As promised, the benzodiazepines kept Sam in a medicated slumber for hours. He slept deeply at first, unbothered by the clamor and din of the makeshift medical bay. However, it wasn't long before his dreams turned ugly, spurred on by half-remembered grief. He was roused occasionally by the feeling of warm hands or the sound of urgent voices, but his awareness was fleeting and disjointed. The only thing that he could understand was the impression of people—too many people—and his own choking terror, before he was sinking into the darkness again.
When Sam came back to himself an interminable time later, it was to the sound of quiet music. He drifted, groggy and disoriented, neither fully awake nor fully asleep. Eventually, he blinked open his eyes to the sight of Jazz at his bedside. The saboteur was reclining in a chair with his pedes kicked up on the berth, and he was holding an unfamiliar instrument in his servos. As Sam watched, Jazz plucked out a melody one chord at time. The music was softer and more resonant than he would have expected.
"Back with us, kid?" Jazz asked without looking up from his instrument.
"Yeah, I think so." Sam rasped, pushing up onto one elbow. The instrument that Jazz was holding was unlike anything he had ever seen before—it had the pear-shaped body and long neck of a lute, but it was adorned with a complicated key panel that almost resembled a synthesizer. "...What is that?"
Jazz grinned as he plucked another chord progression. "This little beauty? It's called a, uh..." He trailed off mid-sentence, making a thoughtful sound in the back of his intakes. "The lexicon is suggesting manga march as the translation, but that doesn't render well to English. Either way, it's a favorite of mine."
Sam lay on his side for a long while, watching Jazz with half-lidded eyes. The music was harmonic and distinctive, and it was a pleasant counterpoint to the unfamiliar bustle of the hangar. He didn't even realize that he was drifting off again until Jazz chuckled quietly.
"You're a cuddlier when you're sleepy, kid."
Sam opened his eyes, casting a bleary look at the second-in-command. Jazz was watching him with an amused slant to his mouth, his lute-guitar resting in his lap. It wasn't until the saboteur nudged him meaningfully that Sam became aware of the pleasant warmth inside his head. He turned his attention inwards… only to jerk away in embarrassment. Jazz's familiar, indigo-colored glow was resting at the edge of his mind, and until that moment, Sam had been pressed in close—far closer than polite convention would allow.
"Ohmygod, I'm so sorry!" He blurted, heat blazing across his face.
Jazz favored him with a dry smile, bumping gently against his mind. "'S'okay kid, I ain't offended."
Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position, flushing all the way to the roots of his hair. The hangar was quieter than it had been when he was sedated. Fewer than half of the berths were still occupied, and the remaining patients appeared to be in relatively stable condition. There were only a few who were lying quiet and unmoving on their berths—and unlike the day before, the remaining patients seemed to be doing their level-best to look anywhere other than his direction. Sam's eyes slid across the hangar, settling first on Hoist, who was standing near the entryway, and then on First Aid, who was fiddling with a piece of equipment half-way down the hangar. Fixit was nowhere to be seen—a fact that served to tighten Sam's mouth in grim satisfaction.
Good.
Jazz chuckled again, before leaning over to prop his lute against the wall. "Fixit was transferred back to the Lost Light by order of the Prime. Effective a few hours ago." He looked at Sam, long and hard, "How're you feeling, kiddo?"
Sam grimaced at the question. Now that he was fully awake, the warm haze of the benzos was fading with each passing moment. In its wake, his head felt… uncomfortable. The neural-network was too loud, too vast—too much. It seemed to press in on him from all sides. He reached instinctively for his firewalls, and he shuddered in relief when they fell neatly into place. It was only then, with his attention turned inwards, that he noticed Bumblebee's spark signature. The familiar, winter-white glow was mellow and soft. It took Sam less than a second to realize that his bonded was deep in recharge. He leaned over, following the mental trail to find Bumblebee parked in his alt mode next to the berth. The Camaro's headlights were dark, its front fender pressing against the berth's support struts.
"He asked me to ping him if you woke up." Jazz offered conversationally, "He could use the rest, though. He hasn't recharged since before the attack."
Sam was already shaking his head as he settled back against the mattress. "No, let him sleep. He needs it."
Jazz made an affirmatory noise as he leaned back in his chair. It wasn't until Sam reached for the covers that he noticed his IV was missing and a bandage was affixed in its place. He frowned down at the gauze in puzzlement—it was wrapped around his hand from his knuckles to his wrist. He curled his fingers experimentally only to grimace at the pull of tender flesh.
All at once, Sam realized that Prime's second-in-command wasn't sitting at his bedside for the company.
"What happened?" He asked, turning uneasy eyes towards the silver mechanoid.
"You're alright, kid." Jazz said reassuringly, "Jus' panicked a bit when you woke up earlier than Fixit expected. We got you settled just fine, though."
Sam's mouth turned down in a frown. Jazz's explanation brought with it vague memories of vastness and fear, but nothing substantial—nothing that he could remember. The expression on his face must have been telling, however, because Jazz lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
"Yeah, heavy-duty benzos will do that." He agreed dryly.
Sam grimaced deeply as grabbed the blankets and pulled them up his armpits. The roughhewn material did little to abate the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable. He crossed his arms over his chest, letting his head fall back onto the pillows.
"When can I get out of here?" He asked tightly.
"Soon." Jazz promised, crossing his legs at the ankles. "You hungry?"
Truthfully, Sam wasn't hungry in the least. He was feeling unsteady and muzzy-headed, as though he was recovering from a bad hangover. The prospect of eating turned his stomach, and he said as much to Jazz.
"Well, I doubt First Aid'll let you outta here until you eat something." Jazz predicted mildly.
Sam had spent enough time in the medical bay to see the truth of that. He sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Yeah, alright. I could probably eat."
Jazz hummed an affirmative, but he made no move to get up or leave. Instead, he reached down, picking his instrument off the floor and plucking another chord progression. The tune was livelier this time—something upbeat and showy. Sam rolled onto his side, pillowing his hands under his face so he could watch. Jazz grinned at him, wide and easy, as his digits flew across the strings.
"I ever tell you that I used to be a street performer?" Jazz asked.
Sam's eyebrows quirked up in surprise. "No. Really?"
"Yep." Jazz agreed, sliding his digits up the fretboard, "A bonafide Polyhexian original. The one and only."
Sam watched him play as he considered his response. He turned the words over in his mind, weighing them carefully, and then he asked his question anyway.
"Is that why Tarn called you Meister?"
Jazz's servos never faltered, but it was a drawn-out moment before he replied.
"Nah, kid. That ain't why."
His tone was mild and introspective, but Sam could recognize an admonishment when he heard one. He flushed in response, unsure whether to apologize or change the subject. He was spared the trouble of figuring it out by Jazz himself, who gave Sam a wry look.
/I ain't mad. It's just a story for another time./
Jazz continued playing without saying anything further on the subject. They remained in companionable silence until First Aid arrived a short while later. The medic stepped into the space between Sam's berth and Thundercracker's berth, before jacking smoothly into the Seeker's medical port. Thundercracker's optics irised open at the intrusion, but he offered no objection to whatever First Aid was doing. Sam knew that his concept of medical privacy differed markedly from theirs, but he averted his eyes all the same. After a moment, First Aid made an approving sounding chirrup as he unjacked his medical cable. Sam didn't even have the chance to brace himself before the medic was turning towards him and initiating a sensor scan. The familiar light swept him from head to toe in quick succession.
"How are you feeling, buddy?" First Aid asked, all earnest concern.
Sam resisted the urge to grimace with no small degree of effort.
"I'm fine." He said, trying not to sound plaintive when he added, "Can I go back to my hab-suite now?"
The medic shook his helm as he replied, "You need to eat something first. It's been almost a week since you've refueled."
Jazz leaned forward, catching Sam's eye and giving him a knowing grin. Sam gave the second-in-command a wry look, before turning back towards First Aid. "Yeah, yeah. Alright."
First Aid's optics brightened in approval as he whistled something too quickly for Sam to parse out—there was an acknowledgment glyph, and he was pretty sure the upwards inflection at the end was an emphasis modifier, although he couldn't tell which one—and then the medic was hurrying down the length of the hangar. Sam watched him go, before shifting against the mattress. The motion caused the skin on his upper arm to pull white-hot, and he glanced down at himself reflexively—his skin was still pink and shiny from the chemical burn, although the bandages had been removed sometime during his stasis treatment.
He curled his fingers around his forearm, grounding himself. The trip to Swerve's felt like another lifetime ago.
"...Do you know any rock?" Sam asked eventually, desperate for a distraction.
Jazz chuckled as he strummed the opening bars of Stairway to Heaven.
"Kid, I'm about to blow your mind."
Sam listened quietly as Jazz played. The Zeppelin classic was followed by Dream On and Sweet Child o' Mine. The saboteur took some liberties, but the blend of acoustic and electronic lent itself well to the classic rock. First Aid arrived shortly thereafter with a familiar tray pinched between two digits. Sam pushed into a sitting position as the medic placed the tray on the overbed table as gingerly as one might place a teacup on a saucer.
"Bon appétit." He said, grandly.
Sam directed a wry smile at the medic as he lifted the stainless-steel warmer off the tray. The smell of his grandmother's turkey soup hit him full in the face before he even had the chance to set it aside. Sam stared down at the steaming bowl for a long while, wrestling with emotions that he didn't have the luxury of feeling—not now, not anymore.
"Sam?" First Aid asked, dropping his maître d' act, "Are you alright?"
Sam swallowed down the lump in his throat, before setting the warmer aside and directing a tight smile at the medic.
"I'm fine. Thanks for bringing this." He said, picking up the accompanying roll and tearing it into little pieces.
First Aid stared down at him, his gaze uncharacteristically intense.
"Would you prefer something else?" He asked, shrewdly.
Sam shook his head without meeting the medic's optics. "No, this is great. Thank-you."
First Aid shifted his weight from pede to pede, clearly skeptical, but the click of rapidly approaching heels forestalled whatever he might have said. Sam angled his head to watch as Starscream swept up the aisle to stand next to Thundercracker's berth. The Air Commander's wing flaps were flared and rigid as he stared down at his trinemate. Thundercracker ex-vented a meaningful sigh as he stared back at him—the two were clearly having a private conversation over comms.
Skywarp trailed behind Starscream. His posture was tense and wary, but his expression warmed considerably when he caught sight of Sam on the next berth. He stepped around his Wing Lord, offering Sam a small but genuine smile.
"Hello, Sam."
Sam quirked a smile of his own as he dunked a piece of roll in his soup.
"Hey, Warp." He said, taking a bite of the sopping bread, "Thanks for the gift. It was great."
Starscream scoffed something derisive sounding, but Skywarp seemed unaffected by whatever he said. Instead, the Seeker directed a pleased smile down at Sam.
"I'm glad." Skywarp rumbled in reply, "The reviews were favorable. Did you see that it comes with a viscous sugar water additive?"
Sam laughed, despite himself. "Yeah, I did. Thanks."
As he spoke, Sam picked up the spoon and used it to ladle turkey and barley onto a piece of bread. The broth dripped over his fingers, warm and fragrant, and he bent down to pop the roll into his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste of thyme and marjoram. Starscream's faceplates tightened in disgust as he ladled another spoonful into his mouth. Sam just stared back at him, deadpan, as he chewed his food.
"Problem?" He asked, his mouth full.
Starscream turned to look at First Aid without deigning to acknowledge the question. "When can he transfer back to the Nemesis?" He demanded, clearly referring to his trinemate, "He can convalesce just as well in my medical bay."
"What's the hurry, Screamer?" Jazz asked, speaking for the first time since the Air Commander had arrived, "You got somewhere you need to be?"
Sam glanced over at the second-in-command in surprise. His tone had been mild, almost curious, but even he could hear the insult underlying his words. Starscream stiffened in affront, his wing flaps drawing tight to his chassis, but rather than answer the question, he turned back towards First Aid instead.
"Well?" He demanded tightly, "Discharge him."
First Aid's expression grew disapproving, "Thundercracker was very lucky—" he began, but Jazz interjected before he could say more.
"Your trinemate was lucky, wasn't he? All of you were." He mused, adjusting one of the tuning keys on his instrument, "It could have been a lot worse—the Fatal Consequence ain't exactly a pleasure vessel."
Starscream stiffened almost imperceptibly, "Do you have a point to make?"
"Like the good doctor said: you were lucky." Jazz replied, leaning back in his chair before adding, "The thing about luck, your Highness, is that it's known to turn—won't nobody be surprised when it does."
Starscream narrowed his optics, which had darkened to claret-red. Sam's heart skipped a beat at his expression, which was suddenly, unexpectedly hostile. Jazz tipped his head to the side, returning his gaze without compunction. Everything about the second-in-command, from his posture to his body language to the mellow thrum of his spark signature, was mild and inoffensive. Starscream stared down at him for a moment longer, as though daring him to speak, before he abruptly turned on Thundercracker.
"Get up." He snapped. "It's time to leave."
Thundercracker's expression was shuttered and unreadable as Skywarp helped him to his pedes. First Aid moved aside without protest, letting the larger flight-frames step around the berth. Thundercracker pressed one servo against the metal mesh patches that were stitched into his components, his optics dim from the effort of standing. Skywarp stepped close, hooking one arm around his trinemate's waist and the other around his shoulders. Together, they slowly started down the aisle. Starscream straightened to his full height, his wings flared out on either side of him, before following them. Sam watched, bewildered, as the three Seekers made their way across the hangar. It wasn't until they reached the wide doors that Jazz tipped his head back, calling after them:
"See you real soon, Screamer."
Starscream's step never faltered as he swept into the hallway, leaving Thundercracker and Skywarp to hobble after him. It was only after the three air-frames had disappeared through the doors that Sam turned, directing a perplexed look at Prime's second-in-command.
"What was that all about?" He asked.
Jazz shook his head, something like a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Bless your spark, kid." He murmured, before jerking his chin towards Sam's half-finished meal, "You better hurry up. Your food's gettin' cold."
Sam stared at Jazz for a moment longer, but when the second-in-command said nothing further on the subject, he turned back to his meal with a resigned shrug. The soup had cooled considerably during the altercation with Starscream, but it was thick and silky, and Sam ate without complaint. He was ladling the last remnants of barley into his mouth when he felt the spark bond brighten meaningfully inside his mind. He half-turned as the sound of transformation preceded the sight of Bumblebee straightening to his full height. The scout's optics found him in an instant, and he warbled quietly in Cybertronian as he stepped close to the berth. Sam smiled wanly, easily interpreting his bonded's concern.
"I'm fine." He said, settling his spoon and bowl on the bedside table and pushing it aside, "Can we get out of here already?"
Bumblebee cast a questioning glance at First Aid, who was watching them with unusually bright optics. As soon as the field medic inclined his helm permissively, Bumblebee helped Sam out of bed. It was uncomfortably cool in the hangar, and as a result, Sam was shivering in earnest by the time he pulled on the last of his clothes.
"Thanks for the company." Sam said, tossing the words over his shoulder in Jazz's direction, "I appreciate it."
"No problemo." Jazz replied, "I enjoyed breaking out the ol' girl. I haven't had much time to play recently."
As he spoke, the second-in-command pushed to his feet, slinging the instrument over his shoulder in one fell motion. It wasn't until Jazz was stepping around the berth that Sam noticed the short, curved blade hanging on his hip. His gaze lingered on the weapon until Jazz whistled, catching his attention.
Sam glanced up reflexively, and as soon as they made eye contact, Jazz brought two fingers in his forehead in a lazy salute.
"See you around, kid."
Jazz made his way down the aisle, whistling cheerfully to himself as he went. Sam stared after him for a long moment, before dragging his eyes up to Bumblebee's face. The scout was looking at him, his expression reserved but concerned.
"Can we go?" Sam asked tiredly, "I've already had a hell of a day, and I've only been awake for a few hours."
Bumblebee extended both servos towards him, beckoning meaningfully with his digits. Sam carefully stepped onto the cradle of his palms, before letting himself be tucked against the scout's chest. The metal was warm and smooth against his body. Sam closed his eyes as Bumblebee initiated his transformation sequence. He was curled, this way and that, before he finally found himself in the driver's seat as the Camaro finished transforming. The steering wheel slid up, locking into place as the engine turned over. By the time that Sam had settled back against the supple leather, they were already accelerating down the aisle and out of the hangar. To Sam's surprise, the corridors were lit only by the dim glow of emergency lights.
"The Ark is running repairs." Bumblebee explained, answering Sam's unspoken question, "All unnecessary functions have been shut-down to reroute power to main engineering."
Sam worried his hands together in his lap as he asked, quietly, "Are we going to be okay?"
Bumblebee's mental presence leaned into his mind, warm and reassuring.
"Yes, Sam." He murmured, "We are going to be okay."
The Camaro's headlights gleamed off the metal floor as they drove. They took one corridor and then another, before they passed the mess hall on the right. Sam's mouth went dry at the sight of scorched marks peppering the walls—clearly, someone had been engaged in battle right outside the mess. The sight was gone again a moment later when they turned the corner.
Sam sat in silence for the rest of the way to their hab-suite. The room was relatively unscathed after the events of the last week, although the plant that Hound had given him was nowhere to be seen. Its absence was almost painfully conspicuous—a fact that Sam forced himself not to dwell on as he climbed out of the cab. As soon as he stepped away, Bumblebee transformed back into his bipedal mode. The scout crouched down in front of him, an inscrutable look on his face.
"What can I do?" Bee asked, plainly, stroking a digit down his back.
Sam didn't need their bond to intuit what the scout was asking.
"Nothing." He said, pushing his hands into his pockets as he walked around the couch, "Thanks though."
Bumblebee regarded him a moment longer, before scuttling several steps closer.
"We don't have to stay here." He murmured, "The fourth and fifth decks are undergoing repairs, but everything else is accessible. We could go to the bridge or the hydroponics laboratory if you wanted."
Sam's lips thinned in a grimace. He and Rung had been at the hydroponics laboratory when the Peaceful Tyranny had attacked. The thought caused another concern to rise unbidden in his mind.
He turned to look at Bumblebee, anxiety furrowing his brow.
"The hydroponics lab… are they going to be able to salvage it?"
Bumblebee's optics softened in understanding.
"Most of it, yes." He replied, "We lost a dozen planters and many of the seedlings, but we were able to salvage the rest. Rung has already planted the next crop."
Sam's breath hitched at the confirmation his emergency supplies hadn't been destroyed. At least starvation wasn't going to be an immediate concern on top of everything else that he had to worry about.
Bumblebee brushed against him, his mental presence a confusing mixture of protectiveness and compassion.
"Your reserves were undamaged by the attack." He said reassuringly, "The fighting never came within a ship's breadth of the storage hangars."
Despite the reassurance in the scout's tone, Sam was seized with a sudden, visceral need to see the reserves for himself—to confirm with his own two eyes that he wasn't stranded in space, trillions of kilometers from home, without any means of survival. He twisted, looking up at his bonded in desperation.
Bumblebee reached out, drawing a single digit down his spine. The touch was gentle and grounding, but it did nothing to settle the panic that was seizing up his insides.
"It's alright, Sam." Bumblebee murmured, "We can go."
As thought the words were some kind of release, Sam lurched to his feet and stumbled towards the doorway. He didn't wait for Bumblebee to transform—he had to go, right now, right this second to make sure that his supplies were intact. Bumblebee whistled after him, his voice pitchy and concerned, but Sam ignored him. He hurried out of the hab-suite, walking as quickly as his legs would carry him. He was distantly aware of Bumblebee following him, but his whole world narrowed down to the corridor in front of him. He took the corner at the end of the hall, the emergency lights casting a dim, orange glow around him. He tried to ignore the way that the shadows seemed to stretch as he passed, as though reaching for him.
"Sam, calm down." Bumblebee urged, keeping pace at his side, "You're alright."
"I need to see it." He gasped, "I need to see it right now!"
He broke into a run, the sound of his ragged breathing and the squeak of his shoes the only noise that accompanied them until they neared the aft section of the deck. It was only then that Sam became aware of an unusual sound—it was a high-pitched whine, sharp enough to break through the haze of his incipient panic attack. He stumbled to a stop, his heart thundering inside his chest. The sound rose and fell in waves, but it was so intense that Sam could almost feel it in his bones. He stood there for a long while, just listening, before turning troubled eyes towards his bonded.
"What is that?" He asked uncertainly.
Bumblebee ex-vented softly as he turned to look in the direction of the noise.
"It's Hot Rod." He murmured in reply.
Sam stared up at him, taken aback by the quiet grief written all over his bonded's face. All thoughts of planters and seedlings and flash-frozen meals were gone in an instant, replaced by a sinking feeling of trepidation.
In all his years living among the Autobots, Sam had never once heard someone make a noise like that. It was a terrible sound—keening and desperate and forlorn.
Sam found himself padding forward without having made a conscious decision to do so. Bumblebee followed behind him in silence. The noise got louder as they made their way down the hall until an open hangar came into view, spilling dim light into the darkened corridor. The feeling of trepidation in Sam's chest tightened, becoming almost claustrophobic, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he tried. He put one foot in front of the other until he stepped into the entryway—and then he pulled up short.
The room within was a mortuary.
It was a small space, perhaps two or three times the size of Sam's hab-suite, but it was filled with fallen mechanoids. Their bodies were draped in metal-mesh and arranged in a long row in the center of the room. Unlike the mausoleum at Diego Garcia, however, the hangar was almost painfully barren, devoid of any markers or funerary art.
It wasn't a place to honor the dead, Sam realized abruptly. It was just a place to store them.
His eyes trailed across the room, before settling on Hot Rod. The cavalier was on his knees next to Knock Out's frame, which had had its funeral shroud pulled down to his waist. Sam's throat thickened in emotion—both at the sight of Knock Out's corpse and at the sight of Hot Rod, arms folded over his chassis, keening in grief at his side.
Cliffjumper and Sideswipe stood a respectful distance away, their servos clasped at their waists. They turned to regard him as he stepped into the entryway, but neither of them spoke a word.
Sam stood frozen to the spot, unable to move, to speak—scarcely daring even to breathe. Hot Rod's keening wail rose and fell in tandem with his movements: he bent at the waist, pressing his forehead into the floor at Knock Out's side, before straightening his back again. He repeated the supplication over and over without falter. Sam had no idea how long he stood there, but Hot Rod's keening wail eventually trailed away as he sat back on his heels. He stared down at Knock Out's corpse for a long moment, his optics preternaturally bright.
Eventually, the cavalier turned to regard him.
"Did you know that mecha cannot weep?" He asked, softly.
Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat, shaking his head in lieu of a reply.
"We lack the necessary components, and thus our mourning is less… visceral than your own." Hot Rod continued, turning to look down at Knock Out's corpse, "Less visceral, perhaps, but no less terrible." He was silent for a long moment, his servos curling into fists where they rested on his thigh struts.
"I cannot imagine the act of grieving providing any manner of peace." He murmured at last, before turning to look at Sam, "How I envy you that physical release."
Sam swallowed against the grief thickening his throat. He had never heard the cavalier sound so resigned, so forlorn—not in all the years they had known one another.
"Roddy… I'm so sorry." He managed, his voice little more than a strangled whisper.
Hot Rod's optics were burning like a butane flame as he regarded Sam for a moment longer. Eventually, the cavalier turned, staring down at Knock Out as he bent at the waist, pressing his forehead against the floor. The sound of his high-pitched, keening wail began to build as he resumed his benedictions.
"Sam." Bumblebee murmured, pressing the tips of two digits against his back, "We should go."
Sam stared at the cavalier for a long moment, unable to move.
"Sam." Bumblebee tried again, more insistent this time, "Come with me."
Sam slowly angled his head to look up at the scout. Bumblebee's mental presence was shuttered and withdrawn, but Sam could see the grief and guilt reflected in his optics—it was the feeling that was twisting up Sam's insides too.
"You should stay." He murmured, pressing a hand against the smooth, yellow metal of Bumblebee's chest plates. "He needs you."
A complicated expression flickered across Bumblebee's face, too quickly for Sam to decipher.
"You need me." Bumblebee replied, "You're my priority, Sam."
Sam's expression softened with affection as he reached up, grasping the edge of Bumblebee's face plates. "Of course I need you." He murmured, "But Roddy needs you more right now." When the scout looked as though he might refuse, Sam gave his faceplates a meaningful tug, "I'll be alright. I promise."
Bumblebee stared at him for a long, weighted moment, before finally inclining his helm. Sam smiled faintly, giving his faceplates a gentle pat.
"You know where I'll be if you need me." He said softly. "Take care of Roddy, alright?"
Bumblebee smoothed across his mind, appreciative and regretful in equal measures. Sam's smile curled a little wider as he bumped against him, trying to infuse the touch with as much reassurance as he could muster, and then he turned, walking out of the hangar with Hot Rod's grief-stricken wailing echoing down the hall behind him.