everything out on Optimus' cab.

The alien leader uttered not a word, gave not even so much as a twitch, as he repeatedly pummeled his one good fist into the window. He tore at the seats with his fingernails, kicked the steering wheel with all his might, rained blows down upon the dash. He growled like a wild, savage thing, screaming, "LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!".

But Optimus did not let him out. And little by little the storm raged itself out, calmed, and passed. When the last drop of fury had been expended, he lay down on the seat and curled his knees to his chest, sobbing openly and not giving a damn that he had a witness to his break in manhood. Screw manhood. It had nothing to offer to help him with this.

"Okay," he whispered at last, hiccuping slightly, "I think I'm done now."

"Are you sure? I think there are a few places you haven't managed to bruise," Optimus commented wryly, but without heat.

"I'm sure. I think I just had that on my chest of a while," he sniffed, wiping his sleeve across his eyes and feeling even more miserable at the word 'bruise'. "This will probably sound stupid and really inappropriate right now, but I 'm sorry if I hurt you. I just needed to...I don't know. Thrash all that out, or something."

"I know. And that is why I allowed you to continue unhindered. Despite what you may think of how much my soldiers respect me, you are certainly not the first to take out your anger by physically attacking me."

Seeing the extended opening to a less painful subject, Sam pushed himself upright. Regardless of Optimus' words, he could not imagine any of the other Autobots attacking the great leader.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Oh." He cast around for another topic, trying the handle more calmly this time and beating back his rising ire as he still found it locked tight. Since it was, of course, his body, Optimus felt the attempt and turned the conversation back to a more serious, and feared, topic.

"Sam, you are obviously under a misapprehension which I need to correct. When I say that we need to talk about your future, I am not referring to an attmept to, ah, cajole you into 'saving the world' again."

Despite the assurance, fear twinged in a corner of his mind the way a fly would disturb a spider web.

"That doesn't make me feel much better, Optimus," He chuckled humorlessly.

Outside the cab, the weather had started to change; wisps of fog began to trail lazily accross the windshield, obscuring the stars. He prayed that the gloomy shift was not an omen of some sort, but the way his life seemed to go it probably was.

For a long moment Optimus held his silence, giving the impression that he was taking his time to get his thoughts in order. For beings that could calculate thousands of possible reaction scenarios in the middle of a battle in under a second, that was saying something.

"You should probably know first that I am thrice indebted to you, Sam."

Whatever he might have feared to be the robot's opening words, those certainly were certainly the last he expected.

"Okay, I'm confused. I can see the whole bringing you back to life thing as counting as one, but what about the other two?"

"The second, as you say, comes from your brave actions againt Megatron in Mission City."

Feeling inexplicably embarassed and humbled, he ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

"That doesn't really count, though, because you were planning on sacraficing yourself anyway. I just made it so that you didn't have to."

"And in doing so you destroyed Megatron, something I have never been able to achieve," Optimus refutted quietly, the same hint of steely determination in his voice, "If I had indeed sacraficed myself to destroy the allspark, Megatron would have surely wreaked unholy vengence on the rest of my soldiers and on the human race as a whole. Your actions not only spared my life, they prevented the deaths of countless others."

Sam shook his head, suddenly exhausted, and leaned against the window.

"I guess for right now we'll just have to agree to disagree, since I still don't think that counts as saving your life. And what's the third item on this list of yours?"

But Optimus had gone silent again. Sam's heart beat picked up in response.

"I do not think you realize," he said slowly, wonderingly, "How very much you mean to Bumblebee."

"Bumblebee?" Sam blinked, thrown for a loop. "What does Bumblebee have to do with this?"

"Everything. For you see, even though we do not have mothers and fathers as does your race-- since we do not reproduce-- we do have something caller 'Creators', those who help to design and construct the new shells into which a spark from the AllSpark would be transfered. I was one of Bumblebee's creators. In human terms, you could think of me as his adoptive father."

Sam leaned back against the soft leather (leather-yet-not, alien as the rest of him) and slowly shook his head from side to side, floored. The first thought that occured to him was rather inane-- Bumblebee must have gotten his looks from his mother, because red and blue mixed together so did not make a golden yellow. But then that thought burst into nothingness under the weight of another, more serious one.

"Wait, you let your SON be one of your soldiers?" He blurted in stunned outrage, unable to wrap his mind around the concept. "But you send them out to fight Decepticons! As in, maybe to die!"

Only after the fact did he realize what an awful thing that was to say. Way to go, Sam; open mouth, insert foot.

There was no meaningful pause this time, but Optimus' voice was now laden with an abyss of sorrow. "And if I had designed him without any weapons, sheltered him away from the fighting as best I could, he would have been killed. Bumblebee came online during a time when our entire planet was near destruction, no part untouched by war. Though I longed for him not to have to see and experience the horrors to which I had been an intimate witness, I knew that the best way for him to have a chace to ever know a life beyond war was to have the ability to survive it."

"So you-- designed-- him to be a scout?" Sam couldn't hide the apalled timbre coloring his tone.

But once more, Optimus surprised him. "No. As I have said, I was not Bumblebee's sole creator-- the others working on his sparkless body wanted to build the perfect shock trooper, a warrior that could survive on the front lines and keep fighting even with injuries that would normally prove incapacitating."

Sam leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, heart twisting into knots at the thought of sweet, sensitive, gentle Bee being metaphorically thrown to the dogs and sent to fend for his life against wave after crashing wave of advancing decepticons. Feeling abruptly ill, he would have traded an arm (preferably the broken one) for a sick bag so he wouldn't foul Optimus' interior with hurl whiff.

"But he's not," he whispered hoarsely, stumbling over the contradiction in the story, "He's not a shock trooper. He's a scout."

"Yes. And that is partially my doing, though mostly his. You see, I could not presuade the others to leave Bumblebee a functionless protoform-- that is, one without a pre-designed purprose hard wired into their shells before being given a spark. So I returned in secret after they had gone and erased all traces of shock trooper programming. I left Bumblebee, in essence, a blank slate. Though I could not in good conscience leave him weaponless, I wanted to give him the chance to develop according to the urgings of his spark and his spark alone."

A whirling noise that could have been a sigh came from the truck. "To my mingled relief and chargin, Bumblebee proved not only to be an exceptional warrior, but a talented scout as well, perhaps the best our planet has seen since the Golden Age. But I held him back, never sending on any of the most dangerous missions and never sending him out alone. Like any human teenager--" his voice took on a pointed humor, making Sam flush again, "--he was eager to prove himself. After a while, the war began to turn in our favor and I felt confident enough to send him alone on his first mission to scout an asteroid mine in a relatively low-risk area. I thought he would be perfectly safe." A long, regretful pause during which the very air thickened with years of nurtured sorrow. His voice grew softer, becoming almost too low to hear. "I was wrong."

Together they sat in silence for an unmeasured eternity of time, watching the vaporous fog thicken and begin to creep across the deck like the formless essence of restless souls, of painful memories.

Horrified that he thought he knew where this story was going, Sam didn't want to hear the rest. Hearing it would make it real, and he couldn't stand the thought of anything awful happening to his best friend-- especially something he could neither prevent nor fix. And yet gnawing curiosity began to eat away at his insides, at his fingertips, consuming him with an itch he could not scratch.

Finally, he worked up enough courage to clear his throat and ask with a hoarse voice, "What happened?"

Again Optimus emitted a whirring noise that somehow conveyed oceans of despair and remorse-- tears from a being that could not cry. "...There was an ambush waiting at the mine. The Decepticons had hoped the I would come in person, and when they captured Bumblebee instead they decided to take out their disappointment on him. ...Those were the longest three weeks of my life."

Sam's fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard he thought it might snap in his grip. Helpless anger set his teeth on edge, giving him the furious stength to ignore the painful protests of his broken arm. A fractured bone was nothing, nothing compared to what he could only imagine Bumblebee had gone through ('...I have endured torture far worse than anything S7 could ever hope to do...'). Oh, Bee....

"When we found him," Optimus continued, "his voice box had been mangled beyond repair. One of the decepticons we interrogated revealed that his captors could not force Bumblebee to reveal any information, not even after two weeks of torture that had broken Autobots older, stronger, and wiser than he.... So they ripped out his throat so they would not have to listen to him scream."

Forget puking. All of Sam's insides abruptly vanished, creating a vacuum so strong that the agony of it threatened to crush him into a little speck. He couldn't breathe. (what kind of evil would chain an angel down and clip its wings?)

"You mean he-- he didn't crack? They did all that and he still didn't betray you?" He gapsed out with the last little bit of air in his lungs.

"No." The word held a note of almost spiritual wonder. "Bumblebee was, and is, the most loyal being I have ever encountered in the universe. You cannot imagine how much it pains him to know he hurt you."

"But it was an accident!" Sam insisted, "He thought I was a Decepticon or something--"

"Yet no matter how well intentioned his actions were, he still hurt you," Optimus cut across him, "More than that, he feels that he has shattered your trust in him. He is dedicated to you as he is to no one else, not even me. And he feels that, as your guardian, he has failed you."

Sam thought of mentioning the way his 'guardian' had blocked his texts and stubbornly refused to let him apologize, but decided against it. Though he still didn't want to find out what Optimus had been planning about behind his back, anything was better than the major league Bumblebee-inspired guilt trip he was currently on. Mentioning the scout's refusal to talk to him would only further the conversation in the same painful vein.

"So what does all this have to do with the 'thrice indebted' thing?"

"When Bumblebee was finally rescued," Optimus went on, seeming to ingore him, "He was not the same Autobot I had sent off on his first solo mission. In some indefinable way, the part of him that was Bumblebee had died. He functioned as flawlessly as ever, never missing a step in battle, never losing a target he tracked. But his shell had become as hollow as before being granted a spark. I believe the human term to describe it would be 'souless'."

"He's fine now, though! What does this have to do with--"

"Bumblebee is now 'fine', Samuel James Witwicky, for the sole reason that he has found someone to live for again. He has found you."

Caught breathless in a stunned, limp haze, Sam's mind flashed back to his breakdown in the janitor's closet when Bee had told him that, no matter Sam's interpretation of the matter, the human had saved him in a way far more important than freeing him from Simmon's clutches. At the time he had gone along with it to pacify Bee, though his mind had continued to assult his heart with poison-tipped arrows of guilt and endless snapshots from the night where he had failed the most important task ever given to him (ice, so much ice, struggles weakening against the cold, and still the voiceless angel screamed--). He had never considered that Bee was sharing a carefully guarded slice of his heart, bearing it to his scrutiny, leaving himself open for a brutal attack. He had never believed that the alien's words might be true.

Sam couldn't speak, not even one tiny little word (no words existed for this-- something too powerful to be expressed in things as mundane as letters).

"Bumblebee is very dear to me, Sam. Dearer than my own spark. I owe you my life for a third time because in saving him, you saved me."

Breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Lean forward, elbows to knees, and cover prickling eyes with a shaking hand. He was only Sam. Just Sam. He wasn't stronger, faster, smarter, kinder, or more friendly than anyone else. There was no reason for Bumblebee to have chosen him to befriend. The bubbly feeling of mingled happiness and awe growing inside of him slowly fizzled away at the thought that Bee was only his friend out of convenience-- that the alien had simply latched onto the first friendly face he had encountered. Not that he would go back in time and trade places with someone else to test that theory; he was worshipfully grateful he had been chosen, whether by luck or cosmic design. Forcing down the snide little voice whispering that he was not worthy, Sam slowly straightened up.

"Alright. Three times, then. You say you're in my debt three times over. That means...what, exactly?"

Once again, though Optimus gave no outwardly signal that could be precieved by the five senses, Sam felt a shift in the Peterbilt's mood, this time from one of solemn reflection to tense resolution. The tense part he could understand given his previous outburst, but the curious flavor of stony resolve mystified him. And terrified him (and he must have been slipping a gear, because he had no way of sensing either from a truck).

"It means that my life belongs to you now, and it is encumbent upon my honor that I take whatever steps necessary-- no matter how radical-- to ensure your protection."

"Wait." The fingers of his good hand curled tighly around the edge of the seat. "Sorry, but you're not making any sense. Why separate me from Bumblebee if you're trying to protect me? I only have, I don't know--" he unclenched his hand and began to count off on his fingers, "--about, oh say, several dozen alien robots that are crazier than a half-full box of fruit loops trying to turn me into decorative wall art!"

Ever serene, Optimus did not react to his shout. "Which is why you will not be separated from Bumblebee--"

YEEEESSS!!! He shoots, he scores! Sam could have almost kissed the peterbilt right on the gear shift for having the balls to stand up to the snot-nosed, brief-case totting polticians, give them the Optimus version of a stuck out tongue, and do whatever he felt like anyway. Which, in this case, seemed to include keeping the dynamic duo (not real, never real, clinging from need not love) together.

"---rather, you will be accompanying us back to NEST headquarters after we dock in India."

And his storm of thunderous mental applause ground to an abrupt halt. It took several tries to process the statement, running it backwards and forewards under an internal microscope. Even once he pieced together the literal meaning of the words, the implications behind it remained elusive. Unthinkable.

"...What?"

"I don't know if you realize this, Sam," Optimus imparted hesitantly, "But no one beyond ourselves and select key officials within the US government know that the Fallen's power has been eradicated. The rest of the world is still looking for you."

"Yeah, I know," he waved it off, wishing he would get to the point, "I saw the story running on every news station in the world before the twins-- before I ended up in the cargo bay. So yeah. It sucks, but I know. I'm hoping they'll put out a statement or something that will get everyone off my back. But what did you mean by that thing you said before? The NEST thing?"

"Regardless of my personal feelings on the matter, we cannot inform the rest of the world of what occured in Egypt. To do so would be to give vital information to the Decepticons in the process of 'getting everyone off your back'," He tone shifted, becoming almost sympathetic, "In the interest of protecting you from your fellow humans, you will be coming with us back to NEST where your location will be unknown and where we can better protect you."

The taste of sour bile filled Sam's mouth, causing him to grimace.

"I may not like it, but I guess that makes sense. I was kinda flipped out about that, before-- the whole thing about how I might as well have a sign reading, 'Wanted dead or alive, gazillion dollar reward', tattoed into my forehead. How long do you think I will have to stay?"

No answer. The truck around him seemed, for a moment, to be nothing more than a dark, silent hunk of metal. The fog had become a restless white wall, devouring the fight deck around them and setting them adrift in nothingness. "Optimus?" His voice began to waver without his permission, "I'll only have to stay with you guys for a few months, right? Just until this whole thing blows over?"

"There are more than your fellow humans to consider, Sam."

"...No..."

"Even if, eventually, all the world's governments cease hunting you-- and even if, in a perfect world, every last psychopathic individual ceases to hunt for you--"

"No."

"--The decepticons will never rest until they have obliterated you."

"No!"

"And while you are around them," he added softly, "your family is in danger as well. Mikaela is in danger."

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!"

Optimus was right, of course. Arrogant robot always had to be right. The Decepticons had nothing else to lose-- not Cybertron, not their leader, the Fallen, not even the Allspark. And the most dangerous enemy was always the ax-wielding maniac with nothing to lose. Every fiber of his being longed to scream in denial, longed to rebel for the sake of rebelling against a universe apparently determined to take everything he held dear away from him, but there was no part of the robot's reasoning he could refute. If he had taken the time to think about it, he would have probably figured all of those things out on his own, though he would never have come to the conclusion that it was in his best interest to uproot him from his home. He would have found a way to make it work. Optimus just didn't want to give him a chance.

Shoving the angry, foaming-at-the-mouth part of him into a deep hole in his mind, he conciously relaxed his shoulder muscles, uncurled his fists (ignored the throbbing of his arm beneath the cast) and lounged back against the seat, palms open on his knees. Calm. Reasonable.

"I'm going home, and you can't stop me." Okay, so maybe more infantile than reasonable, but at least his voice remained steady and at a normal decibel level. "And if you try to, remember that there are at least 380 million people who object to kidnapping. Especially kidnapping a fellow American."

One human was no match for an Autobot, but he doubted even Optimus was deluded enough to try his luck at over a million to one odds. But when the peterbilt spoke again, he didn't seem to be backing down.

"Galloway called me while you were being fitted with a cast."

With a start, Sam remembered that slimey git had been brow beaten into assisting Thatcher and Optimus with their plan. Wow, that guy worked fast.

"As of approximately 45 minutes ago," the Autobot continued, "You are no longer a citizen of the United States."

The words hit him like ten thousand volts, momentarily stopping his heart.

American citizenship-- two words coveted by millions of people all over the world. The topic of dreams, books, and life-changing voyages to a land unknown. Never one to be particularly patriotic, Sam had nevertheless come to realize how thankful he was to have been born in the USA after seeing the state of the slums in Egypt. He had rights, liberties, voting privileges and those sorts of things; he could make fun of a senator's big nose all he wanted without fearing retribution. America-- and, by extension, California-- may not have been perfect (far from it, in fact) but it was his home. He'd never even been to so much as Canada before being teleported to the Egyptian desert. America was quirky, multi-lingual and multi-racial, bullying and protecting, irritating and endearing. He didn't know how to be anything else but American.

Yet somehow, without his knowledge, it had all been taken away from him. No more driver's license, no more passport, no more 'Born in California' birth certificate, no more constitutional rights. Just as happened in all those cheesy sci fi movies, he'd been erased. Sam didn't trust himself to speak. More than that, he didn't know what, if anything, to say.

Optimus seemed to be waiting for him to react. Well, he wasn't going to do him the courtesy of either erupting in vengeful rage or pretending that what he had done was okay. So he simply sat there, staring at the fog with unblinking eyes, concentrating on nothing beyond existing.

After a few moments, the Autobot offered, "It was contingent upon our signing the treaty with your government that they relinquish their claim to you as a US citizen. I assure you that it was not easy to presuade them to let you go."

"Is that what you did to piss them off?" he whispered from between unmoving lips, his momentarily stunned mind coughing back to life and beginning to sort through everything that had been said, looking for a loop hole, a way out.

"My manner of presuasion was, I believe, the true cause of the uproar," If Sam had been inclined to care, he would have laughed at the fact that Optimus actually sounded embarassed. "According to Cybertronian custom, it is my right to assert my claim to you, resorting to combat if necessary. When they first balked at the idea of revoking your citizenship, I demanded to know who, ultimately, held the loyalty of all citizens," his tone dipped, growing sly, "I was informed that, in theory, the person through whom all citizenship is confirmed is the President."

The revelation jostled Sam from his funk. Not the fact that American loyalty, as a technical term rather than a feeling, extended to the president. No, he was startled that Optimus had actually gone all the way up to the President to screw him over. That took some serious dedication. But then he mind caught up with the implications of the rest of his admission, and he choked on his own spit.

"'Combat'?" He repeated, incredulous, "You would have fought the President for me? Like, with your bodies and not with words or an exchange of lawsuits or something?"

"Most likely it would not have come to that."

"Oh. Well good." Then, "Only 'most likely'? As in, there's a .01% chance you might have?"

Optimus rumbled a laugh. "Their reaction was very similar to yours. Although I issued no threat, my popularity in Washington has declined somewhat in these past few days.

A rush of hate pounded through him for a moment at the fact that Optimus seemed to find the whole thing to be slightly amusing. There was nothing funny about any part of the situation. Nothing at all.

"It doesn't matter," he spat bitterly, then, replaying his own turn of phrase in his head, repeated with some measure of hope, "It doesn't matter. See, I may not be a citizen anymore, but that won't stop me from going back there. --Unless of course you 'presuaded' them not to let me over the border."

"No, I did not." All the humor abruptly faded from Optimus' voice, "Whatever you may be inclined to think of me at the moment, I did not request that the United States revoke your citizenship in order to force you to comply with my wishes. Rather, you could not simultaneously be under the jurisdiction of the Autobots and the United States at the same time."

The preplexing revelation washed over him like a bucket of ice water to the face, instantly cooling his boiling anger.

"Okay, now you lost me."

"Having you reside at NEST will provide some measure of protection against the Decepticons. Changing your political status from private citizen to human ambassador to the Autobots will provide you with the necessary diplomatic immunity to protect you against others of your kind."

His jaw fell slack and dropped to his knees. "'Ambassador'?" he parroted breathlessly.

"On paper, in any case. Putting you under our protection as an honorary Cybertronian is a necessary step to keeping you from the hands of people who would turn you over to the Decepticons without a second thought. This way, no one on earth can attempt to hold you against your will without serious intergalactic complications." Optimus hesitated, then sighed through the vents (another act, all an act, pretending to be less alien). "I apologize if I have caused you any undue distress by not revealing my plans until now. I had hoped to allow you a week more of a relatively normal existence without having to worry about the coming changes in your future."

Logic whistled and cheered, tactlessly informing him that he should be thrilled to have a safety net of protection in place for when he re-entered a world turned against him. And on some levels he was. Not only would he get to get to be with Bumblebee again (my friend, my--, my-- what?), he wouldn't have to pace his room at three am, restlessly moving to stare out at the sky from every window in the house, looking for the jet from his nightmares riding steadily closer on the air. And what kid didn't squeal and jump up and down at the thought of being practically adopted by uber-cool alien robots?

But he wasn't a kid anymore. And his inner child had been shot to death in all the days leading up to Mission city as he learned that not all monsters were big and ugly (how could they keep hurting him? How could they sneer and spit at the gentle alien writhing under their guns?How could they keep cutting him with those knives as he squealed in agony, strapped to a concrete slab?). He was 18. He didn't want to play make believe anymore-- he wanted to grow up, go to college, get a degree, get a good job, marry Mikaela and end up with six dozen kids, a house in the suburbs and a big dog.

But now, none of it would come to pass. His own country had given him away; he was owned by a group of aliens with powers that verged on godly. He couldn't go back to college, because the Decepticons might find him and kill him. He couldn't go back to his own house, because the Decepticons might find him and kill him. He couldn't go hide under an overpass, because a random stranger might find him, knock him over the head with a rock, and give him to the Decepticons, who would kill him.

And he couldn't go crash on Mikaela's couch, because the Decepticons might find him and hurt girlfriend to get to him.

"So. NEST, huh? Do they have cable? Or air conditioning?"

By this time the medicine had mostly worn off, but as he pulled his knees to his chest he started to giggle a little anyway. (can't go home can't go home)

Optimus gave a bewildered little click, but replied, "Yes. On both counts."

"Do they have a couch or something I could sleep on? I'm not too sure I want to bunk with a bunch of Marines-- I've never been a glutten for punishment."

Tiny, spasmodic shakes like the scrawling lines of a seismograph worked their way across his shoulders and down his back, crawling along his arms and legs, wedging themselves into his hands and feet. (no more dumpy room, no more mojo, no more seeing Dad working on his grass)

"A couch would not be sufficient in the long term. You will find that a room as been prepared for your arrival, one that you do not have to share with any of the soldiers living part time on base."

"Wow. You really do like to plan ahead, don't you?"

His clothes may have still been slightly damp, but the warm air drifting from the vents should have ensured that he would not be the slightest bit cold. And yet his skin felt like ice-- utterly pale and clammy with sweat. (no more Miles, no more visits to the lake, no more annoying Trent, no more of his mom's disasterous cooking)

Instead of answering his rhetorical question, Optimus asked, "Sam, are you alright?", as if such a thing as 'alright' was even remotely possible under the circumstances.

"No, I'm not alright!" he snapped, fisting his good hand so he wouldn't have to watch his fingers tremble (no more of Dad's stupid pranks, no more Saturday morning waffles, no more shakes at the Wendy's down the street). He gulped down a few swallows of air, trying to get himself under control. He felt like a ball God had kicked way up into the clouds-- he had no idea where he would land, or even if he would land safely. "Will I at least get visiting privileges?" He asked sarcastically, naive enough to half expect the alien leader to reply, 'Of course, Sam.'

"Unfortunately, that will not be possible," Optimus refused him instead, though not unkindly. "The risk of the Decepticons discovering our whereabouts would be significantly higher if passenger craft were seen going frequently to and from NEST headquarters."

(no more Mikaela, no more Mom, no more Dad, no more Mojo, no more Miles-- no more home, no more home, no more home, no more home, no more home)

"It's always always always the Decepticons!" he shouted, voice emerging slightly strangled. "I can't sleep at night because of them! My best friend seems dead half the time because of them! I can't go to college because of them! And NOW you tell me I'll never see my family or my girl friend because of the Decepticons-- I'll never, ever get to see them again, because if I get within a hundred miles of them they might get MURDERED by a Decepticon!"

His face screwed up so tightly in pain that the muscles began to scream; he sunk his head into his hands. "For all the time I'll get to see them before I die, I might as well already be DEAD!"

During their almost hour long discussion, Optimus had not once moved. But at his carelessly flung assertion, the engine turned over, the head lights came on, and the peterbilt abruptly lurched into motion. Jarred upright by the unexpected movement, Sam peered through the windshield, seeing nothing but a dense wall of mist illuminated from the twin beams of powerful light coming from Optimus. Shapes rose and fell beyond the shimmering curtain as Optimus drove forward-- a jet, a fuel hose, another jet-- making it difficult to discern where they were heading. He had the feeling, however, that Optimus was driving towards the side of the ship rather than down its length.

"What's going on?"

Optimus didn't answer.

He leaned forward for a better view out the front window, watching the metal decking roll away beneath them-- and suddenly the edge of the ship loomed into view, beyond which lay a hundred foot cliff into the ocean. His heart started to beat faster.

"Optimus, what are you doing?"

The edge of the ship rolled swiftly closer, and the Peterbilt showed no signed of turning.

"Optimus, you're heading for the side!"

Still no answer, but the seat belt took on a life of its own and slithered down over his shoulder, clicking into place.

Five feet. The truck wasn't slowling down.

"Optimus!"

Three feet. One.

--and the front axel of the truck lurched out into open space. Sam screamed as the cab tipped precariously, nose tilting down to give him an intimate view of the roaring waters so far below. He clutched at the seat belt, pressing his body so tightly back against the seat as though he could somehow melt through it. His feet scrabbled at the floorboard, finding no purchase.

His heart tried to beat itself out of his chest as the whole truck creaked, shuddered, and finally stopped tipping forward, leaving them balanced precariously on the edge of the ship, gazing down into certain death. The yellow head lights cut a shining swath from the night air, reminding him of that scene from Jurrasic Park where the trailer, lights still ablaze, had dangled from a tree just before falling and crashing into the forest floor a thousand feet below.

For several extraordinarily tense minutes, he continued to cringe away from the windshield, expecting at any moment to die as the truck slipped the rest of the way and sent them hurtling into the water. But when his mind caught up with his instincts, he realized that he was not inside of a truck-- he was inside of a transformer. If Optimus did not want to go for a swim, his Peterbilt disguise would not fall. The whole thing was merely a demonstration, an act for his benefit (or detriment. He couldn't get behind the benefit thing when said robot was attempting to frighten him to death).

"Judging from your reaction," the Autobot began in a clipped tone, "I would have to conclude that you do not, in fact, want to die."

"Of course I don't want to die!" Sam wailed hysterically, wondering what fruity alien thought processes would have lead him to believe that he did. But then he thought back to his previous outburst through the still lingering haze of near-death terror, and he realized why the Autobot had believed he would.

Optimus cut him off before he could open his mouth. "Maybe not right now, at this moment, when faced with the actual fact, but merely suggesting that 'I might as well be dead!'--" Sam flinched, hearing his own wild voice wail through the speakers. Had he really sounded that desperate, that lost? "--implies that you have given it at least a minimum of thought."

"So what?" He came back defiantly, now confident enough that Optimus wasn't really trying to off him to challenge the Autobot, despite the fact that he was still plastered to the seat back. "It's my life! Or are you going to tell me that it isn't any more?"

Optimus clicked quietly to himself for a while, then said, much more calmly (how could he know that the Autobot had been so tense?), "I have observed you to be a very warm-hearted, caring, and generous being. But to try to take your own life, or to recklessly throw it away, would be extraordinarily selfish."

"How? It would only affect me!"

Instead of answering, a holographic screen opened up and covered the windshield, blocking out the lonely night. Familiar faces, familiar events, began to flash brightly over the intangible surface: Mikaela kissing him after Mission City, Bumblebee requesting to be his guardian, his parents hugging him with tearful faces on the desert floor, and so many other moments he had forgotten but that warmed him to the core. And from the speakers began to drift a jumble of voices, weaving around him as if in a dream: 'I'm glad I got in that car with you', 'I will go where ever you go, Sam', 'I'm not leaving you! I'm not leaving you!', 'Don't you dare die on me, Sam!'-- his family, his girl friend, his guardian, and even Rachet and Ironhide, all talking to or about him, all saying in some small, indefinable way, 'We love you.'

Listening to the affirmations of affection, watching the continuous stream of his friends and family holding him, calling for him, fighting for him, with a loyalty that brought him to his knees, he realized that Optimus was right. If he ended up killing himself or getting himself killed, he would not be the only one to suffer. He couldn't quite believe that they wouldn't be able to go on with their lives without him, but Optimus' message was clear-- if you die, they will die too.

Unable to bear seeing emotion so pure, so strong it was almost painful any longer, Sam closed his eyes and bowed his head. Immediately, the recordings went silent and the holo screen darkened away. When he opened his eyes, he came face to face with the foreboding darkness once more. The ocean hissed and roared. Like Megatron.

"I guess I see your point," he chuckled weakly. But once more his heart was drawn to Mikaela and the chuckle died. "I love her, Optimus." He refused to believe the statement sounded like a plea. "She's....well, she's my girl friend. The girl friend/ boy friend thing doesn't work out too well over long distances, especially without the possibility of parole." He worried his bottom lip. "If I somehow became selfish enough to ask her to leave her life behind, could she come stay with me? You know, permenantly."

"Though you probably no longer believe me at this point, I am sorry, Sam. As our ward you have full clearance to live on base. Mikaela does not," Optimus paused, as though debating whether or not to continue. Apprently he decided against it, because the next moment the truck shifted into reverse and pulled its front axel back onto the deck with a jaw-rattling bump. Backing far enough away from the edge to turn around, Optimus drove back the way they had come.

Sam blinked, surprised, to find the truck pulled up beside the observation tower only a few seconds later. It had seemed like a much longer drive on the way out, but he supposed that on the return trip he was sufficiently distracted by his own thoughts not to accurately mark the passage of time. The door popped open, creating a straight line of freedom from the interior of the cab to the door through which he had come (had it only been an hour?). But the seatbelt had not retracted, and Sam could sense Optimus hestitating again, having an internal fight with himself.

Feeling like an ass for how he had treated Optimus when the guy was only trying to help him, Sam reached out and lightly set a hand on the dash.

"You can tell me. I promise I won't go spreading rumors," he tried to joke. It was obviously the wrong tactic to use, because the Autobot leader immediately sealed up like a clam.

"Get some rest, Sam," he advised wearily, unlatching the seat belt and sucking it back into the wall. For a moment the Autobot paused, the constant, sub-aural whirring of his internal mechanisms deepening in tone the way Bumblebee's did when scanning. "And give Bumblebee the chance to talk to you."

"I did!" He defended himself, hopping down from the cab. "I sent him almost a hundred e-mails, but he's been blocking me."

"Ah." Whirl. "Then I should probably tell you that he's been following you ever since you left the cargo bay."

Sam's steps faltered to a halt. He swung around to face the disguised transformer.

"He's been following me? How? Some of those corridors around the infirmary are really tiny, and the twins had trouble just fitting into a stair well!"

"Yes, the infamous antics of the twins," Optimus said, his normally level voice coming as close to a growl as Sam had ever heard it, tone midnight black. He shivered, suddenly understanding what Mikaela had been talking about and praying that he never encountered a truly pissed Optimus. "You forget that the twins are merely battlefield soliders while Bumblebee is a skilled and highly trained scout. If he does not want you to know that he is following you, you will never know."

The night had only grown cooler as the fog rolled in-- Sam wrapped his arms around himself, grimacing as he realized that his jacket was soaked though. It was like swimming, but with air.

"Did he try to follow me out here?"

"He did follow you out here. He was very upset when I began to drive towards the edge of the ship. At that point, I had to order him back inside."

Thinking of the way Optimus had been able to stealthily watch him from the observation tower, he shivered with awe at the thought that Bee was about a hundred times sneakier. He hadn't even realized the yellow bot was there. It was a very good thing, he reflected, that the Autobots were on their side.

"Oh." Realizing that he was just standing there awkwardly, he turned to go back inside. "Well, 'night."

"Good night."

And that was that, he supposed. Though just before he let the door back into the ship fall closed in his wake, he peeked back out at Optimus, who had not moved. Strange how a truck could seem so sad. Somehow he knew that it had nothing to do with their painful encounter, but something even more painful, something the Autobot had twice come so close to telling him. But then the metal door clanged back into place, harsh flourescent light blotting out the memory of night. And Optimus was left alone in the dark.

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9 o'clock. Far too early for any self-respecting teenager to be thinking about sleep. Yet after a horribly twisted day, Sam wanted to do nothing more than to climb into bed, pull the covers up over his head and tell himself that monsters didn't really exist until he believed it enough to get to sleep. No question about it-- informing his parents that they would never get to see their baby boy again could wait until the next day. Preferably at a saner hour than 5:13. 10am sounded good, as did 2 pm and never.

Updating them on the fact that he had broken his arm couldn't wait, however. If he put it off, it would only raise searching questions about where he had been and what he had been doing. He could stretch the time he spent in the infirmary and make it three hours while still sounding believable. Twelve hours, however, would be a different story.

...But maybe he could put it off just a little longer. Four hours, the perfect length of time if one of the broken bones had stabbed through his flesh and needed to be set back in place with surgery. Plenty of time to flush Bumblebee out of the wood work and bring him out of his funk. There were a whole other set of issues he needed to thrash out with the scout. In retrospect, he seemed to be doing a lot of thrashing in general that night.

Turning a 90 degree corner where one hallway t-boned into another, Sam paced about fifteen feet down the corridor, pulled off one shoe, selected the right branch of the hallway at random and cried out, "Oh no! My shoe!" Sounded totally fake, but hopefully it would get the job done. He tossed his shoe at the back wall of the T shape, angling it so that it bounced into the right hand side of the corridor just out of sight. He waited, damp, cold, and shoeless, hoping that he had chosen correctly. Just when it seemed like he might have entirely misjudged the situation, the shoe came flying silently back into view, tumbling to a stop only a few feet away from him.

Grinning in triumph, Sam picked up the returned shoe and slid it back onto his foot.

"Alright, Bee. I know you're there. So come on out with your hands up!"

The scout neither answered nor deigned to slink into view, though he surely must have known Sam was waiting for him. He crushed the thought that his yellow friend had fled back the way he had come after chucking his shoe. If he had, Sam would hunt him down. He l- cared about him too much to let whatever was going on continue for much longer.

But at long last, Bumblebee gave up on his empty space impression and crept around the corner. The hallway seemed hardly large enough to fit three strapping men abrest, yet somehow the Cybertronian scout made the lithe crouching, flowing motion of his hunched stride seem like a fluid dance. Regardless of any lack of physcial space, he didn't seem crowded at all.

"Sam." The robot greeted, turning towards him with his arms held behind his back. Sam wondered about that-- was it to help him slip through small spaces, or was he carrying something with him he didn't want the human to see?

"That was too easy," he accused gently, "You knew I wanted to talk to you and let me find you out."

"Yes," Bee admitted, crouching down to be on eye level with him, though he remained a careful distance away, out of arms reach. "I overheard the last portion of your conversation with Optimus."

"But not the rest of it?"

"He had sealed his cab against sensor intrusion. He knew I was watching."

The suspicion that perhaps Bumblebee didn't know Optimu's plan tickled the back of his mind. "Do you already know what, ah, what Optimus has arranged? About me, I mean. Me and what's going to happen in the next few days."

"I do. As does Rachet. But we were both sworn to secrecy."

A revelation dawned on him, and Sam snapped his fingers. "Oh duh! That's what they were arguing about, wasn't it? Optimus and Rachet, I mean, while doing the video conference shtick earlier."

"Yes," Bumblebee shifted, leaning forward slightly, then yanking himself away. As if he were afraid. As if he were restraining himself. "Rachet has grown fearful about the impact your state of mind has been having on your body. He was of the opinion that Optimus should tell you sooner rather than later. Optimus disagreed."

Sam found himself becoming lost in Bumblebee's shining blue optics, leaning closer and closer as if to peer through their depths and into his soul. And then he shook himself, remembering Optimus' chilling tale of what had occured to the scout. Suddenly he didn't want to see what ghosts lingered behind Bumblebee's eyes. To distract himself, he turned his face away, hugging himself through his wet clothes, and asked, "What about you? What side of the table were you on?"

Bumblebee didn't answer him. His gaze followed Sam's arms, lingered on his cast, and sharpened to a diamond-edged alertness as a tiny shiver passed through his frame. He shifted forward again with the same tightly leashed and vaguely frightening intensity, then stopped whatever he had planned to do, changed his mind, and brought his arms out from behind his back-- drawing with them a fuzzy yellow blanket.

Sam's face cracked into a smile and he laughed, delighted, at the sight of the faded yellow fabric worn impossibly soft with age.

"Awe, Bee! Come on, I'm not that cold!"

"But you are wet," the scout pointed out, "Which will exacerbate the problem."

Sam held himself forcibly still as Bumblebee did a little hop-step forward and brought the blanket towards him. His earlier terror, though mostly erased, had not entirely dissapated. Despite his ferrocious mental commands, his body acted against his orders and bent away from the approaching hands and the length of yellow softness draped between them (...tortured him for three weeks...tore out his vocalizer-- a feral claw pinning him with metallic strength, cannon charging up for an annihilating blast, the friendly Bee consumed by the cruel Hornet that cared for nothing but survival--).

Picking up on the motion, Bumblebee froze, then unwillingly began to retreat, emitting wave after wave of cloying sorrow and shame. Sam wasn't going to stand for that.

"Nu-uh. No way. We are not going to do this staying away from each other thing, because its only been a few hours and I'm already sick of it." He stepped forward, hardening his muscles-- don't flinch, damnit!-- and demanded, "I want my blanket. You were right, I am cold. And I don't think I'm supposed to get this cast wet--" Bumblebee's optics once more slipped to his plastered arm, "--so thank you. Thank you for being the most thoughtful guardian ever and bringing me a blanket so I wouldn't have to be cold."

The impossibly blue optics snapped back to his face, and though they couldn't widen with surprise, the yellow scout was obviously taken aback by his astuteness. Either that, or he was just pissed at Optimus for telling Sam all his secret fears. But Sam liked to think it was the first one.

"You scare me when you won't talk to me," he admitted, thinking it was time the therapy-circle story-telling went both ways, "People who start giving me the silent treatment for so long are usually pissed enough at me to try to push me out in front of a bus."

Bumblebee emitted a faint hissing noise that seemed almost pained. "I was not pissed at you, Sam," he replied softly, lowering his face even closer to the human, "If anything I was pissed at myself. --And I would crush any bus before it had the chance to hit you."

Not giving his human a chance to react to this wierdly intense declaration, Bumblebee reached out and lightly settled the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, tugging the ends closed in the front. His giant fingers lingered there for an instant, touching the place over his heart as though to assure himself of its steady rythm. When he moved to pull back, Sam set his good hand on top of Bee's and awkwardly patted the metal finger (don't cringe don't cringe, it's only a hand not a cannon).

"Then why did you snub me when I tried to text you and then block my messages? For that matter, why didn't you bother to e-mail me back? Your inbox must be filled to bursting by now."

Bumblebee carefully extracted his hand from Sam's grip, taking two large steps away from him. Sam instantly felt colder. It seemed almost as if the scout were putting space between them not to set him at ease, but to prevent himself from doing...something. As with Optimus, he got the feeling that Bumblebee was holding something back, holding it back by only a fragile thread frayed to the breaking point.

Instead of directly answering his question, Bee replied, "I was watching you while you were in the infirmary, Sam. But you should know that when the doctor drew your blood and set your arm, I had to retreat some distance away. So when you called me the first time, I was not in the best frame of mind.

Cuddling down a little in the blanket (don't sniff it, don't look like you're crazy enough to miss Bee's scent), he hazarded a guess at the reason behind his friend's strange behavior.

"What, are you afraid of blood?"

"No," he paused, weighing his words, then stared at him intently as he said, "I was afraid I might lose control and hurt someone."

Ice slid down his spine. "Hurt me?" he gasped a little, not willing to admit how much that terrified him.

"No. The doctor."

Bumblebee slunk further down the corridor. Just before he disappeared out of sight, he ducked his head back around the corner, shut down one of his optics in an imitation of a reassuring wink, and commented, "You might want to check your voice mail. Mikaela's called you fourteen times in the last ten minutes."

And then the scout was gone. Vanished into the air until he again wanted to be seen.

Sam pulled out his phone and checked it. It was still on. He had fourteen missed calls.

And though the little device had not been set to vibrate, never once had it begun to ring.

WARNING: This chapter contains scenes involving vigorous kissing, though no explicit content. If making out bothers you, don't read the next to last portion between the lines of 'N's.

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Mikaela was, in Sam's less-than-expert opinion, the ideal girl friend; hot face and body (both requirements), funny, intelligent, kind enough to take pity on a hopeless geek, and generally laid back.

Unlike some of the eye candy he had craved in his earlier years, Mikaela turned out to be the perfect combination of someone who neither treated him like a disposable dish rag nor clung to him with obsessive neediness. They frequently hung out together, sure. But on those times when they both craved their space or simply wanted to do different things, they parted with a friendly 'See you later', never once falling into the trap of texting the other person every three seconds to check up on them. So the fact that Mikaela had called him fourteen times in the last ten minutes meant that something had gone wrong, something serious enough that she had broken the unspoken rule of never calling more than once an hour when separated.

Clouded over with the ominous feeling of impending doom, Sam pushed the button to play the recorded messages and brought the blackberry to his ear. Mikaela's voice emerged from the speaker tinged with equal parts exasperation and urgency.

"Sam, I know you must be busy with Optimus, but I really need you to call me back. Rachet's thinking about doing something very stupid."

*Beep*

"Like, now, would be good. He's still not listening to me."

*Beep*

"--no, wait! Urgh!" Her voice came through muffled; her head must have been turned away from the phone. "--Sam, you need to call me back. Rachet says that he contacted Optimus and that you're not with him any more. Why aren't you answering your phone?"

*Beep*

"Seriously, this isn't funny, Sam. Rachet wanted to examine your arm himself, but when he couldn't find you in the infirmary he-- Ugh! Look, just pick up the stupid phone and call!"

*Beep*

"Alright. You want to play it this way? Fine." Her voice changed from weirdly calm to sugary sweet. "Rachet called your parents to try to find you, but obviously you weren't with them. So now they're on the war path against the Autobots to find out where you are and how you broke your arm---"

Not bothering to listen to the rest of the messages, Sam ended the recording, stuffed the blackberry back into his pocket and took off at a stumbling sprint down the hallway. With any luck he would hopefully be able to reach the cargo bay before his parents could start laying into the Autobots and discover more than he was ready for them to know. But the way his luck seemed to be going, coupled with the fact that it was difficult to get up any speed when practically dead from exhaustion and trying to hold a blanket around his shoulders with one hand (Bumblebee in fabric form-- a soft, enveloping shield), there was no way he could make it.

The hallways lengthened to spite him; the stairwells all spontaneously switched direction to point only up instead of down. In his urgency, he skidded around several wrong turns before stumbling onto the correct route leading to his destination in the bowels of the ship. The trip grew longer every time he made it-- when he at last descended the final stairwell, he was certain he should have run out of ship ages ago at his hurried pace.

Turning onto the long, empty corridor leading to the human-sized entrance to the cargo bay, Sam noticed with some amount of shock that the two gun-toting guards were conspiciously absent. Without their continued presence, any random person could wander in and harass the Autobots. His teeth clenched together at the breach of security-- the Autobots had saved all of humanity, so the least the small slice of humanity aboard the ship could do was protect their privacy. Had the situation not been so desperate, and had Sam not been too tired to really care, he might have turned around at once and marched off to find someone in charge he could bitch at. As it was, he slowed to a lilting, shuffling gait, pulled the yellow blanket higher up around his shoulders (an unorthodox superman, strong enough to take on the world and his parents combined), and marched down the hallway.

Super-Sam would have burst without hesitation through the door, as prideful as someone wearing a yellow fuzzy blanket could be. But Super-Sam's alter ego, Sam, was not so bold or brave, and paused to look through the tiny rectangle of glass in the door rather than immediately announce his presence. All he could see from his less-than-steller vantage point were the backs of Ironhide's legs. The discussion/heated argument/epic battle must have been located around the corner. Suddenly he was glad he couldn't see what was occuring at the moment; the fact that the weapon's specialist felt the need to transform conveyed multitudes, most of which radiated bad vibes to the tune of 'they are Not Happy and showing it'.

Straightening his spine for his coming transformation into the Rumpled Wonder (insert trademark), Sam eased open the door and crept into the cavernous space beyond.

"--you guys really shouldn't let your piping get all clogged up like that! It's irresponsible!"

"Judy..."

"I'm very serious! If every time you fart you blow away half the ceiling you need to be more careful about what you eat!"

"Honey, they're robots. I really don't think they eat."

"What else could have caused a hole like that?"

Oh God-- Mom.

Not quite sure whether to giggle like a six year old or crawl into a hole in shame, Sam paced in a wide circle around behind Ironhide, taking stock of which Autobots, exactly, he would no longer be able to show his face around. Though on some level he had expected it, Optimus' absence took him by surprise. While of course it was brainless to assume that the alien leader had rushed inside right on his heels and darted back down into the cargo bay with his compatriots, it was unnerving to see the other Autobots arrayed around his parents without the steadying presence of their leader. Rachet seemed more likely to make embarassing declarations of bodily functions, Ironhide seemed more likely to shoot first and ask questions later, and the Twins...well, the Twins would have acted just the same as always even if God were in the room breathing down their necks.

Bumblebee was missing too. Without him, Super-sam didn't feel quite so super anymore.

To his surprise, he found the displaced guards standing a respectful distance away from the loose circle of Autobots, accompanied by a thoroughly disgruntled Thatcher. The General's presence in the room bewildered him-- why did he feel the need to stand witness to his parents raging about his broken arm to the Autobots? Since they were only grumbling and not shouting, he assumed that they could not yet know about his abrupt shift in nationality (no more Tranquility, no more California, no more America--).

Shaking his head and deciding that he might as well just bite the bullet and get it all over with, Sam rasied his voice and called out, "Just a fart wouldn't have nearly enough power. At least a few flying projectiles must have been invovled, if you know what I mean."

Nine pairs of eyes turned in his direction. But only his parents jumped in surprise. Naturally, the aliens had sensed his arrival even before he had stepped through the door. And he assumed Thatcher and his thugs were born stoic.

"Sam! Where've you been, young man?"

"There you are, Sam! What happened to your arm, sweety? Are you okay?"

"He's fine, Judy. At least until I get through with him."

His mother smacked the back of one hand into her husband's chest.

"Ron! Cut the boy some slack, will you? He's obviously working through some tough issues here."

"Working through them by breaking his arm. How productive."

'Tough issues'. Heh. Sam almost smiled at how completely inadequate those two words were.

"You haven't even given him the chance to explain--"

"As stimulating as this conversation is," Rachet interjected suddenly, "Now that Sam is present I would like the chance to examine his injured appendage for myself. If you will excuse me--"

And the neon Autobot stepped right over the top of his gaping parents, closing the gap to his quarry in two fluid strides.

Being rapidly approached by a twenty foot tall war machine, no matter how friendly and well meaning the war machine, had an intimidation factor that could put a snarling tiger to shame. Especially when said war machine was far from the traditional definition of 'friendly'. Rachet, despite his profession (designation? programming?) as a medic, lacked even the most basic people skills, making him arguably the most 'alien' of the bunch. And stripped as he was of all sense of personal boundaries and social appropriateness, he had no qualms about examining whoever he wanted wherever he wanted, regardless of their wishes.

Knowing that he would be fighting a losing battle if he tried to resist, Sam passively surrendered control of his coccooned limb to the spidery fingers that ginerly plucked it away from his body. Rachet squatted down on his haunches beside the human, bringing his large head close to the captured body part, studying it with intense blue optics. So close to the robot, Sam noticed that his optics were dissimilar from those of the other Autobots in every manner except color. The lens-like rings framing the camera pupil numbered litterally into the thousands, with some so slim they might have been the width of a hair. Unconciously, Sam found himself leaning closer to study the intricate arrangement of parts beneath the glass hemisphere-- the continual clicking and rotating of every delicate piece created a ripple effect in the quiet blue glow, as if viewing the reflection of a pool of water.

Several quiet, furious chirps came from the medic, causing Sam to jerk his head back-- he had been leaning so far forward their noses were only an inch away from touching. He looked around at the assembled Autobots, wondering which one Rachet was snarling at in Cybertronian; when none reacted to the static blips, he realized that robots could, in fact, mumble to themselves.

"Hey, you!" His mother shouted, stalking angrily towards Rachet and pointing a threatening finger, "What are you doing to my son?"

Without pausing to look up at her, the medic replied, "Assesing the condition of his injury."

"No offence, Snatch-it (honestly, what strange names you all have!), but you're an alien AND a robot! You don't know the first thing about us humans! --and I'll bet the rest of my vacation in Paris that you've never gone to medical school, either!" she accused in her shrill, mom-on-a-protective-rampage voice. Though neither his face nor posture suggested that he had been insulted, Rachet halted his scans for long enough to turn his piercing gaze on the advancing woman.

With the air of a man trying to diffuse a bomb, his father came forward and carefully drew her away. "I don't think he's had time to take night classes, Judy. Besides, Sam's a big boy-- if something hurts he's got enough brains to say 'no'." Though his words were soothing and edged with humor, he threw a black glare of his own at Rachet, one that went completely unnoticed as the medic bent once more over Sam's arm.

As if to extend a peace offering to the glowering pair of humans, the Cybertronian rumbles switched abruptly to english. Rachet's manner of speech, however, gave the impression that he was merely continuing an internal thought rather than addressing his unwilling patient (or any watching parents) directly. "Stable fractures in both the radius and ulna-- fortunately no stray bone splinters." He rotated the captured arm a precise 45 degrees. "A significant amount of swelling around the affected area. Non-malignant bacteria present in the tissue. White blood cell count elevated but not beyond acceptable parameters. Heart rate and blood pressure above normal, unusually high levels of adrenaline, vasopressin and cortisol present in the blood stream."

Gingerly returning the arm to Sam's side as though replacing a Ming vase on a shelf, Rachet leaned in even closer. "I judge that you are stressed. May I inquire as to the reason?"

"Ain't it obvious, Hachet?" Cackled the unmistakable voice of Skids from somewhere above them. Sam gave himself whiplash as he followed the words to their source, finding the lime green Autobot perched atop the stack of packing crates towering over them like a wannabe sky scraper. He must have moved during the impromptu check-up. "Yo ugly mug would scare a decepticon inta becomin a toasta!"

"So back da hell up!" Mudflap added helpfully, poking his head around Ironhide to wave his hand at Rachet in a shooing motion.

As though suddenly reminded of the twin's presence, Ironhide flung himself around in the direction of the candy-apple Autobot and swung his heavily plated arm into the other's back, knocking him out into the open. The smaller robot's efforts to scamper away were hindered as Ironhide pinned him to the floor with one foot, the violent motion causing his parents to scramble back from the epicenter.

"You two should be entirely absorbed with repairing the damage to the cargo bay, not sneaking around and making pit-damned nuisances of yourselves," Ironhide growled.

"Come on! Have a heart, Bruce Willis!" Mudflap whined, struggling without noticable effect against the much larger robot, "We didn't put that big ass hole in da ceiling! Stumblebee should be in here fixin it!"

"And if you had not been involved in ineffectual information-gathering tactics, there wouldn't be anything to fix in the first place." The black Autobot leaned in close to his trapped prey, voice dipping into a gravely barritone. "Prime may not be a believer in having the punishment fit the crime, but Prime also isn't here right now. And I have no problem using you for target practice."

Then, feeling that he had made his point, Ironhide lifted his foot, gave Mudflap a prefunctory kick in the side, and stepped away. Faster than a bullet loosed form the barrel of a gun, the red Autobot shot across the room to rejoin his twin, all the while muttering a surly stream of, "I'm goin! I'm goin!" Once he felt himself sufficiently out of range, however, he lifted a defiant middle finger at the weapon's specialist. "Slagger!" he added, just before ducking out of sight.

His parents, momentarily stunned by the exchange, slowly came out of their stupor as Ironhide retreated back to his regular position. But their eyes continued to drift to his tank-like cannons, which hummed and clicked ominously as he folded his arms across his wide chest.

His mother, to Sam's growing anxiety, began to mouth the word 'Stumblebee' as though wondering where she had heard it before. His father, luckily, only turned to spear Thatcher with a hard look. "Are they normally like this, or does the insanity escalate on wednesdays?"

Firming her lips, his mom smacked him on the arm. "Ron! Don't be rude."

"What?! Am I the only one here to think the fact that a hole appeared in the ceiling-- a hole which is still smoking, by the way-- is just a little strange? And, I don't know, insane?"

Thatcher's mouth thinned into something resembling a watered down grimace, and he cleared his throat in preparation to speak. Sam' level of adrenaline (already high, according to Rachet) spiked off the chart. This was it. Thatcher would calmy explain to his parents that Bumblebee had shot him out of an overhead vent, his mother would gibber, his father would explode in outrage, and both would immediately demand that the Autobots stay far away from their son and never attempt to contact him again-- which would lead to the inevitable revelation that Autobots had claimed Sam as their own and thus would not stay far away from him...which would lead to the fact that he would not be getting on a plane with his family in two days' time to return home (cry and wave goodbye, see you only in my dreams).

Sam couldn't deal with all that. Not right then. Not ever.

He jumped to cut off the General, striding quickly forward to insert himself into the center of attention. "Insane, yes. Definitly, postively insane. Just plain wonky. But that's okay, cause they're new here and I'm sure if some of us went to a different planet they'd all think we were insane. But hey! At least no one was hurt, right? No harm, no foul, and all that?" He swung his good arm around his mother's shoulders and grinned at his father (don't look too close, you'll see all the cracks, see the endless dark beyond). "So! Now that you've found me-- or, I guess I found you, but whatever-- we can go and all get some sleep, because sleep is majorly awesome and good for healing bones and all that."

Thatcher shot him a decidedly cool look, then turned to address his father. "In answer to your question, Mr. Witwiky--" (no, stop!) "--today has been an unusual day in more ways than one. Unforseen events occured which lead to the accidental defacement of some parts of the cargo bay, though I assure you steps are being taken to rectify the situation." Though he didn't glance towards Mudflap and Skids, the implication of who, exactly, had been pegged for clean-up duty was clear. But knowing something of the twins' personalities, Sam seriously doubted and true 'rectifying' would get done.

"Sooo....how's that going?" Sam leapt to fill up the empty air with words, fill it up with nonsense to suffocate the truth. "Did the-- whatever made that hole wreck anything on the upper floors?" Then, something he had not considered before occured to him, something truly awful, "No one was hurt, right? Please tell me no one was hurt."

He sensed Rachet's head whipping in his direction to stare at him intently, but he ignored the revealing gaze, concentrating instead on the lump of lead that had spontaneous formed in his gut. His arm dropped from around his mother's shoulders.

"No. Fortunately, the blast was contained to the crawl space between the cargo bay and the level above it, resulting only in damage to inanimate objects--" steel-gray eyes darted to the conspicous cast as though it were a neon sign in Vegas, gracing Sam with a queer look. His chest tightened-- Thatcher knew. But the General merely returned his attention to his parents. "--which is why, when you insisted on being granted an audience with the Autobots, I found it necessary to have two of my men escort you to assure your safety, given the extent of the reconstruction taking place and the subsequent increase in health hazards."

Sideswiped by how thickly Thatcher was laying on the bullshit with his parents, Sam momentarily succumbed to a chortle which he quickly morphed into a believable imitation of a cough. If reconstruction posed too much of threat to any oblivious humans wandering around in the cargo bay (unlikely given that the Twins had returned to watch the exchange from between two packing crates across the room, well away from Ironhide's keen optics), his parents would have simply been refused entry. And even if they had raged, shouted, pleaded and threatened, the guards who had been standing sentry carried guns-- guns that looked as though they possesed ka-BOOM factors in the quadruple digits. No matter how they blustered, his parents would have been no match for guns.

But then his momentary amusement faded into bewilderment and a dark sense of foreboding-- why had Thatcher found it necessary to come in person, and to bring along his G.I Joe sidekicks? Surely he didn't think that spilling the beans to his parents-- even spilling the wheelbarrow-sized load that had nothing to do with breaking his arm-- would cause them to go violent enough that they would try to attack the General? And even if he was that majorly paranoid, one armed guard should have been more than enough. Now that Sam looked, really looked, he realized that not only were the jar-head goons packing sci fi worthy weapons, they were wearing sleak, amost invisble body armor beneath their black fatigues.

What was going on?

But his mother, usually endowed with all the gifts of observation God gave a block of wood, picked up on something he had not.

"Wait just a darn minute here! What do you mean, 'blast'? Was a bomb set off or something? Shouldn't the rest of the ship be warned that we're under attack?!"

"Please calm yourself, Mrs. Witwiky. There was no bomb and we are NOT under attack."

"Yeah, come on, Mom," Sam reasoned, catching the suspicious gleam in his mother's eye that meant she was preparing to rage about more government lies and cover ups. If only she realized that the true lies were the things she took for granted (four flying out, only three flying back-- where's your return ticket, Sam?). "I mean, if we were-- which we're NOT, okay?-- why would any self-respecting bad guy set off a bomb in the cargo bay where there's no one around to get hurt? ...Well, unless the bad guy knew that there were aliens down here, but the only ones who would know that are the Decepticons, and it really isn't their style to plant a bomb-- they like to get things done by hand, you know?"

"Well," she huffed, clearly befuddled by his 'this is your brain on speed' logic, though for the moment subdued, "At least no one was hurt. That's what counts."

"Yep! Absolutely. No one was hurt." Sam agreed enthusiastically, wincing as his father started examing the present Autobots with a suspicous set to his jaw. Uh-oh.

"That's all good and fine, but now we need to have a long talk with our son about how he broke his arm and where, exactly, he's been for the past three hours." Haggard, cross, and worried (though he tried to hide it) his father stepped forward and clamped a hand around his son's shoulder through his Super-sam cape and began to steer him toward the door. "So if you will excuse us, we'll be going now."

As silent as a leaf falling on snow, Rachet moved to intercept them. Sam started at his sudden appearance-- two azure optics locked onto his forehead as though attempting to read his mind, never shifting away to acknowledge is parents with a glance as the Autobot medic fluidly oozed up into Sam's personal space.

"One moment, if you would."

And his willowy, many-jointed fingers gingerly grasped Sam's head, entraping it in a metal cage.

In addition to his regular profession as a savior of the world, Sam moonlighted as a class A geek who frequented arcades the way an alcoholic frequented bars. Although the classic arcade-style games-- car/motorcycle/jet ski racing-- tended to be his favorites, every once in a while he would indulge himself in those games whose sole purpose was to win a prize. The mother of them all was the claw game, the staple of arcades and Walmarts everywhere from which hundreds of kids tried and failed every hour to extract a stuffed animal.

At the moment, Sam felt as though he had traded places with one of the unfortunate stuffed creatures and was suddenly in the grip of the infamous metal claw. There were a few differences, however. First a foremost, the fingers around him were not smooth chrome, but segmented metal fingers resembling spider legs. Second, his parents were not shouting encouragements, but yelling in fear and outrage.

"What are you doing?! Get off him, you metal freak!"

"Let go of my son!"

And most importantly, the metal claw which had descended and plucked him from the pile did not seem apt to let him slip through its grip. Quite the contrary-- the pin-pricks of pressure around his skull prevented him from moving his head a milimeter in any direction.

He thought he saw Thing 1 and Thing 2 start to raise their guns before Thatcher urgently hissed for them to stand down, but he couldn't be sure. No more than he could be sure he felt something tickling the skin of his scalp through those fingers, something which may have been infinitesimally small wires wiggling down through flesh and bone....

But as swiftly as the feeling came over him it ceased. The fingers released their hold, retreating away from his head as Rachet took a minute step back and briefly shuttered his optics in a gesture of confusion.

Superheroes of the ordinary world, his parents surged towards him and took up point around him, inserting themselves between their son and the alien medic (all their efforts a waste-- flesh and bone no match for alien strength, love no shield against indifferent life--).

"That's right! Keep backing up--"

"I must admit to some confusion, Sam," Rachet announced calmly, as if the two people standing guard in front of his human paient were simply part of the background. "Three times now you have uttered statements which indicate an impairment of memory function, yet I can detect no damage to brain tissue or any imbalance of those hormones involved in memory creation and retention."

Still trembling from the unexpected contact and release, Sam could only blink up at the neon Autobot stupidly, feeling slightly high. "Uh....what? What statements?"

Rachet straightened to his full height (how could something so graceful be so large?) and glanced between the three humans at his feet.

"Your declarations that no being, human or otherwise, had been injured in the destruction of the ceiling. Have you repressed the knowledge that you yourself sustained a blow sufficient to break your arm?"

Way to let the cat out of the bag, Rachet. Suddenly discovering a new target for their ire, his parents rounded on him. (Here we go. Now they're really going to let it fly-- but maybe that's okay, even being yelled at means hearing their voices...)

But to Sam's utter shock, he found himself bombarded not with outrage but with gasps of sympathetic pain-- and suddenly his mother's arms came around him, crushing him to her thin body with his head buried in her bosom the way all mom-hugs world wide seemed to do. A strong, calloused hand belonging to his father found the back of his neck and squeezed (oh my son, when did you become a man?), conveying the unwavering support of a parent.

"You gotta stop this being careless thing, Sam," his father harrumphed grumpily, rubbing the pad of his thumb in soothing circles against his skin.

For a moment Sam felt as though he were riding edge of a moving sidewalk thrown abruptly into reverse-- off-kilter and struggling for balance. Why the sudden love fest when normally he'd be going deaf from all the shouting? It was only a broken arm; it wasn't as if he had almost died--

When the answer hit him, he felt thicker than a stump for missing the obvious. His parents had gone on the war path in the first place because they were worried about him, as twisted at it sounded. Once more he'd been harmed without his parents having the power to stop it; once more he'd been caught up with something involving the alien visitors that could have killed him. Easily. Even if they didn't know the exact circumstances of what had occured, it didn't take a genius to do the math: Sam + Autobots + explosion violent enough to blow a smoking hole in three inch metal = flag-draped casket bearing their son.

And for the first time, smooshed against his mom, wrapping his broken arm (ow! ow! ow!) awkwardly around her back, it dawned on him that he had effectively dodged a speeding bullet. --No, scratch that. Dodged a runaway train billowing flames from the engine compartment (--tortured for three weeks--) and conducted by a demon from hell (--mask became reality, Bee succumbed to the Hornet-- caring blue optics hardened to ice, ice colder than space--).

He had to swallow thickly several times before he could speak, but at last his dignity as a teenager demanded that he struggle out of the suffocating hug-- though not before tightening his own grip in return, trying to put every ounce of manly love he could into the gesture (Goodbye, mom...).

"Who said I was being careless? You need to stop jumping to random conclusions, dad. I thought you learned your lesson from the time you got us into that blood fued with the next door neighbors."

And just like that, the moment ended. His parents pulled back, returning to their previously annoyed state as though embarassed to have been caught in a family moment so sentimental that fluff practically oozed onto the floor. Well, his father at least seemed embarassed. His mother continued to look at him with red rimmed eyes, each sniff the possible prologue to another bone-crushing embrace. Sam took a deliberate step back and resettled his yellow Bumblebee blanket around his shoulders (--become someone more than human, a super hero so strong that he can't be broken by pain--), briefly wondering if the scout were lurking right outside the door.

In response to his light-hearted jab about an incident he hardly remembered, his father crossed his arms and grimaced. "That was different. I KNEW they were the ones who let their dog poop in my yard."

Sam almost laughed at the look Rachet gave his father. But the next words from the robot's vocalizer brought all pre-chuckle intentions to a screeching halt.

"While Sam's actions could hardly be termed noble, they were not, in fact, careless. Mudflap and Skids should have known that their presence, if discovered, would prompt such a reaction from Bumblebee, given his history with lurking Decepticons."

Sam could have strangled the obstuse robot. If only his hands could have fit around his neck. And if only he'd needed to breathe.

"Bumblebee," His father said flatly.

"'Stumblebee'!" His mother cried with understanding, "That red one meant Bumblebee, didn't he? The yellow robot that's been living in our garage and destroyed half our house?" Then, she gasped, "Bumblebee did that to the ceiling?....Well, I guess I'm not too surprised, considering what he did to the upstairs and our y-- Bumblebee almost killed my baby boy?!!"

It was Thatcher, to Sam's astonishment, who stepped forward. "Now you understand why we first inquired if you knew of Bumblebee's location, Mr. and Mrs. Witwiky," he turned his penetrating stare to Sam. "Sam, I know that your friend acted with the best intentions, I truly do--"

"No." And that was that. Whatever he wanted, no.

"Listen! I do not doubt your word or the word of Optimus Prime and the other Autobots who served as witnesses-- stop shaking your head, son, and listen to me! We only want to talk to your friend. Just talk, that's all. He will still leave the ship with you, safe and sound, in two days. I promise."

Sam only stared at him as though he'd sprouted carrots from his nose. "You're delusional if you think I believe you after-- if you think I believe you." He glanced back to his parents, but fortunately they didn't seem to pick up on his slip. "Two things, okay? First, I haven't seen Bumblebee and I don't know where he is--" (Don't swallow, don't blink-- Bee, run!) "--And second, I'm going to be there when you talk to him. And I really don't give a damn if you say no, because I'm going to do it anyway." The implication hit home, judging by the General's slight wince. As a ward of the Autobots, Thatcher had no true authority over him and he knew it. The older man did hold the trump card of being able to bash his parents over the head with the truth at a moment's notice, but he was at least intelligent enough to realize that he himself would suffer enough damage in the backlash to counteract any leverage over Sam.

Rather than argue with (and thereby lose caste to) a teenager, Thatcher turned regally to Ironhide. "My friend, would you happen to know of Bumblebee's whereabouts?"

Much to everyone's shock and Sam's silent feeling of triumph, Ironhide gave the equilvalent of a disbelieving snort and rebuffed, "Even if I did, Bumblebee is more a friend of mine than you could ever be. I believe you humans have a phrase for it-- 'Sempre Fi'."

Remembering the term from an old WWII movie, Sam whispered the translation in floored awe, "'Always faithful,'" And just to prove his latent ability to ignore the seriousness of a situation, he added helpfully, "You've mixed up your slogans, Ironhide. Sempre Fi is used by the Marines."

"Which, as I understand it, is a subdivision of the United States Navy. It's use on board this vessel in entirely appropriate," Rachet lifted a finger in a manner reminiscent of a grade school teacher lecturing the class as he spoke, but lowered it again as he turned to Thatcher (And hissed something that sounded distinctly like 'You Idiot' to Ironhide, but once again Sam was convinced he was probably imagining things). "Unfortunately for you, General, Ironhide speaks the truth. Bumblebee has the ability, as a scout, to shield the radiation signature of his own spark from even my powerful scanners. We do not know where he is."

Thatcher frowned. "Can you raise him on your internal radio, or otherwise get into contact with him?"

"That will not be necessary, General Thatcher," Bumblebee called softly, emerging from behind a stack of tarp-draped containers, "I'm here."

Bee.

Sam twisted the fingers of his good hand into the folds of his yellow blanket, childishly wishing he could give the yellow Autobot a hug. Holding tight to the gift from his guardian would have to suffice-- especially when his father pushed him behind his broad shouldered back, planting himself between the two.

"Ah, good! Thank you for coming, Bumblebee. Now that you are here, there are several things we need to discuss--"

"Starting with what the hell you thought you were doing shooting off that gun of yours around my son." His father interjected forcefully.

Sam knew, knew, that he couldn't be the only one to see the yellow scout flinch as though struck. But if any other the other Autobots or humans caught the motion, they didn't react to it. Had he really taken to watching his guardian so closely that he picked up movement not even Rachet noticed?

At first irritated by the interruption, Thatcher settled into a patient tolerance, once more clasping his hands behind his back as he did whenever involved with something very serious. Sam wondered idly if he did so to prevent anyone from seeing his hands twist and bead with nervous sweat. Apparently, his father's question had been something along the lines of what the General himself wanted to know.

Bumblebee paused before answering, looking from Rachet to Ironhide for support and seemingly finding none. At last he lowered himself into a sinuous crouch, backing away from the assembled group until a stark shadow obscured half his form, transforming the parts left in darkness into vague blobs of golden luminescence. It took Sam a minute to realize that the posture was submissive-- and he refused to think of what it meant that his alien friend had been adopting that same stance with greater frequency around him, as though expecting attack (or unconsciously barring himself from....something. Not attacking-- never was there the intent to hurt. Something else, something he was terrified he might do if his control slipped for even a moment around his human charge....).

"It was not my intention to shoot with Sam in the room, or to shoot at all," he began to explain in the same quiet voice, though his tone was unhesitant, filled with a stony determination (so much like Optimus) that bordered on grim. "As I understand it, Mudflap and Skids contacted Sam and presuaded him to join them on an adventure of sorts. They lead him to a mantinence hallway from which they were able to access the air duct which runs-- ran-- through the ceiling above the cargo bay. Just there." he pointed to the gaping wound of twisted metal from which Sam had fallen.

"So you started getting all trigger happy and decided to play target practice, nearly hitting my Sammy in the process." His mother quipped.

If it were possible, Bumblebee sank even farther into himself, backing completely into the day-time shadows (a faint golden glow, a flickering candle flame guttering in the dark).

"No." A pause, several alien clicks and whirrs, fingers brushing the floor (claws that longed gouge furrows into the sheet metal in agony). "I was not engaged in target practice; I did not simply 'get all trigger happy' and aim at the wrong place-- I came after Sam with the intent to kill him."

For an instant the world ceased to spin on its axis.

Then his mother stumbled back a step in shock, all the blood fleeing her face and leaving it a pasty white (So innocent, so naive-- you never expected the truth, did you?). His father, swiftly recovering from the stiffness of shock, flushed a deep purple, the color of directionless fury.

Thatcher frowned, seeming stymied rather than disturbed or even frightened.

"That's not the whole story, according to Optimus Prime. Is it, Bumblebee?"

And finally, something inside his father snapped. He twisted briefly to spear Thatcher with one meaty finger. "I don't give a shit what some robot says! You stay out of this, you pompous son of a bitch!"

He shook off his wife as, wide eyed, she tried to grasp his arm. "Get off, Judy! I have a hunk of scrap to melt!" His rage focused itself on Bumblebee, who shrunk away from the human only a sixteenth of his mass the way he never shrank from Megatron (--human hands hurting him, human hands holding him down--). "And you--"

A fist colliding with his shoulder in an indignant punch halted him in his tracks. "Don't you tell ME to get off, Ron! And don't you dare try to do something stupid like attack it-- I don't want to have to drag your remains home in an envelope!"

"I'll do whatever the hell I want--"

"No!" Sam pushed his father back away from Bumblebee (my friend, my guardian, my--), wincing as he used his broken arm without thinking. His father stumbled, taken off guard, and for a moment Sam froze in bewilderment-- he didn't think his push had carried so much force (--'Stay away from him!', 'Look! He's not fighting back!'--). Without concious thought, without even truly realizing what he was doing or why he was doing it, he stepped right up into his father's face, pushing him again with both hands. "Stay away from him!" He said, though is voice came out a scream, "You stay away from him! I won't let you hurt him! I'll fight you! I'll fight you! I won't let you hurt him!"

For a moment his father simply stared at him open-mouthed. "Sam! You heard it right from the horse's mouth-- That monster tried to kill you!"

"You don't know ANYTHING!" he cried, pushing his father again, "You weren't THERE! He thought I was a Decepticon! He thought I was a spy! He was doing his job trying to protect me from them!"

Suddenly furious in return, though still bearing an expression of helpless fear and desperation, his father pushed back and grabbed him by his shoulders.

"Son, you're obsessed! It's a robot! Who knows what's going on in its head?! What happens the next time he mistakes you for a Decepticon?!" He started shaking Sam by the shoulders, hard, causing his teeth to rattle in his skull and his arm to flare in agony. He gave a short little cry, but his father didn't appear to notice. "What happens when the next shot doesn't miss?!"

Proving that his reputation as a scout was well deserved, Bumblebee crossed the room to them in a movement so swift, so utterly alien in its absolute lack of noise, that he seemed to simply appear behind them. Deft fingers pulled one of his father's arms up and away from Sam's shoulder, immediately releaving the bone crushing pressure of his vice-like grip. Holding him by the arm, Bee plucked him from the floor, transferring him laterally through the air as easily as moving a cup from one table to another. And with characteristic care, Bee set his father back on his feet fifteen feet away from Sam. Safe. Rumpled, too stunned to be frightened, but unharmed.

But as soon as the yellow Autobot had darted towards them, the two armed and armored guards dropped back into combat stances, clicked off the safeties on their weapons, and framed Bumblebee's head in their cross hairs.

Sam had nearly forgotten the almost tracelike state he had entered when threatening Galloway at breakfast. But at the sight of the two black muzzels leveled at Bumblebee, the roaring white static descended once more, blocking out everything else in the world except the threat to his friend, and with a strangled battle cry-- regardless of the screeches of outrage from the other Autobots (including the Twins, who abandoned their hiding place), regardless of Thatcher shouting at the guards to stand down, regardless of the fact that he was probably making the stupidest mistake of his short life-- Sam lunged for the nearest guard.

The barrel of the gun swung to face him at his approach, but the soldier wielding it was too surprised to pull the trigger in time. Sam's arms came up (his broken bones no longer hurt-- he felt nothing, saw nothing, save for the gun), hands curling around the wide muzzel of the weapon, and thrust it up and away from its intended target, pointing the cross hairs at a point above all their heads.

But though the guard was only a fraction of a second too late to put a slug through Sam's heart, he still squeezed the trigger in reflex-- the gun roared beside his ear, impossibly loud, and one of the packing crates exploded into a hail storm of flying wood splinters as long as Sam was tall. Though still trapped in the pounding white rage, every fiber of his being roaring out a chant to obliterate anything that tried to hurt his friend (--saved me, captured because he saved me--- maimed and leg-less, still he fought back, fought back to protect him-- a desparate cry for help, and the yellow angel was there, breaking the chain-wielder's neck, ripping the spine from the feral monster--), enough of his human mind remained active to realize that any slug that had enough power to do that to the metal and wood box as big as a couch was not meant to stop humans. He had been wrong from the start; the guards weren't stationed at the door to halt intruders, weren't accompanying Thatcher on his quest to find Bee in order to protect his parents from construction debris or even to act as make-shift body guards-- they were packing heat powerful enough to hurt a transformer not to protect the Autobots from the humans, but to blow the Autobots to pieces if they put one toe out of line. They thought Bumblebee had gone rogue, and they came bringing the necessary fire power to destroy him.

The guard struggled with him for the gun, and Sam struggled back. The Super-sam cape fell from his shoulders (how infantile to play at make believe-- all the fuzzy warmth in the world couldn't stop a bullet, couldn't do a damn thing to protect his friends--). Fueled by a passion beyond words, beyond even anger or fear or anything that he could describe as other than the overwhelming need to protect the precious spark of goodness in his life, he was somehow able to hold his own. Exhausted, bruised, sporting a broken arm-- five inches shorter, fifty pounds lighter, lacking a soldier's muscle-- he nonetheless forced the gun away from his parents, away from Bee, feet scrabbling for purchase against the floor, plaster straining enough to crack.

"Stand down! That's an order, soldier! STAND DOWN!"

But the guard couldn't let go because Sam wouldn't let go, and Sam wouldn't let go because if he let go of this he let go of everything-- failed to protect everything that meant something to him. He had already failed Bumblebee once; he would go to Hell and back before it happened again.

"ENOUGH!"

Out of nowhere, the searing beam of a lazer only the width of a pencil slipped with robotic aim between their hands and blasted the gun from both their grips. It skittered across the floor, coming to rest almost twenty feet away. A gaping hole through its center steamed, bubbled and oozed.

Dimly recognizing the voice that had shaken the very walls with its sheer power and authority, Sam looked to his side and up, way up, at a very pissed Optimus Prime. The tiny arm-mounted blaster that had fired the shot folded in on itself and clicked back into place in his arm. A moment later, the disconcerting view into Optimus' inner workings visible through the gap disappeared as a plate of red-and-blue flame armor slithered back into its place, covering the transformed weapon.

Everyone started shouting all at once-- his parents at him, Bumblebee, the guard, and Thatcher; Thatcher at his parents, Bee, and the guard; Rachet and Ironhide at each other, the twins, Optimus, and Thatcher. Optimus simply stared down at him.

"Are you alright?" He asked softly, still angry but obviously not at him.

Sam couldn't nod. He couldn't shake his head. He couldn't whip out a snappy, 'Do you have a gun for every occasion?'. The white fog was fading, dissipating as though it had never existed, and without its artificial strength Sam felt like three-week-old left-over casserole. His head pounded. His arm blazed with pain. In summary, he felt so terrible that for once he almost came out and said 'no.'

But then Bee was there, drawing him gently away. Sam went willingly, for once content to be guided. A little distance away from the epicenter of the argument-flinging fire fight, Bee crouched down and led Sam to sit before him, angling his metallic body to shield the human with his limbs.

"Sam," his guardian angel murmured. Sam almost expected him to launch into a carefully delivered yet nonetheless stern lecture, but Bumblebee simply settled himself behind him without a word. Caught up watching Optimus sadly turn from them and move to join the fray, Sam almost didn't hear the sharp-- and swiftly muffled-- crack from behind him. He was so dazed, in fact, that his instincts forgot to instuct him to cringe as a giant finger touched the base of his skull, brushing his hair out of the way. The contact tingled against his skin, strangely warming. Ever so slowly, the finger moved down his back, tracing the curve of his spine, spreading a curious lightness in its wake. Muscles clenched tighter than stone quivered and relaxed. He slumped even farther forward, studying his hands as they sat limply in his lap.

The finger returned to the base of his spine, stroking down once more, but this time it was joined by other fingers-- the metal digits ran gently over his ribs, smoothed across his shoulders. And with each touch, a little of the pain lessened. Again and again the fingers ran over his spine, his back, the up and down motion falling into a steady pattern. After stroking him like a cat for what seemed an eternity, the fingers returned to his neck and rubbed there gently, feathering along the column of his throat, working deep into the muscles of his shoulders. It was the best neck massage he'd ever had, hands down. Better even than the ones Mikaela gave. By the time Bee had begun to use his thumb to work a circle into the muscle below his shoulder blade, Sam was limper than a wet dishrag, leaning back into the pressure, utterly unable to support himself. The pain in his arm had receded to a periphery annoyance like a post-it note stuck to the refridgerator.

The soothing/stroking/massaging/petting must have gone on for quite a while, because when at last Rachert turned away from the melee, the screams of outrage had calmed to mere shouts. His brilliant gaze searched out Sam. When he spotted the human with Bee, his optics honed in on the hand touching his back. Something he saw upset him to no end. He stalked in their direction, drawing the attention of his parents, and whispered to Bee with a kind of furious indulgence, "You idiot."

Sam made a weak noise of protest as Rachet scooped him out of Bumblebee's hands, but the medic paid him no mind.

Suddenly reminded of why they were all fighting, his parents rushed toward him, crying, "Sam! Oh, sweet cakes! Are you alright?" "Sam! Did he shoot you? Are you bleeding?"

Rachet ignored them all. He set the staggering human in his grasp back on his feet, transformed two fingers of one hand into a very sharp, clear needle which instantly filled with an amber fluid, and injected the needle into the side of Sam's neck.

"Ouch!" he cried, instantly revived from his Bumblebee-induced stupor. He clapped a hand to the throbbing point of impact, encountering a single drop of moisture on the skin-- when he examined his fingers, he found them smeared with red. With a kind of slow, creeping horror, he realized he could feel whatever it was flowing through his veins-- a strange, though not unpleasant, coolness spread in its wake.

"What was that?!" his mother shrieked as this father paled with horror, "What kind of motor oil did you pump into my son?!"

Rachet graced them with a decidely snide look. "Unless you are in danger of poisoning yourself and everyone you encounter, you should realize that 'motor oil' is extremely toxic to the human body."

Starting to feel woozy, Sam stumbled, lifting a hand to his temple and shaking his head. Rachet's hand came from behind him and nudged into the backs of his knees-- the slight pressure was all that was needed to crumple his legs beneath him, causing him to collapse back into Rachet's palm. He tried to breathe evenly, fighting the wooziness, wondering if he could make it to the infirmary before he died of poisoning.

Yet to his mingled relief and fear, Rachet continued; "To answer your implied question, I administered a pain reliever combined with a mild sedative. --Your vigorous shaking almost knocked the fractured bones out of alignment, Mr. Witwicky," he elaborted, a distinctly dangerous edge to his tone, "As did Sam's struggle to divert the soldier's weapon from its target. And if you did not know, the sensation of the two broken edges of a fractured bone rubbing against one another is exceedingly painful."

He thought that both his parents looked even paler and sicker, if that were possible, but he couldn't quite tell-- everything shimmered with haloed light, as if he were viewing the world through frosted glass. The sedative thing did take away the pain, but it didn't cause him to feel so elementally good as Bumblebee's ministrations had-- he only felt somewhat sleepy.

"We're his parents!" His father finally burst out, after passing a shaking hand over his eyes, "You can't just do things like give our kid sedatives without asking us first!"

"There are two flaws with your reasoning," Rachet pointed out, lifting the weak human into his clinical embrace despite his feeble protests. Sam's arms were just to heavy to move as quickly or as forcefully as he wanted them too. "One, Sam is 18 solar cycles of age and therefore, by your reasoning, an adult and free to make decisions with or without your approval."

"But you didn't ask him! He has rights--- he could slap a lawsuit on your ass!"

"And two," the medic cut across his mother (...no...don't), "Sam is now technically our ward and under our care-- and as the Chief Medical Science Officer for all Autobots that makes Sam my patient. I am at liberty to treat my patients however I see fit."

"Your....ward?" (Stop....please....)

"Yes. As of approximately two hours, twenty five minute, thirty seven seconds ago, Sam is officially under our jurisdiction."

"But he's an American citizen! You can't just....do that!"

"Go look up the word jurisdiction, cross referenced with country nationality. Sam is no longer a citizen of the United States of America."

(....shit.....)

Sam's eyes had fallen closed-- he pried them back open, blearily searching out the vaguely human-shaped blobs of his parents turning on Thatcher. There was another blob beside Thatcher, one that must have come in while they'd all been fighting. It took a few slow blinks to clear his vision enough to see the blob's face, but when he did the shock of it lifted his head above the warm waves of chemcially-induced slumber. The first thing he noticed upon surfacing was that he'd somehow become wrapped in his yellow blanket. When had that happened?

Though on some level he'd expected it, he was still shocked when he languidly rolled his head to the side and looked down at the humans below to see Galloway standing beside General Thatcher.

His father, rapidly approaching the pair, ignored the politician in favor of sticking his finger into Thatcher's chest. Sam supposed that made sense. Galloway-- minus his suit coat, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hair sticking out at strange angles-- cut a much less dramatic and authoritative figure than the immaculate General.

"And just who the hell approved this?! Who said that taking my son away and giving him to a bunch of aliens would be okay?!"

"Sir," Thatcher began patiently, "I am sorry for your loss, but in the interests of national security and your son's security this change was necessary. If need be, compensation can be provided--"

But his father didn't give Thatcher the chance to finish his sentence. He reared back and swung his fist with all his might into the General's jaw.

"I'M NOT GOING TO SELL MY SON!!"

Other frantic motions took place after that, but the pull of Rachet's sedative became too strong to fight. Just before the warm darkness overcame him, he could could have sworn he saw Galloway pull out his cell phone, dial in a number, and hand it to his father, saying; "Mr. Witwicky? The President of the United States."

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A green glow in the darkness, the size of a stick of gum.

Blink.

The glow sharpened into green scribbles which fizzed like sparklers.

...What?

Breathe in slowly through the nose. Blink.

Green scribbles became numbers. 3, 5, and 4. He couldn't make heads or tails of them. Were they important?

Blink.

The dark lightened into something not-so-dark, something with familiar shapes and scents.

....Was that a steering wheel?

Blink.

Reclining in a leather seat, head nodding at the dash board. Green numbers from the digital clock glowed back at him: 3:55.

--And with a jolt, the meaning behind the three nonsensical shapes came flooding back into his mind, informing him cheerfully that the indicated time was most likely on the 'am' scale rather than the 'pm' scale. 3:55am; the middle of the night.

Sam came surging back to full awareness in Bumblebee's driver seat, lunging forward into an upright position. Not a smart choice, in retrospect. Pain sparked in his chest, in his arm (ow, ow, ow!), in his head, reminding him that abrupt motion probably was not an advisable course when his body resembled one giant bruise.

"Ow," he announced definitively to the air, a blanket statement to cover all the various hurts marshalling against him.

His yellow super-sam cape must have lain draped across him as he slept; it slid from his chest and pooled in his lap when he jerked upright. Deciding that he'd much rather be warm and horizontal again, Sam slumped back into the seat (which graciously moved forward to meet him half way and slowly lowered him back down), and tugged the blanket up over his stomach.

Eye sliding closed, he licked his chapped lips and called, "Bee?" Or at least, he tried to call. His sleep-numb throat mangled the attempt, warping the single syllable into a murmured sigh of formless air.

But somehow, the Autobot still heard him. It must have been another of his super powers in addition to general awesomeness-- the ability to decipher Sam-speak into something approaching actual words. Either that, or he took the chance that his human passenger was merely calling his name and not telling him to shove his own cannon up his tail pipe.

"'I'll. be. there. for yoooou!'....'That's my name, don't wear it out!"

Sam groaned.

"Please, anything but cheesy 90's sitcoms, Bee." At least he could understand himself that time. He peeled back his eye lids, trying to glance through the windows to see who, if anyone, might have been silently giggling at him as he slept. But the sun-filtering tint to the windows had darkened to black, rendering them completely opaque. No one could seee in....and he couldn't see out.

"Are my parents still out there, waiting to rip me to shreds?" But as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how nonsensical such an assumption was. It had been almost seven hours since his parents had learned his terrible secret; any sane individual would have long since gone to bed, especially if the subject of their dismay were asleep and therefore unavailable for brow-beating.

"No, Sam," Bumblebee informed him, thankfully not commenting on his post-drugging lack of coherency. "All the other humans left some hours ago. They thought it would be best to simply let you sleep rather than attempt to move you."

Had his parents really thought that, or had Rachet run circles around them with condescending logic until they submitted just to shut him up?

"Well, that's good--" He let loose a jaw-cracking yawn, ruffling a hand through his hair and sighing deeply. "--I won't have to deal with a small-scale Second Coming for at least three hours, then. Fire and brimstone really cramp my style, you know?"

"Fire, brimstone, AND flying monkeys." Bee pointed out. Sam laughed as the Autobot twiddled his steering wheel playfully.

"That too." Then, giggles fading, he slowly curled up into a relatively upright position once more, reaching for the door handle. "Well, goodnight, then. I guess I better go back to my own bed."

The handle reacted easily enough to his tough, but the door itself seemed reluctant to swing open.

"You could sleep here, if you wish," the scout offered hesitantly.

"Bee...look, I appreciate it, I really do," he soothed his friend, hesitating for only a moment before reaching out and petting the dash (--not true friendship, only convenience--), "But it's been a really wierd day, and I want to have the little slice of normalcy of getting to sleep in a real bed. Not that you aren't comfy, because you are--" he flushed deeply as he realized how his comment could be taken, and abruptly cut himself off, "--well, nevermind. Look, I think we both need some space right now. It can't be much fun for you to have to babysit a human all the time (--don't swallow, don't look hurt if he agrees--), so it would be better if I just-- wait. That slimeball said something to you, didn't he?" The last wisps of sleep vanished, replaced by a simmering of cool anger in the pit of his stomach. "Thatcher did that 'talk' thing he was raving about, and either he or Galloway told you something nasty..." He longed for Bee to deny it, but the continued silence only fueled his dread. "Or my dad. --Oh god, they talked to you about me, didn't you? They said that I'd be scared, that I'd stay away from you."

He latched onto the doorframe, using it as a hand hold to manoeuver his protesting body from Bee's deep seats, pulling his yellow blanket out with him. "Well, no matter what, that's not going to happen. So don't you dare believe them--"

"The subject of our relationship did come up, yes," Bee suddenly cut him off, "But they didn't say what you seem to think. And asking you to stay has nothing to do with being afraid of Thatcher."

"What, then?" Sam turned to speak to the darkened interior, arm braced on Bumblebee's roof. God, he was tired.

But the yellow scout seemed nervous, and almost embarassed. He went through several false starts before replying, "Rachet." As if that explained everything.

Sam only blinked, uncomprehending. "...Rachet." He repeated.

Even in silence and perfect stillness, Bumblebee gave off an impression of nervous fidgeting. "Rachet wants to see me. If you hadn't noticed, he isn't the most pleasant of us to be around--"

"Nevertheless," The neon medic interjected from above Sam's head, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin, "For the sake of your own welfare I should think that you would cease your attempts at stalling and, as the humans say, 'get it over with'."

Without a word Bumblebee shut his door and began to transform; Sam staggered away to give him room, and was met with the steading presence of a large, spidery hand behind his back. When the last of the yellow scout's parts clicked into place, Sam met his blue optics in confusion and slight fear.

"You're hurt?"

But it was Rachet who answered, "Not precisely. He is, however, in trouble." And he carelessly stepped over top of the small human and approached the yellow scout, hissing to himself (and Bumblebee) angrily.

Sam looked at Bee with growing horror. "Is it about me? About how you...does it have to do with me?" he warbled, voice humiliatingly small.

"In a way," Bee avoided, turning to follow Rachet deeper into the cargo bay. "Go get some rest, Sam. I will see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, you better!" He yelled after the pair (--not worthy, doesn't need me, my- my--), "Or I'll come hunt you down! I could do it, too-- you're yellow!"

The scout turned his head and made a show of rolling his optics at the human, then waved a humoring hand in a sort of 'get lost, dork' motion. It saddened him to know Bee probably felt none of the light-hearted emotion he displayed for Sam's benefit.

But just before he turned to leave, Sam caught a glimpse of something odd. The moment came and went so suddenly he could never really be sure of what he'd seen, but for an instant it looked as though one of Bee's fingers were bent at an angle that, on a human, would have ripped it from the socket. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn the metal digit were broken.

But then Bee turned away, and the view of his hand vanished behind his bulk. Vanished as though it had never existed.

And soon, even the memory of the disquieting sight slipped from Sam's mind like water through a sieve.

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He'd meant to head straight to bed. He even started out going in the correct direction to do just that. But several turns later he found himself passing by his own door without easing it open and continuing down the hall to Mikaela's room.

Despite her intimidating Amazonian impression over the phone, she had not shown up in the cargo bay-- sheathed in tight jeans and heart-puncturing heels-- to throw herself into the middle of the confrontation, either to lend her considerable support or to knock him down a few pegs. Which was new. Mikaela could do a lot of things, but working the passive-agressive angle was not one of them; she preferred to get everything out in the open, pick up a proverbial elephant rifle, and shoot the problem in the head. So the fact that she had taken a rain check on a particularly juicy mud-flinging/Sam-tormenting session set off a little blinking red light in his head. Something was up.

But regardless of his unusual nocturnal alertness, it was the middle of the night (well, early morning, but the concept still applied); every other overhead light had been extinguished in those hallways which boasted of private sleeping quarters. No light shone through the tiny crack beneath his girlfriend's door.

And yet he could not convince himself to turn around and head back to his own room. The way the television psychics could predict their viewers picking up the phone to order their products (only more clearly), he saw himself walking back to his closet-sized quarters, changing his clothes, shutting off the light and crawling into bed...and lying there two, three, four hours later, still staring blankly at the ceiling, at times breaking out in a cold sweat, at times sobbing quietly where no one could hear him. When Bee had asked him to stay the night (giggle...stupid innuendo), he had been sorely tempted to give in and let the gentle alien soothe away the crushing fear with his solid presence. As childish as it sounded inside his head, he couldn't bear the thought of being alone with his thoughts. They had developed multiple personality disorders and started carrying around bloody axes.

But neither could he bring himself to be enough of a jerk to wake Mikaela up because of his problems. Caught between the gentlemanly Super-sam and the merely human Sam, he settled for bracing his hands on the door frame and resting his forehead against the slick surface of the door, trying to project his thoughts into the room beyond. Did she sleep on her stomach? Curled up in a ball? Naked? (take a deep breath, bash the libido over the head). Did her lashes flutter like dark-winged butterflies against her tanned skin? Did she snore? Did she mumble his name?

Hoping that she would miraculously hear him calling, he whispered, "Mikaela?" His voice barely tickled his own ears, fainter than a little kid's reluctant to disturb his parents after a nightmare. "Mikaela?"

He knew-- knew-- that she must have been an angel in disguise. And the sleepy voice that wafted out into the hallway in response to his plea proved it.

"....Sam?....Stop loitering in the hallway...."

Needing no other invitation, he slowly pushed open the door, ducking his head around the lip into the darkened expanse beyond. His eyes had not entirely adjusted to the gloom, but he caught sight of rustling movement on the bed.

"Can I....Can I turn on the light?" He whispered.

"Mm-hmm." An affirmative grunt.

His hand fumbled out along the wall for a light switch, found it, and winced sympathetically as harsh flourescent light bathed the room.

"Sorry, that's bright," He glanced around, spying a desk lamp. "Here."

He sprinted across the room, stumbling in his haste to make as little noise as possible, and switch on the goose-necked lamp. It soft orange glow relieved him-- some of the newer models glowed brighter than the sun-- and he swiftly moved to turn off the overhead lights. Near dark descended once more, but this time the little lamp, shining out like a cheap knock-off of a romatic fire crackling in a brick hearth, shed enough light to make everything in the room visible, albiet robed in shadows.

He turned to face Mikaela, finding her sitting up in bed. Despite his fevered imaginings of finding her dressed in a lacey night gown, she wore a set of men's pj's three sizes to big, leaving the top two buttons undone. Very sexy, in a demure girl-next-door sort of way. Hair mussed, face pale from sleep, she appeared in that moment to be the most beautiful thing in the world. Sure, he told her sappy things like that all the time, and he meant them (mostly). But now, the sight of her caused his mouth to dry, his heart to race, popping all the thoughts in his mind like ephemeral bubbles. She wasn't just hot, or sexy, or gorgeous, or all the many other things men called out at her as she passed. Not that she wasn't those too, but some indefinable quality-- like a ray of light breaking softly through a canopy of trees, like the sound of the ocean at night, like the laughter of little kids at the playground, like all the things that held him momentarily spellbound (though he would never admit to it, for fearing of looking like a pussy)-- lifted her above ordinary attractiveness. She didn't merely appear beautiful, she was beautiful.

Because after fighting with him at the battle at Mission city, after putting up with his randomness for months as they dated, after following him to egypt under the threat of imminent death, she surprised him once again. He would have understood, even expected it, if she had screeched at him to get out for interrupting her rest as he had interrupted her life. But she didn't. She didn't yell. She didn't throw things at his head. She didn't even scowl in a way that clearly conveyed 'it's 4am, what the hell do you want?'.

Instead, she did something so simple, yet so profoundly beautiful that it humbled him the way only Bee's loyalty had.

She smiled.

"It's late, I know," he stuttered awkwardly (--only one more day, then she's gone--), "Like, unforgivably late-- a-and I'd totally understand if you decide to just kick me out for waking you up, cause I probably would have done the same if someone came and woke me up-- well, maybe not to you, you can come wake me up any time of the night you want." He mentally kicked himself into shutting up before he said something irrevocably stupid.

"What are you doing here, Sam?" she yawned, swinging her feet out from under the covers and pushing her hair back with both hands.

"Me? Here? As in, inside your room at 4am? Um..." (What was that reason, again?) "...Oh! I came to see if you were okay, you know? I mean, not that you shouldn't be, but you sounded ready to open up a can of wup-ass in your messages and I'd thought you'd want to be present for the train-wreck conversation....but you weren't there."

Scooting over on the bed, Mikaela patted the space next to her. "I did want to go with you, at first."

He sat in the proferred space, smiling ruefully, and dropped the yellow blanket on the end of the bed. "...And then you got mad at me for not answering your calls."

"I was mad. But that's not why I didn't come with you, Sam." She leaned against him, tucking her head under his chin. "I realized that you should probably have a chance to talk to your parents on your own without your over-protective girlfriend breathing down your neck."

The words 'over-protective' and 'girlfriend' used in conjunction like that made his heart thud a little more quickly in his chest.

"I could have used a crazy-ass girlfriend breathing down my neck." (Stupid stupid STUPID!)

But Mikaela only snorted with laughter. "You're a big boy. You can handle your own parents without me."

Just talking to her, hearing her voice, lifted a boulder from his chest. Even in the dimly lit room, the world seemed brighter when she leaned on him wearing XXL men's pj's.

"You have waaay too much confidence in me. It's really sexy."

Then, feeling unexpectedly playful, he swept her hair aside and brushed his lips against the ticklish part of her neck. She squirmed, holding in a squeal, and hit him lightly in the chest. He shifted to the left to ward off further attack, and sat on a small, hard, cylindrical something that was distinctly un-sheet-like. Rooting around beneath the covers, he fished it out and held it up for inspection. His mystification only increased. It was a marker. A black Sharpie, to be more exact.

Mikaela snatched it out of his hand.

"You weren't supposed to see that yet." And unexpectedly, she blushed.

Bitch-slapping, alien-butt-kicking Mikaela never blushed, not even the time he had accidentally walked in on her naked. Even then, she had only shouted until his ears were ringing and slammed the door in his face. But never blushed. He didn't know that she could.

His devious grin stretched for ear to ear, and he wrestled the Sharpie away from her, holding it out of reach. "Now why would little miss 'Kaela be sleeping with a Sharpie?"

Face stained cherry red to the tips of her ears, she struggled against him for a minute in the dark, then sat back in a huff, crossing her arms. The sleeves of her shirt covered all but her finger tips. The sight was so cute that for a moment he wanted to drop the marker and jump her with the most toe-curlingly awesome bout of snuggling of her life. But he restrained himself (--behold Super-Sam's amazing powers of self control!--), only tapping the incriminating evidence thoughtfully against his palm.

"You could be making a sign, but I don't see any poster board, so that's out. Or you could be planning on sneaking into the cargo bay while Optimus is sleeping and drawing all over his face, but I guess the fact that he normally looks like a truck would throw a monkey wrench in that plan--"

"I wanted to sign your cast." She blurted, cutting off his wild musings. His grin of amusement softened into a loving smile.

"That works too," he held out the Sharpie, wiggling it a little when she refused to uncross her arms, "You could always do it now, if you want." But then, something occured to him. "Wait; how did this end up in your bed."

Finally she ended her sulk and offered him a smile of her own. "You have a real problem, Sam-- you always assume that the people around you can't love you as much as you love them." She snatched the Sharpie out of his suddenly lax fist, gripping it triumphantly. "I fell asleep waiting for you to come back."

As stupid as it was, the sentiment rendered him breathless. "You...waited up for me? You held that thing, waiting for me to come back so you could sign my cast, until you fell asleep?"

She pulled the cap off with a tiny pop, quipping, "Don't you dare get all mushy on me, Sam. --Now close your eyes. I've been wanting to do this for hours."

Confused, he pulled his casted arm back from the approaching black tip.

"Close my eyes?" he repeated, incredulous, "Why? I've always wanted to have someone sign my cast!"

"Well, I want what I write to be a surprise," she answered coyly, leaning forward to kiss the bridge of his nose. His eyes closed in reflex. "Now close your eyes-- there's a good boy. This will only take a minute."

He couldn't obviously feel her fingers through the plaster, but he felt his arm being raised and heard the dry squeak of the marker moving across the uneven surface. Just a peek. It wouldn't hurt anything--

"Keep your eyes closed, you cheater." (Damn. She had to have mind-reading powers).

The Sharpie continued to squeak of a long time. Far longer than he'd expected.

"Are you writing a monologue or something?" he whispered conspiratorially, "Cause you'd have to grow a mustache to twirl and practice your evil laugh to go along with it."

She shushed him, smothering laughter. Mission accomplished. Girls always went for the guys that could make them laugh.

"There, all done!" He moved to open his eyes, and she pressed her hand over them. "No! Don't look yet. Keep them closed for a minute."

The bed dipped, and with a rustling of starched fabric he felt her rise from the bed and move across the room.

"One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand--"

"You're really annoying, Sam. You know that?"

"Four-one-thousand, five-one-thousand--"

And the desk lamp switched off, plunging the room into darkness. Regardless of his girl friend's instructions, his eyes snapped open, searching the darkened room. He saw Mikaela's silhouette moving back across the room, and a moment later her warm body rejoined him on the bed. He scowled at her, twisting his cast this way and that in the dark. He couldn't see anything.

"Hey!" he whined, "That's not fair!"

"I want it to be a surprise. You'll just have to wait until to tomorrow to look at it."

"Oooor I could go out in the hall and look at it there--"

A hand found the back of his head and pulled him down into a kiss, cutting off the rest of his sentence. After too short a time, Mikaela pulled back, releasing all of him but one hand.

"No," She told him firmly, "Signing your cast isn't the only thing I've been waiting hours for. Tell me what happened."

Cautiously optimistic that her memory would prove flawed (though his luck never ran that way), he asked slowly, "You mean with my parents, right?"

"Right." (breathe out slowly in relief, there is a God after all--). "AND what you talked about with Optimus."

"Optimus?" He squeaked, "What's there to tell?"

She sighed in exasperation. "I don't know. That's why I asked. You've been acting strangely ever since you two split up. First you wouldn't answer your phone--"

"Hey! That was Bee's fault! Blame him, not me. Innocent victim, here."

"--then you stood out in the hallway for forever without even knocking, and now you're acting all strange. Like your dog just died, or something." (--or like my heart just died, plucked straight from my chest--).

Sam knew he could have lied. One of the few talents he possesed was the ability to talk his way into, or out of, almost anything. But judging by how his infrequent attempts to smooth-talk Mikaela into sleeping with him had been going, his girlfriend had at least partial immunity. (stuck permanently at second base-- every teenaged boy's nightmare. But that was okay, because kissing Mikaela was comparable to wild monkey sex with anyone else....or so he assumed). There was also the uber slimey, dirty feeling that came from lying to someone who only had his best interests at heart. He could lie his ass off to Megatron without losing a wink of sleep, but lying to Mikaela was something else entirely.

And he also knew, no matter how he screamed internally in denial-- digging his fingernails into the fabric of his old life and refusing to let go-- that the truth would come out anyway in a little over a day when he didn't get on that plane with them back to America. Better to break it to her now, while she could break up with him in relative privacy, than two days from now and have everyone see the unbridgable rift form between them. The rift part may have been inevitable (--never go home, never see her again--), but at the very least he didn't want everyone and their uncle looking at him in pity for the rest of his quickly shortening life at NEST.

There was also the matter of the slim, warm hand holding his. It squeezed gently in encouragement, in support, hardening his determination.

And with an internal sob of despair, he told her everything. She listened in silence as he poured everything out into the air between them, vomiting an endless stream of words (of pain) into her lap. Strangely enough, the darkness helped. It allowed him to bask in her warmth without revealing the sorrowfully resigned expression he knew must have covered her face.

When he finished, they sat in silence together, listening the echoes and re-echoes of his solemn pronouncement whispered at them from the metal walls. Never go back. Never go back. Never go back.

At last she drew in a deep breath, tightening her hand around his until he could feel the bones creak. This is it. The 'I'm sorry it had to be like this, Sam. Nice knowing you. Hope you get lucky and find another girl in your new life' speech. He wanted to close his eyes, but what was the point-- it was too dark to see anything but the faintest outline of her features.

But then she shifted, leaning closer to him, and the wan light slipping in from under the door momentarily lit up her face with a moonbeam glow. Her face wasn't sad, or even resigned. It was closed, hard with a furious emotion he could not name. Oh shit. She thought he was making it up, and now she was pissed at him for such a crappy excuse for breaking up with her!

He waved his casted arm in panic, though in the dark she probably couldn't see the defensive motion. "Please, Mikaela, you gotta believe me! I'm not making this up!" He sucked in a trembling breath, trying not to show how much it hurt that the cross expression on her face did not change (did you expect her to forget the sight of you kissing the tongue robot?). "It sucks that it has to be this way. Believe me, I hate it more than you can imagine. But even though I don't like it, Optimus is right-- I need to be at NEST, away from you, away from my family, so that the Decepticons don't hurt you when they come looking for me." He flexed his hand in hers-- she had not released it. "I can't go back with you, Mikaela. I'm really, really sorry--"

A hand lashed out in the dark and caught him full across the face in a ringing slap. He froze, stunned, and started to lift a hand to touch his stinging cheek-- but with a small, desperate noise, Mikaela slapped him again before he had the chance-- and with a tearless sob she threw herself into his arms, hugging him fiercely, hands fisted against his back.

"I can't believe you'd think I'd just go back without you!" She clutched him even tighter, burrowing her head against his chest, "I'm not a coward! I'm not afraid of those decepticreeps! So don't you dare try to tell me not to come with you!" She started to cry in earnest. Not the dainty, soundless tears of silent films, but the red-faced, snot-nosed, agonized globs of moisture that rolled thickly down the cheeks, past lips pulled up in a grimace of pain. "Samuel Witwicky-- I l-love you, and there's nothing you can do about it!" His ribs ached as she tried to hug him to pieces, tried to fuse their physical bodies together. "So don't you dare go where I can't follow!"

Too stunned to speak, his arms came up and lightly folded themselves around her back. --But then her words sank in, and he pulled her as close as his broken arm would allow, then pulled her closer, his own hands fisting themselves in the back of her shirt.

"It's not up to me, Mikaela," his tongue said without his permission, voice emerging utterly flat. Dead. "No matter what, I'm not going to do something stupid like risk your life just to be around you, so I have to go along with them and live at the base. And I don't have the power to bring you with me, even if I was able to live with myself for taking you away from your life."

"W-what life?" She sniffed, pulling back just enough to look up into his face. "No money, no chance to go to college, a crappy job at a motorcycle repair shop?"

"America," he whispered in return, "Calilfornia. Gorcery shoping. Barbeques. Road trips. Friends....your father."

He gently wiped away the fat tear rolling slowly down her cheek with his thumb, and continued even more quietly, "Living. Being a normal person. That's what you'd be leaving behind. If you could come with me, which you can't. The whole 'but I can't do long-distance relationships' thing doesn't work with them. I have to go with the Autobots--" he swallowed thickly, "--and you have to go back and live a normal life for me. If not for yourself, do it for me, Mikaela." He ducked his head to whisper against her ear. "I love you too much not to let you go."

Abruptly she pushed herself away from him. It wasn't unexpected, but that didn't change how much the loss of that desperate contact hurt. But rather than turn away from him, tell him to get out, Mikaela seemed to gain a furious purpose. She sniffed, but not with more tears-- more like she was bracing herself up, stopping the flow, getting ready to plunge into the fray and do battle. She tossed her hair back behind her shoulders, rolled up to her knees on the bed, and began hurriedly fumbling at the neck of her shirt, making small, determined noises. Her hands shook so much that at first she merely pawed uselessly at the material, but then she latched onto the first button and slipped it free, pulling the neck of her shirt away to expose the milky expanse of her collar bone. Without pause, her hands moved to the next button, working that one free as well-- the fabric peeled away, revealing the twins curves of her breasts.

"Mikaela?" Sam squeaked in confusion. As though suddenly reminded of his presence, she lunged for him, hands tangling almost painfully into his hair, and pulled him into a harsh, passionate kiss, sighing into his mouth and running her tongue over his teeth, over the roof of his mouth, with a kind of feverous intensity. One hand freed itself and slipped up the hem of his shirt, clutching at the muscle beneath, but then almost as soon as she touched him she pulled her hands back again, returning them to the buttons of her shirt.

"Mikaela, what are you doing?"

Ignoring him completely, she thurst herself forward into his lap, wrapping her legs around his waist, and resumed the vigorous kissing, pulling open the next button of her shirt, uncovering the smooth, sensuous dip between her breasts.

All at once, his mind caught up with his body and the cause of her actions clicked into place.

"Mikaela!" He hissed, ignoring the way his own body responded to her eagerness, "We can't do this now!"

"Sure we can," she panted, silencing any further protests by locking her mouth onto his. She reached up and hooked her hands around the back of his neck, collapsing back onto the bed and bringing him down on top of her.

His heart felt ready to explode out of his chest. He needed her to stop kissing him, needed to stop himself from kissing her back, but he couldn't find the will to do either, especially when she hooked one foot around his calf and sensuously caressed the curve of his knee with her heel, the motion slow and devilishly enticing. At last, needing to come up for air, he broke away from the lip lock.

"You seem like--*pant*--you know--*pant*--what you're doing!"

"I don't," she punctuated the words by rolling her hips under his in a way that made him go wild with animal lust, "But this is the last chance we may get, so shut up and make love to me before I lose my nerve!"

She darted in for another kiss before he could reply, reaching for the next button on her shirt, the one which would finally free her breasts when pulled open.

Sam had never face a struggle quite as difficult before-- not only did both of them want what was happening (his libido danced with glee), but the only enemy to fight against was not a towering metal alien, but himself. It took every ounce of will power he possesed (stupid stupid stupid), but he managed-- barely-- to pull himself away before his mind simply said 'oh well!' and took a vacation for the next hour. Or two....or three. (shut UP!)

Rolling onto his side next to Mikaela to free his arms, he reached out and grabbed her hands with his, preventing them from continuing the disrobing process.

"No," he said, as seriously as he could muster, "No, as in not yes, okay? You DID go to that seminar in junior year on sexual harassment, didn't you?"

Mikaela groaned, but not in ecstasy. She threw her head back into the pillow the way she would bang her head into a wall, and shot him a nasty look.

"I'm not kidding around, Sam. I want to do this."

Swallow. "Well, I don't." And he didn't. Though physically his hormones were crying in outrage, mentally and emotionally he knew he had to put a stop to this. He waited until she saw that he was serious, the violent heaving of her chest slowing, and gingerly rolled back on top of her, propping himself up with his elbows. His hands found the first open button on her shirt.

"See, one of the things they talked about was 'in the moment' decisions like this," he murmured, leaning down and pressing his lips slowly, lovingly, into that little dip between her breasts. He felt her heart stutter in response, but he only pulled away and rebuttoned her shirt over the spot he had feathered with a kiss.

"I don't know how yet, but I will figure something out. I promise you that."

His lips trailed a line up her skin, planting another soft kiss on her chest and redoing the next button over the intangible seal.

"This isn't goodbye--" Yet another kiss, even more lingering, higher up that the first. Slip the errant button back through its hole, watch her skin vanish beneath cloth. "So I'm not going to let you make it a goodbye."

Lips pressed beneath her collar bone, nose skimming silken softness. Redo the button, reset the clock on the countdown to seperation.

"'Sides--" he mumbled into the hollow of her throat (don't lick! don't lick!), "It would seriously suck if we ended up jynxing ourselves."

And he fastened the last button. Mikaela was only Mikaela once more, no longer a lashing well of need and lust. Her eyes, which had slipped closed sometime during his tender ministrations, opened once more, staring deep into his soul. In response, Sam folded his hands over her stomach and rested his chin on top of them, watching her watch him with a raised eyebrow. She snorted, face trembling with a dazzling variety of emotions.

Then, she simply laughed.

The last vestiges of tension in the room vanished. Grinning impishly, Sam rolled onto the bed beside her, shoved her out of the way, and wiggled beneath the covers. Still laughing breathlessly, she slid in beside him, allowing him to spoon against her back and cocoon the blankets more securely about them both.

"You really are a mood killer, Sam."

"Nuh-uh. Insulting me is totally not going to work. I'm sleeping here tonight and that's final." He lightly kissed her ear. "So if you don't like it, you can leave."

"I'm staying," she affirmated quietly, words holding layers of meaning.

Suddenly, Sam leaned up. "Oh! Almost forgot!" He reached for the yellow blanket still waded mournfully on the end of the bed and dragged it over them. "There. Now we're good."

And just because he owed her for pulling so many dirty tricks on him to get him hot, he slyly curled his leg around hers and languidly stroked the senstive inner edge of her calf.

"EEP! Sam!"

He only laughed, curling more tightly around her and pinning her arms to her side to keep her from pinching him the way he knew she intended to do. He caressed her even more slowly, drawing out the motion, lingering over the most ticklish spots. Mikaela writhed with helpless giggles.

Finally, after many more childish taunts and pay-backs had utterly exhausted their youthful energy, they both fell into the arms of slumber.

Neither dreamed.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Jupiter. The god of thunder. The planet of storms.

At first glance, nothing but frozen ammonia and dust swirled through the tumultuous clouds, thrown into roaring storms thousands of miles wide by hydrogen winds whipping across the planet at unimaginable speeds. No creatures made their home here-- even if there was a spec of solid ground in which to take root, the vicious force of the endless storms would tear them into tiny, frozen shards in an instant.

But though there was no native life, there was a visitor sailing the howling winds. A creature composed of solid-state metals so alien to the gaseous giant that it appeared as a splinter in the raging flesh of the sky, an anomoly unnoticed and unseen by the mindless elements.

Stronger than any earthen jet, able to withstand the 130-G pressure of sling-shotting around the eye of one of Jupiter's storms, Starscream basked in the directionless fury around him. Here was prefection of the universe, the ultimate outcome of the inivisble pattern guiding everything in existence. Not the will of some god; not the design of Cybertronian hands. Only the furthest point to which entrophy-- disorder-- could proceed.

As a scientist of his caliber, Starscream could admire the beauty of the planet around him and all that it embodied. Prefection through destruction; harmony in chaos.

Neither sentiment was understood by Megatron. The raging, self-deluded fool had been in power for far too long, become too comfortable with his own abilities to the point that he believed himself infallible. If only he could see the truth as Starscream did-- every structure eventually crumbled, every leader eventually fell. The meaningless pillars of authority, religion, control that sentient beings built up would all in time become like the beings themselves-- as alike to dust, crumbling, falling.

--Because not one of them embraced that change was inevitable, that the breaking and reforming of all things was inevitable. The only pillar that could survive the ravages of eternity must not be a pillar at all, but rather an amorphous gathering guided by one head who directed and mastered the changeless change.

Megatron did not understand this.

Prime did not understand this.

None of the great leaders of Cybertron had ever admitted to the truth they themselves had witnessed over the countless eons, shaping laws and social structures instead, never realizing that they were setting themselves up for the fall. The only way to be the master of change and to thereby assume uncontested rule was to control something so precious to the people being ruled that they would consent to any necessary change in order to get it.

Cybertron, and by extension all Cybertronians, were slowly dying. They had run out of energon. Without it, they could not search out a suitable star to implode and thus feed their dying race. A constant spiral, never ending, like the storms of Jupiter; they needed more energon to keep them from dying, and in order to get it they had to destroy a star. But in order to reach to a star to destroy it they needed energon-- which they could only harvest once they destroyed that star.

The Autobots knew this. The Decepticons knew this. Both also knew that the sole remaining machine in existence resided on earth, and that it was the key to saving every Cybertronian across the galaxy. The survival of the master race versus the termination of a disgusting species of warring bug-- to Starscream, it was really no choice at all. And if he could control the energon, he could replace Megatron as the unquestioned leader and expand his rule to their entire species. Everyone wanted to exist, after all.

Starscream had told Megatron of Soundwave's proposed plan. But the vile mech could not see the brilliance, the simplicity of it. His processor had become clouded by his hate of the Autobots, and he refused to take any course that did not involve destroying them in one-on-one combat.

Backwards fool.

Once more, Starscream played the primitive video clip forwarded to him from Soundwave. A crude drawing of a flesh bag engaging in a courting ritual with the photographic image of a human female, the same female he had seen in the company of the organic male who had destroyed the Allspark; a short video of said organic male attacking another of his species with a rectangular object that made a pitiful excuse for a weapon; the male and female together in a revolting the snippet of data did not provide any concrete clues to the male organic's whereabouts, it did reveal a possibly useful fact-- the male was emotionally attached to the female, possibly her mate. She could be used to draw him out.

Although Soundwave could not find any mention of the boy on any database or website-- save for the one from which the video had been culled-- the communications specialist had uncovered a poorly hidden reference to the female. A reservation, under a disguised name and hidden deep within a military computer, for a plane flight from India to the United States. It was dated for approximately 32 hours from that exact moment in planetary rotation.

A tiny burst of sub-space data, and Starscream sent out a secret message to the Decepticon repairing the symbiote Ravage, giving the mech a program package to upload into Infiltrator's mind when the repairs had been completed. Very soon, his plan could be put into place.

Banking sharply through the clouds, Starscream rocketed closer to the eye wall of the storm, sending out a flurry of encoded messages to those within the ranks of the Decepticons that would be willing to betray Megatron. Slowly, responses started pinging from his reciever, each one the single glyph equilvalent of 'I accept'.

Five. Then nine. Then thirteen. And still Starscream's ranks swelled.

Apparently, they all valued survival much more than honor. Too bad Megatron didn't realize that.

Twenty. Twenty six.

His memory banks idly clicked through the information he had raided from the computer banks of dozens of human-termed 'world super powers': America, Russia, China, North Korea, Iran. All possesed nuclear weapons to one extent or another. But not just a handful, or even a few thousand. Between them, the five countries held more than 200,000 nuclear missiles, most of which had been secreted away in bunkers deep underground, never to be used.

Well, that would change. Starscream would not set off the weapons directly, oh no-- that would unite the humans and the Autobots. Instead, his purpose was to tear them apart, setting the two races at each others throats. When the time came, it would be by a human hand that their world-- and the Autobots-- would be destroyed with their own weapons. And then nothing would stop him from putting the long dormant energon harvester to its original purpose.

Megatron would fall. Starscream would assume his rightful place as supreme leader, a leader intimately familiar with the very forces that would passively conspire to lift him on high.

Using the uncalculable force created by riding the storm, Starscream turned upwards and rocketed into space, racing easily beyond Jupiter's reaching field of gravity.

Prefection through destruction.

Harmony in chaos.

Let the games begin.

Time is relative, according to Einstein. Or at least, that's what Sam thought he remembered from his speed-read of a college astronomy text book. He couldn't remember much from that mental breakdown incident-- most of the knowledge stuffed into his brain had vanished alongside the Cybertronian symbols-- but one of the things he did remember involved the theory that time is only as long or as short as you make it.

Before, Sam had laughed at that. As far as he could tell, an hour was an hour no matter how you looked at it. But when faced with the final day he had to spend with the most important humans in his life, every minute became as precious as gold-- and as fleeting as popcorn on movie night. If only it hadn't taken losing almost everthing that mattered in his life to make him see that Einstein wasn't a crack pot after all.

From the moment he woke up (at 7am, unable to bear wasting one more second on sleep) he had his whole day planned out. It was a simple plan, really-- corral his parents and Mikaela all into the same room (pre-stocked with lots of junk food), lock the door, swallow the key, and refuse to come out until a marine broke down the door. Well, maybe everything but the swallowing the key part. He supposed he could just hide it, instead.

Yet as he quietly slipped out of bed, carefull not to jostle a still sleeping Mikaela, he ran across the first pot hole in his fool-proof plan. Once out in the lighted hallway, it would be impossible to resist reading the sharpie message tattooed into his cast. The night before, when losing his girlfriend had seemed days away (though still a knife of restless agony in his gut), he would have devoured it with his eyes in an instant. But now....

Now, he couldn't bear to read it. He wanted to savor her last written words to him, the way he had wanted to keep Bumblebee's text messages when he'd been convinced that he would never see his best friend again. Even if the words adorning his cast merely formed one long rant about how dorky he was, they would still serve-- like a message in a bottle-- to link him to Mikaela, no matter how great the distance between them. If he could have described it, Sam would have compared it to a homeless kid getting a christmas present with a giant bow on top. The only present they had ever recieved. Perhaps they would carry it around with them for days, simply basking in the glow of having one at all. They might never open it, in fact, so fearful were they of the magic finally ending.

For the moment, Sam settled for wrapping his Bumblebee blanket around the cast, though it was too bulky a solution to use in the long term. Stealing softly from the room, Sam left Mikaela to sleep and went to change his clothes. It was difficult to keep the writing on his cast covered while changing his shirt and washing his face in the tiny sink, but somehow he managed it (though not without soaking the blanket). Dressed in clean clothes, hair brushed, teeth brushed, he no longer felt quite so much like something found sleeping in a cardboard box outside. Rewrapping the soggy blanket around his arm once more, he set off towards the infirmary, carrying the bundled appendage in his other arm like an exceedingly grungy pillow. Hopefully they would have a stash of those shower coverings made to keep bandages dry that he could use as a slip cover.

Though he'd feared that no one would be staffing the infirmary at such an hour, the lights were on within and the door swung open easily at his touch. Not quite brave enough to venture into the labyrinth beyond unannounced, he stuck his head around the doorway and called, "Wilma, I'm home!"

Mirroring his posture, a pony-tailed head leaned back into view around the door of the office, glanced at him, and stared.

"Oh, Sam!" the doctor from the night before (Judy? Jewel? Linda?) called back in surprise. The head disappeared, and a moment later she stepped out of the office into the infirmary proper, waving him in.

At the sight of her rumpled lab coat, a pang of guilt warbled through his chest. "Sorry. Am I interrupting you?"

He hoped not. She was cute, and she looked like she could use a nap. But then again, he had an emergency on his hands. Her eyes went to the blanket around his arm, and she raised a questioning eyebrow. Not quite bold enough to own up to his obsessive need to save a few Sharpie scribbles, he could only give a roundabout shrug in response, hoping that would be enough of an answer.

When she saw that he had no plans to elaborate, she shook her head in answer to his question and motioned for him to follow her to the office.

"You're not interrupting, Sam. I'm just going through some paper work."

"Don't like the slop they serve for breakfast in the mess hall?"

She turned her head to give him a patient smile. "I normally work the graveyard shift, Sam, but right now we're a little understaffed, so most of the time I end up staying longer than I'm assigned to. When you came in I was wrapping everything up and preparing to go to bed," her smile faded, expression becoming quizzical, almost worried, "I expected to see you hours ago, actually."

Sam twitched, and for a moment paused in his stride as he rounded the office door. Apparently, Mikaela wasn't the only one with hidden talents. All women must have had untapped potential as mind-readers; there was no other way she could have known about his spacey, borderline psychotic dilemma of needing to keep his cast covered.

But then she went on, "The pain meds should have worn off long ago, and you left the additional ones I gave you on the bed. So unless you have a stash of illegal narcotics somewhere-- which I doubt, seeing as how you're far too lucid to be doped up-- you ought to be screaming in pain right now."

Brushing the remains of sleep from his mind like cobwebs, he frowned, pulling his bundled arm a little more tightly to his chest. Had she really given him more happy pills to take with him? Kicking his brain into high gear, he combed his memory of the night before and came up with a fuzzy snapshot of an orange pill bottle being pressed into his hand-- and then being promptly abandoned in favor of spamming a moody Bumblebee. Oops.

But then the implications of his own actions hit him, and he slowed to a stop. He had felt the medication wearing off at the end of his chat (knock-down, drag-out, verbal fight) with Optimus, and then had begun to wobble deliriously with the resurgent pain right before he launched himself at the guard aiming to kill at Bumblebee (--stay away from him!--). Whatever Rachet had drugged him with must have packed some serious pain-killing power; the broken bones in his arms still ached, occasionally flaring with a stab of pain, but the agony no longer had his head between its jaws. More like it had shrunken and was now reduced to nibbling at his ankles.

Seriously-- powerful.

Sam paused before her desk, waiting to gather his thoughts while she rooted around in one of the drawers.

"Well, I did get a shot of something really good--" she jerked her head up, eyes widening in surprise before sharpening to narrowed slits of flint. Sam blanched at her look, sorely tempted to kick himself for blurting out the exact words to make him seem like a heroin junky. "No, wait! It's not what you think! This...other doctor, he gave me something for my arm. A 'pain reliever combined with a mild sedative', I think he called it."

The look of hardened fury marring her features didn't change. She shut the drawer with a snap, dropping a haphazardly stuffed folder onto the desk.

"Sam, I would think you were old enough not to let any random guy shoot you up with something that could possibly be illegal or even deadly. If you need something for the pain, you come to one of us-- as in, a licensed medical professional."

Sam took a prudent step back, holding up a hand to ward off another tongue lashing."Woah, hold on! A couple things, okay? One-- I'm not dead, so I don't think it was deadly. Two, I think this 'guy' probably has the equivalent of a medical license where he comes from, and three, I didn't really have any say in the matter. He just did it."

Too late he realized that he shouldn't have referred, even indirectly, to the alien vistor. He remembered Mikaela saying something about Rachet coming to find him to check his arm, and the doctor hadn't seemed too surprised when Mikaela mentioned the robot the night before, but there was always the chance that she hadn't heard them discussing the aliens, hadn't seen Rachet during his quest, and had no idea there were things from beyond the stars squatting in the cargo bay. In which case he was screwed.

Her gaze softened, but only a little. More in gruding acceptance than in relief, however.

"You're talking about that neon robot, right? The one with no concept of personal space?"

A relieved grin broke out over his own face. Crisis avoided.

"Yep. That's the one. He's, like, their medic or something."

"And what prompted this administration of unapproved drugs?"

Gulp. "Uh....I, um, I kinda got into a fight."

"A fight." It wasn't a question; the flat quality to her voice made it a threat.

"Well..." he made a wishy-washy motion with his hand, then fumbled to catch a corner of the blanket that sagged free of its static cling and started to unravel the entire cast shield. "Not really a fight. More like a disagreement over how to handle a tense situation-- but that's cool, because no one hit anyone else and the whole thing ended without any black eyes. But I must have stressed my arm, because it started hurting like hell--"

"Oh dear." She scrubbed a hand across her face, straightening and gathering up the folder. As she strode around the desk towards him, he glimpsed his own name printed onto the tab. "Well, we better go x-ray your arm again to make sure nothing was knocked out of alignment. Come on."

Sam started to protest, started to point out that his arm wasn't blazing with pain, which must have meant that everything was still in place, but decided it probably would result in less bodily injury if he just went along with it.

Once more he sat himself in the hard plastic chair before the portable machine, suited up with a giant lead bib to keep him from turning into a three-headed mutant from the radiation, and lined his plastered arm up under the scanner. Despite his feeble protest, she's insisted on the removal of the blanket, so he endured the entire process with his eyes clamped shut. The machine whirred, spat out a burst of invisible energy at his arm, then fell silent, processing. Hearing the rustling of the doctor's lab coat as she moved to check the results, he called, "Can I have my security blanket back now?"

Her voice came back puzzled. "No. The machine must be on the fritz-- this one didn't come out. Hold on, I'll have to do another scan."

Again the machine clunked and buzzed, and though he knew-- intellectually-- that he should have felt nothing, the flesh still prickled beneath his cast.

With a click and a sighing noise, the machine switched off. "Okay. Now I'm done."

"Great!" He rose from his chair, groping around blindly. "Um, where did you put that blanket again?"

"Here. This will work better at supporting your arm."

Sam opened his mouth to object that he didn't want support-- he had wandered down in the first place looking for some sort of water-proof hair net for casts-- but his objections died in his throat as she slipped his arm through a thick fold of fabric and hooked a strap over his head.

"There."

Cautiously he cracked open one eye, then gazed in relief at the cobalt blue sling craddling his arm to his chest. Perfect.

He glanced up to offer a few embarassed thanks (so obvious, why didn't I think of that?), but found the doctor scowling in puzzlement at the x-ray, holding it up to the light for a better view.

"Something up?"

"This is....very strange."

Alarm bells began to go off inside his head, though the fact that his arm didn't have him writhing around on the floor mitigated some of the instinctual fear that came with doctors saying anything was 'strange'. He sidled up behind her, studying the misty image of his bones over her shoulder.

"What? It looks like an arm to me."

Striding forward, she slipped the x-ray into the crack of the small light board against the wall, flipping the switch to start it up. Ultra white light flooded through the images, causing them to glow. Without a word, she picked up his folder once more, pulled out another x-ray, and stuck it up beside the first.

"This is you from last night," she pointed to the image drawn from the folder, indicating the dark lines where his bones had fractured. "See how clear these breaks are? Like they were drawn with a marker?"

"Yeah...." He still couldn't see where this was going, but her lack of a direct answer sent his heart doing a quick-step inside his rib cage.

"And this is you right now," her finger moved over the one taken moments before, circling the two identical breaks in the air. "See the haziness between the edges of the broken bones?"

He squinted at the images, leaning in for a closer look. The marker edge had attained a certain level of fuzziness, but nothing that would have drawn his attention. He shrugged. "Yeah? So?"

"This fog-like substance is actually thousands of microscopic bone bridges being formed between the two broken halves to reconnect them. Sam," she turned to face him completely, her eyebrows drawing together over the bridge of her nose. "This x-ray shows what a broken bone should look like after at least a week of healing. You've only had that cast on for less than twelve hours."

A shiver of ghostly premonition slithered down his spine, but he restrained it from spreading to the rest of his body by holding onto a logical contradiction.

"Maybe this one is messed up too. You said the other one was," he pointed out reasonably.

But the doctor only shook her head.

"Not likely. This is actually a very clear image, as far as x-rays go. The other one didn't come out at all." She reached around behind the machine, extracting another tinted sheet of plastic. At the sight of it, his good hand went numb and unable to take it from her grasp. He could only stare, dumbfounded, as she held it out for his inspection.

"Maybe your machine is on the fritz?" he heard himself ask.

"Quite possibly. Only interference from another radiation source could make the image come out this way, though. They must be testing a new piece of technology near here," she frowned, obviously not very convinced by her own words.

Sam couldn't nod. He couldn't swallow.

The x-ray still showed his arm. Barely. The image had become skewed, as though it were a reflection in a pond rent by violent ripples. Swirls and eddies of white, like the catacombs of spiders, stretched from one edge to another, obscuring the view of his bones. But none of that caused the floor to drop out from under his feet. None of that sent tremors scurrying down his limbs. No, the true cause of his sudden fear had nothing to do with what the doctor had seen, but what she hadn't seen.

How was she to know that interlaced through the curls of white fog glimmered complex whorls of alien runes?

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Okay, Sam. Get a grip. Come back to reality, plant your feet on the ground, think it through. Right."

Spring up from the bed, pace restlessly across the floor. Three steps, turn, repeat.

"This is NOT like what happened last time. Nothing like it at all."

Stop at the door, stare at it for a moment before realizing it is a door, turn and shuffle back to the bed.

"For one thing, I'm not having random spaz moments. There, see? Already not the same. And for another thing, those weren't the same symbols."

Turn to sit on the bed. Flop diagonally across its length, bang head on pillow. Snatch up pillow, wad it into a ball, chuck it across the room. Stand, pace, repeat.

"Not the same symbols. Not the same symbols. Whatever that allspark shard did to me stopped happening after I died and had that freaky dream. I found the Matrix, saved Optimus, done. End of story. No more freaky knowledge, no more symbols."

And just because he could think of nothing better to do, Sam went and fetched his pillow from where he had tossed it into a wall and pitched it back onto his bed.

"So this can't be about me. Whatever that was, it must have come from the Autotbots. I mean, Simmons even said they give off ungodly amounts of alien radiation, so the ship must be saturated with it by now. Makes sense that the machine would pick up on it at some point."

He moved to stand in front of the mirror and played with spiking up his hair for a moment, then stepped closer, braced his hands on the tiny sink, and peered deep into the pupil of each eye. Not even his paranoid mind could imagine that he saw anything but his own reflection printed on their concave surfaces.

"Besides, it only did it that one time. The other two scans came out clean, no problems at all. So it can't be me."

He felt the skin of his face, patted the top of his head, held two fingers to his neck and counted his heart beats, even put his nose to one shoulder and sniffed for BO. Nothing out of the ordinary, except perhaps for needing a shower.

"They scanned me before I even got on the ship. I'm clean-- well, mostly. We're all stewing in their radiation most of the time, so there's usually at least some leftovers to pick up on. That must be it-- I've got enough of it dripping off me that it interrupted the machine. There's nothing freaky going on inside me. Nothing."

He paused, listening to the mocking voices of the walls echo 'nothing' into the silence.

No matter how much he strove to deny it, nothing did not bend broken bones. If he said it aloud enough times, he could probably convince himself that the symbols on the x-ray had been caused by the close proximity of so many aliens leeching radiation into the very walls. (Non-harmful radiation, but still). Miraculous healing could not be as easily ignored.

"There's no wonder drug to fix bones," he whispered past unmoving lips, tugging at his sling. This time, he had no urge whatsoever to pull it aside. Any romance had been killed by unadulterated panic. "Not on earth, at least."

He paused, catching the whiff of an idea, and repeated, "Not on earth."

---and suddenly, listening to his own words reverberate around the inside of his skull, the answer washed over him like a cool, relieving spring.

"Duh! Rachet!" He danced away across the floor, chanting happily 'Rachet--Rachet--Rachet!'. "Alien medical wizard probably pumped me full of a bone-healing wonder drug! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Ha-Ha!"

He tried to jump into the air and click his heels, failed spectacularly, and hopped around on one foot when he stumbled to keep from falling. It all made sense, now-- an overwhelming alien presence had caused the x-ray to fritz, and Rachet's amazing powers of all things medically related had sped up the healing of his arm. He wasn't having a freaky, alien-artifact-related relapse after all. At the moment he felt so giddy he almost ran from the room, waltzed into the cargo bay, and kissed the annoying neon robot right on the lips. Being the confirmed source for his bout of healing almost made up for spilling the beans and antagonizing his parents. Almost.

Striding (skipping) back to his bed, he gathered up his coat and slung it over one shoulder. Whistling slightly (though he was pants at whistling), he all but glided from the room, feeling lighter than he had in days. He wasn't having a relapse. He wasn't going crazy again. Life was good. Now everything would go back to normal; he would kiss the girl, sweep her off her feet, and ride into the sunset where they would live happily ever af--

He froze in the hallway, sputtering whistle dying on his lips.

Every shred of happy-go-lucky giddiness faded and died, drying into sizzling little embers. Not having his brain be hijacked again by freaky alien symbols was fantastic, but it meant diddly-squat when compared with the larger picture. Like a mouse infestation verus an elephant infestation; the elephants were much more adept at wrecking everything in sight. According to Thatcher, he only had until tomorrow morning to say goodbye. Only one day, 24 hours.

In that moment, bending over with the pain twisting like a spear through his gut, he suddenly realized how very grateful he was to Optimus for trying to keep the knowledge from him until the last possible instant. He wouldn't have been able to deal with such pain-- greater by several orders of magnitude than the pain of a broken arm-- for a whole week. It would have destroyed him. He abruptly sympathized with those people forced to bear up under the news that someone they loved only had a few months left to live. How do you cram a lifetime of laughter and love into a few weeks? A few days? A few hours?

Sam knew he needed to get started on his plan to lock them all in the same room immediately. It would be a selfish thing to do, but he felt that he had every right to be selfish, considering. But his promise to Mikaela held him back with a faint glimmer of hope. He was only human, and as a human he couldn't help but want to bring her with him, no matter how much she might have ended up hating him for it years later. There had to be a way, a loop hole, buried deep within military regulations that would give them reason to grant her security clearance. Something to do with the fact that she'd been through every part of mess alongside him, even if she wasn't the one the Decepticons would do anything to hunt down and kill. Maybe if he dug deep enough he could make the case that she needed protection too?

Sorrowful longing not to lose a single moment with his family and his girlfriend directed him to head straight to breakfast (where they would undoubtably be, looking for him), hug them senseless, and proceed to glue himself to them for the rest of the day. And night. But a siren song of hope called him to use at least an hour of two of his remaining time (--too long, no time to spare--) in search of a way to force them to let Mikaela come along.

The offices, he knew from his time with the shrink, were on the third level. So hesitantly, reluctantly, he turned in that direction. Slowly he picked up speed as he moved further and further away from the mess hall until he was thundering down the hallways, crashing through doors and leaping up three steps at a time. When he reached the third level he slowed to a crawl, knowing he had to be sneaky not to get caught in someone's office and thrown out. He tried the knobs of every door he came to, but most of the dinky little offices (unoccupied, their worker bees gobbling down their food) revealed a distressing lack of books, regulation books or otherwise. Where was a stickler for the rules when you needed one?

Finally, the fifth unlocked door he came to eased open into a dark, cramped office indentical in almost every way to all the others on the hall. Except this particular office boasted of a bookshelf along one wall, packed full of books the size of paving slabs and binders with rings as big around as plates. Not a single one of them looked remotely interesting. Jackpot.

Sneaking a glance down the hallway on either side, Sam slipped into the room and closed the door behind him, flicking on the lights. He moved immediately towards the books, thought better of leaving an unprotected door at his back, and pushed the swivel chair tucked beneath the desk under the handle. He'd seen people do the same thing in movies-- though he had no idea how the technique was supposed to work, when the hero needed it a wedged chair had stopped everything from ax murderers to summoned demons. He supposed it would do at least as well at a holding a pencil-pusher at bay.

Now to find a hand book on military regulations. Most of the binders shouldering each other out of the way on the shelves were unlabeled, and he was forced to flip through them to get an idea of what they were about. Emergency protocols. Navigation systems. Weapons maintenance. Personel records. Ship's logs.

As he carefully replaced each dead end back where he had extracted it from the shelf, a niggle of fear began to worm its way through his mind. This wasn't just some harmless prank that would rouse a few chuckles and scolding fingers; for all he knew, some of the information contained within the books and binders could have been top secret, and here was zero-clearance Sam riffling through them without a second thought. If he was caught, he could be charged with all sorts of mind-numbingly terrible things, up to and including spying, since technically he was no longer an American citizen. The bare possibility would have reduced a lesser man to sobbing whimpers, but at the moment Sam felt so completely fed up with all the manure that had been dumped on him in the past few days that he almost felt brave enough to give the President the finger if need be. So rather than dashing from the room in fear, he gamely continued with his search, bouyed by the fact that the door had been unlocked and therefore shouldn't contain anything too sensitive.

At last he hit paydirt. It figured that the heaviest book on the shelf, one that could have served as a counterweight for a crane, contained those things-- such as basic military regulations-- that Sam needed.

With one last apprehensive glance towards the door, he hauled the book to the desk and went to sit down, remembered that he'd used the chair to bar the door, and sat against one wall instead. Bracing himself up with a lungful of stale air, he cracked open the enormous volume and began to read.

After an incalculable span of time spent hunched over the paper and ink monolith putting his legs to sleep, Sam started to suspect that if he read the book in his lap cover to cover he would find exactly what he sought. The problem, however, stemmed from the fact that a book with pages numbering into the two thousands could not be read at a single stretch, or even in a single day. And merely skimming the onion-skin pages yielded nothing of value.

Oh, sure. There were numerous references to security clearance-- the different levels, what each meant, what could be accessed at various times by various people, how clearance worked in emergency situations, how to screen someone for clearance. When he saw the headings over the last two he cheered silently, confident that contained beneath them would be a veritable 'Here's how to solve the Mikaela problem' paragraph, written especially for desperate boyfriends. Not only was he convinced that the situation in general could be classified as an 'emergency', the topic of security screening should have listed special circumstances for the granting of clearance. But after reading both and finding no solution, he grudgingly admitted that the writer probably hadn't thought of including 'alien attack' under the emergency heading. And the tips on granting clearance only listed common tricks a spy/ serial killer would use to make his record appear squeaky clean. Again, useless.

Just as he folded the book shut in preparation of hunting down another, the door handle rattled.

The super spy double-oh-zero, as the twins had labeled him, would have immediately leapt up, put the book back, and found somewhere to hide where the returning desk jockey would never find him until he leapt out and gave the guy a Vulcan nerve pinch. But regular old Sam only froze, heart leaping into a sprint, and continued sitting with the evidence of his trespassing open on his lap. His eyes glued themself to the door knob, and he prayed that he had only imagined it twist before. No such luck.

The handle twisted again, accompanied this time by a fist banging on the other side of the door.

"Hey! Matrix boy! You in there?"

The voice jarred him from his deer-in-the-headlights impression. He leapt to his feet, book tumbling unceremoniously to the floor, and bee-lined for the desk, wondering if the knee space were big enough to hide him. But before he could reach his intended cover, the door burst inward and rebounded from the wall, sending the chair skittering across the room.

Simmons poked his head around the corner and pinned him with a cold stare.

"Alright, you little felon. You're not supposed to be in here."

Deciding it would probably work to his favor to play up the innocent card and follow the advice of career burgulars (who insisted that looking like you belonged there was the best method for getting away scot free), Sam only shrugged, stuffing his free hand deep into his pocket.

"Well that's funny, because the door was unlocked. Weird, huh? It's almost like they're inviting you to come right on in!" As he spoke, he carefully nudged the rule book out of sight with the toe of one shoe.

But the ex-agent only sneered. "You're not as stupid as you try to pretend you are. We both know you shouldn't be snooping around in here."

Simmons stepped farther into the room, looking slightly nervous himself as he glanced around the tiny office. Almost as if he didn't want to be caught there, either. Sam's instincts usually led him down the right path (--drew him to a beat up camaro with racing stripes--), so he changed tactics at their insistence.

"I'm pretty sure they wouldn't be too happy to find you down here, either. I mean, hey, I've got everything going for me right now-- I'm a kid, I have a broken arm, and I have a bunch of big alien friends who would probably break me out of prison if they chucked me in there," he jerked his chin at the sallow faced man, "So who do you think would come out of it worse if you went skipping up to them and told them you found me in here, me or you?"

But to his consternation, Simmons only turned to face him straight on, smiling crookedly. "You like playing hard ball, heh? Too bad you forgot that I have it in with the man-- I used to work for them, remember?"

"Yeah, and they fired you because you're an obsessive jerk, leaving you with no where to go but back to your mom and a job working in her sandwich shop. No offense."

Simmon's left eye twitched. Ouch. Sam -- 1, Bumblebee-torturing nutcase -- 0.

"I told you--" the ex-agent pointed a righteous finger at Sam, "--my mother lives with me, not the other way around!" And he glanced out the door, as though fearful that someone were eavesdropping in the hallway. Lowering his voice, but not his finger, he continued, "But if you're going to be so immature about it, I guess I can reach deep into the goodness of my heart and not report you to the highest authoriy."

"Gee, thanks," Sam rolled his eyes, moving towards the still open door. Now that he had called Simmons' bluff it was time to make his dramatic exit. He could always come back later to find that other book. But the ex-agent moved to block him, rubbing his hands with glee. Not Good.

"Not so fast, Sammy. I may be merciful enough not to report you to the highest authority, but I will report you to your mother."

Sam froze. In his quest to find a loop hole for Mikaela, all thoughts of his parents had been driven to the back of his mind.

"....You wouldn't."

"I can, and I will. She's the one who sent me after you in the first place," he shivered dramatically, "That woman is about nine different types of scary."

"Hey! You leave her out of this! I only insult you, not your mother." Then, "Wait. What did she threaten you with to get you down here?"

Simmons rolled his eyes at Sam in a parody of his earlier gesture, though the motion was so extreme it was a wonder the beady little things didn't get stuck that way. He turned back towards the door, waving for Sam to follow him.

"Let's just say she threatened to make me less of a man if I didn't come bring you down to lunch before they start unloading the ship."

Hearing that his mom had threatened the loopy, thong-wearing psycho enough to make him shake in his boots like a little girl heartened Sam considerably, causing a goofy grin to break out over his face. But at the word 'lunch' it faltered-- he glanced at his watch, twitching with horror when he realized that he'd wasted almost five of his precious 24 hours without even realizing it. And he still had not come up with a solution.

When his mind caught up with the rest of Simmon's words he blinked, letting his watch arm fall and coming to a stop.

"Hold up. Unloading the ship? Are we making a pit stop or something?"

Simmons paused, hand on the doorframe, and leaned out into the hall to check for any lingering witnesses. Finding none, he twisted his head to look at Sam over his shoulder, his expression conveying exasperation and something that might have been compassion. But the touch of sympathy traced along his features must have been a trick of the light, for it faded the next moment into a disdainful sneer.

"You seem to have a very bad habit of not paying attention, Sammy-boy. Or didn't your 'big alien friends' tell you that they recieved an urgent call from NEST a few hours ago and they're making us all get out at the next port?"

"A call? About what? Why do we have to leave early?"

But Simmons only turned away from him with a small chuckle, ducking out into the hallway.

"I guess you're not as buddy-buddy with them as you thought you were, matrix boy!"

Simmons -- 1, Sam -- 1.

The expertly placed blow struck home, causing Sam to flinch. His secret fear, the one he kept hidden deep inside under lock and key, had always been that the aliens only tolerated his presence to humor him. At times they confided in him, sure, but more often than not they spoke over his head in their own language, purposefully excluding him from the conversation. And maybe Bee felt some genuine affection for him (though probably no where near as much as Sam did for the alien), but how long would it be before the novelty of having a human pet around would begin to wear off? How long before they got tired of risking their lives for a short-lived organic that burped and sweat and did all sorts of disgusting things, one that had neither their strength nor their intelligence? Perhaps in the moment, when he carried the Allspark or held the key to saving their leader, they thought him interesting, but what would happen when they came to realize that he was really as ignorant and uninteresting as dirt? Would they cast him aside outright, or would he slowly be locked out of the group, included out of duty rather than friendship like that little pet that looked so cute as a baby but grew up to be ugly and annoying?

Would there come a time when Bee no longer wanted to be his friend?

Sam didn't realize he had stopped walking until Simmons ducked his head back around the door and whistled. "Yo! Sammy-boy! Let's go already!"

"Go stick your head in a toilet and flush twice," Sam advised sagely, numbly following the ex-agent out the door. Swallowing back the beginnings of an immature sulk, he forced himself to admit that he had no right to expect the Autobots to inform him of every little detail of their doings. The adult reasoning didn't stop him from shriveling a little on the inside at the news, though.

"Ouch. I'm mortally wounded," Simmons sniped back, "Can't think up a better come back, Sammy-boy?"

Sam practiced breathing evenly, forcing away the walls that tried to tunnel in on him (--no more time, no more time--). "How about you call me Sam and I call you by your real name?" he suggested.

"You don't know my first name."

Sam nodded. "True. But I didn't say 'first' name. See, your real name is 'ass-hole'."

"Oh no. He called me an asshole. I'm so upset," Simmons dead-panned, leading him away from the third level (away from the only glimmer of hope) and along the often trod route to the mess hall.

"No, it works," Sam insisted (how much longer? Six hours? Three? One?), "Because your bosses totally made you their bitch."

Sam-- 2, Simmons-- 1.

He hadn't realized that he'd begun walking ahead of the ex-agent until a hand smacked him in the back of the head. Hard.

"You watch your mouth, kid!"

"Or what? I have a thirty-foot-tall robot and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Or I'll sic your mother on you."

"She hates your guts."

"Yeah, but that room mate of yours worships me. I'm sure I could use him to make your life living hell."

Just 'room mate'. No 'ex-' attached as a prefix. Once more his gut folded itself into painful little knots at the reminder of all he was leaving behind. Inane little questions began to flood his mind at the mention of college life: would he be able to go back to school in India, or would he have to stay on base all the time? Would he take a few of those online courses? Would he be forced to study politics and dipolmacy, the two subjects that he had almost flunked in school? Would there be any kids his age to hang out with (once he stopped pouting in his room)? Were there any kids at all? Did anyone stay there all the time, or would he be a one-man human island in a sea of barbed wire and aliens?

Sam thought about pointing out that Leo could only be used as a pestering device until they made landfall, but he didn't want Simmons to come back with a quip about exactly how many hours he had left with his family. He wanted to pretend he had forever and not spend every second with them staring intently at his watch, wishing he could make it run backwards. So instead he merely shrugged, letting the chain of banter drop.

Apparently, Simmons had sensed the direction of his thoughts. For a moment the taller man's eyes softened with the same disturbing touch of sympathy as his gaze slid across to take in Sam's stony profile. But when Sam turned to meet his stare it vanished again, morphing into a leer.

"So are you going to just stand there, or are you going to go eat lunch with your hotty girlfriend?"

Sam started, suddenly realizing that they had made it all the way back to the mess hall and stood facing the open doorway. They must have occupied the same spot for a while-- the crewmen that passed by going into lunch flung strange looks in their direction. He forced away the thought that the evil ex-agent had stood with him in silence while his mind had gibbered and paced in anxious little circles around the inside his skull. There was no way someone who had ordered Bumblebee tortured could do something even remotely approaching nice. Simmons must have been taken over by a body snatcher. He would have to remember to ask Bee if he'd encountered any body snatchers before.

"Yeah. I think I'll go do that, thanks."

Sam struck out boldly for the mess hall, horrified to find the ex-agent keeping pace with him. At his look of imminent doom, Simmons snorted explosively.

"Despite what your puny little mind may concieve, I do not, in fact, run on genius alone."

Stiffening his spine and deciding to be the better person, Sam let the invitation for argument fizzle away in silence, stepping up and loading his tray with food. None of it looked appetizing, and he felt more apt to vomit from nerves than to stuff his face, but he still took generous helpings of everything. Make the most of his free meal pass, and all.

Tray filled, cup overflowing with Coke, he turned to search out his parents, hoping that Mikaela was sitting nearby so he didn't have to drag her over by the seat of her pants (although that presented some interesting possibilities-- stop it!). But for once the stars were aligned in his favor, and he found them reserving a table for themselves by sheer force of personality, accompanied at times by little threatening growls to scare off those who would have sat in the empty seat. His seat, right beside Mikaela.

Forcing himself not to run, he weaved his way through the lunchtime crush of people towards them, smiling infectously as they spotted his approach.

His mother stood up, waving to him. He would have waved back except for the encumbering tray, so he settled for smiling wider and gesturing that his arms were full. But when she cupped a hand around her mouth and yelled, he realized she wasn't motioning only to him.

"Sam! There you are, honey! Tell Simon to get his narrow little butt over here!"

Simmons, who had ended up behind him in the tangle of people, paled considerably. Sam's smile turned predatory.

"Hey, Simon. I think she wants to talk to you."

A pleading gaze met his. "Come on, take pity on a guy!"

Sam only snorted with laughter, striking out for the three people that meant the most to him in the world. "Not a chance."

Before he could even put his plate down, his parents and Mikaela had him crushed into three simultaneous hugs. He couldn't work up the will to be embarassed, not when he was suddenly struggling not to cry (--no time left, blink and they're gone--). His mother rocked him back and forth as much as she was able with two other people holding onto him, wailing into his shoulder, "Oh my little booty boy! What am I going to do without you?" His father, more restrained, pulled him into a hard hug before releasing him to his mother, clamping one hand around his mom-less shoulder and squeezing tightly.

Mikaela feathered a kiss to his cheek, slipping her hand into his. "Think you have enough food, Sam?"

"Well, you know," he ground out, face still smushed up against his mother in a way that distorted the words, "I need a lot if I'm going to try to feed an army."

At the mention of food his mother pulled back, holding him at arms length and examining him with a critical (tear-filled) eye.

"It's a good thing you have a healthy appetite. You'll need your strength if you're going to be running around after pyramid-wrecking robots all day."

Everyone slowly filtered back to their places, obviously unwilling to let go, and Sam flopped into his designated spot. His eyes flicked to Simmons, who turned in preparation to bolt.

"Is that what Simon told you, mom? Cause if he did, he's a liar. I'm going with the Autobots to protect all of us from the Decepticons, not to chase after them. That's Optimus and the others' job. I'm just the housewife."

Roused at the distorted name of the ex-agent, his mother sat up straighter in her chair and honed in on the retreating back with precision aim. It must have been a mom thing, being able to pin-point guilt at a hundred paces.

"You get back here, Mr. Sneaky!" she yelled to him. Sam covered his mouth to contain his laughter as Simmons froze in his tracks, shoulders hitching a little higher, and slowly turned to face his mother with a plastic grin on his face. Sam realized he had been wrong. Simmons wasn't a government bitch-- he was Judy Witwicky's bitch. He dug his fingers more securely into his upper lip, chest heaving, and noticed Mikaela covering her own bout of giggles by pretending to search through her purse. He'd have to weasel the story of what, exactly, she had threatened the ex-agent with out of her some day--

---and every bubble of laughter abruptly died in his throat, grin dissapating as quickly as it had come. There wouldn't be 'some day' to hear the doubtlessly amusing story. He only had this day, whatever few hours were left of it.

Simmons slowly turned around to face their table, grinning toothily at his mother, eye twitching once more.

"Ah. Mrs. Witwicky! What can I do for you?"

"You weren't very nice to us when we met, especially since your guys trampled my garden and carted off my dog!"

"And arrested us. Don't forget that," Sam pointed out helpfully, trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, that the floor wasn't tilting underneath of him again.

"And arrested us," she added. "But I'm a big enough person to forgive you, and I wanted to thank you for finding my Sam."

Oh yeah. The eye was definitely twitching now, and the adjacent corner of his lip jumped on the twitching bandwagon along with it, hand in hand with his eyebrow. Sam wondered idly if the man were about to have a seizure. It had to be a blow to the ego for him to hear his mother deigning to forgive him for an action he had neither apologized for nor (to Sam's mind) regretted. (--so many regrets, so many things left undone, so many things left unsaid-- no more time--).

"Thank you for the sentiment," he spat from between gritted teeth, grin still held in place with ferrocious determination. "But if you'll excuse me, I think I'll be going now--"

Eyes still focused on his mother, Simmons turned to leave-- and collided with a 6 foot 2 marine, slopping orange juice, eggs and syrup all down the other man's front.

Perfect, absolute silence reigned in the mess hall as globs of food dripped slowly down the marine's gray t-shirt. Swallowing, Simmons took a prudent step back, then another, holding his tray before him like a shield.

"Wow. That's, uh, really nasty looking, all those condiments smeared together like that.....I really, really, did not mean to do that."

Slowly, the marine lowered his head and looked at the technicolor stickiness bathing his muscular chest. Ever cautious, the ex-agent shuffled back another few feet, putting Sam's table in between them.

"You know what?" He dropped his tray on the table with a clatter and stuffed a hand down his pocket, fishing. "I have a few ones right here you can use to get that dry-cleaned--"

With a zen-like measure of contemplation, the marine scraped a hunk of eggs from his shirt and held it in his hand. No one moved. No one breathed. For a moment Sam felt almost giddy, realizing that Simmons had managed to spill his food all over the biggest, meanest looking guy in the room. This would be interesting to watch.

Then, in a motion too swift to be seen, the marine drew back his hand and hurled the icky mound at Simmons. His mother, only just catching on to the fact that something was happening, sat up straighter in her chair and turned her head-- right into the path of the oncoming projectile. The oozing glob smacked her full in the face, splattering ketchup into her hair.

At the sight of his wife spitting out bits of egg, his father thrust back his own chair and stood up.

"Hey! Watch where you're throwing that-- you hit my Judy!"

And to Sam's astonishment, he lobed a pastry from his own tray at the bulky marine. With reflexes honed in combat his target ducked to the side, allowing the tumbling cinnamon roll to splat against the side of another soldier's face.

Once more a dead silence took hold. But then the newly sticky soldier stood up, violently pushing his tray over the table into someone else's lap, and with a thunderous roar of noise the entire room erupted into hollering chaos.

"FOOOOD FIGHT!"

Sam pulled Mikaela under the table just as the epic battle commenced, and soon the air was thick with flying breakfast foods. Lazer bolts of streaming ketchup and squirted syrup arched overhead, interspersed with mini flak clouds of exploding egg, sausage bullets, and cinnamon roll bombs. Puddles of liquid splashed across the floor-- orange, pink, yellow, steaming brown-- turning the battle field into a sugar and caffine bath. Scrambling to avoid being mowed down in the onslaught, Simmons tried to drop to his hands and knees to crawl under the table with them. But a soldier, embroiled in the epic mess-hall siege, latched onto his foot and dragged him back out into the open to be thoroughly drenched in perishables. Sam laughed uncontrollably, face hurting from his wide, amazed grin, knowing that Simmons wouldn't last a minute.

Mikaela grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him in for an awkward kiss around the legs of the table. Pulling back far too quickly for his liking, she leaned her forehead against his.

"We don't have much time left, Sam," she intoned dramatically, though he sensed the double meaning to her words, "So lets go out with a bang!"

He leaned in for another kiss. "Ladies first."

And Mikaela put her hand over his face and thrust him out into the fray, laughing even as she tossed him to the storming pack of wildly entertained soldiers (wolves).

A hand grabbed the front of his shirt as his torso slipped out from under the table, yanking him to his feet. Leo. His ex-room mate was hardly recognizable; something sticky and dripping slowly down his nose plastered the chia pet mop of hair to his head, and his arms and face now sported ketchup war paint.

"We got a war to win, soldier!" He shouted at Sam, pushing him forward into the crush of writhing, shouting, laughing bodies. And despite the fact that he was swiftly covered by all manner of things he would rather not name, Sam found himself laughing as well. He snatched up an untouched bowl of hash browns from another table and dumped it over his father's head, screeching in protest as he recieved a thick squirt of ketchup in retaliation. He reached for the strong, calloused hand (--a gentle hand tucking him into bed and smoothing his hair-- fisting into his shirt on the desert floor, not letting go-- 'I'm not leaving you! I'm not leaving you!'--) and squeezed-- goodbye, dad-- reaching around with his other hand to stuff a pasty down the neck of his father's shirt, his father grabbing him in a head lock to do the same to him.

His mother, despite her earlier shock, had recovered in time to comandeer the entire McDonand's sized syrup dispenser and was liberally spraying anyone who came near, shrieking like a banshee, laughing through her protests of what a mess they were making of the place.

He dodged a reflexive stream she shot in his direction, catching her up in a hug and lifting her up off her feet. She was light, so light that he easily twirled her through the air a few times before she squirted syrup down the front of his shirt to make him put her down. And then he hugged her in earnest, basking in the familiar smell of her hair even through the choking grease of potatoes, sausage and bacon. Strawberries, that was it. Strawberries to match her redish hair (--arms lifting him, resting him against a warm shoulder, nose burried in her hair while he cried from a skinned knee-- strawberries hidden beneath sweat, red covered by egyptian dust, arms holding him once more-- 'I almost lost you, I almost lost my son...'--). He swept her off her feet and whirled her around again, bridal style, through the raining hail of food, through the falling shards of memory, and kissed her on the cheek-- I love you too, mom.

Then, determined to enjoy the one last spontaneous outbreak of random madness he would ever enjoy with his family, ever be able to savor without fearing for their lives and his, he leapt back into battle, searching out Mikaela. He owed her for betraying him and shoving him from their table-shaped bolt hole. But this time, it would not be to say goodbye. Maybe see you later, but not goodbye. Because no matter what he had to do, no matter how long he had to search, he would find a way back to her.

For now, he was content to spend another few minutes basking in laughter and joy and love (with a side of flying sausage biscuit).

It would have to be enough.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

At last the announcement came over the ship-wide intercomm that they were within 15 miles of the harbor, instructing various work crews to begin preparing the ship and the flight deck for the arrival of the launch boat that would ferry them to shore.

After the epic food fight had finally wound down (and after a few flustered officers had burst onto the scene and shouted the soldiers in the room to attention), Sam had briefly parted from his family to go grab a shower and a change of clothes, dumping his food-covered ones in the trashcan rather than waste time trying to find a washing machine. Then, showered and dressed, he had stood surveying his room, wondering if he should pack, before remembering that he didn't have anything to pack in the first place, save for what he already carried on his body. So he had simply flicked off the lights and left the room, planning to never again return.

His parents and Mikaela met him in the lounge. Though they all lumped up together on the sofa, no one moved to switch on the TV. Instead, they talked-- everything from sports to music, cars to tree species came up as topics, though no one mentioned politics, robots, aliens, or life in general. At some point Leo wandered in, coming to say goodbye to Sam with a manly handshake and replying to his raised eyebrow that Mikaela had filled him in on what was going on. For once, he didn't have anything clever or provocative to say.

Almost two hours slipped by without a whisper to mark their passing, two hours that came and went in two minutes, leaving him staring into Mikaela's eyes as the nasily death knell squawked over the intercomm. Thirty minutes until boarding.

As soon as the last repetition of the message died away, their phones all began to ring at once. Each one bore the same, impersonal text message to pack up their things and be on the flight deck, ready to leave, in twenty minutes. Sam turned off his phone and threw it over the back of the sofa, declaring that the launch boat wouldn't be ready to leave for thirty minutes and he therefore planned to remain right where he was for thirty minutes. No one raised a protest.

Even more quickly than the previous two hours had fled, all too soon thirty minutes were swept away in the onward-- and ever accelerating-- march of time. His parents left to make the journey to the flight deck, leaving Sam and Mikaela alone for two minutes of overtime. They made good use of it, engaging in the most intense two-minute make out session Sam had ever experienced. But then Mikaela's phone began to ring again, and after Sam reluctantly grabbed his blackberry they left the lounge hand and hand.

Half way to the flight deck Mikaela stopped suddenly, paling. Sam pulled up beside her, alarmed when she tugged her hand from his and turned back the way they came.

"Mikaela? What's going on?"

"I left something in my room, Sam," she called back to him, already hurrying away down the corridor, "Don't worry-- I'll meet you up on deck."

Once she vanished out of sight he swore violently, cursing whatever article of clothing or whatnot had been stupid enough to leave itself in her room and therefore deprive him of a few more minutes of her company. Reluctantly, he turned back and began trudging towards the deck again, much more slowly this time.

Alone with his thoughts (never a good thing), the fluttering panic once more beat its leathery wings against the cage of his chest. He was out of time and out of ideas. Once Mikaela had boarded her flight back to the US she was out of reach. He needed to think of something, only his brain refused to cooperate and grind through much thinking at all. Instead of worrying about the future, his parents, or Mikaela, he found his mind slipping back to the incident that morning in the infirmary and the disturbing presence of alien runes on the x-ray of his arm.

He focused on the limb swaddled in plaster and held to his side by a sling, judging the sensations it gave off. First: ow. Next: still ow, but not as powerful as it should have been. To his relief, he couldn't detect any trace of the tingling, crawling, drifting sensation that had accompanied his brief contact with the allspark shard and the subsequent 'episodes' that overcame him. But the fact that the feeling wasn't there yet did little to assuage his fear-- if he were having a relapse, it might creep over him when he least expected it.

Though he groaned at the thought of seeking out Rachet and asking the robot to scan him (who knew what humilitating things the robot would spout....or what disasterous things....), he grudgingly admitted that it would be better to find out now if his mind still harbored remnants of the Allspark than stress over it for days and still find out later. So stealing himself for the inevitable, good or bad, he detoured to the right and jogged away from the deck, towards the cargo bay. If by any chance Rachet had not yet made it topside, he didn't want to go all the way to the deck only to discover that he needed to come back down again.

Drawling, boisterous shouts drifted down the hallway from the cargo bay, but pushing open the door he found only Mudflap and Skids within. Naturally the object of his search couldn't have the decency to appear when needed.

"Moron! That chain goes over here!"

"Youse just being bossy. It's fine da way it is."

The two Autobots scampered and cavorted around a large, open-sided trailer, shoving and kicking each other out of the way as each attempted to chain down a tarp-covered pile of scrap metal. Approaching slowly so as not to be caught up in the scuffle, Sam swallowed the urge to retch at the sight of the designation SR-71 stamped in flaking white on one of the black metal plates. Jetfire. Or what was left of him.

His skin crawled as he realized he stood looking at a piecemeal corpse, and he forcefully shook all thoughts of dismembered human bodies from his head (--so much blood, bones snapping like twigs--). It wasn't the same. The hunks of metal before him were not rotting, oozing flesh. But no matter how many times he chanted to himself that Jetfire was long dead, he could not entirely rid himself from the fear that the moment their backs were turned the pile would begin to shift and rise up, zombie-like, gurgling out incomprehensible demands for his stolen heart.

Slamming a mental door on the horror-filled image, Sam turned to go-- and stopped, the outline of a plan forming in his mind. He knew from experience that each of the Autobots possesed the ability to conduct even the most basic medical scans. While the Twin's probably could not monitor the flow of blood through his heart as Rachet could, they should at least be able to pick up on any Allspark radiation lingering around him. After all, Sector 7 had had to build the Hover dam on top of the thing just to keep any passing aliens from sensing it. And a definite plus to using the Twins instead of Rachet was that they probably had enough warped human decorum not to go blurting out random (and embarassing) tidbits of data. He hoped.

Slowly pivoting on his heel, he cleared his throat to announce his presence and waited until the two Autobots paused in their struggles and turned their gleaming blue optics in his direction. Why they felt the need to pretend not to realize he was there until he gave a signal was beyond him.

"Hey guys! I could use your help!"

Eager for any reason not to work, the twins immediately abandoned their mangled pursuit and trotted over to him.

"Oh now he wants our help," Mudflap sneered, though his loping gait did not slow.

"You got us in trouble, man! Why should we do anythin for you?" Skids tossed in, gathering close to his twin in Sam's personal space bubble. Aliens of any shape or description, even when acting as self-styled urban dwellers, seemed to have no concept that crowding over the invisible three-foot line made humans uncomfortable.

At any other time, Sam would have found the twin's grasp of Earthen idioms and laid back personalities to be refreshing, and would have happily engaged in a round of banter. But at the moment, too disturbed by the sight of Jetfire's parts being haphazardly loaded onto a trailer-- too preoccupied with fretting over the possibility of once more being taken over by the Allspark-- he refused to play along.

He passed a shaking hand over his eyes and took a step away from the technicolor robots, giving himself some breathing-- and thinking-- room. "One, because it gives you an excuse not to work for a few minutes. And two, I know you're curious about what I want. So go on-- ask."

Picking up on his nail-spitting mood, they leaned away and traded glances over his head. But rather than walk away and leave him to stew in his own funk (and laugh as he jumped up and down in frustration), they turned back to him, suddenly serious, and crouched closer.

"Whatchu want?" Mudflap whispered secretively. And snickered. Okay, so maybe not so serious.

Sam glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one would walk into the room just as he began speaking, then replied, "I need to you scan me."

Mudflap pulled back slightly in confusion, optics spiralling closed, and flicked his gaze once more to his brother.

"Scan you? What fo?"

"I need to know if I have any radiation from the Allspark shard lingering around me. Until I saw you guys I was going to ask Rachet, but...he's not very discreet," Sam gave a helpless little shrug.

Skids shuffled closer, the rings around his optics whirling in preparation.

"We gotcha covered, dude. Anythin to get old Hachet," the green Autobot promised with all the solemnity of a prankster, initiating the scan.

As with Bumblebee and Optimus, Sam felt nothing as the alien receptors broadcast data collecting waves deep into his body. The only indication he had that Skids was doing something other trying to stare a hole in him to freak him out was the brief hiccup in the sound of his internal workings-- the high pitched, though normally unnoticed, drone of processors and servos paused, dropping momentarily to a thrumming bass, then ascended back up the scale and resumed its normal tone. Skids pulled away from him, the motion stiff with shock, and Sam felt his muscles seize in response. Not good.

"Holy Primus!" Skids whispered in fearful awe, "You got Allspark energy practically drippin off ya, man! It's everywhere!"

Mudflap leaned in closer as though to take a look for himself, then like his brother he too jerked sharply away from the human. "Man, youse just covered up with it! How'd ya get like that?"

All the air vanished from Sam's lungs. He couldn't breathe.

His darkest fears had been true the whole time. Some wonder drug didn't cause his bones to knit-- the allspark did. Symbols didn't appear on the x-ray because of the close proximity of the Autobots-- they appeared because he himself served as a cesspool of alien radiation. Allspark radiation. It was happening again.

Breath flooded into his chest with a gasp, and he started to hyperventilate. Even though he knew asking again could do nothing to change the answer, he still found himself rasping, "R-really?"

Neither of the Autobots answered, only exchanging another set of pointed glances, and his stomach plummeted even further, wondering if the situation could possibly get even worse. He didn't see how it could, but then again things always seemed to go from bad to worse when aliens were involved, the bursting-from-people's-chests kind or otherwise.

But then the thrumming tension in the room, pulling tighter and tighter like a rubber band, suddenly snapped-- the twins sputtered, masks of seriousness slipping, and broke out into peals of mechanized laughter. Sam could only stare.

"Nah! Just messin witcha!" Mudflap informed the slack-jawed human, bumping fists with his twin.

Skids pointed to his own head with a large finger. "You shoulda seen yo face! Best Polaroid moment eva!"

Stomach still hanging somewhere beneath his feet, for a moment Sam could only glance mutely between them. But then, as his mind slowly churned through the revelation that they had made a joke at his expense, his panicked gaze darkened into a glower. The howling only ascended in volume-- Skids launched himself into a backwards roll, skipping happily away from the human, as Mudflap spun in place with his legs pulled to his chest like a little kid. If not for the fact that he was being laughed at, the spectacle of watching immortal alien killing machines falling over themselves with simulated giggles would have been either wildly amusing or vaguely distrubing. As it was, Sam settled for upping the wattage of his glare a notch.

"Yeah, great," he muttered, "Thanks guys."

"Ooo, wait!" Mudflap called, suddenly sitting up and reining in his hilarity. "Ya may not be slathered up wit Allspark, but you got these little threads of somethin driftin around in there."

Sam replied with a dignified display of his middle finger, showing just how little he was impressed with the second attempt to scare him shitless. That would be the last time he asked for their help with anything remotely important. He turned to leave, but Mudflap reached out, catching him by the sleeve.

"Fo real this time, Sam-mah-man. You oughta get old Hachet to take a look at ya--"

"Which he did, just last night," Bumblebee interrupted, appearing behind Sam and latching onto Mudflap's hand, somehow causing the red Autobot to yelp in pain and snatch his arm back.

"OUCH! What's yo problem, Stumblebee?!"

As soon as Mudflap withdrew his arm the yellow scout stepped away, drawing close to Sam. A flicker of motion rippled a lower portion of his forearm armor. Sam narrowed his eyes at the spot, though whatever had been there folded itself out of sight again before he could make out what it was. But for a sliver of an instant, he thought he had seen a dagger-like blade extending from the inside of Bee's wrist. Though of course that was stupid, because Sam knew the yellow scout didn't have any knives. Or at least if he did, Sam had never seen them (--bumblebees can't sting--).

"Don't touch m-- don't touch him," the scout said softly, blue optics blazing impossibly bright.

That caught Sam's attention. When speaking with his own voice rather than through radio snippets, Bumblebee mantained virtually flawless grammer and, unlike the twins, never stuttered. As far as he knew, unless they did it on purpose, the robotic visitors couldn't stutter. Something must have really upset him to cause his thought relays to skip that noticably.

"Fine, fine. Chill, dude. Seriously," Mudflap soothed, holding up his hands (--one finger sporting a tiny slit--) in a placating gesture, "I was jus tryin to help!"

Bumblebee's hand twitched towards Sam, but he curled it back away from the human before it could brush his skin.

::'I don't need no body--!'::

"Bee?" Sam questioned in bewilderment. The yellow robot shut down his radio.

"As I have said," Bumblebee informed Mudflap and a watching Skids, seemingly ignoring Sam, "Rachet examined him last night. Your concern is misplaced."

Mudflap scuttled crab-like a few paces away from the larger Autobot. "Geez! You got some bolts screwed in too tight, Stumblebee!"

Visibly relaxing at Mudflap's retreat, Bumblebee stepped away from Sam and lunged forward to his hands and knees, transforming as he went. By the time he touched the floor he was no longer a robot, but a sleek, powerful Camaro. He revved his engine.

A reel of metallic warbles and clicks from the newly disguised robot sent both of the twins scrambling back to Jetfire's remains.

"We're going! Don't get yo drive train ina twist!" they shouted back.

Sam stared after them in amazement. Mudflap and Skids normally ignored or laughed at anyone besides Optimus or Ironhide-- and even Ironhide sometimes became the target of a defiant raspberry. He wondered what Bee had said in Cybertronian that made them start falling over themselves to get back to work.

The Camaro turned with a crunching of wheels on concrete, inching towards him hesitantly with the same tightly-leashed intensity he had sensed the night before. Like a cross between a puppy desperate for affection and... something he could not identify, something so powerfully breathtaking (--twin flares of blue light, bright as angel dust, compelling as a demon's snare--) that it could not be named. Yet once more the sense of the incanny evaporated in an instant, leaving nothing but a cheerful yellow camaro that seemed anything but cheerful as it reluctantly slid into reverse and backed away again. It turned, angling for the recessed chambers formed by the maze of crates, and pulled up alongside him. Electric tension sizzled and throbbed across the empty air between them, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Now he knew he was going insane. There was no reason for him to feel pulled to the camaro like a sock obeying the call of static cling. No reason, because the feeling wasn't real. It was a phantom sensation from his messed up mind. Nothing more.

All too soon the invisible tugging faded as well, leaving him stupidly leaning towards the Camaro, feeling light-headed and high. He shook his head and leaned away again, taking a step back. And he did not hear a faint, subsonic whimper in response. He did not. Even if the sound of it was so lonely it made him want to wrap his arms around himself.

"Sam," his guardian called his name, breaking him free of his stupor. Sam tried to smile in response, feeling completely mental. God, it was a car. Get a grip, Sam.

"Yeah?"

The engine rumbled, a restrained growl. "You were supposed to be up on deck nearly seven minutes ago. I suggest you leave."

Without waiting for a response, the camaro dropped into gear and rolled away, turning out of view behind a stack of crates. Light flashed from the window, and it was gone.

And Sam was left staring after it, feeling that he had just been given the cold shoulder by a robot. He swallowed thickly for a minute, reminding himself that the scout was probably busy helping to load things onto the launch boat and his tone had probably come out sharper than he meant it. But that didn't stop little painful barbs from lodging themselves in his heart at the memory of the flat, icy words (--'I suggest you leave'--). As an alien, he couldn't be expected to always appreciate how the inflection of his voice would be interpretted. It was silly for him to feel offended. And rejected. Of course it was (--only human, only-- '...someone to live for...'-- friendship from need, not love-- only human-- what can a human offer a god?--).

Almost three minutes passed before he could remember how to walk. And even then he still couldn't remember how to breathe.

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The first thing he noticed emerging into the bright Indian glare was the heat. It was hot. Not just ordinary August heat, the kind that made dogs slither into porch shadows to pant and sucked up energy to power air-conditionings. This was the kind of heat that flattened everything in its path more efficiently than a steam roller, wilting trees and turning sidewalks into griddles.

Immediately drenched with sweat the moment he set foot on deck, Sam shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted at the white hot sky. Living here would probably do the Decepticon's work for them-- he already felt close to keeling over, and it had only been less than five minutes.

The launch boat coming to pick them up was late. It figured. Soldiers stood milling about in the shadows of the parked jets, talking and taking long swigs from water bottles. Seemingly obliviously to the heat (and to the blinding glares thrown from every curve of their bodies) Rachet and Ironhide sat side by side in full view of the sun, as silent as normal vehicles. He suspected they were communicating through an internal radio or something.

Turning a full rotation, he finally spotted his mother and Mikaela sitting in the shade a little distance away from the soldiers. His father was not with them. They waved, and he made a series of elaborate gestures seen previously only in asylums to inquire as to the whereabouts of their missing member. His mother eventually jabbed a finger in the direction of the observation tower.

As it was a few hours past noon, the tower cast a deep shadow over the deck immediately to one side of it, the very side the farthest distance away from the assembled Autobots and humans. His heart lurched painfully, wondering why his father had ventured so far away to find shade.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, he meandered in that direction, hoping he wouldn't have to talk his father back from the edge or something. But as he slowly rounded the corner, a flash of red and blue stilled him in his tracks. Holding his breath, he carefully retreated back out of sight, waited a beat, and peered back around the edge when no one shouted at him to go away.

There was his father, just as his mother had said (well, pointed). And across from him, legs folded in front of his massive body in a relaxed posture, sat Optimus Prime. His armor didn't gleam as it normally would even enshrouded in shadow-- now, in the daylight, he could see the uncounted number of scratches and abrasions that had not been visible the night before. Large patches of red and blue had worn away, though not in a manner that suggested flaking paint. He doubted they used paint to begin with, especially since he had observed them changing color at will. No, the missing color could be better compared to missing skin that had been rubbed or torn away. The very thought had him swallowing bile.

At first it seemed that Optimus was still trying to convince his father that never seeing his son again was really for the best, but observing his father pointing a finger at the alien leader (who towered over him even when sitting, optics mutted to a soft glow), his stance wide and assertive, Sam was forced to reconsider. Especially when he realized that it was his father, not Optimus, doing the lecturing.

"--I have something I need to say, and you're going to sit there and listen even if I have to hold you down myself. Diplomacy can go hang."

Optimus merely inclinded his head, optics dimming even further, though the idea of his human father being able to keep the alien from doing anything was laughable. Apparently, Optimus planned to listen.

His father sucked in a few deep breaths through his nose to settle himself, then began again in a much leveler voice.

"You may think I'm trying to make you change you mind, but I'm not. --As if it would do any good, you already have me in checkmate as it is." He threw up his hands angrily, twisting to pace a few steps to the side, then returning to stand before Optimus. Breathing deeply again.

"Anyway, that's not what I want. As much as I hate it, I'm not so stupid as to think I could protect him from those monsters on my own," he tossed a disdainful hand at the silent robot, "You certainly would be much better at it. Hell, with you guys he at least has a chance of surviving to see his next birthday!"

Here Optimus leaned forward with a quiet intentness.

"I swear to you, if it is within my power to grant it, your son will live to see many more decades yet."

But his father merely flapped a hand as though swatting away a fly.

"Yeah, yeah. You said that. That thrice-bound oath thing and all. But what if you decide you don't want to play by those rules anymore?"

Optimus stiffened away from the human, and Sam held his breath in fluttering anticipation. He, too, had wondered the same thing. And he also wondered if what the alien told his father would be different from what he had told Sam himself.

"There is no tangible proof I can give you to assure you of my word," Optimus began slowly, "But many who know me can attest to the fact that I will and have moved planets to keep it. --And I speak only partially in metaphor," his tone turned wry, and Sam wondered if only he could hear the dry humor in robot's next words. "If you wish, I can provide a list of character references for you pursuance."

His father waved away the offer, pacing back and forth again with his hands on his hips, staring at the metal decking. He stopped, opened his mouth to speak. Closed it again and rubbed a hand over his face, the back of his neck.

"Look," he said at last, "I may not have much of a choice here, but let's get one thing straight. My son is something special. Real special. I may not have told him much, and maybe I should have, but he is. So you better take real good care of him. I don't just mean keep him from getting squashed-- that's just surviving. I want my son to live."

He turned to look Optimus squarely in the face, brown organic eyes meeting shimmering blue optics, and stepped closer, pointing his finger at the metal chest before him.

"I'm giving up my son-- my son-- to save his life. I may hate it, I may want to kick and scream and tell you to jump off a cliff, but I can't, so I'll only say this: I can't be a father to my son anymore, so you had better be like a father to him in my place!"

He paused. Though Sam couldn't see his face, the sound he made drawing in a breath almost verged on open weeping.

"So you'd better be the best damn father in the whole universe for the best son in the whole universe. You'd better threaten his girlfriends and listen to him rambling even when you have no idea what he's talking about, a-and give him Christmas presents he thinks he's too old for but really wants anyway. You'd better hug him when he doesn't want you to but really needs you to. You'd better give him a good kick in the ass when he does something stupid, and tell him you're proud of him when he does something great. You'd better protect him from the scary things that live in closets and under beds as well as those things made of metal and wielding guns. You'd better love him even when you want to hate him, and make sure he knows it even when he hates you."

He broke off, voice wobbling dangerously, and he sucked in another trembling breath. Optimus didn't speak, gaze unwavering, though it seemed to Sam that his optics blazed just a little brighter. Sam lifted his shoulder to rub his face against his shirt. It was only sweat. He wasn't crying. He wasn't. (--daddy!--)

"I don't care who you are," his father began again, tone hard as granite even though his voice emerged raw, "I don't care how old you are, how smart you are, how big you are, how strong you are, if you're a leader or a grunt, or even if you're an alien or not-- you better do right by my son." Here his voice broke entirely, cut through with tightly restrained sobs, "You better do right by my son-- because he's yours now, and good fathers take care of their sons."

Optimus sat in silence for a long moment, optics humming with a gentle blue light. When at last he spoke, the words came slowly, washing over Sam like a vow. And he knew-- knew in that primal way that could be neither explained nor denied-- that it was a vow that would not be broken.

"I have already failed one son. I will not fail another."

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When the launch boat finally arrived, the lazy barbeque picnic air erupted into a flurry of frenzied activity. The two boats were secured together by a series of thick chains, and a movable staircase on wheels was rolled into position to create a pathway to the much shorter boat dipping and rolling in the carrier's shallows. The two Autobots accompanying the humans on the first trip to shore-- Ironhide and Rachet-- jumped lithely over the side to the deck below, forgoing the use of stairs. When the chains were unwound and the launch boat prepared to make the journey back to shore, Sam jumped on of the deck hands in a panic, telling them that they needed to wait for the others-- to which he was told that the total weight of all the Autobots plus Jetfire's remains was far too heavy to carry in one trip. After that he went to sit with his parents and Mikaela, feeling stupid.

Trying to brace his family (and himself) for the coming separation, he refused to hold their hands or throw his arms around them like he was tempted to do. Not only were Lennox and Epps there to serve as witness, he didn't want Rachet and Ironhide thinking him weak. No matter what Optimus had promised his father, he knew he wasn't one of them and never would be. He was a preiphery concern, no more. And if he wanted to keep from becoming a nuisance, he knew he needed to be able to take care of himself.

He also knew that if he allowed himself to hold them now he would never be able to let go.

They passed the three miles to shore in silence. Well, at least their little insultated group did. The soldiers talked and laughed freely, obviously excited to get back to base. Watching them, Sam felt green and choked back an urge to vomit that had nothing to do with sea sickness. He couldn't look at his parents. Or Mikaela. So he traced the lines of Ironhide's chrome regardless of the glare and told himself that he was not going to cry.

The same distant haze that overcame him before school plays and while totting Allsparks descended as the boat pulled into port. He moved as if in a fog-- looking but not seeing, moving where directed like a mindless sheep. Time had accelerated again, and now he could only see what was happening through split-second freeze frames.

Gangplank pulled into place, stepping onto solid ground. An unfamiliar hand on his shoulder, steering him through the bustling port. A glimpse of suited agents forming a ring around them, herding them together, keeping all others at bay. A line of black SUVs, like the ones that had taken him from his house over a year ago (had it only been a year?). A glimpse of Mikaela's face, of Mikaela's eyes and something like love in their depths, and then they were loaded into different SUVs-- he in one, his parents and Mikaela in another. The door sealed him inside with a muffled thump of air, like sealing him into a refridgerator, the air conditioning going full blast. Better than the Indian heat, but at the moment, through the fog, he couldn't seem to care either way.

Shift into drive, pull away. Watch the other black boat go a different direction. They were already gone, and he hadn't even noticed the parting. He thought it should have been more dramatic-- with lightning, volcanoes, and violin interludes. Nope, none of that. Just pile into different SUVs and drive away.

Another blink, and the agents with him were pulling him back out into the heat, hustling him across a vast expanse of asphalt that he dimly recognized as a runway. A cargo plane-- a C-17, he dredged up from his memory-- waited with its mouth open to swallow the Autobots whole. But they guided him away from the C-17 and to another, much smaller plane and up another set of stairs.

Blink again, and he was sitting in a seat with the seat belt on, across the isle and back a few rows from Galloway, who was reading a newspaper. Though the plane could have held almost ten, there were only three of them occupying the passenger compartment-- one stuffy politician with his head stuck up his own butt, one suited agent who gave him a kind smile, and one 18-year-old world-saving wonder who had suddenly lost his powers.

At last time began to slow again, fog clearing from his mind. But once it had gone he wished it would come back-- everything was too sharp, too painful, like shards of broken glass. He leaned forward, elbows to knees, and buried his face in his palms, not carrying if anyone saw him cry. But he didn't cry. His eyes only felt dry and tired, as though he needed to collapse in bed and hibernate for a few months.

When he looked up again, the unfamiliar agent smiled and motioned for Sam to join him in the chair facing him across a small plastic table. The benefit of a private aircraft, he mused as he stood and crossed the isle, was that the small number of people allowed for an unorthodox arrangement of seats.

The man stood up at his approach, holding out a strong hand.

"Hi, Sam," he said with a smile, "I'm Dave. Nice to meet you."

After looking at the outstretched limb for a moment before remembering what to do, he shook hands with the agent and tried to smile in return. He like the man already-- first he called him 'Sam', not 'Samuel', and second he'd introduced himself by his first name. The only adults he'd ever seen do that were really cool teachers and shrinks. Since this guy was waay too muscular to be a shrink (and he packed a gun), he assumed it was the former.

After trading grips, Dave sank back down into his chair, motioning for Sam to do the same.

"You're probably wondering who I am besides 'Dave', so I might as well tell you that I'm your case worker, so to speak." Sam opened his mouth, and the gun-carrying agent lifted a finger to forestall him. "And no, not the kind of case worker that oversees foster children. Yes, I do know about the Autobots. And no, I am not here to shoot, harass, torture or otherwise embarass you or your friends. I'm more like your official link to the outside world, and you should probably know that I have both the secretary of state and Optimus Prime on speed-dial."

Sam could only lean back in his seat in amazement.

"Woah...are you, like, psychic or something? Because you just answered every question I had and every question I could think of without me having to say anything. Just, wow."

Dave smiled modestly. "They don't pay me the big bucks for nothing."

"Wait," Sam sat up straighter in his chair, "You have Optimus on speed dial?! I didn't even know he had a phone!"

"He doesn't have a phone, but he does have an arrangement where I can dial in a telephone number from anywhere in the world and he will pick up. --Or not, if he's in a pissy mood."

Sam's liking and respect grew by leaps and bounds. "I can understand the Secretary of State part, but why Optimus?"

"As an employer, he's very difficult to get into contact with any other way."

"....employer?"

He inclined his head, smiling slightly again. "Everyone agreed that there would probably have been a conflict of interests if, as your link to the human world, I worked for the United States."

"No, I get that part," Sam waved it away, "I mean, he can pay you?" And the corollary, "He has money?!"

"Of course. Did you think he goes all over the world hunting Decepticons with us for free?" he laughed.

Feeling suddenly mischevious, Sam leaned forward and whispered, "How much does he make?"

"Sorry, Sam. Confidentiality was part of my contract. If you want to know that, you'll have to ask him." He laughed again as Sam swore in frustration. "But in any case, perhaps it is time we move on to more serious topics."

Sam's momentarily light heart sunk like a stone, his mood sinking with. "Yeah," he shook himself, sitting up straight. It was time to be an adult now. Human 'link' or not, he knew he would need to be able to function on his own from that time forward. He couldn't expect to be able to go crying to the Autobots (or Bee) whenever something went wrong. They had imporant things to do. He was just baggage, though he was determined to be the most inobtrusive baggage possible. "Let's get started."

As it turned out, there was a lot more that he needed to know than he had been able to dream up in the day since he'd found out that he would be rooming with the Autobots. Permanently. Most were boring routine things like having finger and retinal scans taken and being issued a security clearance card and password, as well as rules and procedures he would need to abide by, the actual layout of the base (though Dave couldn't give him a paper map to help out with that one, in case it fell into the wrong hands).

When the issue of clothing and other personal items came up, he was dismayed to learn that they would not be able to bring him any of his things from home-- in fact, not even his parents would be going back to his house. Both they and Mikaela were going straight into the witness protection program and being moved to undisclosed locations. "Because the Decepticons know where your house is-- and probably hers too. If anyone attempted to go back there for your clothes or videogames, not only might they themselves be in danger, they might inadvertantly lead the Decepticons back to base. Sorry, Sam, but we can't risk that."

He was also shocked to learn that his father's demands had been near prophetic-- although he was no longer technically a minor, the ultimate authority over him went to Optimus, and while he was still in school (yes, he would be learning through a combination of online courses and tutors on base, and no, he could study whatever he wished, though politics was necessarily a requirement given his position) he would recieve an 'allowance' of sorts for personal spending and to buy him food and clothes and to pay for college. He almost collapsed into a fit of giggles at the mental image of Optimus cracking open his wallet and doling out money. It was either that or collapse in a seizure. Apparently, the alien leader was fairly rich.

The only answers Dave could not give him pertained to his future after getting a college degree. Sam had panicked, thinking that he would be forced to join the military, to which Dave had laughed. "You're no longer an American citizen, Sam. So even if they wanted to force you to join-- which they can't, given that there is no draft in place-- you wouldn't be joining the American military in the first place. And I don't think the Autobots are looking for human recruits." But beyond that, no one seemed to have much of an idea of what to do with him after he had a diploma in his hot little hands. Sam felt even more useless than before, realizing he might actually be stuck around doing nothing of any value.

All too soon the pilot announced that they would be landing in five minutes. Sam buckled his seat belt, watching Galloway fold up his newspaper and set it aside. The man had not said a single word to him the whole time, though he'd been present for the conversation. Not that Sam particularly wanted to chat with him, but still.

Suddenly snagging on an idea, Sam turned back to Dave, forcing down his eagerness in an attempt not to give too much away.

"Actually..." he drew the other man's attention away from the window, working to sound disinterested, "I was wondering what someone would have to do, hypothetically, to get someone else clearance to come to the base."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Hypothetically."

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Sam could have kicked himself for being so obvious. He worked to smooth out his dismayed expression, giving a casual shrug. "Yeah, just wondering. Do you have any idea how someone would go about it?"

"Well," he tapped the tips of his fingers together pensively, "You have to keep in mind that I'm not in charge of security, and therefore I have no say over who gets to come on base. If...someone....were truly determined to bring someone else on base, it would be in that first someone's best interest to talk to Captain Lennox."

Lennox, of course! Sam repressed a groan of self-annoyance, wondering if he were that fatally stupid. If the truth had come along and smacked him in the face earlier, he could have saved himself all that time snooping around in a dusty office by simply talking to the military commander. Suddenly filled with a new sense of purpose, he refused to consider the possibility that Lennox might say no. Now that he had an angle of approach, it had to work. It just had to. He only had a little over a day left before Mikaela's plane left.

"I guess that would be the smart thing for that someone to do, then," he smiled back, in thanks. Though still pretending to be ignoring them as the plane came in for a landing, Galloway snorted. Dave rolled his eyes-- to Sam's intense amusement-- then held his gaze and gave him a deliberate wink.

The pilot came over the intercomm as they touched down. "Welcome, gentlemen, to NEST base of operations."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

One constant he noticed between the port and the large island was the heat. Still there, still oppressive, soaking his shirt with sweat and showing no sign of letting up. He missed snow already.

One huge difference, however, was that most of the island was beautiful. Tropical paradise beautiful. The beauty extended just as far as the beginning of the overground base and stopped short, because the base itself (what he could see of it, since most nestled deep down into the bedrock beneath them) was as gray and dismal as asphalt, barbed wire, concrete and corrugated roofs could be. Despite his spectacular imaginings, it mostly resembled every other base he'd visited or seen in pictures-- a maze of warehouses and hangers edged in double rows of barbed wire and riddled with security cameras and motion sensors. All in all, not very high tech. And to his growing apprehension, not very fortified, either.

The two C-17s had already landed and were spewing out their cargo of Autobots and soldiers onto the runway. His heart unknotted slightly when Bumblebee backed out as well-- irrational though it was, he hadn't been able to help fearing that the yellow scout had somehow been left behind.

Several armed soliders came to flank them as they strode brisky towards one of the unmarked hangers. Sam leaned close to Dave, though he only came up to his shoulder, and whispered, "I thought this place was supposed to be ultra high-tech with enough security to stop a tidal wave? There are only two rows of barbed wire!"

"Here, on the surface, perhaps," he whispered in return, "But it wouldn't be very smart to go displaying all our anti-Decepticon technology for everyone to see, now would it? Any one who happens to look at us will only see another base, and not a very large one at that."

"And the best way to protect something is to hide it in plain sight," Sam mumbled to himself as they passed through a gate and were herded through a thick steel door set into one of the concrete slab hangers.

To his shock, the room beyond was empty.

"What?" he breathed in confusion, but Dave only took him by the arm and gently led him forward, stopping near where all the other soldiers and agents had gathered in one big clump.

One of the soldiers hefted his gun to his left shoulder to free his hand. He reached out--- and tapped on the air.

"A hologram," Dave whispered to him, "Courtesy of the Autobots."

The floor beneath them jerked, groaned, and suddenly they were descending through the floor as though through quicksand. A hand hooked itself under his arm as he cried out in shock and tried to stumble to the side.

"Let me guess," he squeaked as the floor came up to his chest. It was more like passing through air than passing through concrete-- he felt nothing at all as it rose to swallow the buttons of his shirt in quick sucession. "Another hologram?"

"Yes. We're riding an elevator of sorts."

"Oh, great." The floor came up to his chin, his nose. "Fun times."

And then he was through it, looking back at a transparent image of the floor from below. It was like looking up at the surface from underwater, though this barrier did not shimmer and dance with ripples and light.

But when he looked down, all thoughts of the perfect hologram were driven from his mind. He realized that making a patch of air resemble concrete was only a drop in the bucket compared with what the Autobots could do when they put their minds to it. He was distantly aware of his mouth dropping open and of a smattering of chuckles around him in response. But he couldn't tear either his mind or his eyes away from the sight of the vast, cavernous room before him as the elevator slowed its descent and clunked into place without jostling them in the least.

"Welcome to NEST, Sam," Dave said in his ear. Some part of his mind reminded him to pull his tongue back into his mouth before he tripped over it.

The main chamber the elevator dumped them into could have easily allowed a transformer twice Optimus' height to stretch its arms without grazing the ceiling. A series of metal grate stairs and catwalks formed platforms at different heights around the room, presumably to allow the two races to talk on equal footing. Every square inch of space-- and not just floor space-- had been crammed with technology he had never seen and could think of no name for, only some of which might have been computers. A cool blue glowed filled the room from the hundreds of screens and spiralling holographic displays. Countless humans, soldiers and civilians alike, scurried down the winding isles, giving reports, monitoring readouts, examining data, and occasionally bringing coffee. No one appeared to notice their entrance. No human, that is.

Perfectly at ease with the constant stream of creatures milling about their feet, two Autobots worked their way across the room toward their group. The electric blue robot in the front-- Jolt, he remembered-- waved in greeting and recieved a cluster of waves and shouts in return as the soldiers accompanying Sam and Dave began to disperse. An unfamiliar, and vaguely dangerous looking, silver robot trailed behind him. His emotionless visor turned in their direction, though he offered no wave.

"Hey, guys!" Jolt greeted easily, going down on one knee before them, "Optimus and the others got back just before you did, if you were wondering."

"And we should be with them now," The silver one interjected in a hard voice, somehow still appearing to be bored despite the ostentatious lack of a face.

Jolt turned and bleeped at him in a 'get lost' way, then turned back to the pair, focusing his intense gaze on Sam.

"So, you're the one everyone's been gossiping about." He brought his head even closer to Sam's, pushing so far into his space bubble that Sam was convinced it would pop at any moment. He blinked, momentarily stunned and fascinated, to find that Jolt's optics didn't match. One glowed the classic Autobot blue, but the other one gleamed emerald green, sparking here and there with sudden arcs of electricity. Sam took a prudent step back, remembering the sheer amout of electric current Jolt had discharged in Egypt. The robot was a walking battery. "We've all been very anxious to meet you, Sam," he caught the way Sam slid his gaze to the silver Autobot and added, "Even Sideswipe. He just won't admit to admiring anyone other than himself."

Sideswipe stiffened, and at first Sam thought it was in indignation, but then the Autobot relaxed again and hissed out a few notes of static to Jolt. Jolt cycled air through his vents in a sigh.

"It seems we're being summoned by Optimus. Unfortunately, necessary things like introductions and tours will have to wait until we get this settled."

"Wait," Sam shook his head to clear the cobwebs from it, remembering back to almost three hours ago (--'got a call from NEST'--). "The thing he's calling you all for-- is that what you guys radioed us on the ship about? Is it some kind of emergency?"

Sideswipe spoke over anything Jolt might have said, replying, "It might very well end up one if we don't investigate it. Let's go, Jolt."

Jolt sighed again, rising to his feet. "Oh well. Duty calls. I'll see you later, Sam."

And to Sam's complete amazement and embarassment, Jolt ducked into a low, alien bow, Sideswipe mirroring the gesture beyond him. He had never, ever seen the Autobots bow. Maybe the new arrivals did to Optimus, but he'd never been around to see that before. He hoped it was only a Cybertronian custom for greeting new people.

As Jolt turned to go, Sam lunged after him, inspired by a sudden idea. Maybe he didn't have to be useless, after all. "Wait, hold up! I'm coming too!"

Sideswipe turned and snapped something brutal sounding at Jolt, but Jolt merely clicked back with equanimity and then went silent for a moment, optics briefly darkening. When he straightened, he turned to look down at Sam.

"Sideswipe may not like it, but since Prime gave the okay you can come along. Let's go!"

Without pausing to ask for premission, the blue Autobot leaned down and scooped him off his feet. Sam swallowed back a cry of alarm, reaching out to grip the blue wrist instead to steady himself. He doubted the Autobot would be clumsy enough to let him fall, but fifteen feet in the air he wasn't taking chances. Similar to how Mudflap and Skids and handled him but with a more notable degree of respect, Jolt settled him into the crook of his arm and trotted off after Sideswipe in the same rolling, dancing, crouching motion that took them within inches of shaving someone's head yet never even spilled a cup of coffee. Turning back to the swiftly disappearing Dave with a shrug, he marveled at the situational processing power of the aliens. Their reflexes must have been at least a hundred times that of a human.

NEST, he soon realized, was huge. The underground complex spiraled out in an endless series of tunnels, rooms, and larger chambers like the one through which they had entered, forming a buzzing warren of restless activity that seemed to extend out in every direction-- including down. On the short plane ride from the mainland, Dave had informed him that they were still digging, expanding-- buildings structures that would have been thought impossible without Autobot input. He wondered briefly just how deeply they had dug and if they had even gone beneath the ocean floor-- then, thinking of all the ramifications of having a virtual underground alien city (can you say 'cheesy sci fi horror flick'?), he decided that he really didn't want to know.

Jolt's space-devouring strides sent them hurtling down corridor after corridor faster than should have been possible, though the alien fluidity of his motion prevented Sam from being rattled in his perch like a jackhammer. Somehow, in less than thirty seconds, the Autobot had reached his destination, slowing to a stately walk as he entered another lofty chamber followed by a surly Sideswipe.

Compared with the new room Sam found himself in, the place where the elevator set them down had been no more than a lobby, about as high-tech and secretive as a coffee shop. Save for the catwalks that were also present in the room as in most other places around the base, the technology packed into every corner had a distinctly alien feel to it-- it seemed more organic than human made devices. A mosaic of different sized screens dominated one wall, the largest of the bunch measuring around twenty feet in length. At the moment they all showed the same image-- a desk-top background of soothing blue and green curves, overlaid with a few unlabeled icons. The word 'Microsoft' winked cheerfully up from the corner of every screen, directly below a black outline of the classically red Autobot symbol. Sam knew he had definitely entered bizarro land.

Though here too humans filled the room, they were for once out numbered by aliens. Arranged before the wall of screens stood the Autobots, all having converted back into bipedal mode for the meeting. Optimus stood towards the back of the group as the tallest. His head twisted in their direction as they entered, optics focusing briefly on Sam as he gave a feeble wave. As if the motion from their leader were a signal of some sort, several other armored heads turned to take in their arrival. One or two waved, though most did nothing but turn again to regard the waiting screens. Some didn't even acknowledge their presence. His heart contracted painfully as he realized that Bumblebee numbered among the group regarding them as part of the wallpaper.

Most of the gathered Autobots he recognized, though there were a few he had never seen before. Optimus, Rachet, Ironhide, Bumblebee, Mudflap, and Skids were givens. Arcee, he noticed with a shiver of knowing dread, was the only one from Egypt not among their number. He had lost track of the three combiners during the battle.

Also among them stood a bulky, dark green robot who gave Sam a friendly salute, to which the human offered a wane smile in return....were those leaves sticking out from the cracks between his armor?

Near the very front, a spindly white robot scarcely large than a human stood twittering nervously, its needle-like fingers clicking together in discordant harmony. Or at least, it appeared nervous on first glance. Looking closer, he realized the robot seemed to be absorbed in its own little world, muttering to itself and moving its forelimbs spasmodically the way some people would mime typing or playing the piano in their sleep. Note to self-- stay away from the creepy white dude.

"Jolt. Sideswipe...Sam," Optmus acknowledged. By unspoken command, Jolt gingerly lifted Sam from his arms and set him carfully on one of the catwalks beside a cluster of uniformed officers before moving to join the other Autobots. Sam furiously convinced himself that he had only imagined the feel of large fingers petting the back of his head just before the robot pulled away. There was no way he had just been scratched behind the ears like a dog. His liking for Jolt cooled considerably.

Optimus turned to face forward once more, looking down at the ant-sized human operating the console under the wall of screens.

"We're ready."

At once, the microsoft background vanished in a wash of light as another window popped up to take its place. A black-and-white image spread to fill the screen, showing-- of all things-- a grainy, distorted view of oncoming traffic, as seen from the point of view of a street light. Overlaid across the image blinked the word 'Pause', beneath which was printed a chronometer set at 05:42:13:57. 5 o'clock, and judging from the amount of cars lined up nose to tail, it was rush hour.

A woman standing near him on the catwalk-- to his surprise dressed in jeans and a paint-stained plaid shirt-- stepped forward and began to speak.

"What you see here is a recording caught by a traffic camera in Lagos, Nigeria. The dispatchers didn't know what to make of it at first, so it took a while before our software picked up on the alert. Right now, we're not even sure what to make of it, so we hope you guys will have a better idea of what this thing is than we do at the moment. Jeff, start 'er up."

The steadily blinking 'Pause' vanished, though the video did not immediately leap into motion. A moment passed before the cars lurched and began to trickle forward. Just as suddenly they froze again, the video jerking to a stop, then began to move once more as though nothing had occured. Move, stop, move. Sam realized that the camera had recorded in stop motion, taking snapshots of the traffic at a set interval. At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary but gray splotches of cars inching their way forward, appearing at the top of the screen and vanishing as they made it to the bottom. But then a ripple of motion disturbed one of the cars at the very back of the pack, though he couldn't see quite what was happening due to other vehicles blocking the camera's line of sight. A beat up oldsmobile drove into view, going much faster than all the other cars around it, and changed lanes to pass in front of a Toyota-- and vanished. The Toyota fish-tailed to the side as though struck by some invisble force, dropping back out of view. A split second later, the same Toyota appeared farther along in the stream of traffic, closer to the camera. It drifted back into the right lane from nothing but air, as though in switching lanes it had passed from one dimension into another. It weaved around a few more cars, vanished again, and a Lexus popped into existance farther down the road in front of a truck, immediately changing lanes once more. Just before it vanished off screen, Sam could have sworn he saw the Lexus leap into the air over the car in front of it, but then the view was lost and the strobbing apparition departed as quickly as it had come, leaving behind nothing but an uninterrupted flow of ordinary cars drifting through the twilight gray.

"It's like a mirage," Sam gasped quietly in awe.

The clip stopped, rewound, and paused over an image of the toyota shimmering into existance. The trunk of the car simply wasn't there. Slowly the recording ground forward, and bit by bit the back end of the car extracted itself from the air. No ripple in the fabric of the universe, no strobbing lights. One minute it wasn't there, and the next it was. Though the fact that the original Toyota had been knocked out of the way by an invisible force suggested that something had been there all along, even if they couldn't see it.

The woman turned to Optmus. "Well? What do you make of it?"

An outburst of several Autobots all speaking in Cybertronian at once echoed around the room. Sam had never seen them this agitated; they turned to one another, clicking, warbling, hissing, but no one seemed to have a definite answer. Even Optimus rumbled at Ironhide in a heated discussion. After almost two minutes of furious alien chatter, Optimus emitted a short blip of thrumming static that caused all noise to immediately cease. He turned back to the woman, switching to english.

"I'm afraid we don't have much of an answer for you. None of us has ever encountered an Autobot, or Decepticon, able to render themselves completely invisble and change their alternate form three times in a matter of seconds."

The spindy white robot spoke up, and to Sam's surprise his voice emerged a mellow tenor, far different from the squealing chatter the human had expected from his experience with Frenzy. "There were many experiments back on Cybertron with this kind of technology. I myself worked on several. But as far as I know, we were never able to develop, much less implement, any workable technology that would grant one of our race that level of stealth."

"Have there been any reports of destruction in or around Lagos?" Optimus asked.

But the woman only shook her head. "No. No explosions, no big fires, no reports of metal monsters roaming the streets. Heck, the usual number of murders even went down rather than up."

"That does not rule out the possibility that it may be a Decepticon with common sense," Ironhide rumbled, cannons clicking and whirling.

"It could still be an Autobot, though perhaps one whose communication systems were damaged upon landing," the unfamiliar green alien put in.

"In any case," Optimus asserted when it looked as though the two heavily armored robots would begin to argue, "We need to send a team to investigate, whether to pick up a new ally or to dispatch a foe."

The white robot made a negative screeching noise, twisting to face Optimus. "You saw for yourself its capacity for stealth, Prime. Any team working in the area would almost certainly drive it into hiding, far beyond the reach of our scanners."

"Then what would you suggest?"

"A single individual would have a much greater chance of being able to take it by surprise. Sending a human would theoretcially be ideal-- a Decepticon, if that is truly what it is, would be unlikely to suspect a threat from a human."

This recommendation sparked another round of furtive alien arguments. The sound of the robotic language made Sam feel like his head had gotten stuck inside the modem box of a super computer. After only a few seconds the spatted bleeps of conversation died back down again and Optimus took up point.

"And if this 'mirage' is a Decepticon, any human sent to track it would be in mortal danger, above and beyond the normal risks of being part of a team. Because this time, he or she would be alone," he turned away from the screens to face the group of assembled Autobots. "I will send one of my soldiers to Lagos, instead. Bumblebee?"

Sam's heart leapt into his throat as the yellow scout raised his optics without hesitation to meet his leader's gaze. "'...lean on me...when you need me, I'll be there...'"

"No, wait!" Sam cried in sudden panic, lunging forward to grasp the rail of the catwalk. "Why Bumblebee? Why does he need to be the one to go?"

He tried to catch his guardian's gaze, but the scout once more pretended not to notice his existence. Sam hoped it was from anxiety and not from a true desire to have the human drop off the face of the earth.

"You have seen for yourself Bumblebee's talents for tracking, Sam," Optimus replied, studying the image on screen rather than turning to face him, "He is also the only one of my soldiers with the requisite capacity for stealth to avoid being detected in his search for this 'mirage'. Anyone else would be sure to fail."

Sam gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white and the bones in his hands creaked. Images flooded through his mind at the thought of gentle Bee facing off against an invisible specter, showing him glimpse after nightmarish glimpse of the yellow scout falling under a hail of unseen blows, struggling to rise and being knocked down again, phantom blades slicing through his armor like the skin of a ripe tomato, ghostly claws peeling open his chest as he struggled against the air--

Optimus wanted to send him out alone to track down the unknown enemy. And Bumblebee had agreed to go. Objectively, theoretically, it made unquestionable sense-- a lone hunter, especially one as sneaky as Bee, would have a very good chance of being able to take the mirage by surprise. But the terrible thing with fangs that crouched in his chest roared NO! at the idea, screaming that that was his friend Optimus was trying to send off into danger, and under no circumstances could he allow that to happen. Using logic wouldn't work-- he himself knew that logic was not in his corner this time. But how?

When the idea took shape in his mind he shuddered away from it, feeling sick with himself. But it was the only thing that had a chance of working. He had to go for the jugular.

He couldn't look at Optimus, not with the horrible, monsterous words forming in his mind and oozing like sludge into his mouth. He didn't want to say it. He almost would have preferred to cut out his own tongue first. But protecting Bumblebee was important enough that he was willing to ignore all Optimus had done for him, ignore the terrible lacerations covering his metal body and the stiffness of his movements, ignore the fact that the great leader had already laid down his life once for him. Maybe he was a monster. But then again, maybe only a monster had the power to save bumblebee.

"And you're sure he'll be okay? He'll be safe?" Sam almost choked on his own words, so thick and vile were they as they rolled off his tongue. And still Optimus had no idea what waited to be said.

"Yes, Sam. Bumblebee knows what he's doing. He'll be safe."

(--evil, evil monster!--stop!) But he couldn't stop. He knew he was a monster, he knew he was lower than pond scum, but it had to be done.

His tongue unstuck itself from the roof of his mouth.

"Is that what you said last time?" he heard himself ask. "I would have thought three weeks would be long enough for you to learn otherwise."

He knew the silver bullet had hit its mark when Optimus jerked back as though struck. Sam couldn't meet his eyes. Instead he stared at the twisted red and blue armor, burning every unhealed battle wound into his mind and sobbing with shame on the inside. He wasn't pond scum-- he was one of the maggots that wriggled around in pond scum. But he wouldn't take back the spiteful words, not if they could keep Bumblebee from the mirage's clutches. Logic wouldn't work, but playing the alien's emotions like a fiddle might.

To his shock, it was Bumblebee himself who replied to his rhetorical questions. For the first time the scout turned to face the human, but the look in his optics had Sam cringing away. No longer did the blue glow see warm and friendly. Now, it cut him like ice.

"I am well equiped to handle a single transformer," Bumblebee said stiffly. "I do not need a human questioning my abilities."

Too late did Sam realize that his words betrayed not only Optimus' trust, but Bumblebee's as well. Too late his heart reminded him that it was not his secret to tell, not his memories to bring up in front of a room full of Autobots that would doubtlessly remember the scout's capture. He fully understood Bumblebee's anger, even expected it, but that didn't change how deepy the cold, cruel tone to the word 'human' cut into his soul. Bee had always called him Sam. Always. Only now, he didn't deserve it.

Without another word, the yellow scout turned to leave. Even feeling as fragile as blown glass, even burning with shame and regret, his heart still contracted with fear at the thought of his friend tracking down the unknown Decepticon all alone.

"Let me go with you!" Sam cried before he could stop himself, sprinting for the stairs leading down from the catwalk. "Please! I can help!"

Bumblebee stopped but didn't turn to face him.

His voice came back hollow, dead. (..oh bee...forgive me...). "No, you can't."

"You'll probably need someone to talk to the other humans-- you know, scope things out, see if anyone saw something--"

"What I need is for you to stay here."

He started down the steps, ignoring the warning in the scout's tone. "I can't do you any good here--"

"There is nothing you could possibly do to help me."

Sam stumbled to a halt, iron bands tightening around his chest.

"But...me and you, we're a team! R-right? We have to stick together!" (please, no....)

Bee curled into himself a little, but the final blow came as flat and unhesitant as ever.

"I do not want you to come with me."

The words stung him like a whip, lashing straight through to his soul. His heart stilled, and he slumped against the railing, suddenly boneless (--not real, never real-- how pathetic, thinking you could be worthy of an angel--)

"Oh." He sat straight down on the steps, directing his gaze towards his shoes. Something rose up in his chest and clogged his throat. He couldn't breathe. "Well, I guess...that's it, then." He wheezed, struggling with himself, trying to force out a wish for good luck or even just a tiny goodbye. But he couldn't get anything past the thick, painful knot choking him from the inside.

Distantly he heard Bumblebee continue out the door without saying another word, without even turning around. And another little piece of him died.

Without even realizing it, he had destroyed their friendship. The best thing that had ever happened to him was gone, and now his guardian angel no longer wanted to be around him. Didn't even want to look at him. The knot twisted tighter. He gripped desperately at his hair, shaking.

Vaguely he was aware of things happening around him, of people talking and planning as though nothing had happened. As though his world hadn't just come to an end. And to make it even worse, he had hurt Optimus. The broken little pieces of him shiveled even further at the sharp-edged memory of the compassionate, wounded alien drawing back from him as if from a poisonous snake, flinching from the deadly sting of his words. He had only wanted to protect his friend.

Now, he had no friends at all.

But still he couldn't cry. He felt more wretched than he had in his entire life, sick with himself to the point of needing to throw up, but still no tears would come.

At some point the meeting must have ended, because when a large finger touched his back the room was empty save for a few humans busy at various consoles and the electric blue Jolt peering at him through the vertical bars holding up the hand rail. The finger smoothed down his back in a way he supposed was meant to be comforting, but it only reminded him of Bumblebee's tender ministrations and how the scout didn't even want to look at the slimey human anymore, much less touch him. He leaned away from the contact, pulling himself to his feet.

"Hey. You okay?" Jolt asked softly. Sam twisted away to massage the inside corners of his eyelids, grateful that he didn't have to deal with hysterical human tears making him look pathetic on top of everything else.

"Yeah. I'm fine," he replied, in a voice not his own.

The Autobot didn't seem to believe him, but he accepted the statement without objection.

"Well, I'd thought we could do a tour after the meeting, but you look like you might just want to be alone right now. Come on, I'll show you your room!"

And he held out a blue hand at Sam's feet, wiggling his fingers invitingly. Sam brushed past the outstretched appendage and continued on down the steps.

"No thanks, I think I'll walk," he declined hoarsely.

"It's a long walk."

"Then I guess I'm taking a long walk."

Seeming reluctant, Jolt drew back his hand and straightened to his full height.

"Well, come on then."

Sam followed the Autobot out of the cavernous command center and down several long halls, occasionally having to pause at a steel blast door to confirm his identity before being admitted within. He knew he should have been trying to memorize the route, but he couldn't find the will to make the effort. Though the corridors were brightly lit and filled with voices and the continuous hum of life, he still somehow felt that he was being lead to a prison cell so deep beneath the earth that no one would ever find him.

Jolt pulled to a stop outside of the first human-sized blast door Sam had seen.

"Obviously, I can't go with you past here," the Autobot said apologetically, a bright arc of electricity cracking between his fingers. "This is the humans-only section. Gives you guys some privacy from us, since we can't get in after you. When you go in there, take the second hallway to the right. Your room is the third door on the left."

"Thank, Jolt," Sam replied dully, putting his hand to the panel set in the door to let it scan his finger prints and DNA. The security system recognized him with a wabrle of affirmation, letting the door slide into the wall. But Jolt stopped him before he could slip through.

"Don't worry about Bumblebee, Sam," the blue Autobot urged him, "He sometimes lashes out when he gets upset."

"Yeah," he replied thickly. Not really an answer-- he couldn't agree to 'not worry'. He might as well have tried to detach his legs. And he doubted that Bee was merely 'upset'. He was furious....and betrayed (--'the most loyal being I have ever encountered--'). Sam knew he had broken the yellow scout's trust, and his heart tore itself little pieces at the knowledge that it wasn't a forgivable offense (--'I do not want you to come with me'-- ever...).

With nothing more to say, he slipped through the door and let it slide closed behind him, never looking back. He wanted to like Jolt, he really did, but he didn't want to accept the comforting consolation prize-- like a kid being given a stuffed bear when her mom died. It was no replacement, and he hated the unspoken implication that it should be.

His feet led him down the path Jolt had described, leaving him standing before a smooth white door with no handle. Once more he pressed his hand to the indicated pad, and the door slid open with a woosh of air. The comparison to Star Trek was too obvious to miss, but he couldn't find any humor in it at the moment.

The room beyond was plain, yet not as barren as he had feared. Four white walls framed a decent sized space, a hard looking couch dividing the rectangular room into a living room area and a bedroom area. The floor was carpeted, thankfully, and a set of shelves already held at least two dozen books-- and several playstation games for the game console set up near the small TV. There was a door set into the side wall, and opening it he found he had his own bathroom, complete with a shower.

Retreating back into the main room, he began to root through drawers and open cabinets, finding much more than he had expected to find. There was no closet, but a wardrobe held several outfits (including a suit, to his discomfort-- he hoped he never had occasion to wear it), running shoes, tennis shoes, sandals and dress shoes. There were also additional blankets neatly folded on the shelf above. The dresser held even more clothes, as well as all those items that didn't need to be stored hanging up-- jeans, t-shirts, belts, sweaters (wouldn't ever need those, not with the Indian heat), collared shirts, slacks, socks, underwear, and even a brown hoody. Under the table beside the bed he even found a few board games, though unless he tripped over someone to play with they would be pretty useless.

Straightening, he turned to examine the bed. As a teenager, his first instinct was to sprawl bonelessly across it to test its sprawl-ability, then bounce on it like a little kid to try to touch the ceiling. But any thoughts of throwing himself onto the smoothly made covers evaporated at the sight of the small box tied with a ribbon sitting innocently on the pillow. He picked it up, and a small piece of folded paper fluttered to the ground.

Turning to sit on the edge of the bed, he leaned over and picked up the tiny note, weighing the gift in his other hand. It was small, and rather light. Nothing rattled when he shook it, meaning that it could have held anything from a bandana to air. Setting it beside him with a sigh, he unfolded the note.

'Just a little something to brighten your day. --B

P.S.: You'll probably kick me for saying this, but welcome home.'

The sight of the typed words caused the slip of paper to burn against his skin like a branding iron. A human must have come in and left it for him on the bed, probably before they had even left the aircraft carrier. And probably before that morning, when Bee had seemed mysteriously pissed at him. His friend probably regretted giving him whatever it was now.

His eyes burned and he scrubbed at them furiously, crumpling the note in his hand. Shooting up from the bed, he moved at an urgent clip across the room, desperate to be rid of the tiny box with its little bow and friendly message, unable to stand holding it, looking at it, for one more second. Its very presence reacted like ammonia to his guilt's bleach, sending up noxious fumes that threatened to choke him. Stalking to the desk, he flung both the gift and the crumpled slip of paper in the waste basket with such force that it tipped over on its side. He righted it, then thought better of leaving the two items in plain sight and carted the whole thing into the bathroom, setting it on the tile floor and leaving it there. He hurried back out into the main room, closing the door behind him on the sight of the mournful wastebasket adrift in a sea of white tile.

Returning to the desk, he pulled open drawers until he found a notepad and a pencil, then threw himself into the chair and settled down to plan.

Five minutes later he still had not come up with a mode of attack for approaching Lennox, though he had created several doodles of bombs being dropped on Megatron's head. Throwing down his pen, he looked at his sling and seriously contemplated reading Mikaela's note. He could really use some words of wisdom, or at least a humorous pick-me-up.

But then he thought of the endless years stretching ahead of him, thought of the possibility that he might be deprived not only of his girlfriend but also of his best friend, and decided that the message, too, was a gift better left unopened. At least for the moment. He didn't know if he would ever have the strength to open Bumblebee's gift, not knowing if it was meant to cheer a friend or consol a pet (--don't need a human--don't need a human--)

Because somehow, without even realizing it, he had become nothing more than an annoying bug once more (--'I suggest you leave'--'human'-- disgusting, unworthy--).

And that hurt the most of all.

.......Initializing systems operation.

Power core output: .001%

Stasis lock retrieval: Commencing....

Access approved. Unlocking: Core moderator program.....running....

Complete. Connection made. Power core output: 2.34445%

Charging....power core output: 3.112%

Initialize full systems scan: Running.....

.......

Structural integrity: 100%

Electrical systems: All circuits closed. 6.3453 million megavolts. Charging......

Sensor array: 100%. Reviewing sensory input.....

Error. Insufficient power. Secondary core moderator program: Online.

....charging....

Power core output: 15.7728%. Stabilizing....

Power core output: 34.01%.

Threshold reached. Initializing weapons systems....running....

Complete. All weapons online. Unlocking battle protocols....

Complete.

Charging....Power core output: 42.972%

Initializing personality matrix: Ravage....running.... Central Processing Unit analysis complete.

Primary function type: Autonomous symbiote, Class 3.4. Controller Unit/Primary Master: Decepticon, Designation: Soundwave: Higher lever Communications Unit, Class 14.

Primary designation of unit: Decepticon

Secondary designation of unit: Ravage

.....Personality matrix stabilized.

....Charging....

Power core output: 76.0002%

Incoming message logged: Request for initialization of data transfer link.

Requesting identity confirmation....

Confirmation recieved. Reviewing....approved. Transfer link accepted.

Downloading program package.....complete. Integrating file.

Running EXE program: Singular target incapacitation, singular target destruction.

.....Running....

Primary target acquired. Inegrating target data file into sensor array....

Imprinting complete. Target locked. Target designation: Mikaela Banes.

....Charging....

Power core output: 100%

/End Stasis lock. Rebooting all systems....

Complete. Unit: Ravage-- Status: Online.

Scanning current location-- Primary designation: Unknown. Secondary Terran designation: Io

Distance to target: 4.55723 tetra-clicks. Situation analysis: Current form unusable.

Initializing structural digression: Primary intra-space travel form. Commencing.....

Complete. Usable form assumed. Stabilizing power levels. Stabilizing radiation shield. Engaging thrusters....

Space flight achieved. Altering course....complete. Destination: Earth. Approximate ETA to destination: 3.547 milli-cycles.

.......

Status Report: System function optimal. ETA: 2.119 milli-cycles.

.......

Status Report: Renewing primary core output....complete. Thrusters stabilized. System function optimal. ETA: 1.74 milli-cycles.

......

Status Report: System function optimal. Planet fall imminent. Beginning landing procedures..... Deacceleration panels deployed. Thrusters reversed. Correcting course....

Planet fall achieved. Scanning systems.....complete. Minimal damage sustained. Initializing internal repairs....complete. Structural integrity: 100% Power core output: 98.72%.

Charging....

Power core output: 100%. Radiation shields stabilized. Uploading stealth program...complete. Blocking adjacent communications. Shielding spark signature.

Situational analysis: Current form unusable. Loading transformation program....complete. Commencing transformation....primary form assumed.

Further situational analysis required. Scanning location. Terran lifeform detected.

Analysis of lifeform: Physical threat minimal, probable posession of sentience. Reasoning: Structural form similar to primary target: Mikaela Banes and secondary target: Samuel Witwicky. Overlap comparison: 79% match.

Species match probable.

New situational anaylsis: Physical threat minimal. Exposure threat high. Conclusion: Exterminate terran lifeform.

Weapons protocols enga-- Error. Attempted action exceeds Target program parameters. Highest priority: Conceal Cybertronian presence. Probable result of weapons use: Exposure. Conclusion inadequate. Further evaluation needed.

Physical battle protocols engaged.

Target locked. Commencing deactivation of target....

.....

Anaylsis of target: No life signs registered. Reason: CPU structure removed from unit.

Deactivation complete: Target terminated.

Disengaging physical battle protocols. Fluid from deactivated target present on exterior. Composition: Dihydrogen monoxide, amino acids; trace amounts of iron, magnesium, calcium. Commencing exterior decontamination....complete. Fluid removed.

Scanning.....target: Mikaela Banes located. Distance to target: .002 clicks. Scanning target surroundings....complete. Structural defenses minimal. Multiple terran lifeforms around target: 23 ballistic-style weapons present. Assessing threat level....threat moderate. No Cybertronian presence. Chances of injury to unit: .13%

Target reacquired. Running Target program download.....opening program files.....

Information package discovered. Opening package....

New parameters assimilated. Reveiwing parameters....

Complete.

Primary target: Mikaela Banes. Secondary target: Samuel Witwicky. Nonspecific injury of primary target requested. Deactivation of primary target: Forbidden. Reviewing operational details for primary target.....complete. Highest priority: Secrecy of operation. Injury to primary target must appear accidental. Mission compromised if discovered by Autobots.

Reviewing operational details for secondary target....complete. Deactivation of secondary target requested. Limiting parameter: Attack restricted to specified planetary rotation. Secondary target must be lured from fortified surroundings. Bait: Nonspecific injury to primary target.

Scanning....

Further Target program parameters encountered. Holding pattern initialized. Specifications for time parameter: Absence of Autobot: Rachet from NEST human/Autobot resistance headquarters. Scanning for further information on Autobot: Rachet....

Scanning...

Autobot: Rachet. Current primary target of Decepticon, designation: Barricade. Mission parameters of Decepticon: Barricade-- Inflict disabling injury to target: Rachet. Processing data. Logical error detected. Scanning....Error. Files encrypted. Scource of encryption: Decepticon, designation: Starscream.

Sending file request to Controller Unit/ Primary Master: Soundwave. Waiting.....

Reply recieved.

::HOLD POSITION. AUTOBOT RETURN AHEAD OF INDICATED TIME FRAME. PREPARATION FOR SIMULTANEOUS ATTACKS/ DISTRACTIONS NOT YET COMPLETE. SECONDARY TARGET: SAMUEL WITWICKY WILL NOT APPEAR UNTIL ALL POSSIBILITY OF AUTOBOT PREVENTION IS REMOVED. AUTOBOT: RACHET MUST BE REMOVED FROM AUTOBOT HEADQUARTERS BEFORE DEPLOYMENT OF UNIT X AFTER DEACTIVATION OF SECONDARY TARGET::

Processing....Logcial error encountered. Composing message....complete. Sending message to Controller Unit/ Primary Master: Soundwave.

Waiting....

Reply recieved.

::IMMEDIATE DEACTIVATION OF AUTOBOT: RACHET WILL CAUSE SUSPICION IN OTHER AUTOBOTS. AUTOBOTS WILL NOT INFER OUR PLAN IF AUTOBOT: RACHET LEAVES UNDER OWN VIOLATION. DEACTIVATION OF AUTOBOT: RACHET TO OCCUR AFTER UNWITTING REMOVAL FROM BASE. UNIT X WILL BE DISCOVERED IF AUTOBOT: RACHET IS PRESENT AT ARRIVAL.::

Processing.....logical error encountered. Location: Target program, parameters for primary target: Mikaela Banes. Sending message to Controller Unit/ Primary Master: Soundwave.

Waiting....

Reply recieved.

::BYPASS PROGRAM PARAMETERS GOVERNING SPECIFIC INTERACTIONS WITH PRIMARY TARGET: MIKAELA BANES. SENDING AUTHORIZATION....::

Recieving additional data package...Package accepted. Downloading....Program parameters bypassed.

New message recieved.

::STARSCREAM MUST NOT BECOME AWARE OF OUR INTENDED BETRAYAL. PROBABILITY OF PLAN FAILURE IF RUSE DISCOVERED: 67.0235%. OBEY PROGRAM INSRUCTIONS REGARDING PRIMARY TARGET: MIKAELA BANES UNTIL SPECIFIED POINT. ARRANGE INDIRECT WOUNDING OF PRIMARY TARGET TO DRAW OUT SECONDARY TARGET. AFTER TERMINATION OF SECONDARY TARGET, INITIATE HIDDEN OPERATION: XXC74N12 WITH PRIMARY TARGET AS SUBJECT. ALL WILL KNOW TERROR AND DESPAIR BEFORE THE END, HUMAN AND CYBERTRONIAN ALIKE::

Instructions logged. Program parameters altered. Activating sleeper program: XXC74N12....

Complete.

Incoming messages logged and synchronized.

Initiating infinite loop of text in tertiary systems....

Complete.

::THE DARK GOD IS COMING::

::THE DARK GOD IS COMING::

Distance to target: 15.32 miles. Booting hunter program....complete. Initiating countdown to intercept of primary target: 23:54:13:49

23:54:13:45

23:54:13:39

23:54:12:58

:THE DARK GOD IS COMING::

::ALL HAIL UNICRON::

Sleep was a funny and rather tempermental thing.

Sam could fall asleep at the drop of a hat in front of the TV or nose down on the desk in history class, but whenever his fatigued mind needed sleep the most always seemed to be the exact time he could not force it to shut down. Have a final exam the next morning? No problem! Just wiggle under the covers, bury your head in the pillow and prepare to spend the next six to eight miserable hours making friends with the cracks in the ceiling. Funny how he seemed to wander around criminally stupid whenever he most needed to be quick on the uptake, then just when it would be appropriate to slip into a vegetative state, he found himself doing everything from constructing elaborate arias to following the tragic lives of those cracks in the ceiling. Well, maybe not the aria part.

On that particular night (and he only knew it was night from looking at his watch), he uncovered a previously hidden talent within himself for creating horror stories. Unfortunately, they all seemed to follow a similar theme; Bee encountering the Mirage, Bee losing to the Mirage, the Mirage feasting on Bee's titanium bones. Thown into the mix was a gut-twisting, spine-tingling array of Mikaela dying in a plane crash, Mikaela dying in a car wreck, Mikaela being gunned down by a mugger, Mikaela being gunned down by a Decepticon, Mikaela turning away from him and telling him flatly that she never loved him, that it was all a joke, even as the plane/car/mugger/Decepticon rendered her a splatter of blood and brain matter. Oh, and little bits of Optimus quietly saying that he was an ugly, disgusting, worthless little smear of organic matter and that he should never have been kind to him or told him about Bee's past, because it was obvious the human could never be trusted.

Needless to say, when he finally crawled into bed at 10:30, he could not get to sleep.

Dave had come by earlier, discovering him still hard at work at his surprisingly vast collection of Decepticon-bashing doodles. Sam hadn't been able to tell whether the look on the agent's face meant he was amused or disturbed. As it turned out, Sam had whiled away the entire dinner hour fruitlessly combing his brain for plans to piece what was left of his life back together and drag his sorry carcass from the hole he had dug. (Though he only had a scrapbook full of exploding stick-robots to show for it). So Dave had brought him a small tray of food, mysteriously filled with all his favorites (likely courtesy of a pre-pissed Bumblebee): pizza, macaroni and cheese, green beans, an apple and something that looked very much like a brownie. He had hailed the man as an angel, taken a bite of pizza to apease him, then promptly spat it back out again once the door closed behind him. The tray still sat there, untouched, on his desk. He left it to congeal, not the least bit hungry, and wondered if he would awake in the morning to discover a new species of sentient bacteria had spawned overnight.

Though Sam was convinced, given the endless litany of images running before his mind's eye, that he would never sleep, at some time around mindnight he finally drifted off. His dreams were not what he would have expected. Instead of seeing anyone maimed or being yelled at by anyone, he observed Bumblebee doing a host of the very normal-- yet at the same time very strange-- things. Each snippet of Bumblebee-favored dream featured the yellow scout in his camaro disguise, just driving. Never with a passenger, never involving Sam himself or Mikaela or anyone else. Sometimes he watched as if he were a bird overhead; sometimes he seemed to be standing right beside the Camaro, mysteriously drifting sideways along with it as it sped down the highway. But the scenary of the dreams was unfamiliar-- vast stretches of muddy roads winding through tropical jungles, gravel paths leading through semi-arid scrub along which passed donkeys and scores of men and women with coal black skin, a city built from layers of sagging slums filthy enough to put those in Egypt to shame.

But then his dreams mutated once more back into the familiar stream of Bee/Optimus/Mikaela horror, and the strange images of Bumblebee faded to the back of his mind.

At some point the nightmares became too hideous to allow him to remain asleep. He sat straight up with a gasp, forehead beaded with a sticky film of perspiration, hands fisted in the sheets. As usual, the source of his fear did not accompany him into the waking world-- after registering where he was (some barren room deep in the bowels of NEST) and that there was no reason for his sudden panic, he flopped back against the bed and looked at his watch. 2:13.

He swore up and down in the most creative way he could think of. Naturally, after spending an eternity trying to get to sleep, he would wake up only two hours later. Way to use those time management skills, Sam. Knowing he would rather deal with feeling shaky and sleep deprived then waste another few hours trying to imagine that the cracks in the ceiling looked like rainbows and unicorns rather than metal monsters that would kill them all, he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. And sat there, massaging the side of his face.

Horror, despite being undefined horror, still trembled through him. The two people he cared most about in the world could have been in danger at that exact moment (--silly, childish, overreaction--) and he would never know. If only he could just CALL and see if they were okay--

Sam almost slapped himself for his stupidity. He could call them-- he had both their phone numbers stored in his blackberry. Unless, of course, someone had taken away Mikaela's phone for security purposes, or Bee changed his call sign so that Sam couldn't contact him....

Sam shut down the thought before it could turn into another runaway guilt train, switching on the light and levering himself off the bed. A quick search through the heap of clothes left in a puddle on the floor turned up the marvelous little device, and he quickly switched it on, vibrating like a tunning fork in mingled excitement and anxiety as it powered up. As soon as the American flag filled the background (--so much lost, nothing gained-- no more home--) he punched in Mikaela's number and brought the phone to his ear. Nothing. Not even a dial tone.

Furious with the way the universe seemed determined to thwart him, he looked back at the screen to make sure he had the number right. Only then did he notice the little blinking icon in the corner that meant he had no signal.

(Duh, Sam. Way to be a genius. You're only beneath, what, a hundred feet of solid bed rock?). If he wanted to call anyone at all, he would need to borrow one of the land-lines hooked up in the bustling command room. Either that, or make his way to the surface. Deciding he would much rather not have to face anyone, he pulled on his new hoody over the top of his baggy t-shirt and slipped the phone into one pocket, practically sprinting (well, okay, shuffling) for the door as he went.

Then, thinking better of wandering around an alien fortress without some way of protecting his feet from loose nails or other freaky alien stuff, he backtracked to the wardrobe and fished out the pair of tennis shoes. Not bothering with socks-- not even bothering to waste time sitting down-- he hopped around on one foot while pulling a shoe on the other.

Not a particuarly bright move, given his overall coordination. He wobbled, stumbling back, and began to fall-- he flailed out with his good arm, trying to grab the edge of the desk as he passed to stop himself, and ended up slicing open the outside of his forearm on the sharp corner. A white hot flash of pain erupted along his arm as the flesh was torn open, though it faded again in the wake of an abrupt introduction to the floor. (Ow.)

Groaning, he sat up and inspected the damage to his arm. The cut was fairly long-- about six inches-- though not very deep, bleeding only sluggishly. It stung like hell, though, so shaking slightly with adrenaline he ventured into the bathroom to clean it up. There was no disinfectant lying around, so he settled for scrubbing it clean with soap and water (OW! OW! OW!) and winding toilet paper around it in a make-shift bandage. Slightly icky, giggle inducing, but effective-- blood seeped through and spotted the paper in places with red, though for the most part the bleeding appeared to have stopped. He pulled the sleeve of his hoody over his injured arm, hiding the gorey bandage from view.

Possesed of much more caution and less fiery need than he had minutes before, he went back into the main room and put on the other shoe, sitting down this time before trying to slip it on. His injury did do one positive thing, though-- it settled the fear twanging like a guitar string in his chest, wiping away the last wisps of horror carried over from dreamland. He was exhausted, reluctantly hungry, and in pain from two injuries instead of just one (though the broken arm definitely won out on the agony scale, alien miracle drug or no). For a moment he contemplated simply getting back into bed and trying to sleep for a few more hours. He needed to have all his wits about him if he intended to approach Lennox the next day without a plan, and the same eyes that had refused to cry before now itched and stung with tiredness.

But....

But he couldn't just let things lie in their current state. If his estimation were correct, Mikaela would be boarding a plane back to the US in a little under 20 hours, giving him only 20 hours to try to figure out a plan, maybe less. Then there was the issue of Bumblebee. Bumblebee, who may or may not have been fighting for his very life at that exact moment (--invisble hands clawing, grasping, tearing-- Bumblebee, no!--), and who, seemingly, hated his guts.

Heart twisting at the very thought of Bumblebee dying before he had the chance to apologize, he pushed himself to his feet, swayed dizzily for a moment, then headed for the door at a more sedate pace. No mishaps befell him this time. He flicked off the lights and exited the room without incuring another injury.

It was disturbing to meander down brightly lit hallways with his body clock telling him that it should be dark during the wee hours of the morning. He wondered at that for a moment, then realized that the lights were probably dimmed in the military barracks for those who stayed on base over night. He was probably the only overnight resident in this part of the base, and therefore whoever controlled the lights saw no reason to inconvenience those working the late shift to make the hallway lighting reflect the sun so many feet above.

While his original plan had been to backtrack to the elevator, start it up, and call Mikaela and Bee from the surface, the daytime lighting and the presence of a continual stream of worker bees (who looked at him strangely for wearing pajamas) did the trick of waking him up and brought him back to his senses. Not only was the command center likely to be filled even in the middle of the night, he didn't know the password to start the elevator. Neither did he particularly relish the thought of being shot for setting off the proximity alarms they surely had at ground level. No bullets for Sam today, thank you. If there was another way to get to the surface, he could waste days trying to find it and might still be thwarted for the same reasons. His only choice was to abandon the cellphone plan and seek out a land line in some back room where witnesses would be scarce.

In the interests of finding an unused conference room somewhere, he began to detour down the loneliest, oldest hallways he could find. There was a visible difference in the contruction material of the walls that allowed him to track approximately when they had been built. The smooth, white paneling seemed to be characteristic of the newest areas, bare metal plating belonging to a construction period before that. Those few tunnels shaped from raw concrete appeared to be the oldest of the bunch. Whenever possible he turned down concrete corridors, until he found himself wandering along a hallway old enough that the wires for the overhead lighting had not been hidden away and orange moisture stains created swirling patterns on the walls.

When he felt that he was far enough from civilization (far enough to be partially lost, in fact) not to be bothered by a random passerby, he began opening doors. As the hallway itself was large enough for a transformer to fit through, some of the doors were similar to roll away metal garage doors and far too heavy to lift. The rest were human sized, though most of those were locked tight. The ones that weren't led to other hallways, and he had no desire to become even more lost than he already was.

Turning onto another empty hallway, a faint trickle of sound caught his attention like a hook snaring a fish. He turned his head this way and that, trying to determine its source past the myriad of warped echoes, and was drawn to the corridor branching off to the left. He turned the corner and started down the decrepit hallway, listening intently to the otherworldly sound. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as it began to grow louder; it reverberated from the sloping concrete walls, dripped like water from the sagging bundles of wires running overhead, turned the buzzing orange light eery and foreboding-- like the wane, flickering lights of a deserted subway station just before the unnamed horror emerged from the dark. If he had to compare the sound to anything, he would have said it resembled a cross between a generator shorting out and two rusty metal plates grinding against each other. Whatever it was, it wasn't a sound he would hope to hear on an in-flight airplane. Or riding in a car. Or anywhere, period.

The corridor he had chosen dead ended onto another transformer-sized door. Except that this door, unlike the others, stood open. Here the sounds reached their peak-- still no louder than a washing machine, they nonetheless grated painfully on his ears. As impossible as it seemed, the jaw-grinding sound held a note of almost infinite sadness, intangible yet all the more real for its ghostly, ethereal quality. It was the essence of anguish as expressed through sound, an agonized symphony composed by the wounded and bleeding heart, as beautiful as it was terrible.

With the sense the he had stepped out of time and place into a world where he did not belong, Sam crept slowly towards the open door, peering around the edge into the dusty gloom within. Several blinks w