Bee slowed to a stop in front of the flight deck door, and Sam was surprised to see Tall and Serious standing at attention, his M4 held across his chest. Had he been out here all night?
Sam carefully extradited himself from the driver's seat, and ran his hand appreciatively over the Camaro's gleaming exterior before Bee reversed several feet to let him pass. Sam nodded to Tall and Serious as he approached, and the solider inclined his head to his side. Sam looked down and was surprised to see his sneakers on the deck, retrieved from where he had left them in his room the night before. Feeling a mixture of embarrassment and appreciation, Sam murmured his thanks and toed his shoes on quickly.
"Where to, kid?" Tall and Serious asked, voice neutral.
"They're expecting me in the hospital ward." Sam replied, a note of apology in his voice. It seemed demeaning for a decorated solider to be expected to babysit a civilian. Tall and Serious nodded once, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and then opened the door with a well-practiced motion. Sam glanced back at Bumblebee, raising one hand in a silent gesture of farewell, before he stepped inside. The solider walked briskly down the narrow hallway and descended the first flight of stairs. Sam followed, walking closely behind him.
"So what's your name, anyway?" Sam asked attempting to draw the solider into a conversation.
"Lieutenant Richmond." He replied.
"What do you do around here?"
"Logistics." Richmond replied tersely. It wasn't difficult to infer from his demeanor and response that the solider had no interest in small talk, so Sam fell silent. It was the better part of ten minutes before he recognized the entrance to the hospital ward. Lieutenant Richmond took up post outside of the door, and Sam walked inside. It was the same as he remembered: sterile white, neat rows of hospital beds and curtains, and tall, locked cabinets lining the walls. The smell of disinfectant and cleanser hung suspended in the recycled air. A solider looked up from her deskwork, and smiled as he approached.
"Dr. McNeil has been waiting for you," She said, and judging by her teasing tone, Sam guessed the doctor wasn't particularly happy about it.
"You know how it is," Sam said, waving his hand vaguely, "Some days you just can't get out of bed."
That earned him a genuine laugh, and she motioned for Sam to hop up on one of the hospital beds. A small orange tray of medical supplies already sat waiting on the bedside table, and Sam sighed in resignation. He clambered up quickly, sitting with his legs hanging over the side of the bed, and pulled his t-shirt off over his head. The hospital corpsman was pulling on white, latex gloves when the doctor appeared in the door of his office.
"Good morning, Sam." He greeted as he approached, pulling the stethoscope from around his shoulders, "How did you sleep?"
The doctor warmed the metal against his palm for a moment before pressing the stethoscope to Sam's chest, listening.
"Good." Sam shrugged.
"Was that before or after your trip to the flight deck?" The doctor replied, moving the stethoscope to the other side of his chest. Sam didn't know how to reply to that question, and so he opted for silence instead. Let the doctor interpret that however he wanted.
"Deep breath, Sam. Again… and again." Sam obeyed the doctor's instructions, though he grimaced hard when his ribs throbbed in pain.
Seeing his expression, the doctor asked, "On a scale of one to ten, with one being an itch and ten being set on fire while stung to death by angry bees, how much pain are you in?"
A genuine smile pulled at the corner of Sam's lips, his opinion of the doctor warming considerably.
"I'd say somewhere between a four and five if I don't move, a six if I breathe too deep, and an eleven if I twist the wrong way." He replied truthfully.
The doctor nodded, his suspicions confirmed. "I told you to stay on top of your pain management," He admonished as the hospital corpsman wrapped a blood pressure cuff tightly around his good bicep. She began rhythmically pumping the bulb to inflate it; after a moment, she glanced at the pressure gauge and made a note in the chart.
Sam shrugged, because what could he possibly say? Sorry, I was busy having a total mental breakdown, and I forgot to set a reminder on my phone? Not likely.
The doctor plucked two paper cups from the bedside table and handed them to him. The smaller of the two contained three pills, and the larger of the two was half-filled with water. Sam glanced at the doctor, looking for an explanation.
"Antibiotics and painkillers. Given the time since you last medicated, I've prescribed a mild opiate to help you get on top of your pain. You can take your ibuprofen in four hours, as usual."
Sam nodded mutely and swallowed the pills down with a mouthful of water.
The doctor pulled on a pair of white gloves, and motioned for Sam to lay back on the bed.
"Sorry." The doctor apologized in advance, and then he started pulling at the edges of the bandages on Sam's upper torso. The adhesive peeled away slowly, pulling at the burnt flesh underneath, and Sam had to grit his teeth to keep from making a sound. The doctor and the corpsman worked quickly and efficiently, removing bandages, assessing his wounds, applying ointment, and re-bandaging him without speaking more than a few words to one another. The bandages on his upper chest were the first to be replaced, then the ones on his left side under his armpit (those had hurt). The pile of dirty bandages grew larger as they worked; some looked relatively PG-13, but others were disgusting, stained with blood and other bodily fluids. Sam tried to look anywhere else but the incriminating pile, physical evidence of how close he had come to making this trip home in a wooden box instead of in steerage.
The bandages on his neck and shoulder were next, and they had him roll onto his side so they could get at the burns that extended down to his left shoulder blade. By this time the painkillers had kicked in, and Sam was feeling much better about the whole situation. He was feeling better about pretty much everything, as a matter of fact.
The doctor must have noticed the expression on his face because he asked dryly, "Feeling better?"
"A-plus-plus, Doctor." Sam confirmed good-naturedly.
The doctor and the corpsman shared an amused smile while they worked. In short order, they handed him his shirt and told him to get dressed. The hospital corpsman disappeared with the pile of dirty bandages, while the doctor scribbled notes on his chart. The corpsman returned in no time at all bearing a tray of food—cold toast, yogurt, fruit salad, cinnamon roll, carton of milk—which she set on the overbed table and pushed toward him.
Sam looked from her, to the tray of food, and back again, and said with complete sincerity, "You are an angel sent from heaven."
She laughed brightly at his comment and walked back to her desk. The doctor had finished writing and held the metal chart against his chest as he watched Sam tuck into his breakfast. The doctor waited until Sam was finishing the last of the fruit salad before he said, apropos of nothing, "You're scheduled for a psych-eval in twenty minutes."
Sam paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, caught completely off guard by the doctor's comment. The previous warmth he had felt towards the man evaporated in an instant.
"What?" He asked, surprised by the coldness in his voice. The doctor raised an eyebrow, and Sam could tell he was assessing his reaction.
"A psych-eval. They're standard procedure for military personnel after intense combat situations, especially ones that result in allied losses."
"I'm not military personnel." He replied flatly, setting down his fork. His heart was starting to beat faster in his chest.
"No, you're not," The doctor agreed, "But you went through a traumatic situation and it will help to talk to someone about it."
"Not a chance." Sam refused, voice low and hard, and he pushed away the remainder of his breakfast.
"You died, Sam." The doctor said bluntly, "And you watched other people die too. That would have an impact on anyone, let alone an eighteen-year-old civilian."
Sam felt inexplicable fury flood through him in an instant, outraged at the doctor's audacity. He had made it through Mission City, hadn't he? How dare this man, a complete stranger, judge him?
He took a moment to steady himself before speaking, "I'm not going, and you can't make me." His voice sounded calm and reasonable. Good.
The doctor's eyebrows rose to his hairline and he replied coolly, "Actually, yes, I can. I am the Chief Medical Officer on board this ship. My orders regarding the physical and mental welfare of my passengers and crew are non-negotiable."
Sam stared at the doctor in disbelief, his heart pounding hard now. The idea of talking to anyone about what he had experienced was intolerable, but the idea of talking about his feelings about what had happened was completely unbearable. Sam opened his mouth to argue, his eyes narrowing in anger, but the doctor was calling over his shoulder.
"Lieutenant Richmond?"
Tall and Serious stepped into the doorway and snapped off a crisp salute.
"Sir. Yes sir?"
"Mr. Witwicky has an appointment in Lieutenant Commander Anderson's office in fifteen minutes. Please see to it that he arrives on time." The doctor's command brooked no argument, and Sam realized that he was going to that appointment whether he liked it or not. The doctor turned back to him and said plaintively as he climbed down off the hospital bed, "Give it a chance, Sam. It can help."
Sam's spine stiffened painfully, and he walked by the doctor without a word in reply. When he approached Richmond, the Lieutenant turned on his heel and stepped into the hallway. Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and reluctantly followed. Richmond led him through the ship, passing virtually identical corridors, hatchways, and staircases. Sam took the time to collect himself, breathing in through his nose and out of his mouth, trying to get his thundering heart to stop beating so erratically in his chest.
'Maybe this won't be so bad.' Sam thought to himself, desperately. 'In and out, half an hour tops, then I'll be rubberstamped and on my way.'
Eventually Richmond stopped in front of a nondescript door and knocked politely. There was only a moment's pause before a middle-aged woman in military uniform opened the door. Richmond snapped off another sharp salute and stood aside. The woman turned her gaze to Sam and, smiling in welcome, gestured for him to enter the office.
"Sam. Please, come in."
Sam thought briefly about declining, but he wasn't keen to test how far Richmond would go to follow the orders of a senior officer. After a moment's hesitation, he stepped past the Lieutenant Commander with all the enthusiasm of a man approaching the gallows. Like every other room on the ship, the office was small. Filing cabinet, desk, two chairs. Sam noticed the nondescript box of tissues beside the computer monitor and his mouth downturned, hard.
"Please, sit down." The Lieutenant Commander said as she took a seat, gesturing to the empty chairs on the opposite side of the desk. Sam sat down carefully, mindful of his ribs, and then looked at her, waiting.
"My name is Karen Anderson. I am one of the clinical psychologists on the ship speaking with people who were in Egypt." She clasped her hands together on the desk and leaned forward, "I would like to talk with you about what you experienced."
Sam stared at her expectantly, feeling his heart beating hard against his ribs. Even more so than last night, Sam felt trapped in this room and it had nothing to do with its size.
"I've read that you started university this year. Princeton. That's very impressive, Sam. What are you studying?"
Sam blinked in surprise. Whatever question he had been expecting, that hadn't been it.
"I was studying astronomy," He replied after a moment, "Past tense. I can't imagine Princeton will be welcoming me back after I got their library destroyed and a bunch of students killed."
The Lieutenant Commander tilted her head in consideration, "That must be difficult, after you had worked so hard to get accepted." There was no pity or sympathy in her voice. It was merely an observation.
"Yes." Sam conceded, because that much would be obvious to anyone.
"How did you first meet the Autobots?"
"Excuse me, but what does that have to do with Egypt?" He asked, frowning.
"This isn't a debriefing, Sam." She responded gently, "We aren't here for you to recall everything that happened over the last two days. We are here to understand how you're coping with what happened in Egypt. That requires we dig a little deeper into all that has happened over the last two years."
Sam stared at her in disbelief before huffing a mirthless laugh. Oh, he was coping famously.
"So," The Lieutenant Commander prompted, "How did you meet them?" At his uncertain expression she clarified with a small upturn of her lips, "I assure you, I have the appropriate security clearances and I've been fully briefed. Anything you say is safe with me."
"Oh?" Sam asked sarcastically, gesturing between the two of them, "So all of this is HIPAA protected?"
"Yes." She answered automatically, completely serious. "Nothing you say in this room will be disclosed to anyone, unless you give me permission to do so."
"I don't." Sam replied flatly.
"Well then, we can continue our conversation unimpeded by concerns about privacy."
"I don't want to have a 'conversation' with you at all." Sam replied, distantly surprised by his rudeness.
She smiled broadly, "You aren't the first person on the other side of this desk to say so."
Sam switched tactics, "If you've been fully briefed than you should already know how I met the Autobots."
She nodded, conceding his point.
"I know the facts. I know that Bumblebee made contact with you, that he protected you from an enemy combatant, designation Barricade, and that be brought you to meet the other Autobots, who enlisted your help in finding the Allspark. But I want to know your perspective, Sam."
Sam frowned, taking in her words.
"That's about the gist of it." He said after a moment.
"Barricade's attack must have been frightening. You were sixteen years old." She said, and Sam turned her words over in his mind, trying to decipher her ulterior motive.
"It wasn't awesome." He replied.
"I'm sure. And Bumblebee saved you."
"Yeah, he did. He got us away from that overpass and then he kicked Barricade's aft all over that construction site."
"You owe him a lot." She observed.
"I owe him my life." Sam replied automatically, before he caught the possible implication of his words.
"A life-debt, that's no small thing."
"If you say so." Sam replied, discomforted.
"Is that why you agreed to help Optimus Prime recover the Matrix of Leadership?"
Sam gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white, resenting the implication that Optimus manipulated him—intentionally or not—to get Sam's help.
"I didn't agree to help Optimus. He asked me and I turned him down. It got him killed." Sam's voice didn't falter, but only just.
"The mission debrief that Optimus Prime provided our government says that he died battling Megatron and four other hostile combatants. Not even Optimus Prime can expect to last long against those odds."
"He was there in the first place because of me. The Pretender targeted me because the Allspark was in my head. Megatron took us because he wanted what was in my head. And Optimus Prime died to protect what was in my head. If I had helped him when he asked me, he would never had been in that situation in the first place."
The Lieutenant Commander's expression sharpened.
"You believe Optimus Prime died to protect what was in your head? Not to protect you?"
Her question drew him up short, and he frowned as he considered what she had asked.
"No," He said slowly, "No, I don't believe that. Optimus would have sacrificed himself to save me, even if I didn't have the Allspark rattling around in my mind."
"Bumblebee saved you from Barricade. Optimus saved you from Sector 7. Optimus also saved your life in Mission City. Bumblebee agreed to be your guardian to protect you against future threats from the Decepticons. It seems like that's a lot of debt to repay, Sam."
"If you have a point you had better get there fast." Sam replied tightly.
"Sam," The psychologist said, not unkindly, "Based on everything that I have read about you, I believe you to be an exceptionally loyal young man. You believe you owe the Autobots your life. I also think you carry a tremendous amount of guilt because you believe your actions resulted in Optimus Prime's death. Some people might think that would affect your opinion of the Autobots."
Sam's eyes narrowed in anger. He learned forward, his voice as cold as the North Atlantic in winter.
"I think that the United States government should be on its knees thanking Optimus Prime for what he and the Autobots have done for this planet. It was the Autobots who defended Mission City. It was the Autobots who worked with NEST to track down and destroy Decepticons, even though the government criticized their actions and questioned their motives at every turn. It was Optimus who sacrificed himself for a human, and it was Optimus who killed the Fallen moments before he destroyed our sun. We would all be dead right now if it wasn't for the Autobots."
The psychologist looked at him considerately, "But it was you who helped the Autobots find the Allspark. It was you who killed Megatron in Mission City. It was you who found the Matrix of Leadership, and it was you who saved Optimus Prime's life." She paused for a fraction of a second, "Even though you died doing so."
Sam met the Lieutenant Commander's eyes for the first time since stepping into her office, and replied with sincere conviction, "And I would do it again."
"If you don't distance yourself from the Autobots, you likely will."
He flinched hard, surprised by the way her words made his chest tighten in denial… and in fear. With sudden clarity, Sam realized just how expertly he had been maneuvered.
"Sam, I am going to ask you a series of yes or no questions. Please answer as honestly as you can, and then we'll be done. Have you had any thoughts about suicide or self-harm?"
Sam resisted the urge to point out that he'd just come back from the dead, and instead answered truthfully. "No."
"Have you heard voices or seen things that no one else can see—excepting alien symbols floating around in your mind, of course."
"No."
"Have you engaged in atypical recklessness or self-destructive behavior?"
Sam started to feel better about the line of questioning, "No."
"Have you had trouble sleeping? Whether falling asleep or staying asleep?"
"…yes."
"Have you experienced intense irritability or outbursts of anger that are disproportionate to the situation?"
Thinking about his behavior in the doctor's office earlier, Sam was forced to concede, "Yes."
"Do you feel on guard all the time? Like a possible threat could strike at any moment?"
All at once, Sam realized exactly what she was doing. Slumping back in the chair like his strings had been cut, he rubbed his good hand over his face and took a shaky breath.
"Sam?"
"Yes. I do."
"Do you frequently have distressing memories or dreams?"
Sam's voice was inflectionless. "Yes."
"Have you experienced intense physical or emotional distress when you've been exposed to things that remind you of the events you experienced?"
"Yes."
"Have you had the experience that you are re-living the event? Experiencing it as though for the first time?"
"Yes."
"Do you avoid thoughts, feelings, or conversations about your experiences?" At Sam's flat look, she nodded in concession and wrote something down on her notepad. When she looked up again, the psychologist's expression was soft.
"Sam, you know what I am going to tell you."
"Please don't." He wasn't begging, but it was a near thing.
"Sam. You are experiencing a perfectly normal reaction to a life-threatening trauma."
Sam took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling a long moment before responding, his voice tight, "I appreciate what you're doing, but I can't talk about this with you. I can't talk about this at all."
"It's not going to get better on its own, Sam." She replied, gently.
"Are we done here?" His voice was sharper than he intended, but the psychologist didn't look offended. Mercifully, she nodded.
"We are. For now."
Sam was on his feet in an instant, and she followed his lead. The Lieutenant Commander walked around the desk to the door, and swung it open for him. Richmond snapped to attention the moment he came into view.
"It was nice to meet you, Sam." She smiled at him.
"Yeah, sure. Back at you, Lieutenant Commander." He said uncomfortably.
"Please, call me Karen. We will speak again, Sam." She said before she stepped back into her office, shutting the door.
Sam heaved a weary sigh, wincing as his ribs flared in pain, and glanced at Richmond.
"Where to now?"
"Are you hungry?" Richmond asked.
"No."
"Then I'll take you back to your room." He replied.
All at once, Sam was aware of his aching and exhausted body. For the first time in his life, the prospect of being sent to his room was entirely welcome.