Chapter 14: The Altercation
Notes: Chapter Warning: Moderately graphic discussion of suicide
The dentist's office was located in a cluster of professional buildings near the shore. To Sam's irritation, but not his surprise, Jazz's holoform followed him into the lobby. It was a bland space, with patterned carpet and custom prints on the walls. Jazz led him across the room and through the double doors along the far wall. The hallway opened onto a smaller sitting area, which is where Jazz advised him to, "Make yourself comfortable," before disappearing around the corner. Sam wasn't sure how he was supposed to be comfortable, but he settled into one of the chairs regardless. He hated everything about the dentist — the smell of disinfectant, the high-pitched whine of drills, the too bright lights. It set his teeth on edge.
Mercifully, his wait was a short one. Jazz returned a moment later, laughing good-naturedly with a young blonde woman in baby blue scrubs who introduced herself as Janet before tipping her head back the way they came and saying, "This way, please."
Sam was led to a treatment room near the rear of the building. It was a bright, airy space with a television set in the ceiling. Sam's heart was beating a staccato against his ribs as he gingerly lowered himself into the dental chair. He shifted around, trying to make himself comfortable, as Jazz and the technician chatted with one another about Dancing With the Stars. He glanced discretely around the room, which looked the same as every other dental office that Sam had seen in his life. Bland cabinetry, sterilized equipment, a computer monitor. The only relief came from the window on the opposite wall that provided a view of the road. Sam could just make out the ocean in the distance, glittering between the palm trees.
Suddenly, the dental technician leaned into Sam's field of vision, a patient bib in her hands. Sam startled badly in surprise, which caused her expression to furrow behind the mask that covered the lower portion of her face.
"I'm sorry, hon," she apologized. "I thought you heard me. You alright?"
Sam could feel the heat stealing up his neck and across his face. "I'm fine."
The dental technician stared at him for a moment longer, before her eyes creased with a sympathetic smile. "Don't like the dentist, huh?"
"Not particularly," Sam replied, leaning forward just far enough so she could affix the bib around his neck. "No offense."
"None taken," she replied dryly. "We'll make this as quick and painless as possible, alright?"
Sam said nothing as the technician pulled over a rolling stool and sat down. The exam began like any other. She examined his mouth, before taking a series of x-rays that seemed to go on forever. The x-rays were followed by a periodontal exam, and then a deep cleaning.
The dental technician was tidying up her tools — and Sam was just beginning to breathe a little easier — when an older man stepped into the room, introducing himself as Doctor Alexander and announcing that Sam had three cavities that needed filling.
Sam's heart climbed up into his throat. "What, now?" he managed.
The dentist made a considerate sound. "Well, all three aren't necessary today, but I'm concerned about the cavity on your maxillary first molar. It's deep, and if we don't treat it soon, a root canal may be the only option."
A cold sweat broke out on the back of Sam's neck as he tried and failed to think of some excuse to avoid the inevitable. Something of his rising panic must have been obvious, for the doctor's expression clouded in concern. He sat down onto the stool that the dental technician had just vacated, before resting his elbows on his knees and offering Sam his full attention.
"I understand you haven't been to the dentist in awhile," he began, his voice pitched to reassure, "but we have made great advances regarding patient comfort over the last ten years. Have you read about sedation dentistry? It's a good option for patients who—"
"No," Sam interrupted, unable to look the dentist in the eye. "I don't want any sedation."
"Are you sure? We have a few different options. Nitrous oxide, oral conscious sedation, intravenous sedation—"
Sam flinched. "No, no sedation."
The doctor's eyes briefly flicked up, glancing across the room, before he peered down at Sam again. "Alright, no sedation. Do you want to do all three fillings today? I'd recommend it, especially for a patient with dental anxiety. It will save you a lot of time."
Sam couldn't speak around the lump in his throat, so he jerked his head in an affirmative instead.
"Alright, Sam," the doctor murmured. "We're going to take good care of you. Just sit tight, okay?"
Unable to see an alternative, Sam closed his eyes and let it happen.
The drive back to the Hive was a silent affair.
Sam lay in Jazz's passenger seat, curled on his side, with an ice pack pressed against his face, the whine of the drill still ringing in his ears. His whole body hurt, but nothing compared to the throbbing pain in his mouth. Jazz's holoform sat in the driver's seat, blessedly giving Sam his space as they navigated through the tram tunnel. Rather than taking the elevator in the embassy lobby, as Miko had done earlier, Jazz turned off at the ground bridge hangar. Sam watched with half-lidded eyes as they navigated across the cavernous space, through a security check-point, and then down a sloping ramp down into the maintenance tunnel. Sam half-expected Jazz to make a quip about checking out the ground bridge hangar, but the holoform didn't say a word.
It was the better part of five minutes before Sam felt the Solstice slow to stop. He lifted his head, peering blearily through the windshield, only to find they had arrived at the Intake Room. Sam struggled into a sitting position, but the seatbelt was already retracting across his chest before he even reached for the latch. Jazz's holoform was suddenly there, pulling open the passenger side door without comment. Sam clambered unsteadily to his feet, pressing the ice pack against the side of his face again as he made his way inside.
Noah was standing at the end of the hallway near the living room, and his face creased with sympathy at the sight of him. "Can I get you anything?"
Sam hooked two fingers into the slot on his door, pulling it open and stepping inside, before sliding it shut behind him. The sunshine glimmering through the water had deepened, taking on a late afternoon quality. Sam slowly sat on the edge of the bed, before reaching down to tug off his shoes. He tossed them into the corner with a thump. He shimmed out of his jeans next, and then his sweater, before flopping back against the mattress. The effort it had taken to get undressed made his mouth throb anew. He shifted up the mattress until he could tuck his nose against the pillow, and then he pressed the ice pack against the side of his face again.
He lay there for a long while — long enough that by the time Noah knocked on his door, the room had been cast into shadow. Sam slanted open his eyes, but otherwise he didn't move as Noah stepped through the door, carefully balancing a dinner tray in both hands.
"I brought you something from the kitchen," Noah murmured, before carefully placing the tray on the desk. "Ratchet sent some painkillers too, if the medication you got at the dentist has started wearing off."
Sam was in too much pain to refuse out of principle. Noah handed him two paper cups, one half-filled with water and one with two powdery tablets. Sam tipped the tablets into his mouth, before swallowing them down with the water. Noah handed him a third paper cup when he was finished, and Sam grimaced deeply when he saw the silvery liquid it contained.
"I know, I'm sorry," Noah apologized. "You're overdue."
Sam tipped the paper cup back and forth, swirling the silvery liquid, before he swallowed it down. As with last night, it was cool and slick and left a metallic taste in his mouth.
"Thanks," Sam rasped, tossing the empty cups into the wastebasket under the desk.
"De nada," Noah replied with a half smile.
Sam laid back against the mattress, one arm slung over his eyes. Noah lingered near the door, clearly trying and failing to think of something to say, before he offered a quiet, "I brought soup. It should be okay to eat once the painkillers kick in. Lemme know if you need anything, okay?"
Sam didn't say anything in reply, and Noah didn't press him. A moment later, the sound of the door sliding shut signaled he was alone again. Sam lay there for a few moments, before crawling under the blankets and pressing the ice pack back against his face. It had grown warm in the hours since the dentist, but it was better than nothing.
The room slowly darkened as the sun sank below the horizon. It was soon full-dark, except for a thin outline of light around the door. The throbbing in his face lessened over time, but in its place was a leaden tiredness that pulled at him, like an anchor dragging behind a boat, until he inevitably surrendered to the quiet embrace of medicated sleep.
Sam awoke in stages.
His first salient thought was that he was comfortable in a way he hadn't been in a long, long time. The pain in his jaw was gone, which was a mercy, but it was more than that. He was ensconced in softness and warmth, as though the mattress had molded to his body while he slept. Sam lay there for an interminable time, his face tucked into the pillows and the blankets pulled up around his ears, as he drifted mindlessly.
Eventually, however, his bodily needs made themselves known. Sam cracked open his eyes to the sight of sunlight playing across his ceiling. He blinked dumbly in surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he slept through the night unless he was recovering from an episode. Usually, he fell asleep sometime around four o'clock in the morning and was awake again well before noon.
Suddenly, Sam's introspection was interrupted by the sound of voices in the hallway. He could make out Noah's voice, as well as two or three others, though none of them sounded familiar. Sam frowned faintly, before pushing aside the blankets and getting out of bed. He stood next to his door for a minute or two, trying to eavesdrop, but the voices had trailed into the living room, making it difficult to hear what they were saying.
Sam's frown deepened as he pulled on his pants and stepped into the hall. The sight that greeted him as he rounded the corner into the living room had him pulling up short. Noah was standing next to two unfamiliar men near the kitchenette, and they were in the process of unloading a dolly that was piled high with boxes.
"What're you doing?" Sam asked confusedly.
Noah glanced up in surprise, before setting the cardboard box he was holding on the floor. "Hey, you're up! How're you feeling?"
Sam crossed his arms over his chest self-consciously. "Better, I guess." He took a step closer, peering at the boxes in mounting curiosity. "What're those?"
Noah glanced over his shoulder at the tidy pile of boxes against the wall. "Well, it's uh… it's your stuff."
Sam's frown returned, turning down the corners of his mouth. "My stuff?" He took another step closer until he could read the label that had been affixed atop the nearest box.
Samuel James Witwicky 101-3083 Greenville Street, Boston, Personal effects (Box 7 of 12)Sam's heart climbed up into his throat. He went to the next box, which had the same white label affixed across the flap, but this one had "Textbooks (Box 11 of 12)" under his address. He stared for a long moment, something sharp and hot and painful twisting under his ribs at the thought of his entire life being pawed over by strangers, before being packed away in twelve little moving boxes.
"Sam?" Noah asked, softly. "You gonna be okay?"
Briefly, Sam wondered where his sketchings and newspaper clippings and postcards had gone. Did they confiscate them? Or was there a box somewhere with "Sam's crazy" written along the bottom of its packing label in tidy letters?
"Where's the rest of it?" he asked instead. "This isn't everything."
With the last of the boxes stacked against the wall, one of the workers maneuvered the dolly down the hall, with the other following closely at his heels. Sam didn't watch them go.
"The rest has been moved to storage," Noah replied, the words careful and measured.
Sam turned, looking the older man in the face. "When can I have it back?"
Noah hesitated. "You'll be moved into permanent housing after you've been cleared by medical."
The obvious evasion made Sam's chest tighten with anger, but rather than reply, he pulled open the nearest box. It was filled with miscellaneous stuff from his desk — a snow-globe, some magazines, some office supplies. He set the box aside, before opening the next one, and then the next. Noah stood nearby, watching in silence as Sam rifled through his things. Sam's hands were unsteady as he opened the next box, and then the breath he didn't even realize he was holding sighed out of him in relief. His sketchbook was at the top, its cover well worn and scuffed up. He picked it up and set it on the counter. There were a few softcover books on sketching and charcoals underneath that, which soon joined the sketchbook on the counter. The rest of the box was filled with his art supplies. Sam ran his fingers over the gleaming mahogany-colored wooden box that his mother had given him last Christmas, before putting it aside. It was quickly followed by the hard plastic case containing his scalpels and palette knives, and the Caran d'Ache graphite box he had bought for himself just a few weeks ago. At the bottom of the box was an old Winsor & Newton watercolor set that he hadn't used in over a year, a brand new sketchbook he'd bought on sale last Thanksgiving, and a thick manila envelope. Sam carefully unwound the red thread sealing the envelope shut, before pulling out its contents. He stared down at the thick stack of sketches and drawings and paintings that had made it past the work-in-progress stage over the last few years. He slowly flipped through the pile. They were landscapes, mostly – the Boston Public Garden, Charles River, Waldon Pond. Sam got to the bottom of the pile and realized, almost resignedly, that his sketches of the alien cityscapes and skylines were nowhere to be found. Somehow, Sam doubted those would be returned with the rest of his things whenever he received his mythical "medical clearance".
"Hey, those're really good," Noah offered sincerely.
Sam shoved the papers back into the folder, before securing it again with a quick twist of his wrist. "I'm on my lease until the end of December," he ground out, tossing the envelope back into the box. "Someone'll need to contact Mr. Barrows."
Noah nodded slowly. "Don't worry about it. We already took care of it."
"Took care of it?" Sam repeated disdainfully, as he turned to look at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, from what I was told, after your apartment was packed up, we had it deep-cleaned before returning your keys," Noah explained, something like confusion knitting the space between his brow.
It only took a moment for Sam to put two and two together, and then he stiffened in anger. "You bought out my lease?"
Noah looked taken aback for a moment, before his expression went carefully, purposefully neutral. "I assumed you knew."
Sam's face was growing hotter by the second. "No, I didn't know that," he spat. "Did you hand in my two weeks notice, too?"
"Mr. Maccaddams was informed you were no longer in Boston," Noah replied.
Sam swore angrily. "Well, thanks for that, I guess. Glad I don't have to be the one to tell—" Sudden realization struck him as sharp and fast and devastating as a gunshot. Sam could feel the color draining from his face as he asked, voice strained and uneven, "Who else have you talked to?"
"Sam—"
"Who else have you talked to?" he practically shrieked.
Noah unfolded his arms, both his expression and his posture going wary. Slowly, as though trying to soothe a skittish animal, Noah raised his hands in a placating gesture. "It's okay, Sam. Take a breath."
Sam's insides turned to ice — the burning fire of his anger doused in an instant by the gut-deep certainty that Prime's Special Operations had spoken to his mother. His mother, who had never recovered from his father's suicide. His mother, who cried at night when she thought Sam couldn't hear her. His mother, who had begged him not to move back to California after the funeral, insisting that Sam stay and finish college.
Sam took an unsteady step backwards, leaning his weight against the counter. "When did you tell her?" he asked, his voice faint and hollow sounding, even to his own ears.
Mercifully, Noah didn't prevaricate. "Sunday."
Sam's heart was throbbing so hard it hurt. He raised an unsteady hand, pressing it against his chest. "What did you say?"
Noah's eyes sharpened immediately, lingering for a moment on Sam's hand, before flicking up to his face. "We only told her what was necessary — that you were in danger, that we were removing you to Diego Garcia for your own protection."
Bile rose in the back of Sam's mouth, acrid and bitter. "Did you tell her I'm sick?"
Noah's brow wrinkled in consternation. "Sam—"
"Oh, Christ," Sam managed. "Tell me you didn't."
Noah visibly hesitated. "We didn't have to – she guessed, when she realized we were there about you."
Sam's knees went weak, and he had to brace his hand against the counter in order to maintain his balance. He had never told his mother about his symptoms — had never even hinted at them. Not at first, when he started getting headaches and double-vision. Not later, when he started having nightmares and losing sleep. Not even after that, when the hallucinations and seizures began. He never said a word — he couldn't bear to do that to her.
But now she knew anyway.
"I have to call her," Sam rasped. "Right now. Right this second."
Noah's expression grew troubled. "Sam, you can't."
"Don't you get it?" Sam cried, desperate and sharp. "She can't go through this, not again, not without someone there to help her."
"She isn't alone," Noah tried to reassure. "I promise – she's okay."
"You don't understand," Sam pleaded. "Losing my dad almost killed her. I need to talk to her. Please, Noah."
Noah's face paled, growing ashen and stricken. "Sam, I'm sorry — I can't."
Sam's gaze roved desperately across the older man's face. He could see compassion reflected in Noah's brown eyes — compassion and regret — but no hesitation. No conflict.
All at once, Sam realized that begging wasn't going to do him any good.
"Can't?" he asked, heartbreak making his voice cold. "Or won't?"
Noah dragged a hand down his face. "I'm sorry, Sam. I don't have the authorization to—"
Sam laughed — it was an ugly expulsion of sound. "Then what good are you?"
Before Noah could reply, Sam turned on his heel and started shoving his art supplies back in the box. He could practically feel the older man's gaze on his back, but Sam steadfastly ignored him. Once he had gathered his things, he carried the box down the hall and dropped it on the bed. He returned to the living room two more times — once for a box of his personal effects, and then again for his clothes. Sam swept back down the hall without so much as a backwards glance, before pushing the bedroom door shut behind him.
The rest of the morning passed in strained silence.
Sam paced the small confines of the room, trying and failing not to think about his mother. Eventually, desperate for a distraction, he started unpacking his boxes. He mentally chafed at how his actions might be construed, but he shoved the thought aside. He didn't know for how long he was going to be stuck here, but he wasn't living for months or years out of moving boxes.
It didn't take long — he didn't have much to unpack.
When he was finished, Sam took stock of himself. He hadn't showered in a few days, and his clothes were rumpled and dusty from the road. He only waffled for a few moments, before grabbing some clothes and marching to the bathroom. The room was clean and modern, like every other aspect of the island, and Sam made quick work of shucking his dirty clothes and turning on the shower. He scrubbed himself from head to toe, washing three days worth of dust and fear-sweat off his body. He didn't linger — as soon as he rinsed the last of the soap off his body, he turned off the water and promptly got out.
Sam spent the next hour or so trying to keep himself busy. He flipped through his books on sketching, and then organized his desk. Try though he might, however, his mind kept turning back to his mother. The thought of her caused a painful, hollow ache to build behind his sternum. Sam couldn't imagine how she was taking the news that her only son was afflicted with the same condition that had killed his father — and his father, and his father's brother before him.
Sam soon found himself leaning against the window, watching schools of fish darting around the coral reef. He didn't know much about marine biology, but he distracted himself for a while trying to remember the species and genus of the fish he saw. He recognized the angelfish, clown fish, groupers, scorpion fish, and moray eels easily enough, but the others were unfamiliar.
Either way, it helped to pass the time.
Suddenly, a quiet knock at the door made Sam's heart leap into his throat. He turned his head, already opening his mouth to tell Noah to fuck off, but the door didn't slide open. He stared at the door for a weighted moment, before the knock came again, a little louder this time.
"Sam?" Noah called softly through the door. "I have your next dosage."
Sam's heart started beating faster inside his chest. He was in no mood to acquiesce to the quiet directive underlying those words, but neither was he an idiot — Ratchet's treatment was the only thing standing between him and getting off this god-forsaken island. With that thought bolstering his nerve, Sam slid off the bed, padded across the room, and pulled open the door.
Noah stood in the hallway, a meal tray in his hands and an apology written all over his face. "Sam, I wanted to say—"
Sam glanced down, quickly spying the familiar paper cup, before plucking it off the tray and knocking back its contents in one fell swoop. Then, looking Noah directly in the eye, he crumpled the paper, dropped it back on the tray, and then shut the door in his face.
There was a moment of silence, and then Noah sighed softly. "Yeah, okay. That's a fair hit. I'll leave the tray in the hall — you should try to eat something."
Sam heard the rattle of the plastic dishes against the tray as it was placed on the floor, and then the sound of Noah's footsteps receded down the hall. Sam stood there for a moment longer, basking in his small act of defiance, before he made his way back to the bed.
He was left to his own devices for the rest of the morning. Time passed slowly with nothing but his anxiety to keep himself company. He was just beginning to weigh the pros and cons of going to the kitchen to get something to eat when the faint sound of an electronic lock disengaging caused Sam to glance up in surprise.
A moment later, Miko's voice sing-songed down the hallway, "Hellooooo? Anyone home?"
Sam grimaced hard enough to hurt his jaw. He had zero patience left for Miko's bullshit right now.
The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps heralded Noah's arrival. "Miko, I'm sorry, this probably isn't a good time."
"What? Why not?" Miko laughed. "I'm definitely not too early today."
"I'm not sure Sam's in the mood for company," Noah hedged in reply.
In truth, Sam wasn't — he'd rather go back to the dentist than deal with Miko's boundless energy after the morning he had just had. Still, something about Noah's dismissal needled him, and he was halfway across the room without giving it conscious thought.
Sam slid open the bedroom door. "Morning, Miko."
Miko's face broke out in a wide, beaming smile. "Good morning, Sam. Want to get out of here for a bit?"
Sam made a show of tipping his head in consideration. "Where to?"
"I thought I'd show you the menagerie. Interested?"
Despite himself, Sam wasn't able to keep the confusion out of his voice when he asked, "There's a menagerie?"
Miko threw back her head and laughed. "Oh yeah. Wait till you see it!"
Sam could practically feel the laser intensity of Noah's gaze, which had him offering Miko his most winning smile. "Sounds like a good time. Give me a minute to find my shoes."
In short order, Sam found himself being half-led, half-dragged through the Hive. Noah trailed behind them, a silent shadow at their back, but Sam resolved to ignore him. There was no golf cart today, which meant it took a great deal longer for them to reach the elevators. To Sam's exasperation, Miko chattered the whole way, hardly pausing long enough to draw breath. Sam only listened to her with half an ear. Her opening topic was the lunch they had shared the day before, which transitioned into a conversation about Thai cuisine. Miko wanted to know whether he liked southeast Asian food ("It's fine"), whether he had ever visited Thailand before ("No"), and the places he'd visited in the past ("I don't travel").
Undeterred, Miko pivoted topics and started talking about cassettes. That caught Sam's attention, which, if the triumphant glint in her eye was any indication, Miko knew full well.
"Well, Will is the oldest, of course, but Maggie isn't that much younger. She was born in Australia at the turn of the century, in case the accent didn't make that obvious. After her, there was Oliver — have you met Oliver?" When Sam shook his head, she kept right on talking. "Oh, well, you'll meet him soon. He keeps to himself mostly, but he's alright. He works communications too." Miko paused only long enough to press the call button on the elevator. "After Oliver came yours truly, then there's Charlie, then Raf, and then you, lucky number seven."
The elevator dinged, and then the doors slid open. They stepped inside the compartment, and then, to Sam's surprise, Miko pressed the button for the third sub-level. "What have they told you about carriers?"
The question caught Sam totally off-guard. He glanced sidelong at her. "Not much, just that carriers and cassettes work together — that a carrier can mitigate the worst of a cassette's symptoms."
Miko seemed to consider his response, before nodding her head. "Well, yeah, that's true." The elevator dinged and the doors slid open again, revealing a hallway that looked nothing like the one on the second sub-level. It was larger for one, easily thirty feet high and almost as wide. It was also more ornate — rather than white on white, the floors were black metal polished to a mirror shine, and the curved walls were a warm tan color with insight lights. There was also geometric art hanging on the walls – or, at least, Sam supposed it was art. It might have been a part of the architecture.
Sam's scrutiny was suddenly cut short as Miko asked, apropos of nothing, "So, have you thought about who you'll choose?"
Sam gave her a weird look. "What do you mean?"
Noah, who had been silent up until now, frowned in disapproval. "Miko, he's still adjusting. You know better."
"Oh, relax, Diaz," Miko laughed as she started off down the hall. "I'm not pressuring him into anything."
"What do you mean, choose?" Sam asked again, following after her.
Despite the quelling look that Noah was directing her way, Miko kept right on talking. "Oh! Well, that's the great part. Cassettes choose their carriers, so you get to decide who you'll be with. Have you met Blaster?"
Sam frowned. "No, I haven't — what do you mean, be with?"
His question seemed to catch her off-guard, for she momentarily looked taken aback, and then her face broke out in a bright smile. "Oh, you know, work alongside. Blaster's a communications build. Do you like electronics? He has about a hundred different responsibilities, so there's lots you could do together. Any interest in the media? Telecommunications? Public affairs? Crisis communications? Blaster does it all."
Miko was talking almost too quickly to follow. Sam shook his head, trying to marshal his thoughts. "I don't understand. I thought carriers worked with cassettes to manage their symptoms. I thought that was their function."
"Ooof, yeah. Life pro tip: we try to avoid the "F" word around here, babe," Miko grinned. "Function's not exactly PC. Alrighty, here we are!"
Here turned out to be a massive double-door made of burnished metal and opaque glass. As Sam watched, Miko held up her arm, pressing her digital watch against an electronic reader set in the wall, which immediately flashed green as the doors started sliding open. Miko caught Sam staring at her, and she flashed him a cheeky smile. "Neat, right?"
"The neatest," Sam agreed dryly. "What's it do?"
"A little bit of everything," Miko replied. "It's a smartwatch, pulse oximeter, GPS, the whole nine yards." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "And it provides access to authorized areas. You'll get one too, after you've been cleared by Ol' Hatchet." Miko winced again. "And here's another life pro tip: don't call him that where he can hear you."
By the time Miko had finished her explanation, the doors had finished opening, revealing a massive room. Sam stared, despite himself — astonishment and surprise combining to part his mouth. It was a living space, albeit one built for mixed human-cybertronian occupation. On the ground level, to the immediate right as they entered, there was a seating area, complete with furniture sized for both Cybertronians and humans, all arranged facing a massive flat screen television affixed against the wall. To their left was a Cybertronian-sized desk piled high with a dozen monitors, equipment, and tools — some of it alien, some of it terran in design. Sam blinked dumbly as he realized that one of the monitors was playing an old anime, another was playing the Weather Channel, and a third was playing a feed from the Associated Press.
Miko ushered him into the room, but Sam was barely aware of her presence — his entire attention was focused on categorizing everything he was seeing. There was a set of human-sized stairs near the back wall that led to a raised level clearly meant for human occupation. Even from a distance, Sam could see the long dining table and sitting area, complete with comfortable looking armchairs and lounges. Sam's feet carried him forward of their own accord as he angled his head up, up, up — there were two mezzanines that ran along the back wall. From his angle, Sam could just barely see that the first mezzanine contained bookshelves, but not much else, and all he could see of the third mezzanine was the top-half of a dozen or so closed doors.
"Holy shit," Sam breathed.
"I know!" Miko laughed. "Welcome to the menagerie, Sam."
It took considerable effort for Sam to tear his gaze away from the electronics long enough to look at her. "I thought, I mean… I don't know what I thought, but I didn't think—"
Miko cackled in amusement as he floundered. "It's a joke — menagerie, like a zoo. This is where Blaster's cassettes live."
As she spoke, a Cybertronian-sized door against the far wall slid open to reveal a tall, bulky mechanoid. The stranger's chest was plated in fire engine red and yellow, and his face pulled up in surprise at the sight of them. Sam almost didn't notice the middle-aged human man standing beside him — he was easy to overlook, considering the circumstances.
"Miko, I didn't realize that we had company," the mechanoid said, by way of greeting. His tone was warm and scrupulously polite, but even Sam could hear the exasperation underlying his words.
"Hiya, Blaster," Miko greeted cheerfully. "This is Sam. Sam, meet Blaster!"
A shock of surprise raced down Sam's spine at the name. Blaster. This was the carrier he had heard so much about — the one who was going to help him through the fits.
The mechanoid glanced down at Sam, his expression softening to something gentler, before he slowly approached. "Hello, Sam. It's good to finally meet you."
Sam was out of his depth and sinking fast. He resisted the urge to cross his arms, knowing it would make him look insecure and defensive, and so he pushed his hands into his pockets instead. "Uh, hello."
Blaster lowered into a loose crouch, resting his arms against his knees. The new position put them at more of an eye-level with one another. "Now, why do I get the impression that you're as taken by surprise as I am?"
The carrier's voice was warm and rich and amused. It made something wound tight inside Sam's chest relax marginally, and he confused himself by offering up a small small in return. "Good instincts, I guess."
Blaster's mouth plates twitched in a smile, before he directed a pointed look in Miko's direction. "I thought you were going to the communications array."
"I did," Miko evaded. "I finished early."
"Mm-hm," Blaster rumbled, slanting a knowing look towards Sam. "Forgive Miko. Her enthusiasm can get the better of her at times."
"Hey!" Miko protested without any heat. "I'm standing right here!"
Blaster chuckled as he straightened to his full height. "So you are, despite direct orders to the contrary, might I add." He turned, inclining his head deeply towards Sam. "I regret that I can't stay longer, but I'm needed elsewhere."
"What?" Miko protested, real objection in her voice now. "But Sam just got here!"
"Prime has requested my presence directly, Miko." Blaster shook his head. "I'm already running late."
Miko's face scrunched in disappointment. "What, again? He has other people!"
Blaster's expression didn't change, but the look he gave Miko had her averting her eyes. He stared at her for a moment longer, letting the rebuke linger, before he turned to look at Sam. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer. Would you mind returning again later, after my shift is done? I would welcome the opportunity to introduce myself properly to you, Sam."
Sam rubbed the back of his neck, feeling wrong-footed and off-balance. "I mean, I guess so."
Blaster inclined his head, before initiating his transformation sequence. Sam took a hasty step backwards, his heart suddenly in his throat, but it was only the matter of seconds before there was a boxy red-and-yellow media van in front of him, complete with a satellite dish on its roof. The older man who had been standing at Blaster's side adjusted his tie, before inclining his head in Sam's direction.
"It's nice to meet you, Samuel," he greeted. "I'm Oliver Collins."
Sam's heart was still beating a mile a minute, but old habits had him replying on rote, "It's just Sam."
Oliver inclined his head. "Sam, then. The sentiment remains. It is good to meet you in person — Miko hasn't stopped talking about you." Oliver gave another polite nod, before climbing into the communication van's front seat. The door snapped shut behind him as soon as he was settled, and then Blaster flashed his high beams in valediction, before driving out of the room.
As soon as the doors slid shut behind them, Miko turned and grinned at Sam. "That went pretty well, don't you think?"
Despite his objections, Sam stayed at the menagerie for the better part of an hour. Miko insisted on showing him around — the raised level was where the cassettes primarily socialized with one another, she explained. In addition to the dining area and sitting area, there was also a full-sized kitchen, complete with walnut cabinets, a large kitchen island with seating for five, and a high-end gas range with two convection ovens. The second level had a sitting area arranged around an inset gas fireplace, as well as a dozen floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with all manner of reading material. The third level, he was told, was the cassettes' private bedrooms. Sam declined a tour when Miko offered.
Eventually, however, Sam's patience for Miko's endless, enthusiastic chatter reached its limit. He made up some excuse to leave, but Miko pounced on the chance to walk him back to the Intake Room. Noah tried to intervene, suggesting that Miko might be needed at the communications array, but she brushed him off — as usual.
In an effort to preserve his sanity, Sam more or less ignored her the whole way back to the second sub-level. Miko didn't seem to notice or care — she just kept right on talking, singing Blaster's praises. Sam worked his jaw in irritation. She couldn't have been more obvious about it if she tried, but a match-maker Miko was not.
When they arrived at the Intake Room, Noah stepped forward, pulling open the door. Sam half-turned, prepared to say his good-byes, but Miko breezed right on inside.
Noah winced apologetically. "I'm sorry. Do you want me to say something to her?"
The offer made Sam's spine stiffen in anger. "No," he retorted, coldly.
Sam followed Miko inside without another word. Noah followed after him a moment later, pulling the door shut behind them. When Sam stepped into the living room, it was to the sight of Miko lingering by the reading nook, flipping through a book. She glanced up at him as he entered, before waving the book in his direction. Sam recognized it immediately as the well-worn paperback on musical theory he had seen the day before.
"It was mine," she said by way of explanation. "Have you read it?"
"No," Sam retorted, only just polite. "Music's not really my thing."
Miko made a considerate sounding hum as she flipped through the pages. "Guess you're more of an art guy, right? I saw your drawings, they were really good!"
The way she said it — casually, as though she had the right to look through his things — put Sam's back up.
"When?" he asked, his voice cold and hard.
She glanced over at him, as though in surprise. "When what?"
Sam could feel the heat rising in his face. "When did you see them?"
Miko twitched one shoulder in a shrug. "They were all digitized. I glanced through them when they were first uploaded to the server." Suddenly, as though a thought had just occurred to her, Miko turned, her expression going wide and earnest. "Hey, you should sketch for Blaster sometime! He'd love it. I know they took some of your supplies, but you can still use the charcoals and watercolors, right?"
Sam frowned in confusion. "What're you talking about? They didn't take my art supplies."
At the same time, Noah said, warningly, "Miko—"
Sam wasn't sure what tipped him off, Miko's comment or Noah's tone, but all at once, comprehension slammed into Sam with all the force of a thermo-nuclear explosion. Miko's comment about his shoes. The plastic dishware. The constant supervision. Sam turned on his heel, storming down the hallway, before throwing open the bedroom door with enough force that it banged against the track. It only took him a moment to find the hard plastic case he was looking for, and when he did, he snapped it open with unsteady hands.
The scalpels and palette knives were missing.
Sam stared at the empty slots, the sight filling him with a sudden, burning rush of anger. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in the back of his throat, thick enough to choke on. He turned towards the door, only to find Noah and Miko standing in the hallway — Noah looking grim and concerned, Miko looking abashed.
"I'm on suicide watch?" Sam hissed, gripping the case until his knuckles turned white.
"Sam—" Noah started, his voice hushed.
All of the anger and helplessness and despair and grief that Sam had been feeling over the past week abruptly boiled over. "Shut-up!" he screamed, throwing the plastic case as hard as he could. Noah quickly leaned out of the way, causing the case to shatter against the opposite wall. "How fucking dare you?"
"Sam, please, let me explain," Noah tried.
Sam stepped forward, causing Noah and Miko to backpedal out of his way. He roughly shouldered past them, before stalking back to the living room. To his combined anger and outrage, they followed behind him, their expression mirror images of grim concern.
"Fuck off!" Sam snapped, pacing like a caged animal. "I'm serious, leave me the fuck alone."
Miko glanced sidelong as Noah, before murmuring, "Jazz is on his way."
It was too much. God, it was just too much. Sam grabbed his hair until his scalp ached, desperately trying to fight back the angry tears that were threatening to add humiliation to the pile of emotions that were already crushing him.
"Jesus fucking Christ, it's never enough with you people!" Sam panted.
Noah took a cautious step forward, bringing his hands up where Sam could see them. "I know this is a lot, Sam. Take a breath, alright?"
"Are we all put on suicide watch?" Sam demanded, the force of his anger and despair making him feel dizzy and sick. "Tell me the truth."
It wouldn't be as painful if everyone was put on suicide watch, if it was just standard operating procedure for a new cassette, but as soon as he asked the question, Miko's face told him all that he needed to know.
"Why me?" Sam asked, voice wrecked.
Noah gave him an apologetic look and said, softly, "You met the criteria."
Sam stared at him for a long moment, before barking a sharp laugh. "Criteria? And what criteria would that be? Do you mean the hallucinations and paranoia? Or do you mean the fact that my father put a gun barrel in his mouth and repainted our garage with his gray matter? Can you be more specific?"
Miko visibly flinched at his words, but Sam wasn't finished yet. He soldiered on, anger and grief combining to make his voice unsteady. "You go tell Jazz or Ratchet or Prime or whoever the fuck is in charge of making the call that I am not staying in this fucking room for another goddamn minute."
"Alright, Sam," Noah agreed, gesturing towards the couch. "I will, I promise I will. Why don't you sit down? I'll get you something to drink."
"Jesus, fuck! Stop placating me!" Sam exploded. "I am sick to death of listening to you people. Believe me, I can understand why someone would rather kill themselves than stay shacked up here with you, but I would never—"
Sam never even got the words out. Between one moment and the next, Miko slapped him across the face hard enough to send him pitching into the table. Sam landed on it awkwardly, upending the table and sending them both crashing to the floor. He barely had the chance to roll onto his back before Miko was on him. He raised his hands, too stunned to properly defend himself, as she reared back her hand for another slap.
She never got the chance.
Suddenly, Jazz was there, catching her by the wrist and hauling her roughly to her feet. Miko jerked her arm back, trying to dislodge his grip, but the holoform was unyielding. Noah was on his hands and knees in an instant, helping Sam into a sitting position.
"Jesus Christ, Miko!" Noah snapped.
"He okay?" Jazz asked, without taking his eyes off Miko, who was screaming incoherent Japanese in his face.
Noah's brow furrowed in concern. "Sam, look at me." Sam managed to tear his eyes away from Miko long enough to follow Noah's finger as he moved it back and forth across his field of vision. Whatever Noah saw caused him to glance over his shoulder at the holoform. "Yeah, I think so. Just shaken up."
Jazz nodded once, perfunctorily, before pulling Miko, who was still struggling and cursing, close to his chest. At first, Sam thought he was comforting her, but then he noticed the way he was pinning Miko's arms between their bodies.
"What the fuck?" Sam managed faintly.
Jazz ducked his head, murmuring something in Miko's ear. Miko tried yanking free a few more times, before she broke down into loud sobs. Jazz caught her wrists in one hand, and began stroking the back of her head with the other.
"Here, let's get you up," Noah murmured.
Sam didn't protest as Noah helped him to his feet, nor did he protest when the older man ran his fingers over the back of Sam's head, checking him for injury.
"You're going to have one hell of a headache, if you don't already," Noah offered.
Sam grimaced deeply, before rubbing the goose egg that was already beginning to form on the back of his head. "I think I'll have that glass of water now."
"Sam," Jazz called, catching his attention.
Sam glanced over at the holoform, who was watching him closely. "What?"
"I'm going to take Miko back to the menagerie. I'll send Charlie to check you over. When I get back, you and I are going to have a long overdue chat." Jazz gave him an appraising look. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, Jazz," Sam muttered, accepting the (plastic) cup that Noah pushed into his hands. "I'm fantastic. Never better."
Jazz stared at him a moment longer, before glancing over at Noah. "I'll be back shortly."
Noah nodded in understanding, and then Jazz guided Miko down the hallway, leaving Sam standing in the living room with a rapidly worsening headache and still more questions without any answers.
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