Notes: Author's Note: Thank-you so much for joining me on this wild ride.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
EPILOGUE
I. Ratchet
Ratchet turned the hydrospanner over in his servos, frowning down at it. The power cells were almost depleted, but it was the tension adjuster that was causing the malfunction. He adjusted the zoom on his optics, noting the hairline crack in the metal. It would need to be replaced, and unfortunately, they didn't have the resources to do so. Terran metals were too soft to withstand the friction generated by the device, and there were no other parts to spare. Perhaps Wheeljack could jerry-rig something, but he doubted it.
The medic made a sound of disgust deep in his intakes, tossing the equipment onto the workbench. The war had been long and difficult, but the last few mega-vorns had weighed heavily on his shoulders. They were short on nearly everything—supplies, equipment, reinforcements, fuel. At least they had secured a steady supply of energon. That was one less thing for him to worry about.
His brooding was interrupted by the rumble of engines in the Munitions tunnel. He sent a cursory ping, which came back a moment later with two ident-codes: Jazz and Ultra Magnus. Ratchet grimaced internally. He had been expecting them, or someone else, eventually. He turned, watching as the Pontiac Solstice and the car-carrier trailer drove into the large hangar. They rolled to a stop just outside of the alcove, transforming in a cacophony of shifting metal and moving parts.
Ratchet noticed Jazz's dorsal panel grinding against his aft plate as he finished his transformation. The medic frowned, annoyed. He had just fixed that.
The second-in-command strolled into the makeshift medical bay, an easy grin on his faceplates. "Hey, Hatchet. How's it hummin'?"
Ratchet directed a cool look at the saboteur. "I'm working, as you well know. What do you want?"
Jazz propped an elbow strut against the nearest berth, leaning his weight against it. "We need to talk. You know, about the kid."
Ultra Magnus gave Jazz a disapproving look, before turning to face Ratchet. "Has there been no improvement?"
Ratchet regarded the City Commander, considering his response. It had been four days since Sam's rescue. His injuries were healing well—the fever had resolved in twelve hours, the welts had gone down shortly thereafter. Even the incisions were showing marked improvement, a testament to the healing factor that Silas had been so keen to exploit.
The concern was no longer his physical condition, but rather his emotional one. Sam was withdrawing into himself, pushing away all of those around him. He had become quiet and taciturn, a jarring deviation from his usual tendency to chatter at length. Ratchet had seen this behavior once before, three years ago. Sam's slow decline in the aftermath of Egypt had been a sobering lesson in his own impotence.
"No." He admitted eventually, "But neither is he any worse."
Ultra Magnus frowned in response. "He still insists on leaving the embassy. I have been unable to deter him."
Jazz chuckled, folding his arms over his chassis. "Yeah, the kid is stubborn when he wants to be. He's almost as bad as Prime."
The City Commander fixed him with a cool look. "Your facetiousness is unhelpful."
"What would you suggest instead?" Jazz asked dryly. "He won't talk to me."
Ratchet felt a twinge of disquiet at the reminder. Sam wasn't outright avoiding them, but only Bumblebee had been able to draw him out of his shell, and even then, their conversations were stilted and one-sided.
"Perhaps the therapist will help." Ultra Magnus rumbled.
"He won't talk to her, either." Ratchet replied, distractedly. He had suggested that very thing to Sam earlier that morning. The boy had refused, pointblank, and Ratchet had unwisely pressed the issue. The result was a rare but explosive display of Sam's temper—he was sure they must have heard him shouting in the ground bridge hangar. Sam had stormed off afterwards, courtesy of Bumblebee, and he hadn't returned since. The scout was keeping him abridged of Sam's condition, but otherwise Ratchet was leaving well enough alone. Sam's temper burned like an ignition flare, hot and sharp and short-lived. He would come back after he had cooled off.
"Something must be done." Ultra Magnus said, pulling Ratchet back to himself, "It is beginning to cause discontent."
Ratchet grimaced. The reaction to Sam's abuse, as well as the subsequent fallout after Bishop's arrest, had been varied. While most mechanoids had expressed some degree of anger or concern, others were far more vocal about their outrage. Bulkhead and Sunstreaker had been particularly offended by the disrespect afforded by the United States. Ultra Magnus had had to reassign the wrecker to Diego Garcia, lest Sam or another human overhear the vitriol that he was spitting to anyone who would listen.
"Bumblebee will talk to him." Ratchet said at last, "He has been successful in persuading Sam to speak with Karen in the past."
Ultra Magnus frowned faintly, as though in contemplation. He turned to look at Jazz. "Has Prime decided on a course of action?"
The second-in-command shook his helm. "No, not yet."
"Neither option is particularly appealing." Ratchet added gruffly.
Sam's insistence on leaving the embassy was a logistics nightmare. Diego Garcia was better fortified and easier to defend, but the likelihood of a Decepticon attack was significant—and that said nothing of Megatron's presence, which was prohibitive in and of itself. The embassy was less likely to be the target of an attack by Shockwave, but bitter experience had taught them the untrustworthiness of their supposed allies. They could prohibit the Americans from entering the property—it was considered Cybertronian soil, after all—but the point was moot if Sam refused to stay there.
As though following his train of thought, Ultra Magnus canted his helm. "Prime could order him to remain at the embassy. Sam is a ward of Cybertron, by their laws and our own."
Jazz folded his arms over his chassis, giving the City Commander a skeptical look. "Do you really think that giving him an ultimatum is the smart move, here?"
"It is not ideal, no, but needs will out." Ultra Magnus replied evenly.
"And if he refuses?" Jazz returned.
The City Commander looked taken aback by the question. "He is compelled to obey Prime's orders."
Jazz stared at him before asking, with genuine curiosity, "Have you ever met Sam before? Or any other human, for that matter?"
Ultra Magnus stiffened in affront. "He is young and headstrong, but he can be made to see reason."
"Sam's a lot of things, but right now, reasonable isn't one of them."
Ultra Magnus frowned deeply. "He will do as Prime bids him."
Jazz rolled his optics, an impressively human mannerism by any metric. "And how do you think that'll go?" He asked, all dry sarcasm, "The Boss commands him to stay, Sam refuses, and … what? We throw him in the brig? 'Cause, I gotta tell you Ultra Magnus, if you think there's discord in the ranks now, Sam's open rebellion won't help matters."
The City Commander frowned again. "He adjusted to his transferal to Diego Garcia. In time, he will do the same for the embassy."
"Where else was he going to go? The Pacific?" Jazz asked mildly, "In case it's escaped your notice, Jasper isn't an island. Nothing's stopping him from leaving."
The saboteur's words pulled Ratchet up short. Unbidden, the memory of Sam's rescue rose up in his processors. The boy had paled when Ratchet began tending his wounds, and Bumblebee had distracted him with ideas of travel. Sam had settled, his blood pressure and heart rate lowering closer to baseline normal as they talked. At the time, Ratchet had filed it away as another example of the mammalian relaxation response, but perhaps there was more to it than that.
He reset his vocoder, before glancing at the two mechanoids. "We could send him away."
Ultra Magnus and Jazz stopped arguing long enough to look at him.
"Are your audials malfunctioning?" Jazz asked dryly, "There's nowhere to send him."
Ratchet narrowed his optics in warning—he had a hydrospanner with Jazz's name on it, and no qualms about using it. "Not permanently, no, but other accommodations could be made."
Jazz canted his helm, staring at Ratchet with the same uncanny scrutiny that Prowl was renowned for. "What're you thinking, Doc?"
Ratchet made a considerate sound, deep inside his intakes. "Sam has strong familial bonds to his progenitors. They contributed greatly to his recovery in the weeks following his rescue from the Nemesis."
"Ronald and Judith Witwicky are living in Tucson, Arizona." Ultra Magnus rumbled, "The area is densely populated. We could not guarantee Sam's safety, or the safety of the local populace."
Ratchet rolled his pauldrons in a shrug. "He has a maternal grandmother in California, two paternal grandparents in Chicago, and extended relatives in Boston. I believe a change of scenery would do him good."
Jazz made a considerate sound. "It would give us some time, anyway. To figure something out."
"It would require a great deal of coordination." Ultra Magnus replied, but his tone was thoughtful rather than dismissive, "The United States would need to be involved."
Jazz turned to look at the City Commander, snorting in derision. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"It is unavoidable, loath though I am to admit it." Ultra Magnus rumbled, "Sam may have diplomatic immunity, but that does not allow him, or us, to travel with impunity inside their borders."
Jazz grimaced in distaste. "I guess Mearing or Thatcher could arrange it. They seem to be the least duplicitous of the bunch." He glanced at Ratchet, "You realize this'll only be a temporary solution? We could give him a week, perhaps more, but every additional day increases the risk of an attack."
Ratchet ex-vented a sigh, suddenly feeling every klik of his old age, "It will have to do."
Jazz pushed away from the berth, shrugging expressively. "Alright, I'll talk to the Boss."
II. Optimus Prime
Optimus entered the command center, striding to the boat-shaped table in the middle of the room. Prowl stood at the communications terminal, servos flying across the control pad. He glanced up at Optimus approached, inclining his helm in greeting.
"Prime."
"Prowl." He replied in kind, "Is the call ready?"
"Yes." Prowl replied, stepping aside so that Optimus could take his place, "President Davis is waiting."
The command center was empty except for Dave Carter, who sat at the table on the mezzanine. The personal assistant was at eye-level with the large view screen that hung on the opposite wall. The monitor was dark except for the Autobot emblem that took up the center of the screen. There was a small green light blinking in the top left-hand corner, indicating that the line was live.
Optimus straightened his back, letting the green light blink for a moment longer, and then he activated the connection. Immediately, the visage of President Adam Davis filled the screen. The older man was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. The rose garden was visible through the windows behind him.
"Prime, thank-you for taking my call." Davis began.
"President Davis." Optimus replied, coolly, "My third-in-command indicated that your reason for calling was urgent."
Davis inclined his head, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. "It is. I want to formally express my condolences, on behalf of the United States, for the incident involving your Ambassador. I hope these terrible events will not impact the positive relationship between our two peoples."
Anger quickened Optimus' fuel pump, and he narrowed his optics fractionally in response.
"The incident involving my Ambassador." He repeatedly, flatly, "I am afraid you will need to be more specific."
A fissure of confusion flitted across President Davis' face. "His kidnapping, of course."
"His kidnapping." Optimus replied evenly, "Does your apology extend also to his torture and attempted murder?"
The President visibly grimaced. "Yes, it does. Of course it does."
"Of course." The Autobot leader echoed coldly, "And it only took you five days."
Davis, who had previously appeared flustered, sat up straighter in his chair. "We have issued a press release, condemning the attack in the strongest possible terms. I will also be speaking to the White House Press this evening. I would like to reaffirm our mutual friendship for both the American people and the world."
Optimus rumbled, low in his chassis. "Your words are nothing but baseless pleasantry, Mr. President. Not without action."
He did not need to elaborate. He had made his expectations perfectly clear to Thatcher and Mearing, who would have reported it to their Commander-in-Chief. He could tell by the grim twist of Davis' mouth that the man knew exactly what Optimus was implying.
"Lieutenant Novo and the other apprehended members of MECH are being brought up on state and federal charges." The President said, "You have my word that they will experience the full brunt of the American judicial system."
Optimus narrowed his optics, allowing his displeasure to leak into his voice. "And Bishop?"
The President's expression did something complicated—a twist of his lips, a tightness in his brow—but he replied readily enough. "Former Colonel Leland Bishop is being brought up on charges of kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, trespassing, conspiracy against the United States, and advocating to overthrow the government."
Optimus felt a twist of black anger at the pronouncement. He stared at the view screen, waiting in silence. The moment stretched on, taut, until Davis coughed into his fist.
"There will be some negotiations, between Bishop's lawyers and the prosecutor, of course, but we are confident—"
"And what of the charge for murder?" Optimus asked tightly.
Davis frowned, clearly taken aback by the question. "Witwicky was drowned, but he survived. You can't—"
"I was referring to the mechanoid." Optimus said, interrupting him again.
Comprehension broke over Davis' face. "Oh, of course. The mechanoid." He cleared his throat, uncomfortably, "I was led to understand that it wasn't one of yours."
Optimus stiffened at the insinuation underlying his words. He leaned forward until his visage filled the monitor, optics hard and narrowed. "Breakdown was a mechanoid, regardless of his faction, and he was murdered in cold blood, in accordance with Bishop's orders." His voice dropped, until it was a dark rumble, "Tell me of your plans for justice, Mr. President, and I will tell you of our mutual friendship."
President Davis flushed in response, an ugly maroon spreading across his face like spilled wine. "Now see here, Prime, you can't strong-arm—"
"Iraq, 2019. Benghazi, 2012. Yemen, 2008. Pakistan, 2006. Kenya and Tanzania, 1998. I can go on." Optimus said, speaking over the blustering man, "History is rife with examples of attacks on US diplomatic facilities. Each time, the United States has demanded unwavering response from its host governments." Davis had stopped speaking mid-sentence, and Optimus fixed him with a narrowed stare. "I will take a page from your history books, President Davis, and demand due process for Bishop and his co-conspirators. I will accept nothing less."
Davis recovered himself, narrowing his eyes in return. "Is that a threat?"
"You may perceive my words however you wish, so long as you act on them." Optimus replied. "I will watch your press release with great interest."
The Autobot leader disconnected the call before the President could reply. He stood for a long moment, staring sightlessly at the video monitor, when he heard a hesitant laugh behind him. He half-turned, angling his helm to look at Dave who had come to stand by the railing of the mezzanine.
"Well, I'd say that our popularity in Washington just tanked." He said good-naturedly.
Optimus inclined his helm, but before he could reply, a ping flashed across his primary visual display. The blinking notification had neither ident-codes nor signifiers, rending it virtually anonymous. Optimus frowned deeply. It was standard procedure to include caste, faction, and designation tags on all communications frequencies, except for Spec Ops, and that narrowed down the list of potential senders significantly. He pinged Jazz a status query, receiving his second-in-command's reply an astrosecond later.
The Autobot leader glanced at his personal assistant. "Forgive me, Dave. A matter has arisen that requires my attention."
The personal aid nodded in understanding, before gathering up his things. Optimus turned to regard Prowl, who was watching him closely. The ping continued blinking at him, insistently. The Autobot leader keyed up his defensive protocols, watching the encryption code scroll across the corner of his primary visual display. When his systems-check returned all-clear, he accepted the connection.
At once, an inflectionless voice filled his processors. /Optimus Prime./
Soundwave.
Optimus compiled a data packet, pinging Prowl the pertinent details. The third-in-command nodded once, perfunctorily, before his servos flew across the control pad in front of him.
/Soundwave./ Optimus pinged in reply, /I assume you have a reason for this subterfuge?/
He had spoken with Soundwave in person just five days ago, when he had enlisted the surveillance operative's assistance in removing the Mission City footage from the Internet. Soundwave had agreed, although he had not stated his price. Optimus had a creeping suspicion that the time had come to settle the debt.
/Discretion is prudent./ Soundwave replied, his mental voice lacking the flat, metallic edge of his vocoder.
Optimus glanced at Prowl, who was running a thorough systems sweep. The strategist shook his helm without raising his head. No security breach.
The Autobot leader pinged him an acknowledgment, before asking Soundwave, /What of the leaked footage?/
/It has been contained./ Soundwave replied, direct and to the point.
Optimus did not ask for specifics, as he was certain the surveillance operative would not provide them. Instead, he inclined his helm. /You have my gratitude./
/I do not require your gratitude, Prime./ Soundwave replied, his ping devoid of any signifiers or emphasis glyphs, /I require my due./
The Autobot leader narrowed his optics. /You did not state your price./
/I do so now./ Soundwave replied, /Megatron./
Optimus stiffened from helm to pede as his battle protocols tried to come online. He shunted them aside, ruthlessly, before he said, /Megatron is not a bargaining chip./
It took several seconds before the surveillance chief replied. /You will comply./
Optimus tightened his servos into fists. /Megatron will be tried for his crimes, Soundwave. I will not release him, to you or to any other./
/I do not require his freedom, only his life./ Soundwave replied, before adding, /You will comply, Optimus Prime. Honor demands it./
The Autobot leader's fans whirred with the effort of dispersing the heat of his anger. /Do not speak to me of what honor demands. I know it well./
/Do you?/ Soundwave asked.
Optimus frowned deeply. He had the distinct impression that he was being maneuvered, and he did not like it. Soundwave was known for his machinations ever since his rise to power in the Senate. He had been ruthlessly manipulative, even then.
/Speak plainly, Soundwave./ The Autobot leader rumbled in reply, /I am in no mood for your games./
The reply was immediate. /You will spare Megatron's life, as I have spared the boy's./
Optimus stilled, his fuel-pump missing a beat. /The compound?/
/The Nemesis./ Soundwave replied.
A moment later, Optimus received a condensed data packet. It was simple binary, too small to contain a virus, but he regarded it with suspicion.
/What is this?/ He demanded.
/The truth./
The Autobot leader scanned the packet, but it returned no alerts of any kind. He pinged it to Prowl for a second opinion, and it took the third-in-command less than a kilk to arrive at the same conclusion. If Soundwave had encrypted the packet with a virus or other malevolent software, it was beyond their ability to detect it.
Frowning, Optimus decompressed the packet. It was a list of memory files, time-stamped to the astrosecond. They were brief, each less than a kilk, but they told him everything.
Soundwave, shifting through Sam's mind as Megatron held it open for him. The boy convulsed on the floor, bleeding from his nose. Megatron watched on, predatory and intent.
Soundwave's surprise as he realized the young Prime held the knowledge of the Allspark inside his mind. Safe and secure, waiting to be released.
Soundwave tasking Ravage with the boy's well being. The cyber cat regarded him, head tipped to the side, as she pingedher acknowledgment.
Soundwave, burrowed deep inside Sam's mind during his captivity, silent and observing.
Soundwave's disapproval as Megatron brutalized the boy, using both pain and pleasure to punish him.
Optimus stiffened as the memory flashed through his processors in vivid detail. It had been one thing to learn about Sam's abuse, but it was another thing entirely to experience it for himself.
Soundwave planting the idea of Sam's rescue in Deadlock's mind, nurturing it like a flame.
Soundwave intercepting Growl's message to the tactical network, and then ensuring the ground bridge hangar remained unlocked during the rescue.
Soundwave drawing Thundercracker to him, despite the Seeker's uncertainty, and guiding him towards the truth—knowing the outcome would spell Megatron's downfall.
The Autobot leader ex-vented sharply as the last datum ended. The shift in his mood was so profound that it felt like a change in gravity.
/Why?/ He asked softly.
/You know why./ Soundwave replied.
Of course he did. Sam held the knowledge of the Allspark inside his mind—fragments perhaps, but it was all that was left of a shared history that spanned a billion years. Soundwave was first and foremost a Carrier-class mechanoid. It was hard-coded into his base programming.
Optimus shuttered his optics. /Sam is not a cassette./
Soundwave's reply was longer to come, but it was no less certain when it did. /Irrelevant./
The Autobot leader did not immediately reply. He reviewed the files for a second time—all but one, which would remain unopened. He would send the packet to Jazz and Prowl for analysis, but he was certain the datum had not been falsified.
/I will not release Megatron, but I will spare his life./ He pinged at last, adding grimly, /As honor demands./
The surveillance chief sent a terse acknowledgment, and then the comm frequency disappeared. Optimus ex-vented softly, tipping his helm and shuttering his optics. Prowl watched in silence, waiting for him to speak. It took Optimus a long moment before he felt composed enough to do so.
"Assemble the senior officers." He intoned, glancing sidelong at the strategist, "And inform Ultra Magnus that I must speak with him immediately."
Prowl inclined his helm. "Ultra Magnus is meeting with Thatcher and Mearing regarding Sam's travel arrangements. Shall I direct him to reschedule?"
Optimus shook his helm, before turning to look at Dave who was standing halfway down the gantry. The personal assistant was watching him, sharp-eyed and knowing.
"I'm on it." He said, before Optimus had the chance to speak, "I'll head over now."
"Thank-you, Dave." Optimus replied, solemn and sincere, "Please do whatever is necessary to ensure his safety and privacy during this time."
"No problem." Dave replied, already striding down the gantry towards the stairs. Not for the first time, Optimus was grateful for the man's calm competency.
He turned back towards Prowl, "I will be in my office. Contact me when the senior officers have arrived."
The strategist inclined his helm in acknowledgment. Optimus nodded his thanks, turning to leave, before he pulled up short. He turned back around, fixing his third-in-command with a serious look. "And Prowl?"
The mechanoid glanced up, meeting Prime's optics.
/This is an internal matter. Major Lennox will be briefed in due time./
Prowl dipped his helm in understanding, before returning to his work. Optimus watched him for a long moment, wondering how his senior officers would inevitably react to what he had to tell them. He allowed himself to dwell on it for only a moment, before turning and walking out of the command center.
III. Sam
Sam drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair, staring straight ahead. Karen sat in front of him, her expression soft and concerned. His eyes were glued on the clock that was affixed to the wall over her left shoulder. He just had to suffer through this for another forty minutes, and then he could leave.
"Sam, please." Karen tried again, "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to say." He replied.
"There's nothing to say?" She asked skeptically, "You were kidnapped and tortured, for a second time, and you don't have anything you want to get off your chest?"
Not to you. Sam thought, but didn't say. Instead, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "I'm managing."
Karen regarded him for a long moment, concern furrowing her brow. "I don't think you are."
Sam resisted the urge to snap at her. Instead, he leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. The office was smaller than their usual meeting space. He had refused to come unless they met at the far end of logistics, near the exit to the munitions hangar. They were well within Bumblebee's sensor range, and nowhere near the maintenance tunnel entrance. Still, he felt uncomfortable and unsafe.
Eventually, Karen sighed. "If you won't talk to me, then will you at least listen?"
Sam shrugged dismissively. "I'm all yours for another thirty-seven minutes."
In his periphery vision, he saw Karen lean forward in her seat. "I think you're backsliding, Sam. I think that you're pushing everyone away from you, and I think that you're hurting."
Sam's shoulders were so tight that it was giving him a tension headache. "I've been down this road before. I can handle it."
"No, you haven't." Karen replied calmly, "This is nothing like what happened on board the Nemesis."
He lifted his head and looked her in the eye for the first time since stepping into the office. "I was kidnapped and tortured by a psychopath with delusions of grandeur. That sounds pretty similar to me."
If Karen was put off by the sarcastic bite in his words, she didn't show it. "Silas wasn't an alien dictator. MECH was not an alien army. These were people, and they treated you like an object. We've discussed your struggles with feeling other before."
A muscle jumped in Sam's jaw, but he shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm used to it by now."
Karen's expression softened. "Sam, what Luis did—"
Sam sat up in his chair, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Don't."
"Don't what?" She asked, canting her head to the side.
"Just don't." He bit back, "I'm not talking about him. Not now, not ever."
Karen sighed deeply. "Do you think you can unpack everything that's happened without confronting his betrayal?"
A rush of hot anger pounded through him. He narrowed his eyes, leaning forward as he ground out, "I'm only going to say this once: my friend, Luis, died in that maintenance tunnel with Ted, and I don't give a shit about Agent Novo. The next time you mention his name is the last time that I meet with you."
Karen regarded him for a long moment, her eyes roving over his face. His seriousness must have been plain for her to see, for she tipped her head in acquiescence. "Alright, Sam. I understand. We all have hard limits."
Unable to maintain eye contact in the face of her soft sincerity, Sam looked away. His eyes skipped over the nondescript office until they settled once again on the clock. The second hand ticked steadily by as Karen watched him watching the time. After several minutes had passed in silence, she leaned forward, wrapping her hands around her knee.
"Do you trust me not to hurt you, Sam?"
Sam flinched away as though she had slapped him. His eyes found hers as his heart began beating erratically inside his chest. "What?"
Karen's voice was very gentle as she repeated her question. "Do you trust me not to hurt you?"
Her question twisted inside his ribs like the blade of a knife. His eyes fell away from hers, as a hot flush spread across his face. His breath was coming faster now, too fast, and Karen shifted forward in concern.
"You're okay, Sam." She said firmly, "Let's take a slow, deep breath."
He couldn't do it. His breath was coming faster still, high pitched and wheezing, making his lungs burn. It was a familiar, hated feeling and it tipped him over into a full-fledged panic attack. His hands flew to his collar, numb fingers tugging desperately at the buttons as he tried to breathe.
Karen was there then, kneeling at his side. She was talking to him, low and soothing, but he couldn't make sense of the words. He was distantly aware of Bumblebee's concern and Ratchet's scrutiny—he reached for them, blindly. Karen guided him down until his head rested between his knees, talking to him the entire while. Eventually, the words niggled through the fog of his panic.
"In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, Sam, you can do it."
He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to obey.
"That's it, Sam. Good. You're doing great." She said encouragingly, "And again. All the way into your belly."
He took a shuddering breath, and then another. Karen crouched beside him the entire while, talking him through it. Eventually, the high-pitched rattle of his breathing slowed down and evened out.
"Do you think you could sit up?" She asked softly.
Sam nodded faintly, straightening up and sitting back in the chair. Karen smiled warmly as she stood and crossed the room, retrieving a bottle of water from the desk behind her. She resumed her seat and extended the bottle towards him. Sam accepted it with shaking hands, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink.
"We've touched on something important here, Sam." Karen said.
Sam drank his water slowly. It was lukewarm, but it washed away the metallic taste of fear in his mouth.
"Trust is a cornerstone of the therapy process." She continued gently, "I can't help you if you don't trust me."
Sam gripped the bottle until the plastic crumpled beneath his fingers.
"Would you feel more comfortable with another therapist?" She asked, without a hint of judgment or offense in her voice.
Sam shook his head faintly, unable to reply around the lump in his throat.
"Alright." She said, "Alright, Sam."
Sam took another drink of water, giving himself time to piece his words together. The bottle was empty by the time he forced himself to look her in the face.
"It's not you." He said softly. "It's everyone."
There was understanding and compassion reflected in her eyes.
"I know." She replied, "Can you trust me to work with you, at least? To help you, to the best of my ability?"
He closed his eyes. "I don't know."
"That's alright, Sam." Karen said gently, "We'll figure it out together."
IV. Megatron
It was dark and quiet inside his holding cell. The narrow space was situated against the back wall of the hangar, which was empty except for the Elite Guard who stood beside the door. The Autobot watched him in silence, the blue of his optics standing out in the gloom. Megatron returned his stare, a smirk curling the corners of his mouthplates. The grizzled veteran did not react to the provocation. A disappointment—he had enjoyed toying with the Security Director, before the mechanoid had been reassigned.
He was kneeling against the wall, his servos bound behind him by stasis cuffs. The low-level electricity tingled up his forearms. An annoyance, but one that was easily ignored. The stasis cuffs blocked access to all but his base functions, which was a far greater aggravation. He longed to power his fusion canons, to feel the rush of capacitors charging as he blew his way out of this room and through the Autobot ranks. Nothing would bring him greater satisfaction.
He had emerged from stasis over six orns ago. His injuries had been tended, and his weapons and armor had been removed—a fact that had driven him into a rage. It was only then that he learned the stasis cuffs had been modified to subdue him at the first sign of violence. He had been left twitching on the floor of his cell, powerless and seething, until the stun effect wore off. That had been his last act of physical aggression. He knelt in silence as the joors passed, waiting. He had lived for deca-vorns in the pits. This was nothing in comparison.
The monotony was interrupted only by the change of his guard and the arrival of energon, both of which happened with predictable regularity. There was no interrogation, no torture, no withholding of rations. It did not surprise him that his captors lacked the fortitude to do so. They were Autobots, after all. Soft-sparked down to the last mechanoid.
His thoughts were interrupted as the hangar door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. The light from the corridor spilled into the dark room, backlighting the mechanoid in the doorway. It took an astrosecond for his optics to adjust, and when they did, he rumbled low in his chassis. Optimus Prime strode into the room, approaching his cell with a steady, even gait. As he passed the Elite Guard, Prime turned his head and rumbled a dismissal. The grizzled old war build inclined his helm, before making his way out of the room. The door slid shut behind him, enveloping them in darkness.
Megatron did not rise to greet him. It was unnecessary. He and Prime were on even ground.
The Autobot leader stopped a short distance away from the energy barrier that separated them. The electric field was the same azure blue as Prime's optics—and both snapped with suppressed fire.
Megatron angled his helm at the Autobot leader, a predatory smile spreading across his faceplates. "Welcome, Prime."
Prime stared down at him, optics hard and expression inscrutable. "Megatron."
The warlord chuckled, leaning back against the wall. "I was expecting you sooner."
"I had nothing to say to you." Prime replied.
"No?" Megatron asked, tilting his helm as though in surprise, "How inhospitable, Prime."
The Autobot leader narrowed his optics. "You have no cause to complain about mistreatment."
He chuckled at the fissure of tension in the Autobot's voice. Prime had always been easy to rile.
"To what do I owe the honor of your company?" He asked instead, "Have you missed me, perhaps? Your soldiers will gossip."
Prime did not reply immediately. The room was silent except for the sound of their inner workings, loud in the darkness. When at last he spoke, his voice was cold and authoritative.
"I have found you guilty of war crimes, treason, and sedition." He rumbled, "Your sentence is to be carried out immediately."
Megatron stared at the Autobot leader, torn between surprise, anger, and grim resignation. He had not thought the pacifist had it in him.
"What of the justice you so admire?" He asked, genuinely curious to know the answer, "You did not give me the opportunity to present my defense."
Optimus rumbled quietly. "There will be no trial. I sentence you on my authority as Prime."
Megatron laughed, long and low. The sound of it echoed around the empty room. "So, we have come full circle at last. The Prime has taken justice into his own hands, regardless of the rule of the law or the will of the people. I suppose it was inevitable."
The Autobot leader stood unflinchingly in the face of Megatron's derision.
"I see no value in giving your cause a platform, Megatron. You and your armies have been defeated." Prime replied, "The sooner your rebellion is forgotten, the better it will be for our people."
Megatron narrowed his optics in anger, growling, "You do not get to decide what is best for our people."
"I do." Prime replied, "And I have."
Megatron's fuel pump pistoned inside his chassis, spurred by rage and failure and disappointment. He raised his helm, looking the Autobot leader in the face. "Will you execute me yourself? Or is it beneath the dignity of a Prime to kill a prisoner?"
Prime did not reply immediately. He half-turned, his faceplates tightening minutely. It gave him a conflicted air, as though he were wrestling with himself. Megatron noted the tension with no small degree of interest.
"You will not be executed." Prime rumbled in reply, "Your sentence will be carried out in stasis-lock."
Megatron was surprised, although he supposed he should not be. This was Optimus Prime, after all. The Autobot leader liked for nothing better than to present himself as a paragon of virtue.
"Stasis-lock." He rumbled in reply, "For how long?"
The Autobot leader turned to face him once again, his optics hardening with resolve. "For as long as it takes."
Megatron narrowed his optics, considering every angle, every possible outcome, every way to twist the situation to his advantage. Death was a permanent failure—imprisonment was not. His will was immutable, a universal constant like gravity or the speed of light. He would rise again.
Prime stared at him, solemn and reserved. "The memory of you and your rebellion will disappear, forgotten to the ravages of time. I will ensure it."
A slow, predatory smile spread across Megatron's face. "You will never forget me, Prime. I will be with you, always."
The Autobot leader inclined his helm, as though in valediction, before turning to leave. Megatron was incensed by the casual dismissal. He leaned forward, calling after him. "I regret nothing. I would kill every mechanoid again, and a thousand times more, to avenge his death."
Prime stopped in mid-step, his servos curling into fists. He half-turned to regard Megatron over his shoulder. "Orion Pax did not die. He lives, transformed, just as Megatronus was transformed."
Megatron laughed, low and derisive. "He is dead to me."
A shadow of emotion crossed Prime's face, deep and raw and pained.
"He would mourn to know it." He replied, quietly.
Megatron ignored the words, and the undercurrent of grief he could hear within them. Instead, he raised his chin and pinned the Autobot leader with a contemptuous look. "Do not speak to me of my bonded's mind. I know it better than you, Prime."
Optimus shuttered his optics, and when he opened them again, his expression was devoid of emotion. He turned around, striding across the hangar with his head up and shoulders squared. Megatron watched him go in silence. The door slid open as he approached, revealing two medical builds standing in the corridor. The Autobot leader nodded to them tersely, but he did not stop. He continued walking down the corridor without a backwards glance until he was gone a moment later.
Notes: Author's Note: Yeah, you read that right! Orion Pax and Megatronus were indeed spark-bonded before the Great War. Their bond has been hinted at throughout the series, even back as far as Signature. Thank-you again for joining me on this journey! Up next: Refuge!