Chapter 2: The Bar

Notes: Author's Notes: Welcome to our new pet project. Fission follows Sam Witwicky as he is hunted across the country by unknown pursuers. The story will eventually include angst, emotional hurt/comfort. We will be updating every other weekend, so please subscribe, bookmark, or check back often.
This Story was written by Arabis and CarsonLane, I am posting it here with their permission!
Any explicit sexual scene will be removed on this site. If you want to read the story with these scenes, please head over to AO3 and search author: Arabis

Fission (biology) - the division of a single entity into two or more parts and the regeneration of those parts into separate entities resembling the original.

It was raining by the time Sam dragged himself out of his apartment. He grimaced, pulling his hood down over his head as he locked the door behind him. The sky was dark and gray, casting a pall over the neighborhood. Sam took the front steps two at a time before crossing the sidewalk to glance up and down the road. The street was relatively empty except for a Ryder truck parked half-way down the block. Sam crossed the road, and started down the sidewalk. Rain pattered against the pavement, filling the gutters with murky looking run-off. Sam grimaced, hunching down into his jacket. Boston weather still didn't agree with him even after six years on the east coast.

The sky grew steadily darker as he made his way through the city. The quiet neighborhoods of Lower Roxbury gave way to the bustle of the south-end. He passed the hospital and the cathedral, before crossing the intersection towards the Back Bay. It was almost full-dark by the time that Maccadam's came into view. The little pub was located in the basement of a block of row houses on an otherwise nondescript street. The lights were already on, casting a warm glow across the wet pavement. It was busier in this part of town with cars parked bumper-to-bumper on both sides of the street and pedestrians milling on the sidewalk despite the rain. Sam hurried down the concrete steps, pulling open the heavy door and stepping inside. His arrival was heralded by the jangle of a shopkeeper's bell affixed to the doorframe.

The owner and bar's namesake, Bill Maccadam, glanced up as he entered. He was a heavy-set older man with the bushiest eyebrows that Sam had ever seen in his life.

"You're late." He grumbled in his thick, Southie accent.

Sam gave him an apologetic smile as he unzipped his jacket. "Sorry. I overslept."

Bill harrumphed to himself as he continued wiping down the bar. The gleaming oak countertop was the older man's pride and joy. Sam suspected that he spent more time polishing it than he did serving customers, but that was fine. It was the reason why Sam had a job, after all.

"It's pouring out there." Sam said, stepping around the bar and grabbing a half-apron from the hook on the wall, "Is it supposed to let up soon?" He tied the apron around his waist, before glancing around the room. John and Arnold, two of their regulars, were sitting at their usual spots halfway down the bar, and, judging by the looks on their faces, they were probably arguing about the Red Sox again. There were a handful of other patrons sitting at tables, but it was relatively quiet for a Thursday night.

"I dunno." Bill replied, before peering at him more closely, "Did you walk all the way from Roxbury? It's colder than a witch's tit out there."

"It's twenty minutes to the T from my place. It was faster just to hoof it." Sam said, before John leaned forward and caught his eye, gesturing meaningfully with his empty glass. "Hey, Mr. Sullivan. What're you having?"

John was having what he was always having, which was the cheapest draft beer on the menu. Sam poured him a glass, placing it on a faded green coaster in front of him. The older man slid a ten dollar bill across the bar and told him to keep the change. It was a promising start to the evening, which proved to be a great deal busier than it began. The Red Sox were playing the Blue Jays at Fenway, and by the time some old Hall-of-Famer threw out the first pitch, the bar was standing room only. Sam and Bill stood shoulder-to-shoulder as they took orders and poured drinks with an ease born of long experience. Still, Sam was relieved when Lizzie finally arrived for her shift. The middle-aged waitress disappeared briefly into the backroom to change, and then she joined them behind the bar.

"Sorry I'm late. I couldn't find a sitter." She apologized, tying an apron around her waist with well-practiced hands, "How're you feeling, Sam? You look a lot better."

Sam grimaced faintly at the concern in her voice. He had been in the backroom taking inventory last Monday when the fits had started. Bill had found him sometime later, disoriented and half-delirious on the floor. The older man had sent him home with gruff orders to rest, but Sam was back the following night. To his intense relief, Bill had accepted his return without comment.

"Thanks, Liz." Sam managed, relieved that none of his discomfort was evident in his tone, "My Doc says it was probably stress. Nothing to worry about."

Sam had made an appointment to see a specialist after his first episode, over two years ago, but he had canceled it the next morning. There was nothing anyone could do for him, and he knew it—the fits would get better or they wouldn't. His father had seen every specialist on the west coast, but nothing had helped prevent his rapid decline. Nothing the doctors suggested had helped Sam's great-uncle or great-great-grandfather either. The Witwicky line was cursed.

Lizzie's mouth pinched in matronly disapproval. Sam flashed her a crooked half-smile, before leaning forward to listen to the half-shouted order of the next patron. Sam glanced at the older man, whose face was flushed and ruddy with high spirits, before stepping away to pour his drinks: two vodka sodas, a Ward Eight, and a draft of beer. He set each glass on the drink tray as it was filled, before leaning forward to shout, "That'll be $32 even."

"What?" The older man shouted back.

Sam held up three fingers on one hand and two fingers on the other hand. "$32."

The older man dug two twenties out of his billfold, before handing them over to Sam. "Just five back is fine."

Sam rang up the order, before handing the fiver back to the customer and tucking the remaining bills into the tip jar on the back shelf. The older man was grinning as he picked up the drink tray and headed back to his seat.

The next few hours passed easily enough. They were slammed, which meant that Sam had no time to get lost in his own thoughts. The television affixed to the wall behind them provided a steady stream of sports commentary, and the bar was filled by the sounds of animated conversation and rowdy cheers. Lizzie slipped in and out from behind the bar, exchanging wadded bills for drinks almost as quickly as Sam could pour them.

"Sam, can you get the guys at the end of the bar?" Bill asked, tossing the towel he kept slung over his shoulder into the basket under the counter, "I gotta take a piss."

Sam glanced at Bill, who jerked a thumb towards two men sitting together a few seats down from John and Arnold. They were younger guys, maybe late-30s, but they made an odd looking pair. The guy sitting on the left had a mop of red hair and a wide, animated smile, while his companion was a stone-faced, surly-looking blond. They were both dressed in business-casual attire, which made them stand out amongst the sports jerseys and Red Sox apparel.

"Cheer up, sunshine." The redhead laughed, pulling out his wallet as Sam approached, "This has been the best S&R assignment in ages."

"Hey guys." Sam greeted, giving them both a polite smile, "What can I get you?"

Redhead gave Sam a wide grin in return. "I'll have a whiskey-sour. Nothing for my illustrious companion here—he doesn't drink."

Sam glanced at the blond for confirmation, but he only received a flat look in return. He shrugged, before retrieving a tumbler from the shelf and setting it on the glass rail. Sam made quick work pouring the bourbon, lemon juice and syrup into a cocktail shaker. He shook it until the metal was cold to the touch, and then he poured the drink and added the garnishes. When he was finished, he set the tumbler on a coaster, and slid it across the bar towards the redhead.

"Thanks." Redhead grinned, before taking a drink and groaning in appreciation, "This is phenomenal."

Sam gave the guy a wry smile, before accepting the credit card he extended across the bar. "You're welcome. The trick is a reverse-dry shake."

Sam glanced at the card as he made to swipe it through the payment terminal. It was matte-black and entirely featureless—it didn't have a card number, expiration date, or financial logo. Sam frowned faintly, turning the card over to look at the back. It was similarly featureless except for the magstripe.

"It'll work." Redhead offered, correctly interpreting Sam's confusion, "It's the company card."

Sam's frown deepened, but he slid it through the payment terminal all the same. The light blinked green in less than a second, and then the receipt began to print. Sam stared at the payment terminal for a long moment, before handing the receipt and the card back to the redhead.

"Company card?" He asked, discomforted by the exchange, although he wasn't sure why exactly, "You here on business? I would have pegged you for a native."

Redhead chuckled, taking another drink of his whiskey-sour, before setting the glass back on the coaster, "Yeah, I'm Boston, born and raised, but it's been a while since I've been home. Job's kept me busy." He grinned, planting his forearms on the bar rail and nodding in his companion's direction, "I mean, hell, our business had us running all over Boston for the last three days, so I will damn sure be business expensing this drink to make up for it."

Sam couldn't prevent his huff of laughter at the exuberance in the older man's voice. "Well, enjoy the drink. Let me know if you want another one."

Redhead leaned forward, catching Sam's gaze before he could walk away. "What about you? You a townie, too?"

"Who, Sam?" John laughed, abruptly inserting himself into the conversation, "Nah, Sam's not a local. He's from California."

John spoke the state name as though it was an inside joke. Sam's mouth tightened in a grimace. He knew what was coming—he had been on the receiving end of John's drunken haranguing on more than one occasion.

Sure enough, Redhead's eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline. "California? What are you doing all the way out here?"

John laughed, slapping the bar with the flat of his hand. "The kid got a full-ride to Harvard, and now he's slinging drinks. Ain't that something?"

Sam could feel the color rising in his cheeks, but he kept his expression neutral. John loved getting under his skin. "It didn't work out." He said, injecting enough ice into his tone to send a message.

The warning went completely over John's head. The older man laughed as though it was the funniest thing in the world. He picked up his half-empty drink (his last drink, Sam thought caustically), before moving over to sit next to Redhead. John leaned all the way into the guy's personal space, before saying, conspiratorially, "Sam's a bonafide genius. Can you believe that? Ask him anything, look—Sam, what's the square-root of 7894?"

"Let me know if you want another drink." Sam gritted out, directing his words to Redhead. When John downed the last dregs of his beer, Sam shook his head. "Not you. You're done for the night."

"Aww, c'mon Sam." John slurred, spreading his arms wide, "Lighten up."

Before Sam could reply, the blond stranger suddenly reached out, catching Sam's wrist. Sam startled in surprise, a shock going through his arm like a livewire, but the stranger's grip was like iron. He was staring Sam down with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"What the fuck?" Sam managed, yanking his arm to no avail, "Let go of me."

The stranger stared into Sam's face for a long moment, before he abruptly released him. "On second thought, I think I'll have a Sea Breeze."

The Redhead, who had turned in his seat to watch the unusual exchange, stared at his companion in naked surprise. "What, seriously? Are you sure?"

The blond inclined his head in a nod without taking his eyes off Sam. "Oh, absolutely."

All of a sudden, Bill appeared at Sam's side. The older man's face was flushed with anger, and he jabbed a finger at the blond, before pointing to the door. "You don't lay your hands on my people in my fucking bar. Get the fuck out!"

The blond's expression darkened by an order of magnitude. He raised his chin, narrowing his eyes and opening his mouth to reply, but Redhead was faster. He was out of his seat, clapping his companion on both shoulders and giving him a too-rough-to-be-entirely-friendly shake.

"You heard the man, Sunny." He said, artificial cheer in his voice, "We don't want to cause a scene. Let's go."

The blond, Sunny, turned to direct an equally cold look at his companion. "I do not take orders from you, Anderson."

"You do tonight." Redhead said brightly, "Get up. Right now."

Sam held his breath as Sunny stared at his companion for a long, tense moment. Then, the blond seemed to come to a decision, for he scoffed as he climbed off the stool. Redhead clapped him on the back in approval, before directing an apologetic smile towards Sam.

"Thanks for the drink. It was the best whiskey-sour I've had in ages."

Bill shouldered his way in front of Sam, before crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out."

By now, everyone in their immediate vicinity had stopped what they were doing to watch the altercation. Sam could feel the color rising in his cheeks at the unwelcome attention. Bill stood there like a stone sentry as the two strangers made their way through the crowd. It wasn't until the door swung shut behind them that Bill turned, giving Sam a close look.

"You okay, kid?" He murmured.

Sam's flush deepened, spreading across his face at the concern in the older man's voice.

"Yeah, Bill. It's fine. Thanks for the assist." He managed, offering up a wry smile for authenticity's sake.

Bill's bushy eyebrows drew together, as though in consideration. "You wanna clock-out early? Lizzie and I can handle things until close."

Sam winced internally at the gentle treatment—he was sick to death of being handled with kid-gloves. He shook his head, before cranking up the wattage of his smile. "Nah, thanks though. I appreciate it."

Bill stared at him for a moment longer, before shrugging and making his way back down the bar. Sam watched him go, before exhaling a shaky sigh.

What a fucking night. He thought as he turned, glancing at the patrons queuing near the bar. It was obvious they were waiting for a drink, but no one seemed sure whether it was alright to approach. Sam sighed softly to himself, before settling back into his hospitality persona and gesturing towards the nearest customer. "What can I get you?"

The first customer ordered two draft beers. The second customer ordered a gin-and-tonic. The third customer ordered a Bloody Mary and two Mint Juleps, which set Sam's teeth on edge. He went about the arduous process of mixing up the drinks, but it wasn't long until his mind started wandering. The altercation with the two strangers—Sunny and Anderson, they had said—kept playing out in his mind's eye, as though on repeat. The outward friendliness of Redhead, the sour-expression on the blond's face. The feeling of fingers closing around Sam's wrist, as cold and unyielding as steel cables. It left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he had no idea why. He had dealt with all manner of abuse while tending bar: belligerent drunks, condescending Cantabs, angry sports fans… but none of them had made Sam feel so exposed, so cornered , as the two strangers had tonight.

All at once, Sam pushed the drinks across the bar, before turning and hurrying down the galley. He was already unfastening his apron as Bill turned, giving him a surprised look.

"On second thought, I think I will take off for the night." Sam managed, his voice too tight to be casual, "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

Bill turned as Sam sidled past, before calling after him, "Don't forget your tips, kid. It was a good night."

Sam could feel the color rising in his face again, but he turned, grabbing the well-worn envelope off the back-bar, before stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans. He was pulling on his jacket as he hurried out of the bar and onto the street. It was colder than it had been earlier in the day, but the rain had let-up sometime over the last few hours. It was quieter too—the street was mostly empty at the late hour, except for a few sedans and a sleek-looking sports car parked near the corner. Sam hurried by without so much as a sidelong glance.

The walk usually served to clear his head, but tonight it did the opposite: his mind felt crowded, as though his thoughts were jostling around inside his skull. The altercation with the two men kept replaying itself, over and over, and with each iteration, the tight press of anxiety gripped his insides like a vice.

"You're being neurotic." Sam muttered to himself, quickening his pace. "You're fine."

A car turned the corner, briefly swathing the street in light, before accelerating in the opposite direction. Sam found himself turning to watch as the car drove by. He half-expected the brake-lights to flare or the car to turn around, but neither happened. The car disappeared a moment later, swallowed by the darkness.

"This is ridiculous." He gritted out, turning and forcing one foot in front of the other, "It's the paranoia. It's not real."

The muttered assurances did nothing to quash the restless anxiety that was steadily building in his gut. Sam found himself pulling his hoodie down over his face as he made his way through the Back Bay. He was almost to the Cathedral when the silence was shattered by the sounds of distant honking and cheering. He froze like a deer in the headlights, before realization dawned on him: the noise was coming from the direction of Fenway Park. The Red Sox must have won the game.

Sam ducked his head as he started off towards Lower Roxbury again. The traffic was heavier near Route-9, so Sam took the back alleys instead. It took him less than twenty-five minutes to make it home, though it felt like a small eternity. Something wound tight inside of him unclenched at the sight of the familiar stone walk-up, and he hurried up the steps to unlock the front door. He slipped inside as silently as a ghost, before locking the door behind him. It was only then, with the two deadbolts engaged and the chain lock in place, that Sam allowed himself a sigh of relief. He momentarily pressed his forehead against the door, breathing in the smell of wood and old paint, before he finally turned around.

His apartment was a 325-square-foot studio that cost him $900 a month, but that wasn't its most remarkable feature. Its most remarkable feature, and the reason why Sam never had guests over, were the newspaper clippings, charcoal drawings, and odd symbols that covered every square inch of its four walls. Sam leaned back against the door, letting his eyes roam across the room. He knew that the physical evidence of his condition ought to disturb him, but it didn't. On the contrary—the tableau was strangely comforting, like an old sweater or a favorite blanket. He felt ensconced and secure here in a way that he never felt anywhere else.

Sam unzipped his jacket, before tossing it onto the old armchair in the corner. His wallet, keys, and the envelope full of cash were left on the bedside table. He ambled over to the wall, running his fingers over a sketch of an unfamiliar cityscape that he had drawn after a particularly vivid nightmare. The buildings were dark monoliths against the sky, which was hazy with smoke. It was familiar and strange, all at once.

After a few moments of quiet introspection, Sam turned around and began his nightly routine. It started by double-checking the locks on the front door (deadbolt, deadbolt, chain—yes), and then he moved the window blinds aside just far enough to check the locks. He rattled the window that faced the alley, ensuring the latch was secure, before he padded over to the small kitchenette against the opposite wall. Sam made himself the same supper that he had made every night for the last four months: a can of beef stew, a slice of bread, and a Hostess snack cake. He ate while sitting in front of his computer—the screen cast bluish light around the room, sending long shadows across the floor. He checked his messages while spooning beef stew into his mouth, but his Inbox was empty. Sam briefly considered sending Tiresias a message, but eventually, he decided against it. The conspiracist never replied to messages when he was off the grid.

When Sam finished his meal, he ambled over to the kitchenette and put his bowl in the sink. He rinsed it out with water, before ducking into the bathroom long enough to relieve himself, and then he settled down on the bed. The rickety old frame squeaked and groaned as he shifted around, trying to make himself comfortable. Eventually, he folded his hands over his belly and closed his eyes. He lay there for a long time, listening to the distant sound of traffic and someone walking around upstairs. It was almost three o'clock in the morning by the time he finally drifted off. It felt like he had only been asleep for a few moments when a sharp knock on his door brought him surging back to full awareness. Sam blinked open his eyes to the sight of mellow sunshine streaming through the blinds. He groaned softly as he leveraged himself into a sitting position, before glancing at the door. There was a protracted silence, and then the knock came a second time.

Sam's heart skipped a beat, before it began galloping in his chest. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, before padding across the room to stand in front of the door. He pressed his hand against the wood, willing this to be another hallucination, but the knock came again, more insistently this time. Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat as he unlocked the first deadbolt, and then the second, before opening the door a crack. There were two men standing on his front step. The first, a middle-aged white man, tipped his head as he and Sam made eye contact. The second, a black man who was built like a brick shit-house, gave him an easy smile.

"Good morning. Are you Sam Witwicky?" He asked.

Sam resisted the urge to slam the door in their faces. "Who's asking?"

The white guy glanced at his companion—there was something meaningful about the look they exchanged, but it was gone again a moment later.

"My name is Will Lennox." The white guy introduced himself, before gesturing to his companion, "This is Bobby Epps. Can we come in?"

"What's this about?" Sam asked, anxiety and suspicion combining to make his tone sharp.

Lennox fixed him with an apologetic smile. "I realize it's early, but we won't keep you long. We wanted to discuss the altercation at Maccadam's last night."

Sam's heart was pounding so hard that he was sure the two men must be able to hear it. He glanced from one to the other, before he asked, "Did Bill give you my address?"

Lennox inclined his head in agreement. "Yeah, he did. Can we come in?"

Sam's blood turned to ice inside his veins. Bill didn't know his home address—Sam had used an old post-office box on all of his payroll forms.

"Alright." Sam managed, grip tightening on the door handle. "Give me a minute. I'm in my pajamas."

He shut the door without waiting for the two men to reply. He stood there for a long moment, frantically sifting through the limited options available to him, when he heard the two men talking quietly on the stoop. All at once, Sam's entire world narrowed down to the situation in front of him: fight or flight, because compliance wasn't an option. In a moment of terrifying clarity, Sam suddenly understood what he had to do.

Thankfully, he had gone to sleep in his clothes last night. He quickly bent over, pulling on his shoes and grabbing his coat, before retrieving his book bag from underneath the bed. He opened the closet as quietly as he could, stuffing items indiscriminately into the bag, before hurrying over to the bedside table. His wallet, the envelope full of cash, and some old IDs he had pilfered from Maccadam's went into the bag next.

There was another knock, sharper this time, and then Lennox's muffled voice asked, "Sam?"

"Sorry!" Sam hollered, "I'm in the bathroom. Gimme a second."

Sam grabbed a handful of items from the drawer—an old puzzle box that Sam used for his rainy day fund, a pocket knife, and a Zippo lighter. Then he crossed the room to the window that faced the back alley, and after confirming the coast was clear, he unlocked the latch and jimmied it open.

Sam was half-way out the window, book bag slung over one shoulder, when the door burst open. He froze, heart in his throat, as Lennox and Epps stepped into the room. Sam had a brief moment to notice the way Lennox's mouth firmed into a grim line as he took in the sight of Sam's crazy splashed across the apartment walls, but Sam didn't wait around to hear what the older man had to say. He slipped out the window, landing hard on the ground seven feet below.

"Sam!" Lennox hollered, already clambering out the window after him, "Wait!"

Sam pushed himself to his feet, fleeing down the alleyway with Lennox in hot pursuit. He was almost to the street when a sleek, yellow sports car hopped the curb and blocked the path. Sam didn't hesitate—desperation and adrenaline propelled him forward, and he threw himself across the hood before the car had even come to a full-stop. He was on his feet again a moment later, rushing across the road to the sound of loud cursing, squealing tires, and affronted honking. Sam slipped into the alleyway on the other side of the street a moment later.

If they wanted him, they were going to have to catch him first.