Chapter Warning: Brief allusion to a main character's suicidal ideation.
The darkness that surrounded him was all-encompassing. There was no sense of direction or the passage of time—no indication of where he was. His thoughts were sluggish and ephemeral, slipping away before they could take proper form. He briefly wondered if he ought to be afraid when he was enveloped by a comforting weight—a presence—and although it was not the presence, the one he had come to associate with this featureless place, it was calming, nevertheless.
/Don't be afraid./ It murmured, /You are not alone./
The words were meaningless, but he understood the soothing pulse that accompanied them. He curled forward, leaning into the presence instinctively. The motion was met with a gentle thrum of surprise that was quickly tucked away, and then he was sinking into the darkness once more.
He had no idea for how long he drifted, insensate and content. Occasionally, unfamiliar sensations would prickle at the edge of his awareness. It took a great deal of effort to focus his attention, but when he managed it, the sensations converged into comprehensible sounds.
"—suspected. Are you certain?"
The reply was immediate.
"Vos spoke the Primal Vernacular. Sam not only understood it—he replied."
The name snagged his attention like a lure glittering in dark water. Sam. He knew that word—he was sure of it. The recognition brought with it a sense of burgeoning curiosity, and he pressed forward on instinct. Immediately, the presence returned, enveloping his mind in warmth and weight.
/I'm sorry Sam, not yet. Soon./
The words were accompanied by a faint pulse of regret, but before he could voice his confusion, he was sinking deeper into the void. The noise in the distance receded, swallowed by the same darkness that claimed him. It was a bizarre feeling—at once familiar and strange. It caused him to stiffen in alarm, but the presence was smoothing across his mind before he could panic.
/Easy, Sam. You're alright./ The voice soothed as his consciousness slipped away once more, /Sleep now—I will be here when you wake./
It was a considerable while before he came back to himself again. The darkness remained vast and all-consuming, but the presence was with him. It enveloped his mind like an embrace, impossibly warm and gentle and buoyant. The sensation brought with it strange images that flashed through his mind like quicksilver.
Warm water. Bright sunshine. A ribbon of sand separating lush forest from endless, blue ocean.
The presence shifted forward, brushing across his mind.
/It is a beautiful memory, Sam./ It murmured.
The words were accompanied by a gentle swell of affection, as well as something else—something softer, more melancholy. It took him a long moment to recognize the sensation as grief. He shifted uncertainly, but the feeling was gone again a moment later. The presence gathered him up, drawing him close, and he went without protest, taking comfort in the closeness.
/Rest, Sam./ The presence murmured, /And think of happier times./
He drifted for a long while, his consciousness ebbing and flowing like the tide. The presence was never far when he surfaced—a familiar, soothing weight against his mind. It was often silent inside the void, but occasionally the presence would speak to him. It was too much effort to make sense of the words, and so he didn't even try. Instead, he drowsed, letting the voice wash over him.
/—clinic in the Dead End. It was small and ill-equipped, but he never turned a patient away. I knew I loved him, even then. Especially then./
The voice continued speaking, although he was only partially cognizant of the fact. The words pattered against his consciousness like a gentle rain. It was not until he felt an insistent nudge that he realized the voice had stopped speaking.
/It's time, Sam./
It took a few moments for the words to register, and when they did, he felt a flash of dread.
Time for what? He wondered.
The presence pressed close, herding him gently but inexorably across the void.
/It's time to wake up./
His dread sharpened at the strange answer, but before he could protest or resist, the void twisted confusingly. He experienced a moment of vertigo and heartfelt panic, and then the darkness fell away around them.
Sam groaned as he came around. Longstanding experience had him taking stock of himself even before he was fully conscious. He was lying flat on his back, and the surface beneath him was soft. He reached out reflexively with his hands, fingers twitching against the familiar, rough weave of a flannel blanket. The material had been drawn up his chest and tucked around his body.
He forced open his eyes. The lights in the room had been lowered, but it still made his eyes water. He winced them shut again, before raising a hand to scrub at his face. The movement was arrested by the too-familiar pull of an IV, which had been inserted into the back of his left hand.
"How long?" He rasped.
There was a minute pause, before Meltdown murmured in reply, "Six days."
Even as he spoke, Sam became aware of the emptiness inside his mind. It was dark and quiet where the Creator bond should have been. The realization made his stomach bottom out in instinctual panic, but it took another moment or two before the memories of the battle crowded into the forefront of his mind.
The attack. The Decepticon Justice Division. Tarn and Knock Out. Ratchet.
Oh God.
Ratchet.
Sam's throat thickened with sudden grief. He forced his eyes open again to find Meltdown and Bumblebee standing at his bedside. The two mechanoids wore identical expressions of concern on their faces. He swallowed, trying to force down the lump in his throat, but it wouldn't budge.
Eventually, he forced himself to ask, "Is he dead?"
"We do not believe so, Sam." Optimus intoned softly.
Sam turned his head, following his voice to find the former Autobot leader standing a short distance away. His expression was weighted and difficult to interpret, but Sam recognized the anguish he saw reflected in his optics—it was a mirror to the hollow ache inside his own chest.
"How can you be sure?" He choked out.
Optimus took a step closer, his expression gentling in some tangible way.
"I have three reasons to believe that Tarn will not kill him." He replied, his voice a low rumble, "The first is that he needs Ratchet alive—he is the only one with the knowledge required to release Megatron from stasis-lock." Sam was sure that he did not imagine the way Optimus' voice caught on the warlord's name, "The second reason is that the Decepticons are woefully short of competent medics. They cannot afford to offline him this late in the war."
Tarn had said as much to Meltdown in the medical bay, but the knowledge was cold comfort. He knew that Ratchet would treat anyone that needed help, regardless of faction. He also knew that the guilt of doing so would eat him alive.
"And what's the third reason?" He asked, already dreading the answer.
"As your Creator, Ratchet also has substantial value as a political prisoner." Prime replied, "Shockwave is well aware of your relationship. Tarn would have been informed."
Sam closed his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. Ratchet was going to suffer for their relationship—he was sure of it. Megatron was both vindictive and cruel, and the medic would be a convenient target for his wrath. Sam shuddered at the thought. He knew full well just how effective Megatron could be at inflicting pain without causing permanent damage.
"What're we going to do?" He rasped eventually.
His question was met with a directionless swell of emotion that had him opening his eyes again. Meltdown was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face, but Bumblebee was looking at Optimus. The former Autobot leader was wearing an air of solemnity like a shroud. Sam looked from one mechanoid to the other, before understanding finally dawned on him.
"You aren't going after him." Sam realized.
"No, Sam." Optimus replied, confirming his fears, "We are not."
Sam stared up at the older Prime in disbelief, before pushing up onto his elbows.
"What do you mean?" He demanded, anger and incredulity sharpening his tone, "Of course we're going after him."
Meltdown made a concerned sound deep inside his intakes. "Please, Sam. Lie back down. You've been in stasis for almost a week."
Sam ignored him. He kicked off the blankets, pushing into a sitting position and glaring up at the former Autobot leader. "You can't just abandon him!"
Optimus reached out, pressing two digits against Sam's sternum. The simple touch stilled his movements, and with gentle pressure, the older Prime guided Sam back down onto the mattress. He went without protest, although his face was flushed with the heat of his anger.
"We are in no condition to launch a rescue." Optimus murmured, "The Peaceful Tyranny ruptured our hull. The repairs are holding for now, but they will not withstand another battle."
"So, send the Lost Light or the Nemesis instead." Sam protested.
"Knock Out, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen are dead." Optimus continued, his gentle tone at odds with his firm demeanor, "Most of my soldiers have sustained some manner of injuries, and half the command crew are incapacitated. The situation is much the same on the Lost Light." His voice dipped, growing apologetic, "We do not have the forces necessary to launch a rescue, even if we knew their location, which we do not."
Sam's heart sank with each new revelation. By the time that Optimus had finished speaking, he thought he might be sick.
"Oh." He managed, tasting bile in the back of his mouth. "I see."
Meltdown's holoform suddenly materialized at his side. He looked just the same as Sam remembered: a kind, weathered face framed by dark hair that was shot through with gray. He reached for the water pitcher on a nearby side table, filling a plastic cup before extending it towards him.
"Here." Meltdown murmured.
Sam accepted the offering without a word, taking a slow drink. The water was cool and clean, but it did nothing to alleviate the sour taste in his mouth.
"I am sorry, Sam." Optimus intoned, "My spark empathizes with your loss. Ratchet is a dear friend. I promise that we will rally our forces as soon as we can."
"But not now." Sam managed, "Not soon."
"No." Optimus replied regretfully.
There was something final about his tone that made Sam's eyes sting anew. He quickly knuckled away the tears before they could fall. Bumblebee's mental presence shifted forward, pressing against his mind. Sam recognized the gesture of support for what it was, but he couldn't bring himself to look at his bonded. Instead, he stared at the cup he was holding in his hands. The water reflected his distorted visage back at him, little ripples pulsing in time to the low, steady thrum of the Ark's engines. For some reason, it brought back memories of his break-down after his rescue from the Nemesis. It wasn't the same stranger staring back at him, but he didn't recognize this person either.
"Sam." Meltdown murmured, reaching out to place a servo on his shoulder, "Take a breath."
Sam blinked hard, before taking a shuddery breath and knocking back the last of the water. When he finished, he placed the cup on the overbed table and pushed it away with his fingertips.
"I'm okay." He said hollowly, "I'm fine."
"No one expects you to be fine, Sam." Meltdown murmured.
Sam flinched away from the compassion he could hear in the medic's voice, feeling simultaneously vulnerable and ashamed. Ratchet was his Creator, but he was Meltdown's conjunx—or near enough, anyway. He wasn't the only one who was mourning his loss.
"I'm alright." Sam repeated roughly. Suddenly desperate to change the subject, he asked, "Is Roddy…?"
His question was met with silence, and he was suddenly aware of the weighted looks that were being exchanged above him. He frowned deeply, angling his head to look first at Optimus and then at Bumblebee. The two mechanoids looked equal parts grim and disquieted.
"What is it?" He demanded. "Is Hot Rod okay? Is he alive?"
Bumblebee hummed something that made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand up, but it was Optimus who answered him.
"Hot Rod's injuries were not life-threatening. He was released from the medical bay three days ago."
The words should have been a relief, but Prime's tone did nothing to comfort him. Sam planted one hand on the mattress, before pushing up into a sitting position so he could look Optimus in the face.
"But?"
Prime visibly hesitated.
"Hot Rod has suffered a terrible loss." He said by way of reply, "Cliffjumper is with him now."
Sam understood the subtext immediately. Although he wasn't terribly close to Hot Rod—or, at least, not as close as he was to Cliffjumper and Hound—he knew the cavalier's gregarious manner was a defense mechanism. Hot Rod used humor to deflect and misdirect, never letting anyone see behind the curtain.
Anyone except for Knock Out.
The two mechanoids had orbited one another from the moment that Knock Out defected. They had traded insults and barbs with mutual derision for years. Yet, somewhere along the way, their antagonism had lost its teeth. Hot Rod had told him once that Knock Out was the only person who tolerated him. Sam had been confused at the time—after all, Hot Rod had plenty of friends—but over the years, he grew to understand. Hot Rod and Knock Out were two sides of the same coin: using humor and bravado to carefully control the way others perceived them. Yet, within each other, they had found a kinship of sorts. They both knew the pain of loneliness and self-loathing, and neither had judged the other for it.
And now, Knock Out was dead and Hot Rod was alone again.
"Can I help?" He asked softly.
Bumblebee shook his helm slowly.
"No, I don't think so." He murmured, "He needs time to grieve."
Sam's stomach twisted at the grim understanding in the scout's voice. Before he could say anything, however, Prime's mental presence brushed against his mind. The touch was gentle but insistent, and Sam angled his head to look up him. The former Autobot leader was staring down at him with a regretful expression on his face. It made Sam stiffen in alarm, even as Bumblebee pressed reassuringly against his mind.
"What is it?" He asked, warily.
"Sam, with Ratchet's loss—"
The words were spoken gently, almost apologetically, and Sam understood at once what Optimus was about to say. He adamantly shook his head before the older Prime could even get the words out.
"No." He refused, "No."
"Sam, please—"
Sam pushed into a sitting position, heedless of the concerned noise Meltdown made deep inside his intakes. "I said no."
"I do not ask this of you lightly—" Prime tried again.
Sam's face heated with an angry flush as he shook his head again. "You're acting like he's dead. We'll get him back."
"Sam." Bumblebee implored, leaning forward to bracket Sam with his body, "Please listen to what he has to say."
Sam leaned away from his bonded, his shoulders curling forward defensively. Bumblebee did not press forward, but neither did he pull away. Instead, he brought one servo to settle against Sam's back, molding to the curve of his spine. The weight and warmth were familiar, and although he wasn't in the mood to be mollified, it still served to comfort him.
Prime waited until some of the angry tension left Sam's body before he continued speaking.
"Although you have made remarkable progress for one so young, your firewalls are still rudimentary and immature. Even with Bumblebee's assistance, they will not last long—a few hours, perhaps a half-cycle. After that, you will be exposed to the wider neural-network." His voice softened, "We do not wish for you to suffer unnecessarily."
Sam flinched at the compassion in his voice. He had only experienced the full brunt of the neural-network on a handful of occasions, but they had left a lasting impression each time. He did not relish the thought of suffering through that again, let alone giving anyone within range unfettered access to his mind.
Still, the thought of accepting another Creator was loathsome in the extreme.
Some of his feelings must have been plain on his face for Prime rumbled softly. The sound was equal parts sympathetic and reassuring.
"I am sorry, Sam. I understand this is difficult." He intoned.
Sam couldn't look at him directly, so instead he set his jaw and stared into the middle distance.
"Who?" He asked lowly.
The older Prime hesitated before he replied, but his words were firm when he finally spoke.
"There are a number of possibilities. Both Meltdown and Mirage have the necessary expertise. If neither of them meets with your approval, Sunstreaker is another option. He has never on-lined a newspark before, but he has the requisite programming, and he has expressed his willingness to serve."
Sam listened reluctantly—none of the options were particularly appealing. He and Meltdown had barely spent more than an hour in each other's company. He knew nothing about him other than the fact that he was Ratchet's conjunx and Sentinel's personal physician. Mirage was polite enough, but they didn't know each other either. The spymaster was reticent and reserved, and he rarely associated with anyone outside of Spec Ops. And Sunstreaker was a hard pass—they may have repaired their relationship in the years after his on-lining, but Sam would never give the front-liner that kind of power over him.
He sat mulling over his non-options when something suddenly occurred to him. Frowning, he turned his head to look up at the Autobot leader.
"What about you?"
Optimus' expression gentled in some definable way.
"I would be honored." He rumbled, "And, if that is your choice, I am willing."
Sam narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "But?"
Prime cycled air through his vents in the equivalent of a human sigh.
"But you are a Prime—my equal, in every sense. A Creator bond would introduce a power imbalance in our relationship that would be… inappropriate."
Sam's frown deepened further still. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he was a Prime—or on the implications that fact held for him. It all seemed like some kind of ludicrous cosmic joke. The notion that he and Optimus were equals in any sense of the word was just as absurd.
The thought made Sam feel even more off-balance and uncomfortable. He wrapped his arms around his torso and hunched over until his arms rested against his knees. Bumblebee crooned something soft sounding as he stroked a digit down the length of Sam's spine. Sam tolerated the touch, although it gave him no comfort.
"I don't want anyone else." He managed eventually, hating the forlorn tone of his voice.
"I know, Sam." Optimus replied simply, "I am sorry."
Suddenly overwhelmed, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Bumblebee pressed closer, his mental presence restless and concerned. The feeling served as a reminder that, sooner or later, he would have a perfect stranger inside his head—yet another person with exorbitant control over him for the rest of his life.
"Sam?" Meltdown murmured.
It took considerable effort, but eventually, Sam managed to open his eyes. Meltdown was standing nearby, his expression concerned but reserved. Optimus was no where to be seen—evidentially, the older Prime had taken his leave while Sam was gathering himself. The thought gave Sam pause, and for the first time upon waking, he took stock of his surroundings. The room was small, not much larger than Sam's quarters. There was a berth against one wall and a cluttered desk against the other, separated by a large, oval porthole that provided an unobstructed view of space. The walls were bare except for a large monitor bolted above the desk, but there were several shelves around the room that contained a few personal effects. His eyes settled on a familiar snow-globe sitting on a nearby shelf—its glass dome had clearly been broken and repaired. The sight caused his throat to close up with sudden emotion. They had put him in Ratchet's quarters.
"You need to rest." Meltdown said, firmly but not unkindly, "Do you want to stay here?"
Wordlessly, Sam shook his head. He couldn't bear to stay in Ratchet's room for a moment longer—not while his Creator was likely being tortured by Tarn and his ilk at that very moment.
"Okay, Sam. It's alright." Meltdown soothed, evidentially understanding the source of his distress, "The medical bay is triaged for our critically injured, but the hangar has been repurposed for overflow. Lie down and be still—I will move you over."
Sam shuddered from head to toe, but he laid back against the mattress without complaint. As soon as he was prone, Meltdown reached over, lifting the side rails of the hospital bed and locking them into position.
"Hold on tight." Meltdown instructed.
There was a sudden, jarring jerk and then the berth on which his hospital bed was positioned was being wheeled out of the room. Bumblebee kept pace at his side, watchful and alert as they made their way down the corridor. Their footsteps rang against the floor, but the sound was eclipsed by the noise of construction taking place somewhere nearby. Sam was momentarily distracted by the noise—the ringing of metal against metal and the rat-tat-tat of heavy machinery—and then he was being wheeled into a large room at the end of the hall. The hangar was filled with medical berths, which had been arranged in three evenly spaced rows across the room. There were a handful of medics walking down the aisles or standing at bedsides—Sam noticed Fixit near the entryway and First Aid further across the room. Meltdown guided his berth towards an empty spot on the far side of the hangar. Sam cringed away from the curious looks being directed his way by the conscious patients that they passed. He soon found himself tucked in a quiet corner beside another berth which, to his surprise, contained an injured Thundercracker. The Seeker winked at him as Meltdown locked the berth into place and lowered the side rails of his hospital bed.
"Try and get some rest." Meltdown instructed, checking the bag of IV fluids that were hanging from the stand next to his bed. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he found, the medic added, "If you have trouble falling asleep, we can administer a soporific."
Sam reached down to grasp the blankets in both hands, before pulling the material up to his shoulders. It did little to alleviate the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable.
Meltdown's expression creased with sympathy.
"Rest, Sam." He murmured, patting the foot of the mattress with one broad servo, "It will help."
Sam privately doubted that it would, but he gave a jerky nod anyway. Meltdown glanced him over for a second time, before turning and making his way towards First Aid. The field medic was jacked into the medical port of a bulky flight-frame several berths away.
"Hello Sam." Thundercracker greeted.
Sam turned his head to look at him. The Seeker was lying on his side so that his wings were hanging over the edge of the berth. Even from a distance, Sam could see the fresh weld-lines and metal-mesh patches that were bandaging his sensitive components. It looked painful.
"What happened to you?" Sam asked, brow furrowing in concern.
Thundercracker's expression grew wry as he lifted his uninjured shoulder in a shrug.
"The Fatal Consequence blew a hole through the Nemesis' hull." He explained, before adding, "Unfortunately, I was in the vicinity."
Sam winced sympathetically, before rolling onto his side so that he could look the Seeker more fully in the face.
"That sucks." He commiserated, "Were you boarded?"
Thundercracker shook his helm. "No, thankfully not. It seems Tarn had other priorities."
Sam grimaced at the Seeker's wording. He had first-hand experience of just what Tarn's priorities entailed.
"Yeah, well. Consider yourself lucky." He replied bitterly, "The guy is a fucking maniac. I think he could have killed everyone onboard the ship if he wanted to."
As soon as the words left his mouth, a strange expression flitted across Thundercracker's face. It was there and gone again so quickly that Sam wondered whether he had imagined it.
"Yes." Thundercracker agreed lowly, "We were very fortunate."
Their conversation was interrupted by Fixit, who stepped between their berths. The surgeon busied himself with changing the mesh dressing that was holding Thundercracker's chest plates together, before turning to look at Sam. Sam frowned, taken aback by the intensity of his regard, but before he could voice his confusion, Fixit was sliding a syringe into the injection port of the IV bag hanging next to Sam's bedside. The cloudy, amber-colored liquid dissipated into the saline, turning it faintly yellow.
"You need sleep. The midazolam I just administered is a benzodiazepine. It will do you good, but it hits like a truck." Fixit informed him, before adding wryly, "Nighty-night."
Sam bristled with indignation at the casual violation of his personal autonomy. He tried to struggle into a sitting position, but Fixit pressed a servo against his chest, pushing him back onto the mattress.
"Trust me: you don't want to do that." The medic warned.
Sam narrowed his eyes, before shoving the medic's mental presence as hard as he could. Fixit jerked backwards in surprise even as Bumblebee stepped close, leaning over Sam's body with a low, warning trill. Fixit ex-vented air sharply through his intakes, before snapping something back at Bumblebee. Whatever he said caused the scout's mental presence to cool by an order of degrees, but Sam was suddenly in no condition to do anything about it. He groaned, letting his head fall back to the pillows as the room began swimming in front of him.
"He'll be asleep for eight to twelve hours." Fixit said stiffly, "I will be nearby if he needs me."
Fixit turned on his heel and started down the aisle. Bumblebee watched him go, his wings tense and armor plating pinned close to his frame. Sam struggled to keep the scout in focus, but his vision was too blurry. The thought should have alarmed him, but he was too far gone to care.
Suddenly, Bumblebee leaned his field of vision. The overhead lights glowed around him, framing his helm like a corona.
"'Baby, I can see your halo.'" Sam slurred, reaching out to touch the scout's face. The metal was cool beneath his fingertips, and for some reason, that left him feeling profoundly sad.
Bumblebee gently grasped his wrist, before lowering his arm back onto the mattress.
"Close your eyes, Sam." He murmured, resting the tips of his digits against Sam's sternum. "I'll be right here when you wake. I promise."
Sam made an unhappy noise, but his body was suddenly warm and heavy. It was the easiest thing in the world to let his eyes drift shut and sink into the darkness that was already rising up to claim him.