The room was cluttered.
Alex's eyes roamed over its contents from her fetal position under the covers of the daybed. A generous mix of fabric and sewing supplies had been shoved haphazardly into the corners; all moved from their original resting place to make way for boxes and plastic bags brought up the night before by tired bodies feeling the toll of an eleven hour drive. Every free surface now a resting place for her belongings.
Judy's voice echoed in her head with kind reassurances that the room would soon come together to form a space of her own.
Alex pulled the blanket higher around her, trying to smother the doubt needling its way in.
It was going to be a hell of a long road ahead.
Drawing out a groan, she heaved herself out of the protective cocoon that had hidden her away while the morning hours dissolved into the noon. The bed creaked as she shifted, reaching down to grab the purse that lay on the floor. Inside it orange containers with white caps were waiting for her. Two pills in the morning to abolish residual dreams. One in the afternoon to smother her nerves. Two at bedtime to quell the voices at night. A routine of hers for the past two years ever since her psychiatrist—now ex-psychiatrist she supposed—changed her medications. When sounds and images had started to run rampant again and everything she'd worked hard for started to take a nasty downward spiral.
She grabbed what she needed and the capsule and tablet were easily swallowed without water.
Years of practice to thank for that.
With the first task of the day under her belt, Alex rose, a high-pitched whine sounding from the back of her throat as she stretched out stiff muscles. The nippy dryness of conditioned air prickled along the exposed skin of her extremities and she knew it was already hot even without setting foot outside. She shuffled over to a large box by the door, the one containing some of her clothing, and searched through its contents. Several items were selected in what she hoped resembled an outfit.
A mirror hung on the door and Alex checked out the girl staring back at her. Her reflection wasn't necessarily kind but at least she appeared semi-human and partially functional, even though there was her questionable ability to dress for the weather. The long sleeves of her shirt appropriately covered her scars but the heavy material really wasn't the best fit for the mid-twenties temperature of California's fall months. Hopefully, the pair of shorts she paired it with would offset some of the heat.
Alex snorted at her image and figured it was the best she could do until a shopping trip was arranged.
She headed out into the hall, observing the house she was familiar with as she went.
It hadn't really changed all that much since her last visit, except for a few new pictures and a different shade of paint on the walls. Her fingers traced the frames as she made her way to the washroom to put on the face that would be presented to her family. They could be heard downstairs, moving about and chatting, and there was both hesitation and eagerness battling in her chest at the thought of joining them.
Concealer did its part well in hiding the telltale blemishes of fatigue and teenagehood under its matte texture and a few swipes of mascara brightened her eyes. With the tangled mass of her hair tamed into a loose braid, she took the stairs with the lightest step she could, inhaled a deep breath, and entered the kitchen with a smile.
"Good morning," she greeted, making sure not to hover awkwardly in the doorway.
Judy leaned against one of the counters sipping a tall glass of pink liquid, while Ron nosed through a newspaper at the table. Alex didn't see Sam but she could hear a television on down the hall.
"I hope it was okay that I slept in for a bit." She fidgeted with the long sleeves of her shirt. "I didn't mean to miss breakfast."
"Oh pish-posh, of course it was." Judy smiled. The glass was held high. "Are you hungry? I can make you a smoothie. Or if strawberry-banana isn't your thing, I could whip you up a sandwich as I have a bunch of cold-cuts and cheese in the fridge. Sorry, lunch around here tends to be an informal thing. Grab and go if you must."
"No, it's okay, Aunt Judy. Something simple will do. Maybe cereal if you have it?"
This elicited a laugh from her aunt, who opened a tall kitchen cabinet. Boxes upon boxes of different cereal brands were stacked inside.
"Oodles. With Sammy in the house you'll find I tend to buy in bulk."
"I'll say," Alex replied, selecting one and giving it a shake. It must have weighed close to five pounds. "This is the biggest box of Cheerios I've ever seen…"
Judy nodded and passed her a bowl and spoon. "And it'll be gone within the week. I swear that boy has a black hole for a stomach."
"He's just growing," Ron spoke up from behind his paper. "I was like that when I was his age."
"I don't know…" Judy said, a coy expression playing across her face as she strode over to him to nuzzle the top of his head. "You can still put away a steak like nobody's business. Maybe he got some of those ravenous genes of yours, my insatiable man."
Alex hid a smile, busying herself at the counter while Judy and Ron exchanged coos of adoration. It was endearing that even with all of the years of marriage behind them, they still found pleasure in each other's company. Her thoughts drifted to her own parents and Judy's recollection of a happy relationship before things changed between them. She tried to picture them together but the images that formed didn't hold. They slipped through her mind as if she were grasping at water; nothing more than someone resembling her mother in the arms of a faceless shadow.
The Cheerios in her bowl started to lose their definition and Alex snapped out of her musings to realize she'd spooned on a not-so-healthy layer of sugar. Signing, she shrugged off the nagging feeling that it was going to be one of those days and added a generous portion of milk.
Judy and Ron had already parted by the time she sat down and Ron glanced her way.
"Everything okay?" he asked, concern in his eyes.
No. It's only been twelve days since my mother died, Alex thought but rather than verbalize the bitter response, she shoved a giant spoonful of cereal into her mouth and nodded in reply to his question. She didn't trust herself to speak in that moment, not when the familiar prickle of tears verged on the edge of existence.
Stop this, she scolded herself, the nails of her free hand biting into her palm. You're just tired. A little stressed. No reason to start crying again. This is your fresh start. A good start. Everything will be okay. You need to relax. Enjoy breakfast. Another mouthful of Cheerios disappeared but this time it didn't choke her as much as before.
Just as her little pep-talk started to take on some real motion the doorbell chimed. Alex paused, spoon partially raised, head turned in the direction of the sound.
"I'll get it!" Sam's voice bellowed from the living room and his footsteps thumped against the wooden floor.
Ron flicked the newspaper pages and let out a grunt. "I swear if it's that guy trying to sell us a water heater again I'm going to throw the shoe rack at him."
"Oh be nice." Judy grinned, placing her used glass in the dishwasher. "He was just a young fellow."
"Old enough to try and scam us," Ron muttered.
"Um, Mom?" Sam appeared in the doorway. He noticed Alex and gave her a nod before resuming a confused expression. "Mrs. Williams from your book club is here. She says she has a calcuttis or a clafittis for—"
"It is a clafoutis, my dear boy," a new voice corrected Sam before a woman, appearing to be in her seventies, swept into the kitchen with an air of haughtiness and a pie plate clutched between her hands.
There was a hint of familiarity as Alex inspected the visitor. She was impeccably dressed, standing out among them in a tailored purple pant-suit that sharply contrasted the stark-white hair that lay in tight curls against her scalp. Jewelry adorned the exposed skin of her throat and wrists and twinkled in the light as she offered forth her gift.
"Why Elizabeth, this is a pleasant surprise," Judy fawned, receiving the plate from the woman. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Of course you weren't, sweetheart. Moira saw your van in the driveway and called me this morning, letting me know you were back in town." Mrs. Williams waited until Judy had set the plate down before she grasped one of her hands, giving it a squeeze. "I thought I'd stop by with my condolences. I'm so sorry about your dear sister. She was a lovely girl."
"Oh, thank you, Elizabeth. You didn't have to—"
"Of course I did. You and Mary were like my own daughters. I was absolutely heartbroken to hear of her passing." A small laced handkerchief appeared from the purse she carried and she dabbed it against her eyes before sniffing and tucking it away again."Now, I brought you some dessert. Grieving families shouldn't have to worry about eating. It's cherry, I hope you'll like it."
Alex caught both Sam and Ron eyeing the dish and she had to admit it smelled heavenly from her spot at the table.
Judy, who still looked rather overwhelmed by the sudden visitor, thanked the woman again and then motioned toward Alex.
"I'm sure you remember Mary's daughter, Alexandria," Judy introduced.
Wanting to be polite, Alex pushed away her cereal and stood. The woman's rose-colored lips formed a tight little circle of surprise as if she had just become aware there were others in the room. Alex wiped her palms against her shorts, forcing herself not to shift in her spot under the scrutinizing gaze.
"Of course I do. Oh my dear, how much you've grown." Mrs. Williams drew closer, searching Alex's face. "I used to babysit you when you were only a little thing, maybe a foot high. I can't believe how long it's been." The tone of her voice changed as the longing of memories faded into sympathy. "How are you doing? Losing your poor mother to such a terrible tragedy, I can't imagine the toll that would take on a child such as yourself."
Alex sucked in a breath, a little shocked and impressed at how the woman was able to add insult to injury while putting her on the spot in the span of a single sentence.
Her family seemed to share her thoughts on this; Ron cast an unimpressed look at Mrs. Williams over the top of his newspaper and Sam snorted from his position against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest.
"As well as expected," Alex heard herself reply, trying not to let her irritation slip. The woman didn't deserve that, even though the first morning in her new home had taken a step away from comfortable. Not when the visit was hopefully meant with the best of intentions.
But, as she opened her mouth, to thank Mrs. Williams for being so considerate, an emotional bomb was flung in her face.
"And with you suffering from the trauma of your accident." Mrs. Williams tsked. "You must feel so blessed that your aunt and uncle have taken you under their care. Southgate really does have some wonderful mental health outreach programs."
Alex reflexively pulled her sleeve down until her right hand was fully covered by the fabric. Her scars hadn't been visible before but she couldn't help but feel as if they were suddenly glaringly obvious by everyone in the room.
Ron tossed the newspaper on the table. "Now hold on, that's going too—"
"Elizabeth!" Judy squeaked as she tried to divert any impending fallout. "Come help me serve some of this delicious looking pie before it gets cold."
"Clafoutis. It's French, similar to a flan. And yes, it is a good idea to serve it now while it is still warm. With fresh cream if you have it," Mrs. Williams replied, turning to assist.
Even though she was free from her attention, Alex remained frozen in her spot. Across from her, Sam was bug-eyed with his hand over his mouth, looking the proper way one should when the rules of basic social etiquette were brutalized and spat upon.
Ron called her name softly and she snapped out of her haze. He positioned her bowl closer to the chair beside him and nodded at its seat.
"Here, come finish your breakfast, kiddo."
Alex sat down stiffly and settled under the encouraging pat he gave to her shoulder.
"You're doing good. Don't worry, you've got this."
His warm supportive voice was nice to hear even though it didn't get rid of tactless guests or change the poor state of her cereal. Her spoon dipped into the milk, displacing the masses of soggy, bloated circles, floating in liquid that was more sugar than dairy.
Again, struggling to choke down some sustenance, Alex did her best to tune out Mrs. Williams by mulling over her uncle's words.
There was truth to what he said.
She could do this.
Everything was going to be alright.
0-0-0-0-0
Two hours later, everything wasn't alright.
The moment the cherry dessert was finished, when the last bite of cream and baked batter disappeared into a welcoming mouth, there came another chime of the doorbell. The confused-looking family turned to Mrs. Williams who preened at the chance to indulge them in a tidbit of gossip. She piped up the newcomer was likely Moira, wrought with grief, coming to express her condolences as well.
And it didn't stop there.
With Moira came the trickle of the book club members, who were seen by the neighbors down the street, who just happened to be friends with coworkers from Judy's office. Everyone and anyone in the vicinity with ties to the family seemed to come out of the woodwork. The doorbell rang again and again from the continuous stream of well-wishes showing up on the front steps of the two-story Craftsman home.
Now it was a full-blown second reception and Alex was ready to climb the walls.
She ducked out of the living room, managing to avoid making eye contact with the newest group that just arrived. She dragged in several deep breaths through her nose trying to calm the pulse that was racing high in her throat.
It was funny how memory worked. Failing to remind her she was back where everything started going downhill. Where six years ago the local news had been dragging the bottom of the barrel for stories to run and when there came word two young girls were involved in a freak accident, leaving one in hospital and the other emotionally scarred, the coverage had been extensive. Almost bordering ridiculous. So now she was practically falling over people who knew her either as the girl who was hit by lightning, the niece with mental health issues, or the teen whose mother was gunned down in broad daylight. At least at the funeral, when people approached her to talk all the while looking at her with sympathy, pity, or both, Alex knew how to act. She was dressed the part. The time was right. The church an appropriate setting. But here, caught off-guard in the house that she was supposed to make her own, she couldn't push back against the anxiety that clawed at her chest.
Another deep breath. In and out. Just how her therapists had taught her.
Nothing changed.
Her eyes closed and she pictured her calming place; a field marked by purple grasses dancing under a starry sky.
It didn't work either.
None of the behavioral interventions did. She needed something else, something stronger, to calm her down before she turned into a blubbering, hyperventilating mess on the oak floorboards.
There was an option upstairs; tucked away in the recesses of her purse, even though the thought of using medications, more medications, turned her stomach.
But, as the doorbell rang yet again and panic set in, she headed for the stairway.
Alex was two steps up when voices at the top made her scramble back the way she came, biting back a whimper. It seemed every spare inch of the house was occupied and, desperate to find some solace, she veered off to the left and found herself once again in the kitchen. The backyard patio doors could be seen beyond the crowd that conversed over the plethora of desserts, cassaroles, and fruit trays covering every free surface of the room. She made a beeline for them, keeping her eyes downcast and ignoring the call of her name from down the hall behind her.
Only when she was outside—where the warm air brushed sweetly across her skin and the sounds of birds overpowered the muffled conversation seeping through the glass behind her—did she give pause. The scenic yard was lulling but its peacefulness only temporary as her uncle's voice, along with that of another man, could be heard from around the corner of the house. Their voices increased in volume as they drew near and, before she could be spotted, she flew across the patio and down the path leading across the lawn, her socked feet silent against the flagstones. Her retreating form was hidden by the far side of the garage just as Ron and several guests came into view.
Standing frozen in her spot, trying to quiet the huffing sounds of her breath, Alex listened intently to the bits and pieces of the conversation she could make out only to realize that they were still coming her way.
Luckily, the side entrance of the garage was unlocked and she quietly slipped behind the door and shut it gently so it latched without a sound.
Alex slowly backed away from the door as the knob began to creak, turning slightly in its place. Her uncle was right outside now, his laughter easily distinguishable from the others as they made jokes about barbequing and the like. She didn't know what to do. What would she say when the door opened to reveal her standing there alone?
Her back came into contact with a solid, unmovable object and she looked to see she'd crossed to the far side of the garage and was pressed up against a workbench along the wall. Alex glanced at the door again, which opened a bit more to where she could see the side of Ron's body and the garden beyond. The chatter continued and Alex braced herself but then she heard someone call out from the house, beckoning Ron and the others.
The door closed and the voices faded, their owners leaving the area.
Finally alone, Alex hoisted herself up onto the surface of the workbench with shaky limbs. She drew her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees. She should have been awash with relief but instead she just felt lost. Perhaps even a little self-disgust.
Her breathing grew ragged and soon the harsh irregular gasps gave way to wracking, choking sobs and she cried into the clutching embrace of her arms.
She missed her.
She missed her so fucking much she didn't know how it would be possible to fill the emptiness she felt inside.
So she wept.
And eventually her pain, ugly and raw in its onset, finally began to subside, becoming soft whimpers and nasally whines until even they too fell into silence.
Alex rubbed at her puffy, tear-stained face and leaned back to rest her head against the wall, utterly exhausted. Tiny specks of dust flowed across a beam of sunlight shining through the window sitting high up to her left and she watched the dancing particles, feeling a sense of calm settling over her. The clamminess of cold sweat no longer chilled her skin and her heart and breathing was even and slow.
Be it the peacefulness of the garage or finally finding a moment to herself, she was thankful to be returning to normal.
Not yet ready to rejoin the commotion of the house, however, Alex's eyes roamed over her surroundings. The room was quite tidy for a garage. The upper walls and rafters were new—if the brightness of the wood was any indication—and the sweet aroma of fresh cedar mixing with the usual smells of gasoline, oil, and leather was pleasing to the nose. A potted plant sat on display on the windowsill and a mix of metal signs and a pegboard of tools hung on the wall she leaned against. Across the way, just off from the door, a couch sat in front of a shelving unit, which held a large television set. High stacks of movies were piled in front of it and Alex couldn't help but think she'd stumbled onto someone's man cave.
She slid off the workbench and slowly made her way deeper into the room, inspecting the miscellaneous wall items as she went. A few of the signs were quite humorous and the corner of her mouth quirked as she paused to read them here and there.
Upon reaching the back, where it was devoid of any further trinkets to occupy her interest, she turned her curiosity to the main feature of the garage.
A yellow sports car with black racing stripes sat silently in the center, metal body impeccably clean and lines glinting where the sunlight hit. It was a little out of place among the dull interior but, as the garage was warm and dry and provided protection from the elements, the functionality of the space made sense if not the display value.
The license plate read "900 STRA" and didn't list any particular state, which was a little peculiar, seeing how she'd always thought it was a requirement. Then again, vanity plates were never something her mother could afford so she couldn't exactly say she was an expert on the matter.
As Alex's attention was on the plate, she remained oblivious to sudden movement from within the car. The center of the steering wheel began to ripple and shift; silent, subtle and hidden by the tinted glass of the windows. Small mechanical cells flipped and rotated with quick precision and in the span of a single breath the symbol previously adorning that spot had disappeared, leaving only smooth metal in its place.
The visitor was none the wiser.
Alex moved around the side of the car and saw small silver lettering, printed in bold font on the front fender, indicating the make of the car as a Camaro. Intrigued, she peered through the driver's window. An air freshener in the shape of a bee and one of those mini novelty-store disco balls dangled from the rearview mirror over a darkened dashboard. The interior was decked out in a classic black motif—always stylish—with silver trim and yellow stitching threaded through the leather bucket seats, perfectly matching the color scheme of the exterior. She leaned forward as she tried to see the finer details. Her fingertips hovered just over the door handle.
"Oh my god!" she cried, losing about ten years and two feet as she jumped in her spot when the garage door flung open with a bang.
An anxious looking Sam rushed in and stopped short on spotting her. His eyes grew wider, darting between Alex and the car before he cleared his throat.
"Oh hey, Alex. You—you're in here," he stuttered, shifting back and forth before finally leaning to one side and crossing his arms over his chest. "What are—what are you doing in here?"
Hand pressed over her chest she gave him a mildly accusatory glare. "You scared the living shit out of me." She dissolved into a nervous chuckle, smoothing her hair back and taking a tentative step away from the vehicle. "I was just trying to find somewhere quiet for a few minutes. I swear didn't touch the car or anything."
"Quiet?"
"Yeah. I needed to get away from all of the people in there"—she pointed toward the house—"as it was getting too crowded, too… umm…"
His expression softened. "Stressful?"
"You could say that," she replied and then gestured to their surroundings. "And this seemed to be the only place where I could be alone right now."
Sam's eyes darted to the car again.
"Anyway," she continued, "I see your dad finally decided to add to his collection." Her head tilted toward the Camaro.
"What? Oh no, that's my car."
A moment of silence passed between them.
"...your car?" Alex said slowly. She looked at the vehicle beside her, which carried at least a fifty-thousand-plus dollar price tag with it. Definitely not the usual starter a teenager threw down a couple grand for.
Sam tried to explain. "Well yeah, it's mine but it's not like I could have afforded it on my own. Seeing how I don't have a… job… or anything." He cleared his throat. "But my dad —uh—he bought it for me."
Alex's shocked expression didn't change. "Uncle Ron bought you this car?" Certainly a difficult concept to grasp, considering how Ron's thrifty nature was evident even for the newest souls he met.
"Uh-huh," Sam squeaked, head bobbing up and down in short rapid nods. "It was a gift for doing well in school."
Alex continued to stare at him with disbelief.
His mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish before he blurted out, "I got really, really, good grades."
"I'll bet…." she said, the conversation veering into an awkward area. She rubbed her forearm through the faded material of the second-hand shirt she wore. "Anyway… why were you looking for me?"
"Oh, right. Mom was wanting to introduce you to someone. Something to do with art. I didn't really pick up what it was about but she looked really excited so we probably shouldn't keep her waiting." He motioned toward the door.
"Alright." Hint received she went to follow him but then Sam, who must have noticed her hesitancy, piped up with an offer.
"Hey, how about after everything settles down I take you out for a drive? You know, once I have a chance to prepare."
Pausing on her way past him, she cocked a brow. "Prepare?"
"Um yeah… prepare," he repeated, again fumbling in response to her query. "As you pointed out, expensive car and all. Gotta make sure the weather is good. Fluid levels are… adequate. Check traffic reports…"
Her lips curled in a smile at the perplexing babbling. It was one of the quirks about her cousin she loved; being both endearing and amusing even though she could barely follow along sometimes. "In other words, prepare?" she reiterated.
He snapped and pointed a finger at her. "Exactly."
Chuckling, she allowed him to usher her out the door. "Well, I would enjoy that. It's a plan then."
Sam cast one last look back inside the garage and then closed the door behind them before turning to her with his own smile gracing his features. "It's a plan," he echoed and then, side-by-side, they returned to the house.
0-0-0-0-0
The footsteps faded in the distance, the garage growing quiet once more. Only the faintest of hums sounded in the silence as the Camaro's mirrors returned to their neutral position after following the path of the girl as she explored the garage; their owner observing her as much as she had been observing him.
Bumblebee was shaken to his core.
When the unknown human first appeared, slipping into the garage to hide like a trapped animal, Bee tensed with wariness. This, however, dissolved into pure shock when she crossed in front of him and her face came into view. A face with features strikingly familiar to one he hadn't seen for cycles but remembered vividly.
Alexandria.
Her name echoed about in his head.
It couldn't be her. The mere probability of Alexandria being there, of her knowing Sam, was astronomically small. So much so it was almost laughable.
Yet he couldn't help the tug at his spark, the rise of a small glimmer of hope.
Bee gave himself a shake. It wouldn't do him any good to just jump to conclusions. That was simply not the attribute of a good scout. Optimus would need a report; an accurate report, so he began running through his observations.
First and foremost Sam had referred to her as Alex. With the boy being a prime example, calling someone by a shorter version of their name seemed to be a common practice for humans. Several online databases also confirmed that Alex was a diminutive of Alexandria.
But then it also was for Alexandra.
And Alexa… Alexis…
It also didn't help that he couldn't remember if Alexandria ever told him her last name. Or the name of her mother for that matter; always referring to her simply as "mom" when they spoke.
At that thought a wave of shame fell over him. The female obviously had believed she was alone and so when he heard her cries of anguish and saw her tears as she held tight onto herself, withdrawing from the world, he knew he was intruding a private moment. This made him feel lower than low. Like the layer of ash covering Cybertron's wastelands where it clogged gears and choked up vents. Or maybe the rust-colored dirt below the ash; so saturated with weapon runoff and fluids from disintegrating bodies that it gave off its own radiation.
If there was any question of the female being Sam's cousin, it vanished the moment he witnessed her grief.
Maybe it would be better if it turns out she isn't Alexandria, he thought, hating the idea of his friend suffering so.
Blue beams shot out from his headlights and the recording his security program captured during Alexandria's first visit to his stasis platform flickered to life. He watched it for a moment, whirring in longing at the memory before he scanned forward and paused on the part where she stood up to offer her hand in greeting to him. Next to it, the holo he'd taken of Alex, as she came along his driver's side door, appeared. Bee looked back and forth between the two females, comparing one to the other.
The green values coloring Alexandria were light but that didn't necessarily mean they translated into the blonde hair and Caucasian skin tone of Sam's cousin. Alexandria's face was rounded with full cheeks and held a pert nose and thin lips. Hair, straight and long, trailed down her back and her build was slender, flat, and rectangular.
He looked at the holo of Alex. An angled jaw framed a face characterized by similar eyes, a slender nose and plump lips. Her hair was shorter, braid just ending above shoulder-height, and her body was full and curved with the secondary sex features of an adult human female.
Similarities and differences both existing at once and both far too subtle.
The holos blinked off as air whooshed out his vents in a huff. He was no closer to an answer than when he started.
Why do all humans have to look alike?
With an embarrassing subpar report formulated, Bumblebee opened his comm.
0-0-0-0-0
Seven thick coils of nylon rope wound around the tree log like serpents, their smooth surface cutting into the roughness of the bark and biting just enough to secure it to the tree limb overhead. Bumblebee adjusted the last knot and placed the flat of his hand in the center. Solid wood met solid metal. He curled his digits into a fist. The log seem adequate enough but only a test would make sure.
The soft carpet of moss and pine needles muffled his feet as he dropped into an offensive stance and, taking a fragment of a second to size up his target, he swung his fist. The arc was smooth, the movement second nature, and he connected with a crack that sent the log spinning away from him, propelled into a twisting, erratic dance on the end of its noose.
Bee moved to the side as it came back his way. The rope groaned, aching under the strain, and the branch creaked warningly above him but both held tight. Satisfied, he stopped the log on its next pass and returned it to its starting position.
A little light but it'll have to do, he thought.
A curse followed by the clank of metal sounded behind him and Bee glanced to where Sam was chasing a tin can as it rolled and bounced away from him at the edge of the forest. Similar cans were strung up along the perimeter; Sam's new idea for target practice as, after all, smaller targets were supposed to be harder, right? A grin pulled at Bee's face plates at the boy's eagerness to challenge him. Wit against brawn Sam would say, always earning a defensive buzz from the Autobot.
The rims of the tin cans tried to glint in the speckled light that was allowed to sliver through the dense canopy. Several of the bodies of the cans tried as well, or, at least, the ones that weren't clothed in spray paint. Bee's gaze traveled over the mix of shiny silver tin hung between other more vibrant hues. Blue. Red. Green. Different colors meant to represent different targets—Autobots, Decepticons, humans—all strung up together and swaying gently in the breeze that shifted through from the open field beyond. The cans that were naked... well, Bumblebee wasn't sure who they represented.
Not yet anyway.
The can Sam was chasing suddenly skidded across the ground as the boy's shoe accidentally kicked it further. Bee chuckled to himself and turned back to the task at hand, least Sam notice the direction of his amusement. From the base of the tree, he grabbed the one lone bottle of aerosolized white paint Sam had given him on his request. It tapped against his thigh plates with high-pitched tinks as he observed the log.
It needed something, or rather, someone to grace its surface. The question was who should that someone be? Which individual was lucky enough to have their image captured in paint on the makeshift punching bag?
Scoffing, since the answer was an easy one, Bee leaned close to the log and pressed the nozzle carefully with one of his large digits. Stark white paint hissed out of the pressurized device, creating thick lines that stood out nicely against the dark hue of the wood.
Soon Starscream's portrait stood out on its surface.
Bee observed his work with a smug look. "Break my hydraulic, will you?"The growl came low in his throat.
"Who is that supposed to be?"
Taken aback, Bee looked down to where Sam now stood beside him. The boy had his head cocked, brows scrunched up in an attempt to decipher the markings.
"Wait…" Bee said, "it's not obvious?"
Sam's face pinched further. "Eeh…" His hand tilted side to side.
"It's Starscream."
"I guess…" Sam hesitated, the flicker of recognition there in his eyes but not as bright as Bee hoped. "It could be better, though. Here"—one hand reached out for the paint—"I'll show you how you should have drawn him."
The teen went to the far side of the log and made a few swipes of white on its bottom-most portion, seeing how it was the only part he could reach. Bee hovered nearby until Sam beckoned him closer with a flick of his fingers, inviting him to take a look.
An oddly shaped triangle glared back with beady eyes bordered by heavy downward slashing brows. Its thin stick-like arms were raised threatening in the air, each ending with three curved claws. The body was supported by a pair of short bowed legs that seemed to bend and buckle under a non-existent weight.
"And that is…" Bee trailed off, looking at Sam for clarification.
"An angry Dorito."
Bee blinked. Once. Twice. His gaze on the Dorito that seemed to be staring right back at him with its unbridled fury. And the more he looked at it, and it looked at him, the more Bee felt the coils of laughter winding up his insides. Laughter that welled and grew until he began to chuckle, which only seemed to make the Dorito's expression more infuriated. This flamed his mirth until the chuckles gave way to nothing short of full-blown howls. One hand held his midsection while the other partially covered his face, doing little to shield himself from the angry glare of the Dorito that he felt now was seared into his memory banks. If he'd been able to produce tears, he would surely be crying right about now.
Sam could be heard snorting and guffawing beside him—laughter being the contagious thing that it was—and the sounds of the two of them bounced off the trees of the forest, dancing with the filtered light.
Sam wheezed, "I'm guessing you like it?" he asked, face split in a wide grin and nostrils flaring with exertion.
"I just keep picturing that"—Bee pointed, his vocal processor crackling with static, the words barely making it through his laughter— "flying above Cybertron leading the Seeker force and it's—it's the most ridiculous thing ever."
Another peal escaped Bee, long and loud, before finally ending in a whirr as he gave his head a good shake. "Alright, alright," he repeated, diverting his gaze from Sam as the look on the boy's face threatened to send him into another fit. Cool air cycled through his vents with a whoosh and he straightened up. "I'm sorry. I'm okay now."
"Nah, man." Sam brushed the apology off. "Nothing wrong with a little humor. Laughter is the best medicine and all." A smile still played on his lips as he retrieved the cap for the spray paint. "And it's nice to see you let it all out."
Bee rubbed the back of his neck. "It did feel good," he admitted, feeling as if a weight he hadn't been aware of had been lifted from him. "Laughter as medicine, huh? I kind of like that..."
Sam went to reply but was cut off as the sound of a car approaching came from the dirt road across the way from them. Not expecting any visitors, Bee knelt low behind the tree, one hand guiding Sam behind him. Luckily though, as soon as the car came into view Bee could make out its front license plate through the burn of the late afternoon sun. He relaxed.
"It's Corporal Mathews," he said, motioning Sam to follow him.
The old repurposed Honda Accord rumbled to a stop, the soft growling of its engine hinting at high quality parts hidden beneath its drab and faded grey exterior. Mathews stepped out, the thick soles of her boots crunching against the stone and dirt of the road, and she straightened her already lineless jacket. The obstacle course received a brief glance.
"It seems you two have been hard at work," she said as the pair approached and stopped just short of her position. One finger swept across the expanse of the field. "I don't remember this place being so extensive the last time I was here."
"Gotta push the limits," Sam chirped up, giving Bee's lower leg a nudge with his elbow, "Right, buddy?"
Bumblebee gave a hum in reply.
Sam continued, pride woven into his voice. "Added four new areas since your last visit. You should hang out and watch. It's pretty fun. We're currently do this one thing where—"
Mathews raised her hand effectively cutting off any further verbal tour of the course.
"Sorry, Samuel—"
"Sam."
"Yes, right," she corrected, placing a bit more strain on the shortened version of his name, "Sorry, Sam, but I'm not here for a social visit so I'll have to take your word for it. Rather, I have some information that's come down from the brass that I need to share with you."
"Oh." Sam glanced briefly at Bee. "Sure thing. What's up?"
Again Mathews straightened the clothing that hadn't moved out of place since the first time and then clasped her hands in front of her. "I've been told that Bumblebee has been reassigned."
"What?" The response blurted from Sam's lips as a single shocked word and Bee's as a clipped whirr. "But why? When?"
Bee shook his head, knowing his own confusion was fully portrayed in his expression. "Optimus hasn't contacted me about this."
"I've been told he's aware," Mathews clarified with a click of her tongue, "and since this was a solution for an issue brought forth by our side, it was felt it would be best to have it communicated through our channels"
Sam took a step forward. "What issue?"
An apologetic look briefly graced Mathews face before it was replaced by the usual no nonsense of her character. "Concerns have been raised regarding the increased risk to the operation's security. A breach is not something my superiors are willing to tolerate and for that reason Bumblebee will be joining the Autobots by the end of next week in the preparation for the Diego Garcia move."
"That soon?" The dismayed teen blurted out once again, his browns pinching together. "But, wait… what increased risk?"
Bee, having already guessed the reason, spoke up. "It's because of Alex, isn't it?"
"Alex?" Sam's gaze swiveled from Mathews to Bee and back. "She's the reason Bee has to leave? But we haven't told her anything and we won't. Even if she did happen to find out—and I'm really emphasizing the 'if' part—she would never, ever say anything. She's family. We can trust her."
Sam looked at him, seeking support, but unfortunately Bee felt that a final decision had already been made and no amount of reassurance on their end would change it. There was also his nagging suspicion that he—not Sam nor any other human—was the one flagged as the likely source of his own discovery. Even though he didn't want to admit it, if Alex did turn out to be his Alexandria, then the urge to reconnect with the little female would be a strong one. He knew it and, more so, Optimus knew it as well.
Mathew's voice drew Bee back to the conversation. "If it were only that simple, Sam, we wouldn't even be here right now discussing this—"
"But it is that simple," Sam interrupted. "I vouched for my parents and you guys brought them in on everything."
"We have Sector Seven to thank for starting that process," Mathrews replied wryly. "Also, we needed you and Miss Banes—"
"Mikaela."
"Right, right… Mikaela to sign a contract and no contract of any kind would ever be considered legally binding if it were signed by a minor in the absence of a parent or, in Mikaela's case, a makeshift guardian. Hence, they were pulled in out of necessity."
"Almost eighteen really isn't a minor…" Sam muttered under his breath before raising his voice back to arguing volume. "But still Alex—"
"Alex has no ties whatsoever to this operation and it is going to stay that way. Her background alone had the brass wanting to pull Bumblebee as of today. You're lucky you got a week out of this."
Bee's cranial circuits prickled at the odd statement. "Background? What are you talking about?"
"It's nothing," Sam interjected before casting a scowl at Mathews. "I don't see how a personal, private issue is any of the government's business and why it should matter anyway."
"Everything is our business," Mathews corrected, "and I'm just giving you all of the details. No need to get upset with the messenger."
Sam huffed, threading his fingers through his hair. "I'm not upset. At least not with you. It's just that a lot of shit has happened recently and this is just one more thing to add to the pile."
"Not to point out the obvious, but what about the Decepticons?" Bee asked.
Sam jerked a thumb up at him. "Yeah, that's a good point. What about them?"
"Priorities have changed." Mathews said simply as she leaned against the hood of her car. "They think that enough time has passed that the probability of an attack on you or your family is low enough to group you with the risk posed to the general population."
"Nice to know we're as special as the next slob," Sam snorted, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans and kicking a loose pebble across the dusty road.
"We've all taken a hit, Sam, and—"
"Downgraded more like it."
A twitch of Mathew's lip gave away her own opinion on the matter.
"I'm curious"—Sam sniffed, running a finger under his nose— "just how one gets downgraded from a glorified babysitter?"
Bee gave Sam a warning click; the boy's mouth certainly ran when up against change he didn't like.
Mathews didn't rise to the bait but there was a frost to her grey stare. "Bumblebee is considered an asset that can be better utilized elsewhere while my presence has been deemed to be sufficient enough in regard to general surveillance."
"Ouch," Sam winced. "Just a babysitter."
"Sam…" Bee's voice dropped low and he shifted his bulk just enough to make Sam take notice of the shadow covering him.
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry." Sam, palms in the air in front of him, squinted up against the sun that backed the form of his friend. "I'm sorry," he repeated, turning to face Mathews. His apology received a nod of acceptance. "Just… a lot of shit."
"You must have known this wasn't going to last," Mathews pressed gently. "I mean you are harboring a giant extraterrestrial in your backyard. Er—no offense."
Bee chuckled. "None taken. First time I've been called gigantic."
She gave him a quirked brow. Sam looked as if he were about to smile but the strain on his face kept it hidden.
"It's probably time I got back." Mathews checked the silver wristwatch that hid under the white of a cuff. "I still have to update your parents on the matter and Mrs. Witwicky should be back from her trip to the grocery store by now. Have a good evening."
"That's a bit of a moot point, don't you think?" Sam asked.
Mathews, part way to the driver's door, paused long enough to give him a sympathetic nod. The car dipped with her weight and both Sam and Bee stepped back, giving the Honda a wide enough berth to turn around without catching its tires on the brush that edged the road. With a kick of dust, it sped off, leaving the forgotten obstacle course behind.
0-0-0-0-0
The trip heading home was a quiet one with both Sam and Bumblebee lost to their own thoughts, the excursion to the obstacle course cut short by the damper of the Corporal's visit. Neither had expressed much interest in continuing the task that had been started with such zeal. It seemed to matter little now, seeing how the end loomed overhead.
Sam stared absently out the driver's side window, hands on his lap, fingers barely grazing the wheel that shifted under its own accord. His expression, mirrored in the glass, would have been fitting for a bleak overcast sky and not for the current pristine expanse streaked in rich reds and oranges. Bumblebee hummed, hiding the sound with a rev of his engine, as he wished he could be the upbeat one at this moment. It would be forced, however, and he didn't want to insult the boy's intelligence by pretending nothing was the matter.
A green road sign for a turnoff approached rapidly as the ground was eaten up beneath his tires. The white block letters indicated the Pacific Coast Highway lay ahead. There came a tug at his spark as he remembered the road traveled by him and Sam once before to reach a very specific and important destination along the western coast.
Without warning to his passenger he changed lanes and took the ramp that led them perpendicular to their prior route.
Sam, not as deep into his thoughts as he had assumed, cast him a questioning glance.
"There's something I need to do," Bee told him, his voice soft.
There was no need to elaborate as Sam caught on after an inspection of their surroundings.
"I understand," Sam replied, settling back into his seat for the additional two hour round trip they faced. "You do what you need to do." A hint of a smile appeared on his face. "Just, we may have to stop for some food after."
Bee chuckled. Food could always be counted on as an effective compromise with the seemingly perpetually hungry teen. "Of course. And… thank you."
There was a pat on his wheel and he warmed the seat in return, soothing muscles but not conflicting with the humidity outside; the trip just that much more comfortable for his friend.
0-0-0-0-0
Night had fallen by the time they reached their destination near Mugu Canyon. The area was pitch black as Bee veered off the road and moved between sandy dunes and rocky outcrops. The highway and the periodic vehicles it carried disappeared behind them. When the terrain became more difficult he stopped and opened his door.
Sam got out and stretched, head turned upward to the stars and moon above. "You definitely don't get this view in the city," he remarked.
Bee shifted into his bipedal mode and nodded. An ocean of stars surrounded Earth's satellite, which sat high overhead in its waxing gibbous phase. The reflected bright white light kept the inky darkness at bay. He left his headlights on, however, until Sam climbed onto one of the large flat rocks that studded the land. "Are you going to be okay there," he asked, giving their surroundings a quick once over for threats.
"Should be." Sam laid back against the stone. "I have a nice view to keep me occupied and I don't plan on going for a moonlit walk anytime soon. Plus you're within screaming range if a coyote happens to find me appetizing."
The look he gave Sam was fairly self explanatory.
"That was a joke." Sam waved him away. "I'm fine. Go on."
It was another moment before Bee turned, walking off into the darkness and leaving his charge behind.
The crashing surf of the ocean grew louder as he closed the distance with long strides and soon he was at the precipice of a cliff overlooking the bay that fed into the cool waters of the North Pacific. Waves crashed below him leaving foamy patterns on rocks slick with algae.
Bee could imagine the tug of the undertow is it dragged the water back into the black depths. Beyond the reach of his gaze on the horizon, the bottom dropping off into the abyss, no light penetrating from above. To a quiet and isolated area where an unmarked shipping container sat alone and hidden on the sandy ocean floor.
The grave of an Autobot soldier.
The resting place of Jazz.
Taking care not to disturb the fragile soil of the edge, Bumblebee sat down and rested his arms against his crossed legs.
He watched the water a bit longer before sighing.
"Hey… It's me."
The following pause was drawn out. An answer never came.
Not that he had expected one.
The waves crashed below him again and the receding water gurgled as it drained between the rocks. Back out it went to the depths where his friend was hidden away from the world.
"I'm being shipped out soon. Some island on the other side of this world in the middle of nowhere." Bee continued. The awkwardness of talking to himself lessened as he pretended Jazz was listening. His shoulders hunched in a shrug. "Pretty decent stronghold I guess, at least against us grounders."
A small smile graced his face plates as he knew Jazz would have laughed at that. The Decepticon's tended to have more bots with flight tech than those without.
The smile didn't last long however.
"I wish I wasn't. Going that is." He shook his head. "But I know I had to get back to dealing with the Cons eventually. I had just hoped to have more time away from it all."
Bee spared a glance over his shoulder to where Sam remained stargazing on the rock just beyond the cloak of night. A thermal scan showed all was well, the boy still lying on his back with fingers drumming against his abdomen.
"Being with Sam. His family… Away from the fighting. It's really been something else," he said, recalling his short time with them. "They don't expect anything from me. I have no assignments aside from the guardianship. No priority lists. No targets…" His right hand flexed, the plates of his arm sliding over one another back and forth as he played with an activation code. His plasma cannon started to take shape but then reversed into the limb's standard structure.
His optics fixated on the spot. So many others offlined because of it.
"I'm tired…" He heard himself confess; the words seemed to materialize before he could stop them. "I'm so fraggin' tired of it all…" A strained chuckle echoed from his vocal processor and he gazed back out across the ocean seeking the direction of the grave. "Just… don't go telling Optimus, okay? Knowing him, he can probably speak to the dead. Being a Prime and all."
The sounds of the waves answered. Black waters grasped at the land, threatening to pull everything down with them into their abyss. Bee suddenly gripped the stoney embankment as a deep ache clenched at his spark.
Dead.
Jazz was dead.
Air exited his vents with a shudder. "I'm sorry"—his voice cracked—"I'm so sorry…"
Thrums, low-pitched and mournful, vibrated at his throat as the image of Jazz's mangled body played over and over in his head. Optimus reaching down to gently take the lieutenant's listless corpse from Ironhide's protective grasp.
He was gone just like the others. Forever.
And it was his fault.
"Why didn't I end Megatron when I had the chance?" he whispered, the words swept up by the salty breeze off the water. "He was there in that bunker. Frozen and alone. Vulnerable. Just one clean shot was all I needed and if I had done that he would be dead and you would still be here…"
His shoulders sagged.
All it had taken was just one moment. One moment out of many where the course of action seemed clear and he believed he had been doing the right thing.
Secure the Cube at all costs. Keep it from the Decepticons. Bring it back within Autobot control.
Very straightforward at that time, considering the Decepticon's were encroaching on the Cube's position.
Bumblebee recalled the sudden flicker of the lights above where he lay shackled to the examination table. Even through all of the noise—the constant whooshing of the liquid nitrogen as it bit its way across his parts, the incessant chatter of the humans swarming around him—the deep boom far off in the distance had been picked up by his audio receptors. He knew what little precious time he had left was dwindling rapidly.
The Cube was near; he had felt its presence—its energy—tugging at his spark the moment he was whisked into the heavily secured facility.
It was near.
And it was in danger
That was why he only hesitated briefly when Sam told him Megatron was in the next hanger.
Why he ignored the most dangerous Decepticon ever created.
And Jazz was dead because of it.
His optics squeezed shut as the thrums increased in intensity. One hand slid over his chest to rest above where his spark hid behind thick armor plates. Warmth brushed his digits; hotter than usual due to the rapid tempo of pulses from emotions playing havoc on his systems.
Just one shot…
Would you have done it though? Killed someone who was utterly defenseless?
Jazz's voice spoke to him, tugging at his morality. Bee looked out over the ocean again.
The stars glittered above, their reflection not visible against the dark water. Even the moon's light was subdued as if it too were being pulled down into the depths beyond.
The water flowed in and out as always but now he could sense it watching him.
Waiting for him.
Just one giant void laid out before him.
Bee shuddered.
"You know that's not like you…"
"Maybe it should be," he answered, already feeling doubt before the sentence was even finished.
He could practically hear Jazz snort in response.
"You're not a killer."
"Too late for that." His right hand curled into a fist.
The question still hung in the air. Would he have actually ended Megatron's life considering the state he was in?
Jazz fought for what he believed in right until his death and, as gruesome as it was, he did get a chance to lay direct blows on the Decepticon leader.
A death most bots would be proud to have.
Bumblebee sighed, still conflicted.
Of course there was no way to know at the time what would happen to Jazz. What would happen to any of them really. If he had killed Megatron, when the other mech couldn't so much as lift an arm to defend himself, it would have been an underhanded move on his part, all things considering.
But did that mean he shouldn't have taken the opportunity to extinguish the spark of the bot responsible for the destruction of their world?
So many lives lost to the war. So much pain and suffering…
His throat tightened and he touched the area in reassurance. His neck and chest were intact; the gaping chasm and shredded remains repaired long ago. Yet he could still feel Megatron's talons as they punctured his body, pulling it apart with sickening snaps and the groaning of metal. He could still see the dark cavern he lay in after. Feel vital fluids spill out and pool under him, while Arcee hovered close, calling his name.
Even after all that, would he go to a level so low as to kill a defenseless bot?
You're one of the good guys, Bumblebee.
His antennae twitched; it was Alexandria's voice who spoke to him now.
Something she had said during one of her visits when their conversation broached on the war. One of the few times he let his guard down on the subject, allowing the small human a glimpse into his uncertainties; the fear that after all this time he was becoming the very thing he fought against.
The determination on her face, her steadfast words, the kindness in her eyes. Everything about her at that moment radiated truth, her truth, and the feeling it gave him then had stayed with him well past the end of their visits.
And it was with him again now.
He sat quietly for several long moments.
"A good guy, huh…"
Finally with his answer Bumblebee stood tall and faced the ocean, which no longer looked as dark as before.
"You were right," he said, knowing somewhere, somehow, Jazz was listening. A small smile returned to his face. "But then again, you always were."
He could feel approval of his words and while the ache of loss remained, the turmoil of his thoughts were silenced, at least for another day.