Conceptions - 7
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
Chapter Seven: ... the Storm
-+-
The night was dark and deep as he walked down the middle of the glistening street, moonshards glittering and show lights of orange and blue spattering the scene like precision airbrush spots. The houses were dark -- empty -- and the vehicles parked alongside silent houses and lining the streets were mute and sleeping. The gentle and soothing whirl click of Autobot movement (contentment, calm) behind him was a familiar accompaniment to the unyielding corner and edges of the All Spark in his arms, burning hot and bright while it sparked with blue energy. They walked down the middle of the street to the end he couldn't see past, and it only got a little closer for the several yards he must be walking.
"I won't be able to take it," he said earnestly.
"It'll work out fine," the Autobot assured him.
No harm shall come to Samuel James Witwicky.
"It'll drive me insane," he refuted. "I'll end up in a institute like Captain Archibald. Or worse."
"Never," he promised.
Trust in progress. Believe in design.
You're not infallible.
"This won't go wrong."
Infallibility is false. Precision is undeniable. Process is recorded. Advancement cannot be reversed.
Is that how --
-- but then the All Spark clattered against the pavement because the skin on his left arm was splitting and peeling away and he could see where his bones should be but they were metal struts instead and sparking wires and his skin kept splitting and his flesh was burning away and it was Frenzy's arm where his should be and it clawed into his stomach to reach his spine and gripped it --
For the first time in his life, he woke up shouting. It was also the first time that he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders despite the heat and left his bedroom. Normally, he'd just stay in the comfortable hot cushion on his bed, but his skin crawled and he wasn't feeling tired like he normally did. Padding silently through the dark house with socked feet, he wandered around through the kitchen and the living room, wanting neither water nor the couch. For a moment, he sat in front of the sleeping computer, staring at the softly flickering lights as the screen saver scrolled the time (3:13 AM ... 3:14 AM ... 3:15 AM ...), fans whispering quietly as they pulled hot air away from machinery and spat it out vents.
The desire to touch the thing was strong, which was weird. Sam blinked blearily at it for a few more minutes before deciding that it was probably because it was warm like the All Spark he enjoyed carrying in his dreams. (He did like carrying the All Spark. It was warm and hot and the night dreams were peaceful ... except for tonight.) Grudgingly, and because he was exhausted, he gave into the urge and reached out to pet the computer a few times, and then -- because it seemed right -- he switched over and petted the monitor as well. Then, thoroughly disturbed with himself, he got up and left the desk behind. If he was going to pet things, it might as well be something that could appreciate it. He paused at the door to slip on his mother's garden shoes just to protect his socks from the dew that would undoubtedly be on the grass, and slipped out of the house to approach Bumblebee.
The obscenely pink and sparkly foam 'gator' shoes squeaked across the wet grass, conflicting rather violently with his green pajamas. Thankfully, his sheet was a neutral cream and oh, my God, why was he worried about how he looked? He'd only been awake for ten minutes, it was the middle of the night, he was visiting his car, and he'd just had a nightmare!
Moodily, he didn't even wait to see if Bumblebee was awake or for him to open the door if he was. He just slipped his fingers into the door latch, popped it open, then abandoned the wet gator shoes to scramble into the Camaro and over the seats and into the back. The door shut behind him of Bumblebee's accord, and the car rocked slightly as if he were getting comfortable on his wheels. After all, wheels or not, Sam was not heavy enough to move Bumblebee if he didn't want to be moved.
"Sam?"
"Hmm?" he grunted, squirming to get settled into the back.
"You should be sleeping."
It was nice that Bumblebee found it necessary to remind him. "I am," he informed the Autobot, rearranging his sheet to cover his feet and squirming a bit more to get comfortable. He made an embarrassingly undignified noise when the backseat shifted, but then realized that the slight incline that made it okay to sit in but terrible to lay on had leveled out. "See?" he said with triumph, flopping down to rest his head on his folded arm.
"I was under the impression you had a perfectly good bed in the house," Bumblebee said doubtfully.
"Prolly do," he slurred, already drowsy. "But I got one here. Better company, too."
The engine hummed thoughtfully for a moment before it quieted. It was dark outside and the night was quiet but for the distant sounds of the city, a siren wailing in the distance. His previous upset and mussed confusion soothed into a heavy contentment, like a heavy blanket weighing down on him. A small part of him wondered at it -- thought that it should be claustrophobic, that it should be hard to breathe -- but for the most part, it soaked through him until he was lulled into a solid dreamless sleep.
-+-
"Sam ... do you think they have souls?"
"Of course they do," so matter of fact, so sure, no question to it. One-two, blink of the eyes, then a frown. "Why do you ask, Mom?"
"It's nothing, honey," said distractedly, either dissatisfied or finding the answer inconclusive. "I was only thinking ..."
Reluctantly, almost warningly. "About what?"
"Well ... how do you know that? How can you tell they have a soul? What makes you so sure ... that they aren't just ... pretending to be alive?"
Slightly stunned, "What makes you so sure we have a soul?" A desersive snort. "You know, their soul is a spark, Mom. And we don't have one of those."
Lips drawn into thin lines. "We aren't machines, either."
With a quick shove, distance widened, a physical sign of a very emotional reaction. "You know, I didn't ask for you or Dad to understand," mildly said but a hint of stern, unmovable determination.
An authoritarian's expression before features relaxed. "I just don't want you hurt, Sam. You're awfully attached to that Camaro."
"Mom. He's an alien. He's my friend. Stop trying to -- to label him like he's something that came out of a box, or like anything we've ever seen."
"You don't know that," a strange hard expression. "You don't know if that thing's the alien -- or the technology."
A quiver of restraint, eyes flat, breathing low and slow. A silent reaction heralding over-heating, atomic power overloading, sickness and dying and death. "How do you know if we're anything more than sophisticated animals? Anyway, I'm going out with Bee to see Mikaela. I'll be back before ten."
"We're not through here, Samuel," voice hard, eyes narrowed.
Expression mild, but the warning look was as sharp as broken glass (or twisted metal). "We're very done here. See you later."
The door closed with a crisp snap just shy of a slam.
-+-
"It turns out that one of the components that make up the Cybertronian alloy is actually highly conductive, but that another component actually produces a negating effect," Mikaela explained as she wolfed down the burger that Sam had brought her. "It's insanely complex -- we don't have concepts for the Cybertronian sciences, especially the technobiological aspects. Nothing on earth behaves like their alloy does, and the closest that Ratchet can come to explaining it is something like cuttlefish skin."
" ... cuttlefish skin? What's a cuttlefish?"
"It's a mollusk without a shell. It changes colors."
" ... this is relevant to giant space robots, how?"
Mikaela sat there with a deep frown on her face before slowly trying to verbalize it. "According to Ratchet, cuttlefish have several different layers of pigment on their skin, with muscles attached ... when the muscles pull the pigment taunt, then we see the color change. And ... somehow ... somehow this is relatable to how Cybertronian feel, and can control their sensory input on the dermal plating."
" ... what."
"Well, you have a component that's highly conductive, right? Electricity loves it. There's also a component that isn't conductive at all. They coexist in their metals -- they're made entirely out of alloy, remember -- and a portion of their massive processing power is spent on ... charging or uncharging those components. So, they can feel us, because humans have electrical pulses, too -- but they can also easily survive being thrown on an electric power plant. Portions of their dermal plating becomes hypersensitive in response to us touching them, while it can reverse and become nearly inert to fend off the massive input of a power surge."
Sam kicked his feet off the side of the railing they were sitting on, his meal already finished since Mikaela had been doing most of the talking. "So, they ... 'feel' through electrical impulses?" He screwed up his face. "Exactly how sensitive is that?"
"Well, pain is an abstract concept for them, with the exception of temperature," she explained, then winced slightly, as he did. It was so stupid that Sector Seven was still such a sensitive subject, but ... seeing something sentient that had been protecting them being tortured ... it was pretty traumatic. "Because temperature means that atoms are moving very fast or very slow, and sudden changes tend to create instability in otherwise stable structures, it's pretty obvious why they find it painful. They run at a pretty high temperature already, so suddenly slowing that down is pretty bad. Of course, as long as it's gradual, it's not that bad. According to Ratchet, with enough of a gradual change, they could actually function fine in Arctic conditions. They guess that Megatron actually went into an emergency stasis thing, which is a bit of a two-edged sword. On one hand, it meant that he wasn't suffering the sudden cooling. On the other hand, as long as the condition that caused the stasis remained unchanged, he couldn't come out on his own."
"Wow," Sam said, blinking, "so really the only reason Sector Seven managed to keep him contained at all was because of a lucky guess."
"Just about," she agreed with a grimace. "So, perhaps it's not a surprise that they don't have any big fans."
He made an emphatically agreeable noise, looking out at the tin and cement and dust. Mikaela practically lived out on the base these days, and ... well, so did he, a little. He spent a lot of the day at the base, wandering around aimlessly while she studied and sharing lunch with her until his ride came back and they could hang out at the park or go home if it were too late.
"So," Mikaela said in a leading way, "what do you think of Arcee?"
He echoed her wonderingly. "What do you mean by that?" he asked with a slight frown. "She's pretty cool. A bit of a spunky action girl, but ..." he shrugged. "What?"
Mikaela chewed her straw while studying him, eyebrow cocked, and then shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing," she said, looking out toward the empty scenery.
A little puzzled, he blew it off anyway. "So, Autobot touch," he said, trying to get the conversation back on subject. "Do you have any idea of range?"
"Range?" she echoed, focusing on him with a small skeptical frown. "You mean like how sensitive their alloy is? Well, the strange thing about it, Ratchet's actually used me to measure, in a way. They aren't a terribly tactile species -- no reason to be, that's a warm blooded trait -- but they can definitely feel each others' touch. It has to do with the charge of the alloy. The mild electrical charges interact, so they're about like we are in that respect. Inanimate objects aren't 'touch' though -- metallic alloys are also very resonant, so their awareness of things like --" she grinned with amusement, "Mojo lubricating on them, or a pebble bouncing off their leg is actually due to the minute vibrations in their bodies."
"So ... like a drum?"
"Yeah, I guess so," she said, nodding. "But, this is the really neat and bizarre part -- they can feel us, too. Apparently, even though we're organic, we also produce a type of electrical charge or energy that Cybertronians can feel. So, where you could set a rock on Bumblebee's hood and he'd know it would be set there, he could actually forget about it until it fell off or grated against his alloy. Difference is that if you were to sit on him, he'd get constant electrical feedback, 'feeling' you, like ..." she reached out and grabbed the bare skin of his hand. "Like that. You feel my skin. They feel you." His stomach jerked strangely and he arched his eyebrows while clearing his throat. She flashed him a secretive look before pulling away, saying in a strangely nonchalant way: "You might want to talk to Bumblebee about that -- Ratchet told me he was your culture tutor."
"Culture tutor?" he echoed incredulously. "I wouldn't call it that. I mean, yeah, we talk about each others culture, and I've learned to inter -- pet ..." He sighed. "Okay, I have a culture tutor." It was just that putting it that way made it seem less fascinating that it really was -- Bumblebee explained things to him, the vibrations of his engine and voice trembling through his bones, while Sam envisioned Cybertron as it must have been, once.
"Maybe you can be Optimus Prime's interpreter," she said with a laugh. "The other Autobots seem rather puzzled by the whole thing, anyway."
"Well, it's not like we started out intending to teach each other that stuff," he said defensively. "He started it, really, when he started asking about death and why humans don't wrap themselves in cushions and bubble sheets."
"Bubble wrap."
"Whatever. He still started it."
"And you still speak giant robot."
"Correction: I am becoming fluent in giant robot."
"Witwicky, you'll be lucky if you ever get a girlfriend."
"I've got a Camaro, Mikaela. A Camaro."
"I think it's more like the Camaro has you."
"This is not Soviet Russia."
" ... what?"
"Er -- Never mind. You know, you may be right about that girlfriend thing."
She made noncommittal but meaning laden noise, eyebrows arched in a politely ironic expression as she stared at the scenery. What that for?
-+-
were u trying 2 make a pet human joke?
Dont txt me Sam. If you didnt get it Im not telling you.
plz?
No Sam. Also, learn grammar, kthxbi
youre mean mikaela
Love you too. Now stop txting me.
-+-
"I refuse to wear that!"
Sam sighed as he stepped in the door, taking in the sight of Mikaela in a auto-shop jumpsuit yelling at the busty blonde in a nurse outfit that was a little too small and had a lot less material that it probably should have to be dignified or sanitary. The blond looked fairly ticked off as well. "I'm telling you," she said in a deep, raspy, manly voice. "It's part of the job description! If you're going to be a mechanic, you have to dress the part! Otherwise, how will anyone know you can fix them, huh?"
"I don't care! I'll never wear that!" Mikaela yelled, shaking her fist.
"Mikaela, Ratchet, would you two please cut it out?" Sam asked, sighing.
"Tell him I'm not wearing that!" she demanded, pointing at the blonde.
"Ratchet, Mikaela will never wear an outfit like that. But you could probably get her into a jumpsuit that was white with red crosses," he said, shifting the All Spark against his leg.
"Hmm," Ratchet said thoughtfully. "I shall have to consider that."
"Droids," he said with amusement to the only other organic.
"Like you're one to talk, cyborg-boy," she said, rolling her eyes.
He looked down at the arm holding the All Spark Cube against his left hip. Gunmetal gray and powerful, it gleamed dully in the light. "Oh, I forgot," he said, a little surprised to see all the wires and metal plates instead of flesh. It fit seamlessly against his skin and flesh, as if it had just stopped being carbon cells and started being alloy one day, instead of being welded on to a structure implanted on his bone. At least, he thought it was. Wasn't it? Skin just didn't turn into metal. That wouldn't make any sense.
"Great," Mikaela snorted, rolling her eyes and distracting him from his study of his shoulder. "I can't believe you forgot when you see the kind of flawless I wish I could be. She better hold him tight, give him all her love; look in those beautiful eyes and knows she's lucky 'cause -- he's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar! The only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star."
He stared at her in bemusement then looked at Ratchet who hadn't seemed to have noticed.
"This ain't a song for the broken hearted," Ratchet informed him, frowning slightly and putting a hand to his forehead. "Silent prayer for faith departed. I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd -- gonna hear my voice when I shout it out loud --"
"Sam, wake up, honey."
He woke (groggily) to the thin paper-dry and cold hand on his forehead. Squinting through his eyelashes, he finally made out the shape of the person who was now smoothing his hair. "Mom?"
"You fell asleep on the couch," she said softly.
Glancing sideways, he realized it was true. It wasn't completely accidental, either, or otherwise he'd be mostly upright. He didn't remember laying out on the couch, but he was so tired. It was hard to remember that he needed to stay out of the way and make as little about his strange new habits as possible. No one really knew how much he was sleeping (or how deeply), nor did they know just how much food he was consuming. But ... it had just become so hard to remember that he shouldn't worry anyone. It didn't seem worth it to hide something that no one would probably notice.
"You're running a slight temperature," his mother murmured.
"I'm not sick," he said, waking up a little more. He knew that. His health wasn't compromised in any manner, everything was proceeding as expected, though something warned him that he was hot and needed to drink some water to cool down a little. As long as his mother didn't touch his torso, she wouldn't notice all the heat through the many layers he was wearing.
"Maybe not," she sighed, and she looked so sad.
"What's wrong, Mom?" he asked before he thought. He wasn't sure yet if he had forgiven her for the talk they had a few days ago when Bee had woke him up and sent him back into the house.
His mother smiled, and it really didn't look like much of one at all. "Nothing's wrong, Sam. Come on, wake up." She patted his cheek and stood. "I made some tea. It's in the kitchen."
"Alright," he said. Tea wasn't exactly his most favorite drink, but it promised to be iced, and would help cool him down a little. Sugar, of course, could never hurt. Sitting up, he brushed a hand over his face and through his hair before he stood and stumbled off after his mother. She already had the glass of ice and was pouring the tea in from the pitcher.
"Here." She handed the glass off to him and moved the sugar from the cabinet to the island counter.
Sam was just about to take a drink when he realized she was watching him. His mother had always been a rather high strung individual, for all the hippy/New Age stuff she brought home and enforced on her husband and son. Now, though, she looked like she had aged dramatically and she seemed a little lost. "Mom," he said, "something's wrong. What is it?"
Judy shook her head and picked up her cup, wrapping one arm around her waist and propping the other on it before taking a drink from the steaming cup. Reliably, she always drank hot liquids when things really weren't right. "Honestly, Sam, it's nothing."
The iced tea did it's work, cooling him off quickly. It did have the rather obvious side effect of him drinking a little too eagerly, but he was thirsty. "Right," he said dismissively. If he pretended ...
And it worked, of course. "You know," she said with a nostalgic look. "I still remember when we brought you home from the hospital."
Oh great, he thought, eyes skyward as he drank. It was one of those talks.
"You were such a healthy baby," she went on with a small smile. "You had blue eyes, then -- most babies do. Such a fussy baby, though. We could only get you to sleep if we drove around the neighborhood ... stopped more burglaries that way ..."
He bobbed his head distractedly. He had the misfortune of having taken Home Ec his sophomore year, so he knew that ... baby thing, where they could only sleep with motion sometimes. His mother had already told him about that.
Her smile turned brittle. "And now you're ... fighting giant robots and one is pretending to be your car."
Ah -- uh oh. Sam might not be completely awake, but he knew that there was something wrong.
"Are you sure you're fine, Sam?" Judy asked, a little desperate, a little hysterical. "I know Yellowbee and Optimism Dime promised to protect you, I've talked to them a lot, but are you okay? Are you sure you're not sick, or -- or depressed?"
Sam had a little bit of a problem for a moment, trying to stop from laughing at 'Yellowbee' and 'Optimism Dime' at the same time he was trying not to freak out at the sudden breakdown his mother might be having. "You -- you talked to them?" he asked.
"Of course I did!" she said indignantly and looked like she might cry. "My God, Ron and I thought you were sneaking that nice Mikaela girl in and you were -- you were trying to stop that Meglodon from getting some Spark Cube thing because of your father's grandfather, and -- oh, Sam, you're only seventeen and you've already been taken away from me! There are -- government agents and military captains and the Secretary of Defense, Sam, telling me I should be proud because you risked your life to stop some weapon from getting into enemy hands!" She was crying now. "My God, what's happened to our home? We were so normal!"
Awkwardly, he set the glass on the counter and stepped over to wrap his arms around her. "Mom, Mom, it's okay," he tried to tell her. "It's okay. Don't cry, Mom. Please don't cry."
"You were so young, Sam," she wept. "What happened?"
My Dad bought me a Seventy-Six Camaro, he thought. That was what changed. My car chased me, and I met the definition of a 'bad cop'. That was what changed. Sector Seven kidnapped us all, lassoed down my protector and tortured him, that was what happened. "Listen to me! You're a soldier, now!" was what happened.
"I'm never giving you this All Spark!"
The high animal screams of people running, and "Disgusting," the metallic pop and that scream before it cut off with a clang.
That was what happened.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he said helplessly. "I'm sorry."
He was thankful that they had been locked up and sequestered and didn't have to see any of that. It was terrible enough without knowing that his mother had to survive that, too. He didn't want anything happening to her. He didn't want her having those memories, or having nightmares like he did.
But as much as he didn't want them to share that, it meant there was that impassible wall between them. She might love him, but she'd never understand him or what he saw (bodies in the streets)-- heard (that horrible scream) -- did (he'd killed a sentient being, attacked it with every intention of making it stop in any way he could, couldn't regret it because it was evil, but it couldn't not affect him). The only people who could were the ones that were there.
He was sorry that the boy she raised was dead.
-+-
"You have me as 'Camaro Boy' on your cell phone?"
"Don't sound so scandalized, Sam. Besides, ninety percent of the school who didn't know you existed call you 'Camaro Boy' these days."
"You have Miles' name! You even spelled his last name right! You have Trent on your phone?"
"If you're going to have an auerism, give me my phone back. Besides, now that you're my psychotic guy friend, Trent's actually really polite. I think you knocked sense into him."
"Ugh. I didn't bash him in the face so you could date him again!"
"Still love you, Sam."
"I think your idea of love is twisted. Very twisted."
"Lock your doors at night, Sam, and sleep with one eye open."
" ... twisted."
-+-
He was spending a lot of time at the Autobot base with Mikaela. Usually he ended up having to bring a lot of food -- sort of like a picnic so that when she could take a break from her lessons with Ratchet, they could eat. Then again, Sam was pretty much constantly eating anyway. Judy had leapt upon his strange compliance in taking multi-vitamins to extend his supplements to all sorts of things. Swallowing pills wasn't his favorite thing to do (he used to gag on them as a child), but it kept Mom off his back, and visiting Mikaela kept Dad from objecting to his visits, so he did it anyway.
In either case, summer was wasting away. Miles was working a summer job in an attempt to do as Sam suggested (get himself a car), and all Sam had done was hang around with Mikaela and sit in on her Autobot Anatomy classes with Ratchet. This was mostly because Bumblebee was off doing whatever -- probably hanging out with Arcee.
He seemed to be doing that a lot these days.
Coasting as smoothly as he could on the cement, Sam gently rocked on his skateboard to keep it going. Failing, he dropped a foot off to shove for more momentum and zipped around a corner. There wasn't much to do around an abandoned military base, after all.
Ahead of him, the human sized door that lead to the hanger in which Ratchet had commandeered popped open and Mikaela emerged, looking thoughtful and tired as usual. "Hey, Micka!" he called, quickly gaining the motivation to activity power his board. She smiled at him vaguely as he caught up, and they headed toward the door.
"So, have you found the Aztec Gold?" Mikaela asked.
" ... what?" he said, bewildered.
"The lost treasure in Pirates of the Caribbean."
"Oh -- oh. What? No," he said, still somewhat bemused. "And I'd be like a ... zombie. Skeleton. Animated Skeleton. But only in moonlight. You know, then your life would be really interesting -- giant alien robots and cursed pirate treasure and -- wereskeletons."
" ... wereskeletons?"
"Yeah, like ... moonlight ... okay, clearly I should have shut up some time ago."
"Possibly." She swung up onto the railing and looked at him seriously. "Where's Bumblebee, by the way?"
"Ah --" he said, feeling supremely awkward for some reason. "Probably ... playing tag with Arcee or something."
Mikaela arched her eyebrow. "Playing tag?"
He shrugged. It made sense when Bumblebee explained it. "Giant robot thing."
"Poor Sam," she said sympathetically. "Your guy friend left you for a cute girl."
"Well, its probably best he doesn't get too attached," he said uncomfortably. "I mean, we talked about it, and a human's life span is like ... mayfly short for them. It's like ... Frosty the Snowman, only without the possibility of just making a new body next time it snows."
"Mmm." Mikaela popped open the can of soda with a snap, and nodded thoughtfully before taking a drink. "So, let me get this straight: you're letting him waste your life time on someone who is going to live at least as long as he is."
He stared at her.
"Well, really," she said, looking at him with a skeptical look. "You two guys are friends, right? If you have limited time, then shouldn't you use that time being friends?"
"No -- no, no, no," Sam said, folding his arms and leaning over. "You don't understand -- there's a girl involved. I know what that's like, so ... yeah, I think building a lasting relationship would be better." But it was a little like a dam had opened, because he didn't feel like he was getting his point across. He didn't think he could -- there probably weren't words, and if there were, he wouldn't be able to find them. "I could die at any time. We're not even worrying about old age right now. I might be a Decepticon target, but I'm -- just a guy. I could be hit by a car or knifed ... any number of things that Bumblebee's been stressed out about. I might die tomorrow -- and while it's okay to say live the life you have ... that doesn't just effect me. I would love to be best friends with Bee, instead of just a ward he's on friendly terms with, but if I do, then it's going to make it even worse when I die. I won't have to live with the consequences, but he will. And I can't do that. I wasn't thinking in the long term when I set out to befriend the -- the giant alien robot that pretends to be my ride."
"Sam," she said incredulously, "you're not dying of cancer, or anything like that -- so, like, stop acting as if you were. Besides, do you even get how long ago they lost the All Spark? Ratchet's given me history lessons, too -- Bumblebee is hundreds of centuries old. I think he can take responsibility and suffer the consequences of his decisions."
It sounded good -- it sounded logical. The reasoning definitely appealed. He leaned against the railing and looked out (away from the base). The more he learned about Cybertronian culture, he more he had considered his friendship with Bumblebee at the very least tragic. He knew that they had been at war and probably lost hundreds of bots on both sides, but Bumblebee had never had to watch anyone grow old and die before.
Mikaela's small (but strong, always strong) hand landed on his shoulder, and it radiated encouragement in the heat that he could feel through his sleeve. "Think about it, Sam. And I swear to God, you keep using me as a Bumblebee substitute, and I'll kick your ass."
"What!" he yelped, looking at her incredulously.
She gave him a condescending look. "I'm serious, Sam. I thought it was cute when you had a crush on me, but I'm getting real tired of the kicked puppy look you get every time your Camaro goes off to hang out with the Miata." She patted his back in a weird 'go get 'em, tiger' way and walked away, rather like she had when Bumblebee 'broke down' at that scenic overlook.
He stuttered and sputtered ineffectually at her back, then finally shut up. Stepping on the end of his skateboard, he bent over and picked it up, tucking it against his hip. With an idle thumb, he rolled the dirty plastic wheels, face set in deep thought. First, he had blindly thrown himself into the project of becoming friends with a giant alien robot -- and succeeded. He'd been pleased and excited for a while. Then he suddenly realized that the average human life span was under eighty years ... and he was seventeen. He had sixty three years before he croaked. Probably, ten of those would be spent in a nursing home -- if things went well. Which, considering his life since he had gotten old enough to drive a car? Not going to happen.
And he hadn't thought there was anything wrong with being friends with what amounted to a robot. As a matter of fact, there had been something defiant and righteous in befriending Bumblebee -- until he realized that he was going to die. He knew that they had emotions, and that he was going to die on Bumblebee like a -- a pet rat or goldfish or something.
He cut the thought off ruthlessly. Those were the sort of unpleasant thoughts he had when he tried to imagine how it was from the other side of their friendship. They had gotten a lot more persistent recently, since Arcee's arrival -- the reminder that it wasn't just his Bumblebee and Bumblebee's group ... that there was a whole race out there ...
Perhaps Bumblebee had forgotten somewhere that Sam didn't have as much time as he did.
-+-
"Goddamn it, Bee, I knew you were playing tag, but this is ridiculous," he said, trying to ignore the sulky sound of his own voice.
The Camaro sparkled innocently, engine purring in as a friendly manner as possible. Sam was accustomed to Bumblebee coming to pick him up from the base with fresh bug guts on him and dusty, but this was ridiculous. Arcee and Bumblebee must have found a forest or ... something to go run around in. There certainly were enough leaves stuck in odd places, and not all of them were green. His wheels were caked with crud and his bumper was muddy.
Well, it would be a good excuse, wouldn't it? His parents would understand him having to wash Bee if he was in this shape. Maybe Sam could think of something to say during that time.
With a small fit of temper, he kicked the tire gently before he climbed in. Bumblebee began to play Brittany Spears in retaliation, and by the time they got home, Sam had that 'Toxic' song stuck in his head ... along from a bruise near his hairline from bashing his head on the steering wheel so many times, trying to block it out.
Naturally, by the time he reappeared with the hose, buckets of hot soapy water, sponges and scrubby brush, he had downloaded a few choice songs from the Internet, ripped them through a few freeware programs, and thus had them burned to CD and ready to play in his radio. He turned it up really loud so that the high pitched voices could really grate on Bumblebee's nerves, bringing the radio as close as he dared to the car. That really annoying 'Carameldasen' song started to play. Sam smirked in a self satisfied way as he turned the hose on Bumblebee, noting how the car was cringing.
"I also ripped a few Dance Revolution songs," he said conversationally as he began to soak the Autobot. "Did you know they had one named after you?"
Bee visibly shrank down on his wheels.
"If you're very good," he added, pretty sure he shouldn't be enjoying that as much as he was, "I might go get Dad's ACDC."
Sam was very certain that particular part of the car alarm was an 'up yours', but decided to be nice and ignore it. A lot of the muck had fallen off Bumblebee during the trip from the base back home, but there was still enough that Sam was considering trying to get ahold of his mother's gardening attachment and finding out if it had a 'power' adjustment. As it was, he stuck his thumb into the end of the hose to force it as best as he could.
He got tired of the music he was inflicting on Bumblebee before he even got to the soap. The radio ended up on a classic rock station, turned down so that it wasn't too intrusive, and he got to work scrubbing off all of the muck that had accumulated. Which ... was a lot.
"Bee, you scratched your paint up," he remarked, lightly running a finger over the mark, and then his thumb as if he were trying to smooth it over like clay. "Did you run over a fence or something?" With a huff, he moved on, and eventually settled down to scrub the dried bugs off the front of the Camaro. Bumblebee was doing that weird vibrating thing again, as if he were a cat. Perhaps it was a lot like that, if Sam had some weird electric field thing he was projecting. Getting washed must be something like getting a massage.
He was massaging his car. What the hell. That was just ... weird. Well, his life was weird, his dreams were fucked, so he might as well massage his car.
By the time he was done, his clothing was wet but the Camaro was bright and gleaming and just as spotless as it had been the first time Bumblebee had shown it off. A slow smile crossed his face, and he ran his hand over the racing stripes. "Good as new," he joked.
The door popped discretely. Sam looked at it for a moment; the sun was fading as it was, and he'd put a lot of effort into washing Bumblebee, not to mention that his clothing was wet with water and sweat. He shot the car a doubtful look, and in return he felt the engine turn on -- still not loud enough to hear, but a definite change in the vibration.
Just audible, a song drifted through the slightly open door; "Life is a highway, I want a ride it all night long."
"Yeah, well," Sam said, placing both hands on the hood and leaning on it slightly. "You ride that highway ... wherever you're going."
The door opened just a little wider. "Crusin' and playin' the radio, with no particular place to go."
He straightened, rubbing his damp cheek on his shoulder and throwing a glance over his shoulder back at the house.
"I won't stand down, no I won't --"
"Alright!" he hissed, slipping around the front of the car and pulling the door open. "Alright, fine!" He slid into the seat with a sulky scowl, but Bumblebee just rumbled in a smug way and snapped the door shut behind him. Sam moodily kicked under the pedals, which turned out to be a bad idea since the radio clicked (some weird pattern that Sam wasn't familiar with) and then began to play the most annoying song that Sam hadn't known existed until this point. The worst part was that there might have been three words total in the lyrics, and it was prone to repetition and therefore catchy.
"You better watch it," he said threateningly at the dashboard, "you might convince me to never wash you again."
The radio went dead, then tentatively began playing a very politely neutral driving song.
He smirked a little. Even if Bumblebee were only humoring him, it was pretty funny. Relaxing back against the seat as they pulled out of the driveway, he shut his eyes and let out his breath. "Mom told me she talked to you."
The volume of the song dropped and Bee started to scan the radio, which wasn't a 'no'.
"She thinks your name is Yellowbee," he added with a grin, which widened when the radio went dead. "No joke, that's what she called you." He got the distinct impression that Bumblebee was trying to figure out how to respond to that.
" ... it could have been worse," Bee finally said. "It could have been Fumblebug."
"Fumblebug?" Sam sputtered, eyes opening in surprise which he then turned on the dash.
"Humans," he said with a sort of injured dignity, "seem to have a hard time hearing when they're frightened."
He chuckled lightly. Perhaps he should have been scared when meeting all the Autobots -- okay, so he was -- but he remembered all of their names. He had been alarmed, but it had also been the most awesome thing he had ever had happened to him, so he had sort of been absorbing it all like a sponge. "Yeah, well, she also thinks that Optimus Prime is a silver disc that looks on the bright side."
A laugh track came on over the radio. Apparently, Bumblebee was in a really good mood.
Sam smiled briefly before getting serious. "What did you guys talk about?"
After a moment -- it didn't seem as if Bumblebee was deciding what to say, but rather how to say it -- he answered, "at first we discussed what my duties as a guardian entailed. Then I showed her what I knew of those days. I did edit out some of the things that weren't that important ... eventually she inquired about getting in touch with who knew more about Mission City, so I collected accounts from Ratchet and Ironhide. Optimus Prime wished to speak to her face-to-face, however, especially in case she was having doubts about our ability to take care of you since you legally are our ward."
"When did that happen?" Sam asked with a frown.
"The last week you had to go to school," Bumblebee informed him.
Heaving a sigh, he leaned his head back and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. "I should have been there to interpret -- both times," he added, shooting Bee a dirty look. "You made my mom cry, Bee."
He actually seemed somewhat embarrassed. Though Sam knew that Cybertronians didn't understand 'parents', they knew they held a very special place as guardians and mentors. "I apologize. I might have been trying to assure her that you were capable of holding your own."
"Oh my God, what did you tell her?!"
It was actually more like 'show'. Sam hadn't been hallucinating when he thought he saw someone inside the cab of the police car, because Cybertronians were capable of creating holograms ... and in miniature, as well. As it turned out, Bumblebee had actually bore witness to Sam's interrogation by the Demon Cop from Hell, which was thoroughly embarrassing. Sam wasn't exactly proud of what happened, though he did grudgingly admit that there hadn't been any real way or reason he could have reacted differently. Apparently, Bee's point was more along the line of the fact that Sam had managed to haul Mikaela off her vespa and help her escape the Decepticon.
There was a brief glimpse of himself edging up the slope, reasoning to Mikaela that the others had been talking about his EBay page. There was also Mikaela and his introduction to the Autobots, with little gaps in sound or video -- Bumblebee had apparently felt the need to censor some of Jazz's language, apparently knowing that mothers didn't approve. Optimus' account of their history was fast-forwarded, but it seemed that he had shared it with Mom. The explanation of the 'earthquake' and how Mikaela had ended up in his room came with that -- and it was kind of amusing to watch the tiny version of himself chewing out Optimus Prime for getting on the lawn. It was also a little depressing, since he only came up to Optimus' ankles.
To Sam's relief, there was nothing about Sector Seven. He wasn't sure if it was because Bumblebee simply hadn't been recording at the time (understandable), or if he just didn't want to share (also understandable). There was a the short blip -- "I'm not going to leave you!" -- and Will telling him that he had to take the Cube to the building. Then came the frantic chase, up until they met the Decepticon that disabled both Ratchet and Ironhide. The perspective was obviously different that it didn't need explaining.
"The rest," Bumblebee said, "was between Optimus Prime and Judith Witwicky."
"No wonder Mom cried on me," he said dryly. "That was worse that signing up with the military and getting shipped overseas. By the way, nice job splicing Ratchet and Ironhide's points of view in a way that got rid of most of the freaky stuff. I don't remember much, but even I know it didn't go that smoothly."
"I thought it would be good not to worry her needlessly," Bee admitted. "It was already over, and it would only upset her."
Yeah, but Cybertronians don't understand parents, and humans could be amazingly intuitive. His mother knew some of what happened to him, and she probably had nightmares that were much worse than reality. After all, he was.
-+-
It was night and he was walking with the Autobot on his heels and the All Spark in hand -- and then his next step lead him stumbling forward, hands thrust out to catch him. When he regained his balance, he continued on his way ... but not toward that ever waiting end-of-the-street. He eventually made it to the sidewalk, and continued walking. Just as he was loosing interest, he heard the familiar whirl-click of Autobot gears. Perking up a little, he quickly headed off in pursuit -- but carefully. If the bot knew he was coming, then he'd never get to see him.
He scrambled through a yard, fighting his way over plants and fences, chasing that illusive whirl-click of Cybertronian gears. The night hid whoever he was chasing, and it was somehow urgent to find them. The next yard he stumbled into was his own, and he was so tired. After drinking some water in the kitchen he went up to his bed, intending to rest before he went looking for the Cybertronian again.
The computer sat innocently, but the wires had multiplied, and when he looked, the walls had cables riddled through them, thick as his thumb or hair-fine small. Moving to the bed, he reached out and grabbed the covers, metallic fingers clinking quietly against each other and the tiny gears purring with each movement, and flung them back, ready to climb into bed. It was full of cable and wires, and he climbed in on top of them, pulling his sheets up and rolling over. Electricity buzzed unseen but sensed all around him, a continuous presence that was comforting instead of irritating.
They wrapped him in a gently undulating mass of comfort, and he felt them through his metal arm just as much as against his skin, the charge like quiet music in his ears. The fine hairs on the back of his neck and his arms stood on end, as if static electricity was building in his body. He twitched and shifted uncomfortably, feeling the sheet cling to him, and then the cables curled over him and separated him from the irritant. The humming in his ears was so much like the sound of that electrical plant that Bumblebee had taken them to in order to fight the Decepticon.
But as comfortable as he was, he was becoming strangely restless. He couldn't lay still and the static building in his body along with the power humming through the cords was enough to drive him to distraction. Knots of hair-fine wires prodded at him, smoothing his tensed muscles like the soothing hands trying to calm him and coils of cables filled with pure energy twining around him like an affection starved cat. It only made him shift more, until he was practically writhing -- struggling, but not to escape. He was trying to get comfortable in his own skin, but it seemed like an impossible task, his left arm crackling with power. Blue and sparking, arcs of frustration that connected to the wires around him.
He didn't see it happen, but he swiftly became aware of the shape the cords and wires were taking, slight and humanoid, swiftly gaining detail. He froze, frightened and enraptured as fine wires twisted together until the thing even had a face and expression. Horrified, he struggled much more violently against the cables now restraining him, not cradling him. Crackling blue energy shot from his arm into the cables wrapped around his chest more firmly than Cybertronian fingers, and then the wire-beast crouched on the end of his coiled nest suddenly fused and became a gray being.
Stilling in amazement, he took in the clearly inorganic form of the humanoid (it had no characteristics that labeled it male or female, not even in the loosest of Cybertronian models), at once still obviously made of wires but at the same time no longer looking like a skinned human with muscles made of metal fibers. A gleaming silver netting covered it like the most intricate of tattoos, and it's finely structured androgynous features twitched slightly before it opened it's eyes. Black eyes, with the glowing blue rings of Autobot optics.
Somewhat mutually fascinated, they stared at one another. Kitten-puppy curious, the wire-person was the first to move, reaching forward with that thicker-than-water, lighter-than-air way -- reaching forward to wrap long thin fingers around his gears-and-plates left arm, fixing blue optics as if it's as fascinated by the comparatively skeletal structure as he is with the fine silver netting stretching over it. Something flickered in it's optics, or maybe the optics themselves flickered, and there was the familiar whirl-click of shifting metal.
And he remembered his old nightmare, where he's trapped inside one, and he knew how it was going to play out. He knew which part was going to detach and become armor and what was becoming a gear and where it needed to shift. The information slid though his mind like scrolling computer code. When the wire-person stopped shifting, it simply looked at him, and he realized what he was looking at was a protoform.
The hard metal fingers tightened around his metallic wrist, and it was very curious -- very interested in him. It was a protoform, Cybertronian, Autobot, but it was the same size he was, so when it reach out with softly whirling gears and curled round steel fingers around the back of his neck, he didn't even flinch. The coils of energy-heavy cables wound around him and the sleek armored shape of the Autobot hovered over him, curious -- fascinated.
His hand trembled as it found itself on the warm metal plate that would form the colored exoskeleton of an alt form, and his stomach lurched hotly.
He knew there was something wrong with him. Standing under the agonizingly hot spray of the shower, clutching the soft flesh of his arms and feeling bone at the center while he still tasted aluminum on his tongue, Sam wondered just what was wrong with him.
-- To Be Continued --
- just out of curiosity ... HOW MANY OF YOU ARE SITTING THERE RIGHT NOW GOING: WTF?! Yes, I decided it was time. The All Spark is attacking Sam's sexuality directly! (for those that got the reference: LULZ!)
- Yes, I do play off the "don't believe what you read, cos the person is misinformed/someone is lying" a lot.
- Songs in order of appearance: ("Tear Drop on my Guitar" - Taylor Swift), ("It's my Life" - Bon Jovi), ("Life is a Highway" - Tom Cochrane (not the RF version)), ("No Particular Place to Go" - Chuck Berry), ("I Won't Back Down" - Tom Petty)
- Time wise, this chapter occured over roughly a week. Beginning to the cell phone txt was one day, a few days later came the talk with his mother, the next day came the lunchtime conversation about Sam being 'Camaro Boy' on Mikaela's cell phone, and the rest of it happened a few days later.
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
Chapter Seven: ... the Storm
-+-
The night was dark and deep as he walked down the middle of the glistening street, moonshards glittering and show lights of orange and blue spattering the scene like precision airbrush spots. The houses were dark -- empty -- and the vehicles parked alongside silent houses and lining the streets were mute and sleeping. The gentle and soothing whirl click of Autobot movement (contentment, calm) behind him was a familiar accompaniment to the unyielding corner and edges of the All Spark in his arms, burning hot and bright while it sparked with blue energy. They walked down the middle of the street to the end he couldn't see past, and it only got a little closer for the several yards he must be walking.
"I won't be able to take it," he said earnestly.
"It'll work out fine," the Autobot assured him.
No harm shall come to Samuel James Witwicky.
"It'll drive me insane," he refuted. "I'll end up in a institute like Captain Archibald. Or worse."
"Never," he promised.
Trust in progress. Believe in design.
You're not infallible.
"This won't go wrong."
Infallibility is false. Precision is undeniable. Process is recorded. Advancement cannot be reversed.
Is that how --
-- but then the All Spark clattered against the pavement because the skin on his left arm was splitting and peeling away and he could see where his bones should be but they were metal struts instead and sparking wires and his skin kept splitting and his flesh was burning away and it was Frenzy's arm where his should be and it clawed into his stomach to reach his spine and gripped it --
For the first time in his life, he woke up shouting. It was also the first time that he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders despite the heat and left his bedroom. Normally, he'd just stay in the comfortable hot cushion on his bed, but his skin crawled and he wasn't feeling tired like he normally did. Padding silently through the dark house with socked feet, he wandered around through the kitchen and the living room, wanting neither water nor the couch. For a moment, he sat in front of the sleeping computer, staring at the softly flickering lights as the screen saver scrolled the time (3:13 AM ... 3:14 AM ... 3:15 AM ...), fans whispering quietly as they pulled hot air away from machinery and spat it out vents.
The desire to touch the thing was strong, which was weird. Sam blinked blearily at it for a few more minutes before deciding that it was probably because it was warm like the All Spark he enjoyed carrying in his dreams. (He did like carrying the All Spark. It was warm and hot and the night dreams were peaceful ... except for tonight.) Grudgingly, and because he was exhausted, he gave into the urge and reached out to pet the computer a few times, and then -- because it seemed right -- he switched over and petted the monitor as well. Then, thoroughly disturbed with himself, he got up and left the desk behind. If he was going to pet things, it might as well be something that could appreciate it. He paused at the door to slip on his mother's garden shoes just to protect his socks from the dew that would undoubtedly be on the grass, and slipped out of the house to approach Bumblebee.
The obscenely pink and sparkly foam 'gator' shoes squeaked across the wet grass, conflicting rather violently with his green pajamas. Thankfully, his sheet was a neutral cream and oh, my God, why was he worried about how he looked? He'd only been awake for ten minutes, it was the middle of the night, he was visiting his car, and he'd just had a nightmare!
Moodily, he didn't even wait to see if Bumblebee was awake or for him to open the door if he was. He just slipped his fingers into the door latch, popped it open, then abandoned the wet gator shoes to scramble into the Camaro and over the seats and into the back. The door shut behind him of Bumblebee's accord, and the car rocked slightly as if he were getting comfortable on his wheels. After all, wheels or not, Sam was not heavy enough to move Bumblebee if he didn't want to be moved.
"Sam?"
"Hmm?" he grunted, squirming to get settled into the back.
"You should be sleeping."
It was nice that Bumblebee found it necessary to remind him. "I am," he informed the Autobot, rearranging his sheet to cover his feet and squirming a bit more to get comfortable. He made an embarrassingly undignified noise when the backseat shifted, but then realized that the slight incline that made it okay to sit in but terrible to lay on had leveled out. "See?" he said with triumph, flopping down to rest his head on his folded arm.
"I was under the impression you had a perfectly good bed in the house," Bumblebee said doubtfully.
"Prolly do," he slurred, already drowsy. "But I got one here. Better company, too."
The engine hummed thoughtfully for a moment before it quieted. It was dark outside and the night was quiet but for the distant sounds of the city, a siren wailing in the distance. His previous upset and mussed confusion soothed into a heavy contentment, like a heavy blanket weighing down on him. A small part of him wondered at it -- thought that it should be claustrophobic, that it should be hard to breathe -- but for the most part, it soaked through him until he was lulled into a solid dreamless sleep.
-+-
"Sam ... do you think they have souls?"
"Of course they do," so matter of fact, so sure, no question to it. One-two, blink of the eyes, then a frown. "Why do you ask, Mom?"
"It's nothing, honey," said distractedly, either dissatisfied or finding the answer inconclusive. "I was only thinking ..."
Reluctantly, almost warningly. "About what?"
"Well ... how do you know that? How can you tell they have a soul? What makes you so sure ... that they aren't just ... pretending to be alive?"
Slightly stunned, "What makes you so sure we have a soul?" A desersive snort. "You know, their soul is a spark, Mom. And we don't have one of those."
Lips drawn into thin lines. "We aren't machines, either."
With a quick shove, distance widened, a physical sign of a very emotional reaction. "You know, I didn't ask for you or Dad to understand," mildly said but a hint of stern, unmovable determination.
An authoritarian's expression before features relaxed. "I just don't want you hurt, Sam. You're awfully attached to that Camaro."
"Mom. He's an alien. He's my friend. Stop trying to -- to label him like he's something that came out of a box, or like anything we've ever seen."
"You don't know that," a strange hard expression. "You don't know if that thing's the alien -- or the technology."
A quiver of restraint, eyes flat, breathing low and slow. A silent reaction heralding over-heating, atomic power overloading, sickness and dying and death. "How do you know if we're anything more than sophisticated animals? Anyway, I'm going out with Bee to see Mikaela. I'll be back before ten."
"We're not through here, Samuel," voice hard, eyes narrowed.
Expression mild, but the warning look was as sharp as broken glass (or twisted metal). "We're very done here. See you later."
The door closed with a crisp snap just shy of a slam.
-+-
"It turns out that one of the components that make up the Cybertronian alloy is actually highly conductive, but that another component actually produces a negating effect," Mikaela explained as she wolfed down the burger that Sam had brought her. "It's insanely complex -- we don't have concepts for the Cybertronian sciences, especially the technobiological aspects. Nothing on earth behaves like their alloy does, and the closest that Ratchet can come to explaining it is something like cuttlefish skin."
" ... cuttlefish skin? What's a cuttlefish?"
"It's a mollusk without a shell. It changes colors."
" ... this is relevant to giant space robots, how?"
Mikaela sat there with a deep frown on her face before slowly trying to verbalize it. "According to Ratchet, cuttlefish have several different layers of pigment on their skin, with muscles attached ... when the muscles pull the pigment taunt, then we see the color change. And ... somehow ... somehow this is relatable to how Cybertronian feel, and can control their sensory input on the dermal plating."
" ... what."
"Well, you have a component that's highly conductive, right? Electricity loves it. There's also a component that isn't conductive at all. They coexist in their metals -- they're made entirely out of alloy, remember -- and a portion of their massive processing power is spent on ... charging or uncharging those components. So, they can feel us, because humans have electrical pulses, too -- but they can also easily survive being thrown on an electric power plant. Portions of their dermal plating becomes hypersensitive in response to us touching them, while it can reverse and become nearly inert to fend off the massive input of a power surge."
Sam kicked his feet off the side of the railing they were sitting on, his meal already finished since Mikaela had been doing most of the talking. "So, they ... 'feel' through electrical impulses?" He screwed up his face. "Exactly how sensitive is that?"
"Well, pain is an abstract concept for them, with the exception of temperature," she explained, then winced slightly, as he did. It was so stupid that Sector Seven was still such a sensitive subject, but ... seeing something sentient that had been protecting them being tortured ... it was pretty traumatic. "Because temperature means that atoms are moving very fast or very slow, and sudden changes tend to create instability in otherwise stable structures, it's pretty obvious why they find it painful. They run at a pretty high temperature already, so suddenly slowing that down is pretty bad. Of course, as long as it's gradual, it's not that bad. According to Ratchet, with enough of a gradual change, they could actually function fine in Arctic conditions. They guess that Megatron actually went into an emergency stasis thing, which is a bit of a two-edged sword. On one hand, it meant that he wasn't suffering the sudden cooling. On the other hand, as long as the condition that caused the stasis remained unchanged, he couldn't come out on his own."
"Wow," Sam said, blinking, "so really the only reason Sector Seven managed to keep him contained at all was because of a lucky guess."
"Just about," she agreed with a grimace. "So, perhaps it's not a surprise that they don't have any big fans."
He made an emphatically agreeable noise, looking out at the tin and cement and dust. Mikaela practically lived out on the base these days, and ... well, so did he, a little. He spent a lot of the day at the base, wandering around aimlessly while she studied and sharing lunch with her until his ride came back and they could hang out at the park or go home if it were too late.
"So," Mikaela said in a leading way, "what do you think of Arcee?"
He echoed her wonderingly. "What do you mean by that?" he asked with a slight frown. "She's pretty cool. A bit of a spunky action girl, but ..." he shrugged. "What?"
Mikaela chewed her straw while studying him, eyebrow cocked, and then shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing," she said, looking out toward the empty scenery.
A little puzzled, he blew it off anyway. "So, Autobot touch," he said, trying to get the conversation back on subject. "Do you have any idea of range?"
"Range?" she echoed, focusing on him with a small skeptical frown. "You mean like how sensitive their alloy is? Well, the strange thing about it, Ratchet's actually used me to measure, in a way. They aren't a terribly tactile species -- no reason to be, that's a warm blooded trait -- but they can definitely feel each others' touch. It has to do with the charge of the alloy. The mild electrical charges interact, so they're about like we are in that respect. Inanimate objects aren't 'touch' though -- metallic alloys are also very resonant, so their awareness of things like --" she grinned with amusement, "Mojo lubricating on them, or a pebble bouncing off their leg is actually due to the minute vibrations in their bodies."
"So ... like a drum?"
"Yeah, I guess so," she said, nodding. "But, this is the really neat and bizarre part -- they can feel us, too. Apparently, even though we're organic, we also produce a type of electrical charge or energy that Cybertronians can feel. So, where you could set a rock on Bumblebee's hood and he'd know it would be set there, he could actually forget about it until it fell off or grated against his alloy. Difference is that if you were to sit on him, he'd get constant electrical feedback, 'feeling' you, like ..." she reached out and grabbed the bare skin of his hand. "Like that. You feel my skin. They feel you." His stomach jerked strangely and he arched his eyebrows while clearing his throat. She flashed him a secretive look before pulling away, saying in a strangely nonchalant way: "You might want to talk to Bumblebee about that -- Ratchet told me he was your culture tutor."
"Culture tutor?" he echoed incredulously. "I wouldn't call it that. I mean, yeah, we talk about each others culture, and I've learned to inter -- pet ..." He sighed. "Okay, I have a culture tutor." It was just that putting it that way made it seem less fascinating that it really was -- Bumblebee explained things to him, the vibrations of his engine and voice trembling through his bones, while Sam envisioned Cybertron as it must have been, once.
"Maybe you can be Optimus Prime's interpreter," she said with a laugh. "The other Autobots seem rather puzzled by the whole thing, anyway."
"Well, it's not like we started out intending to teach each other that stuff," he said defensively. "He started it, really, when he started asking about death and why humans don't wrap themselves in cushions and bubble sheets."
"Bubble wrap."
"Whatever. He still started it."
"And you still speak giant robot."
"Correction: I am becoming fluent in giant robot."
"Witwicky, you'll be lucky if you ever get a girlfriend."
"I've got a Camaro, Mikaela. A Camaro."
"I think it's more like the Camaro has you."
"This is not Soviet Russia."
" ... what?"
"Er -- Never mind. You know, you may be right about that girlfriend thing."
She made noncommittal but meaning laden noise, eyebrows arched in a politely ironic expression as she stared at the scenery. What that for?
-+-
were u trying 2 make a pet human joke?
Dont txt me Sam. If you didnt get it Im not telling you.
plz?
No Sam. Also, learn grammar, kthxbi
youre mean mikaela
Love you too. Now stop txting me.
-+-
"I refuse to wear that!"
Sam sighed as he stepped in the door, taking in the sight of Mikaela in a auto-shop jumpsuit yelling at the busty blonde in a nurse outfit that was a little too small and had a lot less material that it probably should have to be dignified or sanitary. The blond looked fairly ticked off as well. "I'm telling you," she said in a deep, raspy, manly voice. "It's part of the job description! If you're going to be a mechanic, you have to dress the part! Otherwise, how will anyone know you can fix them, huh?"
"I don't care! I'll never wear that!" Mikaela yelled, shaking her fist.
"Mikaela, Ratchet, would you two please cut it out?" Sam asked, sighing.
"Tell him I'm not wearing that!" she demanded, pointing at the blonde.
"Ratchet, Mikaela will never wear an outfit like that. But you could probably get her into a jumpsuit that was white with red crosses," he said, shifting the All Spark against his leg.
"Hmm," Ratchet said thoughtfully. "I shall have to consider that."
"Droids," he said with amusement to the only other organic.
"Like you're one to talk, cyborg-boy," she said, rolling her eyes.
He looked down at the arm holding the All Spark Cube against his left hip. Gunmetal gray and powerful, it gleamed dully in the light. "Oh, I forgot," he said, a little surprised to see all the wires and metal plates instead of flesh. It fit seamlessly against his skin and flesh, as if it had just stopped being carbon cells and started being alloy one day, instead of being welded on to a structure implanted on his bone. At least, he thought it was. Wasn't it? Skin just didn't turn into metal. That wouldn't make any sense.
"Great," Mikaela snorted, rolling her eyes and distracting him from his study of his shoulder. "I can't believe you forgot when you see the kind of flawless I wish I could be. She better hold him tight, give him all her love; look in those beautiful eyes and knows she's lucky 'cause -- he's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar! The only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star."
He stared at her in bemusement then looked at Ratchet who hadn't seemed to have noticed.
"This ain't a song for the broken hearted," Ratchet informed him, frowning slightly and putting a hand to his forehead. "Silent prayer for faith departed. I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd -- gonna hear my voice when I shout it out loud --"
"Sam, wake up, honey."
He woke (groggily) to the thin paper-dry and cold hand on his forehead. Squinting through his eyelashes, he finally made out the shape of the person who was now smoothing his hair. "Mom?"
"You fell asleep on the couch," she said softly.
Glancing sideways, he realized it was true. It wasn't completely accidental, either, or otherwise he'd be mostly upright. He didn't remember laying out on the couch, but he was so tired. It was hard to remember that he needed to stay out of the way and make as little about his strange new habits as possible. No one really knew how much he was sleeping (or how deeply), nor did they know just how much food he was consuming. But ... it had just become so hard to remember that he shouldn't worry anyone. It didn't seem worth it to hide something that no one would probably notice.
"You're running a slight temperature," his mother murmured.
"I'm not sick," he said, waking up a little more. He knew that. His health wasn't compromised in any manner, everything was proceeding as expected, though something warned him that he was hot and needed to drink some water to cool down a little. As long as his mother didn't touch his torso, she wouldn't notice all the heat through the many layers he was wearing.
"Maybe not," she sighed, and she looked so sad.
"What's wrong, Mom?" he asked before he thought. He wasn't sure yet if he had forgiven her for the talk they had a few days ago when Bee had woke him up and sent him back into the house.
His mother smiled, and it really didn't look like much of one at all. "Nothing's wrong, Sam. Come on, wake up." She patted his cheek and stood. "I made some tea. It's in the kitchen."
"Alright," he said. Tea wasn't exactly his most favorite drink, but it promised to be iced, and would help cool him down a little. Sugar, of course, could never hurt. Sitting up, he brushed a hand over his face and through his hair before he stood and stumbled off after his mother. She already had the glass of ice and was pouring the tea in from the pitcher.
"Here." She handed the glass off to him and moved the sugar from the cabinet to the island counter.
Sam was just about to take a drink when he realized she was watching him. His mother had always been a rather high strung individual, for all the hippy/New Age stuff she brought home and enforced on her husband and son. Now, though, she looked like she had aged dramatically and she seemed a little lost. "Mom," he said, "something's wrong. What is it?"
Judy shook her head and picked up her cup, wrapping one arm around her waist and propping the other on it before taking a drink from the steaming cup. Reliably, she always drank hot liquids when things really weren't right. "Honestly, Sam, it's nothing."
The iced tea did it's work, cooling him off quickly. It did have the rather obvious side effect of him drinking a little too eagerly, but he was thirsty. "Right," he said dismissively. If he pretended ...
And it worked, of course. "You know," she said with a nostalgic look. "I still remember when we brought you home from the hospital."
Oh great, he thought, eyes skyward as he drank. It was one of those talks.
"You were such a healthy baby," she went on with a small smile. "You had blue eyes, then -- most babies do. Such a fussy baby, though. We could only get you to sleep if we drove around the neighborhood ... stopped more burglaries that way ..."
He bobbed his head distractedly. He had the misfortune of having taken Home Ec his sophomore year, so he knew that ... baby thing, where they could only sleep with motion sometimes. His mother had already told him about that.
Her smile turned brittle. "And now you're ... fighting giant robots and one is pretending to be your car."
Ah -- uh oh. Sam might not be completely awake, but he knew that there was something wrong.
"Are you sure you're fine, Sam?" Judy asked, a little desperate, a little hysterical. "I know Yellowbee and Optimism Dime promised to protect you, I've talked to them a lot, but are you okay? Are you sure you're not sick, or -- or depressed?"
Sam had a little bit of a problem for a moment, trying to stop from laughing at 'Yellowbee' and 'Optimism Dime' at the same time he was trying not to freak out at the sudden breakdown his mother might be having. "You -- you talked to them?" he asked.
"Of course I did!" she said indignantly and looked like she might cry. "My God, Ron and I thought you were sneaking that nice Mikaela girl in and you were -- you were trying to stop that Meglodon from getting some Spark Cube thing because of your father's grandfather, and -- oh, Sam, you're only seventeen and you've already been taken away from me! There are -- government agents and military captains and the Secretary of Defense, Sam, telling me I should be proud because you risked your life to stop some weapon from getting into enemy hands!" She was crying now. "My God, what's happened to our home? We were so normal!"
Awkwardly, he set the glass on the counter and stepped over to wrap his arms around her. "Mom, Mom, it's okay," he tried to tell her. "It's okay. Don't cry, Mom. Please don't cry."
"You were so young, Sam," she wept. "What happened?"
My Dad bought me a Seventy-Six Camaro, he thought. That was what changed. My car chased me, and I met the definition of a 'bad cop'. That was what changed. Sector Seven kidnapped us all, lassoed down my protector and tortured him, that was what happened. "Listen to me! You're a soldier, now!" was what happened.
"I'm never giving you this All Spark!"
The high animal screams of people running, and "Disgusting," the metallic pop and that scream before it cut off with a clang.
That was what happened.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he said helplessly. "I'm sorry."
He was thankful that they had been locked up and sequestered and didn't have to see any of that. It was terrible enough without knowing that his mother had to survive that, too. He didn't want anything happening to her. He didn't want her having those memories, or having nightmares like he did.
But as much as he didn't want them to share that, it meant there was that impassible wall between them. She might love him, but she'd never understand him or what he saw (bodies in the streets)-- heard (that horrible scream) -- did (he'd killed a sentient being, attacked it with every intention of making it stop in any way he could, couldn't regret it because it was evil, but it couldn't not affect him). The only people who could were the ones that were there.
He was sorry that the boy she raised was dead.
-+-
"You have me as 'Camaro Boy' on your cell phone?"
"Don't sound so scandalized, Sam. Besides, ninety percent of the school who didn't know you existed call you 'Camaro Boy' these days."
"You have Miles' name! You even spelled his last name right! You have Trent on your phone?"
"If you're going to have an auerism, give me my phone back. Besides, now that you're my psychotic guy friend, Trent's actually really polite. I think you knocked sense into him."
"Ugh. I didn't bash him in the face so you could date him again!"
"Still love you, Sam."
"I think your idea of love is twisted. Very twisted."
"Lock your doors at night, Sam, and sleep with one eye open."
" ... twisted."
-+-
He was spending a lot of time at the Autobot base with Mikaela. Usually he ended up having to bring a lot of food -- sort of like a picnic so that when she could take a break from her lessons with Ratchet, they could eat. Then again, Sam was pretty much constantly eating anyway. Judy had leapt upon his strange compliance in taking multi-vitamins to extend his supplements to all sorts of things. Swallowing pills wasn't his favorite thing to do (he used to gag on them as a child), but it kept Mom off his back, and visiting Mikaela kept Dad from objecting to his visits, so he did it anyway.
In either case, summer was wasting away. Miles was working a summer job in an attempt to do as Sam suggested (get himself a car), and all Sam had done was hang around with Mikaela and sit in on her Autobot Anatomy classes with Ratchet. This was mostly because Bumblebee was off doing whatever -- probably hanging out with Arcee.
He seemed to be doing that a lot these days.
Coasting as smoothly as he could on the cement, Sam gently rocked on his skateboard to keep it going. Failing, he dropped a foot off to shove for more momentum and zipped around a corner. There wasn't much to do around an abandoned military base, after all.
Ahead of him, the human sized door that lead to the hanger in which Ratchet had commandeered popped open and Mikaela emerged, looking thoughtful and tired as usual. "Hey, Micka!" he called, quickly gaining the motivation to activity power his board. She smiled at him vaguely as he caught up, and they headed toward the door.
"So, have you found the Aztec Gold?" Mikaela asked.
" ... what?" he said, bewildered.
"The lost treasure in Pirates of the Caribbean."
"Oh -- oh. What? No," he said, still somewhat bemused. "And I'd be like a ... zombie. Skeleton. Animated Skeleton. But only in moonlight. You know, then your life would be really interesting -- giant alien robots and cursed pirate treasure and -- wereskeletons."
" ... wereskeletons?"
"Yeah, like ... moonlight ... okay, clearly I should have shut up some time ago."
"Possibly." She swung up onto the railing and looked at him seriously. "Where's Bumblebee, by the way?"
"Ah --" he said, feeling supremely awkward for some reason. "Probably ... playing tag with Arcee or something."
Mikaela arched her eyebrow. "Playing tag?"
He shrugged. It made sense when Bumblebee explained it. "Giant robot thing."
"Poor Sam," she said sympathetically. "Your guy friend left you for a cute girl."
"Well, its probably best he doesn't get too attached," he said uncomfortably. "I mean, we talked about it, and a human's life span is like ... mayfly short for them. It's like ... Frosty the Snowman, only without the possibility of just making a new body next time it snows."
"Mmm." Mikaela popped open the can of soda with a snap, and nodded thoughtfully before taking a drink. "So, let me get this straight: you're letting him waste your life time on someone who is going to live at least as long as he is."
He stared at her.
"Well, really," she said, looking at him with a skeptical look. "You two guys are friends, right? If you have limited time, then shouldn't you use that time being friends?"
"No -- no, no, no," Sam said, folding his arms and leaning over. "You don't understand -- there's a girl involved. I know what that's like, so ... yeah, I think building a lasting relationship would be better." But it was a little like a dam had opened, because he didn't feel like he was getting his point across. He didn't think he could -- there probably weren't words, and if there were, he wouldn't be able to find them. "I could die at any time. We're not even worrying about old age right now. I might be a Decepticon target, but I'm -- just a guy. I could be hit by a car or knifed ... any number of things that Bumblebee's been stressed out about. I might die tomorrow -- and while it's okay to say live the life you have ... that doesn't just effect me. I would love to be best friends with Bee, instead of just a ward he's on friendly terms with, but if I do, then it's going to make it even worse when I die. I won't have to live with the consequences, but he will. And I can't do that. I wasn't thinking in the long term when I set out to befriend the -- the giant alien robot that pretends to be my ride."
"Sam," she said incredulously, "you're not dying of cancer, or anything like that -- so, like, stop acting as if you were. Besides, do you even get how long ago they lost the All Spark? Ratchet's given me history lessons, too -- Bumblebee is hundreds of centuries old. I think he can take responsibility and suffer the consequences of his decisions."
It sounded good -- it sounded logical. The reasoning definitely appealed. He leaned against the railing and looked out (away from the base). The more he learned about Cybertronian culture, he more he had considered his friendship with Bumblebee at the very least tragic. He knew that they had been at war and probably lost hundreds of bots on both sides, but Bumblebee had never had to watch anyone grow old and die before.
Mikaela's small (but strong, always strong) hand landed on his shoulder, and it radiated encouragement in the heat that he could feel through his sleeve. "Think about it, Sam. And I swear to God, you keep using me as a Bumblebee substitute, and I'll kick your ass."
"What!" he yelped, looking at her incredulously.
She gave him a condescending look. "I'm serious, Sam. I thought it was cute when you had a crush on me, but I'm getting real tired of the kicked puppy look you get every time your Camaro goes off to hang out with the Miata." She patted his back in a weird 'go get 'em, tiger' way and walked away, rather like she had when Bumblebee 'broke down' at that scenic overlook.
He stuttered and sputtered ineffectually at her back, then finally shut up. Stepping on the end of his skateboard, he bent over and picked it up, tucking it against his hip. With an idle thumb, he rolled the dirty plastic wheels, face set in deep thought. First, he had blindly thrown himself into the project of becoming friends with a giant alien robot -- and succeeded. He'd been pleased and excited for a while. Then he suddenly realized that the average human life span was under eighty years ... and he was seventeen. He had sixty three years before he croaked. Probably, ten of those would be spent in a nursing home -- if things went well. Which, considering his life since he had gotten old enough to drive a car? Not going to happen.
And he hadn't thought there was anything wrong with being friends with what amounted to a robot. As a matter of fact, there had been something defiant and righteous in befriending Bumblebee -- until he realized that he was going to die. He knew that they had emotions, and that he was going to die on Bumblebee like a -- a pet rat or goldfish or something.
He cut the thought off ruthlessly. Those were the sort of unpleasant thoughts he had when he tried to imagine how it was from the other side of their friendship. They had gotten a lot more persistent recently, since Arcee's arrival -- the reminder that it wasn't just his Bumblebee and Bumblebee's group ... that there was a whole race out there ...
Perhaps Bumblebee had forgotten somewhere that Sam didn't have as much time as he did.
-+-
"Goddamn it, Bee, I knew you were playing tag, but this is ridiculous," he said, trying to ignore the sulky sound of his own voice.
The Camaro sparkled innocently, engine purring in as a friendly manner as possible. Sam was accustomed to Bumblebee coming to pick him up from the base with fresh bug guts on him and dusty, but this was ridiculous. Arcee and Bumblebee must have found a forest or ... something to go run around in. There certainly were enough leaves stuck in odd places, and not all of them were green. His wheels were caked with crud and his bumper was muddy.
Well, it would be a good excuse, wouldn't it? His parents would understand him having to wash Bee if he was in this shape. Maybe Sam could think of something to say during that time.
With a small fit of temper, he kicked the tire gently before he climbed in. Bumblebee began to play Brittany Spears in retaliation, and by the time they got home, Sam had that 'Toxic' song stuck in his head ... along from a bruise near his hairline from bashing his head on the steering wheel so many times, trying to block it out.
Naturally, by the time he reappeared with the hose, buckets of hot soapy water, sponges and scrubby brush, he had downloaded a few choice songs from the Internet, ripped them through a few freeware programs, and thus had them burned to CD and ready to play in his radio. He turned it up really loud so that the high pitched voices could really grate on Bumblebee's nerves, bringing the radio as close as he dared to the car. That really annoying 'Carameldasen' song started to play. Sam smirked in a self satisfied way as he turned the hose on Bumblebee, noting how the car was cringing.
"I also ripped a few Dance Revolution songs," he said conversationally as he began to soak the Autobot. "Did you know they had one named after you?"
Bee visibly shrank down on his wheels.
"If you're very good," he added, pretty sure he shouldn't be enjoying that as much as he was, "I might go get Dad's ACDC."
Sam was very certain that particular part of the car alarm was an 'up yours', but decided to be nice and ignore it. A lot of the muck had fallen off Bumblebee during the trip from the base back home, but there was still enough that Sam was considering trying to get ahold of his mother's gardening attachment and finding out if it had a 'power' adjustment. As it was, he stuck his thumb into the end of the hose to force it as best as he could.
He got tired of the music he was inflicting on Bumblebee before he even got to the soap. The radio ended up on a classic rock station, turned down so that it wasn't too intrusive, and he got to work scrubbing off all of the muck that had accumulated. Which ... was a lot.
"Bee, you scratched your paint up," he remarked, lightly running a finger over the mark, and then his thumb as if he were trying to smooth it over like clay. "Did you run over a fence or something?" With a huff, he moved on, and eventually settled down to scrub the dried bugs off the front of the Camaro. Bumblebee was doing that weird vibrating thing again, as if he were a cat. Perhaps it was a lot like that, if Sam had some weird electric field thing he was projecting. Getting washed must be something like getting a massage.
He was massaging his car. What the hell. That was just ... weird. Well, his life was weird, his dreams were fucked, so he might as well massage his car.
By the time he was done, his clothing was wet but the Camaro was bright and gleaming and just as spotless as it had been the first time Bumblebee had shown it off. A slow smile crossed his face, and he ran his hand over the racing stripes. "Good as new," he joked.
The door popped discretely. Sam looked at it for a moment; the sun was fading as it was, and he'd put a lot of effort into washing Bumblebee, not to mention that his clothing was wet with water and sweat. He shot the car a doubtful look, and in return he felt the engine turn on -- still not loud enough to hear, but a definite change in the vibration.
Just audible, a song drifted through the slightly open door; "Life is a highway, I want a ride it all night long."
"Yeah, well," Sam said, placing both hands on the hood and leaning on it slightly. "You ride that highway ... wherever you're going."
The door opened just a little wider. "Crusin' and playin' the radio, with no particular place to go."
He straightened, rubbing his damp cheek on his shoulder and throwing a glance over his shoulder back at the house.
"I won't stand down, no I won't --"
"Alright!" he hissed, slipping around the front of the car and pulling the door open. "Alright, fine!" He slid into the seat with a sulky scowl, but Bumblebee just rumbled in a smug way and snapped the door shut behind him. Sam moodily kicked under the pedals, which turned out to be a bad idea since the radio clicked (some weird pattern that Sam wasn't familiar with) and then began to play the most annoying song that Sam hadn't known existed until this point. The worst part was that there might have been three words total in the lyrics, and it was prone to repetition and therefore catchy.
"You better watch it," he said threateningly at the dashboard, "you might convince me to never wash you again."
The radio went dead, then tentatively began playing a very politely neutral driving song.
He smirked a little. Even if Bumblebee were only humoring him, it was pretty funny. Relaxing back against the seat as they pulled out of the driveway, he shut his eyes and let out his breath. "Mom told me she talked to you."
The volume of the song dropped and Bee started to scan the radio, which wasn't a 'no'.
"She thinks your name is Yellowbee," he added with a grin, which widened when the radio went dead. "No joke, that's what she called you." He got the distinct impression that Bumblebee was trying to figure out how to respond to that.
" ... it could have been worse," Bee finally said. "It could have been Fumblebug."
"Fumblebug?" Sam sputtered, eyes opening in surprise which he then turned on the dash.
"Humans," he said with a sort of injured dignity, "seem to have a hard time hearing when they're frightened."
He chuckled lightly. Perhaps he should have been scared when meeting all the Autobots -- okay, so he was -- but he remembered all of their names. He had been alarmed, but it had also been the most awesome thing he had ever had happened to him, so he had sort of been absorbing it all like a sponge. "Yeah, well, she also thinks that Optimus Prime is a silver disc that looks on the bright side."
A laugh track came on over the radio. Apparently, Bumblebee was in a really good mood.
Sam smiled briefly before getting serious. "What did you guys talk about?"
After a moment -- it didn't seem as if Bumblebee was deciding what to say, but rather how to say it -- he answered, "at first we discussed what my duties as a guardian entailed. Then I showed her what I knew of those days. I did edit out some of the things that weren't that important ... eventually she inquired about getting in touch with who knew more about Mission City, so I collected accounts from Ratchet and Ironhide. Optimus Prime wished to speak to her face-to-face, however, especially in case she was having doubts about our ability to take care of you since you legally are our ward."
"When did that happen?" Sam asked with a frown.
"The last week you had to go to school," Bumblebee informed him.
Heaving a sigh, he leaned his head back and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. "I should have been there to interpret -- both times," he added, shooting Bee a dirty look. "You made my mom cry, Bee."
He actually seemed somewhat embarrassed. Though Sam knew that Cybertronians didn't understand 'parents', they knew they held a very special place as guardians and mentors. "I apologize. I might have been trying to assure her that you were capable of holding your own."
"Oh my God, what did you tell her?!"
It was actually more like 'show'. Sam hadn't been hallucinating when he thought he saw someone inside the cab of the police car, because Cybertronians were capable of creating holograms ... and in miniature, as well. As it turned out, Bumblebee had actually bore witness to Sam's interrogation by the Demon Cop from Hell, which was thoroughly embarrassing. Sam wasn't exactly proud of what happened, though he did grudgingly admit that there hadn't been any real way or reason he could have reacted differently. Apparently, Bee's point was more along the line of the fact that Sam had managed to haul Mikaela off her vespa and help her escape the Decepticon.
There was a brief glimpse of himself edging up the slope, reasoning to Mikaela that the others had been talking about his EBay page. There was also Mikaela and his introduction to the Autobots, with little gaps in sound or video -- Bumblebee had apparently felt the need to censor some of Jazz's language, apparently knowing that mothers didn't approve. Optimus' account of their history was fast-forwarded, but it seemed that he had shared it with Mom. The explanation of the 'earthquake' and how Mikaela had ended up in his room came with that -- and it was kind of amusing to watch the tiny version of himself chewing out Optimus Prime for getting on the lawn. It was also a little depressing, since he only came up to Optimus' ankles.
To Sam's relief, there was nothing about Sector Seven. He wasn't sure if it was because Bumblebee simply hadn't been recording at the time (understandable), or if he just didn't want to share (also understandable). There was a the short blip -- "I'm not going to leave you!" -- and Will telling him that he had to take the Cube to the building. Then came the frantic chase, up until they met the Decepticon that disabled both Ratchet and Ironhide. The perspective was obviously different that it didn't need explaining.
"The rest," Bumblebee said, "was between Optimus Prime and Judith Witwicky."
"No wonder Mom cried on me," he said dryly. "That was worse that signing up with the military and getting shipped overseas. By the way, nice job splicing Ratchet and Ironhide's points of view in a way that got rid of most of the freaky stuff. I don't remember much, but even I know it didn't go that smoothly."
"I thought it would be good not to worry her needlessly," Bee admitted. "It was already over, and it would only upset her."
Yeah, but Cybertronians don't understand parents, and humans could be amazingly intuitive. His mother knew some of what happened to him, and she probably had nightmares that were much worse than reality. After all, he was.
-+-
It was night and he was walking with the Autobot on his heels and the All Spark in hand -- and then his next step lead him stumbling forward, hands thrust out to catch him. When he regained his balance, he continued on his way ... but not toward that ever waiting end-of-the-street. He eventually made it to the sidewalk, and continued walking. Just as he was loosing interest, he heard the familiar whirl-click of Autobot gears. Perking up a little, he quickly headed off in pursuit -- but carefully. If the bot knew he was coming, then he'd never get to see him.
He scrambled through a yard, fighting his way over plants and fences, chasing that illusive whirl-click of Cybertronian gears. The night hid whoever he was chasing, and it was somehow urgent to find them. The next yard he stumbled into was his own, and he was so tired. After drinking some water in the kitchen he went up to his bed, intending to rest before he went looking for the Cybertronian again.
The computer sat innocently, but the wires had multiplied, and when he looked, the walls had cables riddled through them, thick as his thumb or hair-fine small. Moving to the bed, he reached out and grabbed the covers, metallic fingers clinking quietly against each other and the tiny gears purring with each movement, and flung them back, ready to climb into bed. It was full of cable and wires, and he climbed in on top of them, pulling his sheets up and rolling over. Electricity buzzed unseen but sensed all around him, a continuous presence that was comforting instead of irritating.
They wrapped him in a gently undulating mass of comfort, and he felt them through his metal arm just as much as against his skin, the charge like quiet music in his ears. The fine hairs on the back of his neck and his arms stood on end, as if static electricity was building in his body. He twitched and shifted uncomfortably, feeling the sheet cling to him, and then the cables curled over him and separated him from the irritant. The humming in his ears was so much like the sound of that electrical plant that Bumblebee had taken them to in order to fight the Decepticon.
But as comfortable as he was, he was becoming strangely restless. He couldn't lay still and the static building in his body along with the power humming through the cords was enough to drive him to distraction. Knots of hair-fine wires prodded at him, smoothing his tensed muscles like the soothing hands trying to calm him and coils of cables filled with pure energy twining around him like an affection starved cat. It only made him shift more, until he was practically writhing -- struggling, but not to escape. He was trying to get comfortable in his own skin, but it seemed like an impossible task, his left arm crackling with power. Blue and sparking, arcs of frustration that connected to the wires around him.
He didn't see it happen, but he swiftly became aware of the shape the cords and wires were taking, slight and humanoid, swiftly gaining detail. He froze, frightened and enraptured as fine wires twisted together until the thing even had a face and expression. Horrified, he struggled much more violently against the cables now restraining him, not cradling him. Crackling blue energy shot from his arm into the cables wrapped around his chest more firmly than Cybertronian fingers, and then the wire-beast crouched on the end of his coiled nest suddenly fused and became a gray being.
Stilling in amazement, he took in the clearly inorganic form of the humanoid (it had no characteristics that labeled it male or female, not even in the loosest of Cybertronian models), at once still obviously made of wires but at the same time no longer looking like a skinned human with muscles made of metal fibers. A gleaming silver netting covered it like the most intricate of tattoos, and it's finely structured androgynous features twitched slightly before it opened it's eyes. Black eyes, with the glowing blue rings of Autobot optics.
Somewhat mutually fascinated, they stared at one another. Kitten-puppy curious, the wire-person was the first to move, reaching forward with that thicker-than-water, lighter-than-air way -- reaching forward to wrap long thin fingers around his gears-and-plates left arm, fixing blue optics as if it's as fascinated by the comparatively skeletal structure as he is with the fine silver netting stretching over it. Something flickered in it's optics, or maybe the optics themselves flickered, and there was the familiar whirl-click of shifting metal.
And he remembered his old nightmare, where he's trapped inside one, and he knew how it was going to play out. He knew which part was going to detach and become armor and what was becoming a gear and where it needed to shift. The information slid though his mind like scrolling computer code. When the wire-person stopped shifting, it simply looked at him, and he realized what he was looking at was a protoform.
The hard metal fingers tightened around his metallic wrist, and it was very curious -- very interested in him. It was a protoform, Cybertronian, Autobot, but it was the same size he was, so when it reach out with softly whirling gears and curled round steel fingers around the back of his neck, he didn't even flinch. The coils of energy-heavy cables wound around him and the sleek armored shape of the Autobot hovered over him, curious -- fascinated.
His hand trembled as it found itself on the warm metal plate that would form the colored exoskeleton of an alt form, and his stomach lurched hotly.
He knew there was something wrong with him. Standing under the agonizingly hot spray of the shower, clutching the soft flesh of his arms and feeling bone at the center while he still tasted aluminum on his tongue, Sam wondered just what was wrong with him.
-- To Be Continued --
- just out of curiosity ... HOW MANY OF YOU ARE SITTING THERE RIGHT NOW GOING: WTF?! Yes, I decided it was time. The All Spark is attacking Sam's sexuality directly! (for those that got the reference: LULZ!)
- Yes, I do play off the "don't believe what you read, cos the person is misinformed/someone is lying" a lot.
- Songs in order of appearance: ("Tear Drop on my Guitar" - Taylor Swift), ("It's my Life" - Bon Jovi), ("Life is a Highway" - Tom Cochrane (not the RF version)), ("No Particular Place to Go" - Chuck Berry), ("I Won't Back Down" - Tom Petty)
- Time wise, this chapter occured over roughly a week. Beginning to the cell phone txt was one day, a few days later came the talk with his mother, the next day came the lunchtime conversation about Sam being 'Camaro Boy' on Mikaela's cell phone, and the rest of it happened a few days later.