Thanks for the Memories

The hospital scrubs were filthy, covered in sweat and ink from discarded markers. From the smell and incriminating stain, he'd soiled himself again. His hands were shaking like an addict in need of a fix but continued to scrawl on one of a dozen whiteboards.

Sam Witwicky was so obsessed he didn't even notice the yellow Autobot enter the bright room with dim optics.

"Sam?" Bumblebee asked, hoping, praying for a reply.

But the boy showed no signs of hearing him, moving on to an empty board, and the 'bot's spark sank as he placed the tray with food and clean garments on a table by the door, well aware they probably wouldn't be touched.

Sam was rarely lucid these days – he wouldn't stop writing, even when sleep, hunger and other bodily functions began to take their toll. At first they'd stooped to drugging his food to get him to sleep, and when he'd started to forget eating, they'd filled the room with sleeping gas and hooked him to an IV in a desperate attempt to get him nutrients. The diaper was the newest addition, the teen now incapable of stopping to relieve himself except when he finished segments.

Bumblebee was not someone who could hate easily. But at that very moment he despised the Allspark. The Allspark, the Primes, the Matrix…and himself.

It had started out harmlessly enough. On the way back from Egypt Sam had borrowed a notebook, casually writing out the symbols. Those who'd watched him the first time had immediately voiced their concerns, only to have him wave them off.

"Relax guys," he'd said. "It's not that demanding anymore. The information wants out but it's not driving me crazy. I might as well try to get it somewhere it can be useful."

"Sam," Optimus had said. "Although I admire the idea, our history is far longer than can be written in a human lifetime."

Sam had shrugged. "Might as well see how much I can get out then" he'd finished.

Only…it hadn't stayed some mindless doodling in a notebook. Back at University, Leo had come home to find Sam slumped at his desk, 50 notebooks piled on his right and an even larger stack of empty books to his left. When he woke up in the morning, he found the boy hadn't moved, though his speed had clearly diminished.

Leo had coaxed the boy to bed, and called the number the government had given him in secret.

"Sam, your actions have become worrying."

"It wasn't that big a deal!" Sam had insisted, after being 'encouraged' to drop by NEST's main base. "I got onto a subject and I got a little carried away."

"Sam," Optimus replied. "You were writing solid for almost 24 hours. Did you eat or rest at any point in that time?"

Sam had faltered, either from the question or the looming frames surrounding him.

"I…didn't think it was that long."

Ratchet had wanted to check his brainwaves for increased workload. The two had walked into a small room for the examination, and a few minutes later, Ratchet had walked out alone.

"The knowledge of the Allspark wants out," he had explained. "I didn't check his readouts after he touched the Allspark sliver, but its output is far higher than it should be. I think the Allspark is taking over."

"Why!" Bumblebee had shrieked, instantly wincing at the harshness of his vocal processor.

Ratchet shook his head. "It knows it's not safe? It doesn't want to put Sam in harm's way but doesn't realise its actions are doing just that? I don't know. But Sam is showing no ability to control himself. His hand was moving unconsciously the entire time we were in there. I think it's only going to get worse. Sam doesn't even seem to realise what's happening to him."

His fears proved founded when, returning for Sam, they found the boy carving on the walls with one of Ratchet's medical tools.

Sam was immediately incarcerated at the base for his own protection.

A few hours later, when the sandwiches on the plate had long since hardened, Bumblebee's optics brightened as the marker stopped, falling to the boy's side. Every whiteboard was now covered in black marks, but Sam hadn't resorted to marking the walls for once.

"Sam?"

Rather dazed, Sam's head turned, and he gave a dim smile.

"Oh. Hey, Bee."

He gave the room a once over, apparently confused. "Weren't my parents here?"

Bee turned away. The last time the Witwickys had visited had been over a month ago, desperately trying to drag their child's attention away from the images in his head. They'd left, defeated and broken, much like Mikaela.

Sam didn't seem to care though, instead taking in his own appearance.

"Gods, I'm a mess. And starving too."

He was more than mess. How Sam could even look at himself without outrage was beyond Bumblebee. He could only assume the Allspark kept him calm, not wanting its host agitated. At least now Sam had a short break to do things normally.

Not wanting to waste a good thing, Bumblebee gestured to the fresh clothes and not-so-fresh food, which Sam eagerly went for, finishing the first sandwich in two bites.

"You know, this wouldn't actually be that annoying if I just knew what I was writing," he mused. He picked up the clothes and gave the camaro a suspicious look.

"A little privacy? Please, Bee?"

His doorwings fell slightly. He really didn't want to leave Sam when he was awake. It would be too easy for the Allspark to push an idea into his head, and start up another dictation for its host. But Sam wouldn't care for himself with a guard – he was completely unaware of the time he'd lost, or how deep the problem ran.

The scout gave a half nod, and picked up the whiteboards before leaving.

"I think he's improving. He actually recognised you this time."

Bumblebee brushed off Ratchet's attempt to cheer him up; instead focusing on organising the whiteboards as Sam had them arranged them. Once they were in place, several members of NEST would photograph them, and give them to the Autobots own, private (and Decepticon-hacker-proof) computer. Then the boards would be scrubbed clean, and sent back in for the cycle to begin again.

"He may be gaining coherence again, but its not fast enough," Optimus argued, staring at the boards. "He keeps going on different tangents – it's been almost a year and only the first few centuries of Cybertron have been recited. The rest of it is theories. Puzzles, knowledge from some of the greatest minds in our history."

Most of which was on a very specific topic. There was a pretty obvious message in what the Allspark was having Sam write. Thank Primus the boy couldn't read what he was writing down.

"The Allspark wants to make it exists long enough for its knowledge to survive" Ratchet continued. "It was lucky enough to transfer to Sam, but there's no way to transfer itself from an organic without killing him. Unless…"

"No."

"Optimus…"

"I do not care what the Allspark wants Ratchet," Optimus warned. "We are not about to do that to Sam. Not without his clear and uninfluenced opinion. And since right now that is a physical impossibility, we cannot consider it."

"But if we don't do something he'll die anyway!" Ratchet argued. "He's awake 20 hours a day. We have to drug him or let him pass out from sheer exhaustion! He works non-stop on a scripture, to the point where he won't eat or relieve himself. My last check-up showed he's losing close to five pounds a week. If we can't get him to start eating regularly again pretty soon there's not going to anything left of him!"

Bumblebee pretended he hadn't heard the conversation. Of the Autobots on Earth, only Optimus and Ratchet could read Sam's work. Ironhide and Arcee had some basic knowledge of ancient Cybertronian, but not enough to make it out. But from the conversations he'd heard, and the hushed whispers when they thought he couldn't, he could guess what Sam was writing.

A way to make sure he lived long enough to recite everything in his head.

And Bumblebee didn't know if he should be happy or sad that they could never consider it.

With the whiteboards clean, Bumblebee picked them up and nodded to his fellow Autobots before heading back to the room. When he entered, part of his spark sank once again.

Sam was kneeling by the wall, shirtless but and wearing the same pair of pants. He was scribbling on the walls, another lengthy scripture to complete. He barely noticed Bumblebee arrange the whiteboards, anymore than he heard the mech play a melancholy song as he sat down to watch his tortured charge wither away.

He had a story to finish.

END.