Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or its characters.

Charles Morgan couldn't explain what had made him trust the medic he'd never met before with the safety of his patient. All he could say was that something about the medic felt trustworthy.

He frowned at the immense size of the medic had suggested, as well as his inner musings. This building was meant for soldiers and war medics. Why would the stranger insist that miss Raynes be brought here? Surely if she were in as much peril as the medic thought he wouldn't dare move her, especially not on such a long trip. He could have set arrangements for his needed supplies to be transported to him, like anyone else in his situation. The location itself made no sense. The patient wasn't a soldier, nor did she have any field medic training in her background.

Charles had checked for those possibilities the first time she came to him, and again before they left Nevada.

Something wasn't adding up in this mess, and he'd find out what later. First, he needed to focus on his patient.

Charles paced outside the closed Med Bay doors, seething. The Medic had kicked him out, muttering about policy and trade secrets within the base being compromised if he was allowed inside.

Ha! Absolute nonsense!

He had tried to fight his unwillingly ejection from the room, arguing that she was his patient and he'd already begun treatment on her, but they had deflated that defence quickly. The medic had countered with the fact that there were unknown substances in her system, stating that he had the appropriate supplies and equipment required to more adequately care for Miss Raynes. Morgan had had no choice then but to leave Med Bay willingly, on his own accord, or be escorted out with soldier assistance.

As Charles paced, his mind turned to mere hours before. The results of the ultrasound he had performed on Miss Raynes while the medic was at some important meeting haunted the doctor. She was far too young for such a devastating tragedy.


I blinked my heavy eyes open, slowly reaching the waking world. My mouth felt dry as a desert and my throat felt like hell.

I rolled my stiff neck and shoulders against the metal table I lay on, the movement making that weird slinging static like sound you sometimes hear while moving an arm over smooth metal. My mind caught up to present, the realization of what the situation usually meant slammed into me.

My muscles froze, my heart rate picking up. This couldn't be happening. Not again.

In a flash, I sat up and glanced around. A giant metallic form stood on the far side of the room.

I realized that the table I was on was very, very large. I had to run to reach the edge quickly since I had been laid in th. middle of it. A look down confirmed my fears at this point.

I was very high up. At least twelve feet high.

Frag!

The only way I'd get down is to either produce rows of sheets from my ass, ready to hook to something and shimmy down. Or, the mechanics beings holding me.

I leaned over, debating my choices.

No sheet. No ladder. No jet pack.

I was suddenly airborne, a metal hand closed around my body and lifting me. I struggled and kicked. "Let me down! Get off me!"

Panic burst from my chest when I hadn't been released and I immediately reached for the gun I'd hidden on me. Thank Primus, they hadn't searched me and confiscated it. I aimed and fired a few rounds in quick succession.

A curse rang out and I was dropped to the table. I hissed as my back made contact with the hard surface and forced myself to roll up on my knees. I trained the gun on the robot, not taking my finger off the trigger.

I wasn't taking any chances. If he moved, I'd shoot again. "Stay away from me!"

I got a better look at the mechanical being now that I faced him.

Mint green. I knew that color. Blue eyes.

Ratchet.

Knowledge warred with mistrust. Logically, I knew he wouldn't hurt me. My emotions and experiences, on the other hand, wouldn't be convinced so easily.

My head hurt and my thoughts whirled. I was confused and panic was winning.

"Lower the table." I ordered, stepping forward a bit.

The mech didn't move immediately and I fired a shot near his hand. "Do it or the next one goes through your chest plates."

His hand went to a panel and pressed two buttons, the table began to slowly lower. "Femme, think about what you're doing. Do you honestly believe no one heard you discharge the weapon? Make this easier on yourself and put it down. Don't fight them when they come."

As soon as the table was low enough I jumped down, glad to be away from the cold metal. I kept the Bot in sight, creeping backward toward the door.

The door opened before I could reach it and Ironhide was the first through. The sleek silver form of Jazz slipping in after him.

My fear and panic increased. There were three of them now. They outnumbered me. They'd hurt me together. Laugh at my pain.

No! I screamed in my mind, dimly aware that I'd also localized the protest.

I whirled from Bot to Bot, never keeping my eyes off of them more than five seconds. A movement made me immediately twirl to the Bot responsible. Jazz. "Don't move! Stay away from me! All of you! Stay exactly where you are or I'll shoot!"

"You want a fight, femme? Do you?" Ironhide growled, cannons emerging and pointing at me.

"Don't you dare, Ironhide! The femme's stress levels are high enough as it is. Any higher, and she may experience cardiac palpitations or even seizure." Ratchet responded hotly, blue eyes staring sternly at the other mech. "Femme lower the weapon. Go with then willingly to Optimus."

Images sprung to mind when he mentioned leaving with them. Straps. Burning. Pain. Laughter.

"No! Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!" I screamed, pressing my hands to my head as hard as I could. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it all to just stop.

With my head bowed against my chest, my eyes caught a tiny bit of metal poking out of the top of my shirt. Tags.

More emotions rose up to join the others. My emotions still swirled and me like an angry sea. I needed someone. I needed someone who knew what it felt like. I needed a soldier. Human. Someone familiar and safe.

"Lennox. I want Lennox." I whispered, my eyes tracing the tags. Lennox could help me.

I didn't take the gun off the Bots as I waited to see if Will would come.

I didn't have to wait long. The doors opened and Will walked through in his camouflage gear. He walked directly to me, processing the situation at hand. "You requested my presence."

I felt small and vulnerable. Strung out on a thin wire.

"The females stress has decreased. Cardiac arrest is no longer a danger." Ratchet assessed, seeming to ignore my order for him to shut up.

I stared down at the gun. I couldn't separate what I felt. I couldn't find the words I needed to express what I required of Will.

"Give me the gun." He stretched a hand, palm up.

I released my grip on the gun, letting him take it. "I-I don't-I can't. . ."

I gave up, frustrated at my lack of proper communication.

"What is it? You don't what?" Lennox asked, eyes kind as he seemed to recognize the almost helpless expression I wore.

"I don't know how to do this. I'm not weak. I'm not, but. . .I feel so. . ." I cut myself off. "I don't feel like me anymore. . . I feel like they have a piece of me in that bunker."

Silence. He was watching me, contemplating.

I tugged his tags from my neck and held them out to him. "I'm sorry I hit you so hard with the bat and took your stuff."

I looked at Ratchet, sobs starting in my throat. "I'm sorry I shot you. I'm sorry."

I hugged myself, trying to curl in on myself as I cried. Today had just been. . .emotional and hectic. . .

I remembered Will's presence and threw myself at him. I needed warmth to fight the cold I felt inside. I wanted to remember touch with kindness and not pain.

I wanted the whole experience to have never been. A nightmare I'd wake from.

None of these things were possible. . . .


I refused to return to the table. Much to the medical officers frustration.

"I can't, Ratchet. Barricade installed a table at the bunker." I explained, my voice hoarse from yelling.

So, with reluctance, they allowed me a room with a bed. The catch was I had to be supervised. I deserved that.

I hawked at the bed. The sight was so foreign after sleeping for so long on a crevice.

Ratchet had informed me that I had been help captive for two and a half months. I was too tired and emotionally exhausted to respond at the moment.

The reaction could wait until the morning.

I folded blankets on the floor in a pallet and fell asleep almost immediately after my head lay on the pillow.