Notes: Chapter Warning: Graphic depictions of violence Also, just a friendly reminder that this is not a bot!Sam or a mech!Sam story. Sam is and will remain human.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
The remaining two weeks of Sam's recovery passed by well enough.
The Canadian delegation, including Ambassador Blanchard arrived a week before classes were set to begin. As with Ambassador Craft, Blanchard was afforded every courtesy on his visit. Dave had drilled Sam relentlessly on the proper pronunciation of the Ambassador's name (Blan-char, notBlanch-erd) for days before his arrival. As with the US Ambassador, Sam attended meetings, presentations, and meals with Blanchard, who was more talkative and less formal than Ambassador Craft. For his part, Sam found the older man to be exceedingly polite, though he had some trouble understanding the dignitary's heavy Québécois accent.
After the Canadian delegation had departed, Sam began to spend more and more time with Optimus. It started slowly at first, without Sam even realizing it. Once the jet bearing the Canadian delegation had left their airspace, Sam returned to base with the Autobot leader. As they drove, Optimus once again expressed his appreciation for all of the work that he had put in over the last two days. Sam pulled at his tie, loosening it from around his neck, and smiled at the dashboard.
"Thanks, Optimus. It wasn't so bad, he was a nice guy."
Optimus rumbled in agreement.
"Ambassador Blanchard is a vocal supporter of human-Autobot relations, as is the Canadian Prime Minister."
Sam regarded the dash with open curiosity and asked, "Have you met him?"
"Prime Minister Trudeau? Not in person, but we have spoken by telephone."
Sam huffed in amusement. The idea of Optimus Prime, a millions-of-years-old impossibly intelligent alien figurehead, having a friendly chat over a phone line was incongruous to the extreme.
"Have you talked to many heads of state?"
"Some. President Davis and I speak frequently on matters pertaining to NEST. I have also spoken with President Obrador of Mexico, President Putin of Russia, Prime Minister Abe of Japan, and Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth."
Sam jerked back in surprise.
"You talked with the Queen of England?"
A laugh rumbled through Optimus' cab.
"I have. She is most gracious."
Sam shook his head in disbelief, "This is so strange, I can't wrap my mind around it." He paused for a moment, thinking something over before he asked, "So this is what you did, then? On Cybertron?"
"After I received the title of Prime, yes."
Sam felt a surge of curiosity, but he bit his tongue. He never knew which subjects were acceptable and which were taboo when it came to Cybertron before the Great War. Something on his face must have been telling, however, for Optimus prompted him gently.
"If you have a question Sam, please ask it."
Sam waffled for only a moment, before he asked in a rush, "So Prime is a title? How did you get it? What did you do before you were a Prime?"
There was a soft, warbling chuckle in response, and then Optimus was silent for a long moment. Sam had the distinct impression that the Autobot leader was gathering his thoughts, and choosing his words carefully.
"Yes, Prime is a title. It is a designation granted by Primus, first to the original Primes and then, through them, to their successors. As you know, Primes are the political leaders of Cybertron, whereas the title of Lord High Protector is given to the mechanoid who leads Cybertron's armies."
"Like Megatron." Sam said, grimly.
"Like Megatron." Optimus agreed, and then he continued, "Before I was bestowed with the name Optimus Prime, I was a data clerk in Iacon—"
"A data clerk?" Sam repeated, incredulously.
"A data clerk." Optimus confirmed, amusement warming his voice. Before he could continue, however, Sam raised a hand and cut the Autobot leader off.
"No, wait, I'm going to need some more information here. A data clerk? I assumed you were royalty or something."
Optimus' jovial laughter reverberated through the cab, and Sam found himself smiling in response.
"Nothing of the sort. I was a lowly data clerk named Orion Pax, who worked under the tutelage of my mentor, Alpha Trion." Anticipating Sam's next question, Optimus said, "Yes, Orion Pax is my original name. I did not lie to you Sam."
Sam sat back in surprise. Although he could not articulate why, the knowledge that Optimus had shared his real name with him touched Sam deeply. He instinctively knew that it was profoundly personal for the Autobot leader.
"I was given the title of Prime by Alpha Trion after Sentinel Prime disappeared. To this day, we do not know whatever became of him."
"But why were you chosen? How were you chosen?"
"The why is complicated. Alpha Trion saw something in me that, in his ancient wisdom, he interpreted to be divined from Primus himself. The how is more easily explained—after Sentinel Prime disappeared, Alpha Trion was given the Matrix of Leadership for safe-keeping. When he bestowed it upon me, I was re-made as Optimus Prime."
There was a curious inflection in Optimus' words, as though he were implying something, but it went completely over Sam's head.
"That is wild. If the Cybertronian Senate was as corrupt as Ratchet says, then I am sure they didn't appreciate being usurped by a data clerk."
Optimus rumbled lowly, and Sam felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, "No, they certainly did not."
They talked for the entire drive back to the receiving room of the Hive. For every question that Optimus answered, he raised many others, and the Autobot leader was endlessly patient with him. After Sam had said his good-byes and returned to his apartment, it occurred to him that Optimus wasn't just sharing information about his past—he had been teaching Sam about Cybertron and its history. Their conversation was on Sam's mind all afternoon, and the following morning he made his way through West Quad until he arrived at Optimus' office.
Sam had been in Optimus' office only once before. It was a large room, entirely Cybertronian in design. There was an Autobot-sized desk in the center of the space, on which was a touch display and a variety of datapads. There were also several piles of papers and file folders on the desk and, to Sam's genuine amusement, a human-sized stacked letter tray labeled "In" and "Out". Prime looked up from his work when Sam entered, curiosity on his face.
"Sam, can I help you?"
He fought the urge to fidget, and asked, "Are you busy?"
Optimus looked at him contemplatively for a long moment, and then he said, "I have some time. What can I do for you?"
"I was wondering if I could ask you some more questions. About Cybertron, I mean."
Optimus looked momentarily surprised, and then his expression softened into a pleased smile. In the weeks that followed, Sam and Optimus talked often about Cybertron, its history, its political system, and its factions. Optimus was a patient and gifted teacher, who used leading questions and the Socratic Method to test Sam's understanding of material with the precision of a veteran educator. It was not long before Optimus was adding their impromptu lessons to his calendar, after which he would send Sam away with datapads filled with historical, religious, and political texts. Sam complained at length about the dryness of the files, but he completed the readings all the same.
Three days before the start of the semester, he met with Ratchet for his medical clearance exam. Since the command trine's attack three weeks previously, the medic had added all manner of human-purposed medical equipment to his medical bay, including a hospital gurney. That was where Sam found himself sitting, twiddling his thumbs anxiously, as Ratchet completed his scans. When the medic initiated his glitchy-red sensory sweep, Sam grimaced hard and held himself still as the sensation of pins-and-needles crawled over his entire body.
Ratchet released a noisy ex-vent when the scan was completed.
"Well, give it to me straight. How bad is it?" Sam asked.
"You are in perfect health. I can find no signs that you ever had a concussion, let alone that you are supposedly suffering from the after-effects of one."
Sam huffed an exasperated sigh, "That's not what I meant."
"The Allspark signature is stronger." Ratchet confirmed to Sam's dismay, "There has been a 0.4 percent increase in its signal strength since my original scan on the Theodore Roosevelt."
Sam stared at the medic expectantly, "And?"
"And what?"
"And what does that mean, Ratchet?" Sam snapped anxiously, "Am I about to grow wheels or what?"
Ratchet stared at him incredulously for a moment, and then he barked a loud laugh, rusty from long-disuse.
"No, Sam. You are not about to grow wheels or aft plating or struts. You are a perfectly normal, perfectly healthy human male—with the exception of the Allspark radiation in your cells, which does not seem to be causing any adverse health effects."
Sam snorted expressively.
"Other than the fact that it stopped my aging and gave me accelerated healing."
Ratchet nodded in concession. "Except that."
Sam huffed a sigh, mentally adding one more thing to the list of shit he had to work through in therapy, "You're being surprisingly chill about all this."
Ratchet lifted a pauldron in a shrug, "Do not mistake my calm for a lack of concern. The Allspark energy is not causing any immediate—" At Sam's withering look, he amended himself, "—urgent health effects. I will do my utmost to understand how this has happened, but for the moment you are in no immediate danger."
"Does that mean I can take a full course load?" Sam asked hopefully, "And start patrolling again?"
"Indeed it does. You have passed your medical clearance exam with flying colors, as the humans would say."
Sam was caught off-guard by the medic's casual tone. He had expected Ratchet to argue with him or lecture him about the dangers of patrolling. He must have noticed Sam's surprise, because Ratchet pinned him with a serious look.
"You were expecting me to try and talk you out of it? You are well aware of the dangers, as are the scouts. Would I prefer you try to minimize the risk to yourself and others? Obviously yes, but do I expect you to spend the remainder of your life—which may prove to be just as long as ours are—hiding in a bunker? Of course not. That's not living, Sam."
Sam found himself taken aback by the unusually empathetic response.
"Thanks, Ratch." He murmured.
The medic looked at him for a moment longer before he made a dismissive sound.
"Your thanks is unnecessary, Sam. Now get out of my medical bay—I have work to do."
Sam quirked a smile at the medic, seeing straight through his acerbic tone. That evening, Sam fell on his coursework like a starved man on a three-course meal. He printed off his course syllabi and filled out his calendar with due dates for tests and assignments. Sam also set aside time for his informal lessons with Optimus, treating it as a sixth course. When all of that was finished, he started on the assigned reading for his Dialogue of Democracy class.
Later that evening, as he lay curled on his couch watching television, he pulled out his cellphone and sent a message to the group text that contained Bumblebee, Hot Rod, and Cliffjumper.
SamWitwicky: Are you guys sure you're alright if I come along tomorrow?
His phone pinged before he could even put it back on the coffee table.
Bee: You are always welcome, Sam.
Sam frowned at the screen. Whether he was welcome was never in question—whether he was a huge liability certainly was.
SamWitwicky: you know what I mean.
Roddy: Relax Sammy, we've got you. Besides, if the Decepticons attack again, that'll just give me the chance to try out my new firepower.
Sam rolled his eyes. Wheeljack and Ironhide had made some modifications to Roddy's weaponry, and he hadn't shut up about it for two weeks.
SamWitwicky: i'm trying to be serious
Roddy: I'm as serious as a heart attack. I'd love to say thanks to Thundercracker with the business-end of my new plasma canon.
Trying to get a straight answer, Sam turned to his guardian for support.
SamWitwicky: Bumblebee?
Bee: Patrolling always carries some degree of risk, you know that. Whether or not you are present, we are all high-priority targets for the Decepticons.
Strangely, the reminder that the Decepticons wanted to kill them all was reassuring. It was not like Sam's presence or absence would change the fact that the scouts had targets on their backs. He shrugged and typed a quick reply.
SamWitwicky: Alright then. I'll see you in the morning.
The morning came with a surprise. As Sam stepped into the large receiving room at 7:45 AM, he noticed that Will and Ironhide were standing with the scouts. Will turned as he approached, and Sam saw that he had a bundle of material in his arms.
"What that?" He asked, curiously, as he stopped beside Bumblebee.
"Your gear." Will responded, extending the bundle towards him.
"My gear?"
"Yup, courtesy of Wheeljack. Prime's orders." Will said, pushing the bundle into Sam's arms, "It's a lightweight protective vest made of Cybertronian alloy."
Sam looked at the bundle in surprise, "What? Why?"
Will snorted, "Why do you think? In case Megatron decides to have another go at you. It'll protect your center mass from a lot of percussive and ballistic damage."
Sam looked at Will incredulously, "And if they go for my head?"
Will shrugged, "Duck."
Sam gave the soldier a withering glare, but pulled on the vest without complaint. It was a silvery-steel color, lightweight and fabric-like. It had a high collar, which extended half-way up his neck, and sleeves that went to his elbows. The vest hugged his chest closely, and extended down his torso past his hips. Sam twisted experimentally, and was surprised to find that the material was flexible and comfortable.
"Wheeljack is working on some more designs, so you'll have your pick of gear soon enough." Will explained as Sam climbed into Bee's cab.
"Wonderful." Sam said, "I'd hate for the Decepticons to see me in the same outfit twice."
Roddy nodded in agreement, "That would be so embarrassing."
Sam laughed, pulling Bumblebee's door closed behind him. Bee, Roddy, and Cliff accelerated forward until they were waiting on the lift.
/Bumblebee and Sam, checking in./
/Cliffjumper, checking in./
/Roddy Too Hotty, the mech with the body, checking in./
There was hardly a pause before the sound of Prowl's put-upon sigh gusted through Bee's cabin, and the strategist replied, /Acknowledged. Head to Marianne Point. Good luck./
Sam spent the entire patrol as stiff as a rod of iron. Despite the scouts' attempts to draw him into conversation, he remained silent and tense, especially when they arrived at Barton Point. Sam had no intentions of getting out of Bee's cab, but his guardian pulled to a stop and popped the door.
"What are you doing?" He asked, uncertainly.
The seatbelt unfastened of its own accord, and Bumblebee rocked on his wheels. Not wanting to look like a complete coward, Sam reluctantly climbed out of the cab. Bumblebee rolled back several feet and then transformed, kneeling beside him in his bipedal mode.
"You are safe, Sam." The scout said, and Sam winced. His guardian's large servo came to rest against his back, firm and supportive. Sam's gaze skipped over the beach, noting the deep scours in the white sand where pedes had dug in during the struggle. There were deep blast marks along the bream from the missile salvo, and scorches burned into the large rocks along the road, many of which were cracked from the heat of plasma fire. Sam swallowed hard.
"You're safe with us, Sam. With me." Bee repeated, his voice intense and serious, and Sam recognized the promise for what it was.
"Thank-you Bee." He murmured, bumping the scout with his shoulder playfully.
The scout looked at him searchingly, as though trying to discern whether Sam was truly assuaged. Sam smiled reassuringly at him in return, and after a moment, Bumblebee straightened. He looked down at him with bright optics, and something possessed Sam to reach out and stroke the yellow plating of Bee's side, affectionately. They stood together for a long time, before Bee whistled at him regretfully and turned back towards the road, beckoning him to follow. Sam was blindsided by the thrill of something that raced through him at the sight of the scout, moving with a grace that belied his inherent strength. Sam tilted his head considerately, musing to himself that he would never get tired of watching him, when realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.
Oh, shit.
"Sam, are you coming?" Cliffjumper asked in confusion.
"Yeah, come on space cadet, let's go."
Sam took a deep breath, steeling himself, before he started towards the scouts. He fixed Roddy with a sardonic smile as he approached.
"One, I hope you recognize the irony of that statement." He said, climbing up the bream towards the road, "And two, that's Ambassador Space Cadet to you."
Sam never had the opportunity to panic about the fact that he was attracted to his guardian and best friend. He was back in his apartment for only an hour when the emergency lights started strobing and an incessant alarm cut through the quiet of his living room. Sam was on his feet in an instant, toeing on his shoes and pulling his lanyard around his neck. Within moments, he was striding down the corridor towards the bridge, his cellphone in his hands.
SamWitwicky: What's happening?
Bee: Simultaneous Decepticon attacks.
Sam felt his heart sink into his feet.
SamWitwicky: Where?
Cliff: Reports are still coming in, the attacks are scattered around the globe.
SamWitwicky: I am on my way.
Sam jogged the entire distance from North Quad to the Command Center. The Hive was like a kicked hornet's nest: people were streaming through the bridge in different directions, all focused and purposeful. It was less than fifteen minutes later that Sam was climbing the steps of the scaffold, out of breath and anxious. The lights in the room were pitched low and a three-dimensional holographic projection of the planet rotated over the conference table. Sam could see four red dots blinking around the globe, and as he watched a fifth dot started blinking over Brazil. He glanced towards the door as Ripcord swept into the room, moving to stand beside Prowl at the head of the conference table. The two Autobots spoke lowly before Optimus stepped forward and the room fell quiet.
"We have received reports of at least five Decepticon attacks around the globe." Optimus gestured towards the hologram, "Venezuela, Kuwait, Brazil, Kazakhstan, and Nigeria." As he spoke, the globe rotated to each country in turn and a video feed started playing, all showing similar scenes of fire, billowing smoke, and twisted metal.
"The attacks in Venezuela and Brazil were carried out by the command trine." Prowl continued, and the hologram disappeared, replaced by blurry video stills of the familiar-looking jets. Sam felt dread twist in his stomach, and he crossed his arms tightly, "The attack in the Kuwait was carried out by an unknown jet—presumably Megatron. We do not know who initiated the attacks in Kazakhstan or Nigeria, other than they were mechanoids who struck fast and then withdrew."
"All of the attacks followed the same pattern." Ripcord said, and the hologram of the planet flickered back into existence, "They attacked without warning, destroying energy infrastructure—most notably oil and natural gas pipelines and storage facilities—and then withdrew before the humans could launch a defense."
"There are a number of unusual aspects about these attacks. The first is their widespread and coordinated nature. To date, most of the Decepticon attacks on Earth have been haphazard and opportunistic. The second is the comparatively small number of reported casualties—less than twenty deaths and one hundred injuries."
Will stepped forward, "That is strange. There were over thirty casualties in Shanghai alone. Somehow I doubt that the Decepticons have suddenly developed a respect for human life."
"I share your reservations, Major." Optimus rumbled, "Prowl?"
The strategist tiled his head at the hologram considerately.
"Given the limited available data, I can think of two potential explanations for this attack pattern. The first is that the Decepticons targeted these sites for a specific reason—most likely, they contained something of significance that they were sent to retrieve. This explains both the hit-and-run stratagem and the lower-than-usual morbidity and mortality rates."
Ripcord stepped forward, elaborating on the strategist's words, "However, we can think of nothing at these sites that would appeal to Lord Megatron. They are simple energy infrastructures with no obvious tactical importance, although the country representatives are being less-than-forthcoming with information."
Will scoffed, "Surprise, surprise."
"The second explanation is that this is an elaborate plan to draw us out from Diego Garcia, spread our numbers thin, and then attack." Prowl said, "With Megatron and the command trine on the planet, they would easily be able to coordinate a full frontal assault."
Prowl glanced at Optimus and continued, "There is one other point of curiosity. Each of the targeted countries voted against our petition to the Secretary-General."
Optimus rumbled considerately, his optics narrowing in thought.
"I find it highly unlikely that Megatron would have taken offense at their objection to our petition. It is more likely that he is trying to sow seeds of discord by making it appear that we are retaliating against the nay-votes."
Prowl and Ripcord nodded in unison at his assessment of the situation. After a long moment, Optimus ex-vented loudly.
"If this was a hit-and-run maneuver, then they will have obtained whatever it was they were after and the sites are no longer at risk. If, however, Megatron is sowing discord, we are obligated to help however we can." He turned to his second-in-command, "Send a message to the targeted countries with an offer of assistance, and then send a sitrep to the other countries who voted against our petition."
He turned back to the room at large, "I am ordering NEST to a full activation. Teams will be deployed around the Pacific Ocean in case a full-scale response is required. Arcee, Chromia, Elita-One, Skids and Mudflap will go to the Yokota Air Base in Tokyo. Ripcord, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker will go to Camp Lemmonier. Bluestreak, Jolt, and Mirage will go to the Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii."
Ripcord blinked his optics in surprise, taken aback. "Prime, it would logical for me to stay with Prowl to assist with coordination and response."
Optimus shook his head minutely, "Your analytical skills are above reproach, Ripcord, but I need you in the field in case Megatron's plan is to spread us thin and attack."
Ripcord frowned, "As you say, Prime."
"Ultra Magnus, Kup, and Ironhide, you will re-double your efforts to get the Ark and the Trion functional. Perceptor, you will assist Wheeljack in his efforts to develop a working land-bridge." Optimus turned to Will, "I want you to assemble three strike teams to join the Autobot deployments."
"Sure. Any preference for skillset or background?"
"Use your best judgement, Major, but they must be prepared for direct engagement."
Will nodded and stepped away, and Optimus looked around the room with a grave countenance, "You have your orders. Roll out."
Immediately, the room sprang into motion. Autobots formed loose groups as per Optimus' instructions and made their way out of the command center with due haste. Humans swarmed around the scaffolding; technicians talked urgently into headsets and logicians carried orders back and forth. Sam stood in the center of the mayhem, as though in the eye of a storm, as anxiety slowly built in his gut.
Bumblebee stepped into his field of vision, snapping him out of his reverie.
"Prime has ordered patrols of the island every two hours." His guardian winced at him apologetically, "You are on stand-down until the activation is over."
Sam sighed gustily, "Buddy, that's fine by me. Be careful."
Bee whistled at him appreciatively, and then stepped away to join Cliffjumper and Roddy as they made their way out of the command room. Sam stood and watched for a while longer before he walked down the scaffolding and across the room. He nodded to Dave and Optimus' holoform, who were engaged in intense discussion, but he did not interrupt them. He walked slowly, making himself inconspicuous as possible, as he avoided the throngs of people dashing through the bridge.
He had to hand it to Optimus—NEST was a finely oiled machine.
He was half-way back to the North Quad when he heard someone call his name. He turned around in surprise to see Ripcord striding towards him. The analyst's tail-like chain whip was curled around his shoulders.
"Sam, Optimus needs you."
He pulled up short in surprise, "What? Why?"
"The Decepticons have just attacked Puerto Rico."
Sam's eyes squeezed closed, dread twisting in his stomach, "What can I do about it?"
Ripcord looked at him in exasperation, "You are our Ambassador. The United States has questions, and they are expecting answers."
Sam hesitated for only a moment before he turned on his heel and sprinted after the analyst.
"What do we know?" He asked tightly.
"Same pattern as the previous attacks: a hit-and-run strike on a fuel depot. We managed to capture a still from a security feed that confirms the attack was perpetrated by Lord Megatron."
The feeling of dread intensified in his gut, and he broke out into a cold sweat.
"Any casualties?"
"No word yet. Search and rescue is still ongoing."
Sam breathed out a heavy sigh, and made to turn onto West Quad when Ripcord shook his helm sharply, "Not the command room. We are going to South Quad."
Sam looked at the analyst in surprise before he remembered that Dave had said South Quad ramped up during activations. He struggled to keep up with Ripcord's long-legged strides, and so he walked in silence. It was not long before the analyst opened the South Quad door for him, and they were hurrying through the main corridor. As predicted, the Quad was a buzz of activity as human operatives and soldiers scrambled to complete their orders.
He glanced up at the analyst in confusion as they passed the entrance to logistics.
"Where are we going?"
"It is not much further. Keep up, please. Time is of the essence."
Sam felt a twist of anxiety bloom in his stomach that was unrelated to the Decepticon attacks.
"What did you say Optimus wanted again?"
The foot traffic had slowed considerately at this end of the Quad, and they passed only the occasional administrative assistant or technician.
Ripcord glanced at him mildly, "Prime did not say, and I did not ask. As you know, Prime's commands are to be obeyed unquestioningly."
Sam felt his heart lodge itself in his throat, and he had no idea why. Ripcord's words and demeanor were perfectly affable, but he suddenly felt trapped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, noting that he had no new text messages or missed calls. Ripcord gestured to a large hangar at the end of the hall; the lights were on, but he could not make out what was beyond the doors. Sam's footsteps faltered, and he came to a stop a dozen feet in front of the hangar. Although he could not make sense of the panic that was sending ice through his veins, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he couldn't set foot inside that room.
Ripcord stopped, turning to look at him.
"Whatever is the matter, Sam?" He asked, polite concern in his voice.
It was Ripcord's tone that did it. Without second-guessing himself, Sam reached into his pocket and thumbed the panic button on his home screen.
One second, two seconds, three seconds.
Ripcord stiffened abruptly, looking at him in surprise.
"You activated the tacnet." He said considerately, and then he sighed, "I wish you had not done that."
Sam tensed from head to toe, pivoting to run, when Ripcord's chain caught him like a bullwhip across his abdomen. He flew back several feet and slid across the smooth linoleum floor, the breath knocked out of him. Ripcord strode forward quickly, catching him around the waist with a large servo, and stepped into the hangar.
Sam blinked tears out of his eyes, trying desperately to catch his breath, when the analyst dropped him on the floor in the center of the room. Ripcord pivoted, turning to face the door through which they had come, and crouched over his body.
"What… what are you doing?" He wheezed, an arm curling around his stomach where the analyst's chain had struck him. It burned as though he had been branded.
Ripcord tutted at him admonishingly.
"Be silent, please. I am thinking."
Sam rolled onto his side, trying to get his hands underneath him when the analyst flipped him onto his back with a single digit. He pressed down on Sam's shoulders, pinning him to the floor, despite Sam's desperate kicking.
"Lie still and be patient, your friends will be here soon."
The analyst's voice was terrifyingly pleasant, as though he were asking Sam about the weather. He gaped up at the mechanoid in panic, but Ripcord paid him no mind other than the servo pressing on his chest. As promised, it was not long before Sam could hear the throaty roar of engines reverberating down the hall. Moments later, a large black Topkick came through the hangar doors followed by a yellow Maserati.
Ironhide and Sunstreaker.
Will climbed out of Ironhide's cab, his expression equal parts confusion and concern. As soon as he stepped free, the two Autobots transformed.
"Sam, what's wrong?" Will asked striding forward.
Without taking his optics off the two Autobots, Ripcord speared Sam through the shoulder with the tip of his chain whip. Sam screamed in agony, twisting in a vain effort to escape the pain, but he was pinned firmly to the floor. Shrieks of outrage came from the two Autobots, and the sound of rapidly charging canons filled the large hangar.
"Are you glitched? What are you doing?" Sunstreaker cried.
Ironhide stepped forward, the glow from his canons illuminating the murderous expression on his face, "Let him go."
"Stay where you are, Autobot, or I will tear him apart." Ripcord's voice was calm and collected, and Ironhide froze mid-step. The analyst paused suddenly, tilting his head, and then he tsk'ed disappointedly.
"Prowl is efficient, I will give him that. Unfortunately, without access to the tacnet, I cannot deliver my message. Please tell Prime to hurry along—it won't be long before his pet bleeds out."
Sam grasped the metal chain where it impaled his left shoulder, pulling with all of his might. His hands quickly became slick with blood, but the chain did not budge an inch. He gasped, desperately trying to pull air into his spasming lungs, aware of the warm wetness spreading beneath him.
Ripcord glanced down at him for the first time since entering the hangar, "Be still, boy. This does not have to hurt any more than strictly necessary."
His tone was chiding, as though he were a disappointed teacher speaking to a student. Sam twisted his head, looking at Will in desperation. The soldier walked wide to Ripcord's right, as Sunstreaker walked to his left. Ironhide stayed dead center, his canons focused unwaveringly on the analyst.
"Hang in there, Sam. You're going to be fine." Will assured him.
"Stop where you are," Ripcord admonished, "Do not think to test my resolve. I am afraid you will be sorely disappointed."
"What do you want, Ripcord? Let the kid go." Lennox bit out in reply.
"I have exactly what I want, Major. Now please, step away." When Will failed to move, the analyst twisted his chain, and Sam screamed as white-hot pain lanced his body. Will took a hasty step back, his hands raised appeasingly.
"Ripcord, please! Why are you doing this?" Sunstreaker shrieked, his voice pleading.
"Because he's a slagging traitor, that's why." Ironhide growled.
Ripcord chuckled at the weapons specialist, "I'm afraid you've gotten that quite backwards, Ironhide."
Sam could hear the load roar of engines over the static that had begun to build in his ears. He turned his head, tears leaking into his hair, and saw Optimus, Ratchet, and Ultra Magnus come through the hangar doors. He blinked, and suddenly Optimus was standing beside Ironhide in his bipedal mode, his battlemask engaged.
"Ripcord." The Autobot leader growled, his tone midnight black, "What is the meaning of this?"
"Hello Optimus." Ripcord greeted civilly, "I wanted to speak with you."
The Autobot leader narrowed his optics. "Let the boy go, and then you may speak your piece."
"I shall not, for this involves him as much as you or me." Ripcord replied, tracing a single digit down the length of Sam's uninjured side.
"Sam, look at me."
The words were soft and urgent, but Sam could barely understand them. He was finding it difficult to concentrate.
"Sam, look at me!" Louder now, more insistent.
Sam slowly angled his head to see Ratchet crouched down beside Will, a short distance away. Sam blinked the tears out of his eyes, relieved beyond words to see him.
"Ratch." He whispered, choking on the name. He screwed his eyes shut as the muscle spasm caused his shoulder to twist painfully.
"That's right, I'm here. I'm right here with you." The medic promised, and then his voice turned sharp and commanding, "Open your eyes, Sam."
Sam made a soft noise of protest, but he obeyed, blinking blearily at the medic.
"Ripcord, explain yourself." Prime demanded, his voice dropping an octave in tightly controlled anger.
"How could you do it, Prime? How could you destroy it?" Ripcord asked, and although his voice was measured, even Sam could detect the note of pain it held.
Optimus' optics narrowed to thin, blue slits. "This is about the Allspark?"
Ripcord's laugh was bitter when it came. "It was all about the Allspark—all of it."
"It was I who ejected the Cube into space, and it was I who ordered it destroyed. Let the boy go, and I will take his place." Optimus rumbled, gesturing towards himself.
"I am well aware of your transgressions, Prime." This time, Ripcord spat the honorific like a curse, "It is why I swore my allegiance to Lord Megatron after Tyger Pax."
Ultra Magnus shuttered his optics in disbelief, "You have been loyal to Megatron, all this time?"
"No." Ripcord corrected, without taking his eyes off Optimus, "I have been loyal to the Allspark all this time. Optimus Prime was willing to destroy it rather than see it claimed by his enemy. The fountain of life for our people, gone forever, because he was incapable of accepting his defeat with grace."
Sam started to shiver, goosebumps breaking out over his arms. He was aware of the copper tang of blood—his blood—that was heavy in the air. The wetness had spread beneath him, making the floor slick and slippery. It was too much, Sam knew, and he looked up at Ratchet, silently begging the medic to help him.
Ratchet's optics never left Sam's face.
"What you say is true, Ripcord." Optimus rumbled, "I swore to protect the Allspark with my life, and I sent it into space knowing that it would be lost or destroyed. Your anger is directed at me, this is unnecessary."
"On the contrary, I have a debt to settle with the human." Ripcord retorted coldly, "You risked the Allspark by sending it into space, but it was the boy who destroyed it."
"On my orders." Optimus said, stepping forward. Ripcord crouched low over Sam, tutting warningly, and Optimus halted his approach.
"On your orders." Ripcord agreed, "Now you can watch as something that you love is lost forever."
Sam was losing sensation in his arms and legs. He knew that he was supposed to keep his eyes open, but he was just so tired.
"There is no way this ends well for you, Ripcord. You aren't making it out of this room alive." Ultra Magnus growled, rigid with anger.
"I have no compunctions about dying for my beliefs, Autobot." Ripcord sneered in reply.
"That's good, because you're gonna." Ironhide promised.
Suddenly, the loud roar of engines interrupted them, and Bumblebee flew into the hangar followed by Cliffjumper and Hot Rod. He transformed in motion, skidding to a stop by Ratchet. His optics burned with barely restrained emotion, and he fell to his knees, keening painfully. Sam fixed his guardian with a tremulous smile, unable to do anything else.
The last thing that Sam heard before darkness overtook him moments later was Bumblebee's anguished wail.
Ratchet watched as Sam lost consciousness, the boy's entire body going limp at once. His medical sensors were providing a constant influx of data that caused his situational analysis programs to ping in alarm. Warnings flashed across his HUD about blood loss, diastolic blood pressure, tachycardia, and tachypnea. He organized the most pertinent details into an encrypted data packet, and sent it to the tacnet with high-priority signifiers. If they did not get Sam medical attention, and soon, he was not going to make it. Ratchet sent another message to the pagers of the hospital staff with instructions on how to prepare the medical bay for Sam's arrival. He was relieved when Dr. Lewis sent him a terse message in acknowledgement, and then he turned his attention back to the situation at hand.
"This is your last chance, Ripcord. Let the boy go, and you may live."
Ripcord scoffed, "Live? Lord Megatron will have my spark for disobeying his orders. There is nothing left for me to lose, Prime."
Optimus inclined his helm, narrowing his optics.
Another warning flashed across Ratchet's visual display: Sam's blood pressure had dropped to 60 over 40 and his heart rate had increased to 135 beats per minute. They did not have much time. He pinged Optimus on an encrypted private channel, and his leader looked sidelong at him in concern. Ratchet looked back, grimly.
Optimus turned back to Ripcord, his shoulders setting in determination.
"The boy did not destroy the Allspark, Ripcord."
"Is that so?" Ripcord replied amusedly, "Do explain."
"You were the High Priest at the Temple Simfur. You have read the ancient texts; the Cube was a vessel and nothing more. The Allspark energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only be transformed."
Ripcord went very still as the implications of Optimus' words became clear, and then his face contorted in fury.
"You would blaspheme, Prime? To me?" He hissed.
"I do not blaspheme, it is the truth. You are aware of the Allspark energy that radiates from his cells."
Ripcord's claws dug gouges in the concrete floor beneath him, "A signature, nothing more! A remnant from the Cube's destruction. No organic could contain the power of the Allspark."
"He is not any organic, Ripcord. Sam is a Prime."
Ratchet could feel the shock and disbelief that radiated from the electromagnetic fields of his companions, but no one questioned their leader.
Ripcord's optics narrowed, and he hissed a harsh intake, "Your sacrilege is boundless, Optimus."
Ratchet's attention was pulled away from the exchange by the critical alert that flashed across his visual display, priority-one: Sam's heart rate was slowing, his pulse thready and tachycardic. Grimly, he pinged Optimus' private comm line.
/You have less than a klik./
"I want him alive." Prime ordered tightly, his field burning with righteous anger.
Ratchet glanced at Bumblebee, who was on his knees in front of Sam, pleading with the boy in Cybertronian. Ratchet sent an encrypted comm to Cliffjumper and Hot Rod, coded with urgent signifiers and flagged as top priority.
/Sam is about to die. Keep Bumblebee from off-lining himself until I can get to him./
The scouts turned to look at him in unison, confusion written all over their faceplates. Ratchet returned their look, flat and pointed, and grim understanding slowly dawned between them. Cliffjumper moved to stand beside Bumblebee, while Hot Rod positioned himself behind him, tense and ready.
/On my mark, take him down./ Optimus' priority command cut across the tacnet.
/You got it./ Ironhide growled, his message overlaid with anger and determination.
Ratchet watched as Sam's vitals slowly decreased, ruthlessly shunting aside the medical protocols that screamed at him to take action. Sam took a weak breath, and then another, and then his chest stilled.
Ratchet set a countdown on his primary visual display: 08:00:00
/Now./
Optimus lifted his arm, and a thin red plasma laser severed Ripcord's chain. The analyst was on his feet in an instant, his plasma blaster charging as he shoved it into his own chest cavity. Ironhide and Sunstreaker attacked in unison, one tackled the Decepticon around the waist as the other grabbed his arm and wrenched it away from his spark. Ripcord snarled and released a plasma volley that went wide, just missing Sunstreaker.
07:54:00
Bumblebee's anguished screaming filled the hangar as his sensors registered the first missed heartbeat. It was a horrible sound, beyond grief or loss. Hot Rod and Cliffjumper were on him in an instant, pinning his arms behind his back and wrestling him to the ground. Bumblebee shrieked in desperation and pain, bucking wildly beneath them, but the scouts held him down.
/Little help here./ Cliffjumper's voice cut over the tacnet, overlaid with strain.
/Sunstreaker, assist. I'll take over from here./ Ultra Magnus commanded the younger soldier, stepping forward to wrestle Ripcord into submission.
07:51:02
As soon as Ripcord was free, Ratchet rushed forward and grabbed the prone boy. He disengaged the compression nozzle from his servo, and filled the gaping hole in his shoulder with a military-grade coagulant foam. As soon as the foam set, Ratchet picked Sam up and tucked him close to his chassis, transforming and speeding from the hangar without a word. Once Sam was laid out on the gurney in his cabin, Ratchet's holoform materialized over him. The medic was not sure whether Sam's previous revival had been reliant on the cardiopulmonary resuscitation that the emergency medics had performed, but he wasn't taking any chances. He started chest compressions immediately, at the same time pinging Dr. Lewis to ensure that everything was prepared for their arrival.
She responded immediately in the affirmative.
/Ripcord secured./
/Pit-spawned slagger./ Ironhide growled.
/Kup en route with stasis cuffs. ETA four klicks./
The medic relegated the tacnet chatter to a secondary processor, establishing a looping sub-routine that would alert him immediately if a priority-coded message was received.
05:12:55
Ratchet pulled into his medical bay at high speed, transforming and sliding across the concrete with Sam's body tucked carefully in his arms. He took three steps forward, and placed the boy on the gurney that had been prepared for him.
"Lewis, chest compressions." He commanded, as his holoform materialized on the berth. Lewis was on the gurney in an instant, straddling Sam on her knees, rhythmically compressing his ribcage. Thompson stepped forward and secured a bag-valve mask over Sam's mouth and nose, and started inflating it in time to Lewis' compressions.
"Morrison, start a peripheral venous catheter for IV fluids. Jackson, start a central line in the superior vena cava. Push plasma as fast as you can without blowing the vein. If I am correct, then we have less than five minutes to compensate for at least 1250 millimeters of lost fluids."
Lewis looked at Ratchet in surprise, concern shadowing her face.
"Ratchet—"
"Follow your orders, doctor."
Ratchet transformed one digit into a pair of trauma sheers, and cut Sam's clothes off his body. As soon as the material was free, his holoform stepped forward and inserted a closed-system peripheral catheter into the femoral vein of his inner thigh, connecting the cannula to the bag of plasma that was already waiting.
01:33:00
Ratchet frowned internally. They had collectively pushed 750 milliliters—not nearly enough to keep Sam out of hypovolemic shock if he were to resuscitate. Ratchet stalked over to the medical refrigeration unit and pulled out another bag of plasma, transforming one digit of his servo into an 18-gauge needle. He pierced the plasma bag and withdrew 25 cubic centimeters of fluid, injecting it directly into the median cubital vein of Sam's arm. Once the needle was empty, Ratchet refilled the syringe and repeated the action.
00:25:10
Ratchet became aware of Optimus' field, tense and hopeful behind him. He did not spare his Prime a glance, focusing instead on refilling the hypodermic needle for a third time.
-00:01:01
He felt his spark sink in its casing as the timer rolled over the eight-minute mark.
Eight minutes was a best guess. He assured himself, refilling the needle for a fourth time. There was nothing empirical about it.
-00:45:55
He wracked his expansive knowledge base for alternative treatment options. He could try an external defibrillator, as they had in Egypt, although that had proven unsuccessful at the time.
He could feel the hope in Prime's field fade away, replaced with bitter failure.
-01:10:17
For the first time since the start of the Great War, Ratchet allowed himself a moment of weakness, and sent a silent prayer into the emptiness of the neural-net.
Primus, please.
-01:19:12
Sam's eyes snapped open and he screamed, thrashing blindly on the gurney. Lewis exclaimed in surprise, immediately trying to hold him down to prevent Sam from tearing out the IV lines. Ratchet's spark lurched in relief for a split second, and then a pulse of Allspark energy rocked him backwards on his pedes.
Simultaneously, a newspark signature flared to life on the neural-net and Sam's screams became agonized. Ratchet stood frozen for a nano-klick as his logic relays flashed errors across his visual display, but he could not deny what he was observing with his own sensory array. The signature was as fragile as any newspark, undulating precipitously across the neural-network, and broadcasting a klaxon of pain and terror that was undeniably Sam. Ratchet experienced a moment of indecision as his logic relays protested the radical options that flashed through his processors. The newspark signature waivered precariously as his medical scanners noted Sam's heartrate (144 beats per minute) and his blood pressure (170/110), and Ratchet came to a decision.
Shunting aside his protesting logic relays, Ratchet activated his long-dormant Creator protocols. At once, the protocols roared to life, sweeping across his primary, secondary, and tertiary systems, sending a flood of data and command parameters through his processor, reorganizing priority codes, and shifting action/inaction commands. The Creator protocols did not care that Sam was human—they recognized a struggling newspark and reacted accordingly. Ratchet focused as the protocols established a new bio-neural interface, activating a Creator bond. At once, the directionless agony and fear emanating from Sam's spark signature funneled through their bond, and Ratchet grimaced in response. The Creator protocols responded as they would with any newspark in critical status and forced Sam into stasis.
Sam collapsed against the gurney instantly, silencing the klaxon of pain and fear that had been burning through the neural-network. Ratchet scanned him quickly, noting with relief that Sam's vitals were already lowering to more acceptable levels as the spark signature stabilized.
Wordlessly, he turned and met his Prime's optics, which were wide with astonished disbelief.
/I did what I had to do for him to survive./ He said, tiredly.
/You did no less than your duty, Ratchet./ Prime assured him, his voice heavy with emotion.
The medic nodded wearily, creating a high-priority medical alert that he sent to the tacnet. Then he turned back to the battered boy on the gurney, and went about the painstaking task of getting him stabilized.
Notes: Thank-you once again to Steelfeathers. I borrowed her description of Optimus' guardian/defense protocols for Ratchet's Creator protocol.