Chapter 6
Notes: You guys mean the world to me!
Warning: Emotional and mental abuse, isolation, and (mild) self-harm.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Sam woke to the sensation of gentle stroking up and down his back. He was momentarily disoriented, images of white sand and cerulean water fading away as his consciousness slowly returned. He reluctantly opened his eyes, squinting in the dim light of Megatron's quarters. He was lying on his side, facing the wall, with the metalmesh fabric tangled around his legs. He made a soft sound of disapproval, raising a hand to scrub across his face. The gentle stroking continued, from shoulder to hip, again and again.
"Would you stop that?" Sam groused irritably, tossing the words over his shoulder without turning to look at the warlord.
Megatron rumbled lowly in amusement, but he did not cease the soft touches across Sam's back. After a moment, Sam pushed himself into a sitting position with a grunt, leaning back against the wall to glare at the Decepticon leader. Megatron was reclined against the head of the berth, a datapad in his lap and a large cube in his hand. The translucent container was roughly a cubic meter in volume, and the liquid within glowed a soft pink. As Sam watched, Megatron brought the cube to his intakes and swallowed a portion of the glowing fluid.
Sam made a soft noise of surprise, and Megatron quirked a brow ridge in his direction.
"Surely you know about energon?" The Decepticon leader asked, and beneath the sardonic tone, Sam could detect a note of incredulity.
"Of course I do." Sam replied, feeling uncharacteristically defensive, "I just haven't seen it before."
Megatron's expression turned skeptical, "You have spent all of this time in the presence of the Autobots and you have never seen refined energon?"
Sam narrowed his eyes, "Ratchet says that it's toxic in its refined form."
"It is, for most organics." Megatron agreed, "But you have Allspark energy radiating from your body at a cellular level. Surely, Prime's Chief Medical Officer was capable of puzzling that out?"
Sam bristled, affronted anger flashing through him in an instant. "Don't talk about him like that."
Megatron regarded him for a long moment, his expression almost contemplative, before he replied.
"Be calm, little one. I meant no insult to your Creator."
Sam frowned, taken aback by the warlord's placating tone. He searched Megatron's face, looking for any sign of deceit or sarcasm, but he was unable to detect anything other than stark honesty. Megatron raised the cube to his intakes, swallowing once again, before transferring the vessel to his other servo and extending it towards Sam.
Sam's eyebrows rose of their own accord, and he hesitated for only a moment before leaning forward to regard the viscous substance. The energon was smooth and thick with a glossy sheen. It glowed faintly, weakly illuminating Megatron's servo and Sam's face. The liquid did not emit any particular smell that Sam could detect, but it did exude weak fumes that irritated his nose and throat.
After a moment, Sam leaned back against the wall.
"I'd prefer a burger and fries, any day of the week."
Megatron rumbled amusedly as he tilted his helm, "That is because you do not know any better."
Sam's eyes snapped to the warlord's face, completely taken aback by his tone. Before he could reply however, Megatron raised the cube to his mouthplates and took another unhurried drink. All at once, the Creator bond flared to life between them, and Sam vicariously experienced the pleasant warmth as energon slid towards Megatron's fuel tanks. It was thick and rich and satisfying—like hot coffee, first thing in the morning or a cold beer on a summer's afternoon—and Sam swallowed reflexively.
Megatron's mouthplates quirked up, "Indeed."
Sam shook his head sharply, the spell broken, before narrowing his eyes at the Decepticon, "Stay out of my head."
/What did I say about giving me orders, little one?/ Megatron rebuked, although there was no heat in it. Sam struggled not to flinch, leveling the Decepticon with a glare.
"Stay out of my head, please."
To Sam's consternation, Megatron actually chuckled before withdrawing his mental presence. The Decepticon leader finished the remainder of the energon as he read from the datapad in his lap. Sam shifted, resting his arms across his legs, as he waited with growing irritation. After a long while, Megatron subspaced the empty cube and turned to level Sam with an expectant look.
"Do you need anything?"
Sam set his jaw, irritation sharpening into resentment in an instant. He toyed with the idea of declining, of telling Megatron that he was fine, but he was sure that the Decepticon leader would punish him by withholding food and water until he begged for it. After the aching hunger that Sam had suffered the day before, he was keen not to repeat the experience. Abruptly, something petty within Sam spurred him to take the opposite approach.
"Yes, actually. I'd like something to eat and drink, and then I need to use the bathroom. In that order." Sam tilted his head, his expression one of polite curiosity, "And if you're taking requests, it would be nice if you could either find me some warmer clothes or turn up the heat."
Megatron's mouthplates quirked again, but he did not comment on Sam's goading tone. Instead, he subspaced the familiar rations and handed them across the berth, accompanying them with a perceptible pulse of approval. Sam shifted his mental presence away, his baiting demeanor replaced with sullen resentment as he accepted the items.
The Decepticon glanced back towards the datapad he now held in a servo, shifting his attention away from Sam as he started to eat. Sam did not bother glancing at the pre-packed meal—it didn't matter what it was, he would have to eat it anyway—working through the cold food as quickly as he could manage. The water was stale and cool, but Sam drank it readily all the same.
By the time that he had finished, Sam realized that Megatron was staring at him once again. He glanced at the Decepticon leader, stiffening slightly at the contemplative look on his faceplates.
"What?"
"Your face." Megatron rumbled, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice. Sam frowned, raising his fingers to touch the wound on his cheekbone that he had received during Frenzy's attack. He could tell now that there were two small lacerations, each about an inch long and parallel to one another. They had already crusted over with thin, dry scabs, well on their way to being fully healed.
Sam grimaced, trying to keep his mind perfectly blank. He was well aware of what the Decepticon leader was asking.
"I was in your memories, little one." Megatron chided, as though Sam needed the reminder, "I am aware that the Allspark energy has seemingly halted your aging. Has it also affected your ability to repair yourself?"
Sam tried to keep the knowledge out of the forefront of his mind, but it was no use. Megatron's mental presence barely needed to shift forward before the information tumbled across their bond. The Decepticon leader's optics sharpened, something analytical and searching in his expression.
"This is unexpected, although perhaps it should not have been." Megatron rumbled, a dry admission, before pinning Sam with an expectant look, "What does your medic say on the matter?"
Sam was silent, gripping the water bottle until the plastic protested. He knew what Ratchet had said about his accelerated healing, but he did not know what the medic would expect of him in this situation. Would he want Sam to tell Megatron what he knew, to avoid the punishment that would surely result from disobedience? Or would he want Sam to resist, to refuse to give an inch to the pit-spawned, megalomaniacal—
"I would advise you to tell me what I want to know—and to censor yourself." Megatron interrupted his train of thought, and there was a sharp note of irritation in the warlord's tone.
Sam gritted his teeth, his own irritation swelling at the words. He couldn't help every random, unflattering thought that crossed his mind. Sam opened his mouth to say as much when Megatron's irritation and impatience flared brightly across their bond.
"Then you would do well to keep your thoughts to yourself and do as I say."
Unable to see an alternative, Sam lifted a shoulder in a haphazard shrug, "Ratchet says that the Allspark energy has given me accelerated healing. He doesn't know how or why it works, just that it does. It brought me back to life after Ripcord killed me, and it—"
Sam bit off his words as a tsunami of black rage flooded across their bond, before pulling away from the furious Decepticon in front of him.
"He what?" Megatron growled, his optics narrowed dangerously.
Sam swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, as fear and confusion twisted together in his stomach.
"I thought you knew." He replied, hating the unsteadiness of his voice, "It's how I on-lined."
Megatron held himself perfectly still, his narrowed optics the only thing that betrayed his fury. Across their bond, however, Sam could feel the agitation and aggression of his mental presence, which sought to lash out and punish anyone who dared defy the Lord High Protector. It was the same volatile, barely contained energy of nitroglycerine—and Sam was forcibly reminded that the mechanoid beside him was a threat and an enemy, both.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Megatron's optics lost their murderous edge and the tempest that was his mental presence slowly calmed.
"What happened?" Megatron asked at last. Although his voice was tight, it was restrained.
Sam hesitated, "It was when you attacked the energy infrastructures at the end of January. Ripcord separated me from the Autobots and then he killed me."
"Yet you survived. How precisely?"
"Well, he didn't do it quickly." Sam replied dryly, although there was something vulnerable in his tone, "He made Optimus watch as I bled out. Ratchet used the time to prepare the medical bay, and when I on-lined, he had me stable enough that I survived the process."
Megatron regarded him intently as he spoke, "Those were not his orders. I wanted you alive."
Sam scoffed softly, "That's very comforting."
"You are mine." Megatron growled, "To raise a hand against you is to raise a hand against me."
He flinched way from the possessive tone, trying not to betray his confusion and discomfort. It was becoming readily apparent that the social norms and expectations of Decepticon society were far more layered than Sam had previously understood. Ripcord's attack had been a grave offence, but Soundwave's torture and Frenzy's assault had both been within acceptable limits.
Once again, Megatron's mental presence mellowed, taking on a tolerant edge.
"You will learn in time."
Before Sam could reply, Megatron pushed himself off the berth and rose to his considerable height. He extended a servo towards Sam, who hesitated for only a moment before climbing to his feet and stepping into the warlord's palm. As he had yesterday, Megatron curled Sam close to his chest as he walked towards the wash racks. Megatron left him to take care of his bodily functions and, once he was finished, they walked together to the bridge.
As he had the day before, Sam took note of each door, passageway, and terminal that they passed. He was beginning to develop a rudimentary understanding of the layout of the warship. It was information that he hoped would prove useful, whether in an escape or as intelligence to provide the Autobots. He tried to keep these thoughts out of the forefront of his mind, but judging by the sardonic edge to Megatron's mental presence, he was not entirely successful.
They turned down the corridor towards the bridge, and Megatron stopped to press the passcode into the keypad by the door. Immediately, the doors slid open and Sam's eyebrows rose to his hairline in surprise. The view screen at the other end of the bridge was muted white, and the light within the room was mellow and soft. Sam followed Megatron through the doors and, when the Decepticon leader took his customary spot at the starboard workstation, Sam wandered towards the view screens. It took him a minute to realize what he was looking at. It was snowing.
No, Sam corrected himself. It was storming.
Snow fell so thickly that he could not see the craggy rocks beneath them, if indeed they were still maintaining their location above the mountains. The snow swirled and hissed faintly as it buffeted against the view screens. Sam stared in rapt amazement, an indefinable feeling lodging itself in his chest—it was one of the most beautiful things that he had seen in his life.
Unbidden, Sam raised a hand and pressed it against the transparent paneling. Frigid cold soaked into his palm, but he left his hand pressed there for a long time. He could almost imagine what the fine grains of ice would feel like falling on his skin. Eventually, the cold began to ache and he pulled his hand away to tuck it under his armpit, but he did not move. He stood there for what must have been hours, watching as the storm raged around them in undisguised enjoyment.
Sometime later, after the storm had calmed and the pristine white mountains were once again visible beneath them, Sam settled against the floor and observed the comings and goings of the bridge. Thundercracker had left his post sometime during Sam's woolgathering, replaced by Starscream. The second-in-command sat in silence, his wingplates flicking occasionally as he worked. Unlike the other times that Sam had visited the bridge, Soundwave was not at his terminal. Instead, a red, black, and purple mechanoid sat at the post. The unknown Decepticon had two scabbarded swords attached to his hip struts, and a massive broadsword across his back.
The bridge was quiet, interrupted only by an occasional rumble of machinery or a terse string of Cybertronian from one of the mechanoids.
It was not long before Sam realized that he was well and truly bored. Eventually he turned his mind inwards, towards the neural network. The vast, dark space was mostly still and quiet. Sam could sense the three spark signatures of the Decepticons on the bridge, as well as several others milling about the interior of the ship. He recognized Knock Out's copper-red signature somewhere nearby, but the others were unknown to him. Sam was careful to keep his mental presence to himself and the egress filter drawn tightly over his mind. The Autobots had been tolerant of his fumbling inquiries over the neural-net, but Sam had no desire to find out whether the same would be true of the Decepticons.
Eventually, Sam found himself leaning against an empty workstation not far from the view screens. The warmth from the terminal helped to take the edge off the aching cold in the room. He sat with his arms crossed over his torso and his knees drawn loosely up to his chest, drowsing lightly in the quiet of the bridge.
"Sam."
He jerked awake in surprise, his heart hammering in his throat. As Sam struggled to straighten up, he realized that Skywarp was crouching down a short distance away. One of the Seeker's large servos was cupped in front of him and, as Sam stared in confusion, Skywarp extended it towards him. Sam glanced down reflexively and made a soft noise in disbelief. There, rapidly melting in the Decepticon's loose grip, was a pile of snow. Sam looked up, catching Skywarp's gaze with a question in his eyes.
"I heard you liked it." He said, by way of explanation.
Sam couldn't help the half-smile that pulled at the corners of his lips. He reached out a tentative hand, brushing his fingers over the cold substance. He was surprised by how wet it felt for solid precipitation. For some reason, he had thought that it would feel fluffier. Sam scooped up a palmful of snow, bringing it close to his face to inspect. He had heard once that no two snowflakes were the same, and upon inspection, he saw a variety of geometric shapes—all hexagonal structures, some with long needlelike arms and others with wide-flat arms. Sam rubbed the snow between his fingertips, marveling at how it melted away instantly. When he squeezed his palm closed, the snow solidified into a hard ball, more ice-like than snow-like.
He glanced up at Skywarp, who was watching him with open amusement.
"Thank-you." Sam said softly, and he meant it. Skywarp whistled at him in Cybertronian, lifting a pauldron in a shrug. Although Sam could not understand the words, he understood the sentiment: no problem.
"That's going to melt, you know, and I'm not cleaning it up." Starscream put in snidely, immediately shattering their quiet comradery. Sam went still, a flush spreading across his cheeks as he was reminded, once again, exactly where he was and whom he was with. Skywarp glanced over his shoulder, warbling something in sarcastic-sounding Cybertronian. Starscream scoffed loudly and then Skywarp glanced back towards Sam.
"It's alright. I'll take care of it."
Sam murmured his thanks, but placed the snowball back in Skywarp's palm. His was suddenly no longer in the mood for playtime. Skywarp looked at him for a long moment before he straightened and moved away without another word. Sam glanced down at his hands, which were a deep pink-red, before tucking them between his legs for warmth.
He sat there like that for a long while, the egress filter drawn so tightly over his mind that it ached. He had been on the Nemesis for less than a week, insofar as he could tell, and already he was able to fall asleep in a room surrounded by Decepticons—including Megatron and Starscream. He frowned deeply, anxiety and shame churning in his gut. These were not his friends, regardless of the tokens of kindness that they deigned to afford him. They were Decepticons. They would kill—and had killed—his Autobots, without a second thought. While he sat there, napping or playing with snow, Bumblebee, Optimus, and Ratchet were certainly going out of their minds with worry and grief. Why wasn't he fighting harder?
What the fuck was wrong with him?
As Sam's thoughts grew darker with shame and guilt, he felt Megatron's mental scrutiny across their bond. The cool contemplation that he felt there, edged with curiosity and interest, ignited a fury within him.
/Get out of my head./ Sam snapped viciously.
He felt Megatron's mental presence darken slightly, irritation spilling across their bond.
/Mind yourself, little one./ Megatron replied. Although his tone was mild, Sam could hear the warning in his words.
Sam turned his head to narrow his eyes at the Decepticon leader. Megatron had not moved from his workstation since he had first arrived and, although the warlord did not look at him, Sam knew that he had his full attention.
/My thoughts are my business./ Sam replied coldly.
/I thought I had made myself clear last night. Evidentially, I was mistaken./ Megatron rumbled, his mental presence crowding the Creator bond. Sam's fury flared hotly in his chest at the intrusion, and he pulled away as far as the bond would allow.
/You made yourself perfectly clear./ Sam replied tightly, glaring openly at the warlord, /You're just wrong./
Megatron turned away from his workstation to glance down at him, censure written all over his faceplates.
/I fail to see how that is so. Whether you are amenable to the fact is irrelevant./
/Is that why you are making me sit here and freeze my ass off?/ Sam demanded caustically, /Because I am done playing house with you./
All at once, Megatron's presence was inside Sam's head, his mental fingers digging into Sam's mind. Sam made a soft sound of pain as he squeezed his eyes shut, but that did not prevent him from hearing the warlord approach.
"If you feel the need to be reminded of your place, I am happy to do so," He growled, "But acting out will not end favorably for you." Megatron's words were punctuated with a sharp mental shake that caused a familiar headache to bloom through Sam's head. After a long moment, Sam forced himself to look Megatron directly in the optics.
"Don't touch me."
He felt the flare of anger a moment before Megatron twisted their bond, and sharp pain poured through Sam's synapses. Sam cried out loudly, his hands flying to his head, but the pain disappeared just as quickly as it came. When Sam cracked open his watering eyes a moment later, he saw that Megatron had crouched over him, crowding both his physical and mental space.
"You do not command me." Megatron rumbled lowly, "I will not remind you again."
Sam did not reply, his eyes falling to the deck of the bridge as Megatron leaned his full mental weight against his mind. It was an impossibly intense sensation, bordering on the edge of pain, and it was unquestionably a warning. Sam stayed like that, eyes downcast and still, for a long moment before Megatron rumbled softly.
"Now thank me for my patience."
Sam's eyes snapped up to the warlord's face, hot rage burning through him in an instant.
"Never." He spat, balling his hands into fists. Immediately, agony burned through him as Megatron sank his mental fingers deeper into Sam's mind. The pain lasted noticeably longer this time, and when it finally disappeared, Sam found himself gasping desperately against the cold metal floor.
"Thank me for my patience." Megatron repeated, his voice deceptively calm and measured. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as humiliation joined the rage that burned in his chest. After everything that Megatron had done, after all of the atrocities that he had committed, Sam would never—
White-hot pain burned through his synapses, eclipsing all rational thought. He heard himself cry out sharply, agony in his voice, as his fingers scrabbled uselessly at the smooth metal beneath his hands. This time the pain did not go away, it merely eased back as Sam gasped loudly, his heart hammering painfully in his chest.
"I won't ask you again."
Sam sucked a shaky breath into his starving lungs, pressing his forehead against the floor. He was distantly aware of the wetness on his cheeks, but whether it was from sweat or tears, he could not say. The entire time that he struggled to get himself under control, he was aware of Megatron's mental presence—observant and severe.
Sam could not dredge up the fortitude to defy the Decepticon leader again, so he squeezed his eyes shut and waited. He knew the exact moment that Megatron's patience reached its limit. The warlord pressed against Sam's mind, slowly and purposefully, without a hint of vindictiveness, and Sam's world was subsumed by agony. The pain burned him from the inside out, obliterating all higher cognitive function. There was no room for thoughts of anger or defiance, no ability to sense what was happening around him. His entire world, his entire being, was narrowed to the relentless torture in his head. Sam knew that he must have been screaming, begging, but he heard nothing over the static steadily building in his ears.
When Sam finally passed out, it was a mercy.
Sam's return to consciousness was a lesson in suffering.
The first time that he woke, the pain in his mind was so profound that he passed out again shortly thereafter.
The next time that awareness filtered through his mind, he was able to roll onto his side. The cold metal floor pressing against his face was a small comfort, and Sam laid there with his eyes closed as he focused on his breathing. It was a long time before he was cognizant enough to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. When he did, he found that was back within the confines of his cell in the large hangar. The room was empty, the metalmesh blanket and bottle of water apparently removed in his absence. He lowered his head again, closing his eyes as he willed the pain in his mind to recede.
When next that he woke, Sam was feeling only marginally better. The chill in the room had deepened noticeably, however, and he was shivering weakly against the floor. He forced himself onto his hands and knees, slowly making his way over to the wall. He curled against the narrow bulkhead, wrapping his arms around his torso. He sat there for a long while, too exhausted to move but too pained to sleep. At some point, Sam realized that there was dried blood crusted in both of his nostrils and flaked on his face. He raised the hem of his sleeve to scrub at himself, but the motion set off a fresh wave of agony in his mind and he relented immediately.
His head pounded in rhythm with his pulse, an ebb-and-flow of pain that took hours to abate. When Sam felt reasonably better, he forced himself to climb to his feet and made his way over to the waste disposal system in the corner. After he finished, he stumbled back to his spot by the bulkhead, settling against the wall. As the pain receded from his mind, Sam reflected on what had happened on the bridge. Although the repercussions of defying Megatron had been terrible, a small part of him was relieved. He wasn't completely lost.
When Sam woke up an interminable time later, he was surprised to find a bottle of water and a pre-packaged meal just inside his cell. He stared at the items for a long while, before pushing himself to his feet and making his way across the space. He sat down a short distance away, reaching out to grab the water. He drank deeply, his mouth and throat painfully dry. Despite his thirst, he forced himself to stop when the bottle was half-empty, capping it and setting it aside before he picked up the MRE. He glanced down at the package briefly—shredded beef in barbeque sauce—before working through the meal with his fingers. The food was cold and oily, and it settled uncomfortably in his stomach, but Sam forced himself to eat. When he finished half the meal, he folded the top of the package over on itself, grabbed the bottle of water, and made his way back to the bulkhead. He stashed the remainder of his meal against the wall, and settled down to wait.
As the hours dragged on without any sign of Megatron, Sam cautiously turned his mind inwards, before jerking back in surprise. For the first time since he had awoken on the Nemesis, Sam found himself within the confines of the Creator bond. The bond-space was dark and silent, without so much as a flicker of Megatron's presence. He frowned deeply, turning his mind outwards, but he was blocked from the neural network by impenetrable firewalls. For the first time since Sam had on-lined, he was completely alone inside of his head.
A quiet sense of apprehension settled in his stomach.
As the hours passed, his apprehension sharpened into anxiety. Sam had nothing to tell the passage of time except for his own bodily functions. By the time that his hunger was carving the inside of his ribs, he figured that it had been seven or eight hours since he had eaten. He glanced at the bottle of water and half-empty meal package. He was hungry, but if the Decepticons had left the ship then he could not be certain when his next meal might be. Sam turned away from the items, pacing restlessly as the anxiety in his gut intensified with each passing hour.
He made it four more hours before he broke down and finished the remainder of his meal.
With no more food and water, and no idea whether he was alone on the ship or not, Sam's anxiety transitioned into the first stirrings of genuine fear. He alternated his time between pacing the perimeter of his cell and exploring every inch of the energy barrier that separated him from the rest of the hangar. Eventually, he found himself back against the bulkhead. It was a long while before his mental and physical exhaustion overpowered the fear tightening his gut, allowing him to drop off into a restless slumber.
When Sam woke up, the first thing that he saw was another bottle of water and a pre-packaged meal waiting just inside the energy barrier. All at once, Sam understood—this was part of his punishment. He would stay here until Megatron got what he wanted. Sam laughed quietly under his breath. If the warlord thought that being left alone to his own devices, unbothered by Decepticons and unworried about the possibility of more torture, was going to work out in his favor, he had another thing coming. Sam tore off the top of the pre-packaged meal, feeling better than he had since he'd woken up in Megatron's cockpit.
His days settled into a predictable routine. When he woke up, he found food and water waiting just inside the energy barrier of his cell. The empty packages from the previous day would be missing, regardless of where Sam had left them. If Sam had not finished his previous day's meal, then no new food would be waiting for him when he woke up. He spent his waking hours trying to amuse himself. He paced the room, prodded at the energy barrier, played mind games, and (eventually) started to practice his firewalling. His first few days in isolation were a welcome respite, but as the time dragged on, Sam's earlier confidence quickly eroded.
By the time that he hit the one-week mark, his good mood had vanished entirely. Worry and anxiety were constantly on the edge of his mind as he struggled to keep himself distracted.
By the time that he hit the second week mark, he knew that he was in trouble. He no longer paced the room or played his word association game. He spent his waking hours curled against the bulkhead, murmuring reassuringly to himself. When he managed to fall asleep, his dreams were ugly. He often woke up to the sound of his own screaming, soaked in sweat and shaking like a rescue animal.
By the third week mark, he started hallucinating. Glimpses of movement out of the corner of his eyes, whispers that he could just hear on the edge of his awareness. More than once, he heard a familiar voice—Bumblebee, his mother, Ratchet—call out his name. By the third or fourth time that it happened, Sam stopped responding.
As the days dragged on, he lost all concept of the passage of time. Sometimes when the food arrived, he was ravenous, as though he had not eaten in days. Other times, he still had the taste of his previous meal in the back of his mouth.
It was several hours after he had woken up, on an otherwise nondescript day, when he abruptly tasted blood. He glanced down in surprise, only to notice that he was chewing his fingernails. He had mindlessly chewed past the nailbed on one finger, which was bleeding profusely. The sight of blood, drawn without realizing it owing to his mental state, shocked him to his core. As he stared at his hand, nails chewed down and fingertips raw, Sam felt himself break.
Sam turned his thoughts inward, brushing tentatively against the block that separated him from Megatron's mental presence. After an agonizing few moments, there was a perceptible shift in their bond, and he knew that Megatron was paying attention. Sam felt a swell of relief and he squeezed his eyes shut against the emotion that threatened to choke him.
/Thank-you for your patience./
Megatron's presence filled Sam's mind, calm and approving.
/You are welcome, little one./
Notes: In case anyone is curious, Sam was in isolation for 27 days before he broke. None of his dark thoughts, nightmares, hallucinations, or self-harm was the result of external influence. These are all common experiences among victims of prolonged isolation.