Sam toed off his shoes and made his way into the kitchen. Althea White was a frugal woman by nature, and she never replaced anything without good reason. As a result, the kitchen was almost exactly the same as he remembered it. The table was to the right as he entered, situated under the large picture window that overlooked the driveway. There was an electric stove against one wall, next to the counter, and a wrought-iron stove against the other. His grandmother burned wood on cold nights to keep the electric bill down.
Nan pulled a roaster out of the oven and set it on the stove, before glancing over at him.
"Set your bag down anywhere." She said.
Sam unshouldered his bag and dropped it in the armchair near the hallway, before walking over to the sink and washing his hands. His grandmother took dishes down from the cupboard and set them on the counter beside him.
"Set the table when you've finished, please."
Sam dried his hands, and then he took the dishes over to the table. The Corelle plates were white with faded green ivy around the rim. He set them down at their usual spots—his near the stove, hers facing the window—and then he went back to get the cutlery. Bumblebee watched him from the doorway, something like curiosity playing over his face.
His grandmother glanced over at the holoform as she began mashing potatoes. Her eyes flitted up and down his body, as though in consideration, before turning back around.
"Do come in, dear." She said as she continued mashing, "Have a seat."
Bumblebee stepped into the kitchen, eyes roaming from the yellow gingham tablecloth, to the cake tins lined along the top of the cupboards, to the miniature spoon collection hanging near the fridge. Sam watched him taking everything in with a small smile. Some things never changed.
"You have a beautiful home, Mrs. White." Bumblebee said.
His grandmother smiled wryly at him. "Please, call me Nanny. All of Sam's friends do."
Bumblebee glanced over at Sam, who raised his shoulders in a shrug.
/She's not going to take no for an answer./ He said.
Bumblebee turned back to his grandmother, tipping his head in acquiescence. "Alright, I will. Thank-you."
Nanny hummed at him approvingly as she strong-armed the potatoes into a smooth mash. Sam leaned against the counter, watching her. "Can I help with anything?"
"You can get the milk out of the fridge." She said, banging the masher against the rim of the pot before putting it in the sink.
Sam pushed off the counter and ambled across the kitchen. He stopped in mid-stride, his eyes drawn to the newspaper clipping affixed to the fridge by a Golden Gate Bridge magnet. It held a position of honor, surrounded by postcards and receipts. The title read 'American Ambassador Meets with Autobot Delegation'. The picture was a grainy black-and-white shot of him shaking hands with Ambassador Craft. He reached out, trailing his fingers over the faded newsprint. He hadn't aged a single day, and somehow, he still looked so young.
"You are such a handsome boy." His grandmother said.
He half-turned, glancing over his shoulder at her. She was standing in front of the stove, a dishtowel in her hands and a warm smile on her face. It made a lump rise up in his throat, and he swallowed against it before murmuring, softly, "Thanks."
He turned back around, pulling open the fridge and grabbing the carton of milk. He shut the door and made his way across the kitchen without a backwards glance. He set the milk in the center of the table, near the platter of roast chicken and bowl of mashed potatoes. He was aware of his grandmother's scrutiny, but she said nothing further on the subject. Instead, she brought the gravy boat over and set it down beside the platter.
"Be careful, sweetheart. It's hot." She warned, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
Sam sat down and poured himself a glass of milk. The sun was just beginning to set behind the trees on the other side of the narrow bay. It sent long shadows across the front lawn. Ratchet and Bumblebee were parked at the head of the driveway, a stark contrast to his grandmother's '98 Toyota Corolla parked beside the house.
The sound of cutlery caused him to glance down in time to see his grandmother putting chicken on his plate. He flushed, reaching for the carving knife.
"That's alright, Nan. I can serve myself."
She tutted at him disapprovingly, swatting his hand aside. "That's just fine, Samuel."
Sam sat there as she loaded his plate with mashed potatoes and green beans, before she served herself. He murmured his thanks, reaching for the gravy boat and pouring a generous serving over his food. His grandmother's gravy was her best-kept secret—it was thick and creamy, and the smell reminded him of Christmas dinners as a child.
As he reached for his knife and fork, his grandmother looked at Bumblebee.
"My goodness, how rude of me." She said, setting down her cutlery, "Do you eat? I never even thought to ask."
Sam huffed a laugh, but Bumblebee just smiled at her.
"We consume a bio-fuel known as Energon." He explained, "But thank-you for the consideration."
"Energon." His grandmother repeated thoughtfully, "Does that have anything to do with the trade deal you folks just signed with the Canadians?"
The holoform's eyebrows drifted upwards in surprise, and Sam chuckled at him. "Nan's a sharp lady. She used to be the top district attorney in the state."
"Oh, I don't know about that." She replied, turning back to her meal, "I lost plenty of cases that I thought I should have won."
Sam smiled across the table at Bumblebee "She's being modest. She won the CLAY award two times."
His grandmother gave him a look that was equal parts exasperated and fond. She reached out and gave his forearm a little squeeze. "That's very sweet of you, Chicken."
The corner of Bumblebee's lips twitched up. "Chicken?"
"Oh, it's a nickname I've been calling Samuel since he was a baby." She explained, "He was born prematurely by four weeks, and he had the skinniest little legs I ever laid eyes on. The name just kind of stuck."
Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he added, "Nan's got a dozen nicknames for me and most of them are food-related. Chicken, sweetpea, pumpkin, sweet potato… am I missing any, Nan?"
She smiled at him indulgently. "Chickpea."
Sam's smile curled wider. "Oh yeah, that's right."
Bumblebee's face softened with affection, and he brushed across Sam's mind. The touch was mellow and warm and gentle, and Sam smiled back at him. All at once, it hit him that he was sitting in his grandmother's kitchen for the first time in almost five years. So much had changed since then, but this was exactly the same. The thought caused something wound tight inside of him to relax minutely, and he leaned into Bumblebee's winter-white glow in appreciation.
"Eat your food, Samuel." His grandmother tutted, pulling him back to himself, "It's getting cold."
Sam murmured an apology as he picked up his cutlery. The chicken was tender and moist, and he tucked into it with vim. His grandmother re-filled his glass while he ate, and when he cleaned his plate, she added seconds. He tried to protest, but she silenced him with a single look. He made it halfway through his second helping before he threw in the towel. His grandmother stood up, taking his plate.
"I'll put it in the microwave." She said, stepping away from the table, "You can finish it later."
Sam and Bumblebee climbed to their feet, and began clearing away the dishes. The chicken was shredded and put into one glassware container, while the potatoes went into another. There weren't enough greens to save, so his grandmother added them to his plate before popping it into the microwave. Afterwards, his grandmother put the stopper in the sink and began filling it with soapy water.
Sam opened the drawer, pulling out a dishcloth. "We'll wash up, Nan. You can go sit down."
His grandmother looked at him speculatively, "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure." He said with a wry smile, "Go on with you."
The skin around her eyes crinkled in a smile, and she reached out to pat him on the cheek. "You're such a good boy."
Sam shooed her away from the sink, and she obliged him. He watched her leave out of the corner of his eye, and he didn't miss the stiffness to her step. He knew that her hip had been bothering her since last Thanksgiving, but it was a different thing to see it for himself. He swallowed against the sudden emotion that thickened his throat. She was seventy years old. How much longer did she have left? Ten years? Fifteen?
The holoform crossed the kitchen to stand beside him. His face was creased with concern. "Are you alright?"
Sam lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "I'm fine."
Bumblebee's mouth thinned into an unhappy line. "It's alright not to be alright, Sam."
Sam reached out and turned off the tap, before picking up the nearest pot. "I'll wash, you dry. The dishtowels are in the drawer."
Bumblebee frowned faintly, but he pulled a dishtowel out of the drawer all the same. They stood side-by-side in silence as Sam washed the dishes. The pots and roaster were first, followed by the plates and cutlery. He was meticulous, making sure that every last trace of grease was scrubbed away. Bumblebee dried each item in turn, before setting it on the counter. Sam was aware of his quiet scrutiny, but neither of them said anything while they worked.
By the time that he finished, the sun had set and the sky had turned a dusky blue. He flicked on the overhead light and put the dishes away. Afterwards, he wiped down the table and the stove with hot soapy water.
"Come on, I'll show you around." Sam said, wringing out the dishcloth and hanging it over the faucet to dry.
The holoform followed behind him as he picked up his duffle bag and made his way into the hall. Sam took him through the downstairs first, showing him the sitting room, the dining room, and the wood room. The wood room had been one of Sam's favorite places as a child. It was directly off the back porch, and it was small and cozy. There was a large wood-burning stove against one wall, next to the wood box, and four armchairs arranged in a semi-circle around it. The room smelled faintly of wood smoke and ripe apples.
Sam smiled, glancing over his shoulder at Bumblebee.
"Nan and I used to sit in here when it got cold outside." He said, "That stove can get piping hot when she gets it going."
Bumblebee returned his smile. "I bet."
Sam stepped back into the hallway and made his way up the stairs. The house was over one hundred years old, and the staircase was steep and narrow. The second story was smaller than the ground floor, with only three bedrooms and a tiny two-piece bathroom. Sam turned down the hall, and stopped at the first door on the right. Stepping into his old bedroom was like stepping back in time. There were seashells and sand dollars on the dresser, treasures from his youth, and old posters on the walls. He unshouldered his duffle bag and dropped it onto the floor, before sitting on the bed. The nightstand still had a dozen Hardy Boys books lined neatly on the bottom shelf.
Bumblebee crossed over to the window and pushed aside the curtains. The bedroom faced the little bluff behind the house, with a clear view of the ocean. The holoform's expression was very soft as he trailed his fingers over the windowsill. Sam knew what he was looking at—he had carved his name into the wood years ago.
"Nanny almost tanned my hide when she first saw that." He said dryly.
The holoform glanced over at him. "How old were you?"
"Seven." Sam replied wryly, "And I was lucky to make it to eight."
Bumblebee chuckled, his fingertips lingering on the sill before turning around. "How often did you visit her?"
Sam shrugged his shoulders. "A few times a year. We came for a week over Christmas break, and I usually came for a week or two in the summer. Nan would visit us over Thanksgiving and Easter."
Bumblebee's eyes trailed over the room, lingering on the knickknacks and the mementos. It seemed as though he was trying to soak in the room and all of its evidence of Sam's happy childhood. His eyes finally settled on Sam, where he was sitting on the bed. He crossed the space between them in three steps, clasping the sides of his face. The holoform stared down at him for a long moment, his expression emotive and intense, before he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss against his mouth.
Sam understood the sentiment, which was conveyed as clearly through their bond as it was through the kiss. It was affection and concern and protectiveness, all at once. He leaned back until he was able to smile up at his bonded.
"Yeah, I love you too." He murmured.
Bumblebee's grip tightened minutely, before he let him go.
"Did you want to go back down?" He asked, as though the question pained him.
Sam smiled wanly and gave the holoform's hand a squeeze.
"Yeah, probably." He said, pushing himself to his feet. "I'll show you the property tomorrow. Nan owns everything on this side of the pond."
Together, they made their way back downstairs. Sam stopped in the kitchen to get the box of scones, before he ambled into the living room. His grandmother was sitting on the mustard-colored chesterfield, watching television. The room looked like something out of a 1970s issue of Good Housekeeping. The patterned wallpaper, the thick shag carpet, and the lace curtains all hearkened back to an earlier time. Sam handed the box to his grandmother as he sat down on the opposite end of the couch.
"Thank-you, sweetheart." She said, before plucking a scone from the box and handing it back to him.
Bumblebee hesitated in the doorway, as though uncertain whether he should enter. Sam smiled at him, tipping his head towards the armchair in the corner. The holoform stepped into the living room, causing his grandmother to startle in surprise.
"Good gracious!" She exclaimed with a light laugh, "You're as silent as a ghost. You should wear a bell!"
The words were so close to what Sam had once said to Ratchet that it made him laugh. He could feel the medic's cool regard across their bond, and he grinned unrepentantly.
"They can be quiet." He agreed, pulling a scone out of the box. It was golden brown and dusted with icing sugar, and when he bit into it, he found that it was perfectly soft. He licked at the sugar on his lips as he added, wryly, "But Bee's getting really good at blending in."
The holoform tossed him a sardonic look, and Sam knew that he had caught the reference to their earlier conversation. His grin widened, and he took another bite of his scone.
"So, how many of you use holoforms?" His grandmother asked, directing her question to Bumblebee.
"Most of us have the ability to generate a holoform." Bumblebee replied, "It is a manifestation of our extended sensory arrays. They are resource and processor-intensive, however, so only a handful of us actively use them."
His grandmother's brow furrowed in contemplation. "How do you mimic our micro-expressions so closely?" She asked, canting her head to the side, "Is it an affectation or does your species share similar mannerisms?"
At her words, Sam glanced over at Bumblebee. He was leaning forward slightly in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. It gave him an open, attentive appearance. It was easy to forget sometimes that he had had to teach himself how t o act so human.
Bumblebee's gaze flitted to him for a nanosecond before returning to his grandmother. "Cybertronians and humans are similar in many respects, but we are not as visually expressive." He explained, clasping his hands loosely as he continued, "Whereas humans rely heavily on posture, facial expressions, and micro-expressions for non-verbal communication, we rely more heavily on our electromagnetic fields."
His grandmother pursed her lips, as though in thought. "So, you had to learn our mannerisms?"
Bumblebee inclined his head. "We did."
"Are they genuine?" She asked bluntly, "Or are you applying stimulus to achieve a desired result?"
To Sam's surprise, Bumblebee did not reply with an immediate negative. Instead, he cocked his head and seemed to consider the question seriously.
"Not in the way that you mean." He replied, after a moment. "Our mimicry is not an affectation—my communications sub-routines have been re-coded to incorporate human mannerisms and speech. I laugh when I'm amused, and I raise my voice when I'm angry. Yet, it would be untrue to imply that we don't use these mannerisms to put people at ease."
The space between his grandmother's eyebrows knitted with a faint frown. Sam leaned towards her and tried to explain. "It's like translating a language. We use body posture for non-verbal communication, and they use electromagnetic fields. We can't pick up on their EM fields, so they use our mannerisms to express themselves."
"Ah." His grandmother replied, understandingly, "What about verbal communication?"
Bumblebee's answering smile was wry but genuine. "Cybertronian is a complex language. It's glyph-based, and although it has only seven hundred logograms, it includes hundreds of modifiers. A single glyph can take on entirely different meanings, depending on the linguistic context."
"It's the worst." Sam agreed around a mouthful of scone, "I've been trying to pick it up, but I'm awful at it."
His grandmother gave him a disapproving look. "Don't speak with your mouth full."
"Sorry." He mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Nan reached out and patted his knee, taking some of the sting out of her rebuke. She glanced across the room at Bumblebee, who was watching them closely.
"I understand that your civil war has been ongoing for a long time." She said, directing him a thoughtful look, "How old are you, precisely?"
"Precisely?" Bumblebee asked, amused, "That's not an easy question to answer, but I was on-lined around 3.1 million years ago."
Nan's eyebrows drew up in surprise. "My goodness, that long? How do you manage it?"
Bumblebee chuckled lightly. "We do not perceive the passage of time as humans do."
Sam glanced up at him in surprise. First Aid had once commented about their different conceptualizations of time, but Sam hadn't thought that he was being literal. He had assumed the medic was speaking in relativistic terms.
"What do you mean?" He asked, curiously. At his question, Bumblebee seemed to remember himself. His expression sobered, becoming almost guarded. It set Sam on alert, and he sat up straighter in his seat. "Bee?"
Bumblebee visibly hesitated before replying. "Humans perceive space-time in relativistic terms. We do not."
His grandmother chuckled good-naturedly and folded her hands in her lap. "Relativity, hm? Does that explain why my days seem so short now?"
"Yes." Bumblebee replied carefully, "It's a concept referred to as time dilation."
Sam gripped the arm of the chesterfield until his knuckles turned white. Bumblebee's words had dredged up a long-forgotten memory from his Allspark-triggered meltdown in astronomy class. Time dilation referred to the differences in perceived time due to age and circumstance. Adults perceived the passage of time more quickly than children because each day was a progressively smaller fraction of their total lifespan.
Sam's heart climbed into his throat as the possible implications unraveled before him. What would happen to his perception of time as the years turned to decades, and decades turned to centuries? Would his days seem to shorten, until they were fleeting and ephemeral, no more interesting or remarkable than grains of sand on a beach? Or would it seem as though he were suspended in time, like an insect trapped in resin, as the world passed by around him?
"Sam?" His grandmother asked, softly.
The question pulled him back to himself, all at once. He became aware of the sound of his breathing, raspy and frightened, and it took considerable effort to bring himself under control. When he managed to look at his grandmother, it was to find her staring back at him. The concern on her face made him flinch. His kneejerk reaction was to reassure her with a joke or an offhanded remark, but he couldn't do it. He just didn't have it in him.
"I'm going to bed." He said abruptly, pushing himself to his feet, "Goodnight, Nan."
The concern on her face deepened, and she stood up to draw him into a hug.
"Alright, sweetheart." She murmured against his cheek, "I know you've had a long day. Don't let the bedbugs bite."
Sam hugged her back, before pulling away and leaving the room. He could hear the murmur of hushed conversation behind him, and he quickened his step. He made his way through the kitchen and up the stairs, turning on the overhead light when he reached the landing. The hallway was long and narrow, ending in a stained glass window. The floors were dark wood, which contrasted against the white, floral-print wallpaper. He opened his bedroom door, shutting it behind him and leaning back against the wood. His bedroom was dark, lit only by the thin moonlight and the occasional flash from the buoy in the harbor.
He didn't know for how long he stood there, wrestling with emotions that he'd rather not be feeling. Eventually, he pushed away from the door and padded over to his duffle bag. He rummaged around, pulling out a pair of sleep pants and a long-sleeved shirt. He avoided looking at the oval-shaped mirror hanging above the bureau until he was fully dressed. He didn't want to see the evidence of his abuse, not even obscured by darkness.
Sam turned down the blankets and climbed into bed. The sheets had pilled after countless washes over the years, but they were soft and warm. He settled back against the pillow, arm under his head, and watched as the buoy's light slid across his ceiling in steady intervals. It wasn't long before he felt Bumblebee brush against him, and Sam turned his head in time to see the holoform materialize beside him. He was sitting on the floor, arm propped up against the mattress and his chin resting in his hand. Half of his face was illuminated by moonlight, the other half was cast in shadow.
"I don't want to talk about it." Sam murmured, forestalling anything Bee might have said.
The holoform reached out, tucking an errant curl behind his ear.
"Alright." He agreed quietly.
Sam rolled onto his side, pillowing his hands under his cheek. He was silent for a long moment, before glancing up at his bonded. "Are you staying?"
Bumblebee's face softened in the moonlight. "Yeah, Sam. I'm staying."
Sam nodded faintly and shifted backwards on the mattress. The holoform climbed into bed beside him, settling on the blankets and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Sam let his eyes drift closed, listening to the sounds of the house settling—creaking wood, dinging metal, and the occasional rush of water through pipes. It was so familiar, so homey, that he found himself relaxing, despite the tension in his shoulders. Bumblebee smoothed his palm down Sam's spine, mindful of the bruises that still peppered his back. He murmured something too softly for Sam to hear, but the warm thrum of affection across their bond spoke volumes. Sam sighed softly and let himself drift to the feeling of Bumblebee's hands on his body.
Sam woke sometime in the night, and he stumbled to the bathroom at the end of the hall. After he relieved himself, he washed his hands and shut off the light, before making his way back to his room. He walked carefully, mindful of creaky floorboards. His grandmother was a notoriously light sleeper, and he didn't want to disturb her. Bumblebee made room for him as he climbed back into bed, and Sam quickly settled down. The blankets were still warm, a welcome change from the chilly air, and he was asleep again only moments later.
The next time that he awoke, bright sunshine was streaming through the window. He half-turned, glancing at the old radio alarm clock on the bedside table. He groaned, noting the early hour, and rolled back over, burrowing beneath the blankets.
He woke up again sometime later, blinking open his eyes to find himself alone in the bedroom. The sunshine had deepened, taking on a late-morning quality, and he was surprised to find it was just after ten o'clock. He stretched languidly, yawning until his jaw cracked, and turned his attention inwards. Bumblebee's mental presence was focused, but it also had something of a harried quality to it. It woke Sam up immediately, and he sat up in bed as he brushed across the scout's mind.
/What are you doing?/ He asked.
/Good morning./ Bumblebee replied dryly, /You slept well./
/I always do at Nan's./ He replied, running a hand through his hair and bending to grab some socks, /Where are you?/
Bumblebee's mental presence was at once exasperated and rueful. /We're demolishing your grandmother's barn./
/Are you serious?/ Sam asked, making his way across the room, /She usually saves the menial labor for me./
His bonded chuckled wryly. /We volunteered./
Sam pulled open the bedroom door and strode down the hall. The sun was catching the stained glass window just right, sending fractals of color across the hardwood floor. He took the stairs two at a time, and stepped into the kitchen. A griddle had been plugged into the outlet on the counter, and a full English breakfast had been left warming on it. Sam groaned in appreciation at the sight of the bacon, eggs, and hash browns.
/No, you only thinkyou volunteered./ Sam replied, once he remembered the thread of their conversation, /She's a crafty old lady./
Bumblebee's amusement glowed across their bond, and Sam grinned as he pulled a plate out of the cupboard. He helped himself and then slid into his spot at the table. Nanny had put the salt, pepper, and ketchup out before she had left. Sam added a liberal amount to his food and began to eat. The bacon was exactly the way he liked it—crispy enough to shrivel the fat, without becoming crumbly. He didn't know whether his grandmother remembered, or whether it was how she preferred her bacon as well. Either way, Sam ate enough cholesterol and sodium to give a cardiologist a conniption fit. When he finished, he put his dishes in the sink and hurried outside.
It was a beautiful morning, pleasant and warm with a refreshing breeze coming off the water. Sam walked down the stone path and turned the corner, before pulling up short. Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Hound stood in their bipedal modes, and they were systematically dismantling the run-down old barn that stood at the edge of the lawn. It was partially demolished already, and the rotted lumber was piled neatly at the end of the driveway. Ratchet was parked nearby, and his grandmother stood a short distance away, watching the goings-on with a sharp eye.
"Nanny." Sam groaned as he approached, "They're not hired help."
His grandmother turned around at the sound of his voice. Her eyes twinkled in amusement, and she tsked at him. "Nonsense. I was telling Ratchet about how Charles Frasier down the road wanted two thousand dollars to demolish it. The boys offered to help."
Hound perked up at Sam's appearance, and he waved one broad servo in greeting. Bumblebee and Cliffjumper, who were holding a massive support beam between them, could only nod in his direction. He waved at them, before sighing theatrically.
"Nanny—"
"Did you eat your breakfast?" She asked, interrupting him.
"Oh." Sam said, blinking at her, "Yeah, I did. Thank-you. It was really good."
"Did you clean up after yourself?" She asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
Sam flushed hotly in response. "I put my dishes in the sink."
Her expression was faintly skeptical. "Did you unplug the griddle?"
Sam's flushed deepened, and he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "I forgot. Sorry."
"Well, you can march right back inside and go do that." She said, although she was smiling, "And then you can get dressed. Wear something light—I need your help in the garden."
Sam tipped his head back and sighed, but he turned around without complaint. His grandmother wasn't as young as she used to be, and things tended to pile up around the house. He made his way up the steps and back into the kitchen. He paused long enough to unplug the griddle and wipe down the table, and then he went upstairs to change. He hesitated for a long moment when deciding what to wear. Gardening was hot, sweaty work, but he couldn't bring himself to wear a t-shirt. It wasn't possible to hide his wrists or the vivid bruises crisscrossing his forearms in short sleeves. Eventually, he pulled a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved shirt out of the bag, and took them to the bathroom to change.
By the time he made his way back outside, the sun had risen almost to its zenith. He slipped on his sunglasses and crossed the lawn towards the garden. The four-meter by ten-meter plot was surrounded by a makeshift fence made of wooden poles and chicken wire. His grandmother had put it up herself after the deer had gotten into her turnips.
Nanny was waiting for him next to a tall bucket and a variety of garden tools. She smiled at him as he approached, and waved a hand towards the neat rows of vegetables behind her. "Do you remember how to weed?"
Sam gave her a cheeky smile. "Yeah, I think I got it."
She swatted at his elbow and handed him a pair of gardening gloves. "Mind the thistle. It's a bad year for it."
Sam pulled on the gloves as his grandmother headed back towards the barn. The sounds of deconstruction and Hound's animated commentary carried on the wind. As he crouched down in the dirt, he made a mental note to introduce him to Sheena. The sentry was fascinated by all things organic, and he knew that he would love her. The thought cheered him, and he was smiling as he began weeding.