Notes:Chapter Warning: Emotional trauma, panic attack.
When Sam awoke an interminable time later, it was to the familiar sounds of the medical bay. He lay there with his eyes closed, drifting comfortably, as he listened. He could recognize the mechanical whirring of the air exchange and the hum of medical equipment, but the sound of hushed talking was unusual. He cracked open his eyes and raised his head, trying to locate the source of the noise. It took him less than a second to do so—First Aid and Fixit were standing at a nearby workbench, murmuring animatedly with one another.
"Hey." Sam rasped, his voice rough from disuse.
The two medics turned around in unison, and First Aid's door flaps perked up in surprise.
"You're awake." He chirruped, "How do you feel?"
Sam groaned, pushing himself into a sitting position and scrubbing a hand over his face. The motion caused the blankets to fall away from his shoulders, and it was only then that he realized someone had tucked him into bed. He stared down at the blankets for a long moment, trying to reconcile himself with the fact, when First Aid whistled concernedly. Sam glanced over at the field medic and fixed him with a wan smile.
"I'm alright." He replied, "How long was I under?"
"Four hours." Fixit promptly answered him, "Two hours in stasis, two hours asleep."
Sam quirked an eyebrow in response. "That's not so bad."
"It was bad enough." Ratchet replied as he appeared in the doorway to his office. The Chief Medical Officer strode across the narrow hangar to stand at his bedside, initiating a medical scan as soon as he was within range. Sam grimaced as the familiar blue light swept him from head to toe, sending pins and needles across his skin.
"What's the prognosis, Ratch?" He asked, rubbing his arms to chase away the unpleasant sensation.
Ratchet harrumphed something in Cybertronian, before fixing him with a pointed look.
"Your neural connections are repaired, although they will be sensitive for the next cycle or so." Ratchet replied, "Are you hungry?"
"I could eat." Sam replied with a shrug.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, First Aid gave an affirmatory chirrup in response, before crossing the room towards an alcove set into the far wall. Fixit remained at the workbench, watching Sam with undisguised interest.
"That is not the level of enthusiasm I was hoping for." Ratchet replied, drawing his attention back towards him.
"I'm never hungry after Jazz is finished with me." Sam grumbled, pushing the blankets aside. At the sight of his bare feet, he realized that someone had removed his shoes. He leaned over, glancing down at the berth. It took him less than a second to find them—they had been neatly placed at the foot of his bed.
"Of that, I am well aware." was Ratchet's flat reply.
Sam straightened up and settled back against the mattress. Although the hospital bed was firmer than he preferred, he had long since grown accustomed to it. In some ways, he preferred it to his own bed.
"What time is it?" He asked, thumbing the grit out of his eyes.
"It is seven hours into the first shift." Ratchet replied.
Sam frowned faintly, trying to do the mental math. "What's that on a twenty-four hour clock?"
"A twenty-four hour clock is impractical to use whilst in space." Ratchet returned, "The Ark is calibrated to Cybertronian day/night cycles. You would do well to familiarize yourself with it now."
Sam felt a flash of irritation at the non-answer, but before he could bite out something in reply, First Aid strode back across the hangar. The field medic had a familiar dinner tray pinched delicately between two digits and, as he approached, Sam could make out the sight of stainless steel food warmer. He sat up straighter as First Aid placed the dinner tray on the overbed table, which he pushed towards him with a single digit.
"Bon Appétit." He chirped good-naturedly.
Sam grinned up at him as he reached for the food warmer, "Merci."
As soon as he lifted the stainless steel cover, Sam was hit with the smell of turkey and spices. He set the warmer aside, groaning in appreciation at the sight of his grandmother's homemade soup. The bowl was steaming in the cool air, and the smell had a revitalizing effect on his appetite. He picked up the spoon as he quirked a wry smile at the Chief Medical Officer.
"How much food did she make, exactly?" He asked.
"Your grandmother is a tenacious woman." was Ratchet's enigmatic reply.
Sam grinned, able to read the subtext as clearly as a billboard, and then he tucked into his meal. The bowl was filled to the brim with diced turkey, barley, and carrots. He tore the accompanying dinner roll into little pieces, soaking each one in the broth and spooning them into his mouth. He couldn't stifle the little noises of enjoyment as he ate, and he didn't even try. The soup was thick and silky, seasoned with thyme and black pepper. He devoured every last morsel, and then he settled back against the mattress with a groan.
Fixit, who had been watching him eat with bright optics, whistled a question. First Aid bobbed his head and chirruped something good-natured in response. Ratchet glanced over at them with a decidedly pointed look, and First Aid seemed to remember himself, for his expression grew contrite. Before Sam could ask what they were talking about, the doors to the medical bay slid open, and an unfamiliar mechanoid walked in. The stranger was paneled in red and white, with a large wheel affixed to each shoulder. Or rather, there should have been a wheel affixed to each shoulder. The wheel attached to his left side was hanging at an angle and sparking precariously.
"Hey, Doc, is this a bad time?" He asked cheerfully.
Ratchet's expression cooled by an order of magnitude as he surveyed the newcomer. The mechanoid stopped a short distance away, and this close to one another, Sam could see that the paint on his chassis was badly marred. Evidentially, so could Ratchet, for his expression went from cool to positively glacial.
"What is the meaning of this?" He demanded.
The newcomer shrugged his shoulders, which sent a cascade of sparks and little bits of metal falling to the floor.
"I had an accident. Can you patch me up?" was the stranger's nonchalant reply.
"An accident?" Ratchet demanded, and Sam could feel the swell of his irritation across their bond-space, "That hardly looks like an accident." He punctuated his words by jabbing a digit at the sparking connections that were barely managing to hold the tire in place, "What sort of idiotic, reckless—"
The stranger held up a restraining servo, "Sorry, Doc, I don't mean to interrupt what'll surely be an epic rant, but I'm supposed to be in the science lab right now. Could we hurry this along?"
Sam didn't even have the chance to react to what could only be described as verbal suicide, when Ratchet grabbed the stranger by his good shoulder and threw him against the nearest berth. The stranger yelped in surprise, before whistling a string of placating Cybertronian. Ratchet responded by cuffing him against the helm, loud enough for the metal to ring, and snapping something angry sounding in reply.
"Swerve? What's happened now?" Meltdown asked, appearing from the back office with a frown on his faceplates.
Ratchet turned to pin the Lost Light's Chief Medical Officer with a withering look.
"This fool damaged his primary rotatory line and nearly severed his arm in the process." Ratchet spat in reply, "I have good mind to write him up for sheer stupidity."
Meltdown's frown deepened as he stepped up to the berth. "How did this happen?"
Swerve fixed him with a hesitant, lopsided smile. "Spontaneous injury?"
"Try again." Meltdown replied coolly.
"Sabotage?"
"Swerve." Meltdown warned.
"It's a long story, but I maybe, kind of, got distracted on my way to the science laboratory." Swerve replied, haltingly and with a rueful smile, "There may have been a collision involved—I don't know, it all happened very quickly."
The look on Ratchet's face could only be described as thunderstruck. It was kind of fascinating, actually, to watch the usually acerbic mechanoid be rendered completely incapable of speech.
Meltdown, by contrast, just ex-vented a weary sigh.
"This is the third time in less than a cycle." He chastised, sub-spacing a complicated looking instrument and bidding the red and white mechanoid to lie down, "One of these days, you're going to seriously injure yourself—or someone else."
Swerve gave a conciliatory chirrup as he settled back against the berth. Ratchet, seemingly recovered from his stunned silence, ground out something harsh sounding in Cybertronian, but, rather than stomping off or striking the reckless roadster again, he came to stand by Meltdown's side. The two surgeons began working on Swerve in perfect coordination—they passed tools to one another and began soldering his shoulder joint, seamlessly anticipating each other's needs without speaking a word. It was almost like a dance, and Sam watched, transfixed.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Ratchet glanced at him, ex-venting an unimpressed snort.
"If you are quite recovered, then you can take yourself to the gymnasium. You know the way."
Sam knew a dismissal when he heard one, but he grimaced in response.
"I just spent the morning getting slapped around by Jazz and Blurr." He protested, "I don't feel like it."
Swerve raised his head and fixed Sam with a grin. "That was hilarious, by the way."
Sam pulled a face, but before he could say anything, the roadster jerked against the berth and squawked in protest. Meltdown didn't look up from his work as he rumbled, lowly, "Mind your manners, Swerve."
The roadster whistled something indignant sounding, but he fell silent after a pointed look from Ratchet. The Chief Medical Officer stared at him for a moment longer, as though daring him to say anything else, before he glanced over his shoulder at First Aid. The field medic was still standing beside Fixit at the workbench, and they were watching the proceedings with undisguised interest.
"Take him down." He ordered, curtly.
First Aid whistled an acknowledgment, before crossing the room to stand beside Sam's berth. He extended his servos towards him, beckoning meaningfully with his digits, and Sam pushed aside the overbed table with a huff. He climbed off the mattress, before crouching down to pick up his sneakers. He pulled them on, one at a time, and then gave Ratchet a pointed look.
"Fine, but I'm not doing any cardio." He grumbled.
"You can do whatever you wish, so long as it elevates your heartrate for forty-five minutes." Ratchet replied, without looking up.
The laugh was out of him before he could stop it, earning an unimpressed look from Ratchet and a quizzical chirrup from First Aid. Sam ducked his head so he wouldn't have to look either of them in the eye and, grinning like an idiot, he climbed onto First Aid's servos without another word.
Slowly but surely, Sam began to learn the rhythms of life onboard the Ark. He would wake up sometime after the beginning of first shift, either to the feeling of Bumblebee's hands on his body or, less pleasantly, Ratchet pulling him out of his dreams. He was given an hour to shower, change, and eat, and then Jazz would take him to the gymnasium for training. They were usually accompanied by at least one other person, Blurr or Trailbreaker or Smokescreen, but they occasionally trained by themselves. Jazz was just as strict and demanding as ever, but he was as free with his praise as he was his criticism, and he never pushed Sam past his limits.
After Jazz dismissed him for the day, Sam would spend long hours wandering the ship. He poked his head into every room, hangar, nook, and cranny that he could find. He was familiar with the Ark's layout from the blueprints he had received years ago, but it was another thing entirely to experience it for himself. The first deck was composed primarily of conference rooms, a situation room, and the senior officer's quarters. He learned of the latter when he tried to enter an otherwise nondescript room, only for the door to remain firmly closed. He stared at it in confusion—no other door on the ship had failed to open at his approach—when the smooth metal panels slid aside to reveal Prowl peering down at him.
"Can I help you, Sam?" He asked, by way of greeting.
It took Sam a moment to recover from his surprise, and when he did, he slanted a hesitant smile up at the strategist.
"Sorry Prowl, I didn't mean to disturb you." He apologized, "I was just looking around."
"Oh?" Jazz asked, appearing in the doorway behind Prowl and draping one arm over his shoulder, "Well mi casa es su casa, little man."
Prowl turned his head to give Jazz a pointed look, but he made no effort to shrug off his arm. Jazz grinned and pulled him closer, and it was only then that Sam could see past the two mechanoids. The room they were in was clearly a hab-suite, complete with all manner of furnishings and décor.
Sam flushed at the realization he had just disturbed them in their private quarters.
"Sorry." He spluttered, "I didn't realize."
"It is of no consequence, Sam." Prowl intoned, "The senior officers are assigned to this quadrant. I can provide you with the schematics, if you wish."
"Who?" was all Sam could manage in response.
Jazz was clearly amused by his discomfort, but Prowl answered him with an air of indelible patience. He explained that hab-suites were only accessible by the assigned occupants, except in the case of an emergency, and all of Prime's senior officers had quarters in this part of the ship—except Ratchet, whose hab-suite was located on the second deck, and Ironhide, whose quarters were on the third deck.
Afterwards, Sam bid the two mechanoids a hasty farewell and hurried back to his quarters.
His embarrassment at having interrupted Jazz and Prowl was short-lived, however, and he spent the following days exploring the rest of the ship. The second deck was the most familiar, with Ratchet's medical bay at one end and the mess hall at the other. The corridors were interspersed with crew quarters, storage hangars, and, to Sam's delight, a hydroponics lab. The narrow room was filled with long rows of planters, and the smell of damp sod was heavy in the air. The plants were little more than seedlings poking out of the dirt, but Sam ran his fingers over the fragile leaves with a smile on his face.
The other decks proved to be far less interesting. The third deck contained storage hangars and crew quarters towards the aft of the ship, with the engine room and munitions reserves near the bow. The fourth deck contained the loading bay, the emergency command post, Ultra Magnus' office, and the brig. Sam had stood in the atrium, staring down the hallway towards the sealed doors for a long while. He was suddenly, painfully aware of Megatron's proximity. It was, what, a hundred meters from the atrium to the brig entrance? The thought sent a shudder down his spine, and he hastened on his way without a backwards glance.
Sam spent his afternoons in the gymnasium and, as soon as the forty-five minute mark ticked by, lounging in his hab-suite or the mess hall. As it turned out, life onboard an alien flagship was a busy affair for most of the crew. Bumblebee spent long hours on duty, either on the bridge or working on the shield generators on the fifth deck. Sam joined him on the bridge whenever he could, but the shield generators were off-limits to him. As a result, Sam spent more and more time in the medical bay. He would lay on the hospital bed, a tablet propped against his bent legs as the medical staff went about their business. The hangar always seemed to be busy—Ratchet was either tinkering on his experiments or he was tending to the needs of the crew. Most of the work was long over-due maintenance, but every now and again, some unlucky mechanoid found themselves the object of Ratchet's wrath.
It was approximately three weeks into their journey when Sam made the tactical error of complaining about being bored. The next morning, Ratchet met him in the mess hall and handed him a datapad. A cursory examination revealed that the datapad contained a schedule—his schedule. Sam stared at the time slots with sinking trepidation. There were the usual entries for infiltration training and physical exercise, but now his schedule included a host of other commitments, including senior officer's meetings and debriefings. His eyes skipped down the schedule, before flicking up to look Ratchet in the face.
"Ratch… why?" He asked, aghast.
The Chief Medical Officer ex-vented an unimpressed snort as he crossed his arms. "It seems you were afflicted with an overabundance of free time. I've remedied the situation for you."
Sam grimaced deeply as he looked down at the tablet again. "Thanks."
The first meeting on his schedule was a tactical debriefing later that morning. Sam finished his breakfast, and then he poured himself a cup of coffee and started off towards the conference room. He turned his attention inwards as he walked, taking in the luminescent glow of the neural-network. He had adjusted to the proximity of so many mechanoids, but he found himself distracted by their presence—it was a constant thrum of impression and sensation and emotion. Sam yearned to reach out and touch them, but he resisted the temptation.
The conference room was located on the first deck, a short distance away from Prime's office. To Sam's relief, the doors were open when he approached, and he slipped inside without a word. The walls were covered by an assortment of read-outs, monitors, and view-screens that cast bluish light across the gleaming table that dominated the center of the room. The space was full of mechanoids, and most of the chairs at the table were already occupied. Starscream sat at one end of the conference table with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, while Xaaron and Crossblades sat at the opposite end. Prime's senior officers occupied the chairs along one side of the table, while a dozen unfamiliar mechanoids occupied the chairs on the other side of the table. The room was filled with the buzz of quiet talking in both English and Cybertronian.
Sam hesitated just inside the doorway, unsure where to go, when Jazz pushed through the crowd. The second-in-command crouched down in front of him, servos on his knee struts, and flashed an easy grin.
"I heard you got wrangled into this." He said, "Lucky you."
Sam rolled his eyes and fixed the saboteur with a wry look.
"Lucky me." He agreed.
Jazz glanced over his shoulder, before turning back to look at Sam. "We're about to start. C'mon, I'll give you a hand."
The second-in-command extended his servos towards him and, after tucking the datapad under one arm and steadying his coffee in both hands, Sam climbed onboard. Jazz straightened up, before weaving his way through the crowd towards the table in the center of the room. He was suddenly acutely aware of the curious glances and sidelong looks that were being directed their way. Jazz set him down near a human-sized desk that had been arranged in one corner of the table. Sam murmured his thanks as he transferred his coffee mug to one hand, and used the other to pull out his chair so he could sit down. Jazz took a seat a short distance away, kicking back in his chair and interlacing his digits behind his head. Prowl, who was sitting next to him, gave Jazz a disapproving look, but the second-in-command just grinned at him in return.
Sam's attention was pulled away as Optimus took his place at the head of the table. His chair was larger and more ornate than the others, with a golden palmette that fanned out behind him. Optimus briefly met his gaze, affording him with a warm, welcoming smile, before he turned his attention to the room at large. He did not need to call the meeting to order—all talking had stopped as soon as he sat down.
"Let us begin." He rumbled, before nodding towards Captain Xaaron.
The golden mechanoid rose to his feet and inclined his helm in Prime's direction, before he began his report. Sam struggled to follow along—it was a technical brief on the Lost Light's engine modifications, and he barely understood a thing. When he was finished, Captain Xaaron nodded once again, first to Prime and then to him, before he took his seat. He was followed by Prowl, who rose to his feet and launched into an overview of their course. It was difficult to infer much from the strategist's inscrutable demeanor, but he seemed satisfied enough with their progress.
He was followed by Red Alert and Ultra Magnus, who provided a summary of the security upgrades on the third and fifth decks, and then Hound gave a brief overview of an asteroid belt that would require an adjustment of their course. Sam was half-asleep and drifting by the time that Crossblades began his report. It was only when the second-in-command mentioned Tailgate that he came back to himself, all at once.
"I'm sorry, what?" He asked, sitting up straighter in his chair.
Crossblades turned his helm in order to look at Sam directly. He seemed taken aback by the question. "Prime?"
Sam tried not to flush in embarrassment as he found himself at the center of everyone's attention. "Sorry, what about Tailgate?"
Crossblades inclined his helm minutely. "He has completed his punishment detail and returned to duty."
Sam couldn't keep the surprise off his face as he asked, confusedly, "Punishment?"
Crossblades glanced at Captain Xaaron who rumbled something in Cybertronian, before leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table.
"Tailgate was reprimanded for insubordination and dereliction of duty." He explained.
Sam blinked, taken aback by the answer. He couldn't imagine Tailgate, who had been nothing but polite and dutiful and respectful whenever Sam had spoken with him, being insubordinate with anyone.
"Why?" He asked, frowning. "What did he do?"
He was aware of a sudden shift in the atmosphere, although no one outwardly reacted to his question. The room seemed tense, like the charge in the air before a lightning strike.
"Tailgate received a reprimand for interfering with your holy person, and for failing to attend to his duties." Crossblades replied, patiently.
Sam stared at Crossblades, torn between shock, disbelief, and incredulity.
"My holy person?" He demanded, sharply, "What are you talking about?"
Crossblades' brow ridges drew together, giving him an air of consternation.
"He removed your equipment from the mess hall." He replied, as though the answer were obvious, "In doing so, he interfered with your ability to refuel. He also failed to provide adequate maintenance for your space."
An angry flush spread across Sam's face, staining his cheeks a brilliant crimson. He was aware of Optimus' heavy and solemn regard, but he refused to look at the older Prime. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at Crossblades and leaned forward, hissing, "What do you mean he failed to provide 'adequate maintenance to my space'?"
Crossblades was visibly taken aback by the question. "I received numerous reports that you were reduced to cleaning your re-fueling station because Tailgate had failed to do so. Were these reports mistaken?"
Sam's cheeks were burning from a combination of anger and outrage. His reply was momentarily arrested by the familiar shiver of an in-coming ping, but he ruthlessly shoved it aside.
"I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself, thank-you." He bit out in reply.
Captain Xaaron frowned deeply, clearly taken aback by Sam's reaction to the conversation.
"Forgive me, my Prime, but Tailgate's duties are to maintain cleanliness and order in all areas of the ship. It is his function."
Sam's jerked backwards at the note of finality in the older mechanoids voice. He looked around the table, taking in each mechanoid in turn. The Lost Light's crew were visibly uncomfortable, evidentially unsure how to react to Sam's anger. The Ark's crew, by comparison, seemed grim and taciturn, and all at once, Sam realized there was a lot more going on here than he realized.
"His function?" He asked, lowly.
"Of course." Xaaron replied, inclining his helm, "He is from the maintenance caste. Maintaining cleanliness and order was the reason he was on-lined."
Sam felt himself go cold all over at the dismissive, matter-of-fact tone of the Captain's voice. He leaned forward in his seat, placing his hands flat against the tabletop as he asked, coldly, "And what if he doesn't want to be a maintenance bot?"
His question was met with a flurry of sidelong looks and affronted murmuring among the Lost Light's crew. To Sam's surprise, Optimus said nothing. The older Prime was watching him closely, his optics bright and expression inscrutable.
"Whatever else would he do?" An unfamiliar mechanoid asked, clearly flustered.
"I don't know." Sam snapped, "Have you ever asked him?"
"To what end?" Captain Xaaron asked, with an air of aggravation, "Maintenance is his function—no more, no less."
Sam was momentarily speechless, too shocked and angry to formulate any kind of reply. Xaaron seemed to interpret his silence as some kind of capitulation, for he inclined his helm in response and turned to Crossblades, as though bidding his second-in-command to continue with their report. The easy dismissal incensed him, and Sam slapped his desk with the flat of his hand.
"I am not finished." He bit out, furiously, before turning to look at Optimus, "Did you know about this?"
Before Optimus could answer him, Starscream leaned forward to prop his elbows on the table. The Seeker was watching the scene unfold in front of him with unusually bright optics. "Yes, Prime, tell us: did you know about this?"
Sam frowned at the tone of his voice—it was cool, and goading, and amused, all at once.
Optimus met Starscream's optics without any sign of discomfort or disapproval.
"I am aware of the way that Captain Xaaron commands his ship, yes." He rumbled in reply, "I was not aware of the reason for Tailgate's punishment detail."
"How are you alright with this?" Sam demanded, turning to look at the older Prime, "It's wrong."
"Another astute question." Starscream put in, dryly.
"With all due respect, Prime, you know not of what you speak." Captain Xaaron cut in, stiffly, "It is the way of things."
Sam narrowed his eyes at the golden mechanoid as he leaned all the way forward in his seat. "Well, maybe it shouldn't be."
His response earned a long, low chuckle from Starscream, who shook his helm in response. "Oh, this is just delightful. The irony."
Captain Xaaron turned in his seat, pinning the Seeker with an openly contemptuous look. "Be silent, Decepticon."
The humor vanished from Starscream's face in an instant, replaced with cold fury. "That is Lord High Protector to you, Emirate."
"Not for long." Crossblades growled.
After that, the debriefing quickly devolved into a shouting match. Optimus was able to bring them back to order, but the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. The remaining reports were terse and to the point, and when the last mechanoid had finished speaking, the meeting was called to an end. Sam was aware of the way Optimus tried to catch his eye, but he refused to look at the older Prime. Instead, he pushed back his chair and stood up, before marching over to Jazz.
"Help me down." He said, stiffly.
Jazz briefly glanced over his shoulder in Prime's direction, before his optics flicked back to Sam's face.
"You sure?" He asked, softly, "Maybe you should stay awhile longer."
"Yes, I'm sure." Sam replied, his voice only just polite.
Jazz stared at him a moment longer, before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. He helped Sam down off the table, and as soon as his shoes met the floor, Sam stormed towards the door. The mechanoids were quick to step out of his way, but he was aware of the weight of their regard. He stared straight ahead, refusing to look at any of them as he left the conference room. He turned the events of the meeting over in his mind as he walked, trying to put his thoughts in order. Sam had last seen Tailgate three weeks ago, shortly after the coffee machine had been returned to the mess hall. Had he been in punishment detail all this time? Just because he had taken a stupid coffee pot? The unfairness of it stole Sam's breath away.
By the time that he returned to his hab-suite, Sam was seething in anger. He tossed the datapad onto the side table and started pacing the room. He had known that the caste system was prevalent on Cybertron during the Golden Age—indeed, the injustices against the lowest castes was one of the factors that motivated the Great War. Yet, in all the time that Sam had known the Autobots, never once had he witnessed any kind of social hierarchy among their ranks.
Well, beyond military rank and the role of Prime, he amended himself. Optimus was a force onto himself.
Prime never held his soldiers to any per-conceived notion of caste or class. Even Mirage and Ratchet, who had been among the social elite during the Golden Age, behaved no differently than anyone else. Sam wouldn't have even known about it, if Hot Rod wasn't prone to cracking jokes at their expense. The idea that Captain Xaaron was actively enforcing the caste system was deeply unsettling. He had learned enough in university to understand the predatory, exploitative nature of caste politics. The idea that an Autobot was facilitating that kind of oppression sat in his stomach like an iron weight.
Sam's troubled thoughts occupied him for hours. He paced the room or sat on the couch, but no matter what he did, he couldn't get Tailgate out of his mind. It took a long time to identify the sick feeling in his stomach, but when he did, the realization came hard and fast. He felt guilty for what had happened to the friendly little bot. He screwed his eyes shut and scrubbed a hand over his face. He had to do something—he just didn't know what.
The end of the first shift came and went, but he made no effort to leave the hab-suite. His appetite was non-existent. He was aware of Bumblebee's quiet scrutiny, but his bonded gave him his space. It was a fact for which Sam was quietly thankful. It wasn't until later that evening, after hours of restless pacing had left him strung-out and exhausted, that he decided to get something to eat. He made his way down the corridor, lost in his thoughts. As he rounded the corner and the mess hall came into sight, Sam could hear the din of animated talking. His step faltered, and he almost turned around and went back the way he came, when he caught a snatch of the conversation.
"—doesn't know a thing about it. It was offensive."
"That's a little harsh." Hot Rod joked.
"It was offensive." The first mechanoid, Bulkhead, repeated, "He's not even a vorn—the Earth has been a bad influence on him."
Sam's heart started beating faster in his chest as he realized, with complete certainty, that Bulkhead was talking about him. He was tempted to turn around and walk away—it would have been the dignified thing to do. Instead, Sam continued down the corridor towards the mess hall.
The conversation continued as he approached.
"It was dismissive." Arcee agreed, mildly.
"It was condescending." Bulkhead bit out in reply, "Who is he to pass judgment? The Earth is a cesspool of xenophobia and corruption."
"I like the Earth." Hound's disembodied voice put in, coolly.
"You don't count, you're glitched." Bulkhead rumbled in reply. "Look at how his own people reviled him after Egypt—and he would condemn us?"
Sam's heart was pounding in his throat now, blotting out all rational thought. He knew the exact moment that their sensors picked up on his presence, for all talking abruptly ceased. The silence that followed was damning. He stepped into the mess hall entrance to find every optic in the room fixed on him. Cliffjumper, Hound, Peacekeeper, and Roddy sat at one trestle table, while Arcee, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Knock Out sat at another. Bulkhead was standing between the two tables, his expression a mixture of consternation and embarrassment. A handful of mechanoids from the Lost Light were sitting at a table near the far end of the room, and they were clearly taken aback by his appearance.
"Oh, don't let me interrupt. You were saying?" Sam ground out.
"Sam, I apologize." Bulkhead started, "I meant no offense—"
Sam barked a derisive laugh as he stepped further into the room. "Oh, you meant to be offensive alright. You just didn't mean for me to overhear you."
Bulkhead shifted on his pedes, looking visibly uncomfortable, when Cliffjumper rose slightly from his seat.
"Sam—"
Sam held up a hand, silencing him without taking his eyes off the mechanoid in front of him. "If you have something to say to me, then say it to my face."
Bulkhead frowned faintly, glancing over his shoulder at Sunstreaker and Arcee, who shook their heads in response. The wrecker looked stymied at the lack of support, which only served to anger Sam further.
"Well?" Sam demanded, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, "You were saying something about Earth being a cesspool?"
"Sam—" Cliffjumper tried again.
Sam turned his head and glared at the scout. "Back off, Cliff."
A fissure of tension flitted across Cliffjumper's face, there and gone again too quickly to decipher, but he slowly sat down again. Sam turned to look at Bulkhead, before raising his shoulders impatiently. "I'm waiting."
Bulkhead's frown deepened, but the provocation finally spurred him to speak.
"We are all aware of what happened at the senior officer's briefing." He rumbled.
"And?" Sam demanded.
"And some of us took exception to what you said." Bulkhead replied, matter-of-factly. Whatever consternation the wrecker might have felt at being caught-out seemed to have run its course, "You know nothing about our ways."
"Oh?" Sam asked, dangerously, as he took another step into the room, "Don't I?"
"No, you don't." Bulkhead replied flatly, "And you have no right to sit in judgment of a system you do not understand."
Sam bristled in anger, unable to believe the wrecker's gall.
"I know all I need to know about the caste system." He spat, uncrossing his arms and balling his fists at his sides.
"How could you?" Bulkhead asked impatiently, "You've only ever known Earth. Your perspective will change in time."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Sam bit out.
Cliffjumper warbled something urgent sounding, causing Bulkhead to glance over at him in surprise. Whatever warning the scout had imparted seemed to go over the wrecker's head, however, for he continued without compunction.
"Sam, you are very young." He rumbled, "In time you will realize that humanity is not without its faults."
Sam was flushed with the heat of his anger, which seemed to be burning him up from the inside out. He knew that the wrecker didn't care for Earth—his derision had been evident from the moment they had first met. Still, the easy condescension inflamed him. He wasn't a sixteen-year-old child anymore, and he knew better than most just how cruel people could be.
"Where do you get off?" He demanded, his voice almost too low and too strangled to make out, "I am well aware of humanity's faults, thank-you."
"Then you shouldn't judge a system you do not understand by the values of one that cast you aside." Bulkhead rumbled in reply.
Sam's throat was so tight that he almost couldn't get his words out. "Yeah, the reaction in the aftermath of Egypt was pretty shitty—people fear what they don't understand. But it was humans who offered you a home when you had nowhere else to go. It was humans who fought with you against the Decepticons. I mean, Christ, Bulkhead, Lennox is human. Carter's human. I'm human."
The wrecker made an impatient sound in the back of his intakes as he waved his words aside. "That's different."
"How is that different?" Sam demanded, incredulously.
Bulkhead frowned in reply. "You're not human. Not really—not anymore."
The words hit him like a crowbar right in the stomach. For a brief moment, he couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't breathe for the pain of it. Then, all at once, his anger and anguish flashed into a grieving, grinding fury.
"Fuck. You." He hissed.
Bulkhead jerked back in surprise, but Sam wasn't finished yet.
"I'm sorry you think humanity is so beneath you." He managed, venom in every syllable, "I think I speak for all seven billion of us when I say that you can go straight to hell."
Bulkhead stared at him, mouth agape, but Sam didn't give him the chance to reply. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the mess hall as fast as his legs would carry him. He blinked against the tears stinging his eyes, struggling to control himself until he made it back to his hab-suite, when footsteps thundered up behind him.
"Sam! Sam wait!" Hot Rod called after him.
Sam didn't stop or slow down. He put one foot in front of the other, while trying to maintain what little dignity he had left. Hot Rod slid to a stop in front of him, his optics bright with concern.
"Are you alright?"
Sam didn't answer him—he couldn't. His throat had closed up with the force of his anger and grief.
Hot Rod jogged backwards several paces and then crouched down in front of him. "C'mon, Sam. Talk to me."
"I have nothing to say." Sam managed eventually, without breaking his stride.
Hot Rod scooted back another step. "Bulkhead was just blowing off steam."
Sam's step faltered as he looked up at the cavalier, frowning. "No, that's not it. He meant what he said."
"He's just happy to be returning to Cybertron—we all are." Hot Rod replied.
There was something about his tone of voice that pulled Sam up short. He stopped, angling his head to look up at the cavalier's face.
"Were you happy when you left?" He asked, flatly.
Hot Rod looked taken aback. "Of course I'm happy to be going home."
Sam's heart skipped a beat as dismay sent ice skittering through his veins. "That's not what I asked. Were you happy to leave Earth?"
Hot Rod hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, and it was all the confirmation that Sam needed. He closed his eyes, struggling to breathe around the emotions that threatened to strangle him. It was a physical pain—as though someone had cracked open his rib cage without showing the mercy of administering anesthesia.
"Sam, I'm sorry." Hot Rod murmured, stricken and apologetic all at once, "It's complicated."
Sam opened his eyes again, staring straight down the corridor. It was less than a hundred feet to the T-junction, and then another few hundred feet to his hab-suite. It was so close—he could make it.
"Please excuse me." He said, his voice hoarse beyond recognition.
"Wait, Sam please—"
Sam ignored him, walking away from the cavalier without so much as a backwards glance. His pulse was thundering in his ears so loudly that he couldn't tell whether Hot Rod stayed long enough to watch him go. His world narrowed down to the feeling of his breathing—in through his nose, out through his mouth. He was distantly aware of Ratchet's scrutiny and Bumblebee's concern, and it should have come as no surprise when he rounded the corner to find his Creator waiting next to his door. He didn't look at Ratchet as he neared his hab-suite—he couldn't, not if he wanted to maintain the tenuous grasp on his emotions. Instead, he stared straight ahead as he walked into the room.
Ratchet followed behind him without a word, and a moment later, the door slid shut behind them.
"I'm not going to apologize." He ground out, harshly, as he started pacing the apartment.
"That's not why I'm here." Ratchet replied, watching him closely.
Sam laughed—it was a sharp, ugly sound.
"There aren't any mirrors in here, Ratchet. Nothing to worry about."
His Creator did not respond to the obvious provocation. Sam continued pacing the hab-suite, which had never felt more confining than it did in that moment.
"How many?" He demanded at last, looking Ratchet in the face, "How many of them were happy to leave?"
"I don't know." Ratchet replied without compunction.
"How many?" Sam demanded, turning to face him, "Tell me."
"I don't know." Ratchet repeated softly.
The gentleness in his voice was too much, too soon. Sam shook his head wildly as he started pacing again.
"Is it all of them?" He asked, his breath coming faster now, "Do they hate Earth that much?"
"Calm down, Sam." Ratchet instructed, firmly but kindly.
"I am calm!" Sam yelled, fisting his hands in his hair, "I need to know."
"Sam, you need to breathe." Ratchet rumbled, taking a step closer, "You're having a panic attack."
Those words were like a knife to his heart—it had been years since his last breakdown.
"No, I'm not!" He gasped, desperately, "I'm not!"
But he could feel the truth of Ratchet's words. His skin felt too tight for his body, and he was lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. He screwed his eyes shut as he shook his head in denial.
"I can't do this. Not again." He moaned brokenly, "Jesus Christ, I'm only human."
The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he had said. It took a moment for the cruel irony to dawn on him, and when it did, Sam went down to his knees, keening in pain. Ratchet's holoform materialized at his side, calm and supportive, as he got Sam to press his forehead against the floor. Sam struggled to catch his breath through the onslaught of his tears, and the entire while, Ratchet rubbed a hand across his back. Bumblebee arrived soon after, and together he and Ratchet helped Sam into bed. By that point, he was completely numb. He felt nothing—not grief or anger or loss. It was almost a mercy.
They stayed with him for the rest of the night—silent and watchful.
Notes: Author's Note: Thank-you so much to CarsonLane for being my sounding board. I couldn't have finished this chapter without your unwavering support.