Dr. Sarkisian thoughtfully nodded. "I think talking with your dad about what happened in California is a good idea. What's your deadline?"

I thought about it for a second and realized I didn't want all this to overshadow the holidays. "We're less than two weeks until Thanksgiving. Before then."

Approval shined in Dr. Sarkisian's eyes, and she asked, "And what will be your goal for that conversation?"

I hesitated, doubt filling me to realize I was completely stumped. "I don't know."

"Remember when I said there are at least two lenses to look through, personal and military?"

"Yeah, but I have no idea what you meant by that."

She smiled and tilted her head in agreement. "What questions do you have for him about their tactical choices? What questions do you have about your personal relationships now?"

"I don't think I could..." My words faltered as I tried to imagine that conversation.

"I'm not saying you have to. This is me doing a scan, so to speak. If you had the courage of Optimus and could look them in the eye and demand an answer, what would the question be?"

I looked at my hands, but it was hard to focus, hard to think at all about that day. "Why?" I finally said. "I mean, it sounds so selfish, but... Why did Mikaela deserve my seat? Why did I deserve to die and not her?"

"That's not selfish. It's a good question."

I took a deep breath in through my nose and then blew it out slowly. "As for the personal one…" My hands clenched into fists as that anger came roaring back. How dare they! How could they?

"You're angry again," she observed.

"Sorry." Or at least, I tried to be.

"Don't be. It's a legitimate response, but it's also a secondary one. What else are you feeling?"

I focused inward. Labeling my feelings was easier than trying to control or understand them. "Hurt, for sure. Fear." And one more, one I hadn't been brave enough to name before now. "Betrayal, I think."

She nodded slowly. "Good girl, Annabelle. That was a very good analysis of your own emotions. So which question addresses those emotions best?"

I thought hard. "If I was as brave as Optimus?"

"If you were as brave as Optimus."

"… I'd ask, 'Do you love me?'" Don't you love me anymore? Did you ever love me?

Tears welled up in my eyes, and through the blur, I saw Dr. Sarkisian push a fresh tissue into my hand.

"Do the waterworks ever stop?" I demanded from her.

"Yes. Or at least, you heal enough that they slow down a lot. You're crying instead of shouting this time. I know it doesn't feel like it, but that's progress."

I snuffled a few times, blew my nose, and calmed down enough to ask. "So...for a mere mortal who's not as brave as Optimus…?"

She slowly sighed. "Can I share something with you? They've given me permission to let you know."

I swallowed, filled one more tissue, and then focused on her, nodding.

"Several of the Autobots have sat here in my office, including your dad and Optimus. I've heard the questions they're afraid to ask, too. So I know them really well, better than you probably realize."

My brow furrowed as I tried to imagine it – Optimus or Dad or Prowl, even, sitting here and bawling in front of Dr. Sarkisian.

"If you can find the courage to ask those two questions," she continued, "I think the answers would be very satisfying for you."

I sighed and looked at my hands before slowly nodding.

...

It took me all the way to Sunday to work up the courage to ask Dad if I could talk alone with him. He and Mom exchanged a significant look (almost like they had an Autobot bond), and then she rose to her feet. "I think I'll go for a walk."

It was pretty scary when the door closed behind her a few minutes later. Now it was just me, my dad, and those two big questions.

He sat on the sofa in the living room and patted the cushion next to him. "So…what's on your mind?"

With a deep sigh, I sat next to him and cuddled up to his side. "Dad, you know what happened...that day." I took a deep breath and then the words just spilled out. "If you had been Bumblebee and had to choose who would stay and who would run, what would you do? Wouldn't you have sent away the 'bot with the biggest carrying capacity? Wouldn't you choose to save as many lives as possible?"

I glanced up at him, and he frowned thoughtfully. "That's exactly what he was thinking, Annabelle. If Arcee has all three components, she's a battle unit all by herself. But when she's down to one component, well, there's no way she could have held off the 'cons you were up against. Bumblebee wouldn't have made it out alive either way. The terrain would slow him down too much, and he'd be caught and killed by Decepticons regardless. Arcee was better equipped for a cross-country retreat, and honestly, he probably shouldn't have sent Mikaela with Arcee and Samuel. Any extra weight would slow Arcee down, but he's an Autobot. Besides, in addition to Arcee's better build for off-roading, he's got more armor and a pretty formidable arsenal – he could buy Arcee a fighting chance."

It made sense in my head and I nodded, but the lump in my throat made it hard to swallow. I sniffled a little bit.

He queezed my hand encouragingly and, after a long pause, asked, "Do you have any other questions?"

I drew a deep breath, summoning my courage again. "Would…" My voice broke and I cleared my throat before trying again. "Would you have picked me over Mikaela?"

"Oh, honey," he said, and gathered me into his arms. "I'd die for you. I honestly believe Bumblebee and Arcee both would have, too. Sometimes, it's not about who you love most, though. Sometimes it's about the job that needs to be done and who can do it. The Autobots need Samuel – he can save their whole race. But he's gonna die someday, so the Autobots need Samuel to have a family who can be taught to trust the 'bots and to continue to help them. The survival of their entire species hinges on Samuel and his family. They're the only ones who can do that job."

I squeezed my eyes tight against the threatening tears. "But it just seems so unfair. Everyone else has moved on just fine. And here I am stuck wading through all the emotional fallout. It's like nobody cares, not really."

His arms fell away from me. "Annabelle, stand up and walk across the room."

"Dad…"

He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. "Stand up and walk across the room."

I glanced up at him (he was serious but not angry) and looked away. "I get the point."

"I mean it, Annabelle."

With a huff, I stood and walked to the other side of the room, then turned and crossed my arms.

Dad's wistful smile softened some of my irritation when he said, "We both just witnessed a miracle. Don't ever take that for granted. And I don't just mean the tech behind the cloned hip. The 'bots sacrificed a lot for you to be able to do that. Did you know that, when Arcee got back here from Edwards, she was brigged until the day you went to see her on base?"

I blinked in surprise, tears forgotten. "No, I didn't know that." I crossed the room to sit beside him, my arms falling to my side again. "Why was she brigged?"

He took my hand in his again and squeezed it once. "The human doctors were going to amputate your leg, and they wouldn't listen to her or let her help. So she shifted her holoform to a hologram and walked through you in front of them all – she outed herself as not-human. It made the doctors listen to her, but Prowl was ready to throw the book at her, and Admiral Black was mad, too, and that was with her stunt being in a military hospital instead of a civilian one. She'd probably still be in the brig, but Optimus took pity on her since she's stuck in her base form and made Prowl let her out when Ratchet said you asked to see her."

His mention of Optimus also reminded me of Tim Furst's defeated look and clenched fists on the day he told me they'd share the cloning tech. "Optimus said they don't share their technology. The Autobots broke their own rules, too, didn't they?"

Dad nodded. "They made your miracle happen – because they love you. Especially Arcee, but all of them pushed for whatever it took for you to get a full recovery. When it was about the job that needed doing, they made the choice they had to, but when it was about who they loved, they chose you. And let me tell you, there are not many things that will change Optimus' mind when he's set on something. They love you a lot."

My breath caught as his words hit home and sank in. They love you.

Dad pulled me close and kissed my forehead before resting his chin on my hair. In the safety of his arms, I cried again, but this time, relief was the emotion that flowed the strongest.

...

Dad and I were chatting over chocolate milk when Mom got back. He knew my next assignment was to talk with her, and he nodded encouragement.

"Hey Mom, can we talk?"

"I should probably go…check out that sunset," Dad said and headed out the front door.

Mom took her place at the table and gave me her undivided attention.

This conversation was harder, though. Dad wasn't there that day, but Mom was.

"Sweetheart," she began, but I held up my hand and she fell silent again.

I couldn't do this if she was talking to me like my mom. I needed to ask the tactical question first. I had to talk to her like she was Autobot Spitfire. "Why did you choose Mikaela instead of me?"

Before I could finish the question, though, tears started streaming down her face.

That too-familiar lump swelled in my throat again, and I closed my eyes. I couldn't stand to watch her cry. Not if I wanted to actually get through this.

Eventually Mom said, "I can't tell you how many nights I've laid there in the darkness and asked myself the same question. I mean…" She sniffled and I opened my eyes, but she was staring at her own hands.

Had she been talking to Dr. Sarkisian? I suddenly realized it might do her some good, too. The thought was kind of mind bending.

"I know why I had to," she continued. "I've known since the time you were a baby that Samuel is important. His life is worth more than even Will's to the Autobots. So that made Mikaela important, too. She had to go. But…" She shook her head, choking up again. Her nose was running, so she went in search of a tissue box, and I sat back in my chair.

Mom was the grown-up, the one who guided and protected me. I could trust her to make everything right in the world because that's what she did. Like Ratchet healing people and Chromia being a warrior and Wheeljack being an inventor, Mom was a fixer of whatever might be amiss in my world.

A part of me still expected her to make everything right, but this one time – this most-important time – she couldn't. But the part that had most thrown me for a loop was it was tearing her up. Why had I never seen that before?

The answer crashed over me: because she had hidden it from me on purpose. She'd been tough so I could be the wounded one, to make space for me to heal. How had I not seen that? She was just another mere mortal facing impossible choices and not...some kind of superhero mom who makes everything right.

Mom returned with the Kleenex, and I was wiping away tears by then, too. She knelt beside me, and we hugged each other, not even letting go when one of us needed a new tissue.

"You are my baby," she shakily said, "my only child. You're the one who's most important to me. And I don't know what the hell was wrong with me then that I made the Autobot-choice instead of the Mom-choice."

For the first time since that day, I tried to imagine how it would have played out if Mikaela had been there instead of me.

How would it have worked, really? Would they have kept her alive, if she wasn't a Lennox? Would her name have meant anything to Shockwave? If anything, it would have meant she was killed on the spot. After all, he had ordered her death. The only reason I survived was because Bludgeon had a use for me. The fact that she was the Prime's mate wouldn't have mattered to him. Would Bludgeon have handed her off to Stockade, since she wasn't part of his master plan to torment Ironhide? Would Stockade have tortured her to death before everyone could mount a rescue?

Would I honestly feel better having escaped without a scratch if it meant the human Prime lost his wife? If it meant that Daemon and Beatrice lost their mom?

I clung to my mom and managed to whisper, "You made the right choice."

She sobbed even harder and croaked out, "Forgive me."

"I forgive you." And I really did.

...

The next time I met with Dr. Sarkisian, she took in the dark circles under my eyes and cautiously asked, "How'd it go, talking with your dad?"

"Dad was fine. So was Mom," I curtly answered. "It was actually really good to talk with them. But I've had several nightmares every night ever since."

"I see. Your subconscious doesn't waste any time."

"What?" I irritably demanded.

"Well, it's good news and bad news. And then more good news, probably. The good news is your subconscious has finally decided that you're really, truly safe, so it's doing some unloading in the form of nightmares. The nightmares are the bad news."

"Tell me about it," I huffed. "I can't shake the mental image of Bumblebee having red optics and beating Arcee to death with her own arm."

She winced sympathetically at that before adding, "The 'more good news' is that we can really get down to business now. There's another therapy I'd like to try with you. It's called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, or EMDR for short. I think it might be helpful here."

"Okay?"

She smiled wanly at my cautious tone. "It's not painful, I promise. In fact, it might seem deceptively easy."

I snorted. "So why didn't we try this months ago?"

"Because it's more for things that are really thorny, like whatever's going on in your subconscious with Bumblebee. And all it really does is calm down that prickliness so you can work through it. Before you could work through these thornier issues, though, you needed to first master some foundational skills. Up until now, you've mostly been practicing those skills. But this is where the heavy lifting for your recovery really begins."

I drew a deep breath. "Okay, so how do we start?"

She flashed me a smile that was almost proud. "Well, first I want you to understand exactly what we'll be doing. There are certain motions that stimulate your brain in specific, helpful ways. For example, by moving your eyes back and forth or cross-body tapping your own shoulders, you are able to approach and analyze a memory without as much anxiety. Does that make sense?"

"Not really," I grumped.

Her smile broadened. "It's not a whole lot different from the deep breathing techniques. It's a way of using your body's conscious motions to influence your unconscious reactions."

I blinked as I processed that. "Okay, that makes more sense."

She nodded in encouragement. "So we'll go memory by memory and methodically process them. It might stir up other emotions, unexpected hurts, things like that. Just know that's normal and we'll work through it all piece by piece. Once we've got a handle on what your subconscious is doing with a given memory, we can process it in any of several ways. Walking through it a few times can help with desensitization, so then it's robbed of its power. We can counter some of the troubling thoughts and feelings by installing more-rational responses that can also neutralize the disturbing ones. And we'll know we're in a good spot when your body's stress responses have calmed down, even when you recall the memory. We'll make our sessions as long or as short as you like, and we can continue the process until you feel like you're in control of your own body again. Does that sound good?"

It sounded a little scary to tackle something that big, but at the same time, the thought of being myself again was too tempting to just turn my back on. Especially if it made the nightmares stop. "Sounds good."

"Is there a particular memory from that day that sticks out for you?"

I let the memories resurface – and winced. "There are several. Bludgeon and Stockade fighting over us. Shockwave was just…" I hunched my shoulders against the memory of his creepy, single optic. "And then there was the whole part where I thought we were already dead."

"That sounds pretty disturbing," Dr. Sarkisian said. "Can you tell me a little more about that last part?"

I swallowed hard, trying to distance myself from the feelings the memory was dredging up. "I thought we were dead. The pain went away and then I was floating above my own body. I didn't know it was all the work of Hound and Mirage. I could see Mom, too, and she had stopped crying, so I figured we were both dead, along with Bumblebee. The battle kept going on around us, though, and all I could think about at that point was wanting to stay and see if Optimus would win, because he was fighting for his life, too."

"And what feelings are attached to that memory?"

"I dunno." I thought for a second. "I mean, I was sad that we were dead. Disappointed, maybe? I didn't want to die. I wanted to live! And it really hurt that Mom was dead, too, because that would leave Dad all alone."

Dr. Sarkisian nodded. "Those all sound like reasonable responses to me. So here's what I need you to do…" She held up her hand at eye level.

"I'm going to start moving my hand, and I want you to focus on my fingertips. And while you're focused there, I want you to remember that moment you just described to me."

I blinked for a second. "That's it?"

She smiled again. "That's where we start. Don't knock it 'til you try it."

"Okay…Let's go."

She walked me through several rounds of thinking about the memory, processing it while doing the special motions, and digging deeper into it. I realized that one of the stronger emotions making all the rest worse was a feeling of failure. I mean, I never honestly expected to win against the Decepticons we'd faced that day, but it had been my idea to fight back instead of remain hidden. They probably would have found us if we hadn't fought back, but they for sure found us because we did. And it didn't even do any good. We risked our lives and got horribly injured for nothing at all.

Once I realized a sense of failure was part of that whole mess of emotions, I was able to pick it apart and rationally deal with it, with some help from Dr. Sarkisian. By the time our session was up, I was seeing that scene in a whole different light. I was a fifteen-year-old squishy back then going up against some pretty evil Decepticons. Failure would have been dying; the fact that I survived and was thriving was the opposite of failure. I had felt that way about my physical recovery, but now my subconscious was coming to accept that about my mental recovery, too.

Over the course of the next few weeks, we tackled whatever battlefield memories were bothering me: Shockwave and the fear that he'd return, Mom firing weapons and my fear for her safety, the Witwicky's leaving and me feeling abandoned. All the while it felt like we were chipping away at the anger I felt toward Bumblebee. We were halfway through December when we finally got to a tougher memory to crack. It was the time that I was staring at all the scattered body parts of Arcee and Bumblebee while Stockade was still on patrol. I had realized then that we were going to die – that our fates were already sealed. No matter what physical prompt Dr. Sarkisian used, I couldn't let go enough to calm down my body's stress reactions – pulse, tension, tightness in my chest.

"I think we've gotten to the heart of whatever is going on with Bumblebee," she said.

"So how do I fix it?" I demanded.

With a half-smile, she said, "We're both mere mortals, so I can't scan your heart and mind for wounds."

I huffed in frustration. "Why that moment? I mean, we were just sitting there looking at all the pink and yellow broken parts on the ground. No one was hurting us. No one was even menacing us. We just sat there for like an hour waiting for something to happen."

"That's a good question. Want to go another couple rounds on it, see what associations your subconscious can come up with?"

I nodded in agreement. It took three rounds to make sense of the image that kept coming up in association with the scene from California: Arcee in the hangar on Diego Garcia months later, stuck in her base mode because her transformation cog was broken.

I stopped mid-round when it clicked. "She was injured, too."

"Your mom?"

"No, Arcee. She was wounded, too – she's still wounded, in fact. She's stuck in her base mode. Me, Mom, Arcee, we were all hurt that day. Bumblebee was the only one who wasn't. Or he was, but…he was healed." I turned that fact over in my mind, trying to figure out why it was so slagging important to my subconscious.

"What feelings are associated with that?"

I tilted my head, puzzled. "That it was wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Like, not fair."

"It wasn't fair he got healed?"

I looked up at her when the final piece fell into place. "No, it wasn't fair that he fragging won the lottery."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"We all left that battlefield more broken than we'd ever been – except Bumblebee. Not only did he get healed of his injuries, he got his voice back. Pit, he got a bond with Arcee which, judging by all the bot-smooching, is something he's pretty happy about. We all went through hell that day, and he's better off now than he probably has been in his entire life. And it's so fragging unfair!"

She slowly nodded with a hint of a smile. "Excellent analysis. Are you up for another round or two on that revelation?"

I hesitated. We only had about five minutes left, and a part of me really wanted to feel the injustice of it all. This wasn't something I could just sweep under the rug or pretend didn't matter. It did! It was huge! Even his mate was suffering while he got a happily ever after.

"Maybe that should be our starting point next time," I suggested.

She hesitated for the briefest of seconds and then nodded.

In my check-up and physical therapy session early the next week, Arcee was helping me with some standing hamstring stretches, measuring my range of motion. As she knelt in front of me, steadying the foot I was stretching, I asked her, "Do you ever get mad that…that you can't transform? That you're stuck like this?"

When she looked at me with a curious tilt to her helm, I added, "I mean, Dad told me you got brigged for fixing my hip, but here you are," I said, gesturing toward her base mode. "And you're even helping me recover even though you can't."

She studied me for a second and nodded slightly. "I'll be glad to get my transformation cog back someday, I'm not gonna lie. But no, I'm not angry with you."

"Do you ever…get angry at anyone else?" I ventured.

She laughed. "I knew full well that Prowl would probably brig me. It didn't matter, as long as they didn't…" She suddenly sobered and gently put my foot down before standing and putting her arm around me. "I've raised several younger sisters, Firebrand. And while you belong with your parents, there's a part of me that's kind of adopted you, too." She pulled me a little closer for emphasis. "You were already so hurt. I couldn't let them hurt you even more. So no, I'm not mad at anyone else. I made my choices, and I willingly accept the consequences, because your recovery is one of them."

"What about Bumblebee?" I finally asked, looking up to meet her gaze. "I mean, he even got his voice back, and you're stuck in your base form, maybe forever."

She ruffled my hair. "The word 'forever' means something different to a Cybertronian than it does to a human, little one. It might be a while, but it won't be forever."

"So you're not mad at 'Bee?" I asked, surprised at how disappointed I was at the fact.

She again tilted her helm and looked at me carefully. "Should I be?"

I sighed heavily.

"He's got his laugh back, Firebrand. To me, that's even more of a miracle than your cloned hip."

"Yeah, but only because he used your spark energy to get healed by the Matrix." I frowned at the floor. "I mean, has he even thanked you?"

"Yes," she said, sounding puzzled and a little defensive as she pulled her arm away from my shoulder. I looked up at her again. "He's thanked me…in ways I can't really explain. But just hearing him laugh again is all the thanks I could want or need. You have to understand…"

She shook her helm and, straightening her shoulders, looked down on me. "We've logged hundreds of years together on patrol, me and Bumblebee. We've had each others' backs, sometimes literally. He has pieced me back together when I was falling apart. He's seen me at my worst and still cherishes me."

Dropping to one knee, she carefully lifted my foot and I started stretching my hamstring again. She continued, "He's a little broken because I am, and I'm a little more whole because he is. I hope…I mean, I know it's different for humans, but I hope you can cherish someone that way someday, Annabelle. Because it's not about frames or sparks, it's about amity and trust. It's about being interconnected in a way I've seen you mom and dad achieve, so I know it's not just an Autobot thing. I wish that for you. Because I could no more hate Bumblebee for this than I could hate you."

...

When I later plopped down on Dr. Sarkisian's couch, she cautiously asked, "So…how did this last week go?"

"I learned that Bumblebee's one lucky mech."

She turned her head, eyeing me curiously. "Ready to do a deep dive on that one?"

I gave her a half-smile. "I don't know if we need to. I figured it out. I want to be him."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and I quickly added, "I know, I mean, obviously I can't be a twenty-foot tall alien robot, but…I want to be whole. I want to be better off for this. I want to be able to let it all roll off my back and just thrive no matter what's thrown my way." I looked up to meet her gaze. "I want to be whole. And I'm beginning to think that's never going to happen."

"How long did he go without a voice, do you know?"

I sighed, my gaze dropping to the floor. "I dunno."

"It was about ten-thousand years. I don't think he'd mind you knowing that," she added. Then more seriously, she said, "You're right, he thrived. Bumblebee is…extraordinarily resilient, even as a member of an extraordinarily resilient species. Wanting to be like him isn't a bad goal. But is it that you want to be like him or is it that you want to be him? Healthy and whole and with everything going right?"

I looked at her, confused by the distinction. "I don't follow you."

"Do you want to make choices like him, bring to bear coping skills and strategies that will let you thrive? Or do you want to be in the same circumstances as him? Because you have control over the first one, but not as much over the second."

I considered that for a long minute. I hadn't thought about how traumatic it must have been to not have a voice, to be handicapped in that way all this time. But it wasn't like he'd had to deal with all that on his own. I had no doubt that Arcee and the other Autobots had been there for him just like he'd been there for them. And I knew what that kind of support meant. This was Arcee we were talking about, who was probably the third most-important person in my own life. She cherished me, too. I'd been on the receiving end of her amity and trust, just like he'd been.

She was whole because I was.

That's why she wasn't angry at me, just like that's why she wasn't angry at 'Bee. She was happy for him because she… because she loved him. And she loved me, too. Not in the same way, but still love. Still amity.

"They held each other together." I looked up at Dr. Sarkisian. "That's why you made me talk to her and my folks before doing the EMDR, isn't it. So they could help piece me back together."

"You're lucky enough to have some remarkably strong social networks, Annabelle," she softly said. "Yes, I wanted you to reinforce or repair those first, so that you wouldn't have to face your demons alone when the time came."

"I want to be him," I said, "but I can't, not right this minute, anyway." I remembered again Arcee saying that forever to me wasn't really forever. It felt like I'd never heal, but maybe I was just being impatient. Maybe I could be him someday. But until then… "I can choose to be like him, though."

"Yes, you can," she said with a slight smile. "In fact, you just did."

My heart warmed at the thought.