Conceptions - 4
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
I start time-skipping ... A LOT in this chapter. Trust that the events are all chronological, and those that obviously follow one another do.
---
Chapter Four:Nightmares
Runrunrunrunrunrunbutthefloorwaswaterunderhisfeetand --
he was on the stairs and struggling up them but no matter how fast he tried to move he was slowslowslowslow and the stairs slipped and gripped as his feet and made him slower. Behind him, the fucking shark was coming out of the waterfloor and snapping it's teeth like some mechanical mousetrap snapsnapsnap as its tail thrashed and sent it sliding closer and closer and closer and deaddead staring black soulless eyes watched and laughed and that toothfilled grin. Then its teeth bleed and blood gushed and red flew as a hand reached out of those scarlet foaming jaws and snap the head broke as that threatening silver arm protruded and he ranranran over quicksand steps to escape, All Spark clutched like a football, the only solid thing -- the only solid thing -- the only solid thing --
and he was on the roof and runningrunningrunning. "What drives you, fleshling? Fear or courage?" and he was runningrunningrunning --
fallingfallingfalling
falling
fall
and there was no one to catch him, no Optimus Prime, no knight in golden armor, and he hit the ground and his ribs crackled as his body flattened and the blood was in his lungs and slivers of unnaturally white bone were sticking out of his chest like the back of a porcupine flesh hanging in stringy strips and the All Spark sat in his lap, dancing with blue energy and Megatron was falling toward him spread eagle and Sam didn't have a chance.
Sometimes, you don't wake up before you die. Unfortunately, Sam was having a lot of these nightmares lately.
He laid in bed, staring at the red numbers informing him that it was three in the morning. After a moment, he rolled over and allowed his exhaustion to drag him back down -- but made a mental note to buy a new alarm clock.
---
Over the next week, they hammered out a functioning schedule. After school, Miles, Mikaela, and Sam went to Sonic to sit on the benches (none of them dared to think about eating in the Camaro because Miles worshipped that car, Mikaela knew better, and Sam was squeamish enough just being organic without eating inside the car), eat their meals, then drop off the other two. Sam and Bumblebee would drive to the park to sit under that big cottonwood tree and Sam could prop his back against a tire and do his homework while Bumblebee listened to music. He wasn't feeling brave enough to lay on the hood, anyway, and the interior wasn't comfortable for doing homework within.
"You sure you're not cramped or anything, stuck as a car?" he asked after he realized he'd been staring at the same problem without actually seeing it for the last thirty minutes. The vague strings of music coming from inside the Camaro was calming, but things could be said for being too calming.
"I've had a lot of practice," Bumblebee assured him wryly. The voice seemed to come from around the engine, but he wasn't exactly going to go looking for it. He wasn't sure if checking under the hood would be more like a dentist checking things out, or looking under a girl's skirt. (Not that there was anything feminine about Bee, just that -- well, it was the only comparison he could make to hint at just how weird and intrusive it seemed.)
"Oh?" Sam asked, perking up a bit. He wiggled and shifted, trying to find a way to prop himself against Bumblebee and be able to 'face' him at the same time. It made sense: Bumblebee surely hadn't just appeared that day at the car lot. "How much practice?"
The car shifted against him, which was such a strange sensation that he started a little, at least until the wheel carefully turned so that he could rest against it and face Bumblebee more fully. "I have been on Earth for nearly five years now, nearly all of which was spent in my alt mode. Besides, it's more comfortable not to shift form while still healing."
Sam grimaced sympathetically. His ribs were still bothering him, so he understood not wanting to move in strange ways. "What about driving about?"
"Driving is fine," he assured, but there was something -- something wrong. A pause? An inflection? All Sam knew was that it meant --
-- he was struggling to his feet and trying desperately to remember where the different car parts slid. It was useless -- he could remember that the front of the car was Bumblebee's chest, and the doors formed these ... wings, but he was at a loss for the rest. "I bet it doesn't do you any favors," he said flatly, eyes narrowed. And here he'd been, driving his friends around and going to the park --! Sam ground the heel of his palm against his forehead, sighing heavily. He was such an idiot!
"It's doesn't do any harm," Bumblebee said, sounding rather touchy.
"Jesus, Bee!" Sam burst out, managing to keep his level down but not his anger. "I should --" he drew back his foot as if to kick the tire he'd been leaning against, but knew better, so instead he just turned away and stomped off a few paces. Then he felt bad about threatening to kick his car and felt like an even bigger jerk. His parents had taught him better than to react to anger. His entire life had been one long exercise in channeling anger, frustration, and all of that into something better, and now he was spitting in the face of that and being a jerk to his -- guardian. Friend? Well, anyway.
He came slinking back toward the silent Autobot, feeling as though if he had a tail, it'd be tucked firmly between his legs. "Listen," he mumbled, not quite able to look at the yellow Camaro, "I'm just pissed because I -- I'm stupid and I didn't realize this on my own. And I should have." He shoved a hand roughly back over his skull, where he'd used to have longer hair before it became too insufferably hot to have more than the short cut he had now.
There were a few audible clicks inside the Camaro -- what he supposed was the same as a person crossing their arms and looking at him. Then, finally, Bumblebee said: "You have to trust me to know my limits; I trust you to know yours, even though you are exhibiting worrisome behaviors. If I objected to these excursions, it would be rather obvious. It's interesting to listen to Mikaela and Miles disagree -- and it's peaceful to come here."
Some strange tenseness in Sam released, like it was more than just air leaving him as he slowly exhaled. On his next breath, a warmth different from that damning Chernobyl settled into his chest and soothed the strange emotions from him, bathing his lingering injuries in a numbing light. "Yeah, well," he said with a crooked smile, "I really like coming here, too." For some reason, he wanted to add: with you. It was stupid, because that was the specific reason he'd asked for Bumblebee to drive him here -- to spend some time with his guardian. To ... become his friend. He spent a lot of time with Miles and Mikaela, so it only seemed right to try to cement some sort of friendship between Bumblebee and himself by immediately following it up with some one-on-one with him. "So -- er, you wanna stay longer, or go home?"
The door popped up, and the music he hadn't realized had turned off cranked up to a more comfortable listening level. Bumblebee didn't always use lyrics to communicate. He seemed to like the strangest music, anyway.
Sam grimaced. "Yeah, you're right." He scurried around the front of the car, picking up his discarded homework before he slid into the soft leather seat. As they pulled out of the park's lot and rolled off toward the road, Sam licked his lips nervously. I've just been having these nightmares lately. It's made me excitable. Excuses. I just keep seeing you guys carrying the parts of Jazz's body -- no, he could never bring that up. There's something wrong with me. I can't remember Sector Seven hurting you without wanting to go Decepticon. I should have known you were hurt; I feel like I'm no better than they were.
True, but not exactly something you should admit to the opposite faction of the war. God -- S-7 made him want to let Megatron win.
Though really, it did no good to get worked up about it all. He braced his arm on the car door and set his knuckle against the glass, idly drawing patterns -- and the car jerked and the volume sky-rocketed into a short blare as Sam flailed a bit in surprise, gripping the steering wheel and the side of his seat in alarm. The radio overcorrected after the blare, falling silent except some strange clinking-clicking noise. Sam shot the radio a strange look.
"You can feel that? On the window?"
There was a definite sense of embarrassment to the interior of the car. Very slowly, the volume dial turned, trying to 'sneakily' return to a more normal level.
Sam boggled at the strange behavior for a moment before a suspicion formed in his brain. "Are you ticklish?" he demanded, remembering those clinks and wondering if he'd just heard the Autobot equivalent of a giggle.
A series of radio blurbs and a few recognizable TV quotes sputtered out of the radio, all assuring Sam that there was no possible way that Bumblebee was ticklish, because that was the most absurd idea to have occurred since people thought the four humors had anything to do with illness and health, and believing it was totally equivalent of believing in the Loch Ness Monster.
"Really?" Sam said with a politely disbelieving expression. He lifted both hands, curling threateningly, and said, "So if I ...?" Unfortunately for Bumblebee, Sam had spent some time around Miles' family, and Miles had a niece who loved to bother Miles and Sam, but hated to be tickled. Sam, therefore, had learned how to be a tickle master.
The radio made a staticy squealing noise (nothing like those horrible wails that haunted him) before a song came on loud enough to make Sam's ears throb. "I've got no secrets, I give my self away," it wailed, which sounded a lot like 'Uncle' to Sam. He lowered his hands, grinning like a moron, and the radio dial slid down and sulkily began to play some song Sam wasn't familiar with, but certainly didn't sound friendly. "Oh, the brilliant mistakes that you seem to make always push me away ... and now you're steppin' on my feet -- stepping on my feet cause you were never on my side ..."
His car was pouting. Oh boy.
"Right," he said, "Hands off the windows. Got it."
---
Along with the newly worked out schedule came a certain amount of acceptance between Miles and Mikaela ... eventually. Miles wasn't accustomed to socializing with girls who weren't his mother or a girlfriend, so he was never really sure how to react to Mikaela. Sam sympathized, to a point. Luckily, Sam was there to translate Miles' secret Internet language ... or share a clueless look with Mikaela when Miles spouted something too obscure for Sam's second-hand knowledge to do any good.
So understandably, it took a few weeks for Mikaela to stop being put off by Miles ADHD ridden spontaneity, and for Miles to learn what was acceptable to do and say around a female friend. After that, though, things started moving smoothly and a little bit of Sam's hounding sense of not-enough-time eased. It helped that while Mikaela and Miles were still feeling out this new friendship-triad, other things were going well. Namely, Bumblebee.
Or he thought they were going well. They seemed to be going well. Bumblebee loved his music, and Sam slowly learned to tell when Bumblebee was saying something with it, and when he was just sharing a song, for whatever reason. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. Bumblebee was more playful than was good for Sam's health sometimes, considering what his idea of a 'joke' was. Between episodes of suddenly taking off in strange directions, pretending to have a flat, and driving on the neighbors lawns at night, they had a few serious discussions, for which Bumblebee used his voice even if he played music at the same time.
He thought they might be well on their way to being friends. It was what he wanted. Bumblebee had cut down on the number of 'redirection' attempts he made when Sam engaged in some sort of 'friendship building' exercise. Perhaps Bumblebee couldn't deny the bonds that battle built, either.
Or maybe Sam was just relentlessly hounding Bumblebee for some sense of reality because his nightmares had gotten worse and he didn't know who to turn to and Bumblebee had already seen him have one before and --
-- fallingfallingfalling and in mid air the cube was doing that blue electric thing it did when Bumblebee shrunk it -- and it was disappearing into his hands and then Optimus was catching him and they were tumblingtumblingtumbling and those big blue optics were looking at him and Optimus said, "Sam, what have you done?"
(That nightmare would be one that he loathed most of all. It was more than just Optimus Prime's disbelief and hopeless horror at the All Spark being absorbed into Sam in those words ... it was also because -- before he fell, Sector Seven was offering Megatron Bumblebee on a platter and it's Bumblebee who was ripped in half and when he woke he felt like throwing up because he was grateful it was Jazz who died and the relief and the self hatred and disgust are hard to swallow down.
... maybe Optimus was accusing him of that, too.)
-- or maybe he was shoving the All Spark at Megatron, just aiming it, targeting the giant silver mech as a virus in the system -- and instead of dying, he laughs and laugh and laughs, because it's absorbed into him, instead.
When that nightmare goes well, he dies. When it doesn't, pet isn't the least of it and no one that Sam knew died quickly. Cataloguing their own methods of breaking themselves and putting it on the Internet was perhaps the worst idea that Humanity ever had.
---
Trent DeMarco was on average well over six feet in height. He was also packing nearly two hundred pounds of muscle. These 'specs may or may not be completely correct, but when considering that many things about humans came down to mind over matter -- the fact that Sam's mind was convinced these measurements were honest-to-God truth meant that they might as well have been. Ninety-nine-point-nine-(et cetera, et cetera, for eternity) percent of the time, Sam would have rather taken on the Evil Cop Car and his spastic glitch buddy before he would have taken on Trent. Sam was not, however, fool enough to want to take on Megatron over Trent, though.
So, basically, the probability of Sam choosing to get into a confrontation -- verbal, physical, or what have you -- was not impossible, but it was so improbable that it might as well have been. Everyone knew it. It was part of the reason why Sam turned up to do things like 'climb this tree'.
Which was probably why when he swung his backpack into Trent's face, it actually hit the boy. "You touch my car and I'll kill you!" he snarled at the stumbling jock, fist clenched and Chernobyl blaring warnings in his chest -- meltdown inevitable. Whether his blood was boiling or had become acid or molten metal didn't matter because it was painful all the same and it goaded him on and he wanted to throw himself at Trent and tear him limb from limb and maybe that would make things okay -- maybe that would kill the reactor in his chest, but best of all: he wouldn't be able to hurt Bumblebee.
"Sam, no! Stop!" Mikaela yelled, grabbing his arm the moment she reached him.
The only reason he didn't twist away was because she'd probably hurt him worse than he hurt her. Instead, he ignored her, stabbing out an accusing finger and every muscle coiled. "Watch it, Trent," he said softly, eyes locked with incredulous blue and words filled with so much venom that it burnt his tongue just as Chernobyl was hollowing his chest and consuming him. "You touch my car, and you will regret it. I promise you, you - will - regret it."
"Jesus Christ, Wicky," Trent said, backing away and still fondling his face for damage. "You're -- fucking psychotic, damn."
"Then you don't want to piss me off, do you?" he demanded, every last scrap of his attention focused on the retreating boy. The more space that was put between Trent and Bumblebee, the more Sam relaxed, shoulders unwinding and his hand dropping. Chernobyl roiled and tongue still burning, he continued: "You have a problem with me, DeMarco? You can work it out with me -- but if you so much as look at that Camaro wrong ... oh, boy, I have a lot of issues I'd love to work out on you."
"Come on, Sam," Mikaela softly, tugging on him just barely. "Breathe, okay? Breathe."
He probably hadn't been the first enraged male she'd had to talk down, because she knew what she was doing. Though every inch of him was on fire, electrified -- and the world was sharp and colors never more vivid -- he was gaining control of himself. In an instant, everything was bright and glassy, as if there were too much light, but Sam didn't care, breathing just as Mikaela told him. Trent was backing off, and let him mutter insults if he wanted, it didn't change that he'd lost. Let him say that Sam belonged in an asylum, or anything he wanted to say. Sam didn't care -- he'd come to that conclusion a week after killing a giant robot from outer space.
He felt like an ember escaped from a fire, throw carelessly and fragile into the air, burning out and empty. His heart slowed, Chernobyl didn't have a meltdown, and the venom ebbed away.
In the background, Miles whistled hesitantly. "Man, Sam ... way to go."
"Don't encourage him!" Mikaela snapped, incised, releasing Sam to glower at Miles. "Sam already has enough issues with people wanting to hurt Bu -- his car, and he doesn't need egging on!"
"Don't fight," he groaned, stepping away to retrieve his backpack from where it sat innocently on the ground where he dropped it. "Just don't. I don't think I can handle it after seeing that jerk and his jingly keys." He hadn't understood the meaning of the expression 'heart in the mouth' until the moment he looked across the school parking lot and saw all six plus feet of jock standing there and flashing his jingling keys mockingly before changing his grip -- perfect to apply pressure. Then he had swallowed his heart and Chernobyl began trying to produce enough energy to power the world.
There was definitely something wrong with him.
"People have been trying to mess up his car?" Miles demanded, looking scandalized.
"You'd be surprised," Mikaela said flatly before returning her attention back to the boy who was still considering whether or not he should try chasing Trent down, possibly with Bumblebee but more likely with an inanimate car that wouldn't get in trouble for harming humans. "Sam, I thought we talked about this. You're going to hurt yourself if you let yourself get so worked up."
"Yeah, well," he said with sharp tones, hard, unfriendly, prickly. "I -- it's my fault, okay?" It was impossible to explain why, he just knew it was. He felt -- responsible for the Autobots. Responsible for both what they did and what was done to them ... and he was terrified that something terrible was going to happen. How in the world could he explain what strange things the Chernobyl in his chest was powered by? It was impossible to put into words. All he knew was the moment that Bumblebee had been under threat by Trent ... even if Trent couldn't seriously harm the Autobot --
There was something wrong with him.
"Sam," Mikaela said commandingly. "Listen to me, it's not your fault. None of it is. Not this -- not what happened ... before."
"Yeah," he said, because he was pretty sure she wouldn't understand, mostly because he didn't have the words to explain, and partially because it was ... not logical. Or at least he was pretty sure that it wouldn't make much sense, if he could verbalize it anyway. "You're right, Mikaela," he added. "Let's go."
---
"So ... dude, what happened before?"
A stony silence before a head jerked. "Nothing, Miles. Seriously."
"That did not look like nothing -- that didn't even sound like nothing, Sam. I totally approve of the backpack to the face, but ... that wasn't like you at all."
"Yeah -- well, things change. Okay?"
A long pause. "I ... don't blame you, I'd be pretty pissed about some jock trying to key up my ride if it was this sweet. But ... DeMarco was right. You were pretty ... crazy."
"I can't explain it," through clenched teeth. "He shouldn't have brought Bee into it."
Another delicate pause. "If I remember -- dude, Mikaela brought your car into it."
"I don't care." Flat, hostile. "He shouldn't have dared. If he wanted to have a problem with Mikaela or me, he should have come to us. God, how childish can you be?!"
"Dude, okay, okay, fine. I'm not saying anything. Just, maybe you should take up boxing or something. I don't remember you ever being this angry."
A longer, tenser pause, until whitened knuckles eased. Only half to the other boy in the cab, the words were spoken vaguely: "Yeah, well, a lot more happened than just the ... terrorist attack. Some stuff went on before the Mountain Dew machines that really messed me up, okay?" Then completely to the boy: "I'm trying to work through it, alright? I don't want to talk about it."
"Yeah, man, whatever. It's cool. Just ... Mikaela had some good advice. Don't let this get to you, alright?"
"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind."
---
Sam wanted to go home. Bumblebee had other ideas.
He sat stiff and uncertain in the seat as they rolled up to the park. He wasn't sure if even Bumblebee was going to reproach him for his attitude, or if the Autobot simply wanted him to chill out. A part of him wanted it to be that Bumblebee naturally assumed that Sam always had time for him come Hell or high water, but a lot of him highly doubted that it had anything to do with it. The engine turned off with a twist of the ignition that was completely unnecessary and disturbingly final. Sam's heart gave a hard and painful thump in his chest, and he sat uncomfortably in silence for several moments, waiting for words or music that didn't come.
Some time after that, his mind began to uneasily turn back to a few hours prior. While he couldn't actually regret slinging his backpack into Trent's ugly mug for even jesting about keying Bumblebee, he certainly wasn't proud of his behavior during the confrontation or afterward. He had enough of Trent's stupid aggression, he was tired of the nightmares, and he was flatly enraged by the idea of someone attacking Bumblebee.
Which put him in a very unfortunate position, considering the fact that the Autobot was exactly that -- someone on one side of a recently halted intergalactic war, though with guys out there like the Decepticons, Sam seriously doubted all of the fighting was over. There was always someone with a bone to pick and perhaps they'd find something new to start a war about. In either case, Bumblebee would be out fighting others like him, probably even larger than that cop car Decepticon.
Bumblebee finally broke him out of his dark thoughts with a carefully neutral tone as he said: "I could have tolerated a few scratches. It would have taken more power than a human's arm could exert to damage my alloy."
"Well -- good," he said sharply, feeling even more like an idiot than usual. It certainly made sense, though. "I know I overreacted, okay? I just -- I overreacted. Fine. But he had no right to go after you! You had nothing to do with any of that, and I certainly didn't go after his stupid Hummer."
"It appears to be a part of your nature to attack the prized possessions of another."
"But that's it -- you're not a -- a thing, you're my friend, and Trent gets it in his stupid head to try to hurt you -- I just --" his hands clenched, and he shut his jaw tightly, unwilling to repeat his original threat: "... I'll kill you!" But he meant it with a whole-hearted vicious and very serious way.
"I honestly doubt that anything this Trent could do would seriously injure me in anyway," Bumblebee said oh-so-reasonably. "Though we mimicked glass for our disguises, I suspect he would find it very difficult to break. We're excellent mimics, Sam; just because we appear to be cars hardly means we're as vulnerable as one. While not invincible to human technology, it would require specialized equipment to incapacity or cause injury."
God, Sam wished he hadn't brought that up. Not when Chernobyl had just been burning hours earlier, not while it was threatening to resurface, and at those words he made some uncontrollable animal noise, and fought to escape the alien metal trap. It had to be surprise -- or his nails on the interior -- but the handle gave under his fingers and he shot from the cab as quickly as he could -- and though he didn't run, his sneakered feet hit the rough pavement with furiously loud noise. He swung furiously, striking out at something that didn't exist, and had to stumble to remain on his feet.
"I hate them!" he shouted passionately into the silent air. The park was never occupied around this time, and if it wasn't in the full view of the road, he was sure that junkies or kids playing hooky would hang out there. "I hate them," he repeated, with less volume but no less fervor. "I hate his smug ugly look, and I hate their stupid fear and their fucking helicopters and their canned fucking ice and I hate how they made that Nokia phone come to life and then just killed it! I hate them!" Something wrenched inside of him as he remembered it again -- the frantic vicious Nokia, Bumblebee's horrible wails ... and how he had been so frantic for Bumblebee not to kill anyone so that he could just get them out of there. He hated that everywhere he looked, he was seeing parts of Megatron, and he hated how they raped the All Spark and then killed it's children (it was a travesty that all of those carelessly created and slaughtered little sparks were the last children the All Spark ever had), and --
-- and he hated that they did all of those abominable things, and no one could do anything to them, the Autobots couldn't retaliate without making the entire world panic. It made him sick!
Sam clutched his chest, uncertain if the wrenching pain was emotional or if he was really having a heart attack -- and couldn't really bring himself to care. "I hate them," he repeated, like a mantra that was supposed to calm him (he supposed it did). "I hate them. God, what were they thinking! Did they really believe that they could keep something like Megatron silent forever? They were playing God and they didn't even understand that what they were doing was wrong! Power mad sunavabitch ..." Finally, he felt completely hollow, completely burned out by the nuclear reaction in his chest, and let his legs fold until he was sitting on the parking lot.
Almost uncertainly, a little of the strange distance that normally flavored Bumblebee's voice (as if he were still uncomfortable using it) was absent when he said: "It's perfectly normal to save up distress and express it once it is 'safe' to do so, Sam."
Nearly uncontrollably (but not quite), he laughed. It sounded a little weird, a little waterlogged, a little twisted (a little broken). "It's not PTSD, Bee. God, I hate them. You know, I don't think I could ever think that Humanity wasn't worth saving, because there are kids and people who have nothing to do with this, and actually good people -- but I wish there was some way to get rid of the bad kind. I wish there was some way to tell, so that we could get rid of them."
At some point in his bitter and rather disturbing soliloquy, Bumblebee snuck up on him, because Sam started rather violently when something nudged his back and it turned out to be the yellow bumper. Now, he could hear the engine humming so quietly he couldn't actually hear it. Once he realized that, he leaned back a little, then turned sideways so that he could rest against it like a supportive shoulder, taking a deep breath. If he listed very carefully, he thought he could actually hear the quiet motor working.
Slowly, thoughtfully, Bumblebee said: "Things are rarely ever so clear cut, Sam. It's easy as long as each side is wearing a different symbol -- a different uniform. But with Humanity, its much less cohesive and organized. Those you consider the 'Decepticons' of your species, of your society ... I don't like what happened, but I don't hold it against them. Humanity has acknowledged that they are afraid of what they do not understand -- you even have a word for it."
The metal under his cheek felt warm and as if it were vibrating just barely, though the engine didn't seem to be going powerfully enough to cause any of it. "Yeah: xenophobia," he said; it was hard not to know those sorts of words. Miles was a total Alien nut, with the Sigourney Weaver and the Xenomorphs. It had been idle curiosity that had led to the research about xenophobia. "But," he added, sitting up and placing his hand on the bumper, "we have the opposite for that word, too."
The engine hummed. "Yes," Bee agreed simply, "you do."
---
There were nightmares, and then there were nightmares. Sam had little empathy for people who had nightmares because he was sleeping nearly twelve hours a night, and experiencing Silent Hill style horror for all of it. There was no relief, no breaks in the constant terror and gore. From the moment that Decepticon masquerading as a police car had threatened to run him over and showed off those horrific mockeries of a blender's blades, Sam had starting having nightmares, and once he had something to back it up (such as Mission City), it only got worse. So he regularly woke up to his alarm clock, typically unable to escape the nightmare before then, sort of shaky and in need of a nice hot shower to keep all of his muscles from locking up on him.
Ironically enough, it was after his talk with Bumblebee that his nightmares took on a more disturbing turn.
How he reached the whole point of the 'dream' was different, as was the ending before he woke up, but the theme held true each time. He always ended up in the cab of one Cybertronian or another, and they transformed into their bipedal mode while he was still inside. Sometimes it was an Autobot who forgot that he was hiding inside them, and sometimes it was a Decepticon who did it on purpose.
Somehow, he remained aware of the entire thing, becoming conscious of the way the entire process worked. It was like his blood and broken bones and rent flesh could somehow transmit information back to his spattered brains, informing him that this part shifts here while that one is clicking in place there. And though he had grown accustomed to falling back to sleep after horrific nightmares, that sort of thing wasn't so easily brushed off, so he laid silently in bed, staring at the calming blue numbers as they slowly added up to daylight.
No one noticed that he was suffering a new type of horror (feeling the pressure and the crackle snap and pop), or that for the last week, he always had to hesitate for a moment to gather his courage ... how he swallowed a little and had to scrub his damp palms against his jeans before getting into the Camaro. Well, mostly no one noticed. Bumblebee definitely noticed, which was one thing that Sam hadn't been able to figure out how to avoid. As he had noticed, he seemed to feel it was up to him to discover the root of whatever was that was driving Sam up the figurative wall, and as fearless as the (relatively) small and upbeat Autobot he was, he took Sam to task. With locked doors and everything.
Never let it be said that (comparatively) small yellow robots didn't have ways of getting their points across.
In either case, Sam felt this was completely unfair and it took him three hours of listening to incomprehensible fast-talking Asian music (which Bumblebee later swore was J-Pop, received through an online radio channel) before he cracked. Reluctantly confiding his most recent nightmares to Bumblebee, Sam spent another thirty minutes assuring him that he didn't think that Bumblebee would ever do something like that to him. As a matter of fact, none of his nightmares had included Bumblebee, and considering that Sam never planned on climbing inside any other giant alien robot, that seemed to make the point moot.
For the rest of the day, Sam was seized by the need to sing a song with words he couldn't even pronounced, but it was all worth it and a sweet relief from the constant horror of sleeping when he finally dreamed.
---
Sam rolled out of bed, relieved at having slept through the night. Strangely enough, it was dark outside. He puttered around the room, then picked up the All Spark from where it sat waiting on his nightstand and jogged downstairs where his parents were watching TV, getting liquored up as usual.
"Goin' to hang out with Bee," he said as greeting and farewell.
"Oh! Optimus Prime called," his mother said leaning over with that concerned look on her face. "He wants you to pick up some oil at the store."
He pondered over whether Optimus meant vegetable oil or motor oil (and if the second, which would be best to buy, it might be like a sports drink or something), then decided to get both just in case. "Got it, Mom," he said, adjusting his grip on the All Spark so that his hands were equally on both sides and it was pressed against his stomach. When he left the house, Bumblebee wasn't there, but this didn't perturb him. He walked down the path to the street and began walking down the middle. It was dark and silent, and no breeze was blowing. The air was moist and warm, and the street lamps lit splotches of orange and blue.
The All Spark was so warm under his palms. Warmer than the hot air of the night, so hot it nearly burned -- but it didn't. He didn't even think to let go. After a moment, he registered the soft whirl-click of Cybertronian gears behind him.
"I'm going to the store," he said, but there was no answer.
He walked through the night with a mechanical shadow at his heels.
-- To Be Continued --
- Sam overreacts a lot during this chapter. Both times, it was completely on purpose: he honestly should have gotten at least a little counseling for his experiences, especially since he recognized the fact that he killed a sapient (if sociopathic) being. We don't really get a sense of how this is changing Sam until he lashes out.
- Sam's vision problem: It's never mentioned because he never noticed it resolve itself. Over night, in fact. For the curious ones, ask me in a review and I can tell you there what was up with his vision and why it resolved so quickly.
- Megatron's line: Sam is remembering it wrong. Humans are prone to that.
- If you're reading this, I luff chuu 8D Thanks again to all those who review or keep an eye on this!
Now with tasty explanations (may be considered spoilers, but only if you wanna learn-with-Sam) in the reviews! 8D
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
I start time-skipping ... A LOT in this chapter. Trust that the events are all chronological, and those that obviously follow one another do.
---
Chapter Four:Nightmares
Runrunrunrunrunrunbutthefloorwaswaterunderhisfeetand --
he was on the stairs and struggling up them but no matter how fast he tried to move he was slowslowslowslow and the stairs slipped and gripped as his feet and made him slower. Behind him, the fucking shark was coming out of the waterfloor and snapping it's teeth like some mechanical mousetrap snapsnapsnap as its tail thrashed and sent it sliding closer and closer and closer and deaddead staring black soulless eyes watched and laughed and that toothfilled grin. Then its teeth bleed and blood gushed and red flew as a hand reached out of those scarlet foaming jaws and snap the head broke as that threatening silver arm protruded and he ranranran over quicksand steps to escape, All Spark clutched like a football, the only solid thing -- the only solid thing -- the only solid thing --
and he was on the roof and runningrunningrunning. "What drives you, fleshling? Fear or courage?" and he was runningrunningrunning --
fallingfallingfalling
falling
fall
and there was no one to catch him, no Optimus Prime, no knight in golden armor, and he hit the ground and his ribs crackled as his body flattened and the blood was in his lungs and slivers of unnaturally white bone were sticking out of his chest like the back of a porcupine flesh hanging in stringy strips and the All Spark sat in his lap, dancing with blue energy and Megatron was falling toward him spread eagle and Sam didn't have a chance.
Sometimes, you don't wake up before you die. Unfortunately, Sam was having a lot of these nightmares lately.
He laid in bed, staring at the red numbers informing him that it was three in the morning. After a moment, he rolled over and allowed his exhaustion to drag him back down -- but made a mental note to buy a new alarm clock.
---
Over the next week, they hammered out a functioning schedule. After school, Miles, Mikaela, and Sam went to Sonic to sit on the benches (none of them dared to think about eating in the Camaro because Miles worshipped that car, Mikaela knew better, and Sam was squeamish enough just being organic without eating inside the car), eat their meals, then drop off the other two. Sam and Bumblebee would drive to the park to sit under that big cottonwood tree and Sam could prop his back against a tire and do his homework while Bumblebee listened to music. He wasn't feeling brave enough to lay on the hood, anyway, and the interior wasn't comfortable for doing homework within.
"You sure you're not cramped or anything, stuck as a car?" he asked after he realized he'd been staring at the same problem without actually seeing it for the last thirty minutes. The vague strings of music coming from inside the Camaro was calming, but things could be said for being too calming.
"I've had a lot of practice," Bumblebee assured him wryly. The voice seemed to come from around the engine, but he wasn't exactly going to go looking for it. He wasn't sure if checking under the hood would be more like a dentist checking things out, or looking under a girl's skirt. (Not that there was anything feminine about Bee, just that -- well, it was the only comparison he could make to hint at just how weird and intrusive it seemed.)
"Oh?" Sam asked, perking up a bit. He wiggled and shifted, trying to find a way to prop himself against Bumblebee and be able to 'face' him at the same time. It made sense: Bumblebee surely hadn't just appeared that day at the car lot. "How much practice?"
The car shifted against him, which was such a strange sensation that he started a little, at least until the wheel carefully turned so that he could rest against it and face Bumblebee more fully. "I have been on Earth for nearly five years now, nearly all of which was spent in my alt mode. Besides, it's more comfortable not to shift form while still healing."
Sam grimaced sympathetically. His ribs were still bothering him, so he understood not wanting to move in strange ways. "What about driving about?"
"Driving is fine," he assured, but there was something -- something wrong. A pause? An inflection? All Sam knew was that it meant --
-- he was struggling to his feet and trying desperately to remember where the different car parts slid. It was useless -- he could remember that the front of the car was Bumblebee's chest, and the doors formed these ... wings, but he was at a loss for the rest. "I bet it doesn't do you any favors," he said flatly, eyes narrowed. And here he'd been, driving his friends around and going to the park --! Sam ground the heel of his palm against his forehead, sighing heavily. He was such an idiot!
"It's doesn't do any harm," Bumblebee said, sounding rather touchy.
"Jesus, Bee!" Sam burst out, managing to keep his level down but not his anger. "I should --" he drew back his foot as if to kick the tire he'd been leaning against, but knew better, so instead he just turned away and stomped off a few paces. Then he felt bad about threatening to kick his car and felt like an even bigger jerk. His parents had taught him better than to react to anger. His entire life had been one long exercise in channeling anger, frustration, and all of that into something better, and now he was spitting in the face of that and being a jerk to his -- guardian. Friend? Well, anyway.
He came slinking back toward the silent Autobot, feeling as though if he had a tail, it'd be tucked firmly between his legs. "Listen," he mumbled, not quite able to look at the yellow Camaro, "I'm just pissed because I -- I'm stupid and I didn't realize this on my own. And I should have." He shoved a hand roughly back over his skull, where he'd used to have longer hair before it became too insufferably hot to have more than the short cut he had now.
There were a few audible clicks inside the Camaro -- what he supposed was the same as a person crossing their arms and looking at him. Then, finally, Bumblebee said: "You have to trust me to know my limits; I trust you to know yours, even though you are exhibiting worrisome behaviors. If I objected to these excursions, it would be rather obvious. It's interesting to listen to Mikaela and Miles disagree -- and it's peaceful to come here."
Some strange tenseness in Sam released, like it was more than just air leaving him as he slowly exhaled. On his next breath, a warmth different from that damning Chernobyl settled into his chest and soothed the strange emotions from him, bathing his lingering injuries in a numbing light. "Yeah, well," he said with a crooked smile, "I really like coming here, too." For some reason, he wanted to add: with you. It was stupid, because that was the specific reason he'd asked for Bumblebee to drive him here -- to spend some time with his guardian. To ... become his friend. He spent a lot of time with Miles and Mikaela, so it only seemed right to try to cement some sort of friendship between Bumblebee and himself by immediately following it up with some one-on-one with him. "So -- er, you wanna stay longer, or go home?"
The door popped up, and the music he hadn't realized had turned off cranked up to a more comfortable listening level. Bumblebee didn't always use lyrics to communicate. He seemed to like the strangest music, anyway.
Sam grimaced. "Yeah, you're right." He scurried around the front of the car, picking up his discarded homework before he slid into the soft leather seat. As they pulled out of the park's lot and rolled off toward the road, Sam licked his lips nervously. I've just been having these nightmares lately. It's made me excitable. Excuses. I just keep seeing you guys carrying the parts of Jazz's body -- no, he could never bring that up. There's something wrong with me. I can't remember Sector Seven hurting you without wanting to go Decepticon. I should have known you were hurt; I feel like I'm no better than they were.
True, but not exactly something you should admit to the opposite faction of the war. God -- S-7 made him want to let Megatron win.
Though really, it did no good to get worked up about it all. He braced his arm on the car door and set his knuckle against the glass, idly drawing patterns -- and the car jerked and the volume sky-rocketed into a short blare as Sam flailed a bit in surprise, gripping the steering wheel and the side of his seat in alarm. The radio overcorrected after the blare, falling silent except some strange clinking-clicking noise. Sam shot the radio a strange look.
"You can feel that? On the window?"
There was a definite sense of embarrassment to the interior of the car. Very slowly, the volume dial turned, trying to 'sneakily' return to a more normal level.
Sam boggled at the strange behavior for a moment before a suspicion formed in his brain. "Are you ticklish?" he demanded, remembering those clinks and wondering if he'd just heard the Autobot equivalent of a giggle.
A series of radio blurbs and a few recognizable TV quotes sputtered out of the radio, all assuring Sam that there was no possible way that Bumblebee was ticklish, because that was the most absurd idea to have occurred since people thought the four humors had anything to do with illness and health, and believing it was totally equivalent of believing in the Loch Ness Monster.
"Really?" Sam said with a politely disbelieving expression. He lifted both hands, curling threateningly, and said, "So if I ...?" Unfortunately for Bumblebee, Sam had spent some time around Miles' family, and Miles had a niece who loved to bother Miles and Sam, but hated to be tickled. Sam, therefore, had learned how to be a tickle master.
The radio made a staticy squealing noise (nothing like those horrible wails that haunted him) before a song came on loud enough to make Sam's ears throb. "I've got no secrets, I give my self away," it wailed, which sounded a lot like 'Uncle' to Sam. He lowered his hands, grinning like a moron, and the radio dial slid down and sulkily began to play some song Sam wasn't familiar with, but certainly didn't sound friendly. "Oh, the brilliant mistakes that you seem to make always push me away ... and now you're steppin' on my feet -- stepping on my feet cause you were never on my side ..."
His car was pouting. Oh boy.
"Right," he said, "Hands off the windows. Got it."
---
Along with the newly worked out schedule came a certain amount of acceptance between Miles and Mikaela ... eventually. Miles wasn't accustomed to socializing with girls who weren't his mother or a girlfriend, so he was never really sure how to react to Mikaela. Sam sympathized, to a point. Luckily, Sam was there to translate Miles' secret Internet language ... or share a clueless look with Mikaela when Miles spouted something too obscure for Sam's second-hand knowledge to do any good.
So understandably, it took a few weeks for Mikaela to stop being put off by Miles ADHD ridden spontaneity, and for Miles to learn what was acceptable to do and say around a female friend. After that, though, things started moving smoothly and a little bit of Sam's hounding sense of not-enough-time eased. It helped that while Mikaela and Miles were still feeling out this new friendship-triad, other things were going well. Namely, Bumblebee.
Or he thought they were going well. They seemed to be going well. Bumblebee loved his music, and Sam slowly learned to tell when Bumblebee was saying something with it, and when he was just sharing a song, for whatever reason. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. Bumblebee was more playful than was good for Sam's health sometimes, considering what his idea of a 'joke' was. Between episodes of suddenly taking off in strange directions, pretending to have a flat, and driving on the neighbors lawns at night, they had a few serious discussions, for which Bumblebee used his voice even if he played music at the same time.
He thought they might be well on their way to being friends. It was what he wanted. Bumblebee had cut down on the number of 'redirection' attempts he made when Sam engaged in some sort of 'friendship building' exercise. Perhaps Bumblebee couldn't deny the bonds that battle built, either.
Or maybe Sam was just relentlessly hounding Bumblebee for some sense of reality because his nightmares had gotten worse and he didn't know who to turn to and Bumblebee had already seen him have one before and --
-- fallingfallingfalling and in mid air the cube was doing that blue electric thing it did when Bumblebee shrunk it -- and it was disappearing into his hands and then Optimus was catching him and they were tumblingtumblingtumbling and those big blue optics were looking at him and Optimus said, "Sam, what have you done?"
(That nightmare would be one that he loathed most of all. It was more than just Optimus Prime's disbelief and hopeless horror at the All Spark being absorbed into Sam in those words ... it was also because -- before he fell, Sector Seven was offering Megatron Bumblebee on a platter and it's Bumblebee who was ripped in half and when he woke he felt like throwing up because he was grateful it was Jazz who died and the relief and the self hatred and disgust are hard to swallow down.
... maybe Optimus was accusing him of that, too.)
-- or maybe he was shoving the All Spark at Megatron, just aiming it, targeting the giant silver mech as a virus in the system -- and instead of dying, he laughs and laugh and laughs, because it's absorbed into him, instead.
When that nightmare goes well, he dies. When it doesn't, pet isn't the least of it and no one that Sam knew died quickly. Cataloguing their own methods of breaking themselves and putting it on the Internet was perhaps the worst idea that Humanity ever had.
---
Trent DeMarco was on average well over six feet in height. He was also packing nearly two hundred pounds of muscle. These 'specs may or may not be completely correct, but when considering that many things about humans came down to mind over matter -- the fact that Sam's mind was convinced these measurements were honest-to-God truth meant that they might as well have been. Ninety-nine-point-nine-(et cetera, et cetera, for eternity) percent of the time, Sam would have rather taken on the Evil Cop Car and his spastic glitch buddy before he would have taken on Trent. Sam was not, however, fool enough to want to take on Megatron over Trent, though.
So, basically, the probability of Sam choosing to get into a confrontation -- verbal, physical, or what have you -- was not impossible, but it was so improbable that it might as well have been. Everyone knew it. It was part of the reason why Sam turned up to do things like 'climb this tree'.
Which was probably why when he swung his backpack into Trent's face, it actually hit the boy. "You touch my car and I'll kill you!" he snarled at the stumbling jock, fist clenched and Chernobyl blaring warnings in his chest -- meltdown inevitable. Whether his blood was boiling or had become acid or molten metal didn't matter because it was painful all the same and it goaded him on and he wanted to throw himself at Trent and tear him limb from limb and maybe that would make things okay -- maybe that would kill the reactor in his chest, but best of all: he wouldn't be able to hurt Bumblebee.
"Sam, no! Stop!" Mikaela yelled, grabbing his arm the moment she reached him.
The only reason he didn't twist away was because she'd probably hurt him worse than he hurt her. Instead, he ignored her, stabbing out an accusing finger and every muscle coiled. "Watch it, Trent," he said softly, eyes locked with incredulous blue and words filled with so much venom that it burnt his tongue just as Chernobyl was hollowing his chest and consuming him. "You touch my car, and you will regret it. I promise you, you - will - regret it."
"Jesus Christ, Wicky," Trent said, backing away and still fondling his face for damage. "You're -- fucking psychotic, damn."
"Then you don't want to piss me off, do you?" he demanded, every last scrap of his attention focused on the retreating boy. The more space that was put between Trent and Bumblebee, the more Sam relaxed, shoulders unwinding and his hand dropping. Chernobyl roiled and tongue still burning, he continued: "You have a problem with me, DeMarco? You can work it out with me -- but if you so much as look at that Camaro wrong ... oh, boy, I have a lot of issues I'd love to work out on you."
"Come on, Sam," Mikaela softly, tugging on him just barely. "Breathe, okay? Breathe."
He probably hadn't been the first enraged male she'd had to talk down, because she knew what she was doing. Though every inch of him was on fire, electrified -- and the world was sharp and colors never more vivid -- he was gaining control of himself. In an instant, everything was bright and glassy, as if there were too much light, but Sam didn't care, breathing just as Mikaela told him. Trent was backing off, and let him mutter insults if he wanted, it didn't change that he'd lost. Let him say that Sam belonged in an asylum, or anything he wanted to say. Sam didn't care -- he'd come to that conclusion a week after killing a giant robot from outer space.
He felt like an ember escaped from a fire, throw carelessly and fragile into the air, burning out and empty. His heart slowed, Chernobyl didn't have a meltdown, and the venom ebbed away.
In the background, Miles whistled hesitantly. "Man, Sam ... way to go."
"Don't encourage him!" Mikaela snapped, incised, releasing Sam to glower at Miles. "Sam already has enough issues with people wanting to hurt Bu -- his car, and he doesn't need egging on!"
"Don't fight," he groaned, stepping away to retrieve his backpack from where it sat innocently on the ground where he dropped it. "Just don't. I don't think I can handle it after seeing that jerk and his jingly keys." He hadn't understood the meaning of the expression 'heart in the mouth' until the moment he looked across the school parking lot and saw all six plus feet of jock standing there and flashing his jingling keys mockingly before changing his grip -- perfect to apply pressure. Then he had swallowed his heart and Chernobyl began trying to produce enough energy to power the world.
There was definitely something wrong with him.
"People have been trying to mess up his car?" Miles demanded, looking scandalized.
"You'd be surprised," Mikaela said flatly before returning her attention back to the boy who was still considering whether or not he should try chasing Trent down, possibly with Bumblebee but more likely with an inanimate car that wouldn't get in trouble for harming humans. "Sam, I thought we talked about this. You're going to hurt yourself if you let yourself get so worked up."
"Yeah, well," he said with sharp tones, hard, unfriendly, prickly. "I -- it's my fault, okay?" It was impossible to explain why, he just knew it was. He felt -- responsible for the Autobots. Responsible for both what they did and what was done to them ... and he was terrified that something terrible was going to happen. How in the world could he explain what strange things the Chernobyl in his chest was powered by? It was impossible to put into words. All he knew was the moment that Bumblebee had been under threat by Trent ... even if Trent couldn't seriously harm the Autobot --
There was something wrong with him.
"Sam," Mikaela said commandingly. "Listen to me, it's not your fault. None of it is. Not this -- not what happened ... before."
"Yeah," he said, because he was pretty sure she wouldn't understand, mostly because he didn't have the words to explain, and partially because it was ... not logical. Or at least he was pretty sure that it wouldn't make much sense, if he could verbalize it anyway. "You're right, Mikaela," he added. "Let's go."
---
"So ... dude, what happened before?"
A stony silence before a head jerked. "Nothing, Miles. Seriously."
"That did not look like nothing -- that didn't even sound like nothing, Sam. I totally approve of the backpack to the face, but ... that wasn't like you at all."
"Yeah -- well, things change. Okay?"
A long pause. "I ... don't blame you, I'd be pretty pissed about some jock trying to key up my ride if it was this sweet. But ... DeMarco was right. You were pretty ... crazy."
"I can't explain it," through clenched teeth. "He shouldn't have brought Bee into it."
Another delicate pause. "If I remember -- dude, Mikaela brought your car into it."
"I don't care." Flat, hostile. "He shouldn't have dared. If he wanted to have a problem with Mikaela or me, he should have come to us. God, how childish can you be?!"
"Dude, okay, okay, fine. I'm not saying anything. Just, maybe you should take up boxing or something. I don't remember you ever being this angry."
A longer, tenser pause, until whitened knuckles eased. Only half to the other boy in the cab, the words were spoken vaguely: "Yeah, well, a lot more happened than just the ... terrorist attack. Some stuff went on before the Mountain Dew machines that really messed me up, okay?" Then completely to the boy: "I'm trying to work through it, alright? I don't want to talk about it."
"Yeah, man, whatever. It's cool. Just ... Mikaela had some good advice. Don't let this get to you, alright?"
"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind."
---
Sam wanted to go home. Bumblebee had other ideas.
He sat stiff and uncertain in the seat as they rolled up to the park. He wasn't sure if even Bumblebee was going to reproach him for his attitude, or if the Autobot simply wanted him to chill out. A part of him wanted it to be that Bumblebee naturally assumed that Sam always had time for him come Hell or high water, but a lot of him highly doubted that it had anything to do with it. The engine turned off with a twist of the ignition that was completely unnecessary and disturbingly final. Sam's heart gave a hard and painful thump in his chest, and he sat uncomfortably in silence for several moments, waiting for words or music that didn't come.
Some time after that, his mind began to uneasily turn back to a few hours prior. While he couldn't actually regret slinging his backpack into Trent's ugly mug for even jesting about keying Bumblebee, he certainly wasn't proud of his behavior during the confrontation or afterward. He had enough of Trent's stupid aggression, he was tired of the nightmares, and he was flatly enraged by the idea of someone attacking Bumblebee.
Which put him in a very unfortunate position, considering the fact that the Autobot was exactly that -- someone on one side of a recently halted intergalactic war, though with guys out there like the Decepticons, Sam seriously doubted all of the fighting was over. There was always someone with a bone to pick and perhaps they'd find something new to start a war about. In either case, Bumblebee would be out fighting others like him, probably even larger than that cop car Decepticon.
Bumblebee finally broke him out of his dark thoughts with a carefully neutral tone as he said: "I could have tolerated a few scratches. It would have taken more power than a human's arm could exert to damage my alloy."
"Well -- good," he said sharply, feeling even more like an idiot than usual. It certainly made sense, though. "I know I overreacted, okay? I just -- I overreacted. Fine. But he had no right to go after you! You had nothing to do with any of that, and I certainly didn't go after his stupid Hummer."
"It appears to be a part of your nature to attack the prized possessions of another."
"But that's it -- you're not a -- a thing, you're my friend, and Trent gets it in his stupid head to try to hurt you -- I just --" his hands clenched, and he shut his jaw tightly, unwilling to repeat his original threat: "... I'll kill you!" But he meant it with a whole-hearted vicious and very serious way.
"I honestly doubt that anything this Trent could do would seriously injure me in anyway," Bumblebee said oh-so-reasonably. "Though we mimicked glass for our disguises, I suspect he would find it very difficult to break. We're excellent mimics, Sam; just because we appear to be cars hardly means we're as vulnerable as one. While not invincible to human technology, it would require specialized equipment to incapacity or cause injury."
God, Sam wished he hadn't brought that up. Not when Chernobyl had just been burning hours earlier, not while it was threatening to resurface, and at those words he made some uncontrollable animal noise, and fought to escape the alien metal trap. It had to be surprise -- or his nails on the interior -- but the handle gave under his fingers and he shot from the cab as quickly as he could -- and though he didn't run, his sneakered feet hit the rough pavement with furiously loud noise. He swung furiously, striking out at something that didn't exist, and had to stumble to remain on his feet.
"I hate them!" he shouted passionately into the silent air. The park was never occupied around this time, and if it wasn't in the full view of the road, he was sure that junkies or kids playing hooky would hang out there. "I hate them," he repeated, with less volume but no less fervor. "I hate his smug ugly look, and I hate their stupid fear and their fucking helicopters and their canned fucking ice and I hate how they made that Nokia phone come to life and then just killed it! I hate them!" Something wrenched inside of him as he remembered it again -- the frantic vicious Nokia, Bumblebee's horrible wails ... and how he had been so frantic for Bumblebee not to kill anyone so that he could just get them out of there. He hated that everywhere he looked, he was seeing parts of Megatron, and he hated how they raped the All Spark and then killed it's children (it was a travesty that all of those carelessly created and slaughtered little sparks were the last children the All Spark ever had), and --
-- and he hated that they did all of those abominable things, and no one could do anything to them, the Autobots couldn't retaliate without making the entire world panic. It made him sick!
Sam clutched his chest, uncertain if the wrenching pain was emotional or if he was really having a heart attack -- and couldn't really bring himself to care. "I hate them," he repeated, like a mantra that was supposed to calm him (he supposed it did). "I hate them. God, what were they thinking! Did they really believe that they could keep something like Megatron silent forever? They were playing God and they didn't even understand that what they were doing was wrong! Power mad sunavabitch ..." Finally, he felt completely hollow, completely burned out by the nuclear reaction in his chest, and let his legs fold until he was sitting on the parking lot.
Almost uncertainly, a little of the strange distance that normally flavored Bumblebee's voice (as if he were still uncomfortable using it) was absent when he said: "It's perfectly normal to save up distress and express it once it is 'safe' to do so, Sam."
Nearly uncontrollably (but not quite), he laughed. It sounded a little weird, a little waterlogged, a little twisted (a little broken). "It's not PTSD, Bee. God, I hate them. You know, I don't think I could ever think that Humanity wasn't worth saving, because there are kids and people who have nothing to do with this, and actually good people -- but I wish there was some way to get rid of the bad kind. I wish there was some way to tell, so that we could get rid of them."
At some point in his bitter and rather disturbing soliloquy, Bumblebee snuck up on him, because Sam started rather violently when something nudged his back and it turned out to be the yellow bumper. Now, he could hear the engine humming so quietly he couldn't actually hear it. Once he realized that, he leaned back a little, then turned sideways so that he could rest against it like a supportive shoulder, taking a deep breath. If he listed very carefully, he thought he could actually hear the quiet motor working.
Slowly, thoughtfully, Bumblebee said: "Things are rarely ever so clear cut, Sam. It's easy as long as each side is wearing a different symbol -- a different uniform. But with Humanity, its much less cohesive and organized. Those you consider the 'Decepticons' of your species, of your society ... I don't like what happened, but I don't hold it against them. Humanity has acknowledged that they are afraid of what they do not understand -- you even have a word for it."
The metal under his cheek felt warm and as if it were vibrating just barely, though the engine didn't seem to be going powerfully enough to cause any of it. "Yeah: xenophobia," he said; it was hard not to know those sorts of words. Miles was a total Alien nut, with the Sigourney Weaver and the Xenomorphs. It had been idle curiosity that had led to the research about xenophobia. "But," he added, sitting up and placing his hand on the bumper, "we have the opposite for that word, too."
The engine hummed. "Yes," Bee agreed simply, "you do."
---
There were nightmares, and then there were nightmares. Sam had little empathy for people who had nightmares because he was sleeping nearly twelve hours a night, and experiencing Silent Hill style horror for all of it. There was no relief, no breaks in the constant terror and gore. From the moment that Decepticon masquerading as a police car had threatened to run him over and showed off those horrific mockeries of a blender's blades, Sam had starting having nightmares, and once he had something to back it up (such as Mission City), it only got worse. So he regularly woke up to his alarm clock, typically unable to escape the nightmare before then, sort of shaky and in need of a nice hot shower to keep all of his muscles from locking up on him.
Ironically enough, it was after his talk with Bumblebee that his nightmares took on a more disturbing turn.
How he reached the whole point of the 'dream' was different, as was the ending before he woke up, but the theme held true each time. He always ended up in the cab of one Cybertronian or another, and they transformed into their bipedal mode while he was still inside. Sometimes it was an Autobot who forgot that he was hiding inside them, and sometimes it was a Decepticon who did it on purpose.
Somehow, he remained aware of the entire thing, becoming conscious of the way the entire process worked. It was like his blood and broken bones and rent flesh could somehow transmit information back to his spattered brains, informing him that this part shifts here while that one is clicking in place there. And though he had grown accustomed to falling back to sleep after horrific nightmares, that sort of thing wasn't so easily brushed off, so he laid silently in bed, staring at the calming blue numbers as they slowly added up to daylight.
No one noticed that he was suffering a new type of horror (feeling the pressure and the crackle snap and pop), or that for the last week, he always had to hesitate for a moment to gather his courage ... how he swallowed a little and had to scrub his damp palms against his jeans before getting into the Camaro. Well, mostly no one noticed. Bumblebee definitely noticed, which was one thing that Sam hadn't been able to figure out how to avoid. As he had noticed, he seemed to feel it was up to him to discover the root of whatever was that was driving Sam up the figurative wall, and as fearless as the (relatively) small and upbeat Autobot he was, he took Sam to task. With locked doors and everything.
Never let it be said that (comparatively) small yellow robots didn't have ways of getting their points across.
In either case, Sam felt this was completely unfair and it took him three hours of listening to incomprehensible fast-talking Asian music (which Bumblebee later swore was J-Pop, received through an online radio channel) before he cracked. Reluctantly confiding his most recent nightmares to Bumblebee, Sam spent another thirty minutes assuring him that he didn't think that Bumblebee would ever do something like that to him. As a matter of fact, none of his nightmares had included Bumblebee, and considering that Sam never planned on climbing inside any other giant alien robot, that seemed to make the point moot.
For the rest of the day, Sam was seized by the need to sing a song with words he couldn't even pronounced, but it was all worth it and a sweet relief from the constant horror of sleeping when he finally dreamed.
---
Sam rolled out of bed, relieved at having slept through the night. Strangely enough, it was dark outside. He puttered around the room, then picked up the All Spark from where it sat waiting on his nightstand and jogged downstairs where his parents were watching TV, getting liquored up as usual.
"Goin' to hang out with Bee," he said as greeting and farewell.
"Oh! Optimus Prime called," his mother said leaning over with that concerned look on her face. "He wants you to pick up some oil at the store."
He pondered over whether Optimus meant vegetable oil or motor oil (and if the second, which would be best to buy, it might be like a sports drink or something), then decided to get both just in case. "Got it, Mom," he said, adjusting his grip on the All Spark so that his hands were equally on both sides and it was pressed against his stomach. When he left the house, Bumblebee wasn't there, but this didn't perturb him. He walked down the path to the street and began walking down the middle. It was dark and silent, and no breeze was blowing. The air was moist and warm, and the street lamps lit splotches of orange and blue.
The All Spark was so warm under his palms. Warmer than the hot air of the night, so hot it nearly burned -- but it didn't. He didn't even think to let go. After a moment, he registered the soft whirl-click of Cybertronian gears behind him.
"I'm going to the store," he said, but there was no answer.
He walked through the night with a mechanical shadow at his heels.
-- To Be Continued --
- Sam overreacts a lot during this chapter. Both times, it was completely on purpose: he honestly should have gotten at least a little counseling for his experiences, especially since he recognized the fact that he killed a sapient (if sociopathic) being. We don't really get a sense of how this is changing Sam until he lashes out.
- Sam's vision problem: It's never mentioned because he never noticed it resolve itself. Over night, in fact. For the curious ones, ask me in a review and I can tell you there what was up with his vision and why it resolved so quickly.
- Megatron's line: Sam is remembering it wrong. Humans are prone to that.
- If you're reading this, I luff chuu 8D Thanks again to all those who review or keep an eye on this!
Now with tasty explanations (may be considered spoilers, but only if you wanna learn-with-Sam) in the reviews! 8D