(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Bumblebee whistled at him softly in understanding, before straightening up and extending a servo towards him. Sam grabbed onto a thick digit with his good hand and hauled himself to his feet. His shoulder burned in pain from his collision with the floor during Ripcord's attack, and Sam swore darkly under his breath. Ironhide turned to watch him, and then stepped over the still-smoking husk on the floor as he approached.
"Are you alright?" He asked, in his usual direct and gruff manner.
"Yeah, I'm fine." He grumbled, "Nice shot."
Ironhide ex-vented a snort, "He got what he deserved."
Ultra Magnus stepped forward to stand beside Ironhide, glancing first at Ripcord's broken chassis and then down at Sam.
"Are you sure that you are alright? Ratchet has you wrapped so tightly in firewalls that I can't get a read on you at all."
Sam glanced at the City Commander in surprise. This was perhaps the most that Ultra Magnus had said to him in the months since the Autobot had arrived on base.
"I'm fine." He said, quirking a half-smile at the serious mechanoid, "Besides, now I only need one more stamp on my 'Attacks on Sam' card to earn myself a free coffee."
Ultra Magnus frowned down at him, his visage equal parts confounded and disapproving. Sam could feel Bumblebee's exasperation through their bond, and he flashed the scout a grin.
"Are humans always so cavalier about their own wellbeing?"
Sam lifted his good shoulder in a shrug.
"It's a coping mechanism." He replied sardonically, "Otherwise, I'd probably be having total mental breakdowns on the regular."
"You are unusually emotive." Ultra Magnus conceded, after a moment's consideration.
Sam huffed, unsure whether he should be offended.
"So I've been told." He replied dryly, before glancing up at Bumblebee, "Ready to go?"
The scout nodded at him, gesturing with a servo towards the large entryway. Bumblebee led him out of the brig and through the depths of the ship. Sam walked slowly, declining his guardian's unspoken offer to carry him. His thoughts were turned inwards, introspective and troubled. He could not feel Ratchet though their bond, which was quiet and still. He tentatively brushed against the block that separated him from the medic, but there was no response. After a moment, he carefully withdrew, not wanting to distract Ratchet if he was recharging or treating his injuries.
A short while later they exited the Ark, descending the ramp towards the airfield. The floodlights were glaring, illuminating a circle around the ship beyond which the night was opaque and still. Bumblebee strode forward and transformed, opening his driver's side door a moment later. Sam stared at the Camaro for the space of several seconds before he climbed into the cab. The door clicked shut behind him and Sam settled back against the seat, raising his hand to press into his shoulder. Warmth blossomed from the leather behind him, and Sam grunted in appreciation.
He was aware of Bumblebee's intense scrutiny through their bond, his presence agitated and restless. They drove in silence, the lights of the base growing brighter as they approached downtown. It was quiet this late at night, with almost no pedestrians or vehicle traffic, and Bumblebee was able to make it back to the hangar in record time. He idled as the one of the two sentries pressed a badge against the sensor, and then he rolled forward as the large doors opened before him. By the time the lift had settled into the floor of the receiving room, Sam's shoulder was throbbing in pain despite the warmth from Bumblebee's seats.
Sam felt a hesitant touch in his mind, and he glanced questioningly at the dashboard.
"You should go to the hospital ward."
He was surprised by the surge of anger that he felt at his guardian's words.
"No."
There was an uncertain pause, and the touch in his mind became entreating.
"Sam, you're hurt."
"I said no." He snapped. As far as Sam was concerned, his physician was indisposed and that was that. He felt a gentle thrum of acknowledgement through their bond, and Bee's alt mode turned in the direction of North Quad. They drove through the bridge in silence, and Sam became aware that his guardian's mental presence had receded, its form strangely opaque and unreadable. He frowned at the dashboard in confusion, but did not comment. Minutes later, Bumblebee slowed to a stop outside of the North Quad entrance and opened the door for him. Sam climbed out of the cab slowly, tired and hurting, and shut the door behind him. Immediately, Bumblebee's holoform materialized beside him, its expression intense and inscrutable. Sam did not protest as Bumblebee gestured towards the North Quad entrance, allowing himself to be led towards the Officer's Section.
When they arrived at his apartment, Bumblebee opened the door for him and Sam stepped over the threshold without comment. He made his way over to the couch and sat down heavily, pulling off his shoes with his good hand. Bee disappeared into his bedroom, and Sam could hear the scout rummaging around. Moments later, he returned and handed Sam a small, white bottle—ibuprofen, he recognized. He murmured in appreciation, twisting off the cap and shaking four pills onto the coffee table. He swept them into his palm and swallowed them with a mouthful of water from the glass that Bumblebee had brought him that afternoon.
Sam sighed, leaning back against the couch as he reached for the Creator bond once again—it remained unchanged, as quiet and still as stasis. He sat forward after a moment, propping his elbow against his knee and covering his face with his hand. He sat there for an interminable time, anxious and in pain, until Bumblebee moved to sit on the coffee table in front of him. The scout was still for a long moment, and then he reached out his hand to clasp the back of Sam's neck, leaning down until his forehead pressed against Sam's short curls. The intimacy of the contact shocked Sam into stillness, and he glanced at his guardian in surprise.
Bumblebee's expression was carefully reserved, but Sam could feel the intensity of his emotions through their bond—protectiveness, concern, possessiveness, affection.
"Bee?" He asked softly, uncertainly.
"Sam." He murmured back, giving the back of Sam's neck a gentle squeeze as though to assure himself that he was safe and whole. Despite his exhaustion and the burning pain in his shoulder, Sam smiled. He brushed against Bumblebee's spark signature reassuringly, enjoying the gentle thrill the contact gave him, and his pulse quickened in something other than anxiety or pain.
Abruptly, Bumblebee let go of him and sat back on the coffee table. His expression was fond but serious, and his voice was firm when he spoke.
"You should get some sleep. It's late, and you're tired."
Sam looked at him in confusion, unsure what caused the scout's abrupt withdrawal. Before he could voice his confusion, however, Bumblebee stood up and stepped away.
"Do you need anything?" He asked. Sam shook his head, and Bumblebee smiled faintly, "Rest well, Sam. I'll see you tomorrow."
Without another word, the holoform abruptly vanished. Sam stared in surprise at the spot where his guardian had just been standing, before turning his attention inwards. Bumblebee's presence was nearby, but it had resumed its opaque and unreadable character. Sam frowned, but he did not press the scout for answers. Instead, he made his way into his bedroom and pulled a pair of lounge pants out of the closet. Sam undressed slowly, his left arm awkward and restrictive in its sling, before pulling on the pants and making his way to the bathroom. When he was finished, he washed his hands and brushed his teeth, and then flicked off the light before climbing into bed.
It was a long time before he fell asleep.
Sam jerked awake, confused and disoriented. He rolled over and raised his head, squinting at the clock on the bedside table.
7:14 am.
He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head back onto the pillow. His shoulder burned hotly, the ibuprofen that he had taken the night before long since worn off. Sam reached for the comforter with his good arm, fully intending on going back to sleep, when the door chimed.
He glanced towards the living room in confusion, unsure who would be calling on him at the early hour. The chime sounded again, and Sam groaned as he struggled into a sitting position. He tossed the blankets aside, standing up and padding across the apartment. The chime sounded for a third time as Sam pulled open the door, immediately wincing his eyes shut as he recognized who was standing in the corridor.
"You have got to be kidding me."
"Not at all." Dr. Lewis said, "Good morning."
She held a deep tray filled with an assortment of medical supplies, and had an expectant expression on her face. Sam sighed in resignation, stepping aside to let her enter. He immediately turned his focus inwards, feeling along the Creator bond with growing trepidation. Its character was unchanged from last night, and Sam couldn't feel anything from beyond the solid block that separated him from Ratchet's mental presence. He frowned, casting his attention outwards and was surprised to find that Bumblebee's signature was far away—barely more than a pinprick in the distance.
Dr. Lewis walked into his apartment, placing the tray on the coffee table and gesturing for him to join her. After a moment, he pulled his attention away from the neural network and moved forward to sit on the edge of the couch. She helped him unfasten the arm sling and then struggle out of his shirt. Lewis worked quickly, peeling the bandages off his shoulder, treating the suture site, and then re-bandaging him. She handed him two oblong tablets, and Sam swallowed them down gratefully before glancing at her.
"Have you heard anything about Ratchet?" He asked at last, breaking the silence.
She shook her head minutely, "No, but that's not unusual. He's my superior officer, I report to him and not vice versa."
Lewis stood up and carried the dirty bandages into the bathroom. Sam could hear her washing her hands a moment later, and then she walked back into the living room and pinned him with an expectant look.
"Alright, let's get started."
Sam sighed, "If I promise you that I don't know anything, can you skip the torture and jump right to the execution?"
"Where's the fun in that?" She asked, walking around the couch to sit in front of him.
Sam grimaced as she took his left wrist in her hand, bracing her other against his elbow, and pulled gently until his shoulder burned. She held the position for the count of ten seconds, and then moved his arm back. For the next twenty minutes, Lewis manipulated his arm, pulling it this way and that, to strain his shoulder in new ways. By the time she glanced at her watch, Sam was pale and sweating.
"Alright, take this." She said, handing him a small rubber ball. He glanced at it curiously and she motioned for him to tuck it under his left armpit. He complied, and then she had him squeeze his arm against his side. The ball caused the bones in his shoulder to pull outward as he pulled his arm in, and the pain was blinding.
"Holy shit." He swore.
"Don't squeeze to the point of pain, Sam. Just until it starts to burn."
"It always burns." He snapped, but she looked unaffected by his outburst.
"Once again, and hold for ten if you please."
"You should have been a drill sergeant." He replied peevishly, but he moved to comply with her instructions. She hummed noncommittally, her eyes sharp and assessing as she watched him. After two more iterations, she took the ball from him and placed it on the coffee table.
"I want you to repeat that exercise three times, once after lunch and then after supper." She instructed, gathering up her supplies, "Do you need help getting back into the sling?"
"No, thank-you. I'm going to go shower." He replied, and Lewis nodded at him.
"Good work today, Sam. I'll see you tomorrow."
With that foreboding farewell, Lewis picked up her supplies and left. Sam turned his attention once again towards Bumblebee's spark signature, which glowed elusively at him from a distance. He frowned deeply, unsure how to cross the space between them. Stymied, he walked into the bedroom, grabbing some clean clothes, and then headed to the bathroom. It took a long time for him to shower, and it was almost nine o'clock before he was dressed and heading towards the mess hall.
People nodded to him as they passed by in the corridor. Many of them were familiar faces, officers who lived in his section of North Quad or administrative personnel that worked with Dave. He nodded back to each of them, wishing them good morning. It was no time at all before he was standing in line at the galley, glancing through the transparent guard at that morning's options.
"Good to see you again, Ambassador." A soldier greeted as he settled a deep silver tray into its slot in the galley. Sam glanced up at him in surprise, barely restraining a wince.
"It's just Sam."
The soldier quirked a smile at him, "No offense, sir, but my CO would have my balls if he heard me call you that."
Sam stared at the man in surprise, both at his words and his genial tone.
"Uh, alright." He said at last, hating the heat that suffused his face.
"Anyway, glad to see you up and about. Welcome back." He said, tossing him a friendly smile and then turning back towards the kitchens. Sam stood there in surprise for a long moment, until the Major behind him cleared his throat politely. He murmured an apology at the man, and then took his tray towards the cash registers at the end of the galley. The heavy-set older woman smiled at him as she keyed in his items, and then he handed her his ID.
"Thank-you." She said as she swiped the badge. The light on the terminal blinked green, and she handed it back to him, "Have a good morning, Mr. Witwicky."
Sam stammered his thanks, and then carried his tray to a secluded corner of the mess hall. He ate slowly, his focus turned inwards as he regarded the Creator bond. He was certain that he would know if something serious had happened to Ratchet, but that certainty did little to assuage the feeling of anxiety that was building in his gut. He turned his attention back towards Bumblebee's spark signature, which remained distant and elusive. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and scrolled to Bumblebee's contact. He stared at it for the space of a heartbeat, before he typed out a quick text.
SamWitwicky: Have you heard anything about Ratchet this morning?
It was a long moment before his cell phone pinged in reply.
Bee: Nothing yet. Optimus is with him, and he seems unconcerned.
Sam stared at his phone considerately, and then he typed out the question that was really on his mind.
SamWitwicky: Where are you?
Sam frowned at the message after he had sent it—it made him sound clingy and insecure. His phone pinged barely a moment later.
Bee: At the munitions depot, with Ironhide and Kup. I shouldn't be much longer.
The scout's reply made him cringe in mortification, and he typed off a quick response without thinking.
SamWitwicky: No rush, have fun.
Sam's brain caught up with him right after he hit send, and he stared at the text in dismay. Have fun?
Sam put the phone back into his pocket without waiting for a response. He finished his breakfast quickly, and left the mess hall without a backwards glance. He waffled in the corridor for only a moment, unsure what to do, when he decided to kill two birds with one stone. He pulled his phone out of his pocket again as he headed towards the North Quad entrance, quickly scrolling to Hot Rod's contact. He knew that he scout would be on sentry duty this morning, stationed to the downtown area.
SamWitwicky: can you do me a favor?
His phone pinged a second later.
Roddy: It depends. Does it involve disposing a body?
Sam shook his head in exasperation.
SamWitwicky: Not today. Can you drive me to the Ark?
There was a longer pause this time, and Sam stared at his phone impatiently. Eventually, Roddy replied.
Roddy: Yeah, sure. I'll meet you by the hangar.
Sam locked his phone and pushed it into his pocket, walking briskly towards the bridge. It was the better part of twenty minutes before he made his way groundside, and out into the sweltering heat of the early morning. He nodded at Killian and Williams, who were stationed at the hangar entrance, before striding towards the gleaming Lamborghini that was waiting a short distance away. Hot Rod popped the door for him, and Sam settled into the driver's seat with a murmur of appreciation. The Lamborghini accelerated forward, driving towards downtown without a word. Wrapped tightly as he was by Ratchet's firewalls, Sam could not sense a thing from the scout.
"Thanks for this, Roddy."
"It's no problem, Sam. I know that Bumblebee is busy."
Sam fell silent, thinking back to his reaction in the mess hall with growing embarrassment. Since when had he started being so clingy? Bumblebee had duties, after all. It was not as though the scout's life revolved around him. A short while later, Hot Rod pulled to a stop outside the semi-circle of crates and machinery that surrounded the Ark, opening his door. Sam climbed out of the cab slowly, pushing the door shut behind him.
"Thanks Roddy." He murmured.
The Lamborghini rolled back several feet and then he transformed, crouching down in front of him a moment later.
"Optimus is waiting for you in the clinic, do you know your way?"
Sam huffed quietly, somehow unsurprised that the Autobot leader had correctly interpreted his reason for being there.
"No, I don't. Is it hard to find?"
Before Roddy could reply, Sam heard Optimus' voice call down from the ship.
"I'll walk with you."
He turned his head to see Optimus' holoform descending the ramp towards him. Roddy nodded at Optimus in acknowledgement, before transforming back into his alt mode. He pulled away with a blast of his horn in farewell, driving back towards the base.
Sam turned to look at Optimus' holoform as he approached. The older man seemed tired, a weary stoop to his shoulders, and Sam recalled Bumblebee's comment about the far-reaching control of their mimicry circuits.
"How is he?" Sam asked, walking forward to meet him.
"He is well, Sam. His self-repair routines have purged the virus; they are now fixing the damage to his network arrays."
Sam nodded slowly, following the holoform up the ramp and into the ship. Optimus led him through the docking bay, which was large and empty. The experience of walking through the alien ship was just as surreal the second time, and Sam found himself glancing around with undisguised curiosity. The Ark's clinic was near the cavernous room with the cables that he had seen the night before. It was similar in appearance to Ratchet's medical bay, although considerably smaller. When Sam stepped through the large doors, he spotted Optimus in his bipedal mode a short distance away. Beside him, lying supine on a berth, was Ratchet.
Sam couldn't take his eyes off the medic, whose optics were shuttered closed.
"How long until he wakes up?" He asked, hating the vulnerability that he could hear in his voice.
"It will not be long now." Optimus reassured him, "Perhaps a few hours."
Sam nodded, and after a long moment, he turned to look at the Autobot leader. Optimus was regarding him closely, his optics impossibly bright in the dim space. Sam steeled himself as much as he was able, and then asked, "Alright then, what did Ripcord mean? About me being a Prime?"
Optimus ex-vented softly, lowering down to one knee in front of him.
"I am sorry, Sam. That is not how I wished for you to find out."
"You can't be serious." Sam said incredulously, "Optimus, are you glitched?"
Optimus hesitated, as though considering his words carefully, "You and I have spoken a great deal about the political landscape of Cybertron during the height of the Golden Age. You know that a Prime is both a religious and a political figurehead."
Sam frowned, surprised by the apparent tangent, but he nodded in acknowledgement.
"That was not always so. In the first Golden Age, a Prime was a religious leader—they had nothing to do with politics. The path to becoming a Prime was a deeply spiritual one, involving a great deal of prayer and reflection."
Sam tilted his head at Optimus in confusion, "You said that the title of Prime was conferred by the Matrix of Leadership."
"So it is, but the old traditions required potential Primes to spend mega-vorns in supplication before they were given the opportunity to approach the Matrix. In this way, supplicants were fully aware of the mantle of responsibility that they were about to claim."
Sam nodded slowly, frowning in thought.
"What changed?"
Optimus sighed regretfully, "The machinations of the Senate in the second Golden Age confounded the responsibilities of the Primes. It was not long before the role of Prime became one of political leadership. Once that occurred, a Prime was expected to be present in the Senate—always."
Sam's frown deepened, as he recalled what Optimus had told him about Sentinel Prime.
"What if something happened to a Prime? It's not like anyone could force Primus to make a new one."
Optimus inclined his helm, and Sam inferred that he had grasped the point of the matter.
"If something befell a Prime—if they were killed or if they went missing—then a new Prime had to be designated as quickly as possible. It was necessary in order to avoid the bloody infighting that would certainly occur in a power vacuum."
"Is that what happened to you?" Sam asked, although he already suspected the answer.
Optimus nodded gravely, "After Sentinel Prime disappeared, the Senate delivered the Matrix of Leadership to Alpha Trion for safekeeping. He was one of the oldest living Transformers, the keeper of our accumulated knowledge, and the Senate trusted him to find a new Prime."
"What does this have to do with the old religion?" Sam asked, not seeing the connection.
Optimus hesitated a long moment before he replied.
"Alpha Trion saw something of Primus within me. When he bestowed the Matrix of Leadership upon me, I was re-made as Optimus Prime."
Sam shook his head, not understanding Optimus' point. The Autobot leader shuttered his optics briefly, and then he clarified further.
"He bestowed the Matrix of Leadership upon me—it was not my decision."
Sam jerked back in surprise, "He didn't give you a choice?"
"He did not. By the time that I realized what had happened, it was already done." Optimus paused, his voice deepening with emotion, "It was… a difficult transition."
Sam felt a swell of anger on Optimus' behalf, "So that was it, then? You were Prime, just like that? Without your consent?"
"Just like that. It was neither my choice nor my desire, but the responsibility was mine." Optimus leaned forward, his expression solemn and sincere, "When you told me that the Primes gave you the Matrix of Leadership, I understood the full significance of what you had said. I could not prevent what had happened, but I had hoped to ease the transition for you—to make your experience less painful than my own."
Sam's heart was beating hard against his ribs by the time that Optimus had finished speaking.
"Optimus, you can't seriously believe what you're saying."
"The Primes bestowed the Matrix of Leadership upon you, and you used it to rekindle my spark. Only a Prime could do such a thing."
He became aware of Bumblebee's concerned regard through their bond, and he reached for the scout instinctively. At once, his familiar presence filled Sam's mind—comforting and calm.
Sam shook his head in denial, "They gave it to me for you."
Optimus regarded him for a long moment, before asking gently, "Did they speak to you?"
The question pulled him up short. Unbidden, the memory of the Primes rose to the forefront of his mind and he recalled their words with crystal clarity. He could feel Bumblebee's stunned disbelief from across their bond as the scout experienced the memory with him.
"I don't understand. I'm human—I'm nobody. I'm just a kid from California."
Something softened in Optimus' optics.
"I was just a data clerk from Iacon."
Sam stared disbelievingly at Optimus for a long moment, before sinking down to sit on the floor. His thoughts turned inward, recalling all that Optimus had told him about the Matrix of Leadership and the Code of Primus.
"You tried to tell me." He murmured through numb lips, "All the lessons, all the readings. You tried to get me to see it on my own."
Optimus inclined him helm in acknowledgement, and Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. It was hallow-sounding and flat, even to his own ears.
"I'm officially at my limit, Optimus." He said dryly, "If you have any other secrets about me, you're welcome to keep them to yourself."
"There is nothing else, Sam. You have my word."
"Well, thank goodness for small mercies, I guess." He replied, before sighing heavily, "What does this mean, Optimus? For me?"
"It means whatever you want it to mean, Sam. I am giving you what I never had—a choice."
Sam glanced up at him, taken aback by the promise in Optimus' voice. The Autobot leader was staring at him with a naked sincerity that he could almost feel, even without access to the neural network.
He hesitated, uncertain.
"I like things the way they are." He said at last, as though in apology.
"Then things will stay the way they are, insofar as it is within my power to ensure it."
Sam nodded at him, quiet for a long while until the ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips, "Karen Anderson is going to need a raise."
Optimus' expression warmed in fond amusement, but before he could reply the Creator bond flared brightly in Sam's mind. Sam's head snapped towards Ratchet's berth so quickly that he almost gave himself an injury. He scrambled to his feet as Optimus moved towards the medic's side. Ratchet's optics opened, glowing brightly in the dimness of the room, before he pushed himself into a sitting position. Relief flooded through Sam so intensely that it left him feeling lightheaded.
"How are you feeling?" Optimus rumbled, and Ratchet glanced at him in exasperation.
"I'm fine, Optimus, systems fully de-fragged and optimized. You did not have to stay with me."
Something passed between them then, wordless and powerful, and Ratchet grunted in response. The medic turned towards Sam, his gruff demeanor softening minutely. The block between them shivered and fell away, and Ratchet's familiar presence filled his mind.
/Foolish boy./ He groused, but there was no heat in his words.
/I'm glad to see you too./ Sam replied sincerely, and he felt the medic huff in response.
Sam felt Ratchet shift, and suddenly he was free of the Creator bond. The neural network sprung to life around him, and at once he became aware of the presence of Prowl and Ultra Magnus—their spark signatures cool and blue in his mind. His mental presence darted forward instinctively, brushing against them. He felt their answering touches, surprisingly patient and good-natured, and he smiled.
Ratchet watched him closely, his helm tilted in consideration before turning to look at Optimus.
"Ripcord's attack might have succeeded, had I been less experienced." He said.
Optimus glanced towards him in surprise.
"What was he after?"
"I am not sure of his objective, but he wanted Sam. We cannot afford to leave him so vulnerable—I won't always be there to protect him."
Sam looked from Ratchet to Optimus, and back again.
"What are you saying, Ratchet?"
The medic turned to regard him, "You need to learn how to build your own firewalls, and how to protect yourself against attackers."
Sam frowned, "I mean, that sounds like a good idea. Why the foreboding tone?"
Optimus cycled a sigh, "It takes vorns—centuries—for newsparks to develop sufficiently to allow for the transfer of protective protocols."
"Okay, so what does that mean?"
"It means you're going to have to learn the hard way." Ratchet said blithely, and Sam felt a sinking sense of trepidation.
Notes: This is the last stop for those of you uninterested in the Bumblebee/Sam Witwicky pairing. Friendly warning.