Sam's life settled into a comfortable routine over the next two weeks. He spent his mornings in the office, answering e-mails and completing his schoolwork. At noon, he took a half-hour for lunch, often in the cafeteria but occasionally at his desk, and then he worked again until the daily debriefing. Occasionally, the debriefing was followed by a senior staff meeting, which Sam also attended. Otherwise, he would make his way into the Munitions hangar for training with Jazz. The second-in-command would keep him for two hours or until Sam tapped out, whichever happened first.
Jazz proved to be a strict and demanding instructor. He also had no qualms about the use of corporal punishment, inflicting correction in direct proportion to the size of Sam's mistake. This usually meant a warning nudge or a stinging rap, but every once and a while, the saboteur would cuff him sharply across the mind and admonish him to watch himself. Sam had bitched and complained the first few times it happened, but Jazz was both unsympathetic and unyielding, and eventually, he sucked it up and dealt with it.
After training, Sam would spend a miserable few hours recovering, either in Bumblebee's cab or back in his apartment, or, once, in the medical bay. When he felt reasonably better, he would find something to eat and then spend the rest of his evening unwinding. This usually consisted of watching television with Bumblebee or Luis, but occasionally it meant joining Bumblebee and Cliffjumper on patrol. He lived for those nights, driving with the windows down, cool desert air on his face, just the three of them.
Optimus left the embassy shortly after the skiff's arrival, but he returned each Friday to discuss Cybertron with Sam. The first time that they met, Optimus surprised Sam in his office. The holoform took a seat across the desk from him, a strange reversal of their usual positions. They talked for over an hour, starting with the readings that Sam had completed that week, but eventually getting into the weeds about the Festival of Lost Light. The next time that they met, Optimus invited Sam into the cab of his alt-mode and they patrolled the perimeter of the base as they talked. The Autobot leader seemed melancholy that afternoon, and Sam suspected the drive was as much for Optimus as it was for him.
Karen Anderson also accompanied Optimus when he came to the base on Fridays. She and Sam would meet in an empty office near Logistics for an hour, either before or after Sam's meeting with Optimus. Karen always began their session on safe ground, asking about Sam's schoolwork or his training with Jazz, but she inevitably steered them towards more difficult topics. Sam was defensive and standoffish or sullen and moody, depending on the day. To her credit, Karen never missed a beat, either doubling down or backing off based on Sam's reaction. Afterwards, they walked together back to the ground bridge hangar and Sam would see her off.
Despite the physically demanding nature of training, the tedium of schoolwork, and the abject strangeness of being a public figurehead, Sam enjoyed the embassy. He felt comfortable, normal even, in a way that he hadn't felt in years. As the days turned to weeks and there was still no sign of the remaining Decepticons, Sam began to relax.
Later, he would realize that allowing himself to grow complacent had been his first mistake.
The Tuesday morning before the Canadian delegation's arrival was a lazy one. Sam woke slowly, drifting in that soft place between fully awake and fully asleep. When he eventually squinted open his eyes, it was to find himself sprawled over Bumblebee's holoform, his head on his chest and their legs tangled together under the blankets. When he realized that Sam was fully awake, Bumblebee smiled at him.
"Good morning." He said, fingers ghosting over Sam's back, "You slept well."
"Morning." Sam murmured, "What time is it?"
"It's just after nine." Bumblebee replied, earning himself a drawn-out groan.
"Cancel today, would you? I don't want to get out of bed."
Bumblebee chuckled at him. "I'll get right on that."
Sam hummed approvingly, pulling the covers up to his chin and tucking his face into the holoform's chest. Bumblebee indulged him, carding his fingers through Sam's hair as he relaxed. They laid together for the better part of twenty minutes before Sam couldn't ignore the call of nature any longer. Grumbling under his breath, he climbed out of bed and made his way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. By the time that he stepped back into the living space a few moments later, Bumblebee had already made coffee. The fragrant smell of Veradana blend light roast filled the little apartment.
"Have I told you recently that you're the best?" Sam asked, padding towards the kitchenette on bare feet.
The holoform quirked a smile from where he stood beside the counter, "It never hurts to be reminded."
Sam grinned at him, opening the cupboards and pulling down a bowl and a package of instant oatmeal. He emptied the packet into the bowl, adding the recommended amount of water and popping it into the microwave. "What're you doing today?"
"I'm standing sentry with Hound until patrol." Bumblebee replied.
Both Hound and Bulkhead had been assigned to the embassy, rather than Diego Garcia—Hound because Trailbreaker was his partner and the sentry was loath to leave him while he was still in stasis-lock, and Bulkhead because the wrecker was uneasy around people. The arrangement seemed to suit them both just fine.
"Anything interesting happening?" Sam asked, opening the microwave.
"Nope." Bumblebee replied dryly, "Although Hound would disagree with me. There's a pronghorn antelope herd grazing a hundred feet from the perimeter fence, so he's having quite the day."
Sam laughed, stirring sugar into his oatmeal and taking a bite. Hound had an effusive love for wildlife, and his enthusiasm was catching. He and Sam had spent one afternoon bird watching together after the sentry had first arrived, and it had been surprisingly enjoyable. They had spotted a Mississippi Kite and a Pileated Woodpecker, which Hound had promptly shared on a birding website. Apparently, it had created quite the buzz in the ornithology community. Hound was very proud.
"Tell him I said hello." Sam mumbled around a mouthful of oatmeal.
"I will." Bumblebee replied. "Are you heading down to the office?"
Sam nodded, spooning up some more oatmeal. "Yeah, I am. My suit's being delivered sometime this morning. I want to be there to pick it up."
The dinner reception in Jasper was going to be a formal affair. In addition to Ambassador Blanchard and his staff, the Governor of Nevada and the Mayors of Las Vegas and Reno were going to attend. Dave Carter had informed him, in no uncertain terms, that the suit he owned wasn't going to cut it. The personal assistant had ordered him something more appropriate to wear, his words, and the end-result was being couriered to the embassy. Sam hadn't even seen the suit before it had been ordered. Carter had tried to ask his preferences for cut, fabric, and style, but Sam didn't know the first thing about men's fashion. The only stipulation he gave Carter was, "Something dark, I guess. Nothing too fancy."
Sam finished the rest of his oatmeal, rinsing out the bowl and setting it in the sink. He dressed quickly, pulling on his clothes in front of the closet, and then he took five minutes to wash his face and brush his teeth. By the time that he was ready to head downstairs, Bumblebee had to leave. Sam gave him a kiss good-bye, before bending down to pull on his shoes. By the time that Sam straightened up, grabbing his messenger bag and travel mug, the holoform was gone.
He pulled open the front door, stepping into the hallway. The residential section was reminiscent of a renovated hotel, with walnut-colored doors spaced in even increments and dark carpets that contrasted with the patterned wallpaper. Sam made his way down the hall towards the security entrance that was just visible around the corner. The residential section was quiet, given the hour, and Sam pushed through the heavy doors a moment later. The sounds of the administration section echoed up the stairwell, and Sam took the steps two at a time. When he rounded the corner of the large, cement staircase, he saw Luis standing by the cafeteria entrance. The lieutenant was engaged in conversation with an older man in a custodial uniform. There was something conspiratorial about the way they stood, with their bodies close and heads together. Sam canted his head to the side, eyebrow quirked up as he approached. Luis broke off the conversation, an easy smile on his face.
"Good morning, Sam." He said, before glancing at the other man, "Thanks Ted, I appreciate it."
Ted nodded at Luis before looking at Sam, a knowing smile on his face. The older man winked at him before grasping the handle of his cleaning cart, pushing it in front of him as he walked away. Sam watched him go, baffled by the strange interaction.
"What was that all about?" He asked.
Luis laughed good-naturedly. "Nothing. Ted owes me a favor. What're you up to this morning?"
Sam glanced back at the lieutenant, who was dressed in civvies rather than his uniform. "Work. The usual. What about you?"
"I'm headed into town. I'll walk with you to your office, c'mon." Luis said, tipping his head in the direction of the hallway. They fell into step beside one another, making their way deeper into the administrative section. When Sam got to his office, there was an envelope taped to his door. He pulled it down, pressing his identification badge against the reader set in the wall. The device blinked green, and then the locking mechanism disengaged with an audible click. Sam pushed open the door, flicking on the lights and setting his bag on the desk. He turned the envelope over in his hands, noticing his name in Donna's tidy scrawl written across the flap. Curious, Sam tore open the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he found what appeared to be a purchase invoice on an elegant letterhead from a company called Hall Madden Custom Suits in Los Angeles. Sam's eyes skipped over the budget lines, getting progressively wider as he noted the individual prices. When he saw the final cost, his heart almost stopped beating in his chest.
"I'm going to kill Dave Carter." Sam managed, faintly.
Luis grinned at him from where he stood leaning against the doorframe. "What is it?"
Wordlessly, Sam handed the purchase invoice to the other man. Luis accepted the piece of paper, glancing down at it. A moment later, he whistled, long and low. "Mierda. That must be some suit."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, accepting the invoice back with his other hand. It wasn't that he couldn't afford it, he had been receiving a salary since he started working again, but that wasn't the point. Who paid three thousand dollars for a suit? He gathered himself with no small effort, hand dropping away as he pinned Luis with a sardonic look. "I told him nothing fancy."
"Well, the cost includes all the accruements." Luis said, grinning.
"Not helpful." Sam replied dryly, glancing down at the invoice again. "A hundred dollars for a tie? It had better be plated in gold."
Luis laughed out loud, shaking his head. "Sorry, Sammy. I guess Carter wants you to make an impression."
"Don't call me that." Sam said absentmindedly, re-reading the invoice again. Suit jacket, slacks, three shirts, three ties. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the fifty-dollar charge for the garment bag. He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, tossing the invoice on the desk. "I'll deal with Carter later. I'll walk with you to reception, let's go."
Luis stepped into the hallway and Sam followed after him, pulling the door shut behind him. They made their way down the hall, taking several corners before the lobby came into sight. Donna glanced up as he approached, a knowing smile curling the corners of her mouth. Either his irritation was plain to see or Carter had given her a heads-up.
"Good morning, Mr. Ambassador." She said, standing to retrieve a cream-colored garment bag from where it lay draped over the back of a chair, "I've been asked to inform you that the cost of the suit is being expensed to the general budget line."
For some reason, that fact only nettled him further. He accepted the garment bag, folding it over his arm. "Thank-you Donna. Please tell Carter I want it expensed to my account. Prime's not paying for this."
Maybe the fact that Sam was paying for the suit himself would dissuade Dave from spending so much money the next time that he bought something on Sam's behalf. Donna nodded at him, resuming her seat behind the semi-circular reception desk. Sam turned, glancing at Luis who stood a short distance away. "How're you getting to town?"
Luis' expression became openly sardonic. "It's called a car. Granted, it doesn't transform, but it still gets me from A to B."
Sam rolled his eyes at the other man, "Smart ass. I didn't know you had a car."
"I'm just full of surprises." Luis replied dryly, pushing off the wall, "I've got to go. See you later?"
"Yeah, sure." Sam replied, "Drive safe."
He made his way back to the office, hanging the garment bag on the hook behind the door. He didn't have the mental fortitude to look at it, so he sat at his desk instead, booting up the computer. He unscrewed the cover to his travel mug, taking a sip of the steaming coffee before placing it safely out of the way. He opened his e-mail client, noticing the 32 new messages he had received since last night. His gaze settled on an e-mail near the top of his Inbox, time-stamped 6:42 AM and addressed from Hound. He clicked on it, unsurprised and amused to find a half-a-dozen pictures of the notorious pronghorn herd. There were a dozen or so antelope grazing on the scrubby brush a short distance from the perimeter fence. Their tan and white pelts stood out against the red sand, a distant mesa rising in the background. It was a nice picture, and Sam fired off a quick reply to the same effect. Then, he settled down to tackle the rest of the e-mails. He opened the oldest one, timestamped shortly after he had left the office the previous night.
He worked through lunch, stopping only to use the bathroom. He poked his head into the mail room on his way back to the office, surprised to find that his little cubby was stuffed full of envelopes and a small, brown box. Sam gathered it up, glancing at the package. A delighted smile spread across his face as he noticed the return address: Althea White, 421 Sonora Road, Ferndale, California. He hurried back to his office, pushing the door shut behind him and tossing the assortment of envelopes and memos onto the desk. He sat down, using a letter opening to cut through the tape. His throat closed up in emotion as he pulled two birthday cards out of the box. He opened them one at a time, reading the note that his grandmother had written for his twentieth birthday and then for his twenty-first. He could barely see the words through the tears that blurred his vision. She signed each one as she always did, "Love, Nanny" with an 'x' and an 'o' for every year that he was old.
He set the cards aside, thumbing the tears out of his eyes and glancing back inside the box. She had included an assortment of things in the care package—there was a hand-knitted scarf, soft and navy blue, a little bag of oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies, and a $20 gift card to her favorite diner in Ferndale. Sam's lips twitched up in amusement at the obvious hint, and then he pulled the last item out of the box. It was a 4x6 glossy picture of his grandmother, standing in front of her little Christmas tree. The picture had a thick red border and the words "Christmas 2019" stenciled at the top. Sam stared at the picture for a long time, trying to swallow against the emotion thickening his throat. He made a promise to himself then and there that he would speak with her as soon as he could, in person preferably, but if not, then by telephone. There was nothing stopping him anymore.
He set the two cards up on his desk and propped the picture against the base of his computer monitor. Then he opened the patterned cellophane bag, pulling out a cookie and taking a bite. It was soft and crumbly, the perfect blend of sweet and salty. His eyes fluttered shut in appreciation. No one made cookies like his grandmother. He ate slowly, savoring every bite and washing them down with lukewarm coffee. He saved two cookies for later, wrapping them up and tucking them into his messenger bag.
He glanced at the clock when he finished—it almost time for the debriefing. Sam finished the last of his coffee, before tidying up his desk and powering off his computer. He made his way to the washroom first, rinsing out his mug and tucking it into his bag, and then he used the toilet. Kevin from Finance was standing at the sinks when he finished, and they nodded to one another as they washed their hands. The older man held the door for him as they stepped back into the hall, and then they made their way to the conference room together.
The debriefing was shorter than usual. They spent half-an-hour going over a few last minute details for the Canadian delegation's visit. Sam learned that the reception was being held in a private room of Provence, an upscale Italian restaurant, and he wondered idly whether Optimus was trying to make a good impression. He wasn't sure why the Autobot leader would put in such an effort. They had already had good relations with the Canadians.
After the last minute details were ironed out, they spoke briefly about a charity event that was taking place in Las Vegas in the fall. Sam sincerely doubted that he would be going himself, but he listened all the same. After that, Ultra Magnus called the meeting to an end and Sam gathered up his things. He was going to be early for training, but that was fine. He liked hanging out in the hangar.
He nodded to Ultra Magnus and then he made his way out of the conference room. He dug the package of cookies out of his bag, eating them as he strolled through Logistics. By the time that he stepped onto the metal scaffold, he had finished the last of them. The hangar was quiet today, with only Ratchet standing near his workbench. The medic glanced in his direction as Sam started down the stairs, his footsteps ringing against the metal.
"My grandmother sent me a care package." Sam said as he approached, hands in his pockets.
"Yes, I know. You seemed very happy." Ratchet replied, turning back towards his work.
"I was." Sam agreed, stopping a short distance away, "I want to see her. She's not far."
"I am sure something can be arranged." Ratchet said, before glancing down at him, "Your feelings for her are… profound."
Sam's lips turned up in a wry smile. "Nannies are precious. They're to be cherished at all costs."
The medic ex-vented a snort, but his mental presence seemed contemplative. "Your attachment to her is different than your parents. Why so?"
"I don't know, it just is." Sam replied with a shrug, "Dad was the authoritative one, Ma fussed over me, and Nanny spoiled me rotten. It's what grandmothers do."
Ratchet seemed to consider this. "Your grandfather, was he also an authority figure?"
Sam huffed an amused laugh. "No way. Nanny ruled that house with an iron fist before Pops died. He was a quiet guy, liked fly fishing and oil painting. His den smelled like old books and cigarettes. It probably still does."
Ratchet crouched down in front of him, extending a servo towards him. Sam climbed on and the medic straightened up, setting Sam on the nearest berth. Trailbreaker lay two berths away, still and quiet except for the faint whirr of his inner workings. When Sam glanced back at Ratchet, it was to see him staring down at him with a thoughtful expression on his face. "How old were you when he died?"
The question caught Sam by surprise and he frowned faintly. "I was seven or eight, I don't remember exactly. I'm sure it's in a database somewhere if you really want to know." A familiar feeling of grief crept in on him, although it had softened over time. "He died from cancer. It runs in my mom's family. My Aunt Emily died from it when she was only forty-two years old."
"I'm sorry." Ratchet replied gruffly, almost uncomfortably, but his sympathy wasn't forced.
"I didn't really know her. She lived on the east coast, I only ever saw her at Christmas." Sam said, bringing himself back to the present with a mental shake. "Anyway, I want to see my grandmother. You'd like her, I think. She's super dry and bossy, just like you."
Ratchet ex-vented a sharp snort and Sam grinned up at him unapologetically. The medic turned back towards his workbench without another word, and Sam settled down on the berth. It was true that Ratchet and his grandmother would probably get along—either that or they'd kill each other, there was really no middle ground.
Sam pulled the datapad out of his bag, turning it on and navigating to the text-file he was currently reading. It was a collection of religious stories, fables and parables mostly. He balanced the datapad on his lap, munching on some trail mix as he read. He had just finished one story and was about to begin another when he felt Bumblebee's mental presence drawing nearer. He glanced towards the corridor and it wasn't long before he could hear the rumble of engines. He brushed against the winter-white glow in greeting and Bumblebee pressed back affectionately. Soon, the yellow Camaro pulled into the hangar, followed by a matte-black Jeep Wrangler, a Pontiac Solstice, and a sleek blue Kawasaki Ninja. The four vehicles slowed to a stop, transforming into their bipedal modes in a flurry of shifting metal.
Sam set the datapad aside, pushing to his feet and stepping to the edge of the berth. Bumblebee moved close, running a digit down the length of Sam's spine as he whistled at him affectionately.
"Hey you." Sam murmured, giving one of his faceplates a playful tug. "How was work?"
"It was wonderful." Hound answered, propping an elbow on the berth and leaning his weight against it, "Twelve antelope, three jackrabbits—"
"And a partridge in a pear tree?" Sam finished amusedly.
"There are no pear trees in Nevada." Hound replied, confusion coloring his voice. Arcee smirked as she approached, arms folded over her chassis. Sam smiled at him ruefully.
"It's a song, Hound. The Twelve Days of Christmas." He explained.
Hound's optics narrowed down to points, and then a moment later, irised open again. "Christmas carols, my goodness. How charming."
Sam huffed a good-natured laugh. "Yeah, they're nice. My favorite's Good King Wenceslas."
Hound nodded definitively, as though this fact fit neatly with what he already knew about Sam. Before the black and white Autobot could comment further, Jazz stepped up to the berth. "Afternoon, Hoss. How're you feeling after last night?"
Sam smiled wryly. Jazz had introduced him to the concept of pen-testing yesterday afternoon, and it had been a particularly challenging session. "You didn't scare me off, if that's what you're asking."
Hound sidestepped out of Jazz's way, making room for the second-in-command. As Jazz took his place, the sentry ambled over to Trailbreaker's berth, whistling softly at the prone mechanoid.
"That's good, because we'll be doing more of the same today. You ready?"
"As I'll ever be." Sam replied, lowering down to sit cross-legged on the berth. He dropped his firewalls without being told, staring up at Jazz as he waited for directions. Pen-testing was a means of slipping past the mental defenses of another mechanoid. It required skill, finesse, and control—three things that Sam was sorely lacking.
"Alright, I'm using a low-level filtering firewall. Go ahead." Jazz instructed.
Sam huffed a breath as he considered the indigo-colored glow in front of him. Although it looked no differently than it had a moment ago, Sam knew that Jazz had replaced his usual firewalls with something simpler for him to work on. He reached out, brushing against it. The spark signature felt faintly warm and tingly—the latter sensation, Sam knew, was from the filter that Jazz was using. He ghosted over its surface, trying to find a chink in its armor. After several minutes of looking, Sam made a frustrated noise and glanced up at the second-in-command.
"Is there even anything to find?" He asked sarcastically. He had learned the hard way that Jazz often changed the rules without telling him.
"Yes." Jazz replied patiently. "You need to focus. An enemy combatant isn't going to throw open the doors for you."
Sam snorted softly, turning his attention back towards the neural-network. He smoothed over the glowing node, trying to find any blemish in its surface texture or appearance, but he couldn't find a thing.
"You're being too cursory." Arcee informed him matter-of-factly, "Take your time. Pen-testing is about finesse, not speed."
Sam didn't reply, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he tried to follow her instructions. His entire world narrowed down to the indigo-colored glow in front of him. It felt like a long time before he finally found it, a miniscule divot in the surface of the firewall.
"Got it." He said.
"Good job." Jazz replied, "Now try getting past my defenses."
Sam glanced up at him in surprise. In all the time that they had worked together, there had been one immutable rule: don't press in. "Are you sure?"
Jazz looked back at him expectantly. "Yes, Sam. I'm sure. Surface-level intrusion only. Go ahead."
Sam shrugged, turning his attention inwards and focusing on the divot. He pressed in, like applying pressure to the shell of an egg. Nothing happened. He narrowed his eyes, pressing harder. Still, nothing happened.
He glanced uncertainly up at Jazz. "Am I doing it right?"
The second-in-command nodded encouragingly. "Put your back into it. You aren't going to hurt me, I've got you."
Sam took a deep breath, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Gathering himself, he tried again, applying a steadily building pressure to the divot until, at last, it gave way—or rather, until he slipped through. The filter itself remained in place. He could feel the surface-level of Jazz's mind, a muted combination of thought and emotion and sensation. A moment later, he found himself back on the neural-network.
"Good job, Sam." Jazz praised, holding his servo up for a high-five. Sam huffed a weary-sounding laugh, pressing his palm against the cool metal. The saboteur smiled in response. "Now go again, faster this time."
Sam took a deep breath, exhaling through pursed lips, and then he obeyed. Jazz and Arcee gave him instructions as he worked, correcting his technique as required. By the third time that Sam was dumped back onto the neural-network, he thought he was getting the hang of it. Jazz flashed a razor-sharp grin at him as soon as the thought crossed his mind.
"Well then, we'll just have to try something a little harder." He said, nodding to him, "Go ahead. You're on the clock."
Sam rubbed his face into the crook of his arm, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. "What do I get if I win?"
Jazz rumbled a good-natured laugh. "Bragging rights."
"I'd prefer cash, thanks." Sam replied dryly, turning his attention back towards the neural-network. This time when he approached the indigo-colored glow, however, it darted away from him. He rolled his eyes with enough force to set off a pounding headache, "There's always something."
"There's always something." Jazz agreed. "Better hurry, the clock's ticking."
The saboteur's serene tone goaded Sam and he narrowed his eyes in response. He could feel Bumblebee's amusement and Ratchet's scrutiny, but he pushed the sensations away to focus on giving chase. He could tell that Jazz wasn't actually trying to outpace him—Sam caught up with him easily enough—but the second-in-command was definitely making him work for it. He braced his hands against his knees, grounding himself as he reached for Jazz's signature. He could tell at once that the second-in-command wasn't using a simple filter. The indigo-glow prickled against his mind like static electricity. The knowledge that Jazz had added another layer of complication to their game irritated Sam to his core.
"Pay attention." Jazz interrupted his thoughts, nudging him disapprovingly.
Sam gritted his teeth, focusing all of his attention inwards. It was only a moment before he found what he was looking for—a tiny imperfection against the otherwise smooth surface of the spark signature. Sam felt a rush of triumph as he gathered himself up, applying pressure against the divot. At first, nothing happened. Then, remembering how he had gotten through Blitzwing's defenses, Sam narrowed his mental presence like the point of a blade, and slid in hard and fast.
Three things happened in quick succession.
First, he felt a directionless swell of surprise and alarm and pain as he found himself deep inside Jazz's processors. Sam was completely disoriented, with no sense of up or down. He felt Bumblebee and Ratchet shift forward, scrambling for him, but they never got the chance. At the same time, something slammed into Sam's mind with the force of a wrecking ball. His vision exploded in a riot of light and color, and then everything went black.
Ratchet watched Sam's eyes roll back in his head as he collapsed against the berth. He pushed Arcee aside, his holoform materializing as the boy started convulsing. Ratchet was aware of Jazz, bent over and ex-venting sharply, but he seemed none the worse for wear. His boundary protection protocols had mediated the brunt of Sam's unwitting attack.
At the same time, Bumblebee's holoform materialized at Sam's side. His hands flew to the boy's shoulders, pressing him down against the berth.
"Let go of him." Ratchet snapped harshly, and Bumblebee jerked away as though he had been scalded. The medic guided Sam onto his side, cushioning his head with a folded square of metalmesh. He watched the timer on his primary visual display as the seconds ticked by. As the one-minute mark passed with no signs of the seizure abating, his spark clenched in its casing and he moved to prepare the gurney. His sensors were providing a constant stream of data about Sam's blood pressure, heart rate, body temperature, and oxygen saturation that caused a cascade of warnings to flash across his visual display. Ratchet shunted them aside for the moment, composing a brief message to Hoist and flagging it with high-priority signifiers.
As Ratchet quickly and efficiently arranged the equipment that he might need, he became aware of the simmering tension in the room. The others stood around the berth, watching in silence as Sam convulsed against the polished metal. Their overlapping electromagnetic fields were awash with concern and anxiety and guilt. Ratchet looked sharply over his shoulder.
"Get out, all of you. I will keep you informed."
No one argued with him. Jazz, Hound, and Arcee transformed, accelerating across the hangar and disappearing down the far tunnel. Bumblebee didn't move from where he stood at Sam's side. Ratchet joined him a moment later, staring down at Sam as he finally stopped seizing.
2:17:01. A long seizure, but not as bad as it could have been.
Sam moaned softly, his eyelids fluttering as he came back around. His mental presence was sluggish and disoriented, his thoughts slipping away as soon as they entered his mind, disappearing like water through a sieve. Through it all, Sam's neural connections burned from the after-effects of Jazz's counter-attack. Ratchet grimaced internally. It had been a brutal blow.
His holoform crouched down, brushing the sweaty hair away from Sam's forehead.
"Sam?" He murmured, "Can you open your eyes for me?" The boy's head lolled to the side, and Ratchet gently took his face in his hands. "Sam?"
Slowly, Sam squinted open his eyes. His gaze was unfocused and dazed, but his pupils were equal and reactive. He pushed weakly at Ratchet's holoform, broadcasting a tumultuous mixture of confusion and fear across their bond.
"You're alright." Ratchet soothed, "You've had a seizure. Can you sit up for me?"
His words washed over Sam's mind without a flicker of comprehension in response. Ratchet ex-vented a quiet sigh, reaching for the boy with both servos. Sam recoiled with a weak moan, and the medic could tell that it was pain, not fear, that motivated his actions.
"It's alright, you're safe." Ratchet said gently, "You'll be more comfortable on the gurney. Would you prefer if Bumblebee helped you?" He asked, gesturing towards the scout. Bumblebee whistled softly at the boy, presenting his servos towards him.
"Don't touch me." Sam rasped, pleadingly.
Ratchet ex-vented another sigh, knowing full well what he must do.
"If you remember any of this, then know that I am sorry." Ratchet said gruffly, earning a sharp look from Bumblebee. He could tell that his words had no effect on Sam, who was lying with his face pressed against the berth. Ratchet shifted into the boy's mind, ignoring the sharp flare of surprise and confusion. Thankfully, Sam was still so disoriented that he had no idea what was happening, and between one moment and the next, he was deep in stasis. Ratchet initiated a medical scan, conducting a thorough check of his condition. When the analysis returned only a handful of low-level alerts, his optics flicked towards Bumblebee.
"He'll be fine. A week in stasis, perhaps more, but there should be no adverse effects."
Bumblebee nodded, before turning to meet the medic's gaze. His expression was openly troubled. "How was he able to do that?"
Ratchet gathered Sam up in his servos, stepping around the berth to lay him on the gurney. The boy's face was waxy and pale against the stark cotton sheets. "I don't know." He eventually admitted.
The scout's electromagnetic field roiled with apprehension and concern. "Ratchet—"
"Enough." Ratchet cut him off sharply, "This is not the time for speculation. We will discuss the matter with Jazz after I have tended to Sam. You will assist me until Hoist arrives."
Bumblebee's optics roved over Ratchet's face for a moment longer and then he nodded in acceptance.
"Good." Ratchet replied tersely, "Remove his clothes and wash him off. I'll prepare the IV and Foley catheter. Mind his mouth—he bit his tongue when he started seizing."
Bumblebee nodded again, his holoform materializing at Sam's side. Ratchet watched as he unbuttoned the boy's shirt, sliding the material over his shoulders with infinite care. He took off his shoes next, untying the laces and pulling them off his feet. The holoform talked to Sam as he worked, his voice pitched low and soothing. As he began to pull off the boy's sodden jeans, Ratchet's holoform took shape next to the IV stand. He hung a bag of fluids, unspooling the tubing and preparing the cannula. As he worked, Ratchet's attention was focused on the Creator bond, ever vigilant for the slightest indication of distress. That he felt nothing did little to assuage the concern that gripped Ratchet's spark like a vice.