Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Sam blinked open his eyes, peering blearily around the room. It took a moment before he recognized where he was—the television had been turned off, plunging the living room in shadow. He pushed up onto an elbow and scrubbed a hand over his face. The house was still and quiet; he couldn't hear a thing from upstairs. He briefly debated spending the night on the couch, but his bed was far more comfortable. He pushed the afghan aside, climbing to his feet with a groan. He felt stiff and heavy-limbed, as though he had been asleep for days.
He made his way out of the living room and down the hall on autopilot. When he stepped into the kitchen, he ambled over towards the window, looking for Bumblebee. It was perfectly dark outside, as though someone drawn a shroud across the glass. He frowned faintly, stepping towards the counter and squinting into the dark. He couldn't see anything—not the lawn, not the ocean, not even the stars. His frown deepened, and he reached out a hand to press against the glass. It was frigidly cold, like a sheet of ice, and he jerked away in surprise.
Before he could turn around or back up, a pinprick of color blossomed to life in the darkness. It was small and faint, flickering like a candle flame in the breeze. He leaned towards the window again. The light swayed back and forth, as though beckoning him. He felt an answering pull inside his chest, like a thread going taut, and he was across the kitchen without conscious thought. He opened the door and stepped outside—
—before pulling up short. The landscape in front of him was unrecognizable. He was standing in the middle of a road that stretched almost to the horizon. In the distance, he could see a city rising out of the craggy landscape. Its buildings were tall and dark and monolithic. The sky was a dull pre-dawn gray, which revealed the smoke from dozens of fires billowing into the early morning air.
"This isn't real." He whispered disbelievingly, "I'm dreaming."
"Yes, you are."
Sam startled in surprise, only to realize that Ravage was walking by his side. The cyber cat's head was low to the ground, her tail slowly lashing back and forth. Sam frowned faintly. He couldn't remember when they had started walking towards the city.
"Where am I?" He asked softly, "What is this?"
"I cannot remember." Ravage rumbled in reply, "I have been asleep for too long."
They passed between two massive piles of rubble that had once been buildings. A thick support beam had fallen across the road, propped up on one side by a piece of concrete larger than the Trion. Sam picked his way beneath it easily enough—it was at least twenty feet above him. When he emerged on the other side, he could hear the distant sounds of combat. He recognized the high-pitched whine of charging capacitators and the thuoom of fusion canons being fired. He planted his feet on the ground, resisting the strange pull inside his chest.
"I want to wake up." He said, suddenly afraid.
Ravage tilted her helm at him. "Then wake up. These are your dreams, not mine."
The sounds of battle were drawing nearer and more violent, as shouts and explosions carried on the wind. His stomach sank with dread, like a stone dropping into a pond.
"Wake up." He whispered to himself, "Wake up."
"Do not be afraid, little Prime." Ravage murmured, "No harm will come to us."
A long, high-pitched whine began building in the distance. Sam watched as pebbles and chunks of concrete began rolling down the road towards the city. The pull inside his chest became stronger, and he stumbled forward against his will. The sound continued to build, growing to a dull roar, and Sam slapped his hands over his ears to block out the noise. It seemed to suffuse every atom in his body, crowding out all rational thought.
"Wake up!" He screamed, screwing his eyes shut, "Someone wake me—!"
Sam jerked awake, jackknifing into a sitting position as he heaved great, gasping breaths. Bumblebee made a surprised sound, and he shifted over to accommodate him. Sam twisted, looking wildly around the room. Everything was exactly the same as it had been when he had fallen asleep. Bumblebee was on the couch beside him, and the television was playing on low volume. Otherwise, the room was dark and quiet. He lurched to his feet and stumbled over to the window, pulling the curtains aside. He went weak with relief at the sight of the backyard, bathed in moonlight.
"Sam?" Bumblebee asked concernedly, "What's wrong?"
Sam sighed deeply, pressing his forehead against the glass. "Nothing. It was just a nightmare."
Bumblebee didn't reply, but he could feel the scout's concern deepen to something else, something uneasy. Sam glanced over his shoulder at him.
"What is it?" He rasped. Bumblebee's brow furrowed deeply, as though he was unsure how to answer. Sam frowned, turning around to look at him. "Bee, what is it?"
"You… weren't asleep." The holoform slowly replied.
Sam's frown deepened. "What do you mean? What time is it?"
Without waiting for a reply, he crossed the room to look at the clock on the side table. It read 10:47 PM. He stared at the time in confusion—it felt like he had been asleep for hours, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. He twisted around, looking at the television. Last Week Tonight was still playing on low volume.
Sam stared at the television, fear skittering up his spine. "I don't understand." He stammered, "I was asleep—I was dreaming. I was."
"Alright." Bumblebee soothed, crossing the room to grasp Sam by the elbows, "It's alright."
"No, it's not alright!" Sam snapped, yanking his arms away as he began to pace. The dream was already fading from memory. He could only recall a few fragments of imagery and emotion, nothing that he could understand. Sam's chest suddenly felt too tight, and he gripped his hair until his scalp ached.
"Are you sure I wasn't sleeping?" He asked in desperation, "Bumblebee, are you sure?"
Bumblebee approached him slowly, hands up, palm first, as one might approach a wild animal. "Breathe, Sam. You're hyperventilating."
He was, he realized distantly. His breath was coming in short, sharp pants, and it was making him lightheaded. He screwed his eyes shut, sucking a harsh breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.
"Was… I… sleeping?" Sam gritted out.
Bumblebee smoothed his hands up Sam's arms to squeeze his shoulders. "Perhaps you fell asleep after my last sensor sweep. They occur in four minute intervals."
Sam knew the words were baseless reassurance. Bumblebee would have known if he had fallen asleep—he always did. He made a wounded sound in the back of his throat, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. The last time that he had received cryptic visions from the Allspark, he had resurrected Jazz from the dead—like some kind of alien fucking Lazarus.
The thought sent a shudder of revulsion down his spine. Bumblebee's mental presence brightened with concern, but Sam stumbled away, wrenching open the door with such force that it banged against the wall. He rushed down the hallway and through the kitchen, aware of Bumblebee following behind him. His bonded's mental presence was apprehensive, and Sam leaned away from it as far as he could. He didn't want concern or pity—he didn't want any of this.
As Sam made to step into the porch, his grandmother's voice called down from the top of the stairs. "Samuel? I heard a crash. Is everything alright?"
Sam froze like a deer in the headlights, and he had to swallow thickly before he could reply. "Everything's fine, Nan. I just need some fresh air. Go back to sleep."
His voice was strained-sounding, even to his own ears. He cursed himself internally, hurrying out the door before she could question him further. The night air was chilly, raising goosebumps across his arms. He jogged down the front steps, making his way across the lawn. He wasn't even sure where he was going until he found himself standing in front of Ratchet's alt mode. The medic opened his driver's side door in a silent invitation. Sam murmured his thanks, grasping the handlebar and climbing into the cabin. Ratchet pulled the door shut behind him as soon as he settled into the seat.
Sam gripped the steering wheel with both hands, pressing his forehead against the Autobot emblem on the airbag module. He was trembling like an adrenaline junkie coming down off a high. After a moment, the driver's seat reclined fractionally. He took the hint, uncurling his fingers from the steering wheel and leaning back against the seat. The Hummer was parked facing the harbor, and Sam stared out over the water as his heartbeat slowly evened out.
Ratchet's mental presence was reserved, almost subdued. The thought made Sam glance at the dashboard, only to notice that the lights and entertainment console were dark. The sight caused a swell of chagrin, swift and hot, and he blurted abruptly, "Were you in recharge?"
He could feel the medic's wry exasperation across their bond space. "I was."
Sam winced in apology, but before he could move, the seat reclined several more inches.
"Your presence is not an imposition." Ratchet rumbled.
Although the reassurance was delivered with the medic's usual gruffness, Sam was unexpectedly touched by the sentiment. He let himself settle down against the seat, enjoying the feeling of warm leather. They sat in mutual silence for a long while—Ratchet languorous, Sam pensive. Eventually, the uncertainty and anxiety churning in his gut could no longer be ignored.
"How much of that did you follow?" He asked softly.
Ratchet did not pretend to misunderstand him. "Bumblebee assessed me of the situation shortly before you left the house."
Sam stared at the roof of the cab, wrestling with conflicting impulses. A part of him wanted to talk about it, but another part of him never wanted to mention it again. He sighed, softly.
"What's happening to me, Ratch?"
Ratchet was silent for a beat, before he replied, "I do not know."
The words were gentle, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the sting of sudden tears.
"This is bullshit." He said, his voice catching, "I've done enough—I've changed enough."
Ratchet's mental presence shifted forward, gathering him close. "You have."
"It's not fair." He whispered, thunking his head against the seat. "First, I was made a ward of Cybertron without my consent. After that, I was an Ambassador, then a newspark, then a Prime, now… what? A conduit for an ancient alien artifact that can give me visions but not a fucking clue? Goddammit!"
By the time that he finished speaking, Sam's voice was choked with tears. He angrily thumbed the incriminating moisture away. Ratchet was quiet for a long while, and Sam could feel him considering his response.
"Did I ever tell you why I became a surgeon?" He asked eventually.
Sam glanced as the dashboard, taken by surprise. "No. Well, I know you used to be a Senator, but that's it."
Ratchet's dry chuckle ghosted through the cab. "My Creator was a well-respected bioethics researcher from Praxus. He had hoped, in sparking me, that I would demonstrate an affinity for his research." His voice turned wry as he continued, "I did not, much to his irritation and disappointment."
Sam listened with no small degree of interest. Ratchet was an intensely private person, and he did not know very much about him.
"My foray into politics was an act of youthful rebellion, I suppose." Ratchet continued, "But as it turned out, I was good at it. I enjoyed the challenge. I began my career as a lobbyist, and I worked my way up the power structure until I was invited to join the Senate."
Sam knew that he was being distracted, but he found that he didn't care. "You were invited?"
"The Cybertronian Senate was far different than the American Senate. Its members were appointed at the discretion of the Prime or, in my case, the Speaker. You would know him as Ratbat."
"Ratbat?" Sam echoed in surprise, "Soundwave's cassette?"
He had never met Ratbat, but he knew of him. Ravage had occasionally spoken of the mini-cassette with no small amount of distaste.
Ratchet rumbled at him agreeably. "The very same. He was an excellent orator and remarkably efficient, but he was ruthless. I didn't realize just how ruthless until much later."
By the time that he finished speaking, Ratchet's tone had turned recriminatory and self-deprecating. Sam shifted against the seat. He was curious to know what happened, but he didn't dare pry. The medic was being unusually forthcoming as it was.
As though sensing his thoughts, and of course he probably was, Ratchet snorted. "It's no secret. After an assassination attempt on Nominus Prime, Ratbat and the other Senators implemented martial law. It placed Cybertron in a state of lock-down, under the guise of heightened security measures. In fact, it was a means to increase the power of the Senate."
Sam frowned faintly, wracking his memory. "Nominus Prime. That was the Prime before Sentinel, right?"
Ratchet made a derisive sound deep in his intakes. "He was, and Cybertron under his rule was full of corruption, social apartheid, and oppression."
"Sounds like an asshole." Sam commented, mildly.
"That is an apt characterization." Ratchet replied.
Sam huffed a laugh at the medic's wry tone, before he sobered up. "So, what happened?"
Ratchet was silent for so long that Sam regretted asking the question. Eventually, he replied, "I protested against the Clampdown, as it came to be called, and I was systematically ostracized. I resigned from the Senate in disgust. It wasn't until I left Iacon that I came to understand just how pervasive the suffering had become."
"So that's why you became a surgeon, then? To help people?" Sam asked curiously.
"Yes, but not right away." Ratchet replied, "I spent some time assisting my Creator with his research. I had no patience for it, nor he with me. I left soon after, and that's when I met Megatronus."
Sam's head came up, and he stared at the dashboard in disbelief. "What?"
"Megatronus was speaking against the caste system, even then. I found his ideals appealing." Ratchet said, his voice oddly ruminative, "We spoke at length about corruption in the Senate."
Sam knew that Optimus had not met Megatron until the fête of the Primes, and that wasn't until Sentinel Prime had assumed control of the Senate. He stared at the dashboard, disbelievingly, "You knew Megatron before you knew Optimus?"
"Yes, I did." Ratchet replied, "I did not meet Orion Pax until much later."
"What was he like?" Sam blurted without thinking, "Optimus, I mean. Before."
Ratchet chuckled softly. "He did not make a good first impression. Orion Pax was a wide-eyed idealist, but he obeyed the whims of Alpha Trion without question. I took him for a flunky at best and a double-agent at worst."
"Are you serious?" Sam asked, "You thought Optimus might be a spy?"
"I did indeed." Ratchet rumbled, "I would put nothing past the Senate. Megatronus had already begun making waves, and they were not above cold-blooded murder."
"So what changed?" Sam asked, "How did you become friends?"
Ratchet hesitated, and Sam had the impression that he was choosing his words carefully. "Orion Pax became a vocal supporter of Megatronus' cause. We came to know each other, over time, and eventually, we became close."
Sam was quiet for a moment, mulling over what he had been told.
"So when did you become a surgeon?" He asked at last.
Ratchet rumbled lowly, and Sam could feel it down to his bones. He shivered at the ominous sound, and a moment later, the vents turned on. Warm air wafted through the cabin, but it did little to chase away the chill.
"There was an attempt on Megatronus' life after he published his first critical précis on the caste system." Ratchet replied tightly, "Although I could not prove it, I was certain the Senate was behind the attack. I knew things would get far worse before they would get better, so I used my Creator's reputation, and all the favors that I had accumulated over my political career, to gain entry to the Protihex Medical Mechanics University. I was redesigned as a medical build, and I studied to become a surgeon."
"You became a surgeon for Megatron?" Sam asked, disbelievingly.
"No." Ratchet corrected him, an edge in his voice, "I became a surgeon for Megatronus, and for Orion Pax, and for Ironhide, and for the thousands of other mechanoids that had flocked to the cause."
Sam stared at the roof of the cab, reeling with all that he had learned. He hardly knew which part to address first, which was probably why he blurted, without thinking, "Is that why you hate Megatron so much?"
Ratchet's mental presence became very still, almost statuesque, and Sam flushed in mortification at his tactlessness.
"Ratch, I'm sorry—" He stammered, but Ratchet cut him off.
"I hate Megatron because he destroyed the last hope of a free Cybertron." He replied tightly, his voice turning midnight black as he continued, "And I hate him for making me an oathbreaker, and a hypocrite, and a murderer."
Sam flinched at the cold anger in his voice. Suddenly desperate to reassure, he reached out, pressing his hand against the steering wheel.
"You did what you had to do, Ratch." He said softly, "You save people."
Ratchet sighed. "Perhaps, but I have killed a great many as well, both in self-defense and out of mercy."
Sam didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Instead, he stroked his thumb over the Autobot emblem set on the airbag module, and pushed comfort and affection at the medic as carefully as he could. Ratchet harrumphed at him, but there was no heat in it. The medic gathered him up once again, tucking him close to his spark. The wizened glow in his mind was mellow and warm, and Sam found himself relaxing into it. They stayed like that for a long while, neither of them speaking but each saying volumes. Sam watched the gibbous moon as it rose over the harbor, sending silvery light across dark water. The sight made him smile faintly, and it was with him as he drifted off a short while later.
"Sam, wake up."
He squinted open his eyes, staring blearily around the cabin. The sky had lightened to navy blue, and he knew that dawn was not far off. He sat up, causing the blanket drawn up to his shoulders to pool in his lap. He stared down at the yellow fabric in confusion. He did not remember getting a blanket before he had fallen asleep.
"Your grandmother is awake." Ratchet informed him, popping open the driver's side door, "You should go inside."
San scrubbed a hand across his face, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes.
"Yeah, okay." He rasped, bundling up the blanket and tossing it into the passenger seat. He climbed out of the Hummer and shut the door behind him. The grass was wet and cold against his bare feet. He hesitated for a long moment, before murmuring softly, "Thanks Ratch."
The medic's mental presence nudged him meaningfully. "Go on with you."
Sam gave the medic a tilted half-smile, before making his way towards the house. He trailed his fingertips over Bumblebee's dewy hood as he passed. His bonded brushed across his mind, a familiar greeting, and Sam returned it in kind. He was aware of the scout's scrutiny, but it had lost the concerned edge of the night before.
He took the deck stairs two at a time, before pulling open the door and stepping into the porch. The downstairs was dark and quiet, but he could hear his grandmother moving around in her bedroom. He glanced at the clock on the wall—it was just after six o'clock in the morning. Sam took a moment to turn on the coffee percolator, and then he made his way upstairs. As he stepped onto the landing, his grandmother's bedroom door cracked open, spilling mellow light into the hall.
"Samuel?" She called softly.
Sam turned, padding over to the doorway.
"Hey Nan. Sorry if I worried you." He murmured.
His grandmother smiled wanly at him. She was wearing her rose-colored housecoat, and her graying hair fell loose around her shoulders. Sam almost never saw her with her hair down.
"Were you out all night?" She asked concernedly, "I didn't hear you come back in."
"Yeah, I was." Sam said softly, "I hope I didn't keep you up."
She clucked her tongue at him. "Oh, don't you worry about me. Are you heading to bed?"
Sam shook his head faintly. "No, I just woke up. I was going to get changed and make some breakfast."
His grandmother raised a thin, wrinkled hand to pat him gently on the cheek. "Oh, go on. I'll get breakfast started, and you can join me when you're ready."
Sam's lips curved up in a faint smile, and he leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. She smelled like baby powder and lavender. He turned, making his way down the hall and into his bedroom. He grabbed a change of clothes and his toiletries bag, before making his way to the little bathroom at the end of the hall. He used the toilet and washed his hands, and then stripped out of his rumpled things. He studiously ignored his reflection in the oval-shaped mirror above the sink as he dressed. Afterwards, he washed his face and brushed his teeth, and then made his way back downstairs. His grandmother was bustling around the kitchen, putting pans on the stove and pulling things out of the fridge. She had turned the radio on, and the sound of Billie Holiday's smooth jazz filled the air.
"How can I help?" Sam asked, peering at the mixing bowls on the counter.
"Never you mind." She said briskly, "I've got this handled here. Go have a seat and enjoy your coffee."
"Are you sure? I don't mind." He said.
She dipped her head so that she could look at him over the rim of her reading glasses. "Yes, I'm sure. Sit, sit. Your coffee is getting cold."
His coffee was still steaming hot as he slid into his seat at the table. The mug had a faded Christmas print on it, complete with cartoon Santa and tree. He added two sugars and some milk, stirring until the coffee turned golden brown. He sipped at the creamy liquid, his elbow propped on the table, as he stared out over the front lawn. The sky was beginning to lighten at the horizon—it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.
His grandmother hummed along to the radio as she cracked an egg into the pan. It was followed by four others, and then a half a slab of bacon. The smells of frying food quickly filled the kitchen.
"I thought I might get your help with some chores today." His grandmother said, pulling Sam out of his woolgathering, "There's laundry to hang, and the gutters need to be cleaned out."
"Yeah, sure." Sam said, setting his coffee mug on the table, "I'm happy to."
His grandmother hummed at him approvingly. "You'll have to go into town as well. I need some things at the store."
Sam's heart skipped a beat, and then it picked up in double time. His grandmother continued on, oblivious to his sudden anxiety. "I've already spoken with Agents Boyton and Simmons. They'll be here later this morning. They seem like a nice sort."
"Nan, I can't just waltz into town." He managed, "Someone might recognize me."
She glanced over at him, as though in surprise. "Why would that matter?"
Sam stared at her disbelievingly. "What do you mean why would that matter? It could be dangerous."
"You think Ferndale could be dangerous?" She asked skeptically, "Samuel, sweetheart, I've seen cornfields that are more dangerous than Ferndale."
Sam's heart was beating faster now, and he didn't know what to say. It was true that Ferndale was probably safe—it was a small town, just over a thousand people, and its crime rate was effectively zero. In the off chance that he or Bumblebee was recognized, they were more likely to be an object of curiosity than hostility. Still, that did nothing to ease his burgeoning anxiety. Something of it must have shown on his face, for his grandmother's expression softened.
"I'm sorry, pumpkin." She said, setting the spatula on the counter, "I didn't mean to upset you. Don't fret, I'll go."
The quiet regret in her voice made Sam's throat constrict with shame. The idea of making his seventy year old grandmother with a bad hip drive into town because he was too chickenshit to do it himself was awful. The fact that he had made her feel guilty on top of everything else made it so much worse.
"No, it's fine Nan. I don't mind." He managed, taking another drink of coffee to wash away the lump in his throat, "I need to get used to being in public sooner or later." He set down the mug and flashed her a lopsided smile, "I'm an Ambassador, after all."
He hoped that his excuse didn't sound as flimsy as it felt. Judging by her scrutinizing expression, it probably had.
"Samuel, you don't need to prove—" She began, but he cut her off before she could finish.
"No, really. It's alright." He said, amping up the wattage of his smile, "I wanted to show Bumblebee around anyway."
He and Bumblebee had already seen all there was to see on their drive through town, but his grandmother didn't know that. Her expression turned skeptical as she stirred the eggs.
"Well, if you're sure…" She said, and Sam nodded emphatically.
"Totally. Absolutely." He agreed, "Just write out a list. I'm happy to do it."
He was aware that he was rambling, so he shut himself up with another drink of coffee. He turned his attention inwards and nudged at the wizened glow at the edge of his mind.
/Did you sign off on this?/ He asked.
His question was met with a swell of exasperation.
/It managed to pass muster after a comprehensive risk assessment./ Ratchet replied dryly.
Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. /A simple 'yes' would have sufficed./
/Then yes./
Sam shook his head, taking another drink of coffee. Ratchet's sarcasm served to ease some of the anxious tension twisting up his insides, and by the time he poured himself another cup, he was feeling much better.
His grandmother joined him a few minutes later, handing him a plate loaded with bacon, eggs, and toast. They ate together as the sun came up, watching the sky change from navy to cornflower blue. When they finished, Sam took their dishes to the sink. He began washing up as his grandmother went upstairs to change. He wasn't the least bit surprised when hands came down on his hips, squeezing him gently.
"Good morning." Sam said with a smile.
"Morning." Bumblebee replied, pressing against Sam's back and resting his chin on his shoulder, "Do you need any help?"
Sam ran the plate that he was washing under the tap. "No, I'm fine. There's not much to do."
Bumblebee's hands slid over his sides to splay across his belly, just above the waistband of his pants. Sam's breath hitched in his throat, and he half-turned his head to look his bonded in the face. "What're you doing?"
The holoform smiled at him. "Nothing."
Sam's expression turned wry. "It doesn't feel like nothing."
Bumblebee chuckled, planting a chaste kiss below Sam's ear. "It can be whatever you like, but I'm to understand we have things to do today."
Sam groaned at the reminder. "Yeah, we do. Raincheck?"
"Of course." Bumblebee agreed, an impish grin crossing his face, "You certainly enjoyed cashing in your last one."
Sam groaned again, and Bumblebee laughed as he stepped aside to grab a hand towel. "Give me that. You wash, I'll dry."
They made quick work of the dishes, and then Sam wiped down the counter, the table, and the stove. By the time he finished, his grandmother had made her way back downstairs. Her expression warmed when she saw Bumblebee, and she patted him on the cheek as she passed. Sam caught the holoform's eye and raised an inquiring eyebrow. Before Bumblebee could say anything, however, his grandmother gave them their marching orders. First, they hauled two laundry baskets filled with freshly washed linens to the clothesline. The bedsheets billowed and snapped in the breeze that came off the harbor. Sheena ran back and forth across the lawn, driven into a frenzy at the high-pitched squeaking from the pulley. After that was finished, they spent an hour cleaning out the gutters. It was smelly, dirty work, but it had to be done. Bumblebee removed the bulk of the rotting detritus, and then Sam scrubbed the mildew away with a wire brush. Since he was gross anyway, Sam took the opportunity to haul the garbage and the recyclables to the shed. The hornets were out in full force, so he gladly surrendered the bags to Bumblebee, who threw them in the bin.
It was almost ten o'clock by the time he went back inside to shower. Sam washed quickly, changing into clean clothes and tossing his dirty things directly into the washing machine. He stepped into the kitchen just as a familiar-looking SUV pulled into the driveway. Sam grimaced faintly, but he quickly schooled his expression when his grandmother handed him a grocery list and fifty dollars. He pocketed the money with absolutely no intention of spending it—that's what his government issued credit card was for. He kissed his grandmother good-bye, before toeing on his shoes and making his way outside.
He ambled over to Bumblebee's alt mode, trailing his hand over the hood as he walked around to the driver's side door. He nodded to Simmons and Boynton, who were parked a short distance away, and then he slid into his seat. Bumblebee pulled the door shut behind him, and then the lights on the dash lit up as his engine turned over.
"Who's all coming?" Sam asked, fastening his seatbelt.
"Hound and Bluestreak." Bumblebee answered, executing a tight three-point turn and driving towards the road. The dark-colored SUV fell into place behind them.
"Oh, that's good." Sam replied, grasping the steering wheel in one hand to maintain appearances, "They aren't likely to draw much attention in town."
Hound's alt mode was a Jeep Wrangler, and Bluestreak transformed into a Nissan Fairlady. They were arguably the least flashy alt modes of the group, excepting Kup's rundown pickup truck.
They crossed the isthmus, with the ocean on one side and the pond on the other, and then Bumblebee accelerated to thirty-five miles an hour. Acting on a sudden impulse, Sam rolled down the driver's side window and took a deep breath. The air buffeted his face and body—it was comfortably warm and smelled like salt water. He glanced down at the entertainment console, and navigated to Sirius XM Radio. The drove another five miles listening to Johnny Cash and Bruce Springsteen, before Hound and Bluestreak pulled out of an old access road and fell into place behind them.
The little convoy made its way along the coast, before crossing the river into town. It was relatively quiet, with only a few other cars on the road. They drove past children playing on their front lawns and pedestrians ambling down the sidewalk. No one so much as glanced at them. Bumblebee turned onto Main Street, slowing down as both vehicle and pedestrian traffic increased. They passed the bank, the library, and the post office, before Bumblebee pulled into the parking lot next to the grocery store. The SUV parked beside them, while Hound and Bluestreak parked on the road. Bumblebee turned off his engine, but Sam made no move to exit the car.
"You don't have to go inside." Bumblebee said, brushing across his mind, "I can do it for you."
Sam grimaced faintly. "Let's just get this over with."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Bumblebee's holoform materialized in the passenger seat. He subspaced a pair of aviator sunglasses and handed them to Sam.
"You can be my wingman any time." Bumblebee deadpanned with a cheeky grin.
Sam rolled his eyes, but he slipped the sunglasses on all the same. He was thankful for the modest amount of anonymity they provided.
"That movie's like forty years old." He replied as he climbed out of the cab, "Get with the times, old man."
Bumblebee laughed as he walked around the car to join him. Together, they made their way across the lot and into the grocery store. Boynton and Simmons trailed silently behind them.
Notes: Sam's grandmother knows exactly what she's doing.