Notes: This is my version of Steelfeather's 'Confrontations' chapter. She has graciously given her permission for me to include the scene with Sam and Optimus on the flight deck, though I think her fans will agree that mine is a poor facsimile.
They sat together for hours, watching the news coverage on CNN. No one spoke a word. Just after ten o'clock, the feed cut-away from a panel discussion on national security and returned to the anchor. She was looking resolutely into the camera as she announced that CNN had received verified footage of the Princeton Library explosion. After a warning that the footage may be upsetting for some viewers, the newsfeed cut to a video.
Sam recognized the image immediately as the gallery of the Lewis Science library. A man was panting loudly in the microphone, but his panicked breathing could not drown out the sound of gunfire and screaming. The person angled his camera just in time to see a long row of bookshelves explode dramatically, collapsing like dominos one after the other. The cameraman was running then, the footage blurring and shaky. The video settled a moment later, this time filming the library from around a large filing cabinet. The camera was focused on the Pretender, now in its mech mode, as it began shooting across the gallery.
"Oh God, oh God!" The cameraman was whispering, terrified.
The Pretender charged its arm-mounted plasma canon and blew a hole through the library wall. The camera panned around to film the wreckage, and he saw himself in profile as he grabbed Mikaela's hand and pulled her through the opening. Although the image was blurry, he was clearly recognizable. The Pretender followed briskly, and disappeared through the same hole only a moment later.
The video ended, and the anchor was back on the television with a still of the footage in the top right-hand corner of the screen. The picture was Sam's face in profile, silhouetted in front of the smoking hole. The ticker feed at the bottom of the screen read 'Verified footage of the Princeton Attack shows Samuel James Witwicky and an unknown assailant of mechanical origin.'
Sam was on his feet in an instant. He strode quickly to the television and pressed the power button with a great deal more force than necessary. He stood there for a long moment, his back to Mikaela and his parents, trying to get himself under control. He found that it was difficult to do so. Suddenly, his mom was there, hugging him close and rubbing her hands over his back—soothing him as though he were a small child. Normally, he would have been mortified by the display of physical affection in a room full of soldiers, but it was an indication of his state of mind that he just closed his eyes and let her mother him.
It was after eleven o'clock when his father decided it was time for them to head back to their rooms. A short while later, Sam found himself slumped on his mattress, having said goodnight to Mikaela and his parents. If someone had asked him to recollect the sequence of events between the officer's lounge and when he'd stepped into his room, he could not have done so.
Sam toed off his shoes and reclined against the mattress, pulling out his phone. Although he was feeling emotionally wrecked, his wasn't tired in the least. With nothing else to do, he spent the next several hours flagellating himself by looking through breaking news sites and commentary on social media. None of it was heartening.
It was quarter after three when Bumblebee texted him.
Bee: You should go to sleep, Sam. Nothing will change between now and the morning.
Sam wondered idly how long his guardian had been monitoring his Internet activity. He knew that his obsessive searching for anything that mentioned his name did not paint him in a flattering light. His phone pinged again.
Bee: I know that things look bleak right now, but I meant what I said last night. We will protect you.
He stared at the words for a long moment before he realized that he had nothing to say. He typed out a short reply.
SamWitwicky: I'm not in the mood to talk right now, Bee.
His phone pinged again a second later.
Bee: Sam, please.
He swallowed hard, surprised by the lump in his throat. He typed out a quick response.
SamWitwicky: not now bee. you're right, im going to bed.
Before the Autobot could reply, Sam powered off his phone. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the guilty twinge he felt at snubbing his friend. He knew that Bee was only worried about him. He also knew that the scout's life had been complicated perhaps as badly as his own by Megatron's actions, but Sam found that he had no desire to talk with him about it. He had no desire to talk at all.
A metallic groan cut through the silence as his door was pulled open. Sam jerked awake at the sound, realizing in surprise that he had nodded off. He pushed up onto his elbows, blinking sleep out of his eyes, when Mikaela stepped into the room.
"Kaela," He greeted roughly, "What time is it?"
"It's 7:30. You're scheduled for a dressing change before breakfast. We have to hurry; we have a debriefing with Rear Admiral Turetsky and General Morshower at nine."
Mikaela's words woke him up instantly. He remembered that Galloway had been on his way to meet Turetsky when they'd had their altercation.
"When'd you hear about this?" He asked.
"Yesterday afternoon. Williams told us before he took your mother to the brig."
Her answer only raised more questions. He'd met Williams outside of the brig, and the soldier hadn't said anything about a debriefing. Sam pulled himself up into a sitting position, and reached down to put on his shoes. He had been debriefed after the Mission City battle, so he had a vague understanding of what to expect. Lots of pointed questions, lots of repeating himself, and a phonebook-sized stack of non-disclosure agreements and liability waivers to sign. However, Sam was surprised to hear that General Morshower was going to be present. He had never met the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Sam was sure that he had better things to do than attend a debriefing with a bunch of civilians.
Sam grabbed his phone from the bedside table, noticing that it was still powered off.
"Okay, let's go."
An unfamiliar soldier stood in the corridor, and he nodded in greeting as they stepped out of the room. The soldier gestured for them to follow as he turned on his heel and started walking towards the hospital ward. When they arrived, Sam was greeted by an unfamiliar hospital corpsman. The doctor had him hop up on one of the beds and take off his shirt, in what was quickly becoming a familiar routine. The corpsman changed his bandages quickly and efficiently, and then handed Sam a small paper cup after he'd pulled on his shirt. Glancing inside, Sam saw two small pills.
"Is there anything in here that's going to violate my personal autonomy?" He asked sardonically.
The doctor stared at him in confusion, before realization dawned on his face.
"No, nothing like that. Just acetaminophen and ampicillin." The doctor replied.
Taking the physician at his word, Sam swallowed the pills and climbed off the bed. When he stepped out of the hospital ward a short while later, he found the soldier exactly where he'd left him.
"Breakfast?" He asked.
It was no time at all before he found himself standing with a tray of food, looking across the mess hall for a seat. Mikaela pulled him towards the far side of the mess, where he saw his parents and Williams already eating breakfast. When his mother caught sight of him, she smiled at him warmly and pulled out a chair beside her. Sam sat, and began to work methodically through the tray of food: first, a bagel with cream cheese, then a cup of yogurt, followed by a carrot muffin. As with supper the night before, he was surprised when he had finished every bite of his meal. He hadn't been feeling particularly hungry, but evidentially emotional trauma was no match for the appetite of an eighteen-year-old.
Williams glanced down at his watch and said, "Alright, we have twenty minutes before the debriefing. Let's head up to the conference room."
The group walked their trays over to the receptacle, where they scrapped plates and stacked dishes. When they'd finished, Williams gestured for them to head towards the door. When Sam made to follow him, Williams raised a restraining hand.
"Not you, Sam. Optimus Prime has requested your presence on the flight deck."
Sam pulled up short in surprise.
"What?" He asked.
"Prime wants to see you. Topside. Now." He enunciated his words sarcastically, but the corner of his lips were quirked in a smile.
Sam's head fell back as his eyes closed, feeling a strange combination of dread and resignation come over him. He could guess what the Autobot leader wanted to speak with him about, and Sam would rather present himself to Ratchet for a full physical than suffer Optimus' disappointment. Unfortunately for him, Optimus' requests were steel wrapped in velvet—polite but unyielding.
When he opened his eyes again, Mikaela was looking at him with real amusement on her face.
"I'm about to be interrogated by total strangers for hours, and I still wouldn't trade places with you for anything." She said with a grin.
Sam groaned and gave her a half-hearted dirty look, which earned him a genuine laugh in response.
Glancing at his watch, Williams motioned Mikaela and his parents towards the door. He called back to Sam good-naturedly, "Good luck."
Sam raised his hand in farewell, and then looked over his shoulder at the unfamiliar officer who had escorted them to the mess.
"Well, I might as well get it over with. Can you take me up?" He asked.
The solider nodded and led the way, and Sam fell into step behind him. He tried not to dwell on the inevitable haranguing that he was about to receive, but it was difficult to control the urge to shame-spiral. It was almost ten minutes later before Sam stepped through the hatch onto the flight deck, squinting in the bright morning light of near-equatorial Africa. The oppressive heat caused Sam to draw an involuntary breath, and he winced in discomfort.
Optimus was in his bipedal mode, standing at the edge of the flight deck where they had spoken two days ago. Sam hesitated only for a moment, before he started walking towards the Autobot leader. Optimus turned as he approached, looking down at him with those brilliant blue optics.
"Hi Optimus." Sam greeted meekly, "Nice weather we're having, huh? Perfect time of year for post-Apocalypse cruise around the Middle East."
"Good morning, Sam." Optimus replied, going down to one knee in front of him. Sam instinctively flinched back as the Autobot drew near, and he instantly felt annoyed with himself. This was Optimus, who had given his life to protect him and had risked it again to destroy the Fallen. In defiance of the way his heartbeat had kicked into double-time, Sam stepped towards the Autobot leader and blurted the first thing that came to mind.
"Okay, so listen. I know I shouldn't have done it. My temper got the best of me. I'm sorry."
"Although it heartens me considerably to know that you have thought about your actions, I did not ask you here to discuss your altercation with Director Galloway."
Sam blinked at the Autobot leader in surprise.
"Oh," He replied, unintelligibly, "Well, what did you want to talk about, then?"
By way of answer, Optimus slowly extended his hand towards him, palm up.
"It is not a matter for public discussion." The Autobot leader replied.
It took Sam a moment to realize that Optimus wanted him to step onto his hand. Feeling a sudden spike of trepidation, along with burgeoning curiosity, Sam took hold of one digit and climbed into the large bot's palm. Optimus stood slowly, curling Sam close to his chest, and began to transform.
Sam had seen the Autobots transform plenty of times, but never this close. Every part of Optimus' body began to move: large panes of metal twisted and curled in on themselves, shifting and sliding as they rearranged around him. He was pushed back against Optimus' spark casing as the bot's chest splintered into tiny fragments of metal that fanned away from him. The glass panes on Optimus' chest extended forward and melded seamlessly together to become a windshield, as the familiar cab quickly took shape around him. Although he was squeezed and buffeted, moved this way and that, the transformation was gentle and considerate—just like all of the Autobots' interactions with humans.
It was only the matter of several moments before Sam felt the hard metal against his back soften into supple leather, and he found himself sitting in the driver's seat of Optimus' cab. The steering wheel snapped into place in front of him and the gearshift folded up from the floor, as the Autobot finished transforming.
Sam's heart pounded in his throat, and he felt lightheaded from the adrenaline that was surging through his body.
"Holy shit." He said weakly, "Give me a heads-up next time, would you?"
"My apologies, Sam." The Autobot leader replied, "It would be difficult for you to climb into my cab, given the state of your injuries, and this conversation merits privacy."
Sam waved him off, taking a moment to get his thundering heart under control. When at last he felt reasonably calm, he asked, "What's with the cloak and dagger stuff, Optimus?"
For a long moment, Optimus did not respond. Sam had the distinct impression that the Autobot leader was taking the time to put his thoughts in order.
"You should know that I am thrice indebted to you, Sam."
Sam blinked in surprise. Whatever he had expected Optimus to say, that certainly hadn't been it.
"What?" He asked, unintelligibly.
"I don't know how much Bumblebee has told you about our culture, but the time before the Great War was one of peace and prosperity. The Golden Age, as it has come to be known, was also a time when religion was widespread amongst our people."
Sam blinked at the dashboard, caught off-balance by the unexpected direction their conversation had taken.
"Religion? Really? I always thought of you guys as super logical." Sam winced as he realized the implication of his words, "I mean, I didn't think any of you were spiritual. At least, no one's ever mentioned anything about it to me."
Thankfully, Optimus did not seem to take offense to his words. When the Autobot spoke, his voice was tinged with amusement.
"Like all sentient creatures, Sam, we desire to understand the nature of our existence. We are just as driven by ontological questions of being as are humans, and our creation stories are not so dissimilar. Ours tells of a benevolent, omniscient deity called Primus that created the universe, not unlike the God of Abrahamic religions, Elohim or Yahweh."
Sam found himself listening in rapt attention, fascinated by the idea that religion was such a universal (and ancient) concept.
"Do you believe?" Sam asked curiously.
"I do." Optimus confirmed, "Although not many of us left alive still do."
Sam nodded slowly. It made sense that most Cybertronians would lose their faith after millions of years embroiled in a bloody civil war.
"Honor was an integral part of the old Code of Primus," Optimus continued, "And the bond created by a life debt was perhaps the most revered and binding of all obligations."
Sam felt himself blush hotly in embarrassment as he realized the implications of Optimus' words.
"Come on, big guy," Sam said in discomfort, "It's not a big deal. You saved my life, and I saved yours. I'd say that makes us even."
"No Sam," Optimus refuted firmly, "Not only did you save my life in Egypt. You also killed Megatron in Mission City, and in doing so saved my life again."
Sam frowned at the memory.
"Well he didn't stay dead, did he? And if we want to get down to brass tacks, my actions in Mission City also destroyed the Allspark."
A familiar sense of consternation knit Sam's brow. He knew that the Allspark was one of the Autobots' most sacred artefacts, the only thing capable of creating new Transformer life, and he had single-handedly destroyed it. He wondered, not for the first time, why Optimus didn't resent him for it.
"Did you know that I was once in charge of overseeing the Allspark? In the time before the Great War?"
Confused by the apparent non-sequitur, Sam cocked his head and stared at the dashboard.
"I think Bee mentioned something about that." He replied.
"The Allspark was lost for eons before it was discovered by Sentinel Prime, the leader of Cybertron. After its excavation, it was housed within the Simfur Temple. I had the dual responsibility of studying the Allspark and protecting it."
Sam's consternation deepened. It hurt to know that he had destroyed something that was so personally significant to the Autobot leader.
Something about his expression must have been telling, for Optimus assured him, "You did what was necessary for the survival of both our peoples, Sam. If Megatron had captured the Allspark, he would have killed my soldiers and then reaved this planet for its resources, before returning to Cybertron to rule as a dictator. It was why I made the decision to eject the Allspark into space in the first place."
Optimus' words brought him up short.
"You did what?" Sam asked, surprised.
"The Golden Age ended when Megatron started a Decepticon uprising in a bid for power. He was not satisfied as Lord High Protector and overseer of Cybertron's armies. He wanted to have complete military, political, and spiritual authority. After centuries of skirmishes and battles, he began to gain the advantage. Emboldened by his success, he made a move to capture the Allspark. As its protector, I was faced with an impossible decision: keep the Allspark within the Temple Simfur and risk losing it to Megatron, or send the Allspark into space to prevent a Decepticon victory? It was a difficult situation, but I ultimately decided to initiate the Allspark failsafe, knowing full well that it would likely result in its destruction or permanent loss."
Sam sat back in shock at the Autobot leader's words. He knew that the Allspark had been lost to space, but he had no idea that it was a purposeful decision by Optimus that had set in motion a chain of events that would forever change the course of human history. Sam was surprised to feel a twinge of resentment towards the mech.
"I am indebted to you, Sam, because you killed Megatron in Mission City, and in doing so saved my life. You also saved my life in Egypt, which allowed me to defeat the Fallen and protect this planet that we have come to call home."
Sam's mind was whirling too quickly to marshal his thoughts, so he asked numbly, "You said you were thrice indebted to me. I saved your life twice—what's the third reason?"
"I do not think you realize," Optimus said slowly, wonderingly, "How very much you mean to Bumblebee."
Sam frowned in confusion, "Bee? What does he have to do with this?"
"As you know, we do not reproduce as organic life reproduces. Our kind have what are, or rather were, called Creators. These mechs helped to design and create a chassis—a sparkling—which was activated using energy from the Allspark. Creators were responsible for determining every characteristic and feature of a sparkling, from their design, to their programming, and ultimately—their purpose. I was one of Bumblebee's Creators. In human terms you could think of me as his father, although that is an imperfect analogy."
Sam blinked at the dash in front of him, openly shocked. He was well aware of Bee's respect and admiration for Optimus, but Sam had no idea that the Autobot leader was Bee's father figure. It gave him a funny turn in his chest to think that Bee's father sent him into battle, repeatedly, without an iota of hesitation. As if reading his thoughts, Optimus continued, his voice solemn and serious.
"Bumblebee was sparked just before the Great War. To my mingled relief and chagrin, he turned out to be an excellent scout, perhaps the best we had sparked since before the Golden Age. Although I was reluctant to send him into the field, we were desperate. The Decepticons were slowly but steadily gaining the advantage, and we needed every resource at our disposal to beat them back. Bumblebee was eager to prove himself, as most younglings are want to do, and he accepted every mission with enthusiasm. I never sent him on the most dangerous assignments and I never sent him out alone—thinking that I would be able to protect him. I was wrong."
Optimus' voice had grown heavy with remorse.
"What happened?" Sam asked quietly.
"When we were preparing to eject the Allspark into space, a Decepticon force intercepted us at Tyger Pax. Megatron had moved more quickly than I had anticipated. We needed time to get into the Well and initiate the failsafe sequence before their forces could destroy the mechanism. We needed a diversion."
"Bee." Sam whispered.
"Yes. I ordered Jetfire to fly to the far side of the Well to draw Megatron's attention away from our true purpose. I knew, however, that we would need a staggered defense. Bumblebee volunteered to harass the Decepticon forces long enough for Arcee and me to get to the Allspark. I ordered him and Cliffjumper to harry the enemy as much as possible without engaging them directly. Unfortunately, the Decepticon strike force had advanced almost to the Well, and Bumblebee was caught in the thick of battle. He and Cliffjumper engaged Megatron and Barricade at the rear of the Decepticon advance, before Starscream unleased a missile salvo that hit him directly. He was badly injured."
"Is that how he lost his voice?"
"No." Optimus replied, "Bumblebee and Cliffjumper succeeded in their mission. Arcee and I were able to initiate the failsafe sequence, and Megatron watched as the Allspark was launched into space—out of his grasp. His wrath was terrible."
"What did he do?" Sam asked, horrified.
"Bumblebee has never said, and I have never pressed him, but it was the better part of a cycle before I made it out of the Well. Megatron has the proclivity for great cruelty, and in his fury he directed that cruelty towards Bumblebee. He did not kill him, although he could have. The damage Megatron inflicted was a message, for me."
Sam shivered, sickened and afraid in equal measures. He was well aware of Megatron's penchant for vengeance. His heart hurt for his friend and guardian.
"After Tyger Pax, Bumblebee was a different mech than the one I had sparked. He had lost his youthful exuberance, his easygoing nature. Although he never once failed to complete a mission, he was colder, more distant. In some indefinable way, the part of him that was Bumblebee had died at Tyger Pax."
Sam shook his head. The bot that Optimus was describing was nothing like his guardian. His protective, funny, goofy guardian. The bot who spent hours blasting music as they explored every back road around Tranquility. The bot who texted him gifs that made him laugh until he had tears in his eyes. The bot who blew raspberries, and pulled practical jokes, and called him all hours of the day and night, just to say hello.
"That's not Bee. He's nothing like that." Sam protested weakly.
"He is nothing like that anymore," Optimus corrected, "Because of you, Sam. You brought him back to us."
Suddenly overcome with emotion, Sam leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and the heels of his palms pushing into his eyes. He wasn't anything special. The only exceptional thing about him was his relationship with the Autobots. Take that away, and he'd be sitting in some lecture hall at a mid-level state school—invisible and alone. He wasn't worth the devotion of a millions-of-years-old, impossibly intelligent, virtually immortal alien robot.
"I didn't do anything." He whispered after a long moment.
"You didn't have to." Optimus said, softly. "In saving Bumblebee, who is dearer to me than my own spark, you saved me for a third time."
Sam sat back heavily, suddenly exhausted.
"Why are you telling me this?" He asked.
Sam felt an imperceptible shift in Optimus' mood, as though the bot was bracing himself with steely determination.
"As I have explained, I am thrice indebted to you, Sam." Optimus said, with a peculiar note of resolve in his voice, "It is incumbent upon my honor to do whatever is necessary—no matter how radical—to ensure your safety."
He had heard that tone of voice from Optimus on plenty of occasions. It was the tone he used when he was acting in his official capacity as leader of the Autobots, or when he issued commands on the battlefield. It was firm and resolved—and it brooked no argument.
Sam felt a sudden sense of overwhelming dread.
"What are you saying, Optimus?" He demanded.
"I know that you are aware of the news coverage that has occurred as a result of Megatron's televised demands." Optimus replied, "Both in terms of its extent and content."
"Yes, I know, but—"
"Then you are surely aware of the gravity of the situation." Optimus cut him off, "Megatron's telecast was sent to every electronic device that was capable of receiving satellite signal on the planet."
"I didn't know that, exactly, but—"
"You're not safe, Sam. Not anymore." The Autobot leader continued, "To ensure your protection, you will be returning with us to NEST headquarters after we dock at Camp Lemonnier."
"…what?" He asked, uncomprehendingly.
"This evening you will be taken by plane to Diego Garcia. Preparations have already been made for you."
Sam grimaced. Although the prospect of hanging around a bunch of soldiers for god-only-knows how long sounded about as thrilling as a root canal, he could understand Optimus' logic. He had no desire to be the focus of a cut-throat media circus for the foreseeable future.
"Okay. I don't like it, but I understand." He said slowly. A sudden thought occurred to him, and the corner of his lips quirked, "Mom's going to be pissed she'll miss bridge at the Paterson's." He said, wryly.
There was a long silence, and the feeling of dread twisted in his gut again.
"Optimus?" He prompted after a minute, unable to control the alarm that had seeped into his voice.
"Preparations have been made for you, Sam. You alone." Optimus responded with finality.
"What?" He asked sharply, "What do you mean 'you alone'? What about my parents? What about Mikaela?"
"There are complicated politics involved, Sam. NEST is no longer an American military installation. It has been gifted to the Autobots as part of an ongoing negotiation between our peoples—and in thanks, for saving the planet."
"Fine, great, what does that have to do with anything?" He demanded, anger making his words harsh.
"The American government will not permit its civilians to travel to what is, essentially, a foreign military nation-state."
Sam glared at the dash.
"What are you talking about? I'm an American civilian." He replied angrily.
There was another protracted silence, and Sam had a sudden flash of understanding. With sour bile rising in his throat, he asked tightly, "What did you do?"
"It was contingent upon our signing a treaty with the American government that they relinquish their claim on you."
Sam stared at the dashboard in disbelief. He should have demanded that the Autobot leader explain himself—that he justify his actions to Sam's full satisfaction. It would have been the mature thing to do. Instead, all that came out of his mouth was, "What in the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Sam—" Optimus started, but Sam cut him off.
"What in the hell were you thinking? How could you think I would ever consent to this?"
"Sam, your consent in this matter is not required." Optimus said gently, "The American government signed the treaty with all of its stipulations shortly after we came aboard."
Hot anger pounded through him, "After everything I've done for you, this is how you repay me? You take away my citizenship and separate me from the people I love to squirrel me away in a military bunker?"
Sam was distantly aware that he was yelling, his voice strangled in anger. If someone had told him an hour ago that he'd be screaming in rage at the Autobot leader, he would never have believed it.
"And I'm guessing this isn't a temporary arrangement, either," Sam continued, realizing as he spoke that he was certainly correct. The United States government was not lackadaisical about citizenship. "Have you seriously fucked over the rest of my life?"
Sam sensed a wince from the cab, in the same imperceptible way that he'd felt the steely resolve earlier. He would have been baffled, in any other situation, but now he barely registered the sensation through the fire of his anger.
"I understand that you are upset. I am sorry for the necessity of my actions." Optimus replied sincerely.
He did not trust himself to reply in that moment, so he said nothing. He took a steadying breath, and then another, before he felt able to respond.
"I don't care about whatever life-debt-honor bullshit you think you're obligated by, Optimus. You are not doing this to me."
"Sam," The Autobot leader replied gently, "You know of Megatron's capacity for cruelty. Just as he tortured Bumblebee to send me a message, so too would he kill you. He will never stop pursuing you."
Sam ground his teeth together viciously.
"How are you going to protect my parents?" He challenged, switching tactics, "How are you going to protect Mikaela?"
"Mikaela and your parents were only every targeted due to their relationship with you. With you under our protection, it is unlikely Megatron will move against them. Nevertheless, the United States government, in conjunction with Interpol, has a plan to ensure their safety."
It was a long moment before Sam found himself capable of replying around the lump in his throat. The thought of Mikaela and his parents being hidden away in some witness protection program, never to be seen again, hurt badly.
"Optimus." Sam said, voice low and pleading, "Please, don't do this. Whatever steps are being taken to protect them can protect me."
"Even if I were able to destroy Megatron and root out every last Decepticon on Earth, we could never protect you from your fellow humans. The mentally ill, the fanatics, the extremists, the afraid—they will all target you, Sam. They will all blame you for Megatron's actions."
Sam felt his heart lurch painfully, and he raised his hand to press it against his chest. He was silent for a long while, his anger and grief burning hotly in the quiet of the cab.
"Do I have any choice?" He asked eventually, voice low and rough.
"No." Optimus replied simply. Regretfully.
"Whatever happened to 'freedom is the right of all sentient beings'?" He asked, coldly, "I would never have taken you for a hypocrite, Optimus."
Sam's words were intended to injure, and he felt a twist of grim satisfaction when the truck flinched minutely.
"Sam, whatever you may think about me at the moment, my actions were not intended to force you to comply with my wishes. You cannot simultaneously be a citizen of the United States and a ward of Cybertron—not by your laws or our own."
"A ward of Cybertron?" He asked.
"A diplomatic position. Removing you to Diego Garcia will protect you from the Decepticons. Your position as Cybertronian Ambassador to Earth will provide you some degree of political protection from your own people. It will ensure that no government can make a move against you without serious repercussions."
Sam's mouth downturned hard, "I don't want to be an Ambassador, Optimus. I'm eighteen years old! I want to go to college and make bad life choices. I want to take Mikaela to nice restaurants and visit my folks on the weekends and buy a house with a nice lawn. Don't you get it? I don't want this."
"I know, Sam. I am sorry."
Realizing the futility of arguing with the Autobot leader any further, Sam asked tightly, "Are we done here? Or are there any more life-destroying revelations you have left to lay on me?"
There was a long pause before Optimus responded, "There is nothing else, Sam."
"Good. Then let me out."
"Sam—"
"I have nothing more to say to you. Let me out."
"…as you wish." Optimus replied. Sam could hear the restrained emotion in the bot's words, but he felt no sympathy for the Autobot leader.
Optimus began to transform around him, and Sam was treated to a reverse experience from the transformation he'd witnessed earlier. This time, however, his heart was hammering with mingled fury and grief, rather than fear. It was only the space of several moments until Optimus was lowering him onto the flight deck. Sam didn't even look at the Autobot leader as he strode stiffly to the flight deck door. When the unknown soldier from earlier saw him approach, he pulled open the door with a practiced turn of his hands. As Sam drew near, he spotted Bumblebee in his alt mode in the shadow of the observation deck, rocking back and forth on his wheels. The scout was anxious, Sam realized belatedly.
When he approached, his guardian moved forward slowly until his bumper pressed against his shins. Sam didn't take his eyes off the hatch as he asked, tightly, "Did you know?"
He hoped for a denial with an intensity that burned. Please, not you too.
"Yes." Bee replied, and Sam's eyes closed in pain. There was the sound of rapid-fire transformation and suddenly his guardian was kneeling beside him, a keening noise of entreaty whining from his vocoder.
"For how long?" Sam managed, still not looking at the scout.
"Optimus informed Ratchet and me once the treaty was signed. We were sworn to secrecy."
The fact that Bee was following orders in no way assuaged the feeling of betrayal that stabbed through him, sharp and hot. Sam nodded once, incapable of speaking, and walked through the open entryway without a backwards glance.