Sometimes Sam dreamed he was floating in space. Weightless. He would see constellations so close he could touch them fly by. Planets of varying size and color beyond what he had been taught in school. He knew it was somewhere out here that the broken world of Cybertron floated, beyond the reach and comprehension of normal man. He liked to close his eyes in these dreams and just float because it was soundless. He was free of the crushing grip of reality, of responsibility. He was free of whatever it was that was happening to him.
All too soon his alarm went off, loud and annoying and from the 90's rather from modern day cell phones. Sam rolled over with a groan and buried his head under his pillow to try and drown out the sound. When that didn't work, he reached over and shut it off. As he pulled his arm back, he saw bright blue lines floating on his skin, likely reacting to his peaceful dream. Sam pulled it back quickly and rubbed at it with his blanket as if he could just rub it off. Of course, it didn't work. It never did. In the weeks preceding that battle that nearly took his own life Cybertronian symbols had started appearing on his body at random intervals. They seemed to respond to his emotional and stress levels, getting worse and spreading as far as his face when he was really freaking out or whenever his heart rate would go up.
Sam dropped out of college for this reason. He couldn't get through tests without looking like a glow stick, hell he couldn't even work out without the glowing symbols and lines appearing. He and his father had a large falling out about it, probably one of the worst fights they'd ever had. He hadn't spoken to him since. That was half a year ago.
Sam got up and pulled on his clothes for the day then left the room. His uncle Gregory was already tossing back a bowl of oatmeal as the news played on the television. He was dressed and ready to go, eyeballing Sam as he moseyed out of the guest bedroom.
"You aren't going to have time for breakfast if you keep getting up later." He chided. Sam shrugged and grabbed a couple of pop tarts from the cupboard, waving them.
"Doesn't this count as breakfast?" Sam asked.
"Barely." Uncle Gregory grumbled. He tossed his bowl in the sink and filled it with water. "You staying up playing video games?"
"Not with the tv in there." Sam groused.
"It works perfectly well. Your father and I played super Nes on that thing just fine."
"I know." Sam nodded, playing along. "But no, I'm not. Just going to bed."
Uncle Gregory frowned, likely taking note of the deep shadows under Sam's eyes, but he didn't say anything. That's what he liked about his uncle. He didn't pry. He didn't ask questions when Judy called, begging him to let Sam stay with him for a while as he got his head straight. Sam knew he knew something was different about his nephew, but he never asked. Sam preferred it that way.
"Well, you coming with me to the shop to earn your keep around here?"
"I'm coming." Sam said around a mouthful of pastry.
Even if it hadn't been the only auto repair shop, Sam would have known 'Victory Auto Repair' belonged to his uncle. The family motto had been deeply ingrained in them all, it seemed. The bright red and white sign was looking weathered and hung crooked, but it always had business. The locals only ever trusted Gregory with their cars, and few ever went for the hour and a half drive to the city. Gregory owned and ran it, of course, and now he had Sam to help him out. Sam didn't start out knowing much of anything, but he was learning. Currently he was working on the maintenance of an older Dodge.
Uncle Gregory had on the radio, blasting it as loud as he pleased since it was just them. It allowed Sam time to just zone out and work. No life-threatening events. No killer toasters. No weight of the world on his shoulders. He was just Sam here. Just Sam. Sam Witwicky who liked to float in space and just…. exist.
Suddenly his face was cast in a blue light as his right arm shone, symbols and lines dancing over his skin like a light show. Sam yelped as he straightened and hit his head on the hood, dropping the oil stick and scrambling over to the workbench to the nearest towel. Gregory rolled out from under the car he was working on in time to see Sam drape an oil towel over his forearm.
"What's going on with you boy?" He asked. "Are you okay? You hit your head?"
"I'm fine!" Sam squeaked out, his voice hitting higher octaves than intended. "Just nicked myself!"
"Go wash it off and get a bandage on it. Don't need an infection. Lemme look at it and see if you need- "
"No!" Sam shouted, earning himself a shocked look from his uncle. "No, really, you keep working. It's just a little scratch. Gonna go wash it off!" he disappeared into the shop, locking himself inside of the bathroom. He ripped the towel off, scowling at the marks as if they had done him a personal wrong.
"Go away!" He hissed. As if offended, a light bounced off his skin and struck the lightbulb causing it (and every other light in the building) to flicker madly. The higher his heart rate, the worse the flickering. Sam gripped either side of the sink and force himself to calm down. He took many deep breaths in and out. Finally, the flickering slowed and stopped. Slowly the marks from his arm disappeared and sank back into his skin. He rubbed a hand over his face. This is the reason he was out here. To try and control this…. thing. He couldn't live life setting off every electronic device he came near.
Not for the first time he found himself wondering why he hadn't gone to the Autobots, to Ratchet. But he could hear it now:
'Never has a human absorbed all spark energy. I am uncertain as to the effects it will have on you.'
Yeah, no. The military would have had him isolated so fast his head would have spun.
He could do this on his own. He was a Witwicky. He didn't need the Autobots for every problem.
He left the bathroom feeling lightheaded and empty, as he often did whenever this happened. Gregory poked his head out, but Sam waved him off. He was fine. He would be fine.
While Uncle Gregory liked to spend his evenings on the porch 'shooting the shit' with his neighbors and having a beer; Sam preferred the backyard. It resembled a junk yard with years of accumulated car parts and projects that had never gotten off the ground. But it was quiet and gave Sam plenty of time to just sit and think and look up at the stars he usually couldn't see in the city. He sat on the hood of one of his Uncles abandoned projects. A 1985 Lamborghini Countach with an awful yellow, rusting paintjob. He'd worked on it for years off and on, but the thing never ran and probably never would. There were scratches and dents littering it and Sam wondered if it hadn't been used in street racing, then lost. Gregory had given Sam permission to fuss about with it all he liked, but Sam speculated he was just trying to keep him busy. Give him a sense of purpose or direction. A rusty car wasn't going to give him that.
'The last rusty car you had did.' His brain niggled at him. He swatted away the idea. He missed Bumblebee terribly, but he did the right thing by separating himself from them. At least for now. He didn't want to hurt him by accident, not when he could have a whole normal car smoking as if it had been set ablaze. He shuddered to think about it.
He heard his uncle laugh heartily from the front and considered going out there to join him for once when a voice disturbed him from his thoughts.
"You look very deep in thought there kid." Sam jumped and yelped, working quickly to bring his heart rate down. Bright blue eyes stared at him from over the fence surrounded by little scars on his skin. Harris was one of Uncle Gregory's close friends, but a little on the eccentric side. He'd served time in the military but refused to say which branch and how long. Only ever saying 'felt like a lifetime'. Sam had his suspicions about Harris and his uncle but kept his nose firmly out of it. "Just relaxing. And I'm not a kid. I'm in my twenties."
Harris chuckled, deep and rich. "You are to me. Need to talk to someone?"
"No." Sam said shortly, then corrected himself and sighed. "Sorry, it's been a long day." Just because he put himself in self exile didn't mean he needed to be an asshole.
Harris merely rose an eyebrow and braced his arms on the fence. He was a tall man and broad in comparison to his shorter, skinnier uncle. Or himself. On his face was etched eternal wonder and patience and it led Sam to wonder if he'd ever had kids. "Okay, I'll admit, your Uncle has been worried about you since you've been here. He says you don't really talk to him about anything that's happened in your life. Or recently."
"Not much to say." Sam said as he slid off the car, letting his hand trail along the hood in a mark of habit. Harris hummed, a full beer can dangling from his thick fingers.
"Why did you come out here?" Sam asked as he approached the fence. He didn't talk often with the neighbors, but Harris was over so often that Sam was comfortable with him. Harris regarded him for a moment, pondering the question.
"I was looking for a home. I felt…. broken after leaving the military and I needed somewhere to just heal. I didn't plan to stay here, not really, but…." He trailed off, smiling to himself. "But this place just stuck. It's beauty. The people."
Sam looked at the ground feeling those words hit on another level. "Home." He repeated low. "Did you find it here?"
"Maybe." Harris responded. Sam looked at him questioningly, but the man didn't offer more than that. "What are you hoping to find?"
"I don't know." Sam sighed. "Nothing, I guess. Rest?" Harris laughed at that and Sam couldn't help but feel offended.
"Sorry, but you are so young to be talking like that."
"Well, everyone is different." Sam shrugged. He couldn't exactly tell him he was tired after running and fighting, not just for his own life, but for the lives of another alien race that lived among them as cars. That would have spun Harris' head. Gregory called out for Harris from the front and the man turned around, shouting back he'd be just a second.
"If you ever need to talk Sam,"
"I know, you're not that far." Sam allowed himself to smile, genuinely appreciating the offer, but making no plans to take it.
When he was alone again he went back to sit on the hood of the car, not for the first time wishing it was Bumblebee and that he could talk long into the night. As it was he opted for softly talking to the damaged car instead, nothing but silence given in return, but nothing to spill his hearts secrets.