Disclaimer: What? Who's Michael Bay? Steven Spielberg? Hasbro? Never heard of 'em! -sounds of guns being cocked- Ohhh… You mean that Michael Bay, Steven Spielberg, and Hasbro! Yeah… they own Transformers… not me… I do own a little mini Jazz figurine now, though… He's so cute.

"…Talk…"

'…Thoughts…'

"-…Communication Lines…-"

- - - Set in Motion - - -

Chapter 4

Maggie sighed, swiveling in her chair and nursing a hot cup of coffee in her lap. It was only eight twenty in the morning and it was already shaping up to yet another day of staring mindlessly at the monitors. Honestly, one would think she would be on her feet a little more as the appointed personal advisor and data analyst of the Secretary of Defense! But nooooo, here she sat in her little swivel chair, in her little cubicle comprised of computers, wires, and keyboards, glaring at little monitors that never ever changed.

She sunk lower in her chair, grudgingly taking a sip of her coffee and jumping when some of the hot liquid sloshed over the rim, landing on her t-shirt. 'Oh yes, very professional,' she thought, angrily rubbing at the ugly brown stain with a napkin. After the first week she had given up trying to look professional. While everyone else wandered the Pentagon looking like they had somewhere to be in their important suits and ties, she only roamed the halls on her way to and from the work room, out of place and looking very much like a groggy-eyed college student in her slacks and old college jersey, her hair done up in a messy bun with whatever writing utensil that had been handy while she poured herself a cup of joe. Keller had stopped by once (just to see how she was settling into the new 'office', yes, fine, thanks for asking), raising a brow at her attire, but saying nothing on the matter. He either understood or had seen such a thing before. Hackers and data analysts weren't exactly known for their fashion sense, after all...

Taking another sip from the Styrofoam cup, she pushed herself away from her desk and rolled lazily across the cleanly polished floor. She then twisted her foot to the side and shoved herself toward the opposite side of the room; toward the small corner Glen had so lovingly dubbed his 'Cubicle of Zen and Peace.' (He had, at first, compared the room to the one they had crowded in back at Hoover Dam, and, although smaller, this one was considerably cleaner; it's equipment more up to date; and free of volatile, genocidal, alien hackers. Glen immediately liked it.)

She eyed the many Crispy Cream boxes littered across the floor, some hiding underneath the display tables. Pop cans lay strewn everywhere, empty, half-finished, and some yet to be even opened. All of this topped off by the various action figures Glen had brought from his grandmother's house. A personal touch, of sorts.

Nearly squashing a GI Joe doll, she navigated around the mess, stopping and raising a brow at her partner.

'Some of the world's most advanced technology is in his lap and he uses it to play World of Warcraft?' Maggie pursed her lips, a lecture about the proper use of said advanced equipment already building on the tip of her tongue, when a flashing light to her left caught her eye. (She almost didn't notice it behind the model of some Japanese robot.)

"No… way…" She said, turning toward the display. It was barely over a whisper, but Glen had somehow heard it, twisting in his seat while he frantically closed down the game.

"U-Uh, listen, Mags, I'm sorry! I just couldn't--" He stopped, and for the first time seemed to notice the light and the awestruck look on the blonde's face. Knocking over a stack of empty boxes, he stumbled over to where Maggie stood, his mouth agape. Pale blue lit both their faces as they leaned down, transfixed by the flashing light that was, in fact, several flashing lights. All of which quickly approaching the Earth's atmosphere.

-+-+-+-

Getting Sam back to the base had not been, as the boy himself would have called it, 'fun.'

After confirming that the boy was not going to leap at them once again, Bumblebee had gently gathered Sam in his hands and laid him in the bed of Ironhide's alt mode--as he was now too big to fit in any of their interiors--while Optimus stripped some of nearby trees of their branches. Together, they placed them protectively over the unconscious bot to conceal him from prying eyes.

Then came the long trek home.

It was nearly evening by the time they reached the outskirts of Tranquility. Having to avoid roads that led into cities as an extra precaution had taken more time than originally thought (coupled with the fact that driving too fast would attract the attention of the local law enforcement while the wind threatened to blow away Sam's cover). The edges of the sky had just begun to turn a delicate shade of pink when they finally reached the base, where Ratchet met them at the large airbase doors.

"These slagging twigs are gonna itch like the Pit…" Ironhide grumbled as Ratchet carefully peeled away the last branch. With as much care as possible, Ratchet reached down into the truck bed and carefully lifted the smaller bot onto one of the examination tables.

Bumblebee, who had been hovering anxiously while trying at the same time to stay out of the way—one simply did not get in Ratchet's way when he had a patient to care for. Not if you wanted the nearest medical instrument lobbed at your cranium for your concern—stepped forward, his door wings twitching nervously. "Is he going to be alright, Ratchet?"

For a moment, the CMO didn't answer, deftly pressing against the side of the blue armor plating and coaxing out a long cord which he hooked up to one of the humming machines around them. There was silence as he went from monitor to monitor, going through the motions of scanning and checking, adjusting, then scanning and checking again. The only other sound came from the shifting GMC Topkick as it transformed into twenty-six feet of weapon specialist.

"Sam will be alright… I suspect his body merely slipped into defense protocols." Ratchet said; his optics focused on the screen he was studying. "Memory scans show that his senses overloaded… his human half wasn't ready to handle that much information at once." He then turned to Bumblebee, "He'll be fine once I install a few firewalls and adjust his sensory settings. It's just something he'll have to learn to control."

If he had been capable of it, Bumblebee would have smiled. Instead, he reached down and stroked one finger down the side of Sam's faceplates. How different it was... No longer a round face capable of many expressions, Sam's features were now much sharper, accented by twisted chrome and midnight-blue metal where the armor of his alt mode reached

Beautiful.

Mechanic of organic, he didn't care; he loved Sam and Primus had given him a gift; a chance to be with Sam forever.

Bumblebee stopped, finger resting on the visor that hid Sam's optics from him. It was long, shaped like a curved 'V' almost, tinted an almost clear blue, and greatly resembled the one Jazz had once worn.

For the first time since all of this had started, the scout wondered if they had done the right thing…

"Installing the new walls will take a few hours." Ratchet said, shooting the Camaro a knowing look. "Go. Get in some recharge. I'll alert you before I bring him online."

For a moment, Ratchet thought the scout would refuse, opting to stay with his charge, but, slowly, he pulled his hand away. He turned trusting blue optics on the medic, and nodded once, silently, and left, the doors hissing shut behind him. The three remaining older mechs watched him go.

"There's something you're not telling us."

Air cycled loudly through his vents and Ratchet turned back to regard Optimus, his expression jaded. "During my scans, I found something… unusual. Regular defense protocols shut down the body and put it in an energy reserving state. I've never seen, nor heard, of a body acting such as Sam's did. While his mind may have been offline, his body was acting with conscious influence."

"Couldn't it be the human part of his mind?" Ironhide said. He crossed his massive arms over his chest plate, shifting from one foot to the next. "You said yourself that the kid's mind is still part human."

"I doubt it." Ratchet snorted. The medic then turned toward one of the monitors, where two frequencies were shown. "This:" He pointed to the top frequency, a thin line that moved erratically in small convulsive twitches, occasionally giving larger 'jumps.' "…is Sam's current brainwave pattern. This:" He moved his finger to the bottom one, a line that moved so fast and sporadically it was a near blur, even to their advanced optics. "…is the frequency I picked up after I entered the manual override code. It shouldbe the same as the top one; docile."

"Will this affect Sam's psyche in anyway?" Optimus asked.

"I don't know. I tried checking his consciousness for any irregularities, but I can only access some of it, most of his core processor data still perceives itself as human and is encrypted. All we can do now is keep a close optic on him for any changes."

Ironhide snorted, as if to say, 'Just where have you been, doc?'

Ratchet shot him a look, but turned to address Optimus. "Also, the American government has been trying to contact us. Constantly. They've been asking about information about 'The Newest Autobot' nonstop. I replied that we would inform them once we had him in custody. It seems they have no idea it's Sam."

"And they do not need to know." Optimus replied sharply, eyeing both of the two bots seriously. "Perhaps later, when Sam has adjusted to his new life, but for the time being they are on a need to know basis. We will provide a designation. That is all."

"Well, we can't very well call him 'Sam' or 'Witwicky,' now can we?"

"Spike."

Both Ratchet and Optimus Prime turned toward Ironhide. He looked back at them evenly.

"The runt's got 'em." He held up his own arm, tapping the metal on his forearm to indicate where the aforementioned weapon had been concealed. "An' I don't think 'Porcupine' will sit well…"

-+-+-+-

Metal was twisted around him, slowly slithering underneath his skin. He could smell blood as well as taste its heavy, bitter copper-taste in his mouth. His skin felt numb and heavy, his body slowly withdrawing into itself, curling in. He couldn't breathe.

"…Sam…"

"Sam?"

Sam blinked, staring up at the two large faces hovering over him.

"Bee?"

He made to sit up, curling one arm underneath and swinging one leg over the side of the surface he sat upon, only...

"I can't move."

"Of course you can't." Ratchet snorted, moving out of his line of sight. His voice drifted from somewhere over to his right. "I've shut down nearly all of your motor functions, although I believe removing your legs would have been more efficient." The medic grumbled. Sam wasn't sure if he would have shifted uncomfortably had he been capable of it or frozen on the spot to prove leg-removage was unnecessary.

"Quit scarin' the kid." Sam recognized the gruff voice of Ironhide.

"I am merely exercising what humans call 'tough love.'" The medic stated matter-of-factly, reappearing to bend over him. He heard a loud hiss, like the noise doors in spaceships in sci-fi movies make whenever they open or close, and then felt something gently prod at his chest.

"I believe that was sarcasm, Ratchet." Bumblebee corrected, watching the larger yellow bot turn Sam's mobile functions back on. "Can you move now, Sam?"

Sam sat up, legs swung over the side of the berth. "Yup." He stopped and blinked, seeming to take in his new appearance for the first time.

No longer was he the awkward boy he had once been. In his place sat a rather lanky mech that stood at nearly ten feet. While his body was rather slender, covered with dark blue paint and what looked like a pane of thick glass, his shoulders were wide, the metal stretching out into twin armor spikes. His long arms nearly reached his knee caps, fingertips just meeting the top. His legs, double-jointed, curved back and ended in a four-toed foot, one curled behind for a means of balance.

For a moment, Bumblebee predicted Sam to panic once again, to throw himself from the berth much like he had before, and take off, disgusted with his new body.

But, with what Bumblebee could interpret as a wide grin, he turned to regard his guardian with a cocked head and said, "Well, I guess it's gonna take some getting used to."

-+-+-+-

This… was bad.

He was entering the atmosphere too fast. The metal of his protective casing had already overheated and his internal system temperatures were steadily climbing to dangerous levels.

'Slaggin' Decepticreeps.' He thought. They had taken them by surprise, intercepting his unit as they passed Earth's moon. They had to break formation and he long since lost track of the others. It was so like the Decepticons to divide and conquer, the cowards!

And what was worse… he was injured and had one of the Pit-spawned Seekers on his tail.

The mech cursed. He couldn't risk accessing communication frequencies with a Decepticon so near, lest he draw more of them to his location. What was more, this planet had so many fragging satellite drones! Primus knows if they hadn't already attracted the inhabitants attention!

"-What's the matter, Autobot? Too scared to face me?-" The seeker cackled. He obviously had the advantage, built to fly through the sky with incredible speed and agility, his sleek armor tinted shades of grays.

The mech snorted dismissively, belying his mounting alarm as critical warnings began to flash across his vision. "-Too scared to look at your ugly-aft face, you mean!-" Okay, screw communication lines. He was fragged and he knew it. Although maybe one of those satellites would come in handy and crash into his pursuer.

His luck, however, seemed to take a different turn, and, as he continued to hurtle down towards the blue planet, the large transformer on his tail let out a low curse and pulled back. It was then that he realized that even as big and as flight-worthy the other mech might be, entering a planet's atmosphere when not in a space travel pod was both dangerous and potentially fatal, no matter what your build was. Armor and metal not tucked away could possibly melt in the heat of the thermosphere or be blown off by the sheer force of entering a planets troposphere. The seeker seemed to realize as his wings began to take on a glowing orange hue.

"-We'll meet again, Autobot!-" The seeker then banked to the left, spun around, and, with a burst of speed, fled back into the black recesses of space.

"-You can count on it, Starscream.-"

End Chapter