Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers.
Dear diary,
Today, I had an autonomous robotic organism from the planet Cybertron in my office. That was a first. And he had an interesting challenge for me….
There's nothing quite like a cup of hot chocolate on the first cold autumn day. I can see, outside my office window, the leaves are already beginning to fall, and there's a hint of white mist over the grassy field. It's perfect running weather, not too cold yet. Thank heavens my window actually faces the back of the base, not the hangars.
There's a knock on my door, and I put my cup down. "Come."
The man who opens the door and walks in is tall and broad-shouldered, with a very potent presence. I know if I stand up, he'll tower over me. His dark hair is short and straight, and his bright, almost luminous blue eyes meet mine. "Hello, miss Harrington."
"Doctor Harrington, please. Or Isobel, if you prefer. Welcome, Optimus. Please take a seat."
He sits down in the less comfortable of the two chairs, puts one ankle on the other knee.
"Thank you for taking time to see me."
"Of course. Anytime. What can I do for you?"
He looks at me, doesn't waver. Interesting character.
"I am not entirely sure. Colonel Lennox recommended that I come see you, but I do not know exactly what you do."
I smile at him – not too much, just enough to make him comfortable. "I'm a psychologist. I help people deal with the thoughts that trouble them so much that it interrupts their everyday lives. My specialty is post-traumatic stress disorders and disturbances of the mind due to overlong exposure to stressful, high-intensity situations. That's why Lennox hired me."
"I see. And how exactly do you help people with this?" Blue eyes bore into mine.
"I talk to them. Give them mental tools to handle the overload of reactions their brain is producing."
"I see." He twitches a little, seems uncomfortable. Optimus usually keeps himself under tight control, so this is out of character for him. I lean forward, chin in my hand.
"I have read your file, of course," I say. "You take your role as leader of the Autobots very seriously."
He nods. "It is a responsibility that I shoulder willingly."
"Yes. But even a task taken on willingly can become a burden after a while."
Abruptly, he stands, walks over to the window, his back to me. "You say that I find my situation troublesome."
"No," I disagree, shaking my head slightly. "I say that the mantle of leadership is not always easy to wear."
He turns, scrutinizes me. I hold his gaze steadily. Then he turns back to the window.
"Lennox suggested that I and my Autobots would benefit from your… expertise."
"I am willing to help in any way I can, of course," I reply. "It's why I'm here." I look at the screened-off part of my office. "I even have an Autobot-sized office that I can open up at need."
"Our minds are electronic," he says. "We can simply reprogram them if they malfunction."
I nod, even though he's not looking at me. "Yes. But is there not a line between troubled and malfunctioning?"
He grins, quickly, so fleetingly that I'm not sure it's there. "Yes, of course." Then he walks back, sits in the uncomfortable chair, looks at me. "You would be willing to talk to them if they have trouble adapting to their situation? If they have difficulty interacting with humans or other Autobots? If they have difficulty dealing with loss?" He leans back, runs a hand through his hair. A very human gesture – I wonder how he's picked it up. He must be very good at adapting to his environment. "They come to me with these things, but some things they will not discuss even with their commander."
"I understand that," I reply. "Sometimes, a neutral third party is more beneficial."
"Exactly," he replies, again with that fleet smile. "I know you were mainly signed on to deal with humans, though. This will be a new experience for you, and a steep learning curve. Are you sure you're willing to?"
"I've dealt with injured soldiers my whole career," I reply, arching an eyebrow at him. "I am among the best in my field. There is a reason Lennox hired me specifically."
"I do not doubt it," he says. "But no one on earth has practiced your discipline on an alien species before. And most of my Autobots have been at war for millennia, and have seen more loss and more Energon shed than any sane bot could stand. You may find them more traumatized than even you could expect."
"Then all the more reason for them to come and see me," I reply, leaning forward. "If I can be of help, I would very much like the chance to try."
He stands. "Then it's settled. I'll let them know they can come to you should they feel the need."
"Thank you." I stand as well, reaching out to shake his hand. After a moment, he takes it. "My door is always open. For you, too. Even if you just need somewhere to look out of the window for a while."
He smiles again, just as fleetingly. "I will remember. Thank you. Isobel." Then he leaves.
Something tells me this will be interesting. Both interesting for my profession – I mean, like he said, no one else that I know of has ever psychoanalyzed aliens – but also for me, personally. I'd love to find out what makes these guys tick. So, to learn a bit more about them, I ate my lunch outside today and watched the training.
It's fun to watch the human soldiers spar with the Autobots. I suppose 'fun' might not be exactly the correct sentiment, but it was certainly entertaining. Seeing a group of five soldiers try to take down one of the Autobots with wheeled feet – I confess, I can't remember his name without consulting the files, must pay better attention and reread them – is not unlike a swarm attack done by a bunch of kindergarteners on a grown man. Except with pointier bits and far more dangerous weapons.
No, it will be interesting. That is, if any of them come to see me at all. I wouldn't necessarily bet on it.