Author: I was watching A Muppet Christmas Carol when this pounced on me. To which I thought, "huh, that'd be hard but interesting." So...this is it. Transformers and A Christmas Carol, all wrapped p in one absurd package.
Disclaimer: Neither A Christmas Carol or Transformers belong to me. Alas.
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Samuel James Witwicky had been a hero.
He had been loved and admired and esteemed for his service to humanity. He had been on top of the world, and no-one seemed to mind having him there. Once graduated from college, he had immediately been given a cushy, lifetime government job that paid quite handsomely, assuring that he would never be wanting for money. He had been married to a woman who understood him, (Mikaela) and had a daughter on the way, making him swell with joy and pride. He had strong ties with the Cybertronian Autobots, and worked with them on a daily basis, attempting to have them accepted by the general human populace—his natural charisma, courtesy of him being a Prime, swayed people to his way of thinking if he tried hard enough.
However, comparing his current person to his past was like comparing apples and oranges—no-one who knew him could see the old Sam in the current one.
Time, reality, and Fate had not been kind to the man. Youthful, bright optimism had flickered and faded into a dark, twisted cynicism. His eyes had dulled from their former vivacious vibrancy, and were now cold, hard, and flat. His hair had gone gray early, and it seemed as if the chill air he carried around himself had caused the ambient water in the air to freeze and settle lightly on his scalp. His face still appeared young and smooth, not a wrinkle etched into his face—but the blankness was almost as telling as if he had lines of care and anger and deep sadness carved onto his visage. His voice was smooth as silk, a joy to listen to, and his eloquence and charisma still drew people to him, who he never hesitated to wrap around his fingers.
He was still respected, although not liked.
Sam was the head of an entire government agency, and, in the beginning, it had flourished and grown and Sam's work had meaning.
Now, it was just him and Leo Spitz-Simmons, and his department was seen as a joke. Where was the need for an Extraterrestrial Relations Agency when there were no Extraterrestrials to deal with?
It was December the 23rd when Sam entered his small office in a government complex, and hung up his jacket on the coat-rack that was close to the door. From the one that was already hanging there, he knew that Leo had come in before him—as was how Sam liked it. Leo was a good worker, and he was glad that he had managed to retain him even when everyone else left due to government downsizing.
Sam looked in on Leo's small adjoined room and gave him a polite nod, which was returned with an exhausted wave. They two were partners in misfortune, so perhaps it was only natural that they ended up working with each other. Sam walked over to his own desk, noting the still-large amount of stickies tacked on his wall and sighed softly.
Even though his department was largely ignored, he was the one who all the other government agencies fielded their 'What-the-hell-is-this?' cases to, which meant he and Leo dealt with everything from Bigfoot to abductions (alien or not was inconsequential).
There was a surprisingly large amount of the unusual and unnerving, so he and Leo were always busy.
Sam walked over to the wall and took off a handful of sticky-notes, walking over to his desk and sitting down after arranging the notes on the worn wood beside him. He logged on to his computer with a touch of his fingerprint, and the Mac immediately sprang to life. He tapped the desk before him and a keyboard appeared, and he allowed his fingers to rest lightly on the keys. With a preemptive wince he opened his e-mail and sighed heavily as he was bombarded with holiday party invitations and half-veiled demands for him to show up at dignitary so-and-so's gathering or else.
He answered with a polite "no" to all the invitations he could turn down and tried to find a way around needing to attend the other political functions—Sam unequivocally despised the holiday season, although Christmas was a particular sore-spot for him, and the constant bombardment of holiday cheer he received on television, in stores, on the radio, on the internet, and so forth drove him up a wall. Christmas wasn't so much a time to be merry as to rub those who had experienced loss even further into the dirt.
A time for family and friends, Sam thought bitterly as he continued to delete troublesome e-mails. What about those who lack that? What do they do?
Sam didn't know how Leo did it. He supposed that the only way he maintained his good humor was that he and his husband had adopted a brood before the untimely passing of said husband—Seymour Simmons. The gaggle that had occasionally invaded Sam's abode set his teeth on age, a further twist of a jagged knife in an old, still-oozing wound. The veiled looks of pity that Leo gave him when Sam was particularly snappy after a family visit only further incensed the man, but Leo managed to brush it off with remarkable aplomb.
Leo still believed in a "Merry Christmas," while Sam wished it would just go away.
Sam was settling in for another long day when the door burst open, causing Sam to put his head in his hands and groan softly.
"I thought I told the security guards to deny you access."
"Aw, c'mon, is that how you greet your best friend?"
Sam let his hands fall to his lap as he leaned back in his chair. "Miles..." Sam sighed as his eyes moved to the amused countenance of his childhood friend.
Miles sauntered up to his desk and leaned on it, moving the computer's projection out of the way. "It's not good for you to be cooped up in here all the time. You need to get out more."
"I'm fine, Miles," Sam said tiredly as he crossed his arms. "I don't need to 'get out more.'"
"You need to relax, man. Anyway, it's Christmas—do you even notice how nice the lights are? Or how there's actually a bit of a nip in the air? You need to appreciate the little things that make the holidays so nice."
"Miles, go away," Sam said patiently. "You know that me and the holidays don't get along."
"At least agree to come to Clara and mine's holiday party."
"Every year you offer and every year I give you the same answer—no. I go to enough parties on obligation to want to go to one willingly."
"Ouch, that hurts," Miles said, miming a shot to the heart. The playfulness sobered into a kind of wistful sadness. "You can't hold on to that forever, you know. You really need to move on."
Sam's eyes narrowed in anger. "You can talk to me about moving on once you've experienced the loses I have," he said tightly. "Until then, feel free to keep Christmas in your way, and I in mine."
"But you don't keep Christmas at all!"
"Then let me leave it alone," Sam drawled, moving the projection back in front of him, blocking Miles.
"Anyway, what right have you to be so damn happy? You're poor enough."
"Then how come you can be so bitchy when you have enough money to end hunger in DC?"
Sam rubbed his temples with his fingers. "Look, Miles. People are scum. They know the system and they milk it for all it's worth. I don't make myself merry at this time of year, and damn well am not going to make idle people merry. There will be bottom-feeders even if I do do everything in my power to end hunger in this wretched excuse for a capital. We have prisons and homeless shelters and welfare for a reason—if people are so desperate, they can go there."
Miles shook his head in sorrow. "Every year you get worse, Sam. People are dying out there."
"Why should I care? There's a population crisis on this planet! Why is it my concern if people who are lazy and manipulative die? Why should I care about the lives of drug dealers or hustlers or mobsters? Tell me why these people deserve to live? Why didn't my wife and daughter live when they deserved it so much more?"
Miles sighed softly and took a small object out of his pocket, placing it on Sam's desk. "If that's what you think," he said. "Still, I'm going to continue to work to better the lives of these people, and at this time of year it's easiest, for people are more willing to open their hearts to those in need. If only you'll do that again someday. So! Have a Merry Christmas!"
"Use the door."
"And a Happy New Year!"
"Door."
Miles simply smiled and poked his head into Leo's office, bidding him the greetings of the season.
"DOOR!" Sam snarled, and Miles laughed as he left with a wave before closing the indicated door behind him.
Sam put his head in his hands and sighed. God, Miles, your visits always give me a headache. He leaned back in the chair and turned it so he was facing the wall that was entirely a window, his gaze sweeping out onto the streets and the passers-by who looked so small—like ants, like sheep, to be herded according to his whims and designs.
Gold and red and green were draped all over, lighted snowflakes glowing in the early-afternoon gloom. The sky was overcast and promised a chilling rain that would seep through even the thickest raincoat. Yet, people still ran about the streets, getting in last-minute holiday shopping, laughing and smiling, the cold turning their faces bright pink with breathless excitement.
Sam turned away from the window, face pinching in a myriad of emotions. He looked at the small object resting on his desk and sighed heavily.
What did he get me this year? Sam wondered as he unwrapped the small gift. It turned out to be a gift card to a music site, which made Sam smile. Music was one of the few pleasures in his life. It would be like Miles to get him an actually thoughtful gift. He placed the card in his wallet before he threw himself into his work, as he usually did at this particular time of year, and was lost in it until he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.
He looked up, eyes taking a moment to focus on the person standing beside him, eventually resolving Leo.
"What?" he asked flatly, but the other man brushed it off.
"You don't want to be late for the one engagement you couldn't get out of. I'm going home. I won't be in for the next week."
Sam sighed dejectedly. "Yeah, I know, I know. Enjoy the time with your family," he drawled, a slightly bitter tone to his voice.
Leo patted Sam's shoulder gently before walking away to his office, leaving Sam staring accusingly at the clock on the top right of his computer's screen.
He really didn't want to go to the the particular Gala he was obligated to go to that night, but knew that his position in the government hierarchy required it.
He stood and gathered his meagre belongings before leaving without even a "good-night," he in such a sour mood. He smoothed his face over before he got out of his wing, and was able to drop "Happy Holidays" without it turning into a sarcastic drawl once he had entered the rest of the world.
He walked to the subway station that would take him to his apartment complex, descending the stairs with the smallest of smiles on his features so that any who recognized him—and there were many—wouldn't be able to call him on his ill-humor.
He moved to wait for the subway, taking out the pocket watch from his pants-pocket. He frowned and lightly tapped on the watch as he saw the second hand slow, then stop. It occurred to him then that there was no-one around him, which was odd for the time of year and day.
Abruptly, someone appeared beside him, making him start and take a step back. It took a moment to place the face, though, but when Sam did, he frowned. "Galloway? What the hell are you doing here?"
"Trying to keep you from making the same mistake I did," the man replied, and it was then that Sam realized that the person to whom he was speaking was transparent; however, the clothes remained remarkably real.
"What do you mean?" Sam asked, curious in spite of himself.
"What's the most important thing in your life? Don't lie—not to me or to yourself," the former government official asked, hands tugging at cuffs and collar and waist that seemed to be painfully tight.
Sam's mouth opened and closed, a frown forming on his features. "Me, I guess. I'm the most important thing in my life."
Galloway nodded slowly. "As good an answer as I expected—but the real answer is power. You seek it, crave it, lust for it. It's the driving force behind everything you do, everything that you are." Galloway's smile was wan and fleeting, much as his body seemed to fade in and out of existence while his clothes remained corporeal.
"Aren't you dead?" Sam finally asked, morbidly curious.
"Twenty-Seven years," the man answered. "I'm quite glad you recognized me, actually. I wasn't looking forward to explaining who I was if you hadn't."
"How are we speaking? And why do you look young again?" Sam half-demanded.
"Does it matter? We are," Galloway murmured, his movements slow, ponderous, and tortured.
"Why?"
"Because, right now, you're tending towards what I am."
Sam frowned. "Everyone dies eventually."
"But not everyone is stuck here, wandering among the living, powerless to do anything. Not everyone wears the weight of their stubborn refusal to work for the public good, not everyone is confined and defined by the suit for the job that mattered most in life."
"You're obviously not that powerless—"
Galloway shook his head sharply. "I have no idea how you can see or interact with me—I suppose it's Providence of one kind or another. Or perhaps, my desire to see the only Prime on Earth not lose himself."
Sam frowned. "You never gave a shit about my being a Prime."
"Death gives one perspective," he answered.
"What's wrong with your clothes?" Sam asked, changing the subject. "And why are you transparent?"
Galloway looked at his suit, a wan smile forming on his face. "In life, it was my job, the power that I wielded that was the most important thing to me. Now, in death, I am stuffed into it, every strand woven by my lies, my manipulations, my inconsideration for the welfare of my fellow human being. Every stitch in this suit was expressly made by my choices, and each piece of cloth is heavy with the responsibility I never took on in life. I am bowed under it, Sam. It hurts to wear, but I will never escape it until my penance is fulfilled."
"Uh-huh," Sam murmured, obviously disbelieving.
After a brief pause, a small smirk flitted across the Galloway's face before he turned to look at Sam full-on. "Have you ever read A Christmas Carol?"
"Charles Dickens? Maybe for school. Why?"
"Perhaps you should have paid more attention in school." The sound of a subway was audible coming roaring down the tracks, and another small smile formed on Galloway's face. "Don't want you to miss your train," he murmured, and before Sam could react, Sam found himself pushed off the train platform, falling with almost agonizing slowness as the lights of the subway raced towards him.
Sam jolted back to himself and looked around him, noticing the hustle and bustle of people absorbed in their holiday traditions and activities. He looked down at his pocket watch and found that not a minute had passed, the second hand ticking dutifully away. Sam shifted nervously on his feet before shaking his head and muttered, "I'm finally going crazy."
Still, he found himself shaking as he sat on the subway, and it was from more than just the sway of the vehicle.
His mind drifted and he tried not to sneer at the last-minute shoppers laden with bags full of frivolities, and he came upon his train stop with thankful rapidity, letting him off and to wander to his apartment. After the musty, warm air of the subway station, the bite of the cold outside was a slight surprise. He hadn't thought that it would be so brisk out. He brushed the sensation away, though, and continued on his way, lost in his own mind and he purposefully ignoring those he passed, the collar of his jacket upturned to hide his face and keep the wind off it.
Eventually, he reached his apartment complex, a sigh slowly exiting his lips, although whether it was from relief or not was not something he concerned himself with.
In terms of living quarters, he had no need of anything particularly grand—he had no family, afterall, and the smaller the space, the less gaping the lack seemed. He entered the complex after his retina was scanned, he walking into the blissful warmth of the lobby. He ignored the doorman, checked his mail (nothing—not that he minded, as Christmas cards were a pain to respond to), and then headed up to his abode.
He was surprisingly relieved when he entered it, and shook himself, laughing quietly. Who was he, to believe in ghosts? Nonsense, all of it. Perhaps he was too tired, and was hallucinating.
That, unfortunately, was not a good enough excuse to get out of the Gala he was to attend in two hours' time.
Sam dropped his bag on his couch and wandered into his bedroom, gathering what he would need for the Gala. He had more important things to worry about than some cryptic warning from a dead man—if any of that had been real at all.
Still, a nagging worry made him take a cab to the Gala, avoiding other forms of mass transit out of a lingering wariness.
The ride to the function was uneventful, and Sam's world had righted to how it should be. He could predict its motions once more, and that satisfied his bleeding spirit as he plastered on a smile and entered the political melee.