The weeks that followed passed by in a blur.
Unable to come to terms with what he had been told, Sam withdrew into himself, pushing away everyone around him—humans and Autobot alike. Dave and Will were taken aback by his sudden coldness, but they respected his desire to be left alone. The Autobots did not seem to notice his complete avoidance, or if they did, he never heard about it. Only Bumblebee, Optimus, and Ratchet refused to be driven away, steadfastly weathering both his temper and self-pity. Cliffjumper and Hot Rod hovered on his periphery—neither pushing in nor letting themselves be deterred by his aloofness. They were just there, waiting, for whenever he was ready.
The nightmares that followed were hellish. On a good night, Sam would sleep restlessly for short periods, three hours here or five hours there. On bad nights, his nightmares would jerk him awake after only a short while, hyperventilating and soaked in sweat. On those nights, Sam never tried to fall back to sleep. Sometimes he stayed in his room with the lights on, other times he needed to get out, and so he would walk. His wanderings often drew him to Bumblebee, like magnets of opposite poles. When that happened, Sam would stay with him for hours—sometimes he would nod off, but usually he didn't. On those sleepless nights, Bumblebee would talk to him, telling him about the goings-on in the world or sharing stories about his past. Sometimes Sam was quiet, other times he was expressive and emotional. Through it all, Bumblebee never once asked him to talk about it, and for that he was thankful.
On other nights, Sam would aimlessly walk the corridors of the Hive. After the first few nights of listless wandering, Optimus' holoform had shimmered into existence beside him not long after he had left his room. The first few times this had happened, Sam had snapped at him to leave him alone. Optimus had nodded, understandingly, and the holoform had disappeared. The Autobot leader was persistent, however, and by the fourth night Sam stopped rebuffing him. As with Bumblebee, Optimus allowed Sam to dictate the terms of their time together. Sometimes Sam talked, but usually he was quiet. Optimus would follow his lead, understanding and supportive and there. Sam was thankful for that, too.
Dr. Karen Anderson and Chief Master Sergeant Robin Williams arrived to the Hive in early September, transferred from the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Karen, as she insisted he call her, started twice-weekly therapy with him in her comfortable office in the South Quad. As with everything else, Sam struggled with therapy in those early weeks, cagey and defensive, but Karen was patient and skilled in her craft. Eventually, she helped him lean into the therapy process. He cried in her office for the first time at the end of September; she quietly assured him that he was making progress.
Sam's days eventually developed into a familiar routine, as the otherness of the base faded over time. In the morning, he would eat breakfast and then accompany Bumblebee and Cliffjumper on their morning patrol. He enjoyed the patrols, even though there was not much beyond the occasional washed-out road or damaged infrastructure to report. It made him feel useful. Occasionally Hot Rod would come along, and they would spend time together at the Point. Especially in the early days, Sam would sit on the beach for hours, lost in his thoughts. Even though he was sure they had better things to do, they never rushed him—never made him feel like an inconvenience. It was another thing for which he was quietly thankful.
When they returned from the morning patrol, Sam would spend four or five hours in his apartment, studying. He watched lectures and multimedia, read his textbooks, and went over his notes—he was obsessive about it. Other than patrols, his classes were the only thing that made him feel independent, feel capable. The rest of his life might be a maelstrom of external influences, but his coursework was something that was entirely within his control. He jealously guarded his school time like a dragon with a golden horde. Eventually, people learned not to disturb him between the hours of ten o'clock in the morning and three o'clock in the afternoon. He would join Bumblebee for evening patrol at four, and then he would eat supper and spend the night on his couch as he nerved himself up for bedtime.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, things began to improve.
The first turning point was his mid-term examinations. Sam approached the exams like a strategist would approach a battlefield, with meticulous planning and no contingency left unconsidered. For weeks, either he was on patrol with Bumblebee or he was in his room, which had come to resemble the Princeton library after the Pretender had ravaged it—books and papers everywhere. When his mid-term grades came back, he was relieved to find that he had earned mostly As and one B+ (Political Science, of course). It made him feel good. It made him feel useful.
That night, he was walking through South Quad when Optimus' holoform appeared beside him. It was so routine now that Sam didn't even startle in surprise, merely nodding at the Autobot leader in greeting. From the onset of their walk, Sam was unusually chatty, cheered as he was by his mid-term grades. He talked good-naturedly about the lectures he'd watched that afternoon, about his upcoming assignments, and about his mid-term exams. During a lull in the conversation, Optimus glanced sidelong at him, and said with sincere conviction, "I am proud of you."
Sam was taken aback by the way those words warmed him, and after a moment he replied, softly, "Thanks."
The second turning point was Thanksgiving. Sam was sitting in his living room, his political science textbook open on his lap, when the door chimed. He glanced up, a frown on his face. It was just after noon, and he felt a flash of irritation at being interrupted halfway through his chapter. The chime sounded again, and Sam set the textbook on the coffee table, before padding over to the door. To his genuine surprise, Will and Dave stood in the hallway, both wearing casual clothing. Sam almost didn't recognize the PA in a long-sleeved Packers shirt and jeans.
"Hey Sam." Will greeted.
"Hey guys." Sam said, warily, "What's up?"
"Get your shoes. We're going to the dining facility to watch the game." Dave said, cheerfully.
Sam looked from Dave to Will, and back again.
"The game?" He asked, mildly.
"Packers versus Lions." Dave said, hands in his pockets and his posture relaxed, "Come on, let's go. Game starts in forty minutes."
Sam stared at them in surprise. Neither Will nor Dave had approached him uninvited since August.
"I'm studying" He said lamely.
Will rolled his eyes, "Get your shoes Sam. It's Thanksgiving, you can take a break."
To his surprise, Sam found himself slowly nodding.
"Yeah, okay."
He stepped back into the room long enough to toe on his shoes and grab his cellphone and badge, and then they started off. Dave and Will walked ahead, and Sam let himself be pulled along in their wake. The three of them walked to the dining facility together, sitting at a round table opposite the bar, close to the flat screen television mounted on the wall. The room was surprisingly packed, given the early hour, and the atmosphere was cheerful.
Will flagged down the server and ordered a whiskey. Dave ordered beer. The two men looked at Sam expectantly, and he shrugged.
"Whatever is on tap is fine." He said.
Dave and Will carried the conversation, discussing the upcoming game and shit-talking the Lions. Sam was quiet, but he wasn't having a bad time. Dave glanced at him with a lop-sided smile about halfway through his beer, "We should do this again next Packers versus 49ers game."
That made Sam smile into his glass, "Oh, I don't know. I'd hate to embarrass you like that."
"The only embarrassment I'll be feeling is vicarious embarrassment. I'll try not to rub your nose it."
Sam laughed quietly.
"Big words for a Cheesehead."
"A proud Cheesehead." Dave corrected, finishing his beer. Sam shook his head exasperatedly, and finished his own drink. The game started shortly thereafter, and they fell into a companionable silence as they watched the kickoff. Dave flagged down the server this time, and ordered himself another drink. Will and Sam did the same. When the Lions took control of the football immediately after kickoff, Sam laughed out loud. Dave scoffed without taking his eyes off the television.
"They'll get it back." He said, loyally.
They did, shortly thereafter, and then they got the first touchdown of the game. Dave laughed in his face when they crossed the end zone, and Sam inclined his head good-naturedly. They were halfway through the first quarter and he was at the bottom of his second drink, when he realized that he was having a good time.
He was halfway through his third drink when he realized that he was having a great time.
It was almost dinnertime when they stumbled through the receiving area of the Hive, six sheets to the wind. Dave was jovial, having watched the Packers beat the Lions 23-22, and Sam was pleasantly surprised to learn that he was a happy drunk. He waved cheerfully to Cliffjumper and Hot Rod, who were standing by the terminals at the other end of the space. Cliff's face pulled up in surprise but Roddy whistled cheerfully at him, throwing him a thumbs-up.
Sam stared at his phone as they walked through the bridge, typing out a text message. He had finished his third drink before he had started assailing Bumblebee with texts about the game and their conversation. Bee had left to go on patrol about forty-five minutes ago, and Sam was determined to keep him in the loop. Absorbed as he was, he barely noticed Dave pull up short.
"Prime." Dave greeted self-consciously.
Sam glanced up from his phone to see Optimus' holoform standing beside a harried looking aid, whose arms were full of papers. The holoform's eyebrows raised in momentary surprise before tolerant understanding dawned on his face.
"Dave." The Autobot leader greeted, inclining his head. His eyes flickered to Sam, who smiled at him unabashedly in return.
"Hey Optimus." He said, cheerfully, "Packers won, so I owe Dave twenty dollars. Can you transfer it to his expense account for me?"
Optimus' eyebrows rose once again, and the corner of his lips twitched. "I will."
Sam glanced at Dave, an easy-going smile on his face, "See? I told you I was good for it."
Dave murmured in acknowledgement, and Will grinned at the aid, clearly amused by his discomfort.
"Well, we're off." Will said, taking pity on the man, "See you tomorrow, Prime."
The Autobot leader's face was quietly amused.
"Good evening, Will. Dave." Optimus said before turning to look at Sam in fond exasperation, "Drink some water."
Sam nodded, humming in acknowledgement as he began composing another text message to Bumblebee. The rest of the evening passed by in an alcohol-soaked blur, but when he woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, Sam found that he wouldn't have changed a thing.
The rest of November passed amicably. Cliff and Roddy wore him down, slowly but surely, and Sam eventually warmed up to the two scouts. By December, the four of them had become something of a package deal. Like Bumblebee, Cliff and Roddy were endlessly tolerant of Sam's (increasingly rare) outbursts of temper or depression.
Sam was half-way through his final exams when he realized that it had been a week since he had last had a nightmare. The insight took him by surprise, and he set his textbook on his lap as he contemplated it. His nights were still restless, and he wasn't sleeping as much as Ratchet would like—as the medic reminded him often and at volume—but it had been over a week since he had wandered the base in the middle of the night.
The realization made him smile.
When the end of the semester rolled around, Sam waited anxiously for his final grades to be posted. He was not good company, restless and distracted as he was. The grades went live on December 17, and Sam had sat in front of his laptop at midnight, waiting for the clock to roll before he refreshed the page. He blinked in surprise when he saw the GPA printed above the list of his classes: 3.93. The accompanying burst of pride in his chest made him blink rapidly. It was his first semester of university, he was sequestered away from his family and friends, and had been rocked with the knowledge that he was other, but Sam had still managed to pull it off. The smile that split his face was so genuine that it almost hurt.
The happiness from end-of-term grades was short-lived, however. The holidays hit Sam hard, and he had a rough few weeks. He was short-tempered and withdrawn, especially around Christmas, which Sam steadfastly refused to celebrate—a fact he made perfectly clear to those who he had let close to him. Understanding the tenuousness of Sam's trust, they had respected his decision without comment.
Late on Christmas Eve, Sam found himself in Bee's cab, parked on Simpson Point not far from the base. The driver's seat was fully reclined, and Sam stared aimlessly out Bee's windshield at the sky.
"What do you think they're doing, right now?" He asked abruptly, breaking the silence. Bee chirped at him gently, surprised. Sam avoided talking about his parents or Mikaela—he hadn't mentioned them once since he found out about the Allspark energy that was radiating from his cells. The scout took a moment to reply, choosing his words carefully.
"Wherever they are and whatever they are doing, I know they're thinking about you—just as you're thinking about them."
Sam heaved a shuddering sigh, blinking hard.
"Thanks Bee." He said, after a while. Sam was quiet for a while longer when he glanced down at the dash and saw it was 12:02 AM. He stared at the numbers for an interminable time, considering his next words, before he murmured, "Merry Christmas, Bee."
The scout chirped at him, soothingly.
"Merry Christmas, Sam."
By January, Sam had come back around. The Spring semester was three weeks away, but he was already preparing. He had printed off his syllabi, created a calendar outlining the due dates of his assignments and exams, and started on his assigned readings. Karen was pleased enough with his progress to reduce their sessions to once per week, and Sam felt optimistic for the first time since packing off to college.
The first attack happened three days later.
Sam glanced at his watch as he strolled out of the mess hall. It was 7:30 AM, plenty of time to make it to the receiving room for patrol. He pulled out his phone and composed a quick message to the group text that contained Bumblebee, Cliff, and Roddy: On my way.
His phone pinged seconds later.
Bee: See you soon.
Sam grinned at his phone before slipping it back into his pocket. He was wearing tan cargo shorts and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It might be January, but he was in the tropics and it was already 80 degrees despite the early hour. It was 7:45 AM by the time he made it to the receiving area, grinning as soon as he caught sight of Bumblebee. The yellow scout was standing in his bipedal mode with Cliff and Roddy, talking animatedly in Cybertronian.
"Morning, guys." Sam greeted good-naturedly as he approached, "Ready to go?"
Bumblebee chirped an affectionate hello as he crouched down in front of him. Sam reached out a hand to grasp Bee's cheek plate, giving it a playful tug. Once, shortly after the Trion arrived, he had done something similar in front of Ultra Magnus and Ratchet, who had been standing in the receiving room before patrol. Ultra Magnus had been taken aback, and had asked Ratchet in his usual direct manner, "Are humans always so tactile?" Ratchet had glanced in his direction, and shrugged before replying, "Sam is an unusually tactile member of an unusually tactile species."
The medic's words had pulled him up short. He didn't think he was particularly touchy-feely, and the self-consciousness that followed had made him painfully aware of his actions. It had only taken a few days for him to realize, however, that he wasn't unusually tactile—he was just unusually tactile with Bumblebee. He had hesitantly broached the subject to his guardian, and asked whether it bothered him. Bee had whistled at him reassuringly, so Sam put it out of his mind. Let Ultra Magnus think whatever he wanted.
"Sure am, Sam-my-man." Roddy agreed, bouncing slightly on his pedes.
Sam glanced at the Autobot in surprise; he had thought Roddy had training with Ironhide that morning. His confusion must have been evident, because the red and yellow mech explained happily, "Ironhide and Kup are working on the propulsion on the Ark, so training got moved to this afternoon."
He smiled at the scout, pleased to hear it. It was always more fun when the four of them patrolled together.
"Alright, well it's almost eight. Let's go. I want to be back early today; I'm getting a head-start on Perspectives on American Journalism."
"Nerd." Roddy teased as he transformed into his alt mode alongside Cliff and Bee.
"Douchebag." Sam replied good-naturedly as he climbed into Bee's cab.
/Bumblebee and Sam, reporting in./
/Cliffjumper reporting in./
/Hot Rod, Primus' gift to Earth, reporting in./
He laughed out loud, grinning at the dashboard as he waited for the inevitable response. It took less than a second before Prowl's exasperated sigh gusted over the comm channel.
/Acknowledged. You are cleared for departure. Good luck./
Sam strongly suspected that Roddy lived to get under Prowl's chassis, because he certainly did everything that he could to annoy the strategist.
It was barely twenty minutes later when they were driving past the ordinance storage site in the western-central quadrant. The conversation on the comms channel was unusually animated, and it focused on Optimus' recent petition to the Secretary-General of the United Nations, formally requesting that Diego Garcia be recognized as a nation-state and granted membership within the general assembly. The petition had already received approval from the five permanent members of the United Nations (China, France, Russia, United Kingdom, and the United States), though it had taken months of diplomatic negotiations and treaty agreements to accomplish that feat. In three days' time, the petition was going to be presented to the General Assembly for consideration. A two-thirds majority vote was required for the petition to be approved, and a number of member countries were already expressing ardent opposition—Iraq, Kuwait, and Venezuela chief among them. No surprise there, Sam mused. Fossil fuels were the backbone of their economies, and Optimus had promised to share Cybertronian energy technology if admitted to the assembly.
The vote was about more than just recognition of Diego Garcia as an independent nation-state, however. If the petition was successful, then the Autobots would be recognized as equal citizens of Earth. The potential ramifications of that truth had been the subject of frenzied media coverage ever since Optimus had submitted the petition to the Secretary-General. Not that Sam could stand to watch even one minute of the associated press coverage of the vote—it hit too close to home. As a ward of Cybertron, this vote would also determine whether he would be considered a citizen of Earth. Sam did not know how he would bear it if the vote failed to pass.
/Kuwait is digging their heels in. They won't approve the petition unless Prime agrees to rescind his offer to share our energy tech./ Prowl said.
/Well tough Tetris, Kuwait./ Cliffjumper said dryly.
/If Kuwait is against it, chances are that Iraq will be for it. No love lost between them./ Ironhide replied.
/True, but Kuwait has good relations with other members of the Gulf Cooperation Council, and a negative vote by Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, or Egypt would be problematic./ Prowl replied.
/Egypt had better stay in their lane, after what Prime did for them in Cairo. Same with Qatar and Syria./ Sideswipe put in, tone crisp.
/I expect that Egypt will be favorable to our petition, as will the United Arab Emirates./ Optimus speculated, /And I doubt Qatar would vote negatively, as the United States and China have already approved the petition./
Bumblebee interjected to report, /Southern Point all clear. Proceeding to East Point./
Sam listened quietly to the exchange, his anxiety slowly building as the Autobots debated how nations would vote. By the time they reached Cust Point, he found himself blurting, "Do you think it will pass, Optimus?"
There was a considerate pause, and then the Autobot leader replied.
/I have confidence that the petition will be approved with objection. If it is not approved, however, then we will work on diplomatic relations and try again at the next general assembly./
"Not comforting, Optimus." Sam grumbled.
/Sam, regardless of whether the petition is approved, the Earth is our home now./
Sam huffed at the dashboard, taken aback by Optimus' perceptibility. Leave it to the Autobot leader to cut to the quick of the matter.
"Well, that's good because humans haven't evolved for space travel." He said wryly.
Before Optimus could reply, Bumblebee reported, /Barton Point is all clear./
Sam glanced out the windshield as the scout slowed to a stop, surprised to see that they were indeed at the Point. When Bumblebee popped open the driver's side door, he climbed out obediently, stretching his back. As soon as Sam was clear, Bumblebee transformed into his bipedal mode and stepped towards the beach. Roddy and Cliff followed suit a moment later.
"Swimming today, Sam?" Roddy asked, interestedly.
When Sam had first started coming along on patrols, Bee would stop at Barton Point to let him stretch his legs. Eventually his short walks had evolved to laying on the beach, relaxing or reading his textbooks. From there, horsing around in the water had been the inevitable next step. Roddy delighted in watching him swim, and was more than happy to pull Sam through the water at high speeds or let him use his servo as a diving board. He pushed his hands into his pockets, smiling at the red and yellow Autobot.
"Not today, Roddy. Didn't bring trunks." He said with a shrug. The scout whistled at him confusedly.
"But you're wearing trunks."
Sam glanced down and laughed.
"These are shorts, not trunks."
Roddy crouched in front of him, tilting his head quizzically. It was a mannerism that Sam had come to interpret as please explain this confusing human behavior. He crooked a smile at the Autobot.
"Yeah, it doesn't make much sense, I know. These shorts are for wearing on dry land, trunks are for wearing in the water. They're different materials, and swimming trunks have mesh sewn on the inside."
"That seems needlessly complicated." Roddy said, a frown pulling at his brow ridges.
Sam shrugged.
"Needlessly Complicated could be the title of humanity's autobiography."
Roddy's optics brightened, whistling amusedly as he climbed to his feet. Sam glanced over his shoulder at Bumblebee and Cliff, who were standing together on the drift line. He opened his mouth to ask whether they were ready to head back when both Autobots stiffened from head to toe. Bee's optics snapped in his direction.
"Sam—!"
A loud sonic boom cracked through the air, a sound so deep that Sam couldn't tell whether he heard it or felt it. The force of the accompanying shockwave lifted him off his feet, slamming him into the ground several meters away. Sam desperately blinked sand out of his eyes, rolling onto his back to see three sleek-looking jets streaking through the sky. One banked hard, crossing the bay towards the base. The other two jets were on them in an instant, unleashing a missile salvo that exploded on the back beach, where Bumblebee and Cliffjumper stood. One of the jets transformed in mid-air, landing hard on the foreshore by Sam.
Sam stared up at the gray and purple mechanoid in horror, certain he was about to be incinerated by plasma fire, when the mech narrowed its red optics at him and growled.
"So it's true."
The Seeker reached for him, but Hot Rod attacked before he could grab him. Despite the Decepticon's much larger size, Hot Rod's frenzied attack caused the mechanoid to stumble backwards. Sam wasted no time; he was on his feet and running down the beach as fast as his legs would carry him. Sam heard another explosion, and he risked a glance towards the road, where Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and the second Decepticon were engaged in battle. Bee and Cliff moved in almost perfect unison, rounding on the blue and silver mechanoid viciously. The Decepticon raised a cannon and fired a shot that missed Bee's helm by inches.
Sam was almost to the rocky bream that separated the beach from the road, when an explosion just feet behind him catapulted him into the air with dizzying velocity. He only had a moment to brace himself before the ground rushed up to meet him. He landed hard on the rocky bream, face-first, and the taste of blood immediately flooded his mouth. He laid there, winded and stunned, before he forced his hands beneath him and pushed himself to his feet. His head was ringing, the sounds of battle distant and confusing. He stumbled forward, shaking blood and sweat out of his eyes, determined to get to the tree line.
Suddenly, a large hand grabbed him around the waist and yanked him backwards. The all-consuming terror that had been surging through him turned to mortal panic in an instant. Before he could wonder who had him, he was being tucked close to a chassis as the mechanoid transformed around him. Barely seconds later, Sam landed hard in the driver's seat of a Lamborghini, which was already speeding down the packed dirt road towards the dense forest cover.
Hot Rod.
The accompanying wave of relief made him feel lightheaded and dizzy. The seatbelt snaked around his torso of its own accord, which was just as well—Sam was too dazed to have done so himself. He became aware of a riot of noise erupting from Hot Rod's radio.
/I have Sam, proceeding to base./
/Ratchet, Ironhide, and Jolt are en route, they are half a bream out./
/Starscream has blown the western most fuel tanker—/
/Thundercracker injured and withdrawing, we are engaging Skywarp./
Sam recognized his guardian's voice over the clamor, but before he could say anything Ratchet cut commandingly through the din.
/Hot Rod, what is his condition?/
"I'm fine, Ratchet." He said, shakily. He scrubbed a hand across his face, staring confusedly when it came away slicked with blood.
/He's not./ Roddy replied, voice unusually serious, /I don't know much about human physiology, but I'm sure they aren't supposed to leak fluid like this./
"I'm fine." He repeated, voice sharper than he intended, "What the fuck is happening?"
/An attack by the command trine./ Prowl answered, voice calm and controlled.
Sam opened his mouth to reply, when the seatbelt tightened painfully across his chest. It was the only warning he had before an incandescent flash of light lit up the cab. There was a wrenching explosion on Hot Rod's passenger side, and Sam was slammed into the driver's side door as the car flipped and rolled. Sam watched the sky and ground cartwheel dizzily through the windshield for the space of seconds, before he lost consciousness.
Awareness returned to him slowly, confused and disjointed.
The first thing that trickled into his consciousness was the feel of grit against his cheek. He had a moment of profound disorientation, before he realized that he was lying on his side. He moaned, low in his throat, as the cleaving pain in his head pushed into his awareness.
"Sam, come on. Open your eyes."
Sam heard the words as though he were underwater and far away. They were distorted and distant—confusing.
He felt an insistent nudge.
"Hold on, Sam. Ratchet's almost here."
Sam squinted his eyes open, immediately regretting it when the sunlight lanced through his retinas like a knife. He retched hard, vomiting the remains of his breakfast into the sand. The accompanying explosion of pain in his skull made him black out again.
When he resurfaced an interminable time later, it was to the sound of urgent voices.
"How long?"
"Three klicks the first time, two the second."
"Give him to me."
There was the sensation of movement, gentle and disorienting, before Sam grayed out. It was not a loss of consciousness, but rather a loss of awareness. He drifted, incapable of understanding the sensory stimuli his brain was receiving. The vibration around him was meaningless, as were the words that trickled through his consciousness, urgent and commanding.
/Male, 19 years old, traumatic brain injury. Multiple minor lacerations to the face and chest. Prepare to receive him in the hospital ward./
The words washed over him like water off a windshield: meaningless and uninteresting. His consciousness stuttered confusingly, and then the quiet that had enveloped him shattered into a riot of noise.
"—pressure 129 over 79. Heartrate 122 beats per minute. Body temperature, normal. Oxygen saturation, normal. Loss of consciousness, eight minutes total. No swelling or bleeding of the brain detected."
"Hand me the trauma shears."
He felt a tugging at his neckline, but it was a periphery annoyance. Barely noticeable.
"Sam." A gruff voice spoke loudly in his ear, "Sam, come on."
A rough shake.
"No response to verbal stimulus. Applying a peripheral stimulus."
There was a sudden, intense stab of pain in his hand, which brought Sam surging back to full awareness. He jerked awake, gasping in pain and confusion. He became aware of the hands on his body and his face, gentle but restraining, and he lashed out blindly.
"Sam, relax. I've got you." The gruff voice cut through his panic, and Sam turned his head to see Ratchet's blurry holoform. He blinked hard, willing his eyes to focus. They didn't.
"Ratchet?" He rasped, voice wrecked.
"Yes, it's me." The holoform confirmed, stepping close. He raised a pen light and flashed it over his eyes. Sam flinched away in pain, screwing his eyes shut.
"Pupils unequal but responsive." Ratchet said, dropping the penlight with a clatter.
"What…?" Sam gasped, "What happened?"
Rather than answer his question, Ratchet asked, "Do you know what year it is?"
He looked at the holoform in confusion. What year…?
"Sam." Ratchet prompted, insistently.
"2019." He answered slowly.
"That's good, Sam. Who is the President of the United States?"
"President Davis."
"That's right. Do you know where you are right now?"
Sam looked around the room confusedly, squinting. White walls, tiled floors, two tidy rows of beds arranged in even intervals on opposite walls.
"…the hospital ward?" He guessed, uncertainly.
A smile pulled at the corner of Ratchet's mouth.
"The answer I was looking for was Diego Garcia, but I'll accept that."
Now that he was cognizant again, Sam became aware of several unwelcome truths at once. The first was that he was lying, naked, on the hospital bed nearest the ward entrance. In addition to Ratchet, there were several other hospital corpsmen around him, including Dr. Lewis. She was standing at his side, pressing gauze firmly against the side of his face. The second realization was that he fucking hurt from head to toe—his skull felt like someone had cleaved it open with an axe. He was shaking all over, hard enough to chatter his teeth. One of the corpsman brought him an open-backed hospital gown, and admonished him to stay still while he pulled it on over Sam's arms and shoulders.
"Sam." Ratchet said, pulling his attention back to the holoform, "Follow my finger for me."
Obediently, he tracked the medic's finger as it moved across his field of vision. Whatever Ratchet saw caused his mouth to turn down, but he said nothing. Sam became aware of the carrion taste in his mouth, a mixture of blood and bile.
"Can I have some water?"
"No, not yet." Ratchet refused, "You might vomit again."
Sam grimaced, "Can I wash my mouth out, then? It tastes awful."
Ratchet looked at him searchingly for a moment, then nodded to one of the corpsmen. She stepped away momentarily, returning a short while later with a kidney dish and a small cup of water. Sam swished his mouth out, spitting into the dish with a moue of distaste until the water came away clear. All the while, Dr. Lewis stood beside him, pressing gauze against the side of his face. He handed the dish and the cup back to the corpsman, and let himself be settled back on the mattress.
"Sam, you have a laceration on your hairline and jaw that require sutures. I'll be as quick as I can."
He grimaced, nodding, and together Ratchet and Dr. Lewis started on the cut on his forehead, which Sam inferred was the worse injury of the two. Ratchet worked quickly, needle holder and forceps moving in quick succession. Sam only felt the occasional prick and a steady tugging sensation as the medic worked. He must have grayed out again, because when he opened his eyes next Ratchet was working on the laceration on his jaw.
He squinted at the medic, confusedly.
"Back with me?" Ratchet asked, without looking up.
"Yeah." Sam replied, hoarsely, "What happened?"
The medic looked at him sharply, his gaze assessing.
"Post-trauma memory loss is common." Dr. Lewis said, directing her words to Ratchet, "He probably won't remember any of this in a few days."
Sam looked from Lewis to Ratchet, and back again.
"What?" He asked, stupidly.
Ratchet's gaze returned to his work as he explained patiently, "You were attacked by Skywarp and Thundercracker on patrol. Bumblebee is fine, he sustained only minor injuries. Hot Rod's injuries were more severe, I am treating him now. Yes, I will tell Starscream that he's off your Christmas card list."
At Sam's perplexed expression, the medic elaborated, "We've been through this once already."
He blinked in surprise.
"I don't remember." Sam said, unable to keep the sharp note of anxiety from his voice.
"That's normal. You have sustained a traumatic brain injury—your memory will be patchy for the next little while." Lewis assured him, comfortingly.
Sam frowned at her, her words only deepening his concern.
"A traumatic brain injury?" He repeated.
"A grade three concussion." She explained, "Marked by loss of consciousness for longer than three minutes. You'll be fine—there's no swelling or bleeding of your brain."
"Oh, well, that's alright then." He said, sarcasm sharpening his words.
Ratchet tugged the suture thread with more force than strictly necessary, and Sam leveled a glare at the medic.
"Ow." He deadpanned, pointedly.
Ratchet scoffed, "That didn't hurt."
Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't reply. The holoform tied off the last suture, cutting the thread close to his skin before dropping the instruments on the tray beside him.
"How many stiches?" Sam asked, curious despite the pounding pain in his skull.
"Sixteen total. Eleven for one, five for the other."
"Neato. I've never had stiches before." He said, glancing around the room. A sudden thought occurred to him, and Sam's gaze slid back to the medic, "Noticed you brought me to the hospital ward."
Ratchet pinned him with a disapproving glower.
"It was closer." He replied shortly, "How do you feel?"
Sam frowned, considering the question seriously, "My head hurts."
"I would imagine so." The medic replied, dryly, "Any vertigo? Dizziness?"
Sam nodded slowly, "Yeah."
The holoform looked at him considerately, "Get some rest, Sam. If your nausea has subsided in a few hours, you can have something to eat."
Sam glanced uncomfortably around the ward. "Can I go back to my room?"
Ratchet looked at him as though he had just said something extraordinarily stupid.
"You aren't going anywhere for the foreseeable future, Sam. Now go to sleep."
He felt too wretched to argue with the medic, so Sam laid back on the hospital bed with a huff. Ratchet gave him one long, searching look before the holoform shimmered and disappeared. Even though the medic was no longer in the room with him, Sam was absolutely certain that Ratchet had a sensor trained on him. Dr. Lewis smiled encouragingly.
"I know you feel awful, but rest will help. I'll turn down the lights—try to get some sleep." She said, as she pulled the curtain closed around his bed. Sam could hear her footsteps recede, and a short while later the lights over his bed darkened. The other lights on the ward were still on, however, so he could still see perfectly well. Sam sighed, rolling onto his good side so that his stiches were not pressed against the pillow. Although he was certain that sleep would not come—given the pain and his whirling thoughts that were marshalling together against him—he still slipped into a heavy slumber almost immediately.
When he woke an interminable time later, the hospital ward was quiet. He knew instinctively that he had been asleep for a long while, as the cleaving pain in his head had softened to a gruesome pounding. He rolled onto his back, lifting his hand to press against his forehead, willing the pain to subside. When he dropped his hand a moment later, he noticed Optimus' holoform sitting in the chair beside his bed. There was a weary stoop to Optimus' shoulders, and the wrinkles that lined his eyes were unusually pronounced.
"Don't stop me from going on patrols." Sam said without preamble, his voice rough with sleep and pain. Optimus' eyes flickered across his face, staring at him a long while before replying softly.
"It's dangerous."
"It can be." Sam agreed lowly, "But I want to do it anyway."
Optimus looked at him considerately, before he leaned back against the chair and sighed heavily.
"You could have died today, Sam. Or worse."
"I didn't."
"You might not be so lucky next time."
"Luck had nothing to do with it." Sam argued without heat, "I'm here because of Bee, Roddy, and Cliff. I'm safe with them."
Optimus looked at him for a long while, before shaking his head resignedly.
"Against my better judgment, I will not prevent you from accompanying the scouts on their patrols." He said, adding as an afterthought, "After Ratchet has given his consent for you to return to the field."
Sam felt something unclench inside of him, and he whispered gratefully, "Thank-you."
"Don't thank me." Optimus rebuked, "My unwillingness to take yet another thing away from you might well get you killed one day."
He smiled softly at the Autobot leader, "Still. Thanks, Optimus."
They sat quietly together for the space of several minutes before Sam asked, "Do you know what they wanted?"
A troubled expression flitted across the holoform's face. "We think they wanted you."
Sam frowned deeply, confused.
"What would they want with me? To kill me, you mean?"
Optimus slowly shook his head, "No, we do not believe so. If that were the case, Skywarp could have accomplished it easily on the beach."
"Then what?"
A foreboding look of rage crossed the holoform's face so quickly that Sam almost missed it. Optimus seemed to take a moment to compose himself before he replied, "I do not know, but I am certain that Megatron is behind it. The command trine would not make a move against us unless by his orders."
Sam frowned in thought, before something occurred to him.
"Did you list my name on the United Nations petition?" He asked. Optimus glanced at him in surprise, before a look of thoughtful consideration crossed his face.
"I did." He confirmed, "As a ward of Cybertron and as our Ambassador."
Sam didn't comment on the Ambassador remark, replying instead, "I'm sure that would have really ground his gears."
"Perhaps." Optimus agreed thoughtfully. They were interrupted when the curtain around his bed was abruptly pulled aside. Ratchet's holoform stood beside a familiar-looking hospital corpsman, who was holding a cafeteria tray of bland-looking food.
"Hello Sam." He greeted briskly, "How are you feeling?"
Sam shrugged, "Better, but still shitty."
Ratchet glanced at him wryly, "I'm sure. Follow my finger, if you would."
The medic moved the finger across his field of vision, and Sam tracked the digit obligingly. Ratchet seemed a great deal more satisfied with whatever he found this time around, for he nodded.
"Are you hungry?" He asked.
Sam shrugged, "I could eat. I'm not nauseous anymore."
"Nauseated." The medic corrected.
"Huh?"
"Never mind." Ratchet replied, taking the tray from the corpsman and setting it on the over-bed table. Further inspection of the tray confirmed his earlier observation: a bowl of thin broth, crackers, and a glass of water. Ratchet must have correctly interpreted his underwhelmed expression, for the medic said dryly, "Keep this down and you can have something more substantial later."
Sam sighed resignedly, and picked up his spoon. Ratchet waited until he finished the soup before he started speaking.
"Your recovery is going to be trying, Sam. Post-concussion syndrome is most acute during the first ten days following the brain trauma, but symptoms can persist for up to three months. You can expect various symptoms, including headaches, dizziness, irritability, and insomnia."
"Insomnia and irritability, that sounds familiar." He said, wryly. Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look and continued as though he hadn't just been interrupted.
"Blurry vision and light sensitivity are also common, particularly in the days following an injury. My bigger concern, however, is the concentration and memory impairments that will occur."
He tilted his head considerately at Sam, "The long-standing recommendation for post-concussion syndrome is complete cognitive rest. Recent research, however, suggests that cocooning might actually be harmful, as boredom and isolation can foster the development of depression. Given your history, Karen and I agree that this is to be avoided in your case."
Sam sighed in exasperation, "Can you give me the cliff notes version, Ratch?"
The medic's eyebrows rose at the epithet.
"You'll rest for the next three weeks—no school work, no patrols, no strenuous exercise. If your symptoms are manageable by the start of the semester, you can proceed with your current course load."
Sam frowned at the medic, "And if they're not?"
"Then you won't. Depending on the severity of your symptoms, you'll reduce your course load accordingly."
Sam felt a flash of irritation, opening his mouth to argue, but Ratchet cut him off.
"No arguments. You gave me a veto, and I'm using it. If you want to improve the likelihood of taking a full course load, then you'll dedicate yourself to resting between now and the start of the semester."
The medic's words pulled him up short. In the last four months, he had been respectful of Sam's boundaries and his healthcare decisions. Although he had been vocal about his opinions on the matter, Ratchet hadn't once overstepped his bounds. That he was willing to do so now, spoke volumes.
"Alright." He said, after a long pause, "What do you want me to do?"
Ratchet looked at him searchingly for a moment, before he spoke. "Now I want you to rest. Sleep if you can, but if you cannot then lay quietly."
Sam murmured his assent.
"I will visit you later, Sam." Optimus rumbled from beside him. Sam glanced at the holoform, nodding.
"Yeah, thanks Optimus."
The holoform's lips turned up in the ghost of a smile before he shimmered and disappeared. The corpsman also left, retrieving his tray and stepping around the curtain. Ratchet stood there a moment longer, watching him.
"I need to use the bathroom." Sam said, half a question and half a statement. The holoform came around to the side of the bed, lowering the rail with a practiced motion before offering his hand to him. Sam took it, and the medic helped him stand. He walked with Sam across the ward, not touching him but standing in close proximity. Sam understood it was to catch him if he fell. When the medic made to follow him into the bathroom however, Sam put his foot down.
"Not a chance. Wait here." He said, embarrassment coloring his face.
The medic frowned at him, but assented. "Call me if you need assistance." He said, stepping back. After Sam used the bathroom, he shuffled to the sink to wash his hands. The sight of his face staring back from the mirror took him by surprise. He was pale, with minor abrasions and nicks across his cheeks and forehead. There was a deep cut across the bridge of his nose, and a smattering of bruises purpling his face and neck. Sam pulled at the gauze that was taped at his hairline to reveal a tidy row of stiches extending down the side of his face. He grimaced, reaffixing the bandage. There was blood crusting in the hallow of both of his nostrils, and flaking through his hair. He pulled next at the hospital gown, looking at his torso. He was surprised to see a magnificent bruise extending from his left hip halfway down his thigh. It was a deep purple with an ugly blue-black center. Skywarp and Thundercracker had really done a number on him.
"Well fuck you too, you assholes." He muttered.
When he was finished, Ratchet helped him back across the hospital ward. He was thankful for the medic's presence, as his vision was swimming precariously by the time he was on the bed. Ratchet's critical gaze swept over him and he asked, shrewdly, "Dizzy?"
"Big time." He confirmed shallowly, "And nauseous."
Ratchet pulled a kidney dish from the bedside cabinet and handed it to him.
"Try to get some rest. It'll help."
Sam nodded at the medic as the holoform stepped around the curtain. He clutched the dish reflexively as he reclined against the mattress, but eventually the nausea subsided. After a while, he put the dish on the over-bed table and pulled the blankets up to his chest. He did not intend to fall asleep, but his body had other ideas. He slept deeply, despite the comings and goings of a busy hospital ward, and when he woke up sometime later, there was a stranger sitting beside his bed. Sam blinked at the man blearily. He was young, perhaps early thirties, with close-cut blond hair. The stranger's eyes flicked to his, and his face softened in a smile.
"Hello Sam."
Sam smiled back at him fondly.
"Hey Bee."