A debriefing, as it turned out, was not nearly as cool or exciting as its drama-show name implied. After retracing his steps to his quarters to change into a clean shirt, Sam hiked up to level three and followed the lines of armed guards to room 52. Yet despite the spine-tingling intrigue conjured by the presence of such tight security, the scene he encountered beyond the doorway-- once he had been allowed to pass after surrendering his phone-- reminded him not so much of a CIA training room as a PTA office in a middle-America high school. Green carpet and bland beige walls added to the feel of stepping back in time to the waiting room outside the principal's office. There were more guards here, as well, standing sentry beside a closed door in the far wall. Coupled together with an absence of windows and the empty oval table dominating the space, the room could have served double duty as a Wallmart board room. Or an interrogation room.

Half of the scratchy upholstered chairs were already filled; Lennox, Epps and several other burly military types that could have only been his team clustered together on the opposite side of the table, surveying his entrance with the air of a mafia gang holding court. It seemed marines had a penchant for arriving early. Sam smiled uneasily and lifted a hand in greeting, relieved when the gesture was returned with a "Hey, kid" and a nod of acknowledgement.

The only other occupant of the table didn't seem aware of his entrance; Leo-- hunched over something in his lap, shoulders trembling slightly-- never raised his shaggy head (chia pet...he he) at the sound of the door opening. For an awkward moment Sam thought he was crying, but then a muffled howl reached his ears and he realized his ex-roomate was shaking not with sorrow but with laughter.

"Sam!" Leo jerked his chin in a signal to come closer, "Come look at this little piece of awesomeness!" And his hands tilted over the side of his leg to reveal a cell phone. With a panicked glance at the guards, Sam slid into the chair beside him and pushed the piece of contraband farther out of sight beneath the table.

"What are you doing?! They have guns!" he hissed. His warning went ignored as the exuberant teenager shrugged him off and turned the tiny device so that he could see the glowing screen.

"I happened to have this baby on at just the right time and caught aaallll the action! Watch."

A new window opened on the screen showing a paused video clip. He pressed a button, and the miniature actors sprang to life on their 2-D stage; an inch-long Sam, face contorted with almost comical amounts of rage, leapt at an unsuspecting Galloway figurine and bashed him over the head with a breakfast tray. Leo pressed another button-- the food sucked itself back onto his plate, and Sam pirouetted away from the table, back to his starting position. Clamping his lips together around a peal of unmanly giggles, Leo fingered the recording to life again. Scream, jump, wack. Repeat.

Sam's hand shot out and snapped the phone closed around another chibi head-bashing, cutting off the clip.

Leo pouted, but compliantly stuck the device back in his pocket. "Spoil-sport."

Contrary to Sam's first impression, the two guards were not oblivious to their whispered conversation and secretive antics. One had made his way around the table to stand behind them, and the two teenagers, absorbed in their guilty revelry, were blind to his presence until he dropped a heavy hand on Leo's shoulder, causing the teen to jump as though electrocuted and let out a squeal. Sam spun around as his ex-roomate jerked upright, moaning for the other boy's idiocy as the guard simply held out a hand.

"Phone."

Grumbling under his breath, flushed a deep scarlet, Leo reluctantly dug out the offending device and passed it over. Without a word the guard slipped it into a pocket of his vest and strode away.

Leo dropped his head onto the back of his chair and let out a quiet wail of despair.

"Awww man, this sucks! Thanks a lot Sam, you just lost me the winning vid on America's Funniest Home Videos," he paused, crossing his arms, "And no matter what anyone might say, I did not just scream like a girl. I was just surprised."

"Of course not."

"Not only did I not scream like a girl, I didn't scream at all."

"Definitely."

"Actually, I wasn't even startled. I just had to pretend like I was to keep los jefes happy."

"Had to keep them happy. Got it."

"And if you ever tell anyone otherwise, I know what room you sleep in. Intimately."

"Would you put a lid on it, kid?" Lennox snapped, his eyes gleaming the way they did when he threatened Agent Simmons of S7 with a gun.

Leo gulped, visibly backpedaling. "You got it, bro. No problem. Shutting up now."

But Sam wasn't listening anymore. The other boy had said 'sleep'-- present tense, as though when they finally docked in India and flew back to the US everything would go back to the way it had been, including Sam sharing a room with a techno geek who talked too much and had hair resembling a chia pet. Once more his universe had flipped upside down, and even someone who had survived the battle in Egypt with him, seen the very terrors that stalked his nightmares, had been left behind, left right-side-up. Because this time everything wasn't going to go back to normal. He had never bragged of being the brightest student in his class, true, but he had always taken a certain pride from being more quick-witted and clever than all the jocks and stoners and math geeks (and Megatron). And after scraping his way through the remainder of high school with better-than-average grades he had managed to achieve the previously unthinkable-- he had been accepted to an Ivy League school. That didn't matter now, though. None of it mattered. Though he didn't yet know the specifics, the fact that Galloway had not been surprised by Mikaela's announcement was tacit proof that the government was conspiring to keep him from going back to college. The second best thing he had ever done in his life, and they were taking it away from him. Just like that.

Leaning forward with his elbows braced against the table, he laced his fingers behind his neck and pressed his forehead into the synthetic wood grain (not real, nothing feels real). He stayed that way, tracing the pixilated patterns beneath his nose to find where they repeated, until the door opened again and his parents shuffled through.

"Sam! Oh, we were so worried after we saw what happened at breakfast, weren't we, Ron?" His mother gushed, rushing towards him. Sam straightened at the sound of his name and hitched a smile on his face, docilely submitting to being crushed in a head-hug.

"Yeah, sure we were," his father clapped him on the shoulder, hard, "Did you break the bastard's nose?"

"Ron! You shouldn't be encouraging this aggressive behavior!" She mimed a cutting motion over Sam's head as though he could not see her, sinking into the chair beside him.

"Judy, he isn't Mojo."

"Maybe not, but the concept still applies."

"Am I in trouble?" Sam interrupted, tapping out a pattern on his knee to distract himself from the crushing ache of remorse engendered by their obvious concern. They didn't know yet that their baby boy would not be getting a college degree. Maybe not ever. "Cause I'm sure there's something in the rule book about self defense extending to harassment cases."

"He was harassing you?" His mother gasped at the same time his father growled, "What kind of harassment?"

Sam abandoned his tapping in favor of waving his hands in a physical halting motion.

"Not the kind you think! Not the pedophile, shouldn't-be-around-kids type, or even just the physical type. It was just, you know, just playground bully stuff. Teasing. That's all."

At the tail end of his speech the door opened again and Mikaela entered, sauntering towards him with a half-lidded gaze in her eyes. Sam groaned, knowing she had heard at least part of their conversation

"It wasn't just teasing, Sam," she sighed in exasperation, "Trent used to 'tease' you, but I never saw you attack him like that--"

"Not that you know of," he interjected with a cocky grin.

"--and you're not such a coward that you would run off and hide for hours at the drop of a hat."

She slid in between Sam and Leo, gracing the other boy with a winning smile and batting her lashes.

"Um, I believe this is my seat," she told him silkily. He gulped, mouth sagging open like a fish under the full power of her eyes, but he nonetheless held his ground.

"No way, chica. I was here first. But you're welcome to share with me." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Mikaela bent towards him from the waist, clasping her hands between her knees.

"Let me rephrase that. I'm wearing steel-toed boots and I know how to use them. Now move!"

Faster than a rabbit fleeing a fox, Leo squirted from his chair and sought another farther down the table. "Moving!"

To the sound of Lennox and his team's laughter, Mikaela seated herself in the vacated chair and leaned against him, wrapped one arm around his back. In response he draped his own arm around her shoulders.

"You were gone a really long time, Sam. What happened?"

"I was in my room. Reading."

"Liar." She punched him in the arm with her other hand. It wasn't a girly punch-- his face muscles strained to keep from wincing. "I checked your room. You weren't there."

Glancing around at the many pairs of eyes watching the exchange with interest, he ducked his head to breathe against her cheek, "Not here, okay? Please, Mikaela. I just--" he took a deep breath, "--I just freaked out, alright? I don't know if I can talk about it. Now or ever."

A slim, warm hand reached out to grasp his, running a finger along the web of his thumb in a strangely erotic manner. Then, with a gentle squeeze that conveyed support more clearly than any words, it let go.

"Okay."

The door in the opposite wall chose that moment to swing open, and a wide assortment of decorated officers, suited bureaucrats, and pencil-pushers dressed in gray and carrying clipboards entered. A man with a square block of flashing metals sheathing one side of his chest took the helm. His steel gray eyes surveyed them with vague detachment, his arms clasping behind his back.

"Good morning. I am General Thatcher. Thank you for joining us."

"Like we had a choice," Leo muttered under his breath.

"Today is going to be a little unorthodox because so many of you are civilians. Just cooperate and answer any questions you are asked to the best of your abilities and we can all get on with our lives."

"Wait, where are Simmons and Galloway?" Mikaela muttered suddenly, looking around. Sam blinked, only just realizing that their group was not complete.

"You may have noticed that two of your number are missing," he continued, possessing either mind reading abilities or exceptional hearing, though his gaze never once lingered on Mikaela, "Simmons and Galloway, as agents past and present of the US government, are being interviewed separately for the individual portion of the debriefing. They will rejoin us once all of your solo statements have been taken, at which point the autobots will also join us for a video conference."

This announcement sparked murmurs of fear and anticipation from the small crowd. Some of the tension eased from Sam's muscles at the promise of being able to see his friends again so soon. The fact that Thatcher had not excluded Optimus meant that the giant robot must have been in good enough shape to participate. But it was the thought of seeing Bumblebee, even surrounded by so many others, that made his stomach do back flips. Had it really only been five hours since he had felt metal so warm, so alive, pressing with infinite gentleness against his legs?

Thatcher clapped his hands together, motioning to the suits accompanying him.

"That said, let's get started, shall we?"

One of the faceless gray bureaucrats stepped forward and began to speak, never taking his eyes from his clipboard.

"We will call you one at a time to give individual statements. You are not to discuss with anyone else what transpires during your interview until after every name has been called. Understood?" A few nods, but he continued without waiting for their acknowledgement. "First up--Captain Lennox."

Boredom was a concept not unknown to any teenager, especially Sam. But in the hours that followed, hours spent cooped up in the rapidly shrinking room as one by one the people around him disappeared into the inner chamber, the word 'boredom' took on a whole new meaning. It was no longer only a state of being-- it was a special place in Hell reserved for twitchy, slightly psychotic 18-year-olds convinced, with every passing moment spent in idleness, that a group of decepticons was amassing just outside the walls. First it was merely Starscream circling the ship, demon red eyes peering through layers of steel to watch his heart beat, waiting for the perfect moment to spear it with a laser the width of a hair. Then it was Starscream and Megatron, Megatron slowly but surely tearing the ship to bits without alerting anyone to his presence, tearing his way towards Optimus and Bee and all the others waiting unawares below deck. The next minute Soundwave joined the group, cutting off their communications so that they could not cry for help when the assault began. Soon, every slashing, raging, tearing metal monster wearing a purple badge he could dream up waited on deck to kill them all.

When his own turn came, it took several repetitions of his name to tear him from his waking nightmare. His hands had unknowingly become clenched together; he peeled them apart, shocked by the bruised crescents on the back of his left hand. He didn't remember feeling any pain.

They lead him back through a short corridor to an office almost identical to the one the shrink had inhabited. Nausea inducing colors, little decoration, plastic furniture. Having watched more cop and lawyer dramas than was probably wise, he expected them to use a good-cop/ bad-cop routine to try to catch him out in a lie. Instead, they told him to start from when he first met the Autobots and work his way up from there to the moment before he stepped into the office. For the most part he spoke uninterrupted (editing out Bee's attempts at match making and the make-out incident with the freaky, long-tongued robot), at times instructed to give greater detail about this or that event. It was rather cathartic, in a way, to simply let himself spew about all the things he couldn't spew to Miles (who usually assumed the position of spew- absorber). When he finished, they started asking questions he felt were rather redundant (describe those decepticons you mentioned again, are you sure there were thirteen?) but thankfully not too personal.

At long last the three pencil-pushers taking notes on their laptops and clipboards capped their pens and saved their documents, and the men-in-black wannabe prodding him through his tale handed him a bottle of water and sent him out. He drained the whole thing before he emerged back into the waiting room.

Apparently, he had been the last one to be called. When he returned he found the previously empty table not-so-empty anymore-- three hastily erected flat screen monitors stood at one end of the oval table, facing the assembled group that had clumped together at the other end for the best view. Sometime during his absence Simmons and Galloway had slunk into the room and now occupied chairs at the very back of the group. He glared at them both. Galloway scowled back. Simmons merely rolled his eyes theatrically and shook his head.

He slid into his seat beside Mikaela just as a techy stationed near the screens began typing away on his lap top, setting up the connection. Trying to hide the damage to his hand, he folded his arms and tucked the marred appendage against his side. More perceptive than he tended to give her credit for, Mikaela saw the motion for what it was and tugged his arm free, pulling his hand into her lap. As the vid-conference screens flooded with light, he felt her touch her lips to the place where he had bruised himself with his own fingernails. The light contact sent a zing of warmth racing down his limbs.

He leaned over to rest his chin on her hair. "I love you," he whispered.

"Since you said it first," she whispered in return, "I guess I love you too."

"Connection made. We're live, General," the techy announced.

Thatcher moved to stand at the apex of the table, centering himself in the black beady eye of the camera mounted on top of the center screen. "Good. Start the camera feed."

The monitors blinked simultaneously, and suddenly three familiar faces stared back at them, scaled down until each filled approximately that same space as a human head. Sam's heart fell-- Optimus Prime in the center, Ratchet and Ironhide flanking him. But no Bumblebee.

"Good afternoon," Thatcher started speaking, tone crisp and business-like, "Thank you for agreeing to this video conference. It would have been rather difficult to arrange such a meeting in the cargo hold, I'm sure you understand. As you may know or may not know, I am General Thatcher," he inclined his head slightly, "I believe we have already met, Optimus Prime."

Sam thought he detected a meaningful undercurrent to his words, but he could not possibly guess what it was.

"Indeed we have."

"Ladies and gentlemen--" he gestured grandly to the three screens, "For those of you who have not already become acquainted with the Autobots, I am proud to have the honor of being the first to introduce you. Center stage is Optimus Prime, the leader of the autobots and diplomatic head of all Cybertronians."

"Tell that to the Decepticons," Lennox muttered darkly, stirring up a smattering of nervous chuckles.

Sans battle mask, Optimus intoned, "It is an honor to meet you all. It is my sincerest wish that human-cybertronian relations will continue to develop with an air of mutual respect and cooperation in the future."

Thatcher lifted a hand towards Ratchet.

"To your left, I present you with Ratchet, Chief Medic and Science Officer of the Autobots."

"I do not have a full range of sensor data at my disposal upon which to base my conclusion, but it seems that you all look quite ill."

Despite his dismal mood, Sam managed to crack a smile.

"It's the lighting, Ratchet. Don't worry about it."

The medic turned to regard him with a look that on a human would have dripped skepticism.

"I am not so green as to be completely fooled by poor lighting, youngling. If I had my way this meeting would not have taken place for some days yet, but I suppose the damage is done now."

Flushing deeply, Sam ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling every gaze in the room swivel to focus on him with sudden scrutiny.

Thatcher cleared his throat and lifted a hand in Ironhide's direction.

"And on your right, last but not least, is Ironhide, the Autobot's chief weapons specialist and battle field strategist."

The sight that followed-- Ironhide crossing his arms and jerking his chin up with a laid back "What's up?"-- caused Sam and Mikaela to curl up and choke with laughter. Leo, Ron and Judy looked stunned and more than a little confused. Lennox and his team just smiled and waved in return.

"Nothing much, man. Nothing much. Been stuck in this room for hours, but that's 'bout it," Epps answered with a casual shrug, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"Sucks," Ironhide grumbled, gravelly voice somehow seeming sympathetic.

"After you are dismissed," Thatcher addressed the humans, sending a pointed glare at the still-laughing Sam and Mikaela that only caused Sam's sides to heave even harder, "You may, if you wish, meet the other Autobots on board the ship. That is, of course, if they are amenable to the idea." He directed the last statment towards Optimus, who inclined his head.

"We are."

Sam couldn't remember the last time he had laughed. It felt wonderful, even if it did seem that his cracked ribs would split apart again under the pressure. He simply couldn't reconcile the image of a cannon-toting, decepticon-blasting Ironhide with the jaunty slang of a boy from da hood. (And it tickled him to no end to hear a robot of any description say 'sucks' in that blasé tone they used with everything else.) The weapons specialist must have surfed the internet for more common idioms after his confusion with the word 'cool'. At last, however, Sam scraped together enough self control to calm his stomach-heaving peals of laughter into nerdy little giggles.

"Now, on to business." Thatcher clasped his hands behind his back again, stiffening his posture into a more serious pose. "As you all know, for a very long time we humans have been disinclined to believe in the possibility of aliens. If it were not for the fact that the existence of other life forms was broadcast worldwide less than a week ago, you would all currently be signing your way through a stack of non-disclosure agreements the size of a phone book. As such, you will still be signing many, many forms before you leave this room, but they will only amount to slightly less than a phone book." The ironic humor in his words elicited a few weak chuckles, but they died at his next words.

"A grave crisis may have been avoided, but the Decepticons are still a dire threat to our national security and to people all over the world. Any little piece of information you have learned may, if spread without check through the community, provide them with the ability to do even greater harm."

"Now, more than ever, it is of greatest importance that we work together rather than at cross purposes to each other," Optimus spoke up, "The revelation of our existence may prove to be either a boon or a devastating blow, depending entirely upon how the world community chooses to receive us. The decepticons will try to turn the tide in their favor by sowing discord, as we cannot fight the greater evil while at the same time fighting amongst ourselves."

"So basically you need us to lie our asses off about how great you guys are," Ron summed up with a touch of disgust. Optimus turned to regard him. Sam shivered, grateful he wasn't the target of that revealing blue stare.

"What we need most is for you to say nothing at all," he rebuked calmly.

"Which is why, when you leave, you will be getting one of these--" Thatcher picked up a bound packet of papers the thickness of the paperback novel and held it up for illustration. "After we go over the immediate plans for the next few days, all civilians will be required to leave the room."

A light bulb went off in Sam's head, and he looked from Ratchet to Ironhide with new appreciation for their presence in a meeting that seemed to be more of a lecture than a conference. The soldiers would, of course, need to discuss tactics and battle plans with their robotic allies, and it appeared that the PTA-waiting-conference room would soon be put to use as a war room as well.

"We will dock in two day's time at a naval base on the Indian coast. From there, C-17's will airlift the Autobots and Lennox's team back to NEST headquarters. The rest of you will be put on a plane back to the states as soon as possible. Upon reaching US soil, you will be met by NEST agents who will convey to the temporary residences that have been set up for your use and remain in contact with you for two months' time in case you have any problems or feel the need to report any... suspicious activity."

Discontented mutterings broke out across the room, along with more than a few protests against going anywhere but home.

But Sam only sat up straighter in his chair, feeling the first stirrings of panic begin to prickle in his chest.

"Wait," he objected, "What about Bumblebee? How's he going to get back?"

Thatcher turned to regard him heavily, the same inexplicable resignation he had felt in Optimus' voice earlier that day coloring his tone. "He will be accompanying the other Autobots via C-17 back to NEST headquarters."

"Which is where, exactly?" Leo piped up.

"That's classified."

Sam looked from Thatcher to Optimus, uncomprehending.

"So he's going to go with Ratchet and get repaired, right? And then you'll send him back?"

Suddenly none of the Autobots could look him in the eyes. His heart started beating faster, and the air grew too thick to breathe.

"He's only going to be gone for a little while. A week or two and he'll be back! Right?"

"Son..." Thatcher began. Sam sprinted ahead of him, cutting him off with a dire urgency to keep the words he knew were waiting on his tongue from materializing in the air.

"S-s-o that's the plan? They'll fix the dents, make him right as rain, and then send him home to me?"

"Bumblebee will be accompanying us to NEST, Sam," Optimus affirmed softly, voice impossibly soft.

Sam scarcely heard him. Black began to creep in along the edges of his vision. The floor tilted sideways and rolled away from under his chair.

"...But he will not be returning to the United States."

And the world inverted itself.

Author's note: This chapter is more like a part one of two. The original outline I worked up simply tried to cram too much into a single chapter, so I decided to break it in half. Forgive me if this chapter is a little bland in comparison to the others-- there were plot elements I needed to set up for the rest of the story, and my brain needed a break from constant overloads of angst. Nefarious plots, betrayals, and twin shenanigans will be revealed in the next chapter! So stay tuned! (and don't worry, it DOES have a happy ending, even if it takes a while to get there)

I probably won't be able to update until saturday night at the earliest due to the amount of time I'm going to have to put in the next two days to preparing for an staging a yard sale. But don't worry, I'm as eager to get to the next chapter as you are!