Conceptions - 2
Title: Conceptions of the Self - Home - Mei's Fanfic Master List
FIC Summary: [2007, AU] Sore throats, nightmares, and the differences between organics and Cybertronians - something is terribly wrong with Sam. To live is to evolve, and shape alone is not enough; think of it as a mutual learning experience. (Bot!Sam, PTSD, Mech/mech)
1, 2, 2.b, 3, 4, 4.b, 5, 6, 7, 7.b, 8, 8.b, 9, 9.b, 10, 10.b, 10.c, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17
Chapter Two : Home Again
His crazy had gotten pretty impressive in the last week or so, and he had this idea that he could probably win.
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Going home could not have come soon enough. Sam would have liked to have gone home seven days ago, but certain, aha, rogue agencies had not agreed with his feelings. Tough on them -- not only was Sam alive, he was well and healing and going home, so they could ... he didn't know, die in a fire, perhaps. ("I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Don't play stupid with me, boy. Now you activate this device or I'll make you wish ET had never phoned home!") He shivered and made himself forget the unforgiving chill, and cold metal biting at his toes.
Of course, the government was still trying to kiss up, in a way. Man, when the government tried to kiss up, they could do it pretty good ... he guessed that he understood their point of view. They probably felt foolish in the wake of being so completely unprepared to deal with a hostile alien takeover. Of course, not many people expected hostile alien takeovers, and especially not by the mechanical aliens that were very real. Who knew? But Sam thought he saw it very clearly that if the Autobots hadn't been on Earth ... if the Autobots had been just one day later, or hadn't existed at all -- if it had been just the conquering party ...
... it was all well and good to say that maybe they'd have been able to fight the Decepticons off, but one successful team of commandos with tank-killing bullets versus even a small band of Decepticons ... the sort of things they could do with computers, the sort of things they could do --
And it was thanks to Sam, really. Optimus talked the talk about the freedom of all living things, and maybe he would have saved humanity, but ...
... but Sam and Mikaela had fallen from his shoulders so that Bumblebee had to catch them, and Optimus Prime did nothing to prevent Sector Seven from capturing and torturing Bumblebee. Nothing. Bumblebee had just been a soldier that they'd had to sacrifice. The question was ... if it had come to it ... if Bumblebee hadn't caught them ... would Sam and Mikaela have just kept falling? Would that have been acceptable, once the glasses were in reach?
Would it have been?
("Is it possible, Sam ... that you reacted with violence because you think that he might have been right? That the Autobots will turn on us when they have no further use for us?"
" ... get the fuck out of my face. Come back when you know the first thing about what you're talking about. You hear me?")
Sam was grateful, honestly, that the government provided comfy SUVs to drive his mother and father back to their home, and that Mikaela had begged off to go see her father. He was grateful that he had been allowed to just climb into Bumblebee and remain with his traitorous thoughts. Maybe it had been duty, but hopefully it hadn't been, when Bumblebee had kept trying to save them. Sam didn't want to think about the dark thoughts buzzing around his head, circling and landing and taking flight to circle again, but right now ... right now ...
Staring out the darkened windows, Sam thought that it just might be the three of them against the world. He and Mikaela and Bumblebee. It was the three of them alone, aligned by some strange twist of fate, and an entire galaxy out there against them.
But it was still dark, and Sam knew that it had to be half just the atmosphere and half just his sleep deprivation talking. He felt like kin to Rip Van Winkle, right now ... like he could sleep forever, but he couldn't quite convince himself to relax enough to allow that to happen. If he fell asleep, he might wake up at home, and then he'd have to deal with his hysteric mother and angry father and all the questions he couldn't answer because he didn't know how. So instead, he breathed slowly and deep, feeling all of his battle wounds stretching and aching, and held onto the door handle and the seatbelt stretched across his chest.
Before he knew he was going to talk, he was suddenly asking in that grainy rasp: "I take it your vocalizer thingy is better now."
The murmuring radio turned off as the strange voice floated out of the vents. "Ratchet was finally able to reconstruct the destroyed piece, and my repair systems have completely assimilated it. There was never time before, and there really wasn't a point ... when I could speak to the others over our radio, I didn't really need to speak out loud."
"Ah," he said, "I get it. Now it's important, because humans don't have -- you know -- built in radios."
"Yes."
Sam wondered if that would have made a difference when Sector Seven took him, if they would have hesitated if his screams sounded more human, and shut his eyes tightly for a moment with the force with which he rejected the thought. It probably wouldn't have mattered at all. It certainly hadn't mattered that Sam was human when they took him, had it? ("I'm not some fucking alien you can just -- just cut to pieces for the hell of it! Just let me go, and I swear I won't press charges, or whatever!"
"Get over it, Witwicky. Your 'friends' aren't coming to help you, this time. Just keep talking -- I think you're changing the minds of a few of our people who were doubting if they should really be treating you like this.")
He wasn't going to think about it.
"So," he said uncomfortably, staring at the dashboard. "What now?"
"What is it you refer to?" Bumblebee queried. "At the moment, we are going to your home."
"I mean -- what now? What happens next? In the grand scheme of things?"
"Sam," he said delicately, "the grand scheme of things for you and myself are vastly different. In the grand scheme of things for me, we remain on Earth. Perhaps we mentor the human race, but perhaps we shall eventually leave ... it depends on humanity, largely. On the other hand, in the grand scheme of things for you, you finish maturing, find a mate, raise a family ..."
"Alright, alright," Sam sighed. So Sam was completely different from Bumblebee, with goals symmetrical to their size difference, and symmetrical life spans -- that was what Bumblebee said, though not quite as bluntly as Sam. "I mean ... you stay with me, right? Do I return to school or join the military or ..."
"I think you're expected to pretend that none of this has happened," Bumblebee said.
For a moment, he sat there in disbelief, then forced himself to relax. His hands ached from how tightly he had been clutching at the door and seatbelt, and he had to bend them a little to get the blood flowing. "Yeah," he said, "right." Snorting quietly, he rubbed his forehead and then let his head fall back against the seat.
This had a strange sort of chain reaction. No sooner had his head hit the headrest did the rest of the seat keep going until it had fallen so far back he couldn't see over the wheel. While he was still laying there in surprise, a heat built in the seat and swiftly soaked into his tight back, and muscles he didn't know where tense suddenly loosened. Then the vibrations started and the air conditioner came on to balance the temperature, and -- and --
Sam sprawled there for a long moment, a little too surprised to react immediately since his bones were melting. Then he managed to scrape together what coherence he had left, since he had been staying awake out of pure bullheadedness and his will to continue to do so was making like his bones. "Um -- you'd better stop this," he warned, "I'm exhausted, and someone has to pretend to drive."
For a moment, the only response was the hum of the engine, but then the windows visibly darkened.
"Oh -- wow. Um." He vaguely remembered times when the windows had seemed dark when they'd been clear before, but ... well, more important things had been on his mind, like his possessed car chasing him or getting the hell away from the cop car. "Right," he added uselessly as he failed to pry his lids apart, though he tried really hard. Honestly. No, seriously, he did! Maybe his car had gassed him or something, but ... kind of hard to really think about those kinds of things. And also, if Bumblebee was that persistent, Sam should just give in. "Okay. Um, thanks."
The radio seemed to murmur something, but his body was entirely too heavy for him to pay attention to it, and then --
-- the cop car ('To Punish and Enslave', he'd never noticed that before) was chasing them down and Bumblebee shook him out like he had that one night and they were fighting and he was running, but something had gone wrong because now the Decepitcon was chasing him down and catching him and the headlights with all those spikes twisted into his stomach like the blades of a blender and its nasty little partner was ripping off his skin and it wore it like a coat and made that horrible little chittering sound while wearing Great Grandpa's glasses and the car tore off his arms, asking: "Are you ladiesman-two-one-seven?"
"-- so take me and let me in, don't break me and shut me out!"
Sam jerked violently, startled and uncertain where he was for a moment while Papa Roach wailed on the radio. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at the door and snatched at the wheel before he remembered that he was in the Camaro, his Camaro, and that his Camaro actually had a mind of its and could drive itself much better than he could. Breathing out heavily, he flopped back into the seat and scrubbed at his eyes with his knuckles.
"Okay," he rasped. "That time ... that time was definitely a bad dream ... nightmare." The radio fell silent in the middle of a line, and he spoke a little louder. "Just a nightmare. It's normal ... I've been having them since black-white-and-ugly came after me. Probably'll be having them for a while."
For a long moment, the only sound was the tires on the road, Bumblebee traveling as silently as an electric car. Then another song came on -- that 'Lullaby' or 'Rockaby' or whatever song. It wasn't exactly his favorite song, but he smiled crookedly anyway. "Yeah, thanks." There was, of course, no way he'd be falling asleep, no matter how tired he was. Not for all the warm seats and soothing vibrations in the world. He peered out of the window blandly, studying where they were. It would be a while before they reached home. Just about mid-morning, actually. Great.
It wasn't just the disturbingly graphic nightmares, either ... he had a lot on his mind. Mostly the very robot he was riding in and the request he had made to stay with Sam. Sure, Sam had spun it to his parents as it being that the Autobot had just showed up and he got dragged into it and Bumblebee felt obliged to protect him and had done a damn good job (and he had to explain it to Bumblebee that it was for the best) .... but the fact remained that he wasn't sure exactly what it was between the two of them.
... and maybe there was something wrong with him that he was more uncertain of his place with the Autobot that had been declared his guardian than he was of his place with the girl of his dreams. Or really ... he was pretty uncertain of the entire thing all the way around, but the thing with Bumblebee worried him more than the thing with Mikaela -- he and Mikaela were on equal footing, having just been shoved into an alien world, sharing that and having that connection. It was real -- he felt it. But Bumblebee ...
In his more pessimistic moments with those people (don't think about it don'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutit!), he'd figured that there was a war going on for Bumblebee's people, and now that the other Autobots were around, he sort of expected that Bumblebee would want to go with them. Not that he was complaining -- not by far. He was thrilled that Bumblebee hadn't tried to ask out, that he wanted to stick around for whatever reason. It was just ...
Bumblebee had a completely different set of concerns from Sam. He was -- he was an alien. And part of him wanted to say duh, but that other part at the back of his mind just whispered now you understand.
(It said, there's a reason humans are still afraid of the dark ...)
So maybe he wasn't sure where he stood with Mikaela -- he knew it was firm footing. Her warm reception had proven it -- even a week later, she didn't have regrets about getting in the car. They were -- at least friends. And maybe that was all ... that was fine. It seemed as if Sam's libido had taken a permanent vacation, because ... well, sure, he might have been able to think about how sexy she was and how awesome it was that she was just so collected about the whole thing with the giant robot aliens, when they were being introduced to everyone. But ...
A lot had happened since then. Jesus Christ, he had been chased by a monstrosity who looked like something that even a sci-fi horror aficionado would have run screaming from. He had thwarted that thing, denied it, even to the point where he knew that the only direction he had left to go was hundreds of feet straight down. He denied orders of a suicidal military commander and held something that he ... somehow understood held the power of a hundred nuclear power plants while it destroyed another living being. He'd been kidnapped and prodded, psychoanalyzed and bargained away like a flashy pawn or a -- a valuable piece.
That changed a lot of things. That changed him.
That meant that he knew that the footing was firm with Mikaela, but with the aliens ... it was a slippery slope and he was in the dark with his eyes bound. And he was dead on his feet, practically, but ... instead of trying to rest, or putting it off, he knew he had to talk about it. And just to think that a few weeks ago that he'd procrastinate like mad, even though his parents always finished things as soon as they could be. He might as well get it over, to be honest ... "Hey, Bumblebee? I think we should talk."
He frowned slightly; now if that didn't sound like the 'break up' conversations of a dozen movies? The soft jazz on the radio faded down into barely a murmur, and Sam assumed that was a signal to continue. "You weren't pretending to be my car for very long," he said slowly, "so I don't know for sure how much you really understand about the whole ... being a high school kid's car gig. I mean -- it's just that you're like a fighter, right? I don't really see how being a ... a chauffeur is really going to go over well."
Even though he was as silent as an electric car, there was still some engine noises, and Sam could hear the different pitches it seemed to worked at ... and it was kind of interesting how they seemed to indicate different moods. Sam might have thought they really didn't have feelings if not for Bumblebee. At the moment, he seemed to be considering Sam's words -- or his response. Finally, he said, "It's actually more like downtime, Sam. I was disabled in the fight, and while I'm back on my feet, it's beneficial to have some time off. Still, my primary duty at the moment is to assure your safety. While several of the Decepticons were damaged or offlined during the fight, many escaped. It is safe to say that it's unlikely they are aware of the exact circumstances of Megatron's death, but that doesn't change that they are aware that Samuel James Witwicky was involved in the dispute. The knowledge of the All Spark's destruction will not be widespread, and some are aware that you were auctioning the glasses that held the location of the All Spark."
Which all made sense, so he nodded. The Decepticons could come after him, especially in the early days before it became known that it wasn't very useful. "So ... what? You're going to be snoozing while I'm at school, then?" he asked wryly.
"I predict that I shall be too ... 'strung out' to 'snooze' for a while, Sam," Bumblebee said in a remarkably dry voice. Sam's cheek twitched when he finally placed the accent as one of those formal British ones. His Camaro had a British accent. He managed not to snicker. "Your species is ... distressingly prone to damage."
For a moment, he didn't quite understand -- and then it kind of clicked into place. He'd been struggling with his ability to fully comprehend the Autobots in their entirety, so why shouldn't it happen the other way around, too? The way that they must view the humans ... "yeah," he agreed, remembering just how wretchedly abused he had looked under the stark lights in the bathroom. Once he'd been liberated, there had been extensive effort to patch him up, which made a lot of sense if they had gotten the impression that the Autobots valued him. Most of his lighter bruises were gone and his scrapes were scabbed over, but not much could be done for his fractured and broken bones. No expense had been spared in their effort to 'fix' the damage done both during the fight in Mission City and -- after. "But we're also pretty good at staying alive, too," he added with a small amount of dry humor. "And you should also know I'm a teenager. I'm supposed to be ... like, rebellious and angsty and hate authority figures."
Bumblebee was quiet a moment, supposedly researching his claims on the Internet before speaking: "Your kind finds this wildness of behavior amusing?" he inquired with some curiosity.
Shrugging, he said, "well, everyone finds something amusing, and no matter what it is, someone finds it amusing. You know, there are some really sick people out there who make jokes about eating babies -- don't search that!" he shouted suddenly, sitting up and making Bumblebee swerve slightly in surprise -- but he was too busy bent over coughing violently to care. "I would not Google that if I were you," he rasped softly, laying back to rest. It was hard, a little, to remind himself not to ... er, well, cuddle the warm seat. It was soft, after all, and the leather was supple and therefore not unlike hugging Mikaela (and don't think he didn't remember that he'd never gotten to hug his car). Well, other than the obvious part about it being a leather seat and belonging to an alien, instead of being human and female. But the sensation was the same -- the reassurance was the same. The sense of reality was the same. "You have to be very careful about what you Google," he added, then winced. "God, I hope you didn't download the Internet ..."
"That would have been a waste of memory space," Bumblebee said patiently. "Of course we don't download the Internet. Your method of arranging and storing data is very space-consuming. Are you alright? That -- sounded uncomfortable."
"Fine," he said, snorting softly. "But, you know, we got our technology from Megatron, so ..."
Bumblebee fell quiet at that, and after a moment, Sam shivered violently in remembering as well. He tentatively reached out and patted the wheel, but his own body corded and tensed with the urge to lash out -- and couldn't. The only thing to lash out against here was Bee. Instead, he forced himself to lay back and stare out the darkened window, one hand still on Bumblebee's steering wheel and swallowing in an attempt to soothe his sore throat. That was the one thing that none of the doctors at the government could do anything about, because they couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. They'd finally waved it away as being the dust that he'd inhaled.
"What about a car wash?" he asked with amusement, struggling to make himself heard.
A moment later, the radio crackled. "This is a ritual humans engage in?" Bumblebee inquired, baffled.
"Yeah," Sam said. "When we really like our cars. The only reason I didn't wash you that first day was because of the rust and the ... paint."
"You were concerned it would agitate the issue," Bumblebee surmised. He seemed to consider the issue for a moment. "It would be expected for you to want to wash this form?"
"Bee," he said with some disbelief and a lot of amusement. "You have a killer engine and a concept body. I'm expected to like ... worship this car."
"I see. If this is an issue, it would not be hard for me to reverse the changes and regain the 'seventy six' style body --"
"No!" Sam yelped with alarm. "No, no, no, no! That's okay. I mean -- ah, well, I already thought up excuses, you know, and I'd hate to put all of that effort to waste -- you were yanking my chain, you jerk!" How he knew this was debatable, but the car was definitely projecting amusement. "You, my friend, have a cruel sense of -- oh, no! No, no, no! You mean to tell me that 'Satan's Camaro' mess was a joke, too?"
Bumblebee actually sounded a bit sheepish. "Not -- exactly. I was a bit -- ah, restless then."
" ... God help us if you ever feel so restless again," he said dryly, looking out the window. False dawn stained everything gray -- but for the sky, which was white. Everything seemed strangely bleak, and he wished the sun would actually rise and flush everything with oranges and pinks while the sun sat red in the sky. Maybe then, everything would look hopeful instead of it seeming like it could only get worse.
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TO: "Miles Lancaster" (ovar9000miles)
FROM: "Sam Witwicky" (nosacrifice_novictory)
SUBJECT: RE: RE: its sam
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its a long story. i just got tired of ladiesman, k? i'll tell you everything tomorrow. i'm too tired to meet anywhere today.
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Aside from 'terrorist attacks' in Mission City? Nothing much, dude. Everyone was talking about you and the Evil
Jock Concubine being gone at the same time, though. DeMarco's pretty upset, man, so I'd watch out if I were you.
Why were you gone, and does it have anything to do with the EJC?
What the hell is up with your email? Not that I'm really complaining, it's just that I've been trying to reach you at the
old one. Did it get hacked or what?
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miles
sorry man ive been busy. i just got back into town. what have i missed?
"Be yourself" is about the worst advice you can give some people.
The stories and information posted here are artistic works of fiction and falsehood.
Only a fool would take anything posted here as fact.
"Be yourself" is about the worst advice you can give some people.
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he stumbled numb and blind guided guided guided only by the screeching sounds of a wounded animal. He had to had to had to get there had to free it had to save it. Had to had to had to --
then he was falling why falling a pit of course he should have seen that one coming oh god oh god please don't let there be spikes at the bottom oh please. Anything but spikes and he breaks through the water's surface. It's the dam, and he hears the screaming still and he had to do something to make it stop, please make it stop. He was running running running down the halls trying to find what was making that noise that hurt his ears and makes his chest tighten.
He found it, he found him, a man covered in yellow armor, but not a man -- tied down to a table and they were doing horrible things to him they were cutting him apart.
he wish they'd stop, he told them to stop, but they cut and cut and cut, placing the blue-bleeding flesh inside of radios and computers and televisions.
-+-
Sam reluctantly slid out of the absurdly comfortable seat and closed the door with a concealed wince. Although Bumblebee had indicated that Sam should proceed as normal as far as pretending that he was an inanimate car, it was ... weird. Because Sam just happened to know that his car was not, in fact, inanimate, and had scary guns attached. And. Um. He didn't really want to shut the door too hard, just it case -- well -- it ... it didn't make sense. He thought it should, but at the same time the sheer unreality of the situation made the logic ... not. Logical, that was.
And he had his suspicions that Bumblebee intentionally made his seats entirely too comfortable. Sam was tired, but not that tired ... although, to be perfectly honest, Bumblebee's seats had always been kinda really nice. And well ... anyway.
So there Sam was, headed up to the front of Miles' house to knock on the door, when Bumblebee totally blew his own cover by honking the horn. Sam froze mid step and whipped around, unable to quiet control his expression and -- god, he'd look so crazy if someone was watching, but --
"Dude!"
He whipped back the other direction, face morphing in an instant into his 'nothing suspicious here, of course not, I love you, dad' look, and he gestured. "Miles!" he said brightly. And much too happily.
"Where have you been?" Miles demanded as he thudded messily down the steps, an accusing look on his face that totally melted off into a blank look of shock. " -- and oh my God, what happened to your car?"
It was nice to know that someone else other than Sam could still reach those sort of octaves after puberty. It was actually a little gratifying -- at least it took giant robot aliens after his life to make Sam reach them. Okay, so it also took giant robot aliens to make Miles reach them, but Miles didn't know that he was looking at a giant robot alien and -- whatever. "Haven't you seen the news, Miles?" he asked, watching his friend's corrected course as he approached the Camaro. It was gratifying, for sure.
At that, Miles turned to him with an incredulous look. "No way -- Mission City? You were there?"
"Ground zero, too." Sam couldn't exactly blame Miles for how his gaze slid back to Bumblebee. He wandered lazily back toward the car, hands on his hips and keeping a sharp eye out -- but Miles seemed disinclined to touch. "It really messed me up," he added. After a second, he grabbed the edge of his shirts and pulled them up, wiggling a bit to make sure none had caught on his bandages. "Check out the size of these bruises!" he added with gusto, gesturing with a free hand.
Miles looked up and reflexively grimaced. "Holy -- man, that looks like a giant hand print ..." He came around the side of the car to get a better look, one hand taking a grasping shape. "What the hell, did you get in a fight with King Kong?" He actually sounded somewhat horrified but mostly fascinated.
Sam snorted a little, dropping the shirt. "Sorta ... I got knocked around pretty bad. They had us wrapped up forever ... worried about bio-terrorism" -- 'bunny finger' quotations --"so I had to stay in isolation forever." A reflexive shiver shook him and he rubbed his arm as he dropped his eyes -- catching on the yellow of the robot beside them. He made a sweeping motion, redirecting Miles' attention to the Camaro. "Messed up my car ... I got a new body for him. Same as ever on the inside, though ... still has that thing with the radio." He felt vaguely like a secret agent, saying things like they happened but allowing Miles to believe that things had happened more mundanely.
It was this time as Miles looked at the Camaro that the vague thoughtful look finally lit up into recognition. "Dude -- I've seen that body! That's the new concept Camaro -- No way!"
"Yeah, I met up with a guy who really specializes in that sort of stuff. Like I said, the outside's just been gussied up."
"Too bad you couldn't get a whole new car if it was so trashed ..."
That was a thought, only ... um, not an inanimate car, so this was like way better. "Nah," he said, looking at Bumblebee with a smile that felt strange on his face. "I wouldn't trade this car for the world. Or you know. Yeah."
That strange nearly subsonic noise came creeping out the window, then the radio crackled a second before Bumblebee blared out a song: "My folks bought me a bitchin' Camaro with no insurance to match ... So if I happen to run you down, please don't leave a scratch."
Sam's entire face just kind of froze in an awkward position, while Miles stared at it. He was in the middle of making vague 'I'm gonna kill you ...' motions when Miles turned back, and had to pretend like he hadn't been. Goddamn it, Bumblebee ... Miles continued to look at him, and then the car, and then Sam a few times, so Sam made a desperate attempt to look ashamed as he dipped his head toward the car. "I told you it still had the radio thing."
"No kidding," Miles said slowly, then shook his head. "It played that same damn song last time you brought it over."
"Heh."
But no matter how frantically Sam's heart beat under his ribs when he thought that somehow their game might be up, no matter how he wished he could strangle Bumblebee for playing it too loose, his grunted response held a distinctively pleased tone that he was glad Miles was too distracted to notice. They stared at the sleek yellow car, a supernaturally clean gleam flashing over the curves under the Californian sun. Shiny, shiny car.
Too shiny, Sam realized in a sudden panic as Miles' hands went out to the car. "Uh -- buddy -- would you not -- uh ... nnm ..." Sam cringed and fell silent as flesh made contact with shiny yellow metal, rubbing at his scalp with stiff fingers and averting his gaze. Too late -- disaster fully realized.
Reluctantly, he looked back to try to tell how Bumblebee was taking it, but ... well ... okay, so his car could project emotions, but it didn't really work from this distance, and cars don't exactly have a face, so ... unless Bumblebee set off his alarm, Sam was forced to assume that this was part of the whole 'pretending to be inanimate' gig. Still ... he really, really wished that Miles wouldn't stroke the hood that way.
Come to think of it, cars might not have a face but ... Sam slowly tilted his head sideways, considering it; if he wasn't completely delusional, that whole hood and bumper configuration -- it looked rather a lot like Bumblebee had a sleazy leer. Or the Camaro did. Whatever.
This unfortunate realization coupled with the fact that Miles was practically drooling over the pretty little sleek lines and groping Bumblebee up, made Sam's mind go places it was really too tired to go in. Sufficed to say that Sam squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a good shake to get rid of the mental images that had filled them, largely created by some mental version of photoshop and those posters of girls in their bikinis sprawled on fast cars.
Sam's mind? Completely broken.
Suddenly, Miles turned on him with huge, intent eyes. "Sam."
Broken mind or not, Sam recognized that tone anywhere. "No," he said immediately, reflexively, no thinking necessary, "oh no. Whatever it is? No."
Miles was staring at him like a crazy person -- helter skelter Charles Manson, with those crazy eyes. "Sam," he repeated.
"No!" Sam insisted, pointing as if he were going to fence those crazy eyes with his finger. "I refuse!"
"We have got to take it out for a spin," Miles said in the tone of someone who had Found God, and Saw That It Was Good.
"We have got to do nothing," he said, only vaguely noticing that his face was doing some insane acrobatics in his attempt to see Miles' crazy and raise it by his own. His crazy had gotten pretty impressive in the last week or so, and he had this idea that he could probably win.
"Yes. Yes, we do. Sam, this car? It's awesome. I don't care if it is a junker underneath. This -- this is a car that must be driven!"
"You've already gone riding in it! It's the same car, Miles!"
"But it's so shiny and new looking! It's -- it's gussied up! Let's go riding in your gussied up junker! No one has to know it's the same inside!"
" ... are you even listening to yourself?"
" ... no?"
It figured. Miles always began to sound a little melodramatic and dramatically 'romantic' around the time he stopped listening to himself. On the other hand, it also meant that Miles had planted the idea deep inside his head and that it would resurface at the most inopportune times, so -- "alright, alright," Sam sighed. "Let's go for a ride in my -- my 'gussied up junker'."
Miles made a noise that would have suited a thirteen year old girl better, bolting for the passenger side. At least he didn't think he got to drive, Sam reflected with a sort of sinking doomed feeling. Then again, neither did Sam, honestly ... he just got to sit in the driver's seat and pretend that he wasn't surprised when his car suddenly took a corner.
The problem that went completely unforeseen by Sam was that Miles was fairly enthusiastic about things he liked, especially new things he liked, and Bumblebee apparently had a bit of an ego that had inflated quite a lot under the admiring words. Only, Sam didn't know this until Bumblebee located some roads and actually took them on a ride.
The grind and scrape of rubber over the dust and rocks seemed both too loud and nearly silent in Sam's ears, a breath escaping him in a backwards gasp as the seatbelt tightened across his chest and kept him from sliding some crazy direction due to a corner cut too close for comfort. Where Bumblebee had even found these rough back roads that no cop would dream of driving on, he'd never know. His ribs ground unpleasantly together as they roared down the road, the air conditioner spewing an Arctic wind over the cold sweat that had appeared on his waxy skin. Normally, Sam would have been complaining about the speed in some fashion -- any fashion at all -- but for one: he had a passenger that was shrieking in glee and did not know that the car was driving itself. Also, two: he was a little out of breath and preoccupied and fairly certain he wasn't even fully aware of just how fast they were going, and Sam liked his complaints to be accurate, thank you very much. That way he was always justified.
Blessed be the luck that Sam had never accumulated any open wounds during the crazy days of finding out about Robot Aliens, because he was sure they'd be bleeding right now.
He finally managed to start fighting for a breath, feeling weak and pale and miserably cold, and yet ... and yet, he didn't even consider fighting for control of their speed, or trying to tell Bumblebee about just how agonizing the ride was. And maybe that was because ... under the air-stealing agony of bruised flesh and crushed muscles and cracked bones, his heart was pounding wildly and little waves of shivers that had nothing to do with the AC or the pain were shaking through his frame and making his skin prickle and his fingers twitch against the steering wheel. He didn't have the breath to spare in yelling or hooting, and the core-deep pain kept a smile off his face, but that didn't mean that Sam wasn't enjoying the bouncing, sliding, dust-flinging driving that Bumblebee was engaged in all the same.
Sam was an adrenaline junky. He knew that about himself. He also knew better than to try to indulge that ninety-nine percent of the time because he saw where it got people, which was anywhere from nowhere to six feet under.
The thing was, this wasn't Sam's decision and he wasn't in control, and if Bumblebee was so very hung up on the idea of being his guardian, then surely it couldn't be that bad. So while alien metal trapped him inside a construct that was a familiar (and welcome) lie, while his best (human) friend breathlessly crowed with delight, Sam felt that familiar feeling of all-knowing and all-being that he got under the influence of that addictive drug that hid inside his own body. He felt every inch of skin, every taunt tendon, every soft and crushed muscle and every brittle and fracture-riddled bone -- and then it seemed to sharpen even more, because before he knew it, it felt as though he could feel every tubular length of vein and every imperfect stretch that had been compressed and crushed and busted, every circular plate of blood, to the adrenaline flooding every organic millimeter of him and what made him.
And that widesense of high was exactly what Sam's heart secretly beat for. He had forbidden it to himself, and that made it even more delicious.
At last, they slid to a halt, Bumblebee rocking a little more on his wheels than a normal car should. Sam was fairly certain his car had just enjoyed himself a little too much; reflexively, he ran his hand down the curve of the steering wheel, and looked over as Miles just continued to enthuse breathlessly.
"That was awesome!" he exclaimed, reaching his hands above his head and pressing them to the roof. "Where in the hell did you learn to drive like that?"
"I didn't," Sam said, and his voice sounded tight, though his was breathing shallow to avoid any unnecessary movement. He glanced at the dashboard and then looked back over to Miles, smiling a smile that felt strained even if it was honest. "Ready to head back?" He ran a hand along the door handle. "Though maybe a little less sliding on the gravel. I think enough dust has gotten on the Camaro, I think the rest of it should be left behind us."
"Hey, whatever you want, dude, you're the one driving."
Bumblebee's engine rumbled, then he spun out for a moment before finding traction and rocketing back the way they just came. Sam's heart gave a hard thump in surprise and alarm, but he couldn't say that the dust wasn't being left behind them.
Jesus Christ, Bumblebee was worse than a five year old.
-+-
Or maybe a three year old, Sam thought sourly as he turned off the faucet, having spent the last ten minutes rinsing the dust off Bumblebee -- it was only dust, after all, not dirt or anything that would require a scrubbing. He'd almost been willing to let the alien suffer, up until he made two realizations, the first being that he'd better have a bit of time to calm down from what high remained and the second being that he'd be a bit of a jerk to leave Bumblebee dusty after the kicking ride. Of course, one thing led to another and ...
"You'd better appreciate this," he grit out between his teeth, screw driver in hand and throwing the rocks in Bumblebee's wheel tread evil looks.
Damned if the Autobot didn't flash his lights.
"Jerk."
-- To Be Continued --
- This time around, we learn a bit more about what happened to Sam while he was in S7 jurisdiction. Moar in later chapters! 8D
- Just to be clear, Sam's mental image based on the girls-on-hot-cars posters did not include Miles, lolz.
Mikaela's Intermission
Next
Edited as of 2.24.10
FIC Summary: [2007, AU] Sore throats, nightmares, and the differences between organics and Cybertronians - something is terribly wrong with Sam. To live is to evolve, and shape alone is not enough; think of it as a mutual learning experience. (Bot!Sam, PTSD, Mech/mech)
1, 2, 2.b, 3, 4, 4.b, 5, 6, 7, 7.b, 8, 8.b, 9, 9.b, 10, 10.b, 10.c, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17
Chapter Two : Home Again
His crazy had gotten pretty impressive in the last week or so, and he had this idea that he could probably win.
-+-
Going home could not have come soon enough. Sam would have liked to have gone home seven days ago, but certain, aha, rogue agencies had not agreed with his feelings. Tough on them -- not only was Sam alive, he was well and healing and going home, so they could ... he didn't know, die in a fire, perhaps. ("I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Don't play stupid with me, boy. Now you activate this device or I'll make you wish ET had never phoned home!") He shivered and made himself forget the unforgiving chill, and cold metal biting at his toes.
Of course, the government was still trying to kiss up, in a way. Man, when the government tried to kiss up, they could do it pretty good ... he guessed that he understood their point of view. They probably felt foolish in the wake of being so completely unprepared to deal with a hostile alien takeover. Of course, not many people expected hostile alien takeovers, and especially not by the mechanical aliens that were very real. Who knew? But Sam thought he saw it very clearly that if the Autobots hadn't been on Earth ... if the Autobots had been just one day later, or hadn't existed at all -- if it had been just the conquering party ...
... it was all well and good to say that maybe they'd have been able to fight the Decepticons off, but one successful team of commandos with tank-killing bullets versus even a small band of Decepticons ... the sort of things they could do with computers, the sort of things they could do --
And it was thanks to Sam, really. Optimus talked the talk about the freedom of all living things, and maybe he would have saved humanity, but ...
... but Sam and Mikaela had fallen from his shoulders so that Bumblebee had to catch them, and Optimus Prime did nothing to prevent Sector Seven from capturing and torturing Bumblebee. Nothing. Bumblebee had just been a soldier that they'd had to sacrifice. The question was ... if it had come to it ... if Bumblebee hadn't caught them ... would Sam and Mikaela have just kept falling? Would that have been acceptable, once the glasses were in reach?
Would it have been?
("Is it possible, Sam ... that you reacted with violence because you think that he might have been right? That the Autobots will turn on us when they have no further use for us?"
" ... get the fuck out of my face. Come back when you know the first thing about what you're talking about. You hear me?")
Sam was grateful, honestly, that the government provided comfy SUVs to drive his mother and father back to their home, and that Mikaela had begged off to go see her father. He was grateful that he had been allowed to just climb into Bumblebee and remain with his traitorous thoughts. Maybe it had been duty, but hopefully it hadn't been, when Bumblebee had kept trying to save them. Sam didn't want to think about the dark thoughts buzzing around his head, circling and landing and taking flight to circle again, but right now ... right now ...
Staring out the darkened windows, Sam thought that it just might be the three of them against the world. He and Mikaela and Bumblebee. It was the three of them alone, aligned by some strange twist of fate, and an entire galaxy out there against them.
But it was still dark, and Sam knew that it had to be half just the atmosphere and half just his sleep deprivation talking. He felt like kin to Rip Van Winkle, right now ... like he could sleep forever, but he couldn't quite convince himself to relax enough to allow that to happen. If he fell asleep, he might wake up at home, and then he'd have to deal with his hysteric mother and angry father and all the questions he couldn't answer because he didn't know how. So instead, he breathed slowly and deep, feeling all of his battle wounds stretching and aching, and held onto the door handle and the seatbelt stretched across his chest.
Before he knew he was going to talk, he was suddenly asking in that grainy rasp: "I take it your vocalizer thingy is better now."
The murmuring radio turned off as the strange voice floated out of the vents. "Ratchet was finally able to reconstruct the destroyed piece, and my repair systems have completely assimilated it. There was never time before, and there really wasn't a point ... when I could speak to the others over our radio, I didn't really need to speak out loud."
"Ah," he said, "I get it. Now it's important, because humans don't have -- you know -- built in radios."
"Yes."
Sam wondered if that would have made a difference when Sector Seven took him, if they would have hesitated if his screams sounded more human, and shut his eyes tightly for a moment with the force with which he rejected the thought. It probably wouldn't have mattered at all. It certainly hadn't mattered that Sam was human when they took him, had it? ("I'm not some fucking alien you can just -- just cut to pieces for the hell of it! Just let me go, and I swear I won't press charges, or whatever!"
"Get over it, Witwicky. Your 'friends' aren't coming to help you, this time. Just keep talking -- I think you're changing the minds of a few of our people who were doubting if they should really be treating you like this.")
He wasn't going to think about it.
"So," he said uncomfortably, staring at the dashboard. "What now?"
"What is it you refer to?" Bumblebee queried. "At the moment, we are going to your home."
"I mean -- what now? What happens next? In the grand scheme of things?"
"Sam," he said delicately, "the grand scheme of things for you and myself are vastly different. In the grand scheme of things for me, we remain on Earth. Perhaps we mentor the human race, but perhaps we shall eventually leave ... it depends on humanity, largely. On the other hand, in the grand scheme of things for you, you finish maturing, find a mate, raise a family ..."
"Alright, alright," Sam sighed. So Sam was completely different from Bumblebee, with goals symmetrical to their size difference, and symmetrical life spans -- that was what Bumblebee said, though not quite as bluntly as Sam. "I mean ... you stay with me, right? Do I return to school or join the military or ..."
"I think you're expected to pretend that none of this has happened," Bumblebee said.
For a moment, he sat there in disbelief, then forced himself to relax. His hands ached from how tightly he had been clutching at the door and seatbelt, and he had to bend them a little to get the blood flowing. "Yeah," he said, "right." Snorting quietly, he rubbed his forehead and then let his head fall back against the seat.
This had a strange sort of chain reaction. No sooner had his head hit the headrest did the rest of the seat keep going until it had fallen so far back he couldn't see over the wheel. While he was still laying there in surprise, a heat built in the seat and swiftly soaked into his tight back, and muscles he didn't know where tense suddenly loosened. Then the vibrations started and the air conditioner came on to balance the temperature, and -- and --
Sam sprawled there for a long moment, a little too surprised to react immediately since his bones were melting. Then he managed to scrape together what coherence he had left, since he had been staying awake out of pure bullheadedness and his will to continue to do so was making like his bones. "Um -- you'd better stop this," he warned, "I'm exhausted, and someone has to pretend to drive."
For a moment, the only response was the hum of the engine, but then the windows visibly darkened.
"Oh -- wow. Um." He vaguely remembered times when the windows had seemed dark when they'd been clear before, but ... well, more important things had been on his mind, like his possessed car chasing him or getting the hell away from the cop car. "Right," he added uselessly as he failed to pry his lids apart, though he tried really hard. Honestly. No, seriously, he did! Maybe his car had gassed him or something, but ... kind of hard to really think about those kinds of things. And also, if Bumblebee was that persistent, Sam should just give in. "Okay. Um, thanks."
The radio seemed to murmur something, but his body was entirely too heavy for him to pay attention to it, and then --
-- the cop car ('To Punish and Enslave', he'd never noticed that before) was chasing them down and Bumblebee shook him out like he had that one night and they were fighting and he was running, but something had gone wrong because now the Decepitcon was chasing him down and catching him and the headlights with all those spikes twisted into his stomach like the blades of a blender and its nasty little partner was ripping off his skin and it wore it like a coat and made that horrible little chittering sound while wearing Great Grandpa's glasses and the car tore off his arms, asking: "Are you ladiesman-two-one-seven?"
"-- so take me and let me in, don't break me and shut me out!"
Sam jerked violently, startled and uncertain where he was for a moment while Papa Roach wailed on the radio. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at the door and snatched at the wheel before he remembered that he was in the Camaro, his Camaro, and that his Camaro actually had a mind of its and could drive itself much better than he could. Breathing out heavily, he flopped back into the seat and scrubbed at his eyes with his knuckles.
"Okay," he rasped. "That time ... that time was definitely a bad dream ... nightmare." The radio fell silent in the middle of a line, and he spoke a little louder. "Just a nightmare. It's normal ... I've been having them since black-white-and-ugly came after me. Probably'll be having them for a while."
For a long moment, the only sound was the tires on the road, Bumblebee traveling as silently as an electric car. Then another song came on -- that 'Lullaby' or 'Rockaby' or whatever song. It wasn't exactly his favorite song, but he smiled crookedly anyway. "Yeah, thanks." There was, of course, no way he'd be falling asleep, no matter how tired he was. Not for all the warm seats and soothing vibrations in the world. He peered out of the window blandly, studying where they were. It would be a while before they reached home. Just about mid-morning, actually. Great.
It wasn't just the disturbingly graphic nightmares, either ... he had a lot on his mind. Mostly the very robot he was riding in and the request he had made to stay with Sam. Sure, Sam had spun it to his parents as it being that the Autobot had just showed up and he got dragged into it and Bumblebee felt obliged to protect him and had done a damn good job (and he had to explain it to Bumblebee that it was for the best) .... but the fact remained that he wasn't sure exactly what it was between the two of them.
... and maybe there was something wrong with him that he was more uncertain of his place with the Autobot that had been declared his guardian than he was of his place with the girl of his dreams. Or really ... he was pretty uncertain of the entire thing all the way around, but the thing with Bumblebee worried him more than the thing with Mikaela -- he and Mikaela were on equal footing, having just been shoved into an alien world, sharing that and having that connection. It was real -- he felt it. But Bumblebee ...
In his more pessimistic moments with those people (don't think about it don'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutit!), he'd figured that there was a war going on for Bumblebee's people, and now that the other Autobots were around, he sort of expected that Bumblebee would want to go with them. Not that he was complaining -- not by far. He was thrilled that Bumblebee hadn't tried to ask out, that he wanted to stick around for whatever reason. It was just ...
Bumblebee had a completely different set of concerns from Sam. He was -- he was an alien. And part of him wanted to say duh, but that other part at the back of his mind just whispered now you understand.
(It said, there's a reason humans are still afraid of the dark ...)
So maybe he wasn't sure where he stood with Mikaela -- he knew it was firm footing. Her warm reception had proven it -- even a week later, she didn't have regrets about getting in the car. They were -- at least friends. And maybe that was all ... that was fine. It seemed as if Sam's libido had taken a permanent vacation, because ... well, sure, he might have been able to think about how sexy she was and how awesome it was that she was just so collected about the whole thing with the giant robot aliens, when they were being introduced to everyone. But ...
A lot had happened since then. Jesus Christ, he had been chased by a monstrosity who looked like something that even a sci-fi horror aficionado would have run screaming from. He had thwarted that thing, denied it, even to the point where he knew that the only direction he had left to go was hundreds of feet straight down. He denied orders of a suicidal military commander and held something that he ... somehow understood held the power of a hundred nuclear power plants while it destroyed another living being. He'd been kidnapped and prodded, psychoanalyzed and bargained away like a flashy pawn or a -- a valuable piece.
That changed a lot of things. That changed him.
That meant that he knew that the footing was firm with Mikaela, but with the aliens ... it was a slippery slope and he was in the dark with his eyes bound. And he was dead on his feet, practically, but ... instead of trying to rest, or putting it off, he knew he had to talk about it. And just to think that a few weeks ago that he'd procrastinate like mad, even though his parents always finished things as soon as they could be. He might as well get it over, to be honest ... "Hey, Bumblebee? I think we should talk."
He frowned slightly; now if that didn't sound like the 'break up' conversations of a dozen movies? The soft jazz on the radio faded down into barely a murmur, and Sam assumed that was a signal to continue. "You weren't pretending to be my car for very long," he said slowly, "so I don't know for sure how much you really understand about the whole ... being a high school kid's car gig. I mean -- it's just that you're like a fighter, right? I don't really see how being a ... a chauffeur is really going to go over well."
Even though he was as silent as an electric car, there was still some engine noises, and Sam could hear the different pitches it seemed to worked at ... and it was kind of interesting how they seemed to indicate different moods. Sam might have thought they really didn't have feelings if not for Bumblebee. At the moment, he seemed to be considering Sam's words -- or his response. Finally, he said, "It's actually more like downtime, Sam. I was disabled in the fight, and while I'm back on my feet, it's beneficial to have some time off. Still, my primary duty at the moment is to assure your safety. While several of the Decepticons were damaged or offlined during the fight, many escaped. It is safe to say that it's unlikely they are aware of the exact circumstances of Megatron's death, but that doesn't change that they are aware that Samuel James Witwicky was involved in the dispute. The knowledge of the All Spark's destruction will not be widespread, and some are aware that you were auctioning the glasses that held the location of the All Spark."
Which all made sense, so he nodded. The Decepticons could come after him, especially in the early days before it became known that it wasn't very useful. "So ... what? You're going to be snoozing while I'm at school, then?" he asked wryly.
"I predict that I shall be too ... 'strung out' to 'snooze' for a while, Sam," Bumblebee said in a remarkably dry voice. Sam's cheek twitched when he finally placed the accent as one of those formal British ones. His Camaro had a British accent. He managed not to snicker. "Your species is ... distressingly prone to damage."
For a moment, he didn't quite understand -- and then it kind of clicked into place. He'd been struggling with his ability to fully comprehend the Autobots in their entirety, so why shouldn't it happen the other way around, too? The way that they must view the humans ... "yeah," he agreed, remembering just how wretchedly abused he had looked under the stark lights in the bathroom. Once he'd been liberated, there had been extensive effort to patch him up, which made a lot of sense if they had gotten the impression that the Autobots valued him. Most of his lighter bruises were gone and his scrapes were scabbed over, but not much could be done for his fractured and broken bones. No expense had been spared in their effort to 'fix' the damage done both during the fight in Mission City and -- after. "But we're also pretty good at staying alive, too," he added with a small amount of dry humor. "And you should also know I'm a teenager. I'm supposed to be ... like, rebellious and angsty and hate authority figures."
Bumblebee was quiet a moment, supposedly researching his claims on the Internet before speaking: "Your kind finds this wildness of behavior amusing?" he inquired with some curiosity.
Shrugging, he said, "well, everyone finds something amusing, and no matter what it is, someone finds it amusing. You know, there are some really sick people out there who make jokes about eating babies -- don't search that!" he shouted suddenly, sitting up and making Bumblebee swerve slightly in surprise -- but he was too busy bent over coughing violently to care. "I would not Google that if I were you," he rasped softly, laying back to rest. It was hard, a little, to remind himself not to ... er, well, cuddle the warm seat. It was soft, after all, and the leather was supple and therefore not unlike hugging Mikaela (and don't think he didn't remember that he'd never gotten to hug his car). Well, other than the obvious part about it being a leather seat and belonging to an alien, instead of being human and female. But the sensation was the same -- the reassurance was the same. The sense of reality was the same. "You have to be very careful about what you Google," he added, then winced. "God, I hope you didn't download the Internet ..."
"That would have been a waste of memory space," Bumblebee said patiently. "Of course we don't download the Internet. Your method of arranging and storing data is very space-consuming. Are you alright? That -- sounded uncomfortable."
"Fine," he said, snorting softly. "But, you know, we got our technology from Megatron, so ..."
Bumblebee fell quiet at that, and after a moment, Sam shivered violently in remembering as well. He tentatively reached out and patted the wheel, but his own body corded and tensed with the urge to lash out -- and couldn't. The only thing to lash out against here was Bee. Instead, he forced himself to lay back and stare out the darkened window, one hand still on Bumblebee's steering wheel and swallowing in an attempt to soothe his sore throat. That was the one thing that none of the doctors at the government could do anything about, because they couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. They'd finally waved it away as being the dust that he'd inhaled.
"What about a car wash?" he asked with amusement, struggling to make himself heard.
A moment later, the radio crackled. "This is a ritual humans engage in?" Bumblebee inquired, baffled.
"Yeah," Sam said. "When we really like our cars. The only reason I didn't wash you that first day was because of the rust and the ... paint."
"You were concerned it would agitate the issue," Bumblebee surmised. He seemed to consider the issue for a moment. "It would be expected for you to want to wash this form?"
"Bee," he said with some disbelief and a lot of amusement. "You have a killer engine and a concept body. I'm expected to like ... worship this car."
"I see. If this is an issue, it would not be hard for me to reverse the changes and regain the 'seventy six' style body --"
"No!" Sam yelped with alarm. "No, no, no, no! That's okay. I mean -- ah, well, I already thought up excuses, you know, and I'd hate to put all of that effort to waste -- you were yanking my chain, you jerk!" How he knew this was debatable, but the car was definitely projecting amusement. "You, my friend, have a cruel sense of -- oh, no! No, no, no! You mean to tell me that 'Satan's Camaro' mess was a joke, too?"
Bumblebee actually sounded a bit sheepish. "Not -- exactly. I was a bit -- ah, restless then."
" ... God help us if you ever feel so restless again," he said dryly, looking out the window. False dawn stained everything gray -- but for the sky, which was white. Everything seemed strangely bleak, and he wished the sun would actually rise and flush everything with oranges and pinks while the sun sat red in the sky. Maybe then, everything would look hopeful instead of it seeming like it could only get worse.
-+-
TO: "Miles Lancaster" (ovar9000miles)
FROM: "Sam Witwicky" (nosacrifice_novictory)
SUBJECT: RE: RE: its sam
--------------------------------------------------------
its a long story. i just got tired of ladiesman, k? i'll tell you everything tomorrow. i'm too tired to meet anywhere today.
--------
Aside from 'terrorist attacks' in Mission City? Nothing much, dude. Everyone was talking about you and the Evil
Jock Concubine being gone at the same time, though. DeMarco's pretty upset, man, so I'd watch out if I were you.
Why were you gone, and does it have anything to do with the EJC?
What the hell is up with your email? Not that I'm really complaining, it's just that I've been trying to reach you at the
old one. Did it get hacked or what?
--------
miles
sorry man ive been busy. i just got back into town. what have i missed?
"Be yourself" is about the worst advice you can give some people.
The stories and information posted here are artistic works of fiction and falsehood.
Only a fool would take anything posted here as fact.
"Be yourself" is about the worst advice you can give some people.
-+-
he stumbled numb and blind guided guided guided only by the screeching sounds of a wounded animal. He had to had to had to get there had to free it had to save it. Had to had to had to --
then he was falling why falling a pit of course he should have seen that one coming oh god oh god please don't let there be spikes at the bottom oh please. Anything but spikes and he breaks through the water's surface. It's the dam, and he hears the screaming still and he had to do something to make it stop, please make it stop. He was running running running down the halls trying to find what was making that noise that hurt his ears and makes his chest tighten.
He found it, he found him, a man covered in yellow armor, but not a man -- tied down to a table and they were doing horrible things to him they were cutting him apart.
he wish they'd stop, he told them to stop, but they cut and cut and cut, placing the blue-bleeding flesh inside of radios and computers and televisions.
-+-
Sam reluctantly slid out of the absurdly comfortable seat and closed the door with a concealed wince. Although Bumblebee had indicated that Sam should proceed as normal as far as pretending that he was an inanimate car, it was ... weird. Because Sam just happened to know that his car was not, in fact, inanimate, and had scary guns attached. And. Um. He didn't really want to shut the door too hard, just it case -- well -- it ... it didn't make sense. He thought it should, but at the same time the sheer unreality of the situation made the logic ... not. Logical, that was.
And he had his suspicions that Bumblebee intentionally made his seats entirely too comfortable. Sam was tired, but not that tired ... although, to be perfectly honest, Bumblebee's seats had always been kinda really nice. And well ... anyway.
So there Sam was, headed up to the front of Miles' house to knock on the door, when Bumblebee totally blew his own cover by honking the horn. Sam froze mid step and whipped around, unable to quiet control his expression and -- god, he'd look so crazy if someone was watching, but --
"Dude!"
He whipped back the other direction, face morphing in an instant into his 'nothing suspicious here, of course not, I love you, dad' look, and he gestured. "Miles!" he said brightly. And much too happily.
"Where have you been?" Miles demanded as he thudded messily down the steps, an accusing look on his face that totally melted off into a blank look of shock. " -- and oh my God, what happened to your car?"
It was nice to know that someone else other than Sam could still reach those sort of octaves after puberty. It was actually a little gratifying -- at least it took giant robot aliens after his life to make Sam reach them. Okay, so it also took giant robot aliens to make Miles reach them, but Miles didn't know that he was looking at a giant robot alien and -- whatever. "Haven't you seen the news, Miles?" he asked, watching his friend's corrected course as he approached the Camaro. It was gratifying, for sure.
At that, Miles turned to him with an incredulous look. "No way -- Mission City? You were there?"
"Ground zero, too." Sam couldn't exactly blame Miles for how his gaze slid back to Bumblebee. He wandered lazily back toward the car, hands on his hips and keeping a sharp eye out -- but Miles seemed disinclined to touch. "It really messed me up," he added. After a second, he grabbed the edge of his shirts and pulled them up, wiggling a bit to make sure none had caught on his bandages. "Check out the size of these bruises!" he added with gusto, gesturing with a free hand.
Miles looked up and reflexively grimaced. "Holy -- man, that looks like a giant hand print ..." He came around the side of the car to get a better look, one hand taking a grasping shape. "What the hell, did you get in a fight with King Kong?" He actually sounded somewhat horrified but mostly fascinated.
Sam snorted a little, dropping the shirt. "Sorta ... I got knocked around pretty bad. They had us wrapped up forever ... worried about bio-terrorism" -- 'bunny finger' quotations --"so I had to stay in isolation forever." A reflexive shiver shook him and he rubbed his arm as he dropped his eyes -- catching on the yellow of the robot beside them. He made a sweeping motion, redirecting Miles' attention to the Camaro. "Messed up my car ... I got a new body for him. Same as ever on the inside, though ... still has that thing with the radio." He felt vaguely like a secret agent, saying things like they happened but allowing Miles to believe that things had happened more mundanely.
It was this time as Miles looked at the Camaro that the vague thoughtful look finally lit up into recognition. "Dude -- I've seen that body! That's the new concept Camaro -- No way!"
"Yeah, I met up with a guy who really specializes in that sort of stuff. Like I said, the outside's just been gussied up."
"Too bad you couldn't get a whole new car if it was so trashed ..."
That was a thought, only ... um, not an inanimate car, so this was like way better. "Nah," he said, looking at Bumblebee with a smile that felt strange on his face. "I wouldn't trade this car for the world. Or you know. Yeah."
That strange nearly subsonic noise came creeping out the window, then the radio crackled a second before Bumblebee blared out a song: "My folks bought me a bitchin' Camaro with no insurance to match ... So if I happen to run you down, please don't leave a scratch."
Sam's entire face just kind of froze in an awkward position, while Miles stared at it. He was in the middle of making vague 'I'm gonna kill you ...' motions when Miles turned back, and had to pretend like he hadn't been. Goddamn it, Bumblebee ... Miles continued to look at him, and then the car, and then Sam a few times, so Sam made a desperate attempt to look ashamed as he dipped his head toward the car. "I told you it still had the radio thing."
"No kidding," Miles said slowly, then shook his head. "It played that same damn song last time you brought it over."
"Heh."
But no matter how frantically Sam's heart beat under his ribs when he thought that somehow their game might be up, no matter how he wished he could strangle Bumblebee for playing it too loose, his grunted response held a distinctively pleased tone that he was glad Miles was too distracted to notice. They stared at the sleek yellow car, a supernaturally clean gleam flashing over the curves under the Californian sun. Shiny, shiny car.
Too shiny, Sam realized in a sudden panic as Miles' hands went out to the car. "Uh -- buddy -- would you not -- uh ... nnm ..." Sam cringed and fell silent as flesh made contact with shiny yellow metal, rubbing at his scalp with stiff fingers and averting his gaze. Too late -- disaster fully realized.
Reluctantly, he looked back to try to tell how Bumblebee was taking it, but ... well ... okay, so his car could project emotions, but it didn't really work from this distance, and cars don't exactly have a face, so ... unless Bumblebee set off his alarm, Sam was forced to assume that this was part of the whole 'pretending to be inanimate' gig. Still ... he really, really wished that Miles wouldn't stroke the hood that way.
Come to think of it, cars might not have a face but ... Sam slowly tilted his head sideways, considering it; if he wasn't completely delusional, that whole hood and bumper configuration -- it looked rather a lot like Bumblebee had a sleazy leer. Or the Camaro did. Whatever.
This unfortunate realization coupled with the fact that Miles was practically drooling over the pretty little sleek lines and groping Bumblebee up, made Sam's mind go places it was really too tired to go in. Sufficed to say that Sam squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a good shake to get rid of the mental images that had filled them, largely created by some mental version of photoshop and those posters of girls in their bikinis sprawled on fast cars.
Sam's mind? Completely broken.
Suddenly, Miles turned on him with huge, intent eyes. "Sam."
Broken mind or not, Sam recognized that tone anywhere. "No," he said immediately, reflexively, no thinking necessary, "oh no. Whatever it is? No."
Miles was staring at him like a crazy person -- helter skelter Charles Manson, with those crazy eyes. "Sam," he repeated.
"No!" Sam insisted, pointing as if he were going to fence those crazy eyes with his finger. "I refuse!"
"We have got to take it out for a spin," Miles said in the tone of someone who had Found God, and Saw That It Was Good.
"We have got to do nothing," he said, only vaguely noticing that his face was doing some insane acrobatics in his attempt to see Miles' crazy and raise it by his own. His crazy had gotten pretty impressive in the last week or so, and he had this idea that he could probably win.
"Yes. Yes, we do. Sam, this car? It's awesome. I don't care if it is a junker underneath. This -- this is a car that must be driven!"
"You've already gone riding in it! It's the same car, Miles!"
"But it's so shiny and new looking! It's -- it's gussied up! Let's go riding in your gussied up junker! No one has to know it's the same inside!"
" ... are you even listening to yourself?"
" ... no?"
It figured. Miles always began to sound a little melodramatic and dramatically 'romantic' around the time he stopped listening to himself. On the other hand, it also meant that Miles had planted the idea deep inside his head and that it would resurface at the most inopportune times, so -- "alright, alright," Sam sighed. "Let's go for a ride in my -- my 'gussied up junker'."
Miles made a noise that would have suited a thirteen year old girl better, bolting for the passenger side. At least he didn't think he got to drive, Sam reflected with a sort of sinking doomed feeling. Then again, neither did Sam, honestly ... he just got to sit in the driver's seat and pretend that he wasn't surprised when his car suddenly took a corner.
The problem that went completely unforeseen by Sam was that Miles was fairly enthusiastic about things he liked, especially new things he liked, and Bumblebee apparently had a bit of an ego that had inflated quite a lot under the admiring words. Only, Sam didn't know this until Bumblebee located some roads and actually took them on a ride.
The grind and scrape of rubber over the dust and rocks seemed both too loud and nearly silent in Sam's ears, a breath escaping him in a backwards gasp as the seatbelt tightened across his chest and kept him from sliding some crazy direction due to a corner cut too close for comfort. Where Bumblebee had even found these rough back roads that no cop would dream of driving on, he'd never know. His ribs ground unpleasantly together as they roared down the road, the air conditioner spewing an Arctic wind over the cold sweat that had appeared on his waxy skin. Normally, Sam would have been complaining about the speed in some fashion -- any fashion at all -- but for one: he had a passenger that was shrieking in glee and did not know that the car was driving itself. Also, two: he was a little out of breath and preoccupied and fairly certain he wasn't even fully aware of just how fast they were going, and Sam liked his complaints to be accurate, thank you very much. That way he was always justified.
Blessed be the luck that Sam had never accumulated any open wounds during the crazy days of finding out about Robot Aliens, because he was sure they'd be bleeding right now.
He finally managed to start fighting for a breath, feeling weak and pale and miserably cold, and yet ... and yet, he didn't even consider fighting for control of their speed, or trying to tell Bumblebee about just how agonizing the ride was. And maybe that was because ... under the air-stealing agony of bruised flesh and crushed muscles and cracked bones, his heart was pounding wildly and little waves of shivers that had nothing to do with the AC or the pain were shaking through his frame and making his skin prickle and his fingers twitch against the steering wheel. He didn't have the breath to spare in yelling or hooting, and the core-deep pain kept a smile off his face, but that didn't mean that Sam wasn't enjoying the bouncing, sliding, dust-flinging driving that Bumblebee was engaged in all the same.
Sam was an adrenaline junky. He knew that about himself. He also knew better than to try to indulge that ninety-nine percent of the time because he saw where it got people, which was anywhere from nowhere to six feet under.
The thing was, this wasn't Sam's decision and he wasn't in control, and if Bumblebee was so very hung up on the idea of being his guardian, then surely it couldn't be that bad. So while alien metal trapped him inside a construct that was a familiar (and welcome) lie, while his best (human) friend breathlessly crowed with delight, Sam felt that familiar feeling of all-knowing and all-being that he got under the influence of that addictive drug that hid inside his own body. He felt every inch of skin, every taunt tendon, every soft and crushed muscle and every brittle and fracture-riddled bone -- and then it seemed to sharpen even more, because before he knew it, it felt as though he could feel every tubular length of vein and every imperfect stretch that had been compressed and crushed and busted, every circular plate of blood, to the adrenaline flooding every organic millimeter of him and what made him.
And that widesense of high was exactly what Sam's heart secretly beat for. He had forbidden it to himself, and that made it even more delicious.
At last, they slid to a halt, Bumblebee rocking a little more on his wheels than a normal car should. Sam was fairly certain his car had just enjoyed himself a little too much; reflexively, he ran his hand down the curve of the steering wheel, and looked over as Miles just continued to enthuse breathlessly.
"That was awesome!" he exclaimed, reaching his hands above his head and pressing them to the roof. "Where in the hell did you learn to drive like that?"
"I didn't," Sam said, and his voice sounded tight, though his was breathing shallow to avoid any unnecessary movement. He glanced at the dashboard and then looked back over to Miles, smiling a smile that felt strained even if it was honest. "Ready to head back?" He ran a hand along the door handle. "Though maybe a little less sliding on the gravel. I think enough dust has gotten on the Camaro, I think the rest of it should be left behind us."
"Hey, whatever you want, dude, you're the one driving."
Bumblebee's engine rumbled, then he spun out for a moment before finding traction and rocketing back the way they just came. Sam's heart gave a hard thump in surprise and alarm, but he couldn't say that the dust wasn't being left behind them.
Jesus Christ, Bumblebee was worse than a five year old.
-+-
Or maybe a three year old, Sam thought sourly as he turned off the faucet, having spent the last ten minutes rinsing the dust off Bumblebee -- it was only dust, after all, not dirt or anything that would require a scrubbing. He'd almost been willing to let the alien suffer, up until he made two realizations, the first being that he'd better have a bit of time to calm down from what high remained and the second being that he'd be a bit of a jerk to leave Bumblebee dusty after the kicking ride. Of course, one thing led to another and ...
"You'd better appreciate this," he grit out between his teeth, screw driver in hand and throwing the rocks in Bumblebee's wheel tread evil looks.
Damned if the Autobot didn't flash his lights.
"Jerk."
-- To Be Continued --
- This time around, we learn a bit more about what happened to Sam while he was in S7 jurisdiction. Moar in later chapters! 8D
- Just to be clear, Sam's mental image based on the girls-on-hot-cars posters did not include Miles, lolz.
Mikaela's Intermission
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Edited as of 2.24.10