(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Although Sam was impatient to depart for the Ark immediately, Optimus insisted that they wait until First Aid returned. The Autobot leader extended a servo towards him, and after a moment's hesitation, Sam stepped onto the proffered palm. Digits as thick as his body curled loosely around him as Optimus stood, bringing Sam close to his chest before crossing the large hangar. He stopped in front of the berth—which, Sam realized with a grimace, he had come to think of as 'his'—before depositing him on his feet.
Sam murmured his thanks, stepping across the metal platform to retrieve his shoes. He climbed up onto the hospital gurney, crossing one leg over his knee to pull on a sneaker. It was a surprisingly difficult feat with only one hand, but he managed it. As he grabbed his other shoe, he glanced up to see Optimus watching him intently. The Autobot leader's expression was introspective and quiet. All at once, he was desperate to break the silence and ease the tension that had built up between them.
"So, on a scale of one to torqued off, how mad was Ratchet?"
Optimus' optics softened faintly, although whether it was in appreciation or amusement, Sam couldn't guess.
"Ratchet was… resistant, but he eventually saw sense." Optimus replied, diplomatically.
"Uh-huh." Sam said dryly, "If I were you, I'd be on the other side of the island when he wakes up."
Optimus' optics brightened in response, but before he could speak, First Aid strode through the hangar doors. Both Sam and Optimus turned to regard the red and white medic, who whistled cheerfully to himself as he approached.
"Hello again, Sam. I trust your shower was enjoyable?" The medic asked, before extending a servo towards him, "I have brought your mid-day meal."
Sam glanced over to see a cafeteria tray balanced on the medic's servo. He leaned forward, grasping the tray with his good hand and steadying it with the other, as he brought it to rest on the overbed table.
"Thanks First Aid, I appreciate it."
"It was my pleasure. Now if you will excuse me, I will gather the necessary supplies for your dressing change. Bon appétit."
The medic nodded respectfully to Optimus before he stepped away, striding towards the supply cabinets located against the back wall. He continued to whistle as he walked, swaying his hip struts to the cheerful tune. Sam shook his head in amusement, before turning his attention to the cafeteria tray in front of him. A quick inspection revealed that First Aid had brought him chicken over rice in some type of reddish-orange sauce. He took a tentative bite, and was delighted when mingled sweetness and heat exploded over his tongue.
Sam's eyes fluttered closed. He loved Szechuan chicken.
Without another word, he pulled the overbed table closer towards him and tucked into his lunch. It was the perfect blend of sweet and spicy, with tender chicken and firm vegetables. Sam speared a piece of sautéed pepper with his fork, glancing up at Optimus with a wry twist in his mouth.
"In terms of the pros and cons of living in the middle of the Indian Ocean, the Asian food is definitely a tick in the pro column."
The Autobot leader stared at him for a long moment, as though taken aback by Sam's friendly banter. Eventually, he dipped his helm in acknowledgement.
"I am glad that it meets with your approval."
"Oh, it does." Sam agreed, popping the pepper in his mouth. He chewed, savoring the crunch and its accompanying bloom of heat, "I don't know how you guys can eat the same stuff day in, day out. I'd go crazy."
"Energon can be refined into many different forms. All but the crudest types are enjoyable."
Sam stiffened at his words, the smile fading from his face. He dropped his eyes to his plate and began pushing around a piece of chicken with his fork. The silence stretched on, becoming uncomfortable again, but Sam found that he couldn't speak around the lump in his throat.
"Sam?" Optimus asked, an edge of concern in his tone.
Sam reached for his water, taking a long drink. When he finally forced himself to speak, his voice was artificially calm, "It's nothing, Optimus. Megatron showed me what refined energon tastes like. It's fine."
It took less than a heartbeat before understanding dawned in Optimus' optics, "Through the Creator bond."
Sam lifted his shoulders in a haphazard shrug, "I doubt I'd be alive if he'd done it any other way."
Optimus' expression was difficult to read—serious and solemn, but not overtly angry.
"Megatron has always had a fondness for single-grade." He acknowledged, after a long moment.
Sam stared incredulously at the Autobot leader. His words, as well as the faint rumination in his tone, took Sam completely by surprise. Optimus returned his gaze, unflinchingly.
"If you have a question, Sam, please ask it."
Sam bit the inside of his cheek, uncertain whether he wanted the answers to those particular questions. After a pregnant pause, he speared another piece of chicken, affecting his best impression of nonchalance.
"Megatron said that he met you when you were still Orion Pax." He said lightly, "Is that true?"
Optimus shuttered his optics slowly, before inclining his helm in an affirmative.
"Yes, it is true. We met at a rally in Iacon."
"For egalitarianism?"
Optimus ex-vented softly.
"Yes. Megatron was a vocal opponent of the caste-system. His ideals were… appealing to me."
Sam tilted his head, staring unblinkingly up at him.
"How so?"
Optimus stepped closer, crouching so that they were of an almost equal height, "I was a lower-caste data clerk, as you know. My functioning was pre-determined by a hierarchical social system that aggressively controlled who I could be and what I could do."
The Prime's optics shuttered briefly, as though in pain.
"Megatron spoke passionately about freedom as the right of all sentient beings—it was a sentiment with which I strongly connected. It is one with which I still do, although Megatron does not."
Sam's breath stuttered out of him in surprise. It was inconceivable that Megatron had ignited in Optimus his relentless passion for liberty and self-determination. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, "What happened?"
Optimus shook his helm minutely, a gesture of immeasurable regret.
"In the early vorns of his resistance, before the civil war, Megatron was a passionate and charismatic leader. Innumerable mechanoids were drawn to his ideals of freedom and equality. After he overthrew the Senate, however, something changed within him. He executed the Senators who would not swear fealty to him, before installing himself as Supreme Commander of Cybertron's armies. Yet he was not satisfied with his newfound power—he wanted more."
Optimus hesitated, as though choosing his next words carefully, "As you know, the Supreme Commander and the Prime are two sides of Cybertron's ruling elite. One oversees Cybertron's armies, the other its political and religious factions. Megatron was not satisfied as only Supreme Commander—he argued that so long as there was a Prime to lead it, the Senate might be re-established, undoing all of the hard work of their rebellion."
Sam frowned faintly as he set down his fork, the remainder of his meal forgotten. Optimus had explained about the role of a Prime as the figurehead of the Senate, but that was all they were—a figurehead. They had no real authority to establish or abolish a Senate, or to control the election of the Senators therein.
"But that's not true." Sam protested, "How'd he manage to spin that?"
Optimus ex-vented softly.
"What is thought to be true is true in its consequences." He intoned seriously, "Most of the lower- and middle-caste had only a rudimentary understanding of how the Senate was appointed, a fact that Megatron exploited to his advantage."
Sam exhaled loudly, shaking his head, "I'd say I can't believe it, but, well, here we are."
"Here we are." Optimus agreed, a grim edge to his voice.
Before Sam could reply, he felt a shift in his mind as Bumblebee's presence brightened across their bond. A smile spread across his face and he reached towards the winter-white glow. As he brushed against it, he was greeted with a swell of fondness-welcome-inquiry that made him huff a quiet laugh.
/Hello to you too./
Optimus straightened from where he stood crouched beside the berth, his expression softening in patient understanding. He stepped a short distance away, giving Sam the illusion of privacy. At the same time, First Aid closed the cabinet doors with more vim than strictly necessary, pivoting on a pede and starting back in their direction.
/Did you sleep well?/ Bumblebee asked, and Sam had the distinct impression of motion and anticipation.
/Like a baby./ He replied, much to Bee's amusement, /Optimus is here./
His bonded's presence brightened with concern, and Sam glanced up at Optimus.
/It went better than I thought, I guess./
"Alright, Sam. I am going to change your bandages and re-dress your sutures. Give me your hand, please."
The red and white mechanoid stood directly beside his berth, holding his servo out expectantly. Confusion furrowed Sam's brow as he stared at the large appendage.
"Can you even do this without a holoform?"
"Certainly." First Aid replied, "Ratchet utilizes a holoform for your comfort, not out of necessity."
Sam huffed quietly, remembering the events that had led up to Ratchet's development of a holoform. He had been shaken after Egypt, wrung-out and sensitive. At the time, Ratchet's holoform had seemed like an imposition—a violation, even—but now it was as much a part of him as his bipedal form or his alt mode.
First Aid made a polite, expectant sound, prompting Sam to extend his arm towards him. As he watched, two large digits transformed into an array of spindly looking instruments, which seemingly moved of their own accord. A pair of pincers grasped the edges of the bandages as a minature vibroblade cut straight down the middle, parting the fabric like the Red Sea. It revealed a minefield of nicks and cuts, the deeper of which were sutured with tidy-looking black thread. Sam's pointer finger and middle finger were held together with a thin metal splint, preventing him from pulling the sutures between his two knuckles.
All and all, it looked painful.
First Aid glanced up at him, his instruments stilling in mid-air, "I have been informed that you have a history of vomiting at the sight of physical injury. Please let me know immediately if you experience any nausea or lightheadedness."
Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation, "It was one time."
First Aid chirped at him sympathetically, before bending to his task. The red and white medic dabbed clear ointment over the nicks and cuts—Sam had to school his features to keep from grimacing from the sting—before winding a roll of gauze around his hand, starting at his fingers and ending at his wrist.
"You will only need to keep the bandages on for another twelve hours or so. We can remove them tomorrow morning."
Sam noticed a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to see Bumblebee's alt mode roll to a stop at the foot of the berth. He smiled down at the yellow Camaro and, a moment later, Bumblebee's mental presence bumped against him fondly. Sam's attention was pulled back to First Aid by a sharp tugging sensation. He glanced down in surprise to see the medic had covered the gauze with a brown compression wrap, which he had proceeded to secure with fasteners.
"There you go, all set."
Sam brought his hand to rest in his lap, turning to look at Optimus expectantly.
"Can we go now?"
The Autobot leader considered his request, before inclining his helm in an affirmative.
"I have advised Ultra Magnus to expect us." He rumbled.
"Alright, great. Let's go." Sam said impatiently, climbing down off the gurney. At the same moment, he felt an inquiring touch from Bumblebee, and Sam set his jaw stubbornly in response.
/I'm going to see Knock Out./
There was a swell of sensation from his bonded, a complicated mixture of feeling, thought, and imagery that together conveyed a single, coherent message:are you sure this is a good idea?
Sam stepped onto Optimus' proffered servo, steading himself with his good hand. The Autobot leader crouched down, carefully settling him on the floor a short distance away from Bee's alt mode. Bumblebee helpfully popped his driver's side door as he approached.
"Yes, I'm sure." Sam said with certainty, running his hand over Bumblebee's gleaming exterior.
/Ratchet isn't going to like it./
Sam huffed quietly. That had been one of Bumblebee's better understatements.
/He'll get over it./
Bumblebee whistled at him doubtfully, but his engine turned over all the same. Sam smiled in appreciation before ducking into the familiar cab. As soon as he settled against the driver's seat, the door pulled shut behind him. Sam could hear the distant sound of transformation, and then he watched as Optimus' alt mode accelerated towards the hangar doors. A moment later, Bumblebee shifted into drive and followed after him.
Sam leaned back against the supple leather, relaxing into the seat. Everything about the enclosed space was comforting—from the read-outs on the dash, to the faint scent of leather and oil, to the Autobot emblem set into the steering wheel. He never felt more at ease than when he was inside of Bumblebee's cabin. The thought made him quirk his lips, and he reached out to tweak the curve of the steering wheel between his thumb and forefinger. Bee's engine growled in response, the speedometer needle jumping into the red.
Sam laughed aloud, delighted.
It seemed like no time at all before Bumblebee slowed to a stop in front of the Ark. Optimus transformed into his bi-pedal mode as Bee's door opened. Sam grasped the doorframe with his good hand and pulled himself out of the cab. He stepped away, giving Bumblebee space to transform, as he glanced around the airfield.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was a clear, perfect blue and the sun shone from its zenith. It was hot, given the early afternoon hour, but not oppressively so. The humidity was worse than the heat, but the faint smell of salt water on the air helped to temper the discomfort. The airfield was busy, with soldiers and machinery moving around the large open space. The Ark was just as he remembered it—gleaming golden and elegant, surrounded by crates and equipment. The clang of metal on metal and boisterous talking filled the air, audible over the distant roar of jet engines from the far side of the airfield.
Sam squinted up at Optimus, who was watching him with an intensity of expression that he couldn't place.
"Can we go in?"
Optimus inclined his helm, before starting towards the large ramp that was lowered from the underbelly of the warship. Sam followed after him, walking as quickly as his shorter legs would allow. Bumblebee walked at his side, matching his pace without comment.
Sam breathed a quiet sigh of relief as they stepped into the cool interior of the ship. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he saw at once that the Ark had changed substantially since he had last seen her. Whereas before the ship had been dark and quiet, as though in a deep sleep, now she shone with light and activity. All of the terminals in the cargo bay were lit up, blinking with complicated Cybertronian read-outs. Halogenic lights illuminated the large space, set into the ceiling of the hangar. The whorls and eddies that were etched into the metal walls glowed a faint blue-silver, fully revealing their complicated, delicate patterns. The design covered the walls, wrapping around the hangar and stretching down the distant corridor.
It was ethereal and alien—and unquestionably beautiful.
Sam felt an immense swell of satisfaction at the thought. Megatron would absolutely hate it.
Bumblebee whistled at him questioningly, and Sam glanced up at his bonded in response.
"Megatron isn't a big fan of interior design." He said, by way of explanation. He could tell from the tilt of Bumblebee's head that his answer had not cleared up the scout's confusion, but Sam did not feel like clarifying any further. He followed after Optimus as the Autobot leader made his way into the depths of the ship. They passed dozens of technicians, electricians, and engineers as they walked, clearly identifiable by the insignia on their shoulders. They worked in groups of two and three at various junctions of the corridor, some wrist-deep in wiring while others bent over the bright blue flame of butane torches.
Sam glanced up at Optimus, curiously.
"You're really putting a lot of work into her."
Optimus glanced over his shoulder in Sam's direction, something complicated in his expression.
"We have worked on the Ark around the clock for the last two years. I wanted her air-worthy and battle ready as soon as feasibly possible."
There was something in his tone—an edge of dark foreboding—that told Sam with complete certainty that Optimus had intended to use the Ark to stage a rescue. He felt a flush spread across his face and neck, and he ducked his head.
"Thanks Optimus."
Optimus did not reply, his optics fathomless and intense, but he inclined his head faintly in response. It was a gesture of acknowledgment, of understanding—and it was a promise. They continued down the corridor without another word, the ringing of their footsteps echoing loudly down the passageway. They took the next corner, before crossing the large, cavernous room beyond, before turning down the hallway that contained the brig. Sam felt his heart start to beat quicker in his chest. He was keen to see Knock Out, to try to talk some sense into the medic, but he was nervous as well. Mercifully, he did not have long to dwell on his anxiety, as they stepped into the brig moments later.
Sam's eyes immediately darted to the other side of the room. There were five large containment cells spaced along the back wall. The first four were dark and empty, but the fifth cell—the one nearest the large desk situated to their right—was illuminated with weak light. Sam's heart clenched in anger at the sight of Knock Out resting on his knees, his arms bound behind his back. The medic was slumped in front of the transparent energy barrier at the forefront of the cell. Although Knock Out's optics were unnaturally dim, they tracked Sam unerringly as he crossed the space towards him.
Sam glanced up at Ultra Magnus, who stood off to the side, as he approached.
"Deactivate the energy barrier."
A frown pulled at the City Commander's faceplates, before he looked towards Optimus for direction. Whatever he saw in the Autobot leader's expression caused Ultra Magnus' face to become inscrutable. After a moment, he stepped forward and thumbed a code into the panel set on the wall. The energy barrier sputtered with static before it disappeared completely.
Sam stepped into the cell, coming to a stop an arm's length from Knock Out's knee struts.
"Hey Knock Out." He murmured.
"Hello Sam." The medic replied. His voice was a low rasp, seemingly dragged from his vocalizer with great effort, "You're looking well."
Before Sam could reply, the medic's optics flicked down to his hand. His lip panels thinned in disapproval as he took in the sight of the bandage.
"What happened?"
Sam rubbed his forearm, resisting the urge to push his hand into his pockets.
"I'm fine, I cut myself."
The medic glanced up at him, his expression mild, "By accident?"
Sam huffed loudly, exasperation and irritation bleeding into his voice, "Obviously by accident."
"Obviously."
Sam rolled his eyes, before getting to the quick of the matter, "What are you doing here, Knock Out?"
The medic scoffed softly, rolling a shoulder in Ultra Magnus' direction.
"I am enjoying the finest in Autobot hospitality."
Ultra Magnus' optics narrowed dangerously, a rumble reverberating through his chassis.
"You have no right to complain about the treatment of prisoners, medic." Ultra Magnus said, growling the designation like an insult.
"Don't deflect, you know what I mean." Sam said, as though Ultra Magnus hadn't spoken, "Why haven't you joined the Autobots?"
Knock Out huffed a dry laugh.
"I just deserted one megalomaniacal dictator. I am not overly keen to get in line behind another."
Ultra Magnus hissed a harsh in-vent, obviously deeply affronted by the medic's words. Before he could reply, however, Optimus directed a pointed, quelling look in his direction.
"You don't mean that. I know you don't." Sam said, frowning.
"You don't know me as well as you think you do."
Sam rolled his eyes, refusing to be baited by the sarcastic bite in Knock Out's voice. He reached out a hand to clasp the medic's elbow strut, giving him a little push.
"Yes, I do. You may have been in my head for the last two years—but I was also in yours. You aren't a Decepticon, no matter how much you might pretend otherwise."
Knock Out looked down at Sam's hand, where it rested against the metal plating of his arm. After a moment, he raised his head and met Sam's gaze.
"You are very naïve, even for a Prime."
Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug, "Maybe, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong."
Knock Out shuttered his optics slowly, but he did not reply. After a long moment, Sam gave his arm a little squeeze, before he took a step backwards.
"Stay here, if it suits you." Sam said softly, "I'll be waiting for you, whenever you're ready."
As soon as Sam stepped back over the groove lined into the floor, Ultra Magnus reactivated the energy barrier. The City Commander's frame was stiff, his expression closed off and impenetrable. Sam stood there for a long moment, looking at Knock Out through the transparent energy field, before he turned to look up at Optimus.
"I'm going to get my hair cut." He said, apropos of nothing.
The Autobot leader nodded in acknowledgment. Without another word, Sam turned on his heel and started walking towards the brig entrance. He was aware of Bumblebee following closely behind him, and he brushed against the scout's mental presence appreciatively. Together they walked out of the brig and through the depths of the ship in silence. When they finally stepped into the bright light of the early afternoon sun, Sam had to bring his hand up to shield his eyes.
Bumblebee walked down the ramp in front of him, transforming into his alt mode without preamble. Sam strolled down after him, climbing into Bee's waiting cabin with a murmur of appreciation. His bonded's mental presence was withdrawn—not closed off exactly, but certainly reserved. If Sam concentrated, he could sense fleeting glimpses of frustration and anger. Sam sighed heavily, pinning the dashboard with a look.
"What is it?"
Bumblebee whistled at him softly, inquiringly, and Sam's look became pointed.
"Don't try to pull that infiltrator bullshit with me." Sam said, although there was no heat in his words, "You're mad."
There was a protracted pause, and then Bumblebee's sigh gusted through the cabin.
"I'm not mad, Sam, I'm confused." He said at last, "Knock Out tortured you for two years—how can you be so forgiving?"
Sam leaned back against the driver's seat, sighing again.
"You weren't there, you wouldn't understand." Sam replied simply, and he was immediately blindsided by the swell of anger-helplessness-hatred from across their bond. He winced in response, tentatively reaching out a hand to press against the dashboard.
"I'm sorry, Bee." He murmured apologetically, "I didn't mean it like that."
"How did you mean it, exactly?" Bumblebee asked, his voice deceptively mild.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He could understand Bumblebee's anger, especially if he had seen Knock Out's memory files for the last two years. Logically, he knew that he should hate the medic—that he should hate all of them—but he didn't. Knock Out had been kind, in his own way, gentling Sam with an air of indelible patience throughout the entire ordeal. He could have been cruel—it would have served Megatron's purpose better than his kindness—but he hadn't been. He had been soothing and calm and encouraging, even as Sam fell apart in front of him.
Sam swallowed hard. He was unable to articulate the fact that, even though Knock Out had contributed to his suffering, it would have been so much worse without him. His morose thoughts were interrupted by the gentle press of Bumblebee's mental presence against his mind.
/I understand, Sam./ Bee murmured, /You don't need to explain any further./
They drove in silence the rest of the way to the barber. Sam was so wrapped up in his thoughts and conflicting emotions that the entire experience passed by in a surreal blur. When he and Bumblebee entered the barbershop ten minutes later, the din and clamor of the small building slowly quietened as a dozen sets of eyes settled on them. The specialist behind the desk stood up as they approached, snapping off a sharp salute.
"Ambassador, good afternoon." He greeted formally, before directing the same salute towards Bumblebee, "How can I help you today?"
Sam gestured vaguely towards the floor of the barbershop, "I'd like to make an appointment to get my haircut. It's been awhile."
A tall, elderly man in military greens stepped towards the front desk.
"I can take you now, Sir. If you're available."
Sam stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, before he lifted his shoulder in a shrug, "Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks."
The soldier led him through the room, stopping behind an empty chair halfway down the row. Sam stepped around the chair, sitting down without being prompted. A moment later, the man swept the black cape around Sam's shoulders, fastening it behind his neck with well-practiced hands.
"What would you like, Sir?"
Sam frowned faintly, staring at the stranger in the mirror.
"I hadn't thought that far ahead, honestly." He replied, before adding as an afterthought, "Please, call me Sam."
The older man's eyebrows rose to his hairline as his lips quirked in amused surprise.
"Alright, Ambassador Sam, would you like me to use my best judgement?"
"Go for it." He replied dryly, "Short but not too short."
The solider nodded in understanding, before stepping around the chair to grab his scissors and a comb. Sam watched his reflection as the older man worked. Slowly but surely the person in the mirror became something more familiar to him as the pile of brown curls grew on the floor. The barber stepped away, checking over his handiwork with sharp eyes. The cut was not dissimilar to the style that Sam had preferred before he had been taken—short on the sides, longer on top. Satisfied with the result, the barber glanced down at him.
"Would you like a shave?"
Sam blinked up at him in surprise, "Uh… sure?"
The older man's lips quirked in amusement again, "You ever shave with a straight razor before?"
"Uh, no. Only Gillette."
His words caused the older man to chuckle lightly, "You're in for a treat."
As it turned out, the soldier was telling the truth. Despite Sam's trepidation, the entire ordeal was deeply relaxing. The hot towels pressed against his face, the cool balm massaged in with clever fingers, the repetitive slide of sharpened metal against skin—by the time that the barber wiped away the last of the shaving cream from around Sam's ears, he felt boneless. The barber unfastened the cape, pulling it away as he stepped aside to let Sam stand. Sam glanced towards the mirror, and his breath caught in his throat. He recognized the person staring back at him—he was thinner and paler than he remembered, but it was him. Sam raised a hand to rub over his jaw, relishing the feeling of bare skin for the first time in two years.
"Thank-you." Sam murmured sincerely, his voice huskier than he intended. The barber had stopped to watch him, and at Sam's words, his face softened in understanding.
"No problem, Ambassador Sam. I'm glad I could help."
After a long moment, Sam made his way back down the row of barber chairs towards the front desk. Bumblebee stood as he approached, his eyes fixated on Sam's face.
"Thank-you." Sam said to the specialist at the front desk. The man nodded in acknowledgement, as Sam came to a stop in front of the holoform, "Are you ready to go?"
Bumblebee nodded, before turning to push open the door. He stepped through the entryway, holding the door open for Sam who followed a moment later. As they made their way towards the strip of pavement along the back of the building that acted as the parking lot, Sam glanced towards the holoform. Bumblebee's mental presence was a churning tide of emotions that Sam was unable to decipher.
"What, are you a beard man?" He joked lightly, trying to cover his sudden unease. As they rounded the corner of the building, out of view of the main roadway, Bumblebee turned and pulled him close. Sam made surprised sound as strong arms wrapped around him, one hand coming to rest on the back of his head.
"I've missed you." Bumblebee said, his voice low and rough.
Sam's eyes squeezed shut, as the maelstrom of emotions across their bond narrowed to a single, familiar sensation: joy. He hugged Bumblebee back, tucking his nose into the side of his neck and murmuring softly against his skin.
"I missed you too."
Notes: If you are so interested, this is roughly how I picture Sam after his haircut and shave.