CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

XXX

"Where is he?!" The slam of the fist against a metallic wall was enough to make many a Cybertronian flinch and cower in terror, however Soundwave was no such mech. He watched his master's bright red optics flash at him as the final pieces of his armor settled back in place, sharp denta bared as he snarled. "Where is Jack Darby?!"

Soundwave quickly set to work scouring the web, allowing what little information he did know populate on his visor. The home where the human had once resided was sold approximately two, almost three weeks ago, however its new owner was unconventional: the United States government. The seller's name was wiped from the records, everything meticulously and carefully worded so the gender and names of the previous owner could not be found. He continued searching for records, finding hundreds of hits for Jack, Darby, and Jack Darby, but none of them resulted in the human they wanted. Not even his mother, June Darby, had any relevant results.

Megatron's ventilations became slower and heavier, yet his anger still simmered below the surface, a raging hot fire threatening to explode. Soundwave kept his field in tight, not wanting an accidental brush to set him off. The mech was not afraid of him, but rather the consequences of a rampage. Cleanup was not the TIC's favorite hobby.

Soundwave stopped his search after some time, not even government records existing on the young man. He, for all intents and purposes, never existed.

The warlord read over this information carefully, faceplates still twisted in a vengeful expression.

"Is he deceased?" He asked, the question deathly soft, "and if he is, who terminated him?"

Soundwave searched for a death certificate, but just like before nothing came to light. Jack Darby was never a US citizen - he had never been on Earth, according to government records. Soundwave could not even trace back possible clues, the information which he could access with ease coming up empty. No birth certificate, a social security number . . . all records, which he previously had encountered whilst researching the human, were gone.

Absorbing this new information, Megatron considered his options. It had been a nasty surprise to arrive at Jack's room to find it completely empty, with only a bed frame and desk to confirm someone had once lived there. His search of the house was fruitless, stalking through each room and finding it as empty as the last. Every moment built more fury in him, fury that something had happened to Jack, and he had not been there to prevent it - because of his foolish selfishness.

The lack of a confirmed death was the only thing keeping him from ripping apart the Earth to find the perpetrators. Human, Cybertronian, even animal, he did not care - he would have destroyed their existence.

Even more pressing and alarming, however, was the lack of anything. Where had Jack gone? What had happened to him? Optimus Prime was clearly behind this, hiding him from Megatron; it was debatable as to whether he was hiding his death, or concealing his life.

Of course, Optimus would protect those who harmed Jack, because they would never deserve Megatron's wrath.

The thought left a bitter taste in his intake. Only Prime would be blind to the sins of humanity, believing them undeserving of the justice they brought upon themselves. Even if they harmed one of his own, he would merely justify it as a young, naive race upon whose territory they encroached. It was a pathetic coping mechanism, if anything, to justify how he lost mecha to such measly creatures.

Nothing justified Jack getting hurt, or worse.

"Find him," Megatron hissed at his subordinate, Soundwave's curt nod lost in the periphery of his vision as he stood to his full height. "It is impossible for them to have scrubbed everything from their primitive hard drives. Find him, Soundwave, and if he is dead . . ."

The tyrant stalked down the hall, his claws flexing. "I will deal with the murderers myself."

XXX

Not a single teacher asked Jack to introduce himself, which was bizarre. Instead, each gave their own short, curt introduction to his presence in the class before resuming lecture, something which gave him momentarily whiplash. The teachers in Jasper would have made a whole day out of it, though he supposed a new student in a small class was a bigger deal than one in a school so big they probably barely knew their student's names. Deciding it was not worth getting offended over, he elected to merely chug through the school day with his head down.

Everyone moved and bustled around quickly, friend groups taking up the entire width of the hall and ushering the loners through at varying paces. Within each passing period a chattering roar filled his ears, Jack feeling even more like a small-town outsider as the noise became increasingly overwhelming.

Nick Dolion. Every time the name was said he suppressed the urge to flinch, trying to get into the mindset of a kid from Texas with a nurse mom named April. Yet the few peers who spoke to him were surprised by the lack of a thick Texan accent, Jack building the lie that his mother was originally raised elsewhere.

Great. I went from lying on my own to needing to put Mom in the loop when I lie.

Though he supposed doing such a thing should not bother him now; after all, he was apparently fine with lying to the Autobots about his nightly trysts with Megatron - why should lying to his fellow humans feel any different?

The school day dragged, and he was honestly incredibly grateful when the final bell rang, signaling it was time for everyone to finally flood out of the classrooms, stuff books into their bags, and head out as fast as they possibly could. He had so much homework it was borderline criminal, though without a job to take up some of his day he had plenty of time to complete it.

Stepping out of the entrance doors was bizarre; Jack had been half-expecting Miko or Rafael to be waiting for him, to see the sheen of a blue motorcycle as she stayed patiently silent while he slid aboard. Despondency settled within him when he realized neither of those things were going to happen. He was not in Jasper anymore.

And he wasn't Jack.

Sliding into the driver's side of his car he sighed, putting his face in his hands and taking a deep breath. His fingers were trembling, the overwhelming feeling of loneliness washing over him like blistering hot water. Another deep breath, the young man struggling to keep it together as he attempted to sort between hating himself and hating him.

Forget about him. He's obviously forgotten about you.

As untrue as such a notion probably was, Jack had to believe it. After a month of zero communication, it was obvious what Megatron wanted: nothing to do with him. The Decepticon had better things to do, such as take over the Earth and defeat Team Prime in a bid to finally end the war for good with the annihilation of Optimus. A pathetic, traitorous human was far from important to him.

Violently shaking his head, Jack jerked when he received a text message. Picking it up he realized it was April, sighing softly as the worried text flashed before his eyes.

Are you heading home?

Yes. Short, simple, and to the point.

Starting the car he carefully pulled out of the parking lot, still using a GPS to guide him back to the home, requiring a few more trips before he had the way memorized. His mother seemed more adept at figuring out her way through the town, though city was probably more like it. Parn was not huge by any means, however it was larger than Jasper; it might as well have been NYC to the pair of newcomers.

June was standing in the doorway of the home once he pulled in, Jack unsure if he was annoyed or endeared by her worrying. On one hand, if he was snatched, the Autobots would know fairly quickly. On the other . . . she was suffocating him again.

That's what happens when you violate her trust.

He thought of it as a part of his punishment, which he rightly deserved, Continuous monitoring, because apparently he could not look after himself.

"How was school?" She asked, blue eyes sparkling. Her smile was partially forced, betraying her own guilt. June wanted to move on just as much as he did, which only in turn buried more self-hatred into Jack's chest.

He shrugged. "It was school," he said, well aware that was not going to satisfy her curiosity, "the teachers are nice, everyone seems pretty cool. I got a lot of homework though - that's always rough."

She laughed softly, easing some of the tension. "Then I won't bother you too much," she teased softly, closing the door behind him. "I'll call when dinner is ready."

"I'll help if I can," he promised, making his way up to his room. The motions were strange, everything just off. This was not home, no matter how many times he told himself such a thing.

The evening dragged by slowly, his school work pulling his attention away from the real world long enough for him to be productive. The soft sound of an evening rain, coupled by the ever-present waves of the ocean below, created a relaxing ambience. June lightly called him down for a meal, the pleasant smells of one of his favorites elevating his mood immensely. She was trying her hardest to adjust them both to this new life, doing everything in her power to make her son happy.

Jack helped set the table quietly, occasionally giving his mother a reassuring smile to tell her he was still okay. They settled in the spots they had claimed as "theirs" at the dinner table, the rectangular shape a change from their previous oval. The sharp edges dug into his arms, Jack still learning how to orient himself to reduce the pain.

Eating in silence, he tried to think of something to say, not wanting her to take the lingering quiet as a bad thing. He fished for something, a story, or perhaps a lame joke, when her soft voice slapped him across the cheek.

"J- Ni- Jack . . ." his mother said his real name, which immediately set off a red flag, as she continued, "I know you don't want to talk about it, but I also don't want to be left in the dark."

It. He felt his throat closing, but forced himself to take a sip of water, not wanting to let on to his feelings.

His mother only knew as much as he was willing to say when they were at the Autobot base. She only knew Megatron had been making secret trips to visit him in the middle of the night, attempting to forge something of a relationship to regain what he had lost on Cybertron. Much else was left unsaid, as it was more than obvious he did not want to talk about it, however it left his mother believing the worst case scenario.

June had not dared ask about it, however such questioning was long overdue. Jack agreed that she deserved to know, but even just thinking about telling her the whole story made him anxious; he would rather run away from a Skyquake-terrorcon in an infinite loop for the rest of his life.

He took several deep breaths, taking a final bite of food before daring to look up and meet her eyes. "Okay . . . what do you want to know?"

She set her fork down, also finished with the meal for the time being. Her eyes did not meet his, moving as they searched for the easiest way to broach the subject.

"Did he hurt you? Really, truly, hurt you?"

Naturally she started with the most loaded question, one which held at least twelve different meanings. This one was easy, though, as he shook his head.

"No," he paused, "not intentionally."

Immediately, her eyes narrowed minutely; he had to remind himself that she was not angry at him, she could never be angry with him, but rather the one who had forced them into this position. "What do you mean, not 'intentionally?'"

Jack instinctually bit his lip, where the cut had scarred. "Mom, he's sharp. It's kind of unavoidable that he'd cut me. Not to mention he's . . . metal. And strong. There's a lot there that can cause an accident."

Careful, he mentally berated himself, before she jumps to that conclusion.

Nothing escaped April Dolion, June Darby; she knew what to look for. "The cut on your lip . . . he gave that to you?"

He cringed. "Yes."

"How?"

The sharpness of the question finally made him snap a little, because no matter how many times he told himself it was not aimed at him, she still sounded accusatory. "How do you think, mom?"

June's lips thinned. "Did he hurt you?" She asked again, more pointedly, wanting to know for certain he was telling the truth. Jack bitterly wondered if it would help her sleep at night, especially if he had been sexually assaulted by the tyrant. Something he was, ironically, confident Megatron would never stoop to. Kidnapping? Sure. War crimes? Certainly. Assault in the same nature which happened to his beloved back on Cybertron? Never.

"He kissed me," he finally replied, throwing it into the void for her, "twice. The first time he got a little carried away and bit my lip, making me bleed. The second time was a lot more controlled. He didn't do anything else."

Besides running his servos through my hair, down my back, my legs . . .

Stop it. Now.

He pushed the thoughts away, biting the inside of his cheek and forcing himself to try and forget how those digits felt through his clothes, pressing against skin hungrily. It was more than two kisses, though he doubted his mother could take thinking about how sharp denta worked down his neck, teasing every inch they could with practiced lasciviousness.

She closed her eyes, looking positively pale at the thought. June was fighting back tears, unable to fathom how Jack could possibly feel if this was her own reaction to his harassment. Anger boiled in her veins, wishing she could wrap her hands around Megatron's neck and kill him.

"I'm sorry, Jack," she whispered softly.

"Mom, you didn't know," he replied.

"But I'm your mother," her voice was strained, blue eyes cracking open, filled with all of the guilt in the world.

"That doesn't mean anything would have changed," he did not know what else to say, how to curb her anxieties. "What happened, happened. But we've scrubbed our existence from the Earth. He isn't going to find us, not unless we let him."

"I won't," she vowed softly, Jack wishing he could do the same. His heart clenched, because all he was able to give her was a nod, as if he agreed.

When the reality was, he was unsure if he would. Given the chance, and assuming Megatron did not have him killed on sight, would he want to try again?

The yes was far too quick. Despite the pain, the heartache, the struggle to accept that he was no longer an essential part of Megatron's life, they had yet to officially break things apart. That pathetic notion gave him hope, hope that perhaps he could continue chasing this toxic idea he was loved, because Megatron made him feel in a way he could not explain. Emotionally, and physically, it felt unfinished, like a book which had yet to reach its final chapter.

He wished he could let go, yet he was already in too deep, ready to try again if it meant feeling the same way he had before. Despite his reputation, Megatron's presence had kept him safe - now it was the lack of it which made him uneasy.

XXX

Psychology was so weird to Jack.

"Does he respond better to a male voice, or a female?" The woman had asked over the phone whilst scheduling an appointment with June. He wondered why it mattered, because he was lying to them either way; not necessarily about his feelings, or anxiety, but of the true nature of the cause. He did not feel the need to disclose more to a woman than a man, or vice versa, and could not really decide how to approach the question when his mother have him a pointed look. So, he just shrugged silently, his mother replying with "he doesn't seem to mind either way."

It just blew his mind to think the gender of his psychiatrist mattered when that particular category was not even part of his issue.

Thus, he sat in front of a woman, who looked much younger than his previous psychiatrist. She was looking over his file, a paper copy now that his actual identity was wiped from all records. If there were any odd inconsistencies with what she was reading, such as the psychiatrist he saw and what diagnoses he carried, she made no mention of it.

"I'm sorry," she said after a few minutes of silence, "I'm just trying to familiarize myself with your story. I know repeating things can get quite annoying, but I don't mind if you do feel like you need to tell me the whole thing all over again."

Her smile appeared far more genuine than the last guy's, expression truly appearing apologetic.

"Erm . . . Not really," he admitted, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. "I mean, if you want me to talk about something, I can, but I've told this story a million times. It's kind of exhausting."

"Understandable," she chuckled, eventually closing the folder and setting it aside. She leaned forward, chin resting against her hands, "do you mind if I call you Nick? Or Mr. Dolion? Or perhaps you prefer your middle name?"

"Nick is fine," he said, biting his traitorous tongue before Jack could leap off of it.

She smiled. "And you may call me Kathleen," she tilted her head, "So, Nick, if you don't mind, I'd like to take this first session to discuss your diagnoses, any other treatments you're on, and if you have any current expectations for how therapy here is going to go versus how it was done at your previous clinic."

"Sure . . ." He paused, unsure of where she wanted to take this conversation. "I, uh, know I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. Technically acute stress disorder too, but not real PTSD."

"Unspecified depression with anxious tendencies, and yes, acute stress disorder," she agreed, nodding, "but because you are encroaching on a month of persistent symptoms, I may have to change the diagnosis based on the criteria. For the ASD, of course. Depression and anxiety are slightly more chronic."

Jack bit the inside of his cheek. "You want to diagnose me with PTSD?"

"Frankly, I don't want to have to diagnose you with anything," her smile was thin but amused, "however, depending on how your symptoms present, there are a few psychiatric conditions I may find fit better than ASD; while PTSD might be one of them, adjustment disorder is another. It all depends on the severity of the symptoms and how much treatment is helping you. Are you taking the Sertraline?"

"Zoloft?" He asked, continuing when she gives him a confirming nod, "Yeah. Twenty-five milligrams a day."

"And does it seem to be helping? I know a month isn't a long time to be on it, but usually within 2 weeks patients begin to see a gradual change in their mood and thoughts."

He considered it for a moment. "I guess?" There was uncertainty in his voice. "I can't quite tell, honestly. I'm feeling better, but . . . I don't know if that's the medicine, or what's been happening."

"Switching therapists is sometimes stressful," she admitted, "as is moving to a whole new state. It might take a while for the medicine to compensate for that."

"But I also told my mom," Jack paused, being much more careful about how he worded things, "about what's been going on, why I'm stressed. She . . . Wasn't really in the loop before, but I've opened up."

He was rewarded with a genuine smile.

"That's good to hear," Kathleen praised him gently, "that is a significant step. Has it taken some pressure off?"

"Some, yeah," he decided not to mention he was more or less forced to open up to her. "We're still working through it. And honestly, the move has helped more than it hurt when it comes to the anxiety part, I think."

She nodded, readjusting her pose so she was a bit more comfortable. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Jack paused. "Maybe later," while he didn't feel as nervous talking to Kathleen, he did fidget with the edges of his shirt. "Um, you wanted to talk about my expectations for this therapy?"

Another smile. "I do. Though I am not opposed to you taking this conversation wherever you desire; we can always loop back around at the end of the session."

Realizing his leg was bouncing the young man stilled his anxious movements, taking a deep breath.

"I . . . I guess I don't know what to expect," he chewed his lip. "I don't want a new diagnosis but . . . if you think it fits better . . ."

"Are you worried I am going to adjust your medications?" She asked, straight to the point.

Blinking, he supposed that had been a concern he had not identified.

"Yeah," he shrugged, "I just don't want more, you know? I think I'm doing well with therapy, talking to people and getting stuff off my chest. Talking to my mom."

Kathleen smiled.

"I am a big proponent of therapy-based healing myself," she said, fingers folded over a knee, "with less emphasis on medicine, where I can help it. Unfortunately, antidepressants and their cousins are tricky things, and it's only with long-term observation that we can tell whether or not they work. They are slow to start and slow to stop, which is a rather double-edged sword. However, speaking with you, I am confident I will not need to change anything for the foreseeable future. You have a great affect today, Nick, very expressive and honest."

He stared at her for a moment, not quite sure how to take that. Psychiatrists were quirky creatures.

"I think that's my goal too," he continued, "to be just in therapy, without medication. But, it's a long ways off, probably."

"But it is there, is it not?" She asked in reply, "you can see it. So surely that means the wait will be worth it?"

Jack smiled a little. "Yeah, I guess so."

The conversation naturally died there, Kathleen appearing comfortable to sit with him in relative silence. Feeling as though it was getting awkward Jack struggled for something to say, though she merely glanced at her watch after a solid minute.

"Do you want to call it here?" She inquired. "If you feel you don't want to say anything else today?"

"You know, I'd like that," Jack allowed her to stand first, following her lead. He took the hand outstretched to him, her warm softness a stark contrast to the firm callouses of his previous therapist.

"Today was a good session," the smile remained, now showing her teeth, "short, but sometimes those are the most productive. I know this is an odd transition phase with scheduling, so I won't say 'see you next week,' but I hope to see you soon."

He nodded. "I'll see you then," he followed her to the door, which she opened for him and let him walk through, entering the hallway.

Another staff member helped him find the main waiting lobby, June studiously skimming across a nursing book. She looked up as he stepped towards her, her small smile laced with worry.

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah." Once again he followed, taking a few subtle deep breaths. They did not talk much, but he felt as if he had connected with this psychiatrist a little better. At least she seemed comfortable with him keeping things to himself - though she probably subscribed to the ideology that the truth would reveal itself in time.

For her sake, he really hoped it didn't.