Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Dave was in motion as soon as the announcement ended. He stood up, gathering files and tucking them back into his briefcase, which he closed with a well-practiced turn of his wrist. Following his lead, Sam stuffed the welcome packet back into the manila folder and unbuckled his seatbelt.
"Please follow me." Dave said with a smile, heading towards the fore of the plane. As he approached, the cockpit door opened and the pilot stepped into the cabin. He was a tall man, middle aged with salt and pepper hair. His pilot's uniform was immaculate, and he too had the Autobot insignia pinned beneath the four stripes on his epaulet.
"Nice flying, Anthony." Dave complimented him, and the pilot gave him a wry smile before he opened the cabin door, lowering the airstep to the tarmac.
"Thanks Dave." The pilot replied with a nod as he stepped aside to let them pass. To Sam and Will he said, "Be careful, the first step is awkward."
Sam heeded the pilot's advice, holding onto the railing with one hand and his folder with the other as he descended the stairs. There was a black SUV waiting for them on the tarmac, its engine running and the back door already open.
"If you please." Dave said, gesturing for them to enter the vehicle as he stepped up next to the passenger door. Sam climbed into the backseat without a word, moving over to make room for Will. Once Will was seated, Dave shut the door and climbed into the passenger seat. When he was settled, the driver shifted the SUV into gear and pulled away from the plane. Sam stared intently out the window at the airfield, which was an impressive expanse of space. The taxiway and runway extended for miles, ending near a collection of large, cylindrical fuel tanks that he could just make out in the distance. They drove in the opposite direction, towards the collection of buildings that he had seen from the plane.
Suddenly, a rhythmic buzzing interrupted the silence of the cab. Dave reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, glancing at the display before bringing it to his ear.
"We've just landed." He said, as soon as the call connected. There was a brief pause, and then Dave replied, "Well enough, all things considered." Sam glanced at the rearview mirror, surprised to see Dave looking back at him. The agent's gaze shifted away as soon as he made eye contact.
"Sure, that's no problem. Will do." Dave said after another pause, and then he disconnected the call and dropped the phone back into his pocket.
"So Sam," Dave said over his shoulder a moment later, "We just left the airfield. On any given day, you can expect the arrival and departure of up to three dozen aircraft, including B-1, B-2, and B-52 bombers and C-17 transports." He gestured towards the driver's side window, through which Sam saw aircraft of various makes and sizes parked in tidy rows.
"The airfield is operational 24/7/365. We can go to a full activation in less than 10 minutes." Dave continued, and by the way he spoke Sam could tell this was a speech he had given before. He gestured through the windshield towards the buildings that they were approaching. "This is the main compound, which we refer to as the downtown. Most of these buildings are administrative, but that building there is the library center and that one is the medical center. It's primarily used for administrative personnel; if you need medical attention, you'll be treated at the Hive." Dave glanced towards the driver, "Can you take Constitution Drive? I want to show him the recreation center."
Sam's eyebrows rose of their own accord, "Recreation center?" He repeated dubiously.
Dave grinned at him from over his shoulder. "Diego Garcia has approximately 5000 service personnel and another 500 civilian administrators and support staff. As we're hundreds of miles from the nearest city center, we have all manner of recreational opportunities on the base to support morale." After a minute, the SUV took a corner and Sam's eyes widened in surprise.
"That is the gym and fitness center, and that is the base pool. It's usually pretty busy in the afternoon, but there are some good spots on the beach I can show you." Dave continued, and then he pointed to a cluster of buildings on the left side of the street, "That's the main theatre and that building with the awning is a dining facility. Although the Hive has its own mess hall, that's where most people go to have a few drinks and watch sports events."
The driver pulled into a parking lot and turned around, driving back down the way they had come. When they came to a road labeled Britannia Way, the driver turned right. Dave continued pointing out buildings as they drove.
"That's the main commissary, and that building there holds Procurement—that's where you'll go if there's something you can't get at the commissary." The drove a short while further, and then pulled up in front of a large white hangar on the other side of the compound. Once the SUV came to a stop, they all climbed out into the lazy heat of the late afternoon. Sam blinked as he stepped into the bright light, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes.
"C'mon, Sam." Will said, this time, "This way."
Will and Dave headed towards the expansive white hangar. There was a large set of closed Autobot-sized double doors facing them, and a human-sized entrance off to the side. There were two soldiers standing at attention by the doors in full combat gear, holding assault rifles across their chest. As they approached, one of the soldiers nodded in greeting.
"Hey Captain, hey Carter. Welcome back."
"Hey Killian." Will greeted with an upward jerk of his chin, "How's it going?"
"Things have been insane over the last few days. More so than usual, I mean." Killian said, before he looked curiously in Sam's direction, "This our newest arrival?"
"Sure is." Will agreed, "Sam, this is Killian Anderson. Killian, this is Sam Witwicky."
Killian stuck out his hand in greeting, and Sam slowly reached out his own to grasp it.
"Glad to finally meet you."
"Yeah, you too." Said Sam, shifting uncomfortably.
Dave lifted his identification badge and pressed it against a scanner set into the wall by the door. There was an electronic beep, and then a loud click as a locking mechanism disengaged. Killian pulled open the door for them.
"Welcome to the Hive." He said as Sam stepped passed him into the hangar. The hangar was massive, at least fifty feet high and hundreds of feet in length. However, its most peculiar feature was that it was completely empty excepting a small group of people at the opposite end of the building. Dave and Will walked briskly down the length of the gleaming white space and Sam hastened after them. In short order, they joined the small group of people, who were all standing within a large red square painted on the floor. Once Sam stepped over the red line, more than a little confused as he did so, Dave reached towards a small control panel and pressed his badge against the sensor.
"Steady yourself." Dave murmured to him in an undertone. The floor jerked beneath them, and then they were descending through the concrete. In astonished surprise, Sam watched as the solid-looking floor rose up over his knees, waist, and chest. It was only the matter of seconds before his head was slipping beneath the concrete.
"What?" He gasped, voice strangled in surprise. Dave and Will shared a knowing grin. The cavernous room into which they were descending was tall enough for an Autobot twice Optimus' size to walk about comfortably.
"Holotechnology, courtesy of the Autobots. This facility is called the Hive, and it is the heart of NEST operations," Dave explained as the elevator continued its decent. Unlike the hangar, this room was bustling with noise and activity. Soldiers, technicians, and administrative personnel were coming and going through doors set in uneven increments along the walls. A series of metal scaffolds were attached to the back wall, and extended along both sides of the room, creating platforms at different heights. There were telecommunications displays of various sizes set into the back wall, beneath which a number of technicians sat at a long line of consoles, working busily.
"In addition to acting as NEST's center of operations, the Hive is designed to be self-sufficient in case the surface facilities are attacked. It is a scaled-down, highly secure version of the base." Dave explained, "The Hive is roughly organized into four quadrants, which we refer to as North Quad, East Quad, South Quad, and West Quad respectively."
The elevator had reached the floor, where it disappeared into the cement without a ripple. Dave and Will stepped off the platform and started walking across the room.
"North Quad is designed for human habitation. It contains barracks and officers' residences, the hospital ward, mess hall, that sort of thing. East Quad is the Research Division. There are laboratories, offices, hangars, and a range. That's also where you'll find Wheeljack's lab." Dave continued. Sam filed the information away; although he had no idea who Wheeljack was, the name sounded familiar.
"South Quad is admin and tactical support, and it's mostly empty except during activations. That's where you'll find comms and the command room. West Quad is a hodgepodge, but it's designed primarily for Autobot occupation. That's where you'll find the hangars, Ratchet's medical bay, a training range, and Prime's office. There are also a handful of conference rooms designed for co-occupation by humans and Autobots."
Sam nodded slowly, taking in Dave's words. They had arrived at a large door, and Dave pressed his identification badge to the scanner set in the wall. The door opened silently, and Dave motioned for Sam to step into the hallway beyond, which was tall and wide enough for the Autobots to walk comfortably in their bipedal modes. Sam glanced to his right and noticed colored stripes painted on the wall, extending down the hallway.
Dave noticed his gaze, and helpfully explained.
"We call this the bridge, as it connects all four Quads. If you follow the bridge all the way around, you'll end up on the other side of the receiving room. The colors on the wall lead you to different Quads, and within each Quad you'll find additional directions to facilities of interest."
Dave turned and looked at Sam intently, assessing him from head to toe.
"Do you want the grand tour? Or would you prefer to go to your room?"
Sam didn't need to ponder his response.
"My room, please." He replied, quietly.
"Alright, let's head to North Quad." Dave acquiesced good-naturedly.
"I will see you both later. I'm due in tactical." Will said, waving good-bye over his shoulder as he strode away.
Dave and Sam headed in the opposite direction. Dave chatted amicably as they walked, but Sam didn't say a word. After a few minutes, they came onto a large red door set into the wall, above which "NORTH QUAD" was printed in bold Arial font. Once again, Dave pressed his badge against a keycard scanner and the door opened with a hiss.
"I get why you said to keep the badge on me at all times." Sam said dryly, breaking his silence.
Dave grinned at him.
"The Hive was designed with security in mind, and they weren't playing around." Dave agreed. They continued walking, and Sam found it surprisingly easy to navigate through the Quad. There was plenty of signage and markers, and it was no time at all before they stepped into the residence area. Dave stopped outside of a nondescript door and motioned toward the keycard reader.
"Care to do the honors?" Dave asked.
Sam lifted the card on the lanyard around his neck, and pressed it against the scanner. There was an electronic chirp as a green light flashed, and then a click as the locking mechanism on the door released. Sam pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room within would have easily passed as a decent hotel room. They were standing within a small living space, which had a couch and two armchairs arranged around a squat coffee table. A television was mounted to the wall across from the couch, above an inset bookshelf that was full of paperback novels. Sam trailed over slowly, craning his neck to take in the book titles, surprised to find that he had read most of them.
Along the back wall of the room there was a minimalist desk on which sat a computer monitor and assorted office supplies. To the right of the entryway was a square entrance to the bedroom. Sam stood in the center of the living space, slowly looking around the room until his eyes landed on Dave.
"Do you need anything?" The aid asked.
"No." Sam murmured.
"Alright, well I will come back later to escort you to the medical bay."
He didn't say anything in response, standing stiffly with his hands in his pockets. Dave nodded and stepped back into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.
Sam looked slowly around the room, feeling completely out of his depth.
After a moment, he decided to be practical, opting to explore the space that was to be his residence for the foreseeable future. He went to the desk first, pulling open drawers and flipping through a stack of papers that had been left for him. There was a map of the Hive on the top of the stack, outlining points of interest and hours of operation for its various facilities. Beneath the map was a thick course catalogue for Stanford's online program. He flipped through the pages slowly before he noticed that one of them was dog-eared; opening to the dog-eared page, Sam saw the introduction to the political science section.
"Subtle, Optimus." He muttered.
Sam set the catalogue aside and looked through the rest of the papers. There was information about Stanford's academic calendar, add/drop dates, university policies, and more. After he finished skimming the materials, Sam set the papers aside and walked towards the bedroom. It contained a full-sized bed already made with military precision: corners tucked tight and sheets turned down. A blanket was folded neatly at the foot of the mattress. There was a closet on one side of the bedroom and an open bathroom door on the other.
Sam moved about the room, pulling open drawers in the bedside tables (which were empty) and then opening up the closet. He was surprised to find that the closet was full of clothing. Most of the clothes were casual wear, including brands and styles that he wore frequently. He was dismayed, however, to find a variety of formal wear at the far end of the closet. These clothes ranged from less formal (slacks and sport jackets) to way too formal (a full dress suit, hanging in a garment bag).
Sam closed the closet door, sincerely hoping he'd never have cause to wear that suit.
He wandered into the bathroom next, opening drawers and looking through the linen closet. When Sam noticed the toiletries arranged neatly along the edge of the tub, he suddenly realized how travel-worn and grubby he felt. His short, cold shower on the battleship had been his only wash in the better part of a week. Sam opened the linen closet again, pulling out a towel and a face cloth, before he shut the door and shucked his clothes.
What followed was the hottest shower of Sam's life. After he had finished washing himself, he stood under the spray of water for a long time as steam filled the bathroom. He had expected to break down the moment he was finally alone, but he was distantly surprised to realize that he was completely numb. He knew that this stark apathy should be cause for concern—surely it wasn't a healthy response to everything he'd been through over the last week—but he found that he couldn't muster the energy to care.
He stepped out of the shower, drying himself quickly before he walked to the bedroom closet with the towel wrapped loosely around his waist. It was no time at all before Sam was lying on the couch in the living room, dressed in lounge pants and a long-sleeved shirt, staring sightlessly at the television. He spent the next few hours flipping through 200 channels of cable television, not absorbing a single thing he saw.
A loud chime suddenly cut through the din of the television, causing Sam to jerk sharply in surprise. He grimaced as the motion pulled at the burns on his chest and made his ribs stab warningly. He glanced around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise, when another chime sounded in the room. It was then that Sam noticed a red light blinking urgently by the entryway, and he realized that the chime was a doorbell. He stood up slowly, walking across the room to pull open the door. Dave stood in the hallway with a warm smile on his face, holding a cafeteria tray full of food.
"I figured that you wouldn't be up to finding the mess hall tonight, so I thought I'd bring you some supper." He said.
Sam stared at the tray emotionlessly for a moment before he remembered his manners. Mustering up enough energy to affix a smile to his face, Sam took the tray and replied, "Thanks Dave. I appreciate it. It's been a long day."
The friendly expression on the PA's face never wavered, but his gaze sharpened.
"Did you find everything okay? Is there anything else you need?"
"Nope, I'm good. Thanks." Sam replied.
Dave shifted on his feet and nodded slowly.
"Okay, well, bon appetite. I'll be back at eight to take you to the medical bay."
Sam smiled at him again, nodding in acquiescence as he stepped back into his apartment. The smile vanished the moment he shut the door. He glanced down at the tray, realizing that it contained some of his favorite foods—a slice of pizza, some pasta salad, garlic bread—but it may as well have been ground glass, for all that it stimulated his appetite.
Sam set the tray down on the nearest side table, laying back on the couch and reaching for the remote.
Sam stared at the CNN anchor on the television, who was talking animatedly with a heavy British accent. He had given up trying to find something banal to watch, drawn instead to the news coverage of the Princeton attack (as it was now being called) like a moth to the flame.
It was an interminable time later when the chime sounded again in the room. Sam sighed heavily, pushing himself into a sitting position before he walked towards the entryway. When he pulled the door open, he was unsurprised to see Dave standing in the corridor with an upbeat expression on his face.
"You good to go?" Dave asked.
"Yeah, sure." Sam said, voice rough, "Let me get my shoes."
He stepped into the corridor a few moments later, pulling the lanyard over his head as he shut the door behind him. Dave turned around and started walking, and Sam fell into step beside him. He was mildly surprised at the number of people they passed as they walked; despite the late hour, the Hive was still a bustle of activity. In short order, they arrived at the North Quad entrance to the bridge, and Sam pulled up in confusion.
"I thought you said that the hospital ward was in the North Quad." Sam said, and Dave looked at him over his shoulder in surprise.
"It is. I'm taking you to see Ratchet in the medical bay."
Sam stiffened from head to toe as anger and anxiety flooded through him in an instant.
"No." He replied, distantly surprised by the coldness in his voice.
Dave's eyebrows rose to his hairline, his features clouding in confusion.
"What?" The aid asked, turning around to face him.
"I said no. Ratchet and I are not on speaking terms right now."
Surprise flashed across Dave's face, replaced quickly by concern.
"Sam, you need to have your bandages changed. Ratchet was insistent."
Sam lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug.
"Then I guess you have a judgment call to make. Either take me to the hospital ward or I'm going back to bed."
The concern on Dave's face noticeably deepened, "Sam, please—"
Sam narrowed his eyes at the older man, and Dave abruptly bit off whatever he was about to say. After a moment of silent deliberation, the aid sighed heavily and started walking back the way they came.
"Ratchet is going to give me a pile of shit for this." Dave grumbled.
Sam shrugged sympathetically, "Probably."
They walked together in silence for the better part of five minutes before Dave's phone started buzzing. The aid pulled the phone out of his pocket and sighed heavily.
"Here we go." He muttered. He unlocked the device and rapidly composed a text message.
The corner of Sam's lips quirked in a genuine smile. "If it helps, I appreciate it."
"Yeah, yeah." The aid replied, composing a third text. He was still texting when they walked into the hospital ward ten minutes later.
As soon as he stepped into the pristine white room, which was unnervingly similar to the hospital ward on the Theodore Roosevelt, a young woman in military fatigues stood to greet them. Judging by the seriously put-upon expression on her face, Dave wasn't the only one that Ratchet had contacted. Sam braced himself.
"Mr. Witwicky, I've been told to send you to the medical bay." She said by way of greeting, and Sam struggled to control the irritation that stabbed at him.
"Listen, Doctor…" He glanced at the nametape on her shoulder, "…Lewis, I couldn't care less whether these bandages get changed tonight. It's you or nothing, what's it going to be?"
The doctor huffed an irritated sigh, arms crossed over her chest. After a moment she seemed to come to a decision, "You're lucky Ratchet didn't give me a direct order not to treat you." She said, and the tension eased out of Sam's body.
"Thank-you." He replied quietly, but she waved him off as she gestured towards a nearby bed.
"Don't thank me. I took an oath to do no harm, and that includes neglect."
Sam climbed up onto the bed and pulled off his shirt. The doctor moved around the room, opening cabinets and gathering supplies, before she returned to his side. Sam sighed as she pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, bracing himself. The doctor was skilled at her work, quickly and efficiently changing bandages and cleaning his burns. When she pulled at the bandage on his left side, however, Sam couldn't help the hiss of pain that made its way through his teeth.
The doctor's eyes snapped to his face immediately.
"That hurt?" She asked sharply.
Seeing no reason to deceive her, he admitted faintly, "That one's been giving me some trouble."
She nodded at him, and returned to her work. It was less than five minutes later when she motioned for him to get dressed, before walking across the room to one of the floor-to-ceiling cabinets that lined the wall. She returned in short order, handing him a familiar paper cup containing an assortment of medication.
Sam felt himself stiffen defensively.
"What are they?" He demanded.
She glanced at him as she moved back to the tray of supplies on the overside table. "Ibuprofen, ampicillin, and zolpidem." She paused, and then clarified, "Ambien."
Sam frowned into the cup, considering this information carefully. He knew that he had only slept a couple of hours since he'd woken in the brig yesterday evening, but sleeping meant dreaming, and dreaming inevitably meant nightmares. Sighing resignedly, Sam carefully tipped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them with a mouthful of water. He handed the cup back to the doctor, who nodded approvingly, and gestured for him to climb down off the bed.
The doctor was leaning against a cluttered desk, her arms crossed loosely over her chest.
"If you're still feeling self-destructive in the morning, you can come back for your dressing change." She shrugged, "But it'll be your funeral."
Sam sighed, his exhaustion making him unusually candid, "I can't see him. Not yet. Not any of them."
The doctor regarded him closely before she nodded, "Alright, I'll let him know. Get some sleep, Sam."
He murmured his thanks and then walked towards the hospital ward entrance, where Dave was waiting patiently.
"Thanks for taking that bullet for me." He said by way of greeting.
Dave shrugged. "I've been on the receiving end of Ratchet's temper before. He'll get over it."
A wan smile pulled at Sam's lips.
"Any tips for a first timer?"
Dave looked at him askance, seeming to consider the question seriously.
"If I were you, I'd bite the bullet and get it over with. It'll be worse the longer you wait."
Sam sighed heavily as Dave echoed the doctor's earlier sentiments.
"I'll take that under advisement."
It was less than ten minutes before Sam was pressing his identification badge into the card reader by his door. He stepped inside, waving good-bye to Dave as the agent continued down the hall. He toed off his shoes and crossed the room slowly, sitting down on the couch with a sigh. The Ambien was already taking effect, and a pleasant heaviness was pulling at his mind. This was an entirely different experience than the medication he'd taken in the brig—gentler and far less disconcerting.
Sam stretched out on the soft surface, drifting comfortably. He idly wondered whether he should get up and go to bed, but he found himself entirely unwilling to move. The room was dark and quiet, lit only by the television that played on mute in the background. If he didn't open his eyes, he could almost imagine that he was back home, lazing on the couch after his parents had gone to bed.
He was almost asleep when he heard it.
Faintly, Sam could hear a metallic tink-tink-tink coming from the other side of the couch. Blearily, he opened his eyes and looked around the small apartment. The television was dark and quiet, and the only light came from the digital clock on the DVR, washing the room in a faint blue glow.
He blinked confusedly, groggy and disoriented, when he heard it again.
Tink-tink-tink.
Unfamiliar as he was with the room, he had no idea what the sound could be. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw a flash of movement. His heart started to beat harder in his chest as he stared at the floor by the opposite end of the couch. As he watched in horror, a small metal appendage stretched into sight, followed by another and then another, until at last Scalpel's body was visible in the din light of the living room.
Sam was too terrified to move.
As Scalpel approached, his needle-like appendages tapped against the floor.
Tink-tink-tink.
Sam's eyes darted to the coffee table. His phone sat on the edge, not three feet away. If he could get to it, he could press the panic button, he could—
"Ah, ah, ah." Scalpel admonished in his high-pitched, accented voice. The little bot was on the table in an instant, spearing the phone with two sharp appendages, "Zat vould be cheating."
Sam's heart was pounding in his chest, his breath coming in fast gasps. He could run. If he could get to the door, then he could get help—but first he had to get up, and he couldn't move.
Why can't I move?
Sam watched helplessly as the little bot made his way onto the arm of the couch and then crawled onto his chest. He could feel the prick of each of its legs, pressing into sensitive skin.
It's the medication. It must be the medication. I need to get up. Get up.
But he couldn't. His body was heavy and unresponsive, no matter how hard he struggled to move.
The little bot's optics were inches from his face, narrowed and threatening.
"Ze boss zends his regards." He hissed, and then a sharp appendage flashed across his throat—
Sam woke up with a guttural scream, falling off the couch and onto his hands and knees. He scrambled away in an uncoordinated flailing of limbs, before he turned over and stared desperately around the room. The television was on, swathing the room in ambient florescent light and his phone was on the table where he'd left it, undamaged. It slowly dawned on him that the entire thing had been a dream.
He managed to make it to the bathroom before he vomited what little was left in his stomach, his knees colliding hard with the tiled floor. He was soaked in sweat, shaking hard enough to chatter his teeth. When his stomach heaved again, Sam gripped the side of the toilet bowl hard.
He sat there for a long time, sucking great gasping breaths and crying into the porcelain, before he was able to get himself under control. Eventually, he crawled into the shower and turned it on, clothes and all. He sat on his ass in the cold spray until all traces of sweat and vomit and tears were washed away. When he was able to stand, he stripped out of his soaked clothing and walked on shaking legs to the bedroom. He opened the closet and pulled out the first pair of pants and long-sleeved shirt that he saw.
Once he was dressed and reasonably calm, he walked around the apartment and turned on every light that he could find. Eventually he sat back down on the couch, his hands pressed over his mouth, staring at the electronic clock on the DVR.
1:29 AM.
Sam had experienced sleep paralysis before, he'd even had some experience with lucid dreaming, but this was beyond any nightmare he'd ever experienced in his life. This has been so real that he'd honestly believed that his throat had been cut.
He slowly reached forward and picked up his cell phone, staring at the display. He surprised to see three missed calls and a dozen text messages—he hadn't heard a thing. After a minute, he thumbed open the notification center. All three calls were from Bumblebee, he saw, and they had come in at 12:50, 12:55, and 1:01. Thumbing the screen again, he brought up his text messages. Eleven messages from Ratchet, the most recent dated 9:14 PM. One message was from Bumblebee. Sam swiped left on Ratchet's messages, deleting the entire thread with a press of his thumb. He was not in the mood to be badgered right now, not by half. Instead, he opened the text message from Bumblebee, and he felt a warm throb in his chest as he read it.
Bumblebee: I'm here if you want to talk about it.
Sam cradled the phone in his hands, blinking rapidly as he read the message again. He was debating whether to reply when the phone vibrated in his palm, Bee's name flashing on the screen. He hesitated only a moment before he accepted the call. Leaning back against the couch, he brought the phone to his ear.
"I'm okay." He murmured, his voice raw.
There was a considerate pause on the other end of the phone, before Bumblebee asked, "Another nightmare?"
His guardian's voice was surprisingly calm. Soothing.
"Yeah," He confirmed after a moment, "It was a doozy."
To Sam's surprise, Bee didn't press him for details.
"Is there anything I can do?" He asked instead.
A pained smile pulled at the corner of his lips. Sam could hear the hesitation in his guardian's voice—the uncertainty. Bee had known full well that Sam might angrily reject his offer, but he had called anyway, because he was worried. Because he cared. All traces of the anger and betrayal that he'd been nursing abruptly vanished, replaced with warm affection.
"This is more than enough." He murmured into the phone, "Thank-you, Bee."
Bee replied in Cybertronian, the words sounded soft and affectionate.
"What does that mean?" He asked, curiously.
"It means I'm glad." The scout replied after a moment, his voice unusually emotive.
There was a comfortable silence before Sam asked, "How was the flight back? I've always wanted to fly in a C-17."
Bee chirped considerately, "You've never said." He replied, "I'm sure it could be arranged."
Sam huffed a mirthless laugh.
"I doubt I'll be flying anywhere soon, buddy." He replied bitterly.
Bee was silent for a moment, his consternation so obvious that Sam found himself assuring the scout.
"Don't mind me, it's been a weird day. Have you heard? I'm at the top of Ratchet's shit list."
The abrupt about-face must have surprised the scout, for there was a burst of laughter-like static a moment later.
"Oh, not at the top of the list," Bee corrected, amusement in his voice, "I'd say you're somewhere below Megatron, but above Dave Carter."
Sam was surprised by the grin that stretched his face. The expression felt almost alien.
"Poor guy. It's not like I gave him a choice."
"Dave's a tough sort, he'll manage." Bumblebee assured him good-naturedly. There was a protracted silence, and then his guardian asked, hesitantly, "Why are you avoiding him?"
Sam sighed heavily, his head falling back to the couch. He'd been asking himself the same thing since he'd dug in his heels at the North Quad door. He was angry the Ratchet had sedated him without his knowledge or consent, but that was pretty much in character for the medic. Although he knew that he'd be having a firm discussion about bodily autonomy and informed consent in the near future, that wasn't the reason for his avoidance. He was also upset that, as a result of Ratchet's orders, he had missed out on a whole day with his parents and Mikaela, but that wasn't it either. For all he knew, he would have just cooled his heels in the brig until that evening anyway. Besides, it's not as though Ratchet didn't have good cause: his injuries had been agonizing in the aftermath of his fight with Galloway, and Ratchet was a medic, after all.
Sam was forced to admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind, that the real reason he was avoiding Ratchet was that he was afraid. He remembered the terror that had blind-sided him when the medic had checked him out on the flight deck, and that fear had needled its way into his hindbrain and dug in tight. Although he knew Ratchet would never hurt him, the memory of his delicate instruments and appendages brought memories of Scalpel to the fore, and it was just too much.
Sam sighed, fully aware that he was being irrational.
"I'd rather talk about literally anything else." He said after a minute.
Bee warbled at him apologetically.
"Tell me about Simfur Temple." Sam asked suddenly, surprising himself.
"What do want to know?" Bee replied, also sounding surprised.
"Anything. Everything." Sam replied quietly.
There was a protracted pause, and then Bumblebee was talking. For the next six hours, the scout shared with him stories about his life on Cybertron and his experiences working in the Simfur Temple. Sam listened to him quietly, only interrupting to ask for clarification or to expand on something the scout had said. Bee only stopped talking in the early hours of the morning, when he finally said, "You should get something to eat Sam. Your blood sugar is low."
Sam took stock of himself, and he was forced to agree. His stomach was hallow-feeling, panging with hunger.
"Okay, sure. I'll talk to you later." He paused, "Thanks Bee."
Thanks for waking me up. Thanks for distracting me. Thanks for being so goddamn patient.
In lieu of reply, the Friends theme song trilled loudly in his ear. Sam groaned into the mouthpiece before disconnecting the call.
Sam walked into the bedroom first, changing out of his pajamas and into a pair of soft denim jeans and a sweater. He walked into the bathroom next, pulling on socks as he hopped on one foot. When he walked to the sink to wash his hands, his eyes settled on his face and his lips thinned in a grimace.
He looked like shit.
His face was waxy and pale in the harsh florescent light, and the circles under his eyes were so pronounced that they almost looked like bruises. Sam ran a hand over the four-day old stubble on his jaw and made a mental note to buy a razor as soon as possible. Turning away from the mirror, he splashed cold water on his face and then headed into the living area. It took him a moment to find his identification badge, which had fallen under the couch, and then he toed on his shoes and headed out the door.
Sam walked slowly, following the colored lines painted on the wall and paying attention to the signage that was posted at each junction. As he wasn't in any rush, he took the scenic route, paying attention to the shops and offices he passed as he walked.
He was so absorbed in his exploration of the quad that he nearly collided with someone when he took a corner too sharply. He stumbled back with a surprised oof, and opened his mouth to apologize when he recognized Dave standing in front of him. The PA was fresh-faced and neatly groomed, despite the early hour. Dave had been talking animatedly to the man beside him, before Sam's interruption.
"I'm so sorry, Dave." Sam said with an apologetic smile, "I wasn't paying attention, my fault."
He glanced at Dave's companion. The stranger was tall, maybe six-foot-two or so, broad shouldered and fit. He had the physique of someone who worked hard for a living. The stranger had short, dark hair shot through with steel gray at the temples. His face was handsome, in an All American sort of way, open and honest. When his bright blue eyes settled on Sam, his expression widened in surprise and then immediately clouded in concern.
"Sam," Dave greeted, clearly taken aback by his unexpected appearance, "Good morning." He glanced back and forth between Sam and his companion, "This is—"
"Orion." The man interrupted him, his voice deep and warm, "Orion Pax."
Dave's eyebrows climbed to his hairline, as he stared blankly at his companion.
"Nice to meet you, Orion." Sam said with a self-deprecating smile, "Sorry about that. I was woolgathering."
"Something on your mind?" The older man asked considerately.
Sam huffed a laugh. Buddy, you have no idea.
"I won't hold you up any further, I'm off to find something to eat." He replied instead.
"You know your way?" Dave asked, evidentially back to his usual self.
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, "I'll figure it out. I need to learn to find my way around here eventually."
Sam made to step around them when he saw Dave wince out of the corner of the eye. The expression caught his attention, and he turned to regard the agent closely.
"What's up?" He asked.
"Don't shoot the messenger, Sam." He started apologetically, and Sam frowned. The agent's posture immediately put him on the defensive.
"What is it?"
With the air of a man trying to defuse a bomb, Dave grimaced, "Ratchet insists that you come to the medical bay this morning. I think he's done asking."
Sam felt his face flush red, and he narrowed his eyes at the agent, "I can't even begin to describe how much I don't give a shit."
"Sam—"
Upon reflection, Sam would later acknowledge that it was probably the underlying stress exacerbated by the sleep deprivation that made him lose his temper.
"What is so difficult to understand? I am working through a mountain of bullshit right now. I will see Ratchet when I am damn good and ready, and not a moment before!"
Dave's eyebrows flew up at his outburst, obviously surprised. Orion was watching him quietly, a pensive expression on his face.
Sam stepped around the pair of men with a huff, fully intending to leave without another word but something possessed him to pin the agent with a glare and snap, "I will work through this on my own time. Not Ratchet's, not Optimus'. Mine."
He almost missed the wince that Dave directed towards Orion, and Sam realized abruptly that he was making a scene.
So much for first impressions, he thought with a grimace. Unable to think of a way to salvage the situation, he turned on his heel and walked away.
The morning passed in a miserable blur. He found the mess hall a short time later, and queued in line at the galley. He piled an assortment of food onto his tray and walked to the cash registers at the end of the hall. He was mildly surprised (and a lot relieved) when he swiped his identification badge and the light blinked green. He found a secluded corner of the mess hall and sat down, working through the tray of food like it was a job and not a meal.
When he had finished his breakfast, having tasted nothing, he carried his tray to the end of the galley and stacked it with the others.
Sam walked out of the mess hall, glancing at the signage across from the entryway. He had a decision to make: hospital ward or medical bay? He knew that he should eat crow and go see Ratchet, but he bucked against the prospect. He had lost his citizenship, his family, his autonomy—he was loathe to present himself meekly to Ratchet at the medic's say-so. Sam was walking towards the hospital ward before he had consciously made the decision to do so.
When he walked into the ward ten minutes later, he was surprised to see Dr. Lewis waiting for him with an inscrutable expression on her face.
"Come on." She said, picking up a small tray of medical supplies and walking to the end of the ward.
"Hop up, please." She said, voice brisk.
Sam climbed onto the bed, before pulling his shirt over his head. The doctor arranged the supplies on the bedside table, before she said, "Please sit tight."
She stepped away, pulling the curtain that surrounded the bed partially closed before her footsteps receded back down the hospital ward. Sam blinked in surprise, taken aback by her stiff demeanor. As he waited, he surveyed his surroundings. He was at the very end of the long room, sitting on the last bed on the left. It was quiet here, the bustle of soldiers and hospital corpsman on the other end of the room was a distant noise.
He waited for an interminable time before he heard animated talking coming from down the ward. He cocked his head, trying to listen, but he was unable to make out the words. After a moment, he heard sharp footsteps headed in his direction and then a man stepped around the curtain. The stranger was tall and portly, with brass colored hair that was shot through with gray at his temples. He was wearing military fatigues with a caduceus stitched above his rank, although Sam didn't know enough about insignia to read it. The man looked him up and down, a disapproving expression on his face.
"How much sleep did you get last night?" He asked, apropos of nothing.
Sam blinked up at him, caught off-guard by his brisk tone.
"I'm not sure." He slowly replied.
The look on the medic's face said 'you're completely full of shit' so clearly that it might as well have been communicated telepathically. The man moved towards him and began rifling through the medical supplies on the bedside table.
"Nightmares?" He asked at last, voice gruff but not unkind.
Sam sighed heavily. "Something like that."
The doctor pinned him with a critical look, "You're not sleeping. You're barely eating."
Sam frowned at the man, discomforted by his words and taken aback by his bedside manner.
"I'm working through some things." He said finally.
"How does 'working through some things' prevent you from attending to your physical well-being? You are aware that you died four days ago?"
Sam flinched at the sharp words, his eyes falling to the mattress. The doctor wasn't wrong.
"I'm trying." He said, softly, after a moment. "I have nightmares. I have flashbacks. I spend every minute of the day waiting for the other shoe to drop." He looked up at the medic, suddenly desperate to be understood, "I don't know what to do."
The hard disapproval in the doctor's expression softened minutely. He picked up an instrument from the tray of medical supplies; it was small and metallic, vaguely resembling a miniature ear thermometer. The doctor approached and Sam dutifully tilted his head.
"You're being remarkably difficult about all this." The doctor grumbled, without heat.
Sam opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark, when the doctor pressed the instrument to the junction of his neck and shoulder. There was a loud snap-hiss and Sam felt a stab of pain. He jerked away roughly in surprise, a hand flying to his neck. When he looked down, he saw a smear of red across his fingertips. He looked back up at the doctor, shocked and horrified in equal measures.
"What the fuck?" He demanded, weakly. He could already feel the medication working its way through his system.
The medic shrugged, "You don't sleep because you have nightmares. It follows that a modified sedative would help your predicament."
Sam blinked at the man dumbly, trying to bring the medic back into focus. When he shook his head, the room blurred around him.
Consciousness became fickle as Sam sank down on the mattress with a weak groan. He blinked slowly as the doctor moved towards the tray of medical supplies.
Darkness.
He blinked his eyes open, and the doctor was bent over him, cleaning the burns on his chest. He couldn't feel a thing. An unfamiliar hospital corpsman stood at his bedside, gathering the filthy bandages as the medic worked.
Darkness.
He struggled to open his eyes again. When he did so, the doctor was holding his bad hand in his own, manipulating his fingers this way and that. The corpsman was gone.
The darkness lasted much longer this time.
A strange noise roused him from his slumber. The lights above him had been darkened, which cast the hospital ward into shadow. He looked down at himself to see that an open-backed hospital gown had been pulled over his arms and shoulders, and a blanket was pulled up to his chest. Sam struggled up to his elbows, dizzy and lightheaded. He could hear angry whispering just beyond the curtain that had been pulled around his bed; a stream of placating Cybertronian came in response.
He felt a sharp stab of anxiety as he looked around the room desperately. Was he dreaming? Was this real? In an instant, the brassy-haired doctor stepped around the curtain and placed his hand firmly but gently on Sam's chest, pushing him back onto the mattress.
The doctor's eyes searched his face, before he said quietly, "It's okay, Sam, you're safe. Go back to sleep."
Sam blinked slowly, already feeling himself slipping back under. Before the blackness claimed him once again, he murmured dejectedly, "You're wrong."
The medic's eyes flicked to his face.
"I'm not safe. Not anymore."
Sam woke slowly, rolling over on the narrow hospital bed as he did so. His first thought upon waking was that he had never felt this comfortable in his entire life. His limbs were heavy and warm, the pain in his chest was barely noticeable, and he felt clear-headed for the first time in days. He sighed in contentment before tugging the hospital blankets up to his ears, and burying his nose in the soft material. He laid there for a long time, in that indefinable space between awake and asleep, drifting comfortably. After a long while, he slowly became aware of an insistent discomfort.
He had to use the bathroom.
He blinked open his eyes, struggling to a sitting position. Suddenly, the brassy-haired medic was at his bedside, and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise.
"Jesus Christ, wear a bell!" He yelped.
The doctor's stern expression wavered for a moment before he asked, "How are you feeling?"
Sam considered the question seriously before replying.
"Good. Really good. Great, actually." He admitted, "What time is it?"
"Twenty-three hundred."
Sam stared at him blankly, "What?"
"Eleven o'clock."
Sam's eyes widened in shocked disbelief. "What? At night?"
The medic sighed heavily.
"You needed it." He said, gruffly. "Can you eat?"
Sam gaped at the man, momentarily speechless, before he forced himself to reply.
"I have to use the bathroom." He said.
The doctor nodded and gestured towards a door across the room. Sam pulled the blankets aside and stood up, clutching the open back of his hospital gown as he walked. He took his time in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and drinking from the tap, before he walked back into the ward. By the time he climbed onto the hospital bed, an unknown corpsman was there with a cafeteria tray that he placed on the overbed table. Sam fell on the meal like a starved man, barely tasting the food in his haste. The brassy-haired medic watched silently as he ate, arranging medical supplies for his bandage change.
Sam finished his food with a satisfied sigh, unable to remember the last time he'd enjoyed a meal like that. The medic took his tray and set it aside, gesturing for Sam to take off the hospital gown. Sam did so, handing it to the hospital corpsman who had brought him his meal, and then braced himself for the dressing change. To his complete surprise, the procedure was almost painless. Even the bandages on his left side under his armpit were changed without discomfort.
Something on his face must have been telling, because the medic said waspishly, "If you'd come to me as soon as you'd arrived, you wouldn't have had to suffer needlessly."
Sam tilted his head at the man, confusedly.
"What do you mean? I came to the hospital ward for every change."
"Yes, I am well aware." The medic replied coolly, "And I expect to see you in the medical bay tomorrow morning for your next one. Don't make me track you down, or I will be severely irritated."
Sam frowned in confusion, opening his mouth to demand an explanation when the medic shimmered, as though interrupted by static, and then he disappeared.
"What the fuck?" He yelled, voice strangled in shock.
The corpsman glanced towards him, eyebrows raised in surprise. Sam looked at him wildly.
"What the fuck was that?" He demanded, aware that his voice was several octaves higher than normal.
The corpsman looked at him in confusion. "I was told you were aware of Autobot holotechnology."
"What are you talking about? Do you mean like the elevator?"
The corpsman had a patient expression on his face, "Well yes, but also their holoforms."
"What the fuck are you talking about? Holoforms?"
"The Autobot holoforms. They use them occasionally, when the situation requires it."
It was true that he had seen a few holoforms—Barricade had used his when he'd knocked him off his bike, and he'd seen Arcee's once before.
"Are you saying that he wasn't real?" Sam demanded incredulously.
The medic was frowning at him, "That was a holoform, yes, but Ratchet is quite real."
Sam stared at the corpsman in disbelief for a long moment before his eyes fluttered shut.
"Ratchet, you asshole." He groaned, eventually, for the second time in as many days.
Notes: If you are so interested, here is a map of the Diego Garcia base. Also, here is the map of the island I use in my writing.