Sam sat quietly for a long while, his breathing the only sound in the small room. He avoided looking at the camera as much as possible, preferring to stare straight ahead. The embarrassment that Sam had felt when he first noticed the camera hadn't abated in the least, and it was making the time crawl. He had already counted the number of tiles on the floor (ten) and the rivets in the door (twenty-seven). He was running out of ways to kill the time.
Sam wasn't well versed on the rules and regulations regarding civilian incarceration onboard an aircraft carrier, but he assumed that he was going to be here for a while longer. The pain in his chest had become a real nuisance, burning hotly and throbbing in time with his pulse. He raised his hand and pressed it over his heart, willing the muscle to stop fluttering irregularly. The righteous rage that he'd felt when he'd punched Galloway was bleeding away, leaving him feeling shame and anxiety in equal measures.
Sam glanced surreptitiously at the camera; it was still blinking stoically at him in the corner. He wondered idly whether Optimus would intervene on his behalf. The Autobot leader held significant influence, with both the US government and the military, and Sam was certain that they would release him at Optimus' request. Almost before the thought had crossed his mind, however, he realized that the Autobot leader would do no such thing. Optimus held human laws in high regard, and those laws now dictated that Sam be detained—though for how long, he couldn't say. Besides, he knew the Autobot leader was a proponent of time-outs himself; Optimus had a history of ordering his soldiers to solitary confinement and even stasis lock as a disciplinary tactic. If Optimus was disappointed in Sam's actions, then the Autobot leader was likely content to let him sit here awhile and think about what he'd done.
Sam's thoughts were interrupted by the metallic groan of his door as it opened. He was surprised to see a young woman in fatigues standing in the doorway, holding a small paper cup and a bottle of water.
"Uh… hello." Sam greeted, lamely.
Without replying, the woman walked into the room and handed him the items. Sam glanced into the paper cup, relieved to see three small, unfamiliar looking pills. Pain medication, he was certain. He wondered briefly whether he had Dr. McNeil or Ratchet to thank for it. Using both hands to crack open the bottle, he swallowed the pills with a long drink of water. He glanced back at the solider when he'd finished, and was surprised to see that she had extended her hand to him. Sam blinked at her confusedly for a moment, before he realized that she wanted the water bottle back. Obediently, Sam capped the bottle and handed it to her. She took it and walked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her without a word.
Sam blinked in surprise at the strange interaction, and said loudly to the closed door, "Nice to meet you too."
In the ensuing silence, his thoughts turned back to Optimus and he winced minutely. Sam was discomforted at the prospect of having disappointed the Autobot leader—perhaps even more so than the idea of disappointing his own father. The revelation made him shift uncomfortably. Optimus was kind and wise, a being of god-like compassion. He was just Sam—ordinary, boring, perfectly average Sam. It seemed to him that disappointing Optimus was an inevitable certainty, though one he now realized he was desperate to avoid.
Sam sighed heavily. If Optimus had thought that a little time alone might make Sam re-think his actions, then he'd been right. It had only taken the better part of an hour, too.
After an interminable amount of time, he braced his hands against the mattress and made to stand up when a wave of dizziness washed over him. Sitting back down with a grunt, he shook his head sharply, but the vertigo persisted. He blinked once, twice, but the lightheadedness only became more pronounced. He felt his heart lodge itself in his throat as his anxiety kicked into high gear—something was wrong. Sam opened his mouth to shout for assistance when his hand brushed against the crumpled paper cup. He glanced down dumbly, his fingers closing over the starchy paper. He stared for a long minute before comprehension slowly dawned. He wasn't having a heart attack, it was the effects of the medication he'd taken.
Sam groaned softly as he fell back onto the mattress, his eyes fluttering shut.
Definitely more than a mild opiate, he thought dazedly.
The pain in his chest was fading to a periphery annoyance, and with it, his heartbeat slowly smoothed back into a normal rhythm. Sam scrubbed his hand over his face, though it was a substantial effort to get his heavy limbs to cooperate. The absence of pain was so sweet that it bordered on pleasure, and he was astonished to feel bone-deep drowsiness plucking at his consciousness, like a fly in a spider's web. Sam lay there for a moment, drifting comfortably, when a sudden realization had him snap his eyes open.
This wasn't the pain medication. He had been sedated.
Sam knew instinctively that this was Ratchet's doing. The short-tempered medic had the tendency to punish his more obstinate patients by forcing them into stasis lock for the duration of their treatment. He could imagine the medic's thought process so clearly he could almost hear the bot's voice in his head: sleep it off, you little shit, and stop trying to give yourself a heart attack.
"Oh Ratchet, you asshole." He groaned.
Sam had the urge to glare at the camera, to do something to let the medic know exactly how he felt about his impropriety, but it was too late. The medication was cocooning him in a warm haze of I-don't-give-a-shit, and all traces of anger were leeching away.
He sunk steadily down into the warm darkness of sleep, like a diver slipping beneath the waves without so much as a ripple.
Sam regained consciousness slowly, vaguely aware of an insistent sound.
"…up now. Wake up, Sam." He felt someone shake his shoulder, and he opened his eyes blearily. The solider who had brought him the medication slowly came into focus.
"Sorry." He apologized, voice rough, "Sorry, I'm awake."
"Sit up. I brought you something to eat." She said stiffly, though not unkindly.
Obediently, Sam pushed up onto his elbows and maneuvered into a sitting position. When he did so, the solider placed a cafeteria tray on the bed beside him. Glancing at its contents, Sam surmised that roast turkey was today's lunch special.
Sam ran a hand over his face, rubbing his gritty eyes. "What time is it?" He asked.
"Just after nineteen-hundred hours." She replied. At Sam's blank look she clarified, "It's 7:15."
Sam wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. "7:15?" He repeated in disbelief, "Like, at night?"
She nodded, standing at parade rest and watching him closely. He did the mental math and came to the unwelcome realization that he had been asleep for over eight hours. His scratchy eyes and heavy, relaxed body were further evidence to support this conclusion.
Sam gritted his teeth in irritation. "Do you know how long I'm going to be in here?" He asked tightly, "I need to have a word with a passive aggressive, boundary stomping robot."
"You're being processed out after you've seen Dr. McNeil. He will be here shortly." She replied, continuing to stare down at him.
"Okay, thanks." He replied, as he considered her words. He wasn't looking forward to seeing the doctor again, but he'd burn that bridge when he came to it. Sam reached over and pulled the tray into his lap. When the solider didn't move, Sam glanced up at her in confusion.
"So, you're just going to watch me eat or…?"
"Yes."
Sam raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry, and when there was no answer forthcoming, he shrugged.
"Suit yourself." Sam replied. He picked up the plastic cutlery on his tray, realizing all at once that he was ravenous. He started in on the food, lukewarm and obviously produced in large quantities, but he enjoyed it all the same. He surprised himself by cleaning his plate—even licking the last remnants of potatoes and gravy off his fork—before handing the tray back to the solider.
"Thanks. It was a five star dining experience." He said, good-naturedly.
"Consider yourself lucky. Most detainees are given bread and water for their meals."
Sam blinked in surprise, and asked in genuine curiosity, "Is that true?"
"It is, but you have some powerful friends in high places."
The solider turned and stepped out of the room, making to shut the door behind her when something caught her attention at the end of the hall.
"Dr. McNeil." She called down the corridor, "He's in here."
A moment later, the hospital corpsman stepped into view, carrying a familiar orange tray. Sam's lips thinned in an unhappy line, remembering their previous encounter with perfect clarity.
"Good evening, Sam." Greeted the doctor, no hint of apology or defensiveness in his tone.
"Doctor." Sam replied, coolly.
The doctor stepped into the small room and placed the orange tray on the floor next to the bed. Pulling on a pair of disposable gloves with an unforgiving snap of latex on skin, he motioned for Sam to lie down. Sam breathed through his nose slowly, recognizing the futility of arguing with the man, and pulled the long-sleeved shirt over his head. Careful of the warning twinge in his ribs, he settled back against the mattress.
The doctor moved his hands over Sam's chest, looking long and hard at his side, and applied pressure to his lower abdomen. He was assessing the bruise purpling his skin courtesy of the MP, Sam realized. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he found, the doctor bent to arrange the supplies on the tray. Straightening up, McNeil met his gaze.
"Sorry." The doctor said, as he started pulling at the bandages on his chest.
Sam stiffened at the familiar pain of adhesive tugging at damaged flesh. Desperate for a distraction, he blurted out suddenly, "So, no stethoscope?"
The doctor's gaze flicked to his face momentarily, before dropping back to his chest. "No need. Ratchet briefed me on your vitals before I came down." He paused, as though considering his words, "It seems you're none the worse for wear after your confrontation with Director Galloway."
"I hope the same can't be said for the Director."
The doctor looked back at him, frowning in disapproval. "What do I need to say to make you understand the seriousness of your injuries?"
Caught wrong-footed by the doctor's candidness, Sam replied. "I do understand." When the doctor's expression turned skeptical, Sam snapped, "I understand! You're the one who scheduled me for a psych-eval! Don't be surprised that I reacted like I did."
The doctor looked at him considerately, and then he nodded. His gaze dropped back down as he worked at cleaning the burn on his upper chest.
"I was happy to hear that you spoke with Karen." McNeil said after a moment, "That's good, Sam."
Sam glanced at the doctor, eyes narrowing, "Yeah, well, I didn't have much of a choice."
The doctor conceded the point with another nod of his head, and changed the topic with surgical precision, "Your burns are healing fine. Still no sign of infection. Your appetite seems to have improved as well, if your dinner tray was any indication."
Sam nodded mutely. The doctor gestured for him to sit up so he could start on his back, and moved his elbow closer so that Sam could pull himself into a sitting position. Deciding to indulge his curiosity, Sam asked over his shoulder, "So, do I have you or Ratchet to thank for my unexpected nap this morning?"
"It was Ratchet's decision, but I wrote the prescription." The doctor replied, confirming Sam's suspicions.
"I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure they cover informed consent in medical school." Sam replied, an accusation in his voice.
There was a pause before the doctor replied, "You'll have to take it up with Ratchet or Optimus Prime. That's way above my pay-grade." Sam heard the snap of latex gloves being pulled off, and the doctor was saying, "Okay, you can put your shirt on now."
Mulling over the strange non-answer, Sam pulled his shirt over his head. After Dr. McNeil gathered his supplies—Sam saw that the bandages looked less graphic than this morning—the doctor motioned for him to follow. He stood up, noticing with a flash of irritation that his knees felt rubbery, and followed the doctor into the hall. To Sam's surprise, there was a uniformed officer standing at attention by the door, who fell into step behind them as they walked.
As they approached the receiving area, Sam could hear his mother's angry voice, echoing toward him. Sam groaned internally, turning to Dr. McNeil.
"Any chance you could put me back in there until she leaves?"
The doctor's lips jumped in a barely concealed smile. "No chance at all."
Sam could hear the tail end of the conversation occurring in the receiving area.
"He broke the law, ma'am." Came the disembodied voice of the Brig Officer. He sounded like a man who was on the last dregs of his patience.
"Are you kidding me? Thrown in jail for the whole day because he punched that smug asshole in the face? He's working through some big shit right now."
"Be that as it may, battery is still a crime."
The solider moved around them and unlocked a blue gate, swinging it wide and allowing them to pass into the receiving area. At the sound of the metallic groan, his mother's head snapped in their direction. Sam braced himself, preparing to be verbally eviscerated by a middle-aged homemaker in front of three (no, four) highly decorated soldiers.
"Sammy! Look at you!" His mother said instead, her face softening with sympathy. "Are you okay?"
Sam felt his eyebrows rise to his hairline in surprise, but he didn't have a chance to reply before she was hugging him tightly against her chest.
"Yeah ma, I'm fine." He replied.
She held him at arm's length, tugging at his shirt and then running her fingers through his hair. "You look a mess. When was the last time you combed your hair?" Her tone was so stereotypically motherly that Sam felt the corner of his mouth quirk up.
"Sorry ma, I didn't pack one. Next time."
The Brig Officer spoke from behind the large desk, "You're free to go, Mr. Witwicky." His tone implied that Sam was welcome to do so at the earliest opportunity.
"Let's go. Your father and Mikaela are waiting in the officer's lounge." His mother said, pushing him by the shoulders towards the brig entrance. As he walked away, Sam noticed that Dr. McNeil had stayed behind, engaging in a quiet conversation with the Brig Officer.
As Sam stepped out of the brig, he was surprised to see Williams leaning against the corridor wall. He straightened as they approached.
"How're you doing, Sam?" He asked.
"I'm fine." He replied, "Glad to be out of there."
Without preamble, Williams handed him a brown paper bag. Curiously, Sam opened it and peered inside to see a phone charger and various personal care items. He was deeply surprised to see his own phone sitting at the bottom of the bag. When Sam took it out and turned it on, he saw the power was fully charged.
Sam looked from his phone to Williams, saying with sincere appreciation, "Thank-you. You didn't have to do this."
"It was no problem." Williams replied with a shrug. "Heading to the officer's lounge?"
When Sam nodded, Williams turned on his heel and motioned for them to follow. It was a long walk to the lounge, and he gained a new appreciation of the sheer size of the battleship. As they walked, soldiers in various states of attire passed them—some in full fatigues, others in dress uniforms, others still in casual clothing. Occasionally Sam would catch them looking at him curiously, as if he were something interesting, something worth close attention.
By the time he had arrived at the lounge, he was completely discomforted.
The lounge was a sizable space for the battleship. The room was dominated with a variety of seating options, including three well-worn couches and numerous comfortable looking chairs. There was a small kitchenette to their immediate right as they entered, with several long tables lined by squat benches. Although there were quite a few soldiers clustered around, Sam was immediately able to spot his father and Mikaela on the far side of the room, sitting in front of a flat screen television that had been bolted to the wall.
Sam felt a sickening twist in his stomach as he recognized his picture on the screen. Mikaela noticed as they approached, and she turned around with a grim expression on her face.
"Sam." She said, "You need to see this."
Sam approached the television as though in a trance. It was a live feed from CNN. The pretty young anchor was speaking, and his picture dominated the right-hand corner of the screen. As he approached, her words filtered into his awareness.
"The whereabouts of Samuel James Witwicky are still unknown. Reliable sources have confirmed that Witwicky is currently enrolled as a freshman at Princeton University. Eyewitness reports also place Witwicky at the scene of the Princeton explosion, which destroyed the Princeton University Library and resulted in the deaths of eleven students and three staff. Princeton University has declined our requests for comment."
The screen changed, and now it was showing the familiar clip of the Fallen. The anchor's voice dubbed over the video.
"Witwicky has been the target of a nation-wide manhunt ever since this video was televised across every telecommunications channel in the United States. CNN has received confirmation that this message was televised in at least one hundred and twenty-three other countries—it is entirely possible that the message was sent worldwide."
With shaking hands, Sam reached up to the side of the television and pressed the channel up button several times until another news broadcast lit up the screen. As before, Sam's face was in the right hand corner of the screen. This time, the Fallen's face was dominating the left side of the screen.
"Expert analysis of the footage that was broadcast two days ago suggests that the video is not doctored or fabricated. Although there remains the possibility that this is an elaborate hoax, sources confirm that NATO forces, including the United States navy and air force, have rapidly assembled in the Middle East. This brute response begs the question—is there a possibility that extraterrestrial life exists? If so, what does this mean for national security within the United States?"
Sam pressed the channel up button again. BBC news sprang to life to show a reporter standing in front of the entrance to a large military facility.
"What's happening now, Robert?"
"I am standing at the entrance to Scott Air Force Base in Illinois, where just over twenty-four hours ago over seventy aircraft took flight, including C-17 military transports and F-16 Falcon fighter jets. This type of rapid, wide-scale deployment of military aircraft has not been seen since the terrorist attacks on 9/11 that killed almost 3000 individuals and injured 6000 others."
"Oh my God." His mother whispered behind him.
Sam pressed the up channel again. Fox News lit up the screen, and three panelists were animatedly talking.
"Well, I will tell you one thing! If the White House has kept information about extraterrestrial life from Congress, then heads will roll in Washington."
"Don't be absurd. If extraterrestrial life exists, and I'm not saying it does, than the President is well within his rights to classify that information as top secret. The President has done nothing wrong."
"Nothing wrong? Nothing wrong! We have mobilized half of our armed forces with no explanation from the White House. No one has said a word about why the mobilization was necessary or who this Samuel James Witwicky is. No one has told the citizens of the United States a damn thing! I'd say there's plenty wrong with that."
Sam pressed the up button again, realizing distantly that he was shaking.
Another newscast, and this time his picture was the only image on the screen. A French anchor was talking animatedly, but Sam couldn't understand what he was saying. Numbly, he reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. He pressed the Twitter icon and reeled in shock as he saw that he had 9,871 notifications. Pressing the notification icon with his thumb, Sam flipped through the first several dozen notices. Most were re-tweets from news sources that had mentioned him. A few were direct tweets. Glancing at the message tab, he saw that he had 1,187 messages.
Disbelievingly, Sam pressed the home button and then thumbed the Ebay icon. He sank to the couch, his hand coming up to press against his mouth—Ladiesman217 had 15,871 notifications. Sam pressed the home button again and opened his Facebook account. He had 7,877 new friend requests.
Sam lowered his phone, completely numb with shock. After a long while, he managed to grind out, "So I guess the cat's out of the bag, then."
No one replied to him.