Alexandria watched the small metal rings as they spun above the ornate desk; their perpetual movement and soft creaking sound giving her a headache. A small beam of light crept through the heavy drapes beyond, promising a mild spring day and she wished she were elsewhere. A picturesque image of her curled up with pencils and sketch paper in the bay window of her living room, tantalized her thoughts with warmth and comfort. Unfortunately the office of one renowned Dr. Benson remained and the droning of his voice, coupled with the scratch of a ballpoint pen, kept the room anything but welcoming. He was one of three psychiatrists she had been to over the past year, and just as those who came before him, believed he would be able to help her.
"Alexandria?"
She dragged her gaze from the kinetic sculpture to glance at Dr. Benson from under long lashes. She kept her arms wrapped around her and legs crossed, feeling bare under his stern spectacled vision. He sat in the chair across from her with his pen hovering above the black ring-bound book that he always scribbled in whenever she spoke.
"Alexandria?" he asked again.
"What?" Her chin remained tucked close to her chest, making it easier to avoid direct eye contact.
The scratching came again.
"I asked if the voices were occurring more frequently." His pen stilled, prepared to capture her response in ink.
Alexandria shifted and rubbed her hand across her right forearm. "Almost every night now."
The pen moved and Alexandria briefly contemplated remaining silent for the rest of her appointment. It would however be a waste of the money her mother had worked so hard for. She sighed heavily and continued, "There's another voice now, a new one."
"New one?" His eyes narrowed, continuing to write entire paragraphs in response to her brief sentences. It was unnerving to think of what they contained.
"Yeah, two nights ago. It's higher pitched than the others but softer somehow… I… I don't know. It's new, that's all I'm sure of."
"How many voices does that make now?" he asked.
"Seven."
Dr. Benson cleared his throat and removed his spectacles for cleaning, using the tiny silk cloth he kept in his breast pocket. "This is not what I was hoping to hear today. The Risperdal I put you on last month should be helping to reduce your delusions. You are taking them every day, correct?"
Her stomach churned. "I don't like them."
"Alexandria." His voice was soft in a gentle warning, causing her to flinch.
"I take them. My mom makes sure of it," she reassured quickly as his disapproval would be communicated to her mother and Alexandria wasn't sure if she could handle disappointment from the one person who gave her unconditional support.
"Good to hear. If you are experiencing side effects I can prescribe you something to help."
"More pills?"
His pen moved again. "Sometimes Alexandria, it takes many medications to help control health problems, especially mental ailments such as yours."
"I'm not crazy," she whispered.
"I never said you were."
Alexandria hung her head and rubbed angrily at her eyes which had begun to fill with tears as Dr. Benson continued to write lovingly in his book.
"Have the voices ever told you or made you feel like you need to harm yourself or others?"
It was a question he asked every time they were together; a routine practice but it still bothered her to no end.
"Just like I said before, no."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!" She burst out with more force than she'd intended. He paused to look up at her with mild surprise.
"There is no need to yell, Alexandria."
Her posture slumped in submission. "I'm sorry. It's the same as before though, I can't understand what the voices are saying."
Dr. Benson harrumphed in thought then tilted his pen toward a large manila envelope lying on the cushion beside her.
"I see you brought your drawings with you this week. Are you still finding the art sessions beneficial?"
She picked up the envelope and held it across her lap. Her fingers gently traced the front, bringing a smile to her face. "I love them. We get to try out a bunch of different art supplies and everyone is really nice."
"They are not meant to be fun, Alexandria."
The smile faltered.
"They are an alternative method of communicating your thoughts and feelings using varying mediums," he continued. "I expect you to treat them with the same level of seriousness that you bring to our own sessions. They are meant to help you get well, understood?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Good. Now, were you able to complete the assignment I requested?"
Alexandria handed over the envelope and Dr. Benson drew out several sheets of paper.
"It's the last one," she informed him.
He took a moment with each one, turning a few of them around to view at different angles. When the last drawing was revealed his brows knit into a concerned frown. The page was flipped over toward her.
"Can you describe your drawing to me?"
She looked from him to the paper and back again, not quite sure if it was some sort of trick. Granted she wasn't the most skilled artist but Alexandria was fairly sure the objects in the picture were more than distinguishable.
"I don't think I understand." She hesitated, hoping Dr. Benson would clarify but he remained silent, continuing to hold out the page before her. "It's a pair of hands."
"And what is being held between them?"
She felt herself shrink back a bit into the leather cushions. "The world."
"The world," he repeated in a soft voice. "I asked you to create a self portrait and this is what you visualized?" He inspected it again. "Can you explain why you drew what you did?"
"Well…" she hesitated, unsure how to put it in words. "I tried drawing my face, but I didn't like how it kept turning out. I even asked for help during one of my art sessions."
He nodded at the answer and, feeling encouraged, Alexandria continued.
"One of the assistants told me a portrait doesn't always have to be of the head, it just has to represent who I am or how I feel about myself. So I tried doing that." It was a simple explanation and the easiest one she could come up with.
"And you drew your hands," he concluded. "But why the world?"
"I'm not sure," Alexandria admitted. "My mom thinks it's very pretty. She called it poetic." She smiled again, remembering how happy her mother always was when she saw her art. "She thinks it shows me as being a caring person. Maybe someone who wants to help the world. Be a nurse or a teacher—"
"I do not care what your mother thinks. I want to know what you think, Alexandria."
"I think my mom is right" Alexandria murmured.
He cleared his throat and looked as if he was about to say something more but the buzzer on his desk sounded, alerting them that their time together was coming to an end.
"I think we have made some advances today." He sounded optimistic even though Alexandria felt as if this was no different than any other session. He passed her the drawings before going to the single door to call in her mother, who was waiting patiently in reception.
Mary Taylor entered and gave a kind smile to her daughter as she sat on the leather sofa, squeezing Alexandria's leg reassuringly. Dr. Benson returned to his place and tapped his notebook with the pen.
"You will be happy to know we have made some progress," he began.
"Well, that's good," Mary said, leaning forward to hear the news.
"Yes it is." The pen rolled lazily between his finger and thumb; all of its writings about to be paraphrased to her mother. "Alexandria's condition goes beyond post traumatic psychosis, which is why some of her medications have not had the results we hoped for."
A confused frown graced Mary's face and Dr. Benson continued.
"The ongoing sleep dysfunction coupled with the belief that the voices are more than dream remnants make me believe Alexandria is suffering from schizophrenia."
Her mother's mouth dropped open almost comically. "That's what you consider progress?" she exclaimed.
Dr. Benson held up his hand. "This is good news, I assure you. An accurate diagnosis means that we can focus her treatments properly."
"But schizophrenia? How is that even possible?"
Alexandria's stomach felt like it was twisting into knots. She didn't want to have a diagnosis, especially one that made her mom react the way she had.
"What is it?" Alexandria's voice trembled.
"In basic terms, it is a brain disorder, Alexandria. Common symptoms are hallucinations, such as hearing voices, and delusions, like your belief that these voices are an attempt to communicate with you. It tends to start in young individuals and likely the accident with the lighting strike was a trigger." The tiny cloth appeared again and slid over already immaculate lenses. "What I cannot tell you is if the incident led to the development of schizophrenia or if the incident just created an earlier point of symptom onset," he explained. "What is concerning to me is the rapid evolution of your symptoms. The voices you are hearing are increasing in frequency and intensity and this is major red flag that your disorder is not adequately controlled and could lead to further, more severe, complications."
Mary shook her head. "The voices are only in her dreams though. Just… terrible nightmares. A lot of people have bad dreams, especially after something as traumatizing as what she went thro—"
Dr. Benson cut her off abruptly. "It is not normal to have the same dream every night. Dreams naturally fluctuate. They are a disorganized and illogical series of images, sensations, and thoughts that occur in the mind during sleep. Dreams also do not affect the wakened state to the extent that they have been for Alexandria."
Mary looked over at her daughter. "Well yes, but—"
"She is also showing negative signs of schizophrenia such as difficulties in forming and maintaining social relationships, and poor performance in school." Dr. Benson clasped his hands together and smiled, an eerie contrast to the worried expressions of the women. "This is good news," he repeated. "Catching schizophrenia in its early stages means a better prognosis and chance at a normal life."
His reassurance seemed to calm her mother but did nothing for the dread Alexandria was feeling. She already knew where this was going; even further alienation from others her own age.
"How long do you think it'll take for things to become, well, normal for her?" Mary asked, wringing her hands in her lap. "It's already been over a year since the accident and I know Alexandria is still going through a terrible time making friends, especially with all of the moving we've had to do over the past six months."
"We should see some improvement within the next few months, but it will take at least a year before we can achieve a sense of normality. And in all honesty, it would be highly beneficial for her to have a stable home environment." Dr. Benson flipped open his notebook and he peered over the rim of his spectacles at her mother. "Is there a chance you two will have to relocate again?"
"I could put a notice in at work, letting them know I'm not available, but you know… you need to go where the money is, right?" Mary fiddled with the zipper on her purse, which was kept tightly clutched to her lap.
Dr. Benson scratched out her response then tapped his pen against the paper. "I understand completely, but it would be in Alexandria's best interest if you made every effort to remain where you currently are."
Her mother nodded her head in agreement. "I'll do my best."
"Excellent!" The notebook was closed forcefully with a loud clap. Dr. Benson stood up and walked briskly over to his desk, grabbing the thick square pad of paper that sat atop it. His pen scrawled what Alexandra felt was a really long prescription, then tore the page off and handed it to her mom. "This is a different antipsychotic that has been shown to be excellent in helping to control hallucinations. I have started Alexandria on a small dose and if tolerated, I will increase it gradually as needed."
Her mother looked over the prescription. "Seroquel?"
"Yes. It has quite an impressive safety profile."
"What about her other medications?"
"I do plan on stopping the Risperdal but at this time I want her to continue taking it as usual, since an immediate discontinuation could result in rebound effects," he explained. "She will remain on the others as they will have a beneficial effect on her mood and sleeping pattern in the long term."
With that, Dr. Benson settled behind his desk and turned to his computer, subtly dismissing the pair from his office.
Mary tucked the prescription with care into her purse and gave another reassuring smile to her daughter before rising and exiting the room, Alexandria following silently behind her.
0-0-0-0-0
The soft glow of the Ark's thrusters flashed periodically, keeping the large vessel in a lazy corkscrew. It drifted through a section of space that was fairly devoid of the usual visual beauty that helped break up some of the monotonousness of interstellar travel. A lone blue giant hung in the distance, its cool blue light illuminating the ship's hull and filtering through the ports to combine with the silence of the metallic halls, creating an eerie feel.
Many of the vessel's prior occupants had left the security of the Ark to scout the surrounding star systems for traces of the AllSpark; an ancient artifact that was the very life force of their home planet, Cybertron. There had been moments when leads were so numerous that the AllSpark seemed within reach, only to have them all result in dead ends, or worse, renewed warfare against the Decepticons. The aptly named, militaristic faction opposing the Autobots also sought the AllSpark, as its vast power could sway the war to the Decepticon's favor and ultimately be the violent end of any who did not conform to their ways. Their presence brought an ominous sense of urgency to the mission and made it wrought with hardships that affected even the most stoic of Autobot soldiers. The lives of fellow brethren in arms were taken away, dwindling an already shrinking population, and creating new wounds that ran deep. Nonetheless, the crew of the Ark pushed through challenge after challenge and, when even the faintest hint of the AllSpark was discovered, it was met with unwavering strength and determination; failure came with too heavy a cost.
The light permeating the interior was broken as a silver shape moved purposefully through the halls. It was curiosity that spurred the bot toward the infirmary. The Ark had recently come into contact with a strange vessel that appeared to be made of alien technology mixed with Cybertronian. Extensive damage had rendered it to an inoperable state, setting it adrift and vulnerable to the elements, and any life-sustaining functions of the much smaller ship had long since ceased. Several organics had been discovered within, hovering listlessly in the zero gravity. They had been taken to the infirmary by the Ark's chief medical officer while their ship was being disassembled in the docking bay for information. Usually Jazz would be assisting in the heavy labor but it wasn't every day you came across new life forms and he didn't want to pass up the opportunity to observe them in person before they were sent for incineration.
The bay doors hissed open allowing him access and two pairs of optics glanced over as he entered. Jazz grinned, realizing he hadn't been the only one interested in the discovery. The gold and black mech standing off to the side of the examination table whirred a happy greeting, prompting Jazz to give him a friendly pat on the arm as he approached.
"Heya Half-Pint. I see they finally let you out of the comm room." He crossed over to a stack of heavy supply crates and nimbly hopped up onto the top one, allowing him a scenic view of the room.
A sharp chirp came in reply along with a mild prickling sensation at the back of Jazz's head.
"You know that nickname doesn't make anymore sense, right?" Bumblebee asked over inter-Autobot frequency, his brow plates lowering in a frown as he regarded the other, smaller, bot.
Jazz nodded and the grin widened. "Of course. You remind me every time you can."
"And yet you keep using it."
"I will until the day I die or the day it stops annoying you. Whichever comes first." He shrugged, amused as the younger mech puffed his exhaust in exasperation.
An irritated grunt interrupted the good natured banter and both turned to the room's final occupant. A heavy bioscanner tapped against one hand as medical officer Ratchet waited for the pair to fully settle and then held the silence until it became awkward before addressing them.
"I knew it was a mistake telling Optimus about this exam with Wheeljack in the room. That slagging mech can't keep his mouth shut. He'd probably make noise in a vacuum." The bioscanner tapped a little louder before being powered on. "Now I have to put up with you two barging in here expecting to be entertained. Primus save me."
Jazz and Bumblebee shared an amused look but wisely kept quiet, knowing the scanner was hefty enough to cause a solid dent in mental if thrown with the force that Ratchet was known for. Any objects not bolted to the hull became formidable projectile weapons in his hands and were used freely on any poor bot who spurred his wrath.
"This is a serious process," he continued. "There may be valuable information on these organisms that can lead us to the AllSpark."
"Well then Doc, open them up already." Jazz gestured at the prone form on the exam table.
A concerned whirr came from Bumblebee, his optics widening a bit in alarm.
"You're going to cut them open?"
Ratchet huffed and shook his head. "Unnecessary and impractical. Dissection of organics tend to be messy as their internal systems are essentially fluid-filled compartments held together with membranous sacs." A green light washed over the small creature multiple times as Ratchet tapped in varying frequencies. "Scans will suffice, along with precision tissue sampling."
"Too bad it has to be fleshings," Jazz commented with a frown. The other organic species he'd met in his travels hadn't given him the most enjoyable of memories. Sentient or not, they all tended to spew bodily fluids with ease. "I'd think I'd rather take my chances again on that predatory information planet than visit a world full of meatbags."
This earned him a stern glare from Ratchet. "Please show a little respect for the dead, Lieutenant," he advised in a low tone. He nodded slightly in the direction of Bumblebee, who had moved closer to the table and was watching the exam with intense curiosity; an impressionable young mind that didn't deserve to be influenced by the personal biases of fellow crew members.
Jazz's shoulders hunched. "Sorry Doc. Didn't mean anything by it."
The apology was met with silence and Jazz relaxed, knowing it had been accepted, although he still felt a mild lingering of shame. He prided himself on being a good role model for Bumblebee but sometimes his blunt nature got the better of him. He rubbed awkwardly at the rim of his visor. "So...what do you think killed them off?"
"Exposure."
"Doesn't seem like it'd take much." Jazz leaned forward on his perch as Ratchet inserted several fine needles into copper colored tissue. There was very little physical variation in the form; the torso and limbs were covered in the same smooth monotone skin that seemed to offer very little in the way of protection. A mass of fine dark hairs covered the head with shorter variations on several other areas of the body. "No exoskeleton, plating or shielding. It doesn't seem to have any defensive structures."
"She. "
Jazz cocked his head. "What?"
The samples Ratchet had extracted disappeared into the ship's cryobank and the scans uploaded to the Ark's primary storage unit. Several holos flickered to life showing varying molecular structures and three dimensional images of the creature's internal organs.
"Cellular carbon based lifeform with dimorphic features. This one is likely the female sex of the species and they"—Ratchet gestured at two shroud covered forms behind him—"are the males."
"A few pics tell you all that, huh?" Jazz remarked as he studied the holo of a triangular shaped mass with several tubes extending from it.
It was the second time he elicited a disapproving sound from Ratchet.
"Your faith in my skills as a senior medical officer never ceases to amaze me."
The heavy sarcasm made Bumblebee trill with amusement, earning him Ratchet's attention.
"And what do you find so amusing, Scout?"
Bee held up his hands in mock defense and attempted to look as innocent as possible. "Nothing at all."
Ratchet clicked, rolling his optics before returning to sample collection. Skin scrapings and hair clippings joined their internal partners in the cryobank.
"You need to stop getting me into trouble." Bumblebee chided Jazz.
"Hey, if I'm going down, I'm making sure to take as many with me as I can." Jazz laughed. "Besides... if memory circuits serve me right, you tend to get into enough trouble on your own."
"Don't you dare…"
"I seem to recall a race in the lower decks between Sideswipe and a certain bot who was on strict medical leave." He tapped his chin. "Now…who was it that initiated the challenge?"
Ratchet groaned, covering his face plates with his hand. When he had gotten word that his patient, who had been recovering from grievous injuries, was putting his alt-mode through high velocities in cramped obstacle filled spaces, he had almost gone into spark failure.
Bee threw his arms wide. "Really!"
Ratchet stabbed an accusing finger at Bumblebee who took a tentative step backward. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again I'll solder your chassis to the bulkhead." He brought himself to his full height, dwarfing the other bots. "Of all the half-clocked ideas to ever come out of that head of yours, that has to have been the worst. I was this close"—his fingers almost pressed together—"to having Ironhide turn me to slag."
"You're over exaggerati—"
"You were put under my care and therefore my responsibility."
It had been Optimus who ordered Bumblebee's extended confinement to the Ark's medical bay following the battle at Tyger Pax; the site of the AllSpark's launch into space and the site of a fierce battle between the factions. Bee had been in stasis lock for the majority of that time, but after having come to, staring at medical equipment was fun for only so long. As most of his injuries had been repaired, aside from the damage done to his vocal processor, the only thing he actually had been suffering from was a severe case of restlessness; hence how the race with Sideswipe had come to pass.
Bee waved off Ratchet. "I was fine," he reassured. "You all just worry too much."
"And rightly so," Ratchet muttered. Jazz nodded his agreement.
"At least it wasn't all that bad."
"I fail to see how," Ratchet drawled.
Bee smiled, raising his shoulder in a half shrug. "I won."
Jazz let out a sharp laugh. "You have to give him that, Doc!"
Ratchet grunted. "I suppose so. Although, Sideswipe needs to stop underestimating his opponents."
Ratchet had chastised the normally superior speedy mech after the race; first about accepting the challenge and then about losing due to his own arrogance, ending with a heated lecture about tactical readiness. Sideswipe had merely leaned against a wall and took Ratchet's ranting and raving in stride then dismissed himself, but not before promising Bumblebee there would be a best out of three. He had easily avoided the crate Ratchet threw at him.
"If he did, it wasn't for very long considering how far behind he was within the first stretch."
"Don't go spinning your wheels there, Half-Pint. You know good and well Sides leaves you in the dust when it comes to pure speed."
"Obviously." He smirked, crossing his arms and shifting weight onto one leg. "Why do you think I chose the course I did?"
"Oh for the love of Primus!"
The exclamation had Jazz laughing uproariously at Ratchet who had slouched forward and was shaking his head back and forth. Jazz jumped off the crates and went over to pat him on the arm.
"There there, Doc. It'll be okay." He pointed to the organic. "How about we get back to work. Work always makes you feel better, right?" His voice warbled in a feeble attempt to hold back his laughter.
Ratchet gave him a dour look. "There is no reason to treat me as if I am a youngster," he stated. "I just have trouble with one." Part of his hand rearranged its shape creating a surgical drill as he nonetheless took the advice.
The high-pitched whine of rapidly rotating metal filled the room followed closely by an acrid odor as soft tissues dissolved, allowing the drill deeper passage. However, it was the shroud covered forms that drew Bumblebee's attention. They lay side by side on the table, small and motionless. Bee gently drew back a corner of the thin cloth exposing the head and upper torso of one of the bodies. A half charred face stared up at him with a single opaque eye; its partner lay as a shriveled lump within its socket. The burn ran down the length of the jaw to join a starburst pattern of fissures that projected outwards from a mouth held agape by the constraints of ruined flesh. Bee's acknowledgement of the suffering the creature must have endured, at what was likely a horrifically violent death, was echoed in a soft sorrowful moan.
"This one," he said, lightly tapping the metal table. "Was it a fire?"
Ratchet paused to glance over at the body in question.
"No," he replied as lenses in his optics rearranged themselves into intricate layers, enhancing the image. "The pattern on the skin is consistent with an arc flash."
"Was it fast?"
The ease of telling falsity in an attempt to comfort was momentarily considered; the change in Bumblebee's demeanor wasn't lost on Ratchet and it seemed a noble intent to maintain innocence in those that still held the fragile quality. Clarity, however, was a virtue in itself especially considering the role he held in the Autobot force.
"The facial burn, although extensive, would not cause immediate critical failure. As these organisms are gas exchangers, it is feasible to deduce he inhaled the resulting plasma and ionized particles causing cellular death of respiratory parts as evidenced by the scarring around the mouth." He held Bumblebee's gaze. "It did take time for him to cease functioning."
Bee nodded. He left the other shroud where it lay, keeping the third body from sight.
Ratchet huffed his vents. "If you would excuse me, I think I would like to complete the rest of the examination alone."
Jazz shrugged at Bee, the surprise of the sudden dismissal mirrored between them.
"Yeah, no problem, Doc." Jazz jerked his head, motioning for the other to follow. Bee replaced the shroud and nodded politely to Ratchet as they left the medical bay.
The corridor remained vacant of other Autobots and their footsteps the only noise breaking its silence.
"I suppose I'll head down to see how Wheeljack is doing with the dismantle," Jazz said. "I assume you're heading back to the excitement that is communications?"
Bee gave a long drawn out sigh. "What I wouldn't give for a change of pace. Scanning for transmissions in this area of the galaxy is as fun as watching energon crystalize."
"Temping Primus isn't the smartest idea"—Jazz warned—"because before you know it, you'll be up to your optics in action and you'll be begging for quiet again." He thumped his hand twice against where his chassis covered his spark.
Bee snorted. "You're so superstitious."
He shrugged. "You never know."
"I'd even welcome a run planetside just to get the feel of dirt against my wheels again." Bee waved at a viewport as they passed; the inky black stain of empty space staring back at them. "But even that's a far stretch here."
They paused by a turbo-lift and Jazz rapped Bee lightly on the arm.
"I'll let you know if Jackie and I find anything," he promised as his body started to contort and change; transforming into a sleek ground alt-mode. He revved his engine, enjoying the promise of speed that the vibrations created as they flowed through him. "Just if you could do me a favor in the meantime, Bee" he called out as he pulled away.
"What's that?"
"Remember to stay out of trouble!"
There came several loud growls behind him of what he was fairly sure would have translated into some very choice words. His laughter echoed down the halls.