A/N: … wow. I feel pretty horrible for leaving this story untouched, without even a tiny update, for over half a year. I've got all kinds of excuses that you're probably not interested in hearing about – but I've pulled off such things before and excuses are lame. Lame, I say!

So. It's, um… it's August already. This summer's been busy and it's gone by very, very quickly. And… I thought… I had this short bit written back in March, when I was on a retreat for a weekend to recover from… a lot of crap. Six pages of 'fic is better than nothing, I guess! This'll at least address that seven-month cliffhanger that's been here since January.

Warnings: None, except for perhaps the slaughtering of science and basic organic biology.

Disclaimer: Transformers are the property of Hasbro, meaning I don't own 'em. Except for some toys. Yesss. The new Animated toys are awesome.

Insignificance: Chapter Thirteen

Whoever was at the door didn't wait for a response. In the fraction of a second it took for the barrier to swing open, a frantic stream of scenarios sped through Sam's brain, each more severe than the last. First it was Agent Simmons, demanding to know why the hell more evil robots had arrived on Earth; Mikaela's ex-con father appeared next, threatening Sam's life; last came Secretary of Defense Robert Keller, informing Sam that the Autobots were banished from Earth and those who stayed behind would be deactivated by force –

"Hello, soldier." Captain Will Lennox shot Sam a grim smile, then turned to the nurse. "I need you to rig up an ambulance with whatever the hell it takes to keep the kid alive."

"What – "

"It needs to be ready in five minutes. Capiche?"

The man nodded, gave Sam a final look, then whisked himself from the room.

Lennox turned back to Sam, that grim smile again gracing his features. "You're a real fighter."

Sam shook his head. "No, I'm not. I stayed out of the action as much as I could. I shouldn't – I should have even been there! I saw friends die! None of it even should have happened – "

"Most violence shouldn't happen, Sam – you know that, and, hell, even I know that. You're alive, and that's what matters right now." Will paced the width of the room twice, then took a seat next to the bed. "Bumblebee gave me a ride here. He's waiting with Prowl – he's a good police car, I'm hoping – by the loading dock."

Sam's heart rate sped up at the words of Bumblebee being close by. "You – you trusted him enough to take you here, then?"

Lennox nodded. "Sam, believe me – after spending the last seven years in the U.S. armed services, I can easily say I know all about stupid mistakes." The man grimaced, ran a hand over his forehead, and said, "Truth is, I wasn't actually aware of what had happened until Bumblebee decided to explain on our way here."

"How much did he tell you?"

A shrug. "I don't know. Enough. I've got a pretty good idea of what went down and why. Stupid mistakes happen in war, Sam – they're unavoidable."

"But Mikaela – "

" – was an innocent victim, yes – a bystander. A civilian casualty. These things happen, as regrettable and sad and horrible as they are! Sam," Lennox said firmly as he placed a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder, "I'm sorry for your loss – I'm really, truly, very sorry. Myself, I've become jaded to stuff like this – but for you, I know that it's a terrible burden to carry."

Sam sighed and relaxed in his bed again, his eyes resting on his hands. They were still scuffed and cut and scratched from the day's ordeal, but no longer filthy and bloody – with an inward groan, he realized that his face and his body must be terrible-looking. Several questions darted through Sam's mind, and finally, he centered on one. "Why are you here?"

"To escort you back to the Autobot base so they can save your ass," Will said, a tiny hint of a smirk creeping into his eyes. "Ratchet and, uh – the other guy – "

"Wheeljack?"

"Yeah, him. They're coming up with something to get you outta this mess," Lennox explained. "Earlier today, you got banged up by one of the bad guys – it's the reason why you're here right now, of course. Your friends are back at the base, working their tailpipes off to find something that will keep you alive and cure whatever the hell it is that's messing with your body."

Sam made a face. "Oh – oh, God – they're not gonna build me into some freak like a – a cyborg or something – "

Will laughed. "No, I don't think so. The doc 'Bot mentioned something about an alien virus and Wheeljack figured he could come up with some sort of blood regulator in a short amount of time. You're not gonna be turned into fuckin' Robocop, Sam."

"Okay, good. I was having these weird dreams…"

At that moment, the nurse returned, this time with a pair of assistants. "The ambulance is loaded with the necessary equipment and ready to go."

Lennox nodded, turned back to Sam, and said, "Alright, let's get you out of here."

In his life, Sam had seen plenty of movies with dramatic hospital escape scenes – this particular night, however, was anything but. His body was too weak to stand, not to mention the fact that there were all kinds of tubes connected to his wrist and his damaged leg – and so Sam was wheeled on his stretcher through the stark, white corridors of the hospital, the fluorescent lights flashing by overhead. Time was apparently an issue, and the nurse pushing him did so at a rapid but controlled pace, fast enough that Lennox had to jog to keep up. They rounded a corner, pushed through a set of double-doors, and found themselves in an antechamber, its bay door leading outside to the loading dock.

Sam could feel the nighttime breeze hit his face – it felt so much better than the bottled, sanitized air that was pumped through the hospital. Carefully, he was wheeled out through the garage door and down a ramp that led to the flat ground of the small parking lot. Sam propped himself up on his elbows – there was the ambulance – flanking it was Prowl, on one side, roof lights already flashing – and there, on the other side, a sight that made Sam's heart jump into his throat, was Bumblebee. Unlike Prowl, whose unscathed frame shined in the night, the yellow Camaro was dented and dinged and scratched; his rear bumper was missing entirely, and both headlights were blown out.

God how Sam wanted to spring from the stretcher to which he was bound and brush the hood of that still-beautiful car, and whisper that no matter what,Bumblebee was forgiven – but before Sam could say anything, he was loaded into the back of the waiting ambulance, Lennox quick to follow. The doors were slammed shut, a woman connected Sam to several of the apparatuses, and all of a sudden, they were moving. Sirens wailed madly; Sam leaned his head back and for what had to be the millionth time wished the night would just end.

"I'm done with you, Sunstreaker. It's as good as new."

"The Pit it is! It's bare metal. It looks like scrap."

"Don't test my patience," Ratchet growled, suddenly becoming very ominous and threatening. "Sideswipe's in a worse state than you, and the only reason he let you be tended to first was on account of your incessant whining."

"But – "

"Not to mention I still need to tend to Bumblebee and Jazz – and Optimus – and least important of all, myself."

"Still – "

"Get the frag out of my medbay." The medic paused and considered his surroundings. The entire aircraft hangar had been converted into a makeshift infirmary, so to be fair… "Just go outside, Sunstreaker." The yellow Autobot made to challenge him, but Ratchet's glower prevented any further complaints. "Now."

Sunstreaker gave the CMO a parting glare before turning on his heel and exiting the hangar. It was still twilight outside; dawn would be coming soon and the air was cool and moist. Sunstreaker sighed, glanced back at the temporary base, and continued to plod away, until he had put a good distance between himself and the rest of the Autobots. Exasperated and tired, the Lamborghini settled himself upon a flattened chunk of sandstone and turned his optics toward the horizon. The line between the sky and the earth was a pale yellow, evidence that the sun would rise soon. Sunstreaker circulated air through his vents in a sigh, then glanced down at his newly-repaired armor. Thanks to the dampness of the Earth's atmosphere, condensation was starting to gather on the cooled metal, running in rivulets down the Autobot's chest plates, over Ratchet's repair job, where the alloy had not yet been primed or repainted.

In a scene reminiscent of what had happened during the war on Cybertron, Sunstreaker had been expelled from Ratchet's medbay yet again. The yellow warrior couldn't help the fact he was vain and easily angered; they were faults in his CPU – glitches in his emotional chip. Probably the same reason why Prime's so honorable, and Bumblebee's so fragging stupid.

Speaking of which, how was Bumblebee doing? Sunstreaker hadn't seen the yellow scout or his human since they'd returned, nor had he seen Wheeljack. The warrior absently wondered if the situation was dire – if Sam's life was in danger, or if Wheeljack had succeeded in detonating another invention meant to aid the boy. In the long run, Sunstreaker didn't care much, one way or another, about the fate of the human. He'd only just met Sam less than twenty-four hours prior – he wasn't attached to the boy like Bumblebee or Optimus; Sam's survival was not high on his list of Things to Worry About.

There was the growl of a nearby engine, and Sunstreaker shifted his position to find the source. A sport utility vehicle rumbled over the desert terrain, its green color dulled in the twilight, headlights flashing every time its tires hit bumps and dips on the rocky ground. The Jeep Wrangler transformed and plodded to where Sunstreaker sat, blue optics glowing softly in the semi-darkness of dawn.

"How're you holding up?"

The Lamborghini rolled his shoulders in a shrug, and turned back to the brightening horizon. "I'm fine. Ratchet kicked me out of the hangar… his usual antics… though I do suppose I was being an aft-head…"

Hound smirked, and kept his optics focused on the impending sunrise. A full five minutes of silence passed between the two Autobots, the warrior and the scout each lost in his own thoughts, before the Wrangler murmured, "I think I could get used to this planet."

Sunstreaker balked at this declaration. "You've been here for less than one of their days, Hound."

"I know," was the passive reply. "But just looking at this sunrise – its untainted beauty – that's all the affirmation I need."

"Perhaps…"

Wheeljack was examining Sam's prone, unconscious form when Ratchet came stomping through the door of his original medbay. "Hey, Ratch…" the inventor said cautiously, recognizing the look of discontent on the other Autobot's face. "What's up? You're not done out there already – ?"

"Primus, no," the medic all but snarled. "What we've got is quite the lot of honorable glitches out there! Sometimes I wish Autobots weren't programmed to be so fragging virtuous."

The scientist smirked behind his facemask, then turned his attention to a half-constructed device resting on a nearby panel. "Do continue."

Ratchet threw his arms up in the air in frustration, then, busying himself with checking the human machines to which the unconscious form of Sam was connected, started a rant Wheeljack would remember for centuries. "I ask – no, tell – Sideswipe to slagging lay down already, so I can work on the severed energon conduits in his arm and leg. Does he cooperate? No! That fragger's whole left side is either missing or scrap metal, and I tell him he'll bleed to death if I don't fix him up. No problem, he tells me. I'll just go into stasis lock until you're done saving Sam. Can you believe that? This is coming from Sideswipe!"

Wheeljack raised an optic ridge in surprise, amusement showing in his features. Carefully, he soldered two tiny wires together. "Out of character, if ya ask me."

"You're telling me! So he did – that glitch is in stasis lock, as we speak. So I went to Jazz next – he right-out refused treatment. I can't argue with him – not because he's my superior or anything – but arguing with Jazz is pointless. So then I went to Bumblebee. He's more damaged than Jazz – all kinds of fractured plating, severed wires – and I know what Barricade did to him on the battlefield."

"Let me guess," Wheeljack said. "He told you to frag off and not to return until you were done with Sam."

"Correct," the medic said, sounding disgruntled. "So here I am, helping you. How's that coming?"

"Better than expected, actually." The Autobot inventor connected another set of wires on the small device then snapped it shut.

Ratchet moved in for a closer look. Whatever Wheeljack had been laboring on was miniscule – it was the size of a human cigarette lighter, rectangular in shape, constructed from some type of Cybertronian alloy. "What is it?"

"I got a closer look at that wound and magnified those blood samples we took, earlier. In a way, you were right about the blood refusing to clot."

The CMO frowned and shot an accusatory glare at the other Autobot. "What do you mean, in a way?"

Wheeljack shrugged. "It's a little more complicated than that. As you can see," the inventor gestured toward the comatose form of Sam, who was still wearing his thin hospital gown, " – he has other wounds on his body, ones that were inflicted during the battle. Mostly on his hands and knees, probably from crawling on the ground. Human flesh is highly vulnerable to bits of glass and metal, it seems."

Ratchet pondered this for a moment. "Go on."

"Well, these wounds stopped bleeding. The blood clotted soon after the skin was broken, unlike the Cybertronian-inflicted wound that Sam got, yesterday afternoon. This led me to believe that whatever is infecting Sam is, at the moment, restricted to the immediate area where it was inflicted. Now, that's not so say it can't spread – because I'm sure, Ratchet, as a medic you know how nasty some of those ailments out there can be."

"Indeed. When it's allowed to spread, Cosmic Rust is one of the worst ones out there."

"And that's where this gets really interesting," Wheeljack said, his headfins flashing a light blue. The inventor rummaged around in a poorly-organized drawer overflowing with medical supplies, then withdrew a datapad of some sort. "You can almost think of this as Cosmic Rust that targets carbon-based organic tissues. Because the condition is isolated to one area – that is, Sam's wounded calf – I took a few tissue samples, as well, and had an even closer look with the electric magnifier." Switching on the datapad and bringing up a magnified image, Wheeljack handed it to Ratchet. "As you can see, whatever was on Ravage's exostructure is highly dangerous to organics. At a molecular level, the residue attacks living cells and prohibits them from multiplying, as organic cells do – much like our own internal repair system. This – virus – blocks cellular function. It doesn't kill its host, but it renders the cell useless. In addition, there's a compound in there that prohibits blood from coagulating – somewhat like the chemical certain Earth insects inject into their host when sucking their blood. Hence the reason why Sam's blood is not clotting: the cellular walls cannot repair themselves and the blood, infected or not, merely passes through. The skin that came into contact with Ravage, as well, will not heal itself with a scar."

"Fascinating," Ratchet conceded, and turned his optics to the human. "Did you knock him out with something…?"

Wheeljack nodded. "Yeah, actually, the human nurses did it on the way here. I don't know what all this mumbo-jumbo over here is," – he gestured to the contraptions to which Sam was connected – "but one of these tubes going into his body is supplying him with a chemical that is keeping him unconscious – and, fortunately, unaware of pain."

"And the device?"

"It's a beauty," the scientist murmured thoughtfully, picking up the mechanism between his thumb and forefinger. "The compound attacking Sam's cells is, of course, Cybertronian in origin, and has a metallic makeup. I constructed a nullifying magnet that specifically targets that molecular compound. It should draw it out of the cells – those infected will die, but with the virus gone, new cellular structures will be able to grow in their place."

Ratchet clapped his hands together in appreciation. "Excellent! So I assume it will have to be implanted into his leg, then? Or will it just be attached to the dermal layer?"

"It will need to be implanted into his skin, yes," Wheeljack said, "and that is where I need you."

The Autobot medic nodded, and, glancing once more to the unconscious human on the operating berth, wished for the umpteenth time that organics weren't so fragging delicate.

To be continued…

A/N: Short. I know. Besides the crap happening in my life, there are a few other reasons for this unfortunate hiatus. Number one, this story was started over a year ago, back when I was solely a fan of the Michael Bay TF movie – but I've moved on to G1 and Animated now. Not to say that I don't still like the TF2007 movie -- because I do. It's just that I prefer the cartoons. Secondly, and I know this sounds weird from the author of this 'fic, but human/robot relationships kinda freak me out now. I mean, I'm all for 'bot-on-'bot slash, but… Yeah.

However – and there is a however! – as an author, I do feel I have an obligation to finish what I've started. (Because, I know how it is, to be reading a 'fic that's never finished, and that really does suck.)

Again, sorry for the hiatus, and I hope this short little chapter helped a little.

- mo