Title: Property Of
Rating: T ((mention of non-sexual nudity and bad words in this chapter, folks))
Summary: During Cybertronian 'peace,' ex-Cons hide the sentience of and sell humans as pets to secure Earth. Sam and Mikaela might just be the first to grasp the reality of the situation alongside their new owner.
Chapter: Life Changing
I love my reviewers. In response to a choice few: 1) No, gammon-is-a-fish, Ratchet and Ironhide don't just lurk about the Ark in retirement – that made me laugh. Ratchet still sees patients on a fairly regular basis, and – while not onscreen – occasionally travels elsewhere for brief periods. Ironhide would do the same for various forms of weapons maintenance, and is indeed involved in some of the defensive weaponry installations around the colony. But think about it – there's no war on, so people specialized in wounds and weapons wouldn't be nearly as active. Not necessarily 'retired', but definitely not as busy.
2) abby asked about the phrase 'xenozoologist' (specifically, 'xenobiologist'). I've never seen it before. It just made sense. Animal study is zoology, 'xeno' means foreign/alien, so the study of alien animals should be xenozoology. Anyways, xenozoologists are not 'more concerned' with any other species, it's just that they have other things to do, i.e. some are bought out by the pet trade, busy looking into the possibilities of organic fuels (fun fact – this fic will incorporate some RotF mythos later, which means the whole energon thing is still something of a problem, making Earth's occupation/resource utilization a complex issue even for ex-Autobots), etc.
3) Sahrai – funny you'd mention the bathing/hygiene issue, because that's brushed over in this chapter. Related, nods to Lady Shadowfire for inspiring some facial-hair related mentions.
The events here were originally scheduled to come out a bit earlier. That said, a fair bit of the material was written/based off things written long ago… So, believe me when I say this has always been a long time coming. And, the length started to get out of hand way too quickly for my tastes… I feel I compromised in some areas to keep it manageable. Oh – and find my typos, prty plz. K thx.
Prowl could not believe that it had taken over an orn to successfully capture a single, unaided, unremarkable rogue human from Domicile Complex C. While not a small building, Complex C was not incredibly large, and so the creature's ability to elude him for that length of time was mutedly astonishing; perhaps even more astonishing given his discovery that the human was completely antisocial, unfriendly, and uncalculating. How a creature so obviously mentally unstable could retain its freedom despite the pursuit of several mechs – because Prowl was sure he hadn't been the only one, although he had, quite possibly, been the only one not desiring to terminate the alien once it was caught – was beyond the tactician.
As was statistically inevitable, his methods of approach had eventually won out. The human's unceasingly continuous need for food had been its undoing. Now, Prowl was returning home with one extra passenger: a wild-eyed human – male – shrunken inside singed fabrics, cranial hair completely disorganized, chemical odor not pleasant to the olfactory sensors, looking like it wanted to disintegrate into a corner of the small box he was being carried in.
Life had clearly not been kind to the Earthling.
Quite frankly, the ex-Autobot Second in Command and head strategist was at a loss for how to proceed now. The glaringly wild behavior the human was exhibiting did not suggest he would be able to be placed in another home. Prowl knew perfectly well the human had belonged to someone beforehand, even though no resident had claimed prior ownership and whatever means of identification the creature had possessed (if any) had been removed. No one would want to take in a human so predisposed to disliking mechs except, perhaps, a scientific crew who would not treat the organic properly as it was.
Which led to the second option: euthanasia or another means of disposal. Prowl was nearing his own building of residence, and glanced down at the cowering and angry being. No. That option did not seem appropriate in the least, and not even for an emotional reason. Prowl was certain many an emotional mech would avoid putting a human down due to empathy, and had he been prone to excessive fits of emotion, Prowl was sure he would, too. Logically it made no sense. The creature had not chosen to be removed from his planet, had not chosen to be disowned – and mistreated, clearly – by his owner. It had not chosen to fend for itself on an alien world, and had not known its actions would be viewed so poorly by the colonial society. Why should the human suffer the ultimate price as a consequence of others' actions?
Deeply instilled Autobot morals and attitudes also would not allow for pushing the wayward human off to its death without proper investigation.
… This, again, forced the logic-oriented Prowl to arrive at something of a loss. He did not place any faith in the human finding a new owner. As with the human youngling he'd confiscated in his previous case, Prowl might have volunteered as an owner had he enough time to devote to an organic with such intricate needs, which an individual so traumatized as this would surely possess. But, he also did not find the other alternative sensible. Legally, there were no other options left to him. Personally assume ownership, attempt to place the human in a new home or research facility, or end its existence.
Not a single course of action appealed to Prowl.
What the strategist needed was time to develop another possibility. Should no answer present itself, he would need to consult his records, previous cases, perhaps several xenozoologists and maybe even procure a diagnosis for the human's behavior from Ratchet or another, and so on and so forth.
All of that would have to wait until he finished the filing to close this portion of the case.
And now, he was home.
Prowl remotely accessed his multiple encrypted locks, patiently identifying himself and eventually gaining access to his own living quarters. All lights flashed on upon his entrance, causing the captive human to inhale sharply and press himself further into his corner. From the look he was getting, Prowl would not have been surprised to learn the mad alien was considering him as both predator and prey.
The black and white mech set the carrying contraption down on a clear section of table. Prowl glanced about his orderly collection of file cabinets and shelves of datapads, wondering what precisely he could use as a more fit cage. He supposed an empty drawer would suffice, though he would find none in the main room or its adjacent office. In the supply room, however…
Prowl left the room and returned moments later with a spacious drawer that once housed extra energon cubes. He categorically cleared a larger space on the table in which to place the drawer. Unenthusiastically, he then turned his attention to the original cage.
The bipedal alien was still staring at him apprehensively. If Prowl were not a thoroughly controlled mech, he might have been unnerved by it.
The instant Prowl reached down into the small, open-topped carrier, the rogue human cringed. Had there been more room, it may even have attempted an attack. Due to the lack of space, however, it settled for writhing fiercely as Prowl attempted to hook his fingers around the frantic alien without injuring its organic frame.
"Mad as you may be," said Prowl, looking over the struggling human, "I will not allow anyone to put you down unless absolutely necessary. It would be in your best interest, human, to calm down – and quickly." Prowl deposited the small alien in the larger containment unit.
Upon its release the human seemed to melt into a corner, resuming its worried staring while apparently trying to disappear. Prowl simply observed the unsettling behavior in silence, trying to further his previous assessment of the Earthling. Male, definitely. Beyond that, other details were difficult to ascertain. The creature may have had brownish hair, or the hair may have been lighter – it could have been filth coloring the fibers. There was definitely enough wear to the rags to suggest grime was a possible culprit. The rags would need replacement, and concealed much of the organism's physical strength. Prowl estimated the human to be into its second decade, perhaps older, but was unsure. After a cleaning, it would be unsurprising if the abandoned animal looked up to a decade younger.
"I know you've had a less than satisfactory stay in that apartment complex, but unless you can prove to me that you're a personable human, I'm afraid your outlooks are bleak." The mech blinked uninterestedly at the human, despite being entirely mentally engaged. "Your unkempt state does nothing for you. When I finish your paperwork, you will definitely be receiving a washing – I don't care how greatly you protest."
After only another second or two of staring at the frenetic little flesh-creature, Prowl left for the other building once again. There he would be able to meet with those who had enlisted his aid, and on his return trip he'd have the freedom of purchasing new fabrics and some basic nourishment for the badly used organic.
No one would dare consider Prowl an illogical Cybertronian. Yet, the ex-Autobot found his processors illogically fearing for the safety of the human during the closing of this latest assignment, the final signing of paperwork, the purchasing of the necessary accommodations for the organic, and the rest of the trek home. The odds of the human escaping were miniscule, and there was nothing at his disposal to harm himself with, which was even then assuming the organism could bypass the universal imperative that living things did not inflict purposeful harm upon themselves.
The first thing Prowl did after his re-arrival was set the several food containers, watering system, and new coverings to the side of his main desk so that he might add them one at a time.
The desk made him recall his desire to clean the Earthling. Prowl saw no reason to delay that activity further, especially since he had ample time to complete it at present. Staving off the check-up for a moment longer, the strategist went to the domicile's utilities room and filled the spare sink therein with warm water.
Now he could check on the human.
The human was no better or worse for ware. His form was still pressed into the corner where Prowl had seen him last, forcing the mech to wonder whether the human had moved at all during his absence.
At his approach, the organic raised its fretful eyes. A twinge of empathy struck the ex-Autobot, but he knew better than to deny necessities. Prowl was already prepared for the most negative reactions when he went to pick the creature up.
The human did not disappoint.
With a bark and a flailing, the Earthling made very clear his intentions never to be held again. The thing even injured himself attempting self-defense, and while Prowl gave him a moment to recover, it simply increased the mech's determination to restrain the human as quickly as possible.
The rest of the bathing experience went much the same way.
Prowl knew that many humans could perform semi-aquatically, but the frenzy of his current subject after being introduced to the sink of water made constant assistance a necessity. Not once did the struggles cease, although exhaustion caused momentary lapses.
Suffice to say that both mech and human were glad when the ordeal was over, the latter of which bundled himself tightly in a rag that Prowl decided would stay in the cage as well. The human did not react to Prowl's placement of the food and water into his temporary home, so tangled up in his rag and woes.
Prowl was not willing to plague the Earthling longer than need be. For the rest of the cycle he completed the peripheral paperwork about related complaints and files.
Only three times did he check on his visitor. Once, he was not spotted at all. The other two stirred the same nervous reactions that convinced Prowl his time was best spent elsewhere.
The tactician was several breems into reviewing a rough draft summary of the rogue human's case when his processors practically demanded he open a communiqué he had received not four cycles ago.
From Ironhide, the message detailed how greatly improved the human youngling he'd confiscated – Softspark, she was called – now was. Her fits had ceased, her comfort around mechs incredibly high, and her willingness to appease both the weapons specialist and the medic something no one could have predicted.
All of these shifts in behavior were due, irrefutably, to the reassurances of contact with more of her species. Such drastic changes followed exposure to Bumblebee's two pets.
Prowl's processor turned, all focus draining from the tri-screen of his desk's computer.
Humans would not be the first species that had herd mentalities to a degree that permitted living – however comparatively miserable – by themselves. Many creatures the galaxy over could adapt to much harsher things than being separated from others of their kind despite being social species. This human, simultaneously, would not be the first unable to adapt, driven into terror in the wake of combined isolation and neglect.
It may not come with guaranteed results, but it was worth the effort to try.
Glancing once at the drawer-turned-cage, Prowl activated his communications systems (repaired shortly following Ratchet's lecture during their last meeting).
/ Bumblebee, this is Prowl speaking. /
/ Prowl? / was the fast response, laced with disbelief. / What's going on? /
The ex-Second in Command afforded no preamble. / I have a request to make of you… /
Bee couldn't concentrate on editing datapads knowing Prowl would arrive soon. He wondered just how bad the mech's seized human could be. The tactician had actually expressed considerable worry at different points of their conversation. Well, considerable given his emotional predispositions. Bumblebee's old comrade had first asked if he would be willing to expose his pets to a visibly frantic human, and then if he might be willing to watch the human for at least a cycle until a more suitable, hopefully permanent address was found. Prowl, apparently, had already possessed him a cycle and a half.
Bumblebee had agreed in spite of his doubts. Signal and Complement had managed to help one human. However, she had been a small female youngling. The one Prowl spoke of was a full-grown male. The dynamics were completely different.
Three evenly timed knocks sounded on the main door. The ex-scout jumped out of his thoughts and rose immediately. No more time to worry about it. He crossed to the door quickly and opened it in as timely a manner.
The sight that met him was awfully conflicting, and Bee needed to quickly check his optics.
Prowl was standing outside the doorway expectedly. He held himself in the same way he always did: tall, official, demanding respect and oozing authority. In his right hand was held a clearly unhappy human that made all of Prowl's efforts crumble. This human had yellow-brown hair atop his head and also a scruff of it framing his face, unlike anything Bee had seen on either of his pets. The cranial hair was also longer than Signal's, though shorter than Complement's, and it was flying about as its owner shook and grunted in his attempts to free himself. One organic hand was trying to clutch, even tear at, Prowl's firmly closed fingers, the other pushing against them to pry himself out. Bee could not tell if the human had even noticed there was another mech present.
"Thank you for allowing me over," Prowl said with a slight dip of his head. Bumblebee was still staring at the human. "As you've doubtlessly noticed, he acts exceptionally wild," said Prowl as he looked over the scared organic. He glanced at Bumblebee. "I believe he was likely drugged into domestication, and was purposefully left out by his owner. The chemicals probably wore off, so he started running around as if he had just been removed from his planet."
Bumblebee hesitated in going to try and get a better look at the wary human. For the first time, he could actually imagine one of the creatures in its feral state on Earth. "You thought it would be a good idea to show him to Signal and Complement… why again? To see if their presence couldn't reassure him, right?" Already the yellow mech felt failure was imminent.
"Exactly," Prowl conceded. "Seeing his own kind might do him good. I'm told it worked excellently as a strategy with the youngling I previously acquired."
"I guess… He better not injure one of mine," he warned. Bumblebee did delight over the creatures, but he wouldn't hesitate to defend Signal and Complement – neither of whom had ever done anything wrong that he could name.
Prowl tipped his head a second time, shifting his grasp on the human.
With the passing of one more anxious second, Bee let his ex-superior into the apartment. They both walked in, instantly scanning for either or both of the scout's biotic roommates.
In the moments following their entrance, Signal stepped from around the corner of the corridor that led to Bee's quarters. Prowl turned to watch the already domesticated human who had come to investigate.
The alien in his grasp stilled entirely when it caught sight of Signal; Signal froze the moment he caught sight of the other male. Both made awkward sounds, brief and unusual.
The mechs exchanged apprehensive expressions.
Bumblebee waited a moment before indicating that Prowl could place the strange human on the ground.
The tactician crouched and slowly let the once-frantic human slide from his hands to stand on his own two feet. A split second of silent, motionless anticipation elapsed, clashing just as much with the newcomer's previous behavior as the behavior had clashed with Prowl.
Then the strange male made a strange noise, and launched himself at Signal. Bumblebee and Prowl both moved to intervene, fearing that the two were about to end up in a brawl – one in which a calm, domestic human like Signal would surely be at a huge disadvantage.
They wound up stopping mid-leap and mid-lean.
When the two human males connected, not a single sound or act of pain or aggression ensued. Instead, they wrapped their arms tightly about one another for a stretch of time before letting go. And, while remaining close, they began to chatter excessively and in vocal tones and inflections that Bumblebee didn't recall ever hearing from either Signal or Complement. Speaking of which…
Complement now moved from around the corner. As with Signal, the pair froze, then Complement approached. The strange male moved away from Signal and did another sprint toward the female – a surge of fright rose in Bumblebee, who wondered if Complement's gender might make the new human react differently – but they, too, engaged in the same act.
All three humans started making funny motions and sounds and very occasionally touching one another, yet none of it seemed aggressive, frightful, or defensive in the least. The wild human of before appeared to have vanished into thin air.
Prowl glanced at Bumblebee. That was much more drastic and quicker a change than he had dared think possible.
There was some type of commotion going on in the main room. Sam was roused from a cat nap by a conversation between two mechs. The teen rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying and failing to identify the guest. And, the more Sam concentrated, the more he thought he heard a weak struggle.
"That's impossible, Yellow's still here," he grumbled to himself. When Yellow was home there could be no struggling. A glance at his side confirmed that Mikaela was only just beginning to rouse from her nap. She yawned and murmured something that might have been 'what's happening?'
"Someone's here. I'm going to go see what's happening," he told her, standing and stretching.
Mikaela yawned again and stretched in place. "I'll come in a second," she promised, taking her time sitting up.
Sam nodded, still half in a daze, and meandered out of Yellow's room. He was certain Yellow was there, so Sam was not hesitant in his approach this time. Sam quickly spotted another foreign mech, this one a mix of black and contrasting white, who had a struggling something – a struggling someone – in his grasp.
Now who would want to try fighting against mechs, these mechs in particular? A man, that was who. A man looking mightily crazy, what with the grunts of effort, beginnings of a beard and the poofy…?
The train that was Sam's mind derailed right then and there. He felt his muscles tense up, like they were all inhaling. He had just gotten up, his senses were still fuzzy, surely, because the struggling form stopped its motions and stared right back, dumbstruck and amazed by Sam's presence, just as much as Sam was by his.
The facial hair was something new, but Sam knew the shape of the face; he'd seen a mess of hair like that before; he could sense hidden shreds of familiarity in the now-calm but previously-frantic expression.
"… Miles?" Sam barely dared to breathe out.
"Sam?" the stone-still figure practically squeaked, also uncertain whether or not he should believe his eyes.
The black and white mech crouched down and released his cargo onto the floor. It was a miracle that the human was able to stand in his state of shock.
Sam could not believe what he was seeing. There, in the room without any warning, was definitely Miles. It was Miles's hair, the same shade of irises, the same height… And yet there was something incredibly off about him. His body was too tense, more stressed than Sam had ever seen his best friend. He looked skinnier. His eyes… There was something in them that Sam could sense was different, even from where he was. Plus, the way Miles had been struggling had been so hurtful to watch. Miles had never gotten that angry about anything.
It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. I'm dreaming; I never woke up from that nap, Sam thought. Of course there was no way this could actually be happening.
It didn't feel real when he was taken, either, a taunting voice pestered.
They were silent for what seemed forever. Then,
"SAM!" Miles literally screamed, his whole face relaxing at once. It was the craziest Sam had ever heard him. It took Sam several seconds to conclusively determine that this wasn't a figment of his imagination, and that Miles really was sprinting to him. He belatedly ran forward to meet him, covering only a fraction of the distance Miles did before the blonde connected with him.
For the longest time Sam was only aware of Miles hugging him and him hugging Miles. He tightened his hands in the fabric on his best friend's back, not willing to let him go yet. Miles didn't seem ready, either. The eccentric teen had one hand fisted in Sam's shirt, the other splayed palm open, pulling Sam into him with a desperation and relief Sam could scarcely begin to place.
At some point they separated, and Sam swore Miles was about to break down.
"Oh God, Sam, I didn't think I was ever gonna see you again!" Miles breathed, reaching out again and grasping Sam's shoulders. He looked ready to cry.
"Me neither, man, me neither. Just… holy shit, Miles, what… what the hell? What happened to you? How'd you get here?" stuttered Sam, not knowing where to begin.
"Sam, you…" Miles shook his head frantically, laughing away the intense emotions, "… you have no idea."
"Hey," a new, slightly drowsy voice interjected, "Sam, what's all the…?"
"Mikaela!" came Miles's cry. When the girl had stepped around the corner and caught sight of him standing there, like an unprecedented ghost, she'd frozen with a hand in her hair and the other limp at her side. Miles at first was shocked into stillness again. His enthusiastic cry, however, broke the spell and set him running for Mikaela. She did an awkward jig when she – just like Sam – realized she wasn't imagining things. They hugged, too, all relieved squeezes and sentences cut short from disbelief.
Sam was with them to complete their trio for the first time in too long. Together, they created a frantic collection of nerves, each performing ducks and weaves and embraces. Together, all that could be heard was something like, "Miles – Sam – how did you – when – where did – Oh my God – Micky – holy shit – can't believe this!"
"You guys," Miles finally worked out comprehensibly. "You really did manage to stick together." His voice was seeping with his astonishment, and other not-so-obvious things.
"Oh, man, Miles… Yeah. Yeah, we did. We were lucky." Sam didn't know if he should grin and try and lighten the mood, or apologize for having been granted a type of solace his best friend had never gotten.
Miles was about to answer when he went stiff again, this time not from happiness. Twice his neck moved a fraction, almost beginning to rotate but never doing so. His shoulders rose – perhaps unconsciously – in a subtle but defensive gesture.
"Why are you just chilling out in the open? There's a million mechs here!" Miles whispered breathily. He saved himself the fright of looking around to acknowledge the two (which was just as bad as a million) mechs that, until then, he had forgotten were there.
Completely uncertain now, Sam gave Mikaela a rapid glance. From her stance it was clear she didn't understand the sudden worry.
"Naw, Miles, it's – it's okay. These guys are cool. Well, I know Yellow's cool, so I assume the other one is by association…" Sam began to trail off. He reigned it back in as he scanned his friend who, no doubt about it, had to have experienced something life-changing since they parted. Even if the newly acquired anxiety wasn't enough of a giveaway, now that Sam was really studying his friend, he could tell it from his face. "They're not going to hurt anyone, promise," he consoled, instantly knowing that that was his best friend's fear. "They… they…? Dude, I think they think you're going to give me rabies or rip my arm off."
Miles blinked in confusion at the random jump in tone. Both Sam and Mikaela nodded at something behind him. When Miles turned to investigate, he found that he was being carefully, somewhat anxiously watched by both aliens. The yellow robot was leaning forward, looking ready to separate them. Even the black and white one that had captured him had a hand stayed outwards.
The blonde glanced back at his best friend with renewed nervousness, then to Mikaela. He inched closer, ducking down more without thinking. "Protective much? I didn't know that any of these guys cared about any human."
"Yeah, we… we have it pretty good," agreed Mikaela. "Yellow is really nice." She hesitated. "Miles, how did you get here?"
"And why were you freaking out earlier?" added Sam. He stole a glance at the mechs again – the longer Miles didn't do anything, the more visibly relaxed they became.
Miles looked sharply at the two humans present. Something vital changed in that moment, and a buried ire sparked behind his eyes that practically transformed his whole face. "That bitch of an owner of mine! He shouldn't be allowed to be responsible for anything's life. He didn't feed me right, was always keeping me locked up and forgetting to give me what I needed, and he definitely didn't handle gently, either. One day he just up and threw me out – threw me out, Sam. I had no idea what was going on! How could I know what was going on?" His volume increased as he grew more impassioned. Miles began to gesticulate; Sam and Mikaela thought that Yellow was about to pull them away to safety at the sweeping motions, but when they remained unassaulted, the mech let some tension ebb.
"So I'm locked out of his apartment thing, right? And I mean locked out – kicked out, like trash. So I wind up having to run from all these giant robots who'd rather kill me than put up with me; don't think too much about it, but recall that humans don't exactly try and make life easy for mice in their houses by waving good morning to them and leaving port-a-potties lying around.
"And then there was the task of trying to find food, which is unbelievably hard to do on a planet inhabited by metal aliens that don't eat – freakin'! – anything," Miles stammered for a moment, trying to find the right words in his speedy recitation. The volume of his speech wasn't the only thing rising. His pace was becoming more and more rapid with every breath.
"After a while," he admitted angrily, "some started actively hunting me down. Now, I was pretty much starving and dehydrated by lack of resources by the sixth or seventh day."
The trio paused at the number-drop. Maybe a couple days Sam and Mikaela could picture, but a week?
"Then they started trying bait – like a freaking dog catcher! Oh, I completely outsmarted them for about another week and a half, but the food and water I got out of it were still pretty damn insufficient. And that's," said Miles dramatically, more than just a hint of ire in his voice as he looked over at the black and white mech, "when he showed up.
"God, I musta been a sight… I should've known better when there was just this set up of food and water and no visible trigger, but I was starving and dehydrated. I took the bait.
"The moment I passed what must've been sensors, these laser-looking bars erupted all over. Reasonably, I freaked right the hell out. Then, within a few minutes, this guy waltzes up.
"I'm still freaking out, mind you, and he comes at me! I start fighting the crap out of him and trying to dodge his hand and stuff, but he doesn't give up. I actually tried biting him for all of about one second. Eventually he got me squeezed tight in a hand and then I found myself in a cage at wherever it was this mech lived. It was pretty lock and key for about a day or whatever, and then this morning he snatched me up and brought me here," finished Miles. He breathed heavily, as though he'd run a race. Almost as quickly as it appeared, though, the anger vanished, replaced by another urgency. "God, I'm still starving! You guys wouldn't happen to have any…?"
Without warning the unknown black and white mech grabbed Miles mid-sentence and pulled him up. Not even the resident humans who were facing the mechs had noticed him stepping forward, so enthralled in Miles's summary of his recent treatment. Miles gave a start at the sudden action, automatically struggling in his captor's grip. Mikaela and Sam were also claimed. The two watched Miles sadly, their calmness completely contrasting to his fear and dislike of being handled by whoever this was.
All five migrated to Yellow's room. Sam and Mikaela watched as Miles and his captor approached their food and water supply. Black-and-White set the apprehensive Miles on the ground directly before the store of nutritional goods.
For whatever reason – confusion or suspicion – the boy didn't take anything from the box and instead studied the nearest mech. Black-and-White whistled low, then reached over Miles (the boy cringed) to grab a box of foodstuffs and present it to him directly.
"What do you want?" they heard Miles practically beg.
Sam recognized the signs that his best bud wanted to be anywhere else except out in the open with the black and white mech looming over him. That emotion, at least, was represented the same way. Sam had seen it hundreds of times before tests, presentations, or entering the lunch line on mystery meat days.
"Miles," Sam called in a quiet voice, barely avoiding making his friend jump. He started to walk forward, Mikaela joining after a second. "He's just trying…?"
Black-and-White dropped his free hand between them and Miles, halting their approach. The couple raised their eyes to alien optics, confused and miffed at being interrupted, even more so once Miles took an apprehensive step backwards at the motion.
The strange mech directed a few seconds of speech at Sam and Mikaela.
"Whatever," breathed Sam in a mumble.
"He's just trying to give you food," Mikaela advised. Though she knew she was trying to get Miles to see the mech wasn't a threat, she reflexively lowered her voice to prevent evoking even more of a negative response…since he already seemed displeased with their attempts to approach their friend. She found that action curious, until it struck her that maybe Black-and-White thought they wanted the food for themselves or they were getting territorial, in which case he might be trying to buy Miles more time to himself without interruption.
Something about that made her want to laugh.
Miles glanced sidelong at the offered container of food packets. "…Why?" he asked. He was almost too quiet to hear.
"Because you need it. Miles, please, these guys aren't bad, we promise," Sam made his heartfelt guarantee.
Words alone could not describe the conflict Miles went through then. It washed over him in rapid waves, the whole process taking only a few seconds. Inside, things were tearing: every mech he had met had been absolutely shitty to him, but Sam was his best friend and would never lie, and neither would Mikaela, even though this mech had been the one to finally catch him... and he should never trust a mech (ever!), but he remembered not that long ago – or maybe it had been long ago – not caring about much at all and having a good time with life… but now…
Miles blinked at Sam. Inhaling deeply, determination creating tiny creases on his face, Miles reached out and took two of the food bags. So focused was he that even when Black-and-White spoke to him after he barely twitched an extra muscle.
"Sam, can we… move?" asked Miles at length. "And can you guys, like… distract me? Talk about, I don't know, sitcoms or something?" His voice was strained with the effort to trust his best friend and try and exist for once without thinking about the threat of the mechanical aliens.
"Sure thing," Sam readily conceded. He began walking to the berth. Black-and-White did not try and stop Miles from following. "We thought about you a lot. Directly, and through pizza," he tried to joke.
Incredibly confused, Miles didn't respond for a few, very long seconds. A part of Sam regretted the comment. Of course Miles would have forgotten that lighthearted section of their parting words. Sam looked worriedly to his girlfriend for reassurance, but then Miles nodded. "Oh yeah. The pizza… I thought of you, too," he reciprocated.
A silent sigh of relief left Sam and Mikaela.
"Have you ever, uh, seen any of the outside? Sam and I did," Mikaela moved on. "We can't see it from in Yellow's house, but he's taken us places before. We can't seem to pin down what exactly the building preferences here are."
That got an eyebrow raise out of Miles, who sat down right at the junction between berth and wall. Though the resident humans thought the blonde would crawl underneath, Miles was content to sit in the open so long as both his friends were there and he didn't let his peripheral catch the mechs. The tension was still obvious in his stiff posture despite the attempts to appease Sam and Mikaela's encouragement.
"No, but if the building I've been running around in is any indicator, their style can't be that interesting. Pretty barren, if you ask me."
"Inside, maybe," Mikaela agreed, and Sam nodded, "but the outsides are scattered. It's just…"
"Alien?" supplied Miles, resting his forearms on his bent knees. He pulled the food pack open and grabbed what any domesticated human had come to accept was the fruit/vegetable substitute. All were quiet while he munched in a contemplative way. Twice he looked over at his friends. The third time, he swallowed purposefully and sighed. "I know you have questions, guys. You should just ask them and get them out of the way, you know?"
Sam did not speak. He had a thousand questions for Miles, like anyone who's best friend had pretty much returned from the dead. Sam doubted most of them would be welcome if they were trying to make Miles think of something else.
"Well, I have a question," Mikaela prompted, leaning forward. "Despite your lovely, very strange beard – which Sam here is apparently not manly enough to be able to grow," she threw in as an aside, earning a defensive 'hey' and a pout from Sam, "you don't look half bad."
While Miles tried to digest that and find the yet-to-be-asked question in it, Sam sulked, "I always knew you liked him better than me."
With an eye roll the young woman went on, "What I'm asking is, if you've been through so much poor keeping, how is it you managed to stay so relatively clean?" Mikaela was feeling the twinges of appearance jealousy, what with her unbearable hair, unshaven legs and underarms, unattended face... the list went on. She and Sam had managed to use some emptied food packets to collect water from the dispenser to use on the absolute necessities, but anything akin to proper bathing still eluded them. "I mean, did you find a water supply or something to wash down in?"
Miles did an interesting thing as Mikaela expanded on her question. His eyes widened, he took in a tiny breath, glanced to the side, and his position sunk back toward the wall.
"… I didn't, no," he answered with great timidity. "B-'n-W did. Found water and soap, I mean. Got to have myself a nice little bath," he said, heavy on the sarcasm.
Mikaela must have missed it, her attention only zeroing in on the word 'bath.' "You got to bathe? I wish Yellow let us bathe."
Miles snorted then, shaking his head. "Oh no. I didn't 'get' to bathe. I had to. Trust me – not a fun experience."
…
He'd been caught, he'd been caught, he'd been caught!
The phrase ran constantly through Miles's mind like an irritating song on a music player that couldn't be taken off repeat or, better yet, was skipping. He'd known he couldn't possibly run forever; energy intake and energy expenditure were so drastically different that it would have caught up with him eventually, but damn it all, Miles was sure going to give it his all!
Then the smart mech came into the picture. Then he had to go and be stupid and fall for that obvious trap. Now where was he? Trapped in a box, awaiting certain punishment, maybe death. How badly was he in trouble? Those questions, too, kept running through his mind, occasionally breaking the 'caught' train of thought for a moment or two. It all had the same effect on his mental state.
He had long sunken into a sitting form of the fetal position in his corner of the accursed box. "I'm in so much trouble, so much trouble… I'm so dead," he kept muttering.
Combined, the mantras made him lose track of time. It was anyone's guess how long it was before the opening of a door rattled Miles's troubled world. The teen looked up from between locks of his longish, uncared for hair, still muttering to himself. Although the muttering continued the mech's footsteps trailed elsewhere in the building.
Maybe his luck would be good for once. Maybe the mech would forget he was here, or – minimally – ignore him for now.
Luck continued to be against him.
The black and white mech swept into sight overhead, partially blocking the ceiling lights and casting Miles into shadow. The teen raised his head for better, ever cautious scrutiny.
Then the hand descended.
Miles gave a highly disapproving cry that was both brief and settling at the higher end of his vocal range. He jumped up from his position, splaying one arm out against the inner box as though he was being held up at gun point, holding the other bent in front of his body, ready to strike.
Black-and-white did not respect the stance at all. At the last moment, Miles hit the approaching limb with excessive force. He hissed in pain and drew his hand back in, cradling it to his chest and turning hate-filled and distrustful eyes to the mech. After the strike the mech had pulled his hand back some, but he was already advancing again. In a last ditch effort, the blonde kicked at the fingers, only to find that the robot didn't care whatsoever and simply grabbed him anyway.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Dude, put me down!" Miles growled out, writhing in the thing's grip, upset that his still-throbbing hand was now pinned. "I sentence you and your entire species to eternal damnation in robot purgatory!" the boy continued.
Little heed was given to his cries. Instead, Miles saw that they were approaching what was akin to a shallow sink of water, with shallow being a relative descriptor. Miles supposed it could have been six feet deep, which had to be nothing to the mech.
The mech placed him next to the edge of the basin. Miles glanced around quickly and determined that this room was neither a kitchen nor a bedroom, nor any sort of robot bathroom – in short, he had no idea where the hell in the robot's house this was, or what the heck it was supposed to be.
Miles noticed the mech coming at him again. His first instinct and reaction was to jump to the side. This mech was too quick for that. Yelping his protest, the teen found himself caught around the front and swept slowly but surely backwards until he tripped into the basin of water.
With a flailing and a splash, Miles was submerged in the surprisingly, perfectly warm water. It was not hot and yet far from cold. Miles didn't dare open his eyes from fear of what might be in said water… if it even was water, he thought dreadfully. His feet touched the slick metal bottom, and he pushed up. Breaking the surface, his eyes popped open, he started flailing again, and he spat some of the weird-tasting, impure substance from his mouth.
"Whoa!" Miles cried out when he became aware that the mech's hands were closing about him. He made to paddle out of the way and once again was too slow. Soft organic hands hit extra slippery metal under water, sliding over partially parted fingers every other moment until the mech got a decent hold on him.
Still splashing and frantic, and feeling increasingly as if he were going to be drowned, Miles's eyes darted rapidly around. He saw one hand being removed and reaching for a container of God knew what. In another second, a bit of bluish-green liquid was added to the water.
Then Miles really started to freak out.
Large fingers were grasping his garment that called itself a shirt. Miles gasped out his surprise when it was lifted away from him. He grabbed at the fabric and tried to pull it back, but with a 'gentle' tug, the mech had it away from him. When he realized that the mech was about to do the same to his pants, Miles gave thrashing a new definition.
"Rape! Giant robot pervert! GET OFF ME!" he shouted crazily. Wasn't being starved enough? What the hell was going on?
Yet, like the shirt and everything else, try as Miles might, he was unable to best the mech. In another moment he was freed of all clothes.
The surrealism of skinny dipping in an alien sink or alien whatever-the-hell-this-was, a ways away from Earth, didn't escape Miles.
The alien robot, clearly uncaring as to the human's nudity, started to swish the water with his spare hand until some bubbles began to form. Once the first few began to appear, the black and white mech started rubbing his fingertips gently at Miles's back.
The teen arched away as he came to the realization that he wasn't being intentionally violated. He was being given a bath.
An alien robot was bathing him?
A cloth appeared literally out of thin air (the surprise of which made Miles flail all the more as he tried to escape the fingers fiddling with him). The mech took that and submerged it in the water, carefully entangling Miles in it, and then scrubbing him by rolling the pocketed human about in it.
Miles gasped in a breath of air as he was pushed under the water to get his hair wet and soapy. He coughed after resurfacing, and angrily tried to bat away the fingers that moved to rub at his head.
After more coughing and flailing and craziness – Miles couldn't recall everything happening, only the splashing of water, his limbs constantly striking metal, and a weird cloth wrapped around him as he was gently but thoroughly scrubbed down – the mech pulled him and the cloth out of the water. Miles spat out the excess that had gotten into his protesting mouth.
Black-and-White took a couple steps to the side, and the teen watched as a faucet was turned on. Miles quickly shut his eyes as he was stuck out under the stream of water to be rinsed off. He growled under his breath while the mech shifted him all around and eventually removed the soaked rag to make sure he got all of the suds off.
Miles felt a new, dry cloth being wrapped around him. He opened his eyes and glanced around at the mech irately. Black-and-White was still immune to the glaring, and focused instead on drying Miles off.
Miles decided he was dry enough half a minute in and began to seriously struggle in the heap of material he was bundled in. With what sounded distinctly like a sigh, Black-and-White quit his fussing and pulled a clean set of store-issued clothes from out of nowhere. When he offered them to the teen – who was heatedly drying himself off and murmuring about the indignity of it all – Miles grabbed them roughly and huffily, instantly whipping them at the hand that continued to stray too near for Miles's liking.
The mech chattered harshly then, and Miles froze. Oh crap. Had he just gone too far? Immediately Miles was looking for an out. Where could he hide? Where could he dive? No where but back into the water, and Miles did not want the rapist mech to start violating him again.
The hand never came. Miles had no idea what to think. Was this… was this mind rape? It was torture. He knew he'd just pissed the mech off, and he was going to get punished for it sooner or later. Black-and-White should just get it over with! Miles hastily pulled on his pants – whipping his gaze up and down every other second, not letting himself lose track of the mech – to save himself that embarrassment.
Then came the shirt. The teenager was even more wary in putting this on, because there was going to be a guaranteed moment where he would lose his vision.
Even during that prime opportunity to catch him by surprise, the mech did nothing to him. Instead, Black-and-White waited several seconds more before grabbing Miles a second time. Miles was so convinced punishment was forthcoming that he didn't notice the grip that carried him back to his cage was less tight than previous.
…
"Bathing is not all it's cracked up to be," Miles said definitively.
Sam shifted, uncomfortable. "That sounds awkward, man. Although, I'd like to think I trust Yellow enough to not care that much, so long as I did get a good wash out of it. I don't envy you."
The blonde turned his head up and to the side. "You say 'trust.' I don't… don't get that. How can you trust any of them?" Miles stared at his friends like they were the crazy ones caught jumping and thrashing at the very notion of mechs. "After what they did to us?"
Neither Sam nor Mikaela could form any sort of answer at first.
"It's difficult to explain," was all Sam could come up with in a timely fashion.
Mikaela provided more, although at a measured pace. "We know you've had a horrible time, Miles, but – honestly – we can't say we have. Sure, a couple mechs here and there took us and used us and were prepared to leave us to die, but Yellow…" She paused. "He's a good mech, though I wouldn't have said it when he first got us. All of his friends have turned out to be. I'm not saying we get the red carpet or anything," she assured, catching an entirely doubtful stare on Miles. "We're treated more like a respected pet would be. They still fiddle with us on occasion, holding and coddling or reprimanding, but it's not excessive. It's actually kind of…"
"Enjoyable," Sam found the word that Mikaela couldn't.
More than a minute elapsed without reply. Miles was taking it in. Mikaela didn't know if she needed to add more, and after a few seconds, was afraid to. Sam observed the silence with deference.
"We must've had completely opposite experiences," Miles eventually broke the silence. He stared at his empty food bag with a half-frown. "We weren't crazily against the mechs when we first got here, but you didn't want to be taken any more than I did. Look at us now. I've learned to hate 'em in the same time it took you to fall in love with 'em."
"I think 'love' is a little strong," defended Sam in earnest. "Grateful, maybe. As happy as possible given the circumstances, yes. Love? Definitely not."
Miles laughed. The sound wasn't crazy or spiteful or malicious. Nonetheless, neither it wasn't from humor alone. "It's hard to picture that," he said, still not looking up from the bag. "It's hard to picture such drastically different attitudes. 'Course, the people at the shop were freakily keen on the idea of domestication. Not that I'm saying you turned into them," preempted the blonde with a shoulder roll in their direction. "It's just…" He raised his eyes. "The way I've had it…"
…
Miles did not know how often the aliens thought humans needed to eat. Some people fed their dogs twice a day, some once, some chose variations. The first time he'd been placed in this silver cage there had been food available. Several bags that mirrored the ones The Caretaker and Mr. Seasick had delivered to them were tucked in a corner near some questionable looking sheets. Well, rags, not sheets; the rags may have been white once, but were now off-white or yellowish, with dark stains that may very well have been from oil (after all, they were robots).
What a fire hazard, he thought amusedly.
There was water, too. The cage had a total area roughly the size of Miles's living room. However, it had the rags and a literal basin of water to take up a good fourth or third of the vicinity, making it seem cluttered and small. Other than that the space was barren.
That was three days ago. The several bags – four to be precise – were gone now, two for each of the first days. Should Miles have known he wasn't going to get replacements the third day, he may have rationed them even more.
His owner, Indy (named for his obvious indifference), had been neither good nor bad up until that point. The lack of attention might have been considered neglect, but Miles had been quite thankful for it, without more than a cursory glance or occasional cage-tapping passed his way.
The third day there was no food. Miles went hungry, and yet he was not overly so. He thought that maybe mechs believed humans needed only one packet of food a day, so the four packets should have lasted him four days.
A stray thought silently contradicted that The Caretaker had given them multiple meals daily.
The fourth day, there was no food.
At one point Miles's stomach got so voracious in its growls that the red gaze of his owner had grown angry and the teen had been snapped at.
Waking up hungry on the fifth day finally got Miles worried. His mind raced in loops. What if he didn't get any more food? And the water was starting to get low. What if the mech had forgotten, being a new pet owner and all? Shit! What could he eat? Miles had eyed the rags before shaking his head. 'Screw this; I'm no goat!'
Alas, after three days without a bite to eat, the sixth day brought another food packet. When Miles eagerly accepted the small, packaged morsels, he swore – in retrospect – that the mech gave a jarring laugh at his desperation.
It would be two days more until the next pack of food was given. By that time the water supply had depleted, and Miles went two days before it was refilled – and only halfway.
The rags themselves were not changed once during his entire stay with the mech.
…
The whitish mech was not completely a loner. Five times during Miles's stay, strange mechs – all with fiercely red optics that made him, for some reason, want to hide under his blankets – visited the abode. On one of the occasions, Miles was fairly certain there was some sort of party or other important social gathering going on.
Every single mech followed a similar pattern. Enter the room he was kept in, approach his cage, stare at him in some uncomfortable way, either poke at or jostle the cage to try and make him move, then say and/or snap something at him, and – for at least three mechs at the gathering, and each of the other times – open the cage and grab him out of it for show or examination.
Every single mech was also not well-versed in the art of human handling. They would grab, closing their hard metallic fingers too tightly around him, more than once making Miles think he would pop. Arms might be pinched, skin bruised as he was passed too roughly, head going dizzy and innards doing queasy flips when the hands would shift back and forward, holding him at angles he didn't want to be held at (like this one ass who thought it would be interesting to find his reaction to being held upside down, and who was terribly interested to see Miles's face go red from the unhealthy blood flow). What little contents were in his stomach at any given time always wanted to be forced up at such treatment.
Indy was the worst. Whenever he deemed Miles worthy enough of his attention, the mech would hold him so tightly that the blonde could scarcely breathe. Should he try and shift to something more comfortable, the grip would tighten and Indy would buzz sternly, suggesting he would not put up with any such 'struggling.'
Once, Miles – two and a half days without food, one and a half without water at the time – decided that if Indy was going to punish him for shifting his arm to a position where it wouldn't break, then he might as well go all out. Miles made head-banging metal- and rock-worshippers everywhere proud, writhing and wiggling and jutting his whole body back and forth.
Indy did not approve in the least. Rather than try and punish him, however, the mech quickly returned him to his cage.
Every subsequent time he was picked up, Miles repeated his wild thrashing until he was released.
Before Miles knew it, it was commonplace. It was practically a conditioned response. Any other time someone even went to pick him up he started acting crazy, and he was either left alone or put back down shortly thereafter. Indy may have further developed his habit of shoving the cage, as if saying 'you crazy piece of filth,' but Miles guaranteed he was never held for more than a few minutes again.
…
One day was different.
Thankfully full, having received food that morning, Miles was trying to fall asleep to escape his bored and stressful misery when stomping feet entered the house. Sleep was now impossible. Miles was afraid to move his head to acknowledge Indy's return from some outing or other, not wanting to do anything that might unnecessarily draw the mech's volatile attention. If the obvious haste to his movements was anything to go by, he would definitely get bruises from their interaction if it came to that.
Indy paced his house several times, settling at last on the main room where Miles was kept. Miles refused to open his eyes, instead squeezing them shut and pulling his limbs in; the mech was alternately hissing and yelling, and the human couldn't shake the vibe that the tones were directed at him.
Then the entire cage shook. The teen's eyes snapped open, his pulled-in hands shooting out to grab at the rags around him for support, which they didn't offer. Miles's heart gave a flutter when he found Indy's face very near the side of the cage, optics only intensely focused pinholes. The growling voice upped in ferocity, scraping in a way that made Miles wince and fling his hands to cover his ears. The mech growled more at that.
Indy stood and tore open the top of the cage without warning. Miles didn't have time to struggle before the hand closed around him, squeezing so hard that nearly all the air was forced from the human's lungs. Wheezing to try and find breath, Miles could not register that he was still being barked at, and being carried hastily to the front door.
'What the hell did I do?' he thought frantically between gasps for oxygen, although there was little open space in his lungs for oxygen to reach.
And then he was being thrown outside. Miles hacked loudly as the pressure vanished from his lungs. Indy had bent down and strewn him across the metallic-tiled floor – the teen's hands squeaked as they slid over the polished surface, fighting for purchase and failing.
Miles lay there, dazed and coughing and in pain, for several minutes. When at last he had his breath back, he turned his head to the side and discovered that the door was long shut. He was in a hallway now, long and spaced with large doors and strange structures lining either side that might have been shelves and cabinets or something else entirely.
"Am… am I supposed to live out here by myself?" he whispered harshly. His own voice sounded weird from infrequent use, and stranger still due to the rare tone of speech he'd settled on (Miles, frankly, never hissed).
Yes.
He was expected to stay alive by his own ingenuity.
…
"… and don't start me on the ordeal about surviving on my own," he whispered, faint as he could be while still being heard.
Sam only stared, wide eyed, at the retelling. How his best friend managed to relate even that without breaking down – because Sam was sure there was so much more to it than that – was impressive enough. There were no words to say to that.
"Miles, we… we had no idea," Mikaela managed with some difficulty, finding her voice small and almost childish in light of Miles's, which had left no room for error, argument, or lightheartedness.
"I know you didn't, and I know that's not your fault," he answered. He gave a dry smile. "But you see why you suddenly saying there's a mech you can so-called 'trust' is so hard to believe?"
And yes – after a shared glance, Mikaela and Sam knew that they understood his stance now.
Still, they pitied him for it, and hoped that Yellow would help him see otherwise.
Prowl watched with intrigue as 'his' male continued to communicate with Signal and Complement even as he rested against the wall and contented himself with a steady food supply. "So would you be willing to care for and monitor him for a half dozen joors or so?" he asked. The human was infinitely calmer now that he had been introduced to others of his kind. "It looks very probable that his behavior was due to desperation and maltreatment. He seems to be perfectly capable of peaceful coexistence."
"Poor thing," agreed Bumblebee. "The whole experience must've been so scary for him… I wouldn't mind watching him for as long as it takes for you to find him a home. Signal and Complement seem to like him, and the other way around."
Even as they spoke, Signal stole a piece of carbohydrate-filled food and threw it back at the newcomer. The newcomer caught it and promptly ate it. Signal and Complement both made funny sounds that made their bodies tremble slightly.
"If it turns out that he's normally as well-behaved as he now appears," said Prowl at length, "I would be willing to take him."
Bumblebee looked doubtfully at the ex-tactician. "You? With an organic pet?"
"Yes," Prowl said calmly. "I'm capable of taking care of one. I wouldn't want him to end up with another traumatic experience due to neglect or incompetence, and I have considered taking a human in before. I needed one without many behavior complexities that demanded time I did not have, but if this calmer nature of his persists, I do not see the problem. That, and," he said, a little out of character with a hint of conspiracy in his voice that got Bumblebee's full attention, "never tell the twins I said this, but I do occasionally miss not constantly looking out for and being responsible for someone."
Bee chuckled. "Don't worry, Prowl; my vocals are muted. Does this potential pet have a name, then?"
The tactician contemplated the human. "I was thinking that Quirk would be an appropriate designation. It has an air of frivolity, the human himself was an irregularity in the building we found him in, and clearly he has personality quirks that we may never fully comprehend." As 'his' human began throwing a brown food item into the air and slapping his hands together before catching it – repeating the action and adding more slaps as if racing against gravity – Prowl's faceplates betrayed a smile. "I think Quirk is a very appropriate name."
A.N.
Been waitin' 7 chapters for this, right? Probably one of the only things more anticipated (I'd be willing to bet) is the revelation of human sentience. Sorry – that one isn't due to arrive just yet. There will be more Miles to come, don't worry.
Again, congrats to those who correctly identified earlier foreshadowing. And, regarding Miles/Prowl – while originality is always awesome, some story facets are too good to pass up, their interactions being one of those.
And thanks for all the reassurances about the loss of my dog. It might be a little odd since I don't know any of you outside the virtual world, but the comments did mean a lot to me.