Notes: Author's Note: Thanks for your support!
Sam spent the next few hours sitting on the floor of the bridge, staring out at the stars. The view-screen curved around and above him, providing an unobstructed view of space. Bumblebee stayed by his side for the first half-hour or so, but Arcee asked for him shortly thereafter. He stood, brushing against Sam's mind in farewell as he made his way over to the communications workstation. Sam watched him go for a long moment, before turning back towards the view-screen. It was easier to see the stars here, at the front of the bridge, and his eyes skipped across the darkness. It looked nothing like the night's sky above Diego Garcia or Nevada or California. It was entirely other—entirely alien.
The thought made Sam shiver, despite the warmth radiating from the terminal behind him, and he drew his knees up to his chest. He stared out the view-screen for a while longer, before an odd glint caught his eye. He frowned, leaning forward to squint into the darkness.
"What's that?" He asked.
Hound stuck his head over the workstation, whistling at him in confusion.
"What's what?"
Sam nodded towards the view-screen. "That."
Hound raised his head, following Sam's line of sight. He was silent for a long moment, before whistling in comprehension.
"Ah, yes." He chirruped, "That is the Lost Light."
Sam turned, angling his head up to look at the sentry. "Why are they so far away?"
Hound tilted his helm in obvious puzzlement. "They are less than ten thousand kilometers off our starboard bow."
Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "That doesn't answer my question."
Jolt, who had arrived to relieve Mirage at navigation, whistled in amusement. "We are in deep space, Sam. Ten thousand kilometers is practically on top of one another."
Sam gave the shock trooper a wry look, before turning around to settle against the workstation. The Lost Light glimmered in the distance, barely visible against the darkness. He sat there for a long while as the bridge crew carried on their work. Jolt and Arcee called across the floor to one another, relaying coordinates and frequencies. Hound hummed to himself as he drummed a steady tempo against his console. Occasionally, one of the workstations would emit a sharp tonal beeping or a whistle similar to a bosun's call. The first time it happened, Sam nearly jumped out of his skin—it wasn't terrible loud, but it was piercing. By the third or fourth time it happened, however, he had become accustomed to the noise.
Eventually, Sam's backside began to ache from sitting on the cold, metal floor. He groaned, clambering to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. The motion caused his spine to audibly crack, which caused Hound to chirrup in alarm.
Sam couldn't help the half-smile that turned up the corner of his mouth. "You should hear what I can do with my knuckles."
"I would rather not." Hound replied, doubtfully.
Sam huffed a laugh as he walked around the workstation to look at Hound's console. It seemed unchanged from the last time he had seen it—the red dot that denoted the ship was still blinking from the center of the screen, surrounded by all manner of glyphs and symbols. He stepped closer, tilting his head as he stared up at the display. There was a second red dot to the right of the Ark and a third trailing behind it.
"Is that the Lost Light?" Sam asked, curiously.
"It is." Hound agreed, before anticipating Sam's next question, "And that is the Nemesis."
Sam stared at the blinking red dot in surprise. "I wasn't sure whether Starscream and the others would come with us."
"He has made his feelings on the subject perfectly clear." Ratchet cut in, dryly.
Sam turned to see the Chief Medical Officer lumbering down the ramp onto the second-level of the bridge. His footsteps rang against the polished metal floor, growing louder as he approached.
"Oh?" Sam asked, "He's not happy, I take it?"
Ratchet ex-vented a sharp snort as he came to a stop near Hound's terminal. "That's putting it mildly."
Sam folded his arms loosely over his chest and peered up at the old medic. "What's he mad about, exactly?"
Ratchet gestured vaguely but meaningfully to their surroundings. "Sentinel Prime's return, the defeat of the remaining Decepticons, his impending demotion—take your pick."
Sam tilted his head to the side. "His demotion?"
"The appointment of Lord High Protector is at the discretion of the Senate leader. As the senior-most Prime, that responsibility belongs to Sentinel, not to Optimus." Ratchet rumbled.
Sam frowned faintly in response. He had never considered the implications of there being more than one Prime before—at least, not in terms of authority. He and Optimus had a relatively informal relationship, more a camaraderie than a hierarchy. He knew next to nothing about how Primes were supposed to interact with one another.
"When was the last time there was more than one Prime?" He asked, glancing up at the medic to gauge his reaction to the question.
Ratchet considered him for a long moment before replying. "That would have been the first Golden Age, during the reign of Solomus and Epistemus Prime."
"Did they rule together?" Sam asked slowly, "Or was one subservient to the other?"
"Optimus would be better suited to discuss matters of position and power." Ratchet replied gruffly.
Sam glanced towards the Command Chair, only to realize that Optimus had vacated the position in the hours since he had been on the bridge. In his place was a tall, broad shouldered mechanoid plated in brick red and army green. He was staring at the console in front of him with a stern, imperious air.
"Crossblades." Ratchet supplied, as though listening to his thoughts, "Second-in-command of the Lost Light."
Sam tore his eyes away from the red and green mechanoid to look up at him. "What's he doing here, then?"
Ratchet shrugged expressively. "This is, for all intents and purposes, an armada, and the roles and responsibilities are often shared between ships. Many of the Lost Light's crew have shift rotations on the Ark and vice-versa."
Sam digested the information for a long moment before he asked, "But not the Nemesis?"
The Chief Medical Officer scoffed in reply. "Starscream has refused to exchange crew or allow anyone onboard his ship."
Sam frowned faintly as he turned to stare at the red dot that was blinking on Hound's display. "He must be pissed. Why are they even coming with us?"
"Why else? The promise of a restored Cybertron." Ratchet replied.
Sam's frown deepened as he considered Ratchet's reply. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that the Decepticons and the Autobots had an equally vested interest in the restoration of their planet—as it was easy to forget that both sides had been responsible for its destruction. After all, it had been Optimus, not Megatron, who ejected the Cube into space, potentially condemning their species to a slow death by entropy.
"Enough." Ratchet cut in, pulling Sam out of his thoughts, "The microwave has been returned to the mess hall. It's time you ate something more substantial than cereal."
The medic's tone was brisk and no-nonsense, and Sam didn't even bother protesting.
"Who took it?" He asked instead, waving good-bye to Hound as he climbed onto the second-level of the bridge.
"A sanitation bot." Ratchet replied, lumbering towards the ramp, "Evidentially, he mistook it for a sentient organism."
Bumblebee was still standing at the communications terminal, one servo propped on the workstation and the other on the back of the chair. He and Arcee seemed locked in a contest of wills, for they were whisper arguing with one another over something on the monitors. Sam hesitated for a moment, not wanting to interrupt them, when Bumblebee glanced over with an apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry, but I'm going to be a while longer." He said.
"That's alright." Sam replied, "I'll see you later."
The scout brushed against his mind, gentle and affectionate, as he turned back towards the workstation. Sam stared at him for a moment longer before a pointed look from Ratchet spurred him forward. He climbed up the ramp and onto the upper-level of the bridge as the old medic followed behind him. Crossblades turned in his seat as they approached, his expression unfathomable but intense.
"Prime." He rumbled in greeting, "It is my honor to serve."
His voice was deep and smooth and cultured—it seemed somehow at odds with his stern countenance and imposing stature.
"Hello Crossblades." Sam replied, aiming for dignified and falling short, "It's nice to meet you."
Ratchet pressed his servo against Sam's back, urging him forward. Sam nodded to the second-in-command in farewell, before letting himself be steered towards the exit. The double doors slid open as they approached and, as soon as they were in the antechamber, Ratchet transformed. Sam watched as the medic folded down into his alt mode before popping open the driver's side door. He climbed into the cab without further prompting, and then Ratchet was accelerating down the corridor.
Sam leaned back in the driver's seat, careful to keep his feet away from the pedals and his hands to himself. Doors flashed by on either side of the corridor, their interiors visible but dark through the glass windows. It was no time at all before Ratchet turned a corner and the atrium became visible at the end of the hall.
"It's a big ship." Sam said, apropos of nothing, "It's going to take me forever to learn where everything is."
Ratchet's engine rumbled as he started down the curved ramp towards the second deck. "It is a great deal of empty space. The Ark was designed for a complement of 200 mechanoids."
Sam propped his elbow against the doorframe and rested his head on his closed fist. "Have you ever served onboard the ship before?"
"I have." Ratchet agreed, turning down another long corridor, "Both before and after the start of the Great War."
"Oh?" Sam asked, curiosity piqued despite himself, "Were you always the Chief Medical Officer?"
"Yes." Ratchet replied, gruffly.
Sam was silent for several hundred yards before he asked, slowly, "Were you Megatron's Chief Medical Officer, too?"
"For a time." came Ratchet's clipped reply.
The medic's mental presence had cooled perceptibly, and Sam was familiar enough with the wizened glow to understand that he was treading on dangerous ground. He hesitated for a long moment, turning his next question over in his head, testing it, and then he asked it anyway.
"Where is he?"
Ratchet was silent as he pulled into the mess hall. The large room was empty except for a single mechanoid that was standing near the energon containers that lined the far wall. The Hummer slowed to a stop directly in front of the kitchenette, before opening his door in a silent command.
Sam didn't move, instead pinning the dashboard with an insistent look. "Tell me, Ratch."
"He is in the brig." Ratchet replied at last, and each word sounded like it was being dragged from his vocoder, "Where he belongs."
Sam slowly nodded as he turned and climbed out of the seat. As soon as he had two feet firmly on the ground, Ratchet rolled backwards and transformed. Sam watched as panels split apart at invisible seams, folding and twisting and slotting into place, and then Ratchet was crouching down in front of him.
"You needn't waste your energy worrying about Megatron." Ratchet said gruffly, "I have ensured it."
The corners of Sam's mouth turned down in a frown. "What do you mean by that?"
"I designed the firewalls that are keeping him locked in stasis." Ratchet replied, straightening to his full height and pinning Sam with a serious look, "Megatron is incapable of breaching them."
Sam knew that he should be comforted by his assurances, but it left him feeling a vague sense of unease. "What if someone else tried?"
Ratchet gestured meaningfully towards the kitchenette. "I have included a host of fail-safes and back-ups within the programming. His processor would be wiped clean if anyone attempted to online him."
Sam snorted softly as he made his way towards the refrigeration unit. "Well, that would save us all a lot of trouble."
"It would indeed." Ratchet agreed, coolly.
Sam briefly considered the available options before he pulled the chicken pot pie out of the fridge. He pushed the door shut behind him, and then stared at the microwave. It looked like a plain old General Electric model, but there was only a single button on the control pad.
"How do I work this thing?" He asked, casting a dubious look at the Chief Medical Officer.
"You put the package in the appliance and turn it on." Ratchet replied, all dry sarcasm, "You have a graduate degree—it should not strain your abilities."
Sam gave the old mechanoid a pointed look. "Your tone is super helpful."
Ratchet gave an unimpressed snort as Sam opened the microwave and placed the carton on the turntable. He pushed the door shut again and, as directed, thumbed the power button. Immediately, the microwave lit up and the carton started rotating as it cooked. The sight was so ordinary, so commonplace, that it was anachronistic in the extreme.
"How is this my life?" Sam asked, to no one in particular.
"Primus only knows." Ratchet replied dryly.
Before Sam could reply, the microwave beeped twice and went dark. He looked from the microwave to Ratchet in confusion—it had only been on for a few seconds.
"It's ready." Ratchet said, correctly interpreting his confusion, "Go on."
Sam opened the microwave and pulled out the carton, which was warm to the touch. He peeled off the plastic filament and was immediately hit with the smell of roast chicken and spices. It made his mouth flood with saliva, and he groaned in appreciation.
"I will leave you to it—I have work to do." Ratchet said, staring down at him as Sam dug a fork out of the drawer, "You may go to the gym when you've finished your meal."
Sam glanced up at the medic in confusion. "The gym?"
"I believe the term is self-explanatory." Ratchet drawled in reply.
Sam rolled his eyes so hard they almost popped out of his skull. "Why is there a gym on the ship?"
"You will need to exercise throughout the journey to prevent muscle loss." Ratchet replied, "It is best to begin as you mean to go on. Forty-five minutes a day, every day."
Sam pulled a face as he sat down at the table located immediately in front of the kitchenette. Running laps or lifting weights topped the list of things he didn't feel like doing at the moment—or anytime in the near future, really.
"I'm not in the mood." He muttered.
"That's unfortunate." Ratchet replied dryly, "I imagine it will make things rather unpleasant for you."
Sam angled his head to glare up at the chartreuse medic, who weathered his rising temper without so much as a flinch.
"Forty-five minutes." Ratchet repeated as he started towards the exit, "Do not make me fetch you or I will be severely annoyed."
Sam rolled his eyes again, sullen and petulant, as he started in on his dinner. The taste of chicken and gravy helped mollify his temper—it tasted as though it had just come out of the oven. He stuck his fork through the golden-brown crust and speared another piece of meat. It was tender and juicy, and his eyes fluttered shut in pleasure.
There was a sudden loud scraping sound on the opposite side of the room. Sam opened his eyes to see the unknown mechanoid wiping down one of the trestle tables. Sam tilted his head to the side, watching as he worked. He was a shorter mechanoid, perhaps Bumblebee's height, with white plates and blue accents. Sam took another bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully as the stranger moved onto the next table. He pushed it aside, causing metal to grind against metal, and then he started cleaning.
Sam cleared his throat, pitching his voice to carry. "Hi there."
The mechanoid startled in surprise, before turning to look at him. "Are you speaking to me?"
Sam's lips twitched up in a smile. "Yeah, of course."
"Oh." The mechanoid replied, before he seemed to remember himself and straightened to attention, "How may I assist you, Prime?"
There was something earnest and uncertain about his question that made a genuine smile spread across Sam's face.
"I just wanted to say hello. I don't think we've met."
"No, Prime, we have not." The mechanoid agreed, "My designation is Tailgate."
"Well, hello Tailgate. My name is Sam." He replied, "It's nice to meet you."
The mechanoid crossed one arm over his chest and bowed deeply at the waist. "It is an honor to serve the chosen vessel of the Allspark."
Sam grimaced deeply, an expression that went unseen by Tailgate who had not risen from his bow. "Please, call me Sam."
The white mechanoid glanced up, uncertainty written all over his face. "That would be inappropriate."
His voice was confused, almost plaintive, and Sam's expression softened into another smile.
"Well it's my name, isn't it?"
Tailgate seemed flustered by the question, and he straightened to his full height. "I am a sanitation bot—it is not my place to refer to you by your designation."
Sam frowned faintly, taken aback by the casual self-deprecation.
"Hey, don't talk like that." He said, "Of course you can call me by my name."
Tailgate regarded him for a long moment, clearly discomforted by the conversation. "If that is your command."
Sam made an impatient sound in the back of his throat. "It's not a command, it's a request."
"As you say, Prime." Tailgate replied, before he quickly amended himself, "Samuel Prime."
Sam sighed as he took another bite of his food. It was difficult to swallow the pastry around the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. He had accepted the title of Ambassador, but the Autobots had always referred to him by his name. It was discomforting to consider a lifetime of titles and formalities. It just wasn't him.
"Is there anything else you require of me?" Tailgate asked, hesitantly.
It took a great deal of mental fortitude to lift his head and look the sanitation bot directly in the eye. "I just wanted to say hello."
"Well, hello." Tailgate chirped, before he gestured towards the trestle table beside him, "I will continue my work, if I have your leave to do so."
"Go nuts." Sam replied, tiredly.
The sanitation bot chirruped an expressive string of glyphs and signifiers, and then he began wiping down the table with every evidence of enjoyment. Sam watched him for a long moment, his appetite ruined, before he stood and made his way over to the kitchenette. He shoved a few more bites of chicken into his mouth without tasting a thing, and then he threw the carton in the waste receptacle.
Thirty minutes later, he was lying on the couch in his quarters, staring at his reflection in the polished metal wall and doing his best to think of nothing.
Sam didn't know for how long he lay there, stiff and cold and hallow-feeling, when Ratchet's holoform appeared less than a foot away, startling him so badly that he almost fell off of the couch. After a heated—albeit one-sided—argument, he found himself in Ratchet's front seat as the Hummer drove him to the gym. The smallish hangar was located on the same deck as his quarters, between the atrium and the mess hall. The room was empty except for a bench press, an assortment of weights, a basketball, and a skipping rope.
Ratchet seemed to correctly interpret his underwhelmed expression, for he snorted inelegantly. "The weights and calisthenic exercise will maintain your muscle mass. I also recommend adding cardio to your workout routine."
Sam sighed to himself, before opening the driver's side door and climbing out of the Hummer. The door snapped shut behind him of its own accord. He made his way across the floor to the bench press and started adding weights to the barbell. It was only after he finished that he noticed Ratchet had not moved from where he was parked in the middle of the room.
"You don't need to supervise me." Sam bit out, acidly.
"All evidence to the contrary." Ratchet replied.
Sam's face flushed in irritation as he swung a leg over the bench, "Fine."
Ratchet did not respond to his clipped tone or surly demeanor, which only served to irritate Sam more. He laid down on the bench, grasping the barbell with both hands, and started counting off reps. He was feeling the burn by the time he got to fifteen and he had to settle the barbell in the catch by twenty-five. He sat up with a grunt and wiped his face with his shirt.
"I'm usually a lot better at this." Sam muttered.
"Oxygen is thinner on the Ark and the gravitational forces are six percent stronger." Ratchet replied, "It will take time for your body to adjust."
"Wonderful." Sam grumbled in reply.
Ratchet watched in silence as Sam reduced the weight by twenty pounds, and began counting off another set of reps. It was easier this time, but he was still sweating in earnest by the time he climbed off the bench He proceeded to work his way through his old routine: push-ups, squats, planks, and burpees until every muscle in his body was burning in protest. He rounded out the hour with a lazy jog around the perimeter of the room.
When he was finished, Ratchet directed him to the wash racks before he accelerated out of the hangar. Sam watched him go, his sweaty clothes clinging uncomfortably to his body. He was still hot from exercising, but he knew that he would be freezing cold before too long. That unhappy thought spurred him forward, and he quickly made his way out of the room. The corridors were empty and quiet, with nothing but the distant sound of engines to keep him company. It wasn't long until he reached the wash racks and, with a great deal of mental fortitude, he made use of the facilities. The water was both blessedly hot and abundant, a fact for which Sam was thankful, and he stood beneath the showerhead for far longer than strictly necessary. The process of getting dried off and dressed was deeply unpleasant—the metal floor was so cold that his feet ached from the chill. He finished as quickly as he was able, and then he walked the rest of the way back to his quarters. The process of undressing was repeated as he changed from his gym clothes to loungewear, and then he climbed into bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight and Sam collapsed against it with a relieved groan.
He laid there for a long while, eyes closed and drifting, when he heard the door open. He raised his head just as Bumblebee entered the room. The Camaro was virtually silent as he rolled forward, coming to a stop a short distance away.
"I did not mean to disturb you." Bumblebee murmured.
"You didn't." Sam smiled, "Joining me?"
"Briefly." Bumblebee replied as his holoform appeared at the side of the bed, "The second shift starts in less than an hour, and I will be expected on the bridge."
Sam shifted backwards, lifting up the blankets so the holoform could climb into bed. After some shifting about, Sam found himself curled against Bumblebee's side with an arm wrapped around his waist. The holoform combed his fingers through Sam's hair, before tucking a finger under his chin and angling his head up for a kiss. It was a slow, sweet press of lips—chaste and gentle.
Bumblebee pulled back far enough to murmur, "You should get something to eat before you go to sleep."
Sam made a discontented sound as he burrowed his face into the crook of the holoform's neck. "It's too far—not worth it."
"You need the calories." Bumblebee replied, doggedly.
Sam pulled the blankets up to his chin by way of an answer. Bumblebee's mental presence warmed with affection and concern and amusement, until Sam huffed in irritation.
"Fine." He grumbled, "You can drop me off at the mess on your way to the bridge."
"Thank-you." Bumblebee murmured.
Sam grunted something that could have been interpreted as "No talking", before he settled down against the pillows. Their combined body heat was pleasant, and it wasn't long before he was drifting, half-asleep and comfortable. He was pulled back to himself an interminable time later as Bumblebee shifted against him. Sam squinted open his eyes to find the holoform propped up on one elbow, staring down at him.
"What is it?" Sam mumbled.
A smile spread across the holoform's face as he threw a leg over Sam's thighs and pushed up to straddle him. His weight pressed Sam's hips into the bed at the same time he leaned forward, pressing his palms flat against Sam's chest.
"I knew there was something special about you." He murmured.
Sam stared up at the holoform in confusion. "Huh?"
"Relax, Sam." He purred, smoothing his hands down Sam's arms to pin his wrists to the mattress, "Just relax."
Sam grunted in discomfort—the holoform's grip was like iron.
"Ease up, Bee." He complained, trying to shift his hips beneath his weight, "That hurts."
"Does it?" Bumblebee asked, tipping his head to the side, "I seem to recall you enjoying a little pain."
There was something about his demeanor—lazy and teasing, the way a cat might play with a mouse—that made Sam go cold all over. He yanked at his wrists, glaring up at the holoform. "This isn't funny. Get off me right now."
Bumblebee smiled at him softly, before leaning down to press his lips against the shell of Sam's ear.
"No."
Several things happened in quick succession.
First, the holoform shivered as though it was being interrupted by television static, and then its features began to change. The jaw narrowed, lips thinned out, and eyes changed shape until it was Alice staring down at him. Sam's heart lodged in his throat, fear and confusion slamming into him with the force of a mac truck.
In the same instant, Ratchet was in his mind—yanking him out of the nightmare and back to himself. Sam's eyes snapped open to find himself flat on his back, with Bumblebee staring down at him in visible concern. Sam scrambled away as he looked around in desperation.
"Where— What—" Sam panted, wide-eyed and wild, "Where did she go?"
"You were dreaming, Sam." Bumblebee soothed, pushing onto his knees and holding up his hands, "You're alright. Take a deep breath."
"No!" Sam snapped, "She was here… she was right here!"
"There's no one here." Bumblebee promised, shifting towards him, "You're safe."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the door slid open. An unknown mechanoid stood in the entryway, backlit by the lights in the corridor. Sam couldn't make out his identity or his frame-type—he saw nothing except for the blue-green glow of an ion canon mounted to one arm. Adrenaline surged for the second time in as many minutes as the stranger snapped something in clipped Cybertronian. At the same time, Bumblebee transformed into his bipedal mode and moved to stand between Sam and the door.
The unknown mechanoid took a single step into the room, his arm-mounted canon casting eerie light across the floor. Sam didn't think—he just reacted. He turned his attention inward, lashing out at the unfamiliar glow inside his mind with all of his mental strength. The mechanoid shrieked in surprise and pain as he stumbled backwards, and then Sam found himself pinned beneath the combined weight of Ratchet and Jazz.
/Sam, stop!/ Ratchet snapped.
/Watch the friendly fire, kid./ Jazz added wryly.
Sam stared at the unknown mechanoid, who had dropped down to one knee and was ex-venting sharply. Bumblebee had not moved from his position in the middle of the room, but neither had he engaged his battle mask. The two facts seemed completely at odds with one another.
"What the hell is going on?" He demanded, shrilly.
"Please forgive my intrusion." The stranger managed, "I have… clearly… misappraised the situation."
The mechanoid's tone was wry and self-deprecating, which only served to confound Sam further.
"What are you talking about?"
Bumblebee turned to look at Sam, something like vexation on his face. "You were having a nightmare—neither of you realized it."
Sam looked from Bumblebee to the stranger and back again, before understanding dawned on him. The mechanoid had thought the Pretender was real, and he was responding to the threat accordingly. Mortification came hard and fast, and Sam flushed all the way to his hairline.
"I am so sorry." He managed, scrambling off the mattress, "Are you alright?"
The stranger cycled air through his vents for a second time, before pushing himself to his pedes. He was a smaller Autobot, perhaps eighteen feet or so, with solid red and black paneling.
"Yeah, I'm fine." He said before he chuckled, "You pack quite the punch. Kudos."
Sam's flushed deepened, and he wanted nothing more than to disappear into the floor. "Are you sure? Should you see Ratchet?"
The stranger waved the words away a flip of his servo. "It takes more than a pen-attack to take down a security bot. The name's Peacemaker, by the way. It's nice to meet you."
Sam crossed the room to stand beside Bumblebee, who was watching the stranger with exasperation written all over his face.
"It's nice to meet you too." Sam replied slowly, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"It's all good." Peacemaker said with a slanted smile, "Besides, it'll make a great story—Pointbreak will love it."
Sam's mortification was losing its sharp edges, softening to something closer to embarrassment.
"Well, thanks for understanding." He managed.
"No problemo." Peacemaker replied, raising two digits to his forehead in an easy salute, "It's an honor to serve and all that."
Sam huffed a quiet laugh, but before he could reply, the door slid open again. He turned in surprise—only for his stomach to sink into his feet. Jazz was standing in the corridor, his arms folded over his chest and his head tipped to the side. His expression was a mixture of humor and exasperation.
"Hey Hoss." He said by way of greeting, "We need to have a little chat."
