Several hours later, Sam found himself sitting on the stairs of the metal scaffolding in the command center. The room was once again bustling with activity, a flurry of highly organized chaos. Optimus and Prowl stood side-by-side at the conference table, watching the hologram of the solar system. The small red dot that signified the Ark blinked steadily at them, as it slowly approached the dashed line that represented the outer edge of their enhanced sensor range. Ironhide stood beside Ultra Magnus a short distance away, the two large-framed Autobots engaged in deep discussion. Sam smiled as he looked around the room. It was remarkable how the arrival of the new Autobots had altered the mood of the base. It somehow felt less rigid, less impersonal.
"Something on your mind?" Bumblebee asked. The yellow scout was crouched beside him, the two of them almost a similar height from Sam's position on the stairs. He leaned against the scaffold, peering at the mech through the guardrail.
"No, not really." He said with a smile, "Just relieved, I guess."
Bumblebee whistled at him softly, and Sam reached through the guardrail to run a hand over his guardian's helm affectionately.
"The Ark is Optimus' ship, isn't it?" He asked after a moment, withdrawing his hand. He remembered Bumblebee mentioning something about it when they had stayed up talking after his most recent nightmare.
"Yes and no." Bumblebee replied, "Optimus commissioned it and he was its first commander, but it is not his ship per se."
"It's a warship, though?"
Bumblebee nodded, "It's a Vanguard-class interceptor, one of the most powerful in Cybertron's fleet. If we can get it here in one piece, there is a good chance that we will be able to repair the damage it has sustained. It would give us a significant tactical advantage—one we will need, if Skywarp and Thundercracker ever arrive."
Sam tilted his head at his guardian.
"Wheeljack mentioned them. What's the big deal?"
Bumblebee whistled, long and low.
"They are Starscream's trine-mates. Together they are the most powerful command trine in Cybertron's army. As airframes, they outmatch us in terms of speed and maneuverability—they also have trans-warp capabilities, which invites the possibility of ambushes and hit-and-run attacks. It will make planning and engagement considerably more difficult."
Sam frowned at the yellow Autobot.
"That doesn't sound good."
"It's not, but we have Prowl with us now and his military strategy is peerless. He will be able to come up with a plan."
Sam noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to look. Optimus, Prowl, Ultra Magnus, and Ironhide had moved to stand around the hologram in a loose semi-circle. Sam could see that the small red dot had finally crossed the dashed line on the projection. Prowl typed something into the keypad in front of him, and then he nodded to Optimus.
"Ark, this is Optimus Prime. Do you receive me?"
There was a long pause—far longer than it took the Trion—and then a crackle burst forth from the speakers.
"We are receiving you loud and clear, Prime. Kup reporting in. Unfortunately, our comms are fragged and I cannot transmit visual."
"It is good to hear from you again, old friend. What is the state of the Ark?"
There was another animated crackle of static, and then Kup was speaking again.
"We have sustained moderate damage to our hyperfuel intake accelerators and extensive damage to the forward hull and aft thrusters. It will be a bumpy trip planet-side." Kup rumbled.
"What is the state of your landing systems?" Ironhide inquired.
"They are functioning adequately. I do not anticipate any problems in that regard."
"There is a sizable Decepticon presence on this planet, including Megatron, Starscream, and Soundwave—the latter of which is currently in high orbit." Prowl advised.
"The weapons are the one thing on this ship that's not limping. We will be prepared."
"Be highly cautious of an aerial engagement, Kup." Prowl rumbled, "The surface of this planet is teeming with indigenous lifeforms, which Prime has vowed to protect. An errant canon blast could be disastrous."
Kup scoffed at the strategist, "My weapons strike where I intend them to strike."
Optimus raised a restraining hand, "Hopefully this will not be an issue. The Trion was able to land without being harried—Primus willing, the same will be true for the Ark. If not, Prowl will provide tactical guidance as the situation unfolds."
Optimus glanced at the strategist, who nodded in acquiescence, before continuing, "How soon can you make it planet-side?"
"If we push the engines, we could break atmo in a cycle and a half. Perhaps less."
"Make due haste, my friend, but do not compromise structural integrity for speed. It is more important that you arrive in one piece, than you arrive quickly." Optimus rumbled in reply.
"Understood. Ark out."
Optimus turned to Prowl and Ultra Magnus immediately, speaking lowly. Sam couldn't make out what the Autobot leader was saying, but he assumed that he was readying for the Ark's arrival. Suddenly, Bee chirped at him and Sam glanced towards his guardian.
"What's up?"
"Cliffjumper and I are about to go on morning patrol. Would you like to come?"
Sam glanced towards Optimus, wondering whether the Autobot leader would agree, when Bee chirped at him again.
"Prime has already given his permission for you to accompany us on patrols, if you wish."
Sam grinned at the scout, "Then yes, absolutely. Let's go."
Bumblebee chirped at him enthusiastically, stepping away from the scaffold and transforming into his alt-mode. Sam was on his feet in an instant, jogging down the stairs two at a time. The driver's side door popped open as he approached, and he quickly climbed inside.
"So Cliff is taking over for Sideswipe?" He asked, as they accelerated out of the command center.
"Cliff volunteered. He knows how difficult the separation has been on the twins."
Sam tilted his head at the dash considerately, "You know, I've never wondered this before, but how are Autobot twins born, er, sparked?"
"Spark twins are exceedingly rare, believe it or not. They occur when one spark divides during the early stages of the sparking process. When that happens, the Creators create a second chassis and place the twin spark within. The bond between spark twins is revered in our culture—second only to a spark bond."
"Bond?"
Bee hummed considerately.
"It's difficult to explain, as there is no human equivalent. There are a number of tangible bonds amongst our people. The simplest of these is the Creator bond—a mental connection between a Creator and a sparkling. This connection is imbalanced: the Creator has full control over what is shared and when, by both parties. A Creator bond allows for the transfer of base programming to a new sparkling. It can also be used to control a sparkling's systems, especially in the early vorns."
Sam tilted his head, completely fascinated.
"So a Creator can physically control a sparkling through the bond?"
"They can, by accessing a sparkling's primary, secondary, and tertiary systems. But a good Creator limits their control, as it can negatively affect the development of a sparkling's independent programming."
Sam squinted at the dash, "Do you have a bond with Optimus?"
There was a soft burst of laughter-like static.
"I do, although neither of us has activated the bond in millennia. While Creator bonds are permanent, it is rare for either party to access it after the sparkling has left the crèche."
"But you could, if you wanted to?"
"If I wanted to, yes, but I don't." Bumblebee replied, amusement in his voice, "It's infantilizing."
Sam nodded slowly, "I can see how that would be true."
"The second type of bond is the one that exists between twins." Bumblebee continued, "The connection between them is deeper and more profound than a Creator bond, as they are technically a single spark in two chasses. A twin bond is deeply personal, as each has access to the other's core programming and sub-routines. Essentially, they know what the other is thinking and feeling at all times, so long as they are in range of one another."
"Sounds… noisy." Sam said, and Bumblebee chuckled in response.
"Apparently it is not. You will have to ask Sideswipe or Sunstreaker to explain it further."
Not likely, Sam thought wryly. Sideswipe was sarcastic and short-tempered on a good day. If his brother was anything like him, Sam was happy to leave well enough alone.
They had arrived at the large receiving area, and Sam saw a sleek red and black Bugatti Chiron parked by the lift, waiting next to a red and orange Lamborghini Centenario. Sam's eyebrows climbed to his hairline at the sight of the flashy sports cars.
"You guys realize you're on a tropical island, right? You have about two inches of clearance on those alts, and most of this patrol is on packed dirt trails." Sam said, directing his question towards Bee's dashboard.
/I'll patrol and look bitchin' doing it./ Hot Rod replied cheerfully.
"Alright, but don't whine to me if you tear out your undercarriage and have to spend the night listening to Ratchet lecture you." He paused, fully aware that the medic would be listening, "I've been on the receiving end of it—it's not a fun trip, let me tell you."
Bee whistled at him amusedly, before reporting, /Bumblebee and Sam, checking in./
/Cliffjumper, checking in./
/Hot Rod, coming along for kicks./
There was an exasperated huff through Bumblebee's radio, and then Prowl said, /Acknowledged. Proceed to Marianne Point./
The three vehicles accelerated forward until they were on the lift, which immediately lurched beneath them. It was no time at all before they were driving through the downtown area, and Sam remembered that they had been in the middle of a conversation.
"So, what's a spark bond?" He asked, curiously.
"The most rare and precious of all bonds. It occurs when two compatible sparks spontaneously develop a connection. Like the twin bond, a spark bond is a mental connection between two mechanoids that allows each bot access to the other's most central programming. Unlike the Creator bond and the twin bond, however, the spark bond is more… intimate."
Sam decided not to comment on that. He was sure the scout's wording had been deliberate, and he had no desire to have a bots-and-the-bees conversation with his guardian.
"Why are they so special?" He asked instead.
Bumblebee hesitated, as though trying to find an adequate way to explain a complicated concept, "Part of the reason is their rarity—in my entire lifespan, I have only met a few dozen mechs who were spark-bonded. The second reason is the nature of the bond itself. Due to the intimacy shared between two bonded sparks, it is rare for one to outlive the other—they either die of shock or they destroy their own spark in grief. The sensational nature of spark bonds has featured prominently in our culture, which further increased their value and appeal. Suffice to say, they are considered very precious among my people."
"Do any of you have a spark bond?" He asked curiously, and his guardian chuckled in response.
"No, we do not. Spark bonded pairs are pretty obvious—they're highly territorial of one another. It can make them a real liability in combat."
"I can see why, especially if the death of one means the death of the other."
Bumblebee hummed in acknowledgement, "That is why spark bonded pairs are usually kept off the battlefield unless they're both war frames, and even then it's a risk."
/Marianne Point clear, proceeding to south-central./ Cliffjumper reported.
They drove in companionable silence until they reached East Point, when Hot Rod apparently reached his limit for being quiet.
/This is a crazy planet, Sam. Very organic./
Sam huffed a laugh, "It can be. There is very little organic matter in the Arctic or Antarctic, or the deserts and mountain ranges. It just happens that organic life is good at thriving in the right conditions."
/However did your species manage it? Soft and squishy as you are./
Sam rolled his eyes, "I'm not an evolutionary biologist, you'll have to look it up. Besides, we're more resilient than we look."
/You'd have to be./ Hot Rod replied doubtfully.
"Hey!" He protested, affronted.
/I'm just saying, your species is vulnerable to every conceivable threat—extreme heat, extreme cold, too much water, not enough water, disease, predation—/
/Hot Rod, I am going to scrap your vocalizer if you don't knock it off./ Ironhide growled.
There was a contrite chirp from the Lamborghini, followed by a protracted silence.
/I'm not the only one who sees it though, right?/ He asked, tentatively, after a moment.
/Humans are adaptable and capable, Hot Rod. They compensate for their lack of hardened chasses through their ingenuity, creativity, and steadfast determination./ Prime replied patiently.
/Cust Point clear, proceeding to Barton Point./ Bumblebee cut in dryly.
When they arrived at Barton Point, Bumblebee popped the driver's side door and Sam climbed out. Bumblebee rolled back several feet, and transformed. Cliffjumper and Hot Rod followed suit in short order. Roddy stepped over the berm, and jogged to the shoreline.
"There is so much water on this planet!" He observed enthusiastically. Sam, Cliffjumper, and Bumblebee trailed behind him.
"There is." Sam agreed, coming to a stop a foot away from the shoreline, "Have you guys spent much time on planets with liquid water?"
"Some." Cliffjumper replied, "As you can imagine, aquatic planets are generally unconducive to supporting Transformer life."
Sam laughed, "Yeah, you guys don't seem especially buoyant."
"Strange that the dominant species on a largely aquatic planet is terrestrial." Roddy said, crouching down to run his servo through the water.
Sam tilted his head at the mechanoid, "Not so strange. Most people enjoy the water."
That seemed to surprise the Autobot, "What do you mean?"
He shrugged, "As a species, we spend a lot of time in and around the water. We use waterways for food resources, transportation, and recreation. I was born on the coast of California. I was swimming before I could walk."
Roddy looked stunned by this information.
"You mean figuratively, surely?"
Sam laughed, "No, literally. My mother took me to the Y for swimming lessons when I was an infant."
Roddy whistled in amazement, "How remarkable. You enjoy the water, then?"
"Of course. I'm a great swimmer, but I also kayak, longboard, and waterski. I can't wait for the chance to get back in the water."
Hot Rod tilted his head at him considerately, then he reached forward and grabbed him around the waist. Sam didn't even have the chance to protest before Roddy pitched him into the shallows with an easy, under-handed toss. He was airborne for the space of seconds, his arms windmilling desperately, before he landed belly-first into the ocean. Sam surfaced a second later, spluttering as he clambered to his feet in the chest-high water.
On the shore, Bumblebee and Cliffjumper stood frozen with identical expressions of horrified disbelief on their faces. Hot Rod, on the other hand, looked exorbitantly pleased with himself—as though he had just done Sam a great kindness. Bumblebee strode quickly into the water, chirping urgently in Cybertronian. Behind the scout, Cliffjumper shoved Hot Rod hard against the chest.
"I'm fine, Bee." Sam grumbled as he waded towards the shore. When he got closer, he gave Hot Rod an exasperated look, "So you're new here, I get that. Let me give you a tip: don't lob people into the fucking ocean without their permission."
Hot Rod looked contrite, "But you said—"
Sam held up a restraining hand, "In fact, just avoid touching people all together without their consent."
Bumblebee crouched down as he approached. Sam pulled off his shirt and wrung it out as best he could, before pulling it back on. He looked pointedly at the scout.
"I hope Cybertronian leather isn't ruined by water, or your cab is going to be a mess."
"Sam." Hot Rod said hesitantly, "Please forgive me. Evidentially, the subtleties of your language still elude me."
He sighed in exasperation, "Apology accepted, Hot Rod," Sam said before looking up at the tall Autobot with a wry smile, "But the next time you throw me into the ocean, I'm going to have Bumblebee kick your ass."
Cliff chuckled as he gave the red and yellow Autobot another shove, "You're lucky he didn't shoot you, Roddy."
Hot Rod shoved him back, "Bumblebee's got nothing on me."
Sam glanced at Bee with a grin, but the scout's expression made him go still. His guardian was staring at him with a naked intensity that he could almost feel. Sam stepped close, looking up at him.
"I'm fine." He said, nudging his guardian with his hand, "You ready to go?"
After a moment, Bumblebee nodded and stood. Sam walked past the three Autobots, his shoes squelching in the sand and his jeans chafing his thighs. He grimaced in discomfort. The three Autobots transformed when they reached the road, and Sam climbed into Bee's cab with a grunt. The ride back was uneventful. By the time they had settled into the floor of the receiving area, he was looking forward to a hot shower and a change of clothes. Bumblebee's driver side door popped open, and Sam climbed out. As soon as he stepped away, the three Autobots transformed.
"So that was lots of fun." Cliffjumper said with a lop-sided grin, "Let's do it again sometime."
Sam huffed a laugh at the red and gray Autobot, "Says the guy who didn't go for an unexpected swim."
Before Cliffjumper could reply, Sam heard a tsk'ing sound behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a serious-looking officer frowning at him in disapproval. Sam glanced down, and saw that he was spreading sand and water all over the floor.
"Jeez, Sam." Hot Rod said in an exaggerated stage whisper, "I hope you left some beach behind for everyone else."
His words caused Sam to laugh loudly in affronted amusement. The officer's mouth pulled down in displeasure as he turned away, but Sam paid him no mind.
"Roddy, you're an asshole." He said, good-naturedly. He leaned against Bumblebee's struts with one hand, and pulled his shoes and socks off with the other.
Hot Rod shrugged, the Cybertronian-equivalent of a shit-eating grin on his face.
"If you guys will excuse me, I'm going to go shower." He glanced at Bumblebee, "When is the Ark expected to arrive?
"Approximately oh-three-hundred." Bumblebee replied.
"When's your next patrol?"
"Four o'clock this afternoon." Bumblebee replied, switching to the 12-hour clock for Sam's benefit.
"Would you mind if I join you again?" Sam asked, tentatively.
The expression on Bumblebee's face was suddenly inscrutable and intense.
"You are always welcome." He replied sincerely. Sam grinned up at the scout.
"Great. I'll see you guys in a while." He waved over his shoulder as he headed towards the bridge. The walk back to his room was an uncomfortable one. His jeans were cold and clung to his thighs, and he got more than a few curious looks from passersby. No wonder, given he was dripping wet and walking barefoot through a highly classified military facility. As soon as the door to his room closed behind him, Sam peeled off his wet clothes. He grimaced to see that the insides of his thighs were chaffed, red and raw.
Perfect.
Sam showered quickly, sluicing salt and sand off his body and down the drain. A short while later, he wandered back into his room with a towel slung around his hips, looking for clothes. He opened his closet and grabbed the first pair of pants he saw (a pair of jeans lying in a heap on the floor) before pulling a thin, long-sleeved shirt off a hangar. When Sam pulled on the pants, he shoved his fists into the pockets and froze. Slowly, he pulled a familiar-looking piece of folded paper out of the pocket, staring at it in surprise. He had completely forgotten about Mikaela's note.
Sam sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. With a growing sense of trepidation and anguish, he unfolded the paper and read.
Sam,
Please forgive me. I'm sorry that I couldn't speak with you in person. I'm sorry that I couldn't be there for you when you needed me. I'm sorry that I am not strong enough to do this.
I'm just sorry.
Please don't think it's because I don't love you—it's because of how much I love you. I can't look you in the face and say good-bye again. I just can't do it. Now our last memories of each other are happy ones, and that's the way I want it.
They are sending me to Maine. I'll be okay. You will, too. I know it. You're stronger than you realize.
I love you, Sam.
xx Kaela
He read the note a second time before he realized that he was crying. The apathetic haze that had shrouded his mind since he had said good-bye to his parents evaporated in a wave of grief that rocked him to his core. Grief for his parents and Mikaela. Grief for himself.
The ironclad emotional control that he had maintained for the last five days shattered. Unable to do anything to prevent it, Sam put his head in his hands and sobbed.
He didn't know for how long he sat there, but his head was pounding and his eyes were sore by the time Sam had cried himself out. He got to his feet and stumbled towards the bathroom, turning on the taps and splashing his face with cold water. He stood there for a long time, trying to steel himself, before he walked to the living room. Sam wandered aimlessly around the space for hours. He turned on the television, changing channels until he settled on a police sitcom, which he proceeded to ignore. He flipped through several paperback novels, but did not read more than a paragraph of each before setting them down again. He was on his umpteenth trip around the living room when he noticed the stack of papers on the desk.
Sam walked over and flipped through the materials, before he pulled out Stanford's academic calendar. He frowned down at the glossy cover, feeling equal parts vindictive and resigned. It was a long moment before he pulled out the chair and sat down, thumbing through the pages slowly. He got to the academic departments section, and glanced through each in turn.
Anthropology (no). Applied physics (no). Biology (no).
He paused briefly on the Communications Department section, remembering his interest when Optimus had explained about logistics during their walk through South Quad. He dog-eared the page, and moved on.
Computer science (no), earth science (no), engineering (no, although he had enjoyed his time in Wheeljack's lab).
He turned the page and paused. Geography. Curiously, Sam flipped through the department section until he reached the course list. He glanced through the introductory courses: On Becoming a Geographer; Geography & the Human Habitat; Geography and our Planetary Environment.
Sam made to move on, when another course caught his eye.
Political Geography.
With increasing curiosity, Sam read the course description.
Political geography examines the spatial character of political processes at the local, national and global scales. Major themes include: territory, identity, and the state; localism, regionalism, and separatism; colonialism and decolonization; geopolitics; and internal and international political conflicts.
Sam tilted his head considerately, and continued reading the course list.
People, Place and Power; Identities, Boundaries, and Mobilization; Comparative and International Politics; Political Violence and Human Rights.
Sam felt his heart starting to beat faster in his chest. He had no idea that political geography existed as a sub-discipline. He had loved geography in high school, being drawn to its breadth and depth. Before making a decision, Sam forced himself to continue flipping through the academic calendar to see if anything else caught his eye. When he got to the Political Science section, he read the department description. It was less exciting, focusing more on issues of political philosophy and public opinion than Sam cared for. By the time he flipped to the end of the academic calendar, he had made up his mind.
With a growing sense of determination, he pulled the course schedule out from the pile of papers on the desk. Sam flipped to the Communications section first. Introduction to Communication was offered this term, as was Reporting, Writing, and Understanding the News. He smirked to himself at the course name, but put a star beside it anyway. He flipped next to the Geography section. There were no lower-level courses on Political Geography, but there were several prerequisites that were available. He put a star beside Introduction to Human Geography and Global Population Debates. Then, grudgingly, he flipped to the Political Science section, and made note of the introductory course The Science of Politics.
Sam stared at the paper in front of him, surprised to find that he was trembling. This was the first decision that he had made for himself since Optimus had turned his life upside down on the flight deck of the Theodore Roosevelt. The warm burst of self-efficacy he felt by asserting this tiny bit of autonomy was a heady feeling.
He glanced at the academic calendar. The first day of classes for both on-line and in-person students was August 26. He picked up the cellphone on the desk and unlocked it, scrolling to his contacts. Sam selected Dave Carter from the list, and brought the phone to his ear.
"Sam, what's up?" The agent asked, as soon as the call connected.
"How do I register for courses?" He asked without preamble.
Dave paused, as though taken aback, "I will take care of it for you. Do you know what courses you'd like to take?"
"I do." Sam said firmly, "I can send you the list."
"Alright, please do. Stanford's on-line courses are managed through Blackboard. Do you know it?"
Sam nodded, though the agent couldn't see him, "Princeton used it. How do I purchase textbooks?"
"Send me the list when you get your course syllabi. I'll place an order through Procurement."
Sam frowned slightly. The term began in three days, and he knew that it would take a while for the textbooks to arrive at the super-secret military facility.
"How long will it take for them to get here?"
"It'll take a while, but I can arrange for you to have access to digital copies until they do. We'll order your textbooks for next semester in advance."
"Okay, thanks Dave. I appreciate it." Sam replied.
"No problem." The agent said, disconnecting the call without a valediction.
Sam sat back in his chair, enjoying the feeling of accomplishment the phone call had evoked, before he texted Dave a picture of the course list. Having done so, he glanced at the time and was surprised to see it was already 3:10 PM. Abruptly, Sam realized that he was starving.
It was no time at all before he was sitting in a corner of the mess hall, working his way through a plate of buffalo chicken pasta. Sam ate quickly, keenly aware of the time. He wanted to be back in the receiving room by quarter to four. After he finished his meal, he deposited his tray at the receptacle and started walking towards the bridge. He was surprised by his good mood, given his earlier meltdown. Although, he mused upon reflection, it was possible that the note was actually a contributing factor to his current emotional state. He had a lot of shit weighing him down, and the release had been cathartic—painful, but cathartic. Sam was still mulling this over when he stepped onto the bridge. He was half-way towards the receiving room, when a voice interrupted his brooding.
"Good afternoon, Sam."
Sam jerked in surprise, his eyes snapping up to see Ripcord standing in front of him.
"Hello Ripcord."
"Where are you going?" The analyst asked.
"I am heading to the receiving room. Bumblebee and I are going on patrol."
Ripcord tilted his head, "I cannot imagine you would have much to contribute to a patrol. Stay here and speak with me instead. I have much to ask you."
The analyst's words immediately put Sam on the defensive, although he could not say why. Ripcord was right, after all: Sam was a passenger at best and a liability at worst. He shifted, avoiding the Autobot's gaze.
"Bumblebee is expecting me. I have to go." He said at last, his voice only just polite.
"Then I shall accompany you." The analyst said, gesturing down the hallway. Unable to see an alternative, Sam started walking.
"I understand that you spent time with the Allspark, before it was destroyed." Ripcord said shortly thereafter.
Sam nodded, "I did."
"Tell me about it."
"Not much to tell." He said uncomfortably, "I am sure you've been briefed."
"I have." Ripcord agreed, "But I would like to hear you say it."
Sam glanced at the Autobot, confused by his wording.
"Say what?"
"Your perspective." He replied after a moment, as though it were obvious what he had meant.
Sam frowned, "There's not much to tell. I was taken to Sector-7, found the Allspark, and then Bumblebee and I drove it to Mission City. The original plan was to fly it to safety, but Megatron and Starscream arrived, making it impossible to evacuate the Allspark by air."
Ripcord hummed considerately.
"So Prime ordered you to destroy it."
Once again, Sam felt discomforted by what the Autobot had said, even though his words and manner were inoffensive. Seeing no reason to lie, Sam nodded.
"Yes."
"And you did?"
"Yeah, I did." He said, softly.
"An unavoidable tragedy." Ripcord observed.
"It was." Sam said, and he meant it.
Ripcord glanced at him in surprise, "I am pleased to hear you say so. As a human you could not possibly understand the full scope of our loss, but your sympathy is noted."
Sam flinched inwardly. Ripcord could have no idea how close to home his words had hit. They walked together in silence for a while longer, before the analyst asked quietly.
"What was it like, to hold that power in your hands? To watch it extinguish in front of you?"
Sam pulled up short, frowning.
"It sucked, Ripcord. Alright? I didn't want to destroy it, but I was in survival mode. It was Optimus or Megatron, and it wasn't going to be Optimus."
The analyst looked at him, his optics bright.
"Please, forgive my intrusiveness. I was a temple priest during the Golden Age—I both studied and revered the Allspark. Where once I was a theologian, however, now I am merely a historian. I consider it my sacred duty to learn all I can about the Allspark, now that it has been destroyed."
To Sam's great relief, they had reached the entrance to the receiving room.
"I understand," He didn't, "If you have any other questions, you should ask Optimus."
Ripcord nodded, and Sam walked through the door without another word.
Sam shifted from foot to foot, staring out over the eastern airfield. It was dark, given the late hour, but floodlights had been arranged around them in a large semi-circle. As with the previous morning, Autobot and human soldiers alike stood in tidy formation as they awaited the arrival of the Ark. Bumblebee glanced down at him, but said nothing. The scout had noticed his reticence from the moment he had entered the receiving area, but Sam had refused to talk about it. What could he say? Sorry Bee, I'm upset because I destroyed the most precious artifact of an entire religion, and its High Priest is put out about it? Not likely. Besides, Ripcord had been polite, albeit rather forward. It was Sam's own insecurity that motivated his cageyness.
Sam glanced around the airfield for what felt like the hundredth time. There was an atmosphere of heightened vigilance among them. As Optimus had explained earlier that evening, the Ark was a top-priority target and it was currently handicapped. It would be easy pickings for Megatron and Starscream, if the two Decepticons had recovered enough to take advantage of the opportunity.
Sam huffed quietly. He was standing next to Bumblebee at the edge of the airfield; as with that morning, the scout had told him to stay close. Cliffjumper and Hot Rod were nearby, both of them mirroring Bumblebee's tense alertness.
"There it is." Bumblebee said, breaking the silence. Sam glanced at his guardian, squinting.
"Where?"
"There, Sam-my-man, look." Hot Rod pointed towards the horizon, but Sam couldn't see anything over the glare of the floodlights. It was not long, however, before the roar of the Ark's engines became audible. Within moments, the sleek disc-shaped ship had approached and settled onto the airfield, wobbling precariously as it touched down.
Without taking his eyes off the Ark, Sam asked, "Anything, Bee?"
The scout whistled quietly in the negative, and Sam felt himself incrementally relax.
As with the Trion, Optimus stepped forward to receive the crew of the Ark. The landing ramp extended jerkily to the ground, and almost immediately there was the ringing of metal on metal as the Autobots descended to stand in front of their leader. Sam craned his head curiously. The nearest mechanoid was heavily armored and broad-framed, his greenish-gray plating marred by scars and dings that were obvious even from a distance. The second mechanoid was shorter and narrower in frame, with red, blue, and black plating. Beside him, stood a lithe Autobot whose red and black plating gleamed in the floodlights.
"The Ark is yours to command, my Prime." Kup greeted, jerking Sam's attention back to the greenish-gray Autobot.
"Welcome to Earth, Kup. You are most welcome."
The grizzled old mechanoid inclined his head respectfully. Behind him, the three other Autobots did the same.
"Perceptor and Mirage, be welcomed." Prime greeted. There was a murmur of assent from the three Autobots, and then they drifted into the group, greeting old friends with enthusiastic hugs or excited peals of Cybertronian.
Sam glanced at Bumblebee, "So that's it, then?"
"That's it." His guardian confirmed, optics bright. He rocked on his pedes.
"Aw shucks. I was hoping to kick some uppity Decepticon ass." Hot Rod said, swagger in his voice.
Cliffjumper huffed at him, "I'm sure you'll get the chance eventually. They aren't going anywhere."
Before Hot Rod could reply, Bumblebee nudged Sam and murmured, "Prime wants you."
Sam glanced up at his guardian, a moue of distaste on his face. Bumblebee shrugged sympathetically before he started walking towards the Autobot leader. Sam sighed in bourgeoning annoyance and started after him a moment later.
"Sam," Optimus greeted warmly as he approached, "It is my honor to introduce Kup, the Elite Guard." He gestured to the greenish-gray Autobot who stood next to him. Kup inclined his head deeply in response, and Sam felt the familiar blush steal up his face. Optimus gestured to the mechanoid with red, blue, and black plating who stood between Kup and Prowl.
"This is Perceptor, scientist."
He glanced towards Perceptor, who regarded him with open curiosity. Suddenly, the mechanoid stiffened from head to toe. He snapped his helm towards Optimus, warbling something urgently in Cybertronian. Optimus paused for a fraction of a second, before he sighed in resignation. Sam looked from Optimus to Perceptor, and back again.
"Is there anything you two would like to share with the class?" He snapped, unnerved.
Kup and Ultra Magnus shared a look of surprised disapproval at his words, evidentially taken aback by his tone.
Optimus looked at him, his optics softening in regret.
"Sam, I would speak with you." The Autobot leader said, and Sam knew it was not a request. His heart lodged itself in his throat, as he realized with sudden clarity that this had to do with their conversation yesterday in the medical bay. As if commanded, the other Autobots dispersed away until it was only Optimus, Bumblebee, and Ratchet standing at the edge of the airfield. Sam shifted uncomfortably.
"What's going on, Optimus?"
"Not here." The Autobot leader rumbled, lowering to one knee as he extended his palm. Sam felt a surge of impatient anger, and he was tempted to demand that Optimus tell him right-the-fuck-now. With difficulty, Sam quashed the temptation. He was well aware of the gravity of their last private conversation, and he had no desire to humiliate himself by losing his temper in front of the newcomers. After a moment, Sam climbed onto Optimus' hand and held his breath as the Autobot leader transformed around him.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sam grumbled as he landed in Optimus' driver seat, "I'll never get used to that."
The Autobot leader did not reply. Instead, he accelerated towards the base at a quick clip. Glancing at Optimus' rearview mirror, Sam saw Ratchet and Bumblebee following behind him. The sight made dread twist in his gut. Ratchet's presence he understood, but Bumblebee was an unwelcome sight. Sam knew that there was only one reason the Autobot leader would invite his guardian: he thought Sam would need the moral support.
Sam sat silent and rigid in Optimus' cab up until the time the Autobot leader entered the medical bay and rolled to a stop. He barely had the time to brace himself before Optimus was transforming around him and then placing him on a nearby berth. By the time Bumblebee and Ratchet approached in their bipedal modes, Sam thought he might actually throw-up from anxiety.
"Out with it." He said, grimly, "What's going on?"
Ratchet cycled a weary-sounding sigh.
"You will recall that I scanned you on the deck of the Theodore Roosevelt and was taken aback by what I had found." The medic began. Sam frowned deeply, nodding. He remembered, all right.
"The scan I used that morning was my most sophisticated sensor sweep. With it, I can learn about the human body on a genomic level. At the time, I had thought I was being overly cautious. As it turns out, however, my prudence was most fortunate."
Sam crossed his arms, well aware of how defensive it made him appear, "And?"
"It is routine for this scan to reveal an accumulation of mutations—impairments—of deoxyribonucleic acid, including impairments of mitochrondrial functions and protein misfolding that have accumulated over time. This is normal: as an individual DNA strand becomes too damaged, it either dies off or enters a non-replicating state. This on-going process is called senescence."
Sam raised a restraining hand, huffing in exasperation, "Can you try that again, for those of us without advanced degrees in biology?"
Ratchet cycled air through his vents, but there was no disapproval or frustration in the medic's voice as he continued.
"When I scanned you that morning, I noticed two significant abnormalities. The first was that your cells were radiating Allspark energy—just a signature trace, but detectable nonetheless."
Sam jerked back in shock, but Ratchet continued before he could say anything.
"The second abnormality was that none of your DNA is undergoing senescence."
Sam glanced from Ratchet to Optimus, and back again.
"What are you saying, Ratchet?"
The medic paused, uncharacteristically hesitant, "Sam, senescence is normal and expected for organic life—the outcome of which is the process of aging."
Sam felt himself go cold all over. It took him a moment before he could ask, lowly, "Are you saying that I'm not aging?"
"Not precisely. As soon as your DNA undergoes a structural mutation, it repairs itself rather than triggering the senescence process."
Sam stood in shock for a long moment before he slowly sat down on the berth. It was a while before he was capable of responding.
"Okay, so what do we do? How do we fix this?" He asked, voice low and tight.
Ratchet glanced sidelong at Optimus before he replied with simple certainty, "We don't."
"What do you mean we don't? You said yourself, you have millions of years' of medical experience. You must be able to do something."
"Sam, even at the height of the Golden Age, we knew very little about the Allspark or its properties. I simply don't have any means to correct what's happened to you."
"I can't accept that." He said disbelievingly, "You can do anything. Please, Ratchet."
"Sam." Optimus said remorsefully, "I am sorry, but there is nothing we can do."
Sam looked between the two Autobots, uncomprehendingly, "What are you saying? Ratchet? What does that mean?"
The medic had an uncharacteristically sympathetic look on his face, "Sam, I simply do not know. This effect may fade in time, or it may not. It may prevent your aging, or it may not. I do not have any answers—but I can promise you that I will do my utmost to find them."
Sam shook his head, unable to come to terms with the information he had been given. The possibility of immortality was the subject of innumerable stories, but the reality was far less fantastical. What would it be like after the first hundred years? After he had watched everyone that he loved grow old and die? What would it be like after a thousand years? Ten thousand? How long would it take for him to lose his mind?
He sat in numb silence, unable and unwilling to speak.
"Sam, are you all right?" Optimus asked, hesitantly.
"Peachy, Optimus." He replied, dully, "Why not? I've already come back from the dead and met a cadre of alien demi-gods. Why not add immortality to the mix? Because fuck my life, that's why."
By the time he had finished speaking, Sam's voice had turned ugly, becoming bitter and lost. Bumblebee's wingflaps fluttered anxiously as he whistled at him softly. Sam didn't look at the scout. He couldn't.
"Sam, please know how deeply I regret all that—" The Autobot leader started, but the words inflamed something inside of him and Sam snapped his head up to glare at him.
"You should be sorry, Optimus. I hope you are. Every bad thing that has happened to me over the last two years is entirely your fault. If you hadn't ejected the Allspark into space and if you hadn't decided to destroy it, none of this would have happened."
Sam knew his words had the desired effect when Optimus jerked back as though he had been struck. Yet the flash of anguish across his face—quickly tucked beneath an impassive façade—was enough to lodge a spear of guilt in Sam's chest. His shoulders curled inwards and he scrubbed a hand over his face.
"I'm sorry," He apologized quietly, "That was unfair. You've always made decisions with the best intentions in mind, I know that."
Optimus was quiet for a long while. For an organism capable of processing terabytes of data in a single second, his silence spoke volumes.
"Optimus, really—" Sam tried again, wretchedly.
"You have done nothing to give offense, Sam. Your apology is appreciated, but unnecessary." Optimus replied at last. Sam stared at the Autobot leader's face searchingly, but he could not tell whether Optimus was being sincere or stoic. After a moment, Sam sighed heavily.
"It's just… what now?" He asked quietly, "I don't know how to process this. I am way out of my depth, here."
"Sam," Ratchet said, his voice unusually sincere, "We may not have the answers, but we are here with you. We will figure this out as we go along—together."
Bumblebee whistled at him softly in agreement, and Sam finally looked at his guardian. The eye contact seemed to encourage the scout, who gently brought a hand up to caress his back—the same gentle touch that he had used on the beach. It was a promise and a benediction, and it was unwaveringly sincere in its regard.
Sam understood exactly what the scout was trying to say.