Notes: Chapter Warnings: Panic attack, graphic depictions of violence.
Maggie made a contented sound as she stretched out beneath the sheets. The feeling of cool linen against her bare skin was a luxury after yesterday. The lamp on the bedside table cast warm light around the hotel room, but it was otherwise dark. The thick, brocade curtains had been drawn over the windows, blotting out the early morning glow of downtown Tranquility, California.
The mattress dipped as her companion shifted closer, nuzzling against the side of her neck.
"Feel better?" Ultra Magnus murmured, teeth grazing her skin.
Maggie's lips twitched, despite herself, as she scratched her fingers through the holoform's short hair. "That was a lovely distraction. Thank-you."
Ultra Magnus rumbled deep inside his chest as he shifted closer, drawing his fingers over her navel, up her stomach, to trace invisible patterns between her breasts. The touch sent pleasant goosebumps dancing across her skin.
"First contact is often difficult. It went as well as we could have hoped, considering the circumstances." Ultra Magnus reminded her.
Maggie's good humor evaporated all at once. She shrugged the holoform away with a twitch of her shoulders, before pushing into a sitting position. The expensive sheets pooled around her waist like liquid silk. She was Prime's liaison, and with that role came a host of responsibilities—some less pleasant than others. This wasn't the first time she had broken the news about a cassette to their family members, but it had been one of the worst. Raphael had been packed and waiting for them when they arrived. His family, although taken aback by their appearance, had been otherwise unbothered to learn their son was being removed to Diego Garcia. Charlie had been harder. Her family had protested at length, and when that didn't work, they had sought legal representation. The case had been dismissed before it reached the federal court, but it had caused no small amount of headache in the interim.
And then Miriam—
Maggie's chest ached with grief at the memory of her.
"Hey." Ultra Magnus rumbled, reaching out to lightly grasp her elbow, "Are you alright?"
Maggie forced her face into a smile, but it was a brittle thing. "I just told a widow that we were taking her only son into protective custody, and no, she may not see him for the foreseeable future." She gave the holoform a look over her shoulder. "No, darling. I'm not alright."
Ultra Magnus regarded her for a long moment, before trailing his fingertips down the inside of her forearm to interlace their hands together, and then he brushed his lips over her knuckles.
"Agents Boyd and Sinclair will ensure she's well looked after during the transition," He murmured, one broad hand settling against Maggie's inner thigh, "And Carter's already arranged for counseling. It will all work out."
Maggie could feel the tell-tale twinge of a stress headache beginning to form. "Is the surveillance team in position?"
"Yes, they are." Ultra Magnus replied patiently, "The situation is well in hand."
Maggie sighed, pressing her fingertips into her temples. The knowledge that Mrs. Witwicky was secure provided little comfort—the woman's grief had been visceral. It made the news that Sam was struggling with his changing circumstances all the harder to bear. Maggie grimaced faintly at the thought. She had questioned the wisdom of driving him cross-country, rather than ground-bridging from Arlington, but the risk of attack on the east coast was at an all-time high. MECH was growing bolder by the day.
She hesitated for a long moment, before voicing the concern that had been niggling in the back of her mind for days. "How did they learn his identity?"
Ultra Magnus' grip tightened around her leg. "It is possible that Sam tipped them off himself. He was in contact with the sympathizer."
Maggie knew that—just as she knew that Matthew Elias Thorton, alias Tiresias, had been the one to aid and abet Sam's escape from the diner in Valdosta. She had known virtually everything there was to know about the man from the moment they tagged his correspondence on Sam's computer.
"That doesn't explain why MECH mobilized such a rapid response." She returned, frowning, "We tag dozens of potential assets every year. Why now? Why Sam?"
Ultra Magnus was silent for a long while. It did more to convey his unease than anything he might have said in reply.
"We are not certain." He murmured eventually, "Prowl suspects the island may be compromised."
Maggie's heart skipped a beat.
"How is that possible?" She asked.
Diego Garcia was more than just a nation-state. It was their home—their refuge—from the dangers and machinations and demands of the global stage. It was a place where they could be themselves without judgment or reprisal. The Autobots carefully vetted every person under their employ, but that was especially true for those stationed on the island. A potential sleeper agent would have to be in deep cover—all communications to and from the island were closely monitored.
But then, that begged the question: how would an enemy agent have gotten a communique off the island in the first place?
The stress headache was getting worse. Maggie twitched aside the sheets, before climbing off the mattress. She was aware of Ultra Magnus' gaze on her back as she padded over to her tote bag, which was resting on the armchair near the window. Maggie pulled it open, rooting around inside until she found the paracetamol, and then she shook two tablets into her palm.
"What's Prime going to do?" She asked.
"He has already sent word to the front. It shouldn't take long for them to send a response." Ultra Magnus shifted backwards, lifting the blankets in clear invitation. "Come back to bed, Maggie. The ambient temperature in this room is only 64 degrees."
Maggie shot him a wry look, but she climbed back into bed all the same. It was just as well—her headache was becoming a nuisance. She settled down against the mattress, before rolling over to turn off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
Sam was still awake when someone rapped on the bathroom door.
"Fifteen minutes, kid." Jazz's voice called.
Sam forced open his eyes to stare under the door. He could see the holoform's shoes as he turned and walked away. Sam watched him go, before closing his eyes again. He was cold and tired and sore. The bath towels had done little to protect him from the rigors of lying on the floor all night. He tucked his face against the starchy material, breathing in the smell of industrial cleanser and bleach. It reminded him of the laundromat in Philadelphia.
Idly, he wondered how June and the Reverend were doing. He hoped they were well.
After a long moment, Sam pushed himself into a sitting position. The towel that had been drawn up to his shoulders slipped onto the floor. He had no idea what time it was, but judging by his burning eyes and aching body, it had to be early. He dragged a hand down his face, before grabbing the edge of the bathtub and hauling himself to his feet. The overhead light was too bright and the rattle of the exhaust fan was too loud. Sam leaned against the counter and twisted both faucets until water gushed into the sink. He splashed his face and rinsed out his mouth, before drinking deeply from the tap. He regretted it immediately—the water tasted rusty and stale. He spat the water into the sink, before lifting his head to stare into the mirror. His pale, haggard reflection stared back at him.
"You look like shit." Sam rasped.
His reflection didn't offer anything in their defense. Sam grimaced, before turning off the faucet and drying his face with a towel. When he finished, he turned, staring at the door. He couldn't hear anything from the other room. He listened for a moment, trying to make out the sound of movement or conversation, but there was nothing. Sam stared at the door for a moment longer, before leaning over to grasp the knob and pull it open.
The motel room was empty, but someone—Jazz, presumably—had opened the curtains, spilling mellow, early morning sunshine into the room. Sam frowned faintly, before pushing the door wider with his fingertips. There was no evidence of his outburst the night before—the broken lamp had been cleaned away. His backpack was sitting on the foot of the bed beside a take-out drink tray. There was a large, disposable coffee cup in one slot and a paper bag in another. Sam padded forward so he could investigate properly. The disposable cup had no branding or logo, so it wasn't from a major chain, and the paper bag was stained with grease. He opened the bag and peered inside to find a bacon-and-egg sandwich. The sight made his stomach twist with hunger. How long had it been since he had eaten? Sam dug the food out of the bag, before sitting on the edge of the bed. The croissant was still warm to the touch. He proceeded to eat the entire thing, washing it down with lukewarm coffee—one cream, one sugar—until the food was gone. He sat on the bed for a few more minutes, sipping his coffee and staring into space, before he finally grasped his backpack and made his way into the bathroom.
When Sam stepped outside twenty minutes later, backpack in one hand and half-empty coffee cup in the other, it was to find the parking lot in a state of situational readiness. Jazz was parked in front of his motel room door, and the other vehicles were idling in a column down the full length of the parking lot. Sam squinted against the early morning light, eyes skipping from one vehicle to another. There were two motorcycles in place of the Jeep Wrangler—one, sleek and blue, the other compact and bronze-gold. The two vehicles were idling in a fully upright position, no driver and no kickstand, which told Sam all that he needed to know.
"You still hungry?" Jazz asked, "There's plenty of leftovers."
Sam turned his head, following the sound of Jazz's voice, to find the holoform leaning against the side of the building. He looked exactly the same as he had the night before—clean shaven, locs tied up in a bun, and dressed in casual wear. His posture was laid-back, but he was watching Sam too closely to be nonchalant.
"No." Sam replied, voice hoarse from lack of sleep. "I'm fine."
The holoform scrutinized him for a moment longer, before pushing away from the wall. "Alright, then. Your carriage awaits."
Jazz started towards the Solstice, which popped open both doors as he approached. The holoform slid a hand along the top of the driver's side door, before ducking into the car without so much as a backwards glance. It felt like a personal failure to amble forward, gravel crunching underfoot, to climb into the passenger seat beside him. Sam tucked his backpack on the floor between his feet, before pulling the door shut. The Solstice's interior was dark and cool. Sam leaned back against the seat, holding his coffee cup in both hands, as he stared steadfastly through the windshield. Jazz shifted the coupe into gear and checked his rearview—which was ridiculous, because he was the coupe, and Sam knew it—before pulling out of the sparking space.
"Any preference?" Jazz asked conversationally.
Sam knew that he was referring to the music selection. "No."
Jazz drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as they started across the parking lot. Sam watched in the side mirror as the ambulance and camper truck pulled into position behind them—neither vehicle had a holoform in the driver's seat. The realization caused Sam to glance through the windshield. The two motorcycles were driving ahead of the Camaro—neither of them had drivers, either.
Sam took another drink of his coffee, trying not to feel unsettled. Not my circus, not my monkeys.
As the coupe slowed to pull onto the road, the up-beat vocals of 'Oops, I did it Again' burst through the speakers at top volume. Sam nearly jumped out of his fucking skin. He turned, staring incredulously at the holoform in the driver's seat, who slanted him an easy smile in return.
"What?" Jazz asked, "Don't like the Queen of Pop?"
Sam gave him a withering look, before turning to stare at the road. "That's Madonna."
"Says you." Jazz retorted.
Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, which would certainly only encourage him. The Britney Spears single was followed by (You Drive Me) Crazy, and then three tracks by the Spice Girls. The convoy made its way through the outskirts of town, before taking a right-turn at the first set of lights. The road transitioned to a long, sloping on-ramp that led to the interstate. The coupe's engine growled as it accelerated to sixty-five miles per hour.
When Wannabe was followed by Call Me Maybe, Sam had reached his breaking point. He twisted in his seat to give the holoform a pointed look.
"Is this payback for the lamp?" He demanded.
Jazz laughed softly. "Nah, kid, it ain't like that." He glanced sidelong at Sam with a wry smile, "And I'd say you get a pass for the lamp—all things considered."
Sam was taken aback by the self-deprecating humor in his voice. He took a long drink to hide his surprise at the unspoken—and unexpected—apology. He had thought Jazz would be curt with him after his outburst the night before. He certainly hadn't expected Prime's spymaster to be offering amends in the form of shitty tween pop. Sam glanced sidelong at the holoform. He was leaning back in his seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand drumming a beat on his thigh with every evidence of enjoyment. The perky vocals of Carly Mae Jepsen were followed by Genie in a Bottle and No Scrubs. Sam nursed his coffee as he listened, and it was only after he had finished that he finally slanted Jazz a look.
"Are you just torturing me, then?" He asked, exasperatedly.
Jazz laughed again, louder and more genuine.
"What? Not a fan of early-2000s pop?" He grinned.
Sam's expression turned pointed. "I'm not a preteen girl, so no."
Jazz groaned, pressing his hand against his chest. "Ouch, kid."
Sam did roll his eyes that time, before turning to watch the road. The highway was a patchwork of dark asphalt and smooth, pale concrete. The vehicles in the column barely rocked on their wheels as they transitioned from one substrate to the other. The countryside was otherwise unremarkable—flat, empty fields extended to the distant treeline on either side of the road. There was the occasional farm or warehouse, but rural Missouri was rural.
Abruptly, it occurred to Sam that they had been driving along rural routes and uninhabited countryside for most of the trip. He frowned faintly at the realization. Were the Autobots avoiding urban areas for a reason? It would certainly be easier to slip away in a city, but Sam doubted that he could outrun a column of sentient vehicles or their holoform projections.
His brooding was interrupted by the beginning of Evanescence's Bring Me To Life. Sam made a strangled sound, before turning in his seat to look at Jazz.
"I am begging you: please change the music."
Jazz grinned, wide and easy. "Sure, kid. What'd you have in mind?"
"I don't care!" Sam groused, "Literally anything else."
As soon as the words left his mouth, the radio squealed across frequencies, and then the chorus from Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up burst from the speakers.
"Are you fucking with me?" Sam exploded.
Jazz actually threw back his head and laughed. Full, hearty, sincere. "Yeah, okay. That time I was."
Sam's glare could have withered a forest. Jazz chuckled as the radio slid across frequencies to a classic rock station. Sam was hardly mollified by the switch to Aerosmith, but it was better than anything they listened to so far that morning.
The sun rose higher in the sky as the day dragged on. They stopped in the outskirts of Kansas City for a bathroom break, and then they were back on the road. They crossed the state line into Nebraska two hours later. If Missouri had been rural, then Nebraska was deserted. There was nothing but flat plains from one horizon to the other—Sam had never seen anything like it before in his life. The highway extended straight in front of them all the way to the vanishing point in the distance.
The scale of nothingness was giving Sam a headache.
He slouched down in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. The coupe didn't vibrate like a regular vehicle, but Sam was lulled by the low, throaty rumble of its engines. He shifted against the seat, trying to get comfortable—a pointless venture, considering he had spent the night on the bathroom floor. It took him a moment to realize that the radio had gone quiet. He slanted open his eyes to find the entertainment console had been turned off. He stared at the darkened screen for a long moment, taken aback by the consideration, before shifting onto his hip and closing his eyes again.
Sam's headache grew steadily worse as time passed. The noon hour came and went, but there was nowhere to stop—not even a gas station. It was just as well. Sam couldn't find it in himself to be hungry.
Suddenly, an icy chill ghosted over his skin, spreading goosebumps in its wake.
Sam opened his eyes.
The flat, sprawling fields of southern Nebraska were gone. The landscape in front of him was broken and barren, lit by a dull orange sun sitting too low in the sky. Sam's heart climbed up into his throat. The road was a crumbling, pot-marked ruin stretching towards an alien mountainscape in the distance.
This isn't real, Sam thought, heart thumping in sudden terror. This isn't real.
Sam was yanked roughly by the shoulder.
"Kid?" Jazz asked warily, "Sam? What's wrong?"
Sam's head snapped up to look out the windshield, breath hitching, but the dreamscape was gone. In its place was Middle-America—corn fields and blue skies, as far as the eye could see.
"Sam?" Jazz prompted, more sharply, "What is it?"
"I don't know." Sam managed, licking his lips, "I mean, I thought…" His voice trailed off again.
The concern on Jazz's face shifted, growing grim. At the same time, the radio crackled on and a gruff voice came through: "Jazz? What's your status? Will just said he saw something."
"Yeah." Jazz replied, not taking his eyes off Sam, "Same here."
There was a muttered curse, and then the radio crackled into silence. A moment later, the two Lamborghini's pulled into the left lane, before speeding ahead of the convoy. Sam's heart was beating erratically as he turned frightened eyes towards the holoform in the driver's seat.
"What's happening?" Sam rasped. He had had hallucinations in the past, but those were different. A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye or shadows stretching across the floor of his apartment. It hadn't been like this—solid and visceral and terrible.
"You're going to be fine, Sam." Jazz promised as the coupe accelerated sharply—65, 75, 85 miles per hour, the rest of the convoy keeping pace. "We'll find somewhere safe to bunker down. How's your head?"
Sam's head was throbbing. It was getting to the point where he could almost see his pulse darkening his vision with every heartbeat
All at once, Sam realized that he was about to have another episode.
"Oh, fuck." He gasped, burying his face in his hands, "Oh fuck."
The throaty growl of the coupe's engines increased in pitch and volume. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, grasping his hair until his scalp ached. He had been fucking blind to miss the signs. The headache, the soreness, the light sensitivity—he had thought it was all caused by the night spent on the bathroom floor.
The coupe bumped over a patch of uneven highway, causing pinpricks of light to explode behind Sam's eyelids. He moaned softly. He could already feel it building in the back of his skull, right at the top of his spine, and the coupe's front seat was the absolute last place that he wanted to have a breakdown.
"Pull over." He gasped.
"Sorry, kid." Jazz replied grimly. "I can't."
"Pull over!" Sam begged—louder, more desperate.
"I can't." Jazz repeated. "Hold on, Sam. You're going to be okay."
At the same time, the vents turned on, blowing frigid air into the cabin. Sam's breath stuttered out of him at the feeling of cold air on his face. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the dashboard. He could feel the vibration of the engines through the hard plastic.
"Talk to me, kid." Jazz urged.
Now that Sam knew what was happening, he was hyper-aware of the symptoms. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry. His skin felt too tight for his body. Sam pressed a hand against his chest, over his heart, which was beating erratically behind his sternum.
"My chest hurts." He managed, weakly.
Jazz cursed under his breath. "I'm gonna need more information here, kiddo."
Sam just shook his head in reply. His skin felt like it was shrinking like old leather left in the sun—restrictive, confining. It was getting harder to breathe.
"Sam." Hoist's voice came through the radio, firm and composed, "I'm going to ask you some questions. I need you to nod your head yes or no. Do you understand?"
Sam could do that much, he thought—so long as he didn't have to speak. He jerked his head in the affirmative.
"That's good." Hoist replied, "Does the pain feel like pressure? Like someone's sitting on your chest?"
The pain in Sam's chest wasn't pressure. It was sharper, hotter, beating right behind his sternum. He shook his head.
"Okay, that's good. Thank you, Sam." Hoist replied, "Any pain or discomfort in your jaw or upper back?" Sam shook again, more insistently this time. Hoist went through a battery of other questions, each asked with the same air of calm professionalism: Do you have heartburn? (No). Do you feel dizzy or lightheaded? (Yes). Are you short of breath? (Yes). Are you nauseous? (Yes).
In the middle of Hoist's differential diagnosis, Sam lifted his head to peer through the windshield. There were two moons hanging low in the sky over the otherwise normal Nebraska countryside. Sam screwed his eyes shut, before forcing them open again. The sky was a perfect powder blue from horizon to horizon.
"I'm seeing things." He forced himself to say, "I can't… I've never—"
"It's alright, Sam." Hoist interrupted. His voice was calm, composed. Sam clung to it like a lifeline, "I want you to take a deep breath from the bottom of your belly."
Sam shook his head—breathing wasn't going to do anything to help him. He was about to have a fucking seizure.
"Sam." Hoist said, voice sharper than before, "Do as I say. Take a deep breath."
There was something about his tone—commanding, direct—that Sam found himself responding to. He sucked a shuddery inhale, holding and releasing it in time with Hoist's voice. It did little to abate the crushing sense of impending doom or the pounding in his skull, but it eased the tightness in his chest. They continued like that for a long time—how long, exactly, Sam couldn't guess—but eventually, Jazz turned off the road. The transition from pavement to gravel had Sam jerking his head up in surprise. The convoy was pulling into the parking lot of a Best Western. The red and yellow Lamborghini's were already parked half-way down the building, which is where Jazz headed.
The Solstice pulled into an empty parking space with enough force to rock Sam against the seatbelt. In the next instant, the passenger side door swung open, and Jazz and Hoist were helping Sam out of his seat. His knees were almost too rubbery to stand. Jazz grabbed one of his arms, slinging it around his neck, and together, he and Hoist led Sam into the nearest room. Sam couldn't prevent his soft gasp of relief as he stepped into the air conditioned space. The curtains had been drawn tightly over the windows, and when Jazz kicked the door shut behind them, the room was plunged into darkness.
Time grew strange.
In one moment, Sam was being led towards the bed. In the next, he was under the covers, dressed in nothing but a tee-shirt and boxers. The room was spinning—or maybe that was just his vision—but Sam ground his face into the pillows, desperate for respite. His surroundings seemed to stutter confusingly—the motel room was replaced with a dark, cavernous space, and the two images flipped back and forth like slides on a ViewMaster toy. When Sam came back to himself, Jazz and Hoist were talking somewhere nearby.
"Will thought it was a headache at first." Hoist murmured, "Too many days on the road."
"Damned awful timing." Jazz muttered.
"Indeed." Hoist sighed, "What about the others?"
"Blaster's got Raf docked. Miko and the others are in the menagerie under Ratchet's supervision." Jazz's voice tightened, growing grim, "Maggie's still in California."
"She will be alright." Hoist said reassuringly, "Ultra Magnus and Carter will see her through the worst of it."
The room seemed to pan away, stretching into the middle distance, before snapping back again. The phantom sensation of movement made Sam's stomach clench with nausea.
"Help me." He begged, heels scrabbling against the mattress, "Please—"
The mattress dipped as someone sat beside him. There was a cool hand pressed against his brow, before it moved away again. "We're right here, Sam. You're okay. Just hold on a little lo̵̭̎ngê̵̬̻̎͑ͅr̷̨͉͝."
It was Hoist's voice. It should have been Hoist's voice. But his familiar baritone was overlaid by something else, someone else, whose voice was far colder, far crueler than the doctor's. Sam sucked in a surprised breath, and then his entire body locked up as the first spasm hit.
Sam's eyes snapped open.
He was surrounded by darkness.
Slowly, like a latent image appearing on photographic film, his surroundings became visible. He was in a cavernous space—steep, jagged walls tapering to a rounded ceiling hundreds of meters above him. The ground was bare stone, wind-swept and weathered. The massive chamber was empty except for a large stone slab jutting from the middle of the floor.
A table, perhaps—or an altar.
As the image became clearer, Sam caught a flash of movement atop the stone slab. He found himself drawn forward against his will. One foot in front of the other.
Then, like turning the volume dial on a radio, sound began to build.
First, it was the wind moaning through the cavern. It was a lonely, forlorn sound. Then, a low-pitched keening reached his ears. It made Sam's heart skip a beat, although he didn't recognize the sound.
Another step, and then another.
Next, he heard a low, rhythmic chanting in a language he didn't understand. The intonation was sharp and guttural. It made something in Sam's primitive hindbrain tense in instinctual fear—like a rabbit freezing after catching scent of a predator.
The picture became clearer as he approached the altar. The shadows coalesced into discernible shapes in the corner of his eye—stalactites, rubble, and some kind of refuse strewn across the cavern floor. The only light came from a narrow crack in the rock overhead.
Another step, and then another.
The low-pitched keening was growing louder, more desperate. It made Sam feel sick to his stomach. He drew nearer still to the altar, and then his breath hitched in his throat.
There was a person chained to the stone slab.
No, that wasn't right, Sam realized. It was vaguely person-shaped: a head, torso, arms and legs, but it wasn't human. The creature was made of dull gray metal that shone whenever the moonlight caught it just right. Its proportions weren't right for a human, either—its shoulders were twice as wide as its pelvis, and it had long, spindly legs ending in three-toed feet.
But it wasn't the creature's body that drew Sam's attention. It was its face.
The face was almost unrecognizable except for two glowing, red optics and an undulating maw that might have been a mouth. Its most prominent feature was a pair of delicate pincers that clicked and rubbed together, the way one might worry their hands. Its eyes—and they were eyes, Sam knew—were flitting back and forth, urgent and anxious, like they were looking for something.
As the chanting in the distance grew to a crescendo, there was movement in the darkness.
Sam watched in frozen horror as another creature separated from the shadows. It was monstrous—easily twenty feet tall with long, many-jointed arms and a massive blocky head shaped like a dreidel. It was wearing crimson robes that hung all the way down to the floor.
Sam tried to take a step backwards, but he couldn't. He was frozen like a fly in amber.
As the creature approached the stone slab, the prisoner began to thrash in its bonds. It was squealing something Sam couldn't understand—pitchy, tremulous, terrified. The larger alien crooned something in response, before trailing the backs of its fingers down the creature's face in the mockery of a caress.
Sam was gripped with a terror not his own—could feel it reverberating around his skull. He tried to move, to balk, but his feet were rooted to the floor. He was forced to watch as the creature reached into its robes, withdrawing a long, curved dagger. It was ornate and detailed—ceremonial, Sam realized.
"Don't." Sam whispered.
The creature on the stone slab began to buck its hips. It was shrieking now—the sound drowning out the distant chanting, the groan of the wind, Sam's own panicked breathing. The monster (priest?) stared down at the creature with a sort of tolerant understanding. Its face was hideous: two large, bulbous eyes set above a gaping mouth. The priest murmured something in its terrible, grating language as it lifted the blade. The prisoner stilled, before tipping its chin up and spitting something in response.
As quick as a striking snake, the priest drew the blade across the prisoner's throat.
The prisoner gurgled and thrashed as bright pink blood sprayed from the wound. It ran down the prisoner's chest, over his shoulders, pooling on the stone slab. The priest took the dagger, which was still dripping with vitae, and pressed its tip against the prisoner's chest.
"Stop it." Sam managed, voice shaking so hard he almost couldn't understand himself, "Don't!"
The priest drew the blade down the prisoner's chest, leaving a thin line of glowing fluid in its wake. The prisoner's optics were darkening—the flow of its vital fluids had slowed to a weak pulse—but it was still alive when the priest peeled back its dermal layer, revealing a soft, undulating glow from inside its chest. The priest crooned something in its alien language as it set the dagger aside.
Sam's stomach twisted with nausea. This wasn't just a murder or a ritual sacrifice—he knew, down to his core, deep in his soul, that he was witnessing something truly profane.
The priest slid its long, slender fingers into the prisoner's chest cavity. The soft, blue glow illuminated its face as it bent over the body.
"Stop it!" Sam cried, urgency and terror and desperation propelling him forward, "Leave him alone!"
The priest's head snapped up—locking eyes with Sam's—and then its face contorted with rage. Its gaping maw stretched wide in a shriek, revealing multiple rows of needle-like teeth, and then its head rotated around until another face replaced the first. This face was equally alien—a wide, manic smile and symbols painted over its skin—but it too locked eyes with Sam.
::Tre̵͉̘̿̄͑̔̈́sp̵͍̖͉̐a̶͚̱̠͉͚̎̈́̄̈́ͅs̵̨̼̤̩͇͗̅͌̍̀͝sę̷̗̮̈ṛ̸̡̫̹̩̙͐̃̌̀͠͝s:: Something hissed inside Sam's mind, ::Inf̶̳̫͓͆̒̂͐i̵͉͋͛de̵͖̤̱̼̝̞̓̔͑́̚ͅls!::
The priest lurched around the stone slab, its gait uneven and awkward. Sam's heart was hammering inside his chest—he couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut.
This isn't real.He thought desperately. I'm hallucinating.
Something sharp was drawn down the side of Sam's face. His eyes snapped open again to find the priest standing in front of him. Its wide, feral eyes roved over him from head to toe. It was stroking a single digit down Sam's cheek—the same mockery of a caress the priest had given the prisoner. Sam felt dizzy with fear.
This isn't real.Sam repeated, like a mantra, It's just a dream—it's not real.
The priest chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that Sam could feel all the way down to his bones.
::Not a dream.:: It corrected, almost kindly, ::A memory.::
The priest stroked down the side of Sam's face and over his jaw. He seemed contemplative, almost curious, as he curled his fingers around Sam's neck. The tips of his digits dug into sensitive skin. The priest regarded him for a moment longer, and then Sam's world flashed red as his throat was torn out.
Between one moment at the next, Sam was back inside the motel room.
He was screaming himself hoarse. The talons were still buried in his throat—he could feel them, cold against hot flesh. He choked on the blood that welled in their wake.
"Quick, roll him onto his side." Sharp, urgent.
There were hands on Sam's shoulders, maneuvering him over. He lashed out blindly with his arms, desperate to get the priest off of him. Someone caught him by the wrists, pinning his hands close to his chest, and then there was a warm press of another person's body against his own.
"You're okay." Someone murmured, sounding strained, "I've got you, Sam."
Sam coughed and retched—it took him a long moment to realize it was the acrid burn of bile, not the copper tang of blood. There was a hand on his face, wiping his mouth. The touch was clinical and practiced.
"I need you to take a breath, Sam." The first voice urged, "Come on. You can do it."
Sam screwed his eyes shut. His head felt staticky and wrong, like a badly tuned radio picking up on multiple frequencies at once. He was aware of the softness beneath him—a mattress, he realized—and the warm press of a body against his back, but it was overlaid by the moaning of a phantom wind and the agony in his throat.
"C'mon, baby boy." A voice murmured directly next to his ear, "Take a breath for us."
Suddenly, warm yellow light blossomed into existence. Sam forced open his watering eyes to find himself staring at a bedside lamp. He blinked away the tears, half-expecting the light to vanish again, but it remained—stolid and steadfast.
Hoist leaned into his field of vision. The holoform was crouching beside him, expression reserved and concerned, as he planted his forearms on the edge of the mattress.
"Hello, Sam." He murmured, bending down to catch Sam's gaze, "You back with us?"
Sam closed his eyes. He couldn't have answered if his life depended on it.
"Okay. That's okay." Hoist murmured, "I understand if you can't speak yet—you don't need to say anything." Sam felt the bed dip as the holoform shifted closer, "You did quite a number on yourself. May I take a look?"
Sam squinted open his eyes again to find Hoist giving him an encouraging smile. He stared back at the holoform uncomprehendingly. Hoist's expression softened, growing compassionate, as he gestured to his own neck.
"You drew blood before we could restrain you." He said, like an apology.
Sam lifted an unsteady hand to press his fingertips against his throat. The accompanying throb of pain made him wince. The skin felt hot and wet to the touch.
"It looks superficial." Hoist murmured, brow furrowing in scrutiny, "Some minor abrasions and bruising. Does it hurt when you swallow?"
Sam shuddered as he curled his hand around his throat. It did hurt to touch, but it was a good hurt, grounding and real. He laid there like that for a long while—eyes closed, fingers pressing into the skin of his neck. It took him a few moments to realize that he was shivering.
"Jazz, go start a bath." Hoist instructed lowly, before his voice grew firm, "Alright, Sam. I'm going to help you up, and then we're going to take off your wet things. Alright?"
It took Sam a moment to pry open his eyes. He felt very tired, all of a sudden—tired and mentally checked-out. He just wanted to lie down and sleep until his head felt less… muddled. The mattress dipped as Jazz stood and walked into the bathroom. A moment later, Sam could hear the sound of running water.
"Sam." Hoist murmured, catching his attention, "I'm going to help you up, okay? Here we go." The medic hooked his hands under Sam's armpits, before maneuvering him into a sitting position. Sam made a soft noise of protest, but he didn't resist or pull away. He sat there passively as his shirt was pulled over his head—and it was only then, with the sodden garment removed, that Sam realized he was drenched in sweat.
Jazz returned, stepping forward to help Sam off the bed. He glanced sidelong at the medic as soon as Sam was on his feet. "Go on. Will needs to get checked out. I'll take over from here."
Hoist nodded once in understanding, and then his holoform disappeared.
"Alright, kiddo." Jazz said, his voice growing artificially bright, "Let's get you cleaned up. Yeah?" When Sam said nothing in response, Jazz chuckled softly. "Still not up to speaking, huh? That's okay. I'll do the talkin' for the both of us. It can take the others a while to feel up to chattin' after an episode." The holoform steered Sam into the bathroom—one arm around his waist, the other holding Sam's arm around his shoulders. The bathroom was clean and tidy—all gleaming white tile and porcelain fixtures. The soaker tub was half-full by the time Jazz helped Sam over the edge.
Sam sucked in a surprised breath. The water was hot, just this side of bracing—a welcome change to the chill that was making his bones ache.
"Feels good, huh?" Jazz grinned, guiding Sam to sit down in the water. "Lennox likes it this way too." Jazz perched on the edge of the tub, one leg tucked under the other, so that his knee was pressing against Sam's back. "I know you're not my biggest fan right now—that's cool, I get it—but how 'bout I sit right here until you warm up, alright? You can tell me to fuck off whenever you like, and I'll get lost."
Sam said nothing in reply—he was only peripherally aware of Jazz's presence. He was staring at his reflection in the spigot. He looked distorted, ghoulish. It made him shudder from head to toe. The holoform leaned against the wall, keeping his leg pressed against Sam's back, and then he started talking.
"This isn't a bad motel, all things considered." was his opening volley, "We've stayed at some real doozies in the past. Lennox likes to bitch about it—I think he's gotten it down to a science at this point." Jazz chuckled, low and genuine, "I think he just likes to complain. He can be a real diva."
Sam ran his fingers along the column of his throat. The feeling of the priest's talons sundering his flesh was fading as the time passed. He let his eyes drift closed, stroking his abused skin as he listened.
"—tell him I said that. He'd never let me hear the end of it." Jazz laughed, "I mean, at this point, I'm pretty sure Prowler's choosing spots just to get a rise out of him. You don't know Prowl yet, but trust me, that's pretty funny. It's the kind of shit-disturbing I'd expect from Hot Rod or Sunstreaker."
The water was above Sam's waist when Jazz finally leaned over, turning off the taps. The ensuing silence would have been deafening, but the holoform kept right on chatting.
"Prowl's a real straight-laced, by-the-books type. I'd give him props, but I think that'd ruin his fun." There was something undeniably fond about Jazz's voice. "Besides, this way I have plausible deniability: the only way I'm gettin' between Prowler and Lennox is in the sheets." The holoform dipped his fingers into the water, before making a considerate sound in the back of his throat. "Let me get you a face cloth—you can scrub off when you feel up to it."
The holoform made to stand, but Sam reached out, clutching at his leg.
"Please don't." Sam rasped—his voice ruined and small, "Don't… go."
Jazz's expression morphed from concern to surprise, before an easy smile broke across his face like a sunrise. "'Course not, baby boy. Ain't going nowhere. We can stay here as long as you want." He sat back on the edge of the tub, swinging one leg into the water, and then he kept right on talking.
"So, did I ever tell you why I chose the Solstice?" Jazz asked rhetorically, "It's a funny story actually—I lost a bet."
As Jazz detailed his loss in a high-stakes game of Triad, Sam found himself listing to the side until he was pressed against the holoform's leg. He tucked his face against the simulated denim—it felt real beneath his cheek. Sam's breath stuttered out of him, and a moment later, Jazz was carding his fingers through his hair.
"This okay?" Jazz asked neutrally, like he wouldn't be offended either way.
Sam hesitated, wrestling with conflicting impulses, and then he nodded his head.
They sat there together until the water grew tepid. Eventually, Sam became aware of the cool water, his aching backside, and his pruny skin. He straightened with a grimace. Jazz let him go, before shifting away to give Sam his space.
"How you doin'?" Jazz asked softly.
Sam couldn't look him in the face, and so he shrugged his shoulders instead.
Jazz pushed to his feet and swung his leg over the side of the tub. Sam was distantly curious to realize that the holoform was completely dry. Jazz stepped over towards the counter, before bending down to grab an armful of bath linens.
"C'mon." He said, shaking out a large towel, "Why don't we get you into some fresh clothes, alright?
Sam let Jazz help him out of the tub, which is when he realized—belatedly, like it didn't even matter—that he was still in his boxers. The holoform wrapped the oversized towel around Sam's shoulders, before stepping away. Sam's feet were steady enough that he was able to stumble over to the counter on his own accord.
"Do you want me to stay?" Jazz asked, and there was nothing judgmental in his voice.
Sam's throat clicked at first, but eventually, he managed a raspy: "I can do it. It's fine."
Jazz nodded, before disappearing into the bedroom. He returned a few moments later with a pile of neatly folded laundry, which he placed on the counter.
"I'll be right outside if you need me." Jazz said, like a promise.
Sam watched him leave, before turning to regard himself in the mirror. He looked haunted. His skin was blotchy and pale, which stood in stark contrast to the dark circles under his eyes and the bruising on his throat. Sam stepped closer to the counter, tipping his head back to get a better look. There were abrasions down both sides of his neck—the skin was already purpling near his collarbones.
And I thought I looked shitty this morning. He grimaced.
With effort, Sam tore his gaze away from his reflection. He unwrapped the towel, tossing it onto the counter, before peeling off his dripping boxers. He dried quickly and perfunctorily, all too aware of the cool air prickling his skin, before pulling on the clean clothes that Jazz had brought him.
The bedroom was largely the same as he had left it. The lamp on the side table was on, casting warm light around the room, but the bedsheets had been turned down in his absence. He padded across the floor, frowning faintly. In place of the thin, bland coverlet was a large, silvery looking blanket. Sam's frown deepened as he reached out, running his fingers over the material—it was smooth and cool, like silk, but it was far heavier.
"Metal-mesh." Jazz informed him, causing Sam to startle. "It'll help."
Sam half-turned to regard the holoform. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, his elbows resting on his knees and an intent expression on his face.
"...Thanks." Sam rasped in reply.
"You should get some sleep." Jazz said, nodding towards the bed, "That'll help too."
The fact that Jazz wasn't leaving the room was left unspoken.
"Yeah." Sam managed softly, "Yeah, okay."
Sam padded over towards the bed, before climbing onto the mattress. The metal-mesh was cool and heavy as he drew it up to his shoulders. He shifted around, trying to get comfortable, before he finally closed his eyes.
Oddly, he found Jazz's presence reassuring, rather than distressing. He set aside the thought to ruminate over when he woke up.
Suddenly, there was a polite knock on the door. Sam pushed up onto his elbow, but the door was swinging open before he could get any further. Lennox appeared in the doorway, his eyes landing on Sam in an instant. His hair was damp, his face pallid.
The older man padded forward, before hesitating at the edge of the bed. His eyes flicked up to Sam's face, before quickly glancing away.
"I saw it too." He husked—his voice sounded as ruined as Sam's. "The priest. The sacrifice. I saw it too."
Sam found himself shifting backwards to make room without giving it conscious thought. There was a flicker of relief on Will's face, and then he was sliding beneath the blankets. The older man initially kept a polite distance between them—his head on one pillow, Sam's on the other—but then he rolled over, staring at Sam across the space that separated them.
"You're not alone, Sam." He murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper, "Not anymore."
Sam was surprised by the emotion that gripped him at those words. He nodded once, tears pricking his eyes, before rolling onto his side to face Will properly. The older man's face was ashen and pale, but there was something in his eyes that made Sam relax.
Understanding, he supposed, or solidarity.
They fell asleep like that—face to face, close enough to breathe each other's air—as Jazz watched over them in silence.