A/N: I wish to thank everyone for sticking with me in this ever-growing story! I cannot believe all the support and love that has come my way with these characters. The fact that people love Lydia (and love her with Ratchet) just makes my heart flip with happiness. Thank you to everyone that has offered suggestions, help, reviews, or just let me randomly rant about things like writer's block or Ironhide refusing to do what I asked him to do. I think he's still sore about being yelled at by Sarah Lennox. ::shrugs and grins:: He'll get over it... I hope?
This chapter was delayed by several things, and for that I apologize. You see, when people started reviewing this story in ernest, I made a promise that I would put out one chapter a week at the very least. I know that I am addicted to several stories involving our favorite Cybertronians, and it's frustratingly fun to wait a month or more for an update. I wait, of course, because these stories are just amazing and I truly love the work the authors have put into them. But being on the waiting side, well, I didn't want to do that to anyone that reads and enjoys this story.
Given that, I want to give a huge apology to Razorgaze, my beta. She is fantastic and also an amazing author as well. Check out her story "Our Debt," the link to which is on my profile page. The apology comes because my husband was giving me such crap about how I agonize over this story, trying to make it perfect. Finally, I looked at him and told him that if he thought he could do it better, he could beta this chapter for me. Three hours later, he gave the laptop back and muttered about how Razorgaze must be a saint or something to put up with my crazy ideas.
I, personally, laughed hysterically. Hence, this chapter was Beta'ed by LordofDarkstar. If there are issues with it, I will throw them gleefully into his lap.
Disclaimer: I only wish I owned Transformers. Alas, I do not. This is only for fun. Please don't sue!
Thirty Earth cycles had passed, Ratbat calculated, staring down at his limp and damaged wing. Thirty Earth days since that cowardly Starscream had left him for dead. Thirty cycles since that insufferable Grimlock had crunched down on his slender form, nearly ripping him literally limb from limb. The anger in those massive jaws, the pain from those razor-edged teeth… it was enough to send him back into a spark-attack to think about it. Needless to say, it was an experience he would never want to relive again.
But it wasn't without its merit, either. For when that confoundedly stupid dinobot had set about chewing on his frame, he had been screaming out the name of that femme, that Lydia. There was something monumentally significant about that human woman —if indeed she was human at all, something of which he was beginning to seriously doubt—to make no less than three Cybertronians scream her name in less than an Earth hour.
Lydia… Lydia… and Josh.
He played their names over and over again as he limped around his tiny cell. It took him less than four steps to make it completely from one side to the other, however the action felt good to what was left of his shell. Ratchet had patched him up enough to keep him functioning, and for that he was marginally grateful. He wasn't even resentful of the fact that the medic had refused to repair his wings or his damaged scanning and targeting systems. If anything, it deepened his respect for him. That balance between compassionately repairing a prisoner and outright denying said prisoner anything to aid in his escape showed a brilliance that was severely lacking in the processors of most of his brethren.
Most of his fellow Decepticons thought only of the thrill of destruction, never about the gain or cost of the act. Ratchet evidenced a remarkable knack for tallying up the points on both sides of an argument within a nanosecond, choosing the option that presented the most gain for his side of the war. Never choosing the side that benefited the medic most, personally, or provided better entertainment or independent gratification. Ratbat could overlook that self-sacrificing tendency of the medic's in favor of the shrewd mind behind those blue optics.
Because it would have been much more gratifying to the mech in question to watch Ratbat die of his injuries. That much was plain in every fury-filled motion of Ratchet's steady hands. Ratbat had been treated to the delicious sight of watching those blue optics blaze nearly red with barely contained rage. Yet still, with all the outrage burning within the mech's spark, his actions were precise and he did his job with incredible skill.
More than ever, he was certain that Ratchet was meant to be a Decepticon like himself, one possessed of skill as well as rage. And perhaps this Lydia was the key to his undoing. It was a thought that bore merit, but one that was to be pushed aside in favor of the larger puzzle. No, the foremost puzzle on his proverbial plate was that of the femme, herself. What was it about her that had mechs demanding her presence, willing to forego carefully crafted plans or attempting to lay down their very sparks for her pitiful fleshy life?
For a moment he allowed the fantasy to play out before his optics as it had for the length of his incarceration, the image of the woman tied to his examination table. Her screams would echo for hours and hours as he pushed her pain tolerances to their limits. But he would never kill her with the agony alone. Oh, no, there were far more interesting things to learn from her body. Death would be such a waste at this point. Besides, the object of his true anger would not be far from his grasp. The human male called Josh would be nothing more than pieces for him to kick around at his leisure before he would have turned his attention back to Lydia.
Then he would dissect her molecule by molecule until he discovered the source of her power, of her sway over the mechs she came in contact with. Later, possibly, he could find a way to blame her death on the Autobots. The thought made him chortle as he turned to limp-pace his way to the other side of his cell. Sweet irony, as the humans would say, to see Ratchet turned against everything he once believed in over the death of his little human pet. Then he would come to Ratbat with a will forged in rage and optics the color of her spilled blood.
Then he would utilize the mech to take apart Starscream bit by tiny memory bit. It was a delicious fantasy, one that kept his circuits fueled and his anger primed during his tenure as a prisoner.
"In a good mood today, I see."
Ratbat did not bother to look up. One of his optics was crushed beyond repair anyway, and the damage to his cerebral circuits impaired what vision was left in the remaining one. "What business is it of yours, Autobot?"
Ironhide shrugged a shoulder, one of those frightening cannons beginning to charge. "Maybe today's the day that Prime will let me blast you back to the Matrix."
Half of Ratbat's face curled up in a smile of pure malice, the other hung as lifeless and shattered as his wings. "I should be so lucky," He watched the mech's eyes narrow, taking some kind of pleasure out of turning Ironhide's barb back against him. Carefully he turned, continuing his pacing. "What is it you want, lackey?"
"I am no one's lackey, rodent," Ironhide growled, stepping closer to the cage.
"You blindly follow a Prime," Ratbat sneered. "That alone makes you a lackey. But you also follow the lastPrime, which makes you stupid as well. Your side is loosing, and more than that, it is dying. Offline yourself and save us the trouble. It is only a matter of time before the Decepitcons reign supreme—"
The electrical blast shook the cage, throwing the wounded 'Con onto the floor. Convulsions wracked his frame, the images coming from his good optic frizzing and blurring and shifting between all the light spectrums and then some. It felt like forever before the pain passed and his intake vents could do more than shutter erratically in their attempts to pull in air. Mercifully the power overload faded and his spark started to pulse normally. Another moment was needed for his circuits to cool. Still another was needed for him to regain his footing.
"That was low," he snarled, voice modulator quaking still from the electrical feedback, cycling each word high and low as it reset itself. "I would not expect such underhanded tactics from the noble Ironhide. Isn't attacking an unarmed prisoner beneath your foolish code of ethics?"
"He didn't do it," Jolt hissed. He flicked his wrist to the side, the whip coiling back into its holding compartment at the motion. "I did. If you would have bothered to watch your own back instead of prattling out that propaganda garbage, you would have seen that attack coming. Becoming too comfortable here?"
Ratbat restrained his cooling fans by sheer will alone, refusing to let the other know that that verbal stab had hit its mark. He forced a smile. "Yes, thank you. My accommodations are stunning. Autobot hospitality is truly second to none."
Jolt looked as if he were going to leap onto the cell this time, and Ironhide's hand on his shoulder plating was the only thing that kept him in check. "Enough," the black armored weapon's expert interjected, optics narrowing on him once again. "You know why we are here. You ready to answer our questions?"
Ratbat put one foot in front of the other, pacing the length of his cell. "That depends. Are you ready to answer mine?"
"You are not in a position to demand anything," Jolt put in.
Ratbat only shook his head. "That, much like your faith in your chances of winning this war, is wrong. I am in a position to demand anything I like."
"This is a waste of time," Jolt muttered, heading for the door. "Ironhide, we have more important things to do. He isn't going to talk."
"Name your demands," Ironhide said, the buzz of his cannons still warming the air around them. "And we will see."
That got his attention. The pacing stopped, and Ratbat tilted his head to the side, the once graceful action now choppy and horrifying to behold. They were willing to deal, to play his game? Now, suddenly, after all this time? Suspicion was fast on the heels of his surprise. Something had to be wrong, he surmised, something he could use to his extreme advantage.
"Something has changed, hasn't it?" he said aloud, more to himself than to the others. "Your Prime knows something new… or thinks he does. Ah, that must be it. He wants something confirmed, does he not?"
Ironhide's expression gave no indication whatsoever as to if the 'Con was right. "Is that one of your demands?"
"No," Ratbat replied, hopping forward until he nearly touched the bars. "I propose a trade, Autobot. For every question I answer, you must answer one of mine in turn. Are we agreed?"
Jolt stiffened at the words, the incredulous look on his face plates showing clearly what he thought of the deal. Those whips appeared again as if to punctuate the point. "Ironhide, you can't seriously agree to this."
"That depends on the questions," Ironhide quipped, seeming to ignore his companion. "I believe you know what I'll answer and what I won't."
Ratbat made another chortling sound. "I am not as stupid as he looks," he pointed a damaged claw at Jolt, earning a growl from the other in return. "There is no profit in shutting down our session with asking about your defenses and your plans. These are things I know you will not answer and that I can learn on my own given enough time."
Ironhide nodded. "Then let's begin. The All-Spark shard. Where did you get it?"
"From the humans," he answered.
The big mech's eyebrow ridges drew down. "Not good enough."
Ratbat would have shrugged, had his frame not been so mangled. He settled with blinking his optics. "It is truth. I do not know where the humans located it. Only that a contact of mine presented me with an opportunity to claim it. I have answered truthfully and completely. Now it is my turn. There is something different about the human designated Lydia. What is it?"
A growling sound started to pour from the weapon's master. His cannons were instantly ready and Ratbat was willing to bet the safety features were off. Instead of frightening the smaller mech, it only amused him. Interesting, he mused. The reaction only confirmed his theory and fanned the flames of his obsession. If only the fool before him knew how much he gave away without realizing it. There was indeed something different about this human. Perhaps she was a prototype weapon of some sort?
"Why do you want to know that?" Ironhide asked softly, the deadly warning clear in his tone.
"It is my turn to ask, Autobot," Ratbat insisted. "Remember our deal. It is your turn to answer."
"She is an ally and a friend."
"Not good enough," Ratbat snarled, borrowing the mech's words from before, his entire frame nearly vibrating with his desire for the truth. "Answer!"
"Ironhide," Jolt warned. "Don't. Whatever you tell him is going to be used against us. I doubt he has her best interest at heart."
"But I do," Ratbat smiled his gruesome broken smile again. "And I think you want to know what I know if you value your little squishy friend."
He had both mechs attention now, and his elation only grew.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Miracle of all miracles, he found her doing exactly what he had asked her to do.
Lydia lay in her human-sized bed, the various bits of monitoring equipment attached to her just as he had left it, her vital signs exhibiting a deep and restful recharge cycle. Sleep, he had to correct himself in thinking. Humans slept and Cybertronians recharged. It was normally not a distinction he had to force himself to make when dealing with a patient. But Lydia was different now, and his processors kept trying to put her into the category of femme instead of female.
Ratchet decided against his normal scan, seeing as the monitors told him everything he wanted without having to disturb her. And so he let his optics view her, pondering on how hard it was to force that shift in classification. While his optics registered the fact that her body was organic, that her brain was protein-based and that the primary fluid within her systems was blood and not the many different energon-based kinds that flowed through his tubes, his sensors picked up on her energy signature long before his optics scanned her.
She felt like a Cybertronian. She felt like an Autobot. But she also felt like Lydia, and that was a relief that nearly floored him once more.
He had feared that, when he had replaced her implants with his own parts, she would carry his signature. That presented all new avenues of problems, from what his fellow Autobots would say down to an accidental targeting of her fragile life by mistake by Decepticons looking to slag him. His signature was well-known among his enemies and he wasn't foolish enough to think that, since he was a medic, they would hesitate to fire on him. If anything, it made him an almost bigger target than his Prime.
But she had her own signature, thank Primus. She had her own spark to fuel it, and while he had only a faint idea how that had happened, he wasn't going to knock it. Lydia registered as both a human and a femme, sending his logic circuits in a tizzy each time he tried to focus on that fact. Theoretically, it was impossible. He had said so time and again. But he had also said time and again that no human and no Cybertronian could do what they had done. Yet there he stood, bonded to a human.
His Lydia was a special case, one he was going to have to wrack his processors to explain to the others. But at least his spark and his processors agreed on one category for his beloved, that of mate.
His spark grew tender as he approached, and he stood for some time watching her sleep curled on her side. The wounds on her face were almost gone; only the faintest of lines to evidence what had been horrific lash-like burns. She was healing faster than a human should, and he credited that in part to the spark within her chest. The rest of the credit he split between them both: he with his expert care and her with her good health. It would not be long before there would be no medically sound reason to keep her in isolation.
Then he would have much to explain to the others. But for now, he had much to explain to his mate.
Her lips twitched in her supposed slumber, and he vented air in amused annoyance. "Just how long do you think you can pretend to sleep with me watching you?"
Again, her lips twitched, but she remained still. He could feel the joy in her at his presence, the pleased rush like a tingle against his own fingertips. She was very much aware of him, and still she played the little game. Well, he could play that game as well. One massive finger glided over the blanket with the softest of caress, starting at her foot and working slowly up her leg, tracing a gentle arc over her hip to where her arm lay across her waist. He felt her body go rigid, every muscle tense in her desperate fight to maintain her illusion of sleep. The laughter within her at the ticklish sensations floated across the bond, a lovely sound as alive to him as if she had sat up and laughed out loud.
The caress continued its path up her arm to her shoulder, hesitating only a moment before hoping up to trace the delicate shell of her ear. She trembled and twitched at his touch, her nervous system practically screaming for her to react to the gentle torture he inflicted mercilessly on her form. His fingertip dropped from her ear to that overly sensitive flesh between her ear and the back of her neck. With a squeal, she finally gave in, surrendering to the overriding need to squirm that danced up her spine.
"You don't fight fair," she laughed, opening her eyes and flinging her pillow at him.
The cloth object bounced off his chest armor harmlessly and he merely raised his eyebrow plates. "You call pretending to sleep fair?"
"I call following your orders fair," She sat up, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes still glittering with amusement.
He vented air that sounded suspiciously like a snort. "The day you follow my orders completely is the day I let Sideswipe perform a processor replacement on me."
Lydia fought to hide the sudden flush of embarrassment that rose in her thoughts at the mention of the twins, slamming the link closed between them before she realized it. She still wasn't very good at shielding her thoughts, and more often than not the first bit of them slipped through her grasp before she could blot out the rest. The last thing she needed him to see was the instant images that popped to her mind, that of the flowers and Wheeljack and the twins and…
In hindsight, shutting him down like that was probably a larger sign of her guilt than a blush across her skin would have been. She winced as his optics narrowed, the playfulness he showed only to her vanishing as quickly as it came. Grumpy came to the forefront of his eyes, the loving mate receding back into his spark.
"What are you hiding from me?" he accused.
"What makes you think I'm hiding something?" She tried, doing her best to look innocent.
And failing miserably at it, if the way his suspicion continued to rise was any indication. "For one, you are shielding your thoughts from me. For another, your heart rate has increase. So has your respiration rate," he added, pointing over her shoulder at the medical equipment still attached to her. "Not to mention I've had vorns beyond vorns of experience dealing with mechs like Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. I think I can sense a deception when it's coming at me by now."
Lydia sent a baleful look at the monitors still hooked up to report her vital signs, thinking black thoughts at them. The machines continued to perform their job flawlessly, and in her mind a little too cheerfully, seemingly unphased by the human glowering at them. She hunched her shoulders, looking back at her mate and then letting her eyes fall to the sheets. "Okay, I got out of bed today. A lot."
"Is that all?"
She hunched over more, fully aware that she looked like a spoiled pouting overgrown child. But then again she felt that way, so it stood to reason that she would look that way. "I was looking for a mirror," she said truthfully, sitting up straight again as a thought occurred to her. "And I was trying to follow your orders. You didn't want me to distract you anymore and I couldn't lay on a bed in yourmedbay and not think about you. So I went… exploring."
She carefully neglected to add the part about what had happened after that first step in her 'exploring.' As much as the twins got on her nerves, she really did not want to see them offlined or covered in dings from a million thrown wrenches. Listening to Sunstreaker cry for days about his damaged paint alone was a punishment far beyond what anyone deserved.
Those narrowed optics started to fill with concern. "Why would you need a mirror?"
She shrugged a shoulder, and the first trickles of a month's worth of insecurity started to escape her mental walls and drip into their bond. "I know my hair is gone," she said softly, running a hand over the short wispy ends that barely touched the bottom of her ear. "And I remember the pain in my face during the attack. I, uh, wanted to see how bad the damage is, and if I'm…" A monster? Hideous? Bad enough to make the Phantom of the Opera and the Hunchback of Notre Dame say DAMN, I thought we had it bad!
She wasn't sure how much of that made it through the bond, or if it would even translate into something he could understand. But enough of it must have reached him because his finger gently lifted her chin to face him again. "Do you really think I would allow that to happen?"
"No," she admitted, feeling ashamed that she had thought as much and yet couldn't stop herself from thinking it still. The first traces of tears started to sting her eyes. "But I am human, Ratchet. We don't bounce back from things like you guys do. It's so easy for us to be disfigured for life that I can't help but worry."
"You are beautiful, Lydia. And always will be."
A lopsided grin tugged at her lips, if a bit strained, and she blinked back the tears. "Just wait until I am old and wrinkly and can't walk on my own. Then we'll see what you have to say."
"I will still maintain that you are beautiful and I will carry you anywhere you wish to go."
The love and sincerity that poured through the bond tore away her mental defenses. She found herself jumping up into his hand, smiling so wide she thought her face would crack. "Flatterer," she teased, allowing him to place her onto his shoulder. "Where are we going?"
Ratchet could not stop the flicker of worry that floated across his spark. He knew that she loved him, loved him with all her heart, and still he dreaded the coming conversation. Would she truly understand the lengths he had gone through to save her life? Would she forgive him for it?
"Ratchet?" she asked, placing a hand on his neck. That flicker of worry had not escaped her notice. "What's wrong? Where are we going?"
"We go to find your mirror," He replied, smothering that worry beneath his relief that she was well enough to try moving around. "And… to talk about what has happened."
The worry started to flow from her end, diluted by the sheer love and trust she held for him, but it was there nonetheless. "That doesn't sound good."
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On how much you truly value our bond."
Lydia shot him a sideways glance, trying to lighten the mood. "You do realize you just asked an accountant to tell you how much she values something," she smirked. "Are you ready to hear the long drawn-out mathematical explanation that truly states which side of the assets line I place our bond?"
His mouth plates started to curve into a smile as he turned towards her, scans kicking in automatically. The medic in him needed to ensure that her wounds were closed enough that exposure to outside air wouldn't—and then stopped. Something had flashed behind his optics, his sensors picking up trace amounts of an organic chemical residue on her skin, one so faint that he would have missed it completely had she not be sitting on his shoulder armor.
Lydia frowned at the sudden shift in his posture, watching as he sniffed at the air, a purely human action he had adopted. She knew that his scanners and sensors could pick up trace particles of anything in the air without the need for a physical response. What she didn't know was why his optic ridges drew down again in that frown she knew so well. The infamous frown that made mechs run for cover and liaisons, such as herself, reach for the bottle of painkillers from the headache that was sure to follow whatever it was he had to say next. Lydia braced herself, holding her breath.
"Why do you smell like flowers?" he asked bluntly, optics whirling as they continued to scan her, and then in turn scan his med-bay. The frown on his expressive face depended, becoming the set lines of his trademark temper. "Why is the paint marred on the doors? And what happened to several of my cabinets?"
Her eyes opened wide.
~*~*~*~*~*~
It was a quiet meeting, as was befitting the severity of the information. It was also a secret meeting, having only three sentients in attendance. Optimus Prime had debated long and hard over who should attend and why. His decision to limit the flow of the incoming sensitive information had ultimately decided for him just who needed to be present. While he trusted Prowl, Ironhide, Ratchet and Ultra Magnus with his very spark, his processors had determined that they could be told at a later time. As could Director Keller and his team, if only to forestall the inevitable debate that would arise. For now, judging by the look on Sam's face, debate was the last thing they all needed.
Some secrets needed to be kept, after all, if only for the protection of those involved in them.
Major William Lennox sat on the edge of the human-sized chair, his normally pressed and snug fitting uniform jacket hanging open. A white, loose-fitting button-down dress shirt was worn beneath it, a silent testament to the fact that the human was still healing from his injuries. Only the tightness around the man's eyes and paleness to his flesh belied the pain he was feeling. But Will was a solider through and through, and as long as he could move his own arms, he would dress himself in uniform.
Samuel Witwicky mirrored the Major, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands folded together. The boy looked so much older, Optimus noted with a twinge of sorrow, like the past handful of years of the Autobot's presence on the planet had sped up his aging process. Gone was the lanky teen caught in the crossfire of a war he couldn't understand. Now a young man sat before him with eyes far more haunted than many of his kind should ever be.
It reminded him too much of Bluestreak, of watching a humble, peace-loving merchant transform into a warrior. That twinge of sorrow turned into a pang of guilt. If he could have reversed it all, found a way to take back the horror and the pain and the loss, he would have done it without question. Regardless of the cost to himself.
Optimus drug himself back from the twisty slope of what-could-have-been and tried not to frown. It was a difficult task, given the information that had just been handed to him and the unpleasant memories it stirred to life within his processors. The chosen messenger did not look too happy about it, either. Both he and the Major sat on chairs on top of the colossal ironwork desk, looking less happy than Optimus and just about as resigned to their fates as anyone could.
"And you are certain of this?" Lennox felt compelled to ask, knowing better than to question anything Sam brought to his attention and still doing it anyway.
Sam rubbed both hands across his face before leaning forward on his elbows again. "Absolutely. And trust me, I am not happy about it, either."
Optimus made a noncommittal sound. "This does not bode well. For any of us."
"Don't I know it," Sam took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'd much rather be back at school, but the urgency of the matter wouldn't let me rest. I had to tell you, and it had to be to you directly. She's part of this now, Optimus, and I'm not sure where that leaves us."
Optimus glanced back at the data pad before him. Lydia's information flashed across the screen, courtesy of a rather resourceful Director Keller and a sulking Banachek. Everything from the day she had been born to when Ratchet had carried her broken form from Jetfire's hold played out before his optics. Her military record was brilliant, if a bit spotty. A drunken brawl here, a reprimand for disobeying direct orders there. But overall, her record was a testament to a soldier that believed in her cause and did her best to complete her missions with as minimal loss of life as she could muster.
And then there were the Sector Seven "Ice Files."
What was done to her by that group of humans was enough to make the energon in his systems boil. It was so much like what had been done to Prowl at the beginning of the war that Optimus felt like issuing an immediate pardon for the mech's actions. Prowl wouldn't see it as understanding, though, and would insist on full and immediate punishment. None are above the law, he had said time and again. Even now he refused to leave the base and had restricted his own activities to only those necessary. Punishing himself even as his Prime tried to keep it from happening.
Prowl, like Lydia, had proven to be a gifted and compassionate solider. The actions of those of his own kind, like those of Sector Seven, had been an unforgivable way to repay the unswerving service and loyalty freely given by them both.
"What, exactly, did the Primes say?" Will asked, glancing between the two.
"Well, I can't tell you their exact words," Sam admitted. "But I can tell you the, uh, impressions I got from them. They're not used to communicating with a human and as such a lot of what they say goes right over my head. Half of what they show me is done in images and through dreams or daydreams. But the gist of it was that Lydia's a key part of something now. What that something is… well, they don't know and most of them are not happy about it."
"Wait, wait," Will held up a hand, frowning anew. "They told you back in Egypt that it 'is and always has been your destiny' or something like that to be involved with the Autobots. You just said that she's part of it now. That sounds to me like something changed in their great cosmic plan, something even they didn't expect."
Sam pursed his lips. "I don't know. The wording implies that either something has changed with the anticipated flow of events like you said, or that something with her has changed specifically. Don't shoot the messenger here," he held up his hands at the way Will's expression changed. "Again, I get images that I barely understand and glyphs that I don't even have a clue about. But the Primes say that she's important somehow."
Will shook his head, leaning back on instinct and then bolting upright as the pain in his back rocketed through his skin. "So they don't know why she's important, and we don't know why she's important, but someone, somewhere, thinks she is. That's not a lot to go on."
"An appropriate way to paraphrase the conversation," Optimus replied, lip plates twitching in an almost-smile as he glanced back to Sam. "You stated that most of the Primes are not pleased with this revelation."
"Yes," he nodded. "And this is the part that confuses me the most. Most of them seemed, I don't know, annoyed, maybe. Like they were agitated. But the others… I know this sounds crazy but I get the impression that she's talked to them. At least she's talked to two of them at any rate."
Both Will and Optimus stared at him a long moment, neither the mech nor the man blinking. Sam shook his head, holding up his hands again in helpless frustration. "I'm sorry. I wish I had more to go on."
"It is alright, Sam," Optimus soothed, staring down at the data pad once more. "I believe I may know a few of the answers to your riddle. However, I need time to consider and consult."
"You know, that sounds like a good idea," Will stated, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "I have a feeling we are making this more complicated than it has to be. This conversation has way too many 'impressions' and 'unknowns' for my liking. Let's go and get this straight from the horse's mouth."
"Meaning?" Sam prompted.
"Meaning we go and have a conversation with Lydia," Lennox climbed to his feet slowly, wincing as he did so. "You think they talked to her, so let's go ask her if they had. The worst that could happen is to have her look at us like we're crazy."
Optimus frowned again, his optics dimming and then brightening as he researched the turn of phrase the Major had used. "Ah, yes. I understand. But I must warn you not to upset her. Ratchet will not allow us to continue to question her otherwise."
Sam frowned this time. "Don't you think the severity of this information would allow a Prime to overwrite the Medic?"
"If only it were that simple," Optimus sighed.
