In Loco Mortis

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. I should think that rather obvious with my college-induced poverty and all.

Warnings: Onesided Bee/Sam

Chapter Four: Color Scheme

Blaster. Sam supposed that as far as their names went that one was among the most unusual. He sounded more like a ray gun than a giant robot. The mech was the comm. guy, like a big radio on legs according to Sideswipe. Shouldn't he be named something like Soundbite or Radiowave?

But Blaster?

Sam was still trying to figure out that one as he watched the red and yellow mech from the doorway of the common room. The youngling couldn't help but feel bad for him, sitting there with only his symbiotes and cube of energon. None of the other bots had approached him yet. Maybe because of his hangers-on. Perhaps because he had never met any of the others before. It was hard being the odd mech out, surrounded by bots that had undoubtedly known each other for centuries or longer.

Sam could empathize. He often felt left out, too. Like when they talked about Cybertron. Cities like Vos or Iacon or Praxus, places Sam would never see. Or bots long dead. Comrades. Friends. Brothers. Events that had happened before humans even existed. The Golden Age. The Ascension of Sentinel Prime.

And the worst part, the worst part was that they didn't realize. The twins, Bluestreak, Ratchet and First Aid, Wheeljack, Bee… all of them did it. And didn't even know. Better yet, they rarely did it to Epps or Lennox. To the humans. Only to Sam. Like he was supposed to know all of this automatically. As though his new form had come with some magical guide to Cybertronian history downloaded into his processor. And when he inevitably did or said something that was strange to them, they'd look at him like he grown another head. Like he was an idiot.

Still, he supposed that it could be worse. They could've freaked out when he transformed. Well, more so than they actually did. Could've thrown him out. Refused to have anything to do with him. Instead, they practically smothered him. With kindness. With attention. He could hardly go anywhere without one of them tagging along. Outside the base. The medbay. His own room. The wash racks.

And what a fun experience that had been! Bee and Aid were one thing; Sam couldn't exactly fault them for wanting to make certain he knew how to care for his new form. Red Alert was drawing the line. Ditto Prowl, Skyfire, Optimus, and Percy. Or on one shudder-worthy occasion, Sunstreaker and Tracks. He wasn't a toddler, a sparkling; he could do it himself. The minibot didn't give flying glitch if it was a cultural tradition either or if "he was limiting himself to human norms." Bath time was Sam-only time from now on.

But back to Blaster.

The mech just looked so… sad. No, not sad. Lost more like. As though he didn't quite know what to do with himself. It probably didn't help that the room was occupied by the less than friendly sort at this time of day. Bots like Huffer and Cliffjumper. Slingshot. Slag and Snarl. The kind of mechs who were grumpy and contrary at best. At worst… Sam didn't even want to think about what they'd do then.

He just looked so lost. So alone. Even as he and his symbiotes idly bopped along to whatever music they were listening to on their internal radios. It had been days since their arrival, and Sam couldn't help but wonder how many people on the base had actually talked to them. Made them feel welcome. Like they had Sam himself.

Blaster, however, at least had one thing in his favor so far. He was the only one of the new guys not to stare. Sam thought it was perhaps time to return the favor.

The symbiotes all looked up at his arrival, but Sam just nodded at them politely. Blaster studied him for a moment, optics unreadable in the dim light. The youngling gazed back evenly.

"Hi," he said with a shy smile and a little wave. "I'm Sam."

His typical day as a giant alien robot was nowhere near as exciting as it sounded. To be perfectly honest, life with the Autobots was mostly routine and even downright boring at times. One would think that giant alien robots were always interesting and exciting, but after being around them for over three years, the appeal was somewhat lacking at times. Yeah, they were cool and pretty badass. But they were also far too human-like with their petty arguments and annoying habits. If it wasn't Sunstreaker versus most of the minibots, it was Ratchet yelling at his patients. Or Perceptor trying and failing to punt Wheeljack out of his lab. Or Prowl and Red Alert chasing Sideswipe after another prank.

And about a thousand other things. Like the fact that Slingshot and Blades couldn't be in the same room, much less share a patrol. And that Beachcomber had no sense of direction. That Hound had the tendency to track mud all through the base. That Warpath couldn't spell his way out of a paper bag. Or that Bluestreak knew every word in the English dictionary – not to mention a few other languages – and was always eager to show their proper usage. That Mirage was the world's worst tripping hazard and liked to walk around invisible for no apparent reason. Or that Swoop and the Aerialbots often flew suspiciously low through the corridors, and even Sam had been forced to duck a few times.

Brig time and punishment detail were the norm rather than the exception. A day didn't go by without someone being painted a different color, someone else being pinged in the head by a wrench, and at least one fight – two if the minibots were being especially mouthy. Sam just wondered how they'd managed to last this long against the Decepticons. Honestly, it was like a live-viewing of a very bad soap opera. One with random explosions and transforming robots. A sci-fi drama then.

And Sam was stuck right in the middle of it. At ground zero. Often bored out of his poor mind. Particularly when he had absolutely nothing to do. Considered either too delicate – Ratchet's words. Or young – Optimus, Bee, and just about everyone else. Though they did give him tasks to complete, the youngling wasn't on the duty roster per se. Ratchet or sometimes Prowl would comm. in instructions for the day, which normally revolved around him learning some random task or thing. But for the most part, he was left to his own devices. Or would be without his constant hangers-on.

His current companion was Blaster. Not necessarily a bad thing as he waited for Bee to get back from patrol with Streetwise. The yellow minibot always insisted on checking on Sam whenever he returned; it was just easier to meet him halfway. Still, Blaster was rather good company at the moment as they toured around the base. He vaguely reminded Sam of Jazz – well, what Sam could remember of his first and only meeting with Jazz and what the others had told him. The red and yellow mech was fairly light-sparked once he started talking. Rather easygoing and bursting with unanswered questions about Earth and its inhabitants. Everything from rap to Middle Eastern culture to inquiries about the latest scientific discoveries. And he was so slagging understanding when the youngling didn't immediately know the answer; Blaster didn't even use the kicked puppy look that Jack and Blue seemed to have perfected.

All and all, relaxing and pretty enjoyable. Which of course meant it was all doomed to the pit sometime in the near future.

"So, Sam…" Blaster began as they passed an intersection and turned left. "Sam… That's a very interesting name."

And there it was.

The minibot hesitated for a second but kept walking. It didn't take Percy to see where this was going, and a part of him again wondered what exactly the newbies had been told about him. Regardless of that, Sam decided to head this one off at the pass. So much better that way.

"My parents seemed to think so." But at Blaster's confused expression, Sam decided to have mercy. "I don't have a Cybertronian designation."

The older bot considered this for a long moment. "Why not?"

"Well, as Ratchet explained it, creators normally pick that." He hinged on adding to that but finally resigned himself to it. "And mine… mine aren't really able to do much of anything at the moment."

That statement definitely got a reaction. But not quite the one Sam had been expecting.

"They're deactivated? Dead?" Blaster corrected softly. His optics were bright, but there was no pitying cast to them. Only a quiet sort of comprehension.

The youngling let out a gust of air and glanced away. "One is. And the other might as well be."

They lapsed into silence. The conversation had become a proverbial minefield, and they were still too new to each other to know what topics to avoid. Sam felt his unease spike as the quiet lingered, wondering if he'd managed to offend his new friend. Already, Blaster's symbiotes had scattered to the four winds, though Sam honestly couldn't remember the last time he had seen them. Sometime between the rec room and stopping to watch some of the older bots spar. Seeing Powerglide have his aft handed to him by Hot Spot had been very entertaining, not to mention distracting.

Just then, Blaster came to a grinding halt. He flickered his optics several times in the approximation of a blink and tilted his head to the side. The youngling, in turn, only stopped because his companion did, too used to this particular happening.

And the sight that had caused all of this? Will and Epps. Well, not so much them as what they were doing. Climbing their way up some strategically placed crates outside of Jack's lab and shooting troubled looks towards the far hallway the entire time. Blaster just watched in bewildered fascination as the two managed to make it to the top in record time and then proceeded to loosen the grate above their heads. The youngling couldn't help but give an almost-sigh as they disappeared into the ventilation system, reconnecting the grate behind him.

And Blaster was on the verge of speaking, only be interrupted as Ironhide came around the corner seconds afterward, optics scanning. His gaze briefly flickered over them, and Hide gave a nod in greeting before he went on his way.

"War games," Sam replied before Blaster could even ask. "Do it all the time." He shook his head. "And I mean, all the time." He just wondered where the rest of Lennox's team was.

Apparently playing Halo, the minibot discovered a few minutes later. Or something resembling it at any rate. The twins were with them and losing by the sounds of it. Sides had a very firm frown fixed on his normally pleasant face, and Sunny was cursing in Cybertronian. Fig and his buddies just laughed.

Red Alert and Simmons were surprisingly enough in the same room as the gamer tournament, though they obviously weren't participating. The two were towards the back and at a table with some Cybertronian-sized diagrams. Undoubtedly some form of schematics. Simmons was on the tabletop, pointing out things as the Security Director nodded and added his own comments. They seemed lost in their own world, not even noticing the increasingly loud shouts and catcalls going on behind them.

Sam kept walking. He headed further into the human-friendly – or friendlier, rather – parts of the base. Blaster was quiet behind him. Apparently trying to comprehend what he had just seen.

"Is that--" he began but was abruptly cut off as a tremor went through the hallway.

It rattled through both of them but did little more than that. Sam would have thought it an earthquake – they were fairly close to California – if it weren't for a second coming in quick succession. Then, they heard "Not a pony!" followed by the sound of childish laughter. Sam couldn't resist peeking his head in through the nearest doorway.

Inside, there was a monster. He – if indeed it was a he – was enormous. Every inch of Optimus Prime's height. Perhaps even taller with sharp teeth and claws. His silvery body gleamed dangerously in the bright light, hints of poisonous yellow at various spots. A ferocious beast. And by his gigantic foot was a three-foot tall person in pink with her blonde hair pulled back into pigtails. She smiled in a way that would be charming if not for the fact that the Dinobot seemed terrified.

"Grimmie's funny," the girl announced with another giggle. She held out what appeared to be a miniature horse bridle, only it was purple. A very light, very girly purple. "Puhleasssssse! Pretty puhlease. With sugar on top. And sprinkles." Her eyes were impossibly shiny and big.

"Now, sweetheart," Sarah Lennox interrupted before the situation could degenerate any further. She was sitting on a human-sized couch, attention divided between her daughter and the cooking show on the television in front of her. "That's obviously too small for Grimlock. It simply won't fit."

Annabelle paused to consider this fact. She glanced at the plastic bridle and then at Grimlock. The minibot could practically see the cogs turning in her head before she unexpectedly brightened.

Her smile was quick to return, blossoming across the entire lower half of her face. "Jacky'll have tah make a big one!"

Sam wondered if mechs could have aneurysms. Grimlock was close to it with the look of abject horror frozen on his face. His tail thumped in a clearly agitated manner behind him, very nearly missing the fridge and stove that were along one wall. The dishes rattled ominously in the cabinets, and the minibot stumbled from the vibration traveling through the floor. Annabelle didn't even seem to notice it.

Her mother, however, did. Sarah looked to the side then. But seeing the bots in the doorway, her reprimand fell away.

"Oh! Hi, Sam." She waved cheerfully. "Have you seen my husband?" Her hand fell back to rest on her belly, while the other stroked through the hair of the sleeping toddler beside her. "It's almost time for us to go home."

"He's was with Epps the last I saw," Sam responded after a second's hesitation. "Maybe you should ask Ironhide."

Sarah lifted an eyebrow. "They're at it again, are they?" She rolled her eyes. "Every time we're here. Every time." She shook her head. "Boys."

Annabelle chose that moment to let out another giggle, and it occurred to Sam then that he might just be able to fit into the bridle. Which meant that he needed to leave before the pink princess realized that fact.

Sam wisely backed for the door. "I'll see you later, Sarah." He then beat a hasty retreat.

Blaster was smart enough to follow. "Weird," he said in an undertone. "Man, that was very, very weird."

"You'll get used to it," Sam replied distractedly, but he then smiled in remembrance. "Just wait until she has another tea party."

"I can't believe you stepped on him!"

From his place in the middle of the medbay, Sam could very hear Ratchet's irate voice. And judging from First Aid's expression so could he. The two of them exchanged a glance, wincing at the distinctive sound of a wrench hitting metal echoed to them from the hall. Aid gave an almost-sigh at the following silence and encouraged the youngling to lean all the way back. Sam just shook his head and did as he was told.

"Stepped on him! He's pure black. Not exactly easy to miss!"

The minibot squirmed as Aid worked on his unfortunate leg. The part of him most damaged at the moment.

There was another distinct sound, this one more of an enraged growl, before Ratchet stomped into the room. "That Prowl..." he mumbled rather audibly. "Primus, I expected better of the glitch. The twins or one of the other fraggers, sure. But the high and mighty lieutenant?" He strode over to Sam's berth, still seething as he all but shoved First Aid out of the way.

The younger mech prudently kept his silence as he sidestepped.

Sam, however, opted for a different approach. "Hey, Ratchet…" His words tapered off as he got a better look at the senior medic. "What did you do to your paint?"

The now white and red Ratchet paused. His faceplates twisted into a faint smile. But the ones lining the edge shifted in a peculiar manner as he did so. A very rhythmic sort of shifting but not agitated. And his optics were a strange shade of blue, not to mention impossibly round. Odd. Very odd. Almost like--

Understanding hit the minibot like a ton of bricks. Had he been human, Sam realized, Ratchet would have been blushing.

The youngling gaped, and beside him, Aid made an airy sound. The equivalent of a human clearing their throat. He very gently moved Sam's arm back to the table; the minibot hadn't even realized he'd lifted it to point.

"I… It looks good," Sam finally said after several long minutes. "It suits you."

Ratchet gave him a disbelieving look as he reached for his tools. "Flattery will get you nowhere." He selected something that resembled a cross between a pair of scissors and a soda can.

"I mean it," the youngling insisted. "Scout's honor." At Ratchet's incredulous hum, he added, "Hey, I really was a cub scout." He conveniently left out the part where his mom had made him quit after a week when she found out that they had to go camping outdoors.

First Aid grinned from the side, undoubtedly realizing that there was more to the story. But he kept it to himself as his mentor grumbled a few more times, several curses working their way in for good measure. The senior medic tinkered for a moment, adjusting and straightening and occasionally banging. Sam just watched with interest as his leg went from a pancake-esque impersonation to something near to its former glory. Ratchet really was a miracle working. Even if he did curse like a drunken sailor at the best of times. And Sam was pretty certain that the threats involving Prowl, reformatting, and a waffle iron were all talk.

"In his defense," the youngling spoke up as Ratchet's angered mumbles increased, "Prowl was distracted at the time."

The older mech lifted a non-existent eyebrow, quite a feat with his metal face. "Oh?"

Aid had to stifle a snicker at his tone. His face transformed to a neutral expression when a pair of blue optics drifted his way. But that immediately fell away when Ratchet returned his attention to Sam.

The minibot fidgeted under that scorching gaze. "Alright," he admitted, "Sunstreaker was molesting him in the hallway."

The medic threw his tool at the floor. "Again? At least it wasn't both twins this time." He grumped further, "Slaggers need to… what's the phrase? Get a room. Save the lot of us a bunch of trouble." He grabbed a different instrument, this one the mutant child of a corkscrew and a penlight.

First Aid's battle mask slid into place. A sure sign he was trying and failing to hide his laughter, especially with the way his shoulders were shaking. Sam made a noncommittal noise and tried to stop the barrage of images that just appeared in his head. He shuddered at the thought of just what they would do in said room and promptly felt his processor start to overheat as he scoured that away.

This, of course, only served to make Ratchet glance up at his face with an aggravated sort of concern. He went back to his work after Sam forced himself to still, grumbling to himself about fraggers and slaggers and sorts of other uncomplimentary terms; pit-spawned Praxus reject may have worked its way in there, along with a few derogatory comments about socially retarded glitches. Sam couldn't be certain, too busy trying not to think.

Ratchet tinkered for a while longer, Sam's leg completely returning to its usual state. Though it was now covered in faint scratches that Ratchet absentmindedly buffed out. When he was done, the youngling couldn't even tell his leg had been damaged at all. Quite a feat considering its earlier flattened condition. Ratchet had really outdone himself.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was probably closer to ten minutes, the chief medic straightened. "There. All better," he commented in a vaguely sarcastic voice.

Sam leaned up and was making to leave the table. But Ratchet's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Not so fast." There was something to his expression. Something nameless and slightly frightening.

The youngling moved to get a better look. "I thought you said you were done."

"Not quite. Your leg is fine, but there's something else we need to address." He nudged his student with his elbow. "Go on."

First Aid seemed distinctly unhappy. "Well, Sam, you see…" He shifted in an uncomfortable fashion. "You see…" His optics darted from Sam to his boss and back. "You see…" Then, he blurted out, "Ratchet has something to tell you."

The older mech jumped as though struck; he turned to his apprentice with one optic twitching. "Me? I thought we agreed that you would break the news." He made a snorting sound. "And they say I have a bad berth-side manner."

"Bedside," Sam corrected automatically before freezing. "Wait… news?"

Neither seemed to have heard. Too busy glaring at each other. Though in First Aid's case, it was more of a serious – albeit soft – stare. His face simply couldn't do annoyance or anger as well as Ratchet. Not many could.

"News?" the minibot asked louder.

When they still didn't look at him, Sam reached forward and grabbed Aid's side, the only part of him that the youngling could currently reach. The mech turned to him then, face unreadable.

"What's going on?" Sam half-demanded. He felt the plates on his chest and back start to crawl with foreboding.

The two medics exchanged a glance, and the minibot could just tell that they were sharing a silent conversation over the comm. lines. Dread flickered inside of him; his insides tried to curl around into a knot. There was something they obviously weren't telling him, and judging by their reluctance, it had to be bad.

Sam came to the only logical conclusion. "Is there something wrong with me? Something you can't fix?" A world full of horrible possibilities smacked him in the face, and he grasped onto the closest in reach. "Am I sick? Do I have some kind of horrible transformer-only disease?"

He suddenly recalled all the check-ups Ratchet had forced on him. Before, he had thought it because of his transformation, because of what had happened. Now…

"Am I dying?" the minibot questioned in an impossibly breathless tone; he felt his spark sputter in his chest. "Is that what you have to tell me?" He glanced between them. "You can tell me. I can take it like mech."

"See," Aid put in. "That's the thing." His tapped his fingers together in front of him.

Sam looked at him and then Ratchet, face imploring. "Please… I--"

"You're not dying," Ratchet cut in. "Thank Primus. But there is a slight problem. Nothing to be upset about. You're as high-stung as Red Alert," he muttered with the Cybertronian equivalent of an eye roll. And from that indefinable fifth dimension all the bots seemed to carry around like a pocket, he pulled out a datapad and handed it to the youngling.

Sam took the pad with confusion. "What am I supposed to be looking at?" he asked at the strange symbols and not-quite-letters visible.

"It's a recording of your spark energy," the oldest mech explained. "We keep records of all the bots to see if there are any sudden changes." Ratchet traded a brief look with his apprentice before leaning down to point. "This lower range is for mechs, and the higher is for femmes. They always run higher; that's why they have enough energy to support other sparks." He hesitated then, waiting for his patient to draw his own conclusions.

Sam studied the datapad, a chill creeping through him. He couldn't help but notice that his reading was outside both ranges. Way outside both ranges. Too high. Far too high.

His head instantly jerked up to stare at them, green optics impossibly wide. First Aid was forced to look away; Ratchet just shook his head.

"Congratulations," the senior medic continued in an odd tone, "you're not a femme. But bad news, you're not a mech either."

AN: Sorry that it took so long for me to get this chapter out. I had two weeks' worth of finals. Two weeks!! Why did I agree to this madness?

Also, I'm a little shaky with my Blaster voice. I'll need to work on it.

Ever Hopeful,

Azar