Signature

by Arabis

Post-ROTF. Struggling with post-traumatic stress disorder, Sam slowly comes to learn that he brought something back with him from the Egyptian desert. This is my take on Steelfeather's Instability story.

2. Chapter 2

Summary: Post-ROTF: Following the revelation that Sam is a human Prime, he has been captured and taken to the Nemesis. As his captivity drags on, he struggles to maintain his sense of self in the face of Megatron's relentless psychological assault. This story is a sequel to Signature, which should be read first if you want to catch up on the details behind Megatron's handling of his human captive.

Pairings: This is a Bumblebee/Sam Witwicky story. Given that this site does not allow explicit fics, this version has been heavily edited to remain PG-13. If you wish to read the full version, please head over to AO3 (username: arabis, story name: Signature - Tribulations).

Other Pairings: Bumblebee & Sam Witwicky, Ratchet & Sam Witwicky, Optimus Prime & Sam Witwicky

Warnings: Swearing, canon-typical violence, trauma, PTSD, isolation, (brief) suicidal thoughts

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Chapter 1:

The first thing that filtered through Sam's consciousness upon waking was the sound of a distant roar. He lifted his head slowly, blinking in disorientation at his surroundings. In front of him was a complicated control panel, with an assortment of gauges, switches, and blinking lights. Above the control panel, extending over and around him, was a clear canopy that provided an unobstructed view of the night's sky. He turned his head and felt hard plastic cut into his nose and face. Sam raised his hands in confusion, his questing fingers coming to rest on a flight mask that was affixed to his face with heavy straps. Instinctively, he pulled at the buckles on the apparatus, trying to get it off.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you." Megatron rumbled dryly.

All at once, Sam's memories of the evening slammed into him. His heart lodged itself in his throat, his breath coming in shallow gasps as panic overtook him in an instant. Sam grabbed at the mask, fingers clawing at the straps on his face, as he bucked against the harness that restrained him. Megatron tolerated his panicked thrashing until Sam's nails drew blood, and then the chest harness tightened painfully, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

"Enough."

Megatron held him until Sam's movements slowed, and then the harness loosened to the point where he could breathe again. He gasped desperately, pulling air into his starving lungs as the spots in his vision faded away. After a long moment, Sam glanced around the cockpit of the fighter jet, struggling to control the panic twisting in his chest. Now that he was fully cognizant, Sam realized that he hurt. His body ached from head to toe from the exertion of his abortive retreat into the jungle, but his head was the source of his misery. A headache pounded at his temples, and Sam recognized this particular brand of hell as the aftereffects of mental over-exertion.

"What's wrong with you?" Megatron asked matter-of-factly. Sam narrowed his eyes at the control panel in front of him, refusing to speak. After a long moment of tense silence, the harness tightened minutely, and Sam recognized the threat for what it was. He knew that he was hypoglycemic—could feel it in the weakness of his body and the clamminess of his skin—but he wouldn't tell Megatron anything.

Megatron rumbled thoughtfully, and then Sam felt himself pulled forward slightly as the jet slowed. He could see the stars shifting through the clear canopy, and then the horizon became visible in the distance as the jet descended abruptly. At the same time, the oxygen mask fell into his lap, released of its own accord.

"You need fast-acting sugars." Megatron said, and Sam grimaced deeply. If Sam knew that he was hypoglycemic, then of course, Megatron did too.

"Feel free to drop me off at the nearest 7-11." He rasped.

Rather than deigning to reply, a first-aid kit popped out of subspace and landed hard in Sam's lap. He grunted at the impact, staring at the white box in surprise. He made no move to open it.

"I can have Scalpel assist, if you prefer." Megatron rumbled lowly, irritation bleeding into his voice. Sam's heart lodged itself in his throat, panic threatening to overtake him again. Anything but that.

"No, thank-you." He managed to reply after a moment, prying open the lid of the first-aid kit with trembling hands. The kit contained standard items—gauze, bandages, antiseptic, adhesive tape—but it also contained a nondescript bottle of fluids. Upon inspection, he realized that it was an electrolyte beverage. He grimaced, pondering the implications of Megatron having a first-aid kit in his subspace in the first place, when he started to drink. It tasted awful, like salty lemonade, but Sam finished it without complaint.

He felt Megatron nudge him across their bond impatiently, and Sam flinched away from the unwelcome contact. The Decepticon leader was the antithesis of Ratchet's mental presence—cold and harsh, with a dangerous edge—but his spark signature was something else entirely. It shone like a crystal sculpture in his mind, striking and magnificent.

With a painful lurch, Sam realized that it reminded him of Optimus' spark signature.

He felt Megatron's anger swell up through their bond and he cringed away. Sam was fully aware that he was at the whims of a capricious warlord with a penchant for torture.

"Then you would do well to remain silent."

Sam pulled away from Megatron's mental presence as far as the bond would allow, placing the empty bottle back in the first-aid kit and closing the lid securely. A moment later, the kit disappeared, tucked back into subspace. He sat quietly, trepidation and fear building steadily in his gut, until he could bear it no longer.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"I have considered it." Megatron replied.

The warlord's tone was strangely disinterested, as though he were trying to decide between tea or coffee. Sam felt his stomach twist itself in knots, and something compelled him to state with stark sincerity, "I won't cooperate. Whatever it is you want, you aren't going to get it."

To Sam's surprise, his words were met with dry amusement rather than the rage that he had expected.

"I do not require your cooperation, only your submission." Megatron replied, "Whether I receive it willingly or take it by force is for you to decide."

Before Sam could reply, he felt Megatron's mental presence shift forward with intent. He resisted as well as he was able, but it was only a moment later that he was plunged back into the depths of stasis.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The next time that Sam awoke, he was mind-numbingly cold.

He groaned softly, rolling onto his side as he squinted his eyes open. The room that he was in was large and empty, a cavernous space of alien design. Thick metal tubing snaked over the walls, twisting every so often to plunge into the floor or the ceiling. The interior structure of the room was made of dull metal that was etched with whorls and eddies. Pot lights were sunk into the walls at even intervals, bathing the room in weak orange light.

He pushed his hands underneath him, forcing himself unsteadily to his feet. He was at the far end of the room, opposite to the wall that contained a towering Transformer-sized door. As Sam stepped forward, he encountered a barrier of transparent blue energy, which extended all the way to the walls on either side of the room. He frowned deeply, reaching out a hand to brush against the barrier. It tingled unpleasantly and was as solid as steel. Sam followed the barrier to the wall, and then followed the wall around the space, until he came back to the energy barrier. His cell—and there was no doubt in Sam's mind that was exactly where he found himself—was large, perhaps a quarter of the size of the Hive's receiving room. It was also completely empty except for a strange well-like contraption in the far corner. Upon further inspection, Sam realized that it was a waste disposal system, and his face twisted in a grimace.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, rubbing his palms quickly over his skin. It was uncomfortably cold in the room, perhaps five or ten degrees Celsius, and Sam was dressed only in a button-down shirt and jeans. He glanced down at himself, noting the blood and grime all down the front of his clothes. Somehow, he doubted that Megatron would feel inclined to provide him with a change of clothing anytime soon.

After a moment, Sam turned his mind outwards, fully expecting to be trapped within the confines of a Creator bond. To his surprise, the neural network was fully accessible, although it was quiet and still. To the best of his ability, he could sense no spark signatures in his immediate vicinity. The realization made his heart start to beat harder in his chest. Since the time that he had on-lined after Ripcord's attack, he had never been truly alone. The sudden emptiness of the neural network was completely disconcerting.

Sam paced the large room for an interminable time—it must have been hours, but there was no way for him to tell. His watch and his cellphone had been taken while he was in stasis, and there were no windows in the room to help him gauge the passage of time. Sam's panic ebbed and flowed as he paced. He had no idea where he was. He was reasonably sure that he was on the Nemesis, but whether he was still on Earth was anyone's guess. He could hear the distant hum of machinery, which he assumed was the ship's engines, but he could not tell what their pitch and volume meant. They could have been parked on Diego Garcia or hurtling towards Cybertron at light speed, it was impossible to say.

He also did not know how long it had been since his capture. Megatron had forced him into stasis twice, and Sam had no recollection of his time spent unconscious. He was reasonably sure that it hadn't been very long, because his bladder was just starting to get uncomfortable. Perhaps four or five hours, maybe longer.

The memory of the beach made his throat close up in emotion, and he blinked rapidly to try to keep the tears at bay. In the moments before Megatron had forced him into stasis, he had felt Ratchet's rage and his abject powerlessness. Sam instinctively reached towards their connection, but the Creator bond was dark and still. What had happened after he had been taken? Had the Decepticons retreated? Or had they continued their assault? Were his friends all right? Were they alive?

Sam stumbled back until he collided against the wall of his cell. His heart was pounding again, his breath coming in strangled gasps until dark spots crowded the edges of his vision. He was fucked, he was so completely fucked. He slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping his hair until his scalp ached.

He stayed like that for a long time, until the fire of his panic had burned itself out again, leaving numbness in its wake. Eventually he curled up against the wall of his cell, wrapping his arms around his torso and pulling his legs up to his chest to try to conserve his body heat. The temperature in the room was falling steadily, and eventually he could make out the faint puff of his breath in the air. Sam felt choked by sudden despair, and he wondered fleetingly whether he was going to freeze to death, alone in this room.

All of a sudden, he felt a flicker on the neural network. Sam lifted his head, narrowing his eyes as he turned his attention inwards. After a long moment, there was another flicker, and he frowned in confusion. It wasn't a spark signature as he understood it—it was smaller and less luminous, like a candle flame compared to a supernova—but it was definitely there, and moving steadily closer.

Abruptly, the door to the hanger slid open. For a brief moment, Sam could see outside of the room—the corridor was bright and similarly alien in appearance, with cables and tubing exposed on the walls—before the door slid shut. By the time that his eyes had re-adjusted to the dim light of the room, he was able to make out the lithe form of Ravage stalking towards his cell.

Sam stiffened from head to toe, familiar fear licking up his spine at the sight of the graceful predator. Its body gleamed in the low light of the large space, its silver panels glinting as it prowled closer to the energy barrier. Ravage's singular red optic focused on him as it approached, and Sam narrowed his eyes in return.

"I thought you were dead." Sam's voice was a dry rasp, barely more than a whisper, and Ravage flicked its tail in response.

"My Master retrieved me after the battle. He was able to prevent me from off-lining."

Sam jerked back in surprise. He had never heard the symbiont speak before, and her smooth, feminine register took him aback. It was completely at odds with the vicious personality that he had come to associate with the large cat.

Sam felt, rather than heard, Ravage's quiet chuckle.

"I have not had cause to speak to you before." She said, responding to his thoughts. Sam grimaced and pulled the egress filter over his mind, too exhausted to attempt a firewall.

"Well, feel free to keep the tradition alive."

She tilted her head at him, as a cat might regard a mouse, before stepping towards the energy barrier. As Sam watched, the blue blockade shimmered and then disappeared. Ravage stepped across the threshold of his cell, and once she had passed, the barrier snapped back to life. He sat up straighter, tensing nervously as she approached.

"What do you want?" He demanded, fear making his voice sharp.

"I have been tasked by my Master to ensure that you are well."

Sam narrowed his eyes at her, anger replacing his fear in an instant.

"If Megatron was concerned about my well-being, then he wouldn't have dumped me in a goddamn freezer."

Ravage tilted her head considerately as she approached, her visage one of curious contemplation. Sam pressed back against the wall, trying unsuccessfully to hide his apprehension.

"Megatron is not my Master, human. I serve Soundwave."

Ravage stopped directly in front of him, her feline face with its single red optic only inches away. Sam knew that his vital signs were betraying his fear and anxiety, but he swallowed dryly before pinning her with a flat stare.

"Well, you can tell Soundwave that I'm not buying whatever it is that he's selling."

This time, Ravage laughed softly.

"The other cassettes will be amused by you, I think." She rumbled, "Except perhaps Laserbeak, but she is loathe not to be the center of our Master's attention."

Without warning, Ravage stepped forward and curled herself around Sam's body. He cried out in surprise, jerking back as his hands flew out to push against her flanks. She lowered herself down, leaning against him as her head came to rest by his side. Sam's heart was pounding in his throat by the time that she settled, but then he realized all at once that she was warm. His breath stuttered out of him in surprise as heat soaked into his numb body.

For a moment, he had a mind to push her off him—to fight, to protest, to do anything other than sit there passively—but he was too cold and the warmth felt too nice. So he stayed where he was, neither leaning forward nor pulling away, and allowed the heat of her chassis to soak into him. It was not long before the aches in his body were soothed away, replaced with a leaden tiredness. He blinked hard, trying to keep a grip on himself, but there was no helping it. He was exhausted in body and mind, and it was not long before he nodded off to the sound of Ravage's rumbling purr.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam dreamed in flashes of memory and emotion.

Ratchet huffing at him exasperatedly, their bond swelling with tender affection.

Sunstreaker crouched in front of him, solemn and serious, as he offered Sam a shoulder to lean on.

Optimus' disapproval, as Doval rambled on about the unknown mechanoid.

Bumblebee's keening wail, anguished and mournful. Sam, please come back to me—

Sam jerked awake, his heart in his throat. He blinked blearily for the space of several seconds, confused and disoriented, before his memories came back to him. He swallowed hard, despair taking the place of the frenzied panic that had been his constant companion since he awoke in Megatron's cockpit. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, glancing over his shoulder at Ravage's prone form. Sometime during his restless slumber, he had slid down the wall to curl against the symbiont, drawn to her pleasant warmth. He sat up, pressing back against the wall with a grimace.

Ravage raised her head to regard him with her singular red optic.

"You feel things keenly, human."

Sam narrowed his eyes at her, flushing hotly as he drew the egress filter back over his mind.

"Mind your business."

Ravage's tail flicked from where it lay curled around his hip. He pushed away until he was no longer touching any part of the symbiont.

"Until my Master tells me otherwise, you are my business."

Sam's flush deepened in anger and he pushed himself to his feet, stepping around the symbiont. Ravage rolled onto her side as she watched him walk stiffly away, her tail flicking lazily.

"What time is it?" Sam demanded, eventually. Ravage tilted her head, and he clarified without prompting, "On Diego Garcia. What time is it?"

Ravage seemed to consider his question before she replied, "It is fifteen hundred hours local time on the Autobot base." Sam did the math and realized that, if Ravage was telling the truth, then it was three o'clock in the afternoon. The base had been attacked just after midnight. He scrubbed a hand roughly over his face, his stomach twisting in knots.

"What happened? During the attack?"

Ravage's optic narrowed minutely, as the flicking of her tail becoming more pronounced.

"If you wish to know what happened to the Autobots, you will have to ask your Master."

Sam bristled from head to toe, spinning on his heel to glare at her, "Megatron is not my Master."

Ravage's visage seemed to soften—in pity, Sam realized abruptly.

"Megatron breaks all of his servants to his will eventually. Your defiance will only prolong and deepen your suffering."

Sam's heart was beating hard against his ribs now, the familiar sense of panic threatening to overwhelm him. Eventually, he managed to hiss, "Get out."

Rather than ignore him, as he had expected, Ravage dipped her head in acquiescence and padded towards the energy barrier at the forefront of his cell. After she slipped through, and the barrier had re-established itself, she glanced at him over her shoulder.

"Reflect on my words, human."

Sam narrowed his eyes at her, but the symbiont merely turned and walked towards the large doors at the end of the hanger. The doors opened of their own accord, spilling bright light into the dim room, before closing and leaving Sam alone once again.

Sam breathed out a shaky sigh, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. The room was warmer now, although he was still uncomfortably cold. It was not long before his bodily imperatives began to make themselves felt. With a deep grimace, Sam used (what he hoped was) the waste disposal system in the far corner, and then settled back against the wall of his cell. His stomach rumbled uncomfortably, but it was his thirst that was on the forefront of his mind. His mouth was bone dry, and his throat clicked every time that he swallowed.

In the silence of the empty hanger, with nothing but his thoughts and the hum of distant machinery for company, Sam's mind inevitably turned back to his companions. His throat closed up at the memory of his last words to Bumblebee. He couldn't imagine what the yellow scout was going through right now. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would blame himself for Sam's capture, especially after Sam had pleaded for him to stay. He took a shaky breath, pressing his forehead into his arms as he struggled to get himself under control. With a conscious effort, Sam pushed the thoughts of Bumblebee and Ratchet aside. He couldn't shoulder their devastation and his own as well if he wanted to make it out of this in one piece.

He had to be smart.

Sam distracted himself as best he could, playing word association games and talking quietly to himself. It helped to take the edge off his panic, but the fear and anxiety were omnipresent at the edge of his mind. His thirst had become painful, a constant burning in the back of his throat. Combined with the chill of the room, he was both physically and emotionally miserable. He must have fallen asleep eventually, for all of a sudden the neural network flared brightly in his mind, startling him awake.

He hastily drew the egress filter over his mind, wrapping it around himself as tightly as he was able. As he watched, spark signatures flared to life on the neural network, one after the other. He recognized Megatron's icy glow, but the others were unfamiliar to him. He felt leaden fear settle into his gut as he realized that the Decepticons had returned.

He sat perfectly still and in complete silence, the egress filter drawn closely over his mental presence. The spark signatures dispersed in pairs and trios, making their way through the depths of the Nemesis. After a long while, Megatron's spark signature separated from the others and began to approach. It was joined shortly by a copper-red signature, which fell into place beside him. Sam's heart lodged itself in his throat, but he didn't move an inch.

After an agonizing wait, which was likely only the better part of ten minutes, the large doors on the opposite end of the hanger hissed open. Megatron stepped into the room, followed closely by two mechanoids that Sam had never seen before. The first was a shorter mech, lithe and slender, with bright red plating and yellow-rimmed wheels. He walked with a swagger, one hand on his hip and the other motioning expressively to his companion. With a start, Sam realized that he could not feel the third mechanoid's spark signature on the neural network. This mechanoid was taller and broad-framed, plated entirely in silver with a single red optic burning brightly over a solid visor that covered the lower portion of its face.

Sam's stomach bottomed out as he recognized the silver mechanoid from data files that he had read about Cybertron. Soundwave.

The three Decepticons approached the energy barrier, which shimmered and then disappeared of its own accord. Sam forced himself to stand as Megatron approached, his entire body tense and wary. The Decepticon leader stopped just meters away from him, staring down with an unnervingly calculating expression on his faceplates.

"I need something from you, boy." He said without preamble, "The extent that it causes you damage will depend on how much you resist me."

Sam's heart lodged itself in his throat in an instant, "Wh—what?"

Rather than reply, Megatron rumbled towards Soundwave, who stepped forward as Sam took as hasty step back. All of a sudden, the Decepticon leader's presence flared brightly along their bond and Sam cried out in surprise as his mental presence forced its way into Sam's mind. It was an incredibly intense and invasive sensation, far beyond anything that he had experienced when Ratchet entered his mind.

/Be still, boy./ Megatron commanded, but the voice came from inside his head, and Sam struggled in response. It was a violation of the basest nature, and though he writhed in Megatron's mental grip, the warlord held him easily. Sam could feel a spike of intent from across their bond, and then Megatron twisted—

It was as though he were flaying Sam's mind apart, prying it open and holding it there. Panic and desperation flooded through him in an instant, and he twisted in an attempt to escape the pain.

/Submit to me, and the pain will cease./ Megatron's harsh voice cut through his mind, and Sam struggled to obey. After a long moment, he was able to force himself to relax, and the pain receded in response. He felt a spike of satisfaction from Megatron, and then another presence entered his mind. Sam cried out, in shock and in fear, as Soundwave ran mental fingers over every inch of him. Suddenly, the surveillance chief pulled back as though in surprise.

/Observation: the human has spark bonded./

Megatron's mental presence swelled in incandescent rage at the pronouncement, and his mental fingers sank painfully into Sam's mind.

/Who?/ The Decepticon leader demanded, and Sam was confused by the possessive jealousy in his tone.

/Autobot: Designation, Bumblebee./

Sam felt himself go cold all over. Heedless of the potential consequences of his actions, he drew himself up and lashed out Soundwave with all of his mental strength. His attack landed, to their combined surprise, before Megatron pinned Sam beneath his mental weight. Sam struggled, fear and rage lending him strength.

/Don't you dare—don't you fucking dare touch him!/

Over his abject rage, Sam could feel Megatron's thoughtful consideration across their bond. There was a touch in his mind, too impartial to be considered a caress, and then Megatron rumbled at him reassuringly.

/Be calm, boy. No one will harm your bonded./

The words—and the feeling of sincerity that accompanied them—pulled Sam up short. Before he could reply, however, he felt Megatron turn his attention back to Soundwave.

/Find it for me./

Soundwave's mental fingers sank into the depths of Sam's mind. Restrained as he was by Megatron, there was nothing that Sam could do but suffer the invasion. After a long moment, he felt an uncomfortable rifling sensation, and then Sam found himself dropped into the depths of a memory.

Sam shifted as Ratchet completed his medical scans, anxious to learn about the Allspark energy that radiated from his cells.

"Well, give it to me straight. How bad is it?" Sam asked.

"You are in perfect health. I can find no signs that you ever had a concussion, let alone that you are supposedly suffering from the after-effects of one."

Sam huffed an exasperated sigh, "That's not what I meant."

"The Allspark signature is stronger." Ratchet confirmed to Sam's dismay, "There has been a 0.4 percent increase in its signal strength since my original scan on the Theodore Roosevelt."

There was a dizzying shift, a disorienting sensation of movement, and then Sam found himself in the brig of the Arc, staring as Ripcord's optics narrowed in fanatical devotion.

"I'm not the Allspark." Sam snapped, discomfort sharpening his words. Before Ripcord could reply, Optimus stepped in front of Sam and stared down at the analyst with narrowed optics.

"Fulfill your end of the bargain, Ripcord." Prime commanded, and Sam felt himself shiver at the steel in his tone. He stepped back, pressing close to Bumblebee who crouched down beside him. Ripcord regarded him with open curiosity, before glancing back to Optimus.

"Let me feel his spark signature." Ripcord said instead, apropos of nothing.

"Never." Ratchet growled.

"That was not a part of the bargain. Tell me what you know, or you will spend the remainder of your existence in stasis lock, as your systems slowly offline."

Sam was taken aback, both by Autobot leader's threat and by the promise in his tone. Ripcord seemed to consider his words, before he eventually lifted a pauldron in a weak shrug.

"Lord Megatron wants the boy."

"Why?"

"Why else would he want your human pet? For leverage, of course." Ripcord tilted his helm, purring smoothly, "Although, I imagine that he also suspects the boy is a Prime."

There was another dizzying shift, and memories flashed by too quickly for him to process. Sam staring at Ratchet in disbelief as the medic explained that he had stopped aging. Sam's indescribable joy as his spark bond flared to life, and Bumblebee's mental presence filled his mind. Optimus' quiet regret as he explained how Prime's were chosen, and his vow to respect Sam's choice.

Sam felt Megatron's dark rumble, /Follow that memory back to Egypt./

And then Soundwave was taking him back, his memories flashing by in a dizzying kaleidoscope of image and emotion. Terror licked up his spine as he suddenly found himself in the strange dreamscape of the Primes.

"No!" He cried, fighting against Megatron's mental hold. He could feel Megatron's open interest as he watched the memory unfold, ignoring Sam's protests completely.

Sam stepped forward, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light in front of him.

"Where am I? Am I dead?"

As he watched, figures began to materialize out of the light—towering, and dignified, and indescribably ancient.

"We have been watching you, a long, long time. You have fought for Optimus, our last descendant, with courage and with sacrifice, the virtues of a leader—a leader worthy of our secret. The Matrix of Leadership is not found, it is earned. Return now, and bring the Matrix to Optimus. Merge it with his spark. It is, and always has been, your destiny."

Megatron's presence swelled in savage satisfaction as the memory faded away. Abruptly, Sam found himself back within the hanger, lying supine on the floor, choking on the blood that streamed from his nose. The red Decepticon knelt beside him, a grimace of distaste on his faceplates as he rolled Sam onto his side. Sam coughed wetly, splattering blood against the cold metal in front of him. The red Decepticon pulled a strange metallic-like cloth from subspace and held it against Sam's face. Sam raised a trembling hand, pressing the cloth against his nose as he breathed weakly through his mouth. He felt like he had been put through a meat grinder—every inch of his body hurt, and his mind burned like it had been scoured with acid.

"Tend to him." Megatron ordered the red mechanoid curtly, before turning and striding out of the hanger. Soundwave glanced down at Sam briefly before turning to follow his Master. As soon as the two Decepticons were gone from sight, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and gave in to the tears that had been threatening him since he had awoken in Megatron's cockpit.

Chapter 2:

The red mechanoid glanced down at him with a grimace.

"Come on, get up."

Leaning forward, he hooked his servos under Sam's armpits and pulled him into a sitting position. Sam's head fell forward as he struggled to breathe through the pain in his head and the blood in his sinuses. His tears made tracks through the grime and sweat on his cheeks, but he did not make a sound.

"That was bad—not going to lie. Name's Knock Out, by the way." The red mechanoid introduced himself, pulling the cloth away from Sam's face. His optics narrowed considerately as he tipped Sam's head back, tilting his face this way and that, "You'll live, but you'll probably wish that you hadn't for a while."

"Don't touch me." Sam rasped, jerking his head away.

"Sorry, Megatron's orders." Knock Out replied. Sam narrowed his eyes at the mechanoid's sardonic tone.

"Fuck Megatron and fuck you too." He hissed. Knock Out's optics widened noticeably before he glanced towards the doors at the opposite end of the hanger.

"Primus, kid. Do you have a death wish?"

Sam tried to shove the red mechanoid away from him, but he may as well have been shoving at a block of granite for all the good that it did him.

"What can I say? Excruciating pain makes me bold."

Knock Out huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking his helm minutely. "You got pistons, kid."

Sam pinched the cloth against his nose, his head pitched forward as he waited for the bleeding to stop. Knock Out made a thoughtful noise and subspaced a bottle of water, which he handed to Sam without comment. Sam grabbed it, holding it between his knees as he twisted the cap off with one hand. He took a swig, swishing out his mouth, before spitting the water on the floor.

Knock Out made a moue of distaste.

"You are very… organic."

Something about the Decepticon's tone reminded Sam painfully of Roddy, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The red and yellow scout had been frequently taken aback by Sam's humanisms when he had first arrived on base. Add to that Knock Out's paint job and his effusive manner, and Sam found himself feeling abruptly homesick.

"Hot Rod, huh? I'll take that. He's a fine looking mechanoid."

Sam glanced up at Knock Out in surprise, before he realized that his mind was completely exposed. He grimaced, reaching for an egress filter before recoiling away in pain. The simple action had caused agony to lash across his mind like a bullwhip.

"Easy, kid. Your neural connections got a real once-over. Give yourself some time to heal."

"Don't call me kid," Sam ground out harshly, "and stay out of my head."

Knock Out shrugged, "Not a lot of privacy to be had on a warship, I'm afraid."

Sam glared at him balefully, before pulling the cloth away from his face. The bleeding had reduced to a trickle, he noticed, before pinching the cloth back over his nose. He continued to breathe shallowly in and out of his mouth, willing the blinding pain in his head to recede. Abruptly, Sam felt Knock Out's mental presence brush against him. Before he could protest, the Decepticon pushed forward and smoothed over his spark signature. The touch felt pleasant, like a cool hand on a feverish brow, and Sam glanced up at him in surprise.

Knock Out lifted a pauldron in a shrug, "I'm a medic."

The words were like a slap in the face, and Sam flinched back in both body and mind.

"Get out of my head." He repeated through gritted teeth. He felt the mental equivalent of a shrug.

"Suit yourself, but that's the best I can do I'm afraid."

"Next time, just give me an aspirin."

Knock Out's expression sharpened minutely, his optics roving over Sam's face.

"You don't get it, do you?" He asked after a long moment, his voice equal parts surprised and sympathetic, "There's no pain relief here. Megatron believes that pain is an effective teacher, and the longer that you suffer its presence, the more likely you are to learn your lesson."

Sam flinched, his eyes dropping to the floor. If Megatron thought that pain was an effective teacher, then he had just given Sam a fucking education. He heard Knock Out chuckle quietly, and Sam took a tentative drink of water. When his stomach didn't protest, he took a longer drink as he pulled the cloth away from his face. The bleeding had finally stopped. He made to hand the cloth back to Knock Out, but the medic held up his servos restrainingly.

"Uh, you keep it."

Sam scoffed lightly, shoving the scrap of cloth into his pocket.

"How did you get saddled with me if you can't stand the sight of blood?" He asked, taking another drink of water. The water was room temperature and stale, but it tasted like heaven.

Knock Out crossed his arms over his chest, tossing his head in annoyance.

"Well, Megatron certainly wasn't about to hand you over to Hook, and Scalpel would be just as likely to try and disassemble you as to treat you."

At the name of the little symbiont, Sam shuddered from head to toe. He took another drink of water to try to disguise his discomfort, but of course, Knock Out could feel his fear and trepidation through the neural network.

"Oh, that's right. I forgot that the two of you are acquainted."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the medic's sardonic tone, irritation flashing through him in an instant.

"I'm glad I can be a source of amusement for you."

Knock Out shrugged again, gesturing around them vaguely, "There's not a lot of entertainment to be found on a warship, either."

Sam took another long drink of water, finishing the bottle. To his surprise, Knock Out held out his servo expectantly, and after a moment, Sam handed the bottle back to him. The medic subspaced the plastic, pushing to his feet as he stared down at him.

"Try to avoid any mental exertion for a while." He said at last, and his voice was not unkind.

"How long?" Sam asked, keenly aware of the constantly shifting mental presences on the neural network. Knock Out shrugged, already walking towards the large doors on the opposite side of the room. When he passed the deep groove lined into the floor, the transparent blue barrier shimmered back to life.

"I'm not a Creator mechanoid, so I can't say exactly. Avoid it until it stops hurting, would be my medical advice."

Sam snorted, wincing immediately as the gesture pulled at the blood drying in his sinuses. Knock Out crossed the room, pausing only long enough for the doors to open, and then he was gone. As soon as the medic disappeared from sight, Sam pushed himself to his feet and walked back to the wall. By the time that he sank to the floor, his head was pounding worse than any headache that he had had in his life. Sam leaned against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest, suddenly thankful for the coolness of the room. He sat there for a long while, breathing shallowly as his head throbbed in time to his heartbeat. Over time, the pounding in his head softened to a painful ache.

The whole while that he suffered, Sam was aware of Megatron's presence across their bond. He stayed as far away from the brilliant signature as he could manage, making himself as unobtrusive as possible. He was surprised that Megatron had not confined him to the Creator bond or separated their minds with a mental block. Neither of these facts fit with what he understood about the Decepticon leader. He was aware of Megatron's distraction, his attention directed elsewhere. Sam wondered briefly if his intense focus had anything to do with the confirmation that Sam was a Prime.

Suddenly, Sam became aware of two spark signatures that were rapidly approaching him. One shone like the North Star, glittering and cold, while the other was softer, wispy white as high-altitude cirrus clouds. He frowned, raising his head to stare across the room expectantly. A short while later, the doors at the opposite end of the hanger slid open, and two mechanoids strode into the room. Sam's heart rate kicked into double-time at the sight of Starscream and Thundercracker walking towards his cell.

"You look good in a cage, boy." Starscream chuckled darkly. Sam felt himself flush as he realized that Starscream had come there to gloat. All of his fear and dread evaporated in an instant, subsumed by cold anger. After all that he had lost and suffered, Sam would be damned before he would meekly endure the Seeker's smug satisfaction.

"Get fucked, Starscream." He hissed.

The Seeker jerked back slightly, his optics narrowing in tightly leashed indignation.

"I am a Prince of Vos, you little ape. Know your place."

"Pardon me. Get fucked, your majesty."

Starscream made a strangled sound of rage, but before he could reply, Thundercracker laughed loudly. The blue and silver mechanoid shoved jovially at Starscream, who glared at him in response.

"Knock Out said you had a mouth on you." Thundercracker chuckled, crouching down on the other side of the energy barrier. Sam tore his eyes away from Starscream to look at the warrior, his eyes narrowed in contempt.

"I have nothing to say to you." He managed, voice low and tight. Thundercracker tilted his head considerately, as though in surprise.

"Is this about the beach? It was nothing personal."

Sam flushed crimson in anger, leaning forward slightly from his seated position.

"You almost killed Hot Rod and I was in the hospital ward for days. That feels pretty personal to me."

Starscream scoffed, folding his arms across his chassis, "It wouldn't have been 'almost' if Ripcord was worth his weight in scrap metal."

Sam frowned at the mention of the analyst. All at once, he realized what it was that the former priest had been attempting to do when he had invaded Sam's mind—Ripcord had been trying to establish a Creator bond. Not for the first time, Sam felt a swell of relief that Ironhide had put him down.

Starscream scoffed again.

"I never thought that towering waste of tin could do anything worthwhile, but he has my thanks for off-lining that useless sycophant."

Sam glanced back at Starscream, anger burning through him as he realized that the Seeker was following his train of thought. Sam shoved at his mental presence, wincing in pain as he did so.

"It's not like you have any room to criticize someone for being a sycophant, Starscream."

The Seeker regarded him for a long moment, disdain written all over his faceplates. Rather then return the insult, however, he stared at Sam as though in consideration.

"I'm going to enjoy watching Megatron break you, human. I'll cherish the memory files for eons to come."

To his surprise, Thundercracker glanced sidelong at Starscream in disapproval. He warbled something to the other Seeker in clipped Cybertronian, before turning back to Sam. Starscream rolled his optics, but he did not reply.

"It's war, little Prime. Battles happen, causalities happen, but circumstances can change."

Sam's eyes snapped to the blue and silver Seeker, his breath freezing in his lungs.

"Don't call me that."

Sensing his vulnerability, Starscream's faceplates shifted into a cruel pantomime of concern.

"Does that title not sit well with you, little Prime? Would you prefer Allspark, perhaps? Human? Fleshbag? Filthy little organic? Stop me when I get warm."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the Seeker.

"Primus himself couldn't stop you once you get going, Starscream."

Thundercracker laughed again, his expression openly amused. Sam felt the Seeker reach forward, brushing against Sam's mental presence with soft fingers. Sam flinched in response, the gentleness of the touch so disconcerting that it felt like an attack. Thundercracker's expression stilled, a frown pulling at his faceplates.

"No one is going to hurt you." He said carefully, looking at Sam as one might regard a wild animal. Sam barked a harsh laugh, but there was no amusement in it. His head still pounded from Megatron's earlier assault.

"That was a punishment." Thundercracker said, his tone suggesting that the fact was self-evident. Sam did not reply—he could not reply over the emotion that choked him. Thundercracker stared at him for a moment longer, before straightening and pulling some items from subspace. The energy barrier between them shimmered and disappeared, but Sam did not react. The Seeker stepped forward, crouching down in front of him as he pushed a bottle of water and a small, flat package towards him.

"You do not need to believe me, Sam. In time, you'll see."

At the sound of his name, Sam flinched as though he had been struck. Somehow, it was far worse than the various titles and slurs that had been directed his way since he had awoken here. It was too familiar—too real.

Thundercracker regarded him, his expression closed off and serious, before straightening to his full height. As he walked over the groove etched into the floor, the energy barrier snapped back to life. He looked at Starscream, warbling something in Cybertronian. The Vosian prince scoffed lightly, but turned on his heel and followed his trinemate. Sam sat perfectly still, watching them leave. Only after the doors had slid shut behind them, did Sam glance down at the floor. Thundercracker had left a non-descript bottle of water and an individually package meal ration. Sam stared down at the MRE in surprise—it looked the same as the ones he had seen on base, right down to the bold lettering across the front that read "Meal, Ready-to-Eat, Individual".

Sam twisted the cap off the bottle of water, drinking slowly, before he tore the top off the MRE. Tonight's meal was meatloaf and mashed potatoes, he noted with a grimace. Although MREs were a nutritionally and calorically complete meal, they were generally intended to be heated prior to eating. Sam took a tentative bite, surprised that it was somewhat less repulsive than he was anticipating. He huffed a quiet laugh as he took another bite. Lennox and Epps had shared their opinions about MREs often and at great volume over the years. In all the time that he had spent around military types, only Killian Anderson had ever expressed any sort of fondness for the rations.

Sam's smile slowly faded away as he realized that he didn't know they were dead or alive. The last time that he had seen Will, the Major had ordered Wheeljack to take him into the depths of the forest. The last time that he had seen Killian, the Lieutenant had been kneeling over Dave Carter's prone form as he stemmed the flow of blood from the agent's chest.

Abruptly, Sam dropped the MRE as though he had been burned. He glanced reflexively down at his hands and noticed the dried blood embedded under his fingernails and around his cuticles. With a sickening lurch, he realized that he did not know whether the blood was his or Dave's. The room seemed to pan away as he stared at his hands, his breath coming in fast, shallow gasps. He grabbed the bottle of water, heedless of his thirst, and poured it over his hands. He scrubbed his fingers against his shirt, his jeans, frantically trying to clean the blood away.

He didn't know how long he sat there, rubbing his hands against the fabric of his clothing and gasping desperately. Eventually, Sam noticed movement in his field of vision and he flinched violently as Ravage butted her head against his chest.

"Stop, you injure yourself."

"Don't touch me." He managed, his voice strangled and tense. Ravage butted against him again, gentler this time, as she rubbed her head over his chest. He glanced down at his hands only to realize that the skin of his fingers had been chafed raw.

"The agent was alive, last we heard." She rumbled, sitting on her haunches at his side with her head tucked against his neck. He flinched away, but she leaned into him.

"He could be dead." He accused, hating the weakness in his voice. He wanted to rally against her, to scream and to fight, but he was too exhausted. Physically and emotionally.

"He fired on Reedman first. The microcon was under orders to take you without engaging the enemy."

Sam laughed harshly, moving away from the symbiont. This time, she did not follow, merely staring at him with her ruby optic.

"Of course he did. He was protecting me."

Ravage rumbled quietly, lowering onto her underchassis.

"An unwise decision. You were Megatron's to claim."

Sam's head snapped towards her, his eyes narrowing in rage.

"Get this through your processor, Ravage. I'm not Megatron's—not now, not ever."

Ravage made a soft sound, not a scoff exactly, but certainly a sound of disapproval. Rather than press the issue, however, the large cyber cat rolled onto her side, curling her lower body around Sam's legs.

"You should eat. It's been too long since you've refueled."

Sam narrowed his eyes at her again, opening his mouth to tell her to fuck off, when his heart clenched painfully at a sudden realization. The last time that he had eaten had been with Ratchet in the mess hall, before everything had gone to shit. His breath stuttered out of him, as he turned his head to the side and struggled to get himself under control.

"What time is it?" He managed, after a long moment.

Ravage did not need to ask for clarification, "It is midnight on Diego Garcia."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. It had been almost one full day since he had been in Megatron's control. Bumblebee would be frantic by now, he knew. Ratchet, on the other hand, would be in an awful temper, unable to express himself in any other way. Instinctively, he reached for his bond with Bumblebee. It was quiet and still, and now that the pain in his head had receded to an uncomfortable throbbing, he was fully aware of the ache of their bond. It was like pressing against a bruise, painful and fruitless.

All at once, Sam knew a terrible feeling of despair. The days without Bumblebee on Diego Garcia had been awful, a colorless void of anxiety and longing. Now he was onboard the Nemesis, surrounded by enemies and uncertain when he would see Bumblebee or the others again. Ravage rumbled lowly, leaning down to rest her head in his lap. It was a pleasant weight, warm and grounding. She ex-vented a shuddering huff, and warmth washed over his legs.

"You would do well to focus on the present. You need to eat."

Sam wanted to push her away, to strike out at her, but he was too tired. Too lost.

"I'm not hungry."

Ravage nipped his upper thigh, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to send a message.

"Your bonded and your medic would want you to eat."

Sam flinched at her words. It was a low blow, but he knew that she was right. Bumblebee and Ratchet would want him to eat—to stay strong, to fight.

He twisted his torso, moving out from under the symbiont's heavy head as he reached for the MRE. Without looking at her, he worked through the pre-packed meal methodically, chewing and swallowing without tasting a thing. When he was finished, he tossed the package aside, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth as his head fell back against the wall.

Ravage rumbled lowly in her chassis, a sound strangely reminiscent of a purr as she moved to lean against him. Sam lifted a knee up to block her, narrowing his eyes in anger.

"Don't."

Ravage stared at him for a long moment, her head tilted considerately, before she pushed up into a standing position. The large symbiont turned, stalking towards the energy barrier in perfect silence. It was not long before the double doors at the end of the hanger hissed closed behind her, and Sam found himself alone in the dim light of his cell.

In the hours that followed, Sam struggled to control the grief and despair that threatened to choke him. His mind turned inwards towards his bond with Bumblebee, pressing against the empty connection again and again. It did nothing to comfort him. The room grew colder as the night dragged on, and it was not long before Sam was curled against the wall of his cell, wrung out and miserable.

It was a long time before he drifted into a restless sleep.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam's dreams were troubled, fleeting flashes of images and emotion.

There was fire and smoke, acrid in the air, as someone barked terse commands. A dizzying shift, and then there was the remnants of a building with soldiers swarming over the debris. The formed loose chains as they shifted the rubble aside, looking for survivors. Another blur of motion, and then trees were flashing by him on either side, the throaty roar of an engine shattering the false calm of pre-dawn.

Through it all, his grief burned brightly—

Sam jerked awake, blinking his eyes open in disorientation before making a strangled noise of surprise. Megatron was crouched in front of him, his arms resting loosely on his leg struts as the warlord stared down at him. As the remnants of Sam's dream faded, Megatron's presence filled his mind. There was nothing cruel or painful about the action, but the invasion was unwelcome. The silver mechanoid tilted his helm, his optics bright as he regarded the boy in front of him.

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, shrinking back against the wall. He had only ever been this close to Megatron a handful of times, and it had never ended well for him. The Decepticon leader rumbled lowly, something like consideration flickering across his faceplates, before he reached out a single sharp talon to hook under Sam's chin. Sam made a strangled sound of fear as the Decepticon tilted his head up, the clawed digit pressing uncomfortably into the tender flesh of his underjaw.

"Your grief for your bonded is profound indeed, little one."

Sam flinched minutely at the epithet, trying his best to stay perfectly still. When he did not reply, the tip of the clawed digit pressed deeper into his skin.

"Y—yeah." He stuttered, hating the naked distress in his voice. Megatron rumbled thoughtfully, his mental presence reaching towards Sam's bond with Bumblebee. In an instant, Sam surged forward to resist him, in both body and mind.

"No."

"No?"

Sam narrowed his eyes at Megatron. He must have hit his threshold for panic and despair, because he was suddenly feeling very unafraid.

"No. Not ever."

Megatron's mental presence shifted, and suddenly the warlord's will pressed itself against Sam's mind. Sam flinched as oily thoughts slipped into his consciousness, worming their way deep into his brain. He grit his teeth, his eyes watering under the assault.

Oblige me, little one.

Sam wavered, every instinct in his body urging him to relent, to submit, to obey his Master—

He gasped, and with monumental effort, Sam pushed Megatron's mental presence away.

"Never." He hissed, glaring at the Decepticon, "You are not my Master."

Megatron's optics narrowed slightly, his presence restless and agitated, as though it wanted to lash out. After a breathless moment, the digit under his chin moved to stroke down the side of his face. Sam flinched at the caress, expecting it to turn violent any moment, but it did not.

"You're a curious creature, Sam Witwicky." Megatron rumbled, and Sam's stomach twisted at the realization that his tone was almost fond, "Very few have defied me and lived to tell the tale."

"I thought you hadn't decided whether to kill me." He whispered boldly, his eyes locked unmovingly on Megatron's optics. The warlord chuckled, but rather than deigning to reply, his mental presence pressed against his bond with Bumblebee once again. It was like massaging a wound, and Sam winced in response, but found himself unable to move against the warlord.

"I have never experienced a spark bond. I had not expected it to be so… unpleasant."

Sam bristled, as though he had been personally insulted.

"If the sensation doesn't sit well with you, you're welcome to drop of me off at Diego Garcia at your earliest convenience."

The tip of Megatron's taloned digit caressed down the side of Sam's face once again, not leaving so much as a red mark in its wake.

"I think not." He rumbled, staring down at Sam as though trying to solve a particularly vexing puzzle, "I will bring your bonded here instead."

Sam's heart stuttered in his chest, horror seizing him all at once.

"No. Megatron—no."

He knew with certainty that Megatron would use Bumblebee against him. That he would abuse the scout in an effort to control Sam, and Sam knew that it would work. He would do anything to keep Bumblebee from the warlord's cruelty. Megatron's clawed digit moved to stroke down Sam's back, and he realized that the gesture wasn't gentle—it was possessive. Dominating.

All at once, Sam hoped that he never saw Bumblebee again. Not so long as he remained at Megatron's mercy.

"You've done enough to him." Sam said, managing to keep the tremor out of his voice. To his surprise, the warlord laughed, a quiet sound deep in his chassis.

"He told you about Tyger Pax."

It was not a question, but a statement. Sam took great satisfaction in replying, "No, Optimus did."

The clawed digit that was stroking up and down his back stilled, the tip digging painfully into Sam's ribs.

"What else has Optimus Prime told you?"

The question was deceptively mild, and Sam could feel Megatron's mental presence focusing on him intently. Keenly aware of the precariousness of his situation, Sam chose his words with care.

"A lot." He murmured, around the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, "We talked often about Cybertron—about the Golden Age and the Great War."

For a moment, Megatron seemed taken aback, as though he could not fathom why Optimus would share anything of their history with a human child. The surprise faded quickly, however, replaced by something like disdain.

"Of course he would. You're a Prime—it is his duty to indoctrinate you."

Sam jerked back, his eyes narrowing in anger.

"He wasn't indoctrinating me."

The claw pressing into his back turned sharp, and Sam made a soft noise in pain.

"Oh? What did he tell you about my 'rebellion'?"

Sam hesitated. They had not spent a great deal of time talking about Megatron before the Great War, due largely in part to Sam's reluctance to discuss the warlord. He knew that Megatron had been a gladiator who had risen through the ranks before launching his insurrection, but that was most of his knowledge.

Sam felt a swell of rage from the Decepticon leader, and he made a soft sound of fear in response. Rather than the expected pain, however, Megatron's presence slowly turned thoughtful. Considering.

"That you are ignorant of the truth is Optimus' fault, not your own. I will take steps to rectify that immediately."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the Decepticon leader, offended he would imply that Optimus had been anything other than truthful with his recollection of events. His anger made him bold, and he pinned the Decepticon with an openly hostile glare.

"Was he wrong when he said that you ripped out Bumblebee's voice modulator? That you tortured him?"

Megatron tilted his head, regarding Sam for a long moment before replying.

"No, he was not wrong. I used the scout to teach Optimus a lesson."

Sam felt his anger burn brighter at the Decepticon's plain tone. He tried to shift away from the talon that had resumed stroking down his back, but Megatron moved his servo to maintain contact between them.

"Is that what you're doing with me?" He hissed, hatred in every syllable, "Teaching Optimus a lesson?"

Megatron chuckled lowly, as though amused by Sam's naivety.

"No, little one. You are not a lesson, you're mine. Now and always."

Chapter 3:

Sam flinched at the possessiveness in Megatron's tone, pulling away to press against the wall. Megatron regarded him for a long moment, amusement evident in the quirk of his mouthplates, before he rose to his full height.

"Come."

The warlord turned and strode towards the opposite end of the hanger, pausing as he deactivated the energy barrier to glance over his shoulder expectantly. Sam hesitated, uncertainty and fear curling in the pit of his stomach, until he became aware of Megatron's impatience across their bond. Seeing no alternative, Sam pushed himself to his feet and made his way after the Decepticon leader. Megatron waited until he approached, and then he continued towards the large doors on the far side of the hanger.

The doors hissed open as they approached, and Sam squinted as bright light flooded the dim room. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw that the hallway was made of the same silver metal as the hanger, etched with whorls and eddies, and latticed with thick cables. The air in the corridor was noticeably colder and thinner than that of the hanger, and the hum of distant machinery was more pronounced.

"This way." Megatron rumbled, turning left as he walked down the long passage. Sam followed after him, trepidation mounting with every step. Megatron walked slowly, allowing Sam to stay close to him with only minimal effort. Sam was thankful for the consideration, as the thinner atmosphere in the corridor was already making him lightheaded.

They turned a corner, and an unknown mechanoid glanced up at them in surprise. The purple and gray Decepticon was standing in front of a control panel set into the wall, his servos resting on a complicated-looking touchpad. Curiously, Sam turned his attention inwards. The stranger's spark signature was unlike anything that he had encountered before—it was yellow-gray, like ambergris, and constantly shifting.

As Megatron drew nearer, the purple and gray mechanoid dipped his helm in greeting.

"Master."

Megaton rumbled in response, "Blitzwing."

Blitzwing glanced down at Sam, his expression openly intrigued. Megatron did not deign to assuage the mechanoid's curiosity, however, and walked passed him without another word. As Sam made to follow the warlord, he felt Blitzwing's mental presence brush against him. It was an inquisitive gesture, almost like a greeting, but Sam pulled away from it.

"Don't." He snapped, aware that Megatron had paused to glance back at him. Sam reached once again for the egress filter, and once again, he recoiled away as pain seared across his mind.

Blitzwing stared down at him, his head tilted to one side.

"Not real friendly, are you?"

The question took Sam so completely by surprise that he glanced at Megatron uncertainly. The warlord was regarding him with an inscrutable expression, but Sam could feel a strange sort of curious anticipation across their bond. Baffled, Sam looked back at Blitzwing and answered him truthfully.

"Under the circumstances, not particularly."

Blitzwing's mouthplates shifted abruptly, stretching into a manic grin that was almost feral in its intensity. Sam took an instinctive step backwards.

"How un-Prime-like of you."

The mechanoid's mental presence surged forward, crowding into Sam's mind with focused intent. Immediately, Megatron slammed the larger mechanoid against the work terminal, sending sparks and bits of metal flying into the air. Blitzwing shouted in surprise, but he did not fight against the arm that was crushing him into the wall.

"Manners, Blitzwing." Megatron chided mildly, his tone at odds with his rigid posture.

After a long moment, Blitzwing pulled out of Sam's mind. The Decepticon's mental presence was unfocused and strange, a miasma of emotion and impression that Sam found impossible to interpret. Sam made to pull the egress filter over his mind again, regardless of the pain that it would cause, when Megatron slapped it away. Sam bristled in response, but a warning pulse from the warlord stilled any protest that he might have made.

"Of course, Master. We apologize." Blitzwing replied, voice strangled. After a long moment, Megatron released him and stepped back. The soldier slumped against the wall, his optics lowered deferentially, and he made no sound of protest or complaint. Without another word, the Decepticon leader turned on his heel and continued walking. Sam glanced once at Blitzwing, who was nursing a sparking servo and muttering to himself, before turning to follow him.

Sam stared at Megatron's back as he walked, trying to marshal his whirling thoughts. The warlord had allowed the strange interaction with Blitzwing to occur, although he could have easily prevented it. So why had he allowed Blitzwing to invade Sam's mind only to immediately punish him? Why prevent Sam from firewalling himself? And what the hell was wrong with Blitzwing, anyway?

"Blitzwing is a triple-changer. They are useful in battle, but unbalanced." Megatron said, answering Sam's unspoken question.

Sam frowned, taken aback by the warlord's uncharacteristically tolerant tone. He walked another half a dozen steps before his curiosity beat out his trepidation.

"What's a triple-changer?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Megatron glanced down at him, something like surprise flickering across his faceplates before it was replaced with irritation.

"Has Optimus taught you so little about our kind?"

Sam resisted the urge to flinch at the caustic tone, but Megatron continued speaking before he could reply.

"A triple-changer is a frame type that has two alt-modes. Blitzwing can transform into both a tank and a jet."

Despite himself, Sam felt a twinge of impressed surprise. He could imagine the benefits of having a solider that could transform into a ground mode or a flight mode, as the situation required it. It was not long before they came upon a large double door, which opened after Megatron pressed a complicated code into the touchpad set into the wall. At once, brilliant sunlight flooded the corridor and Sam winced his eyes shut in response. Megatron strode through the doors, and after a long moment, Sam followed him.

The room within was of middling size, filled with an assortment of control panels and large monitors that were scrolling with Cybertronian text. Sam recognized Skywarp and Soundwave standing at workstations arranged about the room, which he knew instinctively was the bridge. He paid them no mind, however, for his attention was focused wholly on the large paneled view screens that lined the entire back wall. He stepped forward reflexively, one foot after the other, until he stood just meters away from the transparent paneling. Far below them, extending all the way to the horizon, was a magnificent mountain range. Craggy gray rocks rose into the troposphere, blanketed with pristine white snow. The sky was blindingly blue, and from their altitude, Sam could just make out the curvature of the Earth.

He was not sure how long he stood there, staring, but eventually he became aware of Megatron's presence behind him. Sam swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak about the lump in his throat.

"Where are we?"

"Chile." Megatron replied

Hope swelled in his chest, warm and bright. As long as they were on Earth, he still had a chance.

Megatron chuckled quietly, stepping forward to run the tip of his claw-like digit across Sam's shoulders. Sam shuddered in response, curling away from the unwelcome caress.

"You would do well to disabuse yourself of that notion, little one. There is no hope of rescue."

Sam set his jaw, staring steadfastly out the view screen in silence. Megatron could say whatever he wanted. Sam knew that so long as he was alive, the Autobots would never stop looking for him.

"Perhaps, but the Trion and the Arc were destroyed in the attack. The Autobots are not coming for you."

Sam blinked hard as the full weight of Megatron's words became apparent. Without the Trionor the Arc, and without any airframes in their army, there was no way for Autobots to get to him. It took a long while before Sam was able to reply around the emotion that choked him.

"I don't believe you."

Megatron chuckled again, mental fingers brushing over Sam's mind.

/We both know that's not true./

The words were a silken purr, confident and amused, and Sam bristled in response. He shoved at Megatron's mental presence at the same time that he stepped away from the Decepticon's servo.

"Don't touch me." He spat.

Megatron tilted his helm, staring at him considerately.

"Don't?" He rumbled, stepping forward, "You don't give the orders on this ship, little one."

Sam struggled not to flinch, "I'm not afraid of you."

Megatron chuckled, "That's not true, either."

The Decepticon leader's smug condescension inflamed something within Sam, who turned to glare at him in response.

"You're right, I am afraid," Sam snapped, "but my fear is all that you'll ever get from me. Not my cooperation and not my obedience."

Sam was distantly aware that Skywarp had stopped working, turning in his chair to look at them in shocked surprise. Megatron's smile slowly vanished as Sam spoke, his frame tensing in tightly leashed anger.

"We shall see how you feel in a thousand years." He growled softly, "Time and perspective have a way of softening loyalties."

Sam stared up at him without flinching, "One year or a thousand, it doesn't matter. I will always be loyal to Optimus Prime."

White hot rage flooded through their bond in an instant, followed immediately by blinding agony as Megatron sank his mental fingers deep into the recesses of Sam's mind. The warlord twisted, and Sam's eyes rolled back into his head as he hit the floor. Distantly, Sam was aware of his own frantic screaming, his hands clutching his temples as he writhed on the ground. Nothing that he did helped to alleviate the pain in his mind, which crashed over him in nauseating waves.

The whole time that he screamed, Sam was aware of Megatron's silent scrutiny across their bond. Eventually, something broke within Sam and his screaming turned into agonized pleading, words tumbling mindlessly from his mouth.

"I'm sorry! Megatron, please, I'm sorry!"

The pain in his mind receded as Megatron withdrew his mental presence. Sam sobbed, curling into a ball as he struggled to pull air into his spasming lungs. He retched hard, and Megatron's mental presence soothed across Sam's mind.

/If you vomit, you will be cleaning it up./

Sam sucked in a breath through his mouth, and then another, as he tried to get his roiling stomach under control. After a long moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the cold, metal floor. Megatron's mental touch lingered, stroking lightly over Sam's mind as he shook from head to toe. Unable to move or to speak, Sam submitted to the unwanted caress without protest.

From across their bond, Sam felt a flicker of satisfaction.

It was a long time before Sam's nausea faded and his heartrate returned to something resembling normal. All that remained was a blinding headache and the taste of blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue during his frantic flailing. When he managed to open his eyes, Sam was greeted with the sight of Megatron crouching down in front of him, his optics focused on his face.

"The next time that you speak such insolence, I will tear your tongue from your mouth. Do you understand?"

Megatron's voice was mild, but Sam did not doubt his sincerity. He nodded slowly, blinking tears out of his eyes.

"That's good, little one. Now, I have work to do. Can you stay silent and unobtrusive until I am finished?"

Sam nodded again, squeezing his eyes shut against the despair that flooded through him. Megatron rumbled in response before walking towards the opposite end of the room. Sam heard the sound of voices, but they spoke in clipped Cybertronian and he did not understand a word that they said. When his nausea retreated to a periphery annoyance, he pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned against the wall. He was shivering violently in cold and in pain, and he wrapped his arms around his torso as he pulled his knees to his chest.

He closed his eyes, retreating into the stillness of his bond with Bumblebee. When the splitting pain in his skull dulled to a harsh throbbing, Sam began to watch the Decepticons as they worked. Skywarp had left shortly after Sam's punishment, only to be replaced by Starscream. The Seeker had glanced at him with an inscrutable expression on his faceplates, before taking his position at a terminal a short distance away. The Decepticons were largely quiet, speaking only to issue commands or to answer questions. Soundwave, who worked at a large monitor that displayed a confusing array of Cybertronian glyphs, did not speak at all. His cables were plugged into his control panel as his servos flew over the keyboard in front of him.

By the time that Megatron stepped away from the terminal that had occupied his attention for what seemed like hours, Sam's bladder was uncomfortable and his stomach ached with hunger. The Decepticon leader stopped in front of him, his mental presence reaching forward to stroke against Sam's mind. The caress was warm and approving, and Sam understood that he had pleased Megatron with his obedience.

Sam swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat.

"Can you walk?" Megatron asked.

Sam nodded faintly, before pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. The warlord considered him for a long moment, and then he gestured with a large servo towards the doors on the opposite end of the room. Without looking at any of the Decepticons that he passed, Sam made his way across the bridge. His shirt was damp with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to his torso, and he was shivering in earnest now. Megatron keyed open the door and nodded for Sam to step into the hall. Sam did as he was bid, and together they made their way through the depths of the ship.

It was not long before Sam realized that they were not walking back towards the hanger. Fear bloomed in the pit of his stomach, and Sam glanced uncertainly at Megatron. There was nothing openly hostile about Megatron's countenance or his mental presence, but the fact did little to calm him. Eventually, Megatron stopped in front of a nondescript door in a quiet corridor. He keyed a passcode into the terminal set into the wall, and then gestured for Sam to enter after the door hissed open.

The room beyond was sparsely furnished and painfully utilitarian—there was no color or decoration anywhere to be seen. A minimalist desk dominated the center of the space, cluttered with an assortment of datapads and unfamiliar-looking technology. There was a large berth located on the back wall across from an interior door, which led into a second room. Megatron stepped into the room and Sam hesitantly followed. Once they passed the threshold, the door slid shut behind them and locked with an electronic-sounding clunk.

Sam was opening his mouth to ask where they were, when it abruptly occurred to him that these were Megatron's personal quarters. Uncertainty and confusion joined the fear that was twisting in the pit of Sam's stomach. Megatron paid him no mind, striding across the room towards the interior door.

"Come along, little one." Megatron said, and there was nothing malicious or impatient about his tone. Well aware of the consequences wrought by disobedience, Sam walked hesitantly towards him. Megatron stepped into the other room, and a moment later, bright light flooded through the doorway. Sam moved around the doorframe, glancing inside. The space was small, less than half of the size of the main room, and largely empty. There was a strange contraption affixed to the wall on their right, arranged over a heavy grate set in the floor, and a flat cabinet-like structure was situated against the back wall.

Sam frowned, his confusion and uncertainty deepening further still. The room certainly didn't look like a prison cell or a torture chamber, but he was at a loss for what else it could be. Sam couldn't imagine many other reasons for Megatron to bring him here. The Decepticon crossed the small space, fiddling with the contraption on the wall, and suddenly liquid streamed from a large nozzle set into the ceiling. Sam abruptly realized that they were standing in a shower.

"Take off your clothes."

Sam stiffened at Megatron's words, panic seizing him in an instant.

"Wh—what?"

The Decepticon turned to regard him, "Your garments, remove them."

Sam stood frozen to the spot, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to refuse, to tell Megatron to go fuck himself, but he didn't dare. The warlord had torn into his mind twice already, and Sam was sure that he couldn't bear another punishment with the remnants of the last one still pounding through his skull. Despite this, the idea of stripping naked in front of Megatron was abhorrent to the extreme, and Sam was caught between two conflicting impulses: defiance and submission.

Megatron regarded him silently, uncharacteristically patient in the face of Sam's internal struggle.

"Please don't make me." Sam whispered after a long moment, hating the piteous tone of his voice.

Megatron's mental presence brushed against him, a soothing caress that gentled the burning pain in his mind. Despite the comfort that the touch offered, Sam flinched away. Megatron ex-vented softly, tilting his helm to regard the frightened boy in front of him.

"You're filthy. Oblige me and you may return to your cell for the rest of the day."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding in his throat. Megatron nudged him through their bond, his mental presence gaining the slightest edge of impatience.

All at once, Sam disconnected from reality.

He watched, as though in a dream, as he reached down and pulled the hem of his shirt up and over his head. His pants were next, trembling fingers fumbling with the button and fly, before he pulled the cloth over his hips and down his legs. He toed off his shoes, and then stepped out of the pile of material.

Sam shivered violently, gooseflesh breaking out of his arms and legs, as he stood naked in the shower. The warlord pressed a servo against his back, cold metal against warm flesh, and pushed him gently towards the steaming liquid that poured from the ceiling. Sam gasped loudly as he stepped into the flow—the liquid was pleasantly warm, an enjoyable sensation after the cool air of the room.

"Don't get any in your eyes or your mouth." Megatron warned, "The solvent won't corrode your flesh, but it is not potable."

Sam did not reply, standing silently under the warm spray as Megatron subspaced a square of fabric and handed it to him. Sam understood without being told what the warlord wanted, and he began to scrub the cloth over his body as Megatron watched with undisguised interest. Sam tried his best to empty his mind—he wasn't here, this wasn't happening to him—as he worked the cloth over his torso. Sweat and blood and grime sluiced off of him, swirling the tiled floor before disappearing down the thick grated drain. He closed his eyes to block out the disturbing sight, ducking his head under the warm stream and scrubbing his scalp with his fingernails. When he was finished, he stood silently under the spray with the square of fabric clenched tightly in his fist.

Megatron leaned forward, adjusting a value on the wall, and the spray of solvent abruptly cut off. The chill in the room was far more uncomfortable after the warmth of the shower, and Sam shook from head to toe as he stood dripping in the cool air. The Decepticon leader turned to regard him, but Sam did not meet his optics—he stared instead at the wall as he waited for Megatron to decide what to do with him. After a long moment, the warlord subspaced a large metallic-looking cloth, roughly the side of a bedsheet, and wrapped it around Sam's shivering body. The shimmery material was strange and rough, more like burlap than cotton, but it absorbed the strong-smelling solvent all the same.

Sam stood perfectly still as Megatron drew the cloth over his chest and shoulders. The warlord's mental presence was satisfied and content, and he brushed against Sam's mind as he toweled him off. It was a familiar gesture, filled with warm approval, and it took Sam a moment to realize why it was familiar. It was the same sort of affectionate petting that Sam often gave to Mojo and Frankie.

All at once, a memory slammed into the forefront of his mind.

Sam, running for his life across the roof in Mission City, the sound of gunfire and screaming in the distance. The Allspark tucked tightly against his side, warmth radiating from the alien metal as he approached the military helicopter. A loud explosion, a sinister laugh.

"It is fear or courage that compels you, boy?"

Desperate fingers scrabbling against unfeeling stone, struggling to get purchase on the weathered statue. The roof trembling with the force of alien footfalls, and then—

"Give me the Allspark, and you may live to be my pet."

Unable to prevent it, Sam stumbled forward and emptied the contents of his stomach all over the shower floor. He retched loudly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as the taste of sour bile and over-seasoned meatloaf filled his mouth. Megatron watched him silently, never ceasing the gentle caresses in Sam's mind.

When Sam finally finished heaving, pale and sweating from the strain, he wiped his hand over his mouth and muttered, quietly, "I'm sorry."

Megatron crouched beside him, reaching out to stroke a single digit down the length of Sam's spine.

"You are not a pet, little one." He murmured, his voice serious and reassuring, "You are the answer to a question, an impossible conundrum. That I am your Master and that you are mine in no way devalues you."

Sam did not reply and Megatron did not press him. The Decepticon leader stayed there, stroking Sam's back until he stopped shaking, and then he subspaced fresh clothes for him. Sam dressed as quickly as he was able, relieved for the soft, thick fabric even though it was two sizes too large. When he was finished dressing, Megatron led him from the room without making him clean up his mess, despite his earlier threat.

Absurdly, Sam was grateful.

They walked together through the ship, neither of them speaking a word, until Sam was back within the confines of his cell. Megatron produced a bottle of water and an MRE from his subspace, handing them to Sam, who accepted the items without comment. After a long moment, Megatron subspaced another item—a large piece of fabric that was not unlike the one he had used to towel Sam off after the shower. The Decepticon leader draped the fabric around Sam's shoulders, his fingers lingering for a moment before he turned away.

"Rest and refuel. I will see you in the morning."

Sam stood there, one hand gripping the edges of the blanket, as Megatron strode purposefully from the hanger. Once the door slid closed behind him, Sam sank slowly to the floor of the cell. As he methodically opened the pre-packed meal, he did his best to think of nothing.

Chapter 4:

Dave woke slowly, his consciousness returning in fits and starts, until at last he opened his eyes. When his blurry vision finally cleared, he saw that he was in an unfamiliar space with beige-painted walls and nondescript furniture. He slowly turned his head to the side, and a splash of color caught his attention. There, on a squat, bedside table, was a flower bouquet arranged in a ceramic vase. Dave squinted, and he could just make out a small, white card affixed to a peg stuck between the sunflowers and lilies. He stared at the flowers for a long time, waiting for the moment of clarity that would provide insight as to where he was and what had happened, but nothing came.

Eventually, and with great effort, he turned his head to regard himself. He was lying on a hospital gurney with the blankets pooled loosely around his hips. His bare chest was heavily bandaged and dotted with electrode pads that were connected by thin, black wires to a nearby heart monitor. He lifted his arm and noted the pulse oximeter attached to his index finger and the IV taped to the back of his hand.

Distantly, Dave could hear the steady, electronic beeping of the monitors increasing in pitch and tempo.

"You back with us, Carter?"

Dave startled as Ratchet's holoform leaned into his field of vision—the medic looked unusually grim and harried, but there was a glimmer of relief in his steel blue eyes. Dave opened his mouth to voice his confusion, when he realized that a nasal cannula was taped to his face. He frowned, reaching up to pull at the thin tubing, before Ratchet intercepted him and lowered his hand to the mattress.

"Leave it. Your oxygen saturation still isn't where I want it to be."

Dave swallowed dryly, wincing as his throat clicked. When he finally spoke, his voice was like desert gravel.

"Ratchet, what… what happened?"

The holoform's lips pressed into a thin line. Rather than answer him, the medic reached up to adjust the bag of saline that was hanging on a rack beside Dave's bed. Dave opened his mouth to repeat his question when Ratchet turned to regard him with a closed-off expression.

"There was a Decepticon attack. What do you remember?"

Dave frowned again, eyes narrowing in thought. He recalled the activation necessitated by the unknown mechanoid, and he remembered Optimus deploying three teams to the nuclear power plant. After that, he and Sam—

Dave's eyes widened in dread and alarm as memories of the attack surged to the forefront of his mind. Before he could struggle into a sitting position, however, Ratchet's hands were on his shoulders and pinning him to the mattress.

"Don't you dare. It took three hours to get you stitched up, and I won't have you undoing all of that work."

Dave grabbed Ratchet's wrist, and the air rattled in his chest as he struggled to catch his breath long enough to demand, "Where's Sam?"

A strident alarm sounded from one of the many monitors at his bedside, and Ratchet's expression became openly irritated.

"Calm down or I will be forced to sedate you."

His voice was clipped and demanding, and Dave understood at once that he was speaking to Ratchet the medic, not Ratchet his friend. Dave narrowed his eyes at the holoform, leaning towards him as well as he was able.

"God dammit, Ratchet. Is he alive?"

Before Ratchet could reply, Optimus' grave voice cut across the room.

"We believe so, Dave."

Dave turned towards the holoform with growing trepidation. Optimus looked worse for wear than Ratchet, his holoform sporting numerous abrasions and an unusually somber expression.

"You believe so?" Dave repeated, allowing himself to be pushed back against the mattress. Ratchet folded his arms over his chest, a supremely unimpressed look on his face as he stared down at him.

Optimus nodded, approaching the foot of the bed.

"He was taken by Megatron shortly after you were attacked by the minicon. Immediately thereafter, all Decepticon forces withdrew from the island. We have not seen or heard from Sam or the Decepticons since."

Dave stared at Optimus in disbelief, a horrible sinking feeling in his gut. Although Sam was fifteen years his junior, he had come to consider the younger man both a colleague and a friend. He was well aware of the Decepticon's proclivity for cruelty and torture, and he shuddered to think what Sam was enduring in their custody. He scrubbed a hand over his face, noting the stubble on his cheeks and chin.

"How long since he was taken?" Dave asked at last.

"Just over two days ago."

"Jesus, Optimus. Do we know what they want?"

Optimus shook his head minutely, "Not definitively, no."

Dave gritted his teeth in irritation, well aware that the Autobot leader was being purposefully vague.

"Care to speculate?"

"Dave, you are in no condition to get involved in this right now." Ratchet interrupted, his voice brooking no argument. Dave glanced up at the holoform stubbornly, refusing to be put off.

"Answer the question."

Optimus sighed, shaking his head as he reached out to grip the railing of the gurney. The gesture was uncharacteristically weary, and Dave felt trepidation tighten in his stomach.

"We believe that Megatron took Sam to exploit the Allspark energy in his body."

Dave frowned, "Can he do that?"

Ratchet snorted derisively, "He will surely try, regardless of the consequences."

Optimus glanced towards his Chief Medical Officer, "Not necessarily, Ratchet. As a Prime, Sam may have value to Megatron's cause beyond the Allspark energy."

Ratchet narrowed his eyes.

"Are you willing to bet Sam's life on that?"

Dave glanced between Optimus and Ratchet, suddenly aware of the simmering tension in the room. Optimus sighed, shaking his head slightly.

"Of course not."

Dave pushed himself up onto his elbows, struggling to keep the wince of pain off his face. Ratchet's head snapped around, and the medic glared down at him.

"What's the situation topside, Optimus?" Dave asked, steering the conversation away from the sensitive subject of Sam's captivity.

Optimus did not need to ask for clarification.

"The Downtown area was heavily impacted. Six administrative buildings were destroyed, and another dozen were damaged beyond repair. The embassy, the dining facilities, and procurement sustained moderate damage. The Trion has sustained significant damage—it is likely she will never be flight-capable again." He paused, and Dave could sense the Autobot leader's guilt and regret, "There have been twenty-six deaths and eighty-nine serious injuries so far. Search and rescue is still ongoing."

Dave felt himself pale and he sank back against the pillows without a sound. After a moment, he glanced back towards Optimus.

"Did Will and Killian make it?"

Optimus nodded minutely, "They both made it through the attack unscathed."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dave noted the way that Ratchet went very still.

"Yes, Lennox is fine." Ratchet agreed, and there was something harsh about his tone.

Optimus turned to look at the medic, his expression openly reproachful, "He made a judgment call to the best of his ability in a difficult situation."

"It was the wrong call."

Dave glanced up at Ratchet, taken aback by the hostility in his tone. He wanted to ask for clarification, to learn what had happened after he had been attacked, but he knew that it was the wrong moment to broach the subject. Instead, he tried to distract the medic by gesturing vaguely to himself.

"What's the damage, doc?"

Ratchet looked at him, his dark expression softening into something closer to exasperation.

"You have four lacerations in your chest, varying between two and three inches deep. You lost a liter of blood and suffered stage two hypovolemic shock until Lewis got you stabilized. You also have a punctured lung and a lacerated liver."

Dave frowned, "Will I need a transplant?"

Ratchet shook his head, "No, thank Primus. Lewis was able to get you sorted in time."

Dave nodded before something else occurred to him. Glancing at Optimus, he asked, "What's been the international response to the attacks?"

Although Optimus' face was carefully controlled, his eyes hardened to pieces of flint.

"The Indian government has publically acknowledged our involvement in preventing a nuclear incident, and other world leaders have contacted me to express their sincere condolences for our loss."

Dave glanced at Optimus in surprise, "They know about Sam?"

"No, not as of yet. We have kept the details of the attack to a bare minimum. The only humans who are aware of Sam's capture are yourself, Killian Anderson, and Will Lennox."

"That's not sustainable, Optimus. There are over 5000 people on this base, and one of them is bound to notice that he's missing once the dust settles."

Optimus inclined his head in acknowledgement, his expression grim. "Yes, I know."

"So what's the plan? Once this gets out, it will be international news." Another thought occurred to him, and Dave grimaced, "When are you going to tell his parents?"

Optimus sighed softly, "I will deliver the news in person once the base is secured."

Dave made to push up onto his elbows, but Ratchet's hand was there in an instant, pressing him down onto the mattress again.

"What part of 'you have multiple serious injuries to your core' was difficult to comprehend?" The medic asked scathingly. Dave waved him off, looking back towards Optimus.

"Let me go with you. I've come to know them pretty well over the last six months."

Optimus' expression warmed with sincere appreciation, "Thank-you for your offer, Dave, but you are in no condition to travel, nor will you be so for the foreseeable future. I am afraid this is something that I must do alone."

Dave opened his mouth to protest when Ratchet made an impatient sound and grasped his wrist. He glanced down in surprise to see the medic withdraw a syringe from the IV taped to the back of his hand.

"Seriously?" Dave asked, openly exasperated. He could already feel the warm pull of the sedative spreading through his body with every beat of his heart.

"Your oxygen saturation has dropped six percent since you've woken up." Ratchet replied, all business as he moved to replace the nasal cannula with an oxygen mask, "If it gets much lower, you're going to pass out anyway."

Dave groaned softly, his breath puffing against the soft silicone on his face, "Try not to kill each other while I'm under."

Optimus' mouth quirked in amusement, "We shall do our best."

The last thing that Dave was aware of before darkness claimed him was Ratchet's hand squeezing his shoulder.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam's first conscious thought upon waking was that he was finally warm.

He blinked his eyes open, squinting in the dim light of the hanger, to see that he was lying on the floor. The thin blanket-like material that Megatron had given him before he had left Sam to his own devices was wrapped tightly around his body. However, the blanket was not the source of Sam's comfort. Sometime in the night, Ravage had entered his cell and curled herself around his body. Sam's head was tucked into her abdomen, and her head was resting on his upper thigh.

He could hear the quiet rumble of her purr over the distant hum of the Nemesis' engines.

Instinctively, Sam reached for his egress filter and shuddered in relief as the veil fell over his mind. It was only somewhat uncomfortable, a quiet ache between his temples, but it was a pain that Sam suffered gladly. He laid there for a long time, silent and unmoving, as he thought about what had occurred earlier in the shower. The memory made his cheeks burn in humiliation, but food and rest had revitalized him, and Sam was relived to feel the familiar flicker of defiance in his chest. He would not let Megatron break him.

The thought of the warlord made Sam turn his mind inwards. Although Megatron's thoughts were inaccessible, Sam was aware of the Decepticon leader's distraction. It took a long while for him to puzzle out the sensation, but eventually Sam realized that Megatron was working—and judging by the tinge of tediousness to his mental presence, it wasn't anything interesting. The thought of the millions-of-years-old alien warlord being bored by busywork was incongruous in the extreme, and Sam huffed quietly in disbelief.

Sam felt Ravage tilt her head, and he glanced down to see that the cyber cat had slanted her optic open to regard him. She did not move from where she rested against his thigh.

"So, personal space isn't really a thing for you, I take it?" He asked at last, his voice rough with sleep.

She huffed softly, but it was an amused sound.

"You were cold."

Sam couldn't argue with that—the air in the hanger was frigid.

"Tell Megatron to stop being so cheap and spring for a heater. Problem solved."

Ravage chuckled lowly, a rumbling sound that Sam could feel in his bones.

"If you wish to pass on that message, you will have to do so yourself."

Despite himself, the corners of Sam's lips quirked in a half-smile.

"Scaredy-cat."

Ravage rumbled in good-natured agreement, rubbing her faceplates against Sam's thigh. It was a strangely affectionate gesture, and Sam shoved against her in response.

"Quit it." He replied, though his tone was not as sharp as he had intended. Ravage obliged him, resting her head back against his leg, and ex-venting softly as her optic slowly shuttered. Abruptly, it occurred to Sam that the symbiont was tired. He stared down at her for a long time, neither speaking nor moving, before he pulled the blanket tightly around himself again and let his eyes flutter closed. He was not sure for how long he laid there, half-asleep and comfortable, listening to the oddly soothing sound of Ravage's purring. He must have dozed off, because a scornful voice suddenly pierced through the peace and quiet of the hanger.

"Why are you letting him leak fluids all over you?"

Sam jerked awake, his heart in his throat as his eyes snapped open. There, inches away from him, glowed two jewel-sized red optics, set in a sleek avian face. Sam scrambled into a sitting position, staring in surprise at the mechanimal in front of him. It was, to the best of Sam's understanding, a metal phoenix. The creature was large and sleek, covered in golden metal feathers that glinted in the dim light of the room. It had a long, elegant neck, and its faceplates were detailed and delicate.

"What?" He managed after a moment, but the mechanimal did not reply. She had tilted her head considerately, before ruffling her feathers and chirring softly at him.

"Laserbreak does not need her ego inflated any further than it already is." Ravage put in dryly, and Sam grimaced as he realized that his egress filter had fallen apart sometime in the night. With an effort, he gathered it up and pulled it over his mind once again.

"So you're Laserbreak." He said gruffly, "I suppose I have you to thank for tracking me down in the jungle."

Laserbeak stretched her wings, flapping them several times before tucking them back against her slender frame. Sam was surprised to see that her wingspan must have been close to two meters from from tip to tip.

"I am." She agreed, and Sam could hear the note of vain pride in her voice, "You should have known better than to flee from me."

Sam scoffed softly, "I didn't even know that you existed, but I would have run all the same."

His words seemed to startle the mechanimal, for her feathers ruffled and her optics flashed in indignation.

"What do you mean you didn't know that I existed?" She demanded, and Sam inferred from the tone of her voice that he had deeply insulted her. He turned his head to stare disbelievingly at Ravage, but the cyber cat merely shrugged at him in a sort of tolerant resignation.

Sam glanced back at the lithe bird of prey, "Sorry. You've never come up."

Wrong thing to say, apparently. The bird hissed at him, before nipping him painfully with her strong, curved beak. Sam cried out in surprise, grabbing his upper arm as he twisted way. Before he could kick out at her, however, Ravage growled low in her throat and shifted towards the smaller mechanimal.

Laserbeak tossed her head, hopping away from the cyber cat with an angry stream of Cybertronian. Ravage pinned her with a narrowed stare, her tail flicking in obvious irritation.

"Laserbeak is another of our Master's symbionts." She said after a moment, and the bird scoffed in response. It was evident that she objected to being referred to as just 'another' anything.

Sam rubbed his arm, noting that she had neither broken his skin nor tore his shirt with her sharp bite.

"Nice to meet you." He muttered sarcastically, and Laserbeak ruffled her feathers in response.

"How do you know so little about your sworn enemies?" Laserbeak asked with obvious disdain in her voice, "Has Autobot Jazz's demise affected your intelligence so severely?"

"Shut-up." Sam snapped, bristling at her derisive tone.

Ravage turned her head slightly to regard him, "Laserbeak is our Master's spy and scout. Gathering intel is a part of her primary programming."

"Really? Soundwave thought the flashy golden phoenix was the right symbiont for Spec Ops?"

Although his tone was scathing, Laserbeak preened at his words.

"Our Master does not choose our appearance or our base functioning." Ravage replied patiently, "He chooses our missions based on our skills and experience."

Sam frowned, his curiosity piquing at her words despite his better judgment.

"If he didn't choose your appearance or base functioning, then he wasn't your Creator?"

His words seemed to amuse the symbionts, for Ravage's features softened and Laserbeak chirred loudly in response.

"What do you know about chronicler-class mecha?" Ravage asked, instead of answering his question. Sam frowned again, confused by the apparent non-sequitur. He had read a little about the chronicler-class in the datapads that Optimus had provided him. They were part of the upper-caste of Cybertronian society, dedicated to gathering and preserving knowledge in all of its forms. Alpha Trion had been a Chronicler, and Orion Pax had assisted him in his work.

"A little." He said, reluctant to reveal the full extent of his ignorance. Ravage regarded him for a long moment before speaking.

"The chronicler-class are those mechanoids who were sparked to protect Cybertron's ancient knowledge. Rather than large frame-types, however, chronicler-class are almost exclusively sparked as minicons."

Sam tilted his head, staring at her in open surprise. Alpha Trion certainly had not been a minicon—all of the data files that Sam had read referred to his towering stature and commanding presence. As though sensing his confusion, Ravage continued.

"Chronicler-class minicons are designed to be cared for by carrier-class mechanoids. There exists a symbiotic relationship between the two: carrier-class mechanoids protect the minicons and facilitate their search for knowledge, while the minicons share this knowledge with their carriers and submit to their will."

Sam's frowned again, "That sounds an awful lot like slavery to me."

Ravage huffed loudly in amusement, and warm air washed over Sam's body.

"Not at all. Chronicler-class mecha choose their carrier and they may rescind their loyalty at any time. As you can imagine, there is a hierarchy among both chronicler-class and carrier-class mechanoids, as competition for bonding can be fierce."

"Bonding? Like a spark bond?"

"Nothing of the sort." Laserbeak interrupted, fluttering her wings before settling into a nesting position, "It's a unique bond that exists between a chronicler and their carrier."

Sam's frown deepened, "So you chose to serve Soundwave?"

"We did," Ravage agreed, "and we continue to do so proudly. There does not exist another carrier-class mechanoid with Soundwave's intelligence and skill."

"I'm sure he's just the dreamiest homicidal maniac around." Sam replied dryly.

Ravage did not respond to his insult, instead returning to Sam's earlier question, "All of this is to say that our Master does not control our appearance or our primary functioning. Rather, he uses us to achieve his objectives as he sees fit."

"Even if that means sending you to your death?" Sam challenged, remembering the battle in Egypt when Bumblebee had torn Ravage's spinal strut from her body.

Ravage's expression became intense, "There is very little that would prevent a carrier-class mechanoid from protecting their symbionts. Soundwave has razed entire cities to the ground to protect a single cassette."

Sam frowned, taken aback by the sincerity in her tone. He wondered idly what Soundwave would have done if Ravage had been offlined in Egypt, and abruptly he realized that he did not want to know. Suddenly feeling cold, he reached down, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over his shoulders. After a long moment, he glanced up at the cyber cat.

"What time is it?"

"It is eight o'clock in the morning on Diego Garcia."

Sam nodded faintly, leaning back against the wall of his cell. As the silence stretched on, Ravage pushed up onto her legs and crossed the short space between them.

"You should eat."

As she spoke, a familiar brown package and bottle of water landed on the metal floor beside him. Sam reached out a hand, preventing the bottle from rolling away as he huffed quietly.

"He just refueled." Laserbreak complained, craning her long neck to preen the metal features on her wing, "Don't coddle him."

"Humans require sustained nutrition throughout a twenty-four hour cycle for optimal performance." Ravage replied patiently, "They do not refuel according to our standards."

Laserbeak ruffled her feathers, the metal scales tinkling in the quiet of the hanger, "Is our Master sure that this is worth it? He is so high maintenance."

Sam stared at her incredulously for the space of a heartbeat before he started to laugh. The sound was strange and foreign to his ears, but he found that once he had started, he couldn't stop. Laserbeak's perplexed expression only spurred him on, and it was a long while before Sam's laughter subsided into quiet chuckles.

"How is this my life?" He asked no one in particular, reaching forward to grab the bottle of water. He cracked open the cap and took a long drink, before resting his forearms on his bent knees. Ravage rumbled amusedly, but she did not reply. After a long moment, Sam sighed resignedly and grabbed the pre-packaged meal. A quick glance at the label revealed that roast turkey dinner was on the menu. He tore off the top of the package, and started eating the cold food with his fingers.

"That is disgusting." Laserbeak said after a long moment, and Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

"It's pretty gross." He agreed, "But I doubt that Megs will be inclined to order take-out any time soon."

When his statement was met with complete silence, Sam glanced up and noted the identical looks of disapproval on the symbionts' faces. The corner of his lips quirked up in amusement.

"If that makes you clutch your pearls, then you'd be horrified to hear what the NEST soldiers call him." He said conversationally, surprised by his lackadaisical attitude. This was the same Megatron who had tortured him to tears not even twelve hours ago, and then forced him to strip naked for the worst shower of his life. Sam supposed that he had hit his physiological limit for fear because he was feeling very unafraid.

When he finished the cold meal, he licked the congealed grease off his fingers as he tried to ignore the faint tang of cleanser. Sam dropped the package onto the floor beside him, wiping his hands off on his shirt and reaching for the bottle of water. Before he could take a drink, he became aware of Megatron's scrutiny across their bond. He paused, the bottle raised halfway to his mouth as his heart started to beat faster in his chest. Had he been listening this whole time?

Sam worked his jaw for a moment, before he raised the bottle to his lips and took an unhurried drink. He tried to project nonchalance to this best of his ability, well aware that Megatron would be able to see straight through him if the warlord wished to look. To Sam's astonishment, he felt a flicker of amusement across their bond, and then there was the sensation of movement.

Tension gripped him all at once, and he turned his head to stare at the hanger doors. Within a few scant minutes, the doors slid open and Megatron strode purposefully towards his cell. The warlord's posture was commanding, but Sam could not sense any anger or vengefulness from him. As he approached, Ravage pushed up onto her feet once again and Laserbeak broke into flight. Sam glanced up as she circled the large hanger, taken aback by her undeniable beauty.

Megatron stopped in front of him a moment later, and Sam forced himself to look the warlord in the optics.

"Megatron." He greeted quietly from his seated position. The warlord regarded him for a long moment, before be beckoned for Sam to rise.

"Come, little one. Walk with me."

Chapter 5:

Sam stared warily at the warlord from his position on the floor, feeling a familiar sense of trepidation tighten in his gut. After a long moment, Sam capped the bottle of water and rested it against the wall as he pushed himself to his feet. He glanced at Megatron expectantly, and the Decepticon gestured towards the large doors on the opposite end of the hanger. Without a word, Sam made his way across the room. He walked at a comfortable pace, his hands pressed into the pockets of his pants, as he drew the egress filter tightly over his mind. Although the filter could not protect him from Megatron's mental scrutiny, the pressure was a welcome distraction all the same.

Megatron walked at his side, matching Sam's slower gait without comment. Although Sam stared straight ahead, he was aware of Ravage's presence trailing silently behind them. Laserbeak, by contrast, swooped through the air ahead of them, her golden wings glinting in the bright light of the corridor as she winged through the large doors. As he had yesterday, Sam winced in discomfort as he stepped out of the hanger, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the well-lit passageway.

They continued down the hall in the direction of the bridge. Sam paid close attention to the route, making a mental note of each doorway, computer terminal, hanger, and corridor that they passed. It was not long before Sam realized that the Nemesis was an entirely different battleship than the Arc. Whereas the Arc was beauty and grace, designed for aesthetic pleasure as much as function, the Nemesis was entirely pragmatic in its design. There was nothing superfluous about its layout, nothing unnecessary about its schematics. Even the whorls that were etched into the metal of the corridor were simple geometric shapes, nothing like the complicated and appealing designs of the Arc.

Sam's thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of satisfaction from across the Creator bond-space. He glanced sidelong at Megatron in surprise, realizing abruptly that the warlord had been following his train of thought.

"Optimus is far too concerned by matters of aesthetics and appearance." Megatron rumbled, and there was something condescending about his tone. Sam frowned at him, mildly offended on Optimus' behalf. After a moment, he turned his head to stare back down the corridor. He thought about his response, turning the words over in his mind, before he finally replied.

"Maybe he wants to make sure that his soldiers remember what it is that they're fighting for—that there's more to this life than your war."

Megatron stopped abruptly, turning towards him as he clenched one servo into a tight fist. Sam could feel the swell of anger across their bond, and he braced himself in response.

"My war?" He growled, venom in every syllable, "This is Prime's wretched war."

Megatron's words took Sam completely by surprise, and he could not hide his confusion. The warlord scoffed loudly, derision written all over his faceplates. After a long moment, Megatron turned and continued walking—this time, at a noticeably faster pace. Sam stood frozen for a heartbeat before he turned to glance behind him. Ravage was standing several hundred feet away, as silent as a shadow. Sam felt a twist of consternation, and then Megatron's presence was in his mind, agitated and impatient. He reluctantly turned back towards the warlord, jogging across the distance between them even though the exertion in the thin air made him feel lightheaded.

They walked in silence for the length of the corridor before Megatron asked, apropos of nothing, "What has Optimus told you of how we met?"

Once again, Megatron's words took him completely by surprise. He glanced at the Decepticon leader, hesitating as he chose his words with care.

"Not much." Sam admitted, "I know that the two of you met before the Great War."

Megatron turned to look at him, and there was something assessing about his expression.

"Indeed. I first met Orion Pax shortly after I won my freedom from the gladiatorial pits of Tarn."

Sam's head jerked up, his surprise morphing into shock in an instant. He had no idea that Optimus had met Megatron before he had been re-made into Optimus Prime. Immediately, Sam felt a swell of satisfaction through their bond, and he knew that Megatron had been pleased by his reaction.

"Orion Pax was an idealist and a socialist, a lower-caste data clerk working under the tutelage of the great Alpha Trion." Megatron continued, and the sarcastic bite to his words made it clear exactly what he thought about the Chronicler, "We met when he came to listen to me speak at a rally for egalitarianism."

Sam frowned, feeling confused and suspicious in equal measures. Megatron turned to look at him, a brow ridge quirking in sardonic amusement, "Not what you were expecting, I take it?"

Sam's frown deepened, and he suddenly felt terribly wrong-footed. He could sense Megatron's sincerity through their bond, but he was sure that the Decepticon was being less than forthcoming with him.

"You could say that." He replied, neutrally, after a moment.

Megatron actually chuckled, although there was little mirth in the sound. They turned the corner and approached the bridge entrance, before Megatron stopped and stared down at him.

"I believe that you will find a great deal about Optimus' early life surprising."

Sam stiffened, his earlier offence at Megatron's cavalier attitude returning in spades.

"I wouldn't believe a word you have to say on the subject." He snapped.

Abruptly, Megatron lowered into a loose crouch in front of him, so that they were almost eye-level with one another. Sam took an instinctive step backwards, but the Decepticon leader made no move to approach any further.

"I will never lie to you, Sam." He intoned seriously, "Whatever you want to know about our history, about the war, about my relationship with Optimus, I will tell you. I can't promise that you will like what you learn, however."

Sam looked away from Megatron's intense gaze, once again aware of the thrum of sincerity from across their bond. He was sure that he was being manipulated, but he couldn't tell what Megatron was trying to accomplish. Surely he knew that Sam did not trust him?

Rather than waiting for Sam to reply, Megatron straightened to his full height and pressed a code into the keypad by the bridge entrance. There was an electronic chirp and an audible clunk as the locking mechanism disengaged, and then the doors slid open. Sam glanced into the room, surprised to see that it was dark inside, before he hesitantly followed Megatron onto the bridge. The doors slid shut behind them, enveloping the room in near total darkness. Sam froze, unable to see his hand in front of his face, before Megatron's servo came to rest against his back. Sam flinched at the unexpected touch, but Megatron merely ushered him forward until Sam stood next to a large control panel. Megatron pulled out a chair and sat down as he powered-up the station. Lights flickered to life one by one across the terminal, and their weak luminescence helped Sam's eyes adjust to the darkness.

Looking around the room, he noticed that Soundwave had not moved from his spot at the communications terminal. Now, however, Laserbeak was perched on the back of Soundwave's chair, her wings folded elegantly against her frame. Glancing down, Sam noticed Ravage was curled around Soundwave's pedes, her head resting on her paws as she regarded him with a half-shuttered optic. Sam could also make out Thundercracker and Skywarp in the corner, muttering quietly to each other as they stared at a complicated-looking read-out, and an unknown mechanoid working at a terminal a short distance away.

Sam frowned, unsure what Megatron expected of him. He glanced at the Decepticon leader, but Megatron paid him no attention, focusing instead on his workstation. He stood there awkwardly for a minute or two, before he finally sat down, folding his legs underneath him as he leaned back against the terminal. He stayed there for a long while, the chill of the metal floor soaking into him as he stared at the comings and goings of the Decepticon bridge. Just as they had the day before, the mechanoids worked in near total silence. There was no friendly banter or lighthearted teasing, as was common amongst the Autobots while they worked. The Decepticons were single-minded and focused, moving about the room in the sort of perfect coordination that was born from centuries of practice.

Eventually, Sam began to lose the feeling in his legs. He glanced once again at Megatron and saw that the Decepticon leader remained focused on whatever he was doing. Deciding that Megatron had not given him an explicit command to remain at his side, Sam pushed to his feet and wandered towards the view screens on the other side of the bridge. He stopped a short distance away from the clear paneling, staring at the landscape beneath them in undisguised amazement. They remained stationed above the vast mountain chain that Sam had seen the day before, but it was like another world entirely at night. Stars glittered in the inky firmament of the upper atmosphere and the craggy mountains were visible in the pale light of a gibbous moon, which cast long shadows down their steep flanks.

It was ethereally beautiful, like something out of an impressionist's painting, and Sam felt a painful twist in his chest as he wished that Bumblebee could see it. He blinked hard, struggling to keep himself under control. Their bond ached constantly now, a low-level burn that was omnipresent in his mind, reminding him of Bumblebee's absence.

Sam was interrupted from his morose thoughts as Ravage butted her head against his thigh. He startled slightly, glancing down in surprise. He had not heard her approach.

"It is very beautiful." She said, as though reading his mind, and Sam instinctively drew his egress filter more tightly around his mental presence.

He shrugged lightly, glancing back to the view screen, "It is."

"I prefer warmer climates myself. The blue spires of Crystal City were striking to behold before they were destroyed."

Sam hummed softly, responding without thinking.

"I was born and raised in California before I moved to Diego Garcia. Warmth is all I've ever known." He paused, feeling strangely wistful, "I think this is the closest that I've ever been to snow."

Ravage sat on her haunches, leaning her long body against him.

"I was sparked in Nova Cronum at the end of the first Golden Age. It was a beautiful city, but it was often cold."

Sam glanced down at her again, taken aback by her reflective tone. He reached out a hand, stroking the back of her broad head. The fine, silver panels of her plating were warm and smooth against the pads of his fingers. He stayed like that for a long while, before he spoke.

"It's easy to forget, sometimes, how much I hate you."

Ravage chuckled quietly, a low rumble deep within her chassis.

"You don't hate me, little Prime. You hate what you think I represent."

Sam quirked an eyebrow, his fingers continuing to brush over her head, "And what's that?"

"Evidence of the Decepticon's humanity. Kindness in an unkind situation. Uncertainty." She angled her head to look at him, "Take your pick."

Sam frowned faintly, his fingers stilling against her head. She wasn't wrong, exactly. Sam had expected to be tortured to within an inch of his life when he woke up in Megatron's cockpit. He had not expected Ravage, or Knock Out, or Thundercracker, and their strange brand of Decepticon kindness. Even Megatron's cruelty had a pragmatic edge to it, a predictable sort of cause-and-effect that Sam could almost understand.

He slowly pulled his hand away, folding his arms over his chest.

"You don't know me as well as you think you do." He replied after a long moment.

Ravage did not reply, instead turning to stare out the view screen at the mountain chain far below them. They stood in silence, side-by-side, as the sky lightened from inky black, to indigo, to the cool, clear blue of early morning. By the time that the crepuscular rays of sunlight peaked over the mountains in the distance, Sam was thoroughly cold and hungry.

Without looking away from the view screen, he asked quietly, "What time is it?"

"It is three o'clock in the afternoon."

Sam nodded faintly, running his hands over his arms in an effort to warm himself. He looked over his shoulder at Megatron, who had not moved from his position at the large starboard terminal. Whatever it was that the Decepticon leader was doing seemed to be occupying his full attention. Sam huffed quietly. The mind-numbing boredom and soul crushing terror that had plagued him since he had boarded the Nemesis was turning out to be a brutal combination.

He had just turned back to the view screen when he heard the doors hiss open. He glanced towards the sound, curious to know who had entered, before stiffening from head to toe as adrenaline surged through him in an instant. Barricade strode onto the bridge, as large and menacing as he had been the last time that Sam had seen him. The shock trooper paid him no mind as he walked directly towards Megatron, stopping in front of the Decepticon leader. Megatron finished typing before half-turning in his seat to regard Barricade. The two Decepticons spoke in rapid-fire Cybertronian, and when Barricade inclined his helm gravely, Megatron waved him away with a thoughtful rumble.

As Barricade turned towards the bridge entrance, his optics settled on Sam for a fraction of a second. A slow, knowing smirk curled the corner of his mouthplates and Sam narrowed his eyes in response. His minute posturing caused Barricade to chuckle, a dark and foreboding sound, as the shock trooper made his way back towards the entrance to the bridge. The condescension and derision evident in the mechanoid's posture caused Sam to bristle in response.

Disregarding the potential consequences of his actions, Sam lifted his chin a fraction of an inch, before saying with quiet conviction, "Bumblebee says hello."

Barricade stopped dead in his tracks as his helm snapped towards him. Although Sam had not raised his voice, it was obvious that the shock trooper had heard every word. The mechanoid took a step towards him, spitting something in angry-sounding Cybertronian.

"I'm sorry." Sam replied contritely, "I don't speak asshole."

Barricade's optics widened in outrage, and then he flexed both of his arms as a small, black object disconnected from his chest cavity. The object fell, transforming in mid-air, and then the familiar shape of Frenzy hit the floor of the bridge. The little symbiont chittered wildly as he darted towards Sam, all flashing metal and sharp limbs. Sam had only a moment to brace himself before the microcon launched itself at him. Frenzy landed hard against his chest, its spindly legs scrabbling at the fabric of his shirt as Sam stumbled backwards. The microcon hissed a barrage of indecipherable abuse in his face, before slashing one appendage across his cheek. Sam grunted in pain as heat bloomed below his right eye, grabbing the little symbiont and tearing it away from him. He threw the microcon against the nearest terminal, and it bounced across the complicated-looking control panel before righting itself. The symbiont chittered angrily as it darted back towards him.

"Barricade, enough." Megatron rumbled without looking away from his station. The shock trooper made no move to recall his symbiont, his eyes narrowed maliciously as Frenzy leapt towards Sam once again. There was a blur of movement out of the corner of Sam's eye, and Ravage knocked the minicon out of the air with a single swipe of her paw. The cyber cat growled softly, her head lowered in an obvious threat display. As Frenzy slid across the floor of the bridge, Barricade roared in outrage and strode towards her.

Soundwave was out of his seat in an instant. Although the communications specialist neither spoke a word nor displayed any visible signs of aggression, Barricade stopped in his tracks. He spat something in Cybertronian at the third in command, but Soundwave did not reply. His singular red optic was fixed unwaveringly on the shock trooper, waiting for him to take action one way or the other. After a long, tense moment, Barricade rumbled something towards Frenzy, who darted back across the bridge without a sound. The spider-like symbiont skittered up Barricade's leg before folding itself back into the Decepticon's chest cavity. Barricade turned and strode from the bridge without another word.

Sam heaved a breath that he hadn't realized that he had been holding, leaning back against the view screen as he fought to get his thundering heart under control. As the tide of adrenaline ebbed away, the heat in his cheek sharpened into throbbing pain. He raised the hem of his shirt to scrub across his face, and it came away slick with blood.

Megatron turned in his seat, regarding Sam with unimpressed optics before pushing to his feet. Sam felt a twist of apprehension in his gut as the Decepticon leader approached him.

"That was unwise."

Sam huffed softly, pressing the sleeve of his shirt against his face, but he did not reply. What could he say? Megatron was right, of course. Squaring off against Barricade had been tantamount to suicide ideation, but that didn't change the fact that watching his optics widen in shock had been one of the most gratifying experiences of Sam's life. Megatron made a soft sound in irritation before reaching out a servo to pull Sam's hand away. His optics narrowed in consideration as they roamed over Sam's face.

"Let this serve as a reminder to you." Megatron rumbled lowly, "Decepticons do not sort their grievances with words, as Autobots do. The next time, you might not be so fortunate."

When Megatron let go of his hand, Sam pressed the hem of his sleeve back against his face. The cut was small, as far as he could tell, maybe an inch or two across his cheekbone. It was bleeding freely, however, and Sam was sure that it needed stitches. He was just as sure that he wasn't going to get them.

Megatron turned away without another word, striding back to the workstation that had occupied his attention all night. Sam sighed softly, sitting down on the floor and leaning against the clear paneling of the view screen. He sat there for a long while, the hem of his shirt pressed against his cheekbone, as the various hurts in his body marshalled against him. He was cold and hungry, his face hurt, and he had to use the bathroom. To the best of his knowledge, he had been on the bridge for eight or nine hours.

He glanced to the side and saw that Ravage had resumed her position beneath Soundwave's chair. The surveillance officer was back at his station, his cables plugged into the terminal in front of him. Ravage stared at him intently, her ruby optic glinting in the shadows of the desk. Eventually, Sam looked away, staring steadfastly at the floor in front of him as his mind wandered. It would be about four o'clock in the afternoon on Diego Garcia. If Bumblebee was on shift, then he had Cliffjumper would be getting ready to head out on patrol. They would scout past the airfield first, then to Marianne Point, then they'd head to south-central—

Sam jerked his head back, his heart suddenly in his throat as he realized what he was doing. He turned to look at Megatron, but the Decepticon leader gave no indication that he was following Sam's train of thought. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing his own stupidity, as he turned his mind away from thoughts about the scouts' patrols.

By the time that Megatron stood up from the workstation, the sun was half-way to its zenith. Sam was physically and emotionally exhausted, his body aching with cold and hunger and pain. The Decepticon leader approached, his red optics narrowed in something like consideration as he stared down at him.

"It is time to go, little one."

Sam gritted his teeth but he did not reply as he pushed himself to his feet. Megatron turned and strode from the bridge without a backwards glance, and Sam was forced to jog to keep up with him. The large mechanoid seemed introspective as they made their way through the depths of the Nemesis, his mental presence quiet and distracted.

They rounded a corner and Sam pulled up short as he realized that they were headed in the direction of Megatron's quarters. Fear and dread slammed through him in an instant, and the wild swing of adrenaline made Sam's heart pound painfully against his ribs. He tensed instinctively, as though to bolt, when Megatron glanced over his shoulder in his direction.

"If you make me chase you through this ship, I promise that you will regret it."

The warlord's voice was harsh with irritation and Sam could not mistake the sincerity in his tone. Sam swallowed hard before looking up at him.

"Is this because of Barricade?" He asked.

Megatron turned slightly to regard him, the faintest trace of amusement on his faceplates, "You think that you are being punished."

It was not a question but a statement, and Sam did not reply. He knew that Megatron would elaborate or he would not, regardless of what Sam said. After a long moment, the Decepticon turned around and continued walking in the direction of his quarters.

"If I punished my soldiers every time that they fought with one another, I would have lost this war mega-cycles ago." He said, and there was definite amusement in his tone now, "Come."

Sam hesitated for a long moment before he reluctantly started after the Decepticon leader. As soon as he put one foot in front of the other, he felt a warm brush of approval from across their bond, and Sam narrowed his eyes in response.

"Don't do that."

Megatron stopped in front of the familiar, nondescript door and keyed it open with a touch. He glanced down at Sam, shaking his helm minutely, "I have already told you that you do not give the orders on this ship."

The warlord walked into his private quarters without another word. Sam set his jaw and squared his shoulders, steeling himself as well as he was able before following him.

The door hissed shut behind them, sealing itself with an electronic-sounding clunk.

Megatron moved about the space, obviously at ease. The room was the same as Sam remembered from his last visit, tidy and sparse, without anything remotely resembling a personal effect anywhere to be seen. Megatron stopped next to the large desk in the center of the room, picking up a datapad that he stared at considerately for a long while. Sam stood quietly by the door, anxiety and uncertainty churning in his stomach.

After a moment, Megatron glanced at him as though in exasperation.

"Well? You know where it is."

Sam felt the color drain from his face as he pressed his back against the door. Megatron's expression of exasperation tightened into one of irritation, and he scoffed softly.

"I have neither the time nor the inclination to coddle you." He said, "Can you not smell yourself?"

Something about the warlord's impatient, condescending tone inflamed something within him, and Sam's fear flashed into hot anger in an instant.

"I smell like someone who's being held against their will on an alien warship." He snapped.

"You do." Megatron agreed coolly, "And it is entirely disagreeable."

Sam stared at him in astonishment for the space of a heartbeat before he hissed, "Disagreeable?"

Megatron's optics narrowed dangerously, "Either do it yourself or I will do it for you."

There was something about the warlord's tone that stilled him—a threat and a promise, both. Sam swallowed hard, his heart in his throat, before he pushed away from the door and strode towards the wash racks without another word. Megatron followed behind him, turning on the solvent before regarding him for a long moment.

"You will need to wash your garments if you want them clean—I do not have any others for you."

Without waiting for Sam's reply, he subspaced the familiar-looking metalmesh material and placed it on the floor away from the stream of solvent. Then, to Sam's surprise, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Sam stood still, expecting him to return, but instead he could make out the sounds of Megatron moving around the other room. After a long moment, Sam was able to identify the feeling that had lodged itself in his chest.

Appreciation.

He frowned deeply, quickly divesting himself of his clothing before stepping into the stream of solvent. It was hotter today and Sam choked back a groan as the heat soaked into his aching body. After a long moment, he began to work himself over with the small square of material, washing the sweat and blood off himself. He hissed in pain when the solvent got into the cut on his face, but he scrubbed his fingers through his hair all the same.

When he had finished, Sam stepped out of the stream of solvent and toweled himself off as quickly as he could manage. He glanced down at his clothes, frowning. The pants were fine, but his shirt was crusted with blood and sweat. After a moment, he grabbed the material and held it under the stream of solvent until it was thoroughly soaked. He scrubbed at it as best he could, before wringing the shirt out and pulling it on over his head. It was uncomfortably damp and cooled quickly in the chill of the room, but needs willed out.

Sam was in the process of rubbing the metalmesh over his hair when the stream of solvent cut-off abruptly. He huffed quietly, able to take a hint, and made his way out of the wash racks. To his surprise, Megatron was sitting at the desk in the center of the room, his back to him as he worked. Sam shifted uncertainly, wringing the metalmesh in his hands, but Megatron did not turn around. Eventually Sam sat down on the floor, leaning back against the wall as he waited for Megatron to tell him what to do. The room was noticeably warmer than the wash racks, although it was still uncomfortably cool. It was not long before Sam wrapped the damp metalmesh around his shoulders in an effort to get warm.

"Are you hungry?"

Sam glanced at the warlord in surprise, before frowning deeply. Megatron knew that he was hungry—he would be able to feel it across their bond or determine it with a cursory sensor sweep. Was he trying to engage him in conversation? Or was this some twisted power play?

Megatron turned in his seat to regard him, something like tolerant amusement in his optics.

"As I recall, you objected rather strenuously when you believed that I viewed you as a pet."

Sam narrowed his eyes at him, going rigid in an instant.

"I'm not a pet." He spat.

Megatron hummed in agreement.

"Indeed. As such, I expect you to tell me when you require something." He commanded curtly, "Believe it or not, I have more pressing matters to attend to than ensuring that you are adequately fueled every hour of the day."

Sam felt himself flush in embarrassment, "Why are you doing this?"

Megatron tilted his helm, something like curiosity flickering across his face.

"Doing what?"

Sam gestured vaguely between them, discomforted and irritated in equal measures, "This. Polite conversation interspersed with brutal torture. What's your end game?"

To Sam's surprise, Megatron chuckled softly, openly amused now.

"Would you prefer that I drop the polite conversation?"

Sam wrapped the metal mesh more tightly around himself, shrugging. "It would be less confusing."

Megatron stood up, walking slowly towards him, and Sam was perfectly still as the warlord approached. He stopped, several feet away, before lowering into a loose crouch with his arms on his knee struts. He regarded Sam for a long moment, something like thoughtful consideration in his expression.

"You are confused only because you refuse to come to terms with your situation."

Sam's heart was beating hard against his ribs, but he forced himself to meet Megatron's optics squarely.

"My situation?"

"That you are here. That you are mine." Megatron leaned forward minutely, and Sam pressed back against the wall, "I am not in the habit of mistreating my property without good cause."

Anger surged through him in an instant, hot and sharp, "I'm not your property, Megatron. Not now, not ever."

Megatron reached a servo towards him but Sam leaned away, his face tightening in a scowl.

"Don't touch me."

Megatron ignored him, the clawed tip of one digit stroking down the side of Sam's face. The touch was gentle at first, leaving not so much as a red mark on his skin, but eventually the clawed tip dug uncomfortably into the flesh of Sam's jaw—not enough to draw blood, but enough to make Sam go very still.

"It is clear that you are laboring under several misconceptions." Megatron rumbled, and although his voice was calm and even, his words made Sam's heart pound in his chest, "Allow me to correct them immediately. You, Samuel James Witwicky, are mine. That truth was self-evident from the moment that you tried to extinguish my spark."

Sam flinched and tried to pull away, but Megatron pressed the tip of his clawed digit into the flesh of Sam's jaw until it stole a soft sound of pain from him.

"As such, you will afford me the courtesy and respect that is owed to my station. Any display of defiance or disobedience, such as yesterday's outburst on the bridge, will be dealt with accordingly." Megatron moved to stroke the tip of his finger down the side of Sam's face again, his voice a quiet rumble when he spoke, "Do you understand?"

Sam could not reply around the lump that was lodged in his throat, but he nodded faintly. Megatron rumbled approvingly and then he asked, "Is there something that you need?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut in humiliation as a blush spread across his face. He had to swallow twice before he could manage to murmur, "I'm hungry."

Megatron leaned back on his heels, subspacing a bottle of water and a pre-packaged meal, which he handed to Sam without comment. Sam accepted the items silently, unable to meet the Decepticon's gaze. As Sam tore the top off the pre-packaged meal, Megatron made his way back to the desk and sat down. Sam ate slowly, his aching hunger at odds with his roiling stomach. He was half-way through the packaged meal when Sam realized that he had no idea what he was eating. A quick glance revealed that it was chicken risotto, and he grimaced deeply. It might as well have been wet cement.

When he finished, he wiped his fingers on his damp shirt and took a slow drink of water. The food had taken the edge off his nausea and left him feeling comfortably full. All that remained of his earlier hurts was a leaden tiredness that numbed his mind and pulled at his consciousness. He stayed there for a long time, struggling to stay awake as Megatron worked silently at his desk. More than once, a hypnagogic jerk startled him into full wakefulness from the hazy half-sleep into which he had fallen.

When Sam jerked awake for the third time, he startled to find Megatron crouched down in front of him. The warlord extended a servo towards him without comment, but Sam stared back uncomprehendingly. When Megatron beckoned with his fingertips, Sam realized what he was asking.

"Not a chance." He rasped, his voice rough from sleep.

Sam felt an answering swell of irritation from across their bond, but rather than reply, Megatron reached forward and grabbed him around the waist. Sam stiffened from head to toe, fear lodging itself in his throat in an instant. The warlord curled Sam close to his chest as he straightened and crossed the room, before depositing him on the large berth against the wall.

"Sleep."

"What, here?" Sam demanded, anxiety making his words sharp.

Megatron ex-vented loudly, obviously at the end of his patience, "Would you have preferred the floor?"

"Yes!"

"Well, I would not." Megatron replied simply, and then Sam scrambled backwards as the large mechanoid settled himself down on the berth. Sam's back collided with the wall as he stared at him incredulously.

"What are you doing?"

"Recharging, now be quiet." Megatron replied without deigning to look at him.

"Are you glitched? I'm not sleeping here with you."

"Do as I say."

Sam went cold with anger, but before he could say anything, he felt Megatron's mental presence shift forward. The Decepticon's intention was clear and, although Sam resisted, the darkness of unconsciousness swallowed him a moment later.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Once again, Sam dreamed in memories and emotion.

The water around Marianne Point glittered in the early morning light, calm and serene. There was a blur of movement and then gravel crunched loudly as they accelerated down the road towards the southern quadrant.

Trees flashed passed on either side of the road, and Sam could just make out the cerulean water through the underbrush. The dream was so real that he could almost smell the salt water in the air, could almost feel the warm sun against his body.

The dream went on and Sam slowly became aware of Bumblebee's comforting presence. The scout was just as he remembered him, gleaming yellow in the early morning light. Eventually, he became aware of Cliffjumper and Sunstreaker, who followed behind them at a distance.

As they drove together, time and scenery blurred together confusingly. First, they were at East Point, then Cust Point, and then East Point again. The throaty sound of engines filled the air, drowning out the distant hiss of waves on sand.

The memory left a terrible ache of homesickness and grief in his gut—it was the same feeling that was omnipresent through their spark bond. It was an ache born of loss.

Mindlessly, Sam brushed against Bumblebee's mental presence—

Sam jerked awake to find himself back within Megatron's personal quarters. The room was dark, illuminated only by the weak glow of Megatron's spark that was just visible through the seams of his armor. Sam was lying on his side, less than an arms-width away from the Decepticon leader's chassis. Although the air of the room was cool, Sam was comfortably warm owing to the heat that radiated from Megatron's body.

Swallowing the despair that rose in his throat, Sam rolled over to face the wall.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Fourteen thousand kilometers away, Bumblebee slammed on his breaks and fishtailed to a stop over the packed gravel road. Sunstreaker and Cliffjumper swerved to avoid him, but the yellow scout barely registered their presence.

He had felt it. For a fraction of a second, he had felt it.

Sam.

Chapter 6:

Sam woke to the sensation of gentle stroking up and down his back. He was momentarily disoriented, images of white sand and cerulean water fading away as his consciousness slowly returned. He reluctantly opened his eyes, squinting in the dim light of Megatron's quarters. He was lying on his side, facing the wall, with the metalmesh fabric tangled around his legs. He made a soft sound of disapproval, raising a hand to scrub across his face. The gentle stroking continued, from shoulder to hip, again and again.

"Would you stop that?" Sam groused irritably, tossing the words over his shoulder without turning to look at the warlord.

Megatron rumbled lowly in amusement, but he did not cease the soft touches across Sam's back. After a moment, Sam pushed himself into a sitting position with a grunt, leaning back against the wall to glare at the Decepticon leader. Megatron was reclined against the head of the berth, a datapad in his lap and a large cube in his hand. The translucent container was roughly a cubic meter in volume, and the liquid within glowed a soft pink. As Sam watched, Megatron brought the cube to his intakes and swallowed a portion of the glowing fluid.

Sam made a soft noise of surprise, and Megatron quirked a brow bridge in his direction.

"Surely you know about energon?" The Decepticon leader asked, and beneath the sardonic tone, Sam could detect a note of incredulity.

"Of course I do." Sam replied, feeling uncharacteristically defensive, "I just haven't seen it before."

Megatron's expression turned skeptical, "You have spent all of this time in the presence of the Autobots and you have never seen refined energon?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, "Ratchet says that it's highly toxic in its refined form."

"It is, for most organics." Megatron agreed, "But you have Allspark energy radiating from your body at a cellular level. Surely Prime's Chief Medical Officer was capable of puzzling that out?"

Sam bristled, affronted anger flashing through him in an instant. "Don't talk about him like that."

Megatron regarded him for a long moment, his expression almost contemplative, before he replied.

"Be calm, little one. I meant no insult to your Creator."

Sam frowned, taken aback by the warlord's placating tone. He searched Megatron's face, looking for any sign of deceit or sarcasm, but he was unable to detect anything other than stark honesty. Megatron raised the cube to his intakes, swallowing once again, before transferring the vessel to his other servo and extending it towards Sam.

Sam's eyebrows rose of their own accord, and he hesitated for only a moment before leaning forward to regard the viscous substance. The energon was smooth and thick with a glossy sheen. It glowed faintly, weakly illuminating Megatron's servo and Sam's face. The liquid did not emit any particular smell that Sam could detect, but it did exude weak fumes that irritated his nose and throat.

After a moment, Sam leaned back against the wall.

"I'd prefer a burger and fries, any day of the week."

Megatron rumbled amusedly as he tilted his helm, "That is because you do not know any better."

Sam's eyes snapped to the warlord's face, completely taken aback by his tone. Before he could reply however, Megatron raised the cube to his mouthplates and took another unhurried drink. All at once, the Creator bond flared to life between them, and Sam vicariously experienced the pleasant warmth as energon slid towards Megatron's fuel tanks. It was thick and rich and satisfying—like hot coffee, first thing in the morning or a cold beer on a summer's afternoon—and Sam swallowed reflexively.

Megatron's mouthplates quirked up, "Indeed."

Sam shook his head sharply, the spell broken, before narrowing his eyes at the Decepticon, "Stay out of my head."

/What did I say about giving me orders, little one?/ Megatron rebuked, although there was no heat in it. Sam struggled not to flinch, leveling the Decepticon with a glare.

"Stay out of my head, please."

To Sam's consternation, Megatron actually chuckled before withdrawing his mental presence. The Decepticon leader finished the remainder of the energon as he read from the datapad in his lap. Sam shifted, resting his arms across his legs, as he waited with growing irritation. After a long while, Megatron subspaced the empty cube and turned to level Sam with an expectant look.

"Do you need anything?"

Sam set his jaw, irritation sharpening into resentment in an instant. He toyed with the idea of declining, of telling Megatron that he was fine, but he was sure that the Decepticon leader would punish him by withholding food and water until he begged for it. After the aching hunger that Sam had suffered the day before, he was keen not to repeat the experience. Abruptly, something petty within Sam spurred him to take the opposite approach.

"Yes, actually. I'd like something to eat and drink, and then I need to use the bathroom. In that order." Sam tilted his head, his expression one of polite curiosity, "And if you're taking requests, it would be nice if you could either find me some warmer clothes or turn up the heat."

Megatron's mouthplates quirked again, but he did not comment on Sam's goading tone. Instead, he subspaced the familiar rations and handed them across the berth, accompanying them with a perceptible pulse of approval. Sam shifted his mental presence away, his baiting demeanor replaced with sullen resentment as he accepted the items.

The Decepticon glanced back towards the datapad he now held in a servo, shifting his attention away from Sam as he started to eat. Sam did not bother glancing at the pre-packed meal—it didn't matter what it was, he would have to eat it anyway—working through the cold food as quickly as he could manage. The water was stale and cool, but Sam drank it readily all the same.

By the time that he had finished, Sam realized that Megatron was staring at him once again. He glanced at the Decepticon leader, stiffening slightly at the contemplative look on his faceplates.

"What?"

"Your face." Megatron rumbled, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice. Sam frowned, raising his fingers to touch the wound on his cheekbone that he had received during Frenzy's attack. He could tell now that there were two small lacerations, each about an inch long and parallel to one another. They had already crusted over with thin, dry scabs, well on their way to being fully healed.

Sam grimaced, trying to keep his mind perfectly blank. He was well aware of what the Decepticon leader was asking.

"I was in your memories, little one." Megatron chided, as though Sam needed the reminder, "I am aware that the Allspark energy has seemingly halted your aging. Has it also affected your ability to repair yourself?"

Sam tried to keep the knowledge out of the forefront of his mind, but it was no use. Megatron's mental presence barely needed to shift forward before the information tumbled across their bond. The Decepticon leader's optics sharpened, something analytical and searching in his expression.

"This is unexpected, although perhaps it should not have been." Megatron rumbled, a dry admission, before pinning Sam with an expectant look, "What does your medic say on the matter?"

Sam was silent, gripping the water bottle until the plastic protested. He knew what Ratchet had said about his accelerated healing, but he did not know what the medic would expect of him in this situation. Would he want Sam to tell Megatron what he knew, to avoid the punishment that would surely result from disobedience? Or would he want Sam to resist, to refuse to give an inch to the pit-spawned, megalomaniacal—

"I would advise you to tell me what I want to know—and to censor yourself." Megatron interrupted his train of thought, and there was a sharp note of irritation in the warlord's tone.

Sam gritted his teeth, his own irritation swelling at the words. He couldn't help every random, unflattering thought that crossed his mind. Sam opened his mouth to say as much when Megatron's irritation and impatience flared brightly across their bond.

"Then you would do well to keep your thoughts to yourself and do as I say."

Unable to see an alternative, Sam lifted a shoulder in a haphazard shrug, "Ratchet says that the Allspark energy has given me accelerated healing. He doesn't know how or why it works, just that it does. It brought me back to life after Ripcord killed me, and it—"

Sam bit off his words as a tsunami of black rage flooded across their bond, before pulling away from the furious Decepticon in front of him.

"He what?" Megatron growled, his optics narrowed dangerously.

Sam swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, as fear and confusion twisted together in his stomach.

"I thought you knew." He replied, hating the unsteadiness of his voice, "It's how I on-lined."

Megatron held himself perfectly still, his narrowed optics the only thing that betrayed his fury. Across their bond, however, Sam could feel the agitation and aggression of his mental presence, which sought to lash out and punish anyone who dared defy the Lord High Protector. It was the same volatile, barely contained energy of nitroglycerine—and Sam was forcibly reminded that the mechanoid beside him was a threat and an enemy, both.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Megatron's optics lost their murderous edge and the tempest that was his mental presence slowly calmed.

"What happened?" Megatron asked at last. Although his voice was tight, it was restrained.

Sam hesitated, "It was when you attacked the energy infrastructures at the end of January. Ripcord separated me from the Autobots and then he killed me."

"Yet you survived. How precisely?"

"Well, he didn't do it quickly." Sam replied dryly, although there was something vulnerable in his tone, "He made Optimus watch as I bled out. Ratchet used the time to prepare the medical bay, and when I on-lined, he had me stable enough that I survived the process."

Megatron regarded him intently as he spoke, "Those were not his orders. I wanted you alive."

Sam scoffed softly, "That's very comforting."

"You are mine." Megatron growled, "To raise a hand against you is to raise a hand against me."

He flinched way from the possessive tone, trying not to betray his confusion and discomfort. It was becoming readily apparent that the social norms and expectations of Decepticon society were far more layered than Sam had previously understood. Ripcord's attack had been a grave offence, but Soundwave's torture and Frenzy's assault had both been within acceptable limits.

Once again, Megatron's mental presence mellowed, taking on a tolerant edge.

"You will learn in time."

Before Sam could reply, Megatron pushed himself off the berth and rose to his considerable height. He extended a servo towards Sam, who hesitated for only a moment before climbing to his feet and stepping into the warlord's palm. As he had yesterday, Megatron curled Sam close to his chest as he walked towards the wash racks. Megatron left him to take care of his bodily functions and, once he was finished, they walked together to the bridge.

As he had the day before, Sam took note of each door, passageway, and terminal that they passed. He was beginning to develop a rudimentary understanding of the layout of the warship. It was information that he hoped would prove useful, whether in an escape or as intelligence to provide the Autobots. He tried to keep these thoughts out of the forefront of his mind, but judging by the sardonic edge to Megatron's mental presence, he was not entirely successful.

They turned down the corridor towards the bridge, and Megatron stopped to press the passcode into the keypad by the door. Immediately, the doors slid open and Sam's eyebrows rose to his hairline in surprise. The view screen at the other end of the bridge was muted white, and the light within the room was mellow and soft. Sam followed Megatron through the doors and, when the Decepticon leader took his customary spot at the starboard workstation, Sam wandered towards the view screens. It took him a minute to realize what he was looking at. It was snowing.

No, Sam corrected himself. It was storming.

Snow fell so thickly that he could not see the craggy rocks beneath them, if indeed they were still maintaining their location above the mountains. The snow swirled and hissed faintly as it buffeted against the view screens. Sam stared in rapt amazement, an indefinable feeling lodging itself in his chest—it was one of the most beautiful things that he had seen in his life.

Unbidden, Sam raised a hand and pressed it against the transparent paneling. Frigid cold soaked into his palm, but he left his hand pressed there for a long time. He could almost imagine what the fine grains of ice would feel like falling on his skin. Eventually, the cold began to ache and he pulled his hand away to tuck it under his armpit, but he did not move. He stood there for what must have been hours, watching as the storm raged around them in undisguised enjoyment.

Sometime later, after the storm had calmed and the pristine white mountains were once again visible beneath them, Sam settled against the floor and observed the comings and goings of the bridge. Thundercracker had left his post sometime during Sam's woolgathering, replaced by Starscream. The second-in-command sat in silence, his wingplates flicking occasionally as he worked. Unlike the other times that Sam had visited the bridge, Soundwave was not at his terminal. Instead, a red, black, and purple mechanoid sat at the post. The unknown Decepticon had two scabbarded swords attached to his hip struts, and a massive broadsword across his back.

The bridge was quiet, interrupted only by an occasional rumble of machinery or a terse string of Cybertronian from one of the mechanoids.

It was not long before Sam realized that he was well and truly bored. Eventually he turned his mind inwards, towards the neural network. The vast, dark space was mostly still and quiet. Sam could sense the three spark signatures of the Decepticons on the bridge, as well as several others milling about the interior of the ship. He recognized Knock Out's copper-red signature somewhere nearby, but the others were unknown to him. Sam was careful to keep his mental presence to himself and the egress filter drawn tightly over his mind. The Autobots had been tolerant of his fumbling inquiries over the neural-net, but Sam had no desire to find out whether the same would be true of the Decepticons.

Eventually, Sam found himself leaning against an empty workstation not far from the view screens. The warmth from the terminal helped to take the edge off the aching cold in the room. He sat with his arms crossed over his torso and his knees drawn loosely up to his chest, drowsing lightly in the quiet of the bridge.

"Sam."

He jerked awake in surprise, his heart hammering in his throat. As Sam struggled to straighten up, he realized that Skywarp was crouching down a short distance away. One of the Seeker's large servos was cupped in front of him and, as Sam stared in confusion, Skywarp extended it towards him. Sam glanced down reflexively and made a soft noise in disbelief. There, rapidly melting in the Decepticon's loose grip, was a pile of snow. Sam looked up, catching Skywarp's gaze with a question in his eyes.

"I heard you liked it." He said, by way of explanation.

Sam couldn't help the half-smile that pulled at the corners of his lips. He reached out a tentative hand, brushing his fingers over the cold substance. He was surprised by how wet it felt for solid precipitation. For some reason, he had thought that it would feel fluffier. Sam scooped up a palmful of snow, bringing it close to his face to inspect. He had heard once that no two snowflakes were the same, and upon inspection, he saw a variety of geometric shapes—all hexagonal structures, some with long needlelike arms and others with wide-flat arms. Sam rubbed the snow between his fingertips, marveling at how it melted away instantly. When he squeezed his palm closed, the snow solidified into a hard ball, more ice-like than snow-like.

He glanced up at Skywarp, who was watching him with open amusement.

"Thank-you." Sam said softly, and he meant it. Skywarp whistled at him in Cybertronian, lifting a pauldron in a shrug. Although Sam could not understand the words, he understood the sentiment: no problem.

"That's going to melt, you know, and I'm not cleaning it up." Starscream put in snidely, immediately shattering their quiet comradery. Sam went still, a flush spreading across his cheeks as he was reminded, once again, exactly where he was and whom he was with. Skywarp glanced over his shoulder, warbling something in sarcastic-sounding Cybertronian. Starscream scoffed loudly and then Skywarp glanced back towards Sam.

"It's alright. I'll take care of it."

Sam murmured his thanks, but placed the snowball back in Skywarp's palm. His was suddenly no longer in the mood for playtime. Skywarp looked at him for a long moment before he straightened and moved away without another word. Sam glanced down at his hands, which were a deep pink-red, before tucking them between his legs for warmth.

He sat there like that for a long while, the egress filter drawn so tightly over his mind that it ached. He had been on the Nemesis for less than a week, insofar as he could tell, and already he was able to fall asleep in a room surrounded by Decepticons—including Megatron and Starscream. He frowned deeply, anxiety and shame churning in his gut. These were not his friends, regardless of the tokens of kindness that they deigned to afford him. They were Decepticons. They would kill—and had killed—his Autobots, without a second thought. While he sat there, napping or playing with snow, Bumblebee, Optimus, and Ratchet were certainly going out of their minds with worry and grief. Why wasn't he fighting harder?

What the fuck was wrong with him?

As Sam's thoughts grew darker with shame and guilt, he felt Megatron's mental scrutiny across their bond. The cool contemplation that he felt there, edged with curiosity and interest, ignited a fury within him.

/Get out of my head./ Sam snapped viciously.

He felt Megatron's mental presence darken slightly, irritation spilling across their bond.

/Mind yourself, little one./ Megatron replied. Although his tone was mild, Sam could hear the warning in his words.

Sam turned his head to narrow his eyes at the Decepticon leader. Megatron had not moved from his workstation since he had first arrived and, although the warlord did not look at him, Sam knew that he had his full attention.

/My thoughts are my business./ Sam replied coldly.

/I thought I had made myself clear last night. Evidentially, I was mistaken./ Megatron rumbled, his mental presence crowding the Creator bond. Sam's fury flared hotly in his chest at the intrusion, and he pulled away as far as the bond would allow.

/You made yourself perfectly clear./ Sam replied tightly, glaring openly at the warlord, /You're just wrong./

Megatron turned away from his workstation to glance down at him, censure written all over his faceplates.

/I fail to see how that is so. Whether you are amenable to the fact is irrelevant./

/Is that why you are making me sit here and freeze my ass off?/ Sam demanded caustically, /Because I am done playing house with you./

All at once, Megatron's presence was inside Sam's head, his mental fingers digging into Sam's mind. Sam made a soft sound of pain as he squeezed his eyes shut, but that did not prevent him from hearing the warlord approach.

"If you feel the need to be reminded of your place, I am happy to do so," He growled, "But acting out will not end favorably for you." Megatron's words were punctuated with a sharp mental shake that caused a familiar headache to bloom through Sam's head. After a long moment, Sam forced himself to look Megatron directly in the optics.

"Don't touch me."

He felt the flare of anger a moment before Megatron twisted their bond, and sharp pain poured through Sam's synapses. Sam cried out loudly, his hands flying to his head, but the pain disappeared just as quickly as it came. When Sam cracked open his watering eyes a moment later, he saw that Megatron had crouched over him, crowding both his physical and mental space.

"You do not command me." Megatron rumbled lowly, "I will not remind you again."

Sam did not reply, his eyes falling to the deck of the bridge as Megatron leaned his full mental weight against his mind. It was an impossibly intense sensation, bordering on the edge of pain, and it was unquestionably a warning. Sam stayed like that, eyes downcast and still, for a long moment before Megatron rumbled softly.

"Now thank me for my patience."

Sam's eyes snapped up to the warlord's face, hot rage burning through him in an instant.

"Never." He spat, balling his hands into fists. Immediately, agony burned through him as Megatron sank his mental fingers deeper into Sam's mind. The pain lasted noticeably longer this time, and when it finally disappeared, Sam found himself gasping desperately against the cold metal floor.

"Thank me for my patience." Megatron repeated, his voice deceptively calm and measured. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as humiliation joined the rage that burned in his chest. After everything that Megatron had done, after all of the atrocities that he had committed, Sam would never—

White-hot pain burned through his synapses, eclipsing all rational thought. He heard himself cry out sharply, agony in his voice, as his fingers scrabbled uselessly at the smooth metal beneath his hands. This time the pain did not go away, it merely eased back as Sam gasped loudly, his heart hammering painfully in his chest.

"I won't ask you again."

Sam sucked a shaky breath into his starving lungs, pressing his forehead against the floor. He was distantly aware of the wetness on his cheeks, but whether it was from sweat or tears, he could not say. The entire time that he struggled to get himself under control, he was aware of Megatron's mental presence—observant and severe.

Sam could not dredge up the fortitude to defy the Decepticon leader again, so he squeezed his eyes shut and waited. He knew the exact moment that Megatron's patience reached its limit. The warlord pressed against Sam's mind, slowly and purposefully, without a hint of vindictiveness, and Sam's world was subsumed by agony. The pain burned him from the inside out, obliterating all higher cognitive function in his mind. There was no room for thoughts of anger or defiance, no ability to sense what was happening around him. His entire world, his entire being, was narrowed to the relentless torture in his head. Sam knew that he must have been screaming, begging, but he heard nothing over the static steadily building in his ears.

When Sam finally passed out, it was a mercy.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam's return to consciousness was a lesson in suffering.

The first time that he woke, the pain in his mind was so profound that he passed out again shortly thereafter.

The next time that awareness filtered through his mind, he was able to roll onto his side. The cold metal floor pressing against his face was a small comfort, and Sam laid there with his eyes closed as he focused on his breathing. It was a long time before he was cognizant enough to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. When he did, he found that was back within the confines of his cell in the large hanger. The room was empty, the metalmesh blanket and bottle of water apparently removed in his absence. He lowered his head again, closing his eyes as he willed the pain in his mind to recede.

When next that he woke, Sam was feeling only marginally better. The chill in the room had deepened noticeably, however, and he was shivering weakly against the floor. He forced himself onto his hands and knees, slowly making his way over to the wall. He curled against the narrow bulkhead, wrapping his arms around his torso. He sat there for a long while, too exhausted to move but too pained to sleep. At some point, Sam realized that there was dried blood crusted in both of his nostrils and flaked on his face. He raised the hem of his sleeve to scrub at himself, but the motion set off a fresh wave of agony in his mind and he relented immediately.

His head pounded in rhythm with his pulse, an ebb-and-flow of pain that took hours to abate. When Sam felt reasonably better, he forced himself to climb to his feet and make his way over to the waste disposal system in the corner. After he finished, he stumbled back to his spot by the bulkhead, settling against the wall. As the pain receded from his mind, Sam reflected on what had happened on the bridge. Although the repercussions of defying Megatron had been terrible, a small part of him was relieved. He wasn't completely lost.

When Sam woke up an interminable time later, he was surprised to find a bottle of water and a pre-packaged meal just inside his cell. He stared at the items for a long while, before pushing himself to his feet and making his way across the space. He sat down a short distance away, reaching out to grab the water. He drank deeply, his mouth and throat painfully dry. Despite his thirst, he forced himself to stop when the bottle was half-empty, capping it and setting it aside before he picked up the MRE. He glanced down at the package briefly—shredded beef in barbeque sauce—before working through the meal with his fingers. The food was cold and oily, and it settled uncomfortably in his stomach, but Sam forced himself to eat. When he finished half the meal, he folded the top of the package over on itself, grabbed the bottle of water, and made his way back to the bulkhead. He stashed the remainder of his meal against the wall, and settled down to wait.

As the hours dragged on without any sign of Megatron, Sam cautiously turned his mind inwards, before jerking back in surprise. For the first time since he had awoken on the Nemesis, Sam found himself within the confines of the Creator bond. The bond-space was dark and silent, without so much as a flicker of Megatron's presence. He frowned deeply, turning his mind outwards, but he was blocked from the neural network by impenetrable firewalls. For the first time since Sam had on-lined, he was completely alone inside of his head.

A quiet sense of apprehension settled in his stomach.

As the hours passed, his apprehension sharpened into anxiety. Sam had nothing to tell the passage of time except for his own bodily functions. By the time that his hunger was carving the inside of his ribs, he figured that it had been seven or eight hours since he had eaten. He glanced at the bottle of water and half-empty meal package. He was hungry, but if the Decepticons had left the ship then he could not be certain when his next meal might be. Sam turned away from the items, pacing restlessly as the anxiety in his gut intensified with each passing hour.

He made it four more hours before he broke down and finished the remainder of his meal.

With no more food and water, and no idea whether he was alone on the ship or not, Sam's anxiety transitioned into the first stirrings of genuine fear. He alternated his time between pacing the perimeter of his cell and exploring every inch of the energy barrier that separated him from the rest of the hanger. Eventually, he found himself back against the bulkhead. It was a long while before his mental and physical exhaustion overpowered the fear tightening his gut, allowing him to drop off into a restless slumber.

When Sam woke up, the first thing that he saw was another bottle of water and a pre-packaged meal waiting just inside the energy barrier. All at once, Sam understood—this was part of his punishment. He would stay here until Megatron got what he wanted. Sam laughed quietly under his breath. If the warlord thought that being left alone to his own devices, unbothered by Decepticons and unworried about the possibility of more torture, was going to work out in his favor, he had another thing coming. Sam tore off the top of the pre-packaged meal, feeling better than he had since he'd woken up in Megatron's cockpit.

His days settled into a predictable routine. When he woke up, he found food and water waiting just inside the energy barrier of his cell. The empty packages from the previous day would be missing, regardless of where Sam had left them. If Sam had not finished his previous day's meal, then no new food would be waiting for him when he woke up. He spent his waking hours trying to amuse himself. He paced the room, prodded at the energy barrier, played mind games, and (eventually) started to practice his firewalling. His first few days in isolation were a welcome respite, but as the time dragged on, Sam's earlier confidence quickly eroded.

By the time that he hit the one-week mark, his good mood had vanished entirely. Worry and anxiety were constantly on the edge of his mind as he struggled to keep himself distracted.

By the time that he hit the second week mark, he knew that he was in trouble. He no longer paced the room or played his word association game. He spent his waking hours curled against the bulkhead, murmuring reassuringly to himself. When he managed to fall asleep, his dreams were ugly. He often woke up to the sound of his own screaming, soaked in sweat and shaking like a rescue animal.

By the third week mark, he started hallucinating. Glimpses of movement out of the corner of his eyes, whispers that he could just hear on the edge of his awareness. More than once, he heard a familiar voice—Bumblebee, his mother, Ratchet—call out his name. By the third or fourth time that it happened, Sam stopped responding.

As the days dragged on, he lost all concept of the passage of time. Sometimes when the food arrived, he was ravenous, as though he had not eaten in days. Other times, he still had the taste of his previous meal in the back of his mouth.

It was several hours after he had woken up, on an otherwise nondescript day, when he abruptly tasted blood. He glanced down in surprise, only to notice that he was chewing his fingernails. He had mindlessly chewed past the nailbed on one finger, which was bleeding profusely. The sight of blood, drawn without realizing it owing to his mental state, shocked him to his core. As he stared at his hand, nails chewed down and fingertips raw, Sam felt himself break.

Sam turned his thoughts inward, brushing tentatively against the block that separated him from Megatron's mental presence. After an agonizing few moments, there was a perceptible shift in their bond, and he knew that Megatron was paying attention. Sam felt a swell of relief and he squeezed his eyes shut against the emotion that threatened to choke him.

/Thank-you for your patience./

Megatron's presence filled Sam's mind, calm and approving.

/You are welcome, little one./

Chapter 7:

Sam stood by the energy barrier, his head pitched forward and his eyes closed. The sound of his own harsh breathing was loud in the stillness of the hanger, but he barely noticed. His attention was focused inwards towards the Creator bond, which was alight with sensation for the first time in his long isolation. Megatron's presence filled his mind, still and purposeful—a soothing counterbalance to the turmoil of relief and shame and despair that burned through him. It felt good and centering. Calming.

He swallowed hard, hating himself. It was Megatron's fault that he had suffered alone. He should be resisting him, he should be angry—

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, it was washed away by a pacifying pulse from across their bond. Sam's breath stuttered out of him, and he instinctively leaned into the feather-soft sensation.

"Sam."

Sam flinched violently, his eyes snapping open in surprise. Megatron stood directly in front of him, his red optics preternaturally bright in the dimness of the hanger. Somehow, the Decepticon had approached and deactivated the energy barrier of his cell without Sam noticing. Sam stared up at him, torn by conflicting but equally intense emotions—hatred and appreciation, resentment and relief. Once again, Megatron's presence brushed across his mind.

Unable to prevent it, Sam made a soft sound in response.

Megatron's optics sharpened knowingly. He crouched down, extending a servo towards him, "Come along, little one."

Sam hesitated for only a moment before he stepped forward, allowing Megatron to pick him up. The Decepticon brought Sam close to his chest as he straightened and strode from the hanger. Sam's eyes fluttered shut as he was pressed against Megatron's chest armor. The metal was warm against him, radiating a pleasant heat that soaked into his body.

It was the first time in weeks that Sam didn't ache with cold.

Megatron walked purposefully into the corridor and through the Nemesis. Sam was only peripherally aware of their route, distracted as he was by the warmth around him and the pleasant sensation of their bond-space. Eventually, Megatron stopped outside of the familiar nondescript door of his personal quarters, pausing only long enough to press the passcode into the keypad set into the wall. The doors hissed openly and Megatron walked into the spartan apartment, making his way across the space into the small, interior room. Sam raised his head, uncertainty and apprehension blooming in the pit of his stomach. Megatron crouched, placing Sam down beside the large metal grate set into the floor, before rising to turn on the flow of solvent. The liquid streamed from the ceiling, steaming in the chilly room. Sam glanced up at Megatron to find the Decepticon leader looking down at him expectantly. The uncertainty and apprehension in his stomach sharpened into fear in an instant. Before he could open his mouth to plead, he felt Megatron's mental presence wrap around him. It was a heavy sensation, but it was not at all unpleasant.

"You will feel better after you have bathed."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the sincerity that he felt across their bond. It was true that it had been weeks since he had showered, but that did little to abate his humiliation and fear. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and stared at the steady stream of solvent in front of him. Megatron stood a short distance away, regarding him without so much as a flicker of impatience or irritation.

Eventually, Sam's shoulders curled forward in resignation. He reached down, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. As soon as the material was off, he broke out into gooseflesh in the cool air of the room. Shivering, he unfastened his fly and slid his pants down over hips that jutted more prominently than they did when he had first arrived. A blush stole up his neck and across his face as he removed the last of his clothing. Without waiting to be told, Sam stepped forward into the stream of solvent. He ducked his head into the fluid, scrubbing at his scalp with raw fingertips, determined to finish as quickly as possible. Suddenly, a large servo came to rest against his back. Sam startled violently, jerking away, but Megatron pressed forward. After a panicked moment, Sam realized that the Decepticon held a square of metalmesh material in his servo, which he drew over Sam's back and shoulders. Sam went very still, his heart hammering in his throat.

"I can do that." Sam managed, his voice low and strangled.

Megatron did not reply, drawing the cloth up his back again, before nudging meaningfully against his side.

"Don't." Sam whispered, but it was a request more than a demand. He felt Megatron's mental presence sharpen in displeasure, and Sam flinched in response. "Please don't." He tried instead.

Rather than responding, Megatron nudged him again, more purposefully this time. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, burning with humiliation, and turned around obediently. Megatron drew the cloth over Sam's shoulders and down his chest, causing the muscles of Sam's stomach to tighten uncomfortably. Megatron was thorough in his ministrations, washing his arms and legs before moving the cloth between Sam's legs. Sam went very still, closing his eyes as though that would prevent what was happening to him. Mercifully, Megatron did not linger. When he finished, Sam felt the warlord shift away, and then a single clawed digit ran down the length of Sam's spine as a warm pulse of approval flooded his mind. A moment later, the solvent cut off and then Sam found himself wrapped in a large square of metalmesh. Megatron dried him off with the same care that he had bathed him, and then he subspaced a pile of clothing.

Sam took the pile without a word, moving to get dressed, before Megatron hooked the tip of a digit under Sam's chin and raised his head.

"You did well."

He flinched at the compliment and all that it signified, but he did not protest or pull away. After a long moment, he felt Megatron's mental presence shift forward. It was a familiar gesture, the same that he felt before Megatron punished him, and Sam stiffened in panic. Before he could react, however, pleasant heat blossomed through his mind and he gasped in surprise. The sensation was the antithesis of the agony that he usually felt, all lightness and warmth, and Sam found himself leaning against Megatron's mental presence in response. Megatron rumbled in approval, stroking gently across Sam's mind. The enjoyable sensation lingered for a long moment, before Megatron's mental presence shifted away.

"Get dressed."

Sam swayed, unbalanced by his abrupt absence, before moving to comply. He was surprised to see that the clothing, a flannel-fleece blend, was appreciably warmer than the previous clothing that Megatron had afforded him. He pulled the pants on first, fastening them quickly. Although they were his size, they fit loosely around his hips. The long-sleeved shirt was next and then he crouched to pull on his socks and shoes.

When he straightened, he turned to look at Megatron. The warlord stared down at him, as though deep in thought, before reaching forward to pick him up. Although Sam stiffened in surprise, he did not protest or struggle. Megatron strode out of the wash racks and into the main room, heading towards the berth against the far wall. With surprising care, the warlord deposited Sam onto the large metal surface before stepping away.

"Rest now. We will speak later."

Sam watched as Megatron turned and walked towards the desk in the center of the room. The warlord sat, his back mostly towards the berth, before picking up one of the datapads in front of him. Megatron turned it on with a press of a tensor, flicking through the digital file. When it became clear that Megatron was focused on his work, Sam moved to sit with his back against the wall. He watched the Decepticon for a long while, his thoughts skipping over everything that had happened since he had woken up. He was familiar with the shame and anger that burned through him—those emotions had been his constant companions since he had been captured—but the relief and appreciation were new. Sam understood that it was just his brain chemistry fucking with him, but that in no way assuaged the bitter confusion he felt.

Eventually, Megatron ex-vented a soft snort.

"I am trying to work, and you are very loud."

Sam was blindsided by the grief that rocked through him, reminded all at once of Ratchet's fond exasperation as he spoke the same words. His breath shuddered out of him as he squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to get ahold of himself, but it was too soon and he was too raw. Sam didn't realize that he was crying until he felt the wetness on his cheeks, and he scrubbed a hand over his face in mortification. He wouldn't let Megatron see him like this, he couldn't let the warlord know where it hurt to push—

All at once, Megatron's presence was in his mind. Sam recoiled away, to no avail, and Megatron brushed against him. The Decepticon's presence was gruffly sympathetic and his touch was comforting for the first time in Sam's captivity.

"Do all humans feel so intensely?"

Sam refused to answer, staring steadfastly at the berth in front of him. He felt rather than heard Megatron's thoughtful rumble, and then the warlord pressed into his mind once again. Sam flinched away instinctively but sudden exhaustion flooded through him with all the force of a storm surge. He tried to pull away, to push at Megatron's mental presence, but it was barely the space of moments before he was swallowed by the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam woke briefly, an interminable time later, to find that the room was dark and quiet. Fear surged through him in an instant, and he called out without thinking.

"Megatron?"

The berth shifted and then Megatron's red optics flared to life a short distance away. The weak light was enough for Sam to see that the warlord had taken his place barely a meter away from him. Sam's heartbeat calmed, slowly but surely, as he realized that he was not alone in the dark. Megatron lifted a servo, stroking a tensor down Sam's back. The gentle touch caused the tension that had gathered in his shoulders to relax.

"I'm here, little one."

Sam nodded faintly, settling down and pillowing his hands under his face. Megatron regarded him for a long moment before he lay back against the berth, his optics closing in recharge.

This time, Sam did not cry out in the darkness.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam's days fell into a familiar routine. In the mornings, he ate and bathed as Megatron worked at his desk. Sometimes they spoke, but often they did not, orbiting one another in a sort of companionable silence. Megatron would leave shortly thereafter, attending to his duties on the bridge. The first few times that Sam had been left alone had been torture—a painful reminder of the isolation that he had endured. Now, however, Megatron's presence remained comfortingly close, settling the worst of Sam's anxiety.

Regardless of the closeness of his mental presence or duration of his absence, it was always a relief when Megatron returned.

In the evenings, Sam would fall asleep on the large berth before Megatron finished working. Sometimes he woke up to find the warlord in recharge beside him, other times Megatron was still sitting at his desk. One evening, after many days of this routine, Sam complained about his boredom. Megatron turned to look at him considerately before handing him a small datapad. At Sam's incredulous stare, Megatron's mouthplates quirked in a half-smile.

"What did I tell you about informing me of your needs?"

Sam spluttered indignantly, "I've been going out of my mind so that you could prove a point?"

Megatron lifted a pauldron in a half-shrug, "I am proving nothing. I set expectations that you chose not to follow, and your boredom was the result. It was a fitting punishment."

Sam scoffed softly before glancing down at the datapad in his hands. After a long moment, he asked, "What is it?"

Megatron turned around, resuming his work.

"Classified intelligence." He rumbled dryly, after a moment.

Sam threw him a sarcastic look, "What is it really?"

"History text files, mostly. There is some poetry stored in there as well."

Sam's eyebrows rose of their own accord, "Poetry?"

Megatron made an exasperated noise, a sound with which Sam was becoming increasingly familiar, "Yes, poetry."

Sam stared at him incredulously for the space of a heartbeat before his mouth got the better of him, "What, do you think you're Sun Tzu or something?"

Megatron cuffed him sharply across their bond and Sam grunted in response. The Decepticon leader's admonishments were nothing like Ratchet's metal taps—they stung like hell and made his ears ring. Sam raised a hand to rub at his forehead, falling into a sullen silence. After a long moment, Sam thumbed on the datapad and saw, to his surprise, that the text files were written in Cybertronian.

He hesitated for a moment before brushing against Megatron's mental presence.

"I can't read Cybertronian."

The warlord did not look away from his work as he replied, "It is time that you learned. There's a rudimentary lexicon provided. You will have to puzzle out the rest."

Sam frowned faintly, staring down at the tablet in front of him. He knew that Cybertronian was a complicated language, with glyphs that had multiple meanings depending on their context. Glyphs also changed meaning depending on what came before and after them, and some glyphs had no set definition at all.

He glanced towards Megatron uncertainly, surprised to see that the warlord had turned to regard him expectantly.

"You had the Allspark in your mind. Surely you retained some of its knowledge?"

Sam's frown deepened at the reminder, "A little. It's sporadic."

To his surprise, Megatron nodded minutely, his expression openly thoughtful, "A little is better than nothing, which is what I had when I learned."

"When you learned?" Sam asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

Megatron chuckled lowly, "I was sparked as a gladiator-class mechanoid. My Creators did not deign to provide me with written language protocols. There was no need, after all. My function was to fight and to die."

Sam's eyes widened in surprise, "That's… horrible."

"The caste-system of Cybertron was indeed horrible." Megatron agreed, his voice dark, "Which is why I rallied the Decepticons and rebelled against it."

Sam's frown returned. He knew that Megatron had been a gladiator who had won his freedom, and he knew that Megatron started the civil war that tore Cybertron apart. He did not know, however, that a rebellion against the caste-system had been the cause for it all.

Megatron growled lowly, a sound thick with malice, "Of course Prime would not share that information with you. It is counterproductive to his narrative."

Sam bristled in response, offended on Optimus' behalf.

"He didn't tell me about it because I never asked. I avoided talking about you whenever possible."

Megatron's optics narrowed dangerously, "Then allow me to educate you. The caste-system on Cybertron was a barbaric relic of a defunct Golden Age. The wealthy upper class systematically oppressed and enslaved those unfortunate enough to be sparked into lower castes. When energon fell into short supply, the lowest castes were the first to be sacrificed for the Senate's glorious cause."

Sam shivered, unsettled to his core at the warlord's midnight black tone. After a moment he asked, tentatively, "What do you mean, sacrificed?"

Megatron had turned to face him fully now, something like long-suffering resentment in his expression, "When energon rationing began, do you think that the Senate went hungry? Do you think that the royal houses went hungry? Of course not. They diverted energon from the slums and the projects, leaving the poorest of their citizens to starve or to sell themselves into slavery."

Sam shifted uncomfortably. He had read enough about Cybertron's history during the end of the Golden Age to see the truth in Megatron's words.

"I know about the energon shortages and the rationing," Sam said, eventually, "But not that."

Megatron rumbled in consideration, "Gladiatorial combat was one type of enslavement, but there were others. When I won my freedom, I was a vocal opponent of social stratification. As I mentioned previously, it was how I met Orion Pax."

Sam stared at the Decepticon leader, uncertain and suspicious, but unable to quell his curiosity, "How did you meet him?"

"It was during the civil unrest caused by the energon rationing. There was a rally in Iacon, which we both attended. He introduced himself; he recognized me from my time in the arena."

Sam frowned again, skepticism lodging itself in his chest. He could not believe that Optimus would voluntarily attend an exhibition match wherein people fought to the death for the entertainment of the masses.

Megatron chuckled, but the sound was devoid of humor.

"Of course he did, both as Orion Pax and as Optimus Prime. Orion Pax was a data clerk who did as Alpha Trion bid him, and Optimus Prime was duty-bound to attend."

Sam leaned back against the wall, suspicion and confusion twisting up inside him. He wanted to argue, but he didn't dare. Megatron looked at him, inclining his helm slightly as he made a permissive gesture.

"By all means, say your piece."

Sam's frown returned, deepening in consternation, "There is no way that Optimus approved of gladiatorial combat. He believes that freedom is the right of all sentient beings."

Megatron tilted his head, something like amusement in his optics, "Is that how you ended up on Diego Garcia? As a free being?"

He flinched, the warlord's words hitting too close to home. Rather than concede the point, Sam snapped, "I ended up on Diego Garcia because you killed me, and Optimus knew you wouldn't rest until you finished the job."

Megatron waved his words away, "That is beside the point. If Optimus truly believed in the freedom of all sentient beings, then he would have given you the choice to stay or to go. We both know that he did not."

Sam flushed in anger, both at Megatron's words and at his inability to refute them. Megatron's optics sharpened knowingly and he inclined his helm, turning back towards the desk. Sam sat there for a long while, stewing over Megatron's words, before glancing down at the datapad in his lap. After a moment, Sam thumbed it on and started flipping through the text files, trying to find the lexicon.

Megatron is the great deceiver, He thought fiercely to himself, It's half-truths and obfuscation.

He tried not to dwell on the uncertainty that had lodged itself in his chest.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Sam woke up an interminable time later, he groaned disapprovingly. The room was uncomfortably cold and he was alone on the berth. He rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up, as he cast his mind inwards. The bond-space was still and quiet for the first time since the hanger. Sam's eyes blinked open and he struggled into a sitting position as his heart lodged itself in his throat. He had a brief moment of panic—Megatron was not separated from him by a mental block, he was completely absent—before he heard a familiar rumble. The sound snapped him out of his anxiety-spiral, and he pushed himself to his feet.

There, sitting on her haunches beneath Megatron's desk, was Ravage. Sam could not prevent the smile that stretched his face at the sight of her. He crouched down at the edge of the berth, his arms resting loosely on his knees.

"Good morning."

Ravage pushed up onto all four paws, pacing forward to stand a short distance away. As Sam watched, she gathered her back legs underneath her, all coiled energy and grace, and then leapt onto the berth beside him. She stepped forward, butting her head roughly against his chest, causing Sam to fall back and land on his ass. He laughed lightly, stroking his hands over her face and neck.

"Hello to you, too."

Ravage rumbled at him in welcome, a low sound deep in her chassis that made Sam smile in response. She sat on her haunches beside him, her tail tucked over her large, metal paws.

"What are you doing here?" He asked curiously. Sam knew that Megatron had been keeping him isolated, with only the warlord for companionship. Megatron's sudden absence and Ravage's appearance were surely related to one another.

Ravage tilted her head, regarding him seriously.

"Our Masters have been called away. I was tasked with keeping watch over you."

Sam grimaced deeply but he did not correct her—it wasn't worth the effort.

"Called away?" He asked instead, apprehension twisting in his stomach, "Where?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

Sam frowned, anger flaring at her words, "That's bullshit. Are they attacking the Autobots?"

Ravage's expression was unusually strict, "If you want to know about the deployment, then you will have to ask your Master when he returns."

Sam shoved at her, moving away and pushing himself to his feet. He paced several steps, his heart hammering in his chest, before turning around to glare at her.

"I swear to God, Ravage. If they're attacking the base, you had better tell me."

Ravage's expression narrowed, her audial receptors flicking in disapproval.

"Your Master thought that you would enjoy my company. If you wish to be belligerent, then I will leave."

Sam's heart lodged itself in his throat, both at her words and at the unspoken implication. Anything other than a flat-out denial of Sam's question was certainly an affirmative. His breathing started to come faster, shallow pants that left him feeling lightheaded. If anything happened to Bumblebee or to Ratchet—Christ, if anything happened to any one of them—he didn't know what he would do.

That wasn't true, he realized abruptly. He knew exactly what he would do if Bumblebee died.

Sam was interrupted from his morose thoughts by Ravage's head rubbing across his chest. He startled in response—he hadn't realized that she had approached.

"Breathe, little Prime. You are becoming distressed."

Sam barked a harsh laugh, sucking in a great, gasping breath. He had been distressed for weeks—this was panic. The room wavered precariously and Sam lowered into a sitting position. His heart was beating against his ribs so hard that it physically hurt, and no matter how he gasped, it felt like his lungs were starving for air. He put his head between his knees, forcibly reminding himself of Karen's soothing words the last time that she had talked him through a panic attack. It had been December, just before everything had gone to shit. They had been talking about Christmas and his parents, and he had been a hyperventilating mess. She had tucked his head between his knees, her hand firm and grounding on the back of his neck.

"Take a deep breath. Good, Sam. Now another."

Sam shuddered in a long breath through his nose, exhaling slowly through his mouth.

"Good, you're doing so well. Now open your eyes. I want you tell me five things that you can see."

After a long moment, Sam struggled to slant his eyes open. He glanced around the room, his pulse thundering in his ears.

"Desk. Chair. Datapad. Door. Keypad."

Ravage tilted her head, watching him with the quiet intentness of a predator.

"That's good, Sam. Now pay attention to your body. Tell me four things that you can feel."

Sam sucked in another harsh breath, releasing it slowly through his mouth.

"I feel my heartbeat. I feel the berth beneath me. I feel my shoes. I feel the itch in my beard."

As he spoke, Sam scrubbed a hand over the uneven scruff that covered the lower half of his face. The hair was short and wiry, longer than he had ever grown it before.

"You're doing so well. Now tell me three things that you can hear."

Sam closed his eyes, listening for a long moment.

"I hear my breathing. I hear the ship's engines. I hear Ravage."

"Now tell me two things that you can smell."

"I smell myself. I smell recycled air."

"Almost done now, Sam. Tell me one thing that you can taste. If you can't taste anything, you can name a favorite thing to taste."

"Coffee."

Sam stayed there for a long time, his eyes closed, as he breathed in through his nose and out of his mouth. Eventually, his heartbeat settled into something approaching a normal rhythm. When he felt like he could face reality again, he opened his eyes and turned his head to regard the symbiont beside him.

"Can we get out of here?"

Ravage's body was tense and coiled, her expression shuttered but laser-focused. Sam understood then that he had unsettled her greatly with his outburst.

"I was not ordered to keep you in this room." She said at last, although her words were reluctant.

"Can we walk? Please?"

It was a torturous moment before Ravage nodded in acquiescence. The minute gesture caused the tension building in Sam's shoulders to release, and he sighed softly in relief. It was a careful undertaking getting off the berth, which was the better part of ten feet high, but he managed it. Ravage landed gracefully beside him, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the room. Together they walked towards the door, which opened of its own accord, before making their way into the corridor. Sam paused once he stepped into the passageway, suddenly aware that this was the first time that he had been outside of his cell or Megatron's quarters without the warlord's direct supervision. His heart started to beat faster in his chest.

"Are you going to give me any trouble, little Prime?" Ravage asked, and although her voice was mild, she was watching him intently.

Sam knew that he didn't stand a chance against the cyber cat, who had stalked him and taken him down once before. The memory of that night, his face pressed into the sandy loam of the forest floor with Ravage's teeth around his neck, was not something that he was keen to repeat.

He forced himself to look at her, "No, I'll behave."

Ravage rumbled quietly as she padded down the corridor, but judging by her unwavering focus, she did not fully believe his reassurances. Sam walked beside her, all tightly coiled anxious energy. Right now, somewhere, Megatron and Soundwave were either preparing to attack, or were already attacking, his friends. The knowledge made him sick to his stomach, and he was briefly thankful that he hadn't eaten anything that morning. Sam didn't know how he was going to react when Megatron returned. It was one thing to remain meek and obedient in the warlord's presence when it was the two of them—when it was just Sam's pride and personal integrity that were being compromised—but it was another thing entirely to do so when the Decepticon was actively attacking his Autobots.

His one consolation was the Optimus had assured Sam that he would no longer send Bumblebee to the front lines, but that was a bitter comfort. If not Bumblebee, then Megatron would be squaring off against one of the others that he loved—Hot Rod or Cliffjumper or Sunstreaker. If the battle was more than a hit-and-run, then Optimus and Ratchet would certainly join the fray.

Sam swallowed hard, pushing his hands into his pockets. He barely paid attention to their route, allowing himself to be pulled along in Ravage's wake. To his surprise, the symbiont took him to parts of the ship that he had never seen before—the mess hall (an actual mess hall, with trestle tables and everything), the labs (empty, but strongly reminiscent of Wheeljack's lab), and the flight deck (an expansive, open-air hanger for the Seekers to use for take-off and landing). The air of the flight deck was ice cold and thin, cutting through his clothing like a blade. They stayed only long enough for Sam to get a view of the massive mountain chain beneath them, sinuous and grand, before they returned to the interior of the ship.

It was a long while before he realized that he and Ravage had not spoken a word to one another. The symbiont seemed content to walk in silence, leaving him to his thoughts. It was a fact for which Sam was quietly thankful.

All of a sudden, the neural-net flared brightly in his mind as three spark signatures materialized out of the darkness. Sam immediately recognized them as Thundercracker, Knock Out, and Blitzwing, and he instinctively drew the egress filter more tightly over his mind. In front of him, Ravage stiffened before turning to regard him.

"We must return to Megatron's quarters at once, little Prime."

Sam glanced down at her in surprise, taken aback by the seriousness of her tone. The tension in her body and the strain in her voice made dread twist in his gut like a knife.

"What is it? What's happened?"

Ravage's ruby optic narrowed dangerously, "Now."

Without waiting for Sam's reply, the cyber cat herded him down the corridor. In Sam's mind, the spark signatures drew closer, gaining much faster than they were retreating. Eventually, he could hear urgent talking echoing down the hall.

"Keep pressure on it." Thundercracker urged sharply.

"I know." Knock Out snapped back, "I'm the fragging medic."

Sam stopped in his tracks, turning his head around to look in the direction of the voices. Ravage's tail lashed in agitation as she growled impatiently. The sound caused Sam to look down and he was completely taken aback by the hostility in her lithe frame. He took a step away from her instinctively, but then movement at the end of the hall caught his attention. There, supported between Knock Out and Thundercracker, was Blitzwing. The triple-changer was badly damaged, with deep gouges across his chest plate and energon leaking down his frame in glowing rivulets. Knock Out glanced up, exasperation on his faceplates.

"You were supposed to get him out of here."

Ravage growled again in response, positioning herself between Sam and the three Decepticons.

"There was not enough time." She replied.

Knock Out rolled his optics expressively as they passed, "Tell that to the boss. He's on his way."

Sam felt the dread in his gut sharpen in an instant. Before he could react, however, his eyes settled on Blitzwing's chassis and he went cold all over. There, amongst the gouges and the sparking circuitry, was a long scrape of yellow paint. Sam's world narrowed to that one spot, his heart suddenly thundering in his ears. It could have been Sunstreaker's—it could have been—but Sam knew with a certainty that he could not explain that it was Bumblebee's.

"What did you do?" Sam hissed, tensing from head to toe, "You fucker, what did you do to him?"

Blitzwing looked down at him, his expression shuffling rapidly—confusion, feral glee, mania—before it settled into something like comprehension.

"Just a little fun—"

White-hot rage exploded in Sam's chest at the triple-changer's cavalier tone. In an instant, he had cast aside the egress filter and launched himself at the Decepticon's mental presence. He felt Blitzwing's flare of shock as he collided against his mind, the triple-changer scrabbling to erect a stronger firewall, but Sam was faster. His mental presence deftly slipped beneath Blitzwing's defenses, and then he attacked—tearing indiscriminately at the shifting yellow-gray spark signature in front of him.

Sam was distantly aware of the sound of shouting—voices raised in pain and disbelief and urgency—but he paid them no mind. Sam focused, lashing out with all of his mental strength. The answering shriek of pain was enormously satisfying, and he fucking reveled in it. Suddenly, Sam was slammed into the floor and pinned in place by a large servo.

"Sam, stop it!" Thundercracker commanded sharply.

Sam ignored the Seeker completely. He pushed his mental fingers as deep into Blitzwing's spark signature as he could manage, twisting in a too-familiar way. The triple-changer's shrieks rose in pitch and volume.

"Do something!" Knock Out snarled.

"I'm trying—!"

"Enough!"

Sam was wrenched violently out of Blitzwing's mind and back into his own so quickly that it left him reeling. Slowly, he became aware of the scene around him. Thundercracker knelt over his body, pinning Sam against the floor with more force than necessary. Blitzwing sagged heavily against Knock Out, who struggled to keep the larger Decepticon on his feet. The triple-changer's faceplates were drawn tight, his optics dim and pained.

Beside them stood Megatron, his servos curled into tight fists and a thunderous expression on his face. The Decepticon leader regarded Ravage for a long moment before he turned towards Blitzwing. He hooked an arm around the triple-changer's chassis, helping Knock Out to pull him to his feet.

Without looking at Sam, Megatron growled, "Take him to the hanger, I will deal with this later."

Thundercracker rumbled lowly in acknowledgement, holding Sam in place until Megatron and Knock Out helped Blitzwing struggle down the corridor and out of sight. Once they were gone, the Seeker inclined his helm to look down at him, his expression a strange combination of anger and pity.

"What have you done?"

Chapter 8:

Sam did not protest as Thundercracker picked him up. The Seeker pressed him against his chassis with a restraining servo as he turned and strode purposefully down the corridor. As they walked, Sam focused his attention inwards, only to realize that he had been corralled back within the confines of the Creator bond. The bond-space was dark and quiet, without a trace of Megatron's presence. A deep grimace pulled at his mouth, as apprehension settled heavily into the pit of his stomach. Megatron had been furious, the kind of controlled anger that simmered rather than burned itself out. Sam knew with certainty that time would not abate the fire of the warlord's wrath in the least.

After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only the space of ten minutes, Thundercracker walked into the large, empty hanger that had been the focal point of Sam's nightmares for weeks. As the doors hissed shut behind them, Sam's stomach cramped with anxiety. Thundercracker walked forward until he reached the deep groove lined in the floor and then he crouched, setting him down without a word. As Sam stepped back, the transparent energy barrier flickered into existence between them, and he flinched in response.

To his surprise, Thundercracker did not move from his crouched position. The blue and silver Seeker regarded him for a long while, arms resting on his knee struts, with an inscrutable expression on his face. Eventually, he ex-vented quietly.

"It will be a severe punishment, Sam, but you will survive it." Thundercracker said, sympathy in his voice as he urged, "Plead for mercy and he may be lenient."

Sam laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.

"No, he won't."

Thundercracker's expression became inscrutable, but not before Sam saw the note of reluctant agreement in his optics. Sam shivered, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. The Seeker hesitated, as though wrestling with himself, before he spoke again.

"Megatron is a strict and demanding commander, but he is not without reason. He will not allow permanent harm to come to you."

Sam smiled faintly, "That's not as comforting as you might think."

"Hang in there, Sam." Thundercracker said. The Seeker stared down at him a moment longer before turning to leave. Without thinking, Sam stepped towards the energy barrier and called out after him.

"Wait." Sam said, a sharp note of desperation in his voice, "Did you see him? Did you see Bumblebee?"

Thundercracker paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder, "I did. Your bonded fought well."

His words caused indefinable emotion to lodge itself in Sam's chest. He swallowed hard, before managing to ask, "Did he say anything?"

"No." Thundercracker replied, a note of dry humor in his voice, "His canons did all of the speaking for him."

The blue and silver Seeker turned and walked away without another word. Sam watched him go, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders curled forward. After the hanger doors slid shut behind him, Sam slowly made his way over to the familiar spot against the bulkhead, settling down on the floor.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam was not sure how long he sat there, shivering against the wall with his stomach twisting itself in knots. Despite the warmer clothing that he wore, Sam was numb wherever he pressed against the floor—his body heat long since leached away by the cold metal. Although he felt leaden with exhaustion, sleep remained elusive, kept at bay by his aching body and tumultuous emotions. He struggled not to dwell on his inevitable confrontation with the Decepticon leader, well aware that he could sense his emotions.

By the time that Megatron finally stepped into the hanger, Sam's fear had been replaced by grim resignation. He watched, quiet and still from his spot against the wall, as the warlord deactivated the energy barrier. Although his earlier rage was no longer obvious, Megatron's countenance was dark and foreboding. He stared down at Sam for a long while, narrowed optics burning in the dim light of the hanger.

"You would have killed him." Megatron said at last. It was a statement, not a question, but Sam replied regardless.

"Yes."

"I would not have thought you capable, boy." Megatron rumbled lowly, a sound that made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand up, "To attack an unarmed, injured mechanoid without provocation."

Sam shivered from head to toe. Megatron had not referred to him as 'boy' since he had flayed Sam's mind open for Soundwave when he had first arrived on the Nemesis. The warlord had used the same moniker at the warehouse in New Jersey and on the rooftop in Mission City, both times that he had tried to kill him. When Sam did not reply, Megatron crouched in front of him, his helm tilting in derisive contemplation.

"Tell me, what would Optimus Prime think of that?"

Sam could not hide his flinch at the warlord's taunt. His eyes dropped down to his hands, which twisted in his lap. The skin of his fingers was raw from his obsessive worrying of the flesh against the fabric of his pants. A heartbeat passed before Megatron slammed his clenched servo against the floor directly beside Sam's legs. Sam jumped in surprise, his heart lodging itself in his throat.

"I asked you a question." Megatron growled.

Sam's eyes flicked up to the warlord's face, which was uncomfortably close to his own. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, before he could answer.

"He would be disappointed."

"Indeed. I doubt that Prime, paragon of virtue that he is, would approve of cold blooded murder." Megaton's silky voice hardened as he continued, "It is the nature of Decepticons—not Autobots—to employ such tactics."

Sam swallowed against the sourness that suddenly flooded his mouth, well aware of what the warlord was implying. He wanted to swear at him, to deny the insinuation with every bit of vitriol in his body, but he didn't dare. His eyes fell back to his hands lying clenched in his lap. He noted with a distant curiosity that the skin of his knuckles was chapped and bleeding.

"I had thought, perhaps idealistically, that you understood the nature of your bondage after our last conversation. I can see now that I was mistaken. You clearly require more than words to fully appreciate your new station."

Sam's eyes snapped up to Megatron's face, panic flooding through him in an instant. The warlord's tone was contemplative, almost kind, and it set off warning bells in Sam's mind. He shifted forward, as though to scramble to his feet, but the warlord slammed him back against the wall with a large servo. Sam cried out in surprise and pain as thick digits curled around his body, pinning him in place.

"I will make this very simple for you." Megatron said, "If you acted as an Autobot sympathizer, then you will be punished accordingly. If, however, you acknowledge my sovereignty over you, then I shall be merciful. After all, you are only a newspark."

Sam stared up at the warlord, fear and denial warring for control over his mental faculties. He could not acknowledge Megatron's lordship over him—or rather, could not do so and mean it—but he quailed at the prospect of the torture that would result from his failure to do so. He hesitated, unsure what to say, when Megatron's expression turned calculating.

"Perhaps you require a demonstration." The warlord said, and Sam could hear the restrained anger in his tone. He leaned forward until the warm air from his intakes ghosted over Sam's face, "Which is it, boy? Are you an Autobot sympathizer?"

Sam screamed, a choked, strangled sound, as liquid agony poured through his synapses—

"Or do you acknowledge me as your lord and Master?"

The pain was gone as abruptly as it had appeared, replaced by a buoyant lightness. The sensation filled his mind, pleasant and soothing, and Sam gasped desperately in response. The rapid change from agony to bliss left him disoriented and lightheaded, and he blinked up at Megatron as he tried to organize his thoughts. Before he could speak, however, Megatron's presence filled his mind again, turning sharp. Sam cried out in surprise, struggling against Megatron's servo as the pain worsened.

"I must admit to some degree of pride in you." Megatron murmured, as though to himself, "You are a fast learner."

As he spoke, Megatron sunk his mental fingers deep into Sam's mind—just as Sam had done to Blitzwing earlier that day. Sam braced himself, hands flat against the cold floor, but the pain that exploded through him was unlike anything that he had experienced before. It ate away at him, corrosive as acid, sinking into the deepest recesses of his mind. Sam shrieked, bucking against the servo that held him in place. He could feel his ribs protesting against the strain, could feel the bruises blooming across his hips and shoulders, but it was nothing—nothing—compared to the fire that subsumed his mind.

Sam knew that he was begging, pleading with the warlord for mercy, but Megatron gave no quarter. His mental fingers pressed deeper still, twisting until Sam was sure that he would die from the pain—until he was sure that he wanted to die, rather than endure another moment. He did not know for how long he suffered, writhing and fighting against the servo that held him down, but eventually he broke.

Somehow, through the agony that filled his mind, he managed to gather himself enough to beg, "Mercy, please, Master!"

All at once, the pain melted away, replaced with the familiar lightness and warmth of before. He came back to himself slowly, only to realize that Megatron had withdrawn his servo. Sam lay against the cold floor of the hanger, shaking violently and soaked in sweat. He curled in on himself, distantly aware of the way his shoulders shook with the force of his crying. Megatron hushed him, a sound that made Sam's skin crawl, as the warlord stroked down his back with the tips of his tensors.

"Be still, little one. You've done well." Megatron rumbled, and then his voice turned considerate, "And good behavior should be rewarded."

[Explicit content removed]

It was a long time before Sam's higher cognitive function came back to him, and when it did, he became aware of Megatron's intense scrutiny through their bond. After an agonizing moment, Sam slanted his eyes open, looking up at the Decepticon leader. Megatron's expression was openly intrigued, something like curious contemplation visible in his optics. Sam squeezed his eyes shut at the sight, shame and powerlessness combining to make his stomach lurch threateningly.

Megatron brushed gently across his mind, an unusually comforting gesture from the warlord.

"There is no shame in accepting what your Master offers." Megatron reassured him kindly.

Abruptly, all of the fight left Sam's body. He laid there quietly, focusing on his breathing, until his heartrate returned to something resembling normal. He purposefully kept his mind blank, refusing to contemplate the implications of this new form of punishment.

"That was not a punishment, little one." Megatron admonished, "That was a reminder."

Sam's eyes snapped open as he turned to look up at the Decepticon leader.

"What?"

"I am your Master." Megatron rumbled, and there was something hard in his tone, "Body and mind. Never again forget that you belong to me."

Sam stared up at him in horrified silence, unable to articulate a response. He could feel Megatron's dark satisfaction across their bond and, after a moment, the warlord leaned towards him.

"You are correct that there will be punishment. After all, you would have deprived me of my triple-changer. Even during peacetime, such treason would be punishable by death."

Fear slammed through Sam with the force of a sledgehammer. He pushed up onto his elbows, making to sit up, before Megatron reached out to place a restraining servo against his back. The warlord continued talking, not waiting for Sam's response.

"It is evident that you require time to reflect on both your transgressions and on your changed circumstances. Thus, time you shall have: one year for each of Blitzwing's alt modes."

"What?" Sam gasped, fear flashing into panic in an instant, "No, Megatron, please—"

"Perhaps, after this time of reflection, you will think twice before raising a hand against me."

Before Sam could formulate a reply, Megatron's presence was inside his mind. The warlord pressed forward, batting away Sam's desperate attempts at a firewall. There was a sudden uncomfortable push-pull sensation, and then the hanger telescoped away as Sam was dragged down into stasis.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

For a long while, Sam drifted.

His consciousness ebbed and flowed, but awareness remained elusive. He had no concept of self, no understanding of where he was or what had happened. Instead he floated, suspended, in the perfect darkness of stasis.

Eventually, something like recognition filtered through his mind. He knew this place. The quiet stillness of its depths and the thrumming of its shallows, awash with faraway sounds and sensations. He shifted, uncertain and confused.

Where was the presence?

He cast his mind outwards, searching for the familiar warmth that had been his constant companion in the darkness, but he found nothing. No presence, no soothing pulses of comfort and calm. He shifted again, uncertainty and confusion coalescing into the first stirrings of fear. Gathering himself with great effort, he moved closer to the shallows—there was a vague sense of rising up—but despite the occasional brush of sensation, there was nothing. No one.

He was entirely alone.

As his fear sharpened, he began to struggle within the dimensionless space. No matter how he twisted and shifted, he could not move beyond the confines of the darkness. Eventually, he exhausted himself into stillness. He stayed like that, drained and weak, until his awareness faded away again.

Thus began a hellish cycle. He would awake, confused and disoriented, until understanding returned. Fear and desperation came next, as he struggled to find purchase in the empty void within which he found himself. His awareness would persist, for shorter or for longer periods, depending on the extent of his panicked thrashing. Then his consciousness would fade away, slowly but surely, until his strength returned.

Suddenly, he felt a shift in the darkness. He turned, frantic and hopeful in equal measures, but the familiar presence did not appear. Instead, the void lurched confusingly around him and then fell away.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam blinked awake, immediately wincing as bright light lanced across his corneas. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, raising an unsteady hand to scrub at his face. He felt exhausted, his whole body as weak and uncoordinated as it had been when he had first on-lined. After a long moment, he forced his watering eyes open and took in his surroundings. The room was large and well lit, with half a dozen empty berths arranged in even increments along opposite walls. Unfamiliar machinery was located irregularly around the space, alien-looking and intimidating. With mounting confusion, Sam craned his head to look down at himself. He was lying on the berth furthest from the large doors at the opposite end of the hanger. A swath of soft, silver-gray metalmesh had been drawn up his chest and tucked around his sides.

"Back with me, kid?"

Sam startled in surprise, turning his head to see Knock Out standing a short distance away. After a long moment, he realized that he must be in the Nemesis' medical bay. He frowned, confused and disoriented. How had he gotten here?

Knock Out's faceplates twisted in a grimace.

"What do you remember?" He asked, addressing Sam's thoughts.

Sam's frown deepened. He remembered panic and despair, but the memory was distant—dreamlike.

"Not a dream, stasis." Knock Out corrected, staring down at him with clinical focus, "How do you feel?"

"Tired." Sam rasped after a moment's reflection.

"I'm not surprised. You've been under for fifteen days."

Sam stiffened with alarm, his heart quickening into double-time in an instant, "What?"

Knock Out's expression softened minutely, edged with something like sympathy, "Do you remember what happened before stasis?"

He hesitated a long moment before he slowly shook his head. The last thing that Sam remembered was looking at the mountains with Ravage. Knock Out hummed quietly in response, his helm tilted in consideration.

"Memory lapses after stasis aren't common among mechanoids, except as the result of injury. Has this happened to you before?"

"I was… confused, after I first on-lined." Sam said slowly. He had only vague memories of waking up after Ripcord's attack—brief glimpses of fear and disorientation, and through it all, Ratchet's soothing presence.

"Maybe the effect will fade in time, maybe it won't." Knock Out said thoughtfully, "I doubt it will cause you any long-term harm."

Sam glanced back at the medic, anxiety blooming sharply in his gut, "What happened, Knock Out?"

The medic hesitated before something like resolve settled across his features.

"That doesn't matter right now." Knock Out said firmly, "You need to eat something. Although stasis reduces your need for rest and fuel, it does not eliminate it entirely."

Sam did not have the chance to reply before Knock Out helped him into a sitting position. The effort left him feeling wrung out and exhausted, and he slumped forward to rest his arms against his legs. Knock Out took the opportunity to wrap another piece of metalmesh over his shoulders, and Sam used one hand to clasp the edges of the material together. It was only then that he realized that he wasn't wearing any clothing.

Knock Out subspaced a familiar-looking brown package and bottle of water. He handed the rations to Sam, gesturing for him to eat. All at once, Sam realized that he was ravenous, his stomach panging painfully at the sight of the food. With trembling hands, he tore the top off the pre-packaged meal and started to eat with his fingers. Knock Out stood a short distance away, watching Sam closely with his arms folded loosely over his chassis. When he finished the meal, he uncapped the bottle of water and took a long drink.

"Can you eat any more?" Knock Out asked.

He glanced at the medic in surprise; he had never been given more than one MRE for any meal.

"I'm not hungry." He replied at last.

Knock Out stared at him for a long time, something inscrutable in his optics. Eventually the medic came to stand beside his berth, reaching out to press a servo gently against Sam's torso. Sam let himself be guided to lay back against the metal surface. He blinked up at Knock Out in surprise as the medic adjusted the metalmesh so that it covered his legs.

"I want you to close your eyes, Sam."

"What? Why?"

Knock Out rested his servos on the berth beside Sam, his slender digits just pressing against his ribs.

"It will make it easier for you."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, confused by the strange request, when Knock Out brushed lightly across his mind. The touch was soft and sympathetic, gently urging him to comply. Sam shifted uncertainly but he eventually acquiesced. Knock Out's mental presence took on an apologetic edge, and then he pressed into Sam's mind. Before Sam could protest or pull away, the medic had him back within the void of stasis, secured beneath medical grade blocks.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The darkness within which he found himself remained unchanged—quiet and still. He drifted comfortably until his awareness built to the point that he realized that he was alone. Familiar fear clutched at him, chasing away the remnants of calm that had shrouded his mind. He twisted, calling out wordlessly in the darkness for the familiar presence.

Silence answered him.

Just as it had before, his consciousness ebbed and flowed in predictable cycles. After many iterations of consciousness and unconsciousness, fear and calm, he slowly achieved self-awareness. As Sam came to understand who and where he was, emotions crashed into him fast and sharp—terror, confusion, desperation, hopelessness.

It was only then that Sam learned the true meaning of panic.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Ratchet frowned as he came to stand beside Prime, taking in their inhospitable surroundings. It was raining heavily, although very little precipitation made it through the thick canopy of the Amazonian rainforest. The foliage of the upper reaches of the forest was dense, filtering much of the light from the ground. The undergrowth was thinner here, mostly tangled shrubs and bushes.

A flash of movement caused him to glance up, just in time to see the brilliant plumage of a scarlet macaw before it winged into the tree cover.

"God damned, pit-spawned mosquitos." Master Sergeant Bobby Epps swore, slapping at the back of his neck. Ratchet glanced down at him, quirking a brow ridge in response. The soldier tossed him a grimace from where he stood next to Ironhide and Will Lennox.

"Be thankful you guys don't have to deal with this shit."

"You're fully inoculated." Ratchet reassured him, ignoring the twist of Epps' mouth. He glanced around the small clearing, noting as Bumblebee and Cliffjumper took their positions at the rear of their formation.

/Be on your guard. These are the coordinates./ Prime commanded over the tacnet. A flurry of nonverbal acknowledgements pinged across Ratchet's visual display as the rest of the Autobots confirmed their positions.

Four days ago, an anonymous letter had arrived in the mail, addressed to Optimus Prime. That in and of itself had been unusual, but the letter had contained only a set of coordinates—latitude and longitude in degrees, minutes, and seconds—as well as a date and time. To compound the mystery, the letter had been signed with the Cybertronian glyph for Prime. Optimus had convened his senior staff to discuss the unusual message, which seemed to have three possible explanations: it was either another trap set by the Decepticons, an elaborate prank, or someone was trying to contact them discretely.

By that evening, Prime had given the orders to prepare for departure to Brazil.

/West-southwest is clear./ Sunstreaker reported.

/East-northeast is clear./ Sideswipe added, a moment later.

"Optimus Prime."

The reaction among both Autobots and humans alike was instantaneous—safeties clicked off, canons charged, battle masks engaged. There, stepping out of the dense underbrush at the other side of the clearing, was a bulky purple mechanoid. The stranger approached their assembled group, his posture tense but non-threatening, coming to a stop a short distance away from their leader. Ratchet's optics narrowed at the Decepticon insignia that was plainly smoldered onto the mechanoid's chassis.

Prime inclined his helm a fraction of an inch in greeting.

"What is your designation?" Optimus rumbled. As he spoke, Ironhide flanked the Decepticon on his left as Hound circled him on the right. The purple mechanoid glanced at the approaching soldiers, raising his servos in a universal sign of surrender.

"I am unarmed." He said calmly, directing his words towards Ironhide and Hound, before looking back to Prime, "My designation is Ambulon."

Ironhide stepped up to the Decepticon, grabbing his servos and pinning them behind him, before kicking his legs out from under him. The mechanoid landed hard on his knees with a loud grunt. Prime directed a dignified and quelling look at Ironhide, who stepped back and trained his canon at their prisoner. Abruptly, Prowl's calm voice washed over the tacnet.

/Decepticon, designation: Ambulon. Field medic and researcher. Weapons armament, minimal. Alt mode: leg./

/Leg?/ Sideswipe asked, equal parts disbelieving and aghast.

"Ambulon. What is the meaning of this subterfuge?"

The Decepticon looked up at Prime for a long time, as though trying to get the measure of him. Eventually, he spoke.

"I know where they've taken the boy. I can help you rescue him."

Ratchet's spark twisted in its casing, anger and hope waring for supremacy within his processors. The reaction among his compatriots was similar—surprise, disbelief, rage. It was a testament to Prime's unflappable calm that he did not react beyond the slight narrowing of his optics.

"Why would you share this information with us?" Optimus asked.

Ambulon hesitated for a long moment before he hedged, "We have no wish to see him come to harm."

Bumblebee stepped forward, rage all over his face, before Cliffjumper caught him with a restraining servo. Ambulon glanced towards him, something like recognition brightening his optics.

"I know you, scout." The Decepticon murmured, sympathy in his voice, "Your bonded dreams of you often."

Bumblebee's optics widened in pained surprise before narrowing in anger. He made to approach the Decepticon again, but a pointed look from Optimus had him returning, reluctantly, to his position.

"What do you want in exchange for this information?" Ironhide asked suspiciously, "You're sure as the Pit not giving it to us out of the goodness of your spark."

Ambulon inclined his helm minutely, "Clemency. For myself and my bonded."

"You turning paint, Decepticon?" Ironhide scoffed loudly, "Why should we trust you?"

"You don't have any other choice, not if you want to see him again."

The words were said so plainly and with such conviction that it made Ratchet's spark clench once again.

"If the information that you provide leads to Sam's return, then I will meet your conditions." Optimus rumbled, "But we will need proof of your claims."

Ambulon nodded, as though expecting this request. He tapped the side of his helm in warning and then Ratchet received a notification of a pending data transfer. He narrowed his optics as he reviewed the file's parameters. It was small, too small to contain a virus, and it was flagged as a memory datum. After a quick scan, he pinged the Autobot leader.

/I can find no evidence that the file contains malware. It should be safe to open./

Optimus inclined his helm slightly in permission, and Ratchet accessed the file.

The memory filed opened on the bridge of an unfamiliar warship—the Nemesis, Ratchet surmised. Then his spark lurched as the sight of Sam, curled up against a work terminal a short distance away from whoever was recording the file. The boy looked well enough, paler than usual and sporting a wound on his cheek, but otherwise much the same as he had looked before his capture.

Except, of course, for the naked animosity on his face. Sam glared at something just outside of Ratchet's field of vision, his body rigid with anger. Suddenly, his face twisted in discomfort and his eyes squeezed shut.

As Ratchet watched, Megatron lumbered into view as he approached the boy.

"If you feel the need to be reminded of your station, I am happy to do so." The Decepticon leader growled, causing Ratchet's fuel pump to quicken in anger, "But acting out will not end favorably for you."

After a moment, Sam forced his eyes open, glaring up at the warlord.

"Don't touch me."

Immediately, Sam cried out in pain, his hands flying to the sides of his head. Megatron crouched down in front of him, partially blocking Sam from Ratchet's view.

"You do not command me. I will not remind you again."

The ichor of the warlord's tone made Sam flinch in response, his eyes falling to the floor in front of him as his posture became unassuming and inoffensive.

After a long moment, Megatron rumbled lowly, "Now thank me for my patience."

Sam's eyes flew open, blazing like a demon's.

"Never." He spat, his entire body tensing with anger.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam cried out again in pain, writhing against the floor as Megatron watched on. Eventually, Sam's struggles quieted, the sound of his harsh breathing loud in the relative quiet of the bridge.

"Thank me for my patience." Megatron repeated, dangerously.

Sam did not reply. His eyes fluttered shut, lying against the deck of the bridge, resigned. It was not long before Megatron's optics narrowed in fury, and then Sam began screaming in earnest. He thrashed in agony, hands pressed against the sides of his head—

Ratchet abruptly found himself back within the privacy of his own processors as the file ended. He reeled with what he had just seen. To abuse a Creator bond to inflict suffering on a newspark was beyond perverse, beyond condemnation—it went against every line of his base programming.

Judging by the way that Prime had gone very still, his servos clenched into fists, he shared Ratchet's sentiments.

"Where is he?" Optimus demanded, his tone uncharacteristically sharp.

"They are in Chile, above the Andes mountain range." Ambulon said, before warning, "Do not think to assault the Nemesis directly. She is fully functional and carries a substantial armament."

"What would you suggest?" Prime asked at last, his voice calm and collected once again.

"My bonded is stationed on the ship. If you can provide me with the access codes to your ground bridge, then we can bring him to you."

Ratchet glanced at Optimus just in time to see the note of sharp consideration brighten his optics.

Chapter 9:

Sam jerked awake, gasping loudly in the stillness of the medical bay. Gentle servos pressed against him, restraining his body as he struggled instinctively against the berth.

"You're alright, Sam. I've got you." Knock Out said, soothingly.

It was a familiar refrain, that same one that had greeted him the last four times that he had awoken from stasis.

"How long?" Sam rasped.

Knock Out's mouthplates downturned slightly, but he replied, "Twenty-two days."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, as the fight slowly drained out of him. Twenty-two days in stasis this time; it had felt a lot longer. Once he realized that Sam was no longer in danger of injuring himself, Knock Out withdrew his servo, placing it flat against the berth beside him.

"How do you feel?"

Sam didn't turn to look at him, instead he stared unblinkingly at the ceiling of the hanger. It was the same question that he asked every time, even though Knock Out monitored him the whole while that he was in stasis. The medic knew exactly how he was feeling.

When Sam didn't reply, Knock Out ex-vented softly before helping him struggle into a sitting position. Once again, the medic drew the soft metalmesh around his shoulders, keeping the worst of the chill away. Although the medical bay was appreciably warmer than the rest of the ship, the air was still uncomfortably cool against his bare skin.

"Can you eat?"

Sam shook his head faintly. His stomach felt cramped and heavy, as if he were too full even though it had been three weeks since he had last eaten. Knock Out stared at him for a long moment before speaking.

"You need to eat, Sam." He admonished, "You're already losing weight."

Sam grimaced deeply, bitter resentment lodging itself in his throat. He wanted to make a smartass remark, to point out that Megatron could not be terribly concerned about his physical wellbeing if he was subjecting him to this in the first place, but he didn't have the energy. It was a familiar argument, one that he always lost.

"If I eat right now, I'm going to throw-up." Sam warned. Knock Out's faceplates twisted in response, but he eventually nodded his assent. The medic had learned the hard way that Sam wasn't bluffing when he said it.

"Alright, drink some water. You can eat when your stomach's settled." Knock Out replied, handing a bottle to him. Sam accepted the water, holding it in his lap for a long while. He sat there, shoulders curled forward and eyes half-lidded, as he waited for the queasy feeling in his stomach to abate. Eventually, he twisted off the cap and took a little drink. The water was cool and soothing against his throat.

Knock Out stood a short distance away, fiddling with a complicated-looking piece of machinery. Sam watched him, slowly sipping at his water, as the medic worked at disassembling it piece by piece. As though aware of the weight of Sam's regard, Knock Out glanced towards him.

"It's for repairing secondary pistons. Or rather, it would be, if it wasn't a piece of scrap." His words were punctuated with a loud clang as he tossed a circuit board into the garbage disposal beside him. Once the machine was mostly disassembled, Knock Out glanced back at him apologetically.

"You know that stalling won't help. You need to eat before you go back under, Sam."

Sam felt the familiar twist of anxiety in his gut. He couldn't do this, not again.

Knock Out turned to face him, something like reluctant sympathy on his faceplates, "Don't worry about that right now. Try to eat something, alright?"

After a long moment, Sam nodded faintly. Knock Out made an approving sound, sub-spacing a brown package before firing up his arm-mounted butane torch. The medic held the package near the flame, rotating it slowly, before wrapping it in a square of metalmesh and handing it to Sam. The second time that Sam had awoken from stasis, the gruel-like consistency of the cold MRE had almost made him vomit. Since then, Knock Out had taken to heating the meals before giving them to him.

Sam raised shaking fingers to tear the top off the package. He ate slowly, squeezing small bites of food into his mouth. The food was unevenly heated, but it settled comfortably in his stomach all the same, warming him from the inside out. He was half-way through the package when he thought to glance down at the label. It was beef stew, but he hadn't tasted a thing. He made his way through most of the meal before he lost his appetite. Sam set the package down on the berth, before picking up the bottle of water and taking another drink. In the periphery of his vision, he watched as Knock Out approached, and he braced himself for what was to come.

"Lay down, Sam."

"Knock Out, please… please don't do this."

Sam felt the medic's mental presence brush against him, gentle fingers soothing over his mind.

"It's me or him, Sam." Knock Out said softly, as though Sam needed the reminder. The third time that Sam had woken from stasis, he had fought the medic with all of his strength. He had been rewarded for his efforts with Megatron's mental presence slamming into his mind with the force of a sledgehammer. The warlord had lashed at him until Sam had submitted to Knock Out's ministrations without further protest. It was not an experience that he was keen to repeat.

Sam bit his lip until he could taste the copper tang of blood, "Please, Knock Out. Please. I can't do this."

Knock Out's mental presence took on an apologetic tone, edged with sympathy and regret.

"You can. Humans are annoyingly resilient, after all."

Although his tone was light, Sam could hear the gravity in his voice. He felt his heart start to hammer against his ribs, his breaths coming low and fast as the inevitably of his situation began to sink in again.

"Knock Out…" He said, unable to look at the medic as he quietly begged, "Please, help me. I can't do this for two years."

Rather than reply, Knock Out reached out a servo to guide Sam back down against the berth.

"Do you want to close your eyes?"

He didn't, but Sam squeezed them shut anyway.

"I'll be right here when you wake up."

Sam flinched as the medic's presence pressed into his mind. He barely had the time to brace himself before it felt as though the berth had dropped out from beneath him, and then he was back in stasis.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"What's wrong with him?"

The concerned words filtered through Sam's brain in fits and starts, but they held no meaning for him.

"Nothing's wrong with him." Knock Out snapped, "This happens sometimes."

Sam became aware of the discomfort in his body, bright points of pain blooming across his hips and shoulders. Was that important?

"Come on, Sam. Open your eyes for me."

It took a moment for the words to make sense, but when they did, he reluctantly obeyed. The medical bay was much the same as he remembered it—but he was startled to realize that Knock Out was leaning over him, pinning him against the berth with both servos. It was only then that Sam realized that he was thrashing violently beneath the medic, heels drumming into the metal as he struggled. The realization made Sam go still, all at once. He lay back against the berth, panting loudly as his earlier panic began to fade away. Knock Out watched him closely for a long moment—experience had taught him not to immediately recede at the first sign of submission—before he slowly withdrew his servos.

"Good, Sam. You're doing well." Knock Out praised gently, "Back with me?"

Sam nodded faintly, closing his eyes again.

"How long?" He asked at last. It hurt to speak—he must have been screaming again.

He felt, rather than saw, the medic's faint disapproval, "Eighteen days."

"Hanging in there, little Prime?"

Sam startled in surprise, glancing in the direction of the new voice. Thundercracker stood a short distance away, his arms crossed over his chassis. Although his posture was loose and relaxed, Sam could see the concern in his optics. After a moment, Sam looked away, trying not to dwell on the moisture gathering on his lashes.

"You're upsetting him." Knock Out hissed angrily. Thundercracker didn't move, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Sam's prone form. After a moment, the Seeker reached out a servo to stroke lightly down Sam's side. The touch was gentle, soothing.

"I brought you something. Can you sit up for us?"

Sam shuddered from head to toe, but he did not resist as Knock Out helped him into a sitting position. The medic made a sharp sound as Thundercracker reached for the metalmesh blanket, intercepting the Seeker to drape the material over Sam's shoulders himself. His slender tensors lingered for a long moment, squeezing lightly before drawing away.

Thundercracker extended his servo towards him and Sam glanced down in surprise. There, nestled in the cage of the Seeker's tensors, was a small, brightly colored package. It took him a long moment to realize that it was a bag of M&Ms—the sight of the confectionary was incongruous in the extreme. Sam glanced from the package to Thundercracker, confusion written all over his features.

Thundercracker's mouthplates quirked faintly, "Soundwave's symbionts can be resourceful."

The Seeker's words startled a quiet laugh out of him. Thundercracker gestured meaningfully with his servo, and Sam reached forward to retrieve the little package. He held it in his lap for a long while, staring down at it as he struggled to make sense of the complicated emotions welling up inside him.

"I used to eat these all the time when I was younger." He murmured at last, thumb stroking over the colorful wrapper. After a long moment, Sam tore the top off the package, pouring candy directly into his mouth. The chocolate flavor exploded over his tongue, almost painfully sweet after months of eating only protein and refined carbs. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste.

The whole while, Thundercracker and Knock Out watched him in silence.

By the time that Sam had finished the treat, he felt marginally better—or, at least, not at imminent risk of crying.

"Thank-you." He murmured, and he meant it.

"You're welcome." Thundercracker replied sincerely.

"Do you think that you could manage something more substantial?" Knock Out asked. Sam flinched at the words, unhappily reminded of their reason for waking him. He had been unable to stomach more than half of a pre-packaged meal the last two times that he'd come out of stasis, despite Knock Out's gentle and persistent coaxing.

"I'll try." He said at last.

At once, Knock Out's mental presence brushed across his mind approvingly. The medic went about the task of getting the MRE prepared, before handing it to Sam with a warning not to burn himself. He heaved a shuddering sigh before he set to the task of eating, wishing fervently to be anywhere else but there. He had barely finished a third of the package before he set it down abruptly.

"Sam, you need to eat more than that."

"I'm done, Knock Out." He replied tiredly, "Don't fuss at me."

Before Knock Out could wheedle him any further, Sam laid down against the berth, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. The medic's gaze sharpened in concern—Sam never laid down without being prompted.

"Sam, what can we bring you?" Thundercracker asked softly, "What would help?"

"Nothing, thank-you Thundercracker." Sam heard himself reply, his voice monotonous.

Thundercracker and Knock Out shared a meaningful look, but neither of them spoke a word. Eventually, Knock Out reached out to curl his servo around Sam's shoulder.

"Are you ready?"

Sam nodded faintly, and then a moment later, he was gone again.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

His first conscious thought upon waking was that it was unusually quiet in the medical bay. His second thought was the grim realization that it was quiet because he wasn't screaming.

After a moment, Sam winced his eyes open, blinking in the soft light of the hanger. After the first time that he had woken up, Knock Out had reduced the light level to ease the strain on his eyes. When Sam glanced down at himself, his eyebrows rose in surprise. There, lying pressed against his side with her head resting in his lap, was Ravage. The symbiont stared up at him, rumbling a long, low purr when she realized that he was fully awake.

"Hey you." Sam rasped softly. His voice was always rough now, ruined from months of silence interspersed with periods of frantic shrieking.

Ravage shifted, leaning more fully against him. It was a pleasant feeling, heavy and warm. Grounding.

"Good morning, little Prime."

Sam glanced around the medical bay, looking for Knock Out, but he was nowhere to be seen. Apprehension tightened in his chest immediately, his heartrate picking up as anxiety flooded through him in an instant.

"Be calm, your medic is on his way."

Sam glanced down at her uncertainly, but her voice was reassuring and unconcerned. Eventually, he felt himself relax as he settled back down against the berth. It wasn't until Knock Out walked into the hanger a moment later that Sam realized that he had not been offended by Ravage's implication.

"It's been ten days." Knock Out said, by way of greeting, before extending the familiar rations towards him. Sam frowned in confusion—he had never been in stasis for less than two weeks at a time since the beginning of his punishment.

"Your blood sugar is too low." Knock Out said, helping him into a sitting position, "You need to eat something."

He grimaced deeply. The last time that Sam had woken up, he had cried himself sick. After that, eating anything had been out of the question. To his surprise, Knock Out subspaced an unfamiliar looking bottle, which he promptly placed in Sam's lap after shooing Ravage away. The cybercat lifted her head, but otherwise did not move from his side. Sam reached forward to pick up the bottle, immediately recognizing the label. Megatron had given him the same electrolyte beverage when he had first been captured. Aware of the weakness of his body and the unsteady tremor in his hands, Sam opened the bottle without being told. It tasted salty and faintly sour, but he drank it anyway. When he had finished the bottle of fluids and his trembling had stopped, Knock Out handed him the pre-packed meal. Sam flinched away from him, unable to look up at the medic.

"You need to eat, Sam."

"I can't."

"Please try." Knock Out asked entreatingly. The earnestness and concern in his voice settled like a weight in Sam's gut. Tears blurred his vision before spilling over to run down his cheeks. He made no move to hide the fact that he was crying—there was no point.

"Hey, you're okay." Knock Out murmured, stroking the tips of his tensors up and down Sam's back. The touch was firm but gentle, comforting him as Sam cried quietly.

"I can't do this anymore." He choked after a long while, "I won't."

Knock Out crouched down so that they were of a similar height, never stopping the gentle touches up and down Sam's back.

"Yes, you can." He said firmly, his tone brooking no argument, "You're almost there, just four months left to go."

Sam laughed quietly, an ugly, broken sound. He would rather die than suffer another minute alone in the darkness of stasis.

"Think of your bonded, little one." Ravage urged him suddenly, "Bumblebee would not want you to give up."

He flinched as though she had physically struck him. All he did was think about Bumblebee. Sam was reasonably sure that the scout would understand, that he wouldn't want Sam to suffer any more. He glanced morbidly over the side of the berth—it had to be twenty feet to the floor. Not enough to do the job.

Knock Out hissed a harsh in-take.

"Don't think like that." Knock Out said, aghast, "Sam, don't ever."

Distantly, Sam realized that Knock Out could not have been following his thoughts while he was in stasis. He had thought of little else over the last ten days.

"Sam."

He glanced at the symbiont in surprise. It was the first time that she had ever called him by his name.

"If you die, your bonded dies." She rumbled in her usual direct manner. Sam waited for the burst of pain that should have lodged itself in his chest at the thought, but there was nothing. He felt hallowed out and empty, like a vacant shell.

"Here, Sam." Knock Out urged, cutting off the top of the pre-packaged meal before placing it in his hands, "Just try, alright? A few bites, that's all."

The medic nudged the package lightly before Sam finally raised it to his mouth. He ate slowly, staring at nothing in particular as he chewed and swallowed. Distantly, it occurred to him that he might have died that night in the forest and this was his own particular brand of hell. When the next bite made him wretch wetly, he put the package aside. After his stomach settled down, he laid back against the berth, pulling the blankets over him once again. Ravage curled her long body against him, the soft, low rumble of her purr vibrating through him. Sam let his eyes close, content to drift thoughtlessly beside her. Knock Out murmured at him encouragingly before pressing into his mind. He could feel the medic's guilt and remorse right up until he tumbled back down into the depths of stasis.

That morning was the last time that Knock Out was able to coax Sam to speak or to eat for a long while.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Deadlock frowned minutely, staring at the tracking system in front of him. Three glyphs that denoted each member of the command trine blinked in the upper corner of the display. They were half-way through their patrol, currently cruising at Mach 2 near the border of Argentina. As he watched, a fourth glyph appeared at the bottom of the screen with identifying markers of the Lord High Protector. He watched as the fourth glyph made its way towards the command trine until his chronometer flashed a warning across his primary visual display.

It was time.

He pushed back from his workstation, crossing the bridge to stand in front of the third-in-command. He inclined his helm deeply in greeting.

"The reports have been submitted and Lord Megatron has begun his patrol."

Soundwave turned slightly in his seat, his singular optic assessing him for a long moment.

"Deadlock: stands relieved." He rumbled at last in his unusual monotone.

Deadlock inclined his helm again before turning and striding out of the bridge. He walked purposefully down the corridor, making his way through the depths of the ship. It had been tense for the last four days, ever since Soundwave had observed increased air traffic in and out of Diego Garcia. The thought made irritation lance through his processors, but he set his frustration aside—he had to keep his wits about him.

As he turned down the long corridor towards the research section, he sent a ping to Barricade.

/I will be delayed. I must return to my quarters before joining you./

It was less than an astrosecond before he received a wordless acknowledgement in reply. The shock trooper had never been one for small talk, Deadlock mused to himself. He quickly checked his chronometer—ten kilks remaining—before making his way down the corridor. He stopped in front of a large set of doors, pressing the access code with a tensor.

His posture was loose and relaxed, his actions unhurried.

The doors slid open in front of him, and he stepped through without hesitation. The medical bay was quiet, lights dimmed to their lowest setting. He glanced around the room cautiously, looking for any sign of Knock Out or Hook. Satisfied that he was alone, the commando slowly made his way across the hanger. He stopped in front of the berth on the far side of the room. The young Prime lay perfectly still, eyes closed and covered to his shoulders with metalmesh. He looked almost peaceful lying there, but Deadlock knew better than to be fooled by his appearance. The boy's mental presence ached with mute agony, causing Deadlock to reinforce his firewalls as a precautionary measure. Having seen the aftermath of what had happened to Blitzwing, he was taking no chances.

When he was satisfied that his mental presence was sufficiently protected, he reached forward, hooking one servo under the boy's knee struts and the other under his shoulders, before picking him up.

"What are you doing?"

Deadlock turned, taking in the sight of Knock Out standing in the doorway of the medical bay. The commando winced internally, cursing his lack of good fortune. The medic was supposed to be in the labs.

Knock Out's optics narrowed dangerously, subspacing his energon shock probe with a flick of his wrist. The weapon sparked loudly in the sudden silence of the hanger.

"Put him down."

Deadlock transferred the bulk of the boy's weight into one arm, pressing his frail body against his chassis. In a single fluid motion, he pulled the large broadsword out of its scabbard on his back, activating it as he pointed the tip in the medic's direction.

"I have no wish to kill you, Knock Out, but I will if you stand in my way."

"Are you glitched? Megatron is going to peel you apart, panel by panel."

Deadlock made his way slowly across the hanger, approaching the medic who stood planted in front of the entryway. Knock Out tracked his movements with surgical precision, stabilizing servos spread wide in a combat-ready stance.

"Megatron is not here."

"What do you think you're going to do? Jump off the flight deck? You'll kill him."

Deadlock came to a stop half a dozen meters away from the medic, the tip of his broadsword pointed at his spark casing, "I'm going to ground-bridge out. Now get out of my way."

Something like consideration flickered through the medic's optics. For a moment, Deadlock was sure that he was about to step aside, that he would let him pass without quarrel. Then, the medic's brow ridges knit together with grim determination, and Deadlock tensed in preparation for a fight.

Knock Out stepped forward, extending his servos towards the fragile boy held tight against the commando's chest. Deadlock brought his broadsword down to press against the medic's chassis, hard enough to dent metal. If he pressed any harder, the sword would pierce through the plating to the sensitive circuitry underneath.

"Watch the paint job." The medic scoffed, slapping the sword away with the back of his servo, "You'll need both hands in case we run into resistance. Give him to me."

Deadlock narrowed his optics, "Do you think me so foolish—"

"I think you're exactly as dumb as your frame-type would suggest. I could have comm'd Soundwave the second I stepped through those doors."

"Not if you wanted to live."

"If I had an aversion to life-threatening peril, I wouldn't be deserting with an imbecilic front-liner who brought swords to a gunfight." Knock Out drawled, snapping his tensors impatiently, "It will probably be the last mistake of my tragically short life."

Deadlock stared at the medic for the space of an astrosecond, hesitating. It was not until an alert popped up on his primary visual display warning him of the time that he allowed Knock Out to take the boy.

"I hope you have a good plan, or we're scrap." Knock Out muttered, cradling the Prime in his arms.

Rather than reply, Deadlock stepped around the medic and walked into the corridor. He glanced behind him long enough to ensure that the red mechanoid was following him, and then he made his way out of the research section before heading towards storage.

"Any information that you could provide would be most helpful." Knock Out hissed, "I'm putting my aft on the line here."

Deadlock glanced sidelong at the medic, taking in the tension of his lithe frame. He had no intention of providing him with any information that could potentially compromise the mission or endanger his bonded. After a moment, he grunted, "It's been arranged. We need to get to the ground-bridge in the next four kliks."

"Arranged? Arranged with—oh, slag."

Both Deadlock and Knock Out came to an abrupt stop as they rounded the corner towards storage. There, standing in front of them with nearly identical expressions of surprise on their faces, were Detour and Growl.

"Deadlock, what are you—" Detour began, before his optics fell on the bundle in Knock Out's arms. It only took a moment for grim understanding to dawn on his face. Growl glanced from Knock Out, to his partner, and back again before his optics narrowed in vindictive pleasure.

"When Megatron melts you down, I am going to ask him for your Great Sword." The Micromaster said with a chuckle, powering up his ion canons, "It would be a just reward for apprehending two traitor—"

Growl's words cut off in a shriek of pain as Detour shoved his vibroblade between the Micromaster's sideplates, burying it deep within his chassis, before yanking it up to sever the main energon line. Bright fluid sprayed out of the wound as Growl tried desperately to staunch the flow with his servos. Deadlock was on him in an instant, driving his short sword into the flailing mechanoid's spark casing. With a crunch of metal and an audible crackle, his spark shattered. A moment later, Growl hit the floor of the corridor, motionless.

Detour's expression was inscrutable as he turned to regard Deadlock, "You have half a klik and then I am activating the tacnet. I will fire on either of you if I lay optics on you again."

Deadlock stared at the saboteur for a long moment before he gestured for Knock Out to follow him. The medic stepped around Growl's chassis, careful not to tread in the pool of energon that was rapidly spreading across the floor.

"We must hurry." Deadlock murmured, breaking into a quick jog as they retreated down the corridor. Knock Out glanced behind them briefly as he followed. Detour stood over his partner, wiping energon off his vibroblade with a neutral expression on his face. Knock Out shook his head in grudging admiration, before they continued through the storage section.

"How is he?" Deadlock asked, glancing around the corner towards the main cargo compartment. The passage was dark and quiet.

"He's alright." Knock Out said, after a while. His voice was tight with tension, "Where are we going?"

"The ground bridge." Deadlock replied as he rounded the corner, jogging toward the large doors at the end of the corridor.

Knock Out rolled his optics expressively.

"Yes, thank-you. I had gathered that fact." He replied sarcastically, "I meant afterwards."

"Scotland."

Knock Out frowned, confusion spreading through his processor. Before he could ask for clarification, however, the corridor went dark. A moment later, the dim glow of emergency lights came on at the same time that a klaxon started blaring through the hall. Deadlock and Knock Out glanced at each other for a brief moment, before they ran to the doors at the end of the corridor. Deadlock punched in the keycode and Knock Out could not hide his sigh of relief when the doors slid open.

Evidentially, Soundwave had not had time to lock down the ship.

The quickly stepped into the large hanger, making their way around storage crates and broken down equipment. There, in the middle of the large space, was the ground bridge arch. Deadlock stepped up to the control panel, powering on the machine and running through the start-up sequence.

Knock Out shifted from pede to pede, glancing anxiously at the doors behind them.

"Not to cramp your style, but you had better hurry your aft up. It won't be long before we have company."

"It takes time." Deadlock replied, not looking up from the control panel. His servos flew over the keyboard in front of him, typing in the necessary coding.

"How much time?" Knock Out demanded. He glanced down at Sam, before tucking the fragile boy closer to his chassis. The kid was going to get one hell of a surprise when he woke up—for better or for worse.

"As long as it takes." Deadlock replied, irritation edging his words.

"Look, I'm not telling you how to do your job—"

Knock Out was interrupted by the sound of shouting in the corridor. He stiffened from helm to pede, moving closer to the archway.

"Any time, Deadlock!"

The sound of shouting drew closer, the ringing of metal against metal growing louder as his former comrades approached the hanger. Red light spilled into the dim room as the double doors slid open.

"Now, Deadlock!" Knock Out hissed, hysteria leaking into his voice.

A brilliant blue-green miasma exploded to life within the archway, colors swirling in on one another. Knock Out glanced over his shoulder in time to see Detour, Shockwave, and Acid Rain run towards them with their canons charged and murder on their faces. Without waiting to see whether the connection was stable, Knock Out ran through the archway—

—straight into a cluster of Autobot troops. Optimus Prime stood front and center, battle mask engaged and his arm-mounted canon glowing brightly in the late-afternoon sun of northern Scotland. Knock Out could also make out Ironhide, Ratchet, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Bumblebee among the other soldiers gathered.

He stood dumbfounded for the space of a nanosecond before blurting, "Are you fragging kidding me right now?"

At the same time, Deadlock burst through the ground bridge, energon sword in hand.

"Shut it down!" He roared, pivoting in time to deflect a red blaster bolt that shot through the archway. Chaos erupted for a brief moment—ion and plasma fire streaked through the ground bridge in both directions. Knock Out clutched Sam closed to his chassis, tensing to jump out of the line of fire, when a blaster bolt caught him squarely in the back. He stumbled forward, curling his frame around the precious cargo in his arms. Suddenly, a red and white mechanoid was there, shielding Knock Out as he dragged him away from the arch.

A moment later, the blue-green miasma disappeared.

"Disassemble the arch." Deadlock ordered curtly, "Soundwave can certainly reverse-search these coordinates."

"Perceptor, make it quick." Optimus Prime commanded.

Knock Out ex-vented harshly, his primary visual display cascading with a series of warning messages and damage reports. The red and white mechanoid helped guide him to his knees.

"It looks worse than it is." He assured Knock Out, already wrist-deep in his spinal plating, "Let me get the energon bleed under control first, and then—"

Before the field medic could finish speaking, Knock Out glanced up to see Ratchet towering over him. The chartreuse CMO extended his servos impatiently.

"Give him to me. Now."

Knock Out hesitated, glancing down at the boy in his arms, before lifting him towards the Autobot medic. Ratchet took him without another word, jogging towards a second ground bridge located across the field. As Knock Out watched, Bumblebee separated from the others, following closely behind the medic as they stepped through the archway together.

A moment later, Sam was gone.

Knock Out grimaced as the field medic clamped his secondary energon line, before glancing over his shoulder at the mechanoid.

"Your technique leaves much to be desired." He commented dryly.

"You're welcome." The medic returned, just as dryly.

"What is the meaning of this, Deadlock?" Optimus Prime rumbled. Knock Out glanced up to see that the Autobot leader was staring down at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. It took him a moment to realize that Deadlock was on his knees, servos restrained behind his back. His weapons had also been removed, and were currently in the possession of the Autobot's bulky weapons specialist.

"He was the boy's primary care provider. He arrived at the medical bay shortly after I did." Deadlock said, a grimace twisting on his faceplates as a large red, white, and blue mechanoid pulled him to his feet.

"So he decided to tag along?" Ironhide sneered, looking up from the broadsword that he held reverently in his servos, "Knock Out's not known for his altruism."

"Perhaps not." Knock Out agreed blandly, wincing as the medic began soldering his tertiary spinal connectors, "But I am a pragmatist. I wasn't staying on the Nemesis to suffer Megatron's wrath."

"There's a big leap between desertion and defection." Ironhide scoffed, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

"Well, my illustrious companion didn't mention the fact that we were bridging into an Autobot encampment." Knock Out admitted, "But, since I'm here anyway…"

"Take them both to the Arc and process them." The red, white, and blue mechanoid ordered curtly.

"I'm going to need a minute here." The field medic said distractedly.

"First Aid, you can have all the time you need after we're back at Diego Garcia."

The medic huffed in exasperation, but dutifully stepped aside as Hot Rod and Cliffjumper pulled Knock Out to his feet. The Autobots made to guide him towards the ground bridge, when something possessed Knock Out to turn towards Prime.

"Wait." He called out. The Autobot leader turned slightly to regard him with solemn optics. Taking this as permission to continue, Knock Out said, hesitantly, "Sam… he's not well."

"Of course he's not well." Sunstreaker snapped, bristling, "He's been your prisoner for almost two years."

Knock Out ignored the warrior, staring meaningfully at Prime. After a moment, his primary visual display notified him of an incoming ping from a source with Autobot identifiers. Knock Out accepted the connection, immediately sending a simple data packet to the Autobot leader. A moment later, Prime's optics widened marginally in surprise, before narrowing in tightly leashed anger.

"Take him to the Arc." He commanded curtly.

Knock Out allowed himself to be steered towards the archway without another word.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam's first salient thought upon waking was that he was comfortable—a sensation that he had not felt in all the time that he had been a prisoner. Rather than the hardness of metal beneath his body and the cool chill of recycled air against his skin, he was ensconced in softness and warmth. He squinted open his eyes in confusion, glancing down at himself as he did so. He was lying on a hospital gurney, rather than the familiar berth, covered in heavy linen blankets.

All at once, he became aware of the warm presence in his mind. It wrapped closely around him, solid and comforting. His eyes snapped to the side, following the mental trail, to find Ratchet standing a short distance away. The medic's optics were soft, his expression openly concerned. Sam's heart lodged itself in his throat in an instant.

"Ratchet?" He whispered, disbelievingly.

"It's me." The medic said, stepping forward to cup a servo against Sam's shoulder.

Dread lodged itself like a spear in his chest, "What are you doing here?"

Ratchet stroked a heavy thumb across his shoulder blades. The gesture was familiar and soothing.

"You're not onboard the Nemesis, Sam. You're in the medical bay at Diego Garcia. Look." Ratchet swept his other arm wide, gesturing with a servo to the large hanger. Sam's eyes darted around the room, taking in the familiar sight of the berths arranged along the walls and medical equipment stored neatly on workbenches.

Sam felt his throat close up with emotion, tears gathering in his eyes.

"I'm dreaming. This isn't real."

Ratchet's mouthplates quirked in a smile, but his optics were fathomless.

"I assure you, Sam, this is very real."

Sam struggled into a sitting position, reaching out an unsteady hand to press flat against Ratchet's spark casing. The metal was warm beneath his skin, familiar blue light glowing from between his fingers. The sight caused his head to pitch forward, chin falling to his chest, as he started to cry. His thin body was wracked by the force of his silent sobbing, but his hand did not move from where it lay pressed against Ratchet's chassis. All at once, Ratchet's familiar presence filled their bond-space, concern and affection washing over him in waves. The medic stepped closer, curling forward to bracket Sam with his body, as his servos brushed down his back.

They stayed like that until the force of Sam's sobbing had abated. It was only then that he became aware of the sharp note of anguish and concern that niggled at the edge of his consciousness. Sam went rigid, his head snapping towards the hanger doors, as he threw himself at the winter-white glow that waited at the edge of his mind.

"Bumblebee!" He shrieked, and their bond flared to life in his mind.

Immediately, Bumblebee's holoform flickered into existence at his bedside. The holoform was much the same as he remembered, although the lines around his eyes were more pronounced. Sam kicked off the blankets before throwing himself at him with a cry. Bumblebee met him halfway, crushing Sam against his chest. He dug his fingers into the flesh of Bumblebee's arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

"I love you." Sam gasped, "I love you."

He felt a burst of love-agony-relief flare across their bond, as the holoform's arms tightened around him. There was the sound of rapid-fire transformation, and Sam opened his eyes to see Bumblebee crouching beside him in his bi-pedal mode. He let go of the holoform, reaching out his hands to grasp either side of his bonded's face. Bumblebee's optics were impossibly bright, brimming with barely contained emotion. After a heartbeat, the scout raised his servos to press gently against Sam's hands.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut again. If this is a dream, please God, let me die right now. I don't want to wake up.

Bumblebee made an anguished sound, his mental presence spilling across their bond-space to fill Sam's mind. It was reverent and longing, fierce and protective, and impossibly tender. It was a promise and an apology, both.

"Sam." Ratchet admonished gently, reaching forward to brush Bumblebee's servos away, before tugging at Sam's arms. All at once, Sam became aware of the sharp pain in his hands. It took him a long moment to realize that he had been gripping the edges of Bumblebee's faceplates until the metal had cut into the soft skin of his palms. He let Ratchet draw his hands away, but his eyes were glued to Bumblebee's optics.

"How?" He asked, at last.

"There was a coup. Three Decepticons defected, taking you with them when they fled."

Sam tensed, glancing at Ratchet as he spread cool gel over the cuts on his palms, "Who?"

"Ambulon, Deadlock, and Knock Out." Ratchet replied.

Sam's eyebrows rose to his hairline at the news, a flurry of emotion lodging itself in his chest. Knock Out had come—had helped to rescue him from that hellhole.

Ratchet glanced up at him, mild surprise in his optics. Sam flinched slightly, uncertainty and embarrassment combining to spread a flush across his face.

"He was kind to me." Sam said after a moment, an apology in his voice.

Ratchet's optics hardened as he leaned forward, gripping Sam's arms in his servos.

"You have nothing to apologize for." Ratchet said, his voice uncharacteristically emotive, "You did what you had to do to survive, there is no shame in that."

Sam stared up into Ratchet's face, searching for any hint of derision or disappointment. The medic's mental presence swelled across their bond—a complicated mix of concern, anger, and guilt—before he receded behind a heavy block. The sudden absence of his presence was like a cold dose of water, and Sam shivered in response.

"Don't… don't go." He said, hating the vulnerability in his voice, "Please."

He didn't want to be alone, not for another second.

Ratchet's optics flickered to his face, staring at him for a long moment, before the blocks in his mind shivered and fell away. The medic's presence filled his mind again, warm and comforting, as he drew Sam's mental presence towards him.

"Alright, Sam. It's alright." He murmured, "You aren't alone, not anymore."

Sam's eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of sincerity that thrummed through their bond. He leaned into their mental presences—his Creator and his bonded—allowing their light and warmth to keep the shadows of his mind at bay, at least for a little while.

Chapter 10:

"Sam." Bumblebee murmured softly, "Sam, come on. Wake up."

Sam groaned, turning his head to burrow his face into the pillow, before mumbling something that might have been interpreted as, "Leave me alone."

Although the pillow was thin and lumpy, it felt like heaven after two years of sleeping on the cold, hard floor or on an equally unforgiving berth. He lay there for a few moments, just beginning to drift off again, when Bumblebee gave his shoulder a little shove.

"Don't fall back to sleep."

"What do you want?" Sam grumbled into the pillow.

"It's time to get up." Bumblebee said apologetically, "You need to eat something."

"Bee, I haven't slept in two years. It can wait."

"Sorry, Ratchet's orders."

Sam groaned softly in response. After he had calmed down from their emotional reunion, Ratchet had been all business. The medic had brought him a simple meal, dry toast and applesauce, before setting up an intravenous fluid drip as Sam picked at the food. After he had finished eating, feeling uncomfortably full despite the meager portions, Ratchet had ordered him to get some rest. Sam had stared at him in disbelief, protesting that he had just woken up, but the medic had been as unyielding as iron. Before they could start arguing in earnest, Bumblebee's holoform had climbed onto the gurney, guiding Sam to lay down beside him. Bee had stayed there like that, gently stroking his fingers up and down Sam's back, until he had fallen to sleep.

The memory motivated him to turn his head slightly, squinting open his eyes. Bumblebee's holoform was still beside him; they laid facing each other, chest to chest, with their legs tangled together beneath the blankets. The holoform's expression was faintly amused, his lips quirked with the barest hint of a smile. The sight of him made Sam's lips curve upwards in a smile of his own—he had never woken up beside the holoform before.

"Good morning." Sam murmured, voice rough from sleep. He reached out a hand to trace the line of the holoform's jaw, brushing his thumb across his chin, "Is it morning?"

The holoform's eyes softened in fond amusement.

"It's one o'clock in the afternoon."

"How long was I out?"

"About ten hours. You can go back to sleep after you've eaten."

Sam huffed quietly, "Bee, that's been the tagline of my life for the last two years."

Although Sam had meant the words lightly, Bumblebee's expression darkened with a mixture of consternation, anger, and remorse. The holoform reached out a hand, pressing it firmly against the side of Sam's face.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam huffed again, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Hey, no brooding in bed. It's a major turn-off." He said, aiming for a teasing tone but falling flat. The holoform frowned faintly, but before he could reply, Ratchet's voice carried across the hanger.

"There's to be no anything in bed in my medical bay, you reprobates."

Sam lifted his head, glancing in the direction of the voice. Ratchet strode towards them, one servo cupped in front of his chassis, with exasperation written all over his faceplates. The dry reproach was so stereotypically Ratchet that Sam found himself grinning in response.

"Good afternoon to you too."

The medic stopped at his bedside, giving Bumblebee a pointed look, before turning his focus towards Sam. The holoform smiled at Sam apologetically before dematerializing from his side. A moment later, there was the sound of shifting metal, and then Bumblebee straightened to his full height beside Ratchet. Sam hadn't realized that his guardian had been waiting in his alt mode just a short distance away.

Sam's attention was abruptly pulled away from his musings as Ratchet initiated a sensor sweep. He grunted in surprise as the glitchy red scan swept him from his head to his toes, leaving an unpleasant pins-and-needles sensation in its wake. As soon as the red light disappeared, Ratchet leaned forward to place a tray on his overbed table.

"Your vitals are better this afternoon. How do you feel?"

Sam shrugged, pushing himself into a sitting position before pulling the overbed table closer towards him.

"Pretty good, I guess. All things considered." Sam glanced down at the tray, grimacing as he did so. Ratchet had brought him a thin broth, a Kaiser roll, and an individually wrapped package of saltines, "Don't get me wrong, I'll be happy if I never see another MRE again, but soup?"

Ratchet scoffed loudly, crossing his arms over his chassis, "If Knock Out had any sense at all, you wouldn't have been eating ready-made meals in the first place. Given your limited caloric intake and substantial metabolic stress, it could have killed you."

Sam frowned faintly, feeling inexplicably offended on Knock Out's behalf.

"He did the best that he could."

Ratchet stiffened, looking as though he were wrestling with the impulse to say something scathing at Knock Out's expense. Eventually, he ex-vented slowly before speaking with an air of affected calm.

"Be that as it may, you lost thirty-two pounds during your captivity. To avoid re-feeding syndrome, you will adhere to a strict diet for the next two weeks."

"Lucky me." Sam replied dryly, picking up his spoon. The soup steamed lightly in the cool air of the medical bay, thin and brown with finely diced vegetables. Eating with the IV taped to the back of his hand proved to be a nuisance, but he managed it. Ratchet watched him the entire time that he ate, his expression one of clinical focus. It was not until Sam was halfway through his soup that the medic spoke again.

"When you have finished eating, you can have a shower. Dave brought a change of clothing and toiletries while you slept."

Sam went rigid, his heart leaping into his throat as he looked up at the medic.

"He's alive, then?" Sam asked quietly.

Something softened in Ratchet's optics, "Yes, he's alive. Although he was seriously injured in the attack, he recovered without complications."

Sam swallowed hard, trying to control the emotions that swelled through him—relief, worry, guilt. After a moment, he realized that he was gripping the spoon so tightly that the tendons in his hand ached. Sam relaxed his grip with conscious effort, forcing himself to meet Ratchet's gaze again.

"Did anyone die?"

Ratchet's expression became inscrutable, neither his physical appearance nor his mental presence betraying anything of his emotions.

"I don't want you dwelling on that, Sam. You need to focus on your recovery right now."

Sam's eyes narrowed dangerously, irritation flaring through him in an instant.

"How many?" He demanded.

Ratchet's faceplates downturned in a disapproving frown, but before the medic could reply, Sam exploded.

"How many people died, Ratchet? Ten? A hundred? How many people did Megatron kill trying to find me?" Sam was shouting by the time that he had finished speaking, his voice strangled by the force of his anger.

Ratchet's expression cooled noticeably, "Thirty-one people died in the attack."

Sam stared at the medic uncomprehendingly, unable to process his words. He was distantly aware of the way his heart had started to beat erratically in his chest, causing his pulse to thunder in his ears, but it was a periphery concern. Barely noticeable.

Thirty-one people died because of me.

All at once, Bumblebee's holoform appeared on the berth at his bedside. He reached out, gripping both of Sam's shoulders, forcing him to turn towards him. The holoform's expression was grim and concerned, his grip bordering on painful.

"They didn't die because of you, Sam. They died because of Megatron." Bumblebee said earnestly, his eyes searching Sam's face, "You have to believe that."

Sam stared at him for a long moment, something ugly lodging itself in his chest. He squeezed his eyes closed, head tipping forward until his chin practically rested on his sternum.

"You can pretty it up however you like, Bee. Megatron came here for me." Sam said quietly. A thought suddenly occurred to him and Sam's head snapped up, fear replacing his bitter anger in an instant, "He's not going to stop. He promised me—wherever I go, he'll find me." Sam swallowed hard, "It's not safe here, not anymore. I have to leave."

Bumblebee's holoform didn't move, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into Sam's shoulders.

"You're safe, Sam. A lot has changed since the attack."

Sam felt his fear sharpen into the first stirrings of panic at the scout's comforting tone, "You're not listening to me! Don't you get it? He won't stop, not ever. As long as I'm here, everyone on this island is in danger."

"Calm down, Sam." Ratchet said, stepping closer to the berth. The medic's earlier disapproval had vanished, replaced by stark concern, "Bumblebee is right, the island is protected. You're safe."

Sam stared at the medic incredulously for the space of a second before he barked a sharp laugh.

"Yeah, I've heard that before."

Although Bumblebee flinched as though he had been struck, Ratchet did not react to his words. He continued to stare down at Sam, his visage calm and composed, with his arms folded loosely over his chassis.

"Wheeljack and Bluestreak have developed an energy barrier, which is currently encapsulating the base. We have also upgraded our energon detection network, extending its range to 100 kilometers in all directions. No one, Seeker or otherwise, is getting the drop on us again. If they try, then they will be shot out of the sky with our improved air defense system, courtesy of Red Alert and Ironhide." Ratchet's words were said matter-of-factly, as though he were sharing an indisputable truth, and Sam felt some of the tension leave his body. Bumblebee squeezed his shoulders again, brushing across his mind in a gesture that was both familiar and reassuring.

After a long moment, Sam found himself asking, "Red Alert?"

"Red Alert is our Security Director. There have been a number of new arrivals in your absence."

He was distantly aware that the medic was trying to distract him, but despite himself, Sam felt his curiosity pique at the information. When Ratchet was not forthcoming with any additional details, Sam sent a wordless pulse of frustrated inquiry across their bond. Only then, did Ratchet oblige him.

"Red Alert arrived with Inferno, a rescue bot, and Smokescreen, a diversionary tactician, approximately two months after the attack. Hoist, First Aid, Grapple, and Beachcomber arrived six months ago. Hoist and First Aid are part of the medical corps. Grapple is an architect and Beachcomber is a geologist."

"A geologist?" Sam repeated in surprise. He had never realized that geology was a viable career path for a Cybertronian, before or after the start of the Great War.

"A geologist." Ratchet confirmed, "He is the most solitary of the bunch, being what humans might call a tree hugger."

Sam's eyebrows flew up at the medic's dry tone, a grin splitting his face of its own accord, "A tree hugger?"

"I believe I have the correct vernacular. A tree hugger. A hippy. An anti-war naturalist."

Sam laughed, genuinely delighted with each new phrase that came out of Ratchet's vocalizer, "I can't wait to meet him."

"There will be time for all of that later. Do you feel up to a shower?" Ratchet asked, cutting off Bumblebee before his guardian could reply. Sam considered the question seriously, and then he nodded.

"Yeah, I think so." Sam said, hesitating, "Ratchet, listen—"

"It's alright, Sam. I'm not upset." Ratchet said, correctly interpreting Sam's disquiet, "Your apology is appreciated but unnecessary."

Sam brushed mental fingers over the medic's neural presence, trying to convey his appreciation across their bond. He felt Ratchet's huff of fond exasperation, before the medic's holoform materialized beside him. He watched as the holoform pushed the bedside table away and grasped Sam's wrist, efficiently disconnecting the extension tubing from the cannula of the IV. When he did not remove the IV itself, Sam glanced up at the medic in confusion.

"You are on full dose intravenous potassium, phosphate, calcium, and magnesium, and will be so for the next forty-eight hours." Ratchet explained, helping him pull the blankets down. It was only then that Sam noticed that he was dressed in a familiar hospital gown. Ratchet's bipedal mode stepped close as his holoform helped him off the gurney, before extending his servo towards him. Sam climbed unsteadily into the medic's palm, and Ratchet brought him close to his chest as he crossed the hanger.

To Sam's surprise, he noticed a previously unnoticed door that was set into the wall at the back of the room. The door was human-sized, standing in stark contrast to the alienness of the medical bay. He hesitated for a long moment, before glancing up at the medic.

"That's new, right? I mean, I've spent a lot of time here, and I don't remember seeing that before."

Ratchet ex-vented a snort, "Yes, it's new. Given your natural proclivity for injury, I decided to make some changes to the medical bay to better accommodate you."

The Chief Medical Officer lowered into a crouch, setting Sam on his feet. Immediately, Ratchet's holoform appeared beside him again, stepping forward to push open the door on his behalf. The room within was small, containing a sink, toilet, and an open air shower. He felt a twinge of appreciation for Ratchet's consideration—after Ripcord's attack, Sam had had his fill of bedpans and sponge baths.

As he stepped through the door, Sam noticed a pile of clothing and a small mesh bag on the countertop.

"There is a bench in the shower. Please use it." Ratchet said, and then his holoform disappeared.

After a moment, Sam stepped forward, running his fingers over the pile of clothing on the countertop. Long sleeved Henley shirt, jeans, boxers, socks. A pair of sneakers. Beside it all, a small pack of toiletries. He unzipped the mesh bag to find, among other items, a travel-sized toothpaste and a toothbrush.

Sam grimaced, suddenly aware of the carrion taste in his mouth. He picked up the toothbrush and toothpaste, before proceeding to scrub two years' worth of buildup off his teeth and tongue. When he finished, he picked up the mesh bag and made his way over to the shower before turning the temperature gauge to its high setting. At once, water streamed from the showerhead set in the ceiling. With it, came a flood of unwelcome memories.

The stringent smell of cleanser, steaming in the cold air of the wash racks.

The sensation of metalmesh scrubbing across his skin, leaving unforgiving redness in its wake.

Megatron's pleased rumble, servos on his body as he pressed Sam towards the shower—

Sam jerked away, gasping loudly as he came back to himself. As he stood there, clutching the mesh bag in his hand and shivering uncontrollably, he became aware of Ratchet's quiet scrutiny. He tried not to flinch under the weight of the medic's regard, embarrassment and shame combining to spread a flush across his face.

"It wasn't always like that." Sam said quietly, voice barely audible over the drumming of the water against the tiled floor, "He usually let me shower by myself."

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Ratchet brushed mental fingers across Sam's mind. The touch was comforting, pacifying, and utterly non-judgmental. Sam's eyes fluttered shut as he leaned towards the sensation. He stayed like that until the remnants of his flashback faded away. By the time that he opened his eyes again, the bathroom had become foggy with steam.

The whole while, Ratchet's mental presence was a model of control, betraying nothing of his emotions.

Sam sighed softly, steeling himself with grim determination as he pulled the hospital gown off his body. He placed the mesh bag in the alcove set into the shower wall, took a deep breath, and stepped into the flow of water. The shock of heat went straight through him—it was almost painfully hot, nothing like the warm spray of solvent that he remembered. His head pitched forward and he groaned—it felt amazing. He sat there for a long time, letting the water cascade down his back, before he eventually picked up the mesh bag and got to work cleaning himself. He scrubbed with more force than strictly necessary, determined to remove every trace of the Nemesis off his person.

When he finally shut off the shower, his skin was tender and pink. Sam dried himself with the towel that Ratchet had left him, before making his way over to the sink. As he pulled the pants up over his hips, he realized that the clothing fit comfortably, despite his weight loss. Sam's lips quirked fondly.

Carter works fast.

Sam pulled the shirt on over his head, before sitting on the floor to put on his shoes and socks. When he finished, he slung the towel over his shoulder and made his way back into the medical bay. Bumblebee was waiting in his alt mode a short distance from the door, while Ratchet had assumed his familiar position at the workbench halfway down the hanger.

"So, I should probably go see a dentist." Sam said conversationally.

"Although my sensors did not detect any significant damage, you are scheduled to see an ophthalmologist and a dental surgeon this afternoon." Ratchet said, glancing in his direction, "After you've seen Dr. Anderson."

Sam frowned, coming to a stop next to Bumblebee. He leaned one hip against the Camaro, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I don't need a psych-eval, Ratchet." He protested, hating the defensiveness in his voice. They all knew exactly how fucked up he was, no evaluation necessary.

"No, you don't. Dr. Anderson wants to outline your treatment schedule."

Sam's frown deepened, anxiety stirring in the pit of his stomach. Although Karen had been his therapist since he had arrived at Diego Garcia, the idea of sharing this aspect of himself with her was intolerable. He had no desire to talk about what it felt like to be tortured, physically and mentally, until he had contemplated suicide. It was too raw. Too soon.

Sam's train of thought was interrupted by a soft, hesitant caress across his mind. He glanced down at the Camaro in surprise, sending a wordless pulse of inquiry across their bond.

/Please, Sam. Go see her, hear what she has to say./ Bumblebee implored, /She can help./

The scout's mental voice made his heart flutter painfully in his chest; it had been two years since he had last heard it. Sam reached out instinctively, pressing against the warm, winter-white glow in his mind. It was security and comfort and love—perfect in every way. All at once, Sam realized that he couldn't refuse the scout's request.

"Yeah, alright." He murmured, "But I'm not making any promises."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The meeting with Karen went about as well as could be expected.

Evidentially keen to capitalize on Sam's pliant mood, Ratchet had sent him straight to South Quad. The drive through the bridge had been strangely disorienting. Although everything was the same as he remembered it, it was also completely different. He felt like an outsider again, an interloper, who did not belong among the soldiers and civilian support staff that they passed. The walk through South Quad to Karen's office had been equally off-putting. The curious glances that he received from passersby, tinged with recognition and sympathy, had set his teeth on edge. By the time that Karen welcomed him into the familiar room, with its comfortable seating and pleasantly neutral decor, he had been in a bad temper.

To her credit, Karen took his bullshit in stride. She neither commented on nor reacted to his sarcasm or biting remarks, instead steering the conversation towards neutral territory. When she had broached the topic of his treatment regimen, Sam narrowed his eyes at her.

"No."

Karen tilted her head considerately, "Do you have a reason for your objection?"

"I don't need anti-depressants."

"Sam," Karen started, in what he had come to think of as her therapist's voice, "There is nothing wrong with requiring a little help to get back to baseline. Sertraline and paroxetine are both widely prescribed for post-traumatic stress disorder and panic attacks."

Sam worked his jaw for a moment, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair.

"I just don't want them."

Karen leaned forward, hands clasped together and resting on the desk in front of her, "Sam, you were suicidal thirty-four days ago. Can you look me in the face and tell me that I don't have a reason to be concerned?"

"Thirty-four days ago, I was being tortured." He snapped, letting his head fall against the back of his chair. He stared up at the familiar ceiling for a long moment. If memory served him correctly, there were seventeen tiles there.

"You were." Karen agreed, "And for almost twenty months prior to that as well."

He did not reply. Yup. Seventeen tiles.

"Sam, you don't just 'get over' something like captivity, torture, and forced isolation because you got to come home. An experience like that lingers, and it will eat you alive if you don't let me help you."

He swallowed hard, lifting a shoulder in a careless shrug.

"Fine. Whatever you think."

Karen stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, before leaning back in her chair.

"Alright. I want to start you on sertraline at 25 milligrams a day. We can adjust your dosage, or add additional medication, depending on the severity of your symptoms. We will also resume our bi-weekly sessions, Tuesdays and Fridays. Do you have a time preference?"

Sam winced his eyes shut.

"Sam?"

"No, no preference."

"Let's start at our old time, then. One o'clock. If you want to adjust our meeting times, we can do that." She said, clicking a pen before jotting something down on the pad in front of her, "In between sessions, I want you to start exercising."

Sam lifted his head from the back of his chair, a frown knitting the space between his eyebrows.

"Karen, I've lost thirty-two pounds. There's no way that Ratchet will sign off on that."

She huffed a soft laugh, "Nothing too strenuous, and not without Ratchet's approval. Light impact cardio shouldn't be an issue—walking, swimming, cycling, whatever you prefer. So long as it gets you outside and moving."

Sam heaved a sigh, "Fine. How often do I have to do this?"

This time, it was Karen's turn to frown.

"This isn't a punishment, Sam. Sunshine, socialization, and endorphins can contribute to positive mental health as much as SSRIs and therapy."

"Fine."

"Alright, well, in the meantime you should rest and recuperate."

"Will do."

Karen gave him a piercing look, as though she were trying to see inside his head. After a protracted pause, she stood up and gestured for him to join her. They walked out of the office together, into the small receiving area. It was empty, this late in the day, and Sam stood by impatiently as Karen booked their next eight sessions. Then she turned to look at him, a smile warming her face.

"Thank-you for coming today, Sam. I'll see you on Friday."

He murmured his farewells, before turning on his heel and leaving the office. He tried not to dwell on the fact that his hasty departure felt like a retreat. Bumblebee's holoform was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall with a patient expression on his face.

"I'm heading to Ops." Sam said, by way of greeting, before walking in the direction of Dave's office. Bumblebee fell into step beside him without comment. They were quiet as they walked, with Sam turning over his conversation with Karen in his mind. Bumblebee seemed to appreciate his need for silence, and the scout respected his introspection. It was no time at all before they turned down the familiar hallway, with its faded patterned carpet and doors that were set in both walls at even intervals. It was unbusy, this late in the day, with most of the support staff having left at five o'clock. One door was cracked open, however, spilling mellow light into the hallway.

Sam stopped in front of the office, rapping on the door with his knuckles.

"Come in." Dave's voice called out, and Sam felt his heart start to beat harder against his ribcage. He reached forward to push open the door, revealing the tastefully decorated space. Dave sat behind his L-shaped desk—sans jacket, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—with a focused expression on his face. He looked exactly the same as Sam remembered him: clean shaven, well groomed, with an open, friendly demeanor.

It took a second before Dave's eyes widened in recognition and surprise. He was on his feet in an instant, making his way around the desk. Before Sam could say a word, the agent grabbed him in a tight hug.

"Jesus, Sam. I'm so glad you're back."

Sam's lips quirked in a faint smile as he lifted his arms to return the agent's hug. "I'm glad you're okay. I was worried about you."

Dave pulled back, holding him by the shoulders as he huffed a laugh, "That's my line."

Sam smiled at him, before his eyes fell to the agent's chest. He could remember the sight of blood blossoming across Dave's shirt like it was yesterday. Dave frowned faintly, obviously following Sam's train of thought.

"Hey." Dave said, catching Sam's attention, "I'm fine. All good."

Sam got a grip on himself, forcing the smile back onto his face.

"I'm really glad to hear it. Listen, I wanted to say thank-you for the clothes. I appreciate it."

Dave shrugged noncommittally, but his expression was amiable, "No problem, it's my job."

The words startled a genuine laugh from Sam, "Is Optimus still working you too hard?"

Dave laughed lightly, inclining his head towards the stack of papers on his desk.

"He's not not working me too hard." He replied good-naturedly, "But I like it."

"Of course you do. You're a masochist."

Dave laughed again, the skin around his eyes crinkling in amusement. Abruptly, Sam felt uncomfortable and out of place, incongruous amongst the keepsakes and the mementos of the office.

"Look, I don't want to keep you." Sam said before Dave could reply, stepping away as he pushed his hands into his pockets, "I just wanted to drop by to say hello."

"I'm so glad that you did." Dave replied sincerely, "As soon as Ratchet lets you out from under his thumb, let's grab something to eat at the Hall."

"So, never then?" Sam asked, forced levity in his voice.

"Hopefully not that long."

Sam knew a moment of awkward anxiety, unsure how to extricate himself from the agent's office, when Bumblebee stepped into the doorway.

"I'm sorry, Ratchet wants Sam back at medical."

Dave's eyebrows rose to his hairline, "No, of course. Thanks for coming by, Sam."

Sam nodded at the agent, waving good-bye, before he stepped into the hallway. They were out of Ops, halfway back to the bridge, when he glanced over at Bumblebee with a faint smile of appreciation.

"Infiltrators really are excellent liars."

Bumblebee graced him with a broad grin, "The best."

Chapter 11:

After they left South Quad, Bumblebee informed him that they had forty minutes before his seven o'clock appointment. Sam huffed a sigh as he walked towards the gleaming yellow Camaro parked just outside of the quad entrance. Bumblebee popped open his door as he approached, and Sam climbed into the familiar cab without hesitation. He shifted against the leather seat, reaching out to brush a thumb over the Autobot emblem set into the steering wheel.

"What are the new guys like?" He asked after a moment, surprising himself.

Bumblebee's door closed with an audible snap, the dash lights brightening as his engine turned over.

"I don't know them that well." He admitted after a moment, accelerating through the bridge, "Red Alert is nice but paranoid, although he is a security director. He and Inferno have been partners since before the Great War."

Bumblebee slowed down in order to turn into the receiving room. The large hanger was busy, despite the hour. On one end of the room was a long row of terminals and monitors, at which sat a cluster of busy looking technicians. Soldiers in full combat gear were stationed at both entrances, M4s held securely across their chests. At the opposite end of the room, standing close to the lift, were two unfamiliar mechanoids. One was red, blue, and silver with a large blaster mounted to each shoulder pauldron. His companion was a bulky mechanoid, plated entirely in yellow and blue. As Bumblebee drew closer, Sam could see that they were engaged in an animated discussion.

"Smokescreen and Grapple." Bumblebee explained, sensing his curiosity. Something about his guardian's tone took Sam by surprise, and he glanced down at the dashboard.

"Not friends of yours, I take it?"

Bumblebee chirped at him, "Smokescreen is a diversionary tactician, but he should have been in Spec Ops. He reports everything that he sees straight to Prime."

Sam's lips twitched up, "So he's a snitch, then?"

"He's an excellent soldier and a valuable ally." Bumblebee said, amusement in his voice, "But yes, he's a snitch."

The two Autobots turned to regard Bumblebee as he accelerated towards the lift. The yellow and blue mechanoid raised a hand in a friendly wave, and Bee flashed his high beams in response.

"Grapple, he's the architect?"

"He is. He's also bonded to Hoist."

Sam glanced at the dash in surprise, before his gaze flicked back to the yellow and blue mechanoid. The Autobot was staring down at them, curiosity written all over his faceplates. After a moment, they made eye contact through the windshield, and Grapple waved again. Sam hesitantly raised his hand and waved back as Bumblebee came to a stop on the lift. They waited as a number of people shuffled forward to join them, and then the lift began to rise towards the ceiling.

"The newcomers… do they think it's strange? That we're bonded?" Sam asked.

"They were surprised, certainly. If you are asking whether they disapprove, then no." Bumblebee responded, before his voice turned reassuring, "Their opinions wouldn't matter to me either way, Sam. You're mine."

Sam was blindsided by the way Bee's words cut through him, causing him to flinch back against the seat. He could almost hear Megatron's smooth voice, rumbling that same hated phrase—You are not a lesson, you're mine. Now and always.

"Sam." Bumblebee murmured, horrified, "I'm sorry."

The scout's words snapped Sam back to himself. It took a long moment before he could reply around the lump in his throat.

"Don't be." He said roughly, "You're right, I am yours. Only yours."

Bumblebee brushed mental fingers across his mind, as though in agreement. When the lift finished its ascent, Sam was surprised to see that the building at ground-level was nothing like he remembered. Rather than the large, empty hanger, he found himself within a smaller vault-like structure. Bumblebee accelerated forward as the heavy blast doors in front of them slowly opened, spilling sunshine into the dusky space.

"Security upgrades?" Sam guessed dryly.

"Security upgrades." Bumblebee confirmed.

They pulled out onto Britannia Way, accelerating towards the opposite end of the Downtown area. Sam glanced around them with undisguised curiosity. The base was largely the same as he remembered, but as they approached the dining facility, Sam realized that many of the buildings were unfamiliar to him. He glanced down at the dashboard, looking for an explanation.

"Megatron and Acid Rain heavily damaged this part of the base. We had to rebuild the administrative buildings from scratch, and the old dining hall had to be torn down."

Sam frowned, a sharp sense of loss needling him at the scout's words. He had spent many evenings at the Hall with the guys, watching football and drinking. It was how he had come to join their social group, friends despite the differences in their age and experience. Although the Hall was just a building, its destruction stung all the same.

Bumblebee continued past the edge of Downtown, driving west towards Simpson Point. It took less than five minutes before they pulled up to the secluded beach, with its white sand and scrubby brush dotting the high water line. Bee popped open his door, but Sam didn't move—he sat stiffly in the driver's seat, staring straight ahead. His guardian said nothing, waiting patiently for him to come to a decision. Eventually, Sam uncurled his fingers from the steering wheel and climbed out of the cab. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets, staring out at the vast expanse of cerulean water, as Bumblebee reversed. A moment later, the scout transformed into his bipedal mode and crouched down beside him.

"I always liked it here." Sam said quietly, "It's peaceful."

Bumblebee whistled at him contentedly, reaching forward to stroke a heavy digit down his spine. Sam glanced up at him, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He enjoyed the feeling of Bumblebee's hands on him, whether mechanical or holoform. His touch always left a pleasant warmth in its wake. Sam reached out, brushing against the side of Bee's face affectionately. The scout shuttered his optics, warbling something quietly in Cybertronian in response.

Sam didn't need to speak the language to know what it was that Bumblebee had said.

"Right back at you." He replied.

They stayed like that for the better part of ten minutes, not speaking but communicating volumes through touch and emotion. Eventually, Bumblebee straightened up, looking down at him in regret.

"We have to go. You're due at medical in ten."

Sam stepped away, letting Bumblebee transform, before climbing into the scout's cab. They drove back towards the Downtown in silence. Bumblebee parked outside of the medical facility, and then they made their way into the building. It was surprisingly busy, with people in varying states of dress sitting around the large waiting room. The space could have been in any clinic in Middle America—generic prints hanging on the walls, side tables filled with old magazines, and signage with bland but obvious medical advice posted around the room. Bumblebee walked straight to the reception desk, speaking quietly with the man sitting behind the counter. The private glanced in Sam's direction, before standing and gesturing for them to follow him.

Eventually, Sam found himself in a small, dark room with an assortment of unfamiliar looking machinery. A heavyset, middle-aged doctor entered shortly thereafter, introducing herself as Dr. Wiley, before proceeding with Sam's eye exam. He dutifully answered the questions that she put to him, holding the black spoon over one eye and then the other, as he read from the chart on the opposite wall. When he finished, she instructed him to sit in front of the nearest piece of machinery. The doctor talked as she worked, explaining the purpose of the tonometer, before telling him to "Hold still, little puff of air."

He could not prevent the full-body jerk that happened when the jet of air hit him in the eye.

"That is the most unpleasant thing I have ever experienced." He said conversationally, before grudgingly resuming his position in front of the machine.

"Yeah, no one likes the tonometer."

There was another puff of air, but despite knowing what to expect, Sam still jumped in his seat.

"Okay, one more."

Sam made an exasperated sound before resuming his position. The doctor repeated the test with his other eye, and by the time that she was finished, Sam's skin was crawling. As they made their way out of the exam room and towards dentistry, Sam muttered peevishly to Bumblebee, "If Megatron ever runs out of new ideas for torture, I can give him a few pointers."

Bumblebee turned to look at him, expression aghast, but Sam merely lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

His appointment at dentistry was less uncomfortable, at least. He was x-rayed and examined, before being sent to the dental hygienist for a cleaning. He stared at the television in the ceiling, aware of Bumblebee's quiet scrutiny across their bond, as the young woman worked on him. In no time at all, he was on his way towards the parking lot, with the taste of fluoride in his mouth.

As Sam climbed into the driver's seat, he became acutely aware of his exhaustion. It pulled at him, body and mind, and he scrubbed a hand over his face as Bumblebee turned onto the road. The sun was low in the sky, painting the horizon in brilliant oranges and pinks, as they drove back towards the Hive. Sam stared at the sunset unthinkingly right up until the moment that Bumblebee drove into the bunker. As the heavy blast doors lumbered shut behind them, the warm light vanished. Sam closed his eyes, turning to press his cheek against the supple leather of Bee's seat. He stayed like that, silent and unmoving, until they pulled into Ratchet's medical bay.

It took a monumental effort for Sam to climb out of Bee's cab. Ratchet stood by his berth, arms folded over his chassis, with a clinical expression on his face. Sam ambled towards him, hands in his pockets and a weary stoop to his shoulders.

"You've been given a clean bill of health by Drs. Wiley and Scott. How are you feeling?"

"Tired." Sam admitted.

Ratchet nodded faintly, crouching down as he extended a servo towards him, "That is understandable. You can rest after you've eaten."

It was a testament to his exhaustion that Sam let the comment pass without complaint. Ratchet set him down on the berth, and Sam took off his shoes and jeans, before climbing onto the gurney. As soon as he was settled, Ratchet's holoform appeared beside him. The medic reconnected the intravenous tubing to the cannula taped to the back of his hand, before adjusting the clamp at the bottom of the bag of fluids. Sam leaned back against the pillows, pulling the blankets over his legs. A moment later, the holoform pushed the overbed table towards him. Sam glanced down curiously to see that Ratchet had brought him a tray from the cafeteria—oatmeal, yogurt, and a banana. Beside the plate was a small, familiar paper cup. He frowned faintly, feeling inexplicably irritated at the sight of the medication. It was not as though Karen was going to forget about their conversation.

"I'll lower the lights. Eat as much as you can." Ratchet instructed, before he moved away.

Sam obediently picked up the banana, peeling it with a well-practiced motion, as Bumblebee accelerated forward to park a short distance away. He started working through his dinner, but he had barely put a dent in the oatmeal before he was nodding off. A moment later, warm hands were on his shoulders, gently guiding him to lay back against the mattress. Sam blinked up at Bumblebee's holoform, who moved the overbed table aside, before lying down on the gurney beside him. Sam sighed softly, shifting forward to tuck his nose into the crook of the holoform's neck. He felt a fierce swell of affection from across their bond, a moment before Bumblebee draped an arm across his waist.

Sam was asleep moments later.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam dreamed as he always did, in snatches of memory and emotion. Imagery skipped across his mind, simultaneously logical and bizarre. Ravage, padding along beside him as he walked through Ops. Bumblebee crouched in front of him, handing Sam a package of candy. Optimus frowning down at him, disappointment written all over his face.

"Tell me, what would Optimus Prime think of that?"

A sudden, loud crash startled Sam into wakefulness. He surged upwards in bed with a choked cry, panic seizing him in an instant. Hands were on him a moment later, restraining and firm. Unthinkingly, Sam lashed out, struggling to get away from the blankets tangled around his legs. A warm body pressed against his back, wrapping him in a bear hug that pinned his arms to his sides.

"Sam." Bumblebee said sharply, his voice breaking through the haze of Sam's panic, "You're okay. I've got you."

His breath came in shuddering gasps as reality slowly reasserted itself. He blinked rapidly, realizing all at once where he was. The medical bay was almost exactly the same as it had been before he fell asleep, with one glaring exception—an unknown Autobot stood halfway across the hanger, an empty box in his servos, as dozens of metal cylinders rolled across the floor in every direction. The red and white mechanoid was perfectly still, an expression of guilty remorse on his face.

He stared at the stranger for the length of a heartbeat, before blurting incredulously, "Who the hell are you?"

Realizing that Sam was fully cognizant again, Bumblebee's grip around his mid-section loosened.

"Sam, meet First Aid. First Aid, meet Sam." Bee said dryly.

"Please accept my sincere apologies, Sam. I feel terrible." First Aid said contritely, bending down to gather the cylinders back into the box.

"Not as terrible as you're going to feel in about thirty seconds." Bumblebee replied blithely.

First Aid ex-vented a loud sigh, as though in resigned agreement. Sam glanced over his shoulder at the holoform in confusion, but before he could ask for clarification, the doors to the hanger banged open. Ratchet stalked into the medical bay with all the fury of a hurricane, pointing at First Aid as he snapped a question in Cybertronian. First Aid whistled apologetically, gesturing towards the crate that he held. Ratchet's optics flashed dangerously as he exploded into an angry tirade.

Sam didn't need to understand the language to know that Ratchet was being decidedly unflattering. He leaned back against Bumblebee, feeling a swell of sympathy for the other medic. The holoform's hands splayed over Sam's stomach, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into his skin. As First Aid retrieved the last of the canisters, he glanced in Sam's direction.

"It was nice to meet you, Sam. I am sorry that it wasn't under better circumstances."

Sam's lips quirked in a smile. The Autobot's voice was kind, his entire demeanor open and friendly.

"It was nice to meet you too."

First Aid crossed one arm over his chassis, bending deeply at the waist, before he turned and made his way out of the medical bay. Sam huffed softly, disquieted by the familiar gesture.

"I wish they would stop doing that." He muttered.

"They bow to you not only to honor what you have done, in saving Prime's life, but also to keep the spirit of our people alive." Ratchet admonished, crossing the bay towards him. He came to a stop a short distance away, tilting his head in open consideration, "How are you feeling?"

Sam laughed softly, "I'm fine. I've had worse wake-up calls."

At his words, Bumblebee's arms tightened around him, before he withdrew entirely. Sam glanced over his shoulder, frowning as realization dawned on him.

"Did I hit you?"

"You did. Nice right hook." Bumblebee replied, lips twitching precariously.

Sam huffed at him in exasperation, "Not funny."

"It was a little funny."

Sam rolled his eyes, but before he could quip back, Ratchet reached forward to grasp his arm. With exaggerated gentleness, the medic turned his wrist over, examining the cannula on the back of his hand. Sam followed his gaze, grimacing as he realized that blood had spiderwebbed beneath the tape affixing the IV. He must have struck it while he struggled.

"I'll re-bandage that." Ratchet said briskly, before walking across the medical bay. He returned in short order, carrying a tray of supplies. A moment later, his holoform flickered to life beside him, and Sam surrendered his arm without complaint. He watched curiously as Ratchet peeled away the tape, staunching the sluggish bleeding with gauze. When the white cotton came away clean, he sterilized the apparatus and re-affixed it to the back of his hand. After he had finished, and the end result met with his satisfaction, Ratchet glanced back towards him.

"Can you eat?"

Sam shrugged, "Yeah, sure."

Ratchet made an approving noise, "I've ordered a tray for you. It will be here shortly."

The medic turned, walking across the medical bay to his workbench, where he proceeded to work on a complicated looking piece of equipment. Sam watched him curiously for a moment, before glancing back at Bumblebee's holoform. He lay beside Sam on the gurney, propped up on one elbow, watching him with a quiet expression on his face.

Sam smiled fondly, reaching out to card his fingers through Bee's short, sandy hair. The strands were soft, although stiffer than human hair might be, but otherwise indistinguishable from the real thing. Sam dropped his hand to trace Bee's jawline, ghosting his thumb over the holoform's bottom lip. An indefinable emotion gripped him, lodging itself deep in his chest, and Sam leaned down to brush a soft kiss against Bumblebee's mouth. He felt his bonded's lips curve in a smile before the holoform kissed him back. It was a gentle press, chaste and affectionate, before he pulled back far enough to murmur, "What brought this on?"

"I have no idea." Sam laughed lightly, "I guess the fact that you know how to take a punch is a turn-on."

Bumblebee chuckled, but before he could reply, a familiar voice called out across the hanger.

"Look at you two! You are just adorable."

Sam glanced across the room, his entire face lighting up with a genuine smile as he saw Hot Rod walking towards them.

"Roddy!" He said with a laugh, "What are you doing here?"

"I come bearing gifts!" He replied, stopping in front of the berth before extending a servo towards him. He glanced down, surprised to see a cafeteria tray in his palm. Sam's lips twitched as he reached forward to retrieve the tray.

"Thanks man." He said sincerely as he placed the tray on his overbed table, "How'd you get to the mess? Did you develop a holoform?"

Hot Rod shook his head good-naturedly, "Nope. I got my very own human."

Sam's eyebrow quirked up, "Oh?"

"Optimus assigned Robin Williams to the Elite Guard." Bumblebee said dryly, "Kup partnered him with Roddy, probably hoping that some of Williams' work ethic would rub off on him."

Hot Rod shrugged at the holoform good-naturedly, before glancing over at him.

"How're you feeling, Sam my man?"

Sam could hear the concern hidden behind Roddy's cheerful manner as plain as day. Although he knew that his friend was worried about him, something about the cavalier's tone rankled for reasons that he could not explain. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable.

"I'm fine, thanks Roddy." He replied after a moment.

If Hot Rod noticed the tension in Sam's voice, he didn't let it show in his expression.

"Glad to hear it. Oh, Cliffjumper sends his regards. I mean, he literally said 'tell him I send my regards'." Hot Rod said, before shaking his helm minutely, "I think it was the most that I have ever seen him emote. He's not usually so effusive."

Sam rolled his eyes, huffing a laugh. Cliffjumper's stoic nature was often the target of Hot Rod's teasing. The smell of something mouth-watering caught his attention and he glanced towards the tray. Upon inspection, Sam saw that beef stew with dumplings was on the menu tonight. He picked up a spoon, pulling the overbed table towards him.

"Well, I'll let you eat." Hot Rod said, before his voice turned cheerful, "Duty calls. Knock Out's not going to guard himself."

He distantly noticed Bumblebee stiffen in the periphery of his vision, but Sam's attention focused solely on the cavalier.

"Knock Out's in the brig?" Sam asked sharply.

Confusion flickered across Roddy's face, "Of course. Where else would he be?"

Anger flared through him, hot and sharp, and he narrowed his eyes. Immediately, he felt Ratchet's scrutiny across their bond.

"He saved my life." Sam snapped, "How long does Optimus plan on keeping him there?"

Hot Rod glanced at Bumblebee uncertainly, a moment before his expression turned grim. All at once, Sam realized that they were speaking to one another on a private channel.

"Do you two have something to share with the class?" He hissed, turning to glare at his guardian.

"Sam." Ratchet reproved as he approached, "Knock Out has been confined to the brig until he is willing to swear his loyalty, something that he is as yet unwilling to do."

Sam felt an angry flush spread across his face, "What about the others?"

Ratchet crossed his arms as he stopped a short distance away, "Ambulon and Deadlock have already sworn their fealty to Prime. They've both changed paint and accepted the Autobot emblem. Deadlock has gone so far as to take a new designation—he's going by Drift now."

"I want to see him." Sam said, making to push the overbed table aside, "I know I can talk some sense into him."

At once, Ratchet's holoform flickered into existence by his bedside. The grizzled medic reached out one hand to press against Sam's chest, the other reaching forward to pull the overbed table back towards him.

"What you want and what you need are, evidentially, two very different things." Ratchet said gruffly, "You are going to eat your meal, and then you will get some rest."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the holoform, infuriated by his tone, "Take your hand off me."

Ratchet's expression became closed off, but he withdrew his hand without comment. A moment later, the medic's mental presence disappeared behind heavy blocks.

"You can't keep me here, Ratchet." Sam said lowly, "I am not a prisoner."

"You are not a prisoner, you are my patient," Ratchet replied, his voice tight, "and you are in no condition to leave."

Hot Rod watched their exchange in silence, his troubled expression deepening with each passing moment. Before Sam could reply, he felt Bumblebee's presence brush against his mind. The concern and anguish in the simple touch pulled Sam up short, and he glanced back towards the holoform. Although Bumblebee's face was carefully composed, betraying nothing of his emotions, Sam could tell that he was stricken.

Guilt and shame slammed into him with the force of a wrecking ball, obliterating his anger in an instant. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry." He said quietly, his cheeks burning.

"Hot Rod, thank-you for coming." Ratchet said, a clear dismissal if Sam had ever heard one. The cavalier whistled at him softly in acknowledgement.

"It was good to see you, Sam." Roddy said, although his voice was strained. Sam nodded faintly, but he couldn't bring himself to look at his friend. Hot Rod stepped away, making his way across the hanger and out of the medical bay. The silence in the wake of his departure was deafening.

"Ratchet, I'm sorry. That was rude." Sam murmured softly.

"It was." The medic agreed, and Sam flinched at his clipped tone, "Eat your meal."

His holoform disappeared as Ratchet crossed the room to stand at his workbench. It took a long time before Sam was able to pick up the spoon to comply with the medic's instructions. Bumblebee brushed against his mind, supportive and reassuring, but it only made Sam feel worse. He ate slowly, methodically, as he stared at the bowl in front of him. As soon as he finished, he set the spoon down, pushed aside the overbed table, and laid back against the mattress. He rolled onto his side, facing away from Bumblebee's holoform, as he pulled the blankets up to his shoulders.

The holoform settled down behind him, cautiously draping his arm across Sam's waist. When Sam didn't protest or pull away, Bee shifted forward until his chest pressed against his back.

/He isn't angry at you./ Bumblebee reassured him softly, /He's angry at the situation./

Sam didn't reply. He found that he had nothing to say.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam's guilty conscience persisted long after Ratchet's cold demeanor had thawed out. By the following morning, the medic was back to his usual self, bustling around the hanger as he worked. Sam was quiet and taciturn, avoiding Bumblebee's attempts to draw him into conversation. He ate when Ratchet told him to eat and he submitted to the medic's scans without protest. Sam became aware of the other's quiet scrutiny around noon, and by that evening, Ratchet had instructed him to stretch his legs until he was ready to go to sleep.

An hour later, Sam found himself wandering mindlessly through North Quad, with Bumblebee's holoform by his side. His guardian had been endlessly patient with him all day, neither pushing in nor allowing himself to be deterred by Sam's aloofness. As they turned down the hall towards the residences, Sam hesitated.

"Do I still have my apartment?"

Bumblebee looked at him in surprise.

"Of course. Your apartment is just as you left it."

Sam felt a sharp sense of longing, "Can I see it?"

"Certainly." Bumblebee said, his expression softening, "Let's go."

They walked together through the officer's section, arriving a short while later at Sam's apartment. Bumblebee unlocked the door, before pushing it open. Sam stepped into the room, turning to flick the switch by the entryway. Warm light flooded the apartment, illuminating the familiar space. Bumblebee had been right—everything was just as he had left it that afternoon. He slowly walked across his living room, running his fingers over the back of the sofa.

"I spent a lot of time here." Bumblebee said, glancing around the room, "While you were gone."

Sam looked at Bumblebee in surprise. It was the first time that his guardian had talked about his experiences during Sam's captivity.

"I felt closer to you, being here." Bee continued, walking towards him, "It made things marginally more bearable."

The holoform's raw tone cut Sam to his core. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn't the only one who had suffered for the last two years. Sam stepped forward, reaching out a hand to brush their fingertips together. Bee glanced down, something unfathomable and intense in his expression.

"I was never not thinking about you." Sam said softly, "Not even when things were at their worst."

Bumblebee glanced at him, hesitating, before he said, "I'm sorry that I left you."

Sam flinched. The words settled over him as though they had physical weight.

"It's not your fault." He replied at last.

Bumblebee keened softly, pitching forward to press their foreheads together. His hands came up to cup Sam's face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. Sam felt their bond shiver before it blossomed to life in his mind. At once, he was aware of the depths of Bumblebee's emotions—grief, guilt, remorse, and rage, all twisted up together. The intensity of it took Sam's breath away.

He reached forward, brushing against Bumblebee's mental presence, as he pressed deeper into their bond-space. The winter-white glow of Bee's signature surrounded him, warm and familiar.

It's not your fault. He repeated softly. His sincerity was unmistakable with their minds so closely intertwined together.

Bee's grip on Sam's face tightened minutely as he tilted his head upwards. The holoform stared at him for a long moment, his expression a maelstrom of emotion, before learning forward and pressing their lips together. The kiss was gentle, almost hesitant, as though he were waiting to see whether Sam would balk or pull away. Sam smiled against him, a faint quirk of his lips, before kissing him back. Bumblebee made a soft sound, low in his throat, before walking them backwards until the couch pressed against Sam's hips. As he collided with the sofa, Bumblebee began planting gentle, benedictory kisses across Sam's cheeks, nose, and throat. Sam huffed a soft laugh, bringing his hands up to card through the holoform's short hair. Seemingly encouraged by Sam's reaction, Bumblebee trailed a line of open-mouthed kisses up Sam's jaw to nuzzle into the flesh below his ear. As he sucked at the sensitive spot, Bumblebee rolled his hips against him.

Sam's eyes flew open in surprise.

"Are you serious right now?" He gasped.

Bumblebee pulled back slightly, his expression earnest and searching.

"Do you object?"

Sam didn't have to ponder his response. He could feel Bumblebee's need for closeness, for reassurance—it was a perfect mirror to the hallow feeling in Sam's own chest.

"Fuck no. I'm traumatized, not dead."

Bumblebee's eyes warmed with amusement, his lip quirking mischievously.

"Then let me do this for you." He murmured. Sam exhaled a shaky breath, nodding his consent.

"Yeah, alright. Sure."

[Explicit content removed]

They sat there like that, curled together at the base of the couch, for an indeterminate time. It was quiet and companionable, and before long, Sam felt himself nodding off. The second time that he jerked awake, he huffed a reluctant sigh.

"We should probably get back."

Bumblebee hummed in agreement as he stood. He reached down, helping Sam to his feet, before glancing around the apartment.

"Is there anything you want to bring? Books? A tablet?"

"Let me use the bathroom and I'll take a look around." Sam replied. He straightened his shirt as he walked into the bedroom, trying to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles. He vaguely considered finding a change of clothing, before deciding against it. All of the clothes in his closet would be too large for him now. Sam stepped into the bathroom, snapping on the light, before he froze.

The reflection in the mirror was a stranger. His hair was long, far longer than he'd ever worn it, curling at the base of his neck. His beard was thick and full, startlingly dark against his skin, which was an unnaturally pale pallor. Despite his beard, the gauntness of his face was painfully obvious, with sharp cheekbones jutting over hallowed cheeks. Sam forced himself to look up, making eye contact with his reflection. The circles under his eyes were dark, so pronounced that they looked like bruises.

Sam was distantly aware of the way that his heart was thundering in his chest, his breath coming fast and shallow, but he couldn't look away. The person in the mirror was not the same person who had left this room two years ago—whoever had come back from the Nemesis was someone else entirely.

"Sam?" Bumblebee called from the living room, voice pitched with concern.

He barked a harsh laugh. Was he? He wasn't sure anymore.

At the sight of the stranger in the mirror smiling morbidly, something in him snapped. He reared back a fist, driving it into the glass in front of him. He took enormous satisfaction at the look of pained surprise on the other's face as the mirror shattered. Glass cascaded to the counter, tinkling over the porcelain. He pulled back his fist again and again, lost in the red haze of unfettered rage—

"Sam!"

Sam startled in surprise, coming back to himself abruptly. He turned towards the voice, confused to see Ratchet's holoform standing a short distance away. The grizzled medic was tense, his expression closed off and inscrutable. Behind him, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, was Bumblebee. His guardian was openly upset, his face stricken.

"Sam, please give that to me." Ratchet ordered, his voice calm and controlled. The medic had extended his hand toward him, as though in expectation. Sam frowned, following Rachet's gaze down to his side. It was only then that he realized that he was clutching a broken piece of mirror, the jagged glass cutting deeply into his flesh. Blood streamed down his fingers, dripping to puddle on the tiled floor at his feet. Sam glanced up in confusion, before his eyes widened in shocked disbelief. The mirror was destroyed, broken glass covering the countertop and sink. There was blood everywhere—splattered over porcelain and tile and brass. The smell of it was heavy in the air.

"Sam." Ratchet prompted sharply.

He looked back towards the holoform, shakily extending his hand towards him. Ratchet carefully extradited the glass from his numb fingers, tossing it into the bathtub, before stepping towards him. The medic yanked the towel off its ring set in the wall, wrapping it tightly around Sam's hand.

Sam didn't feel a thing.

Ratchet said something to Bumblebee, who stepped forward to hook an arm around Sam's shoulders. Together, the medic and the scout led him out of the apartment, leaving the evidence of his mental break scattered all over the bathroom.

Chapter 12:

They walked together in silence, making their way through the North Quad towards the bridge. Ratchet held the towel tightly against Sam's injured hand, applying pressure while also keeping his arm elevated. The medic's expression was a study in professional control, his presence inscrutable across their bond. Bumblebee's presence was far less collected, conflicted as it was with guilt and concern. He rubbed gentle circles into the flesh of Sam's neck as they walked, as though trying to settle him.

The only sound that accompanied their tense procession was the ringing of their shoes against polished concrete and Sam's ragged breathing.

As they drew closer to the bridge, the amount of pedestrian traffic steadily increased. Sam stared resolutely at the floor, trying not to flinch under the curious glances that were directed their way. As they turned the corner towards the North Quad entrance, two Marine Corps officers approached from the opposite direction. As the two men drew nearer, each assumed an expression of concerned surprise.

"Sir," The man on the left greeted, snapping off a crisp salute, "Is everything alright?"

Sam was distantly aware, through the fog that had shrouded his mind, that the man had directed his question towards Ratchet. He knew that the fact should have embarrassed him, angered him even, but instead he just felt exhausted.

"Yes, thank-you Horowitz." Ratchet replied briskly as they walked by the two men. Sam could feel the weight of their scrutiny, of their shock, at the state of him. As they continued towards the bridge, Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. It seemed that they did not recognize him either.

Almost before the thought had crossed his mind, Ratchet's mental presence brushed it away. The gesture was quick and competent, and as the thought disappeared, so too did the surge of self-loathing that had accompanied it. Sam sighed softly, his eyes fluttering shut in acceptance. For once, he did not object to Ratchet tampering with his mind.

By the time that they had stepped onto the bridge, the pain of Sam's injuries had begun to make itself felt. His hand was throbbing, a burning agony that intensified with every beat of his heart. Ratchet helped Sam climb into his waiting alt mode, guiding him to sit on the gurney in the center of the cabin. Bumblebee's holoform appeared on the bench across from him, his forearms resting on his knees, with his hands clasped loosely together.

Sam was shivering in earnest now, shaking from head to toe. The force of his trembling caused his teeth to chatter together. As the doors of Ratchet's cabin snapped closed, the medic pulled a thick, yellow blanket from one of the compartments on the wall. He draped the fabric across Sam's back and drew it over his shoulders.

Sam looked from the blanket to Ratchet, confusion furrowing his brow.

"I'm n-not c-cold." He said softly, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice.

"I know you're not." Ratchet replied matter-of-factly, "You're in shock."

Sam stared at the holoform for a long moment, before raising his good hand to clasp the edges of the blanket together. That made sense, he decided. He certainly felt shocked.

Ratchet's holoform crouched down in front of him, re-applying pressure to the towel that bound his hand. The action caused pain to lance up his arm, and Sam grimaced in response. The medic glanced up at him immediately, eyes flitting across Sam's face, before he brushed across his mind. The touch was soothing, warm and familiar, and Sam knew a pang of remorse. They had waited for him for two years—had worried and searched and hoped—only to find him broken, after all that time.

"You're not broken, Sam." Ratchet said sternly, reaching out to grasp Sam's chin so that he was forced to meet the medic's eyes, "Damaged, perhaps, but not broken. You're still you, where it counts."

Ratchet's gaze bore into him, steel-blue eyes meeting hazel-brown. The sincerity that he saw there, reflected by the medic's mental presence, was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut, as his throat closed up with emotion. He wasn't so sure whether he was that person anymore.

"Whether you're that Sam or this Sam doesn't matter." Ratchet said, "You're still our Sam."

Sam did not reply, could not reply, around the lump in his throat. He nodded faintly, allowing himself to believe Ratchet's words, if only for a little while. He distantly became aware of the feeling of motion, and he realized in surprise that they were driving. He hadn't even heard the engine turn over. He sat there for a long moment, shivering despite the warmth of the shock blanket, before he licked his lips.

"Ratchet, I didn't—" He began, hesitantly.

"I know you didn't, Sam." The medic assured him gruffly, "It's alright."

Sam lapsed back into silence, letting his eyes fall closed. Ratchet's mental presence was unwavering, like a calm harbor in a storm, and he was grateful for it.

"Brace yourself." Ratchet warned, and his tone made Sam open his eyes in confusion. A moment later, both his holoform and Bumblebee's holoform disappeared, and the cabin exploded into motion. Metal panels angled out around him, sliding over one another with seamless grace. The gurney folded almost in half, pressing Sam's knees close to his chest, before it broke apart and joined with the metal surrounding him. In just a few seconds, Sam found himself sitting in Ratchet's large servo as the medic finished transforming.

A flicker of wry amusement made itself felt through the fog of his apathy.

"Thanks for the heads-up."

Ratchet ex-vented a snort as he settled Sam on the edge of the berth. Sam stepped forward, grasping the heavy rail of the bed with his good hand, before climbing up onto the mattress. Bumblebee's holoform was there in an instant, reaching out a hand to steady him. Sam smiled wanly at his guardian.

"Thanks, Bee." He murmured.

Ratchet helped Sam scoot into the center of the bed, before he pulled the overbed table closer. Sam could see that there was a large assortment of medical supplies already prepared for him.

"Alright, Sam. Let me take a look at you." Ratchet said. Sam let himself be maneuvered without protest, pulling the yellow blanket more tightly around his shoulders. Ratchet carefully unwrapped the towel, which was soaked with blood. Sam could see that his hand was heavily lacerated, with numerous nicks and cuts along his fingers and knuckles. Several lacerations were shockingly deep—one was along his pointer finger, from nailbed to knuckle, while another split the flesh between two knuckles so deeply that Sam could see bone.

At the grisly sight, Sam's stomach twisted and his mouth flooded with saliva. Ratchet looked up sharply, immediately grabbing a kidney dish and pushing it towards him. Sam only just managed to take it from him before he threw up. His entire body heaved with the force of it, his wet retching loud in the silence of the medical bay. It took a long while for his stomach to settle down—when at last he stopped gagging, Ratchet took the kidney dish away. Bumblebee was there then, hands smoothing up and down Sam's back, as he murmured at him in Cybertronian. His voice was soft and sincere, washing over him like a metronome.

When Ratchet returned, he handed Sam another kidney dish.

"Sorry." Sam rasped, accepting the plastic basin, "I'm not usually squeamish."

"That's alright." Ratchet said, "I'm going to clean the glass out of your wounds and then start suturing. I would prefer to administer an analgesic before I begin."

Sam glanced up at him in confusion, before he realized that the medic was asking for his permission.

"Yeah, thanks."

Ratchet nodded, picking up a long, thin syringe filled with a cloudy liquid. He pushed up the sleeve of Sam's shirt, swabbing the crook of his arm, before sliding the bevel into the vein. As the holoform depressed the plunger, Sam could feel the medication working its way up his arm, leaving a pleasant warmth in its wake. Ratchet set the needle aside, gesturing for Sam to lay back against the mattress. The medic spread a sterile pad on the gurney beside him, before arranging his tools to his liking and retrieving a pair of medical-grade tweezers.

The holoform glanced in his direction, meeting his wide-eyed stare. Something softened on Ratchet's face, and he reached out a hand to clasp Sam's chin. With gentle pressure, he turned his head to the side, until Sam was unable to see his injuries. He understood at once that Ratchet didn't want him to watch.

"I'll talk you through it." Ratchet promised in his usual gruff manner, "Let me know if your nausea returns."

He nodded faintly, and then the medic began to work. True to his word, Ratchet described each step of what he was doing with an air of clinical professionalism. Other than Ratchet's voice, the only other noise in the hanger was the clink of metal on metal and the soft rustle of fabric. Despite the extent of his injuries, Sam felt no pain—only an occasional feeling of wetness or a firm tugging sensation. The whole while, Bumblebee stood by his side, his fingers carding through his hair. Sam sighed softly, pressing into the familiar touch. It was not long before his eyes started to droop, exhaustion and pain medication combining to blur the edges of his consciousness.

"Lift up, Sam." Ratchet instructed, cutting through the comfortable fog of endorphins and hydrocodone that had enveloped him. Sam blinked his eyes open, surprised to see that his right hand was heavily bandaged and all of the medical supplies had been cleaned away. It took him a minute to realize that he must have fallen asleep.

"Come on." Ratchet prompted again, although there was no impatience in his voice, "You can go back to sleep in a moment."

Sam realized that the medic was trying to help him out of his clothes. With a grunt, Sam lifted his hips off the mattress, allowing Ratchet to pull off his jeans. The medic folded his pants, tossing them onto the foot of the bed, before pulling the blankets up to Sam's chest. Sam glanced to the side, noticing all at once that Bumblebee's holoform was gone. The realization sent a spear of anxiety through him in an instant.

"I sent him to recharge." Ratchet said, answering Sam's unspoken thoughts, "He was long overdue."

Sam frowned faintly before turning his attention inwards. The familiar warmth of their bond-space was still present, but it was muted and tranquil. As soon as he realized that he wasn't separated from Bumblebee, the anxious knot in his stomach began to slowly relax.

He wasn't alone, not anymore.

As his anxiety ebbed away, he became aware of the weight of Ratchet's regard. He turned his head, glancing up at the holoform in confusion. He stood a short distance away, his expression inscrutable, as he stared down at Sam. The intensity of his expression made Sam shift uncertainly, but before he could say anything, the mental blocks that separated them fell away. Sam's eyes widened in surprise as the full weight of Ratchet's mental presence filled his mind. The undulating glow was the same as it ever was—ancient and beautiful—but it was tinged with something else.

Regret.

/I am sorry, Sam. I did not realize the extent that my reticence would affect you./ Ratchet murmured.

The medic's words did nothing to assuage his confusion. Sam frowned faintly, opening his mouth to ask for clarification, when Ratchet pulled his mental presence towards him. He suddenly found himself tucked closely against the medic's spark—it was a sensation that Sam had not felt since he had first on-lined, floating in the darkness of stasis. It was comfort and reassurance and affection, all at once. Sam didn't realize that he was crying until Ratchet gathered him in his arms. The medic hugged him close, bringing one hand to clasp the back of Sam's head. His fingers gripped him tightly, brushing against his scalp. It was a tender gesture, one of unwavering support.

It was, Sam realized all at once, the way that a father would hug a son.

He raised his arms, wrapping them around the holoform's midsection, hugging him back. They stayed like that for an interminable time, neither of them speaking but both fully aware of what the other was feeling, before Ratchet pulled away slightly.

"You should really get some rest." He said gruffly, as though in apology.

Sam smiled faintly, his tears long since abated, "Yeah, sure."

Ratchet squeezed his shoulders, before helping him to lie back against the mattress. The holoform rearranged the blankets, tucking them around his body, and then he moved the overbed table aside. Sam watched him with half-lidded eyes, contemplative and quiet. When Ratchet had finished, he glanced towards him.

"Do you need anything?"

Sam shook his head minutely, "No, I'm good. Thanks Ratch."

The holoform stilled at the familiar epithet, his expression doing something complicated, before he nodded curtly. A moment later, the holoform flickered and disappeared. Sam could hear Ratchet moving around the medical bay a short distance away, and then the overhead lights dimmed to their lowest setting. Sam sighed softly, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders as he rolled onto his side. It was no time at all before Sam felt himself drifting off, warm and comfortable in that full-bodied way that only narcotics could achieve.

His last thought before he slipped under was that he felt peaceful, for perhaps the first time in over two years.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam slept deeply, completely undisturbed by the comings and goings of the medical bay. Although he dreamed vividly, never once did those dreams turn ugly. As a result, when Sam finally awoke, it was because he was well and truly rested.

He shifted against the mattress, surfacing slowly. Although he was warm, it was far to say that he was comfortable. His hand burned painfully, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Sam squinted his eyes open, blinking blearily in the bright light of the medical bay. He could hear someone bustling around behind him, but when he reached instinctively for Ratchet's presence, he was surprised to find that their bond-space was quiet and still. Confused, although not yet alarmed, Sam pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Good afternoon, Sam!" First Aid chirped merrily, "How did you sleep?"

Sam scrubbed his good hand over his mouth, surprised to see that an IV had been placed while he slept. He looked from the cannula taped to the back of his hand to First Aid, a question written all over his face.

"Ah, yes, I see." The medic said as he approached, "Your potassium and magnesium dropped while you slept, likely as a result of purging your fuel tanks. Ratchet placed the intravenous line to rehydrate you."

"Uh, okay." Sam said, squinting at the medic, "Where is he?"

"He is in re-charge, by orders of our Prime."

Sam huffed a soft laugh, "I can't imagine that went over well."

"Oh, no. No, it did not," First Aid agreed cheerfully, "but Prime was insistent. Ratchet asked me to watch over you, in case you woke up before he completed his cycle."

"How long was I asleep?"

"Approximately eleven hours, fourteen minutes, thirty seconds." He replied, "It is just after noon, local time."

Genuine amusement quirked the corner of Sam's lips, "Can't you be any more precise?"

First Aid worried his servos together, chirping contritely, "No, I am sorry, but I cannot."

"I was joking." Sam said reassuringly, "Don't mind me."

"Ah, yes. I see. Your bonded has explained that you are prone to good-natured teasing."

There was something about his tone, which was friendly and accepting, that warmed Sam to his core. He liked the Autobot instantly, in a way that had only been true of Bumblebee and Wheeljack.

"How do you feel?" First Aid asked. Before he could reply, a soft, blue light emanated from a sensor set into the medic's optics, sweeping Sam from head to toe.

Sam's lips thinned in a grimace, "I've felt better. My hand hurts and my mouth tastes terrible."

"Well, I can certainly help with the former." First Aid said, reaching out his digits to gingerly grasp Sam's wrist. A small, metallic syringe folded out of his servo, sliding into the cannula taped to the back of Sam's hand in strangely serpentine fashion. There was a soft snap-hiss, and then Sam could feel the medication working its way through his veins. The medic placed his hand back on his lap with the same care that an auctioneer would use to handle a Ming vase.

"Thanks." Sam said softly.

"You're welcome, Sam." First Aid replied, "You should refuel. Do you need to void your bladder or your bowels first?"

Sam openly winced at the medic's phrasing, but his physical needs prompted him to reply, "Yeah, I do."

First Aid nodded his head understandingly, before disconnecting the IV and helping Sam climb off the gurney. He waited, patient as a saint, as Sam awkwardly pulled on his jeans—a challenging feat with his right hand heavily bandaged as it was. Sam didn't bother with his shoes, well aware that he would be coming right back to bed. Instead, he stepped onto First Aid's proffered servo without another word. The red and white medic strode across the hanger, humming quietly to himself, before depositing Sam in front of the bathroom door.

Sam took his time in the privacy of the washroom. First, he brushed his teeth and then he used the toilet. After he finished, he glanced at the shower in contemplation. He was sweaty and grimy, but he was unsure whether he was allowed to get his bandages wet. Sam frowned faintly in consternation, before he felt the brush of an unfamiliar presence across his mind. He startled in surprise, a full-bodied jerk that made his heart leap into his throat.

/My apologies, Sam. I did not mean to alarm you./ First Aid said contritely, /You may shower if you wish. I must change your bandages either way./

Sam's eyebrows flew to his hairline in disbelief. He turned his attention inwards to find that he was still wrapped securely within the Creator bond.

"What the fu—"

/Ratchet has given me the means of monitoring you. Perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier./

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. Of course he did.

Without another word to First Aid, Sam shucked his clothes and stepped into the shower. He turned the gauge to high, standing under the blistering stream of water for a long while. He let the heat soak into the muscles of his back, his mind drifting thoughtlessly. It was only after he felt a swell of concern from the medic that he grudgingly turned down the heat and got to washing himself. As he scrubbed his nails over his scalp, he made the decision to get a haircut as soon as possible. That afternoon, preferably.

Eventually, Sam got out of the shower. The process of dying off and getting dressed was just as clumsy and awkward as he had expected. By the time that he opened the door, toweling dry his hair, his stomach had started to pang. All thoughts of lunch disappeared, however, as he stepped out of the bathroom to see Optimus Prime standing in the medical bay. The sight of the Autobot leader rocked Sam to his core. He was blindsided by the swell of his conflicting emotions—happiness and anger, appreciation and resentment, comfort and shame. The force of it took his breath away.

Optimus' optics were impossibly bright, his entire countenance one of stoic calm.

"Hello Sam."

Sam flinched at the familiar, rumbling baritone.

"Hello Optimus."

The Autobot leader lowered to one knee, regarding him with a sort of patient expectation. Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly deeply uncomfortable.

"Where's First Aid?" Sam asked, unable to look him in the optics.

Optimus was silent for a moment, likely well aware that First Aid's whereabouts was not actually the issue on the forefront of Sam's mind, before he replied.

"I asked First Aid to attend to your meal preparations. I wished to speak with you in private."

Sam exhaled softly, feeling a flush spread across his face. He tried desperately to think of something to say, something that would break the mounting tension that he felt between them.

"How are you feeling?" Optimus asked, before Sam could speak. Sam stared at him incredulously for the space a heartbeat, before he gestured vaguely with his bandaged hand.

"Just peachy, Optimus."

Optimus' optics flicked to his hand for a nanosecond—so quickly that Sam would have missed it, if he hadn't been paying close attention—before moving back to Sam's face.

All at once, Sam felt profoundly, deeply exhausted.

"Look Optimus," He said, a weary lilt to his words, "Thanks for coming by, but it's not a good time."

"On the contrary," Optimus rumbled, "I believe the time for this discussion is far past due."

Sam stiffened from head to toe, irritation flashing through him in an instant.

"Well, tough luck." Sam replied, trying for assertiveness and landing somewhere closer to petulance instead.

"Sam—" Optimus began, his voice soft and sincere. His tone inflamed something within Sam, who narrowed his eyes in anger.

"Don't." He ground out, "Don't you dare apologize."

Sam couldn't bear it, not if he wanted to maintain his composure. He knew that an apology from the Autobot leader, delivered with his usual god-like empathy and understanding, would break something in him.

"You deserve more than an apology, Sam." Optimus replied, as though Sam had not spoken, "And you certainly deserve better than you've received."

Sam felt himself go cold all over. His temper, frayed and overwrought as it was, reached its breaking point.

"Oh, for fuck sakes!" Sam snapped, rounding on the Autobot leader, "Take the god-damned hint, Optimus. I don't want to talk about this with you—not now, not ever."

Optimus did not move, his expression unaffected by the vitriol in Sam's voice. Sam stared at him, waiting for the quiet acquiescence that Optimus usually displayed in the face of Sam's temper, but it did not come. After the silence between them had stretched to the length of several moments, Sam narrowed his eyes warningly.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Sam's eyes widened in surprised disbelief, but the expression was gone a moment later, incinerated by the sudden rage that burned through him.

"Oh, you son-of-a-bitch!" Sam screamed at him, "What is your problem, Optimus?"

Optimus did not respond to the abuse that Sam hurled at him. Instead, he stared down at him, composed and silent, as though waiting for him to continue.

Sam was only too happy to oblige him.

"Fine, you want to talk? Let's talk!" He hissed, his face flushed crimson, "You want to apologize? I'd have to know what it is that you're apologizing for first. Are you sorry for leaving when I told you that the attack on the power plant was a feint? For taking Ratchet and Bumblebee away from me? Or are you sorry that I was at the mercy of that psychopath for two fucking years?"

Sam took a ragged breath, ignoring the way that Optimus' optics shone with barely restrained emotion as he continued.

"Or maybe it's you who wants the apology. I can understand that. After all, I disobeyed orders and made Jack leave me in the forest. That was pretty dumb of me—lesson learned." Sam's voice grew harsher, becoming self-deprecating, "Or did you want an apology for what happened on the Nemesis? I can't imagine that your senior staff will be thrilled to learn that I fraternized with the enemy. Not just Knock Out, either. Ravage and Thundercracker and Skywarp too. They were kind to me—and I appreciated it."

Sam's voice wavered precariously, but he narrowed his eyes, daring Optimus to contradict him, "Or should I apologize for giving in almost immediately? I followed Megatron around that ship like a dog, for fuck sakes. I ate with him, and talked with him, and slept by his side. I didn't even mind the attention after a while—it was better than the alternative.

So is that what you want, Optimus? An apology? Just say something, for fuck sakes!"

Sam realized, too little too late, that his voice had become pained and pleading. Optimus' optics were fathomless and intense as he reached out a servo to curl around Sam's thin body.

"No, Sam. That is not what I want." The Autobot leader intoned softly, sincerity in his every word, "What I want is to protect you from the ramifications of my mistakes—to make it so that you need never suffer the ugliness of what was done to you."

Optimus paused, his voice deepening to a dark rumble, "Not even I could have foreseen the depths of Megatron's cruelty."

He flinched slightly, unable to look up at the Autobot leader. He was uncertain whether Optimus knew the full extent of what Megatron had done to him, but he couldn't bear to see the pity in the other's optics if that were the case.

"They aren't all like him, Optimus. They aren't all bad." He murmured instead.

There was a moment of protracted silence, and then the Autobot leader brushed his thumb gently down Sam's back.

"I know." Optimus said simply, causing Sam to glance up in surprise. Prime's expression was sincere—and deeply saddened, "Tell me about them."

Sam hesitated, unsure what to say. Optimus did not prompt him, letting Sam turn the words over in his mind before he eventually spoke.

"Ravage was with me the most. She's loyal to Soundwave, but not because of Megatron. She has a dry sense of humor." Sam said softly, remembering the cyber cat, "She kept me warm, when Megatron left me in the cargo bay."

Optimus shifted closer, so that the bulk of his frame bracketed Sam's smaller body. He said nothing, encouraging Sam to continue with his silence.

"Thundercracker is maybe the most human mechanoid I've ever met. He's serious and stern and loyal to his trine—but he's kind. He brought me candy, to get me to eat, and he tried to stop me from—"

Sam cut himself off, grief and shame twisting his words. He couldn't say it—couldn't face Optimus' disappointment at what he had done. He bit his lip so hard that the taste of blood bloomed in his mouth, metallic and warm. Optimus ex-vented softly, his digits curling tighter around him.

"I know about Blitzwing." Optimus said gently, "Knock Out has shared his memory files with us."

Sam frowned faintly, taken aback by the Autobot leader's calm acceptance.

"I didn't just attack him, Optimus. I tried to kill him." Sam tried to explain.

"I know."

Sam's frown deepened, frustrated by his inability to articulate himself clearly.

"No, you don't. I wanted to kill him—I would have enjoyed it."

Optimus ex-vented softly, lowering his helm until it rested gently against the top of Sam's head.

"I know, Sam. Blitzwing attacked your bonded—he would have inflected your suffering upon him. Of course you reacted as you did. Any bonded would have done the same."

Sam's breath hitched in his throat, his eyes stinging with sudden unshed tears.

"I don't understand." He whispered, voice wavering, "I would have murdered him in cold blood. Why aren't you angry?"

Optimus pulled back slightly, his gaze suddenly intense.

"Megatron told you that I would be angry." Optimus said, as though in realization.

Sam did not reply. He did not need to.

Something softened in Optimus' countenance, "I am not angry, Sam. You did what you had to do to protect your bonded. In our society, your actions were sacrosanct—as Megatron well knows."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, confusion and grief and shame and relief twisting in upon one another. Optimus did not press him to continue, instead stroking his digits down the length of Sam's back. It was a grounding gesture, gentle and calm, but Sam barely felt it over the whirlwind of his thoughts. Abruptly, Sam pulled away in order to look up into Optimus' optics.

"I want to see Knock Out."

Optimus shuttered his optics, regarding him in silence for a long moment.

"Knock Out has not renounced the Decepticon cause, Sam. I cannot be certain that he is no longer a threat to you."

Sam could not keep the look of irritation off his face, "Ripcord swore himself to the Autobot cause and he killed me. The measure of a person is not the emblem soldered to their chassis, Optimus."

The Autobot leader stared down at him, the weight of his regard heavy against Sam's conscience. Eventually, Optimus shuttered his optics, inclining him helm in acquiescence.

"Very well. Let us go together."