Chapter 2

The walk to the hospital ward was quiet, except for the ringing of their shoes down the metal corridor and the distant hum of machinery. Mikaela's thumb rubbed gentle circles into his palm, but Sam barely felt it. In short order, he found himself sitting in front of a small desk in a cramped office, his parents on his left and Mikaela on his right. When he had first walked into the ward, his parents had descended on him, flustered and fussing. His father had been harsh, ("Where were you? You can't just wander around a battleship! You have to be smarter, Sam!"), and his mother had been relieved, ("Oh Sammy, look at you"). The doctor had surveyed them all in silence, his eyes moving between Sam and his parents, before he asked to speak with Sam alone. In comically perfect unison, his parents had turned away from Sam and directed their collective ire towards the doctor. To his credit, the doctor neither flinched nor paled in the face of two royally pissed off parents who, just yesterday, had watched their only child die in the desert.

Before the doctor could repeat himself, Sam had tiredly raised his hand, "It's okay. They can hear whatever you have to say."

The doctor had studied him for a moment, and then turned on his heel and beckoned for them to follow. And so Sam found himself in the smallest office on the planet—he was sure his parents' broom closet was bigger—with his mother fussing over him and the corpsman watching them all with a serious expression on his face.

"Sam," He began, and there was no doubt he was speaking only to him, "I need to impress upon you the seriousness of your injuries. Your heart stopped beating for over eight minutes, you have second-degree burns over a fourth of your body, and you have two cracked ribs."

The doctor paused, looking as though he was turning his words over in his mouth, considering them carefully, "Sam," He started again, his voice losing a bit of its hardened, professional edge, "By all accounts, you should be dead."

Sam blinked. He knew that. Of course he knew that. The doctor couldn't imagine what Sam had experienced between the time Megatron's canon blast had hit true and when he gasped back to life, ten minutes later. In lieu of an intelligent response, which Sam found himself incapable of producing, he nodded.

At Sam's non-reply, the doctor's expression intensified, "Sam," He tried again, as though Sam hadn't perfectly understood what he had just said, "People who have been revived from cardiac arrest by defibrillation are at risk for recurring and potentially serious health problems. You will need to adhere to a careful regimen of exercise, diet, and rest to prevent any complications."

Sam was vaguely aware of his parents' speaking, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. Instead, he only heard the doctor's words, repeating like a mantra in his mind. Revived by defibrillation. Because that wasn't true, was it? Mikaela had told him how the medics had tried, pressing paddles to his burnt chest and screaming to "Get clear! Get clear!" But despite their best efforts, he had remained cold and unresponsive under the burning Egyptian sun. The defibrillation had nothing to do with his revival, and Sam knew it.

When Sam came back to himself a few moments later, his mother was speaking.

"What do you mean 'complications'?" She asked, "What type of complications?"

The doctor interlaced his fingers and returned his mother's gaze.

"They can vary widely, from mild to severe. Sam can expect to experience some degree of chest pain, dizziness, fatigue, and breathlessness. Palpitations are also likely, over the next several months. In rare but extreme cases, a post-trauma relapse can occur." At his mother's confused expression, he clarified, "A heart attack."

Sam flinched.

"His burns are extensive, covering most of his chest and left arm. They include first- and second-degree burns, which means the damage extends beyond the outer layer of skin and into the dermis. Second-degree burns can be potentially dangerous when they affect large areas of the body, including the joints and hands, as is Sam's case. We have applied antibiotic ointment and, considering the conditions in which Sam received the burns, I have prescribed an oral antibiotic to stave off any potential infections."

The doctor returned his attention to Sam.

"Your recovery isn't going to be pleasant. Second-degree burns hurt like hell and take weeks to heal. You'll need to have your dressings changed every twelve hours for the first week. You will remain on the oral antibiotics for ten days. I will also prescribe you an alternating round of acetaminophen and ibuprofen every four hours. Take my advice and set an alarm to remember your medication. You'll want to stay on top of your pain management."

His mother was pale but composed. She asked, "His ribs?"

The doctor's lips quirked in a smile.

"Ah, yes. My apologies. Believe it or not, your ribs are the least of your concerns. They are only cracked, not broken. As there has been no misalignment, there's no worry about internal injuries. I expect they will take four to six weeks to fully heal. In the meantime, you'll feel discomfort if you laugh suddenly or twist your torso. The treatment for your ribs is the same for your burns: rest and over-the-counter pain relief. One word of caution, however. It may hurt to take deep breaths right now, but it is imperative that you breathe normally. If you resort to shallow panting to avoid pain, you could develop pneumonia."

The doctor turned in his chair and retrieved a stack of papers from his printer, handing them across the table to him. Sam shuffled through them, recognizing the printouts as WebMD entries for his injuries. Pages neatly labeled 'Symptoms', 'Treatment', 'Recovery', and 'Complications' stared back at him.

A sudden sense of surrealism slammed into him with all the force of a mac truck. He was sitting on a US aircraft carrier in the middle of the Red Sea, chatting politely about the complications of coming back from the dead. His father was speaking now, but Sam couldn't hear him over the static building in his ears. It hadn't been like this after Mission City. After he had shoved the cube into Megatron's chest, he had popped back up like a fucking daisy, totally unbothered. But he had been younger then, and even though he had been terrified, he had held unwavering certainty that his Autobot companions would defeat the bad guys and save the day.

Sam distantly realized that his heart was jack-rabbiting in his chest. What an ignorant, naïve child he had been. Too immature to fully appreciate the world-ending, race-destroying mortal danger they had faced. Too stupid to understand that although the Autobots were super intelligent, super powerful, virtually immortal alien robots, they could still fucking suffer. They could still fucking die.

"…Sam?" The doctor's voice cut into his thoughts. Sam's head snapped up to find the doctor staring very intently at him across the desk. He realized, too late, that the office was perfectly quiet. His mother and his father were turned in their chairs, looking at him, and he felt Mikaela squeezing his good shoulder. When had she put her hand there?

Embarrassment surged through him, hot and fast, and he felt himself blushing to the roots of his hair.

"Uh, sorry. Just a lot to take in, I guess." He tried, lamely.

His mother smiled at him, "Of course it is, Sammy." She turned to the doctor, business-like and composed, "Is there anything we can do?"

After a moment, the doctor turned his attention back to his mother. "Sam needs food and rest, in that order. I want to see him back here at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning for his dressing change and antibiotics. I'll send your pain medication with you now. The bandages are waterproof, Sam, so you can shower whenever you like. If the pain becomes too much, even with the OTC meds, come back and see me."

His mother nodded and stood up. "Alright, where can we get some food around here?"

Sam was struck with the sudden realization that he didn't recognize the woman standing in front of him. She was nothing like the sobbing mother who helped pack her only son off to college. Nor was she the terrified and desperate woman crying for him in Egypt. She was something else entirely. Collected and purposeful. Transformed.

The others were also getting to their feet, and Sam hastily followed suit.

"Chief Master Sergeant Williams will escort you to the mess." The doctor explained as they made their way back into the hospital ward. Sam realized that he was referring to the solider who had taken him to the flight deck earlier.

The doctor retrieved a small paper bag from another corpsman and handed it to him. Opening it and peering inside, Sam saw two orange bottles with white lids, partially filled with pills.

"Take two ibuprofen with your meal, then two acetaminophen before bed."

Sam nodded at him mutely and then let himself be swept away by his mother.

The walk to the mess was far livelier than the walk to the hospital ward. His mother badgered their escort with questions the entire length of the ship; to his credit, Williams answered her good-naturedly.

"What's the name of this ship, anyway?" Had been her opening volley, before they had even stepped foot outside the ward.

"This is the USS Theodore Roosevelt, ma'am."

"Oh, that's a nice name. How many people serve on it?"

"The ship's complement is about 5700 strong." Anticipating her next question, he supplied helpfully, "TR is 1092 feet in length and has a displacement of over 100,000 tons."

"That's a big boat." His father remarked dryly.

"It is." Williams confirmed with a touch of pride in his voice. "In addition to a full armament and electronic countermeasures, the Theodore Roosevelt can travel over 30 knots, when we have someplace we need to be."

"Where are we headed now?" Sam asked curiously.

Williams hesitated a moment before he replied. "We are on our way to Camp Lemonnier, a U.S. naval base located on the Bab-el-Mandeb strait, which separates the Red Sea from the Gulf of Aden."

"I've never heard of it." His mother replied.

"It's the only permanent US military base in Africa. More importantly, it has a world-class air field, which is how we'll get you folks stateside."

"How long will it take to get there?" Sam asked, before his mother could get a word in edge-wise.

"Three days, or thereabouts." Williams replied as he stepped forward, pulling open a heavy hatch and standing aside so they could pass through. His parents stepped through the hatch first, and Sam and Mikaela followed behind. Williams brought up the rear, pulling the hatch closed behind them with a groan of metal.

"How long have you been on board?" His father asked, as they continued down the narrow corridor.

"On and off for about four years." Was the answer he received.

"You must know your way around pretty well." His mother observed, her eyes roving over the white-washed walls and polished floors.

"Better than most," He said with a wry turn of his lips, "Which is why I have been assigned to help you find your way around. It's easy to get lost, even for those of us who've been here awhile."

Shortly thereafter, they walked into the mess hall. It was nothing like Sam was expecting, although what he was expecting, he couldn't say. It gave him a funny turn in his chest to realize that the mess hall was strangely reminiscent of his dormitory's dining hall. A long galley took up the far wall, filled with deep trays of food set under a transparent sneeze guard. The hall was crammed with tables and chairs, each emblazoned with a seal of Theodore Roosevelt's face encircled with the words "USS Theodore Roosevelt". The room was loud with the buzz of people in all manner of dress, chatting with one another over the clink of cutlery and dishware. Absurdly, two large flat screen televisions were mounted to a steel beam that ran from floor to ceiling in the middle of the room, and Bob's Burgers was playing on low volume.

Williams led them to the back of the galley line, grabbing himself a tray from the stack beside them. Sam, Mikaela, and his parents followed suit. As they made their way down the galley, Sam was surprised by the variety of food available to choose from. First they passed the salad bar, then they passed pasta salads and potato salads, then soups, then a sandwich bar. At the end of the galley there were several deep trays with what, evidentially, was tonight's main course. Small, printed cards helpfully informed him that his options were "Meat lasagna", "General Tso's chicken over fried rice" and "Vegetarian pinto posole".

Once the group had filled their trays and grabbed their drinks, they walked to the cash registers at the end of the line. Williams handed one of the cashiers a card and murmured that they were all on his tab. Sam walked by after his items had been tallied, and together they found a table at the other end of the mess hall.

Sam pulled out the chair and sat down carefully, staring at his tray. Lukewarm lasagna, an apple, and a brownie. How long had it been since he had last eaten anything substantial? He had eaten breakfast before his astronomy lecture. When had that been? His eyes narrowed in thought, and the answer came as an unwelcome surprise. It had been the day before yesterday.

"Sammy." His mother nudged him, "Eat."

Despite the time since he had last eaten, Sam wasn't the least bit hungry. His mother wasn't asking though, she was telling, so he picked up his fork and obediently started on his food. As he chewed and swallowed, Sam realized that he could barely taste a thing. His mother opened the paper bag the doctor gave him, pulled out a bottle, shook out two pills, and handed them to him in her open palm. He took them from her, popped them into his mouth, and washed him down with a mouthful of milk. There. That wasn't so bad.

Sam felt a nudge against his calf and he glanced across the table with a half-smile. Mikaela was looking back, a smirk curling one corner of her mouth, as she twirled her fork in her pinto posole. He felt a warm rush of affection and leaned forward, extending his hand, palm up and resting on the table. She did the same, clasping his hand in her own.

"So, where are we going to sleep on this boat?" His mother asked, directing her question once again to Williams.

The officer paused as he finished swallowing, and replied, "It's tight quarters on a naval ship. Enlisted personnel stay in berthing compartments with about sixty others. Rooms have been set aside for each of you in the officers section. The rooms are small and sparse, not much more than a bed and a toilet really, but they're private, so there's that."

His mother nodded, satisfied with his answer, and Sam speared another forkful of might-as-well-have-been-wet-cement, methodically chewing and swallowing.

The next hour passed in a blur. They finished their meals, the others chatting across the table with each other. Sam didn't contribute to the conversation, and he responded to questions directed his way in as few words as possible. Mikaela tried to involve him in their chatter, but although he smiled at her, he didn't engage.

After they had stowed their dishware and set their trays on the pile of others, Williams led them out of the mess hall. The sound of contented chattering and the clinking of dishes faded as they made their way deeper into the ship. It was no time at all before Williams stepped through another hatch into a long, narrow corridor. Williams continued forward, coming to a stop in front of a squat, metal door. The room within was too small for them all to stand comfortably inside, so he explained from the hallway, "This room here, as well as these two and that one there, have been set aside for your use. The other American noncombatants have quarters on the deck below. As you can see, the rooms are small but serviceable. There will be soldiers posted on the other side of the hatchway there—" He pointed at door they had just stepped through, "And there—" he pointed to an identical door at the other end of the hallway. "—if you need anything. If you want to visit the hospital ward or the mess, one of us will escort you."

Shortly thereafter, Sam found himself alone in a room smaller than the hospital corpsman's office. Williams was right, it was sparse, but the privacy was so welcome that Sam didn't care. The navy hadn't given him sleepwear, so he slipped off his shoes and dropped the jacket on the floor.

Sam eased himself down onto the bed, wincing in pain as his ribs twinged in protest and his burns pulled against his bandages. Dr. Doom hadn't been wrong, he hurt all over. Sam glanced towards the bedside table at the bottle of water and two orange pill bottles that his mother had given him before he begged off for the night. Deciding that he was a grown ass adult and an early dose of over-the-counter Tylenol wasn't going to kill him, he shook two pills into his hand and swallowed them down with a mouthful of lukewarm water.

Sam glanced at the jacket laying by the bed, and he leaned over (fucking ouch) and rooted around in the pockets. It was only a moment before he located his phone. Bee had brought it to him after the battle, retrieved from god knows where. The screen was cracked and sand was embedded in the crease between the phone and its case, but it still powered on with a happy chime. Only eighteen percent power though, he frowned. Where was he going to find a phone charger on a battleship?

Carefully, Sam lay down on the bed and pulled the military-issue blankets over him as he waited for his phone to finish powering on. A moment later, he opened his texts and scrolled to the contact he wanted to message. Bumblebee.

Shortly after Bumblebee had requested to be his guardian in the aftermath of Mission City, the yellow Autobot had added his contact to Sam's cellphone. He had no idea how it worked, it's not like Bee had signed a three-year contract with Verizon Wireless, but whenever Sam texted him, Bumblebee always replied.

So with his head cushioned on a scratchy pillow, in a metal box smaller than a service elevator, Sam texted his guardian.

SamWitwicky: hey bee

It was only a moment before his phone pinged,

Bee: Hello Sam.

Bee: How are you?

A happy smile stretched his face for the first time in two days.

SamWitwicky: i've had better days. how are you?

SamWitwicky: Has Ratchet been the worst?

The pause was longer this time, but Bee replied a moment later.

Bee: Ratchet has been true to form. How are you feeling?

Sam grimaced at his phone. He had neither the ability nor the desire to articulate all the shit that he'd experienced over the last twelve hours. So instead, he opted to be light-hearted.

SamWitwicky: im super. you should see the five-star accommodations we've got. real red carpet stuff.

It was hardly a moment before his phone chimed again.

Bee: Your vitals are within acceptable limits, although your endorphins are elevated. Are you in pain?

A fond smile pulled at his lips. Sam remembered the first time that Bee had explained about the Autobots' ability to scan humans to obtain information about their biometics and hormones. At the time, Sam had been unnerved, freaked out even, but he came to understand that there was nothing malicious about their scans. It came as naturally to the Autobots as breathing came to him.

Knowing that a lie would be pointless, Sam told him the truth.

SamWitwicky: my ribs hurt and my chest hurts.

SamWitwicky: but they say ill live. nothing I can't handle.

Bee: You should know that Ratchet wants to see you.

Sam grimaced deeply. The old medic was well-known for his short temper and abysmal bedside manner.

SamWitwicky: sounds like a fun time.

SamWitwicky: could we invite megatron along too? just to round out the whole experience.

Sam had been aiming for light-hearted levity, but when he read Bumblebee's reply, he realized that he had missed the mark entirely.

Bee: Ratchet would never hurt you, Sam. I know the last two days have been difficult, and that I have failed in my duty as your guardian, but we will protect you. Always.

He grimaced, feeling like a huge asshole.

SamWitwicky: I know, Bee. I was joking. Im sorry.

Bee: You have done nothing to give offense. No apology is necessary.

Bee: Sam, my sensors tell me that your body is going into recharge. Dr. McNeil has informed us that rest is vital for your recovery. You should sleep. I will see you in the morning.

Sam held the cellphone in his hand, staring at the screen. His guardian was right, he knew. His body felt heavy with exhaustion, and the soreness in his muscles had been slowly building all day.

SamWitwicky: What time is it?

His cell phone said it was 10:18 PM, but he had no idea what time it was back home. Bumblebee interpreted his question correctly and replied,

Bee: It's 4:18 PM in New Jersey.

Sam blinked at the reply. He had been awake for over twenty-four hours.

SamWitwicky: I guess I should try to get some sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow bee.

Bee: Rest well, Sam.

Sam powered off the cellphone to conserve its battery, before placing it on the bedside table. He debated whether to get up and shut off the lights, but he had absolutely no desire to move. Instead, he closed his eyes, enjoying the softness of the bed and the quiet of the room as he drifted to sleep.