(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Sam awoke the following morning to find himself alone in bed. He grumbled as he rolled over, burrowing his face into the pillows. The room was dark and quiet and cool—the perfect combination for drifting back to sleep. He groped around for the blankets, intending to do just that, when the overhead lights came up to half-brightness.
"Good morning, Sam."
Sam groaned into the pillows at the sound of the familiar voice.
"Mornin' JARVIS." He mumbled.
"Your appointment with Mirage is in sixty minutes." He was informed, "Do you want me to reschedule?"
Sam sighed as he raised his head to peer at the ceiling. "What time is it?"
"It is jour-one." Teletraan-I promptly replied. "I was instructed to let you sleep past shift-change."
Sam pushed up onto his elbow as he scrubbed a hand over his face. The stubble on his jaw was thicker than it had been in years—an annoyance, but one he found himself too lazy to rectify. He blew out a breath as he glanced around the room, debating whether to get up or go back to sleep.
"Sam?" Teletraan-I prompted.
"Yeah, sorry, I'm going." He grumbled, pushing the blankets aside as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The air in the room was chilly, just this side of bracing, and he was quick to scramble off the mattress and grab a change of clothes. He pulled on his shoes next, and then he made his way towards the door. As he passed the couch, he noticed that the coffee table had been put back in its proper place. The realization made him grin, and he turned his attention inwards as he brushed against the familiar winter-white glow.
/Good morning./
He could feel a perceptible shift inside his head as Bumblebee turned his attention upon him.
/Good morning to you too./ He murmured, smoothing across Sam's mind, /Did you rest well?/
Sam grinned as he stepped into the corridor, letting the door slide shut behind him.
/Like a baby./ He replied as he started off towards the wash racks. The corridor was empty, but old habit had him walking within an arms-length of the wall in case of sudden traffic, /Thanks for that./
He could feel the wash of Bumblebee's amusement at his words.
/It was no hardship./ He replied dryly.
Sam laughed good-naturedly as he stepped through the wide double-doors at the end of the hall. The overhead lights came on as he did so, revealing the wash racks. The room was empty and neat as a pin, all gleaming steel and matte white tile. He tucked his clothes under one arm as he crossed the room, before pushing open the door to the partitioned space that had been designed for him. This area was notably less tidy, with a bath towel hanging over the bench and toiletries lying on the floor of the shower stall. Sam made quick work of his morning routine, using the bathroom and brushing his teeth in record time. He paused long enough to brace himself, as he always did, before shucking his clothes and climbing into the shower. The water was piping hot, and it was soon steaming in the cool air. Sam stood there for a long while, eyes half-lidded as water beat down on his shoulders—the combination of warmth and white noise was a soothing one.
When he was finished in the shower, Sam dried off as fast as humanly possible. He was dressed and on his way to the mess hall less than five minutes later, still tugging his sweater into place. It was a thick, green cable-knit material with a high, folded neckline. Sam could see evidence on Dave Carter in the clean lines and tidy seams, but it was warm, and that was all that really mattered.
When Sam neared the mess hall, his step faltered as the low buzz of conversation reached his ears. He stopped in the middle of the corridor, wrestling with the impulse to turn around and leave. He waffled for a moment or two, before he squared his shoulders and forged on ahead. He had to reintegrate back into the crew eventually, and it would be better to get it over with quickly, like yanking off a Band-Aid.
As Sam walked into the mess hall, his step faltered for a second time. Knock Out, Crossblades, and Fixit were sitting at the trestle table in the middle of the room. They each had a cube of energon in front of them, but they seemed to be ignoring the fuel in favor of staring at Hot Rod, who was crouching in front of Sam's kitchenette. Sam's brow furrowed in a combination of confusion and surprise as he started across the room.
"What are you doing?" He asked.
At the sound of his voice, Hot Rod jerked around to look at him. Sam had less than a second to wonder, incredulously, whether the cavalier hadn't noticed his approach, when Hot Rod visibly deflated.
"You're early." He said, like an accusation.
Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. "Sorry, what now?"
Hot Rod made a disgruntled sound in the back of his intakes as he shuffle-stepped aside. Sam's eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline at the sight of the kitchenette in complete disarray. Most of the cupboards were wide open, with an assortment of canisters, condiments, empty packaging, and dishware strewn across the counter. The coffee machine was percolating away, hissing and steaming in the cool air.
"What's this?" Sam spluttered, looking from the kitchenette to the cavalier.
Hot Rod shrugged. "I made you breakfast. You know, as an apology."
The words were too casual, too noncommittal to be natural. It made something ache inside Sam's chest, and he turned a small, fond smile on the cavalier.
"You didn't have to do that, Roddy." He murmured, taking a step closer, "It wasn't you, it was me."
The cavalier's expression shifted through a myriad of emotions too quickly for Sam to process, but then he grinned at him, wide and easy.
"Yeah, well. I spent a lot of time making this, so you're still going to eat it."
Sam chuckled good-naturedly as he stepped up to the counter, surveying the mess.
"Well, what's on the menu?" He asked.
Hot Rod pinched the microwave handle between two digits, before pulling it open to reveal a familiar black container. Sam reached up, grabbing the container with both hands and putting it on the counter. As he peeled back the filament, Hot Rod pushed a coffee cup towards him, sloshing caramel colored liquid over the rim. Sam's face split with a wide grin at the sight.
"You made me coffee?" He laughed, "Oh man, all is forgiven."
Hot Rod's optics brightened to turquoise at the sound of his laughter. Sam reached out, picking the coffee mug up by its handle and blowing across the steaming surface. He smiled up at the cavalier as he took a deep drink, and then he immediately choked on it. Hot Rod's expression shifted from pleased to alarmed as Sam began coughing and spluttering.
"Are you alright?" He asked, urgently.
"What…" Sam took a deep breath as he resisted the urge to gag, "What did you put in this?"
Hot Rod stared at him in sinking dismay. "Did I do it wrong? I followed the directions."
Sam glanced down into his mug. The coffee looked alright—it was smooth and creamy and golden brown, but it tasted horrible.
"Are you sure?" He asked skeptically. He gave the coffee an experimental sip, which proved to be no better than the first. Grimacing, he poured the contents of the mug down the kitchen sink.
Hot Rod's expression was stricken. "I'm certain. I even asked Ironhide—he said Lennox likes it that way."
Sam might have been tempted to tease the cavalier, were it not for his forlorn tone of voice. So instead, he tipped his head towards the counter. "Show me."
Hot Rod made a sound halfway between a groan and a grumble, but he obligingly walked Sam through the steps. It wasn't until Roddy pulled the canisters across the counter that Sam understood.
"And then I added the creamer and the sugar. Like I said—I followed the instructions." Roddy said, a little defensively.
Sam's lips twitched with sympathetic amusement.
"That's not sugar." He said, struggling to keep the smile off his face, "That's salt."
Hot Rod turned to look at the two virtually identical canisters with almost comic consternation.
"Salt?" He asked, flatly.
The grin that Sam had been fighting broke through, stretching across his face from ear to ear.
"Salt." He agreed.
Roddy let his head fall back as he groaned, with feeling, "Salt."
Sam laughed aloud as he gathered up his breakfast and brought it to the table. He laid out the protein scramble, fork, and napkin before going back to pour himself another coffee. Hot Rod watched as he added two spoonfuls of sugar and a little bit of creamer to the mug, before shaking his head faintly.
"So close." He sighed.
"Top marks for effort, buddy." Sam grinned, pulling out his chair and sitting at the table.
"That's the second time he's been told that this morning." Knock Out cut in, his voice all dry humor.
Hot Rod glanced over at the medic with a look of mild affront on his face. "I didn't hear you complaining."
Knock Out smirked at him over the rim of his energon cube as he took an unhurried drink. Hot Rod scoffed at him, before turning back to look at Sam.
"Is the food alright, at least?"
Sam nodded in agreement. The protein scramble was a mixture of eggs, ham, peppers, and onion. And, as Hot Rod hadn't done anything besides putting it in the microwave, it was perfectly edible.
"It's great, thanks." He replied, spearing a piece of bell pepper and popping it into his mouth.
"You're welcome, Sammy." Hot Rod replied, straightening to his full height with a lopsided grin.
"Don't call me that." Sam mumbled.
Hot Rod's grin sharpened, but before he could reply, Knock Out called across the room.
"Glass houses, Rodimus."
Hot Rod's amusement was gone in an instant, replaced by something like wounded surprise. Sam looked from the cavalier to the medic in a moment of confusion, before it suddenly clicked.
"Wait a minute." He said, setting his fork down on the table and peering at Hot Rod, "Your name is Rodimus?"
Hot Rod shuttered his optics, a long-suffering expression on his face, causing Sam to bark a sharp laugh.
"You've been giving me shit for eight years, and your name is Rodimus?" He asked, a grin spreading across his face, "Seriously?"
"I like Hot Rod better." He muttered, sulkily.
Sam barked another laugh, louder and more genuine. "I bet you do, Rodimus."
Hot Rod stared at Sam a moment longer, before turning to pin the medic with a cool look. Knock Out smirked, leaning back in his seat and taking another drink of his energon cube. They locked gazes for a long moment, clearly communicating with each other over comms, before Hot Rod tossed his head with a scoff.
"We'll see if you feel the same when you're re-charging alone." He huffed.
Knock Out's expression remained tolerantly amused. "I guess we will."
Hot Rod made a dramatic sound inside his intakes, before peering down at Sam and jerking his head towards the table.
"Can you believe the disrespect I get around here?" He asked.
Sam grinned sympathetically up at the cavalier.
"It's criminal." He said, picking up his fork and poking at the protein scramble, "And totally undeserved."
His sarcasm was either unnoticed or ignored, for Hot Rod planted his hands on his hip struts and snorted expressively. "I know, right?"
Sam rolled his eyes, but he didn't respond. Instead, he worked on the remainder of his breakfast while Hot Rod and Knock Out sniped at one another. He was familiar enough with their weird courtship to keep his nose out of it. The two mechanoids were prone to drag innocent bystanders into their bickering—a fact that Sam had learned for himself in the past.
When he was finished eating, Sam pushed away from the table and stood up, before surveying the kitchenette with a grim sort of resignation.
"Are you going to help me clean this up?" He asked, tossing the question over his shoulder.
Hot Rod stopped speaking in mid-sentence to look at him. He seemed confused for a scant second, and then his expression turned sheepish.
"Oh, right." He said.
Sam groaned under his breath as he made his way over to the counter. He spent the next few minutes tidying up the space with Hot Rod's unhelpful assistance, and when the kitchenette was finally clean, he washed his hands and gave the cavalier a farewell pat.
"I'm off to see Mirage. Talk to you later." He said.
Hot Rod chirruped something sympathetic sounding at him, causing Sam to squint his eyes up at the cavalier.
"Was that a condolence modifier?" He guessed.
Hot Rod's faceplates shifted, giving him a surprised appearance.
"It was." He agreed, "The empathy-condolence one, not the sarcasm-condolence one."
Sam huffed a wry laugh. "Well, don't look so shocked. I've known you guys for over a decade."
Hot Rod grinned at him, wide and easy, as he mussed Sam's hair with the tip of one digit.
"Look at that! He can be taught."
Sam pulled a face as he sidestepped away and swatted at the offending digit.
"Yeah, thanks." He grumbled, "I'll see you guys later."
As he turned to leave, Crossblades swung his leg over the bench and stood up. The Lost Light's second-in-command was tall and broad shouldered, but his tread was quiet as he approached.
"I am on my way to the bridge. I would walk with you, if you're amenable." He rumbled.
Sam shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets and nodding towards the hall. "If you want. I'm a slow walker, though."
Crossblades chuckled softly. "I have time."
Sam shrugged again before starting towards the exit. Crossblades walked at his side, the larger war frame adjusting his pace to accommodate for Sam's shorter stride. The deck was empty, as it had been that morning, and it wasn't long before they stepped into the atrium. As with the rest of the ship, the atrium was both alien and beautiful. It was a cavernous space, with a curving ramp that connected all five decks. The floor of the atrium was solid glass, backlit in Autobot blue that glinted off the smooth metal walls. The sounds of clanging metal echoed up from the floor, and Sam peered over the railing to see Ultra Magnus, Ironhide, and Kup moving crates from one side of the room to the other.
"They are moving supplies from the loading bay to the storage hangar on the third deck." Crossblades helpfully supplied.
Sam glanced over at the second-in-command, only to find him standing with his servos clasped behind his back and a patient expression on his face.
"Oh, thanks." He glanced over the safety rail in time to see Smokescreen and Inferno appear in the mouth of the corridor carrying an oblong crate between them. The two mechanoids walked over to the far side of the room, before disappearing under the ramp. "What is it?" He asked curiously.
"Miscellanea." Crossblades shrugged, "Tools and power cells, mostly."
Sam made a considerate sound as he turned and began climbing up the ramp.
"I know the Ark was low on supplies before you guys arrived." He said.
"It is little wonder." Crossblades acknowledged in reply.
They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence. The first deck was largely empty, although they passed Red Alert and Peacemaker near the command center. The two mechanoids were visibly surprised to see them. Sam raised his hand, giving a little wave. Peacemaker waved back, but it took a moment for Red Alert to return the gesture. The Security Director watched them as they passed, an inscrutable expression on his face. Sam thought nothing of it—Red Alert was weird on a good day.
The conference room was located almost equidistant between the atrium and the bridge entrance. They rounded the corner to find Mirage already standing by the door. The Spec Ops specialist turned to greet them, nodding politely as they approached.
"Sam." He rumbled, before his optics flicked to the airframe at his side. "…Crossblades."
"Hey Mirage." Sam replied, "Thanks for agreeing to help me."
Mirage inclined his helm. "It is my pleasure."
Sam couldn't help the wry twist of his lips. "I wouldn't bet on it."
Before Mirage could reply, Crossblades turned to look at him. "I will take my leave. I am required on the bridge."
"Yeah, sure." Sam replied, "Of course."
Crossblades tipped his head, before turning on his heel and striding down the corridor. Mirage watched him go, optics narrowed slightly, before he glanced down at Sam.
"Shall we begin?"
Sam grimaced faintly. "Alright."
The following two hours were simultaneously fascinating and frustrating. Mirage introduced him to the concept of color theory, which was far more detailed and nuanced than Sam could ever have imagined. He learned that colors had multiple meanings in Cybertronian society, a fact that was complicated by the combination of colors and the ratio of one color to another.
"Consider the color red, for example." Mirage rumbled, gesturing towards himself, "Red is a dignified color on Cybertron, most often associated with nobility and the upper castes."
Sam braced an elbow on the table, propping his chin in his hand.
"Is that why Optimus has red panels?" He asked.
Mirage inclined his helm. "It is, although that specific shade is used solely by the Primacy."
The corners of Sam's mouth turned down in a faint frown. "What do you mean? It's just red, isn't it?"
"Your ability to interpret nuance is impeded by your color receptors." Mirage replied, "We are able to discern between shades with a greater accuracy than humans." At Sam's stymied expression, Mirage elaborated, "Consider Hound. What color is he?"
Sam squinted at the seemingly trick question. "He's black and white, isn't he? Like Prowl?"
Mirage shook his head faintly in response. "He is black and white and green. The green is too dark to be distinguished by the naked human eye."
Sam perked up in surprise. "Really? He's green?"
"He is black and white and green, in that order." Mirage corrected him. "Black is most commonly associated with the Pit, all-consuming and inescapable. It also has ties to authority and justice. This is why war-frames and enforcers are often black."
Sam frowned faintly, trying to wrap his brain about what he was being told. "What about white?" He asked, "Prowl and Optimus and Ratchet all have white."
"An astute question." Mirage replied, folding his servos over his abdomen, "What do they have in common?"
Sam's frown returned, deepening with a mixture of confusion and consternation. "An enforcer, a medic, and a Prime? I have no idea."
"Service." Mirage replied, "A Prime serves the people in his capacity as our holy leader. A medic serves those under his care. An enforcer serves the rule of the law."
Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, unsure which of the questions swirling through his head to ask first. Mirage stared at him patiently, giving him time to process his thoughts.
"What about yellow?" He asked at last.
Mirage's face warmed fractionally in amusement.
"Yellow is an impertinent color. It is most often associated with youth and exuberance, and it's widely favored by speedsters."
"Impertinent?" Sam asked, skeptically, "Sunstreaker and Hot Rod, maybe, but not Bumblebee."
Mirage inclined his helm, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"As with spoken Cybertronian, subtle differences in appearance can change meaning entirely." He explained, "Bumblebee's saturation is lighter, while Sunstreaker and Hot Rod are darker."
Mirage spent the next twenty minutes providing examples of the ways hue and saturation influenced color meaning. Sam struggled to follow along, but he quickly lost track of how primary, secondary, and tertiary colors changed meaning depending on whether they were the dominant color, secondary color, or an accent.
"What about silver?" He blurted at last, thoroughly overwhelmed, "Like Jazz."
Mirage's optics found his in an instant, and the former noble seemed to consider him for a long moment.
"Inactive chromophores are silver." He said at last, "As such, silver is considered a base color."
Sam squinted in confusion. "…base?"
Mirage inclined his helm slightly. "Generally speaking, color is associated with influence. More colorful mechanoids tend to be from higher castes, while less colorful mechanoids tend to be from lower castes."
"So… Jazz is a lower caste mechanoid?" Sam surmised.
"He was, at one time." Mirage hedged. "He has since chosen to keep his color scheme."
"Why?" Sam blurted, a second before he realized the rudeness of the question.
Mirage's expression was inscrutable but intense.
"Color is meaningful." He rumbled, "In both its presence and its absence. Remember that."
Sam stared at Mirage as he tried to decode the strange non-answer. "Are you saying that Jazz is making a social statement?"
"Perhaps." He replied enigmatically, "You would have to ask him."
Mirage called the lesson to a close a half-an-hour later. He gave Sam a data-pad filled with detailed information about color theory, which included multiple visual examples. They agreed to meet the following afternoon, and then they parted ways. Sam ambled back to the second deck, flipping through the data-pad as he walked. The entries could be sorted in two ways: meaning by color type or meaning by accent-type. Sam navigated to the color type folder only to find thousands of entries. Each color had multiple sub-folders for hue, saturation, and brightness.
By the time Sam made it back to his hab-suite, his head was spinning with information. He learned that secondary and tertiary colors, such as orange and pink, derived their meaning from the specific blend of colors utilized. A darker orange, for example, placed a greater emphasis on red connotations, while a lighter orange placed a greater emphasis on yellow connotations.
Sam read for the better part of an hour, before he called it quits. He tossed the data-pad onto the coffee table and fell back against the couch with a groan. He briefly considered curling up and taking a quick nap, but a glance at the chronometer dashed that thought away. It was already half-shift: time for his jog.
Knowing better than to put it off, Sam dragged himself off the couch and over to the bed. He made quick work of changing into his workout clothes—long sleeved shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers—before he rummaged around the bed sheets, searching for his iPod. He found it a moment later, tucked beneath his pillows. He made his way across the room, pushing his AirPods into his ears one at a time, before stepping into the corridor. He took a moment to stretch his calves and hamstrings, and then he started off at an easy jog. He passed Wheeljack near the science laboratory, and the engineer waved at him good-naturedly.
Sam finished Sweet Caroline and Sweet Home Alabama by the time he arrived at the atrium. He started down the sloping ramp towards the lowest floor. He stayed near the wall as he jogged, well away from the safety rail that separated him from five stories of open air. It didn't take long to reach the bottom. Ultra Magnus and the others were still organizing crates against the far wall, and the City Commander inclined his helm in greeting. Sam waved back in response, before shuffling his music and upping the volume to maximum as he started back up the ramp. He had discovered that the atrium provided the perfect conditions for hill training—a fact that was becoming ever more apparent with each step. His calves were burning by the time he reached the fourth deck, and he was sweating heavily by the time he reached the second deck. Still, he pushed himself harder. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, in for a count of three, out for a count of three. It only took about six minutes to reach the top, but it felt like a small eternity. The ramp ended in a wide semi-circular balcony that overlooked the atrium floor below. Sam jogged along its perimeter, giving himself time to catch his breath, before he started down the ramp again.
He was crossing the distance between the second and third deck when it happened.
Swerve came around the corner at a fast clip, tires squealing against the polished metal floors. Sam stumbled to a stop, his heart suddenly in his throat as the metallurgist headed right for him. He knew a moment of profound terror—the kind that freezes you in place, unable to move or speak. He had a brief moment to decide whether he was going to tuck and roll or throw himself over the railing, when Ultra Magnus materialized in front of him. The holoform grabbed Sam in a bear hug, shielding him with his body. A second later, the sound of tires locking up could be heard even over the sound of music pounding in his ears.
There was a brief moment of reprieve, and then Ultra Magnus was spinning him around by the shoulders.
"Are you alright?" He demanded, pulling the AirPods out of Sam's ears.
"Is he alright?" Swerve cried, incredulously.
It took Sam a moment to realize that his voice had come from down below. He stumbled over to the edge of the ramp, only to see Swerve in a crumpled heap on the atrium floor. Smokescreen and Inferno were crouched by his side, seemingly trying to help him, but Ironhide looked fit to tear the metallurgist part.
All at once, Sam's knees went wobbly and he had to brace a hand against the railing to keep himself from keeling over. Ultra Magnus grasped him by the bicep, his expression reserved but concerned.
"Sam?" He asked, "Do you need Ratchet?"
It took him a moment before he could reply. "No. No, I'm okay."
The look of grim concern on Ultra Magnus' face softened marginally.
"I am relieved to hear it." He replied, dryly, "Although it is uncertain for how long Swerve can claim the same."
The sound of angry Cybertronian and the clang of metal against metal wafted up from the atrium floor. Sam huffed a weak laugh, before he stepped away from the guardrail.
"I think I'm finished for the day." He managed, "I'm going to head back upstairs."
Ultra Magnus' steel blue eyes roved over Sam's face, searching and inscrutable.
"Are you certain? Do you need an escort?" He rumbled.
Sam shook his head faintly. "No thanks, Ultra Magnus, but I appreciate it. I'll talk to you later, yeah?"
The holoform stared at him for a moment longer, before inclining his head and de-materializing. Sam took a deep, steadying breath, and then he started off towards the second deck.
The rest of his afternoon was spent lazing in the hab-suite, with brief trips to the mess hall for his meals. He alternated his time between watching television and reading the data-pad that Mirage had given him. He took notes as he read, highlighting any questions he had on a separate document so he wouldn't lose track of them. Bumblebee arrived shortly before shift-change, and they spent an enjoyable few hours together watching television. Sam didn't even realize he had started drifting off before Bumblebee helped him to his feet and guided him towards the bed.
"It's cold in here." Sam grumbled as he stripped out of his clothes.
"You'll be comfortable in bed." Bumblebee replied, handing him his pajamas.
Sam made a disgruntled noise as he pulled the long-sleeved shirt over his head, before yanking his lounge pants on one leg at a time. "You always say that."
"And it's always true." Bumblebee archly reminded him.
Sam clambered up onto the bed and shimmied beneath the blankets. Bumblebee joined him a moment later, and Sam plastered himself to the holoform's body, soaking in the modest amount of warmth he provided. Bumblebee chuckled at him as the overhead lights darkened to black, leaving only the emergency light over the door to illuminate the room.
"What are you doing tomorrow?" Sam asked, mumbling the words against the holoform's neck.
"I have a half-shift on the bridge, followed by manual labor on the fourth deck." Bumblebee murmured in reply.
Sam's lips twitched up at the corners. "Sucks to be you."
The holoform chuckled softly, before pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of Sam's head. "It has its advantages."
"Mm, yeah." Sam hummed in agreement, his eyes drifting shut, "I'm a total prize." s
He could feel the soft swell of Bumblebee's amusement across their bond-space. It enveloped him like an embrace, and Sam drifted off to the feeling of being surrounded by his bonded, in both body and mind.
Optimus reclined in the command chair as he considered the console in front of him. It displayed several read-outs, including duty rosters, personnel reports, system specifications, and, as of that afternoon, a punitive report. Ultra Magnus had compiled and submitted the forms himself, and as such, they were terse and to the point. His optics scanned the details for the third time. It seemed the incident was the result of Swerve's notoriously poor attention span, rather than the result of any kind of nefarious motive. Still, the accident could have turned out much differently were it not for Ultra Magnus' quick and decisive action.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bridge doors sliding open. He half-turned, glancing towards the entryway, before he stiffened in surprise. Sam was standing at the bridge entrance, wearing nothing but thin nightclothes and a distant expression on his face. It was an expression that Optimus had come to recognize over the last four years.
Sam was sleepwalking.
The Autobot leader composed a terse message to Ratchet, flagging it with high priority signifiers as he climbed out of his chair. Sam stared unseeingly ahead as he walked between the two work terminals. Ironhide and Bulkhead turned in their seats to watch him.
"Sam?" Optimus rumbled gently.
Sam gave no indication of having heard him. He continued walking, placing one foot in front of the other as he descended the ramp onto the second level. Optimus followed behind him, maintaining a close distance. Sam walked to the center of the level, coming to a stop directly in front of the view screen. Bumblebee whistled in concern as he disengaged his jacks from the communications terminal, but a sharp look from Optimus had him lowering back into his seat.
"Sam?" Optimus asked, dropping to one knee in front of the boy, "Can you hear me?" Although Sam's blank expression did not change, something sharpened behind his eyes. It made Optimus' fuel pump skip a beat and he leaned closer. "Sam?"
The bridge was perfectly quiet—no one else spoke a word.
Optimus hesitated for a long moment, before something possessed him to ask, "ĦƢ?"
It was one of the oldest honorifics for the Allspark. It contained two glyphs: Ħ for sacred vessel and Ƣ for gateway to the Great Spark.
The corner of Sam's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile.
"Once, perhaps." He murmured, glancing down at his hands. "I find myself… changed."
Prime kept his electromagnetic fields neutral with great effort, but the others on the bridge were less successful at controlling their reaction. The air thrummed with the force of their shock, and awe, and disbelief, and fear.
"I am honored to serve." He murmured.
The Allspark stared at his hands for a moment longer, before turning to regard him. His expression was blank, almost empty, but his gaze was intense.
"I know you, Keeper." He said, before a fissure of frustration crossed his face. "That term is incomplete. The glyph does not translate properly."
Optimus immediately understood the source of his consternation. His title at the Temple Simfur was too complex to translate directly into English. It held connotations of protection, research, holy ordinance, and devotion.
"I have used the term Chief Scientist when speaking in English." He rumbled softly, "It is sufficient for human understanding."
The Allspark said nothing in reply. Instead, he turned and stared steadfastly out the view screen. Optimus knelt at his side in silence, optics roving over his face. The man standing in front of him lacked any kind of human mannerism or micro-expression. His features were entirely other—entirely alien. It sent a thrill of fear straight to Prime's spark.
"Is Sam in danger?" He asked quietly.
It took a long moment, but eventually the Allspark turned to regard him.
"He is in terrible danger." He murmured, "But not from me."
Optimus' optics spiraled open in alarm, but the Allspark shook his head.
"We are almost there—I can feel it." His voice trailed off as he turned to regard the view screen once again. "Vos, Kaon, Helex, Tarn… it won't be long now."
Optimus felt a pang of melancholy at the Allspark's words.
"Do you know what awaits us on Cybertron?" He asked softly.
The Allspark's mouth curved up in a faint smile. "I do not. For all of my long-life, I am not omniscient." His eyes flitted across Prime's face, before he raised a hand and pressed two fingers against the glyph inscribed on his cuirass. "You must have faith, Prime. Now more than ever."
Optimus did not know whether the words were a reprimand or a command, but he inclined his helm all the same.
"As you say." He rumbled.
The Allspark regarded him for a moment longer, and then his eyes slid closed. When they blinked open again a moment later, it was Sam, not the Allspark, staring back at him. The boy stumbled backwards in shock, but Optimus was quick to steady him.
"It was Cybertron." Sam babbled anxiously, "Iacon, I think, or maybe Praxus. It was before the war. We walked through a garden—there were blue crystals growing everywhere." His voice trailed off as he glanced around him, suddenly aware of the intense scrutiny from the bridge crew. A look of unease flashed across his face, before he glanced back uncertainly at Optimus.
"…What happened?"
Notes: Author's Notes: There are many versions of the Cybertronian alphabet. The characters that I used in this chapter approximated the Cybertronian symbol for 'Allspark' as near as possible. Thanks to theonlygerm for their color theory idea!