"Ma?"
Sam craned his neck around the corner, glancing into the living room. The television was on, a low drone in the background, but his parents were nowhere to be seen. He toed off his shoes, and dropped his keys in the dish beside the front door.
"Ma, I'm home."
He walked into the living room, looking around. There was an empty wine glass on the coffee table and a bowl of popcorn on his father's chair, but his parents weren't there. He padded across the room and stepped into the hallway, staring up the staircase. The second floor was dark and quiet. All of the lights were off, even the nightlight outside of the bathroom. Sam felt the first stirrings of unease.
"Mojo! Frankie! C'mere." He yelled, straining to hear the familiar scramble of little paws against the hardwood floor. There was nothing—the house was completely silent. He walked down the hall and entered the kitchen, glancing around confusedly. It was after curfew, where were they?
He walked around the kitchen island, stepping over the Allspark shard burning hotly on the floor, and glanced into the backyard. His dad's car was in the driveway, but there was no sign of his parents anywhere. A strange sense of dread began building in his gut as he made his way back down the hallway. He paused, staring up the staircase again to the second story.
"If this is a prank, then ha-ha. You got me." He called up the stairs.
Silence.
His heart started to beat harder in his chest. Something was wrong, something was really wrong. He reached out, placing his hand against the bannister railing and started walking up the steps. As he ascended the stairs, the darkness and the quiet seemed to intensify. He stopped abruptly, and pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. He thumbed open the contact list and scrolled through the names as he looked for his parents' number: Bumblebee, Dave Carter, Cliffjumper, Hot Rod, Megatron, Optimus Prime—
Sam frowned, his parents' contact was missing from the list. He thumbed the dialer, when a soft scrabbling sound caught his attention. His head snapped up and he squinted into the darkness of the second story—it was inky black, the glow from his cellphone only illuminated to the edge of the landing.
"Mojo?" He whispered, his heart in his throat.
/Sam, this isn't real./
He jerked around at the sound of the voice, staring back down the staircase.
"Hello?"
/You're dreaming, Sam. You aren't in California, you're at NEST./
Behind him, the sound of scrabbling intensified. He turned around, watching as Scalpel's bloody red optics separated from the pitch-blackness of the landing. Adrenaline surged, and he stiffened in panic—
Sam blinked confusedly as he abruptly found himself not in his suburban home, but in Ratchet's medical bay. He breathed in a shaky breath, his thundering heartbeat slowing as the dream faded away. He could feel Ratchet's presence through their bond, attentive and inquisitive. Sam glanced up at the medic, who was standing a short distance away.
"That's some trick." He rasped, voice rough with sleep.
"That was an informative experience." Ratchet admitted, "I have read volumes about the physiological aspect of human dreaming, especially as it relates to sleep disturbances. To experience it myself, however, was another thing entirely."
Sam groaned as he pushed himself into a sitting position.
"Yeah, it's wild that humans spend a third of our lives vividly hallucinating." He agreed, and then something occurred to him, "Don't Autobots dream?"
Ratchet tilted his helm at him considerately.
"We process memory files when we re-charge, but it is a simple act of organizing them appropriately, and filing them away. We do not experience the images, emotions, and sensations that humans do." The medic hesitated for a moment, "I can better understand now the struggles you experienced after Egypt."
Sam shrugged unthinkingly, grimacing hard as the motion caused his shoulder to flare painfully.
"Yeah, it wasn't a fun time. Nothing like experiencing the worst things that your subconscious can imagine in gruesome detail every night."
Ratchet's holoform materialized on the berth beside him, placing a restraining hand on his chest. Obligingly, Sam laid back against the mattress, pulling the blankets halfway up his chest as he did so. The holoform reached towards the over-bed table, retrieving two familiar paper cups and handing them to Sam in a smooth motion. Sam swallowed the pills with a mouthful of water, without even bothering to ask what they were.
"I'm going to change your bandages now, and then you can have something to eat." Ratchet explained, and his holoform pulled the over-bed table closer. Sam nodded, glancing at his shoulder curiously as the bandages were peeled away. He winced at the sight: a long row of staples were knit into his skin below his clavicle, extending from his shoulder halfway to his throat. The skin was badly bruised, a tapestry of mottled navy and purple and green.
"He really did a number on me." Sam murmured as Ratchet's holoform cleaned and dressed the suture site.
"He did." Was Ratchet's terse reply.
When Ratchet's holoform finished bandaging his shoulder, his bipedal mode retrieved the filthy bandages and took them away. Sam glanced down at his bare chest, and lifted the blankets inquisitively. As he expected, he was completely naked. The catheter took him by surprise, however, and Sam pulled the blankets up to his chest.
"Can I have some clothes, please?" He asked, trying not to sound plaintive.
"I'll get you a hospital gown, one moment." Ratchet replied, and then returned shortly thereafter with a familiar-looking gown that he helped pull over Sam's body. Feeling marginally less vulnerable, Sam settled back against the mattress.
"How long do I have to be here?" He asked, trying not to feel embarrassed.
Ratchet glanced at him, sending a pulse of exasperation through their bond.
"I'm a medical officer, Sam. Bodies are just bodies to me, human or Autobot. Nothing to be embarrassed about."
"Sorry, I can't help it. People are strange about modesty." He replied, but the feeling of honesty from Ratchet helped to assuage him.
"So I have come to learn." Ratchet intoned dryly, "To answer to your question, you should be fit to return to your apartment within a few days, a week at most. Your physical injuries are healing well and your spark signature is nearly stable enough to let you back into the wild, as it were."
Sam regarded the medic curiously, "When can I see the guys?"
"Not for a while yet. I will be easing you back into normalcy, beginning with a number of one-on-one interactions to see how you respond to others on the neural network. Prime has agreed to assist me tomorrow, if you continue to improve."
Sam glanced at him curiously, "Optimus? Why not Bumblebee?"
Ratchet regarded him for a long moment, "Suffice to say, that would not be wise. Optimus is a Creator mech in his own right, with far more experience than Bumblebee with newsparks."
Sam lifted his good shoulder in a lighthearted shrug.
"Whatever you think, Doctor." He replied dryly, "I defer to your medical opinion."
Ratchet snorted, "That's a first. Did you sustain a head injury during the attack?"
Sam stared at the medic incredulously for the space of a heartbeat before he started laughing.
"Did you just make a joke? Do I need to notify Prowl or something, to make sure this gets noted down somewhere?"
Rather than deigning to reply, Ratchet scoffed loudly and walked across the room to his workbench. He fiddled with a piece of equipment with his back to him, but Sam could feel the faint trace of exasperated amusement across their bond. Sam reached forward and grabbed the pitcher on the over-bed table, pouring himself a glass of water. They stayed like that, in companionable silence, for an interminable time. Sam amused himself by exploring the bond between them. The more he worked at it, the more he was able to get a sense for its character and dimensions. He was aware of Ratchet's attention on him, but the medic did not disturb him.
A short while later, Sam was interrupted from his reverie by the sound of an approaching engine. His head snapped up, turning towards the medical bay doors in surprise. The engine stopped a good deal away from the hangar, rumbling lowly as a door opened and closed. He could make out the sound of footsteps approaching, but he paid no attention to the noise. He was captivated by the fact that he could almost feel whoever it was in the corridor, their presence a faint but tantalizing thrum in his mind. Mesmerized by the feeling, Sam leaned forward instinctually—only to find himself intercepted by Ratchet's mental presence. He could feel Ratchet's surprise and exasperated resignation across their bond. He opened his mouth to protest when Sam felt the medic focus intently, and the enticing presence in the hallway disappeared. He glanced across the room at him, looking for an explanation, when Dave Carter stepped around the medbay doors. The personal aid was impeccably dressed, as usual, and came bearing a cafeteria tray of food. Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, mindful of his shoulder, and smiled across the room at him.
"Good evening, Sam!" Dave greeted cheerfully, "Good to see you up and about."
"Well, up anyway." Sam replied good-naturedly, "What time is it?"
"It's 11 o'clock at night." He replied, to Sam's surprise. He had completely lost all sense of time since the attack. Ratchet approached the personal aid, kneeling down and extending his servo towards him. Dave stepped on, carefully balancing the tray with one hand while holding onto a digit with the other. Ratchet brought him to the berth on which Sam's gurney was positioned, and Dave stepped towards him.
"How are you feeling?" He asked earnestly, as he placed the tray on the over-bed table. Sam glanced down, unsurprised to see the same bland meal that Ratchet had ordered for him after the Seekers' attack.
"I'm fine, nothing I can't handle." He replied reassuringly, and Dave had the grace to appear convinced by his words. Sam glanced behind the agent, towards the corridor, "Who drove you?"
"Bumblebee." Dave replied, and Sam turned to look at Ratchet hopefully.
"No." Ratchet said automatically, "He's not supposed to be anywhere near the medical bay in the first place."
The medic's tone brooked no argument, and Sam signed resignedly.
"Tell him I said hi, would you?" Sam asked the agent, who nodded. Sam reached forward, grabbing a slice of toast before glancing back at Dave.
"Did I miss anything interesting?"
"Nothing in particular." Dave said, and then he winced apologetically, "You should know that we withdrew you from your classes after the attack. We weren't sure how long you were going to be out of commission."
Sam sighed heavily, unsurprised but disappointed by the news.
"That's okay Dave, I understand. Thanks for taking care of that for me."
"No problem, Sam. Happy to help." He said, glancing down at his wristwatch, "I would love to stay and chat, but I have a video conference with China in forty minutes. I am glad you're feeling better."
Sam nodded at the older man, who stepped back onto Ratchet's palm. He walked Dave out of the medical bay, and Sam could hear a low murmur of conversation before Bumblebee's engines receded down the corridor. Sam felt a strange pang as the noise faded away, an almost tangible feeling of loss that left him confused and wrong-footed. Ratchet returned shortly thereafter, watching him surreptitiously from across the room. Sam glanced over at the medic with a question on his face.
"What?"
Ratchet rumbled in response, "Nothing to concern yourself with tonight. We will talk more when Optimus arrives tomorrow."
Sam shrugged, peeling the banana, "Suit yourself. I don't have the energy to play twenty questions right now."
At his words, Ratchet turned around and regarded him closely, "How do you feel?"
"You sound like a broken record, Ratch." Sam complained, but there was no heat in his words, "I'm tired and sore, I'll live."
Ratchet gave a disgruntled snort.
"Finish your meal and rest quietly. I'll be nearby if you need me."
Sam pushed the feeling of acquiescence through their bond, and then started on his oatmeal. It was lukewarm and cinnamon flavored (not his favorite), but he finished it nevertheless. By the time he worked his way through his applesauce, his body and mind felt heavy with exhaustion. He'd been up for what, three hours? Recuperation was tiring work, it seemed.
Sam sighed, pushing the over-bed table aside and settling down on the mattress. It was not long before his eyelids were drooping, and he pulled the blankets up to his neck, burrowing his nose into the soft material. He drifted like that, warm and comfortable and full, for a long while. Eventually, his weariness won out over his stubbornness, and he fell asleep.
This time, his dreams did not trouble him.
Ratchet stared down at him, his expression calculating and serious, as he completed his third sensor scan. Now that Sam had a bond with the Autobot medic, the scans were somehow even less pleasant than before. He could simultaneously feel them on his body and in his mind, and it was a sensation that he could do without.
Ratchet scoffed, "It's not that bad."
"I don't recall asking your opinion." Sam replied, peevishly.
Ratchet snorted in response, "You're healing well. I'll schedule your surgery for the end of next week."
"What does that involve exactly? I've never had surgery before." He asked uncertainly.
"You have had surgery twice before, as a matter of fact. Once to insert the plates in your shoulder, and then again to adjust them. The next surgery is relatively straightforward. We will remove the plates and stabilize your injury with Cybertronian polymer. It should take no longer than forty-five minutes, total."
Sam nodded slowly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
"It's a minor surgery, Sam. You'll be fine."
Sam glanced up at the medic in exasperation, "You'll be there, of course I'll be fine. That doesn't mean I'm excited about it."
He was surprised by the swell of emotion across the bond, which was cut off as abruptly as it had appeared. Ratchet crossed his arms across his chassis, staring down at him considerately for a long moment.
"Both your physical condition and your spark signature are significantly improved today. If you are amenable, I will ask Prime to attend you."
Sam glanced up at the medic in confusion, "Come again?"
Ratchet huffed in frustration.
"Your language can be maddeningly imprecise." He grumbled, before clarifying, "I would like Prime to assist me in testing your connection to the neural-network."
Sam frowned, shifting uncertainly. "Is it dangerous?" He asked. What he meant was, will it hurt?
"In theory, no to both questions. If you were a sparkling, the answer would be a resounding negative, but as you are human I cannot say with complete certainty."
"Whatever you think, Ratchet." Sam replied after a moment, trying to ignore the anxiety that was twisting up his insides.
Ratchet regarded him closely, considerately, "I believe you are stable enough to make the attempt."
Sam shrugged, "Okay, I trust you. Let's do it."
Ratchet nodded slowly, tilting his helm in the manner that Sam had come to learn meant that he was using his internal communications array. After a moment, Ratchet's optics shuttered briefly.
"He will arrive shortly."
Desperate for a distraction, Sam picked up his tablet as he leaned back against the mattress. He had woken up early that morning, just before oh-six hundred hours. Once again, he had slept like a dead man, completely oblivious to the comings and goings of the medical bay. The morning had dragged on, with nothing to do but lie there and rest. It was not long before Sam realized that he was bored out of his mind—curious alien mental bonds, notwithstanding. His restless frustration had driven Ratchet around the bend, and eventually the medic had asked Dave Carter to bring Sam something to do. The personal assistant had obliged, showing up at the medical bay at half past ten in the morning with his tablet and an assortment of books. Sam was halfway through a level of his game, trying and failing to keep from speculating about what was to come, when he heard the familiar sound of Optimus' engine in the corridor. Moments later, the Prime entered the medical bay, transforming as soon as he came to a stop.
"Good morning, Sam." Optimus rumbled as he approached, "I am glad to see you."
Sam crooked a smile at the Autobot leader as he pushed himself into a sitting position with his good arm. Ratchet crossed the room to join them.
"It's good to see you too, Optimus."
Optimus inclined his helm, and Sam could feel the full weight of his regard. "Ratchet has informed me of your condition. You are healing well."
Sam glanced at the Autobot medic, "Yeah well, he'd kill me if I didn't, so..."
Ratchet snorted air through his intakes, "I would do no such thing. I see no reason to make additional work for myself."
"Oh yeah, the paperwork would be brutal." Sam agreed, grinning at him.
Optimus tilted his helm, optics bright, "It heartens me considerably to see you in such good temper, Sam."
"Only because you're not on the receiving end of it all day, believe me." Ratchet replied dryly.
Ratchet's sarcasm would normally have needled him, but Sam could feel his fond exasperation through their bond. He glanced between the two Autobots in amusement, before he remembered why Optimus had come in the first place. Anxiety swelled in his gut again, unwelcome but persistent.
"So, what do we do now?" He asked, hating the uncertainty in his voice.
Ratchet glanced down at him, his demeanor suddenly all business-like.
"I am going to lower the firewalls enough to let Optimus ping you. Let me know at once if anything feels uncomfortable."
Sam nodded, waiting expectantly. At first, he could feel nothing out of the ordinary. Then, there was a curious lightening sensation, as though a shroud had been lifted from his mind. Suddenly, his mental presence was capable of stretching beyond the confines of the Creator bond. His eyebrows rose in surprise as he became aware of Optimus' spark signature. Whereby Ratchet's signature was a warm glow, ancient and lovely, Optimus was something else entirely. His mental presence was brilliant and ethereal, shining like a beacon in Sam's mind. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing that Sam had ever seen in his life.
He felt a touch of amusement in his mind, although whether it was from Optimus or Ratchet, he could not say.
"You humble me, Sam." Optimus intoned gently.
"This is wild." He breathed.
"Optimus, if you would?" Ratchet prompted, staring at Sam with intense scrutiny.
Sam could feel Optimus' presence shift, and then there was a strange sensation in his mind—like a nudge and a shiver all at once. He blinked in surprise up at the two Autobots.
"I can feel that." He said. The sensation lingered, insistently.
"That's good, Sam." Ratchet praised, "Can you focus on it for me?"
Sam frowned, his concentration turning inwards. After a few fumbling attempts, he felt the snap of a connection being established. All at once, Optimus' calm and reserved presence was inside his mind. It was an intensely unusual feeling, and he pulled back instinctively in response. He was distantly aware of Optimus' patient regard as the Autobot leader gave him time to adjust to the new sensations.
After a long moment, Sam let out a shaky breath, "Hey Optimus."
/Hello Sam./ Optimus' words were warm and rich in his mind, and Sam started in surprise. He and Ratchet did not speak across their bond, at least not comprehensibly. Instead, they shared a flow of impressions and feelings that took the place of words. To hear Prime's voice in his head was a distinctly disconcerting feeling.
/Try to reply./ Ratchet directed, and Sam started in surprise for a second time. Ratchet's mental voice was not dissimilar to his spoken one, and yet it was somehow entirely different. It took a moment for the meaning of his words to filter through Sam's astonishment, and then he frowned in concentration.
/Like this?/ He asked, hesitantly.
He felt a warm glow of approval, which he realized had come from Optimus. It was disorienting to have two presences in his mind simultaneously, but if he concentrated, then he could distinguish between them.
/Well done, Sam./ Ratchet said, and then speaking aloud he asked, "How does it feel?"
Sam tilted his head considerately. His mind felt full, almost crowded, but there was no pain or discomfort. He could feel Optimus' mental presence nearby, and Ratchet's further away.
"Okay, I think." He replied slowly, "Unbelievably weird, but okay."
Optimus rumbled a quiet laugh, and then his presence withdrew completely.
"Alright Sam, now you try." Ratchet prompted, and Sam stared at him in confusion.
"Try what?"
"Pinging Optimus." He clarified, as though it were obvious what he had meant.
"I don't even know what that word means, Ratchet." Sam said in exasperation, "Let alone how to do it."
The medic nodded in acquiescence, and then Sam felt his presence across their bond. There was a gentle touch, a feeling of pressure, and then the knowledge was there in his mind.
"What did you just do?" He asked in surprise.
"A data transfer."
"Did it work?"
Ratchet snorted, "You tell me."
Sam turned his attention inwards once again, focusing on Optimus' mental presence. He pinged the Autobot leader as though he had been doing it all of his life. A moment later, he felt Optimus' presence in his mind once again.
"Yeah, it worked." Sam said dryly, "That's insane. What else can you transfer?"
"I do not know. We will experiment when you're feeling better."
"I feel fine." Sam said impatiently, but Ratchet shook his helm in response.
"No, you've accomplished more than enough for today. I don't want you to overdo it. Close your connection with Optimus, and I'll replace the firewalls."
Sam felt a flicker of irritation at Ratchet's bossy tone, but Optimus' presence nudged him gently.
/Do as Ratchet says, Sam./
He huffed a sigh, and then pinched the connection between them closed. Immediately, Sam felt the strange shroud-like weight of the firewalls in his mind, and his mental space shrank back to the dimensions of the Creator bond. After the freedom that he had just enjoyed, the bond felt restrictive and confining. He glanced up at Optimus, feeling disconcerted that he could no longer perceive the other's commanding presence. Prime returned his gaze, warm approval written all over his expression.
"That exceeded my expectations." Ratchet admitted considerately, "We will try again tomorrow with Prowl."
Sam glanced at him in surprise, "Why Prowl?"
"Although he lacks Creator programming, Prowl is exceptionally controlled. After Optimus, he is the next logical choice."
Sam frowned, "When can I see Bumblebee?"
Ratchet glanced sidelong at Optimus, so quickly that Sam almost missed it. He could feel the medic's sudden tension across their bond, although his expression was carefully composed. Optimus looked down at him for a long moment, his countenance one of solemn consideration, before he spoke.
"If your time with Prowl goes well, you may see Bumblebee afterwards."
Ratchet looked at Prime sharply, snapping a protest in clipped Cybertronian. Optimus turned slightly to regard the medic, before shaking his helm minutely.
"It is not our place to interfere." He rumbled softly.
Sam looked between them in building confusion and anxiety. With sudden clarity, Sam realized that they had been purposefully keeping him away from Bumblebee for reasons that had nothing to do with his new spark signature.
"What's going on?" He demanded, his voice sharper than intended. Optimus turned to look at him again, and Sam could feel the heavy weight of the Autobot leader's regard.
"I told you once that I would not withhold information that pertains to you. Do you remember?"
Sam nodded slowly, "Yes."
"As I told you at the time, there are two stipulations to that promise."
"Yes, I remember. Which is this, then? One or two?"
"Both." Optimus rumbled, regretfully. Sam frowned at him in confusion, but Optimus was speaking again before he could voice a protest, "I cannot say more until tomorrow. My apologies, Sam."
He was silent for a long while, wrestling with the urge to demand that the Autobot leader stop jerking him around and tell him what was going on. Eventually, he was able to set that impulse aside. He breathed out a heavy sigh and shook his head in resignation.
"Alright, fine." He said, "I trust you."
"Thank-you." Optimus replied.
"Yes, well, given that you are content to disregard my medical advice, I invite you to leave my medical bay at your earliest convenience." Ratchet snapped at Optimus, who inclined his helm in response. Sam was taken aback by the medic's tone, which bordered on insubordinate. He had never heard Ratchet speak like that to Prime, in all the time that he had known the Autobots. Optimus glanced back towards him, nodding his helm in farewell, and then he strode from the medical bay without another word.
Ratchet was a tempest for the rest of the afternoon. He worked on his experiments in silence, the occasional slamming of equipment or tools against his workbench the only sound in the medical bay. Sam could feel nothing of him through their bond. The medic had withdrawn behind a solid wall that let nothing past—not a single thought, feeling, or impression. After two days of Ratchet's constant mental presence, his absence was deeply discomforting.
He sat there in silence, anxiety building in his stomach every time the medic spat another angry-sounding string of Cybertronian. Unable to bear the tension any longer, Sam reached tentatively across the bond, brushing against the block between them.
"Are you angry with me?" He asked uncertainly.
Ratchet paused in his ministrations, standing still for a long while. Eventually, the medic turned around, regarding him with impossibly bright optics.
"No, Sam. I am not mad at you. I am mad at the situation I find myself in."
"I'm sorry." He apologized, though for what he could not say.
Something softened in Ratchet's optics, and the block between them lowered enough for Sam to feel the gentle thrum of reassurance from the medic.
"You have done nothing to give offense, Sam. You should get some rest. Do you require anything?"
Sam shifted uncertainly. Ratchet was still keeping him at a mental arms' length away and the tension had not left the medic's frame.
"No, I'm okay. Thank-you." He murmured, "I'll just get some sleep, then."
Ratchet nodded at him tersely, returning to his workbench. Sam laid back against the mattress, pulling the blankets up around his shoulders. He laid like that, anxious and confused, for a long while. For the first time since he had come out of stasis, sleep would not come. Eventually, he became aware of Ratchet's mental presence regarding him contritely. Before he could voice a question, the medic's presence was in his mind. There was a gentle touch, a feeling of pressure, and then Sam was fast asleep.
Ratchet's temper had marginally improved by the time Sam woke up, but the medic was still terse and reserved. Sam withdrew as far away as the bond would allow, trying his best not to encroach upon the medic's mental space. Ratchet changed his bandages and tended to his needs with his usual air of medical professionalism, but it was obvious that he was deep in thought.
When Prowl arrived hours later, it was almost a relief.
The black and white strategist stepped into the medical bay sometime after Sam had finished his evening meal. Ratchet set down the piece of equipment that he had been working on all afternoon, and nodded towards Prowl in greeting. Prowl returned the nod curtly, and then crossed the room to stand a short distance away from Sam's gurney.
"Good evening. Sam. I have been following Ratchet's updates regarding your recovery with great interest. You have exceeded all expectations."
Sam was taken aback by the strategist's words. It was not that Sam thought Prowl disliked him exactly, but the strategist had an aloof and dispassionate demeanor. It surprised Sam to know that he had been paying attention to his recovery any more than strictly necessary.
"Uh, thank-you." He said hesitantly.
Ratchet stopped whatever he was doing on the workbench, and approached the two of them. Without preamble, he glanced at Sam and asked, "Are you ready?"
Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to tamp down on the upswing of anxiety. The block separating him from Ratchet's mental presence fell away, and he felt a brush of reassurance across the bond. Once again, Sam felt a curious lightening sensation, and the confines of the Creator bond fell away. Sam pulled back, enjoying the feeling of freedom it gave him, when he noticed Prowl's spark signature. He blinked in surprise at the strategist, completely taken aback. Prowl's signature glowed a cool blue in his mind, like the crispness of a winter sunrise. It was beautiful, and clear, and controlled.
Ratchet inclined his helm towards the strategist, "Prowl, if you could?"
Prowl was regarding him with open curiosity. After a moment, Sam felt the familiar pinging sensation and he reached for it without hesitation. Instantly, Prowl's presence filled his mind and Sam pulled back in surprise. Whereas Ratchet and Optimus had felt familiar and warm, Prowl's presence was distinctly different. It was crisp, like the feeling he got from chewing mint gum—cool and strangely refreshing.
"How remarkable." Prowl murmured, optics bright, "You have a most unusual signature Sam, unlike anything I have encountered before."
Prowl's intense scrutiny was obvious in the way his mental presence shifted this way and that, as though he were examining him. Sam huffed a laugh.
"Right back at you Doublemint."
Prowl tilted his helm slightly, a manner that indicated he was researching the reference, and then a faint smile curved his faceplates.
"An interesting analogy."
"You are doing well, Sam." Ratchet said, and then Sam felt another pinging sensation. He looked at the medic in confusion.
"To date, our interactions have occurred exclusively over the Creator bond. I want to see how you respond to a multi-nodal comm channel."
Sam only understood about half of what the medic had said, but he obediently answered the incoming ping. Ratchet's presence entered his mind in a dizzying wash of vertigo. Sam winced in pain at the reverberating feedback he experienced as Ratchet's presence through their bond echoed back his presence through the comm channel. Immediately, Sam felt a flash of consternation from the medic, which was amplified painfully as it bounced between the two points of connection. There was a brief pause, and then Ratchet replaced the block separating them across their bond.
Sam sighed in relief as the feeling of feedback disappeared in an instant.
"My apologies, Sam. I should have foreseen that."
He was aware of Prowl's mental presence, observing their interactions with mounting interest.
"It's okay, Ratch. We're learning as we go."
He felt an assessing prod from the medic, like a mental pat down, and then his words were in Sam's mind.
/Do you feel any other discomfort?/
/No, nothing./ Sam replied, and then he realized something, /It's easier having two of you in my mind this time. Less confusing./
Sam felt rather than heard Ratchet's considering hum. /That is good, Sam. It will continue to get easier as you practice./
/This has been a remarkable experience./ Prowl murmured, closing the connection between them and withdrawing from Sam's mind. Ratchet followed suit, and a moment later Sam found himself back within the confines of the Creator bond.
"Thank-you for your assistance Prowl. That will be all for today." Ratchet said, curtly dismissing the strategist as though he weren't his superior officer. Prowl inclined his helm in acknowledgement, before turning his bright blue optics on Sam.
"Primus speed the remainder of your recovery." He intoned solemnly, before transforming into his alt mode, a black and white Dodge Charger police cruiser. The sight gave Sam an uncomfortable turn in his stomach, but Prowl was gone before he could dwell on it.
Sam spent the remainder of the evening trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. He read, or played on his tablet, or rested, all while keeping a respectful distance from Ratchet's mental presence. The medic was absorbed in his work, deep in thought, summarily ignoring him until it was time to change his bandages. Ratchet's holoform worked quickly, and it was no time at all before he instructed Sam to put his hospital gown back on. Sam murmured in acknowledgement, pulling the gown on with his good arm and settling back down on the mattress.
Unexpectedly, Ratchet's holoform did not disappear immediately, as it had every other time it interacted with him that day. Sam glanced up uncertainly, surprised to see a frustrated expression on its face.
"Sam, I realize that I have been in a foul temper today. Thank-you for respecting my privacy, insofar as you could do so."
"No problem, Ratch." He said quietly, hesitantly, "Is there anything I can do to help?"
The frustrated expression on the holoform's face became strained, a fleeting expression that was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.
"No, Sam. There is nothing to be done but to see things through and weather any potential consequences."
Sam frowned in confusion, but evidentially Ratchet was not in the mood to elaborate.
"It's late, you should rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day." He said gruffly, as his holoform disappeared.
Sam didn't reply, instead rolling onto his good side so that he faced away from the medic. He laid like that for an interminable time, confusion and anxiety keeping him awake long after their conversation. This time, however, the medic did not intercede on his behalf, and it was a long while before sleep claimed him.
The following morning saw no improvement in Ratchet's mood. The medic was cagey and distant, and Sam felt only the occasional flash of emotion through their bond—frustration, impotence, and concern. It was just before noon when Ratchet stiffened abruptly and then sighed.
"They are on their way." He said, apropos of nothing. Sam interpreted this to mean Optimus and Bumblebee were coming, so he remained silent. The medic walked over to stand at his bedside, arms crossed across his chassis and a neutral expression on his face. It was only the matter of a few minutes before Sam could hear their engines in the corridor, and he felt his heart jump into his throat. Moments later, the familiar-looking Peterbilt truck and the Chevy Camaro rolled into sight, transforming as soon as they entered the medical bay. Sam's eyes were drawn to Bumblebee, who quickly crossed the space between them. The scout crouched down by the berth so that they were eye-level. His optics glowed with barely restrained emotion.
"Sam, I have missed you." He murmured, reaching forward a servo as though to touch him before freezing in mid-air. He withdrew his arm, tossing an apologetic-sounding warble in Ratchet's direction.
"I missed you too, buddy." Sam said, a faint smile on his face.
Ratchet's scathing voice interjected before Bumblebee could reply, "Prime, I want my objection noted."
Optimus tilted his helm solemnly, "It is done."
Ratchet ex-vented loudly, turning to Bumblebee.
"Do you understand the potential ramifications of what we are about to do?"
"It has already happened Ratchet, you are postponing the inevitable." Optimus chided, and Sam stared at the three Autobots in mounting frustration.
"Does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" He demanded sharply.
To his surprise, it was Ratchet who answered him.
"It would be easier to just show you." Ratchet grudgingly replied. With an air of resignation, Ratchet nodded to Optimus. The Autobot leader turned to regard him, his optics bright and solemn, and then Sam felt a familiar pinging sensation in his mind. With a great deal of trepidation, Sam allowed the connection with Optimus to blossom to life. A moment later, Sam felt the mental block separating him from Ratchet disappear. He had only a second to revel in the medic's familiar mental presence, before he was free of the confines of the Creator bond.
It happened instantaneously.
Sam's vision whited out, in a flash as brilliant as the energy release from a thermonuclear explosion. For a second there was nothing—no sight or sound or sensation—and then his world narrowed to a single point in a sea of incandescence. It was indescribably, painfully beautiful. Familiar and warm, fierce and gentle, possessive and reverent. It filled him in a rush, and Sam found himself unable to differentiate where the presence ended and he began.
He knew without being told what had happened. Of course it had happened—it was inevitable, from the moment the Allspark energy had filled his body in Mission City. How could it not? They were meant for one another. The flow of thoughts, sensations, and feelings passed between them in a dizzying rush, and he felt Bumblebee's mental presence bump against him.
Hello. He murmured.
Hi. He replied quietly, awestruck.
There was a soft whine from his guardian—his bonded—and Sam pressed around him, reassuring and affectionate. Bumblebee's response was immediate and non-verbal, but unmistakable.
Mine.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, his heart so full that he felt it might explode.
Yours. He agreed, deferential and possessive in equal measures. Sam became aware of the other presences in his mind, but they were inconsequential. Immaterial.
They stayed like that for an interminable time, intertwined so closely that they bled into one another, before he felt Bumblebee withdraw slightly. He gave Sam a gentle nudge, and Sam knew what he wanted without words. Sam frowned, glancing around the dimensionless space of their bond, trying to figure out how to withdraw from it.
Like so. Bumblebee said, and as it had with Ratchet, the knowledge materialized in his mind. Sam pulled back until the bond faded away and he was left in the openness of mental space. Bumblebee's signature was beside him, Optimus' and Ratchet's further away. He could feel Ratchet's intense scrutiny through their bond, but it had lost its angry edge. After a moment, Ratchet shifted and Sam found himself back within the confines of the Creator bond. This time, however, Bumblebee's signature was easily detectable in the distance—as clear and accessible as it had been in their bond.
Sam opened his eyes, amazed to find the medical bay in exactly the same condition it had been when Optimus and Bumblebee arrived. It somehow seemed sacrilegious that nothing had changed in the physical world, when everything was different inside his mind. He breathed out a shaky sigh, turning a bright smile on Bumblebee.
"What's a nice mech like you doing in a place like this?" He asked teasingly, feeling Bumblebee's amusement and Ratchet's exasperation simultaneously.
"Well, you didn't give yourself an aneurism." Ratchet said, considerately, "Much to my surprise."
Optimus looked at him closely, his expression intense and inscrutable.
"How do you feel, Sam?"
"I've never felt better in my life." He answered honestly, smiling.
Ratchet ex-vented a loud snort, but Sam could feel his cautious optimism through their bond.
"Be that as it may, that is quite enough for one night. Unless you feel the need to circumvent my medical judgment again, Prime?" Ratchet's tone was cool, but Optimus did not seem offended.
"Not at all, Ratchet. Thank-you for your patience." The Autobot leader replied, stately and dignified. Bumblebee reached out a servo, and ran a single digit down Sam's spine in farewell. He shivered at the pleasant sensation, and mimicked it through their bond. He felt Bee's swell of gratification in response.
"That's enough." Ratchet's sharp voice cut through their reverie, "Bumblebee, if you value your bonded then you will limit your interactions until he adjusts to his changing circumstances."
To Sam's surprise, the scout inclined his helm in respectful acknowledgement. Ratchet huffed, mollified by the display of deference, and all too soon both Optimus and Bumblebee were gone. Bee's mental presence remained nearby, reserved but comfortingly close.
Ripcord stiffened for the third time in as many days as Sam's spark signature flared across the neural network. It was faint and elusive but unmistakable, pulsing with Allspark energy. It was simultaneously profane and profound, and Ripcord ground his dentae in frustration. It was a torture that the Autobots would have been unable to devise on their own, to be so close yet so far from that sacred pulse.
He sat on the floor of the small cell in the Ark, bound in stasis cuffs and leaning against the back wall of the small space. Ironhide stood beyond the containment field, glaring at him balefully.
"You'll tell us what we want to know. Eventually."
Ripcord snorted, too weak to do anything else. The stasis cuffs were keeping him on the edge of recharge, blocking his access to all but his base functions.
"My conditions remain unchanged, Autobot."
Ironhide's optics narrowed dangerously, "You aren't getting anywhere near him, ever again. Once Ratchet is able, he will get all the information that we desire with a medical hardline."
Ripcord visibly rolled his optics.
"It is not within Prime's coding to sanction the torture of a prisoner."
"Torture?" Ironhide said, his voice lowering an octave in tightly controlled anger, "That would be gentle handling compared to what your kind would do to one of us if we were captured."
"My conditions remain unchanged." Ripcord repeated, focusing on the elusive spark signature in the distance. All too soon, it disappeared, hidden back underneath medical-grade blocks.
"Never." Ironnhide spat.
"That is not for you to decide. Now give my message to Prime like the good little soldier that you are."
Ironhide's low growl reached his audials, but Ripcord paid it no mind. Instead, he focused outwards, waiting in anticipation for the next time the Allspark's signature would flare across the neural network.